It's a beautiful day outside and for some strange reason that makes me think back to the time when we were first married. I was a "townie" having been raised in town. However I was raised by a father that always loved farming, even though circumstances prevented him from being a farmer. That meant I had a rosy glow about life on the farm, even before I had experience to back it up.
The first farm we lived on was a pretty little farm we rented in Breckinridge Co. Hubby and I both worked, he in a lending agency for farmers and me as a home economics teacher at the local high school. After work we would rush home and happily do chores and odd jobs about the farm. During those first years of marriage a girl will throw herself into anything to please her hubby and I was no exception. I didn't know a lot about farming but I was willing to try anything.
The problem was hubby knew about farming but he didn't know much about girls (2 brothers, no sisters) . He also lacked a little in management styles and communication skills. It seems that growing up most of their training in farm management and communication came from their father. Now, don't get me wrong, he was a wonderful man and I came to love him dearly. However, he was of the opinion that orders were his to give and others to follow. He also thought that volume had a lot to do with prompt accomplishment. It other words he was a loud dictator when it came to farming. Hubby tended to follow his style. This didn't work too well on a girl, who was willing enough but not too inclined to subservience.
Things kind of came to a head one evening when we were a little late getting the barn chores done. Hubby wanted to feed the cattle in the back field some hay bales and recruited me to drive the tractor. All was pleasant as we drove to the back with our wagon of hay bales. When we got to the spot, he left me to drive slowly along while he broke open the hay bales and scattered it out for the cows. I hadn't gone 10 feet when I heard a shout from the back, "Speed up!!" I eased the tractor up a little, then heard another shout, "Slow DOWN...you're going too FAST!". I slowed as I heard another shout, "Watch out for the dip ahead!" I did my best to ease past the dip but heard another bellow from the back "I SAID WATCH IT....YOU ABOUT THREW ME OFF!!!" These orders were followed by "Go more to the right!" "Go faster", "Go more to the left" . Finally in frustration he yelled "Can't you HEAR ME!?"
That did it. I slammed on the brake, turned off the tractor and got down. "What are you doing?" he demanded. I just looked at him and started walking. "I'm going to the house. I obviously am too dumb to drive a tractor and am just creating more trouble than it's worth. So I'm going to the house and do something I know how to do, like cook!" With that I flounced across the field.
I never did figure out how he fed the rest of the cattle from the back of the wagon and drove at the same time. However, in time he did learn that asking works better than yelling!
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Milking Time
When you raise cattle you have to be ready to deal with the occasional emergency. During calving season, which for us in early spring, you tend to spend a lot of time in the barn supervising deliveries. If you are lucky, then the reward is seeing a wobbly calf take it's first steps and nudge mom's udder for his first meal. Then you can take a step back, congratulate the proud mama and return to bed. However, occasionally things don't work out like you expect.
For some strange reason, you will sometimes get a cow that just isn't too thrilled with the idea of being a mother. Usually, these are first time heifers, or cows that haven't had a calf before. Now if they had already done this a time or two, I might be able to sympathise with the problem. After all there have been a few times in my life when I've questioned the decision to be a mother myself. However, there is that rare time, when instead of murmuring coos of encouragement to the little, unsteady creature trying to get to the milk wagon, the new mom will take one look at her offspring and decide to take a different career path. She usually signals this by side-stepping away from the calf or even going so far as to kick it away from her. It is truly a pitiful sight to see the little fellow trying to totter after mama as she sidles away.
We were standing the barn in the wee hours of the morning facing just this problem. It had been a long delivery but mother and calf were both healthy and fine. Now we stood watching as the little black calf struggled to get his long legs organized and stand up. It is always amazing to me to see them figure it out. Soon he was on his feet and taking his first steps toward mama. Up to this time she had been watching him patiently, if a little apprehensively. He took a few steps and nuzzled up to her flank, trying to figure out where the faucets were. She turned her head and looked at him with a look that said, "You want to do what?" Right then we knew we had trouble.
For the next hour we encouraged, prodded, and cajoled the cow to let the calf nurse. She refused all attempts and finally decided she wasn't letting that little creature anywhere near her. Hubby pushed his hat back and said he had had enough of this. Being an old dairy farmer he knew there were ways of getting milk. In no time he had her in the chute and a bucket between his knees. One small problem, this wasn't an old dairy cow that had been milked before. This was an Angus cow that didn't have any milk cow genes or memories to call on. She took immediate objection to the whole process. Hubby was an old hand at fractious cows and he soon had her off balance enough she couldn't kick and milk streaming into the bucket. Soon we had a bottle fixed and the baby had enough milk to settle him down. We left them in the barn penning side by side to have a little time to become acquainted. Usually, this will solve the problem and by the next morning she has had a change of heart.
The next morning Hubby goes off to work and the kids go the barn to feed. Our son put the cow and calf together to see what happened. She still wasn't having any of this foolishness. Not being long on patience (what teenager is?) he decided that if daddy could milk her for the baby so could he. So into the chute she goes. Son settles down with his bucket and pulls on her udder. She promptly kicks him in the leg. He decides he can stop that so he gets some baling twine and ties her foot to the fence by the chute. He grabs her again. She swipes her, none to clean, tail across his face. So he gets some more string and ties her tail to the rafter just behind her. Once more he tries. She attempts to get her head around to him, so he puts a halter on her and ties it to the front of the chute.
Some time later I arrive at the barn to find the cow, with every available appendage tied to something and son struggling for all he's worth to get a dribble of milk in the pail. After what seemed to be an eternity to all involved he finally had enough to give the calf a short bottle. In frustration he called his dad to bring him some calf supplement from the feed store and turned the cow and calf back into the stall.
Hubby arrived later with the supplies to find the mama cow peacefully nuzzling her baby as he finished nursing. She evidently decided that after the mornings entertainment nursing a calf looked pretty good to her.
For some strange reason, you will sometimes get a cow that just isn't too thrilled with the idea of being a mother. Usually, these are first time heifers, or cows that haven't had a calf before. Now if they had already done this a time or two, I might be able to sympathise with the problem. After all there have been a few times in my life when I've questioned the decision to be a mother myself. However, there is that rare time, when instead of murmuring coos of encouragement to the little, unsteady creature trying to get to the milk wagon, the new mom will take one look at her offspring and decide to take a different career path. She usually signals this by side-stepping away from the calf or even going so far as to kick it away from her. It is truly a pitiful sight to see the little fellow trying to totter after mama as she sidles away.
We were standing the barn in the wee hours of the morning facing just this problem. It had been a long delivery but mother and calf were both healthy and fine. Now we stood watching as the little black calf struggled to get his long legs organized and stand up. It is always amazing to me to see them figure it out. Soon he was on his feet and taking his first steps toward mama. Up to this time she had been watching him patiently, if a little apprehensively. He took a few steps and nuzzled up to her flank, trying to figure out where the faucets were. She turned her head and looked at him with a look that said, "You want to do what?" Right then we knew we had trouble.
For the next hour we encouraged, prodded, and cajoled the cow to let the calf nurse. She refused all attempts and finally decided she wasn't letting that little creature anywhere near her. Hubby pushed his hat back and said he had had enough of this. Being an old dairy farmer he knew there were ways of getting milk. In no time he had her in the chute and a bucket between his knees. One small problem, this wasn't an old dairy cow that had been milked before. This was an Angus cow that didn't have any milk cow genes or memories to call on. She took immediate objection to the whole process. Hubby was an old hand at fractious cows and he soon had her off balance enough she couldn't kick and milk streaming into the bucket. Soon we had a bottle fixed and the baby had enough milk to settle him down. We left them in the barn penning side by side to have a little time to become acquainted. Usually, this will solve the problem and by the next morning she has had a change of heart.
The next morning Hubby goes off to work and the kids go the barn to feed. Our son put the cow and calf together to see what happened. She still wasn't having any of this foolishness. Not being long on patience (what teenager is?) he decided that if daddy could milk her for the baby so could he. So into the chute she goes. Son settles down with his bucket and pulls on her udder. She promptly kicks him in the leg. He decides he can stop that so he gets some baling twine and ties her foot to the fence by the chute. He grabs her again. She swipes her, none to clean, tail across his face. So he gets some more string and ties her tail to the rafter just behind her. Once more he tries. She attempts to get her head around to him, so he puts a halter on her and ties it to the front of the chute.
Some time later I arrive at the barn to find the cow, with every available appendage tied to something and son struggling for all he's worth to get a dribble of milk in the pail. After what seemed to be an eternity to all involved he finally had enough to give the calf a short bottle. In frustration he called his dad to bring him some calf supplement from the feed store and turned the cow and calf back into the stall.
Hubby arrived later with the supplies to find the mama cow peacefully nuzzling her baby as he finished nursing. She evidently decided that after the mornings entertainment nursing a calf looked pretty good to her.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
"Little Joe"
My sister is five years older than I am. She was a difficult baby in a lot of ways. Mostly because she had a milk allergy in a time before wide-spread use of soy formulas. After numerous hospital visits with major allergic reactions she was raised on goat milk from an obliging neighbor's goat. The on going medical problems and her frailty caused my parents to create a world where she was pretty much the center. This may partially explain why it was so long before my parents got up enough nerve to try a second child. (If I had been first I'm reasonably sure I would have been an only child.)
My mother had a best friend that she shared everything with. The two women had been friends since childhood and remained boon companions until my mother's death. When they married, the friendship only expanded to include husbands and children. We grew up spending as much time in one house as the other. At the time my mother became pregnant with me, both of the women had one child. My mother had a girl and her friend a son a couple of years younger. My sister was always a motherly child and loved supervising and probably tormenting the little boy with her smothering.
My sister was delighted with the coming baby, but adamant that it would be a boy. Nothing that they could do would convince her that she might not get her wish. In her mind the new baby would be her little brother, period. Not only would it be a boy but he would be named after her small companion, Little Joe. Now the story gets a little confusing, since the little boy wasn't named Joe at all. He was named Vic. However, his father was named Joe and my sister in her pig-headed way refused to call the son anything but "Little Joe". As a testament to her diligence, everyone accepted that to her he was "Little Joe". The wonder is that he did grow up known by his real name.
As the time for my appearance drew near, Mama tried and tried to convince my sister that I might be a sister not a brother. Names were discussed but all were over-ridden by shouts of "No! Little Joe!" If you have ever tried to discuss anything rationally with a distraught five-year old, you can imagine their frustration. Soon everyone was praying for a little boy.
Naturally, when I arrived I was not a boy. My mother looked into the radiant face of her older daughter as she beamed at her "Little Joe" and named me Sallie Jo, in capitulation. To this day I am known in the family as Jo.
So, Vic, thanks for letting me have your name. (and you can thank me for getting you off the hook as her target for mothering and smothering.)
My mother had a best friend that she shared everything with. The two women had been friends since childhood and remained boon companions until my mother's death. When they married, the friendship only expanded to include husbands and children. We grew up spending as much time in one house as the other. At the time my mother became pregnant with me, both of the women had one child. My mother had a girl and her friend a son a couple of years younger. My sister was always a motherly child and loved supervising and probably tormenting the little boy with her smothering.
My sister was delighted with the coming baby, but adamant that it would be a boy. Nothing that they could do would convince her that she might not get her wish. In her mind the new baby would be her little brother, period. Not only would it be a boy but he would be named after her small companion, Little Joe. Now the story gets a little confusing, since the little boy wasn't named Joe at all. He was named Vic. However, his father was named Joe and my sister in her pig-headed way refused to call the son anything but "Little Joe". As a testament to her diligence, everyone accepted that to her he was "Little Joe". The wonder is that he did grow up known by his real name.
As the time for my appearance drew near, Mama tried and tried to convince my sister that I might be a sister not a brother. Names were discussed but all were over-ridden by shouts of "No! Little Joe!" If you have ever tried to discuss anything rationally with a distraught five-year old, you can imagine their frustration. Soon everyone was praying for a little boy.
Naturally, when I arrived I was not a boy. My mother looked into the radiant face of her older daughter as she beamed at her "Little Joe" and named me Sallie Jo, in capitulation. To this day I am known in the family as Jo.
So, Vic, thanks for letting me have your name. (and you can thank me for getting you off the hook as her target for mothering and smothering.)
Friday, January 13, 2012
Snake
I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else. Sometimes that's a really good thing and sometimes it can be awful!
When I was in about the 3rd grade, I was my daddy's constant companion. I was a total tomboy and loved nothing better than taking to the woods and creeks with him. We were out one day checking some "trot" lines he had set in the creek. (These are baited hooks that are left to snag fish or turtles. You set them and then come back and check to see what you have caught later. I have no idea if they were legal, probably weren't.) We were walking down the creek with me wading in the shallow water when my dad pointed out a small water snake. I wasn't about to admit fear of anything so I expressed complete interest. He decided to show me how to catch them with a small forked stick. You slipped up on the snake, put the fork of the stick behind his head to hold him down, then gently picked him up by the neck. (do snakes have necks?) In short order we had caught three snakes which we put in a gallon jar found nearby.
I proudly took the snakes home to show my mother. She was less than impressed although she bravely admired them. I proclaimed my intention of taking them to "show and tell" at school tomorrow. That was a splendid idea she confirmed but they absolutely, positively were NOT staying in her house over night (even with a lid on the jar). A compromise was reached where the snakes spent the night on the old brick grill in the back of the yard. (I have never confessed my relief that they were removed or the fact that I had nightmares about snakes all night!)
The next morning I loaded up my jar of snakes and headed off to school. We lived less than two blocks from school, but this morning my dad dropped me off so I wouldn't have to lug the jar. It was a glorious morning for a kid. My teacher was very surprised and tolerant of my contribution to show and tell. I even received the honor of getting to take my exhibit to the other classrooms and show them my snakes. My chest swelled with pride as I held up my jar and explained about their collection.
We returned to my class and I set the jar on the corner of the teachers desk. "Oh! No!" she exclaimed, slightly flustered, "We don't have the facilities to care for your snakes. You need to take them home!" (In those days, if you lived close, it wasn't uncommon to be sent home to retrieve forgotten papers, lunches, or whatever. So she had no hesitation in making this demand and meaning it to happen immediately.) With that she hustled me out the door and told me to hurry back after I had delivered the snakes home.
I slowly walked out of the school grounds, thinking hard. I knew, with a kid's unerring instinct, that taking the snakes home was not going be a popular decision with my mother. In fact I was reasonably sure it was going to be highly unpopular in the extreme. I also knew, from the look on my teacher's face, that taking them back to school was also not going to be a possibility. However, I had to do something with them. I couldn't just walk around carrying them. I did have to return to school at a reasonable time or they would send Mrs. Montgomery to hunt me. (A fate worse than death since she was the much feared principal.)
So feet dragging I headed in the only direction I could, toward home. About half way home, thinking furiously, I came to a neighbor's drive. Along the drive was a large clump of ornamental grass, thick and taller than a small child. I stopped and stared at them for a long moment then reached as far as I could into the dense growth and deposited the jar. The leaves immediately hid the jar from view. The problem was solved, so I turned and retraced my steps to school, mission accomplished.
All was good until my mother came home from work that afternoon. She rounded the corner onto our street to be faced with the neighbor standing in the road at the end of his drive waiting for her. He waved his hands frantically for her to pull over. "Do you know what your kid has done?", he demanded. My mother probably started easing her foot off the brake before he finished his lament. "I watched her put something in my grasses so I came out to see what it was. I have spent all afternoon putting everything I have in the garage in that jar trying to kill the things and they JUST WON'T DIE!!!!!" He was fairly dancing with frustration and distress. "Here you take them!!" with that he thrust the jar at the window of the car. Before he could deposit them in the window she drove off calling "I'll take care of it right away!"
That night my dad and I went to the neighbors, removing the snakes and apologizing profusely. I think my mother blamed both of us equally for the embarrassment. I know we never hunted snakes again.
The neighbor finally forgave us, but until his dying day never referred to me by any name but Snake. Even at my wedding he congratulated my bewildered new husband saying, "Best wishes to you and Snake."
My new family wasn't much reassured by the explanation of the name.
When I was in about the 3rd grade, I was my daddy's constant companion. I was a total tomboy and loved nothing better than taking to the woods and creeks with him. We were out one day checking some "trot" lines he had set in the creek. (These are baited hooks that are left to snag fish or turtles. You set them and then come back and check to see what you have caught later. I have no idea if they were legal, probably weren't.) We were walking down the creek with me wading in the shallow water when my dad pointed out a small water snake. I wasn't about to admit fear of anything so I expressed complete interest. He decided to show me how to catch them with a small forked stick. You slipped up on the snake, put the fork of the stick behind his head to hold him down, then gently picked him up by the neck. (do snakes have necks?) In short order we had caught three snakes which we put in a gallon jar found nearby.
I proudly took the snakes home to show my mother. She was less than impressed although she bravely admired them. I proclaimed my intention of taking them to "show and tell" at school tomorrow. That was a splendid idea she confirmed but they absolutely, positively were NOT staying in her house over night (even with a lid on the jar). A compromise was reached where the snakes spent the night on the old brick grill in the back of the yard. (I have never confessed my relief that they were removed or the fact that I had nightmares about snakes all night!)
The next morning I loaded up my jar of snakes and headed off to school. We lived less than two blocks from school, but this morning my dad dropped me off so I wouldn't have to lug the jar. It was a glorious morning for a kid. My teacher was very surprised and tolerant of my contribution to show and tell. I even received the honor of getting to take my exhibit to the other classrooms and show them my snakes. My chest swelled with pride as I held up my jar and explained about their collection.
We returned to my class and I set the jar on the corner of the teachers desk. "Oh! No!" she exclaimed, slightly flustered, "We don't have the facilities to care for your snakes. You need to take them home!" (In those days, if you lived close, it wasn't uncommon to be sent home to retrieve forgotten papers, lunches, or whatever. So she had no hesitation in making this demand and meaning it to happen immediately.) With that she hustled me out the door and told me to hurry back after I had delivered the snakes home.
I slowly walked out of the school grounds, thinking hard. I knew, with a kid's unerring instinct, that taking the snakes home was not going be a popular decision with my mother. In fact I was reasonably sure it was going to be highly unpopular in the extreme. I also knew, from the look on my teacher's face, that taking them back to school was also not going to be a possibility. However, I had to do something with them. I couldn't just walk around carrying them. I did have to return to school at a reasonable time or they would send Mrs. Montgomery to hunt me. (A fate worse than death since she was the much feared principal.)
So feet dragging I headed in the only direction I could, toward home. About half way home, thinking furiously, I came to a neighbor's drive. Along the drive was a large clump of ornamental grass, thick and taller than a small child. I stopped and stared at them for a long moment then reached as far as I could into the dense growth and deposited the jar. The leaves immediately hid the jar from view. The problem was solved, so I turned and retraced my steps to school, mission accomplished.
All was good until my mother came home from work that afternoon. She rounded the corner onto our street to be faced with the neighbor standing in the road at the end of his drive waiting for her. He waved his hands frantically for her to pull over. "Do you know what your kid has done?", he demanded. My mother probably started easing her foot off the brake before he finished his lament. "I watched her put something in my grasses so I came out to see what it was. I have spent all afternoon putting everything I have in the garage in that jar trying to kill the things and they JUST WON'T DIE!!!!!" He was fairly dancing with frustration and distress. "Here you take them!!" with that he thrust the jar at the window of the car. Before he could deposit them in the window she drove off calling "I'll take care of it right away!"
That night my dad and I went to the neighbors, removing the snakes and apologizing profusely. I think my mother blamed both of us equally for the embarrassment. I know we never hunted snakes again.
The neighbor finally forgave us, but until his dying day never referred to me by any name but Snake. Even at my wedding he congratulated my bewildered new husband saying, "Best wishes to you and Snake."
My new family wasn't much reassured by the explanation of the name.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Beer Buddies
Today is my son's 38th birthday. I can't remember a time when we didn't enjoy our children. Even when we were about to pull our hair out with their antics we always found something to laugh about. Raising kids is a lot like zip-lining; part totally terrifying and part unbelievably exhilarating. I wouldn't have missed the ride for the world.
If children were fun, having adult children is even better. Not only do you meet on the common ground of adulthood but you also have a shared background and memories. Sometimes the memories are a little skewed depending on who is remembering. I recall one Christmas when we were all sitting around relaxing (it must have been before grandkids) and the kids got to telling stories about their teen years. The stories got bigger and better and suddenly I realized that all the time I thought I had been wisely guiding them through the dangers of growing up they had been dealing with pitfalls and adventures that I hadn't even known about! Just shows your children can always surprise you.
Sometimes it's the other way around. Several years ago my son was dealing with some of life's adversities in a mid-western state. Due to his job and my chemo treatments we weren't able to visit one another much during this period (thank goodness for phones). As soon as I could, I flew out to spend some time with him. It had been a typical trip with layovers in airports, late arrivals and little rest or food. After a 45 minute drive from the airport we finally arrived at his house about 11:30 pm. My son deposited my luggage then stood looking into the refrigerator at his meager collection of ketchup bottles and beer. "Umm...could I get you something?" he inquired with hesitation. I laughed and said "I would kill for a beer". With a grin he snagged two and we started talking. Three hours later he looked at me with amazement and said, "I would never have believed that I could be sitting here at 1:30 in the morning having a great time and drinking beer with my mother!!"
See, all the trials and tribulations of raising children are worth it. You finally get to have fun with them!!
If children were fun, having adult children is even better. Not only do you meet on the common ground of adulthood but you also have a shared background and memories. Sometimes the memories are a little skewed depending on who is remembering. I recall one Christmas when we were all sitting around relaxing (it must have been before grandkids) and the kids got to telling stories about their teen years. The stories got bigger and better and suddenly I realized that all the time I thought I had been wisely guiding them through the dangers of growing up they had been dealing with pitfalls and adventures that I hadn't even known about! Just shows your children can always surprise you.
Sometimes it's the other way around. Several years ago my son was dealing with some of life's adversities in a mid-western state. Due to his job and my chemo treatments we weren't able to visit one another much during this period (thank goodness for phones). As soon as I could, I flew out to spend some time with him. It had been a typical trip with layovers in airports, late arrivals and little rest or food. After a 45 minute drive from the airport we finally arrived at his house about 11:30 pm. My son deposited my luggage then stood looking into the refrigerator at his meager collection of ketchup bottles and beer. "Umm...could I get you something?" he inquired with hesitation. I laughed and said "I would kill for a beer". With a grin he snagged two and we started talking. Three hours later he looked at me with amazement and said, "I would never have believed that I could be sitting here at 1:30 in the morning having a great time and drinking beer with my mother!!"
See, all the trials and tribulations of raising children are worth it. You finally get to have fun with them!!
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Conference Calls
I have the privilege of serving on the board of a group of faith based nursing homes. One of the best "perks" has been getting to know the other board members, a group of caring, concerned, articulate, intelligent and savvy people. They represent a wide range of backgrounds including doctors, nurses, CPA's, CFO's, lawyers, accountants and other professionals. I'm not sure why I am on the board, but I think I may represent the common man. My main contribution sometimes is just a little common sense.
Over the past few months we have been dealing with a difficult time with one of our larger and oldest nursing home. This has led to several called meetings of the board via conference calls. Everyone is notified ahead of time and all the busy professionals carefully clear their calendars and instruct their secretaries (professional assistants) to "hold all calls". I, too, notify everyone that on this date and time I will be "unavailable". It doesn't work too well for me.
It seems that having Grandma "unavailable" means that all hell is about to break loose. You see every time I clear the house for my important call, the house seems to fill up with kids and disasters. One call took place on the day I had all the family for Christmas. It was the Tuesday after Christmas and most normal people were working in quiet offices. As the time approached for the call I gathered up my papers and went upstairs and closed myself up in an upstairs bedroom. Quiet enveloped me as the Christmas festivities with all six grandchildren reigned downstairs. I called in and as we waited for the meeting to begin some of the board members on line commented that for once I seemed to have everything under control.
The meeting began peacefully enough then suddenly the door to the bedroom burst open. "You can't have that!" "I had it first!" "Don't let that cat loose!" "GRAB HER!!" With that four little bodies hit the bed chasing a yellow blur that streaked past my face. The cat banked off the dresser and dove for the closet. Two of the grandkids went headfirst into the closet the other two headed for the door the cut off the cat's escape in that direction. Muffled grunts and thumps were heard, then a triumphant procession of cat and kids marched out of the room.
Stunned silence issued from the phone. "uh...are you ok?" inquired the chairman. "Yes." I replied. "We just had a hostile takeover that has been settled by a decision to cooperate in the achievement of joint gains. The goal was accomplished and all parties are unified through a successful venture."
I wonder if they will even let me know of the next meeting.
Over the past few months we have been dealing with a difficult time with one of our larger and oldest nursing home. This has led to several called meetings of the board via conference calls. Everyone is notified ahead of time and all the busy professionals carefully clear their calendars and instruct their secretaries (professional assistants) to "hold all calls". I, too, notify everyone that on this date and time I will be "unavailable". It doesn't work too well for me.
It seems that having Grandma "unavailable" means that all hell is about to break loose. You see every time I clear the house for my important call, the house seems to fill up with kids and disasters. One call took place on the day I had all the family for Christmas. It was the Tuesday after Christmas and most normal people were working in quiet offices. As the time approached for the call I gathered up my papers and went upstairs and closed myself up in an upstairs bedroom. Quiet enveloped me as the Christmas festivities with all six grandchildren reigned downstairs. I called in and as we waited for the meeting to begin some of the board members on line commented that for once I seemed to have everything under control.
The meeting began peacefully enough then suddenly the door to the bedroom burst open. "You can't have that!" "I had it first!" "Don't let that cat loose!" "GRAB HER!!" With that four little bodies hit the bed chasing a yellow blur that streaked past my face. The cat banked off the dresser and dove for the closet. Two of the grandkids went headfirst into the closet the other two headed for the door the cut off the cat's escape in that direction. Muffled grunts and thumps were heard, then a triumphant procession of cat and kids marched out of the room.
Stunned silence issued from the phone. "uh...are you ok?" inquired the chairman. "Yes." I replied. "We just had a hostile takeover that has been settled by a decision to cooperate in the achievement of joint gains. The goal was accomplished and all parties are unified through a successful venture."
I wonder if they will even let me know of the next meeting.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Christmas Adventures
Christmas is over and everything is beginning to settle back down to normal, whatever that is. I can honestly say this was a big Christmas for us.
Our Christmas celebration officially began with all of hubby's brother's family gathering at our house for fellowship then going to Christmas Eve services at church. We all had a ball watching the little second cousins getting to know each other. With ages ranging from 6 months to 5 years the six little cousins had a wonderful time chasing each other up and down the stairs, in and out of the kitchen, around the dining room table and through the sun room. Most of the adults just tried to keep from being bowled over. The lone fourteen year old wisely entertained himself with a game. (When he wasn't eating or listening to tall tales. A teenager learns quickly that by being quiet he can learn many fascinating stories about the adults he thought were supposed to be "perfect".)
Christmas morning was spent with the four grandsons in a sea of wrapping paper, ribbon, boxes and presents. I'm not sure I ever figured out how to operate the remote controlled car.
Then my daughter and her family arrived home the day after Christmas and we started it all over again. Again it was the kids (five under six years old) that provided the entertainment. At some point during the aftermath of opening presents, the 3-yr. old granddaughter and the 5 yr. old grandson wound up in the bathroom together. Suddenly the little girl bursts out of the bathroom frantically yelling for her mother. "My feet are getting wet!!". Sure enough they had somehow managed to cause the toilet to overflow and water was rapidly covering the floor. I ran for the bathroom sticking my head in the bedroom on my way past, yelling for hubby to come. My son and I hit the disaster area about the same time. Fortunately, it wasn't a "nasty" overflow but clean water. Son manned the plunger while I grabbed the water cut-off. Fortunately, a little mopping, a couple of wet rugs removed and we were back in business. (We may never know what they tried to flush!) Hubby then appears and wonders what the excitement is.......
The next adventure came a day or so later when the kids were enjoying the mild weather and playing outside. (You'd think I would learn.) Soon here they all came stampeding for the house. This time all the adults were in the house watching the Univ. of Ky - Univ. of Louisville basketball game. (a major rivalry and much anticipated game). My daughter took one look at the problem and yelled for her brother. "This one is all yours". It seems that the three year old grandson had found some used oil in the barn. Of course he had to stick his hand in it, then he wiped his head. When he realized his problem he tried to fix it by wiping his hands on his jeans. In short he was covered with black, sticky oil. The second quarter of the game was spent in the bathroom scrubbing and discussing all the reasons you shouldn't play in the nasty oil. Fortunately, grandma keeps extra clothes, so soon all was well.
The "herd" went back to playing and the adults returned to watching the game.
Before long I turned from the sink to realize I was surrounded by pleading eyes. The five year old grandson plucked at my arm and whispered "You've got to come now. He needs clean jeans and socks. Come now!" I quickly counted heads and realized that the 3 yr. old was missing. "What's wrong?" I questioned, "why does he need clean clothes?". Again pleading eyes and insistent tugs. "Just come now!!" So I followed the pack of kids back upstairs to discover an embarrassed little boy, standing with his head down and no clothes on. It seems he had had an "accident" in his pants and in the process of trying to clean himself up had managed to smear it on all his clothes.
His little face turned up to me beseechingly, "Please don't tell my dad. I don't want him to scrub me again." I had to laugh. I guess the process of removing the sticky oil had not been too pleasant. I hugged him (very carefully) and assured him that I could take care of this myself.
It's a good thing that there weren't any more adventures. I was about out of clean clothes!
Our Christmas celebration officially began with all of hubby's brother's family gathering at our house for fellowship then going to Christmas Eve services at church. We all had a ball watching the little second cousins getting to know each other. With ages ranging from 6 months to 5 years the six little cousins had a wonderful time chasing each other up and down the stairs, in and out of the kitchen, around the dining room table and through the sun room. Most of the adults just tried to keep from being bowled over. The lone fourteen year old wisely entertained himself with a game. (When he wasn't eating or listening to tall tales. A teenager learns quickly that by being quiet he can learn many fascinating stories about the adults he thought were supposed to be "perfect".)
Christmas morning was spent with the four grandsons in a sea of wrapping paper, ribbon, boxes and presents. I'm not sure I ever figured out how to operate the remote controlled car.
Then my daughter and her family arrived home the day after Christmas and we started it all over again. Again it was the kids (five under six years old) that provided the entertainment. At some point during the aftermath of opening presents, the 3-yr. old granddaughter and the 5 yr. old grandson wound up in the bathroom together. Suddenly the little girl bursts out of the bathroom frantically yelling for her mother. "My feet are getting wet!!". Sure enough they had somehow managed to cause the toilet to overflow and water was rapidly covering the floor. I ran for the bathroom sticking my head in the bedroom on my way past, yelling for hubby to come. My son and I hit the disaster area about the same time. Fortunately, it wasn't a "nasty" overflow but clean water. Son manned the plunger while I grabbed the water cut-off. Fortunately, a little mopping, a couple of wet rugs removed and we were back in business. (We may never know what they tried to flush!) Hubby then appears and wonders what the excitement is.......
The next adventure came a day or so later when the kids were enjoying the mild weather and playing outside. (You'd think I would learn.) Soon here they all came stampeding for the house. This time all the adults were in the house watching the Univ. of Ky - Univ. of Louisville basketball game. (a major rivalry and much anticipated game). My daughter took one look at the problem and yelled for her brother. "This one is all yours". It seems that the three year old grandson had found some used oil in the barn. Of course he had to stick his hand in it, then he wiped his head. When he realized his problem he tried to fix it by wiping his hands on his jeans. In short he was covered with black, sticky oil. The second quarter of the game was spent in the bathroom scrubbing and discussing all the reasons you shouldn't play in the nasty oil. Fortunately, grandma keeps extra clothes, so soon all was well.
The "herd" went back to playing and the adults returned to watching the game.
Before long I turned from the sink to realize I was surrounded by pleading eyes. The five year old grandson plucked at my arm and whispered "You've got to come now. He needs clean jeans and socks. Come now!" I quickly counted heads and realized that the 3 yr. old was missing. "What's wrong?" I questioned, "why does he need clean clothes?". Again pleading eyes and insistent tugs. "Just come now!!" So I followed the pack of kids back upstairs to discover an embarrassed little boy, standing with his head down and no clothes on. It seems he had had an "accident" in his pants and in the process of trying to clean himself up had managed to smear it on all his clothes.
His little face turned up to me beseechingly, "Please don't tell my dad. I don't want him to scrub me again." I had to laugh. I guess the process of removing the sticky oil had not been too pleasant. I hugged him (very carefully) and assured him that I could take care of this myself.
It's a good thing that there weren't any more adventures. I was about out of clean clothes!
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