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.

The Garden Wars

I expect reality TV to be knocking on my door any day.  I have seen shows about storage locker wars, kitchen wars, and even fashionista wars, but they are missing out on the on going, great Garden Wars.  This annual event occurs each spring as Hubby and I plant the garden.  Trust me, it is reality at it's rawest!

First, the cast of characters.  Hubby, who does the plowing, disking, and tilling and yours truly, who does the weeding, picking and canning.  Neither of us really like to garden.  I put yard and garden chores somewhere between mopping floors and polishing silver.  A chore that has to be done but not one I really look forward to.  For Hubby, it is a chore that simply takes time out of the day that he needs to be doing something important--like farming!  Yet, neither of us will give up and just agree to not put out a garden. 

The wars begin early in the spring when Hubby decides to plow the garden patch.  He figures that as long as he has gone to the trouble to hitch up the plows he might as well plow!  So he proceeds to plow all available space, which is about 3 times the size of the garden I think we need or can care for!  I have been known to stand in the unplowed space and dare him plow me under.  This year he plowed while I wasn't home--we have lots of garden space.

Earlier, the boys spent an afternoon helping Papa plant the cool weather crops of cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower and onions.  We had already burned the lettuce bed and it was soon sowed and covered with tobacco canvas.  Growls and laughter accompanied this in about equal proportions.  The kids enjoying playing in the dirt with little regard for the little niceties like spacing or rows.  While Hubby attempted to make them perform to his standards (or maybe the standards of the coffee group).

Yesterday it was my turn.  The remaining space had been disked to a lovely looseness and it was time to plant the warm weather crops of tomatoes, eggplant, squash, cucumbers, peppers, beans and corn.  While Hubby was gathering the hoes, water, seed, sticks and string, I wandered over to our son who was working on a tractor in front of the barn.  "Don't you want to help us?"  I queried.  He looked at me in disbelief.  "Sorry.  My pay grade doesn't go that high.  I would need hazardous duty pay to enter that garden."  I laughed, "Oh, it's not that bad.  We're not going to fight this year.  I promise."  He just shook his head and kept on working. It's odd, what your children think of you. 

Hubby returned and I trotted over to help lay out the first row of tomatoes.  He tied a length of baling twine to one stick and I took the other end and a stick and trudged through the loose soil to the other side of the garden.  "How far apart do you want the rows?"  he yelled, all the while driving his stake into the ground at the distance he had already determined. 

Let the wars begin!

"Well,"  I hollered back, "You know those tomatoes will get pretty big and they are going to grow right up to the broccoli and cauliflower that you have already planted."  "Yes, but broccoli and cauliflower will be through and ready to be tilled up by the time they do."  Score:  One for him.

You see, the substance of our war is spacing and quantity.  He does all the tilling.  He has a big ass tiller that he loves.  He wants the rows to be set so he can make one pass down a row and be done with that row and on to the next.  This works great when the plants are small.  They grow until the row is too narrow for the tiller about the same time that he gets super involved in summer farm work.  Thus I wind up with a hard choice.  Pick the produce in weeds or weed it myself.  I DO NOT like to hoe.  I have tried tilling it myself but after I hit a clod and the tiller got away from me and took out half a row of beans with me flopping along behind it before it hit another clod and lurched back into the middle, I have been banned from the tiller.

My solution is to plant the rows far enough apart that the tiller will fit between the mature rows.  After all, he has plowed half the farm.  We have plenty of room.  Except, the early tillings will take two or three passes down a row.  Hubby doesn't approve.

The tomatoes are first.  "How far apart do you want the holes?"  I indicate about 3 feet to allow for enough space to get between the mature plants to pick.  He digs the first two holes and I beam in approval.  I bend over and start the process of placing the plants in the hole, watering, and covering.  Moving on to the next hole and the next, thinking, "Score:  One for me."  Then I noticed a strange thing.  The holes were getting closer together.  By the time he had finished the row, the holes had shrunk to about a foot apart.  "No, no", I shout,  "they have to be further apart!"  He obligingly makes the next hole further, but does nothing about the intervening holes.  Score: another for him.

After the plants are all set, we come to the bean rows.  Now the challenge is not only to get the rows far enough apart to till and pick, but also to keep him from planting enough rows for six families.  This time I win the number of rows because he sent me for the seed and I only bought enough for four rows.  (Which will still yield about 100 quarts of beans or more.)  I compromise with a promise of a late crop to be planted later.  I think the man believes we will starve without a basement full of beans.   Score:  One for me.

By the time we finish the beans and corn I discover he has outsmarted me and maybe himself.  As we marked off the rows with our sticks and twine he has been gradually moving the stakes, on his side of the garden, closer together.  The result is a slightly herring-bone pattern to our rows.  That should make tilling fun!  I suspect we both lost a score on that one.

I think the Garden Wars this year were a draw.  We both won and little and lost a little.  As we unkinked our backs and walked through the sunset to the back porch, we both felt the satisfaction of completing another planting with only minor blood loss.  As we retired to the rockers with a well deserved cold beer a voice drifted across the lawn, "Is it safe to join you?"  Our son peeked around a corner, "Just wanted to be sure the fireworks were over." 

Yep.  Another episode of Garden Wars is finished.

Wandering with Granddaddy

My dad would have been right at home heading over the mountains into Kentucky with Daniel Boone.  It's entirely possible that a grandparent or two back that is exactly what happened.  I can certainly envision his ancestor waving gaily to the wife and kids as he headed off to enjoy exploring the unknown.  My dad could relate.

Nothing was more fun to him than driving around exploring the not so traveled path.  Always gregarious and interested in people he would take off and wander happily from little community to little community.  Lunch time would find him sitting in the local diner or restaurant with the locals enjoying a blue-plate special and gossip.  Before long he would have directions to a favorite fishing spot, a lead on some great antique "finds", a little known historical site or just a great view. He would then climb back in his vehicle and, waving to his new friends, drive on.

The wanderlust would often come on him suddenly and he would announce that anyone who was ready in 30 minutes could join him.  Mom, never one to be left behind, kept a small suitcase packed with overnight supplies ready at all times.  I suspect they were the inventors of the phrase "There's Life after Kids" as, after we left home,  they no longer had to work around our plans in order to take off for a week-end.  They would return home relaxed, full of the places they had been and what they had seen.  They might have wandered into other states or only one county over--you never knew.

After mother died, Daddy wandered alone or occasionally with a like minded friend, but his heart wasn't in it.  Then he moved to the farm, and discovered a new generation to indoctrinate into exploring the back roads and byways.  The kids found this uninhibited, unplanned approach to travel vastly different from our very scheduled and structured trips and utterly wonderful.  With absolute delight they would pile into the cab of his pickup and drive out of the driveway.  The adventure would start when they reached the highway and Daddy would turn to them and ask, "Which way?"  With no more plan in mind than the view from the next curve they would happily set off.

They wandered the small towns and back roads.  Sometimes they lunched in little cafes, sometimes they ate cheese and crackers along the roadside.  They visited historical markers and learned a great deal of the history of the early settlers.  They learned to whittle with old-timers on the porches of feed stores and absorbed stories of a vanishing way of life.  They played with kids in small parks while Granddaddy visited in the shade, and learned to make friends easily.  They poked about in old barns full of junk or "antique" stores and learned about the items of a life they would never know. 

At night they would stay in a small town motel....or not.  Daddy was just as likely to head back the little roads until he found a field bordering a creek and just camp (mostly without permission or even the knowledge of the owner--however, if an owner was available, they assured me they did ask!)  His idea of camping was a little different than most.  His favorite mode of travel was a pickup truck with a topper on the back.  This allowed him to stow a couple of lawn chairs, a fishing rod, maybe an old mattress, a few furniture pads (left over from his furniture store days.) and a supply of rations. 

A couple of cans of soda would be stashed in the creek to cool, while the kids were set to gathering up firewood for their campsite.  Soon, he would have the kids fishing or playing in the shallows of the creek while he built  a campfire. Depending on the success of their last grocery stop, supper might range from hamburgers and pork and beans to Vienna sausage and crackers.  Generally followed by a whole bag of marshmallows burned to a crispy black. 

Then as dusk would fall, the small campfire would be augmented with the branches and chunks of dead wood until it reached bonfire proportions.  Settling back on the thick furniture pads they would watch the sparks rise up to the stars and listen to the sounds of the night.  Eventually, Daddy would start with, "Have I ever told you about....."  The stories of his childhood, historic characters, some not-so-historic characters and just plain tall tales would continue until eyes started to close.  Then he would load the kids into the back of the truck and settle them for the night to dream of the next day's adventures.

Every kid should be so lucky to have a wandering granddaddy.  

Derby Day

The first Saturday in May, we Kentuckians celebrate an extra holiday--Derby Day.  As one wag put it:  Kentucky...the only place where people party 2 weeks for a 2 minute horserace.

Derby in Kentucky only takes second place to New Year's Eve--and the parties are a lot bigger at Derby.

Even as a child I was infected by the excitement of Derby.  One of the only games I remember playing as a child.  was a board game that pitted past Triple Crown winners.  You would spin and move your horse toward the winners circle.  The horses I remember were Citation, War Admiral, Whirlaway, and Count Fleet.  You'll have to do the math to figure out my age!

Each year one of the companies that sold pipe tobacco held a contest where you name a future Derby winner.  Race horses are named with an attempt to use a reference to both sire and dam.  You have a limited number of letters and spaces, so often the names run together with no spaces.  The contest gave you a sire and dam and you had to come up with the best name. ( For example Mine That Bird, winner of the 2009 Derby was by Birdsong and Mining My Own.)  The winner became the owner of the colt---I was convinced that meant it could then live in my back yard. 

For weeks I would pester any man I knew to buy pipe tobacco so I could have another entry into the contest. (My poor dad would take up pipe smoking for the duration.)  I would spend hours mixing names and phrases to come up with the perfect combination that would win me a horse. The winner was announced at Derby time and each year my hopes of a horse of my own were dashed, by a name that was far inferior to my entries!

The question arises...have I ever been to a Derby.  No, No, NO!  Too many people.  We do try to go to the races each year on the Wednesday before Derby with a group from our community.  We were welcomed into this group about 40 years ago and it was long established then.  It's a great time to go to the races.  The track is all spiffed up for the Derby, the top jockeys and trainers are there participating in the race meet, the cameras are beginning to gather for the major news networks, but you can still get a seat and get to a window to place a bet. 

Around here the object is to either host a Derby Party or know someone who will invite you to one.  Derby Parties are a true Kentucky tradition.  I suspect they have been going on as long as the Derby!  Early May can be the absolute perfect time for a big outdoor party.  Warm weather, sparkling sunshine, grass that is too green to believe, spring flowers and the bugs aren't out yet!.  Of course, it also can rain a ton (like last year), be 40 degrees, or even, as it did one year, snow!  The stress of trying to outguess Mother Nature has brought many a hostess to her knees. 

Over the years I have hosted some memorable (for various disastrous reasons) Derby Parties.  I think I am officially retired.

Anyone need an extra guest for Derby Day--good conversationalist, able to hold her bourbon, and willing to lend a hand. 

Were You Raised in a Barn?

Years ago,  a young friend from town taunted our kids with the phrase, "Were you raised in a barn?"  My daughter rolled her eyes and replied with disdain, "Well, yeah!"  We all burst out laughing.

Farm kids spend a lot of time in barns.  In fact you could say that they learn a lot of life's lessons in that fragrant, dim interior. 

Early on the barn becomes a favorite playground.  Little kids push tractors around in the soft dirt of barn floors that has been pounded into powder by the passing of the tractor tires.  Loose grain, bits of hay, and grass become imaginary fodder for vast imaginary fields of animals.  My daughter spent hours in the hay loft listening for the mew of kittens as she hunted the old barn cat's hidden litter. In the quiet darkness, spliced by sunbeams streaming through the barn siding, she would dream of future hopes and heartfelt desires.  Fortunes were made and lost in intense card games played on the bottom of an overturned 5-gallon bucket.  Every barn manages to boast a basketball goal that becomes the focus of NBA quality, highly contested games of Horse.

Barns teach you to take care of your things.  The same little ones that push their tractors happily around on their dust farms, quickly learn that those little tractors have to be put safely out of the alley-way or they will be flattened by the return of the real tractors. The same way, their older brothers and sisters learn that show sticks and buckets left out of place inevitably fall prey to a passing cow or returning piece of field equipment. The same way they learn that while 4-wheelers are fun to ride, if they aren't properly cared for, it means a lot of extra trips carrying buckets and hay bales without them.

It's through barn chores that farm kids learn about the meaning of responsibility.  Early on our kids were the ones that had to go to the barn each morning before school to feed and care for their show heifers.  They learned time-management in figuring how to sleep every extra minute and still get their chores done and have time to get ready for school.  Of course, there was always the morning that they discovered that one of the heifers had escaped the lot and had to be driven back to the barn.  Thus, a 15 minute job became 30 minutes, meaning less time to get ready.  My daughter used to say that all her friends thought she overslept when she would show up at school with her hair thrown into a pony tail. 

They learned problem solving along with organizational skills.  To save time in the mornings they decided to fill the feed buckets the night before only to discover the buckets dumped by the nighttime raids of raccoons.   To protect the feed buckets from the raccoons,  they then learned to put them in a box or barrel with a lid.

They learned to delegate and cooperate.  They learned to prioritize the most urgent chores.  They learned to take orders and to give concise and explicit instructions.  Our daughter taught her Dad a little about that.  He was a great one for telling her "Take this bucket, through that gate and feed those cows."  "Daddy", she would wail, "there are five gates, into three lots, all with cows!!   Be specific!"  She swore one day she would paint each gate a different color. Not a bad solution.

Quiet nights waiting for the arrival of a new baby calf,  teach you patience and how to be still.  You learn about birth and about death in barns.  You learn about miracles, failures, satisfaction, and disappointment.  You learn that your parents are people, who sometimes get frustrated and yell.  Then sometimes they don't yell, they just hug you close and let you cry.  You learn to keep on when you are tired but the job isn't finished.  You learn the satisfaction of keeping on until the job is done. 

You learn the pride of being able to answer, "Yes, we were raised in a barn."