Sailing

I'll be away for the next couple of weeks.

I'm here.

On the Royal Clipper.

I'm doing this:

There's room for you!

Baby Painting

The day started out normally enough.

Babies playing quietly while I snatched a couple of minutes online to look at drapes.

“Hmmm—the green or the teal?”

It had taken days to narrow my choices down to these two and my husband’s frustration with me was growing. “Make a choice. Any choice! If you don’t like them we’ll send them back. Need I remind you the neighbours can see into our bedroom when the lights are lit? And no, I don’t want to keep on shutting them off. The lights, not the neighbours.”

He was right. I wouldn’t admit that to his face, but I will to you.

I sighed. Green. Or Teal?

Feeling a bit parched from my time perusing, I decided a nice cup of herbal tea would be in order.

As the water was heating, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t been hearing anything from my toddlers for the past minute.

Silence is golden. But in a toddler, it’s suspicious.

I quietly moved toward the living room where they had been playing.

If they were happily engrossed in something harmless, I did not want to draw their attention. Then I’d have to entertain them.

And my drapery decision would be put off just that much longer.

I stopped in the doorway. Both of them were on the couch and I could just see the tops of heads. They looked all right. Happily engrossed in something.

Could I leave them alone for a while longer? I took a step back toward my kettle and future cup of tea.

Then, something told me to look a little closer.

I still tried to walk quietly, figuring I could just peek over the couch without them knowing. I moved nearer.

Nearer.

And that’s when all thought of leaving them on their own or drapes or decisions went right out of my head. In fact, everything went out of my head.

Because my toddlers had been busily--happily--engaged.

Little baby hands painting each other with diaper cream.

I admit it, I screamed.

Then dove for my camera.

You understand. This needed to be recorded.

For the slide show at their weddings.

And posts on Facebook.

Yeah. I’m on it.

Each month, Karen of Baking In A Tornado organizes a group of bloggers in a word exchange.
My words this month? teal ~ parched ~ baby ~ frustration ~ cream ~ herbal
They were submitted by the inimitable Carol Graham.

Like what you read? See what the others did with their assignment! Do it. It'll be fun!
Baking In A Tornado
Southern Belle Charm
Not That Sarah Michelle
Spatulas on Parade
The Bergham Chronicles
The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver
Dinosaur Superhero Mommy
Confessions of a part time working mom
Never Ever Give Up Hope
Climaxed 

Back To School

Mom is third from the left.

‘T’was seventy-six years ago this year,

On Alberta’s new frontier.

My Mama started school that day,

In Millicent, not that far away.

Swedish was what she knew the best,

And not a word of all the rest.

But for this day that pint-sized girl

Would, English, give a little whirl.

Her mama coached her carefully,

On what to say at Teacher’s knee.

The words that would the class transfix?

“My nom Enes, I’m halfpastsix.”

Clutching book in tiny hand,

Mama entered ‘No-Girl’s Land’,

Then sat down in the nearest seat,

And tried to make herself discreet.

But Teacher saw her sitting there,

With press-ed dress and flaxen hair,

And called to her to please advance,

And of her schoolmates, get a glance.

My Mama went, but she was tense,

She did not want to be thought dense,

So, hoping they would not despise,

Recited what she’d memorized.

But when her class did mock with glee,

The words she’d said so carefully.

My Mom, like ice (or stuff that melts),

Wished she could be someplace else.

From then, my Mom deliberately,

Forget her Swedish publicly,

And ever after English spoke,

When e're she talked with other folk.

Before you sympathize too much,

For kids that did make fun and such,

Please note Mom didn’t cry or bawl,

And scholastically outpaced them all.

Every Month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado issues a challenge. In rhyme.
This month? Back to School
Where would I go but back to the past?

See what these other bloggers have done with the theme!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: The Evolution of Back to School
Dawn from Spatulas On Parade: Back to School and Off the Streets
Jules of The Bergham Chronicles: Summer’s End

For Raisons Unknown

It only LOOKS delicious . . .

I love raisins.

Especially in trail mix.

Or coated in chocolate.

I should probably point out, here, that coating in chocolate is not really an accurate test of raisin love.

If you coated a hubcap in chocolate, I'd eat it.

Moving on . . .

I did not always love raisins. (Even now, I prefer my cinnamon buns and other baked treats to be raisin-less.)

It wasn't until after I was married that I learned to appreciate them.

There is a reason for that . . .

My brother, George, is two years older than I. Throughout our growing-up years, his prime responsibility was the teasing of his younger sister.

He practised his craft at every opportunity.

Mercilessly.

And became very good at it.

One day, our mom made cookies. Something she did a lot.

On this particular occasion, she had produced mounds of raisin cookies.

They were spread out temptingly across the table.

The aroma drew my brother and I from the depths of the house.

“Mmmm. Raisin cookies,” George said. He turned to me. “I knew that Mom was going to make raisin cookies today.”

“You did?” I asked innocently.

“Yep. I did,” he said.

“Did Mom tell you?”

“Nope.”

“You can tell by the smell?”

“Partially. But that's not the real reason.”

“Well, I give up. How did you know?”

He leaned towards me, a big grin on his face. “I knew Mom was going to bake raisin cookies because I saw her picking the raisins off the fly-paper at the back door.”

And from that moment on, in fact for the next twenty years, George had all of the raisin goodies that emerged from Mom's kitchen to himself.

Smart cookie.

P.S. He also tried to convince me that my rice was moving.

But that is another story . . .

He only LOOKS cute!

A Little Bit of Courage

It's bigger on the inside...

We visited the Horne Lake caves on Vancouver Island near where our middle son lives.

Getting ready.

The area is beautiful and the caves undeveloped and natural, which we found exciting.

But I learned something unexpected from the experience.

Let me tell you about it . . .

We went, first of all, for our son, who has Tourette’s and suffers from anxiety.

The fact that he acceded to our wishes to explore the caves is a testament to his courage, his trust in us and/or his very good team of health professionals.

Things started out well.

We donned our protective gear and mugged for a couple of pictures. Then our guide started out with us trailing (pun intended) along behind him down the forest path. A couple of young women were in our group just ahead of us and when we got to the very narrow cave opening, the one put up her hands and said, “Nope. Can’t do it.” They were guided to a secondary cave a short distance away. One without the ‘turn-sideways-and-suck-in-your-gut’ entrance.

I followed the guide, a little anxious for my son coming along behind me.

But then we reached the first cave and there he was. (Handsprings are not encouraged inside these caves. Just FYI.)

I had to keep my celebrating to a “Well done, Son!” and a smile.

We continued on through the ‘mud room’ and the ‘boulder room’ and the ‘crystal room’.

A lot of rooms.

Crouching and sliding to get from some to others.

And still my son stayed with us.

Sometimes even leading.

We saw rock formations that flowed and dripped.

Myriad colours and shapes and sizes.

Were told ‘not to touch that!’ or ‘Ooh, feel how cold this is!’

Lots of things to look at and experience.

A couple of times, I saw my son look upward toward the sky of stone above us.

I did the same.

Then realized that things down below were lots more interesting if I didn’t think about the tons and tons (and tons) of rock hanging over our heads.

We made it through, unscathed and perhaps a little more knowledgeable than when we had gone in.

And with an increased respect for my son’s courage.

But then I thought of something else.

Something that was only peripherally related to the caves we had just explored . . .

Success!

Those caves were like our little piece of our world.

There is much that is scary hanging over our heads. Crime. Terrorism. Natural disasters. Disease.

We could allow this to paralyze us and keep us from going forward.

Or we can maintain our focus and simply carry on. Not let fear stop us.

Keep on exploring.

Keep on living.

Which do you choose?

Still Writing...

I have exciting news!
Well . . . exciting to me! :)
Announcment: My newest novel, Daughter of Ishmael is to be published on January 10, 2017 by Cedar Fort Publishing.
Editing is finished.
It is now in the hands of the copy-editing department.
The artwork is done.
Tell me what you think!

As the publication date nears, I will be holding contests for free books and/or author appearances.
Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Milk, Anyone?

Not for the shy or faint of heart . . .

Recently, there had been a lot of press about women nursing their babies.

Usually because it has been carried to extreme lengths.

I nursed my babies.

And loved doing it.

But this isn't a commentary about that.

Though it is about 'extremes'.

Maybe I should explain . . .

A veterinarian friend of my father's had stopped in for a chat.

An immigrant from the UK, he was very fond of his tea.

My father offered him a cup.

Uncharacteristically, he declined. With a slight shudder.

Dad stared at his friend. What could possibly have put Dr. Ilovemytea off his favourite beverage?

The friend realized that he had aroused Dad's curiosity and an explanation was in order. He told Dad that he had just come from a vet call to a farm at the furthest border of his practice. 'Out in the sticks', you might say. His veterinarian business had been concluded.

And successful.

Hoping to prolong what was, to her, the highlight of a normally solitary day, the woman of the household had invited Dad's friend into her front room for a visit. She had recently given birth to a fine son and was anxious to share her story with someone.

All was well.

She and baby were thriving. Baby was nursing well and growing rapidly.

The woman offered the doctor a quick cup of tea before he began the long trek back to town.

Happily, he accepted.

The tea was brewed.

The woman brought it in and set it in front of her guest. “Would you like milk?” she asked.

Dad's friend said that, indeed, yes, he would love milk.

Whereupon (good word) the woman flipped out a breast and squirted some milk into the doctor's tea.

He blinked. Well . . . at least it was fresh.

As the story unfolded, Dad burst into laughter.

“So, did you drink it?” he asked his friend.

“Of course,” the doctor said.

“How was it?”

“Well, it tasted just fine,” he said. “Tasted fine.  But put me off a bit.”

Tea, anyone?

A Very Good Ship

Where memories are made...

It was just a routine trip to the local recreation centre.

Something we did often when our kids were small.

Who knew it would result in someone’s fondest memory . . .?

With six children and one income, Husby and I had to choose our family entertainment carefully.

We went to a lot of free things.

We did manage Adventure Food (any nationality other than Canadian) once a month. And for our big splurge, we bought an attractions pass. A valuable little tool that gave us admittance to any of Edmonton’s many parks and attractions as well as every one of the numerous swimming pools.

We went swimming every Saturday night.

That way, they were all entertained, played out, and bathed and clean for Sunday morning.

Yeah. I’m just clever that way . . .

Earlier one Saturday afternoon, we changed things up a bit and took the clan to the Kinsmen Recreation Centre instead of our usual Millwoods Wave Pool.

The kids were excited at the prospect of a new pool.

And their Dad and I were excited to have them excited.

Let me describe the swimming part of the centre as it looked then: There was the large tank, with swimming lanes, for the serious swimmer. The diving tank for the serious diver. (Note: this pool has been used for competition diving as well as for shooting movies. Interesting, right?) The warm-up tank--also used for lane swimming and family groups and toys. And the smallest tank. Shallow. Warm. For families with young children.

Our family instantly separated into three pools.

Husby had the youngest in the ‘baby’ pool, I had our middle two in the middle pool, and the two eldest disappeared to try out the diving boards.

The middle tank was the most interesting to me. It had large floating toys perfect for family fun.

I had my son in a ‘coracle’ (a small, circular boat) and was pushing him around.

And singing.

Because that’s what I do.

Did you know there’s a song for nearly every activity?

Well, it’s true.

In this case, the music of choice was “The Good Ship Lollipop”.

We swam/floated back and forth for much of the afternoon. He lying relaxed in the little boat. Me, pushing and singing.

Then we fished everyone out, showered them off and headed home.

It had been a pleasant afternoon, one that I was to tuck away with my memories of other pleasant afternoons.

Move forward nearly thirty years . . .

Husby and I were visiting with our middle son at his home on Vancouver Island. During our stay, we started telling stories.

And talking about favourite memories.

Our son told us his favourite memory of growing up was one day when we went to the Kinsmen pool and I sang ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop’ to him while I floated his little boat back and forth in the water.

His favourite memory.

I guess I need to remember that when we think we are providing simple entertainment for our children, we are also making memories.

And one of those memories is going to be their favourite.

Riding the Wave

Now wave! It might be someone we know.

The Stringam Ranch was twenty miles from the Town of Milk River.

For the first ten miles out of town, you were passing through other ranch properties.

So your chances of meeting another motorist were pretty good.

After that, there was just one destination.

The Stringam Ranch.

Any traffic that came out that far needed emergency veterinarian assistance.

Or knew the family and my mom's cooking.

This is a long-winded way of telling you that, on any given trip into town, Dad knew every single driver that we passed.

A cloud of dust would appear on the horizon, growing larger. Finally a small dark spot could be detected, right at the base of said cloud.

The speck grew larger.

And larger.

Finally became recognizable as a vehicle.

Dad would slow down and pull over to the right side of the road.

Because lines hadn’t been introduced into our part of the country. And who could paint a line on dirt anyway?

The other driver would also slow and pull to his right.

The two would give each other a friendly wave.

And continue on.

Whereupon (good word) I would bob up out of wherever.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“That was Mr. Angel.”

“Oh.”

I would disappear again.

Another vehicle.

Another wave.

Me bobbing up.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lindeman.”

“Oh.”

As we grew closer to town, the vehicles were more numerous.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mrs. Swanson.”

“Oh.”

I should mention that there was one vehicle that I recognized. Even as a four-year-old.

It was an old car, driven very, very slowly.

I don’t remember what year or model though my brother, George, will.

It was driven by a hat.

I am not kidding.

A hat.

A nice men’s hat.

I would stare in astonishment as this particular, peculiar vehicle drove past.

Yep.

Just a hat.

It was the one time during our entire trip that I wouldn’t bother my dad.

Because I knew who that hat was.

It was Grampa Balog.

After it passed, I would slump down on the seat.

Why couldn’t I have a hat for a Grampa?

A hat that could drive cars.

Some kids have all the luck.

Moving ahead many years . . .

Yesterday, I was driving with one of my grandkids.

One of the hundred-or-so cars that we passed was driven by someone I knew.

I waved.

“Gramma! Who was that?”

And I was instantly transported back fifty-plus years.

I was four years old again.

And my Dad knew everyone on the road.

Blurting

Word master. 

I know you’ve done it.

I know I have.

Blurted out something that sounded a whole lot different in your head.

It’s true.

Your brain coughs up a thought.

And hits ‘send’.

Then, somehow, during transition, it gets . . . mixed up.

Maybe exposure to the air changes it.

And it ends up sounding like . . . nothing you intended.

My mom was a master at this.

Example one:

Picture Christmas Eve.

Every available surface in the kitchen groaning beneath seven layers of freshly-baked Christmas delicious-ness.

No supper in sight.

A starving son-in-law, passing the piles of goodies.

Hunger overcomes discretion.

He pops a butter tart into his mouth.

Mom, emerging from the point of action in front of the oven, red-faced and carrying yet another pan of treats, “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!”

Example two:

Mom brings home the good peanut better.

Not the cheap un-homogenized stuff which allows all of the oil to rise to the top so that the upper layers are too creamy and the bottom layers need to be chiseled out with a hammer then passed through the meat grinder to make them of a consistency to spread.

Which tin, I should mention, is still on the shelf 3/4 full and gathering dust.

Sooo . . . the good peanut butter.

Which is immediately set upon by the ‘finickily-starved’ (I just made that up) peanut butter fiends that inhabit the house.

“I’m going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”

Mom taught her daughters well.

I, too have had my share of ‘things-said-that-didn’t-come-out-just-right’.

We were discussing a young man of our acquaintance who had been born with weak joints in his hips.

My mother-in-law was cautioning my kids not to jump off the retaining wall in her back garden, citing this young man as an example of ‘damage that could follow’.

I knew that his condition was genetic.

Or congenital.

Which mean the same thing.

What came out was, “Oh, but I thought his condition was genital!”

Wait. Everybody un-hear that!

Just let me suck those words back into my mouth!

Admit it.

It’s happened to you . . .

Carrying On

I love the stories about my Dad’s mother, Grandma Stringam . . .

My paternal grandmother, Sarah Lovina Williams Stringam and her husband, George Lewis Stringam, homesteaded and raised their family in Glenwood, Alberta.

While Grandpa ranched and served in the legislature, Grandma worked in the home and community and as the accepted nurse/doctor in the rural area.

She is credited with saving many lives.

A little girl who was nearly frozen to death. Her own sister with diphtheria.

Several during the 1918 flu epidemic. Subjects of future posts.

But this story is about babies.

The Wood twins had been born four and a half months before to Mr. and Mrs. Glen Wood. The little ones were frail and sickly and still near their birth weight.

And now both of them had contracted pneumonia.

When Grandma arrived, their father was sitting in the kitchen with one of them.

He looked at Grandma and said, “Sister Stringam, I’m afraid you’re too late.”

Grandma told him not to speak that way. “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” she said.

Just then, the little one quit breathing. His father blew in his face and he revived.

Grandma told him to hold the baby for just a moment and she would get a mustard plaster to put on his chest.

The father just looked at her, so she stirred up a weak plaster, warmed it in the oven, and put it on the baby’s little chest until it turned pink.

Then she rubbed in oil and wrapped it in cotton batting. This seemed to make the baby breathe easier and it slept.

Both babies were coughing and Grandma called the nearest doctor half an hour away for instructions, but he told her he had done all he could for the babies and figured there was not much of a chance for them.

Grandma asked him, “Do you think I could give them mustard plasters?”

“Do you think they could stand them?”

“Oh, yes, if I’m careful.”

Then, the fateful words: “I don’t think they have a chance in the world. I’ve done all I can. Now it is up to you and the Lord. Do whatever seems best to you, Sister Stringam.”

So Grandma did. She and the babies’ parents took turns through the next days and nights caring for the two little ones.

By the end of a week, they had ‘improved greatly’ and Grandma was finally free to go home and care for her own family.

Though she didn’t agree, their parents insisted that Grandma had saved her babies.

When everyone else had given up, she carried on.

Sometimes, that makes all the difference.

Whatd'ja Get?

When one lives in the country, and rides the bus to school, one learns to take lunch.
I did.
Live in the country, take the bus and pack a lunch, I mean.
Lunch time was the high point of my school day.
The bell would ring.
The scramble for our various lunch boxes would be completed.
The inevitable question, "Whatd'ja get?" would be asked.
And serious eating would begin.
My Mom took extra pains to make our lunches varied and delicious.
With mixed results.
There was always the sandwich.
Which was the mainstay of ninety percent of our lunches.
Thick slices of homemade bread containing one of the following:
Tinned tuna salad. Yum.
Chicken Salad. Yum.
Ground Beef and pickle. Yum.
Peanut butter and honey. Double yum, as long as peanut butter had been liberally smeared on both slices of bread before the honey was added, because otherwise, the honey seeped into the bread and made a sort of . . . crust.
Not yum.
Peanut butter and jam. Easily exchanged for my neighbour's cold hamburger patty and mayo stuffed into a homemade bun. Yum.
Tinned salmon salad. Not in my lifetime. And not easily traded, either.
Sigh.
Hot dogs. The best. The very best.
I should mention, here, that microwaves existed only on Star Trek. And pre-packaged meals, like Lunchables, hadn't even been thought of.

Mom's hot dogs were an amazing feat.
She would cook the hot dogs while we were eating breakfast, then put two of them into our thermoses with a small quantity of the hot water.
Then seal it up.
Add a couple of hot dog buns wrapped in waxed paper, and a packet or two of ketchup and mustard and lunchtime couldn't come fast enough.
She always included some extras as well.
There was the inevitable sadly-bruised banana.
Which had looked perfectly good when it was put in.
Or the un-eat-able apple.
I've decided that the idea of gifting a teacher with an apple came from a student who simply didn't want to eat theirs. And had been taught that wasting food was unacceptable.
But I digress . . .
Mom also included a treat.
Usually something homemade and yummy.
Like squares.
Or her famous butterhorns.

Mmmm . . .
Occasionally, she would change things up a little.
When my thermos wasn't filled with hot dog deliciousness, she would usually put in chocolate milk or hot chocolate.
Either of which just nicely rounded out a lovely lunch.
Once, she put in something different.
But didn't tell me.
I saw the sandwiches, so I knew that hot dogs were out of the question.
So I did what I always did. Grabbed my thermos and shook up what was supposed to be milk and chocolate in some form.
Then I unscrewed the lid.
Pop!
It hit the ceiling hard enough to bounce clear over to the door.
And brought students from every room down the hall to see who was opening champagne in the grade nine classroom.
I looked up from my fizzing-over thermos and grinned.
Sheepishly.
Umm . . . Mom had filled it with Seven-Up.
The first and only time.
Another attempt at variety.
A good one, but wasted on me.
Alas.
Later, when I started making my own lunches, they included fresh tomato sandwiches.
Made from tomatoes that I sliced at school so the bread wouldn't get soggy.
And packages of cellophane-wrapped goodies.
The sandwiches were good.
Though they were made with store-bought bread.
But the treats never quite measured up.
To this day, when I hear someone mention lunch, I think of my Mom's homemade bread sandwiches, home-baked goodies, hot chocolate and my one experience with Seven-Up.
I miss those days.

Cone-d!

                           

                                                          The Pass Dairy as it looks today. 

                                  It has morphed some, but the ice cream inside is just as good!

My Father-in-Law (Hereinafter known as FIL) loved ice cream.

Maybe I should re-word.

My FIL LOVED ice cream.

Better.

Nearly every meal ended with the creamy deliciousness.

No matter how large the portions had been.

In his words: “Ice cream just melts and goes in the cracks.”

Snack times must always include some form of the treat.

If one was traveling, one could always find someone, somewhere, who could provide a scoop or a spiral.

And that is where this story starts . . .

FIL knew the best places in all of Southern Alberta to buy ice cream.

He would be driving and suddenly turn off the main road.

When questioned, the answer inevitably contained some form of the words: Ice cream. And Need. Some. Right. Now.

Many, many places catered happily (and satisfactorily) to his passion.

But his particular favourite was The Pass Dairy.

In the Crowsnest Pass.

More specifically in the town of Bellevue in the Crowsnest Pass.

For a dollar, they would give you an ice cream cone that was truly heroic in size.

In fact, they took pride in the fact that theirs was the largest, best cone anywhere.

Something FIL challenged them on regularly.

On this particular day, he had gone into the little shop.

And emerged with a cone piled high with a perfect spiral of soft, melting deliciousness.

High.

I think we could properly insert the word: Massive.

Mother-in-Law stared at it, wide-eyed. “Ray,” she said. “If you eat all that, you’ll be sick!”

FIL just looked at her and smiled. “You know better than that!”

He was right. 

Sign Language

We have just spent the last few days with our coastal son.
The one who lives in paradise.
He is fun, funny and a deep, deep thinker.
He is also the one who remembers everything.
At the top of his list of memories during this visit?
His Dad’s Dad-isms. The strange things his dad told him during his upbringing that he realized, belatedly, really couldn’t be true.
But now are an integral part of his childhood.
If not a part of reality.
First?
A few road signs:
The ‘Deer en pointe’ sign.

A sure warning that there are deer practicing—or performing—ballet in the vicinity.
Occasionally in the middle of the road.
Hence the sign.
Next?
The Snakes on Road sign.

Which gives a warning and also a estimate of number.
But you have to look closely to find them.
When they aren’t slithering down the middle of the road.
Just FYI. We’ve never seen them slithering down the road.
Those signs are erroneous.
Then the Sign which, to the rest of the word says: Loose Gravel.

To Dad, it said “Loo-Che Gravel-lay”.
An Italian fellow who obviously haunts roads in poor repair.
Enough signs . . .
Now we move on to a couple of animals that only Dad knows.
The first and foremost: The rock gopher.

A small rodent-appearing animal that bores holes through solid rock.
I know you’ve seen the holes.
Now you know how they occur.
And, finally, the side-hill gouger.

These are cows seen grazing on the sides of steep hills or mountains.
Their legs are shorter on one side than the other.
Thus their ability to walk comfortably on those steep sides of mountains.
Their only draw-back is their inability to turn the other way.
That would be—a disaster.
And would cause the inevitable, but rarely seen, rolling cow slide.
Dad-isms.
What your kids remember instead of real facts.
And that’s just fine.

Family Germs

When I was growing up, germs were something that lived in dog’s mouths.
Or cats.
Or any animals.
I was cautioned to avoid them.
Living on a ranch, that was a lot of avoiding.
It didn’t occur to me that there could be germs in someone else’s (human) mouth.
That paranoia didn’t show up until a few years later. When one of my friends wiped my germs off her pop bottle before she took a drink.
Hmmm.
On with my story . . .
Supper time.
That special moment in the day wherein everyone gathers at the table to enjoy a home-cooked meal.
And some great visiting.
Okay, well, that’s what happens in the Tolley household.
Notice I didn’t say a great home-cooked meal.
Because, let’s face it, some of my experiments fail to jell.
But usually . . .
On this particular night, I had made something that passed the ‘yummy’ test.
But also crossed the ‘sloppy’ barrier.
Most of us did well.
Four-year-old granddaughter (or GD4 for short) didn’t fare as well.
And needed tidying.
Her mother licked her finger and swiped at the little girl’s cheek.
The rest of us thought nothing of it.
We were obviously wrong.
GD4 looked passively at her mother in the midst of her cleaning. “You know, Mom, you just got germs all over my face!”
Her mom stopped. “Oh.” She looked at me. “Oops.”
I should probably mention here that GD4’s face failed to fall off.
Or turn green.
But we had been informed.
Germs.
Coming from a four-year-old near you.

Reflecting

Husby and I are on a holiday on beautiful Vancouver Island.
Our son lives here and as often as we can, we come out to visit.
To—ummm—see our son.
Not to walk the beaches and watch the ever-changing ocean or hike the endless woodland trails and visit the centuries-old trees.
Or take a boat and deep sea fish.
Or gorge on freshly-caught cod and hand-made fries at our favourite restaurant.
Which incidentally makes the best coconut-cream pie I’ve ever tasted.
Just FYI.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Island. Holiday.
Husby.
Last night, we were returning with our son from a day of rambles.
Our car was following the twisting, turning road into Courtenay.
A last long curve.
A curve marked by a line of reflective poles.
That lit up brightly as our car lights caught them.
One. Then the next. Then the next.
Each going dark as we passed them.
Watching them, I remembered something . . .
I was four and travelling with my family.
Nose pressed against the glass because I had been looking at a book but it had grown too dark to see anything.
Oh, and also because seat belts hadn’t been invented yet.
Every so often, we would pass by some small posts that lit up as we approached.
It was magical.
First one.
Then another.
I stared at them long and hard.
How did they do that?
How did they know to light up just as we were passing?
I thought about it.
Then finally figured it out.
Somewhere inside, there were little people who waited until we approached.
Then lit them just for us.
It was very kind of them.
And I was sure to thank each one.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
Mom looked at me. “Who are you thanking?”
I pointed. “The little pole people.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t ask.
She was used to me.

Tapping Troubles Away

Shoes hide.
They do.
Especially when there is something important that they need to be at.
School.
Church.
Movie night.
Going outside.
There are solutions.
Some of which are—creative—
Little sister was getting ready for Church.
She had been scrubbed shiny.
Groomed.
Dressed.
The only thing keeping her from heading out the door to the waiting car was a pair of Sunday shoes.
Oh, she could find her ratty everyday sneakers.
Her manure-y boots.
Even her tall, black rain boots.
But nothing that resembled (or smelled) like it could be worn to church.
She had asked everyone.
Including—as a final act of desperation—Mom.
Who had responded with her patented: “I have no idea where I left them when I wore them last.”
In tears of despair, she sat down on the floor.
And that’s when she saw them.
The shiny tips of her black tap shoes.
Hmmm . . .
Not smelly.
Gleaming with care.
Definitely church approved.
She grabbed them and put them on, jumped to her feet and headed for the door.
And that’s when their one drawback became apparent.
Remember when I said ‘tap’ shoes?
Well that comes into play here.
In church generally we are, for want of a better term, quiet.
And tap shoes aren’t.
Let’s just say that Mom and Dad could keep track of everywhere she went.
And everything she did.
As could the rest of the congregation.
Yep. Creative solutions.
Sometimes more creative than solution.
But definitely memorable.

It's All in How You Look At It

They had all been at their cousin’s birthday party.

It had been a much-anticipated opportunity for fun and games.

And had delivered.

On every level.

They had played in the pool.

Dashed through the sprinklers.

Had a water fight.

Screamed and laughed through several games.

Gorged on food and treats.

Sang and stuffed their faces with rich, gooey birthday cake.

And meltingly-creamy and delicious ice cream.

Tired, but entirely satisfied, they were lined up, ready to go home.

It was then they received the last perfect surprise to what had been a perfect day.

A large, loaded—identical—treat bag.

Brimming with anticipation, they dashed out to their car and their waiting Mama.

Submitted to the mundane but necessary process  of seating and buckling.

Then, at last, the opening of that last hurrah.

That sweet, final cap on the day.

The icing on the cake, so to speak.

Sister dipped in her hand and emerged, holding a large, hand-frosted cookie.

“I got a flower!” she exclaimed.

Brother did the same.

Pulled out the same.

 “I got a flower, too!”

Little sister reaching eagerly into her bag of treats.

Grabbed her flower cookie by the other end and pulled it out and held it aloft excitedly.

“I got a squid!”

Life.

It’s all in how you look at it.

Washed and Red

In Canada, we have SEASONS.
I emphasize the word because some of them are extreme.
Particularly our winter.
But during the shoulder seasons (Spring and Fall), it isn’t unusual to see four different kinds of weather in one day.
We can go from sun to rain to snow to hail. All during one lunch hour.
There is a saying: If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.
I have a reason for telling you this.
All this weather is hard on vehicles.
Those trusty steeds that must weather . . . the weather.
They get—for want of a better term—filthy.
Okay, yes, we have car washes.
A plethora (Ooh! Good word!) of them.
And, for the few minutes of every sunny day, they are CROWDED.
But one has to be ready and able to head to the nearest car wash at a moment’s notice.
People with children and schedules may wait months to get a place in line.
Enough background . . .
DIL had taken her children to the library to sled down the library hill with their father.
And, as the day was sunny, took the opportunity to get into line for the car wash.
Success!
She returned some time later to pick up her breathless and weary, but exhilarated family.
She bundled up her smallest daughter and packed her to the car.
As they approached, her daughter asked, loudly, “Where is our car?”
Her mother pointed to the shiny red beauty in front of them. “Here it is.”
Her daughter looked at it, then at her mother. “Our car is red?!”
Yeah. Wash your cars.
You may be surprised at what you find...

Past Speeding

I'm quite sure this flashed past.

And I do mean flashed.

We teenagers in Milk River lived an hour from the bright lights of Lethbridge.

Let me start again. 

Everybody in Milk River lived an hour from Lethbridge.

The teenagers . . . a little less.

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was Friday night.

The only theatre in Milk River was showing something that none of my group was interested in seeing.

It happened occasionally. 

Now that we were old enough to legally drive, we were becoming less and less enamoured with what our small town offered and more and more interested in what we could find in the big city.

Twice as many choices for movie-watching, for example.

The only problem on this particular evening was our timing.

We had decided, en masse, that the movie we were all assembled to see was far less interesting than one of the choices currently running in Lethbridge.

And we had decided this while we were standing on the sidewalk, waiting to get in.

Half an hour before either movie was set to start.

Could we make it?

Our driver of the evening gave a nonchalant shrug of shoulder and a flippant toss of head. “Of course!”

That was all we needed.

We, ten of us, piled – and I do mean piled – into his car. Four in front. Six in back.

Seatbelts hadn’t been invented yet.

And we were off.

We cleared the town limits, then our driver ‘buried the needle’.

And that’s when the reality of the situation hit me.

What we were doing went beyond speeding.

I’m quite sure we were flying.

At one point, I think we passed Mercury.

I should probably point out, here, that I don’t like travelling at high speeds. In fact, horse and cart is my usual form of transportation. And let’s face it, Old Bessy really wouldn’t make much of a showing on the Indianapolis circuit.

Back to my story . . .

I was so terrified that I spent the entire trip flat on my stomach on the back floor under everyone’s feet. It was the safest place I could think of.

Once I poked my head above the seat and stared in awe at the needle. 

Which was flat against the little pike at the bottom of the speedometer.

How do you say ‘yikes’?

Oh, right. 

Yikes.

We made it safely.

In twenty-four minutes.

The only casualty was my equilibrium.

I don’t even remember what the movie was.

Can anyone say ‘irony’? We took our lives in our hands for a movie that none of us can even remember. The very essence of being a teenager.

But if any of my kids try this . . .

Morningtown Riding

Have you ever felt that if your life winked out tomorrow that would be all right with you?
Because you know that you would be remembered?
Well, that just happened to me.
To understand how I’ve arrived at this conclusion, you have to know two things:
One—that our family has its ROUTINES when it comes to bedtime.
Set in stone.
Don’t mess with this.
There will be cosmic significance.
Routines.
And two—that our family has its yearly vacation at a time share here in beautiful Banff, Alberta.
Also immovable and fixed.
Now let me explain that winking-out-tomorrow part:
First the ROUTINE . . .
There are several steps beginning with the all-important choosing and donning of the PJs. Then the nearly as important bedtime snack (or three) followed by the brushing-of-the-biters. (Probably the least favourite part of the whole getting-ready-for-bed routine.) Once the teeth are shiny, we have prayers, story reading and lights out.
Then the song.
The culmination of the whole sequence.
This song, like the story and prayer, can vary, depending on the mood of the child.
It just doesn’t.
For this part, you need a bit of background . . .
When our oldest grandchild was two, she had her first sleep-over with Gramma and Grampa. Gramma sang her favourite ‘sleepy’ song, Morningtown Ride.
And, unwittingly created a legacy.
And now we get to the ‘die tomorrow’ part of the story.
Because every grandchild, whether going to sleep at Gramma’s or at home, has to have Morningtown Ride sung.
At least once.
How do I know this?
Back to Banff.
I was downstairs, writing.
Our DIL, Barb, was putting her two youngest to bed.
And suddenly, from their bedroom came the familiar words Train whistle blowing . . .
Later, DIL explained that every one of her children—and their cousins—have to have that song sung every night.
Yep. Gramma could die tomorrow.
And she’d be remembered.
Wanna hear the song?

https://g.co/kgs/oRQOsz

Political Bananas

I've been reading about the politics being played out in some organizations in the modern world.

Even churches have their internal power struggles and vying for position.

It reminds me of our church suppers.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In the sixties, we had Church Socials.

Big pot luck dinners.

For any and all occasions.

Christmas.

Easter.

New Years.

Fall.

Thursday.

They were fun.

Everyone would show up with their large families and a huge dish – or dishes - of something delicious to share.

The food would be arranged on a long series of tables. Everyone would load a plate. And the visiting would begin.

Good food.

Good friends.

It was a wonderful way to spend an afternoon or evening.

Invariably, there would be someone’s Grandma’s recipe for home-fried chicken.

And many, many incarnations of potato/meat casseroles.

Salads by the creative and colourful dozens.

Home-made rolls just begging for a large dollop of freshly churned butter.

And desserts of enough variety and inevitable tastiness, to make decision-making difficult to impossible.

But there was one draw back.

As with all pot lucks, the first in line got the most choices.

Made quickly to avoid ‘pot luck crush’. 

What is ‘Pot Luck Crush’? Imagine a river, dammed by a small obstruction. Pressure builds. Finally, the obstruction is yelled at by some starving individual and threatened with oblivion.

Pot Luck Crush.

My cousin, Reed was usually the first in line.

He had made an art of choosing – and heaping - quickly.

His favourites were the salads.

I should mention here, that two of the most popular salad dishes were the green jello salad.

With shredded carrots.

And the yellow jello salad.

With sliced bananas.

The carrots in the carrot salad tended to be suspended throughout.

The bananas, however, inevitably rose to the top.

And that’s where Reed came in. He could deftly and expertly – and quickly - scrape the entire layer of bananas from the salad.

Then move happily on to the rest of the offered dishes.

His actions weren’t popular. Usually, from further back in the line, there would be a howl of protest.

Reed would just grin. The you-should-have-tried-harder-to-be-first-in-line grin.

The rest of the assembly would be stuck with banana-less salad.

Or what amounted to plain lemon jello.

But the sheer volume of other dishes soon silenced any further protest.

And before long, everyone was happily munching.

Until the next time.

When Reed would again slip deftly and expertly to the front of the line.

Yes. Even in the sixties, we had church politics.

The difference was that they were fought over bananas.

Hmm . . . 

Maybe not so different after all.