A SHORT, MEMORABLE STORY OF MY SISTERS, JOYCE AND JEANNIE.

     With the last five of eleven children in the McNaughton family being born in Fernie B.C., I have many fond and sometimes traumatic memories of the lot of us as we grew up there.
     This is only one of them.
     Since Joyce, I and Jeannie were within  just a few years of each other, memories tend to be more prominent as I write my memoirs.
     Fernie is nestled in the Heart of the Canadian Rockies and is more clairvoyant and definitive in respect to four seasons of the year.
     This story is at the time of year when we had definitely settled well into winter. The snow was deep enough, (3 to 4 ft. deep) that you can picture in your mind the snow banks along each side of the street, and the individual walkways to the houses being high enough, that you had to be tippy toed to see from one neighbor to the other.
     At certain times during the winter while walking in the street, it was difficult to see the houses on either side due to the height of the huge snowbanks created by the snowplows.
     Those were the days when the typical fences were Wire woven, 3 ft. high and often the gates were the same. They were a manufactured design to suit the fence with the iron, galvanized round frame that anchored the wire in place.
     Because of the snow being so deep at times, it was always a nuisance to keep the snow surrounding the gates cleared away in order for the gate to function.
     One cold, frosty day, Joyce, I and Jeannie were playing outside in the snow, and near to the front gate.
     Joyce was ten tears old, I was eight and Jeannie was approaching six.
     I have no idea what prompted her to do it, but I have since heard of other people being fooled into doing things similar. Joyce decided to lick the little layer of snow covered frost off the top of the iron gate. Like opposite velcro pieces, Joyce's tongue and the frosty gate stuck together.
     You can only imagine the weird noises coming from her as she tried to yank her tongue free!
     (All I can say is, it would fit in perfectly for anyone who talks too much!) There she was. She could move her head back and forth, but no way would her tongue come loose. Jeannie being only six, began to cry and raced into the house for Mom, while I just stood there in wonderment, watching the strange phenomena taking place.
     Pushing and pulling, her tongue would not come loose of the gate.
     Mom came to the door, and seeing what Jeannie had been trying to tell her, turned and hurried back inside. Finally she came out of the house carrying a pot of hot water. But Joyce in her panic, tore her tongue loose from the gate before Mom got to her.
     It was a scary moment, but in the grand finale of it all, we started laughing, with the exception of Joyce, who suffered a short time from frostbite on her tongue.
    I must confess, there have been a few times since, that I thought it was appropriate to wish for her to do it again. But always in a humorous, loving way.
    I love you Joyce! I only have to think back about the difficult time we, and particularly our beautiful Angel of a Mother went through in our growing years, to bring our past memories to light.
    It was only through her marching all of us family of 12 including herself, up the hill and a block and a half to church, that we learned to appreciate what she was going through as we grew older.
    But our Mother, with the fortitude of a half dozen women, found room in her heart to appreciate the existence of God, and what strength he gave her as she pulled and tugged us through those trying years. Sometimes pausing to shed an exasperating tear or two along the way. Not without us gathering by her side to comfort her and some of us crying with her.
    We all knew at those moments, how much it hurt to be poor.
    Each time we headed for church on Sundays, she would tell us to pray for something of material means, such as a coat for Jeannie because of Winter coming on, and it always happened, or so it seemed.
    How on earth could I ever let her down by abandoning my belief in God, while I imagine that she sits in heaven partaking in her favorite pastime, talking to Mrs. Brown, her old friend from across the street and sewing another patchwork quilt in anticipation of us arriving there to see her again.
     It would be priceless to all of us if we could only see and hear our mother's beautiful unrestrained laughter when she reads this from her perch in the weather-less great beyond, where I prefer to think she sits. Just sayin'.