Sweglish

Bergs. My best people.

Marrying into a family is a happy, joyous proposition.

It can also be daunting and just a bit scary.

Even when everyone is on the same page—linguistically speaking.

Aunt June joined the Berg family way back in the sixties.

A city girl, she had a lot to learn about her future husband’s ranching family.

That had nothing to do with . . . ummm . . . ranching.

His parents had immigrated to Canada from Sweden.

He and his siblings were first-generation Canadians.

And Swedish terms largely peppered the family’s daily speak.

So to speak.

Such terms as (forgive me, but I’m going to write these words as they sound, which will probably horrify my Swedish relatives.) Hell. Ringadongen. Shurkfasta. And the ever popular Yamen Ha Do Sit Promaken.

And these were just the words she encountered on her first visit.

Perhaps some explanation is in order . . .

Approaching the house, Uncle Leif and his future bride were met at the door by my MorMor, (Mother’s Mother) and invited in. “Just hang your coats here in the shurkfasta,” she told them.

Okay. That wasn’t too hard to figure out. Coats. Hang.

This may not be so bad.

They walked from said shurkfasta into the large kitchen, where one of the boys was trying to save a step and attempting to pour milk from the crock into a glass.

“No! Hell with the pitcher! Hell with the pitcher!” MorMor said.

Admittedly, future Aunt June’s ears pricked up at that one. But she soon figured that too. Pour.

She even figured out from the conversation about wrangling cows that a ringadongen was a coulee.

Smart girl.

But the one term that stumped her was ‘Yamen Ha Do Sit Promaken?!”

Said with just a touch of wonder and amazement.

And even a bit of head shaking.

Let’s see if we can figure this one out.

Someone was doing something amazing.

And MorMor was watching.

And she said: that phrase.

Okay. That’s as much as I’m going to tell you.

Let’s see what you come up with . . .

Aunt June happily joined the family.

And learned to appreciate, and even participate in the occasional lapses into Sweglish.

It was a very special price to pay for happiness.

Genderly Confused

Girls raised on a ranch, doing 'ranch stuff' alongside the men, are often mistaken for yet another of those men.

Until someone gets close enough to see that there are definite differences.

It's the original 'gender confusion'.

Now, on to my story . . .

Enes, my Mom, like her daughter after her, was raised on a ranch.

Surrounded by brothers.

I had three.

She had eight.

I had sisters.

She didn't.

She spent her days working alongside her brothers.

And playing sports.

I spent my days occasionally crossing paths with my brothers as they worked.

And playing make-believe.

No big surprise that, of the two of us, she was the one with the biggest muscles.

And the most athletic ability.

But like me, dressed in jeans and shirts, and with fair hair cropped short, she was often mistaken for yet another brother.

Shortly after she and my father were married, they were invited to join with the rest of their rural Milk River community in an afternoon pot luck and a game of baseball.

Mom excitedly prepared yummy eats. Sandwiches, salads and her special 'out of this world' pie. And grabbed her baseball glove.

The two of them spent a wonderful time, eating and visiting. Mom got to know many of her neighbours.

The nearest of which lived nine miles away.

Finally, the food was packed up and the game began.

Mom was picked early. She was obviously young and strong.

And there had to be an even number of guys and girls on each team.

Her 'captain' didn't realize that he'd just picked a ringer.

Mom walked up to the plate for her first turn at bat. The ball came towards her.

She swung.

Remember where I mentioned that she had played sports with her brothers?

She often beat them.

The bat connected with the ball with a healthy 'crack'.

And sent it out of the park.

So to speak.

The ball shot over the outfielder's heads.

They stared at it blankly for a moment.

Then started to run.

Her team was ecstatic.

One young team member crowed loudly, “Atta Boy! Enes, old girl!”

And the confusion continues . . .

I know, I know. Who'd of thought . . .

A Needed Trip

What do you say about the most amazing holiday you’ve ever taken?

Ever. Taken.

That is was fantastic. Stupendous. Awesome. Astonishing. Surprising. Astounding. Remarkable. Over-whelming. Breath-taking. Tremendous. Grand. Outstanding. Impressive. Magnificent.

I’ve run out of impressive words . . .

But I hope you get the message.

We had wonderful time.

But the most important part about it had nothing to do with the shopping, or seeing the places only dreamed about.

Maybe I should tell you about it . . .

We flew into Istanbul.

Even the name stirs up the imagination. Here is the site of a hundred, hundred years of HISTORY. Of sultans and harems and the mysterious Bosporus. Of conquering armies and a people who refused to fade away.

Okay. Yes. I read a lot.

We were ushered through the remarkably clean airport and into a waiting cab (a large one because we have large luggage. Yes. Large luggage. I’m going to go with that.)

Then a breath-snatching view of ancient walls interspersed with modern skyscrapers as we wound our way through the old city to our former-mansion-built-in-1835-and-now-an-amazing-hotel. Square in the middle of everything.

I’m not kidding. We were within walking distance of Hagia Sofia, the Blue Mosque, Süleymaniye Mosque, Basilica Cistern, Grand Bazaar, Egyptian Spice Market, Galata Tower and bridge, and many more.

Every view was astounding. Around every corner, something that dropped the jaw.

And you're right. I spent a lot of time with my mouth open.

Then there were the scents. The braziers, coffee, spices, roasting corn, roasting meats, incense, seawater, perfumes, baking pastries, bread, roasting chestnuts, and the occasional whiff of diesel (In a town of 15 million, some of that is expected).

And the people. (Like our new friend Erik and the amazing food he serves in our now-favourite restaurant, Ab-i Nefis. (I have his phone number if you want to make a reservation...)) The intelligent, friendly, courteous, dedicated, hard-working, elegant individuals who crowded the streets and the markets. Who cleaned and cooked and served and bargained and spoke better English than their Canadian visitors, and joked and laughed and carried children while pushing an empty stroller.

And finally, and most important, the five-times daily call to prayer (adhan).

The most amazing part of the whole experience.

There is something so reassuring and comforting in such a touching and heartfelt display of faith. It brought us to tears every single time. And brought us to a standstill. While much of Istanbul went on around us, the Canadians were transfixed by the beautiful voices calling us to remember to be grateful. To have faith. And to come and worship.

I acknowledge that there is no god but Allah.

I acknowledge that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah (After prophethood).

Hasten to prayer (Salah).

Hasten to success.

Prayer is better than sleep (Recited only for Fajr prayer's Adhan).

God is greatest.

There is no god but Allah.

At times, the voices were all around us. Some taking turns singing out their beckoning message. They woke us in the early morning and reminded us one last time before sleep.

On my last morning in Istanbul, I woke to the voices beginning to sing in the distance. Then they were overpowered by the Muezzin in the mosque across the street from us.

From the kitchen of the hotel, I could smell the coffee brewing and the bread just coming out of the oven.

I lay there, realizing just how much I was going to miss this wonderful land of faith and food and friendship.

I needed this trip. I needed to come to Turkey. To see that 99.9% of the Muslim people are not those who make the headlines. But are family members who are spending their lives working, serving, laughing, caring and worshiping.

I loved my stay in Istanbul.

As soon as I can, I’ll be back.

I have friends there.

First of all: Tea. As it always comes in Turkey.

Our new Turkish family.

View inside our hotel.

Our room.

View from our hotel. Astounding.
Only hinted at by my IPhone.

Süleymaniye Mosque.
I hope I look as good when I'm 600 years old!

What can I say? Spices!!!

More spices.

Galata Tower. From the outside.

Galata Tower. From the inside looking outside.

Yes. It is Suleman. Or at least he would have you think so...

Erik. Cooking us supper. Testi-kebab. Mmmmmm.

The Blue Mosque. As photographed by an amateur. 

Hagia Sofia. Ditto.

Hagia Sofia. Professional shot.

My favourite photo. A sweet girl inside Hagia Sofia.

Friendly Canadian Tourists.

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.