My brain just doesn't do numbers. I love words. I love how they sound, what they mean, and what you can do with them. I just love words. Numbers are another story. They never seem to do what I want them to. That's why I keep the farm accounts on Quicken. All I have to do is make sure I enter the numbers right and the computer makes them do their thing. It's genetic. My dad wasn't a number person either. My mother, on the other hand, could make a spreadsheet balance to the penny while carrying on a conversation with a customer. Both my husband and daughter tend to think in numbers. I don't and unfortunately, my son inherited my genes on that one.
When I was in college I had a chemistry teacher that looked a lot like a cheery Santa, but that's where the resemblance ended. I lived in terror of his lightning attacks on hapless students who didn't meet up to his expectations. Although, as he constantly informed us, his expectations were low because he knew we weren't very capable. While returning a quiz we had taken the day before, he roared out to me. "I don't understand it! You should have gotten a A! You worked everything correctly, you used the correct formulas and the proper equations but you still managed to GET THE WRONG ANSWERS!!!! TELL ME THE REASON!" Without pausing, he continued to the amusement of the entire class. "I'll tell you why! You can't add 2 plus 2 without getting 5!!!" Cowering in my seat, I could only nod in agreement. In those days before calculators, I was constantly making silly, careless errors. Numbers just didn't like me. I understood the methods, the reactions, the formulas, I just couldn't make all those numbers behave.
It didn't take me long to decide my career choices probably wouldn't include being an accountant or chemist.
Fortunately, the career I chose let me play with words to my hearts content.
My son, who as I mentioned was the unfortunate recipient of my "no-numbers" gene, was having a rough time with an Algebra assignment while in high school. At the time I was working as a substitute teacher whenever they needed me. It was a standing joke in the teacher's lounge that I was willing and able (especially in English, geography, history and even in Ag) but I was hopeless in teaching a math class unless it was VERY basic!! Still I felt obligated to attempt to help out my struggling son. We managed to wade through most of the problems with some success (as verified by the answers thoughtfully given in the back of the book) but one had just plain stumped us. After trying it several different ways, my son was all for just giving up and leaving it unanswered. I just kept insisting we try one more thing (did I mention that I am also stubborn?) We worked and worked and finally achieved a solution that arrived at the correct answer. I was jubilant. He was just relieved that I would finally let him go to bed.
The next day I was subbing in one of the classes at school. As I made my way down the hall after lunch, the algebra teacher flagged me down from his room. "You helped Mike with is homework didn't you?' he inquired with a laugh. "Why? Weren't the answers correct?' I replied with a little hesitation. "Oh, yes. They were correct. Every one of them. Even that hard one at the end." he answered with a little laugh. "Well, then. What makes you so sure I helped with them?" I asked, a little more sharply. "Because," he said laughing heartily, "In 20 years of teaching algebra I have never seen anyone use that method or logic to get an answer and get it right. I have spent all day trying to duplicate it on the board with my classes. With only limited success, mind you. You are the only person I know that could have created that solution!!" Still laughing he waved me down the hall.
As I hurried on to my own classroom I couldn't decide if I had been complemented or insulted.
Like I said my brain just doesn't do numbers like everyone else.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Pearl Harbor Day: A Day of Remembrance
Today is December 7. It's a day that always stands out in my mind as Pearl Harbor Day. I wasn't even born then but I was raised by the generation that lived through it. In one day their safe, secure world was turned upside down. I don't think any of them ever took their freedoms and secure lives for granted again. They lived their lives in quiet thankfulness that the time of world war and endless battles was over. Although American troops would fight again, (and still do) it never reached the global magnitude of "their" war again. They instilled in us, as children, a deep respect for our military and the men and women that served and continue to serve our country.
A book I just finished reading provided me with thoughts on another side of that fateful war. The book followed the plight of the thousands of Japanese-Americans who were interred in what were basically prisoner of war camps in America. These immigrants had arrived in America for various reasons from being forced labor during the late 1800's to looking for a new life in a free world. Many were first generation Americans, speaking English with a strong accent, but also many were second and third generation Americans who had never seen Japan, spoken Japanese, or known anything but their American lives.
In the aftermath of the vicious bombing of Pearl Harbor, Americans were afraid. They no longer felt that their shores were safe from invasion. They were afraid of being "attacked" from within. How did they separate the "good" Japanese-Americans from those with subversive ties to Imperialist Japan? The answer was, they didn't. They treated them all as the enemy and gathered them up and put them in camps. Horrible? Yes. Understandable? Some. We were at war, something most of us really can't comprehend now. For these Americans (and they were as American as my Swiss immigrant relatives) the war was an entirely different time for them. They spent the war not fighting for their country as many earnestly wished, but waiting behind fences for it to be over.
Things were no different for the thousands of German-Americans who suffered the same incarceration. I wonder how my mother-in-law's parents felt when they read about the round-up of these German-Americans? After all even though they were from Switzerland (the side bordering Germany), they still spoke the language of their youth, German. Would their neighbors turn on them and demand that they be locked up? I'm sure there were some anxious moments.
What happened when the war was over? The detainees went home. No, not to the country of their ethnicity but the country of their hearts--their USA homes. They returned to their old neighborhoods, regained their old professions and started their lives again. Even with the hardships, they were and remained Americans.
We are a multi-cultural and ethnic country. Let us never forget that we are the greater for the total of our parts.
A book I just finished reading provided me with thoughts on another side of that fateful war. The book followed the plight of the thousands of Japanese-Americans who were interred in what were basically prisoner of war camps in America. These immigrants had arrived in America for various reasons from being forced labor during the late 1800's to looking for a new life in a free world. Many were first generation Americans, speaking English with a strong accent, but also many were second and third generation Americans who had never seen Japan, spoken Japanese, or known anything but their American lives.
In the aftermath of the vicious bombing of Pearl Harbor, Americans were afraid. They no longer felt that their shores were safe from invasion. They were afraid of being "attacked" from within. How did they separate the "good" Japanese-Americans from those with subversive ties to Imperialist Japan? The answer was, they didn't. They treated them all as the enemy and gathered them up and put them in camps. Horrible? Yes. Understandable? Some. We were at war, something most of us really can't comprehend now. For these Americans (and they were as American as my Swiss immigrant relatives) the war was an entirely different time for them. They spent the war not fighting for their country as many earnestly wished, but waiting behind fences for it to be over.
Things were no different for the thousands of German-Americans who suffered the same incarceration. I wonder how my mother-in-law's parents felt when they read about the round-up of these German-Americans? After all even though they were from Switzerland (the side bordering Germany), they still spoke the language of their youth, German. Would their neighbors turn on them and demand that they be locked up? I'm sure there were some anxious moments.
What happened when the war was over? The detainees went home. No, not to the country of their ethnicity but the country of their hearts--their USA homes. They returned to their old neighborhoods, regained their old professions and started their lives again. Even with the hardships, they were and remained Americans.
We are a multi-cultural and ethnic country. Let us never forget that we are the greater for the total of our parts.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Thanksgiving on the Farm
I love Thanksgiving. It is the only holiday that doesn't have anything really attached to it but enjoying your family. We don't go to parades, haul everything out for a picnic, hassle over presents...it's just about being with the ones you love. Oh, did I mention that it is also a wonderful excuse to throw out every concept of correct eating and try to cram 364 days of missed calories, forbidden fats and sinful sugars into one meal. A friend recently quoted that the average Thanksgiving meal will have 3000-4500 calories. I did my best. If I didn't meet that goal it wasn't for lack of butter, cream, cream cheese, cheese, eggs and sugar.
Like most women who are hosting the annual feast, I leapt out of bed before daylight to get started on the turkey. My son had lobbied mightily for something other than the traditional bird. "You've always tried to make dinner a celebration of the bounty of our farm, so why turkey? Let's do prime rib, we do, after all, raise beef." I nodded, but reminded him that we no longer raise our own beef for the table, so that meant buying our beef along with everyone else at the grocery. (I'm sorry to say that our shrinking family and growing waistlines mean that it just isn't economical for us to try to use a whole beef at a time.) When he considered the cost of a rib roast for our crew (a price which doesn't really reflect the price that we get at the stockyards for our beef cattle), he decided that maybe he wouldn't be making a trip to the grocery for our dinner. Besides, Hubby and I like turkey--especially the left overs.
While I studied my to do list, like Eisenhower planning D-Day, Hubby wandered through the kitchen. "I'm going to feed." he announced. "How long before dinner?" I glanced up from my studies and waved him out the door, "We are eating at 1:00, so you should have plenty of time."
Farm wives should know better.
The morning passed with a frenzy of cooking, tasting and basting. I was approaching the final countdown when Hubby stuck his head into the kitchen. "When's lunch? We've got one more chore to do if there is time." "As long as it doesn't take long." I muttered as I shuffled casseroles from the counter to the oven. "No problem. We've just got a few calves we need to get up."
Farm wives really should know better.
The guests started to arrive and the house was smelling a lot like a turkey dinner. We all gathered around the counter in the kitchen, catching up on news and enjoying a glass of wine while everything finished up. Finally someone asked where hubby was. "Oh. He's just finishing up a little chore. He'll be here any minute."
Farm wives really should know better.
Time passed and the casseroles went from the oven to the warming drawer and we all had another glass of wine.
The appetizers disappeared and so did the bottle of wine. No Hubby.
Just when I was beginning to wonder if we should go on and eat the kitchen door opens and Hubby appears. It seems that he had just spent the last hour chasing three calves around the field trying to get them rounded up and penned. That was after he had repaired the fence they had knocked down when they escaped from the first time he had penned them. Tired, dirty and frustrated, he greeted his guests and disappeared to clean up.
I opened another bottle of wine and checked the warming drawer.
In a farm wife's life, an hour late for dinner is just about on time.
Farm wives really do know better.
Like most women who are hosting the annual feast, I leapt out of bed before daylight to get started on the turkey. My son had lobbied mightily for something other than the traditional bird. "You've always tried to make dinner a celebration of the bounty of our farm, so why turkey? Let's do prime rib, we do, after all, raise beef." I nodded, but reminded him that we no longer raise our own beef for the table, so that meant buying our beef along with everyone else at the grocery. (I'm sorry to say that our shrinking family and growing waistlines mean that it just isn't economical for us to try to use a whole beef at a time.) When he considered the cost of a rib roast for our crew (a price which doesn't really reflect the price that we get at the stockyards for our beef cattle), he decided that maybe he wouldn't be making a trip to the grocery for our dinner. Besides, Hubby and I like turkey--especially the left overs.
While I studied my to do list, like Eisenhower planning D-Day, Hubby wandered through the kitchen. "I'm going to feed." he announced. "How long before dinner?" I glanced up from my studies and waved him out the door, "We are eating at 1:00, so you should have plenty of time."
Farm wives should know better.
The morning passed with a frenzy of cooking, tasting and basting. I was approaching the final countdown when Hubby stuck his head into the kitchen. "When's lunch? We've got one more chore to do if there is time." "As long as it doesn't take long." I muttered as I shuffled casseroles from the counter to the oven. "No problem. We've just got a few calves we need to get up."
Farm wives really should know better.
The guests started to arrive and the house was smelling a lot like a turkey dinner. We all gathered around the counter in the kitchen, catching up on news and enjoying a glass of wine while everything finished up. Finally someone asked where hubby was. "Oh. He's just finishing up a little chore. He'll be here any minute."
Farm wives really should know better.
Time passed and the casseroles went from the oven to the warming drawer and we all had another glass of wine.
The appetizers disappeared and so did the bottle of wine. No Hubby.
Just when I was beginning to wonder if we should go on and eat the kitchen door opens and Hubby appears. It seems that he had just spent the last hour chasing three calves around the field trying to get them rounded up and penned. That was after he had repaired the fence they had knocked down when they escaped from the first time he had penned them. Tired, dirty and frustrated, he greeted his guests and disappeared to clean up.
I opened another bottle of wine and checked the warming drawer.
In a farm wife's life, an hour late for dinner is just about on time.
Farm wives really do know better.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Burning the Ranger
A couple of our friends have made the trip to Iowa to hunt pheasants on our daughter and son-in-law's farm. The pheasants haven't been particularly plentiful, but the guys assured us that the purpose of the trip was more to spend some quality time with their dogs than the number of birds harvested. We did warn them that Iowa was a bit notional about their weather. The reports home included a few birds gotten and lots of miserable weather. "Man! It is COLD out here!", reported one of the hunters. "I've got on everything in my suitcase." The only real problem was an ice storm that left the ground covered with sharp, ice-covered blades of grass. This caused the dogs severe discomfort and earned them a night in the motel room with warm foot baths.
The hunters treated my daughter's family to a dinner as a thank you for their hospitality. Naturally enough, the conversation turned to the subject of her daddy and some of his more memorable escapades. Hubby picked that time to call and was informed that they were having a wonderful time and had just finished telling the hunters about how he set fire to their new ranger. "Oh, no" hubby moaned, "They'll rib me to death when they get home!" He's right...it's too good a chance to pass up.
Hubby is a neat freak. He just loves to tidy things up (on the farm, not so much in the house). He likes everything put up and picked up. This includes fence-rows, ditches, blown down limbs, and the various odds and ends of things that collect in barns and sheds. His favorite method to get rid of these things is to burn them. There is nearly always a pile of limbs, old pieces of lumber, brush, feed sacks, and so forth ready to burn somewhere on the farm. The man just loves to light that pile and watch it burn. We're used to him and just try to keep an eye on him so he doesn't burn up my favorite yard bench or the magazines I haven't gotten to read yet.
We had made a trip to Iowa not long after our daughter married. We were trying to help the young couple change their house from a bachelor camp to a home. While I worked inside hubby was busy cleaning up the yard and taming some of the landscaping. He was also enjoying playing with the brand new Polaris Ranger that my daughter had bought for her hubby for Valentine's day. My hubby was loving how easy it handled and how fast it would go over all kinds of ground. I could already see a new piece of equipment in our future. Ever so often he would pop into the house and report on his progress with the yard and his excitement with the new ranger.
About mid-afternoon he made one of his pop-in visits that was a little different. The first thing we noticed was a strong smell of burning, then we looked up and saw hubby standing in the door in a pair of scorched coveralls, a charred hat, and no eye-brows. Jumping up in excitement we ran over with exclaims of concern. "Are you alright? Are you burned? What happened?"
It seems that physically he was unharmed but he was more than a little mortified. Bit by bit the story came out. He had been cleaning up a sadly overgrown asparagus bed and decided that instead of just hauling off the load of old stems and brush, he would burn it and get rid of it for good. He piled up a goodly amount and then went back for another load. When he returned he lit the pile and watched it leap into life. He then decided that he would drag the second load from the ranger bed onto the burning fire. He didn't take into consideration the Iowa wind and the very combustible nature of his load. The fire blew into the stems as he was dragging them off the bed of the ranger, leaping up the dead stems and into the very bed of the ranger where they set the whole load on fire!
Hubby, realizing the danger, grabbed his hat and tried to beat the flames and push the burning stems out of the ranger. In the process, he lost a hat, his eyebrows and sadly singed his coveralls, but he did get the debris drug onto the ground. Fortunately he wasn't burned. Unfortunately, he couldn't say the same for the ranger. It wasn't a total loss, since only the bed was damaged, but it sure wasn't new any more. We stood around silently, staring at the blistered and bubbled bed. Looking at his daughter's tear filled eyes, he mumbled "I was only trying to help."
We laugh about it now, but it wasn't too funny to our new son-in-law for quite a while. Our new ranger got put off for some time since we had to purchase a new bed for their ranger.
Our son-in-law has now established a firm rule on the farm...Hubby doesn't get to have any matches!
The hunters treated my daughter's family to a dinner as a thank you for their hospitality. Naturally enough, the conversation turned to the subject of her daddy and some of his more memorable escapades. Hubby picked that time to call and was informed that they were having a wonderful time and had just finished telling the hunters about how he set fire to their new ranger. "Oh, no" hubby moaned, "They'll rib me to death when they get home!" He's right...it's too good a chance to pass up.
Hubby is a neat freak. He just loves to tidy things up (on the farm, not so much in the house). He likes everything put up and picked up. This includes fence-rows, ditches, blown down limbs, and the various odds and ends of things that collect in barns and sheds. His favorite method to get rid of these things is to burn them. There is nearly always a pile of limbs, old pieces of lumber, brush, feed sacks, and so forth ready to burn somewhere on the farm. The man just loves to light that pile and watch it burn. We're used to him and just try to keep an eye on him so he doesn't burn up my favorite yard bench or the magazines I haven't gotten to read yet.
We had made a trip to Iowa not long after our daughter married. We were trying to help the young couple change their house from a bachelor camp to a home. While I worked inside hubby was busy cleaning up the yard and taming some of the landscaping. He was also enjoying playing with the brand new Polaris Ranger that my daughter had bought for her hubby for Valentine's day. My hubby was loving how easy it handled and how fast it would go over all kinds of ground. I could already see a new piece of equipment in our future. Ever so often he would pop into the house and report on his progress with the yard and his excitement with the new ranger.
About mid-afternoon he made one of his pop-in visits that was a little different. The first thing we noticed was a strong smell of burning, then we looked up and saw hubby standing in the door in a pair of scorched coveralls, a charred hat, and no eye-brows. Jumping up in excitement we ran over with exclaims of concern. "Are you alright? Are you burned? What happened?"
It seems that physically he was unharmed but he was more than a little mortified. Bit by bit the story came out. He had been cleaning up a sadly overgrown asparagus bed and decided that instead of just hauling off the load of old stems and brush, he would burn it and get rid of it for good. He piled up a goodly amount and then went back for another load. When he returned he lit the pile and watched it leap into life. He then decided that he would drag the second load from the ranger bed onto the burning fire. He didn't take into consideration the Iowa wind and the very combustible nature of his load. The fire blew into the stems as he was dragging them off the bed of the ranger, leaping up the dead stems and into the very bed of the ranger where they set the whole load on fire!
Hubby, realizing the danger, grabbed his hat and tried to beat the flames and push the burning stems out of the ranger. In the process, he lost a hat, his eyebrows and sadly singed his coveralls, but he did get the debris drug onto the ground. Fortunately he wasn't burned. Unfortunately, he couldn't say the same for the ranger. It wasn't a total loss, since only the bed was damaged, but it sure wasn't new any more. We stood around silently, staring at the blistered and bubbled bed. Looking at his daughter's tear filled eyes, he mumbled "I was only trying to help."
We laugh about it now, but it wasn't too funny to our new son-in-law for quite a while. Our new ranger got put off for some time since we had to purchase a new bed for their ranger.
Our son-in-law has now established a firm rule on the farm...Hubby doesn't get to have any matches!
Friday, November 15, 2013
It Really Was Blake Shelton
Several years ago hubby and I made a trip to Oklahoma where our son was living at the time. He was glad to see us and we looked forward to spending some time catching up. His girlfriend, at the time, was working at a rodeo arena in a small town outside of Stillwater and asked us to be her guests at the rodeo that week-end. The time came and we eagerly put on our jeans and joined them at the arena. We didn't know much about rodeos but enjoyed a fun evening watching the cowboys ride and rope from the glassed in bar overlooking the arena.
The end of the rodeo came and we noticed that a stage had been pulled into the corner of the arena and some musicians were setting up. It was time for the concert portion of the night. In no time the dirt floor in front of the stage was filled with fans waiting for the performers. A tall, nice looking, young man with lots of hair appeared to a good amount of cheering and began to sing. Although I didn't know much about country music, I had raised two kids who loved it. That meant that I had listened to hours of country songs while hauling them around in cars and later riding with them. Soon I was tapping my foot and humming along. "Hey!" I commented, "I've heard that song. Who sings it." The kids looked at me blankly. "He does." they replied.
Now, one thing you have to understand, is that I never know the name of a song or the artist. When we were dating, hubby would call out the artist and song title with the first notes. I couldn't tell you that information when the song was over. I could sing along, and happily did, but never could remember titles or artists.
The performance on the arena floor heated up. Suddenly, I piped up again. "Oh! I know that one! Who sings it!" Again, the deadpan looks. "He does. Blake Shelton." "You mean," I queried as realization began to dawn, "this guy is someone I've actually heard on the radio?" Beaming, as you would when a child finally gets the point, they nodded.
After the performance, the kids announced that since this was the Friday night performance and not the sold out Saturday night event (with another singer that I still have never heard of) they were able to obtain "meet and greet" passes that would allow us to meet the young man. We followed our hostess down a corridor and into a room in the interior of the arena. We were ushered forward and introduced to a very tall young man and a pretty blond girl. He was gracious and I was mostly stupid, telling him that he did a "nice" job. I'm sure he went home and wrote that in his journal!! We did chat for a few minutes and his girlfriend confided that they were engaged and would be getting married in a couple of years when she got her braces off!
Fast forward 10 years. Hubby and I are hooked on watching one of televisions hottest shows, The Voice. Like millions of others we are enchanted by the performances and the laid-back judges, especially the mega-star Blake Shelton. "You know" I ruminated one night, "I think that's the guy we met in Oklahoma." "No Way!" replied my daughter, "No way you have met Blake Shelton!!!!" "Actually, I think so, and I have a signed program to prove it."
Well, it took a little searching but I did find my proof.
It's amazing to realize what a difference 10 years has made. The struggling young artist that was the Friday night entertainment at a rodeo in rural Oklahoma is now one of the biggest stars in the business. You can hardly turn on television or the radio and not hear or see Blake Shelton. Somehow he has maintained his easy, open-hearted candor, and plain folks demeanor that was his hallmark at the time. I remember thinking at our meeting, while he was being very nice to a dithering fool as she blabbed on, that he must have a good mother because he was so well mannered.
I sure am glad that he outgrew his girlfriend before she got out of braces. Miranda Lambert is much better!!
The end of the rodeo came and we noticed that a stage had been pulled into the corner of the arena and some musicians were setting up. It was time for the concert portion of the night. In no time the dirt floor in front of the stage was filled with fans waiting for the performers. A tall, nice looking, young man with lots of hair appeared to a good amount of cheering and began to sing. Although I didn't know much about country music, I had raised two kids who loved it. That meant that I had listened to hours of country songs while hauling them around in cars and later riding with them. Soon I was tapping my foot and humming along. "Hey!" I commented, "I've heard that song. Who sings it." The kids looked at me blankly. "He does." they replied.
Now, one thing you have to understand, is that I never know the name of a song or the artist. When we were dating, hubby would call out the artist and song title with the first notes. I couldn't tell you that information when the song was over. I could sing along, and happily did, but never could remember titles or artists.
The performance on the arena floor heated up. Suddenly, I piped up again. "Oh! I know that one! Who sings it!" Again, the deadpan looks. "He does. Blake Shelton." "You mean," I queried as realization began to dawn, "this guy is someone I've actually heard on the radio?" Beaming, as you would when a child finally gets the point, they nodded.
After the performance, the kids announced that since this was the Friday night performance and not the sold out Saturday night event (with another singer that I still have never heard of) they were able to obtain "meet and greet" passes that would allow us to meet the young man. We followed our hostess down a corridor and into a room in the interior of the arena. We were ushered forward and introduced to a very tall young man and a pretty blond girl. He was gracious and I was mostly stupid, telling him that he did a "nice" job. I'm sure he went home and wrote that in his journal!! We did chat for a few minutes and his girlfriend confided that they were engaged and would be getting married in a couple of years when she got her braces off!
Fast forward 10 years. Hubby and I are hooked on watching one of televisions hottest shows, The Voice. Like millions of others we are enchanted by the performances and the laid-back judges, especially the mega-star Blake Shelton. "You know" I ruminated one night, "I think that's the guy we met in Oklahoma." "No Way!" replied my daughter, "No way you have met Blake Shelton!!!!" "Actually, I think so, and I have a signed program to prove it."
Well, it took a little searching but I did find my proof.
It's amazing to realize what a difference 10 years has made. The struggling young artist that was the Friday night entertainment at a rodeo in rural Oklahoma is now one of the biggest stars in the business. You can hardly turn on television or the radio and not hear or see Blake Shelton. Somehow he has maintained his easy, open-hearted candor, and plain folks demeanor that was his hallmark at the time. I remember thinking at our meeting, while he was being very nice to a dithering fool as she blabbed on, that he must have a good mother because he was so well mannered.
I sure am glad that he outgrew his girlfriend before she got out of braces. Miranda Lambert is much better!!
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Grandma's Apron
I was wandering through a gift shop the other day when my eye was caught by a colorful display of aprons. As I fingered the bright patterned flounces and read the witty sayings my mind was tumbling with memories of the aprons that my grandmother wore.
My daddy's mother was a sturdy farm wife who began every day at 5 am dressed in a dark, serviceable (didn't show dirt) dress, no nonsense shoes (ugly, even to my young eyes) and a clean apron. She didn't have a lot of clothes, in fact, most fit in the big, wooden wardrobe with room for Papaw's clothes too. People didn't have a need for big walk-in closets, you wore what you had until it no longer could be worn, then you replaced it. To keep her clothes from being washed to death at an early age, she covered them with big, voluptuous aprons. These were made of a large square of material gathered onto a waistband that was long enough to tie in the back. They usually were big enough to cover the entire front of her skirt from waist to hem and nearly meeting in the back. The pattern of the material would range from soft faded colors to bright prints, depending on the design of the flour sacks that she sewed them from. (The uses that the frugal farm wife could make of the colorful fabric sacks that flour, feed, and even laundry soap were bought in, is a whole 'nuther story.)
Grandma's apron was so much more than just a garment to keep her dress clean. She used it for literally dozens of purposes throughout her day. In the kitchen it was a quick pot-holder to protect her hand as she scooted a too hot skillet to the back burner or grabbed a pan of biscuits out of the oven. She would give a dish a quick wipe with a corner of the apron before declaring it clean enough for her pile of fluffy mashed potatoes. She would use it to quickly blot her hands when moving from the sink to the counter to the stove. If a guest should arrive, she would anxiously wipe her hands before greeting them, in case a smidgen of flour should be left on them.
The apron was useful out of the kitchen, too, as her chores continued. The corners of the apron could be pulled together to form a sling or basket to carry various objects. It might hold the freshly gathered eggs from the nest discovered, after much searching, behind the hay manger in the barn. It became a basket to hold apples from the tree in the corner of the yard to be baked up into apple dumplings for dinner. On occasion it might become a soft sling for the litter of kittens that needed to be moved to a safer location. Later it might become a sack to hold the small toys that careless children left scattered around the big back porch.
In an emergency, the soft material of that apron could be used to wipe tears from a small face or provide a warm shawl for a chilly child. It could be used as a quick bandage, or if need be, a tourniquet or even to stabilize a broken limb. On a farm, emergencies come when you least expect them and often have to be handled before medical help can arrive.
Sometimes, the apron could be used to express extreme emotion. Like the night that my dad sought his mother out in the kitchen with some momentous news. Drying her hands on her apron, she turned to him, with a "I'm in the middle of dinner, can you hurry up" look on her face. "Mother" he announced, "Thelma and I got married this week-end." Immediately, she threw the apron over her head and began wailing as she staggered to the bench by the back door. "Oh, Sweet Jesus!" she cried, "You are going to Hell for sure!"
You see, my grandmother was a staunch, old time Baptist and my mother belonged to the upstart Christian church in town. Grandma just knew that her son would be corrupted by his wife's heathen ways and stood no chance of getting to Heaven.
Dinner burned up.
Grandma eventually got over her aversion to her new daughter-in-law.
Sort of.
My daddy's mother was a sturdy farm wife who began every day at 5 am dressed in a dark, serviceable (didn't show dirt) dress, no nonsense shoes (ugly, even to my young eyes) and a clean apron. She didn't have a lot of clothes, in fact, most fit in the big, wooden wardrobe with room for Papaw's clothes too. People didn't have a need for big walk-in closets, you wore what you had until it no longer could be worn, then you replaced it. To keep her clothes from being washed to death at an early age, she covered them with big, voluptuous aprons. These were made of a large square of material gathered onto a waistband that was long enough to tie in the back. They usually were big enough to cover the entire front of her skirt from waist to hem and nearly meeting in the back. The pattern of the material would range from soft faded colors to bright prints, depending on the design of the flour sacks that she sewed them from. (The uses that the frugal farm wife could make of the colorful fabric sacks that flour, feed, and even laundry soap were bought in, is a whole 'nuther story.)
Grandma's apron was so much more than just a garment to keep her dress clean. She used it for literally dozens of purposes throughout her day. In the kitchen it was a quick pot-holder to protect her hand as she scooted a too hot skillet to the back burner or grabbed a pan of biscuits out of the oven. She would give a dish a quick wipe with a corner of the apron before declaring it clean enough for her pile of fluffy mashed potatoes. She would use it to quickly blot her hands when moving from the sink to the counter to the stove. If a guest should arrive, she would anxiously wipe her hands before greeting them, in case a smidgen of flour should be left on them.
The apron was useful out of the kitchen, too, as her chores continued. The corners of the apron could be pulled together to form a sling or basket to carry various objects. It might hold the freshly gathered eggs from the nest discovered, after much searching, behind the hay manger in the barn. It became a basket to hold apples from the tree in the corner of the yard to be baked up into apple dumplings for dinner. On occasion it might become a soft sling for the litter of kittens that needed to be moved to a safer location. Later it might become a sack to hold the small toys that careless children left scattered around the big back porch.
In an emergency, the soft material of that apron could be used to wipe tears from a small face or provide a warm shawl for a chilly child. It could be used as a quick bandage, or if need be, a tourniquet or even to stabilize a broken limb. On a farm, emergencies come when you least expect them and often have to be handled before medical help can arrive.
Sometimes, the apron could be used to express extreme emotion. Like the night that my dad sought his mother out in the kitchen with some momentous news. Drying her hands on her apron, she turned to him, with a "I'm in the middle of dinner, can you hurry up" look on her face. "Mother" he announced, "Thelma and I got married this week-end." Immediately, she threw the apron over her head and began wailing as she staggered to the bench by the back door. "Oh, Sweet Jesus!" she cried, "You are going to Hell for sure!"
You see, my grandmother was a staunch, old time Baptist and my mother belonged to the upstart Christian church in town. Grandma just knew that her son would be corrupted by his wife's heathen ways and stood no chance of getting to Heaven.
Dinner burned up.
Grandma eventually got over her aversion to her new daughter-in-law.
Sort of.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Peeing on the Fence
Fall break for the boys coincided with a spell of beautiful fall weather. It was a perfect time for the annual walnut gathering. Each year the boys harvest the bounty of the walnut trees that grow all over the farm. The walnuts are then sold to a local commercial dealer to become the delicious black walnuts that show up in Christmas candies and cakes.
The boys arrived and were soon scurrying around gathering up feed sacks to hold the walnuts, baling twine to tie the sacks, buckets for collecting, and a couple of chunks of firewood to toss into the trees to hopefully knock the bounty down. We set off for a promising trio of trees that grew in the fence line just behind the barn. The first stop was to pick up walnuts on the side of the fence with the bred heifers. We drove the ranger down the fence and soon everyone was tossing walnuts into the buckets. The heifers seeing their usual feed wagon and buckets galloped over to investigate. There is probably nothing more curious than a cow. We were soon pushing cows away with one hand while we grabbed walnuts with the other.
The boy's new puppy, which had joined us for the afternoon, wasn't sure whether to run or attack. It wasn't long until she had backed into the high-tensile fence, touching the one strand that was hot with electricity. There was a pop of electricity and with a squeal she jumped back, bumping a curious heifer in the nose. The heifer then jumped back and knocked over a half filled bucket. The boys started yelling and chasing the cows away from the puppy and scattered walnuts. When things quieted down, the boys decided they could do just as well on the other side of the fence.
The walnut gathering continued without incident once we were separated from our audience of cows. It wasn't long until the little boys became bored with the job and started looking for more entertainment. For a while we kept them busy tossing a stick into the trees to try to know down more walnuts, but that soon dulled. I had my back to them, filling my bucket when I heard the older one say to the younger, "Let's pee on the fence." "NOOO!" I yelled, realizing that the fence had a hot wire and if they hit it right the electricity would travel up their stream with shocking results.
Every farmer has a horror story about this electrifying event happening. I haven't ever found one that admits to actually doing it, but they all swear that they know someone who did. I'm a girl. We girls just don't have a problem with such an accident. We are physically unable to accomplish it. (I also suspect girls probably wouldn't think to try it!)
It seems that the guys in the tobacco patch, bored with the job of cutting or topping, had been entertaining the boys with stories of such activities. Being little they had no real comprehension of what would happen and decided to try the feat themselves. My teen-aged grandson and I explained that this would result in great pain and probably a loss of future children (my teen's contribution). Satisfied that we had squelched that idea we returned to the job at hand.
A while later, I caught a flash out of the corner of my eye. Turning I saw the older of the little boys attempting to spray the fence behind me. Lunging I grabbed him before he had managed to make contact. Startled, I shouted, "Didn't you understand that it was going to hurt like crazy if you hit it?" He shrugged and wandered off. Before long, we caught him trying it again, obviously deciding that the guys in the tobacco patch were much smarter than a grandmother and older brother. By now, both my grandson and I were yelling at the obstinate kid and the walnuts were beginning to glisten in the sunlight from the spray. (Where on earth did that little kid get so much water!)
Finally, in total frustration I threw up my hands and told my oldest to just hush and quit yelling at him. "If he wants to do it then he will. If he manages to hit it solid he probably won't die from it, so just let him alone. However, I'm not picking up wet walnuts and staying to watch the fireworks!" With that I picked up my bucket and started walking to the house.
It wasn't long until the boys followed me up to the house--no screams, so I assume he wasn't successful.
I'm not sure I'll survive these three boys.
Friday, October 11, 2013
The Blitz
The two year old granddaughter has been visiting for the day and the house has exploded with toys. Play dishes are stacked on the coffee table (sort of like the real dishes in the sink) and cows and tractors are scattered over the floor. It is amazing how much clutter a little one can make.
When my two were little we lived in a little house in town. We didn't have much room but we made use of every inch. The basement wasn't a fancy living area but a utilitarian space for the washer and dryer, deep freeze, jars of canning, tools, and storage of various boxes of forgotten belongings. Lacking a room to use as a den we lived in the large living room upstairs. That meant that it served as playroom, family room, and entertainment area for company. Sometimes this worked and sometimes it didn't.
Even though the kids had a bedroom for their toys it seemed that they would soon be scattered in heaps and piles around the living room. Coloring books and crayons would spill off the little table in the corner while sleeping bags or blankets would be thrown in front of the television. Dolls and stuffed bears shared the chair by the window while the couch would hold swords and baseball gloves. Tractors, balers, trucks and cars would peek out from under the furniture while toy pots and pans adorned the surfaces of end tables. Adding to the kids things would be an afghan that I was working on or a stack of papers that Hubby was dealing with. In short, it usually looked like a family was living there. Most of the time it didn't bother me.
However, when we had company, I felt, as the Extension Agent for Home Economics, my house should look like no one lived there. This worked fine when I planned to entertain, since like most women, I would spent a week cleaning the house like it was going to be inspected by an irritated drill sergeant. The moments that turned my heart into a beating drum were the ones that started with a phone call. "Hello? We were out for a drive and since we were in the neighborhood we thought we would see if you were home. " Gasp! "Wonderful! You'll be here in 10 minutes? Great." Even better was when you looked out the window to see a car turning in the drive and know you had only a minute or two to get ready.
That's when I would turn to the family and yell "BLITZ!!" With a leap everyone would jump up and grab the closest pile of stuff. I would run to the basement and grab a couple of laundry baskets. Running back upstairs I would toss them into the middle of the living room floor. By then Hubby and the kids were ready with armloads of toys, papers, blankets and crayons. In they would go into the basket while everyone rushed for another load. Within minutes we had the room empty of all the offending clutter. Hubby would then grab the baskets and run to the basement while I plumped pillows and wiped faces. Then we would open the door, poised like Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver, (perfect parents from an old TV show, for you youngsters) welcoming our guests into the immaculate living room.
Of course, it took us days to find the bills Hubby was working on or the pieces to the puzzle the kids were putting together.
When my two were little we lived in a little house in town. We didn't have much room but we made use of every inch. The basement wasn't a fancy living area but a utilitarian space for the washer and dryer, deep freeze, jars of canning, tools, and storage of various boxes of forgotten belongings. Lacking a room to use as a den we lived in the large living room upstairs. That meant that it served as playroom, family room, and entertainment area for company. Sometimes this worked and sometimes it didn't.
Even though the kids had a bedroom for their toys it seemed that they would soon be scattered in heaps and piles around the living room. Coloring books and crayons would spill off the little table in the corner while sleeping bags or blankets would be thrown in front of the television. Dolls and stuffed bears shared the chair by the window while the couch would hold swords and baseball gloves. Tractors, balers, trucks and cars would peek out from under the furniture while toy pots and pans adorned the surfaces of end tables. Adding to the kids things would be an afghan that I was working on or a stack of papers that Hubby was dealing with. In short, it usually looked like a family was living there. Most of the time it didn't bother me.
However, when we had company, I felt, as the Extension Agent for Home Economics, my house should look like no one lived there. This worked fine when I planned to entertain, since like most women, I would spent a week cleaning the house like it was going to be inspected by an irritated drill sergeant. The moments that turned my heart into a beating drum were the ones that started with a phone call. "Hello? We were out for a drive and since we were in the neighborhood we thought we would see if you were home. " Gasp! "Wonderful! You'll be here in 10 minutes? Great." Even better was when you looked out the window to see a car turning in the drive and know you had only a minute or two to get ready.
That's when I would turn to the family and yell "BLITZ!!" With a leap everyone would jump up and grab the closest pile of stuff. I would run to the basement and grab a couple of laundry baskets. Running back upstairs I would toss them into the middle of the living room floor. By then Hubby and the kids were ready with armloads of toys, papers, blankets and crayons. In they would go into the basket while everyone rushed for another load. Within minutes we had the room empty of all the offending clutter. Hubby would then grab the baskets and run to the basement while I plumped pillows and wiped faces. Then we would open the door, poised like Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver, (perfect parents from an old TV show, for you youngsters) welcoming our guests into the immaculate living room.
Of course, it took us days to find the bills Hubby was working on or the pieces to the puzzle the kids were putting together.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Tagging Calves
It's been a busy summer but things are beginning to slow down a bit, so we can catch up on a few of the chores that got put off in the rush. The mama cows have been doing their job with only a little help from the men and we have a fine crop of fall calves running around in the fields. To make keeping up with the records on these babies easier, each calf is usually tagged with an ear-tag that corresponds to its mama's ear-tag. Since we raise Angus cattle and they are all black, it's a little hard to tell one calf from another unless you do something. In the rush of late summer hay and tobacco cutting we are woefully behind in tagging.
Hubby and son decided that it was time to sort this mess out before it got worse.
When the babies are newborn, it's not a real problem. The little fellows follow close to their mama and it's easy to see who belongs to who. It's also easy to grab the little ones and quickly put a big yellow tag in their ear.
However........
Hubby and son stood at the fence looking over the fine crop of calves. "Ummm. Some of them have a little growth on them." muttered son. "Not a problem. You can handle it." reassured Hubby. "Have you got the tagger?", queried son. "It's in the ranger, ready to go. Let's get started." affirmed Hubby.
They started for the field. The plan was for Hubby to drive the ranger until they identified a baby needing a tag. Hubby would then drive the ranger next to the calf, son would jump out and grab the baby, holding it until Hubby could get out and tag the calf. Easy enough when the calf is a week or two old. Unfortunately, some of these "babies" now weighed close to 200 pounds--son weighs about 180 pounds. Let the games begin!
Hubby drove off and had soon spotted a calf. He eased up beside the calf, who is now on high alert, and yells "grab him son!" Calf and son both leap at the same time. Son grabs frantically and feels his hands slide down the smooth back of the fleeing calf. Landing on his hands and knees he straightens up and brushes futilely at the grass stains on his jeans. "You've got to move quicker next time." encourages Hubby. "Uh huh" mutters son.
Soon they are approaching another calf--another near miss. "Son, you need to go for the head." instructs Hubby. "Well, Dad, that's the part that's leaving first." retorts son.
The next try goes better with son getting a better grip. However, they are pretty evenly matched and it becomes a bit of a struggle. Calf is determined to leave and Son is try to flip him over so he can hold him on the ground. Hubby jumps into the fray and grabs for an ear to tag it. About that time the calf gives another lunge and throws Son. Hubby then loses the grip on the tagger and calf and tag part company. Son looks up and shakes his head. "At least the tagger came loose or we'd be chasing the calf down to get the tagger back."
The tagging continues with lots of mutters and oaths with Hubby and Son slowly getting the job done. As the afternoon continues, tempers get a little short. Finally, they approach a late calf that is still little enough to grab easily. Son corners the little fellow and reaches out to grab him. The calf, sensing that he's trapped wheels quickly and makes a dash for freedom. Son grabs him across the chest and slips his knee behind him to keep him still. Bucking and squirming the little calf wiggles lose and heads between Son's legs. Trying to keep from letting him go, Son squeezes his legs together and effectively makes a head catch, just like a cattle chute. "Tag him Dad!" Son yells. Hubby jumps in and swiftly tags the bellowing baby.
Hubby steps back, takes one look at his son and starts to laugh. The calf had evidently been in a fresh pile of manure and in the excitement had probably added a little of his own. In his dash for freedom through son's legs, he had effectively squeegeed himself clean on son's jeans. Son took a tentative step and realized that he was saturated to the skin. "Son," murmurs Hubby, "I think maybe we've done enough for tonight. Why don't you head to the house."
Son looked up sadly, "I would, but I'm pretty sure my wife won't let me in!"
We should make washing machine commercials.
Hubby and son decided that it was time to sort this mess out before it got worse.
When the babies are newborn, it's not a real problem. The little fellows follow close to their mama and it's easy to see who belongs to who. It's also easy to grab the little ones and quickly put a big yellow tag in their ear.
However........
Hubby and son stood at the fence looking over the fine crop of calves. "Ummm. Some of them have a little growth on them." muttered son. "Not a problem. You can handle it." reassured Hubby. "Have you got the tagger?", queried son. "It's in the ranger, ready to go. Let's get started." affirmed Hubby.
They started for the field. The plan was for Hubby to drive the ranger until they identified a baby needing a tag. Hubby would then drive the ranger next to the calf, son would jump out and grab the baby, holding it until Hubby could get out and tag the calf. Easy enough when the calf is a week or two old. Unfortunately, some of these "babies" now weighed close to 200 pounds--son weighs about 180 pounds. Let the games begin!
Hubby drove off and had soon spotted a calf. He eased up beside the calf, who is now on high alert, and yells "grab him son!" Calf and son both leap at the same time. Son grabs frantically and feels his hands slide down the smooth back of the fleeing calf. Landing on his hands and knees he straightens up and brushes futilely at the grass stains on his jeans. "You've got to move quicker next time." encourages Hubby. "Uh huh" mutters son.
Soon they are approaching another calf--another near miss. "Son, you need to go for the head." instructs Hubby. "Well, Dad, that's the part that's leaving first." retorts son.
The next try goes better with son getting a better grip. However, they are pretty evenly matched and it becomes a bit of a struggle. Calf is determined to leave and Son is try to flip him over so he can hold him on the ground. Hubby jumps into the fray and grabs for an ear to tag it. About that time the calf gives another lunge and throws Son. Hubby then loses the grip on the tagger and calf and tag part company. Son looks up and shakes his head. "At least the tagger came loose or we'd be chasing the calf down to get the tagger back."
The tagging continues with lots of mutters and oaths with Hubby and Son slowly getting the job done. As the afternoon continues, tempers get a little short. Finally, they approach a late calf that is still little enough to grab easily. Son corners the little fellow and reaches out to grab him. The calf, sensing that he's trapped wheels quickly and makes a dash for freedom. Son grabs him across the chest and slips his knee behind him to keep him still. Bucking and squirming the little calf wiggles lose and heads between Son's legs. Trying to keep from letting him go, Son squeezes his legs together and effectively makes a head catch, just like a cattle chute. "Tag him Dad!" Son yells. Hubby jumps in and swiftly tags the bellowing baby.
Hubby steps back, takes one look at his son and starts to laugh. The calf had evidently been in a fresh pile of manure and in the excitement had probably added a little of his own. In his dash for freedom through son's legs, he had effectively squeegeed himself clean on son's jeans. Son took a tentative step and realized that he was saturated to the skin. "Son," murmurs Hubby, "I think maybe we've done enough for tonight. Why don't you head to the house."
Son looked up sadly, "I would, but I'm pretty sure my wife won't let me in!"
We should make washing machine commercials.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Play Ball
It was approaching dusk and the two little girls were burning off a little energy before bedtime. The youngest was reaching the frustration stage with her hula hoop when the older one ran by with a plastic ball and bat, "Lets play ball!" Hula hoop forgotten they ran to the grassy area beside the barn just in time to meet their dad coming in from evening chores in the barn. "Pitch for us daddy! Pitch for us!!" Grinning he agreed. Mom wandered over from watering the flower bed to watch.
The oldest daughter grabbed the bat and took her batting stance. Back straight, knees bent, elbows out. Daddy wound up for the pitch and lobbed one over the "plate". With a mighty swing she blasted the ball past her daddy, beyond mom and into the gravel in front of the shed, where it was neatly fielded by the Australian Shepherd. "Run! Run!" shouted her daddy. "Where??" she responded looking around the grassy area. "Just pick a spot for bases." responded her parents. So off she ran, touching the light pole and yelling "first", high-fiving her mom and yelling "second", smacking the old maple tree and calling out "third". Her sister cheered her into home, wanting her turn at bat.
Soon a spirited ballgame was taking place with the little girls taking turns at bat and mom serving as cheerleader and second base. Lexi, the shepherd, scurried happily around, chasing down the balls. There was a slight hitch since she would only return them to mom and only then after calls and begging, but then mom would toss them to dad and the game would continue. The yard rang with cheers, yells, and laughter, with daddy laughing and mom cheering the little girls on as they ran happily around the "bases".
The game ended, with the full moon beginning to show in the early evening sky, when the dog grew tired of running after the ball and decided to keep it. In high spirits the girls gathered up their toys and went to the house to begin preparations for bath time. Mom and dad smiled at each other and wondered why they didn't stop more often to just enjoy the life they worked so hard to build for their family.
Mom and dad walked hand and hand to the house feeling satisfied with their time with their children. Sometimes, we have to remember that children need nurturing as much as the flowers in their beds and the calves in the barn.
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