Making Memories (and a few beaten biscuits)

I spent this morning making memories (and a few beaten biscuits) with the two little grandsons.

First, we drug out the beaten biscuit brake from the corner of the utility room, where it sits holding up boxes of dog treats the rest of the year.  This treasured antique looks like the wringer off of an old washer mounted on an enameled table.  Hand cranked it is the necessary tool for making the hard, flat biscuits that southerners love.

Next, we mixed up the dough in my largest mixing bowl.  Flour, salt, a little sugar, lard, and water and milk for the liquid. (Yep. No leavening.  They don't rise but bake like thick crackers.) It is mixed much like traditional biscuits but kneaded only enough to hold the dough together well.   The resulting lump of dough was carried into the utility room and plopped down on the biscuit brake.  "Are you ready?"  I asked the youngest, who was already in position at the crank.  "Let's go!" he responded.

With that I started the process of putting the dough between the rollers, folding it, and repeating the process.  The dough begins as a lumpy mass that tends to fall apart as it is cranked through the stainless, steel covered rollers.  As time passes the dough transforms into a smooth, elastic sheet that looks like thick, creamy leather.  As the folded dough is passed through the rollers again and again, the air trapped between the folds breaks through the firm dough with a loud "pop" signaling that the dough is done! 

It's not fast.  The dough has to be folded, and rolled about 100 times.  That leaves time for chatting as we work. 

"Why are they called "beaten" biscuits if we are rolling them?"  asks one of the boys.

"Well," I replied, "in the pioneer days people didn't have cool machines like this to work the dough.  So they used to literally "beat" the dough with something heavy, like the flat side of an ax." 

"Didn't they get tired?  I'm getting tired just cranking."  Sensing that I was about to lose my help, I suggested that it might be time to switch places so he could "poke" the dough through the rollers while I cranked. 

"Yes, they got tired.", I continued,  "but people worked harder back in the pioneer days.  They didn't have electricity or lots of gadgets to help them.  They certainly were in better shape than we are now.  The pioneer women probably used the same ax to chop the firewood for the stove that they would cook the biscuits in."

"I'll bet they were glad when someone invented the beaten biscuit machine!"  Grinning, I agreed that they probably were.  Soon the "pops" told me that it was time for a final rolling then we could cut the biscuits out .  The last job after that was using a fork to poke three sets of holes in each biscuit with the tines of the fork.  That done, we quickly put them in the oven to bake. 

Dusting off his hands, the oldest boy asked, "Hasn't anyone ever thought to make an electric beaten biscuit maker?"  "Yes" I replied, "there are ones with a motor."  "So why don't you have one?" came the quick response.  "I guess I just like doing it this way with my boys."  I offered, chuckling.

As they peeked at the baking biscuits in the oven, I overheard one say to the other, "I think we need to get daddy to put a motor on that thing for next year!"

The Big Ass TV

They just don't make things like they used to.  Our couch is a prime example.  After fifteen years of kids, dogs, snoozes, ballgames and cuddling in front of the fire, it is beginning to come apart.  While it is still the most comfortable couch we have ever had, it is beginning to look like it belongs in a college bachelor apartment.

With company coming over the holidays we decided it was time to bite the bullet and buy a new couch.  "You have to come with me.", I announced one morning.  "You are the one that uses it the most.  You watch ballgames and then often get up in the night and sleep on it.  So it has to fit you, not me."  "Well, you use it too." he responded, just short of a whine.  "You haven't been paying attention.  My end of the couch is equipped with a signal button under the cushion.  As soon as my butt hits the cushion someone needs something and I have to jump back up." I responded.

So, off we went to the city to shop for a new couch. 

It really didn't take long.  We wandered the store, sitting, reclining, and even laying down on first one couch then another.  One couch caught our fancy and before you could snap your fingers a saleslady was filling out forms and starting the bargaining process.  Hubby has years of sales under his belt so offers, counter-offers and deals were soon flying.  Before long we were leaving the store, with a quote in hand, to go home and measure our space again to be sure it would fit.  We would then call back, finalize the deal, and set up a delivery date. 

Since we were close, and I needed a water filter for the refrigerator, we swung by the HHGreg appliance store.  I headed for the refrigerator section while Hubby wandered off.  After securing the filter and paying for it, I started searching for Hubby.  I finally found him stretched out comfortably in a recliner in the TV section, talking earnestly to a friendly young salesman. (Funny how the recliners were placed right next to the TV section!) They were deep into a discussion of pixels, HD, inches, and remote controls.  "Look at this picture!", he enthused as I walked up.  "Kevin, here, says that it will work on the chimney with no problem." he continued, happily, "He even says it's on sale!" 

Whoa!  What is happening here?

"We've got to go home and measure the chimney to make sure it will fit." he continued.  "We can pick it up after the ballgame this week-end."  "Honey," I asked in my most reasonable voice, "I thought we were measuring for a new couch?"  He grabbed his phone as we left the store, "The couch!  Right!" he dialed rapidly.  "I'm calling about the couch we just looked at.  If you can bring your price down to this (amount) we've got a deal.  You can't come down any lower?  OK.  Thanks for your help anyway."  He turned to me, "I guess the deal fell through.  We'll look some more later."

Thus, we bought a 60" TV that covers the entire chimney from mantle to crown molding.

 I guess we'll sit on the cracked, faded leather couch a little while longer.

The moral of this story is....don't ever take a man to buy a water filter.

Thanksgiving on the Farm

I love the holiday season, but I swear, the time between Halloween and Christmas gets shorter every year. 

Which is why I am just now getting time to tell you about Thanksgiving farm style.

I love Thanksgiving, but what I really love most is the day before Thanksgiving.  The major cleaning is done.  The table set and decorated.  I am filled with anticipation of the joyous celebration of family and thankfulness that will take place the next day.  I throw myself into a frenzy of cooking and baking, all the while dreaming of a Norman Rockwell family dinner with everyone gathered around the perfectly prepared foods set on the beautifully decorated table.  Everyone is smiling and happily visiting as the food is passed.  The children beam with eagerness, awaiting their filled plates. 

The day before Thanksgiving, I still think it will happen like that. 

We live on a farm.  It never happens like that!

The first surprise came the evening before Turkey Day, when all four grandchildren showed up to spend the night.  (I misunderstood the request of "Coming out" thinking it meant a short visit.  I realized my mistake when they arrived carrying overnight bags.)  I only cook for Thanksgiving on the day before, so I scrambled frantically for something for the six of us to eat.

"Don't fret," Hubby soothed, "I'll keep them occupied tomorrow.  It'll be like old times."  "Sure", I muttered, "I'll just squeeze in breakfast between peeling potatoes and making the pies."

The next morning Hubby finished his coffee and left to go to the barn to feed.  It wasn't long before I heard the back door open and feet rushing through the utility room.  "Get the boys!!" Hubby urged, "The cows are out and heading for the road!"  The two younger boys were ready in two shakes but the teenager was still trying to focus.  "Do I get to eat?" he mumbled.  "Yep" I responded, "Here's some peanut butter on toast!  Now hurry!"

Soon the cavalry was headed over the hill to the pasture in the bottom.   Hubby and son had been replacing a fence along the bottom that we grow tobacco in.  They thought they had it fixed enough that the cows would stay in, but the lure of the winter wheat planted on the tobacco ground as a cover crop was too much for the cows.  The mama cows were munching happily on their fresh salad but the calves were exploring the area beyond the unfenced tobacco ground.  With no barrier to keep them from going as far as the highway getting them back into the field was urgent.

As soon as they were rounded up and herded back,  Hubby started organizing his work force to string barbed wire to make sure they stayed there.  About mid-morning our son wandered in, anticipating scarfing a few munchies before dinner.  "Where is everyone?" he asked.  "The cows got out so they're in the bottom fixing fence."  "Uh, oh" he laughed, "I'd better go referee before things get ugly." 

Dinner time came and my daughter-in-law and I looked at each other over the food keeping warm on the stove.  "Well,  there's no point in wasting the appetizers." she laughed, as she poured us both a glass of wine.  "They'll be here when they get here!" 

We were well into our second glass when the workers came in.  "Mission accomplished with only the loss of one shirt."  son said as he poked his finger in the hole in the side of his shirt.  Barbed wire is nasty to work with. 

We women jumped up and started reheating and repairing the now late dinner.  The dinner, while maybe not Norman Rockwell, was delicious. 

After dinner, the men were headed for the couches and a snooze, when the phone rang.  It was our neighbor, "I just came home from Mom's and noticed that your cows were out in the bottom!"  With groans all around, the work crew headed for the barn to start all over again.

For those of you thinking it was a poor fencing job, the second time they came through the water gap in the creek.  It seems that once they got a taste of the winter wheat they would all but climb a tree to get back to it! 

Just another Thanksgiving on the farm.

Thanksgiving 2015

Thanksgiving is tomorrow.  Like moms everywhere I have a million things to complete before the family arrives for dinner. 

Yesterday, after spending an hour checking recipes, ingredients, and lists, I went to the grocery to get everything for the big day.  While wandering the aisles, I remembered that I had forgotten to get the cider for hot mulled cider (a hard and fast tradition, not to be messed with).  After backtracking and grabbing the cider I remembered that the last time I had made it I was out of one of the whole spices I used...but which one?  As I stood in front of the spices, racking my brain for the answer, an attentive clerk offered to help me find what I needed.  "What I need", I declared in frustration, "is someone to run home and see what I'm out of so I don't have to make a dash back tomorrow!"  A soft chuckle rippled out from behind me, "Honey, you can't ever have Thanksgiving without reaching for at least one thing you were just sure you had and don't!", declared a woman passing behind me. 

Another shopper waiting to pass us in the aisle, chimmed in, "I plan on being out of a few things," she laughed.  "Then when the menfolks get to bugging me too much in the kitchen, I send them to the grocery to fetch it for me."  Laughing harder, she proclaimed, "it works every time.  By the time they've found the ingredients and visited with all their buddies doing the same thing, I've got dinner ready."

The clerk, now laughing with us, agreed.  "The store is full of men all day Thanksgiving, hunting for odd ingredients and passing the time with friends.  We've actually thought about setting up refreshments and just letting them hang out!"  We agreed it was a good plan, and still laughing we parted to continue our shopping.

Today, while setting the table with the paper turkeys I bought at the local drug store when the kids were little tykes, I started thinking about some of our more treasured memories. 

The year my sister's son was little and was fascinated with the candles on the table.  For some reason (who knows how little kid's brains work?) he decided to blow out the candle in front of him.  Unfortunately, he had a mouth full of mashed potatoes at the time.  Hubby's dad was sitting directly across from him and received the benefit of the potatoes.  The kid survived, but it was a close thing.   Not a perfect memory, but it still makes us laugh!

The kids remember splitting firewood on Thanksgiving morning.  Hubby's instructions were to stay out of the kitchen and keep everyone occupied.  His solution was to fire up the splitter and split firewood until dinner time.  I'm pretty sure that is why my daughter decided to learn to cook. Then she could help in the kitchen!

My favorite memory is of the dinners at my Aunt and Uncle's home.  Without football games televised 24/7, the adults stayed around the table after dinner and told stories.  As a kid I loved sitting and listening to the tales grow "taller" as the after dinner drinks grew shorter.  I learned some fascinating things about my elders....who knew my genteel grandfather was such a rip or my dad and uncle were such terrors!

Tomorrow, everyone will bolt from the table to continue watching ball games or playing their video games.  Times change.   One thing stays the same.  We will sit down as a family, wrapped in the warmth of each others love, and be thankful for the blessings we have been granted. 

And stare at the paper turkeys marching down the table.

The Machinery Auction

There are few things that get a farmer more excited than a good machinery auction.

Unless it is getting ready to hold a good machinery auction.

Hubby has retired from the insurance business but he kept his interest in the Real Estate firm.  Frankly, the man is a born salesman.  He just loves selling things. 

For the past few weeks he has been up to his ears in getting ready for a big estate sale that involves a farm, house and lots of machinery.  Did I mention...LOTS of machinery.  The farmer in question never sold his equipment, he just bought more.  He also kept it well maintained and stored around the farm.  For the past few weeks they have been finding tractors, hay balers, gravity wagons, mowers, manure spreaders, wagons, and bush hogs, tucked away in fence rows, barns, sheds, fields, and woods.  Each day has been a treasure hunt. 

Hubby and his old partner, who retired several years ago, have been spearheading getting all of the equipment organized and cataloged.  It wasn't long before they realized that it was going to take more help.  The first person they drafted was our son.  He is the one that keeps our machinery repaired and running so they were soon calling on him to tell them how this or that worked.  It wasn't long before he was spending every minute he could spare helping with the sale. 

He came home one night just bubbling.  They had spent the day trying to organized buildings full of parts and pieces of farm machinery.  "Mom", he laughed, "We found enough parts in those buildings to build enough machinery to run a big farm!"  Trying to sort and organize was like a big puzzle keeping them all guessing what pieces needed to be with which equipment.

Soon the line of machinery stretched across the farm frontage causing traffic jams on the little country road as farmers drove by to see what was for sale.  Still they were finding treasures in the fence rows and building.  For example, the old farmer loved showing his two pair of pulling mules.  The mules had found a new home, but left behind were boxes of harnesses and hanes.  That stumped them.  Neither of my men have ever harnessed a pair of mules.  That may be the bargain of the sale if someone knows how to figure them out!

As the sale date drew closer the talk in the town grew too.  Now people were calling and stopping by to view the farm and buildings.  Days were busy answering questions, showing boundaries, and finding more stuff in the fence rows.  Excitement grew.

Today is the day.  Hubby, son, and grandsons left early this morning to "work" the sale.  Everyone had their job assignments and was eager to get started.  Tonight, after a long day of selling, visiting, laughing, and working, they will drag in, exhausted, exhilarated, and full of stories. 

There is nothing more fun to a farmer than a good machinery auction.

I wonder what we will do for excitement next?

Farm Raised Parenting

A couple of new terms came into my sight this past week.  Helicopter parenting and Free Range parenting.  Most of you know immediately what I am referring to, but in case you don't I'll summarize.

 Helicopter parents are those parents that hover over their children in every aspect and moment of their lives.  They are the ones doing the homework, scheduling "play dates", organizing afterschool activities, and generally living their kids lives for them.  We didn't have a cute name for them but I have known a few of these parents.  When my kids were struggling through their 4-H projects there were the kids whose projects always won grand champion.  We knew their parents painstakingly wrote every project book and finished every project.  In spite of this these children grew up to be responsible, productive adults.

Free-Range parents are just the opposite.  They tend to let their children experience the world with little adult supervision and interference.  We knew a few of those parents back in the day, too.  They were the ones whose children roamed the streets, settled their own arguments, and spent a lot of time in my back yard.  Yet, they are now caring, self-sufficient, hard working adults. 

Both of these factions loudly decry the other's methods of child-rearing and proclaim the ruination of the children involved.  Extremes are never good.  I've seen children that were so ignored that I yearned to "mother" them myself.  I also had a college president tell me of a mother who descended on his office because her son wasn't being treated fairly by his professor! 

Personally, I think the kids that will rule the world are the Farm Raised children.

Farm kids get the best of both types of parenting.  They are exposed to a lot of "get out there and get it done" attitude that puts them on their own but by the very nature of farming are taught and supervised by their parents who are working along with them.  Farm kids get a lot of responsibility and challenges but they also get lots of support.  In the process they learn......

They learn problem solving.  Take the time that our son learned to milk a cow.  He was about 12-13 years old and had helped his dad deliver a fine heifer calf.  Unfortunately, the cow decided she didn't want to be a mother and refused to let the calf nurse.   Knowing that the early colostrum is natures perfect baby food, Hubby put the cow in the chute and milked her out.  (Old dairy farmers never forget how.)  This was a beef cow, not a gentle dairy cow, and she didn't like it, but they managed.  The next day, son decided that he would do this chore himself.  I arrived at the barn later, to see how he was progressing, and nearly choked on my giggles.  He had managed to get her in the chute, but every effort to milk her had resulted in a kick, tail swipe, or head toss.  To stabilize her he had tied every available appendage to something.  She was pretty well hog-tied but son was getting a little of the precious milk.  He learned a lot of things that day, not the least of which was the value of powdered calf starter (milk) and a bottle.

They learn self-sufficiency.  Moving to the farm meant leaving city water and learning to live on a small cistern.  With teenagers and cattle to water, we were constantly running out of water.  One Friday, after a full afternoon of working cattle our daughter hurried to the house to shower for a Friday night date.  Working cattle is a filthy job which always involves lots of manure.  It's amazing how far they can sling a tail full of manure.  I stopped her as she headed for the stairs.  "We're out of water.  I've called for a load and we are on the list, but I don't know when they will get here!"  In total disbelief she stomped upstairs to her room only to reappear moments later and head outside.  I thought she was probably heading out to vent her frustration.  When I checked on her out the window I spotted her hauling a five-gallon bucket and a rope from the barn.  She marched over to the cistern cover, muscled off the lid, tied the rope to the bucket and lowered it down into the water.  She then strained to haul the bucket out and triumphantly carried her supply to the house.  She left for her date scrubbed and clean. 

They learn perseverance.  Soon after our son got his drivers license he started begging to drive the truck and gooseneck trailer.  He was a good driver (farm kids learn early) but maneuvering a 16 foot trailer is a tricky business.  Finally, one day Hubby told him to back the gooseneck up to the barn and load the supplies for the cattle show that afternoon.  Early that morning he hooked up the truck and trailer and proceeded to the barn.  Backing it into the barn involved turning around on a circle drive and backing it into a straight off-shoot.  He had the trailer everywhere.  In the drive, in the field, in the yard, sideways, backward and nearly crossways.  He spent most of the morning pulling out and backing up.  At long last it was backed perfectly into the barn opening.  He'd used a tank of gas, worn all the grass off the top of the hill, and wasted hours but he has never had a minutes trouble backing a truck and trailer up again.  In fact he's about the best at it I've ever seen, now. 

They learn to prioritize and meet deadlines.  Hubby had a habit of giving everyone a list of chores to do each day as he left for work.  He would carefully outline what each needed to accomplish before he came home so they could begin his nightly jobs.  The kids learned that if they stayed at the house I would nag them about their chores.  So they would announce that they were headed for the barn to "work".  Once there they would laze away the day playing cards on an overturned bucket, hunting the new litter of kittens,  telling stories, or teaching the dog tricks (a long and unsuccessful campaign) until they had just enough time to frantically launch into their chores and complete them before Hubby arrived.

They learn to delegate.  Believe me they learned quickly how to delegate an unwanted job onto the other one..either by bribes, threats, or coercion.  On the other hand they also learned that joining forces can get the jobs done quicker and easier.

They learn empathy for other living things.  On a farm every animal depends on the humans for their care and feed.  Farm kids learn early to watch for signs of sickness or impending birth, as well as, sparkling good health.

They learn that life is full of challenges...some you can overcome and some you can't.  They also learn that sometimes you don't win.  Your calf may die, the crop may wither in the drought, or the market price might fall. 

The farm teaches them decision making, responsibility, and determination.  On a farm you learn that working together, cooperatively, accomplishes what one person can't do alone.

Pretty good traits for going out in the world and making a difference.  Personally, I want my leaders to have a good dose of "Farm Raised" mentality.

A Week in Paradise

We have a young friend whose job takes him to Hawaii two or three times a year (yeah, I know, it is tough what some people endure just to earn a living!).  He has often suggested that we come along and we would all make a vacation of it.  "I'll take my vacation time and other than a couple of days that I will be tied up in meetings we'll be free to explore Hawaii."  The clencher was that he could poll the teachers he worked with for suggestions on lodging, food, and sights.  The lure of an "insiders" trip was too much for even Hubby to resist. 

When asked what we wanted to see Hubby responded "farms" and I answered "beaches".  So, plans were made to stay on the beach and see farms.  (Yes, there are farms in Hawaii...from tiny mountaintop ranches to huge commercial farms.)

After traveling across the United States, Pacific Ocean and six time zones we arrived at bedtime sometime around 30 hours later. 

We sent a picture the next morning of us standing in front of the view of the golden beach and blue ocean from our balcony.  Our daughter texted back: "Glad you got there safely.  Daddy looks a little grumpy. "

"The trip was lo-o-ong!  Don't know that I will ever get him back on the plane.  We may have to stay!"

"HaHa!" she replied.

The trip was wonderful.  Our friends were terrific tour guides, filling our days with all the sights and adventures of Maui.  We went from beaches to mountains, from cities to peaceful, tiny villages, from parking lot flea markets to beautiful craft markets, from mountain top farms to acres of sugar cane.  We spent a day touring Honolulu and Pearl Harbor. We ate wonderful food in a variety of beautiful, beach front restaurants and a few special spots only the "locals" knew about.
 
Sent the kids pictures of our breakfasts from a beautiful beach front restaurant.  "This is the life.  Don't know how we will leave."  Reply:  "Glad you are having fun!"

Sent pictures of picturesque beaches and turquoise waters.  "We wake up every morning to this view.  We could really get used to it."  Reply: "Well, don't get too used to it.  The temperature is supposed to drop here."

Sent pictures of romantic beach front dinners by tiki torch light, sporting orchids in my hair.  "I think this could be a great retirement home."  Reply:  "Sure, Mom."

Sent pictures of beach house with for sale sign in front.  "What do you think?" Reply:  "Mom, Dad will never go for that!"  Mom: "Who do you think is finding the houses?" 

After several days of this our daughter texted our son:  "I think they may actually be serious.  What do you think!"  His reply: "Book your tickets! Christmas in Maui!" 

We did come home.  I have a lovely tan which no one will ever see since it has been covered with jeans, socks and sweatshirts since I came home.

Hubby now knows enough about growing sugar cane to start cropping. 

We discovered that cows that graze on grasses up to their knees year round are fat as butterballs.  (And they don't have to bale hay in Hawaii!)

We learned that the Hawaiian language is made up of lots of vowels and "h's", "p's" and "k's".  Aloha is hello and good-by.  Mahalo is thank you.  Our condo was on Hoohui  Dr. just off Lower Honoapillani Road in Kahana, Maui.  I was lost the whole time because my brain just couldn't remember the places.  My attempts at pronunciation garnered giggles and eye rolls from the locals.

We found that sleeping with the surf crashing outside your door is as good as sleeping under rain beating on a tin roof.

We also discovered it's fun to shake up your kids every now and then.

Nothing is Ever Simple

I love to sing.  I'm not very good but that doesn't change my enthusiasm or enjoyment.  I sing, mainly, in the church choir under the direction of a very tolerant and gifted director and teacher.  Our little choir practices diligently before presenting an anthem or special for the congregation.  They are all friends, so they are usually very complementary and make us feel good about our efforts.

This past Sunday was a little more special. 

Our church is the proud possessor of a Pilcher Pipe Organ that is now 100 years old.  To celebrate this we hosted a recital by Dr. Wesley Roberts, who is the Professor of Musicology, Piano and Organ at Campbellsville University.  The choir was to join in with Dr. Roberts on two anthems.  It was a special day with lots of visitors and we were all excited, and a little nervous about our part in it.  I had repeatedly warned the family that I would be tied up that Sunday afternoon with the recital and reception.  They assured me that it would not be a problem.

Hubby went to pick up the grandkids for church while I went early to practice.  He arrived with just the little girl, since the two little boys had opted to chore with their dad.  Everything was smooth until Hubby leaned over during church and whispered a suggestion that we just grab a sandwich at home instead of going out to eat as we usually do.  I glared at him but he piously bowed his head.  "How are you going to convince your little princess to go home if she ever gets to our house!"  I hissed.  "I'll handle it" he blithely returned.  The problem being that our granddaughter can wrap her grandfather around her finger and tie it in a bow!  I knew she wouldn't give up her afternoon of our undivided attention easily.

We had driven separately, so by the time we arrived home for our sandwich, the two of them had it all worked out.  The granddaughter was going with him to church to hear Jo-Jo sing then we would all change and go to her brother's ballgame.  Since Hubby isn't the most patient of people with entertaining little ones, I figured that the best case scenario would be that she would cuddle up and nap and worse case he could take her out and let her play in the classrooms.  So I took off to church for our pre-singing warm-up, with them to follow shortly.

The choir was in their places in the front pew, the church was filling up and I still hadn't seen Hubby.  Then suddenly his head was next to mine and he was whispering urgently.  "I've left Hadleigh in the nursery.  I've got a cow calving and I've got to go back home. "  With that, he was gone.  The choir members looked at me quizzically.  "How did he know he had a cow calving?  Did she call him?"  one questioned, laughing.  I just shook my head...I didn't know either.  I was left wondering if there was even a sitter in the nursery or did he just leave our granddaughter playing?  I finished the rest of the afternoon with one eye on the sanctuary door wondering if I would see her wandering around. 

The program was wonderful.  We sang with enthusiasm and hopefully didn't miss many notes.  Pictures were taken, friends greeted, cookies tasted, and the event was over.  Hadleigh joined me after spending a happy hour playing under the supervision of an older child and we rushed off home.  She babbled happily from the backseat about the "really loud organ" and the prospect of seeing the new baby when we got home.

As I got within sight of the hill I spotted the vet's white truck parked in front of the barn.  "Oh, no!" I murmured, "The vet is here.  That's not a good thing."  A little voice piped up from the back seat, "It's OK, Jo-Jo.  He's really a nice man!"  "That's true'" I thought, "but you sure don't call even a nice vet on a Sunday afternoon unless it's bad!"  She jumped from the car and ran to the barn to see the new baby with me running behind hoping that it wouldn't be sad news.  Hubby scooped her up and told her to be quiet and we would go see the baby. 

We all crept into the barn and peeped over the stall at the tiny, black bundle laying on the hay.  Mama cow crooned a low moo-o-o and licked the little head.  "Sh-h-h!" Hadleigh cautioned me, "You have to be quiet!"  We crouched down and the little girl and the little heifer looked at each other.  Hubby and I looked at each other, a perfect ending.

It turned out that he had spotted the cow in labor on his way out to town.  Realizing that he needed to help her and he couldn't do it with a little one in tow, he came on to church and, surprise, left her in my (?) care.  Fortunately, one of the older kids was already staying in the nursery with a couple of other children.  If he hadn't gone back, we would have lost both cow and calf.  The calf had her head back over her shoulder, an impossible position for it to have been born.  The vet was able to reposition the calf and all ended well.

On a farm, nothing is ever simple. 

Even church concerts and sometimes calving.

My Mommy Certificate Has Expired

I think my Mommy Certificate has expired.

You know, that certificate they award you when your first child is born...the one that enables you to be two places at once, see out of the back of your head,  answer a hundred questions before coffee, arbitrate small wars over the last cookie and large wars over curfews, cheerfully read "Lightning Larry" for the four hundredth time,  all while rescuing the cat from becoming the new bath toy and your best saucepan from being used to fill the freshly dug pond in the flower bed. 

I think those certificates have a time limit on them.

Last week I got a call from my son.  "Mom", he queried,  "Can you do me a favor?"  "It depends on the favor." I reply.  (No dummy this mom...I've learned to hedge my answers!)  "Could you watch the kids. We're on the way to the hospital."  No hedging on that...that's what families do.  "Drop them off on the way and keep us informed!", I answered. 

My daughter-in-law had been suffering all week with a major reaction to some medication.  Miserable, she had toughed it out as long as she could.  In a few minutes, I was standing in the drive-way, surrounded by three little ones, waving as mommy and daddy  drove away. 

In a short while my son called and said they were sending her to the hospital in Lexington.  There a team of doctors would spend the next week getting the reaction under control. 

So, suddenly, I had three little ones to take care of and get to school and activities.  Thank goodness for cell phones.  First call. "Uh, what time does school start?" 

Usually you have a little time to work into this life.  All of a sudden we were back to juggling supper, homework, baths, bedtime, clothes, early wake ups and rushing off to school.  Then there were the football practices, games, and dance class. 

We got them to school on time every day.  They were clean, dressed and fed.

We were exhausted!

However, there were compensations.  The hill rang once again with the sounds of kick ball in the back yard  and children's voices as they helped feed the cattle.  Even the old farm bell was called back into service to round everyone up for bath time.  My favorite time was snuggling in bed with the smell of fresh washed children wafting over me, while we read bedtime stories.  Eye-lids drooping as we neared the end of the nightly "Lightning Larry" and "Mr. Putter gets a Cat", heads getting heavy and finally only quiet little sighs.  (Then the kids would go to sleep, too.)

The struggles were getting everyone fed, clothes washed, house picked up, errands run, kids collected, and extra-curricular activities squeezed in.  Getting organized enough to run a tight ship and keep everyone on schedule was a challenge for us.  Hubby found himself pitching in and running kids to school, supervising baths, and helping pick up.  The kids were great at telling us what we needed to do and where we needed to be. 

By the end of the week we had our routine down pat.  I was proud of us all --kids and grandparents alike!

Our daughter-in-law is home now, and doing much better.  The kids are sleeping in their own beds and we are back to occasional grandparent duties.  However, if I am honest, I'll have to admit that I enjoyed having them here.  I miss hearing them tearing up the sidewalk, yelling that they're hungry, after school.  I enjoyed having them doing homework in the kitchen while I started supper or playing outside the window while I cleaned up.  I even miss the water all over the bathroom after baths.

However, if I'm still being honest, I'll have to admit that it took me days to rest up.  I just don't move at that speed, all day, every day anymore. 

My Mommy Certificate has definitely expired.

The Iowa State Fair

My daughter has become a proponent of her adopted state, Iowa.  According to her, the people are friendlier, the sun hotter, the farm land richer,  the football better, and the winters longer.  She is pretty much right (although, I don't think they have a lock on all the friendly people) .  However, when she started in on how much better their state fair was than ours, I protested.  After all, in Kentucky, we have the largest climate controlled facility, under roof, maybe in all of the United States!

Then we went to the Iowa State Fair.

The granddaughters were showing for the first time at the fair, so naturally the grandparents had to attend.  The girls are showing miniature Herfords, their parents method of getting them hooked on showing cattle.  These gentle little creatures are the perfect introduction into cattle showing.  The girls, at seven and nine, were able to handle them with ease and fell into the routine of caring for them with enthusiasm.  It took a little getting used to for us old people, seeing these perfect cows in small sizes.  

Part of showing at a State Fair is that the animals are part of the fair experience for the people attending.  Therefore the cattle have to be on display in the barns for a certain number of days before and after the show.  That means we have time on our hands that we can use to explore the fair.

So, Hubby and I took it all in.

No wonder two movies and a long running stage production were based on it.

No wonder the New York Times best selling travel book, "1000 Places to See Before You Die" listed the Iowa State Fair as a must see.

No wonder the attendance is over one million people.

It was FUN!

It was an old fashioned county fair on steroids.

The fairgrounds cover 435 acres in Des Moines.  Established in 1878, the grounds are covered in trees, streets, sidewalks,  grass and shrubs.  It's rather more like a little town than a facility.  Adding to the small town feeling is the fact that 160 acres are set aside for 2300 camper sites.  Families move in for the entire two weeks and "vacation" at the fair.  These sites are rented for years in advance with families passing their sites down through generations.  The campers arrive and compete to "outdo" each other on their spots.  Decks, awnings, patios, even pools appear overnight.

The animals are stalled in wonderful, old brick buildings built in the early 1900's.  Exhibits, 4-H projects, agriculture displays, activities, and commercial booths were all housed in a variety of other buildings along tree lined streets.  Benches are placed invitingly in the shade of the trees.  Fairgoers wander from building to building in a seemingly endless parade.

Ask anyone what their favorite thing is at the fair and their answer will probably be "the food"!  My daughter had proclaimed that she was planning on eating her way through the food booths.  After wandering through the over 200+ food vendors, I began to see what she meant.   In Kentucky, we have the same basic vendors for all events with a few special "fair food" booths.  The fair foods tend toward how many calories you can put in each bite.  Think deep fried hamburgers on a doughnut. 

Now don't misunderstand, the Iowa food wasn't low calorie (although they did have a list of low calorie, healthy foods offered on their website.)  However, the emphasis was how delicious and representative of Iowa could you make it.  The highpoint of our list was the Pork Chop on a stick.  (Iowa is #1 in hog production)  This is a boneless chop, grilled to delectable tenderness, served on a stick so you can eat it like a popsicle.  Yum!  (In case you wondered, they serve 60 different items on a stick, ranging from caprese salad  to the delicious pork chop.)  You can grab a bucket of homemade cookies or a full sit down meal at one of the restaurant type booths.  Originally all the food at the fair was provided by local churches and you can still get breakfast, lunch and dinner at the Methodist Church booth.

We tried to taste it all.

Some favorites.  Hot Beef Sundae--mashed potatoes smothered in roast beef and gravy.  Smoked Ham sandwiches (and beef and lamb).  Macaroni and cheese with sweet, spiced barbeque on top.  Red velvet funnel cakes.  Gigantic sweet rolls.  I never could find the chocolate covered bacon on a stick!

Now if I could just button my jeans again!

The Country Auction

When Hubby bought into the insurance agency in 1977 he also became partners in the real-estate and auction company that was part of the business.  Those first few years were full of learning as we all became acquainted with the world of insurance and real estate.  From the first the whole family was enamored with the country auctions.  They were a family affair with the wives and children pitching in to help with the many jobs required to pull off a successful auction.

There aren't as many country auctions today as there were then.  In the early years, the entertainment on about any Saturday was attending a good auction.  Whether it was a farm and machinery auction, estate, or home and contents, people would pile in to see what bargains were to be found, listen to the auctioneer's patter, and visit with neighbors.  Anything and everything would fall under the auctioneers gavel.  You might buy a bucket of nails and bolts, a car, a hay baler, and a set of china all at the same event. 

We all loved helping.  Mostly Hubby and his partners would do the heavy stuff, like lining up the machinery, hauling the furniture out of the house to display in the yard, marking off parking places, placing the household goods and smaller farm items on big farm wagons, as well as, showing the property, advertising, and the thousand of other details.  Occasionally the wives would be called upon to help empty a house and prepare the household goods for display and sale. Mostly though, the kids and I usually only would help on the day of the auction. 

My job was to sit where I could see the crowd, close to the auctioneer,  and write down who bought what and for how much.  This is called "clerking" the sale, a job that became much easier when they started using numbers instead of everyone just calling out their name. I kept them all in stitches with my jumbled up names when I would try to catch what was said when they shouted out the buyers.  It made for more than a few embarrassing moments when they would settle up their bill and try to identify who had bought what.

 Hubby and some of the men would hold up items, if they were small, and take the bids as people nodded, raised a hand, or used other signals to indicate their bids.  The men would then give a shout, or wail, or squeal to indicate they "had" the bid.  Each one used a different sound so the auctioneer would know exactly who had seen the bid. In spite of stories of people bidding against themselves, this crazy system actually helped to prevent this very thing.

The kids would "run" the sheets.  That meant that they would take the list of items that had been sold and who had bought them to the "cashiers".  They in turn would separate the sheets and organize them so customers could quickly pay for their items.  The kids were then free to enjoy the auction until they were needed again.  Often this meant joining in the bidding.  Our son once got carried away and bid $2 on a big stack of water hoses.  He proudly brought them home and stretched them out.  Out of nearly 300 feet of hoses he managed to sort out enough, that didn't leak, to keep us in hoses for several years!

The whole day had a carnival atmosphere with excitement heavy in the air.  People would arrive early to view the items for sale and plan their strategies for acquiring their purchases.  Those interested in the farm or machinery would do some last minute checking and discuss their plans with one of the men. Neighbors and friends would visit and stake out a shady spot to wait for their items of interest to come up for bid.  Kids would roam in packs looking for friends.  Usually a local group would prepare lunch and soon the air would smell of hot dogs and hamburgers, while the crowd was tempted by an array of homemade cakes and cookies. 

The central character in all this hustle would be the auctioneer.  Like the ring-master in a circus his voice would boom out over the loudspeakers, extoling the crowd to "gather around" and "prepare to be amazed"! A good auctioneer had a line of patter much like a stand-up comedian.  He was constantly joking with the crowd, calling out to individuals, and encouraging them to "turn loose of some of that money...after all if you don't spend it your kids will when you're gone!" 

No one was safe from the auctioneer's eagle eye or joshing tongue.  If he spotted two women that were after the same quilt or piece of antique glassware, he would immediately try to start a good-natured bidding war.  "Mable, you can't let her get this prize for such a paltry sum.  You know you would spend twice as much if you bought it new.  Just raise her $5"  Mable would and he would immediately turn to the other lady. "Now, Susie, you aren't going to let her steal this unique piece for that amount.  If you raise her one more time, I'll bet ol' Albert will tell her she can't bid again and you'll have it."  The women would soon be laughing and getting into the spirit of the bidding, calling out "Albert can't tell me what to do!" or "I'm at least going to make her pay for it if she gets it!"  The crowd would laugh and cheer them on until finally, flushed with victory, one would reach out to claim her prize.

A good auction might last all day (or even longer on a few occasions) with the crowd settling in for a day of fun.  The auctioneer would continue to keep the items moving with the workers hustling around seeing that everything was seen and bid on.  Excitement would build as the bigger items sold with everyone straining to see who had purchased the farm, house or tractor.  Interest would peak as smaller items would reveal an especially nice pair of antique crystal candlesticks, a lovely old wedding ring quilt, or a rare treasure like a beautiful, portable wind-up record player in a lovely cherry cabinet.  Treasures would be acquired and some lost to a higher bid, but everyone would leave with a feeling of satisfaction after a day of high entertainment.

There is nothing like a farm auction for country fun.

                                                         * * * *

Rest in peace, Jim.  I'll bet you are auctioning off halos and harps in heaven and organizing an angel band.

The Tractor Snob

Our son has a beautiful blue merle Australian Shepherd (for you non-dog fanciers, she is grey, black and white...don't ask me where the term blue merle comes from!)  Our son hates leaving her at home alone while everyone is at school or work, so he brings her to the farm every day for me to "dog-sit".  So she is a farm dog during the day and kid guardian/house dog at night.

Ellie is a sweet dog, utterly devoted to her master and family.  In fact, she spends most of the day waiting by the old farm truck for our son to return to the farm. 

When she isn't waiting she chews up things--like my little 4th of July Flag.  Or she barks at the buzzards that fly over the yard--I swear just to tease her.  She also is one of those dogs that could get muddy sitting in the middle of a drought.  She delights in "herding" the cattle and is really a pretty good cow dog...if only we knew how to tell her what we wanted.  She loves to chase cats and rabbits but is dumfounded if she catches them.  Our son swears she was chasing a rabbit on one of the hot days until the rabbit just gave up and laid down.  Screeching to a halt by the panting bunny, she sat down and yipped encouragingly until he caught his breath and could get up.  Then she yipped one last time and trotted back to the truck.  What fun is a rabbit that won't run?  

She is our son's constant companion and rides with him wherever he goes.  As soon as the engine is started she jumps into the floorboard and gets ready for action.  She rides in his truck, the Polaris and the cab tractors.  The kids have even taught her to jump onto the saddle of the 4-wheeler and hang on behind whichever kid is using it.  If you are going, she is going too.

She has always ridden in the big cab tractors with our son.  They are roomy with lots of windows so she can look all around.  If something interesting appears, she whines at the door until they let her out to give chase.  Then she catches up to the tractor and they let her back in. 

Then our son decided to trade tractors.  The one he had been using was a little too big for his purpose and needed some repairs.  Rather than spend the money he decided to get a different tractor.  He found a used one, which, while perfect for his needs, is a bit smaller than the old tractor. 

The first chore for the new tractor was cutting and raking hay.  Now that Hubby is home, we usually have two tractors running as hard as they can go.  Ellie bounced out and climbed into our son's tractor and left for the hayfield.  The morning passed and the men returned to the house for lunch.  After lunch they returned to their perspective tractors to continue cutting hay.  Ellie looked at first one tractor than the other.  Then with a sheepish look, she followed Hubby to his bigger,  newer green tractor.  Son, shook his head, while Ellie rode off with Hubby for an afternoon of cutting.

That evening, as we sat on the porch, we were laughing over the dog switching tractors.  It seems that son's tractor was a little cramped for her and she decided to ride in the big tractor where she could stretch out. 

Son reached out and gently rubbed her head as it rested on his knee in apology.    "I kind of sympathize with the guy whose girl left him to ride in the fancy sports car.  I hate to admit it dog, but I guess you are just a tractor snob!"

He's Coming Home!

Life is getting ready to change on the farm.  Hubby is coming home...to stay.

After 38 years of owning and operating his Insurance and Real Estate firm he is passing it off to his younger partners and coming home.   It is truly the beginning of a whole new era. 

He's been talking about retiring for the past year or more.  The discussions have gradually become more serious and I began to think he just might be going to do it.  The kids and I discussed it and Hubby and I talked but nothing was ever decided.  Leaving a business that you have put your life into is not a small decision.

Thirty-eight years ago he made a leap of faith and decided to join a friend in his insurance agency.  That first year was a time of learning and falling in love.  Hubby discovered that insurance was the perfect blend of selling and business, both of which he excelled at.  He immersed himself into the world of insurance and found himself enjoying learning the clientele and all their various needs and problems.   I have often been amazed to hear him answering a call at home and being able to remember the policy and coverage to reassure an insured with a loss.  He loved going to the homes, farms or businesses and visiting with the people while they discussed their insurance needs.  It was satisfying to be able to help people when a loss occurred.  For him, the business was about helping others.

So, even talking about retiring was a big step.

 So after several months of talking, he announced that he was definitely going to retire on January 1.  The kids and I exchanged a glance and began making plans for our "Retirement Lottery" selections.  You see, none of us were really sure he was serious.  Let me tell you there were some serious bets being made on when he would actually "do the deed"!  We all lobbied for the date that was closest to our choices...all is fair in love, bets and retirements.  Hubby just smiled and went to work. 

January came and went and so did February.  I think the challenge of getting out each day and going to work in the snow kept him from leaving.  That and he could leave all the snow chores for our son to take care of!

Then he announced that he would be retiring on April 1.  Out came the calendars as everyone checked their dates to see who would win the lottery.  April came with green fields and blooming trees and Hubby kept going over the hill and into town each day.  After a little head-shaking bets were crossed off and new ones added.  The family started having serious discussions on whether or not he actually would retire. 

The next date he announced was June 1.  "This one is the real date!" he proclaimed.  "I want to be off in June so I can get my hay up without stressing."  I thought that one might actually be accurate since I knew the anxiety of trying to catch the right number of sunny days when you were only off Wednesday afternoon and Saturday afternoon.  In a perfect world you would cut on Wednesday and bale on Saturday or cut on Saturday and bale on Wednesday.  I can tell you that it is a rare year when it works out like that.  So my money was on June....until June was marching on.

So when he announced that he was going to retire, for sure, on July 1, we all just looked at him and replied, sarcastically, "Sure you will!" (By then we had all lost our bets!)

Well he did.

Today is officially his last day of work.  Tomorrow I will have company on the farm.  I will no longer be the one in charge.  I will no longer be able to plan my day with no interruptions.  (I will no longer be able to sneak in an afternoon of book reading without anyone knowing!)  I will have company and maybe even a little help with my chores. 

It's the beginning of a whole new era for us.   Part of me is excited to begin this new adventure.  The other part of me  wonders if I shouldn't start looking for a job as a Wal-Mart greeter.  The hill may be too small for both of us.

Sisters

I have always envied people who came from big families.  It seems like they always have so much fun at their huge get-togethers involving spouses, cousins, in-laws and out-laws.  The best part of big families is that there always seems to be one sibling that is also a best friend.  It's not just the fact that they are related and love each other, but they are also the confidant that shares your late night confessions and holds your deepest secrets. 

I have one sister.  That's it. 

Not only do we only have each other but we are about as opposite as two people can get.  I love her dearly.  I would do anything for her.  I will probably never really understand her. 

To begin with she is five years older than I am.  That's no big deal now but when I was 2 and she was 7, or when I was 8 and she was 13, it was a big deal.  Then add to that the fact that we are so totally different both physically and emotionally that if she hadn't looked so much like my dad and I looked like my mom, the small town minds would have had a hay-day with our differences. Trust me, if you put 100 people in a room and tried to pick out my sister, you would pick 99 others before you picked her.  We are really different.

As a child, she had auburn hair that curled perfectly around a redhead's fair skin and freckled face.  She grew to five feet nothing tall and weighed a whopping 89 pounds in high school.  Dainty and petite, she was born persnickety.  From an early age everything had to be neat, organized and controlled.  Her dolls would be kept in untouched condition, arranged by size, on her shelves.  Her entire room was always immaculately neat with every item in it's appointed place.   I swear she could make her bed in 2 seconds because she even slept neatly.  I gave up trying to sneak into her room early on because I knew she could tell if I even walked on the rug!   She never appeared anything but totally together--blouses tucked in, belt fastened, socks folded neatly at her ankles and shoes clean.

I, on the other hand, was none of these things.  I appeared at an impressive 8 lbs. 8 oz. with a robust appetite for everything!  I had stick straight, brownish blond hair and I outgrew her before I was 10 years old.  From an early age I was attracted to anything that created a mess and dirt!  I could be found happily making mud pies (yes, kids really did do that!), grubbing out miniature ponds for my dirt farms, digging worms for fishing, hunting nightcrawlers, climbing trees, chasing dogs, catching insects, wading in puddles and sliding into home base. My preferred toys were guns, bows and arrows (for playing cowboy and Indians) and a baseball glove.  Any dolls I had were quickly reduced to disgrace by my penchant for dragging them with me as I galloped off on my stick horse.  My clothes were generally, ripped and torn, grass stained and disheveled. As far as I was concerned, socks and shoes were optional and I usually opted not to wear them.

My sister preferred staying inside and doing quieter and cleaner activities.  She probably spent a lot of time fantasizing about having a normal sister.

My mother, bless her soul, tried to teach both of us to enjoy the things she prized.  As an avid needlewoman she spent hours teaching us to knit, crochet, embroider, needlepoint, and sew.  My sister's efforts were neat, meticulous, and lovely, turning out perfect needlepoint chair cushions, crochet scarves, and embroidered samplers.  Mine were wrinkled, stained, misshapen, wobbly, and usually unrecognizable as any useful object.  (She still does the most beautiful crochet afghans and perfect needlepoint, but I can identify nine trees by their leaves and build a fire with one match!)

My mother considered me a lost cause and turned me over to my father to raise. 

I always think of my sister as Melanie in Gone With the Wind. Meek and mild, always doing what is expected of her.  Quietly letting others take the lead and carry the load, but coming through with an unconquerable  strength when the chips are down.

She probably would think of me as Calamity Jane.

The Parking Pass

We are dedicated fans of the University of Kentucky.  We have never had basketball tickets but have managed to have season tickets for the football program for the past 40 years.  For those of you who might not realize it, getting season basketball tickets at UK involves either lots of money, someone dying and willing them to you, or a little larceny.  Season football tickets are much easier to obtain.  Mostly because you won't see our football teams as regular prime time features on ESPN. There have been times, I swear, that they should have paid us to attend!  However, we are and will continue to be steadfast football fans.

Sometimes the best part of the football games takes place in the parking lots.  We have been tailgating with the same friends since before our children were born.  We faithfully fed all the kids and their friends mountains of food before games while they were in college.  Now it is payback time and the kids are packing the food and feeding us. (We moms still manage to contribute a dish or two.)

The party starts several hours before game time with the adults nibbling and the grandkids tossing footballs.  For the past several years we have parked in a grassy lot, under a shade tree.  Unfortunately, a renovation of the stadium, new roads, and building expansions have caused all the parking to be rearranged.  The news came on Wednesday.  We were all separated into various lots all over campus.  Panic reared it's ugly head.

"What do you mean, we're in the White-Green lot!  Call up there and tell them we want back in Purple or else!!!"  Hubby demanded in frustration. 

So I called the number provided, fully expecting to be on hold for an hour or two.  Surprisingly, my call was answered by a very polite girl.  I explained my problem and she very sweetly promised to do whatever she could to see that our group was reunited but it probably wouldn't be in our old lot since it had mostly been eliminated.  I in turn, unloaded on her all the frustration and anxiety that Hubby had unloaded on me.  "I know we don't donate tons of money to UK, but you would think that 40 years of sitting in the rain and snow for losing teams would count for something!"  I sputtered.  In all fairness, they weren't always losing teams and we've had a ton of fun attending the games.  She responded kindly, "You are right and we will see what we can do about getting you moved to a lot that will suit you."  After a few minutes more she had my pertinent information and I had released all my venting.  Then she paused, "That's the other line calling and it's the ticket office.  I really need to take this call.  I'll call you back."

We disconnected and I thought, sarcastically, "Sure, you'll call me back!" I was pretty sure I had been dumped and that was the end of things.

An hour or so later the phone rings.  A cheerful voice announced, "I've been doing some looking around and I have a suggestion that might suit your group.   I think you might like a new lot we've opened in the Arboretum.  It's really beautiful, grassy and shady, and you'll be right next to where your old lot was.  I can move you and your friends there it you want."  She went on to explain that they were trying to take requests from people wanting to move out of a lot and match it with people wanting to move into that lot.  Sort of like a huge puzzle.  Out of the thousands of ticket holders there were a bunch of people confused and frustrated just like us, so that's a lot of juggling of requests.

Throughout all of this she remained calm, sympathetic, cheerful and helpful.  I suspect the office must be supplying tranquilizers in a dispenser by the water cooler.   Either way, she deserves a raise!  Heck, she deserves a commendation.

 Instead, I invited her to join us at the next tailgate party!

Zero-Turn Fun

Hubby recently had an errand in a neighboring county.  He asked if I wanted to "ride along".  "Ride alongs" are about my favorite thing.  It gives us a chance to catch up and I get to see some of the pretty views outside of other people's kitchen windows.  We were chatting and enjoying the sights when I suddenly exclaimed, "Wow!  I sure don't want to live there!"  Perplexed, Hubby obligingly looked at the lovely home surrounded by a large perfectly manicured yard.  "Why not?" he inquired, intrigued to discover my reasoning (or lack of it). 

"Look at that yard!"  I demanded.

 "OK", he replied, looking closely at the yard, mowed to perfection in a lovely plaid pattern.  "What's the problem?" 

"I would be a complete basket case trying to keep it mowed in those meticulous straight lines crossing at perfect angles where everyone can see it!",  I declared.  "Thank goodness a straight line is an impossibility in our yard!"

You see, I am the yard mower.  I'm not particularly good at it but I would sure rather mow a yard than a hay field.  So, my job is the yard.  When we first moved to the farm we had an old tractor style riding mower.  I hated it!  I was constantly running over flowers, toys, and even small trees because I just couldn't think fast enough to slow down before I ground them up.  All my flower beds were designed so I could mow in a gradual sweep around them to keep from chopping up all the landscaping or having to stop and back up.  I hung that mower under our plank fence on a regular basis because I wouldn't get stopped in time to keep from sliding under it.  In short I was a hazard.

So to preserve my flowers, provide peace and keep me mowing, Hubby bought me my first zero-turn mower.  It was lovely to handle, responding with a touch, easing around trees, creeping around flowers, speeding up or slowing down with a simple change in pressure.  Peace was restored.

The thing about zero-turn mowers is that you use two levers to control your speed, and direction.  Pushed together they go forward, pulled back together they go backward, push one hand or the other forward or back to make turns.  It took a little practice, but soon I was scooting around the yard with glee.  The only problem is that you have to keep both hands on the levers at all times.

Our first mower came equipped with two nice cup holders.  I spent the whole summer trying to figure out how anyone could take a drink without mowing in circles. (I never got up enough nerve to try it.)  Because I have a hard time with this concept,  I am constantly mowing in swerves and swoops.  A bug annoys me and I forget and swat at it...opps swerve to the left.  My sun visor needs adjusting....opps, swerve to the right.  A limb needs to be held aside...disaster!  So, my mowing, while it gets the job done, is not picture perfect.

Fortunately, there are so many bushes, trees, flower beds, buildings, and other impediments in our yard that mowing in anything other than circles, curves, sections, and strips is impossible.  It's also fortunate that since we are on a hill, to see my pattern you would have to fly over us.  So I just swoop, curve, zig and zag happily around all the obstacles with no concern over creating a lovely plaid in my yard. 

Although, I think I might be creating a nice paisley.

The Truck Butting Cow

I am married to a farmer who is also an insurance agent in a rural community.  Sometimes the insurance companies, that he represents, have trouble understanding some of the claims they receive.  I can understand this,  they are located in cities. 

A prime example of this came a few years ago when a farmer came into the office to report a loss.  It seemed he needed a new door on his pick-up truck.  Hubby filled out the papers while chatting with the farmer about "farm stuff"....you know, hay, weather, cows, weather, fencing, weather...you get the drift.  "Now," he says, "How did this accident occur?"  "It wasn't an accident", the farmer declared, "she did it on purpose!"  A little taken aback, Hubby frowned and asked, "Who hit your truck on purpose?"  "That old cow!" replied the farmer with some frustration.  "Ummm, who is an old cow?" Hubby queried in some confusion.  "Not a who" he replied, "an old cow!  Probably the best cow I've got!"

It seems that he had taken his truck to the field to check his cows and while he was driving around one of his cows had suddenly charged the truck, butting into the passenger door.  Not satisfied with that she did it again and then again, before wandering off in disgust.  The result was a badly dented door and a confused farmer.  He confessed that he didn't know why she had attacked the truck, but since she had raised a dandy calf he was willing to forgive her.

The door was duly paid for and repaired and the story chuckled over and forgotten.

Then a few weeks later the same farmer returned to the office to report the loss of another door on his pick-up truck.  It seems that he had again taken the truck to the field to check on his cows.  Again the cow with the dandy calf had charged the truck, repeatedly.  The result was the same, a badly dented door that needed to be repaired.  "Why is she doing this?"  Hubby questioned.  Shaking his head, the farmer replied, "I don't have a clue, but she sure has a thing for my poor old truck."  "Well,"  hubby advised, "You might consider checking your cows from the tractor for a while until you figure her out!"

A few weeks passed and the farmer again showed up in the office.  "Now don't tell me you need another door!"  Hubby exclaimed to the farmer.  "Nope", he replied, "but I've figured that old bitch out!"

"I've spent the last few weeks watching that old cow.  Every chance I'd get I would go to the field and just sit and watch her.  I got to know her really well.  She's a good mama and what I call an 'easy keeper'.  She feeds her baby good but doesn't lose weight like a lot of good mama cows do.  Then, after a while of watching her I began to see why she was keeping her weight up so well."

"What did you discover?", asked Hubby with interest.

The farmer replied, "I had put her in a field with a lot of cows with newly weaned calves.  So to give the calves a little extra while they are learning to eat on their own, I keep a creep feeder in the field. (For you non-farmers this is a metal bin with a corral around it that lets the little calves "creep" under the bars for feed but keeps the bigger cows out.)  I got to watching that old cow and I noticed that she attacked that creep feeder just like she did my truck.   So I decided to investigate."

"I took a good look at the creep feeder, which was an old one I had used several years. After poking around I discovered that there was a weak seam on the back corner.  She had figured out that if she butted that back side, the seam would open a little and a trickle of feed would flow out.  She would then enjoy her snack."

"Watching her butt that creep feeder, I thought back to when she had attacked my truck.  At that time I had her in a field with pregnant cows, which meant no creep feeder.  When she saw my truck door she evidently thought it was a strange creep feeder and so she attacked it to get her feed 'fix'!"

By now both Hubby and the farmer were laughing over the antics of the crazy cow.

"I just wanted you to know that I would be checking cows from my tractor from now on so you won't have to replace that door again!"

By now the entire office was laughing about the truck butting cow.

You just don't get claims like this in the city. 

The Farmer's Bible Verse

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2

"There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot."
                                                 * * * * * *

Farming has been going on as long as there have been people to feed.  The writer of the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes obviously knew his farming and farmers.  Spring is definitely the season for "every activity under heaven". 

On a farm everything generally happens at once.  All of a sudden, after a winter of planning, repairing, dreaming, and preparing for it,  the time arrives to begin the spring activities.  Tobacco ground has been plowed and prepared, the hay is ripe and thick, the alfalfa is ready to be reseeded, a bag of soybeans need to be sown to enrich a field, fertilizer needs to be applied, weed control needs to be sprayed, cattle need to be worked, and bulls already sold need to be delivered. 

And that was just the plans for Memorial Day Weekend.

Sometimes I think farmers have their clocks wound just a little too tight.

Saturday morning found everyone but the four-year old little girl checking their list of chores for the day.  Even the little boys had their assignments.  (Although by mid-afternoon they had wandered off to the creek to set the minnow trap.)  The setter was ready, the hands hired for the day had arrived and Hubby and Son were in high gear!  Our son was in charge of the tobacco patch and drove the tractor for the setter.  Hubby was in the other tractor ready to sow seed.  I was manning command central and keeping an eye out for any last minute errands.  Our daughter-in-law was in charge of getting lunch picked up and delivered. 

For once everything went off like clockwork.  The weather was perfect and nothing broke down.  The men had decided to put off cutting the hay crop until after the tobacco was set.  We have done both in the same week-end before but it is a nightmare.  Especially, since our Son is the operator of the big, round hay baler, which means he needs to be in two places at once.  A bit stressful, to say the least.

When the last tobacco plant was in the ground, the seeds sown, the bulls delivered and chores done for the night, Hubby sits down and checks the evening weather report.  With a moan he mumbles, "No! No!"  Leaning over his shoulder, I see the 10 day forecast on his computer....rain, rain, showers, showers, rain....for the next 10 days! 

Sadly, he looks out at his hay crop, which is picture perfect.  Hay needs three days of good weather to cut, cure and bale.  With each day of rain, his hay will be a little more mature and little less nutritious.  He had hoped for a few more days of good weather. but it was not to be. 

I gave him a hug and murmured, "You did what you had to do and there is nothing you can do to change things.  Maybe the weather will change instead." 

Yep, that guy that wrote Ecclesiastes knew what he was talking about when he went on to write in verses 4-5: "A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain."

With farming the time from laughter and dancing to weeping and mourning can sometimes be counted in hours.  However, things usually manage to work out in the end.  Ecclesiastes 3-13: "That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil--this is the gift of God."

This Old "New" House

When we bought our farm we were delighted with the location, just a few miles from town where Hubby worked and the kids went to school.  We were thrilled with the road frontage and the sturdy barns.  The lush pastures and gently rolling fields were pleasing to the eye.  However, the old farm house was just that...an old farm house.  Like many farm houses, it had served its purpose over the years...lending shelter and comfort to hard working families.  Also, like many old farms, the money for major improvements had been spent on barns, fences, fertilizer, seed, and equipment.  Farm needs always taking precedence before house needs.

That first day, after Hubby had bought the farm, I stood on the hill looking out over the sensational view.  Then I turned to the house and sighed.  It was spacious and it did have my mother's farm requirements -- electricity and running water!  But it lacked in the touches to make it welcoming.  We had trees but no landscaping to soften the approach to the bare back door (all farm houses use the back door!)  The kitchen (the heart of any home) was one wall of mismatched cabinets and pine subflooring whose splinters taught us quickly to wear shoes inside!!  However, sweeping was easy.  There were so many gaps between the boards that you just swept across and let the dirt fall through to the cellar.

It had one bath which was located out of the kitchen.  This resulted in many funny (and sometimes not so funny) incidents over the years.  If you plan to avail yourself of the facilities in our house, come equipped with a sense of humor!  Our bedroom also opened into the kitchen, which is handy for quick snacks but rough on sleeping through teenagers playing cards on the kitchen table.

The entire house was a hodge-podge of additions, renovations, updates and make-do's from the families that had lived there over the years.  We learned from a former resident that the house itself was built out of part of the original house that had been partially destroyed by a tornado.  They just used the remaining walls left standing and built around them. Which explained why you might have three different types of walls in one room and not a square wall in the house!

While I was standing there that first day, thinking slightly depressing thoughts, Hubby walked up behind me and draped an arm over my shoulders.  Hugging me, he murmured apologetically, "I know it's not the house you've always wanted."  I nodded, wordlessly.  "However," he continued, "if you'll just live here for five years I'll build you a new one.  I promise!"

Little did either one of us know that it would take nearly 30 years and we would build that "new" house one renovation after another.  We have just finished the last room from the original old house.  A leak after the snow and ice of this winter started a round of repairs that ended with a new ceiling and new hardwood floors in the dining room, newly refinished hardwood floors in the kitchen and den (new during the remodeling fifteen years ago) and a fresh coat of paint on the three rooms. 

With this round we have finally rebuilt every room of the old house.  Each room was like an archeological dig, discovering artifacts along the way.  Like the crumpled up 1950 newspapers used to insulate the bathroom walls, or the 14" baseboards that extended 8" below the floor in the upstairs bedroom.  Like finding that the hall walls were held together with strips of masking tape over cracks in the old plaster and lathe walls. We've replaced windows, insulated, roofed, stripped paper, papered, put down floors, replaced the siding,  even replaced a wall in the cellar.  We've added rooms, a porch ( then used part of that porch for another room), landscaped, planted and pruned, and loved every inch of the old homestead. 

In return, the old house has seen us through children, grandchildren, celebrations, mourning, heartache and happiness.  We have shared its space and shade with friends, family, and, occasionally, passing strangers.  It has sheltered us through times of laughter and tears, sickness and health.

The old farmhouse is no longer something to be endured but rather a beloved home.

Hubby always keeps his promises....

Eventually....

Sort of.

Stranded!

Hubby and I grew up in a much less technologically advanced age.  Televisions were in the living room, telephones were on the wall, usually in the kitchen, and you were "called" to dinner when someone yelled for you.  On the farm we had a big, black bell that was rung to signal everyone to come to the house.  If it was noon, it meant dinner was ready and if you wanted to eat, high-tail it home.  If it rang at any other time it meant you were needed at the house.  Rapid pealing of the old bell meant put the tractor in high gear, it was an emergency. 

Now the old bell sags on its pole, covered in the summer with a high climbing clematis.  Communication now is by texts and cell phones. 

It took me years to get Hubby to carry his cell phone with him on the farm.  He just didn't want to be bothered.  He enjoyed the peace and quiet (if you can call riding a tractor quiet) and didn't want to be disturbed.  Over and over I nagged him to carry his phone.  "You never know when something will happen and you'll need it!"  "What if I need to get in touch with you!"  "I'm too old to go tramping to the back of the farm to drag you to the house when someone wants to buy a bull!"  He would reluctantly agree and would carry it for a few days.  Then he would forget, or decide it got in the way, or leave it in the barn.  Then I was back to flapping a towel from the yard and worrying.  You do that a lot if you are a farm wife. 

Then came the day that changed things.

Hubby had decided that the barn roof needing some of the metal nailed back down after a windstorm.  He carefully gathered his materials...hammer, nails, bucket (to carry things in) and the long extension ladder to reach the roof.  It was a pretty, sunny spring day and before long he was happily nailing down loose pieces of roofing.  There was a nice breeze and that made the temperature perfect for the job.  What I call "hot fudge sundae days"  warm and cool together. 

About mid-way through the job there was a sharp gust of wind followed by a metallic thumping sound.  Filled with a feeling of foreboding, Hubby inched over to the edge of the roof and saw his fears confirmed.  There, about fourteen feet down, on the ground lay his ladder.  From his lofty vantage point he looked over his kingdom to see who he could call to for help.  Then he remembered that I had gone to town for an appointment.  That was all right, he would just finish up his job and wait for someone to come along.

The afternoon wore on and the job was completed.  Still no one was home.  He stood on the roof and waved to signal his predicament to passing cars on the road that runs on the other side of the front field.  The first car cheerfully tooted a response and sped on.  The next one gave a big wave out the window as they passed by. As other cars passed, he got waves, toots and occasionally a shouted greeting.  None of them ever sensing his growing distress. Once, he even saw his neighbor pull into the drive, but his shouts were carried away on the wind and the barn was out of sight.  The neighbor, upon finding no one around, drove back down the drive without realizing Hubby was yelling frantically from the barn on the other side of the house.

In the meantime, I arrived home and went into the house to put up the groceries.  Again, his shouts were blown away by the wind and didn't make it to the house.  After a while, I did what farm wives all over the world do.  I walked out to the yard to see if I could hear the tractor running.  That's how we tell if everything is still o.k.  We listen and look and worry.  "Up here!!"  "I'm UP HERE!"  In confusion I walked around the house looking up...yep, there he was.  Sitting on the roof, looking very tired, frustrated and hot.  "Get the LADDER!!"  Looking around, I spotted it lying on the ground.  Realizing his dilemma, I soon had it hoisted up where he could reach it. 

Grinning, I taunted him as he climbed wearily down, "If you'd had your cell phone you could have called for help."

With a glare in my direction, he stomped into the house. 

However, he carries his cell phone now....most of the time.

Depot Street

When I was three, my dad sold our farm and moved us to town, to the never ending delight of my mother.  She vowed she would not return to the farm until she could have all the conveniences of town--namely running water and electricity!  My dad rented a building a block off main street and two blocks from the train depot and opened a new and used furniture store.  The new furniture, appliances, and woodstoves were on the first floor with the used furniture displayed in the upstairs.

This big old building, rumored to have been a livery stable in a former life, became my home away from home.

By the time I was eight I could walk to the Furniture Store from my house, especially if I cut across the back yards and through the black neighborhood that backed up to the train tracks.  Everyone soon knew who I was and I would be greeted with messages like "You tell your dad I'll be in this afternoon to make a payment on that couch.", "Tell Mr. Morris that I appreciate him delivering that refrigerator."  Sometimes reprimands were included, such as: "You need to quit cutting through Miss Elizabeth's back yard.  She's scared you're gonna tromp on her roses!"  Or, "Girl, it's too cold out for those shorts.  You need to get some long pants on."  (Dressing myself was not my strong suit--appropriate dress for me was whatever I liked.)

I loved the street where Daddy had his store.  Depot street ran from Main Street to, naturally, the train depot.  Trains still arrived at the old station, mostly freight trains, but a few passengers would get on or off.  When a train arrived the street would hum with activity as people went to the station to pick up relatives or loads of freight.

Down from the depot, the first store I would pass on my trek to town, was the hatchery.  (There were other stores, but they weren't interesting to me.)  I could never pass the hatchery without going in to see the new baby chicks.  There were stacks of wire racks with eggs in a heated room where the baby chicks would peck their way into the world.  Then the chicks were moved to the front in stacks of cages.  I could stand for hours peering at the tiny, fuzzy babies and listening to the continuous den of cheeping.  The hatchery supplied the surrounding farms with new chickens for eggs and Sunday dinners.  I was constantly scrounging odd jobs to earn money so I could go buy chicks at 25 cents apiece.  Daddy would rig up a cardboard box and a light bulb for heat and for a while I would be in the chicken business. 

A little further down I would come to the little restaurant owned by the gregarious Italian couple, Mary and Phillip.  A quick detour inside would usually get me a fresh biscuit or a cookie.  With Mary's melodious accent making every comment an adventure, I would chat about my day.  Soon she would send me on my way with a message of "Tell your daddy we're having Swiss steak for lunch.  I'll save him some."

Directly across the street from daddy's store was a building that housed the funeral home that catered to the black community.  The upstairs portion was where the owners lived while downstairs was the funeral home.  The Adams' were a lovely couple with two children just a little older than me.  Their front porch was always overflowing with beautiful flowers and friendly greetings.  I would occasionally play hopscotch or jacks with their daughter, but frankly she was too "girly" for me.  I would usually be in dirty shorts and a blouse while she was always perfect in a dress and hair bows.  I think her mother always wanted to take me in and clean me up! 

Just down the street from Daddy's store was the local pool hall.  A few years later Daddy would actually buy the business as a place for my Grandfather to operate as an escape from my Grandmother, however at the time it was a source of total fascination to me.  Since no women were allowed to enter I could only imagine the adventures that took place inside.  However, it wasn't long before I had made friends with all the teen-aged boys and young men that hung out there.  I spent many hours sitting on the stoop out front learning how to whittle, whistle through my teeth, arm wrestle, and spit.  Skills every little girl should learn. 

Daddy befriended many of these boys over the years loaning them money, helping them furnish apartments when they married, giving them jobs, listening to their problems and, often, helping them solve them.  They, in return, became the fierce protectors of his little girl. I was included on many adventures from night crawler hunting to fishing trips, because they were there to watch out for me.

Only a few more steps and you'll be on Main Street and the more respectable part of town.  For me, it didn't begin to compare to the delights of Depot Street.

The Dairy Show

Hubby and I were talking about old times the other day when he suddenly announced that he was going home.  "Home" being the county that we both grew up in.  He wanted to visit with the man who had farmed with him from the time he was just a kid.  We are all getting older and he hadn't seen Tee for years. 

Hubby's father had worked off the farm, leaving much of the farming to be done by his three boys and his hired hand.  Tee had been helper, conspirator, companion, teacher, and friend to the boys as they grew up.  Lots of life lessons were learned  from his wit and wisdom.  Some were serious, some educational, some useful, some just downright hilarious. 

During this time the boys showed a string of Ayrshire cattle at county fairs around the area.  Since most of the dairy shows were during the week, Tee was the method for getting the boys to the shows and supplying supervision.  Later, when I came on the scene, many of our "dates" consisted of going to county fairs to show cattle.  Hubby's mom would provide a picnic lunch of fried chicken, homemade bread and butter sandwiches, homemade pickles, potato salad or canned peaches, and gallons of sweet tea.  The guys would load the show string into the back of the two-ton stake truck and we would all pile into the front seat.  By that time, Hubby was the driver, Tee rode "shot-gun" and I straddled the stick shift in the center.

Upon arriving at the fair, the guys would take care of getting the cattle ready for the show, while my job was "fixing" lunch (spreading out what Hubby's mom had packed). I was a true "townie" and was fascinated with the world of showing cattle (and the one showing the cattle).  It was a new adventure for me as I had grown up in town and had limited experience with farm life.  Tee and Hubby worked as a practiced team with Hubby showing the cows and Tee getting them to the ring.  They had a good string of cattle and there were usually some blue and purple ribbons to bring home. 

On one particularly good day, the class for Grand Champion had three Campbell Ayrshires in the ring as previous winners of their divisions.  Hubby was showing a young cow, they thought would be the winner.  Tee was leading the second cow but they didn't have anyone to show the third.  Hubby looked at me and I started backing up.  "ME?  Lead that cow?  No, I don't know how.  Get someone else."  Soon I stood at the entrance to the ring holding the lead on a beautiful red and white cow.  "I don't know what to do!" I wailed in a quavering voice.  Tee turned to me with a grin,  "Missy, that cow's been in the show ring all her life.  She knows exactly what to do.  All you gotta do is hang on to the halter and let her do her thing!"  With that I became a dairy showman...at least for a few minutes.

Hubby did win Grand Champion.  I did get around the ring without getting stepped on.  Tee chuckled and shook his head the whole time.  "Girl, you're gonna be all right!" he pronounced as we exited the ring.

With Tee's approval I knew I was accepted.  The rest, as they say, is history.

Tagging Time

Spring has sprung and little black calves are popping up on the farm.

For years we calved in the cold months of January and February.  Calving season meant snow, cold, freezing mud, and occasionally frostbite.  This resulted in calves being carried through the snow to the barn, scrubbed free of mud, fed warm bottles of electrolytes, and sometimes even warmed in the utility room.  It didn't always happen this way but as we got older it seemed like it did.  Gradually we moved the calving time to March and April.  It certainly seemed sensible to me.  It didn't solve all the problems but at least you had a shot at better weather.

So now we've got new babies arriving.

With each new arrival Hubby and Son hurry to the field to record the important information.  Which mama, sex of baby, date of birth, and approximate weight.  Then they are tagged with a white tag with their number written on it. The tag is important because it helps to identify the calf (black Angus calves all look alike!) and also helps them keep up with their health information. This tag is punched through their ear, much like getting your ears pierced.  Not terribly painful but likely to get a bleat of surprise from the baby.  That bleat is the cause of lots of trouble. 

One of the best characteristics of our beloved Angus cattle is their mothering instinct.  They are great mamas.  That also means that when that baby is new they are super protective.  They don't like anyone or anything bothering their baby!  Fortunately, like most good mothers, as time goes by they will stand back and let their youngsters learn on their own.  However, at first, it is wise to keep one eye on mama.

The dilemma is how to tag the calf without mama coming unglued.

Hubby and Son have developed an amazing "tag" team approach.  They approach the new arrival in the sturdy Polaris ranger, which is our modern equivalent to a cutting horse.  Easing up to the baby, Son jumps out and grabs the baby, tagging tool in hand. while Hubby wheels the ranger around between the cow and the struggling calf.  Turning, wheeling, twisting, he continues to head the cow off while Son quickly finishes his task and jumps back in the ranger. 

This worked pretty well until the rains turned the fields into swamps of mud. This time with every pivoting turn and jumping start the wheels of the ranger sprayed a swath of gooey mud.  Hubby, intent on his task of keeping the cow blocked off, came to a stop upon hearing a muffled shout.  Turning back, expecting to find Son finished and ready to leap into the ranger, he was surprised to see two mud covered objects rolling on the ground. Son is frantically shouting, "Stop!  Stop!"  His efforts had covered both Son and calf in a layer of slick mud.  The tagging process had now turned into a "greased" calf wrestling match.  Son jumped for the ranger and announced that a new approach was needed.

The next idea was that they would take a feed sack and Hubby would wave the sack from the ranger and distract the cow into attacking the sack.  While she was occupied chasing the sack and ranger, Son would grab the calf.  This worked fairly well, with only a few close calls resulting in frantic leaps and wild yells when mama realized that the sack wasn't the one after her baby.

So the day came when Son decided he needed to tag a new calf and Hubby wasn't available.  He decided to use the feed sack distraction.  He would wave the sack and get the cow away from the calf, then when she was good and focused (mad) he would toss the sack, run to the calf, tag it and jump in the ranger.  The plan worked up to a point.  The cow was distracted, the sack thrown, cow attacked sack, Son grabbed calf, calf bleats, Son tags.  So far so good.  Son releases the bleating calf and runs for the ranger, arriving there about the same time as the cow.  She is not pleased.  Son slides in the passenger side and the cow follows.  He waves his arm.  She tosses her head and keeps coming.  He flaps his hat and she lowers her head and charges another few feet.  Now she has her head in the ranger and fire in her eye.

"OK Cow!!"  he yells, "If you want to drive, have at it!!"  With that he slid off the other side of the seat and into the ever present mud.  Nodding in satisfaction, that another human has been properly put in his place, the cow backs up and ambles off.

Scraping the mud from his jeans, Son slides back into the ranger seat, all the while muttering what about what cuts of steak he'd like to see that cow in.   

And we're having more calves every day.  Life sure is fun on the farm.