Flushed

Husby and me. Don't look closely . . .

I told him not to laugh.

But he did.

Sigh.

I married him anyway . . .

It was a bright and sunny Tuesday.

But not just any Tuesday.

This was Tuesday, the 27^th of April, 1976.

You may wonder why that particular date is etched so clearly in my mind . . .?

You have a right to know.

It was exactly four days before my wedding.

Four frenzied days of scheduled frenetic activity with plans of falling into bed exhausted each night, happy in what had been accomplished.

Four days that I needed to be--healthwise--at my very, very best.

Ahem.

The day started out well.

I climbed out of bed.

I felt a bit more tired than usual, but, with all I had been doing, wasn’t surprised.

I plopped heavily into my seat and stared at my plate as Mom bustled around, setting platters of steaming deliciousness on the table.

Grace was said.

And oblivious-ness set in as people dove for whatever was nearest.

Soon we were all chewing happily.

Mom passed someone a bowl of potatoes and looked at me. “So what have you got planned . . .?” she stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at me. “Diane? Are you all right?”

I looked at her.

She got up and moved around the table to me. “You look . . . flushed.”

I shrugged.

She placed a cool hand on my forehead. “You feel a bit warm.”

“I’m tired, but I feel all right,” I said, feeling a slight feathering of alarm.

She tipped my head back and looked at my throat.

“Oh, my word!” she said. “Mark, look at this!”

“What?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Dad leaned over the table and peered at my neck. “Oh, my!” he said.

Okay, I was thoroughly alarmed by this point. “What?” I said. Did I grow an extra appendage in the night? Did I suddenly get a whisker? Or worse . . . a zit???!!!

Mom sat back on her chair and sighed.

Sighed.

“Diane, I’m pretty sure you have the measles.”

Whaaa . . .? I jumped up and ran to the closest mirror.

Sure enough, my neck and the lower half of my face were a mottled mass of tiny, red pinpricks. So many of them that, at first, they resembled a rosy flush on my skin. Only on closer inspection did they morph into what they actually were.

Measles.

I. Had. The. Measles.

Four days before I was going to be married.

My life was over.

Mom bundled me up and hauled me into the doctor’s office. Where our local medical professional confirmed our suspicions.

German measles.

I dragged myself home. How could this be happening to me? Weren’t the measles a childhood disease?

And wasn’t childhood  . . . sort of . . . behind me?

I placed a call to my Husby-To-Be at his work.

Our conversation went something like this:

“Hi, Honey! How’s work?” *soft sob*

“Great! How are you doing?”

“Well . . . I have something to tell you . . .”

Slightly alarmed Husby-To-Be voice. “What is it? What’s the matter?!”

“Well . . . promise you won’t tell anyone. And that you won’t laugh . . .”

“Umm . . . okay . . .”

“I . . . have the  . . . German measles.”

A short pause, while he took in my news. Then, “Bwahahahahahaha!” Sound of phone being dropped. And Husby-To-Be moving through the office, telling every one of his co-workers.

Okay, which part of ‘don’t tell anyone’ and ‘don’t laugh’ did he not get?

We did get married.

I was totally fine. Except that in some of our photos, particularly the close-ups, you can see the barest hint of a red flush.

People simply dismiss it as evidence of excitement.

Now you know.

Piggy Riding

Daddy and me.
Do any of the rest of you see the irony here?

Okay I wasn’t supposed to do it.

And I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it.

But that just made it all the more fun.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On the Stringam ranch, behind the chicken *shudder*coop was the pigpen.

It was rather off the beaten track, tucked in as it was.

A destination in itself.

A perfect location for hijinks when the horses were out and everything else possible had been explored/done.

And boredom was threatening to set in.

Or one was feeling adventurous.

One could climb the fence. Slide into the shadow of the shelter. Pause there.

And pick out a victim co-conspirator.

I should point out here that pigs are very sociable and curious creatures.

When something – or someone – is introduced into their world, they immediately converge to give it a sniff.

And a taste.

And they love to be scratched.

Back to my story . . .

All I had to do was sit there until all of the pigs swarmed me.

Scratch a couple.

And (this is the forbidden part) climb aboard one.

The pig would snort and scamper (yes, scamper) across the pen to the far side.

And, if one were lucky enough to still be aboard, back again.

Okay, yes, the fun was decidedly fleeting.

One’s raging father could – and often did – appear.

How did he do that?

But there he would be, with hands on hips and the heated glare that only an angry father can summon, as his newly-repentant child silently slid off the pig and exited the pigpen.

Our subsequent conversations usually went something like this:

Dad: Diane! I’ve told you and told you not to ride the pigs! You could injure them. And they get all excited and don’t gain weight.

Me: Look Dad! I fell in the poop!

Yeah. Let’s just cross rocket scientist off that future occupations list.

I'm Nominated!

I'M NOMINATED!
My book, Gnome for Christmas has been nominated for a RONE (REWARD of Novel Excellence) award!
Please, Please vote for meeee!
http://www.indtale.com/2016-rone-awards-week-five

Super(duper)Mom

This many kids. One adult.

My good friend was in hospital for a couple of days for some minor surgery.
Her four kids (three girls and one boy) were staying with us.
And our (then) four kids. (Three boys and one girl)
The kids were perfectly matched.
Boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl and boy-girl.
And got along very well.
My house was quieter with eight (ranging in ages from 1 to 7) kids in it, than it was with just my own four.
They were all playing happily.
Then I suddenly realized that I needed to go to the store.
Sigh.
The status quo was about to change.
I buckled in what amounted to essentially four sets of twins and started off.
All went well.
We arrived and I immediately hunted up a cart.
No way I was going to try to herd this bunch without some modern conveniences.
The two babies were buckled into the baby compartment on the cart.
The two toddlers went into the basket.
The two kindergarteners hung onto the outside.
And the two seven year olds were allowed free range.
But with strict instructions to stay close.
We were off!
My errands were run in record time.
Surprisingly.
And, quite suddenly, it was snack time.
I looked into my wallet.
I should point out, here, that my husband had just graduated from post secondary and was working in his first real job.
We were poor.
Well, rich in children.
But poor in things that can actually . . . purchase things.
Moving on.
My wallet held the grand total of two dollars.
Which in itself was a miracle.
I was standing in the middle of the food court, contemplating my options.
They were . . . limited.
Finally, I approached a kiosk called, The Loaf, which specialized in sandwiches made from thick slices of 'freshly-baked-on-the-premises' bread.
"What would you charge for just a slice of fresh bread and butter?" I asked the girl behind the counter.
She scrunched up her face in thought.
Really.
Scrunched.
Then she said, "Twenty-five cents."
The magic words.
I ordered eight slices of fresh bread and butter and handed her my two dollars.
Then I passed out slices of thick, warm, fresh bread to each of my little hoard.
Who happily chowed down.
A cowboy term for tucking in.
Which is another cowboy term for . . . oh, never mind.
You get the picture.
They ate.
And enjoyed.
A couple walked past while my kids were busy . . . umm . . . enjoying.
"What a good idea for a snack!" the woman exclaimed. "I think you are the best mother I have ever seen!"
I smiled, rather self-consciously.
'Best mother' is obviously code for 'too-broke-to-buy-anything-else'.
We finished our snack and headed back to the Sears store for one last item.
My friend's eldest daughter, who had been following closely asked if she could dart over and peek at the girl's blouses.
I told her that it was fine. I would just walk slowly so she could catch up.
And continued down the aisle.
I passed one of the entrances to the store.
Two women had just come in.
They, a mother and her mother, were struggling to control a small boy of about two.
Who was red-faced and screaming.
Actually, now that I think of it, all of them were red-faced and . . .
Ahem.
Back to my story.
The grandmother looked up and noticed me walk past with my cart full to overflowing with children and said," Here the two of us can't control one child and that woman," she pointed, "has . . . five, six, seven!"
Just then, my friend's oldest daughter rejoined our group.
I smiled at the women and said, "Eight."
And walked on.
Okay, I know it wasn't strictly truthful.
But it was so much fun to say it!!!
And, just for a moment, I felt like one of those uber-organized, amazing women one sees who are always neat, tidy and . . . well . . . together.
Controlling hoards of children and still managing to look serene.
Yep. For a moment, I was SUPERMOM.
But only for the moment.

What's in a Name?

We have a tradition in our family.

I know what you’re going to say . . .

Another tradition?!

Hear me out . . .

When we were expecting our babies, and fighting arguingconsidering possible names, my ever-helpful Husby gave me a list from which to choose.

My Husby’s an historian. Did I mention that?

It’s significant.

Moving on . . .

The list was seven pages long.

And included such classics as: Trophimus. Trogillium. Vafthrusdinal. Gundohar and Gundobad (If we should ever be blessed with twins.)

I see your face.

Mine sported a similar expression.

And I named our babies. Mark. Erik. Duff. Caitlin. Tiana. Tristan.

Now, I'm sure you’re wondering about the aforementioned tradition.

That comes here . . .

Because I was rude ignorant smart enough to ignore his helpful advice, my uber-determined Husby started in on the next generation.

With one significant change.

Our children weren’t given a choice.

Nope. They were given a name.

One name per grandchild.

Oh, they chose their own names, too. The names that would appear on birth certificates and numerous and sundry other legal places throughout the child’s life.

But each of them have a Grandpa Name (hereinafter known as GN) as well.

Unofficial, but just as important.

Let me enlighten you. These are the names as they now stand:

Megan Sarah. GN: Cruchenperk

Kyra Danielle. GN: Ataxerxes

Odin Erik. GN: Dashley

Thorin James. GN: Ragnowinthe

Erini Tiana. GN: Salmanezer

Jarom Elliott. GN: Abindaraz

Bronwyn Bell. GN: Pintiquinestra

Linnea Viktoria. GN: Adrevalde

Hazel Jane. GN: Bardowick

Willow Victoria. GN: Cantabrie

Leah Brooke Rachelle. GN: Ettelwulf

Aksel Grant. GN: Burthred

William Duff. GN: Hieronymus

With each one, there’s been the usual angst. And the ‘Why don’t they use my good names?’ question.

Maybe you can answer that . . .

Song of the Heart

Mom's favourite picture.

There is a line from a Joe Diffie (yes, I’m a country music fan) song that goes:

Home was a back porch swing where I would sit, 

And mom would sing Amazing Grace, while she hung out the clothes.

That line reminds me of my own Mom.

Mom was always singing. The first thing she did when she entered the kitchen in the morning was switch on the radio.

And hum along with the current favourites while she stirred up breakfast.

Later, radio off; I can picture her with her hands in hot, soapy water, belting out ‘Darling Clementine’.

Or hoeing in the garden to ‘Till We Meet Again’.

It’s amazing how ‘Amazing Grace’ or any number of other songs go along with milking the cows. The rhythm just works.

Folding clothes? That will always remind me of ‘You Are My Sunshine’. When she could convince one of us to join her, sung in two-part harmony.

‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’ was waltzed with the broom across the kitchen floor.

And what would pea-shelling and bean-snapping be without ‘My Easter Bonnet’?

And early morning without ‘Good Morning, Mary Sunshine’?

Or bedtime without ‘Irish Lullaby’?

Riding out to the cows inevitably brought a rendition of ‘The Old Grey Mare’.

And evenings with the family - at least one chorus of ‘Whispering Hope’, again in harmony.

There are dozens more. I can’t picture Mom without a song in her heart and on her lips.

And her kids all do it, too.

Sing, I mean. While working.

More than once, I got smacked on the back of the head for bursting into song at inappropriate times during school.

Oops.

It’s been too many years since I heard my Mom sing.

But in my memory, she’s singing still.

The last lines from that same Diffie song are totally appropriate for me: My footsteps carry me away. But in my mind, I’m always going home.

Great Gifts

My parents were a social sort.

And often entertained.

With friends and food and games galore

And fun for hours, sustained.

And in those days of party fun,

When er’ food came in sight,

There were no paper plates to serve

With gusto and delight.

Only the best that could be found

Would aid my parents’ guests,

And so they served on china, fine,

And silver for the rest.

And when the meal was done, the guests

Rose quickly to their feet.

And, as a group, cleared table, and

Would in the kitchen meet.

The duties there were quickly giv’n,

Who’d man the towels and sink.

And in an instant, all was done,

E’en faster than you’d blink.

When I was ten, above the rest

Stood out one woman there.

I watched in awe as she took towel

And dried the silverware.

Her movements were that quick, I found,

My eyes could barely follow.

And soon a gleaming pile she had

All ready for tomorrow.

“I’d love to be that fast,” I said.

“My goal is clear to see.”

She shook her head, “I’m sorry, dear,

You won’t be fast as me.”

I took it as a challenge then

And practiced faithfully.

And finally knew just what she meant,

“You won’t be fast as me.”

For some of us receive one gift,

And some another. True.

Her gift was drying silverware,

And mine? Is telling you.

Oops.

Sometimes, things said shouldn’t have been.

Because sometimes little ears are hearing . . .

And shouldn’t be.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Mom had invited some of her friends over for tea and a visit.

The house had been scrubbed inside and out.

The kids, ditto.

Furniture had been arranged.

Re-arranged.

Sighed over.

Okay, admittedly, what was said at this juncture was directed to no one and almost under Mom’s breath.

Just not enough under her breath: “I sure hope Mrs. (name-withheld-because-we-don’t-want-this-to-happen-again-EVER. Or NWBWDWTTHAE, for short) doesn’t choose to sit here. This antique chair of mother’s is pretty delicate and she is so heavy.”

FYI. Just because kids don’t appear to be listening, it doesn’t follow that they aren’t.

Moving on . . .

Little sister was well within hearing.

And understanding.

And . . . eeep . . . recording.

A short time later, the ladies started arriving. Including the aforementioned NWBWDWTTHAE.

The woman hovered uncertainly near the previously-discussed chair.

And that’s when little sister took it upon herself to save the day. Swooping in quickly, she smiled at the woman. “You can’t sit here,” she said in her most authoritative voice. “Because you’re too fat.”

I know you’ve had those occasions when you spoke without thinking. Or when something you said was repeated to the wrong person.

When the embarrassment is so thick and deep you want to just sink through the floor.

Take comfort in knowing that it’s happened to all of us.

To some of us, more than once.

We call ourselves the Girls of the Gaffe.

Welcome.

Forever Bubbles

On the street where we lived...
The tricycle in the background sits on Penny's drive.

I asked my youngest daughter what her favourite memory of growing up was.

Her answer surprised me . . .

When our family moved to Beaumont, Alberta, our first home was ‘up on the hill’.

A term for all of the houses built before 1980.

When the town was still . . . small.

Every home on our lively little side-street was filled, quite literally, with children.

We once tried to count all of the kids.

And got lost somewhere around fifty.

Yep. Lively.

On any given day--rain or shine, sleet or snowstorm--the street seethed/boiled/churned with children.

They were running everywhere.

Between homes.

Through backyards.

To the semi-private park tucked neatly into the corner.

It was a safe, peaceful world in which to raise them.

Perfect.

Across the street from our house was the home of Penny and her family.

Penny was my best friend.

And our kids liked each other, too.

Bonus.

On a warm day in spring or fall, with the afternoon sun shining on her front yard, it wasn’t unusual for she and I to be found sitting on her front step, visiting and waiting for our school-age kids to make their way home.

And blowing bubbles for our still-at-homers.

Our little learners would come around the corner, spot us up there on the porch, and quickly join in the fun.

Talking about their day between batches of bubbles.

It was, in a word: peaceful.

I remember it as a fun, happy time.

My youngest daughter remembers it as the very best of times.

Penny and her family moved away.

We are still in touch, as time and distance allows.

But, sometimes, in my mind, I’m sitting on that front porch visiting with my best friend and waiting for my children to gather.

Forever blowing bubbles.

I think my daughter is right.

Navigating

Navigate this!
(Taken from Blarney Castle. Just after I kissed the famous stone.)

In Canada, we have The Dominion Land Survey. 

And my husband has iron boogers. 

These two are connected.

Maybe I should explain . . .
First:
My husband's favourite program on TV was the Tim Allen show, Home Improvement.
In one episode, Neighbour Wilson told Tim that men are actually endowed with minute bits of metal in their noses that aid in navigation.
Tim, putting his twist on it, called them 'iron boogers'.
A term that my husby whole-heartedly embraced and endorsed.
Then:
When Canada was first being mapped/documented, it was divided into a perfect grid.
Or maybe an imperfect grid, but a grid, just the same.
We were raised in an area where the roads were straight and regular and one mile apart.
If one road was blocked, you could find 113 other ways to get where you wanted to go.
It was a perfect system.
People growing up in that environment developed an unerring sense of direction.
Thus, my husby.
See the connection?
Moving on . . .
We were travelling in Ireland.
Have you ever heard it said that there is no green quite like the green of the Emerald Isle?
It's true.
But I digress . . .
We had just driven into town and were looking for our bed and breakfast.
Our map only covered the specifics of reaching said town, not the particulars of what to do when we got there.
There was a woman walking down the street.
Grant pulled over and we asked her how to reach Thus-and-So Bed and Breakfast.
These are her exact words, "Oh that one. It's rather difficult to describe. You need to go up that hill (pointing) and turn right. There is a hotel there and they can direct you further."
We thanked her and did as she directed.
Except for the 'turn right' part.
My husby turned left.
At which time, I gave up.
He drove around for a total of thirty seconds, then pulled over to the side of the street. "Why don't we just stop here?" he said.
I looked out of the window and gasped.
Thus-and-So B&B. Right there.
In front of us.
I gasped and turned to stare at him.
He merely tapped his nose and looked at me significantly.
From then on, I used the map merely to get us to the next town, then tossed it into the back seat.
Grant was much better at finding our destination when he wasn't hampered by such distractions as maps.
Old Iron Boogers.

Old Iron Boogers.

Selling Honey

Perfect for each other.

My Mom had been raised on a ranch.
She knew cattle and could speak the language with anyone.
But there were times when she very much longed to change the conversation . . .
She and Dad were out with a group of friends.
Fellow Hereford breeders.
The conversation veered, as it always did, to the discussion of the newest miracle bull.
"That 55L! What a bull! Longest animal I've ever seen!"
An animal's length is important. More beef on the hoof.
Just FYI.
The men were enraptured.
The women, silent, polite listeners.
Mom tried to add some colour other than red and white to the conversation.
"We did something different this weekend," she said. "We went to a Gilbert and Sullivan . . ."
But the men's conversation continued unabated.
"You know, 55L was unknown until his calves hit the ground! Long. Tall. Big as colts!"
"We saw the Pirates of Penzance," Mom finished weakly.
No one heard her.
She sighed and withdrew.
But her mind was working busily.
A few days later, Mom again took a back seat to Dad's cows. Giving up on a much anticipated wedding because Dad couldn't go.
That was the last straw.
The next day, she decided to play a prank on him.
She called the local paper and had this ad inserted:
            HUSBAND FOR SALE - Cheap
            Complete with blue jeans, SSS monogrammed shirt,
            rubber boots, old floppy hat, B.S. spattered coveralls,
            pitch fork, scoop shovel, feed bucket,
            25 Hereford cows and one grumpy bull.
            Not home much.
            Speaks only COW. Call 244-2108
Then she waited.
Not a word was said, though she saw my father reading the paper and knew that he always finished every word.
The next day, another ad appeared, directly below Mom's.
This one read:
            HONEY FOR SALE
            The sweetest gal this side of Texas. Good mother,
            helpful, kind, patient, understanding, loving,
            cheerful, caring, cooperative, self-sacrificing,
            grateful for all favours, especially a frugal income,
            and as a bonus, is beautiful and loves
            my Hereford cows. Call 244-2108.
Enough said.

Catching Sunbeams

The afternoon sun spilled through the living room window like golden honey.

Making the air glow and creating a cozy pool of warm delicious-ness.

I watched my three-year-old granddaughter, white-blonde hair a shining halo about her smiling face, as she tried to capture the floating dust-motes in the beam of light.

“Gramma, look!” she said excitedly. “They’re dancing!”

And suddenly, I was remembering another time.

And another little girl . . .

I had just graduated from the Nursery. The place, in our church, of food, toys, warm hugs, and sitting on the floor. Also the room in the basement. With the least amount of windows.

My fellow three-years-olds and I had been guided upstairs and into the sunlit chapel. Then given the gi-normous (expressive/made up word) front pew to sit on.

Don’t get me wrong, we were used to those pews.

But normally we sat on them with our parents/families.

Suddenly that great expanse was ours. Alone.

We were ‘big kids’ now.  

My classmates alternated between sliding about on the polished, golden oak surface and staring at the women in charge of this meeting.

I was seated furthest from those women. And nearest the tall window next to our pew.

The late afternoon sunshine was streaming through.

On me.

For a while, that was amazing enough.

Then, I discovered that there were floating . . . things . . . in that golden beam of light.

Things that danced and swirled about when I waved my hand.

Things that gently, but effectively, eluded capture. No matter how quickly I moved. Or how hard I tried.

While the rest of the kids in the room sang or listened to stories, I concentrated on the little ‘floaties’ so tantalizingly close and so difficult to actually grasp.

Suddenly, the girl seated next to me slid to her feet. I looked around, startled. Our little group was following Auntie Grace and filing out of the room. I glanced one last time at my golden beam of magic, and reluctantly followed.

We were led to a tiny classroom that opened directly off the chapel.

And sat down on chairs.

Real, our-size chairs.

Auntie Grace smiled at us and welcomed us warmly.

Then she said something I’ll never forget. “Diane was playing in the sunbeam during opening exercises.”

I stared at her. Was I going to get into trouble?

She looked at me and smiled again. “Diane, that’s what you are! That’s what this class is! Sunbeams! You’re not in nursery any more. You’re all Sunbeams now!”

I blinked at her, not quite certain what she was telling us.

But I never have forgotten.

Already Been Chewed

Chris. Taste is everything . . .

1953 BD (Before Diane). 

My parents were travelling and had made a stop in a small town for lunch.
At a tiny hotel restaurant.
They perused (real word) the menu and made selections for themselves and their -then- three children.
They made their order.
And waited.
Suddenly, Mom noticed that my elder sister, Chris, age four or so was chewing happily on something.
She watched her, suspiciously, for a few moments.
Finally, "Chris, what are you chewing?"
My sister looked up at Mom and said, "Gum."
"Oh."
Mom thought about it for a moment.
"Wait a minute. You're chewing on gum?"
"Umm-hmm," Chris said, still chewing.
"I didn't give you any gum." Mom turned to Dad. "Did you give her some gum?"
He shook his head and pulled Jerry out of the sugar bowl. "Enough sugar, son."
"Well where on earth did she get gum?"
"Why don't you ask her?" Dad said. "Jerry, leave the salt and pepper alone."
Mom turned to Chris. "Honey, where did you get the gum?"
Chris slid the wad in her mouth to one side and said, "Here, Mom!"
She pointed . . . under . . . the table.
"There's lots more! You want some?"

Well-Aged Specimen

Okay. This story is about urine specimens.

Ick.
Those who are faint of heart or easily queasy, stop now.
Stop.
I told you to stop.
You don't listen, do you?!
You asked for it  . . .
In today's world, when a doctor requires a urine specimen, he sends his patient to the 'lab'.

See. Handy and dandy.

Or supplies said patient with a handy, dandy little container.
Complete with antiseptic wipes.
This wasn't always the case. 
Let me tell you about it . . .
My parents had been shopping.
I should probably mention, here, that in the 50s, no one ever locked their cars.This is important.
Moving on . . .
Dad was helping Mom into the car.
A short distance away, a woman was also getting into her car.
A very obviously pregnant woman.
She opened the door. Then gasped and leaned against her car.
Dad hurried over. “Are you all right?”
Then he realized that she was laughing. Really laughing.
“Are you all right?” he asked again.
The woman straightened and wiped her eyes. Then she pointed at the car seat. “The . . . the bottle!” she gasped. Then went into another peal of laughter.
By this time, Mom had joined them.
She and Dad looked at each other and Dad shrugged.
Must be a pregnancy thing.
Finally, the woman calmed somewhat and again, wiped her eyes. She looked at my parents. “I'm on my way to my doctor,” she said.
Okay . . .
She looked back into her car and cleared her throat. “I was supposed to bring in a urine sample.” She pointed into her car. “I left it there.”
My parents glanced at the empty car seat.
The woman looked at them again. “The only empty bottle I could find was a whisky bottle,” she said.
Ah.“You left a urine sample in a whisky bottle on the front seat of your car?” 

Not a drink for the faint of heart.

Dad was catching on fast.
The woman nodded.
“And someone stole it?”
Again she nodded. “They must have.”
Dad started to laugh.
He ushered Mom back to their car and helped her in. Then he got into the car and sat back, still laughing.
“What's so funny?” Mom asked.
“Well, all I can think about is how the thief will discover his mistake!” Dad said. “What if it was some kids! Can't you see it? ”
“This is whisky? What on earth is all the fuss is about!”

Organized and Fed

Mr. Organized

Dad was a veterinarian.
The only one for several counties.
Well . . . If you didn't count Dr. Brewster, the animal inspector at the Coutts border crossing.
Let me start again . . .
Dad was a veterinarian.

As well as a purebred Polled Hereford breeder.
And always had an office somewhere in our home.
There were the inevitable examination counters.
And a fridge holding such things as penicillin, bottles of 5-way or 8-way or black-leg or rabies vaccines.
And other stuff that I couldn't pronounce.
I should mention, here, that Dad knew what each bottle did.
Probably important for a veterinarian to know.
He also had several large filing cabinets standing about the room.
Full of . . . files.
Dad knew exactly where everything could be found in his office.
He was very organized.
One day, he was working on the registration forms for his new crop of calves.
A time-consuming task that only he could do.
I sauntered in.

Yes. Just like in the old west.
Sauntering on . . .
Daddy looked up from his desk.
“Diane, could you look in that file cabinet over there,” he pointed with his pen, “and get me the 'G' file?”
I turned to the indicated file and pulled open the appropriate drawer. “This one?”
“Yes. Just the 'G' file, please.”
I started to work my way through the alphabet.
There was a large space partway through. I jumped to that.
'J' as it turned out.
“Daddy, did you know that you have a large bag of ju-jubes in your filing cabinet?”
“Yes.”
“Filed under 'J'?”
He looked at me. “Where else would they go?”
Where indeed.
I continued my search.
Huh. Chips under 'C'.
Also chocolate.
I finally found the 'G' file and, pulling it out, handed it to my father.
But then I turned back to the cabinet.
Way too interested to stop now.
“Dad, you have Oreo cookies under 'O'.”
Dad looked up. “Is that where they are?!” he said. “I kept looking for them under 'C'.”
Yep. Filing cabinets and organization.
They go together.
Like files and snack time.
Who knew they could be so similar?

Twice the Fun

And into the next generation . . .

Husby is a book lover.

Always has been.

I am, too, but not to his extent.

I remember, in our lean student days, him walking in the door, happily carrying yet another treasured acquisition. I told him if he dared to bring one more book into the house, I was going to have to boil it for supper.

He just laughed. Completely unrepentant.

Moving forward . . .

We’ve raised readers.

All six of our children love it.

I thought it was because of the hours their father and I spent with this happy pastime.

And it might be.

But last night, I was reminded of something Husby used to say when the kids were small. Something I dubbed his First Rule of Acquisition.

Let me tell you about it . . .

I’ve never been a shopper. Traipsing up and down aisles, looking at ‘stuff’ never appealed.

I’d rather stay with the ‘old and familiar and comfortable’ then look for something ‘new and exciting’.

It’s just me.

But Husby loves to shop. And is gracious enough to haul all-and-sundry around with him.

Yep. Inevitably, when there was shopping to do, we went in a herd.

Mom. Dad.

Six kids. All of whom are very greedy acquisitive observant.

They would see brightly, attractively-packaged toys and immediately want them.

If we’d received a nickel for every time we heard, “Mom? Can I have . . .?” We’d never have had to pay for our shopping.

Ever.

And that’s when their father, genius he, would tell them, “You can choose one toy.”

Their faces would brighten.

“Or two books!”

The thought process reflected in those faces as they turned it over in their minds was almost comical.

And, surprisingly, much of the time, they went for the books.

I thought they were simply cannily maximizing their procurements. (Ooh! Good sentence!)

I didn’t realize that their father was actually training them for a life-long love.

But he was.

And, fortunately, he did.

Scarred by Life

Hands tell everything.

I was sitting in Church beside my dad and comparing my hand to his.

Mine were small, white and smooth.

Unmarked by life and softly innocent.

His were large, square, calloused.

Scarred by barbed wire and by life.

Hands that had wrestled cattle and the occasional bronc.

Hauled hay and grain.

Twisted wire or pounded nails.

Held books and rustled important papers.

Sewed up wounds and dispensed medications.

Smacked the occasional errant backside.

And tenderly held babies.

Hands that had accomplished something.

I measured my hand against his.

Would mine ever grow to be the same size?

I looked at my Mom's hands.

Long, tapered fingers with close-cropped nails.

Hands that scrubbed surfaces and small, wiggling bodies.

Punched bread and rolled out pie crust.

Cooked and stirred.

Gathered, sorted and folded.

Swept and cleaned.

Hands occasionally stained with ink from her writing.

And dirt from her gardening.

Scarred by her forays into the barnyard to help when help was needed.

Hands that soothed when others hurt and applied love and bandages in equal amounts.

And finally folded, blue-veined and fragile, over a still breast in peace.

Hands that had accomplished something.

Yesterday, my granddaughter was sitting next to me.

She placed her hand, soft, white and innocent, against mine.

"Will my hands ever grow as big as yours, Gramma?"

"Yes, dear. Certainly."

"I like to look at your hands, Gramma." She pointed. "What is this scar here?"

"Barbed wire, sweetheart."

"Did it hurt?"

"Probably. But not for long."

"You have lots of scars, Gramma."

"Scars are life, written in your hands," I told her.

"Oh." She turned my hand over. "Lots of scars."

"From doing things," I said.

I thought of the 'things' that my hands have done.

Cooked. Cleaned.

Baked. Sewed.

Wrestled cattle and chickens and pigs and puppies.

And small children.

Turned pancakes and pages.

Built houses and fences.

Written.

So many things.

Wonderful things.

I smiled at my granddaughter. "Your hands will do things, too," I said. "Important things."

"Like yours?"

I nodded. "Like mine." 

Edible Etiquette

Dad at College.

My Dad (hereinafter called 'Mark') attended college in Guelph, Ontario, training to be a veterinarian. Class of 1948.

His schooling there was fascinating.

His life in the off-school hours, even more so . . .

I should mention, here, that dad, the last child in a very large ranching family, had been raised with order.

And a degree of meticulousness.

Something he didn’t realize until he moved ‘out into the world’.

Back to my story . . .

Mark had secured a room at one of the local homes for the duration of his stay.

He and another Vet student happily carted in their belongings.

Met the family. Mom. Dad. Kids.

Settled in.

Appeared for their first breakfast.

And were immediately introduced to the differences in accepted family table practices.

At first, all went well.

Good food. Plenty of it.

Then, the son of the family grabbed a piece of toast and reached for the large jar of jam.

Taking the spoon that had been provided, he scooped out a large dollop and dropped it onto his toast.

Then licked off the spoon.

And shoved it back into the jar.

Others in the family proceeded to do the same.

Mark blinked.

And decided he’d have his toast without jam that morning.

Then that same young man poured himself a large glass of milk.

Drank some.

And poured the rest back into the jug.

Something that also turned out to be a common family practice as the boy's father cautioned him, "Pour it carefully, Son!"

Mark, wincing slightly, avoided the milk.

And anything else on the table that became ‘communal’.

I don’t want to say that Mark was fastidious but . . .

Okay, Mark was fastidious.

I think I would have been the same.

Two weeks in, he and his roommate decided they simply couldn’t take it any longer.

And said roommate decided that Mark should be the one to tell their landlady.

Sigh.

In what was one of the most uncomfortable moments of his life to that date, he gave notice to the thoroughly-dismayed woman.

“But the semester’s started!” she moaned. “I’ll never fill my rooms now!” She looked at Mark. “Why?!” she asked.

Ugh, the question he had most been dreading.

Haltingly, he explained.

She stared at him.

Then let him go.

Happily, Mark and his roommate settled into other housing.

The food wasn't as good, but it was a little less . . . shared.

And in case you’re wondering if that poor woman managed to secure new boarders, the answer is yes.

A few weeks later, Mark was talking to some fellow classmates and discovered that one of them was actually living in his old digs.

Mark asked--a trifle hesitantly--about the table manners there.

Fine. Perfect, even.

So either, that young man was accustomed to the common trough, or the landlady had taken Dad’s concerns to heart.

The result was the same.

Everyone was happy.

And well fed.

And that’s really all that counts.

Dad learned lots of things at college.

But the first was: ‘Share the sustenance. Not the Saliva!’

Thar She Blows!

Okay. Picture them a little more tousled and windblown . . .

The wind blows in Southern Alberta.

And I don't mean blows in the modern 'that really stinks' way.

Although it's true.

No, I mean blows in the old-fashioned 'wind is really strong' way.

Because it blows.

Hard.

From the West.

And constantly.

One never quite gets used to it.

Even when one is raised with it.

It's . . . irritating.

People try to cope.

They make jokes about it.

Like the farmer getting out of bed hours earlier than usual, telling his wife that he needs the extra time to drive to the next province because that's where his land has drifted to.

Or being able to tell how old a person is by the direction and angle of their leaning.

Wind is a part of living on the prairies.

You just do the best you can.

When my husby and I lived in our first home, a mobile one, we were careful to park it East to West, instead of North to South.

That gave our home a marginally better chance of not being rolled.

Yes. The wind is strong.

Case in point . . .

I had been to town with my (then) four kids, ages 6, 5, 2 and 0.

We pulled up to our house.

I should point out, here, that our little home was newly-built and stood at the top of a small hill, clearly exposed to the prevailing breezes.

Which were . . . prevailing.

And the 2000+ trees we had planted in rows about the house were years away from providing any actual . . . wind break-ish-ness.

We got out of the car.

The older two boys made a bee-line for the house.

No sense in standing out in the open to be pummelled by God's natural sand-blaster.

I unbuckled my two-year-old, Duffy, and lifted him from the car, then turned and unclasped the baby's car seat.

Then I turned back and reached for Duffy's hand.

I missed.

He was eager to get to the house and was already following his two big brothers.

He had just reached the front of the car when a big gust of wind knocked him flat.

But it didn't stop there.

No, it continued to blow, rolling him over and over, across the yard.

“Mommy!” he shrieked.

I didn't dare set the baby down for fear of the same thing happening to her, so I ran after him as fast as I could, still lugging the car seat.

It was like a scene out of a movie.

Little boy doing a tumbleweed impression while his mother, hampered by yet another child (with carrier), runs after him.

I'm almost sure I saw Charlie Chaplin do something similar . . .

I managed to catch my son when he snagged against the corner post of the garden fence.

He was shaken up and dusty, but otherwise unharmed.

We grow them tough in the prairies.

Now we'll just have to work on growing them heavier.

Dark. And Scary

Debbie.
Mischief, mayhem and entertainment in one package.

In college, I shared a two-bedroom apartment with three other girls.

Debbie, she of the famed moth abhorrence, and I in one room, the other two girls in the second.

The apartment was on the main floor of an older, period home, with wonderful hardwood floors and original doors and fixtures.

And windows.

And therein hangs a tale. 

So to speak.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

We loved it there.

The south window in Debbie's and my bedroom faced the garage.

It was never locked.

The window, I mean.

With a barrel pushed underneath, it made an excellent entrance to our apartment.

None of this having to tramp around the house, through the entrance and clear across the living room.

Nope. We could step right into our room, drop our boots under the window, and we were home.

I don't think we used our keys to the front door once in the entire year we lived there.

And neither did our friends . . .

So noises from that window were not unusual.

Though not always expected.

One evening, Debbie and I were getting ready for bed.

Well, she was.

I was busy selecting a book for my usual nighttime read.

Without warning, the blind, which had been pulled down over the window, snapped up.

Whip! Whip! Whip!

Debbie, standing there half in and half out of her jammies, screamed. (And you can believe me when I say that no one could scream quite like Debbie.)

And scurried out into the front room.

Then she screamed again.

Louder, this time.

Then I heard a thump. A decided body-hitting-the-hardwood thump.

I dropped my book and dashed out into the front room.

To find Debbie collapsed on the floor in front of our little entryway.

I should mention here that the entry to our apartment was about four feet square.

There was a tiny coat rack built into one side. On the wall between that rack and the door was a small window.

Uncurtained.

It was dark outside.

And the lights were on inside.

Moving on . . .

I rushed over to my friend.

And realized that she was lying there . . . helpless with laughter.

She had dashed out of our room, pulling up her pajama bottoms.

Then she had seen movement in the entry.

Someone was looking at her!

She screamed and collapsed.

Only then realizing that the combination of dark night and lighted room had created a mirror-like trait in our little entry window.

She had seen . . . Debbie.

It must have been a scary sight.