Intimidation by Music

Father and son.

My second son is a large man.
Large.
Six foot eight in his stockinged feet. When he puts boots and a hat on, considerably taller.
And he is a body builder.
He works as a cop in our fair city.
Let me put it this way . . .
No one argues with him.
They just nod politely and do as he asks.
His very first day on the job, he and his partner responded to a knife-wielding incident. When he got out of his car, the 'perp' took one look, dropped the knife and spread-eagled himself on the sidewalk.
Size is important.
But the man inside the uniform is a gentle, loving person.
And tons of fun.
Before he began to serve with the police, he spent eight years with the armed forces, reaching the rank of Sergeant.
And he drove a big truck.
These two points are important.
Moving on . . .
One day, he was on his way home from the army base driving the aforementioned (good word) truck. It was a beautiful, warm day, and his windows were opened wide.
His head was shaved and he had his army kit on.
He looked every inch the soldier he was.
He was 'in the zone'. Listening and moving to his favourite music, blaring from two powerful speakers.
I should mention here that his favourite music probably isn't what people expect to hear from a head-shaved, muscular, giant of a man in army fatigues.
And sunglasses.
In a monster truck.
But pouring from the speakers were The Archies.
And they were singing their hit song, "Sugar, Sugar".
He stopped at a stoplight.
Still grooving.
Then he glanced to his left.
A small pickup was sitting beside him.
With three teenage boys in the seat.
All of whom were staring at him.
Up at him.
Their expressions were . . . interesting.
My son grinned at them and nodded. Still bobbing to the rhythm.
The light changed and he drove on.
But the small truck stayed where it was.
I think he frightened them.
Who says you need a weapon to intimidate?
Sometimes all it takes is the right music.

Who Threw Goo?

There is a toddler golden rule:

Silence is golden, except when you have a toddler. Then it’s suspicious.

I have a new one:

If a toddler is giggling, it could go either way . . .

Our family is large.

Because of that, food is always purchased in quantity.

A little aside here . . . Our youngest daughter had moved out on her own for the first time and was grocery shopping with her roommates. She made a momentous discovery. One that she had to phone home to tell her mother about. “Mom! Did you know that peanut butter and Miracle Whip come in little jars? Really! I had to buy them. They were so cute!”

But I digress . . .

True to form, we purchase many things by the restaurant-sized pail.

There is one drawback.

Buying in quantity isn’t always practical when said substance needs to be refrigerated.

Unless one also possesses a restaurant-sized fridge.

Which we don’t.

For that reason, condiments are quite often stored in the garage. In the sun room. Or right outside, depending on the cycle of the Great Canadian Weather at that particular moment.

Our house has another option. When it was built, the contractor neglected to insulate the floor under the back kitchen entrance.

In winter, that floor gets . . . a tad chilly.

Perfect for extra food storage.

And right off the kitchen.

It was in this area that I had placed a bucket (see above) of ranch dressing.

Okay, yes, it was within perfect reach of Grandson #3 (hereinafter known as GS3), but the lid was on.

And let’s face it, even grandma needed help getting that lid off.

I’ve finally gotten to my story . . .

The family was over.

Dinner was done and the older kids had gone downstairs to play.

The adults and those deemed too young for the hijinks of the older crowd were in the front room.

Visiting/crawling about. Maybe I should clarify. The adults were visiting. The babies were crawling about.

GS3 had disappeared into the kitchen.

We weren’t concerned. Everything was buttoneddown/closed/outofreach.

He was there for some minutes.

Then the giggling started.

A giggling toddler is a happy toddler is a good sign. Right?

Ummm . . .

A few minutes later, his mother went in to check on him.

“Uh-oh!”

Mom-speak for, “We’ve just set our levels to def-con one!”

I hurried in.

The walls (and, indeed, every available surface of the back entrance) were heavily spotted in thick, white goo.

GS3 had somehow wrenched the lid off that pail of soppy, white substance. Dunked his little fingers.

Then flung them around.

Numerous times.

Thus, the giggle.

Mom took the toddler for a needed cleaning and Grandma started in on the mess.

I will say this. The coating proclivity of Ranch dressing has never been fully explored. Someone should get a grant and do a study. Preferably a parent . . .

Also: If anyone needs help removing those impossible-to-remove lids, I have a toddler who can help.

Third Time Lucky

After the pancakes.

Our children learn from what they see. 

And hear.
Most of the time, it's a good thing.
Occasionally, it's not. Sometimes, it's just plain fun . . .
My husby, Grant, had our twenty-month-old son, Mark, in the highchair.
Eating pancakes.
Mark's very favourite.
I was across the room, nursing our two-month-old son, Erik.
All was well.
Everyone was happy.
Then Husby decided to take advantage of Mark's utter absorption in forking pieces of pancake into his mouth and make a quick trip to the euphemism (real word – look it up!).
For a few minutes, Mark was happily engaged. Then, the pancakes ran out.
Oh-oh.
“Daddy!”
I looked over at him.
He was waving his little fork in the air.“Daddy!”
No response.
“Daddy!”
Still no response.
Mark changed tactics.
“Da . . . Gwant!”
“Gwant!”
Faint sounds from the euphem . . . okay, the bathroom.
Not enough to satisfy Mark, however.
By the way, how did he even know his father's name?
I always called him . . .
“Ho-ney!”
That.
Now there were definitely sounds emanating (good word) from the bathroom.
Laughter.
“Ho-ney!”
Mark had gotten a reaction. With twenty-month-old persistence, he was going to pursue it.
“Ho-ney!”
More laughter. But definitely getting louder.
“Ho-ney!”
His father emerged, still chuckling.
“What is it, son?”
“Mo' pancake, Ho-ney!”
We had created a monster.

The Cookie Diet

Admit it. You want some . . .

Cookies. The ultimate in snack foods. That perfect balance of sugars, grains, fats, and deliciousness. And the most unique and perfect forum for getting small, semi-disguised chunks of chocolate into your mouth.
Chocolate that you can savour but dismiss as insignificant when tallying your calorie count at day's end.
Or at least I can.
I love cookies. And I make the mistake of baking them on a regular basis.
Call me a glutton for punishment.
Or just a glutton - the shoe fits. (Or did, before I started making cookies.) But I digress . . .
My six children have been raised on my cookies. Mostly with some form of chocolate as a noteworthy ingredient. They love those small handfuls of pure perfection as much as I do.
Bliss.
But life, and reality, tend to sneak up on you and smack you soundly, just when you aren't paying attention. And so it was with my cookie consumption.
I was going merrily along, enjoying my cookie-filled life until, one day, I dragged my favourite and freshly-washed jeans out of the drawer . . . and couldn't do them up.
Now I know this has happened to many of us, and certainly is nothing new, but it was a first time for me.
And it made me . . . unhappy.
To make matters worse, which we all try to do far too often, I decided to step on the scale.
I should note here, that the person who invented the scale, and non-stretchy clothes, was a nasty, evil individual. But again, I digress . . .
I had to make some changes.
Or buy a new wardrobe.
Finances won. Losing weight was in order. And the first thing to go was my mostly-cookie diet.
I baked one last batch . . . and started eating them as though they constituted my last meal on earth.
Finally, heroically, I put the lid on the still-half-full cookie jar and left the room.
But they . . . called to me.
Cookies do that.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. I answered that call.
I went back into the kitchen and discovered that my beloved cookie jar . . . was empty.
At first, dismay. Then, relief.
"Who ate all the cookies?"
From somewhere in the house, my daughter, Tiana's voice, "Tristan!"
Also from the nether regions of said house, my son, Tristan's voice, "Sorry!"
Me. "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you Tristan! I could hug you! I just couldn't leave the silly things alone!"
A pause, then my daughter's voice, "Tiana."
The cookie doesn't fall far from the tree.

Party Kicks

You un-decorate how you want and I'll un-decorate how I want.

It was a party.

And all sorts of things happen at a party, right . . .?

Becoming a teenager was a big thing.

Well, it was to me.

And I was having a party to celebrate.

A different party from any I had had before.

This party was going to include *dun-dun-duuuunnnn!* boys!

Yikes.

I had planned carefully. Games of pool and ping-pong. Music. Dancing.

Food.

I had even decorated with streamers and balloons and invited everyone – jocks. Cool kids. Regular Joes (my group).

Everyone.

And, wonder of wonders, they were all coming.

It was going to be great.

It was great.

Competitions ongoing in both the ping-pong and pool rooms.

Kids dancing in the family room.

Kids circling the food table.

But nothing is so good that it can’t be made just a bit better, right?

Wrong.

Toward the end of the evening, I was in the ping-pong room.

A final match had just ended and the champion crowned.

The lights had been dimmed.

Did I mention that I had decorated with balloons?

I did.

That is important here . . .

Suddenly, I had the fun idea of ending the evening by breaking up the decorations.

And what would I use? My foot.

Okay, I can see the look on your face. But it honestly made sense at the time.

I chose my target - one of the lower balloons fastened to the wall. I took aim.

And kicked.

The balloon gave a satisfying ‘pop’ as it expired.

But it remained fastened where it was, making a dark shadow on the wall.

A large black shadow.

Weird.

Before I could investigate, one of the cool boys I had been trying to impress all evening decided to take my example and kicked the balloon next to mine.

His results were even more dramatic. His balloon also perished on a lively note. But it must have been a vastly larger balloon because it left a vastly larger shadow.

A foot-shaped shadow.

Oh-oh.

On closer inspection, it turned out that, not only had our balloons been destroyed.

But the wall behind them had, too.

Yep. My party had just turned a corner. The one wherein property damage is considered in the cost.

I managed to stop anyone else from following in my footsteps – so to speak.

But the damage was there for anyone to see.

Anyone.

My dad is in that group.

Shortly after that, the party broke up and peace once more settled across the Stringam household.

I managed to keep my mom out of that room for the remainder of the evening by offering to clean it myself. (Yeah, she was surprised, too.) Alone in there, I turned the lights up and examined the damage.

Yow.

Then I noticed that the drywall (the renovations were ongoing and the taping and mudding and painting had not yet been completed) was a yellow colour.

Hmmm . . . almost the exact colour of the pads of yellow, legal-sized paper on my dad’s desk.

I dashed upstairs and secured two sheets of the stuff and some glue.

Hurrying back to the scene of the crime, I held one of them up to the wall. Eureka! (Don’t you just love words?!) It was almost the exact same colour!

Quickly applying glue, I fastened a sheet of paper over each gaping hole.

Gone!

I will mention here that my parents never mentioned it there.

I mean, the person who finally did the finishing on that wall must have discovered my oh-so-clever camouflage. But my parents sold the house shortly after my party and the paper was still on the wall the day we moved out.

To this day, I don’t know if they ever knew.

I was always afraid to ask.

Feeding the Masses

Mark and half of his family. Feeding the next generation . . .

It only ever happened once.

But I’ll remember it forever.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby and I raised six children.

Four of them, sons.

They are, all of them, tall people, ranging in height from six feet to six feet, eight inches.

They were, all of them, big eaters.

And that’s where my story starts . . .

My oldest boy, Mark, ate like a bird. And by that, I mean he consumed his weight in food every. Single. Day.

His next brother, Erik, wasn’t far behind.

We used to joke that we simply gave each of them a trough and a shovel.

And watched the food magically disappear.

The two of them easily ate as much as the rest of the family combined.

It’s true.

In fact, when Mark moved out, our food bill was cut in half.

When Erik moved out, ditto.

But back to that day . . .

It was a coupon day at the local McD’s. Two-for-one.

My Husby (a coupon collector extraordinaire) had managed to hoard a mittful of the colourful, valuable bits of paper.

We loaded the kids into the car for a rare, but fun, family treat.

And we were off.

Feeling distinctly magnanimous, we told the kids to order what they liked.

And Mark did.

His order? Four Big Macs. Two large orders of fries. Two large drinks. And four apple pies.

Did he eat them?

He did.

And, swallowing the last bite of apple pie, he turned to me and said something I’d never heard.

Before or since.

“I’m full.”

Wow.

I stared at him. Had I heard correctly?

He nodded and patted his stomach.

Who says miracles no longer happen?!

There is a little addendum:

As we were leaving the restaurant, I had linked arms with each of my tall eldest sons. We were laughing about something that one of them said. Full and happy.

A woman seated near the doors looked up and smiled. “I just love seeing brothers and sisters such good friends!” she said. “It’s inspiring!”

We smiled back and thanked her, not bothering to explain that one of those ‘siblings’ was, in fact, the mom.

A good day on sooooo many levels.

Language Lessons

Yumm. No matter what it's called . . .

We live in Canada.

French and English are spoken here.

Quite often in the same sentence.

But that doesn’t mean that all of us speak both languages fluently.

Or at all.

Oh, and my second son, Erik, worked at the local Sobey’s grocery store.

I realize that these facts seem to be irrelevant.

Wait for it . . .

It was a normal day at work.

Erik, one of the numerous stock boys, had spent the day uncrating merchandise.

Stocking shelves.

Packing groceries.

And helping customers find things.

Sometimes, this last duty was the most demanding. And amusing.

A woman had been wandering up and down the soft drink aisle for several minutes.

And had enlisted the aid of at least one other stock boy and, finally, the store manager.

She was growing impatient and a trifle red-faced.

Erik set down the box he was carrying and went over to see if he could help.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” the manager was saying. “We simply don’t carry that kind.”

“I got it here!” the woman burst out. “The last time I was in this store! Right in this aisle!”

The manager shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Ma’am,” he said quietly. “We’ve never carried that.”

“Young man! I took it right out of this aisle. Right here!” she pointed. “See? There with all of the grape juice.”

The manager followed the pointing finger. Then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said. “Grape juice is all we carry. We have no Raisin juice.”

The woman dropped her arm and frowned. “Are you telling me I’m stupid?”

“No, Ma’am, no!” the manager was quick to disagree. “I just think you may be mistaken. Something that happens to all of us. Me, in particular!” He smiled.

Erik stopped beside them. “Anything I can help with?”

The manager looked at him. “This customer is looking for some Raisin juice,” he said. “I’ve told her we don’t carry it.”

The woman glared at him, then turned to Erik. “And I’ve told him that I got it here,” she said stoutly. “Right here! Raisin juice!”

Erik looked at both of them for a moment. Then he reached out and turned around one of the Grape juice boxes.

‘Raisin’ was plainly visible on the label.

‘Raisin’ is French for ‘grape’. Just FYI.

Both of them stared at it.

“Oh,” the manager said.

“That’s it!” the customer said happily, grabbing the box and departing.

The manager looked at Erik and shrugged.

“Who knew?” he said.

Who indeed.

Being Honest

Okay, yes. We're a work in progress . . .

I taught my children the moral lessons my parents taught me.

Now my children are teaching their children.

Sometimes, their success is . . . uncertain . . .

We were leaving church.

Our daughter and her daughter (hereinafter called HD) were recapping lessons learned that day in Sunday School.

“We learned about honesty!” HD said in her three-year-old, glass-shattering, there’s-a-lot-of-noise-in-this-hall voice.

“And what is honesty?” her mother asked.

She looked at her mother. “Mom!” she said. “It’s when you don’t show your knees. And you don’t show these!” With that last, she pulled down the bodice of her dress, flashing everyone who may have been within eye shot of their little family.

Approximately fifty or so people.

“Aaaah!” Her mother quickly pulled HD’s dress back into its original position. “I think you’re talking about ‘modesty’.

“Oh. Right. Modesty is when you don’t show your knees and you don’t show . . .” This time, her mother was able to anticipate the action and keep her daughter covered.

“. . . these.”

We’re not yet sure about her whole take on honesty.

But at least she has modesty . . . down.

Un-Artistic

Artistic: fourth from the right, top row.
Un-artistic: fourth from the right, second row.

Grade three art class.

So much fun with so many things artistic.

None of them me.

I’m not sure, but I think when artistic ability was handed out in Heaven, I was outside.

Doing something else.

Or if I was there, my ability was poured in with a teaspoon and someone jiggled Heavenly Father’s elbow.

Moving on . . .

Others in my class were gifted with a bit more.

Quite a bit more.

One boy in particular was amazing.

And it was to Randy that I looked whenever a new assignment was handed out.

He never let me down.

We were in grade three, and had been given large pieces of paper and paints and instructed to paint a tree, I immediately turned to see what he did.

And how he did it.

He started with a graceful, fluid line of brown from the bottom of the page to the top.

I dipped my brush in my brown paint.

And made a streak.

That’s all. A streak. Heavy. Clumsy.

And distinctly un-graceful.

Sigh.

I tried to fix it.

It became an ungraceful streak that . . . thickened.

My teacher asked me, kindly, if I’d like to start again. I received my new piece of paper with relief bordering on giddiness.

And proceeded to do the same thing.

Oh, I did produce a tree.

But I had to label it so others would know.

Another time, we were given pictures to colour with our new pressed-wax crayons, and I fared better.

Again, I craned my neck to see what Randy would do.

His Santa picture was coloured heavily, completely filling in the spaces.

No white specks showing at all.

I tried to copy his technique.

But without his results.

Oh, I managed to stay within the lines. And it even turned out . . . acceptable.

But it just didn’t have the flare – the snap – that Randy’s did.

But I was nothing, if not persistent.

Every picture from then on was coloured with great intent. A lot of crayon.

And Randy’s technique.

But with equally disappointing results.

Then, a few months later, Randy changed things up.

For this newest colouring project, he outlined each space heavily, then proceeded to fill in lightly.

I could almost feel my mother’s relief as requests for new boxes of crayons . . . diminished. In fact, I think my current box and Randy’s new method actually lasted me through the end of the year.

Progress!

I kept on trying. And sometimes, was actually satisfied with my efforts.

But, by the end of grade three, I had realized something.

When it comes to things artistic:

Some do.

Others appreciate.

I’m definitely in the second category.

And I’m happy there.

Our Soldier's Letters Home

Erik, right and a colleague, Larry.
 On the back of the picture, it says: 'I'm the one in green'.

Remembrance Day.

A day set aside to think about all of the people who have served us by laying down their lives.

And who are risking their lives today.

The ultimate sacrifice.

My thoughts are turned to the times when my husband and I have toured memorials around the world.

The military cemetery in Cambridge, England, where we had to leave because I was crying.

The Vietnam memorial in Washington. DC, when we watched a worker do a 'rubbing' for the brother of a fallen soldier, before we had to leave because I was crying.

The bunkers on the beach in Normandy, before we had to leave because I was crying.

The tiny military museum in the English countryside that we had to leave because . . . I think I'm beginning to see a pattern.

My second son served for eight years as an engineer/mine specialist in the Canadian army.

Including a peace-keeping mission in Bosnia. (When he returned home, he walked over to the lawn and just stood there. When asked why, he said, "I haven't been able to simply walk over and stand on grass for 10 months. This feels wonderful!)

I thought it particularly appropriate to include excerpts from some of his letters home . . .

Be warned, he was a soldier and had a very wicked sense of humour and . . . opinions . . .

14 June

Greetings, Earth Dwellers,

The average temperature is currently hovering around +34C, which it has been all week. My secretary, Aida, was translating the radio for me and told me that these temperatures are the hottest in 68 years. Boy, are we lucky. The humidity is about 10000000% on top of that, so as you towel off from your freezing shower, the water droplets are replaced by sweat droplets as fast as you can wipe them off. I'm drinking 10 litres of water a day. 4 of them during my workout alone. Just crazy.

*  *  *

I forget what the date is, July something.

Hi, everybody!

I hope you all had fun at camp this last week, You'd better have. I had a lot of fun diving on the island of Vis. Even without the diving, the scenery was unbelievable. Except for the old ladies on the beach without tops on. Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!! That sort of thing could scar me for life. It should be illegal. Fortunately, I spent lots of time under water. I even held an octopus. He wasn't impressed. His suction cups felt really neat, though. The laser vision burns, though. Who knew octopus could cook their own food? National Geographic had taught me nothing!

NOTHING!

Calm now.

*  *  *

I'm doing well, since you asked. I just drove here for the first time yesterday, and I had a lot of fun. The road signs are just a vague suggestion to the motorists here, so I had to adjust my driving doctrine to suit the conditions. Basically, we speed everywhere, and pass when we want to. Even driving like a maniac, my boss, Major Thelwell, says that I'm the safest driver she's seen here. I can't wait to drive around with her at the helm. Apparently I'm in for an exciting trip.

Later this week, I get to drive to Banja Luka on Tuesday, Zgon on Wednesday (it's right beside Kluc on the map, if you're looking for it), and then we go to Sarajevo by way of Tuzla on Thursday, returning on Friday by going through Kakanj. Basically, I get to see the whole country in a week. Sarajevo will be fun, I think.

Please send pictures of the dogs. I told my assistant, Aida about them and she wants to see them. There are a lot of dogs around here, but most are the end result of decades of hasty, unplanned dog sex. There was a cute little puppy who lives in the entrance bunker at the camp in Zgon, though. He was there with all the guards who were dressed in their fighting gear, and he was inspecting our vehicle while we talked to the guards. What a little cutie. I think he was a little Doberman without a docked tail, and no doubt he gets away with murder at the guard bunker. Fortunately, everyone seems to like Canadians.

*  *  *

The Book of Bosnia

Chapter One

1. And it came to pass that the soldiers of the Queen did go forth into the land of Bosnia, to bring a lasting peace unto the land.

2. And the soldiers did look about them and did see many peoples throughout the land, and behold, the land was bountiful, and beautiful to be seen.

3. And it came to pass that there was a spirit of contention throughout the land, causing much death and destruction.

4. And the soldiers dwelt in a tent.

5. Now the soldiers went forth unto the people, saying:

6. What is wrong with you people?

7. Lo, these words were heard by many, and the people did listen. But the people did not speak English, so they did continue to fight, and ignored the Queen's soldiers.

8. And there was no air-conditioning to be had.

9. Now the soldiers were angry, because the people were fighting among themselves, and many people had died. Plus one leg had fallen off their fooseball table, which did enrage them.

10. Therefore, the soldiers did cry out to their Lord:

11. "Oh, Lord, why hast thou forsaken this land?"

12. And the Lord did hear the cry of the soldiers, and did pity them, and did say unto them:

13. "Quit whining! For crying out loud. You sound like a bunch of little girls!"

14. And many great and glorious things did the Lord speak unto the disgruntled soldiers in this manner, until the soldier's hearts were softened and they did fall to the earth in amazement.

15. Lo, their parachutes had not opened.

16. Now the soldiers were of the mind that the Lord had played a rotten trick on them, what with the parachutes and all, so therefore the soldiers did decide to bring peace unto the land of Bosnia by circumventing Him.

12. And it came to pass that the soldiers did cry unto a false god.

18. And this false god was called Chrétien, the father of lies, the ancient enemy of all men.

19. And Chrétien did speak words unto the soldiers, but the soldiers were deceived, and did misunderstand his words, since Chrétien cannot speak any mortal language.

20. And it came to pass that the soldiers began to wander aimlessly throughout the land, and their faith did diminish, and they forsook the false god Chrétien, and did end their days as wanderers, eating berries and kittens and other nasty stuff.

21. And peace was brought by Superman, and there was much rejoicing.

Pressing Pause

Cousins

Two little girls were playing.

Had been for most of the day.

Their electronics – Ipads, television programs, movies – were lying forgotten.

They had spread pillows across the living room floor and played ‘stay-out-of-the-lava’. Arranged the dozens of little ponies into regimental order and enacted several scenarios. Dressed in pirate togs and created suitable situations. With appropriate pirate-y talk. Built a fortress and other grand structures out of Lego and then destroyed them – several times. Ransacked the toybox for forgotten treasures, then pressed them back into service. Climbed Mount Sofa. Read books. Sang. Had a dance party.

And trekked to the kitchen numerous times for ongoing nutritious sustenance. Those little engines needed a lot of refuelling with such a busy schedule.

It had been a full day.

And it wasn’t over yet.

Engaged in yet another grand and complex enactment, they charged through the living room.

Then, one of them stopped and announced – loudly – “I have to go potty!”

She turned toward the hallway. But before she left, she looked back at her cousin. “Pause the game, okay? I’ll be right back!”

Her cousin obligingly stopped where she was and simply stood there.

A few minutes later, needs met, play resumed.

Remember when I mentioned they had left their electronics behind while they played?

Well, some aspects simply cross over . . .

Little Heroes

For Sharron. Because she asked . . .

A 'Cute' of puppies

For over 35 years, we have raised Old English Sheepdogs.

I love them.

To me, they are the perfect breed.

Happy, loyal, smart, easily trained, friendly, protective, gentle.

All of the best qualities of DOG writ large.

And hairy.

We have had many, many experiences with our puppies and dogs over the years, but one stands out . . .

A family came to look at our newest batch of puppies.

Now, I should explain here that a litter of OES puppies is called a 'cute' of puppies.

True story.

Moving on . . .

This family had a six-year-old boy and a fifteen-month-old girl.

The dog was for the boy, who was suffering from a severe illness.

A puppy was chosen.

By the very scientific method of sitting in the 'cute' and seeing which puppy climbed up into his lap.

Everyone was happy.

They left.

I thought of them from time to time, as I did all of my puppy families.

Then I got a phone call.

From the tearful, almost incoherent mother.

My heart stopped.

Until I realized that what she was crying were tears of joy.

Here is how she told it to me, with a little background added . . .

The family lived on the shore of one of the small lakes that are so plentiful here in northern Alberta. Their house was nestled in the thick trees surrounding the water.

Their yard opened directly out onto the beach.

A beautiful, picturesque spot.

But also dangerous to small children who might wander out into the cold (Canada has no other kind) water or become lost in the thick forest.

They were very careful.

Gates were kept locked at all times.

Back to the mother's story . . .

Originally purchased for their son, the little pup bonded, quickly and completely, with the little girl.

The two of them became inseparable.

Four months passed.

One summer day (we do get them in Canada, occasionally), the mother was in the front yard, filling the wading pool for her daughter who was playing in the back yard with the puppy, now six months old.

And already huge.

The puppy, that is.

Suddenly, the mother was startled by a loud scream.

She dropped the hose and broke records running to the back yard.

As she turned the corner, she skidded to a stop.

Someone had left the back gate - the entrance to all things dangerous - open.

And her baby was standing in that opening.

Or more accurately, struggling-to-move-forward, in that opening.

And screaming at the top of her lungs.

Directly behind her, teeth locked into her diaper and backside planted firmly on the ground, was the puppy.

Those teeth and that diaper were all that was stopping her from heading where she wanted.

Into the great unknown.

She wasn't happy.

The mother quickly ran to her daughter and picked her up, relieving the puppy of his self-appointed task.

The dog wiggled happily (normal OES behaviour) and, when the mother set her baby down once more, the two of them trotted off to another corner of the yard to play.

Crisis over.

Everything forgotten.

By the two most active participants, anyway.

It took the mother a bit longer. For some seconds, she stood there in the open gate, thinking about what she had just witnessed.

For one thing, how had the gate, so assiduously (real word) kept locked, been left open?

And, more importantly, how had that six-month-old puppy known that his friend should not, ever, leave the yard alone?

And how had he figured out what to do, just in time?

That's when the tears started.

Later, when she had calmed some and her baby was napping, she called me.

It was a wonderful story.

After we had stopped crying.

Needless to say, that puppy became the pride and joy of his family.

And ours.

Mostly Good

I have a selective memory.

Sometimes, there’s a reason . . .

I was going on a date. A nice young man had asked and we were heading out to see a movie.

It was one I’d seen before. Death Wish. A Charles Bronson getting-it-done, bad-guys-beware sort of movie.

I had recommended it to my date. I had seen it already and remembered it as a most satisfying experience where the bag guys get got and crime in New York hits an all-time low.

All because of one man who, for some reason, decides to take the law into his own hands.

We pulled up to the drive-in entrance, paid our fee and found a place to park.

“You’ll love this movie!” I told my date as I stuffed popcorn into my mouth. “Charles gets it done!”

The lights came up on the screen. The opening credits. Opening scene.

Two women getting attacked in their own apartment.

I slid to the floor and stuffed my fingers into my ears.

My date, wide-eyed as he watched the screen, finally turned to me. “I thought you said it was a good movie!”

“Oh it is! Is the bad stuff over?”

“Ummm . . .”

I slid back into my seat. “Oh, I love this part! Where Charlie takes out his attackers with a roll of quarters!”

And, just like that, I realized something.

I had never seen the ‘bad part’.

I had covered my eyes and plugged my ears until that scene was over.

Fast forward forty years.

I still do the same. Ignore the ‘bad parts’. Well, first of all, I avoid violent movies altogether, but when I’m sitting through a movie and it unexpectedly dumps a nasty scene on me, I cover my eyes – usually with Husby’s hand. Let's face it, through my lens, Platoon was just a walk through the jungle with some soldiers.
I don't like it when good people get hurt. It happens enough in real life. I don't like it in my entertainment . . .

I’ve seen a lot of good movies.

Just don’t ask me to ‘scene-by-scene’ them for you.

I might leave something important out . . . 

Moving Music

I forgot! One last story re. Player Pianos.
Because we moved a lot . . .

Player pianos are HEAVY!
About 400 pounds heavier than a normal upright grand.
Ugh.
The first (and only) time we moved it ourselves, it took a crew of eight men and a donkey to get it the four blocks from our old rental to our newly purchased.
I'm sure friendships were strained along with the muscles.
We vowed never to test our friends again, and, when we moved next, this time from Edmonton to Beaumont, shelled out the bucks to hire a professional moving company.
Dorcy's.
It came highly recommended.
I made the call.
On moving day, two burly men (wearing weight belts over their clothes) showed up.
With a little, square, leather-covered dolly.
That was it.
Two men. And a dolly.
Sounds like a movie title.
As first I studied them suspiciously. Even took a gander through the window to see the big, clean Dorcy's truck parked outside. (I wasn't about to let impostors in, let alone allow them to touch our 800 pound treasure.)
But they were legit. And they knew their stuff. They sat the dolly down beside the piano, each took an end and hrruummpp! they lifted that beastie and set it down on the dolly. Then squeekee-squeekee-squeekee-squeekee, they shoved it out the door and into their waiting truck.
It took about five minutes.
Or less.
I watched them go, thinking of the effort and strain and bad language that had accompanied that last move.
Dorcy's had just become our greatest friends.
Our next move from Beaumont to a farm just outside Beaumont was handled by the same men.
With the same dolly.
And in about the same time.
Then the move back to town when we sold the farm.
In the words of the new Dorcy's employee: We took the call to pick up a piano just outside of Beaumont. My co-worker handed me the sheet and I wondered at the look on his face. As we grew closer to the address, he started to sweat a little. Then, when your driveway appeared and grew closer, he uttered these words, "No . . . No . . . NOOOOO!!!!"
Not only was our piano popular in our family, it had finally achieved infamy.
That has been our last move.
To date.
I still have Dorcy's on speed dial.

Herman

On a Final Note...

When we purchased our player piano, it came with 170+ player rolls – some dating back to the ‘teens’ of the 1900s.

If you’ve never seen one of said rolls, they’re quite interesting. They look like the old-time official perforated cards that the government used to send out. Yes, I’m that old . . .

The piano generates suction, which pulls the roll in. Then these holes allow the suction to break in very specific places, causing the corresponding note to play. Yeah, it makes no sense to me, either. And it has been explained and explained. Look! A squirrel!

All I know – or care – is that when you insert the roll in a certain way, flip this lever, and pump the pedals, music emerges.

Nice music.

Music that no human being – unless he is equipped with four hands and/or thirty fingers – could play.

An aside here – Husby and I, while in Buffalo, New York, visited the last of the piano roll makers, QRS. And actually watched one of their musicians play out a new roll. And I use the world ‘play’ deliberately. He was seated at a large apparatus that vaguely resembled a piano. On steroids. It was hooked by numerous appendages to another apparatus that was marking a long strip of paper.

The whole process was fascinating. And busy enough to keep even my attention.

Back to my story . . .

As I mentioned, our piano has to be pumped to work. So, you have to work to make it work.

You realize just how much effort it takes when you’ve played three or four rolls in succession.

Whew!

Fortunately we had lots of eager feet and legs.

I remember, years ago, when I was on one of my fitness kicks, I asked Husby for an exercise bike.

And he bought me four new rolls for the piano.

Now I can see his reasoning – beautiful music AND lots of exercise – then, I wasn’t as impressed.

Our player piano has been the focal point for our family for an entire generation. Tonight, I’m introducing the next generation.

You’ll probably be able to hear us . . .

Play On

Husby and I both love music.

When we married, one of our biggest problems was how to mesh two gi-normous (my word) record collections.

We did it (and still have it . . . somewhere . . .).

We both love to sing, but only Husby plays an instrument. (You should hear him on the bass guitar!)

With the acquisition of our new piano, we discovered a whole new world of music in the one hundred seventy+ rolls (dating from the early 1900s) that accompanied it.

The words are usually written on the rolls, so, as they play, one can sing along. If one is so inclined.

We were.

At the top of our voices because, hey, that sucker is loud!

When there weren’t any words, we had a plethora of non-musical - musical instruments to accompany. Kazoos. Noisy, rhythm gadgets. A Stumpf (yes, I spelled it right) fiddle.

Our family spent hours around that piano. Making music.

Or, more probably, noise. But we absolutely loved it.

And our kids know all the words to such timeless classics as: Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight?; Pip, Pip, Toot, Toot Good-bye-ee; The Hawaiian War Chant; Little Bo-Peep Has Lost Her Jeep; Over the Waves; Shuffle Off to Buffalo; I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream; Hungarian Goulash and dozens (I do mean dozens) more.

A little aside here: Those words pop up at the best times. When our daughter met her future husband (a man from England with accompanying beautiful accent) she hit him with the words to Pip, Pip. And received what we have discovered is an appropriate response, “I’ve never used that word in my life!”

Can I say it? That piano changed our lives – or more correctly, molded our lives.

One last story tomorrow . . .

Mr. Stumpf. You though I was kidding, right?

Playing Piano

I’m a piano player.

That sounds really good, so I’ll say it again . . .

I’m a piano player.

My problem is, the only piano I can play is my own.

Maybe I should explain . . .

I’ve always loved the piano. I would sit and listen for hours to someone who can really play. Classical, modern, ragtime. You name it – I would happily listen.

In an effort to get to that level of expertise, I even condescended to taking lessons. Oh, not for very long. My ADD wouldn’t allow for any extensive concentration.

But for a while, about when I was 12, the piano and I were very good friends.

Fast forward several years, a marriage and a few children.

Husby, the kids and I were driving through Lethbridge, Alberta.

Suddenly, Husby made a sudden – and quite violent – right-hand turn.

I looked at him questioningly as I clutched at the door handle.

He merely pointed toward a white, hand-lettered sign tacked to the light pole we were just passing. It read: Garage Sale. There followed a list of items. Then, right at the end, someone had scrawled in large letters: Player Piano.

Okay, yes, I knew what a player piano was. Husby loved them. We had even tried out a few of the modern, electronic does-it-all-for-you types at local music stores. Then noted the (for us) astronomical price and fled.

This time, with a private seller, he must have been hoping our chances were better.

He was right.

It proved to be the home of a dear friend’s parents.

And soon the deal had been made.

We were the proud new owners of a player piano.

The story doesn’t end there.

Buying the great hunk of furniture and actually laying claim to it proved to be two separate stories. For example: The sellers had finished their basement after they had installed the piano. There was no way that sucker was ever coming out of there whole.

It took a piano expert to completely dismember our acquisition to get it up the stairs.

And that was merely the first hurdle.

From there, we had to figure out where to put the thing. We lived in a 14 X 24 house at the time. (I am not making this up.) We barely had room for us and our four children.

No great problem for Husby. He happily found a place to store it until we moved someplace bigger.

Perhaps that piano is the reason he found someplace bigger. I never thought of that.

Moving on . . .

Our sweet little townhouse in Edmonton, Alberta, soon had a proud focal point.

Our beautiful, oak, mahogany-jacketed, Heintzman, 1916, real-ivory-keyed, lead-piped, foot-pumping marvel of music-producing ingenuity.

And, for the first time - ever - I could play the piano.

More stories to come . . .

Novel News

I am so excited to announce that my newest novel is also my Granddaughter's newest novel!
It's true!
High water has just been released.
And it was co-written with my eldest granddaughter, Megan!





High Water was conceived during our annual hike in the great Rocky Mountains.
So this is it.
The next generation.
I could die happy right now.
But I think I will stick around for a while and see which of my other amazing grandkids has a story to tell.
Meanwhile . . .
Interested in a great read for the Tweens in your life?
Check it out!
High Water

Small But Mighty

Our youngest granddaughter, Baby Girl (hereinafter known as BG) was a tiny little thing.

Not walking yet, she scurried using the time-honored technique perfected by infants and babies since earth started.

Hands and knees.

At eleven months old, she could sure get around.

Her favourite toy/workout apparatus was her rocking moose - one of many made by my Dad, BG’s great-granddad.

(Yes, I said moose. We live in Canada, it seems apropos.)

If BG wasn’t busily exploring somewhere she shouldn’t, she could be found on that moose. Rocking wildly.

And she was more than a little possessive.

Something that had only recently discovered.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

BG, the youngest of four siblings, was underfoot in the kitchen.

Her oldest sister, nine years her senior, saw an opportunity to take a ride on the currently unoccupied moose. (Hmm. There’s a statement you don’t see often!)

I should mention here that said older sister had waist-length hair.

This will be important later.

Moving on . . .

BG looked over and spotted her sibling on her moose.

Hey!

She motored over and, latching onto the moose’s tail, levered herself to her feet.

Balancing there, she reached out and grabbed a hank of her sister’s hair.

Then she pulled.

“Ahh! Mom!” eldest sister squawked.

BG pulled again.

“Mom! She’s got me!”
BG tugged and tugged and finally, eldest sister disentangled herself and dismounted.

Her youngest sibling lost no time in climbing aboard.

Then she turned and grinned at her sister.

A knowing, ‘Nya-nya-nya-nya’ sort of grin, complete with wrinkled nose and sparkling eyes.

Did I mention that she was eleven months old?!

I predicted she’d be CEO of a major company by the time she’s five.

Stay tuned . . .

The innocent bystander/cause-of-it-all.