After a wet spring, we have had a hot and mostly dry summer. The occasional "pop-up" showers have given random amounts of rain, but it's been so hot that they often don't help much. Today we are having a real, rainy day. The rain started this morning early. Since hubby had an early meeting today that would last through lunch, he thoughtfully left me in bed. There is something about a rainy day that just makes me want to "cocoon" and do nothing. I gave myself a stern lecture during breakfast to get me going to the gym for my morning workout. I need to work on my lecture technique. It didn't work on me any better than it did on the kids. Before I knew it I was curled up on the couch, deep in a good book.
I don't know what it is about a quiet house with rain gently hitting the roof that makes me feel that tomorrow won't come. I just feel like I am in a vacuum and that the moment will go on forever. No rush, just turn the pages (or in my lazy case just hit the button on my Kindle). Why is it that the much needed quiet time to do work on a report due at an August board meeting, a stack of last week's ironing, way overdue housework, thank you notes to thoughtful friends after my mother-in-law's funeral,just seems to drift away. I know I need to work but I just keep putting everything off.
Whatever the reason, today is a perfect rainy day. I'll hurry like crazy tomorrow but for today, I'm living like I have nothing but time. In this wild, rushed world where every minute is a deadline, that's a pretty wonderful feeling. Got to go, it's time to turn a page.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Running Away
My hubby and I ran away on Saturday.
When you live on a farm you can't just take a day off. It doesn't work. There is always something that needs to be done that gets in the way of drifting off for a nap in the hammock. Frankly, I'm not sure why farmers have things like hammocks, porch swings and lovely porch furniture. We never seem to have time to sit and just "chill" as the kids say. Especailly if you are married to a "part-time" farmer that has to squeeze in all his farming after a full days work. However, sometimes you just have to run off. Saturday was one of those days.
We left about noon and traveled the back roads. I love to do this and hubby usually doesn't, but he needed some pictures of some farm buildings he was insuring a couple of counties over, so back roads it was. It was a beautiful July day in Kentucky. If you haven't been there I probably can't describe how beautiful it is. We passed lovely farm houses in lush, green velvet lawns, shaded by trees that seemed to be embracing the houses. The corn is head high and thanks to some recent rains, green and dense. Corn always seems to be moving. It is as if you can see it growing and straining up to the sun. The roadsides looked like flower beds. Orange Black-eye susans, white daisies, the blue of wild phlox and chickory, the pink of wild roses,red trumpet vine and lots of white queen Ann's lace to fill in. The fields were lush and filled with placid cattle grazing contentedly. Some of the area we traveled through was hilly and forested. I remember as a child (before air condiditoned cars) that passing into these wooded areas brought an immediate inrush of cool air. Everything seemed to be at peace and at rest.
It wasn't long before the peace of the countryside began to reach into us. Even if you live in the midst of this beauty every day, you need to step outside of the daily grind to see the wonders of the world we live in. Too often we are so caught up in getting the next chore done that we fail to appreciate the life we have and the place we live.
Sometimes you just need to run away to appreciate coming home.
When you live on a farm you can't just take a day off. It doesn't work. There is always something that needs to be done that gets in the way of drifting off for a nap in the hammock. Frankly, I'm not sure why farmers have things like hammocks, porch swings and lovely porch furniture. We never seem to have time to sit and just "chill" as the kids say. Especailly if you are married to a "part-time" farmer that has to squeeze in all his farming after a full days work. However, sometimes you just have to run off. Saturday was one of those days.
We left about noon and traveled the back roads. I love to do this and hubby usually doesn't, but he needed some pictures of some farm buildings he was insuring a couple of counties over, so back roads it was. It was a beautiful July day in Kentucky. If you haven't been there I probably can't describe how beautiful it is. We passed lovely farm houses in lush, green velvet lawns, shaded by trees that seemed to be embracing the houses. The corn is head high and thanks to some recent rains, green and dense. Corn always seems to be moving. It is as if you can see it growing and straining up to the sun. The roadsides looked like flower beds. Orange Black-eye susans, white daisies, the blue of wild phlox and chickory, the pink of wild roses,red trumpet vine and lots of white queen Ann's lace to fill in. The fields were lush and filled with placid cattle grazing contentedly. Some of the area we traveled through was hilly and forested. I remember as a child (before air condiditoned cars) that passing into these wooded areas brought an immediate inrush of cool air. Everything seemed to be at peace and at rest.
It wasn't long before the peace of the countryside began to reach into us. Even if you live in the midst of this beauty every day, you need to step outside of the daily grind to see the wonders of the world we live in. Too often we are so caught up in getting the next chore done that we fail to appreciate the life we have and the place we live.
Sometimes you just need to run away to appreciate coming home.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Garden War
It's July, the temperature is 98 degrees and the humidity is about 95%, so it's time to pick green beans.
My husband and I have war every year when it is time to plant the garden. He loves to plant. He can't wait to get out and plow, disc and till. He's like the grandsons, he just loves to play in the dirt. I have been known to stand in the middle of the plowed area to keep him from making it bigger and bigger. He just loves to prepare the soil. I guess that's part of being a farmer.
The war begins when we get ready to plant. I'm the one who picks the vegetables, hand weeds the rows and crawls around on all fours getting the goodies off of the low growing plants. So, I feel I have a say in how they are planted. He wants to get as many rows as he can in the space. I want them far enough apart to till them after they get grown and not have to crawl through overlapping plants and weed filled rows to pick. I yell "further apart!!!" He moves the string marking the rows closer together. It's a wonder we don't plant in zig-zags instead of rows.
The little plants come through the ground and it looks beautiful! Hubby is out there tilling and making everything look like a model garden. Then it's hay time, hubby is busy and the plants get bigger. The weeds grow faster than the garden plants, so the nice neat garden starts to look like it has little trees growing up and down the rows. The big tiller that he insisted on buying because he can do a whole row with one trip is now too big to go through the rows without tilling up the plants. I can't use the monster tiller because it drags me through the rows like a bulldozer. The weeds start to grow with a gleeful vengeance. Soon the cucumbers are disappearing, the beans are growing in a green lawn of little weeds, the tomatoes are becoming a thicket,and the squash have formed a canopy over the eggplants.
Now, panic sets in. The only hope is a hoe and hand weeding. As soon as we get a shower and the ground softens a little we attack. Off we go pulling weeds, chopping out the rows and trying to find the cucumbers. I work with a will but I don't go quietly. Every weed I pull up is accompanied by muttered threats concerning close rows, tillers, husbands, and next year!! Finally a stalemate is reached. The garden plants can be found and the weeds are at least held a bay if not eliminated.
Then the temperature reaches 98 degrees and it's time to pick. We picked one and half rows last night and got two 7 gallon buckets of beans. These will be snapped, put into jars, pressured and cooled to create about 34 quarts jars of beans. I only have 4 rows of beans left to pick. By then the first rows will be producing beans again. We eat approximately 50 quarts of beans a year. You are beginning to see why I stand in the garden to keep him from plowing up more.
I'm beginning to consider the cost of green beans in the store reasonable and logical. At some point in the picking in the hot sunshine, with sweat dripping in my eyes, I also consider divorce or murder reasonable and logical. Fortunately, the satisfaction of seeing those jars of green beans ready for the family for the winter keep me from following that thought----at least this time!
My husband and I have war every year when it is time to plant the garden. He loves to plant. He can't wait to get out and plow, disc and till. He's like the grandsons, he just loves to play in the dirt. I have been known to stand in the middle of the plowed area to keep him from making it bigger and bigger. He just loves to prepare the soil. I guess that's part of being a farmer.
The war begins when we get ready to plant. I'm the one who picks the vegetables, hand weeds the rows and crawls around on all fours getting the goodies off of the low growing plants. So, I feel I have a say in how they are planted. He wants to get as many rows as he can in the space. I want them far enough apart to till them after they get grown and not have to crawl through overlapping plants and weed filled rows to pick. I yell "further apart!!!" He moves the string marking the rows closer together. It's a wonder we don't plant in zig-zags instead of rows.
The little plants come through the ground and it looks beautiful! Hubby is out there tilling and making everything look like a model garden. Then it's hay time, hubby is busy and the plants get bigger. The weeds grow faster than the garden plants, so the nice neat garden starts to look like it has little trees growing up and down the rows. The big tiller that he insisted on buying because he can do a whole row with one trip is now too big to go through the rows without tilling up the plants. I can't use the monster tiller because it drags me through the rows like a bulldozer. The weeds start to grow with a gleeful vengeance. Soon the cucumbers are disappearing, the beans are growing in a green lawn of little weeds, the tomatoes are becoming a thicket,and the squash have formed a canopy over the eggplants.
Now, panic sets in. The only hope is a hoe and hand weeding. As soon as we get a shower and the ground softens a little we attack. Off we go pulling weeds, chopping out the rows and trying to find the cucumbers. I work with a will but I don't go quietly. Every weed I pull up is accompanied by muttered threats concerning close rows, tillers, husbands, and next year!! Finally a stalemate is reached. The garden plants can be found and the weeds are at least held a bay if not eliminated.
Then the temperature reaches 98 degrees and it's time to pick. We picked one and half rows last night and got two 7 gallon buckets of beans. These will be snapped, put into jars, pressured and cooled to create about 34 quarts jars of beans. I only have 4 rows of beans left to pick. By then the first rows will be producing beans again. We eat approximately 50 quarts of beans a year. You are beginning to see why I stand in the garden to keep him from plowing up more.
I'm beginning to consider the cost of green beans in the store reasonable and logical. At some point in the picking in the hot sunshine, with sweat dripping in my eyes, I also consider divorce or murder reasonable and logical. Fortunately, the satisfaction of seeing those jars of green beans ready for the family for the winter keep me from following that thought----at least this time!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Andy and Opie
I think I live with Opie and Andy. I watched from the window yesterday evening as my husband and grandson left with their fishing poles dangling for a visit to a friend's pond. I was reminded of the opening scene of the Andy Griffith Show where Andy and Opie are heading for the fishing hole. It was a gentler, kinder time when long summer days were made for lazy afternoons fishing. Unfortunately, times have changed. Now our days are so crammed with chores, committments, activities, going places, and a hundred other things, that the days aren't long and lazy but short and frantic. So the fishing expedition was a big event.
We finally have had some rain-almost two inches, which we needed badly. (It's amazing how we go from complaining of too much to begging for more) The temperature had cooled down and it was too wet to move hay. So a holiday was declared! Bob had rashly promised at lunch that if Justin couldn't find anyone else to fish with he would go after work. Well, that ended the search for a fishing partner. Justin declared that the fishing would be perfect after work, because fish always bite after a front goes through.
Now, Bob is not a fisherman. It took some time to find a fishing pole that still had fishing line in it. Then we had to find one with a hook. Most were rusted, dusty and tired, but one was sorted out. I was amazed at how many we had collected over the years and stuck back in one of the buildings. (We are a pair of "keepers". We never throw anything away! Products of parents who lived through the depression.) Finally. both were outfitted with fishing rods and feed buckets to bring home the catch to put in our pond. (I will cook anything they bring home, but it has to be cleaned and ready to cook. That stops most of the things they catch, shoot, find, from being brought home.) So off go Opie and Andy for an evening of fishing.
Two hours later, as I'm getting ready to step into the bathtub, I get a call from my husband. "Get your camera!!" "I'm getting ready to get into the tub," I complain! "Forget the tub, we got FISH". he shouts. So, I grab the camera and go to take pictures of my two fishermen and their catch. Several small bass and a beauty of a catfish. It was obvious that both "boys" had had a wonderful time and were puffed up with pride at their fishing abilities.
You know, it's not about fish. It's about fun times spent with your kids. I think Andy and Opie had it all right.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Sorry that I have been missing from my post for a few days. On July 4th, just as the fireworks were bursting forth across the country, my mother-in-law, went home to be with her husband and son in heaven. As one gentleman said, "She was born on Abe Lincoln's birthday and went out, with a bang, on our nation's birthday". Born of Swiss immigrant parents, she lived nearly her entire life, in Lincoln Co., Ky. , just a few miles from where she was born.
She was a great mother and mother-in-law. I can honestly say I can't remember her ever saying a catty or mean thing about someone. She tried hard to never be unkind or rude. She was the perfect mother-in-law who never favored one daughter-in-law over another. (With three sons, this was a huge gift to us.) I once gave her a yellow skirt and blouse for her birthday. Every time we were home, she would wear that yellow outfit and tell me how much she liked it. It was years later I learned that she hated yellow.
She was 97 years old. Wow! She lived for 19 years as a widow. The last 10 years she lived in ever deepening dementia. We were blessed that it wasn't the wilder manifestations of Alzheimer's but more a regression into the past. It was a sad and tragic time for her sons. As she moved back into her past she was more and more frequently a young woman or even a child in her mind. When these middle-aged men would present themselves and call her "Mom" she would often just be confused. However, we often saw that what the mind can't recognize the heart can. We noticed that when my husband would sit and hold her hand for a while, she would often rise above her dementia and know him again, even if only briefly. On her last night, we were monitoring her blood pressure and noticed that her highest readings were when her sons were there with her. The heart knows.
She quietly quit breathing about 8:30 in her own bed with people that loved her with her.
I was the person primarily responsible for her during the last seven years of her life. People have asked me how I managed the stress of being "on call" 24-7. There were times when it was a strain on my family. I could never commit to doing long-term baby-sitting for the grandchildren, because I might have to go to Grandma's on a moment's notice. Every trip became a challenge to get somewhere and not be called home. Every dinner or party was planned with a back-up plan, in case I had to leave suddenly. I live an hour from her home and would often find myself making two or more trips a week to run errands, go to doctor's appointments, interview sitters, fill in for sitters who were ill or quit, take care of her property, and on and on. Yes, it was stressful--but it wasn't Mother that was stressful, but the situation.
The biggest stress was finding sitters who could cheerfully and lovingly deal with a little lady who might wake up as a fractious 8 year old. Over the years we have had good ones and bad ones. For the last three years, when her dementia has deepened, we have been blessed to have a woman who has cared for Mother with the love you usually reserve for your own loved ones. She called her "Granny" because as she said, "she is now MY Granny, too". When it became too difficult to find quality sitters, we reached the decision to move her from her home to a nursing home. Debi came to us with a request to take her into her own home and care for her 24 hours a day. We agreed to do it on a trial basis. It lasted 8 months, until her death. I don't know how she did it but it was the best thing we could have done for Mother. Thanks to Debi she was able to live in a loving family atmosphere and die in her bed surrounded by love. Debi opened her home to us so that we could spend as much time as we wanted with her and made us feel welcome to do so. As she often put it "This is her home now, so come whenever you want." And we did.
We have been blessed. Someone asked once if I didn't wonder why God had let her linger on in this twilight world? She was as devoted to her God and church as any human could be. A lifetime church attendee, her faith was deep and complete. So, why was God leaving her and not taking her home? It took me years to realize that she had been left, not as punishment for her but as a gift for us. Through her, I have learned patience and peace. Many days I would arrive frazzled and stressed. I would spend an hour or so sitting with her, sometimes just holding her hand, sometimes talking about things long in her past, sometimes just playing "finger games". Always, I would leave feeling peaceful and blessed by my association with this little lady. She has made me realize that love is not just the easy kind when you love the ones that are good to you. Real love is when you know you might not get anything in return--sometimes not even the acknowledgement of your presence. It's when you just .....love, like God loves us.
She was a great mother and mother-in-law. I can honestly say I can't remember her ever saying a catty or mean thing about someone. She tried hard to never be unkind or rude. She was the perfect mother-in-law who never favored one daughter-in-law over another. (With three sons, this was a huge gift to us.) I once gave her a yellow skirt and blouse for her birthday. Every time we were home, she would wear that yellow outfit and tell me how much she liked it. It was years later I learned that she hated yellow.
She was 97 years old. Wow! She lived for 19 years as a widow. The last 10 years she lived in ever deepening dementia. We were blessed that it wasn't the wilder manifestations of Alzheimer's but more a regression into the past. It was a sad and tragic time for her sons. As she moved back into her past she was more and more frequently a young woman or even a child in her mind. When these middle-aged men would present themselves and call her "Mom" she would often just be confused. However, we often saw that what the mind can't recognize the heart can. We noticed that when my husband would sit and hold her hand for a while, she would often rise above her dementia and know him again, even if only briefly. On her last night, we were monitoring her blood pressure and noticed that her highest readings were when her sons were there with her. The heart knows.
She quietly quit breathing about 8:30 in her own bed with people that loved her with her.
I was the person primarily responsible for her during the last seven years of her life. People have asked me how I managed the stress of being "on call" 24-7. There were times when it was a strain on my family. I could never commit to doing long-term baby-sitting for the grandchildren, because I might have to go to Grandma's on a moment's notice. Every trip became a challenge to get somewhere and not be called home. Every dinner or party was planned with a back-up plan, in case I had to leave suddenly. I live an hour from her home and would often find myself making two or more trips a week to run errands, go to doctor's appointments, interview sitters, fill in for sitters who were ill or quit, take care of her property, and on and on. Yes, it was stressful--but it wasn't Mother that was stressful, but the situation.
The biggest stress was finding sitters who could cheerfully and lovingly deal with a little lady who might wake up as a fractious 8 year old. Over the years we have had good ones and bad ones. For the last three years, when her dementia has deepened, we have been blessed to have a woman who has cared for Mother with the love you usually reserve for your own loved ones. She called her "Granny" because as she said, "she is now MY Granny, too". When it became too difficult to find quality sitters, we reached the decision to move her from her home to a nursing home. Debi came to us with a request to take her into her own home and care for her 24 hours a day. We agreed to do it on a trial basis. It lasted 8 months, until her death. I don't know how she did it but it was the best thing we could have done for Mother. Thanks to Debi she was able to live in a loving family atmosphere and die in her bed surrounded by love. Debi opened her home to us so that we could spend as much time as we wanted with her and made us feel welcome to do so. As she often put it "This is her home now, so come whenever you want." And we did.
We have been blessed. Someone asked once if I didn't wonder why God had let her linger on in this twilight world? She was as devoted to her God and church as any human could be. A lifetime church attendee, her faith was deep and complete. So, why was God leaving her and not taking her home? It took me years to realize that she had been left, not as punishment for her but as a gift for us. Through her, I have learned patience and peace. Many days I would arrive frazzled and stressed. I would spend an hour or so sitting with her, sometimes just holding her hand, sometimes talking about things long in her past, sometimes just playing "finger games". Always, I would leave feeling peaceful and blessed by my association with this little lady. She has made me realize that love is not just the easy kind when you love the ones that are good to you. Real love is when you know you might not get anything in return--sometimes not even the acknowledgement of your presence. It's when you just .....love, like God loves us.
Good-by
My mother and father-in-law loved funerals. They especially loved the ones where someone who was well known in the community had died. For them the only thing better was a church reunion picnic. Both of these involve lots of people that you haven't seen for a while, friends you might have lost touch with, time to visit, and food.
The event would start with a call to us to report what my husband called the "gloom and doom" report. My father-in-law would begin with "Just thought you would want to know that Jim Black has died. " Then would follow a complete list of arrangements and times of visitation. He would conclude with "I know you'll want to come to the funeral home. We'll expect you." In the background you would hear my mother-in-law saying " Wallace, you know they were just babies when Jim lived here and they don't know anyone in the family. They aren't going to drive two hours to come to the funeral!" He never understood how anyone could turn down a prime spot of entertainment, like a funeral.
He would arrive early and stay late. After paying his respects to the departed friend, he would retire to the chairs and prepare to hold court. He and all his old cronies would begin with all the old stories they could remember about the "missing member". Before long the stories would get taller and the laughter louder, until Grandma would work her way back to the group and shush them up. If the stories died down (or the missing member had lived a particularly quiet life) they would then snag everyone that came through and quiz them on the latest news. It might be news about grandchildren, new houses, crops, weather or, best of all, local scandals. If a young woman came through she would have to stop and provide a complete pedigree (father, mother, grandparents, etc.) This of course would ensure her a warm welcome and a warm "welcoming" hug from each old gent. The festivities would continue until the funeral home director would come and firmly inform them that visiting hours were over for the evening and lock the door behind them.
Now, Grandma had her routine too. The women would all gather in another section of the funeral home and do their "visiting". This mostly started with a run-down on the latest accomplishments of their children. Which one has a promotion, graduated at the top of their class (did any of them just make average grades?), bought a new car, gotten engaged, or had a baby. This led, of course, to a list of the accomplishments of the grandchildren. My, my, they certainly produced a long line of over-achievers, to hear them tell it. If this line of conversation lagged they might get into a discussion of food and canning. The newest and latest method of canning beans or freezing corn was always good for a lively discussion. When this slowed down, they too moved on to the local scandals. The only person safe was the "departed". It was an unwritten rule that only good things would be said about them on this night.
The evening would end with Grandma and Grandpa comparing notes and swapping stories on the way home. Grandma would occasionally fuss gently that the men had gotten a little rowdy with their stories. To which he would return that the ladies were so busying gossiping that they wouldn't have noticed a freight train coming through. They would sigh contentedly and agree that it was a great send off for their friend.
Wednesday we did our best to give Grandma a send-off Grandpa would have been proud of.
Verna Leona VonGruenigen Campbell
Feb. 12, 1913-July 4, 2010
You taught us how to live. Thanks.
My mother and father-in-law loved funerals. They especially loved the ones where someone who was well known in the community had died. For them the only thing better was a church reunion picnic. Both of these involve lots of people that you haven't seen for a while, friends you might have lost touch with, time to visit, and food.
The event would start with a call to us to report what my husband called the "gloom and doom" report. My father-in-law would begin with "Just thought you would want to know that Jim Black has died. " Then would follow a complete list of arrangements and times of visitation. He would conclude with "I know you'll want to come to the funeral home. We'll expect you." In the background you would hear my mother-in-law saying " Wallace, you know they were just babies when Jim lived here and they don't know anyone in the family. They aren't going to drive two hours to come to the funeral!" He never understood how anyone could turn down a prime spot of entertainment, like a funeral.
He would arrive early and stay late. After paying his respects to the departed friend, he would retire to the chairs and prepare to hold court. He and all his old cronies would begin with all the old stories they could remember about the "missing member". Before long the stories would get taller and the laughter louder, until Grandma would work her way back to the group and shush them up. If the stories died down (or the missing member had lived a particularly quiet life) they would then snag everyone that came through and quiz them on the latest news. It might be news about grandchildren, new houses, crops, weather or, best of all, local scandals. If a young woman came through she would have to stop and provide a complete pedigree (father, mother, grandparents, etc.) This of course would ensure her a warm welcome and a warm "welcoming" hug from each old gent. The festivities would continue until the funeral home director would come and firmly inform them that visiting hours were over for the evening and lock the door behind them.
Now, Grandma had her routine too. The women would all gather in another section of the funeral home and do their "visiting". This mostly started with a run-down on the latest accomplishments of their children. Which one has a promotion, graduated at the top of their class (did any of them just make average grades?), bought a new car, gotten engaged, or had a baby. This led, of course, to a list of the accomplishments of the grandchildren. My, my, they certainly produced a long line of over-achievers, to hear them tell it. If this line of conversation lagged they might get into a discussion of food and canning. The newest and latest method of canning beans or freezing corn was always good for a lively discussion. When this slowed down, they too moved on to the local scandals. The only person safe was the "departed". It was an unwritten rule that only good things would be said about them on this night.
The evening would end with Grandma and Grandpa comparing notes and swapping stories on the way home. Grandma would occasionally fuss gently that the men had gotten a little rowdy with their stories. To which he would return that the ladies were so busying gossiping that they wouldn't have noticed a freight train coming through. They would sigh contentedly and agree that it was a great send off for their friend.
Wednesday we did our best to give Grandma a send-off Grandpa would have been proud of.
Verna Leona VonGruenigen Campbell
Feb. 12, 1913-July 4, 2010
You taught us how to live. Thanks.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Directions
I am a firm believer in instincts that are bred into animals over a period of time. We once had a border collie that had never been anything but a pet. No one had worked with him or even slightly encouraged him to herd anything. However, that dog would perfectly herd my baby ducks every chance he got. Why? How did he know that was what he was supposed to do? Over generations of breeding the best herding dogs the instinct to herd was imprinted on their brain. They just know what to do.
My daughter lives in Iowa. It's a wonderful state. The land is fertile and it's flat. The people are open, friendly and great neighbors...and it's flat. It's a wonderful place for my grandchildren to grow up....and it's flat. Did I mention that it is flat? I live in Kentucky.....it's not flat. Oh, we have a few flat spots, but for the most part our land goes up and down. We have knobs (little mountains for you uninitiated), real mountains, and just plain hills. It's a beautiful place to live but we have developed a little differently from our friends in Iowa.
If you are getting directions in Iowa, you get DIRECTIONS. You will be told to go north for two miles, then go east for 1 mile. When you get to the spot you will be told to look on the north side of the barn that's through the west gate. Now at this point I am totally lost because I don't know where I am much less what direction north is. These people are born knowing what direction north is. You ask any child to point to the north and they will point as unerringly as a compass to true north. How do they do it?
When you get directions in Kentucky, you'll get landmarks. Go two miles until you get to the red barn with the old tractor out front and turn left at the next road. Go two more miles and turn right by the silver silo and continue until you pass the house with the blue shutters and red door. Why do we do this? Because in Kentucky you might wind around curves until you have gone north, east, south and west before you get where you are going. We don't know what direction we're going until we get there. Our directional gene has been bred out of us. You put me in Iowa and tell me to go north and I'm going to ask "is that right or left". The Iowans have had to learn directions because landmarks are scarce. Turn left at the intersection with the corn field on the corner, just won't help you much. All four corners may have a corn field on them. So their directional gene has developed to a high degree. Just like the dog, we have been bred to do what we need to do.
What this all means is that when I leave to take my grandaughter to town in Iowa they all wonder if I really will get there.
I am a firm believer in instincts that are bred into animals over a period of time. We once had a border collie that had never been anything but a pet. No one had worked with him or even slightly encouraged him to herd anything. However, that dog would perfectly herd my baby ducks every chance he got. Why? How did he know that was what he was supposed to do? Over generations of breeding the best herding dogs the instinct to herd was imprinted on their brain. They just know what to do.
My daughter lives in Iowa. It's a wonderful state. The land is fertile and it's flat. The people are open, friendly and great neighbors...and it's flat. It's a wonderful place for my grandchildren to grow up....and it's flat. Did I mention that it is flat? I live in Kentucky.....it's not flat. Oh, we have a few flat spots, but for the most part our land goes up and down. We have knobs (little mountains for you uninitiated), real mountains, and just plain hills. It's a beautiful place to live but we have developed a little differently from our friends in Iowa.
If you are getting directions in Iowa, you get DIRECTIONS. You will be told to go north for two miles, then go east for 1 mile. When you get to the spot you will be told to look on the north side of the barn that's through the west gate. Now at this point I am totally lost because I don't know where I am much less what direction north is. These people are born knowing what direction north is. You ask any child to point to the north and they will point as unerringly as a compass to true north. How do they do it?
When you get directions in Kentucky, you'll get landmarks. Go two miles until you get to the red barn with the old tractor out front and turn left at the next road. Go two more miles and turn right by the silver silo and continue until you pass the house with the blue shutters and red door. Why do we do this? Because in Kentucky you might wind around curves until you have gone north, east, south and west before you get where you are going. We don't know what direction we're going until we get there. Our directional gene has been bred out of us. You put me in Iowa and tell me to go north and I'm going to ask "is that right or left". The Iowans have had to learn directions because landmarks are scarce. Turn left at the intersection with the corn field on the corner, just won't help you much. All four corners may have a corn field on them. So their directional gene has developed to a high degree. Just like the dog, we have been bred to do what we need to do.
What this all means is that when I leave to take my grandaughter to town in Iowa they all wonder if I really will get there.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Hay Field
The view today from the kitchen window is the hay field. The men (my husband and son) are working hard to get the hay baled before it rains again. We've had a wonderful week for hay--lots of sunshine and hot weather. However, on Sunday the hay baler suffered a major break-down. It was Wednesday before we could get back into the field. Then within five minutes it was down again. This time a minor fix, but that was followed closely by another break-down. Then it rained..... Now doesn't that just make you want to run out and buy a farm?
I read somewhere that farming was the third most stressful occupation. I can't remember what number two was, but number one was an air traffic controller. That should tell you how much fun farmers have. However, you won't find a more dedicated group anywhere. They love it all. Yes, there are bumps in the road (some years it's more like major pot-holes) but they keep on doing what they love. I guess the great days of hard work and seeing what you accomplish, the satisfaction of working together as a family, seeing your children grow with responsibility and a strong work ethic, the love of the land that God has given us make all the problems that go along with it seem worthwhile.
My husband grew up on a dairy farm. He knew early on that if he wanted to get ahead in life he would have to do something besides farm. Farming is a great life but you probably won't get rich while you are at it. He went to college, majored in ag-economics, owns an insurance agency and comes home and farms every night. I tell him that he works to support his hobby.
So why do we do it? I honestly can't imagine living in a city. Nothing against cities, they are great places to visit, shop, go out to eat, but then I want to go home. I want to look out my window and see---well, cows and fields and trees and space. I like being able to water my flowers in my nightgown or sit on my porch and watch the grandchildren without yelling " watch out for the cars" a thousand times. I love being able to go to the garden and pick supper. There are few things more satisfying than being able to put a meal on the table that you have grown for your family.
So today we are putting up hay for the cattle to eat this winter. We are using our resources to provide for those creatures that are in our care. Yep, it's a good feeling.
I read somewhere that farming was the third most stressful occupation. I can't remember what number two was, but number one was an air traffic controller. That should tell you how much fun farmers have. However, you won't find a more dedicated group anywhere. They love it all. Yes, there are bumps in the road (some years it's more like major pot-holes) but they keep on doing what they love. I guess the great days of hard work and seeing what you accomplish, the satisfaction of working together as a family, seeing your children grow with responsibility and a strong work ethic, the love of the land that God has given us make all the problems that go along with it seem worthwhile.
My husband grew up on a dairy farm. He knew early on that if he wanted to get ahead in life he would have to do something besides farm. Farming is a great life but you probably won't get rich while you are at it. He went to college, majored in ag-economics, owns an insurance agency and comes home and farms every night. I tell him that he works to support his hobby.
So why do we do it? I honestly can't imagine living in a city. Nothing against cities, they are great places to visit, shop, go out to eat, but then I want to go home. I want to look out my window and see---well, cows and fields and trees and space. I like being able to water my flowers in my nightgown or sit on my porch and watch the grandchildren without yelling " watch out for the cars" a thousand times. I love being able to go to the garden and pick supper. There are few things more satisfying than being able to put a meal on the table that you have grown for your family.
So today we are putting up hay for the cattle to eat this winter. We are using our resources to provide for those creatures that are in our care. Yep, it's a good feeling.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
A Time of Memories
We have just finished one of life's saddest tasks. My mother-in-law, a sweet, former elementary music teacher, has advanced dementia. For the past seven years she has had to have constant help. We have gone from hiring "sitters" around the clock to now putting her in a private home. We strongly feel that with the advanced stage of her dementia she would not be easy to care for in a nursing home setting. She simply cannot be left alone and must be fed on her schedule when she will eat. So a one on one situation is best for her.
However, this is certainly not the most inexpensive way to provide care for an elderly person. Since she is no longer living in her home and her expenses keep mounting, we have made the decision to sell her home. This means dividing up the household goods and cleaning out a lifetime of collected memories. This is especially painful since she is not gone, just not aware of what is going on.
For the past several weeks we have been sorting through old pictures, letters, awards, music books, keepsakes from her children's school years, and other memories. The decision on what to keep and what to toss out has been heartrending. I want to keep everything but realize that I am just creating a nightmare for my children when the time comes to clean out my "stuff". Just how many boxes of old pictures can you keep? Especially when no one knows who they are anymore. Yet, how can you just toss the memories of a lifetime? What about her mother-in-law's party dishes? Her mother 's collection of delicate handkerchiefs? The fancy aprons (now sadly stained) that her sister made for her each Christmas?
The memories of long gone relatives hung over our shoulders while we sorted and decided. I hope they approve of the decisions we made. They certianly weren't made without a lot of soul searching and thought. I hope our children appreciate the history of the things that we kept. I know they have brought me tender memories of a lovely lady who welcomed me into the family and became my mother. She may not recognize me now, but she will always have my heart. I am blessed to be able to return some of the love and care she gave to me. Thanks for the memories.
However, this is certainly not the most inexpensive way to provide care for an elderly person. Since she is no longer living in her home and her expenses keep mounting, we have made the decision to sell her home. This means dividing up the household goods and cleaning out a lifetime of collected memories. This is especially painful since she is not gone, just not aware of what is going on.
For the past several weeks we have been sorting through old pictures, letters, awards, music books, keepsakes from her children's school years, and other memories. The decision on what to keep and what to toss out has been heartrending. I want to keep everything but realize that I am just creating a nightmare for my children when the time comes to clean out my "stuff". Just how many boxes of old pictures can you keep? Especially when no one knows who they are anymore. Yet, how can you just toss the memories of a lifetime? What about her mother-in-law's party dishes? Her mother 's collection of delicate handkerchiefs? The fancy aprons (now sadly stained) that her sister made for her each Christmas?
The memories of long gone relatives hung over our shoulders while we sorted and decided. I hope they approve of the decisions we made. They certianly weren't made without a lot of soul searching and thought. I hope our children appreciate the history of the things that we kept. I know they have brought me tender memories of a lovely lady who welcomed me into the family and became my mother. She may not recognize me now, but she will always have my heart. I am blessed to be able to return some of the love and care she gave to me. Thanks for the memories.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Old House
My kitchen window is in an old house. I don't mean historic just old. Most of the house is an early 1950's or late 1940's farmhouse. The design came form Farm Journal and you can see its mates all over this area on other farms. It's a standard story and a half with two bedrooms up and a dormer roomer over the porch.
The thing about an old house is that you are always putting it back together or repairing it. You deal with windows that don't open, doors that don't close, floors that slant this way or that, drafts that creep around your ankles, strange creaks and groans in the night, and plumbing that gurgles and stops. Then there are the challenges of putting a modern family into a dwelling built with a simpler, older time in mind. Take for example the problem of closets. It seems that the modern generation is the only one that feels that we need lots of closet space. How did our parents deal with clothes with only one closet (in the whole house) and a few chests? Today's children need a closet for summer clothes, winter clothes, and one for outgrown clothes. When we moved in our bedroom didn't have a closet at all--we added two, on either side of the fireplace (something we don't need).
The fun part is that living in an old house is like living in an archelogical dig. Everytime you do something to the house you discover a part of its past. For example, when we remodeled the bathroom we discovered that the walls were insulated with newspaper from 1950. So we deduced that the bathroom was added to the house in 1950. It was obvious that the bath had been carved out of the end of the kitchen, but now we knew when. It also explained why you feet nearly froze to the bottom of the tub during your shower. Nothing can explain why the bath instead of being square is nearly trapodzoidal. Trying to put tile on the floor was a major mistake that causes many people to feel dizzy.
When we decided to repair the walls in the upstairs bedroom we encountered another adventure. The bedroom on the left was a nice, normal 8' ceiling bedroom. The one on the right was a 7 1/2' ceiling with an elevated floor. When we repaired the walls and tried to remove the baseboards we discovered that the baseboards continued for 6 inches below the floor. Thanks to an elderly lady who had once lived on our farm, we discovered that he original house had been built in the early 1900's but had been destroyed by a tornado in the late 40's. The house now existing had been build on the older foundation and using some of the original sturcture. So we have two rooms that predate the rest of the house. Like I said, it's like an archeological dig. You dig a little and learn a little history.
The thing about an old house is that you are always putting it back together or repairing it. You deal with windows that don't open, doors that don't close, floors that slant this way or that, drafts that creep around your ankles, strange creaks and groans in the night, and plumbing that gurgles and stops. Then there are the challenges of putting a modern family into a dwelling built with a simpler, older time in mind. Take for example the problem of closets. It seems that the modern generation is the only one that feels that we need lots of closet space. How did our parents deal with clothes with only one closet (in the whole house) and a few chests? Today's children need a closet for summer clothes, winter clothes, and one for outgrown clothes. When we moved in our bedroom didn't have a closet at all--we added two, on either side of the fireplace (something we don't need).
The fun part is that living in an old house is like living in an archelogical dig. Everytime you do something to the house you discover a part of its past. For example, when we remodeled the bathroom we discovered that the walls were insulated with newspaper from 1950. So we deduced that the bathroom was added to the house in 1950. It was obvious that the bath had been carved out of the end of the kitchen, but now we knew when. It also explained why you feet nearly froze to the bottom of the tub during your shower. Nothing can explain why the bath instead of being square is nearly trapodzoidal. Trying to put tile on the floor was a major mistake that causes many people to feel dizzy.
When we decided to repair the walls in the upstairs bedroom we encountered another adventure. The bedroom on the left was a nice, normal 8' ceiling bedroom. The one on the right was a 7 1/2' ceiling with an elevated floor. When we repaired the walls and tried to remove the baseboards we discovered that the baseboards continued for 6 inches below the floor. Thanks to an elderly lady who had once lived on our farm, we discovered that he original house had been built in the early 1900's but had been destroyed by a tornado in the late 40's. The house now existing had been build on the older foundation and using some of the original sturcture. So we have two rooms that predate the rest of the house. Like I said, it's like an archeological dig. You dig a little and learn a little history.
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