Herding Cattle

The view from the kitchen window was dark and gloomy this morning.  So I didn't spend much time looking out. 

About 8:30 a cheerful voice called through the open window, "Don't you even notice when you have a whole herd of cows in your yard!"  Jumping up I ran to the door to be greeted by the grinning face of our son.  "It was dark!" I sputtered.  "Where are they?"

Still grinning he responded, "I'd say they are about to the third row of beans, by now."

My beans!  Carefully nurtured for those precious late beans before the frost get them, they were just now in full production.   My tomatoes!  And the boys pumpkins!  Planted a little too late they were just now turning orange.  The little boys had checked them nearly daily for the change from dark green to pumpkin orange.  It was going to be a race to see if they would mature in time to be jack o'lanterns.  Somehow I just hate to let those last struggling plants in the garden go, knowing how long it will be before we have fresh vegetables again.

Now in full panic I dashed back into the house to jump into my clothes and garden shoes.  I emerged just in time to see my son appear with a feed bucket.  "Come on girls!", he called to the five heifers standing in the garden. (Not a whole herd but enough.) "Come on and get your breakfast!" he cajoled.  Stepping back on the porch, I watched as they focused on the feed bucket and the hope of some more goodies.  As they rounded the corner of the house,  my son's Australian Shepherd fell in behind.  I stared in open mouth amazement as the young dog, that we all had assumed would never amount to anything but a nuisance,  took the heifers to the barn.  As they headed down the side of the barn, she left them to run ahead and position herself in the drive.  There she neatly turned them through the gate and into the field.

"Did you see that!" came the excited shout.  "She's a natural!"

It was a pretty sight.  Especially since no one had really ever worked with her.  It was all instinct and genetic background.  Now, admittedly, the heifers were going back to the field where they were fed every morning. So they weren't exactly difficult to move, but she could have done the wrong thing and they would have kicked up their heels and taken off.  I've certainly had them do that to me.  Instead,  years of careful breeding for just those herding qualities came forward and she just knew what to do.  Amazing.

And we thought she was just another pretty face.

Get the Birds!

The back porch talk had drifted to the subject of dogs.  Good dogs, bad dogs, neurotic dogs (mine), heroic dogs (theirs) and unique dogs.  In a pause in the conversation my son interjected, "The dog I think I will never forget, wasn't even mine, but he sure was unforgettable!"

It seems that during the time he was living in Kansas he had helped a neighboring farmer during harvest time.  Mostly, I suspect, to play with the big equipment.  During their days together the subject of hunting came up.  The farmer expounded on the qualities of his fine hunting dog.  According to the farmer he was about the best thing that ever happened.  He would go on and on about his ability to find the best birds and flush them out.  Hunting season rolled around and Son mentioned that he was going to go try for a few birds.  "Take my dog!" the farmer offered.  "You'll be sure to come back with birds.  He's the best!"  Son was delighted and was about to mention that he really didn't know a lot about hunting with a dog, when the farmer continued.  "In fact, why don't you take my boys with you to help you with the dog?"  That seemed sensible, so a time was set up for the hunt.

Early the next morning the two boys, aged 11 and 16, showed up with the dog.  A big, muscular animal, the dog was fairly quivering with eagerness to be off on the hunt.  In fact, so were the boys.

The three of them started off and in no time the dog froze to a point.  At a signal from the boys he flushed a big pheasant.  Shots rang out and the pheasant flew away.  "That's OK", Son consoled.  There will be more."  The process was repeated several times with a couple of pheasants being shot.  Each time the dog retrieved the birds and proudly brought them to the hunters. 

They were continuing their walk with the dog ranging out ahead when suddenly he froze into a point in front of a pile of junk metal and weeds that was in the corner of the field.  The hunters approached and a huge covey of quail exploded in all directions. Since quail and pheasant season overlapped by a few days, both were in season, so the hunters banged away happily.  Seven birds plummeted from the sky. 

As soon as the last shot was fired both boys dropped their guns and made a dash for the dog.  Each grabbing whatever part they could hang on to they began screaming, "GET THE BIRDS!!  GET THE BIRDS!!"  Son stood there transfixed by the sight of the wriggling mass of legs, arms, heads, tail and snout as the boys attempted to hold the excited dog.  "GET THE BIRDS!!" they screeched again.  Startled out of his daze, son took off at a gallop to retrieve the fallen birds.  Hunting through the weeds as quickly as he could, he found the birds and stuffed them into his jacket.  Counting to himself as he went, one, two , three, four, five, six.  Where was seven?  He searched some more as the wail went up again. "GET THE BIRDS!"  Finally spotting it he snatched it up and returned to the boys. 

In bemusement he watched as the mass untangled itself into the identifiable forms of boys and dog.  Dusting themselves off the boys approached , with the happy dog following.  "What the hell was that about?!" Son demanded to the group.  "What happened to the dog?   Why did you tackle him?  He was perfect retrieving the pheasants."

Grinning the boys looked up.  "He doesn't like pheasant, but he loves quail!"

The boys went on to explain that he would have eaten every one of the quail before you could stop him.  "So we tackle him to keep him from eating them!"  Bursting into laughter Son looked from disheveled kids to hopeful dog, shaking his head in wonder.

It seems the perfect dog had one little flaw.  He really liked quail.

Chuckling to himself he couldn't help but wonder if he had actually been invited on the hunt to be the "retriever"!

Sorry!

Our son's three younger children came to spend Sunday afternoon with us.  The youngest, our 3 year old granddaughter, was soon settled in for a nap, while the youngest boy had wandered off with Papa to help with the afternoon chores.  I had no sooner popped a pork roast into the oven for supper when the middle boy appeared in the kitchen.  "Can we play Sorry?  Please?" 

He and I have been holding the longest running Sorry tournament in history, since we started when he was about five years old. 

He skipped Candyland as too slow and boring (I agree) and begged to play his older brother's Sorry game.  "But, Sugar, it takes a long time." I protested.  "I can do it!  I promise!"  he replied.  He couldn't read, but quickly memorized the move instructions on each card.  He knew that the 7 card could be split between two men, the 10 card was forward 10 or backward 1, and an 11 card meant he could trade places with an opponent.  At first, I tried to make sure that he had successes so he wouldn't be so frustrated but I soon got over that.  The little shark is good!!!  It didn't take him long to figure out the strategies of the game and apply them with a vengeance.  "Sorry!!" he would howl as he sent me back to start time and again.

In the ensuing three years he would beat me repeatedly and soundly!  I want to take this kid to Vegas.  He has unbelievable luck...or he's just a lot better at Sorry than his old grandma!

So, Sunday, I got down the Sorry game, cleared off the coffee table and got my most comfortable cushion.  We set up the game and put the rule card to one side.  We are serious players and refer to the rules frequently to see what we can and can't do.  Then we got down to it!  The game ebbed and flowed with him getting all his men out on the board first, then me hitting a couple of "Sorry" cards that sent him back to start.  We debated the wisdom of exchanging places if that put the opponent closer to home, counted moves to determine the best placement of our men, hoped for a "backward 4" so we could shortcut to the "safety zone" and crowed our delight at a lucky draw.  At the end of the game, to the cheering of hubby and the six year old who had returned, the 8 year old drew the perfect card and marched his last man home for victory.  Beaten again!

His younger brother immediately decided he wanted to play, too.  So we started a new game with three players (Hubby decided to watch a ballgame instead--surprise!)  The game advanced with both of us "experienced" players giving the younger one advice on moves and rules.  Again it ebbed and flowed with first one ahead then another.  The younger boy had progressed quickly to having his men on the board, when his brother drew the Sorry card.  This meant that he could come out of home, replace any man on the board and send that man back to their start.  Since the younger one had the only men on the board the decision was easy and unavoidable.  "That's not fair!" he moaned, looking frustrated.  I explained that, unfortunately, that was the rule, but his turn would come to get us back.  Then I laughed and asked him "Do you know what the name of this game is?"  He looked up at me as his brother and I both chanted, "SOR-REEY!!"  He grudgingly laughed with us and the game continued. 

At the end, all three of us were within the safety and only a lucky draw away from being the winner.  The draw had gone around and around with only cards showing up that we couldn't use.  Then it was my turn again and I drew a "split moves 7" that enabled me to move my last two men in! 

I threw up my arms in excitement. "I finally won one!!!", I crowed.  "JoJo", came the serious admonishment from the grandson, "You always tell me that celebrating your win isn't  nice!"  Shamefaced, I agreed that it wasn't nice.

But inside I was still doing my happy dance!  I'd finally beaten the little shark!

The Plant That Ate the South

Not long after our daughter married, we were touring around the state acclimating our new son-in-law with the area that his wife called home.  The scenic drive to various spots of interest included a lot of small, winding roads.  Iowa is so straight that I suspect our passenger was feeling a little green on the endless curves.  Rounding one particularly tight curve we exited into a surreal landscape right out of a sci-fi movie.  A green curtain blanketed both sides of the road, covering trees, shrubs, road signs, and even telephone poles, with tendrils creeping across the lines themselves.  It was like a wall of oddly shaped, deep green, impenetrable growth.  With a start, my son-in-law inquired, "What IS that!!" 

"That, son," I replied, "is the plant that ate the South."

Kudzu.  The science experiment that went terribly wrong.  Like the plant in "Little Shop of Horrors" it just keeps yelling "FEED ME!" then devouring everything in its path.

The plant actually came from China by way of Japan at the end of the 19th century.  It was introduced as an ornamental vine at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia in 1876.  It was marketed widely throughout the southeast as a plant to be used to shade porches.  In just a few years the Soil Erosion Service was recommending its use to help control erosion on slopes.  It did an admirable job on both fronts.  The only problem was keeping it from covering the whole house not just the porch or the entire field not just the slope.  The government got into the act and actually paid farmers to plant kudzu as a high protein fodder and cover crop.  By 1946 it was estimated that over 3 million acres of kudzu had been planted!  Little did they know that we would spend the rest of our lives trying to get rid of it!

Today there is an estimated 7,400,000 acres covered by kudzu.  It continues to consume the south at a rate of about 120,000 acres a year, destroying fences, trees, barns, houses, power lines, fields and any stationary object in its path.  Kudzu can grow up to 60 feet in a season or about one foot a day.  To make it more fun, anywhere a stem of kudzu touches the ground it can root and become a whole new plant.

Not only is it incredibly fast growing but it is almost impossible to kill.  It takes huge quantities of herbicides to damage it and it must be treated for years to actually kill it off.  Biological methods were studied but any weevil or insect that would damage the kudzu would also damage crops.  (At least the powers-that-be checked before just introducing a whole new problem!)  To date the best control is to let goats and llamas feed on it.  A small herd can reduce an acre of kudzu every day. 

It's hard to believe that a plant can grow like this does.  However I have seen first hand how quickly it can move.  My daughter and I parked our car at a motel in Gatlinburg that backed up to a mountainside covered with kudzu.  The parking spot was sided by a rock wall, which I parked beside.  The next afternoon when we went to move the car I discovered the kudzu had come over the wall and was actually inside the back door!  Creepy!

My father's homeplace had kudzu planted on the back porch to provide shade.  He remembered that every morning the first person out would have to break the door open because the vine would have grown over the door during the night.

My son-in-law gazed in wonder at the green covered landscape.  Coming straight from the cultivated farmland of Iowa with its neat fields and controlled crops, I'm sure he had trouble believing what he was seeing. 

I've seen it for years and I still have trouble believing it myself. 

Dog Days of Summer

The last couple of weeks have been so hot that I actually have worn some sleeveless tops.  That's hot folks, because all summer I wear sleeves, wraps, even sweaters, as I shiver in the air conditioning.  In our climate controlled world about our only experience with the heat is as we trot from our air conditioned cars to an air conditioned building.  (Farmers even have air conditioned tractors!)

My kids probably don't remember ever not having air conditioning.  (We did survive a couple of years on the farm before adding central air but we still had a room air conditioner.)

It was a different world back when I was growing up.  (This is not an "I walked 10 miles to school.." saga, but almost!)  Remember, my mom was the one that vowed not to return to the farm until she had electricity and running water, guaranteed.  It's amazing how quickly things change.

The first building air conditioned was.....the New York Stock Exchange. I guess that's a place you need to "keep your cool"!  That was 1902.  A man named Alfred Wolff installed a system using a waste-steam-operated refrigeration system.  He called it "comfort cooling".  It operated successfully for 20 years. 

1902 also saw the first office building air conditioned...the Armour Building in Kansas City, Missouri.

It was 1929 when the first room cooler goes on the market.  This refrigeration unit used sulfur dioxide as a refrigerant and had a capacity of one ton (12,000 BTUH) and was located outside of the house or in the basement.

By 1931 the first year round central air conditioning systems were on the market.  However, cost kept them very exclusive until the 1960's, when they became more affordable in new homes.

By 1947 window units were being mass produced.  That year 43,000 were sold in the U.S. 

I was born in 1949.  We didn't have a window air conditioning unit.  We had fans. I grew up in the '50's and '60's.  I vividly remember the one friend who had a window unit.  We would all crowd around the unit and let the frigid air chill us.  It was a rare treat as the unit was in her parent's bedroom!

Having air conditioning has completely changed the way we live. 

Before AC everyone spent more time outside.  It was just cooler under the shade trees than inside in the stifling heat.  Kids left the house and hunted a cool place to play.  My favorite spot was under some massive hydrangea bushes beside a neighbor's house.  There we would gather in the cool dimness and design imaginary homes and build roads and houses in miniature cities out of leaves and twigs.  When a mother decided we needed to be checked on, she would produce a pitcher of lemonade or koolade and we would flock to the front porch swing to sip deliciously cold drinks.  Nothing comes close to the feeling of a slippery, drippy, cold glass on a hot day.

Cars weren't air conditioned and being sweaty was just a fact.  People didn't stress over it.  Ladies learned to wear cotton dresses that wouldn't show "wet" with a drastic color change.  Light pastels and darks seemed to work best.  I remember we had a plastic mesh seat cushion for the driver's side that was about 1 inch thick.  The purpose was to give you some space for air to circulate so you didn't arrive at your destination too damp.  We also had floor vents that could be opened to let air rush in.  It would blow your dress up to indecent heights, but oh, it felt so good!  Everyone rode with the windows down and the air blowing in.  It gives you a whole new appreciation for the "helmet hair-dos" of the 60's.  Enough teasing and hairspray and a tornado wouldn't move it.

Meals would generally be light and cool, especially as the kitchen heated up during the day.  Supper would be fruit and cottage cheese, cold cut sandwiches, jello salads, meat salads, or my favorite, frozen fruit salad and lots of sweet, iced tea.  After supper everyone would gravitate to the yards where the air was noticeably cooler than the hot air trapped in the house.  The adults would relax under the shade trees or on the porches, often with a small chore that could be done outside.  Daddy might tinker with some small repair while mom would snap beans or even fold clothes.  Neighbors would drift by to visit or share some garden bounty.  The kids would gather for games of kick-the-can, hide and seek, croquet or badminton. (If you lived in the country you had to make-do with your siblings as playmates but you also had creeks to cool off in!)

As night fell you would retire to your bed and hope for a cool breeze.  Most homes had a window fan that would be used to pull air in the open windows.  If you were lucky, you had a big attic fan that would create delightful drafts of air as it pulled the hot air out and the cool nighttime air in.  I talked my mother into making my bed up from the bottom, so I could sleep at the foot in front of the open window.  I loved lying there in the moonlight listening to the evening sounds from outside.  A distant dog bark, a meandering cat's yowl, cars passing, music from a radio in someone's house, soft conversations from lingering adults, katydids chirping their wings together, whippoorwills calling everyone to bed, owls hooting the beginning of their nighttime hunts, and the crickets and frogs adding their chorus to the concert.

Yep.  It was a different world.  Now we stay inside and watch television or play on the computer.  We text, talk and message from one air conditioned spot to another.  We wear sweaters if we are going to a public place. 

Would I give up my air conditioning?  Heck no!  It also means that people are less cross, cranky, sleep-deprived, and just plain ornery.  I'll keep my air conditioning and just slip on this sweatshirt, thank you.

But I do miss the fellowship and friendliness of those soft, summer evenings.

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!