Next Generation

Bergs. My best people.

Marrying into a family is a happy, joyous proposition.

It can also be daunting and just a bit scary.

Even when everyone is on the same page—linguistically speaking.

Aunt June joined the Berg family way back in the sixties.

A city girl, she had a lot to learn about her future husband’s ranching family.

That had nothing to do with . . . ummm . . . ranching.

His parents had immigrated to Canada from Sweden.

He and his siblings were first-generation Canadians.

And Swedish terms largely peppered the family’s daily speak.

So to speak.

Such terms as (forgive me, but I’m going to write these words as they sound, which will probably horrify my Swedish relatives.) Hell. Ringadongen. Shurkfasta. And the ever popular Yamen Ha Do Sit Promaken.

And these were just the words she encountered on her first visit.

Perhaps some explanation is in order . . .

Approaching the house, Uncle Leif and his future bride were met at the door by my MorMor, (Mother’s Mother) and invited in. “Just hang your coats here in the shurkfasta,” she told them.

Okay. That wasn’t too hard to figure out. Coats. Hang. 

This may not be so bad.

They walked from said shurkfasta into the large kitchen, where one of the boys was trying to save a step and attempting to pour milk from the crock into a glass. 

“No! Hell with the pitcher! Hell with the pitcher!” MorMor said.

Admittedly, future Aunt June’s ears pricked up at that one. But she soon figured that too. Pour.

She even figured out from the conversation about wrangling cows that a ringadongen was a coulee.

Smart girl.

But the one term that stumped her was ‘Yamen Ha Do Sit Promaken?!”

Said with just a touch of wonder and amazement.

And even a bit of head shaking.

Let’s see if we can figure this one out.

Someone was doing something amazing.

And MorMor was watching.

And she said: that phrase.

Okay. That’s as much as I’m going to tell you.

Let’s see what you come up with . . .

Aunt June happily joined the family.

And learned to appreciate, and even participate in the occasional lapses into Sweglish.

It was a very special price to pay for happiness.

Gen(d)erally Confused

Girls raised on a ranch, doing 'ranch stuff' alongside the men, are often mistaken for yet another of those men.

Until someone gets close enough to see that there are definite differences.

It's the original 'gender confusion'.

Now, on to my story . . .

Enes, my Mom, like her daughter after her, was raised on a ranch.

Surrounded by brothers.

I had three.

She had eight.

I had sisters.

She didn't.

She spent her days working alongside her brothers.

And playing sports.

I spent my days occasionally crossing paths with my brothers as they worked.

And playing make-believe.

No big surprise that, of the two of us, she was the one with the biggest muscles.

And the most athletic ability.

But like me, dressed in jeans and shirts, and with fair hair cropped short, she was often mistaken for yet another brother.

Shortly after she and my father were married, they were invited to join with the rest of their rural Milk River community in an afternoon pot luck and a game of baseball.

Mom excitedly prepared yummy eats. Sandwiches, salads and her special 'out of this world' pie. And grabbed her baseball glove.

The two of them spent a wonderful time, eating and visiting. Mom got to know many of her neighbours.

The nearest of which lived nine miles away.

Finally, the food was packed up and the game began.

Mom was picked early. She was obviously young and strong.

And there had to be an even number of guys and girls on each team.

Her 'captain' didn't realize that he'd just picked a ringer.

Mom walked up to the plate for her first turn at bat. The ball came towards her.

She swung.

Remember where I mentioned that she had played sports with her brothers?

She often beat them.

The bat connected with the ball with a healthy 'crack'.

And sent it out of the park.

So to speak.

The ball shot over the outfielder's heads.

They stared at it blankly for a moment.

Then started to run.

Her team was ecstatic.

One young team member crowed loudly, “Atta Boy! Enes, old girl!”

And the confusion continues . . .

I know, I know. Who'd of thought . . .

Toddler Painting

 The day started out normally enough.

Babies playing quietly while I snatched a couple of minutes online to look at drapes.

“Hmmm—the green or the teal?”

It had taken days to narrow my choices down to these two and my husband’s frustration with me was growing. “Make a choice. Any choice! If you don’t like them we’ll send them back. Need I remind you the neighbours can see into our bedroom when the lights are lit? And no, I don’t want to keep on shutting them off. The lights, not the neighbours.”

He was right. I wouldn’t admit that to his face, but I will to you.

I sighed. Green. Or Teal?

Feeling a bit parched from my time perusing, I decided a nice cup of herbal tea would be in order.

As the water was heating, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t been hearing anything from my toddlers for the past minute.

Silence is golden. But in a toddler, it’s suspicious.

I quietly moved toward the living room where they had been playing.

If they were happily engrossed in something harmless, I did not want to draw their attention. Then I’d have to entertain them.

And my drapery decision would be put off just that much longer.

I stopped in the doorway. Both of them were on the couch and I could just see the tops of heads. They looked all right. Happily engrossed in something.

Could I leave them alone for a while longer? I took a step back toward my kettle and future cup of tea.

Then, something told me to look a little closer.

I still tried to walk quietly, figuring I could just peek over the couch without them knowing. I moved nearer.

Nearer.

And that’s when all thought of leaving them on their own or drapes or decisions went right out of my head. In fact, everything went out of my head.

Because my toddlers had been busily--happily--engaged.

Little baby hands painting each other with diaper cream.

I admit it, I screamed.

And ran.

Did I scramble for cleaning supplies? Wipes? 

A fire hose?

Nope.

My camera.

You understand. This needed to be recorded.

For the slide shows at their weddings.

And posts on Facebook.

Yeah. I’m on it.

On a Stick

Each week, we search for something new,

A matter that would interest you,

When searching topics thin or thick,

We thought of of ‘Something on a Stick’.

Now what would you imagine we

Could find as poet wannabees,

To rhyme with ‘stick’ and manage, still,

To find those things this topic fills...

 

First, some things, as kids we loved,

The foods that on a stick were shoved,

Like hot dogs, cookies, pudding pops,

Corn on the cob was always tops,

Some cotton candy. Meatballs, yes!

Truly those things were the best!

And cheesecake pops, bananas—froze

(I'll make some. Come for one of those!)

Then waffles, pancakes, fried cheese, too,

And lollipops to name a few.

As adults, we all still indulge,

The trouble now? These make us bulge!

Like things on skewers, bacon, fish,

Or shrimp. Or sushi, if you’d wish,

Kebabs are fun. And PBJ,

(Sand-wiches made a different way!)

Some grapesicles or other fruit,

A skewered salad can be cute,

Some turtle pops, or some grilled cheese,

Some chicken tenders if you please,

All are yummy, cold or hot,

Some homemade and some store-bought,

Yep. ‘Finger foods’. Don’t you agree

That fork-free is the way to be? 

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, 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 our poems should be a snap,

We'll talk of reading a road map!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Something on a Stick Day (March 29) Today!
Read a Road Map Day (April 5)
Favorite invention (From Mimi) (April 12)
National Garlic Day (April 19)
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3)

Not-So-Sound Raisoning

It only LOOKS delicious . . .

I love raisins.

Especially in trail mix.

Or coated in chocolate.

I should probably point out, here, that coating in chocolate is not really an accurate test of raisin love.

If you coated a hubcap in chocolate, I'd eat it.

Moving on . . .

I did not always love raisins. (Even now, I prefer my cinnamon buns and other baked treats to be raisin-less.)

It wasn't until after I was married that I learned to appreciate them.

There is a reason for that . . .

My brother, George, is two years older than I. Throughout our growing-up years, his prime responsibility was the teasing of his younger sister.

He practised his craft at every opportunity.

Mercilessly.

And became very good at it.

One day, our mom made cookies. Something she did a lot.

On this particular occasion, she had produced mounds of raisin cookies.

They were spread out temptingly across the table.

The aroma drew my brother and I from the depths of the house.

“Mmmm. Raisin cookies,” George said. He turned to me. “I knew that Mom was going to make raisin cookies today.”

“You did?” I asked innocently.

“Yep. I did,” he said.

“Did Mom tell you?”

“Nope.”

“You can tell by the smell?”

“Partially. But that's not the real reason.”

“Well, I give up. How did you know?”

He leaned towards me, a big grin on his face. “I knew Mom was going to bake raisin cookies because I saw her picking the raisins off the fly-paper at the back door.”

And from that moment on, in fact for the next twenty years, George had all of the raisin goodies that emerged from Mom's kitchen to himself.

Smart cookie.

P.S. He also tried to convince me that my rice was moving.

But that is another story . . .

He only LOOKS cute

Hobbying Along

 

I’ve had some hobbies in my life,

They gave me calm from daily strife,

But through the years, those hobbies changed,

Through different genres, they did range.

 

When I was very, very young,

My hobbies, largely, were unsung,

Consisted of my toys. And me,

Of horseback riding, scraping knees,

 

Then, when I was ‘bout 8 or so,  

I changed things up, began to grow,

Discovered Nancy Drew. And books,

And Lego building had me hooked.

 

My horses took a larger role,

Chasing cows and bending poles,

And books and writing (when indoors

And finished with the daily chores).

 

When I was wed, what a surprise,

To find that cooking for my guy,

Was something that I liked to do,

From roasts of beef to chicken stew.

 

Then, with our babies, we soon found,

To associ-ate kept us spellbound,

And nothing mattered more than they.

That ‘hobbie’ surely made our days!

For them, I learned to knit and sew,

Days filled with crafts and punching dough,

Observing Big Bird on ‘The Street’,

With snuggle hugs and kisses sweet.

 

But they all grew, as children do,

Married, moved, bid us adieu,

And so my hobbies morphed again,

To writing books—of joy. Or pain.

 

These days, I write, or read, or bake,

Still have Lego, puzzles make,

Play games with Husby, movies, too,

(With caution, sometimes watch the news.)

 

But we’ve discovered something great,

A fad to which we both relate,

It takes a coat and comfy shoes,

And paths along which you can cruise.

 

Yes, walking is our passion, new,

We take our Pandy, see the views,

And as we walk and breathe fresh air,

We solve the world’s problems there.

 

At times, it is especially fine

With our sweet grandkids, so divine,

We take them places we have been,

And show them things that we have seen.

Soooo…

Though my hobbies morphed therein,

Dependent on the time I’m in,

My fav-ou-rites, I do avow,

Are the ones that I am doing now!

Each month from Karen, we accept,

A challenge to our gifts adept,

A theme she gives, a poem we craft,

Write draft on draft on draft on draft.

(Please, I’m just kidding, one’s enough

To prove that we’ve all got The Stuff.)

So now we all present to you

What we have made for your review!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Mimi at Messymimismenaderings

A Tiny Bit of Courage

It's bigger on the inside...

We visited the Horne Lake caves on Vancouver Island near where our middle son lives.

Getting ready.

The area is beautiful and the caves undeveloped and natural, which we found exciting.

But I learned something unexpected from the experience.

Let me tell you about it . . .

We went, first of all, for our son, who has Tourette’s and suffers from anxiety.

The fact that he acceded to our wishes to explore the caves is a testament to his courage, his trust in us and/or his very good team of health professionals.

Things started out well.

We donned our protective gear and mugged for a couple of pictures. Then our guide started out with us trailing (pun intended) along behind him down the forest path. A couple of young women were in our group just ahead of us and when we got to the very narrow cave opening, the one put up her hands and said, “Nope. Can’t do it.” They were guided to a secondary cave a short distance away. One without the ‘turn-sideways-and-suck-in-your-gut’ entrance.

I followed the guide, a little anxious for my son coming along behind me.

But then we reached the first cave and there he was. (Handsprings are not encouraged inside these caves. Just FYI.)

I had to keep my celebrating to a “Well done, Son!” and a smile.

We continued on through the ‘mud room’ and the ‘boulder room’ and the ‘crystal room’.

A lot of rooms.

Crouching and sliding to get from some to others.

And still my son stayed with us.

Sometimes even leading.

We saw rock formations that flowed and dripped.

Myriad colours and shapes and sizes.

Were told ‘not to touch that!’ or ‘Ooh, feel how cold this is!’

Lots of things to look at and experience.

A couple of times, I saw my son look upward toward the sky of stone above us.

I did the same.

Then realized that things down below were lots more interesting if I didn’t think about the tons and tons (and tons) of rock hanging over our heads.

We made it through, unscathed and perhaps a little more knowledgeable than when we had gone in.

And with an increased respect for my son’s courage.

But then I thought of something else.

Something that was only peripherally related to the caves we had just explored . . .

Success!

Those caves were like our little piece of our world.

There is much that is scary hanging over our heads. Crime. Terrorism. Natural disasters. Disease.

We could allow this to paralyze us and keep us from going forward.

Or we can maintain our focus and simply carry on. Not let fear stop us.

Keep on exploring.

Keep on living.

Which do you choose?

Tea-Totalled

Not for the shy or faint of heart . . .

Recently, there has been a lot of press about women nursing their babies.

Usually, because it has been carried to extreme lengths.

I nursed my babies.

And loved doing it.

But this isn't a commentary about that.

Though it is about 'extremes'.

Maybe I should explain . . .

A veterinarian friend of my father's had stopped in for a chat.

An immigrant from the UK, he was very fond of his tea.

My father offered him a cup.

Uncharacteristically, he declined. With a slight shudder.

Dad stared at his friend. What could possibly have put Dr. Ilovemytea off his favourite beverage?

The friend realized that he had aroused Dad's curiosity and an explanation was in order. He told Dad that he had just come from a vet call to a farm at the furthest border of his practice. 'Out in the sticks', you might say. His veterinarian business had been concluded.

And successful.

Hoping to prolong what was, to her, the highlight of a normally solitary day, the woman of the household had invited Dad's friend into her front room for a visit. She had recently given birth to a fine son and was anxious to share her story with someone.

All was well.

She and the baby were thriving. Baby was nursing well and growing rapidly.

The woman offered the doctor a quick cup of tea before he began the long trek back to town.

Happily, he accepted.

The tea was brewed.

The woman brought it in and set it in front of her guest. “Would you like milk?” she asked.

Dad's friend said that, indeed, yes, he would love milk.

Whereupon (good word) the woman flipped out a breast and squirted some milk into the doctor's tea.

He blinked. Well . . . at least it was fresh.

As the story unfolded, Dad burst into laughter.

“So, did you drink it?” he asked his friend.

“Of course,” the doctor said.

“How was it?”

“Well, it tasted just fine,” he said. “Tasted fine.  But put me off a bit.”

Tea, anyone?

Someone’s History

I love writing poems, it’s true,

And crafting words, a lot, a few,

Today the world agrees with me,

In honouring all poetry!

The building beckoned, as they do,

With thoughts of finding something new.

I dropped the gate and rode on o’er.

Excited just to go explore.

 

What I thought was an abandoned barn

A stout refuge from storm, or harm,

Was definitely something more,

A house, a home. From years before.

 

Now without windows; shingles, too,

The door hung on one hinge, askew.

Old rubble did the floors pollute,

And glass was crunching ‘neath my boots.

 

A stove, a one-time work of art.

Inclusive of the nickel part,

Now lay supine and punctured, split.

Some reprobate had blasted it.

 

I wondered, “Could I haul it back?

And save it from its sad attack?

Then fix, repair and retrofit

And somehow make the best of it?”

 

But realized, as people do,

There was no way I could renew.

And sadly turned away; To find,

Another treasure left behind.

 

In one old bedroom near the stair,

Some boxes of old letters there.

I sat down on the dusty floor

Soon deep in lives lived long before.

 

I tucked away the words of love,

And climbed up to the floor above.

To find more boxes neatly stored

With clothes and magazines galore.

 

But, though the find was truly grand,

I daren’t try to touch—with hand.

For absent panes allowed, unchecked…

With pigeon poop was all bedecked.

 

Then, at the rafters did I stare,

Some ancient denim dangled there,

So long forgotten by someone,

Tossed and left when work was done. 

 

Moved over to the window then,

Looked out upon the fields again.

I thought about this home, bereft.

Why they came. And why they left.

 

It once had shone with tender care

As proved by what was left in there.

Abandoned. Those who worked and played,

As from the landscape did they fade.

 

Was death a reason? Poverty?

Had fortune kicked them to their knees?

Old age? Illness? Life’s sad flaws?

I sighed. There must have been a cause.

 

As I rode home, my thoughts askew,

Considering the old. And new.

So grateful to have chanced to see,

A glimpse of Someone’s History.

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So Karen, 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 while we hunt and pick,

We’ll talk of Something on a Stick.

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
World Poetry Day (March 22)
Something on a Stick Day (March 29)
Read a Road Map Day (April 5)
Favorite invention (From Mimi) (April 12)
National Garlic Day (April 19)
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3)

A Lollipop Ship

Where memories are made...

It was just a routine trip to the local recreation centre.

Something we did often when our kids were small.

Who knew it would result in someone’s fondest memory . . .?

With six children and one income, Husby and I had to choose our family entertainment carefully.

We went to a lot of free things.

We did manage Adventure Food (any nationality other than Canadian) once a month. And for our big splurge, we bought an Attractions Pass. A valuable little tool that gave us admittance to any of Edmonton’s many parks and attractions as well as every one of the numerous swimming pools.

We went swimming every Saturday night.

That way, they were all entertained, played out, and bathed and clean for Sunday morning.

Yeah. I’m just clever that way . . .

Earlier one Saturday afternoon, we changed things up a bit and took the clan to the Kinsmen Recreation Centre instead of our usual Millwoods Wave Pool.

The kids were excited at the prospect of a new pool.

And their Dad and I were excited to have them excited.

Let me describe the swimming part of the center as it looked then: There was the large tank, with swimming lanes, for the serious swimmer. The diving tank for the serious diver. (Note: this pool has been used for competition diving as well as for shooting movies. Interesting, right?) The warm-up tank--also used for lane swimming and family groups and toys. And the smallest tank. Shallow. Warm. For families with young children.

Our family instantly separated into three pools.

Husby had the three youngest in the ‘baby’ pool, I had our middle son in the middle pool, and the two eldest disappeared to try out the diving boards.

The middle tank was the most interesting to me. It had large floating toys perfect for family fun.

I had my son in a ‘coracle’ (a small, circular boat) and was pushing him around.

And singing.

Because that’s what I do.

Did you know there’s a song for nearly every activity?

Well, it’s true.

In this case, the music of choice was “The Good Ship Lollipop”.

We swam/floated back and forth for much of the afternoon. He lying relaxed in the little boat. Me, pushing and singing.

Then we fished everyone out, showered them off, and headed home.

It had been a pleasant afternoon, one that I was to tuck away with my memories of other pleasant afternoons.

Move forward over thirty years . . .

Husby and I were visiting with our middle son at his home on Vancouver Island. During our stay, we, as per usual, started telling stories.

And talking about favourite memories.

Our son told us his favourite memory of growing up was one day when we went to the Kinsmen pool and I sang ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop’ to him while I floated his little boat back and forth in the water.

Yep. That was his favourite memory.

I realized that when we think we are providing simple entertainment for our children, we are also making memories.

And one of those memories is going to be their favourite.

Waving

Now wave! It might be someone we know.

The Stringam Ranch was twenty miles from the Town of Milk River.

For the first ten miles out of town, you were passing through other ranch properties.

So your chances of meeting another motorist were pretty good.

After that, there was just one destination.

The Stringam Ranch.

Any traffic that came out that far needed emergency veterinarian assistance.

Or knew the family and my mom's cooking.

This is a long-winded way of telling you that, on any given trip into town, Dad knew every single driver that we passed.

A cloud of dust would appear on the horizon, growing larger. Finally a small dark spot could be detected, right at the base of said cloud.

The speck grew larger.

And larger.

Finally became recognizable as a vehicle.

Dad would slow down and pull over to the right side of the road.

Because lines hadn’t been introduced into our part of the country. And who could paint a line on dirt anyway?

The other driver would also slow and pull to his right.

The two would give each other a friendly wave.

And continue on.

Whereupon (good word) I would bob up out of wherever.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“That was Mr. Angel.”

“Oh.”

I would disappear again.

Another vehicle.

Another wave.

Me bobbing up.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lindeman.”

“Oh.”

As we grew closer to town, the vehicles were more numerous.

“Dad! Who was that?”

“Mrs. Swanson.”

“Oh.”

I should mention that there was one vehicle that I recognized. Even as a four-year-old.

It was an old car, driven very, very slowly.

I don’t remember what year or model though my brother, George, will.

It was driven by a hat.

I am not kidding.

A hat.

A nice men’s hat.

I would stare in astonishment as this particular, peculiar vehicle drove past.

Yep.

Just a hat.

It was the one time during our entire trip that I wouldn’t bother my dad.

Because I knew who that hat was.

It was Grampa Balog.

After it passed, I would slump down on the seat.

Why couldn’t I have a hat for a Grampa?

A hat that could drive cars.

Some kids have all the luck.

Moving ahead many years . . .

I was driving with one of my grandkids.

One of the hundred-or-so cars that we passed was driven by someone I knew.

I waved.

“Gramma! Who was that?”

And I was instantly transported back sixty-plus years.

I was four years old again.

And Daddy knew everyone on the road.

The Art of Blurting

 

Blurting

Word master. 

I know you’ve done it.

I know I have.

Blurted out something that sounded a whole lot different in your head.

It’s true.

Your brain coughs up a thought.

And hits ‘send’.

Then, somehow, during transition, it gets . . . mixed up.

Maybe exposure to the air changes it.

And it ends up sounding like . . . nothing you intended.

My mom was a master at this.

Example one:

Picture Christmas Eve.

Every available surface in the kitchen groaning beneath seven layers of freshly-baked Christmas delicious-ness.

No supper in sight.

A starving son-in-law, passing the piles of goodies.

Hunger overcomes discretion.

He pops a butter tart into his mouth.

Mom, emerging from the point of action in front of the oven, red-faced and carrying yet another pan of treats, “Don’t eat that! It’s for Christmas!”

Example two:

Mom brings home the good peanut butter.

Not the cheap un-homogenized stuff which allows all of the oil to rise to the top so that the upper layers are too creamy and the bottom layers need to be chiseled out with a hammer then passed through the meat grinder to make them of a consistency to spread.

Which tin, I should mention, is still on the shelf 3/4 full and gathering dust.

Sooo . . . the good peanut butter.

Which is immediately set upon by the ‘finickily-starved’ (I just made that up) peanut butter fiends that inhabit the house.

“I’m going to stop buying that peanut butter. You kids just eat it!”

Mom taught her daughters well.

I, too have had my share of ‘things-said-that-didn’t-come-out-just-right’.

We were discussing a young man of our acquaintance who had been born with weak joints in his hips.

My mother-in-law was cautioning my kids not to jump off the retaining wall in her back garden, citing this young man as an example of ‘damage that could follow’.

I knew that his condition was genetic.

Or congenital.

Which mean the same thing.

What came out was, “Oh, but I thought his condition was genital!”

Wait. Everybody un-hear that!

Just let me suck those words back into my mouth!

Admit it.

It’s happened to you . . .