The Quilt

Seventeen years ago our daughter survived every parent's nightmare,  a horrendous car accident,  After spending 3 weeks in the hospital we finally brought her home.  Looking at her, barely making a lump in the hospital bed set up in the living room, I realized that I was going to have to take care of her all by myself without the constant attention of the dedicated hospital staff.  I was as terrified as I had been when we first brought her home from the hospital eighteen years earlier.  Sheer panic at the responsibility I faced kept me awake both of those "first nights".

The next weeks and months were a microcosm of those first years of raising our baby.   I bathed her, washed her hair, fixed her special foods, worried over her sleeping, jumped at every sound, and was fiercely protective.  As the days moved into weeks and she became stronger, I had to force myself to step back and let her attempt to do things "on my own".   It was no easier watching her take her first steps on crutches than it was to watch her toddle unsteadily on bowed legs as a baby.  The urge to coddle and do for her was overwhelming.  Fortunately, for both of us, my determinedly independent daughter would have none of it. 

Weeks grew into months and she was making plans to go back to college.  On crutches, under her doctors' supervision, and taking therapy, she still was determined to return to campus.  Leaving her this time was the hardest thing I have ever done.  She stood, braced on her crutches, and waved happily as we pulled away.  I returned to a home that felt achingly empty and still.   After months of dedicating my every moment to taking care of her, I was suddenly at a loss of how to fill my time. 

Wandering through Walmart on a supply buying trip my attention was caught by a kit in the craft section.  It was a quilt featuring a big "K" for her school, the University of Kentucky.  I picked it up and carried it home.  For weeks I appliqued big blue "K's" on squares, then stitched the squares together in blocks, and added a border.  I then started the laborious process of adding quilt batting and a backing.  For months I sat at night and quilted on the UK quilt for her bed.  In the meantime, she gained in strength and healing.  She moved to a new apartment, made more friends, found a boyfriend (or six or seven) and I quilted on. 

Time passed.  She thrived and my need to be constantly busy was channeled into other things and the quilt was folded away on a shelf.  She graduated from college, got a job, got engaged and then married to a guy from Iowa.  I figured she would never need a UK quilt and forgot all about it. 

Christmas she was rummaging in my sewing room looking for some material for her oldest to do some "stitching" on and she came across the quilt.  She smoothed her hand over it, slowly.  "You never finished it."  she said quietly.  "Well, I got over feeling so lonely and your life moved on ....."  I sighed.  "Can you finish it?"  she asked quietly.  I looked up at her.  With a tear in her eye she said, "I know that each stitch stands for your love.  I would treasure it forever."

Sometimes children are so rewarding.

I have to hurry.  I have a quilt to finish.

Deadly Taxus

During the years I worked as an Extension Agent few events stand out in my mind like the young dairy farmer who had mysteriously lost an entire field of young calves.

I looked up one morning from my desk to see one of my Homemaker Club member's husband coming in the door.  He approached the secretary's desk with some agitation as I approached to say hello.  "Where's the Ag. Agent?  I need help--now!" he sputtered.  The Agriculture agent soon appeared and the story came tumbling out.  He had put his, newly weaned, replacement heifers in the front field of his farm close to the house.  He wanted them nearby so he could monitor their health and feed them easily.  They had grazed and thrived in the field for a few weeks and he was getting ready to move them in with his herd.  Then, this morning, he went out to feed and found them all dead.  He was frantic to find out what had killed all his heifers.

Together the two men left and returned with samples of the feed, mineral, grasses, water, and anything else they could find in the field to test.  These were sent off to the University of Kentucky research department for analysis.  In the mentime one of the calves was sent to the Diagnostic Research Center, which would test for anything that might have poisoned them, such as pesticides or just plan malice.  Then they waited.

In the meantime, I had an occasion to visit with the young wife who told me how utterly distraught her husband was over the loss of the calves.  Not only were they an expensive loss but he took the blow to his farming skills very seriously.  It was a gloomy visit for they both felt very low about the events.

The results from the samples sent from the field came in first.  None of the items showed anything except what should be there.  There was nothing in the feed, mineral, grasses or water that could explain the sudden death of the calves.  In frustration, the couple pinned their hopes on the tests on the calf.

Several days later the young couple returned to the office with the official report from the Diagnostic Lab on the heifer.  The Agriculture Agent studied the form and excused himself for a moment.  On entering the outer office he grabbed a book and started thumbing through it mumbling to himself.  "Yep.  There it is.  Oh, no." he whispered to himself as he found the reference he was searching for.  Visibly girding himself, he marched back into the office.  He approached the young farmer and his wife and said, "It seems that your calf died from ingesting taxus." 

With puzzlement on his face the farmer looked up and inquired, "What on earth is that?"  "Well", the Ag. Agent replied, "it is an evergreen shrub that is often used in landscaping.  It's extremely poisonous and it is possible that someone trimmed their bushes and dumped the clippings in your field." Before he could continue, an anguished wail came from the young wife.  "What do they look like?" she moaned.  Upon hearing the description, she fell into sobs. "I did it!  I killed them all!"

 It seems she had decided to trim the bushes in front of their home and cleaned up the yard by, indeed, tossing the refuse over the fence.  Neither of them knew of the extreme toxicity of the taxus bush.  Even small amounts can kill cattle, either freshly cut or months later as dried stems. 

Their marriage survived the event, but she still won't talk about that time to this day.

I know I'll never forget it.  There will never be a taxus shrub on our farm. 

The Bible Study Group

When you live on a farm, nothing ever goes like you think it will.

It was my turn to host the women's Bible study group from our church.  This event required an in depth cleaning of the house.  No one ever ventured upstairs but no area was ignored in case they might.  The hostess was also responsible for providing a dessert.  The dessert was served on the best china, silver and tablecloth.  In short, it was quite an undertaking. 

The house was ready, the dining room gleamed with freshly polished silver, and the dessert was ready to serve.  Hubby, nobody's fool, figured that the best thing he could do would be to take the kids and leave us to our study and visiting.  The ladies arrived and were soon settled into chairs in the living room.  Forgetting that not everyone is used to living with animals, I had failed to lock up the house cat.  She, with the unerring instinct of felines, had made a bee line for the visitors, curling up under one little lady's chair.  Naturally, she was terrified of cats, so soon was perched with her feet hooked on the top rung of the chair.  Flustered I removed the offending cat and prayed nothing else would happen.

The meeting progressed and we were soon into the Bible lesson.  As the leader expounded on the text my mind wandered and my gaze was caught by a movement outside of the window.  I focused intently with a look of horror on my face.  Peacefully grazing through the side yard (and my flower beds) were the four young bulls supposedly safely locked in the barn lot.  I slipped casually from my seat and strolled into the kitchen, where I bolted for the back door.  Flinging it open I raced around the house hoping the bulls would proceed quietly back to the lot.  Thinking it a wonderful game, they kicked up their heels and scattered.  I glanced back in time to see a window full of faces staring out at the circus unfolding in the yard.

I decided to change tactics and reversed to go back to the barn.  A voice called from the porch, "Can we help?"  "No, I've got it under control", I yelled as I raced back across the yard.  Reaching the barn I grabbed a bucket and threw in a scoop of feed--enough to make it rattle good.  Then I ran back across the yard again, beginning to get a little winded with all the running.  Scooting to a stop so I wouldn't spook the bulls, I began rattling the grain in the bucket, speaking softly, between gasps.  The bulls, hearing the grain, decided that sounded like a better idea than shrubs, started ambling over.  Soon I was leading a string of bulls, like the Pied Piper, back across the yard and into the barn lot. 

By now the entire group of ladies was standing on the porch, Bible study forgotten, totally fascinated by the entertaing sight of their hostess running around the yard. 

It certainly is never is dull on the farm. 

The Homestead

You inherit a lot of things from your family.  I inherited a love of books and words from both my parents, who were avid and eclectic readers.  Which meant that although I was as active as most children of the time, I could be found curled up with a book more often than not.  I also come from a long line of great cooks, so I inherited a love of food.  Unfortunately, along with that, I inherited, from both grandmothers, an efficient body that didn't waste a bit of that food.  The result was a tendency from early on to put on weight.

My mother was beginning to become concerned but didn't want to put much emphasis on it.  She recognized that time would take care of most of the problem if it wasn't allowed to get out of control.  What I needed was an incentive to be more active.  So, I spent a summer playing softball at the local park.  I played catcher, first base, outfield and the bench.  A couple of problems.  One, I'm not terrifically coordinated or athletic.  Two, I wore incredibly thick glasses that tended to create curves that distorted the trajectory of a ball.  Therefore, my glove was never in the right place for a catch.  End of softball career.

My dad, seeking to satisfy both his wife and daughter decided to take matters into his own hands.   He began asking casually if I would like to take a hike to this spot or that in the surrounding knobs(foothills of the Applachians).  We would drive out into the knobs, park and take off into the trees.  In this manner I spent wonderful hours learning about the knobs, woods, trees, wildlife and woodland plants, as well as, toning up a lot of my baby fat.  An easy teacher with a deep love of the hills he would point out how to identify trees, plants, tracks and animal habitats as we hiked.  All of this was done in the deep solitude and peace of the quiet woods, far from other people.

However, one day I found that we weren't the first people to enjoy these woods.  We had been climbing up to a ridge for some time when we came across an old road bed.  This wasn't all that unusual since people had been living in the area for a couple of hundred years.  The road bed was little more than a path but reasonably clear of large trees so we followed it along the ridge top.  We found ourselves entering into a small clearing in the woods.  There nestled back in a small orchard of apple, peach, and cherry trees stood a small cabin.  The porch was falling in and grape vines and brambles grew over the railings, but it was mostly intact. The yard was over grown with occasional flowering plants struggling to survive.  It had obviously been abandoned for some years.  Hoping to find some tin cans or other trash to use for targets (we never hiked without rifles, mostly for target shooting) we wandered over to the door.  After checking for soundness we entered the front of the little house. 

To our amazement it looked like the occupants had just gotten up from breakfast and left.  Placed around the interior were the remnants of a bed, chairs, shelves and  a table.  The table still had a few dishes on it, clothes and bedclothes were laying in tatters, where animals had nested.  The windows had strings of material where curtains had hung.  The shelves still held a few jars of fruit, probably canned from the trees outside. While weather and inquisitive animals had destroyed much of the belongings there was still enough left to see the life they had lived. 

We pondered over time wondering what had happened to the people from the little cabin. The clearing showed signs of care and hope for the future (fruit trees aren't a short term dream) and the home, with it's roses gone wild, spoke of permanence.  The question was, what could make them leave so suddenly? Why had they never returned?  Had they taken ill or just given up?

We continued to visit the little homestead over the next few years, enjoying the peace and the little orchard, someone had lovingly planted.  Hiking up one day we noticed that the old road showed signs of recent use.  We walked on following the tracks right into the clearing.  The tracks led around the house to the back.  There, behind the fruit trees, was a small family cemetery we had noticed before.  Continuing to follow the tracks we found a new grave in the little grouping of markers. 

Whoever had built and loved the little homestead had come home again.

The Cook

I was fortunate to be raised by parents who understood the need for children to feel proud of themselves and to also feel they were contributing to the family.  My mother worked outside of the home in a time when most mothers were stay-at-home moms.  My father was very supportive and we understood from an early time that her job meant we would have more "things" but would also mean she would not be doing all of the household chores.  That meant that my sister and I would be expected to pick up the slack.  So we could often be found folding clothes, dusting, or running the sweeper, among other chores.

My mother would work until five o'clock then stop by her parent's to see if they needed anything and check on them.  It was unusual if she arrived home before six o'clock.  Since I had always loved being in the kitchen and helping cook, she soon had me starting a few things before she got home.  I would peel potatoes, set the table, or put on a pot of green beans.  She gradually taught me more and more until I was preparing most of the meal with instructions over the phone. 

The next step was to turn supper over to me completely.  She established a meal plan - a meat, two vegetables and a salad- then gave me freedom to decide from there.  I had to get approval of my meals but she rarely criticised, rather she would make a suggestion or recommendation.  I'll have to say, my family was remarkably tolerant, considering that at 12 or 13 years old my ideas of taste were a little unformed. 

The first time I decided to make a chicken dish that required cutting up a whole chicken was an experience.  Before she left for work, mother drew me a diagram of how to cut each piece, explaining how it would be done.  I arrived home from school and blithely started to cut up my chicken.  Getting the wings off was easy.  The legs were a bit more of a challenge, but soon they were in a drumstick and thigh.  I wrestled the remaining carcass around the kitchen for a while, making lots of pokes but little progress.  In desperation I called her at work.  "Help!"  I sputtered, "this thing has about beat me to a draw!".  She laughed and began to "talk" me through the process of separating the back from the breast and then splitting the breast into halves.  I have seldom been so proud of any accomplishment as I was of those mangled chicken pieces.  To this day when I cut up a chicken, I can hear her voice in my ear explaining each step.

What my parents gave me wasn't just a love of cooking that has endured to this day, but rather a sense of worth and accomplishment.  At a time when my friends were still whining about having to make their beds, I was preparing meals for my family.  It was with a great sense of pride that I would leave my friends giggling and sipping cokes at the drugstore because I had to get home to start supper.  I felt needed as a contributing part of the family.  My mother never missed an opportunity to tell her friends how much she relied on her girls to help her out, making us feel ten feet tall.  I can never remember feeling that we were forced or nagged into helping.  My parents were able to make us understand the need of every person to work and help each other out.  They also understood the need of every child to feel important and special. 

Thanks, mom, for teaching me the joy of working and giving to my family.

The Tractor Hunt is Over

Late the other afternoon I answered my phone to hear, "I'm coming up the driveway!" "Uh, o..k...?" I replied, wondering why on earth hubby would call to tell me that.  "I'm in the new tractor" he continued with excitement.  With that I ran out the door to watch the parade, as they convoyed the new tractor home.

The hunt was officially over a few days ago, when hubby finally decided to go on and buy the new tractor and quit hunting all over the U.S. for a used one.  The local dealer kept sweetening the deal until he could no longer resist the siren song.  So now he was home with his new GREEN tractor.  It's the first green tractor ever on the farm...in fact it is the first new tractor we have ever owned. 

After a quick congratulatory hug, he grinned and said he would be in after he had rearranged a few things in the barn so he could get his tractor out of sight.  Huh?  Out of sight?  Then I started laughing.  I knew exactly what his problem was.  You see we live in RED country.  Most, if not all, of his friends drive red tractors.  Buying a green one will cause considerable teasing and ribbing from the surrounding farmers.  Especially since this green tractor was definitely a Cadillac version.

It hasn't been so long ago that all the tractor work was done with hubby sitting exposed to whatever weather was happening.  Rain, sleet, snow, wind,  or extreme heat all pounded down while he sat in his exposed seat.  We thought the move to our first cab tractor was the move to luxury.  This one, however, is as nice as his pickup truck, which is nicer than my car!

Our son was chuckling as he listed the "comfies" of the new workhorse. It not only has a cab but automatic windshield washers on the front and back.  It has heat and air conditioning with an automatic thermostat, so he doesn't have to keep regulating his comfort.  An air-ride seat keeps him floating over the bumps in the field.  The crowning touch is that it even has cruise control!  Of course, we don't have a field big enough to need it, but it is a cool option.  Hubby made sure it was equipped with a buddy seat for the grandkids to use when they ride along.  If they can stand it, that is, since it also has a cigar lighter and an ashtray.  Our son shook his head slowly, it doesn't, unfortunately, have a sun roof. 

The next day he could hardly wait to finish Sunday lunch, then he tore out to the barn.  He would be back later, he called, he had to scrape the feed barn with his new loader and tractor.  I smiled at his excitement as he went out to play with his new toy.  He returned later beaming with satisfaction at the performance of his new equipment.

He had, however, carefully parked the tractor behind the haybales and out of sight from passing farmers.

Ghost Rides

My father and his brother were world class story-tellers.  They would, on the drop of a hat, settle in for an afternoon or evening of enthralling yarns.  Some would be funny, some exciting, and some would carry a moral or point they wanted to make.  The best ones, though, were the scary ones.  And the best place for a scary one was on a ghost ride.

In our little town, summer evenings were long (no day light saving time so it got dark before bedtime).  Kids and adults would take to the yards to enjoy the coolness of the evenings and visit with their neighbors.  We youngsters would be running in packs as we played hide-and-seek or kick-the-can.  Sometimes, when we became too obnoxious or just tired of the same old games, daddy and Uncle Ben could be teased into a "ghost ride". 

Daddy had a furniture store so he usually drove one of the big panel trucks home for the night.  He would load all the neighborhood kids into the back, cozily cushioned on piles of furniture pads.  Then he or Uncle Ben would get in with us and close the big back door.  It total and absolute darkness, relieved only by daddy's small flashlight, we would start our journey.  The truck would sway and shift as we traveled to some undisclosed spot out in the county.   Our guide would begin to build the anticipation by telling us that we had to do exactly as we were told when we arrived because of some unnamed menace lurking outside.  After what would seem to us to be a long drive, we would stop and the back doors would be opened.  At that moment, daddy would discover a problem with the flashlight, which left us in darkness.

We would gather close to the two men and be instructed to sit quietly in a circle.  Usually we found ourselves on a dirt road in the woods or sometimes on a bridge over a gurgling stream.  (Woods were always more fun for us townies.)  Then they would begin to tell ghost stories.  They were so tuned in to each other that they would pass the story back and forth without missing a beat.  One elaborating on the others ideas until we were peering into the dark and jumping at every frog croak.  We would then be instructed, in an agitated tone, to be absolutely quiet.  "Did you hear that?' one would ask.  "I think so...do you think it is????" the other would reply.  "We better get these kids to be quiet or it will find us!"  "Listen, listen hard...do you hear it?"  We would all sit and strain our ears until every sound was magnified and the night was filled with chirps, grunts, and buzzing. 

It never failed.  At some point during the tense listening, an owl would hoot or a fish would jump, or sometimes we would hear the harsh screech of a bobcat in the woods.  At that the men would jump up and yell for us to get in the truck quick!  Like a flock of frightened chickens we would scramble and run for the safety of the back of the truck.  Once inside the doors would close and the flashlight would miraculously work again as daddy counted noses.  He would heave a sigh of relief, "Thought maybe we had lost  little Bobby that time, but we got away."

After a quiet drive back he would deliver the now sleepy children safely to their parents.   Who needed television, we had ghost rides!

The Flirt

Hubby's grandfather was an incurable flirt,  but he carried it off with such class and style that no one ever held it against him.

When I knew him he was a tall, handsome man with thick white hair which fell in a wave over his forehead.  He had bright blue eyes that held a glint that warned of a joke to come.  And, boy, did he love the girls.  When the boys would bring home a new girl to introduce, he would throw open his arms and welcome you to the family with a warm hug.  As I quickly learned, the trick was to get the hug in and get out before he managed a mild grope.  His intentions were harmless, he just really loved women.

Elvis Presley was once asked, "What is your idea of the perfect woman?"  His answer was, "female".  That pretty much summed up Grandaddy, he was enchanted by all females.

Granny was a saint.  She was the epitome of the perfect lady.  From the top of her carefully bunned hair to the tip of her black shoes she was a gentlewoman.  Yet, she never did more than look at him in amusement when he would get up to his tricks.  Her look said it all.  "He's like a dog chasing a car.  He's having a great time but wouldn't know what to do if he caught one!"

He was never crude or obnoxious about his delight.  When his only granddaughter married he was thrilled and proud to stand in the receiving line as they greeted the guests.  He welcomed each female, from babies to grandmothers, with a warm hug and a kiss.  His only regret was that he only had one granddaughter to marry off.  (He still managed to get in a few hugs and kisses during the grandson's weddings.)  He was gracious, charming, handsome, and none of the women ever minded the gentle squeeze and respectful smooch on the cheek.

Granny and Granddaddy went to Florida every winter for an extended visit to escape the cold and ice.  Granddaddy soon would establish a pattern of taking a walk on the beach each day.  He would stroll along, calling out greetings to friends and making new friends.  Before long he would spot some luscious young thing working on her tan.  He would amble over and gently comment.  "Excuse an old man for being forward, but your back is getting a little pink.  Maybe I could help you get a little more sun lotion on that hard to reach spot."  He would then carefully, and gently, smooth the sun lotion over the smooth, young back.  Then he would tip his hat and wander on down the beach with a renewed spring to his step.

He was a classic.

A God's Eye View

I can't remember a time when I wasn't enamoured with flying.  I guess it started with some childhood books that featured a character that flew a small plane.   Whatever the reason, I have been fascinated with flying ever since.  As a child I begged for flying lessons like other children begged for ponies and bicycles.  I talked of it all the time and evidently drove my parents crazy with my babbling.  I remember one day, my mother had reached the limit with my incessant begging.  "OK", she announced with her hands on her hips, "If you are very, very good...", my heart gave a mighty leap, "someday you'll get to heaven and God will give you wings!  Until then hush up about it!"  I knew it was time to "hush up".

My flying never got past flying in commercial airliners, but my fascination continues. 

I love the feeling of leaving the solid ground and becoming airborne.  I can't get over the amazement that something the size of a jumbo jet, filled with people (and all that luggage!) can smoothly and gracefully take to the air.  No amount of scientific explanation works--to me it's just magic!  I have no fears, or terrors, just anticipation and delight as I watch the land that I just stood on shrink and become a part of a mosaic picture spread before my eyes.  I search out landmarks as I gaze, enraptured, by the different perspective of buildings, roads, cars, trees, fields, and rivers flowing underneath me.

As we get higher, I am able to see the vastness of our land and how it varies from region to region.  Close to home I see the valleys and tree filled hillsides with meandering streams flowing through.  The little roads wind and ramble along the topography with smaller paths leading off to farms and houses tucked into secluded spots.  The thousands of little ponds wink and flash in the sunlight.  I look at the fields, like little squares in a quilt, outlined in trees and dark green, stitching it all together.

As I travel west, the land smooths out and doesn't look so much like a quilt that is rumbled and bunched.  Now it is smooth and flat.  The fields become bigger and show the straight rows of plowing or last season's crops.  Occasional green clumps show the places where  trees have been planted for shade and wind breaks.  Nestled in these clumps are homes and farm buildings.  As you go further west you begin to see great round circles on the land, where farmers have irrigated the dry land into verdant, flourishing fields.  Everywhere it looks bountiful, manicured, and carefully tended. 

I think only from the sky can you begin to appreciate the strength of the farmers and the land that they love.  When you see the careful tending of the land, from the little patches of fields to the great spread of the plains farms, you have an understanding of the work, effort, dedication, and determination that farmers have used to bring forth the crops and produce from this great land.  They have created a work of art for God's own eyes.

The next time you fly, look out the window and appreciate the farmers who cultivate the beauty and bounty spread out below you.

Tractor Hunt

Hubby picked me up at the airport after I had spent a few days in Chicago helping our daughter attend the Children's Apparel Mart.  Absence does make the heart grow fonder, so I was looking forward to seeing hubby again.  When I reached the baggage claim area where he usually waits for me I was surprised that he wasn't there.  I plucked my phone out of my purse (what did we do before cell phones) and called to see where he was.  I was a little surprised to get no answer but thought he might be in traffic and unable to answer.  A moment later my phone "sang" to me.  It seemed he was waiting outside and would meet me when I collected my bag. 

I did as instructed and soon was approaching the truck where he could be seen talking to himself.  Actually, it's the new technology and hands-free calling.  He was on the phone.  A moment later he was hefting my bag into the back and after a quick hug jumped back into the truck.  We pulled out of the airport while I was bubbling with news to tell him of my trip with our daughter.  Before I could get started the phone rang.  It was one of his cronies who was in on the great tractor hunt.  It seems one had been found around Lexington, but he wasn't sure of the price.  Before that call ended another one came in.  He returned the missed call and it was a friend who was a dealer who was working on a "sweet" deal on a new tractor.  He had just hung up and I had taken a deep breath to tell him my news when it rang again.  This was another buddy who had found a tractor with 2000 hours on it but the price was right.  This continued all the way home.  It seems the tractor hunt is really and truly on.

Hubby is a very social person.  He loves people and has lots and lots of friends.  Most of them farmers or associated with farming.  It didn't take long for the word to get around that hubby was really searching for a tractor.  They all wanted to do a favor for him, plus there is nothing more fun that spending someone else's money.  So everyone and their pet duck is in on the hunt.  The phone never stops ringing with reports of tractor sightings around the state and country.  Everyone is having a wonderful time.

Last night, hubby, finally had a few minutes to talk.  He rambled on about this tractor and that one.  One has too many hours on it.  One has a part missing that is back ordered and may never come in.  One needs fenders, a buddy seat, and doesn't have a loader or hay spear.  This one has too many rust spots.  That one needs tires.  "You know," he mused, "the best deal is probably the new one.  It's not much higher and I wouldn't be paying for someone else's wear and tear."  I just looked at him. 

I can't believe how times have changed.

The tractor in question costs just slightly less than the farm did when we bought it 30 years ago, and that included the house! 

Tractor Crisis

The farm is in an uproar, or at least the farmer is.

Back in the fall, hubby became unhappy with the big red tractor.  It was a combination of things, most of which I don't pretend to understand.   The biggest problem is that we lost the dealership that supplied the parts for the tractor.  Where we once only had to drive a few miles to get parts we now have to drive almost an hour.  That's not a good situation when you are in the middle of hay and have a break-down (is there any other time?).  Also, he had spotted a tractor that he liked, at about the right price.  So, in a moment of frustration, hubby priced his tractor to another farmer.  When he didn't hear from the farmer he decided to go on with the old red tractor.

Then, lo and behold, after Christmas the farmer calls and says he wants the tractor.  A little hemming and hawing takes place and the deal is struck.  The big red tractor moves on to another farm.   Naturally, the tractor hubby had his eye on to replace big red is gone.  So now we are without the big tractor with the loader and hay fork.  It makes doing winter chores of scraping out feed barns and moving big round hay bales a problem.  Panic arrives.

Hubby and son rush through the chores at night then head straight for the computer.  They research tractors and more tractors.  Questions float out of the office area.  Where is Winchester, TN?  What does UK mean (no we are NOT buying a tractor from the United Kingdom!)? How far is it to Eufaula, Alabama?  How much do they charge to truck a tractor here?  The perfect tractor was found...in Idaho about 100 miles from Canada.  Another looked promising but it was in Oklahoma. 

Finally one was found in Tennessee.  A call to the dealer sounded promising, so hubby and son took off to check it out.  They left early one morning and were calling home by lunch.  Not good.  The tractor was in worse condition than they thought and the price too high.  In low spirits they headed back home. 

They went back to the computer.  It seemed like they were always just a little late and the tractor had just been sold.  In desperation they even called a dealer in Des Moines, thinking that our son-in-law could check it out and hold it for us.  Unfortunately, that one was sold to a man in Oregon and already shipped out.  However, the Oregon man hadn't paid all the money yet, and if he didn't, then there were only two others ahead of hubby looking at it.  It seems farmers are snapping up these tractors like frogs on flies.

Yesterday, hubby walks in at lunch and says he has figured out the solution.  He's going to rent a tractor until he can find the perfect one.   He knows a farmer who mows right-of-ways along the highway.  Obviously, he isn't using all his tractors now.  So he figures he can rent one of the ones sitting idle.  This will allow him time to keep on looking for the perfect tractor.

Sounds good to me.  I've always wanted to see Idaho.

Sleigh Riding

I don't know if the winters were worse when I was growing up or if I just vividly remember each day of a couple of bad winters, but I sure have some great memories of sleigh riding in our town.  As soon as the snow would start falling I would drag the sled out of the basement and my dad and I would start "waxing the runners".  I would apply paraffin wax to the metal sled runners with one eye on the mounting snowfall outside.  As soon as the ground was covered we were heading for the hills.

Hills weren't too hard to find in our little town.  In fact, one of the best sledding hills was on our street.  No one salted and plowed the streets then like they do now, so the side streets would soon be covered and packed to Olympic smoothness.  Late in the afternoon and early evening the kids and teens would start to gather.  Before long the hill was resounding with squeals and laughter as the sleds tore down the slick surface.  The parents would ride with the little kids to help steer the sled (and for the plain old fun of it!).  The teens would challenge each other to see who could go the farthest (or with the most bodies on a sled).  Couples would sneak a chance to snuggle a little as they trudged back up the hill with their sleds. 

We were fortunate enough to have parents that aided and abetted our schemes and foolishness.  If the weather were cold they would gather wood and build a bonfire at the top of the hill.  The house on the corner had a graveled pull-off that made a perfect spot to gather.  I remember one frigid winter when the snow on the road became powdery from all the traffic through that day.  The sledding for that night was ruined since the sled runners would cut through the powder to the pavement.  My best friend's dad, the local dentist, had a house about the middle of the hill.  We all looked up in amazement when he appeared in his drive unrolling a coil of water hose.  He calmly handed the nozzle to one of the boys and went back to the house to turn on the water.  By nightfall the hill was one huge sheet of ice.  Soon the sleds were reaching breath-taking speeds as they whizzed down the hill.  No one was killed although a few of the girls proclaimed injuries that required the guys to help them back up the hill.  They usually were much better by the time their turn to sled down the hill came again.

When everyone got chilled and needed to warm up our house was the spot to go to.  My mom would make a huge pot of chili and hot chocolate, which she would keep warm during the night.  When you reached the freezing point, you would ride a sled to the bottom of the hill and walk two houses to our place.  My dad would usually have a fire in the fireplace in the basement, so we would all gather there to eat chili and toast marshmallows.  Since our basement was just a concrete floor with concrete block walls (no fancy carpet, paneling and drywall) furnished with whatever furniture daddy couldn't sell in his used furniture store, it was a teenagers heaven.  We could pile in with our snow covered clothes and warm up without a mother having a breakdown.

It seems like we must have had some really bad winters, because we sure created a lot of really great memories.

Motherhood

Motherhood comes to different people in different ways.

My mother had two good friends who spent many hours at our house.  The three women shared lots of laughs and tears over the years of their friendship.  I think I always knew that one of them needed more from their friendship than the other two.  She was a tall, slender blond with a striking resemblance to Grace Kelly.  Even to my young eyes she had a aura of sadness about her. 

It was years later that I was told June's story.  As a young woman, barely out of her teens, she had been diagnosed with cancer.   To save her life she was given a total hysterectomy.   She survived and to my knowledge never had any more problems with cancer but she grieved for the children she would never have. She was fortunate enough to meet a man who loved her completely, with or without having children. After several years of marriage they applied for adoption and were able to adopt a son.  Now, my mother always said, that you should be able to have one child to practice on and make all the mistakes.  After that you should get to  actually start your family, because you've ruined that one.  This little boy was no exception.  He turned out to be a great adult, but he sure was a whinny, spoiled kid.

We all knew that everyone made exceptions for her mothering (or smothering) due to the circumstances.  Even the kids that were always under foot at our house, put up with his demands and tantrums.  My mother even went so far as to fix him hot dogs when he wouldn't eat what she had prepared for everyone else.  She sure wouldn't do that for any of us!

Knowing that the best remedy for the problem would be another child they put in for a baby sister to round out their family.  Adoptions moved quicker back in those days, but still you waited and waited for the call.  Finally one day the call came, but not exactly like they expected.  It seemed that the adoption agency hadn't called about their baby girl.  They had, in fact,  called for their help.  They had four year old twin boys that had survived an incredibly difficult life and needed to be placed in a home immediately.  If no one could be found to take them both, then they would have to separated.  A situation that the agency felt would be unbelievably traumatic for the boys.  Would they take them?

With no hesitation and probably lots of fears and concerns they said to bring them right on.  The friends went into action.  The frilly crib and tiny clothes for the hoped for little girl were packed away.  Two beds were found and soon set up in the baby's room. Before they had time to think, their two little blond boys were there.  Suddenly they were a family of five.  I do remember that the boys were a handful, suffering from bouts of nightmares and acting out, but June never ceased to bathe them in her boundless love.  Slowly, they began to bloom and flourish in their new security.

As happens in life, another shock was about to happen.  The twins had been in their new home about six months when the phone rang again.  This time the news was that the agency had their baby girl, if they still wanted her.  They took a deep breath and said yes.  The friends went into action again, unboxing the crib and the frilly clothes.  Squeezing the little boys into the older brother's room and setting up the nursery once again. 

I remember June during those months that followed.  She walked around with dark circles under her eyes (none of the children slept well) and glowing with joy.  She embraced the challenges of traumatized four year olds, colicky newborns, and sibling rivalry with grace and compassion.  The family that emerged from that time was a delight to be around.  The older (spoiled) brother came to take the little boys under his wing and became their proud teacher.  They all doted on the tiny blond princess that followed them around.  Their house roared with laughter and small riots, while June reigned supreme in the uproar, finally the mother she had always wanted to be.

True Friends

Like most of America we settled down yesterday to watch the Superbowl action with friends.  Also like most of America we did as much talking and catching up as we did watching football.  The evening flowed with memories of past Superbowl parties and from there flowed to kids and grandkids.  Our friendship goes back for forty years, when we both moved to Springfield as young marrieds.  It's a rare friendship when both husbands and wives become best friends.  It's made for lots of memories.

On the surface we women aren't a lot alike.  She's a size four--I am not.  She has beautiful natural white hair--only my hairdresser knows for sure what color mine is. She entertains grandly with elegance and grace--I'm best at impromptu dinners for hungry hands.  She has boundless energy for organizing the world.  I decided, when I quit the Extension Service and no one was paying me to organize the world, that the world would probably organize itself.  She is creative, artsy, and talented.  I am an appreciative audience for her efforts.  But she is a true friend.

Only a friend would take you hat shopping when you start chemo.  Retail therapy at its best.

After forty years we have to stay friends. We know too much about each other to risk not being friends.  We know each other's darkest secrets and shared each others highest happiness.

When she was pregnant with her fifth child (she has six) we had gone out to eat with our husbands when, as women do, we decided to make a trip to the restroom.  We entered the stalls side-by-side.  I heard a hesitant voice, "I have something I've been meaning to tell you, but I wasn't sure how."  "Well, spit it out.  You know you can tell me anything and I won't repeat it." I responded.  Again the hesitant voice, "I was afraid you would be upset or mad."  Now I was really curious.  "What on earth could you have done that I would be mad about?' I queried.  "Well, you see, I'm pregnant again and I know how you feel about that." came the hurried answer.  "Get out of that stall right now!!!!", I shouted.  As soon as I could I grabbed her and hugged her to me.  "I don't care if you are pregnant, just as long as it's not me!!  You can have a dozen if you want to and if it makes you happy!" (When she got pregnant with her sixth, I wasn't sure she hadn't taken me at my word.)

She makes me laugh.  She lets me cry.  She is a zany balance to my introspection. 

Thanks, friend.

Missed Graduations

My mother and I were a lot alike.  Some say that I look  like her but I appreciate the ones who say that I act like her more.  I'm pretty sure that hubby fell in love with her first, then married me because she was taken.  One big thing we had in common is that neither of us finished high school. 

Mama was vivacious, pretty, outgoing, popular and smart.  If she had finished school she was a shoo-in for valedictorian.  Her teachers were proud of her and encouraged her to continue her education.  She yearned for a degree in fashion designing where she could put her obvious art talent to use.  Unfortunately it was 1938 and money was scarce in the Smith household.  The principal of the high school came to her parents with a possibility of a college scholarship.  That's when they made one of those mistakes that parents make and regret.

It seems mama had fallen for a much older man.  He was out of school and home from college, working on his father's farm while he looked for a job.  He was six years older than she was and her parents were worried about their deepening relationship.  In a misguided effort to keep her in school they did not tell her of the possibility of a scholarship.  Why?  It isn't clear how they thought this would help, but that is the only reason I have ever heard. 

I can only imagine the tears and arguments that went on in my grandparents house.  They tried hard to keep their only child on the straight and narrow path they had chosen.  Like many parents before and after they soon discovered that controlling your offspring isn't a sure thing.  In October of her senior year, just a few weeks shy of her seventeenth birthday,  she and my daddy eloped.  They felt that if she couldn't go on to college then they might as well get started on their future together.  She was promptly kicked out of school.

Remember, it was 1938.  Girls who were married were considered to be a bad influence on the purity of the rest of the school.  (In case you are wondering, my sister was born five years later.  It wasn't a shotgun wedding.)

I never heard my mother blame her parents or regret her decision to marry my daddy.  They had their ups and downs but they were happy in their marriage until her death.  The one thing she regretted was the missed opportunity for a college education.  She felt that she would have had many more chances at advancement and employment if she had possessed a degree.  Although highly intelligent and with a GED, she saw men and women with less ability and a college degree do things that she would have loved to have a chance at.

Flash forward several years to 1965.  I was sixteen and hopelessly, helplessly, and totally in love with the middle Campbell boy, as only a teenager can be.  I was also bored with school.  I felt that I really didn't have anything to look forward to in my senior year.  I had already been the president of the club I was passionate about, missed out on being a cheerleader and editor of the yearbook, two things I had wanted to do badly.  I had somehow managed to take most of the classes I needed to graduate, lacking only American History and Senior English.  I wanted to go to college with my, oh so handsome, boyfriend who was in his freshman year at college.

My parents struggled with what to do with their hard headed daughter.  They thought my middle of the road grades would stop me.  I promptly brought all my grades up to A's.  They thought I would become involved in my junior year and forget about it.  Instead I researched colleges. My parents, always supportive of their children's dreams, began to weaken.  The image of my mother's lost chances haunted them.

 I had two surprising supporters.  The man who had been principal when my mother was a senior was now the superintendent.  He remembered the disservice that he had done in not helping another young woman achieve her dream and decided to help.  He went to my parents and urged them to consider my case if a way could be found for me to graduate and go to college.  My parents agreed with a lot of fear and a little pride.

The other person was the young guidance counselor at the high school.  She went way out on a limb and decided to help a determined girl.  Against the opinion of most of my teachers (who loudly proclaimed that I would be home in six weeks having flunked out of college), and most of her superiors she researched how I could get into college without a high school degree.  At that time, (I have no idea of the rules now), the state schools would accept a student if they had an acceptable ACT score and lacked only two credits of graduation.  She then figured out how I could take a summer class at a nearby high school and a correspondence course to actually complete those two classes, thus actually fulfilling my requirements for graduation.  At this point my dad weighed in saying that he would agree to this craziness as long as I didn't go to University of Ky, which he felt was too big for a sixteen year old.  Suited me--the boyfriend was going to Western.

The guidance counselor and the superintendent then tackled the school board.  They were adamantly opposed to letting me get my diploma.  After lots of back and forth, a compromise was reached.  I would go to college, but I wouldn't get my high school diploma until my class graduated.  So I actually got my high school diploma at the end of my freshman year of college.  I guess it made sense to them.

Oh, and thanks to those teachers who were so vocal about my chances in college.  I was so determined to prove them wrong that I studied night and day to get the highest grades I could.  Nothing like a little incentive.

A special thanks to my parents who always believed in me and gave me the confidence to tackle anything.