Hey-Ho Away We go...

Horses came in all shapes and sizes on our ranch.

All shapes.

And sizes.

Oh, and materials.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On a working ranch, the horse is the best, most used tool. I’m talking about the warm, four-footed, rather hairy type here.

Or, as my machine-loving brother titled them, the hay-burners.

Paired with a rider, horses work the cattle.

Check fences.

Provide transportation.

Ditto, entertainment.

And make pushing, pulling, dragging or carrying just that much easier.

No self-respecting ranch could be run without its four-footed hay-burners.

On the Stringam ranch, the people could be divided into two horse camps.

Those who loved them.

And my brother, George.

Oh, we got him up there.

But only when there was work to be done.

Moving on . . .

I was the leader of the opposite camp.

I lived, ate and breathed horses. Had been known to hang out with them at any and all hours of the day or night. Been observed taking the occasional nap in close proximity.

And pretended and improvised when the weather was bad and there simply was no horse to be had.

Did you know that the wide arm of an overstuffed chair or couch makes an excellent substitute?

Well, it does.

I spent a lot of hours in that particular ‘saddle’. Had some amazing adventures. And had even been known to get pitched off on occasion.

My next younger brother, Blair, age two, was following in the paths I had created.

Riding the same mounts.

Then, one Christmas, he was given another option.

He got our family’s first spring horse. King Prancer as it was nobly named.

And our world was never the same.

Now, when we wanted to kite off to the imaginary prairie, doing imaginary deeds of wonder and saving the lives of countless imaginary people, we could climb aboard the King.

Okay, yes. He was technically Blair’s.

But I was bigger.

Ahem . . .

That sturdy little spring horse provided us with hours (and hours) of entertainment.

Until Mom told us we had out-grown (what on earth did that mean?) it and that it was time to be handed down to the next generation. ie. little sister, Anita.

Suddenly, I was back on the old stand-by. Riding the range with my trusty, slightly dusty steed.

Sigh.

Why am I telling you all of this?

My granddaughter, age two was in the living room, playing.

I went in to check on her.

She had straddled the arm of our overstuffed couch and was riding, hell-bent-for-leather, across the ‘prairie’. Whooping and hollering impressively.

It was no King Prancer.

But it sure made Gramma smile.

George and me.
Before the chair became a steed.

Blair. And the real thing.

The next generation: The King. Anita.
And a friend.

Okay, close to the real thing. George and me again.

The King. And Blair.

Over the Mountain and Through the Woods...

A repost. By request...

Gramma and Grampa Stringam

In 1912, ‘going to visit the family’ took on a whole new meaning.

Let me tell you about it . . .

My Gramma and Grampa Stringam, with their (then) three children, moved to southern Alberta in 1910, leaving their extended family behind them in Utah.

They settled in Glenwood and started to farm.

Outwardly, all was well.

Inwardly, one of them missed her mother.

Finally, after two years of pining and tears, the decision was made for an extended visit.

Gramma and her (by then) four children packed up and, kissing Grampa goodbye, boarded the train for Salt Lake.

The trip there was fairly uneventful, the highlight - seeing the sprinkler system in the Salt Lake depot.

But what came afterward . . . wasn’t.

Uneventful, that is.

Gramma and the kids climbed aboard another train for Salina and then the mail stagecoach from there over the mountain to Thurber and Teasdale.

A short hop by today’s automobile.

But a considerable prospect for the white-top mail buggy of the early 1900’s.

In the rain.

On one particularly steep pass, soaked through and tired, the team of horses gave out. Despite considerable encouragement, they refused to move one more step up the mountain, choosing, in typical balky-horse fashion, to back up instead.

They succeeded in backing the coach until they, quite literally, ran out of mountain. When the driver finally got them stopped, the vehicle was dangling right out over the edge of the canyon with the wagon tree tipped up and the horses' hind feet barely on the ground.

Gramma and the kids were frantically extricated, followed by their baggage and the mail bags. They gratefully took shelter under a large spruce, where they turned, as they had been taught, to prayer.

While they were thus engaged, the driver tried--unsuccessfully--to remedy the situation. The wagon remained hanging over the edge of the cliff.

Can anyone say,"precarious?"

Meanwhile the little family under the tree had finished praying. And it was as that exact moment that a second white-topped buggy came up over the hill.

A buggy that was empty, save for the driver, a local real estate agent. Who, to the little family huddled under the tree, suddenly took on the aspect of a saviour.

The man stopped and surveyed the situation, then climbed down and, using a knife, cut the traces holding the horses to the buggy (allowing the wagon to drop into the canyon several hundreds of feet below) and led the animals to safety.

The mail man thanked him, threw his mail bags over one horse and mounted the other, and rode on over the mountain, abandoning his little group of paying passengers without a backward look.

On the side of a mountain. In the rain.

Don’t you hate days like that?

Fortunately, the real estate man was very kind and loaded Gramma and her kids into his buggy and delivered them safely to the nearest village.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful.

Let’s face it. After this experience, most events would pale by comparison.

Gramma and her brood got their visit.

And, for generations to come, a story to tell.

Scary Smoking

Admit it. This is scary...

Okay. Maybe I overreacted.

Maybe.

We were on holiday in a foreign land. France, to be exact.

And having a glorious time.

Our family had just finished an underground rafting trip.

Did I mention that we were under the ground?

I guess I did when I said underground.

Ahem . . .

It was fantastic!

Feeling slightly euphoric, we had driven to our hotel and were unpacking in the parking lot.

Suitcases.

Food.

Other stuff that wasn't suitcases or food.

Our rooms were on the second floor. One door opening from the long communal balcony into two separate units.

I dragged myself and my load up to the second floor.

Then looked back into the parking lot where the rest of the family was still in the process of unloading/loading.

There, standing in the very center of the lot was a young man, dressed completely in black.

Black hoodie pulled up over his head so that only his nose showed.

He was just standing there quietly.

Looking up at me.

It was . . . startling.

I stared back at him for a moment, then turning, shoved my key in the door and escaped into my room.

Throwing my load onto the closest bed, I took a quick look around.

Nice, quiet little room.

Two double beds.

Comfortable.

Then I walked over to the window.

And threw open the curtains.

The man in black was standing directly outside the window, now looking into my room.

I screamed.

I admit it.

He had been mysterious, standing down there in the parking lot.

Standing right outside my window, he was downright frightening.

And really, really creepy.

He made some sort of gesture, but I didn't notice.

I was too busy pulling the curtains shut and crawling under the bed.

Okay, so heroine material, I'm not.

My husby toted his burden of suitcases, etc. into the room a couple of seconds later.

And stared at me as I crawled out from under the bed.

“Ummm . . . looking for anything in particular?”

“No. That guy just frightened me,” I said, as calmly as possible.

“What guy?”

“The one dressed in black. Out there on the balcony.”

“There was a guy out on the balcony?”

“How could you miss him!” I demanded. “He was right there!”

My Husby walked across the room and whipped the curtains back.

I caught my breath.

Isn't this sounding mysterious?

There was no one there.

“But he was right outside! Looking into the room!” I stomped over to the window and peered out.

The man had disappeared.

“Huh. Weird.”

My husband was staring at me. “I think you were down in that cave too long."

I snorted.

I want to point out that it was a ladylike snort. Because I am a . . . oh, never mind.

When my kids arrived a few seconds later, I challenged them. “Did you guys see the scary guy in black?”

They too, stared at me. “Scary guy in black?”

“Yeah. He was down there.” I pointed.

“Oh, you mean the one down in the parking lot who was trying to bum cigarettes?”

Cigarettes? Erm. "Yes. That would be the one.”

“Yeah. We just told him we didn't smoke and he left.”

“Oh.”

So much for my scary encounter.

I had been hiding under the bed to escape a . . . broke smoker.

Holidaying can be such an entertaining experience.

For so many reasons.

A Brush with Fame

I am in awe of people who can draw.
Okay, yes, I just can't help but rhyme.
I do it all the time.
Argh!
I have a nephew.
His name is Shane Lewis.
An artist in a class somewhere in the stratosphere.
Talent like his leaves me speechless.
Speechless.
And I know you know that is no mean feat.
Shane has spent the past decade working as a head illustrator for Disney.
I just wanted to share some of his art with you today.
You'll see what I mean . . .
First, some jug bands. Because he loves jug bands.

Then, a barbershop quartet like you've never seen before:

And a scene from Planet of the Apes, my personal favourite.

And doesn't this just make you cringe?

Tell me you agree with me!

Isn't he amazing?

If you need an illustrator/game designer/storyboard artist/writer . . .

I have a nephew. 

His name is Shane Lewis.

An artist in a class somewhere in the . . . you get the picture!

If you need any or all of the above, tell me.

Or, better yet, got to Shane's website

It's worth the visit, even if you aren't needing an artist extraordinaire!

Branded

I had long, skinny children.

Who always outgrew their clothes in length, far before said clothes fit them in width.

As they grew, fitting them got to be a greater and greater problem. 

Did you know that few companies, back when my babies were growing, created clothing for children who look like they have been shaped in a taffy-puller?

Or on the torturer’s rack.

Well, it’s true.

And, by the way, shaping children in either of those methods is illegal.

Just thought I’d point that out.

So . . . long, skinny children . . .

Ever try to find pants to fit a 28 inch waist and a 38 inch inseam? 

I did what any desperate and decidedly broke mom would do. I started making my children’s clothes.

All of their clothes.

Shirts, pants, shorts, dresses, skirts, blouses.

PJ’s.

I even took a short course in making 5-pocket blue jeans and made them.

Rivets and all.

I made so many and got so proficient that I stopped even needing instructions and could whip up a pair – from cutting to trying on the finished article – in less than two hours.

I had even been known to make them in my sleep.

Of course they didn’t look quite the same.

But I digress . . .

One thing I discovered with blue jeans was the fact that you are fairly limited in things you can do to make them . . . remark-able.

Oh, you can sew trim into the outer seams.

And use different colours of thread.

But probably the most noticeable of TYCD (things you can do) is to mess with the back pockets.

And yes, I went there.

I embroidered many things on my kids’ back pockets.

Pictures.

Slogans.

Designs.

Then I got the wild idea of using their initials.

Genius.

Only they didn’t always agree.

For example, Erik refused to wear his jeans embossed with the giant letters ‘E’ and ‘T’ on his back side.

I don’t know what his problem was. I thought it would be cute to be called ‘ET’.

Finally, in an attempt at mollification, I added a ‘B’, for his middle name of ‘Blair’.

It passed.

I then used the same idea for his next younger brother’s jeans. Robin Duff Tolley. What could be better than ‘RDT’?

He thought it was great.

Until his father asked what the ‘RDT’ stood for. “Rabbit, duck, turtle?”

“Nooo! Robin Duff Tolley!”

“Oh. Rabbitduckturtle?”

“Nooo!”

Yeah. Those pockets had to come right off.

I replaced them with something a little less controversial.

Like squiggles.

But the name remained. From then on, our Duff was known as Rabbitduckturtle.

Have you ever heard of the consequences of labelling a child?

Well, the stories are true.

Generational Unhelpfulness

Dad, Jerry and Chris
About 3 BD (Before Diane)
But 5 minutes AC (After Coats)

Our kids and grandkids were over for the weekend.

Fortunately for us, spring has finally arrived in Edmonton, Alberta, and they were able to spend much of the day outside.

One grandson, anxious to rejoin his cousins on the pirate ship in the backyard (yes, we have a pirate ship in the backyard) was frantically looking for his coat--discarded when he had come inside.

Moments before.

“Can’t find it!” he lamented loudly.

“Well, Sweetie,” I said. “I don’t know . . .” That was as far as I got.

Because, suddenly, I was remembering my Mom.

And something she said to us every time we were bewailing the loss of some article of clothing.

Which happened often.

Ahem . . .

There would the usual scurry to find said article of clothing.

Coat.

Hat.

Boots.

Shoes.

Pants.

And then the inevitable words, “I CAN’T FIND IT!!!”

Followed, if one were really good, by tears. (I was really good. Just FYI.)

Back to my story . . .

Mom would immediately bring the problem into ‘Mom’ focus with the words: “Well, I don’t know where I put it when I wore it last!”

We would frown because adult-sized Mom would never, ever have fit into it.

And this was NOT helpful!

Then she would laugh.

Whereupon (good word!) we would sigh and slump and renew our search.

So, back to my grandson. The three-year-old standing indignantly in the middle of the kitchen.

I smiled. “Well, Sweetie, I don’t know where I put it when I wore it last!”

He frowned at me.

I heard laughter from the periphery. And “I remember Mom saying that to me!”

Good family sayings traverse generations.

Ranch Zoo

Bambi and four of her pets

Baby antelope kisses

A ranch is a different place to grow up.
Miles from any other humans, one never worries about what the 'neighbours will think'.
Also because of the distance between homesteads, one has to become very self-reliant.
One doesn't drive half an hour to borrow a cup of sugar or a can of soup.
One makes do.
And learns to plan ahead.
Kids growing up on a ranch make their own entertainment.
Well, at least they did in the 50s and 60s.
Electronics hadn't been invented yet.
There was one channel on the TV.
And talking on the phone wasn't the private enterprise it is today. (It could be entertaining, though. But that is another story.)
Entertainment consisted of visiting with your family.
Playing games. Also with said family.
Swinging from ropes in the hay loft.
Riding.
Reading.
And, of course, playing with your pets.
On our ranch, there were all the usual pets one would expect.
An assortment of barn cats. The end result of years of 'spur of the moment' cat sex.
Dogs. All brought in from other ranches and, unlike the aforementioned cats, strictly controlled.
Some were a little harder to hide in your bedroom. (ie. Ponies. And yes, I tried.)
Assorted baby animals, found by me and subsequently (good word) turned out of the house by my unenlightened mother.

Pigs.
Calves.
And then, at least on our ranch, the animals you wouldn't expect.
Wild animals who had been injured or orphaned.
And just needed some care and a place to stay.
A litter of coyote pups. Discovered by my father after finding a dead, female coyote.
A seagull. Found near the road, unable to fly.
Countless frogs.
A snake or two.
Several mice.
Jackrabbits.
Did you know that a baby porcupine is really, really cute?
Well they are.
Moving on . . .
And several baby deer.
These wilder 'pets' didn't stay around long.
As they grew, they began to pose some problems.
Wild animals, no matter how cute, simply don't domesticate.
Regardless of how hard you try.
Or how much you talk to them.
One baby deer, given the surprising name of 'Bambi', got quite aggressive, especially with my toddling baby sister.
I don't know what she thought Baby Sister was.
But she didn't like it and tried to express herself with sharp hooves.
After a tearful good-bye she, like most of them, went to a zoo.
But, for a time, they all belonged to our family.

I still think befriending and spending time with them was better than any form of electronic entertainment.And you must know, I'm always right.

The Smell of Employment

Who would you hire?

To a cowboy looking for employment in the 50s, the Stringam spread proved enticing.
Many times, someone would ride in with everything he owned on his back and in his saddle bags.
Usually at mealtimes.
Invariably he would be invited to put up his horse and stay to eat.
The interview had begun.
During the meal, everyone seated around the table would ply the newcomer with questions:
Where are you from?
Where have you been?
Where are you going?
But the boss would be watching for answers to the unasked questions.
By the end of the meal, his decision would be made.
And the cowboy would be directed to the bunkhouse.
Or the highway.
We often wondered how Dad did it.
How could he tell what kind of a man/hand this stranger would be?
He finally let us in on his secret.
Or secrets.
By the way the man swung into the saddle and handled his horse, Dad could tell he'd had lots of experience.
The fact that he treated his horse with affection and respect told Dad he was trustworthy.
He carried very little tack, so Dad knew he wasn't a thief.
He'd worked at the Bar K/Night Ranch/Q Ranch for two years and Dad knew their standards and expectations, so the man had been well-trained.
And last, he wasn't flamboyant in his dress. No ten-gallon hat or silver, big-rowelled spurs. The man had his needs and wants under control.
He was hired.
My Dad was seldom wrong.
Although once, some . . . refining was needed.
Let me explain . . .
Luke rode into the ranch yard, looking for work.
He was invited to loosen his girthstrap and join the boys for dinner.
He complied.
Talk was general as the boys got to know him.
There seemed to be a broad consensus that Luke was okay.
Everyone looked at Dad.
Who nodded.
Luke was directed to the bunkhouse and given a bunk.
The door closed.
And that's when everyone got the first whiff of Luke's one . . . drawback.
Luke didn't like water.
More particularly, washing in it.
At first, the boys were subtle.
Opening the windows.
And then the doors.
Then they started making comments.
“Whew! It sure smells in here!”
“I think someone needs a bath!”
Which got more pointed.
“Yak! I'm choking to death!”
With looks directed at the offending party.
Luke remained stubbornly oblivious.
Finally, the rest of the boys grabbed their bedrolls and toted them to the big ranch house.
“Morning, Ma'am,” the first one said. “We're moving into your attic!”
“Yep. There's poison gas in the bunk house,” the second one said.
“We're choking to death!” said a third.
“Dying!”
And they did.
Move in, I mean. Not die.
Mom turned to Dad, eyebrows raised.
Dad shrugged his shoulders. “I'll talk to them,” he said.
He must have.
Because that evening, the boys moved back into their bunk house.
Then roped Luke, hauled him down to the river and scrubbed him down themselves.
All was quiet for a week.
Till glances and remarks indicated that the next 'bathing' was being contemplated.
This time, Luke hauled himself to the river and scrubbed off.
From then on, all one of the boys had to do was take down his rope.
And Luke would scurry for the shower.
Oh, he complained. “Too much water is bad for the health!”
His words, not mine.
But he did it.
And the sweet, clean air of the Alberta prairies once more wafted through the bunkhouse.
Hiring is a tricky business.
But with discernment, skill . . .
And soap . . .
It can be done.

Not Completely Clean

Okay, there are only six here. But you get the picture . . .
Mom is third from the left.

Bath time has changed over the past century.
Really.
The concept of indoor plumbing is actually very recent.
In my mother's day, running water in the house meant that some enterprising and resourceful person had built the house over the well.
And designed the kitchen so that the sink was situated perfectly to accommodate the pump.
Right where the water was needed.
Clear and cold.
Directly from the ground.
Heating it to a decent temperature for such things as cooking and cleaning was a whole other process.
So . . . bath time.
I should mention, here, that I wasn't present for any of this.
I'm telling it as my mom told me.
Every Saturday night, Gramma Berg would pull out the large tub and set it in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Then painstakingly fill it bucket by bucket.
She had nine children, eight boys and my mom, to scrub.
And one tub to do it in.
The youngest went in first.
Then the second youngest.
Third.
Fourth.
All went well to this point.
Though the water was getting a bit . . . soapy.
But that is where her system inevitably broke down.
The fifth youngest son always exhibited the same reaction to stepping into warm water.
He peed.
In the water.
Every time.
And my Mom, who stood next in line would get a little . . . perturbed.
Gramma always tried to soothe her only daughter by pointing out that the water was mostly clean and soapy. And that Mom would get a good rinse with clean water.
But Mom was only slightly mollified (real word.)
I often wondered why, in my time, my mother so enjoyed her baths.
I didn't have to go back very far to find out.

Sibling Summer

The crew. With one small addition.

When I was 10, my dad had the opportunity to buy a second small ranch just over an hour from the home spread. Near the town of Coaldale, Alberta.

It would have been a logistical nightmare for one man to run both places, so he had two choices.

A - put a foreman and workers on the second place, or B - park some of his children and one cousin there.

Because Dad was a frugal man, he went with plan B and, at the beginning of the summer, myself and my three older siblings and our cousin, Michael, found ourselves in a tidy little ranch house nestled in a fold of the prairie.

My eldest sister, age 17 served as chief cook and bottle-washer.

My two older brother, ages 15 and 12, as general cow hands.

My cousin, wherever he was needed.

And me, as ballast.

Our jobs were properly delineated and we went to them with a will.

Chris cooked.

Jerry and George brought in the hay crop and tended the cattle.

Michael moved between them.

And I read and showed up for meals.

Oh, and rode my horse.

It was a learning, growing experience for all of us.

Simply managing such an operation would have been challenge, but this ranch was unique.

It was also infested with rattlesnakes.

One day, while stacking hay, my oldest brother sat down on a bale to rest. There was a sudden buzz at his feet. Without even thinking, he simply pitched sideways off the stack, neatly avoiding being bitten. Then he and his younger brother hunted down the culprit and disposed of it.

Can’t have rattlesnakes in the hay . . .

Then they coiled up the remains on the front step of the house and rang the doorbell.

Okay, I served two purposes on the ranch. Ballast and victim.

After that experience, I mostly remained inside the house. Only going outside to ride. Walking slowly and carefully and observantly.

The technique must have worked because my only other experience with anything slithery was during a ride to check the cows, when my mount leaped suddenly and nimbly into the air and I saw, beneath us in the grass, something long and skinny and very, very mobile.

Whew!

Another memory from that summer was of my sister, busy in the kitchen.

Chris was making stew for supper. For a few minutes, she hunted around in the cupboards. Finally, she sighed. I asked her what was wrong.

“I don’t have any more flour,” she said. “Well, I’ll try . . .”

By this time I had lost interest and gone back to my reading.

I’ll never forget the stew she served that evening.

It was absolutely delicious.

Absolutely. Delicious.

Better than anything I had ever eaten.

I overheard her conversation with Jerry as I worked my way through a third helping.

Chris: I couldn’t find any flour for thickener.

Jerry: This is great. What did you do?

Chris: I used pancake mix.

Resourceful. And maybe a secret ingredient for delicious-ness?

It was a wonderful summer. Days of being cared for by older siblings. And cousin. (Sometime, I’ll tell you about my brother chasing off a mischievous bull using a bucket and a shovel.) Evenings spent playing five-handed solitaire. (It can be done.)

Learning that, if left on our own, we could succeed.

Our Coaldale summer.

I’ll never forget it.

Hay in the Teeth

If you look closely...

Recently we would have celebrated Daddy's 91st birthday.

That’s significant.

What else could I do but tell a story about him . . .

It was haying season.

In my day, that meant teams of two, one driving the tractor, one stooking.

In Dad’s day, it involved numerous men, horses, and hours and hours of back-breaking work.

This story is about Dad’s day.

The horse-pulled mower had been over the hayfield, cutting the long grasses.

They had been allowed to dry where they lay.

Another horse-powered machine, a rake, had been pulled over the area to turn and fluff and gather the still-drying grasses.

I should mention here that grasses have to be totally dried before they can be gathered and stored. Wet grass heaped into a pile will rot and stink and generally be disparaged by discerning cows.

Think of kids and broccoli.

Yeah. Like that.

But I digress . . .

Teams of men and horses were gathering the well-dried grasses, heaping them into wagons and hauling them to the main stack, where the hay sling (exactly what it sounds like) would be manoeuvred into position, pick up the hay, and swing it atop the big stack.

It was heavy, exacting work. The hay had to be stacked just right so it would stay in place and cure properly.

Dad’s brother, Bryce, had been the man atop the stack, directing the big sling.

He had other duties, so turned over the pivotal job to his baby brother.

My dad.

For the first three minutes, all went well.

Then the hay sling brought up a load.

It zigged.

Dad zagged.

And the long pole smacked him right in the mouth. Knocking his heretofore (Ooh! Good word!) buck teeth backwards into his mouth.

Don’t you hate it when that happens?

I’m sure there was pain and a lot of blood.

I know there was an attempt to press said teeth back into a proper position. An even better position than before. With partial results. Three tooth 'took'. Straight and perfect. The fourth didn't.

Finally, Dad was hauled to the family dentist and a new tooth, on an intricate framework, was installed.

As good as the old one. Almost.

At least it looked right.

From that day forward, Dad had a conversation starter.

Or stopper.

He would hide his tooth and grin his gap-toothed smile.

Or hang it out over a lip.

Okay, well, we kids thought it was hilarious.

And isn’t that what being a dad is all about?

Happy Birthday, Daddy! We miss you!

Slinging. See the guy on top?
Brings a whole new meaning to 'Watch your mouth'.

Raking.

Collecting.

Remembered

The quilt presented to my parents when they moved away...

In 1974, My parents sold their long-time holdings in Milk River, Alberta and bought a ranch in the Spring Point community nestled in the beautiful Porcupine Hills west of Fort Macleod, Alberta.

It was a difficult time for the entire family, leaving the home we had known for generations and putting down fresh roots in a place eighty miles away.

Okay, yes, our family members came with us.

As did our cattle and horses and daily chores.

But the scenery – and the neighbours – were different.

Especially the neighbours.

No longer did we have anyone who could reminisce with us about our years without phones.

Navigating sketchy gravel roads.

Trips into town.

Brandings.

Barn dances.

School bus rides.

Everything that simply went into being ‘neighbours’.

For a short time, we felt bereft. (Ooh, good word!)

Then, slowly, the people who lived in nearby ranches introduced themselves.

They proved to be kind, wonderful people.

All of them.

And we were welcomed.

We attended new celebrations.

Brandings.

Dances.

Mom introduced the Spring Point community to the concept of quilting and started their first, ever, quilting club.

I met and married my Husby.

They were warm, wonderful years.

Our family was loved.

As Mom’s health worsened, my father took a position in another town and retired from ranching.

The rest of the family followed within a couple of years.

We do tend to stick together.

And the name ‘Stringam’ disappeared from the town rosters.

Moving ahead . . .

I was back in the ‘old stomping grounds’ once more.

I walked the old streets, but recognized no one.

Then I toured Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, a World Heritage site which almost directly overshadows the old ranch.

And visited Heritage Acres, ditto.

I was speaking to one of the employees.

I mentioned that our family had lived just below the site.

She immediately asked who I was.

I told her.

“The Stringams!” she exclaimed. “Of course we remember you! Your Mom started the quilting club! It still meets. Every week!”

It’s been over forty years.

In Fort Macleod, there are only a few people who remember the Stringams and their few short years there.

But those that do . . .

Details from the quilt.

Pies of the Prairie

On the prairies, pies come in two forms.

The edible.
And the inedible.
One kind is made from prairie fruit.
The other comes from cows.
One smells wonderful.
The other . . . doesn't.
Just FYI.
Sooo . . . prairie fruit.
This comes in the form of raspberries, strawberries, some apples, choke cherries and saskatoons.
The first three are grown mostly in gardens.
The latter two, in the creases and folds of the landscape near water.
The first three can be picked at any time during the summer, as they ripen.
The last two need planning.
Especially the saskatoons.
Their picking requires a family adventure.
And that's where the fun comes in.
Sometime in the summer, Mom's stack of pails would magically appear.
It was the signal for all of us kids to quickly get into our swimming suits because we were making a trip to the river to pick berries and go for a swim.
The best of times.
Mom had several favourite berry-picking spots.
All of them thick with bushes.
And none of them near our house.
She would load us, our pails and our towels, into the car.
And in a cloud of dust, we were off.
The saskatoon bushes started at the top of the cliff.
And grew downward.
Toward the river.
You had to move carefully.
And hang on.
Like little goats, we would scamper all over those bushes.
Picking.
Or . . . well, let's just stick with picking.
Mom's plan was always to have each of us fill a bucket.
Simple enough.
If kids hadn't also come equipped with mouths.
One handful into the bucket.
One handful into the mouth.
And so it went.
After a while, each of us would have half a bucket of berries.
A blue mouth.
And full tummy.
With the hot, summer sun shining down, the smell of baking sage and grass in ones nostrils, and one's family gathered around, it was pure heaven.
Then we would swim.
And to top it off, fresh saskatoon pie when we got home.
Did I mention the best of days?

P.S. Picking chokecherries wasn't nearly as much fun.
For one thing, they are SOUR.
But they make the nicest syrup.

And that is another story.

Almost Stacked

A good start.

Seventeen.

The magic number.

And she was so close!

Gather around. I have a story to tell . . .

Our family loves to eat out.

Someone else cooks.

And cleans.

What’s not to love?!

Our budget doesn’t allow for great frequency.

But we manage it about once a month.

We do have our favourite places, but we like to branch out and explore new locations as well.

On this particular day, we were trying one of the new places.

Barb and Ernies.

Famous for their Eggs Benedict and other breakfast foods.

Mmmm. Breakfast . . .

Where was I?

Oh. Right. Barb and Ernies.

Our order had been placed.

We were gnawing on our napkins with hunger  pulling children down off the table waiting patiently for our food.

Now, I should mention here that, some years before, in desperation, Husby had created a kid-diverting activity. Creamer-stacking.

You heard me right.

Creamer stacking.

Wherein one stacked creamers. The goal being to see just how high one could stack said creamers.

Okay, so, rocket science, it wasn’t.

But it was diverting.

Husby’s record was sixteen.

Back to my story . . .

There was a bowl of creamers on the table.

Our youngest daughter decided her day had come.

The day when she beat her father’s record.

Carefully, she smoothed out the edges of the paper seals on the little plastic containers.

Carefully matched them. Top-to-top. Bottom to bottom.

One. Then another. Then another.

Other bowls of creamers were secured from other, unoccupied tables.

Her stack grew.

Finally, she placed the sixteenth. The stack shook. Just a bit.

We held our breath.

It steadied.

She reached for the seventeenth creamer.

Set it gently on top and made the microscopic adjustments.

Then, just as she was about to release it and, incidentally, proclaim her new status as World Creamer Stacker Supreme, Ernie, he of the name, Barb and Ernie . . .

Shook. The. Table.

Her carefully arranged stack collapsed.

Along with her world title hopes.

And her euphoric bubble.

It was then we realized that everyone had been watching us, because the rest of the restaurant burst into laughter and clapping.

And totally missed the heated, narrow-eyed glare our daughter turned on the restaurant owner.

Husby’s creamer-stacking record remains a tie to this day.

Oh, there have been some feeble, half-hearted attempts.

But they're usually abandoned after about seven.

If you’re ever in Edmonton, try Barb and Ernie’s.

The food is fantastic.

But forget the extra activities and stick to eating.

It’s better for Ernie’s health.

The Biking Wounded

My little soldier.

My kids belong on a stage.

Case in point:

It was a hot, sunny, summer afternoon.

We sometimes get those in Edmonton.

Seven-year-old Erik was riding his bike on the sidewalk.

Next to a street that closely resembled the frenetic scramble of frantic ants when someone has stirred up their nest.

Dozens of neighbourhood kids of every size and variety screamed/shouted/laughed.

Scenarios were being enacted.

Dares carried out.

Counter-dares being proposed.

And through it all, Erik rode his bike serenely up and down.

Up and down.

Up and . . . oops.

Right at the foot of our neighbour’s lawn, in an effort to avoid a collision, he turned.

And toppled off his bike.

I had just come to the door, carrying a bowl of freshly-washed raspberries to offer as a mid-afternoon snack. I watched him go down.

In slow-motion.

Scraping one knee.

He rolled onto his back and, for several seconds, lay there. Then he looked up at me. “Mom!” he shouted. “I fell!”

“I saw you!” I called back. “Come on! Let’s get you fixed up!”

Slowly, he rolled over onto his stomach. Then, with kids running back and forth and even leaping over him, started crawling--crawling--up the lawn toward me.

Dragging his wounded leg.

He looked like a soldier crossing a battlefield.

I shook my head and watched him.

Finally, he reached the steps and flung himself onto his back.

“Mom! I hurt my knee! I think I have gangrene!”

I handed him the raspberries and went to get the band-aids.

Two minutes later, he was back on his bike.

Dangerously wounded, obviously-going-to-fall-right-off knee pumping madly as he rode.

Yep. Kids belong on a stage.

Gummed Up

Or something similar . . .

We were driving to town.
Maybe that doesn't sound like earth-shattering news to you, but we lived a half-hour away.
When the roads were good.
This was an event.
Mom piled us six kids into the car.
Inquired as to bathroom status.
And started out.
I should mention, here, that the roads into Milk River were never great.
In dry conditions, they were a narrow, dusty, dirty track between two deep ditches.
In wet weather, they were a narrow, greasy, slippery amusement-park ride.
That was anything but amusing.
And they had to be navigated with utmost care and caution.
Always.
Picture my Mom's 1964 Envoy hurtling along at 65 MPH.
With six kids rolling about like dried peas.
But we were safe.
Mom had both hands on the wheel.
She would put out her arm if she was applying the brakes.
All was well.
Suddenly, we reached a stretch of road that had been 'graveled'.
I use this term lightly, because said gravel was uncrushed.
Fist to shoe-size. It would probably be more accurate to say it had been 'rocked'. Or 'bouldered'.
Not good.
Mom slowed down, but rocks still spun and bounced, hurtling off into the ditch or hitting the underside of the car with deadly accuracy and vicious intent.
Finally one rock, a little larger than the others, hit with a metal 'clang' that shook the entire car.
Mom applied the brakes.
And deployed her patented arm gesture.
We all got out.
The smell of gasoline was strong in the dusty air.
We leaned down.
The last rock had put a hole in our gas tank.
Precious fuel was escaping, even as we looked.
Mom straightened. What to do? What to do?
My oldest brother's jaws were moving, rhythmically.
For a moment, Mom stared at him.
Then she pounced. "Jerry! Are you chewing gum?"
My brother froze.
In our family, one wasn't allowed to chew gum in the car.
Because.
"Is anyone else chewing gum?"
We all stared at her.
She turned back to my brother. "Spit it out!"
"Um . . . why?"
"We can stuff it in the hole and fix the tank!"
"Oh."
Weird.
But Jerry complied. Spitting a large wad of pink gum into his hand, he wriggled under the car and applied it.
We all bent down and looked.
It seemed to be working.
"Everybody in!" Mom said.
We lost no time, but scrambled back into the car and resumed our journey.
When we reached town, the car slid to a stop and we all piled out and bent over to look.
The gum had worked!
No more leak!
"We patched our gas tank with gum!" I proudly told curious passers-by.
They glanced at Mom's red face for confirmation.
She nodded.
Sheepishly.
Gum saves the day!

There is a codicil.
The shop that could have repaired our tank was closed for the weekend.
They used to do that in the early 60s.
Mom had to drive home with her gum-patched tank.
Then drive back into town the next day for Church.
And back to the ranch again.
Then into town on Monday to finally effect repairs.
That gum not only got us into town, but it got us back home, back in, back home and back in.
Miraculous.
I defy duct tape to perform as well.
Or taste better.