Under the Dumb Plum Tree

Laurie & I at my former school, two years before Mom wrote this column

Back to School
by Jaime Kaufhold
(August 1991)

The children are heading back to school today and I can't help but recall some of our "back to school" shopping expeditions. Fifteen years ago it was no laughing matter, but now I have to chuckle.

Two days before school started, off we would go, me and my four children with their lists. We'd pull into the mall parking lot in front of the Woolco department store. Inside, school supplies would be piled high and a landslide was usually created as the kids dug through, looking for the most desirable brand names. Did you know that there were at least seven brands of pencil crayons, but that only one brand, Laurentian, was acceptable? My13 year-old daughter Karen (who is still fussy) said that the lead on anything but that brand was too hard and left scratch marks on the paper. Everything had to be just so, and the brand names were always the most expensive.

Buying back to school clothes was by far the most frustrating part of the experience. My son Mark was satisfied with anything new, since he grew at such an unbelievable rate that his clothes always looked too small (flood pants they were called). So long as he could dress in one colour from head to toe he was happy. So that meant brown shirt, brown pants, brown socks - repeat in blue and black and he was ready for class.

The girls on the other hand were impossible, especially as they got older. They weren't interested in anything "no name," or if it wasn't in their favourite colour. Karen had to have Levi's and Nancy was tired of me matching her with her younger sister and preferred to have whatever Karen was getting just in a smaller size. Darlene wasn't too fussy but it wasn't always easy finding exactly what she wanted in her size. Since I was on a limited budget this was always a very difficult shopping trip and when I'd try to explain to them that we didn't have much money, they would usually reply, "just write a cheque."

Last year's lunch pails were long gone, either lost or destroyed. I preferred the durability of metal but they didn't have cartoon characters on the front, so I reluctantly agreed, knowing that the plastic thermos that came with the plastic pails would be broken the first week. The two older ones preferred paper bags, and instead of traditional waxed paper, all wanted to have their sandwiches inside the new ziplock sandwich bags, except Karen who wanted a plastic container for hers, so I'd go through the motions and most years, get what they wanted, knowing that the lunch pails would get kicked around the school yard, we'd run out of zip lock bags, and the little plastic container would be found when the teacher forced Karen to clean out her locker at Christmas break. Something would be inevitably be growing inside, and everyone, myself included, would be too chicken to open it up and clean it out, so the container would end up in the garbage.

Wanting to be a popular mother, I'd stock up on a few goodies for their lunches. I'd buy sandwich meat, cheese slices and a few pre-packaged treats, which were all expensive, not very healthy and didn't stretch very far, but the kids loved it. Within a week, I'd be back to peanut butter and jam sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, with home made cookies, butter tarts, cupcakes or fudge. Later I found out that the kids traded or sold their lunches because the kids who got the pre-packaged foods all the time, wanted the home baking that my kids were sick of! Mark tells me now that he could get almost anything in exchange for my date-filled oatmeal cookies.

Today it must be much more confusing shopping for school because there are so many more choices. Stores are filled with items that are new and improved, caffeine free, sugar free, low this and reduced that. The only cereals I recognize are Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies, Shreddies, Cheerios and Shredded Wheat - the rest are all sugar free or all sugar, high fibre, cholesterol free and fat reduced. What I can't understand though is with all these products being "light, low and free" why my buggy is so heavy and costs 30% more? Packing lunches in the 90s must be a nightmare.

To avoid the stress of shopping at the last minute, one year I decided to do my shopping in mid- August. What a mistake! By then the treats were gone, the school supplies were all used up or lost and the girls were so anxious to wear their new fall clothes, that despite my warnings, wore them the first day of school even though it was incredibly hot that year. They returned home, pink faced and sweating, wearing their new corduroy pants, turtle neck sweaters and fall jackets.

Despite all of this, the first day of school remains an exciting time for everyone. I remember watching as my three children stood at the end of the driveway waiting for the bus, and the following year, Darlene joined them as she entered kindergarten. However, when she arrived home, she was the only one who didn't want to go back after her first day. Perplexed, I asked why. She told me that she felt sorry for me being home alone, so we went to the SPCA the next day and got a little black dog we named Foxy to keep me company. Satisfied that I wouldn't be lonely without her, Darlene went to school with the others the next day, and like the others, went on to graduate.

Today, out my window I can see the neighbour girl waiting patiently to join her friends and classmates. She turns and waves to her mother as the bus drives up and stops, she boards the bus then it slowly pulls away. I can see my neighbour smiling and waving, and remember how she feels as if it were yesterday.

Now, I'll pour myself a cup of coffee and along with my dog, will relax for awhile under my dumb plum tree.
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Under the Dumb Plum Tree

Mom on one of our camping trips in the 1970s.

Camping
by Jaime Kaufhold
(July 1991)

School has been out for a month now and the children are happy but soon will complain they have nothing to do and will be anxious to get back to class. Between now and then, many of them will go on vacation.

My daughter Nancy called this morning to ask if they could borrow some of our camping equipment. It is old, but like new since it hasn't been used too often. I'd better get out to the garage and hunt around for it all, but first I'll finish my coffee under the cool shade of my tree.

Camping.
I remember well our family camping trips, usually made on the long weekends in July and August. Although it has been many years since I lit a campfire, it feels like yesterday.

For three days prior to departure, I got ready, but still always managed to forget something. Amazingly, our Pinto station wagon carried my husband and myself, our four children, two of their friends, two dogs (an overly friendly lab and a beagle that bit) and we pulled a small utility trailer behind.

This was the thing to do in the 70s. Call it what you like - camping, getting back to nature, getting away from it all, relaxation, roughing it. Once we got to our campsite, the kids got back to nature, the dogs got away from it all, my husband began to relax and things got rough for me. Everyone disappeared and I was left to organize the campsite. Surprisingly, I did quite well by myself and only needed help putting up the tents, which usually resulted in some cursing and blaming until we found the tent pegs. Wood was collected, a fire made and I can't remember why exactly, but I had a kettle of hot water boiling - we were ready to camp.

By the time supper was ready, I hadn't done any relaxing yet and the kids were back. Some dirty, others wet. The dogs were lost. And yes, we had mosquitoes in the good old days. Thankfully I never forgot the OFF.

Preparation was the key word when it came to outdoor meals. Since I was never sure how many people would show up, and at what intervals, I liked to prepare in advance. I'd bring along tupperware containers filled with homemade stew, beans and chili, warming it over the fire as needed. There is something about toasting a hamburger bun over the fire that makes it taste so much better, and I'd serve them with everything. And then of course when the 'home' food ran out, we'd eat hotdogs until they were gone.

My youngest daughter Darlene, who was eight years old, was the type of child who collected people. Usually by nightfall she found some strangers to share our campfire. We visited, toasted marshmallows, drank hot chocolate (that's why I was boiling water), passed around a bowl of chips as the wood we'd gathered quickly turned to ashes. Once the kids were fast asleep, I began thinking about what to cook for breakfast. During this particular camping trip, I had a friend who, after watching me run around all day, suggested we take a two week camping trip to the east coast. She seemed to think this would be an adventure. I called her crazy.

For two and a half days we did have fun, but then it would start to rain. Why I don't know, but we always woke up to rain on the Monday morning of the long weekend, causing us to pack up earlier than we'd planned. Grumpy, wet and hungry we'd arrive home usually before noon, to find that the skies would clear off and it would end up being a beautiful day after all. Never ready for the fun to end, the kids would groan and complain that we should have stayed longer, so we'd decide to fill the barbeque with briquettes and finish off the weekend in the backyard.

Now, it seems every weekend the highways are crammed with trailers, motor homes and vehicles full of excited campers heading to the cottage or campground. Now the equipment is state of the art - microwaves, propane bbq's, air conditioning . . . and you can let your friends know which site you're at by calling them on the cellular phone! Camping has changed, but people haven't. We all feel the same, gathered around the fire toasting marshmallows whether it's the 1970s or 1990s.

Well, I guess I'd better go find that camping equipment for Nancy. I know when she gets here she'll invite us to go along, but I will gracefully decline, wave good bye and hope that they have a good time. Maybe we'll have a barbeque with friends this long weekend and relax in the backyard. That will be nice, and certainly rough enough for me.

Happy camping!
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Under the Dumb Plum Tree

Grandson Laurie and granddaughter Lace

Summer Memories
by Jaime Kaufhold
(June 1991)

Summer is upon us once more. The flowers and vegetables are planted in the garden and now all they have to do is grow. It may be a hot one this year.

The blossoms on the plum tree were beautiful as always, their fragrance "whiffing" in through the window. This year I'll have a bountiful crop, but what will I do with all the fruit? Plum jam and I suppose the birds will feast on the rest.

It's time to relax under my tree until the grandchildren arrive for Grandma to "sit" on.
In all the years I've been here, this is the first time I've truly noticed the yard. Gone are the holes, brown spots and weeds. The lawn is lush (with no bike tracks) and the flower bed is carefully manicured. The glorious blaze of roses are in full bloom, much earlier this year than usual. The rain sure has helped.

I remember how my girls waited patiently, hoping so much that the roses would be in bloom before the last day of school. How lucky their teachers were when the weather cooperated. Some years the girls were disappointed, but they wouldn't have been this year. I think I will ask the little girl next door if she'd like a bunch for her teacher.

Although the bicycles, swing set and toys are gone the memories are still here. The laughter is still vivid and if I close my eyes I can see my children and their friends splashing in the pool. I can smell the mountains of peanut butter and jam sandwiches and gallons of Kool-aid waiting in the hot sun.
Summer was always a lot of work but I certainly enjoyed it. I admit there were times I wanted to run away from it all, but instead I'd grab a glass of Kool-aid and find myself under my tree.

Family yards are messy yards. Just across the road, Mrs. Kraftchek's yard was beautiful and my oldest daughter would ask why ours wasn't like that. She didn't have children, I'd say. And each year I've done a little bit more to repair the damage  by planting grass where the pool once stood, cover the sandbox hole, fill in the deep crevices that were imaginary roads and tunnels. Dare I plant grass at the far end of the garden where our cat of 13 years lies buried?

As they years went by, time healed much of it. The only constant is the swing which now hangs lazily from the sturdiest branch of my tree.

My little granddaughter Lace loves the yard. She smells the flowers and gently touches them but will not pick without permission. I know she wants to badly so the occasional bouquet for mom or grandpa comes into the house in those fat little hands. She has finally learned how to swing herself and I wish I could read her thoughts as she plays alone in the grass.  I hope she is thinking that Grandma's yard is a place to come when she begins to feel the pressure of growing up. I hope she will know she can always find comfort here and always be safe.

Well, it's time to go. A car has just pulled in and its time to be Grandma again. The dog is excited even though she is getting old herself. She loves them because they play ball.

I have a meal planned that they all love and that's because I told them there is ketchup in it. I'll serve a salad but I already know they won't eat it. It's taken me many years to figure out why and that's because it has green stuff in it.
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Reflections

Dad's Favourite Poem

When Dad was alive, not a year went by that he didn't attempt to recite this poem. It became his favourite after a grade school teacher forced the class to memorize it.

Before his death, he wrote a little note to each of us children, telling us how much he loved us, using the rhyme of this poem.

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For our couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-
And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-
'Tis for the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

  - by James Russell Lowe

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Life as we know it

My sister Nance's dog "adopting" a batch of motherless kittens she found in the bush.
Our mother's legacy lives on in all of us, even our dogs!
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Under the Dumb Plum Tree

Mud Street
by Jaime Kaufhold
(May 1991)

Finally it is spring. We will still get those colder days, but there is a warm, softness to the air and the sun is definitely getting hotter. The plum tree has already blossomed and soon the flower gardens will be in full bloom.

Spring has a different affect on everyone but for me “spring fever” means it is time to start cleaning. I remember for my children it meant going outside to find some mud. Being a mother, I found that many times our objectives in life clashed. Ironically, we lived on First Road, just off of Mud Street. Yes, that was the name. And during those years of my life I wondered if I’d ever rid myself of the mud.

My children loved the stuff. As soon as they could, they would be fixing up the fort along the treeline (ditch) in a neighbouring field or throwing mud balls at one another. As I watched them trudge off toward their next great adventure, I’d holler, “Stay out of the mud!” By the time lunchtime rolled around they’d be home, totally unaware that they somehow managed to cover their entire bodies in mud. Of course these excursions always meant the dog(s) went along too, adding wet dog smell to the clean up fun.

The kids would go out of their way to stomp in a mud puddle with nice clean shoes or somehow slip into the ditch while waiting for the school bus. Many times I had to hose them off outside. I thought that as they grew older they would lose their fascination with mud but I was wrong. The bigger they got, the more mud they brought home. I think what they enjoyed most was trying to beat the mud. Where we lived it was the consistency of wet cement and pulled like quicksand.

Once Darlene got stuck behind the garage and Nancy got stuck trying to pull her out. I thought they looked pretty funny until I found myself calf deep in the stuff. Karen, who liked mud the least, was able to rescue us by dropping a board down in front, giving us something to crawl onto while we pried our legs out.

And we never forgot the time Mark was late coming home from delivering his newspapers. Sometimes he’d stop and play with friends along the way, so I didn’t start to worry until he didn’t come home for supper. One spring day he’d gotten stuck taking a short cut through a field and it took a few hours before he could unstick himself. I was just getting ready to go look for him when he walked up the driveway, caked mud to his waist, minus his shoes.

Now with the kids grown it appears that I’ve finally beaten the mud. Spring comes so I clean, but there is no one here now to mud things up. Sometimes I watch out the window and see the grandkids working their way past the plum tree towards the garden, pail of water in hand, and I smile. Then I laugh when their mothers try a few hours later to load them in the minivan.

“How did they get mud all over their jeans?” they ask.

So I explain the biology of mud. Not only does it get in their jeans, but its in their genes and from growing up just off Mud Street.
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Life as we know it

The Hungry Cat

There is a pink playhouse in the yard at the house where I live now, a whimsical little building that I can’t make use of at this juncture in my life as it is clearly meant for children. Mid-life is a perplexing place to be. I am still a mother, but I have no children living here.

A few weeks ago I was outside cleaning the flower beds and saw a tabby cat with white boots and chest watching me from under the big spruce that shades the playhouse from the afternoon sun. The cat scurried under an opening in the wood pile along the back of the little house as I walked by, and I didn’t think much of it at the time. Living in town means the neighbour’s pets often walk through the yard, adding a bit of excitement to our little dog’s life when he spots them while perching on the back of the love seat along the front window. He badly wants to go out and introduce himself to the dogs or chase the cats. Last fall he took off after a rabbit, across the street, into a small bush and it took awhile before he found his way home.

Yesterday I noticed the rabbit is back. So is the cat. Except I think that the cat never left, as I started seeing her every day, first sitting in the grass and then on top of the plywood that covers the sandbox. Yes I have a sandbox, too. Cats love to poop in sandboxes so I expect that is why it is covered. Maybe the cat has been here all along.

Growing up, our house was a magnet for stray animals. My mother never turned anything away, in fact, the first thing she would do was feed whatever came into the yard. Then she’d give it a name. Some of the best pets were those who chose us instead of us choosing them.

Once there was a stray cat we named Kitten Little. We named her that likely because she was very small and looked young, but shortly after arriving had a batch of kittens of her own. I remember very little about Kitten Little except that she became my sisters’ cat and she wasn’t with us long. I think she was hit by a car shortly after having her kittens, and we ended up raising them. Imagine that, three girls and a batch of kittens. That has never happened before! We kept one, the baby that looked like Kitten Little and much like the cat that now lives under my wood pile.

I am in no great hurry to make friends with this cat. I have no desire to pat her or allow her furry body into the house. But she was a hungry cat so I went straight to the store and bought a bag of food. I could tell by the desperate look and pained meow and there is something else about her too, in the way her belly hangs loose and soft.

She is living on instinct right now and her daily routine is a pattern I recognize. She comes out in the morning and eats the morsels I leave for her, then goes back under the wood pile. She emerges an hour or so later and stays out for a few hours, never venturing far from the opening. If I go close, she scoots back under, even though she recognizes me as the lady who brings food.

Tempting as it is, I’ve resisted getting too close. I know what will happen if I do. She will move her nest and only come back to see me when she wants something to eat. If I am patient, soon little heads will begin poking out and a few days after that, the heads will be followed by fuzzy little bodies that will begin playing in the grass. I’m already wondering what colours they will be.

Occupants for the playhouse after all.
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Oh those headlines!

Forest service considering explosives to get rid of frozen cows in Colorado cabin

Click here for original story

Just imagine the forest rangers standing there, looking in the door. Bill looks at Bob and says, "We really weren't trained for this."
No, you weren't. And neither were we. But we understand. Honest we do.

Welcome to our world. Almost everyday, cattle producers stand there and say the same thing:

Stupid cow.

The scene goes something like this: Cattle producer gets up in the morning and thinks it's going to be a good day. Actually, it's that kinda optimism that keeps him getting up everyday, but whatever.
He goes outside and things appear to be fine. His heart rate is at a normal pace. But then, like an old dog that senses a storm is coming, he stops. Something doesn't 'feel' right. So he goes to investigate - his cattleman DNA knows instinctively where to take him - and there she is. A cow in a predicament. Heart rate accelerates to 140 bpm.

Picture it: hands on hips, head tilted slightly in one direction, one hand moves up to remove ball cap while the other hand scratches head hard. Then as the ballcap is being screwed back on, the producer says, "What the hell?"

If cows did the same thing more than once, life would be easy. But they are like teenagers that way. The older ones make mistakes and the younger ones seem to learn from it and they make different mistakes, so everyday is a new adventure.

Knowing how to "get stuck" is in the DNA of cows. Clustering into a building? Heck that happens all the time. At least they were dead. Imagine if Bill and Bob had showed up and tried to get them out while they were still alive? Two shadowy figures appear in the doorway, trained only in forest conservation, start waving their arms and yelling . . .

Dead cows, they're the easy ones to deal with. It's the live ones that cause the heart to start racing. Put your hand up if you've ever: tried to get a live cow, stuck up to her shoulders in mud, from a dugout? Or out of thick, snowy bush after she decided that would be a good place to calve during a storm? Or up off her back, when she's stuck lying downhill, already starting to bloat? Or when she's wedged her belly between two close grown poplars at the edge of the pasture? Or wrapped herself tight in barbed wire after going through a fence.

And exactly how do you get an old car tire off the bull's head when he's already scared and mad and because the tire is blocking his peripheral vision, all he's got to focus on is you . . .

Take that, Mr. Forest Ranger.

So how would a cattle producer get six dead cows out of a cabin?
Not sure, but I know what his first thought would be: "Man I hope those aren't my cows."

Then he'd probably call the neighbour and say, "you gotta come see this." Then they'd stand there, twisting their caps from side to side, figuring out a solution, which in the end, would amount to another red total on that bottom line.

And I do know one more thing for sure.
Nobody in their right mind would ever give us dynamite.
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Oh those headlines!

Moo-dini

Click here for the original story


A few times each year stories like this make the news and insiders can't help but shake their heads. This is the reason why cattle producers lose patience with urbanites / the media:

Dumb point #1
They always get the terminology wrong. This animal isn't a cow. If it's female it's a heifer, but watching the video I think it's a steer or maybe a bull (we'd need a better look between the legs to confirm). Think udder vs. testicles. Imagine what city folks would think if cattle producers called teenaged boys "women?"

Dumb point #2
Chances are somebody left a gate open and that's how it got away. It doesn't have the mental facilities to plan an elaborate escape. It ran because people in vehicles were chasing it, no doubt while honking their horns. It wasn't trying to get away from the slaughterhouse, it was trying to get away from them.

Dumb point #3
People were "cheering it on." This is ridiculous on so many levels.

Dumb point #4
The man at the slaughterhouse told them it would live out its life on a farm. That's what you tell a five year-old when a stray dog shows up and the child asks, "Can we keep him?" Sometimes it's easier to lie than to tell the truth.

Dumb point #5
Steers are not pets. Period.

Dumb point #6
Any farmer with half a brain isn't going to keep that thing and if he does, good luck. Fed and watered, it will live for another 17 years and grow to about 1,800 lbs. If he could keep it in a fence (a 50% chance if it is a steer, 0% chance if it's a bull), he'll have to feed it. A low estimate is $500 a year = $8,500. The return: $0

Chances are once the cameras are gone, it will be end up in the freezer. If not by now, by next spring. That's why it was produced in the first place.

What do I want to know?
Why was an 800 lb. steer sent to the processor . . . shouldn't it be fattening in a feedlot somewhere? And who took the approx. $1,050 financial hit if it was given away?
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Under the Dumb Plum Tree

Chasing Dreams
by Jaime Kaufhold
(April 1991)

There is a plum tree in my backyard.
It has been there for as long as I can remember but it seldom produces plums. That is why I call it "dumb."

Over the years I have spent many an hour pondering life under the shade of my plum tree. While sipping a cup of tea, surrounded by my children, I spent many an afternoon dreaming of what I could have been. One day, I was an aspiring country music queen, playing the guitar and singing at the Grand Ole Opry House. The crowds clapped and cheered - I was famous. The next time I was an actress being whisked away in a private jet to an exotic land, wearing designer fashions while dining with the rich and famous. Oh what a glorious life it could have been . . .

Out my kitchen window I see the tree staring back at me. The plum tree has been more than a conduit of dreams. It provides shade on the hottest July days and is a favourite hiding place for the neighbour's cat. There are no more tricycles and the sandbox is long gone. The child sized swing sits idle most days except when the grandchildren come to visit. The tree has endured at least 30 winters with only one broken branch. Although I've often chastised it for not producing nice, succulent fruit, I guess it has had it's limbs full, so to speak.

What did I become?
A home handyman who can break up domestic disputes while fixing the vacuum cleaner at the same time. I am a nurse, chef, hairdresser and baseball coach. I am a full-figured model who knows how to shop for a bargain. While raising a happy, healthy family I've learned how to make do with I have and laugh at life's little problems.

With spring right around the corner, I am looking forward to another year of buds, shade and if I'm lucky, fruit from the tree. While reflecting under the plum tree I've discovered that I am somebody despite the elusive fame and fortune that so many of us dream about. I am a mother. And it never hurts to dream.

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You can't get here from there 
By Karen Emilson

Reading Mom's column makes my heart hurt.
Had I been a more experienced editor, I would have asked her to expand upon her column to include details from the trip she took to Nashville, Tennessee in the spring of 1977.

Growing up, our house was filled with music. We'd come home from school, open the door and immediately know that Mom was dreaming again.  Of all Mom's desires, being a country music star was the one she savoured most. She bought a Fender guitar, wrote her own songs and taught herself to play. When she wasn't singing her own songs, she was singing someone else's - loudly and usually off tune. She forced us to be her audience so we'd sit there on the couch, being polite for as long as we could. Her band was the console stereo behind her and hidden inside were the back up singers, their voices coming through on vinyl—rich and deep—dust, scratches and all. The band played and they sang along with Mom for hours. To this day, I still know the words to everything by Tammy Wynette, George Jones, Charley Pride and Freddy Fender.

As a charter bus driver with Canada Coach Lines, Dad made regular trips to the Grand Ole Opry House in Nashville. Back then, long weekend bus tours were quite popular. Mom wanted badly to go along but the added cost and four kids made it impossible for years. Finally, when I was 14 and old enough to reign supreme, my brother Mark and I were left in charge. Wearing a cowboy hat, studded jeans and her best costume jewellery, Mom boarded the bus.

The more popular charters often filled up and two buses were hired the time Mom went along. The other driver, Doug Sullens, was a good friend and a frequent driver to Nashville. Doug was charismatic, boisterous, easy to talk to and he became acquainted with many of the performers. Knowing how much Mom liked Freddy Fender, he arranged for her and Dad to go backstage after the show. He introduced Mom as a hopeful country music singer and songwriter, and Freddy was very gracious. He asked if she'd brought along her guitar and of course she had. Soon they were in the middle of a jam session with Freddy and his band in Doug's hotel room, Mom's handwritten songs spread out on the coffee table.

It was obvious when Mom returned home that the experience was thrilling. Whether it was accidental or not I don't know, but she left behind her songs, and the way I remember it, Doug called her a few months later to say that Freddy performed one of those songs live at the Grand Ole Opry House, dedicating it to her. When Freddy's next album came out there was also a bit of excitement because one of the songs sounded a lot like something she'd written. Mom wasn't interested in royalties or recognition, all she wanted was a bit of validation—that maybe she was good enough.

People have laughed when I told them Mom jammed with Freddy, saying he wasn't a very big star. But had he been more famous he probably wouldn't have had the time to sing with a nervous, off-key housewife from Ontario. But maybe he knew they were kindred spirits, sensing that Mom's childhood story was similar to his. He went on to enjoy more success than most of us, while she was left to simply dream.
 
I always thought the song "You can't get here from there," was written by her because she sang it all the time.  On the surface it sounds like a love song, but it also could have been written by a girl who was sent to live with her grandmother because her parents were too young and irresponsible, spending nights in the bar instead of at home. Eventually Mom was reunited with her parents who turned their lives around, but those scars never completely healed. I have a duo-tang folder with pages in her handwriting, revealing those tough years, to prove it.

An internet search yesterday showed that "You can't get here from there" was written and recorded by Glenn Barber as well as Freddy, long before Mom met him. With all of them gone—Mom, Dad, Doug and Freddy—there is no one left to ask, to correct where my childhood memory went wrong. But there is no harm in keeping her dream alive by believing that somewhere out there exists an album cover with a song that might be hers. I just wish that I'd known to ask 20 years ago.

If I ever find out the real story, I'll be sure to let you know. 
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