Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 155

Cookies and Cutlets

What can I say but Mmmmmm.
My Dad taught me manners.I was a slow, but well-fed, learner.Maybe I should explain . . .Dad and I were on a cattle show tour.I say, 'we' but I was mostly useless.I had injured my hand in a grooming accident getting ready for the show.Don't ask.The road was long between cities. Because Alberta is a big place.But we had eats.Mostly sweet or salty.But all yummy.My Dad's favourite cookies were large marshmallow/cookie/chocolate bits of delicious-ness.I should explain here that sometimes, in Canada in the summer, we have hot days.I know.The words 'Canada' and 'hot weather' usually aren't found in the same sentence.But it's true.Back to my story . . .It was hot and stuffy in the truck.Heat has a rather negative effect on marshmallow/cookie/chocolate bits of delicious-ness.Melts them, quite effectively, into solid lumps of delicious-ness.It was mid-afternoon.We had been on the road since lunch.It was now about 4:00 pm.Snacking was indicated.I dragged out the bag of cookies.And realized that each row had been fused into one, long cookie.Except the first row.From which two were already missing.I picked up the remaining (rather large) cookie and looked at it.It could be done.I shoved it into my mouth and chewed happily.Then realized that my father was staring at me.Incredulous (good word).“Did you just eat that whole cookie?”“Maybe,” I mumbled through a mouthful of marshmallow/cookie/chocolate delicious-ness. “Who wants to know.”He just chuckled and shook his head and the matter was dropped.Or so I thought.A couple of hours later, we stopped for supper.I ordered my favourite, veal cutlets.They arrived.Two very large cutlets.With mashed potatoes, vegetables and thick, yummy gravy.Mmmm.Remember my injured hand?Well that comes into play here.“Daddy, could you please cut my meat for me?”“Certainly.” Dad grinned and slid my plate over.Now, anyone familiar with that grin knows that something was being plotted.Because it was.He took his knife and fork and sliced each large cutlet down the middle.Then he slid my plate back in front of me.I stared at the four very, very large bites.Then at my DadWho was nonchalantly cutting his own meat.“Dad, how am I supposed to eat that?”“Well, judging by the bite of cookie you shoved into your mouth a couple of hours ago, those should be just about right,” he said. “Go for it!”I stuck my tongue out at him and slid my plate back.“Now cut!”He laughed and did so.Etiquette.It exists, even on a cattle trip.Who knew?

Gone?

It was raining.So both Reggie and I had eschewed the great, green outdoors in favour of something warmer and more welcoming to old bones.The front room and the fireplace.Okay, yes, it was July, but cold and damp is cold and damp, no matter the season.Reggie was entertaining himself by whistling rising and falling notes. A sort of a do, ray, mi for birds.Let’s face it, Julie Andrews, he’s not. And he was about two stanzas from joining that old birds home in the sky.Where birds go up.And never, ever come down.Back to my story . . .Something thumped on the stairs.Now I know that you know my sister and I live in a haunted house. So strange noises or things that go bump (even in broad daylight) are not uncommon.The first thump elicited no response from either Reggie or me.But the second, third and fourth did.And the fifth, sixth and seventh.Reggie fluffed out his feathers. His usual reaction when something is happening that he doesn’t understand. I don’t know about you, but nothing shouts ‘I’m-dangerous-and-every-part-of-me-is-a-lethal-weapon’ better than a fat bird.Me? I lowered my magazine.Both of us were ready for anything.We stared at the doorway into the front hall. The place the sounds seemed to be coming from.Norma appeared around the corner.I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Norma, what are you doing?”She moved further into the room.Then pulled a gigantic, obviously heavy suitcase in behind her.Immediately the noises were explained. Someone had been transporting something much too large down someplace much too steep.I was suddenly thankful that I hadn’t heard more thumping and bumping.I raised my eyebrows and looked at her expectantly.She smiled at me. “I’m leaving,” she announced in the same chirpy, good-news voice she would have used to announce that she’d changed the toilet paper roll.Yeah, I guess you’d have to know my sister.“Leaving?” I stared at her. “Where are you going?”“I’ve been invited for a visit!”“O-kay. Who and where. And more importantly, for how long?” I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that the two of us were living in Norma’s house—she, by paying the mortgage and me, by invitation and economy.“I don’t know for how long.” Norma went for the last question. “Maybe forever!”My head reared back. “But, but this is your house!”“Yeah, well, if I don’t come back you can have it!”“I can have it?”  I wasn’t sure I heard correctly. I gave Reggie a can-you-believe-what-we’re-hearing look, then pinched myself mentally and shook my head. I’d obviously been around him too much. I turned back to Norma. “Okay, you’d better start from the front and take me through your orbit again.”She sighed and sat down on her suitcase. “Well, you know how sick I’ve been getting. Those feversand all.”“Umm . . . yeah. But the doctor thinks he’s got it figured out.”“Well I was talking to her and she said—”“Her?”Norma raised her head and looked up toward the ceiling.“Oh. Her!”She nodded. “And she was telling me how no one ever gets sick over there.”“Yeah. Well, Honey, they’re dead.”She shrugged. “Whatever.” She went on, “And she told me I could come for a visit and see how I liked things.”“A visit.” I blinked. Then looked around. “Are we on Candid Camera?”She gave a very unladylike snort. “No! She asked me to come for a visit and I’m going to go!”I got up. Some things you just have to do while standing. “Norma.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “You can’t go over there—and then come back.”“Who says so?”“Everyone!” I sputtered. “Norma! You can’t cross into the world of—spirits and then come back.”“Pfff.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I can do what I like.”I have to admit that this has been Norma’s mantra from day one and, for a moment, the thought crossed my mind that if anyone could do it, she could. But then reality returned. “Norma, you can’t do this!” I was getting a bit desperate.“Fine!” She got up and started back toward the hall, pulling her case behind her. “You never let me have any fun!” She disappeared through the doorway. “Since you moved in here, my life isn’t my own!” Her case followed her around the corner. “One day, I’m going to—” Her voice quit.Frowning, I followed her into the hall. “Norma, try to see reason—” I stopped.And stared.Norma--and her enormous case--had disappeared.

Wanna catch up with the Sputterling sisters?
Barbecue With Spirits
Something Scary
Beached
Christmas with the Sputterlings
RaindanceTell-Tale Sneeze
Sisters
Catching Up


Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now. At the end of this post you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Check them all out, see what words they got and how they used them.  I’m using: Fifth ~ economy ~ orbit ~ gigantic ~ feversThey were submitted by: http://www.bookwormkitchen.com/ Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:Baking In A TornadoCognitive ScriptThe Blogging 911 Sparkly Poetic Weirdo The Bergham Chronicles     Simply ShannonSouthern Belle CharmBookworm in the KitchenPart-time Working Hockey MomClimaxed

Ruby the Wanna-Be

Our usual Camping buddies
Panda and Chiefy The Interloper
Okay, I admit it. She's cute.










We raised Old English Sheepdogs.A wonderful breed.Shaggy.Smart.Protective.Affectionate.Did I mention shaggy?We had raised them for years.Long enough that anyone remotely connected to us had one of our pups.Old English Sheepdogs wherever you looked.A good thing.Then our close friends bought, in addition to their resident sheepdog, a *gasp* Miniature Schnauzer.Heathens.They called her Ruby.We stared at the wee little mite suspiciously.Snapping black eyes.Little black nose and ‘folded-over’ ears.Tuft of a tail.Okay, we had to admit it, she was cute.Really cute.She was accepted. And immediately took over the household.Now, I should probably mention here that our dogs went with us camping.All of our dogs.And our friends brought their dogs as well.We usually got campsites adjacent or directly across from each other and put down roots.Now we were accustomed to camping with Sheepdogs who stayed in the campsite.Even when their family went to the beach without them.And were seldom/never heard from.We discovered that a Miniature Schnauzer was . . . different.For one thing, she had a habit of speaking up when there were strangers walking past.Or thinking of walking past.Or breathing . . . somewhere.And she didn’t like to stay in the campsite. If chained, she was vociferous in her opinion of families who treated their doggies so.And, if left unchained, she would disappear.For the first day, dealing with her was a puzzle.Not that I pointed out that she was definitely not an OES.Several times.Her family soon devised a solution.They wrapped her leash around a small log.Which slowed her down.Notice I didn’t say ‘stopped her’.No, it just slowed her down. Enough that her family could keep her in sight.Now, when they strolled across into our campsite, Ruby would appear a few minutes later, manfully (can I say that about a female dog?) pulling her little log.“Oh, here’s Ruby,” they would say. “Pulling her log of shame!”But Ruby learned. And found her place in our family.Amongst the sheepdogs.I don’t know what life would be like without her.

Gahhh!

I always was afraid at nightWhen Mother would turn out the light,Into the darkness, I would stareAnd look for monsters waiting there.
Once, Husby took me out to seeA great new movie, just released.About a girl, so sweet and kindWith powers that absorbed her mind.
That night, my world again askew,The light stayed on because I knewThe darkness, into which I stared?For certain, Carrie waited there.
My terror's lasted all my life,E’en after I became a wife,Though I admit there's far less fearWhen someone's sleeping very near.
But still the darkness frightens me.Still harbours scary things, you see.Into the darkness, I will stareFor thugs and villains waiting there.

And so it’s gone - the darkness wins,The light goes off, and my mind spins.Creating creatures in the nightThat disappear in morning light.
Beings who would steal your mindPerforming tests on all mankind.Into the darkness I still stareAnd watch for aliens waiting there.
Last night I stumbled down the hallIntent on answering nature’s callAnd when I glanced into the mirror,My reflection was one pale blur.
For my tri-focals help me out,So I can see my way about.If in the darkness, I did stare,I’d not see anything waiting there.
Hmmm . . .
What you can't see won’t hurt you, right?Shhh . . . I’m turning off the light. Once a month our little Poetry group headed by our intrepid leader, Karen of Baking in a tornado, posts (what else?) Poetry. It's fun. And on a theme.This month? Reflection.Visit my team and see what everyone has done with it!
Karen of Baking In A Tornado: No ReflectionDawn of Cognitive Script: Reflection of My Past LifeLydia of Cluttered Genius: One Year

Snow Angels

A guest post by little brother, Blair. Not me, but similar.On occasion, as a teenager, I made choices that lacked caution and or wisdom.Okay, I made stupid choices.On one occasion, I was out in the evening with friends riding snowmobiles and enjoying the winter in the hills near my father’s ranch.We all drove trucks to a drop off point where we parked and unloaded our snow machines and headed up snow packed roads and trails into the woods.  The snow in the woods had just fallen and it was a blast riding on what felt like fluffy clouds of snow.After spending some time up in the wooded area, we finally decided to pack up and head home.  However, the group was delaying our departure.As a teenager, I tended to get impatient and after waiting for what I thought was a half hour (10 minutes), I got mad and hopped on my machine and headed down the snow packed trail by myself. Now at that age I tended to lose all caution when I got mad and I barely made it through the trees and fluffy snow back to the snow packed road without wrapping my snowmobile around one of the trees. You would think that this would have made me be a little more careful.But I left all sense and reason back in the trees somewhere.I came out of the treed area onto the snow packed road, operating a machine that was way more powerful than I needed considering my frame of mind. I wound it up to full speed. It was exciting as I heard the motor growl. The adrenaline coursed through me as I flew down the trail.The lights on the machine would shine a reasonable distance ahead or what I thought was reasonable even though I had the snowmobile running at its top speed. The trees on the side of the trail were whirring by and I was enjoying the rush. I came to a bend in the trail that I slowed for and rounded, and once again opened the throttle wide. Then I looked up and saw an immediate turn and embankment directly in front of me. I thought, “Gee I don’t remember that sharp turn”.  Then, “I’m going way too fast. How am I going to get around that corner without planting myself in the embankment?”  And finally, “This is not good, I am going to be killed or maimed”.I had no idea what I should do.  I was going so fast that if I tried to break on the snow packed trail, I would likely slide out of control and become part of the embankment.I let the throttle go and the snowmobile started to slow. I dropped down and hugged my machine while leaning over to help it stay upright around the corner, certain that I was going to leave the trail and hit the embankment at any second. Suddenly, I was around the corner and headed down the trail.  The snowmobile continued to slow and I was not inclined to speed up at this point.  I thought, “How did I make it around that corner?” I was sure that I shouldn’t have. I have since imagined that if I had stopped and gone back to the corner, I would have seen a line of footprints in the snow from a whole group of guardian angels that guided me around and kept me from planting myself in the bank.They would have probably said to each other, “This is one stupid teenager.”Oh, wait a minute. Guardian angels would say, “This young man has just made a poor choice, but maybe if we step in this time, he will make better choices in the future.”I managed to get back to my truck and then home a little shaken but in one piece.  I vowed that I would not be so foolish again.I can’t say that I have always been wiser, but maybe my guardian angels can vouch for me.

Sorting Souls

Just inside the graveyard fence stood a big old pecan tree.One day two boys came hunting nuts. In actuality.They filled a big old bucket (though they spilled some by the fence),Then sat down right there by the tree so counting could commence.“One for you and one for me,” said one boy, happily.“And another one for you and then another one for me.”A third young boy came riding past the graveyard on his bike,Heard some voices from inside that sounded quite ghostlike.Slowed and heard a voice say, “One for you and one for me.” “One for you and one for me,” it continued gleefully.In an instant, he had figured who was speaking thus,Left to find someone with whom all this he could discuss.‘Round the bend he came upon an old man with a cane,Hobbling slowly down the road in quite extensive pain.“Come here quick!” the boy said. “Please believe what I just heard!” “They’re in there sharing out the souls, both Satan and the Lord!”He said, “Beat it kid, you see it's hard for me to stroll?”The boy was firm. The graveyard fence then became their goal.Standing by the bars they heard those fateful words once more, “One for you and one for me.” As had been said before.The old man whispered, “Boy, you're right. What you said is true!” “Let's move closer by the fence and bring the Lord in view!”They gripped tight those iron bars as they tried to get a glimpse.But they could not see anything. Though they hung there like two chimps. At last they heard, “For you. For me. That's all and ain’t this fun?”“Let's get those nuts o’er by the fence and then we will be done!”
The old man lead for a good half-mile, just running like a deer,Before the kid on the bike shot past and left him in the rear.

'Tis Monday and I know you know that that means poetry.So visit Jenny and Delores. Now that you've seen me!

Trading Cockroaches for Cold

I love Alberta. It's beautiful.
Wide, grassy prairies.
High, majestic mountains.
Blue skies.
Clear air.
Warm temperatures.
Okay, I know that it gets cold in Alberta.
And yes, -40 (C or F) is not uncommon.
But, probably because of the extreme temperatures, Alberta is missing a couple of very important things.
And I'm not complaining.
1. Alberta is the only place on earth that has no rats.
None. They are stopped at the borders, asked to produce a current passport, then turned away.
Let's face it, have you ever seen a rat with any passport, let alone a current one?
There is even a designated rat un-welcome committee stationed at every border.
An effective one.
Equipped with guns and traps.
And lots of cheese.
I don't know about you, but that would certainly indicate to me that I wasn't wanted.
Moving on . . .
So . . . no rats.
2. Alberta also has no big bugs.
Okay, we have bugs.
Just not big ones.
I've seen the pictures of people holding cockroaches that reach to their elbows and spiders that could easily carry off small children.
I know what big bugs look like.
And we don't have them.
That makes me happy.
We know how blessed we are.
Case in point:
Our son was preparing to go out to milk.
It was cold.
Alberta cold.
He was layering up at the back door.
Long johns.
Jeans.
Cotton socks.
Wool socks over cotton ones.
Heavy shirt.
Sweater.
Jacket.
Scarf.
Heavy coat.
Touque. (Warm Canadian winter hat)
Gloves.
Mittens.
Boots.
Yep. In Canada, we pretty much invented layering.
And going outside isn't something you do at the spur of the moment.
It takes thought.
And time.
I was preparing breakfast and I could hear my son moving around at the back door.
And mumbling to himself.
I dried my hands and walked over to him.
What I heard was, " . . . cockroaches."
I moved closer.
"We don't get cockroaches," he said.
As he pulled on one sock.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Second sock.
"We don't get cockroches."
Shirt.
"We don't get cockroaches."
Jacket.
And so it went.
The same refrain with each and every layer.
Psyching himself up to open that door and get the blast of cold air in the face.
We live in Alberta.
It is beautiful.
And cold.
But we don't have rats.
Or get big bugs.
Sometimes it takes the one to appreciate the other.

Small Town Summer Night

Milk River, Alberta. My Home Town.A summer sunset.For a short time, a hush falls over the town.Then the Summer Evening starts.The rumble as the teen-aged drivers in Dad’s car (or one resurrected and maintained by their own hands) start cruising Main from the Catholic church to the hotel. Most of them watching for ‘that’ vehicle. The one containing their person of the moment.Listening to CJOC or CHEC, or, if you had a good radio, CKXL in Calgary.Rat races (hide and seek with cars) through the back alleys and sidestreets.The dust hanging in the still air, most noticeable around the street lights. Giant water bugs, ditto.Glancing in the lighted windows of Charlie’s to see who is hanging out there, listening to the jukebox.Checking out the dance in the high school gym and trying to avoid the chaperones, all of whom know one’s parents.Going to one of a half-dozen parties at someone’s barn/gravel pit/cabin/shack complete with bonfire and/or some form of alcohol.Stopping for milk shakes, mushroom burgers and/or popcorn twists at the Milky Way and visiting/flirting with whichever of your friends currently works there…Cruising main again.And finally, as the cars thinned out and your friends find other places to be . . .Sitting by the slow-moving ribbon of silver that gives your town its name. Drinking one last milk shake and eating popcorn twists by the bagful with your big sister. The sixteen-year-old who just gave you a glimpse of what you will be doing when you become teenager in a few short years.And the words over the radio you’ve been waiting all night for: On McKenzie’s Instant Top 12, THIS is Number One!

A Moose Parked...

A repost for birthday number five! And you thought she was protective of her moose!Our second youngest granddaughter, Baby Girl (hereinafter known as BG) was a tiny little thing.Not walking yet, she scurried using the time-honored technique perfected by infants and babies since earth started.Hands and knees.At eleven months old, she could sure get around.Her favourite toy/workout apparatus was her rocking moose - one of many made by my Dad, BG’s great-granddad.(Yes, I said moose. We live in Canada, it seems apropos.)If BG wasn’t busily exploring somewhere she shouldn’t, she could be found on that moose. Rocking wildly.And she was more than a little possessive.Something that had only recently discovered.Allow me to illustrate . . .BG, the youngest of four siblings, was underfoot in the kitchen.Her oldest sister, nine years her senior, saw an opportunity to take a ride on the currently unoccupied moose. (Hmm. There’s a statement you don’t see often!)I should mention here that said older sister had waist-length hair.This will be important later.Moving on . . .BG looked over and spotted her sibling on her moose.Hey!She motored over and, latching onto the moose’s tail, levered herself to her feet.Balancing there, she reached out and grabbed a hank of her sister’s hair.Then she pulled.“Ahh! Mom!” eldest sister squawked.BG pulled again.“Mom! She’s got me!”
BG tugged and tugged and finally, eldest sister disentangled herself and dismounted.
Her youngest sibling lost no time in climbing aboard.Then she turned and grinned at her sister.A knowing, ‘Nya-nya-nya-nya’ sort of grin, complete with wrinkled nose and sparkling eyes.Did I mention that she was eleven months old?!I predicted she’d be CEO of a major company by the time she’s five.That's today!Stay tuned . . . The innocent bystander/cause-of-it-all.

So Hair We Are

Okay. See? Here she looks like a girl!Sometimes, being thrifty has its limits.When I was eighteen, my Mom taught me to cut hair.She thought it was a skill I would need as I contemplated starting my own family.The brave lady used herself as my working model.Let's just say that, for several months, my Mom's hair was . . . interesting.And leave it at that.Her bravery was rewarded.I learned to cut hair.In one style.And short.Moving forward several years.My Husby and I were blessed with three sons.All of whom had the same barber.Me.I got quite proficient at boy's haircuts.And fairly proud of myself.We all know about pride, right.After three sons, our family increased in size once more.By a daughter.A girl?I should mention, here, that my sisters both knew how to do hair and fussy, 'pretty' stuff.I had been raised in the barn.With the horses.And, for some reason, missed out on that talent.Or interest.I didn't realize my lack until the doctor laid my new daughter in my arms.Holy Smoke!My exact words.It was then I realized that being born in the center of the family, with the boys, and spending all of my waking hours and no few of my sleeping ones in the barn, had ill-equipped me to deal with a girl.I muddled through.Fortunately, she mixed in with the boys as easily as her mother had.And was gleaming bald till she was two.That gave me time to work through some of my other inadequacies before I had to tackle the whole 'hair' problem.But, finally, inevitably, the hair grew to a length that required either styling.?????Or cutting.I opted for what I knew and fetched my scissors.All was well.Or so I thought.One evening at an activity, several young boys ran up to her father and I and informed us, loudly, that our son had just gone into the girl's bathroom.I stared at them.We didn't have any of our sons with us.And our daughter was . . .Ah!I learned to do hair.And also to dress my daughter as a girl.But that is another story.
There is a codicil: That same daughter, when asked by her daughter for a haircut, did exactly the same thing.Now her little girl, shorn of her locks, is . . . happy.Full circle.