Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 83

A Four-Footed Character

Just driving ‘round the backwoods in his trusty Chevrolet,Ol’ Art spied him a sign that made him turn another way,Cause ‘Talking Dog for Sale’ would catch the eye of anyone,And Art, he figured sure a dog that talked could be so fun!
He drove into a yard and asked a man just sitting thereIf he’d a dog for sale and if so, could he point where?The man, he shrugged and told him that the dog was out in back,Then pointed. Art, he thanked him, and the man said, “No prob, Mac.”
In the yard, ol’ Art, he found a black Lab sitting there,"You talk?" he asked the dog. And the dog said, “Mid to fair.”
After Art recovered from the shock, while still a little dazed,He said, “What's your story?” and prepared to be amazed.
The Lab looked up and said, “Well, I discovered pretty young“That I could talk and so I thought that I could help out some,“I told the CIA. And soon they flew me cross the skies,“And sat me in some rooms with world leaders and with spies.”
“I was their most valued spy for eight years running, true!“But the jetting around got to me and I figured I was through.“So I went to an airport. Thought I’d do security, “Standing near suspicious guys who never noticed me.”
“I uncovered some amazing stuff. Rewards came thick and fast, “Then I got married, had some pups, and I'm retired at last.”Ol’ Art was just amazed. He stumbled to the owner then,Said, “How much for the dog?” “Oh, a tenner,” said the man.
“Ten dollars? Are you sure? This dog's amazing! Why so cheap?”
“Because he never did those things. The dog’s a lying creep!”So just a note, in ending, s’not how talented you ‘ere’,But whether you’re a man (or dog) of greatest Character.

Each month, for fun, and on a theme, we two write poetry,Tell me what you think of poems from Karen and from me! 

Smells Like Employment

Who would you hire?To a cowboy looking for employment in the 50s, the Stringam spread proved enticing.
Many times, someone would ride in with everything he owned on his back and in his saddle bags.
Usually at mealtimes.
Invariably he would be invited to put up his horse and stay to eat.
The interview had begun.
During the meal, everyone seated around the table would ply the newcomer with questions:
Where are you from?
Where have you been?
Where are you going?
But the boss would be watching for answers to the unasked questions.
By the end of the meal, his decision would be made.
And the cowboy would be directed to the bunkhouse.
Or the highway.
We often wondered how Dad did it.
How could he tell what kind of a man/hand this stranger would be?
He finally let us in on his secret.
Or secrets.
By the way the man swung into the saddle and handled his horse, Dad could tell he'd had lots of experience.
The fact that he treated his horse with affection and respect told Dad he was trustworthy.
He carried very little tack, so Dad knew he wasn't a thief.
He'd worked at the Bar K/Night Ranch/Q Ranch for two years and Dad knew their standards and expectations, so the man had been well-trained.
And last, he wasn't flamboyant in his dress. No ten-gallon hat or silver, big-rowelled spurs. The man had his needs and wants under control.
He was hired.
My Dad was seldom wrong.
Although once, some . . . refining was needed.
Let me explain . . .
Luke rode into the ranch yard, looking for work.
He was invited to loosen his girthstrap and join the boys for dinner.
He complied.
Talk was general as the boys got to know him.
There seemed to be a broad consensus that Luke was okay.
Everyone looked at Dad.
Who nodded.
Luke was directed to the bunkhouse and given a bunk.
The door closed.
And that's when everyone got the first whiff of Luke's one . . . drawback.
Luke didn't like water.
More particularly, washing in it.
At first, the boys were subtle.
Opening the windows.
And then the doors.
Then they started making comments.
“Whew! It sure smells in here!”
“I think someone needs a bath!”
Which got more pointed.
“Yak! I'm choking to death!”
With looks directed at the offending party.
Luke remained stubbornly oblivious.
Finally, the rest of the boys grabbed their bedrolls and toted them to the big ranch house.
“Morning, Ma'am,” the first one said. “We're moving into your attic!”
“Yep. There's poison gas in the bunk house,” the second one said.
“We're choking to death!” said a third.
“Dying!”
And they did.
Move in, I mean. Not die.
Mom turned to Dad, eyebrows raised.
Dad shrugged his shoulders. “I'll talk to them,” he said.
He must have.
Because that evening, the boys moved back into their bunk house.
Then roped Luke, hauled him down to the river and scrubbed him down themselves.
All was quiet for a week.
Till glances and remarks indicated that the next 'bathing' was being contemplated.
This time, Luke hauled himself to the river and scrubbed off.
From then on, all one of the boys had to do was take down his rope.
And Luke would scurry for the shower.
Oh, he complained. “Too much water is bad for the health!”
His words, not mine.
But he did it.
And the sweet, clean air of the Alberta prairies once more wafted through the bunkhouse.
Hiring is a tricky business.
But with discernment, skill . . .
And soap . . .
It can be done.

The Kitchen

Where no one likes a witch in,Ingredients are switched in,And chores are sometimes ditched inThe kitchen.
Where my mom found some britch(es) in,And sometimes swung a switch in,While all of us would pitch inMom’s kitchen.
Occasionally a glitch in,And recipes hit a hitch in,But only scents are rich inMy kitchen.
So Sing Along with Mitch in,And try whatever’s ‘kitch’ in,To satisfy your itch inYour kitchen.
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lotWith poetry, we all besoughtTo try to make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, MeHave crafted poems for you to see.And when you’ve ready what we have wrought…Did we help?Or did we not?
Next week, stop and take a look,We'll talk of what we love, our BOOKS!

Not Quite Clean

Okay, there are only six here. But you get the picture . . .
Mom is third from the left.Bath time has changed over the past century.
Really.
The concept of indoor plumbing is actually very recent.
In my mother's day, running water in the house meant that some enterprising and resourceful person had built the house over the well.
And designed the kitchen so that the sink was situated perfectly to accommodate the pump.
Right where the water was needed.
Clear and cold.
Directly from the ground.
Heating it to a decent temperature for such things as cooking and cleaning was a whole other process.
So . . . bath time.
I should mention, here, that I wasn't present for any of this.
I'm telling it as my mom told me.
Every Saturday night, Gramma Berg would pull out the large tub and set it in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Then painstakingly fill it bucket by bucket.
She had nine children, eight boys and my mom, to scrub.
And one tub to do it in.
The youngest went in first.
Then the second youngest.
Third.
Fourth.
All went well to this point.
Though the water was getting a bit . . . soapy.
But that is where her system inevitably broke down.
The fifth-youngest son always exhibited the same reaction to stepping into warm water.
He peed.
In the water.
Every time.
And my Mom, who stood next in line would get a little . . . perturbed.
Gramma always tried to soothe her only daughter by pointing out that the water was mostly clean and soapy. And that Mom would get a good rinse with clean water.
But Mom was only slightly mollified (real word.)
I often wondered why, in my time, my mother so enjoyed her baths.
I didn't have to go back very far to find out.

The Siblings of Summer

The crew. With one small addition.In 1965, when I was 10, my dad had the opportunity to buy a second small ranch just over an hour from the home spread. Near the town of Coaldale, Alberta.It would have been a logistical nightmare for one man to run both places, so he had two choices.A - put a foreman and workers on the second place, or B - park some of his children and one cousin there.Because Dad was a frugal (and adventurous) man, he went with plan B and, at the beginning of the summer, myself, my three older siblings and our cousin, Michael, found ourselves in a tidy little ranch house nestled in a fold of the prairie.My eldest sister, age 17 served as chief cook and bottle-washer.My two older brothers, ages 15 and 12, as general cowhands.My cousin, wherever he was needed.And me, as ballast.Our jobs were properly delineated and we went to them with a will.Chris cooked.Jerry and George brought in the hay crop and tended the cattle.Michael moved between them.And I read and showed up for meals.Oh, and rode my horse.It was a learning, growing experience for all of us.Simply managing such an operation would have been a challenge, but this ranch was unique.It was also infested with rattlesnakes.One day, while stacking hay, my oldest brother sat down on a bale to rest. There was a sudden buzz at his feet. Without even thinking, he simply pitched sideways off the stack, neatly avoiding being bitten. Then he and his younger brother hunted down the culprit and disposed of it.Can’t have rattlesnakes in the hay . . .Then they coiled up the remains on the front step of the house and rang the doorbell.Okay, I served two purposes on the ranch. Ballast and victim.After that experience, I mostly remained inside the house. Only going outside to ride. Walking slowly and carefully and observantly.The technique must have worked because my only other experience with anything slithery was during a ride to check the cows, when my mount leaped suddenly and nimbly into the air and I saw, beneath us in the grass, something long and skinny and very, very mobile.Whew!Another memory from that summer was of my sister, busy in the kitchen.Chris was making stew for supper. For a few minutes, she hunted around in the cupboards. Finally, she sighed. I asked her what was wrong.“I don’t have any more flour,” she said. “Well, I’ll try . . .”By this time I had lost interest and gone back to my reading.I’ll never forget the stew she served that evening.It was absolutely delicious.Absolutely. Delicious.Better than anything I had ever eaten.I overheard her conversation with Jerry as I worked my way through a third helping.Chris: I couldn’t find any flour for thickener.Jerry: This is great. What did you do?Chris: I used pancake mix.Resourceful. And maybe a secret ingredient for delicious-ness?It was a wonderful summer. Days of being cared for by older siblings. And cousin. (Sometime, I’ll tell you about my brother chasing off a mischievous bull using a bucket and a shovel.) Evenings spent playing five-handed solitaire. (It can be done.)Learning that, if left on our own, we could succeed.Our Coaldale summer.I’ll never forget it.

The Register of P

My walking buddies/confession/therapy group
The Statute of Limitations has run out.Or so I assume.It’s been thirty years.Maybe I should explain…Every morning, rain or shine (okay, preferably shine) my daughter and I go for our morning walk.We’ve been doing it since grade eight (hers, not mine) and we have a wonderful ramble and always a great talk.This morning, the air was noticeably cooler. A few leaves have changed colour and are falling.Our favourite time of year.I guess it brought out the urge to confess.At least one of us was a bit more garrulous than usual…Our route took us past the house we lived in when we first moved to our little town of Beaumont.Where her eldest daughter’s classmate/friend now lives.This is how the conversation went:Granddaughter: This is where my friend lives!Daughter: I wonder if they got the smell of pee out of the heat register.Me: …….Daughter: When I was three or four, you would wrap me in a towel after my bath and send me into my room to get my jammies on. I was too warm and comfy to go back into the bathroom and use the toilet, so I just stood over the heat register.Me (you’ll just have to picture the mouth dropping open): !!!!!Daughter: Yeah. I figured it would go along the pipes and down to the sewer like it does in the bathroom.Me: I have no words.Daughter: There’s a blog post for you!Me (rubbing hands together gleefully): Heh. Heh. Heh.P.S. When I told this story to Husby, he rolled his eyes. “And here I spent all that time trying to get the smell of cat pee out of the carpets from the former owners (they had four cats who liked to do their business behind the wet bar in the basement). Little did I know it was an ongoing and current problem.”Emphasis on ‘going’.

Au Nature-al

The theme for this week, I’m sure you all know,Is ‘Nature’. Where plant stuff and animals grow!But first, my regrets for my absence this week,If you want to know why, then I’ll give you a peek!
Sunsets. Fairies in the woods...




Cohort Family #1
With cohort families #2 and #3.
Cascade Gardens, Banff, Alberta
Ditto
And again...
I love this place, can you tell?
Really...
One last one.
Busy holidaying.
And conquering . . . things.
And waiting while others conquer things.

One last fairy in the woods...This place had all amenities,Like indoor plumbing, pool, and trees,But one more reason we had fun?Of WiFi, there was simply none!
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Jenny, 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 a topic we all know,
'The Kitchen'. Come with me, we'll go...

Hay!

If you look closely...In May we would have celebrated Daddy's 95th birthday.That’s significant.What else could I do but tell a story about him . . .It was haying season.In my day, that meant teams of two, one driving the tractor, one stooking.In Dad’s day, it involved numerous men, horses, and hours and hours of back-breaking work.This story is about Dad’s day.The horse-pulled mower had been over the hayfield, cutting the long grasses.They had been allowed to dry where they lay.Another horse-powered machine, a rake, had been pulled over the area to turn and fluff and gather the still-drying grasses.I should mention here that grasses have to be totally dried before they can be gathered and stored. Wet grass heaped into a pile will rot and stink and generally be disparaged by discerning cows.Think of kids and broccoli.Yeah. Like that.But I digress . . .Teams of men and horses were gathering the well-dried grasses, heaping them into wagons and hauling them to the main stack, where the hay sling (exactly what it sounds like) would be manoeuvred into position, pick up the hay, and swing it atop the big stack.It was heavy, exacting work. The hay had to be stacked just right so it would stay in place and cure properly.Dad’s brother, Bryce, had been the man atop the stack, directing the big sling.He had other duties, so turned over the pivotal job to his baby brother.My dad.For the first three minutes, all went well.Then the hay sling brought up a load.It zigged.Dad zagged.And the long pole smacked him right in the mouth. Knocking his heretofore (Ooh! Good word!) buck teeth backwards into his mouth.Don’t you hate it when that happens?I’m sure there was pain and a lot of blood.I know there was an attempt to press said teeth back into a proper position. An even better position than before. With partial results. Three tooth 'took'. Straight and perfect. The fourth didn't.Finally, Dad was hauled to the family dentist and a new tooth, on an intricate framework, was installed.As good as the old one. Almost.At least it looked right.From that day forward, Dad had a conversation starter.Or stopper.He would hide his tooth and grin his gap-toothed smile.Or hang it out over a lip.Okay, well, we kids thought it was hilarious.And isn’t that what being a dad is all about?Happy very Birthday, Daddy! We miss you! Slinging. See the guy on top?
Brings a whole new meaning to 'Watch your mouth'.

Raking.
Collecting.

Tomat-oooo

Tomato is a lowly sort,It’s used for things from food to sports,And though it’s fruit so edible,It poses as a vegetable.And think of all that we would miss,If this fruit did not exist…Tomato soups to start us out,Delicious when it’s cold, no doubt,And Caesars are a lovely drink,With salty rim and booze (wink, wink!)And then we have our sauces, yum,A million types to please our tum,We’ve salads, infinite indeed,And all delicious, we’re agreed,There’s sandwiches and sweet stuff, too,There’s nothing that this fruit can’t do,But when it’s all been said and done,There’s one more thing that would be fun,The Tomatina in Buñol, Spain,
I’d love to do it, sun or rain,Though sometimes banned, it’s still alive,And going strong since ’45.Yes, I think it would be a hoot,To pelt my neighbours with ripe fruit!And best of all, and what’s most blessed?Someone else cleans up the mess!So, as I said, from food to sports,Tomatoes are a wondrous sort,And think of all that we would miss If this fruit did not exist…
Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besoughtTo try to make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So Jenny, 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, because I’m out in it,We’ll talk of NATURE just a bit!

Warmly Remembered

In 1974, My parents sold their long-time holdings in Milk River, Alberta and bought a ranch in the Spring Point community nestled in the beautiful Porcupine Hills west of Fort Macleod, Alberta.It was a difficult time for the entire family, leaving the home we had known for generations and putting down fresh roots in a place eighty miles away.Okay, yes, our family members came with us.As did our cattle and horses and daily chores.But the scenery – and the neighbours – were different.Especially the neighbours.No longer did we have anyone who could reminisce with us about our years without phones.Navigating sketchy gravel roads.Trips into town.Brandings.Barn dances.School bus rides.Everything that simply went into being ‘neighbours’.For a short time, we felt bereft. (Ooh, good word!)Then, slowly, the people who lived in nearby ranches introduced themselves.They proved to be kind, wonderful people.All of them.And we were welcomed.We attended new celebrations.Brandings.Dances.Mom introduced the Spring Point community to the concept of quilting and started their first, ever, quilting club.I met and married my Husby.They were warm, wonderful years.Our family was loved.As Mom’s health worsened, my father took a position in another town and retired from ranching.The rest of the family followed within a couple of years.We do tend to stick together.And the name ‘Stringam’ disappeared from the town rosters.Moving ahead . . .I was back in the ‘old stomping grounds’ once more.I walked the old streets, but recognized no one.Then I toured Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, a World Heritage site which almost directly overshadows the old ranch.And visited Heritage Acres, ditto.I was speaking to one of the employees.I mentioned that our family had lived just below the site.She immediately asked who I was.I told her.“The Stringams!” she exclaimed. “Of course we remember you! Your Mom started the quilting club! It still meets. Every week!”It’s been over forty years.In Fort Macleod, there are only a few people who remember the Stringams and their few short years there.But those that do . . .

Details from the quilt.