Chicken

Still on holiday! And exploring my memories...

Me. (Missing from the photo: the Chicken)

Harvest.
A mellow time.
A time to catch one’s breath and simply appreciate the bounty and euphoria of the season.
When the tireless efforts of every farmer in Alberta culminates finally in the production of golden streams of wheat, barley, canola and corn. Truckloads of peas, potatoes and sugar beets.
When sheds and storage buildings are full of the warm, sweet smell of new-mown hay and grasses, carefully dried.
On the Stringam Ranch, we, too had our harvest.
There was the bounty of endless (and I do mean endless, but that is another story) rows of garden produce to be brought in. Carrots, peas, beans, corn, turnips, potatoes, parsnips, beets, cucumbers. And many other things that a four-year-old simply couldn't name, though they did taste good.
Oh, and chickens.
Chickens?
The slaughtering of the chickens on the Ranch was a huge production. I can picture even now the great tubs of scalding hot water to loosen the feathers. The teams of choppers, pickers, and . . . innards removers. Everyone with a sharp knife or axe. Or with rubber-gloved hands working in the scalding water.
It was every parent’s dream for their small child.
Not.
But there I was. Bouncing from group to group. Being forcibly removed from the more dangerous situations.
Slowly getting covered in feathers.
Most probably looking like a large chicken myself.
When some of the more stringent voices hollering at me to keep away had finally effected obedience, and my initial fascination with viewing the death throes of the chickens had worn off, I was at a loose end.
Not a good thing for a four-year-old.
Mischief happens.
Not my fault.
The bodies of the chickens were systematically hauled away, so a closer study of them had proven impossible, but the heads . . .! Those were still there, lying forgotten near the chopping stump. They were piling up, obviously needing to be disposed of.
Please remember – I was a child of the Country.
Capital ‘C’.
One by one, I began picking them up and throwing them, unceremoniously, into the river, only a few feet away.
Hmmm. This was fun!
They would bob for a few seconds, then sink into the milky depths, perhaps to be eaten by some unseen fish, or maybe one of the monsters that our dog, Mike, was sure lived there.
I found a paint can lid. Great! Now I could throw the heads out four at a time. Much more efficient.
For some time, this obviously essential errand kept me occupied – to the vast relief of those who mistakenly thought they had more important jobs. I would collect the heads on my little ‘plate’, walk over to the river and . . . give them the Alberta version of a sea burial.
It was genius.
To a four-year-old.
Then the fateful, life altering event. I picked up a head, deposited it on my plate . . .
AND. THE. BEAK. OPENED!
No word of a lie. It opened! It was possessed! It was going to get me!
Straight into the air, the plate went.
By the time it and its contents had hit the ground, I was already halfway to the house screaming, and I quote, “THE CHICKEN HEAD! THE CHICKEN HEAD!”
Not very inventive, true, but effective.
It stopped the entire production line for several seconds. Mostly, I admit, so the people could laugh, but why haggle over details?
Mom consoled me, between chuckles, and all was smoothed over.
Except for one thing. From then on, I was afraid of chickens. I learned to wrestle 2000 pound bulls without turning a hair, but tell me to collect eggs from under a 3 pound pile of feathers and I was a quivering mass of . . . something soggy and cowardly.
My family still laughs.
There is an addendum to all of this. When my husband and I were on our honeymoon, we decided to make a day trip to the Calgary Zoo.
Fun!
There was a display of emus. And a machine that dispensed grain to feed them.
Put in a quarter, get a handful of feed. All went well to that point. I approached the emu with my little handful of grain.
It moved closer.
I moved closer.
It looked over the fence.
I looked at it.
Its beak opened.
And my new husband was suddenly staring at the handful of grain that magically appeared in his hand.
I was halfway to the car screaming . . .
You get the picture.

Claustrophobedience

Mom and I were visiting at my Auntie's house.

An innocent enough activity.

And from it, I got claustrophobia.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Mom and Auntie were in the kitchen chatting over cups of tea and home baked goodies.

My cousin and I had already done the rounds of the dessert tray.

Several times.

And had retired upstairs to more important matters.

Play.

One of the bedrooms upstairs had no furniture in it.

Or at least, I can't remember any.

But it did hold a large carpet.

Rolled into a neat bundle.

It looked like a hot dog.

Let's face it. In my world, everything resembled food.

Moving on . . .

Suddenly, I got a marvellous idea.

“Let's play 'Hot Dog'!” I told my cousin.

“Okay,” she said enthusiastically, as though she knew exactly what I was talking about.

Which she didn't.

I unrolled the carpet and lay down at the edge.

“Okay. Now roll me up,” I commanded.

She did.

Cool!

Fun!

Neat!

Wait . . . I can't breathe!!!

I began to scream.

Okay, I could probably still breathe.

The ability to scream would indicate this.

My cousin, understandably concerned, stared at me.

Or at the rug that contained me.

I struggled mightily (I should probably point out that it didn't occur to me to simply - unroll) and finally, managed to extricate myself.

I headed for the nearest safe place.

My Mom.

I burst into the kitchen, every white-blonde hair standing on end and eyes like saucers.

“Mom! I nearly died!!!”

Okay, so melodrama and me were close, personal friends.

Mom set down her teacup and looked at me. “What?”

“I nearly died! I couldn't breathe!”

Mom frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“We were playing 'Hot Dog',” I told her.

She stared at me. “Hot Dog?”

“Yeah with the carpet. And I was the hot dog. And I rolled up . . .”

Suddenly, Mom understood. “Oh.” She gave me a stern look. “Diane, don't do that again!”

I admit that I often disobeyed my Mom.

Often quite deliberately.

But this time, I listened.

I like to think it was because I discovered the joy of obedience.

But, actually, I think it's because I discovered claustrophobia.

Obedience would have been more fun.

Husby and I are touring Beautiful British Columbia with our two eldest granddaughters.

We're having a marvelous time.

But WiFi is spotty.

Visiting you when I can.

Pictures to follow!

Music to Remember

Early mornings on a ranch

all started like an avalanche,

A tottering pile of chores to do

and food to cook and life renew.

All those days began with Dad,

all freshly cleaned, in robe of plaid,

Standing in your bedroom door,

to tell you sleeping time was o’er…

The sun was rising, up you’d get,

the time had come to toil and sweat,

But Sundays always started slow,

no need to really jump. And go,

One could lay in bed and dream,

               you were in Heaven, it would seem,

Soft music flowed around you there,

               starting low, just like a prayer,

Then rising, swirling, every note,

               by horns and strings would love emote,

One knew that Dad had placed a stack

               of music on the player’s rack,

Cause that’s how Sundays started out,

               With soft notes swirling all about.

O’er forty years have slipped on by,

               all in the blinking of an eye,

But still my childhood lingers on,

               though many who were there are gone,

Cause when I hear those flowing strains,              

               ‘tis Sunday morning, once again.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, in our neighbourhood,
We'll talk of toys and childhood!

Going to Gramma's

Many of you will have heard this before.
But for those who haven't . . .

Gramma and Grampa Stringam

In 1912, ‘going to visit the family’ took on a whole new meaning.

Let me tell you about it . . .

My Gramma and Grampa Stringam, with their (then) three children, moved to southern Alberta in 1910, leaving their extended family behind them in Utah.

They settled in Glenwood and started to farm.

Outwardly, all was well.

Inwardly, one of them missed her mother.

Finally, after two years of pining and tears, the decision was made for an extended visit.

Gramma and her (by then) four children packed up and, kissing Grampa goodbye, boarded the train for Salt Lake.

The trip there was fairly uneventful, the highlight - seeing the sprinkler system in the Salt Lake depot.

But what came afterward . . . wasn’t.

Uneventful, that is.

Gramma and the kids climbed aboard another train for Salina and then the mail stagecoach from there over the mountain to Thurber and Teasdale.

A short hop by today’s automobile.

But a considerable prospect for the white-top mail buggy of the early 1900’s.

In the rain.

On one particularly steep pass, soaked through and tired, the team of horses gave out. Despite considerable encouragement, they refused to move one more step up the mountain, choosing, in typical balky-horse fashion, to back up instead.

They succeeded in backing the coach until they, quite literally, ran out of mountain. When the driver finally got them stopped, the vehicle was dangling right out over the edge of the canyon with the wagon tree tipped up and the horses' hind feet barely on the ground.

Gramma and the kids were frantically extricated, followed by their baggage and the mail bags. They gratefully took shelter under a large spruce, where they turned, as they had been taught, to prayer.

While they were thus engaged, the driver tried--unsuccessfully--to remedy the situation. The wagon remained hanging over the edge of the cliff.

Can anyone say,"precarious?"

Meanwhile the little family under the tree had finished praying. And it was as that exact moment that a second white-topped buggy came up over the hill.

A buggy that was empty, save for the driver, a local real estate agent. Who, to the little family huddled under the tree, suddenly took on the aspect of a saviour.

The man stopped and surveyed the situation, then climbed down and, using a knife, cut the traces holding the horses to the buggy (allowing the wagon to drop into the canyon several hundreds of feet below) and led the animals to safety.

The mail man thanked him, threw his mail bags over one horse and mounted the other, and rode on over the mountain, abandoning his little group of paying passengers without a backward look.

On the side of a mountain. In the rain.

Don’t you hate days like that?

Fortunately, the real estate man was very kind and loaded Gramma and her kids into his buggy and delivered them safely to the nearest village.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful.

Let’s face it. After this experience, most events would pale by comparison.

Gramma and her brood got their visit.

And, for generations to come, a story to tell.

Sundays are for my ancestors.

Their stories are fascinating. Sometimes fun. Sometimes downright scary.

Join me!

Planning Rocks

Yorkshire Pudding.
A solid piece of our history.

My Husby is a Planner.

Really.

It is a legitimate occupation.

He plans . . . stuff. Has built his career doing it.

Mostly, he plans things like: Museums. Displays. Art galleries. Special facilities for storing special collections.

It has been a varied and unusual career.

And he is very good at what he does.

Except when he tells his wife that whatever she is doing would work better if she used a different system.

That never turns out well.

Moving on . . .

Several years ago, he was leading a team of designers in Fort McMurray.

They were re-designing the displays at the Oil Sands Interpretive Centre.

A fun and exacting job.

It required spending many months in the rapidly expanding oil city of Fort McMurray, Alberta.

At the end of one particularly long day, the team was seated at what had become their favourite restaurant.

Doing what had become their favourite pastime.

Eating.

One of the team members had order a roast beef supper.

With all of the trimmings.

One ‘trimming’ was a large Yorkshire Pudding.

With gravy.

Now I’ve had Yorkshire pudding.

In all its glory.

I love it.

But this particular pudding had been baked too long.

Or left uncovered.

Or simply neglected.

It was, to use a rather over-worked phrase, ‘Hard as a proverbial rock’.

Its owner poked at it morosely.

“This thing is inedible,” he said, sadly. “It looks like one of the rocks in the display case back at the Centre.”

Husby suddenly looked at him, his face breaking into a broad smile. All eyes were on him as he explained his idea for yet another display. Then everyone got up and, pocketing the pudding, headed back to the Centre.

A short time later, they had the cover off the resident large display of rocks (and other things solid and impenetrable).

They rearranged, creating a perfect little space for this, the newest addition.

One of the designers studied the other placards in the case, figured out the font used, and quickly created an official-looking label.

When they left the building later that night, the display of rocks was richer by one ‘Jurassic Pudding Stone’.

Nothing more was said.

In due course, they completed their assignment and separated, each going back to their normal lives.

Several weeks later, my Husby received a phone call from the director of the newly-refurbished Interpretive Centre.

“Ummm . . . Grant? Did your team touch our rock display case?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, there seems to be an addition of which I’ve only very recently become aware.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Something called a Jurassic Pudding Stone. Now I looked through every one of my books and couldn’t find it anywhere. Finally, I removed the cover and examined the ‘stone’.

“Yes?”

“Well, it looks to me like a very old, very tired Yorkshire Pudding.”

“Well, that is odd.”

There was silence at the other end. “So you don’t know anything about this?”

“I don’t understand why you are asking me.”

“Well, it seemed . . .  odd. And I thought that you and your team . . .”

“It does sound very interesting and I’d love to see it when I’m up there again.”

Notice the clever prevarication? (Ooo. Good word!)

Back to my story . . .

“Oh. Well, I just thought of you guys and . . . well . . . okay.”

Need something planned?

A building? A display?

A prank?

I know someone you can call.

Cat-Astrophe

Another day, another kerfuffle.

You have to know that Sally and I really don’t plan any of these things. They just happen.

Really.

Okay, Mom doesn’t believe us either.

On with my story . . .

Sally has been more than her usual irritating in the past few weeks. I mean, when that girl puts her mind to something, she can really get going.

Usually, I’m on the same page. Well . . . at least in the same book. Somewhere.

But this time, she was on her own.

You see, Sally wanted a cat. And not just any cat—the big orange one that lived just down the road in Mrs. Ames house.

With Mrs. Ames.

And yes, there are just so many things wrong with this . . .

Anyways, Sally reasoned that as Mrs. Ames had myriad cats, she really wouldn’t miss the single, big orange one. That sat every morning in lonely glory on Mrs. Ames front porch, waiting to pounce on the paper boy.

Now the words: ‘single orange’, ‘lonely glory’ and ‘pounce’ are rife with significance. I mean, don’t they just scream to you that, not only would this cat be missed, but also, it probably wasn’t the sweetest-tempered animal?

Well, not to Sally.

Mom was still at work when Sally and I finished our shift at McDonald’s yesterday. She mistakenly thought we would be all right by ourselves until she got home.

I don’t mean to sound fatalistic, but what’s with that woman? Doesn’t she know shenanigans only happen when she’s out of the house?

As Sally and I cut across the Prince’s lawn on the corner and turned into our street, she happened to glance across at Mrs. Ames’. And there, again in lonely glory (see above), sat Mr. Big Orange.

Sally saw her chance.

Without a word, she darted across the street and scurried up Mrs. Ames sidewalk and onto her porch in her best sub-rosa fashion. Then she scooped up the enormous cat and retraced her steps.

I merely stared. What else can you do when your sister loses her mind?

She raced ahead of me, the deceptively-calm cat clutched in her arms and, banging the gate open with a foot, skipped into the back yard.

I followed slowly. No way I wanted to be mixed up in this, but I do, you know, live in the same house.

By the time I reached the back door, Sally was inside and cuddling her new friend on the living room sofa.

As I stepped inside, the cat turned and looked at me with slitted, half-open eyes.

I stopped.

“See!” Sally said excitedly. “It was so easy and he’s so . . .” She didn’t get any further.

Without so much as a twitch of warning, the animal in her arms suddenly turned into a spitting, clawing whirlwind. It clawed its way up her arms, perched momentarily on the top of her head, then launched itself to the floor lamp beside her.

And it was just getting started.

From the lamp, it flew across to the kitchen table, leaving long claw marks as it slid the length of the shining surface, taking both the puzzle we had spent the past month fitting together and Mom’s new vase of flowers with it.

The resulting crash seemed to wake Sally from the daze she had fallen into and she leaped forward, intent on corralling the out-of-control feline.

She missed.

At the same moment, thinking only of self-preservation, I fled to the front door. Then I stood there, frozen, one hand on the knob, and stared as the disaster continued.

Sally’s reaching hands seemed to provide impetus to the animal and it continued on to new heights, leaping from the table to the pot rack above the nearby cupboard.

Turns out those racks can hold a lot of cookware.

But no cats.

The entire frame ripped out of the ceiling and fell with a decisive clatter.

But even as it fell, the orange harridan had already launched itself toward the light fixture over the table.

Remember what I said about the pot rack and cats.

Well, ditto for lights.

The metal fixture, hit the table below with a hollow clang, leaving a deep indent in the formerly pristine and now clawed and dented surface.

At that moment, someone rang the doorbell.

The cat shot up the curtains, shredding them as it went and finally landed on the back of the sofa. There it paused, likely gathering itself for future atrocities, just as I swung the front door open.

Perhaps it recognized the rather piqued face of Mrs. Ames in the opening.

I favour the opinion that it merely glimpsed the outdoors and freedom.

Whatever the reason, it launched itself at the irritated women with every orange hair on end and all claws out.

She caught it before it could clear the doorway.

Then, with the spitting, growling creature in her arms, she gave us a level look, turned and headed out across the lawn.

For a moment, my sister and I watched as the woman continued up the street and out of sight, a fully-puffed orange tail sticking out from beneath her arm.

Then Sally looked at me. “See? I told you having a cat would be fun!”

Each month, Karen's circle of cronies like-minded writers, engages in an exchange of words. 

It's fun, educational and challenging.

And did I mention fun?

My words this month: sub-rosa ~ fatalistic ~ myriad ~ rife ~ kerfuffle

were given to me by https://wannabelinguistics.tumblr.com

Now hop over and see what the others have done with the challenge!

Baking In A Tornado
The Bergham Chronicles
Southern Belle Charm
The Blogging 911
Cognitive Script
Part-Time Working Hockey Mom
My Brand of Crazy
Climaxed

Wannabe Linguistics

A 'Little' Religious Education

Dinnertime is family time.

And sometimes, you learn a lot.

Let me tell you about it . . .

We had been steadily working our way through husby’s homemade beef stew.

With yummy thick slices of bread.

The conversation – revolved.

Three-year-old Granddaughter #6 (hereinafter known as G6) had finished and was waiting, somewhat patiently, for the rest to follow.

So she could be excused.

Suddenly, she remembered something exciting.

She had just received a new set of scriptures.

And in them, right there in the front, was a picture of Jesus.

This was news that simply couldn’t wait.

She had to show us.

She scrambled down from her chair and ran to fetch her book.

Opening it to the correct page, she proudly displayed the picture for everyone.

The conversation went something like this . . .

G6: “Look! It’s Jesus! Jesus. Everyone! Jesus!”

Daddy: “What’s Jesus’ last name?”

G6: Blank look.

Grandma: “What’s Jesus’ last name, Sweetie?”

G6: Blinking and blank look.

Grandma (speaking slowly in her best this-is-a-hint voice): “Jesus C-h-r-i-s-t . . .”

G6 (light dawns): “Oh!” Big smile. “Amen!”

So just in case you’re wondering about that elusive last name . . .

Now you know.

The picture.

Just Kiss Him!

When you meet a fella, new, and that guy seems the best to you—

In your hunt,

You plan your kiss ‘tween you and he, considered by society—

Important.

Imagining where it will be, in thickest grove, or lone prairie—

Amazing.

When first your dewy lips will lock, and your frame tremble with the shock—

Heart’s blazing.

But though you plan beyond all doubt, sometimes it simply won’t work out—

It happens.

Just when you expect it least, you stumble onto your ‘love feast’—

Caught nappin’.

And thus we come to my own tale, of kisses planned and what prevailed—

I’ll tell you.

That what you plan won’t always be, sometimes it’s different, you’ll agree—

A boo-boo.

Our first kiss would be someplace nice, in fragrant fields or paradise—

‘Twas my plan.

Instead it was in feedlot there, with shoes in poop and bugs in hair—

Kissed my man.

The moonlight wasn’t o’er us shed, we’d mercury-vapour light instead—

It caught us.

I looked into his hazel eyes, it probably is no surprise,

They got us.

But still he stayed and our love grew, we’ve grown from us to thirty-two—

So listen . . .

And though a plan is what you’ve got, please know it really matters not—

Just kiss him!

 P.S. Husby's birthday is July 11th. Coincidence? I think not!

Each month we have a topic new, from Karen to us, then to you,
Employ it!
And now go read what others wrote, each I'll happily promote,
Enjoy it!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Just One Kiss

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Finding Her Prince

Kim of That Writer Junkie Writes: 슬픈 사랑 or This Sad Love.

Elusive

Yep. Back then, the brain . . . worked.

The summer I was ten, my oldest sister, Chris, volunteered to run a summer day camp for the kids in Milk River.

We had a marvelous time.

Games. Treats. Crafts. Treats. Contests. Treats. Activities. More treats.

I was ten.

Anything to do with food took priority.

Hmm. Still does in fact.

Moving on . . .

Chris put heart and soul into the program.

There were no parameters laid out, so she had to come up with the guidelines and curriculum herself.

She did a wonderful job.

Part way through the summer, she decided that it would be fun if she got all of the kids involved in performing a play.

And not just any play.

The Wizard of Oz.

A fairly ambitious undertaking for a seventeen year old girl and her group of pre-teens.

First, she had to come up with a script.

That was all right, because our family had the story on an LP.

LP.

Go ahead. Google it. We'll wait . . .

And that's where I came in.

I had one talent as a child.

I could memorize.

If I listened to it once, I could pretty much give a detailed description.

If I listened to it a lot?

I could recite it.

With voice inflections and sound effects.

And that was what I did.

For three days, I recited and Chris wrote.

The entire hour-and-a-half of 'The Wizard of Oz'.

As it had been recorded.

We had our script . . .

I should mention here that we never got to perform our play.

We simply ran out of time.

But we learned something important.

If you wanted anything remembered, let Diane listen to it ad infinitum for a couple of days and it was there forever.

Word perfect.

This skill stayed with me for a while.

In fact, I played the lead some years later in 'The Rented Christmas', and memorized the entire play.

To the point that I served as the prompter.

On stage.

My point in telling you all of this is simply to reminisce.

And to lament.

I've been trying to figure out what I watched last night on TV.

I know it was a good movie. And that I enjoyed it immensely.

I can't - for the life of me – remember.

Oh, for just a portion of that bygone talent!

Sigh.

Glory

 

“‘Tis feasible,” my mother said,
“One day you won’t approach with dread,
The culinary preparation needed.”
“To keep your family fine and strong,
Health’s maintenance. And life prolong!”
I sighed and knew, this once, she should be heeded.

And so she set the gadgets up,
She showed me teaspoon, timer, cup,
And joyfully, she started my instruction.
And while I watched in blank dismay,
Components hybrid on display,
I feared I’d never manage reproduction.

My poor family ached long-term
Gelatinous stews that made them squirm,
And casseroles known only by their toppings.
But still my mother laboured on,
Her lines of duty, clearly drawn,
From morn till night. Without. Ever. Stopping.

Her daughter must be well prepared,
No defeat would be declared.
And suitors would not ever find her wanting.
From soup to nuts and all between,
She taught me her divine cuisine,
And introduced aromas rich and haunting.

And I learned to cook, I truly did.
Discovered secrets ever hid,
Explored the states of ‘Heaven, Gustatory’,
And though I’ll never famous be,
My friends and all my family
Are satisfied. And that, to me, is glory.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, we will heed the call, 
And tackle 'Music' for you all!

Iron Lady

Today's ancestor?

My Mom.

Mom. All pressed and ready to go.

My mom was an ironer.

A Demon ironer.

She ironed everything.

Shirts. Pants. Dresses. Shorts. T-shirts. Socks. Pillowcases. Handkerchiefs. Sheets. Pajamas.

I kid you not.

Everything.

And when I say ‘she’, I mean her girls.

From the age of eight, I had my own little ironing pile.

Admittedly, it was the more easily ironed items. Pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and  . . . flat stuff.

But it was all mine. No other hands could – or would - touch it.

Ever.

In fact, it would still be there waiting for me, even if I’d been hiding in the barn all day.

Ahem . . .

Mom was very particular about her ironing. Everything had to be done just so. I was fortunate in that my items left very little scope for mistakes.

My sister wasn’t nearly so lucky.

I can still see my mom preparing things to iron. She would sprinkle everything with water, via a spritzer attachment atop a seven-up bottle.

Incidentally, we thought that said spritzer would be great fun in a water fight.

It wasn’t.

Moving on . . .

Then she would carefully roll the sprinkled items into a tight bundle and put them into a plastic bag.

Then put the plastic bag into the fridge.

I know.

I thought it was weird, too.

She said something about ‘keeping things moist’.

Who listened.

One by one, the items were pulled from the bag and ironed.

Then hung.

Then put away.

There was a definite process.

And one didn’t dare skip any of the steps.

Because Mom always knew.

Even if one folded up the handkerchiefs into tiny, tiny little squares.

Tiny.

Those gimlet eyes saw through everything.

Sigh.

Though most everything these days is permanent press, I still iron.

Sometimes.

Once in a while.

Okay, I admit it, the bottom of my ironing basket has never actually been seen.

There is a dress down there that's a women's size three!

It’s like an archeological dig.

I miss my Mom.

With Just a Little Love

Mmmm . . . love.

We were invited out to dinner one night.

Our hostess served us Turkey a la King.

And fresh, warm muffins.

With a crisp spinach salad.

Everything was absolutely delicious.

Which is usually the case when someone else cooks.

But as I was eating my salad, I suddenly remembered the spinach of my youth . . .

My Mom was a terrific cook.

Really terrific.

I can't remember anything that she made that I didn't like.

From her breakfasts of pancakes or waffles or bacon and eggs, through to her suppers of roast beef or shepherd's pie or veggies with cheese sauce, and everything in between.

Terrific.

But Mom had been raised by her Mom to believe that everything . . . everything . . . needed to be well done.

Meats.

Carbs.

Even veggies.

All had to be baked or fried or boiled to 'within and inch of their lives'.

Or at least until they had lost whatever colour they originally had.

It wasn't until I was married that I discovered the joy of 'medium rare' and 'tender crisp'.

And sometimes . . . raw.

I remember the first time someone served a mound of fresh, crisp cauliflower.

Uncooked.

With dipping sauce.

I stared at it.

Weird.

Cauliflower was suppose to be served steaming hot.

With cheese sauce.

I didn't even try it that time. Merely having seen it was sufficient for me.

Shortly afterwards, I did.

Try it, I mean.

I found it delicious.

And it opened a whole new world for me.

A world of colour and taste and texture that I never knew existed.

Back to the spinach.

Do you know how my Mom always served it?

Boiled.

Not steamed. Boiled.

I kid you not.

Then serve it as a glop on our plates.

With vinegar.

And you know something else?

We loved it.

Slurped it down like it was our last food on earth.

My point here is that I love food the way I prepare it now.

But I loved it equally as well when Mom fixed it.

I guess it all just comes down to how much love is served with it.

Titles of Authority

I attended a wonderful college at Rexburg, Idaho for one golden semester in the fall of 1973.

It was as long as I could manage to be away from my family.

Have I mentioned I'm a wuss?

Well, I am.

I was so homesick during those endless four months that I could have died.

I even wrote an article about being homesick that was picked up by the local paper.

I still think the tear-stains on the paper were the real sell.

Moving on . . .

During my time at college, I studied Physical Education.

Really.

I actually took classes in Soccer, Interpretive Dance, Track and Field, and Swimming.

Did you know they offer college level courses in those things?

Yeah. I didn't either.

It was a fun semester.

To round things out, I had to take some other remedial courses.

Chosen from a list.

And including such things as . . . English Language Arts.

And one or more sciences.

I chose Astronomy.

Because Zoology was filled up.

For an entire semester, I studied the stars.

We even went out in the evenings and, with the help of large telescopes, mapped the heavens.

It was . . . fun.

Our instructor for the class was a man named Brother Greg.

Oh, I should mention, here, that this was a Christian school and that we called each other brother and sister.

Even the instructors.

Soo . . . Brother Greg.

Brother Greg was a wonderful man.

Knowledgeable.

Kind.

Patient.

Let's face it, when you are shepherding a group of seventy or more students around, you'd have to have a good dose of all three.

And he answered every one of the questions I put to him.

Smiling quietly and nodding whenever my hand shot up accompanied by, “Brother Greg! Brother Greg!”

I enjoyed my Astronomy class.

I even earned a reputable grade.

And it was then that my world stood still. As well as all of the stars and planets I had been studying.

Because when Brother Greg handed out our final papers, with our grade prominently displayed, I got the biggest shock of the semester.

Brother Greg's name was Brother Nelson.

Brother Nelson?

Where on earth did I get Greg . . .? Oh. Brother Greg Nelson.

On the very first day of class, when I had been writing things down, I had started to write his name and was interrupted.

Thus, he became Brother Greg.

To this day, I wonder how I went through an entire semester without realizing that everyone . . . everyone . . . in the class was calling him something else.

I know the class was Astronomy, but was my head literally in the clouds?

Because he was such a nice man, he never corrected the weird student from Canada who insisted on calling him by his first name.

And neither did the other sixty-nine kids in the class.

Perhaps they snickered behind their hands whenever my hand went up.

Maybe (and this is a faint hope) they never noticed.

Oh, well, as least my grades were good.

Today, I couldn't tell you a single thing taught that semester.

Except for what I learned on the very last day.

And that, I simply can't forget.

Done

Okay, it was cute to start with . . .

Now you have a Love that is loyal and true,

And perfect in every way.

But knowing all that, now I put it to you,

What in the world would you say . . .?

From the time that we met as she walked down the street,

Just a’singing her favourite song,

Every moment together was perfect and sweet,

Put it mildly, we two got along.

Daily we’d treasure our moments together

And the years have gone past in a blur,

But lately, I’ve found that there’s one sort of weather,

I’m finding it hard to endure.

Now I’m not nasty or mean and I try to be kind,

I’ve given her arms that are strong.

It’s been fifty-five years, I’m mos’ deaf and near blind,

And I’m needing a different song!

I admit that I liked it when our Love was first new,

But more and more often, I find,

That ‘Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’,

Is driving me out of my mind!

Sweethearts.

And to make the ear worm complete: Manfred Mann.

Pie for the Fourth

Happy Fourth!

Today is the celebration of the birth of a great nation.
The country where my grandparents were born and raised.
And where most of my family still lives.
I both love and salute you, my neighbours!
In the best way I know how.
With pie.

My Mom. Doing what she did best!

Pie.

That king of treats.

The amazing union of lightly browned, flaky crust and yummy filling.

And topped with a delicious scoop of iced or whipped cream . . .

It's like heaven.

In your mouth.

Today is pie-making day. Whenever our family celebrates, we do it with pie. It's a long-standing tradition . . . that spans one generation.

Okay, yes, we started it, but it's still a good tradition!

So, because today is the anniversary of the birth of a great nation, and every party requires pie, I will spend today making it.

Pie, I mean.

I love doing this. My Mom made fantastic pie. Sweet. Flaky. (This is the only place where 'flaky' is a good thing.)

And utterly delicious.

And so, when I make it, using her recipes, it's like spending time with her. I even have the above picture, which I prop up and talk to.

Yes, it's weird, but she's been gone for well over a decade and I miss her.

And now, in honour of this great occasion, I am including eight of my favourite 'pie' quotes:

1. "Keep your knives, we're having pie!"  ~ My Dad. Just before Mom whacked him.
2. "Keep your fork, Duke, there's pie."  ~ The proprietress of a diner to the Duke of Edinborough.
3. "A boy doesn't have to go to war to be a hero; he can say he doesn't like pie when he sees there isn't enough to go around." ~ E.W. Howe
4. "But I, when I undress me
Each night, upon my knees
Will ask the Lord to bless me
With apple-pie and cheese."
                  ~ Eugene Field
5. "Thy breath is like the steame of apple-pyes."  ~ Arcadia   Robert Green, 1590
6. "In order to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe."  ~ Isaac Asimov
7. If all the world were Apple pie, 
And all the seas were ink, 
And all the trees were bread and cheese, 
What would we have to drink?  
                   ~ Unknown
7. "Pie? Is that those round things?" ~ My FIL. Just before my MIL whacked him.
8. "It is utterly insufficient (to eat pie only twice a week), as anyone who knows the secret of our strength as a nation and the foundation of our industrial supremacy must admit. Pie is the American synonym of prosperity, and its varying contents, the calendar of the changing seasons. Pie is the food of the heroic. No pie-eating people can ever be permanently vanquished."  ~ EDITORIAL New York Times, 1902
Which is your favourite?

I have to go. My Mom is waiting.
Happy Fourth of July, everyone!