Storm Time

Kentucky has been pummeled this week with a stream of storms marching across the state.  I sat the other night listening to the news warning of "Ping-Pong ball" sized hail, 60 mph winds, and torrential rains.  The newscaster warned that there would be roof, window and siding damage from the hail and that any creature outside during one of the outbursts of hail would be injured.  He went on to say, that with 60 mph winds there would also be damaged roofs, homes and fallen trees. 

This line of storms was going to be north of us, but I have to say that my second thought, after one of concern for the folks in the path, was for the poor insurance agents who would be inundated with damage claims.  I know.  I married one. 

Weather is the number one concern of farmers.  They worry about too much, too little, too late or too early.  They deal with the ravages of the storms both on their animals and their land.  The only others that I know that worry that much are insurance agents.  A major storm means problems for the insured as well as their agent.  Add the two together and you have a man that paces the floor and mumbles a lot.

Several years ago we were the ones in the path of the storms.  I have only gone to the basement twice to hide during vicious weather and that day was one of them.  Looking out the window I saw a wall cloud marching steadily across the field and heading straight for us.  I didn't even know what it was, but I knew it was serious.  I yelled for my daughter and we both flew down the steps to the basement.  Our basement isn't additional living space but a dingy, concrete storage area filled with boxes and left over stuff.  Not an appealing place, but it looked pretty good to me then.

Huddled there we listened as it sounded like the world was being torn apart.  Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. Silence.  We cautiously climbed the steps not knowing what would greet us.  The house was intact but the yard was covered with debris.  My beautiful trees were still standing but each one was sadly damaged.  They looked like someone had twisted the tops out of them.  Ragged chunks of wood had been ripped out and tossed to the ground. 

We fought ourselves out of the house and sadly surveyed the ravaged landscape.  Everywhere we looked were trees down, fences damaged, barn doors blown off, barn roofs pulled up, siding ripped off, electric lines down, limbs blocking the road, and over all the plaintive moans and bellows of the cattle as they sorted themselves out.

Shortly, Hubby and Son showed up, grabbed chainsaws and disappeared to check the cattle and clear roads.  Within minutes of their leaving to rescue our farm the phone started ringing.  With electricity out over much of the county,  the office had no lights, and more importantly, no computers, so everyone had left to take care of their own damages.  So the next call after the insurance office was the agent's home...except the agent was out checking his own mess.  Before he left, he warned me, "Everyone will be calling.  Get their names and phones and I'll call them back as soon as I check the farm."

For the next day, by the light of my trusty oil lamp, I answered calls from frantic people.  My heart went out to them in all their suffering for their losses and damages.  "Take pictures!" I implored, "Lots and lots of pictures!  Then secure your home as best you can to prevent further damage.  The adjusters will be there just as soon as they can."  And the adjusters did come, some by that night and more by the next morning.  They crawled over roofs, slithered under houses, sympathized and gave hope.  "Yes, it will be fixed.  Yes, you are covered." 

For days Hubby alternated between securing his own farm and tromping through fields and yards with adjusters.  He became a walking directory of the names of people who "fix" things,  helping this owner find a roofer, that one a plumber, another a contractor to replace siding. He was everywhere, lending a hand to spread a tarp, rounding up cattle that had strayed, cutting up downed trees, offering encouragement and assistance. 

Eventually order was restored.  Now it is just another of life's stories we tell at get-togethers.  However,  for me the memory I carry is of "Super-Hubby" charging off the hill to be sure that all his insured and/or friends were taken care of. 

He's quite a guy.

Herding Cattle

The view from the kitchen window was dark and gloomy this morning.  So I didn't spend much time looking out. 

About 8:30 a cheerful voice called through the open window, "Don't you even notice when you have a whole herd of cows in your yard!"  Jumping up I ran to the door to be greeted by the grinning face of our son.  "It was dark!" I sputtered.  "Where are they?"

Still grinning he responded, "I'd say they are about to the third row of beans, by now."

My beans!  Carefully nurtured for those precious late beans before the frost get them, they were just now in full production.   My tomatoes!  And the boys pumpkins!  Planted a little too late they were just now turning orange.  The little boys had checked them nearly daily for the change from dark green to pumpkin orange.  It was going to be a race to see if they would mature in time to be jack o'lanterns.  Somehow I just hate to let those last struggling plants in the garden go, knowing how long it will be before we have fresh vegetables again.

Now in full panic I dashed back into the house to jump into my clothes and garden shoes.  I emerged just in time to see my son appear with a feed bucket.  "Come on girls!", he called to the five heifers standing in the garden. (Not a whole herd but enough.) "Come on and get your breakfast!" he cajoled.  Stepping back on the porch, I watched as they focused on the feed bucket and the hope of some more goodies.  As they rounded the corner of the house,  my son's Australian Shepherd fell in behind.  I stared in open mouth amazement as the young dog, that we all had assumed would never amount to anything but a nuisance,  took the heifers to the barn.  As they headed down the side of the barn, she left them to run ahead and position herself in the drive.  There she neatly turned them through the gate and into the field.

"Did you see that!" came the excited shout.  "She's a natural!"

It was a pretty sight.  Especially since no one had really ever worked with her.  It was all instinct and genetic background.  Now, admittedly, the heifers were going back to the field where they were fed every morning. So they weren't exactly difficult to move, but she could have done the wrong thing and they would have kicked up their heels and taken off.  I've certainly had them do that to me.  Instead,  years of careful breeding for just those herding qualities came forward and she just knew what to do.  Amazing.

And we thought she was just another pretty face.

Get the Birds!

The back porch talk had drifted to the subject of dogs.  Good dogs, bad dogs, neurotic dogs (mine), heroic dogs (theirs) and unique dogs.  In a pause in the conversation my son interjected, "The dog I think I will never forget, wasn't even mine, but he sure was unforgettable!"

It seems that during the time he was living in Kansas he had helped a neighboring farmer during harvest time.  Mostly, I suspect, to play with the big equipment.  During their days together the subject of hunting came up.  The farmer expounded on the qualities of his fine hunting dog.  According to the farmer he was about the best thing that ever happened.  He would go on and on about his ability to find the best birds and flush them out.  Hunting season rolled around and Son mentioned that he was going to go try for a few birds.  "Take my dog!" the farmer offered.  "You'll be sure to come back with birds.  He's the best!"  Son was delighted and was about to mention that he really didn't know a lot about hunting with a dog, when the farmer continued.  "In fact, why don't you take my boys with you to help you with the dog?"  That seemed sensible, so a time was set up for the hunt.

Early the next morning the two boys, aged 11 and 16, showed up with the dog.  A big, muscular animal, the dog was fairly quivering with eagerness to be off on the hunt.  In fact, so were the boys.

The three of them started off and in no time the dog froze to a point.  At a signal from the boys he flushed a big pheasant.  Shots rang out and the pheasant flew away.  "That's OK", Son consoled.  There will be more."  The process was repeated several times with a couple of pheasants being shot.  Each time the dog retrieved the birds and proudly brought them to the hunters. 

They were continuing their walk with the dog ranging out ahead when suddenly he froze into a point in front of a pile of junk metal and weeds that was in the corner of the field.  The hunters approached and a huge covey of quail exploded in all directions. Since quail and pheasant season overlapped by a few days, both were in season, so the hunters banged away happily.  Seven birds plummeted from the sky. 

As soon as the last shot was fired both boys dropped their guns and made a dash for the dog.  Each grabbing whatever part they could hang on to they began screaming, "GET THE BIRDS!!  GET THE BIRDS!!"  Son stood there transfixed by the sight of the wriggling mass of legs, arms, heads, tail and snout as the boys attempted to hold the excited dog.  "GET THE BIRDS!!" they screeched again.  Startled out of his daze, son took off at a gallop to retrieve the fallen birds.  Hunting through the weeds as quickly as he could, he found the birds and stuffed them into his jacket.  Counting to himself as he went, one, two , three, four, five, six.  Where was seven?  He searched some more as the wail went up again. "GET THE BIRDS!"  Finally spotting it he snatched it up and returned to the boys. 

In bemusement he watched as the mass untangled itself into the identifiable forms of boys and dog.  Dusting themselves off the boys approached , with the happy dog following.  "What the hell was that about?!" Son demanded to the group.  "What happened to the dog?   Why did you tackle him?  He was perfect retrieving the pheasants."

Grinning the boys looked up.  "He doesn't like pheasant, but he loves quail!"

The boys went on to explain that he would have eaten every one of the quail before you could stop him.  "So we tackle him to keep him from eating them!"  Bursting into laughter Son looked from disheveled kids to hopeful dog, shaking his head in wonder.

It seems the perfect dog had one little flaw.  He really liked quail.

Chuckling to himself he couldn't help but wonder if he had actually been invited on the hunt to be the "retriever"!

Sorry!

Our son's three younger children came to spend Sunday afternoon with us.  The youngest, our 3 year old granddaughter, was soon settled in for a nap, while the youngest boy had wandered off with Papa to help with the afternoon chores.  I had no sooner popped a pork roast into the oven for supper when the middle boy appeared in the kitchen.  "Can we play Sorry?  Please?" 

He and I have been holding the longest running Sorry tournament in history, since we started when he was about five years old. 

He skipped Candyland as too slow and boring (I agree) and begged to play his older brother's Sorry game.  "But, Sugar, it takes a long time." I protested.  "I can do it!  I promise!"  he replied.  He couldn't read, but quickly memorized the move instructions on each card.  He knew that the 7 card could be split between two men, the 10 card was forward 10 or backward 1, and an 11 card meant he could trade places with an opponent.  At first, I tried to make sure that he had successes so he wouldn't be so frustrated but I soon got over that.  The little shark is good!!!  It didn't take him long to figure out the strategies of the game and apply them with a vengeance.  "Sorry!!" he would howl as he sent me back to start time and again.

In the ensuing three years he would beat me repeatedly and soundly!  I want to take this kid to Vegas.  He has unbelievable luck...or he's just a lot better at Sorry than his old grandma!

So, Sunday, I got down the Sorry game, cleared off the coffee table and got my most comfortable cushion.  We set up the game and put the rule card to one side.  We are serious players and refer to the rules frequently to see what we can and can't do.  Then we got down to it!  The game ebbed and flowed with him getting all his men out on the board first, then me hitting a couple of "Sorry" cards that sent him back to start.  We debated the wisdom of exchanging places if that put the opponent closer to home, counted moves to determine the best placement of our men, hoped for a "backward 4" so we could shortcut to the "safety zone" and crowed our delight at a lucky draw.  At the end of the game, to the cheering of hubby and the six year old who had returned, the 8 year old drew the perfect card and marched his last man home for victory.  Beaten again!

His younger brother immediately decided he wanted to play, too.  So we started a new game with three players (Hubby decided to watch a ballgame instead--surprise!)  The game advanced with both of us "experienced" players giving the younger one advice on moves and rules.  Again it ebbed and flowed with first one ahead then another.  The younger boy had progressed quickly to having his men on the board, when his brother drew the Sorry card.  This meant that he could come out of home, replace any man on the board and send that man back to their start.  Since the younger one had the only men on the board the decision was easy and unavoidable.  "That's not fair!" he moaned, looking frustrated.  I explained that, unfortunately, that was the rule, but his turn would come to get us back.  Then I laughed and asked him "Do you know what the name of this game is?"  He looked up at me as his brother and I both chanted, "SOR-REEY!!"  He grudgingly laughed with us and the game continued. 

At the end, all three of us were within the safety and only a lucky draw away from being the winner.  The draw had gone around and around with only cards showing up that we couldn't use.  Then it was my turn again and I drew a "split moves 7" that enabled me to move my last two men in! 

I threw up my arms in excitement. "I finally won one!!!", I crowed.  "JoJo", came the serious admonishment from the grandson, "You always tell me that celebrating your win isn't  nice!"  Shamefaced, I agreed that it wasn't nice.

But inside I was still doing my happy dance!  I'd finally beaten the little shark!

The Plant That Ate the South

Not long after our daughter married, we were touring around the state acclimating our new son-in-law with the area that his wife called home.  The scenic drive to various spots of interest included a lot of small, winding roads.  Iowa is so straight that I suspect our passenger was feeling a little green on the endless curves.  Rounding one particularly tight curve we exited into a surreal landscape right out of a sci-fi movie.  A green curtain blanketed both sides of the road, covering trees, shrubs, road signs, and even telephone poles, with tendrils creeping across the lines themselves.  It was like a wall of oddly shaped, deep green, impenetrable growth.  With a start, my son-in-law inquired, "What IS that!!" 

"That, son," I replied, "is the plant that ate the South."

Kudzu.  The science experiment that went terribly wrong.  Like the plant in "Little Shop of Horrors" it just keeps yelling "FEED ME!" then devouring everything in its path.

The plant actually came from China by way of Japan at the end of the 19th century.  It was introduced as an ornamental vine at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia in 1876.  It was marketed widely throughout the southeast as a plant to be used to shade porches.  In just a few years the Soil Erosion Service was recommending its use to help control erosion on slopes.  It did an admirable job on both fronts.  The only problem was keeping it from covering the whole house not just the porch or the entire field not just the slope.  The government got into the act and actually paid farmers to plant kudzu as a high protein fodder and cover crop.  By 1946 it was estimated that over 3 million acres of kudzu had been planted!  Little did they know that we would spend the rest of our lives trying to get rid of it!

Today there is an estimated 7,400,000 acres covered by kudzu.  It continues to consume the south at a rate of about 120,000 acres a year, destroying fences, trees, barns, houses, power lines, fields and any stationary object in its path.  Kudzu can grow up to 60 feet in a season or about one foot a day.  To make it more fun, anywhere a stem of kudzu touches the ground it can root and become a whole new plant.

Not only is it incredibly fast growing but it is almost impossible to kill.  It takes huge quantities of herbicides to damage it and it must be treated for years to actually kill it off.  Biological methods were studied but any weevil or insect that would damage the kudzu would also damage crops.  (At least the powers-that-be checked before just introducing a whole new problem!)  To date the best control is to let goats and llamas feed on it.  A small herd can reduce an acre of kudzu every day. 

It's hard to believe that a plant can grow like this does.  However I have seen first hand how quickly it can move.  My daughter and I parked our car at a motel in Gatlinburg that backed up to a mountainside covered with kudzu.  The parking spot was sided by a rock wall, which I parked beside.  The next afternoon when we went to move the car I discovered the kudzu had come over the wall and was actually inside the back door!  Creepy!

My father's homeplace had kudzu planted on the back porch to provide shade.  He remembered that every morning the first person out would have to break the door open because the vine would have grown over the door during the night.

My son-in-law gazed in wonder at the green covered landscape.  Coming straight from the cultivated farmland of Iowa with its neat fields and controlled crops, I'm sure he had trouble believing what he was seeing. 

I've seen it for years and I still have trouble believing it myself. 

Dog Days of Summer

The last couple of weeks have been so hot that I actually have worn some sleeveless tops.  That's hot folks, because all summer I wear sleeves, wraps, even sweaters, as I shiver in the air conditioning.  In our climate controlled world about our only experience with the heat is as we trot from our air conditioned cars to an air conditioned building.  (Farmers even have air conditioned tractors!)

My kids probably don't remember ever not having air conditioning.  (We did survive a couple of years on the farm before adding central air but we still had a room air conditioner.)

It was a different world back when I was growing up.  (This is not an "I walked 10 miles to school.." saga, but almost!)  Remember, my mom was the one that vowed not to return to the farm until she had electricity and running water, guaranteed.  It's amazing how quickly things change.

The first building air conditioned was.....the New York Stock Exchange. I guess that's a place you need to "keep your cool"!  That was 1902.  A man named Alfred Wolff installed a system using a waste-steam-operated refrigeration system.  He called it "comfort cooling".  It operated successfully for 20 years. 

1902 also saw the first office building air conditioned...the Armour Building in Kansas City, Missouri.

It was 1929 when the first room cooler goes on the market.  This refrigeration unit used sulfur dioxide as a refrigerant and had a capacity of one ton (12,000 BTUH) and was located outside of the house or in the basement.

By 1931 the first year round central air conditioning systems were on the market.  However, cost kept them very exclusive until the 1960's, when they became more affordable in new homes.

By 1947 window units were being mass produced.  That year 43,000 were sold in the U.S. 

I was born in 1949.  We didn't have a window air conditioning unit.  We had fans. I grew up in the '50's and '60's.  I vividly remember the one friend who had a window unit.  We would all crowd around the unit and let the frigid air chill us.  It was a rare treat as the unit was in her parent's bedroom!

Having air conditioning has completely changed the way we live. 

Before AC everyone spent more time outside.  It was just cooler under the shade trees than inside in the stifling heat.  Kids left the house and hunted a cool place to play.  My favorite spot was under some massive hydrangea bushes beside a neighbor's house.  There we would gather in the cool dimness and design imaginary homes and build roads and houses in miniature cities out of leaves and twigs.  When a mother decided we needed to be checked on, she would produce a pitcher of lemonade or koolade and we would flock to the front porch swing to sip deliciously cold drinks.  Nothing comes close to the feeling of a slippery, drippy, cold glass on a hot day.

Cars weren't air conditioned and being sweaty was just a fact.  People didn't stress over it.  Ladies learned to wear cotton dresses that wouldn't show "wet" with a drastic color change.  Light pastels and darks seemed to work best.  I remember we had a plastic mesh seat cushion for the driver's side that was about 1 inch thick.  The purpose was to give you some space for air to circulate so you didn't arrive at your destination too damp.  We also had floor vents that could be opened to let air rush in.  It would blow your dress up to indecent heights, but oh, it felt so good!  Everyone rode with the windows down and the air blowing in.  It gives you a whole new appreciation for the "helmet hair-dos" of the 60's.  Enough teasing and hairspray and a tornado wouldn't move it.

Meals would generally be light and cool, especially as the kitchen heated up during the day.  Supper would be fruit and cottage cheese, cold cut sandwiches, jello salads, meat salads, or my favorite, frozen fruit salad and lots of sweet, iced tea.  After supper everyone would gravitate to the yards where the air was noticeably cooler than the hot air trapped in the house.  The adults would relax under the shade trees or on the porches, often with a small chore that could be done outside.  Daddy might tinker with some small repair while mom would snap beans or even fold clothes.  Neighbors would drift by to visit or share some garden bounty.  The kids would gather for games of kick-the-can, hide and seek, croquet or badminton. (If you lived in the country you had to make-do with your siblings as playmates but you also had creeks to cool off in!)

As night fell you would retire to your bed and hope for a cool breeze.  Most homes had a window fan that would be used to pull air in the open windows.  If you were lucky, you had a big attic fan that would create delightful drafts of air as it pulled the hot air out and the cool nighttime air in.  I talked my mother into making my bed up from the bottom, so I could sleep at the foot in front of the open window.  I loved lying there in the moonlight listening to the evening sounds from outside.  A distant dog bark, a meandering cat's yowl, cars passing, music from a radio in someone's house, soft conversations from lingering adults, katydids chirping their wings together, whippoorwills calling everyone to bed, owls hooting the beginning of their nighttime hunts, and the crickets and frogs adding their chorus to the concert.

Yep.  It was a different world.  Now we stay inside and watch television or play on the computer.  We text, talk and message from one air conditioned spot to another.  We wear sweaters if we are going to a public place. 

Would I give up my air conditioning?  Heck no!  It also means that people are less cross, cranky, sleep-deprived, and just plain ornery.  I'll keep my air conditioning and just slip on this sweatshirt, thank you.

But I do miss the fellowship and friendliness of those soft, summer evenings.

Another Anniversary

Sunday Hubby and I celebrated our anniversary.  While sitting quietly watching the Ohio River flow endlessly by, hubby turned to me and asked.  "When we married did you ever think you would be married nearly 50 years?"  I thought for a minute then smiled.  "Sure.  I thought we'd be married happily ever after....I just didn't have a clue how long that was!"

We married over a Labor Day Week-end, before everything was air conditioned.  The church was packed and steaming hot.  They say.  I don't remember it.  I was pretty much a mannequin for the day, carefully dressed and posed by my mother and aunt.  Back then brides didn't have much to do but show up when they were supposed to for showers, luncheons, parties and the big day.  We wrote thank you notes and smiled a lot.  Mama and Aunt Anne were in charge of the plans and decisions.  After all, it was my parent's party--we were more of the theme for the day.  Brides today have a lot more input...but it suited me.  What did I know about planning a party for two to three hundred people?

The reception was at my Aunt's home, a gracious setting with a beautiful yard.  The food was certainly simple by today's standards of dinners and lavish buffets.  We had cake, punch, finger sandwiches, nuts and mints. Period.  No liquor for the guests, but the cousins all gathered on the porch off the kitchen to flavor their cups with the bottle my older cousin had thoughtfully stashed.  The bride and groom didn't get to join them as we were too busy in the receiving line and posing for pictures.  However, I'm pretty sure my dad and uncle did.

Just as we finished with the obligatory pictures of feeding cake to each other and posing with various relatives, my aunt pulled us to the side and informed us it was time to change into our "going away" outfits and leave so the guests could depart also.  A little different from today's brides partying into the night.  We dutifully changed and were cheered off through a shower of rice and well-wishes.  We jumped into the waiting car and drove down the street.  Suddenly, we felt a little lost and forlorn. For the first time in weeks, no one was there to tell us what to do.  We were on our own.  It was exciting...and a little scary. 

Little did we know, that feeling would pretty much describe the next 46 years...exciting and a little scary.

There were lots of high times.  The birth of our children, the purchase of our first house, the satisfaction of paying off our first car, the contentment of quiet nights together, the fun of backyard ballgames, the rewards of seeing your children become good parents and adults, the peace of looking out over your own land at sunset.  There were low times too...three miscarriages that tore our hearts, a sickly child that kept us worrying at night, years of wondering if we could make ends meet, the helpless pain of seeing your children deal with heartaches, sicknesses that would take loved ones as well as sicknesses that struck us.  Through it all we found our strength and support was only a hand-reach away. 

Did I know what life would hold all those years ago when I dreamed of "happy ever after"?  No, but I couldn't imagine it without my shining knight by my side. 

Still can't.

The Old Pump House

Last week we destroyed one of the farms enduring landmarks.  Just steps from my back door (like really, only four or five steps) stood a five foot tall hill of concrete covered with dirt.  I'm sure it was originally built as a bomb shelter in the 1950's, a dome shaped mound about ten feet across with a flight of steps leading down to the small room, sealed with a slanted wooden door.  Our kids loved rolling, sledding, or just running down the sloped sides.  The German Shepherd, Boomer, would sit on the top and survey his kingdom (and stare in the kitchen window to send mind signals that it was dinner time).  The top of the hill was so thinly covered with dirt that the only thing that would grow there was weeds, which had to be trimmed with a weed-eater because it was too steep for the lawn mower.   A few hardy, but sparse, flowers decorated the old rocks piled around the base on one side.  Mostly it just looked neglected, which it usually was.

For years this concrete shelter housed the pump that provided water for the house from the walled up well just behind it that was the farm's cistern and water supply.  This cistern held about 2000 gallons when full.  Ideally, this water would be supplied from rains that fell on the roof and were collected by a gutter system.  In the winter our water always tasted of smoke from the fireplace.  In the summer I tried not to think about the large, green frog that my daughter insisted she had seen swimming in the cistern.  During the dry times we would haul water from town to replace the ever dwindling supply.  With cattle to water in the barn and two teen-agers, the man who hauled our water became a frequent visitor.

We have now had city water for several years and the old pump finally quit so I can't even use it to water the flowers any more.  So we decided to knock the hump in so I can have a yard outside my back door.  Surprisingly it wasn't easy to decide to do.  So many children and dogs have played happily on the hill that it was a defining feature of a trip to the farm.  It also was a symbol of the past when bombs were a new threat and having water in the house worth having a hill at the back door.

When my parents moved from the farm to town when I was three, my mother declared in no uncertain terms, that she would not move back to the farm until she had all the conveniences of town.  Running water and electricity!  While things have certainly improved since then, after years of living in town, we were a little unprepared for the adventure of living on a small cistern.  Our children, then 7 and 10, had never known anything but the luxury of plenty of water and a secure electrical supply.  Things you don't take for granted living on a farm.

We all lived with one eye on the water level of the cistern.  Someone was always lugging the heavy, metal lid off to run a tape measure down to see how many feet we had left.  Then we'd hurry to the house to call for a load of water.  Even with constant checking it occasionally happened that we would run out of water. 

One time stands out in my memory.  It was a Friday night in the summer.  The kids had been helping around the farm all day and had arrived for supper to be greeted with the news that we were out of water.  The water man had been called but it was a dry time and he was so busy that he couldn't get to us until the next morning.  My daughter looked at me in horror.  "No-o-o-o!" she wailed.  "I've got a party tonight and I stink like a barn!!!"  "It'll be fine",  I soothed.  "You can just freshen up and put on some perfume and no one will be the wiser."  With a look of stark disbelief at my insensitivity, she stalked up the stairs to her room.

A few minutes later she clattered down again.  Thinking she was heading out to sulk, I let her pass in silence.  I glanced out the kitchen window a little later to observe her returning from the barn carrying a five gallon bucket.  She disappeared into the shop and re-emerged carrying a length of rope.  She marched over to the cistern, drug the top off, and proceeded to tie her rope to the bucket.  She then dropped the bucket down into the cistern until she reached the reservoir of water below the intake valve for the pump.  Soon she was straining on the rope and pulling as hard as she could.  Now, let me tell you, water is heavy.  Even not full, that was a heavy load to haul up.  I was turning to hunt her dad or brother to help when she gave a last heave and grabbed the bucket bale.  With a look of satisfaction she hauled her precious bucket of water in to the bathroom.

She appeared after a time, fresh, pretty and party-ready, smelling sweetly of clean skin and soap. 

Never underestimate the determination of a teen-ager going to a party! 

Depression

Today the news has been full of the untimely death of Robin Williams.  A man remembered for his ability to make us laugh, even while pulling at our heartstrings.  He was an illustration of humor at its best.  He was viewed as gregarious, outgoing, friendly and, yes, funny.  Yesterday, the word filtered out that he had taken his own life after years of battling depression. 

The thought of depression and this funny, endearing man just didn't seem right.

I, like most of the world, for a long time thought that depression was a state of mind and all you had to do was think positive.  Oh, if only that were the case.

Then I got a taste of the wormy apple myself.

Like most people my life has been filled with ups and downs.  Depression isn't caused by miserable lives.  Some wonderful lives are filled with people that hurt. My daughter's wreck reduced us all to a bundle of terrified nerves but I wasn't depressed.  My bout with cancer scared the living daylights out of me, but I wasn't depressed.  (Although my medical team kept telling me that I shouldn't hide it.  It was normal.)  I truly just didn't feel depression or deep anxiety.

I sailed along, totally unaware of what depression does to you.

Then, my doctor, who is constantly trying to keep me in optimum health, decided that I really needed to take medication for my gradually increasing cholesterol.  Reluctantly, I agreed. 

I began to find that things were getting harder.  Decisions that I had made easily in weeks past concerning the care of Hubby's mother, became difficult and stressful. Just cooking and caring for my house became a never-ending chore.  I worried about everything.  My sleep was broken by periods of lying in bed and chasing useless worries.  I laughed less and cried more.  I began avoiding people and looking for excuses to stay home.  I struggled to get through every day.  Nothing was fun.

We went on an annual trip with dear friends to enjoy the mountains.  I was amazed by the sheer effort it took to be part of the group.  I don't think I was a complete wet blanket, but I was working as hard as I could at being interested in my surroundings, laughing at the teasing, responding to conversation, and showing, even moderate, enthusiasm.  It was exhausting.....and depressing.

We returned home to find workmen had arrived to do some much needed siding repair.  I knew most of the workers and in times before I would have spent a portion of their work time standing in the yard "shooting the breeze" with them...and generally slowing them down.  I realized, with horror, that now I was literally running from room to room, praying they wouldn't see me through the windows and want to talk to me.  All I could think about was being in my bed with the curtains pulled tight. 

"Whoa!! This is so not me!"  I remember the thought just struck me, "You have something seriously wrong with you!"  I went to the computer and looked up my symptoms and there it was clearly spelled out....depression.  But how?  Why? What had changed?

Then I remembered the little innocuous pill that millions take safely for cholesterol.  I searched for side-affects and there it was under the heading of Very Rare but Extremely Serious. Depression.  I was experiencing a reaction to the chemical changes happening in my body.  Exactly like a rash from an allergic reaction or dizziness, nausea, constipation, diarrhea, etc. that is listed on your information sheets with your medications.  It was physical....not something I could control.

I quit taking the pill.  In three days I was out playing with the grandchildren in the yard and enjoying life again.  Life was good again.

For me it was simple.  For many others it is a disease not a side-affect.  It is medically treatable, but like so many diseases, some respond better to treatment than others.  My heart goes out to those who suffer this invisible illness.  I will never forget the nightmare of being trapped in a world without color or hope. I discovered you can't make up your mind and just be happy.  I understand, what before I only vaguely sensed.  This is a physical disease not a lack of determination.  I hope I have learned compassion and empathy for those who struggle to get through every day---regardless of how flawlessly they are acting the part of a healthy person--they are hurting and ill.

 
                                                    * * * * * * *

(About my medication.  Statins are one of the wonder drugs of our era.  99.9% of the people take them with wonderful results and no side affects.  I was one of the very rare ones to react to this particular statin.  I responded positively, with no ill effects, to a simple change in medication.  Please!  Be aware of what medications you take and alert for potential problems.  Then talk to your doctor.)

Garden Bounty

A friend once responded to the question of why she didn't have a garden with this:  "I can see no reason on earth to do all that work.  If it is a bad year you plow, disc, plant, weed, till, water, pray and pick in the 100 degree heat for a handful of pitiful vegetables.  Which, by the way, you could buy in the grocery for a lot less cost.  In a good year you have to barricade your gate to keep from being buried under all the leftover vegetables your neighbors are determined to off-load onto you.  So I just wait for the good years."

She has a point.

This year has been a good garden year for most things.  (No beans but that is a whole different story.)  Out daily forays into the garden have yielded buckets of tender yellow squash, long green cucumbers, fat purple eggplants, green peppers, onions, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, corn and tomatoes.  The problem is that while we enjoy each of these, the two of us can only eat so many.  I love eggplant parmesan, but that takes one eggplant and will last for three or four meals.  My garden is producing six to eight at a time.  You see my problem.  After a while you just get overwhelmed by all these lovely fresh veggies. 

I had been sending them home with my son until I overheard his wife at a party commenting to a friend that every time she came into the kitchen the "garden fairy" had dumped a load of vegetables on her counter.  She didn't sound excited. I decided that maybe I needed to back off on the sacks of veggies I was sneaking into the truck.

It comes to the point that you are like the Easter bunny leaving surprises for your friends and neighbors on their porch swings, in their flower pots, behind their doors, or stashed neatly by their walks.  Anything to get rid of the outpouring of produce from your lovingly tended garden.

One year I grew almost a quarter of an acre of strawberries.  (We didn't know how many plants came in a bundle and ordered way too many bundles.  Rather than "waste" them we planted each one. )  That spring I picked strawberries and we ate them until everyone developed a rash, froze them until the freezer was full, made jam that we still have left, and gave them to friends.  We were picking so many (you can't let them waste!!) that I was in danger of running out of friends.  I began to notice that no one would answer my knocks even though I was sure they were home.  If I called ahead they were suddenly leaving town for an extended trip and couldn't handle any strawberries.  I began roving through the town looking for folks unlucky enough to be siting on their porches and unable to escape my bounty.  If that failed I stooped to looking for unlocked cars and loading up the back seats with fragrant fruit.

I was in real danger of becoming a social outcast when the season finally ended. 

When that bed finally died out we've never had another one.

However, beware,  I do have a bumper crop of tomatoes.......

Clearing Fields

This summer has been a whirlwind of activity on the farm.  The men have been busy with tobacco, (which is beginning to bloom), lots of hay, cattle to work, fencing, and numerous small chores, as well as their day jobs.  I've been blessed (?) with a bountiful garden and a yard that just keeps growing.  In between chores we have entertained the grandkids and, of course, supervised the remodeling project.  This project, which was supposed to be done in three or four weeks looks like it might take years.  The fun part is that the contractor on my project is my son, who literally has me over a barrel when he needs to take off for farm chores.  How can I argue with tobacco setting or hay cutting?  I think the end is in sight but who knows....?

Hubby and son are busy now trying to clean up a recently rented farm.  The farm is fairly remote and abounds with wildlife.  Every trip is highlighted with sightings of deer and turkeys as well as smaller wildlife.  The farm has been left fallow for several years so a lot of the time they are clearing brush, opening up fields and cleaning up in general. 

This morning our son stopped by to catch me up on the latest adventures in the "wilderness".  It seems that one of the fields they are trying to mow has a steep drop off on one side.  Adding to the problem is a downed tree that necessitates a swing down the hillside to circumnavigate it.  Son decided that he would hook a chain to it to drag it out of the way.  Approaching the trunk of the tree he dubiously looked at the weeds and brush piled around it, thinking what a wonderful place it would be for a snake to hide.  Using a long branch he gingerly pushed the log chain under the trunk and fished it out the other side.  Soon he had the chain hooked up to the truck and was dragging the tree out of the way.  That problem was solved.

Now he was feeling confident of his clearing abilities and decided to attack a huge limb that was threatening to crash into the cab of his tractor as he mowed.  The limb in question was just over his head, too far to reach with the chain saw from the ground.  He had decided that he would pull the truck up under the limb to stand on and then, hopefully, drop the limb behind the tailgate.  About that time Hubby arrived to offer his opinion.  "NO!"  he shouted.  Hubby tends to think that loudness is necessary in dealing with problems.  "Haven't you seen that commercial where the neighbor drops the limb on the car!  Think of what it would do to the truck!"  So moaned the insurance agent who has paid for all too many careless accidents.  "Well, what do you suggest?' queried son. 

Studying the situation, Hubby finally decided that the solution was for son to climb up on the limb and then cut the limb off.  At this point in the story I am trying to stifle hysterical giggles.  "I hope you didn't plan on facing the tree when you cut it" I choked.  Giving me a scornful glance son continued with his story.

As he was sitting on the limb, scoping out the potential disasters, he was planning on his escape plan.  "I had figured", he explained, " that if it went sour I would throw the chainsaw and just jump."  Having decided that he began to saw the limb in little chunks.   The limb cooperated with obliging creaks, groans, snaps and sags.  With the next bite of the saw he reached a soft, pithy center of the limb.  About that time he noticed that the pithy center was home to a huge number of ants who were frantically making their escape toward the trunk of the tree.  Unfortunately, son was sitting on the limb between them and safety.  Looking down at his lap and the approaching hoards of tiny insects intent on going over or through him,  he hurriedly clambered up and out of their way.  Now he was straddled the limb with one foot lodged in a crotch in the tree and the other gingerly perched on the limb.  Reaching out he makes another swipe at the limb with the chainsaw.  More groaning, snapping and popping.  Another bite of the saw.  More groaning and snapping.  Finally the limb gives a last pop and crashes to the ground.  Son scrambles after, frantically brushing ants from his legs and feet.

Hubby approaches from his position of safety, where he had been leaning on the fender of the truck.  "You know son", he muses, "You might have been better off using the truck to reach that limb after all."

Choking back giggles I reflect that farmers must have a whole herd of guardian angels that work night and day just to keep them out of trouble!

The Mama Killdeer

A lot of farm chores consist of riding around and around on a tractor, essential but also monotonous.  Most farmers learn to entertain themselves to keep from going to sleep. (Nearly all farmers are sleep deprived this time of year, especially the part-time farmers.)  Some resort to radios, some have music or books on their ipods or phones,  and some chat continually to other bored farmers who are riding around in their fields.  I have heard that, in some flatter areas, they even have TV's in their cab tractors and watch movies as they ride.  Our fields offer a few too many challenges to try that here!

Our son had been doing one of the necessary but boring jobs, cultivating his tobacco.  The long, seemingly endless rows were fast inducing a coma-like state.  To keep his attention up (and his eye-lids) he began watching the various wildlife that appeared.  He has, over time, reported seeing everything from deer and turkeys to foxes and weasels as he rides along.  This day the patch seemed to be mostly occupied by birds.  As he was plowing along, he noticed a Killdeer a few rows over.  These long-legged birds are seen a lot in open country like plowed fields, pastures, and golf courses.  It amazes me that they ever raise babies, since they build their nests in the open on bare ground.

Their method of protecting the nests is one of the bird kingdom's best acts.  When the adult birds sense danger they begin to run away from the nest, feigning injury.  With great drama they will drag their wings and run with ragged hops, looking for all the world like a crippled, easy meal.  Most predators are distracted by the appearance of easy food (aren't we all looking for the easy way?) and will chase the adult away from the nest.  When they are far enough away the birds fly off, leaving the danger behind. 

Knowing their habits, he kept watching to see if he could spot the nest.  As he got closer to the spot she seemed to be monitoring, he stopped the tractor and dismounted to approach the bird.  He soon spotted the nest, shaded by a small tobacco plant, in the edge of a row.  Mostly to watch the performance of mama bird, he walked over to it.  Sure enough, she immediately began hobbling away, dragging her wing and looking extremely pitiful. He followed.  As soon as she determined he was far enough away from her babies, she burst into flight calling her loud cry, "kill-dee. kill-dee!", which is bird-talk for "Haha, fooled you!" 

Laughing to himself he walked back to the tractor to resume his plowing,  carefully lifting the plow when he reached the nest until he was safely past.

Mama bird had saved her babies once again.

The Tooth Fairy

Hubby and I made a quick trip to Iowa to pick up the two granddaughters, aged 6 and 8, to spend their first ever week with the grandparents!  We made the 11 hour trip home with two super well behaved passengers to begin a whirlwind week.  Everything didn't go quite as planned but we still managed to include visits to The Dollhouse Museum, Fort Harrod State Park, coffee with Hubby (a big deal!), a manicure and pedicure,  a visit to the office, a trip to the creek, and still include  time for a water balloon fight and sprinkler filled day with the cousins. 

The most unexpected event was a surprise visit by the tooth fairy.

The six year old arrived in the kitchen one night filled with impish excitement.  "My tooth is coming out!"  she announced.  "No, it can't!" I replied vigorously.  Confused, she looked at me, "Why not?", she demanded.  "Because it is your first tooth to come out and your mama will be devastated to miss it.  Leave it alone!!"  "OK", she replied dubiously, replacing the finger wiggling the loose tooth with a vigorously probing tongue.  "No!!  Stop!  You have to wait until tomorrow when we meet your mama."  I implored.  Grinning triumphantly, she cried, "It's out!!"  (Sorry, mama)

Holding the tiny tooth up for me to see, she was fairly dancing with excitement.  "Now I can put it under the pillow, like Sissy did, and the tooth fairy will come and give me money!"  (Uh, oh.  I hadn't thought of that!)  "Uh, sure honey.  But first maybe we need to let your mama know about this."  In moments mama and daughter were sharing the news of the newly lost tooth.  After appropriate exclamations, I shooed the little one off to show her new "space" to her grandfather. 

"Ummm.  How does the tooth fairy handle this situation?" I asked.  All tooth fairies are different, I have discovered.  "Well....the tooth fairy usually brings five dollars for the first tooth, then a dollar for the rest."  "FIVE DOLLARS!   Talk about inflation!  You used to get a quarter!"  I sputtered.  "Yeah, and gas cost fifty cents.  Times have changed, Mom."  she replied. 

The next hour was filled with expectations of a visit from the tiny elf.  We spent 30 minutes looking for the tooth pillow that belonged to her mother to hold the tooth safely.  Since I never throw anything away, I was sure I could find it.  However, the pillow remained hidden, so we placed the little tooth in a plastic bag.  She proudly printed her name on the bag so the tooth fairy would know whose it was.  Placing it under her pillow, she lay down and was soon asleep, dreaming of financial windfalls, I'm sure.



Back downstairs I reached for my billfold for the "tooth fairy's" five dollar bill.  About the time I discovered that all I had was a ten and a one, Hubby came in.  "Give me five dollars."  I demanded.  "What for?" he replied, looking around the kitchen as though I had put in a slot machine while he wasn't watching.  "The tooth fairy leaves five dollars!"  "What! Five Dollars!"  "Never mind," I replied, "I've already been down that road.  She says it's inflation.  So give me a five, please."  He pulled out his wallet and discovered that he had a couple of twenties and three ones.  "Well, I'm not giving her a twenty." I muttered, "Keep looking.  I've got a one, so we only need one more."  Digging in his pockets, he said, "I've got maybe a dollar in change."  Trying to figure out how we were going to keep all that change under a pillow all night, I was digging through jean pockets, looking for a stray bill.  "YES!", I yelped, as I found a crumpled (and freshly laundered) bill tucked into a pocket.  Securing the bills with a paper clip (would the tooth fairy have a paper clip?) we slipped back upstairs to carefully place the wad of cash in place of the little tooth.

At six the next morning an explosion occurred in the middle of our bed.  "The tooth fairy came!!" shouted a wiggling mass.  "She left me lots of money!!  How did she find me?  Can we go to town and buy something? "

"Ask me again, after coffee"  I mumbled from under my pillow.

Later that day we tried to exchange her wad of ones for a fresh five dollar bill.  Looking at us as though we were trying to trick her, she looked from her stack to our single bill and firmly shook her head.  "Mine's bigger. I'll keep it." she announced. 

She probably would have been disappointed with a twenty anyway.


Susie is all tuckered out after trying to catch
the Tooth Fairy.

            

Farmer's Hats

I have been married to a farmer for nearly 45 years and believe me I have learned a lot about farming and farmers in that time.  However, there is one facet of farming that I still don't understand.  The obsession that every farmer has with hats!  There are at this time at least 100 hats on Hubby's closet shelf.  (He swears there aren't that many...and he may be right, since every time I clean in there a few (?) mysteriously disappear. )  There are also hats, sleeved neatly together, covering the seat of his chair in the bedroom.  To complete the bedroom décor, there is a line of hats marching across the mantle.

 

O.K.  I get it that a hat is necessary to protect your head when you are out all day in the sun and weather.  I want him protected, that's why there is sunscreen in every tractor.  So I understand that he needs a hat.  However, this obsession goes much deeper than just a hat.

Farmers collect "free" hats that shout their support of tractors, seed, feed, mineral, fertilizer, pesticides, farm stores, herd sires, farms, equipment and about anything else you can buy for a farm.  The dealers dole them out as a reward for business, a bribe for new business, or just on a whim.  The quality of these hats range from so cheap you'd have to pay me to take them to "man I've got to have it" good.  Farmers will collect both of these and everything in between with the same fervor. 

I once overheard a farmer complaining that he had moved his business from one farm store to another because he never got a hat!  Another reported that he was infuriated to have been repeatedly overlooked for a free hat from a business,  only to see his neighbor's field laborer wearing the coveted hat.  (I suspect the difference in his and the neighbor's farm accounts could be a factor.)  I heard a farmer bragging on a new fertilizer company, not for the success of their product, but because they gave great hats.  While I have never heard of a farmer actually buying a piece of equipment just to get the hat, they certainly consider that part of the "deal"!  (Hubby, who spent more on his last tractor than the original cost of our farm, was thrilled when he received  a bright green hat to wear.  This from the same man who swore he would never drive a green tractor, much less, advertise for them!)

Now, there would be some reason to this mania if farmers wore a fresh, new cap daily.  Not so, I'm afraid.  Hubby, like most farmers, will wear the same cap until it is a sweat stained, battered gray with a bill that is shinny from being grabbed with greasy, dirty hands a thousand times.  The farmer will then hand the hat to his wife and ask that she wash it!  Wives have swapped methods of washing and reshaping favorite hats until it is part of farm lore.  There are even companies that make forms you can buy (for the free hat) that will allow you to place the hat on the top rack of your dishwasher to clean it.  Having seen some of these manure covered, filthy, greasy hats I'm pretty sure I would never eat off my dishes again. 

Meanwhile, the closets overflow and the hats collect all over the house.

I would say it is advertising genius...having grown men fight over getting to wear your advertisement...except for the stacks and piles of hats sitting around going unworn. 

I guess I just never will understand.  It's a farmer thing.

The Kitten

                                                                                     
It's a well known fact in our family that I am a sucker.  If it is weak, helpless or young, I can't resist it.  Over the years, Hubby has grown used to this weakness.  In fact he has exploited it several times when he had a sickly calf that needed extra care.  Before I would even realize his plot,  I would be mixing milk and running to the barn to feed the baby. 

So it should be no surprise that upon sighting a little black and white face peeking out from under some shrubs by the roadside that I would have to stop. 

Reacting on instinct, I slammed on my brakes and jumped out of the car.  Running around to the line of shrubs I searched for the tiny kitten.  Not seeing it, I rounded the end of the bushes and looked into the grass, just in time to spot it disappearing into the slope.  I ran over and could just see a bit of fur peeking out from the muddy tunnel, created by the run-off from the bank parking lot.  Just then, I heard a voice call, "Have you lost something?"  I looked up in dismay to see three cars stopped behind my parked vehicle, waiting to get on with their journey.  Looking down I decided to be sensible for once.  After all, only an idiot would stick their bare hand in a hole to grab a kitten without knowing what else was in there with it! Waving, I returned to my car and drove on.

All the way home I thought about the little kitten.  The heavy rains had probably washed it into the drainage pipe that led under the parking lot and dumped into the grassy area leading to the culvert under the highway.  There was no way out of the patch of grass in any direction except to cross a busy road.  The rushing waters had riddled the area with washed out spots that made a good hiding place, but a poor home and more rain was forecast.

Arriving home, I grabbed a pair of leather gloves, an old towel, and my pet crate and turned back to town.  This time I parked out of the way and made my way cautiously down the slope.  I caught a flash just as the kitten dropped out of sight again.  On my hands and knees I peered into the little hollowed out bank.  There, I could just see him.  Gently I reached in and felt a tiny leg.  Praying it wasn't holed up with a bigger cousin, I eased it out of the hole.  The terrified little body, shivered and shook.  I quickly took it back to the car and placed it in the crate. 

Since I had to pass the veterinarian's office on the way home I decided to make a quick stop. Carrying the muddy, terrified kitten into the office, I put him on the counter.  The office girl looked up.  "I just want to know one thing,"  I declared, "if it's male or female!"  Laughing, she checked then decided that a second opinion was needed.  I'm here to tell you it's not that easy.  I have heard that there are specialized people who make big money "sexing" baby chickens at hatcheries but for my money baby kittens are worse.  Finally, she returned and said that the three of them had decided it was a female.  Of course!  I think all stray cats are female and destined to reproduce like rabbits.

"OK", I sighed, "If it decides to live I'll be back to have her spayed!"  Knowing me well, they laughed and waved me on my way.

Coming home that afternoon, Hubby eyed the crate parked in the half finished utility room, "What is it this time?"  he inquired cautiously.  "Well, I've got a new barn cat for you."  Crouching down, he peered into the crate, "It might help if it was bigger than the mice. I suspect there are things in the barn that could carry this off!"  "Oh, she'll grow into a good barn cat." I replied.

Later he watched silently as I held the tiny kitten in my lap watching her bat at my fingers.  Sighing, he nodded at the kitten, "It's never going to be a barn cat, is it?"

Yes, the man is a saint.











                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

                                                                                              

A Day in the Life of a Farmer

Hubby barely slept last night with visions of hay bales and tobacco plants dancing in his dreams. 

As usually happens on a farm everything was happening at once.  After a couple of heavy rains the ground had finally dried enough to disc the final time and the tobacco patch was ready to plant.  Naturally, the hay field in front of the house also was perfect for cutting and baling..  So while our son worked to get the tobacco ground ready, hubby had been cutting the hay field. 

The weatherman wasn't helping out.  Showers were forecast to be back on Sunday afternoon and last for the next several days.  So-o-o, it looked like they would have to work on Sunday.  With luck, they would have good weather until mid to late afternoon.   Farmers have to make a lot of compromises--one of those is to work on Sunday, if there is no other way.  (Sometimes wives and farmers disagree on the definition of "no other way".)  I just hope God is understanding about the challenges of farming.

By 6:30 Hubby was up and pacing the floor.  "I'm going to feed and turn on the water for the tobacco tanks.  I'll be right back for breakfast." he called as he left.  "Mmmmuph" I muttered from under my pillow.  Knowing he probably wouldn't be stopping for lunch, I drug myself out of bed and into the kitchen.  (No one warns women about the joys of marrying a farmer.)  By 7:30 we were through with breakfast and Hubby was hurrying to meet our son and grandson who were arriving with the tobacco plants.  Soon all three were deep into getting the equipment and plants organized to get to the patch.  By 8:30 the hands had arrived (six of the cutest, sweetest Venezuelan kids attending a nearby college.  This is the second year they have helped us out.  Great kids.) 

The plan was that Hubby would help get the tobacco setting started then go the hayfield when the dew had dried off and begin raking the hay into winrows ready to bale.  Then he would return to the tobacco patch and take over for our son, who was driving the tractor pulling the tobacco setter.  Son would then get the other tractor and big round hay baler and bale the hay.  A sensible plan.

I arrived home from church (someone had to go and pray for this day!)and a quick trip to the grocery, to find Hubby just finishing up the raking.  He took a short break to gobble a balonga sandwich and left to switch places with Son.  I left to mow the yard (another day or two and we could have just baled the yard with the hay field).  As I rounded the corner into the front yard on the mower I noticed dark clouds piling up in the south.  Opening up the throttle I copied the men and mowed as fast as I could.  I only glanced up briefly when son roared by in the ranger on his way to get the tractor and baler.  I thought we might make it when I noticed that the sky was clearing and the clouds looked to be moving away from the farm. 

On the next round I checked the sky and saw a steak of gray at the back of the cloud, extending to the ground.  It was a narrow band of rain heading right for us.  "Maybe it will miss us" I whispered, as bright skies began to appear at the edges of the cloud.  Everyone hurried harder with one eye on the sky.  The narrow band of rain began to quickly approach.  It looked as though it was no wider than the front field, surely it would miss us.  I made another turn, splat, splat, splat.  Faster and faster the fat, cold drops hit my back.  Giving up, I headed for the barn.

Within minutes the tin roof was drumming with the thunder of the rain drops pounding down.  I looked down in the valley at the tractor and the kids on the setter as they struggled to get to the end of the row. With a roar, our son headed back to help in the ranger.  The rain continued.  Soon the hay was sodden and the tobacco patch was a sea of gooey mud. 

As soon as there was a break, I dashed to the house to dig out the stack of old towels I keep for just such days. 

After the kids had cleaned up and left, Hubby returned to the house, dispirited and tired.  He was soon taking a nap on the couch. 

I got busy washing wet towels and cleaning up the mess left by muddy people.

(Girls, notice!  The farmer was sleeping while I was washing and cleaning up.)

(Maybe I should have prayed harder in church.)

(Maybe Hubby should have gone to church.)

Grandma's Peony

                                                                     

Hubby's mother was the youngest of seven children.   With four older brothers, the girls were never asked to do farm work, that was for the boys.. She would often look totally horrified as she listened to her granddaughters talk about helping out with farm chores. However, she couldn't deny the farming genes that ran deep in her make up.  While she was a meticulous housekeeper and a superb cook, her true joy was her yard and garden.

Hubby was in high school when his parents moved from the home farm to a new house in town.  Grandma adapted by turning the entire back yard into a large vegetable garden where she grew enough to feed their family for the year.  She had everything from strawberries, blackberries and raspberries to asparagus, corn, green beans (delicious Kentucky Wonders), squash, cucumbers (for pickles) peas, lima beans, onions, lettuce, radishes, broccoli, cauliflower, --you name it she probably had it.  Each row was kept weed free and carefully maintained for the best yield.  She cultivated, picked and canned about everything they needed for a family of growing boys.  As much as she reveled in bringing this bounty from the earth (those farmer genes),  her true joy came from her flowers.

She planted flowers everywhere...interspersed among the rows of vegetables would be a glorious row of bright zinnias, staked next to the tomatoes would be the stately stalks of gladiolas, and tuberoses would perfume the air from the outside rows.  The carport would bloom with pots of geraniums, petunias, marigolds, and impatiens.  Around the carport were Iris of every color, giant phlox, and spring bulbs. It was a riot of color, all thriving under her loving care.

However, her pride and joy were the peonies that marched in a bushy row down the side yard. 
                                                                       
As a child on the home place, she had learned her love of flowers from her mother, who had created a playground of color, texture and scent for her youngest daughter.  During the cool mornings, mother and child would carefully tend the flowers that filled the farmhouse yard.  As they visited and worked the mother would tell the child about the flowers that grew there.  The one that was their special favorite was a deep, pink, almost red, peony.  This particular peony had been brought to the farm by the child's mother, as start from a peony from her mother's yard. Carefully cultivated it came to represent the passing of generations and the memories of a mother. 

When it came time to leave the home place and move to town, my mother-in-law carefully dug a start of this beautiful peony to bring to her new home.  Here, in her new yard, it joined with the white and pale pink peonies in a shout of jubilant color. When we would wander the yard on a visit, she would always stop and gently caress the deep pink blooms and talk of her mother.  These plants were living memories of the woman who had raised her with love.

When it came time to sell the house, after my mother-in-law was gone,  Hubby and I made one last trip to the yard.  It had been years since she had been able to plant her garden or care for her flowers, but the magnificent peonies still came back every year and bloomed their declaration of spring.  It was past time for their blooms and I stood looking at the row of green bushes.  "I think they were here....or were they there?"  I muttered, trying to remember exactly which ones were the deep pink ones.  Hubby patiently dug a bit of that root and bit of this one, until I had several starts in our box.  We carried them home and set them out in a bed beside the house.  It was a hot, dry summer and I spent hours watering the struggling plants and alternately begging them not to die and threatening to pull them up if they did. 

I am not a gardener by choice, but kneeling in the beds, pulling weeds, fertilizing, staking, and watering I felt a time of closeness to the little woman who had been a mother to me most of my life.  She had no daughters and I had no mother, so we had turned to each other and formed a bond of love.  Different as we were (or maybe not so different) we shared a closeness born of love of the man, who was her son and my spouse, and our children, which led to a love of each other.  I was blessed to have had her in my life..

The peonies survived and started coming up the next spring.  Anxiously we watched the green stems become little shrubs and finally showed little green buds.  The days passed and the buds began to show color and open into massive, brilliant blooms.  With bated breath, we waited to see if the plants would bloom deep pink.  The first to open were white, then a lovely soft pink.  My heart sunk, what if I hadn't gotten the right one.  Finally, the last plant began to open its blooms.  Slowly it revealed the deep ruby color of Grandma's special peony. 

Spindly, but sturdy, the little plant lifted up its radiant bloom that held all the memories of the special ladies who loved them so.

I know Grandma was there with me during that time of caring for her peonies...because left by myself I surely would have killed it as I have so many other plants she gave me.

Thanks, Grandma, for leaving me such a living legacy of your love.

Father Taylor

Growing up in a predominately Protestant county you wouldn't think that my favorite childhood friend would be a Catholic priest. In fact, most people in my county at that time probably didn't even know there was a Catholic priest.

My mother was the clerk for the local Kentucky Utilities office and met people from all over as they came in to pay their bills.  A talented and meticulous bookkeeper, she sometimes would pick up a little extra money helping with little bookkeeping chores. This combination led to her being contacted to do a job helping out a small, Catholic church at Ottenheim, a little community out in the county.  It seems that it was a small church, but they needed a little assistance in organizing their finances (before computers and Quicken people actually established budgets and ledgers by hand!).

The evening of her first visit came and she loaded me into the car and we set off to see what the job would entail.  I wasn't sure why I was along but was thrilled to spend the time with mother and get to explore a new section of the county.  We drove, for what seemed forever, on the little winding, narrow roads of the time into the hilly area settled by the Swiss in the early 1900's.  We eventually arrived at a small, white church on the edge of the little community.  Nestled next to the church was a small, frame house with the porch light on.  We exited the car and hand in hand approached the front door.  There we were greeted by a tall man dressed neatly in a black suit. 

Mother explained that she would be doing some work for Father Taylor and I was to play quietly with my books and toys.  I accepted this, as I looked around the neat room, all the while casting glances at the man she called "father".  Although his hair was white, he really didn't look old enough to be given the honorific of "father" or "grandfather".  In the south, particularly during this era, older people were often called by "uncle", "aunt", or "grandfather" to denote respect, as well as, friendship. 

Thus began my friendship with Father Taylor. 

On subsequent visits a routine was established.  We would arrive, mother and Father Taylor would confer about their project and then he would leave her to work and join me on the other side of the little living room.  His housekeeper would usually leave a snack ready and we would sit and visit while I ate.  He would listen as I prattled on about my interests and answer patiently the thousands of questions that a child can dream up.  I learned that he was "married" to the church and didn't have a wife or children of his own (which was ok with me --no competition.)  He could cook but it upset his housekeeper for him to mess up her kitchen, so he just let her do it all.  He grew up in a city but loved learning how to live out in the country. He loved books, music, and kite flying.  Our conversations were endless.

He hadn't always been a rural priest.  He had served during World War II as a Chaplin.  Many of my friends had fathers who had served during the war, so this wasn't that unusual.  Most of these men came quietly home and went back to work supporting their families.  Little was said about their time away, they just went on with their lives.  Father Taylor was one of the few I met who could talk about that time.  He would often tell me child appropriate stories of life in the military and some of the places he had been.  It was much later that I came to realize that there was much that he left out but he did his best to satisfy a child's curiosity.

Mother's struggles with the budget, finances and book-balancing came to a head when she sadly announced that there simply wasn't enough money coming in to support their little congregation.  Rather than seeing this as a problem, Father Taylor embraced it as an opportunity.  "Let's have a carnival as a fund-raiser!"  His little congregation, feeling isolated in so many Protestants, demurred.  Mother, fearing his disappointment, demurred. While I, sensing some fun, cheered!

Seeing an opportunity to encourage an exchange of ideas and understanding with their neighbors in the county he spent the next few weeks begging, cajoling, and bribing contributions and help from everyone he could corner. No one escaped.  The high school band was organized to come and play.  The school chorus was drafted to provide some songs.  Local businessmen found themselves donating prizes for the games and promising to bring their children out for the evening.  Various parents were sweet talked into bringing their kid's ponies in for pony rides.  Housewives baked cakes and pies, while their husbands fired up their grills for hot dogs and hamburgers.  Young adults were drafted to man the games, such as fish, ring toss, and darts,

The night arrived and I was about out of control with excitement.  Our whole family came, with daddy helping with the grilling and mother serving as cashier for the night.  My sister immediately took off with some older kids while I started on my round of the activities.  The object wasn't to make a fortune, since the games were anywhere from a penny to a dime.  The cake walk may have been a little higher, but since I had no interest in a cake, I took my carefully hoarded pennies, nickels, and dimes to the games.  In a short time I had amassed a collection of treasures.  The best being an ink pen of my very own!

That night stands out in my childhood memories as a moment of excitement and pleasure.  What I realize now is that it was a shinning example of the spirit and heart of small communities.  One man's vision and enthusiasm had created something special for the people involved.  Neighbor helping neighbor and having a bit of fun at the same time.

It wasn't long before the little church found a bookkeeper among their flock and mother no longer needed to make the trip to help.  My contact with Father Taylor was limited after that although I probably saw him occasionally, but like kids do, I had moved on to other things.  However,  the impression he made on me, as he talked to me as a person, not just a child, will remain forever.

Thanks, Father Taylor, for being my friend.

Mother's Laughter

Mother's Day is a bittersweet time when you reach our age.  We are proud of our own adventure into motherhood and rejoice in the mothers of our grandchildren.  However, most of us have already faced that painful moment when we must let our own mothers go.  I was 20 years old when my mother died, barely an adult and married for one year.  It was a very hard time in my life, for I still needed her guidance and strength (although I doubt we ever outgrow that need).  I wanted to write a very moving and sentimental piece about her, but I found that my memories didn't conform to the idea of the wise, wonderful, patient, ever suffering picture of movie motherhood. 

Don't get me wrong, she was all of those things and more.  She was always there with wise insight into my problems, patient endurance of my woes and triumphs, encouragement, support and strength.  I relied on those things and I expected a mother to provide them.  What surprised me and stayed in my memories were the times when I saw her as a person, not just my mother.

I can see her now, gathered in the living room with her best friends, having an afternoon cocktail and telling tall tales.  Their laughter would fill the house as they shared stories.  Humor was their way of dealing with frustrations and problems that led other women to depression,  anger, drug or alcohol; abuse or divorce.  Yes, those things happened in those days but they weren't as openly discussed.  To them it was better to laugh than to cry.  Not a bad philosophy. 

She loved people---all people.  She and daddy, always gregarious, surrounded themselves with friends and acquaintances from all walks of life.  In a time when color lines were drawn with a straight line, she had friends on both sides.  In a totally Protestant county she became friends with the Catholic priest in the little missionary Catholic church.  When she organized a work party to paint the Sunday School room she taught in at the Christian church, the only Jewish family in town turned out to help her.  Her desk, as the clerk of the local Kentucky Utilities office and later in her flower shop, was always a gathering place for people just wanting to say "hi" and visit a little.  Even my friends would flock to our house to be encouraged by her interest and humor.  I am convinced that I only got my Hubby because she was already married.  So he did the best he could with second best and hoped that I would grow up like her. 

Always a person with an outgoing personality and love of people, she also was a very giving person.  A friend lost a daughter, their only child, in a tragic accident.  For days, Mother stayed with her, giving her the strength she needed to lean on.  She would give calm advice without pushing,  encourage her to make decisions without demands, sympathy without maudlin grief, and steadfast friendship.  Then she would return to our house and cry her grief and heartbreak for the child, she too had loved. 

In a time when it was all June and Ward Cleaver and parents didn't show much attraction to their spouses, I often saw my parents as affectionate and loving toward each other, as well as us.  My dad would spend hours sitting on the couch, reading a book and rubbing her feet, while she read her own book.  (I guess that's where I get my love of reading and foot rubs).  Occasionally, they would pause and share a moment of their day or something funny that just occurred to them.  They frequently gave each other hugs and even occasionally held hands. 

She was totally exasperated by her own mother.  Different as day and night the two rarely agreed on anything except their love for each other.  Although, they could keep that hidden pretty well. It was an eye opening experience to see her trying to deal with the demands and interference of my very domineering grandmother.  Watching her, I came to realize that even if you don't agree it doesn't mean you don't care.  I saw her stifle her irritation and cheerfully do the thousand and one demands that my grandmother could dream up.  I only realized the depth of my mother's frustration, when in an unguarded moment she confided, that her biggest fear was that she would grow old and her children would dread getting up in the morning because they had to deal with their mother.

In my mind I see her laughing because that's how I remember her.  Laughing with us as we told of our school days, laughing with daddy in the kitchen, laughing with Aunt Wickie as they told probably unprintable tales, laughing with groups of friends, both men and women, laughing with customers in her flower shop or just sharing a quiet laugh with her family.

Not a bad way to be remembered.....laughing.

Labor Tales

This has been a bumper year for babies, both farm and friends.  It seems like everyday I hear of another family welcoming a new member.  All these babies have started me thinking about that wondrous process that makes you a mother---labor.  I saw a quote on Facebook this morning that gave me a giggle...."If Motherhood was supposed to be easy, it wouldn't have started with Labor!"

It seems that whenever women are together, especially if one is either pregnant, wants to be pregnant, or has been pregnant, the conversation will turn to their labor and delivery.  Some of the stories I hear could be a really good form of birth control.  These tales of nightmare deliveries would certainly make me reconsider the idea of becoming a mother.  Unfortunately, you usually don't hear these stories until it's too late to back out!

I walked into one of these conversations the other day.  One young woman was telling another, about taking labor classes with her husband and how much help he was going to be.  "He's my coach through the whole process." she proclaimed proudly. "He will tell me when to breathe, when to push, and keep me focused and calm."  I just stared at her.  I couldn't help but wonder to myself, "and he knows what about having a baby!"  The other mother gushed,  "My husband did the same for me.  He was wonderful.  He says I cursed him and fought him, but I didn't.  He just tells people that."  Shaking my head, I wandered on.

My babies were born on the beginning edge of the "lets involve hubby in as much of this process as we can" phase of childbirth.  Before this point hubby spent the hours of labor and delivery either sitting in a waiting room, sharing stories with other dads, or if they were lucky, in a bar sharing stories and a drink.  When the baby was born they declared themselves worn out and went home to bed.  The mothers then stayed in the hospital for a week, pampered by the nurses, with a full staff to care for the baby, while she slept and recovered.  I know, old fashioned, and totally wrong by today's standards but you have to admit it has it's good points!

Forty years ago, we young mothers were just getting on the bandwagon of natural childbirth and all it entailed.  Breast feeding I was all for......hubby in on the delivery, I wasn't so sure of.  I had seen him deliver lots of calves and I was pretty darn sure I didn't want him anywhere near me at that time!  I could just hear him yelling, "Alright!  Let's get those pulling chains and get this little fellow on the ground!"  In the end we compromised,  He would stay through labor, but not the delivery room.  (Trust me the compromise was with my pregnant friends, hubby wanted nothing to do with the delivery!  He liked the sharing stories in the bar idea.)

The time came and we started pestering the doctor about going to the hospital with the first twinge.  He finally got tired of the calls and sent us on to worry the hospital staff instead of him.  We arrived and were escorted to our own private little room, equipped with a television with cable tv.  Pretty nice!  Something to keep the little mama's mind off her pains.  We settled in and hubby grabs the remote and asks, gently, "What do you want to watch?".  "Oh, I don't care.  You pick."  I replied with a squirm.  Which just goes to show that a little pain makes you stupid.    Hubby, ecstatic with the cable, (we didn't have it at home) found a series of ballgames to keep him entertained.  I then endured six hours of nonstop sports.

The nurses would wander in to check our progress and I would clutch their hands and beg, pitifully,  "Is it time yet?"  They would pat my leg sympathetically, and murmur, "Maybe another quarter."

Our son was eventually born and I eventually got control of the remote! 

The bar idea still has its good points.