Summer has set in on the farm. The days are long and hot with not a lot going on. The tobacco is set and now we spend a lot of time just watching it grow. The wet weather has created some problems like stem rot and we're seeing some black shank. Both are diseases that can cause severe problems. So far it's just at the watch and wait stage. The hay is cut and now hubby is bush-hogging off the pastures to clean up and stimulate the grass growth.
The grandsons have been spending a lot of time hanging out on the farm. So once again I am hearing the sound of laughter as the little boys busily dig around the base of the old maple tree. The grass will grow back but the memories of farming in the dirt will last forever. Some of the toys they have drug out are left from the days of their father's childhood. They don't make toys like that now. The old metal Tonka trucks and bulldozers are still doing a hard days hauling and digging. They even had some old metal toy tractors, plows and planters, also their dad's. The new ones we bought last summer have long since been broken and thrown away. Progress isn't always better.
It's been really hot, so I caved and brought out the water guns and water balloons. Some basic rules: 1. You cannot get grandma wet. 2. You cannot spray the windows I just washed (good luck with that one) 3. No running into the house to hide and drip all over my floors. 4. No whining. 5. About anything else is legal. The porch was awash with water and the fight was on within minutes. Shrieks and shouts filled the air.
About this time my son wandered into the house to check on the survival rate (theirs or mine). "Who were the men in the gray truck?" he asked. I shrugged, "What truck? I haven't seen anyone. The only time the dog barked is when you came in." (The dog always assumes my son is the bad guy!) It seems that the boys had reported that two men had arrived at the farm to look at some bulls. After waving to the boys they checked out the cattle in the front field and drove off.
"Why on earth" I mused "would they not come to the house? They saw the boys playing. They had to know someone was in the house!" My son looked at the wet porch, spraying water hose, and the furious water battle taking place on the sidewalk and slowly grinned. "Are you kidding? They would have been walking targets in the middle of that onslaught!"
I looked around, laughed, and quickly slammed the door before we became targets, too.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Hail in the Heartland
There are few things that leave us as powerless as extreme weather.
We experienced that while visiting our daughter in Iowa. Hubby and I had been left in charge of the farm while our daughter and son-in-law took the oldest grandchild to the doctor in Des Moines.
Hubby was comfortably stretched out in the recliner watching a golf match, when it started to rain. The rain became harder and harder then it began to sound even louder. We went to the door looking out on the back deck and discovered it was beginning to hail. The little flakes of ice were about the size of a fingernail but as we watched the rain changed entirely to hail. It looked like a snowstorm. Soon the deck was covered in white. Then we noticed that the hail covering the deck looked like it had small craters in it. In amazement we watched as hail stones as big as golf balls began to fall faster and faster, pounding the deck, literally exploding the smaller hail covering the deck out of the way. Almost as quickly, it was over. The cloud passed and the sun came out. The storm, which had arrived with no warning had lasted less than 10 minutes.
We ran to the door to check the damage. We stared in disbelief at the cars and truck left in the drive earlier. All were beaten and covered in golf ball sized dents with windshields and tail lights broken. The ground was covered ankle deep in leaves from the surrounding trees, the flower beds were beaten to a pulp, her little vegetable garden just gone, with not a leaf left of the beans, tomatoes and peppers. Flower pots on the deck were shattered. Then our gaze went to the corn field in front of the house. Where once had been rows of little green plants were now just stubs. The metal buildings were now sporting a coat of polka dots where the hail had blown the paint off. The huge plastic covered worm of silage so recently stored for winter feed looked like it had been blasted with a huge shot-gun. The plastic was just covered in holes.
Our son-in-law and daughter arrived home to utter devastation. He immediately took off to check the fields. He came back to report that his hay crop was beaten to the ground but the cows and calves were all accounted for. The corn was stripped of the leaves but if the growth nodes weren't damaged it could come back. Maybe. He also discovered that the hail storm had been extremely local...almost just their farm. Going a mile in any direction and you soon drove out of the damage area.
Looking around at the mess, he said, "It could have been worse. It wasn't a tornado and we could have had the tractors and planters here instead of at the other farm." He was right. We were safe and so were the megabucks expensive tractors and delicate planters. On a farm, cars, roofs, and buildings are secondary to the all important planting equipment.
I have to give my son-in-law credit. Not once did he ask "Why didn't you put some of these vehicles in the shed?" A question hubby would have been screaming at the top of his lungs. The truth is it was unbelievably vicious and fast.
When we left for home a few days later our daughter laughed and said as she hugged me, "You won't be crying when you leave this time. You'll be driving 90 miles an hour to get the hell out of here!"
We experienced that while visiting our daughter in Iowa. Hubby and I had been left in charge of the farm while our daughter and son-in-law took the oldest grandchild to the doctor in Des Moines.
Hubby was comfortably stretched out in the recliner watching a golf match, when it started to rain. The rain became harder and harder then it began to sound even louder. We went to the door looking out on the back deck and discovered it was beginning to hail. The little flakes of ice were about the size of a fingernail but as we watched the rain changed entirely to hail. It looked like a snowstorm. Soon the deck was covered in white. Then we noticed that the hail covering the deck looked like it had small craters in it. In amazement we watched as hail stones as big as golf balls began to fall faster and faster, pounding the deck, literally exploding the smaller hail covering the deck out of the way. Almost as quickly, it was over. The cloud passed and the sun came out. The storm, which had arrived with no warning had lasted less than 10 minutes.
We ran to the door to check the damage. We stared in disbelief at the cars and truck left in the drive earlier. All were beaten and covered in golf ball sized dents with windshields and tail lights broken. The ground was covered ankle deep in leaves from the surrounding trees, the flower beds were beaten to a pulp, her little vegetable garden just gone, with not a leaf left of the beans, tomatoes and peppers. Flower pots on the deck were shattered. Then our gaze went to the corn field in front of the house. Where once had been rows of little green plants were now just stubs. The metal buildings were now sporting a coat of polka dots where the hail had blown the paint off. The huge plastic covered worm of silage so recently stored for winter feed looked like it had been blasted with a huge shot-gun. The plastic was just covered in holes.
Our son-in-law and daughter arrived home to utter devastation. He immediately took off to check the fields. He came back to report that his hay crop was beaten to the ground but the cows and calves were all accounted for. The corn was stripped of the leaves but if the growth nodes weren't damaged it could come back. Maybe. He also discovered that the hail storm had been extremely local...almost just their farm. Going a mile in any direction and you soon drove out of the damage area.
Looking around at the mess, he said, "It could have been worse. It wasn't a tornado and we could have had the tractors and planters here instead of at the other farm." He was right. We were safe and so were the megabucks expensive tractors and delicate planters. On a farm, cars, roofs, and buildings are secondary to the all important planting equipment.
I have to give my son-in-law credit. Not once did he ask "Why didn't you put some of these vehicles in the shed?" A question hubby would have been screaming at the top of his lungs. The truth is it was unbelievably vicious and fast.
When we left for home a few days later our daughter laughed and said as she hugged me, "You won't be crying when you leave this time. You'll be driving 90 miles an hour to get the hell out of here!"
Sunday, June 9, 2013
The Joys of Being a Farm Wife
I recently had the opportunity to spend some time visiting with a group of farm wives in Iowa. It was planting time so the men were spending long hours trying to get the corn and soybeans in the ground. The spring weather had been unusual, to say the least. Temperatures that week had soared to 90 degrees while just ten days before there had been 10 inches of snow on the ground. The farmers, knowing that rain would come, were planting until all hours of the night to get the seeds in the ground before it got too wet to get into the fields. During this time it becomes a female society. Everywhere you go you see women carrying on the daily chores of life with nary a man in sight. (Some of the women also work in the field, but obviously, I didn't get a chance to visit with them.)
I was enjoying chatting with the women while we were preparing dinner for the men, who would be taking a break to celebrate a fifth birthday. The child in question hadn't seen her daddy for several days, since he was getting in long after she was asleep and leaving long before she got up. They were planting the field next to the house, so they were taking a break to eat lunch and celebrate with birthday cake. Then back to the field. The conversation took a turn to the joys of being married to a farmer.
We discovered, for instance, that getting called to pick up parts entailed the same frustrations whether the machine in question was a huge planter or a two-row tobacco cultivator. No matter that the guys had called and assured us that the part was ready and waiting, only needing to be picked up, it never was that simple. Inevitably the parts manager would have a question. "Is it for the right disc or the left?" "Did he mean metric or US measurements?" "Did he want one or the pair?" We all agreed that cell phones came in pretty handy then. Or the instructions would be that the part would be left on the loading dock, just drive around back and pick it up. What they didn't tell her, one wife declared, was that she would have to unlatch a big bin only to discover 8 or 10 parts for different customers. Then she would have to dig through them and identify the one she needed. All of this on an hour detour with two kids in the car.
Another wife laughed and said that, for her, having company was the challenge. Their daughter had recently graduated from high school and in the local tradition they had thrown a large graduation party for family and friends. The plans and preparations had gone on for weeks before the big date. The house had been cleaned, food cooked, the yard manicured, tables had been set up and tents erected. What had hubby done while all this was going on? He washed his tractors! All the while, insisting that he was doing his part in getting ready. I laughed and agreed. Before our daughter's wedding my hubby was only concerned with the barn being clean. Another replied that at least they were there. Her farmer would decide at the last minute he had one chore that just had to be done, that would take until the party was half over to finish.
Laundry and the stinking messes that men can get into came into the conversation. My daughter chuckled about the night her hubby had managed to get covered with the smelly remains of a dead calf. Gagging he had called for her from the back door. He had stripped off his clothes and left them in the driveway and was yelling for SOAP!. "What kind?' she yelled back. "Anything that stinks good!" he yelled back. With no more ado he had started lathering and rinsing with the garden hose. He wanted to throw the clothes away but after being hosed down and airing for a day or two they washed up as good as new.
I remembered a time when hubby had been trying to get a cow in a working chute. Every time he would get her almost in she would back up and get out of the alley way. In desperation, he finally just crowded her up and put his chest right against her so she couldn't back up. With that, she lifted her tail and filled the top of his coveralls with warm, spring grass runny, manure. Within minutes it was dripping out of both pant legs and oozing out the sides. When I finally quit laughing, we had to hose him down before he could even get out of his clothes!
We all agreed that living with a farmer was a challenge. We all know that on a farm often the crops and animals will take precedence over family. However, we also know that these good men, who give their lives to caring for the land and the animals with such dedication are a very special breed. That the same love and devotion they give to their farming they return to their families 10 fold, by being loving, steadfast, dependable, devoted and dedicated spouses, parents, sons, and siblings. They are the salt of the earth.
One other thing the wives agreed on. We wouldn't change places with anyone.
I was enjoying chatting with the women while we were preparing dinner for the men, who would be taking a break to celebrate a fifth birthday. The child in question hadn't seen her daddy for several days, since he was getting in long after she was asleep and leaving long before she got up. They were planting the field next to the house, so they were taking a break to eat lunch and celebrate with birthday cake. Then back to the field. The conversation took a turn to the joys of being married to a farmer.
We discovered, for instance, that getting called to pick up parts entailed the same frustrations whether the machine in question was a huge planter or a two-row tobacco cultivator. No matter that the guys had called and assured us that the part was ready and waiting, only needing to be picked up, it never was that simple. Inevitably the parts manager would have a question. "Is it for the right disc or the left?" "Did he mean metric or US measurements?" "Did he want one or the pair?" We all agreed that cell phones came in pretty handy then. Or the instructions would be that the part would be left on the loading dock, just drive around back and pick it up. What they didn't tell her, one wife declared, was that she would have to unlatch a big bin only to discover 8 or 10 parts for different customers. Then she would have to dig through them and identify the one she needed. All of this on an hour detour with two kids in the car.
Another wife laughed and said that, for her, having company was the challenge. Their daughter had recently graduated from high school and in the local tradition they had thrown a large graduation party for family and friends. The plans and preparations had gone on for weeks before the big date. The house had been cleaned, food cooked, the yard manicured, tables had been set up and tents erected. What had hubby done while all this was going on? He washed his tractors! All the while, insisting that he was doing his part in getting ready. I laughed and agreed. Before our daughter's wedding my hubby was only concerned with the barn being clean. Another replied that at least they were there. Her farmer would decide at the last minute he had one chore that just had to be done, that would take until the party was half over to finish.
Laundry and the stinking messes that men can get into came into the conversation. My daughter chuckled about the night her hubby had managed to get covered with the smelly remains of a dead calf. Gagging he had called for her from the back door. He had stripped off his clothes and left them in the driveway and was yelling for SOAP!. "What kind?' she yelled back. "Anything that stinks good!" he yelled back. With no more ado he had started lathering and rinsing with the garden hose. He wanted to throw the clothes away but after being hosed down and airing for a day or two they washed up as good as new.
I remembered a time when hubby had been trying to get a cow in a working chute. Every time he would get her almost in she would back up and get out of the alley way. In desperation, he finally just crowded her up and put his chest right against her so she couldn't back up. With that, she lifted her tail and filled the top of his coveralls with warm, spring grass runny, manure. Within minutes it was dripping out of both pant legs and oozing out the sides. When I finally quit laughing, we had to hose him down before he could even get out of his clothes!
We all agreed that living with a farmer was a challenge. We all know that on a farm often the crops and animals will take precedence over family. However, we also know that these good men, who give their lives to caring for the land and the animals with such dedication are a very special breed. That the same love and devotion they give to their farming they return to their families 10 fold, by being loving, steadfast, dependable, devoted and dedicated spouses, parents, sons, and siblings. They are the salt of the earth.
One other thing the wives agreed on. We wouldn't change places with anyone.
Friday, June 7, 2013
The Streaker
I'm convinced that living in the country makes men do strange things. There is something about the open spaces and the lack of close neighbors that tend to make them forget their manners. There never was a farmer that could walk into a barn without having to "see a man about a dog" immediately. The same men teach their sons to "pee in the grass" when outdoors, then wonder why they "pee in the grass" off of second base in T-ball. Farm wives are facing an uphill battle in their fight to "civilize" our males.
A recent visit with a farming family revealed one wife's struggles to tame her hubby. It seems that back in their early years, hubby was a bit of a streaker.
At the time they were living in the old farmhouse on the home farm. Like a lot of old houses, the bathroom had been added on to the kitchen to consolidate the plumbing. Also, like most farm houses, the kitchen door was the one most often used by everyone coming to the house. (My front door is so seldom used that it swelled shut and no one knew it until a poor visitor knocked on it. We then had to run around the house and tell him to come to the back so we could let him in!)
The farmer in question had a habit of coming in dirty from the field and sliding straight into the bathroom to clean up. He would then "streak" through the house to the bedroom to get into clean clothes. The farmwife had cautioned him repeatedly that he needed to plan ahead and not just wander around in his birthday suit. However, he was younger then and not shy about flaunting the hard, toned muscles of the working man, so he continued his dash.
It so happens that the phone was located on the kitchen wall, just across from the bathroom. The farmer also had a habit of answering the phone by rushing out of the shower and grabbing it. The wife was getting pretty put out with having a naked man lounging in her kitchen chatting on the phone or grabbing a cookie on his way to jump into his jeans.
As would happen, he came in from the field one day dirty, hot and tired. He immediately went to the bathroom to clean away some of the accumulated dirt. Just about the time he got good and wet, the phone rang. Expecting a call, he quickly jumped out of the shower and ran across the kitchen to answer it, where he proceeded to lean against the counter and talk. The wife, signaled to the oldest daughter and told her to run out the front door and then knock loudly on the back door.
The knocking came, and with cheerful tones the wife called out "Maybelle how good to see you! What brings you out to this part of the county! Come in, come in. I'm sure I've got some pie left from lunch."
The farmer looked up in a panic. He was trapped. To get to the bathroom or the bedroom he had to cross in front of the back door. If his visitor took one step into the kitchen he was in plain sight. He looked frantically for something to cover himself with but all he had was the phone. In desperation he opened the cabinet door and tried to scrunch himself down behind the small door. All the while listening to the cheerful invitation to "come on in and sit down". Footsteps approached and his wife and daughter burst into giggles at the sight of him attempting to climb into the cabinet. With a sheepish grin, he realized he had been "had".
"That will teach you to strut around in your birthday suit!", the wife laughed.
He said later, that all he could think about was that Maybelle was the biggest gossip in the county and she would be running back to tell everyone about his kitchen "welcoming" if she had indeed walked through the door.
His family's laughter gave me the feeling that he didn't need Maybelle to spread the story....I was betting they had done a pretty good job without her.
A recent visit with a farming family revealed one wife's struggles to tame her hubby. It seems that back in their early years, hubby was a bit of a streaker.
At the time they were living in the old farmhouse on the home farm. Like a lot of old houses, the bathroom had been added on to the kitchen to consolidate the plumbing. Also, like most farm houses, the kitchen door was the one most often used by everyone coming to the house. (My front door is so seldom used that it swelled shut and no one knew it until a poor visitor knocked on it. We then had to run around the house and tell him to come to the back so we could let him in!)
The farmer in question had a habit of coming in dirty from the field and sliding straight into the bathroom to clean up. He would then "streak" through the house to the bedroom to get into clean clothes. The farmwife had cautioned him repeatedly that he needed to plan ahead and not just wander around in his birthday suit. However, he was younger then and not shy about flaunting the hard, toned muscles of the working man, so he continued his dash.
It so happens that the phone was located on the kitchen wall, just across from the bathroom. The farmer also had a habit of answering the phone by rushing out of the shower and grabbing it. The wife was getting pretty put out with having a naked man lounging in her kitchen chatting on the phone or grabbing a cookie on his way to jump into his jeans.
As would happen, he came in from the field one day dirty, hot and tired. He immediately went to the bathroom to clean away some of the accumulated dirt. Just about the time he got good and wet, the phone rang. Expecting a call, he quickly jumped out of the shower and ran across the kitchen to answer it, where he proceeded to lean against the counter and talk. The wife, signaled to the oldest daughter and told her to run out the front door and then knock loudly on the back door.
The knocking came, and with cheerful tones the wife called out "Maybelle how good to see you! What brings you out to this part of the county! Come in, come in. I'm sure I've got some pie left from lunch."
The farmer looked up in a panic. He was trapped. To get to the bathroom or the bedroom he had to cross in front of the back door. If his visitor took one step into the kitchen he was in plain sight. He looked frantically for something to cover himself with but all he had was the phone. In desperation he opened the cabinet door and tried to scrunch himself down behind the small door. All the while listening to the cheerful invitation to "come on in and sit down". Footsteps approached and his wife and daughter burst into giggles at the sight of him attempting to climb into the cabinet. With a sheepish grin, he realized he had been "had".
"That will teach you to strut around in your birthday suit!", the wife laughed.
He said later, that all he could think about was that Maybelle was the biggest gossip in the county and she would be running back to tell everyone about his kitchen "welcoming" if she had indeed walked through the door.
His family's laughter gave me the feeling that he didn't need Maybelle to spread the story....I was betting they had done a pretty good job without her.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
A Farm Wife's Lament
My Job
It's not my place to run the train.
The whistle I can't blow.
It's not my place to say how far
the train's allowed to go.
It's not my place to shoot off steam
nor even clang the bell.
BUT let the damn thing jump the track...
and see who catches hell!
Years ago we were traveling home from a week spent at a cattle show when I found this plaque. After a week of being the low man on the team, taking orders from everyone, including the cows, I thought it just about described my life.
Farm wives become accustomed to being at the beck and call of everyone on the farm. When hay is down or tobacco is being set she is expected to be everywhere with just the needed things (whether it be lunch, cool drinks, or baler parts) with no consideration to what else she may have on her schedule. My kids learned at an early age that the power lay with the farmers. "I'd love to help mom, but daddy needs me in the barn.", they would call as they left the house. I have actually caught them doing "chores" by sitting on a couple of feed buckets playing cards on a bale of hay. Important work.
Hubby was a master at passing through the kitchen and casually mentioning that he would have a couple of hands for dinner. (I once fed five men on two chicken breasts and a lot of cheese and tortillas. Show me a farm wife and I will show you a well stocked pantry ready to stretch a meal for additional hands.) He also was good at pausing to "request" that I come help with the tractor driving, since I wasn't busy--I guess a mountain of laundry and hands for dinner don't count as busy!
However, few farmers ever admit that their spouses know one thing about farming. Trust me I have had a crash course in farming but because I am the "little woman" I'm often not taken seriously. Nothing is more frustrating than coming up with a good idea only to have it laughed off by the men, then have the same idea pop back up later from a "male" as the best solution ever heard!
One area I have been accepted as an authority is when the cows are in labor. For some reason hubby just doesn't "get it". I realized he needed help early on when I wandered down to join him at the fence, "What are you doing?" "I'm watching that cow. Do you think she's calving?" he mused. I watched her obvious labor contractions for a few minutes and asked, "Uh, just what do you think she's doing?" "Well, she's acting a little funny but she's not quite due." he responded. With a snort, I replied, "Of course she is in labor and working hard. If she doesn't deliver in about 15 minutes you better get her in the barn and help her!" Fifteen minutes later we were walking her to the barn and fifteen after that we had pulled a dandy, big calf. "How did you know?" he asked. I just shook my head, not surprised at his denseness.
After all this is the same man that made me wait to go to the hospital to deliver our daughter until he had gone to the office to finish some paperwork. She was born barely thirty minutes after we arrived at the hospital. He thought it was great timing. The doctor thought he was nuts! I was just glad she wasn't born in the pickup truck.
It's not my place to run the train.
The whistle I can't blow.
It's not my place to say how far
the train's allowed to go.
It's not my place to shoot off steam
nor even clang the bell.
BUT let the damn thing jump the track...
and see who catches hell!
Years ago we were traveling home from a week spent at a cattle show when I found this plaque. After a week of being the low man on the team, taking orders from everyone, including the cows, I thought it just about described my life.
Farm wives become accustomed to being at the beck and call of everyone on the farm. When hay is down or tobacco is being set she is expected to be everywhere with just the needed things (whether it be lunch, cool drinks, or baler parts) with no consideration to what else she may have on her schedule. My kids learned at an early age that the power lay with the farmers. "I'd love to help mom, but daddy needs me in the barn.", they would call as they left the house. I have actually caught them doing "chores" by sitting on a couple of feed buckets playing cards on a bale of hay. Important work.
Hubby was a master at passing through the kitchen and casually mentioning that he would have a couple of hands for dinner. (I once fed five men on two chicken breasts and a lot of cheese and tortillas. Show me a farm wife and I will show you a well stocked pantry ready to stretch a meal for additional hands.) He also was good at pausing to "request" that I come help with the tractor driving, since I wasn't busy--I guess a mountain of laundry and hands for dinner don't count as busy!
However, few farmers ever admit that their spouses know one thing about farming. Trust me I have had a crash course in farming but because I am the "little woman" I'm often not taken seriously. Nothing is more frustrating than coming up with a good idea only to have it laughed off by the men, then have the same idea pop back up later from a "male" as the best solution ever heard!
One area I have been accepted as an authority is when the cows are in labor. For some reason hubby just doesn't "get it". I realized he needed help early on when I wandered down to join him at the fence, "What are you doing?" "I'm watching that cow. Do you think she's calving?" he mused. I watched her obvious labor contractions for a few minutes and asked, "Uh, just what do you think she's doing?" "Well, she's acting a little funny but she's not quite due." he responded. With a snort, I replied, "Of course she is in labor and working hard. If she doesn't deliver in about 15 minutes you better get her in the barn and help her!" Fifteen minutes later we were walking her to the barn and fifteen after that we had pulled a dandy, big calf. "How did you know?" he asked. I just shook my head, not surprised at his denseness.
After all this is the same man that made me wait to go to the hospital to deliver our daughter until he had gone to the office to finish some paperwork. She was born barely thirty minutes after we arrived at the hospital. He thought it was great timing. The doctor thought he was nuts! I was just glad she wasn't born in the pickup truck.
Friday, May 10, 2013
A Long Lost Friend
I was checking out in Wal-Mart, one of my least favorite places, when the cashier suddenly questioned, "Sallie Jo?" I knew immediately that she had to be someone from my past--my distant past. Growing up in the south, I was accustomed to everyone having a double name. We are crowded with Barbara Ann's, Anne Marie's, Sarah Jane's, and Betty Sue's. I quit introducing myself as "Sallie Jo" when I entered college in 1966. That was when I introduced myself to a girl on my floor from Detroit who squealed delightedly upon hearing my name, "Oh, how wonderful! Sallie Jo! I just knew when I came to Kentucky I would meet a "Jo" just like Billy Jo, Bobby Jo and Betty Jo on Petticoat Junction!" Being compared to the popular hillbilly sitcom did not make my day. After that, I generally dropped my second name, so, I knew when I heard that name that this had to be someone I knew from way back.
Puzzled, I looked at her as she rushed out from the cash register. Facing me was a middle-aged woman with short, white hair and arms open wide. "I know I must know you, but who are you?" I asked, smiling. Not graceful, but I have always been stymied by these situations. "Pam York" she beamed. Immediately my mind rushed back to the carefree days spent at my grandmother's during the long summer vacations from school. Throwing my arms around her I hugged my irrepressible partner in mischief from those bygone days. She was still living in Bardstown, actually on the same street that was our playground during those days of endless summer. Our reunion was cut short by the patiently waiting customers behind me, but not before she told me that she had always kept an eye out for me, sure that eventually I would come through her line. Parting with contact information and promises to meet when we could truly visit, I left the store in a daze.
On the drive home my mind was flooded with memories of those glorious days. My grandparents had lived on a quiet street surrounded by young families. In an effort to help my mother out over the summer months when we weren't in school, they often kept us for extended stays. I don't know how she put up with us for the amount of time we were there, but having several kids on the block certainly helped. Pam had lived next door with her three older sisters. Being almost the exact age and similar personalities (tomboys) we were immediately best friends. One house up the street lived our third playmate, a lovely, dainty only child. I'll say this, she was game. I know sometimes she was appalled by some of the stuff we got into but she followed right along.
Pam's yard was our playground of choice since it had the most fun to do things in it. On one side of the sprawling old house was a low building that had originally been a chicken house. Probably, the old house, now surrounded by modest ranch and cape cod homes, had been the farmhouse on a small farm adjacent to town. Behind the house was a large metal building housing a shop and garage for her dad's truck. Next to this stood a huge old willow tree that had branches that draped to the ground all around, creating secret cave behind the green limbs. The rest of the yard was shaded by mature maples, just begging for kids to climb them.
The chicken house (long since cleaned up and made into a storage building), became our clubhouse. We stored our most treasured possessions in two large cardboard boxes in there. One was filled with old cast off dresses, hats, purses, belts and lengths of left-over fabric, which we used to transform ourselves into whatever characters our imagination created for us. We held tea parties, sailed with pirates, piloted space ships, fought off Indians, and plotted continuously against the two boys from across the street. We would low-crawl behind the bushes around the house to achieve the perfect ambush, only to often be surprised in turn. With squeals of mock terror we would run to our favorite hiding place, the branches of the old maple in the front yard. Like monkeys, we would scramble up the tree and smother giggles as we hid in the leafy bower.
The moms on the street left us pretty much alone (they were mostly all stay at home moms at that time) unless things started to get out of hand or someone was actually hurt. Then we would be called in for a little "rest". Television was strictly for adults, so a rest meant we would lie on the bed with the windows open for the breeze, read and listen to the noises of the neighborhood and maybe fall asleep.
With no daylight savings time keeping daylight around all night, dusk just created more adventures for us. After supper, the adults would gather on a porch and talk about the happenings of their days while we caught lightning bugs and put them in jars. (yes, we broke some jars, but no one ever amputated a finger or bled to death from the broken glass) Later when it got full dark we would play kick-the-can or hide-and-seek with the older kids, running from yard to yard, seeing strange and scary new shapes in the shifting shadows. Before the big boys could scare us completely to death, the adults would call for us to come in for baths.
For about five years my summers were lived on that little street that will always be wrapped in the heat of summer with the heady smell of cut grass, flowers and warm cookies, echoing with the sound of childish laughter. Then my grandfather retired and my grandparents moved to our home town to be closer to my mother. Despite vows to keep in touch, we never really saw each other much again. We were briefly reunited at my grandfathers funeral, when we were all in high school but never after that.
Now, with a hug from another middle-aged lady, I was suddenly transported to that time when a eight year old little girls promised life-long fidelity and friendship. Maybe we weren't so wrong after all.
Puzzled, I looked at her as she rushed out from the cash register. Facing me was a middle-aged woman with short, white hair and arms open wide. "I know I must know you, but who are you?" I asked, smiling. Not graceful, but I have always been stymied by these situations. "Pam York" she beamed. Immediately my mind rushed back to the carefree days spent at my grandmother's during the long summer vacations from school. Throwing my arms around her I hugged my irrepressible partner in mischief from those bygone days. She was still living in Bardstown, actually on the same street that was our playground during those days of endless summer. Our reunion was cut short by the patiently waiting customers behind me, but not before she told me that she had always kept an eye out for me, sure that eventually I would come through her line. Parting with contact information and promises to meet when we could truly visit, I left the store in a daze.
On the drive home my mind was flooded with memories of those glorious days. My grandparents had lived on a quiet street surrounded by young families. In an effort to help my mother out over the summer months when we weren't in school, they often kept us for extended stays. I don't know how she put up with us for the amount of time we were there, but having several kids on the block certainly helped. Pam had lived next door with her three older sisters. Being almost the exact age and similar personalities (tomboys) we were immediately best friends. One house up the street lived our third playmate, a lovely, dainty only child. I'll say this, she was game. I know sometimes she was appalled by some of the stuff we got into but she followed right along.
Pam's yard was our playground of choice since it had the most fun to do things in it. On one side of the sprawling old house was a low building that had originally been a chicken house. Probably, the old house, now surrounded by modest ranch and cape cod homes, had been the farmhouse on a small farm adjacent to town. Behind the house was a large metal building housing a shop and garage for her dad's truck. Next to this stood a huge old willow tree that had branches that draped to the ground all around, creating secret cave behind the green limbs. The rest of the yard was shaded by mature maples, just begging for kids to climb them.
The chicken house (long since cleaned up and made into a storage building), became our clubhouse. We stored our most treasured possessions in two large cardboard boxes in there. One was filled with old cast off dresses, hats, purses, belts and lengths of left-over fabric, which we used to transform ourselves into whatever characters our imagination created for us. We held tea parties, sailed with pirates, piloted space ships, fought off Indians, and plotted continuously against the two boys from across the street. We would low-crawl behind the bushes around the house to achieve the perfect ambush, only to often be surprised in turn. With squeals of mock terror we would run to our favorite hiding place, the branches of the old maple in the front yard. Like monkeys, we would scramble up the tree and smother giggles as we hid in the leafy bower.
The moms on the street left us pretty much alone (they were mostly all stay at home moms at that time) unless things started to get out of hand or someone was actually hurt. Then we would be called in for a little "rest". Television was strictly for adults, so a rest meant we would lie on the bed with the windows open for the breeze, read and listen to the noises of the neighborhood and maybe fall asleep.
With no daylight savings time keeping daylight around all night, dusk just created more adventures for us. After supper, the adults would gather on a porch and talk about the happenings of their days while we caught lightning bugs and put them in jars. (yes, we broke some jars, but no one ever amputated a finger or bled to death from the broken glass) Later when it got full dark we would play kick-the-can or hide-and-seek with the older kids, running from yard to yard, seeing strange and scary new shapes in the shifting shadows. Before the big boys could scare us completely to death, the adults would call for us to come in for baths.
For about five years my summers were lived on that little street that will always be wrapped in the heat of summer with the heady smell of cut grass, flowers and warm cookies, echoing with the sound of childish laughter. Then my grandfather retired and my grandparents moved to our home town to be closer to my mother. Despite vows to keep in touch, we never really saw each other much again. We were briefly reunited at my grandfathers funeral, when we were all in high school but never after that.
Now, with a hug from another middle-aged lady, I was suddenly transported to that time when a eight year old little girls promised life-long fidelity and friendship. Maybe we weren't so wrong after all.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
The Music Minister
Back when my daddy first came for a visit that lasted eight years, he stayed in our house. It soon became apparent that another solution would have to be found. Any farmer knows that you can't put two bulls in the same pasture without some head-butting to determine who is boss. For the sake of my sanity, daddy really needed a place to call his own.
He wanted to live in the country. I needed him to be close enough that if the need arose I could get to him quickly. After looking at spot after spot that involved long, winding drives up and down steep, narrow roads, we began to consider alternative solutions. One solution arrived over coffee at the local men's gathering place. "My son got a divorce." one reported. "His wife left him and he's moved home for his mama to take care of him. Why not buy his trailer, then you can put it wherever you want to." Never one to hesitate on a decision, within days daddy was the proud owner of a two bedroom mobile home.
He then looked around for a place in the country, close to me that he could put his new home. Before you could say, "Jack Rabbit" we had a trailer in the back yard.
After daddy was gone the trailer became a mecca for young men needing a temporary place to stay. I'm not sure why -- do I look like a den mother to everyone? Over the years we have had several come and go and all of them have become my boys. I've listened to their woes, fed their spirits (and stomachs), enjoyed their foolishness and their help, then seen them married off and moved on.
Probably the one that gave more back to us than we gave to him, was the young student from Brazil that became our music minister at church. In an effort to offset the meager salary our small church could pay we offered to let him stay in the trailer. He arrived one spring day to meet us and check out his new home. He bounded up the walk, a slim, handsome young man with dark curls bouncing in the sunlight. He greeted us with excellent English with a delightful accent. We proudly showed him his new home in the now aging trailer. In our ignorance we assumed that this poor kid from the primitive jungles of Brazil would be overwhelmed by our generosity. It wasn't until later, we found to our horror that he not only came from a fairly wealthy family but had grown up in a cosmopolitan city on one of the beautiful beaches in Brazil. (Think Miami) It must have looked like a slum dwelling to him but he must have been happy there because several years later he returned to take pictures of his wonderful Kentucky home. It was just one of the many things this talented and charismatic young man taught us.
Coming from a background of city life and culture (he played three instruments, sang beautifully, and spoke three languages) he probably thought he had been dropped into a primitive culture. Farm life was definitely a new experience! He embraced the whole idea with enthusiasm and excitement. He would pop into the barn to help with whatever chore was going on. Usually clad in flip-flops and shorts, he would gamely offer to help. "Umm, you might want to watch where you step", hubby would warn mildly, then let him help. He actually did learn to drive the tractor and became a big help during hay time. He never quite figured out the cows.
What he did do was open our eyes to a whole new world. We became quite familiar with the culture of Brazil and the vast diversity of that country. Through his influence we expanded our music knowledge and attended wonderful concerts featuring some of his many talented friends. We became members of an extended Brazilian family living in Florida and Brazil. We learned a lot about soccer. But mostly we learned to appreciate people that sounded differently but loved and laughed the same. And when he married we were proud to stand as his "patrons" at his wedding. An honor given to couples who have been important in the lives of the bride and groom.
Thanks, Nuno, for enriching our lives.
He wanted to live in the country. I needed him to be close enough that if the need arose I could get to him quickly. After looking at spot after spot that involved long, winding drives up and down steep, narrow roads, we began to consider alternative solutions. One solution arrived over coffee at the local men's gathering place. "My son got a divorce." one reported. "His wife left him and he's moved home for his mama to take care of him. Why not buy his trailer, then you can put it wherever you want to." Never one to hesitate on a decision, within days daddy was the proud owner of a two bedroom mobile home.
He then looked around for a place in the country, close to me that he could put his new home. Before you could say, "Jack Rabbit" we had a trailer in the back yard.
After daddy was gone the trailer became a mecca for young men needing a temporary place to stay. I'm not sure why -- do I look like a den mother to everyone? Over the years we have had several come and go and all of them have become my boys. I've listened to their woes, fed their spirits (and stomachs), enjoyed their foolishness and their help, then seen them married off and moved on.
Probably the one that gave more back to us than we gave to him, was the young student from Brazil that became our music minister at church. In an effort to offset the meager salary our small church could pay we offered to let him stay in the trailer. He arrived one spring day to meet us and check out his new home. He bounded up the walk, a slim, handsome young man with dark curls bouncing in the sunlight. He greeted us with excellent English with a delightful accent. We proudly showed him his new home in the now aging trailer. In our ignorance we assumed that this poor kid from the primitive jungles of Brazil would be overwhelmed by our generosity. It wasn't until later, we found to our horror that he not only came from a fairly wealthy family but had grown up in a cosmopolitan city on one of the beautiful beaches in Brazil. (Think Miami) It must have looked like a slum dwelling to him but he must have been happy there because several years later he returned to take pictures of his wonderful Kentucky home. It was just one of the many things this talented and charismatic young man taught us.
Coming from a background of city life and culture (he played three instruments, sang beautifully, and spoke three languages) he probably thought he had been dropped into a primitive culture. Farm life was definitely a new experience! He embraced the whole idea with enthusiasm and excitement. He would pop into the barn to help with whatever chore was going on. Usually clad in flip-flops and shorts, he would gamely offer to help. "Umm, you might want to watch where you step", hubby would warn mildly, then let him help. He actually did learn to drive the tractor and became a big help during hay time. He never quite figured out the cows.
What he did do was open our eyes to a whole new world. We became quite familiar with the culture of Brazil and the vast diversity of that country. Through his influence we expanded our music knowledge and attended wonderful concerts featuring some of his many talented friends. We became members of an extended Brazilian family living in Florida and Brazil. We learned a lot about soccer. But mostly we learned to appreciate people that sounded differently but loved and laughed the same. And when he married we were proud to stand as his "patrons" at his wedding. An honor given to couples who have been important in the lives of the bride and groom.
Thanks, Nuno, for enriching our lives.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Beach Blues
Once, years ago, before all our vacations involved hauling cattle and kids to shows, I was scrambling around getting the household ready to head to Florida for spring break. A friend, who was witnessing the preparations, slowly shook her head, "I don't know why anyone would leave Kentucky in April and go anywhere". She had a point. While the weather can be changeable, for the most part it is beautiful here. The grass is lush and green and everywhere you look something is blooming. You can almost stand in one spot and watch things grow and change. The temperature is warming nicely and the bugs haven't taken over the yard. I should have remembered her warning.
When hubby announced that we would be traveling to Hilton Head during April for the insurance trip this year, I was thrilled. It seemed a perfect time for a trip to the beach--early enough not to be miserably hot, but perfect for a get-away after a long winter. We planned for a few extra days and decided to drive down to enjoy a beautiful trip through the mountains, viewing the dogwood and redbud trees on route. After spending a night in Charleston, we arrived in Hilton Head. The weather was a little unsettled, but the forecast promised improving weather. We immediately headed to the beach to walk a while and enjoy the ocean. "It's a little windy," hubby remarked as he struggled to light his cigar. "It's the ocean breeze," I responded. Upon returning to the hotel, we discovered the opening night dinner had been moved inside. Good choice. Late arrivals reported driving through hail storms and torrential rain.
The weather steadily progressed downward. We had one day that was partly cloudy with the rest of the week getting steadily colder and more blustery. The beach was deserted and even the poolside bar gave up and closed. Winds hovered around 20-30 miles an hour, temperatures around 70. In a beach community about the only entertainment other than enjoying the beach is shopping. Hubby was just thrilled. Even I found that you can only look at so many $300 dresses in a size 4 (doesn't anyone at the beach wear a reasonable size?).
We were all gathered in the bar, trying to decide if we needed to go buy coats, when my cell phone pinged for a text. I opened it up and started laughing as I passed it around. My daughter had sent a picture of her two girls building a snowman in their yard. Iowa was in the middle of a snowstorm with schools closed. They eventually got nearly 10 inches of snow.
You know, all of a sudden the weather didn't seem so bad after all.
(It was sunny and 80 degrees at home!)
When hubby announced that we would be traveling to Hilton Head during April for the insurance trip this year, I was thrilled. It seemed a perfect time for a trip to the beach--early enough not to be miserably hot, but perfect for a get-away after a long winter. We planned for a few extra days and decided to drive down to enjoy a beautiful trip through the mountains, viewing the dogwood and redbud trees on route. After spending a night in Charleston, we arrived in Hilton Head. The weather was a little unsettled, but the forecast promised improving weather. We immediately headed to the beach to walk a while and enjoy the ocean. "It's a little windy," hubby remarked as he struggled to light his cigar. "It's the ocean breeze," I responded. Upon returning to the hotel, we discovered the opening night dinner had been moved inside. Good choice. Late arrivals reported driving through hail storms and torrential rain.
The weather steadily progressed downward. We had one day that was partly cloudy with the rest of the week getting steadily colder and more blustery. The beach was deserted and even the poolside bar gave up and closed. Winds hovered around 20-30 miles an hour, temperatures around 70. In a beach community about the only entertainment other than enjoying the beach is shopping. Hubby was just thrilled. Even I found that you can only look at so many $300 dresses in a size 4 (doesn't anyone at the beach wear a reasonable size?).
We were all gathered in the bar, trying to decide if we needed to go buy coats, when my cell phone pinged for a text. I opened it up and started laughing as I passed it around. My daughter had sent a picture of her two girls building a snowman in their yard. Iowa was in the middle of a snowstorm with schools closed. They eventually got nearly 10 inches of snow.
You know, all of a sudden the weather didn't seem so bad after all.
(It was sunny and 80 degrees at home!)
Thursday, April 25, 2013
No Peace on the Hill
It's beautiful on the farm. The redbuds are blooming and their soft purple blooms add a beautiful contrast to the light, delicate greens of the newly leafed out trees. The deep velvety green of the cedars lend a depth to the background, making the colors stand out like a beautiful bouquet. I love spring.
The black cows and dainty calves stand out like jewels on the lush green of the fields. I could watch their frolicking and playing all day. Everything is so new and perfect.
Then this perfection is broken by the loud bawl of an unhappy resident of this bucolic landscape. Soon an entire chorus of bellows, bawls and moans fill the air. "I guess you've decided to wean the calves" I yell to hubby as we stand in the yard. "It's time to let their mamas rest a while and get ready for the next calving season", he yells back. "They aren't too happy about it", I screech. "Guess the sign wasn't right. They'll settle down in a while." he bellows back.
The calves in question are milling around in the barn lot that borders the yard. After getting the cattle up yesterday for their bi-annual check-up, the mama cows were returned to the field and their 6 month old calves were left in the lot. It was time for them to be weaned from their mamas. They had been snacking on grain for a while, so they knew how to eat, they just weren't quite ready to give up the nice easy milk meal. So they stood at the fence and hollered for their mamas to come back and get them. The mamas, who had been watching out for these babies for the past months were just as upset about the situation. They, in turn, were bellowing back telling their babies to come on to the field. It wasn't a symphony.
Naturally, this always happens when the weather turns warm enough to open the windows and air out the house. That means that even phone conversations are a challenge. "Is that your cat?' "No, it's a calf" "In the house?" "No, they are in the barn lot." "Are they hurt? Are they dying?" "No", I laugh, "but they sure think they are!" Sleep become a sometime thing. I woke up from a deep sleep the other night with a start that caused my heart to pound. After several hours of quiet, one of the calves had awakened to discover his mama wasn't there. The quiet of the night was broken by a long wail of disbelief. Soon the entire lot was crying out their loneliness.
Turning over, I viciously kicked hubby who was sleeping peacefully through it all. "What's the matter.", he sputtered. "The calves woke me up.", I snarl. "What do you want me to do about it." he asks reasonably. "Nothing." I reply, "but if I'm going to be up all night, you sure aren't going to sleep!!!"
Fortunately, the calves get over it and settle down before our marriage is irreparably damaged.
The black cows and dainty calves stand out like jewels on the lush green of the fields. I could watch their frolicking and playing all day. Everything is so new and perfect.
Then this perfection is broken by the loud bawl of an unhappy resident of this bucolic landscape. Soon an entire chorus of bellows, bawls and moans fill the air. "I guess you've decided to wean the calves" I yell to hubby as we stand in the yard. "It's time to let their mamas rest a while and get ready for the next calving season", he yells back. "They aren't too happy about it", I screech. "Guess the sign wasn't right. They'll settle down in a while." he bellows back.
The calves in question are milling around in the barn lot that borders the yard. After getting the cattle up yesterday for their bi-annual check-up, the mama cows were returned to the field and their 6 month old calves were left in the lot. It was time for them to be weaned from their mamas. They had been snacking on grain for a while, so they knew how to eat, they just weren't quite ready to give up the nice easy milk meal. So they stood at the fence and hollered for their mamas to come back and get them. The mamas, who had been watching out for these babies for the past months were just as upset about the situation. They, in turn, were bellowing back telling their babies to come on to the field. It wasn't a symphony.
Naturally, this always happens when the weather turns warm enough to open the windows and air out the house. That means that even phone conversations are a challenge. "Is that your cat?' "No, it's a calf" "In the house?" "No, they are in the barn lot." "Are they hurt? Are they dying?" "No", I laugh, "but they sure think they are!" Sleep become a sometime thing. I woke up from a deep sleep the other night with a start that caused my heart to pound. After several hours of quiet, one of the calves had awakened to discover his mama wasn't there. The quiet of the night was broken by a long wail of disbelief. Soon the entire lot was crying out their loneliness.
Turning over, I viciously kicked hubby who was sleeping peacefully through it all. "What's the matter.", he sputtered. "The calves woke me up.", I snarl. "What do you want me to do about it." he asks reasonably. "Nothing." I reply, "but if I'm going to be up all night, you sure aren't going to sleep!!!"
Fortunately, the calves get over it and settle down before our marriage is irreparably damaged.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Gun Control?
Gun control is a hot topic in our rural area. While I can see the point that the easy availability of guns makes them readily accessible for those who have mischief in mind, I also know that eliminating them would probably cause an uprising in my neck of the woods. People in the rural south take their guns seriously.
There was a time when most people kept a rifle or shotgun handy for the occasional varmint that raided the hen house or chased the cows. Today, I see a lot more recreational shooting. Lots of the men (and women) in our area go hunting for deer, rabbits, squirrels, and doves. There are gun clubs popping up where enthusiasts can go to shoot at targets and show off their weaponry. I get that. It's fun. It's social.
My father had two girls. As a natural born tomboy that resisted all of my mother's efforts to civilize me until I reached my teens, I became my dad's companion for many of the "boy" activities. I went fishing for crappie and brim when I was but a little tyke. I hiked, camped and rough-housed with the boys with delight. When I was about 9 or 10 my dad decided I was old enough to learn to shoot. A lot of his decision was based on the theory that it was much safer to be around guns if you knew how to handle them responsibly. He presented me with the treasure of my childhood. A youth sized Winchester 22 pump rifle that had belonged to him as a boy. All of the boys in the family had learned to shoot with that little rifle and I was the youngest.
For weeks I practiced dismantling and cleaning the little rifle. (Rule # 1-you are responsible for cleaning and caring for your own gun.) I was allowed to dry fire as often as I wished (no bullets but learning the feel of the gun and how to aim and handle it.). I did that until the motion of automatically putting the gun's safety on was as unconscious as breathing. (Rule # 2 - you don't move after shooting until your gun is on safety.) Only then did he take me to the woods for target practice. The constant refrain was safety, safety, safety.
Surprisingly, in spite of my terrible eyesight and thick glasses, I was a good shot. I loved the challenge of gauging the wind and movement to hit the little targets he would put out for me. Sometimes it would be a walnut hanging high above me or a tin can set upon a post. Bits of paper stuck on a tree or a tin can thrown into a stream became targets for our practice. We spent many hours walking, talking and stopping to shoot in easy companionship.
I eventually graduated to a larger single shot 22 that he had fitted with a scope to compensate for my eyesight. I even did some skeet shooting with the boy cousins using a lightweight shotgun. I never did hunt and never wanted to. I didn't want to kill anything and certainly didn't want to clean it (rule #3-you dress what you kill).
Years later I would become an extension agent and did my turn at taking kids to 4-H camp. When the leaders were setting up the various activities and assigning adults to head them, they discovered that they didn't have anyone to teach riflery. The men all looked at each other and realized they had other jobs that couldn't be ignored. Hesitantly, I cleared my throat. "Umm. I could take that." They looked at me in doubt. Up until that time they had only known me in a suit, pantyhose, heels, and every hair in place in my "agent personae". (Obviously, at camp in July I was wearing shorts and a top--but it was matching! My mother had finally gotten her way with me!) "I, umm, really can shoot." I offered.
"Well," one suggested, "let's go down to the range and see what you can do." They all trooped out to see the show. Once there they presented me with a single shot 22 and a box of shells. I immediately opened the breech to check it and grimaced at the grime. "Don't you teach them how to clean their guns?" I inquired. The leader mumbled something about some supplies being in the office. I then loaded up and took sight on the target, shooting first from a prone, then kneeling and finishing with a standing position. I was showing off and I knew it, but the gods were kind and I manged to hit the target. The men watched in respectful silence as the target was reeled in. Softly, in the background I heard one mutter, "Damn! Give Annie Oakley the job and don't piss her off!"
Guns are only a tool to be used wisely.
There was a time when most people kept a rifle or shotgun handy for the occasional varmint that raided the hen house or chased the cows. Today, I see a lot more recreational shooting. Lots of the men (and women) in our area go hunting for deer, rabbits, squirrels, and doves. There are gun clubs popping up where enthusiasts can go to shoot at targets and show off their weaponry. I get that. It's fun. It's social.
My father had two girls. As a natural born tomboy that resisted all of my mother's efforts to civilize me until I reached my teens, I became my dad's companion for many of the "boy" activities. I went fishing for crappie and brim when I was but a little tyke. I hiked, camped and rough-housed with the boys with delight. When I was about 9 or 10 my dad decided I was old enough to learn to shoot. A lot of his decision was based on the theory that it was much safer to be around guns if you knew how to handle them responsibly. He presented me with the treasure of my childhood. A youth sized Winchester 22 pump rifle that had belonged to him as a boy. All of the boys in the family had learned to shoot with that little rifle and I was the youngest.
For weeks I practiced dismantling and cleaning the little rifle. (Rule # 1-you are responsible for cleaning and caring for your own gun.) I was allowed to dry fire as often as I wished (no bullets but learning the feel of the gun and how to aim and handle it.). I did that until the motion of automatically putting the gun's safety on was as unconscious as breathing. (Rule # 2 - you don't move after shooting until your gun is on safety.) Only then did he take me to the woods for target practice. The constant refrain was safety, safety, safety.
Surprisingly, in spite of my terrible eyesight and thick glasses, I was a good shot. I loved the challenge of gauging the wind and movement to hit the little targets he would put out for me. Sometimes it would be a walnut hanging high above me or a tin can set upon a post. Bits of paper stuck on a tree or a tin can thrown into a stream became targets for our practice. We spent many hours walking, talking and stopping to shoot in easy companionship.
I eventually graduated to a larger single shot 22 that he had fitted with a scope to compensate for my eyesight. I even did some skeet shooting with the boy cousins using a lightweight shotgun. I never did hunt and never wanted to. I didn't want to kill anything and certainly didn't want to clean it (rule #3-you dress what you kill).
Years later I would become an extension agent and did my turn at taking kids to 4-H camp. When the leaders were setting up the various activities and assigning adults to head them, they discovered that they didn't have anyone to teach riflery. The men all looked at each other and realized they had other jobs that couldn't be ignored. Hesitantly, I cleared my throat. "Umm. I could take that." They looked at me in doubt. Up until that time they had only known me in a suit, pantyhose, heels, and every hair in place in my "agent personae". (Obviously, at camp in July I was wearing shorts and a top--but it was matching! My mother had finally gotten her way with me!) "I, umm, really can shoot." I offered.
"Well," one suggested, "let's go down to the range and see what you can do." They all trooped out to see the show. Once there they presented me with a single shot 22 and a box of shells. I immediately opened the breech to check it and grimaced at the grime. "Don't you teach them how to clean their guns?" I inquired. The leader mumbled something about some supplies being in the office. I then loaded up and took sight on the target, shooting first from a prone, then kneeling and finishing with a standing position. I was showing off and I knew it, but the gods were kind and I manged to hit the target. The men watched in respectful silence as the target was reeled in. Softly, in the background I heard one mutter, "Damn! Give Annie Oakley the job and don't piss her off!"
Guns are only a tool to be used wisely.
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