Mitten Rescue

A repost of my favourite Christmas shopping story.

Red Mittens - not just for hands any more!

We were shopping. I will admit, here, that shopping is not my favourite activity. I need a really good excuse.
It was Christmas.

Okay, Christmas is a really good excuse . . .
My youngest two children and I were out to find a gift for Husby.
Their Dad, my Sweetheart.
The hardest person to shop for.
After much wrinkle-browed thought, we had decided that whatever we were seeking would best be found at Lee Valley Tools. My husband's favourite place on earth.
Really.
It is a long-standing family joke that he must go once a month to LVT to pay homage to Thor, the Tool God.
But I digress . . .
We set out.
It was December.
Winter.
In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, winter equals snow. Ask anyone.
But avoid those with chattering teeth. Th-th-they c-c-c-can n-n-n-never be t-t-t-trusted.
Or understood.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Winter. Shopping. Setting out.
At first, things went well. A heavy, wet snow was falling thickly, but the window wipers were managing to keep the windshield clear – sort of.
We made it into the city. And immediately slowed to a snail's pace.
Let me describe the scene for those of you not familiar with travel accompanied by snow: All roads are now white. And slippery. All surfaces have become heavily coated in ice. Nothing is recognizable. Little is even visible.
The windshield wipers are your best, and only, friends.
But even they, too, get clogged with snow and need the occasional boost. This is accomplished by stopping. Getting out of the vehicle. And slapping said wiper against the window hard enough to remove any accumulated snow.
Or, if you are my husband, by opening the driver's window and catching the wiper when it is in its furthest upright position and giving it a quick snap while it is still in motion.
It's all about timing. And coordination.
Neither of which I have.
And both of which were to be needed shortly.
Several times, I pulled out of the crawling traffic and performed the necessary operation to clear the windshield. Then waited for a break in the traffic and pulled back in. Total time wasted? Hours.
Okay, well, it seemed like hours.
There must be a better way. I would try Grant's method!
Genius!
When the traffic had stopped for yet another light, or stalled vehicle, I quickly rolled down the window. Then I reached out.
I waited for just the right moment, when the wipers were at their apex (neat word, right?)
Closer. Closer. There!
I reached out and caught the top of the wiper.
Snap! Okay, that didn't sound good.
As the wipers began their downward stroke, I realized what I had done. The blade was still in my hand.
I had snapped the entire thing off its arm.
Umm . . . oops?
The window quickly became covered in a blanket of white. Well, half of it at any rate.
Unfortunately, it was the driver's half. Rather necessary if you want to see where you are going.
And usually, the driver does.
Something needed to be done. And there was no one but me to do it.
Rats!
Quickly, I climbed out and switched my only remaining wiper blade to the driver's side. Okay. Now I could see. That's important.
But now, the other side of the windshield was suffering from the lack of wiper-age.
Hmm.
I looked around. Our options were . . . limited.
“What about this?” My daughter's voice from the back seat.
She was holding up her red mitten.
I stared at it. Huh. Might work. I took it and, climbing out into the storm once more, proceeded to tie it to the other wiper arm.
There.
Perfect.
We switched on the wipers.
Wipe.
Wipe.
It worked!
Now we had a wiper and a . . . mitten.
I don't have to tell you how it looked. In point of fact, we giggled every time that mitten came into sight.
We finished our trip. Shopping done. Purchases made. Van safely parked back on the driveway.
And Husby replaced the wiper that had so inconveniently decided to come off.
Stupid thing.
The wiper, not Husby.
I learned several things from this:
1. Don't shop.
2. Don't drive.
3. Don't live in Canada
4. Don't go anywhere without your red mittens.
Okay, you're right. I didn't learn anything because:
1. I still shop.
2. I still drive.
3. I still live in Canada.
Pack your mittens!

You get the picture . . .

Starting It Right

The Season has begun . . .

A few years ago, my Husby, a slightly Santa-esque man, was asked to play Santa Claus at a local party.

He discovered that he loved it.

The rest of us discovered that he was very good at it.

A new career was born.

He offered to pay for the materials for a, to put it into his words, nice suit.

I complied.

The next Christmas, he asked if I would be willing to make myself a matching 'Mrs. Santa' outfit.

After a bit of head-scratching and a trip to the fabric store, I again did as he requested.

Mrs. Santa appeared.

And the two of us have had fun with it ever since.

Each year, our portrayal of the famous couple gets a little more . . . detailed.

Three years ago, he began to grow out his hair. 

In August. (Now he sports his 'Santa' beard year round!)

Then we made a trip to the hairdresser to get him, and myself, dyed white.

Oh, the sacrifices he makes!

The breathing apparatus and nose plugs were his idea!

Definitely lighter . . .

But the rewards are incalculable.

Wish you were here!

The Cars of Me and Mine

The Great Pumpkin as she was then.

Ralph.
With, from the left: Flint, Iggle and Muffy

I love cars. Especially old ones.
We have owned many vehicles which have taken our family, in its various incarnations, to many places.
Most of the cars worked.
Some didn't.
All were old. And all had a personality of their own.
In the early days of our marriage, my husband and I had a Dodge Colt.
On which my Dad had made the down-payment before turning the monthly payments over to me.
My husband used to tell people that he married me for my car - and got the payments.
But I digress . . .
And we had an old beater of a truck.
For which my husband paid $200.00.
The Colt, we called The Great Pumpkin. Or GP for short.
Because it was orange.
The truck we named Ralph.
For no real reason.
Both were dependable.
One had character. I know you're wondering, so I'll tell you.
It was the truck.
Ralph would start completely without a key, which was notable.
And under any conditions. In Alberta, Canada, that could mean anything.
Ralph's horn honked when you pulled out the ash tray.
Really.
I have to admit, here, that the horn renovation was my husband's handiwork. He liked character.
After Ralph and The Pumpkin, we went through a steady stream of vehicles.
An Impala, The Lemon or #$%^&*@#$!!!, that looked really, really good, and was only missing one part.
A transmission.
Let's just say that transmissions are really, really important and move on.
An old Chevy van, Block-ie (with a home-made bench seat bolted to the floor), that we got by trading in a rusted set of harrows.
A station wagon, TanVan, that we got by trading in the van. Actually, that station wagon, an old brown Chevy, was interesting to start.
Oh, it would.
Start, I mean.
It just took a little 'coaxing'. And by coaxing, I mean that Grant would have to crawl under it with a hammer and give the solenoid a little tap while I, seated comfortably in the driver's seat, turned the key.
For those who do not know, a solenoid is a little wire coil that theoretically acts as a switch or relay between the car battery and the motor. In reality, it is designed to act as aggravation for the car owner.
Especially when it is pouring rain or is -40.
As often happens in Alberta.
On consecutive days.
Moving on . . .
We traded that old brown wagon for a newer blue one, Blue-y. Yes, imaginative, we aren’t.
Then we traded that one for a 12-passenger Beauville. Das Boat.
Trust me, we needed the space.
Then, as our family began to move out, we traded the big van for a nice car.
A really nice car. Aptly named: Lady.

Buick. Root beer brown. My husby's favourite colour.
For a few wonderful years we knew what comfort was.

But, like us, it aged. And finally, pooped out in our front drive.
Sigh.
We could never replace it, so we did the next best thing.
Supplanted it with an almost new Olds van from some good friends.
“Owlyet’ ran dependably till it died an ignominious death somewhere near the mis-named Hope, B.C.

It was replaced by a 2010 red cross-over (unimaginatively named ‘Red’) purchased from Daddy when he decided he was done with driving.

And that is what we are driving today.
Oh, and my Dad's old 2000 Sonoma truck, Everready.

Good vehicles all.

But you know what? I miss Ralph.

Curtain Wars

Okay. Turns out this IS rocket science.

Have you ever done anything dumb?
I mean really, really dumb?
I'm not saying that I have but . . .
Okay, I'm saying that I have.
But, in my defense, our family always had a shower cubicle.
With a door.
Maybe I should explain . . .
It was my first time living away from home.
I was dizzy with joy. And heavy with responsibility.
So many things that I suddenly needed to know.
And hadn't paid attention to, when my parents had tried to teach.
Sigh.
The learning curve wasn't just steep. It was nearly vertical.
I muddled through.
With prayer, many phone calls home. And a smart roommate.

Our apartment had indoor plumbing. I just thought I'd mention it.
And a bathtub with a shower nozzle.
I stared at it.
Huh. How could one use that and not spray water everywhere?
You would have to make sure that the nozzle was pointed directly at the wall and be very careful.
Weird.
Why didn't they just put in a cubicle, like the Stringams?
And there was something else I had never seen before.
Above the tub and reaching from wall to wall, was a long rod.
I stared at it, mystified.
What on earth could that be for?
I went to my roommate.
“Guess showering is out of the question.”
“Why,” she asked.
“How do you keep the water off the floor?”
She laughed. “Diane, please tell me you've used a shower curtain before.”
“A what?”
Okay, I should clarify here that I had seen shower curtains before.
It's just that I had always designated them decorative, rather than useful.
“I have one. I'll get it.”
My roommate was not only smart, having lived on her own before, but she was also handy.
In no time, we had a brand new plastic curtain strung from the rod over the tub.
Cool.
But did my education stop there?
Sadly, no.
I prepared for my first shower in my new apartment.
As an adult.
I added that last, because, based on what happened next, you might not have realized it.
Moving on . . .
I had a nice shower and pushed back the curtain.
Oh, man! Now there was water all over the floor!
I was going to have to lay down towels to catch the water that ran down the curtain and onto the floor.
What a pain.
I mopped up the water and dressed.
“Shower curtains are dumb!” I said as I passed my roommate, headed for my room.
“Why?”
“They let water get all over the floor!”
“Ummm . . . Diane, you're supposed to put the curtain inside the tub.”
I stopped and looked at her.
“Really?”
I'm sure she spent the next few moments regretting her decision to invite me to stay with her.
She hid it well.
“Yes,” she said patiently. “If you put the curtain inside the tub, the water runs down the curtain and down the drain.”
“Huh.”
My kids call it the two percent rule. You have to be two percent smarter than whatever it is you're using.
I failed.
I'd like to say that was the last time I did something silly.
I'd be lying.
It wasn't the curtain that was dumb.

Teaching the Teachers

Okay, a bit older than our car, but you get the picture.

At some point during our junior year in high school, every student was required to take Driver's Education.
It wasn't an imposition.
Though most of us were farm/ranch kids and had been driving since we could see over the dashboard, none of us had ever been allowed to drive on a real road.
Okay, well, I have to admit here that some of us had.
Driven on a real road, I mean.
It's just that our parents didn't know.
Moving on . . .
So it was to be our first experience driving on a real road . . . officially.
The anticipation mounted as we completed every session of pre-driving training.
The lectures and films grew longer and more boring.
More and more, we craned our necks to glance outside at the shiny new car that would soon become ours.
We were getting feverish to actually take the wheel and floor the accelerator.
Finally the day came.
In groups of three, names were drawn.
And then it was my turn.
My time slot allotted.
My waiting at an end.
All right, yes, I still had to wait, but at least I knew just how long the wait would be.
Sheesh.
My group was scheduled to go out in a couple of days, after the end of the school day.
I counted the minutes.
And finally, it was our turn!
The other two students from my group slid into the back seat.
Our instructor, alias: my biology teacher, and I got into the front.
And that was when I discovered that this wasn't quite like any other car I had ever seen.
For one thing, it had two sets of foot pedals.
One on my side.
The other on his.
Weird.
We started out.
Slowly. Though every gram of me (and that was a lot of grams) was itching to stomp that gas pedal to the floor.
We made a circuit of the town.
So far so good.
I was instructed to head out of town along the highway.
Obediently, I followed my instructions.
All went well.
We made a safe (it can be done . . .) U-turn and headed back towards town.
As we were approaching the town limits sign with its stark and very pointed suggestion of speed, I turned to my instructor. "Does that mean we need to start slowing down when we get to the sign, or should we be going that speed when we reach . . .?"
I got no further.
My teacher decided, then and there, to teach me what the second set of floor pedals was for.
He stomped on the brake.
Whereupon (good word) I had a heart attack.
Fortunately, my varied experiences on the ranch had taught me that I could still function, even when my heart had permanently taken up residence somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.
But the lesson was well and truly taught. One must have already achieved the strongly suggested speed limit by the time one reached the sign.
Point taken.
After a few tense seconds of hands-over-the-face whimpering by both I and my teacher, we were once more off.
The rest of my turn passed without further incident.
Which was probably a good thing for my heart.
And my passengers.
We stopped back at the school and one of my team members exchanged seats with me.
I could officially relax.
For some time, we drove around the town.
Then, as we were following the dirt road north, on the far east side of town, our Social Studies teacher approached and flagged us down.
He did this is a subtle, yet clever way.
He drove past, honking, then pulled over to the right directly in front of us.
Our young driver squeaked out, "What do I do?"
Whereupon (that word again) our instructor told her to pull over directly behind the other car and put our car into 'park'.
Done.
She sighed and leaned back against the seat.
The four of us watched our social teacher walk around to our instructor's window.
The window was rolled down and the two began to visit.
Meanwhile, our driver was looking forward.
Towards the other car.
Which appeared to be getting . . . closer.
She stomped on the brake and quickly discovered that it wasn't we who were moving.
Ah! The other car was rolling backwards.
Toward us.
Our driver began to shriek, "Ooh! Ooh! What do I do?! Should I back up?!"
Both teachers looked up.
Just as the 'parked' car collided with us.
Shock warred with embarrassment on both faces.
It was quickly ascertained (another good word) that no damage had been done, either to property or personnel.
And everyone went back to what they were doing before our social teacher had entered the picture.
We completed our training.
Receiving full credit and accolades.
And all of us received our driver's licenses.
It really wasn't that difficult.
Look at the guys who taught us.

My People

My family tree. I look and see

My parents’ parents’ day,

The women kind, with strength of mind

Through joy, fear or dismay.

And both men, too, were just and true

With family worked and played,

All pioneers, with sweat and tears,

Who built our land today.

Then the lines next, between, betwixt,

My parents take the space,

I think of them, their diadem,

For children they embraced.

And they stood fast, good works amassed,

Their values firm in place,

Mortar and bricks, they raised we six,

With sure and steady pace.

Today, right now, I’ve turned somehow,

I see my children there,

And they have grown, and all have flown,

I can but stand and stare.

As each has wed, those paths, they’ve tread,

I, to my thoughts repair,

And think of joys, of girls and boys,

When halls weren’t still and bare.

Through pleasure, tears and creeping years,

I find a new joy comes,

And kids ‘a few’, have joined our crew

Again our hallway drums.

Programs anew and trials, a few,

Once more, I’m mopping crumbs,

With parents, fight with all our might,

So a triumph each becomes.

Far and near, both sights are clear,

Bygone. And present days.

I see past folks, those mighty oaks.

Now striplings earn my praise.

And here I stand, my life is grand,

Love’s light affects my gaze,

I can’t resist, I’m in the midst,

And looking out both ways.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

And next week, cause it's the season, 

We tackle 'shopping' . Good-bye to reason...

A Girl's Life

Just plain busy...

Immersed in Mom's journal today.
We're born into the era we can handle, I'm convinced of it. I never would have survived in my mom's!

In her words:

As I grew older, I sometimes felt a lonely girl in a family with eight brothers.

It wasn’t enough to be able to do the things they did, work or play, as well as they.

You were still a girl with responsibilities that the brothers didn’t have. You had to be Mama’s helper.

Mama and I, being the only females in a family of eleven, were responsible for the household chores as well as the outdoor chores—the chickens and the garden at harvest time, milking cows, feeding pigs, carrying water and chopping wood.

There were also emergencies like chasing pigs out of the garden and running after stray cattle.

We also killed and plucked chickens for dinner.

We had to have meals on time, clothes washed and mended, errands run, the home tidy and clean, and to know where everything was, from shoes to letters, and hammers to halters.

We did not sit with the men at the table but ate after they were finished.

Mama was completely dedicated to her role in life. She never complained but got her satisfaction from seeing members of her family develop and achieve at work, at school, at play and ultimately reach their goals in life.

To her, her family was her life.

Twice Hit. Many Times Shy.

It's snowing. Again. I'm already nostalgic about summer.
Almost . . .

Blair in a less threatening situation. A bit less . . .

The calving field (aka: the tree field), was a half mile from the ranch buildings.
Not so great a distance if you wanted a good walk, or a short ride.
But a marathon when you were pushing sick, weary stock.
Dad, always the thinker, came up with plan 'B'. Metal corral panels that could be instantly set up anywhere.
Genius.
In the corner, next to the road and immediately adjacent (good word) to the main gate, he assembled his new acquisition. Shiny green panels of tubular, green-painted steel.
Heavy-duty. Solid.
And set up at a moment's notice.
The answer to all of our prayers.
Okay, we hadn't been praying about it, but you get the picture.
Moving on . . .
We rounded up the herd and pushed them into the corrals which had magically appeared in their own field.
I can't tell you how easy it was.
Okay, I probably could, but . . .
Ahem.
All was going well.
Never say that when ranching. Because the God of Ranching, immediately begins to get creative.
And sends all sorts of 'challenges'.
On this particular day, he sent Nature.
Capital 'N'.
Now, ordinarily, I love storms. The bigger and noisier, the better.
But this storm was a bit different.
There wasn't any wind. A miracle where we lived.
Or rain.
There was only lightning.
And we were standing immediately adjacent (that word again) to metal corrals.
I needn't tell you that lightning likes metal.
My Dad, my younger brother, Blair, and I were busily engaged in . . . cattle stuff.
We really didn't notice the approaching storm until it broke, quite literally, over our heads.
The air suddenly turned a sort of greenish colour.
Then a deafening ZZZZZZZZZZST!
There was a transformer on a tall power pole immediately outside the main gate of the field, not 30 feet from where we were working.
It exploded.
No, really. It was there one moment. Then gone the next.
A curl of smoke rose from the place it had been. Rather hard to ignore.
We all froze in our various positions. Dad and I outside the corral.
Blair stuck in the middle.
With several head of cattle.
Instinctively, he started towards the corral fence.
“Freeze!” Dad barked.
Blair did.
The cattle weren't as obedient.
Now that I think about it, cattle never are.
Obedient, I mean.
But I digress . . .
Let's just say that they were nervous, shall we?
They immediately began to move around, jostling Blair and each other.
“Blair! Don't move!” Dad said. “The next strike will be close!”
Sometimes I hate it when people are right.
Again, the greenish colour.
Again the loud ZZZZZZZZZZST!
Again the exploding.
But what I can remember most is Blair, staring at me from inside that metal corral. That green lightning magnet.
Completely helpless.
I know I did do some praying then.
That second strike hit the next power pole, just down the road from the first one. And then the storm moved away from us.
We started breathing again.
Moving.
I probably don't need to describe Blair's sprint across the corral. And vaulting of the fence.
Let's just say that the Olympics committee would have been impressed.
For several minutes, we just stood there. Breathing.
Outside the corrals.
Thankful to be alive and safe.
It was some time before Dad could convince us to get back to work.
Not an unusual challenge.
But this time we had a good excuse.

You get the idea...

Relative Age

Pfff . . . kids!

Men really don’t pay much attention to age.

At least the men in my life.

Not like women do.

Cases in point:

I had just turned twelve.

An important milestone in my world.

I could now go to 4-H.

And youth activities in our church.

Of course, there were drawbacks.

The price of admission to any of our local movies doubled.

From twenty-five cents.

To fifty.

Yikes.

But I was twelve.

It had taken me twelve long years to get here.

And I wanted the whole world to know it.

Dad was taking us kids to the movies.

And was in the process of buying tickets.

“One adult, three youth and three children, please,” he said.

“Da-ad!” I said. Loudly.

All eyes in the theatre foyer turned to us.

“I’m twelve now!”

“Oh. Are you?” I’m sure he was embarrassed, but he covered it well. “When did that happen?”

“Da-ad!”

Kids aren’t tactful.

Even when they’re twelve.

Moving ahead several years . . .

My Husby and I were at the home of some friends.

Dinner was over.

The visiting had begun.

The conversation had turned to the inevitable - and painful - progression of old age.

My Husby and I were speaking from the advanced ages of twenty-nine and twenty-eight, respectively.

But our friends had both rounded the corner and were into their thirties.

Elderly indeed.

My Husby was teasing the wife. “Well, speaking from the advanced age of thirty-six, you would . . .”

I don’t remember the rest of his statement.

But I do recall that the wife turning an instant and remarkable shade of red. “Thirty-six!!” she said. “Thirty-six?!” She got up and looked in the mirror. “I just turned thirty-four!”

Oops.

Later I asked him what on earth he was thinking.

“Well,” he said. “I thought I was really exaggerating. You know? Over-estimating?”

Oh. Note to Husby. When over-estimating, REALLY over-estimate.

Decades.

Centuries.

Missing by a couple of years is . . . dangerous.

Because as it turns out, age, to women, is important.

See?

Holiday Lunch

Guest Post by Little Brother, Blair

Blair on Holiday.

There was never a lack for work on the ranch.  I emphasize the word “never”.  Whenever there was a school holiday, I would initially think, 'Oh great then I can go biking with my friends or go hiking or tinker in the shop!' 

Then I would get home and dad would have a list of things that we needed to get done that day.  In my final years of high school I really didn’t care if there was a holiday, it was just  another work day for me. 

It seemed that many of these “holiday work” days were windy and cold.  Hey, it was Canada.  Most school holidays were in the fall, winter and spring.  We had lots of blustery days in the fall, winter, and spring.

Our school holiday would usually begin with getting up early and doing chores.  No sleeping in even on a holiday.  Then we would eat breakfast and talk with dad about what he wanted to do that day.  We would then go out to deal with whatever needed to be done.  If we were lucky, we got to work in the barn. Or the corrals where we had the fence to shelter us from the wind. 

The tasks were not usually difficult, just time consuming and cold.  We would work for a few hours in the morning. I learned to wear heavy coats and coveralls becausehe wind would blow dust into our eyes, ears, nose, down our backs.  

When it felt like I could not take any more cold, dad would say that it was time for lunch.  That was a very welcome part of the day.  

We would walk down to the house where mom had created many delicious things to eat. Usually it was a stew or something similar with other yummy stuff.  Whatever the delicious meal was, it had three important components.  It was warm, it tasted good and there was plenty to eat.  However we had to wash first (see above).  Mom made sure we washed before she fed us.  I didn’t argue, I just wanted to fill the void that was called a stomach. 

Mom also served plenty of homemade bread.  This was a wonderful complement to the tasty meal.  It seemed to make the main course taste so much better.  There was usually some homemade treat as well such as cinnamon buns or tarts or pie.  I realize that the cold weather and hard work enhanced the tastiness of the meal.

Now there was another benefit to having plenty to eat.  I could take a little longer and delay going back out to the cold blustery day.  However, all good things need to come to an end and we would put on our coat, coveralls, gloves, and hat and head back to complete our task.  Finally, we would finish, complete our evening chores then go back to the house where mom would have another wonderful meal.  Usually, I could go tinker in the shop after supper.

At least I was able to spend a little time and do something that I liked on my “school holiday”.

The following day, I would be back at school where I would hear about all of the fun things that my friends had done on the “holiday”.  I didn’t have much to say about my day.  If I tried to tell them what I did, they would look at me strangely.  

But hey, I got the fed the best.

Lights

We drove along, my folks and me,

And siblings, categorically,

I don’t know where we all had been,

Now we were heading home again.

Along the road, its twists and curves,

Dad drove along with care. And swerves.

And I, with nose against the glass

Was watching small poles that we passed.

Each one lit up when we drove by,

When passed, went dark. I wondered why,

And how they knew just when to light,

To keep us safe, when out at night.

Then all at once, there in my brain,

I had an im-pres-sion, again.

Quite suddenly, for sure, I knew,

What lit the poles there in my view.

Each pole was lighted just for me,

By little ‘pole men’ I can’t see.

Their lighting was a perfect mix,

Of strength, agility, and sticks.

‘Twas kind of them, I’m sure you know,

To flip that little switch below.

And light the pole for us to see,

So we could navigate safely.

I thanked them, each and every one,

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Done.

My mom looked back inquiringly,

“What are you doing, Dear?” asked me.

“I’m thanking all the pole guys, Mom.”

Confused, she frowned at me, said, “Ummm…

Okay. If that’s what makes you glad.”

Then turned and shook her head at dad.

All this was many years ago,

And I learned fast. (And sometimes slow.)

And whether old, or youngest waif,

That life has lights. They keep you safe.

And when you've safely passed on through,

Please thank your little pole men, too.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,

To try to make the week begin,

With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So Jenny and Delores, we,

Now post our poems for you to see.

And when you’ve read what we have brought,

Did we help? Or did we not . . .

And next week, cause we've seen the light, 

We tackle 'PEOPLE' with our might!

A World of Creation

You see food. I see . . . possibilities.

The headquarters/chief residence of the Stringam ranch, like most ranch houses then and now, was centred around a large, family kitchen.
Everything important happened in that room.
Eating, visiting, business, playing. More eating.
It was, quite literally, the soul of the house.
Mom reigned supreme over its scrubbed surfaces and gleaming appliances.
All traffic came through it, stopping either briefly, or of longer duration.
I lived there.
Whenever Mom was in residence (and Mom was always in residence), I could be found.
Underfoot.
Dragging out stacks of plastic ware or pots and pans.
Or, even more exciting, the dozens of Jello packages that Mom kept in a corner cupboard.
Just for me.
It was amazing what one could construct out of those small, cardboard boxes.
Castles. Forts. Corrals. Houses. Barns. Apartment buildings. Stores.
Even schools.
Infinite hours of fun and creativity. Infinite possibilities.
I should mention, here, that Lego hadn't reached my little world.
Yet.
But it would.
Moving on . . .
And my Mom, moving about the kitchen, had to step carefully to avoid disaster.
To both of us.
How lightly she moved, dancing and weaving around the complicated constructs that, to me, were edifices of genius and creativity.
Occasionally, we came to grief. Something I had made would have meandered a little too far across the floor and Mom would trip over . . . it.
But not often.
Mom should have been a professional terpsichorean (real word – I looked it up).
Or Superman. She could certainly leap any building I made with a single bound.
Looking back, though, I have to wonder why Mom kept so many Jello packages in that cupboard.
Certainly, we ate a lot of it.
But that still didn't justify the number of boxes stored there.
Maybe, like Moms everywhere, she knew . . .
Just how much fun assembling castles out of sweet-smelling boxes could be.

There is a codicil . . .
My grandchildren were playing on the floor of the kitchen as their mother and I were preparing supper. They had a complicated construction of Tupperware, old yogurt containers, pots . . . and Jello packages.
I stepped over it.
“Careful, Gramma! You'll knock down the princess' castle!”
And suddenly, I was four years old again.
Creating worlds on the kitchen floor.

Princesses of the New Age

Not just another pretty face!

Our family was together.

Because we do everything in a group.

Or in our case, a herd.

We do it often. With almost everyone living close, it's an easy thing.

On this day, we were at our local church building.

We had been eating and visiting. My two favourite things.

Now, while some of us continued with that, Grampa and a couple of mothers/aunties had gathered several of the younger kids together in the gym.

They were in a circle to play some games.

Most of which included loud noises.

Clawing, scratching and biting gestures.

And animal sounds.

They were . . . involved.

One of the two-year-old girls came out of the gym.

Stomping.

And with both hands raised in her best clawing-the-neighbours-or-anyone-else-who-might-get-in-the-way position.

Auntie stopped her.

“Are you a bear?” she asked.

The little girl looked at her indignantly and sniffed. “I’m a princess!” she stated. “See my pretty dress?!”

Auntie and I looked at each other. “Not the sort of princess I was raised with, but . . . okay,” she said.

It’s a new world.

Princesses now have claws, stomp around and growl a lot.

But still wear pretty dresses.

Just FYI.

(B)EEK!

Admit it. This strikes terror into your heart.

For three years, we lived in the ‘Little House on the Prairie’.

Really.

It was a little house. (Just over 300 square feet.)

And we lived in it.

My Husby had built it as a dog kennel.

Then turned it into a chicken coop.

Finally, cleaned it up, insulated and finished the inside.

And moved his family into it.

But that isn’t what this story is about . . .

Our little house was heated with a wood stove.

Toasty.

During the summer (ie. July), that stove sat cold and unused.

Once August rolled around and temperatures started to cool, however, it was pressed back into use.

And that’s where this story starts.

Oh, and I should probably mention that I‘m afraid of chickens.

Just FYI.

Moving on . . .

My Dad was over for a visit. Which invariably consisted of trying to carry on a conversation with three little boys playing between us in the only available space in our little house.

It was nearly suppertime. The room was starting to cool.

Time for a fire.

I checked the damper. (I want you to know that I knew what I was doing . . .)

Opened the door of our little stove.

Piled in wood and kindling.

And lit a match.

Flames licked up immediately.

And that’s when we heard it . . .

The scratching and clawing and fluttering of something inside the chimney.

We both stood there, stunned. What on earth . . .?

“You must have a bird caught in the chimney,” Dad said.

What?! How was that possible?!

The poor thing!!!

I grabbed a bucket and doused the small fire, then began pulling out bits of blackened wood and setting them back into the box.

Finally, the stove was clear.

Dad and I knelt down and peered inside.

“Oh, I see it!” I said.

It was a blackbird.

The poor thing had obviously been overcome by smoke and dropped into the back of the stove. Quite clearly dead.

I reached out to grab what I thought was a foot in the uncertain light.

It wasn’t.

“EWWWWW! A BEAK! A BEAK! A BEAK!!”

Dad shook his head and stared at me as I did the dance of disgust. *Shudder*

Eventually, he got the bird out and we gave it a proper burial.

Later, my Husby checked to see how it had gotten inside in the first place. Ah. A loose screen. Quickly remedied.

I can wrangle the most dastardly fur-bearing animals the barnyard can offer.

But chickens and I give each other a wide berth.

Turns out that it’s really their beaks I’m afraid of.

And a beak is a beak.

No matter whom it’s on.

Gathering

A couple of victims clients.

Action.

Audience

Branding.
First a little lot of background . . .
Branding, at the Stringam ranch, invariably took place in high summer.
And lasted forever.
Okay, I was six. Everything seemed to last forever.
Except Christmas, but I digress . . .
For the entire day prior, every rider on the place would be involved in gathering the herds. With an operation the size of ours, this was no easy task. The fields were a section (640 acres) in size and, normally, two riders would have to work together, collecting the animals in their assigned area. Then those smaller herds would be gathered, one by one, into the main corrals.
The sun would be high and hot, baking the wonderful scent out of the sage.
There would be glorious vistas of open, wind-swept prairies where one could see, literally, for miles.
Heat and dust and sweat.
And an unbelievable din.
Picture this: Hundreds of cow and calf pairs, which, when herded together immediately become . . . unpaired.
They start bawling for each other. ('Where are you?' in cow, invariably sounds the same, 'Mooooah') They aren't smart enough to actually . . . look . . . for one another. And everyone looks the same anyway.
The cows merely sniff any calf that happens in their vicinity. 'Sniff', nope. 'Sniff', nope. 'Sniff', nope. 'Mooooah'.
And so it goes . . .
Slowly, each herd is driven to the corrals and penned. Hay is thrown into the mangers. The cows finally find their babies. Peace is restored, somewhat.
Then, another herd is brought in and everyone immediately becomes separated again.
More bawling. Then they get sorted out. Then another herd.
This goes on all day and into the evening.
Things are quiet for the night.
Then, the big day dawns. The most exciting, but noisiest day of the year.
Cows and calves are separated and the cows are moved into the largest pen.
The calves go into pens which connect to the chutes. One by one, these smaller, though not necessarily easier to work with, animals are pushed down the chute and into the squeeze (an apparatus which captures the calf and then converts into a table by tilting sideways).
And then, with the noise, come the smells.
Hot metal of irons in the fire.
Burning hair as those irons are briefly pressed to the tough hide.
KRS, a disinfectant.
Manure.
One by one, the calves are branded. Inoculated. Then released.
One by one, they find their Mamas. And slowly, ever so slowly, order is restored.
Then the entire herd is released and driven back out into the pastures.
More noise and confusion.
Then all is quiet . . .
 Every year, on the ranch, this is a highlight. For us humans, anyways. (I have to admit, it probably isn't quite as exciting for the cows, or their babies.)
Enough background . . .
This was the most exciting year of all. This was the first year I was able to participate. Well, as something more than just 'Diane-get-out-of-here-you're-going-to-get-trampled!'.
The excitement was palpable.
A crew had been assembled. (As branding is such a big job, invariably, neighbors come in to help.)
My oldest sister and I were given the smallest, and nearest field. We left the chatting, laughing, gesticulating crowd and headed towards our assignment.

The two of us gathered our herd and pushed them toward the 'New' corrals. The pens that had been constructed across the Milk River from the ranch buildings, within the actual fields. Somehow, that name just stuck. Even after said corrals had been there a number of years. A great number of years.
My sister and I chased our little herd into the corrals. Then we sat back and watched as the others' herds came in.
There were a few tense moments, but mostly, everything went off well.
The herd was tucked in for the evening.

The next morning, the real work began.
I was assigned to be the 'pusher'.
And no, it's not what it sounds like.
I was the person inside the chute with the calves, pushing each of them into the squeeze so they could be branded.
It was hot, heavy work, especially for a 6-year-old.
And I loved it.
Push. Push. Push. Gate closes. Squeeze squeezes. Tilts sideways. Branding. Shots. Tilts back. Squeeze unsqueezes. Front gate opens. Calf bolts.
Push. Push. Push . . .
And so it went throughout the day. At noon, Mom appeared with lunch for everyone and we abandoned our posts to gather in whatever bit of shade we could find, and gorge.
Have I mentioned that Mom was a great cook?
Two brothers, neighboring ranchers noted for their pranks and hijinks, were on hand to help us out.
They had found a comfortable spot for lunch on one side of the car Mom had driven up in.
Mom and Dad had relaxed on the other side.
Mom had made the mistake of supplying sliced watermelon for our dessert.
The two brothers, as they had finished each piece of watermelon, launched the rinds up into the air over the car, aiming for my hapless parents.
Two rinds had been met with silence. Obvious misses.
The third rind went up.
"Hey!" My Dad's voice.
Bingo.
Dad got up and stalked, playfully, around the car, but the brothers were already gone. He shook his head, turned towards the corrals and walked over to stand next to the chute.
It was the signal for the rest of us to get back to work.
I crawled up the side of the chute and prepared to drop down inside.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alfred, one of the brothers, sneaking up behind my Dad. I turned to watch.
Alfred was carrying a pitcher of ice-cold water, which he proceeded to empty into my Dad's back pocket.
"Hey!" Dad spun around. But by then, Alfred had, once more, disappeared.
Everyone, including Dad, got a real laugh out of that one. Fortunately, with the hot, dry air, his soaked pant leg soon dried.
By sunset, the work was finished and the herds sent back out to pasture. Everyone who had been involved assembled at the house for supper, feeling sunburnt, windblown, tired . . . and happy.
That year, as in previous years, we all sat around the table, talking and laughing.
And it was then I realized that branding was a time of gathering, not just of cattle, but of  family and friends. Because of the vast distances between settlements in this prairie country, people would go months without seeing each other.
So branding, in addition to being the apex of the year regarding the work, was also a time of visiting. Re-acquaintance and exchanging of news.
Perhaps that is why it was so important to all of us who lived there.

More crew. And the squeeze.

In case you missed the announcement, my newest novel, A House Divided is now in stores!

Find your copy at these fine stores;

Chapters/Indigo

Barnes and Noble

Deseret Book

Cedar Fort Publishing (Books and Things)

Amazon.com

Amazon.ca