Broken Bunnies

Dishes and I have a history.

Okay, yes, I use them at meals.

But we regard each other with deep suspicion.

I’ve recounted one experience here.

But the one I’m about to describe is the first I can remember . . .

On the Stringam ranch, mealtimes were an exciting gustatory trip down the trail to deliciousness.

When the meal ended, the work began.

Well, for the rest of us. Mom had obviously already been at . . . never mind.

I was five.

The work, for me, consisted of transporting non-breakables from the table to the sink.

Yep. The spoons, butter knives and forks were my special friends.

Occasionally, I also branched out and dealt with such things as: napkins. Salt and pepper. Toothpicks.

My work load was exhausting.

Leftovers were carefully covered and stored in the ‘fridge.

Anything left on the plates was scraped into one container and taken out to the dogs, who then thought they had been sent to doggie heaven.

It was 1960. Doggie nutrition and diet hadn’t been invented yet.

Back to my story . . .

On this particular day, the scraps had been placed in my little brother’s ‘bunny’ bowl.

A cute little china bowl with a bunny scene in the bottom and bunnies running all around the outside.

The favourite choice of the under-five group.

Which, at that time, consisted of my brother.

Moving on . . .

Everyone was busy.

I had finished my all-important silverware shuffle and was at a loose end.

Then I saw it. The bowl of dog scraps. Just sitting there, waiting for some grown-up person to transport it.

Me!

“Mom! I’m gonna take out the scraps!” I said, in my most authoritative voice.

“Mmm,” Mom said.

You have to understand that she was busy: effecting the organization of three other children, keeping a watch on the baby and talking to Dad.

“Yeah. I’m big enough!”

“Yes, dear.”

She said yes!

I grabbed the bowl and headed for the door.

"Diane!"

I turned.

"Don't drop the bowl. It'll break!"

"I won't!" 

Feeding the dogs on the ranch consisted of carrying the scraps across the cement driveway to the far copse of trees beside the old garage and tipping said scraps into the large, metal hubcap waiting there.

Sound easy?

Now picture several dogs (who had appeared as soon as the door opened) leaping and jumping around like idiots.

I suddenly realized why the job of taking out the scraps usually fell to a . . . bigger person.

I didn’t even make it across the driveway.

Blair’s little bunny bowl was knocked from my hand, breaking in half on impact.

The dogs happily started in on the scraps (glass fragments hadn’t been invented, either) and I collected the two pieces and returned, in tears of defeat, to my Mom.

It would be some years before I was again trusted with anything breakable. (See above.) Our little bunny bowl was gone forever.

But the worst? Mom was right.

Sigh.

P.S. There is a happy ending to this story.

During a recent trip to Costco with my son, I saw something that . . . . well, I‘ll just let you see for yourself.

Deja Vu. 

Deja Casse.

Putting out the Fire(man)

See? Easy.

Our third son, Duff, works with Special Needs adults.

An exhausting, trying, patience-testing, infinitely rewarding sort of job.

Which entails certain daily routines in and around the home and community.

As well as occasional forays into uncharted waters . . .

As part of their ongoing safety training, Duff and his clients were at a local fire station, receiving instruction in the dousing of a fire.

The obliging firemen had a controlled, but fair-sized fire going.

And each of the observers were given the . . . opportunity . . . to take one of a selection of fire extinguishers and actually use it to put out the fire.

All had gone well.

Even Duff’s clients had taken a hand at pointing, shooting and dousing.

It was finally Duff’s turn. The very last of the spectators.

He listened to the instructor’s careful instructions, nodded, gripped the handle of the extinguisher, and squeezed.

There was a slight ‘snap’ as the triggering mechanism broke, turning the stream of fire-retardant powder on full.

They were standing in the rain, it being Vancouver Island, and the nozzle was rain-slick.

The unexpected pressure caused it to slip from Duff’s hand.

The hose flipped around like something gone mad, spraying, first him, then his instructor with thick, white powder.

Duff got off easy. He was white from his mouth down.

But his instructor took the blast full in the face.

Full. In. The. Face.

It was like a scene out of a Laurel and Hardy film. (Google it . . .)

The man's fellow firemen, while trying to suppress their snickers, asked if he was all right.

“Yeah,” he said. “I managed to close my eyes.” He turned slowly and, blindly, made his way to the eye-washing station.

Duff, meanwhile, managed to recapture the errant hose and gradually force the valve shut.

The stream of white powder slowed. Then stopped.

Everyone surveyed the mess.

The entire area was heavily coated in white powder.

The fire?

Still burning cheerfully.

I don’t want you to think that anyone Duff works with is in any danger.

This experience proved that he can certainly handle any emergency that arises.

And also supply the entertainment.

Grandfatherhood

I think he did just fine!

Many men take a very active role in child-rearing in this modern day.

There are baby-change-stations in public men's rooms.

And I've even seen a ‘Father’s Room’, complete with rocking chairs, for feeding and caring for babies and children.

It’s a good thing.

When I was growing up, it was not so.

Men were not only not encouraged to take part in the care of children.

At times, they were actually discouraged.

My dad started child-raising in the 40s. I don’t think he changed a diaper in his whole life.

Husby started fatherhood in the late 70s. He changed plenty of them.

And my sons rearing children in the present day? Even more.

But it’s not really the diaper-changing that I'm talking about. It’s what it represents.

A chance to take a more active role, and be closer to, their children.

My dad had observed this shift in the parenting paradigm.

With regret.

Let me tell you about it . . .

In the earlier days of our marriage, Husby and I lived in a small home that he had built. A very small home. 306 square feet.

Cozy.

In that tiny space, we still managed all of the amenities. I had my washer and drier. And even my dishwasher.

There was a minuscule front room, carpeted with tacked-down rug samples from our local carpet store.

Luxury.

One day, my dad stopped by for a chat.

I happily sat down with him in the front room.

There, between us on an otherwise tidy floor, lay a broom.

Two things stand out in the aforementioned (Oooh, good word!) statement.

One, that the room was tidy.

Weird.

And two . . . hmmm . . .

Okay, just one.

Dad noticed the broom. “Um, Diane,” he said. “Why do you have a broom in the middle of your carpeted front room floor?”

I looked at it. “Oh.” Then, “Erik!”

My two-year-old bounced into the room.

“Your steed!” I said.

Erik grinned and, picking up the broom, he straddled it and ‘rode’ it out of the room.

Then I turned back to Dad.

He was shaking his head and had tears in his eyes.

“Dad! What’s wrong?”

“I never enjoyed you kids when you were little,” he said. “Never spent enough time with you. I should have.”

Dad was a product of his time. A time when men weren't expected to take that more proactive role.

It’s a great pity.

P.S. Dad made up for his perceived lack of involvement with his own kids by being very proactive in his grandkids. 

It was a beautiful thing.

Parental Prevarication

See the guy in the background? That's Dad. Entertaining the troops.
Foreground, the troops. 

My Father-In-Law (hereinafter known as ‘Dad’) was a farmer.

A good farmer. In over fifty years of dry land farming, he only failed to bring in a crop once.

And that was during a great drought year, when no one brought in anything.

He was careful and meticulous.

Smart and efficient.

With a great sense of humour.

And prevarication. (real word)

These last two weren’t always appreciated by the next generation.

Let me offer a couple of examples . . .

The drive from Fort Macleod to the largest nearby city, Lethbridge, was a distance of about thirty miles.

Not a great distance, but an uneventful, rather boring, ride.

At least it was for the boys who had tagged along.

Halfway between the two destinations was the small hamlet of Monarch.

And there, at the side of the road in Monarch, was a gas station.

With a pop machine.

On really good days . . . really, really good days . . . Dad would pull in to the station and purchase–at the great price of seven cents–a bottle of pop for each of the boys.

Would it be a great surprise if I mentioned that said boys wanted every trip to Lethbridge to be a really good day? And end with a stop for pop?

Probably not.

On the days when the gas station appeared . . . and then disappeared just as quickly, a small head would bob up from the back seat. “Da-ad! I wanted a pop!”

To which Dad would reply, “The well at home is brimming with pop!”

At first, this stumped the boys. Their well had pop? How had they missed that?!

Then they realized that he was simply ‘putting them off’.

“Da-ad! The well’s full of water!!!”

*  *  *

See?

Dad was also known for his store of treats. Something saved for a rainy day.

And called, interestingly enough, ‘Rainy Days’ (told here.).

Usually when his kids clamoured for a treat, he could slip into his bedroom and come out with a bag of candies. Or chocolates. Or, on a good day, licorice.

But sometimes, he would be caught somewhere other than home, without a treat in the landscape.

On those occasions, he improvised.

Picking up a small rock, he would hand it to whichever kid was making the most noise and say, “Here, suck on this. The flavour will come.”

My Husby hasn’t told me how many times Dad did this.

Dozens.

And the kids actually tried.

At least once.

Each.

Yep. A sense of humour (and prevarication).

Some Dads just have it.

World Peace Bubbles

I spent part of my Sunday helping in the Nursery at our church.

It was an experience.

Twenty little kids, ages 1 ½ to 3 years.

What do you call a group of toddlers?

A tantrum of toddlers?

A teeter?

Tumble?

It would be worth exploring.

I know what you call a group of parents/grandparents who have spent two hours with the little cretins. A tired.

But I digress . . .

This little group of boys and girls had been playing happily.

Reading books. (I use this term lightly.)

Running.

Playing with puzzles. (Again used lightly.)

Running.

Throwing balls and other toys at each other.

Running.

‘Cooking’ such gourmet specialties as . . . trucks. Shoes. At least one book. And two of the puzzle pieces we had been hunting for for over twenty minutes.

Playing with dollies.

Fighting/tug-o-warring with said dollies.

Crying when dollies were put away in a safe place and other toys introduced.

Running.

Falling off the slide.

Devouring snacks.

Devouring their neighbour’s snacks.

Running.

Before you think any of them were in any real danger, let me disabuse you.

No one was in any real danger.

There were few tears (mostly at losing their tug-o-war prop) and no injuries.

But I discovered something.

See?

When a group of toddlers is running madly and the room is started to resemble the streets of Edmonton after the Stanley Cup, all one has to do is turn on the bubble machine.

It’s true. I watched it happen.

The bubbles instantly attracted (and held) the entire group of toddlers.

They (the bubbles, I mean) floated gently into the air and every child in the room stopped what they were doing and exclaimed, as one, “Oooooh!” Then they ran to the blanket/blotter beside the machine and jumped and hopped, trying to catch the little, dripping, glistening balls of wonder and amazement.

It was incredible. Magical.

Quiet.

I’m getting a machine like that!

P.S. I wonder if this would work on the mobs that form after sporting events or political rallies? It's worth thinking about . . . 

Who's with me?!

Chili Beans

It’s been a roller-coaster of a winter, weather-wise, here in Edmonton.

Okay, I know that, calendar-ally, we are only two weeks into it.

But in reality it’s been winter here since Halloween.

Temperatures rising and falling.

And rising and falling.

Yesterday, it was -3. (26.6 F)

Balmy for the first part of January.

This morning, it’s -23. (-9.4 F).

A teeth-chattering, crackling cold that penetrates everything.

Frosts your windows over.

And is (in the words of Gus Pike) 'cold enough to freeze your nose hairs stiff.'

Perfect for some short-lived, vigorous outdoor activities (emphasis of both ‘short-lived’ and ‘vigorous’).

Or for staying indoors beside a snapping fire with a cup of rich hot-chocolate in one hand and a good book in the other.

We Tolleys have a term to describe this type of weather.

And therein hangs a tale.

If you would indulge me . . .

Husby and I had taken our (then) three boys in to Gramma’s house for the evening.

It was c-c-cold.

Each of us, had been padded and wadded with layer after layer of life-preserving warmth.

We had gotten to Gramma’s.

Unwrapped.

Enjoyed the warmth of a good dinner, good conversation and a couple of rousing games of ‘Probe’ (great game – Google it . . .).

It was time to head home.

Husby had gone out and started the car while I began the process of padding and wadding . . . again.

He came in to transport the first child.

He picked up the little fat-sausage shaped figure and opened the door.

A blast of cold air shot through the entryway.

“Oooh!” our son said, his voice slightly muffled, coming, as it was, through the thick scarf wound around his head. “It’s chili beans out here!”

And just like that, our family had its term for ‘very cold’.

So there you have it.

In Edmonton, our weather ranges from ‘Oh-my-word-it’s-hot-let’s-hide-in-the-basement’ through ‘gah-I’m-soaked-to-the-skin’ and ‘balmy-for-this-time-of-year’ all the way down to ‘chili-beans’.

We call it the new weather.

Grab your parkas!

Let Them Eat Carrots

Our family believes in good nutrition.

We do.

It just doesn’t always sound like it . . .

My son and DIL were entertaining.

Dinner was winding down and dessert was being distributed.

Yummy dessert.

With ice cream.

Now, I should probably mention here that their kids are known vegetable/fruit eaters.

Oh, they like other things. It’s just that, if given the choice, they have been known to go for the ‘healthy’ alternative.

But I digress . . .

Their mother had made buttered, dill carrots as one of the vegetable dishes with dinner. A noted family favourite.

Eight-year-old Daughter Number Two, hereinafter known as D2, was agitating for a third helping.

A third helping. "Please, please, please?"

“No,” her mother said. “Your sister hasn’t had seconds yet. I’m not giving you thirds until she has had a chance.”

Still D2 continued. "Mo-om!"

“No!” her mother said. “Not until everyone has had seconds.”

More coaxing. "Please, Mom?"

“No! Stop asking!”

D2 is nothing, if not persistent. “Pleeease?”

“Argh!” (real word) “You’re not having more Carrots!”

“But Mom . . .!”

“NO MORE CARROTS! EAT YOUR ICE CREAM!”

Hmm . . . okay . . . not something you hear every day . . .

Sooo . . . which would you choose?

I know what MY choice would be...

West Edmonton Mall Miracle

Go here. Have fun.

My SIL is a good, hard worker—steady and dependable.

He provides for his family.

All the necessities of life.

The only thing missing is extra money for . . . extras.

Trips to West Edmonton Mall for a day at Galaxyland aren’t within the scope of their usual budget. Thus it was with great joy that their family received, as a gift, passes for just that. A day ‘doing the rides’ and enjoying the fun at the world-famous park.

They packed up snacks and kids and made the twenty-minute trip to The Mall.

They rode, laughed, screamed and loved everything from the Carousel to the Mindbender. Finally, happily exhausted, they took a break—sitting on a set of steps and enjoying some of the treats they had brought.

Directly across from them was a bank of coin-operated video games. Presented, perhaps, as an alternative to riding/rushing/screaming. Or maybe as a little diversion to someone who is waiting for those who are riding/rushing/screaming. These games offer, as a reward, coupons to be used for the purchase of ‘Galaxyland stuff’.

As their family sat eating and recounting their experiences thus far, a middle-aged man (waiting for kids and/or grandkids) was playing one of the games.

‘Hat Trick.’

He was doing well.

Really well.

The machine lit up. And paid out.

2600+ coupons poured forth.

2600. Plus.

SIL laughed. “Wow! If you’re wondering what to do with those, we can take them off your hands!”

The man turned, smiled . . .

And dropped the entire pile into SIL’s lap.

2600+ coupons.

I needn’t tell you about the astonished faces or the hastily gasped out thanks as the man nodded, smiled again, and left.

Or the normally out-of-reach gifts chosen by several little girls who had just received their first glimpse of Heaven.

I would like to ask one thing of you, the reader, though.

Please pass this story around.

I want this man to know the joy he brought to those little girls.

Maybe, somehow, we can thank him.

Booger Man

The boy.
No, that isn't the right finger, either...

In our house, over the holidays, love and good will abound.

And so does the food.

And the treats.

Especially the chocolate.

With, sometimes, amusing results . . .

A group of us adults were sitting around the table, intent on a game of cards.

Members of the younger set were dashing in and out, equally intent on activities.

Games.

And treats.

We had just opened a new box of exotic chocolates.

A gift from our dear next-door neighbours.

Five different kinds of luscious, melt-able deliciousness, each in a different (intriguing) shape.

Chocolate mousse.

Crunchy.

Espresso.

Crème Broulee.

And pistachio.

Each more mouth-watering than the last.

Our five-year-old discovered the box and immediately seized it.

“What’s this?!” he said, holding it up.

“Chocolates!” I said. “Really yummy ones!”

“Oooh! What’s this one?!” He jabbed a finger into the chocolate mousse.

“That’s dark chocolate.”

“And this?” Another jab.

“Hey!” his dad said, taking the box. “Don’t touch all of the chocolates with your booger-covered finger!”

Da-ad!” he said, disgusted. “That’s not my booger finger!” He held up his other hand, pointer finger erect. “That one is!”

At least he was honest . . .

Santa's Report Card 2015

A guest post by Kris Kringle

I told you last year that I thought Kris Kringle had a great thing going, and that I fully intended on encroaching on his territory.  And I have to admit that I do it willfully and intentionally, and, to some degree, selfishly.  I find that I get soooo much out of being Santa Claus, I often feel like I am taking more out than I am putting into the real purpose of Christmas.  Notwithstanding my own misgivings, I still maintain it is the best job going.

My Beloved and I have been recreating Santa and Mrs. Rebecca Claus (there – you heard her first name here first!) for some years now, and each year it is a special treat. We sincerely hope it also is for the people with whom we have the pleasure of visiting.

This year, for about the last five or six weeks, we have visited some 25 organized events and several spontaneous ones (disorganized events?), and they have each and every one been special to us.  We have sat over 1000 little ones on our collective knee this year, over 200 not-so-little ones, and we have had the great pleasure of visiting with some 450 seniors (who were not able to sit on our knees, so we bent ours to them.  As it should be.  And our knees are still working!  That in itself is a great Christmas blessing!).

During Christmas-time 2015, my beloved Rebecca and I have been fêted by young Irish Dancers, world-class Figure Skaters, Madrigal Singers, Farmers’ Marketers, school children galore, hockey players, patients in the Sick Kids’ hospital, and many dental patients–all of whom knew the song “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” (and most of whom asked me ‘Please, PLEASE don’t sing it to me, Santa, you sound like my Dad!’.)

Amongst the middle-aged crowd were a myriad of parents who, without exception, wished only the best for their children and families.  It was good for Santa to see and hear that.

One very special young man, in his mid-20s, had never before encountered our western incarnation of the Santa Claus legend.  He was a large fellow, who asked if he could hug me; of course I replied it was expected!  He put his burly arms around me and literally lifted me off the floor – not an easy task in itself when you think of Santa’s size–all the while giving me the best bear-hug I have ever had!  After I regained my ability to breathe and speak, I asked a bit about himself.  Turns out he had only been in Canada two weeks, a Syrian refugee who after many months had found a new home with some wonderful caring people.  When I asked him what he would like for Christmas, he wished for peace and a new home for all of his family and friends still enmeshed in the war and strife in his homeland.  He wished me a Merry Christmas before I could even mutter the words to him.

On the campus of the local University, we had been invited to the home of a professor and his family who were hosting a Christmas party for his family and about 20 or so international graduate students studying with the professor–students from Iran, Turkey, India, Syria, Japan, Israel, China, and a couple of other far-flung lands.  To my knowledge none were Christian, but each insisted on visiting with Santa and Rebecca to learn more about what must have been strange western Christmas customs.  We spent more time that we probably should have with these bright young people. Each of them sported a huge smile and returned wishes of peace and success and prosperity–for us, for their hosts in a new country, and for their families and friends back home.  Not one of them hesitated wishing me a Merry Christmas, and I received with great gladness many wishes for a happy Hannukah, a good Ramadan, and several other upcoming holy-day festivals that I am still studying up on.  I will celebrate each of them with glee and gladness for new-found friends.

The most moving experience for Santa this year was a delightful young 9-year-old Irish dancer–Natalie.  She came to my knee with a little less than her usual smile or her usual brightness for the season.  When I got around to asking what she would like for Christmas, I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear: “I would like the bombing to stop.”  This was just a couple of days after the terrible events in Paris, and I could tell little Natalie was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders that night.  “Yes, Natalie, I would like the bombing to stop too. [Long pause].  I will see what I can do about that, okay? In the meantime, is there something that you would like for Christmas, something just for you?”

Natalie was not to be deterred.  “No, Santa, I just want the bombing to stop.  Is there something I can do to make it stop?”

Another long pause.  But then the words came into Santa’s mind.

“Yes, Natalie, there is something you can do to make the bombing stop.  In fact, there are two things you can do.  First, you can keep smiling!  You have such a beautiful smile!  Share your smile with everyone in the world, because that tells everyone that you love them—and the bombing will stop.  And second, dear Natalie, just keep on dancing!  I promise you that if you keep on dancing, and show the world that you love everyone like I know you do, the bombing will stop, one day.”

I had a great Christmas in 2015, my friends, thanks mostly to the Natalies of the world.  I hope and wish that yours has been a wonderful one too.

Peace on Earth, Good Will to Women, Men and Children, Always!

With much love,

Santa and Rebecca Claus

From all of us to all of you:
a very Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

Resting up for the night ahead . . .

Christmas Eve and the family is gathering.

May all of your moments be bright this Christmas!

From all of us at the Tolley house . . .

Wishing you and yours the very best and brightest Christmas ever!

Merry Christmas!

Opening the Ski Chapter

Christmas Elf: Caught in the Act . . .

It started out ordinarily enough.

Dad waving from the driveway as he started the long drive to Lethbridge to begin his Christmas shopping.

I should point out, here, that Dad always began and ended his shopping on the same day.

Christmas Eve.

He had a thing about children sneaking into his closet to peek at presents.

Not that I ever did. Personally, I think it had something to do with his own childhood and his own childhood foibles and tendencies.

Let's not talk about this any more . . .

We waved happily to him, then went back to helping Mom with the Christmas baking.

Our duties were carefully delineated.

She mixed.

We watched/hovered.

She finished mixing and dug out cookie sheets and baking pans.

We tasted.

She shooed us away and began to spoon/scrape.

We watched/hovered.

She turned to put pans into the oven.

We tasted.

She shooed us away and finished spooning/scraping.

She turned to put pans into the oven.

We licked the bowl.

Literally.

She shooed us away and started again.

She mixed.

We watched/hovered . . .

You get the picture.

But when pans started coming out of the oven, yet another duty was added to the roster.

Eating the now-baked deliciousness.

And so it went.

Everyone had their responsibilities clearly outlined and we did them whole-heartedly.

No slackers in this bunch.

Sometimes, though, baked goodies actually made their way past the ravening hordes children to the fancy Christmas platters set out to receive them.

Not often, I will admit, but frequently enough that we realized what those platters were for.

But I digress . . .

Other duties included:

1. Hiding when the baking was finished and clean up was indicated.
2. Giggling loudly during hide-age.
3. Sitting under the tree and periodically shaking/squeezing packages.
4. Teasing younger siblings that Santa Claus would never be able to find our ranch.
5. Re-arranging Christmas ornaments.
6. Breaking said ornaments.
7. Hiding again.

It was a busy day.

Mostly for my Mom, but why haggle over details?

Finally, just as we were getting ready to climb into bed for the long, sleepless night, we heard Dad's car pull into the driveway.

And then began another whole round of children milling about excitedly.

Sleep was further away than ever.

But, finally, we were herded into our beds and the doors firmly shut against peekage/sneakiness.

The wait was on.

I shared a room with my younger brother, Blair and my younger sister, Anita.

Somehow, I managed to keep them bottled up until some of us (not me) were ready to fizz over.

About 5 AM.

We could wait no longer.

Now the rule in the Stringam household was 'Look, but don't touch until Mom and Dad's feet hit the living room floor'.

On this particular Christmas, looking was especially exciting.

Because Dad had strewn his gifts over the living room floor.

The entire living room floor.

From the soft light of the Christmas tree, we were able to make out strange, long objects arranged at intervals from the doorway all the way to the tree itself.

What could they be?

We knelt down in the doorway, trying to get a better view.

Weird.

Had he opened a crate of something and left the boards flung about like flotsam?

Normally such behavior was reserved for the younger set.

Double weird.

Just when we were ready to burst with the excitement and curiosity, we heard our parents make their way up the hall towards us.

Finally!

Dad reached around the corner and snapped on the light.

Our eyes were glued to the newly-revealed treasures.

Skis!

The entire floor was littered with skis!

Beside each carefully arranged set of skis were a pair of poles and leather ski boots.

We hopped and skipped carefully around the room, checking name tags and finally settling beside the set that bore ours.

Mine were blue.

With long, silver poles.

And black leather ski boots.

I don't remember what else I got that year (sorry, Family).

Nothing could compare with my shiny new and wondrous skis.

Then I discovered that the excitement didn't end there.

The rest of Dad's gift included a week-long family skiing trip to The Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana.

The first of many such trips.

And the beginning of a whole new chapter for the Stringams.

Yup. The best Christmas ever.

Now, it's your turn. What was your best childhood Christmas ever?

Un-Chained

Oh sure. He's looks innocent here . . .

Christmas morning, the exciting, present-opening part, was inevitably on hold until the kids could get their father out of his bed.

It wasn't as easy as it sounds.

What began as a mainly physical feat when they were younger, soon progressed into a different sort of challenge as they grew older.

Their Dad got sneaky.

Case in point . . .

I was heading out to do the milking.

I turned to my Husby, who was still in bed and said, “Don't start till I get back.”

He grinned. Something I have learned to treat with respect over the years.

“Oh, I imagine I'll still be here when you get back!” He reached under the bed and pulled out the end of a long, heavy chain. “Could you please hand me the other end?”

Puzzled, I reached under my side of the bed.

Sure enough, there was the rest.

This man plans ahead . . .

I handed it to him and he lapped the two ends over himself and snapped a large combination lock shut through them.

He was right.

He would probably still be there when I got back.

Shaking my head, I left.

Milking was quickly accomplished and I was soon back at the house, pails brimming.

Just as I opened the door, I heard a cheer go up.

'Wow, everyone's sure happy that I'm home!' I thought.

It wasn't me.

They had just finished finding the final number for their father's combination lock.

And had succeeded in freeing him from his chains.

Quite literally.

I set the milk in the milk room and came upstairs just as everyone poured, happily, from our bedroom.

“Mom! We got Dad out of his chains and we're ready to open presents!”

Now there's something you don't hear every day.

“Wow! You kids are good!” Thoughts of future bank robbers and safe-crackers suddenly came to mind.

“Naw! He gave us the first two numbers. Then all we had to do was figure out the last one.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. We did it by the process of elimination.”

“Oh. Well . . . good.”

“It was fun!”

You have to know that these kids have been exposed to many different challenges over the years.

Duct tape.

Zippers.

Bandages.

Mustard. (Don't ask.)

Air horns.

And Speedos. (Told here.) If you want to read it, we'll wait . . .

I guess a small matter of freeing their father from some pesky heavy chains is child's play.

Well, at least for our child(s).

PJ Update

We have a tradition in our home.

Well, several, actually.
But I'm only going to talk about this one . . .
Pajamas. On Christmas eve.
And spaghetti, but that is another story.
So . . . pajamas.
Every year, Mom hunts up the most distinctive pattern she can find and everyone is forced excited to wear it.
So, in honour of this very special time, here are a few examples from the past.
Enjoy!

 Christmas, 2002.  And no, that isn't a cow print couch . . .

Christmas 2003. And yes, we do look like escaped prisoners.

2007.  Little jump, here.

2008 and our numbers are increasing.
You can't see the striped socks, but they're there!

2009. Things are changing radically . . .

2010. What a mob!

2011. Well, a small, but important sample.

2012. The year of the polka dot.

2013 The year of the Googly

2014 - also glowed in the dark.

And that brings you up to date.

Here is a tiny sample of this year's PJs.

They'll be worth the wait . . .

More pictures to follow . . .
How are your Christmas preparations coming?
I hope they are colourful and bright!

Wrapped in Christmas

Who loves Christmas more?

Where we live, in largely Christian Alberta, it’s a fairly popular holiday.

With a slow build-up in ads and TV spots through October and November until the air waves and print media offer almost exclusive rights to the season by the time December rolls around.

Oh, the TV/Newspaper moguls toss in a bit of news/entertainment as a sop to the die-hard ‘wanna know what’s going on in the world’ people . . .

But who loves Christmas most?

In the Stringam household, Christmas was a season on hold.

Right through August.

I am not making this up.

Little Sister would quite literally come home from her first day of school in September and drag out her Christmas records.

Which she played from then through to January.

This morning, the song, “Snoopy VS the Red Baron” came on the radio and I knew every word.

Every. Word.

Sigh.

And then she would start wrapping.

She wrapped everything. Beautifully and often . . . creatively.

Old toys.

Kitchen gadgets.

Books.

Games.

Clothing.

The spoon you had just used to stir your chocolate milk.

If you were slightly inattentive, your glass of chocolate milk.

And the cookie.

If it wasn’t nailed down, or too heavy for her to lift, it got wrapped.

And then, if one wanted to use said-item-that-one-had-just-laid-down-only-a-moment-ago, one had the joy of unwrapping it first.

One year, Mom came up with the startlingly clever idea of giving Little Sister a box of ‘wrapping stuff’.

Paper, tape, scissors, ribbons, bows, tags, etc.

Which was . . . how do I put this . . . well and totally used.

There was an ad on TV some years ago which showed a completely-wrapped dog with an equally wrapped ball.

It was hilarious.

It was shot at our house.

Not really, but you get the picture.

So, back to my question.

Who loves Christmas most?

I’m proposing the name of my Little Sister.

For all of the above . . .

Being the Answer

A true story.

1981.
Carol’s big suburban slid into the parking lot of the Native Friendship Centre in Slave Lake.

Her boss met her in the foyer. “Can’t do it this year,” he said sadly.

Carol stared at him. “What?”

“The basket delivery to Trout Lake? Can’t do it. There’s a storm and our pilot says there’s no way he can land on the strip.”

Carol’s heart sank. There were people in Trout Lake who needed those hampers of food very much. Families who counted on them.

“I’m sorry,” her boss went on, starting to turn away.

“I’ll drive up there.”

He turned back. “What?”

“I’ll drive.”

“Carol, it’s three hours in good weather! And there’s a storm so bad we can’t land in it. Who knows what the roads will be like?”

“There’s someone who wants that food,” Carol said quietly. “I know it. I can feel it! Someone desperately needs their basket.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Well . . .”

“How many baskets have you got?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Let’s load them in my truck. And I need one of your staff to come along. I don’t speak Cree.”

Soon, over her boss’ continued protests, the boxes of food were carefully loaded and she and young Theresa Cardinal seated in front.

They were off.

The trip went surprisingly well despite the near-white-out conditions in the blowing snow and the continuing cold. The only difficulty was one point when the two of them slid into a ‘T’ intersection with no idea of which way to turn.

Carol looked at her co-pilot. “Which way?”

Theresa shrugged. “We don’t use roads.”

Carol laughed. “I’m turning left.”

Her instincts were right. Four hours after they left the Centre in Slave Lake, they were pulling into the small hamlet of Trout Lake, Alberta.

On a usual year, there would be people and the horse-pulled school wagon available to help with deliveries.

This year, in the frigid temperatures and blowing snow, there was only Carol, Theresa, and Carol’s big suburban.

Still pressed by that sense of urgency, they started going from home to home where their offerings of food and gifts were received with smiles of gratitude.

Finally, they pulled up before a tiny, log cabin and Carol slid out of the truck.

The wind was blowing quite strongly, whistling around the little structure. For a community deep in the protection of the bush she knew that the storm around them must have grown mighty indeed.

Her long, fur-lined Cree coat kept out the worst of it and, grabbing the large box of food, she walked to the door.

Something was odd. The door, ice built up all along the edge, wasn't closed. Couldn't close.

And someone, in an effort to keep out the howling winds had stuffed an old quilt in the space.

Carol knocked. A soft voice inside, barely discernible over the sound of the wind, called out in Cree.

The two women entered.

The cabin consisted of one room. There was a tiny, elderly woman standing in the kitchen area to the left, looking unsure and frightened.

Across the room, seated on an old bus seat, were several children of various ages. They, too were staring at the two snow-covered, frost nipped women standing in the doorway.

Carol had a vague impression of a bed in the corner to her right and of someone in that bed.

Theresa began to talk to the woman as they deposited their burden on the table.

The woman stared at the box, then back at them.

“How many children live here?” Carol asked.

Her companion translated.

The woman held up six fingers.

Carol went back out to the truck to grab six brightly-wrapped packages.

When she got back, the woman was in conversation with Theresa.

Unable to understand them, Carol turned her attention to fixing the door. Picking up a hatchet, she began to carve away the icy build-up on the door until it could, once more, close.

As she was testing the door, the woman came over to her and tearfully thanked her. In Cree: "God will always remember you."

Carol and Theresa left the cabin and continued with their deliveries, but the dreadful sense of urgency that had been so much a part of their journey had melted away.

And that was when the story came out.

The elderly woman’s husband had been sick for over a week. The sole bread-winner for the household, he had been unable to get outside to find food.

The family, quite literally, had nothing to eat.

Nothing.

The woman had been praying for someone–anyone–to come to their aid.

In the nearly 35 years since that day, Carol can still see that small, Cree woman, huddled in almost complete despair with a sick husband, six hungry children and a door that wouldn't close in a Northern Alberta snowstorm.

And Carol is grateful to have been, for just an instant, the answer to someone’s prayer.