Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 115

Looking Younger

Children of newly-weds.I have a theory.Holidays make you younger.Let me explain . . .My Husby and I were married early.I was 20. He was 21.We had our first baby just before our first anniversary.Our second followed eighteen months later.And our third two years after our second.We were . . . busy.It wasn't until our third son was eleven months old that we were able to take our first vacation.Okay, it wasn't a real vacation.It was a conference. But it was in beautiful Halifax. One of the jewels of Canada's East coast.And my Husby's ticket was paid for.All we had to cover were my expenses.That was as close to a vacation as we were going to get.For three days, while Husby was at his various meetings, my baby and I spent our time in the comfortable hotel room.Exploring the many sites of old Halifax.Or eating.On the final day of the conference, a gala banquet and ball had been planned.The hotel supplied us with a babysitter.And I was free to join my Husby for wonderful food and a table full of scintillating (Oooh! Good word!) company.We ate and talked and laughed.Partway through the evening, my Husby leaned close and said something to me.I giggled and kissed his nose.Then one of the women at the table sighed and said, “I just love newlyweds!”I smiled at her.And thought of my almost-one-year-old upstairs with the babysitter.And my four and three-year-olds at home with gramma.I had been married five years.And spent much of that time either pregnant or nursing.I felt ancient.And this woman thought I was a newly-wed.I could draw only one conclusion.It was because I was on holiday.It must have been.Who needs surgery and/or creams to erase the years?I know of something infinitely more fun.Here's to holidays!
P.S. Red Skelton (Google it) agrees with me. He once said, when asked his age, "I'm 67 years old. I would be 68 but I lived for a year on Maui!"

All Hail Summer!

The day had begun like any other that summer.Cloudless blue skies.Soaring temperatures.Plans to spend a few hours near or in the river.Dad had taken my brothers, Jerry and George out to the field, haying.Chris and I were helping Mom do 'Mom' things in the kitchen.Well, Chris helped.I tasted . . .Hey, it's an important job!Shortly after lunch, Chris and I got decked out in our fancy swimwear, ready to head to the river.Mom walked with us as far as the lawn. She glanced up at the sky."Oh, my!"I tilted my head back.Much of my blue sky was no longer blue.Instead, it was rapidly being obscured by really ominous-looking clouds.Black clouds.A storm!I loved storms.And we certainly hadn't seen enough of them in Milk River in the early 60's.Our trip to the river was forgotten as Chris and I followed Mom back into the house and took up positions in the living room.One window each.Then we waited.The clouds boiled up, obscuring the sun. The remainder of the sky.The lightning started.Flash.Crash.I should point out here that I had learned to count by timing the interval between the flash and crash of lightning.One. Two. Three.With each flash, there was a shorter and shorter interval.The excitement level increased. Well, my excitement level increased.Mom was darting back and forth from one window to another, anxiously watching for her husband and sons return from the hay field.I was little. I lived in a 'never worried, always happy' world.Occasionally, I glanced at my worried mother curiously.But that was the extent of my sympathy.Moving on . . .Finally, we heard a weird sound from outside.A rising wind howling across the chimney.And then we saw the wall of . . . something . . . coming towards us across the yard.Some really white-looking rain.I moved to the couch beside my sister.Her window had a better view.Mom scurried into her bedroom and emerged with several pillows. "Here, girls," she instructed, "hold these up against the windows!"I stared at her. But if I held the pillow up against the window, I wouldn't be able to see the storm!We all heard the shattering of glass from the kitchen.Instantly, Chris pressed her pillow against the window.Sighing, I copied her example.I don't know how long the storm lasted.Too long, according to my mother.Not long enough, according to me.After it passed, we stepped outside to see the damage/amazing-ness. It all depended on your point of view. The yard was four inches deep in snow.Snow?Not bad for the middle of July.I stepped out into it.It was funny snow. Crunchy. More like pebbles than soft, white fluffiness.I stomped around in it. Gathered a handful. Carried it back to my Mom.She was standing where I had left her, just staring."Look, Mom. This snow is weird!" I tried to hand it to her."It's not snow, darling," she said. "It's hail.""Huh." Yep. I was always on top of things.As we were standing there, Dad's truck pulled into the yard and skidded to a stop on the slippery road.He and my two older brothers got out.At least I think it was Dad and my brothers.Certainly, they had the right size and shape.But there, all resemblance ended.They were caked with mud. Straws of hay and grass sprouted all over them.They really looked like . . . monsters.I was prepared to run.Before I could react, however, Mom moved forward and wrapped her arms around the taller one, mud and all. Then she moved on to the shorter pair.Okay. Not monsters.We all moved back into the house.While Mom swept up the glass from a broken window in the kitchen, she and Dad told their stories.His was far more exciting.He and my brothers had been baling hay, with Dad and Jerry on the stooker behind George driving tractor.When Dad had seen the clouds, he had tried to signal George to stop.But George couldn't hear him over the noise of the tractor.Finally, in his best Superman style, Dad leaped off the stooker, ran forward, scaled the tractor and turned off the key. Then he grabbed George, made another heroic leap, and shoved him and Jerry under the tractor.Okay, it's always so much better in my imagination . . .The three of them had gotten a very close up and personal view of the storm from beneath this rather sketchy shelter.Fortunately, though the hail had splashed them with mud and debris, it hadn't caused them any permanent damage.Not so the rest of the ranch.Chickens and other birds, not quick enough to get under shelter lay in small heaps in the barnyard.Fences had been smashed to the ground and the entire garden lay in ruins. Appendages had been hammered off vehicles and other machines standing unprotected in the barnyard and many windows were broken.And the grand new house being constructed behind the old ranch house where we currently lived was especially hard hit.Besides other damage, the newly-installed siding had been hammered to bits. Pockmarks had been knocked clean through the painted boards.Ruined.And we hadn't even moved in yet. There were two hail storms that summer.The second just as nasty as the first.Mom finally gave up all hope of getting any peas out of her garden.Or much else, either.The hay crop had been ruined.And there was a lot of repairing and clean up.Most of which I . . . umm . . . supervised.But we survived.To tell the stories.

Finding Good News

The mid-term elections that have so dominated the airwaves for the past weeks are over.The cheering/nay-saying will probably continue for some time.I'm here to tell you that in today's climate of consistently negative news, there is a bright spot.We just have to look for it.


My Dad loved to read the newspaper at the breakfast table, after we had finished eating.Let me rephrase that.
My Dad loved to read the newspaper at the breakfast table . . . you get the picture.Oh, he absorbed the important news stories.
And took note of local and international events and even sales.
But after he had digested the headlines, he would continue to read.
And . . . umm . . . put his own twist upon what he found there.
“Huh. Look at that. Jeffrey James died.”
There would be a pause as everyone in the room tried to decide if they had ever heard that name before.
Finally, some curious soul would ask the question, “Oh? Who was Jeffrey James?”
“Haven't got the slightest idea.”
There would be a general groan and much head shaking.
But that's my Dad.
Sometimes he would embroider a story, improving it for our benefit.
And it wasn't until the story got too outlandish that we would realize it.
“Well, it says here that they're planning a new bridge across the Old Man River near Fort Macleod.”
Again, someone would take the bait. “Really?”
“Yeah. Four lane. The works.”
“Well, it is the Alaska Highway. They probably need the improvement.”
“Suspension.”
“Well, that'll be nice.”
“Yep. It's just going to hang there. Suspended. Be hard to get on and off of.”
At which time, he would get a smack on the arm.
Or a platter of scrambled eggs upended over his head.
Sometimes, Dad would cut the story out of whole cloth.“Our taxes are going up.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yep. They need the money for a new fund.”
“Really?”
“Yep, the Town Council Mexico fund.”
“What sort of fund is that?”
“It's the fund where all of the town council get to go to Mexico.”
“What for?”
“Well, to hold their meetings.”
Or . . .“Well, look at that. The President of the United States is going up with the next Moon Mission.”
“Well, that sounds dangerous. Why?”
“I guess he wants to see for himself what all of the excitement is about.”
And, for some time we would think that the story was true.In fact, we were even known to spread the rumour.
With embarrassing, but amusing, results.
You'd think we would learn.
But Dad wouldn't limit himself to making up stories.
Oh, no.
Sometimes, he would improve the staid old news in other ways.
By inserting his favourite poems.
Have I mentioned that he loves to recite?
“Little Johnny took a drink,But he shall drink no more.'Cause what he thought was H2O,Was H2SO4!”We would nod and smile.
That part, we had gotten used to.
Anyone new to the family, however, would be understandably confused.
Once, my nearly sister-in-law was seated at the breakfast table with us.
Dad was hidden behind the newspaper, filling us in on the day's happenings.
Suddenly, his tone changed.
The boy stood on the burning deck.His feet were in the fire.The Captain said, You're burning up!”The boy said, “You're a liar!”She peered timidly around the paper, trying to see where he was reading.
Finally, “Where does it say that?”
Mom rolled her eyes. “No where, dear. It's in his head!”
“Oh.”
To this day, I can't simply read the paper.
I especially have great fun with the classifieds.
I guess I just had too good an example.

That's How You Were Designed

In honour of 'World Kindness' Day, I've decided to share a song I wrote.
Admittedly, it was written with children in mind and, in point of fact, has been sung by same.
But I thought, in view of the anger and fear that seem so plentiful in the world right now, I would share it with you.
Sadly, you will have to imagine the happy, upbeat tune. And the cheery little voices.
But the words are there.
And I hope they help . . .

It is titled, simply, Be Kind.

When I grow up, here’s what I’ll be: An Astronaut in space.A doctor or a farmer or an athlete in a race.A soldier or an Engineer, a miner in a mine.No matter what I choose to be, I’m choosing to be kind.
Be kind! Be kind! That’s how you were designed!Be smart, be fun, be fast on the run, But best of all, be kind!
Or maybe I could be a nurse, a clerk or guide or cook.A mom or dad or carpenter, a writer, writing books.A vet-erin-ar-i-an, I'd heal the animals I find.No matter what I choose to be, I’m choosing to be kind.
Be kind! Be kind! That’s how you were designed!Be smart, be fun, be fast on the run,But best of all, be kind!
May this sentiment roll forward. This day and all the days to come. My Three Little Bakers. Being kind...My friends have joined me in honouring Kindness in all its forms.
Please take a little time today and visit them!


Karen of Baking In A Tornado: World Kindness Election DayDawn of Cognitive Script: World Kindness and Elections Jules of The Bergham Chronicles: Kindness Matters
Jenn from Sparkly Poetic Weirdo: What We Need to Know When It Gets Bad: Kindness Keeps Us Here

Being Common

Today's Poetry Monday is dedicated to COMMON SENSE.
Which isn't common. Or, as my Father always said, "Common Sense Ain't."
Here are some of my favourites . . .







And now, my poem!

Common sense is not a gift,It’s a punishment,Because you have to deal with thoseWho were not blessed with it!

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, as the snowflakes start to swarm,We three'll be dreaming Someplace Warm!

Cry Hammock...

From this . . .But everyone had one!Well, almost everyone.Okay, he had seen one.And wanted it . . .It was summertime on the ranch. The perfect season of cloudless blue skies, soft, sage-soaked breezes, warm, golden sunshine and scented, star-studded nights.And what better way to enjoy one’s occasional leisure hours than by swinging – relaxed, semi-conscious and blissful - in one’s very own hammock.To ten-year-old Mark, the concept seemed heaven-sent.There was just one catch.He didn’t possess a hammock.And his parents did not appear to be forthcoming with one.Sigh.But Mark was a kid of the prairies. What he didn’t possess, he made.Or made do.His dad was changing out the old canvas on the binder. Hmmm . . .Mark studied the discarded heap of coarse material carefully. Then he scooped it up and carted it to the trees. Specifically to the two tall trees he had picked as being the biggest and most hammock-support-like.Sometime later, following a maximum of grunting, sweating and words sometimes thought but seldom said, Mark was looking at a brand new hammock.His brand new hammock.His pride of accomplishment overspilled its banks.Handsprings anyone?A party was called for.A celebration.A . . .Mark would have to settle for talking his mother into allowing him to sleep out on his new acquisition.It took some doing, but he was finally able to convince her.Happily, he gathered blankets and gear for his amazing outdoor adventure and in short order was perched atop his newest and best acquisition.Snuggled down and shivering with delight, he waited for the sun to go down.Then to come up again.Which it did.Mark blinked sleepily at the newly-risen sun. It was then he realized that his mouth felt . . . funny.Sliding out of his hammock, he ran to the house and the nearest mirror.Where he received a distinct shock. His upper lip was swollen like a balloon.With no idea what could possibly have happened, he ran for his mother. Who took one look at his face and said, calmly, “Looks like a bug bit you, son.”A bug bit him?! His face was three times its normal size and ‘a bug bit him’?!Frantically, he raced back to the mirror and minutely studied his poor abused outside. How was he going to go through life looking like this?!In case you're worried, I'll tell you that the swelling did go down. Fairly quickly in fact. With only one side effect. Mark now regarded hammocks with a degree of suspicion.I mean – no one ever told him that they could come with uninvited and totally unexpected ‘guests’.Overly friendly guests.His was a hammock for one.One.Maybe someone should have explained that to the bug. . . . to this.Sundays are for Ancestors!
Tell me about yours!

Steak en Colère

The skills he learned in France . . . Plus cooking.











In his early twenties, my Husby spent two years living in Paris, France.For a farm boy from southern Alberta, it was quite a culture shock.But he loved it and grew to love the French people.During his years there, he discovered that the French love their food.Love. Their. Food.And he found out first hand . . .During his stay there, Husby became acquainted with a wealthy U.S. national and his family who made their home in Paris.Wonderful people.One evening, the father decided to take his family out to dine.He invited Husby and his companions.Remember the place where I said ‘wealthy’?That would become important here.They went to a five-star, French restaurant.And when the French say five-star, they definitely mean it.Our little farm boy found himself in the very heart and soul of Haute Cuisine.He nervously sank into a chair at one of the luxurious tables and accepted the expertly-flourished menu.Fortunately, his French was good, so ordering didn’t cause any complications.The meal came out in courses.Slow courses.When I say that the French love their food, I mean it.And they take time to worship every. Single. Bite.Finally, the main course appeared.Husby’s American friend had ordered steak.Steak was delivered. Smothered in onions and other good things.Said steak was also very, very rare.Now, I don’t know about you, but that would have been just fine with me. (Rancher’s daughter.)But for Husby’s friend, it was simply unacceptable. “Could you please take this back and cook it?” he asked.The waiter’s impeccable manners did not allow for any outward show of surprise or even opinion. He simply said, “Oui, M’sieur,” and whisked the offending plate away.A few minutes later, he reappeared, with the same steak on a fresh plate.Still beautifully displayed.Still rare.The friend stared at it, then at the waiter. “Could you please take it back again?”Now it’s no crime to like your meat well-done.Most of my family members actually prefer it that way.It’s just not acceptable when you are in a very fancy French restaurant.A short time later, the steak re-appeared.This time carried in with tongs.By the chef, himself.“M’sieur,” he said, slapping the steak down in disgust on a nearby plate, “you have murdered that steak!” The man then spun about and marched back to the kitchen, outrage and repugnance (good word) in every step.For those of you planning on visiting France . . .The people are wonderful.The food divine.The meat, rare.That is all.

Topper(ed)

Now picture me astride. Or behind and on the ground. . .Topper. My eldest brother’s horse. The ultimate in challenges.My world was small. I admit it.By the age of seven, I had moved through the ‘pony’ stage was ready for something a bit . . . bigger. Certainly more challenging.My brother’s sorrel gelding was the answer. If I could ride him, I would have achieved my greatest goal. By so doing, I would enter the world of the adults. I would finally be considered a grown-up.Or so I thought.We were selecting our mounts for yet another round-up. This one to include branding and all of the fun and high-jinks that went with that.My brother, Jerry, stepped into the corral ahead of me. He lifted the halter he held and approached . . . Ranger. Ranger?My day had come. Before anyone could think of stopping me, I moved to Topper’s side and slid my halter over his alert head. So far, so good.Grooming and saddling took next to no time. A good thing as I was in a fever of impatience.And then I was aboard.Wow! The ground was so far away! This horse was a giant! Okay, he would have had to stand on tip hooves to reach 14 hands, but I had been riding a Shetland pony. My measuring stick was slightly skewed.But I digress . . .And we were off.All went well to that point. In fact, all continued to go well as we received our assignments and separated to begin collecting the herds. I was given one of the smaller fields. A measly little quarter section. No problem. Topper and I started off at a brisk trot. I was amazed at how much more quickly he moved than my little Pinto.I have to admit here that Pinto had one speed.Slow.This was living! And then . . . that sun. In Southern Alberta, at least the corner where I was raised, the early summer days are . . . hot. There are no trees. The sun beats down on the hard-packed earth, turning it into a heat reflector of gigantic proportions. In no time, the heat waves are distorting every horizon. And the favourite little blue jean jacket so necessary when you first hit the barnyard is suddenly superfluous. And distinctly uncomfortable.And really needing to be removed.With slow, staid Pinto, a simple task. No sooner thought of, then accomplished. He wouldn't even have noticed.With Topper, another story entirely.I undid the buttons.His ears flicked back. I’m almost sure his eyes narrowed. “What are you doing up there, Human?”I slid one arm half-way out of the sleeve.A jump. A little kick. “Whatever it is, I don’t like it!”I stopped moving.He settled.I moved, he jumped.This went on for some time. Then I finally tired of the theatrics and decided to show him who was boss.I shed my coat entirely.He decided to show me who was really boss and shed me.Entirely.I’m not sure whether I bailed off, or he planted me. It matters little because the results were the same.My face took the brunt of the landing.When I came to my senses a short time later, I struggled to my feet and discovered that Topper was actually waiting for me a little distance away.I approached him slowly. The only speed I could muster.He watched me, warily.I drew closer.He tensed.Closer still.He let fly with both back hoofs.I really don’t know how I managed to survive life on the ranch. I must have a particularly hard head. The next thing I remember is one of our hired men, Bud. He had followed the trail of my belongings until he finally discovered me, lying in a very small heap and plucked me from the prairie floor, like flotsam off a beach.I noticed, with some degree of satisfaction, that he had already rescued my beloved jacket.Reunited. I may have smiled. I really couldn't feel my face.Bud set me on the saddle in front of him and I looked down at the horse he was riding.Eagle.The delicious appaloosa.The ultimate in challenges.If I could ride him, I would have achieved my greatest goal . . .You can see where this is heading.

Halloween Tipping

Seated: Grandma and Grandpa Berg and 'She Who Holds the Horses'
Surrounding them: The InstigatorsHalloween.Ghosts and goblins.Witches, black cats and scary pumpkins.Pirates, vampires and mummies.An evening of treats, tricks and mischief.And it has been this way for many, many years.My Mom often talked of mischief perpetrated by her and her eight (yes, I said eight) brothers.They were in a rural community, with all of the families around them involved in some sort of agriculture, so the opportunities for tricks were almost as endless as the imaginations that enacted them.Pigs in the hen house.Harnesses on the cows.Wagons hauled to the roofs of the barns.Tires and assorted junk piled in the roadways.But the favourite, the real king of the pranks was outhouse tipping.Though indoor plumbing was quite common in the cities and larger communities in the mid-1930s, on the farms and ranches surrounding Millicent, Alberta, most families still made use of the outdoor privy.Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, but necessary the whole year through, the outhouse was an accepted and integral part of family life.And very few of them were fastened down.All it took was a concerted effort by two or more strong lads and . . . over it would go.Followed by much laughter and hilarity as the perpetrators fled.To the next farm.Where their adventure would start all over.Mom held the horses, or so she contends.But I digress . . .One Halloween, she and her eight brothers were making the rounds.One farm, in particular, was their destination.The husband and wife who ran it were 'feisty'.And protective.And fun to pit wits with.The Berg kids crept along in the darkness, trying desperately to be silent.Finally, they left my Mom holding the horse's reins and crept closer.All was quiet.Light was pouring from the farmhouse.The couple was likely eating dinner.The boys picked their target out of the gloom.It stood in lonely glory (can one use the word 'glory' in describing an outhouse?) to one side of the yard.Closer.Finally, they reached the little structure.Ahh. Now just a little push to set things going . . .Now, unbeknownst (good word) to them, the farmer had decided, this year, to outwit his antagonists.By hiding inside the outhouse.At the climactic moment, he would burst from the building and give his shotgun a blast into the air.That would scare those little scamps into next week!His plan was brilliant.Genius.Right up to the point where the boys tipped the outhouse over . . . on its door.Trapping their would-be assailant inside.Hampered but unbowed, he stuck his head through one of the holes and shouted, "Ye blimey little rats! I'll get ye!"Then followed with the planned shotgun blast at the sky.Admittedly, completed as it was through the hole of an outhouse, the action lost some of its 'punch'.And the boys, by this time, were already over the hill, laughing at their cleverness.But the farmer's actions did achieve one thing.Made doubly sure that his farm was on the 'trick' list for a long as the boys lived at home.Or until he got indoor plumbing.Whichever came first.

One More Day

Any ExcuseCountdown to Halloween . . . Tristan - acting evil.Our family loves to dress up.
Maybe that's the reason we love theatre so much.It's legal there . . .For my husby and I, it started in our respective childhoods.We carried it, happily, into our own family.Through the years, any excuse to dress up was instantly seized.Halloween.NewYear's.St. Patrick's Day.Thursday.As I said, any excuse.Our costume collection grew apace (real word).In no time, it outgrew the large cardboard box that I had originally stuffed things into and into its own room.The kids spent many, many happy hours in that room, playing dress-up.As they grew, so did their costumes, becoming more elaborate and detailed.Bunnies, ladybugs and clowns became Elizabethan gowns and chain mail.And I mean real chain mail.With gauntlets.The room that holds the costumes now is bigger than our first living room.Our neighbourhood has grown accustomed to seeing our family traipsing around, dressed . . . unusually.It's fun.And now our grandchildren have caught the spirit.Sometimes, good things are passed down through the generations . . . Queen of Hearts

And yes, that's real chain mail. He knits it . . . Expecting their/our first child/grandchild

A night in Bethlehem
Notice the backpack. Authentic in every way! Not! Husby as Teddy Roosevelt Passing it on to the next generation . . . Yes. They are PJ's