Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 145

Slipping in Memories

Mom and Dad, Chris and Jerry.
If you look closely . . .What articles of clothing do you treasure?Get foolishly sentimental (ie. I’m never washing this!) over.And why?That jacket you bought that Peter Tork sneezed on when you went to that amazing concert back in ’66?The red dress that was so eye-popping and perfect at the Christmas dance in ’80?Those jeans that flattered so well and, even as they became more and more ragged, continued to be your best and truest friends from ’78 through to ‘92?Those boots that were sooo warm and sooo comfortable that you wept when the sole ripped right out of the left one?That slip.Slip?Ummm . . . Maybe I should explain . . .My Mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease in the 1985 at the age of 61.It is a horrifying, wasting sort of illness.For several years, she gamely battled it, exercising, proper diet.Medications.But the disease won and she passed into eternity on April 9, 2002.We were happy for her – she had been so ill.But sad for the rest of us.In the months after her death, Dad found homes for her jewellery, clothes and keepsakes.Each of her three daughters carted home boxes of Mom’s ‘stuff’.Special because it had been hers.I had great fun going through my boxes.Immersing myself in the memories.I put jewellery into my own case, remembering special pieces Mom had worn.Set fancy, fun hats on the shelf in the closet, thinking about the times I had sneaked into her closet to play dress-up with them.Hung up dresses and other clothes. More memories.And went back to my normal life.Then, Sunday rolled around.I should point out here that we dress in our best for Sunday worship services.It’s just our way . . .I scrambled through my closet for a slip and grabbed the first one I came to. One of my Mom's.I slipped it on.And was immediately immersed in the soft scent of Mom’s ‘special occasion’ perfume.I had forgotten.Mom had been ill for so long, and, in all that time, had worn no perfume at all.Suddenly, I was lost in memories.Mom hugging me before she and Dad went out somewhere special.Mom sitting beside me in Church.Mom smiling across from me in a restaurant.And thousands and thousands more.It took me a long time to get ready that day.Stepping from the softly-lit past into the garishly -coloured present took great effort.After church, I hung the slip up carefully.Almost reverently.
And vowed never to wash it again.

(Un)Befuddled

The world likes baseball, I am sure,And loves their teams, famed or obscure,But what of those who don’t partake?Well this should help thwart a mistake:
Baseball bat: This is a wood or metal barThat, like the ball, can fly afar.
Foul ball: For just a moment you don’t quit, Because you think, I got a hit!
Babe Ruth: A player who was really great,One (who they say) was overweight.
Right field: A quiet place where only youCan sit and watch where flowers ‘grew’.
Right Field (also): Until you hear a clang, Oh No!And someone shouts, “Look out below!”
Fly ball: That moment when the sun (it’s said)Drops a boulder on your head.
Shortstop: Has mostly ground balls, so you’ll thrive,And thus, this ballgame, you’ll survive.
Line drive: That point where something whizzes through,And you bid your shortstop days adieu.
Innings: How long it is before snack time, Divided tidily by nine.
Pro Athletes:Play games and practice vanity,Speak their language. And profanity.
The world of baseball can befuddle,And leave you in a murky puddle.Now, aren’t you glad you stopped today,So we could take your fears away?

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 . . .
And next week in our neighbourhood,We tackle 'feet'. It will be good!

Four Cold Noses

As the only veterinarian in a 100-mile radius, Dad certainly got around. Within months of his graduation, he was being called further and further afield.Pun intended.But thus far in his career, he had never performed a caesarean.Oh, he had watched. Even assisted a time or two.But never completed one solo.For a new veterinarian, there must be a first . . .From Dad’s journals: As winter came on, we found the roads often heavy with snow. A trip could give good roads one day and be plugged the next. When I went on a call, I wanted to be sure I would be able to get home before the roads drifted in.On one particular call, it was to a farm to the west of home and the road was often bad in snowy weather.The case was a cow in labour. Upon examination, it became quite evident that she hadn’t dilated very much. I told the farmer that I could give the cow a shot of hormone and she should be ready to calve by morning.The only alternative would be a caesarian to deliver the calf now. I didn’t want to do the surgery because the wind was blowing hard and the road would be blocked in an hour or so. Another drawback was the fact that there wasn’t a warm place to do the job. His barn was so in need of repair that it would barely act as a windbreak.Another thing worrying me was my lack of experience. This would be my first caesarian.With the farmer’s insistence, I decided to go to it right away.We took the cow to the barn and to the corner farthest from the wind and I parked my car close by and kept it running so as to have a place to warm up from time to time.I put the cow to sleep and started to work. As soon as the calf was out, it was taken to the house quickly to keep it from freezing.Now it was time to start sewing.I could only work a few minutes at a time because of the cold and had to get in the car frequently to warm up.Finally, the job was completed and now we had to do something to keep the cow warm. There was lots of straw so we buried the cow completely.Next, they brought in their small herd of sheep and they helped to keep the wind away.As soon as this was done I was on my way home, and not a bit too soon. The road was so badly drifted that I was glad to get through.The wind continued all next day and there was no traffic in that direction for two weeks.Under the circumstances, I really didn’t think the cow had a chance to survive. The temperature dipped to 25 below zero (F) that night and stayed much the same for the next two weeks.I didn’t have a telephone and was reluctant to see the farmer, but when I did, he surprised me by telling me the cow came through very well. She was on her feet the next morning and looking for the calf.“I knew she would be okay,” he said.I guess he had more confidence in me that I did.
I never did tell him that this was the first caesarian I had done since leaving College.

GETTING It Right

I love Daddy's stories! “I’m shopping for my wife,” said he.“For things she needs immediately.And while I’m here, I thought I’d getA special something for my Pet.”
 He wandered round the store a while,And saw things staid. Or infantile.Then found that he had ambled toThe women’s clothes all starched and new.
His eyes lit up as he assessedNew ways to help his wife get dressed.In gowns of rough or slinky mein,In shades from black to tangerine.
He wandered further through the storeSeeking something she’d adore,High or low or bourgeoisie,He fin-al-ly came o’er to me.
“It seemed so simple,” he declared.“But now I’ve looked, and now I’m scared.The clothes selection’s vast and mixed,And I can’t seem to choose betwixt.”
“There’s something that she needed, though,To wear around the bungalow.So help me please, I do implore.There must be something in your store!”
“There’s much to choose from, sir,” I said.“That’s sure to please your thoroughbred.But there's one thing I need to know,Just how big is her bungalow?”

First Winter

Digging through Grandma Berg's Journals again . . .
Grandma and Grampa Berg were married in a small Lutheran church in Blackfoot, Idaho on April 20, 1919.Throughout the summer, they worked on the farm they shared with another couple, Nanny and Axel Karlsson. In October of that year, they moved to their new land west of Millicent, Alberta, where they would raise their family.But their first winter wasn’t spent on that land. Instead, they went with another couple, the Palms, to the Fort McMurray area to run a trapline.Our story starts there . . .
What a winter it was! We had brought a supply of kerosene and food—flour, sugar, jam, beans, dried fruit, salted pork, powdered milk, butter and frozen potatoes—which supplemented with moose and rabbit meat made our diet quite adequate. I baked bread in a stone oven built by Petrus outside the cabin. A fire was built inside the oven until the stones were hot. The heat from the rocks baked lovely bread!The two men were often in the wilderness for days at a time, tending their trapline with snowshoes and dog teams. Although Petrus was bush wise, one time they lost their bearings in a storm and were wandering for nine days before stumbling on another trapper’s cabin. The trapper wisely, slowly brought the half-starved pair back onto food by allowing them only one pancake every hour over a period of hours.Never had pancakes tasted so good!I was expecting my first baby in January and plans were made to leave before that time. However, the snow kept falling and by Christmas time the train stopped running. [Mrs. Palm and I] prepared for the baby by knitting and sewing little garments out of yarn and flannelette we had brought with us . . .When I went into labour, Petrus ran behind the dogteam twenty miles to Lac La Biche where he had been told of a midwife. When he found the experienced native midwife, she first hesitated until an RCMP constable persuaded her to come. Many precious hours had passed and Petrus was beside himself. The woman finally gathered the necessary supplies and settled herself into the sled.With anxious urging, the hardy dogs made a short time of the twenty or more miles, arriving at the cabin about midnight.Soon Petrus was greeted by the cry of his first-born son. All the frustrations of the day were forgotten in the joy of holding this precious child.There is some disagreement among family members about whether Grandpa and the midwife arrived in time to assist in the birth. To settle the issue, my Uncle Roy put the question to Uncle Glen, the baby in the story.“Glen, you were there. Were you delivered by the midwife or not?”Uncle Glen turned his head at a wry angle and taking his chin in his left hand, with deep thought and deliberations, he answered, “You know, I can’t remember.”

Harvest in a Hurry

It's harvest season.Time for a story about another harvest.In another era . . .
How it was done under normal circumstances.
You can see the Bundle Rack in the background...First, a bit of background . . .Well into the 1940s, the Berg family ran a threshing machine fed by bundles (sheaves) of grain transported by bundle ‘racks’ pulled by a team of horses. Bundle racks were trailers usually 14 to 16 feet long and 8 feet wide, with a 5-foot wood barrier front and back. The rack was mounted on a four-wheeled running gear with the two front wheels attached to the tongue—a long wooden pole where the horses were attached and which acted as a steering apparatus for the front wheels.The driverless team pulling the rack was controlled by the man doing the loading of the sheaves and directed by the commands, “Get up” or “Whoa”. The reins were tied to a ‘V’ notched in the top board of the front of the rack and the horses were steered next to the stooks (sheaves of grain gathered and standing together) by the man as he walked alongside. With his pitchfork, he could reach out and put pressure on either rein, depending on where he wanted the team to go.Normally, it was a calm, peaceful and surprisingly quiet operation. At least until they reached the threshing machine.Now on to my story . . .The brothers were threshing a field of wheat on the South Farm, just across the irrigation canal from the home place. All had gone well to this moment. Carlo, their hired man, had his rack partly filled and Don, with a full load was heading toward the thresher. Bern, the second eldest son, and his team, Maud and Dick were stopped across the field while Bern answered a call of nature.Suddenly, a pheasant burst out of the undergrowth, startling Bern’s team.You have to know that horses have one response to everything out of the ordinary. Run!They took off like a shot.Bern got his pants into running position and sprinted after them. But before he could affect any form of control, they spooked Carlo’s team, who joined in the race.Carlo managed to grab the front of his rack and began climbing up toward the reins.That was the last view either of the brothers had of him.The team had been heading for the canal, but made a sharp turn, dumping Carlo, the rack and the load into the canal.Carlo was on the side of the rack that turned over and, fearing for his safety, Don left his team and ran to see if he was all right. But Carlo’s head appeared suddenly above the bank. He was still waving his hands and yelling, “Whoa! Whoa!”Meanwhile, Carlo’s team, minus the rack but still pulling the empty running gear, circled back toward Don’s team. Who now joined the stampede.Don ran back to where he had left them to find a large pile of sheaves, but no horses.Or rack.When they finally caught their respective teams, they surveyed the damage.Then silently agreed it was time for lunch.

Hurrying the Harvest

It's harvest season.Time for a story about another harvest.In another era . . .
How it was done under normal circumstances.
You can see the Bundle Rack in the background...First, a bit of background . . .Well into the 1940s, the Berg family ran a threshing machine fed by bundles (sheaves) of grain transported by bundle ‘racks’ pulled by a team of horses. Bundle racks were trailers usually 14 to 16 feet long and 8 feet wide, with a 5-foot wood barrier front and back. The rack was mounted on a four-wheeled running gear with the two front wheels attached to the tongue—a long wooden pole where the horses were attached and which acted as a steering apparatus for the front wheels.The driverless team pulling the rack was controlled by the man doing the loading of the sheaves and directed by the commands, “Get up” or “Whoa”. The reins were tied to a ‘V’ notched in the top board of the front of the rack and the horses were steered next to the stooks (sheaves of grain gathered and standing together) by the man as he walked alongside. With his pitchfork, he could reach out and put pressure on either rein, depending on where he wanted the team to go.Normally, it was a calm, peaceful and surprisingly quiet operation. At least until they reached the threshing machine.Now on to my story . . .The brothers were threshing a field of wheat on the South Farm, just across the irrigation canal from the home place. All had gone well to this moment. Carlo, their hired man, had his rack partly filled and Don, with a full load was heading toward the thresher. Bern, the second eldest son, and his team, Maud and Dick were stopped across the field while Bern answered a call of nature.Suddenly, a pheasant burst out of the undergrowth, startling Bern’s team.You have to know that horses have one response to everything out of the ordinary. Run!They took off like a shot.Bern got his pants into running position and sprinted after them. But before he could affect any form of control, they spooked Carlo’s team, who joined in the race.Carlo managed to grab the front of his rack and began climbing up toward the reins.That was the last view either of the brothers had of him.The team had been heading for the canal, but made a sharp turn, dumping Carlo, the rack and the load into the canal.Carlo was on the side of the rack that turned over and, fearing for his safety, Don left his team and ran to see if he was all right. But Carlo’s head appeared suddenly above the bank. He was still waving his hands and yelling, “Whoa! Whoa!”Meanwhile, Carlo’s team, minus the rack but still pulling the empty running gear, circled back toward Don’s team. Who now joined the stampede.Don ran back to where he had left them to find a large pile of sheaves, but no horses.Or rack.When they finally caught their respective teams, they surveyed the damage.Then silently agreed it was time for lunch.

In the Buff

About a mile and a half from the Millicent, Alberta school was the swimming hole.A wooden structure, called a ‘headgate’ had been built across the main irrigation canal to control and distribute water into ditches so farmers could water their crops. Passage of the water through the headgate was confined, causing increased swirling and that, in turn eroded a great hole.Once discovered, this swimming hole became the favourite spot for an after-school dip by many of the young boys from the school.There was only one problem.They never brought suits.As there were no girls around, the solution was easy.Strip off naked and go skinny dipping.It worked well.A short, active time splashing about in the cool water. A brief period of drying off. Re-donning of one’s school clothes.And the happily-refreshed boys were back on the road for home.Then . . . that day.Now remember where I mentioned that members of the opposite sex weren’t present?Well, that was only most of the time.On this afternoon, a group of adventurous girls happened along. They, too were on their way home from school. Spotting the boys splashing about in the water, they decided to . . . cause a little consternation.They sat down on the canal bank.And waited.I probably don’t have to tell you that all splashing and playing ended abruptly. For some time, the group of increasingly chilly boys tread water and stared at the girls, visions of having to stay in the canal until after dark running through their minds.Then one of them, a little less patient than the rest, decided to do something a little more proactive.He leapt naked from the stream and ran straight toward the girls.They scattered like frightened birds, shrieking wildly.In fact, they proved that they could easily outrun the boys. Given the proper incentive.What do we learn from this?1.  If one is going to play a prank, be prepared.2.  Clothes-less doesn’t mean help-less.and3.  Buff beats bluff every time.

Good Dog

Berg Family about 1940. Front row far left: Leif
Just off camera: PatsyWithout Patsy, things could have ended much differently.Maybe I should explain . . .Patsy was a German shepherd dog. Unremarkable in looks.But loyal, playful, smart, fun, an excellent companion and confidante and—as you will see in this story—attentive and protective.Patsy was little Leif’s constant companion.Where the one went, so did the other.If Mother was looking for her small son, she simply stepped to the door and called Patsy.Who immediately steered her young companion home.On a large mixed farm like the Berg family ran, it would have been easy for the youngest son to find himself in difficulties.But not with a Patsy as companion.And that’s where our story begins . . .Leif and Patsy had been playing in the warm sun of a late summer day. Their explorations had led them to a large field of grain immediately adjacent to the farmstead.The combination of the warm sun and tall, ripened grain were most inviting to a small boy and a snooze seemed appropriate. He curled up in a comfortable spot and nodded off.At the same time as our little explorer drifted off to sleep, his elder brother and their father arrived with tractor and binder to begin harvesting the field. A small boy happily, rosily asleep in one of the furrows was completely invisible to them.As they approached the place where Leif was asleep, they noticed Patsy.Remember where I said ‘constant companion’?Well that comes into play here.The faithful dog was standing guard at the edge of field. They decided to stop the machinery and take a moment to check things out.Patsy led them to where Leif was sleeping.The boy was roused. With Patsy in close attendance, the two started the trek back toward the farm.Instead of tragic, the incident was written off as 'another bit of farm life adventure'.Just a regular day in the life of a good dog.

He Was There

He didn’t go to work that day,He saw it. He went there.The great explosions. Fear. Dismay.He heard it. He was there.When embers started raining down,Debris and bodies on the ground,The pain, confusion all around,He knew it.He was there.
He wasn’t told the towers fell,He breathed it.He was there.Engulfed by all the fires of hell,He touched it.He was there.When first responders got in there,And started beating back despairTrue angels helping everywhere,He felt it.He was there.



David Handschuh, Pulitzer-nominated photojournalist, was among the few survivors of the horrific 9-11 attacks. This week, he and his wife, Staci, were visitors here in Edmonton, Alberta, to speak of his experiences.It is a story that should never be forgotten, nor brushed aside.This story--and his others--can be found on Instagram @flyingmanateeOr follow him at www.davidhandschuh.com.

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 . . .
And next week in our neighbourhood, We tackle 'sports'. It will be good!