Crowbarred

I honestly didn’t see this one coming.

Okay I’m quite sure you’ve realized that, with Sally, you can’t always predict things.

But this really caught me off guard.

Let me explain . . .

Mom was away for the weekend. For any of you who know Sally and me, that fact alone should be an indication that things would not proceed normally for the duration of Mom’s absence. It’s kind of a given.

But her sister gifted her with a mini vacay to the city and an all-inclusive pass to the Mint Julep. Which, if I understood Mom’s jabbering as she perused the card, is the name of a spa. The posh-est of the posh if said card was to be believed. Mom babbled on about much-needed massages and hot stones and mudbaths.

All I heard was: You’ll be responsible for Sally 24/7 until I get back. Yikes.

Oh, mom hadn’t left us totally on our own. She’s smarter than that. She asked Mrs. Ames from down the street to look in on us from time to time. The Mrs. Ames of the cats. Who had regarded Sally--and by association me--with suspicion bordering on . . . suspicion since that day we (that is to say, Sally) purloined her big, yellow, savage, spitting fury for what turned out to be an unexpected reno job.
Sometime I'll tell you about it. Ahem . . .

Sooo . . . Mom.

Gone.

For the first few minutes all went well. Sally was unexpectedly quiet. I was in the kitchen, whipping up one of my semi-famous fudge brownie cakes.

Sally was doing something in the front room.

Mrs. Ames showed up for her first check in, tapping authoritatively on the front door.

“Come in!” Sally shouted cheerfully.

I should have known.

The door swung open.

Mrs. Ames was met in the doorway with a faceful of water.

Shot from the garden hose.

That Sally had dragged in through the back door for that exact purpose.

I probably don’t have to tell you that that’s the last we saw of Mrs. Ames for the entire weekend.

Sigh.

On another note, who knew The Cat Lady could run that fast?

Moving on . . .

A couple of hours later, Sally, doing her best to look innocent, walked rather awkwardly through from the garage and headed up the stairs.

Yes, the alarm bells started ringing. But I was just about to beat the level I had been despairing over for a week and no way I was going to drop that controller just because my sister walked through looking innocent.

I know you see the flaws in that argument.

Something upstairs crashed loudly, but as there was no yell of pain and/or death, I ignored it. A short time later, Sally was back and moving fast.

She darted past me into the garage, emerging seconds later clutching the roll of duct tape. She held it up. “Is gray the only colour this comes in?”

I frowned. “Well, no. I think it comes in other colours. But gray is all we have.”

“Will it prevent . . . leakage?”

“Leakage? What . . .?” But I was talking to empty space. Sally, still grasping her tape, had darted into the stairwell.

I sighed, dropped my controller and bounded up the stairs behind her.

The twin sounds of water splashing and tape ripping drew me to the doorway of the bathroom.

A large and growing puddle, being blotted ineffectively by several thick towels was creeping toward me across the lino.

Sally, tongue held firmly between her teeth, was busily applying strips of tape to a large gap in the side of the full tub. A large gap.

Remember when I mentioned the ineffectiveness of the stack of towels?

Well that term would also apply to her efforts with the tape.

Water was pouring out unabated.

I splashed through it and pulled the plug.

Sally blinked. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Why, indeed.

The next few minutes were taken with soaking up water.

Then the two of us stood side-by-side, gazing down at the shattered tub.

“How . . .” I began.

“It was the stupid crowbar!” Sally said. She reached over behind the toilet and brought out the iron implement. “It slipped and . . .”

I help up a hand. “You had a crowbar in the bathroom.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course.” Sally set it down and headed for the medicine chest over the sink. “Do we have any antiseptic cream. I think I may have cut my finger.”

“A crowbar. In the bathroom.” I couldn’t quite get past it.

“Yeah. For the tiles. I thought as long as I had some time, I may as well start . . .”

Again I help up a hand. “Tiles? But why fill the tub with water? And . . . You know what? I don’t want to know.”

Sally again came over to me, wrapping a Band-Aid around her finger. She handed me a vitamin pill. “Here this might help.”

I rolled my eyes, but took it and began to chew thoughtfully.

Sally looked from the tub to me. “So how are we gonna fix it?”

"We?!" I took a deep breath. “How much money do you have in your account?”

She looked at me again, and back at the tub. Then sighed. “Right.” She bent to retrieve the long, iron tool. “Huh. Look at that.”

“What?”

“I bent the crowbar.” 

Each month, Karen's followers exchange words.

And craft stories.

This month, my words, antiseptic ~ cream ~ leakage ~ savage ~ vitamin, came from my good friend, Rena at: The Blogging 911 

Rena. This one's for you!

See what the others have done!

Baking In A Tornado
The Bergham Chronicles

The Blogging 911
Cognitive Script

My Brand of Crazy
Part-Time Working Hockey Mom

Southern Belle Charm

Climaxed

Baby Trap

This

Plus this.

It was a pretty normal Saturday evening at the Tolley’s.

Parents and children seated on every available chair.

Spill-over . . . spilling over.

Onto cushions on the floor.

An old musical on the screen.

Several family members were singing along with the lyrics. “When I was a lad, I was gloomy and sad as I was since the day I was born . . .”

You get it.

One member of the company, 15 month-old Granddaughter #12 (hereinafter creatively known as GD12) wasn’t watching. Rather, she had discovered the box of baby toys conveniently placed in the very likely case of boredom. And/or  . . . yeah. Boredom.

One of the toys, a ball inside a ball, was especially intriguing. She carried it around for several minutes—a great period in babytime.

Sometime during these moments of discovery, GD12 realized that she could put her little hand inside the ball.

And grasp the second ball trapped there.

But there, her play came to an abrupt halt. She couldn’t extract that dratted second ball.

She could reach in a grasp it, but the holes in the outer ball weren’t large enough to allow for baby hand and grasped ball to emerge.

Stumped, she brought the whole thing--hand, balls and all.

To me.

Her dilemma was immediately apparent. How to get that second—and infinitely desirable—second ball . . . out.

Her little hand was still firmly grasping it. And no way was she going to let it go.

“Oh, look!” I said. “We caught a little monkey!”

Modern monkey/baby traps.

Colourful and effective.

With big sister.
Getting her hands into other mischief...

Times Twenty

In our house, birthdays came and went

With regularity,

And though we tried, it was so hard,

To act with parity.

The cake was simple, ‘Mama’ made,

In chocolate or spice,

Then decorated more or less,

So it would look sooo ‘nice’.

But gifts! Oh, boy those were the test,

You wanted something great,

But fluctuating finance made kids

Happy or distrait.

As they grew older, Papa’d say,

In stentorian voice,

“All birthdays now are cancelled, kids!”

His kids did not rejoice!

But deep inside, his children knew

He really meant it not.

They really needn’t worry that

Their day’d be forgot.

The kids are grown and moving on,

Now their kids’ birthdays loom,

And once again we find that we,

Our duties we’ve resumed.

Instead of six, there’s twenty now,

And everything costs more,

Every other week we’re found,

Perusing. In the store.

This week my Husby tried that thing

That he had tried before,

Announcing that all birthdays

Would not be fêted more.

But what a clamour then arose,

Each one outdid the next,

One didn’t have to look too hard,

To see that they were vexed.

But deep inside, his ‘grands’ all knew

He really meant it . . . not.

They really needn’t worry that

Their day’d be forgot.

And truth be told we love it when

They open up our gifts,

They may think it’s theirs alone,

It’s us that feel the lift.

So every other week you’ll find

With minimum of fuss,

That Husby and his loving wife,

Are there at Toys R Us.

Each month 'mid lives both old and new,
Our Karen gives us poems to do.
And now you see what we have writ',
Impressed, now, with our smarts and wit?
Karen of Baking In A Tornado: September Twelfth

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Another Year Has Passed

Sarah of My Brand of Crazy: 10 Years of a Lifetime

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Unwanted Anniversary

Fixed

Daddy and Me. And George. I'm the one with the curlers in her hair . . .

I like dogs.

If I had to state a preference, I would have to admit that I favour big, hairy ones.

Even if they slobber.

But, truth to tell, I like all kinds. Pointy. Fuzzy. Smooth. Dreadlocked. Naked. Huge. Tiny. Rat-sized. Medium. Purebred. Heinz 57.

If it resembles a dog in any way, I’m well on the way to being smitten.

And I’ve always been this way.

Dad can tell you.

In the past, if any member of the ‘doggy’ fraternity crossed my path, I was ready to welcome it with open arms.

Literally.

And therein lies a tale . . .

I was playing with my friends on the school playground.

I’m not sure what we were playing, probably something noisy.

And dangerous.

But I digress . . .

A dog wandered into our sphere.

A black and tan dog. Thin and wasted, with the worst case of ‘post nasal drip’ I had ever seen.

But with longish, silky black and tan and white hair and beautiful, but sad, teary brown eyes.

I loved him.

He would be mine.

And, my dad was a vet. He could fix my new best friend!

I clutched a handful of hair, just behind the dog’s head, and led him to my house, two blocks away.

The rest of the kids followed.

Because.

We were an ‘in the moment’ crowd. What can I say . . .?

It took a long time, with frequent stops for my new friend to rest, but finally, we arrived. My Dad met my dog and me as we came up the drive, followed by the rest of the neighbourhood.

“Umm, Diane? What’s going on?”

Dad was used to me. If I detected a trace of hesitancy, that’s probably because he had learned to view anything I did with . . . hesitancy.

Smart man.

I looked up at him expectantly. “Daddy! This nice doggy is sick!”

“Umm, yes, I can see that . . .”

“Fix him!”

Dad glanced at the dog. Then he looked at me.

I put on my most endearing face.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

He knelt down.

Yes!

He looked the dog over. “I’m afraid he’s really sick, Honey,” he said.

“I know. Fix him!”

He sighed and stood up. “Wait here a moment.”

I turned and grinned at the other kids. See? My Dad could do anything.

Dad came back with a syringe filled with something . . . fixy. Injected the dog and patted it on its droopy head. “There. That’s the best I can do.”

I looked at the dog. It wagged its tail slightly. See? It was better already.

“Can it come and play with us?”

“I think the best thing would be for it to rest here in the garage.”

“Umm. Okay.”

He helped me lay out a blanket and settle my doggie on it comfortably. Then he closed the garage door and told us to let him rest.

We did.

I peeked in through the garage window a couple of times.

It was easy enough if I dangled from the clothesline just outside.

But my little friend just lay there on the blanket.

Getting better.

The next morning, I leaped out of bed and charged down the hallway, on my way to see my new friend.

My Dad met me at the door.

“Oh, Diane, your doggy is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“His family came and got him.”

“Oh.”

I was sad, but I knew that Dad had injected him with just the magic elixir (yes, we used that in the 50’s) that would heal him entirely. And thoughts of my doggy running and playing with his family cheered me.

All was well.

There is an addendum . . .

53 years later:

I was visiting with my Dad and he recalled the story of my little short-term friend.

I smiled in memory. “Oh, yes. The one with distemper. The one you saved.”

Dad looked at me and shook his head. “Actually, I didn’t save him,” he said. “The shot I gave him was to lessen his pain. He died that night.”

I hadn’t thought about that little dog for over fifty years, but suddenly, I could picture the soft, brown eyes. The silky hair and funny, tan ‘eyebrows’. The skinny body.

I felt unaccountably sad for the little fellow.

But, just as suddenly, I was grateful to my Dad.

For his skill. For his compassion.

He did manage to fix him after all. 

Or someone similar...

My 'Teddy'

When I was young, the dark I feared,

My brothers teased and thought me weird,

I sighed and recognized my lot,

Imagination’s what I’d got.

Then Mama gave me something warm,

Just to protect me from the storm,

And from the creatures of the dark,

That under my small bed were parked.

‘Twas plump and cuddly, soft and sweet,

It blotted tears, caressed my cheeks,

When monsters came (at close of day),

I cuddled hard—they went away.

I called it ‘Teddy’, ‘cause it was,

A Teddy Bear with furry paws,

And so together he and me,

We grew as close as friends could be.

And time went on and then I grew

And married a boy that I knew,

But though much older, I’d not outgrown,

That fear of darkness that I'd known,

I had no bear to cuddle with,

Protect me from my monster myths,

But then I found I’d something more,

To stop those monsters at the door.

My marriage gave me someone warm,

Just to protect me from the storm,

And from the creatures of the dark,

That under my large bed were parked.

He’s not fuzzy, but he's sweet,

He blots my tears, caresses cheeks,

When monsters come (at close of day),

I cuddle hard—they go away.

So though I don’t have Teddy now,

It doesn’t matter anyhow,

‘Cause what I have is far more 'good',

Than what I had in childhood!

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 own way,

We'll celebrate those baking days.                      

Sobering Truth

Picturesque.
And deadly.

Branding time was an opportunity to celebrate.

The calf crop – the ranch’s major source of income - had mostly passed the first difficult months and was growing well.

The warm, summer months had arrived.

One got the chance to spend a day or two in company with one’s friends and peers. For the mostly solitary riders, a rare treat. On many ranches, it was a time to kick up one’s heels.

So to speak.

Now the Stringam Ranch, where I was raised, was a liquor-free zone.

But on many ranches, the alcohol was flowing even before the last animal was branded.

Happy cowboys.

Semi-tame animals.

Sharp knives.

An open fire.

Red-hot irons.

And liquor.

Who doesn’t see any sources of concern here?

One particular tale of woe, told to us by our dad, stayed with me forever.

Let me tell you about it . . .

The branding was nearly finished for the day.

One of the hands had produced a bottle of something code-named ‘Hair of the Dog’.

It was . . . strong. And its effects pretty much instantaneous.

Said bottle made a couple of rounds.

By the end of the second pass, the boys were (to quote something ‘ranch-y’) feeling their oats.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a literal blur.

The last animal was branded.

Who, what or where, by this point no one really knew.

Or cared.

Someone shouted, “Let ‘em go!”

The corral gate was swung open.

I should probably mention that these cows and calves had been cooped up all day.

They were hungry, tired, stressed and sore.

The great outdoors looked just like that. Great.

En masse, they poured through that opening, heedless of anything that may be in the way.

The boss of the outfit suddenly remembered, through a slight haze, that there had been a cow noticed earlier. A cow with a horn that had curved the wrong way and was now threatening to actually grow into the animal’s head.

Easily fixed with a couple of lassos and a small saw.

But now that cow, along with her fellows, was making her way as quickly as possible toward the G.O. (see above).

He leaped aboard his trusty steed (which immediately proved itself to be anything but trusty) and gave it the spurs.

The animal, lacking somewhat in dignified communicative skills, resorted to the less dignified.

It began to buck.

Now, normally, this would have resulted in a few strong words with maybe a dusting in the prairie soil. But in this particular instance, location was everything.

Because the animal chose to express itself under the crossbar of the corral gate.

That first leap mortally injured the rancher.

Now the man had lived a rough life. Worked rough. Played rough. And drank rough.

And now he had a rough death.

A sadly sobering truth.

I don’t know what the effect was on those boys who witnessed the event.

But for me, even listening to it third-hand made me vow never to mix alcohol and any form of ranch work.

I know most of you probably won’t be toting a branding iron any time soon.

So, this is for everyone else . . .

When branding?

Leave the liquor in the bunkhouse. 

Sundays are for Ancestors. I know that none of my forebears were actually involved in this story. But it was told to me by Daddy.

I think that counts!

Fly With Me

Mom, George, Chris, Jerry, Dad and me.
Not picuted: The clothesline.

Climbing was my thing.
Ask anyone.
My climbing ability was legendary. My experiences, many and varied.
Many's the time my mom would sprint up the old machinery hill to save her tiny daughter from the jaws of certain death.
Or at least from a very unpleasant fall to the bottom of the 100 foot TV tower.
My father, too, was no stranger to my favorite activity. During a visit with the manager of the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton, Alberta, the new chandelier in the great room was being discussed.
"It's magnificent," Dad said, gazing up into the rafters 50 feet above them.
"Yeah, we really like it," the manager said, following his gaze. "The only thing I'm concerned about is how we're going to clean it."
"Clean it?!" Dad said. "Well, I have a daughter who will climb it!"
Together, my parents plucked me off the top of horses, bulls, pigs, haystacks, combines, tractors, trees, fences, shed roofs, barn roofs, garage roofs, car roofs, water towers, windmills, and even the occasional propane tank.
Admittedly, a fall from many of them probably wouldn't have been fatal. Just . . . uncomfortable.
But no amount of lecturing or lurid stories illustrating the dangers of such activities could discourage me.
I just had to climb.
And then that fateful day . . .
Isn't it odd that fateful days never, ever seem to start out any different from any other day? I mean, sullen, red skies would be entirely appropriate. With phenomena. That way, you'd know that something momentous was about to happen.
But I digress . . .
I had discovered a wonderful new activity.
It included Mom's clothesline and the picnic table.
And climbing.
For some reason, the table had been shoved close to the clothesline. Close enough that someone daring - me - could make a run along the table and launch oneself - also me - onto the clothesline.
Now I should point out here that Mom's clothesline wasn't one of those boring long stretches of wire so useless to an enterprising youngster. No.
It was a new-fangled round one.
That spun when pushed.
And if you leapt and caught the wires just right, you could spin all the way around and back to the table.
Which I did.
Several times. In fact, I was the neighborhood champion. Again and again I would perform for my audience to appreciative oohs and aahs.

Several of the kids tried it, but no one could go quite as far or as fast as I could, although some were getting close. I decided it was time to up the ante. 
Slightly.
I was going to try for a double axel.
It had never been done. Never even been attempted.
But I was going to do it.
My audience was assembled.
I dusted my hands together and poised at the back edge of the picnic table.
The crowd grew hushed.
I took a deep breath and launched myself along the table.
Perfect.
I flew gracefully across the intervening space.
Even more perfect.I reached out for the wires.
And for the first time in my life, missed.
Missed?
I reached again, frantically, then looked up at the wires, as they slowly moved further and further from me.
How could this be?
With a heavy thump, I hit the ground, driving every square millimeter of air from my lungs.
My friends stared at me, frozen. Then there was a collective scream and they all rushed forward.
"Diane! Diane! Are you all right?"
I just stared at them and tried to catch my breath.
Then a horrified, "Diane, you're bleeding!"
I looked down. They were right. Blood was spattered on my shirt and shorts. I looked at my arms. My legs.
Nothing.
Then I tried to talk.
And realized where the blood was coming from.
My mouth.
Shocked, I put a hand over it.
"Mrs. Stringam! Mrs. Stringam!" several voices began shouting.
My Mom came on the run.
"Oh, my!" She knelt beside me and put a towel to my chin. "Open your mouth, Honey."
I tried to obey, but my mouth didn't want to. It had suddenly begun to hurt.
It wanted to stay shut.
I felt the tears begin.
"It's okay, Honey, just open your mouth."
Finally, I was able to open it. A little.
Mom gasped, and put the towel over my mouth.
"Come on, Dear, let's get you into the house."
"Mrs. Strin-gam? Will Diane be all right?" I vaguely recognized Laurie's voice.
"She'll be fine, Dear. I'll just take her into the house and get her cleaned up."
Mom half-led, half-carried me into the cool, quiet house and sat me down on the cupboard in the kitchen. Then she sponged the blood off my face and neck.
"Let me have another look, Honey," she said.
Obligingly, though I really didn't want to, I opened my mouth for her.
"Okay, well, you've cut your tongue, Honey. It's probably going to hurt quite a bit. But it'll be all right."
So she kept saying. Why didn't I believe her?
"Here. Hold this while I call Doctor Clemente."
I took the towel she was pressing to my face while she went to the phone.
"Yes, Doctor." I could hear her in the hallway. "Yes. Okay." She hung up the phone.
Then she was back beside me. "Here, Honey, let me take it."
She gently swabbed at my mouth again.
Mom could make anything feel better.
Almost
Later, after I had refused supper, a new thing for me, I overheard her talking to Dad.
"Yes, I think it's bitten at least half-way through. It's still attached, but barely. The doctor thinks it will heal just fine, but it'll be a while, and it'll be painful."
A while?
That is parent code for 'forever'.
Sigh.
It did heal. And quite quickly, too, in 'Parent' time.
During that time, I was the focus of all of the neighborhood kids. Everyone would come up to me and ask me to stick out my tongue.
Then ooh and ah delightedly.
I was a celebrity.
It was almost enough to get me climbing again.
Almost.

Let There be Trees

Notice the trees. Please.

When I was fourteen, Dad decided to combine the best of all worlds.

He sold the old family ranch twenty miles from the town of Milk River and bought a new spread.

Somewhat closer.

Situated immediately adjacent to the town – and I do mean immediately – it retained all the charm of living in the country.

Within walking distance of everything ‘town’.

Perfect.

There was just one drawback.

The ranch grew from the ashes of the old town slaughter house.

Quite literally.

The slaughter house had burned to the ground and the town butcher had taken it as a sign that it was time to retire.

Dad was only too happy to help him out and bought the almost bare patch of ground.

Oh, there was pasture. Plenty of it.

But no buildings to speak of.

My parents had to start from scratch.

After several months of construction, corrals, barns, outbuildings, quonset and finally, home, appeared.

But that was just the first part.

Now, I should point out, here, that the town of Milk River lies nestled in a crook of the actual Milk River on the prairies.

The rolling, grassy, windswept, breathtakingly beautiful, treeless prairies.

Our recently vacated old ranch had been planted, sometime in the thirties, with acres of trees. Trees that stood tall and straight and looked like they had been there forever. Tress so lush and beautiful that is was rather difficult to see the ranch house.

Though this new place had many, many amenities, its treeless state was achingly obvious.

Mom set out to do something about it.

And roped us kids into helping.

Sigh.

We planted trees.

Acres of them.

And then, if that weren’t enough, we watered trees.

Acres of them.

Oh, we used the garden hose – for as far as it would reach. Then we used a little water tank on wheels.

It was aching, back-breaking work.

But who is going to sneak away to happier pursuits when one’s mother is out there, sweating beneath yet another bucket of water?

No one could be that heartless.

Okay, well, Dad would have had something to say about it if we disappeared . . .

We hand-fed those trees the entire time we lived there.

Then dad, he of the itchy feet, bought another ranch, this time near Fort MacLeod, Alberta.

One that was, mercifully, well treed.

Happily, we packed our buckets and moved.

But we often drive past the old place, whose trees are now nearly fifty years old.

Trees that stand tall and straight and look like they’ve been there forever. Tress so lush and beautiful that is was rather difficult to see the ranch house.

I guess we gave them a good start.

And, really, that’s all that matters.

Dish Sisters

My older sister and me.
Oh, and George.
And part of Dad
And a little bit of Jerry and Blair.

The food had been, as per Mom’s usual standard, delicious.

The conversation had flowed, eddying around such topics as - the day. School. Ranch work. Friends. Town politics.

I was sitting in a contented stupor.

Well fed.

My favourite people in the world around me.

Life was better than fabulous.

“Chris and Diane,” Mom said, smiling at us. “You girls are on dishes tonight.”

And, just like that, my euphoric bubble burst. I could almost hear the ‘snap’ of its passing.

We looked at each other.

“Okay!” Chris said, bouncing to her feet.

Have I mentioned that my older sister is one of those people who is always willing and cheerful?

She is.

Most of the time, I liked it.

Just not tonight.

My reaction to Mom’s announcement was anything but enthusiastic. “Dishes?! Mooom!”

Okay, I admit that my reaction was purely for selfish reasons. I was in the middle of a good book and my plan had been to drop straight back into it after supper.

But Mom’s word was law and I dragged myself to my feet and helped my perky sister scrape and stack the mountain of dishes.

We did fine to that point.

Now here is where the differences between her way of accomplishing the task, and mine, met.

And clashed.

When she washed, Chris liked to leave the tap on just a tiny trickle. Then she could wash, rinse the item by passing it through the stream, and set the dish into the draining board.

I, on the other hand, preferred the ‘turn-the-tap-on’ method.

Wherein one would turn on the tap each time one was ready to rinse.

In my opinion, it wasted less water.

Here is where I admit that Mom simply put some rinse water into the second sink and . . . dipped.

But who wanted to do it Mom’s way?

I was washing. So I got to choose.

Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Why don’t you just leave it on a trickle?” Chris asked. “It saves time.”

Already feeling disgruntled, I mumbled, “I prefer it this way!”

Big sigh from older sister.

Wash. Tap on. Rinse. Tap off.

“Diane, this is really starting to bug me! Just leave the tap on!”

“Fine!” I turned on the tap and let it trickle.

Chris smiled and continued to dry dishes.

I washed something. Then, out of habit, turned the tap, forgetting that it was already on.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Another dish.

“Diane! It’s already on!”

“Right.”

Another dish.

This time, I turned the tap a little more forcefully than usual.

Not a problem if it wasn’t already on.

Which it was.

The water splashed out, soaking every available surface.

And my sister.

“Diane!”

Oops. “Umm . . . sorry?”

“Ugh. Get out of here and just let me do it!” She reached for the wash cloth and, just like that, I was out of a job.

I stood there for a moment and watched her.

Then I shrugged and went to find my book.

Sisters.

Pffff.                                              

Mostly Spiky

C'mon. Give us a snuggle!

Porcupines. Not so cute and cuddly any more.

Or ever.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On a ranch, though I've heard that their meat - like pork - is quite sweet and tasty, porcupines serve no useful purpose.

Actually, anywhere, they really don’t accomplish much that could be considered ‘good’.

Herbivores, they nibble new trees to death. Devour plant life and generally make nuisances of themselves in a ‘shredding the garden’ way.

They also intimidate the livestock. It is this last that is the most aggravating.

Because said livestock have to then be rescued.

Sigh.

My dad and a hired man, Dale, were checking the herd.

It was winter.

Now I should probably explain, because it will be pertinent later, that in Southern Alberta, in winter, snow falls. It just doesn’t stay where it fell.

On average, parts of Southern Alberta have 13 to 14 windless days in the year.

13 to 14.

I probably don’t need to point out that that leaves 351 to 352 windy days.

Now you know why snow doesn’t stay where it’s put.

Back to my story . . .

On this particular day, Dad and Dale came across a cow with a face full of porcupine quills.

Ouch.

She had obviously allowed curiosity to overcome her sense. Wait. I’m talking about a cow here. She had obviously let her curiosity have free rein and discovered the folly of sniffing porcupines.

The quills had been embedded both in and outside her mouth, making grazing impossible. The poor animal was standing there. Sore. Hungry. And downright miserable.

Dad and Dale removed the quills, then decided to hunt down the culprit.

It’s a rancher thing.

They found him a short distance away, happily sunning himself in the branches of a chokecherry bush.

Breaking off branches of the bush, Dad and Dale closed in for the ‘kill’. Or at least the ‘drive the varmint to the nearest far-away place’.

Here’s where the blown snow comes in. The wind had deposited most of a recent snowfall into those same bushes. Dad found himself chest-deep in the stuff as he approached.

But thinking he’d simply knock the critter off its branch and scare it away, he really wasn’t concerned.

Big mistake.

Did you know that porcupines, far from being the shy, retiring animals they appear, are actually quite aggressive?

Make a note of it.

The porcupine hit the snow and, moving astonishingly easily over the great drifts, immediately turned and headed straight for dad’s face.

Which was, in baseball speak, right in the ‘strike zone’.

Unable to move in the chest-deep snow, Dad watched in horror as the angry little monster came right for him.

He closed his eyes.

Then heard the ‘whump’ of something striking a soft body. And the even more welcome sound of said soft body landing some distance away. Far out of the face prickling ‘oh-my-heck-this-is-going-to-hurt’ zone.

He opened his eyes.

Dale had swooped in at the last minute and hit the ball out of the park.

So to speak.

The disgruntled porcupine, realizing that it was no match for two branch-wielding opponents, tossed one last glare in their general direction and headed, quite literally, for the hills.

Mission accomplished.

Porcupine troubles?

Grab a branch and follow me!

Fall's Magic

I discovered ‘Fall’ when I was ten,

Yes, Autumn happened long before,

I just began to notice then.

Sit back, I’d like to tell you more…

To make us culturally aware,

Our Mom would haul us once a week,

To Mrs. Sproad of the greying hair,

For music lessons. So to speak.

Each time, I’d sweat my half an hour,

On piano bench. With tongue in teeth.

When brother sat, I got to scour

The farm. From barns to distant heath.

With collie, Princess, by my side,

I wandered out wher’er I could.

Through grasses long and leaves all dried,

Just two of us there in the woods.

The sounds, the smells I can’t forget,

The crisp and spicy odors pleased,

If I could, I’d be there yet,

Running through the crunchy leaves.

With Princess and her ringing bark,

My trustworthy companion, she,

A furry, friendly matriarch

Who now is just a memory.

So now each time I smell those smells,

Or find myself knee deep in leaves,

The memories, I can’t dispel,

Fall's magic? On my heart it breathes.

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'll celebrate with flair,

The funny, fuzzy Teddy Bear.                             

Catching a Thief

Grandpa: George Lewis Stringam

Throughout his life, my Grandpa Stringam, a rancher, politician, husband, father and friend, was known for two things.

His business savvy.

And his kindness.

This is one of my favourite stories about him . . .

Grandpa used to rent harvested fields at the end of the season to feed out his cattle. Most of the crop had been removed. But there was always something left for an animal that was good at gleaning.

He usually tried to get fields that were close to water, so his animals would both be fed and watered, then every two or three days, he would ride out to check the herd and make sure they were cared for.

On one particular patch of ground, the owners had erected a small hut – not much more than a shack – for when they were in the fields during harvest. The rest of the year, the hut remained empty. But one day when Grandpa was riding, he discovered that a small family – father, mother, small son – had taken up residence.

Soon afterward, he noticed that one of his steers near the straw stack beside the hut had grown quite fat and was ready for slaughter. He determined to come back another day and drive it home.

But when he got back, the steer was gone.

He searched for a while, even checking the river to see if it may have slipped under the ice, but found nothing.

Finally, he called at the hut.

The man told him – in rather sharp tones – that he hadn’t seen the steer and hoped he’d never see it.

Grandpa was surprised at his answer and couldn’t imagine why the man would speak to him in such a manner.

As he returned to his horse near the straw stack, he noticed a leg of an animal in the straw. Kicking around, he discovered a second leg. Both were the same colour as the missing steer.

Mounting his horse, he immediately rode to the nearest RNWMP detachment at Standoff, Alberta.

Returning with the officer, the two of them searched through the straw stack until they found two more legs and a branded hide.

It was definitely the steer Grandpa had been missing.

They went to the hut but received no answer to their knock. Finally, the policeman announced loudly that he was entering.

After a short search, the meat from the slaughtered animal was found under the floorboards.

The officer took the man into custody and instructed Grandpa to meet them in Standoff.

When Grandpa arrived, the man, his wife and son and most of their worldly goods were there in the outer office. The police had laid charges and the man had been remanded until the next sitting of the court in Fort MacLeod.

Sometime in January.

This was a few days before Christmas.

It was at this time Grandpa discovered the desperate situation of the young family. Newly arrived from England, they had been unable to find work. Family living in the area had not been able to help and they were perilously near starvation.

Grandpa was shocked. Muttering that he never would have pressed charges if he’d known the circumstances, he stared at the little family, trying to decide what could be done.

Finally, he packed the woman, her son and belongings into his vehicle and toted the entire entourage back to his house.

And there they stayed. The woman helped out wherever she could and the son played with my dad and uncles and aunts.

When the man came to trial, he pleaded guilty, but was – at my Grandpa’s suggestion – sentenced to time served and allowed to leave. The little family made their way to Toronto.

It was years before the rest of the family knew why the woman and her son had come to stay. Grandpa had told them only that they needed some help.

And he had provided it.

It's Ancestor Sunday! Tell me about your people . . .

Thwimming Therapy

Okay, it was scary.

But it turned out all right . . .

Our family have always been swimmers.

Our children are introduced to the water soon after they arrive.

And spend copious amounts of time there.

When we take a holiday, our choice of hotel is always based on whether or not it has a pool.

On to my story . . .

We were in Great Falls with my Husby's eldest brother and his family.

We had a favourite hotel there.

With *gasp* two pools.

The main pool was popular.

And usually busy.

We had decided to gather beside the smaller pool.

Adults, visiting.

Kids, playing.

Because we grown-ups hadn't planned on swimming, my Husby put on his suit under protest.

But I insisted.

At least one adult needed to be prepared.

We went down.

And spent a pleasant half-hour talking and laughing.

Now I should explain, here, that this smaller pool had one major draw-back.

It really wasn't made with children in mind.

It was roughly circular in shape.

And was shallow at the outer edges.

And deep in the middle.

I know. Weird.

Moving on . . .

Our oldest boy, aged four, was playing happily with his cousins in the shallows.

The kids were shouting and giggling and generally making 'happy' sounds and our oldest nephew, aged six, was keeping up a continuous dialogue of, “Mom! Dad! Look at this!”

His parents had tuned him out.

Something I simply couldn't do.

And for which I am eternally grateful.

“Mom!” he shouted.

I turned and looked at him.

“Mark's down there!” he said, pointing toward the centre of the pool.

My Husby looked at me.

“Get him!” I shouted.

He jumped in and an instant later, came up with our little boy.

For a few seconds, Mark coughed and gasped.

Then cried.

And just like that, our swim was over for the day.

We left the next morning, everyone well and happy, and completely unaware of the psychological damage that had been done.

A few days later, we took our family down to the river to our favourite swimming hole.

Though the water came no higher than his ankles, Mark refused to put one foot into the river.

Odd.

Later, we went to the local swimming pool for what had always been our favourite Saturday evening activity.

Mark, our fish, clung to the ladder and screamed.

Okay, something was definitely wrong.

For the next few months, every time we tried to go swimming, it was the same.

People splashing around.

Mark sitting as far from the water as he could get.

Hmmmm.

A year passed.

Without much change.

Then our family moved to Edmonton.

Within hours of getting settled, my Husby discovered the local rec centre.

And their 'wave pool'.

Sounded intriguing.

What on earth was a wave pool?

We packed up the kids and went to investigate.

It turned out that a wave pool was just that.

A pool.

With waves.

For fifteen minutes, the water was calm.

Smooth.

Then a horn would blow and the waves would start.

Small, at first, then growing in size until they were . . . significant.

Mark had been paddling in the ankle-deep water at the shallow end.

A big step for him.

The horn sounded.

He looked up.

And stared at the wall of water coming toward him.

Okay, it wasn't a wall.

Maybe more of a . . . fence?

Well, maybe a median.

But it was definitely coming toward him.

We watched as he considered his options.

Then, to our surprise, he dropped to his knees and . . . let the wave roll over him.

And just like that, his fear was gone.

Our fish was back.

There is a codicil:

Mark is married now, and the father of five.

Several times a week, he takes his family swimming.

It is their favourite activity.

Every time they appear with wet hair and faces glowing with exercise and happiness, I give thanks for the disaster that wasn't.

And for the therapeutic properties of waves.

Aaahh! Therapy!

Just An Ordinary Insurance Agent

Dad was making a trip into town to see Mr. Hovan.

His insurance agent.

My brother, George, and I fought over who would be the first in the car.

Now, I'm sure you're wondering what there could possibly be at an insurance agent's office that would interest two children, aged six and four, respectively.

It would be a legitimate question.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Mr. Hovan had an office in the old railroad station in Milk River.

It was an unremarkable place.

Slat-covered windows.

Certificate and picture-hung walls.

Creaky, wood floors.

Heavy, smooth oak chairs with arms.

Tall, wooden filing cabinets.

Stacks of folders and papers.

Bookcases.

And in one corner, a very serviceable desk, piled high with paperwork.

It smelled of old building. Dust, books and paper.

On the surface, there really was nothing that would entrance and amaze anyone.

But Mr. Hovan's office held a secret.

A very special secret hidden deep in the very bottom drawer of that oh, so serviceable desk and accessible only upon reports/illustrations of exemplary behaviour.

A whole heap of magic.

In shiny, brown wrappers.

Hershey bars.

But we couldn't ask for them.

Oh, no.

We had to wait patiently and quietly, seated in those hard wooden chairs, while Dad conducted his business.

Trying hard to look anywhere but at that drawer.

Then, if we had been 'good', we would be invited over.

The much-anticipated drawer opened.

And the treasure revealed.

Only then could we avail ourselves of the treat.

Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

Perfection.

Between you and I, Dad didn't visit his insurance agent nearly enough.

Well worth the wait.