Pinched

Five of the six siblings. Husby is the cutie on the far right.

Family travel in the late fifties was . . . interesting.

I don’t know how we survived it.

The kids were herded, en masse, into the back seat of the car and the door was shut.

The youngest invariably rode up front, between Mom and Dad.

No one was buckled in.

The kids rolled around in the back seat like dried peas.

Interaction between the two quadrants of the car was usually accomplished by someone in back standing up and leaning comfortably over the front seat.

As a sop to safety, the driver often extended an arm sideways when braking.

Yep. Interesting.

Six-year-old Husby was travelling with his family.

Mom. Dad. Six kids.

Their sedan was hurtling over paved roads at speeds close to 60 MPH.

They passed a road sign.

Suggested speed – 60 MPH.

“Dad.” Husby was standing up, leaning over the seat. “What does that sign mean?”

His dad glanced at the sign. “That means we’re supposed to travel at sixty miles-per-hour,” he said. He pointed to the speedometer. “See?”

“Oh.”

Just then, another car sped past them, obviously going far faster than the ‘suggested’ speed.

“How come that guy is going faster?”

“Because he isn’t obeying the law.”

“Oh.”

Things were quiet for a moment. Well, as quiet as a car carrying eight people can be.

Then, “Dad. What happens if you go too fast?”

“The police will pinch you.”

“Oh.”

Husby thought about this for a long time. The police will ‘pinch’ you?

Obviously it was something to be avoided and/or feared. Husby had been pinched before. It was momentarily painful, but not terribly so. The police must do something really different to make people afraid of being pinched.

Finally, “Dad? When the police pinch you, do they use pliers?”

A six-year-old mind hard at work . . .

Drinking Buddies

I’ve never been a drinker.

Even as a teenager.

Okay, yes, I consumed water, fruit juice and far, far too much soda pop.

I went to all of the parties.

And watched my friends drink to inebriation.

But I never had the urge to imbibe myself.

I didn’t have to.

Good friend that he was, Dennis did my drinking for me.

It was his idea.

I could still enjoy every aspect of the party.

Without liquor ever touching my lips.

A true friend.

Enough background . . .

We were at our high school reunion.

There was much talking and laughter and reminiscing.

After dinner, the party started.

Much as it had been in our teenage years, a bonfire had been lit and we all gathered around it clutching our drinks of choice.

Dennis sat down beside me. “I suppose I’ll still have to do your drinking for you?”

I smiled at him. “Oh, yes, Dennis, please.”

A deep sigh. “Fine.”

An hour later, I was walking toward the bar for yet another glass of ‘virgin Caesar’. (And yes, I know it’s just clamato juice. But with a celery stick in it. Yummm.)

I passed Dennis, seated at one of the tables and in the middle of a ‘Dennis’ story.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “How am I doing?” I asked.

He looked at me. “Oh, you’re done,” he said. “You’ve had enough. I cut you off half an hour ago! You just can’t hold your liquor like you used to.”

Good friends.

They do so much for us.

Brain Pain

I’m famous.

Well, at least quoted.

Okay, not famous, but quoted once.

Maybe I should explain . . .

You know those pithy sayings that people spout?

Things like:

The pun is mightier than the word.

The road to success is always under construction.

All my life I've always wanted to be somebody. But I see now I should have been more specific.

When I was a boy I was often told that anybody could become president. I'm beginning to believe it.

I don't suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it.

Attempt to get a new car for your spouse—it'll be a great trade.

I said "no" to drugs, but they just wouldn't listen.

Hypochondria is the only disease I haven't got.

Every day is a gift, that's why they call it the present.

Good judgement comes from experience, and experience ... well, that comes from poor judgement.

Just because your doctor has a name for your condition doesn't mean he knows what it is.

There is always light at the end of the tunnel - if there isn't, it's not a tunnel ...

And

No pain, no gain.

It was this last that, in 1983, I changed to suit my own purposes. My version: No brain, no pain.

Okay, yes others have said it, but I swear I'd never heard it when I came up with it.

I said it a lot—especially to my kids whenever they bumped or stubbed or fell. 

My saying was picked up.

And repeated . . .

My good friend, Kelly, was preparing chicken for supper. She had bought a whole bird and was busily cutting it into pieces to fry.

This requires a knife—preferably sharp—which she had.

And finesse. Which came and went.

She was ready to separate a wing from the body. Had set the knife just so. And pressed down. Hard.

The knife slipped.

And caught her innocent bystander of a finger instead.

The blade nearly severed it.

Yes, I know. Horrible.

But now comes the part in between the injury and the medical care.

The part where she grabbed her finger in a tight grip and did the dance of pain around the kitchen.

Accompanied by the words: “I have a brain! I have a brain! I have a brain!”

Later, with her poor hand cozily wrapped, she told me, “All I could think was ‘No brain, no pain.”
See? Famous.

Kid Speak

Chris and Jerry. And a less embarrassed Mom.

Children.

They have a knack for saying the wrong thing at the right time . . .

Mom and Dad were travelling with Chris and Jerry, my eldest sister and brother, then aged 3 and 2. The little family stopped in at the Palomino restaurant in Forth MacLeod, Alberta (a town about two hours from the ranch).

The stop had been two-fold. A much-requested bathroom break.

And subsequent feeding station.

A table was secured near the restroom door.

The two kids were immediately taken to ensure fulfillment of the first need.

Then resettled at the table as their parents went about satisfying the second.

After their order had been taken, the wait began for the forthcoming delicious food.

With nothing to occupy their attention, Chris and Jerry spent those intervening minutes studying the other people in the busy restaurant.

And missing little.

As they sat there, a young couple came into the restaurant and took the table next to them.

Chris watched as the young man got up, murmured an excuse to his partner and headed for the restroom door.

“Are you going to go potty, too?” she asked.

In her clear, carrying, three-year-old voice.

The restaurant hushed for a moment as all eyes turned to the red-faced young man who ducked quickly through the restroom door. They then turned to the even more red-faced young mother sitting at the table with the tiny broadcaster.

Children.

Entertainment and embarrassment all rolled into one neat, cuddly bundle.

Don’t leave home without one . . .

Driving or Driven

Throughout my early years, I spent many, many hours herding cattle.

Driving them into corrals.

And loading them into big cattleliners for shipping.

It was long, hot, dusty, tiring work.

But at the end of the day, it was done.

Done.

Check written. Hands dusted.

Done.

Now, let me tell you my grandfather’s version of the same process, sixty years earlier . . .

The cattle, which had been wintering out in the desert, were gathered to the home place in Teasdale, Utah. From there, they were trekked by Grampa and his brother-in-law, Gus, to the nearest railroad hub, Green River—a distance of over 100 miles through mountains and desert that took the better part of a week to accomplish.

The trip was mostly uneventful, until the herd reached the Green River.

There, they found the Green River ferry ill-equipped to handle such a large number of cattle. Their only recourse was to convince the animals to swim across.

The cattle, natives of the mountains and desert of Utah, were unused to large bodies of water. Especially water that moved. They could not be convinced to cross.

For two hours, Grandpa and Gus tried.

Finally, feeling the two men’s discouragement, the boy who ran the ferry suggested that he bring his family’s cows to the opposite side of the river and see if that would encourage ‘cross-age’ (my word).

It worked! Either because the visiting cows wanted to make new friends, or because they were simply tired of the wretched cowboys whistling to them and chasing them about. Whichever.

They crossed.

Then the cattle were driven up the hill to the stockyards and loaded into train cars.

Now the actual trip could begin . . .

The rules of the day dictated that one man could accompany a certain number of train cars of cattle. Grampa’s herd had filled enough cars that two men could have accompanied them. Grampa was going along, but Gus was not, thus, when another man ran up just as the train was about to leave and asked if he could ride along, Grampa gave permission and installed him in Uncle Gus’ place.

The train started out—destination, Chicago.

When it made a routine stop a few hours later, Grampa saw an old friend he hadn’t seen in years and left the train to visit with the man.

Then got so busy talking that he didn’t notice when the train pulled out.

Without him.

In dismay, he stared after it.

There went his cattle. And, to make matters even worse, the papers that accompanied said cattle. Papers that allowed anyone with the animals to sell them.

Pocket the money.

And disappear.

Bearer bonds for livestock.

Grampa’s only hope of catching them was the next train. A passenger one.

That left in six hours.

After a nerve-wracking wait, he boarded the train and started out.

There are all kinds of people in the world.

Honest.

And less-than-honest.

Fortunately, Grampa had chanced upon one of the former.

When he finally caught up to the livestock train, he discovered his cattle had been well-cared for by the stranger. Fed and watered.

And awaiting their true owner.

The trip to Chicago and sale of the herd was completed and Grampa was able to head home.

A little tired-er. A little richer. And a little wiser.

But what a trip!

Not sure, yet which I prefer.

His day.

Or mine.

From here. Teasdale, Utah.

Through here. Green River, Utah.

To here. Chicago, IL

The only picture I have of Grampa on a horse.
Taken shortly before his death in 1959.

Grit

Or something similar...

Teaching school has never been easy.

Even in the heavy-handed discipline days of 1903 . . .

Eighteen-year-old Sarah hadn’t really considered teaching.

When she was approached by a family, her response was: “Well, I really can’t teach. I’ve only passed the eighth grade. I couldn’t teach unless they gave me a permit.”

A week later, she was facing the fourteen students of Aldrich, Utah.

Some of whom were taller than she.

The woman with whom she boarded told Sarah that the children had run the last teacher out.

Somewhat alarmed, Sarah made some inquiries.

She discovered that the students had flipped rocks at the woman. Constantly. Nothing she could do seemed to help.

They had brazenly done the same to the Superintendent when he came to investigate.

It had finally gotten so bad the teacher quit.

Sarah quietly determined that wouldn’t happen to her.

She called the class to order and assigned seating. Then she told them to get on with their lessons while she put some work on the board.

When she turned her back, two rocks flipped.

She stopped and ordered all of the children up to the front, boys and girls, and made them turn their pockets inside out.

Most had said pockets filled with little stones.

Sarah confiscated all the rocks and had peace until recess.

After recess, she again lined everyone up and turned out their pockets. Again, many of them had been filled with little stones.

After lunch, she did the same.

And the afternoon recess.

This went on for several days.

Finally, the children tired of the exercise and she had no more trouble.

Sarah might have been tiny.

And only possessed a grade eight education.

But she had the right skill for the job.

Grit.

Beats rocks every time.

Nurse in Training

Sarah, my grandmother, on her wedding day 1905.

Life was just . . . different back then.

1901.

In rural Utah, one made do.

And soldiered through.

Later, perhaps, one learned the whole story . . .

Sixteen-year-old Sarah, fifth of eight children and oldest surviving girl still at home, was put in charge of her younger siblings while their mother went to the big city for several months of formal midwifery training.

It was a time of learning.

Hard work.

And learning.

Did I mention learning?

Things were going surprisingly well.

Then youngest sister, twelve-year-old May, developed a sore throat.

A bad sore throat. That shed white ‘pieces’.

Older sister, Sarah, thought she merely had a bad throat and nursed her as best she could.

Without any outside influences.

Like the local Health Officer.

She had her sister “gargle everything she could think of, but it was still very bad.”

At length, she sought the advice of her grandmother, who lived nearby, and who did what she could to help.

Finally, when May was nearly better, Sarah’s Grandmother called the Health Officer.

Who told Sarah she had just nursed her sister through Diphtheria.

Maybe sometimes we’re better off not knowing . . .

Keeping Watch

Mark. In uniform.

1945. Mandatory military training in Cornwallis, Nova Scotia.

To the young man attending college in Guelph, Ontario, it was a two-week adventure . . .

Canada is a big country.

Mark had never been past Guelph, Ontario. Actually, before college, he had never been east of Alberta.

Like millions of other servicemen, the military life was his first glimpse of a wider world.

The highlight was a stint on the disabled destroyer, HMCS Saguenay, on permanent anchor in the harbour at Cornwallis.

While on the destroyer, one of the duties of the young would-be sailors was a turn on anchor watch.

A fairly mundane exercise.

All one had to do was ‘watch’.

You’d think it would be easy.

Two things you need to know:

1.  There was a strong wind blowing and

2.  Mark's friend, Bill, had very poor eyesight.

Back to my story . . .

It was 2 AM and Bill was just coming on watch.

As he stepped up onto the deck, he realized that there was quite a stiff breeze coming in off the water. Quickly, he grabbed the strap of his hat to pull it under his chin and behind his ears.

The wind was quicker.

It took his hat—and his glasses—out to sea.

As his watch was only two hours in length, he assumed he could get along without the extra paraphernalia and didn’t bother to report the problem.

He was wrong.

Remember what I said about Bill’s poor eyesight?

That comes into play here.

Being on anchor watch consisted of keeping track of certain lights on the shore.

If the lights were out of position, the boat was out of position.

Bill couldn’t see the lights.

And when the ship broke loose from its anchor (because of course that would happen now), Bill couldn’t tell.

Until the ship ran aground near the shore.

The men were jolted from their bunks and the call for ‘All Hands on Deck’ brought them topside.

The tide was high and the ship had to be refloated before it went out.

Fortunately, there was a tug nearby and the job was accomplished quickly and with little problem.

Still, to the land-bound sailors, it was an adventure.

And they learned something:

Turns out, if someone is on watch, they need to be able to 'watch'.

Sooo, if for some reason one can’t do a job, even for a short time, one can’t do a job.

Good advice.

Another picture of Mark. In uniform. Ahem.

Sky Hooked

1940. Lethbridge Alberta. The Safeway meat department.

A whopping $.25 an hour.

A fifteen-year-old new employee had just gotten his first glimpse of Heaven . . .

Moving into the big city had been an adventure. For a boy used to chores and hard work, it was a reprieve. For someone accustomed to few people, it was an education.

For a lad whose only source of income to date had been an allowance, it was admittance into the world of high finance.

Mark loved working at the meat counter. He soon got through the basics of sorting, assisting and wrapping and was working on learning to cut—first with knives and then with the machines.

Nothing says ‘you’re a man’ quite like a job that involves things sharp and deadly.

And to add to the perks of the job, he got along well with his co-workers.

Life was perfect.

However, like most work places, there soon proved to be a joker in the midst.

Garth, one of the younger cutters, sent Mark on an errand.

Back to the storeroom for a ‘sky hook’.

Obediently, Mark disappeared.

For some time, he searched the orderly shelves and office, growing more and more alarmed when what he sought simply couldn’t be found.

Finally deciding he would have to return to Garth to report failure, he started for the door.

Another cutter was standing there. He asked Mark what he was searching for.

When the young man told him, the cutter smiled. “You’ve been duped, son,” he said.

Huh. Mark turned this over in his mind.

Remember, this is a boy from the ranch. One who had been the butt of pranks by professionals.

He smiled and hurried back to Garth. “We were out of those hooks,” Mark told him. “So I went next door to the hardware and ordered one.”

Then he went back to his duties, but kept an eye on the young cutter.

He didn’t have to wait long.

As soon as he turned away, Garth was out the door like a shot and headed to the hardware store.

Oddly enough, Mark never heard the term ‘sky hook’ used again.

Yep.

There was a joker among the staff at the meat counter in the Lethbridge Safeway.

Just not the one everyone knew.

A Bit Nippy Out There

Just add boy . . .

Kids raised on a ranch grow into their jobs.

Quite literally.

For example, first, their job is to feed the chickens and gather the eggs.

Then, when a little older, they start cleaning the coop.

At the great age of seven, when his next older brother Bryce moved up into the milk cowman job, Dad graduated from the first to the second.

A heavy job for a seven-year-old.

Tiring.

But it did have its perks.

Or maybe 'jerk's.

Let me tell you the story . . .

Dad was taking care of his new Saturday chore. Cleaning the coop.

He had finally finished hauling out the old and dirty straw.

And had moved on to bringing in the new, clean and sweet-smelling.

As he was raking it into the coop, a litter of young pigs discovered him.

And his bounty of new, clean and sweet-smelling (see above).

Ahhh! Perfect for a group of small, pink-hided brothers and sisters in search of someplace nap-worthy.

They snuggled down and were instantly asleep.

Dad stared down at them.

They looked so comfortable.

And he had been working so hard.

Happily, the small boy snuggled in with the small pigs.

When he turned, they turned.

And when they turned . . . you get the point.

All was well.

Then, the decisive move.

Either he turned out of turn, or they did.

One of them was out of sync.

Because the little piggy next to him—his new ‘brother-in-straw’—took offence and bit him.

On the ear.

With a gasp and a hand held to the offended member, Dad jumped up and glared at the offender.

Then rousted the whole crew out of his straw and finished his job.

I guess nothing says ‘get back to work’ quite like a sharp nip on the ear.

I’m going to remember that with my kids . . .

The Cost of Freedom

To the small boy from the ranching family, they were a sign of oppression.

And their absence?

Freedom.

Maybe I should explain . . .

During the 1930s, in Glenwood, Alberta, there were many families who did without.

Oh, they had food to eat and a roof over their heads, but there were things they simply did not have.

Things like shoes.

Their absence was a sure sign of the family’s poverty.

But to six-year old Mark (my Dad) those boys who got to come to school shoeless were free.

He dreamed of enjoying the same freedom.

Daily, he begged his mother to let him walk to school unhampered by his sturdy, leather shoes and hand-knitted socks.

And daily, she told him he would be wearing said shoes and socks.

And Moms always win.

One warm, spring day, he got a brilliant idea. He would circumvent his local law enforcement.

A block from home, he sat down and pulled off the hated footwear with accompanying woolen socks.

And left them in a heap beside a post.

While he was at it, he decided to lose the equally oppressive jacket and cap.

Hanging the latter on the same post.

Happily, he skipped off barefoot and unfettered to school.

Later, after a day spent luxuriating in his freedom, he returned to the post.

Only to find it bare and rather shoeless.

Frantic, he looked around.

Nary a jacket, cap, shoe or sock in sight.

In a panic, he ran home, creating scenarios in his head to explain their absence.

But when he stepped inside the front door he discovered, to his relief, that all of his accoutrements were there. Shoes and socks neatly sitting where they should be and jacket and cap on their hook by the door.

All had been returned earlier by a helpful neighbour who had seen and recognized.

Relieved, he turned.

To see his mother, arms folded, standing beside him.

Uh-oh.

Dad learned that freedom comes at a cost.

And that children simply don’t see things the way adults do.

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 . . .