Beware of Closing Your Eyes

I am sure that it seemed like a good idea to put the light switch on the outside of the bathroom. You know, splashing water and electricity could be dangerous. Well, being the youngest kid with a bunch of brothers and a sister know to tease, this was a dangerous set up that even the architect could not predict.

It must have been Saturday night, because at that age I was rarely found clean unless it was to get ready for next day Sunday church services. I was likely told to soak some of that grime off and wash my hair. Being the obedient boy I was, I dipped my head under to get my hair wet and then applied the shampoo du jour.

A scrub or two on each side of my head and a few bubbles later I was ready to rinse off and get out of there. Down under the water I went, careful not to get any soap in my eyes. We all know that soap in your eyes could cause blindness.

Upon emerging from the tub, I opened my eyes to behold - nothing blackness. I could perceive no light, that until recently, interacted just fine with my eyes. I sat in stony silence. I was blind. I must have got a little soap in my eyes. I felt terror run over me. Should I scream?

Then, I saw a little trace of light. My sight was returning. No, wait. It wasn't a return to sight. It was the crack under the door.

Somehow, in the brief second I was under the water, my sister had switched the light off on me. A common trick we all did on each other as we passed down the hall.

I had never felt so relieved in my life to have that trick played on me. I was not blind but could yet see.

BEWARE - next time you blink some crazy event could happen in that split second.

My Trusty Street Bike

I loved to find good deals. Like the time I got wind of a sweet Honda CB350 for sale; I think it was a vintage 1970s model.

Somehow I scrapped together the $300 to buy it. There it was - a street legal bike and I was old enough to legally drive it.

The interesting thing about this bike was it's hidden GPS self-destruction system. I could drive this bike fifty miles with no problems. Yet the moment I was just on the outskirts of Barnwell, it would die.

One day, I riding home and hit a pothole which sent a bolt on the top of one of the forks straight up. A gusher of oil temporarily showered me until the shock was dry. It didn't really change it's performance though. It kept it's same sweet ride.

Driving a little bike like this down the highway in the brisk Southern Alberta winds was even more exciting. I would be leaning into the wind and then a semi trailer would roar up to my back end and the airflow would get all funky. I could feel they drivers ire as I tried to coax just a few more miles per hour out that little death trap. All the while I would be thinking about if the driver would notice if I suddenly wipped out and bounced under his truck.

I really don't remember what happened to that bike. I got tired of pushing it down the shoulder of the road to the nearest house, I think. It could have been the fourth battery I bought it or the many pants I had to replace due to oil splattering all over the leg from ... I'm not sure what.

It entered my life in great fanfare and then whimper out in a way that escapes me now.

But it sure was a good deal.

Dirt Bikes Can Fly

Familiarity can, at times, breed carelessness.

I was fortunate enough to have access to a Honda XR 100 dirt bike. Riding that bike felt like I was putting on wings. Effortlessly, I would race to one end of the farm and get things done that would normally take twice the time and effort. Plus, once the work was done I could have fun.

Fun was code for: finding ways to propel me and my mighty machine higher, farther, faster than before. My favorite location was the ditch that ran along one side of a field not so far from the farm yard. This was a good ditch because it had no water in it, there was no fence beside it and there was little traffic on that road (well there was really little traffic on any of the roads).

I soon formed little dirt trails that ran down one side and up the other, or weaved up and down the sides. The exit out of the ditch was usually a steep edge that, with the proper velocity, provided a nice launch into the air. At first, I was just happy learning to climb and descend safely. The airborne part came next.

One fine fall evening, I was improving my jumping skills near dusk. The field had already been harvested and the stubble had been cultivated. I had been jumping out of the ditch for a while when I decided to return home. Seeing my location for the last jump, I really put some speed into it.

From my airborne vantage point, I noticed a certain farm implement parked right on my landing strip. The 5 bottom plow sat smug and firmly as my tires touched down a few inches from the hitch. Moments later, I became aware that the dirt bike front tire could fit very snugly under that hitch. My body did tend to stay in motion, thanks to one of Sir Isaac Newtons laws, and I flew straight over the handle bars and plow.

I lay crumpled on the ground, not sure if I was lucky or unlucky. Sure, I just crashed into a plow and I was thrown mercilessly to the ground. Yet, in my crumpled state, I smiled and snorted out the wheat stubble ready for another day of dirt bike flight.

The Roaring Motorcycles

The first time I heard a motorcycle, I was standing in the middle of my backyard. Without a moments hesitation I ran from straight across the yard into the house, through the kitchen and under my bed. It was instinct.

By brothers thought this was slightly strange and just wanted to give me a ride. Pulling me out from under my bed was a little like get a tick out from under your skin. I was not going to risk my life out there on that death contraption that howled like a demon from...some bad place.

This soon changed.

I think I was about ten or eleven. This cool Yamaha motorcycle, blue, sleek and fast, came into my life. I don't really remember how but it appeared and it was all mine to play with.

The fun part of this bike was that it was missing parts but still worked. Most notably the clutch lever was sort half there. With some skill you could pull a little stub that was partially attached back. It didn't really matter though; the gear shifter was also gone. The bike, of course, lacked the foot pegs; which was sort of a nuisance.

I quickly ruined what was left of the clutch lever and I was out that part too. This did not damper my spirits though. With a group of kids as propulsion, I would put it into third gear by pulling a rod, that came out of the transmission, to just the right spot. Then with a whoop we started pushing down the road toward the barn.

Usually about half way there it would start. But I wasn't allowed to go any farther so I would have to shut it off after that short run. If it started sooner I would try to shift gears by getting the engine speed just right and pull that rod out just a little farther to pop it into the next gear.

I wasn't much of a mechanic at that age but I couldn't stop trying to play with it to make it start sooner. I discovered that those little screws around the carburetor could change the idling speed and how it started. It also made the spark plug get fouled a lot sooner. I would take that spark plug out at regular intervals and brush all the black gunk off of it with our bench electric wire brush.

Sometimes, I would just put it in finger tight. Then, I noticed that it made a difference if I got it just a little more snug. I found the right socket for the spark plug and a ratchet that could allow me to increase the torque.

It turns out that at ten years old I was strong enough to strip the threads in the head of 1969 Yamaha motorcycle and I did. I was devastated. I could keep it going with all those broken parts - but this was insurmountable. No compression, meant no combustion. This meant no more fun.

I sold it to my friend for a couple of bucks and lamented my new found strength. But at least, I was no longer running to hide under my bed at the sound of a motorbike.

Machinery Playground

Machinery fills every farm yard. I grew up loving machinery.

We had a row of old machines that were in various stages of decay all lined up along a fence - an old combine, an ancient manure spreader, a broken grain truck. Tall grass weaved through the draw bars, chains spokes and mechanical parts, hiding the rusting steel. Some of the oldest machines had remnants of wooden planks that still clung to steel skeletons. The carriage bolts still grasping onto shards of dried crumbling wood. The fragrance of old grease mixed with fresh farm air.

This was my playground.

My favourite was the two row sugar beet harvester. It was narrow and tall and had a chain linked conveyor system that moved the sugar beets from the ground up into a bin and allowed the dirt and debris to fall back to the earth through the gaping links. These links were perfect ladders and walkways.

I would enter in between the discs that rested on the ground, hidden amongst the grass, thistle or kosha weed. Entering in through the bottom I would travel up, like an animated sugar beet, and eventually end up in the large bin. In the bin, I stood vigil over the war torn battle field. I spied on troop movements and kept eye on aerial maneuvers - flocks of sparrows flying sorties.
Our harvester had a boom that extend cantilevered from one side. This perch was my precarious observation deck or in times of peace a joyful balcony.

It was a sad day when my body no longer fit through the discs. Eventually I could no longer see the war zone and my vigilant surveillance was no longer required to keep farmyard peace.

But, oh how I love to see the farm yards with their rows of machines. I glimpse through those rows of machines and see ghosts of forgotten joys.

Flying on the Swing

Swings are a close approximation of flying. I love to swing and always have.

In the row of giant poplar trees was on that had a bough that stretched out nearly horizontal and then raced straight up. Before I was aware of life, someone climbed up that giant bough, it must have been more than two feet in diameter at the trunk, and tied a big rope near the top and placed an old tire at the bottom.

This old tire swing was such a perfect swing. I would step up on the tire and then perch on the top of the tire with the rope between my legs. My dad, coming out of the shop, would walk up and I would beg for an underduck.

A giant of a man, he would rush at me and away I would go. Lifting into the air I would leave his great hands and earth below with a rush of such joy. Coming back I would shout as the tire twisted and flew down to the ground to turn right back up again.

I felt like a bird diving for mice over and over again.

I see swings now and my heart pounds with the reminiscent joy of those days of joyful flight.

The Potato Harvest

We grew potatoes. Lots of potatoes.

Well, there were, and are, certainly larger farms but we still had about a 100 acres of potatoes, and in my book that is a lot of potatoes.

When I was too young to drive the trucks hauling the potatoes in or drive the harvester, I was given the job of pulling the boards out of the back of the truck. (Don't ask me to explain, it would take too long.) This was a job I was always willing to do.

This meant that I got to ride in the back of the truck to and from the field. I would sit up there and watch the truck slowly get filled with potatoes. Then once full, I would face the wind and ride back to the potato storage. I loved that.

Scattered amongst the potatoes were dirt lumps. Back at the storage facility, a crew would sort those out before long term storage but during that journey back they were just my personal arsenal. I sat up there as we rambled down the gravel roads and threw dirt lump after dirt lump at the fence posts. I loved to see them fly across the roads and into the dried up prairie grass. I would shout out in great happiness when I got a fence post as if there were a great crowd following each of my throws.

Now it is turning to the fall, I sometimes get a sniff of cool earth on a crisp autumn day. The damp earth smell and a slight fresh breeze and I close my eyes. Instantly, I am transported to another day, another era of my life. I feel the thrill of that country road with the fresh wind.

It renews my old bones.

Taming the Beasts

There is nothing so sweet as a little kitty. I loved the summer for the crop of new kitties that we got to enjoy.

All our cats lived outside and flourished on the mice and birds they would catch. Since we milked our own cows, they also got some milk each day as there was often milk that was more than a day old that we would give to them. We never drank old milk.

Not all our cats were tame. Many of them would hide in the bushes waiting for the food to be deposited and then once you stepped back in the house they would scamper out and enjoy the buffet along with the other cats. I remember watching this group of cats at the communal dinner table growling at each other as they ate as quickly as they could.

Whether the mother was tame or feral, we loved her children. Often the mother would change her den to another hidden location once we discovered them and we would have to hunt them down. Sometimes we wouldn't find them and the kitties would grow too big to be tamed.
This did not always stop us trying.

One fine summer day, Cam and I became determined to catch a couple of these large kitties. If we put food out they would come running to the pan. Hiding behind a door we jumped out and tried to grab one - they were too fast. We had to be smarter.

This is where all that cartoon training came in handy. Watching Wily Coyote try to catch roadrunner gave us some ideas. We were not going to be foiled by these little balls of fur.
We started with a blanket and bailing twine. By tying each corner to a central rope, which we threw over a tree limb, we had a ready trap. Our plan was to place some food in the center and hide behind the tree. I would signal to Cam who would pull on the rope. The corners of the blanket would rise and the kittens would be trapped in center.

We placed the bait and took our positions. The kittens rushed from behind the garage and ran right on to the blanket and began to eat the food. NOW! Cam pulled the rope. The kittens were trapped. I ran full of glee, donning leather gloves, to pick out one of these tiny tigers. Before I got there, they all had climbed up the blanket walls and ran jumped for freedom. Picture the coyote with that disappointed look.

Next we got a box, a stick and yet more twine. With the stick holding up the corner of the box and some food underneath, all we had to do is pull the twine that was tied to the stick once the kittens were eating the food under the box. We tried it and it worked. But the box was too light and they just escaped from under the box.

Ah, but this we could fix. We got a large rock and put it on the top of the box and started all over again. Food, kittens, pull the stick...wham they were trapped and we had them. I gave Cam the gloves and I took the rock of the top. All we had to do was open the top real careful and grab one of these little rascals. At this point the box sounded like I had the Tasmanian Devil inside.

Nervously I slowly opened the box top. With a sudden gush, it was as if a fountain of kittens were streaming up out of the box like an oil geyser. While I sat at the side with my hands on the box top, Cam was braced from over top ready to grab a kitten. They were so fast he had no time to react. One kitten shot out of the box and came into contact with Cam. He was mad.
The little bit right into Cam's chin. Came desperately groped at the kitten; this sudden turn of the tables shocked us. Cam tugged the kitten bit harder. The kitten had us and wasn't going to let us go. After a few moments more of desperate tugging, Cam finally just let go and with his head bent forward the kitten just dangled there like a possessed beard. Then it dropped and ran away to hide with the rest of his wild gang.

We gave up on trying to tame these beasts. These weren't kittens these were wild and ferocious beasts.

The Tree House

Every kid wants a tree house. I dreamed of a luxurious tree house. I thought of where and how and what I could do in such a location.

Luckily, I had older brothers who also had this same dream.

An irrigation ditch ran through our pasture (now a pipeline). Along side this irrigation ditch was a couple of big old cottonwood trees. Sometime before I was aware, one of my brothers built a two story tree house. I loved that place.

They soon abandoned the tree house for more important things like motorcycles but I loved that place.

I would invite Scott over and we would load an old backpack with goodies and comic books and start our trek down to the fort. We had to get past the Blue Spruce trees, then the garden, through the barbed wire fence, jump across the ditch just at the right spot and then walk down the cow path.

One day we discovered a small green emerald. So we named the fort - Green Diamond.
We loved that place - except for the spiders. They ran us out most of the time but we would never admit it.

Around my grandma and grandpa's house they had a row of Poplar trees. One of those big old trees had a great tire swing. Up one side, my brother had nailed in some boards to make a ladder up to a spot where two huge limbs met. In there he built a partial platform.

To keep it private he eliminated a few rungs near the top. You had to possess a certain length of body to pass that span. I did not possess it. But I had a plan.

One day, with Tyler over, I converted him to my cause. We collected all the necessary items: hammer, nails, wood, hockey helmet, back catcher's chest protector and gloves. With the hammer, nails and wood he would replace the missing rungs. The other items were to protect him if he fell. Of course the helmet was so large it kept spinning around his head, and the chest protector went down to his shins and those gloves were old hockey gloves that were permanently formed in a grip posture for a hockey stick.

Nevertheless, I convinced him to don this protective garb and embark on this great quest. He turned back on rung four and he tested my conviction by challenging me to do it instead.

We played on the swing instead.

The Cool Dew of the Corn Stalk

A cool crisp August morning with dew dripping from the corn leaves, remains on the edge of my memory. Sitting there in stupor, like I did many mornings. I slumped on the tailgate of an old GM pickup truck. Waiting for the yell to get picking, I sat still - my body awake and my mind still in denial.

The signal would be sent and like a swarm of insects we would spread out across the rows. Two rows per kid to begin the task of breaking off the cobs for some one's dinner. I didn't view it as food though. The distraction of a stream of dew running down my neck would furrow my brow. Then some unlucky spider would have his web destroyed by my face as I lumbered down the row.

Bend over, pick the cob, place it in the crook of my arm, get another.... arms full - then I would drop it on the conveyor and back down the row again.

My nostrils were an average size, I am sure. Somehow a corn tassel would rise up and drive its way - causing extreme sneezing. The large corn leafs would slap me across the cheek and across the backs of my hands.

By the end of the row I would hope for a delay. Some reason to stop. On we went. The corn was sweet, ripe and ready for the tables. We had to forge on. Day after day, through August we reaped the harvest. Every few days a new field would come on. The orders would demand more. The fertile soil and southern Alberta climate producing a tasty treat for farmer and city dweller alike.

One evening, by 8:00 we were done. Nearly twelve hours of work. Larry, Cam and I were driving the last truck out of the field. A dusty caravan of tired bodies ready to eat and sleep. Driving down the dusty country roads we stopped and discovered three flat tires on the old truck.

Leaving one behind, Larry and I started our walk to civilization. The first farm house we past had a dog that wouldn't let us past the gate. On we trudged. Past another house - no one was home. Finally, a Mountie drove up.

"What are you two boys doing out here at night?" He looked a little bemused. Oblivious to our aches and disappointment he rescued us and got word back home for someone to come out with some tires.

That night as I walked across the farm yard searching for my bed, I heard the crickets chirp and strolled under a canopy of bright stars and all I could think of was how cold that dew was going to be the next morning.

Haystacks and War

I loved playing in haystacks. Of course, a haystack made of alfalfa is scratchy and makes me sneeze, but a nice soft one made of straw was all fun.

Right along side the corral, my dad would stack up a hug stake of straw bales. As a little kid I would usually lounge about the partially built stack waiting for the next truckload of bales to be brought in and then watch them build this prairie skyscraper.

Secretly, I was there to try to convince my brothers to build into the stack a bunch of secret rooms and tunnels. That way I could be saved all the trouble of reconstructing the stack to fit my needs. They were less than accommodating I must say.

Inevitably the bales closest to the corral would be thrown down soonest so there would be a gradual consumption of my little castle. But this uneven usage of the stack would also lend additional terrain for many great games. The high side of the stack was the parapets of my medieval castle. The low side a construction site for new forts, or a platform to prepare weapons of war to fend of the evil invaders from the north side of the tracks.

Ah the days of make believe wars.

One summer we found a bundle of broom handle sized poles. We quickly added 2x4 chunks to one end, a clothes line clip up top (I wonder if grandma ever knew where all her clothes pins went), a notch on one end and had ourselves an arsenal of elastic band guns. Aided by the discovery of a box of elastic bands, we began a regular series of war reenactments. Capturing a flag and defending a flag or secret stratagems would be employed.

An arms race began as well, when someone discovered how to load multiple rubber bands and still only shoot one at a time. This was a decided advantage from a "one" shooter.
Perhaps these were some of my fondest moments during those years before I was so worried about dances, sports teams and social order.

As I watch my kids create games on our playhouse equipment, in our small little suburban yard, I wonder if they are constructing the same parapets and armament munition piles I once did. Perhaps that little moment of playful aggression will bring them happy solace one day as well.

The Canal

There is something special about canals. There is the canals of Venice, the root canal, the canal of love but in my life there was only one true the canal.

This canal was always with me. I drove down the little muddy two track roads on it's bank with my dad in the farm trucks all my life. One quick swerve to the left and your truck would get a good washing.


This was not just a little old ditch. This was a 25 foot wide 12 foot deep man made river. A watery snake winding through the dusty prairie bring crops life during the parched summer.


As a little kid I recall watching my friends dad, at the end of a hot day, climb on the top of his trucks cab and dive into the canal. Every mile a bridge crosses that canal and with each bridge a new place to swim. Of course, swimming is not allowed.


Somewhere between being a little kid and becoming a teenager I began working in the fields all summer. Me and a throng of kids, with hoe in hand, would fight the good fight against those nasty weeds. We would pick the cabbage, corn, broccoli and tomatoes. All in those dusty fields that leaned right up against the canal.


Dusty and hot, quiting time and cool water combine to make some real refreshing memories. That first jump was tough though. Standing on the edge of the old wooden bridge I watched as the older kids jumped in. It wasn't a long fall; bridge to water surface could be as little as 5 feet.


But that water was moving along. By the time a youth would emerge from the cool waters they would be usually a foot or so under the bridge. This sort of concerned me. My first jump was on the down stream side. We all had tubes and mine got thrown in so I was either going to jump in or walk. I jumped.


Many jumps later I would hide on the bridge pylons. Fighting with the other kids as the jumped in. We would try to make everyone miss the pylons so they would float way down before the could get out.


So now as I contemplate my progress in life, I dream of making that cool plunge again. Just to enjoy the contrast of hot and dusty to cool and refreshed.

The Depths of the Tunnels

Deep within the bowels of Barnwell school lies a labyrinth of dark and mold tunnels. Among the mighty school population and Alumni they are generally known as, the Tunnels.

Oh how those tunnels called to us. In gym class, every time the floor hockey puck crossed those old cast iron grates on the side I would race over there and think...what is down there. Then I would get smacked from behind by someone. Sitting in our fancy purple uniforms during basketball games I would look down, while contemplating my bench position, and gaze deep into the depths of that darkness behind that grate and wonder how I could explore those tunnels.

Of course, sitting in the science room we all would speculate that under that trapped door in the middle of the room was another entrance that went through some crazy cave like structure. If we could just get the teacher out long enough to peer down there.

The obvious entrance was through the boiler room. For it was from this hot room in the basement of the old part of the school that the tunnels began and found their real purpose. You see the tunnels took hot water too the new wing of the school for heat. The boiler room was where we needed to enter.

After school, while enrolled in the mighty Junior High, I was fighting valiantly for our school pride against some nasty school from Taber or Grassy Lake. I was doing my very best from the bench when I heard, "psst, down here!"

There were my buddies Larry and Trent. They had found a way in to the boiler room. Soon most of the students knew that they had found their way in. The janitor had locked the boiler room though - they were stuck.

After the 'B' team was done I raced to the science room door. They had found they're way to through the science room trapped door - it was true, it did connect! But, alas, the science room door was locked on both sides and they were still trapped.

They frantically gave us all the details of the tunnels and the treasures they had found. We formulated strategies on how to escape undetected.

Somehow they escaped and we all basked in they're glorious adventure.

Aahhh, to be young and adventurous again.

Return from Vacation

I just got back from vacation. I spent a week up home and was flooded with all sorts of memories.

Hopefully I can write some of them down before my old head forgets them again.

Fish and Other Yummy Treats

During my freshman year at college I noticed that I my teeth were getting tender. My gums were bleeding and I was very nearly always tired. It was painful to eat an apple and my mom was worried.

I was not suffering from any rare disease; however, something had to change and it needed to start with my eating habits. Somehow ramen zapped in the microwave covered with ragu, turkey franks and 25 cent mac and cheese was not providing me with the balanced diet my delicate body needed.

Help soon arrived and it came from my brother. He was married and living nearby. Each night I went to his house and ate. Voila...I stopped having tender teeth and I could walk all the way across campus without tiring.

Eating with my brother was not without perils though. My brother is very creative and I was very gullible.

I sat down one night, ready to dig in, and I noticed that he had already poured me a glass of milk. I grabbed the glass and took a hearty swig...wait, was that milk? It turns out that Kaopectate looks an awful lot like milk. It does not, however, taste much like milk. A half a glass of later, I became an expert in the qualities of this medicinal substance. Needless to say, I did not have any intestinal issues that evening. My brother did have a stomach ache though, all that laughing can be tough on a guy.

One glass of Kapectate was not enough to spoil my appetite though. I had many great meals there. Especially if there was reason to celebrate.

I remember driving to his house one night and he told me that things were a little tight this week and he had to reduce the food budget a little. I put on my brave face and showed my solidarity with his economizing. Then we sat down to eat.

His wife placed a bowl of vegetables on the table and I sat down ready for our new and more thrifty diet. She brought out a platter and we prayed. Then Tracy uncovered the main dish - a little tiny rainbow trout.

"Hey that looks great!" My voice and facial expression didn't match though.

Tracy just burst out laughing. Shelly brought out another platter of steaks and we celebrated something - I don't remember what. I do remember how good the steak was and how happy I was that we didn't have to split the little fish four ways.

A Lucky Guy

I'm a pretty lucky guy. Somehow I convinced this pretty woman to marry me!

My Shiny Gun

One of the first friends I remember having come to visit my was Tyler. I really wanted to to impress him, so I decided to show him a broken window. I thought this was quite a find.

My mom didn't even know it was broken yet. It was a double paned window and only the inside pane was broken. I don't know who broke the window but I was glad to find it. The window was behind a big curtain and a big comfy chair was sitting in front of the curtain. I could revel in the spectacle while being secluded.

I lead my new buddy to my secret find and showed him the broken glass. So shiny and the shards had such unusual shapes. One shape in particular was very alluring. It was shaped like a gun. I liked guns!

Picking it up, I demonstrated my imaginary gun and pretended to shoot him. Wow, I was really impressing him.

Just then his mom came and he had to go home.

Then my hand started to hurt. It turns out glass shards are quite sharp.

"MOM!!!"

With a bandaged hand and a sad heart I showed her my secret find. No more glass shard guns for me. I was so disappointed.

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.