A view from the sky tram in Jasper on a family holiday
Whenever something important occurred in our extended family, it usually called for a gathering of the clan. I moved three hours away from most of my family when I got married. I can’t remember what brought us all together this time about the late summer of 1970 or '71, but I was there with two of our young boys.
One of my sisters and her family lived in the country south of the city. We loved to visit there when we made the trip. This particular weekend they decided to have a family rodeo on Monday. I knew there was a corral on the hill on their property, but I had never paid any attention to it. Being I was part of a large family, our boys had lots of cousins and aunts and uncles. Everyone seemed excited. We had never done this before and if they ever had another rodeo, I didn’t know about it. We moved among the gathering crowd enjoying the sights and sounds and even the country smells as the events got underway. What I hadn’t expected was there would be children’s events. Our younger boy was possibly one and a half or maybe two and a half. It was a lot of fun to watch him be part of the chicken catching contest. When they released the hens, they scattered, racing every which way in and around the children’s legs in an effort to avoid capture. I don’t think any were caught. The chickens were too quick and the feathers too slippery. All of our little ones were to be commended for a valiant effort. What surprised me was our older son who was four or five. When they announced a calf riding contest for the younger children, he was anxious to be a part of it. I deliberated back and forth about the wisdom of letting him participate. What if he got hurt? Of course he would fall. There was four inches of fresh black dirt covering the corral ground that could soften his landing. What were the odds of a bad injury? These were little calves, but it was possible he could get stepped on. How I wished my husband was there to help make the decision. I remembered something I had recently read from someone I trusted, who said to be careful not to overprotect our children from experiences that would be good for their growth in maturity. Should I let him go? I felt the weight of his dad’s concern and also how his grandparents might worry if they knew, probably because I was unsure myself. “Yes, you can go”, I replied to his requests. He rushed over to get in line. I watched in suspense as older cousins came out riding, tumbled off and then got up celebrating. I was hoping and praying for the same outcome for our boy. Over the cheering, I heard my brother-in-law hollering to me, “He’s in the chute. Should I open the gate?” I caught my breath. “Oh dear”, I thought, “now my brother-in-law is worried. Am I making the right decision?” It was the moment of truth. “Open the gate”, I hollered back. A quick release and out they came, boy and calf in a rush of Adrenalin. How I wish I had a picture. I heard someone yell out the time, “Two seconds”. It was over. He picked himself up and hurried to where his brother and I were watching. Black dirt covered his face except for two paths down his cheeks where the tears ran down. “Oh Mom, it hurt. . . . . It was wonderful!” Two seconds of glory to last a lifetime. I breathed a sigh of relief.
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Sweet Memories You can find stories most anywhere if you know how to look for them. Why, even a faint scar on my right ankle holds a story you wouldn’t guess. It still marks the spot where I ripped the skin open while crossing through a barbwire fence. But would you guess it brings up fond memories? It takes me back to when I was eight or nine or maybe even ten and to a wonderful time in my life. We lived on the Kuhlman place just north of town. Our small town was really only a village, but it seemed everyone called it a town. Our pasture was right up against the railway tracks being separated by a barbwire fence. It was my favorite time of year. The sun was shining, the grass was green and all was well in my world. Our whole house was excited. We were getting company; not just any company. We often had company, but this was my dad’s sister whom he hadn’t seen for many years and I had never seen. Aunt Alma was my dad’s older sister and she was coming all the way from Ohio with her husband, Uncle Jesse, to visit us. The name, Ohio, had a magic ring to it as that was my dad‘s birthplace. Aunt Alma was born four and a half years before my dad and was the child next to him. My dad was the baby. Considering he was six foot two, a large frame and fifty when I came along, this was hard for me to imagine. At last they arrived amid a flurry of hugs and kisses. Stories were swapped back and forth and enjoyed by all. Of course there was food and most likely even singing. Knowing my dad, he probably paraded my sisters, and maybe even me, out to entertain. Whether they stayed for a few days or a week, I don’t recall. On the day they were going to leave, Uncle Jesse gave me two shiny silver dollars. I was thrilled. It didn’t take me long to head for the small town general store. I had never seen a silver dollar, let alone two. I thought about keeping one, but here was a chance I never had before and wouldn’t likely get again any time soon. I could buy more than enough for myself and still have lots to share. Sharing made it extra special. Clutching my selections, I hurried towards home to pass out my treasure. In my excitement, I was careless when I crossed the fence surrounding our pasture. It was a simple act to pull the barbwire apart and slip through. I had done it many times on my way to school. To my surprise, I caught my ankle on the bottom wire and fell forward, tearing the flesh open in the process. That moment remains etched in time for me. I can even remember what I was wearing; a favorite mauve blouse with a mandarin collar. Blood oozed out around my hanky as I unsuccessfully tried to wrap it around my ankle. I continued on somewhat shaken. I arrived home with my bloody leg and still clutching my bag. Everyone gathered around while my mom tended to my wound. I was glad that blood hadn’t touched my pretty blouse. The discomfort of the jagged cut receded to the background as I opened the bag and revealed the two dollars’ worth of candy I had purchased with my windfall. My younger brother's face lit up as he eyed the bounty. One of the adults didn’t catch the vision. He or she suggested that I had squandered the money. “As soon the candy is eaten,” they said, “there will be nothing left to show for it. You should have saved it.” Being young and inexperienced, I let it color my attitude. Maybe they were right. It didn’t feel like it though. Now with the perspective of time, I realize that I did make the best choice for myself. For just a while at least, I had a feeling of limitless abundance; enough for myself and for those around me. How often do we get that? No, I don’t have those two silver dollars, but the feeling of limitless abundance I enjoyed was priceless. Thanks, Uncle Jesse. I remember you with fondness. Written Feb. 2006 This Thanksgiving season is a special time for being grateful for all we have and any time is always a good time for sharing. A couple of years ago at a birthday celebration for our women's group, we did a random gift exchange of our talents. Sondi got my name and offered to create a picture for one of my stories. This is the result of that collaboration. "Hit em! Hit em!” my dad hollered. I swung the broom with all the might of a preschool farm girl and connected with the lead rooster. “Hit ‘em again.” The two feisty Wyandotte roosters my dad recently purchased from a neighbor were a constant menace to me. Normally a relatively tame breed, these two had ATTITUDE. The chicken coop was between the house and the barn and they took every opportunity to chase me, pecking at my heels while I tried to sneak past. This time when I came crying into the house after another ill-fated encounter with them, my dad announced, “That’s enough. We need to teach these birds a lesson.” My protests went unheeded. With tears streaming down my face, shadowing my dad, I reluctantly slunk out into the farmyard dragging the large corn broom he had given me as a weapon. Wings flapping, they attacked again as formidably as any Goliath. This was to be my battle and I knew I had to win it, if I wanted to venture out of the house again this summer. “Hit em! Hit em!” he hollered above the din. What a ruckus there was with my cries and their squawks. Blow after blow landed on their backs driving them back until at last they retreated. Emotionally drained, I emerged the victor, a very scared, tear-stained young victor. The roosters had met their match and the farmyard was again mine. Eleven years ago, I was taking a creative writing class. The instructor gave us an assignment to take an old song and write new words to it. My purpose in taking the class was to write experiences drawn from my personal history. I decided not to “waste time” completing this particular lesson as it didn’t seem to meet my objective. It wouldn't affect anyone else as it wasn’t my turn to read in class for another few weeks. I was at home working on a story on the computer when I started to laugh. I had the distinct impression that something was about to happen. I was surprised as I found myself singing, “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” with the following lyrics. I typed as fast as I could to keep up with the ideas pouring in. In the end, there was only a small part that I changed. Mission accomplished. OH, WHAT WILL I DO NOW I’M SIXTY? Written at age Sixty-three To the tune of “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” Oh, what will I do now I’m sixty? I’ve big dreams and great plans galore. Some say I am ready for pasture With nothing at all to explore. Chorus: Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my youth to me, to me. Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my youth to me. I’m almost a senior they tell me. It won’t be long now ‘til I’m dead. Arthritis and Alzheimer’s will get me, At least, if I don’t use my head. Chorus: Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my health to me, to me. Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my health to me. I trust they have best of intentions. It’s what they were taught to believe. But life on the far side of sixty Is as rich as the dreams we conceive. Chorus: Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my vision to me, to me. Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my vision to me. I’ll follow the wisdom of Chopra. You’re only as old as one thinks. You may even see me on Oprah, But not as a peer of the sphinx. Chorus: Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my wisdom to me, to me. Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my wisdom to me. There’s much still to do in my future. There’s much left to learn from my past. And whatever I do with my future, I sure must get doing it fast. Chorus: Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my future to me. Bring back, bring back, Oh, bring back my future to me. The next week in my writing class, when all the readers had finished, there were a few minutes left over. I couldn’t resist asking to read. My parody was a hit. After all, they could relate. I was in a Senior’s class. I Heavenly Help
Some of my special joys as a mother were the moments when I was able to teach our children eternal truths. In return, often they taught me. One such occasion happened some years ago when one of our sons was about five. He had been playing with the young neighbor next door. The neighbor boy was a year older and both were large for their age. Sometimes what started out as play ended in conflict. This was the same boy who (I learned later) tried to hold our boy’s head underwater in their kid's swimming pool. As our son came in the back door, the conversation went something like this. Son: I think Heavenly Father helped me today. Mom: What makes you say that? Son: Well, Harry had me down and I couldn’t get up (name changed to protect the maybe not so innocent). Then suddenly, I got extra strength and I pushed him off. Mom: Had you prayed for help? Son: No, I was too busy hard-working. (After all, he had been on the ground struggling for his presumed survival.) Then he added thoughtfully: Son: I wondered if He might get in on it. It seems that sometimes it works like that. We get some of our best answers from above when we are "busy hard-working” This experience must have impressed him because he had me write it out for him when he sent his grandfather a letter soon afterward. Our neighbor, Mr. Banks brought us an Arctic Char. A friend of his had been fishing up north in Alaska and had caught more than he needed and we were one of the lucky recipients. I didn’t know much about Char at the time, but Mr. Banks seemed enthused. The large fish was already wrapped in newspaper so I put it into a plastic bag and deposited it into the freezer to be enjoyed at a later date.
Having never tasted Arctic Char, I looked forward in anticipation. Deciding it was a good time to try it, I checked out directions on how to cook it. Closely related to salmon and trout, the fish held the promise of a tasty meal. Unwrapping it carefully, I washed it and popped it into the roasting pan and into the oven for supper. Busy with the rest of the supper preparations, I enjoyed the savory aroma as it started to bake. As the heat penetrated deeper into the recesses of the catch, I noticed a distinct change of smell. Soon the foul odor emanating from the stove couldn’t be ignored. Its less than delightful perfume traveled into the living room, bringing my husband to the kitchen to help solve the mystery. We pulled out the roaster, lifted the lid and holding our breath, examined the offending carcass. The problem was evident. It had never been cleaned. I never did tell Mr. Banks what happened to his gift. |
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