MOUSE! Splat!

Early this month hubby stopped by the house to inquire, "You got time to take a ride with me?"  It seems that the haybine needed a part and it would be three days if we ordered it.  Hubby had found one on-line at a dealer about an hour away.  Surprisingly, he didn't ask me to go get it but instead just asked for company on the trip.  (I think he must be mellowing in his old age!)  It was a lovely June day and I eagerly accepted.


We visited and chatted our way through the beautiful countryside, catching up on things.  It was spring on the farm and that meant that time to just visit was in short supply.  Days tended to start early and end late.


We soon had our part and were retracing our steps on the way home.  As we turned onto a small country road he turned to me and grinned.  "Keep your eyes peeled.  I think I saw a sign in a farmhouse yard that said 'Strawberries'."  It wasn't long before I yelped, "There it is!"  We turned into a shady drive that led to the back of a farmhouse, where we did indeed find strawberries for sale.  After a visit with the farmer, we soon were settled in the truck again with our fresh gallon of strawberries filling the cab with their fragrance. 


They say smell brings back more memories than any other sense. 


In moments I was transported back to our strawberry days on the farm.


Soon after we moved to our present farm Hubby and I decided to plant a strawberry bed.  For the first time we had the space and the location for such a dream come true event.  Off he went to the local farm store, to purchase some plants.  I'm convinced that the lovely, old gentleman who ran the store just laid in wait for unsuspecting husbands to wander in.  "Well, now.  So the missus wants to grow some strawberries."  he smiled helpfully.  "Does she want just a few to eat on or is she planning on making jam and maybe freezing a pint or two?"


Hubby, with visions of strawberry pie, strawberry jam, and neat packages of frozen strawberries dancing in his head, responded. "Oh, she wants a good sized patch so she can do lots of canning and freezing.  Plus, we really like to eat them fresh!"


Smiling, benignly, the old gentleman led Hubby to the crates of strawberry plants and said, "I think four bundles ought to be enough for what you want." 


Hubby never thought to ask, how many plants were in a bundle.


By the time we had finished planting, we had about a quarter of an acre of strawberry plants.  That was about four times as many strawberry plants as we needed.  I'm pretty sure that old gentleman laughed every night about how he put one over on Hubby.


As the plants started producing, it became a nightly routine for the kids and I to gather at the strawberry patch to pick strawberries for a while.  Their reward for helping (not that they really had a choice) was a heaping dish of fresh strawberries and ice cream.  The kids grumbled and complained but like kids do they found ways to make the chore entertaining. 


Along with the luscious, red, plump berries that hung from the clusters of plants were those few that for some reason became covered in a gray fungus-like substance.  These fuzzy, gray berries soon become known as "mice" for their color and way of hiding under the dense foliage. 


The kids would pick along talking, laughing and complaining until they found a gray "mouse" among the plants.  Suddenly the shout of "MOUSE" would ring out over the patch.  At that shout, I soon learned to drop quickly, flat to the ground in the row.  The kid that had found the "mouse" would rise up and pulling their arm back, throw the "mouse" as hard as they could at their sibling!  If it hit, the result was a pinkish gray splat!  It was rather like farm kid paintball! 


There weren't many rules.  1) You had to keep picking good strawberries.  Not just hunting the gray ones. 2) You couldn't aim at mama  (which was why I ducked, so I wouldn't be in the line of fire.)


Rule number 2 didn't hold up very well.  I have lousy aim so the kids were pretty safe.


My son had big hands so he learned to stockpile a few berries in one hand while he kept picking with the other.  Then when his sister would shout out and start firing away, he would return with a bombardment of his own.  The berries would fly thick and fast, with a few overripe ones included for good measure. 


One evening, Hubby couldn't stand it any longer and came wandering up to the garden to see what all the shouting and laughing was about.


With a gleam in my eye, I motioned him to come over and see our "strawberries"! He walked unsuspectingly along admiring the buckets of ripe strawberries we had picked. Then with a shout of "MOUSE" I rose up and pelted him with a gray berry I had been holding on to for a return attack on the kids.  Within seconds the kids had joined in with screams, laughter and flying fuzzy projectiles.  Not to be outdone, Hubby was soon grabbing strawberries and firing right back.  War was on!!


I guess the old gent was right.  Our family did need four bundles of strawberries after all.

Visiting Dead Relatives

Hubby's retirement hasn't brought us the quiet, relaxation that I thought it would.  It seems that he is still farming like he has to get it all done at the same pace he would have in his two half days off!  My dreams of early suppers and quiet evenings watching the fireflies, are dead and gone.  (Partially, since it doesn't get dark until I am ready for bed.)  We are still working from "get up to go down", especially with summer fast upon us.


However, this spring Hubby endured a little forced leisure from a minor medical issue.  Feeling fine, but unable to drive or do any physical work, he was beginning to drive me crazy.  (He says it doesn't take long because I don't have far to go!)  So, one beautiful morning, I sprang my trap.  "Honey", I inquired as I sipped my coffee, "do you remember promising to take me to visit the dead relatives?"


"Ummm ", he mumbled around his toast, eyeing me warily.  "Which dead relatives?"


Last fall, in one of my periodic spurts of working on the family tree, I had discovered several dates that I didn't have recorded.  Most of them could be found in the old cemeteries in the county we grew up in.  Hubby, in a mellow moment, promised to take me to search out the old stones.  Fall and winter passed with no "suitable" time to make the journey.  (Farmers tend to only take off days that are rainy, snowy, or basically too miserable to be outside.  Hardly the days to tromp around in old cemeteries.)


Homing in for the kill, I smiled. "It's a beautiful day and if you stay here on the farm you'll just go nuts wanting to be out doing something.  Besides, you are the one who knows where the little VonGruenigen cemetery is.  I'd be lost for a week if I tried to find it."  Laughing, he agreed, "You'd get lost in a bathtub if you didn't have a road map!"


Soon we were on our way to visit dead relatives. 


The fun thing about going back to the place where you grew up are the memories that flood into your mind.  Before we even got to town, Hubby was yelling at me to "turn in, turn in here!"  He had spied an old schoolmate riding around mowing his front yard.  Nothing would do but we stop and visit for a while. He and his wife, graciously interrupted their work to catch up on old times.  We left an hour later, feeling warm, refreshed and 18 years old again for a few minutes.  The warm fuzzy lasted but we lost the 18 year old feeling pretty quickly!


The first stop was to the Buffalo Springs Cemetery located just outside of Stanford.  Originally, it was beside the fort built by Benjamin Logan when he and a group of settlers established the little town of St. Asaph.  The old part still contains stones from the late 1700's.  The little gravel roads led in neat squares through the neatly mowed rows of stones.  Interspersed were statues and large monuments, towering old trees, flowering shrubs, and spring flowers.  The feeling was peaceful and friendly.  Driving slowly through the graves I caught myself calling out to old friends.  "Look!  There is Aunt Lucille!"  "Here are the Matheny's.  What ever happened to their son?"  "Do you remember my grandmothers friend, Sara?  Here she is!"


Finding the Campbell section, near the front under a shady, old tree, I happily begin scribbling down dates and names.  Hubby backed me up by taking pictures of the stones and their location.  Chore finished we started wandering and making discoveries. 


Just a few stones over we discovered a stone for a gentleman and his two wives.  After looking at it for a minute, I realized that he had married sisters!  The older sister had died and he had married her younger sister.  Convenient.  It must have been a happy arrangement since they were all buried in the same plot.  Unlike my grandfather's grave, which we found in another section.  He was buried with his first wife and her three infants and one grown daughter that they had.  His second wife, my grandmother chose to be buried in another cemetery entirely! 


After gathering some more dates and pictures we decided to strike out for the little VonGruenigen cemetery.  Hubby lost me at the first turn.  We wandered down little narrow roads until we were in an area behind his grandfathers original farm.  "I think we go this way."  he pointed to the right.  "I believe it's down a hill and then in a curve."  "Slow down.  Yes! right here!"  Sure enough there was a little group of headstones, surrounded by a neat fence.  Finding a place to pull off the narrow road, we walked back only to be confronted by a sturdy gate.  Peering into the neatly groomed graveyard we sighed, wondering if we would have to climb the fence.  Smiling, Hubby reached through to the latch and with a little jiggle and a shove soon had it open enough for us to squeeze through.


The space held about two dozen graves, surrounded by a few trees, shrubs and clumps of spring blooming flowers.  On one side a bench had been placed for family to rest from their tending of the area or just to meditate and remember.  These were some of the names from the early Swiss settlers that had come to Lincoln Co. in the late 1800's.  Here were Ganders, Camenisches, and VonGruenigens.  I spied the stone I was looking for.  Lydia VonGruenigen Coleman, Hubby's mother's sister.  Dying many years after her husband she had chosen to be buried in this small cemetery.  She had moved from Detroit after his death and had spent her last years with her widowed sister in Stanford.  Then I saw why.


Nestled down in the grass beside Aunt Lydia's marker was another small stone.  Under a carving of a small angel were the words:
                                        Shirley Ann Coleman
                                         B.    9-17-1927
                                         D.    2-21-1928
Aunt Lydia's little girl, who had lived a short five months.  Her only child. 


I had assumed that she had never had children, but her mother's heart had mourned and yearned for her tiny daughter throughout her life.  At the end, she only wanted to be laid to rest next to her.


Cemeteries are far from being gloomy and scary places but rather full of stories of love and devotion....and sometimes even a chuckle.
                                                                 

The Legend of Old Virge

The mix of generations at family get-togethers tend to bring out the best (or worst) of family legends.  This was very true at an impromptu gathering of the Campbell clan over the week-end.


The groaning plates of food had been reduced to smears and all the current gossip had been chewed up and spit out,  when the talk turned to memories of the family members who weren't with us any more.  Having recently been bitten with the genealogy bug, I started quizzing Hubby's cousin about the location of the old Campbell cemetery.  That led us to talk about Hubby's grandfather, Virgil. 


At the mention of his name, all the women shared a "look" and a little smile.  A quick witted teen, catching the glance, demanded.  "What was the funny look about?  What is the story?"  Laughing, a granddaughter replied, "Which one?  We can do Granddaddy Campbell stories all day!"


And the stories flowed....


You see, Granddaddy Campbell loved women.


He also loved life and living it to the fullest. 


The two often collided, with hilarious results.


Now before you get the wrong idea, he wasn't a rogue or a philanderer, he just liked females.  All shapes, sizes, types, or age.  To him they were all worthy of his outrageous flirtations and compliments.  They, in turn, bloomed and fluttered under his attentions.  Old Maids would simper, matrons would preen, young mothers would blush, and little girls would crow with delight at his comments and roving gaze. 


He was a handsome man, even when I met him after I started dating Hubby, the middle of his three grandsons.  Tall, with a quick smile, laughing bright blue eyes, and thick, pure white hair that fell over his forehead in a Superman curl, he was still dashing. Granny Campbell was a tall, dignified woman.  Gracious, but reserved, she seldom reacted to his antics.  I often wondered, if inside, she was laughing.  I could see her in my imagination, like Grandma on the Walton's TV show, smacking him on the arm, and muttering "old fool".  She must have had a hidden twinkle or she would have poisoned his pork chops!


His granddaughter started by telling of her wedding day.  Granddaddy, proud as punch of his only granddaughter, placed himself at the end of the receiving line at the reception.  (A pause here to explain to the younger family members what a receiving line was.)  As each woman proceeded down the line, greeting the bride and groom, the bride's parents, then the groom's parents, they came to Granddaddy.  With a roguish smile, he would introduce himself and proceed to give them a warm hug as a welcome.  If that went well, he would place a fond, grandfatherly kiss on the smooth cheek.  Again, with a tender, grandfatherly look, he would pat her gently.  What would have gotten a younger man a sharp reprimand, received only a rueful glance and a giggle.  He had a wonderful time welcoming the ladies, as he put it.


Next, a great-granddaughter, retold the family legendary story of Granddaddy and Grandma's trip to California on the train.  As evening approached, they retired to the Pullman car of the train to get some rest for the coming day.  (A pause here to explain what a Pullman sleeper car was.)  During the night, Granddaddy was awakened by a call of nature.  Quietly, he slid out of his berth and proceeded down the aisle of the curtained sleeping compartments to the restroom.  Finishing his business he then returned to his berth to complete his night's sleep.  Feeling chilled by his ramble, he reached over to pull a portion of Granny's dress skirt over his knees....only to discover that the skirt didn't belong to Granny!  The report was, that after being promptly banished from the unamused ladies' berth, he crawled back down the aisle to Granny.  No one could ever get him to admit whether the mix-up was accidental or intentional!


I laughed and added that the challenge of dating Hubby was the ritual visit to his grandparents.  We would drive right through the little town they lived in on our way back to college after a visit home.  Naturally, we would be expected to stop and visit.  Granddaddy and Granny would be ensconced in their chairs in the little living room.  Greeting us warmly, he would throw open his arms and beam, "Come give an old man a hug!" he would command.  He would apologize for not getting up, citing an old man's stiffness as an excuse.  The result was a dance to bend over in the short skirts of the late sixties, give a hug, and escape before his roaming hands had patted their way down to bare leg.  He would look so genuinely happy to see you (or get a pat in) that it was impossible to be irritated with him.


My sister-in-law chimed in that the one thing he couldn't resist was a garter.  (Pause here to explain to the youngsters the complexities of a garter belt) (Pause again to realize we lost them at "stockings" much less garter belts!)  It seems that her challenge was to get by him without his wandering hands encountering the lump of her garter.  If he found it, he would chortle with glee and proceed to grab it through her skirt and snap it resoundingly!  He thought this was hilarious!


At this point I threw my hand in the air to be counted, with laughter bubbling up.  I, too, had been a victim of the garter snap!! 


By now we were all talking and laughing at once.  I suspect the youngsters are a little confused by our delight in this old rascal, but once you met him you had to love him. (Besides, apples don't fall far from the tree.  I suspect a few of the old man's genes are alive and well in his heirs!)


I also suspect the youngsters are more than a "little" confused by the strange facets of a life gone by, like Pullman cars and garter belts.  How did our world change so fast...and how did we wind up the "old" ones?

Little Dog

Early last October we returned home to find that our dog had invited a friend over.  Well, not really.  What we actually found was a cute, little black, tan and white dog that had obviously become separated from her owners.  She looked a little like a corgi that had been crossed with an black and tan shepherd.  Short legged and thick tailed, she possessed a sweet face and a gentle disposition. 

When all efforts to locate an owner failed, Sadie, aka Little Bit, aka, Little Jump, settled in with the farm dogs.  Possessing a playful nature she spent hours playing tug of war with the Aussie and even enticed the neurotic, aloof collie into whirlwind games of tag.  The grandkids thought she was cool, but Hubby was less than enthusiastic about another dog.  "We're going to have to start getting the feed store to deliver dog food in bulk by the ton", he grumbled, as he headed to chore with Little Bit right behind him.

I knew he was hooked when he stopped by the house one day and mentioned he was going to check cattle but first he had to change from the four-wheeler to the ranger.  "Why are you taking the ranger?" I questioned, thinking that maybe he needed to take some tools or equipment in the bed of the ranger.  "The little dog gets tired." he mumbled.  "Huh?" I queried,  "I didn't catch that."  "The little dog.", he repeated with a touch of defensiveness in his voice, "She follows me with Ellie (the Aussie) and she gets all worn out with her short legs.  With the ranger I can give her a lift."  Ducking his head, he headed to the barn.  Shortly later, I watched with a smile as he left to check the cattle with the little dog sitting proudly beside him on the ranger's seat.  Yep.  He was hooked.

Then Christmas morning arrived.  We left before daylight to be at the son's house when the kids opened Santa.  The little dog escorted us to the garage and watched as we pulled down the drive.  Hours later, we returned to the house, full from a big breakfast and exhausted from our early start.  We went straight in and to the couch.  Our son stopped by that evening after chores and informed us that we were short one little dog. 

Over the next day, we looked and looked for the little dog.  The farm rang with our calls as we went about our daily chores.  Hubby even drove up and down the road searching, with dread, for a small, furry body.  The Australian Shepherd moped around, missing her playmate.  The grandchildren were as worried as we were, adding their calls to ours.  Every outbuilding was searched, hoping she had just accidently gotten locked in.  We eventually accepted that the little dog wasn't coming back.

Sunday morning, we drove to town to pick the kids up for church, still automatically checking the roadsides.  It was a subdued group that pulled into the parking lot behind the church.  I gathered up kids and belongings and started to escort the little ones up the back stairs to their Sunday School class when a small, dark whirlwind appeared across the lawn. "Little Jump!" squealed the granddaughter.  Soon, the little dog was the center of an excited, mass of Campbells, all talking at once.  "Where did you come from?" "How did you get here?"  "We thought you were gone!"

I looked up to see a gentleman approaching us across the lawn.  My heart did a little sad lunge, realizing that the little dog had obviously had an owner before us and  this could very well be him.  "Is that your dog?" we both asked at once.  Laughing, I replied, not very helpfully, "Yes. No. Well, sort of. Is she yours?"   After a few more false starts we sorted out how he wound up with the little dog.   It seems that he had found her on the main highway in front of the farm, where she was hunting on the roadsides. Fearing she would be hit and killed, he picked her up and brought her to town.  She had been living the high life in his apartment, eating doggie treats and sleeping on the couch, when he let her out to potty just as we arrived at church.

He said she had been a perfect lady and obviously was housebroken.  Watching his gentleness as he petted the little dog, I asked him if he would like to keep her.  She really was a stray, not really our dog.  He shook his head sadly, "She's a doll, but I live in an apartment and am gone a lot with my work.  I just can't have a pet, but I might come see her, if I can."  "Anytime!" I assured him, as I gathered up my excited brood and sorted out how we were going to get the dog home before church.

I had mixed emotions while taking her home.  It was obvious that the dog was used to being someone's house dog.  At the farm, she was an outside, farm dog.  Maybe she was miserable being outside all the time.  Maybe she would rather be with her rescuer in a comfy house.  However, she certainly seemed to enjoy her games with the other dogs and her rides in the ranger.

I guess I wasn't the only one thinking about this.  A couple of nights later, our son called from his house after leaving the farm.  "I've got the little dog.  She's going to spend the night with us."  As he was leaving, after calling his dog to the truck, he scooped up the little dog and put her in, too. 

So now we are "co-owners" of the little dog.  I keep her in the day and she goes home at night with her friend, Ellie, the Aussie. 

Maybe living a dog's life isn't all bad.

 

Making Memories (and a few beaten biscuits)

I spent this morning making memories (and a few beaten biscuits) with the two little grandsons.

First, we drug out the beaten biscuit brake from the corner of the utility room, where it sits holding up boxes of dog treats the rest of the year.  This treasured antique looks like the wringer off of an old washer mounted on an enameled table.  Hand cranked it is the necessary tool for making the hard, flat biscuits that southerners love.

Next, we mixed up the dough in my largest mixing bowl.  Flour, salt, a little sugar, lard, and water and milk for the liquid. (Yep. No leavening.  They don't rise but bake like thick crackers.) It is mixed much like traditional biscuits but kneaded only enough to hold the dough together well.   The resulting lump of dough was carried into the utility room and plopped down on the biscuit brake.  "Are you ready?"  I asked the youngest, who was already in position at the crank.  "Let's go!" he responded.

With that I started the process of putting the dough between the rollers, folding it, and repeating the process.  The dough begins as a lumpy mass that tends to fall apart as it is cranked through the stainless, steel covered rollers.  As time passes the dough transforms into a smooth, elastic sheet that looks like thick, creamy leather.  As the folded dough is passed through the rollers again and again, the air trapped between the folds breaks through the firm dough with a loud "pop" signaling that the dough is done! 

It's not fast.  The dough has to be folded, and rolled about 100 times.  That leaves time for chatting as we work. 

"Why are they called "beaten" biscuits if we are rolling them?"  asks one of the boys.

"Well," I replied, "in the pioneer days people didn't have cool machines like this to work the dough.  So they used to literally "beat" the dough with something heavy, like the flat side of an ax." 

"Didn't they get tired?  I'm getting tired just cranking."  Sensing that I was about to lose my help, I suggested that it might be time to switch places so he could "poke" the dough through the rollers while I cranked. 

"Yes, they got tired.", I continued,  "but people worked harder back in the pioneer days.  They didn't have electricity or lots of gadgets to help them.  They certainly were in better shape than we are now.  The pioneer women probably used the same ax to chop the firewood for the stove that they would cook the biscuits in."

"I'll bet they were glad when someone invented the beaten biscuit machine!"  Grinning, I agreed that they probably were.  Soon the "pops" told me that it was time for a final rolling then we could cut the biscuits out .  The last job after that was using a fork to poke three sets of holes in each biscuit with the tines of the fork.  That done, we quickly put them in the oven to bake. 

Dusting off his hands, the oldest boy asked, "Hasn't anyone ever thought to make an electric beaten biscuit maker?"  "Yes" I replied, "there are ones with a motor."  "So why don't you have one?" came the quick response.  "I guess I just like doing it this way with my boys."  I offered, chuckling.

As they peeked at the baking biscuits in the oven, I overheard one say to the other, "I think we need to get daddy to put a motor on that thing for next year!"

The Big Ass TV

They just don't make things like they used to.  Our couch is a prime example.  After fifteen years of kids, dogs, snoozes, ballgames and cuddling in front of the fire, it is beginning to come apart.  While it is still the most comfortable couch we have ever had, it is beginning to look like it belongs in a college bachelor apartment.

With company coming over the holidays we decided it was time to bite the bullet and buy a new couch.  "You have to come with me.", I announced one morning.  "You are the one that uses it the most.  You watch ballgames and then often get up in the night and sleep on it.  So it has to fit you, not me."  "Well, you use it too." he responded, just short of a whine.  "You haven't been paying attention.  My end of the couch is equipped with a signal button under the cushion.  As soon as my butt hits the cushion someone needs something and I have to jump back up." I responded.

So, off we went to the city to shop for a new couch. 

It really didn't take long.  We wandered the store, sitting, reclining, and even laying down on first one couch then another.  One couch caught our fancy and before you could snap your fingers a saleslady was filling out forms and starting the bargaining process.  Hubby has years of sales under his belt so offers, counter-offers and deals were soon flying.  Before long we were leaving the store, with a quote in hand, to go home and measure our space again to be sure it would fit.  We would then call back, finalize the deal, and set up a delivery date. 

Since we were close, and I needed a water filter for the refrigerator, we swung by the HHGreg appliance store.  I headed for the refrigerator section while Hubby wandered off.  After securing the filter and paying for it, I started searching for Hubby.  I finally found him stretched out comfortably in a recliner in the TV section, talking earnestly to a friendly young salesman. (Funny how the recliners were placed right next to the TV section!) They were deep into a discussion of pixels, HD, inches, and remote controls.  "Look at this picture!", he enthused as I walked up.  "Kevin, here, says that it will work on the chimney with no problem." he continued, happily, "He even says it's on sale!" 

Whoa!  What is happening here?

"We've got to go home and measure the chimney to make sure it will fit." he continued.  "We can pick it up after the ballgame this week-end."  "Honey," I asked in my most reasonable voice, "I thought we were measuring for a new couch?"  He grabbed his phone as we left the store, "The couch!  Right!" he dialed rapidly.  "I'm calling about the couch we just looked at.  If you can bring your price down to this (amount) we've got a deal.  You can't come down any lower?  OK.  Thanks for your help anyway."  He turned to me, "I guess the deal fell through.  We'll look some more later."

Thus, we bought a 60" TV that covers the entire chimney from mantle to crown molding.

 I guess we'll sit on the cracked, faded leather couch a little while longer.

The moral of this story is....don't ever take a man to buy a water filter.

Thanksgiving on the Farm

I love the holiday season, but I swear, the time between Halloween and Christmas gets shorter every year. 

Which is why I am just now getting time to tell you about Thanksgiving farm style.

I love Thanksgiving, but what I really love most is the day before Thanksgiving.  The major cleaning is done.  The table set and decorated.  I am filled with anticipation of the joyous celebration of family and thankfulness that will take place the next day.  I throw myself into a frenzy of cooking and baking, all the while dreaming of a Norman Rockwell family dinner with everyone gathered around the perfectly prepared foods set on the beautifully decorated table.  Everyone is smiling and happily visiting as the food is passed.  The children beam with eagerness, awaiting their filled plates. 

The day before Thanksgiving, I still think it will happen like that. 

We live on a farm.  It never happens like that!

The first surprise came the evening before Turkey Day, when all four grandchildren showed up to spend the night.  (I misunderstood the request of "Coming out" thinking it meant a short visit.  I realized my mistake when they arrived carrying overnight bags.)  I only cook for Thanksgiving on the day before, so I scrambled frantically for something for the six of us to eat.

"Don't fret," Hubby soothed, "I'll keep them occupied tomorrow.  It'll be like old times."  "Sure", I muttered, "I'll just squeeze in breakfast between peeling potatoes and making the pies."

The next morning Hubby finished his coffee and left to go to the barn to feed.  It wasn't long before I heard the back door open and feet rushing through the utility room.  "Get the boys!!" Hubby urged, "The cows are out and heading for the road!"  The two younger boys were ready in two shakes but the teenager was still trying to focus.  "Do I get to eat?" he mumbled.  "Yep" I responded, "Here's some peanut butter on toast!  Now hurry!"

Soon the cavalry was headed over the hill to the pasture in the bottom.   Hubby and son had been replacing a fence along the bottom that we grow tobacco in.  They thought they had it fixed enough that the cows would stay in, but the lure of the winter wheat planted on the tobacco ground as a cover crop was too much for the cows.  The mama cows were munching happily on their fresh salad but the calves were exploring the area beyond the unfenced tobacco ground.  With no barrier to keep them from going as far as the highway getting them back into the field was urgent.

As soon as they were rounded up and herded back,  Hubby started organizing his work force to string barbed wire to make sure they stayed there.  About mid-morning our son wandered in, anticipating scarfing a few munchies before dinner.  "Where is everyone?" he asked.  "The cows got out so they're in the bottom fixing fence."  "Uh, oh" he laughed, "I'd better go referee before things get ugly." 

Dinner time came and my daughter-in-law and I looked at each other over the food keeping warm on the stove.  "Well,  there's no point in wasting the appetizers." she laughed, as she poured us both a glass of wine.  "They'll be here when they get here!" 

We were well into our second glass when the workers came in.  "Mission accomplished with only the loss of one shirt."  son said as he poked his finger in the hole in the side of his shirt.  Barbed wire is nasty to work with. 

We women jumped up and started reheating and repairing the now late dinner.  The dinner, while maybe not Norman Rockwell, was delicious. 

After dinner, the men were headed for the couches and a snooze, when the phone rang.  It was our neighbor, "I just came home from Mom's and noticed that your cows were out in the bottom!"  With groans all around, the work crew headed for the barn to start all over again.

For those of you thinking it was a poor fencing job, the second time they came through the water gap in the creek.  It seems that once they got a taste of the winter wheat they would all but climb a tree to get back to it! 

Just another Thanksgiving on the farm.

Thanksgiving 2015

Thanksgiving is tomorrow.  Like moms everywhere I have a million things to complete before the family arrives for dinner. 

Yesterday, after spending an hour checking recipes, ingredients, and lists, I went to the grocery to get everything for the big day.  While wandering the aisles, I remembered that I had forgotten to get the cider for hot mulled cider (a hard and fast tradition, not to be messed with).  After backtracking and grabbing the cider I remembered that the last time I had made it I was out of one of the whole spices I used...but which one?  As I stood in front of the spices, racking my brain for the answer, an attentive clerk offered to help me find what I needed.  "What I need", I declared in frustration, "is someone to run home and see what I'm out of so I don't have to make a dash back tomorrow!"  A soft chuckle rippled out from behind me, "Honey, you can't ever have Thanksgiving without reaching for at least one thing you were just sure you had and don't!", declared a woman passing behind me. 

Another shopper waiting to pass us in the aisle, chimmed in, "I plan on being out of a few things," she laughed.  "Then when the menfolks get to bugging me too much in the kitchen, I send them to the grocery to fetch it for me."  Laughing harder, she proclaimed, "it works every time.  By the time they've found the ingredients and visited with all their buddies doing the same thing, I've got dinner ready."

The clerk, now laughing with us, agreed.  "The store is full of men all day Thanksgiving, hunting for odd ingredients and passing the time with friends.  We've actually thought about setting up refreshments and just letting them hang out!"  We agreed it was a good plan, and still laughing we parted to continue our shopping.

Today, while setting the table with the paper turkeys I bought at the local drug store when the kids were little tykes, I started thinking about some of our more treasured memories. 

The year my sister's son was little and was fascinated with the candles on the table.  For some reason (who knows how little kid's brains work?) he decided to blow out the candle in front of him.  Unfortunately, he had a mouth full of mashed potatoes at the time.  Hubby's dad was sitting directly across from him and received the benefit of the potatoes.  The kid survived, but it was a close thing.   Not a perfect memory, but it still makes us laugh!

The kids remember splitting firewood on Thanksgiving morning.  Hubby's instructions were to stay out of the kitchen and keep everyone occupied.  His solution was to fire up the splitter and split firewood until dinner time.  I'm pretty sure that is why my daughter decided to learn to cook. Then she could help in the kitchen!

My favorite memory is of the dinners at my Aunt and Uncle's home.  Without football games televised 24/7, the adults stayed around the table after dinner and told stories.  As a kid I loved sitting and listening to the tales grow "taller" as the after dinner drinks grew shorter.  I learned some fascinating things about my elders....who knew my genteel grandfather was such a rip or my dad and uncle were such terrors!

Tomorrow, everyone will bolt from the table to continue watching ball games or playing their video games.  Times change.   One thing stays the same.  We will sit down as a family, wrapped in the warmth of each others love, and be thankful for the blessings we have been granted. 

And stare at the paper turkeys marching down the table.

The Machinery Auction

There are few things that get a farmer more excited than a good machinery auction.

Unless it is getting ready to hold a good machinery auction.

Hubby has retired from the insurance business but he kept his interest in the Real Estate firm.  Frankly, the man is a born salesman.  He just loves selling things. 

For the past few weeks he has been up to his ears in getting ready for a big estate sale that involves a farm, house and lots of machinery.  Did I mention...LOTS of machinery.  The farmer in question never sold his equipment, he just bought more.  He also kept it well maintained and stored around the farm.  For the past few weeks they have been finding tractors, hay balers, gravity wagons, mowers, manure spreaders, wagons, and bush hogs, tucked away in fence rows, barns, sheds, fields, and woods.  Each day has been a treasure hunt. 

Hubby and his old partner, who retired several years ago, have been spearheading getting all of the equipment organized and cataloged.  It wasn't long before they realized that it was going to take more help.  The first person they drafted was our son.  He is the one that keeps our machinery repaired and running so they were soon calling on him to tell them how this or that worked.  It wasn't long before he was spending every minute he could spare helping with the sale. 

He came home one night just bubbling.  They had spent the day trying to organized buildings full of parts and pieces of farm machinery.  "Mom", he laughed, "We found enough parts in those buildings to build enough machinery to run a big farm!"  Trying to sort and organize was like a big puzzle keeping them all guessing what pieces needed to be with which equipment.

Soon the line of machinery stretched across the farm frontage causing traffic jams on the little country road as farmers drove by to see what was for sale.  Still they were finding treasures in the fence rows and building.  For example, the old farmer loved showing his two pair of pulling mules.  The mules had found a new home, but left behind were boxes of harnesses and hanes.  That stumped them.  Neither of my men have ever harnessed a pair of mules.  That may be the bargain of the sale if someone knows how to figure them out!

As the sale date drew closer the talk in the town grew too.  Now people were calling and stopping by to view the farm and buildings.  Days were busy answering questions, showing boundaries, and finding more stuff in the fence rows.  Excitement grew.

Today is the day.  Hubby, son, and grandsons left early this morning to "work" the sale.  Everyone had their job assignments and was eager to get started.  Tonight, after a long day of selling, visiting, laughing, and working, they will drag in, exhausted, exhilarated, and full of stories. 

There is nothing more fun to a farmer than a good machinery auction.

I wonder what we will do for excitement next?

Farm Raised Parenting

A couple of new terms came into my sight this past week.  Helicopter parenting and Free Range parenting.  Most of you know immediately what I am referring to, but in case you don't I'll summarize.

 Helicopter parents are those parents that hover over their children in every aspect and moment of their lives.  They are the ones doing the homework, scheduling "play dates", organizing afterschool activities, and generally living their kids lives for them.  We didn't have a cute name for them but I have known a few of these parents.  When my kids were struggling through their 4-H projects there were the kids whose projects always won grand champion.  We knew their parents painstakingly wrote every project book and finished every project.  In spite of this these children grew up to be responsible, productive adults.

Free-Range parents are just the opposite.  They tend to let their children experience the world with little adult supervision and interference.  We knew a few of those parents back in the day, too.  They were the ones whose children roamed the streets, settled their own arguments, and spent a lot of time in my back yard.  Yet, they are now caring, self-sufficient, hard working adults. 

Both of these factions loudly decry the other's methods of child-rearing and proclaim the ruination of the children involved.  Extremes are never good.  I've seen children that were so ignored that I yearned to "mother" them myself.  I also had a college president tell me of a mother who descended on his office because her son wasn't being treated fairly by his professor! 

Personally, I think the kids that will rule the world are the Farm Raised children.

Farm kids get the best of both types of parenting.  They are exposed to a lot of "get out there and get it done" attitude that puts them on their own but by the very nature of farming are taught and supervised by their parents who are working along with them.  Farm kids get a lot of responsibility and challenges but they also get lots of support.  In the process they learn......

They learn problem solving.  Take the time that our son learned to milk a cow.  He was about 12-13 years old and had helped his dad deliver a fine heifer calf.  Unfortunately, the cow decided she didn't want to be a mother and refused to let the calf nurse.   Knowing that the early colostrum is natures perfect baby food, Hubby put the cow in the chute and milked her out.  (Old dairy farmers never forget how.)  This was a beef cow, not a gentle dairy cow, and she didn't like it, but they managed.  The next day, son decided that he would do this chore himself.  I arrived at the barn later, to see how he was progressing, and nearly choked on my giggles.  He had managed to get her in the chute, but every effort to milk her had resulted in a kick, tail swipe, or head toss.  To stabilize her he had tied every available appendage to something.  She was pretty well hog-tied but son was getting a little of the precious milk.  He learned a lot of things that day, not the least of which was the value of powdered calf starter (milk) and a bottle.

They learn self-sufficiency.  Moving to the farm meant leaving city water and learning to live on a small cistern.  With teenagers and cattle to water, we were constantly running out of water.  One Friday, after a full afternoon of working cattle our daughter hurried to the house to shower for a Friday night date.  Working cattle is a filthy job which always involves lots of manure.  It's amazing how far they can sling a tail full of manure.  I stopped her as she headed for the stairs.  "We're out of water.  I've called for a load and we are on the list, but I don't know when they will get here!"  In total disbelief she stomped upstairs to her room only to reappear moments later and head outside.  I thought she was probably heading out to vent her frustration.  When I checked on her out the window I spotted her hauling a five-gallon bucket and a rope from the barn.  She marched over to the cistern cover, muscled off the lid, tied the rope to the bucket and lowered it down into the water.  She then strained to haul the bucket out and triumphantly carried her supply to the house.  She left for her date scrubbed and clean. 

They learn perseverance.  Soon after our son got his drivers license he started begging to drive the truck and gooseneck trailer.  He was a good driver (farm kids learn early) but maneuvering a 16 foot trailer is a tricky business.  Finally, one day Hubby told him to back the gooseneck up to the barn and load the supplies for the cattle show that afternoon.  Early that morning he hooked up the truck and trailer and proceeded to the barn.  Backing it into the barn involved turning around on a circle drive and backing it into a straight off-shoot.  He had the trailer everywhere.  In the drive, in the field, in the yard, sideways, backward and nearly crossways.  He spent most of the morning pulling out and backing up.  At long last it was backed perfectly into the barn opening.  He'd used a tank of gas, worn all the grass off the top of the hill, and wasted hours but he has never had a minutes trouble backing a truck and trailer up again.  In fact he's about the best at it I've ever seen, now. 

They learn to prioritize and meet deadlines.  Hubby had a habit of giving everyone a list of chores to do each day as he left for work.  He would carefully outline what each needed to accomplish before he came home so they could begin his nightly jobs.  The kids learned that if they stayed at the house I would nag them about their chores.  So they would announce that they were headed for the barn to "work".  Once there they would laze away the day playing cards on an overturned bucket, hunting the new litter of kittens,  telling stories, or teaching the dog tricks (a long and unsuccessful campaign) until they had just enough time to frantically launch into their chores and complete them before Hubby arrived.

They learn to delegate.  Believe me they learned quickly how to delegate an unwanted job onto the other one..either by bribes, threats, or coercion.  On the other hand they also learned that joining forces can get the jobs done quicker and easier.

They learn empathy for other living things.  On a farm every animal depends on the humans for their care and feed.  Farm kids learn early to watch for signs of sickness or impending birth, as well as, sparkling good health.

They learn that life is full of challenges...some you can overcome and some you can't.  They also learn that sometimes you don't win.  Your calf may die, the crop may wither in the drought, or the market price might fall. 

The farm teaches them decision making, responsibility, and determination.  On a farm you learn that working together, cooperatively, accomplishes what one person can't do alone.

Pretty good traits for going out in the world and making a difference.  Personally, I want my leaders to have a good dose of "Farm Raised" mentality.