Take a Cow to School Day

"Mama! Plee-aa-se!!  You promised!"


My daughter looked into the pleading eyes of her youngest daughter and knew a sinking feeling in her heart.  She had promised.  Rashly. Months ago, when the tiny, little miniature Herford had been born.  Small, even for the small breed, he had soon become a pet around the barn.  He displayed a calm, cheerful acceptance of life that didn't change as he started to grow.  Bigger animals pushed him away from the feed pan, he would just placidly move to another one.  He greeted every visitor to the barn with his head stuck up to the gate for a little head rub and a scratch.  He was a sweetheart.


And she had promised.  "But, honey," she responded to the plea, "Your daddy is in the middle of harvest and you know we would need his help."  Now harvest is serious.  The little girl knew her daddy was in the field from early morning to late at night.  The only time he wasn't was when the weather kept him from it.  Naturally, the weather looked to be perfect for the next week. 


"But you promised!!!!" she pleaded again.  "Conner is going to his new home next week!  It has to be NOW!!"  Conner, the little Herford. was indeed sold to two little girls who would be loving him and showing him next season.


"Ok", her mother sighed, "We'll talk to your daddy and see what we can work out, but it may not be possible."


Sunshine came out with her smile, as she gleefully ran to the barn to catch her daddy before he got away.  He didn't have a chance.  Conner was going to school!


I guess "Show and Tell" is a little different in rural areas.


After showing cattle successfully for a couple of years, she wanted to "show" and "tell" her classmates about the experience.  Of course, you need a cow (or in this case a steer) to demonstrate all the finer points of getting prepared for a cattle show.  So the gentle little animal was the perfect choice for this adventure.


So early the next morning, Conner walked calmly into the cattle trailer (he couldn't exactly ride the school bus) and went to school.  He walked out sedately into the parking lot and looked inquisitively at the children waiting for him.  His young mistress, grabbed her bucket of grooming supplies and her notes and proudly proceeded to instruct her classmates on the art of preparing a calf for the show ring.  She explained the early morning feedings before school, the careful feed ration that would make his coat gleam and his muscles grow, the time spent teaching him to walk with a halter and stand still for the judge, the baths to keep him clean and shiny.  She told of the chores that she and her sister did before after school to keep their cattle stalls clean and them fed and watered.


Then her daddy stepped forward and explained that just like children needed vitamins cattle needed supplements and vitamins too.  Then he showed them how you used a tool to get a cow to swallow a pill.  Also, like children, cattle needed to get vaccinations and sometimes medicine with an injection, with a special syringe that would let him do it quickly.


The children were spellbound.  Conner was ecstatic, as the class gently took turns giving him a head rub and a scratch.


The teacher approached my daughter and son-in-law to thank them for a very special morning.  "I am so impressed", she added, "with how much Kinsey knows about cattle and showing.  She really did a great job." 


"Yes." her mother agreed, "She works hard with her cattle and she truly loves it"  To herself, she added, "and maybe you can understand why sometimes her homework is hurried and a little messy !"

Super Shocker, the Bull

I have spent most of my adult life with cows.  Other than a few years in college, we have just about always had a field of cows somewhere.  We had our first farm in the BK (before kids) years when we were both still trying to get the hang of being adults. Back then, when Hubby had his week-end drills or two week summer camp for his Guard duty, my main job during his absence was to count the cows and be sure they were all there.  Simple enough.  Except that I never came up with the same number of cows twice, so I would keep going back and counting again, and again, and again.  Finally, during one of our infrequent phone calls, (no constant communication via cell phones then) he exclaimed over my inability to get a consistent count on the cows, "Just count the legs and divide by four!!"


Time has passed and I have learned a lot more about cattle over the years.  However, I find that they can still amaze and amuse me.


The front field, right now, is home to a group of teen-aged bulls.  It's a lot like having teen-aged boys around.  They are constantly causing mischief and tearing up things.  They also tend to entertain themselves with testing their muscles and throwing their weight around by pushing and shoving each other.  (Which usually leads to tearing up things and causing mischief.)  Consequently, I spend a lot of time watching them butt heads together and push each other around the lot, until one gives in. 


Since he wasn't needed right now, the old herd bull had been included in the lot with the teen-agers.  Eventually, all the youngsters would try their strength against the old bull.  He would tolerate their pushing and butting with relatively good grace until he got tired of it.  Then he would tighten his powerful shoulders and gradually drive them back until the youngster would give in and trot off. 


One of the youngsters was unusually persistent, refusing to give in and break off the mock battle.  The old bull just kept pushing, with the young bull losing ground step by step, but never giving in.  Gradually, they crossed the field, one pushing and one retreating little by little, until they reached a corner.  Now, Hubby had cordoned off this corner, to keep the bulls from some equipment temporarily stored there, by stretching a piece of electric fence wire across the area.  The bulls approached the corner inch by inch, heads locked together, until the younger bull was pushed, butt first,  into the electric fence.  Expecting a show, when I saw the young bull react to the electricity, I was surprised instead to see the old bull throw his head up and bellow in shock.  He shook his head in disbelief then turned and trotted off across the grass.  It seemed the electricity had harmlessly passed through the young bull and then thoroughly shocked the old bull.


I thought this just an amusing example of livestock lore until several nights later when I was watching the bulls come up to the feed trough for supper.  They all rushed in pushing, shoving and grabbing feed, like they weren't fed every day and were dying of starvation.  Normally, the old bull wades into his position at the trough and ignores the rowdiness of the youngsters, who seem to know to leave him out of the action.  Then I noticed that as one of the youngsters came up next to him, he pulled out of his spot and moved away from the trough.  He then resumed eating at another spot.   Over the next several days, I noticed this same behavior repeated at each feeding.  It took me a while to realize that he was moving away from the same young bull each time.


With a giggle and a laugh I figured it out.  He was making sure that the young bull he had pushed into the fence didn't get near him.  He didn't know what had happened but he knew he didn't want anything to do with that super charged kid again! 


Score one for Super Shocker!!

A Load of Manure

I love living on a farm.  There is a never ending string of improbable, unlikely, and never-ending stories swirling around me most of the time.  Take the other day.....


I came in the other day to discover Hubby missing.  I had left for the afternoon with Hubby working on cleaning out the feed barn.  The feed barn is a blessing and a curse.  It is a large, open sided barn with a concrete floor.  By feeding the cattle in this area it keeps them from milling around the hay bale and churning the mud into a deep quagmire in the field.  It also tends to keep the majority of the manure in one place.  The floor is periodically scraped of the collection of manure and piled on one end of the barn.  Then, when the pile becomes unmanageable, it is loaded onto a piece of equipment to spread it over the fields for fertilizer.  This spreader looks a lot like a wagon with short sides with a set of rotating blades on the back.  The blades literally grab the manure and throw it off the end of the wagon.  Same basic design since they were horse-drawn.


Although I couldn't see him I just assumed he was still working on spreading the manure.


Some time later he called.  "I'm on my way home." he declared.  "From where?" I asked hesitantly.  "Mack's.  I have to finish this load.  I'll be late getting in for supper."


Feeling puzzled, I tried to translate his cryptic message.  "Mack" referred to a friend who had a welding shop in town.  Hubby often stopped in to visit but I couldn't figure out why he went without finishing his chore.


Later, when a tired, dirty, not very fresh smelling husband came in to eat I got the whole story 


It seemed that during the afternoon he had managed to break the belt that turned the spreading part of his wagon.  After spending some time crawling under the wagon and struggling with the mechanics he just couldn't figure how to get the thing back together.  "So what did you do?" I asked.  "Well, I figured if anyone know how to fix this it would be Mack.  He can put about anything together."  "Did Mack know?" I queried.  "Well, not at first but he just took out this bolt and that bolt then it all came apart.  Then he know exactly what to do."  "So, Mack came out to help you", I asked, still mostly lost in the narrative.  "No, I had to take it to his shop."


"You what?"  I gasped.  "Don't tell me," I choked on a giggle, "you drove a wagon load of manure to town and through town to Mack's shop?!!"  "Well sure, how else was I going to get it there?"  By now I was in all out laughter.  Visions of my farmer calmly hauling a whole load of manure past businesses and homes to get it fixed then hauling it home again filled my head.  Hubby just looked at me in disbelief.  To him his actions were perfectly normal.


Considering the lumps I saw going up and down my driveway that had fallen from the spreader, I have a feeling the roadsides will be well fertilized next spring (and maybe a few yards along the way, too.) 


It could have been worse....it wasn't really, really fresh manure.


At least he didn't decide to work on it outside my Kitchen Window!

Out of Control Rolls

I have often watched people learn a new skill, such as a crochet stitch or a knitting pattern, by just seeing someone else do it.  My brain doesn't do that.  I have to have written instructions and pictures to study or my fingers just don't know what to do.  Years ago, a lovely lady was teaching a group of homemakers the art of creating lace by tatting.  We sat around watching her flying fingers and then we would make our own little loops and create a tiny bit of tatting called a picot.  Everyone was getting along fine but me.  I watched carefully, did exactly what she did and created lots of tiny little knots.  After numerous repeats of this process, the little lady looked at me in exasperation and murmured , "I just don't get it.  It looks like you are doing it right but it is wrong!"  I just couldn't do it until I could find written instructions and a picture. 


That rule follows for everything but cooking.  Oh, I can follow a recipe just fine now, but I learned to cook by just watching my mother in the kitchen.  I drove my high school Home Ec teacher nuts when she tried to get me to make biscuits "her way".  I kept insisting on just dumping flour in a bowl, adding "some" shortening and then a little milk.  Voila! Biscuits.


I remember one day when I was little, watching mama making homemade rolls.  I had perched on a cabinet and watched intently while she proofed the yeast, mixed the liquids and then added them all to the flour.  She had let me help knead the dough and then we  put it into a bowl to rise.  With that done, I left and went outside to play.  That night we enjoyed the fresh yeast rolls.


A few days later I was home after school and became bored.  So I decided to make rolls.  I did exactly what my mother had done, mixing the ingredients, proofing the yeast and kneading the dough.  Then I put it in the bowl.  Soon the dough began to rise...and rise.  I looked at the mound of dough bulging out of the bowl and frantically poked it back down.  "Now, that's more like it ", I thought to myself.  Then, lo and behold, it did it again.  Frightened now that I had done something terribly wrong and would be in trouble for wasting the ingredients, I did what any 9 year old would do.  I hid the evidence by scraping the mess into the garbage can. 


Shortly after that my mother arrived home. Being no dummy, she recognized the dirty dishes and floury counter as evidence of some kind of kid cooking so she wanted to know what I had done.  At first I evaded but eventually, I confessed to her about my fiasco with the rolls.  She looked at me in confusion, then burst out laughing, when she realized I had left to go play before the end of the bread lesson.  With humor she marched me out to the garbage can where we stared down at the dirty, sticky, mass of dough, still happily rising among the garbage.


My lecture wasn't about making a mess or cooking by myself (I did lots more of both growing up) but rather that I should have asked for help.  Then we could have had fresh bread instead of puffy garbage.


In the years to come I would ask my mother for help with many things from boyfriends to pot roasts.  She never failed to be a source of calm, thoughtful advice freely mixed with a good dose of humor.


 

Mud Months

It's that time of year when I spend every day removing as much of our farm acreage from the house as I am able.  Someone asked me once how much land we had in the home place.  "Well," I mused, "we must be down to about 48 now.  I'm pretty sure I have mopped at least two acres out of my utility room."  She thought I was kidding.


February and March bring snow, sleet, and rain to our area of the world.  All of these combine to create knee deep mud.  As the weeks continue and the warmth works its magic on the ground, the mud will only get deeper and gooier.  (That word may not be in Webster's but the cows struggling to lift their legs out of the quagmire that occurs wherever they are fed understand it perfectly.)




The attire of everyone on the farm is muck boots and muddy coveralls.  There is mud in the barns, on the drive, in the yard, up the sidewalk and into the house.   Not to mention in the tractors, on the wagons, in the farm trucks and splashed onto every vertical surface.  I just spotted the green Gator (small 4-wheel drive utility vehicle) and my son and grandson coming from the field.  Gator and guys were all the same color (and it wasn't green!)



Yesterday, I was met at the garage by one of the grandsons.  Spotting snacks in the pile of groceries in the trunk, he graciously volunteered to help carry them in.  Snagging several bags he proceeded me to the house.  Just as he opened the door, I glanced at his feet only to see about 2 inches of mud covering his boots and clinging to his coveralls up to his knees.  Smiling sweetly, he said , "Since you went to the trouble to buy us snacks and drinks, the least I can do is carry them in for you."  A statement that left me both grimacing and grinning, with the knowledge that I was soon to be the recipient of some of the mud clinging to him and pride in his helpfulness.  After depositing the groceries and helping to unpack them, he moved to a rug in the doorway, and said, "I'll just stand here where I won't get mud on everything while I eat my snack!" Laughing, I gave him a hug and tried not to notice the trail of mud already deposited on my floor.




A couple of years ago we had enlarged the utility room in the house.  This room is appropriately referred to in housing circles as the "mud room".  I'm not sure that fancy architects really understands the term....but farmers sure do.  When it came time to pick out the flooring, I remembered a story my mother had told me. 




It seems as a young bride (and a townie) learning to be a farm wife with its various demands, she became completely overwhelmed by the task of keeping the kitchen floor clean.  It seemed that every time she turned around someone was using that entrance, the closest one to the barn yard,  carrying in that delightful mixture of mud and manure that only a well used barn yard can produce.




She had begged, pleaded, cajoled, bargained, threatened and clouded up and stormed but nothing seemed to convince the men to remove their muddy boots before entering the kitchen.  So several times each day she would mop the offending trail of muddy footprints off her kitchen floor.  Despairing of ever having a clean floor she came up with a desperate solution.  Before mopping the next time, she scraped up a bit of the greenish-brown mud and placed it in an envelope.  Taking the envelope after lunch, she drove to town and marched into the hardware store.  Spilling her specimen out on the counter she demanded a gallon of paint and she wanted it just that color!  Once home she painted the entire floor the color of the barn yard mud.  She laughed in telling it, saying "Well, I still had mud on my floors but at least it wasn't so obvious that it drove me nuts!"




Now I looked at the cheerful boy and thanked my smart mother, that I had chosen a flooring that is a marvelous mixture of green, brown, and greenish gray.  Maybe not high style but it sure hides muddy footprints like a charm.

Reminiscing

An old friend stopped by the other day and, as was his way, he was soon lending a hand with the latest job.  As dinner time approached, I "threw another 'tater in the pot" and soon we were all at the table enjoying a good visit.  After catching up on the kids and grandkids, he started reminiscing about growing up on the farm behind us.  His family had owned the farm up the road from us, that in the way of curves and farms actually lay just behind our acreage. 


He was the oldest of fifteen children, nine girls and six boys.  All fifteen worked on the farm and shared many adventures and stories, some of which have become local legends.  He talked of a time that has changed monumentally in just our generation.


It was a hard time, when money was scarce and you practiced true "subsistence" farming, raising what you needed or doing without.  It also was a time of family and everyone working toward a common goal.  The day began with all fifteen children sitting down to breakfast together.  "It wasn't cold cereal and pop tarts", he laughed, "but a full breakfast."  "Wow!" I sighed, "that's a lot of eggs!"  He agreed and we talked about how the various children gathered eggs, milked the three milk cows, and tended the garden for the supplies for the daily meals, all of which were eaten together in the kitchen.  "We'd pass the food, starting with momma and daddy and you took what you wanted as it came to you, because there was a pretty good chance it wasn't going to make it around again."  Responding to an earlier comment about how easy he was to feed, he replied, "No one ever complained or questioned what was served.  If you wanted to eat you took it and kept quiet."  My mind was still reeling from the thought of the mountains of food required to feed that small army of appetites.


The boys helped on the farm and the girls helped with the household chores (besides the cooking and cleaning up, there would be lines and lines of washing to be hung out to dry) and the garden.  In time they would can and put up as much food as they could for the coming year.  Some chores, everyone pitched in on.  Besides growing tomatoes, corn and green beans to eat and can they grew pinto beans, black-eyed peas, and great northerns to dry.  When it came time to shell them out, the dried bean pods were picked and placed in heaps on an old tarpaulin.  Then the kids would gather around and beat the piles with tobacco sticks to break up the dried pods and release the beans.  Then they would grab the edges of the tarp and toss the beans up into the wind to blow out the lighter pods while the heavier beans fell back into the tarp.  A process as old as time and just as efficient now as it was 200 years ago.


Our friend laughed and shook his head.  "Daddy had a way with discipline that would cause the parents of today to faint.  If you got in trouble, one of his favorite punishments was to pick up rocks."  On that rocky, old farm it was a never-ending chore.  "When you got the sled (a wooden platform on wooden runners that was pulled by a horse) loaded you took it to the corner of the field and unloaded it into a pile.  Daddy would expect great growth in that pile before you were finished."  He continued, "I remember one day two of my brothers were sent to pick up rocks.  Being boys, they soon were entertaining themselves seeing how many rocks they could toss onto the sled, how far they could throw them and so forth.  Somehow, one got in the way of a rock whizzing to the sled.  The resulting gash was enough to send the other brother running for help.  Daddy came and scooped up the injured boy and headed to the house.  With a stern look, he then instructed the other boy to continue picking up rock until he came back for him!  The gash proved to be worse than they thought and soon mamma and daddy were heading to town to get stitches. "


"Upon returning to the farm, daddy settled into finishing up his interrupted chores while mama got her patient where she could keep an eye on him while she started supper."


"The boy left in the field knew better than to dawdle in his chore so he dutifully picked up rocks as the afternoon wore on and dusk settled." 


"Supper was called and the kids trooped in and settled into their places.  Mama choreographed getting the food on the table and finally settled in her place.  Out of habit, she took a quick count.  Then another.  She was one chick short!  A questioning look led daddy to the realization that he'd completely forgotten about the one left picking up rocks!" 


"Was that boy you?" we questioned, chuckling.  "Not that time.  My punishment I remember was different.  When I was in high school I thought I was big enough to stay out to all hours.  I was slipping in one morning about 3 am, thinking I had pulled one over on daddy.  Just as I reached my room and started to undress this voice rumbles in my ear.  'No need to take those clothes off son, you are going to work.'  With that  he led me out to the corn field and we started cutting corn by the light of the moon.  At that time we cut corn by hand and stacked it in shocks to be fed to the livestock later.  We cut as the sun came up and then on into the morning.  I thought noon and dinner time would never come, still that old man kept working and kept me working.  I decided then and there that the fun of staying out all hours wasn't worth it!"


As the men left after lunch, I watched out the kitchen window as they moved toward the barn.  It's hard for me to believe how much things have changed in just our lifetimes.  We now use cab tractors instead of horses and mules, we run to the grocery for our milk and eggs, we buy our clothes "on line" instead of washing and hanging them on a line, and we often treat our children as if they were pampered pets instead of partners in a family endeavor.  Maybe the punishments we had chuckled over were harsh, but the result was a family of strong, independent, hard working adults who have been good parents and providers. 


I wonder if by protecting and coddling our children today we are taking away that sense of being a part of creating the greater good for the family and community.  The bond of striving for a common goal and the satisfaction of achieving that goal, whether it be food on the table or a crop to be sold, is one of the greatest gifts of farm life.  It's the gift that we as farmers hope to instill in our children and grandchildren. 

Earl

Being married to a gregarious, socializing man has its advantages.  A conversation on a beach in Hawaii led us to the discovery of a hole-in-the-wall local restaurant serving the best Eggs Benedict ever.  Tagging along with a family crossing a tricky, wrong-way traffic (for us) intersection in Ireland garnered a man-to-man confession of a "bit of a bet on the local rugby match" with instructions to "not tell the missus!"  Chatting has helped us solve dilemmas from where to find tractor parts to navigating strange cities.


However, occasionally it can backfire.


We were visiting our daughter and family in Iowa, where Hubby is now a semi-regular member of the local men's coffee group.  Our patient son-in-law makes sure Hubby gets to the local watering hole for the morning coffee and sausage and biscuit.  I suspect he enjoys listening to the tall tales before he drags Hubby off to help with the day's chores.  On this day the conversation turned to trucks.  Hubby announced that he had searched all over Kentucky for a good, used but still useful, farm truck that would pull a gooseneck and not cost an arm and a leg.


 One of the local coffee drinkers was a fence-builder and buddy of our son-in-law who just happened to moonlight with a car dealer.  "I'll find you one!" he announced.  "You do that and I'll buy it!"  Hubby challenged, in return. 


Three days later he called to tell Hubby that he had found him a truck. 


We all piled out to go check out this new truck at the friend's house.    The men proceeded to jaw and kick tires (or whatever you do when you discuss a truck) while my daughter, granddaughters and I checked out the new litter of puppies.  We returned to find the deal being struck,  The truck met all the criteria.  It was a big, heavy duty pick up capable of pulling a load of cattle, four door for hauling grandkids, reasonable mileage,  in good condition and even had a bed cover! Barring problems on a shake down drive around, we were the proud owners of another farm truck. 


We were 650 miles from home.


Hubby grinned....I just looked at him.  Three days later he got up the courage to broach the subject of how we were getting it home.  "Ummm.  Do you, ahh, mind driving home?  You can drive my truck, I'll drive the farm truck." he finished in a rush.    I just looked at him some more.  Of course, I had figured this all out from the beginning.  Who else would drive one of the trucks?


The trick was how we would work out the convoy.  I knew the hardest job would be the following truck.  It's always harder to follow and keep up.  Hubby said he would want the "new" farm  truck to be in the lead in case there was trouble.  I also knew that Hubby loved the hands free phone, XM radio, GPS and other gadgets in his truck.  Farm trucks don't need those items.  So after a quick trip to the library to check out a book on CD's(the farm truck did have a CD player!), I decided I would drive the farm truck and lead on the drive home.  (My daughter threatened my life if I didn't mail the book back promptly so she didn't get stuck with a library fine!)


The morning of the trip home dawned and we intrepid travelers got ready for the drive.  Hubby bustled around checking to see that I had what I needed, knew where the buttons were (window, ignition, radio...not complicated!), and where we would stop and refuel first.  (I've made the trip several times alone, so this fluttering was more for the truck than me.  Although, like most men, while Hubby has total confidence in my ability to drive, would never consider letting me drive while he is along.  So, his fluttering did make me giggle.) I will admit  I was a little nervous about the size of the truck.  It certainly was bigger than my car I usually drove.  However, I had driven trucks all my life so I wasn't unduly worried.


At the first stop I quizzed Hubby about how well I was staying in my lane on the country roads, still getting adjusted to the larger size and different view from the higher truck cab.  He assured me I was doing fine, so off we went again.  With every stop I grew more confident and began to enjoy my role as "leader" as we rolled across the middle of America.  For once I got to decide when to stop (frequently, since the bigger truck needed fuel more often), where to stop and when we would take rest breaks.  I even got to decide when and where we would stop for the night.  Heady stuff for me.  With every stop I became more enamored with my role as a "trucker babe" running with the big boys (only figuratively, after all it still was just a pick-up truck).  Hubby laughed quietly to himself at my new swagger.


The farm truck proved to be a gentleman on all fronts.  He took me steadily and comfortably over the miles, responding easily with no fussiness.  He was comfortable and reliable.  Although I did discover a few quirks.  The book on CD's proved to be defective so after about the third CD I had to give up and listen to the radio.  Not a problem, even if it was only a plain AM/FM radio. (How quickly we become spoiled!)  That is until I tried to use the seek button to tune in a clear station as we crossed the states.  It seemed that my gentleman truck had a penchant for Christian music. 


Not that I have anything against Christian music.  The problem is they happen to usually be very simple melodies with lots of repetition.  That's why they are so easy to sing and learn in church.  I like the message and the words, but I soon became bored with the music.  So I would hit the seek button and would land on another Christian station.  After a couple of hours of this, things started to get personal.  That's when I started fussing and nagging and Earl got his name.  "Earl!"  I would complain, "I know there has to be another station besides this one!"  "OK Earl,"  I would cajole,  "I'll listen to this for now then you can find another station!"  "Earl!!!  That's the station we just left!  You can't seriously mean to take me back to it again!"


Earl steadily maintained his music choices until we were almost home when he grudgingly allowed me to listen to trendy, secular music.  His point was made and I suspect my gentlemanly Earl felt he had done his best to see me safely across middle America in a manner befitting a lady.


I think I'm in love.


 

The Barn Raising

There is probably nothing that is more fun to a farmer than the Farm Machinery Show, which is a huge gathering of all the equipment, tools, supplies, and implements that a farmer could ever dream of owning.  Accompanying this display is a collection of  enthusiastic and determined men and women just panting to show how each and every one can revolutionize the farmer's life. 


Hubby and a farming friend set off early one morning, with stars in their eyes, to view all the new items.  They would happily spend the day discussing the merits of a 15-row corn planter versus a 10-row (regardless of the fact that they couldn't turn one of them around on our farm), dreaming of splitting a winter's worth of stove wood with a new high powered splitter,  climbing on tractors that cost more than our farm and are bigger than our garage, and generally enjoying visiting with the other farmers doing the same.


They arrived home that afternoon, exhausted from walking through the exhibits all day, and fairly dancing with excitement.  Like two schoolboys they both started talking at once, interrupting each other in their enthusiasm to tell me about their great find. 


"We bought a barn!"  one spouted, "No, we bought two barns!" the other interrupted.  "I'm going to put it right there" Hubby bubbled, waving his arms in the general direction of the front field.  "We can build it ourselves and it was a terrific buy!" They turned and high-fived each other in jubilation.  I stood in the drive and stared at them in amazement.


It seems that they had each bought a metal hoop barn, that would arrive in pieces and all they had to do was assemble it and attach it to a foundation.  (A hoop barn, for those uninitiated, is a huge barn that looks like a big tin can cut in half lengthwise.) The plan was to do our barn first, then move to the friend's farm and do his.  They assured me that they had studied it carefully and it should take about 3-4 days to assemble.  However, because they had to pour a concrete foundation they would allow a week for each barn.


Shaking my head slowly, I looked at them and asked, "How old was she?"  "Who?" Hubby responded innocently.  "The pretty saleswoman that talked you two into this?" I responded as I walked away muttering to the effect that there was no fool like a farmer at a farm machinery show.


In due time a tractor-trailer truck appeared loaded with the metal, quarter round ribs, that would be bolted together to form the barn.  They didn't look like much, all stacked together in bands, but what did I know. 


With great excitement, they studied their plans, and contacted the concrete company that would pour the foundations.  In due time the concrete was finished and the men were ready to begin their barns.  They looked around at the thousands of bolts that would hold row after row of metal hoops together to form the structure and decided that it might be a little harder than they thought.


The morning they picked to begin the barn, they were up early and studying the plans when they looked up to see a line of trucks coming up the drive.  One by one they parked around the top of the hill and began to unload their tools.  The word had gone out that the two farmers might have bitten off a little more than they could chew and all their buddies from their coffee group had turned out to help.  Soon the barn site swarmed with men, shouts, laughter, and the whine of power tools. 


Day after day they showed up and solved the challenge of the construction of the big tin can barn.  It took two weeks and was not quite as simple as they had been led to believe.  However, the men came each day with cheerful enthusiasm.  When the first barn was finished, they took off two weeks and then moved on to raise the second barn on the friend's farm. 


These weren't kids.  They were mostly retired and mostly farmers, but some were just friends who wanted to help out.  It was a real barn raising!  The only payment was a debt of gratitude that can be called upon at any time. 


The outcome is two beautiful metal hoop barns that have proven exceptionally useful, a deep sense of accomplishment for a super group of men, and a lump in our throats from the overwhelming helpfulness of our friends and neighbors.


If you ever need anything guys...you can count on us for help!


PS
The friend's wife and I have decided that he and Hubby are not allowed to go to the Farm Machinery Show together again!!! EVER!

Eating Weeds

Back in the day of little country roads, the roadsides were left to Mother Nature to maintain.  No one bothered to mow them neatly or spray them for weeds.  Consequently, they were perfect for my favorite spring time chore.  Asparagus hunting!


My father spent a good bit of time riding up and down country roads as he delivered furniture around the county.  As he wandered he would keep an eye out for the tall, ferny fronds of asparagus.  This asparagus was abundantly planted by the birds that ate the bright, red berries from the fern in the fall.  They then deposited the seeds (complete with fertilizer!)  as they sat in bushes or fences up and down the roads.  Over time these seeds sprouted and matured into healthy asparagus beds in the area between the roads and fields that was left unplowed or mowed.  The plants sprouted early in the spring and if left unpicked would grow all summer into tall, delicately ferny fronds.  At this stage they are easily spotted from a moving vehicle.  My father would then take careful note of the size of the stands and the location for the next spring's hunt.


Sometime in late April or early May, Daddy would arrive home from work and announce that it was time to go asparagus hunting! 


Off we would go driving to the first of his "special" spots.  Parking on the side of the road, Daddy and I would jump out and begin the "hunt".  This involved looking for last years dead stalks or scanning the roadsides for the slender green stalks just sprouting out of the ground.  The best was to find a stand of dead stalks because that indicated a well established patch that would yield several fat (or skinny) stalks of fresh asparagus.  We would kick away last years dead growth and run our fingers as far down the short, fat stalks as we could to get to the tender, white bottoms.   The skinny stalks were bent until they naturally broke at the tender point.  The really tall, tough stalks were broken off to make the roots keep sending up new shoots.


If we were lucky we could talk my older sister into coming along.  She wouldn't get out of the car for love or money...too many wiggly, creeping things out there for her!  However, she would read a book until we whistled, then move the car on down the road as we wandered and hunted.


Our "hunts" would yield enough fresh asparagus to feed us happily until the season ended. We would feast like kings on asparagus with hollandaise sauce, asparagus casseroles, or asparagus with lemon butter or cheese.


Our roadside ramblings did cause a few raised eyebrows and some interesting situations.  Not everyone quite understood our obsession or that we would eat weeds from the ditches.  (Although, having raised domestic asparagus in my garden for years, I can assure you that our roadside asparagus was exactly like my home grown!)


On one such occasion a local lady approached daddy on a slow afternoon in his furniture store.  Daddy was sitting in a rocking chair enjoying a rest in the breeze from the open door.  The good woman walked in and Daddy jumped up to see if she needed any help.  "No-o-o" she drawled, hesitantly.  "Well, what can I do for you?" questioned Daddy, intrigued by her manner. 


She shuffled her feet a little, and quietly responded.  "Mr. Gaines, I know times are hard.  I guess people just don't need as much new furniture as they once did."  Puzzled now, Daddy replied, "Well, you know we do have a fine supply of used furniture that wouldn't be quite as expensive as new."  Becoming even more flustered, she said.  "Oh, I don't mean I need something, but that business must be bad for you!"  Then she floundered on, "I mean, I saw you and your girls out on the roadside collecting bottles for the deposit and wanted you to know that our church has a little fund if you need money that badly."


Choking back laughter, and not wanting to offend a possible future customer, he managed to reassure her that while things might be a little slow, he wasn't quite reduced to collecting bottles for the 5 cent deposit to pay the bills!


I'm sure she was convinced he was just too proud to accept the help offered.  Especially if he explained that we were picking weeds for supper!

The Dress-Up Box

An overnight visit of the grandkids coincided with a thunderstorm that knocked out our internet service.  That meant no x-box, no Netflix, no computers, no handheld games, and three grumpy kids on a rainy day.  After a spell of tv watching, games and a couple of attempts to make me lose my mind, the little girl came to me with a request.  "Make me a princess dress." she demanded with a smile.


Thinking hard, I rummaged in the back of my closet for something suitable.  My questing fingers brushed something smooth and silky (not my usual blue jeans and sweatshirts).  I grasped the hanger and gave a tug, finally dragging out a brightly flowered, short robe from years ago.  "Perfect!", she squealed with delight, as I wrapped the robe around her and tied the sash.  She turned regally in her finery and strutted out of the room to find her crown (and kingdom).  I watched her swish down the hall and was instantly transported back to my childhood and the playhouse.


Visiting my grandparents was the high point of my summer.  My mother worked and since her parents lived about 3 hours away, short visits weren't practical.  So we often were shipped off to spend weeks at a time with my grandparents, which also helped with summer baby-sitting.  I thought my grandmother was a bit crotchety but looking back I am amazed with her patience and forbearance.


They lived on a street of small houses in the town where my grandfather worked at the telephone company.  Fortunately the street had several families with children about our ages.  All summer we ran and played in a pack of kids.   We not only weren't entertained by the adults we were expected to entertain ourselves invisibly.


We were expected to be out of the house shortly after awakening and remain out until bedtime. We were fed at regular intervals (my grandmother made wonderful cookies that were placed just inside the back door for a quick "grab and go" snack.) but basically we were to entertain ourselves, stay out of trouble, and not interrupt the work being done around the houses.  (Failure to follow this rule often meant being caught and given a job to do.  Consequently, we avoided the houses unless it was a dire emergency!)


The neighbor's house across the alley was home to a girl my age and an unused chicken house.  Since the pack of kids ran to more girls than boys and since the building was in a "girl" yard it became our headquarters.  Boys were allowed or not, depending on what game we were playing.  We spent days scavenging  around the neighborhood for treasures for our new playhouse.  A discarded table with a broken leg was perfectly usable when taped and propped against the wall.  A rejected bucket became a seat, a crate another seat, and so on until we had "furnished" our playhouse.


My grandmother, invited in to inspect our new palace, looked thoughtful and smiled as she continued on to visit the neighboring mother.  Both women were found rummaging in drawers and closets for the next day or two.  Early one morning, while we girls were busy in our playhouse there was a polite knock on the door.  Upon opening the door we were surprised to see the two women standing outside.  Arms loaded they inquired if they might come in for tea.  Delighted, we ushered them in.  They deposited their bags and bundles in the little room and started producing their treasures. 


First out was a mason jar of juice, a paper bag of cookies and cups and napkins.   Placing these on the table (after being sure the broken leg was secure) they looked at us and asked, "Don't you think a nice tea like this requires that you dress up a little?"  We looked at our normal summer attire of shorts, blouses, and sandals, and shrugged.  Like magicians, pulling a rabbit from a hat, they started unloading the box they had brought.  Out came dresses, scarves, belts, necklaces, hats, and shoes.  Flowing skirts in bright colors drifted to the floor.  The treasures of their closet cleaning lay awaiting our pleasure in a sumptuous pile.  With cries of delight we were soon draping ourselves in dresses, cinched up with scarves or belts.  A broken necklace became an elegant bracelet, a stained scarf became a perfect shawl, all donned while we clumped around in the cast off high heels. Soon hats and mismatched gloves completed our tea attire.  Never has a tea had such well dressed attendees.


The dress-up box became the treasured start of many adventures that summer.  The  dresses (and a contribution from the men of some suitable boy things) became pirate costumes, Superman, cowboys, Indians, princesses and princes.  Castles were stormed, seas crossed, maidens rescued, rockets launched, bank robbers captured, along with lots of elegantly garbed princesses doing princess things.  Not a day passed without a colorfully garbed character being seen around the playhouse,  generally being pursued by several equally sumptuously attired members of the pack.


No summer has ever been as magical as the summer of the dress-up box.


Maybe I need to clean out a closet or two.