Health. Matters

Bonk Eye.

Recently, I've noticed something.

That, in itself, is remarkable.

Moving on . . .

I work with a group of elderly people.

Some of them like nothing better than talking about their health.

Or lack thereof.

I've been treated to stories of gall bladders.

Knees.

Hips.

Hearts.

Lungs.

Mysterious lumps.

And a plethora of aches and pains.

I cluck sympathetically.

Knowing that each of these ailments will probably visit me at some point in the very near future.

But what is truly remarkable is the fact that the very young people I also associate with, ie. my grandchildren, are equally interested in their health.

Scrapes, bruises and cuts are examined minutely and then displayed, accompanied by a lurid tale of woe.

Often.

Sometimes, a tiny wound might go undetected for several days. Have scabbed over and be well on its way to healing. But once discovered, it must be fussed over and bandaged and kissed.

Several times.

My two-year-old granddaughter had fallen and bumped her head.

Just above her eye.

After the initial tears and hysteria, she had examined her wound in the mirror.

There was a distinct bruise.

“Mom!” she said loudly. “Bonk eye!”

Her mother agreed that, yes, she had 'bonked' her eye.

But that wasn't enough.

She had to tell everyone in the room.

Several times.

Later, at dinner, she mentioned it again.

Several more times.

Her uncle Tristan, having been at an activity, was late to dinner.

He slid into his chair and started dishing out food.

Here was someone new to tell.

“Unca Tristan!” she said, “Bonk eye!”

Tristan looked at her. “Yes, I see that you bonked your eye,” he said. He started eating.

“Unca Tristan, look! Bonk eye!”

“Yes,” he said.

“Bonk eye, Unca Tristan!”

“Yes.”

She took a couple of bites of food. Then, “Unca Tristan!”

“I know,” he broke in, rather wearily.

“Bonk eye!”

“Yes.”

This went on through the remainder of the meal.

And every time we saw her for the next few weeks.

Long after the slight bruise had healed.

And until the next injury pushed it off the front page.

Then it was, “Unca Tristan! Look!”

He looked at me. “On, man. Are we going to have another chorus of 'bonk-eye'?” 

I laughed.

Health issues.

Most important at each end of the age scale.

Differing only in seriousness.

Not in concern.

All Day Sucker

So nice! Sigh.

I played hooky.

Once.

For those of you who don't know, 'hooky' is a term coined to describe being absent without leave.

In my case, I was absent from school.

And I didn't do it alone.

I should probably point out that these were the days before the school phoned home "to inform you that your student 'insert name' was absent on . . . yadda yadda yadda . . ."

Back to my story . . .

We were in grade twelve. For the last semester of my grade twelve year, I lived with Debbie's family, the Joneses, on their ranch, and attended school in the town of Magrath.

Our school bus arrived promptly every morning at 7:30.

After an hour and a half commute, we would arrive, sleepy and slightly dishevelled at the Magrath High School to begin a day of instruction.

One morning, one of us really wasn't in the mood.

Oh, she got up all right.

Got ready.

Endured the bus ride.

But, standing there in front of those venerable halls of learning, she balked.

“I don't wanna go,” Debbie said.

I stared at her. “What?”

“I don't wanna go,” she said again.

“Oh.” What did one say to that?

“Let's play hooky!”

“Debbie, we can't play hooky!”

“Yes we can! We've never done it and the semester, the year, the school experience is nearly over!”

She had a point. Both of us had been exemplary students.

Precisely what our fathers expected.

“Deb, my dad would kill me!”

“C'mon, Diane, it's only one day!”

I looked at her. Have I mentioned that Debbie was the only reason I ever got into trouble? Well she was . . .

At that point, our friend Leonard, he of the pick-up truck, appeared.

“Leonard! Take us to Lethbridge!” Leonard looked at Debbie. Then he looked at me. I shrugged.

“Okay,” he said.

. . . and she got other people into trouble, too.

The three of us trailed across the parking lot and into Leonard's pick-up.

There was plenty of room on the wide seat.

We settled in for the 12-minute ride to Lethbridge, a city of about 75,000 just to the north of Magrath.

For a guy, Leonard had a surprisingly clean truck. No trash rolling around. In fact, the only thing on the dashboard was his brand shiny new 'Western Horseman' magazine.

“Oooh!” I said, picking it up. “Is this the new issue?”

“Yep. Just picked it up this morning!”

“Do you mind if I read it?”

“Nope. Just don't damage it.”

Leonard took good care of his things. Obviously magazines were no exception.

“I'll be careful.” I sat back happily while the two of them chattered all the way to the city.

Lethbridge is not a huge place, but one with several malls and lots of shopping.

We spent the day going from one to another.

And having fun.

At one of our early stops, Debbie and I bought large lollipops.

Large.

On long sticks.

We spent the rest of the day . . . ummm . . . licking.

Before we knew it, it was time to head back to catch our bus. No sense in proclaiming that we had just spent the day somewhere other than where we should have been.

Leonard stopped his truck.

“This has been fun!” I told him. “C'mon Debbie, we'd better hurry!” I slid out.

At that point, a friend of Leonard's walked up to his window. “Hey, Leonard, where were you today?”

Distracted, Leonard turned to answer his friend.

Debbie started to follow me.

“Oh, my sucker,” she said, turning back.

Remember when I mentioned Debbie's name? Entwined with the word 'trouble'?

Well that would also apply here . . .

Now Debbie had gotten tired of holding the heavy sucker and had laid it down. Not certain of the surface of the dash of Leonard's remarkably tidy truck, she had chosen to lay it down on his copy of the Western Horseman.

That same brand new copy he had been so protective of earlier.

She grabbed the long stick, only to realize that the magazine came with it. 

Uh-oh.

Not only had the sucker stuck to the cover of the magazine, but it had also stuck the pages together.

“Ummm . . .” Debbie glanced at Leonard, still engrossed in his conversation. “We'll just leave that,” she said, and slid out after me. “See ya, Leonard!” She slammed the door.

Leonard, still talking, waved cheerfully and the two of us headed for our bus.

Leonard never mentioned his sucker-stuck magazine.

The one he obviously never got to read.

After he had toted two girls all over Lethbridge.

Some fellow hookey-players are just plain nice.

Toddler see. Toddler do.

Who says the younger generation isn’t paying attention . . .?

My good friend, Jen, was having one of her ‘normal’ days.

Housework.

Kids in school.

Kids at home.

She came upstairs from the laundry room.

To hear someone in the front room.

Talking.

Now you have to know that Toddler Girl wasn’t yet making real words.

And the baby was rosily asleep in his crib.

Who could possibly be talking?

She dashed around the corner of the front room and skidded to a stop.

Huh.

Toddler Girl had a baby doll wrapped up and tucked into the crook of one arm.

In her free hand, she held a toy telephone.

She was walking back and forth across the room bouncing her doll up and down in the approved ‘pacifying-the-baby’ manoeuver.

But it was what she was doing with the phone that really caught Jen’s attention.

She held it to her ear, babbled animatedly for a few seconds (with no recognizable words) and threw her head back and laughed out loud.

Then, as Jen watched, she repeated the whole exercise. Walk about jiggling the baby. Talk animatedly. Laugh uproariously.

Hmmm . . . I wonder where she picked that up?

They are watching.

And taking note.

I guess talking enthusiastically and laughing while taking care of the baby is a good thing for them to see.

And emulate.

Unlike my kids who caught me eating peanut butter out of the jar.

With a spoon.

And forever after . . .

Well. Enough said.

One Dirty Sweater

Me. Talking. It's a habit...

Okay, I admit it.

Fashion has never been my forte.

Yes, I like to look tidy.

And clean.

And have at least a passing acquaintance with what is popular.

I do draw the line at old and frumpy.

But sometimes, I’ve been known to stretch the rules a bit.

Case in point . . .

It was Sunday.

I wanted to wear my cream-coloured sweater. It was bulky. Comfy.

And, with the frigid cold outside, warm.

I donned a coordinating skirt. Then my sweater.

Stopped in front of the mirror on my way out the door to do a cursory examination.

Oops. Something wasn’t quite right.

You have to know that, with the large brood of children we had, it wasn’t unusual to be marked.

Spilled on. Used for everything from soiled fingers to runny noses.

And sometimes said marks and spillage went unnoticed until my little glance in front of the mirror the next time those clothes were worn.

What’s that? Up near the shoulder?

What could only be classified as a smudge.

If I had the equipment, and the ambition, I probably could have taken a fingerprint.

And identified the culprit.

But that was unimportant right then. We were getting ready to leave and this was the only sweater that went with this particular skirt. A total change was indicated. Sigh.

Then I thought of another solution. A daring, totally doable solution!

Turn the sweater inside out.

Which I did.

I glanced again into the mirror.

Perfect! Not one stain or fingerprint.

And no one would notice the inside-out-age anyway.

Wrong.

No sooner had I sat down in one of the pews in the center of the chapel then someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Diane. Your sweater’s on inside out.”

I turned back. “I know,” I said. “The other side is dirty.”

There was a gasp and the sound of laughter from everyone seated behind me.

Then one of them said, and I quote, “Only Diane.”

I guess if I have to be known for something, this is okay.

Pretty Purple Ball

In my defense . . .

Okay, I have no defense.

Sometimes ignorance is just comical . . .

It was a treasured wedding gift. A beautiful, purple blanket.

Warm.

Cuddly.

The kind that squeaks when you squeeze its folds.

I’m sure you all know what I talking about. When you got to a store and all the blankets are there, neatly folded, on display. And you squeeze the corners to see if they squeak?

Okay, well I do.

And some of them do.

Squeak, I mean.

I had no idea this was an indicator that the blanket was 100% pure wool.

No idea at all.

I just knew the squeaky ones were very warm and cuddly. (See above.)

Soooo . . . purple blanket . . .

It had served as the main source of warmth (apart from Husby, who is a percolator) on our double bed for a couple of years.

When we upgraded to a queen size, sadly, the blanket no longer fit.

In the changeover, I decided Mr. Blanket needed a wash.

And yes, I know we should probably read tags.

Well I do now at any rate.

Into the washing machine and set to ‘warm’. (I’m not a complete ignoramus. I do know that very few things should be washed on ‘hot’.)

Okay, I’m a complete ignoramus.

A while later, I pulled from the washer a perfect ball of purple wool.

Only those of you who have witnessed this know just how matted real wool can get when It’s been stuffed into a washer.

Several feeling washed through me.

Shock. Dismay.

Disgust.

I managed to stretch it out and it functioned as a child’s drag-me-around TV blanket for several years.

But its days of real usefulness were at an end.

I’d like to say I learned something from this.

Woefully . . .

In my defense, I did read the tag on Husby’s sweater.

Mine was identical and I thought they were the same.

Not.

The story continues.

Sigh . . .

Con-veniences

This modern world has country heads a-buzzing, it is true,

Computer terms, most farmers find a challenge to get through.

So here is a tutorial. It’ll help you all to see,

Just what these crazy terms should mean to you and also me . . .

Log on: is something you should do to make the homestead warm.

Log off: Watch out! The tree is chopped and falling. (Could cause harm.)

Mega Hertz: When you’re not careful as you fetch the wood.

Lap top: Cat’s ‘purr-ferred’ sleeping place where all is well and good

Hard drive: Maneuv’ring vehicles through mud or rocky ground.

Windows: Those are what you shut when snow is all around.

Byte: Is what mosquitoes do, those pesky little fiends.

Modem: Work at haying time when fields are being gleaned.

Keyboard: Something near the door where all the keys are hung.

Mouse: Those critters in the barn you’re forced to live among.

Then ‘Random Access Memory’ or RAM, ‘cause sure enough,

It’s when you can't remember any of this awful stuff.

So there you have it and you know the ‘country’ explanation,

Now can you understand us farmers’ up-to-date frustration?

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, just watch us as we dance,

When we three tackle ignorance!

Happy Birthday, Daddy!

April 1, 2018.
Daddy's 93rd birthday.
Today's story won't be told by me.
Instead, I'll let the man himself spin the yarn.
It'll be good!

Breakfast of Champion

Maybe there's a reason those teeth are missing...

Saturday.

Is there a better day in the week?

For 8-year-old Diane, Saturday really stood out.

It was the one day of the week she got to start things on her own.

I should probably point out here that everyone else’s schedule didn’t change one bit. Mom still rose at the crack of dawn to make breakfast for all and sundry. Look after her two babies and numerous other children. Clean. Hoe the garden. Take care of the pets that we children insisted on getting (and tended diligently for the whole of two hours). And generally make sure that the home wheels were greased and running smoothly.

Dad had also risen at the same time. Heading out into the pure morning air to coordinate with the hired men and make assignments, check the animals in the ranch proper, feed said animals, milk any and all available cows and generally greet the rising sun before reporting back to the ranchhouse for a well-earned breakfast.

The older kids had gotten up more or less with our parents. Eaten and hurried off to their assigned tasks.

Then Diane awakened. Stumbled out of her bedroom to an empty, tidy kitchen (yes, Mom was a miracle worker) and began to scrounge up her own breakfast.

Okay, yes, there was probably a plate of something foil-wrapped and kept warm on the back of the stove, but what fun was there in that?

Especially when Mom wasn’t there to supervise Diane’s sugar intake.

Because that was what ‘scrounging her own breakfast’ meant.

Sugar.

Now on a normal day, Diane was allowed just two teaspoons of chocolate in her glass of frothy, fresh milk.

When Mom was absent, the sky was the limit.

And the colour of the milk went from white to dark in a few delicious, heaping-teaspoonsful seconds.

But it didn’t end there.

Nope.

There was also the bowl of branflakes. Poured generously into Diane’s favourite bunny bowl. Packed down and covered with just the right amount of creamy milk. Packed down again to make sure every flack received its milky due.

Then unsupervisedly (?) covered again with a rich layer of granulated, white, heaven—aka: sugar.

Then the eating—or rather—gorging began.

You have to know that Mom wasn’t very often absent from the kitchen—even on Saturdays.

That’s probably the main reason Diane is still alive today . . .

Carved in Stone

When e’re we fly, my man and me,

To countries near or o’er the sea,

We find the old cem-e-ter-ies,

And take a stroll through history.

For neatly 'scribed in work so fine

Or faded now in blurry lines

We read of lives, meek or sublime,

Upon the headstones, lost in time.

The saddest are the children gone,

Those lives stopped short from living on,

Who made no choices, right or wrong,

Called from embraces firm and strong.

With careful steps we move along,

And find some words inscribed with song,

A life well-lived and days so long,

With courage and with faith so strong.

This one, it seems, had loved to fish,

That one’s flirtatious, quite the dish,

A third thought horses so delish,

The best friends anyone could wish.

Here’s a discerning, bookish man,

The next one’s hard to understand,

I see the words ‘The Best’ and ‘Land’,

Oh, there’s the Grandpa of the clan.

A hunter sure, was this man’s claim,

A vixen’s carved beside his name,

Each one unique, and none the same,

Some unknown and some with fame.

Each tells of life or life-to-be,

And written there for all to see.

So when I’m gone, an absentee,

What will someone say ‘bout me?

My Buddy

Okay, yes I talk to him.

In my defense, I talk to everyone . . .

A year ago, Son #3 and Husby went together to buy me a gift.

I should explain here that I am very difficult to buy gifts for.

Being of a very practical mind set, any gift presented to me needs to be the same. Practical. Oh, I will admit that the occasional bouquet of flowers will definitely not be thrown out, but tenderly interred in a vase until such time as they have gone the way of all the earth.

At which time they will be thrown out.

Ahem . . .

Husby, on the other hand, loves to give gifts. And practicality is not a requirement.

In fact, when choosing something for me, he goes out of his way to find ‘something else’ that isn’t for home or yard.

But he has learned in our over forty years of marriage, that when I say I want a new frying pan for Christmas, a new frying pan is what will make me happy.

Back to the gift purchased by Husby and Son #3.

A few years ago, someone—may I call them genius?—invented a vacuum that doesn’t need anyone to operate it. Independent and effective, it bounces back and forth around the room until every single surface has been swept clean.

It’s remarkably effective.

At least that is what I saw on the TV spot.

And decided I wanted. On the spot.

To clean up the messy spots in my house.

Okay, now I’m seeing spots.

Moving on . . .

I pointed. “That is what I want for Christmas!”

Husby countered with his patented, “But I want to get something for you!”

To which I replied, “That is for me!”

Nothing more was said. Until Christmas morning when the box, partially-wrapped as per Son #3’s penchant, was set on the floor in front of me.

Frenzied removal of the woefully inadequate wrapping.

Exclamations of surprise and delight.

The reading of instructions.

And the immediate putting to work of my new right-hand man.

 ‘Buddy’, as he was dubbed, from that moment, did the one job in my house I have always loathed.

Vacuuming.

My affection for him was instant and long-lasting.

Daily, he bustles around the house, doing a remarkably effective job of removing visible dirt and icky stuff.

He has even been known to find lost puzzle pieces.

There are a couple of drawbacks.

And we have finally come to the point of my story . . .

Buddy was vacuuming.

I was in my office. Writing.

Buddy came in and proceeded to bump into things.

I got up and left for a moment.

Then heard the ‘alert’ sound from my beloved helper. Followed by an immediate power down.

I hurried back to the room.

Only to discover that Buddy had eaten the cord of a charger. Causing instant indigestion.

Chastising him vocally, I carried him out to the kitchen to perform the necessary cord-ectomy.

Picture it: Upending the unit. Removal of the rollers that prove so effective in home maintenance. Removal of said cord. Emptying of all tanks and reservoirs and unexpected storage places.

Reinstalling of rollers.

Uprighting.

And sending back to work.

The whole time, keeping up a steady stream of: “You silly boy! Don’t you know that cords only make you sick? Where did you find this? And a button! Oh, good, I was looking for that one.” And once he was back on the floor, a final word: “Now stay out of trouble!”

My granddaughter was watching the whole operation. As Buddy buzzed off, she looked at me. “Gramma. You were talking to the vacuum.”

I nodded as I washed my hands.

“Gramma, that’s weird.”

I thought of the times I had fished Buddy out of yet another scrape. Most notably getting stuck in the 

bathroom. (We may possibly have the cleanest bathroom floor in the world.)

I talked to him then as well.

Granddaughter went on, “Gramma, you shouldn’t talk to things.”

Well then someone probably shouldn’t have put eyes on him!

Just FYI.

Modern Hunt-ers

Tasty!

Husby and his business partner love history.

The one a historian and the other an archeologist, it’s a good thing.

And a good combination.

Years ago, while on a business/holiday, the four of us: Husby, me, Business Partner (hereinafter known unimaginatively as BP) and his sweet wife stopped at a well-known mud wallow.

Now before you think there was any sort of mud-wrestling performed there, let me further inform you that it was a place where, anciently, Native Americans drove buffalo and, when the animals became mired in the sticky ickiness (technical term) dispatched them at their leisure. Rinsed them off. And ate them.

True story.

Today this place is a treasure trove of boney remainders as well as ancient tools and weapons.

While we two women sat visiting in the campsite, the men decided to go off on a might-find-an-arrowhead explore.

Which they did.

And which they did.

Grinning widely the two returned a short time later with the (to quote them) Find-of-the-Century.

An arrowhead.

A real arrowhead.

Which they proudly held out for their wives to oooh and aaah.

I have to tell you that it really didn’t match the description of any artifact I had seen or heard of.

For one thing, it was made of rubber.

And featured a suction cup at one end.

Yes, it was an arrowhead.

But one generally seen fitted to the end of a short stick notched to a tiny bow in the hands of the nearest modern four-year-old.

Technically an arrowhead, though.

Moving forward too many years to count . . .

Supper hour was fast approaching.

Our two intrepid hunters, both a little older and greyer than during their last hunting trip, took it upon themselves to ‘hunter-gather’ us women some grub.

Bravely, they set forth.

Armed only with their mode of conveyance.

And their wallets.

Grinning widely, they returned a short time later having--in their words--bagged a trophy.

Ice cream.

We’re so proud.

PJs on Vacation

That's me in the green. Dressed appropriately.

Mom was a stickler for clothing customs and traditions.

“Wear a jacket.” “Put on your shoes.” “Where’s your hat?” “You need gloves/boots/armour in the barnyard.” “Get your helmet!” “I don’t care what the other girls are wearing, you are not going swimming naked!”

And others.

Clothes were almost a uniform to her. You wore what was appropriate. When it was appropriate.

Oh, we were still able to dress in what was going. Bell-bottoms. Not-quite-mini skirts. Go-go boots. (Okay those were my sister’s that I may or may not have sneaked out of her room.)

But one had to wear what. And when.

Now to my story . . .

Husby and I are in the sweet little town of Cardston, Alberta.

Husby wants to build a museum here and/or spruce up the main street.

It entails lots of glimpses into history.

Yesterday, he and his partner were touring the period hotel that graces main street. The Cahoon.

And I had my own glimpse into history . . .

Mom and dad and we kids were here in Cardston for some reason.

I don’t remember why. Relatives? Church? Business?

I was five. I had gotten into the car because whenever the family was going somewhere, it was an ADVENTURE.

Soooo . . . Cardston.

While we were here, as sometimes happens in the Great Canadian Prairies in close proximity to the equally-great-but-for-different-reasons Rocky Mountains in the winter, a great storm blew in.

And engulfed us.

And the town.

And probably quite a large part of the surrounding countryside.

Dad decided it was far safer to seek refuge right here where we were.

We drove to the only hotel. The Cahoon. A great stone structure that loomed over main street.

Requested and were granted rooms.

And proceeded to ready ourselves for bed.

I remember three things. That make sense to me now, knowing that the stop-over was completely unplanned. But that didn’t when I was five.

1. A great iron bedstead that creaked and was really springy and perfect for jumping. Except that Argus of the Hundred Eyes (ie. Mom) was watching me.

2. I didn’t have to brush my teeth because I didn’t have a toothbrush. And, most importantly.

3. Mom stripped me out of my clothes and tucked me into the great, springy bed in only my undershirt and panties.

Wait. What? No Pajamas?

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. Not even a nightie?

This had never—ever—happened before. I was expected to actually sleep? Almost naked?

I know I probably went out like the proverbial candle, with or without my pajamas.

And woke the next morning as refreshed and energetic as if I had been in my own bed, on my own ranch, in my own PJ’s.

To yet another new and exciting thing:

4. Breakfast in the hotel restaurant!

It’s funny how all of this came back as we stood there, staring up at the great, old hotel.

P.S. You have to know that pajamas still make up a large part of preparing myself for bed.

Just ask Husby.

Half Wit

The Government boys said John was stingy when he paid his crew,

And so they sent a man to see—give John an interview.

The man found John just sitting, milking, in the stanchions there,

And pulling out his pad and pen, he took the offered chair.

“It’s come to our attention, John,” the agent said to him,

“That you’re not giving proper wages when you pay your men.”

John just shrugged and kept on milking—spat a wad of ‘chew’,

“Wal, I’m here Mister,” Johnny said. “And glad to talk it through.”

“Just list your men,” the agent said. “And what you pay each one.

And I’ll decide what we should do the moment you are done.”

“Okay, Mister,” Johnny said, his voice real calm and slow,

“I’ll tell you everything you want and then I hope you'll go.”

The agent made a face, and clicked his pen. “Alright. Let’s start.”

Then Johnny smiled. “Well, first we’ve got my hired man named Bart.”

“Bart’s been with me for three years, he seems to be content.

I pay him six C’s every week with free board and free rent.”

"The cook has been here 18 months, each week she gets 5 C’s,

And just like Bart, free room and board, she certainly seems pleased.”

“And any more?” the agent said. “You have to name each one.”

“There is another man,” John said. “Who’s really not much fun.”

The agent clicked his pen. “I need to hear about him. Tell!”

John shrugged again, said, “You’re the boss, but he is a dumbbell.

He’s really just a half-wit, Sir. He works a longer day.

When all the others stop and rest, he’s out there ‘makin’ hay’!"

"For eighteen hours each day, he toils, does all but 10 percent.

He makes about ten bucks a week, pays his own food and rent.

To keep him happy, Sir, I buy him bourbon once a week,

Just why he stays around? It smacks of something called ‘mystique’."

The agent perked up at John’s words. Here’s what he sought to find!

A criminal departure from what’s normal, in his mind.

He made a note upon his pad and closed it with a snap.

Beneath his breath he muttered, “Man I’d like to meet this sap!”

“Yes! That’s my guy!” he said aloud. “Just call the half-wit, please?”

“Wal, that’s an easy one,” said John. “That guy you want is me!”

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, amid the toil and strife,

We'll talk about this modern life!

The Toy Box

Last night was opening night.
It's the end of March and for those of you who know me, that means our annual Children's Theatre musical production.
This year?
The Toy Box. Music and lyrics by Yours Truly.
Directed by my good friend and first time director, Jodi Cuevas. (Who did an awesome job, I have to tell you!)
And acted by the most amazing cast of children with a sprinkling of equally amazing adults. (Because who else is going to keep those littles in line on stage?!)
The story revolves around four different groups of toys in The Toy Box, a toy store. Three of the groups, the soldiers, the Barbies and the clowns are pretty much centered on themselves. The fourth group, the Stuffies just want to hug everyone.
And giggle.
When one of the Stuffies is badly mauled by an opossum that has gotten into the store, the rest of the toys realize they have to work together as a family to convince the creature to move out.
How they do it is both simple . . . and ingenious.
Such a fun, fun production.
And so grateful I get to do this!

Pictures by Kristi Pfeiffer Photography

Me. Eyelining. This is the before.
The after is me on a stool in a corner. Sans eyeliner pencil and actor.
Because the others realized I'm just a danger with any sort of makeup...

One of the uber-cute clowns.

A Stuffie. Not quite in costume...

Barbies. Some doing what they do.
Others getting ready to help little shredded stuffies.

Please, powers-that-be, let this go on forever!

Just a Glimpse

Grandma Stringam. Then.

During her growing up years, Grandma Stringam was ‘happy and active and busy’. She was taught to darn, knit and embroider and also how to do all the household tasks.

Most amusement was found out-of-doors, playing such games as Fox and Geese, Run Sheep Run, Hide and Seek, baseball and horseback riding.

Once a week, they went to the school for what they called ‘Physical Culture’ when they exercised and worked with ‘Indian Clubs’.

She attended a one-room schoolhouse which was heated with a large, wood-burning pot-bellied stove in the center of the room.

This building was also used for church on Sunday and for ‘dances and other forms of amusement’.

For the first years, she did all her writing on slates and all she needed was said slate, a slate pencil and damp sponge or rag to erase (usually attached to the frame of the slate with a string). The families all purchased their own school supplies: slates in the first two grades and then notebooks and textbooks thereafter. They had no libraries.

The first teacher Grandma remembered (around 1890 or 91) was Ephrium (Ephie) Blackburn and what she recalled most was getting ready for the twice-a-year concerts at Christmas and just before the end of term. His wife played the organ and he taught the schoolchildren to sing.

Their school term was shorter than the present day. About six months, from the first of October to the last of March or early April.

Every Monday, after she turned twelve, she had to stay home to help her mother with the washing.

Grandma asked her mother why her older sister, Jane, couldn’t take over alternate Mondays so Grandma wouldn’t have to miss so much school. Her mother told her Jane didn’t get things clean enough in the first round so when they came to her mother for the second round, she had to work too hard to get them clean.

Grandma didn’t complain much after that, knowing that she was making things a little easier for her mother.

She attended school until she finished the eighth grade, which was quite an achievement in those times and in that particular community.

After she finished, she worked for one school year in her Uncle Charlie’s store so his daughter, who was a year younger, could take her grade eight.

I am fascinated by these glimpses into another era. And more grateful than I can say that I have access to these writings…

The Women Before Me

Jane Smith Coleman

I know I’ve talked a lot about my Dad’s mother, Grandma Stringam.

She died in 1981 at the age of 95. I was privileged, not only to know her, but to actually be able to live with her and my Aunt Emily for several months.

Reading her journals has brought her even closer.

But through them, I’m realizing another benefit. Glimpses of the women who were so influential in her life.

Today?

Her grandmother (My Great-Great Grandmother), Jane Smith Coleman—who was born in Dundee, Forfarshire, Scotland in 1838 and passed away in Teasdale, Utah in 1924 at the age of 86.

This is what Grandma Stringam has to say about her grandmother . . .

“My Grandmother Coleman was a very busy person. She had a small greenhouse, raised chickens with a wood-burning incubator, kept a small general store, was postmistress and ran the only boarding house in the little town. She was the president of the Stake Relief Society (a large women’s charitable organization) and taught Sunday School classes for years.

There was always something that needed to be done there.

Along with all the other things that went on in that household, there was also bee-keeping.

About every two weeks during the summer they extracted honey and that meant that she needed our help.

Grandma would take the slats from the hives and give them to us girls and we would carry them to my mother, who was at the extractor. Mother would use a sharp knife to cut the wax that capped the honey, then she would put the slats in the extractor four at a time. When she turned the crank, the honey would fall out into the tank.

We usually got about fifteen gallons every time we extracted.

It was surprising how soon word of what we were doing would get around, and the children of the town would be there to eat the honey from the cappings.

Another busy time at Granma’s was my Grandfather’s birthday.

Every year, as long as he was Bishop (leader of the local church) she prepared and served a dinner to the whole town.

For days before, we helped her get ready and for several days after, we helped her get things cleared away and tidy.”

Huh. I think I just figured out where I get my love of feeding people!

Grandma Stringam’s journals are a treasure trove of past lives and experiences.

Through them, I’m getting to know and appreciate her and the women in my family line.

Another benefit is my newfound appreciation for indoor plumbing and electric everything.

But that is another story.

There’s obviously a reason I was born now.