Pearl Harbor Day: A Day of Remembrance

Today is December 7.  It's a day that always stands out in my mind as Pearl Harbor Day.  I wasn't even born then but I was raised by the generation that lived through it.  In one day their safe, secure world was turned upside down.  I don't think any of them ever took their freedoms and secure lives for granted again.  They lived their lives in quiet thankfulness that the time of world war and endless battles was over.  Although American troops would fight again, (and still do) it never reached the global magnitude of "their" war again.  They instilled in us, as children, a deep respect for our military and the men and women that served and continue to serve our country.

A book I just finished reading provided me with thoughts on another side of that fateful war.  The book followed the plight of the thousands of Japanese-Americans who were interred in what were basically prisoner of war camps in America.  These immigrants had arrived in America for various reasons  from being forced labor during the late 1800's to looking for a new life in a free world.  Many were first generation Americans, speaking English with a strong accent, but also many were second and third generation Americans who had never seen Japan, spoken Japanese, or known anything but their American lives. 

In the aftermath of the vicious bombing of Pearl Harbor, Americans were afraid.  They no longer felt that their shores were safe from invasion.  They were afraid of being "attacked" from within.  How did they separate the "good" Japanese-Americans from those with subversive ties to Imperialist Japan?  The answer was, they didn't.  They treated them all as the enemy and gathered them up and put them in camps.  Horrible?  Yes.  Understandable?  Some.  We were at war, something most of us really can't comprehend now.  For these Americans (and they were as American as my Swiss immigrant relatives) the war was an entirely different time for them.  They spent the war not fighting for their country as many earnestly wished, but waiting behind fences for it to be over.

Things were no different for the thousands of German-Americans who suffered the same incarceration.  I wonder how my mother-in-law's parents felt when they read about the round-up of these German-Americans?  After all even though they were from Switzerland (the side bordering Germany), they still spoke the language of their youth, German.  Would their neighbors turn on them and demand that they be locked up?  I'm sure there were some anxious moments. 

What happened when the war was over?  The detainees went home.  No, not to the country of their ethnicity but the country of their hearts--their USA homes.  They returned to their old neighborhoods, regained their old professions and started their lives again.  Even with the hardships, they were and remained Americans. 

We are a multi-cultural and ethnic country.  Let us never forget that we are the greater for the total of our parts. 

Thanksgiving on the Farm

I love Thanksgiving.  It is the only holiday that doesn't have anything really attached to it but enjoying your family.  We don't go to parades, haul everything out for a picnic, hassle over presents...it's just about being with the ones you love.  Oh, did I mention that it is also a wonderful excuse to throw out every concept of correct eating and try to cram 364 days of missed calories,  forbidden fats and sinful sugars into one meal.  A friend recently quoted that the average Thanksgiving meal will have 3000-4500 calories.  I did my best.  If I didn't meet that goal it wasn't for lack of butter, cream, cream cheese, cheese, eggs and sugar.

Like most women who are hosting the annual feast, I leapt out of bed before daylight to get started on the turkey.  My son had lobbied mightily for something other than the traditional bird.  "You've always tried to make dinner a celebration of the bounty of our farm, so why turkey?  Let's do prime rib, we do, after all, raise beef."  I nodded, but reminded him that we no longer raise our own beef for the table, so that meant buying our beef along with everyone else at the grocery.  (I'm sorry to say that our shrinking family and growing waistlines mean that it just isn't economical for us to try to use a whole beef at a time.)  When he considered the cost of a rib roast for our crew (a price which doesn't really reflect the price that we get at the stockyards for our beef cattle), he decided that maybe he wouldn't be making a trip to the grocery for our dinner.  Besides, Hubby and I like turkey--especially the left overs.

While I studied my to do list, like Eisenhower planning D-Day, Hubby wandered through the kitchen. "I'm going to feed." he announced.  "How long before dinner?"  I glanced up from my studies and waved him out the door, "We are eating at 1:00, so you should have plenty of time."

 Farm wives should know better. 

The morning passed with a frenzy of cooking, tasting and basting. I was approaching the final countdown when Hubby stuck his head into the kitchen.  "When's lunch?  We've got one more chore to do if there is time."  "As long as it doesn't take long." I muttered as I shuffled casseroles from the counter to the oven.  "No problem.  We've just got a few calves we need to get up." 

Farm wives really should know better.

The guests started to arrive and the house was smelling a lot like a turkey dinner.  We all gathered around the counter in the kitchen, catching up on news and enjoying a glass of wine while everything finished up.  Finally someone asked where hubby was.  "Oh.  He's just finishing up a little chore.  He'll be here any minute." 

Farm wives really should know better.

Time passed and the casseroles went from the oven to the warming drawer and we all had another glass of wine. 

The appetizers disappeared and so did the bottle of wine.   No Hubby.

Just when I was beginning to wonder if we should go on and eat the kitchen door opens and Hubby appears.  It seems that he had just spent the last hour chasing three calves around the field trying to get them rounded up and penned.  That was after he had repaired the fence they had knocked down when they escaped from the first time he had penned them.  Tired, dirty and frustrated, he greeted his guests and disappeared to clean up. 

I opened another bottle of wine and checked the warming drawer. 

In a farm wife's life, an hour late for dinner is just about on time.

Farm wives really do know better.

Burning the Ranger

A couple of our friends have made the trip to Iowa to hunt pheasants on our daughter and son-in-law's farm.  The pheasants haven't been particularly plentiful, but the guys assured us that the purpose of the trip was more to spend some quality time with their dogs than the number of birds harvested.  We did warn them that Iowa was a bit notional about their weather.  The reports home included a few birds gotten and lots of miserable weather.  "Man!  It is COLD out here!",  reported one of the hunters.  "I've got on everything in my suitcase."  The only real problem was an ice storm that left the ground covered with sharp, ice-covered blades of grass.  This caused the dogs severe discomfort and earned them a night in the motel room with warm foot baths. 

The hunters treated my daughter's family to a dinner as a thank you for their hospitality.  Naturally enough, the conversation turned to the subject of her daddy and some of his more memorable escapades.  Hubby picked that time to call and was informed that they were having a wonderful time and had just finished telling the hunters about how he set fire to their new ranger.  "Oh, no" hubby moaned, "They'll rib me to death when they get home!"  He's right...it's too good a chance to pass up.

Hubby is a neat freak.  He just loves to tidy things up (on the farm, not so much in the house).  He likes everything put up and  picked up.  This includes fence-rows, ditches, blown down limbs,  and the various odds and ends of things that collect in barns and sheds.  His favorite method to get rid of these things is to burn them.  There is nearly always a pile of limbs, old pieces of lumber, brush, feed sacks, and so forth ready to burn somewhere on the farm.  The man just loves to light that pile and watch it burn.  We're used to him and just try to keep an eye on him so he doesn't burn up my favorite yard bench or the magazines I haven't gotten to read yet. 

We had made a trip to Iowa not long after our daughter married.  We were trying to help the young couple change their house from a bachelor camp to a home.  While I worked inside hubby was busy cleaning up the yard and taming some of the landscaping.  He was also enjoying playing with the brand new Polaris Ranger that my daughter had bought for her hubby for Valentine's day.  My hubby was loving how easy it handled and how fast it would go over all kinds of ground.  I could already see a new piece of equipment in our future.  Ever so often he would pop into the house and report on his progress with the yard and his excitement with the new ranger.

About mid-afternoon he made one of his pop-in visits that was a little different.  The first thing we noticed was a strong smell of burning, then we looked up and saw hubby standing in the door in a pair of scorched coveralls, a charred hat, and no eye-brows.  Jumping up in excitement we ran over with exclaims of concern.  "Are you alright? Are you burned? What happened?"

It seems that physically he was unharmed but he was more than a little mortified.  Bit by bit the story came out.  He had been cleaning up a sadly overgrown asparagus bed and decided that instead of just hauling off the load of old stems and brush, he would burn it and get rid of it for good.  He piled up a goodly amount and then went back for another load.  When he returned he lit the pile and watched it leap into life.  He then decided that he would drag the second load from the ranger bed onto the burning fire.  He didn't take into consideration the Iowa wind and the very combustible nature of his load.  The fire blew into the stems as he was dragging them off the bed of the ranger, leaping up the dead stems and into the very bed of the ranger where they set the whole load on fire!

Hubby, realizing the danger, grabbed his hat and tried to beat the flames and push the burning stems out of the ranger.  In the process, he lost a hat, his eyebrows and sadly singed his coveralls, but he did get the debris drug onto the ground.   Fortunately he wasn't burned.  Unfortunately, he couldn't say the same for the ranger.   It wasn't a total loss, since only the bed was damaged, but it sure wasn't new any more.   We stood around silently, staring at the blistered and bubbled bed.  Looking at his daughter's tear filled eyes, he mumbled "I was only trying to help." 

We laugh about it now, but it wasn't too funny to our new son-in-law for quite a while.  Our new ranger got put off for some time since we had to purchase a new bed for their ranger.

Our son-in-law has now established a firm rule on the farm...Hubby doesn't get to have any matches!

It Really Was Blake Shelton

Several years ago hubby and I made a trip to Oklahoma where our son was living at the time.  He was glad to see us  and we looked forward to spending some time catching up.  His girlfriend, at the time, was working at a rodeo arena in a small town outside of Stillwater and asked us to be her guests at the rodeo that week-end.  The time came and we eagerly put on our jeans and joined them at the arena.    We didn't know much about rodeos but enjoyed a fun evening watching the cowboys ride and rope from the glassed in bar overlooking the arena. 

The end of the rodeo came and we noticed that a stage had been pulled into the corner of the arena and some musicians were setting up.  It was time for the concert portion of the night.  In no time the dirt floor in front of the stage was filled with fans waiting for the performers.  A tall, nice looking, young man with lots of hair appeared to a good amount of cheering and began to sing.  Although I didn't know much about country music, I had raised two kids who loved it.  That meant that I had listened to hours of country songs while hauling them around in cars and later riding with them.  Soon I was tapping my foot and humming along.  "Hey!"  I commented, "I've heard that song.  Who sings it."  The kids looked at me blankly.  "He does." they replied.

Now, one thing you have to understand, is that I never know the name of a song or the artist.  When we were dating, hubby would call out the artist and song title with the first notes.  I couldn't tell you that information when the song was over.  I could sing along, and happily did, but never could remember titles or artists.

The performance on the arena floor heated up.  Suddenly, I piped up again.  "Oh!  I know that one!  Who sings it!"  Again, the deadpan looks.  "He does.  Blake Shelton."  "You mean," I queried as realization began to dawn, "this guy is someone I've actually heard on the radio?"  Beaming, as you would when a child finally gets the point, they nodded.

After the performance, the kids announced that since this was the Friday night performance and not the sold out Saturday night event (with another singer that I still have never heard of) they were able to obtain "meet and greet" passes that would allow us to meet the young man.  We followed our hostess down a corridor and into a room in the interior of the arena.  We were ushered forward and introduced to a very tall young man and a pretty blond girl.  He was gracious and I was mostly stupid, telling him that he did a "nice" job.  I'm sure he went home and wrote that in his journal!!  We did chat for a few minutes and his girlfriend confided that they were engaged and would be getting married in a couple of years when she got her braces off! 

Fast forward 10 years.  Hubby and I are hooked on watching one of televisions hottest shows, The Voice.  Like millions of others we are enchanted by the performances and the laid-back judges, especially the mega-star Blake Shelton.  "You know"  I ruminated one night, "I think that's the guy we met in Oklahoma."  "No Way!" replied my daughter, "No way you have met Blake Shelton!!!!"  "Actually, I think so, and I have a signed program to prove it."

Well, it took a little searching but I did find my proof. 

It's amazing to realize what a difference 10 years has made.  The struggling young artist that was the Friday night entertainment at a rodeo in rural Oklahoma is now one of the biggest stars in the business.  You can hardly turn on television or the radio and not hear or see Blake Shelton.  Somehow he has maintained his easy, open-hearted candor, and plain folks demeanor that was his hallmark at the time.  I remember thinking at our meeting, while he was being very nice to a dithering fool as she blabbed on, that he must have a good mother because he was so well mannered. 

I sure am glad that he outgrew his girlfriend before she got out of braces.  Miranda Lambert is much better!! 

Grandma's Apron

I was wandering through a gift shop the other day when my eye was caught by a colorful display of aprons.  As I fingered the bright patterned flounces and read the witty sayings my mind was tumbling with memories of the aprons that my grandmother wore. 

My daddy's mother was a sturdy farm wife who began every day at 5 am dressed in a dark, serviceable (didn't show dirt) dress, no nonsense shoes (ugly, even to my young eyes) and a clean apron.  She didn't have a lot of clothes, in fact, most fit in the big, wooden wardrobe with room for Papaw's clothes too.  People didn't have a need for big walk-in closets, you wore what you had until it no longer could be worn, then you replaced it.  To keep her clothes from being washed to death at an early age, she covered them with big, voluptuous aprons.  These were made of a large square of material gathered onto a waistband that was long enough to tie in the back.  They usually were big enough to cover the entire front of her skirt from waist to hem and nearly meeting in the back.  The pattern of the material would range from soft faded colors to bright prints, depending on the design of the flour sacks that she sewed them from.  (The uses that the frugal farm wife could make of the colorful fabric sacks that flour, feed, and even laundry soap were bought in, is a whole 'nuther story.)

Grandma's apron was so much more than just a garment to keep her dress clean.  She used it for literally dozens of purposes throughout her day.  In the kitchen it was a quick pot-holder to protect her hand as she scooted a too hot skillet to the back burner or grabbed a pan of biscuits out of the oven.  She would give a dish a quick wipe with a corner of the apron before declaring it clean enough for her pile of fluffy mashed potatoes.  She would use it to quickly blot her hands when moving from the sink to the counter to the stove.  If a guest should arrive, she would anxiously wipe her hands before greeting them, in case a smidgen of flour should be left on them. 

The apron was useful out of the kitchen, too, as her chores continued.  The corners of the apron could be pulled together to form a sling or basket to carry various objects.  It might hold the freshly gathered eggs from the nest discovered, after much searching, behind the hay manger in the barn.  It became a basket to hold apples from the tree in the corner of the yard to be baked up into apple dumplings for dinner.  On occasion it might become a soft sling for the litter of kittens that needed to be moved to a safer location.  Later it might become a sack to hold the small toys that careless children left scattered around the big back porch.

In an emergency,  the soft material of that apron could be used to wipe tears from a small face or provide a warm shawl for a chilly child.  It could be used as a quick bandage, or if need be, a tourniquet or even to stabilize a broken limb.  On a farm, emergencies come when you least expect them and often have to be handled before medical help can arrive. 

Sometimes, the apron could be used to express extreme emotion.  Like the night that my dad sought his mother out in the kitchen with some momentous news.  Drying her hands on her apron, she turned to him, with a "I'm in the middle of dinner, can you hurry up" look on her face.  "Mother" he announced, "Thelma and I got married this week-end."  Immediately, she threw the apron over her head and began wailing as she staggered to the bench by the back door.  "Oh, Sweet Jesus!" she cried, "You are going to Hell for sure!" 

You see, my grandmother was a staunch, old time Baptist and my mother belonged to the upstart Christian church in town.  Grandma just knew that her son would be corrupted by his wife's heathen ways and stood no chance of getting to Heaven.

Dinner burned up.

Grandma eventually got over her aversion to her new daughter-in-law. 

Sort of.

Peeing on the Fence

Fall break for the boys coincided with a spell of beautiful fall weather.  It was a perfect time for the annual walnut gathering.  Each year the boys harvest the bounty of the walnut trees that grow all over the farm.  The walnuts are then sold to a local commercial dealer to become the delicious black walnuts that show up in Christmas candies and cakes. 

The boys arrived and were soon scurrying around gathering up feed sacks to hold the walnuts, baling twine to tie the sacks, buckets for collecting, and a couple of chunks of firewood to toss into the trees to hopefully knock the bounty down.   We set off for a promising trio of trees that grew in the fence line just behind the barn.  The first stop was to pick up walnuts on the side of the fence with the bred heifers.  We drove the ranger down the fence and soon everyone was tossing walnuts into the buckets.  The heifers seeing their usual feed wagon and buckets galloped over to investigate.  There is probably nothing more curious than a cow.  We were soon pushing cows away with one hand while we grabbed walnuts with the other. 

The boy's new puppy, which had joined us for the afternoon, wasn't sure whether to run or attack.  It wasn't long until she had backed into the high-tensile fence, touching the one strand that was hot with electricity.  There was a pop of electricity and with a squeal she jumped back, bumping  a curious heifer in the nose.  The heifer then jumped back and knocked over a half filled bucket.  The boys started yelling and chasing the cows away from the puppy and scattered walnuts.  When things quieted down, the boys decided they could do just as well on the other side of the fence.

The walnut gathering continued without incident once we were separated from our audience of cows.  It wasn't long until the little boys became bored with the job and started looking for more entertainment.  For a while we kept them busy tossing a stick into the trees to try to know down more walnuts, but that soon dulled.  I had my back to them, filling my bucket when I heard the older one say to the younger, "Let's pee on the fence."  "NOOO!"  I yelled, realizing that the fence had a hot wire and if they hit it right the electricity would travel up their stream with shocking results. 

Every farmer has a horror story about this electrifying event happening.  I haven't ever found one that admits to actually doing it, but they all swear that they know someone who did.  I'm a girl.  We girls just don't have a problem with such an accident.  We are physically unable to accomplish it.  (I also suspect girls probably wouldn't think to try it!) 

It seems that the guys in the tobacco patch, bored with the job of cutting or topping, had been entertaining the boys with stories of such activities.  Being little they had no real comprehension of what would happen and decided to try the feat themselves.  My teen-aged grandson and I explained that this would result in great pain and probably a loss of future children (my teen's contribution).  Satisfied that we had squelched that idea we returned to the job at hand.

A while later, I caught a flash out of the corner of my eye.  Turning I saw the older of the little boys attempting to spray the fence behind me.  Lunging I grabbed him before he had managed to make contact.  Startled, I shouted, "Didn't you understand that it was going to hurt like crazy if you hit it?"  He shrugged and wandered off.  Before long, we caught him trying it again, obviously deciding that the guys in the tobacco patch were much smarter than a grandmother and older brother.  By now, both my grandson and I were yelling at the obstinate kid and the walnuts were beginning to glisten in the sunlight from the spray.  (Where on earth did that little kid get so much water!)

Finally, in total frustration I threw up my hands and told my oldest to just hush and quit yelling at him.  "If he wants to do it then he will.  If he manages to hit it solid he probably won't die from it, so just let him alone.  However, I'm not picking up wet walnuts and staying to watch the fireworks!"  With that I picked up my bucket and started walking to the house. 

It wasn't long until the boys followed me up to the house--no screams, so I assume he wasn't successful. 

I'm not sure I'll survive these three boys.

The Blitz

The two year old granddaughter has been visiting for the day and the house has exploded with toys.  Play dishes are stacked on the coffee table (sort of like the real dishes in the sink) and cows and tractors are scattered over the floor.  It is amazing how much clutter a little one can make. 

When my two were little we lived in a little house in town.  We didn't have much room but we made use of every inch.  The basement wasn't a fancy living area but a utilitarian space for the washer and dryer, deep freeze, jars of canning, tools, and storage of various boxes of forgotten belongings.  Lacking a room to use as a den we lived in the large living room upstairs.  That meant that it served as playroom, family room, and entertainment area for company.  Sometimes this worked and sometimes it didn't.

Even though the kids had a bedroom for their toys it seemed that they would soon be scattered in heaps and piles around the living room.  Coloring books and crayons would spill off the little table in the corner while sleeping bags or blankets would be thrown in front of the television.  Dolls and stuffed bears shared the chair by the window while the couch would hold swords and baseball gloves.  Tractors, balers, trucks and cars would peek out from under the furniture while toy pots and pans adorned the surfaces of end tables.   Adding to the kids things would be an afghan that I was working on or a stack of papers that Hubby was dealing with.  In short, it usually looked like a family was living there.  Most of the time it didn't bother me. 

However, when we had company, I felt, as the Extension Agent for Home Economics, my house should look like no one lived there.  This worked fine when I planned to entertain, since like most women, I would spent a week cleaning the house like it was going to be inspected by an irritated drill sergeant.  The moments that turned my heart into a beating drum were the ones that started with a phone call.  "Hello?  We were out for a drive and since we were in the neighborhood we thought we would see if you were home. "  Gasp! "Wonderful!  You'll be here in 10 minutes?  Great."  Even better was when you looked out the window to see a car turning in the drive and know you had only a minute or two to get ready. 

That's when I would turn to the family and yell "BLITZ!!"  With a leap everyone would jump up and grab the closest pile of stuff.  I would run to the basement and grab a couple of laundry baskets.  Running back upstairs I would toss them into the middle of the living room floor.  By then Hubby and the kids were ready with armloads of toys, papers, blankets and crayons.  In they would go into the basket while everyone rushed for another load.  Within minutes we had the room empty of all the offending clutter.  Hubby would then grab the baskets and run to the basement while I plumped pillows and wiped faces.  Then we would open the door, poised like Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver, (perfect parents from an old TV show, for you youngsters) welcoming our guests into the immaculate living room.

Of course, it took us days to find the bills Hubby was working on or the pieces to the puzzle the kids were putting together. 

Tagging Calves

It's been a busy summer but things are beginning to slow down a bit, so we can catch up on a few of the chores that got put off in the rush.  The mama cows have been doing their job with only a little help from the men and we have a fine crop of fall calves running around in the fields.  To make keeping up with the records on these babies easier,  each calf is usually tagged with an ear-tag that corresponds to its mama's ear-tag.  Since we raise Angus cattle and they are all black, it's a little hard to tell one calf from another unless you do something.   In the rush of late summer hay and tobacco cutting we are woefully behind in tagging.

Hubby and son decided that it was time to sort this mess out before it got worse. 

When the babies are newborn, it's not a real problem.  The little fellows follow close to their mama and it's easy to see who belongs to who.  It's also easy to grab the little ones and quickly put a big yellow tag in their ear.

However........

Hubby and son stood at the fence looking over the fine crop of calves.  "Ummm.  Some of them have a little growth on them."  muttered son.  "Not a problem.  You can handle it." reassured Hubby.  "Have you got the tagger?", queried son.  "It's in the ranger, ready to go.  Let's get started." affirmed Hubby. 

They started for the field.  The plan was for Hubby to drive the ranger until they identified a baby needing a tag.  Hubby would then drive the ranger next to the calf, son would jump out and grab the baby, holding it until Hubby could get out and tag the calf.  Easy enough when the calf is a week or two old.  Unfortunately, some of these "babies" now weighed close to 200 pounds--son weighs about 180 pounds.  Let the games begin!

Hubby drove off and had soon spotted a calf.  He eased up beside the calf, who is now on high alert, and yells "grab him son!"  Calf and son both leap at the same time.  Son grabs frantically and feels his hands slide down the smooth back of the fleeing calf.  Landing on his hands and knees he straightens up and brushes futilely at the grass stains on his jeans.  "You've got to move quicker next time." encourages Hubby.  "Uh huh" mutters son.

Soon they are approaching another calf--another near miss.  "Son, you need to go for the head." instructs Hubby.  "Well, Dad, that's the part that's leaving first." retorts son.

The next try goes better with son getting a better grip.  However, they are pretty evenly matched and it becomes a bit of a struggle.  Calf is determined to leave and Son is try to flip him over so he can hold him on the ground.  Hubby jumps into the fray and grabs for an ear to tag it.  About that time the calf gives another lunge and throws Son.  Hubby then loses the grip on the tagger and calf and tag part company.  Son looks up and shakes his head. "At least the tagger came loose or we'd be chasing the calf down to get the tagger back."

The tagging continues with lots of mutters and oaths with Hubby and Son slowly getting the job done.  As the afternoon continues, tempers get a little short.  Finally, they approach a late calf that is still little enough to grab easily.  Son corners the little fellow and reaches out to grab him.  The calf, sensing that he's trapped wheels quickly and makes a dash for freedom.  Son grabs him across the chest and slips his knee behind him to keep him still.  Bucking and squirming the little calf wiggles lose and heads between Son's legs.  Trying to keep from letting him go, Son squeezes his legs together and effectively makes a head catch, just like a cattle chute.  "Tag him Dad!" Son yells.  Hubby jumps in and swiftly tags the bellowing baby. 

Hubby steps back, takes one look at his son and starts to laugh.  The calf had evidently been in a fresh pile of manure and in the excitement had probably added a little of his own.  In his dash for freedom through son's legs, he had effectively squeegeed himself clean on son's jeans.  Son took a tentative step and realized that he was saturated to the skin.  "Son," murmurs Hubby, "I think maybe we've done enough for tonight.  Why don't you head to the house."

Son looked up sadly, "I would, but I'm pretty sure my wife won't let me in!"

We should make washing machine commercials.

Play Ball

It was approaching dusk and the two little girls were burning off a little energy before bedtime.  The youngest was reaching the frustration stage with her hula hoop when the older one ran by with a plastic ball and bat, "Lets play ball!"  Hula hoop forgotten they ran to the grassy area beside the barn just in time to meet their dad coming in from evening chores in the barn.  "Pitch for us daddy!  Pitch for us!!"  Grinning he agreed.  Mom wandered over from watering the flower bed to watch.  

The oldest daughter grabbed the bat and took her batting stance.  Back straight, knees bent, elbows out.  Daddy wound up for the pitch and lobbed one over the "plate".  With a mighty swing she blasted the ball past her daddy, beyond mom and into the gravel in front of the shed, where it was neatly fielded by the Australian Shepherd.  "Run!  Run!" shouted her daddy.  "Where??" she responded looking around the grassy area.  "Just pick a spot for bases." responded her parents.  So off she ran, touching the light pole and yelling "first", high-fiving her mom and yelling "second", smacking the old maple tree and calling out "third".  Her sister cheered her into home, wanting her turn at bat.

Soon a spirited ballgame was taking place with the little girls taking turns at bat and mom serving as cheerleader and second base.  Lexi, the shepherd, scurried happily around, chasing down the balls.  There was a slight hitch since she would only return them to mom and only then after calls and begging, but then mom would toss them to dad and the game would continue.  The yard rang with cheers, yells, and laughter, with daddy laughing and mom cheering the little girls on as they ran happily around the "bases".  

The game ended, with the full moon beginning to show in the early evening sky, when the dog grew tired of running after the ball and decided to keep it.  In high spirits the girls gathered up their toys and went to the house to begin preparations for bath time.  Mom and dad smiled at each other and wondered why they didn't stop more often to just enjoy the life they worked so hard to build for their family.

Mom and dad walked hand and hand to the house feeling satisfied with their time with their children.  Sometimes, we have to remember that children need nurturing as much as the flowers in their beds and the calves in the barn.

The Men's Group

Hubby loves people!  Especially if they come in clumps, groups or crowds.  I blame this on high school athletics that teach young men that it is all about the "team".  After four years of Hubby playing baseball, football and basketball (The transition from football to basketball was a little tricky,  resulting in a few fouls for some pretty physical "blocks" before he acclimated!)  the idea of being part of a group activity was embedded.  Other men tend to have been raised with the same ethics, so we have some pretty healthy "groups" in our town. 

Right now the place to be is at Hardee's from 6:30 to 10:00 on about any morning.  The working men arrive early and grab breakfast and the latest news (gossip).  Before the last of these leave the retirees are starting to arrive to add their two cents worth.  At about 9 am those working in town come for their morning coffee break.  The talk and laughter rolls on and on.  Like Henry says in the show Longmire about his bar, "it is the home of the continual soiree".   

This "men's club" will hold forth on any subject with the steadfast authority of experience and/or just plain pig headedness.  No subject is safe.  Hubby has come home with absolute opinions on everything from politics (I won't even begin with what they proclaim) to growing prize winning vegetables.  In between they cover moon signs, current events (who is chasing who and who got caught), overnight police activity (the ex-police chief is a member), grandkids who are obviously the first of a new super race, break-throughs in medicine (Did you know that eating lots of garlic will prevent the flu?  Probably because no one will get close enough to you to give you a germ!), and probably a few more topics that hubby is smart enough not to pass on to me.

It has gotten so bad that it has moved into the arena of family history.  Whenever someone comes up with a really off-the-wall statement we all look at each other and shout, "coffee group!!!!"

Hubby just grins and keeps on arranging his schedule around 9 am coffee. 

The other morning I had an early appointment.  Hubby announced at bed time that he would get up and go to breakfast in the morning to give me some extra time, since I wouldn't have to cook breakfast.  I demurred, "It's ok.  My appointment isn't until 9:00, I'll have plenty of time to get ready.  You don't have to get up so early."  Knowing that there aren't many things this man hates more than getting up in the morning, I didn't think it really made sense.  "No, no, I don't mind" he returned.  This went back and forth until he confessed, "I couldn't make it to  coffee today and I really want to go to breakfast and see what I missed!"

After he went peacefully to sleep, dreaming, no doubt, about his morning meeting with the coffee group, I decided maybe I had better show up at a few coffee breaks and hone up on my conversational skills.  It's been a long time since Hubby has been that enthusiastic about breakfast with me!

Forty-Five Years

Forty-five years ago,  I tied up the middle Campbell boy on a hot Saturday afternoon during Labor Day week-end.  There were some, including my mother-in-law, who thought we were nuts for getting married.  Maybe my mother did too, but she was sure crazy about my hubby, so maybe not.  I honestly don't remember much about the event except there were a lot of parties and my mother and Aunt Anne had a wonderful time planning it all.  Unlike brides today, I pretty much just went and did whatever they said for me to.  I know there were a lot of people at the wedding, partially because they liked my parents and partly because my Aunt threw great parties and she was hosting the reception at her home.

Just about the time the party started to get going, we were told that it was time for us to leave.  I changed out of my lovely wedding gown into the dress and coat that I had made in my tailoring class at college and we dashed to the car amid a ton of rice.  We were married.  As we drove away we looked at each other and for the first time in weeks, there was no one telling us what to do.  I think at that moment we realized that we were really on our own, sink or swim.

It was a time before the extravagant honeymoons of today.  Hubby had worked as a summer intern for the Intermediate Credit Bank in Louisville and had saved every penny for our honeymoon.  I had worked as a taster (giving out samples in stores) for the Ale-8-One soft drink company and had squirreled away as much as I could.  Hubby had found a little motel on one of his banking trips that he thought would be perfect.  So we took off on the long trip to Fulton, Kentucky and Tennessee.  What we didn't know was that this pretty, quiet little town on the Kentucky-Tennessee line in far western Kentucky was hosting the International Banana Festival that week-end. (Yep.  I have probably heard every joke you are now thinking of!) 

It seems that Fulton was historically the railroad center that received all the bananas that were shipped up the Mississippi River.  From there they were shipped by rail to the rest of the United States.  It was a big deal in the late 1800's and early 1900's.  We arrived to be met at the city limits with a friendly greeting and a welcome banana.  We entered the town to discover it teaming with people and festivities.  Over the next couple of days we ventured out from our little motel (which was actually on the Tennessee side of town) to enjoy the art displays, craft vendors, contests and the colossal 500 lb. banana pudding, plus a free banana every time we crossed the city limits.

However, by about the third day we had reached a crisis point.  Things were beginning to come unraveled in the honeymoon suite, humble though it may be.  Hubby had grown up in a family with two brothers--no sisters.  His mother while sweet, was low-maintenance to a fault.  He was used to getting up, showering and having his breakfast on the table.  The world of primping with make-up,  the teased hair-do's of the sixties, and endless female preparations before breakfast were fast getting to him.  On top of his concern over starving before I finally got ready was the very real problem of how we were going to pay for that very breakfast.  We were rapidly (and literally) eating up our meager savings.  So, as we counted out pennies for our breakfast tab,  I realized we needed to get out of there and go home where I could cook his breakfast in my robe or the marriage might be short lived. 

The marriage was saved and I have spent the last 45 years preparing his breakfast so he can eat when his feet hit the floor.  I figure that I have fixed about 16,200 breakfasts in that time. 

Not bad, considering that I don't even eat breakfast.

A Dew and Two Beers

The view from the window for the last couple of weeks has been of tow-headed kids playing happily in the back yard.   Our daughter-in-law had gall bladder surgery last week and I have been filling in by picking up the boys after school, feeding them supper and then taking supper into town for the ailing mom.  This week I have had the two year old granddaughter all day, too, since her regular baby-sitter is out of town.  It's been a long time since I've been a full time mom and believe me, I'm too old for this!

To make it more fun, it's also tobacco cutting time.  My son and oldest grandson have been helping out friends on a reciprocal basis.  To cut down on labor costs, two or three farmers pitch in and help each other cut their tobacco, thus reducing the amount of labor by the additional hands.  The only thing required when it is your tobacco's turn is that you supply the drinks.  This means coolers iced down with plenty of water, Mt. Dews and beer.  Did I mention beer?

Cutting the tobacco involves working your way down the long rows of tobacco with an implement that looks a lot like a very skinny bladed hatchet, called a tomahawk.  You bend, cut the tobacco stalk, turn and spear it on a piece of wood that is about 1 inch square and four feet long.  Four or five plants will be speared onto one tobacco stick.  Then the sticks are hung in the barn across poles so the tobacco hangs straight down to dry or cure.

Even though my son's crop was severely damaged by the early spring rains, he does have some that will be harvested.  So this week, the guys all gathered at the farm to "bring in the crop".  The little boys were excited to get to go to the patch and listen to the big guys talk and gossip.  The days are hot and the water and dews go down mighty good.  As the day progresses, so do the beers.  It never ceases to amaze me that this crew doesn't maim themselves with the combination of beer and tomahawks, but they never do!  The men are unaffected by their drinks but the little boys return home buzzing with caffeine from the Mt. Dews.

A day or so after the tobacco cutting I looked out to see the little boys climbing the tulip poplar in the driveway with their little sister looking on.  As I watched the idyllic tableau I noticed the little girl take a drink from a green can.  I took off to see who had raided the garage fridge for soft drinks.  I called the little boys down from their tree and sternly lectured them.  "Who told you that you could have a soft drink?"  I questioned.  Heads down, they scuffed the dirt and mumbled, "No one."  "You know that you are supposed to ask before you get a drink.  I always give you something, but you have to ask first.  Besides you know that the Mt. Dew isn't good for your sister." I was in full swing, doing what my daughter calls "beating them to death with my lips".  She says that when I get in full swing I forget to quit. 

I was still going strong when I glanced down into the back of the toy ranger they had been hauling things around the yard in.  Sitting in the back among the boards, rocks, ropes, and toys were two shinning cans of beer.  I stopped in mid-tirade.  "And WHO'S BRIGHT IDEA was it to get the BEERS!!"  I shrieked. 

Without any hesitation, they both turned and pointed at each other and said, "HIS!!"

The good news -- they weren't opened.

Hands-On Hubby

Hubby was a man ahead of his time.  During a period when women were fighting for "equal rights" he was encouraging me to get my education and hunt a job.  The logic of two salaries instead of one was easy for him to figure out.  When I landed the job of County Extension Agent neither one of us knew that it would be a day and night job.  With a six month old child we both were thrown into the world of baby-sitters, feet first.  About the same time he managed to buy a rough, hillside farm out in the county.  It was a 20-30 minute drive, which he made after working all day running an office for a lending agency for farmers.  Soon we were running baby-sitters in shifts as he went to the farm and I went to night meetings. 

To keep from breaking the budget and in spite of careful scheduling, we sometimes would wind up with one or later two children in tow.  Since cows are a little more understanding of a child's disturbances, hubby would often head out to the farm with the kids.  He has always been a hands-on dad and a totally focused businessman which has caused more than one chuckle and astonished expression on those he would meet.  He once had stopped on the way home to call on a client about a loan.  They were deep into conversation when the baby demanded a diaper change in no uncertain terms.  Without missing a beat he whipped a diaper out of the pocket of the truck door, spread the baby out on the hood of the truck and proceeded to "take care of business" with both farmer and baby.  The farmer laughed later that he wrapped up both the baby and the loan in record time.

Remember, this was 40 years ago when daddies didn't do much child care.

One of his favorite stories concerns a trip home after a fun afternoon at the farm for all concerned.  Our son had been dropped off at a neighboring farm to play with their little boy and he had taken our daughter on to "help" him.  After a happy afternoon of following daddy around and playing in the tobacco patch, creek, mud holes, and finishing off with a spell in the fine dirt of the barn floor, she looked a lot more like a small pig than a little girl.  A situation that was pretty common after a visit to the farm.  For that reason we always dressed the kids in "farm clothes".  These were cheap, usually dark colored, and totally replaceable if they were destroyed.  We were old friends with dirt.

On the way home they stopped at the neighboring farm to collect our son.  The farm wife approached the truck to say hello and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw this filthy, totally happy, little girl sitting in the seat.  "Oh, my goodness!" she yodeled in shock.  "What happened?"  Hubby looked back at the truck in confusion.  "Nothing.  She's just been playing."  Before he had the words out, the farm wife had grabbed the dirt covered little girl and started for the house.  "You can't take her home like THIS!  What would your wife say?  I KNOW she would be HORRIFIED!"  (You see, most people never saw me except dressed for work in a suit and heels.  They didn't often see me covered in mud-or worse-after working cattle with hubby. So I guess they thought that I never got dirty and would be offended by it!)  In nothing flat the child was in the tub being vigorously scrubbed.  The wife soon returned  the bemused child, wearing her older daughter's underpants, which covered her from chest to knees and were held up by safety pins.  Her muddy farm clothes had been rinsed out and carefully wrapped in a grocery bag.

Hubby politely took both child and offending clothes, loaded everyone in the truck and laughed all the way back to town.

He's a rare treasure.

The Wedding Bouquet

My daughter's wedding anniversary has just passed and that always brings back memories of that hectic, joyous time.  It was another August, much like this one, when everything was lush and green.  We had spent hours grooming the yard (in fact the whole farm) for the upcoming festivities.  For once everyone pitched in to help with the yard work.  Sometimes it looked more like a party than work but everything seemed to get done.

My daughter was home to make plans and decisions for the upcoming wedding and had pitched in to help with some pruning and weeding.  As we worked around the yard she mused on the trouble she was having deciding what to use in her wedding bouquet.  She had spent the afternoon at the florist looking at books of designs but none of them suited her.  "They are either too formal and stiff or they are so stylishly simple they are silly.  The ornate ones are too fussy for me and the simple, single flower ones are too minimalistic.  I just want something that is simple, but homey too."  She gathered up a pile of weeds from under the hydrangea bush in the side yard.  She sniffed the big white bloom head and sighed, "When I think of home it's the things like this big old bush that come to mind." 

She looked around the yard.  "I love this yard.  It's so shady and full of stuff, yet it all looks like it belongs.  Like the yard and the house somehow grew here together.  It's pretty,  but it also is comfortable, like a warm hug."  I smiled to myself.  The yard blooming with roses, lilies, and hydrangeas in the summer and Iris, roses and day lilies in the spring was a feat of low maintenance beds and hardy perennials interspersed this summer, especially, with lots of bright annuals.  She had put her finger on the exact effect I had worked for--that it looked like it belonged to the farmhouse it framed. 

She gathered up the clippings and carried them to the edge of the hayfield that surrounds the front of the yard.  "Look!"  she laughed, "even the field is pretty!"  She pointed to the gently nodding, delicate blooms of the Queen Ann's Lace dotting the hay field.  Suddenly she turned and spread her arms wide.  "That's the answer.  I want this farm in my bouquet.  I want it filled with the flowers of my childhood and my home.  Roses, Queen Ann's Lace, and hydrangea blooms--that's what I want!"

Fortunately, the florist was a country girl and willing to try anything.  She planned and designed and added a few lilies and a little lily of the valley ("Oh, that's what grew around Grandma's steps." daughter remembered).  The day before the wedding the florist was literally picking flowers from the yard and road-side (Hubby had mowed the front field to manicure the farm for company so she had to broaden her area.) searching out the perfect blooms to make the "memory bouquet".

The day of the wedding the flowers were unveiled.  With a tear in her eye, the bride touched each flower...this is for my home, this one for the farm, and this one for family.  "It's perfect," she breathed.  And it was.

Unfortunately, it also weighed as much as a five gallon bucket of feed.

Thank goodness her farm girl muscles were up to the challenge of carrying it around.

Fried Green Tomatoes

There comes a time when even the most die hard tomato enthusiast has lost their craving for the luscious, red globes adorning the tomato vines in the garden.  When that time comes I sneak out into the garden in the quiet of the evening and pluck a few of the glorious, green, unripe globes for my own craving.  Fried Green Tomatoes.

For years they were a quiet, secret delicacy enjoyed by southern gardeners.  They were a dish dreamed up to use the abundance of tomatoes when the needs of canning and bacon and tomato sandwiches had been met.  Thrifty gardeners then applied their thoughts to other ways to serve up this garden staple.  It was inevitable--after all southerners will fry anything--that someone would try frying up these sour, unripe fruits (vegetables?).  Thus a Southern tradition was born.

The movie "Fried Green Tomatoes" unleashed this treat onto the world.  I doubt that many of the movie-goers had ever eaten or even dreamed of eating such a thing until they appeared on the menu of the depression era, now infamous, barbecue joint the Whistle Stop Cafe.  While the barbecue served at the cafe was questionable the fried green tomatoes became a fad for thousands of movie fans.  It wasn't long before you began seeing them pop up on upscale restaurant's menus, mostly under the appetizers.  Some of them are actually good, but mostly they try to get too fancy.  Fried green tomatoes are down home, simple cooking a its best.

I remember that my mother loved this treat.  She would rescue a perfectly, round green tomato before my dad could decree that it would be allowed to ripen into a perfect "sandwich" tomato.  She would then slice it into neat slices and dredge each slice in corn meal seasoned with salt and pepper.  The mealy slices would then be dropped into sizzling hot bacon grease.  A few minutes to brown on one side and then it would be flipped over to continue browning on the other side.  The resulting crispy, golden brown slices were then placed  on her plate to be enjoyed.  No dipping sauces, no spicy glaze, no additional seasonings--just delicate, slightly sour and delicious. 

Mother ate them as a vegetable for dinner.  My dad liked them with his breakfast, which consisted of fried bacon, fried eggs, fried potatoes, fried tomatoes, and toast with lots of butter. ( His cholesterol at 80 years old was somewhere in the 90's.  Good genes are better than healthy eating!)  No matter when you eat them they are a tasteful reminder of summer's waning and fall's imminence.

I just happen to have the perfect one in sight for supper tonight.

You Can't Take it Back

I recently had a conversation with a soon to be new grandma.  She was a little concerned that ,while her daughter was eagerly awaiting the birth of her child, she was a little too laid back about the upcoming event.  To encouragements to take part in a few of the many preparation for childbirth classes she responded that the nurses would know all about it and would tell her what to do.  Grandma-to-be was a little worried.  I assured her that nature was a good teacher and she would soon pick up the needed skills. 

After all, my son survived.

I don't think there were ever two parents any less prepared to bring home a baby than we were.  Excited, delighted, and tickled pink, but not too prepared.  I had grown up the middle of a family that didn't provide any babies to practice on.  I worked in my dad's store instead of baby-sitting like most of my friends, and had never been exposed to babies other than briefly when they were held safely by their mothers.  The presentation of my wrinkled, squirming little bundle of job filled me with terror!  I had no idea how to deal with this demanding and loud little person.  I literally asked the nurse (a friend from our neighborhood) to dress him before we left the hospital.

We arrived home to the carefully prepared nursery, lovingly painted and decorated, and stocked with 6 sleepers, 3 receiving blankets, 6 t-shirts, and one package of  the newly developed pampers. (no old cloth diapers for us!)  The baby promptly welcomed us home by producing a large bowel movement that reduced his lovely "going home" outfit to green mush.  Fortunately, (for him) our neighbor from across the street had arrived to welcome us home and proceeded to show us how to change a diaper. 

By six o'clock our sweet bundle of joy had been crying for what seemed like hours and hours.  Thanks to our inefficiency and the defects in the design of the early pampers (no elastic at the legs!) everything that went into the diaper wound up all down the legs of the little sleepers. Hubby and I were reduced to walking wounded trying to figure out how to soothe our newborn and what to do next.  We had used all his outfits and were taking turns walking the baby, who was now dressed in his last t-shirt, one of the few remaining diapers and a small afghan (the receiving blankets were history, too.  No one told us what aim little boys had when changing them.)  We were burping on an old t-shirt of Hubby's (we never thought about a few cloth diapers for burpers), and looking pretty pitiful when the back door opened and a friend (with 3 children of her own) walked in with a casserole for supper.  She took one look at us and demanded, "Give me that baby!!" 

With relief we turned him over to more capable hands.  In just minutes the screaming baby gave a few hiccups and thankfully shuddered to silence.  I looked up from my seat at the kitchen table, dazed with exhaustion and terror, and mumbled, "It's just like buying something one sale!  YOU CAN'T TAKE IT BACK!!" 

With sympathy and a lurking giggle, the neighbor took over and in a short while had organized the neighborhood to our rescue.  Soon friends were arriving with left-over baby clothes (one even taking them off her daughter's dolls where they had been recycled into doll clothes.), blankets, and diapers.  Best of all they brought advice and comfort to the distraught parents.  In a short time we had clean clothes in the dryer, dinner on the table and the baby down for a nap.

Our son did survive our ineptness.  We did learn how to be parents.  Probably no class is as effective as the reality of dealing with an infant.

Our son, contrary to the belief that nursing babies never have colic, cried for 6 months. 

It probably was sheer terror at being at the mercy of parents whom he felt were likely to kill him in their ignorance!

Corn Time

Yesterday was garden corn time on the farm.  It's a day I look forward to and dread at the same time.  Sort of like childbirth--hard work and misery but the results are worth the effort.  The problem with corn is that you have it for one day.  Every ear is ready at once and must be picked, shucked, silked, blanched, chilled, scraped from the cob and frozen for the coming winter.  Each year we make great plans to stagger the planting so we'll have a little now and later through the summer.  Somehow it never happens.  One year we planted two plantings, two weeks apart.  I swear every ear was ready on the same day.  This year we were aiming for a month apart, but it rained so much we never got it done. So, as usual, my whole corn crop was ready on one day.

Our garden has been pitiful this year.  The countryside is lush and green instead of the brown and dry of a typical August, but my garden is sad.  Two rows of beans just flat drowned the week we had five inches of rain.  The tomatoes got a blight and the eggplant never made anything bigger than a nubbin.  The only thing that has thrived is the cucumbers and they have been prodigious, producing in numbers and sizes that are staggering.  The corn has done well, we just don't have much of it.  The good news is that picking at 80 degrees is a lot more fun than picking at 100 degrees, which is what we usually have.

I drug the grandsons out of the house with promises of ice cream later and we trooped to the garden.  Armed with feed sacks we attacked the corn rows.  In a short time we had filled our sacks and were sitting under the old Maple tree in the cool shade.  Everyone grabbed a chair and we piled the corn in the middle and began pulling the shucks off.   This is my favorite time.  The quiet, repetitious movements leave lots of time and brain power for "yarns".  The boys chatted about this and that before asking, "Did daddy have to do this too?"  My mind flew back to the early years on the farm when growing a garden meant cheap food through the winter with hungry kids to feed.  The garden was bigger then and I did a lot more canning and freezing than I do now.

"Yes," I replied, "They helped with everything, whether they wanted to or not!  I particularly remember one summer when Papa had had a surplus of fertilizer from another project and decided to apply it to the garden.  It  was  move that should have killed the whole garden but the garden gods were kind (or cruel, however you want to look at it) and instead everything just took off and grew like crazy.  It was one of the years we had planted a lot of corn and, of course, it all came in on one day.  That summer one of my son's friends had become a second son and just about moved in with us.  Spying the three kids going to the barn I quickly corralled them and issued orders to help with the picking.  Gathering up their feed sacks they marched reluctantly into the rows of corn forming tunnels of verdant green."

"All through the hot morning we picked corn, filling our sacks and dumping them under the old Maple tree, about where we sit right now.  The pile of corn grew and grew and still we were finding ears to pull.  Finally, the last ear was found and we gathered around to begin shucking the corn.  The kids stared at  the pile in awe.  They literally had picked a mountain of corn, piled up in a heap taller than the tallest kid.  We were all a little taken back by the sheer size of our task, but with only a little grousing they began to shuck.  Much later,when they finally had finished the corn and reduced the mountain to stacks of yellow goodness, they trooped off to hide in the barn while I proceeded to finish the job of blanching, chilling, scraping and freezing.  On that day I froze 75 pints of corn--my all time record for one day. "

"The little friend announced at supper that night that he thought he would go home for a while.  At least until after frost."

Now grown with children, still wants to know if the corn is ready before he will come visit.

Crawley, The Crawdad

I took the grandsons to Cumberland Falls State Park last week for our annual (or semi-annual) State Park trip.  We arrived on a beautiful afternoon that felt a lot like fall, with temperatures in the upper 70's.  We were way early for check-in but the helpful girl at the front desk located a cabin that was ready and allowed us to check in early.  After dumping our stuff in the compact, brown cabin we headed out to see the falls.  Surprisingly, I don't remember ever visiting this park as a child of park visiting parents.  It's possible I did but kid-like just don't remember.  So I was a little unprepared for the overwhelming experience of seeing the Falls themselves. 

The Cumberland River tumbles down the steep gorge, full from all the recent rains.  The broad expanse looks serene as the sun sparkles off he little riffs and white ripples of the green water as it moves toward the drop-off.  We first walked down to the shore above the falls, which is mostly limestone rock that has been worn smooth over time.  The kids soon tired of wandering along the rocks and we moved on down to the overlook area.  We could hear the falls thundering and see a mist rising above the river but it wasn't until we reached the edge of the overlook that we could see the falls themselves.  The river rushes into a drop of 65 feet, literally pouring thousands of gallons of water a second in a cascade that can reach 300 feet across at flood stage.  The curving expanse of water is breathtaking.  Even for a five and seven year old.

After several seconds of amazement (about as long as the little boys could take without climbing on something) we decided to take the trail down to the lower look-out.  The well traveled trail led to a lower over-look that let us view the expanse of water from about the middle level.  We then continued on the trail to the area below the Falls.  Here the river spreads to a fast moving but deceptively placid looking body of water.  We exited the trail onto a smooth rock, sand and mud beach that had obviously been created by surging overflow from the river.  Several downed trees had been left, providing seating for watching the river and the children enjoying the space.  A constant flow of visitors provided ample people watching while the little boys dug in the sand and happily got filthy.

We finally moved to go back up to the visitor's center driven by thirst and a need for a potty break.  Not ready to leave yet the little boys wanted to go back to the rock area above the falls.  There they spent their time exploring the various spots where water had collected in dips in the rocky ledge along the shore.  Soon I was called to watch as they discovered the various puddles were home to dozens of crawdads, mudbugs to some, or crayfish if you like.  It wasn't long until the seven year old had captured a lovely, big crawdad, who looked around in surprise at viewing the world from such a lofty height.  He rinsed out his cup from our slushy earlier, and filling it with river water placed his new friend inside.  Capping the cup with the lid, he continued his exploration with his friend, Crawley, carefully carried along.

When we left for the truck, nothing would do but for Crawley to come along.  Now I know some of you are starting to think about cruelty and environmental issues and maybe even the legal issues of removing a creature from a State Park.  You are right, but he's seven and logic and demands are met with determination and frustration.  Also, I know from experience that crawdads are resilient, adaptable and tough.  So, Crawley came along.  Did you know that crawdads can actually live for quite a while out of water?  The kids and I once spotted one trudging across the back field heading for the creek.  How he got there we have no clue--dropped by a predator, moving to a new location, who knows, but there he was, seemingly unperturbed by a stroll through a cow pasture.  So I wasn't too concerned about his ability to survive for a while in a cup of water. 

For the next two days, Crawley was our constant companion.  He slept (?) on the bedside table, watched t.v. from the living room table, went to craft classes and supervised the painting of a wooden snake, and rode in the truck as we moved around the park.  I thought we might lose him when the five year old decided he needed clean water and dumped him in the bathroom sink and refilled his cup with tap water.  I figured the tap water chemicals would do him in by morning, but he greeted us with feelers waving the next day.  (We did make a trip to the river to refill his cup with river water.)

The morning arrived to leave and I began to wonder if I could make a two hour trip with a crawdad without them dumping him out in Hubby's new truck--which was already suffering from feet returning from trails and muddy pursuits.  Sitting down with the boys I wondered how to reach a small boy with logic.  "You know, Crawley has had a pretty amazing experience."  I started.  "He has gotten to go to craft class, visit a cabin, see a playground, and make new friends.  However, he is probably missing his brothers and sisters and wishing he could tell them all about his adventure."  Blue eyes looked at he seriously, "But I'm going to take him home and put him in the creek at the farm.  There are lots of crawdads there for him to be with." (Hmmm.  Now what?) ."Well, but they won't be his family.  How would you feel if we stopped on the corner in Somerset and just dropped you off by the street.  There are lots of people there, would you feel right at home?"  He thought about this for a few minutes and the steady gaze began to waver.  Rushing in for the coups de grace I hurried on, "Just think.  He has had a grand adventure and he must really want to tell everyone at home about it.  Just like you want to tell your parents and sister about your trip!"  Finally, his face lit up and he agreed, "OK, let's take him to his home!"

So in a drizzly rain we trooped back to the river one last time and placed Crawley in the same hole of water to tell his friends all about his grand adventure!

(We also spent a couple of hours the next day scrubbing all the evidence of our great adventure out of Hubby's truck!)

Kentucky's Fabulous State Parks

School starts next week for the grandchildren, so it was time for our trip to a State Park.  My father was a huge supporter of the State Park system, taking us to the parks and teaching us about our natural resources while we had fun.  I am trying to do the same with the grandkids.

Kentucky is blessed to have one of the finest state park systems in the United States.  It is often under appreciated by those who live closest to these wonderlands.  The state parks have over 50,000 acres of land ranging from the Appalachian mountains in the East to the Mississippi shores in the West.  Each year over 7 million people visit these parks to enjoy a variety of activities from mountain hikes, boating, canoeing, white water rafting, horseback riding, nature trails, cave exploration, and just relaxing.  You can visit State Historic sites such as the Perryville Battlefield (most destructive Civil War battle in Kentucky), Big Bone Lick(an early salt lick and the site of a large prehistoric fossil discovery in 1807), Lincoln's Birthplace, My Old Kentucky Home (home of the outdoor drama "The Stephen Foster Story") or the William Whitley House (first brick house west of the Appalachians and in my home county).  If you are adventurous you can explore one of the 24 recreational parks that feature outdoor camping facilities and various activities,from fishing and picnicking to hiking and swimming.  Or if you are like me and prefer your experience a little more comfortable, you can stay in one of the 17 State Resort parks that have full lodges (with dining rooms) as well as comfortable cabins with full kitchens.

The system, which was started in the 1920's, was designed to be economical on all levels.  The lands acquired were all donated or gifted to be used as part of the State Park system.  Many of the facilities and improvements were made during the period of 1930's with Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) and the Works Progress Administration (WPA).  They were never intended to be luxurious escapes for the wealthy but rather an economical recreational area for the normal, everyday citizens of the state.  The lodges are rustic, the cabins basic and the settings breathtaking!  What they lack in the high dollar amenities (don't expect an in  room massage or a fancy health club) they more than make up for with balconies that look out into the side of a forest covered mountain, crystal blue lakes surrounded by virgin timberland, well maintained hiking trails through hundred year old woods with stunning vistas of natural beauty, and some of the most spectacular natural phenomenon in the world.  You can see natural rock arches (bridges), spectacular caves, towering mountains, thundering waterfalls and abundant wildlife. Besides the natural beauty the resort parks also feature swimming pools, tennis courts and golf .  The best thing may be the charming and enthusiastic employees who seem so eager to answer your questions and assist in any way.  Each park also has a naturalist that will present programs and information on the local area wildlife and landscape.

Did I mention golf?  I don't play myself but we travel with others that do and if you can trust their word, the courses are great!  There are dozens of courses snuggled into mountain valleys, hugging rugged hillsides, overlooking sparkling lakes, and rolling over the bluegrass.  Many were designed by world class course designers and represent a challenging and visually stunning game. 

If you prefer water sports to hiking or golf you can enjoy one of the many lakes that were created for watershed and flooding control.  From east to west you will  find parks like General Butler, Kentucky Dam Village, General Burnside Island, Barren River, Green River, Lake Barkley, Rough River and many others that feature facilities for launching your boat, docks, beaches, campsites, resorts, trails, and picnic areas.  On a recent trip to Kentucky Dam Village State Park we found ourselves in a modern, tastefully decorated room with a balcony overlooking a sparkling marina of beautiful sailboats. We sat until evening watching the lovely boats tack their way into the harbor, then wandered into the dining room and sat next to a 10 foot wall of glass and watched the sun set over the lake.

No, I don't get a commission from the State Park System.

Don't take my word for these treasures--come and visit them.

For more information www.parks.ky.gov

Space Mountain

When our daughter invited us to join them on a trip we were warned ahead of time that this was a trip for the kids.  Everything would be pretty much geared to what they would enjoy.  There wouldn't be adult dinners, movies with real people, or quiet afternoon naps.  We would however, have the option to not participate in the "family" activities.  The first test came when the girls announced that the next day we would be going to the amusement park.  The youngest looked up at me solemnly,  "Mama says you don't do roller coasters.  It's o.k., I can stay and keep you company if I'm not tall enough to ride."

She's right.  I don't do roller coasters.  In fact I don't do any ride that goes fast, high or gets me wet.  I have stood on the ground, covered in a terror-sweat, watching my whole world going around on the Ferris wheel, but could not get on it for anything.  All I could do was watch and pray that my children returned to earth unharmed.  The mothers of the astronauts could not have felt more fear.  So here was this five year old earnestly reassuring me that she would hold my hand while I waited.

Hubby and the kids always loved the amusement parks.  I would carry packages, keep up with tickets, study the park maps, wipe faces, and hubby would ride the rides with the kids.  I usually would stand in line with them to pacify the kids, and keep hubby from getting too restless at the wait, then slip out as they approached the head of the line.  I could then browse the shops or wander until I met them at the exit gate.

This worked fine until a trip to Disney World.  We had enjoyed a long day at the park and were heading for one last ride.  Dusk was approaching but the kids wanted to ride one more time.  They chose the Space Mountain ride for their final run.  I lined up with them and we chatted about our fun day as we waited.  The line gradually moved up as we wound in and out of the line up area.  It gradually began to dawn on me that we had moved inside of a building.  I began looking for a way to get out, so I could wait for the rest of the family after the ride.  Looking around, I couldn't see any way to leave without climbing over the long line of people behind us.  No doors, no exit signs, no place to chicken out.  I was stuck.

I decided that I could do this.  After all it was a perfectly safe form of entertainment.  Nothing more.

Chanting softly to myself, "It's just a ride.  I can do it.",  we inched forward.  Around the next turn in the line I found myself facing a sign listing all of the people who should not ride....those who had high blood pressure, heart problems, back problems, breathing difficulties.  With sweaty palms and a dry mouth, I assured myself that it was perfectly safe.  They couldn't run a ride if it was truly dangerous.  My kids gripped my hands and murmured reassuring words as we moved steadily forward.

We finally arrived at the starting point and were ushered into the cars.  The lap bar locked down and we were ready.  "What?  No seat belts, three point harnesses?  Just this little bar?!"  With that we were OFF!  We roared into the darkness amid the screams of the riders.  Around and around we flew, up and down, faster and faster.  The wind rushed by my face but I saw nothing.  I had my eyes screwed shut and was holding on for dear life.

An eternity later the ride was over.  The passengers started to exit from the cars.  My son, sitting next to me, gave me a prod.  "Come on, Mom, we need to leave."  I just looked at him helplessly as the attendant approached our car.  "Is there a problem?" he inquired politely.  I looked up in embarrassment, "Yes.  You see I can't make my hand turn loose of the grab bar."  I had gripped so tightly that now the muscles were locked onto the bar. 

With infinite patience, he smiled and proceeded to pry my fingers loose, one at a time.  Stuttering with shame, I apologized for the trouble.  He just laughed, "Lady, I do this all day long every day."

Yep.  I would let the grandkids ride and I would hold the packages and wait.  I tempted fate once but never again!!

Random Thoughts

We were out of town for a week with the mid-west family and returned home to backed-up chores, high heat, and grandkids, so time to share has been limited, to say the least.
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The massive rains (11 inches in two weeks) have created some nightmares on the farm.  Our son's tobacco crop was declared 100% loss.  The beautiful rows of green plants were reduced to yellow and brown from the unrelenting rain.  Farmers must keep the ulcer medicine companies in business. 
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I spent all spring on a campaign to reduce the size of my garden.  Hubby just loves to plant and I usually wind up with rows and rows of beans to pick and can.  So this year instead of nagging, I've been feeding him green beans every meal, telling him all the time that I need to get the number of jars stored in the basement down to make room for the new ones.  The garden was actually planted while I was away visiting  and the plan worked.  He only planted four rows of beans with plans to do a few more for a late crop.  Then the plan boom-a-ranged on me.  We arrived home from a week in drought and heat stricken Missouri to find that the incessant rain had reduced my garden to mush.  The few beans that survived were demanding to be picked immediately. (Beans are like a lot of plants...if allowed to bring beans to complete maturity they will quit producing new beans, since they see their job as done!  Hence, you have to keep picking for them to keep producing.)  So, I started picking in the heat and mud. 
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Grandchildren tickle the heart and exhaust the body.

My daughter-in-law is out of town this week on business and the oldest grandson is on a mission trip to far Eastern Kentucky, that leaves my son and I hustling to keep up with the younger ones.  I found out that I am completely out of practice at keeping up with a 2, 5, and 7 year old and cooking three meals a day.  We've managed to have a lot of fun but I'm usually running about a step behind.  The plus side is the delight we have had in the time with them. 
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Saw a quote I just have to pass along.

"Here in the South, we don't hide crazy.  We parade it on the front porch and give it a cocktail."

It made me think of some of my favorite relatives, which are, at best, eccentric. 
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A mother can always find something to feel guilty about.

I know I am not responsible for the weather, but I find myself apologizing for it.  My daughter is suffering from a severe lack of rain, so when I talk to her I tend to downplay our crisis of too much rain.  When I talk to my son, I tend to be careful not to dwell on the plight of the hot, dry situation of his sibling.  Why?  I certainly can't fix either's problems.
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Hubby and I took an extra couple of days and made a one and a half day drive going and coming from Missouri to vacation with the Iowa family.  It was a grand trip out, full of anticipation at being with the granddaughters and total enjoyment of the peace and quiet returning home.
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On our trip we crossed into Missouri at Wickliff, Ky.   A fascinating adventure.  We first crossed the muddy Ohio River in full flood.  We arrived off the bridge on a little spit of land then, continued on a second bridge to cross the slightly smaller Mississippi River.  Looking to your left you can see where these two mighty rivers join to become the massive, rolling, muddy, Mississippi River.  Awesome!
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Hope you are neither too hot, too dry, too wet, or too cold. Or as Baby Bear says in Goldilocks, just right.

I Hate Pigs

I am an animal lover.  I  love baby ducks, toddling calves, and kittens.  I even get warm fuzzies from petting the old show cows as they come through the barn.  I think the smell of a sweaty horse is pure perfume.  The dogs and cats follow me like the Pied Piper as I go about the farm.  I gush over new calves and dote on the cats.  However, I just can't get all excited about pigs.

I should have taken note of the fact that Hubby earned his spending money by raising feeder pigs when we were dating.  However, they were down at the barn and as a "townie" I wasn't expected to visit the barn much.  I knew they were there and that they smelled, A LOT---but I was young and in love, so I didn't give it much thought.

Then, all of a sudden we were newly-weds living on a farm in Breckinridge Co. and trying to make ends meet.  The next thing I know Hubby has brought home three sows to live with us on the farm.  "Pigs!!" I exclaimed, "You bought three pigs!?"  Smugly he replied, "Do you know what pigs are bringing?  They'll make us good money off their litters.  You just wait and see!"

What I saw was that pigs are smart and a pain in the butt. (plus they smell)

Pig manure is so strong that it soon ate up Hubby's boots, so he had to start wearing rubber boots.  His clothes now stunk up my utility room so they had to be washed immediately (not always convenient).  That, however, was a minor point. 

The biggest problem with pigs is that they are SMART.  Animal Farm had it right--pigs are definitely leaders and thinkers.  The first thing those three sows learned was how to escape from their pens, in the barn.  The second was that dog food was goo-oo-d.  So it seemed that almost daily I would look out my kitchen window and see pigs eating the dog food on the porch.  The dog would be crouched in a corner, tail between his legs, begging for his life!  (even he knew pigs were to be avoided).  Being more than a little scared of them myself, I wasn't about to go out and run them off (sorry dog, you are on your own).   In desperation I would crack the door enough to get a broom through it and whack at the pigs in an attempt to run them off.

 Hubby would eventually come through and laugh at me and herd the pigs back to their pens. "You don't have to be scared of them", he would laugh, "they won't hurt you."  Yeah.  Sure.  I also saw him a few weeks later do a great imitation of Superman, as he flew head-first over the pen fence one leap ahead of a angry mama hog!  Nothing is meaner than a mama hog.

Eventually the babies were raised and the mama pigs were released into a field behind the barn.  To ensure they stayed put Hubby put an electric fence around the lot.  The old sows would stand at the fence and look longingly at the house and the tempting dog food bowl.  They knew that the fence was painful and they couldn't cross it.  I looked back, in scorn and triumph, because they were unable to get to me (and the dog food).

Then I noticed one old sow had started backing up into the middle of the lot.  Step by step she backed away from the fence.  "Aha!  I have finally won!", I thought to myself.  When she reached the middle of the lot, she stopped, and spent a long moment just staring at the fence.  Then with a snort she started running.  With every step she squealed and grunted.  Faster and faster she came, the squeals getting shriller.  I stared in horror as she closed her eyes, squealing piercingly, and ran, headfirst,  into the single strand of electric fence!  The squeals reached a crescendo and then she was through the fence!!

Gradually slowing to a walk, she looked to the window where I watched in amazement, and I swear, she winked! 

Hope the dog didn't mind sharing.

Summer Days

Summer has set in on the farm.  The days are long and hot with not a lot going on.  The tobacco is set and now we spend a lot of time just watching it grow.  The wet weather has created some problems like stem rot and we're seeing some black shank.  Both are diseases that can cause severe problems.  So far it's just at the watch and wait stage.  The hay is cut and now hubby is bush-hogging off the pastures to clean up and stimulate the grass growth.

The grandsons have been spending a lot of time hanging out on the farm.  So once again I am hearing the sound of laughter as the little boys busily dig around the base of the old maple tree.  The grass will grow back but the memories of farming in the dirt will last forever.  Some of the toys they have drug out are left from the days of their father's childhood.  They don't make toys like that now.  The old metal Tonka trucks and bulldozers are still doing a hard days hauling and digging.  They even had some old metal toy tractors, plows and planters, also their dad's.  The new ones we bought last summer have long since been broken and thrown away.  Progress isn't always better.

It's been really hot, so I caved and brought out the water guns and water balloons.  Some basic rules: 1.  You cannot get grandma wet.  2.  You cannot spray the windows I just washed  (good luck with that one) 3.  No running into the house to hide and drip all over my floors.  4.  No whining.  5.  About anything else is legal.  The porch was awash with water and the fight was on within minutes.  Shrieks and shouts filled the air. 

About this time my son wandered into the house to check on the survival rate (theirs or mine).  "Who were the men in the gray truck?" he asked.  I shrugged, "What truck?  I haven't seen anyone.  The only time the dog barked is when you came in."  (The dog always assumes my son is the bad guy!)  It seems that the boys had reported that two men had arrived at the farm to look at some bulls.  After waving to the boys they checked out the cattle in the front field and drove off. 

"Why on earth" I mused "would they not come to the house?  They saw the boys playing.  They had to know someone was in the house!"  My son looked at the wet porch, spraying water hose, and the furious water battle taking place on the sidewalk and slowly grinned.  "Are you kidding?  They would have been walking targets in the middle of that onslaught!"

I looked around, laughed, and quickly slammed the door before we became targets, too.

Hail in the Heartland

There are few things that leave us as powerless as extreme weather.

We experienced that while visiting our daughter in Iowa.  Hubby and I had been left in charge of the farm while our daughter and son-in-law took the oldest grandchild to the doctor in Des Moines.

Hubby was comfortably stretched out in the recliner watching a golf match, when it started to rain.  The rain became harder and harder then it began to sound even louder.  We went to the door looking out on the back deck and discovered it was beginning to hail.  The little flakes of ice were about the size of a fingernail but as we watched the rain changed entirely to hail.  It looked like a snowstorm.  Soon the deck was covered in white.  Then we noticed that the hail covering the deck looked like it had small craters in it.  In amazement we watched as hail stones as big as golf balls began to fall faster and faster, pounding the deck, literally exploding the smaller hail covering the deck out of the way.  Almost as quickly, it was over.  The cloud passed and the sun came out.  The storm, which had arrived with no warning had lasted less than 10 minutes.

We ran to the door  to check the damage.  We stared in disbelief at the cars and truck  left in the drive earlier.  All were beaten and covered in golf ball sized dents with windshields and tail lights broken.  The ground was covered ankle deep in leaves from the surrounding trees, the flower beds were beaten to a pulp, her little vegetable garden just gone, with not a leaf left of the beans, tomatoes and peppers. Flower pots on the deck were shattered. Then our gaze went to the corn field in front of the house. Where once had been rows of little green plants were now just stubs.  The metal buildings were now sporting a coat of polka dots where the hail had blown the paint off.  The huge plastic covered worm of silage so recently stored for winter feed looked like it had been blasted with a huge shot-gun.  The plastic was just covered in holes.

Our son-in-law and daughter arrived home to utter devastation.  He immediately took off to check the fields.  He came back to report that his hay crop was beaten to the ground but the cows and calves were all accounted for.  The corn was stripped of the leaves but if the growth nodes weren't damaged it could come back.  Maybe.  He also discovered that the hail storm had been extremely local...almost just their farm.  Going a mile in any direction and you soon drove out of the damage area. 

Looking around at the mess, he said, "It could have been worse.  It wasn't a tornado and we could have had the tractors and planters here instead of at the other farm."  He was right.  We were safe and so were the megabucks expensive tractors and delicate planters.  On a farm, cars, roofs, and buildings are secondary to the all important planting equipment.

I have to give my son-in-law credit.  Not once did he ask "Why didn't you put some of these vehicles in the shed?"  A question hubby would have been screaming at the top of his lungs.  The truth is it was unbelievably vicious and fast. 

When we left for home a few days later our daughter laughed and said as she hugged me, "You won't be crying when you leave this time.  You'll be driving 90 miles an hour to get the hell out of here!"