This July proved to be the hottest on record for Kentucky. We had ten (plus) days that the temperature soared to over a hundred degrees. However, as we suffered along in the heat, we learned a few things.
Rain smells delicious even when it's on your neighbor's field.
Rainbows can happen without a drop of rain hitting the ground.
If you hang clothes out on the line at 100 degrees they will dry before the next load is finished washing. Dryers will take a lot longer!
Air conditioned cab tractors take a load of stress off of farm wives.
Over the years I have treated a lot of sunburns from cutting hay in the heat, not to mention the worry of whether they will get heat stoke from riding around with no cover. Countless times I have stood in the hayfield with a cooler of water or lemonade, making them stop and take a break. Each summer I would stock the tractors with bottles of sunscreen, so there were no excuses not to use it. Yep, these fancy air conditioned cab tractors cost a lot, but they are worth it from my standpoint. (Plus, the grandkids can ride safely in their "buddy seat")
Kids just don't feel the heat like us old people. They will run and play when we are wilted down.
There still isn't anything more fun than playing with an umbrella during a summer shower.
Grass will manage to green up before the raindrops dry on the blades.
The bugs in the garden didn't like the heat any more than we did. I had cucumbers and squash longer than I can ever remember. The striped cucumber beetle that spreads the fungus that wilts all the vines didn't make his appearance until way late. Smart bug. Of course, the bees and butterflies that help to pollinate the beans weren't as active either, so the bean crop is lighter.
A water hose can't be beat for entertainment on a hot summer afternoon.
Everything is relevant, 90 degrees can actually sound cool.
Daylight Savings Time has eliminated the summer evening activities that we knew.
Back in the day, work ended at dusk, but that was still a couple of hours before bedtime. So on hot evenings folks would sit on the porch, catch up on the day, snap a bean or two, watch the kids catch lightning bugs, or referee a game of hide and seek or kick the can. With daylight saving time, dusk comes at bedtime, if not after. Most kids don't even see lightning bugs because they are already in the house getting ready for bed when they come out. Games of hide and seek and kick the can, are best played after dark, but most kids can't stay up that late to play. The adults tend to work until dark, then we are exhausted and just fall into bed. I hate daylight savings time, even though it is the savior of the part-time farmer. Hubby can get home at 5 pm and manage to get in five hours on the farm every night. It helps him get his work done, but it sure makes a tired hubby.
It's been a long, hot summer--and certainly educational.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Saturday, August 18, 2012
The Fishing Hole
Spending time with grandparents creates memories that will last a lifetime. Unfortunately, sometimes you wish they wouldn't last quite so long.
The grandsons have discovered the lure of the creek. There is something about the cool, shady running water that draws kids like a magnet. Our little creek, which sometimes dries up in drought times, has run happily all summer thanks to a big lake that was built upstream. The lake, which is large and beautiful, leaks, which keeps a steady flow of water trickling into the creek bed. Our son has helped this along, since the neighbor has allowed him to open the dam a little when he needs to water tobacco. Thank you good neighbor! Along with the water has come a steady trickle of fish, some big enough to catch.
They have been setting a minnow trap for some time to put fish in our little pond behind the barn. Now, they have added the excitement of fishing to their trips to check the minnow trap. One hot day, they talked their grandfather into accompanying them on their trip. The three boys and hubby set off happily with fishing rods over their shoulders. (Think Opie and Andy here times three)
First order of business was to check the minnow trap and rebait it with some bread pilfered from my kitchen. The minnows were transferred to a minnow bucket and placed in the shallows for later. Thank goodness, no snakes had joined the minnows this time. Then they decided on which spot they would use for their fishing. A good shady hole was found and they begin to get their poles ready.
Now anyone who has ever fished with a four year old and a six year old, knows that the only fishing done will be by them. Your job as supervising adult is to bait hooks, remove fish (hopefully), untangle lines, and keep the little ones from hooking you or each other. Believe me it's a full time job. Which is why I volunteered to stay at the house and the fourteen old removed himself up the creek.
Hubby had things pretty much under control when the six year old hooked a branch in a wild cast. With a sigh of resignation, hubby began to tug on the line hoping to loosen the hook. He walked his way and that up and down the bank trying to dislodge the tangled line. No luck. He decided that he could work it loose if he changed the angle of attack, so he stepped onto a rock just out from the creek bank. It was working...just one more little tug. The rock shifted and the inevitable happened. Hubby went ass over teakettle into the creek. Naturally, the boys thought it was hysterically funny. Hubby didn't. I suspect their vocabulary grew with a few more words that will cause their teachers to write notes home.
Dignity injured but otherwise unhurt, hubby declared the fishing trip ended. When they arrived at the back porch hubby looked a lot like I'm used to seeing the boys, muddy from head to toe and water squishing out of his shoes. He started for the house, but I was ready for him. "Not on your life, bud." I laughed. "You get to change outside just like the little boys do." Looking down at his muddy clothes he shook his head and started stripping.
Boy, it's a good thing we live in the country!
The grandsons have discovered the lure of the creek. There is something about the cool, shady running water that draws kids like a magnet. Our little creek, which sometimes dries up in drought times, has run happily all summer thanks to a big lake that was built upstream. The lake, which is large and beautiful, leaks, which keeps a steady flow of water trickling into the creek bed. Our son has helped this along, since the neighbor has allowed him to open the dam a little when he needs to water tobacco. Thank you good neighbor! Along with the water has come a steady trickle of fish, some big enough to catch.
They have been setting a minnow trap for some time to put fish in our little pond behind the barn. Now, they have added the excitement of fishing to their trips to check the minnow trap. One hot day, they talked their grandfather into accompanying them on their trip. The three boys and hubby set off happily with fishing rods over their shoulders. (Think Opie and Andy here times three)
First order of business was to check the minnow trap and rebait it with some bread pilfered from my kitchen. The minnows were transferred to a minnow bucket and placed in the shallows for later. Thank goodness, no snakes had joined the minnows this time. Then they decided on which spot they would use for their fishing. A good shady hole was found and they begin to get their poles ready.
Now anyone who has ever fished with a four year old and a six year old, knows that the only fishing done will be by them. Your job as supervising adult is to bait hooks, remove fish (hopefully), untangle lines, and keep the little ones from hooking you or each other. Believe me it's a full time job. Which is why I volunteered to stay at the house and the fourteen old removed himself up the creek.
Hubby had things pretty much under control when the six year old hooked a branch in a wild cast. With a sigh of resignation, hubby began to tug on the line hoping to loosen the hook. He walked his way and that up and down the bank trying to dislodge the tangled line. No luck. He decided that he could work it loose if he changed the angle of attack, so he stepped onto a rock just out from the creek bank. It was working...just one more little tug. The rock shifted and the inevitable happened. Hubby went ass over teakettle into the creek. Naturally, the boys thought it was hysterically funny. Hubby didn't. I suspect their vocabulary grew with a few more words that will cause their teachers to write notes home.
Dignity injured but otherwise unhurt, hubby declared the fishing trip ended. When they arrived at the back porch hubby looked a lot like I'm used to seeing the boys, muddy from head to toe and water squishing out of his shoes. He started for the house, but I was ready for him. "Not on your life, bud." I laughed. "You get to change outside just like the little boys do." Looking down at his muddy clothes he shook his head and started stripping.
Boy, it's a good thing we live in the country!
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Raising Kids
This morning I read an article on "helicopter parents". That is, parents that hover over and around their children, solving every problem, providing every reminder, supplying accolades and criticism, well into adulthood. It reminded me that with the job of parenting there are no text books, strict rules, or perfect answers. We all do the best we can and pray that somehow we manage to raise children that aren't too warped. We certainly didn't do everything perfectly (especially in our kids eyes) but one thing we did do was enjoy the process and have fun.
We tried to prepare our children for the fact that when they left home they would be on their own. We didn't have cell phones for constant texting and calling, but they knew that we would always answer the land line if they called. This being said, there were lots in our family that thought I would probably go to college with my daughter. We were close with both our children, but my son, being more like me, was also more likely to butt heads with me. He also knew all the right buttons to push to make me go ballistic, and delighted in watching the show. My daughter, being more like my husband, knew exactly how to get what she wanted by being extra nice, by the age of two.
As she grew older, she developed a charming personality, quick laugh, wicked sense of humor and was direct to a fault. She became my favorite shopping companion because she was the only one who would walk off and leave me in a sea of purses examining every pocket, zipper, size and color for the "perfect one". Knowing, full well, that at the end of my wallowing, I would probably talk myself out of buying one. She also understood my compulsion to try on twenty things to find one that "fit". (She on the other hand buys by style because they all fit perfectly!)
After her wreck, I became the one who sat with her through hours of daytime television--a true test of motherly devotion--while she healed and regained her independence. When she returned to college that fall, hubby was pretty sure I would sleep by her bed, like a faithful dog. Not me--I knew she would kick me out like a smelly old hound.
The problem with raising independent children is that they want to be independent! That doesn't mean that they don't want your approval, love, support and cheers, but they want to live life on their own. It isn't an easy process but it is rewarding. All we can do as parents is stand back and be ready to encourage and console. The good news is that, as I've told my kids, "When you are 75 and I'm 99, I will still be your mom and can tell you what I think you should do!" Maybe they'll listen then.
We tried to prepare our children for the fact that when they left home they would be on their own. We didn't have cell phones for constant texting and calling, but they knew that we would always answer the land line if they called. This being said, there were lots in our family that thought I would probably go to college with my daughter. We were close with both our children, but my son, being more like me, was also more likely to butt heads with me. He also knew all the right buttons to push to make me go ballistic, and delighted in watching the show. My daughter, being more like my husband, knew exactly how to get what she wanted by being extra nice, by the age of two.
As she grew older, she developed a charming personality, quick laugh, wicked sense of humor and was direct to a fault. She became my favorite shopping companion because she was the only one who would walk off and leave me in a sea of purses examining every pocket, zipper, size and color for the "perfect one". Knowing, full well, that at the end of my wallowing, I would probably talk myself out of buying one. She also understood my compulsion to try on twenty things to find one that "fit". (She on the other hand buys by style because they all fit perfectly!)
After her wreck, I became the one who sat with her through hours of daytime television--a true test of motherly devotion--while she healed and regained her independence. When she returned to college that fall, hubby was pretty sure I would sleep by her bed, like a faithful dog. Not me--I knew she would kick me out like a smelly old hound.
The problem with raising independent children is that they want to be independent! That doesn't mean that they don't want your approval, love, support and cheers, but they want to live life on their own. It isn't an easy process but it is rewarding. All we can do as parents is stand back and be ready to encourage and console. The good news is that, as I've told my kids, "When you are 75 and I'm 99, I will still be your mom and can tell you what I think you should do!" Maybe they'll listen then.
Monday, August 13, 2012
The Old Yellow Tom
Sometimes in spite of yourself you find an attachment growing with the most unlikely animals.
Several months ago we discovered an addition to the barn cats. It wasn't hard to spot since all my cats are black and white. We would notice a flash of orange flitter through the rafters or see a whiskered face peeking out of a pile of buckets. I wasn't too impressed since I figured it would be a female cat that would promptly produce a litter of kittens. I long since had decided that the cost of spaying and neutering cats was less than feeding litter after litter of kittens. My barn cats now consist of four neutered toms, which suits me fine. Hubby just shrugged and put out a little more cat food.
Soon the oldest grandson had gotten into the mix. He began a campaign to entice the animal out and tame it. He would patiently wait by the feed pan until the cat would begin to creep closer and closer. Soon the cat became accustomed to the boy and would wait until the other cats had finished and slither into the feed room. After a while he would come out from behind the feed sacks and approach the cat food. It wasn't long after that he announced that I didn't have to worry about kittens since this was a "gen-u-wine" tom cat!
His battle worn appearance indicated that the old tom had obviously survived his share of barn confrontations. I wondered if there would be fights between my docile old toms and this newcomer. I didn't have to worry. They didn't like him but they did give him lots of space. A wary sort of truce was declared between him and the rest of the residents.
Little by little the old yellow tom became a fixture in the barn. After a while he quit sprinting away when anyone approached, instead he would just slide out of reach. With unbelievable patience the grandson cultivated a friendship with the battle scared old cat. Before long he could slowly reach out a hand and scratch him gently between the ears. His efforts were rewarded with a rusty grumble that he slowly realized was a purr of contentment. There the friendship stopped. Any move to come closer resulted in the old tom removing himself out of reach.
One day the grandson came galloping up from the barn with the news that the old tom was hurt. "Come quick, we've got to do something!" I followed him back to the barn and surveyed the problem. The old cat was certainly chewed up. It looked like something had grabbed him across the back and he had escaped but with a substantial wound. The problem was, how do you catch him and stuff him in a crate to take to the vet. Then who is going to stick their hand in the crate to get him out. He wasn't that hurt! I shook my head and told my grandson that it was up to nature now. He would either get better or not, but there wasn't much we could do about it. Privately, I thought my cat problem would be solved in a few days.
Against all odds the old tom didn't die. His wounds looked nasty and he got thinner and thinner but he just kept hanging around. After a week or so we noticed that he had a toe that was swollen but he seemed to walk o.k. Time passed and his back would heal up, then break open again. His toe got bigger and bigger. He got thinner and thinner. Still the old guy just kept on living.
Sometime during this he decided to move to the back porch with the cat we call the "yard cat" since he prefers the yard and porch to the barn. The two old cats would lay around on the porch and wait for the dog to be fed. At that point they would snack on his food until he finally would woof them back to their lounging spots. Weeks passed and his condition seemed to improve but little. He's still thin and scrawny looking, his toe is still enormous, but his ability to endure is awe inspiring.
What has changed has been our attitude toward him. What started as an attitude of "maybe he'll just die" has slowly become "maybe he won't!" I've even started to try to pet him, which he tolerates for about 2 seconds then he moves away. His defiance of all the odds has brought about a grudging admiration of his grit. Ugly or not, I guess he's now our cat.
Several months ago we discovered an addition to the barn cats. It wasn't hard to spot since all my cats are black and white. We would notice a flash of orange flitter through the rafters or see a whiskered face peeking out of a pile of buckets. I wasn't too impressed since I figured it would be a female cat that would promptly produce a litter of kittens. I long since had decided that the cost of spaying and neutering cats was less than feeding litter after litter of kittens. My barn cats now consist of four neutered toms, which suits me fine. Hubby just shrugged and put out a little more cat food.
Soon the oldest grandson had gotten into the mix. He began a campaign to entice the animal out and tame it. He would patiently wait by the feed pan until the cat would begin to creep closer and closer. Soon the cat became accustomed to the boy and would wait until the other cats had finished and slither into the feed room. After a while he would come out from behind the feed sacks and approach the cat food. It wasn't long after that he announced that I didn't have to worry about kittens since this was a "gen-u-wine" tom cat!
His battle worn appearance indicated that the old tom had obviously survived his share of barn confrontations. I wondered if there would be fights between my docile old toms and this newcomer. I didn't have to worry. They didn't like him but they did give him lots of space. A wary sort of truce was declared between him and the rest of the residents.
Little by little the old yellow tom became a fixture in the barn. After a while he quit sprinting away when anyone approached, instead he would just slide out of reach. With unbelievable patience the grandson cultivated a friendship with the battle scared old cat. Before long he could slowly reach out a hand and scratch him gently between the ears. His efforts were rewarded with a rusty grumble that he slowly realized was a purr of contentment. There the friendship stopped. Any move to come closer resulted in the old tom removing himself out of reach.
One day the grandson came galloping up from the barn with the news that the old tom was hurt. "Come quick, we've got to do something!" I followed him back to the barn and surveyed the problem. The old cat was certainly chewed up. It looked like something had grabbed him across the back and he had escaped but with a substantial wound. The problem was, how do you catch him and stuff him in a crate to take to the vet. Then who is going to stick their hand in the crate to get him out. He wasn't that hurt! I shook my head and told my grandson that it was up to nature now. He would either get better or not, but there wasn't much we could do about it. Privately, I thought my cat problem would be solved in a few days.
Against all odds the old tom didn't die. His wounds looked nasty and he got thinner and thinner but he just kept hanging around. After a week or so we noticed that he had a toe that was swollen but he seemed to walk o.k. Time passed and his back would heal up, then break open again. His toe got bigger and bigger. He got thinner and thinner. Still the old guy just kept on living.
Sometime during this he decided to move to the back porch with the cat we call the "yard cat" since he prefers the yard and porch to the barn. The two old cats would lay around on the porch and wait for the dog to be fed. At that point they would snack on his food until he finally would woof them back to their lounging spots. Weeks passed and his condition seemed to improve but little. He's still thin and scrawny looking, his toe is still enormous, but his ability to endure is awe inspiring.
What has changed has been our attitude toward him. What started as an attitude of "maybe he'll just die" has slowly become "maybe he won't!" I've even started to try to pet him, which he tolerates for about 2 seconds then he moves away. His defiance of all the odds has brought about a grudging admiration of his grit. Ugly or not, I guess he's now our cat.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Shucking Corn
For once, getting out our garden late has paid off. The blazing hot temperatures of June and July have passed (although we're still in the 90's a lot) and the corn and green beans are beginning to produce. During the hot, hot time we noticed that we didn't see much insect damage. The cucumbers and squash managed to miss getting wilt from the striped cucumber beetle that passes the disease from plant to plant. The beans and corn, while not bug free, are in good shape. The downside to the lack of busy little insects is that the pollination from the bees is down too. That means less yield. However, with cooler temperatures and a little rain the bugs are coming back.
However, on Monday afternoon my son arrived at the house to mention that the garden corn was ready. They'd feasted on fresh corn while we were away for the week-end and pronounced it ready and delicious. (I rely on him to monitor it since I hate walking through the rows of close, hot corn and dodging the big yellow and black spiders!) I was overjoyed when he offered to pick it for me if I was ready to freeze it.
Early the next morning he arrived with his three boys (15, 6, and 4 years old) to begin picking. They trooped happily off to the garden with the two little boys trailing feed sacks to fill with the corn. Soon I could hear shouts of "look at this big one" and "is this one ready" followed by affirmation and negation from their dad. In short order they had finished what is a tedious and back breaking chore for me to finish alone. The sacks were dumped under the big maple tree and chairs, stools and buckets were dragged up to sit on. With that the shucking process began.
Shucking corn not only calls for the removal of the corn husks and silks but an opportunity for visiting and story telling. My son started it with "You remember the time that dad went crazy fertilizing the garden and we picked a mountain of corn?" As I gazed at the small hill of corn this drought stressed garden had yielded, I laughed and nodded. I remembered alright. It had been a hot summer day when the corn decided to be ready. (Corn all becomes ready at once, you pick it, freeze it, and then it is over. You have to enjoy it fast.) I corralled my son, a friend of his who was unlucky enough to be visiting and my daughter and marched them to the garden to pick corn. I cajoled, pleaded, bribed and teased to keep them picking until we had a mountain of corn taller than the kids piled under this same shade tree. Then we shucked for what seemed like forever. Then they were free and I got the job of cutting the kernels off and scraping the cobs for the freezer. I put up 75 pints that day, which is an all time high for me. One I really don't want to repeat.
In the middle of the story the youngest boy suddenly shouts, "Look! I've got a worm" "Let me see!" shouts the other scrambling through the pile of shucks to look. The oldest boy adds, "I'll bet that would be good for fishing." With that nothing would do but they had to have a container to put the corn worms in. Soon they were shucking with a fury to find more worms for fishing. In no time the corn was finished and all three boys were hurrying to the shop building to retrieve their fishing poles and head for the creek.
Who would have thought that those nasty corn worms, that I hate to find, would be my greatest incentive for my little work crew! I hope it works as well next year.
However, on Monday afternoon my son arrived at the house to mention that the garden corn was ready. They'd feasted on fresh corn while we were away for the week-end and pronounced it ready and delicious. (I rely on him to monitor it since I hate walking through the rows of close, hot corn and dodging the big yellow and black spiders!) I was overjoyed when he offered to pick it for me if I was ready to freeze it.
Early the next morning he arrived with his three boys (15, 6, and 4 years old) to begin picking. They trooped happily off to the garden with the two little boys trailing feed sacks to fill with the corn. Soon I could hear shouts of "look at this big one" and "is this one ready" followed by affirmation and negation from their dad. In short order they had finished what is a tedious and back breaking chore for me to finish alone. The sacks were dumped under the big maple tree and chairs, stools and buckets were dragged up to sit on. With that the shucking process began.
Shucking corn not only calls for the removal of the corn husks and silks but an opportunity for visiting and story telling. My son started it with "You remember the time that dad went crazy fertilizing the garden and we picked a mountain of corn?" As I gazed at the small hill of corn this drought stressed garden had yielded, I laughed and nodded. I remembered alright. It had been a hot summer day when the corn decided to be ready. (Corn all becomes ready at once, you pick it, freeze it, and then it is over. You have to enjoy it fast.) I corralled my son, a friend of his who was unlucky enough to be visiting and my daughter and marched them to the garden to pick corn. I cajoled, pleaded, bribed and teased to keep them picking until we had a mountain of corn taller than the kids piled under this same shade tree. Then we shucked for what seemed like forever. Then they were free and I got the job of cutting the kernels off and scraping the cobs for the freezer. I put up 75 pints that day, which is an all time high for me. One I really don't want to repeat.
In the middle of the story the youngest boy suddenly shouts, "Look! I've got a worm" "Let me see!" shouts the other scrambling through the pile of shucks to look. The oldest boy adds, "I'll bet that would be good for fishing." With that nothing would do but they had to have a container to put the corn worms in. Soon they were shucking with a fury to find more worms for fishing. In no time the corn was finished and all three boys were hurrying to the shop building to retrieve their fishing poles and head for the creek.
Who would have thought that those nasty corn worms, that I hate to find, would be my greatest incentive for my little work crew! I hope it works as well next year.
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