Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 7

Dallying with the Dailies

Dad loves to read the localnews,He does it every day,He likes to know what’shappeningAnd in the ‘news’loop, stay.
Our cops have had ittough this week,‘s the news from ‘Upthe Hill’,On Monday, someonestole their ‘loos’,They’ve nothing to goon, still.
On Wednesday a sinkhole opened, downRoute Two a little bit,Don’t think they’re doing nothing, causeThey’re looking into it.
Then Friday almost took the cake,Their cruiser tires, you see,Were stolen each and every one,They’re working tirelessly!
Today when Daddy finished up,He set the paper down,Then minutes later, looked for it.Was running all around.
He asked my sister if she’d seen,She looked at him askance,Then handed him her iPad…That fly didn’t have a chance!

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besoughtTo try to make the week beginWith gentle thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, meHave crafted poems for you to see.And now you’ve read what we have wrought…Did we help?Or did we not?
You'll love the topic next week. True,'Remembering'. (It's what we do!)
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!)...Newspapers (September 4) Today!Remembering (September 11)Cheeseburgers (September 18)Dreams (September 25)Birthdays (October 2)Family (October 9)Dictionary (October 16)Talk Shows (October 23)Mischief (October 30)Watermelon (November 6)Grandma's Kitchen (November 13)The Bus (November 20)A Pet's Life (November 27)

That Quonset Summer: Part Four

Coldest summer on record - and no heat!In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.There were myriad challenges.But the most important was that it was bare land.Absolutely everything needed to be built.Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.And that left us in a further dilemma.Where to live.The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.It was an adventure.And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals.(If you missed part one, you can find it here. Part two. Part three.)
Mornings were always very chilly - as was the whole summer!

With the exception of about two hot days, who could have foreseen the coldest summer in history?

Well, maybe Grey Eagle Child who forecast the coldest summer or fiercest winter every year. Sooner or later, he's right!

We never lingered over dressing in the morning, for with a Swish! Swish! on would go our clothes, socks, sweater, snow boots and usually jacket.

I would shiver my way over to the stove and turn the oven and all four burners on at once, even if I only needed two.

They must have given psychological heat because any heat calories were certainly lost in the voluminous stratosphere of the shed.

All plates and bowls would go into the oven while I prepared the meals and in order to conserve every calorie of heat.

And every one would be seated at the table and the blessing asked before the plates and food were brought out.

Then, if we hurried, the first mouthful of food would be too hot and the last one would be too cold!

Most of the time, we could see our breath. Our youngsters had great fun huffing and puffing about.

Every day brought a whole new series of unusual experiences.

Friends dropped in regularly for a momentary cheerful exchange and we enjoyed their ribbing.

"When's the auction?" one asked as he came through the one huge sliding door.

"Should get a blueprint of this," said another. "House, barn, shop and garage, all in one!"

Meanwhile, our new house was slowly taking shape.

Our amiable carpenter was trying to keep a dozen people happy by spreading his services around so thinly that he managed to put three nails in our house each week - and I believe sometimes he only managed two.

It was most frustrating and when the rain poured down along with the temperature, my temperature rose.

"Oh, what I would like to do to that carpenter," I fumed.

However, there were other days.

We were constantly amused by the sudden flood of traffic past our 'summer' home.

Necks would crane and eyes would stare.

One gal drove clear off the road!

Usually we made an effort to give them value for their effort.

I would come out with a bin full of garbage or we would scoot one of the youngsters out to the outdoor privy.

It was most interesting to watch the children on the school bus.

When it stopped, there would be a sudden surge of eager youngsters to the 'viewing side' and the bus would lurch dangerously over the roadside ditch.

I would dispatch our youngsters with a cheerful smile and a kiss and a tiny prayer in my heart that they would not be ostracized from humanity.It takes a great deal of courage to meet the challenges in our lives without any discrimination of our fellow beings - how much more courage we need with it.

I believe our children were faced with an overload.

I certainly admired them for their determination and diplomacy. They were in constant contact with the human element and from my observation, carried on beautifully.

I imagine the conversations went something like:
"Are you really living out there in the shed?"

"Why yes, we are. We love it out there. Everything is so convenient and we have lots of fresh air and no grass to cut! We can just step into the car and drive out or our friends can drive in! We only have to walk a few steps and we can pet the animals! We don't have to worry about our muddy boots, though Mom does insist that we leave them by the door. We have great times playing hide and seek among the crates and boxes and the hopping game is the best of all. That is when you hop from box to box without touching the floor. We only play that game when Mom isn't around!"

By this point, the little friend was so entranced she couldn't wait for an invitation.

"May I come and stay with you sometime?"

"Sure. You can come any time you like," was the superior reply.

And the children did come and they danced about in happy glee. They fetched and carried and made the beds. They swept the floor, washed and dried the dishes and tidied the living room.

They helped me make pies and set the table. It was a happy, carefree experience.

And they left wishing they lived in a quonset

That Quonset Summer: Part Three

Yep. We were living in the feed lot.In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.There were myriad challenges.But the most important was that it was bare land.Absolutely everything needed to be built.Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.And that left us in a further dilemma.Where to live.The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.It was an adventure.And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals.(If you missed part one, you can find it here. And part two here.)
The Long First Night

It was long past our bedtime before we managed to get everyone settled.

The shed had become very chilly with the setting of the sun and we found that we had to dig out many extra blankets.

It was really quite snug in our beds.

There is really something quite special about your own bed. If you could take it with you wherever you went, any place would feel like home.

As we lay there quietly listening to the last sleepy little giggle, though no words were spoken, I know we shared the same thoughts. Surely this was the most unique experience of our lives and certainly a satisfying solution for now.

And we were soon asleep.

I woke with a start!

Something had awakened me.

Something weird.

The shed was very dark and all I could see was the sky-light.

For a moment I couldn't seem to collect my facilities.

Where was I?

And what had startled me?

It was very still - a deafening kind of stillness.

Then, suddenly, a scream pierced the silence.

It was half wail, half screech and it was very close.

My hand clamped on my husband's arm and he stirred.

Then we were mesmerized by another wail - much longer than the first.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"I don't know!" he replied, "but it sounds like an animal of some kind."

Again the night stillness was shattered by this weird weeping sound.

It was right outside the shed wall.

We must surely have invaded the private territory of some wild beast. His voice was fraught with angry indignation.

I imagined a huge cat-like monster, his teeth and eyes glistening.

"What are we going to do?" I gasped.

"I'm going out to shoot him!" said my practical husband as he proceeded to dress in the dark. "I have a gun in the pick-up."

I lay back, shivering and pulled the bed clothes up around my chin. "But he might . . ." I couldn't manage to form the words.

"I'll be careful," was his parting shot and I watched helplessly as his dim form vanished into the thick darkness towards the door.

The door slid open and shut.

The screaming had stopped.

The stillness was awesome.

Every nerve and muscle tense, I huddled under the covers.

Suddenly, the moon shone through the cloud cover and the sky light brightened. I could see the monster shapes of furniture in the dim light.

One of the children stirred and laughed weirdly in his sleep.

The shed was suddenly like a huge, black cave and I felt unknown things lurking in its murky depths. At any moment, bats would descend in a cloud, their sharp teeth and claws poised.

Another scream echoed through the night. This time, its creator seemed to have moved away toward the river.

Where was my husband?

The clock on the head board of our bed said 1:30 A.M.

For an eon, I lay there waiting for the sound of the snarling monster attacking.

I could just picture my helpless mate walking into a trap.

One apprehensive hour later, Mark returned and as he undressed and slid his cold feet into bed, I learned through a whispered exchange that he had spent the whole eternal hour observing safely from the cab of the truck!

He had seen nothing.

The children slept through it all. The events of the day had tired them more than we thought.

Some time in the wee hours of the morning, I slept.

But with the coming of daylight, the young bulls to the south of the shed began to test their voices in preparation for the 'bull chorus'.

Further sleep was obviously out of the question.

First we had the deep bass. Then the baritone. Then the alto.

Then the tenor broke away in careless abandon. He sounded like the braying of an ass.

Morning also set off another reaction.

As the early sun's rays hit the quonset, we became the unwilling audience to the pop-pop-popping conversation of hundreds of bolts in its ribs.

The temperature change had obviously set off a chain of protests from our little bolt friends.

Day had come.
P.S. We think the animal they heard was a cougar. We think...

That Quonset Summer: Part Two

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town. There were myriad challenges.But the most important was that it was bare land.Absolutely everything needed to be built.Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.And that left us in a further dilemma.Where to live.The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.It was an adventure.And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals.(If you missed part one, you can find it here.)
Home!I drove right into the quonset and parked close to the living room area.

My thoughtful husband had already arranged the living room furniture in an orderly manner - complete with end tables on each side of the sectional couch.

It looked . . . inviting.

I wanted to drop my weary bones into the nearest chair!

However, there was no time.

Everything else there was chaos. Packing crates, boxes, and furniture everywhere.

Doc was busy setting up beds and improving bedrooms with dressers and wardrobe cases for partitions.

The electrician had been busy and two deep freezers were already humming their normal tune whilst preserving the family food.

My stove was being set up in the kitchen area east of the living room space, and it was comforting to know that I would be able to use most of the electrical conveniences I enjoyed.

Two tables were set up in the kitchen - one to be used as a work table and the other for eating our meals.

A set of steel shelves had been erected beside the tables for storing dishes, bowls, kettles and all my baking and cooking materials.

We had found an old cutlery drawer and it came in very handy when it came time to sort all the various kitchen tools.

I covered most of the articles on these shelves with tea towels. We discovered, with some annoyance, that the cement dust settled everywhere.

No amount of sweeping seemed to solve this problem.

In fact, I think it aggravated it!

We covered most of our furniture with grey flannelette sheets and old bed spreads. They stood like great, hooded monsters in the fading light.

It was nearly time to have our evening meal and the thought of food was farthest from my mind.

Our children were dancing about the crates and boxes in gleeful abandon and I hated to intrude upon this carefree joy with restrictions.

Luckily, I didn't have to.

A dear, sympathetic neighbour brought in a hot, steaming casserole of peppered steak and a crisp green salad. (I shall always have a soft spot for hot, peppered steak and a thoughtful friend.)

We suddenly discovered that we were not only hungry, but ravenous.

Just to smell this delicious food set our taste buds to dancing. We set the table quickly and all sat down together to share a moment of thankfulness and enjoy this wonderful food.

It had been a long day, this 23 of June. A warm, sunny day after the refreshing rain of the night before.

It was a day full of sound and activity, of confusion and frustration.

A day ending one segment of our lives and beginning a new one in a long chain of segments - each one an event that would shatter, frustrate or console us as we met new challenges.

That Quonset Summer: Part One

Everything Under ConstructionIn the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.There were myriad challenges.But the most important was that it was bare land.Absolutely everything needed to be built.Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.And that left us in a further dilemma.Where to live.The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.It was an adventure.And it's told here by my mother, Enes:
The red letter day was here.There could be no more stalling - no more postponing - no more compromising.

We had sold our house three months before and we just must move!

All the planning and indecision washed over me like a cold shower.

Nothing had been resolved, though all angels had been considered.

While our new home was being built, should we move into a motel? To a trailer? Rent a house?

All of them were ticked off for various reasons - too expensive, too many children (six when our eldest was home), and homes to rent were not available.

There was one alternative, however.

My rancher/veterinarian husband had built a quonset.

A huge quonset (100 feet by 40 feet).

And it had a cement floor, smooth in the center and rough at one end where he eventually planned to build a barn with stalls for convalescing animals. (The rough floor would keep the animals from slipping.)

It had a cold water outlet and a sewer outlet at the rough end.

I don't know how the great light dawned, but we suddenly came up with this fantastic idea.

Why not move into the quonset for the summer?

We could assemble our living area in the center near the water outlet and carry all our waste water to the sewer outlet in the future barn space.

It would work.

We still had many misgivings about living in 'the shed' and they seemed to multiply as the day for the move drew nearer.

So, it was with many the doubts still swimming through my head that I set myself to the task of packing.

The confusion grew as the moving van arrived and it progressed steadily through the length of the day until by late afternoon my mind and limbs were numb.

Finally, though, I was looking about the nearly-empty home I loved.

It was as if I were viewing a funeral procession of a dear friend.

The car was packed to the roof. There was room only for me as the driver, and my littlest child, Anita, on a heap of articles beside me.

Thank goodness the others were all in school and didn't have to witness this agonizing transformation. (Although I had reason to suspect that they were entranced by the whole idea - anything so unusual would be a great adventure!)

They could not possibly perceive all the 'mechanics' of the operation. And definitely would not experience the re-organization and planning that would have to be done before our family would resume a smooth day-to-day living.

No one could help me with this.

I felt as if I had been prepared for slaughter and my unwilling body was being swept toward the surgeon with scalpel poised and grinning teeth mocking me.

Life's necessities and comforts had gone.

I had to accept that.

So, with a firm grip on the steering wheel and quivering lip clamped firmly in my teeth, I shifted the family car into reverse and drove resolutely toward my 'summer home'.

A Close Shave

Our Fred decided that he’d pamper himself just a bit,

Cause he was feeling grubbier than he cared to admit,

Went down to the Salon to ask them for a pedicure,

And maybe get a shave and have them trim up his coiffure,

The pedicurist was a girl and she was sweet and kind,

And pretty as the day was long. He thought he’d lose his mind,

And as she worked, ol’ Fred decided, he’d ask for a date,

“I’m married,” was all she would say. He frowned and told her, “Wait!

Why don’t you call your husband and just say you’ve work to do,

Then I could take you out and maybe spend some time with you!”

She didn’t even look up as she gave a little wave…

“Why don’t you just tell him yourself. He’s giving you your shave!”

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besoughtTo try to make the week beginWith gentle thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, meHave 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 all aboutNewspapers! Give us a shout!
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!)...
At the Beauty Parlour/Parlor (August 28) Today!Newspapers (September 4)Remembering (September 11)Cheeseburgers (September 18)Dreams (September 25)Birthdays (October 2)Family (October 9)Dictionary (October 16)Talk Shows (October 23)Mischief (October 30)Watermelon (November 6)Grandma's Kitchen (November 13)The Bus (November 20)A Pet's Life (November 27)

Decisions...

A politician standing there outside the pearly gates,Listened to St. Peter as the man discussed his fate,“Now you can come right in,” he said, “But better you should seeThe way that they do things in Hell. Informed, then, you will be!” 
So ‘Gerrold’, as we’ll call him shrugged and told the man, “Okay.I really didn’t have another thing planned for today.”The next he knew, was waking up in a five-star hotel room,With Satan standing by his bed, with jokes and naught of doom. 
He offered Gerrold drinks from his convenient mini barThen took him to the window. What he saw there was bizarre,For all his friends were teeing off in a golf course for the pros,“You like golf?” Satan asked him. “Well, Son, we’ve got ten of those!”
“There’s everything that you could want to make forever sweet,And all you have to do is say you’ll stay to play and eat!Well Gerrold spent that day enjoying all they offered him,Including time spent with his wife, once more so young and trim.
Then finally, once more he stood outside the pearly gates,With St. Peter once more asking what he wanted for his fate,Well, Gerrold shrugged and told him, ”Hell. You know it was a lark!”St. Peter said, “I figured so.” Then snapped. And all went dark.
Gerrold frowned and peered around, but not much could he see,The air, it smelled of cinders and the light, dim as could be,As his eyes adjusted, there stood Satan by his side,“What’s going on? This isn’t right, old buddy!” Gerrold cried. 
“Where’s the golf course? Where’s the food. And where’s my wife?” asked he,“Before all this was beautiful. Just lovely as could be!But now there’s grief around me everywhere, that I have noted!”
“Before we were campaigning, but dear Gerrold, now, you’ve voted!”
So know when making choices that you need to be aware,Cause sometimes there are options that could catch you in a snare,And things won’t be exactly what you think that you behold…I guess you’ve learned by now that: All that Glitters is not GOLD! 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,With GOLD this month, how did I do?

Please go and see the others, too!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Mimi at messymimismeanderings

With Love

Mmmm . . . love.We were invited out to dinner one night.Our hostess served us Turkey a la King.And fresh, warm muffins.With a crisp spinach salad.Everything was absolutely delicious.Which is usually the case when someone else cooks.But as I was eating my salad, I suddenly remembered the spinach of my youth . . .My Mom was a terrific cook.Really terrific.I can't remember anything that she made that I didn't like.From her breakfasts of pancakes or waffles or bacon and eggs, through to her suppers of roast beef or shepherd's pie or veggies with cheese sauce, and everything in between.Terrific.But Mom had been raised by her Mom to believe that everything . . . everything . . . needed to be well done.Meats.Carbs.Even veggies.All had to be baked or fried or boiled to 'within and inch of their lives'.Or at least until they had lost whatever colour they originally had.It wasn't until I was married that I discovered the joy of 'medium rare' and 'tender crisp'.And sometimes . . . raw.I remember the first time someone served a mound of fresh, crisp cauliflower.Uncooked.With dipping sauce.I stared at it.Weird.Cauliflower was suppose to be served steaming hot.With cheese sauce.I didn't even try it that time. Merely having seen it was sufficient for me.Shortly afterwards, I did.Try it, I mean.I found it delicious.And it opened a whole new world for me.A world of colour and taste and texture that I never knew existed.Back to the spinach.Do you know how my Mom always served it?Boiled.Not steamed. Boiled.I kid you not.Then serve it as a glop on our plates.With vinegar.And you know something else?We loved it.Slurped it down like it was our last food on earth.My point here is that I love food the way I prepare it now.But I loved it equally as well when Mom fixed it.I guess it all just comes down to how much love is served with it.

Having Respect

The work is getting done. Guess who's in charge?Husby is retired now.

As am I.

He had been at the same organization for over thirty years.

He knew the business inside and out.

Wrote most of its policies.

And conceived and implemented nearly every one of its processes.

Yep. Inside and out.

But in his organization, a new wave of up-and-comers were . . . up and coming.

They’d not changed any of the policies. Yet.

But they were beginning to tinker with the procedures.

Don’t get me wrong. That’s fine.

There are always new and improved ways to do things. I have no problem with that.

What I do have a problem with was the way they regarded my Husby.

Suddenly this man who has been a main cog in the great machine was being regarded as a bit rusty.

Out of date.

Useless.

The fact that he had personally schooled and guided every single one of these young people meant nothing once they’d gotten their momentum.

And they’d definitely gotten their momentum.

Sigh.

Our story is not unique.

I see it happening all around me. Older people who were once at the forefront of their fields of expertise are being sidelined. Disregarded.

Ignored.

Those who, though they may have fallen a bit behind in the technological side, could still be viewed (and utilized) as a source of wisdom and knowledge.

And experience.

Husby and I were speaking of it one morning. The lack of . . . respect.

Is it something the new generation has not been taught?

All of this is my long-winded way of telling a story.

Which I’m ready to begin. Finally . . .

During its heyday, the Stringam ranch was a hub of activity and a great source of employment.

Cowhands came and went. Learned a little or a lot.

But left better than when they had ridden in.

And a large part of that was due to my Dad’s example.

He led, choosing to work with the men rather than give orders and watch from the sidelines. He counselled. Disciplined. Instructed. Corrected. Instructed again.

And the men respectfully listened.

Oh, there was the occasional man who didn’t like the discipline that the Stringam ranch demanded. But even they learned to show respect during their short stay.

Most of the men went on to lives of industry. Some to direct their own enterprises.

All spoke of my Dad with respect and affection.

One man came to my parents fresh out of high school and had then stayed a number of years under the tutelage of my Dad. In his quiet way, he soaked up everything he could learn.

Then he married and finally left to begin his own ranching enterprise.

The bond of friendship remained strong.

One day, he called my Dad at Dad’s room in the local senior’s lodge. The man, and his son who was now running their family ranch, had a difficulty and needed some advice.

Who did they turn to?

My dad was nearly ninety.

His days of directing the affairs of a large ranch, riding the range and commanding crews of hired men were long behind him.

But the respect for his knowledge and expertise and the genuine affection went on.

Daddy hung up the phone from that conversation and cried.Is this respect being taught today?

Do we look at the elderly people around us (and they are growing in number) and see someone who is merely old? Redundant? Stupid?

Or do we see the person they were? A person full of life and new ideas. Contender and driving force and world changer of their generation. A person who could still be a fund of knowledge and experience.

A person upon whose shoulders the newest generation is standing.

I hope so.

If not, it’s a great waste.And a pity.

P.S. About the picture. The guy in charge is the one kneeling on the ground, holding the calf.

Interested in reading and ‘liking’ my semi-finalist short story, Nighttime in Newsome?Go ahead! It’s totally fun!

Nighttime in Newsome

I have some exciting news!A short story I wrote is a semi-finalist in a contest.I would love for you to read and comment...You can find it here: Nighttime in Newsome is the story.A little bit mysterious.A little bit kooky.A whole lot entertaining!
Thank you. I promise to love you forever!