Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 20

Chews the Right

Me. I wish...
I was a gum chewer. Okay there, I said it.And it wasn’t allowed.I am going somewhere with this...When I was in school 1498 (Okay I exaggerate, but it seems like it!) years ago, it was considered the greatest of misdemeanours to get caught chewing gum during class time. A sin punishable by pointed remarks from one’s teacher. Or teachers.And the loss of said gum.Case in point: I was chewing gum during social class. With Mrs. Wolersheim. Probably the best teacher I ever had.Also the scariest.I was happily chewing away, all the while busy on whatever project she had assigned—notice the ‘busy’ and ‘assignment’ part of that sentence—and, suddenly, these words rang out over the moderately quiet classroom. “Diane! Are you chewing gum?”Okay, you have to know that the instant my name was mentioned at any time during the school day, everything I had ever known in my lifetime immediately fled, never to be recovered.I lifted my head and stared at her, the act of speech now quite forgotten.Finally I managed a tiny nod.“Well, get rid of it!”I simply swallowed.She waited a moment. Then, “Did you swallow it?”Again that feeble nod.“It’ll probably stick your stomach together!”Uh-oh. Too late. It was gone.Mrs. Wollersheim went on, “You know the difference between the gum-chewing girl and the cud-chewing cow?”Okay, I was back to staring. Finally another anaemic head shake.“It’s the thoughtful look on the face of the cow.”Well and truly ‘cowed’ I vowed never to chew again.But you have to know I was weak.And I’d forget about the gum I put into my mouth almost the moment I did it. During recess. When it was allowed.Sadly, this meant I would inevitably walk into class still chewing.I tell all of you this because of something that happened last week.Or maybe I should say last ‘weak’.I take a ‘joints’ class. Meant to help we women of a certain age maintain a a passable relationship with said (ageing) joints.My teacher is fantastic. Knowledgable. Fun.Observant.We were walking around the room, warming up.I was exchanging what I fondly assumed were sotto-voce comments with my tribe and trying to follow the instructions.Suddenly a voice rang out. “Diane!”Now you have to know that 70 and I are starting to strike up a friendship. It used to be long-distance. Now it’s a little too close for comfort. And still, when someone in authority speaks my name, everything I ever knew just...flees.And yes, it takes a wee bit longer to empty my brain now then it did when I was 15. More knowledge, perhaps?At least I tell myself that.I looked up.“Are you chewing gum?”Uh-oh.Yeah. Some things never change.

Those Who Taught Me

Okay, a bit older than our car, but you get the picture.At some point during our junior year in high school, every student was required to take Driver's Education.
It wasn't an imposition.
Though most of us were farm/ranch kids and had been driving since we could see over the dashboard, none of us had ever been allowed to drive on a real road.
Okay, well, I have to admit here that some of us had.
Driven on a real road, I mean.
It's just that our parents didn't know.
Moving on . . .
So it was to be our first experience driving on a real road . . . officially.
The anticipation mounted as we completed every session of pre-driving training.
The lectures and films grew longer and more boring.
More and more, we craned our necks to glance outside at the shiny new car that would soon become ours.
We were getting feverish to actually take the wheel and floor the accelerator.
Finally the day came.
In groups of three, names were drawn.
And then it was my turn.
My time slot allotted.
My waiting at an end.
All right, yes, I still had to wait, but at least I knew just how long the wait would be.
Sheesh.
My group was scheduled to go out in a couple of days, after the end of the school day.
I counted the minutes.
And finally, it was our turn!
The other two students from my group slid into the back seat.
Our instructor, alias: my biology teacher, and I got into the front.
And that was when I discovered that this wasn't quite like any other car I had ever seen.
For one thing, it had two sets of foot pedals.
One on my side.
The other on his.
Weird.
We started out.
Slowly. Though every gram of me (and that was a lot of grams) was itching to stomp that gas pedal to the floor.
We made a circuit of the town.
So far so good.
I was instructed to head out of town along the highway.
Obediently, I followed my instructions.
All went well.
We made a safe (it can be done . . .) U-turn and headed back towards town.
As we were approaching the town limits sign with its stark and very pointed suggestion of speed, I turned to my instructor. "Does that mean we need to start slowing down when we get to the sign, or should we be going that speed when we reach . . .?"
I got no further.
My teacher decided, then and there, to teach me what the second set of floor pedals was for.
He stomped on the brake.
Whereupon (good word) I had a heart attack.
Fortunately, my varied experiences on the ranch had taught me that I could still function, even when my heart had permanently taken up residence somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.
But the lesson was well and truly taught. One must have already achieved the strongly suggested speed limit by the time one reached the sign.
Point taken.
After a few tense seconds of hands-over-the-face whimpering by both I and my teacher, we were once more off.
The rest of my turn passed without further incident.
Which was probably a good thing for my heart.
And my passengers.
We stopped back at the school and one of my team members exchanged seats with me.
I could officially relax.
For some time, we drove around the town.
Then, as we were following the dirt road north, on the far east side of town, our Social Studies teacher approached and flagged us down.
He did this is a subtle, yet clever way.
He drove past, honking, then pulled over to the right directly in front of us.
Our young driver squeaked out, "What do I do?"
Whereupon (that word again) our instructor told her to pull over directly behind the other car and put our car into 'park'.
Done.
She sighed and leaned back against the seat.
The four of us watched our social teacher walk around to our instructor's window.
The window was rolled down and the two began to visit.
Meanwhile, our driver was looking forward.
Towards the other car.
Which appeared to be getting . . . closer.
She stomped on the brake and quickly discovered that it wasn't we who were moving.
Ah! The other car was rolling backwards.
Toward us.
Our driver began to shriek, "Ooh! Ooh! What do I do?! Should I back up?!"
Both teachers looked up.
Just as the 'parked' car collided with us.
Shock warred with embarrassment on both faces.
It was quickly ascertained (another good word) that no damage had been done, either to property or personnel.
And everyone went back to what they were doing before our social teacher had entered the picture.
We completed our training.
Receiving full credit and accolades.
And all of us received our driver's licenses.
It really wasn't that difficult.

Look at the guys who taught us. 

The Spring STORM

By Blair Stringam

When I was 13, my father sold his ranch in Milk River, Alberta, and bought a ranch up near Fort Macleod, Alberta about 120 miles away.We went through the arduous task of loading up all of the equipment including tractors, bailers, cultivators, swathers, hay rakes, livestock equipment, saddles, bridles, shop tools, shop tools, shop tools (hey, we needed shop tools to keep me busy on the long winter evenings), horses, snow mobiles…oh, and of course cows for the new ranch. We were very excited for our new adventure.Now one thing that we often experience in our area in the spring are sudden snow storms.When we unloaded our cows, we had deposited them in a large open field where the grass was growing well and would keep them happily fed until we could get everything else moved in.Then came the storm.It changed our priorities for a few days.Because the cows were in an open field, the storm pushed them down to the fence at the far end. There they huddled together trying to keep warm.Many of the cows had delivered their calves and the new calves were struggling even more to keep warm.To quote an old saying, this wasn’t our first rodeo. We knew we had to get the cows and calves to shelter fast.And feed them large quantities of hay.On our new ranch, we had a field with many trees growing in it. We called it the tree field (creative name eh?). It was an ideal location for the much-needed shelter.We loaded the trucks with hay, then opened the gates where the cows were located and, with the cows eagerly following, drove to the field where they were fed and finally able to find shelter.Sadly, there were a handful of calves just too cold to make the trip.We picked them up and brought them to the homestead where my little sister, Anita had set up a ‘calf emergency room’ with heaters, blankets and bottles of milk supplement. She also had a check-in booklet with the calves’ identification and description of their aliments (ie. calf is chilled).Unfortunately, despite our best efforts and prayers, 2 or 3 calves simply were not able to recover.Then followed the very worst thing about ranching.Their breathing would become fainter and then they would give one last devastating ‘bahhh’ and die.It was heartbreaking.And a stark reminder of how hard ranch life can be.We had to take comfort in the reminder that the vast majority of calves survived and were comfortably lounging in the tree field with their mamas.In the next few days, as the snow melted, I was reassured as I rode through the pasture to check on the cows.The surviving calves would get up as I rode by and leisurely stretch while their mamas watched casually.The grass was especially green from the moisture of the snow, the air was fresh and cool and the smell of sage was distinct and strong.Almost, I could forget the tragedies and be reminded just why growing up on a ranch was a blessing.   

Productive Time

 Despite the fact they couldn’t find the loot for jobs (times three!)

And though they’d looked and pestered and he left them all ‘at sea’,

Their son had been arrested—doing time for robbery,

His dad wrote him a letter wishing he could soon be free,

“I’m getting old, my boy,” he said. “And I just can’t see me

Plowing fields to get them ready for spring’s planting spree.”

The boy wrote back, said, “Dad! Please do not plow there past the trees!

I’ve buried ‘something’ there I don’t wish anyone to see,

I will not say just what it is to you, my conferee,

Because they read my letters here. You know that part is key,

If the cops were to discover what I left, you will agree,

My situation here would be compounded terribly!”

A few days later came a letter for the addressee,

Again, ‘twas from his father and the note was filled with glee,

“I’m not quite sure what happened, Son,” the letter said to he,

“But I’d just got your letter when some cops came o’er the lee,

And dug and dug and turned the soil as far as I could see,

Then disappointed, packed and left me with a field’s debris,

I don’t know why they came, my boy—what purpose there could be,

But now I’ll get my planting done. A miracle you’ll agree!”

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So  Karen , Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

What’s your favourite ‘snacky’ treat?Our frozen Yogurt’s hard to beat!
Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...Time (January 30) Today!Frozen Yogurt (February 6)Random Acts of Kindness (February 13)Be Humble (February 20)Pineapple (February 27)Cookies (March 6)Butterflies (March 13)Buzzards (March 20)Celebrating Earth Day (March 27)Maps (April 3)Golf (April 10)Safety Pins (April 17)Pigs in Blankets (April 24)

Going Away

Gramma comes and gramma stays. Then Gramma goes away.

But while she’s there, her little ones enjoy their time in play,

But Gramma lives a long ways off, by jet she must arrive,

The trip would take her days to do if ever she did drive!

So at the airport, filled with glee, her family appears,

Collects their Gramma and her gear—least once or twice a year,

Then days are filled with food and fun and games and reading, too,

How those kids wish she could stay. A month, or maybe two,

But soon the days have passed and then, it’s time to take her back,

And leave her at the airport with her suitcase and her pack,

They love it when she comes, but not when she must go away,

And so much time must pass before another ‘rrival day,

One day when they were driving to the airport once again,

To leave their gramma there to wend her way home on the plane,

The youngest child betrayed that, though she knew the where’s and why’s,

She’d missed a little something in the ‘how’ when Gramma flies,

Gramma talked about her car—a problem she had there. 

The child looked surprised, and turned and gave her ‘Gran’ a stare,

Said, “Gran, you have a car? I didn’t know that, not at all!

Why don’t you ever drive it when you make your Gramma calls?”

Mama said, “Why do you think we’re at the airport, Hon…

Collecting Gram when she arrives to join her loving ones?”

The little girl just raised her brows as high as they could get,

“I didn’t know she had a car, I thought she drove a jet!”

 

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado issues a challenge: Write a Poem on a Theme!

We all contribute topics.

And the result is our Monthly Poetry Challenge.

This month’s theme? Go Away

Thirsty for more fun?

Baking In A Tornado

Messymimi’s Meanderings

Moving Out

A room of her own...Our youngest daughter and her family lived with us.

They had been saving for a house and it seemed a logical--and rather elegant--solution.

We had enjoyed those days together, probably more so because we knew they wouldn’t last forever.

But the house-hunting had started.

Now you have to realize that Youngest Daughter (hereinafter known as Mama) had been with us since her first marriage crumbled. Her little girl (LG) was just past a year old When things fell apart and Mama needed the support as she went back to work.

Grandma got to spend her days with LG and routines continued unabated. (Ooh. Good word.)

But now, with a wonderful new husband and a desire to ‘add to their family’ (whatever that means…) they were getting serious about finding a place of their own.

There were certain things they wanted in their new home. A garage was important so Mama could continue with her theatre carpentry at her own home.

Things like a kitchen, living room, basement are a given.

And bedrooms.

And this is where other members of their family made their wishes known.

LG had some particular demands. For one, she wanted the master bedroom to be big enough that her little bed could be parked beside her mother’s. None of this ‘separate rooms’ nonsense.

Also, there must be a room for Grandma.

Soooo . . . at least two bedrooms.

Now we know what a real estate agent goes through.

Catching Colt

Have you ever heard the term 'catch colt'?
I'm sure you can figure out that it has something to do with horses.
And you'd be right.
Allow me to explain. And to do so, I'll have to tell you a story.
But first a little lesson in land surveying . . .
On the Stringam ranch, at its heyday, there was a lot of land.
A. Lot. Of. Land.
Two and a half townships.
Pastures were measured off in 640 acre sections.
36 sections were grouped into a township.
The ranch covered two and a half of those.
Not the largest ranch in Southern Alberta, but up there somewhere.
You've probably heard the term 'wide open spaces'?
That would apply here.
An animal let loose in one of those pastures had a lot of ground to cover.
And an endless selection of things to get into. Good. Or more frequently, bad.
It wasn't unusual for a cowboy out checking the terrain to come across animals in dire need of assistance. Animals that had been attacked by cougars or wolves. Cut by barbed wire. Foundered in a mud pit. Even lamed by an altercation with something as innocuous as a gopher hole.
In fact, with all the room out there for anything to happen, it's a wonder more 'anythings' didn't.
Also. When animals are out on the range, hijinks occur.
And that leads nicely into my story . . . the Catch Colt.
Our little herd of working mares and geldings (male horses with their 'male' bits removed) had been turned out to pasture.
They lost no time in heading for the nearest far-away place.
And you know just how far-away that could be. (See above.)
A few days later, those same horses were brought back into the ranch for their next work shift.
They came in as they went out.
No more. No less.
Or so we thought.
In fact for several months, we so thought.
Then one of the mares began to show signs of grass-belly.
I mean that girl could eat.
Ten months later, she surprised us by proving her belly wasn't full of grass.
Okay, I'm pretty sure that my dad, he of the veterinarian doctorate, figured it out long before I did.
But for me, it was a grand surprise to see, next to our newly-lean mare, a fine little roan filly.
A little girl whose parentage was very much in question. We didn't own a stallion. (Male horse with 'male' bits intact.) None of our neighbours owned a stallion.
No wandering stallion had been reported in the district.
Where did this little girl come from?
Her attentive mother hid her secrets behind quiet dark eyes and a far-away look.
I think it went something like this: Tall, dark stranger wanders into the campsite. Wows the ladies with stories of far-away lands and grand exploits. Invites the quiet one out for a stroll and enticing dip in the cool waters of the Milk River.
And . . .
Now you know where 'catch colts' come from.
You're welcome.

Clock-ing

Clocks are such amazing things,

Made of sprockets, gears and rings,

All put together with finesse,

A skill I missed, I do confess.

Someone I know possessed the flair,

Made working clocks of naught but air!

Yes, I exaggerate, it’s true,

But still he had the talent to

Take wood and gears and faces, hands,

The clocks he made for us were grand!  

He didn’t start that way, oh, no,

On a ranch he dared to grow,

Became a rancher well esteemed,

Lived the life that many dream,

Bossing cowboys, cows and mounts,

And did it well, by all accounts,

But as he aged, his holdings shrank,

A one-bed walk-up, small, but swank,

And nestled in the basement there,

A shop for ‘making’ or repair,

And there he learned to hone his craft,

With wood and saw and gear and shaft,

And works of art he mass-produced,

They gave his self-esteem a boost,

And proudly shared with one and all,

His handsome clocks, both large and small…

He’s gone now, on the other side,

His clocks have spread both far and wide,

Remembered for so many things,

Husband, father, neighbour, king,

Rancher, businessman, and wise,

With friendly smile and knowing eyes,

Though known for much, all good, not bad…

When I see CLOCKS, I think of Dad!

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So  Karen , Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week, a similar refrain,Our topic will be 'Time' again!
Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?We'd love to welcome you!Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...Clocks (January 23) Today!Time (January 30)Frozen Yogurt (February 6)Random Acts of Kindness (February 13)Be Humble (February 20)Pineapple (February 27)Cookies (March 6)Butterflies (March 13)Buzzards (March 20)Celebrating Earth Day(March 27)

Hair Lost

See? Cute. But hairless . . .I don't want to say that our second son didn't have any hair when he was born, but . . .

Okay. He didn't have any hair.

There is a story behind that . . . 

And it all has to do with tomatoes.

Tomatoes?!

When I was expecting him, I craved tomatoes.

CRAVED.

I couldn't get enough tomatoes.

Or anything remotely 'tomato'.

We ate tacos a lot.

Four or five times a week.

Fortunately, my Husby liked tacos.

Have I mentioned that my Husby is a patient lad?

Well, he is.

Moving on . . .

Our tacos were very heavy in the tomato department.

Fresh, diced.

Mixed into the meat as tomato sauce from a can. 

Spooned on as salsa (pico de gallo).I think we could quite literally have called them 'tomato tacos'.

Oh, and I added Tabasco sauce.

A lot of Tabasco sauce.

Because, along with my out-of-control craving for tomatoes, was my even-more-out-of-control craving for things spicy.

So my usual routine was: 

Taco shell. 

Smear with Salsa. The hottest that could be found.

Spoon in meat, complete with lots of tomato. 

Add another giant spoon of Salsa

Cover with fresh, diced tomatoes. 

Add fresh, diced onions and shredded cheese. 

Add another spoonful of salsa. 

Just because. 

Add seven drops of Tabasco. Seven. Not one drop more or less.

Eat.

Repeat.

Several times

Mmmmm.

When my baby boy was born, he had no hair on his little round head.

My Husby maintains that I burned it off.

But what do Husby's know . . .?

An interesting side note:The day I brought my baby home from the hospital, I again made tacos.

I had been days without them and was definitely needing my fix.

I put a taco together in the same fashion that had become routine in the preceding months . . .

And couldn't eat it.

It was so hot, I couldn't get it anywhere near my face, let alone inside my mouth.

Weird.

Another side note:

My Dad, from the day that Erik was born until he was two and actually began to grow hair, called my son 'Cueball'.

Really.

He even painted an 'eight' on top of his head.

True story.

Yep.

All due to tomatoes.

Who knew?

Little Toots

I don’t often write about bodily humour.

Okay, you’re right. This makes twice in one week.

It was just so cute . . .

Momma and Little Girl (hereinafter known as LG) were having a ‘sleepover’.

They had enjoyed a fun evening of movies.

Popcorn.

Treats.

Pillow fights.

And staying up way too late.

Morning had arrived, as morning often does.

Early.

Both were lying in bed. Momma, trying to get the energy to roll out of said bed.

LG watching Momma.

Someone tooted.

Momma looked over at LG. “Was that you?”

LG giggled.

“You just tooted in my bed!”

More giggles.

“You’re not supposed to toot in my bed!”LG looked coy. “That’s okay, Momma,” she said. “I’m on Daddy’s side of the bed!”

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!