Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 73

Baling...Can Take You Away...

It's -40C (-40F) here this morning.
I'm dreaming of sun. And warmth... Not me, but you get the picture.So to speak . . .

Add one brother and it's pretty close.
Eight years old.In my children's day, that meant that they were allowed to dress themselves.

And bathe without three younger siblings in the tub.

In my day, it meant that I was now old enough to drive the tractor.

Pulling the baler.

My day had come!

My first lessons were a confused jumble of clutch, steering wheel, gas pedal and 'Don't do that!'.

But I soon had it figured out and was able to drive a fairly straight path down the field.

Training over.

I was now ready for the real thing.

Dad directed me to the field where the rows of mown hay were nicely dried.

And ready to be baled.

I should point out here that we used a machine that popped out small, rectangular bales.

Depending on the type of grass, they weighed between 20 pounds (my favorite - made of prairie wool) and 90 pounds (my least favorite - made of something that resembled lead).

And were always moved by hand.

There were none of these gi-normous round or rectangular bales that you see in the fields now.

Bales that couldn't possibly be moved by anything other than a tractor.

Or Superman.

Who didn't live on our ranch.

The tractor person - me - was supposed to follow just to the left of the windrow (row of mown hay) and keep the pickup on the baler . . . umm . . . picking up.Are we clear?

Let's start.

The hay was grabbed by little fingers of the pickup rotating on the baler.

Then it was passed through the machine and tamped into a small, rectangular compartment.

Finally, the contraption managed to tie the bale with two pieces of hemp string, and the whole thing was pushed out the back by the next bale being formed.

Out to where my brother Jerry was waiting.

Jerry was standing on a stooker (small trailer) being pulled behind the baler.

The bales slid out of a chute straight into his arms.

He then stacked them on a rack at the back of the trailer, building what we call a 'stook'.

Yes. Weird, I know...Four or five bales on the bottom.

Then one less.

Then one less.

Until a single bale marked the top of the stook.

Jerry then hit a leaver, which tipped the trailer, dropping the neat stack off the back and launching him into the air.

I don't know about other stookers, but Jerry always used this upward motion to see how high he could jump.

It was very entertaining.

Or at least it would have been, if I weren't keeping my eyes trained on the windrow.

Ahem . . .

The only things I had to worry about were keeping true and not going too fast.

If one went too fast, the tamper couldn't keep up and hay would get clogged in the baler.

Which then resulted in a broken shear pin.

And your brother running alongside the tractor and banging on the side to get your attention so he could put in a new one.

Or so I'm guessing...

It was a wonderful way to spend a hot July day.

The smell of newly-mown hay.

The blue sky.

Fresh, clear Alberta air.

Mountains shimmering on the horizon.

Your brother singing at the top of his lungs on the stooker.

And your mind busily creating all sorts of adventures.

A perfect world.

Discovered when I was eight.

From atop a tractor.

Best and Worst

 

Ready for anything . . .Today our poets cover,Our fav'rite holidays,In truth I will go anywhere,As long as Husby pays...
My Husby loves to travel,

It’s just the way he is,

North or South; East or West,

The world is truly his.

He loves to take me with him,

(It’s good I love to go)

Foreign or domestic,

Above or Down Below.

But there’s one thing problematic,

One teeny, little blight - 

To see most things he wants to see,

We have to take a flight.

To get us two from here to there

We hurtle through the air,

While all around me talk and eat,

I curl up in despair.

He says we’re safe, quotes stats galore,

The balanced dance of gear.

I see a tube with flimsy wings,

That gives me naught but fear.

At times, our target’s tropical,

We'll cruise and eat and swim,

But though I will be happy there,

The problem's flying in.

I love to go to a'traveling,

And be sunstroke aware.

I’ll treasure each small moment,

The pain is getting there!

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 a somewhat thoughtful chew…

Life from your pet’s point of view!

 

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...

From Your Pet's Point of View (February 15)

Favourite Word that Starts With D (February 22)

Peanut Butter Day (March 1)

Favourite Cereal Day (March 8)

Pi(e) Day (what else would it be?) (March 14)

World Poetry Day (March 21)

Something on a Stick Day (March 28)

Prayer Time

 

Ours is a house of prayers.

And of family meals.

Both of which just, naturally, go together—with each of us taking turns...

This morning, over a feast of dollar-sized pancakes, it was two-year-old, second youngest granddaughter’s (hereinafter known as Cutie#11—or C11 for short) turn.

Now, to this point, C11 had been stacking up her little mound of hotcakes and cooing at them because they were just ‘so cute!’

She wasn’t ready to stop.

Mama: It’s (C11’s) turn to say the blessing.

C11: No.

Mama: Dear Heavenly Father…

C11: No!

Mama: We’re thankful for this food…

C11: No! No!

Mama: Please bless it…

C11: No! No! No! No!

Mama: In the name of Jesus Christ…

C11: No!

Mama: AMEN!

C11: NO!

We’re all a work in progress…

 

 

High Strung

 

Okay, I’m a farm girl!

I had never heard of things like this!

Sigh . . .

I learned to play the guitar when I was twelve.

After an afternoon spent with my big brother, Jerry.

He made it look like so much fun.

We were sitting downstairs on the piano bench.

With an opened ‘Reader’s Digest’ music book propped up on the piano.

We were singing, “When You Wore a Tulip”.

Loudly.

And happily.

With Jerry strumming the guitar enthusiastically.

Picture it: “When you wore a tulip, a sweet, yellow tulip, and I wore a big red rose” . . . whereupon (good word) he’d stop and say, just under his breath, but completely in rhythm, “I don’t know that chord!”

“When you caressed me . . .” And the song would continue.

We sang and laughed for hours.

After that, I insisted on learning to play.

Patiently, he handed me the guitar and then taught me.

Fortunately for him, I caught on quickly.

And went on playing.

I was never an expert, but I enjoyed myself and played for family and friends.

Moving ahead . . .

I was happily playing “Puff the Magic Dragon” for my two young sons.

Well, ‘playing’ would be largely a misnomer at this point, because the oldest one kept trying to ‘help’.

Resulting in the dull ‘thump’ of a muted string.

Finally, one of the strings broke.

Rats.

I removed it and coiled it, then set it aside.

When my Husby returned home that evening, I handed him the string and asked if he could pick me up another.

He nodded. “Sure.” Then, “Do you know which string it is?”

“Yeah. G.”

“You want me to pick you up a new G-string?” He started to laugh.

I nodded. “Yeah. I need a new ‘G’ string.” I frowned at him. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because you just asked me to pick you up a new G-string.”

I stared. Was he getting goofy? Had marriage and fatherhood finally tipped him over the edge?

“Yeah. I broke my ‘G’ string and I need a new one.”

 “You broke . . .?” He laughed harder, bending over and holding his sides.

“Yeah. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” He wiped his eyes.

“Well, can you get me a new ‘G’ string?”

Another paroxysm (ooh, another good word) of laughter.

Then, finally, “You don’t know what a G-string is, do you?”

Remember where I said the words, ‘farm girl’? That would apply here.

“No.”

He explained.

“Oh.” I suddenly understood his laughter.

He got me the string.

After a laugh with the guy in the guitar shop.But, in true Tolley fashion, never let me forget the lesson . . .

Not Quite Clean

Okay. Let's see you do this without getting grimy . . .Ranching doesn't encourage cleanliness.You heard it here first.In fact, ranching and cleanliness don't go together.At all.Let me tell you about it . . .I had worked on the ranch all my life and had finally been promoted to 'herdsman' where I served for two glorious years.This included such things as:Riding herd.Checking herd.Feeding herd.Treating herd.Worrying over herd.Hovering when herd was ready to calve.Calving out herd.Recording herd.Eating and sleeping with herd.Okay, maybe that last is a little extreme, but you get my point . . .Sooo . . . cleanliness.Cows aren't naturally clean.I know this will come as a shock.I'm sure you've seen the romantic pictures of mama cow licking her baby.I have one thing to say about this.Cow spit.How clean can that be?Cows also have other orifices that are . . . nasty.And to which I have one response.Cow pies.Enough said.On with my story . . .I was ready to go to work.Clean shirt.Clean jeans.Clean kerchief.Clean socks.Recently cleaned boots.I headed out the door.Bridle and riding pad on my horse and I was away.We made good time reaching the calving field. And almost immediately spotted a cow.Calving.But having difficulties.I decided to take her back to the corrals. And restrain her. And help.That's as far as my plans/actions went . . .I grabbed the protruding calf feet.And that's when the cow broke out of my hastily-built restraint.Grimly, I hung onto those feet as the cow started across the corral.Dropping me and baby in the middle of a puddle of - let me put it this way - it wasn't spring water.I got up.Carted the calf to safety.And headed for the house.My mother met me in the doorway. Her clean daughter had gone out the door only half an hour before.Now, dripping from head to toe with--barn puddle, said daughter had returned.Mom stopped me in the porch.“You just left here. Perfectly clean!” she said. “What did you do out there?!”“Well . . .”“Never mind. Clothes off here!” she ordered.I was divested of anything gooey.Whereupon (good word) I sprinted for the shower.In my underwear.Ranching.Not for the faint of heart.Or the fanatically clean.Okay, let's face it . . . not even for the somewhat clean.Don't you wish you were here?

Honoring the Women

 

First, there were great grandmothers, I love them, one and all!

Supported husbands, working hard, raised fam’lies large and small,

Bore the biases and duties of the women of their day,

Then packing all and sundry, left their countries far away.

 

My maternal grandmother left home and family, too,

To carve a legacy with a young man she hardly knew,

Together knew disasters, lost their work to treachery,

But managed, still, with grit, to carve a life they’d not foreseen!

 

My Grandmother paternal left her comforts far behind,

Moving north to Canada, she knew not what she’d find,

Took on the rancher’s life which oft proved perilous at best,

Nursing, caring, weaving, bearing—helped the world progress!

 

My mother had eight brothers, she grew up as ‘one more boy’,

Inside or out, housework or chores, wow, that girl was employed!

But she withdrew from scholarship, a pro career as well,

To be a Rancher’s wife—have kids—and ring a dinner bell.

 

My elder sister’s graceful, prone to fashions (more than me),

My younger and I have some laughs, both filled with fun esprit!

My sisters both are redheads, (who know where this blonde came from?)

But they both helped me be the woman I’d one day become.

 

My daughters (and in-laws) are grown and raising families,

All girls that I am proud to know and bring along with me,

Their daughters, too, all have my heart. Don’t know what e’er I did,

Before I knew them, everyone, and claimed them as grandkids!

Now in a small addendum here, I will, to you, explain,

That what was once pejorative, is something else again,

Cause ‘spunky’ is a word that means courageous; full of cheek,

And a ‘broad’ ‘s a girl who doesn’t take herself too seriously.

 

So, when I think about the women I have in my life,

Past or present, young and old, in days of sun or strife,

Daily, I am praying, thanking God for what He’s done,

Cause he gave me my ‘Spunky Broads’. I’m proud of every one!

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 Jenny, 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, if you come here, you'll see,
Our craziest vacation memory!





Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Craziest Vacation Memory (February 8)
From Your Pet's Point of View (February 15)
Favourite Word that Starts With D (February 22)

Peanut Butter Day (March 1)

Small Leading

 

If you’re ever in the jungle, you will know that Jungle Law

Decrees (you’ve heard it) Lion is the king of one and all,

With Elephant upon his right—the brains of what they do,

It’s been that way for centuries, well, give a year or two.

 

But after a particularly trying pronouncement,

The Elephant had had enough, sought Lion in his tent,

He said, “We need new leadership. Your subjects don’t want you,

It’s time for change, my folks are angry. They will stage a coup!”

 

He added, “I have had a thought and it will be a thrill!

Let’s use our wits to choose up sides, then have a game of skill!”

The Lion nodded sagely, “Sir, your challenge I accept,

And thanks for your idea of this daring new concept.”

 

“A game of football, I propose. We each will choose a side,

And demonstrate our leadership and strength, along with pride.”

The Elephant agrees. And Lion chooses for his first,

The speedy cheetah, sure to give the other team his worst!

 

The Elephant then counters with the rhino, large and tough,

He knows with that guy on his team, he’s sure to have enough!

The draft continues back and forth, past chimp and through gazelle,

Down to the very smallest of the jungle’s clientele.

 

And then they started. Lion got the ball, went all the way,

A touchdown! And the game had barely gotten underway!

But when the donkey kicked for field goal, Rhino nabbed the ball,

And reenacted Lion’s team’s first goal (passed one and all).

 

It went like this throughout the game. Yep. Back and forth they blew,

Till fine'ly at the end and tied, each wanting to break through!  

But once again, the Lion scored, and once again the kick

Was caught by Rhino. And his final run was hard and quick.

 

But somewhere there between the lines of twenty and of ten,

Ol’ Rhino tripped and lost the ball, Lion pounced upon it then,

And just like that, the game was won and Lion was decreed,

The rightful king. And Elephant and all his friends agreed.

 

 

Amidst the celebrations, Lion thought about his luck,

Then went out to field where the Rhino hit the muck,

Found, battered but still quite alive, a tiny centipede,

A creature unknown for his sports ability (or speed!)

 

 

“Did you trip him?” Lion asked. (The insect on one paw),

“Yessir,” his small friend told him. Lion said, “I’m filled with awe!”

And then King Lion realized just what had happened, when

His team had won the battle. It was Centipede, his friend.

 

“But if you had the skill to do that at the very start,

Why wait until the end? You’re very hard on my poor heart!”

The centipede just smiled, said, “I'm sorry for your blues,

“But you know it takes some time to finish tying all my shoes!”

 

There is a moral here beyond a simple jungle game,

When choosing who would lead you in your future and to fame,

It isn’t just the loud who’ll gladly give you their two cents,

Sometimes it is the little guy who’ll make the dif-fer-ence!

Today's a challenge--po-et-ry,

We're having fun, my friend and me,

And you get rhyming all for free!

Now you've read mine, so go and see

The other. I know you'll agree,

It's everything a poem should be!

Karen of Baking in a Tornado

The Bench at the End of Pederson Street

 

My Husby and me, when our walks are complete,

Well, we both need somewhere to rest our poor feet,

So we two make our way (in a manner discreet),

To our bench at the end of Pederson Street.

 

It is peaceful right there and the sun, we do greet,

We watch people go by, casual or athlete,

Yes, from there we watch life, it seems pretty complete,

From that bench at the end of Pederson Street.

 

We talk of the past and the memories sweet,

Of those days—what we’ve learned in the world, bittersweet,

Of the triumphs (they’re there), and the breakthroughs complete,

All discussed on that bench on Pederson Street.

 

Diseases removed and some new ones to meet,

A wide-reaching pandemic with terrors replete,

And a host of world problems designed to defeat,

Covered best on the bench on Pederson Street.

 

When climatic changes, our planet mistreat,

Disasters of nature, or manmade appete,

When the natural world thrums like a drumbeat,

We’ll solve all on that bench on Pederson Street.

 

A bunny hops by, leaving tracks small and neat,

A soft breeze wafts on through and it smells warm and sweet,

There is peace come to life with no trace of deceit,

And we see it all there on Pederson Street.

 

If it’s peace that you lack and you feel incomplete,

And this life’s become worrisome, don’t state defeat!

There is peace and a place for you here. Take a seat,

On our bench at the end of Pederson Street.

The Leading EDGE in Home Security

Beware!We were visiting/staying with my husband’s sister at her home in the country.Surrounded by acres of Adventure.

Our kids loved it.

They had worn themselves out running outside.Created worlds with Lego inside. And were finally tucked into their respective beds.

The visiting adults had visited a while, then followed their example and were peacefully snoring.

My Husby and I were on the hide-a-bed in the family room.

All was quiet.

I should explain, here, that the family room was situated at the top of the stairs.

That the master bedroom was down said stairs.

And that anyone wanting to use the bathroom would have to walk through our room, between our bed and the only source of light in the entire house, the glass patio doors to reach the only bathroom in the house.

Back to my story . . .

I heard a noise.

As the mother of six, I was instantly awake.

A floor was creaking.

Someone was coming up the stairs.

An adult-sized figure materialized out of the gloom beside me making their slow, careful way towards the bathroom.

For a moment, they were silhouetted against the patio door.

Then they disappeared.

I’m not making this up.

They disappeared.

One moment they were there.

A black cutout against the lighter door.

And the next . . . gone.

I sat up.

“Who’s there? What happened?”

My whisper sounded loud in the stillness.

My Sister-In-Law’s voice from the end of the bed, #$%&! Lego!”

The figure reappeared, rising up from the floor.

Its gait subtly altered, it continued towards the bathroom.

Lego is the best, most imaginative toy ever, but those who have had the misfortune of stepping on one of those little blocks with an unprotected foot know the pain.

Let’s wince together.

P.S. I've just had an amazing thought! Spread Lego blocks around the house for defense. As long as the enemy approaches barefoot, you've got them!

Calliope

 As a bit of a precis…

 

A member of the Bourgeoisie,

My ride I called Calliope,

Centurion, officially,

A sport coupe—early ‘70s.

 

We had such fun, were so carefree,

Ripped up the roads from A to B,

Music screaming like banshees,

From bush party to bush party!

 

Filled with fine teenaged esprit,

(But also strength to some degree…)

E’en went ‘sparking’ (Oh, dear me!)

In the shade of some old tree.

 

The chores were done, I grabbed the key,

An evening’s fun was meant to be,

But first some fuel from gas tank ‘three’,

Or was it ‘one’? Oh, Lord, help me!

 

Decision made, this devotee,

Filled half the tank, then turned said key,

The engine knocked alarmingly,

“Need gas, not diesel,” my Sweet Pea!

 

With fortune smiling at my plea,

(I’d filled it just half-way, you see)

“Top it with gas,” my dad decreed,

Said, “Burn it off!” to Bro and me.

 

Adventure followed, some whoopee,

Car pounded like some timpani,

Cruising ‘Main’, the sights to see,

With all our friends. So young. Carefree.

 

My sweet car aged despite my pleas,

The two doors sagged to vast degree,

Her parts no longer guaranteed,

And way past her own warranty...

 

Calliope went across the lea,

Retired, spent, discharged, set free,

Replaced by new and great. ‘Gutsy’,

But never quite the same. To me.

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 Jenny, 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'll write (You will be awed!),
Of SPUNKY, OLD and AWESOME BROADS!





Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?
We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...
Craziest Vacation Memory (February 8)
From Your Pet's Point of View (February 15)

Favourite Word that Starts With D (February 22)
Peanut Butter Day (March 1)