Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 34

Fishing for Brothers

Our intrepid camping ally, Ancient of Days.It's Summer.Camping time.Something our family did every year (when the chicks were growing) in a little, blue tent trailer purchased in Calgary, Alberta in January 1978. It was so cold that day that I thought the flooring was a sheet of tin.In my defense, linoleum can resemble tin when it is frozen solid.When the planet heated up a bit, we opened our new purchase and discovered a tidy, little world in itself. Three neat beds and a square central floor.Perfect for a family of eight.It took our family everywhere.For many years, we camped for a week each summer in a beautiful campground in Saskatchewan.Kimball Lake.We had a lot of adventures in that time.Today, I'm remembering one in particular...Our two youngest were napping.I use this word lightly.Because there was no 'napping' happening.Youngest Daughter (YD) was on the bed she normally shared with her older sister.And Youngest Son (YS) was in the playpen on the floor.Something he had learned to crawl out of.Usually, this wouldn't have been a problem.Let me describe our trailer to you.It had three wings that folded out to form the beds.The canvas wrapped around each of these wings and hooked securely underneath with elastic cords.It was possible to slide through those spaces.If you were small enough.And YS, at thirteen months, met that criteria.He crawled up onto the bed.Rolled against the side.And slid through.Now it wasn't a long drop to the ground underneath, but it would have given the little fellow quite a jolt.YD, three, had been watching.She saw him slip through.And, with uncharacteristic three-year-old speed and fortitude, leaped across and grabbed his hands.“Mo-om!”My good friend, Tammy and I were seated just outside, visiting.Suddenly, we saw a pair of little legs kicking and wiggling out of the side of the trailer and heard my daughter call out.I ran into the trailer.YD and the top half of YS were visible.She had both of his hands and was leaning back, trying to keep him from sliding further.He was giggling happily and trying to wiggle out of her grip.“Mo-om!” she shouted again.I grabbed my son and pulled him to safety.Then put him back in his bed with stern instructions to stay there.That tiny son is now a husband and father and that trailer went down the road many seasons ago.But every year, at camping time, I think of the small boy and his almost escape.Picture those little legs protruding from the side of the trailer, kicking merrily.And his sister, recognizing his danger and holding on frantically with all of her three-year-old strength..It's a good memory.

On Using Protection

Big Sister modelling the new chaps. 
Daddy. Ditto.In the calving field at the Stringam Ranch was a large patch of bullberry bushes.Or at least that's what we called them.I don't know what their 'official' name is.It really doesn't matter.Whatever their name, they were deadly.Spikes – I am not exaggerating – up to two inches long.Against a tender and unprotected human hide, they could do some real damage.The cows in the field had learned to use them.When a *gasp* human appeared, they would charge into the bushes.And chuckle with their friends.I’m fairly certain.Moving on . . .The first time or two, my horse decided to charge in after them.I should explain that a horse's hide is equally as tough as a cow's.A human's? See above.Inevitably I would emerge from such incidents rather the 'worse for the wear'.As my mother was so fond of saying.The second time I showed up at home with bloodstains on my shredded jeans, my mother dragged out Dad's heavy hide chaps.Now, I should mention here that chaps look really good on a tall slim cowboy.Really, really good.And certainly they have their uses.The chaps, not the cowboys.Okay yes. A cowboy, too, has his uses.But that is a completely different sort of post . . .Back to my story . . .Chaps provide protection from the ravages of ranch work.They have saved many a pair of jeans from wear during haying.And many a cowboy from damage when things get up close and personal.But they are perversely hard to ride in when one is doing so bareback.I know.I tried.Bareback riding requires balance.Intuition.And a good grip with the knees.Chaps, especially heavy ones, prevent the all-important knee grip.And actually make balance a bit more difficult.Sigh.What to do?Protection won out.I wore the chaps.And they sported the scars to prove it.Picture leather nearly a quarter of an inch thick.With cuts that went almost all the way through.That could have been me.Years later, I showed them to my children.Who expressed proper and well-deserved awe and amazement.One day, Husby and I were wandering through a store in cattlemen country.Hanging from the rafters just inside the front door were a pair of chaps.But not just any chaps.These were made of leather, dyed green and purple and gold and pink.With silver fringe.I stared at them.Chaps had obviously changed.Not just for protection any more.Now they could be worn to scare cows out of the bush.Or so that their rider could be seen by satellite.Ranching has come a long way.

Wrong

Now tell me a dark shirt and light tie wouldn't have looked spiffy!My future Husby and I were preparing for our wedding.It had been a painless process to this point.We were standing in the Men's Wear shop.The best one in Lethbridge.Husby-to-be was dressed in a new suit.Light blue.Spiffy. (real word)He looked fantastic.It was the 70s.Enough said.I loved this new, light-blue suit.I thought it would look even more fantastic with a dark blue shirt and a light tie.Now, I should explain here that Husby-to-be had spent his whole life - and particularly the last two years - in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie.He never noticed how the rich and famous and photographed were dressed.Never even caught a glimpse of the 'fashion' ads.Dark suit, white shirt and dark tie were what a young man wore.Every young man.Always.His wife-to-be was just a touch more daring.I had seen the fashion ads.Had glanced through the Movie Star magazines.I knew Husby-to-be would look amazing in a light suit, dark shirt and light tie.Like the men in the Godfather.In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have mentioned that.I had gotten him into the suit.But there, all progress had stopped.He stared suspiciously at the dark shirt I was holding up.And the light tie.Finally, he uttered the words that every husby-to-be learns, sooner or later, NOT to say.Those fateful words that draw a neat line between pre and post-marriage days. “I'll ask my mom what she thinks.”I sucked in a breath. I'm sure the look on my face spoke volumes.Volumes.Because he immediately recognized he had said something wrong.He wasn't sure what, but . . . definitely wrong.He did wear the light suit.With a white shirt and light-ish tie.All totally without any input from his mom.Compromise at its best.

Putting the ‘Pooper’ in Party

With all the parties going on in both my country and my sister country to the south this past weekend, it’s put me into a party mood. Oh, not having one. Just telling a story about one... Jerry. With Mom.
Oh . . . and me.Jerry is my big brother.

He’s cool

He’s neat.

And he never could be considered a ‘party animal’.

An explanation is in order . . .

One of the best times to host a party is on New Year’s Eve.

Everyone is excited.

Everyone is happy.

And , more importantly, everyone wants to party.

Jerry decided to host his first, ever, New Year’s Eve celebration.

Invitations were extended.

Preparations were made.

And Mom cleaned the house for two days straight.

They were ready . . .

The party started out well.

Forty or so kids, all intent of having a great time.

There was a group in the ping-pong room.

Cheering or competing.

Another group around the pool table.

Ditto.

There were kids dancing in the front room.

Kids playing games wherever there was a space.

Kids circling the snacks table.

And kids visiting with my Mom in the kitchen.

The house was full and the party was, for lack of a better term, ‘hitting on all cylinders’.

The time came for the big build-up to the New Year.

Noisemakers were handed out. Because forty-plus people couldn’t make enough noise on their own.

The countdown.

The cheer.

Or rather, din.

And the New Year was official.

Everybody completed the ritual hugging and kissing.

And went back to what they had been doing.

Well, almost everyone.

Several young ladies were looking for someone specific to ‘congratulate’.

My brother, Jerry.

They searched throughout the house. Staked out the bathrooms until the current occupant emerged. And finally enlisted the help of my Mom.

She did a circuit of the obvious places. Then decided to see if Jerry was, for some reason, in his room.

She knocked.

No answer.

She cracked the door and peeked into the darkened room. Reached in and flipped the light switch.

A sleepy head lifted from the pillow.

“Whazzup?”

He had visited and played games.

He had congratulated and cheered.

He had gotten tired.

He had gone to bed.

Never mind that he was leaving his guests to wind down and find their own way to the door.

Nope.

Bed was the place for him.

My brother, Jerry.

Party host extraordinaire.

“Hope you had a good time! Don’t forget to shut off the lights when you leave!”

On Being Independent

A group of friends anticipating finals Monday morn,

Had spent the Saturday before with friends and ale in horns,

The celebrating went too long, they slept next day away,

And missed their Independence Test ‘cause they had been at play,

When they arrived, they sought their Prof and begged her on their knees,

To let them take the test. They added, “Pretty, pretty please?!”

They told a story settled on: of back road and flat tire,

And how they waited long for help (for hour after hour),

They told her how the wait’s result was missing her key test,

They simply couldn’t make it back to write it with the rest,

Their prof just smiled, “Of course, I’ll let you take it late,” she said.

“Come back tomorrow set to write.” They grinned and went to bed.

Next morning, bright and shining (all were ready now to write),

Rested and refreshed from dreamless sleep they’d had last night,

The prof put each lad in a room and handed out exams,

Then closed the doors and left all of the earnest little lambs,

They turned the page, found question 1 took very little thought,

They didn’t even have to sweat the answers that they sought!

“For 5%: The date The Declaration had been signed”,

July the 4th of ’76. Didn’t even need their minds!

This would be a breeze! they thought (their happiness grew higher),

Then question 2: “For 95%...”, it asked, “…which tire?”

Happy Independence Day to all my neighbours from the United States!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.comCause 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, may be a little hard,Cause 'Loneliness' is on the card...
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!)...

Independence Day (US) or Sidewalk egg-frying day (July 4) Today!

Loneliness (July 11)

Ice Cream (July 18)

Old Jokes (July 25)

Girlfriends (August 1)

Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night (August 8)

Lemon Meringue Pie Day (August 15)

Be an Angel Day (August 22)

Bats -or-  More Herbs, Less Salt (August 29)

A For-Real Canadian

Canada Day.For those of us who think Canada is the greatest little corner of the earth, a time to reflect on our blessings.
And so, a post about my son, the soldier.

Heading overseas.In his first career, our second son was a soldier.

Engineer.

Mine/explosives expert.

Not a career his mama chose for him, I should point out. But one that, because he loves his country, he was happy to take on.

He was slated several times to go overseas.

But only did so once.

I probably should explain . . .

There is a good deal of heavy training that goes into a call overseas.

Both physical and mental.

My son’s squad had received their notice.

They were slated to go to Nijmegen, Holland

And were preparing.

Picture men and women running. Climbing.

And lifting heavy objects.

Sitting at desks and puzzling over complicated logic problems.

Okay, that’s how I pictured it.

In reality, their short tour to Nijmegen was one of goodwill.

So their training consisted of marching.

And marching.

The day of departure grew closer.

They were representing Canada.

They needed to be properly outfitted.

They were issued new uniforms.

Including new boots.

Which they were instructed to wear.

While marching.

Now I don’t have to point out to you what the combination of new boots and 8 hours of marching can do.

Our son developed blisters.

Blisters on his blisters.

Which immediately became badly infected.

You’ve heard about a soldier only being as good as his feet?

It’s true.

He was put on the ‘injured’ list and sent back to base.

Somewhat disappointed and rather embarrassed.

But another tour was announced.

A real tour.

To Bosnia.

Real training this time.

Including the aforementioned (good word) running, climbing and lifting of things heavy.

Two days before they were ship out, my son was clearing some brush near the base.

Using a machete.

Which he had just sharpened.

His hand slipped. Slightly.

And he nicked his opposite thumb.

Barely.

A quarter of an inch.

But it was a surgically precise quarter of an inch.

He managed to sever the tendon in his left thumb.

The surgeon assigned to fish out the two tendon ends and put them back together said she’d never seen anything like it.

Is she hadn’t been an eye-witness, she never would have believed that anyone could manage such a delicate and accurate operation with a scalpel.

Let alone with a huge machete.

‘Injured’ list again.

Sigh.

Needless to say, by this time, he was getting quite discouraged.

But I must admit that his parents were secretly happy.

Don’t tell him . . .

His third call came to serve overseas.

He again responded.

Trained.

And this time - finally - succeeded.

For the better part of a year, he served as head of the mine cell on the base.

He did well.

And was commended.

Then came home to us.

I remember that first evening, after he stepped out of our van.

He immediately walked over and stood in the middle of the lawn.

We stared at him.

What had our son been learning overseas?

“I haven’t stood on grass for 10 months,” he said. “You don’t dare. Over there.”

Huh. Something we had never really thought about before.

We had assumed all of his sacrifices were made in the going.

We hadn’t realized the extent of what he was giving up while he was there.To him and all who serve with him, thank you.Happy 155th Birthday!

Un-Sneaky

Yep. They’re on their own...Our eldest son isn't someone who could be considered 'sneaky'.In fact, I think he swings quite the other way.Oh, he tries.In fact, when he was little, he used to fancy himself a ninja.The master of subtlety and sneak-iness.But when it came to actually . . . shifting the blame, or obfuscation of facts?He was lost.And oddly enough, it was usually because he couldn’t bear to leave things in a disorderly manner.Let's face it. Sneaking into other people's possessions, and tidying them before you leave?Better than they were before?Not the most subtle of practices.When ES was 12, his scout group was fund-raising.He dutifully received his case of chocolate-covered almonds.I should point out that he was supposed to sell them.He didn't.The case of packages rested - for safety's sake and because I knew my almond-loving son - on the floor in my bedroom.Daily, I lifted one of the boxes on top and rattled it.Just to make sure it hadn't been tampered with.In hindsight, I should have dug deeper.Moving on . . .The evening came when we had been planning to go door-to-door.I lifted the case.It was surprisingly light.Much too light.I discovered that the only boxes that actually contained almonds were the four on the top.ES had been systematically eating the rest.Then tidily sealing the empties and putting them back into the box.Sigh.He also had a thing for ice cream.The sneaking of which was a family Olympic sport.But where the other kids would grab a spoon and sneak a bite, then dispose of said spoon into the sink where it would instantly achieve anonymity, ES would get out a bowl.And spoon.Sneak his ice cream.Then rinse the bowl and spoon.And set them in the freezer.With the ice cream.Remember what I said about subtlety?Yep. Not happening.Years have passed.I can't comment about his almond/ice cream snitching ways or their effectiveness today.His wife and his six kids have to worry about that.Whew.

Museum Piece

Picture it green. And nickel-plated.When my Husby was a teenager, he bought an old truck.Which he painted green.Forever after, it was known as The Frog. And became a common sight on the streets of Fort MacLeod, Alberta.The Frog was Husby's pride and joy.He loved tinkering with it.Often, his father commented on the amount of time spent with that old truck.And the dollars.“What are you doing now?” he asked one day. “Nickle-plating it?”Husby laughed...but an idea was born.He bought a small tin of aluminium paint.Then crawled under the truck.Scraped the rust and dirt off the chassis.And painted it.Shortly thereafter his father took the truck down to the local shop to have the oil changed.The mechanic slid underneath to begin proceedings.“Hey!” he shouted. “It's chrome-plated under here!”Husby's dad had to see it. Then shook his head and snickered. “I knew it!”Later, Husby and many, many friends were heading to a youth activity down near the river in Lethbridge.The cab of the truck was stuffed with young bodies. (Pre-seatbelt days—how did we survive?!)And the back with many more.A policeman pulled them over.“Have you been drinking?” he asked my Husby.“No officer. We are just heading to a youth activity.”“Well you have a taillight out,” the officer said. “While we're at it, let's give this truck the once-over.”“Okay.”The officer and his trusty flashlight began a systematic search for 'things wrong'.Lights.Brake lights.High/low beams.Horn. Husby pulled out the ashtray.The horn honked loudly.The officer swung his flashlight back to the console.“Do that again!” he said.Husby pulled out the ashtray.HONK!“This thing belongs in a museum!”He was right.

War by the Bucketful

Not just for food storage any more.Second Son is tall.In his stocking feet, six-foot-eight. Put shoes on the lad and . . . well, you get the picture.I have a close family friend.I don't want to say that she is short, but . . . okay, she is short.Her head reaches somewhere between our son's chest and his belt buckle.She makes up for lack of quantity with excess of quality.In fact, the word 'feisty' might describe her perfectly.SS used to tease her about her height.Or lack thereof.I should point out that this woman has six children of her own. She could give it right back.One day, she and SS had been exchanging insults.After a particularly pointed comment which ended with his pretending to put an elbow on the top of her head and using her as a fence post, she tried something a little more proactive.“Oh!” she said. Nearby was a bucket of honey.Okay, yes. When one has six children, plus foster kids, one buys honey by the bucketful.Moving on . . .She pushed the bucket close and stood up on it.I should point out that it only increased her height by about ten inches. Not nearly enough.“Ha!” she said, looking up into his face. “What are you going to do now?”SS merely stepped backwards.“Oh!” She said again. She jumped off her bucket and kicked it over beside him.Then she stepped up once more.“Ha!” she said a second time.He stepped back once more.“Oh!”This went on for some time.She pushed that bucket of honey all over the kitchen.Somehow, confrontation is a bit less . . . confrontational . . . when one partner has to keep moving their honey bucket to continue with the . . . confrontation.Hmm.I wonder if we could market this idea on a global scale . . .

Sing With Me

My Hero.
Born and raised in China
And studied in Beijing,
She was considered brilliant
In most everything!

 

Fine malariologist,

Found artemisinin,

Won the Nobel prize in ‘15

For the fight that she did win.

 

Millions have been saved by her,

The road she walked was rough!

But singing Happy Birthday to

Tu Youyou? Well, it’s tough!