Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 65

A Honey of a Job

The workin' man.
P.S He hates this picture. But I'm the one with the blog!
It was my husband's first job following our marriage.
Foreman of a house-building company.
He was . . . excited.
It sounded prestigious.
And would be.
Once they got the plant built.
His new boss had a plan that would cut down on initial costs significantly. They would remodel said boss' pig barn.
It was the right size.
It was in fantastic shape.
Perfect.
It just needed a few touches.
First, and most important, the present residents.
Then, and nearly as important, the cleaning of the sewer system, still full of sewer . . . stuff.
For those who don't know, a pig barn has little ditches running through it. Ditches that are covered by grates and which catch all of the 'icky' stuff.
When the system gets too full, a truck is brought in.
A special truck, with a large tank and hose.
This hose is inserted at the proper place and all sewage is quickly and cleanly removed.
The truck drives away and discharges its load onto the nearest farmer's field, providing nutrition to growing plants.
Not a pleasant job.
But a necessary one.
And it needed to be done before the building of the house plant could continue.
Grant's boss brought in the truck.
The two of them made quick work of draining the sewers.
Then, the next step.
The discharge.
Normally, this would be the easiest part.
You would simply reverse the switch.
And stay upwind.
Things started out well.
Sewage was being discharged at a normal rate.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
Oh the motor was still running strongly.
It's just that nothing was coming out.
I should probably mention here that the discharge engine is quite powerful on these trucks. It needs to push a lot of stuff a long way.
Back to my story . . .
Cautiously, the two of them removed the hose and leaned over to peek into the discharge valve.
"Ah!" Grant's boss said. "I see the problem. Look. It's plugged right there." He pointed. He straightened and began to walk around, kicking at the dirt.
Finally, he spotted a large stick and brought it back to where Grant was still waiting.
"I can fix it," he said, cheerfully. He poked the stick into the valve.
"No, wait . . ." Grant started.
He got no further.
Kaaaablooooie! Or words to that effect.
Let me put it this way . . . neither of them had time to get out of the way.
I'm sure I don't need to describe the scene.
There is an addendum . . .
It was nearly time for Grant to get home from work.
I was just checking on our evening meal when his truck pulled into the yard and ground to a halt.
Ah! Early. Good. We could have a visit before we sat down to eat.
I glanced through the window.
Just in time to see my young husband, in his underwear, leap from the truck and scamper towards the house.
I admit it. My first thought was, 'Wow! Eager!'
He whipped open the door, tossed me a brief, 'Hi!' and headed directly for the bathroom.
There was the sound of the shower, then a loud, "Ahhhh!"
Now there's something that didn't happen every day.
I walked into the bathroom. "Hard day, Honey?"
"I'll tell you about it!" he said over the sound of the water.
And he did.
I thought it was hilarious.
He didn't.
Extra note: Grant's hastily shed clothes remained in the box of the truck until weeks of weather made it possible for them to be removed to the trash.
But the memories remained.
Some things you just can't wash out.

Where Babies Come From

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 sections. 640 acres.
Sections were grouped into townships. 36 sections to a township.
With me so far?
Well, the ranch covered two and a half of those.
Townships.
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.
Happen, that is.
Also. When animals are out on the range, hijinks occur.
And that leads nicely into my story . . .
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 foal.
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 ( I use this term distantly) 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.

Unwelcome Visitor

The ranch house. Warm. Comfortable. A little too welcoming.It was night. That time when dinner hour is long past and the denizens of the house are contemplating leaving their comfy chairs for even more comfy beds.And my dog, Cheetah, was barking.Something she did a lot. At night.We had tried to train her out of it, but had never quite succeeded.It was annoying.Finally, I got up to see what could be bothering her.Coyotes howling in the foothills nearby.A cow bawling.Water running in the canal.Crickets.Dumb dog.I should explain, here, that the Stringam ranch house had a large carport.It had two walls, one on the west, formed by a wall of the house and one on the north. The south and east sides were open.The carport joined the overhang over the front door in a narrow strip.It was possible to walk from a vehicle into the house without seeing the sky, but it was tricky and involved negotiating car hoods and garden paraphernalia (good word).Now, normally, when one exited the house, one would walk straight to the front gate and avoid the carport entirely.Something I usually did.Tonight I . . . didn't.I don't know why.I glanced out the door into the inky blackness.There is nothing quite so dark as a night on the prairies, with no moon.And the mercury vapour light in the yard not quite reaching the house.My dog was over in that yard, at the business end of the carport.Still barking.Stupid dog.I sighed and pushed the screen door open.I hesitated.Then did something I had never done before.I turned and, keeping roof between me and sky, made my way, carefully, to the carport.Then I walked between the cars toward my frantic dog.I paused at the edge of the carport.Cheetah was just feet away, facing me, and her barking, if it could be believed, had increased.I started forward again, but just as I lifted my foot, a sound shattered the darkness.And I do mean shattered.It was the scream of a cougar.Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the sound of a cougar does to one when you hear it ringing across the prairie.It's . . . scary.This scream was five feet away.Above me.At the very edge of the carport roof.See? Shattered.I froze instantly.Then started to back up, one step at a time.Finally, I turned and sprinted towards the front door, careful to continue keeping roof between me and our unwanted visitor and heedless of whatever might be in my path.I called my dog and she came running.Still barking.The two of us ducked inside, and I banged the heavy outer door shut and peered through the window.Mom's voice, “What's the matter, dear?”I continued to stare out the window.Cheetah was now standing behind me.She continued to bark.“We have a visitor, Mom!” I said over the noise.“Oh?” Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.“Yeah. A cougar is sitting on the carport roof.”“Are you sure?”I turned to look at her, thinking about the horrendous (Ooo, great word!) sound. “Fairly sure.”“Oh, dear!” she disappeared.I stayed by the window but could see nothing in the blackness.My dad appeared. Calm as always.“Where?”“Well, it was on the carport a few minutes ago.”“It'll leave.”I stared at him.“You're not going to go out after it?”“Not while it's on the roof.”Good point.Dad got a flashlight and pointed it out the window towards the carport roof.Empty.I cautiously opened the door.Cheetah shot through the opening and into the night.Her barking moved slowly away from the ranch buildings and towards the foothills.Our visitor was obviously headed home.The first and only time I can remember a living creature receiving a less-than-exemplary welcome at the ranch.Or being offered a warm meal.I guess that's a good thing.And Cheetah? Good dog.

Breakfast of Champion

 

Our ‘Favourite Breakfast’ theme this week,

Conjures something warm and meek,

But years ago, meant other things,

That made us kids (me!) feel like kings,

My mama cooked, you know it’s true,

Made things delicious, roast to stew,

Her breakfasts? Easily the best,

Made common tenants feel like guests,

But Saturdays, occasionally,

Were gifts to (age eight), sleepy me!

I’d miss the crowd at breakfast time,

Then make my own—Oh! How sublime!

My chocolate milk, with Mom, you know,

Two spoons of mix, then stir and go,

When on my own, the colour was,

My one condition, no faux pas,

More dark was better, sweeter, too,

Five teaspoons plus would get me through.

Then flakes of bran, that glorious food,

With creamy milk, then sweet imbued,

A generous layer—bottom, top,

I’d want to eat and never stop.

Yes, sugar was my main ingred…

A good deal more than e’er I’d need!

It’s fortunate those Saturdays,

Didn’t often come my way,

Yep. Mom’s good food did help me thrive,

The likely the reason I’m alive!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com 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, come join us while we find...Memorial Day is on our mind!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday? We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks... Favorite breakfast (May 24) Today! Memorial Day (May 31) Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7) Monkey Around Day (June 14) Fathers (June 21) Bubbles (June 28) Bikinis (July 5)Cheer the Lonely (July 12)Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)Parents Day (July 26)

Down Under

It was a hot summer day.
The girl whose family owned the only swimming pool in the town was hosting an impromptu pool party with her friends.
One girl came without a swimsuit.
“No problem,” the hostess said, “I have a whole drawer full. Just find one you like!”
She then waved, vaguely, before turning back to her other guests.
The guest disappeared, returning a short time later dressed in a modest blue two-piece.
Tossing out greetings to the young men and women clustered around the pool, she sauntered around to where her hostess was sitting.
And struck a pose.
“What do you think?”
Her hostess looked up, then shrieked and jumped to her feet. “Where did you get that?!” she said.
The guest blinked and glanced around nervously.
All eyes were on her.
“F-from your drawer, like you said.”
“The top drawer?”
“Y-yes.”
“That's my underwear drawer!”
“Eeeeeeee!” the guest sprinted back into the house.
She had been covered.
In what could easily be mistaken for a swimsuit.
But just being told she was wearing underwear made her scramble madly for shelter.
I thought this story was hilarious.
Then, I saw it happen to my Mom.
Well . . . something similar, anyways . . .

Our family was getting ready for church.
My current boyfriend, coming to church with my family for the first time and dressed uncomfortably in a shirt and tie, was seated in the great room, waiting for the rest of us.
I was the next to be ready, so I sat beside him and started chattering.
Something I did a lot.
A lot.
But I digress . . .
My mother scurried out of her bedroom and started puttering around in the kitchen, in plain sight of the two of us. She put a roast in the oven for dinner and then started tidying up from breakfast.
I kept talking.
But for some reason, my boyfriend wouldn't look at me, but stared, instead, out the window.
I kept talking.
He kept staring fixedly (good word) at something outside.
Suddenly, my mother, still in the kitchen, said, “Oh, my! Look at me!”
I did.
As she was making a fast exit towards her bedroom.
At first, I saw nothing wrong.
She was dressed in her usual fashion. Undershirt, bra, full slip.
Skirt. Stockings.
Oh. Wait. Something was missing.
Her blouse.
Suddenly my boyfriend's fixed gaze made sense.
He had noticed as soon as Mom had entered the room.
Huh. Funny that I didn't see it.
Okay, so observant, I'm not.
Mom went through the rest of the day rather pink-faced.
Which was funny.
She had been completely covered.
Modestly, even.
In at least three layers of cloth.
But because the material had been termed 'underwear', she was embarrassed.
As I would have been.
As anyone . . . you get the point.
Aren't we weird?

Soothing the Savage Teacher

[image error] Ignore the glasses. But love the shoes!I love to sing.

How I love to sing.

I'm not saying I'm any good at it. But I love to do it.

I sing all of the time.

When I'm cleaning.

Eating.

Sleeping.

Shopping. Actually, that is a big one. Usually, people just stare and shake their heads, but occasionally, someone will comment.

"Someone's in a good mood!"

Or, "Someone really loves shopping!"

Or, my favourite, "Mommy, that lady sings weird!"

I always have a song stuck in my head.

Usually something good.

Sometimes not.

Me, standing in line to buy tickets at the Citadel Theatre: "I have the worst song stuck in my head!"

Lady behind me with hands over her ears: "I know! And now it's stuck in mine!!!"

Moving on . . .

Singing calms me. It is my companion whenever I am doing something that doesn't require great concentration.

Dishes.

Laundry.

Sewing. Actually, sewing is probably my big one. 

It was through sewing that I realized that I love to sing while working with my hands.

Let me explain:

I was in Home Economics. Home-Ec or Ugh! for short.

We were sewing.

Aprons, I think.

Mine looked like . . . well, let's just say that no human being would ever be able to wear it, and leave it at that.

But I was happy.

And I was singing. You Are My Sunshine, as I recall.

A happy, cheerful sort of song that just went with the day.

My teacher, Mrs. M walked past.

"Diane! Quit singing!"

Now I don't want to suggest, here, that her reason for her protest was the quality of my singing.
Although it probably was.
I like to think she was trying to keep order in the classroom.
It's better for my ego."I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was."

Silence for a few minutes. Sounds of sewing machines . . . umm . . . sewing.

Then, "You are my Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!"

"Oops. Sorry!"

More sewing.

"My only Sunshine . . ."

"Diane!!"

Notice the two exclamation points. That is to indicate the raising of Mrs. M's voice a trifle.

"Darn! Sorry, Mrs. M, I don't realize I'm doing it."

"Well, realize it!"

"Okay."

Still more sewing.

"Please don't take my Sunshine away!"

Mrs. M didn't give third warnings.

Instead, she walked past me and smacked me in the back of the head.

Teachers occasionally did that in the sixties. A trait that was left in the past. Happily.

It got my attention.

Briefly. 

But I must be a slow learner.

Because it didn't stop me.

Instead, it made me realize that I love to sing.I'm not saying that I'm any good at it . . .

You know the rest.

Ghosting in the Ghost Town

 

See? No horses.Vacation.
The best of times.
The worst of times.
My parents had decided that our family needed to visit Montana.
And Virginia City.
It sounded . . . Western.
To those of us from the ranch, that translated to mean – exotic.
We led a small life, I admit it.
I don't remember much about the 'getting there'.
I was four.
It was long.
And sleepy.
But I do remember stumbling along wooden slats with my Mom.Then being carried by said Mom.
That's when it got exciting.
We were in an old-fashioned, western town with boardwalks and hitching posts.
There were even a couple of watering troughs.
But no horses. I noticed that straight off.
We went into the museum.
I should explain, here, that there are two different kinds of museums.
The slick, professional, institutional showcase of fact.
And the humble, heartfelt, community tribute to history or 'collection of stuff out of Gramma's wash shed'.
And, because my husband is a historian, we've seen many, many examples of each kind.
Moving on . . .
Virginia City's museum was the warm, homespun type.
Long glass-topped tables filled with . . . curiosities. Those little, wondrous items which fill the local citizen's heart with awe and amazement.
But really don't have a global impact.
I stared obligingly at antiquated pieces of equipment and tools. Signs and billboards of past eras. Household paraphernalia.
But what I most took note of was anything that suggested 'horse'.
Oh, and the preserved bodies of two-headed lambs and calves and kittens.
While my family wandered around, I stood nose to nose with one or another of these amazing specimens.
While they exclaimed about 'memories' I pointed out numbers of eyes and ears.
It was a fascinating visit.
But it ended.
All too soon.
And suddenly we were back outside on the boardwalk.
We moved to the next building.
A drug store.
Or at least that's what Mom called it.
It didn't look like the one in Milk River.
But I was willing to give it a shot.
I followed Mom inside and wandered up the first aisle.
Stuff.
I was bored.
Maybe if Mom picked me up again.
Things always looked more interesting when she carried me.
I help up my arms.
She obliged.
Okay, I was right. It was a bit better from up here.
We wandered through the store.
At the back, against the wall stood a large, wooden cabinet.
With one door.
Which was closed.
I stared at it as we grew closer.
It seemed . . . mysterious.
Okay, I admit, I didn't know what the word mysterious meant.
But the mere mention of the word sounded . . . mysterious.
Ahem . . .
Mom stopped beside the cabinet.
With the only closed door in the entire place.
I stared hard at that door.
What secrets did it hide?
Candy? Toys? Maybe another two-headed kitten?
I looked at Mom. “Open it, Mom! Open it!”
“Well I don't think I should,” she said uncertainly, glancing over at the proprietor.
He merely smiled and nodded.
“Open it, Mom! Please?!”
“Well, It's probably storage or something.”
“Open it! Open it!”
“Well, I guess it's all right.” Another glance at the proprietor.
“Open it! Open it!”
Her hand reached out and grasped the knob.
I held my breath.
What were we going to see?
Something magical?
Something wildly exciting?
Something . . .
The door swung back with an appropriately spooky 'screech'.
Hanging quietly within was a skeleton.  Human.
“Ai-Yi-Yi-Yi-Yi! Close it! Close it! Close it!” I hid my face in Mom's shoulder.
Mom must have swung it shut.
I didn't see.
And I missed quite a bit of the rest of Virginia City, glued as I was to her shoulder.
But that was all right.
How could they top that?

Explaining

Covid had not given our family a good week. With school moved to online, and no activities, everyone was growing…antsy.

Feeling cooped up, I took our youngest son for a walk. Spring was finally here, and the day was sunny and warm.

All went well for the first few minutes. Then we came across a little, dead bird in the grass beside the sidewalk.

“Oh, the poor little bird!” my son exclaimed, kneeling. With tear filled eyes, he looked up at me. “What happened to him?”

I knelt, too. “I’m afraid he must have just fallen out of the tree and died, Son,” I said. “Poor little guy.”

“Mama, we can’t just leave him here,” he said, softly. “Can we take him home? I promise I will look after him.”

I smiled a little at his enthusiasm. “He’s dead, Son. There’s really nothing you can do for him. Except maybe bury him.”

He thought about that. “Okay. Let’s take him home and I’ll bury him .” He looked at me. “Can you help me?”

I smiled. “Of course, Son. What a kind thing to do.” I found a tissue and wrapped the wee body in it.

He tenderly carried it home and the two of us, in a short, simple ceremony, buried it carefully under our peach tree.

A few days later, his friend, Julie, who lives in the house next door was out in her yard, crying about something.

Ever the tender heart, my son hurried out to talk to his friend through the fence. “Julie! You okay? What’s the matter?”

Through her tears, Julie told him that their dog, Spotty, had died. “He was okay yesterday,” she said. “And he just died.”

The two friends sat out there for a long time, talking, and I was proud of my son and his compassionate impulses.

Finally, he came back into the house, looking rather blue. “Julie’s dog died,” he told me. “Yesterday. She’s really sad about it.”

“I heard. I think you were very kind to go over and talk to her. She really needs her friend right now.”

He nodded, then looked thoughtful. “Julie says he was just dead. Was he mad? Didn’t he like her? How did he die?”

I sighed, trying to think of a way to explain death to my four-year-old, who had already been too exposed this week.

“Well, Son,” I started. “You remember that little bird we found earlier this week? The one you buried in the back yard?”

He gasped and, clutching my arm, looked up at me, his blue eyes wide. “Mom! Did Spotty fall out of a tree?”

Today’s post is a writing challenge. This is how it works: each month one of the participating bloggers pick a number between 12 and 74. All bloggers taking part that month are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their post either once or multiple times.

This month’s word count number is: 22

It was chosen by: Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Now go and visit the other participants!

Baking In A Tornado  

Messymimi’s Meanderings

This Band of Rubber

How glad I am for the rubber band,

It ties back hair, makes bund’ling grand,

So many times, replacing string,

Convenience in so many things!

 

But what I like ‘bout them the most,

To which I’d give a little toast,

The rubber band was loads of fun,

For me, my kids, and Honey Bun! 

 

I will explain, so you’re not lost,

This game we played had little cost,

Those stretchy bands were cheaply got,

But hours of fun were hap’ly wrought . . .

 

Now, Husby, he of talent, much,

He took some older wood and such,

Then crafted very carefully,

Some fun, new toys for him. And me.

 

And one for each and every kid.

Till all were done, he kept them hid,

Then brought them out for us to see,

Crafted with delight. And glee.

 

Those bits of wood, now something more,

A gift to make us laugh and roar,

And chase each other round the house,

Intent on games of cat and mouse.

 

For what he’d crafted carefully,

(Promoting fun and repartee!)

Were little guns to take in hand,

And fire from them, those rubber bands!

 

Each equipped with two clothespins,

Eas’ly loaded, set to win,

E’en the youngest got the knack,

And hap’ly gave his sibs a whack!

 

Now, one more thing ‘bout which I’ll tell,

That Husby thought especially swell,

Each ‘gun’ shot two. Reload again.

Yes, ours shot two. While his shot ten!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.com 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, come join us for the day...You Favourite Breakfast's on the way!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday? We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
The anniversary of the patent of the rubber band. (May 17) Today! Favorite breakfast (May 24) Memorial Day (May 31) Best Friends Day (from June 8) (June 7) Monkey Around Day (June 14) Fathers (June 21) Bubbles (June 28) Bikinis (July 5)Cheer the Lonely (July 12)Raspberry Cake Day (July 19)Parents Day (July 26)

Being Smart

 

It was a glorious day.

Barb and her four-year-old grandson, (hereinafter known as GS) had spent their precious time together visiting. Laughing. Playing games.

And the all-important ‘thing-I-want-to-try-most-Gramma!’, baking.

Chocolate chip cookies were largely indicated.

There was just one tiny problem . . . Gramma was out of chocolate chips.

Oops.

Not to be discouraged, Gramma and GS made a second, even more thorough, search of the ‘normally chocolate-chip rich’ cupboards.

Same result.

What to do? What to do?

“Hmmm . . .” Gramma said. “I do have these!” She held up a package of Smarties.

(Side note: For those of you not from Canada, Smarties are a handy-dandy little treat consisting of chocolate encased in a ‘melts-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hand’ colourful candy coating. Yummmy! And Also: at the telling of this story, ‘Smartie Cookies’ were not yet a ‘thing’.)

GS looked at them a little dubiously.

I mean, he loved them as a treat, but in cookies?

Unheard of.

Gramma shook the package. “Eating them will make you smarter!”

He smiled.

Discussion won.

The two got busy and a short time later, mounds of sweet-smelling cookies were emerging from the depths of Gramma’s cavernous oven.

Gramma set a plateful on the table and she and GS pulled up their chairs. Each grabbed a warm cookie and took that first, highly-anticipated bite.

‘Hey!’ Gramma thought. ‘I think we’re onto something!’

GS chewed and swallowed. His eyes widened. “Gramma!” he whispered loudly. “I feel smarter!”

Hmmm . . . just a thought, but maybe we could make these and distribute them widely.

I know a few of us could certainly use them!

Recipe available on request . . .