Potato Posterity

Okay . . . well . . . it's tougher than it looks.

My Mom could peel potatoes.

I mean, really peel potatoes.

She did it so fast, that, for years, I thought each potato had two peels.

Because there was always peel where I thought she had already . . .

Okay, so brilliant, I wasn't.

When I was ten, she decided the time had come for me to take my place in the 'potato peeling' scheme of things.

I have to point out that I had been totally fine in the whole 'watching' scenario. And really fine with the 'eating'.

But moms are never satisfied with the status quo.

Sigh.

And to top things off, she wasn't even there. She had put a roast in the oven, vegetables on the stove, ready to turn on.

I did know how to do that . . .

And a pan of potatoes to wash, peel and cook.

She even gave me a schedule.

At four o'clock, I reluctantly set down my book and headed into the kitchen.

I stared at the mound of potatoes and sighed. Surely there was a better way.

But this was the sixties. Instant anything was in its infancy.

And TV dinners were something other families ate.

I picked up a knife and started.

In my mind, I could picture Mom's sure, steady stroke, denuding each potato in seconds.

And in one long peel.

Reality was a bit . . . trickier. Little chunks of potato began to rain down into the bowl.

Hmmmm.

My potato skins seemed to be a lot thicker than Mom's.

Must be a different kind of potato.

Slowly . . . very slowly . . . the white potato began to emerge. Somewhat smaller than the original.

Okay, a lot smaller.

But finally it was finished.

I glanced at the clock. Suddenly, Mom's strict starting time instructions began to make sense.

This wasn't her first rodeo. Three older siblings has stood right where I was standing. Risking life and fingers in an effort to provide the family with dinner.

I picked up the second potato.

Half-an-hour later, I looked down, proudly, at my pristine bowl of newly-peeled potatoes.

Hmmm.

What had once filled the bowl now . . . didn't.

I shrugged and put a pot on the stove. Filled it to the instructed depth with water. Added my potatoes.

And turned on the burner.

A few minutes later, Mom came home.

I proudly pointed to the now bubbling pots of potatoes and vegetables and waited for her praise.

She didn't disappoint. “Good job, Diane,” she said, smiling.

Happily, I went to set the table. A job I was comfortable with.

That was over forty years ago.

I did learn to peel potatoes. In a lot less time. And with a lot thinner peels.

I have never been able to match my Mom's lightning fast, and amazingly efficient knife, but I can make a fairly credible showing.

Or so I thought.

At a recent family dinner, two of my granddaughters, ages six and nine, peeled all of the potatoes for the meal.

And when you are feeding some twenty people, that is a mound.

They were quicker than I am.

I was suddenly reminded of my mom.

Sometimes excellence skips a generation. Or two.

Donkey Communication

One technique . . .

The neighbours shook on the agreement,

Both pleased with the ample outcome.

One had a small bag of money.

The other a helper/chum.

“Treat him gently,” the past owner cautioned.

“He’ll work hard if you’re quiet and nice.”

“That’s the method I find beneficial,

I do hope you’ll employ my advice.”

His neighbour and friend merely nodded.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “That I’ll do!”

Then he smiled at the beast’s former owner,

And happily bade him adieu.

Then he picked up the small donkey’s lead rope.

And started to lead him away.

But his new beast had other ideas,

All the creature would manage was, “Braaay!”

Through the day, that new owner tried coaxing,

With gaits from advance to reverse.

Till as the day aged and got darker,

Pleasantries got increasingly . . . worse.

As the last of the warm sunlight vanished.

His frustration had swelled to the brim.

He called his dear friend to inquire.

“What on earth can I do now? With him?!”

“I’ve tried coaxing and pleading and charming.

And patting and offering treats.

My gentility’s swiftly declining.

I am quickly approaching defeat!”

“I will come,” said his good friend and neighbour.

“For there’s something you clearly have missed.”

In a flash, the two friends stood together.

The past owner had come to assist.

“Now tell me ‘bout all you’ve attempted,”

He asked of his tired, red-faced friend.

“I won’t insinuate that you’re hopeless!

Though your schemes have not worked in the end!”

The new owner quickly apprised him.

Outlining the things he had tried.

The coaxings and pleadings and charmings,

The hands full of oats he applied.

The past owner was listening closely.

Then grabbed up a board near the shed.

And calmly approaching the donkey.

Whacked the beast once in the head.

The new owner stood in amazement,

Staring aghast at his pal,

“You said kindness was just what was needed.

I was using your own rationale!”

His friend merely smiled and nodded.

“There’s something you haven’t got yet.

Though gentle’s the much-preferred method.

His attention, at first, you must get!”

Puppy Love

What's not to love, right?

I was in grade four.

Nine years old.

At the dawn of a new age.

I had discovered boys. Or more specifically, boy.

KS was smart.

Cute.

Sweet.

Taller than me.

And my neighbor.

He had everything important going for him.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with my newfound crush. I really didn’t know what it was. I had had plenty of boy friends in the past.

Boys that I competed against at every opportunity.

Sports.

Schoolwork.

But none that I just wanted to . . . be near.

Puzzled, I did all the normal things.

Followed him around at a discrete distance.

Hid behind cars and buildings if he looked in my direction.

Stared across the room at him in class.

Avoided him at recess.

What was this weird attraction?

I had suddenly developed mental ‘global positioning’. I could tell you the precise location of KS at any time of the day.

Without ever seeming to look at him.

I’m sure I was pretty obvious in my interest. But when you’re nine - and you wish it - you’re invisible.
And then . . . that day . . .

First, our class had a Box Social.

Okay, I know that dates me, but the fact remains.

All of the boys brought a box lunch for two and then shared it with his assigned ‘girl’ partner.

We lined up and the teacher numbered us off.

I tried to position myself so that I would match KS.

But my counting was off.

I ended up with a boy who brought peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Peanut butter and banana? I had never heard of such a thing.

Nor had my stomach.

And the two of us agreed that we'd be happier with our mutual ignorance.

I looked longingly across the playground at KS and his partner.

Happily munching on whatever KS had brought.

Sigh.

Later that day, tired of listening to my bleating, my friends cornered KS and his friends and wrung a confession out of him.

He liked me!

It was the happiest day of my life!

So what did we do then?

Nothing.

We were nine.

Oh, occasionally, we would . . . you know . . . talk. I called him on the phone once, to beg a ride to church. And once, I sat next to him in Sunday School class.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

But that’s about it.

My family moved. And soon another crush filled my life.

Moving ahead.

I hadn’t seen or thought about KS for nearly fifty years.

Then, one day, there he was in my church congregation.

Now, until that moment, I couldn’t remember what the nine-year-old boy had looked like.

But I knew him as soon as I saw him.

Strangely, he hadn’t changed much at all.

Taller.

And definitely older.

But still that boy.

My first crush.

It made me smile.

Those Bodily Functions

Burper.

For those of you who associate with them, you know that little boys find bodily functions hilarious.

Screamingly so. 

If someone passes, in the course of living, a bit of air – either up or down – the little boys in the room are rolling on the floor laughing (Or ROFL in text-speak).

The subtleties that may be a by-product of such occurrences, they might be missing.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My eldest granddaughter had just finished eating.

Things were processing nicely.

In the course of said processing, a bit of air was released.

Resulting in an explosion commonly known as a ‘belch’.

She smiled and said:

“Excuse me for my rudeness. 

It wasn’t very smart.

But if it'd gone the other way,

It would have been a . . .”

She judiciously paused there.

Her little brother bobbed up from whatever he had been doing and shouted, “Strawberry!”

Sometimes, they get it.

And sometimes . . . they don’t.

Burpee. With ice cream mustache.

Doing What They See

Grandma was babysitting.

Cousins, the two-year-old (H) and the three-year-old (B) had been playing in the front room.

Occasional outbursts over the train.

The doll.

The stroller.

The spot on the couch.

Whose turn it was to breathe the surrounding air . . .

Had been painstakingly and endlessly sorted out.

Silence had descended.

There’s nothing quite as suspicious as two toddlers who have gone quiet. 

Grandma hurried to investigate, skidding to a stop in the entry to the living room.

The two little girls were still playing. But had changed things up a bit . . .

B held a tiny water paint set in one hand. In the other, the dry miniscule brush. “Look at me, please,” she said.

H was seated, facing her older cousin.

B was ‘painting’ H’s face. “Look at me, please,” she said again. She applied a couple of strokes. “Look at me, please.” A couple more.

Grandma smiled and stood quietly watching.

Have I mentioned that B’s mom is a face-painter? Well, she is.

A good one.

It doesn’t matter what we try to teach them, kids do what they see us do.

 Actions definitely speak louder than words.

Although in this case, the words are nice, too . . .

The novice

The professional

The result

A Little Bull

Today: A guest post by Little Brother, Blair.

You get the idea . . .

Spring.

Calving season on the ranch.

Every spring the cows in the herd would drop their bundles of red and white on the prairie grass or snow or mud depending on the weather.

And every year there was usually one or two cows that were a little late.

One spring dad brought these cows in to a small field near the ranch house.

It was late enough in the season that the herd bull was running withthe expectant cows so that they might calve a little earlier next year.

Umm . . . don’t ask me to explain . . .  

When a new born calf entered the world at dad’s ranch we had two tasks. 

1. Tag the calf with a number that tied him to his mama.
2. Give the calf an oral vaccine that protected it against . . . whatever. (It has been a long time so I don’t remember what the vaccine was for. The good news was that the vaccine was oral.  Which usually made the calf a little more cooperative.)

Ok, back to the late cows and bull.

The herd bulls that dad ran on the ranch were purebred Polled Hereford. Usually very docile.

Sometimes you would wonder if they were awake.

The bull that dad had with the late cows was no exception to the comatose or docile or gentle rule. On many occasions I had climbed up and sat on his back, then scratched said back very hard.

The bull loved this.

He would snuff his nose with enjoyment.

Because that’s what bulls do when you scratch their backs really hard.

Just FYI.

One day I had to go tag and vaccinate the newest baby on the ranch.

It happened that this calf was a drama queen.

At first, it was not going to just let me catch it. 

The field that the calf was in had a little open pen. I chased it into the pen and then grabbed it before it realized it was cornered. But when I grabbed it, it bawled like I was trying to cut some essential member of its body off.

I didn’t pay much attention because calves sometimes behave this way. They often quiet down as they get older.

So I was in this tiny pen just off the side of the small pasture where the bull and cows were grazing. 

There was a high fence around the pen, providing sometimes shelter for the cows, but obscuring the view into the pasture.  I had caught the calf and pinned it on its side to vaccinate and tag.

The calf was saying, “Mom, this guy is being a big meany!” In calf language.  

At this point, the bull, which weighs just over 2000 pounds (and who I thought was my friend) came running around the corner.

He stopped about a foot away from me and bellered.

Very loudly.

And blew his nose on me. Because that is what happens when a bull is bellering madly.

When you have a 2000 pound bull inches away I’m sure it makes them sound even louder.

At this point I was not worried about nasal discharge.

As I was looking at this bull up very close, I had the thought running through my mind.  “I don’t care if the bull and I are friends, he has blown a mental fuse and he is about to do the big heavy dance on my body and I am a dead person. Or will be soon”.

Then a funny thing happened.

The bull paused for a moment and looked at me very intensely. Then he quickly walked away and made no more sounds.

What’s Bull for “YOU’RE HURTING ONE OF MY BABIES AND I’M GOING TO . . . Oh. It’s you!”

I swear that he had an embarrassed expression on his face.

(Not Quite) Past Mistakes

Something like this.

Dad had a new toy.

A small musical instrument called a ‘musette’.

The fact that he was in his first year of university didn’t stop him from playing it.

He and a group of friends were riding the streetcar home from Sunday Services.

They were a happy bunch.

Talking.

Laughing.

Dad was tinkering about on his new toy.

Much to the discomfort of the other passengers.

I should mention, here, that Dad has a beautiful singing voice.

I’ve never heard him play the musette.

Possibly because of what follows . . .

The streetcar conductor called back to the group of boys, “You! On the harmonica! Please stop playing!”

Dad stopped.

For a moment.

Then, thinking that the conductor could no longer hear him over the noise of the rest of the passengers, he started again.

“You! Stop playing or I’ll have to kick you off the bus!”

Dad sighed and dropped the musette into his lap.

He looked down at it.

Just one more . . .

“Okay. That’s it!
The bus slid to a sudden stop.

“You! With the harmonica! Off!”

Dad got to his feet.

“And the rest of you with him! Off!”

His friends looked at each other.

Then, disgusted, they too got to their feet and followed the author of their misfortunes off the bus.

And began the long walk back to the University.

Moving ahead seventy years . . .

My Husby and I had moved our family to Edmonton.

Six hours north of where I was raised.

I met an elderly couple at church.

We started to visit.

They discovered that my maiden name was Stringam.

“Well, who do you belong to?” the man asked.

“Mark is my dad,” I said proudly.

“Mark,” he said. Then, “Mark! He got me kicked off the streetcar!”

The good things we do are quickly forgotten.

The mistakes?

They go on forever.

Do It Yourself

Let's run through this again . . .

I'm a people-pleaser.

Or try to be.

Call it a weakness.

But I've always had this compulsion to make everyone around me as comfortable as possible.

Most of the time, it's fun.

Occasionally, not.

Let me tell you about it . . .

When I was first married, my greatest wish was to see my new Husby happy, comfortable and well-fed.

I worked hard at it.

Fortunately, he is a kind and considerate man, so all was well.

I had meals ready at meal times.

Kept the laundry done.

Cleaned the house.

Ran errands.

This went on for some time.

Then, I began to realize that some of the 'errands' were jobs he could have done equally well himself.

And probably should.

Case in point:

Whenever he would use a tissue ( Kleenex), he would then hand me said used tissue and I would hunt for a garbage to throw it in.

True story.

Can everyone say “gullible”?

This went on for nearly three years.

Then, one day, we were at a reception.

My Husby used a tissue and turned and held it out to me.

Now, the normal people-pleasing Diane would have taken it and found a place to dispose of it.

The new Diane looked at the tissue, then at my Husby and said, “Throw it out yourself.”

Whereupon (good word) he laughed and stuck it into his pocket. “Finally caught on, did you?” he said.

And that's when I hit him.

Oh, not hard.

Just enough for him to know that I was . . . displeased.

And that he could run his own stupid errands from now on.

Ha!

There.

I said it.

Kleenex, anyone?

P.S. On occasion, he still tests the waters. The waters still refuse to throw out his used tissues.

Forty years and counting...

In a Small Town...

It was my first exposure to 'small town politics'.

Not a pleasant experience.

And I'll never forget it . . .

When I was in grade five, a new family moved to our town.

Parents, children.

The father had been offered the top position in one of the numerous churches in Milk River.

I first learned of the family when I met their daughter - I'm going to call her Sally - on the first day of school in September.

She was a sweet, quiet little girl. Funny.

With shoulder-length, soft brown hair.

And freckles.

We started visiting.

And discovered we had many interests (ie. boys) in common.

We started to 'hang out'.

I invited Sally to my house.

And she reciprocated.

I remember my first visit to her home.

Her parents were very glad to see me.

Almost tearful in their welcome.

It seemed a bit odd that parents would be so interested in one of their children's friends.

But I shrugged it off.

Because they were kind.

And there was a safe, peaceful feeling in their home.

Almost like being in my own.

They asked me about myself and our family.

Seemed very fascinated by every aspect of my life.

Served Sally and I a piece of cake.

I should mention, here, that this was the first time I had ever seen someone serve chocolate layer cake with a dollop of raspberry jam between the layers.

Jam wasn't my favourite thing at any time.

Though the cake was delicious.

Moving on . . .

As I was preparing to leave, Sally's mom gave me a hug and thanked me for being her daughter's friend.

I smiled.

I liked her daughter.

I liked the whole family.

After that, Sally and I were together a lot.

Hanging out at school.

Hanging out at each other's homes.

One day, we were sitting out on her front lawn.

Visiting.

A group of my friends showed up and gathered around us.

For a few minutes, I was happy to have all of my favourite people together.

Then the rest of them got up to go, asking me if I wanted to come with them.

“No. I'm staying here with Sally,” I told them.

“Why do you hang out with her?” one of my friends demanded. “The whole town hates them!”

I stared at him.

The town hated my friend?

I had never heard of such a thing.

My friends left.

But I sat there and turned that statement over in my ten-year-old mind.

The town hated my friend and her family.

Hated.

Weird.

I looked at Sally.

I looked at her kind, caring family.

Now some of what they had said and done began to make sense.

Their almost tearful excitement over Sally having a friend.

Their interest in me.

I talked to my parents about it.

They looked at each other.

“I don't know why,” my dad said. “But for some reason, the reverend has gotten off on the wrong foot with other members of the congregation.”

“But I was told the whole town hated them.”

“Well, not the whole town,” Mom said. “And we certainly don't.”

I shrugged it off.

And kept on being Sally's friend.

I helped them scrub egg off the front of their house.

Wondering, at the time, how on earth they had managed to spill eggs clear up there.

I kept Sally with me when other kids at school teased her.

I didn't understand any of it.

These were wonderfully kind, sweet people.

Caring.

Considerate.

How could everyone not see that?

One day, Sally wasn't at school.

I walked over to her house.

It was empty.

She and her family had moved.

Gone back to where they came from.

For weeks, I was sad.

She had been my friend.

I had loved playing with her.

And now she was gone.

A new family moved into Sally's house.

A new leader for her church.

Someone who didn't 'get off on the wrong foot'.

They stayed.

But I never forgot Sally.

My friend with the soft brown hair and freckles.

Or my first experience with small town prejudice.

A Pox on . . .

The proper wearing of the dress. As seen here . . .

Our (then) five children had a problem.

All of them.

Chicken pox.

Every little body was covered.

Even the baby.

Sigh.

For a week, I spent my time applying the current ‘itch-free’ salves.

Filling the tub with baking soda and water.

Satisfying odd food cravings.

Did you know that warm brownies and/or chocolate chip cookies make chicken pox itch less?

Well, they do.

Moving on . . .

For our eldest daughter Caitlin, aged three, the chicken pox were an adventure.

An adventure that took a little turn.

Up.

Let me explain . . .

Caitlin would lift her little dress and look at her tummy and exclaim, “Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, sweetheart. Put your dress down.”

She was so interested in these spots that she spent most of her time with her dress up around her ears, looking at them.

I would hear her in various rooms of the house, speaking obviously to one or more members of the family. “Look! Chickie Spots!”

Followed by, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Finally, not receiving the excited reaction she wanted, she would return to me.

“Look, Mommy! Chickie Spots!”

“Yes, Sweetheart. Put your dress down. Have a cookie.”

I should have known that she would require a bigger audience.

I should have realized that, to her, anyone coming into the house must be interested in her current fabulous condition.

I didn’t.

My good friend, Tammy came to the door.

I greeted her as she stepped bravely into the ‘plague house’.

We chatted a bit.

Then Caitlin appeared.

I didn’t move fast enough.

Up came the dress.

“Look, Sis ‘Sin! Chickie Spots!”

She laughed and nodded appreciatively. “Yes. You certainly do have the chicken pox.”

At the same time as I was saying, “Caitlin! Put your dress down!”

Sadly, this was only the beginning.

Long after the Chicken Pox had disappeared, Caitlin was still hiking up her little skirts and exclaiming, "Look! Chickie Spots!"

Two things came from this experience.

1. I always put shorts on under Caitlin’s dresses after that. Little girl panties are cutest when they are hidden.

2. The phrase, “Caitlin, put your dress down!” became immortalized in the annals of Tolley history.

Caitlin is grown and married now, with her own little girls.

She has long since learned to keep herself properly covered.

But her youngest insists on pulling her dresses up around her ears.

No spots, yet, but we’re hopeful.

The Circle of Like

The source of all that was delicious.

Mom was in the kitchen.

Baking.

My favourite thing.

I was in my usual spot. On the cupboard beside her Sunbeam mixer.

That maker of all things delicious.

She added something to the mixture already in the bowl and turned on the beaters.

Mmmmm. Could anything look better?

I leaned closer.

“Mom? Can I have a taste?”

“Honey, it’s just sugar and butter.”

“But it looks so good!”

“Okay.”

She stuck the tip of the spatula into the batter and held it up for me.

I leaned in and licked.

It was delicious!

Mom just shook her head, rinsed the spatula and continued adding ingredients.

“Mom? Can I have another taste?”

“In a moment, dear. It’s almost ready.”

I sighed and fidgeted impatiently.

Finally, she added one last ingredient.

Vanilla.

I should mention here that vanilla smells much better than it tastes.

Just FYI.

Then she got a spoon and gave me a dollop of batter.

Mmmmm. Even better than the last taste.

“What is it?” I asked as I licked the spoon.

“White cake.”

“I like white cake.”

“I know.” Mom scraped the batter into a cake pan and shoved the pan into the oven.

I looked around.

Usually, by this time, the sound of the mixer had attracted all the youngsters in the vicinity.

And some of the adults as well.

But there was no one.

The world was mine!

“Mom? Can I lick the bowl?”

Licking the bowl.

That ultimate in rewards.

That oft hoped-for and seldom granted treat of treats.

I should point out that it didn’t actually involve ‘licking’ the bowl.

Mostly it consisted of running a spatula around the inner surfaces, catching every minute spec of deliciousness.

Okay and there was some licking involved.

Mom set me on the floor and handed me the bowl and spatula.

I sat where I landed and started in.

Could life possibly offer anything better?

Moving ahead . . .

I was making banana bread this morning.

My fourth granddaughter was seated on the cupboard beside me, mouth sticky from ‘tastes’.

I spooned the batter into pans and put them into the oven.

“Grandma? Can I lick the bowl?”

The circle is complete.

Putting the 'Party' in Party Line

See? Behind my dad? Entertainment in a box!

My brother recently blogged about the fun/mishaps of people ‘rubbering in’ on the party phone lines.

It’s here, and is great fun to read.

Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .

But the history of the party phone line wouldn’t be complete without the following story:

Still further west of the Stringam Ranch was a community known as Twin River.

It’s accepted social leader was Alfred Jones.

Successful farmer and all-round good guy.

One morning, Alfred received a phone call from a concerned and upset member of the neighbourhood.

She had been listening in on the party line and overheard the news that, “Bert Sibley had died.”

Now Bert had farmed in the area for many, many years. He and his wife had raised their children.

Sold the farm.

And retired to the nearby town of Magrath for some well-deserved rest.

As a stalwart of their community, his death was something of note.

The woman thought that, at the very least, friends and neighbours of the Sibleys should supply flowers at the soon-to-be-announced funeral.

Alfred agreed.

“In fact,” he said, “I’m heading to Lethbridge on business right now. I’ll stop in while I’m there, and order the flowers.”

The woman agreed and hung up.

Alfred started out.

The road from the Jones Ranch in Del Bonita, to Lethbridge, runs directly through the aforementioned Magrath.

As he reached the outskirts of the town, Alfred decided it would be proper for him to stop in and offer his condolences to the grieving widow.

He pulled up to the house and made his way to the front door.

While he was waiting for his knock to be answered, Alfred happened to glance into the front room through the large window.

There was Bert.

Lying on the couch.

Oh, my word! thought Alfred. They haven’t even taken the body away yet!

But that wasn’t his only shock of the day.

Just as the door opened, the ‘body’ sat up.

Alfred stared.

And gulped.

Then turned to Mrs. Sibley, standing in the doorway and stammered out something inane about stopping in to see how they were enjoying town life.

Etc.

Then got out of there.

Mrs. Sibley never knew how close she was to being offered flowers and condolences.

For a husband who was very much alive and sitting in the next room.

The good old party line.

Originator of all things informative. Mis-informative. 

And entertaining.

How can anything in this modern world compete with that?

Street Miracles

Okay. Yes. This is our preferred mode of travel.

I invented the paving machine.

And I did it with the power of my mind.

Maybe I should explain . . .

In 1964-1965, our family moved to the great metropolis of Lethbridge.

My father was running two ranching operations at the time and he thought it would be easier from a central location.

So, for one glorious year, us kids discovered the joys--and differences--of city living.

Milk delivered right to the door in handy-dandy little bottles.

Ditto cream, cheese, etc.

Weird-tasting water. Let’s face it, who in their right mind would choose chlorine over sulphur?!

Riding the city bus.

Neighbours near enough to hear/see everything your family said/did.

And a whole new crop of friends.

It was a fun year.

Educational.

And over too soon.

Oddly enough, with all of this ‘new stuff’ what I struggled most with were the streets.

Yeah, I know. Strange.

The streets around our new house were gravel.

I was used to good old dirt.

Dirt that didn’t flip you and your bicycle sideways unexpectedly. Scraping flesh off of knees and legs and nether regions.

I learned to curse trying to stay upright in that gravel.

Okay, I will admit that said cursing consisted of ‘stupid gravel!’ and ‘Moooom!’, but that was getting out there. For me.

And then, the day I changed everything.

I was sitting on my bike on the sidewalk, having just pulled myself and said bike onto terra firma from the stupid, rotten (it had been a rough day) gravel street. I was glaring at said street.

Then, in my mind, I pictured a great machine that would simply drive across the treacherous coating of rocks and dirt and death, and coat it in a hard, delightfully smooth, totally bike-welcoming surface.

One a little friendlier to life and limb.

Imagine my surprise when, the very next day, such a machine was spotted one street over from mine.

DOING EXACTLY WHAT I HAD PICTURED IN MY MIND!!!

All of the kids in the neighbourhood pulled their bikes as close as possible to the behemoth and just watched.

It was a miracle!

As soon as the machine and the accompanying out-rollers had moved on, we were riding our bikes on the fabulous new, delightfully smooth road.

I can still remember the heat rising up from the black surface.

The machine continued around the block until it had completely covered all of the streets with the same impermeable, biking-conducive material.

Paradise!

I know you’ve probably witnessed the same miracle yourself.

So, when you are driving on smooth, seamless roads.

You can thank me.

Send money . . .

Life on the Ranch

The new barn

My big brother and me.

I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated halfway between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. 

Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. 

A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. 

Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. 

We learned to swim in that river. 

We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. 

We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. 

I even trapped a full grown jack rabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. 

At the time, it was normal. 

We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. 

For a child growing up, it was peace itself.

The Ranch

P.S. Most of the buildings are gone now, burned in the terrible grass fires of 2012. But they remain solid and real in my memories.

78

Today, I'm sitting in a warm blanket of nostalgia . . .

My dad had an extensive record collection. 78s.
Instrumentals. Country. Easy listening. Nonsense.
Thick, heavy records that could easily double at frisbees.
If we had thought of it.
Which we didn't.
We kids would paw through those records in search of our favourites.
I had two.
I listened to them endlessly.
Endlessly.
Till I moved on to the Monkees, which is a whole other story.
Dad upgraded his collection and his stereo system. Replacing all of his 78 recordings with new LPs.
All but my favourites.
Sigh.
I've searched for them ever since in many, many antique stores. Thumbing through the 78s they have on offer for those two little songs. Or even one of them. I'd be satisfied with that.
But always, I've been disappointed.
I was telling my granddaughters about my favourite songs yesterday and describing the archaic 78 records that played them.
Yeah. They didn't believe me.
Then I went to my new friend, Google.
And guess what?!
They are there!
Both of them.
I offer them to you now, exactly as I used to listen to them.
When I was four.
And the world wasn't a scary place . . .

First: Horace the Horse

Then: Smokey the Bear

And, because we loved him too, my favourite Spike Jones:
New Years Resolution

Picture me, a little girl with white, candy-fluff hair, singing along.
My mom's in the kitchen making something grand.
Daddy's in his chair, work boots off and feet up, reading the newspaper and waiting for supper.
That's where I'm going to spend my day!