Another Glimpse

Grandma and Grandpa Stringam (circa 1930)

Grandma Stringam was born in Teasdale, Utah July 31, 1885. She passed away in Lethbridge, Alberta May 13, 1981 at the age of 95.

 The things she witnessed during her life’s span are amazing.

Mind-boggling.

She is my hero.

Following are a couple of recollections from Grandma’s journals:

The first explains her life-long dread of snakes. Though, like the rest of us (*cough* me!) she probably didn’t need much encouragement . . .

Two-year old Grandma and her older brothers and sisters were on their way to their Grandma and Grandpa William’s house. Something that involved, in their rural area, a hike across the fields.

Ahead of them, something slithered in the grass.

A Snake!

Her siblings grabbed her by the arms and helped her jump over it.

But she got a good glimpse. Her first of such a creature.

Yeah. That did it. Something so long, cold and slithery must be treated with care.

Or downright suspicion. She decided then and there that, whenever she came into contact with such a creature, she would remain aloof.

And very far away.

The second recollection was of her father, my Great-Grandpa Williams.

And her sister, Maude.

Grandma remembered her father very well, though he died when she was seven of ‘dropsy of the heart’. She remembered his height, brown eyes and dark hair. His long face and Roman nose. She recalled how strict he was, but kind. And that when he told his children to do something, they were to do it.

Or else.

At this time, Grandma—just a bit older than her first recollection (see above)—had slapped her sister Maude in the mouth for swearing.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes, I’d like to slap a few people, too.

Ahem . . .

Grandma receive a spanking (hiding, tanning, blistering, etc.) for her actions.

Meted out by her disapproving father.

Yeah. There’s another memory that would stay with you for a very long time.

Even after the sting had disappeared . . .

Reunited

I spun around.

“Your door was open and I called and I called. I even used my ‘foghorn’ voice. But you didn’t answer.”

I let out my breath and brushed self-consciously at my cheeks. “Hi, Edith,” I said. “You startled me.”

She eyed me for a moment--my reddened eyes. The obvious tear tracks down my cheeks. “You did invite me. Didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“I could hear you talking to someone, so I knew you were here.” She looked around, puzzled. “You were talking to someone, weren’t you?”

I sighed. Okay, I know that Cousin Edith is my closest relative apart from she-who-is-everywhere-but-cannot-be-seen. But let’s face it. Hers wasn’t the face I was hoping to see.

“Oh, this is for you.” She held out a basket. “I’m assuming, anyways. It was on your front step.”

I peered at it suspiciously. “On my front step?”

“Yeah. I figured someone must have left it there. It was in a pretty obvious ‘trip-over-me’ location.” She looked around. “Where do you want me to put it?”

I blinked. “What’s in it?”

She set the basket on the table and we pawed through it together.

“Huh. Pre-cooked turkey. Pre-cooked potatoes and vegetables. Pre-cooked everything!” I held up a small, stone crock. “Even pre-cooked . . .” my voice caught, “. . . Swedish meatballs.” I felt a bright stab of . . . something that approached both pain and happiness. “Whoever sent this definitely knows me. This is my idea of Christmas dinner!”

Cousin Edith finished sorting through the packages. “Look! Some nice, rum-filled chocolates to end with.”

“Or start with.” I reached for the box, deftly slit the cellophane wrapping and flipped the lid to the table. Yes. I have to admit, I’ve done this before. “Want some?”

Cousin Edith balled up plump fists and waved them excitedly. “Ooooh! Maybe just one.”

You have to know that, for women like us, ‘just one’ could mean many things. Just one chocolate. Or, more likely, just one row or, better yet, one layer.

Half an hour later, I foiled the last chocolate's escape attempt, catching it before it could roll to the floor. Cradling it in my hand, I sat back and muzzily surveyed the room. My cousin nearly comatose in the chair opposite, the empty chocolate box upside-down on the floor between us, and Reggie looking at both of us in patented bird-disgust.

He ruffled his feathers, clicked his beak and croaked out, “Smelly old broad!”

I threw the chocolate at him and he squawked and said something rude.

I turned away and slumped down comfortably in my chair, certain I was supposed to be doing something. But not caring one whit if it ever got done.

“Ohhhh, my head!” Edith said.

“My stomach!” I said in much the same tone.

Party animals, we’re not.

“I’ll get the Tums.” I got to my feet, then gripped the arm of the chair I had been sitting in as the room assumed a parabolic swing.

“And maybe a cool cloth for my head?” Edith said, hopefully.

I nodded carefully, then with equal care, started toward the kitchen. Halfway across the room, I stopped. Listened. I looked at Cousin Edith. “Did you hear that?”

She looked up at me a bit blearily. “Hear what?”

“Never mind.” I continued across the room and flipped the door back.

Norma straightened from in front of the oven and glared at me. “When I sent this food, I didn’t mean to see it left here on the table to decompose!”

I stopped breathing and just stood there, staring, the effects of my recent close encounter with rum draining away.

She lifted the chocolate box lid and looked around for the chocolates. “I see the most important things got taken care of.”

“Norma?” My words had a hard time getting past my tight throat. “Norma?”

She smiled and spread her arms wide. “Surprise!”

My legs felt rubbery as I gingerly crossed the kitchen. I reached out and touched her shoulder. “Norma?”

“Merry Christmas, Sis!”

I wrapped my arms around her plump form and squeezed. “Norma!”

She hugged me, patting my back as I took a sobbing breath. Then I gripped her by the shoulders and held her away so I could look at her. “Are you all right? Do you need to bathe? Are you . . . hungry?” Okay, yes, I guess you could say my mind was justifiably firing in many different directions.

She laughed. “I’m fine, to answer your first question. Yes, I could use a bath. They don’t have them over there, but they don’t really seem to be needed. And I’m planning on sharing this . . .” she glanced over the pre-prepared dinner sitting on the table, “. . . erm . . . feast with you and Cousin Edith.”

“Norma?”

We both turned. Cousin Edith was standing in the doorway. The expression on her face must have been a mirror image of mine.

“Hi, Cousin Edith!” Norma said, brightly. “Merry Christmas!”

Edith isn’t made of the same stern stuff as me.

Edith fainted . . .

Christmas dinner happened. Probably not as fancy as feasts in other homes.

Or as plentiful.

But, though at least one member of the party was rather peaked-looking, I don’t think there was another celebration that was as happy.

Funny how you don’t really appreciate something—or someone—until they are taken from you.

Fortunately for me, Norma was returned.

Much the same as she had always been.

“Mama’s home, Baby!” she said brightly as she reached into the cage for her looney handful of beak and feathers.

Reggie danced up her arm to her shoulder, sat there a moment, blinking and bobbing, then reached out and bit her on the ear, drawing a bright drop of blood.

“I love you, too, sweetie,” Norma crooned.

Yep. Much as she had always been.

Weird old bird.

Enjoying this episode of the Sputterling Sisters?
Catch up with them here:
Coming Home

Sticking to It
From Over There

Barbecue With Spirits
Something Scary
Beached
Christmas with the Sputterlings
Raindance

Tell-Tale Sneeze
Sisters
Catching Up

Use Your Words is the brainchild of Karen at Baking in a Tornado.

A writing challenge with a twist. Each participant contributes a set of words.

And then Karen re-issues those words to someone else in the group.

It’s fun.

And challenging!

My words this month decompose ~ foghorn ~ location ~ pursue

came to me from:

Rena at The Blogging 911

Thank you, my friend!

Now hurry over and see what the other challengers have done!

Baking In A Tornado

Bookworm in the Kitchen

Cognitive Script

The Bergham Chronicles

Southern Belle Charm

The Blogging 911

Part-Time Working Hockey Mom

Climaxed

Pi Day 2018

And it ends for another year.
Can't believe it's come and gone so soon.
But we have the memories.
And the crumbs . . .

Getting started . . .

75 pies this year. 75. Yow.

And afterward . . .

Yes, it's a lot of work. My eldest daughter and I figure it took about 8 hours to roll and bake all those pies. Which gave us a chance to visit. And visit.

And roll pies.

And visit.

(Just FYI, her pie crust has officially surpassed mine.)

But it's so worth it!

A chance to get together with people we love.

And eat pie.

It's a perfect world.

Mad March

With gusty winds and snow that doesn’t quit.

The segue month that most love (not one bit).

That gusty month of March, we call it ‘mad’.

But mad or not, it’s the best month that we’ve had.

‘Cause in March a lot of great things found a patent,

All neatly filed in English, French or Latin . . .

In 1790 we got our first shoelaces,

And '94’s cotton gin improved workplaces,

Dry cleaned clothes? Yes, 1821,

And ‘41’s cornstarch made cooking fun.

In ’45 our honored rubber band,

In ’76 the phone was very grand,

The earmuff came along in ’77,

An ‘83 shoes-last thing? Cobbling heaven.

In 1895 some strange machines,

Moved entertainment fun from stage to screen.

An electric player piano—’99,

With the needed aspirin following close behind.

1902, they mass-produced our glass,

The Kewpie Doll in ’10 was such a gas.

A diver’s suit for ‘Harry’ in ’21,

And ‘Who’s on First in ’44? Number one.

The first fax sent? The year was ’55,

In ’59 the ‘maser’ came alive.

‘Twas followed by the laser, one year hence,

In ’63, the hula hoop was immense.

There are a whole lot more that I have missed,

I simply hadn’t room upon this list.

‘Mad’ scientists invented one and all,

The patents came in March. The best of all!

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"
We write because she's our Big Cheese,
And we love her, you know that is true,

So this is what we writers do . . .

We craft a poem based on a theme,
With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,
Or at a 'puter screen, we stare,
Whilst sitting in our underwear,
(Okay, you're right, that is just me,
But, tell me, does it sound carefree?)
Each month we write and have such fun
We can't wait for another one,
Now this month, how well did I do?
Please go and see the others, too.

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: March Madness

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Mad As A Hatter: March Madness

Jules of The Bergham Chronicles: Mad, Mad World

Mmmmmolasses

Daddy. Rolling out the barrel.

His crew.

A major ingredient in recipes for cookies, cakes, pies, casseroles, meats, breads, vegetables.

Strong alcoholic drinks.

Let’s face it. If you eat. Or drink. You’ve probably eaten (or drunk . . . drinked . . . drank . . . dranked?) this.

Just picture it.

Sticky sweet. Dark. Rich.

Slows down in January.

Yep. Molasses. The boiled down juice of sugar cane and/or sugar beets.

Papa of golden sugar and grandpapa of crystallized. Major sweetener in so many things.

And an especial favourite/fattener of cattle.

And that is where this story starts . . .

Daddy had taken his (then) two children with him to feed the cows.

Okay, yes, that probably doesn’t sound all that exciting. But it meant a truck ride.

And thus, two willing participants. Aged three and two.

The truck pulled into the field where the aforementioned cows made their home. The three piled out.

Daddy got to work. His ‘helpers’ keeping a close watch.

He rolled a barrel of molasses to the ‘lick’.

Now for anyone who may not have seen this, a lick is just that. A large steel container with a wheel suspended inside which, when turned, dips into the sweet stickiness and brings it to whoever’s tongue happens to be operating the wheel.

Genius.

If one happens to be a cow.

Between you and I, attempting to place my own tongue on the business part of said wheel would have been . . . how can I say this without sounding disgusting? . . . icky.

Back to my story . . .

Daddy dipped his finger in the molasses as it poured from his smaller container. Tasted it. “Mmmm!” He smacked his lips for emphasis. “Yummy!”

He dipped the finger of his eldest child, the three-year-old, in it. Obediently, she did as he did and stuck it in her mouth. “Mmmm!”

Yep. She and the molasses were instant friends.

Dad tried the same technique with his two-year-old son. Who made a face and couldn’t be persuaded to try again, despite the subsequent coaxings of his elder sister.

Dad left them to it, elder sister enticing and smaller brother protesting, and went back to his work.

In a short time, his barrels were empty and the lick full.

He loaded the canisters and the kids back into the truck and headed for home.

Partway there, his little girl suddenly showed signs of gastric distress. He slid the truck to the side of the road, grabbed her and hustled her to the ditch.

Where she subsequently deposited about a half-cup of molasses.

Obviously she had been doing much more than coaxing her brother to eat. 

Oops.

Back home she was cheerful and smiling and ready for dinner.

But Daddy learned his lesson.

Already sweet kids don’t need further sweetening.

An important point.

Old Mules Rule

It was a cold November morn,

And Sid had come to town for corn,

But when he passed old Joseph’s farm,

He thought there might be some alarm.

A crowd of men were packed in tight,

So Sid went over, thought he might

See something curious there today,

A thrill to send him on his way.

So as he moved on through the crowd,

He voiced his question right out loud,

“Say what has happened, folks?” said he.

“What is it that you all can see?”

“A tragedy,” said his friend Gus.

“It’s really causing quite a fuss.”

He pointed. “See right there by the straw?

The old mule kicked Joe’s Ma-in-law!"

Sid craned his neck and, sure enough,

The woman lay there on her duff,

Not moving much that he could see,

As cold and still as she could be.

Gus shrugged and then he looked around,

“Joe found her lying on the ground!

 The old mule kicked her in the head,

We do believe the woman’s dead!”

Sid nodded, “Yep. Misfortune, true.”

He looked around, “But don’t be blue.

“It’s obvious she’d lots of friends

To come and mourn her in the end.”

Gus shook his head, “Yep, they were stirred,

And they came running when they heard.

But not for sympathy, the fools.

They simply want to buy the mule!”

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 . . .

Next week, we'll share, if you are good,

A lesson from our childhood!

Stacked

I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again: Mom was a terrific cook.

But that is only incidental to this story . . .

Sunday dinner in the Stringam household usually consisted of some form of baked or roasted, uber tender beef and/or turkey and/or chicken and/or ham.

Creamy mashed potatoes.

Salad (green and/or jellied), cooked vegetables.

And thick, delicious gravy.

Okay, yes, there were variables on the theme.

But most of the time, this is what we looked forward to.

There were numerous ways of eating said delicious-ness.

Some of us had little, individual countries of food. Separated by the no-man’s land of bare plate. (I know that is how Husby insisted his food be served when he was very young. Till his father pointed out that all the food ends up in the same place anyway. Hmmm . . .)

Some didn’t care how the food was put on the plate.

As long as it was there.

And in large quantities.

I had my method, which rather morphed as time went by.

First of all, it was mashed potatoes in a mountain, hollowed out at the top to receive a lake of gravy.

And yes, it was so I could get—and maintain—more of the rich, brown yummy-ness.

Other things, veggies, meat, were crowded closely and if they got gravy on them, well and good.

Emphasis on good.

Except for the salad (green or otherwise), which was kept away from the others and eaten quickly (and first) to avoid any chance of gravy splash-age.

Say what you will. The food was amazing.

And gone.

As years passed, I discovered a new and better way of gormandizing.

Layers.

Potatoes topped by veggies topped by chunks of meat topped by a fountain of gravy.

Eaten all together.

Mmmm . . .

Married, with small kids, I went back to things flotched on the plate and eaten quickly (and usually cold) as I tried to get food into my littles.

I have found that this method has remained even though my littles are far from little.

Husby always has and still does calmly arrange his food. Season and butter to taste. Enjoy every mouthful. And finish long after me.

Now, my point in telling you this is:

During our last family supper, we had salads, roast beef, vegetables and gravy.

Most of my kids simply took.

And ate.

#3 son put down a foundation of mashed potatoes. Covered it well with vegetables and chunks of meat.

And smothered the whole mountain in gravy.

Yep. He’s mine.

Three Horses

Blair. BRH (Before his REAL horse)

Shamy. On the day she came into our lives.
Blair is the little guy in his sister's hand-me-down, red snowsuit.

 While growing up I was given 3 horses to take care of.  These noble steeds made a great impact on my life and even today I often think about them. 

The first horse was given to me on my third birthday.  I don’t remember much from that day except for the thrill to have a horse that I could call mine.

She was an extremely gentle and an extremely fat welsh pony named Shamy.

I don’t know who came up with the name. I suspect that my older “smarter” horse savvy sister.

At the time, I didn’t care what the horse’s name was.  I just cared that I had one and had risen to the lofty ranks of cowboy.

Shamy on the day she became Blair's.

Shamy was so fat that the birthday picture of me sitting on her was quite amusing.  Me, sitting on her back with my legs extended almost horizontal (that’s a word I learned in engineering school).

As I grew a little older I was able to sit more like a cowboy on my great white horse.

At the mature old age of 5, my sisters took me on a trail ride.

And it was this that illustrated what was most amazing about Shamy . . .

I found myself at one point getting pulled off her back by a broken fence post that I didn’t have the good sense to duck under.

Now some horses would be gone to the farthest points of the field if that happened.  Instead, Shamy just stood and waited.

I should probably mention that at the mature age of 5, I was very mad and carrying on (ok I was crying) until my sister pointed out that Shamy thought I was being silly.

I looked up at Shamy and she seemed to have a very annoyed expression on her face.  I don’t remember much more about Shamy. I expect she got old and went to the great horse pasture in the sky.

I road several horses through the years, but I didn’t really have one that I was responsible for until I was given an Arabian cross that we called Molly—an amazing horse with limitless energy. When I rode her, she was always moving.

I think she had a case of horsey ADHD.

I taught Molly how to open a barb wire gate while I sat on her back.

This is a little tricky. You ride up to the gate, lean off to the side of the horse and loosen the gate post. Then you pull the post back slightly and have the horse spin around in a tight circle while passing the lead post under the horse’s neck.

See? Tricky.

One thing that I couldn’t do is get piled (horse parlance for dumped. Bucked off. Catching air. Shot to the moon. You get the picture) by Molly. If that happened, she would head immediately for the farthest end of the field.

However, one day, Molly and I were trying to cut an ornery cow from the herd. The cow took off at a run for the nearest faraway place and Molly happily followed. The cow rounded a grove of trees with Molly and I in close pursuit. As we rounded the trees, Molly crossed a muddy cow trail and lost her footing.

She and I both hit the ground.

I twisted my ankle slightly but I think that it knocked the wind out of Molly because, though I lost the reins Molly stayed. I was able to grab the reins and we resumed our chase after the cow. 

A little more slowly and a lot more cautiously.

My third noble stead was a Yamaha 100.

Yes, I’m aware that my sister does not consider motorcycles equivalent to horses.

At the time that I got the bike I would have disagreed but now . . .

However, the Yamaha had several advantages:

It took less time to saddle (saddle/seat already attached).

You could cover large areas in a very short time.

They didn’t need to be fed hay every day.

And, more importantly (even though at times I thought so), they didn’t have a mind of their own.

The major disadvantage was that you could not enjoy a peaceful ride to check the cow herd.

As I get older I often think about Shamy and wish I could ride through the herd just one more time.

In the early morning. Smelling the sage. Listening to the early morning sounds. Watching the small calves get up from their evening sleep and stretch.

I miss the peace.

And yes, he occasionally shared her...

Beast Mastered

My elder siblings. Before they were elder . . .

I was witnessing a miracle.
My brother, George, was on a horse.
Voluntarily.
The professed hater of horses. Astride one.
I was so proud of him.
And excited.
A whole new world was opening up for me. I could picture long rides together, exploring the ranch, picnics in our saddlebags.

Okay, so neither of us actually had saddlebags, but we did know how to tie a bread bag of food behind our saddles.
That was almost as good.
I also have to admit that we never had quite acquired the knack of packing said food so that it didn’t mix together. Once we had chocolate cake and cheese, that . . . 

But that is another (gulp) story.

Moving on . . .
George was riding. He was on his little pony, Star, doing circuits of the barnyard.
A slow start, but a start nonetheless.
I was on my way to the corral for my horse, Pinto. This amazing event simply had to be shared. I couldn’t pass up such an incredible opportunity.
Even as I approached the corral, however, I could see that destiny was working against us.
Destiny in the form of one of the hired men.
He was standing, motionless, next to the gate of said corral. In his posture I could detect . . . malevolence? Cunning? Creepy-ness?
No, just stupidity.
He reached out and . . . opened the gate.
Now the horses imprisoned there had been standing around for hours, heads hanging, trying their horsey best to look as unenergetic as possible. The hope being that, through their posture alone, they could discourage any potential riders from inflicting them with their frivolous plans for . . . work.
Or anything work-y.
Dynamite couldn’t have moved them.
Only one thing, in fact, could awaken them from their comatose state.
The promise of freedom.
Through that open gate, they could glimpse . . . far away-edness. 

And they made a straight line for it.
Right through my brother, George.
He was calm. He didn’t panic.
He had me for that.
I watched in horror as his little horse was scooped up by the rest and whisked off towards . . . wherever they were going.
With horses, you never know.
They don’t even know.
The entire group galloped as one, down the hill, along the river.
My brother’s blue coat was clearly visible in the melee as he clung desperately to the smallest horse.
Now one can only imagine the deadly possibilities.
The churning hoofs, flint hard and razor sharp.
Okay, I’m exaggerating.
But they still could cause some rather serious damage.
Even at four I knew that.

I spun around and headed for the house screaming at the top of my lungs, “My brother! My brother!”
Not really original, I’ll admit, but effective.

My Mom came on the run, white faced and breathless.

I pointed at the cloud of dust rapidly moving towards the nearest far-away place and continued to holler. 

The two of us stared at it.
And at the little cloud that was rapidly losing ground against the larger horses.

Star was falling behind.
It was then that we saw pony and blue jacket part company.
Sensing a safer moment, still not too far from the ranch buildings, George had decided to cut his losses, discard dignity, and bail off.
As his tiny figure began the long trek home, the two of us raced to meet him.
It was a joyous reunion.
Not.
George was bruised, both physically and emotionally.

And mad.

And no one can get mad quite like George.
Picture Dad.
But smaller and more concentrated.
Fortunately, he wasn’t mad at us.
Just at the hired man.
And every horse in the world.
A fact that (sigh) remains to this day.

Tiny Bubbles

See? Parents have the best parties.

Mom and Dad were having a bridge party.

Bridge is a card game.

Now you know as much as I do.

Moving on . . .

The cards tables were being set out.

Lacy, white cloths arranged.

Bowls of nuts and fancy dishes of bridge mix placed.

(Note: Pertaining to the bridge mix . . . some of those little balls of chocolate delicious-ness aren’t. Delicious, that is. The chocolate is there to fool unsuspecting children who may or may not be snitching. True story.)

Adults had the best parties.

Daddy was arranging the bar.

Now you have to know that my parents were teetotalers. But most of their friends weren’t. So they (my parents) got very creative with the drinks they served their guests so they (the guests) wouldn’t miss their normal imbibe-age-ness (Sigh. Okay, you’re right, I don’t know what to call it. Sheesh.).

Usually, their beverages of choice were fruit juices mixed with an assortment of fizzy soft drinks.

And all were kid approved.

I know because I was the kid.

And I approved.

“What’s that?” I’d ask Daddy.

“That is orange juice mixed with Cream Soda.”

“Can I have a sip?”

“Yes. Just a little sip.” Pours some into my glass.

Sippage. “Mmmm. I like that one!”

“Good.”

“Daddy. What’s that one?”

“That one is lemonade.”

“Can I have a sip?”

“Yes. Just a little sip.” Pours some into my glass.

Sippage. “Mmmm. I like that one.”

“Good.”

“Daddy . . .”

You can see where this is going.

So did my dad.

And we’ve come to the point of my story . . .

Now there were always guests that didn’t want their drinks so sweet. And for these, my parents stocked something called ‘Soda Water’.

And cut up lemons and limes.

Which looked intriguing.

Till Daddy let me suck on one.

Suckage. “Yuck! I don’t like that one!”

“Good.”

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to another drink he was preparing.

“That’s Soda Water.”

“Can I have a sip?”

“Sure.” Pours some into my glass.

Sippage. “Blah! Daddy that’s yucky stuff!”

Quiet laughter as Diane disappears.

The memory of that awful stuff stayed with me for decades. Yes, I have a very long memory. For anything unimportant.

This Christmas, Husby bought me a soda machine. Now I pour clear water into a bottle and attach it to the spigot. Push the button allowing lovely bubbles to be shot through the water, resulting in . . . soda water.

Sippage. Mmmm. I like that one!

How far I’ve come . . .

The Legs of Winter

Daddy at Work: Winter

Daddy at work: Summer

Daddy at church.

Daddy at leisure

Daddy at play.

 I know this is going to be hard to believe, but I just spent six whole weeks dressed in shorts.

In the middle of the Great Canadian Winter.

I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t experienced it.

Of course I was nowhere near Canada when it happened.

Still . . .

On the last day of our holiday I was lamenting to Husby about having to put on long pants to go home. And it reminded me suddenly of my dad . . .

Daddy dressed pretty much the same every work day.

Neatly creased blue jeans. Tough but tidy work shirt.

Laced up work boots.

Gloves. Hat.

On Sundays, he wore neatly pressed dress pants and crisp, white shirt and tie. Or a full suit.

Polished boots.

No gloves. Dress Sunday cowboy hat.

When the rest of us swam, he watched and guarded, fully clothed.

My point in telling you this is: I saw Daddy’s bare legs maybe half-a-dozen times in my life.

In. My. Life.

Daddy didn’t go for shorts.

Even in the towering heat (it does happen) of a three-week Canadian summer.

Maybe he was self-conscious about the colour of his legs? Glistening white, as would be expected of the skin of a redhead that never, ever sees the light of day.

Skinny? Oh, they were well-muscled. But riding horseback all day, every day, makes wiry muscles as opposed to massive ones.

Hairy. Okay, this one goes without saying. Everyone’s legs are hairy.

Ahem . . .

Whatever the reason, he was never seen in shorts.

Until that day . . . (cue music: Dun Dun Duuuuun!)

Daddy was living in a senior’s apartment complex in Taber, Alberta.

It had been near his sweetheart when she was confined to a nursing home in her last years.

He stayed on after she was called Home.

He liked it there.

Enjoyed the activities. The amenities.

The peace and quiet.

Liked the people.

His neighbours were affable, social people. He and they got along well.

Mostly.

On that day, he and his neighbour stepped into the hallway at the same time.

His neighbour stopped. Stared.

Daddy was wearing shorts.

Exposed were about 16 inches of unnaturally white skinny-ness.

The neighbour grinned. “Mark!” he said. “Are those your legs? Or are you riding a chicken?”

Yeah, I’m pretty sure those shorts went right back into hibernation.

P.S. Those skinny ‘Stringam’ legs have been passed down. My youngest sister got them. And the other day, I was watching a group of my grandkids running along, draped in a sheet that covered all but their lower legs and feet.

There, in the middle was a pair of skinny, white legs.

When we pulled off the sheet and matched legs with owners, I realized that my #3 grandson is all his grandfather ever was.

And more.

A Dicey Situation

A group of dice. Also know as a 'Gamble' of Dice.

Our family was playing a dice game.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this concept, it is a game.

Played with dice.

Okay. Now that we’re all on the same page . . .

It seemed like a good Sunday afternoon activity. Cold outside. Family inside. Warm. Fed.

Yep. Time for a dice game.

I wasn’t doing well.

That’s the thing about dice. They’re fickle. There’s really no planning.

Okay, I know it’s possible for experienced dice-players to cheat.

But in our family something is missing from that scenario. Two somethings, actually.

First, experience. (No explanation needed.)

And second, the desire to win.

We don’t keep score.

Ever.

We just play.

No one gets mad. No thrown knives or nasty looks.

Perfect.

So, back to what I was saying . . .

Dice game.

Doing poorly.

Now my SIL was seated next to me. And he was doing well.

A little too well.

I accused him of using up all the dice’s luck before he handed said dice on to me.

Not my finest hour, but I still think he was draining them somehow.

It was then we came up with a creative and possibly effective scenario for those reluctant dice.

Threats.

My daughter suggested buying some cheap dice. Then, in plain sight of our actual dice, smashing one of the cheap ones with a hammer.

Brilliant, you say?

I agree.

The actual dice would be so horrified at the possibility of being next, they would flood me with their good luck.

Genius.

My other daughter also offered this. “If that doesn’t work, we take some little dice, hold them up and say, ‘The kids are next!’”

You might want to think twice about playing games with our family.

Just FYI.

Ernest's Winter

The walks were nearly bare! Then, this morning . . .

 November 8^th. They squealed with glee,

They ran outside, both he and she.

For glistening, glorious, flakes of snow,

Upon the ground in drifts did go.

Almost too lovely to believe,

They praised the Lord that they did leave

The desert dry for such a place,

With snow-wet cheeks, they did embrace.

Our Ernest went to shovel, then,

And soon their walks were clean again,

Till the snowplow trundled through,

And on their sidewalk, snow did strew.

He laughed. “I get to shovel more!”

And finished this delightful chore.

Then back inside watch it all,

The white snow unrelenting, fall.

Next day the sun arose and shone,

Soon all their precious snow was gone,

They sadly groused to neighbour, Bill,

“Don’t fret,” he said. “You’ll get your fill!”

And he was right. A week or so

Would scurry past, then winds would blow,

And with them came eight inches more,

All piled so nicely there. Outdoors.

With scoop in hand, he headed out,

And finished just in time to scout,

The snowplow coming up the road,

And dumping, once again, his load.

He shook his head. “That goofy guy!”

“He must not see as he goes by.”

Then, with a grimace, he did bend,

And shoveled up the snow again.

Next day another foot or so,

Upon their neighbourhood, did go,

It took two hours before he saw,

The sidewalk bare, the snow withdrawn.

Until the driver of the truck,

Deposited his load of muck.

He shook his fist and nearly swore,

Then sighing, started in once more.

I probably don’t have to say,

The snow fell day by day by day,

Poor Ernest and his mighty scoop,

Understandably, were pooped.

Then came that day and the last straw,

Another foot or so he saw,

His shovel broke, he nearly cried,

He threw it at the snowplow guy.

He stomped inside and told his wife,

That he no longer liked this life.

He said, “It’s May. For Heaven’s sake!

Who knows how much more I can take.”

“Before I have a heart attack.

Or I beat someone blue and black!

Go grab your bags and pack your things,

We’re moving back to Desert Springs!”

So If you’re thinking of the snow,

How jolly and how fun to go,

It is as sweet as you perceive,

But in Canada, it never leaves!

Sigh.

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, we three will write for you, 

A story that is 'mostly' true!