Party Line Panic

See? Behind my dad? Entertainment in a box!

My brother recently blogged about the fun/mishaps of people ‘rubbering in’ on the party phone lines.

It’s here, and is great fun to read.

Go ahead. We’ll wait . . .

But the history of the party phone line wouldn’t be complete without the following story:

Still further west of the Stringam Ranch was a community known as Twin River.

It’s accepted social leader was Alfred Jones.

Successful farmer and all-round good guy.

One morning, Alfred received a phone call from a concerned and upset member of the neighbourhood.

She had been listening in on the party line and overheard the news that, “Bert Sibley had died.”

Now Bert had farmed in the area for many, many years. He and his wife had raised their children.

Sold the farm.

And retired to the nearby town of Magrath for some well-deserved rest.

As a stalwart of their community, his death was something of note.

The woman thought that, at the very least, friends and neighbours of the Sibleys should supply flowers at the soon-to-be-announced funeral.

Alfred agreed.

“In fact,” he said, “I’m heading to Lethbridge on business right now. I’ll stop in while I’m there, and order the flowers.”

The woman agreed and hung up.

Alfred started out.

The road from the Jones Ranch in Del Bonita, to Lethbridge, runs directly through the aforementioned Magrath.

As he reached the outskirts of the town, Alfred decided it would be proper for him to stop in and offer his condolences to the grieving widow.

He pulled up to the house and made his way to the front door.

While he was waiting for his knock to be answered, Alfred happened to glance into the front room through the large window.

There was Bert.

Lying on the couch.

Oh, my word, thought Alfred. They haven’t even taken the body away yet!

But that wasn’t his only shock of the day.

Just as the door opened, the ‘body’ sat up.

Alfred stared.

Then gulped.

Then turned to Mrs. Sibley, standing in the doorway and stammered out something inane about stopping in to see how they were enjoying town life.

Etc.

Then got out of there.

Mrs. Sibley never knew how close she was to being offered flowers and condolences.

For a husband who was very much alive and sitting in the next room.

The good old party line.

Originator of all things entertaining.

How can anything in this modern world compete with that?

In the Beginning . . . Part 2

Grant's story. Told in my own words . . .

Grant and his 'blonde'.

In Grant's family, dating a blonde was . . . frowned upon.

By the patriarch of the family.

Whenever one of the five sons asked to borrow the car for a date, or otherwise indicated that an activity with a girl was being contemplated, their father would hold up the keys and say,”She's not a blonde, is she?”

Whereupon (good word) the boy would invariably look properly horrified and shake his head.

The keys would be bestowed.

The son would happily go off on his date.

Who probably was blonde . . .

No one knew where this aversion to blondes came from.

Their dad would never tell.

But it was rooted deep.

If you'll pardon the pun.

On occasion, he would threaten to grow out his beard.

Something his wife abhorred.

And she would, in turn threaten to dye her hair blonde.

All discussion ceased.

Moving on . . .

Grant had been serving a mission in Paris, France.

Every week, he received a letter from his family, written by his mother.

When he had been out about six months, one of those letters had included a short note from his father:

“Hi, Grant.

How are you doing?

Hope you're having a great mission.

Love, Dad"

That was it. Short and sweet.

His letters from his mom continued to arrive regularly.

But nothing more from his father until he was about six months from coming home.

“Hi, Grant.

How are you doing?

Hope you're having a great mission.

I have a blonde picked out for you.

Love, Dad”

Grant read this note several times, not believing his eyes.

Surely his father, that dispenser of all knowledge, And allergy-est of blondes extraordinaire, had flipped.

He grabbed a pen.

Letters were hand-written and posted in 1975.

“Dad!

Good to hear from you!

Tell me about this blonde!!!

Love, Grant”

Nothing.

For six months.

Finally, it was time to come home.

Mission accomplished.

So to speak.

As mentioned in my last blog, due to a little mix-up with his flight booking, Grant was forced to take a different flight.

One that dropped him off for a connection in New York City.

The telegram he sent went through to the nearest telegraph office.

In Lethbridge.

Which, for the first time in history, had shut down.

His family, following his original instructions, went to the airport to await his arrival.

He didn't.

Arrive, that is.

After a day of waiting, they returned home.

To make a few frantic, but fruitless phone calls.

Grant's plane touched down in Calgary.

Knowing what a fuss people tended to make of a returning missionary, he waited until he was the last to get off.

And entered a waiting area devoid of . . . waiters.

To say this was a bit of a let-down would have been to put things mildly.

But soon, he was reunited with his family and all was forgotten in the scramble of bringing their missionary home for the first time in two years.

Once in the car, though, he turned to his father.

“So, Dad. Tell me about this blonde.”

His father just grinned.

Grant looked at his mother.

Who shrugged.

Grant had to wait until Church the next week to find out what was going on.

He walked into the building.

A fifty-something woman was standing there, hands on hips, obviously eyeing him.

Politely, he walked over and extended his hand. “Hello, I'm Grant Tolley.”

She grasped his hand and leaned closer. “I wish my daughter, Diane, was here,” she said.

Grant smiled, rather uncomfortably and moved on down the hall.

There, he saw another woman, this one younger and red-headed.

Again, he extended his hand.

She gripped it and leaned in close. “I wish my sister, Diane was here!”

Doesn't this begin to sound like the 'Puss in Boots' story?

“Make way for the Marquis of Carrabbas!”

Just a thought.

Moving on . . .

Diane (me), was in Lethbridge.

I had spent the night with the family of the boy I was currently dating.

Okay, yes, I knew Grant was the one, but that didn't stop me from dating . . .

Ahem.

The next week, again at church, we finally came face-to-face.

We were heading to class and I 'happened to be' following him up the hall.

He pulled aside a curtain and stepped back to let me pass.

“You must be Diane,” he said. 

No, 'I've heard so much about you.' 'So, you're the blonde.'

Just that. “You must be Diane.”

“You must be Grant,” I answered.

He looked exactly like his picture.

And suddenly, in my mind, I heard the words, “That is the man you're going to marry.”

Really.

So clearly.

I even glanced around to see who had said it.

Of course, Grant didn't hear it.

He maintains to this day that either his dad or my mom were hiding somewhere in the vicinity and whispering the words into my ear.

We sat together in class that day.

He, more or less still in 'missionary mode' where girls don't exist.

And me, determined that my 'happily ever after' was definitely on it's way.

Which it was.

It took us a while to get to that first date.

It's a must-read and you can find it here.

But the rest, as they say, is history.

In The Beginning . . . Part 1

Yep. Mine!

Grant didn't have a chance.

Really.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Dad sold the Stringam Ranch in Milk River and bought another ranch in Fort Macleod in the spring of 1974.

We – those of us still living at home - were rather excited.

Alright, yes, it was hard to leave the town where we all grew up.

And where the Stringam's had been a fixture for two generations.

But we were about to meet new people.

Have new experiences.

We packed our boxes and headed out.

I won't describe the move to you.

Mainly because I wasn't there for most of it.

I was studying Journalism at college.

But I managed to show up on weekends.

Mom and Dad worked their usual magic.

And within a few weeks, the Stringam family was officially ensconced in its new digs.

It was a beautiful spot.

In the shadow of the Porcupine Hills.

Just below Head Smashed In buffalo jump.

More about that later . . .

I'm sure you're wondering what this has to do with Grant.

Especially when he was living in France at the time.

Wait for it . . .

Our family are church-attending folk.

The first Sunday after moving found us standing at the door to our new chapel.

About to meet our new congregation.

It was a time of . . . hesitance?

Excitement?

Doubt?

Exhilaration?

No. I think fear more aptly describes it.

We entered and stood, uncertainly in the foyer.

Hanging on the wall directly across from the door, was a picture frame.

I walked closer.

It was actually a picture of . . . pictures.

Young men, ranged from the top to the bottom in a row.

Twelve of them.

With a country and dates listed beside each name.

The missionaries currently serving from that congregation.

I ran a practised eye down the row.

Hmm . . . pretty cute.

Also pretty cute.

Wow! Most of these guys were gorgeous!

I started at the top again.

This time, I looked a little more closely.

There! I thought to myself.

Third from the top.

That one's mine!

I sounded out his name.

Grant Tolley.

Yep.

Mine.

I studied the information beside his picture.

He was serving a mission in Paris, France.

Cool.

He had been gone six months.

That meant . . . eighteen months before he got home.

I'd be ready by then.

Time passed quickly.

And, suddenly, it was time for Grant to come home.

By this time, I knew his family quite well.

The anticipated Sunday when he was supposed to make his first appearance arrived.

No Grant.

“We've lost him!” his brother told me.

And they had.

Sort of.

Cancelled flights.

And a night's stay in New York had put him in the airport in Calgary a a day behind his anticipated arrival.

A lost telegram put his family at the airport at the originally scheduled time.

They waited in vain, finally giving up and making the two hour trip back to Fort Macleod . . .

Grant arrived.

I should tell you that the return of a Mormon missionary is pretty important.

His family and friends all gather at the airport and scream and make fools of themselves welcome him home.

Grant got off the plane, expecting his loved ones.

Picture here the quiet chirping of a lone cricket.

Okay, it wasn't quite that deserted, but you get the point.

He made a quick phone call.

And two hours later, his excited and worried family was gathered around him.

Ah. This was a little more like it!

The next Sunday, I finally got the meet him.

Mr. Third-From-The-Top.

Mr. I-Live-In-France.

Finally.

Mine.

Yep. He didn't have a chance.

Tomorrow. Grant's side of it . . .