Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 27

My Chinny-Chin-Chin

She was sitting on my knee, studying my face as only a toddler can.Wha's that, Gramma?" She pointed."My chin," I said helpfully."No, Gramma . . . that!" She pointed again."Oh, that's a scar, sweetheart."She touched it. "Owww!" she said."It doesn't hurt, sweetheart. It's old. Like Gramma.""Oh.""Gramma got it from a cow."She stared at me. Skepticism writ large in the two-year-old expression.  No way the gentle cows from the books we read could ever have given Gramma the two-inch scar she sported across her chin.
"Yep. A cow," I repeated.
So, for my granddaughter, and those who haven't heard the story . . .

Me and GollyGee. Ready for action...I never used a saddle.Only a 'riding pad'.
Tacking up was amazingly easier. Riding much more natural.
And no stirrups to get in the way.
But it afforded other . . . complications. For one thing you could never use a rope.
Nothing to dally to.
Chasing down and securing a calf presented . . . certain challenges.
But . . . Adapt. Adopt. Become adept. The theme song of ranch life.
I simply rode up beside them and leaned off to one side, catching said calf by the tail. Then I slid off on top of him. Or her.
It was fool proof.
Until I met Cow 175.
Head on.
But I am getting ahead of myself . . .
The day started out much as any other. I was 'riding herd'. Checking to see if anyone had calved, or needed help in doing so. I came across a small, obviously newborn calf hidden in the tall grass.
I should explain that a new cow mother will instruct her new calf to lie quietly until she returns.
I don't know how they do this. But they do.
The new little calves will simply lie there while you vaccinate them and check them over.
But the final step, the one where the calf is officially identified and tagged to match mama, is the trickiest.
Because this requires the attendance of said mama.
Imagine trying to pick out the mama when all the cows and calves . . . look the same.
I found that the best way was to straddle the calf and make 'distressed baby' noises. Guaranteed to encourage any mama to come on the run.
It worked.
Mama came.
Mama saw.
Mama attacked.
Now I should mention here that my Dad raised Polled Herefords. The breed known for their gentle dispositions. And the absence of horns. Thus the word 'polled'.
They don’t need them. Let's just say that if they had them, my scar would look a whole lot different.
And this story would have had a vastly different ending.
See that 'poll' on her head, between her ears? 
Avoid that.Moving on . . .
175 hit me with the pointy part of her head. The part between her ears made entirely of bone.
I saw stars and quite a bit of the prairie as I left the calf.
In a summersault.
Backwards.
The culprit and her offspring wasted no time in vacating the area.
I got to my feet and stared after them, fuzzily. I had lost my glasses in the encounter. But that didn’t even slow me down.
I piled back onto my horse and started after the two, quickly nabbing the calf once more. This time, I took the precaution of dragging it beneath my horse—an old cowboy trick.
Something else you should know is that throughout my years on the ranch, I was known for riding really . . . ummm . . . green horses. Usually radically unsuited to ranch life. GollyGee, my mount of the moment was totally in keeping with this reputation. She was an ex-racehorse. Tall, lean, fast, and really . . . un-smart. Usually, a person walking anywhere near her would have startled her. Thus sending her, by the most direct route, to the moon.
And a person dragging something toward her? To Jupiter.
Perhaps the anger radiating off me in waves had a stupefying effect. Perhaps she was merely trying something new. Self preservation.
Whichever. She stood like a rock as I dragged the 50 pounds of protesting red and white calf beneath her.
Now most cows are afraid of horses. Fortunately for me, this particular cow was only over-protective, not suicidal.
She did laps while I injected and tagged her calf.
Then I stood up, releasing the baby, but before it could regain its feet and rejoin its mama, I walked over and booted said mama in her giant red butt. Twice.
I don't know what it did for her, but it made me feel a bit better.
Then I watched as the two of them headed for some human-less spot.
Riding back to the scene of the crime, I searched around until I finally discovered my glasses. Miraculously undamaged.
Then I rode home and stabled my horse.
And here is where the story really gets interesting . . .
My Mom was the daughter of a rancher. Her years of ranching experience were many and varied. But she could still be shocked.
When I walked in the kitchen door, she screamed. And ran for a towel. It was only then that I realized that I could feel the tip of my tongue.
Through my bottom lip.
And that my shirt was completely covered in blood.
Huh. How did I miss that?!

Fired Up

‘T’ and his friends were digging a hole.

But not just any hole.

This was to be a hole of parts. Something stupendous. Mind blowing.

A hole to be remembered.

And it was.

Just for all the wrong reasons.

Maybe I should explain…

The boys had been digging for quite some time.

It probably seemed much longer to them than it was in reality, but that doesn’t matter.

Because, regardless of how long they had been digging, they were getting tired.

And bored.

Remember the saying, ‘Necessity is the mother of invention’?

Well, tired muscles and boredom are the ‘Father’s of desperate creativity’. And yes, I just made that up.

Because these boys were ready to try anything to get their giant, stupendous hole in the ground.

Except work hard.

Then one of them had—what to him was—an astounding idea.

They would get their Olympic-sized hole.

And they wouldn’t have to do much work.

I think it was this last that got everyone’s attention.

They all looked at him sceptically. “How?”someone asked.

He explained that he had a bunch of fireworks and firecrackers.

Now he really had their attention!

“Let’s put them all in our hole and light them. The resulting explosion will do our work for us.”

Now you have to know that a group of little boys are definitely NOT going to turn down this idea.

They helped him gather up his fireworks…

And dump the entire mass into the hole.

All was good so far.

They lit the fuses.

Still okay.

And that was the precise moment ‘T’s’ mother came out into the yard to collect the laundry that had been drying on the line.

A job that put her in close proximity to the hole.

Oh, not close enough that the boys were worried about her safety.

Just close enough that they were worried about their own if she caught sight of what they were doing.

Meanwhile the fuses were still hissing happily away in the hole.

One of the boys got the brilliant idea of covering the hole (and their soon-to-be crime) with a sheet of plywood.

Which they did.

Then, as a last precaution, they all stood on said plywood.

I’m sure you can see where this is going. Boys standing on a flimsy sheet of plywood over a hole containing a boatload of explosives.

The good news? They got their hole.

The bad news?

They almost achieved orbit.

The explosives…erm…exploded.

The plywood disintegrated.

And several small boy bodies were tossed around like wood chips. (Which were also plentiful—owing to the shattering of their plywood Crime-cover.)

They survived.

I know you were worried so I thought I mention it.

But I think ‘T’s’ mom grounded him from explosives for the rest of his natural life—as well as that of his children/grandchildren.

The hole may still be there.

Being used for something spectacular.

Well, that’s what I like to think…

My First Murder

Okay, I'm half-past excited here...
My newest book has just been released.
My first cozy murder mystery!
Harriet Ansen--Harrie to her friends--has spent the last 30 years as a stay-at-home mom/Grandma. With that training ongoing, she is ready to face a new challenge. Her first out-of-the-house job.
Beaumont's newest Real Estate agent.
Will her years of changing diapers, drilling spelling tests, dealing with testy coaches and serving on the PTA prepare her for what's next? For bickering (and seriously odd) relatives. Exotic animals. A philandering boss.
And murder?
I would love for you to read it. And then let me know if you figured it out!Who knew murder could be fun? Well, writing about it anyway!P.S. My internet search history is now seriously deranged and may get me flagged! ;)

Find Real Estates: All Murders Included in the Price at Amazon! In Kindle, Paperback and (new!) hardcover formats.

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Octo-pied

My friends and I were at the pub, we’d gone to have a drink,

We saw a man approach, then turn and give us all a wink,

The bundle he had ‘neath one arm, he set upon the bar,

Said, “Here’s a thing you’ll never see. Be it near or far!”

The bundle he’d set on the bar was squishy, had eight limbs,

This strange young man had gone and brought his octopus with him!

“Now everyone,” the man said to us, “I’ve a challenge here…

“My pet can play most anything. The cost to you? A beer!”

A man walked up and handed him a trumpet, gleaming gold,

The octopus, he took it. Played it long and loud and bold!

The man, surprised, just nodded and he bought the guy a beer,

Another came up with a sax. Said, “This I’d like to hear!”

Well that old mollusk took that sax and played like John Coltrane,

Another drink and more applause. The owner said, “Again?”

A trombone and a drum were brought. A tuba. Clarinet,

Each was played with verve and talent, each got better yet!

Then finally, a man approached with bagpipes. Yes, it’s true,

He said, “Here’s a challenge for your mollusk to get through!”

Well the owner simply shrugged and passed the pipes down to his pet,

He knew his octopus’d have no problem with this threat,

He closed his eyes, prepared to listen. Frowned when nothing came,

Looked down to see his octopus just staring, all aflame,

The mollusk moved in closer and the two, their limbs did link,

Said, “Baby! Nice pajamas! Can I offer you a drink?”

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 we'll make things sweet and real,Discuss our fav Italian meal!
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!)...

Octopus (or something squishy) Today!

Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)

Clean?

Mark. In cleaner times.Family reunions.
The renewing of ties.
An opportunity to get re-acquainted.
Catch up on family accomplishments.
Additions.
Losses.
Nestle once more in the warm embrace of kin.
Our eldest son Mark's first reunion occurred when he was eighteen months old.
He was getting around under his own steam very well.
And this outdoor wiener roast/party was a perfect time for him to practice his skills.
For several hours, he wandered around the site.
Exploring.
Eating.
Getting filthy.
All the things that make a little boy so very happy.
He played with the host family's spaniel, Frodo.
Gorged on hot dogs.
Sampled all of the pot luck dishes.
Spit out the baked beans (another story).
Slurped up watermelon.
And laid sole claim to the marshmallows.
He was a happy, filthy little boy.
He toddled over to me, all smiles and dirt.
I dusted him off for the hundredth time and set him on my knee.
Only to discover that his fingers were stuck together.
Really.
I think it was the marshmallows.
Might have been helped along by the watermelon.
I'm sure there was at least one form of chocolate.
But those little, busy fingers were all fused together.
And Mark was happily making his rounds using paddles.
Or flippers.
I will admit they were still effective.
He was managing to accomplish a fair bit of eating and playing.
But I thought that, as a concerned mom, I should probably do something.
I went for a wipe.
But I hadn't counted on his ingenuity.
While I was digging through the diaper bag, he went for the nearest water source.
Frodo's bowl.
I wish I could say that this was shortly after the bowl had been filled.
And was still pristine and untouched by anything 'canine'.
I can't.
By the time I had the antiseptically clean towelette, he had already taken care of business.
In the decidedly unhygienic dog bowl.
Ick.
And was back on his rounds, little fingers freed for business.
He was happy.
And Frodo loved the watermelon/marshmallow/chocolate/hot dog flavoured water. So he was happy.
In fact, everyone was happy.
Except me.

Life. And Death

Getting ready to lead the parade.
With my friend, Janice in the background.One lives very close to nature on a ranch.

Close enough to get the wind in your eyes.

The dust in your hair.

Or a hoof in the teeth.

It offers the best...and the worst...of experiences.The short, sometimes tragic lives of the animals under one’s care are very much the core about which the ranch world revolves.

Case in point . . .

Dad had purchased a tall, rangy, slimly-built black horse to add to the family string.

Who was immediately tagged ‘Slim’ or ‘Ranger’.

Okay, so imaginative, we weren’t.

He was beautiful.

Coal black with just a couple of touches of white about the head.

He was also gentle and a good worker, with long legs that could really stretch out and cover the ground.

And important selling point when the average pasture was more than a mile square.

There was only one draw-back to the beautiful new member of our cattle-working team.

Somewhere in his past, he had been abused.

Probably by a man.

Because it was nearly impossible for a man to get close to him.

Oh, once he was properly haltered, he was gentle and compliant.

It was just getting to that point that was the problem.

We kids could walk up to him anywhere and slip a halter over that magnificent head.

But one of the men . . .?

Usually, Dad simply handed me the halter and let me go into the corral to slip it on. Then he would take the lead from me and proceed to tack up.

But if I wasn’t there, only the lariat made catching this horse possible.

This went on for years.

I don’t know what he had against men.

But it went deep.

One Saturday morning, when the horses were brought in, Ranger wasn’t with them. I looked the herd over carefully as they milled about, blowing hard and pretending to be nervous and skittish.

It was my first time in the corral for several days, so I wasn’t sure if he had simply been kept in the barn for some reason.

I shrugged and, slipping a halter over one shoulder, climbed the fence and dropped down inside.

Immediately, the horses turned to look at me.

Now, a neophyte might imagine that it would dangerous to enter a corral with several horses still prancing about, but the truth is, horses are very careful of their feet and legs. And they really, really don’t like stepping on anything squishy.

Like humans.

Oh, they’ll snag the occasional foot with (ouch) star-sparking results.

And sometimes, they’ll let fly with a couple of hooves, especially if startled.

But if they know you’re there, a well-behaved horse will pretty much mind their manners. I slipped my halter over Peanuts’ head and led him toward the gate.

“Where’s Ranger?” I asked Dad as he moved past me with his own halter in hand.

“He’s gone,” Dad said.

I frowned, but let the remark pass as we led our respective horses to the barn.

Then, later as we headed out toward our day’s goal, I turned to him.

I should note, here, that there was usually a lot of land between us and whatever herd we were expecting to work that day.

It left room for a lot of conversation.

“So, what happened to Ranger?” I asked, fully expecting the ‘I sold him’ response.

It’s a funny thing about animals on the ranch. You get attached, but you don’t get sentimental. It’s a fine line, but it protects you somewhat.

Dad sighed. “We had to work cattle a couple of days ago and you were in school,” he began.

Hmmm. Why did the alarm bells begin to ring?

Dad went on, “I had to rope him.” He paused. Then sighed again. “He went down.”

Uh-oh. Not good.

Dad shook his head regretfully. “When he came back up, his leg had obviously been broken.”

I felt a tingle go up my back. A broken leg on a working horse? That’s a death knell for sure.

Horses are heavy. And their lives depend on their legs. Thus their skittishness about endangering them in any way. Immobilizing a horse long enough for those heavy bones to knit properly? Very nearly impossible. The animal is usually only good for breeding afterwards.

And a gelding? (A male with the ‘male’ parts removed.) Really of no practical use whatsoever.

“What did you do?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“We had to put him down,” Dad said. There was the regret of ‘if only’ in his voice. If only he had done things differently. If only one of the kids had been around. If only . . .

We kept riding while I turned this over in my mind. I knew there was really no other practical solution, but when one is considering one’s friends, it’s not quite that simple.

The horse string on the Stringam ranch changed throughout the years. As horses aged or became unsuitable, they were sold off to perform some other practical use and new horses were brought in to replace them.

But I’ve never forgotten that magnificent, black gelding.

The one that had a history.

The one that was so hard to catch.

He personified the hard, ultimately practical spirit of the ranching life.

Definitely not a life for the faint of heart.

Look-ing

We are in the mountains.

Banff.

We have been coming here for 32 years and, though our timeshare is getting a bit shabby, it’s home.

The weather has been nothing short of glorious. I can’t remember a time when the leaves have simply been falling without first being frozen. Golden. Orange. Some red. Leaving a marvelous carpet that smells of…Autumn.

This trip was a gift from my youngest daughter and my Husby for my birthday.

Makes getting a year older so much more palatable.

The apartment is on two levels. Two bedrooms up, two bathrooms, one up and one down, and a living room and a kitchen, down. Small, but comfortable.

Enough background…

This morning, we had finished our swim and Gramma was in the shower. Erm…showering.

I had remembered underwear, but had forgotten clothing.

Which was sitting in a neat pile on my bed.

Upstairs.

Oops.

Granddaughter #6, ten-years-old and Granddaughter #11, three-years-old, were playing in the front room just outside the downstairs bathroom where I was ablute-ing (is that a word?)

I poked my head out the door and said, “Gramma forgot her clothes, so I’m going to run upstairs in my underwear. No one look.”

There was silence in the front room. Which I took to be consent. (Silence means consent, doesn’t it?)

I dashed toward the stairway.

Just then a little three-year-old voice came form the front room. “Gramma. I looked.”

Well, at least she’s honest.

Well, I tried to get a picture...

Hearing Troubles

In the past couple of years, Husby has developed hearing troubles.

It’s true. 

There was a period of denial.

I mean, this is a man who has worked for the Provincial Government for nearly 40 years. And, in that time, has had to rely very much on his hearing.

He attended countless meetings.

Many, many of which he chaired. 

Hearing was important.

He played a key role in the building of all 19 of the province’s museums.

Hearing, ditto.

Served on countless committees and boards.

Again, the need to hear was key.

But, finally, and after a visit to a hearing clinic, he had to admit…he had a problem. (See above.)

Now he had two choices. 

Train everyone to look directly at him and speak loudly and clearly.

Forever.

Or get hearing aids.

He broke down and did the latter.

He happily hears nearly everything now.

And that’s not the end of the story.

You see, the band of sound he is missing is that around the pitch of a woman’s voice.

My voice.

Oops.

I don’t want to say I talk a lot but…okay, I talk a lot.

I think I talked him to deaf.

Sorry, Honey.

Name That Car!

Our first, a little Firefly that Husby drove to work,

He drove it through the traffic, which was often quite berserk,

With the vehicles around him—no one’s journeys quite the same,

His little ‘zippy’ car would save him. ZIPPY, it became.

 

Our family was big; when counting all in sum (not weight!)

We numbered 10. So getting ‘there’ required something great,

A van that seated 12 was perfect, dogs could fit in, too,

THE BEAST could take us all, and do it without much ado!

 

Then as our chicks were leaving and the numbers shrank and shrank,

We found we needed something less than our big, outsized tank,

One day, when driving past a dealer, noted something grand,

Our LADY, graceful, beautiful, just fit our smaller band!

 

We’ve had a lot of autos—some for long times, some for short,

Each functioned as was needed at the time—for our cohort,

Each aptly-named, and very much appreciated when

They gave us everything they had. And then did it again!

 

But now, with the just two of us, and Pandy in the back,

Our car is small. And quiet. (No more potty breaks or snacks.)

No bright and lively names for this one. Imagination’s dead,

Cause now the car that we are driving’s simply known as RED!

 

P.S. 

I’m sad because a little pickup bought back in the ‘oughts’,

That hauled our stuff for all these years—I estimate it’s ‘lots’,

Named for a skin condition due to age and heavy loads,

Tomorrow SCABBERS JR. will be heading ‘down the road’. 

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 will be rather fishy,It's Octopus (or something squishy)!
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!)...

Name Your Car (October 3) Today!

Octopus (or something squishy) (October 10)
Most Memorable Italian Meal (October 17)
Bathtubs (October 24)

Halloween -or- your favourite Knock-Knock Joke (October 31) 

Oatmeal (November 7)

Reboot-ed

I’ve heard this word a lot, of late,

REBOOT. You know I’ve wondered some,

It’s not a word accustomed to,

But I’ve been learning…I’m not dumb!

 

I’ve several sons who rescue me,

When with technology, I fight

They fiddle with a key, or two,

Then hit Reboot and it’s all right!

 

I’ve watched some movies now and then,

Familiar as I watch each time,

I’m sure I’ve seen each one before…

Reboots, all, but that’s just fine!

 

A local business struggled some,

Décor and food were out of date,

They told me they’d Reboot, and they’d

Bounce back. You know, that will be great!

 

A friend was trying to be heard,

She had a presence there online,

Then someone helped Reboot her name,

And last I heard, she’s doing fine!

 

But in my youth, if you messed up,

You’d ‘Get the Boot’—it wasn’t nice,

And if you didn’t learn from that…

To Reboot was to get it twice!

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"We write because she's the Bee's Knees!And we love her, you know that’s true,So this is what we writers do . . .We craft a poem based on a theme,With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,Each month we write and have such funWe can't wait for another one,Sooo...this month, how well did I do?Please go and see the others, too:
Baking In A Tornado: Reboot

Messymimi’sMeanderings