Get My Goat!

There is just something about some people (men) that they (men) do not make good caregivers when one is laid up.
Sure they (men) are willing to help..but they (men) just don't understand or have the foresight to anticipate real needs.
They (men) will say they are ready to help.  They (men) ask the right question, "What do you need?". But when one is in pain,  one doesn't really know what one needs.   I did ask for my knee medications and received them.  I did ask for coffee and received some.  I did ask for a tensor bandage and ice, and both were brought in a quick and timely manner.
   I also did not ask for a pillow for my shoulder, neck, and head , and thus, I did not receive one.  Nor do I have a blanket, telephone, or book to read, all apparently because I did not express my need for such.

It is curious to note that I did not ask to be left alone in the house for 2 hours at a time, but I have been.
This puts me in mind of when we (I)  had 5 goats to milk.  I was worried that if I were ill there would be no one to go to the barn who could milk the animals as I was the only one who knew how.   I suggested that there should be at least one other in the family who should learn how to milk.
 

Relief and appreciation flowed as the quick and ready response to my lamentation was , " Don't you worry about milking the goats if you get sick." This  positive feeling  was  just as  quickly squelched with a gentle pat on the shoulder and the following addendum,

"Yep. If you are ever so ill that you can't go to the barn to milk goats, I'll just bring them here to the house."

Smokin'

Although I couldn't describe myself as a 'smoker' until I was at least 19, I can say that I had had some adventures with smoking and cigarettes on a semi  regular occurrence during my preadolescence years.

I am not quite sure when I was first introduced to smoking cigarettes.  I was probably around 4 or 5  I suppose.    It  probably occurred when our family would visit our neighbours across the field.  It was a household of at least 5 bachelors  and their mother.  My sister and I always basked in the attention we received from these wonderful uncles who would carry us around, lift us high into the air, tease us with funny faces...and let us puff on a cigarette whenever they thought mom wasn't watching.  These would be the traditional 'roll your owns"...soggy ends, no filter, and ashes dropping at every turn. 

.  Now, just because a person says they smoked does not necessarily mean they always smoked tobacco,  nor does that suggest that they smoked anything illegal. It simply means they smoked..and in my case during my sixth year at school it meant that I smoked  pencil shavings.  This lesson in "just because something looks like something does not mean that that something tastes or  smells like it looks"  is still burnt into my memory and my throat.

  The actual buying  of cigarettes was a rare occurrence for this rural child who did not receive a regular allowance , so when  the opportunity arose to buy a ready made pack while visiting a town friend  for a sleep over, it  did not go wasted.  After we purchased a pack of MacDonald's  (.42 cents)  from the local gas station, we walked out  to a grove of trees in the middle of a cultivated field  on the edge of town, and proceeded to smoke  all 25  of the perfect filtered tubes in one afternoon.    The delirium and nausea which plagued us during the night caused only minor concern on the part of my friend's mother who thought we had both caught the flu at the same time.

 Besides the act of  'pressure smoking' to avoid the risk of being caught with the contraband in hand, a child who wants to smoke must oft times resort to out and out thievery.  The same child who would never think of taking money from their mother's purse or rifle through their teacher's possessions will, from personal experience, steal a cigarette or two from their mother's cigarette drawer while she is  napping, or even daringly sneak into the teacher's car during noon hour to pick out a few sticks from the pack so invitingly sitting on the driver's seat.

A smoking child does not only have to contend with the moral decay  caused by sly and  devious  thievery as well as the obvious health concerns. This child must also cope with the most basic of all human emotions; which is  the thrill of the  gripping  fear of getting caught.  We , the smokers in the school, would watch carefully as the teacher would go for his recess smoke break in his car.  We would sit still, wondering quietly, eyes locked, breath abated,  if he would "notice". 

 I would lie awake nights listening for mom opening the cupboard door where she kept her carton of cigarettes fully expecting her to realize  that one package of her duMaurier's had simply vanished.  It was  indeed a time of adrenalin and stress that is probably not unlike that  experienced by any thief or embezzler.

The epitome of this stress occurred one  spring evening after a friend had visited for the afternoon. We had taken our stash of cigarettes out to the edge of the road allowance, and after having braved the threat of snakes, thorny rose bushes, and scraped knees we hunkered down beside a stone pile and proceeded to enjoy our ill gotten cigarettes.  

 It was around 8pm later that evening.  Twilight was setting in.  I was upstairs in my room.    I could hear Mom walking around downstairs.  I could hear the voice of our hired man call out.  I heard water being poured into pails. I heard the truck start up.  I looked out the window to see what was up. 

 The stone pile was on FIRE!



Now , I won't say that I was a religious child, rarely having been taken to Sunday School, but I can say that it was pretty much then and there that I decided to 'go clean and straight' that very moment.  I don't believe I smoked another cigarette until I was 19. I can  also assure you that I bought almost every cigarette I smoked from my own money until I quit the habit 10 years ago.

I can only imagine the rigour of the religious experience that must have occurred in the hearts of the youngsters mentioned in the  attached link.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2113802/Kosice-Slovakia-Children-burn-14th-century-castle-cigarette.html

Player's, Black Cat, Alpine, Macdonald's, Sweet Caproal, Peter Jackson's,
                        Alpine, duMaurier, Macdonald's Menthol 


If you can think of other brands, please list them in the comments.

Games

I recently learned how to play an interactive two person  virtual game of Scrabble online*.  

It was actually a lot of fun.  We chatted on the side bar about the game, our families, and the weather.  It was almost as good as being there. 
One of the best parts of the whole experience, besides not having to travel icy roads, was that the computer monitored the game  by allowing or disallowing words,  and also kept the score.  The dictionary was only a click away and, as we didn't finish our second game, it was safely stored for our next visit.  

 Of course,  being from the generation I am, I marvelled about  how inventive mankind has become to be able to accomplish such a feat of being able to use the instantaneous technology of turning bits of light on and off in order to enter the realm of competition however trivial or serious. I also   was surprised at the fact that I was able to use this part of virtual reality without listening to a 'menu' or have the screen mysteriously turn black (while not often anyways).

Playing games from a distance, however, is not a new idea.  People used to, and probably still do, play chess via the  regular postal service. 

What I do find interesting is that the premise of many of these online games is  exactly the same as those that have been played for decades if not centuries.  These games have been played by real people, using the same rules, in a social setting to pass time and chat with little variation except that nowadays one can play against the computer itself without having to actually connect with another human being.

Now this was where  I was going to write about the earliest games I ever played  such as Snakes and Ladders and Checkers, along with card games such as  Fish, Rummy and Durok.  I was going to mention playing Floor Curling in  the country school using red pencil marks and checker pieces (that also doubled as Crokinol shooters) to make 'houses and rocks' to the extent that we actually had 'bonspiels' at noon with draw times and prizes.  I  was thinking that using white sugar cubes  with pencil marks for dice while playing Monopoly in this same school might be an interesting comment.  The time I made my own Rumoloi Game out of a piece of bristol board and an old deck of cards was also going to be listed.

But instead , I think I will mention  how my husband in his bachelor days , living alone, two kilometers at the end of a road only accessible by snowmobile in the winter, without  a telephone, was never at a loss for entertainment or for a game playing partner.   In fact, I don't think I have to actually mention this as I will let some pictures 'do the talking' .

Othello

              Note: the change in player piece colours, beer label, sitting position.

 * When does the use of  interactive, virtual, and online become redundant?

The Right Channel.

I have just suspended our Satellite Television Service beginning March 31, 2012.
 
I did this  because as the days grow longer we plan on doing more things outside in the evenings..

I wonder how this will  truly change our lives...for change it it will.  Perhaps we will eat at the kitchen table once more.  Perhaps we will take more walks. Perhaps we will have fire in the fire pit on the deck more often. Maybe we will play the CD player again while delving into  Gin Rummy or  Chess on our treasured Wedding Gift to Each Other Chessboard.

Reading and Embroidery will be done.   

There will be  a certain type of quiet in the house. 

Our home will not be bombarded with unexpected and unwanted advertisements encouraging us to buy something that up until that moment we didn't know existed let alone knew we  needed. ( I still rue my Slap Chop envy).

 A friend of mine who taught school in Resolute Bay, in the then North West Territories 40 years ago told me that the residents there had great difficulty understanding that what was seen on television was not reality.  I am not sure of the reason for this. Perhaps they didn't understand the concept of drama or acting. Perhaps it was the not having any other contact with  southern culture, that  these people actually believed that what was shown on the box  was how people lived in the other parts of the world.

I wonder if we as a society haven't fallen into that same trap as those people in Resolute Bay.  I wonder, has the repeated exposure to violence, both emotional and physical, sexual freedom, pain free marriages and divorces; along with  problems being  solved within a 30-60 minute time frame,  made it so that we, also,  are not too  sure what is and what is not reality?  Have we, over the years, been so tied into 'what's on' that we don't know 'what's happening' in real life  anymore than our northern friends?

I think I am just realizing how much power I have given to all those directors, producers, and marketing agencies in my life.  I have allowed those people to dictate to me through cleverly written, and carefully selected scripts  just what is and what is not acceptable in terms of some of life's most important issues. 

 The only thing  more bizarre than the loud and  fast paced  commercials filled with unproveable short quips are laugh tracks.  I wonder how much the use of  laugh tracks has actually effected what people think is laugh worthy. I suspect that whoever invented laugh tracks had a firm understanding of Pavlov and his dog experiments.

Yes, the next 5 months will be quieter and with the quietness will come more freedom.  I won't be 'tied' to when Big Bang is on.  I will probably sit in other parts of the house more often.  For sure I will sit on other sofas and chairs  in the living room not having to be within "television view.  

AND...after 5 months of not having Satellite Television I will be $250 richer, which is sort of laughable... with or without a laugh track.
 
                                                                   

My first clue that we were watching too much television was when one Sunday in church my 3 year old ...wanting to sing along...handed me the hymnal and asked me to 'put it on the right channel'. 

LOOK AT ME!

I can NOT tolerate people who do not have eye contact with me during a conversation.

It must trigger some primal response , but whenever I encounter someone who determinedly looks away, either at the floor, ceiling, or to the side, I am almost instantly angered.

 Knowing that anger is a combination of fear, hurt, and frustration I have tried to pinpoint the exact nature of the emotion that this 'eye' issue arouses.

After some research I have discovered  writings that state that the lack of eye contact can  indicate a  low self esteem on the part of the person averting their eyes.  That may be true when one is dealing with a child who is dealing with an adult or one who has been found guilty of some misdeed.

 However, this theory of lack of self esteem in an adult doesn't ring true to me because I do not feel angry with others if I sense their self-confidence is lacking. In fact, I like to think of myself as being, moderately at least, accepting and encouraging to anyone in troubled times.

 Its my theory that eye aversion is perhaps an  action of self-protection because if one doesn't look the other in the eye then  whatever one says might not be considered correct or taken seriously by the recipient, and therefore the speaker may not be considered to be wrong or foolish.  Eye aversion acts as a shield in this case...'if I lower my eyes I am saying I might be wrong , and then if I am not saying I am right then I can't be caught being wrong...and then you can't do anything bad to me."

  I do consider eye aversion coupled with speaking in a slow low tone to be overtly manipulative.  Not only does the listener have to filter the meaning of the words and subconsciously analyze the credibility of the speaker as a consequence of  there being  no eye contact, but this same listener also has to strain to even hear the words spoken.

 This effort on behalf of the listener immediately places the power of the interaction squarely in the hands of the speaker.  The sway and natural give and take of the communication is interfered with as the focus has been turned to  understanding the non verbal parts of the conversation.  The listener is at a disadvantage because besides having to try to process the verbal communication through filtering sentence structure, syntax, and emphasis which are all part of normal listening; the listener also has to analyze the lack of eye contact as well as cope with the physical part of just  hearing the words.   At this point the effort to concentrate on the speaker becomes, to me, annoying.

  This  annoyance brings me back to the anger issue triggered by eye aversion.  Lack of eye contact, to me, may be triggering my own insecurities with regard to self-worth, respect, and being valued.

In spite of, or perhaps as a consequence of my own inner messages , I believe that  anyone who does not look me in the eye according to cultural norms is as creepy as people who do not know personal space boundaries.

I  avidly avoid both types  and hope that I am never confronted with someone with both issues.  Now that would be CREEPY indeed.

                                              

   

Shamrocks and Potatoes

St. Patrick's Day is one of my favourite special days.  It's a day more for fun than anything else.

Parades, jokes, laughing,  and gatherings with Irish foods and drink.  Anyone can participate to the degree to which they are comfortable and, at the same time,  one can bow out  and devoid themselves of any celebration without any religious, sexual, or political ramifications..well at least where I live.(see note).

One only has to don an article of green clothing/ jewellery, or  hair adornment , including green balloons, even if it's by mere happenstance;  and one will be greeted by all as a co-celebrant in this primarily celebration of the Northern Hemisphere.

Songs are sung of the Emerald Isle, and jokes are made in good natured  banter.  Dancing is almost a requirement.  The music made by fiddles, drums, and accordions abound. 

Food is simple fare.  Stew and potatoes. No special baking, no barred food items due to religion or history, and the best advantage for some...no fruit cake.

It truly is a day of simple Joie de Vive.  


http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=fvwp&NR=1&v=lHwg5KdAflg



note:  Where I live St. Patrick's Day is the  excuse used  to serve Green Beer at the rink. No one cares what gender a leprechaun is and an Orange Man is just another name for the guy that drives the fruit truck from B.C. 

60 years

It took me 60 years to learn that:

1.  Just because you think something is the truth, someone else will think it is a lie.

2.  Saying things louder does not make your side of the argument more plausible.

3. If enough people are involved in the decsion making process, the right decision will be reached.

4. Sometimes the people you dislike  like you...a lot!

5. The chances that you outlive your pet are very slim.

6. There are many people to love, but very few to be in love with.

7. When you ask something from someone, be prepared to have them ask you for something.

8. Always have a Plan B.

9. Always have a Plan C.

10.  Keep  the interior of your car as clean as you would want it if your Boss was going to ride in it.

11.  Its okay to have fish sticks and KD for supper.

12. Always work as if the video camera is turned ON.

13.  You don't always have to tell people you are right.

14. You don't alwlays have to tell people they are wrong.

15.  A compliment is only a compliment if it is sincere.

16.  A sincere compliment is like a sparkle to the soul.

17.  A sincere compliment given is a reflection of both the giver and the receiver.

18. Learn to play a musical instrument..even if it just a comb and tissue paper.

19.  Read for half and hour everyday.

20. Do not listen to the news everyday.

21. Make it a point to eat with another person at least one meal a day.

22.  Following a cat for the day can be an interesting pastime.

23.  Visit  with an old person once a month.

24.  Make it a point to say , "How Interesting! Tell Me More." when encountering new experiences.

25.  Do not text and drive. 

Bun Ratty Castle

The batter, having being bungled in the bowl, made these home baked 

bronzed brown buns  better bird  bait,  albeit  less the bacon bits and bone

meal, than any basic white flour breakfast biscuit brought home from a

bakery bargain bin.

More Coffee Anyone?

Gratitude must be greater whenever a gift is not only freely given  but also given when it is needed--p.hoffman         


  Most of the snow has melted and that which hasn't has a nice crust on it so if a wind comes up there won't be any drifting.  The frost is still in the road bed so country grids are still  firm and pretty much rut free.

This would have been the type of evening my mother would announce after the supper dishes were done and the floor swept, "I am going to Sophie's for coffee. Do not phone me unless someone breaks their leg or the house is on fire." That would be the last we  four children would see of her until the next morning a breakfast.

When I was a single woman living alone in the town where I taught school ,  4 or 5 mothers from the community would periodically show up on my doorstep for coffee.  They would arrive  around 7:00 pm and often not go home until after ll:00 pm...laughing as they left that it was I that would have to see their children at school the next day.

I was of course flattered that these ladies had chosen my humble abode to spend their time .  

I should  have caught on when one  of these visitors would invariably  comment, "Oh it's so quiet here." which would be followed by a  knowing  laughter from the other 4  women in attendance.

 Another clue should have been  by the hush that fell upon the group like a grey and dusty army blanket when the phone rang. The  conversation would only resume until after it was determined that the caller  was not any of my visitor's family members.

   Of course, now after having given birth to 4 children , it has  become clear to me what these mothers' motives for visiting were. Where else in town would these women be safe from telephone calls and child interruptions? What child was actually going to phone the teacher's number to ask to speak to their mother because of some minor mishap?

  My house was the most child proof structure without a legal age restriction in the whole town.  I was, in fact, these women's needed Coffee Out Friend.

 I was fortunate to find my own Coffee Out  Friend quite early on in my child rearing years. Those evenings when I got into the  car, alone, and drove those  five relatively quiet miles on gravel roads to her farmhouse are vivid and treasured.

 The  talk about recipes, gardens , and grocery sales while drinking coffee and eating pieces of cake that I hadn't made myself, are as an integral part of my memories of raising a family as are Christmas Concerts, Band Recitals, Science Fairs, and  Skating Lessons.  My Coffee Out Friend's hospitality and the periodic sanctuary of her house were every bit as important to the raising of my family as were my childrens' teachers, coaches, and  doctors.

 My  Coffee Out Friend  has long since  moved to the city.  I would have loved to have gone to see her at her farmhouse this evening .   I don't  need her the same way  anymore..... but I miss her.  I suppose I miss her just like I miss the reasons why I had needed her  in the first place.

The important thing is that when I needed her I had her.

                                                                          
                                                                      

Licorice Baby

Until just quite recently I have always hated licorice.  I am not a fussy eater (a self evident statement) but licorice was the only food in the North American diet that I abhorred. Absolutely could not stand it.  My motto all my adult life has been, " I would be a skinny person if the world was made of licorice."  I could not even swallow the most minute bit of Tiger Tiger ice cream.  I had some on my tongue once and had to run and rinse out my mouth the taste was that  'distasteful'.

I say it has been only until recently that I have  hated licorice because in the last year or so I discovered that I actually like it .   It took the discovery of chocolate covered licorice bits to even tempt me to put licorice in my mouth .  I figured in  all my prairie  classiness that  I could suck off the chocolate and spit out the licorice, but I found instead that I quite  liked the taste combination and decided to widen my licorice  taste experience.  I  can now truly say that licorice is  part of my dietary source of something unpronounceable and unspellable.

Thinking about this flip flop of dietary preference I started wondering about  why I had hated licorice so much.  Had my body metabolism changed over the course of 50 plus years? Had I not been allergic to licorice as I had always thought?

Then I remembered....

I was about 3 at the time. It was a warm summer's day. My dad had driven into the yard from town.  I went to greet him and he said, "Come here, I have something for you."  I went running towards him in eager anticipation thinking 'Daddy brought something for ME!'  He leaned into the cab of the truck and brought out a bag of candies and said , "Here you go!"  I was totally thrilled and I followed him into the house with candy bag in hand busily  opening the crinkly and colourful treasure. I walked into the farm kitchen carrying my gift.  I saw  my Dad , my Mom,  and a neighbor sitting at the table as well as  my 9 year old sister, Linda.

 That is when these words struck my ears, "You have to give Linda some of those candies."

I can still  hear the sound of   candies hitting the floor, the cupboards, the ceiling, and  the table as they landed. I can see the look of shock and embarrassment on my mother's face as her three year old struck up a tantrum of  greedy indignation .  I can hear my father and neighbour's laughter.    I know there was this loud siren sound coming from what I realize now was  my voice box as I was suddenly lifted and  taken down the hall . Then after being bare bottom spanked and sent upstairs to bed , I  found myself to be , of course, candiless.

The whole incident from the time Dad drove into the yard and me being in my bed  took probably less than four minutes..but it has remained in family memory for well over 50 years.

My Dad in particular liked to recall that little story ..throw it in my face if you will.  If I ever got upset over something he would comment, "It's just like the time you threw the candies." Then he'd laugh.

Yes I remember that bag of candies very well...and I also  remember  that it was a bag of  Licorice Candy All Sorts.


Two more points I think should be mentioned:

 a.. Who in their right mind would buy one bag of candy for two children?

 and

  b.  Linda snuck  some candies upstairs for me... I don't remember eating     them but I do remember her bringing them.

                                                       

Willie

 It is 3 am. The wind is blowing and blowing.  Our road will no doubt be blocked by the freshly fallen snow by morning.  The snowblower has a flat tire, my husband will probably miss work, and our aged blind/deaf dog is somewhere 'out there' overnight.

Willie was whining and whining to go out around 4 in the afternoon so we let him outside. As it was a nice calm sunny afternoon  instead of watching where he went, we just let him stay out until dusk.  When we went out looking for him there was no sign.  Perhaps he is safe.  Perhaps he found a little spot to curl up in and sleep.  The weather is quite mild inspite of it being windy and he might be okay if he just curled up and went to sleep until daylight and sunshine warms the air again.

He has been a good friend to our family for fourteen years.  Never a snappy moment, except when the big dog got after him and roughed him up and hurt his ribs.  A great ball of white fur that jiggles and dances as he walks.

Willie's bark is (I will use is until I know otherwise) not a real bark. The sound he makes is a cross between a howl and a call almost like a yodel.
Whenever we go for walks down the road , he  proudly struts on ahead of us.  Apparantly one day he even managed to jump onto the school bus while  the kids were getting on.  The bus passengers always looked for the little white dog at Hoffman's every morning.

He is a pretty dog when he gets cleaned up.   It is often quite an ordeal to get him shaved and washed.  Tonight his fur is long which might well be a blessing for him wherever he is.

 I hope he is sleeping somewhere warm and safe from harm of any kind.

His life has truly been a gift to us and no matter where he is tonight part of him  will always be in my heart. 

                                                    

KONY 2012

http://vimeo.com/37119711



Please watch this video link.

Bunnies and Hindsight

.
Hindsight provides new eyes.

---WAYNE W. DYER, You'll See It When You Believe It


My dad was a hard working mixed farmer who also spent long hours working in road construction and land clearing.  He was rarely home for supper and often wouldn't get home from a long day at work until  after we children had gone to bed.  The barking of the dog and the lights of the truck shining on the bedroom ceiling as Dad pulled into the yard after a long day either on the field or at the road construciton site are vivid  childhood memories.  Because of Dad's busy work life, there were many birthday parties, trips to the lake, and sports events where his absence was the norm.

  If Dad managed to get home before our bedtime one of my favourite jobs was to  untie the laces of his boots and help pull  off both boots and the underlying long grey red trimmed work socks.
 They say that the olfactory senses are capable of triggering the  memory portion of the brain. However, in this instance, I think it is just as well that  the memory portion of the brain can  also shut down the olfactory memory of feet being released from 18 hours of active confinement. It is, therefore, a memory not unduly dwelt upon.

In light of this information regarding my Dad (his habit of hard work, not the smell of his feet) it is somewhat surprising that he took any interest in our family having rabbits for pets.  Owning these  rabbits were in contrast to the occasional Jack Rabbit that Dad would bring home  from the field.  He'd walk in with his tool box under his arm and say, "Call the kids.".  When we were all standing  around, he'd  carefully open the lid and there would be a cringing terror stricken rabbit ( or in Watership Down terms,' a rabbit in a deathly State of Tharn').  These bunnies were rarely kept longer than overnight because, as experience proved, they never survived long in captivity.

I do not now where the rabbits came from or even remember their arrival. I do know that the housing of these rabbits in 'freedom giving' cardboard boxes resulted in some  panicky late night  measuring, sawing, and hammering in the basement until there was a chicken wire rabbit cage with privacy hatch ready for "Blacky' , 'Hoppy' and 'Spotty".  I vividly remember this cage being manufactured as I was the proud pencil holder, square stabilizer, and ' nail hander' during the building process.

 
Yes, Mr. Dwyer, hindsight has given me new eyes.  Just writing this has given me a renewed insight into  the type of father my Dad actually was.  He could be described  by some as a work alcoholic, absentee father, but part of him obviously wanted to be part of our lives as much as we wanted him to be.

  Even if the words were never expressed, this taking the time from his life of overwork and money worries to build a  rabbit cage  so his children could enjoy some house pets exemplifies the action of the verb called love.

                                                            

Spring Sounds

 "Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush."
- Doug Larson


When I read the above quotation I immediately thought of my friend J. who had come over with  her parents to visit one lazy Sunday afternoon in March.  It was  an early spring.  The fields were too wet to work  and puddles of water mixed with ice and snow dotted the farm yard.

We were about 9 or 10 and we decided to go outside for a walk  and leave the adults and other siblings in the house.  Armed with rubber boots and lots of warnings from our parents (that would be our mothers only)  about falling in the water and getting our feet wet we finally left the house to explore.

We spent the first while outside dutifully walking around the brownish murky barnyard puddles.  We played a bit putting sticks in the water going through one side of the culvert and running across the gravel road to wait for the sticks to come through on the other side.

And then we decided to walk out into the field.

Who would have ever thought that a stubble field of #2 Black soil covered in barley straw could harbour such a boot sucking knee deep splotch of mud?  I had only taken one step and I knew I was in trouble . I immediately pulled my foot back and successfully extracted myself and the boot from the mud hole of doom.

  Unfortunately my friend J had been walking beside me with a great deal more zeal.  As I looked over I could see her white socked covered foot being pulled out of her boot  which was by now sunk up to about a half inch from the top and then seeing the  same white socked foot not so gently falling back into the mud just next to the boot and disappearing until only the ankle was showing with the edge of the pant leg just as quickly sinking, sinking, sinking.

  That's when I heard the call.  That sorrowful spine chilling call of desperation and panic resounds in my head every spring whenever I spy the wet syrupy mud on a field newly blackened by the flush of spring water.   These are the words that taught me what adrenalin was; these are the words that triggered the inner voice to say "Run Penny, Run!". These are the words that I think of anytime in the spring when  my husband pulls out the rubber boots and announces he's going for a walk to check the water.  It is because of these words of 50 years ago ringing in my ears   that I worry and wait until I hear the door opening marking his return.

Call Mother! Call Father!

Call Anybody!