Mowed

There was a lot of grass on the Utopian Stringam homestead.

A lot.

And I mean the kind that doesn’t go up in smoke.

Or shouldn’t.

Anyways . . .

It needed to be mowed. Regularly.

Something I watched my older sister and brothers do millions of times.

Okay, it seemed like millions.

Have you gotten the idea I envied them?

Well, I did. 

Even though our mower wasn’t one of those swanky ride-on types that would have been . . . you know . . . fun, but was, instead the good old push type. Electric.

With a fifty-foot cord.

When I was nine, dad handed me the . . . umm . . . plugin, and told me to get to work.

My day had come!

His only advice: Avoid anything sharp and cutty, generally anything under the mower.

Oh, and start near the plug and work out from there.

I was a bit nervous, but for the first two passes, I did well.

Really well.

Then I forgot rule two.

Which led to forgetting rule one.

Sigh.

I decided I needed to backtrack.

An interesting thing about electric cords: They aren’t intuitive.

And never leap out of the way.

And when things sharp and cutty pass over them, they . . . erm . . . cut.

With varied and interesting results.

First, the mower quits.

Immediately.

And no amount of flipping the switch is going to turn that sucker back on.

Second, the two ends of the cord, one of which is spitting sparks, lie in the grass.

Another interesting note: If you take the two ends and try to force them together without first unplugging the live one, all sorts of pyrotechnics erupt. And the two ends don’t magically re-attach. Just FYI.

I survived. (I know you were concerned.) I then went to my father in tears and he accompanied me back to the scene of the crime and effected necessary repairs.

Tears forgotten, I was soon ‘back in the saddle again’.

Lessons learned.

Use Your Words is a writing challenge. 

Participating bloggers pick 4 - 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. 

That's the challenge. Here's a fun twist: no one who's participating knows who got their words and in what directions the writer will take them until the day and time that we all simultaneously publish our work.

This month, my words came from: My Brain on Kids. http://mybrainonkids.net                         

Work, Nervous, Nine, Utopian, Swanky

Fun? There's more...

Here are the other participants:

Baking In A Tornado http://www.bakinginatornado.com/2016/07/use-your-words-cocktails-hawks-and.html

Southern Belle Charm                    http://www.southernbellecharm.com                       

Not That Sarah Michelle                 http://notthatsarahmichelle.blogspot.com                   

Spatulas on Parade http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/2016/07/spiced-banana-honey-roasted-pecan-cake.html                       

Dinosaur Superhero Mommy            http://dinoheromommy.com/   

My Brain on Kids                           http://mybrainonkids.net

The Bergham Chronicles                  http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com

Never Ever Give Up Hope                http://batteredhope.blogspot.com

Confessions of a part time working mom     http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/   

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver     http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/blog.html 

Molly Ritterbeck                              http://mollyritterbeck.com/   

Juicebox Confession                         http://juiceboxconfession.com/

Climaxed                                         http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com     

When I Grow Up                             http://kimberlyyavorski.com/whenigrowup/    

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo                      http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/      

Daddy's Blackleg

Oh sure, they look healthy now . . . Little beggers.

It gets very cold in Southern Alberta.

Calves need to be vaccinated.

And ranching can be a dangerous business.

These statements actually go together.

To create one of the scariest experiences of my young life.

Let me explain . . .

Dad was at a neighbouring ranch, on a -40 spring day, vaccinating the new spring calf crop against Blackleg.

I should probably tell you that Blackleg is a particularly vicious and deadly disease, caused by a spore in the ground.

This tiny spore, inadvertently ingested by calves between six and twenty-four months of age can cause death within 12 to 48 hours.

Nasty.

And impossible to treat, once an animal has been infected.
But, happily, almost completely controlled by early vaccination.

Early.

As in 'before-it-gets-warm-in-Alberta'.

So, sometime before July.

That explains Dad, the calves and the cold.

Moving on . . .

The calves were being shuffled down a chute, one by one, to receive their vitally necessary little jab.

All was going well.

One group finished.

Another was being sorted into the catch pen for further shuffling.

Meanwhile, Dad had placed his favourite pistol syringe under his coat to keep it, and the vaccine it contained, from freezing.

Remember? Minus 40?

One of the animals in the pen bumped into him.

The syringe pricked the skin of his belly.

Those needles are sharp for a reason . . .

He could only have taken in a very minute amount of the Blackleg vaccine.

But it was enough.

By the time he finished with the herd, he knew he was in trouble.

He drove himself to the hospital.

And stayed there.

For three weeks.

He was a very, very sick man.

But his strong constitution and normally healthy lifestyle finally tipped the balance and he began to respond to treatment.

At the end of the third week, a thinner, whiter version of my father returned home.

My brave mother hadn't explained, at least to the younger half of the family, exactly what was wrong with Daddy.

We knew he was in hospital, but had no idea why.

Or how serious it was.

It was only years later that I found out the whole story.

Okay. Much too late to panic now.

But I did learn several things from this experience:

1. Vaccine for calves should really only be given to calves.
2. People don't respond well to it.
3. Never hold one's syringe under one's coat.
4. Don't vaccinate in the cold. And...
5. If there's ever a blackleg outbreak, Daddy's had his shots

Sizzle Fizzled

 “Our life needs more ‘sizzle’,”

Said Husby. To me.

And I wondered just what in the world could he mean?

So I went to the lexicon,

Searched the word there.

I admit that the things that I found made me stare.

It said ‘sizzle’s a hissing sound,

Water—hot steel.

Which happens whenever I’m making a meal.

It also suggested

To burn up or sear.

Sounds to me like a branding iron on a calf’s rear.

Or the hissing sound made

When burning or frying.

That happened last night. He thought something was dying.

And lastly, to seethe

With deep anger: resent.

Now I’m really unsure just what my Husby meant.

So to my dear friends,

Use a whisper. (Don’t shout.)

Can you tell me what life with more ‘sizzle’s’ about?

Once a month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado issues a poetry challenge:
"Here's a topic. Write!"
July's challenge?
SIZZLE
What did you think of my attempt?

To see what her other challengers did with the topic, go to:
Baking in a Tornado:  http://www.bakinginatornado.com/201...

Measurements of Merriment: http://measurementsofmerriment.blogspot.com/...
The Bergham Chronicles: http://lberghamchronicles.blogspot.com/...
Spatulas On Parade: http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/...

Cluttered Genius: http://www.clutteredgenius.com/summer-lovin/You'll be glad you did!

A Date With Dad

Daddy and me.
Okay, picture us a few years older.
But just as cute . . .

I was on a date with my Dad.

I had been working at my 'first-official-job-wherein-Dad-was-not-my-boss' in Calgary, Alberta, and having the time of my life.

Have you noticed that saying 'having the time of your life' doesn't necessarily denote 'good' or 'bad'?

I mean, it could mean the worst time of one's life.

Or the best.

Just saying . . .

Dad had to come up to the big city on business and had stopped in to my work to ask the boss (whom he was good friends with and NO, that's not the reason I got the job. I think . . .) if he could take his best girl out on a date.

My boss smilingly agreed and I was free for the day.

There are perks to your father being good friends with your boss.

Dad took me to a football game.

It was a perfect day.

Crisp, cold air, but not too chilly.

Blue, blue sky.

Cloudless.

Okay, I'm remembering it how I want.

Dad and I had been sitting through the game.

Visiting.

Cheering on all of the guys in red, white and black.

I used to be a football cheerleader, so I had a vague idea of what the game entailed.

Get the ball across the opposing team's goal line by whatever means necessary.

Then hug the players if they won.

And especially if they lost.

But partway through the game, I had a blinding revelation. “Dad, all of those players have spent all of this time fighting for control of the ball!”

Dad looked at me. “Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

“Well, I just had an idea!”

His eyes narrowed. Dad was used to my brilliant ideas. “Go on."

“Well, if they're just going to fight over the ball,” I said, “why don't they just use two balls?”

Okay, we thought it was hilarious.

The guy in front of us? Not so much. “Could you please shut up?” he demanded. “Some of us are trying to enjoy the game!”

We decided it was a good time for Dad to take me to dinner.

We went to my favourite restaurant. The one I went to only when Dad was buying.

Old Spaghetti Factory.

Mmmm.

We were seated in the old trolley car that is central to every OSF restaurant.

Things were getting busy.

Soft music was playing. Quiet talk and laughter around us. Gentle chime of silverware on china. Subdued, romantic lighting.

The server brought us our menus and fresh, warm bread with selections of butter, then withdrew while we sliced, buttered, ate and perused.

Dad was studying his menu. “Can you read this?” he asked, finally.

I glanced down. “Ye-es,” I said, slowly.

“Well, I can't!”

Did I mention the 'subdued' lighting?

He pulled out a matchbook and proceeded to light a match. Then used its light to read his menu.

The server sprinted towards our table.

“Problems, sir?” he asked.

Dad looked at him, lit match still in hand. “Nope.” Then turned back to his menu. “But I think my daughter and I are ready to order.”

There is nothing . . . nothing like a date with your dad.
Truly the time of my life. In the best of ways.

In the Dirt

Dad on Shaker.
This really has nothing to do with the story. I just like the picture!

Ranching is always an adventure.

Sometimes a tad . . .  uncomfortable.

But always entertaining.

Orphaned calves are cared for in one of several ways on a ranch.

Bottle feeding is always an option.

But the best solution usually involves adopting the little baby onto another mother.

Okay, it sounds good.

But convincing the mother to take on another cow’s calf is tricky.

She is seldom . . . okay, never . . . willing to cooperate.

If she has lost her calf (and I know this sounds icky) the rancher can skin the dead calf and tie the hide onto the living one. The cow smells her calf and the adoption is complete.

But when she still has a calf living, the process is a bit more difficult.

The solution usually involves buckling the two calves together at the neck and turning them in with the cow.

The cow quickly discovers that she can’t kick the strange calf off without also losing her own.

A bovine conundrum.

Eventually solved by allowing both calves to suck.

The only concern thereafter is making sure one periodically loosens the collars as the calves grow.

And that’s where my story starts.

Finally . . .

Several of the cow hands on the Stringam ranch were checking the herd.

They noticed that a pair of coupled calves’ collars were getting a bit snug.

Someone needed to chase the intrepid pair down and perform the necessary loosening procedure.

One volunteered.

By spurring his horse.

Now, this was a man who was accustomed to working with cattle.

He had chased down calves before.

But he didn’t realize in this case that the yoked calves couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t-want-to run together.

Instead, they began to run in at least two different directions.

Forward progression was . . . limited.

The cowboy, used to gauging his movements by normal calf movements launched himself off of his running horse.

Flew straight over the heads of the struggling calves.

And chewed up about 10 feet of dirt.

His friends stared at him.

Then, sympathetic to the end, burst out laughing.

The would-be wrangler spit out a mouthful of dirt and, face scraped, bleeding and dirty, joined in the general laugh at himself.

The calves were duly caught. Their collars loosened. And everyone headed home.

Bruised.

But happy.

Yep. Ranching. An adventure.

You get the picture . . .

Breakfast and a Show

Ever helpful and concerned.

Kids can make eating out such an . . . adventure.

It was the early fifties.

Mom and Dad were vacationing in Montana with their three small children.

As they drove past the Deer Lodge prison, Dad tried to explain to four-year old Chris and two-year-old Jerry just what it was. He told them that when people were bad, the police would lock them up in the big building for punishment.

The original ‘time-out’.

He wasn’t sure just how much of his explanation his two oldest children took in.

The next morning, he had his answer.

The family had stopped nearby for breakfast. While they were eating, a deputy sheriff came in for coffee, then proceeded to tell the waiter about his exciting evening: 

One very intoxicated individual had been disruptive at a local dance and the deputy took the man to the local jail to sober up. There were no charges to be laid, so all that remained was to get the fellow up and send him home.

Throughout this story, Chris and Jerry were busily eating, not seeming to pay attention to the tale.

Finally, the man stood up and said, “Well, I guess I’d better go down and get my boy out of jail!”

Chris looked at her parents wide-eyed and very concerned. “That man’s little boy is down there in that big jail!” she said loudly.

To the amusement of the entire restaurant.

See?

Babe Diane

Summer = baseball.

I love baseball.

Let me rephrase that.

I LOVE baseball.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because you get to beat an inanimate something with a thick, wooden stick.

Outside.

In the summer sunshine.

Or maybe there's just something 'magical' about the game.

But I am getting ahead of myself . . .

I played a bit.

Grade school.

High school.

But I didn’t play regularly until long after I had married and had a family.

It was then that I spent three glorious summers in a mixed league.

And it was fun.

Oh, I wasn’t one of their best players.

In fact, I spent most of my time out in right field.

Praying that the other team would hit the ball anywhere but to me.

In fact, the only place where I was competent was in the batter’s box.

And even there, only competent--good for a base or two.

Until that night.

Let me tell you about it . . .

It was a clear summer evening.

The mosquitoes weren’t too bad.

The sun was setting, but the field was situated such that it wasn’t in anyone’s eyes.

The shadows were lengthening.

The sky was trying to decide if it wanted to be cerulean blue or glorious orange.

My team was at bat.

Well . . . I was at bat.

The other team eyed me curiously.

I hadn’t done too badly in the field, but really hadn’t distinguished myself.

A couple of the guys moved in a bit.

The pitcher glanced around at the two players we had on base, then looked at me.

He went into his wind-up, which, in slow pitch, isn’t.

And flipped the ball at me.

I swung.

And felt the sharp crack and the burst of exhilaration as bat met ball.

Solidly.

And that’s when the first surprise of the evening dropped every jaw on my team.

Including mine.

That ball sailed out over the heads of the outfielders.

Way out.

Way, way out.

A triple.

It would have been a home run, except I’m old.

I brought in both of our runners and settled myself firmly on third base.

Then grinned as my team cheered wildly.

The next hitter brought me in and I was met by many slapping hands.

The good kind.

An inning or so later, I was again facing the pitcher. I grinned as the fielders moved back slightly in a she-did-it-once-but-is-this-going-to-be-a-habit sort of way.

They didn’t move back far enough.

Another triple.

Sometime later, I again stood in the hot spot.

This time, the entire outfield moved back.

Way back.

It didn’t matter.

This time, it was a home run.

That ball went far enough that even my aged legs could toddle around all the bases.

We won the game.

But that didn’t matter.

Because for the first – and only – time in my life, I felt like a real ball player.

I had watched as the opposing team moved back to the far reaches of the field and knew they were doing it because, and I quote, ‘This girl can hit!’

I don’t know what happened that night.

Maybe there was some charmed quality in the clear air.

Maybe the spirit of Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays or Babe Ruth had wandered in for a visit.
Maybe I was channelling my Mom.

Maybe I just had a pitcher I could hit off of.

All I know is that it was magical.

It was my night.

My only night.

And I’ll never forget it.

Being Neighbourly

Off to visit the neighbours.

Theirs wasn’t the most sought-after homestead in the community.

Their home was humble. Built in 1917, they raised eight children and lived to 1948 without electricity or running water.

They weren’t the best housekeepers. Their home with its worn floorboards and non-existent screens (allowing the entrance of many bugs and even the odd chicken) was often known as ‘Fly Spec Inn’.

But the love and kindness shone out of every crack and every chink in the siding.

Their children loved to return there.

And, if a guest should drop by . . .

Mom and Dad had been married a few months. Dad had introduced his new bride to every family in the district, save one. Their nearest neighbours eight miles to the west.

He decided the time was right, so the two of them climbed into the car and made the trip.

They were welcomed with open arms.

Quite literally.

Invited to stop and yarn a while.

Then pressed to stay for supper.

The youngest daughter set the table. Then, at the urging of her mother, re-set with the ‘company cups’. Which, as it turned out, were the cups without the black lip stains from constant use and less-than-stellar cleaning.

The food was hot and plentiful.

Bread came fresh from the oven in a massive, round loaf.

If one asked for a slice, one got a SLICE. Mama would grab the loaf, hold it against her round belly and cut away with a large knife. Then, using the same knife, she would flip the wedge across the table to whoever had asked.

Her precision was unerring. And her grin when successful exposed toothless gums all the way back to the spaces left by absent molars.

It was a memorable meal. Memorable for all the right reasons. Not for the ‘fly specs’ or the missing screens or the worn floorboards, or even for the lacking electricity and running water. No, it was memorable for the kindness. The cheer. The love.

A few months later, that home was improved and enlarged to accommodate its becoming the community Post Office.

Though Mom and Dad invited the family over many times, they never went back.

It simply wouldn’t have been the same.

While Mama's Away...

Front: My Dad.
Behind: Uncle Bryce of the coal oil.
Ignore the gun...

1921.

Just another year in the life of my grandparents, George and Lovina Stringam.

July had finally come. Snow and blizzards and calving and feed for the cattle and any one of a thousand different winter-time worries were finally over.

For a few months.

The summer-time worries had taken over.

Grandpa and some of the older boys had gone out to the Waterton spread. (The family ranching business had grown to two operations, one in Glenwood and one near Waterton.)

Grandma (pregnant with her tenth child), and her oldest daughter Emily were, with the help of one hired man, ‘holding down the fort’ in Glenwood.

Then, the baby—as babies do—decided to make an entrance.

Which necessitated a quick trip to the hospital.

In 1921, women stayed at the hospital a good deal longer than they do now.

Just FYI.

Granma’s visit turned into a stay of over a week.

In that time, a friend visiting from Utah had elected to help Emily with child care and everything-in-addition-to-childcare.

But when the opportunity to catch a ride home appeared on the horizon, the friend took it.

Thus fourteen-year-old Emily carried on with the care of her younger siblings, cooking for the household, and inside and outside chores by herself.

Yeah, I couldn’t have done it, either.

Things were going surprisingly smoothly.

Then . . .

Eighteen-month-old Bryce decided he wanted a drink of water. Emily, busy in the kitchen, told him she would get it ‘in a moment’.

Bryce wandered into the wash room.

Spying a dipper, the toddler immediately decided not to wait for his sister, but take his thirst into his own hands.

So to speak.

And downed the contents of the dipper.

Coal oil.

Making him instantly one very sick little boy—his stomach and bowels and lungs all infected.

Discovering what had happened, Emily quickly called her neighbour, who just as quickly called the doctor 20 miles away in Cardston.

With instructions from the only GP in the area, the two women did what they could for the little boy and with the help of another neighbour, they nursed him through the night and for the next week.

My Uncle Bryce lived.

And Grandma and her healthy baby girl returned home from the hospital.

All was well.

1921. Just another year in the life of my Grandma and Grandpa Stringam.

A Field Promotion

Sorrel gelding (male).
And yes. I can tell the difference . . .

During college, I rode with the LCC Equestrian Team.

It was infinitely more exciting than anything my journalism instructors could teach in the classroom.

Though not quite the same preparation for real life.

Every afternoon, I would present myself to my teacher at the tack shed and draw my piece of string.

This is exactly how it sounds.

There was a bundle of old twine strings hanging from a hook just inside the door.

I would grab one and head out to the pasture.

Once in the pasture, I would pick out a suitable mount (ie: one that I could get close to), and place the string around its neck.

Then swung aboard and ride the horse back to the tack shed to . . . tack up.

Simplicity in itself.

The heaviest thing I was ever forced to carry was a piece of string.

Okay, I will admit that everyone else carried bridles, or at the very least a halter.

I was weird.

And/or lazy.

Moving on . . .

It was a beautiful day.

The sun was shining.

A fairly common occurrence.

The wind wasn't blowing.

Not so common.

I was excited to be out of the classroom and into the field.

So to speak.

I should point out, here, that there were two sorrel (liver brown) horses in the herd.

One a gentle gelding (male).

One a sprightly mare (female).

The differences were obvious.

But I was simply looking for 'sorrel'.

I walked up to the first one and slipped my piece of string around its neck.

Then swung aboard.

The trip back to the shed was quick.

I remember being astonished at the spirit the old gelding was showing.

Wow. He'd never had this much life!

This was going to be a good day.

I stopped near the shed door.

My instructor was standing there. “Wow!” he said. “The last person who tried that ended up getting piled.”

'Piled'. That's a cowboy term for . . . piled.

There really isn't a better way to say it.

Back to my story . . .

I looked down at my mount. “You mean this isn't Chico?”

He looked at me strangely. “Umm, Diane, Chico is a boy.”

“Oh. I never even . . .” I slid off the horse. Sure enough, he was a she. “Oops.”

He went on. “GG has never allowed anyone to ride her bareback. She doesn't like it. She just bucks them off.” He looked at me. “Let's try something, shall we?”

“Umm . . . Okay!” My Dad always said that I had more guts than brains.

He was right.

My instructor grabbed a halter and handed it to me.

I exchanged it for the string.

“Now get on.”

I obeyed.

“Let's run some jumps, shall we?”

GG and I went over the entire course.

I will admit that the jumps were small and definitely not a challenge.

But the point is that we did them.

GG and me.

Something that had never been done before with that particular horse. 

In that particular tack.

My instructor was smiling when we returned. “I've been wondering who to appoint as team captain,” he said. “Now I know.”

I smiled back.

I still don't know exactly what happened that day.

With that horse.

But I was right.

It was a good day.

Cowed by Snipe

Dad (right) and Ruel.
Who could fool these two?

As a young man, Dad spent his summers working on the ranch.

It was these summers that convinced him ranching was in his blood.

Something he could make his life’s work.

Even with its embarrassing moments . . .

Young cowboys on a big spread are often the butt of jokes pulled by the older, more experienced hands.

Dad, though he was the boss’ son, was no exception.

He and a schoolmate, Ruel, were invited to go with a couple of the men on a ‘snipe hunt’.

The snipe, they were told, was a bird that lived in the coulees around the ranch. It was very tasty, if you could nab one. But there was the problem. Snipes were tricky creatures. They only had one weakness--they were mesmerised by a light at night. Ordinarily, they stayed still when darkness fell, but if disturbed, would fly toward said light. The trick was to have someone wait quietly, holding a bag next to a lantern and, when the birds were stirred up, catch them as they flew to the light.

Slick.

The boys were excited to be included on this fun hunting trip. They rode behind the two older hands and took up a position at the mouth of the coulee, bag and lantern in hand. Then they waited while the riders circled around to the other end to ride down the coulee, driving the tasty little snipes ahead of them and straight to the waiting sack and certain doom.

They waited for over two hours.

Finally deciding that something had gone terribly wrong, the two boys gave up and walked the two miles back to the ranch. When they reached the barn, they discovered the horses the two older hands had been riding, safely tucked up for the night.

Only then did they realize they’d been had.

They toyed with the idea of hiding in the hay loft and getting the rest of the men stirred up when they didn’t show up for breakfast. They even went so far as to sleep in the loft, snuggled down cozily in the soft, fragrant hay. But the enthusiastic swinging of a pitchfork early the next morning as one of the hands fed the horses convinced them that they should appear or risk being skewered.

They stood up and endured the general laugh at their expense.

Grampa Stringam was disgusted. “How could you fall for something like that?!” he demanded.

It had been embarrassingly easy, so Dad said nothing.

Sometimes, ranching isn’t about the cows.

But being cowed.

P.S. The snipe is a real bird, living along watercourses throughout the world. It is notoriously hard to catch and the person who could actually shoot one would be known as a 'sniper'. Thus the name for a skilled gunman.

A Parenting Fail

Chris, Jerry and Dad.
Background: The RIVER
Eeeeek.

Sometimes, in our best efforts to raise and protect our children, we blow it.

My Mom was amazing, but even she had her moments . . .

My eldest sister, Chris, was a wanderer.

On a ranch, that is never good.

Mom often was forced to perform herculean feats in order to keep her small daughter safe. (See here.)

She tried many different things.

And, on one occasion, resorted to ‘reason’.

With less-than-stellar results.

Three-year-old Chris was very fond of wandering down beside the river that flowed past the ranch house.

At times, Mom had to physically pluck her daughter from the very jaws of death.

Finally, she decided to try something that would encourage Chris to police herself.

She told her small daughter that it was dangerous to walk near the river.

Because there was a giant octopus that lived there.

And it would get her if she got too close.

Chris stared at her mother wide-eyed.

“Octopus?”

“Octopus,” Mom said knowledgably.

“Oh.”

Mom went back to her chores, happy in the knowledge that her little girl would now stay far from the wicked river’s banks.

A few minutes later, she looked up to see that, not only had her daughter disappeared, but her even smaller son.

Sighing, Mom began her search.

Even though she knew that the probability of the two of them heading for the river with the ravening, slavering octopus living there, her footsteps just naturally turned her in that direction.

Good thing, too.

Because it was there on the river bank that she found her intrepid duo.

Chris had toddler Jerry’s hand and was leading him along the bank.

Encouraging him to look out into the water and see if he could spot the octopus.

Yeah. Parenting fail.

Where Little Cows Come From...

Oh, the things you learn from the top rail...

It’s spring.

Finally.

The time of new growth.

And baby animals.

Farm kids are exposed to the mating habits of animals early in life.

They just don’t always understand what they are seeing . . .

I was sitting on the top rail of the corral fence with my Dad.

Some cows, and a few bulls, just brought in from the nether pastures, were milling about below us.

Suddenly, one bull reared up.

Right onto the rear quarters of a cow.

I stared at them.

Weird.

The bull slid down.

And another took his place.

Really weird.

After three or four re-enactments of the same scenario, I turned to my dad.

“Daddy.” Indicating the bull. “What is that cow doing?”

Where did YOU think they came from?

Dad got a bit red-faced.

This was the fifties. Sex hadn’t been invented yet.

“Erm. Well . . . he’s resting his feet.”

“Oh.” Yeah. I was fairly easy to fob off in those days.

Today’s kids are also educated.

At least as well.

Case in point . . .

My friend raised rabbits.

Beautiful, lop-eared, gentle, soft, furry rabbits.

And by raised, I mean hutches in the back yard, carefully and successfully monitored.

With the help – or at least close scrutiny - of her children.

Babies (kittens or kits) came with amazing regularity.

These are rabbits we’re talking about, after all.

One day, a school friend asked the daughter where the baby rabbits come from.

“From the mommy,” she said, knowledgeably.

“Oh,” said the friend. “How does that happen?”

“Well,” the daughter said, “The daddy rabbit gets on the mommy rabbit and shakes her!”

We've come so far.

What can I say but CUTE!

Blair's Prayer

 . . . or crying works, too

It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the Stringam household.

The older kids were at school.

Dad and the hired men were out doing . . . ranch stuff.

Mom and the two youngest children were in the house.

Anita asleep in babyland.

Blair, known for playing quietly . . . umm . . . playing quietly.
In the basement.

I should point out, here, that two-year-old Blair was being toilet-trained.

The lessons were ongoing.

With mixed results.

Mom was busy in the kitchen.

Her 'mom alarm' went off.

Time to check on Blair's progress.

Or lack thereof.

She stood at the top of the stairs and called down.

“Blair! Time to go potty!”

Okay, so subtle, we weren't.

“Blair?”

Her little tow-headed boy appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Definitely not making eye-contact with his mother.

“Blair! Did you wet your pants?”

The answer was quite obvious.

Mom sighed. “Blair you come up here this moment!”

Obediently, the small boy started up the long flight of stairs.

One.

Slow.

Step.

At.

A.

Time.

On little hands and knees.

About midway, he paused.

Looked up at his mother standing like a nemesis at the top of the stairs.

Then put his little hands together.

Bowed his head.

And squeezed his little blue eyes tightly shut.

“Heavenly Father. Please bless Mommy, Daddy, Brothers and Sisters. And Blair.”

He looked up.

His prayer had been answered.

By this point Mom was sitting on the top step.

Laughing too hard to even consider another lesson in toilet training.

Who says prayer doesn't work?

Cause Blonde is Better

See? Blonde.

My Father-in-Law (hereinafter known as FIL) did not like blondes.

And my Mother-in-Law hated beards.

These two statements go together.

Just give me a moment . . .

So . . . back to my FIL.

No one knew why he did not like blondes.

And they did ask.

“Dad! Were you dumped by a blonde?”

“Dad! Did some blonde do something horrible?”

“Dad! Could I borrow twenty bucks?” Oh, wait, that has nothing to do with this.

Back to my story . . .

He passed away without ever sharing the reasons for his aversion.

But his family knew it well.

Whenever one of his five sons asked to borrow the car for a date, the first question was, invariably, “She’s not a blonde, is she?”

To which the invariable answer was, “Oh, no, Dad! She’s not a blonde! Definitely not a blonde!”

Even if she was.

The keys would be produced.

The date embarked upon.

All was well.

Yep. FIL’s aversion was well known.

Sometimes a little too well known.

His wife had an aversion as well.

To facial hair.

Here it comes . . .

If her husband ever suggested that he was considering growing a beard, she had the perfect answer.

“I’ll dye my hair blonde!”

Even the remote possibility of beard growing disappeared instantly.

Genius.

In his later years, he did make allowances.

I mean, he personally picked me for his son, and I had the white-blonde hair only found in people of Swedish heritage (like me) or points north.

And, in fact, two of his sons married blondes.

Call it parental opposition.

But the mystery remains.

The only other statement we ever heard from him concerning blondes was, “You know why blondes have more fun, don’t you? Because they get dirty quicker!”

Hmm . . . was that a hint?