Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 68

Socked

Okay, in hindsight, ‘going to the park’ was probably a good idea.

Being cooped up in lockdown with Sally AND Mort can sometimes resemble being in lockup with Psycho Sophia and her henchman Brainless Bobby.

That’s a lot of ups and downs.

Ahem…

I know for a fact that Mom had had enough.

It washer suggestion, after all, that the three of us could, in her words, ‘use some fresh air’.

Admittedly, she had a reason for her less-than-patient, overly clinical attitude.

Sally, in an effort to show Mort how to flip a pancake, had actually flipped the pan.

Right through the window over the kitchen sink.

Which would have been bad enough. But following the whole pillow-fight-until-someone-puts-a-foot-through-the-TV-screen debacle as it did.

And this preceded by…

Never mind. Let’s just say Mom was justified and leave it at that.

So we found ourselves at the park, tails humbly and firmly tucked. 

I'm Socially Distanced from anyone who counts (ie. everyone NOT Sally and Mort.) watching the pair of them play their version of soccer.

It was a bright, warm, glorious afternoon. Perfect for visiting the park.

That is if you’re a normal person.

Doing normal ‘park’ things…

Our visit had already resulted in profuse apologies to one family for mowing down their four-year-old when he managed to insinuate himself somewhere into the action. And an offer to pay another family for cleaning when Mort missed one of Sally’s field-clearing kicks and it ended with her rainbow-coloured soccer ball landing squarely (and with some force) in the center of their gi-normous bowl of potato salad.

I looked at my watch.

We’d been here a grand total of 17 minutes.

Sigh.

Off to my left, I saw Sally wind up for another of her ‘field goal’ kicks.

Mort was ready.

Which is to say he was standing some little ways away.

With a huge, red ‘X’ painted on his head.

Okay, I’m exaggerating. There was no actual X.

Just an imaginary one that seems real.

I covered my own head, just in case…

Sally belted the ball.

It flew, straight and perfect toward Mort.

For the first time, ever, Mort managed to get beneath it and bunt it with his enormous noggin.

I was so surprised that I forgot, for the moment, to keep my hands in their usual protective posture.

You have to know that Mort’s aim sadly lacks the…finesse…of Sally’s.

But what it loses in acuity, it makes up for in speed.

By the time I realized it was coming toward me, giving credible homage to the velocity of light, I could do little else but make a half-hearted and feeble gesture toward my soon-to-be belted cranium.

I told myself death was acceptable because I had fought the good fight and briefly (because that’s all the time I had) considered closing my eyes.

Hmmm…death visible or invisible…

And then, just as I took in the short sharp breath that would quite possibly be my last, a long, muscular arm shot out of nowhere and snatched the author of my demise before it could become.

And I was suddenly looking up into the warmest, most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen.

I admit it. I stared.

Below the eyes, a pair of firm, perfect, masculine lips curled into an equally gorgeous smile.

“Hello,” a smooth, deep voice said. “I’m Peter.”

 

 

Use Your Words is a challenge issued by the Great Karen from her lofty throne at Baking in a Tonado. And we, her loyal subjects hasten to comply...

Each month, we volunteer words, which Karen then shuffles and re-distributes. We don't know who will get our words. Or what they will do with them.

Until now!

My words this month? 

clinical ~ fought ~ insinuate ~ perfect ~ tail

There were supplied by my wonderful friend, Rena at: Wandering Web Designer 

Rena, I (and Sally and Gwen) thank you. You are amazing!

Here are the other participants. Read them, I guarantee it'll be a treat!

Baking In A Tornado                  

Wandering Web Designer

Climaxed 

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

What TF Sarah

Adapt. Adopt. Become Adept.

I'll get it. Just give me time.Our children learn from what they see. And hear.
Most of the time, it's a good thing.
Occasionally, it's not.
Sometimes, it's just plain fun.
My husby, Grant, had our twenty-month-old son, Mark, in the highchair.
Eating pancakes.
Mark's very favourite.
I was across the room, nursing our two-month-old son, Erik.
All was well.
Everyone was happy.
Then my husby decided to take advantage of Mark's utter absorption in forking pieces of pancake into his mouth and make a quick trip to the euphamism (real word).
For a few minutes, Mark was happily engaged.
Then, the pancakes ran out.
Oh-oh.
“Daddy!”
I looked over at him.
He was waving his little fork in the air.
“Daddy!”
No response.
“Daddy!”
Still no response.
Mark changed tactics.
“Da . . . Gwant!”
“Gwant!”
Faint sounds from the eupham . . . okay, the bathroom.
Not enough to satisfy Mark, however.
By the way, how did he even know his father's name?
I always called him . . .
“Ho-ney!”
That.
Now there were definitely sounds emanating (good word) from the bathroom.
Laughter.
“Ho-ney!”
Mark had gotten a reaction. With twenty-month-old persistence, he was going to pursue it.
“Ho-ney!”
More laughter. But definitely getting louder.
“Ho-ney!”
His father emerged, drying his hands and still chuckling.
“What is it, son?”
“Mo' pancake, Ho-ney!”
We had created a monster.

On a Bicycle Built for Me

 

Bygone days . . .My daughter and I were looking for new bicycles.

And the irony was just sickening.

Let me go waaay back and tell you why . . .

I was five and quite ready to move up from the tricycle that had served me well. I was ready to learn to ride a two-wheeler.

I could ride almost anything with four legs and, on the ranch, the choices there were nearly endless.

But when it came to bicycles, I had . . . less.

Choices, that is.

There was my oldest brother, Jerry's bike. But the bar made the fact that I was short and couldn't sit on the seat, impossible.The one that was closest to my size was ‘Alfred’, my next older brother George’s bike.

It was a hand-me-over from Jerry and had already gone many, many miles.

Been refurbished and set to go many, many more.

Younger brother on 'Alfred'. Handed down again.But it was out of bounds for me.

Because...George.That left the biggest bike.

Mom’s.A classic.

The old green one with the balloon tires.

The one that stood almost taller than my head.

There was no way I could remotely come near to sitting on the seat, but I discovered I could manage nicely if I just stood on the pedals.

The whole time I was riding.

The amazing thing is, for the behemoth it was, that bike was astonishingly easy to ride.

And a fantastic bike to learn on.

In no time, I was whizzing up and down the tree-lined drive, pumping madly as I tried to keep up with my fleeter, older brother.I don’t remember actually riding it when I could reach the seat and the pedals at the same time, but for a while, that bike and I were good company.

My brother perched on my gold beauty
(sans tassels)Until Dad brought home a solid gold beauty.

Just for me.

Complete with a banana seat and ape-hanger handlebars (with gold streamers) it was the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

We were instantly fast friends.

And I do mean fast.

And the novel ability to be able to sit while I pedaled was . . . novel.

And remarkable.

We spent many hours and miles together.

Until I outgrew it.

You’d think I would then have turned to the old, green reliable, now that feet and seat could actually work in conjunction with each other.

But I didn’t.

Nope.

After riding my gold beauty, I wouldn’t be caught dead on that old thing.

Moving ahead many, many years.

My daughters and daughters-in-law biked every morning. With assorted grandchildren as out-riders and three of us towing little trailers, we resembled a parade.

All we needed were the balloons.

And clowns.

Okay, just the balloons.

The little blue Canadian Tire $99 Special I had been riding had been sadly outclassed by my DIL’s vintage, pink Electra marvel.

I had ridden it.

It was delicious.

I wanted one.

So my daughter and I had determined to find bikes EXACTLY like it.

Now, for the ironic part.

These bikes were precisely like the bike I learned to ride on.

The old green reliable.

The one I wouldn’t be caught dead on all those years ago.

Balloon tires and all.

See? Irony. . . 

Today. See the pink beauty somewhere in the middle? Mmmmm.

Invented by Oopsies

 

I know I've published this before,I thought that I would post once more,Especially now, with Covid near,To me, vaccines are 'specially dear!
For once, he’d listened to his wife,

How to ameliorate her life,

And he went without delay,

To take her on a holiday.

But as he hastened to comply,

In proving he was one sweet guy,

He left his glistening lab in less

Than pristine order, I confess.

While those two hurried who knows where,

One petri dish abandoned there,

A part of his criteria,

Was moistened with bacteria.

When they returned, that fateful dish,

Was not as clean as they could wish.

Bacteria, possession had,

And things were looking rather bad.

Except one place had not been ‘got’,

No icky growth upon that spot.

Instead, a little bit of mold

Had landed there and taken hold.

It battled with the icky stuff,

And proved that it had strength enough,

Its presence brought discovery,

And new ways for recovery.

I guess you’ve guessed by now that guy

Was christened Fleming from on high.

And penicillin started small

S’the best discovery of all!

After that, we note that he

Made no more great discoveries.

His wife, by his chaos dismayed,

Decided she would hire a maid.

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 all may stink a bit,And Garlic'll be the cause of it!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Favorite invention (From Mimi) (April 12) Today!
National Garlic Day (April 19)
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3) Lost Sock Memorial Day. (May 10)
The anniversary of the patent of the rubber band. (May 17)
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)

78’s

Today, I'm sitting in a warm blanket of nostalgia . . .

My dad had an extensive record collection. 78’s.
Instrumentals. Country. Easy listening. Nonsense.
Thick, heavy records that could easily double as frisbees.
If we had thought of it.
Which we didn't.
We kids would paw through those records in search of our favourites.
I had two.
I listened to them endlessly.
Endlessly.
Till I moved on to the Monkees, which is a whole other story.
Dad upgraded his collection and his stereo system. Replacing all of his 78 recordings with new LPs.Well, almost all.
Somehow, he missed my favourites.
Sigh.
I've searched for them ever since in many, many antique stores. Thumbing through the 78s they have on offer for those two little songs. Or even one of them. I'd be satisfied with that.
But always, I've been disappointed.
I was telling my granddaughters about my favourite songs yesterday and describing the archaic 78 records that played them.
Yeah. They didn't believe me.
Then I went to my new friend, Google.
And guess what?!
They are there!
Both of them.
I offer them to you now, exactly as I used to listen to them.
When I was four.
And the world wasn't a scary place . . .

First: Horace the Horse









Then: Smokey the Bear













And, because we loved him too, my favourite Spike Jones:
New Years Resolution











Picture me, a little girl with white, candy-fluff hair, singing along.
My mom's in the kitchen making something grand.
Daddy's in his chair, work boots off and feet up, reading the newspaper and waiting for supper.
That's where I'm going to spend my day!

Learning

It started innocently enough. 

Me and newly-minted four-year-old granddaughter (hereinafter known as Please-Be-Patient-With-Me-I’m-Learning. Or PBPWMIL, for short) discussing the pros and cons (mostly cons) of taking something that doesn’t belong to you.

“But I wanted it,” she affirmed.

“I know, Sweetheart. But you can’t take something that doesn’t belong to you.”

I should probably mention here that I am speaking to a little girl with snapping dark eyes, shining dark hair, and smeared chocolate from nose to ears to chin. Not to mention the chocolate wrappers strewn about her small person.

Yep. Caught red-handed.

Or chocolate-chinned.

“How would you feel if little brother took something that was yours?”

“I would take it back!”

“Would you be sad that he had it?”

“Yeah. So I would take it back!”

“So should I take the chocolate back that you took from me?”

She frowned at that logic for a moment.

I presumed I was getting my point across.

A little note: Never assume anything when speaking to a recently graduate of Being Three.

She looked at me, wide eyes earnest and opened her little red bow of a mouth.

Here it comes, I thought. I finally got through to her!

“But I wanted it.”

Sigh. We’d come full circle.

“Okay, let’s start again,” I said. “Sweetheart how would you feel if someone took something that belonged to you?”

She stared at me. Then, “I can’t answer right now. My brain is empty.”

We’re considering encouraging her to run for political office.

Bogging

How peaceful it all looks.
So deceptive . . .The 'tree field' on the ranch was just that.A field.With trees.Distinguished from all of the other fields by their barren-ness.Because it had trees, it also offered cover. An ideal place for spring calving.I was Dad's herdsman. It was my duty to oversee the spring calving and make sure that all calves (and their mothers) survived.Normally, things went well.Occasionally, they did not.But that is another story . . .Usually, when I rode out to check the cows, I rode.On a horse. But on this day, I was in a hurry.So I fired up Dad's one-ton truck - the one with the dual rear wheels - and headed out to the field.I should explain, here, that the tree field had trees because it was situated next to an irrigation canal. A wide trench that meandered through the countryside. In the spring, the gates are opened and water from the Old Man River diverted into the various canals for irrigating the dry land farms and ranches throughout Southern Alberta. An effective system.But the canals were getting old.And water seeped from them into the adjacent land.Great if your land was close by and needed water.Which the tree field was.And did.Thus – trees.But the land could also become quite saturated.And boggy.Particularly in the clearing in the center of the trees.We thought it was very entertaining.One could stomp on the seemingly dry ground and the land all around would quiver.Cool.There was enough dry soil on top to hold up a cow.Or my horses.But remember, I was in the truck.Considerably heavier than any horse or cow.Back to my story . . .I innocently drove out to check the herd.The first pass, the one on the higher ground near the road, went well.But there were no cows near the road, either.Sigh.I moved into the trees for a second pass.Starting at the far east side of the field, I worked my way west, toward the canal.Stopping now and then to walk into the trees to investigate a barely-seen patch of red hide.I reached the far west side and started to turn.It was then that I realized that I . . . and my truck . . . were sinking.Here's something you don't see every day. A truck, sinking out of sight in the middle of a dry land ranch in Southern Alberta.I had two options.Holler for one of my parents.Mat that gas pedal and pray.My parents were my parents. They lived to get me out of scrapes.Right?Ahem.But both of them were at the ranch a mile away to the West.I was on my own.I went with my second option.Mud and water sprayed from those dual tires as the truck struggled for purchase.For a few, heart-stopping moments, it looked as though the bog would win.Then, slowly, the truck started to climb up out of the hole.Finally, I was flying along atop the bog.I kept the gas pedal to the floor until I was through the tree line and solidly back on dry ground.Then I stopped the truck and simply breathed.I left the truck and walked back to inspect the ruts I had left.They were three feet deep and rapidly filling with water.My brother told me later that I was a heartbeat away from losing the truck entirely.“And the only thing that would have salvaged the situation would have been to call in a cherry-picker.”I don't have to tell you that the 'cherry-picker' he is talking about had nothing to do with picking cherries.And everything to do with being expensive.Thank goodness for gas pedals.And prayer.A little side note here: The provincial government has updated all of the canals, lining them so they are much more efficient and less--for want of a better word--leaky. On a recent visit, I couldn't find the tree field. When the water supply dried up, so did the trees.It was a sad, sad moment. My steed.

Good Cow Pony

Daddy at 6 on Peggy.
Another good cow pony.A good cow pony is more than just transportation in the ranching world.It is partner, confidante, shelter, and yes, even protector.
Dad's horse had been superbly trained.
By him.
Calving season is a rather exciting time of the year. For at least a couple of reasons.
Because new babies are appearing in the fields. And new baby calves are cute.
But also because you are getting up close and personal with warm, furry creatures who outweigh you by several hundreds of pounds.
See? Exciting. In an unpredictable/ohmygoodness sort of way.
Most cows on the Stringam ranch calved between January and March.
Without ceremony or fanfare.
In the field.
Calves were tagged and given their newborn shots within a few feet of where they were born.
I should mention here that Hereford cows are docile and easily managed.
Except when they have a newborn calf nearby.
You've heard the stories about getting between she-bears and their babies?
Well, Hereford cows would kill to have that reputation.
Hmm . . . Actually, they would have to kill to get that reputation.
Just thought I'd point that out.
Because it really has nothing to do with this story.
Moving on . . .
Hereford cows may not be the black-leather-clad, chain-toting members of the bovine family, but they can still be rather aggressive when their babies are in danger.
Or when they think their babies may be in danger.
As when people are around.
My Dad found this out the exciting way.
He had come across a newborn calf, lying 'hidden' in the tall grass.
Dismounting, he straddled the calf and prepared to vaccinate.
And that's when Mama noticed him.
Suddenly, a thousand pounds of red and white indignation were breathing down his neck.
And I do mean down his neck.
I know this will sound funny, but when a cow is threatening, the best place to be in the wide-open prairie is 'under' one's well-trained horse.
Really.
You crawl under your horse and no cow will come near.
Hastily, Dad pulled himself and his captive under his horse and continued with his work.
The cow snorted and fidgeted, circling around, trying to find the flaw in this scenario.
The horse kept one eye on her. All the while turning to keep his hindquarters directed towards the irate bundle of hair and aggression.
This worked for a few moments.
But finally, even the presence of a larger, stronger, and infinitely smarter creature didn't deter.
She charged.
Remember where I mentioned that the horse kept his hindquarters towards the cow?
That's because that is a horse's 'dangerous' end. (Brings a whole new mean to calling someone a horse's a##, doesn't it?)
Ahem . . .
The end that is always loaded.
And ready to fire.
He let fly.
With both barrels.
He caught the cow in the head.
In mid-charge.
Now a cow's head is composed mostly of bone.
They can be hurt.
But it takes a lot.
This kick merely stopped the cow for a moment.
She shook her head, confused.
Then looked around.
What had she been doing?
About that time, Dad finished with the calf and let it go.
It trotted over to its mother and the two of them hurried towards the nearest far-away place.
Dad stood up and gave his horse a pat.
“Good boy.”
Then mounted up and continued his ride.
Another rather mundane day in the life of a good cow-pony.
What would we do without them?

ADVENTURE!

 

Sometime, I’d like to take a trip,

To parts mysterious and deep,

‘Cross vast and strange new lands, I’d skip,

Go tooling in my trusty jeep.

Taking everything in stride,

No mayhem, monsters, storms or signs

Would startle me or turn the tide,

From exploration I’d designed.

I’d walk on lands both near and far,

And check out strains indigenous,

No qualms, no fears of things bizarre.

No misgivings to discuss.

I’d leave my sterile world behind,

And with my own exciting map,

Feeling free and unconfined,

Adventures falling in my lap.

I’d learn the jargon: trudge, poop deck,

Adventure, survey, navigate,

Tramp, spelunk and cruise and trek,

Ramble, hike, triangulate.

I’d do all this, and without fear,

Though one thing dims my zeal somewhat,

To see those worlds both far and near,I’d have to get up off my butt.

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, avoiding all convention,We'll talk of our Fav'rite Invention!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Read a Road Map Day (April 5) Today!
Favorite invention (From Mimi) (April 12)
National Garlic Day (April 19)
The ocean or beach (From Mimi) (April 26)
The best thing about spring (From Mimi) (May 3)

Next Generation

Bergs. My best people.Marrying into a family is a happy, joyous proposition.

It can also be daunting and just a bit scary.

Even when everyone is on the same page—linguistically speaking.

Aunt June joined the Berg family way back in the sixties.

A city girl, she had a lot to learn about her future husband’s ranching family.

That had nothing to do with . . . ummm . . . ranching.

His parents had immigrated to Canada from Sweden.

He and his siblings were first-generation Canadians.

And Swedish terms largely peppered the family’s daily speak.

So to speak.

Such terms as (forgive me, but I’m going to write these words as they sound, which will probably horrify my Swedish relatives.) Hell. Ringadongen. Shurkfasta. And the ever popular Yamen Ha Do Sit Promaken.

And these were just the words she encountered on her first visit.

Perhaps some explanation is in order . . .

Approaching the house, Uncle Leif and his future bride were met at the door by my MorMor, (Mother’s Mother) and invited in. “Just hang your coats here in the shurkfasta,” she told them.

Okay. That wasn’t too hard to figure out. Coats. Hang. 

This may not be so bad.

They walked from said shurkfasta into the large kitchen, where one of the boys was trying to save a step and attempting to pour milk from the crock into a glass. 

“No! Hell with the pitcher! Hell with the pitcher!” MorMor said.

Admittedly, future Aunt June’s ears pricked up at that one. But she soon figured that too. Pour.

She even figured out from the conversation about wrangling cows that a ringadongen was a coulee.

Smart girl.

But the one term that stumped her was ‘Yamen Ha Do Sit Promaken?!”

Said with just a touch of wonder and amazement.

And even a bit of head shaking.

Let’s see if we can figure this one out.

Someone was doing something amazing.

And MorMor was watching.

And she said: that phrase.

Okay. That’s as much as I’m going to tell you.

Let’s see what you come up with . . .

Aunt June happily joined the family.

And learned to appreciate, and even participate in the occasional lapses into Sweglish.

It was a very special price to pay for happiness.