Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 132

Life's Elixir

Cool, clear water.The Stringam ranch had plenty of it.Soft.Pure.Clean.There was only one thing distinctive about it.And I do mean 'stinc'.Let me illustrate with a little aside . . .My Husby's Gramma used to give her kids a dose of 'spring tonic' every year.It consisted of sulphur mixed in lard.Eaten from a spoon.Ick.But she maintained that it kept them healthy . . .Well, on the Stringam ranch, we never had to be dosed with this old wives remedy.Because we got it merely by living there.Yes, our water was right full of sulphur.I am not making this up.Our water was plentiful and healthful.But reeked like rotten eggs.The smell of it permeated everything and everyone.And, oddly enough, we loved it.We drank it.Bathed in it.Cleaned with it.Offered it, chilled, to anyone who happened to drop by.And snickered silently when they would hold their noses to drink it.Poor, unenlightened visitors.Our animals happily drank it, too.In fact, when we took our cattle to show, we always had to take time to get them accustomed to the water in the new place.Most places added chlorine. Now THAT really stank (Stinked? Stunk?).And tasted worse.These days, I'm missing our good old sulphur water.That elixir that kept us healthy and strong.There is an addendum . . .The people who bought the old ranch from us hauled their drinking water.And finally drilled a new well.I can only shake my head.Strange, weird people.

A Stick in the Mud

Spring is here! Spring is here! Spring is here!
And with it, mud . . .
Oh.
Or something similar...
Spring had finally arrived at the ranch.
Let me describe it to you . . .
The snow has melted away. Even the drifts which filled the ditches have finally succumbed to the encroaching sun.
Everywhere on the prairie one can see the signs of spring. New green in the prairie grasses and in the occasional and solitary trees. An infrequent blossom. The smells, in the prairie wind, of things growing . Scurrying animals. Birdsong.
And knee-deep mud in the barnyard.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
It is a wonderful time. A time of anticipation. Of wonder.
For a four-year-old who had been cooped up in the house since time immemorial (ie. hours), it is a wondrous opportunity for freedom.
And I took it.
Anxious to put a new accomplishment (that Mom and I had been labouring over) into practice, I disdained my ugly, black gumboots and stuck my feet into my brand new running shoes and triumphantly tied the laces.
I was free!
I dashed out of the house and into the spring sunshine.
The day was filled with endless possibilities for exploring. There was the ice-house. The riverbank. The blacksmith shop. The feed sheds. Hayloft. Pig sty. Chicken coop.
Okay, maybe not the chicken coop.
All my usual haunts.
But today, my first day of freedom, I chose . . . where else would a horse nut go? . . . the horse barn.
Where I would find the . . . ummm . . . horses.
It started out all right. I walked down the hard-packed driveway to the grass of the foreman's house.
So far, so good.
From there, I crossed to the fence. Still fine. I climbed the fence and looked across the barnyard to the tempting building just over there . . .
I jumped down.
And that is where everything fell apart. I watched my feet disappear into the morass that the barnyard had become.
Right up to my knees.
For a stunned moment, I stared down. What had happened?
I tried to lift one foot. It didn't move.
I tried again. Same result.
Panic threatened. Was I going to be stuck here for the rest of my life? I was perilously close to tears.
Then I saw my dad. He of the strong arms and wisely gum booted feet.
He worked his way over to me. I can still remember the sucking sound of his boots as he pulled them from the mud. Ssss-thook. Ssss-thook.
My saviour.
He plucked me from the mud and set me back on the fence.
Then he frowned and looked at my feet. “Where are your boots?”
I, too, looked down. Muddy socks and pants, but no shoes. Huh. Maybe my lace-tying wasn't as good as I thought.
I looked at the mud.
Dad sighed and felt down into the mud that had so recently held me, and found, first one, then the other shoe. He stood up and held them out. “Are these your new shoes?”
I gave him my best 'deer-in-the-headlights' look.
“Where are your boots?” Boots that would have been vastly easier to clean, by the way.
I looked towards the house.
Dad sighed. “You take these and head to the house. I'm going to come later and give you a spanking.”
My eyes got big as I stared at him. A spanking?!
I should point out here that I had never had a spanking from my dad. But I could imagine it. Unspeakable pain and torment.
I grabbed my shoes, jumped down from the fence and lit out for the house at my best 'I'm-in-trouble' pace.
Throwing my shoes down in aptly-named mud room, I headed for my closet . . .
Dad never gave me my spanking. I guess he thought that I'd been punished enough when I spent the entire morning in my closet, hiding from the possibility.
Or maybe he simply forgot.
And I never again tried to wear anything but my gumboots into the barnyard.
I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.

A Little Bit of Magic

My own ballerina.
Notice the dress.
Ignore the ketchup.
It was pretty.It was playful.It was elegant.It was magic.And when I wore it, I was all of the above . . .I had reached the excellent and grown-up age of four. One day, Mom, who was shopping with Dad in the big city of Lethbridge, came home with a gift for me. A white, esthetically (and ecstatically) pleasing crinoline. Okay, I will admit it was intended to be worn with my new ‘Aunties-Wedding/Church’ dress.To make it fuller and ‘froufy’. (Real four-year-old word.)But let’s face it. Who wants to wear a dress in the first place?Am I right?So I wore it by itself. With my little, sleeveless undershirt and white panties, it made me look like a ballerina. So what else could I do?I ballerina-ed.I dipped and hopped and twirled.I soon discovered that said twirling made my new garment fly out in the most magical way.I danced all over the house and, when I could escape the watchful eye of my mother (who foolishly insisted I was dressed solely in underwear) out in the yard.It also looked quite smart over my jeans, snap shirt and little red boots. Lending my outfit an elegance it struggled to achieve on its own. And flying gracefully in the breeze caused by the fat, churning legs of my running pony, it made me feel as though I had somehow managed to sprout wings.Yep. Magic.Of course, Mom had a lot to say about me wearing my now-formerly-white crinoline out in the barnyard.And separated us decisively. Laundering my beautiful garment carefully and then hanging it in her closet ‘out of reach’.Which actions failed entirely in their objective.Oh, the cleaning worked.Just not the enforced separation.A chair and a couple of stacked boxes later, my crinoline and I were reunited and dancing once more around the dining room table.The reason I bring this whole topic up is because I was shopping with Husby over the weekend.And there, in the aisle of a store selling such prosaic items as: washers. Baling twine.Hammers.Was a little ballerina. In jeans, a snap shirt and little cowboy boots.As her mother hunted for chicken feed, the tiny girl was twirling.It made the crinoline she had pulled on over her ensemble stand out in the most magical way.I admit it. It made me cry happy tears.And isn’t that what a beautiful ballerina is supposed to do?

42

Kids . . .It's been forty-two years since my Husby and I said "I do."
It was eight o'clock in the morning when we exchanged our vows.
The first hot, sunny day of the year.
I forgot his ring.
And tossed the bouquet so high that it hit the ceiling and dropped directly behind me.
But it was there that the adventure started.
Maybe I should explain . . .
My Husby and his brother-in-law (hereinafter known as BIL) worked as civilian guards for the RCMP.
A job that entailed long nights spent watching the prisoners.
And visiting with the 'on shift' RCMP officers.
They became friends.
The guards and the officers.
Not the prisoners.
I thought I should point that out.
Ahem . . .
When my new Husby and I were set to leave on our honeymoon, we were very careful to leave a get-away vehicle safely hidden.
In the next town.
Let's face it, with this BIL, getting away was not only difficult. It was very nearly impossible.
He had been known to fill honeymooners vehicles with balloons or crumpled newspaper. Saran-wrap them shut. Apply Vaseline to each and every surface. Stick Oreo cookies to every window. Wrap them in toilet paper.
He had a fund of new and clever ideas.
But new Husby was crafty.
He and a trusted friend had gone days before and stashed the get-away vehicle in a garage of a friend of a friend of a  friend.
No one was finding it.
Oddly enough, his BIL asked only one thing. "In what direction are you headed?"
Husby told him. "North."
He merely smiled and nodded.
Okay, yes. It seemed too easy.
Sigh.
Our friend sneaked us out of the reception and into his car.
Then he took us to our truck.
It was undamaged.
Whew.
We piled in and started out.
Just as we were about to turn onto the main highway to Calgary, Husby stopped.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"It's too easy," he replied.
I stared at him.
"Too easy," he repeated. He put the truck into gear and turned it around.
"Umm . . . so . . . what are we going to do?" I asked. I mean, going back to my parents' was sort of out of the question . . .
"We're still going to Calgary," Husby said. "But we're going by a different route!"
And we did. We followed every secondary, gravel and/or dirt road all the way from Fort Macleod to the great metropolis.
It took a bit longer.
But we arrived safely.
We checked into our hotel.
Stayed there for a couple of days.
Then headed out on our real honeymoon.
We were gone two weeks.
Two wonderful, enjoyable, surprising, educational weeks.
When we arrived back home, we were met by the BIL, who welcomed us home warmly.
And with a wide grin.
Husby could stand it no longer. "What did you do?" he demanded.
The grin widened. "I had the boys put an APB out on your vehicle," he said.
"You . . . what?"
"Yeah. They put an APB out on your vehicle. I'm amazed they didn't pick you up!"
An APB is an 'All Points Bulletin' which alerts every police station - and I do mean EVERY - that such-and-such a vehicle is wanted. If spotted, approach, detain and apprehend.
Yikes.
I mean, the police in other areas didn't know why our vehicle had been flagged. They only knew it had been.
The results may have been disastrous.
I still shiver.
And glare at the BIL.
Forty-two years later.I love you, Honey.

Garden Treasure

A tray of nasturtiums, a little pink hoe,The widest of smiles, almost ready to go!She grabbed tiny gloves, in red boots, she was clad,And three-year-old May went to garden with Dad.
Both daughter and Pop. In the dirt. On their knees.Teased by a squirrel and mischievous breeze,They spent most an hour in the bright springtime sun,Mom could tell by their glee, they were having such fun!
Soon the squeak of the latch and a “Mom!” at the door,And the sound as her gloves and small boots hit the floor,Then the tiptoe of sweet, round and little pink feet,‘Twas her small daughter trying to be so discrete.
She slipped up to Mom, and then peered all around,“Mama!” she whispered, with hardly a sound,“I was out helping Dad and watched all that he did!“Dad buried the flowers. But I know where they‘re hid!”
Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we three besought,To try to make the week begin,With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?So Jenny and Delores, we,Now post our poems for you to see.And when you’ve read what we have brought,Did we help? Or did we not . . .
Come back next week, we'll strain our brain,And we three will discuss the rain!

Full Contact Art

Chalk dust can provide an astonishing medium for creating art.True story.Maybe I should explain . . .The years of formal education were finally behind Shayne.His dream of teaching art to children was being realized.And his group of avid eight-year-olds were loving today’s assignment.The “Go-to-the-front-of-the-room-and-strike-a-pose-so-the-rest-of-the-class-can-sketch-you” assignment.One by one, the students were moving to the front of the class, striking a—to them—classic pose.And being sketched.One shy young man was holding back. But it was obvious to his attentive teacher that he desperately wanted to participate. Shayne called the boy up. He came. Slowly. Then, said quietly to his teacher, “I don’t know what to do!”Shayne smiled. “How about I do a pose and you react to it!”“Okay.”I should probably mention, here, that Shayne is not a martial arts expert.And his student already had several years of training under his belt. So to speak.Which will be evident shortly . . .Shayne struck an ‘as seen on TV’ karate move.To which the boy reacted.Spinning around, the boy laid out a level back kick.Which caught his teacher directly in the groin.Knocking him both to the floor and out of the exercise in one move.The class went silent.Perhaps they were wondering which figure they should sketch.The young boy who had just executed (I use that word deliberately) a perfect back kick.Or the teacher crumpled into a heap on the floor and moaning in pain.Ahem . . .Shayne climbed back to his feet and gingerly continued the class.Remember when I mentioned the chalk dust?Well, that comes into the story here.Only later did Shayne discover that the student’s perfect back kick had been faultlessly etched for all time—or at least till laundry day—in the front of Shayne’s trousers. Right at the point of contact.Full contact art.Probably notcoming to a classroom near you.

Selective Correcting

Spelling is her strong suit.As my editor, it’s kind of a necessity.But I caught her!Maybe I should explain . . .My daughter (and said editor) was to be part of a program to collect data for a health study.This involved bloodwork.And the drawing of said blood.All was well. One by one the victims participants took their places on one of the gurneys.And, also one by one, donated their small bit to research.It was Daughter/Editor’s turn.The nurse told her the process was a little painful (Medical speak for ‘it’s going to hurt like the dickens’.) The nurse’s suggestion was that D/E take her mind off it by spelling ‘Christmas’ backwards.Backwards? D/E frowned and shrugged. “Okay.” She started in. “Ummm . . . S, A, M . . . Ow!”A-Ha! This is the woman who corrects my spelling.And even I know that, in no place in the word ‘Christmas’ do the letters ‘O’ or ‘W’ exist.Finally. I get to correct her spelling!The day is mine.

Love Express-ed

“Well, I think you’re crazy, Man.”I gave my co-worker a rather weak smile. “I think so, too.” I slid into my van, silently cursing cupid, love and every other word or emotion associated with the day, then put the van into gear and pulled out.Considering it was such a busy day for those of us on the delivery end of things with our packages and flowers and—yes, even our hate mail—I had managed to hit a lull in the traffic and my trip to her building was quick and relatively painless.Did I mention quick? In too short a time, I was parked and staring up at the four floors between she and me.Four floors.Could I make it?Did I really want to?I gripped the package in one hand and continued to stare. Then I took a deep breath.Better get it behind me.I climbed out of my van and entered the building.There were a couple of well-dressed women waiting for the single elevator and I joined them just as the door slid open.“Ha! Do you really think that?” the one said to the other, pressing the button for ‘2’.I waited for her to back away, then pressed the ‘4’ and stared up at the lights above the door. Man, this elevator was slow.“I truly do. That woman is a whack-job.”“Well, at least she doesn’t report to you.”I tried not to listen, but you know how it is when you are enclosed with strangers.In a painfully slow elevator.“Poor Rebecca. I think she is at her wits end.”The other woman shrugged. “Well, Rebecca didn’t have that many wits to start with.”Both women laughed as the door slid open. They disappeared and the doors closed again.There was a grinding sound as the elevator lurched into action once more.The light flashed behind the ‘3’ and I sighed. One more floor.Just as the ‘4’ lit up, the elevator jerked to a sudden halt. I put a hand on the wall to brace myself, then stared at the doors, willing them to open.They didn’t.Suddenly, something poked between and wrenched them apart slightly. “Is anyone in there?” a disembodied female voice called out.“Erm—yes,” I said.“I’ll have you out in a jiffy!” The voice went on, muttering. “Stupid elevator. How could we be cursed with such a thing?” There was a pause. Then, “I ban you to the depths of hell!”“What?” I gasped.“Not you! This miserable *grunt* stupid *grunt* box! Of course it would die on THIS day. This day of heart break and misery!”Whatever had been slid between the doors continued to wrench at them. Then something clanged and fingers appeared. Stubby, capable fingers.Familiar fingers.The doors finally opened enough that I was able to catch a glimpse of a wide, reddened face topped by thinning grey hair scraped into a bun at the back of her head.White teeth were clutching the woman’s lower lip as thick arms strained to pry the doors apart. “Just. One. More.”The doors were finally wide enough that I was able to duck and slip through. Or so I thought. When I was part way, her grip slipped and the doors slid shut.“I’ll save you!” the woman shrieked. Releasing her hold, she grabbed my hand, braced her feet on the doors, and pulled.I popped out--leaving at least one button and I think a bit of skin behind--and landed on my knees. She had fallen heavily onto her fairly broad backside. We stared at each other for a moment.Then I held up the package still clutched in my left hand. “Erm—I have a d-delivery.”She frowned and reached for it. “For me?”I nodded.“Where’s your clipboard?”“Erm—I forgot it.”She raised thinning eyebrows. “Forgot?”I felt warm colour rush into my face. “It really wasn’t necess—”She was already tearing the envelope open. A velvet ring box slid out into her hand. She opened it and looked at me, rubbery lips a round ‘o’ of surprise. “Bruce?”“Erm—Clara will you—?”“I do.”

Plane Dating

I could hear her voice as I came down the hall.It was raised.Have I mentioned I don’t like raised?I don’t.“What?! What?! What are you talking about?! How is this my fault?!” The rather grating voice was up at least an octave.Oh, man. Someone was getting it in the ear. Instinctively, my steps slowed.“I’m going to come right through this phone and choke you till you’re dead!”Better listen, pal. If it could be done, she’d be the person who could do it. Every alarm should be going off in your head. I shivered. I could just picture that burly arm emerging from the receiver.“Why you little pipsqueak! I’ve got half a mind to ta- . . .” the voice broke in the middle.Uh-oh. He cut her off. Buddy, never cut her off.“Why you . . .!”Silence. Buddy was talking again. We were obviously dealing with a rebel here. A rather brave rebel.“But . . .!”More silence.“I’m telling you, it’s smashed! Smashed!”It didn’t seem possible for that voice to rise higher, but it did.“And we’ve waited weeks for that airplane model! Weeks! It’s the key display for our annual Royal Spring show! Made by prisoners while they were in a POW camp in Japan. Have you got no respect, man?!”Oh, man. She’s playing the respect card . . . I’d reached the end of the hall. The wide reception area was before me. I could see Clara’s desk. She was turned slightly away, but I could see how red her wide face was. I rubbed a hand over my head and seriously considered a full retreat.
She turned slightly. I froze. What is it they say about carnivores’ visual acuity?A model airplane was sitting in front of her on her desk. I frowned. It looked all right to me. Could this be the subject of her discussion?She suddenly vaulted to her feet. “You listen to me, you . . . you . . .” Words seem to fail her. Her face was now more of a purplish colour.I stared. I’d never seen this happen before.“Well, it’s up to you to send someone to fix it!” A pause. “I don’t care if he just finished his rounds for the day. I need him to come back!” Another pause. “Listen, mister! I’ve got half a mind to bring this by your office and stick it in your one good eye!”Uh-oh. She was threatening real violence now. Maybe I should . . . I stepped into the room.Clara spun around and looked at me. Then jammed the phone down on its cradle. “Well, it’s about time! I’ve been screaming at your boss for 10 minutes!”“Uh. Yeah. He sent me here as soon as he heard your voice. Was there something you need me to fix?”She made a face.  “Are you kidding?” She moved around her desk. “Maybe we should stop meeting like this.”

Doing the Dance

More Bruce and Clara.Wherein nothing is explained . . . David Handschuh
Or something similar . . .
Her hair was down.It was never down. Usually, she kept it scraped tightly back into a rusty, greying bun on the back of her head.I admit it. I stared.“It’s you!” She cooed.Did you know people can coo? Well, they can.“Umm . . . yes. It’s me. The same person as yester . . .”“Don’t speak!” Her large, surprisingly statuesque body slipped around the end of her desk. She slid red-tipped nails across its gleaming surface and her fairly prosaic print dress actually swirled provocatively as she floated toward me. “Just . . . be.”I felt my eyebrows go up. “O-okay.” I glanced around. “Umm . . . be what?”She laughed. A soft, throaty little burst of sound. “Yourself, darling. Just be yourself.”“Oh. That. I think I can . . .”“Don’t talk.”“But how can I be myself if I can’t . . .”She placed gentle fingers against my mouth.“. . . talk?” The word came out justifiably muffled.“Feel the music, darling.” She was starting to sway.I frowned. “Music?”“Hush.”“Hushing.”Her arms came out, one wrapping itself about my shoulders, the other reaching for my wrist. For several seconds, we swayed to some music that only she could hear. I could feel the heat of her plump arm where it touched my back. Her hand felt slightly moist on the skin just above my hand.“Oh, this is it, darling!” she whispered.“What?”Just then, showing more moves than a mime and catching me completely unawares, she sent me into a dramatic dip.I admit it. I screamed.Chuckling, she set me on the floor and stepped across me, heading back toward her desk. “Bring me something exciting today, Bruce?”“Umm . . .” I thought about that one. “Well . . .”She picked up the package I had dropped when she grabbed me. “Oooh! I’ve been waiting for this one for a long time!”I laid my head back against the cool granite tiles and thought seriously about asking for a transfer. Then I lifted the hand still carrying my clipboard. “Don’t forget to sign . . .”