During the days, my companions are the animals that inhabit the farm with me. Besides the cattle we are home for three black and white tom cats, two yellow cats that have adopted us (we think a male and female but they aren't friendly, just hungry) and something that lives under the trailer. We hope it's a cat, since we do have several families of feral cats that come around occasionally, but it could be just about anything. We also have a dog and a cat that live with us in the house.
A couple of years ago we lost our last dog left over from the kids. A strange old beagle that our daughter had adopted from her brief stint as a volunteer at the humane society while in college. I decided that I would finally get to choose a pet that was mine. I researched, talked to breeders, went to dog shows and researched some more. After a lot of looking I decided I had found the perfect dog. I didn't want a puppy. I'd had enough of babies, but I did want a dog young enough to bond with us. I loved our collies that we had had so I decided I wanted another one. However, I sure didn't enjoy the grooming required for their massive coats. To my amazement I discovered you can have a short haired collie. They are called smooth coat collies and they really are purebred collies. Surprisingly, I found a dog that met all my requirements.
So my grandson and I set off for far western Kentucky to pick up my new dog. It was a great trip (I highly recommend trips with grandchildren. You learn a lot.) We located the breeder and loaded up our new dog and made the long trip home. He was just what I wanted. Young, only about 6 months old and raised by a breeder that believed in dogs being pets. So we acquired Halcyon's Duncan of Averbrae, or Duncan for short.
He is a perfect dog, well mannered, tolerant of all the kids, loving and quiet. However, he does have a few quirks. I wanted a dog that would be mine and boy is he ever mine. He follows me every step I make. In the door, out the door, in the door, out the door--sometimes I want to just tell him to wait. I'll be right back out! He also doesn't like men. A little problem since he barks at all the guys that tend to show up at the farm. (I guess it is from being raised by a divorcee that didn't have a lot of guy friends). He also has a best friend.
Last fall someone donated a little orange kitten to our menagerie. To our surprise Duncan quickly adopted the kitten as his own personal playmate. He would sit patiently while the little kitten chased his tail or attacked his ears. He would watch protectively while the little mite slept peacefully cuddled in his side. The biggest problem was that he wanted his playmate with him all the time. That meant that he wanted him inside with him. I didn't want another house cat but somehow I got overruled by the two friends. So now I live with a orange cat and a orange colored dog.
Duncan will stand at the door and bark until I let Punkin, the cat, in. The cat is tolerant of Duncan's rather rough playing, allowing the dog to roll her around the living room. When she has had enough she just jumps out of reach. Duncan also is her protector. He doesn't like any of the toms to come around her, since they have shown they resent the special treatment she gets. They wander the yard like a funny old couple, both about the same color, but one big and one little.
I don't know what makes their friendship so deep. They, by all rights, should be antagonists. Dogs chase cats, cats run. That is the way of things. However, for these two they are best friends and form a pack of two. We have decided that if we are to have one of them then we must also have the other. So when I go to hang up clothes I go with a dog and a cat. We pick beans together, weed flower beds together and take walks together.
I guess it's just a two for one sale.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Happy Birthday to Me
Today is my 62nd birthday. That's quite a milestone. I had just turned 52 when I was diagnosed with cancer. I dreamed, no, yearned for the time when I would be able to say I was a 10 year survivor. Now I have made it. So much has happened in those 10 years. I have seen both of my children married and the birth of five grandchildren. I have learned my strengths and weaknesses and I have seen my husband's great courage when faced with crushing fear and the need to be a support for me. He was, and is, my rock.
My mother was 47 when she died of a massive heart attack. That was years ago before the time of shunts, stints, balloons, cholesterol medication and modern testing. We didn't know she even had heart problems, but then neither did she or her doctor. It was sudden and totally catastrophic for us. She was the one we all relied on and the one that kept us all grounded and secure. We had no idea how much she did for us until she was gone. I had been married a year and I wondered if I would ever be able to be the person that she was. I wanted to be the mother that she had been to me, but was afraid without her guidance I wouldn't know how. I was 20 and terrified.
I don't know if I have been a good mother. We have managed to raise good kids who are proving to be wonderful parents, so maybe we didn't do too badly. I made some blunders and sometimes I did it right, but mostly I just trusted on instinct and love. I guess that is what we all do.
As I approached my late 30's I began to wonder if I would live longer than my mother did. I began to exercise seriously. I started running and discovered that I loved it. I ate "heart healthy" foods and made sure I had all the appropriate check-ups. As time passed and I approached my mother's age when she died, I began to think I had maybe prevented the same catastrophe from happening to me. I never gave cancer a thought. No one in my family had ever had cancer. When the doctor told me the diagnosis I was completely dumbfounded. I couldn't believe that this was happening to me. I had done everything right--exercise, diet, the works. Sometimes life just happens, no matter what we do.
It was then I discovered that I must have done something right in my life. My children proved to be strong and supportive and, of course, terrified for my health. My husband became my tower of strength. I discovered that I had wonderful friends that would do marvelous things to help me through the fun of chemo and radiation. I discovered a strength in myself that helped me endure the sickness, baldness, weakness, and dependence with, I hope, grace and a giggle. In short, I discovered that I was loved.
Sometimes blessings come in strange packages. I hope I never forget.
My mother was 47 when she died of a massive heart attack. That was years ago before the time of shunts, stints, balloons, cholesterol medication and modern testing. We didn't know she even had heart problems, but then neither did she or her doctor. It was sudden and totally catastrophic for us. She was the one we all relied on and the one that kept us all grounded and secure. We had no idea how much she did for us until she was gone. I had been married a year and I wondered if I would ever be able to be the person that she was. I wanted to be the mother that she had been to me, but was afraid without her guidance I wouldn't know how. I was 20 and terrified.
I don't know if I have been a good mother. We have managed to raise good kids who are proving to be wonderful parents, so maybe we didn't do too badly. I made some blunders and sometimes I did it right, but mostly I just trusted on instinct and love. I guess that is what we all do.
As I approached my late 30's I began to wonder if I would live longer than my mother did. I began to exercise seriously. I started running and discovered that I loved it. I ate "heart healthy" foods and made sure I had all the appropriate check-ups. As time passed and I approached my mother's age when she died, I began to think I had maybe prevented the same catastrophe from happening to me. I never gave cancer a thought. No one in my family had ever had cancer. When the doctor told me the diagnosis I was completely dumbfounded. I couldn't believe that this was happening to me. I had done everything right--exercise, diet, the works. Sometimes life just happens, no matter what we do.
It was then I discovered that I must have done something right in my life. My children proved to be strong and supportive and, of course, terrified for my health. My husband became my tower of strength. I discovered that I had wonderful friends that would do marvelous things to help me through the fun of chemo and radiation. I discovered a strength in myself that helped me endure the sickness, baldness, weakness, and dependence with, I hope, grace and a giggle. In short, I discovered that I was loved.
Sometimes blessings come in strange packages. I hope I never forget.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Iowa Thoughts
We returned from our visit to Iowa just in time to dive into a garden that had gone wild. For the last few days I have been canning and freezing the results of our enthusiastic planting in the spring. Now that I have a few minutes to breathe, I want to share a few thoughts on our trip.
I know we tend to drive everyone crazy at our daughter's with our endless questions about everything, but we are both fascinated by the similarities and differences in the lifestyles and farming methods in different locales. For example, in Kentucky farming rarely makes the evening news unless it is a cow loose from the stockyards. However in Iowa farming often is the news. One newscast spent considerable time discussing the extremely high temperatures and the effect that would have on the pollination of the corn crop. (I didn't know that corn pollinates at 89-92 degrees. Higher temperatures cause incomplete pollination and smaller ears.) So since the corn was beginning to tossle and the temperatures were hitting 97-99 degrees, no one was happy.
This is a time of waiting for most of the farmers in the area. The crops are out and now are dependent on getting enough rain, sunshine, and not too hot or too cool temperatures, which like farmers everywhere they discuss endlessly but can't do a thing about. With time on their hands they tend to mow. Everywhere we looked on the drive out we saw beautifully manicured lawns. The smallest little house would have a lush green yard mowed to the horizon. These people like to mow. They mow the yard, the barn lot, the road sides, the edges of their fields, and on and on. As far as you can see it is mowed and neat. My daughter says that they are used to being on BIG equipment for hours at a time so they buy big lawn mowers and go at it. I think they hang around the house until mama tells them to get out from underfoot and DO something! So they kill time mowing the world.
They also go to coffee. That's a big deal in any rural community and hubby soon found that he could join the local coffee group without missing a beat. The trick is to discover where they are meeting. There aren't any fast food restaurants in this area. There just aren't enough people to justify a McDonalds or Wendy's on every corner. What they do have it little restaurants at every crossroads. They aren't fancy but the food is hot and wholesome and the coffee ready at 6 am. The men may meet for morning coffee one place, lunch another and afternoon coffee at still another. As with all small gatherings, crops are compared, repairs discussed, deals made and problems solved.
Most of the little communities are laid out around a square. The square usually has a playground, several benches, a few flower gardens and a bandstand. We were lucky enough to go out to eat one night at a neighboring community and discovered they were having a concert in the square. We sat in the car for a few minutes and listened to a pretty good band belt out "Mustang Sally" and "Rolling on the River" while several dozen people listened from lawn chairs and blankets with the children playing around the edges. What a wonderful evening!
We don't often visit during the summer since that is when the kids usually come to Kentucky. However, with our daughter deep into getting her shop ready to open, we got to visit during the growing season. That gave us the opportunity to watch the crop sprayers at work. These distinctive little bright yellow airplanes are like watching an airshow as they swoop and dart over the acres and acres of corn. I still haven't figured out how they know exactly where they are spraying and how they know not to overlap or miss spots but I have been assured that they don't.
All in all we had a lovely visit in an area that reminds us that while farmers are farmers no matter where they are, how they go about farming is sometimes different, depending on their crop, area, climate, and techniques. What remains the same are the friendly, warm people who inhabit these farms. Thank you Iowa for being so patient with our questions and so welcoming to these farmers from Kentucky.
I know we tend to drive everyone crazy at our daughter's with our endless questions about everything, but we are both fascinated by the similarities and differences in the lifestyles and farming methods in different locales. For example, in Kentucky farming rarely makes the evening news unless it is a cow loose from the stockyards. However in Iowa farming often is the news. One newscast spent considerable time discussing the extremely high temperatures and the effect that would have on the pollination of the corn crop. (I didn't know that corn pollinates at 89-92 degrees. Higher temperatures cause incomplete pollination and smaller ears.) So since the corn was beginning to tossle and the temperatures were hitting 97-99 degrees, no one was happy.
This is a time of waiting for most of the farmers in the area. The crops are out and now are dependent on getting enough rain, sunshine, and not too hot or too cool temperatures, which like farmers everywhere they discuss endlessly but can't do a thing about. With time on their hands they tend to mow. Everywhere we looked on the drive out we saw beautifully manicured lawns. The smallest little house would have a lush green yard mowed to the horizon. These people like to mow. They mow the yard, the barn lot, the road sides, the edges of their fields, and on and on. As far as you can see it is mowed and neat. My daughter says that they are used to being on BIG equipment for hours at a time so they buy big lawn mowers and go at it. I think they hang around the house until mama tells them to get out from underfoot and DO something! So they kill time mowing the world.
They also go to coffee. That's a big deal in any rural community and hubby soon found that he could join the local coffee group without missing a beat. The trick is to discover where they are meeting. There aren't any fast food restaurants in this area. There just aren't enough people to justify a McDonalds or Wendy's on every corner. What they do have it little restaurants at every crossroads. They aren't fancy but the food is hot and wholesome and the coffee ready at 6 am. The men may meet for morning coffee one place, lunch another and afternoon coffee at still another. As with all small gatherings, crops are compared, repairs discussed, deals made and problems solved.
Most of the little communities are laid out around a square. The square usually has a playground, several benches, a few flower gardens and a bandstand. We were lucky enough to go out to eat one night at a neighboring community and discovered they were having a concert in the square. We sat in the car for a few minutes and listened to a pretty good band belt out "Mustang Sally" and "Rolling on the River" while several dozen people listened from lawn chairs and blankets with the children playing around the edges. What a wonderful evening!
We don't often visit during the summer since that is when the kids usually come to Kentucky. However, with our daughter deep into getting her shop ready to open, we got to visit during the growing season. That gave us the opportunity to watch the crop sprayers at work. These distinctive little bright yellow airplanes are like watching an airshow as they swoop and dart over the acres and acres of corn. I still haven't figured out how they know exactly where they are spraying and how they know not to overlap or miss spots but I have been assured that they don't.
All in all we had a lovely visit in an area that reminds us that while farmers are farmers no matter where they are, how they go about farming is sometimes different, depending on their crop, area, climate, and techniques. What remains the same are the friendly, warm people who inhabit these farms. Thank you Iowa for being so patient with our questions and so welcoming to these farmers from Kentucky.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Watermelon Day
Today we participated in what makes small town America so special. Today was Watermelons Day in little Humeston, Iowa, population 900. It was a day of friends meeting friends and celebrating the little community they live in. Bigger towns should take notice because they did it big and proud.
My daughter's father-in-law started the day bright and early when he arrived in town to eat breakfast at the local diner and enter his classic corvette in the car show. He wanted to be early because he wanted to be sure and secure a spot in front of my daughter's new store on main street, or Broad St. as they call it. I think that might have been a little bit of pride in her and to be sure he could get inside where it was air conditioned if it got too hot. My daughter's store, Sweet Southern Sass, is due to open in mid-August but interest in the little community has been so high that she had opened her building to people wanting to see what she was doing. The betting is about 50-50 on whether she is crazy or inspired for desiring to open a children's boutique in a little town in rural Iowa. However, the support for her courage and industiousness is 100%. There was a steady stream of well-wishers coming through to view a sample of her merchandise and see the still unfinished building.
Then about 10 am the corvette was commandeered to participate in the parade with Grandpa Jake, my daughter, and her two girls. They were to throw candy from the car to all the children and parents lining the parade route. Of course, there was a banner across the back of the car announcing the opening of the new store. Family and friends all pulled their chairs to the curb and took up their places to cheer the parade participants on. It was a triumph of small town pride. There were horses, carriages, motorcycles (motorcycles and horses being safely spaced far apart), Shriners in little fast cars and little three wheelers, trucks with local businessmen and their families, two wagons with members from two high school class reunions, representatives from the boy scouts, police, fire departments, health department, library, schools, businesses, and sports teams, all marching in the heat and proud to do so. Thank goodness no real emergency arose, since the parade also contained all the county vehicles--fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, sheriff cars, water trucks, and utility vehicles. It's Iowa so there were also several tractors, both antique and new, and few pieces of huge equipment that I could only guess the purpose of. Each was greeted with a cheer and wave from the watchers with lots of comments flying back and forth from participants and viewers.
After the parade everyone good humoredly gathered under the shade at the small city park to eat hamburgers, corn dogs, and pork chops. The band started to tune up on the bandstand and families gathered around tables to visit and eat. Small children were passed from relative to friends while older ones were watched indulgently by the adults as they played on the swings and slides. Games were organized and soon the sounds of laughter and cries of victory could be heard. Everywhere there were groups of people greeting and visiting and just enjoying the summer day. After lunch, naturally, watermelons was served to the crowd.
Even the watermelons have a story. It seems they were due to arrive on Friday in a semi delivering groceries to a local store. However, the driver got within an hour of Humeston and discovered he was over his hours and couldn't drive any further. The word went out that the Watermelon Day melons were stranded. Soon one of the local men with a CDL license (most of these grain farmers drive their own semi's) was on his way to rescue the watermelons for the festival. They arrived in plenty of time to be iced down so they were crisp, cold and juicy for the festival goers.
By mid-afternoon people began to drift home to get ready for the evening events. There were several class reunions, a few family reunions and just lots of family gatherings for those who had traveled home for the celebration. Tired and happy we all joined the exodus to return to the farm and naps for all. (Grandparents and grandchildren both require lots of rest).
Someday, these events will probably be a thing of the past. However, for right now I am delighted I had an opportunity to take it all in. Rural America at it's best.
My daughter's father-in-law started the day bright and early when he arrived in town to eat breakfast at the local diner and enter his classic corvette in the car show. He wanted to be early because he wanted to be sure and secure a spot in front of my daughter's new store on main street, or Broad St. as they call it. I think that might have been a little bit of pride in her and to be sure he could get inside where it was air conditioned if it got too hot. My daughter's store, Sweet Southern Sass, is due to open in mid-August but interest in the little community has been so high that she had opened her building to people wanting to see what she was doing. The betting is about 50-50 on whether she is crazy or inspired for desiring to open a children's boutique in a little town in rural Iowa. However, the support for her courage and industiousness is 100%. There was a steady stream of well-wishers coming through to view a sample of her merchandise and see the still unfinished building.
Then about 10 am the corvette was commandeered to participate in the parade with Grandpa Jake, my daughter, and her two girls. They were to throw candy from the car to all the children and parents lining the parade route. Of course, there was a banner across the back of the car announcing the opening of the new store. Family and friends all pulled their chairs to the curb and took up their places to cheer the parade participants on. It was a triumph of small town pride. There were horses, carriages, motorcycles (motorcycles and horses being safely spaced far apart), Shriners in little fast cars and little three wheelers, trucks with local businessmen and their families, two wagons with members from two high school class reunions, representatives from the boy scouts, police, fire departments, health department, library, schools, businesses, and sports teams, all marching in the heat and proud to do so. Thank goodness no real emergency arose, since the parade also contained all the county vehicles--fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, sheriff cars, water trucks, and utility vehicles. It's Iowa so there were also several tractors, both antique and new, and few pieces of huge equipment that I could only guess the purpose of. Each was greeted with a cheer and wave from the watchers with lots of comments flying back and forth from participants and viewers.
After the parade everyone good humoredly gathered under the shade at the small city park to eat hamburgers, corn dogs, and pork chops. The band started to tune up on the bandstand and families gathered around tables to visit and eat. Small children were passed from relative to friends while older ones were watched indulgently by the adults as they played on the swings and slides. Games were organized and soon the sounds of laughter and cries of victory could be heard. Everywhere there were groups of people greeting and visiting and just enjoying the summer day. After lunch, naturally, watermelons was served to the crowd.
Even the watermelons have a story. It seems they were due to arrive on Friday in a semi delivering groceries to a local store. However, the driver got within an hour of Humeston and discovered he was over his hours and couldn't drive any further. The word went out that the Watermelon Day melons were stranded. Soon one of the local men with a CDL license (most of these grain farmers drive their own semi's) was on his way to rescue the watermelons for the festival. They arrived in plenty of time to be iced down so they were crisp, cold and juicy for the festival goers.
By mid-afternoon people began to drift home to get ready for the evening events. There were several class reunions, a few family reunions and just lots of family gatherings for those who had traveled home for the celebration. Tired and happy we all joined the exodus to return to the farm and naps for all. (Grandparents and grandchildren both require lots of rest).
Someday, these events will probably be a thing of the past. However, for right now I am delighted I had an opportunity to take it all in. Rural America at it's best.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Phobias
Everyone has something that gives them the willies. For some it's a big willy and for some it's just a nuisance willy, but everyone gets the willies from something. For me it's spiders. I just can't stand the little critters. Early in our marriage Bob had to come rushing into the bathroom in answer to my screams, only to discover a spider crawling around in my tub. He scooped him out, disposed of him, and then comforted me tenderly. I did say it was early in our marriage. Now he knows that if he hears me holler "spider" he might as well just get the rolled up newspaper and take care of it because I'm not going anywhere near it. The cuddling seems to have been transferred into endurance.
My son feels the same way about snakes. He will tackle the wildest bull with no hesitation but let him sense a slither in the grass and he is history. Not surprisingly, his son tends to feel the same way. These fears aren't necessarily rational but they are very real. No amount of reasoning, understanding or force will make them disappear. Most of us have a fear and never know the reason why.
My husband, on the other hand, knows exactly why he has his fear. You see, he is afraid of chickens. He just cannot stand to be around anything with feathers. We had been married for years when one Christmas one of our chicken stories came up. My husband's two brothers looked at him in amazement. "You're afraid of chickens?" they queried. It turned out that that was their phobia too. I couldn't believe that they had spent their whole lives hiding this so well that they had completely hidden if from each other.
It wasn't long until stories started to come out and the phobia was traced to a common childhood trauma. It seems that when they were growing up their parents raised chickens for meat and eggs. Each child in turn , when he reached about five years old, was designated as the one to go gather the eggs from under the hens, The chickens they raised were big, white Leghorns. If you aren't familiar with these chickens, they are about the biggest ones they make. A rooster stretched out at his menacing tallest is about the same height as a five year old boy.
My husband says he can remember starting to cry when he left the house, armed with a stick, to collect the eggs. He would head for the chicken house with dragging feet. The closer he came the slower he moved. He would enter the dark coop with the soft clucks of the sitting hens in his ears. Slowly he would ease up to the nest and try to slip his hand under the hen to get the eggs before she noticed. Fat chance. She noticed right away and started squawking and pecking at his arm. Soon all the hens were raising a ruckus and flapping their wings in his face. Waving his arms he kept digging for the eggs as the hens fought to protect their nests. Finally with the eggs collected he knew the worst was yet to come.
Leaving the hen house, hugging his basket of eggs to his chest and brandishing his stick he prepared to meet the rooster. The big rooster had been alerted to an intruder by the hens and was ready to fight for his harem. With a loud screech, he rared back on his tail, threw up his legs and prepared to attack. Waving his stick, hubby ran to the house as fast has his short legs could carry him, terrified that the big rooster would be on his back at any minute. The only thing worse would be to drop the precious eggs in the basket. Heart pounding he realizes that he has lived through the ordeal only to know that he has to face it again the next night.
All three boys suffered through the same ordeal in their turn. All three grew up with a complete phobia about chickens and about anything with feathers. Their father was not a cruel man. He really thought he was teaching his sons to carry out a responsibility and to be strong. I'm sure he never knew the trauma that he inflicted on his sons.
Needless to say we don't have any chickens.
My son feels the same way about snakes. He will tackle the wildest bull with no hesitation but let him sense a slither in the grass and he is history. Not surprisingly, his son tends to feel the same way. These fears aren't necessarily rational but they are very real. No amount of reasoning, understanding or force will make them disappear. Most of us have a fear and never know the reason why.
My husband, on the other hand, knows exactly why he has his fear. You see, he is afraid of chickens. He just cannot stand to be around anything with feathers. We had been married for years when one Christmas one of our chicken stories came up. My husband's two brothers looked at him in amazement. "You're afraid of chickens?" they queried. It turned out that that was their phobia too. I couldn't believe that they had spent their whole lives hiding this so well that they had completely hidden if from each other.
It wasn't long until stories started to come out and the phobia was traced to a common childhood trauma. It seems that when they were growing up their parents raised chickens for meat and eggs. Each child in turn , when he reached about five years old, was designated as the one to go gather the eggs from under the hens, The chickens they raised were big, white Leghorns. If you aren't familiar with these chickens, they are about the biggest ones they make. A rooster stretched out at his menacing tallest is about the same height as a five year old boy.
My husband says he can remember starting to cry when he left the house, armed with a stick, to collect the eggs. He would head for the chicken house with dragging feet. The closer he came the slower he moved. He would enter the dark coop with the soft clucks of the sitting hens in his ears. Slowly he would ease up to the nest and try to slip his hand under the hen to get the eggs before she noticed. Fat chance. She noticed right away and started squawking and pecking at his arm. Soon all the hens were raising a ruckus and flapping their wings in his face. Waving his arms he kept digging for the eggs as the hens fought to protect their nests. Finally with the eggs collected he knew the worst was yet to come.
Leaving the hen house, hugging his basket of eggs to his chest and brandishing his stick he prepared to meet the rooster. The big rooster had been alerted to an intruder by the hens and was ready to fight for his harem. With a loud screech, he rared back on his tail, threw up his legs and prepared to attack. Waving his stick, hubby ran to the house as fast has his short legs could carry him, terrified that the big rooster would be on his back at any minute. The only thing worse would be to drop the precious eggs in the basket. Heart pounding he realizes that he has lived through the ordeal only to know that he has to face it again the next night.
All three boys suffered through the same ordeal in their turn. All three grew up with a complete phobia about chickens and about anything with feathers. Their father was not a cruel man. He really thought he was teaching his sons to carry out a responsibility and to be strong. I'm sure he never knew the trauma that he inflicted on his sons.
Needless to say we don't have any chickens.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Into the Wild Blue Yonder
I am living proof that you are never too old to enjoy something new and different.
I have a grandson that is just besotted with airplanes. He has dragged me to various big and small air museums where he demonstrates an impressive knowledge of all types of planes, their range, armament, speed, size, and uses. When he decides he likes something, he learns all he can about it. Last summer we toured the Air Museum at the Chanute Air Base just outside of Champaign, Illinois. Chanute is one of the bases that has been closed and they no longer train pilots and mechanics as they once did. However, they have turned the hangers and training area into a wonderful tribute to the men who were trained there from soon after the armed forces started flying missions.One of their claims to fame is that it was at this base that the all black support crew for the famed Tuskegee Airmen were trained. Included in this tour is a hanger full of planes. If the military flew it, they have one there. If you have a chance it is certainly worth a stop, especially if you have a boy that likes planes.
While we were there, my grandson was pulling me thorough the planes describing each one and what it did. He was busy shouting out this name and that while he ecstatically viewed them all. Another gentleman was wandering through the planes at the same time. From his bearing and interest, I suspected he was a retired pilot taking a trip down memory lane. He approached my grandson and stuck out his hand, as he shook it he said, "Son, I am impressed by your knowledge and understanding of these planes. Do you want to be a pilot?' My grandson looked at him blankly for a moment, then replied, "No, I just like planes." The pilot looked at him for a minute and just walked off. He couldn't figure out that one.
He shouldn't have been so quick to judge. You know every plane had to be designed by an engineer who just loved planes. Every plane has to be serviced and repaired by a mechanic who just loved planes. There are lots of important jobs and needs for people who just love something. Everyone doesn't have to be the pilot.
Today I took him to something new for both of us. It was a remote control jet air show at the local airport. I went expecting to be a good grandmother and suffer through the afternoon. I should have remembered my past experiences with the airplanes. My grandson was soon pointing out all of the different planes and pulling me excitedly to a spot by the runway where we could watch them take off and land. I spent the entire afternoon totally mesmerized by the performance and wonder of these replicas. Enthusiasts are the same no matter what their enthusiasm, and we were soon talking to the "pilots" and getting all the information on these mighty, little jets. They are true replicas, down to the last detail and fly at anywhere from 100 to 300 miles an hour. They performed rolls, loops, stalls, flybys, and lots of other tricks I didn't understand. We watched in total amazement for over four hours in the hot sun with no complaints.
Never turn down an opportunity to do something different. It might just open your eyes to something new and wonderful.
I have a grandson that is just besotted with airplanes. He has dragged me to various big and small air museums where he demonstrates an impressive knowledge of all types of planes, their range, armament, speed, size, and uses. When he decides he likes something, he learns all he can about it. Last summer we toured the Air Museum at the Chanute Air Base just outside of Champaign, Illinois. Chanute is one of the bases that has been closed and they no longer train pilots and mechanics as they once did. However, they have turned the hangers and training area into a wonderful tribute to the men who were trained there from soon after the armed forces started flying missions.One of their claims to fame is that it was at this base that the all black support crew for the famed Tuskegee Airmen were trained. Included in this tour is a hanger full of planes. If the military flew it, they have one there. If you have a chance it is certainly worth a stop, especially if you have a boy that likes planes.
While we were there, my grandson was pulling me thorough the planes describing each one and what it did. He was busy shouting out this name and that while he ecstatically viewed them all. Another gentleman was wandering through the planes at the same time. From his bearing and interest, I suspected he was a retired pilot taking a trip down memory lane. He approached my grandson and stuck out his hand, as he shook it he said, "Son, I am impressed by your knowledge and understanding of these planes. Do you want to be a pilot?' My grandson looked at him blankly for a moment, then replied, "No, I just like planes." The pilot looked at him for a minute and just walked off. He couldn't figure out that one.
He shouldn't have been so quick to judge. You know every plane had to be designed by an engineer who just loved planes. Every plane has to be serviced and repaired by a mechanic who just loved planes. There are lots of important jobs and needs for people who just love something. Everyone doesn't have to be the pilot.
Today I took him to something new for both of us. It was a remote control jet air show at the local airport. I went expecting to be a good grandmother and suffer through the afternoon. I should have remembered my past experiences with the airplanes. My grandson was soon pointing out all of the different planes and pulling me excitedly to a spot by the runway where we could watch them take off and land. I spent the entire afternoon totally mesmerized by the performance and wonder of these replicas. Enthusiasts are the same no matter what their enthusiasm, and we were soon talking to the "pilots" and getting all the information on these mighty, little jets. They are true replicas, down to the last detail and fly at anywhere from 100 to 300 miles an hour. They performed rolls, loops, stalls, flybys, and lots of other tricks I didn't understand. We watched in total amazement for over four hours in the hot sun with no complaints.
Never turn down an opportunity to do something different. It might just open your eyes to something new and wonderful.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Amazing Multiplying Quarters
For the past eight years I have served on the board of the Presbyterian Homes and Services of Kentucky, a group of not-for-profit nursing homes. It is our goal to provide a caring, safe place for those who can no longer manage living in their own homes. Thanks to an outstanding staff from the CEO to the janitors these homes are truly "homes" for the seniors who live there. One thing that has always impressed me is that these buildings are always filled with joy and laughter. The staff and residents approach each step with humor and cheerfulness that eases everyone over the humps involved in leaving home and making a new life in a community.
Many of our residents are dealing with the onset of dementia as well as the transition from living alone. One of my favorite stories involves an elderly gentleman who had just recently moved into his new senior home. His children were concerned about how well he would accept his new surroundings and were busy trying everything they knew to make the transition easier. One of their efforts involved giving him a cell phone so he could keep in touch with his family and friends. The phone calls, while not always convenient or totally coherent, were a help to his peace of mind.
Soon after his arrival the staff started noticing that he was amassing a large number of quarters. There were quarter on the nightstand, in his robe pockets, in his clothing drawers,and stacked on the shelf. Every day there were more quarters. The staff just moved them around, and stacked them up for him. Finally one day they decided they needed to get to the bottom of this and called the son to bring some quarter wrappers so they could deal with the ever increasing numbers of quarters.
The son arrived with the wrappers and with a twinkle in his eye, gently questioned his dad about the quarters. His dad responded with total bemusement that he couldn't figure out why, but everyone that came to see him brought quarters. They were piling up terribly. Couldn't he take them and put them in a safe or something? With a chuckle, the son replied that he could fix everything and would see that the quarters were taken care of.
It seems that the old gentleman had for many years operated a coin laundry. The daily problem was to have enough quarters for the change machines to dispense so everyone could do their wash. With this problem bubbling up from the past in his mind, he had used his new cell phone to call everyone he knew and ask them to please, please bring him quarters. He told them he desperately needed more quarters and he couldn't seem to get them in this place, so would they please bring him some when they came to see him. Being good friends and neighbors they all had been dropping by and leaving him with a few quarters.
The mystery of the amazing multiplying quarters was solved.
Many of our residents are dealing with the onset of dementia as well as the transition from living alone. One of my favorite stories involves an elderly gentleman who had just recently moved into his new senior home. His children were concerned about how well he would accept his new surroundings and were busy trying everything they knew to make the transition easier. One of their efforts involved giving him a cell phone so he could keep in touch with his family and friends. The phone calls, while not always convenient or totally coherent, were a help to his peace of mind.
Soon after his arrival the staff started noticing that he was amassing a large number of quarters. There were quarter on the nightstand, in his robe pockets, in his clothing drawers,and stacked on the shelf. Every day there were more quarters. The staff just moved them around, and stacked them up for him. Finally one day they decided they needed to get to the bottom of this and called the son to bring some quarter wrappers so they could deal with the ever increasing numbers of quarters.
The son arrived with the wrappers and with a twinkle in his eye, gently questioned his dad about the quarters. His dad responded with total bemusement that he couldn't figure out why, but everyone that came to see him brought quarters. They were piling up terribly. Couldn't he take them and put them in a safe or something? With a chuckle, the son replied that he could fix everything and would see that the quarters were taken care of.
It seems that the old gentleman had for many years operated a coin laundry. The daily problem was to have enough quarters for the change machines to dispense so everyone could do their wash. With this problem bubbling up from the past in his mind, he had used his new cell phone to call everyone he knew and ask them to please, please bring him quarters. He told them he desperately needed more quarters and he couldn't seem to get them in this place, so would they please bring him some when they came to see him. Being good friends and neighbors they all had been dropping by and leaving him with a few quarters.
The mystery of the amazing multiplying quarters was solved.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Kidnapped Kitten
Over the years there is no telling how many kittens we have raised. At one time, I know we had five litters and a total of twenty-something kittens. I kept a permanent ad in the vets office advertising "Barn bred barn cats". We kept most of the local dairy farms supplied with cats for some time. That was back in the time before I decided that no matter what it cost, spaying and nutering the barn cats was cheaper than feeding the multitudes of offspring.
All these cats started with a gentle, sweet tortoise shell cat we brought to the farm from town. She settled into farm life with a sincere dedication to populating the farm with kittens. Her first litter of five were greeted with delight and named after candies. We had Butterscotch, Caramel, Fudgie, Snickers, and Jellybean. Jellybean grew up to take her mother's place as our resident mama cat. Jellybean just loved being a mother. She would purr and lick on her babies until I worried about them being bald. She would show endless patience in teaching them to hunt and total tolerance of their antics and playing. She just was the perfect mother.
However, she had one small quirk. She liked to hide her kittens when they were first born. I knew from experience that cats that brought in six week old kittens brought in trouble. Usually they were already so wild we couldn't catch them to tame them down, which meant they were really hard to place in new homes. It also meant we also couldn't catch them to treat them if they got sick or injured. Not a good situation. So the kids were assigned to watch Jellybean to see when she went to "nest" to have her kittens. When she disappeared for a day or two and then came back with obvious signs of nursing kittens we knew the hunt was on. The kids would follow her all over the farm trying to see where she had hidden the babies. She, in turn, would lead them around in circles until they tired of the hunt, then slip off to her kittens.
The time in question, she had managed to fool us completely. I had even gotten in on the game and spent lots of my garden time watching her to see where she was going. At one point I even climbed into the loft to see if I could find them. There Jellybean sat, grooming herself with not a care in the world, but I could not find those babies. She watched me with interest but never giving away a thing. We were about to give up hope of finding them when she was tricked by her own mothering instincts.
At the same time we had another cat who had a litter of kittens in the building behind the house. One of her kittens had some sort of colic, rather like cranky babies, and he cried all of the time. You could hear his little wails all over the yard all day long. We had taken him to the vet and the result was that hopefully he would outgrow it. So we put up with the pitiful crying. Jellybean, on the other hand, became increasingly distraught by the cries. She would make little mewing noises of distress whenever she came to the house. It was obvious that the unhappy kitten was really getting to her.
Then one day she could stand it no more. We were in the yard when we noticed she was circling closer and closer to the kitten who was crying and playing around in front of the building. Soon she zipped in and grabbed the little one by the scruff of the neck and took off. With amazement we followed her as she made a bee-line for the hay barn. Up in the loft she went, exactly where I had searched and searched, and disappeared. We clambered up and looked around. No cat. No kitten. Then we heard a cry, faint but never ceasing. We grins of triumph we followed the sound to a sliver of an opening between two bales of hay. There we found Jellybean and the kidnapped kitten nestled in with her four new babies. She had obviously decided that if that mama cat wasn't going to take care of that baby, she would!
All these cats started with a gentle, sweet tortoise shell cat we brought to the farm from town. She settled into farm life with a sincere dedication to populating the farm with kittens. Her first litter of five were greeted with delight and named after candies. We had Butterscotch, Caramel, Fudgie, Snickers, and Jellybean. Jellybean grew up to take her mother's place as our resident mama cat. Jellybean just loved being a mother. She would purr and lick on her babies until I worried about them being bald. She would show endless patience in teaching them to hunt and total tolerance of their antics and playing. She just was the perfect mother.
However, she had one small quirk. She liked to hide her kittens when they were first born. I knew from experience that cats that brought in six week old kittens brought in trouble. Usually they were already so wild we couldn't catch them to tame them down, which meant they were really hard to place in new homes. It also meant we also couldn't catch them to treat them if they got sick or injured. Not a good situation. So the kids were assigned to watch Jellybean to see when she went to "nest" to have her kittens. When she disappeared for a day or two and then came back with obvious signs of nursing kittens we knew the hunt was on. The kids would follow her all over the farm trying to see where she had hidden the babies. She, in turn, would lead them around in circles until they tired of the hunt, then slip off to her kittens.
The time in question, she had managed to fool us completely. I had even gotten in on the game and spent lots of my garden time watching her to see where she was going. At one point I even climbed into the loft to see if I could find them. There Jellybean sat, grooming herself with not a care in the world, but I could not find those babies. She watched me with interest but never giving away a thing. We were about to give up hope of finding them when she was tricked by her own mothering instincts.
At the same time we had another cat who had a litter of kittens in the building behind the house. One of her kittens had some sort of colic, rather like cranky babies, and he cried all of the time. You could hear his little wails all over the yard all day long. We had taken him to the vet and the result was that hopefully he would outgrow it. So we put up with the pitiful crying. Jellybean, on the other hand, became increasingly distraught by the cries. She would make little mewing noises of distress whenever she came to the house. It was obvious that the unhappy kitten was really getting to her.
Then one day she could stand it no more. We were in the yard when we noticed she was circling closer and closer to the kitten who was crying and playing around in front of the building. Soon she zipped in and grabbed the little one by the scruff of the neck and took off. With amazement we followed her as she made a bee-line for the hay barn. Up in the loft she went, exactly where I had searched and searched, and disappeared. We clambered up and looked around. No cat. No kitten. Then we heard a cry, faint but never ceasing. We grins of triumph we followed the sound to a sliver of an opening between two bales of hay. There we found Jellybean and the kidnapped kitten nestled in with her four new babies. She had obviously decided that if that mama cat wasn't going to take care of that baby, she would!
Monday, July 4, 2011
Thank God for Immigrants
I have always wanted to go to Staten Island and stand in that place where so many immigrants waited to be allowed to enter the United States. My late mother-in-law's parents both spent time there as they arrived from Switzerland in the late 1890's seeking fertile farm land in Kentucky. Why Kentucky? Well, it all started with an unscrupulous real estate agent, (sorry hubby).
Not all of Kentucky is rolling fields of bluegrass horse farms. If you travel just east and a little south of Lexington's famous acres you come to the foothills of the Appalachian mountains where the hillsides don't roll they leap up and down. The ground is often so close to the famous limestone rock that you can see it jutting through the soil. My father always said it was "sour" meaning in farmer talk that it was poor soil, covered with cedar trees. In short it is rough farm land that most people weren't too interested in paying much for.
Enter the enterprising real estate man. He came up with the idea of advertising the land overseas. In the small countries of Europe land had become a scarce commodity. Most farm land had been held in families for generations with the oldest son inheriting it all. That left the younger sons without anything to farm so they were ripe for the lure of "rich, fertile farmland in the rolling foothills of the Appalachian mountains". To the Swiss who saw the brochures it sounded just like their home with the exception that there was lots of farmland for sale. Several families, mostly those of second, third or fourth sons, decided to move to this beautiful land of Kentucky.,
I can't imagine the idea of packing up everything you hold dear, gathering your children and traveling to a land that you've never seen, and you don't speak the language. What courage they had and how very frightened and hopeful they must have been. After days, maybe even weeks, of traveling they arrived at their new home only to be faced not with thriving, fertile farms but rough, unimproved knob land. These stalwart people didn't cry foul and run to the courts to get their money back, they settled in and began to build fences, improve the soil, buy dairy cows and build a community. Thus, the little community of Ottenheim in Lincoln County was established.
The hardy Swiss people then set about becoming American with the same enthusiasm and dedication they had turned on farming. They learned to speak English instead of speaking the German they grew up with. They demanded that their children speak only English, thus losing the native German in a single generation. They proved to be good neighbors, always ready with a helping hand and soon were accepted as friends and coworkers. Today the county's only remembrance of these brave people who came to America so they could have the freedom to farm their own land, are the mailboxes scattered throughout the county with names like, VonGruenigen, Camenisch, Gander, Schnitzler, Gehlhausen, and Schoendorf.
What would America be without the brave and determined immigrants who gave up everything for the opportunity to live in our great, free country? We founded our country as a haven for those seeking freedom and we have been repaid a thousandfold.
Not all of Kentucky is rolling fields of bluegrass horse farms. If you travel just east and a little south of Lexington's famous acres you come to the foothills of the Appalachian mountains where the hillsides don't roll they leap up and down. The ground is often so close to the famous limestone rock that you can see it jutting through the soil. My father always said it was "sour" meaning in farmer talk that it was poor soil, covered with cedar trees. In short it is rough farm land that most people weren't too interested in paying much for.
Enter the enterprising real estate man. He came up with the idea of advertising the land overseas. In the small countries of Europe land had become a scarce commodity. Most farm land had been held in families for generations with the oldest son inheriting it all. That left the younger sons without anything to farm so they were ripe for the lure of "rich, fertile farmland in the rolling foothills of the Appalachian mountains". To the Swiss who saw the brochures it sounded just like their home with the exception that there was lots of farmland for sale. Several families, mostly those of second, third or fourth sons, decided to move to this beautiful land of Kentucky.,
I can't imagine the idea of packing up everything you hold dear, gathering your children and traveling to a land that you've never seen, and you don't speak the language. What courage they had and how very frightened and hopeful they must have been. After days, maybe even weeks, of traveling they arrived at their new home only to be faced not with thriving, fertile farms but rough, unimproved knob land. These stalwart people didn't cry foul and run to the courts to get their money back, they settled in and began to build fences, improve the soil, buy dairy cows and build a community. Thus, the little community of Ottenheim in Lincoln County was established.
The hardy Swiss people then set about becoming American with the same enthusiasm and dedication they had turned on farming. They learned to speak English instead of speaking the German they grew up with. They demanded that their children speak only English, thus losing the native German in a single generation. They proved to be good neighbors, always ready with a helping hand and soon were accepted as friends and coworkers. Today the county's only remembrance of these brave people who came to America so they could have the freedom to farm their own land, are the mailboxes scattered throughout the county with names like, VonGruenigen, Camenisch, Gander, Schnitzler, Gehlhausen, and Schoendorf.
What would America be without the brave and determined immigrants who gave up everything for the opportunity to live in our great, free country? We founded our country as a haven for those seeking freedom and we have been repaid a thousandfold.
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