Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 135

Carved in Stone

When e’re we fly, my man and me,To countries near or o’er the sea,We find the old cem-e-ter-ies,And take a stroll through history.
For neatly 'scribed in work so fineOr faded now in blurry linesWe read of lives, meek or sublime,Upon the headstones, lost in time.
The saddest are the children gone,Those lives stopped short from living on,Who made no choices, right or wrong,Called from embraces firm and strong.
With careful steps we move along,And find some words inscribed with song,A life well-lived and days so long,With courage and with faith so strong.
This one, it seems, had loved to fish,That one’s flirtatious, quite the dish,A third thought horses so delish,The best friends anyone could wish.
Here’s a discerning, bookish man,The next one’s hard to understand,I see the words ‘The Best’ and ‘Land’,Oh, there’s the Grandpa of the clan.
A hunter sure, was this man’s claim,A vixen’s carved beside his name,Each one unique, and none the same,Some unknown and some with fame.
Each tells of life or life-to-be,And written there for all to see.So when I’m gone, an absentee,What will someone say ‘bout me?

My Buddy

Okay, yes I talk to him.In my defense, I talk to everyone . . .A year ago, Son #3 and Husby went together to buy me a gift.I should explain here that I am very difficult to buy gifts for. Being of a very practical mind set, any gift presented to me needs to be the same. Practical. Oh, I will admit that the occasional bouquet of flowers will definitely not be thrown out, but tenderly interred in a vase until such time as they have gone the way of all the earth.At which time they willbe thrown out.Ahem . . .Husby, on the other hand, loves to give gifts. And practicality is not a requirement.In fact, when choosing something for me, he goes out of his way to find ‘something else’ that isn’t for home or yard.But he has learned in our over forty years of marriage, that when I say I want a new frying pan for Christmas, a new frying pan is what will make me happy.Back to the gift purchased by Husby and Son #3.A few years ago, someone—may I call them genius?—invented a vacuum that doesn’t need anyone to operate it. Independent and effective, it bounces back and forth around the room until every single surface has been swept clean.It’s remarkably effective.At least that is what I saw on the TV spot.And decided I wanted. On the spot.To clean up the messy spots in my house.Okay, now I’m seeing spots.Moving on . . .I pointed. “That is what I want for Christmas!”Husby countered with his patented, “But I want to get something for you!”To which I replied, “That is for me!”Nothing more was said. Until Christmas morning when the box, partially-wrapped as per Son #3’s penchant, was set on the floor in front of me.Frenzied removal of the woefully inadequate wrapping.Exclamations of surprise and delight.The reading of instructions.And the immediate putting to work of my new right-hand man. ‘Buddy’, as he was dubbed, from that moment, did the one job in my house I have always loathed.Vacuuming. My affection for him was instant and long-lasting.Daily, he bustles around the house, doing a remarkably effective job of removing visible dirt and icky stuff.He has even been known to find lost puzzle pieces.There are a couple of drawbacks.And we have finally come to the point of my story . . .Buddy was vacuuming.I was in my office. Writing.Buddy came in and proceeded to bump into things.I got up and left for a moment.Then heard the ‘alert’ sound from my beloved helper. Followed by an immediate power down.I hurried back to the room.Only to discover that Buddy had eaten the cord of a charger. Causing instant indigestion.Chastising him vocally, I carried him out to the kitchen to perform the necessary cord-ectomy. Picture it: Upending the unit. Removal of the rollers that prove so effective in home maintenance. Removal of said cord. Emptying of all tanks and reservoirs and unexpected storage places.Reinstalling of rollers.Uprighting.And sending back to work.The whole time, keeping up a steady stream of: “You silly boy! Don’t you know that cords only make you sick? Where did you find this? And a button! Oh, good, I was looking for that one.” And once he was back on the floor, a final word: “Now stay out of trouble!”My granddaughter was watching the whole operation. As Buddy buzzed off, she looked at me. “Gramma. You were talking to the vacuum.”I nodded as I washed my hands.“Gramma, that’s weird.”I thought of the times I had fished Buddy out of yet another scrape. Most notably getting stuck in the bathroom. (We may possibly have the cleanest bathroom floor in the world.)I talked to him then as well.Granddaughter went on, “Gramma, you shouldn’t talk to things.”Well then someone probably shouldn’t have put eyes on him!Just FYI.

Modern Hunt-ers

Tasty!Husby and his business partner love history.The one a historian and the other an archeologist, it’s a good thing.And a good combination.Years ago, while on a business/holiday, the four of us: Husby, me, Business Partner (hereinafter known unimaginatively as BP) and his sweet wife stopped at a well-known mud wallow.Now before you think there was any sort of mud-wrestling performed there, let me further inform you that it was a place where, anciently, Native Americans drove buffalo and, when the animals became mired in the sticky ickiness (technical term) dispatched them at their leisure. Rinsed them off. And ate them.True story.Today this place is a treasure trove of boney remainders as well as ancient tools and weapons.While we two women sat visiting in the campsite, the men decided to go off on a might-find-an-arrowhead explore.Which they did.And which they did.Grinning widely the two returned a short time later with the (to quote them) Find-of-the-Century.An arrowhead.A real arrowhead.Which they proudly held out for their wives to oooh and aaah.I have to tell you that it really didn’t match the description of any artifact I had seen or heard of.For one thing, it was made of rubber.And featured a suction cup at one end.Yes, it was an arrowhead.But one generally seen fitted to the end of a short stick notched to a tiny bow in the hands of the nearest modern four-year-old.Technically an arrowhead, though.Moving forward too many years to count . . .Supper hour was fast approaching.Our two intrepid hunters, both a little older and greyer than during their last hunting trip, took it upon themselves to ‘hunter-gather’ us women some grub.Bravely, they set forth.Armed only with their mode of conveyance.And their wallets.Grinning widely, they returned a short time later having--in their words--bagged a trophy.Ice cream.We’re so proud.

PJs on Vacation

That's me in the green. Dressed appropriately.Mom was a stickler for clothing customs and traditions.“Wear a jacket.” “Put on your shoes.” “Where’s your hat?” “You need gloves/boots/armour in the barnyard.” “Get your helmet!” “I don’t care what the other girls are wearing, you are not going swimming naked!”And others.Clothes were almost a uniform to her. You wore what was appropriate. When it was appropriate.Oh, we were still able to dress in what was going. Bell-bottoms. Not-quite-mini skirts. Go-go boots. (Okay those were my sister’s that I may or may not have sneaked out of her room.)But one had to wear what. And when.Now to my story . . . Husby and I are in the sweet little town of Cardston, Alberta.Husby wants to build a museum here and/or spruce up the main street.It entails lots of glimpses into history.Yesterday, he and his partner were touring the period hotel that graces main street. The Cahoon.And I had my own glimpse into history . . .Mom and dad and we kids were here in Cardston for some reason.I don’t remember why. Relatives? Church? Business?I was five. I had gotten into the car because whenever the family was going somewhere, it was an ADVENTURE.Soooo . . . Cardston.While we were here, as sometimes happens in the Great Canadian Prairies in close proximity to the equally-great-but-for-different-reasons Rocky Mountains in the winter, a great storm blew in.And engulfed us.And the town.And probably quite a large part of the surrounding countryside.Dad decided it was far safer to seek refuge right here where we were.We drove to the only hotel. The Cahoon. A great stone structure that loomed over main street. Requested and were granted rooms.And proceeded to ready ourselves for bed.I remember three things. That make sense to me now, knowing that the stop-over was completely unplanned. But that didn’t when I was five.1. A great iron bedstead that creaked and was really springy and perfect for jumping. Except that Argus of the Hundred Eyes (ie. Mom) was watching me.2. I didn’t have to brush my teeth because I didn’t have a toothbrush. And, most importantly.3. Mom stripped me out of my clothes and tucked me into the great, springy bed in only my undershirt and panties.Wait. What? No Pajamas?I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. Not even a nightie?This had never—ever—happened before. I was expected to actually sleep? Almost naked?I know I probably went out like the proverbial candle, with or without my pajamas.And woke the next morning as refreshed and energetic as if I had been in my own bed, on my own ranch, in my own PJ’s.To yet another new and exciting thing:4. Breakfast in the hotel restaurant!It’s funny how all of this came back as we stood there, staring up at the great, old hotel.P.S. You have to know that pajamas still make up a large part of preparing myself for bed.
Just ask Husby.

Half Wit

The Government boys said John was stingy when he paid his crew,And so they sent a man to see—give John an interview.The man found John just sitting, milking, in the stanchions there,And pulling out his pad and pen, he took the offered chair.
“It’s come to our attention, John,” the agent said to him,“That you’re not giving proper wages when you pay your men.”John just shrugged and kept on milking—spat a wad of ‘chew’,“Wal, I’m here Mister,” Johnny said. “And glad to talk it through.”
“Just list your men,” the agent said. “And what you pay each one.And I’ll decide what we should do the moment you are done.”“Okay, Mister,” Johnny said, his voice real calm and slow,“I’ll tell you everything you want and then I hope you'll go.”
The agent made a face, and clicked his pen. “Alright. Let’s start.”Then Johnny smiled. “Well, first we’ve got my hired man named Bart.”“Bart’s been with me for three years, he seems to be content.I pay him six C’s every week with free board and free rent.”
"The cook has been here 18 months, each week she gets 5 C’s,And just like Bart, free room and board, she certainly seems pleased.”“And any more?” the agent said. “You have to name each one.”“There is another man,” John said. “Who’s really not much fun.”
The agent clicked his pen. “I need to hear about him. Tell!” John shrugged again, said, “You’re the boss, but he is a dumbbell.He’s really just a half-wit, Sir. He works a longer day.When all the others stop and rest, he’s out there ‘makin’ hay’!"
"For eighteen hours each day, he toils, does all but 10 percent.He makes about ten bucks a week, pays his own food and rent.To keep him happy, Sir, I buy him bourbon once a week,Just why he stays around? It smacks of something called ‘mystique’."
The agent perked up at John’s words. Here’s what he sought to find!A criminal departure from what’s normal, in his mind.He made a note upon his pad and closed it with a snap.Beneath his breath he muttered, “Man I’d like to meet this sap!”
“Yes! That’s my guy!” he said aloud. “Just call the half-wit, please?”“Wal, that’s an easy one,” said John. “That guy you want is me!”

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 . . .
Next week, amid the toil and strife,We'll talk about this modern life!

The Toy Box

Last night was opening night.
It's the end of March and for those of you who know me, that means our annual Children's Theatre musical production.
This year?
The Toy Box. Music and lyrics by Yours Truly.
Directed by my good friend and first time director, Jodi Cuevas. (Who did an awesome job, I have to tell you!)
And acted by the most amazing cast of children with a sprinkling of equally amazing adults. (Because who else is going to keep those littles in line on stage?!)
The story revolves around four different groups of toys in The Toy Box, a toy store. Three of the groups, the soldiers, the Barbies and the clowns are pretty much centered on themselves. The fourth group, the Stuffies just want to hug everyone.
And giggle.
When one of the Stuffies is badly mauled by an opossum that has gotten into the store, the rest of the toys realize they have to work together as a family to convince the creature to move out.
How they do it is both simple . . . and ingenious.
Such a fun, fun production.
And so grateful I get to do this!
Pictures by Kristi Pfeiffer PhotographyMe. Eyelining. This is the before.
The after is me on a stool in a corner. Sans eyeliner pencil and actor.
Because the others realized I'm just a danger with any sort of makeup...
One of the uber-cute clowns.
A Stuffie. Not quite in costume...
Barbies. Some doing what they do.
Others getting ready to help little shredded stuffies.Please, powers-that-be, let this go on forever!

Just a Glimpse

Grandma Stringam. Then.
During her growing up years, Grandma Stringam was ‘happy and active and busy’. She was taught to darn, knit and embroider and also how to do all the household tasks. Most amusement was found out-of-doors, playing such games as Fox and Geese, Run Sheep Run, Hide and Seek, baseball and horseback riding. Once a week, they went to the school for what they called ‘Physical Culture’ when they exercised and worked with ‘Indian Clubs’.She attended a one-room schoolhouse which was heated with a large, wood-burning pot-bellied stove in the center of the room.This building was also used for church on Sunday and for ‘dances and other forms of amusement’.For the first years, she did all her writing on slates and all she needed was said slate, a slate pencil and damp sponge or rag to erase (usually attached to the frame of the slate with a string). The families all purchased their own school supplies: slates in the first two grades and then notebooks and textbooks thereafter. They had no libraries.The first teacher Grandma remembered (around 1890 or 91) was Ephrium (Ephie) Blackburn and what she recalled most was getting ready for the twice-a-year concerts at Christmas and just before the end of term. His wife played the organ and he taught the schoolchildren to sing.Their school term was shorter than the present day. About six months, from the first of October to the last of March or early April.Every Monday, after she turned twelve, she had to stay home to help her mother with the washing.Grandma asked her mother why her older sister, Jane, couldn’t take over alternate Mondays so Grandma wouldn’t have to miss so much school. Her mother told her Jane didn’t get things clean enough in the first round so when they came to her mother for the second round, she had to work too hard to get them clean.Grandma didn’t complain much after that, knowing that she was making things a little easier for her mother.She attended school until she finished the eighth grade, which was quite an achievement in those times and in that particular community.After she finished, she worked for one school year in her Uncle Charlie’s store so his daughter, who was a year younger, could take her grade eight.
I am fascinated by these glimpses into another era. And more grateful than I can say that I have access to these writings…

The Women Before Me

Jane Smith Coleman
I know I’ve talked a lot about my Dad’s mother, Grandma Stringam.She died in 1981 at the age of 95. I was privileged, not only to know her, but to actually be able to live with her and my Aunt Emily for several months.Reading her journals has brought her even closer.But through them, I’m realizing another benefit. Glimpses of the women who were so influential in her life.Today?Her grandmother (My Great-Great Grandmother), Jane Smith Coleman—who was born in Dundee, Forfarshire, Scotland in 1838 and passed away in Teasdale, Utah in 1924 at the age of 86.
This is what Grandma Stringam has to say about her grandmother . . .“My Grandmother Coleman was a very busy person. She had a small greenhouse, raised chickens with a wood-burning incubator, kept a small general store, was postmistress and ran the only boarding house in the little town. She was the president of the Stake Relief Society (a large women’s charitable organization) and taught Sunday School classes for years.There was always something that needed to be done there.Along with all the other things that went on in that household, there was also bee-keeping.About every two weeks during the summer they extracted honey and that meant that she needed our help.Grandma would take the slats from the hives and give them to us girls and we would carry them to my mother, who was at the extractor. Mother would use a sharp knife to cut the wax that capped the honey, then she would put the slats in the extractor four at a time. When she turned the crank, the honey would fall out into the tank.We usually got about fifteen gallons every time we extracted.It was surprising how soon word of what we were doing would get around, and the children of the town would be there to eat the honey from the cappings.Another busy time at Granma’s was my Grandfather’s birthday.Every year, as long as he was Bishop (leader of the local church) she prepared and served a dinner to the whole town.For days before, we helped her get ready and for several days after, we helped her get things cleared away and tidy.”Huh. I think I just figured out where I get my love of feeding people!Grandma Stringam’s journals are a treasure trove of past lives and experiences.Through them, I’m getting to know and appreciate her and the women in my family line.Another benefit is my newfound appreciation for indoor plumbing and electric everything.But that is another story.There’s obviously a reason I was born now.

No Small Start: 1878

Teasdale, Utah today.
Grandma’s parents, Sylvester and Mary Coleman Williams were married in 1878 and lived in Escalante, Utah until after their first three children, Florence, Gustavus and Jane were born.Then, hearing that there was good land to be had, they moved to Teasdale, Utah about 1882 so they could take up homestead.Many of their extended family followed: both sets of grandparents as well as Great-Grandma’s Uncle and Aunt. These family members settled in or near Teasdale. Great-Grandpa’s homestead was about a mile and a half from the townsite. There, five more children were born (Grandma Stringam was number five of the eight).The first few years, the family lived the entire year in the log house they constructed on the farm, but later on Great-Grandpa Williams built a house in town and they lived there during the school months. Definitely more convenient to getting children to school.Ten years after they moved there, Great-Grandpa died of Dropsy (Edema) of the heart.Leaving Great-Grandma with eight children between the ages of 14 and one, a homestead that still had to be ‘proved up’ (Each homesteader had to live on the land, build a home, make improvements and farm for 5 years before they were eligible to "prove up") and medical bills of over $200.00 to be paid.In Grandma Stringam’s words:“My mother was a very quiet woman but she was a hard worker and a good manager. When Father died, he hadn’t proved up on the homestead. But she took over with a will. Within ten years, she had proved up on the homestead, built a barn and granary and paid Father’s bills.The granary which was built is still standing and usable today (1974 when this journal was written).Mother firmly believed that an idle mind was the devil’s workshop and kept us busy, even if she had to send us to the neighbours to do so.”The neighbours she sent them to most often were her mother (my Grandma Stringam’s Grandma Coleman) or Aunt Sarah May. Aunt Sarah May had a large family of young children, so my Grandma Stringam often helped her with the washing or with the house-cleaning or putting up fruit in the summer and early fall.Back to Grandma Stringam:“Mother told us never to take money for this because my aunt had a large family and not too much to do with.”I think this world needs more women like Great-Grandma Williams. Great-Grandma  Mary Coleman Williams

Last Cigarette

My parents weren’t the smoking sort,
They told my sibs and me,That in a world of healthy choice,Not smoking was a key.
They two went on a buying trip,And left me at my friend’s.(And incidentally, this is where,My smoking story ends.)
For just one week, they’d be away,I found myself, aged ten,The happy week-long dwellerWith the best of my best friends.
For several days, all went as planned, Just her and me and fun,But then her cousin came, to whomWe small-town girls were dumb.
She took control. My friend and me,We simply watched in awe.We learned the gentle art of theft, And life outside the law.
My best friend’s cousin stole some change,And bought a pack of smokes,I weakly tried to protest,Yep. Was thinking of my folks.
“Let’s go somewhere we won’t get caught,”The Cousin said to us,“We don’t want parents hanging round,To make a silly fuss!”
She looked at me, “Your folks are gone!And your house sits there bare.I sighed. I wanted so to please.Like a deer in headlights. Snared.
My parent’s townhouse, empty sat,‘Twas summer—time to farm,But I knew where the keys were hidAnd what would be the harm?
So silent and obedient, We trailed her to my place,Crept inside the silent loo,Put on our bravest face.
She showed us how to ‘light them up’, And how to make them glow,I must admit, I thought ‘twas neat,I felt mature and old.
Now, I knew that both my folks,Weren’t due till sometime ‘hence’.Turns out that phrase means just the same,S’the one for ‘Present tense’.
My best friend’s sister, posted there,On bright-eyed watch, was she,Came running in, “You’re folks are here!”Not one of us believed.
And then behind her came my mom,We both were quite surprised.And I put down my cigarette,Then paused to be chastised.
“I’m disappointed, dear,” said she,“I thought we taught you well,Now you go out and join your dad,While I dispense this smell.”
With lagging feet, I dragged myself,To the car, where Daddy sat,He took one look at my set face,Was silenced, just like that.
Mom told my dad what I had done,While they two were away,And then he spoke. I’ll not forgetThe words he used that day.
“I’m disappointed, Hon,” said he,“I thought you, better, knew,“We trusted you to live your life,The way that we would do.”
And with each word, I knew for sure,I’d smoked my last, because,I discovered that I wished to beAll my daddy was.
And incidentally, it’s not nice,When Daddy’s blue eyes turned to ice.

Mondays do get knocked a lot, W ith 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 . . .
Next week, we' ll share ('Tis just for you), Our favourite thing to see. Or do!