Our Prairie

I came into the world on the icy winter wind. A prairie blizzard - one you can't know unless you have lived here.

I was prairie raised and think some of my strength isn't me.

It comes from those prairie roots that are all knotted up with my own tangled faith. A faith that is bolstered by the streaks of colour across the big sky on the bleakest winter days.

Strength comes from the special bond that ties families who live on these plains - our lives ebb and flow together to create a larger family.

That my own mother and father who have this soil on their hands, the chinook wind howling through their hair and love of the land in their heart raised me. I will raise my own here and they will know that this is our prairie.

Harsh climates grow deep roots.

For a Sweet Friend - The Tiniest Horrors

****This is being reposted from last year. It is for a friend who is waging a war right now in her home. 

Friend, so many of us relate and can tell the story of using duct tape to tape our pants to our boots while cleaning out the grain bins. Don't worry, these days will come and go and somehow they will make a good story - it just might not be one you want to repeat. 

The Tiniest Horrors

Sometimes it's the tiny things in life that are our biggest nightmares. Things that make grown men turn as white as the snow covered prairies in the dead of winter and ladies full of maturity shriek like a two year old. Kids growing up amidst the wheat fields in cheerful, tidy old houses and worn trailers know of these nightmares and know how to watch for the signs of them. 

At a young age, I remember opening the drawer in my Auntie's beautiful old farmhouse to my delight to see a plastic mouse -  I thought that it was a great thing she kept toys in her kitchen. My Auntie was working hard to overcome her fear of mice and thought that by becoming so used to seeing this dreaded creature in her cutlery drawer, it might fill her with the strength to stay on the home place when, yes folks, a mouse was found in the house. 

I suppose my Aunts' came by their fear of mice honestly. Engraved in my mind is my red headed Irish Grandma going after a tiny grey creature, with the strength of ten men, in the aged farmhouse with a straw broom in hand. Our Grandpa, a hulk of a man and hero in our eyes, perched atop his chair, face bleached white too full of fear to holler. Luckily in our house, our Dad took care of these lil' "problems" and when I heard a rustling in my closet one night, and came out to let my folks know, Dad emerged from the bedroom in a short time, after some thumping abounded, and let me know it was fine to go back to bed, it was only a "big moth."

We were carefully trained as children to take a peek in our boots before we'd pull them on to head outside, so strong are the memories of my mom's of pulling on her chore boots only for her foot to meet a wriggling mouse. I am not sure what it is that makes us shriek, holler, and claim them as some of the nastiest creatures to endure out here in the wild west. Those little field mice, out there destroying crops, carrying disease and seeming to pop out of nowhere like some sort of terrible Halloween prank make so many plumb near lose their minds. 

So many of these stringy tailed creatures meet their fate nowadays in a bale buster, but in days gone by when  everyone set out bedding with small square bales, a much more fearsome blow was found - not so much for the mouse, but for the one who came across them. Family members love to tell the stories on my dad while bedding the cattle, when all of a sudden the giant man was doing the hippy hippy shake, ripping clothes off, as a mouse ran up his leg - the memory of it scurrying around his skin making him shudder now. Similar things happened to others, like my Uncle, but both men are quick to mention the neighbor lady who had a similar experience putting her hand in her pocket and screeching like a banshee. As she hopped around hollering, ripping at her coat, she somehow lodged that balled up wad of Kleenex in her pocket to realize that the "mouse" was just remnants of a cold.

Now, I know all those outside of the Alberta border, who don't know about the Alberta rat patrol, are probably scoffing at our arch nemesis and you'd like to tell your rat stories, but for now let me revel in my mice stories. Come Fall, when we are all crying and fighting the battle with any of these dreaded creatures, we'll commiserate, laugh, and curse the dickens out of them. We'll also know in our heart of hearts that along with the Red Tailed Hawk, the swift Pronghorns, and the old mother Badger, that the bitsy Deer Mice are more a part of these prairies than us grizzled old folks who have taken up residence here. It still doesn't mean we have to like them.

Head Outside - Take Two

A little ironic, isn't it? 

On top of this old uncomfortable chair, I like to sit with one leg tucked up, shaking my words out onto the computer. The technology is booted up in the hours when quiet takes over the home and babies are sleeping soundly in their beds. 

My eyes soak the irony in as I see the big chalkboard sign hung on the wall, right above the computer stuffed up inside the house. 

I do believe, folks, it is in everyone's favour to get up and go outside. Post-Olympic depression? No problem. Go outside. Even if minus twenty temperatures swirl around you, somehow, something good happens deep inside when soaking in the great outdoors. Be bolstered by the snow and sun. Give a little fist pump to the lone bird that bravely flies through the sky. Look up, look way up and know this is the most amazing screen you will ever see. A picture show created just for you - hypnotic green lights dancing in the cold, dark night or thousands of twinkling stars appear after the sunset of wild colours we can't recreate. 

Shut the computer off for the day, put your phone away and help haul tiny hands into mittens. I hear a lot these days about shutting your phone or computer off to be in the moment with your children.  I don't only want to make an effort to put the phone away while my kids are awake for the sole reason that I'm in the moment with them. I want to be careful what I model. I don't want these tiny imitators growing up to feel a constant need to be checking their phone, mail, and text messages with the attitude that if they don't get it right away, the world is just going to up and end.

Let's model a love for the great outdoors, not our phones. Let's play in the yard, walk down the street, lick a little syrup off the snow and give February a big kick in the pants, because fellow Albertans, it's almost over. 

So, when all else fails, go outside. 

Hold Dear

I want to remember. 

More than anything, I want to remember the sun stretched out, turning the snow cotton candy pink and the wonder of small eyes blinking it in to their souls. I want to remember the tiny bundle, under four big, fluffy blankets in the stroller. Oh, to feel that warmth on my hand, lifting the flap, checking his cheeks, and seeing his little lips sucking on that soother - a blue and black plaid hood framing his wee face. I want to recall the sticks that were so cheerfully collected for a fire when 'springtime comes.' I want to see those little gloves, that zip all the way up to their elbows, digging in the snow 'like badgers.' 

Please, oh please, don't let me forget, standing with my three children, in a landscape cloaked with snow, watching the sun put itself to sleep, while at the same time we watched the big, fat moon rise high. Crisp air, big sky, and the crunch of our feet in the white. Discussions of coyote and deer tracks and the wild possibility of what a big white hare's feet might look like in the snow, bury themselves into my mind. 

More than I want to remember, I want them to remember. If their minds are too small to recall the details of our everyday, please let these three little people know a kinship with the wild outdoors and a deep love of family. Let the good of these days be sewn into their hearts. 

Everyday Conversations

This chat went down between my Grandma and I after I checked a message on my cheapest of cheap junk phone. The great grandmother of my children and my dearest friend:

Grandma: Missy, did you get the new updates on your phone? Carson put them on my phone this weekend and whoo! Are they ever uptown!

Me: Grandma, this isn't an iPhone - in fact I can hardly text on this thing. I don't even know what you're talking about. 

Grandma and technology - one point. Cheyenne and technology - zero.

*****

Between two little dresses in the back seat of the truck.

Taylin: Myla, what do you think is the worst? I think that definitely pig manure and chicken manure have to be THE worstest when they are spreading. I almost throw up when they spread chicken manure! Cow poop isn't so bad. What do you think?

Myla: Cow poop! Cow poop! 

*****

On the way up the stairs, amongst the old wallpapered walls, which I'm sure hold their own stories:

Taylin: Hip! Hip! Mom, you be the old cow and I'll load you up the chute. Hip! Hip! Wait, lemme' go get a stick.

I may have shed a tear. 

****

These are my people and the everyday conversations help make up my days. With every tick of the clock, I am grateful for my family, even when I'm being referred to as an old cow. 

This kid, commonly referred to as Tuffy has blue eyes 90% of the time, the odd moment, those lil' peepers seem to look  a mite bit green to this mama. I don't think it's just when she is gawking at her sister's toys.

Scout in her winter glory. 

Our little man of the house. Wee Pepper, snuggled up, with that perfect soft baby fuzz to lie your cheek on and weep tears of wonder. 

Fall Decorating on the Cheap

I am a little concerned.

During nap time yesterday I kept flying down to the burn pit. My legs couldn't seem to carry me quickly enough as I tried to haul as much rubbish out of this house before any of the children could see me throwing out precious scraps of paper, pine cones, or any other tiny piece of garbage they may have collected. I've started referring to their reaction as "the wrath."  Up in Sister's room there are tiny piles of semi precious items. We put up apples this week and the big lids that came off the apple boxes seemed to catch her fancy and sure enough they are upstairs hiding in the corner of her room. There are approximately one zillion tiny plastic bags with tiny precious things in them and each and every night I sneak in there and haul them out.  The problem is, she notices everything that I throw out. She will go to the bathroom and I'll quickly toss stuff, all the while formulating my answer to her questions and now I spend most of my time simply evading her inquiries.

 "Momma, where is that special piece of pretty pink ribbon I found yesterday on the floor in Wal-Mart? Remember that other time two years ago when I found the shiny purple ribbon on the floor *insert any nasty, dirty and disgusting place you can think of."

"Taylin! Look at the hawk out the window!" 

Am I a bad mom?

The only benefit in having real life mini hoarders living in my house is they can easily spend hours outside with a pail in hand 'collecting' things for 'decorating'. For my lazy bones, non shopping frugal ways this has definitely helped in my fall feathering.

Folks, we like to just bring the outdoors in! Forget the Pottery Barn fancy tablecloth and Pier One doo dads, a simple bowl full of pine cones and some ratty ol' leave will do us just fine. We don't even Pinterest those ol' pine cones up with glitter and white spray paint, no m'am, they are just fine as the good Lord intended them to look. The best part is, it can all be collected by tiny hands and can save oodles of moolah. It's true, simply put, my shopping skills are, shall we say, lacking? I don't really love perusing the aisles and don't overly want to part with twenty bucks on a plastic pumpkin, so we keep things simple. I'm not the girl who knows what the heck you are talking about when you mention pumpkin spice lattes, I'm more the apple crisp with coffee - fall kind of girl. So, yes, let's gather outside junk to bring bugs and dust inside. 

I think I know where Scout got her hoarding tendencies from and why Tuffy likes to stop and proclaim the beauty in every. single. rock, stick, and leaf out there. Two hours to walk to the truck? Sure! Why not! Who cares if Old Man Winter is brushing our face with his windy fingers and we can feel his presence in the early morning frost - 'cause we found that glorious pine cone and whipped out the cutters to pull down branches. We are loving fall.

Wheat kernels with candles, in a mason jar, and some scrappy fabric & twine. This takes four seconds to put together and no brain power. My kind of style.


 

Forgive the horrible picture. It's how I roll. Trust me, these mirrors are not that dirty! This picture is going to drive me crazy. I want to get my little cloth for cleaning my glasses and just scrub the computer screen. Right now.

 The main point of the photo is to show Grandma Myrna what I did with the window sills from the old chicken coop. A similar one went down to my sis, only in a distressed white that a four year old helped paint. 

Head Outside

Oh, a mother's guilt. Books could be written on it and sometimes that dreaded emotion wants to creep in on me like a bad cold. I worry that if I don't do enough of those fun activities that are printed in pamphlets at the local touristy hot spot, or are listed in the paper and summer will spin by, leaving me only with other mommas chattering about story hour at the library or elaborate play dates at the swimming pool. 

There is talk of camping or wandering down to the corner store to buy ice cream. My friends, I know to let it go when I see Big Girl sitting beside her Auntie howling with laughter when that 'skrat (Tay's way of saying muskrat) swam up beside her and splashed her with its tail. I know to ball that guilt up and chuck it out the door when I see my girls feel like they have hit the jackpot when they get to check cows and play in the creek. My heart swells a bit while they marvel at three hawks circling and screeching over the pasture, diving and swooping while Taylin exclaims, 'This is the best summer ever!' 

We might not head to the splash park, but I do believe we have a small advantage with our source of summer fun. We don't need to worry about the hoards of people on days when the sun flexes it's muscles and pours out it's power when I can feed a tiny babe with my feet dunked in the cool water and our only concern is whether we packed enough snacks or not. I do believe nothing beats the smell of sage when you hop out of the truck at the creek meandering through the prairies.

My little pigeons, with summer whipping by us and all of us northerners wanting to weep a little that this is the last time we will mow for the season, relish these last days. Don't worry about packing the stroller, fifty two thousand diaper bags and the kitchen sink, just let your ol' door creak open and head outside. Feel stifled by your four walls? Go outside and look up. Look up! Talk to your children about the cotton balls in the sky, listen for that purple martin sitting high on top of the tree, and kick off your shoes and feel the prairie wool beneath your feet. Friends, don't worry about the fancy summertime Pinterest list on your homemade chalkboard of all the things you wanted to do with your babes, I have said it before and will say it again, they just. Want. You. Play with the rocks on the lane, look for an ant hill or collect some of the leaves that are falling on the ground. Don't worry about the play date, don't worry about the 'Summer Fun' page in your local paper, just walk outdoors, and open your peepers. You have the best play park ever - one designed by the master designer. All of nature is ready to have a party, and if your two year old wets their pants in the water, there will be no major break down, 'cause the cows don't care. 

Here's to the dog days of summer. Enjoy!

Miscellany Monday (on Tuesday)

Miscellany blog post means miscellany photos. 

* All stars! Let's address the subject all rural Albertan's first discuss - weather. Now, I know the Caraganas may be snapping and popping, that fields are being steadily harvested and the dang geese seem to be flying in a southward direction. Folks, this does not mean you need to be spouting off about Fall and things a-freezing at night. I don't wanna' hear it. For moi, I feel as though Summer just began three weeks ago, now all the running to the city for appointments is over.  If you really need to run your dirty mouth about Fall, pre calendar change of season,  feel free to wander out behind the barn. I read this year that summertime in Alberta isn't just a season, but it's an event. Yes! An event! Please keep in mind, this event is still taking place and your bad manners about bringing Fall up are just that, bad manners. So hush. 

* Three. It seems to be a magical number up in this hood. I am loving having three babies. I think there is nothing finer than a little boy to round out the circle of pink in this home. Oh, the gushing that takes place by the big sisters and the frightening moments of, 'Please don't poke baby brother with your hockey stick!' seem to keep us busy. Who knew a three year old could be such a big helper and that a two year old, well, isn't? We are well and floating through summer days on clouds of baby brother joy. 

* It's zucchini season! I love small towns, especially on these sun soaked days when you run into the grocery store and fly back out, worrying you forgot a kid somewhere, and there is often a dirty old zucchini on the seat of your pick up truck. Everyone grows 'em, everyone gives them away, and usually in a haphazard sneaky fashion of dumping them on the neighbors doorstep in the middle of the night or sneaking out of church to get rid of the blasted things in everyone else's vehicle. There has to be some kind of balance here. Truth be told, the only balance I'm looking for is the one that weighs heavily on chocolate zucchini cake ending up in my freezer.

*I am starting to wonder if the reason I seem to pack weight on post-baby might have something to do with the fact I am finding crumbs in Little Man's hair at 3AM? Crumbs from cookies, muffins, and cinnamon rolls that my dear heart neighbor ladies have been dropping off. Do you think it could possibly contribute to my resemblance of the saggy baggy elephant and the fact I wish I had a sports bra for my bottom when I'm running? That lil' ol' issue of happily shoving my face at any given feed in the middle of the night? The way I look at it is - life is short, let's not make waste of Mennonite cooking. Duh.

*My computer has been in a funk. I haven't had one of my very own to yatter on since pre babe. I am constantly searching out ways to get my grubby hands on one to check my mail, whether I pilfer my husband's phone or make the trek to mama's house. Truth be told, it's kind of nice to not feel the pull of always having to respond to e-mails. I knew it was only stirring the pot of my anti social ways when our phone lines were down too and we were told the yahoos weren't able to come fix them for near a month. If you need me, you know where to find me, but there is a good chance I may be in my pajamas at 10 in the ay-em, so please send some sort of smoke signal first. My First Nations ways will hear your calling. 

*My cup runneth over. I have multiple girlfriends that have had babies within weeks of mine, days of mine really, and my sister has a stork due to arrive at her pad any ol' time. It is like one monster baby shower around here.  I'm thankful for my people.

Three Price babies - hooray! Photo courtesy Robino. My Little Man looks somewhat like a homeboy in his Wranglers - brother needs to put on a few pounds. 

Welcoming

My bare feet creak along the old hardwood floor, while I open windows to let an evening breeze blow through this old house. Little girls lie quietly underneath their white sheets, as the lace curtains flap in the warm air. In a hushed awe I sit on my three year old's bed, smoothing the hair out of her eyes. My heart so grateful for the three gifts wrapped up in snuggly, tiny selves our family has been given.

A couple of weeks ago we drove down the old back roads that I drove on as a teenager. We headed towards the city and for the third time in my life, I knew that soon, we would welcome another little life into our home. I wondered if the same curves and juts in the road will be familiar to my children? Would they know the feel of these gravel roads beneath their feet? Would these pastures look the same? Will this country tug at their hearts? In low whispers I offered my thanks. 

Here we are, a family of five, and I think back to the course my life has taken and I'm still boggled by what a miracle it is that we are exactly where we are today. And I'm ever grateful for the small things. For those tiny, long sweet fingers that grasp my one, for the smell of freshly laundered onesies, and grass stains on little blue jeans. I'm heartsick grateful to be here, to be exactly here in this time, to have four hands smaller than my own to help bathe baby brother. I'm grateful for the sound of baby snuffles in the night and for the moon that shines through his window while feeding someone who has hardly known what sunshine is for two weeks. I am overwhelmed with the big girl holding a swaddled up boy, while the middle one snuggles onto my lap and we all cram into one bed to read bedtime stories, our bodies stuck together in the heat. While my sandals pad along the dusty road, beneath the hot August canvas of blue, with a babe nestled close to my body and wild girls ride their bikes each step is filled with gratitude and days pass. 

I realize it is these small things, they are the moments that are making up my life, my story, and they are my heart's song. 

He tends his flock like a shepherd:

He gathers lambs in his arms

and carries them close to his heart;

he gently leads those that have young.

Cookbook Cookin'

Falling apart and full of vintage charm, the happiest part of a girl's kitchen are those old cookbooks cheerfully lining a shelf.

My heart had a tiny tear inside it seeing the stack of cookbooks a girl had piled high that were to be passed along to charity.  Her tiny computer, lacking any room to write notes in the margins or carry the character of a dog eared page, would sit on top of the counter blasting out directions to create supper. Realizing I might still have one foot stuck in the boot of 'things from the past' I can't help but want to hang onto my dear cookbooks.

In any small town freckling the map of our western provinces, you are sure to find a ladies club who have tirelessly hounded members of the community to put a book of recipes together. In these books you can find recipes from the grandmother, mother, and daughter, with maiden names in brackets and the food reminding you of the history of generations before us. Such common shower gifts are these cookbooks, along with the 4-H cookbook and possibly one that one of the local families have put together.

Some of my favorite books are the ones from the Grandmas or even Great Grandmas before us. With recipes that hold instructions for feeding a crowd of 100 at a fall supper or some secret nugget of wisdom on how much snow to use as replacement if you don't have the right amount of fresh eggs in store - these are a treasure. The best recipes are often found on the grimiest pages and the worst have your cousin's writing across the top saying "forget it!" in bold letters.

The only con that comes along with these kitchen bibles that make their way into our homes, wrapped in tea towels and given with love in a church basement, is the enormous amount of pressure that comes along with them. When Aunt Annie, the famed cook in the family, hands you her family recipes, you can bet she is sure to expect you to cook them - and cook them with the expertise that her hands hold. You can pray the housewife's prayer when Aunt Annie is coming for supper, because she was raised up right on the plains of Alberta. She will expect a meal that will meet the quantities of feeding fifteen after a branding, and the quality of something made for the queen. The strain of your meal will mount when you see her car pull into the drive half hour early and it looks like your kitchen has had fourteen toddlers helping out. Although tears might nearly be in your eyes by this point, I don't think any recipe found on the internet or some sort of starter mix found in Wal-Mart will ever meet the satisfaction of pulling one of those old fashioned meals together that the kin before us have chowed down at their supper tables.

So, for those of you out there who have left your cookbooks dusty on the shelf, pick one up and peruse through it. Chuckle at the tips, be grateful you aren't eating that jellied salad tonight and best of all, give one of those recipes a shot. I double dog dare ya. I'll pop over and share in your delight and we can leave the mess of our kitchens for the next day.

Tried and true, this smell greeted us so many days after trekking up the lane after school.

Banana Drop Cookies

2 1/4 cup flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp salt
2/3 cup margarine
1 cup sugar
2 eggs 
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup mashed ripe banana (about 2 medium)

sugar & cinnamon

Sift flour, baking powder, salt and baking soda. Cream margarine, add sugar gradually, beating until light & fluffy. Add eggs one at a time beating each addition. Stir in vanilla. Add flour mixture alternating with bananas, beating after each addition until smooth. Drop by teaspoonful on lightly greased cookie sheet. Sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon mixture. Bake at 350F for 12-15 minutes. Remove from pan at once. Makes 2 1/2 - 3 dozen. 

The Tiniest Horrors

Sometimes it's the tiny things in life that are our biggest nightmares. Things that make grown men turn as white as the snow covered prairies in the dead of winter and ladies full of maturity shriek like a two year old. Kids growing up amidst the wheat fields in cheerful, tidy old houses and worn trailers know of these nightmares and know how to watch for the signs of them. 

At a young age, I remember opening the drawer in my Auntie's beautiful old farmhouse to my delight to see a plastic mouse - some great thing I thought that she kept toys in her kitchen. My Auntie was working hard to overcome her fear of mice and thought that by becoming so used to seeing this dreaded creature in her cutlery drawer, it might fill her with the strength to stay on the home place when, yes folks, a mouse was found in the house. 

I suppose my Aunts' came by their fear of mice honestly. Engraved in my mind is my red headed Irish Grandma going after a tiny grey creature, with the strength of ten men, in the aged farmhouse with a straw broom in hand. Our Grandpa, a hulk of a man and hero in our eyes, perched atop his chair, face bleached white too full of fear to holler. Luckily in our house, our Dad took care of these lil' "problems" and when I heard a rustling in my closet one night, and came out to let my folks know, Dad emerged from the bedroom in a short time, after some thumping abounded, and let me know it was fine to go back to bed, it was only a "big moth."

We were carefully trained as children to take a peek in our boots before we'd pull them on to head outside, so strong are the memories of my mom's of pulling on her chore boots only for her foot to meet a wriggling mouse. I am not sure what it is that makes us shriek, holler, and claim them as some of the nastiest creatures to endure out here in the wild west. Those little field mice, out there destroying crops, carrying disease and seeming to pop out of nowhere like some sort of terrible Halloween prank make so many plumb near lose their minds. 

So many of these stringy tailed creatures meet their fate nowadays in a bale buster, but in days gone by when  everyone set out bedding with small square bales, a much more fearsome blow was found - not so much for the mouse, but for the one who came across them. Family members love to tell the stories on my dad while bedding the cattle, when all of a sudden the giant man was doing the hippy hippy shake, ripping clothes off, as a mouse ran up his leg - the memory of it scurrying around his skin making him shudder now. Similar things happened to others, like my Uncle, but both men are quick to mention the neighbor lady who had a similar experience putting her hand in her pocket and screeching like a banshee. As she hopped around hollering, ripping at her coat, she somehow lodged that balled up wad of Kleenex in her pocket to realize that the "mouse" was just remnants of a cold.

Now, I know all those outside of the Alberta border, who don't know about the Alberta rat patrol, are probably scoffing at our arch nemesis and you'd like to tell your rat stories, but for now let me revel in my mice stories. Come Fall, when we are all crying and fighting the battle with any of these dreaded creatures, we'll commiserate, laugh, and curse the dickens out of them. We'll also know in our heart of hearts that along with the Red Tailed Hawk, the swift Pronghorns, and the old mother Badger, that the bitsy Deer Mice are more a part of these prairies than us grizzled old folks who have taken up residence here. It still doesn't mean we have to like them.

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.

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.***

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