Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 57

Re-Union-ed

 I live in the past.

It's peaceful there...

The group. Husby is in the back row. With the whiskers.
Donny is directly in front of him.
Reunions are so much fun.

Spending hours - sometimes days - remembering the fun times.

Oh, and sometimes commiserating together over bad times, too. But even those, shared, become good memories.

Husby and I spent the a weekend immersed in his reminiscences. He and twenty or so of his schoolmates, as part of a grand twelve-class reunion, assembled for a wonderful couple of days.

Husby was speaking to his high school best friend, Donny MacLean. The conversation went something like this:

Husby: Remember our trips to the dump?

Donny: The TVs!!!

Maybe I should explain . . .

It was the sixties. 

Two fourteen-year-old boys were looking for something to do.

They decided it was a good day to ride their bikes over to the dump. Just to see what amazing things they could discover.

In case you’re wondering, this was a favourite pastime. Twenty years BE. (Before electronics.) And before the town dump was regulated. Or controlled.

And before the invention of germs.

Or good judgement.

Or danger.

Husby was carrying his twenty-two rifle. (All of the above.)

Because.

The two of them scrambled around for a while.

Then discovered a heap of old TVs dumped and forgotten by who-knows-who.

To me, such a thing would have suggested storage units.

Or display cabinets.

But these two boys were a little more knowledgeable. 

And knew about vacuum tubes.

And, more specifically, what would happen when something disturbed or upset said tubes.

Gleefully, they lined up the TVs.

Then they backed away to a safe distance. Roughly a quarter-mile.

Carefully, the first shooter took aim.

Pulled the trigger.

And the two of them stared at the spot where the TV used to be.

The bullet had struck the screen (actually the front of the vacuum tube) and the entire thing had exploded. 

I do mean exploded.

A sheen of shiny dust that used to be a glass object, and a few splinters of wood littered the area.

The two boys stared.

Then grinned.

And took aim at another TV . . .

The two grown men laughed together over this memory.

And their survival.

Fifty Day #5

 

Gramma Tolley had bins of toys.

Bins.

But the toy that everyone wanted? Fought over?

A necklace made of  spools. The kind that used to hold thread.

30 years have passed.

Recently my daughter presented me with a precious gift. All for myself.

I cried.

We’ve come full circle…

Today is Fifty Day!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

A FRIENDly Pie

 

Home economics for girls and shop class for boys.

The 1960s pigeonhole view of the world.

In Milk River, where I grew up, it was a tradition long set.

And trying to buck convention didn’t work.

Trust me, I tried . . .

They had the wondrous world of power tools to explore as they overhauled engines and built furniture.

We learned the proper use of a skillet, how to clean anything and sewing our sleeves in backwards. (Okay, they really didn’t teach that last – that’s just how I did it.)

Mostly, it was all right.

I mean, I like cooking and cleaning and sewing.

But when you do it at home a lot, there’s really not much excitement to doing it at school, too. Right?

Well, there wasn’t for me.

Every day, when we reported to our Home-Ec lab, it was not without a longing glance at the line of boys heading in the opposite direction.

In Fort Macleod, where Husby grew up, it was the same. The girls went one way.

And the boys the other. But that wasn’t the end of their perks.

Not only did they get to fool around with potentially life-threatening implements, they also got to eat whatever the girls had whipped up.

Can anyone spell n.o.t. f.a.i.r.?

Sigh.

One such day stands out in Husby’s mind . . .

The aromas wafting from the kitchens down the hall had been teasing the young men all afternoon. Causing them to be even less attentive than usual.

I know that’s hard to fathom but stay with me.

Just as they were threatening to fall to the cold cement in a hunger-induced swoon, the door opened and manna from Heaven walked in.

Fine. It was several girls carrying slices of pie.

Sheesh.

There was only one thing wrong.

There weren’t enough pieces of pie to go around.

Rather than start what was sure to be a battle to the death, the teacher announced that each boy could have exactly half of one of the slices.

Numbly, they agreed.

Husby and his good friend, Donny MacLean were handed one of the plates.

Husby, ever the gentleman, told his friend to eat half and then give the rest to him.

Donny nodded happily and Husby turned away, intent on whatever he had been doing when their class had been interrupted.

A few moments later, Donny nudged Husby with the plate.

It was finally his turn.

Eagerly, he reached for his share of the treat. And found himself staring at a gaping, empty shell. He turned and glared at his ‘friend’.

“I saved you half,” Donny said, shrugging.Pie with friends. Brings a whole new meaning to ‘taking your half out of the middle’ . . .

Eyesore No More

Uncle Bern and Aunt Eva Berg

As with many rural families in Southern Alberta in the 1950s, Uncle Bern and Aunt Eva Berg carried on without the benefits of indoor plumbing.

They made do with the little building out back.Also known as (but not limited to): John, backhouse, outhouse, privy, johnny, two-holer, little house, one-holer, crapper, biffy, can, garden house, outdoor library, reading room, toilet, shanty, white house, rest room, big John, half-moon, outdoor plumbing, dooley, half-moon house, jo, little house behind the big house, Roosevelt, stink house, baggy, bank, bass house, bath with a path, biffy, Big Bertha, boonie, bughouse, Casey Jones, comfort station, corner house, courthouse, cribby, depository, does and bucks, doll house, dollar house, first national bank, going out back, going out to mail a letter, going to see the president, going to take a walk, gooseberry grinders, gramma's house, head, hers and his, hooter, hoover, Jones house, jug, latrine, little brown shack, little house out back, little shack out back, opera house, path house, privy house, queen's throne, roost, sears-roebuck library, shanty house, sheriff, superintendent's office, Uncle john, Uncle Sam's roost, dunny.

And many more too numerous (or PG) to mention.

Back to my story . . .

Also, as with other rural families of . . . (see above) Uncle Bern and Aunt Eva built onto their house and added a (gasp) modern bathroom with (bigger gasp) indoor plumbing.

Their day had come.

No more quick dashes along a frozen path in the middle of the night in the middle of winter. No more Uncle Gordon warming up the car so he could drive as close as possible to the privy and then warm up as soon as possible when the ‘chores were done’.

Paradise.

But now, with installation of the ‘new and improved’, Aunt Eva was determined to get rid of the ‘old and outdated’. And the sooner the better. According to her, it was an eyesore.

Uncle Bern agreed in principle. But turning that agreement into something more proactive took time. After all there was a lot of nostalgic history attached to the little shack. To quote him: “Much important planning had been carried out in silent, undisturbed contemplation in that quiet, dark space over the years.”

But in case you're wondering, Aunt Eva won out.

Apparently her friends are a little more influential than his.

One day, a tornado touched down on their ranch.

Exactly on that little house.

It plucked the little building from the ground and carried it a quarter-mile away—finally dropping it near the canal.

When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go. 

Shoe-d

My first were red and kinda cute,

White stitching made them pop,

Protected little toddler feet,

When cows were wont to stomp!

 

From there I learned to lace and tie,

White runners were the thing.

Until the day that I found out,

They don’t do well in spring.

 

From there, a lot of shoes went past,

Both feminine and not,

One thing they had in common were,

They were by Mama bought.

 

The sling-backs from my outfit broke,

My teen-aged heart broke, too,

I carried one, and wore the mate,

Told friends the break was new.

 

Competing for the Hereford Queen,

Dad said to dress the part,

Fine, handmade boots, he bought for me,

Convinced that I’d look smart!

 

Poor newlyweds. The shoes I bought,

Though cheap (and from a bin),

Well, when I finally wore them out,

‘Twas just like losing kin!

 

My running years saw shoes galore,

Some cheap, some with a bill,

But, oh the miles they helped me run,

I wish I had them still!

 

And now I look from here to there,

At shoes I loved or scoffed.

Some comfort now, is all I ask…

And easy on and off.

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?

A superstition you'd defy?Next week, we'll give it our best try!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...Shoes (September 6) From Mimi Today!Defy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from MimiRemembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another MimiAsk a Stupid Question (September 27)Golf (October 4)Throw a Party (October 11)Meatloaf Appreciation (October 18)Opera (October 25)

A Hot Hand

Mabel and Percy (Casey) Jones. 1924
My parents' good friendsMom and Dad, newlyweds, were out for the evening with their friends, the Jones - their nearest neighbours.

At the Jones’ ranch fifteen miles away.

In a time when the closest thing anyone had to electronic diversion was a radio or phonograph, the two couples and one of the Jones’ eldest sons were engaged in the next best thing.

Parlour games.

Inevitably . . . cards.

They had been playing for most of the evening, amidst much conversation and hilarity.

Casey Jones (yes, that was what he was called) had been fighting a steadily losing battle.

Another hand was dealt.

And Casey loudly voiced his displeasure at yet another 'bad' hand, then sighed heavily and played his bad hand.

Badly.

As it finished, his wife, Mabel suggested refreshments and got to her feet. She bustled (yes, I meant to use that word) into the kitchen.

Mom followed her and the two women happily visited as they sliced cake and set out cups and saucers.

Meanwhile, the men stayed in the parlour, discussing the game and Casey’s apparent inability to win.“It’s the lousy cards!” he said. “I’ve gotten nothing but bad hands all evening!” He got to his feet. “Something has to be done!”

He gathered up the deck and arranged them neatly. Then he disappeared into the kitchen with them.

Moments later, Mabel appeared in the doorway, tray in hands and announced that their game had officially concluded.

Casey had thrown the cards into the stove.Yep. Something had to be done.Good thing he was on hand to do it.

Breaking Bread

Worth fighting for . . .In the Stringam household of eighty years ago, all food was prepared from scratch.
Processed or instant foods simply didn't exist.
Nothing came packaged from the store.
Bread was something that emerged, nearly every day, from the oven of the large wood stove.
No other option was possible.
No other option was needed.
Grandma's crusty, fresh bread, hot from the oven, was the favourite food of my Dad's family of nine brothers and sisters and their home was nearly always awash in the wonderful smell.
But each large, beautiful loaf only had two ends.
Because bad manners hadn't been invented yet, it never occurred to Dad and his siblings that they could do anything about that.
Side note: My husband and his brothers, the creators of bad manners, would cut off every available surface – sides, top, bottom – after the ends had been claimed.
But I digress . . .
So, as the time drew nearer for the family to assemble for the evening meal, Grandma Stringam would slice one entire loaf of fresh, warm bread.
And place it neatly on a platter to go to the table.
That was about the time that every child in the house would suddenly appear.
And wrestle each other for the privilege of 'helping'.
Bruised but triumphant, the winner would carefully carry the precious platter of warm deliciousness to the table and park it in the centre.
Then he would quickly snatch one of the two crusty ends and set it on his own plate.
At first, the sacred placing of the bread was all that was needed.
But not for long.
Soon, the instant the bread was placed and the claimer gone, someone else would creep in and slide said crusty slice of yumminess to their own plate.
Then the next person would do the same.
And the next.
This would go on until everyone assembled for the actual meal.
Whoever possessed it at that time . . . won. Sort of like a game of 'hot potato', but tastier.
As time went by, more and more sneakiness was required.
The bread was placed under the plate.
Under the napkin.
Stabbed with the owner's fork.
The owner's knife.
Finally, in full view of whoever happened to be waiting in the wings for their turn, the possessor would lick the back of the hotly contested piece of bread. (Okay, remember what I said about manners? Forget it.) Then place the now-thoroughly-claimed prize on their plate.
The entire contest came to a screeching halt.
But only for a while . . .
Gramma and Grampa Stringam.
Oh, the bread she could bake . . .

Fifty Day #4

Today is Fifty Day!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

The little girl had been struggling to produce…something.

Finally, with tear-filled eyes, she said, “I just can’t draw a heart!”

I smiled. “Gramma will do it for you.” With a pink marker, I drew an ‘almost’ heart. “Here, sweetheart!”

She handed it back. “Look, Gramma, I made you a heart!”

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.Join us!Leave your contribution in the comments...

Baby Swears

She of the foul mouth . . .There are creative ways of making one's anger and frustration known.Even when one is little . . .
My friend's two eldest children were having 'one of those days'. When arguments erupted at regular intervals. And no one was happy.
Periodically, one of them would go to their mother and say, “Sister said the 'S' word!”
Now their mother was an adult.
I probably don't need to point that out.
She knew what the 'S' word was. But had no idea how her children had learned it.
Appropriate punishment was carried out.
A few minutes later, the other child was at her side. “Brother said the 'S' word!”
This went on for some time.
Finally, totally exasperated, their mother pulled both of them aside and asked them where they had learned the 'S' word.
“Well you and Dad say it!”
Now my friend lived in a non-cursing home. Expletives were kept strictly within certain bounds. She knew she had never, in her entire life, said the 'S' word.
She shook her head. “When did I say it?”
“Mom, you say it all of the time!”
“Really?”
“All the time!”
Finally, she realized that there was one question she had not asked.
“Kids, what is the 'S' word?”
Together they chorused, “Stupid!”
Ah. Okay. Not a desirable word, but not quite what she was thinking, either . . .

We, too had our forbidden family curse words.
Mom and Dad had a problem with children abusing each other verbally.
Stupid was a no-no.
But we were raised on a ranch.
With hired men.
Whose language was, how shall I say it? . . . spiced with colourful metaphors. And it was inevitable that we should pick some of them up.
I remember the first time we heard our little sister curse. It shocked my younger brother and I to our toes.
That's a lot of shock.
We stared at our tiny sister in disbelief. Had we heard what we had just heard?
Mom was gonna have something to say about this!
We ran to tell her. Let's face it, getting each other into trouble was the thing we liked doing the most.
Because.
“Mom! Mom! Anita said something bad!”
Mom stopped what she was doing and followed us to where the guilty party stood.
Feet planted.
Chin out.
Bristling with anger and defiance.
Mom knelt next to her.
“Anita, what did you say?”
“Nuffing.”
“Anita, Diane and Blair told me you said a bad word. What was it?”
“Didn't say anyffing!”
“Anita!”
Finally she sighed. "Stupid Poop,” she said.
Her two-year-old ears had heard what the hired men had spouted and processed it to this?
There was hope for the world after all.

Monsters

My childhood monsters used to park

With slavering fang, there in the dark,

And if I carelessly did step,

They’d jump at me. Like Imhotep.

(I’d no idea what he was, 

But he scared me—like Santa Claus!)

As I got older, my mind grew,

And conjured terrors not a few,

Ghosts and cyclops, dragons, trolls,

Zombies, werewolves, vampires, ghouls,

Or the things that scared me most,

(Our country home seemed glad to host,)

Those creepy, leggy, furry bugs,

That spun their webs to give flies hugs. 

These fears that lasted all my life

And made my nights with danger rife

Have been supplanted recently

By something scarier, to me.

And what, you ask could possibly

Be worse than what I do not see?

Things that, though they do not leap,

Excel at making me lose sleep?

Why, those who stand and promise me

A vote for them with set me free.

Ensure my life will be a joy,

And nothing ‘bad’ will e’er annoy,

Do I believe them? Not one bit,

I mostly want to pitch a fit

Each time I see another one,

Who pledges only days with sun.

You know I think that, really, I

Would go back to those other guys,

The ones that lingered out of sight,

And pounced whene’er we doused the lights.

Their fangs were scary. They looked mean,

(I think. If I had ever seen!)

They could not possibly be like

Those scary ones there—At The Mic.

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?

To some the best thing we can choose...Next week we are discussing ‘SHOES’!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...Monsters (August 30) Today!Shoes (September 6) From MimiDefy Superstition Day (September 13) Also from MimiRemembering 8-Tracks (September 20) Another Mimi