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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Monday, June 22, 2015
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.
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.
Friday, June 19, 2015
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!
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!
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
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.
"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.
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