Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 124

When Cool Isn't . . .

Yep. That's me. Heart-breaker extraordinary.1965.I had just realized that boys didn't have cooties.I also discovered that I was capable of being a two-faced non-friend.The two went together.Perhaps I should explain . . .Grade five.The year when math problems became more . . . problematic.Times tables proved important.Story writing, more intense and personal.Mrs. Herbst officially turned into Oh-Teacher-of-the-Blue-Hair.And boys became . . . interesting.The latter started with a note, passed to me during free reading.“Will you go to the movie with me on Saturday?”It was signed, 'Paul'.What???!A boy?!Wanted to go to a movie with me?!What should I say?What should I do?What should I wear?!Shakily I wrote, “okay” on the note and passed it back.He unfolded it, read it and smiled at me.And that was it.My feet didn't touch the ground for the rest of the day.For the rest of the week, actually.Saturday was a long time coming.I should mention, here, that Paul was one of the cool boys.The popular, cool boys.And way out of my league.But his group adopted me as one of their own.For the first time in my life, I was hanging with the cool crowd.Back to my story . . .I don't remember much about the movie, other than it was an Audie Murphy and involved something called 'cactus torture' which made me, quite literally, sick to my stomach.And that Paul held my hand through the whole thing.Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!After that, we met every day on the playground and on Saturday afternoons at the movies.For about a month.Suddenly, Paul had his eye on someone else.And I was no longer one of the cool crowd.Bitter and angry, I rejoined my old group.Who took me back in without so much as a frown.For half a morning, I complained bitingly.Making acid comments about 'the cool kids' and how fickle they were. And mean. And nasty. And . . .You can see where this is going.“Well, you're with your old friends now and that's all that matters,” one of my group said.“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn't go back with them if they begged me!”Just then, three of the cool girls came over to us. “Diane. Lloyd likes you. Do you want to come back to our group?”I sprinted to join them.Didn't even look back.Now I met Lloyd every day on the playground and held hands with him at the Saturday afternoon movies.I know what you are thinking.Fickle non-friend.And you're not wrong.Ahem . . .This went on for some time.Throughout the rest of Grade five in fact.Then my popularity waned.And died.And do you know what?My old group again took me back.Without even a sideways glance.This time, I stayed.We went through grade six together.Then Junior High.Then Senior high.And we had fun.I discovered that it all comes back to math.♀ + ♀♀♀ = ☼♥♫.♀+ ♂ = brain-dead non-friend.I learned my lesson.
P.S. At our class reunions, I've discovered that we are no longer divided into the 'cool' kids and the 'dweebs'. The 'cool' kids have had just as many challenges in life as me and my group. The same heartaches. The same joys and reasons to celebrate.Life is the true leveler.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Home again!
I've missed you. I thought I'd share just a peek of what we've been up to for the past two-plus weeks.
It's been glorious!

Husby and I packed up the car and our two eldest granddaughters (Hereinafter known as GD1 and GD2) and headed for the west coast.
Our goal? Visiting our middle son in his home in Courtenay, BC.
First a stop-off in Lake Louise for a visit with youngest son and his family . . .

Then a night in Hope, BC, followed by two (count 'em, two!) ferry rides from Horseshoe Bay to Langdale (followed by booting it across the peninsula to Earls Cove) then a second ride to Saltery Bay and another stunning;y beautiful drive to Powell River. P.S. GD's 1 and 2 LOVED the ferries!

The Granada Restaurant, Powell River.
Where GD's 1 and 2 discovered a love for Greek Food! The Rodmay Hotel in Powell River. The first building built in the town.
History with a capital 'H'! (And the diner is uber amazing!) See?

Off to Comox and thus to our destination, Courtenay, BC.


Nymph Falls. Jo Klassens, Seal Beach, Miracle Beach, Coombs Candy Store, Port Alberni. We did them all.
Up on the mountain with Uncle Duff.
Ditto.
And back down the mountain with same.
Nymphs in the woods at Cathedral Grove.
They really liked . . . perching.
And so did their uncle!
Trying to find shade in Port Alberni.
And Old Sea Salt (grampa) tells tales. Then we said goodbye to Uncle Duffy and headed back to the mainland.

With stops in Kelowna.And Sky Trek.And The Enchanted Forest (which enchanted me when I was a kid!) Yes that me on the left.
Making a fashion statement.


 Back to Lake Louise and another short stay with family!
Up the Lake Louise Gondola.
Hiking.
Relaxing by the churning stream.

My two cute little bears.
Local Police.
And from there, home.
Whew!
Glad to be back. But missing our travel companions already!

My Toys. And Me

When I was young, on parents’ knee,
My toys didn’t mean a lot to me,They'd cause distraction, nothing more,In fact, most ended on the floor,But as I grew, my love did, too,My toys, they numbered not a few . . .I’d stuffies, more than I could count,And all things ‘horse’ were paramount,I’d play-doh, made to squish and roll,And chains of candy, dolls of ‘troll’,Some games and books and sets of things,And Lego and the joys that brings,Some wooden toys my papa made,And things from Mama, there displayed,A doll or two, the ‘Barbie’ kind,And toys to power up, or wind,Some instruments for music. Good,More Lego, just because I could.And puzzles, not a few, a ton!And models gathered one by one.As I grew up, my toys did, too,Though I was keeping just a few,My Lego came along with me,And books and puzzles, sets for tea,And years have passed, my playing days,Have passed me in a blurry haze.My joy comes, not from playing now,It’s hard to kneel down anyhow,But playing days, I do not grief,Cause I watch grandkids make believe. 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, by memories above,
We'll talk of houses that we've loved...

Chicken

Still on holiday! And exploring my memories... Me. (Missing from the photo: the Chicken)Harvest.
A mellow time.
A time to catch one’s breath and simply appreciate the bounty and euphoria of the season.
When the tireless efforts of every farmer in Alberta culminates finally in the production of golden streams of wheat, barley, canola and corn. Truckloads of peas, potatoes and sugar beets.
When sheds and storage buildings are full of the warm, sweet smell of new-mown hay and grasses, carefully dried.
On the Stringam Ranch, we, too had our harvest.
There was the bounty of endless (and I do mean endless, but that is another story) rows of garden produce to be brought in. Carrots, peas, beans, corn, turnips, potatoes, parsnips, beets, cucumbers. And many other things that a four-year-old simply couldn't name, though they did taste good.
Oh, and chickens.
Chickens?
The slaughtering of the chickens on the Ranch was a huge production. I can picture even now the great tubs of scalding hot water to loosen the feathers. The teams of choppers, pickers, and . . . innards removers. Everyone with a sharp knife or axe. Or with rubber-gloved hands working in the scalding water.
It was every parent’s dream for their small child.
Not.
But there I was. Bouncing from group to group. Being forcibly removed from the more dangerous situations.
Slowly getting covered in feathers.
Most probably looking like a large chicken myself.
When some of the more stringent voices hollering at me to keep away had finally effected obedience, and my initial fascination with viewing the death throes of the chickens had worn off, I was at a loose end.
Not a good thing for a four-year-old.
Mischief happens.
Not my fault.
The bodies of the chickens were systematically hauled away, so a closer study of them had proven impossible, but the heads . . .! Those were still there, lying forgotten near the chopping stump. They were piling up, obviously needing to be disposed of.
Please remember – I was a child of the Country.
Capital ‘C’.
One by one, I began picking them up and throwing them, unceremoniously, into the river, only a few feet away.
Hmmm. This was fun!
They would bob for a few seconds, then sink into the milky depths, perhaps to be eaten by some unseen fish, or maybe one of the monsters that our dog, Mike, was sure lived there.
I found a paint can lid. Great! Now I could throw the heads out four at a time. Much more efficient.
For some time, this obviously essential errand kept me occupied – to the vast relief of those who mistakenly thought they had more important jobs. I would collect the heads on my little ‘plate’, walk over to the river and . . . give them the Alberta version of a sea burial.
It was genius.
To a four-year-old.
Then the fateful, life altering event. I picked up a head, deposited it on my plate . . .
AND. THE. BEAK. OPENED!
No word of a lie. It opened! It was possessed! It was going to get me!
Straight into the air, the plate went.
By the time it and its contents had hit the ground, I was already halfway to the house screaming, and I quote, “THE CHICKEN HEAD! THE CHICKEN HEAD!”
Not very inventive, true, but effective.
It stopped the entire production line for several seconds. Mostly, I admit, so the people could laugh, but why haggle over details?
Mom consoled me, between chuckles, and all was smoothed over.
Except for one thing. From then on, I was afraid of chickens. I learned to wrestle 2000 pound bulls without turning a hair, but tell me to collect eggs from under a 3 pound pile of feathers and I was a quivering mass of . . . something soggy and cowardly.
My family still laughs.
There is an addendum to all of this. When my husband and I were on our honeymoon, we decided to make a day trip to the Calgary Zoo.
Fun!
There was a display of emus. And a machine that dispensed grain to feed them.
Put in a quarter, get a handful of feed. All went well to that point. I approached the emu with my little handful of grain.
It moved closer.
I moved closer.
It looked over the fence.
I looked at it.
Its beak opened.
And my new husband was suddenly staring at the handful of grain that magically appeared in his hand.
I was halfway to the car screaming . . .
You get the picture.

Claustrophobedience

Mom and I were visiting at my Auntie's house.An innocent enough activity.And from it, I got claustrophobia.Maybe I should explain . . .Mom and Auntie were in the kitchen chatting over cups of tea and home baked goodies.My cousin and I had already done the rounds of the dessert tray.Several times.And had retired upstairs to more important matters.Play.One of the bedrooms upstairs had no furniture in it.Or at least, I can't remember any.But it did hold a large carpet.Rolled into a neat bundle.It looked like a hot dog.Let's face it. In my world, everything resembled food.Moving on . . .Suddenly, I got a marvellous idea.“Let's play 'Hot Dog'!” I told my cousin.“Okay,” she said enthusiastically, as though she knew exactly what I was talking about.Which she didn't.I unrolled the carpet and lay down at the edge.“Okay. Now roll me up,” I commanded.She did.Cool!Fun!Neat!Wait . . . I can't breathe!!!I began to scream.Okay, I could probably still breathe.The ability to scream would indicate this.My cousin, understandably concerned, stared at me.Or at the rug that contained me.I struggled mightily (I should probably point out that it didn't occur to me to simply - unroll) and finally, managed to extricate myself.I headed for the nearest safe place.My Mom.I burst into the kitchen, every white-blonde hair standing on end and eyes like saucers.“Mom! I nearly died!!!”Okay, so melodrama and me were close, personal friends.Mom set down her teacup and looked at me. “What?”“I nearly died! I couldn't breathe!”Mom frowned. “What are you talking about?”“We were playing 'Hot Dog',” I told her.She stared at me. “Hot Dog?”“Yeah with the carpet. And I was the hot dog. And I rolled up . . .”Suddenly, Mom understood. “Oh.” She gave me a stern look. “Diane, don't do that again!”I admit that I often disobeyed my Mom.Often quite deliberately.But this time, I listened.I like to think it was because I discovered the joy of obedience.But, actually, I think it's because I discovered claustrophobia.Obedience would have been more fun.
Husby and I are touring Beautiful British Columbia with our two eldest granddaughters.We're having a marvelous time.But WiFi is spotty.Visiting you when I can.Pictures to follow!

Music to Remember

Early mornings on a ranch all started like an avalanche,A tottering pile of chores to do and food to cook and life renew.All those days began with Dad, all freshly cleaned, in robe of plaid,Standing in your bedroom door, to tell you sleeping time was o’er…The sun was rising, up you’d get, the time had come to toil and sweat,But Sundays always started slow, no need to really jump. And go,One could lay in bed and dream,               you were in Heaven, it would seem,Soft music flowed around you there,               starting low, just like a prayer,Then rising, swirling, every note,               by horns and strings would love emote,One knew that Dad had placed a stack               of music on the player’s rack,Cause that’s how Sundays started out,               With soft notes swirling all about.O’er forty years have slipped on by,               all in the blinking of an eye,But still my childhood lingers on,               though many who were there are gone,Cause when I hear those flowing strains,                              ‘tis Sunday morning, once again.



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, in our neighbourhood,
We'll talk of toys and childhood!

Going to Gramma's

Many of you will have heard this before.
But for those who haven't . . . Gramma and Grampa StringamIn 1912, ‘going to visit the family’ took on a whole new meaning.Let me tell you about it . . .My Gramma and Grampa Stringam, with their (then) three children, moved to southern Alberta in 1910, leaving their extended family behind them in Utah.They settled in Glenwood and started to farm.Outwardly, all was well.Inwardly, one of them missed her mother.Finally, after two years of pining and tears, the decision was made for an extended visit.Gramma and her (by then) four children packed up and, kissing Grampa goodbye, boarded the train for Salt Lake.The trip there was fairly uneventful, the highlight - seeing the sprinkler system in the Salt Lake depot.But what came afterward . . . wasn’t.Uneventful, that is.Gramma and the kids climbed aboard another train for Salina and then the mail stagecoach from there over the mountain to Thurber and Teasdale.A short hop by today’s automobile.But a considerable prospect for the white-top mail buggy of the early 1900’s.In the rain.On one particularly steep pass, soaked through and tired, the team of horses gave out. Despite considerable encouragement, they refused to move one more step up the mountain, choosing, in typical balky-horse fashion, to back up instead.They succeeded in backing the coach until they, quite literally, ran out of mountain. When the driver finally got them stopped, the vehicle was dangling right out over the edge of the canyon with the wagon tree tipped up and the horses' hind feet barely on the ground.Gramma and the kids were frantically extricated, followed by their baggage and the mail bags. They gratefully took shelter under a large spruce, where they turned, as they had been taught, to prayer.While they were thus engaged, the driver tried--unsuccessfully--to remedy the situation. The wagon remained hanging over the edge of the cliff.Can anyone say,"precarious?"Meanwhile the little family under the tree had finished praying. And it was as that exact moment that a second white-topped buggy came up over the hill.A buggy that was empty, save for the driver, a local real estate agent. Who, to the little family huddled under the tree, suddenly took on the aspect of a saviour.The man stopped and surveyed the situation, then climbed down and, using a knife, cut the traces holding the horses to the buggy (allowing the wagon to drop into the canyon several hundreds of feet below) and led the animals to safety.The mail man thanked him, threw his mail bags over one horse and mounted the other, and rode on over the mountain, abandoning his little group of paying passengers without a backward look.On the side of a mountain. In the rain.Don’t you hate days like that?Fortunately, the real estate man was very kind and loaded Gramma and her kids into his buggy and delivered them safely to the nearest village.The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful.Let’s face it. After this experience, most events would pale by comparison.Gramma and her brood got their visit.And, for generations to come, a story to tell.
Sundays are for my ancestors.Their stories are fascinating. Sometimes fun. Sometimes downright scary.Join me!

Planning Rocks

Yorkshire Pudding.
A solid piece of our history.My Husby is a Planner.Really.It is a legitimate occupation.He plans . . . stuff. Has built his career doing it.Mostly, he plans things like: Museums. Displays. Art galleries. Special facilities for storing special collections.It has been a varied and unusual career.And he is very good at what he does.Except when he tells his wife that whatever she is doing would work better if she used a different system.That never turns out well.Moving on . . .Several years ago, he was leading a team of designers in Fort McMurray.They were re-designing the displays at the Oil Sands Interpretive Centre.A fun and exacting job.It required spending many months in the rapidly expanding oil city of Fort McMurray, Alberta.At the end of one particularly long day, the team was seated at what had become their favourite restaurant.Doing what had become their favourite pastime.Eating.One of the team members had order a roast beef supper.With all of the trimmings.One ‘trimming’ was a large Yorkshire Pudding.With gravy.Now I’ve had Yorkshire pudding.In all its glory.I love it.But this particular pudding had been baked too long.Or left uncovered.Or simply neglected.It was, to use a rather over-worked phrase, ‘Hard as a proverbial rock’.Its owner poked at it morosely.“This thing is inedible,” he said, sadly. “It looks like one of the rocks in the display case back at the Centre.”Husby suddenly looked at him, his face breaking into a broad smile. All eyes were on him as he explained his idea for yet another display. Then everyone got up and, pocketing the pudding, headed back to the Centre.A short time later, they had the cover off the resident large display of rocks (and other things solid and impenetrable).They rearranged, creating a perfect little space for this, the newest addition.One of the designers studied the other placards in the case, figured out the font used, and quickly created an official-looking label.When they left the building later that night, the display of rocks was richer by one ‘Jurassic Pudding Stone’.Nothing more was said.In due course, they completed their assignment and separated, each going back to their normal lives.Several weeks later, my Husby received a phone call from the director of the newly-refurbished Interpretive Centre.“Ummm . . . Grant? Did your team touch our rock display case?”“Why do you ask?”“Well, there seems to be an addition of which I’ve only very recently become aware.”“Oh?”“Yes. Something called a Jurassic Pudding Stone. Now I looked through every one of my books and couldn’t find it anywhere. Finally, I removed the cover and examined the ‘stone’.“Yes?”“Well, it looks to me like a very old, very tired Yorkshire Pudding.”“Well, that is odd.”There was silence at the other end. “So you don’t know anything about this?”“I don’t understand why you are asking me.”“Well, it seemed . . .  odd. And I thought that you and your team . . .”“It does sound very interesting and I’d love to see it when I’m up there again.”Notice the clever prevarication? (Ooo. Good word!)Back to my story . . .“Oh. Well, I just thought of you guys and . . . well . . . okay.”Need something planned?A building? A display?A prank?I know someone you can call.

Cat-Astrophe

Another day, another kerfuffle.
You have to know that Sally and I really don’t plan any of these things. They just happen.Really.Okay, Mom doesn’t believe us either.On with my story . . .Sally has been more than her usual irritating in the past few weeks. I mean, when that girl puts her mind to something, she can really get going.Usually, I’m on the same page. Well . . . at least in the same book. Somewhere.But this time, she was on her own.You see, Sally wanted a cat. And not just any cat—the big orange one that lived just down the road in Mrs. Ames house.With Mrs. Ames.And yes, there are just so many things wrong with this . . .Anyways, Sally reasoned that as Mrs. Ames had myriad cats, she really wouldn’t miss the single, big orange one. That sat every morning in lonely glory on Mrs. Ames front porch, waiting to pounce on the paper boy.Now the words: ‘single orange’, ‘lonely glory’ and ‘pounce’ are rife with significance. I mean, don’t they just scream to you that, not only would this cat be missed, but also, it probably wasn’t the sweetest-tempered animal?Well, not to Sally.Mom was still at work when Sally and I finished our shift at McDonald’s yesterday. She mistakenly thought we would be all right by ourselves until she got home.I don’t mean to sound fatalistic, but what’s with that woman? Doesn’t she know shenanigans only happen when she’s out of the house?As Sally and I cut across the Prince’s lawn on the corner and turned into our street, she happened to glance across at Mrs. Ames’. And there, again in lonely glory (see above), sat Mr. Big Orange.Sally saw her chance.Without a word, she darted across the street and scurried up Mrs. Ames sidewalk and onto her porch in her best sub-rosa fashion. Then she scooped up the enormous cat and retraced her steps.I merely stared. What else can you do when your sister loses her mind?She raced ahead of me, the deceptively-calm cat clutched in her arms and, banging the gate open with a foot, skipped into the back yard.I followed slowly. No way I wanted to be mixed up in this, but I do, you know, live in the same house.By the time I reached the back door, Sally was inside and cuddling her new friend on the living room sofa.As I stepped inside, the cat turned and looked at me with slitted, half-open eyes.I stopped.“See!” Sally said excitedly. “It was so easy and he’s so . . .” She didn’t get any further.Without so much as a twitch of warning, the animal in her arms suddenly turned into a spitting, clawing whirlwind. It clawed its way up her arms, perched momentarily on the top of her head, then launched itself to the floor lamp beside her.And it was just getting started.From the lamp, it flew across to the kitchen table, leaving long claw marks as it slid the length of the shining surface, taking both the puzzle we had spent the past month fitting together and Mom’s new vase of flowers with it.The resulting crash seemed to wake Sally from the daze she had fallen into and she leaped forward, intent on corralling the out-of-control feline.She missed.At the same moment, thinking only of self-preservation, I fled to the front door. Then I stood there, frozen, one hand on the knob, and stared as the disaster continued.Sally’s reaching hands seemed to provide impetus to the animal and it continued on to new heights, leaping from the table to the pot rack above the nearby cupboard.Turns out those racks can hold a lot of cookware.But no cats.The entire frame ripped out of the ceiling and fell with a decisive clatter.But even as it fell, the orange harridan had already launched itself toward the light fixture over the table.Remember what I said about the pot rack and cats.Well, ditto for lights.The metal fixture, hit the table below with a hollow clang, leaving a deep indent in the formerly pristine and now clawed and dented surface.At that moment, someone rang the doorbell.The cat shot up the curtains, shredding them as it went and finally landed on the back of the sofa. There it paused, likely gathering itself for future atrocities, just as I swung the front door open.Perhaps it recognized the rather piqued face of Mrs. Ames in the opening.I favour the opinion that it merely glimpsed the outdoors and freedom.Whatever the reason, it launched itself at the irritated women with every orange hair on end and all claws out.She caught it before it could clear the doorway.Then, with the spitting, growling creature in her arms, she gave us a level look, turned and headed out across the lawn.For a moment, my sister and I watched as the woman continued up the street and out of sight, a fully-puffed orange tail sticking out from beneath her arm.Then Sally looked at me. “See? I told you having a cat would be fun!”
Each month, Karen's circle of cronies like-minded writers, engages in an exchange of words. It's fun, educational and challenging.And did I mention fun?My words this month: sub-rosa ~ fatalistic ~ myriad ~ rife ~ kerfufflewere given to me by https://wannabelinguistics.tumblr.comNow hop over and see what the others have done with the challenge!


Baking In A Tornado
The Bergham Chronicles
Southern Belle Charm
The Blogging 911
Cognitive Script
Part-Time Working Hockey Mom
My Brand of Crazy
Climaxed Wannabe Linguistics

A 'Little' Religious Education

Dinnertime is family time.And sometimes, you learn a lot.Let me tell you about it . . .We had been steadily working our way through husby’s homemade beef stew.With yummy thick slices of bread.The conversation – revolved.Three-year-old Granddaughter #6 (hereinafter known as G6) had finished and was waiting, somewhat patiently, for the rest to follow.So she could be excused.Suddenly, she remembered something exciting.She had just received a new set of scriptures.And in them, right there in the front, was a picture of Jesus.This was news that simply couldn’t wait.She had to show us.She scrambled down from her chair and ran to fetch her book.Opening it to the correct page, she proudly displayed the picture for everyone.The conversation went something like this . . .G6: “Look! It’s Jesus! Jesus. Everyone! Jesus!”Daddy: “What’s Jesus’ last name?”G6: Blank look.Grandma: “What’s Jesus’ last name, Sweetie?”G6: Blinking and blank look.Grandma (speaking slowly in her best this-is-a-hint voice): “Jesus C-h-r-i-s-t . . .”G6 (light dawns): “Oh!” Big smile. “Amen!”So just in case you’re wondering about that elusive last name . . .Now you know. The picture.