Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 122

T'aint Free

The topic of free time, I thought,Well, how hard could that be?I thought of things I’d like to doIf Free Time came to me . . .
Spend lots of it with family,All those who mean the most to me.I write. I’d read. I’d sit and sew,There’s lots of places that I’d go.To restaurants both far and near,Attend good plays of which I hear,Then further, still, I’d up and fly,To foreign countries with my guy.
Well now you see with staying putOr being on the run,I’d need all time to be free timeTo get these matters done.

I'd have to work to pay for them,
Cause nothing comes for free
And so 'Free Time' is not a whit,
Of what it seems to be.
      
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, because our summer's done,We'll talk of Fall! This should be fun...

100 Years

Eat your onions!I know that this statement seems to have nothing to do with what follows, but bear with me . . .
The 1918 flu pandemic (the Spanish Flu) was an influenza pandemic that spread widely across the world. Most victims were healthy young adults, in contrast to most influenza outbreaks which predominantly affect juvenile, elderly, or weakened patients. The pandemic lasted from March 1918 to June 1920, spreading even to the Arctic and remote Pacific islands. Between 50 and 100 million died, making it one of the deadliest natural disasters in human history. An estimated 50 million people, about 3% of the world's population (1.6 billion at the time), died of the disease. 500 million, or 1/3 were infected.-                                                                                                                                   - World History Project
And now we'll tie it together . . .My Husby’s maternal grandparents, Artie J. and Ovedia Seely and their children, weren’t affected by the disease. One of few families that managed to avoid it. Even though every other family in the sleepy town of Stirling, Alberta, like the rest of the world, had one or more (or all) members sick with the deadly disease.For months during the worst of the outbreak in their small community, Artie and one other unaffected man tended the farms and fed the animals for all of the other farmers.Before daybreak every day, the two men were feeding animals, milking cows, cleaning, tending . . . performing all of the myriad tasks that constituted farming.At every farm.Every day.It took the whole day.Artie would return to his home and gulp down a hasty lunch, then head out once more. Grandma Ovedia Fawns Seely
Onion cooker extraordinaire!Returning only after sunset to snatch a few hours of sleep before starting over again.And still, with all of the work and worry, he, his wife, and their children remained unaffected.The reason?Earlier that year, the two of them, Artie and Ovedia, had harvested a bumper crop of onions.Every meal featured some incarnation of the remarkable vegetable.Both of them believe that that fact alone kept them from succumbing.I will give them the benefit of any doubt.They . . . lived . . . through it.
P.S. My Husby has spoken with two other ‘old-timers’ who also lived through the great and terrible influenza pandemic. They, too, maintain that their families survived due largely to the fact that they ate onions with every meal.You heard it here first.Oh, and see that onion on your plate? Eat it.
This story is a repost from a year ago, but it's been exactly 100 years since Artie J. Seely, Husby's Maternal Grandfather helped an entire community through the 1918 'flu. I thought it was worth repeating...
It's Ancestor Sunday. I'd love to hear about yours!

On a Roll

Okay. How can we complicate this . . .My Dad went to veterinarian college in Guelph, Ontario.Some time during the Dark Ages.Okay, yes, he tells me that my time periods are a little off.But I'm writing this story.Dark Ages, it is.Moving on . . .Sometime during his years there, he had occasion to hitch-hike to Toronto.It was his first time.And it was an adventure.Let me explain . . .A gentleman stopped to pick him up.A pleasant fellow.Travelling salesman.They visited for a while.Then the driver decided it was time for a smoke break.Or at least for a smoke. Why bother to actually make it a 'break'.Better to just keep on driving.In today's world of pre-assembled cigarettes, this wouldn't have been a problem.But in the Dark Ages, people 'rolled their own'.Seriously.They got out a little piece of speciality paper.Carefully shook a tiny bit of loose tobacco onto said paper.Spread out said tobacco.Rolled everything up.Licked the edge of the paper.And stuck it down.Voila!Cigarette.Now, imagine doing all of that while hurtling at sixty miles per hour down the highway.Talk about distracted driving . . .The driver could easily accomplish it, though, with a little help from his hitch-hiker/new buddy.“Here, son, could you please take the wheel?”Dad stared at him. Was he serious?“Please?”Apparently, he was.Gingerly, Dad reached over and grabbed the steering wheel.“Good.” The man let go and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette, without compromising speed at all.Except when Dad started to weave a little.Then he slowed . . . slightly.Finally, the job was done.“Thank you,” the man said, taking a drag from his new cigarette. He once more took control of the wheel.Dad sat back, relieved in both body and spirit.A short time later, he was duly delivered at his destination.Slightly smokier and a tiny bit wiser than normal, but safe.Dad never took up smoking.He said it was too dangerous.Now you know why.

Happy Rainy Days

Not quite. But almost . . .My Husby's father was a wonderful man.GenerousCheerful.Loving.Devoted to his numerous offspring and grand-offspring.Who, in turn, loved him and anxiously awaited any opportunity to go for a visit.I must admit here that seeing and visiting with their Grampa wasn't their only reason for wanting to spend time at his house.No.Their motives were a bit more . . . self-serving.Because Grampa had treats.Really yummy treats.He had learned over the years to put a little something away for, as he called it, a 'rainy day'.And 'rainy days' were much sought after and appreciated.Especially by the younger set.Inevitably, when visiting Grampa's house, after the initial excitement of greeting and getting everyone inside and settled, Grampa would say, “Well, I think I'll just go and see if I have anything for a 'rainy day'.Which meant that he did.Yummy-ness was forthcoming.Moving ahead several years . . .My Husby learned many things from his father.One of which was, to the joy and delight of his children and grandchildren, the stashing away of 'rainy days'.He does this religiously.Religiously.And, as a result, generally grows more than it diminishes.His present stash consists of two huge cardboard boxes and several bags, taking up the entire space under his desk.Several fancy wooden chests of 'treasure'.And a shelf full of boxed chocolates.Do you fancy a treat?You're invited.Rainy Days for everyone.And I do mean everyone.Please?

????

More conversations with Erik

Conversation can be so . . . Educational? Enlightening? … Effervescent? All of the above?Case in point.Second Son, hereinafter known as ‘Erik’ was having a discussion with his wife, ‘Kallie’.Kallie: “How long do eye exams take? Just an hour or so, right?”Erik: “Usually less. Unless you have a cavity.” You have to know that this comment was immediately followed with the impressively accurate sound of a drill. (ie. dentist’s.)And was met with the usual response.Eyerolling.Kallie: “You’re thinking of the wrong kind of doctor.”Now I know that many of you will be agreeing with her. Conversation over, right?You don’t know Erik.Erik: “You’ve never worn glasses.”Somehow a visit to the eye doctor just got a whole lot more terrifying...

Bread Dough Days

A poem.Because . . .
The water's there. The yeast is, too.The sugar, eggs and oil.A pinch of salt. Some scoops of flour.A spot of manual toil.Then there it sits. A work of art.A dough that's fine and ready.Just waiting for the final touch.The hand that's firm and steady.It starts to rise. Increase and grow.Progressing, moving on.Then nears the top. Success so close,Then, suddenly, it's gone.That hand so sure that works with careDeflates all it's achieved.And in a blink all progress seemsImposs'ble to believe.Again it tries.Again it grows.E'en lighter than before.Again that hand, again the push,The dough is flat once more.A third time tries. A third time grows.Now tasty and perfected.Achieves at last it's sought-for goal,No flaws or faults detected.At times I feel much like this dough.My progress interrupted.When wise hands press me to my knees,All dreams and goals disrupted.But praying hard, I realizeThough setbacks are in store,I rise each time, a better meThan e're I was before.

True and Trusted

Okay. Do you have one of these . . .? You'll need some of these.For years, Husby and I drove vintage cars.Just FYI, 'vintage' is a classy name for 'old'.Moving on . . .Wonderful vintage cars.They were affordable.Comfortable.I could sympathize with their creaking joints and less-than-stellar performance.And they had real engines.Or at least engines where the components were recognizable.But they did have their drawbacks.They really were old.And their parts were equally old.At times, like me, they could get . . . balky.Allow me to illustrate . . .We were driving a Buick.Station wagon.It had developed some internal problems.Gall bladder, I think. Or, in car talk, an stubborn solenoid.While we waited for the funds to actually fix said solenoid, we were reduced to a two-person starting method.One to crawl under the car and whack the balky part with a hammer and the other to actually turn the key.It worked. Sort of.On with my story . . .We were visiting with friends.It was a warm summer evening.The sky had been threatening rain all day.Toward the end of our visit, the threat became reality.The sky opened up and dumped everything it had on us.At the exact time we decided we should be heading home.Sigh.I took up my position in the driver's seat, key inserted and ready to turn.My Husby quickly slipped underneath the car, hammer in hand.*Tink*. *Tink*. “Okay! Try it!”I turned the key and the engine roared to live.My Husby crawled out – remember, it was pouring rain at this time – and started towards the driver's door.He paused.Someone was laughing.Loudly.We both looked toward our friends' front door. The two of them were silhouetted in the light from their front room. They had watched the whole procedure.We laughed with them.Then my Husby shrugged and jumped into the car and we drove off.We learned an important lesson from this.Always choose your friends with care.They should be fun.Generous.Kind.Supportive.Loyal.And be able to laugh you through your car troubles.

My Friends

“How much is it worth?” he asked,“This friendship that you hold?Can you count its price in dollars?In rubles, yen or gold?”
“Let’s face it! You’ve not even met!You’re strangers. Yes, it’s true,How can you say these friendships areWorth anything to you?”
I thought of years of good or bad,Of stories near and dear,Those times of sore discouragements,When close, are aches and tears.
Then others, where the laughter Dashes out across the miles,Alive with love, encouragement,And bringing naught but smiles.

We’ve shared it all, my friends and me,My girls I’ve ‘never met’.Though there’s miles and miles between us,
We’re as close as we can get! 
So no, they’re not of blood or bone,And we haven’t met o’er tea,But my ‘distant’ connections areMy most precious now, to me!
To Delores, Jenny, River, EC, Karen and all you others who have followed so faithfully over the years, a huge thank you. I love you all!We've been together eight years now. Here’s to many more, my friends . . .
          
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, it will be so sublimeWe'll talk of how we spend Free Time!

Fleeing the Pests

Uncle OwenRanching is beset with problems.Too little rain and the grass doesn’t grow and the cattle don’t have enough to eat.Too much? Well apart from the obvious, flooding, there are the mosquitos.Sometimes . . . well, I’ll let my Uncle Owen tell you about it . . .
The year of 1925 and ’26 was extremely wet. We had something over twenty inches of rain fall in just two or three months—highly unusual in our area. On our leased land, I remember of an evening, the cattle would scent a breeze which was coming and move against it just as fast they could, even though it may only be three or four miles an hour, trying to keep the mosquitoes down. And in the evenings when there was no wind moving, they would collect in herds of two or three hundred head and mill in circles all night long trying to create their own breeze to ward off the little, biting pests. Once a breeze did spring up, they headed into it and never stopped for fences or anything else. One year, we received a telephone call from Fort Macleod saying there were at least two or three hundred head of cattle around the buildings just south of the C.P.R. station. The gentleman that phoned said he was sure that they were ours. So I rode from Glenwood over there, about thirty miles, and sure enough, he was right. Well, the wind had swung into the west about that time, and the mosquitoes of course can’t stay on an animal when there’s a heavy wind, so I only had to turn them back toward the leased land and most of them headed right out themselves. My brother, Alonzo, came up from the lease and met me and we brought the cattle back again. We found that they had gone through at least ten fences in this trip and forded the Belly River which was quite a sizable river when it got south of Fort Macleod. There was nothing that could stop them once mosquitoes bothered them.
We get a lot of those little, biting pests in the summer around here. We either apply bug spray (Everyone else) or hide in the house. (Me)It never occurred to me to walk into the breeze.For thirty miles.Yeah, I think I’ll stick with my solution.
It’s Ancestor Sunday! The day I celebrate my Fascinating Forebears.Tell me about yours!

Visiting

Mom. Doing dishes with Aunt Grace in the motel bathroom.
Getting in her visit where she can...I come from a long line of church-attending people.Call it a tradition.When I was young we attended with amazing regularity.Did you know that Sunday comes every. Single. Week?Well, it does.Now a little background here . . .We lived 20 miles from the nearest town of Milk River, Alberta.The ranch we lived on was its own little village. With an ever-changing population.Sometimes, there were other women (foreman’s wife, female cook). Sometimes not. (Foreman: single. Cook: Mom)For my Mom, living there year after year, it could sometimes be a bit lonely when her husband was off ranching, serving on several committees, veterinarian-ing, searching out new bulls by attending sales in far-off places. Far, far off places.And she ached for someone to talk to.Then Sunday would come around.Presenting her with myriad visiting possibilities once the church services had ended.I remember her standing and talking almost desperately. There was a lot to say and only a short window of time in which to do it.Because her children would be antsy to head home to the delicious dinner they knew was waiting. She carried on doggedly through a progression of frowns and eye-rolls. Throat-clearings. And finally sleeve-pullings and increasingly louder expressions of, “Mo-om!”.I admit it, my next older brother and I were the worst.Moving forward half a century. Mom has been happily visiting with friends in Heaven for nearly two decades . . .
I had attended Sabbath meetings with my brother and his sweet wife. The services were over. I was standing in the foyer, waiting while my brother and his wife finished their respective conversations with friends.I knew that a delicious dinner was waiting for us at their home.I sighed and briefly considered moving right to sleeve-pulling and, “Ge-orge!” but I restrained myself.How far I’ve come. Brother and Sweet Wife