Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 105

Named

Mom and Dad, with Pimple Pants, Rusty, Jerry and BertParents put a lot of thought and even prayer into the naming of their offspring.
Why, then, do they go to such lengths to never use those names?
My name is Diane. Mom loved that name, so, when I made my appearance, she was happy I was a girl. Now she could use it. Let's face it, 'Diane' for a boy just doesn't fit quite as well. But that's another story.
As a second name, she chose Louise, after my Aunt Louise. A really, really, sweet lady.
So, Diane Louise.
Works for me.
I called myself Tony. I'm not sure why.
My Mom's working name for me, however, was 'Pixie'.
?????
Occasionally, she would vary it.
“Oh, here's my little Pixie-Girl.”
Or, “What do you want, Sweet-Little-Pixie?”
I think it might have had something to do with my size.
Okay I know that, looking at me now, one would find this hard to believe, but, at one time, I was under height. And definitely under-weight.
Those were the days.
Sigh.
Moving on . . .
Later, when I was nine, I got my hair cut. Really short.
I loved it.
So did my Dad.
He changed my name to 'Mike'. I'm almost sure it had nothing to do with our dog. He of the same name.
Mom was horrified. “Mark! She has a perfectly good name. Use it!”
I know he was as bewildered as me. Ummm . . . which name? Diane? Louise? Pixie? Tony?
Are you beginning to see why I'm such a confused person?
So, 'Louie' I became.
????? again.
Mom retaliated by calling me, 'Diane'. For the first time in my life.
Then, my brother, George, got into the game.
His name for me was Bert.
Because.
Coming from someone whom Dad called 'Dard', and Jerry called 'Pimple Pants', I wasn't worried.
Rusty, or Chris as she had been christened, had no opinion.
Neither did Blair . . . er, 'Bare Blue', or 'The Great Root Blair'. Of course he was only two, so he could be excused.
And Anita was a baby. She was 'Sweetheart' or 'Sister'. One day to be known as 'Nutty Nita'.
Jerome got off easy.
Actually, that's a story in itself. He was always, 'Jerry' to everyone. Except when Mom got angry.
Then, he became Jerome Allen, or worse, Jerome Allen Stringam.
All the 'angry' names, as they are truly known.
But I've wandered from the point.
Which was me.
So, I've been through Diane, Louise, Tony, Pixie, Mike, Louie and Bert.
Now, my Honeybunny (don't ask) calls me, Honey. And my kids call me Mom.
Or grandma.
The best names of all.

My Hero

Over forty years ago, my first OES (Old English Sheepdog, for the uninitiated) was my constant companion as I left the small lights of my home town for the larger lights of the metropolis of Calgary.
It was my first job away from home.
Huge learning curve.
Something that my six-month OES puppy, Muffy, helped me with immeasurably.
In one way in particular.
Let me tell you about it...
You have to know that OES puppies get large.
Rather quickly.
And even at six months, Muffy was already the size of a good-sized black lab.
Just furrier.
Now the important part of the story . . .
I had gotten back to Calgary at around 1 AM. Yes, I know. I should have left home earlier.
Ahem . . .
I was unpacking my car at the curb in front of my rather run-down apartment house.
All right, it was clean and comfortable and affordable and had once been new.
The hour really didn't bother me. I had lived all my life on the ranch. Anyone walking around at that time of night was either checking up on a sick animal.
Or running the fox out of the henhouse.
Either occupation was totally harmless.
To any humans in the vicinity.
It didn't occur to me to be alarmed by the two men approaching along the sidewalk.
Hey, my apartment was, literally, right there!
Muffy spotted them, though, and went rigid.
Then she threw herself back against my legs, pinning me against the car and placing herself between me and the strangers.
Her head lowered, she glowered menacingly at the approaching men, a deep, vicious growl emanating from . . . somewhere.
I stared down at her in surprise. This was new.
The men were watching her as well and both of them slipped to the far side of the sidewalk and hurried past.
I'll never know what was in their hearts and minds that night.
If it was something awful, Muffy scared it right out of them.
Now the reason I am bringing this all back was because of what happened just today. With Pandy.
My newest generation of uber-protective OES. (See Above.)


Muffy would be so proud...

Frozen Assets

We just got a new freezer. Upright because we're no longer able to stand on our heads to reach for things in the bottom of the good old 38 year-old chest style. And also because said chest style no longer froze things. A technicality, but an important one. I was reminded of my first freezer. The one my parents had from the time I was small . . . Admit it - this strikes terror into your heart!Mom and dad had a freezer.Chest style. 26 cubic feet.Whatever that means.To me, that just meant that it was large.They had had this behemoth since they were married.It had far outlived its 'best before' date.Oh, it still froze anything and everything that was put into it.It just didn't stay closed anymore.Let me tell you about it . . .Mom and Dad's freezer, aptly named 'Frigidaire', sat in solitary glory, in the downstairs bathroom.In a space created especially for it.Beside the shower cubicle. And across from the 'porcelain throne'.For years, it had been humming busily along, doing . . . freezer stuff. Keeping cold things cold. And slowly filling with ice.Every couple of years, Mom would take out whatever food was left in it, stack it all neatly aside, and attack the ice build-up with an ice pick and a butter knife.Then, she'd scrub it shiny, replace the food and start the whole cycle over again.It was fun to watch.Okay, yes, I probably should have helped, but why deprive Mom of something she so obviously enjoyed?Well, that she appeared to enjoy . . .Okay, I should have helped.Geeze.One thing of note: when one closed the freezer, one had to be very careful to push the handle in till it clicked, or in the middle of the night, or some other equally inconvenient time, the door would open. All by itself.With scary amusing results.One afternoon, the house was quiet.Too quiet.I was in the bathroom . . . minding my own business.Without warning, the lid of the freezer opened.With an appropriately eerie squeal.Eeeeeeeeeeee . . .!Now, my head knew that Dracula never really existed, except in the brilliant mind of Bram Stoker. And certainly, if he did exist, the last place he would appear would be in an old freezer.In the middle of the bathroom of the Stringam ranch house.By no stretch of the imagination would that be . . . romantic. (Does that word work here?)But, no matter how frantically and reasonably my head was whispering all of this to my heart, my heart was still expecting Count Dracula to sit up, in all his dark majesty, maybe with a touch of real frost in his dark hair, and say, “Good evening!”My business of the moment forgotten, I charged out of the bathroom, frantically zipping my pants as I flew.Once in the family room, I stopped.Sanity returned.And I started to laugh.And laugh.I went upstairs and told my Mom.She laughed.One by one, we told it to every member of the family.They all thought it was a huge joke.Okay, we're weird.I did remember to go back into the bathroom and latch the freezer properly.Later.And every time thereafter.But now, years later, whenever I see a glistening white freezer, I half expect the door to open and to see Dracula sit up and smile menacingly at me.It still makes me want to . . . mind my own business.

Wild West Pirate

I live in land-locked Canada, the pirates here are few,
Unless you count the people who, sound ethics, they eschew. And so I’ll tell you all of someone, though he never sailed,When’er his gang came into sight, the population quailed.
Outside Fort Sumner, way down south, there sits a lonesome grave,A testament to Someone who could never quite behave.Fatherless for most his life—an orphan at fifteen,This young man was a lot of things, and all of them were mean.
He started as a laundry thief (when first he got arrested), He soon broke out and roamed the west. The law this boy detested,It didn’t take six years before he brought the country grief,He’d murdered 21 and been a gunslinger and thief.
He loved to sing, but breaking law sure was his fav’rite thing,He seemed to thrive on violence and the chaos that it brings.He stole cattle, he stole horses and he shot a man or ten,Caught and sentenced, shot some more, escaping from the ‘pen’.
His crimes earned him a bounty and they finally locked him in.Sentenced to be hanged, he was to pay for all his sins,But once again, those jail walls, they simply didn’t hold,Killed two deputies escaping. You know, wow! this guy was bold!
His luck ran out a short time hence, when good old Sheriff ‘Pat’,Shot him once right through the heart and laid the boy out flat.The celebrating started then, throughout the ‘wild west’,Sighs of relief and happiness and gratitudes expressed.
But sadly, in the after years, this boy became a star,The Man who finally shot him was despised both near and far.The story’s gotten twisted and now Pat’s the nasty one,‘He caught this young assassin in the dark and with a gun.’  But now you’ve heard the story of young William McCarty?His six-year reign as outlaw, his assassinating spree.Cause Billy the Kid was many things. And all of them were bad...So who really was at fault that day? The sheriff or the lad?
Our new po-e-try challenge had a fun, pirate-y theme,For Karen and her followers, a captivating dream,And now you've read my take on it and judged it bad or fun,Go now to others in my 'hood' and see what they have done! Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Pirate Table for OneDawn of Spatulas On Parade: Argh MateyLydia of Cluttered Genius: A Pirate’s Booty

This One's For You

You’re Favourite Drink’s our subject and I really must admitMy favourite drinks have morphed around. And not a little bit.When I was young a chocolate milk would satisfy my wants,And was the first thing ordered when we hit the restaurants.
From there, I guess I’d have to say that soda pop becameThe chosen drink at movies or when cheering at the games,In orange, grape or lime the flavours all would satisfy,With na-tur-al ingredients (not one additive or dye).
Then Mountain Dew took over and I couldn’t wait to seeWho bottled it: from Ann and Bill to Harriet and Zee.It claimed that it would ‘tickle yore innards’. So this I will state,It seemed to make the grade and Wow! It tasted really great!
I must admit about that time, I started mingling things,Discovered brand new tastes that mixing orange pop could bring,Before you try to guess, I’ll take this time to clarify,Swamp Water’s made with root beer—goes with Teen Burgers and fries!
From Seven-Up which took a hefty portion of my wealth,I moved to fresh, fruit juices and their claims of ‘improved health’,The juice of vegetables then beckoned. I was so surprised,That I was drinking something I, in younger years, despised.
And now I stick to water. When I do, then nothing hurts.And bodily functions can’t be weighed in ‘small’ or ‘mega’ hurtz.No extra shots are needed from a glass or in the vein,And no one bothers me or asks my actions to explain.
But . . .I must admit that if I had my ‘druthers’, I would choose,Another drink with calories, and not a hint of booze,And strange enough, the one I loved from birth, now to my graveHas followed me Full Circle. Again chocolate milk’s my fave!






















Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought,To try to make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts. Perhaps a grin?
So all of us, together, we
Have posted poems for you to see.
Please go. See what my friends have done.
I'm sure it will be lots of fun!JennyMotherOwlMimiSo now you've seen what we have brought.Did we help?Or did we not?

Thanks so much for the topic, Jenny! This was such fun!

Next week to celebrate Mud Pack Day,
We'll tackle 'beauty' in our own way!

Snipe(d)

Dad (right) and Ruel.
Who could fool these two?As a young man, Dad spent his summers working on the ranch.It was these summers that convinced him ranching was in his blood.Something he could make his life’s work.Even with its embarrassing moments . . .Young cowboys on a big spread are often the butt of jokes pulled by the older, more experienced hands.Dad, though he was the boss’ son, was no exception.He and a schoolmate, Ruel, were invited to go with a couple of the men on a ‘snipe hunt’.The snipe, they were told, was a bird that lived in the coulees around the ranch. It was very tasty, if you could nab one. But there was the problem. Snipes were tricky creatures. They only had one weakness--they were mesmerised by a light at night. Ordinarily, they stayed still when darkness fell, but if disturbed, would fly toward said light. The trick was to have someone wait quietly, holding a bag next to a lantern and, when the birds were stirred up, catch them as they flew to the light.Slick.The boys were excited to be included on this fun hunting trip. They rode behind the two older hands and took up a position at the mouth of the coulee, bag and lantern in hand. Then they waited while the riders circled around to the other end to ride down the coulee, driving the tasty little snipes ahead of them and straight to the waiting sack and certain doom.They waited for over two hours.Finally deciding that something had gone terribly wrong, the two boys gave up and walked the two miles back to the ranch. When they reached the barn, they discovered the horses the two older hands had been riding, safely tucked up for the night.Only then did they realize they’d been had.They toyed with the idea of hiding in the hay loft and getting the rest of the men stirred up when they didn’t show up for breakfast. They even went so far as to sleep in the loft, snuggled down cozily in the soft, fragrant hay. But the enthusiastic swinging of a pitchfork early the next morning as one of the hands fed the horses convinced them that they should appear or risk being skewered.They stood up and endured the general laugh at their expense.Grampa Stringam was disgusted. “How could you fall for something like that?!” he demanded.It had been embarrassingly easy, so Dad said nothing.Sometimes, ranching isn’t about the cows.But being cowed.
P.S. The snipe is a real bird, living along watercourses throughout the world. It is notoriously hard to catch and the person who could actually shoot one would be known as a 'sniper'. Thus the name for a skilled gunman.

I-Spy(d)

We live a ten-minute drive from a large city.A city that has more stores than our bustling little town.Stores we occasionally need to shop at when we need something more than groceries.Enough background . . .We (Husby, Daughter, Granddaughter and me) were heading ‘into town’.For a three-year-old, it is a long, exhausting trip.A game of I-Spy was indicated.For the first few turns, all went well.Granddaughter would pose, “I spy with my teensy-tinesy little eye, something that is . . .”You know the game.She posed. We guessed.We posed. Everyone guessed.Then it was Husby’s turn.He started out all right. “I spy with my little eye . . .”But then it all fell apart, because he ended with: “. . . something that is red but not red like Mommy’s bicycle.”There was a momentary silence in the back seat as this riddle was digested.Then a high little three-year-old voice said, decisively, “That’s not right Grandpa!”I want to emphasize the word ‘decisively’. Because nothing else better describes a little three-year-old playing a favourite game.This statement was immediately followed by: “You’re out.”What? No warning? No yellow card?Straight to the red (but not red like Mommy's bicycle) card?Huh.Did you know it’s possible to be immediately ejected from a game of I-Spy?By a three-year-old?Well, it is.Take note. Oh, sure. They look sweet and innocent.
But give them a striped sweater and a whistle?
Then watch the claws come out...

Guilty

Husby and I are empty nesters.
It's a fairly new experience. One that we are enjoying immensely. Maybe because we get all the perks (quiet evenings) with all the blessings (grandkids over daily).
But what we didn't have was a four-footed furry.
Maybe I should explain...
For over thirty years, we raised Old English Sheepdogs. We love the breed. Smart, loyal, protective, easily trained.
And highly amusing.
When our last puppy bid us farewell and crossed the rainbow bridge two years ago, we decided our 'furry' days were over.
We were truly empty nesters.
Then, back in March, our friends got a puppy. An OES cross.
And quite suddenly I knew my own dog days weren't done.
A week later, I was the proud owner of the newest generation of Old English Sheepdog.
Her name is Pandora, but we call her Pandy. Among other things...
Ahem...
She is everything we've come to love about the breed.
And has settled into her own little corner of my heart.
Enough background...
Yesterday, Husby and I were in the family room, watching the movie 'Dragonslayer'. I was multi-tasking in that I was also working on a puzzle.
Pandy was rousting around, nose to the carpet.
A habit of hers, I must admit.
She rousted herself into Daddy's office.
Now, normally, this isn't cause for concern as usually, Daddy is in there with her.
This time, he wasn't. (See above.)
I allowed the normal amount of time necessary to wander into the room, realize that your beloved person is not there and wander out again.
That time had elapsed.
"Pandy!" I called.
She came out immediately.
But the reason for her tardiness became immediately-and painfully-apparent.
And yes, that's an Eat-More bar wrapper stuck to someone's furry face.
I've heard of wearing your guilt.
But never quite this accurately.

The Gorilla in the Room

Ahh, Sinbad. Hero. Heartthrob.
Nightmare.Movies are the greatest creation since . . . well . . . forever.
Needless to say, I'm hooked on them.
And have been since . . . well . . . forever.
In Milk River, we got movies twice a week.
First run movies.
Which was a real scoop for a town of 499.
My Dad told me it was because there were a limited number of prints and that the theatre owner in Milk River had been around longer than the bigwig in Lethbridge, so had seniority.
Yes. I’m sure ‘seniority’ is the word he used.
I only knew that we got all the cool movies first.
For example, when ‘Lassie Come Home’ was released, everyone in Southern Alberta came to Milk River to see it. I remember the theatre owner setting up rows of folding chairs all down the aisles and across the front.
Fire regulations were obviously in the conceptual stage in the late 50s and early 60s.
But the theatre was crammed full and everyone cried together when Lassie finally came home.
Lassie came to Lethbridge several days later.
Na-Na-Na-Na-Na.
But I digress . . .
Every Bonanza Day (Milk River’s fair day) the theatre owner would offer a free movie to everyone in the town.
Usually, it was the hit flick, ‘Santa Claus Meets the Martians’, but sometimes, he would get creative and offer, ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I don’t have to tell you which I enjoyed the most.
Or which one inevitably gave me nightmares.
I think it was the scene when my hero Sinbad and his men had escaped from the giant Cyclops and had pressed themselves back into a tiny crevasse in a stone wall.The Cyclops, a little piqued that his lunch would have had the temerity to run, was hunting them.
Over and over, the giant hand would reach into the shallow cave, trying to grab Sinbad or one of his men, who would press themselves a bit tighter back against the wall.
This time, the creature would get him!
No. This time!
I was into it.
And it didn't seem to matter how many times I saw the picture, I still gasped and grabbed my Mom’s arm every time the huge hand reached.
At the end, with Sinbad safe once more and kissing the pretty girl, I would shiver with delight.
And that night and for the following several nights, I’d have another nightmare.
Now my nightmares never, ever starred a gorgeous, rippling-muscled Sinbad.
That would have been . . . not scary.
No, my dreams inevitably starred a huge gorilla.
And he was going to eat me.
Okay, yes, I know that they don’t eat little girls, but I was four.
And they had teeth.
Enough said.
My gorilla would chase me through our house and finally, corner me underneath the dining room table.
I would shrink back to the far side as that hairy, dark hand reached for me.
And missed.
Barely.
He would move around the table and bend over, looking at me. Then he would stretch out his arm again.
I would slide to the other side of the table and stay just out of reach.
This would go on until I finally awoke, dripping with sweat and whimpering.
And still, I was the first in line when the theatre showed ‘The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’.
I think the term ‘Glutton for Punishment’ was coined by someone who knew me.
Maybe the Gorilla.

My Criminal Past?

1.  I was four years old. Grocery shopping with Mom. I wanted an orange gumball. She said no. Thought I could fool her. I was wrong.2. I was in grade three. Forged a needed note to go downtown to buy treats for Jody’s and my ‘Fair’. Yeah. The principal wasn’t amused.3. My parents didn’t smoke. One of my friend’s cousins did. She had cigarettes. We decided to hide and try it. Moms can see through walls.4. Dad told us not to ride the pigs. We all thought we could fool him by sheer sneakiness. Turns out Dads know everything. True story.5. In grade eleven and stony broke. Window shopping with friends. Unbeknownst to me, one pocketed two pomegranates. We all got blamed. I’ll never forget it.6. Mom had some expensive toenail clippers that lived on her dresser. I wondered if they could cut a straight pin. They couldn’t. I never confessed.7. I absolutely loved my friend’s ‘elephant pants’. She even let me wear them on occasion. I know what you’re thinking. I didn’tsteal them. Ha!8. Dad told me getting paid but not working was theft. At times I’m pretty sure I was the only one in the office occupied. Sigh.9. Do you think it’s stealing to come home weekly for food, fun and a fill of gasoline? My parents didn’t think so either. Thank goodness…+1. I have decided I could never be a criminal mastermind. I have too much imagination. All I can visualize are the consequences. None very good. Yeah.


Word counters is a monthly word challenge, issued to us by our noble Karen of Baking in a Tornado.Doesn't she have the best ideas?My word count this month was 26 and given to me, via Karen, by Sarah Nolan.
Thank you, Sarah! This was such fun!Wanna see what the others did with the challenge?
Baking In A Tornado Spatulas on Parade Wandering Web DesignerMessy Mimi’s MeanderingsSarah Nolan