Mother's Laughter

Mother's Day is a bittersweet time when you reach our age.  We are proud of our own adventure into motherhood and rejoice in the mothers of our grandchildren.  However, most of us have already faced that painful moment when we must let our own mothers go.  I was 20 years old when my mother died, barely an adult and married for one year.  It was a very hard time in my life, for I still needed her guidance and strength (although I doubt we ever outgrow that need).  I wanted to write a very moving and sentimental piece about her, but I found that my memories didn't conform to the idea of the wise, wonderful, patient, ever suffering picture of movie motherhood. 

Don't get me wrong, she was all of those things and more.  She was always there with wise insight into my problems, patient endurance of my woes and triumphs, encouragement, support and strength.  I relied on those things and I expected a mother to provide them.  What surprised me and stayed in my memories were the times when I saw her as a person, not just my mother.

I can see her now, gathered in the living room with her best friends, having an afternoon cocktail and telling tall tales.  Their laughter would fill the house as they shared stories.  Humor was their way of dealing with frustrations and problems that led other women to depression,  anger, drug or alcohol; abuse or divorce.  Yes, those things happened in those days but they weren't as openly discussed.  To them it was better to laugh than to cry.  Not a bad philosophy. 

She loved people---all people.  She and daddy, always gregarious, surrounded themselves with friends and acquaintances from all walks of life.  In a time when color lines were drawn with a straight line, she had friends on both sides.  In a totally Protestant county she became friends with the Catholic priest in the little missionary Catholic church.  When she organized a work party to paint the Sunday School room she taught in at the Christian church, the only Jewish family in town turned out to help her.  Her desk, as the clerk of the local Kentucky Utilities office and later in her flower shop, was always a gathering place for people just wanting to say "hi" and visit a little.  Even my friends would flock to our house to be encouraged by her interest and humor.  I am convinced that I only got my Hubby because she was already married.  So he did the best he could with second best and hoped that I would grow up like her. 

Always a person with an outgoing personality and love of people, she also was a very giving person.  A friend lost a daughter, their only child, in a tragic accident.  For days, Mother stayed with her, giving her the strength she needed to lean on.  She would give calm advice without pushing,  encourage her to make decisions without demands, sympathy without maudlin grief, and steadfast friendship.  Then she would return to our house and cry her grief and heartbreak for the child, she too had loved. 

In a time when it was all June and Ward Cleaver and parents didn't show much attraction to their spouses, I often saw my parents as affectionate and loving toward each other, as well as us.  My dad would spend hours sitting on the couch, reading a book and rubbing her feet, while she read her own book.  (I guess that's where I get my love of reading and foot rubs).  Occasionally, they would pause and share a moment of their day or something funny that just occurred to them.  They frequently gave each other hugs and even occasionally held hands. 

She was totally exasperated by her own mother.  Different as day and night the two rarely agreed on anything except their love for each other.  Although, they could keep that hidden pretty well. It was an eye opening experience to see her trying to deal with the demands and interference of my very domineering grandmother.  Watching her, I came to realize that even if you don't agree it doesn't mean you don't care.  I saw her stifle her irritation and cheerfully do the thousand and one demands that my grandmother could dream up.  I only realized the depth of my mother's frustration, when in an unguarded moment she confided, that her biggest fear was that she would grow old and her children would dread getting up in the morning because they had to deal with their mother.

In my mind I see her laughing because that's how I remember her.  Laughing with us as we told of our school days, laughing with daddy in the kitchen, laughing with Aunt Wickie as they told probably unprintable tales, laughing with groups of friends, both men and women, laughing with customers in her flower shop or just sharing a quiet laugh with her family.

Not a bad way to be remembered.....laughing.

Labor Tales

This has been a bumper year for babies, both farm and friends.  It seems like everyday I hear of another family welcoming a new member.  All these babies have started me thinking about that wondrous process that makes you a mother---labor.  I saw a quote on Facebook this morning that gave me a giggle...."If Motherhood was supposed to be easy, it wouldn't have started with Labor!"

It seems that whenever women are together, especially if one is either pregnant, wants to be pregnant, or has been pregnant, the conversation will turn to their labor and delivery.  Some of the stories I hear could be a really good form of birth control.  These tales of nightmare deliveries would certainly make me reconsider the idea of becoming a mother.  Unfortunately, you usually don't hear these stories until it's too late to back out!

I walked into one of these conversations the other day.  One young woman was telling another, about taking labor classes with her husband and how much help he was going to be.  "He's my coach through the whole process." she proclaimed proudly. "He will tell me when to breathe, when to push, and keep me focused and calm."  I just stared at her.  I couldn't help but wonder to myself, "and he knows what about having a baby!"  The other mother gushed,  "My husband did the same for me.  He was wonderful.  He says I cursed him and fought him, but I didn't.  He just tells people that."  Shaking my head, I wandered on.

My babies were born on the beginning edge of the "lets involve hubby in as much of this process as we can" phase of childbirth.  Before this point hubby spent the hours of labor and delivery either sitting in a waiting room, sharing stories with other dads, or if they were lucky, in a bar sharing stories and a drink.  When the baby was born they declared themselves worn out and went home to bed.  The mothers then stayed in the hospital for a week, pampered by the nurses, with a full staff to care for the baby, while she slept and recovered.  I know, old fashioned, and totally wrong by today's standards but you have to admit it has it's good points!

Forty years ago, we young mothers were just getting on the bandwagon of natural childbirth and all it entailed.  Breast feeding I was all for......hubby in on the delivery, I wasn't so sure of.  I had seen him deliver lots of calves and I was pretty darn sure I didn't want him anywhere near me at that time!  I could just hear him yelling, "Alright!  Let's get those pulling chains and get this little fellow on the ground!"  In the end we compromised,  He would stay through labor, but not the delivery room.  (Trust me the compromise was with my pregnant friends, hubby wanted nothing to do with the delivery!  He liked the sharing stories in the bar idea.)

The time came and we started pestering the doctor about going to the hospital with the first twinge.  He finally got tired of the calls and sent us on to worry the hospital staff instead of him.  We arrived and were escorted to our own private little room, equipped with a television with cable tv.  Pretty nice!  Something to keep the little mama's mind off her pains.  We settled in and hubby grabs the remote and asks, gently, "What do you want to watch?".  "Oh, I don't care.  You pick."  I replied with a squirm.  Which just goes to show that a little pain makes you stupid.    Hubby, ecstatic with the cable, (we didn't have it at home) found a series of ballgames to keep him entertained.  I then endured six hours of nonstop sports.

The nurses would wander in to check our progress and I would clutch their hands and beg, pitifully,  "Is it time yet?"  They would pat my leg sympathetically, and murmur, "Maybe another quarter."

Our son was eventually born and I eventually got control of the remote! 

The bar idea still has its good points.

The Garden Wars

I expect reality TV to be knocking on my door any day.  I have seen shows about storage locker wars, kitchen wars, and even fashionista wars, but they are missing out on the on going, great Garden Wars.  This annual event occurs each spring as Hubby and I plant the garden.  Trust me, it is reality at it's rawest!

First, the cast of characters.  Hubby, who does the plowing, disking, and tilling and yours truly, who does the weeding, picking and canning.  Neither of us really like to garden.  I put yard and garden chores somewhere between mopping floors and polishing silver.  A chore that has to be done but not one I really look forward to.  For Hubby, it is a chore that simply takes time out of the day that he needs to be doing something important--like farming!  Yet, neither of us will give up and just agree to not put out a garden. 

The wars begin early in the spring when Hubby decides to plow the garden patch.  He figures that as long as he has gone to the trouble to hitch up the plows he might as well plow!  So he proceeds to plow all available space, which is about 3 times the size of the garden I think we need or can care for!  I have been known to stand in the unplowed space and dare him plow me under.  This year he plowed while I wasn't home--we have lots of garden space.

Earlier, the boys spent an afternoon helping Papa plant the cool weather crops of cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower and onions.  We had already burned the lettuce bed and it was soon sowed and covered with tobacco canvas.  Growls and laughter accompanied this in about equal proportions.  The kids enjoying playing in the dirt with little regard for the little niceties like spacing or rows.  While Hubby attempted to make them perform to his standards (or maybe the standards of the coffee group).

Yesterday it was my turn.  The remaining space had been disked to a lovely looseness and it was time to plant the warm weather crops of tomatoes, eggplant, squash, cucumbers, peppers, beans and corn.  While Hubby was gathering the hoes, water, seed, sticks and string, I wandered over to our son who was working on a tractor in front of the barn.  "Don't you want to help us?"  I queried.  He looked at me in disbelief.  "Sorry.  My pay grade doesn't go that high.  I would need hazardous duty pay to enter that garden."  I laughed, "Oh, it's not that bad.  We're not going to fight this year.  I promise."  He just shook his head and kept on working. It's odd, what your children think of you. 

Hubby returned and I trotted over to help lay out the first row of tomatoes.  He tied a length of baling twine to one stick and I took the other end and a stick and trudged through the loose soil to the other side of the garden.  "How far apart do you want the rows?"  he yelled, all the while driving his stake into the ground at the distance he had already determined. 

Let the wars begin!

"Well,"  I hollered back, "You know those tomatoes will get pretty big and they are going to grow right up to the broccoli and cauliflower that you have already planted."  "Yes, but broccoli and cauliflower will be through and ready to be tilled up by the time they do."  Score:  One for him.

You see, the substance of our war is spacing and quantity.  He does all the tilling.  He has a big ass tiller that he loves.  He wants the rows to be set so he can make one pass down a row and be done with that row and on to the next.  This works great when the plants are small.  They grow until the row is too narrow for the tiller about the same time that he gets super involved in summer farm work.  Thus I wind up with a hard choice.  Pick the produce in weeds or weed it myself.  I DO NOT like to hoe.  I have tried tilling it myself but after I hit a clod and the tiller got away from me and took out half a row of beans with me flopping along behind it before it hit another clod and lurched back into the middle, I have been banned from the tiller.

My solution is to plant the rows far enough apart that the tiller will fit between the mature rows.  After all, he has plowed half the farm.  We have plenty of room.  Except, the early tillings will take two or three passes down a row.  Hubby doesn't approve.

The tomatoes are first.  "How far apart do you want the holes?"  I indicate about 3 feet to allow for enough space to get between the mature plants to pick.  He digs the first two holes and I beam in approval.  I bend over and start the process of placing the plants in the hole, watering, and covering.  Moving on to the next hole and the next, thinking, "Score:  One for me."  Then I noticed a strange thing.  The holes were getting closer together.  By the time he had finished the row, the holes had shrunk to about a foot apart.  "No, no", I shout,  "they have to be further apart!"  He obligingly makes the next hole further, but does nothing about the intervening holes.  Score: another for him.

After the plants are all set, we come to the bean rows.  Now the challenge is not only to get the rows far enough apart to till and pick, but also to keep him from planting enough rows for six families.  This time I win the number of rows because he sent me for the seed and I only bought enough for four rows.  (Which will still yield about 100 quarts of beans or more.)  I compromise with a promise of a late crop to be planted later.  I think the man believes we will starve without a basement full of beans.   Score:  One for me.

By the time we finish the beans and corn I discover he has outsmarted me and maybe himself.  As we marked off the rows with our sticks and twine he has been gradually moving the stakes, on his side of the garden, closer together.  The result is a slightly herring-bone pattern to our rows.  That should make tilling fun!  I suspect we both lost a score on that one.

I think the Garden Wars this year were a draw.  We both won and little and lost a little.  As we unkinked our backs and walked through the sunset to the back porch, we both felt the satisfaction of completing another planting with only minor blood loss.  As we retired to the rockers with a well deserved cold beer a voice drifted across the lawn, "Is it safe to join you?"  Our son peeked around a corner, "Just wanted to be sure the fireworks were over." 

Yep.  Another episode of Garden Wars is finished.

Wandering with Granddaddy

My dad would have been right at home heading over the mountains into Kentucky with Daniel Boone.  It's entirely possible that a grandparent or two back that is exactly what happened.  I can certainly envision his ancestor waving gaily to the wife and kids as he headed off to enjoy exploring the unknown.  My dad could relate.

Nothing was more fun to him than driving around exploring the not so traveled path.  Always gregarious and interested in people he would take off and wander happily from little community to little community.  Lunch time would find him sitting in the local diner or restaurant with the locals enjoying a blue-plate special and gossip.  Before long he would have directions to a favorite fishing spot, a lead on some great antique "finds", a little known historical site or just a great view. He would then climb back in his vehicle and, waving to his new friends, drive on.

The wanderlust would often come on him suddenly and he would announce that anyone who was ready in 30 minutes could join him.  Mom, never one to be left behind, kept a small suitcase packed with overnight supplies ready at all times.  I suspect they were the inventors of the phrase "There's Life after Kids" as, after we left home,  they no longer had to work around our plans in order to take off for a week-end.  They would return home relaxed, full of the places they had been and what they had seen.  They might have wandered into other states or only one county over--you never knew.

After mother died, Daddy wandered alone or occasionally with a like minded friend, but his heart wasn't in it.  Then he moved to the farm, and discovered a new generation to indoctrinate into exploring the back roads and byways.  The kids found this uninhibited, unplanned approach to travel vastly different from our very scheduled and structured trips and utterly wonderful.  With absolute delight they would pile into the cab of his pickup and drive out of the driveway.  The adventure would start when they reached the highway and Daddy would turn to them and ask, "Which way?"  With no more plan in mind than the view from the next curve they would happily set off.

They wandered the small towns and back roads.  Sometimes they lunched in little cafes, sometimes they ate cheese and crackers along the roadside.  They visited historical markers and learned a great deal of the history of the early settlers.  They learned to whittle with old-timers on the porches of feed stores and absorbed stories of a vanishing way of life.  They played with kids in small parks while Granddaddy visited in the shade, and learned to make friends easily.  They poked about in old barns full of junk or "antique" stores and learned about the items of a life they would never know. 

At night they would stay in a small town motel....or not.  Daddy was just as likely to head back the little roads until he found a field bordering a creek and just camp (mostly without permission or even the knowledge of the owner--however, if an owner was available, they assured me they did ask!)  His idea of camping was a little different than most.  His favorite mode of travel was a pickup truck with a topper on the back.  This allowed him to stow a couple of lawn chairs, a fishing rod, maybe an old mattress, a few furniture pads (left over from his furniture store days.) and a supply of rations. 

A couple of cans of soda would be stashed in the creek to cool, while the kids were set to gathering up firewood for their campsite.  Soon, he would have the kids fishing or playing in the shallows of the creek while he built  a campfire. Depending on the success of their last grocery stop, supper might range from hamburgers and pork and beans to Vienna sausage and crackers.  Generally followed by a whole bag of marshmallows burned to a crispy black. 

Then as dusk would fall, the small campfire would be augmented with the branches and chunks of dead wood until it reached bonfire proportions.  Settling back on the thick furniture pads they would watch the sparks rise up to the stars and listen to the sounds of the night.  Eventually, Daddy would start with, "Have I ever told you about....."  The stories of his childhood, historic characters, some not-so-historic characters and just plain tall tales would continue until eyes started to close.  Then he would load the kids into the back of the truck and settle them for the night to dream of the next day's adventures.

Every kid should be so lucky to have a wandering granddaddy.  

Derby Day

The first Saturday in May, we Kentuckians celebrate an extra holiday--Derby Day.  As one wag put it:  Kentucky...the only place where people party 2 weeks for a 2 minute horserace.

Derby in Kentucky only takes second place to New Year's Eve--and the parties are a lot bigger at Derby.

Even as a child I was infected by the excitement of Derby.  One of the only games I remember playing as a child.  was a board game that pitted past Triple Crown winners.  You would spin and move your horse toward the winners circle.  The horses I remember were Citation, War Admiral, Whirlaway, and Count Fleet.  You'll have to do the math to figure out my age!

Each year one of the companies that sold pipe tobacco held a contest where you name a future Derby winner.  Race horses are named with an attempt to use a reference to both sire and dam.  You have a limited number of letters and spaces, so often the names run together with no spaces.  The contest gave you a sire and dam and you had to come up with the best name. ( For example Mine That Bird, winner of the 2009 Derby was by Birdsong and Mining My Own.)  The winner became the owner of the colt---I was convinced that meant it could then live in my back yard. 

For weeks I would pester any man I knew to buy pipe tobacco so I could have another entry into the contest. (My poor dad would take up pipe smoking for the duration.)  I would spend hours mixing names and phrases to come up with the perfect combination that would win me a horse. The winner was announced at Derby time and each year my hopes of a horse of my own were dashed, by a name that was far inferior to my entries!

The question arises...have I ever been to a Derby.  No, No, NO!  Too many people.  We do try to go to the races each year on the Wednesday before Derby with a group from our community.  We were welcomed into this group about 40 years ago and it was long established then.  It's a great time to go to the races.  The track is all spiffed up for the Derby, the top jockeys and trainers are there participating in the race meet, the cameras are beginning to gather for the major news networks, but you can still get a seat and get to a window to place a bet. 

Around here the object is to either host a Derby Party or know someone who will invite you to one.  Derby Parties are a true Kentucky tradition.  I suspect they have been going on as long as the Derby!  Early May can be the absolute perfect time for a big outdoor party.  Warm weather, sparkling sunshine, grass that is too green to believe, spring flowers and the bugs aren't out yet!.  Of course, it also can rain a ton (like last year), be 40 degrees, or even, as it did one year, snow!  The stress of trying to outguess Mother Nature has brought many a hostess to her knees. 

Over the years I have hosted some memorable (for various disastrous reasons) Derby Parties.  I think I am officially retired.

Anyone need an extra guest for Derby Day--good conversationalist, able to hold her bourbon, and willing to lend a hand. 

Were You Raised in a Barn?

Years ago,  a young friend from town taunted our kids with the phrase, "Were you raised in a barn?"  My daughter rolled her eyes and replied with disdain, "Well, yeah!"  We all burst out laughing.

Farm kids spend a lot of time in barns.  In fact you could say that they learn a lot of life's lessons in that fragrant, dim interior. 

Early on the barn becomes a favorite playground.  Little kids push tractors around in the soft dirt of barn floors that has been pounded into powder by the passing of the tractor tires.  Loose grain, bits of hay, and grass become imaginary fodder for vast imaginary fields of animals.  My daughter spent hours in the hay loft listening for the mew of kittens as she hunted the old barn cat's hidden litter. In the quiet darkness, spliced by sunbeams streaming through the barn siding, she would dream of future hopes and heartfelt desires.  Fortunes were made and lost in intense card games played on the bottom of an overturned 5-gallon bucket.  Every barn manages to boast a basketball goal that becomes the focus of NBA quality, highly contested games of Horse.

Barns teach you to take care of your things.  The same little ones that push their tractors happily around on their dust farms, quickly learn that those little tractors have to be put safely out of the alley-way or they will be flattened by the return of the real tractors. The same way, their older brothers and sisters learn that show sticks and buckets left out of place inevitably fall prey to a passing cow or returning piece of field equipment. The same way they learn that while 4-wheelers are fun to ride, if they aren't properly cared for, it means a lot of extra trips carrying buckets and hay bales without them.

It's through barn chores that farm kids learn about the meaning of responsibility.  Early on our kids were the ones that had to go to the barn each morning before school to feed and care for their show heifers.  They learned time-management in figuring how to sleep every extra minute and still get their chores done and have time to get ready for school.  Of course, there was always the morning that they discovered that one of the heifers had escaped the lot and had to be driven back to the barn.  Thus, a 15 minute job became 30 minutes, meaning less time to get ready.  My daughter used to say that all her friends thought she overslept when she would show up at school with her hair thrown into a pony tail. 

They learned problem solving along with organizational skills.  To save time in the mornings they decided to fill the feed buckets the night before only to discover the buckets dumped by the nighttime raids of raccoons.   To protect the feed buckets from the raccoons,  they then learned to put them in a box or barrel with a lid.

They learned to delegate and cooperate.  They learned to prioritize the most urgent chores.  They learned to take orders and to give concise and explicit instructions.  Our daughter taught her Dad a little about that.  He was a great one for telling her "Take this bucket, through that gate and feed those cows."  "Daddy", she would wail, "there are five gates, into three lots, all with cows!!   Be specific!"  She swore one day she would paint each gate a different color. Not a bad solution.

Quiet nights waiting for the arrival of a new baby calf,  teach you patience and how to be still.  You learn about birth and about death in barns.  You learn about miracles, failures, satisfaction, and disappointment.  You learn that your parents are people, who sometimes get frustrated and yell.  Then sometimes they don't yell, they just hug you close and let you cry.  You learn to keep on when you are tired but the job isn't finished.  You learn the satisfaction of keeping on until the job is done. 

You learn the pride of being able to answer, "Yes, we were raised in a barn."

Super Farmer

If you are going to be a farmer you have to be able to think fast on your feet and way outside of the box.

I think in all the years that I have been dealing with cows and farmers there is one time when I really appreciated this trait.

My dad, who lived for several years in the back yard in a mobile home, had a great view of the barn lot.  Maybe not what you would advertise in a real estate ad but invaluable to us in keeping an eye on the cattle.  He would sit at the kitchen table and watch the antics of the weanling calves, pregnant mamas, or teen-aged bulls who would rotate through the barn lot.  For a man who always loved to farm but spent his life living in town and running a store, this was as close to heaven as he could get without wings.

It was about noon one day when he called the house.  "You might want to check out the heifers in the barn lot.  You've got one in the feed trough."  Puzzled by why this might be an issue, after all feed troughs were used all over the farm, I wiped my hands and trotted to the fence to see what was troubling him.  I soon came to a shocked stop when I saw what he meant.  We did have a heifer in a feed trough, what he didn't explain is that she was upside down with all four feet sticking up in the air.  The feed trough in question was a homemade affair created by splitting a 50 gallon drum lengthwise and putting it on legs.  Creating two long bowl shaped troughs.  A V-shaped metal hay rack was then welded to the middle so they could be fed both grain and hay. 

It looked like the heifer had been standing on the uphill side, parallel to the barrels when one of her lot-mates bumped her.  The edge of the barrel caught her just below her shoulders and before you could say "Jack Rabbit" she was flipped upside down.  She was now emitting pitiful moans as she waved her feet feebly.  She not only looked ridiculous she was in imminent danger of dying.  Cows aren't designed for that position.  In a short while the gases in her several stomachs were going to start building up and she would bloat.  Shortly after that her heart and lungs would become stressed and she would be one gone heifer. 

I looked around helplessly.  I simply had no idea what to do to get her out.  By now Daddy had made his way to the barn and was assessing the situation.  He came to an immediate conclusion, "Call Bob!"  He was right--this was a job for Super Farmer!  Unfortunately, Super Farmer was at work in his office in town. 

I ran back to the house (no convenient cell phones then) and frantically called the office.  The phone was answered politely by his elderly office "girl".  To my frantic demands for Hubby, she calmly replied that he was across the street having lunch and would be back in 30 minutes.  "You have to go get him!"  I demanded, "It's an emergency!  His heifer will die!"  "Maybe you can call the restaurant" she calmly replied, "I'm alone in the office and someone might call if I leave my desk."  "It doesn't matter.  Just go tell him to come home!  It won't take two minutes! " I begged.  (The restaurant was literally straight across the street.) No luck.

I hung up and frantically called the restaurant.  No answer.  A not uncommon situation during the busy lunch hour when the phone either couldn't be heard or just didn't get answered.  Then I remembered that the office next door was manned by a young farm wife who would understand the seriousness of the situation.  No only that but she worked for a man who was also a cattleman, so he would understand too.  "Angela, I need help." Soon I had explained my problem.  "Got it!" she said and hung up on me.  She dashed across the street and in minutes had hubby on the road home.  (You gotta love small towns!)

Hubby rolled into the barn drive and leaped from the truck. After a quick check of the situation and the heifer, he started issuing commands, while climbing  to the loft and throwing down several bales of hay. When Daddy and I got them to the lot, he placed them by the feed trough.  Then he got a chain and revved up the little tractor.  Hooking the chain through the metal hay rack over the feed trough he used the tractor to pull the whole trough over onto the stacked hay bales which kept it about three feet off the ground.  The heifer rolled out when the trough came over and landed neatly on her feet.  Giving us all a look that plainly said, "What took you so long?", she ambled off.

After shaking Daddy's hand for catching a potential problem and giving me a quick hug, he jumped back in his truck and returned to the office. 

Super Farmer. Didn't even get dirty.

The Last Remodel

When a man buys a farm he is thinking only about the land.  He will consider the fences, barn, working pens and ponds but the real issue is the land.  That's why farms are always purchased as so much per acre.  Most farmers don't really consider the house, it just is something that comes with the farm, like the barns. 

When we bought our farm, nearly 30 years ago,  the house was sturdy (if you discount the cracked foundation wall in the basement) and had been spiffed up nicely.  My hubby, eager to get me on board with the sale, rashly promised that if I would just live in it for five years he would build me a new one.  He didn't lie, it just took a little longer than he figured.

Over the ensuing years we've replaced the cracked wall in the basement (an adventure which included four workmen trying to get through a small opening when a large snake skin dropped on them when the wall came down), added a bathroom, furnace, air-conditioning, dry walled over plaster and lathe walls, put down hardwood floors over the pine subflooring that was all we had before, replaced the antique kitchen cabinets, (which had been repurposed from at least two previous lives), added two porches and a sunroom, along with rewiring and replumbing most of the house.  This week we began what hubby devoutly hopes is the last room to be remodeled.  I guess you could say I will then have the new house.

You see, last winter was the straw that broke this camel's back. 

All winter (which seemed to last forever) I have had two men and four kids trooping into my small utility room shedding muddy, wet boots, coveralls, coats, mittens, and hats.  Soon the resulting piles were spilling into the kitchen, trailing over the house, and contaminating any clean clothes not immediately removed from the laundry area.  Eyeing the clutter I came to the realization that the objects in question were only going to get bigger as the owners grew.  Thus, the idea to enlarge and remodel the utility room was born.

Like all of our projects it's been an archeological dig.  In pulling out the walls we began to see how the house had been added on over the generations.  When electricity came to the farms, farm wives discovered that with electric pumps they could have running water in the house.  Thus, the bathroom was added, usually off the kitchen to share the water access and electricity.  Ours is no exception.  The space left over became my utility room.  The old, green tongue and groove walls gave us a hint that part of the space had been added as an old porch, which was later enclosed.  Clumps of old 1952 newspapers stuffed around the windows for insulation gave the date that the porch was turned into part of the house.  Like the housewife of old, I am giving up part of my porch to create the new, bigger space.

Looking at my house I can't help but think of the farm wives that have added to, rearranged, and modernized this old house to make it more comfortable for the family.  I think about their days as they pumped water at the kitchen sink by hand for the daily use in the house.  This included cooking, cleaning, bathing, and washing clothes.  I can imagine the excitement when electricity first became available for the rural residents.  The first room to get electricity was the kitchen.  Usually just a ceiling light but oh to have a steady, bright light to work by.  Soon every room had a ceiling light, then came electric outlets for the growing array of items. 

Each of these families lived, laughed, loved and reared their children in our house.  They cared for their families and left their mark on their home in countless little touches.  I marvel at the history and wonder at their stories.  I hope years from now another farm wife remodels and is struck by the touches that I have left on the old home.  I hope she approves. 

A Man and His Truck

There is something about a man and his truck. 

Hubby is not an extravagant person.  He doesn't care if his clothes have little insignia on them or if he has all the latest "guy" toys.  The product of depression era parents, he is very conservative.  Our farm abounds in examples of his "make do" attitude with left-overs from one project being used in another endeavor.  The one place he gets a little carried away is his truck. 

His current truck was bought after extensive research,  computer searches, test drives, dealership visits, and "brain picking" of everyone he met.  (Remember the great tractor hunt?  So you know he gets a little obsessive when he is actually going to part with a chunk of change.)  We literally visited dealerships in four states when he was deciding on his current truck.  It was successful, because he loves his truck. 

Trucks are a little different now from the ones I learned to drive on (yes, they did have trucks when I was 16!)  This truck has more gadgets and gizmos than a rocket ship.  He can call anyone in his phone book by just asking nicely.  He has a camera that shows him his rearview as he backs up (nice for not backing into trailers),  satellite radio that gets hundreds of channels (he listens to the local AM station), heated seats, remote start,  and power mirrors (so he can fit into the garage).  There is one more thing that pickup trucks have over the fancy cars.  Cup holders.  There must be three cup holders for each seat.  They are in the console, the doors, on the dash--everywhere.  The only thing I can figure, is that guys obviously drink more than girls!

Did I mention that he loves his truck?

Case in point.  We were getting ready for a little road trip and because we were taking some things to our daughter we decided to drive the truck.  I'm in charge of all the packing, getting the house ready to leave, and setting up pet care.  He does the farm chores and gets everything caught up at work. While he is at work, I'll usually load the various plunder we are taking with us, so we are ready for a quick get-away that afternoon.  The night before he asked, "Are you going to the gym in the morning?'  Wondering a little why he cares, I answer, "I probably won't have time. Why?"   "Well," he responds, " I thought I would take the car tomorrow morning to work and you could start loading the truck."  "OK", I say thoughtfully, "so that means you want to be sure I won't need a vehicle?  You know I can drive the truck if I need to."  "Ummm" he mutters.

As we go to bed that night, he again asks, "So, you think you might be going to the gym in the morning?"  "Well, I really need to if I'm going to be gone for a week." I mutter sleepily.  "Tell you what" he replies, "I'll just take the old green farm truck to work in the morning so you'll have your car."  My eyes fly open as I sit up in bed.  "So, are you saying that you don't want me to drive your truck or what?"  "No, no, I didn't mean that at all." he back-peddles frantically.  "Well it looks to me like you are saying exactly that!"  I snarl, getting up a good head of steam.  "You obviously either think I CAN'T drive it or you are scared I'll damage it if I do.  Which is it?"  "No, no!  Calm down.  You can drive it anywhere you want to.  You can even drive the whole trip.  In fact I want you to drive it.  I may even INSIST you drive it!!"  Silence reigns.

Then just before sleep, "However, I really don't mind driving the farm truck tomorrow."

The man loves his truck!

What Happened to Jeff King?

I know I keep saying I am going on to other things, but so many stories have come out of this year's Iditarod that I feel like I must share one more.

Jeff King, a four time winner and the undisputed leader going into the finish run, ran afoul of Mother Nature and unexpectedly scratched.  "Scratched" is different than the designation "withdrawn" which indicates a decision by the musher not to continue on.  I was curious, like many others, as to what had happened. 

The weather, which had been mild most of the race, suddenly decided to deteriorate.  The wind, which is always a concern on the coast run into Nome, reached hurricane proportions.   Howling down the mountains it becomes funneled with much the same affect as wind blowing through Chicago's city canyons.  Or, to put it another way, much like the air being forced through an air hose.  The locals call these "blow holes".  King's sled and team ran into one of these blow holes about 50 miles from the end of the race.  The force of the wind, concentrated in that spot, literally blew his sled and the dog team off the trail and into a pile of driftwood.  King, faced with an overturned sled and a team of traumatized dogs (they aren't used to being picked up and tossed like Dixie cups) found himself unable to do anything but huddle behind the sled.  The wind literally was too strong for him to attempt to right the sled and untangle his dog harness.  So he did the only thing he could, he called his dogs to him and huddled them all together to wait out the wind. 

He had two choices.  His dogs were disorganized and tangled.  He couldn't get his sled ready to mush back to the check-point.  He could attempt to walk back and bring help for his dogs, but that meant leaving them on the trail.  Which is the one thing a musher isn't prepared to do.  His other choice was to wait out the wind.  He waited.  While he was stranded, he was passed by a local 84 year old miner, his son-in-law, and granddaughters on a snowmobile treck to Nome.  King asked them for a ride to Safety .  (Note:  The wind was so bad that one of the granddaughter's snow machine was blown over and rolled several times on the way back.  They were able to get the machine back on the trail and continue.  They are a hardy bunch of people!)  Once in Safety, King was able to get other snowmobilers to return with him to safeguard his dogs.

According to the rules, King had no option but to scratch when he asked outsiders for help.  He says he has no regrets about that decision because it ensured the safety of his dogs.

The wind did eventually die down and the mushers coming into Nome now are able to do so without the hurricane force winds.  However, all along the trail mushers have stories of bedding down and just waiting out the weather.  This Iditarod is already going down as one of the roughest and most dangerous in its history.  Musher after musher is coming in with tales of broken ribs, fingers, a nose or two, bruises and scrapes from the banging they have taken. 

I think about all the complaining we have done over the winter we have had here and I think about leaving on a camping trip in the middle of it.  Not to mention running, walking, and knocking about over 1000 miles of wilderness in the process.  My admiration for the hardy folks that live in and love Alaska knows no bounds, but the mushers in the Iditarod are truly a special breed!!