To Suit a Suitor

With three London seasons behind her and no husband to show for it, forthright and direct Julia is getting a little desperate. An opportunity to stay with a relative far from the humiliation of London looks like a true blessing until she meets Henry. He of the title, extensive lands, and firmly locked heart. Will Julia overcome the embarrassment of her fruitless search for a bridegroom in time to thaw Henry’s frozen heart?

In Paula Kremser’s newest novel, To Suit a Suitor, all the elements are there for a fun, energetic romp through the ballrooms of Regency England. Beautiful, but sadly unattached heroine. Life-saving, aging cousin. Conniving mother. Self-absorbed sister. Mysterious friend. And heart-broken suitor. All crafted together to create a glorious, page-turner of a romance.

I was not compensated in any way for reading and reviewing this delightful romance. Except that Paula promised to read mine. Best. Trade. Ever!

About the Author:

Paula Kremser began writing while living in

England, so choosing to write about the Regency

era was no coincidence. She is an avid reader, but decided to write because sometimes stories just didn’t go the way she wanted. She obviously has control issues; just ask her four kids. She hopes to someday win an award for writing, in the meantime, she brags about once winning a

bubble gum blowing competition. She continually practices that skill (along with writing) in her new hometown of Sandy, Utah.

Raindance

I probably don’t have to tell you it didn’t work.

Hmmm . . . Maybe I should recap.  

Norma, my elder sister, and I have been roommates since the death of my husband three years ago. Norma never married and, in a move that was at once uncharacteristic and generous, asked me at the funeral to sell my home and move in with her.

It took me a while, but I finally decided that it would be much more practical for us to halve our expenses by sharing living quarters. Two days after the funeral, I was cramming my bed and furniture into her spare room.

This was new territory for us.

With the gap in our ages—she is twelve years older than me—we had really never ‘shared’ anything. Before I was old enough to be a friend, companion or even a ‘spoiled-brat-hiding-under-the-bed-to-listen-to-her-and-her-pals’, she was gone, working in the big city.

Now was our chance to make up for it.

At first all went well. I put up with her rabid attachment to her smelly old bird, Reginald, and she put up with my need to poke pins in her ego at key moments.

All was well.

Until we discovered our visitor. Our fragrant, albeit invisible boarder.

Then everything changed.

Reginald developed a nervous disorder resulting in bowels even more active than usual. Her words, not mine. (I mean, how is that possible?) And finally forced her to send him (temporarily) to our cousin, Edith.

Something that still doesn’t sit well. With any of the three involved parties.

Once good old Reggie was out of the house, Norma, using his future return as incentive, took it upon herself to expose and terminate our boarder.

I probably don’t have to mention that issuing an eviction notice doesn’t work with invisible visitors. That was the first thing she tried.

Her most recent attempt included dried grass.

And a lot of sneezing.

Effective in exposing our visitor.

But in no way allowing us to capture. Or evict.

And that brings us to today. And her next challenge.

I walked into the sunny front room and stopped. “What are you doing?”

Norma looked up. “I just had the best idea! I’m going to . . .” her words faded to a mumble as she bent over the old stereo that, until this moment had resided in dusty splendour in the basement. She straightened. “What do you think?”

I looked at her. “I think you’re crazy, but that has nothing to do with this. What did you say?”

“I’m reinventing my strategy. I’m going to change the atmosphere here.”

I glanced from the stereo back to her. “And?”

She smiled. “I’m going to play our old records really, really loud.”

I blinked. “Oookay. And that will do—what exactly?”

She looked at me, disgusted. “Well, obviously she likes it quiet.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“And if we—somehow—make this place become more—undesirable, maybe she’ll just leave.”

I sighed. “I don’t know, Norma. Maybe she’ll grow to like it.”

Norma reached into the stack of old LPs on the chair and slid one out. “Remember this one?”

I glanced at the cover. “You’re going to chase our ghost out by playing Elvis Presley?”

She nodded. “If it’s played real loud?”

If her plan was to get someone out of our house, it worked.

I’m now sitting at Edith’s.

With Reginald.

On a more positive note, I think Elvis actually showed up.

I’m quite sure he and our ghost were dancing up a bonafide storm.

I left before the rain started.

If you'd like to catch up with Norma and I, our stories are

Here. Here. And here.

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado shuffles words between her adherents. Fan ‘A’ gives to fan ‘D’. Fan ‘B’ to Fan ‘C’. And so on. It’s fun. 

My words this month came from Joy (AKA Evil Joy) at Evil Joy Speaks.

change ~ reinvent ~ challenge ~ grow ~ become more
Now what to do with those?

Visit these other bloggers to witness their trial-by-word!

Baking In A Tornado  http://www.bakinginatornado.com
Southern Belle Charm  http://www.southernbellecharm.com                     
Not That Sarah Michelle http://notthatsarahmichelle.blogspot.com 
Spatulas on Parade http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/
The Bergham Chronicles  http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com
The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver  http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/blog.html
Dinosaur Superhero Mommy http://dinoheromommy.com/
Climaxed  http://climaxedtheblog.blogspot.com 
Confessions of a part time working mom  http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch    
On the Border  http://dlt-lifeontheranch.blogspot.com/ 
Evil Joy Speaks  http://www.eviljoyspeaks.com

Real Bone Head

Okay, yes, this is me. Ignore the glasses et al.
But that is a genuine 4-H calf behind me.
See that head? Solid bone.

Have I ever mentioned that cows have a head comprised mostly of bone?

Seriously.

Their head is 99 % bone. With a tiny little space for a walnut-sized brain.

Okay, well, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

Their head can go through most anything.

Fences.

Doors.

Walls.

People.

You get them running and I swear they could go through solid concrete.

And laugh about it with their friends later.

That head is a force to contend with.

You get upwards of 2000 pounds of hair and hoofs going.

With a battering ram for a head and anything is possible.

And we puny little humans have to deal with these animals.

On a daily basis.

You want to talk about bravery?

True statistic: Dairy bulls kill more people annually than the grizzly bear.

Mind you, Dairy bulls usually have sharp, pointy things on that solid-bone head.

How can we make the situation just a bit more dangerous?

Put sharp, pointy things on it.

Where was I?

Oh yes.

Cow heads.

And puny humans.

On to my story . . .

Every fall, the eldest siblings in the Stringam household would happily show up for the organizational meeting of the Milk River 4-H Beef Club.

It was a highlight of the year.

They would then go out to the corral with Dad and choose a suitable calf to register in said club.

Then the work started.

I should mention here, that I never really got involved in the whole ‘work’ part of the scenario.

That’s what brothers are for.

Moving on . . .

My oldest sister, Chris was a lot more ‘hands-on’ than her younger sibling.
So to speak.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
She would go out and wash her calf.

Talk to it.

Put a halter on it and attempt to drag it around.

It was while attempting this last that she came to grief.

And pain.

Chris had been trying to train her calf to lead. An important skill when you plan to have the animal in a show ring.

The calf wasn’t cooperating.

Chris pulled and pushed.

The calf also pulled and pushed.

In the opposite direction.

Chris became frustrated. In an attempt to get the animal’s attention, she shaped her hand into the patented, TV-approved karate hold and . . . chopped.

Remember what I said about solid bone?

That would apply here.

Chris heard the satisfying *crunch* of pro-activity.

For a brief (very brief) moment, she thought, ‘Ha! Got you!’

Then the pain started.

Chris spent the next weeks in a cast to her elbow. Cursing the thick-headedness of cattle in general.

And her 4-H calf in particular.

We thought it was funny.

We never let her know, though.

Because ironically, though that hand, cast-less, couldn’t make much of a dent in a solid bone calf head, that same hand, cast-ed, was a weapon of world class destruction.

Just FYI.

Blessings

At four, my family and me,

Were just as close as we could be.

My Mom and Dad and girls and boys,

Were blessings sent to give me joy.

When I was eight, my blessings most

(Or those of which I liked to boast)

Had four hooves and lived ‘out there’,

The fields beyond the barn somewhere.

And then, with time, my blessings changed,

And somehow became re-arranged,

My friends were more important then,

That year I hit the age of ten.

At twenty, I found something more,

A man unlike I’d know before.

Admirer, lover and a friend,

Brought blessings that would never end.

Six blessings joined us, one-by-one.

At thirty-two, I held my son,

Then looked upon his siblings, vast,

Decided he would be my last.

For sixty years, my blessings came.

But not of money, nor of fame,

I look around, I’m filled with awe

My blessings now call me Grandma!

(I have to add a small P.S.

For splendid friends. They are the best.

And one I’d like to mention here,

Is Awesome Sarah. Let's all cheer!)

Each Month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado challenges us with a new poetry topic.

This month? Blessings!

What could be better?!

See what the others have wrought:

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Blessings

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Hidden Blessings

Jules of The Bergham Chronicles: Blessings Overflowing

Joy of Evil Joy Speaks: Blessings of Change

Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Thanks

Candice of Measurements of Merriment: Life Blessings

Sarah of Not That Sarah Michelle: My Blessings

Drinking Problems

Soooo simple. Soooo satisfying.

Horses are very much like people.

They have personalities.

There are friends.

And enemies.

They like to play.

Hate to work.

Live to eat.

They even have quirks.

Some have learned to take in a deep breath just as you tighten the saddle cinch.

Then let it out . . . later. Sneaky beggars.

Loose cinches cause accidents.

Just FYI.

I could go on and on about the tricks they play.

And how crafty they can be.

But that is another post.

This story is about Harry.

Harry the Horse.

And drinking.

Now, I should explain that horses, when they drink, don't lap like dogs and other animals.

They dip their lips into the water.

And suck.

Careful to keep their noses out in the air.

But a tired horse, coming back from a long day in the pastures, will try to drink with the bit from the bridle still in its mouth.

This results in . . . leakage. An imperfect seal at each side of the mouth.

Leakage.

Most horses simply ignore it and happily slurp up the water.

Except for Harry.

If Harry had been human, he probably would have been an efficiency expert.

He hated leakage. It was messy. And, for want of a better term, inefficient.

So Harry had come up with his own solution. If one just dipped a little more of one's mouth into the water, one could avoid the whole 'leakage problem'.

Genius.

He would lower his mouth into the trough to a level just above the bit.

Problem solved.

Of course, this meant that one's nose became, at times, perilously near, and even in, the water.

No worries. Just lift your head, take a breath, and lower it again.

Child's play.

Soon Harry discovered that he liked dipping his head into the trough.

If he was really tired, he would dunk it right up to his eyes.

Sometimes further.

And all you would see were a pair of ears, sticking out above the water.

Unusual to be sure.

But immensely entertaining.

It gave a whole new meaning to the terms, 'Here you go. Dig in!'.

'Wow. He's in it to the eyebrows!'.

'He's in over his head'!

Or, best of all, 'Go soak your head!'.

Yep.

Harry.

The perfect entertainment at end of a long, dusty day.

Getting to the Heart(beat) of the Matter

Let me know if this scares you!

Maybe it wouldn’t have been quite so bad if I hadn’t just finished reading Edgar Allen Poe’s “Telltale Heart”.

Maybe . . .

It had been a busy day.

Busy.

Our children, and our children’s children, had just left. With six originals, plus spouses and offspring, that comes to . . . quite a number.

I had collapsed into the couch for some well-deserved R & R.

After the noise from so many bodies, the silence was almost thick around me.

I laid my head back. “Ahhhhh!” I relaxed there for a few moments.

Hmmm.

Funny.

I could hear the sound of my heart beating.

I smiled.

Then frowned.

Wait. I put one hand to my chest. That couldn’t be my heart. It was a different rhythm.

I sat up and looked around. The sound was gone.

Weird.

I got up and listened. Made a circuit of the room.

Nothing.

I must have imagined it. I relaxed back on the couch again. Laid my head back.

There it was!

The steady ca- thump, ca-thump of a heart.

Coming from . . . inside the couch.

My couch was haunted!

I leaped to my feet and went in search of my Husby. He would be able to tell me that I was just imagining things. And that my furniture hadn’t really taken on a life of its own.

“Sit down, honey,” I directed. “No. Right here.”

He sat down, eyeing me doubtfully.

“Now lean your head back.”

He did so, still keeping his eyes on me. Then, those eyes widened. He sat up and looked at the couch.

“You hear it, too?” I asked.

He nodded, still staring at the couch. He leaned over again, putting one ear against the fabric. “Huh,” he said. “I hear a heartbeat.”

“Is it a sign or something?” I asked.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. What on earth would a couch with a heartbeat be a sign of?

Humour me . . .

He shook his head. “There must be some explanation.”

“Well, you have to admit that it’s not every day you have furniture that develops . . . bodily functions,” I told him.

We took turns sitting on the couch and pressing our ears against the back. Each time, we heard the steady thumping of a heart.

Stranger and stranger.

Our front door opened and we both jumped. It was our second son, returning to pick up something his family had forgotten.

“Erik! Come in here!” We directed him to the couch. “Sit here!” We pushed him down. “Now put your head against the back.”

He did so, thinking all the while that both of his parents had suddenly taken the last bend in the road before reaching the loonie bin. Then he frowned. “It that . . .?” He turned his head and pressed his ear against the couch then looked up at us. “It’s a heartbeat.”

“I know!” we said together. “Our couch has a heartbeat!”

He frowned and put his head down once more. “Yup. Definitely a heartbeat.”

He got up and started probing the cushions.

“Erik, what are you doing?” I suddenly had visions of him coming up with a bloody, beating heart grasped in one hand.

“Ah!” he said, pulling his hand out. He was clutching a soft, furry little lamb. With cute little ears and a tiny little stub of a tail.

“I think this is your problem,” he said.

He put the lamb against my ear.

Ca-thump! Ca-thump!

“Oh!” I said. I took the lamb from him. “Ummm . . . why does it have a heartbeat?” I asked stupidly.

I’m sure the rest of you have heard of these things, but I swear I had not . . .

“It’s supposed to be soothing to a new baby,” Erik said.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. You put it in the cradle. The baby’s used to the sound of a heartbeat. It soothes them.”

“Huh.”

He took it back and flipped a switch. The beating sound stopped.

He laughed at the two of us staring down at the little lamb. Then he left.

Case of the Possessed Couch solved.

A Visit

Mom

I’m a believer . . .

My mom was a wonderful person. A hard worker. Kind and caring. Supportive. Encouraging.

And funny. She gave us such terms as “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!” and “I’m going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”

And the ever popular “What's wrong with that milk. There's nothing wrong with that milk. It tastes just fine!”.

But Mom had a trait that she struggled with her whole life.

She was a world-class worrier.

She worried over debt and income and other things.

But mostly, she worried about her family. Especially her kids and grandkids.

She worried so much that she made herself sick.

A sickness that, fourteen years ago, took her life.

I’m like my mother in a lot of ways. Good ways, I hope.

And, though I’m not nearly in her class when it comes to worrying, I do have that tendency.

And that brings me to what happened the other night . . .

Some of my children are struggling. The downturn in the economy has cost many in our area their jobs and our family is not immune.

The stresses of job-hunting as well as keeping a family going with little or no income are taking their toll.

And I’ve been worrying.

Earlier this week, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, sunk in despair.

And then a scent drifted over me.

A scent I haven’t smelled in years.

My mother’s favourite perfume.

Now, you have to know that I do not wear perfume. And that particular scent hasn’t been sold in forever.

I knew it was my mother.

Worried about me still and doing what she could to make things better.

She succeeded.

Thank you, Mom.

I miss you.

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.