The Candy Cupboard

Does this look delicious to you? Yeah, me either . . .

My Mom had a magic cupboard in her bathroom.
It was full of wonderful little bottles.
Intriguing little bottles with funny shapes and beautiful colours.
And with all sorts of interesting contents.
Most of them defied my little three-year-old fingers.
But one twisted off easily.
Disclosing little, white pills.
Mmmm.
Okay they didn't taste very good, but they were little.
And melted on my tongue in a fun way.
I had another.
And another.
This was fun!
Mom came in just as I was finishing the bottle.
For some reason, she got quite upset.
She grabbed me and ran to the phone.
For a few seconds, she chattered excitedly.
Then she carried me to the kitchen and set me on the cupboard and hugged me tight.
I didn’t know what I had done that had gotten her so excited, but this was living!
Or not . . .
A few minutes later, a man came into the house carrying a black bag.
He put a tube down my throat.
And Mom let him!
Weird.
And traumatic.
I cried.
For several minutes, the two of them fought to keep the tube where they wanted it.
With minimal/non-existent results.
Finally, Mom stuck her fingers down my throat and made me gag.
And I lost all of my wonderful little pills.
Um. Ick.
The doctor packed away his horrible tube and left.
I wasn't sad to see him go.
Mom cuddled me for most of the afternoon.
Sigh.
Nice.
A few days later, I was again exploring Mom's treasure cupboard.
Well, look at that.
A new bottle of my little pills.
I wonder if they will taste any better.
Mom came in a bit earlier this time, but I had still ingested over half of the bottle.
She didn't bother calling the doctor, just used her patented new method to make me bring the pills back up.
This time, I got a scolding.
Moms can be so inconsistent.

The Bouncer in the Rye

If you are ever in Denver . . .

Somewhere in or near Denver, Colorado, is my wonderful, stupendous, long-awaited, much-anticipated, beloved, toy of the century.

The one that was mine too briefly.

Sigh.

Maybe I should explain . . .

When I was growing up, my rancher father often took his family on holiday.

Said holidays usually included some form of cattle show.

Or cattle ranch visit.

Or driving down the highway slowly because someone’s herd was there.

In the field.

I know you’re wondering what this has to do with my toy.

It’s coming . . .

This particular family trip had been planned with the National Western Stock Show - annually held in Denver - in mind.

And that was okay with me.

Because said stock show also included horse classes.

And I had a new toy.

Now it comes out . . .

The Wham-o company had just released the most amazing gadget.

A solid rubber ball that would bounce higher and do more tricks than anything that had ever been invented.

Aptly named the ‘Superball’, it was a thing of beauty.

An amazing little ball of rubber that promised hours and hours of entertainment.

I had wanted one forever.

Well, since I had first seen an ad a couple of months before.

Dad had stopped at a store before heading over to the stock show.

They had them! A whole display!

I was at a store that actually had the magical little balls for sale.

And my Dad was there.

With his wallet.

The planets had aligned. The day was mine!

And so, incidentally, was my little, dark blue miracle.

I pried open the package and, for the first time, felt the cool, smooth surface of the greatest high-bouncing ball of all time.

I sat there in the truck and held it.

Staring at it.

Smelling it.

I couldn’t wait to give it a good bounce.

Dad pulled into the stock section of the fair grounds and we all got out and went into the nearest pavilion.

I found myself standing in the lane of a long, concrete-floored, stall-lined, barn of a building.

Perfect.

I lifted the hand holding the ball . . .

And smashed it down onto the pavement as hard as I could.

Wow.

All of the ads never really paid it full justice.

That little ball hit that hard surface and shot like a missile toward the ceiling.

I stared at it; eyes wide and mouth open in a foolish grin of pleasure.

Then my magical toy came down.

Down.

Finally landing somewhere in the endless mounds of straw that filled the building.

Okay, that, I never anticipated.

I searched for that ball for hours.

I’d be searching still if my Dad hadn’t dragged me away for some frivolous ‘have-to-eat-and-sleep-and-for-heaven’s-sake-it’s-only-a-ball’ reason.

My one and only Superball.

You know, the ads claimed that it would keep on bouncing, almost forever. 

The ads were wrong.

Old Danny Boy

Oh, please! Not that song again!

I grew up on a large old Southern Alberta ranch.
Among cattle, horses and hired men.
I loved it.
I spent many happy hours riding (or sleeping) on the horses.
Chasing the barn cats.
Catching mice.
Wandering through the corrals and feed lots.
Or my favourite, watching the hired men.
It was while doing the last, that I received both my nickname and my signature song.
Let me tell you about it . . .
The Stringam Ranch generally employed six or more hired men.
They worked hard.
Wrangling cattle.
Breaking horses.
Fencing.
Doing one of the myriad tasks that were ranching.
But, inevitably, each job included one extra chore.
Watching over Diane.
I don't want to say that I was always under foot but . . .
Okay. I was always under foot.
When they were in the corral with the horses, I was perched on the fence.
When they were milking the cows, I was sitting on one of the empty stools nearby.
When they were hauling hay, I was in the cab of the truck, nose pressed against the back window.
Yep. If anything was happening, you can bet Diane was in the middle of it.
I should point out, here, that these men were good men.
Hard working.
Dependable.
A bit rough around the edges.
But that I never heard one curse word from any of them.
Ever.
Looking back, I'm sure they knew these words.
They just never used them around me.
Believe me, I would have repeated anything I heard.
Back to my story . . .
It must have been a trifle . . . inconvenient . . . having the boss' four-year-old daughter always under foot.
They never complained.
In fact, they even had a nickname for me.
Danny.
Which I loved.
And gave me my very own song, “Danny Boy”.
Which I didn't.
I'm not sure who was the first to discover this song.
Or my aversion to it.
But the word quickly spread.
Soon, whenever I would appear, someone would begin singing, “Oh, Danny boy . . .”
Whereupon (good word) I would cover both of my ears and scream, “Noooooo!”
Then run away.
It was magical.
Not one word need be said.
And they could continue their work in peace.
Genius.
Moving forward thirty years . . .
When my youngest son Tristan was born, he was our 'Little Warty Boy'.
I'm not sure who came up with this.
Or why.
He didn't have warts or anything.
It just seemed to fit.
He even got a song. (Sung to the tune of 'Surfer Girl')
“Little tiny warty boy,
Fills my heart with so much joy.
Do you love me,
Little Warty Boy?”
We sang this for years.
Until he was about four and abruptly developed an aversion to it.
Suddenly, he began covering his ears and screaming, “Noooooo!” whenever someone started singing.
I felt his pain.

Finally Mine!

A gift, it was, to Mom, from Dad,

To celebrate the life they had,

A painting from one ‘Viski J’

Of horses. Running fast away…

Divinely done, from hooves to jaws,
For me, t’was love when first I saw,

I stared at it for hours on end,

Those gorgeous beasts became my friends.

Sometimes, I joined them in my mind,

Ran to catch up from behind,

And then, with them, we’d run enmasse,

And race each other cross the grass.

Those two in front, sweethearts they were,

Fleeing from both boot and spur,

Their heads together as they ran,

As they stayed far from cruel man.

To say it was my fav-o-rite,

Would not exaggerate one bit.

Told Dad this daughter (not his sons)…

She wanted it when he was done.

And when he moved from large to small,

He had no room for it at all,

And so a gift, from him to me,

As treasured as a gift could be.

And now it hangs upon my wall,

The best horse painting of them all,

Just looking at it makes me glad,

It makes me think of Mom. And Dad.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With POETRY, we all besought

To try to make the week begin,

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

To Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, we'll all have fun, I bet...

We'll talk about someone we've met!

Riding Lessons

See? Blue.

When my husband married me, he got more than he expected.
I came with baggage.
More correctly.
Horses.
One was blue in colour.
Aptly and creatively named, 'Bluey'.
Okay, so imaginative, we weren't.
Bluey was . . . not a pretty horse.
She was an appaloosa-cross mare. About ten years old.
Like many of her breed, she had no mane. And an embarrassment for a tail.
But she was gentle and quiet. Patient and un-stampedable.
Perfect for farm kids.
But Bluey had one fault.
She was tall.
Too tall for the average child to climb on unassisted.
And that's where my story starts . . .
Mark and Erik, our two oldest boys, were in Bluey's field.
Playing.
Mark, 4, especially loved to ride.
But neither he nor his younger brother could climb up on their gentle friend.
Even though she was perfectly willing to stand quietly while they tried.
First, it was Erik helping his brother.
But they quickly discovered that three-year-old Erik's muscles simply weren't up to the task.
Finally, Mark had an idea.
He could help his little brother get up on Bluey.
At least one of them could have fun.
I have often imagined the conversation . . .
Mark: “Here, Erik, I'll boost your up.”
Erik (eyeing the mare suspiciously): “I want to go home.”
Mark: “In a minute. First, you get to have a little ride.”
Erik: “Don't want to ride.”
Mark: “Yes you do. It's fun.”
Erik: “Pretty sure I don't.”
Mark: “You're little. What do you know? C'mon.”
Erik: “Sigh.”
He submitted.
Once he was safely installed, Mark stepped back.
And gave the mare a slap. 'To get her going'.
She went.
Right out from under Erik.
Not a good thing.
A short time later, two boys came to the house.
One in tears.
They had both learned an important lesson.
The hardest thing about learning to ride is the ground.

Clothed

When we arrive (with great fanfare—

Before we are at all aware),

We’re, one and all, completely bare,

And I don’t mean in disrepair,

Or simply lacking underwear,

But naked to the open air,

No wonder that our tempers flare,

And with our cries we fill the air,

I’m sure we say, “Put me back there!”

(Perhaps a baby curse or swear),

Demands for something warm to wear,

A dress or pants or soft footwear?

And so it starts, most everywhere,

For baby’s needs, we must prepare…

So to the store we will repair,

To clothe that little, wriggling heir!

But…

I think it’s such a strange affair

In later life, when we declare

“I haven’t got a stitch to wear”,

‘Tis only true our first day there!

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With POETRY, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts…

Perhaps a grin?

So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, Me,

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, we’ll keep it short and sweet,
Our favourite pictures. What a treat!

Holiday Monsters

Lake Okanagan. It only LOOKS peaceful and serene...

Husby and I are heading out to visit our son on Vancouver Island.

But to reach it—and him—we have to first travel through British Columbia.

And the mountains.

Gorgeous scenery.

But one of our stops will be Lake Okanagan.

And that brings back a memory . . .

The Ogopogo was going to get me!

Ahem . . .

I have a vivid imagination.

I admit it.

It’s carried me to places near and far.

Most of which simply don’t exist.

But that doesn’t stop me from visiting them.

The problem with a vivid imagination is that it can cause you a lot of needless worry and some amazing heart gymnastics.

On with my story . . .

My family was visiting Penticton on the south shore of Lake Okanagan in the beautiful interior of British Columbia.

We had been having a marvelous time.

Picking fruit.

Eating fruit.

And stopping at any and all tourist sites.

Heaven.

We were camped just feet away from the shore of the lake.

A beautiful, peaceful body of water approximately 80 miles long and with an average depth of about 250 feet.

Now, I should mention here that I loved swimming.

I had learned in the muddy waters of the Milk River that flowed past our ranch.

We spent our entire summer in that river.

So, murky-ness didn’t scare me.

Nope.

What scared me were the tales of the great Ogopogo that supposedly inhabited that serene-looking body of water. The Ogopogo with its horse-shaped head and great undulating, serpent-like body that had been known to swallow native canoeists whole.

I stood on the beach and stared long and hard at the water, looking for anything that might betray the presence of the beast. Because I knew that, if I slid even one foot into that water, the monster would immediately sense the presence of a ten-year-old, gleamingly white-skinned, skinny, tow-headed girl and think, “Oooh! My favourite meal!”

And pop to the top.

I knew it.

I would rather have watched my feet break through the scummy surface of some smelly municipal sewer than to disappear beneath the clean water of Lake Okanagan.

Except that sewers have been known to harbour their own monsters.

Sigh.

Finally, with much cajoling and some really pointed teasing, I waded in.

And I do mean waded – the water never reached my knees.

Even then, I wasn’t happy about it.

Every splash made me jump.

And I had a nagging, persistent feeling that great, piercing, bloodshot eyes were watching my every move, deciding where would be the tastiest place to sink sharp, ragged teeth.

I spent the entire ‘swim’ continually glancing behind me, certain I’d see a line of ripples leading in my direction. Or worse, a great, hulking form rising up out of the water, slavering jaws wide open and  . . . eww . . . dripping.

And where would my holiday be then?

Finally, I parked my little self on the beach.

Safely back from the monster-filled water.

Under a lovely, toasty sun.

I watched my brothers and sisters and scores of others as they tempted fate.

Silly, foolish people.

Tourist view in Kelowna.

'Actual' photo of the Ogopogo. You decide . . .

War and Chocolates

How do you relax after dinner?

Okay, I admit it: Our family is weird.

We like theatrics.

And things medieval.

And, believe it or no, that takes bravery.

Case in point:

My husband has a collection of catapults.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Catapults.

He loves them.

Oh, they're not large enough to cause havoc.

And certainly not of a size to terrorize the neighbourhood.

Although I wouldn't mention that to him. It might give him ideas.

Moving on . . .

No. His catapults are small.

Suitable for launching little, foil-wrapped chocolates.

Which he does.

Usually after family meals.

Our family is large.

And we have two tables in our dining room.

One round table, built by my Husby and seen here.

And one smaller table, also built by my Husby, which seats all of the grandchildren.

It is to this smaller table that he retreats after the meal is done.

With his grandkids, his catapults and his stockpile of chocolate balls.

Which he and his little army then proceed to fire at anyone left sitting at the main table.

Remember when I mentioned 'weird'?

That would apply here.

I should point out that the balls of chocolate don't hurt.

The little catapults barely throw them with sufficient force to get them to the other table.

Back to my story . . .

The usual targets of the invading hoards are their wife and/or mothers and/or grandmother.

Who have all learned to duck when needed.

I should also mention that perhaps, fortunately, their aim isn't great.

One day, we had just finished one of Grandpa's sumptuous feasts and he and assorted grandchildren had set up a siege at the kid's table.

Several of the moms were still sitting at the main table.

Visiting.

One of our granddaughters, five-year-old Kyra, came to tell her mother something.

Her timing was . . . unfortunate.

She had placed herself right in the line of fire.

So to speak.

A chocolate ball whizzed towards her.

With unusual, but deadly precision.

Thock!

Right in the center of her forehead.

She gasped and clapped one hand over the spot.

Everyone burst out laughing.

She wavered between laughter and tears for a few seconds.

Then her mother told her that she got to eat the offending chocolate ball.

And any thought of tears was forgotten.

She hunted for and happily ate, the treat.

Then disappeared.

A few minutes later, she was back.

“Mom, can I have another chocolate ball?”

Her mother looked at her. “You have to let Grampa shoot one at you first.”

“Oh.”

She thought about that for a moment.

Then she put both hands, palms out, over her forehead and stood up tall. “Okay, Grampa! I'm ready!”

Bravery.

It comes in all shapes, sizes and ages.

But never more noticeable than in a weird family.

After dinner.

Imaginary Prairie

Horses came in all shapes and sizes on our ranch.

All shapes.

And sizes.

Oh, and materials.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On a working ranch, the horse is the best, most used tool. I’m talking about the warm, four-footed, rather hairy type here.

Or, as my machine-loving brother titled them, the hay-burners.

Paired with a rider, horses work the cattle.

Check fences.

Provide transportation.

Ditto, entertainment.

And make pushing, pulling, dragging or carrying just that much easier.

No self-respecting ranch could be run without its four-footed hay-burners.

On the Stringam ranch, the people could be divided into two horse camps.

Those who loved them.

And my brother, George.

Oh, we got him up there.

But only when there was work to be done.

Moving on . . .

I was the leader of the opposite camp.

I lived, ate and breathed horses. Had been known to hang out with them at any and all hours of the day or night. Been observed taking the occasional nap in close proximity.

And pretended and improvised when the weather was bad and there simply was no horse to be had.

Did you know that the wide arm of an overstuffed chair or couch makes an excellent substitute?

Well, it does.

I spent a lot of hours in that particular ‘saddle’. Had some amazing adventures. And had even been known to get pitched off on occasion.

My next younger brother, Blair, age two, was following in the paths I had created.

Riding the same mounts.

Then, one Christmas, he was given another option.

He got our family’s first spring horse. King Prancer as it was nobly named.

And our world was never the same.

Now, when we wanted to kite off to the imaginary prairie, doing imaginary deeds of wonder and saving the lives of countless imaginary people, we could climb aboard the King.

Okay, yes. He was technically Blair’s.

But I was bigger.

Ahem . . .

That sturdy little spring horse provided us with hours (and hours) of entertainment.

Until Mom told us we had out-grown (what on earth did that mean?) it and that it was time to be handed down to the next generation. ie. little sister, Anita.

Suddenly, I was back on the old stand-by. Riding the range with my trusty, slightly dusty steed.

Sigh.

Why am I telling you all of this?

My granddaughter, age two was in the living room, playing.

I went in to check on her.

She had straddled the arm of our overstuffed couch and was riding, hell-bent-for-leather, across the ‘prairie’. Whooping and hollering impressively.

It was no King Prancer.

But it sure made Gramma smile.

George and me.
Before the chair became a steed.

Blair. And the real thing.

The next generation: The King. Anita.
And a friend.

Okay, close to the real thing. George and me again.

The King. And Blair.

Pointed

 

A knife’s a knife’s a knife, says you,

And I will nod and say it’s true,

But Husby never would incline,

To our opinions, yours and mine,

To him it’s much more than a knife,

But a work of art to last your life,

And so he forges all his own,

With wondrous steel and handle—bone,

To me, it matters not the make,

But what ‘feels’ best when cutting cake.

But know before you buy that blade

What it’s worth and how it’s made,

And now I’m getting closer to,

The tale I’d like to tell to you…

 

Jeremih, great, great Grampa,

(A man who fills all us with awe,)

Born in 1825,

(He’d be SO old, were he alive!)

Well he, a settler, moved out west,

Thinking Utah would be best,

But at a time when conflicts raged,

And fights were commonly engaged

‘Tween natives and the settlers there,

And neither likely to foreswear,

Well Jeremiah, able man,

Was asked to guard ‘the best he can’

The quarry, so important that

Without it, walls were pretty flat!

But while ‘Old Jer’ was standing guard,

A man whose reason had been marred,

Decided he would bury deep,

His knife in Jer’s thick skull. “Oh, *bleep*!”

A fellow guard soon saved the day,

The knife-wielding man then ran away,

But left the knife that he had dropped,

(Vowing caution, he’d adopt).

That simple knife turned out to be

Best in shape and quality,

And recognizing its true worth

Jer brought it home for a re-birth,

And with it, he and family

Made meals for all and sund-er-y.

So even though things started bad,

A fine old blade was what they had!

Soooo…

How do you choose a knife that’s right?

Husby’s forge or Grampa’s fight?

 

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, Me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

 

Next week, because we own a few,

We’ll talk of clothes, join us, won’t you?

Definitely Hazardous

Admit it. This is scary...

Okay. Maybe I overreacted.

Maybe.

We were on holiday in a foreign land. France, to be exact.

And having a glorious time.

Our family had just finished an underground rafting trip.

Did I mention that we were under the ground?

I guess I did when I said underground.

Ahem . . .

It was fantastic!

Feeling slightly euphoric, we had driven to our hotel and were unpacking in the parking lot.

Suitcases.

Food.

Other stuff that wasn't suitcases or food.

Our rooms were on the second floor. One door opening from the long communal balcony into two separate units.

I dragged myself and my load up to the second floor.

Then looked back into the parking lot where the rest of the family was still in the process of unloading/loading.

There, standing in the very center of the lot was a young man, dressed completely in black.

Black hoodie pulled up over his head so that only his nose showed.

He was just standing there quietly.

Looking up at me.

It was . . . startling.

I stared back at him for a moment, then turning, shoved my key in the door and escaped into my room.

Throwing my load onto the closest bed, I took a quick look around.

Nice, quiet little room.

Two double beds.

Comfortable.

Then I walked over to the window.

And threw open the curtains.

The man in black was standing directly outside the window, now looking into my room.

I screamed.

I admit it.

He had been mysterious, standing down there in the parking lot.

Standing right outside my window, he was downright frightening.

And really, really creepy.

He made some sort of gesture, but I didn't notice.

I was too busy pulling the curtains shut and crawling under the bed.

Okay, so heroine material, I'm not.

My husby toted his burden of suitcases, etc. into the room a couple of seconds later.

And stared at me as I crawled out from under the bed.

“Ummm . . . looking for anything in particular?”

“No. That guy just frightened me,” I said, as calmly as possible.

“What guy?”

“The one dressed in black. Out there on the balcony.”

“There was a guy out on the balcony?”

“How could you miss him!” I demanded. “He was right there!”

My Husby walked across the room and whipped the curtains back.

I caught my breath.

Isn't this sounding mysterious?

There was no one there.

“But he was right outside! Looking into the room!” I stomped over to the window and peered out.

The man had disappeared.

“Huh. Weird.”

My husband was staring at me. “I think you were down in that cave too long."

I snorted.

I want to point out that it was a ladylike snort. Because I am . . . oh, never mind.

When my kids arrived a few seconds later, I challenged them. “Did you guys see the scary guy in black?”

They too, stared at me. “Scary guy in black?”

“Yeah. He was down there.” I pointed.

“Oh, you mean the one down in the parking lot who was trying to bum cigarettes?”

Cigarettes? Erm. "Yes. That would be the one.”

“Yeah. We just told him we didn't smoke and he left.”

“Oh.”

So much for my scary encounter.

I had been hiding under the bed to escape a . . . broke smoker.

But I learned something.

Smoking definitely causes heart attacks...