Gravel Road Christmas Lights

I will try and video the thirty five strings Grandpa Larry has hanging off the cable, it's rigged up to his computer so the lights will dance to music. We have a song we sing about Grandpa Larry, the chorus goes a little something like, "I'm an inventor!" 

Not many people can capture the Christmas spirit in thousands of tiny, sparkling bulbs quite like my Grandpa Larry. The man makes the most elaborate homes out of Christmas movies look like an amateur job.  Winter Solstice in south central Alberta is probably too many hours of daylight for his liking. When 4:30 rolls around and the sun is tucking itself in for the night, Grandpa is just pulling out his sunglasses. The man has a zillion watts of lights strategically placed around his farm to make your eyes burn and the sun going down is the pinnacle in his day, simply because it's time to plug in a bit of a Christmas show.

Grandpa's immaculate home place is enveloped by crop land and is happily invisible from any main highway. The fact that it's a back road beauty doesn't deter Grandpa from putting on the best light show around. As a little girl, I can remember the wonder of a giant star on top of Grandpa's shop, pumping out music and lights rhythmically dancing to the beat - long before the time anyone else would have done this sort of thing. As an adult, I can now fully appreciate the work that Grandpa puts into his festivities, and can also see a bit of the madness in his ways.

Years ago, when one of the local hardware stores had a deal on where you could exchange your old Christmas lights and get a deal on a string of LED lights, I could tell Grandma was getting mildy annoyed with the hoards of lights that kept coming home from town. Grandpa soon quit making excuses to head into town, he just did, it was another trip for lights and no one asked any questions. Although, just to be clear, Grandpa's Christmas lights aren't just about quantity, but to this perfectionist, quality reigns. Months before Christmas, Grandpa Larry starts to pull out the boards that are all numbered, to know which one to hang between what column on the deck of their home. You wouldn't just hang lights all willy nilly, you know, but they must be neatly strung on a board so they aren't all floppy like. No amount of effort is spared. If it takes the gas powered cherry picker (with not a cherry to be found for hundreds of miles, unless you call the twenty five thousand light bulbs cherries) to deck the tractor out, or reach the top of the shop, then so be it. I think when you ask us grandchildren about Grandpa's occupation, we won't say much about grain farming, but we'd shout "Christmas light magician! "

Last year we all were concerned when Grandpa fell off the ladder when stringing his infamous Christmas display. The only thing Grandpa Larry was concerned about was getting the rest of the lights up.  When he realized Grandma was fit as a fiddle and his instructional voice wasn't the least bit impaired - Christmas light fixing continued. This year, when telephone poles were pushed into the ground between the garden and the trees north of the house, to hang huge cables on, our family didn't even bat an eye. We almost felt like daring Grandpa, "What? You're just doing a row of little old light's there? Come on!"

I come by my love of Christmas lights honestly and always appreciate those that spend the time to decorate with such fervor.   Every year we'd drive into the local small town to look at lights. It didn't hurt our feelings that there were only three streets and only a hand full of houses had lights up, it was the merriment of it all really, and possibly the hot chocolate after.

A few years ago the token John Deere salesmen, a favorite man in the area, put the most effort in of us all. He may or may not have taken every single blue bulb off the New Holland dealership's tractor that was all lit up in town, and replaced each bulb - with a bright green bulb of course! This is the kind of effort I'm talking about! The effort I applaud! I am thinking my grandpa and the John Deere salesman should get together, with Grandpa's vision and tenacity, and the John Deere salesman's jokester ways they could nearly make the coffee shop sing with stories.

As you contemplate your Christmas lights for the upcoming years, remember the wonder in the children's eyes. As much as Grandpa Larry would beg to differ, they don't have to be perfect, they just have to be bright.

Hard & Fast Cooking Rules-Momma's Old Fashioned Ginger Snaps

Baking with Mama always comes with rules, doesn't it? 

After a thorough wash, rule numero uno is of utmost importance-roll up your sleeves. Nothing irks my Grandma more than someone working in the kitchen with their sleeves hanging down, all sloppy like that Martha Stewart on the TV. How could you go on national television with your sleeves hanging down while you work in the kitchen? Yes, ladies, my Grandma does truly have the cornerstone on home making and probably could out cook Martha any day, with her sleeves rolled up. 

This ginger snap cookie recipe comes from my Momma-my great Grandma on this side of the family. It has been faithfully made in our family for several generations, and I can remember the warm scent of my mom cooking these up in our kitchen around Christmas. If I was helping at Grandma's house, she was sure to give us girl's a taste of molasses straight off the spoon. When I was eight years old this seemed like a delicacy. Have you ever tried it as an adult though? Not quite what I had envisioned. 

Mom always pushed these cookies flat with a fork, and they were so nice and crispy with a cup of tea. I like to roll them into tiny balls, covered in sugar and they are left soft and chewy. 

Try them out, but please, make sure to avoid being anything like Martha and roll up your sleeves. 

Momma's Ginger Snaps

3/4c shortening

1c brown sugar

1 egg 

1/4 c molasses

2 1/4 c flour

1/2 tsp salt

2 tsp soda

1 tsp cinnamon

2 tsp ginger

1/2 tsp cloves

Mix wet ingredients together with beater. Mix dry ingredients in and add cloves. Roll in small balls & dip in sugar. Bake 12 minutes at 350F.

Mix in double or triple batches around Christmas. These cookies freeze well and are the perfect addition to any chilly winter day with a glass of milk or tea. 

Proof is in the pudding-or in this case, cookies. Served best to a three year old with milk!

Black Friday---Cross Border Shopping

For my friend T- may your travels be merry, your children patient, and the best deals to be had. Have fun this week. 

Road trips are exhausting!

Some grain farmers from Alberta head to the deep south in winter, to see a little sunshine and experience warmth in their Canadian winter bones. My grandparents and their friends head south too, only not quite as far across the border as others. Great Falls, Montana seems to scream their names, and the deals on Black Friday have been no exception to this calling.

We have travelled with neighbours in the past to hit up Great Falls, and some might scoff heading to a 'smaller' city to shop. Alas,  Albertans love a good deal as much as they love their beef. Young ones burn down in two tone trucks- different shades of dust-all gussied up with teased  hair and made up ivory skin for a cheap vacation and to haul back el cheapo Wranglers.  Throw fifteen years on their lives and they will be buying cheap shampoo and Shasta, with car seats pinched in the back of the 'burb'.  Momma's buy snow suits, carefully planned Christmas gifts, and stock up on brands of baby gear you can't find at home. A mighty whoop whoop would be hollered at the Big R and a small hallelujah at Target.  Cross border shopping is no stranger to some and Albertan's know which hotel has the nicest pool, which will squirrel up the most packages ordered in, and hands down which facility has the finest continental breakfast. For the rural Prarieites who don't get to town a lot, gracing the streets of Great Falls is as much as holiday as heading to Cancun, only the souvenirs brought home aren't little trinket shells. Border guards are used to trucks full of Ivomec, cheap fabric, and Carhartt's stacked to the hilt. I'm always just a little afraid that they think we are hauling stuff home for a 125 person mixed farming operation, and that they are a bit confused that my name isn't Dorothy and my husband's isn't Jake on our passports.

Now, although I have never experienced Black Friday in the US, the stories of people roaming the streets at the oddest hours have always struck me as a little wild. The day following a calendar day that is supposed to honour gratitude for what you have, people seem to just plumb lose their minds and race into the cities to haul more. stuff. home.

I had heard stories of people getting trampled in these American cities, all pushing and shoving for the best deals that might be pinched in the back of the store. When my Grandma came home from a trip to the US on this blessed day, she was sporting a big, black shiner and glasses that were taped together and our concern hit a high note. Learning that she took a tumble on the curb at the border lessened our worries of Grandma shopping in the States.

Really, I don't know why we should ever worry about this Grandma. She is able to carry more bags than my sister and I combined and is generally referred to as our mom, not our Grandmother. She would never wake up like those "crazy people who line up at 0300" but at 0400 she had said the lines were thinning as she sidled up to get the best deal on boots in town.  Energy flows in this lady's blood and sometimes I wish that it had somehow flowed down to me.

Grandma and her posse stay in the same hotel year after year on this weekend and would book far in advance, looking for that deal that was out there. Coolers were packed in their trucks alongside their suitcases, to bring back grated cheese, blocks of cheese and basically any kind of cheese that was cheap as chips. It wasn't uncommon for there to be ten cake mixes tucked in the vehicle, and it was then that I realized that some things might be coming home that wouldn't always get used, but the fact that they were basement bargain's placed them at home in Grandma's pantry.

Now, these folks who would travel down together were bargain savvy. After a full day of shopping for ingredients to make the finest Christmas crackers around (that of course couldn't be found in Canada), these gals would make their own meals in the evening. They wouldn't just cook to save cash,   but because you could bet your bottom dollar that they could cook better than most restaurants in town. Cards were played in the evenings and the clock would tick until it was time to get up and hit repeat  on their day.

The woman who put on miles with Grandma, that have a few decades on me, make me long for a small fraction of their energy. I wish for their incredible deal shopping ways and hey, if we're making wishes that aren't worth a plugged nickel, you might as well throw me some cooking skills too.

For Black Friday next year, Montana watch out! Grandma is coming for you and I might just be along in her shadow, puffing away to try and keep up. We'll eat you out of your deals and drink up your southern hospitality--feel free to head north for Boxing Day to probably pay twice what you do for your jeans in the south, but you'd be welcome just the same.

Keeping Truth Alive----Dan Carlson

A big thank you to Libbie at The Middlest Sister for sending in a special story, in her own words of someone who served-her father. If you have a photo or a few lines of someone's story you would like to tell who has served for your country, please send it to me at littleprairiebaby@gmail.com.

Dan Carlson is my Dad. He survived living in a home with his wife Cheri and three girls. He has always made sure all his girls were completely taken care of & spoiled a bit too :) Even today I have four kids (5 in a month) and an amazing husband but wouldn't you know my Dad is still trying to take care of us all. I never leave his house without finding a case of diapers, a few boxes of cereal or even a huge package of toilet paper in the back seat of my car (and I am there all the time!) He is a loving Dad & I couldn't be more proud of him.

One thing I am very proud of him for is his service in the U.S. Army. He served from October '63-October '65. After PostalSchool in Indianahe served overseas in Verona, Italy. Here are some of his stories I really enjoyed:

My Dad worked the Army Postal Service in Italy. He worked the counter and guarded the mail as he picked it up from Milan. "All the military mail was handled by Americans. Even payroll. We would go pick up cash for payroll with no guards and no guns. We were driven around by crazy Italian drivers. I was in three accidents while I was there. I delivered a lot of Dear John letters. Almost every solider got one eventually"

"We could not make the trip from Milan to Verona, in the Deuce& amp; a Half, without filling up so we would stop at this one fruit stand to pour the gas in. We would always buy the cherries during cherry season. But every time we got back to the base we would all have diarrhea because the farmers used human manure. The cherries were so good that we didn't even care and bought them every time."

"On one trip the Italian driver was talking to the fruit stand owner and he told him how I was a good solider, that I never fell asleep like all the other American GIs and took my job to guard the mail seriously. He told them what a hard worker I was. The fruit stand owner rounded up his five daughters and lined them up. He told me to pick one." (My Dad was smiling big as he recalled that. I asked him if he picked one but he said no:)

"During a drill one night they told me to run back to the base for something. It was completely dark outside & I ran smack into a barbed wire fence. Thank goodness I had been holding my rifle up, it took most of the shock but I cut my upper lip badly and had to be sewn up by a plastic surgeon. It is the only time in my life I had to grow a mustache because I couldn't shave until it healed. I looked a lot older with it."

"One night soon after I was walking a girl home from the service club and I asked her, 'Where have you been all my life?'

She said, 'Probably not born for half of it.' I was really only 23 but it was my mustache."

"Vietnam was just starting up when I was getting out. We were each required to give up one uniform because they were recruiting heavily for Vietnamand they needed more uniforms for the incoming soldiers."

"Veronawas beautiful. It is the home of Romeo and Juliet's balcony, has sidewalks made of marble, and boasts the 2nd largest coliseum in Europe." He actually just returned this week from visiting Italy, and even Verona where he served, again with my mom.

My Dad had many more memories that I am so thankful to have written down. I wouldn't have thought to write down his stories without Cheyenne's blog here, and now I am going to make a keepsake for our family! Thanks Cheyenne for letting me share my very special Dad with you!!!

Winter Training

Back in the day when water was free, the hallways in our little school would literally come alive at half past ten in the morning and the sound was deafening! Not only was there laughter and chatter, but a monotoned, "swish, swish, swish" floated through the air like a sound machine set to white noise. 

"Come on, walk to momma! That ol' snowdrift ain't nothin, come on, little lady! Momma put spikes on your boots, nothin' to worry about that bit of ice for!"

Bib overall ski pants, winter jackets, mitts, and all sorts of flashy toques were pulled on, the thought of Fox and Goose alive in our minds. I'm not sure how our fifteen minute recesses were not solely taken up with the prep for going out in wintertime weather. With the majority of our school days spent playing on a swing set dusted in white and the little hill on the south end full of crazy carpets, our mommas around here have to start training young.

Coaching to pull on that full winter apparel in the shortest amount of time possible with the least amount of fussing, should just about come in a pamphlet from Public Health in Alberta. We know hardcore encouraging phrases are yelled out,  "MAKE SURE YOU'VE USED THE POTTY!" "Come on, you CAN move in those snow pants!" Soon digress to muttered, "now where in the blue blazes are your mittens?" 

Oh yeah! Diggin' extra fast--more arm muscle!

Now if I was a bettin' woman, I'd be pulling out my wallet, because I know any other mother from the north can take one peek at these photos and know the mess in the back porch that follows a morning like this. All the Grandma's say the same things, "Oh, they'll sleep so well after some fresh air!" And all harried young mom's silently chuckle at the truth we know-the hot chocolate after only brings the wildness up fourteen notches. 

Don't be fooled that our skills on the hockey rink come freely, the muscles in our babies legs are being worked from the time a soother still hangs out of their mouth. Mommas' set their marshmallows with legs outside and tell them to run to the barn. With a "get set, go!" we know that this is a finer workout than any treadmill. Coupled with a few treks back up the hill after a toboggan ride down, I'm wondering why Jillian Michaels makes all the cash? I'm just going to start filming the kids and selling a pair of ski pants to go along with my workout video. Ski Pants Power Routine-no big deal. 

Dear Woofie,
Thank you for looking after the children. I will chuck a bone outside later as payment for your kindness.
Cheyenne

While rosy cheeks were tucked into bed tonight, I was grateful for where we live, the here, and the now. Here's to winter and all it's glory. Love it! These are your moments. 

Fall Supper

A couple weekends ago I was reminded that a group of pink aproned, fixed up hair, fancy jean-wearing women from rural Alberta are nothing to mess with. Resourceful, strong and can work a draft horse under the table, these women are reminiscent of a small army. Oh my! Don't you get in their way. 

Across our wind sculpted prairies some old traditions hold current today. Years ago fall suppers, where folks gathered in churches to chow down on chicken, salads, and potatoes, were an important way to connect after the grueling days of harvest were over. These meals were all prepared without running water and electricity and ladies groups, did just that -- grouped together and cooked. As fundraisers for the women's clubs in churches, fall suppers were a place where neighbour after neighbour would show up to visit, eat, and enjoy a short program. My Grandma remembers as a child being all shined up and waiting upstairs with a nervous stomach, for her number to be called to eat. The nerves weren't for the meal, but for the program afterwards that the children helped put on. 

Now, our fall suppers are generally a buffet style spread of deliciousness. Turkey is served instead of chicken, and potatoes, vegetables and salads adorn the plates. Accompanied with coffee and pie, it's too bad that there weren't couches to have a snooze on afterwards.  Ladies organizations from churches, as well as Town and Country clubs from our small rural communities unite to make money and serve up a full meal. As a girl, I washed dishes in the back with other young girls from the community. You always wondered who you would get to chat with while going through tea towel after soaking wet tea towel, drying dishes.

A few days ago, I washed my girls up, getting ready to haul them into our nearest community, a place where less than a hundred people reside, probably counting kittens and pups all around.  The sun blazed down on the snow left over from two weeks of ice fog that had caused power outages. Folks rendered themselves a little crazier than before, from the lack of brightness in the sky, and the sunshine was welcomed! We plowed across muddy gravel roads, with a sort of tricky Spring feel in the air with the snow turning into liquid in the ditches. 

Heading into the hall, we were greeted with the sound of dishes crashing, and a dim room with a few candles on the tables stretched out before us. We might live in the boondocks, but these aren't the pioneer days, no sir, the power was still having major glitches after the hokey weather of the past few weeks. Apparently on this day, of all days, there was an outage for several hundred miles and women gasped in the morning, not daring to open their ovens as turkeys were being browned to perfection. You can imagine the scene being set; nerves were racked and nails tapped maniacally on the counter with eyes on the clock, waiting for light to flicker in the kitchen.

People far and wide came. Turkey was fed to four times the amount of folks that reside here. 

These women were something! I have never seen the like, and you would think that I would have been prepared, having grown up in this area - moulded, raised, and supported by these ladies. When the power went out, a stern phone call was placed to our local electricity provider and a reminder was made to put our teensy hamlet on priority.  Forget those communities with hospitals in them, there is near three hundred pounds of turkey cookin' around here!

In the hall murmured conversations led to phone calls and a general consensus of "this show must go on!" People joke about gas-powered blenders, but folks, with my very eyes I saw extension cords hauled around and generators brought in, and gas powered blenders were indeed used. Warnings of, “Watch your step!”, blenders whirring to mash potatoes and electric knives coming to life, the women worked at Mach speed to make up time lost to black. A cheer went up when the lights came on, and almost like something out of a storybook, a collected sort of 'awwwww!!' when the power went off again. Like an army of ants, these women put a spread on, but I tell you, the process was somewhat scary to get there. I have an awed sort of respect for these gals, in a, "Heck yes, ma'am, I'll do whatever you say! I know that pink apron means business!" kind of way.

If you want to experience a piece of prairie history, find a small town in the fall, ask about their turkey supper and you surely won't be let down as you help celebrate the completion of harvest and support a women's organization. You might sit down next to your Grandpa's old neighbour who can tell you tales of round ups from years past, or you might meet the tiniest, newest neighbour to the community, swaddled up tight. No matter who you cross paths with there, you will be better for it.  It might not be as exciting as our last one was, but it will have some sort of tasty pie to punctuate whatever adventure it will hold and trust me -- all are welcomed. 

Snow Antlers

Have you heard of Return to Rural? If this doesn't make you want to move to Oyen, Alberta- what else would? 

There is nothing quite like Tumbleweed Wilds from the east. These are the kind of kids author's hope to find in life and replicate-they make a great story. The kind of children that put fear in their mama's hearts and make their daddy's ticker swell with pride!

I'm afraid, dear sisters, that these are the kind of kids my tiny baby girl's somehow pray to become. I know they are heading down that free and untamed path and I'm following along in a delirious state. 

There is a fine line between kids who make snowmen like these, and those that construct a regular frosty. Some kids just stand right on that fine line, and I know mine would surely push them over, running to get a bow and arrow. 

The only thing that frighten's me a bit more than the children, are the daddies and uncles who probably made the snowmen themselves and said the little bambino's did it. 

The War to End All Wars

This poignant post, written by my Auntie, brings a great lump to my throat. 

If you would like to send in photos or some written words about someone who has served for your country, or is serving now, please e-mail me at littleprairiebaby@gmail.com. You can also simply share these stories. Help keep truth alive. 

The War to End All Wars

Many years ago, I visited my great aunt (the little girl shown above standing in front of her mother) for what was to be the last time. She had cancer and died later that year. It was a week of sharing and getting to know each other, she a widow in her seventies and I, a young married mom in my twenties. Because I shared her name, she was very special to me. And I certainly felt special to her.
One of the many stories that Aunt Johan shared, took place in her childhood on the windswept prairie near Three Hills, Alberta. Two brothers, William and Alex had neighbouring homesteads. One day, Johan’s father, William, called to her in an urgent voice. “Johan, I can see John coming. He’s running. Something is wrong. Go now, and learn the matter.” With that, Johan, just a child herself, began to run up the road toward her cousin.
These 90 years later, I picture the scene. I know that road; we still own that land. Young John winded but continuing to run; Johan, a small girl, running with all her might to learn the reason for the urgency. When at last they met, John’s message was not one of trouble, or concern, but rather one of joy. John’s family had just returned from town where they learned the wonderful news, “The war is over!”
I can still see my aunt’s eyes filling with tears as she ended the story, “and that was the First World War – the war to end all wars.”
No one celebrating that day would have considered that two short decades later, the world would once again be at war. And then another, and another…
This morning as I pause to remember those who died for our freedom, I also want to remember that we are promised a time when “Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore” (Isaiah 2:4). Imagine it!

Lest We Forget

We need to remember what our forefather's sacrificed for our 
freedom. We need to be mindful of those that are serving 
today and their brother's in arms that have fallen to continue 
to make our nation what it is; a land of opportunity and 
choice.  We need to keep these stories alive to keep it fresh in
our mind what has been given to us. It's up to us to record 
these stories and to pass them along. Please join me this month, in a month of remembrance to write these things down. If you have a relative or friend who has served or is serving for our nations, whose story you'd like to share, please send it to me at littleprairiebaby@gmail.com. I'd love to feature someone's story for the next few weeks on my blog. It doesn't have to be long, it doesn't have to be perfect, even a photo with some simple words is great-it is simply to keep the truth alive. 

Grandpa Bill

It's stories that our generation is called to continue to tell as the days of our Grandparents' are being laid to rest. It's these legends that will stick in our minds; it's the faces, not the statistics. 


My Grandpa Bill signed up to serve in the second world war, at the signature of his mom's hand as he was only seventeen years old. Grandpa was a prairie kid from central Alberta that hadn't known the water. He headed to Calgary to train with HMCS TECUMSEH, leaving his younger brother Glen to run the farm; their dad had died a year earlier. The next year the farm was going to be left to a hired man when Uncle Glen would sign up. 


Grandpa Bill was a gunner in the Navy, on the triangle run in the North Atlantic on a corvette. The ship  was only 100 feet long and there were 100 plus men on it. I wish he was still here so I could hear more about everyday life on that great creature that lived on the water. 


I know Grandpa's very favourite meal on that ship was Red Lead & Bacon. Canned stewed tomatoes cooked up in bacon grease with little bits of bacon in it were a delicacy! Grandpa Bill also learned about rum in this time of his life. A big barrel of it sat on the ship. Grandpa had a bad cold, and never having had a drink before didn't know the appropriate amount of rum to take to finish that cold off, so filling his whole mug up, he woke up in the morning with the cold gone; but he could ring out the sheets he had slept on.

Grandpa Bill

Grandpa made special friends in that time of his life, too. Ted Forshner would go on to guide with my Grandpa for Uncle Glen for years to come and we'd so often hear of dear Jonny Bonhamm. Our family never realized that his actual name was Jean Louise Bonhamm, as a man from Quebec's name would be, not Jonny. Jonny's family didn't know Grandpa's real name either, he was always talked about as cornflake.It was Jonny that relieved his fears in their biggest storm out on the Atlantic. As Grandpa sweat bullets each time the ocean swelled against the ship, and it leaned so far it threatened to topple over, Jonny came to the rescue. Jonny was a wise old man to Grandpa Bill's young seventeen year old mind, and so when the twenty five year old talked to Grandpa, he listened. Jonny assured him the ship wouldn't sink; it would act just like the clowns filled with air that children knock over, and no matter how hard they hit, they will always pop up. It wasn't until they were both old men, sitting around my grandparent's kitchen table that Grandpa learned that Jonny, in spite of his calm demeanour  was just as afraid, and told Grandpa the first thing he could think of to alleviate some fear. 

For all the hardship and the lonesome days away from his family and farm on the flatlands, this was the highlight of my grandfather's life. Those were his glory years, he spoke of them with fondness and with pride in his voice. Every year, on Remembrance Day a cousin from Ontario would phone Grandpa to thank him for serving for our nation, and for our people; now that Grandpa's gone, he phones my mom and my auntie's. We are all still very proud of our Grandpa who served.

Lest we forget. 


***Thanks to Steph for asking some questions. HMCS in Canada  stand for Her Majesty's Canadian Ship. TECUMSEH was named for a great man, a Shawnee chief, that during the war of 1812 served with Canadian & British forces.***

Old Fashioned Baby Bows

"I'd like to wear a rainbow everyday, and tell the world that everything is okay." -Johnny Cash
In my old school ways, I can't help myself but make these things in sort of ahem, quieter colors. These were packaged up and sent to a friend who just had the most gorgeous baby girl. I decided all these muted colors wouldn't do and did up one more, bright, eye popping yellow! You'd think I'd learn, making a zillion in these shades, and if I'm at some sort of show, the mom's want the craziest, blingiest, brightest pink you can find. 

Making tiny flowers out of lace, bits of fabric and other shreds of daintiness is a rare treat. Although my girl's never wore such finery in their own hair, I think the fluffiness of a bow on top of a little girl's bean is something special. They are only so pint sized for so long, before their bossiness sets in and these types of things won't be permissible. 

Sometimes I wonder if I had adorned my bundles of pink in some of these sort of Sunday best headbands, that it might have infused some more lady like behaviour in them. 

Opening the dryer, to pull out the clean, soft jammies that had been hiding in their home since yesterday, there on top of the clothes was a graham cracker crumbs box. It was unopened, mind you, but there it sat. Naturally, I started questioning my lunatic state of mind when I remember toddler #2 marching around the house yesterday with various odds and sods out of my cupboards.  Not two minutes later, toddler numero uno helped (and I use this term loosely) fold laundry in the living room when things seemed sort of eerily hushed in the kitchen. I know every mom out there is gasping and saying, "oh no, she didn't let thing's get too quiet!"  I peek in to see my Tuffie on top of the kitchen table, squatting precariously, digging around in her big sister's craft stuff. My presence didn't seem to alarm her at all, her blue eyes took me in and she started to clap and squeal. Sort of a "hey, look at me, I'm half gymnast, half AWESOME!" When dry rice skated across the clean kitchen floor, seeming to pool in every corner, while trying to fill the warm bags we were making, I should not have been shocked. 

This all happened before 10am. Coffee anyone?

Truth be told, if there was a hair bow that magically transferred good behaviour and set those lil' kids to sitting like small angels, I'm not so sure I'd want it. I kind of like their antics. Give me a kid with personality. 

What else would I write about?





Linking up here and here.

Well, Boys, Come on Over!

Yes, I'm postin' this one again, all cleaned up and ready for your lil' peepers to read. It's a foggy & snowy around these parts & I appreciate your fancy face stopping by.

Ralph's photo was found at Cowboy Country

There have been days fresh in my mind, where I've felt a bit like the fifth grader who missed the memo that today is Pajama Day at school-just a little awkward. Days when my husband and I have roast beef sandwiches packed in the cooler, nestled in the back of the old truck because we`re headed into town for the day.The truck complete with a bit of rust and grass still in the tow hooks from hauling deer in from the field, probably with a bit of blood in the box. The awkwardness reaches a paramount high when upon driving into town in the old clunker, a gasp escapes my three year old when she sees cars all lined up in a perfect row, because we're in a parking lot - I know it's time to get out more. 

I come from a long line of folks, who made it quite a palaver heading into town. In days gone by, my Grandpa Bill and his long time friend, Ralph Loosmore, would start going through the motions. Like beavers building a dam, Grandpa and Ralph would start getting ready to head into Cowtown days in advance. During Stampede week, the two friends would exchange stories while travelling across the prairies, in Ralph's old, horse bit up truck to attend the rodeo. Booming voices, cleaned up boots, and their best cowboy hats would only punctuate the impression these men would leave on the city. 

Every year, the two would lay the groundwork to head into the Rangemen's Dinner ( a supper put on by the rail road to celebrate all the old cattlemen ) in Calgary. Since the Big City, was just that, big, a room would be booked at The Shamrock. These characters were always in luck, they had a good friend who brought wild horse stock to the rodeo, allowing them to enjoy the action and hoopla from the infield. After a long day at the rodeo, Grandpa and Ralph would have been plumb worn out, and would devotedly head back to the Shamrock. 

The suspender sporting men had a room booked on the ground floor. Probably around 8:00 p.m. Grandpa knew it was time to head to bed, because the morning comes early when you wake up in time to ensure you haven't wasted half a day by 6:00 a.m. The large windows faced directly out on the street of this bustling city, so Grandpa wandered over and closed the blinds. Ralph came out of the bathroom, hollering, because he saw those blinds closed and that just wouldn't work! Whooping at Grandpa,"how would you know when it was daylight out?" Ralph marched over to the blinds, pulling them open. Grandpa tucked in, covers pulled up to his chin,and as he always said he "giggled like a school girl" at his roommate. City slickers, tourists, and all kinds of Stampede goers gawked through that open window at Ralph in his long red underwear tucked into cowboy boots, backed turned to the crowd  that was seeming to gather to have a look  at the real old cowboys in town. 

The next morning, it was decided they would walk to the rodeo, instead of hauling the truck to the grounds. These men, their voices boomed when they talked, and  those voices commanded people to listen. When it came time to cross the street at the cross walk, both men were stumped by all the buttons, flashing lights, and folks gathering. They did what any good old rancher would do, and took matters into their own hands. When Ralph bellered to the crowd around him to listen, he explained to everyone that flashing hand was just saying, "Well, boys, COME ON OVER!" Sure enough, Ralph advanced into the city traffic with a small herd of tourists following. 

We aren't sure how these cowboys survived their time travelling together in a citified setting. I do know that when my palms start sweating and I feel like I'm meandering around in my long underwear in the heart of Calgary, I recall these stories of days gone by, and take cue's from my Grandpa to just embrace and enjoy whatever circumstances I fall into. Besides, they will always make for a great story.

Grandpa Bill Out West

Long Love This Land

Now, the video is public-as it should be!

Yes and amen.

 I long love this land!

Miscellany Monday, on Tuesday

1.This may possibly be, the worst photo ever taken, but I'm cool with that. The point is, you get the picture-pun intended. This was the view from my home this morning.  I asked if my husband had chains for Ranger Hill, because the old guys are Out West today to bring the cows home. This is how it was done in the old days and remember I am practically a Grandma. I was promptly reminded that at this day in age, everyone has four wheel drive. Riiiiiiight.

Shall I just pull out my bag phone? 

 Winter. is. upon. us. 

I feel like I took this photo fourteen days ago, and it was only this morning. Do you ever have a day when you look at the clock and it's 9:15, but feels like you have lived a full day already? Puuuleeeeease!

2.What do we do about that?

Embrace it.

I jest that it's time to start Christmas baking and realize that November is hot on my heels and it truly is almost time to start the masses of sugar infused, blobs of cookie dough browning up on pans. How am I going to keep up with my Mrs. Claus persona if Gingerbread men aren't practically walking around my house on November 1st?  Mercy!

3.Do you long love your land? I sent ATB financial a note today, seeing why in the heck their YouTube video showcasing and promoting Alberta's agriculture (and their bank of course) is not public? Ahem? Isn't the point to get it out there and advertise.

I'm tryin' to get it for y'all to see. I am. Really.

Fact is, I started this post early in the bacon and egg hours and sometime mid morning, after I wrote my note to the banker folks, I got a standard message back saying I needed to take this matter to my local branch. I'm guessing no one read my note. 

So, here is the unlisted video. You must watch it right now! I'm sure no one will sue over sharing an unlisted video. This is Canada, after all, we'll just apologize each other to death. 

The video makes me feel a tad prideful and sort of weepy hearted. 

Yes, I long love this land.

4.Big Girl has a pink rosined up rope.  She get's Little Girl atop her rocking horse, ropes the horse and hauls her around the living room. In the sweetest of voices she tells her, "Okay, it's gonna' bump at first, but you hang on! You can do it!"

For the most part I think this is okay, until I peer in from the kitchen and see that Myla Maloo thinks she is some sort of trick rider and is performing wild stunts while Big Girl hauls her around. I'm not sure whether to buy her a helmet or just a fancy sequinned outfit. 

Someone send help. The Wild Sisters are gonna' fly. 

5. Wal-Mart is overdue. I think it would be in their best interest to start a delivery service-that extends sixty odd miles. Don't you? Shall we petition? 

6. My tiredness is overwhelmin' me. Each night I want to post something to you all, and the day ends, floors are haphazardly swept and I can't see the 'puter for lack of being able to hold my eyelids open. My brain is getting mushier as the days go on. It makes me wish that someone would throw sixteen or so soothers in my bed and let me sleep. For a week. 

I never used to drink coffee until the second  daughter was born. It started out just small doses in a tiny Peter Rabbit mug, now I just get a small vase out of the cupboard. 

7.Thanks to this talented Auntie for the sweetie pie, old school matching aprons. They are worn nearly on a daily basis and are holding up spectacularly. Tay likes to remind me to, "Put it over YOUR BELLY and I will tie it up for you, if you can't reach. "

I weep. 

8.Go visit Cow Camp Supply for the most affordable wild rags for the winter season.  Support a mom!

9. Take note, painstakingly those lil' doo dads below my posts were put in for you non bloggers, or bloggers, or secret wanna be bloggers-whatever. They are so you can easily share things on FB, pin things, blah, blah, blah. The whole social media shebang. You should be able to click on whatever button suits your fancy. For you, AP, as per your request, directly to your right, you can just enter your e-mail address in that wee box in the corner and get my newest posts to your inbox. Keep in mind I'm technologically illiterate, so this is a big whoop, sorta' deal. 

10. Good night and peace to you, my sweetest readers. You give me comfort and courage. I don't tell you enough, I love you all. If you lived nearby, I would fry you doughnuts and we could join hands in this giant, sisterhood community gig. Mostly, you don't live nearby, so look out at that moon tonight, know a zillion other sister's are lookin' up at it, and remember to be kind, because we are all in this together. 

For the Love of a Pony

Fourty four inches tall and a belly to make Santa envious, a sassy chestnut mare marches to the beat of a song that plays, "the bane of my existence." I've got two daughters and really, it was only a matter of time before a pony ended up on this place.

This post is dedicated entirely to Karen, who is gracious enough to ask about some of the animal's around here. In my daughter's eyes, Nugget, or commonly referred to as Nuggy, is the only one that matters. I take my stroller to town and find tiny horse brushes in the bottom, that are only a few inches long, remnants of a day with this horse end up everywhere. 

You bring ponies up in conversation and everyone is bound to have a story. Whether it's the fat little thing they rode at their Uncle's farm, or their very own Chubs to claim as their love, we've all got a special place for them.

As an adult, that special place for them isn't so much my heart.  Secretly, in my mind,  I'd like it to be the end of my boot.

Nugget, my three year old's passion, can smell my flamin' frustration coming all the way from the house. I think she prepares herself for me and let's the other horses know that some games will be played. Walking through the corals, halter in hand, I will get so close to that little pest, and she'll flip her tail in the air and run far enough away to just burn my britches.

As my Uncle would say, over lamenting about the rottenness of these creatures, "small horse syndrome".

Oh yeah, I'm fast. I'm not gonna' give you two eyes,  because I'm gonna' drive you crazy! Nugget, fastest pony in the west.

With a skinny legged little girl, feet cranked forward thinking she's a bronc rider, this pony encompasses the patience of Job. We amble along, exploring the yard, hooting and hollering with the wildness of a three year old imagination. With children, it seems the thinkers come alive on the backs of these four legged animals that don't just transport you across the yard, but into a whole new world. The small knoll on the plains of the prairies soon becomes 'Gopher Mountain' and my oldest daughter is bellowing to me from the "ridge", that she can see for miles! Across non existent creeks, through the woods and off on a bear hunt, I knew the apple fell a few generations down the family tree. My Dad would ride the pony out at the farm when he was young, and spoke of the old washing machine lid. I directly assumed it would have been used as sled, but this thought was scoffed at, and stories were relayed of it being a shield atop their war pony, all the while hucking clumps of dirt at brothers or other passers-bys. 

While my sister and I were busy learning to ride on Queenie, as youngsters, I can clearly recall if the stubborn beast responded well to what I asked her, I would let her have two free passes of doing whatever she wanted around the pasture. It's a wonder that horse never amounted to too much.

While flaky girls like me, thought it was the finest thing to reward ponies with freedom, my girlfriend and her siblings were busy riding ponies for neighbours. This was serious business. While we are used to ponies with names like Rosie, Queenie, and Nugget-Gonegan was a real winner in the east country. At this families home, the young boy, probably about 10, was hired on to ride this horse to comfortably break it for some little blondie down the road. Gonegan achieved his status in his name, as the pony would constantly take off and little legs would bring the boy to the house, "Dad, he's GONE again!"

I've come to realize photographing animal's is harder than photographing babies or herding cats. 

We all have stories like these to recollect on, and sometimes when you bring the blessed P word up, a head will shake and stories will be regaled about that pony purposely walking under low branches to knock the kid off. We all might sort of want to hate everything about them, but when those three year old eyes bat, and you can hear the absolute joy in the kids hopping on their back off the old pail, you know memories are being made.

If life were only as simple as the joy, in a little girl's heart, atop a critter named Nugget, we'd all be a bit better off.