Finding Gentlemen

Me and Golly Gee.
And yes, that is a band aid on my nose.
Sexy!

I learned two things that summer.
1.      Barbed wire gates are tricky.
2.      Some young gentlemen, though they look strong, aren't.
Oh, and . . .
3.      They're still gentlemen.
I was herdsman for my Dad. Had been for two years.
It was a simple job, now that calving season was pretty much over.
My duties consisted of making sure that all four-footed red and white creatures were safe and happy.
Much like a mother hen.
On horseback.
The perfect job.
The only difficulty lay in the fact that all summer, there had been gangs of young men between the ranch buildings and the fields. Seismic crews more-or-less busy laying out lines and setting the charges that would indicate hidden reserves of oil.
The difficult part was in riding past them. 
It made me feel rather . . . conspicuous.
Particularly if they weren't busy at the moment and had nothing, other than me, to watch.
On this particular day, in full view of about ten pairs of eyes, I slid off my horse and effortlessly opened the gate.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Sigh.
I smiled, then hurriedly pulled my horse through and closed the gate.
I wasted no time in heading to the far side of the field, hoping that, when I was done, they would have moved a little further down the road.
It didn't happen.
By the time I finished my sweep, they had finished their work and were standing around, just outside the gate, waiting for their data to be collected.
And with nothing to do but watch me.
Perfect.
I dismounted and opened the gate.
Again, the cynosure (real word) of all eyes.
I led my horse through.
“Can I help you with that, Miss?”
I turned.
One of the young men, obviously a gentleman, had stepped forward.
I looked at the gate post in my hand, then back at him. “Umm . . . sure. Thank you.”
I handed him the post and stepped back.
He stuck the post into the bottom loop, then pushed it upright.
It didn't come anywhere near the all-important top loop.
I should point out here that a barbed wire gate is held shut by two loops of wire - one top and one bottom - on the lead post. If the bottom loop isn't high enough on said post, the gate is increasingly harder to fasten.
The young man had obviously seen me open the gate.
With the swat of one hand.
His manhood was now on the line.
He pushed, while trying not to appear that he was pushing.
Still no progress.
He began to get red-faced.
He put his shoulder to the post and pushed some more.
Still a gap of two or three inches.
A mile in 'gate' terms.
I suggested that he push the bottom loop a little higher on the post.
He did so.
And was still an inch out.
Oh, man.
He had offered to help me.
And he couldn't.
I couldn't bear to stand there and witness his embarrassment.
I told him, “I have to get to the ranch. I'll just leave you with that. Thank you so much!”
And gave him my biggest smile.
Then I jumped on my horse and made a quick exit.
A short time later, when the crew had moved on, I went back and checked the gate.
It was fastened.
I don't know if the poor man did it himself, or if half the crew had to help him.
At least I wasn't around to witness it.
But I will always be grateful.
He was a true gentlemen who personified my favourite expression, Nothing so strong as gentleness. Nothing so gentle as real strength.

You never know when you'll run into a true gentleman. Best to keep your eyes open.

The Knose Knows

The nose is okay. The teeth . . .

Okay, yes, I had been told never to do it.

In fact, I had been threatened with certain death punishment if I did do it.

But it was my favourite indoor thing to do!

I was four. I admit it, my world was small.

My family was living in the ranch house on the Stringam ranch.

Two bedrooms downstairs.

And . . . umm . . . two bedrooms up? (I think. Counting past four made my mind crazy. And it was dark and scary up there.)

I had my own room on the ground floor.

I had recently graduated from my little ‘kitty’ bed to my own giant, iron bed.

My giant, iron bouncy bed.

You can probably see where this is going . . .

During the night, bouncy iron beds are good for sleeping.

During the day, they make perfect trampolines.

Yeah. My mom didn’t get it, either.

She would come into my room.

Kiss me awake.

Make the bed.

And leave.

Probably the part where she ‘left’ was her biggest mistake.

Or making the bed.

It’s a toss-up.

There was this remarkably smooth surface.

That was incredibly bouncy.

It was a no-brainer. Literally.

So I did.

Bounce, that is.

Boing. Boing. Boing.

First, on my knees.

Then, graduating to my feet.

Oh, you can really catch air when you use all of you!

This is fun!

“Diane! Are you jumping on the bed?”

Stopping. “Umm . . . no!”

“Don’t jump on the bed! You’ll get hurt!”

I looked around at my lovely, soft friend. Pffff! How could I possibly get hurt?

Boing. Boing.

“Diane!”

How did she know?!

Boing.

“Diane!”

Man, that woman could see through walls!

I sat there for a moment.

Then I heard the kitchen door close.

Mom had stepped outside for some reason.

My time had come!!!

Boing. Boing. Boing. Boiing. Booiing. Booiinng. Booiinngg!

Okay, now I was really flying!

You remember when I mentioned that mine was an iron bed?

Well, this is where that fact comes into play.

And FYI? If noses and iron come into contact?

Noses lose.

CRUNCH!

It took a moment for me to realize that something had happened.

Because something had definitely happened.

“Ahhhhhh!!! Moooooommmm!!!!” I can’t quite produce it here. Think of something high-pitched and piercing. Like an air raid siren.

Mom ran into the room and wrapped her erring daughter in warm, loving, Kleenex-bearing arms.

My little nose was shattered at the point of contact. The bridge.

I sported two very black eyes and a sore snout for many, many days.

I’d like to say I learned my lesson.

And I did. Sort of.

After my wounds had healed, and when Mom wasn’t looking, I still jumped on the bed.

But I hung onto the iron headboard.

That way, it couldn't leap out at me unexpectedly.

Because they do that.

I'm happy to report that today, over 56 years later, I no longer jump on beds. The ceiling is simply too close for comfort.

But I do jump on trampolines.

Oddly enough, whenever I do, my nose hurts.

It remembers.

Waiting For It

When I was four, my parents had a TV.

A wonderful, marvellous creation that stood on its own four legs in one corner of the living room.

And, if one waited, showed the most magical, amazing programs. Like Friendly Giant.

If one waited.

After breakfast, I would hurry to the living room—and the TV therein—and look to see if something had appeared.

Usually, nothing had.

Let’s face it. I lived on a ranch. Breakfast was E.A.R.L.Y.

And the TV stations didn’t wake up until long after morning chores were done.

Wussies.

I would stare at the dark screen for a while, quietly willing something to happen.

Then begin playing.

During those early hours, play often consisted of something that kept me close to said TV.

Or following Mom around, asking when Friendly Giant would be on.

Once in a while, the genius woman would say, “Soon,” park her repetitive and annoying daughter in front of the set, and turn it on.

The Indian Head test pattern would show its familiar face. So to speak.

And keep me entertained for some time.

Did you know that, if you stare at it long enough, it . . . changes?

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Eventually, ‘O, Canada’ would start and, immediately after that, I would see tiny little figures and ‘that big boot’.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

My day had officially begun.

Moving forward a generation . . .

No longer did one ever stare at a blank screen or a test pattern.

For my eldest son, it was a matter of watching some lessor show whilst waiting for Sesame Street to come on.

Because the programs just kept on coming.

Another generation forward . . .

Yesterday, my granddaughter (Hereinafter known as Little Girl—or LG for short—was sitting in her parents’ bedroom.

Looking up at the big screen TV on the wall.

The conversation went something like this:

LG: “Mo-om! I’m done watching that. I want to watch this, now!”

Daughter: “Well, here’s the remote. Choose which one you want.”

LG: “It’s taking too long.”

Me: “Sigh.”

Poo-gestion Prevention

Okay, this is as gritty as I get . . .

We were having dinner with our good friends.

Lots of talk. Tons of laughter.

And some eating fit in there somewhere.

You know the drill . . .

The talk turned from our kids (our favourite topic) to dogs.

Another favourite.

Our friend, I’ll call her Tammy, mentioned with a shudder, that their miniature schnauzer (hereinafter known as Ruby), sometimes would . . . umm . . . eat those droppings she should have left far behind.

Yes, this was during dinner – now you know why there was more talk and laughter than eating.

Moving on . . .

Tammy had read, recently, that this usually indicated a lack of potassium.

And that the best treatment was to feed her dog a bit of banana.

Did you know that dogs like banana?

Well they do.

Ruby snapped it up like manna from heaven.

And the . . . umm . . . unfortunate tendency . . . disappeared.

Ta-daa!

Tammy’s husby - I’ll call him Gord - spoke up.

“You know,” he said. “I knew it would work!”

We all looked at him.

“Yeah. I’ve been eating bananas forever . . .”

We waited for the punch line.

“. . . and I’ve never once been tempted to eat my droppings!”

Banana. Tasty prevent-er of so many things . . .

Generational Lava

“Gaahh! Mom! You’re standing in the lava!”

Mom and Dad had taken us kids to see the movie ‘Krakatoa, East of Java’.
(Okay, yes, I know that the title is geographically incorrect, but that was what it was called.)

It had scared me to death. All my young, six-year-old mind could think of after that was trying to get away from the slowly-flowing river of death.

And my favourite game became the daring deathwalk over precariously-placed pillows across the lava lake that was the front room.

I was at it again.

And Mom wasn’t cooperating.

“Oops! Sorry!” Mom jumped lightly onto the closest pillow.

Whew! That was close! I didn’t have a lot of Moms to spare. I’d sure hate to lose this one.

For hours, my brother and I made up scenarios that necessitated leaping back and forth across the pillows and landing, temporarily safe, on the couch or coffee table.

It was fun.

And, nimble kids that we were, we never got burned even once.

Fast forward a few years . . .

My kids were downstairs playing.

I went to check on them.

They had pillows placed at strategic intervals across the family room floor.

“Careful, Mom! Don’t step in the lava!”

Now where did they get that idea?

The déjà vu was frightening.

And, moving forward again - a lot of years . . .

Yesterday, my daughter and I were visiting in the front room, seated comfortably in recliners.

Her daughter and another granddaughter were playing.

They had been through the toy box.

And had graduated to hiding under piles of cushions on the couch.

Giggling.

A few minutes went by.

“Careful!” the three-year-old said.

I turned to see what they were doing.

They had set the cushions out across the floor in a line and were hopping back and forth along them.

“Stay on the bridge!” the three-year-old cautioned. “Don’t get hurt!”

The two-year old jumped off the last cushion and onto the floor.

“Gaahh!” my daughter and I said together. “You’re stepping in the lava!”

Okay, now I see where it comes from . . .

A Little Corn-y

I can only dream.

I’ve never been able to grow corn.

The planets are aligned against it.

Why am I thinking of this in the middle of winter?

Because it’s the middle of winter.

Moving on . . .

For over forty years, I’ve kept a garden.

Oh, it has changed in that time.

Mostly gotten smaller.

For many, many of those years, I attempted to grow corn.

Corn-on-the-cob just says summer to me.

Most of the time, my tidy little corn plants merely peeked above ground.

Sighed.

And died.

Twice, they grew to maturity.

Developed ears, even.

And then . . .

Well, let me tell you about it.

I had a large garden behind our mobile home just outside of Orton, Alberta. (Near Fort MacLeod)

It was growing beautifully.

The weather had cooperated.

The rains had come when they were needed.

Plenty of sun.

For the first time, ever, I had mature corn plants.

Nearly ready to harvest mature corn plants.

Then, one sunny, but slightly breezy day, the county sprayer drove by.

Spraying the ditches.

For weeds.

Now, if there is any wind, the county sprayers are supposed to be cautious. Not spray near homesteads. Avoid people.

This sprayer . . . wasn’t.

And did.

And the next day, I walked out into my garden and noticed that everything looked . . . wilted.

My first thought was frost.

Okay, it was July, the only month of the year when frost is . . . uncommon.

Then I remembered the sprayer.

Long story short – the weed-killer had lived up to its name.

My garden – and my beautiful corn – was dead.

Sigh.

A couple of years later, in a different small house and with a different garden patch, I again saw my efforts to grow corn rewarded.

Saw ears develop.

And then . . . grasshoppers.

In 1983, in Southern Alberta, we had a ‘plague of locusts’. A real plague – look it up. They were so numerous that cars were known to slip in the tide that constantly flowed across the roads. They devoured crops and hay.

And my corn. Drilled holes right through those babies.

Another sigh.

Oh, I didn’t give up.

I tried.

And tried.

And tried.

But never again did my corn amount to anything more than tall, attractive (earless) plants.

I still eat corn.

And corn-on-the-cob still shouts summer to me.

But, alas, someone else has to do the growing.

I will stick with the appreciating.

And devouring.

The two things I’m obviously best at.

Blackboard Education

School is memorable for so many reasons.

Friends. Enemies. Sports.

Life lessons.

The occasional chance bit of education that slips in and the teacher(s) who accidentally accomplish it . . .

In Lethbridge, Alberta in the early ‘40s, there a great teacher.

Young and energetic, he was one of those inspiring men with the enthusiasm and determination needed to pour knowledge into thirty-plus mostly-resistant heads.

One of which was my dad’s.

Every day, this teacher would painstakingly write out his lessons—filling the blackboard.

Then, just before the end of the period arrived, just as painstakingly review everything he had struggled so hard to put down.

And, every day, he would begin said review with these words: “Class? Watch the board while I go through it.”

Now, admittedly, to him, these words were supposed to suggest exactly what he said. The review was about to begin.

To his students, something far different was understood.

And they waited, day after day, for it to happen.

But never, in all the years this man taught my dad did he actually go through the board.

Rats.

Because that would have been an education.

Home Again. Home Again...

This says it all...

Two years in the planning. Check.
Savings gone. Check.
Cruisewear purchased. Check.
Flight to Sant Maartin. Check.
Luggage sent to Miami. Check.
Luggage found and returned. Check.
Ship boarded. Check.
The occasional bout of mild seasickness (remember, I am a child of the prairies.) Check.
Own weight in food consumed. Check.
Sunscreen applied. Check.
Sand waded through. Check.
Islands of the sea explored. Check.
Shopping on said islands of the sea. Check.
Sting Rays fed. Check.
Blue, Caribbean waves floated on. Check.
Afternoon naps in the sun. Check.
New, forever friends found. Check.
Long, starlit evenings under a Caribbean moon. Check.
Laughter and singing and dancing and visiting and reading and writing and quiet times. Check.
Wonderful, marvellous, stupendous once-in-a-lifetime experience. Check.
Planning underway for the next time. Check.

And: Won't forget important foundation garments next time. Check.

First glimpse of the Caribbean

First selfie on the beach

First glimpse of the Star Clipper.

Canadian hits the beach.

Sailing with our sister ship! The Royal Clipper.

Steering the ship. Sorta.

Iles de Saintes. I wanna live there!

Lifeboat drill. Expressions of terror optional.

Moonrise over Saba Rock.
Where they paved paradise and put up a restaurant . . .

New wonderful friends, Staci and David.

The only time these guys stood still.

Watching the Batik happen.

The last bell tower.

View from Brimstone Hill fortress on St. Kitts.

Ditto.

The view from our bedroom. Sigh

We're Off!

Ready for anything . . .

My Husby loves to travel,

It’s just the way he is,

North or South; East or West,

The world is truly his.

He loves to take me with him,

(It’s good I love to go)

Foreign or domestic,

Above or Down Below.

But there’s one thing problematic,

One teeny, little blight - 

To see most things he wants to see,

We have to take a flight.

To get us two from here to there

We hurtle through the air,

While all around me talk and eat,

I curl up in despair.

He says we’re safe, quotes stats galore,

The balanced dance of gear.

I see a tube with flimsy wings,

That gives me naught but fear.

This time, our target’s tropical,

We'll cruise and eat and swim,

But though I will be happy there,

The problem's flying in.

I love to go to a'travelling,

And be sunstroke aware.

I’ll treasure each small moment,

The pain is getting there!

Tomorrow morning, Husby and I head out for three wonderful weeks of sea and sun. We'll talk when I get home . . . 

I'll miss you! 

Adventure Calling

Sometime, I’d like to take a trip,

To parts mysterious and deep,

‘Cross vast and strange new lands, I’d skip,

Go tooling in my trusty jeep.

Taking everything in stride,

No mayhem, monsters, storms or signs

Would startle me or turn the tide,

From exploration I’d designed.

I’d walk on lands both near and far,

And check out strains indigenous,

No qualms, no fears of things bizarre.

No misgivings to discuss.

I’d leave my sterile world behind,

And print my own exciting map,

Feeling free and unconfined,

Adventures falling in my lap.

I’d learn the jargon: trudge, poop deck,

Adventure, survey, navigate,

Tramp, spelunk and cruise and trek,

Ramble, hike, triangulate.

I’d do all this, and without fear,

Though one thing dims my zeal somewhat,

To see those worlds both far and near,

I’d have to get up off my butt.

Just a note: Two more days and I will be getting up off my butt . . .

On Cow Watch

Don’t ask me how he got it,

(I don’t know anyway!)

But Ol’ Jones owned a golden watch,

‘Twas with him every day.

Then, one sad day, he lost it,

Out, somewhere in the plain.

Mid grazing cows and antelope,

And miles of golden grain.

For hours his household searched there,

(It was that dear, you see),

But none could catch one glint of gold,

Though days were spent on knees.

The watch was not recovered,

And years would pass away,

At times, Ol’ Jones still pondered hard

‘Bout where it went that day.

Then, one day, took to market,

A grand old ‘herbivore’,

It was her time, the poor old dear,

To serve the carnivores.

The butcher soon discovered,

(With meat before him spread),

A glint of gold in the old girl’s gut,

(She’d clearly been well fed.)

The watch had been discovered,

And this I must admit,

Restored to the old farmer there,

When it’d be cleaned a bit.

Now the part that’s hard to ‘swallow’,

Is this part coming now . . .

For the golden watch was running true!

After years inside the cow.

Now how could this one object,

So miraculously found,

Survived the years down deep inside,

While keeping itself wound?

The experts speculated,

With their investigations done.

That the churning of the stomach there,

Had made the gold watch run.

Well now you’ve heard the story,

As my dad told it to me,

Of farmer, cow and running watch,

Do you, like me, believe?

Four-Footed Saviour

Us. And Mike as a puppy.

We had a dog. 

Mike. 
Big dog. 
Saint Bernard. 
Very protective. 
He thought nothing of risking his very life defending us from such dangerous things as – the cat. Tumbleweeds. 
The occasional cardboard box, blowing in the wind. 
Laundry. 
In the history of the world, no one was safer. 

My parents could relax, knowing that Mike was on duty . . .

It was summer.

Summer meant swimming on the ranch.

How convenient that the south fork of the Milk River curved  around the ranch buildings like loving arms.

Baking in the hot sun while lying on the sandy shore.

Looking up through the cloudy water to see the particles of grit suspended in the light.

The very best of times.

Back to Mike.

Such bliss needed to be shared with our very best friend.

Right?

Well it seemed like a good idea at the time . . .

We didn’t realize that Mike was a mountain dog. Swimming hadn’t been programmed into his non-rewritable brain. 

He knew only two things. 
Snow. 
And saving people. 
Oops. 
At first everything went well. 
We swam. 
Mike ran up and down the bank, barking frantically. 

Then, the problems started.

If anyone ventured near enough to grab, he did so by whatever protruded. 

And drag them further up onto the beach.

To his horror, the ‘saved’ person would inevitably extricate themselves and, without even a thank you, nullify all his best efforts by charging back into the milky waters.

It was more than the 'saving people' part of him could stand.

He started venturing further and further into the uber-dangerous, monster filled water, seeking someone to save. 

He'd find a limb. 
Or a backside. 
Then grab it, and whoever it was attached to, and drag them out of the water kicking and screaming. 
How happy they must be that he was on hand to save them! 
Listen to the sound of their relief! 
He would bark happily and charge in for the next heroic act . . .
He never managed to drown anyone that day. 
A true miracle. 

And we learned from the experience.
After that, when we went swimming, our hero guarded the garage. 
From the inside.

More Than a Bargain

Most of the ranching families of my acquaintance were hard-working, honest folk; generous and helpful and willing to pitch in if ever a colleague or neighbour—or even a stranger—needed it.

Maybe it had something to do with the isolation their chosen profession necessitates. Miles between neighbours. Vast tracts of land stretching forever, inhabited only by cows, antelope and the occasional tumbleweed.

My grandfather, George Lewis Stringam (a member of this noble and notable group), was a man of scrupulous honesty and a wonderfully overdeveloped sense of fairness.

Qualities he passed on to his sons . . .

Uncle Owen, eldest of Grandpa Stringam’s nine sons was a rancher like his father. For some years, he ranched near the hamlet of Blindloss in southern Alberta.

While there, he made the acquaintance of a young, newly-minted and recently-married rancher, Bradley. The two men helped each other out on several occasions and became good friends.

When Owen sold his ranch and bought another near Duchess, Alberta, the two families kept up their friendship.

A couple of years later, Bradley came to Owen for advice. He had a chance, he said, to sell his ranch and go farming. The offer had been made for his land and he had one day to consider it and give an answer.

Owen counselled him to wait. At that point in time, 1948, there was an embargo on cattle sales in their area. An embargo that everyone expected to be lifted at any moment.

Once it was off, cattle prices would soar.

But young Bradley didn’t want to wait for some future event that could possibly be far in the future.

Giving in, Uncle Owen sat with him and figured a price for his land, buildings, cattle, horses and machinery. Then suggested a compromise.

If Bradley refused the present offer, Owen would come down and look over the land. And, if it was as good as he remembered, he would pay $5000.00 more than what they had just estimated.

Happily, Bradley agreed and the deal was struck.

Owen duly came, looked over the land, and, after once more cautioning Bradley to wait for the embargo to be lifted, agreed to the greater price.

Papers were drawn up by the bank. A down payment changed hands.

And Bradley and his wife headed for the last time toward the home they had just sold.

But the story doesn’t end there.

As they drove, an announcement came over the radio that the embargo had just been lifted. Cattle were selling for twice what they had brought only four hours before.

The couple turned around and hurried back to Owen, asking that he tear up the papers and forget the deal.

Owen refused, saying that he had repeatedly warned Bradley and that they had made a more-than-fair agreement.

Disappointed, the couple left once more.

But for the next two months, Bradley kept calling, asking Owen to reconsider.

Owen and his brother, Bryce, took a portion of their newly-acquired herd to market.

And made enough to pay for the entire ranch.

Plus $6000.00.

The two brothers decided to do something unusual.

They would offer the remainder of the herd—some 240-plus head—back to Bradley.

Then throw in the ranch and machinery.

As a gift.

Nope. Owen definitely wasn’t about to cancel a bargain.

But he didn’t have a problem making a new . . . and infinitely better . . . one.

Swinging Away

Photo Credit

Dances are fun.

Even for the unenlightened (ie. non-dancer).

In my Dad’s younger days, dancing was one of few forms of entertainment.

Alongside books (Google it) and games.

Let’s face it. It was the 1930s. Electricity was just out of the gate. Radio was the sought-after-but-not-yet-universally-available ‘new’ home amusement and only Jules Verne or H.G. Wells had any conception of electronic devices.

Soooo . . . dances.

Dad went to a lot of them. Some at his school, but most in the basement of the local church.

Taught basic steps by his Sunday School teacher, he tried to wow the ladies in his adolescent circle. In those days, it wasn’t really a necessity. Everyone danced with everyone, regardless of dance ability or social prowess.

One evening, his future brother-in-law, Ken, was one of the dancers.

A Virginia Reel was introduced.

I should probably mention, if you are not already aware, that the Virginia Reel is a fun, old-time dance that involves a lot of swinging. And/or whooping.

Usually at the same time.

But occasionally for different reasons . . .

Ken’s partner was a woman of . . . well, let’s just say she was large and leave it at that.

Ken was a stick of a man. Tall and slender.

The two had been doing well to this point in the dance. Then came the swing.

Hooking elbows in the tried and true technique, they started in.

Now, normally, there is no cause for alarm during this manoeuvre.

The partners simply swing around and return to their usual positions.

Easy.

Except when there is . . . enthusiasm.

And a difference in weights.

As they swung, Ken felt himself being lifted right off his feet.

In a blind panic, he let go.

The woman went down on her . . . erm . . . posterior, and slid ten feet across the dusty, waxed floor; sweeping a nice, clean path two feet wide.

The dancers froze.

Then the whole room erupted into laughter.

The whole room.

Dancers and sliders.

Say what you will about dancing.

Even for the non-participant, it has entertainment potential.