Dadstory: Part Four

Two performances of the Elves and the Shoemaker down and two to go.

Having such a lot of fun!

Wish you were here . . .

Dad (left). Mom (right).

Part Four:

As most parents, I am sure, are wont to do, my folks tried to get us kids to eat our vegetables. Now you must understand that (and this is something that medical science has yet to discover) the vegetable thermostat doesn't kick in on most people until they are about 18 or 20 years old or so I don't remember not liking vegetables particularly, but I do remember the encouragement that we would get to eat them. Of course, there were all of the regular reasons that parents everywhere use: "eat your vegetables, they are good for you"; or, "eat your peas and potatoes or your ears will fall off" (you know, all the 'scare' tactics).  But I think the most novel reason that I have ever heard from anyone for eating a vegetable came from Dad. Now most parents know, from some deep intuitive sense, that eating carrots is good for the eyesight (have you ever seen a rabbit with glasses?), and never fail to let their kids know that if they want to able to see well, they should be sure to eat their carrots. But Dad's took the cake (so to speak). Dad wasn't content stop there - I distinctly remember him telling me one evening that if I ate all of my carrots, I would be able to see THROUGH hills in the dark, that's how much eating carrots would improve my eyesight. I remember the odd variation on the theme, like the time when I challenged the claim (I must have been maybe 6 or 7 at the time), so Dad relented and admitted that it wasn't really true - I would only be able to see OVER hills in the dark if I would eat my carrots. It worked. I still like carrots. And I am still trying to see either over or through hills. No luck. At least not yet.

Dad could not resist a joke - and the drier the humour, the better, to his mind. I remember two jokes in particular that really epitomize, I think, Dad's brand of humour. The first joke went something like this: What is grey, stands on the top of cliffs, has four legs and is furry, howls at the moon, and is full of cement? Answer: A coyote. The cement was to make it harder. The second joke shows his wry sense of humour, and goes something like this: A hog farmer started feeding saw-dust to his hogs, and found that he could save all sorts of money on hog feed by doing this. One day a neighbor stopped by at feeding time and noticed that the farmer was spreading out saw-dust for his  hogs to eat. "Hey", says the neighbor, "is that saw-dust that you are feeding your hogs there?"  "Sure is", replies the farmer. "Well, that's really strange", says the neighbor; "Doesn't it take an awfully long time to fatten a hog on saw-dust?"  "Sure does", replies the farmer; "But what's time to a hog?"

Speaking of animals, Dad had a favourite bit of humour that he had concocted from an animal disinfectant. Each fall, when the calves were branded, doctored and de-horned, Dad would always use a very strong disinfectant or antiseptic known as 'Creolin' to treat the wounds and prevent infection. As Dad was wont to do (poisonous though the stuff was, and we knew it), he would inevitably offer a swig to whoever was closest, which was alternatively all who were present. The offer was usually accompanied by the assurance: "It'll cure whatever ails you."  And then Dad would snicker and grin his silly grin that always accompanied his joking. Now Mom really didn't like the smell of Creolin at all; like all disinfectants, it had a sharp, pungent smell that was not really pleasant, although not totally unpleasant. Dad ordered to the shower, post haste, whenever he came in the house smelling of the stuff. But it didn't stop there. Even when we weren't doctoring calves or anywhere near a bottle of Creolin, and someone would complain of a sore throat or some other such minor ailment, Dad's solution was always to "gargle with a bit of Creolin", or "soak it in some Creolin". For Dad - or at least for his joking - Creolin was the panacea that could cure all ills. 

To be Continued . . .

Dadstory: Part Three

Opening night was amazing!

I'm so proud of my little elves and my shoemakers.

Three more performances to go.

Wish us luck!

Dadstory: Part Three 

Foreground: Two little grandsons.
Background: Dad and his dancing doll

Dad was famous for betting banana splits, whenever the occasion arose for a wager. I lost several thousand banana splits on the Belt Trick, I am sure, and I don't think I ever paid many, if any, of them. But I come by that rightly - Dad never paid up on his banana splits either. Dad still owes my Beloved a banana split for a bet they held on 1977 World Series. I can think of several that I was never able to collect on, too. And Dad was sneaky. Everytime that you managed to corner him (and that was only way that you could collect, was to corner him), he always spent the entire consumption time explaining at great lengths how this banana split ran concurrent with all other outstanding banana splits, and the debt was now paid. We always tried to tell him that no, they didn't run concurrent, and that really there should be interest paid on un-collected banana splits. (Our idea of interest ran usually into 200-300% range - per banana split, per unpaid week. Hence his protests and lectures on concurrency, I am sure).

I really only got the better of Dad once in my life that I can remember. There were six of us in his new car, about 2 years before his death, and we were headed to the city to do some shopping. Dad really didn't care to drive, so he let me take the wheel. We had had a good chat all the way to the city, and when we reached the outskirts, I intimated that we were early, and that I thought a banana split would fill both the extra time and the extra space in the stomach - and besides, I added, Dad owed each of us several banana splits, so he could pay for them. Well, Dad immediately began his protestations, because he could see that this one was going to cost him a bundle. He kept on insisting that all debts were long ago paid, concurrently, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Well, before he had finished explaining (for the tenth or twelfth time on that particular trip) how all banana split debts ran concurrently, I had driven to the nearest Dairy Queen and wheeled into parking lot. "Well, I'll be corn-swaggled!", Dad exclaimed. And he was. It cost him twelve dollars for banana splits that day!  I'll bet he still swans when he thinks of that. And if there are banana splits in Heaven, Dad had better be saving up. He owes a lot of us, big-time . . .

Some of Dad's most sage advice over the years came from his time-honored sayings that many times I took for granted until I was more-or-less forced to stop and think about what they really meant. I think that anyone who knew Dad well would agree his hallmark saying was: "Wherever there is an advantage, there is a disadvantage". Many times when we were weighing the pros and cons of a particular course of action, whether in our individual or collective lives, Dad would come out with this particular saying, to help us all stop and think things through. (I am not so sure that sometimes he didn't do it just to aggravate us all a little bit more, but his gentle prodding nonetheless provided a good training ground for thought. Cogitation, really.) The phrase became such a trademark in the family that, of course, the rest of us soon learned to use it to our own advantage as well - always with great delight when we could turn the tables and use it on Dad!  After Dad passed away, Mom seriously considered putting the phrase on his headstone in the cemetery. I think she still wishes sometimes she had.

To be continued . . .

Dadstory: Part Two

Opening Night for the Elves and the Shoemaker is tonight!

The following days will be--hectic.

So for the next few days, Husby will be taking over this blog.

With stories of his dad.

Enjoy!

And I'll see you soon with stories of my Elves.

And Shoemakers.

Part One was here.

Today, Part Two:

Continued from yesterday . . .

Paddles: Dad was a master tormentor, a genius at little so-called 'Chinese torture' games that you didn't really realize he was using on you until all of a sudden you would notice something terribly annoying and wish it would go away - and then you would realize that it was Dad that was pestering you in some way, and had been doing it for ten minutes or so. One of his favorite things was to lean on you, ever so gently, and gradually increase his angle of incline until you felt totally uncomfortable but couldn't figure out the reason for it. And when you finally did figure out that you had the weight of the world leaning on you, so to speak, and ask him to move, he would just snicker and grin his mischievous grin, and would comply with your request - until about ten minutes later, when he would commence the whole process all over again. Anyway, we all inherited a goodly portion of Dad's ability to torment each other - and justice claimed its own when we were able to turn the tide by discovering something that really annoyed Dad. One such little trick was to sneak your feet up in front of his face while he was lying on the floor (he had a bad back; the floor made it feel better), trying to watch television, rest, or just plain relax. He would often lie there with his eyes closed, and you could see the discomfort on his face when your feet, usually

not in the most sanitary state, approached his sensitive nose. He would open his eyes, take a swat at your feet, and declare: "Move those paddles!", or            "Get those smelly paddles out of here". We, of course, always complied - for a few minutes.

Pnoggin: pronounced just as it looks, without a silent ‘p'. This was a word in the same category as 'phizzog', and was used to mean 'the head'. Example: "I fell off my bicycle and now I have a goose-egg on my pnoggin."  Or, to really keep it colloquial: "Cogitate that one in your pnoggin for a while - but be careful your phizzog doesn't fall off".

Dad some favorite phrases that always tickled our funny bones when he used them: "Well, if that's supper, I guess I've had it!"

Whenever we would go out for dinner where a bean salad was served, Dad never failed to ask someone (if not everyone!): "Well if it's bean [been] salad, what is it now?"

Dad had a favorite riddle he always liked to ask any poor unsuspecting soul that he knew he could get the best of. It went something like this: “Would you rather be dumber than you look, or look dumber than you are?" Invariably, the poor unsuspecting soul would agonize over which would be worse - to be dumber than one looks, or to look dumber than one is. After what was usually a valiant struggle with one's very inner being, an answer was given. It really didn't matter to Dad which answer was given - his reply was the same no matter what the poor unsuspecting soul said: "How could you be?"  (followed by a grin and a snicker)

Think about it.

Dad also had a favorite trick or two that he liked to pull on his kids. One was his famous hat trick, which is difficult to imagine without seeing it done, so I won't attempt to describe it here. The other, however, was his belt trick, and as I write this I can't believe how many times he suckered me on that one before I caught on that he was actually cheating! The belt trick used - oddly enough - a belt. Dad would take the belt, double it in half so that the two ends were together, and then start rolling it from the other closed end. Try it. You will find that as the belt rolls, there are two definite 'holes' in the middle of the belt. Dad would then issue the unsuspecting sucker with a nail or a pencil or some other such thin instrument, with instructions that the object of the game was to stick the nail through the loop that you thought would be the 'inside'loop, or the loop that the nail would catch as the doubled belt unrolled (since one loop is 'inside' the doubled belt, and the other is a false loop created only by rolling the doubled belt.) For literally YEARS, I was unable to get the right loop. Dad would just laugh his dry laugh, and then usually tell you that you played like a sausage, or you were a dumb ezzle, or something else that was equally appropriate under the circumstances. Oh, his remarks were always kind and made lovingly - but he delighted to no end in knowing that he had gotten another one over on you. Well, as time went on, and I grew somewhat older and a little bit wiser, I began to notice that sometimes when Dad unrolled the belt, the inside leather (which was usually a different color or texture) of the belt sometimes ended up on the OUTSIDE when he unrolled it. It took me another year or two to figure out not only what he had done, but HOW he had done it - after all, you can only unroll a belt one way when it is    doubled and rolled up, can't you? Or can you??  Finally, one day I got smart and watched his other hand, the one pulling the two belt ends. Here all these years, the old smartie would watch to see which loop you chose. If you chose the wrong one, well, no problem - he would simply unroll the belt normally and then give you his snicker and grin since you were playing like a sausage. But! If you chose the RIGHT loop, there were dark dealings going on in that other hand!  Dad would very quietly, in this instance, let one of the belt ends slip around the circle of rolled belt, which has the ultimate effect of making the RIGHT loop the WRONG one. Try it. It isn't easy to do, but Dad had it down to an art. He had his laugh down to an art, too. But I was and still am glad that I had been suckered by my Dad.
Now it's my turn with MY kids . . .

More tomorrow.

Dadstory by Grant Tolley

Photo by: Kristi Milner Pfeiffer

Dress rehearsal for the Elves and the Shoemaker is tonight!

The following days will be--hectic.
So for the next few days, Husby will be taking over this blog.
With stories of his dad.
Enjoy!
And I'll see you soon with stories of my Elves.
And Shoemakers.

DADSTORY 

In Honour of Ray Lovell Tolley  

           My mother and father were elegant folks

           They both had a liking for practical jokes

           So when I was born they made up their mind

           That I should possess all the names they could find:

           Jonathan Joseph Jeremie, Timothy Titus Obadie,

           William Henry Walter Sim, Reuben Rufus Solomon Jim,

           Nathaniel Daniel Abraham, Foderick Federick Peter Sam,

           Simon Timon Nicholas Pat, Christopher Dick Jehosaphat!

          

As long ago as I can remember, Dad used to sing this little ditty. I am sure that it was indicative of how he liked a play on words. He had many of his own that he used with great relish. Some we know he got from his mother, others we are sure he made up by himself. Many of them defy definition, but I will try:

Cornswaggle: a word to describe a friendly swindle. Example: "He really got cornswaggled on that one". Also used as an exclamation: "Well, I'll be cornswaggled!" Sometimes he was, too.

Congeal: a real word, I have since discovered, that is used to describe a thickening process in anything from ice cream to backsides. Example: "I have sat here so long I think I've congealed."      

Phizzog: a synonym for 'face', but more in the sense of 'mug' than anything else. Example: "He had a phizzog that would stop a runaway locomotive".

"Well I'll Swan": an exclamation to be used just about anywhere an exclamation is needed. Example: Question: "Did you hear that Fred got hit by a bus?" Answer: "Well I'll Swan!"

Rambunctious: a regular word, much used by Dad to describe what we kids usually were.

Gourmandize: until I was 19 years old, I swore that this word was not real, a pure invention of Dad's active mind. It was used to describe what we usually did to any form of food left out, i.e. immediate and complete consumption. Dad would say: "Where's the apple cobbler? Did you kids gourmandize it all again?" A little side note: When I was 19 and went to France, I discovered that there really is a word in French, 'la gourmandise', which translates as 'gluttony' or 'piggishness'. In French, the colloquial phrase was ‘la gourmadise est un villain default’, roughly translated as ‘gluttony is a villainous fault.’  Dad knew what he was talking about. I think.

Blasted Apes: Now you must understand that Dad was not one to use profanity - except, that is, when the situation demanded it, which, fortunately, was rare. Dad's worst words usually emerged when we were trying to make some unwilling animals go where they were supposed to go, but the animals were not prepared to co-operate in the least degree. It would take some time to get Dad's dander up, and after about the fifth attempt at getting the pig to go in a gate that you could have driven a convoy of Mack trucks through, side by side, Dad would usually fling whatever it was he was holding at the pig and exclaim "Blasted apes!" It usually stopped there, though, especially if the apes saw the light and made it through the gate. If not, however, the only real profane word that I ever heard Dad use would follow, which is a four letter word synonymous with much of the stuff that lies about the barnyard. When it got to that, you knew that the pig was in trouble - the next step was that Dad usually resorted to throwing hammers, two-by-fours, or whatever else AT the animal, in hopes of sending it into the next world. Dad never called us kids "blasted apes" - at least not that I remember. And he never threw hammers at us, either.

Buggered: a word that Dad used to mean something was "really messed up", as in almost beyond help. Now don't be too shocked at my inclusion of this word here. Please realize that Dad never regarded it as profanity, in spite of the constant assurances by Mom every time he used it that it was indeed not a 'proper' term. Dad's reply was simply: "Well, there is no other word that will do; when something is ‘buggered', it's 'buggered'. It's not broken, it's    not wrecked, it's just plain buggered." Case closed. Many times. Except for Mom.

"You play like a sausage": Dad enjoyed playing games, especially when he was winning, and never failed to rub it in when you were either losing, or playing as his partner and not doing too well. If you made a particularly dumb move, or were really being trounced by him, he never let the opportunity pass to let you know that you were "playing like a sausage".

"The saccharinity of the striatus muscular tissue varies proportionately according to the proximity of the osseous framework": Now we are not really sure where or when Dad picked this one up, nor am I even sure whether it is true or not; I have never checked with a physician to see if it holds true. But Dad would use this whenever he didn't have an answer - a serious one - for some question; or, whenever, out of the blue, he needed something to say. His grin that accompanied this statement always belied his real intent - to poke gentle fun.

Cogitate: to think about something, as in: "I'll have to cogitate on that one for a while."  See "Pnoggin".

"Shadscale, greasewood, & sagebrush: Where snakes have to carry lunch and the rabbits carry drinking water": this phrase was used, in varying combinations, to describe any type of barren land and sparse vegetation. I was never sure if Dad used it simply because he didn't know the names of the various types of vegetation, or if he used it out of his inborn farmer's disgust at land that was marginally useful or neglected by man. We never did see any snakes carrying lunch, by the way.

A Dumb Ezzle: this is a phrase used to refer to anyone who really was not very quick of mind. It could also be used on you if you happened to be playing like a sausage.

A Brainy Think: as it implies, a good idea.

Naked Guinea: this is a phrase used to describe anyone, usually children, who tend to appear in public in less than full dress. Mom tells me that Grandma T., Dad's mom, used it too, so I am sure that that is where Dad picked it up. I seem to remember an explanation once that when Grandma used to raise guinea hens, they would sometimes lose most of their feathers when they were in a moult, resulting in a 'naked guinea'.

Full of Malarkey: a common phrase used to describe someone who really doesn't know what he is talking about, or someone who is trying to 'cornswaggle' you. Example: "You are full of malarkey". I still call my oldest son Mark, 'Markie Malarkey', just to keep the family tradition alive.

Go Soak Your Head: this was a phrase Dad used if he was trying to get rid of you, for whatever reason. Dad was an infinitely patient man; even when he was SERIOUSLY wishing you would go away and leave him alone, he would never have been rude or impolite to make you do so. More often than not, he would simply tell you to 'go soak your head' until you got the message.

To be continued . . .

Errs Above the Ground

My victim. 

Dad had bought a new tractor.

Painted bright yellow, it was a thing of real beauty.

Or so the men in my family thought.

Pffff. Men.

It was parked proudly between the shop (formerly our home - see here) and the pasture, wherein my horse was . . . erm . . . pastured.

The tractor stood there in lonely glory, awaiting the delivery of two more back wheels.

Now it was unheard of, at that time, for a tractor to have more than the requisite two.

Back wheels, that is.

But this one did.

Or soon would have.

Each of the existing wheels had three feet of extra axle sticking out in happy anticipation.

This is important.

And I didn't care. I was getting my horse ready for a show.

I needed to load up my tack.

This entailed maneuvering the car between the pasture fence and the shed door.

Easily done.

I could see the tractor.

I could see the fence.

I could see the shed.

All was well.

Back.

Back.

Back.

Crunch.

What on earth had I hit?

There was the shed.

There was the tractor.

There was the fence.

All in perfect sight.

 I pulled forward and got out to inspect the damage.

I should point out here that this was the same car that I had only recently filled with diesel fuel. My stock had dropped considerably over that event and hadn't had the chance to rise very far. This new stunt guaranteed that it would never rise again.

Sigh.

I walked to the back of the car.

To see six inches of extra axle poking into the rear car fender.

Oh.

The extra axle.

That would, one day, support extra wheels.

In all of my careful looking, I had forgotten to look up.

To the stupid axle hanging in the air three and a half feet above the ground.

Rats.

Once more, in high dudgeon, I drove to the house to show my dad.

Who labeled me a driving menace.

He was right.

Watch Your Step

It's Monday again!

You probably don't need the reminder.

But now there is something that makes Monday a day to look forward to.

Poetry!

I know you're as excited as I am . . .

The cop was told, “Domestic—umm—commotion.”

What he found was surely wrought with strong emotion.

There lying on the floor,

All gross and specked with gore,

Was something that would not be termed ‘devotion’!

The body, cold and dead, was lying prostrate,

A single slug had issued him his checkmate,

His wife had been the one,

She’d shot him with her gun,

Then called the cops. She'd just increased the crime rate.

When the cop arrived and sadly judged the scene,

It was so much worse than any place he’d been,

Near the body was a mess,

But when you saw the rest,

You’d have to swear the floor was fresh and clean.

When he tried to cross that floor, the gun she raised,

On the stand, he’d testify her eyes were crazed.

“Please don’t take another step!”

She said with force and pep.

All he thought to do was stare at her, amazed.

Then later, from his car, he called his Sarge,

He said, “I know that you put me in charge.”

“But I can’t arrest her yet,

Her permission, I can’t get,

And I have to tell you, man, her gun is large!”

His Sergeant told him, “Son, you mean to say

That a single woman stopped your work today?"

Then he added, “If that's true,

Then it makes me very blue,

When I think she’ll get away with her foul play."

The cop said, "S'not defeat and not goodbye,

I’ll be able to arrest her by and by.

I just can’t repeat the sin

That did her husband in,

I cannot cross her floor till it is dry."

I have some wonderful friends who are joining in!

Check out the Mumblings at Only Slightly Confused
And Procrastinating Donkey

Name That Movie!

Our electronic magic-maker.

It was time.

1982. Our (then) family consisted of three boys ages 4, 3 and 1.

We finally purchased our first VCR.

We had hesitated a long time to get one.

Years.

After all, the first unit came out in 1976.

Husby had delayed until the prices came down and the ‘bells and whistles’ increased.

Finally, when a unit was introduced featuring a remote, he could wait no longer.

Okay, yes, the remote was attached to the unit by a long cord. But still . . .

Now on to my real story . . .

We purchased our VCR at Smith’s Electric in Lethbridge, Alberta.

But that isn’t the most important part of this story.

Nope.

What is most important was found in a little cardboard box at the back of the tidy Smith’s store. A selection of pre-recorded VHS tapes.

Available to be borrowed by the lucky new owners of the store’s electronic marvels.

One of those tapes was Disney’s The Black Hole.

A great, rather dark, space adventure featuring rogue captains, murderous robots, missing spaceships, a vegetative crew, a beautiful mind-reading heroine and, interestingly, a Black Hole.

I won’t tell you how many times we borrowed that tape.

Let me put it in another way.

My four-year old (now 40-year-old) watched it so many times, I had the entire thing memorized. Including pre and post advertisements.

How do I know this?

A few days ago, our family thought it would be fun to watch, for old time’s sake, The Black Hole.

And I could still quote the entire thing.

The. Entire. Thing.

With sound effects and pauses for theatrical emphasis.

Now if I could just remember where I put my wretched car keys . . .

Don't forget! Tomorrow is Poetry Monday!

See you there!

An Angel Boost

You get the picture . . .

On the ranch, riding horses was pretty much a daily activity.

When I was a wee lad, whenever I would walk up to the barn, I always found horses there.

My father had 2 or 3 that were quiet and safe enough for children to bridle, saddle, and adventure on.

Coco was one of these. She was a beautiful Chocolate color, tall and long.

On to my story . . .

My friend Ian and I wanted to ride a horse out in the pasture. Of the horses that were ‘in’, Coco was the only one I could bridle and saddle. Fortunately, her nice long back worked well for riding double.

However, we had a problem. Cocoa was tall so putting on a saddle was difficult for my seven-year-old body. Besides, a saddle didn’t work well for riding together.

After getting a bridle on her, we needed to get up on her back.  Remember when I said she was tall? With no saddle, we weren’t able to step into a stirrup. So we walked Coco to the pole fence and climbed from there onto her back.

One has to be resourceful when one is seven and height challenged.

Once we were on Coco’s back we headed off for adventure, crossing the river into the pasture.

It was a beautiful afternoon in Southern Alberta. A very good day until some partridge suddenly jumped out of the grass in front of us.

Coco started and because we were not in a saddle, we slid off of her back, *wump* right onto the Prairie floor—a long fall for two seven-year-old boys.

We picked ourselves up and I grabbed the reins.

Now we had a problem.

There was no fence close by to help us climb onto Coco’s back.

Now this may not be a big deal even considering we were about a mile from the horse barn.  However, we needed to cross the river and the water was a little too deep to wade through.

I boosted Ian onto the horse, then found the largest rock and brought Coco alongside. I stood on the rock, grabbed Coco’s mane and pulled as hard as I could.

But I could not get up onto her back.

I decided I would have to lead Coco—with Ian on her back—across the river.

I started out but the water soon got high enough that I was afraid of going any further.

We turned around and tried to consider our options.

Now I suppose that I could have had Ian ride back to the barn and get help but that didn’t cross my mind. Maybe I was afraid that I would get into trouble for riding out where we were.

What to do?

We decided to pray.

Ian got off the horse and we said a little prayer out on there on the Prairie. That somehow we would both be able to get on Coco and ride home.

Once we finished praying, I boosted Ian up onto Coco. 

Then I tried to find the biggest rock that I could. (I think it was the same one I used before or one that was much the same size.)

I pulled Coco up beside the rock. Then I stood on the rock, grabbed onto her mane and pulled for all I was worth.

I got part way but couldn’t seem to manage the Last. Little. Bit.

Just as I was about to give up, I suddenly slid up the rest of the way onto Coco.

I was so relieved.

Happily, Ian and I rode back to the barn and turned Coco out into the coral.

I have thought about this from time to time. Did I really have my prayers answered?

Some may claim that I determined I had no choice but to pull myself up onto her back.

As I put myself back into that situation, I remember the frustration of having such a small body that did not seem to have the strength to get up on Coco.

I remember thinking as I tried to pull myself up onto her back: I just can’t do it. I just don’t have the strength.

Then suddenly I slid up the rest of the way.

You know what I think?

I think my guardian angel was there to give me a little boost.

This story is courtesy of  Little brother Blair.
I love his view of things! :)

Roasted History

A repost from two years ago. By request . . .

A whole new meaning to 'roasted grains'.

May 9, 1969. 6:45 am.
When most of the world still sleeps, or is just beginning to stir, the ranching families of Southern Alberta are already up and out.
Stock to feed, cows to milk.
Diving into the day’s first chores with unfettered enthusiasm. A smile - brought by the pure joy of work most satisfying - firmly fixed on weather-beaten faces.
Not.
“Spring!” Dad’s first words of the day, spoken with that aforementioned ‘unfettered enthusiasm’.
There he would be, the light from the hall behind him making him into the shadowy cut-out of some avenging God of Mischief, dressed in a white terry-cloth bathrobe and sent to ruin the final minutes of a good night’s sleep.
“Spring!” he would say again, in case we didn’t hear it the first time.
Then, in a puff of smoke, he would disappear. Evil summons completed.
Actually, I just made up that ‘puff of smoke bit’.
The evil summons?
Truth.
This morning began like any other.
A new spring sun just peeping over the horizon filling the clear, blue sky with breathtaking slices of pink and orange.
We humans blissfully ignorant.
Dad’s unfailingly cheerful, completely irritating voice calling happily down the stairs.
The summoned moaning and complaining and beginning to twitch in their beds.
The call came again.
The summoned were throwing off the heavy bonds of sleep by degrees.
Some were actually finding their voices. “Yeah, yeah.”
And yet a third time.
The responses growing equally louder and more understandable, “Yeah, yeah!”
And then the final call. The one sure to either freeze the faithful in their beds, or galvanize them into movement.
“The elevators are on fire!”
I should mention here that the town of Milk River’s elevators stood directly behind us, across our pasture. A short few hundred yards away.
Within toasting distance.
The mere thought of them engulfed in flames struck terror into the hearts of every member of the Stringam family.
Certainly it did that day.
“Yeah, Dad, good one!” A pause. Then, “Dad’ll say anything to get us up!” Laughter.
Perhaps I was a bit more trusting than my brothers.
Perhaps the idea of something exciting happening in our sleepy little town was enough to draw me from my bed.
Whichever.
I scurried into my parent’s room, bounded across their bed and joined my mother at the window.
The entire horizon was a blaze of light.
Two of the six elevators were already burning and, as we watched, a third began to smoke.
Dad was out on the deck, his face a mixture of disbelief, excitement and dismay.
It was an interesting face.
By this time, our cries of . . . disbelief, excitement and dismay . . . had finally drawn my brothers to their window.
“Holy Smoke!”
Truer words were never spoken.
For a moment, fear washed over me.
Were we in any danger from the flames? Those elevators were awfully close.
Dad was quick to reassure.
The wind was favourable for us, pushing the fire, and its attendant sparks to the South, away from the Stringams.
Towards the Garbers, actually. And their barn.
But that is another story.
Chores were given a lick and a promise.
School was . . . poorly attended.
The time was spent watching the fire.
And the fire-fighters.
The entire population of town stood across the street, eyes locked on the incredible sight.
I found my Mom there and went to stand beside her.
“Good thing it’s spring,” I told her. “Harvest hasn’t started.”
My ignorance of the whole ‘grain storage’ thing was woeful.
“They’re right full of grain!” my Mom exclaimed.
As though to prove her statement, a long split appeared in one corner of the elevator nearest us. Followed immediately by a golden stream.
Then pieces of flaming elevator began to rain down.
The crowd gasped and stepped backwards.
Our Sheriff tried his best to keep us away.
Keep us safe.
He even went so far as to order all of the kids back to school.
We scampered to obey.
I'll let you believe that for a moment . . .
He couldn’t have driven us away with a stick. Maybe if he had pulled his gun . . . no not even then.
The elevators burned for days.

When the glow was finally out, the ruined grain was raked into piles and sold for a pittance, for cattle feed or whatever.
But to those of us who witnessed it, the fire would never be extinguished.
Even after the smell of roasting wood and grain finally washed away.
Even after new, modern elevators were built.
All one would have to say was, “Remember the elevator fire?”.
It was the most excitement our town has ever had. Before or since.
Okay, so ‘Thrill Central’ wasn't our town’s middle name.
Meanwhile, the Stringams were back to hearing, “Spring!” every morning.
Once or twice, Dad would try to inject a little excitement by shouting, “The elevators are on fire!”
But he was never believed.
Kind of like that first time.

Charlie's

Charlie's. The dive formerly known as Danny's.
But, in reality, the Canadian Cafe.
All the teenagers in Milk River went there. The little, dark, hole-in-the-wall storefront with the half-dozen booths, a couple of pinball machines, dusty dingy floors, dim lighting and the long glass-fronted counter on the north wall.
It was the 'after-school and sometimes Saturdays' place to be.
To just hang out and be cool.
Maybe get a snack. A bottle of pop. Fudgecicle. Chocolate bar.
Play pinball. I should mention here that this was where I learned there is a fine line between 'encouraging' the pinball game and making it 'tilt'. There's a dime I'll never get back.
Moving on . . .
One could listen to the latest hits on the giant jukebox that greeted you as you stepped in the front door. Those fresh and new and those that instigated a store-wide groan because they had been played a little too much. *cough-Honey!*
It was to Charlie's I went to meet my friends whenever I had a loose nickel.
Or--more often--when I didn't have any money at all.
Of course, at those times, we were at the mercy of the moneyed because they got to choose all the music. *cough-Honey!*
Charlie's was the place to let it all hang out.
The first place I saw someone my age smoking.
Gasp.
Where you snuggled into one of the booths on a vinyl-covered bench with your sweetie-of-the-moment.
Okay, I never got to do that, but I dreamed . . .
It was also the place my friends and I discovered that one could actually square dance to 'Ode To Joy'.
True story.
Also my brother tells me it was the place for the finest chop suey known to man.
Who knew?
What was your Charlie's?

One more time. Honey:

The Elves and the Shoemaker

It's play time again!
And by that I mean that my little group of Thespians are nearing performance for this year's show: The Elves and the Shoemaker.
And what fun we've had putting this little musical together!
Late Tuesday evenings.
Early Saturday mornings.
Sleepy little elves.
Sleepier shoemakers.
I'll keep you posted on how it goes . . .

Pulling Off Memories

Dad and some of his many slaves . . .

My Dad didn't have children.
He had slaves.
At least that is how his children saw it . . .
Dad worked hard doing . . . ranch stuff.
It took him most of the day.
Every day.
When he came in, his recliner looked really, really good and it took great motivation to entice him to leave it.
Great motivation.
Silly little things like removing one's work boots or tossing things in the garbage weren't nearly big enough. Thus it was necessary to find other ways to accomplish these things.
That's where we came in.
His six little, willing slaves.
Every evening, one of us would be chosen for the distinct honour (his words) of helping Dad remove his boots.
Fortunately, this was a fairly simple operation, easily accomplished by a pair of small, eager hands, a backside and a large foot.
Don't get the wrong idea. There was no kicking involved . . .
The large person seated in the chair would lift his booted foot.
The standing smaller person would turn their back, straddle said foot and grasp the boot.
That's where the large foot came in.
While the small hands gripped the boot, the large foot would apply pressure to the small backside.
Small person would be pressed away from the large person and the boot would slide slowly from the foot.
Until, at last it would drop to the floor.
The boot, not the foot.
Surgery completed.
The second boot would follow the first and much toe-wiggling comfort would be achieved.
And, more importantly, no one who had been working hard all day would have had to move out of his chair.
Utopia. (That's another word for Paradise, I looked it up . . .)
Moving on . . .
Dad was also reluctant to leave his chair for such frivolities as throwing things in the garbage.
Call in the slaves once more.
Dad always finished the evening meal with a toothpick.
I know, I know, the rest of the world would infinitely prefer ice cream, but what can I say? Dad even followed his ice cream with a toothpick.
That's just Dad.
He even had a preference.
For toothpicks, I mean.
He liked the wooden ones.
Which he would then proceed to chew into a little ball of pulp.
Umm . . . ick.
Now in our earlier years, we kids could always be counted on to receive the little ball of 'ick' and drop it into the proper receptacle.
As we grew older, we got, for want of a better term, smarter.
We found other places to be when Dad got to the end of his little splinter of wood.
Dad had to get . . . creative.
My Mom had a plant. A beautiful pineapple plant. She had grown it from the cut off top of a pineapple imported from her and Dad's trip to Hawaii.
I think the rules for bringing fruit across the border were different then.
But I digress . . .
It was large.
Really large.
And it sat in a tub on the floor right beside Dad's chair.
He's only human, he can't be blamed for what happened next.
He finished with his toothpick and called out for a child.
Any child.
We were all hidden in the family room.
Giggling.
He sighed and briefly considered getting up. Then looked for someplace to deposit his little, wooden offering.
Huh. A large, leafy plant right beside him.
If Mom hadn't wanted it tampered with, she should have found somewhere else to put it.
He hid his little lump of sawdust in the pot under the convenient leaves.
Mission accomplished.
Hey, that worked great! And there wasn't a sign of anything!
He had discovered something new and wonderful. Especially when one was blessed with slacker children.
Like us . . .
He did it the next night.
And the next.
And for many, many nights afterwards.
Then, one day, when Mom was taking care of her beloved plant, she noticed that it wasn't looking very healthy. She pulled out the pot to investigate.
I don't have to tell you what she found. At this point, the layer of chewed up bits of toothpick was a couple of inches deep.
The plant was obviously as fond of them as we kids were.
And protesting in the only way it could.
By dying.
Okay, yes, that is a bit extreme, but it was a plant. You have to admit it really didn't have many options.
Huffily (real word), Mom moved the plant somewhere . . . not close to Dad.
And put a garbage container beside his chair.

We all moved away from home.
Dad still had the garbage can conveniently beside his chair for his recycled toothpicks.
But he started wearing shoes that he could remove by himself.
One time, when we were visiting, he initiated our oldest granddaughter in the fine art of helping Great-Grandpa remove said shoes.
For the rest of us, it was a short stroll down memory lane.
All that was missing were the work boots.

Dimming the Bright Lights

Mondays are for poetry!

Can you think of a better way to start the week?

And what subject could be more fun than one of Dad's favourite stories?!

Ready?

Go!

The movie flashed and flickered on the silver picture screen,

The movie-goers hoped it’d be the best they’d ever seen.

But one cowboy seemed determined on disturbing one and all,

And laying out across three seats in a mean and thoughtless sprawl.

When Usher—with his usher’s light—was directed to him there,

He said, “My man, you’ll have to move! You cannot have three chairs!”

“And I really do not care if you are drunk, or stoned, or ill.”

“This ain’t the way that things are done, even here in ol’ Hicksville.”

His light showed him a quiet face, with cowboy hat askew,

He said, “You understand, my man? You’ll simply have to move.”

But the cowboy just ignored him, clearly would not be dethroned.

And though the usher gave him time, he didn’t talk, he groaned.

The usher straightened with a huff, and management, he sought,

Returning with his boss would give that cowboy food for thought!

When Usher and his boss came back, primed and prepared to teach.

The cowboy still used up three chairs and groaned in lieu of speech.

The manager reached out and tapped the cowboy on the arm,

He said, “Young man, we are not bad and don’t mean any harm.”

“But what the usher said is true. You must vacate this place.”

“He wasn’t being foul, it’s just: We simply need the space!”

If he thought that his proposals, soon the cowboy would apply,

He must admit the end result did not quite satisfy.

For though he spoke with kindly mien and quiet, gentle tone,

The cowboy did not move and only answered in a groan.

The cowboy did exasperate, t’was not their sought outcome.

Said Usher, “What’s your name, my man, and where did you come from?”

“I’m Joe,” the cowboy said to them, with next to no esprit.

Then he raised a hand and pointed. “I came from the balcony!” 

Want to join in?

Direct us in your comments!

We'd love to include you!

Unexpected Answers

Daddy on Heinrich.
(With my eldest sister who doesn't appear in this story...)

The Stringam ranch covered a lot of ground.

A lot.

Going out to check the cows was an event.

Usually requiring hours. If not a whole day.

And prairie weather is—ummm---let’s go with capricious.

It sounds a whole lot better than unpredictable. Or just downright volatile.

On to my story . . .

Daddy had gone to ride through the herd, checking that no one was AWOL.

Or hurting.

Or dead. It was nature, after all.

It had been a beautiful day when he left. With no weather channel or satellite imaging, there was no way of knowing that this could change. Dramatically.

Sigh.

About five miles from the ranch, a storm blew up.

Now you have to know that the prairies are known for their endless stretches of grasses.

And notable absence of trees.

When a storm starts, it can get a really good run.

In a matter of seconds, one can go from happily basking in the winter sunlight to being mercilessly buffeted by cutting winds and blinding snow.

That’s what happened here.

Daddy’s world was instantly blotted out.

No landmarks. No solar guide.

Up and down were even difficult to differentiate. 

Daddy stopped his horse. There was only one thing left to do.

Have you ever heard the phrase: “There are no atheists in foxholes”?

Well that would apply equally to ranchers stuck in snowstorms.

Daddy needed to pray.

He did.

Then he waited.

All at once, he felt the distinct impression to let go of the reins.

Yep. Cross them over the horse’s neck and leave them there.

I expect you realize that this is a tall order for a rancher. You let go of the reins, you lose control of the situation.

Again, the impression came.

Sighing, Daddy did as he felt impressed to do. Then hunkered down in his coat and tried to pretend he was somewhere warm and sunny.

The horse started to walk.

Slowly. And steadily.

Occasionally, Daddy would poke his head out to stare at the great featureless wall of snow that hemmed he and his horse on every side.

Then, as his mount kept moving, he would slide back into the comparative warmth of his coat and start praying again.

All at once, the storm seemed to lessen. Daddy frowned. Yes. There was a definite break in the wind.

The horse stopped moving.

Daddy poked his head out.

They were standing in front of the barn.

I believe in answered prayers.

And in the Guardian Angels sent to our aid.

They appear in all sorts of ways.

Sometimes with four legs and a mane and tail. 

Let Them Be Little

It should probably come as no surprise that I love children.
And that I had (what I consider) a stellar childhood.
I was raised with peace.
Security.
Kindness.
Tenderness.
Good food.
And a lot of adventure.
Today, I'm thinking of those children throughout the world who have none of these things.
And my heart breaks for them.
In my opinion, children should never have to fear.
Suffer.
Die.
I donate my money.
I offer them my prayers.
I keep them in my heart.
Today, I'm thinking of them.
Be little.

Tough Ranchers

We depended on our horses on the ranch.

They were usually well trained and quiet, something you needed when you worked cattle. A jumpy horse would rile up said cattle and get them nervous.

This made them difficult to handle. They may hurt themselves or just go running in some crazy direction and lose lots of precious weight that Dad had just spent many feed dollars trying to put on their bodies.

Because, let’s face the hairy truth: Cows aren’t the geniuses of the ranching community . . .

It takes many years to make/train a quiet cattle horse.

You start with a colt that is full of lots of energy and you train and train using various techniques to develop a well-behaved horse.

Having said all that, somewhere in the training/breaking process, you have to use the ‘green broke’ horse to work cows as part of their schooling.

Our family had a friend that I’ll call RG, who was in the middle of one of these young-colt/quiet-horse processes.

On a beautiful spring day RG and several members of his ranch crew were taking a large herd of cattle from their ranch headquarters to the spring pasture—a trek that put Dad’s ranch at the half way point.

Our friend dropped by earlier in the day and left his green broke colt, planning to trade his well-trained cattle horse for the green horse at the halfway point. This would give the green horse the opportunity to work with cows, but the cows would be tired and quiet and not likely get excited if the horse got a little jumpy.

I was up at the barn when our friend rode up to exchange horses. He quickly saddled the green horse and mounted.

I guess his horse was not quite ready for any cattle drive because he pulled his head down and started bucking.

Now, initially I thought that this wouldn’t be a problem. RG was a seasoned cattle rancher and he could manage a green horse.

Then I realized that RG was also 75 years old and maybe not as strong as a young rancher.

The horse bucked several times.

I held my breath. With every hop of the horse a word popped into my head.

Don’t!

Fall!

Off!

The!

Horse!

You!

Are!

Old!

And!

Will!

BREAK!

I hoped and prayed that RG could get things settled before he was piled.

And I would have to call an ambulance.

But RG couldn’t hold on any longer and the horse piled him good. He groaned and let go of the horse’s reins.

My body hurt just seeing him get planted.

It seemed for a brief moment that RG was down for the count and I was afraid that my greatest fears had come true.

I was about to run over and ask him if he was ok when RG pulled himself up, spun around and grabbed the reins of the horse. He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle.

It was like a reflex action. I was sure that RG was hurt and would have liked to come into the ranch house for a rest.

I thought: ‘RG is going to be sore tonight.’

Once RG was back in the saddle, his horse settled. He said, “I’ll be back later for the other horse.” Then headed down the road after the herd of cattle.

I watched anxiously as he rode away, not wanting to see a repeat of the piling episode.

I didn’t.

I learned something from this: These old ranchers are tougher than my generation.

Marlboro man you ain’t got nothin’ on RG!

It's fun to see stories of the Stringam Ranch from a different set of eyes.

Today's adventure is courtesy of my little brother, Blair.