Toothpaste and Toilet Paper

Years ago when I first started teaching I taught a class to high school boys and girls entitled, "Family Living".  It was the time when home economics was just beginning to realize that girls weren't the only ones that would need to learn a few basic life skills.  This was a cutting edge class just being offered in a few schools.  What that really meant was that a few schools had young teachers fresh out of college who would tackle a class with little in the way of criteria.  The older teachers saw the pitfalls and left it to us "greenies".  It did, however, give us a great deal of leeway in what we taught. 

The course I developed dealt with a lot of the things that a young person on his/her own for the first time would need to know.  We studied such basics as how to cook simple meals, wash and make simple repairs to clothes, and do basic household chores--like make a bed.  We also got into some of the more complicated lessons of managing your life.  We studied mortgages, loans, payments, reconciling bank statements, and buying various items on credit.  I tried to keep it basic and on a practical level.  For instance if we were discussing buying carpet we not only figured the square feet and cost but how to clean the ketchup stain that would be sure to come. 

The boys, particularly, were resistant at first.  They were glad to eat but weren't too sure about learning to cook.  As the year went on they became more interested and a little less concerned about their macho image.  Since I was only a very few years older than they were the conversations in class tended to get interesting.   I'm sure older teachers would have been wise enough to steer clear of subjects they didn't think should be discussed.  Being young and mostly in love (at least for a week at a time), they naturally talked about getting out of school and getting married.  Being an established matron (I'd been married all of two years), I became a sounding board for lots of questions about setting up a house, getting jobs, deciding on chore distribution, how many kids, who handled the money, or should income be separated or kept jointly.

During one of these discussions one of the girls posed a question.  "What is the hardest thing about being married?  What makes you argue the most?"  They settled back waiting for my confession of our innermost secrets about money or conflict over families.  I thought for a minute then told them the truth.  "There are lots of areas of conflict in a marriage that can lead to arguing, fighting and sometimes war.  The one thing that I have found that will cause a breakdown in a marriage the quickest is who squeezes the toothpaste in the middle and who squeezes it at the end.  The second is who puts the toilet paper on to roll from the top and who wants it to roll from the bottom." 

They sat in stunned silence as I went on to explain.  "The big issues like buying a new car or dealing with a meddling mother-in-law, you will sit down and discuss, eventually coming to a combined decision.  However, the toothpaste is something you both share everyday.  Inevitably, one will squeeze from the middle, one will want it nearly squeezed from the end.  There isn't anything as annoying as hunting the end to the toilet paper in the dark in the middle of the night only to discover that you have unrolled a pile in the floor because it was on upside down!  Over time that little irritation will wear on you until one day you just blow up!  It's the little things in a marriage that sometimes cause the most frustration.  Compromise and giggle!  Laugh before you explode."

So the biggest dangers to a marriage are toothpaste and toilet paper!

A Week-end at Grandma's

I have had the three grandsons for the past four days.  That's eleven meals (so far) and an unknown number of snacks.  I think the little boys are on self-feeders, since no matter where I hide the snacks they find them and polish them off.  The house has been filled with laughter, fights, whines, shouts, screams and giggles.  (The shouts and screams often came from the hubby when the uproar threatened to block out his ballgames.) It's also been filled with dirty coveralls, boots, gloves, hats, jeans, shirts, socks, and toys. We have played games, watched movies, munched on popcorn, and helped with the farm chores. 

The two little boys spent the whole of Saturday afternoon, a warm 50 degree day, helping to carry in wood for the upcoming cold snap.  The six year old was very concerned that I would be cold, without enough wood.  Hubby had brought up the farm Polaris ranger to carry the wood from the woodpile by the barn to the back porch.  The boys helped by loading and unloading the wood.  When the chore was finished to hubby's satisfaction he and the older grandson left with the ranger to go check his cattle.  I left to go fix snacks (and discover another cache empty.)

I looked out the kitchen window to check on the little scamps and started to chuckle.  They had decided that I didn't have enough wood, so they were continuing the hauling.  They had brought up their toy ranger, a battery operated vehicle large enough to carry both kids, and had placed about three pieces of wood in the back.  They had just unloaded and were starting back for another load.  Unfortunately, their battery was dead, so one pushed the little ranger while the other steered from the drivers seat.  Laughing, I went out to join them and help with the pushing.  After about four more trips they declared that I probably had enough for a while.  (I wish I could bottle that energy--I think it could replace fossil fuel.)

This morning in the effort to be a responsible adult, I shut down all the electronics and demanded that the boys come watch the Inaugural festivities.  You would have thought that I had just announced they were to receive capital punishment.  Whining and pouting they gathered on the couch with complaints and groans.  After their initial resistance the fascination of the activities caught their attention.  The questions were wide ranged and enlightening.  "Why do the President's girls have to come in by themselves?", "Why don't the wives come in with their husbands?",  "Do you think the soldier's guns are real and loaded?","What would happen if terrorists planted a bomb?", "Who is in charge if everyone is killed?", "Why is he using two Bibles?", "What is an invocation?" answer, a prayer. "Well, don't you think someone should have told that lady not to deliver a speech?". 

What were they most fascinated by?  The armored limousine.  They were fascinated by the thickness of the doors, the little square windows, and the sight of the President being sealed into the car.  They're right, it was awesome.

Their questions gave me an opportunity to tell them about the history of this event and some of the interesting events of earlier inaugurations. The older grandson spent some time looking up answers to more detailed questions about elections, qualifications for president, and background on the President using my ipad. 

I managed to hold them captive until after the oath, but then I lost them to a peanut butter sandwich.  Sorry, Mr. President.

For the Love of Cows

My main competition for hubby's affections has always been a  lovely lady with dark hair and soft brown eyes.  Or more correctly, a herd of them.  You see my hubby  loves his cows.  During my pregnancy with our son, I was a little apprehensive of the coming birth, he reassured me that "his girls just popped them out with no hysterics".  I knew then that when the time came, I'd better make sure none of his "girls" needed him or he'd figure that the doctor and I could handle it without him.

He is an excellent cattleman.  He seems to know intuitively when one of his animals is sick, off their feed, or just needing a little extra care.  They, in turn, seem to know that they can trust this human to take care of them.  They allow him to walk among them with no excitement only mild curiosity as he goes about his daily chores.  I have on occasion caught one of his ladies look at him with gentle reproach in her eye as he gives her a vaccination, as though to say, "I thought better of you than this.". 

He works unstintingly to see that they are well cared for.  That means hours of fencing, moving hay rings, putting up hay, mixing feed, getting cattle up for health checks, long nights attending births, feeding, and sorting and weaning calves. He enjoys it. However, there are two things that he doesn't like.  He hates to get up in the morning and feed (actually, he just hates to get up in the morning) and he hates the cold and mud.

He solved the first problem by involving the kids early on in the cattle program.  Before they knew it they had show calves in the barn requiring feed, morning and night.  To build their character and teach them responsibility, (he said), they were in charge of getting up and feeding their animals before school.  Then since they were already in the barn, (he said with an inward smile), they might as well dump the feed for the cows while they were there.  Each morning as the kids went through the kitchen to go feed, I would punch hubby as he lay in his nice warm bed and hiss, "I can't believe you let them go do that while you are still in bed!".  He would just smile and say it was good for their character.

Unfortunately, kids tend to grow up and leave home.  So the morning chores became his again.  Soon he was improvising ways to avoid getting up.  He started by "oversleeping" and would plead as he rushed out to the office, "It's all ready.  All you have to do is dump the buckets in the troughs."  We went from oversleeping to 8 am appointments to "you can do it on your way out for your walk".   Soon I was the one dumping the feed every morning for his ladies. 

This continued sporadically (he would graciously offer to feed for me if I had an early morning appointment or when I occasionally would rebel) until our son moved back from Oklahoma with his family.  Then hubby cheerfully turned the morning feeding back over to him.  However, the night time feeding has always been his.  He loves the quiet time in the evening when he can walk over his land and relax with his girls.  There is nothing like a soft spring evening to make you realize that farming is worth all the hassle.  Unfortunately, cattle don't just eat in the spring and summer. 

In Kentucky, the advent of cool weather usually means rain.  Sometimes, like this past week, lots of rain.  If you combine cattle and rain you get copious amounts of mud.  Deep mud that pulls at each step until you feel like you are dragging the whole farm on your feet.  Slippery mud that makes each movement a challenge in balance and gymnastics.  Splashy mud that manages to cover you from head to toe.  Mud that is soon on every tractor seat, covers every gate latch, and that I mop out of the "mud" room by the bucket.  Hubby hates mud.

Last week during the deluge he squished into the house with a sting of muttered curses.  "What happened!" I inquired, spotting his glowering visage and the liberal covering of mud.  "My boot stuck in the mud!  Then my foot came out and now even the inside of my boot is full of mud!!"  (not to mention my utility room). " I have half a mind to quit!" he roared.

"I have the perfect solution", I said.  "Let's buy calves in the spring, raise them all summer, sell them in the fall.  Then go to Florida for the winter."

He blinked slowly, then responded, "It's going to start drying up tomorrow and spring isn't far off".

Oh, well, I tried.

Longer School Year. Really?

The news that crossed my computer this morning requested comments on a trend in current education.  It seems that several states are considering a change in the school calendars to make the school year longer.  The desire is to get the American children on a level with the children in other countries.  It was felt with longer winter breaks and shorter summer breaks children would learn more and lose less.  (That statement alone made me question an educator somewhere.)

I'm afraid, as a former educator myself, I have some pretty strong opinions on the state of the education system.  You may not agree and if you don't, feel free to share your comments, but here goes.

I think, we as a society, have created this problem, not the schools.  For years we have focused on the idea that the schools aren't doing their job, so we need to force  the teachers to fix it.  They can't fix the loss in the value of education.  The American people have become so accustomed to the idea that everyone has a "right" to education that they no longer value the achievement of an education.

Every child has a guaranteed education provided for a minimum of 13 years.  All they have to do is show up....and did I mention they need to actually try?  So many of our children have lost the desire to achieve and succeed that they just show up.  Why?  Well, I see several reasons. 

One, is that we seldom value something that requires no effort on our part.  Our parents and grandparents struggled to obtain an education when it wasn't so freely given.  Our forefathers actually saw education as something available only to the privileged few and in an effort to create a society with advantages for the masses created an educational system that gave this privilege to every child.  The problem is that, like a child that is given candy all the time, he soon loses the idea of candy being something special.  We have finally reached the stage where students feel that it is the responsibility of the nation, state, school and teachers but not necessarily theirs.  You've heard the old saying "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink".  Well, we have lost the thirst and desire for education in our children.

Not all children or every child.  I think that students come to school initially like sponges ready to soak up every scrap of knowledge that comes their way.  So what happens to the kids as the get older?

Maybe we quit challenging them.  I was appalled when I was asked to judge a small 4-H event several years ago.  The club leader pulled me to the side and whispered in my ear.  "Don't worry about really judging, we're giving all the kids blue ribbons.  We don't want to discourage them."  What about encouraging them to strive for achievement?  If it doesn't matter if you do a good job or a lousy job, why try at all.  Think about your life.  Are the achievements that you prize the ones that just happened to everyone or the ones that you struggled for and worked for? 

Maybe we have failed to show them the importance of an education.  We have created a society where the very availability of an education has meant that it has become so common as to be no longer prized.  We tend to prize those things which are rare..we prize diamonds over coal.   In the process of making it so obtainable we have devalued the product.  We also have demeaned the product.  Are you familiar with the concept of gradeless grades?  That's what I call the idea of giving letters or marks for grades that don't give you a clue as to their value.  That is so the child that is not doing well can have the same feeling as the child that is doing exceptional.  Huh???  If you don't know that you aren't or are succeeding, why try harder? 

Maybe we have given our students the idea that the goal is simply higher education (post high school degrees).  Not every person in the world needs to be a doctor, lawyer or scientist.  There are many occupations that are gainful and rewarding that don't require an advanced college degree.  That doesn't, however, mean that they don't require a basic education and advanced study and training.  Have we given our kids the idea that if they are to become a plumber or electrician that they don't need to know anything but that?  Have we given them the idea that they can quit trying if they aren't planning on another 4-8 years of education beyond high school?  (Maybe they need to drive around a small town.  The plumber and electrician usually have the nicest homes.  Skilled labor is not without value!)

Maybe we have failed as parents to support, encourage, and demand success and application in school.  I'm afraid, in all too many homes, the parents themselves don't appreciate the importance of striving in school.  It's hard to encourage a child to do homework or even strive to learn when the parents ignore the effort or worse, ridicule the effort.  How can you encourage a child to read when you know that about the only reading material in their house is the back of a ketchup bottle?  Too many of our parents see school as something that is someone else's responsibility.  Their job is to get the child there and then it's someone else's job to see that they learn. 

What is the answer?  Beats the heck out of me.  I don't have an answer...I wish I did.  It took us maybe a hundred years to get in this shape, I really doubt there is a simple answer. 

I'm pretty sure it isn't just a longer school year.

Mighty Max

This morning, as I stood at the sink filling the coffee pot, I spotted, through the kitchen window, the reigning king of the farm strolling down the sidewalk.  The massive black and white cat didn't look to the right or left but sauntered along with a pensive look on his face.  I followed his progress and soon saw the reason for his somber approach.  The yellow house cat was snoozing peacefully on the porch chair, the king's rightful spot.   Through some radar, she awoke with a start and immediately sighted the unamused tom gazing thoughtfully at her.  With the immediate action that only cats can achieve, she flowed from the chair and removed herself from the porch.  The big tom continued strolling to the chair and with surprising grace and ease launched his bulk to the seat and settled in for a nap.  The king had arrived.

He wasn't always the king.  He arrived at the farm as one of a pair of tiny kittens deposited there by my daughter.  It was a rather curious route that he took to get there.  It seems that my daughter's room-mate's brother had a new baby and his cat also had kittens.  The wife decided one baby was enough, so the kittens had to go.  The sister took the kittens to Louisville to the pet shop to get rid of them.  The pet shop said they were too young and to bring them back in a few weeks.  The kittens then went to the girl's apartment but were ejected by the apartment super and the terms of their lease.  So, naturally, my daughter brought them home to mama.  Weirdly enough, they had originally started at the brother's farm only a mile or so from our house.

The kittens, only barely old enough to lap softened gruel, settled in with the house cat of the time.  This was a long, haired black tom (also deposited a couple of years earlier by the daughter).  We watched apprehensively as the tiny orphans toddled toward the tom as he basked in front of the fire.  Although he had been neutered, (Something I insist on.  It's cheaper than feeding masses of offspring) he was still a tom at heart and I wasn't sure he wouldn't harm the babies.  Upon arriving at his warm, fuzzy side the babies immediately nuzzled into the fur, rooting around looking for a "milk faucet" as the kids say.  I started forward anxiously but hubby placed a restraining hand on my arm, "Let's wait and see a bit.", he murmured.

The tom opened one eye and looking slightly puzzled lifted his head to stare at the nuzzling kittens.  I held my breath.  He raised himself up, slightly, and gazed at them fixedly.  I tensed.  The kittens, oblivious, nuzzled on, now making slight sucking sounds.  He moved around and reached his big head toward the little mites.  I started to move, then I stopped in amazement. He was slowly licking the top of the nearest kitten's head while he gently repositioned himself so he could reach the other kitten, too.  From that moment on he became the surrogate mother for the two little toms. 

He taught them well.  They both grew to become great hunters and mousers.  They eventually moved to the barn and soon the old tom left the house to become a barn cat with them.  They grew (and grew) to become large, sleek, swaggering toms (well, almost toms, since they too were neutered.)  When the top barn cat died of old age, little Max, now a massive veteran barn cat, became the undisputed king.  He's a benevolent dictator, but his rule is absolute. 

Even the dog practically salutes.

You Know You Live in a Small Town When

You know you are in a small town when......

A husband stops in the grocery on the way home to pick up a few items and is informed by the check-out lady that he can put the milk back because his wife has already been in and bought that.

The counter girl at the local fast food yells for a pot of decaff coffee when she sees you in line.

Fast food lunches take an hour because you have to stop and visit with everyone in there.

If you aren't home the delivery man will take your package to your hubby's office or your neighbor.

When your roof is damaged by a storm and you can call your insurance agent at 10 pm and he will come over and help you secure it for the night.

The local pharmacy will open at midnight because your can't find the baby's pacifier and no one is sleeping until you have a replacement.

Everyone knows your child's name and your dog's--and they will all help out when one or the other strays off.

When your teenage daughter has a fender bender and a neighbor calls you then hugs her until you can get there.

When you show up at gym after being absent and everyone wants to know about your vacation.

Church is reconvened on Sunday at the local restaurant.

The grocery clerk lets slip that your hubby forgot to get his daily candy bar when he stopped by earlier--a habit he didn't know he had.

If you get your hair fixed and forget to sign the check, the bank calls and wants to know if you liked your hair-do enough to come and sign it.

You can make one trip to the grocery and catch up on everyone's plans for the holidays.

When you can run into the banker at the drug store and give him your deposit to put in the bank for you.

When you don't have to worry about hubby starving to death when you are out of town because everyone knows he's batching it and will invite him for a meal.

When your grandchild's principal was one of the rowdy boys that used to play basketball at your house.

When bad luck happens there is a fresh casserole in your refrigerator by the time you get home.

When it is more of a family than a community....

The Season of Sharing

This will probably go down as the Christmas of sharing.

It all started when my son's boys started showing up at my kitchen table early in the morning.  With dripping noses and woeful faces they begged a place to hang out for the day since they were too sick for school or the sitters.  So I spent the last days before Christmas checking for fever, delivering liquids, and re-setting the DVD player.  A trip to the doctor reassured me that they only had head colds, not the flu.  Soon the whole family was feeling better, but hacking and coughing like a wheezy engine.  Thus we started the season of giving. 

My daughter and her family arrived from Iowa with her husband bringing a newly acquired cold as a gift from his Iowa family.  We happily settled in with my son and his family,  to catch up on old times, new germs, and the season of sharing.   The bottom line is, if you put 6 healthy people and 6 sick people in a house for a week, they will all swap illnesses!  In spite of gallons of hand soap, hundreds of disinfectant wipes, jugs of hand sanitizer, and constant admonitions to blow, wipe, wash, and cover, we were all soon sniffling and blowing.

The sounds of Christmas in our house were like many others.  Paper ripping, children squealing in delight, toys clattering, and lots of singing and laughing.  Interspersed in these sounds were the counter-rhythms of sneezing, coughing, sniffing, and calls of "go blow your nose" , "cough into your elbow", "don't drink after her!", "WASH YOUR HANDS!"  It was a symphony of "Yea!", sneeze, "I love it", blow, "How did you know?", sneeze and sniff.  Yep.  We were really into sharing.

As principle food preparer, I found myself becoming increasingly paranoid about washing my hands.  Pat a head,  Wash hands.  Fix a toy.  Wash hands. Hug a boo-boo.  Wash hands.  Soon the hand lotion had become a fixture in the center of the kitchen table to soothe the chapped hands from all the soap and hot water.  Still each morning welcomed a new crop of sniffling and snotting.

It wasn't long until the house began to resemble a winter landscape.  Soft drifts of white piled up along tables and couches.  Trash cans overflowed with Kleenex.  Children blew noses and dropped ever settling clouds of white on every surface. I collected, tossed and WASHED MY HANDS, a few thousand times more.

Soon I had to run to the drug store to stock up on more Kleenex, antihistamines, cough syrup, Tylenol, and any cold remedy that promised instant relief and sleep.  While there I bumped into a friend.  "How was your Christmas?", she started. Then seeing the heaping arm-load of cold supplies, she hastily took a step back.  "Oh, I see that your family isn't feeling well. I'll call you next week...or sometime."  Yep.  It is the season of sharing.

This morning my daughter and her family packed up the car and headed home.  After hugging each sniffling loved one good-by, I wearily turned to my couch and sank down and grabbed a Kleenex.  Ahhhh---chooo! 

Yep.  The gift that keeps on giving.