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.)