Small Town Cops

I was having a last cup of coffee the other morning when the phone rang.  Glancing at the caller ID (isn't that the handiest thing-knowing who you are going to talk to?) I saw that it was hubby.  "Are you going to exercise this morning?" he asked.  "Well, yes, I just haven't quite gotten up the energy to get to the gym yet", I replied.  "When you go, be sure and keep your speed down." he laughed," Donnie is on the prowl!" 

It seems the coffee group had met, as usual, at the local Hardee's which is on the corner of our busy intersection. They had been highly entertained by watching one of the local policemen pulling over cars as they approached the congested area around the shopping center and intersection.  He would pull them over  and then drive around the "loop" and come back and park again, ready for the next one.  Admittedly, most were exceeding the 45 mph speed limit by 15 to 20 miles and needed to slow down, but it is in an area that changes to a lower speed limit and catches a lot of us off guard. 

He stopped by hubby's office later that morning and was telling about his efforts.  It seems that he wasn't writing tickets just giving a warning, wanting more to make people aware of the speed limit and slow them down.  However, one guy when stopped, rolled his window down and snapped, "Just give me the ticket!  I'm in a hurry!"  Donnie, politely, obliged.  It took about 10 minutes to do the paperwork and all the formalities.  The warning takes about 2 minutes.

It seems that sometimes it pays to keep your mouth shut.

Before you get the idea that Donnie is just another "Barney" cop, let me set you straight.  Our local police have a big job that is getting bigger as the large city crimes are coming to our little towns.  They not only have to deal with the real crimes of the area, but they also have to do all the things that we expect of our small town police.  That means responding to strange beeping noises in the house (a smoke alarm with a low battery), the occasional cat up a tree (yes they still do that), blocking traffic for funerals, providing security for local activities, and just generally being nice guys (and women). 

Donnie over the years has ridden herd over our kids as teens.  Slowing them down by giving them warnings, keeping an eye out for them as they tested the boundaries growing up, and being comfortable enough for them to call on him if they needed help.  However, the time that stands out in my mind was the night he was the one to help us.

When our daughter was 19 she was involved in a head on collision when the other driver went to sleep.  We were leaving town for a night out with friends and actually drove up on the accident scene.  By that time, the ambulance had left and the State Police were working the scene.  Recognizing her car, we attempted to get some information out of the officer.  He stonewalled us, probably because he thought he was working what would be a fatality scene.  All we wanted to know is where she was and he kept telling us to go ask downtown.  Just when the frustration and fear had built up to explosive levels, Donnie pulled up.  Unlike the State officer, he knew us, knew our daughter and knew that we needed to know where she was.  He flagged us over and told us that they had taken her to the local hospital and were STAT flighting her to Louisville.  If we wanted to see her we needed to get to the hospital. 

I've never forgotten his kindness and understanding that night to some very frightened parents.

You Can't Wear New Tennis Shoes

I have learned over the years that you can't wear new tennis shoes on a farm.  Athletic shoes (sneakers or tennis shoes to us old folks) are my footwear of choice.  They are comfortable, lace up so they don't fly off when you chase down an escaping child, and you can wear them anywhere.  However, there is a direct correlation to new, clean, white tennis shoes and disasters.

Early on, when the kids were small, I was tripping around the kitchen one night in my new tennies, when hubby burst through the door.  "Come quick!  The cows are out! "  "I'll be right there", I called as I headed for the bedroom door.  "Where are you going?!!!" he stutters.  "Just to change my shoes", I replied.  "NO TIME!  COME ON!!"  So off we went. 

We headed for the field where they were last seen in the pitch black dark.  Sure enough the field was empty and there was a gaping hole in the fence.  It seems the bull took issue with the bull in the next field and they took out a section of fence.  The cows, sensing a good show, quickly followed through the gap to watch the contest.  The only thing more fun than rounding up black cows on a dark night is chasing them.  You not only can't see the cows but you can't watch out for their "calling cards" or manure splats they have randomly left behind.  I hadn't gone 10 yards before I felt my foot slide and issue a sucking sound.  Yep!  New white tennies were now green!

Another day I was calmly snapping beans on the porch, when ear-splitting shrieks filled the air.  "Head her off!  Don't let her go that way!"  "MOM!  STOP HER!"  Jumping to my feet, I looked frantically for the cause of all the hysteria.  Coming around the barn at a dead run was the newest show heifer, two leaps behind came son, and two leaps behind him daughter, losing ground fast.  The heifer had evidently decided that the process of learning to walk on a lead wasn't near as much fun as being in the herd and was fast removing herself.  The path she was taking was leading straight through my garden and into the unfenced hay field beyond.  Turning her back would save time and energy trying to trap her in the open field.  I took off at an angle to cut her off, running through the corner of the garden.  I successfully turned her but not before my beautiful new shoes were covered in wet, rich mud!

The last straw came the night hubby came to the house calling for all hands, immediately.  It seems that one of the cows had managed to get through the fence by the creek and fallen down the bluff.  Stunned and hurt, she was in immediate danger of letting her head fall into the shallow water and drowning.  Ropes were grabbed and we hurried off to rescue her.  Naturally, being the one with the least muscles or weight, I was sent to hold her head while they pulled her to her feet.  Gingerly, I waded out into the chilly water, watching yet another new pair of shoes, turn an interesting shade of greenish, brown from the muddy creek bottom.  The cow was saved, the shoes were doomed.

I still buy new tennis shoes, but now they stay in the car.  I don't put them on until I am off the farm and safe!

I Hate Farm Life

Some days you can't suppress your true feelings.  They just have to come tumbling out.  Which is why I was muttering "I hate farm life",  with every step as I trudged across the hot, crunchy field on a murderously hot July 4th.

It all started when hubby rolled out of bed at practically daybreak on the holiday morning.  A day off for farmers who hold down other jobs is simply an opportunity to see just how much they can cram into one long day.  He was issuing orders as his feet hit the floor.  "I'm going to feed and then go check on the tobacco, but the garden needs watering before it gets too hot".  "Ummph!"  I muttered as I tried to get both eyes open to find the coffee pot.  "Remember to check the amount of water in the cistern before you turn on the pump."  "What? Me? Is that before or after my coffee?"  "Well," he responded cheerfully, "I'll be too busy and it's going to get to 102 today, so you'd better get started on it early."  I guess that means before.

An hour and a half later I had about finished watering the tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, eggplants and peppers.  I decided to water the two rows of beans that my hose would reach, sending a sad glance at the remaining beans and corn that were wilting already.  Hot, wet and muddy from dragging the hose through the dirt, I headed back to the house to prepare breakfast.  Hubby in turn arrived fresh off the Polaris Ranger (a gator like farm vehicle) he had ridden to the tobacco patch and back.  As soon as he had finished he announced he was off to cut a field of hay for a neighbor.  He climbed merrily into his air conditioned tractor and left.

I cleaned myself up and decided to do a load of sheets to make the beds up fresh for my daughter's visit next week.  One thing about 100 degree heat, it will flat dry a load of clothes on the line lickity split!

The small field of hay cut, hubby runs back through and reports that he is going to work on the fence in the back.  Boundary fences are always a problem.  The rule is that the fences belong to both parties and both are responsible for putting them up and keeping them in repair.  However, in reality it usually falls to the one with something to keep in to do the work.  The farmer neighboring us grows crops--we have cattle.  He doesn't care about the fence unless the cows get in his crops.  The fence is old and falling into disrepair.  Replacing it is an expensive and time consuming task that is awaiting a joint effort planned for the future.

I had just settled down for an afternoon break and some peace and quiet, when the phone rang.  An irate voice informed me that our cows were out and heading for the road and another farm.  With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I asked who this was and where were the cows.  According to my caller they had crossed the neighbors field, the corner of his field and were heading down the country road.  Visualizing car wrecks and lawsuits, I assured him that I would get the message to hubby and we would take care of it.  I frantically called hubby's cell to pass the news along, only to hear it ringing in the other room.  Drat!  He'd left his phone in the house again.

I dashed to the barn only to discover that he had taken the Polaris to the field.  That only left me the much harder to drive 4-wheeler.  I hate driving it and haven't used it since we got the much easier to handle Polaris.  After spending precious minutes trying to get it started (why do they always do that to me!) I spent more time trying to figure out how to put it in reverse.  Surmounting that problems I backed out and headed for the first gate heading for the back.  The six calves in the field, hearing a motor and hoping for supper, immediately trotted up to the gate.  I dismounted, barely remembering to put on the break, and unhooked the gate.  I pushed it open and it immediately sagged to the ground and came to an abrupt stop.  Back wrenching strains only got it open about five feet.  Not enough for the four-wheeler.  I looked at the curious calves and realized that if I did manage to drag it open far enough to get through, the calves would escape before I could drive through and drag it closed. 

In frustration, I realized that the only way to get the message to hubby would be to hike to the back of the farm.  With the heat searing down on me, I started my walk.  Reaching the back, I found no trace of hubby.  Yelling brought no response.  Finally, I called the guys at the tobacco patch who reported he had been seen heading for the house.  I turned and hurried back to intercept him (all uphill).  Just as I reached the crest of the hill, I spotted him going down the drive.  Naturally, he didn't see or hear me.  More frantic calls alerting everyone to send him home if spotted. 

He finally wandered back through.  I actually had been on the opposite end of the fence from him--I just picked the wrong end to check.  Naturally!  A call to the irate neighbor brought to light the fact that the 20 cows in question were a mixed herd of white, red, and spotted cattle.  We only have black cows. 

In exhaustion I sat with my mouth open in disbelief.  All that walking in the tortuous heat and they weren't even our cows!  Yes, sometimes I think I could get used to living in a city.

Irrigating Tobacco

It is HOT!!  We have had four days of temperatures around 104 degrees with another 10 days forcast with high 90's and low 100's.  Add to that a rainfall total that is woefully below average and you have the beginnings of a major drought.  At a time when we should have grass in the pastures we are already feeding hay we had hoped to save for the winter months.  The view from my kitchen window these days is brown and crisp.  All I can say is that at least we have air conditioning--although I may have to moonlight as a greeter at Walmart to pay the bill.

As miserable as the temperatures are, the frustrations that they cause farmers as they watch their income shrivel up in the fields, is the worst.  The fall hay crop is burning up , the corn is curling into little pointed spikes, and the tobacco is beginning to get yellow leaves and some is even beginning to bloom from the stress.  This means that at a time when everyone else is running for the indoors and air conditioning the farmers are running to their fields to try to save their crops.

Just as the temperatures peaked, Murphy's law kicked in.  (If anything can go wrong, it will!)  My son left for Wyoming with his family (although 30 hours in a car with four kids may have him thinking that being in the fields is better) and his partner's wife was admitted to the hospital with an emergency gall bladder surgery.  For three days hubby and I looked at each other and watched the thermometer and wondered how we could set up an irrigation system by ourselves.  Just when we had decided it had to be done, the partner returned home and the friend system kicked in.

With temperatures hovering around 104 degrees hubby, the partner and a friend gathered in the tobacco patch to start laying out the pipes for the irrigation system.  The pipes were run down the row of tobacco with tall sprinklers sprouting up.  These would shoot sprays of water in a circular pattern covering about 7 rows at a time.  When these were adequately watered, then the pipes would be moved and another section would be watered.  The water would be supplied from the creek bordering the tobacco patch.  A tractor is set up to run the pump and push the water from the creek to the sprinkler system.

Of course, Murphy's law is still in effect.  After laborously priming the pump (it takes a lot of water to prime a 5 inch pipe), the pump begins to push water into the pipes.  All is well for a minute then the men are rushing around in a geyser!  The seal has broken and the five inch stream of water is drowning everyone.  Finally they get it turned off and rescue the seal from the middle of one of the pipes and start all over.  Soon water is shooting in glistening arcs over the thirsty plants.  Now, all there is to do is sit and watch to be sure that the tractor doesn't overheat or something break down.  Of course, at 104 even sitting in the shade is hot. 

It doesn't take long before the pipe has all but drained the deep hole in the creek.  In just an hour and a half they have dropped the water level by about 18 inches.  The creek is low because of the low rainfall, so there is nothing to do but wait for the water to fill the spot back up.  The plan is to water morning and night and hope the creek will run enough to fill the hole up in between. 

If you know a rain dance, feel free to join in!

Map Queen

My son and his family are leaving in the morning for a trip to Wyoming to visit with my daughter-in-law's parents.  The idea of driving 30 hours with a 1, 4, 6, and 14 year old leaves me shaking in my boots.  They, however, have it all planned out with stops to visit our daughter in Iowa and friends in Kansas and Colorado.  The car is loaded like a freight train with all the gear required for kids, including movies and games to keep them entertained.  It's not like it was when we traveled and I refused to go further than 2 hours from home with two kids in the car.

In an effort to interest my oldest grandson in the joys of reading a map, I hunted up the road atlas and started showing him some of the things they would be passing.  I pointed out the continental divide, the various time zones, the national parks and mountain ranges.  While intrigued by the zig and zagging of the time zones he remained unenthusiased with reading a map.  "But a map shows you all the things you are passing.  The rivers, towns, roads, parks, and historic sites."  "So do the little green and brown signs", he retorted.  "But a map tells you where you are and lets you know when to turn",  I pointed out.  "That's what a GPS is for," he replied.  I sighed in frustration and he laughed.  "We'll get there. Don't worry!"

I waved good-by as they went home to finish loading the car, but my thoughts were on the countless miles of cattle trips that we navigated using a road atlas.  I rode shotgun with the map spread out in my lap.  Days before we left, I had plotted out our route and figured the time it would take.  Once we were on the road I studied the map as though we were traveling across unknown continents.  I would entertain myself on long stretches by seeing what towns were near, seeking out points of interest to tell the kids about, following the path of the rivers we crossed, comparing populations and areas, and dreaming of the exotic and familiar cities.

When we approached intersections or crowded city exchanges I would get serious.  I would search for the best route and call out turn by turn directions to hubby.  "We're going to take I-70 just after we cross the bridge over the Mississippi, so stay close to the right lane." I would direct.  "Get over now and prepare to exit right".  "NO! Don't pass that truck you need to turn RIGHT!"  "Whew!  Made it.  Now we continue for six exits then we will take exit 37." 

Thanks to my trusty atlas we found cities, fairgrounds, motels and restaurants.  We also found shopping centers, museums, parks, golf courses, colleges, and hospitals.  All of these points are labeled on the maps.  Over time my atlas became a diary of notes written in the margin.  Exit 216 - great ice cream shop.  Exit 74 - rest area with walking trails and playground. Exit 4 - Beef House Restaurant. Exit 312 - park with playground.   Each state page had it's own litany of found delights. 

Over time I have found myself replaced to a large degree by the soothing voice of the GPS lady, although I still check every step with my maps.  I overheard hubby telling someone about his new GPS and how much he liked it.  "The best part", he enthused, "is that she doesn't get excited and yell and she never nags when I miss a turn!" 

Yeah, but she can't give him a high five when he's successfully navigated a tricky location, either!

Retirement Tale

As a young Home Economics Agent one of my favorite things was visiting the Homemakers clubs during their monthly meetings.  This was a great opportunity to visit and enjoy the lively fellowship of the groups.  Although you aren't supposed to show favoritism, one club always stands out in my mind.  This group of women had mastered the art of living well.  They were all rural, country women living in a tiny community out in the county.  They had raised their children, helped on the farm, worked for outside income in various jobs, and never lost their ability to see the giggle in it all.  This was a group of women that never let life interfere with having fun!   Although their lives had held times of sorrow, hardship, trials and frustrations they never failed to find humor and laughter to help them along.  Visiting with them was always an adventure.

On one of my early visits the women were sharing the various "joys" of having their husbands retire and hang around the house.  There were lots of groans and laughter as they told of husbands being constantly underfoot after years of having the house to themselves.  They told of the constant clutter of projects and mess of unfinished repairs.  They shared tales of torn up landscaping and do-it-yourself nightmares with emergency calls to plumbers.  Each was greeted with laughter, giggles and sympathy. 

Finally, one of the ladies, who had been quietly listening, piped up.  "Girls, you just don't know how bad it can be.  Wendell has finally topped everything!"

She reported that Wendell's retirement from his job as the principal of the local school had not turned out to be the dream that they thought it would.  At first she thought that they would adjust to sharing the same space again after all these years.  However, it soon became apparent that the two of them just did things differently.  If she was running the sweeper he would question why she didn't do it this way.  If she was making the beds he would suggest it would work better if she did it this way.  If she was washing clothes he would have an idea for better sorting.  He organized her grocery lists, rearranged her bookshelf, and set up a new bookkeeping system for her checkbook. 

So it was with some feeling of escape that she left one day to get a new perm and some much needed down time at the beauty shop.  The process promised her at least several hours of sympathetic understanding.  Her husband, left to his own devices, decided that he would attempt to alleviate some of the stress and do something to surprise her.  He looked around and thought about all of the work that she did and especially the wonderful meals she prepared.  He felt sure that if her kitchen were just a little more efficient then she wouldn't have to work so hard.  With that, he set to work, emptying every cabinet and drawer and rearranging each item in what he considered a much more organized and efficient manner.  He then wandered off to visit with his friends and tell them how much he had helped his wife.

The perm completed, she arrived home to begin preparing supper.  She opened the cabinet to grab a skillet only to discover it filled with dishes.  She found the skillet finally in the space under the sink.  The spices were now on the canned goods shelf and the canned goods were where the dishes had been.  On and on she went trying to find the items she needed for their meal.  Finally in frustration she took off her apron and settled in the living room, where she waited for his return.  When he came into the room, she eyed him coldly and announced. "You arranged the kitchen to suit you, so start cooking!"

She said they had a lovely meal at the restaurant in town.

God and the Neighbors

When we first moved to our community 40 years ago,  we lived in town, although, even then, we farmed.  We were blessed to find a house in a quiet neighborhood that welcomed us and nurtured us through the early years of our marriage.  When we arrived we were childless but in a couple of years we increased our family with a son.  Within six months of that event, I was hired as the County Extension Agent for Home Economics.  Hubby was already in the process of building a business and farming at night, and soon I was busy with the long hours of an extension agent.  It was a hectic, frantic life that you could only do while young and ignorant.

Our son was a bright, sunny, busy little boy.  He had a cheerful disposition and a busy attitude.  He was quick, light and did I say busy?  We enclosed the backyard for his safety and he climbed the fence before the last section was finished.  We learned that he was impossible to corral into a confined space, so we enlarged his parameters by telling him that he could roam the yards,but not cross a road.  Probably, by today's standards, a solution that would have child services on our case today.  However, for him it worked, in that he knew not to cross a street and endanger himself in traffic and kept him in a controlled space.

What we didn't figure on was that it opened our neighbors up for a Dennis the Menace type invasion.  Our neighbors, like Mr. Wilson in the comic strip, consisted mostly of retired grandparents.  Fortunately they were supremely tolerant of the little boy who felt they were all his favorite friends.  He soon developed a daily routine that called for visits to each home.

 In the morning he shared breakfast with the neighbor behind us.  Mr. V., a retired mechanic, soon discovered that the little boy loved doughnuts.  Before long the little powdered sugar doughnuts became a staple on his wife's grocery list.  After his doughnut, the little Dennis look alike would wander up the street to visit with Mr. G.  Mr. G could be found outside at his picnic table during the days, staying out from under Mrs. G's cleaning and cooking.  Most days, Mr. G would be having a little orange juice as he sat in the shade.  The little boy learned that Mr. G kept his orange juice in a jar in the bushes next to the table.  He couldn't have any of that, but if he went to the door and asked politely, Mrs. G would give him a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator.  Years later he would figure out that Mr. G wouldn't share his juice because there was a little something extra in it. 

He usually skipped the next house because the owner was a retired school principal.  Years of dealing with little boys of all types had given him little tolerance for the antics of a busy, inquisitive menace. Another house yielded a quick golf lesson from a patient, avid golfer who used his back yard to practice chip shots and puts.

If the day got long and a little pick-me-up was needed, he would head for his favorite neighbor, Mr. P.  Mr. and Mrs. P raised five children and were always ready to include a little boy in whatever they were doing.  This included helping Mr. P wash his car every Saturday morning.  An event anticipated only slightly less than birthdays.  Early on Saturday, the little boy would rush through his breakfast and head to Mr. P's house, where he would be supplied with a sponge and bucket.  With total disregard for wayward splashes of sudsy water and errant sprays from the hose, Mr. P would encourage the little boy in helping to wash the car.  His reward would be a piece of hard candy that Mr. P, a rural mailman, would keep for the kids on his route. 

These kindly neighbors provided love and support for a little boy as well as, their slightly overwhelmed parents.  When our daughter was born, they opened their hearts, and homes, to the little girl who faithfully followed her brother everywhere.  They read stories, comforted hurts, patched up quarrels, mediated playground squabbles, watched for potential dangers, and gave many life lessons. 

Someone once asked how on earth we managed during those hectic years.  I thought about the long list of sitters who had come and gone with little impact.  The truth is that my children were raised by God and the Neighbors. 

Thank God for you, Neighbors.

Rural Living in Iowa

I love the section of Iowa that my daughter and her family live in.  We live in a rural area of Kentucky but it's five minutes from the town where hubby works, 7 minutes to the town in the opposite direction, there is a subdivision across the road and one behind us.  Admittedly they are small towns and small subdivisions but then we aren't far from the nearest grocery, fast food, Walmart, and stores.

Where my daughter lives, you look out your window and you see fields.  There are houses and people out there but they aren't close enough to look back at you.  The first thing that strikes me is, that it is dark, I mean really dark, at night.  We don't realize how many lights we see from our farm.  Looking out at home you will see security lights dotting the landscape like fireflies, marking the other homes in view, the reflected glow of the street lights from the nearby communities, the house lights from across the road, and lots of car lights from the traffic.  In Iowa I see stars and velvety darkness.

When we first visited this area I was a little put off by the distances between things.  The sparseness of the population was a little strange to a girl raised in the more densely populated areas of the south.  My daughter's shop is 12 miles from her home, fortunately it is also where her daughter's school is.  Her mother-in-law's home is 10 miles and they are there almost every day since they still farm together.  The nearest small grocery is 12 miles, to get to a larger one is 25 miles, and for a Walmart is 50 miles.  The gas station is 12 miles--I've learned to watch the gas gauge carefully!  She drives 30 miles for horseback lessons, 30 miles for gymnastic classes (in another direction) and 15 miles for pizza from a convenience store.

Which brings up another thing that is fun about the area.  There are no fast food restaurants.  There isn't a McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC, or Burger King on every corner.  Fast food is a treat gotten only in the city.  Thanks to this lack, they have kept the small "mom and pop" diners that I remember from my childhood.  Every little community or sometimes even crossroads has a little restaurant.  The food is good, the service friendly and the customers all friends--or soon will be.  Farmers, housewives, and  workers gather for breakfast, morning coffee, lunch, afternoon coffee, and sometimes dinner to eat, greet and share the news about crops, births, weather, deaths, forecasts, predictions, family, equipment, and more crops, crops, crops. Anyone wandering in is immediately recognized as a stranger and quizzed as to their home, family, and connections, then welcomed into the group.

A friend, whose work takes him to various areas of the country, landed in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.  His first day's meeting ended early and he was faced with a long evening in a motel room before the next day's agenda.  Upon being told that he was only 25 miles from Iowa, a state he had never been in, he decided to drive over the line.  Upon crossing the line he felt he still hadn't seen Iowa until he at least visited a community, so he drove on until he reached a small town.  He then decided that he wouldn't really experience Iowa until he at least spoke to some people so he stopped at the local bar and restaurant.  Once inside he was greeted warmly and soon experienced the quizzing of "where are you from?" and "what brings you here?"  Soon he was chatting away like an old member of the group.   A short time later he found himself playing pool with a thirteen year old boy who was at the diner having supper with his mom.  After an enjoyable evening he drove back to his motel with the cheerful good-by's and well wishes from his new friends ringing in his ears.  He still grins when he talks of his evening.

It's good to know there are still places like that left in the world.

Raccoons

I don't know if there are any statistics to back it up but I believe Iowa must rank number one in the population of raccoons.  It seems that these little masked bandits and the deer benefit greatly from the vast fields of corn and soybeans.  During the time that the corn is ripening in the fields these little animals feast on the bounty of fresh corn.  However, when the corn is just planted or has been harvested they move into the barns for their corn fix. They come with all their kids, cousins, aunts and uncles to see what they can find.  They seems to take great joy in tearing open sacks of mineral, feed, cat food, and dog food .  Their little hands are just perfect for opening doors and bin lids and scattering tools and supplies.  In short they are not welcome guests.

My son-in-law wages a constant battle with the little invaders.  Many a night he and my daughter wait until well after dark and venture out to the barn to surprise their unwanted visitors.  They throw open the barn door, switch on the light and watch the various raccoons scamper to escape.  They then try to kill them with a small rifle.So far the biggest fatality has been the barn roof, although a few raccoons have gone to their reward.

The other afternoon the whole family was gathered in the yard to greet the newest farm member, a lovely small mare recently bought for the granddaughters.  This was her first outing with the little girls on board and we were watching her to see how she behaved.  So far she had been a perfect lady, following neck reining easily, being tolerant of the family dog, ignoring the barn cats, and seeming to enjoy the chatter of the little girls. 

Suddenly I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye.  A large raccoon was moving across the road to the back of the barn, arriving early for the nightly festivities.  About the time I saw the raccoon so did the dog.  She tore off at a dead run for the back of the barn and her enemy.  My daughter then tore off after the dog, knowing from experience that while the dog was big on willingness she wasn't much bigger than the raccoons.  Dog and Coon met in the weed filled ditch behind the barn.  Soon the air was filled with growls, yips, snarls, and shouts, peaking to a crescendo punctuated by squeals of pain.  By now both little girls were screaming for their dog while their dad ran to the house for his gun.  Returning just in time to see the coon retreat across the road he quickly fired three shots, unfortunately missing.

During all the commotion the little mare remained calm and unconcerned.  Seizing the opportunity to snack on the lush lawn, she simply started grazing, while waiting for the excitement to be over and the ride to continue.  Looks like she is going to be a perfect kid horse.

The Haircut

I am visiting my daughter in Iowa for a few days so I had the opportunity to share a family dinner with her in-laws.  My daughter has a lot to live up to, if today's dinner was any example.  Her mother-in-law is a gracious hostess and a wonderful cook.  Today's dinner was grilled rib-eye steaks, baked potatoes, broccoli with cheese sauce, grilled squash, peppers, onions,and mushrooms, corn (in Iowa corn is pretty special, trust me), rolls with homemade strawberry jam  and homemade peach pie. My son-in-law's older sister and her husband were there for the week-end to attend a family wedding, so the conversation was filled with laughter and stories.

After dinner Mary brought in a small box and handed it to my daughter.  She looked inside and started laughing.  Soon everyone had joined in.  Mystified I looked in the box and remained mystified.  Inside were loops of soft blond curls, some short and some measuring 10-12 inches long.  It seems that Mary had been keeping her youngest son's daughters while he helped with the planting.  The visiting children and grandkids usually stay in the finished basement rooms.   The basement is rather flexible with a full kitchen, a large den with a couch,chairs, pool table and a bed and another bedroom.  It also has the small home beauty parlor that Mary used before she quit being a beautician and started work at the local bank.  She still uses this space to give all the family haircuts.

The two little girls had gone to the basement to play and naturally decided to play beautician.  The older girl, aged 6, decided to fix the younger girl's (age 4) hair.  She managed to at least get it wet in the shampoo bowl, although no one is sure if she actually used shampoo.  I'm amazed she didn't paint the room with water using the spray nozzle, and she may have. Then she decided to give her a haircut.  Realizing that everyone wouldn't appreciate her efforts, she then pulled the remaining hair back in a pony tail.  The little girl is gifted with thick, curly hair so Mary, who was busy preparing dinner for the guys, didn't notice anything different.

The parents arrived to take their two sleepy girls back home and quickly bundled them into their car seats for the hour drive to Des Moines.  Arriving home they carried the sleeping girls into the house and put them to bed.  The next morning the mom went in to get them up and saw her youngest for the first time in the bright light.  It evidently wasn't a Hallmark moment.  The report was that she had half a mullet. It seems the haircut was mostly in the center of the back of her head. I can only imagine her horror to see her little girl with half a head of curls. 

It seems that nearly every one of the grandchildren had done this at some time or another, which is what brought on the giggles and laughter.  As one of the older grandchildren had wailed when she had cut her little brother's hair, "It won't stay that way will it!?"  It will grow out, but the mother probably won't recover for a while.

Which is also why my daughter spent an hour drilling into her girls that this was a really, really bad thing to do.  Probably won't work.

It made me feel better to realize I wasn't the only grandparent that had grandchildren that managed to do the most unbelievable things with me standing right there.