Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 85

Uphill Both Ways

Recently, there has been a lot of discussion about the kids going back to school in the midst of a pandemic.
Although Husby and I are firmly in the 'need an education' camp, we are also firmly in the 'safety' camp.
Because both of us are, through no fault of our own (I blame my mother for having me in 1955), in the 'at risk' camp.
But all this talk about school and 'having it rough' has brought back my memories of school in the small southern Alberta community of Milk River in the early '60s.
When I rode the bus...
 Picture it with a few more bumps and bruises.
You've heard the stories from the past where kids had to walk to school through eight feet of snow.
Uphill.
Both ways.
Husby's stories even include having to carry his horse!
Well, those didn't apply to me.
I rode the school bus.
Which was an adventure in itself.
Stay with me . . .
School buses in the early sixties were very similar to those driven today.
Yellow.
I'm almost sure there was an engine under the oversized and bulbous hood.
They had a driver.
Seats.
Windows.
And lots and lots of kids.
But busses in the sixties had a few 'extra' features.
Forms of entertainment that simply don't exist in our more modern world.
Too bad.
Busses today have powered windshield wipers that are sturdy, dependable and have several settings.
They keep on working through rain, snow, sleet, hail.
In fact, anything that may be thrown at the all-important front windshield.
The bus that carted me to and from school had wipers, too.
Just not the kind you see today.
It had what is known as 'vacuum' wipers.
I'm not sure what made them work.
But I know what didn't.
Revving the engine.
If it was raining hard and the road was on an even grade with no challenges, all was well.
But if the bus was required to do something untoward . . .
Like move faster.
Or go up a hill.
The engine would rev.
And the wipers would quit.
The driver would have to roll down the side window and stick his (or her) head outside so they could see.
If the driver took his foot off the accelerator, the wipers would start again.
Push the pedal down? They stopped.
It was enormously entertaining.
But not nearly as much fun as when the bus was required to go up Angel's Hill.
Yes. We really had an Angel's Hill.
Oh, it's not what you're thinking.
It was simply the hill that led to the Angyal family's ranch.
But I digress . . .
Our rather aged vehicle had a hard time going up that hill.
Sometimes, if we had a larger than normal load (perhaps all of us kids had eaten breakfast, for example), the bus wouldn't be able to make it.
We'd have to get off and trail along behind till it reached the top.
Well, we younger kids would trail.
The older kids would push.
Whereupon (good word) we would all clamber back aboard and happily find our seats once more.
Huh. I just realized that we did have to walk uphill to get to school.
Both ways.
Pushing the bus.
Beat that!

Sniff

Watch out! She'll get you!The morning milking happened . . . early.
Before any of the younger kids were stirring.
It was a peaceful time.
Just the milkmaid (ie. me) and the cows.
The afternoon milking, though, was quite different.
While the milker was with the cows, the bustle of afternoon chores was going on all around.
Talk and laughter as the kids fed chickens and pigs.
Held buckets for the calves.
Hauled feed.
Opened and closed gates.
Chased kittens.
It was a busy, happy time.
And the baby generally was left with little to do.
Tristan, said baby, was five.
He had helped feed.
And now was looking for Mom.
I should mention, here, that our little milk barn had two rooms.
One for the business part of the operation.
And a waiting room with a little pen.
I was milking Kitty.
One of our two, gentle little Jersey milk cows.
Bunny was in the outer room, already milked and patiently awaiting her freedom.
Tristan came into the barn.
"Mom?" (Real conversation.)"I'm here, sweetheart."
"You done?"
"Almost."
I could hear sounds of someone small climbing the gate of the pen.
"Can I wait here?"
"Sure, sweetie. I'll just be a minute."
A heavy sigh. "Okay."
"Did you help feed?"
"Yeah. Are you coming?"
"Pretty soon."
"Okay." Suddenly, "Mom! Mom!"
"What's the matter?"
"Mom! This cow is coming over!"
Cows are intensely curious. If something comes into their sphere, it needs to be investigated.
And smelled.
And tasted.
"She won't hurt you."
"Mom! She's getting closer!"
"She won't hurt you, sweetie!"
Silence.
Then, indignantly, "Mom, she's getting . . . sniff on me!"
Cow sniff.In a world full of troubles, if that's the worst that happens . . .

Life's Leaves

Those heralds of spring, their soft, misty green,Suffuse all the trees, give them life, make them preen,And all through the garden, the plants take their cueWith colour and scent, all of nature renew.
Then like sands in a glass, time moves quickly along,With lengthening days and returning birds’ song,And leaves daily grow till they’re full. And their hueBecomes richer. And deep as with life, they’re imbued.
They dance in the breeze and they gleam in the rain,And shine in the sun as o’er nature they reign,A long, lovely cycle of varying days,As to man (and all life), they delight and amaze.
Too soon, with the passing of seasons, then theySuccumb. In the shortening days, are arrayedWith colour—rich blazes of orange or red,Bright praise to life lived (and of slumber ahead).
When I lay on soft grass and look up at the leaves,And see them give life to the birds and the trees,I wonder if we’re like the foliage up there,And its sun and its wind, like life’s joy or despair.
Though their life is shortened (their months are like hours),Are they not like us with their sunshine and showers?Don’t we try, by example to succor and lead,To soak in the sun and to dance in the breeze?

And then, as life’s autumn creeps slowly away,Are we not filled with colour that brightens the day?From all our experiences—joys or defeats…That busied our fingers and hurried our feet?
As a youngster, I laughed through my misty green years,Then grew richly hued jug’ling kids and careers, And now that I’m older, I can happily say,I’m bright crimson with joy in my sweet autumn days.


Cause Monday’s do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we all besoughtTo try to make the week beginWith pleasant thoughts,Perhaps a grin?So all of us, together, weHave crafted poems for you to see.And now you’ve read what we have wrought…Did we help?Or did we not?

Jenny Charlotte Mimi

Next week, it's not a lot to ask,
The four of us will speak of 'masks'.

Pole Dancing

The BehemothThings move.
Big things.
They move.
I have proof.
On the ranch, we had a large power/light pole.
Full-sized.
Firmly planted.
It had been there since the beginning of time.
So . . . for quite a while.
It stood in the very center of the turn-about.
People driving in would go around it, conduct their business and complete the turn as they drove out.
Simple.
Unless you lived there.
Then you would have to drive in and park.
Preferably somewhere out of the way so the next person would have a place to drive in and turn.
At times it got a little . . . tricky.
I lived there.
I had parked.
I needed to leave.
This entailed backing the van up, manoeuvring into the lane, then completing the turn to head out.
I should probably point out here that our van could quite easily have been described as a behemoth (good word!). It held 12 passengers.
Or two parents and six children, neatly spaced to avoid argument-age.
Well to try to avoid argument-age.
Well . . . never mind.
I loaded in the kids.
I sorted out the first argument.
I started the van.
I sorted out the second argument.
Good so far.
The third argument started.
I began to unknot that disagreement just as I stepped on the gas.
The van reversed, as it should.
Straight back.
All of us inside were concentrating on the ongoing conversation.
None of us (ie. me) noticed the pole directly behind the van.
Well, not until we (ie. me) smacked into it.
Oops.
I pulled ahead and got out to survey the damage.
The bumper had a lovely crease in it, bending it towards the van and forming a point that made it impossible to open the back door.
Double oops.
Later, when I showed my husband, he laughed, shook his head and simply sawed the top point off the dent. Just enough so the door would clear it.
But leaving the dent for all to see.
Sigh.
The conversation went like this . . .
Husby: "Honey, didn't you see the pole? The large one that has been standing in the center of the yard since forever?"
Me: "Ummm . . . I don't know how to answer that question."
Husby: "You did know about the pole, didn't you?"
Me: "Ummm . . . yes?"
Husby: "You did see it?"
Me: "Well, it was like this . . . I was backing out carefully . . ."
Husby: "Yes?"
Me: "And then . . . that nasty old pole just jumped behind me!"
Husby (with just the right amount of skepticism): "Jumped."
Me: "Yes."
Husby: "Right out of the ground."
Me (getting into my story): "Yes. It was the weirdest thing!"
Husby: "I'm going to go lie down."
True story.P.S. Cuba, the country, has also been known to move. But that is another story.

Flushed with Excitement

Husby and me. Don't look closely . . .I told him not to laugh.But he did.I married him anyway . . .It was a bright and sunny Tuesday.But not just any Tuesday.This was Tuesday, the 27th of April, 1976.You may wonder why that particular date is etched so clearly in my mind...?You have a right to know.It was exactly four days before my wedding.Four frenzied days of frenetic functions beFore falling into fluffy, feathery fantasy.(Hmmm...That was sorta fun...)Four days that I needed to be--healthwise--at my very, very best.Ahem.The day started out well.I climbed out of bed.I felt a bit more tired than usual, but, with all I had been doing, wasn’t surprised.I plopped heavily into my seat and stared at my plate as Mom bustled around, setting platters of steaming deliciousness on the table.Grace was said.And oblivious-ness set in as people dove for whatever was nearest.Soon we were all chewing happily.Mom passed someone a bowl of potatoes and looked at me. “So what have you got planned...?” she stopped, mid-sentence, and stared at me. “Diane? Are you all right?”I looked at her.She got up and moved around the table to me. “You look . . . flushed.”I shrugged.She placed a cool hand on my forehead. “You feel a bit warm.”“I’m tired, but I feel all right,” I said, feeling a slight feathering of alarm.She tipped my head back and looked at my throat.“Oh, my word!” she said. “Mark, look at this!”“What?” I said. “What’s wrong?”Dad leaned over the table and peered at my neck. “Oh, my!” he said.Okay, I was thoroughly alarmed by this point. “What?” I said. Did I grow an extra appendage in the night? Did I suddenly get a whisker? Or worse . . . a zit???!!!Mom sat back on her chair and sighed.Sighed.“Diane, I’m pretty sure you have the measles.”Whaaa...? I jumped up and ran to the closest mirror.Sure enough, my neck and the lower half of my face were a mottled mass of tiny, red pinpricks. So many of them that, at first, they resembled a rosy flush on my skin. Only on closer inspection did they morph into what they actually were.Measles.I. Had. The. Measles.Four days before I was going to be married.My life was over.Mom bundled me up and hauled me into the doctor’s office. Where our local medical professional confirmed our suspicions.German measles.I dragged myself home. How could this be happening to me? Weren’t the measles a childhood disease?And wasn’t childhood  . . . sort of . . . behind me?I placed a call to my Husby-To-Be at his work.Our conversation went something like this:“Hi, Honey! How’s work?” *soft sob*“Great! How are you doing?”“Well . . . I have something to tell you . . .”Slightly alarmed Husby-To-Be voice. “What is it? What’s the matter?!”“Well . . . promise you won’t tell anyone. And that you won’t laugh . . .”“Umm . . . okay . . .”“I . . . have the  . . . German measles.”A short pause, while he took in my news. Then, “Bwahahahahahaha!” (Sound of phone being dropped.) And Husby-To-Be moving through the office, telling every one of his co-workers.Okay, which part of ‘don’t tell anyone’ and ‘don’t laugh’ did he not get?We did get married.I was totally fine. Except that in some of our photos, particularly the close-ups, you can see the barest hint of a red flush.People simply dismiss it as evidence of excitement.Now you know.

In With Pigs

Daddy and me.
Do any of the rest of you see the irony here?Okay, I wasn’t supposed to do it.And I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it.But that just made it all the more fun.Maybe I should explain . . .On the Stringam ranch, behind the *shudder* chicken coop was the pigpen.It was rather off the beaten track, tucked in as it was.A destination in itself.A perfect location for hijinks when the horses were out and everything else possible had been explored/done.And boredom was threatening to set in.Or one was feeling adventurous.One could climb the fence. Slide into the shadow of the shelter. Pause there.And pick out a victim co-conspirator.I should point out here that pigs are very sociable and curious creatures.When something – or someone – is introduced into their world, they immediately converge to give it a sniff.And a taste.And they love to be scratched.Back to my story . . .All I had to do was sit there until all of the pigs swarmed me.Scratch a couple.And (this is the forbidden part) climb aboard one.The pig would snort and scamper (yes, scamper) across the pen to the far side.And, if one were lucky enough to still be aboard, back again.Okay, yes, the fun was decidedly fleeting.One’s raging father could – and usually did – appear.How did he do that?But there he would be, with hands on hips and the heated glare that only an angry father can summon, as his newly-repentant child silently slid off the pig and exited the pigpen.Our subsequent conversations usually went something like this:Dad: Diane! I’ve told you and told you not to ride the pigs! You could injure them. And they get all excited and don’t gain weight.Me: Look Dad! I fell in the poop!Yeah. Let’s just cross rocket scientist off that future occupations list.

Buddy

Just a word of warning: Treating your appliances like people maybe be hazardous to your health. And to your sleep patterns. And also: I think talking to my Roomba may have given him sentience.
I had just fallen asleep. You know, that deep, deep ‘first sleep’ wherein you are someplace warm and delicious and wish you could stay forever. Usually, the time when your kids wake you up…
Now my chicks are grown and we seldom have our chicklets here midnight skulking. So we’ve grown accustomed to uninterrupted sleep. (Well, barring the bathroom polka, which urge can hit at any time.) Ahem…
Suddenly, my intercom went off. The one on my phone that Husby and I use when neither of us wants to negotiate stairs and his office is down and mine is up. That intercom.
I came out of my delicious (see above) state with a gasp. Then grabbed the phone. “Hello?” Hello?” Crickets. Now you should know that using our handy-dandy intercom necessitates holding one of our handsets.
So someone had to be in the house. Holding said phone. And pressing the ‘intercom’ button. At 1:30 in the morning. Someone who was NOT Husby (who was still snoring away happily) or me.
Clutching the phone as a weapon, I opened our bedroom door and peered out into the hall. Silence. Well, near silence. I could hear Buddy (my Roomba) happily working away under cover of darkness.
A little side note: Recently, Buddy has taken to waking up at 12:40 AM to do his business. No amount of poking or programming will change his mind. Husby and I have just adjusted.
Turning on lights as I went, (Hey, I watch the movies—the bad things always happen because some doofus didn’t turn on the lights!) I moved toward the sound emanating from the front room.
And there I found Buddy. Trapped between the chair and the table and the wall. He had somehow managed to bump the phone onto the floor and was ramming it repeatedly into the wall.
Trapped and needing rescue, Buddy had dialed me! All was explained. Rolling my eyes, I punched his button. “Go to sleep!” He instantly obeyed. I put the phone away and headed back to bed.
Then lay there wide awake. Now that Buddy had figured out how to contact me, what else could I expect? Further demands for aid? Requests for midnight pizza? Dating advice? I’m a little worried.
Each month our intrepid little group accepts a challenge. Of numbers. This month our challenge came from Mimi of Messymimi’sMeanderings and the number was 34.How did I do?Now go and visit the others!
Karen
Mimi

Small But Mighty

If you could be an animal, what is it you would choose?A lion with his heavy mane, a sloth who likes to snooze?Perhaps a horse who runs so fast, a monkey in a tree?How about a dolphin playing games of tag at sea?Mayhap a shaggy bear? They eat most everything that’s seen--Go sleep the cold months all away and wake up really lean!Sometimes, I think a great gazelle, cause they run really fast,Or perhaps a spotted cheetah, watch me as I blow right past!An eagle flying overhead and looking down on all?Would you choose an elephant? Or something rather small?Now here’s the point that I would make: A bug’s not on the list,At the bottom of the food chain, they’re the ones that just exist,Look at all the ants, we humans see them as a pest,And do the things we can to kill or tear apart their nests,Getting squished or poisoned if they stray beyond their grounds,Trying hard to live their lives where they cannot be found.Is it any wonder that an ant I would not be?I’m sure you see my point and likely with me you agree…But here’s a thought I had not factored in the very least,Thought the ant is very small, he is a hearty beast,And every one can carry ‘most a hundred times their weight,In food and lots of yummy stuff, to put upon their plate,And then the thought struck me: In food, a HUNDRED TIMES MY WEIGHT?I’ll be an ant. Stand back! I’m heading for the choc-o-late!
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 all of us, together, weHave crafted poems for you to see.And now you’ve read what we have wrought…Did we help?Or did we not?
Jenny Charlotte Mimi
 Next week it's 'leaves' for those who care,Good-bye for now, we'll see you there!

SallyBall

It was a normal day in the Hart household.Let me qualify . . . In a house where there is a ‘new normal’ each and every day, it was a normal day in the Hart household.Better.At least it started out that way.Don’t they all?But I digress . . .It was a beautiful day. Sunny. Warm.Especially wonderful because it followed three days of pounding ‘stuck-in-the-house-with-Sally’ rain.Sally and Mort decided they would go over to the park and play some one-on-one at one of the basketball courts.After the surprise wore off (Who knew either of them had even heard of the game of basketball?), I decided to follow.There were others playing when we got there, but enough courts to go around so that social distancing wasn’t a problem.I took a seat on the tarmac beside their area and prepared to scoff/belittle/pretend to snore.Hey, it’s an important job!Their game of ‘horse’ began.Now Sally, for all her faults, is surprisingly athletic. Even though I know for a fact she has never even held a basketball before, she did really well. It took about 3 seconds for her to figure out how to dribble and move. Quite effectively.Even her shooting was pretty much amazing.Huh. Who knew?Now Mort, on the other hand, is all long arms and legs.None of which is in communication with the others.The only way he could even attempt to dribble was with both hands.And forget moving while he did so.After his third flat-on-his-face attempt, he gave up trying.And simply dribbled. And shot.From wherever he might happen to be.There were numerous shots taken from in and around the key.All dismal—though fairly spectacular—failures.Surprisingly, shots taken from the ‘3-point’ area seemed to get closer. With one actually dropping through the basket.Something that stopped play on all the courts around us.Even engendered a smattering of applause.Needless to say, Sally was the uncontested (and getting louder) winner of every game.Now things had been going along for some time in this manner.I was enjoying my task of cat-calling and verbal derision.Sally was sailing about, looking more and more like . . . someone-famous-who-plays-basketball.My ignorance is woeful…Mort was dribbling. And/or shooting.He had actually sunk a second shot and was standing there, grinning widely as Sally went for the ball.And that’s when things . . . changed.Sally stopped. Staring.I turned to see what she was gazing at so intently.A couple had sat down on a nearby bench. Totally absorbed in each other, they were oblivious to any of us in the vicinity.Which is probably why what happened . . . happened.It took me a moment to recognize what had only taken Sally a split-second.The boy in the couple was our best friend Mary’s boyfriend, Troy.The girl . . . wasn’t Mary.Before I had barely taken in what was happening, Sally flipped that basketball at the speed of light.With deadly aim.It smacked Mr. Amorous on the side of the head just as he was moving in for a lip lock, knocking him right over that bench.It may not have been just but it certainly was justice.In a blink, Troy was sitting on the ground, looking around dazedly.The girl in the duo came to her feet and spied Sally heading in her direction. Abruptly abandoning whatever may have been developing in her and Troy’s relationship, she lit out for the nearest far-away (Sally-less) place. Needless to say, the kiss never happened.
Sally scooped up the ball, gave Troy a silent glare, and sauntered back to her game.Still looking rather confused, Troy got to his feet and headed out of the park.Sally and Mort went back to playing.I left. I mean, how could you top that?
P.S. I should have stayed.An hour or so later, Sally and Mort showed up at home.They paused just inside the front door, breathing heavily. Sally looked at us. “If anyone comes to ask you about the basketball pole that somehow got sort of . . . broken, plead ignorance, K, Mom?”
Each month, Karen from Baking in a Tornado and her followers play word games. It's our go-to for fun. Each of us uses words we've supplied which are then shuffled and re-distributed by our intrepid leader.No one knows where our words have gone or what will be done with them.See? Fun!My words this month came from Karen herself.just ~ justice ~ basketball ~ snore ~ louderWhat could I do but write another 'Sally' episode?!  

See what my friends have done with their challenge!  Baking In A Tornado Wandering Web DesignerThe Crazy Mama LlamaClimaxed Part-time Working Hockey Mom

SUPERMom

This many kids. One adult.My good friend was in hospital for a couple of days for some minor surgery.
Her four kids (three girls and one boy) were staying with us.
And our (then) four kids. (Three boys and one girl)
The kids were perfectly matched.
Boy-girl, boy-girl, boy-girl and boy-girl.
And got along very well.
My house was quieter with eight (ranging in ages from 1 to 7) kids in it, than it was with just my own four.
They were all playing happily.
Then I suddenly realized that I needed to go to the store.
Sigh.
The status quo was about to change.
I buckled in what amounted to essentially four sets of twins and started off.
All went well.
We arrived and I immediately hunted up a cart.
No way I was going to try to herd this bunch without some modern conveniences.
The two babies were buckled into the baby compartment on the cart.
The two toddlers went into the basket.
The two kindergarteners hung onto the outside.
And the two seven year olds were allowed free range.
But with strict instructions to stay close.
We were off!
My errands were run in record time.
Surprisingly.
And, quite suddenly, it was snack time.
I looked into my wallet.
I should point out, here, that my husband had just graduated from post secondary and was working in his first real job.
We were poor.
Well, rich in children.
But poor in things that can actually . . . purchase things.
Moving on.
My wallet held the grand total of two dollars.
Which in itself was a miracle.
I was standing in the middle of the food court, contemplating my options.
They were . . . limited.
Finally, I approached a kiosk called, The Loaf, which specialized in sandwiches made from thick slices of 'freshly-baked-on-the-premises' bread.
"What would you charge for just a slice of fresh bread and butter?" I asked the girl behind the counter.
She scrunched up her face in thought.
Really.
Scrunched.
Then she said, "Twenty-five cents."
The magic words.
I ordered eight slices of fresh bread and butter and handed her my two dollars.
Then I passed out slices of thick, warm, fresh bread to each of my little hoard.
Who happily chowed down.
A cowboy term for tucking in.
Which is another cowboy term for . . . oh, never mind.
You get the picture.
They ate.
And enjoyed.
A couple walked past while my kids were busy . . . umm . . . enjoying.
"What a good idea for a snack!" the woman exclaimed. "I think you are the best mother I have ever seen!"
I smiled, rather self-consciously.
'Best mother' is obviously code for 'too-broke-to-buy-anything-else'.
We finished our snack and headed back to the Sears store for one last item.
My friend's eldest daughter, who had been following closely asked if she could dart over and peek at the girl's blouses.
I told her that it was fine. I would just walk slowly so she could catch up.
And continued down the aisle.
I passed one of the entrances to the store.
Two women had just come in.
They, a mother and her mother, were struggling to control a small boy of about two.
Who was red-faced and screaming.
Actually, now that I think of it, all of them were red-faced and . . .
Ahem.
Back to my story.
The grandmother looked up and noticed me walk past with my cart full to overflowing with children and said," Here the two of us can't control one child and that woman," she pointed, "has . . . five, six, seven!"
Just then, my friend's oldest daughter rejoined our group.
I smiled at the women and said, "Eight."
And walked on.
Okay, I know it wasn't strictly truthful.
But it was so much fun to say it!!!
And, just for a moment, I felt like one of those uber-organized, amazing women one sees who are always neat, tidy and . . . well . . . together.
Controlling hoards of children and still managing to look serene.
Yep. For a moment, I was SUPERMOM.
But, sadly, only for the moment.