Another Anniversary

Sunday Hubby and I celebrated our anniversary.  While sitting quietly watching the Ohio River flow endlessly by, hubby turned to me and asked.  "When we married did you ever think you would be married nearly 50 years?"  I thought for a minute then smiled.  "Sure.  I thought we'd be married happily ever after....I just didn't have a clue how long that was!"

We married over a Labor Day Week-end, before everything was air conditioned.  The church was packed and steaming hot.  They say.  I don't remember it.  I was pretty much a mannequin for the day, carefully dressed and posed by my mother and aunt.  Back then brides didn't have much to do but show up when they were supposed to for showers, luncheons, parties and the big day.  We wrote thank you notes and smiled a lot.  Mama and Aunt Anne were in charge of the plans and decisions.  After all, it was my parent's party--we were more of the theme for the day.  Brides today have a lot more input...but it suited me.  What did I know about planning a party for two to three hundred people?

The reception was at my Aunt's home, a gracious setting with a beautiful yard.  The food was certainly simple by today's standards of dinners and lavish buffets.  We had cake, punch, finger sandwiches, nuts and mints. Period.  No liquor for the guests, but the cousins all gathered on the porch off the kitchen to flavor their cups with the bottle my older cousin had thoughtfully stashed.  The bride and groom didn't get to join them as we were too busy in the receiving line and posing for pictures.  However, I'm pretty sure my dad and uncle did.

Just as we finished with the obligatory pictures of feeding cake to each other and posing with various relatives, my aunt pulled us to the side and informed us it was time to change into our "going away" outfits and leave so the guests could depart also.  A little different from today's brides partying into the night.  We dutifully changed and were cheered off through a shower of rice and well-wishes.  We jumped into the waiting car and drove down the street.  Suddenly, we felt a little lost and forlorn. For the first time in weeks, no one was there to tell us what to do.  We were on our own.  It was exciting...and a little scary. 

Little did we know, that feeling would pretty much describe the next 46 years...exciting and a little scary.

There were lots of high times.  The birth of our children, the purchase of our first house, the satisfaction of paying off our first car, the contentment of quiet nights together, the fun of backyard ballgames, the rewards of seeing your children become good parents and adults, the peace of looking out over your own land at sunset.  There were low times too...three miscarriages that tore our hearts, a sickly child that kept us worrying at night, years of wondering if we could make ends meet, the helpless pain of seeing your children deal with heartaches, sicknesses that would take loved ones as well as sicknesses that struck us.  Through it all we found our strength and support was only a hand-reach away. 

Did I know what life would hold all those years ago when I dreamed of "happy ever after"?  No, but I couldn't imagine it without my shining knight by my side. 

Still can't.

The Old Pump House

Last week we destroyed one of the farms enduring landmarks.  Just steps from my back door (like really, only four or five steps) stood a five foot tall hill of concrete covered with dirt.  I'm sure it was originally built as a bomb shelter in the 1950's, a dome shaped mound about ten feet across with a flight of steps leading down to the small room, sealed with a slanted wooden door.  Our kids loved rolling, sledding, or just running down the sloped sides.  The German Shepherd, Boomer, would sit on the top and survey his kingdom (and stare in the kitchen window to send mind signals that it was dinner time).  The top of the hill was so thinly covered with dirt that the only thing that would grow there was weeds, which had to be trimmed with a weed-eater because it was too steep for the lawn mower.   A few hardy, but sparse, flowers decorated the old rocks piled around the base on one side.  Mostly it just looked neglected, which it usually was.

For years this concrete shelter housed the pump that provided water for the house from the walled up well just behind it that was the farm's cistern and water supply.  This cistern held about 2000 gallons when full.  Ideally, this water would be supplied from rains that fell on the roof and were collected by a gutter system.  In the winter our water always tasted of smoke from the fireplace.  In the summer I tried not to think about the large, green frog that my daughter insisted she had seen swimming in the cistern.  During the dry times we would haul water from town to replace the ever dwindling supply.  With cattle to water in the barn and two teen-agers, the man who hauled our water became a frequent visitor.

We have now had city water for several years and the old pump finally quit so I can't even use it to water the flowers any more.  So we decided to knock the hump in so I can have a yard outside my back door.  Surprisingly it wasn't easy to decide to do.  So many children and dogs have played happily on the hill that it was a defining feature of a trip to the farm.  It also was a symbol of the past when bombs were a new threat and having water in the house worth having a hill at the back door.

When my parents moved from the farm to town when I was three, my mother declared in no uncertain terms, that she would not move back to the farm until she had all the conveniences of town.  Running water and electricity!  While things have certainly improved since then, after years of living in town, we were a little unprepared for the adventure of living on a small cistern.  Our children, then 7 and 10, had never known anything but the luxury of plenty of water and a secure electrical supply.  Things you don't take for granted living on a farm.

We all lived with one eye on the water level of the cistern.  Someone was always lugging the heavy, metal lid off to run a tape measure down to see how many feet we had left.  Then we'd hurry to the house to call for a load of water.  Even with constant checking it occasionally happened that we would run out of water. 

One time stands out in my memory.  It was a Friday night in the summer.  The kids had been helping around the farm all day and had arrived for supper to be greeted with the news that we were out of water.  The water man had been called but it was a dry time and he was so busy that he couldn't get to us until the next morning.  My daughter looked at me in horror.  "No-o-o-o!" she wailed.  "I've got a party tonight and I stink like a barn!!!"  "It'll be fine",  I soothed.  "You can just freshen up and put on some perfume and no one will be the wiser."  With a look of stark disbelief at my insensitivity, she stalked up the stairs to her room.

A few minutes later she clattered down again.  Thinking she was heading out to sulk, I let her pass in silence.  I glanced out the kitchen window a little later to observe her returning from the barn carrying a five gallon bucket.  She disappeared into the shop and re-emerged carrying a length of rope.  She marched over to the cistern, drug the top off, and proceeded to tie her rope to the bucket.  She then dropped the bucket down into the cistern until she reached the reservoir of water below the intake valve for the pump.  Soon she was straining on the rope and pulling as hard as she could.  Now, let me tell you, water is heavy.  Even not full, that was a heavy load to haul up.  I was turning to hunt her dad or brother to help when she gave a last heave and grabbed the bucket bale.  With a look of satisfaction she hauled her precious bucket of water in to the bathroom.

She appeared after a time, fresh, pretty and party-ready, smelling sweetly of clean skin and soap. 

Never underestimate the determination of a teen-ager going to a party! 

Depression

Today the news has been full of the untimely death of Robin Williams.  A man remembered for his ability to make us laugh, even while pulling at our heartstrings.  He was an illustration of humor at its best.  He was viewed as gregarious, outgoing, friendly and, yes, funny.  Yesterday, the word filtered out that he had taken his own life after years of battling depression. 

The thought of depression and this funny, endearing man just didn't seem right.

I, like most of the world, for a long time thought that depression was a state of mind and all you had to do was think positive.  Oh, if only that were the case.

Then I got a taste of the wormy apple myself.

Like most people my life has been filled with ups and downs.  Depression isn't caused by miserable lives.  Some wonderful lives are filled with people that hurt. My daughter's wreck reduced us all to a bundle of terrified nerves but I wasn't depressed.  My bout with cancer scared the living daylights out of me, but I wasn't depressed.  (Although my medical team kept telling me that I shouldn't hide it.  It was normal.)  I truly just didn't feel depression or deep anxiety.

I sailed along, totally unaware of what depression does to you.

Then, my doctor, who is constantly trying to keep me in optimum health, decided that I really needed to take medication for my gradually increasing cholesterol.  Reluctantly, I agreed. 

I began to find that things were getting harder.  Decisions that I had made easily in weeks past concerning the care of Hubby's mother, became difficult and stressful. Just cooking and caring for my house became a never-ending chore.  I worried about everything.  My sleep was broken by periods of lying in bed and chasing useless worries.  I laughed less and cried more.  I began avoiding people and looking for excuses to stay home.  I struggled to get through every day.  Nothing was fun.

We went on an annual trip with dear friends to enjoy the mountains.  I was amazed by the sheer effort it took to be part of the group.  I don't think I was a complete wet blanket, but I was working as hard as I could at being interested in my surroundings, laughing at the teasing, responding to conversation, and showing, even moderate, enthusiasm.  It was exhausting.....and depressing.

We returned home to find workmen had arrived to do some much needed siding repair.  I knew most of the workers and in times before I would have spent a portion of their work time standing in the yard "shooting the breeze" with them...and generally slowing them down.  I realized, with horror, that now I was literally running from room to room, praying they wouldn't see me through the windows and want to talk to me.  All I could think about was being in my bed with the curtains pulled tight. 

"Whoa!! This is so not me!"  I remember the thought just struck me, "You have something seriously wrong with you!"  I went to the computer and looked up my symptoms and there it was clearly spelled out....depression.  But how?  Why? What had changed?

Then I remembered the little innocuous pill that millions take safely for cholesterol.  I searched for side-affects and there it was under the heading of Very Rare but Extremely Serious. Depression.  I was experiencing a reaction to the chemical changes happening in my body.  Exactly like a rash from an allergic reaction or dizziness, nausea, constipation, diarrhea, etc. that is listed on your information sheets with your medications.  It was physical....not something I could control.

I quit taking the pill.  In three days I was out playing with the grandchildren in the yard and enjoying life again.  Life was good again.

For me it was simple.  For many others it is a disease not a side-affect.  It is medically treatable, but like so many diseases, some respond better to treatment than others.  My heart goes out to those who suffer this invisible illness.  I will never forget the nightmare of being trapped in a world without color or hope. I discovered you can't make up your mind and just be happy.  I understand, what before I only vaguely sensed.  This is a physical disease not a lack of determination.  I hope I have learned compassion and empathy for those who struggle to get through every day---regardless of how flawlessly they are acting the part of a healthy person--they are hurting and ill.

 
                                                    * * * * * * *

(About my medication.  Statins are one of the wonder drugs of our era.  99.9% of the people take them with wonderful results and no side affects.  I was one of the very rare ones to react to this particular statin.  I responded positively, with no ill effects, to a simple change in medication.  Please!  Be aware of what medications you take and alert for potential problems.  Then talk to your doctor.)

Garden Bounty

A friend once responded to the question of why she didn't have a garden with this:  "I can see no reason on earth to do all that work.  If it is a bad year you plow, disc, plant, weed, till, water, pray and pick in the 100 degree heat for a handful of pitiful vegetables.  Which, by the way, you could buy in the grocery for a lot less cost.  In a good year you have to barricade your gate to keep from being buried under all the leftover vegetables your neighbors are determined to off-load onto you.  So I just wait for the good years."

She has a point.

This year has been a good garden year for most things.  (No beans but that is a whole different story.)  Out daily forays into the garden have yielded buckets of tender yellow squash, long green cucumbers, fat purple eggplants, green peppers, onions, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, corn and tomatoes.  The problem is that while we enjoy each of these, the two of us can only eat so many.  I love eggplant parmesan, but that takes one eggplant and will last for three or four meals.  My garden is producing six to eight at a time.  You see my problem.  After a while you just get overwhelmed by all these lovely fresh veggies. 

I had been sending them home with my son until I overheard his wife at a party commenting to a friend that every time she came into the kitchen the "garden fairy" had dumped a load of vegetables on her counter.  She didn't sound excited. I decided that maybe I needed to back off on the sacks of veggies I was sneaking into the truck.

It comes to the point that you are like the Easter bunny leaving surprises for your friends and neighbors on their porch swings, in their flower pots, behind their doors, or stashed neatly by their walks.  Anything to get rid of the outpouring of produce from your lovingly tended garden.

One year I grew almost a quarter of an acre of strawberries.  (We didn't know how many plants came in a bundle and ordered way too many bundles.  Rather than "waste" them we planted each one. )  That spring I picked strawberries and we ate them until everyone developed a rash, froze them until the freezer was full, made jam that we still have left, and gave them to friends.  We were picking so many (you can't let them waste!!) that I was in danger of running out of friends.  I began to notice that no one would answer my knocks even though I was sure they were home.  If I called ahead they were suddenly leaving town for an extended trip and couldn't handle any strawberries.  I began roving through the town looking for folks unlucky enough to be siting on their porches and unable to escape my bounty.  If that failed I stooped to looking for unlocked cars and loading up the back seats with fragrant fruit.

I was in real danger of becoming a social outcast when the season finally ended. 

When that bed finally died out we've never had another one.

However, beware,  I do have a bumper crop of tomatoes.......

Clearing Fields

This summer has been a whirlwind of activity on the farm.  The men have been busy with tobacco, (which is beginning to bloom), lots of hay, cattle to work, fencing, and numerous small chores, as well as their day jobs.  I've been blessed (?) with a bountiful garden and a yard that just keeps growing.  In between chores we have entertained the grandkids and, of course, supervised the remodeling project.  This project, which was supposed to be done in three or four weeks looks like it might take years.  The fun part is that the contractor on my project is my son, who literally has me over a barrel when he needs to take off for farm chores.  How can I argue with tobacco setting or hay cutting?  I think the end is in sight but who knows....?

Hubby and son are busy now trying to clean up a recently rented farm.  The farm is fairly remote and abounds with wildlife.  Every trip is highlighted with sightings of deer and turkeys as well as smaller wildlife.  The farm has been left fallow for several years so a lot of the time they are clearing brush, opening up fields and cleaning up in general. 

This morning our son stopped by to catch me up on the latest adventures in the "wilderness".  It seems that one of the fields they are trying to mow has a steep drop off on one side.  Adding to the problem is a downed tree that necessitates a swing down the hillside to circumnavigate it.  Son decided that he would hook a chain to it to drag it out of the way.  Approaching the trunk of the tree he dubiously looked at the weeds and brush piled around it, thinking what a wonderful place it would be for a snake to hide.  Using a long branch he gingerly pushed the log chain under the trunk and fished it out the other side.  Soon he had the chain hooked up to the truck and was dragging the tree out of the way.  That problem was solved.

Now he was feeling confident of his clearing abilities and decided to attack a huge limb that was threatening to crash into the cab of his tractor as he mowed.  The limb in question was just over his head, too far to reach with the chain saw from the ground.  He had decided that he would pull the truck up under the limb to stand on and then, hopefully, drop the limb behind the tailgate.  About that time Hubby arrived to offer his opinion.  "NO!"  he shouted.  Hubby tends to think that loudness is necessary in dealing with problems.  "Haven't you seen that commercial where the neighbor drops the limb on the car!  Think of what it would do to the truck!"  So moaned the insurance agent who has paid for all too many careless accidents.  "Well, what do you suggest?' queried son. 

Studying the situation, Hubby finally decided that the solution was for son to climb up on the limb and then cut the limb off.  At this point in the story I am trying to stifle hysterical giggles.  "I hope you didn't plan on facing the tree when you cut it" I choked.  Giving me a scornful glance son continued with his story.

As he was sitting on the limb, scoping out the potential disasters, he was planning on his escape plan.  "I had figured", he explained, " that if it went sour I would throw the chainsaw and just jump."  Having decided that he began to saw the limb in little chunks.   The limb cooperated with obliging creaks, groans, snaps and sags.  With the next bite of the saw he reached a soft, pithy center of the limb.  About that time he noticed that the pithy center was home to a huge number of ants who were frantically making their escape toward the trunk of the tree.  Unfortunately, son was sitting on the limb between them and safety.  Looking down at his lap and the approaching hoards of tiny insects intent on going over or through him,  he hurriedly clambered up and out of their way.  Now he was straddled the limb with one foot lodged in a crotch in the tree and the other gingerly perched on the limb.  Reaching out he makes another swipe at the limb with the chainsaw.  More groaning, snapping and popping.  Another bite of the saw.  More groaning and snapping.  Finally the limb gives a last pop and crashes to the ground.  Son scrambles after, frantically brushing ants from his legs and feet.

Hubby approaches from his position of safety, where he had been leaning on the fender of the truck.  "You know son", he muses, "You might have been better off using the truck to reach that limb after all."

Choking back giggles I reflect that farmers must have a whole herd of guardian angels that work night and day just to keep them out of trouble!

The Mama Killdeer

A lot of farm chores consist of riding around and around on a tractor, essential but also monotonous.  Most farmers learn to entertain themselves to keep from going to sleep. (Nearly all farmers are sleep deprived this time of year, especially the part-time farmers.)  Some resort to radios, some have music or books on their ipods or phones,  and some chat continually to other bored farmers who are riding around in their fields.  I have heard that, in some flatter areas, they even have TV's in their cab tractors and watch movies as they ride.  Our fields offer a few too many challenges to try that here!

Our son had been doing one of the necessary but boring jobs, cultivating his tobacco.  The long, seemingly endless rows were fast inducing a coma-like state.  To keep his attention up (and his eye-lids) he began watching the various wildlife that appeared.  He has, over time, reported seeing everything from deer and turkeys to foxes and weasels as he rides along.  This day the patch seemed to be mostly occupied by birds.  As he was plowing along, he noticed a Killdeer a few rows over.  These long-legged birds are seen a lot in open country like plowed fields, pastures, and golf courses.  It amazes me that they ever raise babies, since they build their nests in the open on bare ground.

Their method of protecting the nests is one of the bird kingdom's best acts.  When the adult birds sense danger they begin to run away from the nest, feigning injury.  With great drama they will drag their wings and run with ragged hops, looking for all the world like a crippled, easy meal.  Most predators are distracted by the appearance of easy food (aren't we all looking for the easy way?) and will chase the adult away from the nest.  When they are far enough away the birds fly off, leaving the danger behind. 

Knowing their habits, he kept watching to see if he could spot the nest.  As he got closer to the spot she seemed to be monitoring, he stopped the tractor and dismounted to approach the bird.  He soon spotted the nest, shaded by a small tobacco plant, in the edge of a row.  Mostly to watch the performance of mama bird, he walked over to it.  Sure enough, she immediately began hobbling away, dragging her wing and looking extremely pitiful. He followed.  As soon as she determined he was far enough away from her babies, she burst into flight calling her loud cry, "kill-dee. kill-dee!", which is bird-talk for "Haha, fooled you!" 

Laughing to himself he walked back to the tractor to resume his plowing,  carefully lifting the plow when he reached the nest until he was safely past.

Mama bird had saved her babies once again.

The Tooth Fairy

Hubby and I made a quick trip to Iowa to pick up the two granddaughters, aged 6 and 8, to spend their first ever week with the grandparents!  We made the 11 hour trip home with two super well behaved passengers to begin a whirlwind week.  Everything didn't go quite as planned but we still managed to include visits to The Dollhouse Museum, Fort Harrod State Park, coffee with Hubby (a big deal!), a manicure and pedicure,  a visit to the office, a trip to the creek, and still include  time for a water balloon fight and sprinkler filled day with the cousins. 

The most unexpected event was a surprise visit by the tooth fairy.

The six year old arrived in the kitchen one night filled with impish excitement.  "My tooth is coming out!"  she announced.  "No, it can't!" I replied vigorously.  Confused, she looked at me, "Why not?", she demanded.  "Because it is your first tooth to come out and your mama will be devastated to miss it.  Leave it alone!!"  "OK", she replied dubiously, replacing the finger wiggling the loose tooth with a vigorously probing tongue.  "No!!  Stop!  You have to wait until tomorrow when we meet your mama."  I implored.  Grinning triumphantly, she cried, "It's out!!"  (Sorry, mama)

Holding the tiny tooth up for me to see, she was fairly dancing with excitement.  "Now I can put it under the pillow, like Sissy did, and the tooth fairy will come and give me money!"  (Uh, oh.  I hadn't thought of that!)  "Uh, sure honey.  But first maybe we need to let your mama know about this."  In moments mama and daughter were sharing the news of the newly lost tooth.  After appropriate exclamations, I shooed the little one off to show her new "space" to her grandfather. 

"Ummm.  How does the tooth fairy handle this situation?" I asked.  All tooth fairies are different, I have discovered.  "Well....the tooth fairy usually brings five dollars for the first tooth, then a dollar for the rest."  "FIVE DOLLARS!   Talk about inflation!  You used to get a quarter!"  I sputtered.  "Yeah, and gas cost fifty cents.  Times have changed, Mom."  she replied. 

The next hour was filled with expectations of a visit from the tiny elf.  We spent 30 minutes looking for the tooth pillow that belonged to her mother to hold the tooth safely.  Since I never throw anything away, I was sure I could find it.  However, the pillow remained hidden, so we placed the little tooth in a plastic bag.  She proudly printed her name on the bag so the tooth fairy would know whose it was.  Placing it under her pillow, she lay down and was soon asleep, dreaming of financial windfalls, I'm sure.



Back downstairs I reached for my billfold for the "tooth fairy's" five dollar bill.  About the time I discovered that all I had was a ten and a one, Hubby came in.  "Give me five dollars."  I demanded.  "What for?" he replied, looking around the kitchen as though I had put in a slot machine while he wasn't watching.  "The tooth fairy leaves five dollars!"  "What! Five Dollars!"  "Never mind," I replied, "I've already been down that road.  She says it's inflation.  So give me a five, please."  He pulled out his wallet and discovered that he had a couple of twenties and three ones.  "Well, I'm not giving her a twenty." I muttered, "Keep looking.  I've got a one, so we only need one more."  Digging in his pockets, he said, "I've got maybe a dollar in change."  Trying to figure out how we were going to keep all that change under a pillow all night, I was digging through jean pockets, looking for a stray bill.  "YES!", I yelped, as I found a crumpled (and freshly laundered) bill tucked into a pocket.  Securing the bills with a paper clip (would the tooth fairy have a paper clip?) we slipped back upstairs to carefully place the wad of cash in place of the little tooth.

At six the next morning an explosion occurred in the middle of our bed.  "The tooth fairy came!!" shouted a wiggling mass.  "She left me lots of money!!  How did she find me?  Can we go to town and buy something? "

"Ask me again, after coffee"  I mumbled from under my pillow.

Later that day we tried to exchange her wad of ones for a fresh five dollar bill.  Looking at us as though we were trying to trick her, she looked from her stack to our single bill and firmly shook her head.  "Mine's bigger. I'll keep it." she announced. 

She probably would have been disappointed with a twenty anyway.


Susie is all tuckered out after trying to catch
the Tooth Fairy.

            

Farmer's Hats

I have been married to a farmer for nearly 45 years and believe me I have learned a lot about farming and farmers in that time.  However, there is one facet of farming that I still don't understand.  The obsession that every farmer has with hats!  There are at this time at least 100 hats on Hubby's closet shelf.  (He swears there aren't that many...and he may be right, since every time I clean in there a few (?) mysteriously disappear. )  There are also hats, sleeved neatly together, covering the seat of his chair in the bedroom.  To complete the bedroom décor, there is a line of hats marching across the mantle.

 

O.K.  I get it that a hat is necessary to protect your head when you are out all day in the sun and weather.  I want him protected, that's why there is sunscreen in every tractor.  So I understand that he needs a hat.  However, this obsession goes much deeper than just a hat.

Farmers collect "free" hats that shout their support of tractors, seed, feed, mineral, fertilizer, pesticides, farm stores, herd sires, farms, equipment and about anything else you can buy for a farm.  The dealers dole them out as a reward for business, a bribe for new business, or just on a whim.  The quality of these hats range from so cheap you'd have to pay me to take them to "man I've got to have it" good.  Farmers will collect both of these and everything in between with the same fervor. 

I once overheard a farmer complaining that he had moved his business from one farm store to another because he never got a hat!  Another reported that he was infuriated to have been repeatedly overlooked for a free hat from a business,  only to see his neighbor's field laborer wearing the coveted hat.  (I suspect the difference in his and the neighbor's farm accounts could be a factor.)  I heard a farmer bragging on a new fertilizer company, not for the success of their product, but because they gave great hats.  While I have never heard of a farmer actually buying a piece of equipment just to get the hat, they certainly consider that part of the "deal"!  (Hubby, who spent more on his last tractor than the original cost of our farm, was thrilled when he received  a bright green hat to wear.  This from the same man who swore he would never drive a green tractor, much less, advertise for them!)

Now, there would be some reason to this mania if farmers wore a fresh, new cap daily.  Not so, I'm afraid.  Hubby, like most farmers, will wear the same cap until it is a sweat stained, battered gray with a bill that is shinny from being grabbed with greasy, dirty hands a thousand times.  The farmer will then hand the hat to his wife and ask that she wash it!  Wives have swapped methods of washing and reshaping favorite hats until it is part of farm lore.  There are even companies that make forms you can buy (for the free hat) that will allow you to place the hat on the top rack of your dishwasher to clean it.  Having seen some of these manure covered, filthy, greasy hats I'm pretty sure I would never eat off my dishes again. 

Meanwhile, the closets overflow and the hats collect all over the house.

I would say it is advertising genius...having grown men fight over getting to wear your advertisement...except for the stacks and piles of hats sitting around going unworn. 

I guess I just never will understand.  It's a farmer thing.

The Kitten

                                                                                     
It's a well known fact in our family that I am a sucker.  If it is weak, helpless or young, I can't resist it.  Over the years, Hubby has grown used to this weakness.  In fact he has exploited it several times when he had a sickly calf that needed extra care.  Before I would even realize his plot,  I would be mixing milk and running to the barn to feed the baby. 

So it should be no surprise that upon sighting a little black and white face peeking out from under some shrubs by the roadside that I would have to stop. 

Reacting on instinct, I slammed on my brakes and jumped out of the car.  Running around to the line of shrubs I searched for the tiny kitten.  Not seeing it, I rounded the end of the bushes and looked into the grass, just in time to spot it disappearing into the slope.  I ran over and could just see a bit of fur peeking out from the muddy tunnel, created by the run-off from the bank parking lot.  Just then, I heard a voice call, "Have you lost something?"  I looked up in dismay to see three cars stopped behind my parked vehicle, waiting to get on with their journey.  Looking down I decided to be sensible for once.  After all, only an idiot would stick their bare hand in a hole to grab a kitten without knowing what else was in there with it! Waving, I returned to my car and drove on.

All the way home I thought about the little kitten.  The heavy rains had probably washed it into the drainage pipe that led under the parking lot and dumped into the grassy area leading to the culvert under the highway.  There was no way out of the patch of grass in any direction except to cross a busy road.  The rushing waters had riddled the area with washed out spots that made a good hiding place, but a poor home and more rain was forecast.

Arriving home, I grabbed a pair of leather gloves, an old towel, and my pet crate and turned back to town.  This time I parked out of the way and made my way cautiously down the slope.  I caught a flash just as the kitten dropped out of sight again.  On my hands and knees I peered into the little hollowed out bank.  There, I could just see him.  Gently I reached in and felt a tiny leg.  Praying it wasn't holed up with a bigger cousin, I eased it out of the hole.  The terrified little body, shivered and shook.  I quickly took it back to the car and placed it in the crate. 

Since I had to pass the veterinarian's office on the way home I decided to make a quick stop. Carrying the muddy, terrified kitten into the office, I put him on the counter.  The office girl looked up.  "I just want to know one thing,"  I declared, "if it's male or female!"  Laughing, she checked then decided that a second opinion was needed.  I'm here to tell you it's not that easy.  I have heard that there are specialized people who make big money "sexing" baby chickens at hatcheries but for my money baby kittens are worse.  Finally, she returned and said that the three of them had decided it was a female.  Of course!  I think all stray cats are female and destined to reproduce like rabbits.

"OK", I sighed, "If it decides to live I'll be back to have her spayed!"  Knowing me well, they laughed and waved me on my way.

Coming home that afternoon, Hubby eyed the crate parked in the half finished utility room, "What is it this time?"  he inquired cautiously.  "Well, I've got a new barn cat for you."  Crouching down, he peered into the crate, "It might help if it was bigger than the mice. I suspect there are things in the barn that could carry this off!"  "Oh, she'll grow into a good barn cat." I replied.

Later he watched silently as I held the tiny kitten in my lap watching her bat at my fingers.  Sighing, he nodded at the kitten, "It's never going to be a barn cat, is it?"

Yes, the man is a saint.











                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

                                                                                              

A Day in the Life of a Farmer

Hubby barely slept last night with visions of hay bales and tobacco plants dancing in his dreams. 

As usually happens on a farm everything was happening at once.  After a couple of heavy rains the ground had finally dried enough to disc the final time and the tobacco patch was ready to plant.  Naturally, the hay field in front of the house also was perfect for cutting and baling..  So while our son worked to get the tobacco ground ready, hubby had been cutting the hay field. 

The weatherman wasn't helping out.  Showers were forecast to be back on Sunday afternoon and last for the next several days.  So-o-o, it looked like they would have to work on Sunday.  With luck, they would have good weather until mid to late afternoon.   Farmers have to make a lot of compromises--one of those is to work on Sunday, if there is no other way.  (Sometimes wives and farmers disagree on the definition of "no other way".)  I just hope God is understanding about the challenges of farming.

By 6:30 Hubby was up and pacing the floor.  "I'm going to feed and turn on the water for the tobacco tanks.  I'll be right back for breakfast." he called as he left.  "Mmmmuph" I muttered from under my pillow.  Knowing he probably wouldn't be stopping for lunch, I drug myself out of bed and into the kitchen.  (No one warns women about the joys of marrying a farmer.)  By 7:30 we were through with breakfast and Hubby was hurrying to meet our son and grandson who were arriving with the tobacco plants.  Soon all three were deep into getting the equipment and plants organized to get to the patch.  By 8:30 the hands had arrived (six of the cutest, sweetest Venezuelan kids attending a nearby college.  This is the second year they have helped us out.  Great kids.) 

The plan was that Hubby would help get the tobacco setting started then go the hayfield when the dew had dried off and begin raking the hay into winrows ready to bale.  Then he would return to the tobacco patch and take over for our son, who was driving the tractor pulling the tobacco setter.  Son would then get the other tractor and big round hay baler and bale the hay.  A sensible plan.

I arrived home from church (someone had to go and pray for this day!)and a quick trip to the grocery, to find Hubby just finishing up the raking.  He took a short break to gobble a balonga sandwich and left to switch places with Son.  I left to mow the yard (another day or two and we could have just baled the yard with the hay field).  As I rounded the corner into the front yard on the mower I noticed dark clouds piling up in the south.  Opening up the throttle I copied the men and mowed as fast as I could.  I only glanced up briefly when son roared by in the ranger on his way to get the tractor and baler.  I thought we might make it when I noticed that the sky was clearing and the clouds looked to be moving away from the farm. 

On the next round I checked the sky and saw a steak of gray at the back of the cloud, extending to the ground.  It was a narrow band of rain heading right for us.  "Maybe it will miss us" I whispered, as bright skies began to appear at the edges of the cloud.  Everyone hurried harder with one eye on the sky.  The narrow band of rain began to quickly approach.  It looked as though it was no wider than the front field, surely it would miss us.  I made another turn, splat, splat, splat.  Faster and faster the fat, cold drops hit my back.  Giving up, I headed for the barn.

Within minutes the tin roof was drumming with the thunder of the rain drops pounding down.  I looked down in the valley at the tractor and the kids on the setter as they struggled to get to the end of the row. With a roar, our son headed back to help in the ranger.  The rain continued.  Soon the hay was sodden and the tobacco patch was a sea of gooey mud. 

As soon as there was a break, I dashed to the house to dig out the stack of old towels I keep for just such days. 

After the kids had cleaned up and left, Hubby returned to the house, dispirited and tired.  He was soon taking a nap on the couch. 

I got busy washing wet towels and cleaning up the mess left by muddy people.

(Girls, notice!  The farmer was sleeping while I was washing and cleaning up.)

(Maybe I should have prayed harder in church.)

(Maybe Hubby should have gone to church.)