Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 164

Charlie's

Charlie's. The dive formerly known as Danny's.
But, in reality, the Canadian Cafe.
All the teenagers in Milk River went there. The little, dark, hole-in-the-wall storefront with the half-dozen booths, a couple of pinball machines, dusty dingy floors, dim lighting and the long glass-fronted counter on the north wall.
It was the 'after-school and sometimes Saturdays' place to be.
To just hang out and be cool.
Maybe get a snack. A bottle of pop. Fudgecicle. Chocolate bar.
Play pinball. I should mention here that this was where I learned there is a fine line between 'encouraging' the pinball game and making it 'tilt'. There's a dime I'll never get back.
Moving on . . .
One could listen to the latest hits on the giant jukebox that greeted you as you stepped in the front door. Those fresh and new and those that instigated a store-wide groan because they had been played a little too much. *cough-Honey!*
It was to Charlie's I went to meet my friends whenever I had a loose nickel.
Or--more often--when I didn't have any money at all.
Of course, at those times, we were at the mercy of the moneyed because they got to choose all the music. *cough-Honey!*
Charlie's was the place to let it all hang out.
The first place I saw someone my age smoking.
Gasp.
Where you snuggled into one of the booths on a vinyl-covered bench with your sweetie-of-the-moment.
Okay, I never got to do that, but I dreamed . . .
It was also the place my friends and I discovered that one could actually square dance to 'Ode To Joy'.
True story.
Also my brother tells me it was the place for the finest chop suey known to man.
Who knew?
What was your Charlie's?

One more time. Honey:

The Elves and the Shoemaker

It's play time again!
And by that I mean that my little group of Thespians are nearing performance for this year's show: The Elves and the Shoemaker.
And what fun we've had putting this little musical together!
Late Tuesday evenings.
Early Saturday mornings.
Sleepy little elves.
Sleepier shoemakers.
I'll keep you posted on how it goes . . .

Pulling Off Memories

Dad and some of his many slaves . . .
My Dad didn't have children.
He had slaves.
At least that is how his children saw it . . .
Dad worked hard doing . . . ranch stuff.
It took him most of the day.
Every day.
When he came in, his recliner looked really, really good and it took great motivation to entice him to leave it.
Great motivation.
Silly little things like removing one's work boots or tossing things in the garbage weren't nearly big enough. Thus it was necessary to find other ways to accomplish these things.
That's where we came in.
His six little, willing slaves.
Every evening, one of us would be chosen for the distinct honour (his words) of helping Dad remove his boots.
Fortunately, this was a fairly simple operation, easily accomplished by a pair of small, eager hands, a backside and a large foot.
Don't get the wrong idea. There was no kicking involved . . .
The large person seated in the chair would lift his booted foot.
The standing smaller person would turn their back, straddle said foot and grasp the boot.
That's where the large foot came in.
While the small hands gripped the boot, the large foot would apply pressure to the small backside.
Small person would be pressed away from the large person and the boot would slide slowly from the foot.
Until, at last it would drop to the floor.
The boot, not the foot.
Surgery completed.
The second boot would follow the first and much toe-wiggling comfort would be achieved.
And, more importantly, no one who had been working hard all day would have had to move out of his chair.
Utopia. (That's another word for Paradise, I looked it up . . .)
Moving on . . .
Dad was also reluctant to leave his chair for such frivolities as throwing things in the garbage.
Call in the slaves once more.
Dad always finished the evening meal with a toothpick.
I know, I know, the rest of the world would infinitely prefer ice cream, but what can I say? Dad even followed his ice cream with a toothpick.
That's just Dad.
He even had a preference.
For toothpicks, I mean.
He liked the wooden ones.
Which he would then proceed to chew into a little ball of pulp.
Umm . . . ick.
Now in our earlier years, we kids could always be counted on to receive the little ball of 'ick' and drop it into the proper receptacle.
As we grew older, we got, for want of a better term, smarter.
We found other places to be when Dad got to the end of his little splinter of wood.
Dad had to get . . . creative.
My Mom had a plant. A beautiful pineapple plant. She had grown it from the cut off top of a pineapple imported from her and Dad's trip to Hawaii.
I think the rules for bringing fruit across the border were different then.
But I digress . . .
It was large.
Really large.
And it sat in a tub on the floor right beside Dad's chair.
He's only human, he can't be blamed for what happened next.
He finished with his toothpick and called out for a child.
Any child.
We were all hidden in the family room.
Giggling.
He sighed and briefly considered getting up. Then looked for someplace to deposit his little, wooden offering.
Huh. A large, leafy plant right beside him.
If Mom hadn't wanted it tampered with, she should have found somewhere else to put it.
He hid his little lump of sawdust in the pot under the convenient leaves.
Mission accomplished.
Hey, that worked great! And there wasn't a sign of anything!
He had discovered something new and wonderful. Especially when one was blessed with slacker children.
Like us . . .
He did it the next night.
And the next.
And for many, many nights afterwards.
Then, one day, when Mom was taking care of her beloved plant, she noticed that it wasn't looking very healthy. She pulled out the pot to investigate.
I don't have to tell you what she found. At this point, the layer of chewed up bits of toothpick was a couple of inches deep.
The plant was obviously as fond of them as we kids were.
And protesting in the only way it could.
By dying.
Okay, yes, that is a bit extreme, but it was a plant. You have to admit it really didn't have many options.
Huffily (real word), Mom moved the plant somewhere . . . not close to Dad.
And put a garbage container beside his chair.

We all moved away from home.
Dad still had the garbage can conveniently beside his chair for his recycled toothpicks.
But he started wearing shoes that he could remove by himself.
One time, when we were visiting, he initiated our oldest granddaughter in the fine art of helping Great-Grandpa remove said shoes.
For the rest of us, it was a short stroll down memory lane.
All that was missing were the work boots.

Dimming the Bright Lights

Mondays are for poetry!Can you think of a better way to start the week?And what subject could be more fun than one of Dad's favourite stories?!Ready?Go!

The movie flashed and flickered on the silver picture screen,The movie-goers hoped it’d be the best they’d ever seen.But one cowboy seemed determined on disturbing one and all,And laying out across three seats in a mean and thoughtless sprawl.
When Usher—with his usher’s light—was directed to him there,He said, “My man, you’ll have to move! You cannot have three chairs!”“And I really do not care if you are drunk, or stoned, or ill.”“This ain’t the way that things are done, even here in ol’ Hicksville.”
His light showed him a quiet face, with cowboy hat askew,He said, “You understand, my man? You’ll simply have to move.”But the cowboy just ignored him, clearly would not be dethroned.And though the usher gave him time, he didn’t talk, he groaned.
The usher straightened with a huff, and management, he sought,Returning with his boss would give that cowboy food for thought!When Usher and his boss came back, primed and prepared to teach.The cowboy still used up three chairs and groaned in lieu of speech.
The manager reached out and tapped the cowboy on the arm,He said, “Young man, we are not bad and don’t mean any harm.”“But what the usher said is true. You must vacate this place.”“He wasn’t being foul, it’s just: We simply need the space!”
If he thought that his proposals, soon the cowboy would apply,He must admit the end result did not quite satisfy.For though he spoke with kindly mien and quiet, gentle tone,The cowboy did not move and only answered in a groan.
The cowboy did exasperate, t’was not their sought outcome.Said Usher, “What’s your name, my man, and where did you come from?”“I’m Joe,” the cowboy said to them, with next to no esprit.Then he raised a hand and pointed. “I came from the balcony!” 
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Unexpected Answers

Daddy on Heinrich.
(With my eldest sister who doesn't appear in this story...)The Stringam ranch covered a lot of ground.A lot.Going out to check the cows was an event.Usually requiring hours. If not a whole day.And prairie weather is—ummm---let’s go with capricious.It sounds a whole lot better than unpredictable. Or just downright volatile.On to my story . . .Daddy had gone to ride through the herd, checking that no one was AWOL.Or hurting.Or dead. It was nature, after all.It had been a beautiful day when he left. With no weather channel or satellite imaging, there was no way of knowing that this could change. Dramatically. Sigh.About five miles from the ranch, a storm blew up.Now you have to know that the prairies are known for their endless stretches of grasses.And notable absence of trees. When a storm starts, it can get a really good run.In a matter of seconds, one can go from happily basking in the winter sunlight to being mercilessly buffeted by cutting winds and blinding snow.That’s what happened here.Daddy’s world was instantly blotted out.No landmarks. No solar guide.Up and down were even difficult to differentiate. Daddy stopped his horse. There was only one thing left to do.Have you ever heard the phrase: “There are no atheists in foxholes”?Well that would apply equally to ranchers stuck in snowstorms.Daddy needed to pray.He did.Then he waited.All at once, he felt the distinct impression to let go of the reins.Yep. Cross them over the horse’s neck and leave them there.I expect you realize that this is a tall order for a rancher. You let go of the reins, you lose control of the situation.Again, the impression came.Sighing, Daddy did as he felt impressed to do. Then hunkered down in his coat and tried to pretend he was somewhere warm and sunny.The horse started to walk.Slowly. And steadily.Occasionally, Daddy would poke his head out to stare at the great featureless wall of snow that hemmed he and his horse on every side.Then, as his mount kept moving, he would slide back into the comparative warmth of his coat and start praying again.All at once, the storm seemed to lessen. Daddy frowned. Yes. There was a definite break in the wind.The horse stopped moving.Daddy poked his head out.They were standing in front of the barn.I believe in answered prayers.And in the Guardian Angels sent to our aid.They appear in all sorts of ways.Sometimes with four legs and a mane and tail. 

Let Them Be Little

It should probably come as no surprise that I love children.
And that I had (what I consider) a stellar childhood.
I was raised with peace.
Security.
Kindness.
Tenderness.
Good food.
And a lot of adventure.
Today, I'm thinking of those children throughout the world who have none of these things.
And my heart breaks for them.
In my opinion, children should never have to fear.
Suffer.
Die.
I donate my money.
I offer them my prayers.
I keep them in my heart.
Today, I'm thinking of them.
Be little.

Tough Ranchers

We depended on our horses on the ranch.They were usually well trained and quiet, something you needed when you worked cattle. A jumpy horse would rile up said cattle and get them nervous.This made them difficult to handle. They may hurt themselves or just go running in some crazy direction and lose lots of precious weight that Dad had just spent many feed dollars trying to put on their bodies.Because, let’s face the hairy truth: Cows aren’t the geniuses of the ranching community . . .It takes many years to make/train a quiet cattle horse.You start with a colt that is full of lots of energy and you train and train using various techniques to develop a well-behaved horse.Having said all that, somewhere in the training/breaking process, you have to use the ‘green broke’ horse to work cows as part of their schooling.Our family had a friend that I’ll call RG, who was in the middle of one of these young-colt/quiet-horse processes.On a beautiful spring day RG and several members of his ranch crew were taking a large herd of cattle from their ranch headquarters to the spring pasture—a trek that put Dad’s ranch at the half way point.Our friend dropped by earlier in the day and left his green broke colt, planning to trade his well-trained cattle horse for the green horse at the halfway point. This would give the green horse the opportunity to work with cows, but the cows would be tired and quiet and not likely get excited if the horse got a little jumpy.I was up at the barn when our friend rode up to exchange horses. He quickly saddled the green horse and mounted.I guess his horse was not quite ready for any cattle drive because he pulled his head down and started bucking.Now, initially I thought that this wouldn’t be a problem. RG was a seasoned cattle rancher and he could manage a green horse.Then I realized that RG was also 75 years old and maybe not as strong as a young rancher.The horse bucked several times.I held my breath. With every hop of the horse a word popped into my head.Don’t!Fall!Off!The!Horse!You! Are! Old! And! Will! BREAK!I hoped and prayed that RG could get things settled before he was piled.And I would have to call an ambulance.But RG couldn’t hold on any longer and the horse piled him good. He groaned and let go of the horse’s reins.My body hurt just seeing him get planted.It seemed for a brief moment that RG was down for the count and I was afraid that my greatest fears had come true.I was about to run over and ask him if he was ok when RG pulled himself up, spun around and grabbed the reins of the horse. He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle.It was like a reflex action. I was sure that RG was hurt and would have liked to come into the ranch house for a rest.I thought: ‘RG is going to be sore tonight.’Once RG was back in the saddle, his horse settled. He said, “I’ll be back later for the other horse.” Then headed down the road after the herd of cattle.I watched anxiously as he rode away, not wanting to see a repeat of the piling episode.I didn’t.I learned something from this: These old ranchers are tougher than my generation.Marlboro man you ain’t got nothin’ on RG!
It's fun to see stories of the Stringam Ranch from a different set of eyes.Today's adventure is courtesy of my little brother, Blair.

Stu Stories: The Adventures of Dirt Clod and his Sidekick, Bird Bones

When we were growing up, we all had that friend who was just a bit larger than life. That kid who tried things. Adults loved them. Kids loved them. Bad things never seemed to affect them.They lived a charmed life.And we sidekicks desperately wished we could be the same.Stu Stories, the Adventures of Dirt Clod and his sidekick Bird Bonesis a fun, crazy, highly entertaining series of adventures featuring just such a kid.Stu Sanderson, alias Dirt Clod. Who, on his way to becoming an eighth-grade legend, challenges knights, does magic, kidnaps the teacher’s marker box, reads minds, disappears in the middle of class . . .And never uses a door to enter his home.Even when life goes horribly, terribly wrong, Stu never loses his charm. Or his sense of humour.I want to be just like Stu.
About the book:Stu Sanderson is no ordinary eighth-grader. Not only is he seven feet tall, but he also vanishes into thin air, duels knights and ninjas, lifts the downtrodden, and woos the best-calved girl in school. Become a middle-grade legend with Stu and his sidekick, Bird Bones, on the journey of a lifetime in “Stu Stories.” About the author:Patrick Hueller has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Minnesota. His fiction and humor have been published fairly widely (sometimes under the pen names “Paul Hoblin” or “P.W. Hueller”). Fun fact: he’s Cedar Fort author Andy Hueller’s identical twin brother. They like to do readings together whenever they can. He’s been a middle school teacher and is currently a college English professor at Hamline University.  


Stu Stories can be found at these fine stores:Amazon Barnes and NobleBooks and Things

Definitely Not Friends

Spiders and I get along very well.As long as there is space between us.Lots and lots of space.When I can see them ‘over there’. And I’m quite sure when they can see me ‘equally over there’.Perhaps we could call it a mutual respect? Reverence? Esteem?Nope, I think ‘aversion’ fits in here quite well . . .When I was in grade seven, my seat was the last in the row next to the windows.As far from the teacher as I could be and still be considered ‘in’ the class.On this sunny day, a large spider had been happily parked in his web high up in the window closest to my desk. For a reason known only to his tiny little spider brain, he decided it was time to leave said window, travel down the wall and begin a journey across the floor.Now, up to this point, my eyes had been glued to the little eight-legged cretin. That whole ‘over there’ scenario (see above).But just as he reached the floor and started to cross between me and the student in front of me, the teacher asked me a question.Requiring my attention.Really?You’ve been ignoring me this whole morning and you ask a question now?!It was a dilemma. Fear of the teacher vs fear of the spider.Hmmm . . . that’s a toughie.I decided on the half-way approach. One eye on each.Yeah. It didn’t work. I gave a bit too much attention to the teacher and lost sight of my busy little friend.Partway through my answer, something touched my leg.I am not making this up.My brain equated said touch as ATTACK OF THE DEADLY SPIDER!!! EVERY MAN (or woman) FOR THEMSELVES!!!I leaped up out of my chair and did a week’s worth of cardio in only four seconds, to the amusement of my fellow students and astonishment of the teacher. Finally, seeing no spider, I returned to my senses.And my seat.The spider never appeared.I figure that means one of the following scenarios:1.  My impromptu tarantella flung the little monster to the far side of the sun.2.  He was never on my leg. Which also raises the question: What—or who—touched me?3.  Spiders don’t exist and are merely little brain aberrations. (Preferred.)Which do you choose? And what scares you?
P.S. I also have a little ceremony in which I shake out my shoes before putting them on. You never know where those sneaky little beggers will be hiding. 

There is a lot of 'stuff' going on in the world.You won't find any of it here.I want this blog to be a little oasis of peace and good humour.Thank you for visiting!

In the Beginning...

It's time for 'Poetry Monday' again!Let's face it, Mondays need the help!
In the Beginning: When Father made the donkey, He said, “Fifty years is yours!”“And you’ll eat only grass and do all the heavy chores.”“And you will not be known as the ‘sharp knife in the drawer’ . . .”The donkey said, “That time’s too much, gimme twenty years. No more.”
Then Father made the dog and told him he’d look after man,He would be known as man’s best friend and serve the best he can.He’d eat whate’er they gave him and live twenty years. Plus five.The dog said, “Twenty-five’s too much. Just ten I’ll be alive.”
Now Father thought He’d have some fun and so the monkey made.Who’d jump around from branch to branch there in the jungle glade.He’d silly act and silly walk and live twenty silly years.The monkey said, “That’s twice too much. For ten, I’ll volunteer.”
And then when he’d made the others, Father finally got to man.He said, “You’ll be a thinker. With a twenty-year lifespan.”“You’ll dominate the others, be the top guy everywhere.”But man, he said. “No disrespect, but hold your horses there.”
“Twenty years is not enough, so can we make a deal?”“The creatures cast their time away, those years I’ll gladly steal.”And Father nodded thoughtfully and said, “That sounds okay.”The two shook hands, their bargain made, and still it stands today.
So, man lives twenty years as man, then to an adult, turns,And lives his thirty ‘donkey’s years—his daily bread he earns.Then caring for his house and eating anything he’s given,He spends his fifteen ‘doggie’s’ years, just thinking he’s in heaven.
It’s time to use his ‘monkey’s' years soon after he retires,To silly be. And playing like his hair's been set afire.This last decade, he gets to do the ‘dos’ he never ‘dids’,This time’s the best of all, he spending it with his grandkids!