Fear at Night

"Hello, Mom? Could you turn our light on outside. I'm coming home."

Darkness ran chills down my neck. When returning from Grandma's house, I had to run over a little bridge past my aunts house, around a garage and then I could see our door. Typically, I waited too long and even with Grandma's outside light on, there was this spot of deathly darkness.

I would plunge through that dark spot. My nerves would be raw and my senses desperately searching for anything that might be dangerous. As if emerging from the depths of the ocean I would burst around the corner see the light on at our house and it would be OK - I could breath again.

Our house, dark and creaking, would terrify me at night. Somehow, I would wake up and be all alone - listening.

"Was that a footstep?"

Suddenly, I heard another creak and I abandoned my post. I was on my way to mom and dad's bed.

"Wait. The hallway is too dark."

I would sit there at my door, listening intently to ensure that whatever was out there was not close to the hall; and then, I would rip across that carpet with my little feet and jump between my mom and dad and all fear would melt away.

As a scout, I entered a new world of fearlessness. I was no longer afraid of the dark.

Our first camp had us all on horses, down the coulee and at a bend of the Old Man River. After campfire tales, and the usual raw/burnt tin foil dinner. My friends and I got in my tent to share more stories.

"Do you think the murderer really did get out of the prison yesterday?"

"Yeah, didn't you see the RCMP drive through town today?"

"....oh...."

How did everyone get to sleep so fast? The wind in the trees spoke to me and it wasn't a lullaby. The bugs were so much louder. Then, there was the sound of the breaking branch.

I lay silent. Barely able to inhale. Another branch broke and I heard a footstep close by.

"What was that, can't anyone else hear it? Why is everyone just sleeping? That murder did get out and he's amongst us."

I was ready to scream, but I couldn't. He would hear me and then I would be the first victim.
Suddenly, the scoutmaster was burst out of his tent.

"Aw...come here girl...." the scoutmaster spoke gently.

Calmly the horse came up to him and he lead her back to the temporary coral.

I lay in my cold sweat. I was nearly murdered...by my own fear.

For the Love of Snow

One of the worst things that could happen to a guy in elementary school, at least where I grew up, was to come in from recess with wet pants. Not wet from rain, puddles or other unpleasantness, but from getting too wrapped up in the snow.

It was cold and caused discomfort but it got even worse. We would have to go to the bathroom take our pants off and wear a coat around our waist while our pants draped on the heating vents to dry out. We would tease the victim and it could cause you to miss the next recess or chance of playing in the gym.

Snow was a pure delight.

One year we had a tremendous snow fall and all the snow got piled up in the play ground and we suddenly had our own personal hill. We climbed, slid and made jumps.

Someone discovered some boxes that were stacked up by the burning bin. We appropriated them for our use and we had a regular sled run using the boxes as our sleds. This not only kept us dry but it also increased the speed quite a bit.

Since there were not enough boxes to go around, getting out first at recess was very important. In fact, I found that there were some girls who didn't have any boxes to slide on. It turned out that one in particular wanted to come along for the ride - on my piece of cardboard! My motivation to get a box increased substantially after that. Ah the joy of sliding down the snow with your love hanging on tight.

As nature intended, a warm wind from the Pacific found it's way through the mountain passes of British Columbia and swept across the plains to our personal snow hill. The warm Chinook winds melted my snow hill and stymied my romantic ambitions.

Sailing Through Heaven

Flying was always one of my big dreams.

I sat in awe on the tractors watching the crop dusters skimming the tops of the crops, duck under the power lines and turn on a dime to do it all over again. I heard stories of skydivers and dreamed of following their steps out that fateful door. One day I got my chance to spread my wings.

Each summer we celebrated many family reunions. Sometimes we met at a lake, a farm or a church. But always there was plenty to eat and lots of people I didn't know.

I found myself bored at an extended Jensen reunion one summer; I wasn't even sure who the Jensens were. There was a few kids my age and I was trying to hang out with them. They seemed as bored of the potluck and stories of old people as I was. Then we heard a very intriguing rumor.

In an instance we were off to a freshly cut hay field to investigate. There we found an old Chevy pickup, a rope and large piece of cloth. It was true. Someone had a para sail and they were going to see if we could get someone up in the air. Pick me...

Some older kid got in the harness.

"Now remember, keep running until you are way up in the air." The driver of the truck was imparting wisdom out the window.

"What?.." Oh well the truck was tearing down the field and this kid was running his guts out, since he was tied to that truck I suppose he had little choice. Then like magic, he shot into the air. I wasn't sure if it was because of the para sail or if he had turned into some sort of inverted helicopter - his legs were a blur of movement.

The old Chevy turned a giant turn and made its way back to the group of admiring teens. Oh please let me go. I was just begging to go. I was so sure that somehow my mom, using her safety powers, would somehow appear and snatch me from the jaws of death that I was so willingly ready to enter.

A big guy got in front of me and leapt into the harness. Let's see. The bigger you are the ... faster you have to run? Run he did; at least he ran for a while. It seems that his take off speed was a tiny bit faster than his fastest sprint. After getting the alfalfa out of his teeth he stood up and they tried again. This time they ran into the wind.

Now it was my turn. I was a little skinny for my age and they weren't certain the harness went that small but I assured them it was just fine. The truck tires spun and I took that first step or two towards freedom from gravity. I suddenly thought, "What the heck am I doing! Too late."

I think I continued to run through most of the flight, even though I was in the air in two or three steps. At maximum altitude I let go of the harness and spread my arms and legs out and screamed in pure delight.

Floating back to the ground, I now knew why angels flew and didn't walk, because I think I felt a little bit of Heaven up there.

Free Flight

Everyone likes to get a around for free, I suppose. In a way, we all start there at the beginning of this life, sitting on our mother's hip or cradled in her arms. That was the life.

As the youngest child, I not only got free rides via my mom, I also got rides on the backs of my brothers. Many of their rides were given in ways that my mom may not have approved.

I was told, and it was agreed to by other witnesses, of a particular ride that one of my brothers gave me. My mom had gone somewhere and had left me in the capable hands of my gentle and creative brothers. With their fine minds they had rigged up a high jumping bar and found an old mattress to land on.

This was not only a good set up for their future Olympic careers, it could also be employed to entertain a little brother. After a few bounces on the soft mattress, a little higher drop was attempted. "Hey...he likes it." I was all giggles. If a little leap makes me giggle, a larger leap is sure to be hilarious.

Sure enough, an attempt was made. With a graceful ease this chubby little brother was launched on a virgin flight. The trajectory aimed at passing over the high bar and landing with a giggle on the soft mattress. The flight planners rejoiced as I bounced in glee. It was fun and what a great way to babysit.

A few more attempts followed with the usual jubilation. Until the eventful flight. Upon leaving my brothers hands I began to tumble. Over I went, passing the bar successfully, descending awkwardly to the designated location. I landed right on my head.

My brothers gasped, I sat silently. They thought I was dead, paralyzed or somehow maimed. I had survived and have have found ample opportunity to land on my head under my own power.

Ah the days of free rides and free flight....

The Old Man River

My summers were filled with work. Prepare the land, plant the crops, cultivate then fertilize, irrigate and finally harvest. This spring - summer - fall cycle, was a killer for my teenage voyaging spirit. I had rivers to float down and motorcycles to ride. This farming thing was really cramping my style.

On a rare afternoon, we got an unexpected break. (More likely my Dad was just sick and tired of all my complaining). Tyler, Randy, Larry and I grabbed a canoe and a rubber dingy and set off to explore the wild and untamed Old Man River.

Old Man River, whoa sounds scary...errr maybe not. I sort of wished we lived by a manly spot called Devil's Gulch or Hell's Canyon. Now that would be an adventure. But Old Man is what we had and we were not going to complain.

We dropped one car off at a park and drove up river a bit. How far was a matter of quite a debate. I was thinking we should go like 35 miles up stream - we had like five more hours of sun anyway. My friends moderated my enthusiasm and we went a mere 15 miles.

Well that was how far we drove on a road, a straight road; rivers are not straight. But why worry; we relaxed and had fun. The first few hours we just messed around. Tyler and Larry got stuck in the rubber dingy with a couple of broken paddles and soon gave up even trying to paddle. Besides the Old Man river soon deposited them in a sort of lake like bend in its meandering course and their paddling was of little effect.

Our speedy canoe soon came to the rescue and we tied them to us for a more rapid descent. Soon we had Larry in the canoe since there was precious little air left in the dingy. By night fall Tyler was in the canoe as well and we were dragging a rubber carcass behind us.

Now in the dark Tyler stood sentinel up front yelling directions to avoid rocks and other such items. Randy and I paddled and Larry sat in the middle feeling the rocks on the canoe bottom. In the moonlight of the cool Alberta night we ran the little rapids and tried to steer for calm water.

Somewhere around midnight we saw some headlights on a hill overlooking the river.

"Larry...Randy...." Randy and Larry's dad had come to our rescue. We drug our canoe out and made our way home.

Defeated by an Old Man, I entered my dark home. "I'm home Mom, Dad."

"OK.."

Dad had given me the day off and he knew I would be alright.

Dear Carrot Jello Followers

My witty sister-in-law is Carrot Jello. She is very witty and I have silently giggled many times upon reading her prose. I don't feel I quite measure up to her stature but...

Here I am now...inspired by her greatness to write down a few little stories that I tell my kids to get them to go to sleep. NOW DON'T GO TO SLEEP WHILE READING THIS.

Hope you enjoy.

The Roosters that Scarred My Life

I hated that rooster and I loved that tractor.

It didn’t start out that way though. My brother Mark bought a hen and two roosters at an auction down the road from our house. The Edward’s home and farm was being sold and all their equipment and miscellaneous farm items were being sold by auction. This was an auction I did not want to miss. They had all sorts of interesting items there and one of the coolest tractors.

All of Barnwell was there at the auction. I was young and the excitement of the crowd was intense. Each item sold was a communal event as the crowd jostled in bidding the jointly approved of each sale to the highest bidder. The auctioneer walked as a great leader, the crowd following, through the farm yard from pile to pile, tractor to implement. Discussion of each item, it’s great value and usefulness, was followed by his unique call. His song was spell binding and I watched intently to see what each person would bid on.

My heart was set on a little Ford tractor. It was a relic of the past. Small and not that powerful, it did not possess a great deal of usefulness for a large farm yet it was beautiful. When the Edwards would race down the road on that tractor I would admire it’s form and speed. They mowed grass for the village with it mostly and so I would see it around. A small blade helped to clear snow in the winter and had cleared out our driveway more than once.

But I loved the way it looked. It had style as well. The era in which it was designed endowed it with streamlined features. It was a small tractor that wanted to be a transcontinental locomotive. It was yearning to go through the skies like a Boeing Stratocruiser. The grill on the front was curved and each piece was properly proportioned. You could be cool on a tractor like that.

The little Ford tractor was sold for an exorbitant price. I knew that everyone there loved that little tractor. The bidding began and the auctioneer raised the price again and again. The crowd was intent and many were hopeful. I felt a pain in my stomach as I realized that it was not likely that it would be coming to our house.

Soon it was down to just two bidders. He looked intent. He must have loved as I did. Perhaps he had sat on a tractor like thatand turned the soil with a plow and mowed the hay.

Going, going...he won the prize. I envied him for his purchase.

The tractor was gone but I was still full of hope. What would be on the block next? We entered an area with chickens. They had some interesting specimens. Not just the plain old white broilers we had. These chickens had color and flair. They pranced about as if on a proud haughty promenade.

My brother Mark was in the crowd when we reached the roosters and the hen. The auctioneer lauded the beauty of these fowl. A rare breed from Poland, we were told. The hen laid eggs with a shell tinted blue. She had beautiful plumage and strutted with grace and confidence. The roosters were strong and showed their colors with contempt for the crowd. I was dazzled.

It seems, however, that only Mark and I had an attraction to these birds. The auctioneer began his bidding song. Mark raised his hand then waited for the onslaught of counter bids and to my surprise none came; my brother became their owner. And with that swift action they entered into my world.

My admiration soon soured.

We already had a coop full of laying hens. Enough that we had more eggs than we could eat. Someone had to collect the eggs daily – it was my duty. To be perfectly honest – I feared the those nasty hens. They had no emotion. Their cold hard beaks were just like their hearts. They would look at me with a blank stare and I could never understand their intentions. When I turned my back to them they would run up to me and peck my leg or just sit there; I never knew which it would be. Their actions seemed unpredictable, yet predictably they were ready to peck when I least expected it.

Upon entering the chicken coop they would often be sitting on their nests and I would have to reach under them to gather the eggs. They wouldn’t fight back but they wouldn’t move either. They would just watch with their cold steely eyes as I pushed my hand under them to search for eggs. Then, I would imagine, they would signal a complicit hen to attack from behind.

So it was, to this group of criminal hens that we added our Polish hen and two roosters.

The hen was quite a lady. She had a delicate little hat of dark black/blue feathers that came out of her head like a fountain. Those feathers shimmered in the light and danced with her movements. She had more gravitas than any of the other hens and seemed to easily become the lady of the coop. How could the other hens even compete?

The roosters gained quite a different domain. They were not allowed into the coop or the chicken run. We had no need of fertilized eggs. They remained on the outside and soon found their calling as a protector of their harem of hens. A small but effective regiment willing to risk all to maintain the sanctity of the run and coop. Ready to thwart all intruders – they became my nemesis.

I had enemies within the coop and now I also had to contend with these dedicated warriors outside the coop. My chore was transformed into a war. It was a guerilla war fought by ambush and unimaginable attacks on me - the innocent bystander. I bullied by two little birds with showy feathers. However, they did more than peck me when I turned my back. Without warning one would ambush me in a furry of feathers and dust – talons flared, digging into my calf his beak would attempt to disassemble my leg muscles. Repeated assaults would convince me there was some magical power in those little feathery soldiers.

I was no match for these little roosters. The reality was that I was in their grip – clasped in their cold little clawed foot. They guarded that chicken run and coop with a vigilance unmatched by any human army. I feared their territory and only the constant prodding of my mom and dad would make me return.

I determined that these evil tyrants must be unmasked and be known for what they were – evil roosters. Yet, in vain I plead with my parents and brothers. They ridiculed my pain. My one ally, my sister, was equally terrorized by the rascally roosters and together we were nothing in the face of such monsters. I was fighting a loosing war.

My liberation was sudden and I played no important role. As if almost by chance, without any plan or forethought, my dad was walking by the dark kingdom, shovel in hand, on his way to the barn. The Generalissimos launched a sudden and severe attack. Attempting to defend the darling hens he flew at my dad with all his might. With one swift motion my dad smacked him on the head with the shovel. He toppled over – dead.

I continued to gather those eggs – I no longer feared the silly little hens with their pesky pecking. I had seen worse and known greater fears.

Earlier that spring I had watched a an auction – enjoyed the thrill of waiting to see who wanted each item more. I intensely listened to the auctioneers song and watched the nods of those who were bidding. Then, as a by-stander, the tractor I so loved went one way and tyrants came another.

Entering with a splash.

Every summer I went to Taber to go to swimming lessons. It was an outdoor pool and our lessons began at 8:00 am. I don't think that anyone who was planning to swim had anything to do with that schedule. Perhaps we were actually there to help train future lifeguards on how to spot hypothermia victims. I recall shivering on the side of the pool, goose pimples, blue skin and chattering teeth and then having to dangle our feet into the water.

"Oh, how cute, look at those little kids learning to swim!" I could hear a voice exclaiming in adoring tones. The Chain link fence that separated me from her made me wonder at her excitement. I WAS A PRISONER HERE!

I suppose it was not all bad. I did learn some useful skills. One, of course, was how to change my clothes very fast. Changing back into dry clothes at the end of the swimming lessons was a feared event. I was terrified of the large boys in the changing room. They were using many words that I was not allowed to use and the occasional snap of a wet towel motivated my little hands to pull my underwear over my dripping wet skin. I feared that place.

One morning our cute teenage instructor ordered us to dive into the pool. Lined up like a flock of penguins, we took our turns diving into the frigid waves. My turn came. I hated diving head first (or at least I hated the concept for I had yet to actually do it). I kept thinking that having my head should not be the first thing to hit something - this was a bad idea. I dove in. I tried to remember the advice our teacher had given us - go straight in head first don't chicken out or else you will do a belly flop.

I did it. I went straight in and made my body point straight like a javelin. My little human head was calculating a vector that would avoid the belly flop area. Upon entering the water my hands slackened to my sides and I enjoyed the rush of the water past my face. I dove, I really did it. I was descending rapidly and I was feeling like a marine mammal darting through the water. My little boy turned porpoise magnificently cut through the water and took up a close inspection of the pool floor. What a turning point. I did not know I could go that deep and I certainly was not expecting such a sudden stop made possible by my head clashing with concrete.

I slowly bobbed to the surface. I was too embarrassed to mention my underwater adventure to my teacher. She didn't notice anyway. I think she was talking to her boyfriend on the other side of the fence.

Back in line to do it again. I belly flopped.

I hate diving.