Super Farmer

If you are going to be a farmer you have to be able to think fast on your feet and way outside of the box.

I think in all the years that I have been dealing with cows and farmers there is one time when I really appreciated this trait.

My dad, who lived for several years in the back yard in a mobile home, had a great view of the barn lot.  Maybe not what you would advertise in a real estate ad but invaluable to us in keeping an eye on the cattle.  He would sit at the kitchen table and watch the antics of the weanling calves, pregnant mamas, or teen-aged bulls who would rotate through the barn lot.  For a man who always loved to farm but spent his life living in town and running a store, this was as close to heaven as he could get without wings.

It was about noon one day when he called the house.  "You might want to check out the heifers in the barn lot.  You've got one in the feed trough."  Puzzled by why this might be an issue, after all feed troughs were used all over the farm, I wiped my hands and trotted to the fence to see what was troubling him.  I soon came to a shocked stop when I saw what he meant.  We did have a heifer in a feed trough, what he didn't explain is that she was upside down with all four feet sticking up in the air.  The feed trough in question was a homemade affair created by splitting a 50 gallon drum lengthwise and putting it on legs.  Creating two long bowl shaped troughs.  A V-shaped metal hay rack was then welded to the middle so they could be fed both grain and hay. 

It looked like the heifer had been standing on the uphill side, parallel to the barrels when one of her lot-mates bumped her.  The edge of the barrel caught her just below her shoulders and before you could say "Jack Rabbit" she was flipped upside down.  She was now emitting pitiful moans as she waved her feet feebly.  She not only looked ridiculous she was in imminent danger of dying.  Cows aren't designed for that position.  In a short while the gases in her several stomachs were going to start building up and she would bloat.  Shortly after that her heart and lungs would become stressed and she would be one gone heifer. 

I looked around helplessly.  I simply had no idea what to do to get her out.  By now Daddy had made his way to the barn and was assessing the situation.  He came to an immediate conclusion, "Call Bob!"  He was right--this was a job for Super Farmer!  Unfortunately, Super Farmer was at work in his office in town. 

I ran back to the house (no convenient cell phones then) and frantically called the office.  The phone was answered politely by his elderly office "girl".  To my frantic demands for Hubby, she calmly replied that he was across the street having lunch and would be back in 30 minutes.  "You have to go get him!"  I demanded, "It's an emergency!  His heifer will die!"  "Maybe you can call the restaurant" she calmly replied, "I'm alone in the office and someone might call if I leave my desk."  "It doesn't matter.  Just go tell him to come home!  It won't take two minutes! " I begged.  (The restaurant was literally straight across the street.) No luck.

I hung up and frantically called the restaurant.  No answer.  A not uncommon situation during the busy lunch hour when the phone either couldn't be heard or just didn't get answered.  Then I remembered that the office next door was manned by a young farm wife who would understand the seriousness of the situation.  No only that but she worked for a man who was also a cattleman, so he would understand too.  "Angela, I need help." Soon I had explained my problem.  "Got it!" she said and hung up on me.  She dashed across the street and in minutes had hubby on the road home.  (You gotta love small towns!)

Hubby rolled into the barn drive and leaped from the truck. After a quick check of the situation and the heifer, he started issuing commands, while climbing  to the loft and throwing down several bales of hay. When Daddy and I got them to the lot, he placed them by the feed trough.  Then he got a chain and revved up the little tractor.  Hooking the chain through the metal hay rack over the feed trough he used the tractor to pull the whole trough over onto the stacked hay bales which kept it about three feet off the ground.  The heifer rolled out when the trough came over and landed neatly on her feet.  Giving us all a look that plainly said, "What took you so long?", she ambled off.

After shaking Daddy's hand for catching a potential problem and giving me a quick hug, he jumped back in his truck and returned to the office. 

Super Farmer. Didn't even get dirty.

The Last Remodel

When a man buys a farm he is thinking only about the land.  He will consider the fences, barn, working pens and ponds but the real issue is the land.  That's why farms are always purchased as so much per acre.  Most farmers don't really consider the house, it just is something that comes with the farm, like the barns. 

When we bought our farm, nearly 30 years ago,  the house was sturdy (if you discount the cracked foundation wall in the basement) and had been spiffed up nicely.  My hubby, eager to get me on board with the sale, rashly promised that if I would just live in it for five years he would build me a new one.  He didn't lie, it just took a little longer than he figured.

Over the ensuing years we've replaced the cracked wall in the basement (an adventure which included four workmen trying to get through a small opening when a large snake skin dropped on them when the wall came down), added a bathroom, furnace, air-conditioning, dry walled over plaster and lathe walls, put down hardwood floors over the pine subflooring that was all we had before, replaced the antique kitchen cabinets, (which had been repurposed from at least two previous lives), added two porches and a sunroom, along with rewiring and replumbing most of the house.  This week we began what hubby devoutly hopes is the last room to be remodeled.  I guess you could say I will then have the new house.

You see, last winter was the straw that broke this camel's back. 

All winter (which seemed to last forever) I have had two men and four kids trooping into my small utility room shedding muddy, wet boots, coveralls, coats, mittens, and hats.  Soon the resulting piles were spilling into the kitchen, trailing over the house, and contaminating any clean clothes not immediately removed from the laundry area.  Eyeing the clutter I came to the realization that the objects in question were only going to get bigger as the owners grew.  Thus, the idea to enlarge and remodel the utility room was born.

Like all of our projects it's been an archeological dig.  In pulling out the walls we began to see how the house had been added on over the generations.  When electricity came to the farms, farm wives discovered that with electric pumps they could have running water in the house.  Thus, the bathroom was added, usually off the kitchen to share the water access and electricity.  Ours is no exception.  The space left over became my utility room.  The old, green tongue and groove walls gave us a hint that part of the space had been added as an old porch, which was later enclosed.  Clumps of old 1952 newspapers stuffed around the windows for insulation gave the date that the porch was turned into part of the house.  Like the housewife of old, I am giving up part of my porch to create the new, bigger space.

Looking at my house I can't help but think of the farm wives that have added to, rearranged, and modernized this old house to make it more comfortable for the family.  I think about their days as they pumped water at the kitchen sink by hand for the daily use in the house.  This included cooking, cleaning, bathing, and washing clothes.  I can imagine the excitement when electricity first became available for the rural residents.  The first room to get electricity was the kitchen.  Usually just a ceiling light but oh to have a steady, bright light to work by.  Soon every room had a ceiling light, then came electric outlets for the growing array of items. 

Each of these families lived, laughed, loved and reared their children in our house.  They cared for their families and left their mark on their home in countless little touches.  I marvel at the history and wonder at their stories.  I hope years from now another farm wife remodels and is struck by the touches that I have left on the old home.  I hope she approves. 

A Man and His Truck

There is something about a man and his truck. 

Hubby is not an extravagant person.  He doesn't care if his clothes have little insignia on them or if he has all the latest "guy" toys.  The product of depression era parents, he is very conservative.  Our farm abounds in examples of his "make do" attitude with left-overs from one project being used in another endeavor.  The one place he gets a little carried away is his truck. 

His current truck was bought after extensive research,  computer searches, test drives, dealership visits, and "brain picking" of everyone he met.  (Remember the great tractor hunt?  So you know he gets a little obsessive when he is actually going to part with a chunk of change.)  We literally visited dealerships in four states when he was deciding on his current truck.  It was successful, because he loves his truck. 

Trucks are a little different now from the ones I learned to drive on (yes, they did have trucks when I was 16!)  This truck has more gadgets and gizmos than a rocket ship.  He can call anyone in his phone book by just asking nicely.  He has a camera that shows him his rearview as he backs up (nice for not backing into trailers),  satellite radio that gets hundreds of channels (he listens to the local AM station), heated seats, remote start,  and power mirrors (so he can fit into the garage).  There is one more thing that pickup trucks have over the fancy cars.  Cup holders.  There must be three cup holders for each seat.  They are in the console, the doors, on the dash--everywhere.  The only thing I can figure, is that guys obviously drink more than girls!

Did I mention that he loves his truck?

Case in point.  We were getting ready for a little road trip and because we were taking some things to our daughter we decided to drive the truck.  I'm in charge of all the packing, getting the house ready to leave, and setting up pet care.  He does the farm chores and gets everything caught up at work. While he is at work, I'll usually load the various plunder we are taking with us, so we are ready for a quick get-away that afternoon.  The night before he asked, "Are you going to the gym in the morning?'  Wondering a little why he cares, I answer, "I probably won't have time. Why?"   "Well," he responds, " I thought I would take the car tomorrow morning to work and you could start loading the truck."  "OK", I say thoughtfully, "so that means you want to be sure I won't need a vehicle?  You know I can drive the truck if I need to."  "Ummm" he mutters.

As we go to bed that night, he again asks, "So, you think you might be going to the gym in the morning?"  "Well, I really need to if I'm going to be gone for a week." I mutter sleepily.  "Tell you what" he replies, "I'll just take the old green farm truck to work in the morning so you'll have your car."  My eyes fly open as I sit up in bed.  "So, are you saying that you don't want me to drive your truck or what?"  "No, no, I didn't mean that at all." he back-peddles frantically.  "Well it looks to me like you are saying exactly that!"  I snarl, getting up a good head of steam.  "You obviously either think I CAN'T drive it or you are scared I'll damage it if I do.  Which is it?"  "No, no!  Calm down.  You can drive it anywhere you want to.  You can even drive the whole trip.  In fact I want you to drive it.  I may even INSIST you drive it!!"  Silence reigns.

Then just before sleep, "However, I really don't mind driving the farm truck tomorrow."

The man loves his truck!

What Happened to Jeff King?

I know I keep saying I am going on to other things, but so many stories have come out of this year's Iditarod that I feel like I must share one more.

Jeff King, a four time winner and the undisputed leader going into the finish run, ran afoul of Mother Nature and unexpectedly scratched.  "Scratched" is different than the designation "withdrawn" which indicates a decision by the musher not to continue on.  I was curious, like many others, as to what had happened. 

The weather, which had been mild most of the race, suddenly decided to deteriorate.  The wind, which is always a concern on the coast run into Nome, reached hurricane proportions.   Howling down the mountains it becomes funneled with much the same affect as wind blowing through Chicago's city canyons.  Or, to put it another way, much like the air being forced through an air hose.  The locals call these "blow holes".  King's sled and team ran into one of these blow holes about 50 miles from the end of the race.  The force of the wind, concentrated in that spot, literally blew his sled and the dog team off the trail and into a pile of driftwood.  King, faced with an overturned sled and a team of traumatized dogs (they aren't used to being picked up and tossed like Dixie cups) found himself unable to do anything but huddle behind the sled.  The wind literally was too strong for him to attempt to right the sled and untangle his dog harness.  So he did the only thing he could, he called his dogs to him and huddled them all together to wait out the wind. 

He had two choices.  His dogs were disorganized and tangled.  He couldn't get his sled ready to mush back to the check-point.  He could attempt to walk back and bring help for his dogs, but that meant leaving them on the trail.  Which is the one thing a musher isn't prepared to do.  His other choice was to wait out the wind.  He waited.  While he was stranded, he was passed by a local 84 year old miner, his son-in-law, and granddaughters on a snowmobile treck to Nome.  King asked them for a ride to Safety .  (Note:  The wind was so bad that one of the granddaughter's snow machine was blown over and rolled several times on the way back.  They were able to get the machine back on the trail and continue.  They are a hardy bunch of people!)  Once in Safety, King was able to get other snowmobilers to return with him to safeguard his dogs.

According to the rules, King had no option but to scratch when he asked outsiders for help.  He says he has no regrets about that decision because it ensured the safety of his dogs.

The wind did eventually die down and the mushers coming into Nome now are able to do so without the hurricane force winds.  However, all along the trail mushers have stories of bedding down and just waiting out the weather.  This Iditarod is already going down as one of the roughest and most dangerous in its history.  Musher after musher is coming in with tales of broken ribs, fingers, a nose or two, bruises and scrapes from the banging they have taken. 

I think about all the complaining we have done over the winter we have had here and I think about leaving on a camping trip in the middle of it.  Not to mention running, walking, and knocking about over 1000 miles of wilderness in the process.  My admiration for the hardy folks that live in and love Alaska knows no bounds, but the mushers in the Iditarod are truly a special breed!!

Danger on the Trail

The Iditarod winners have arrived, tended their dogs, greeted their families, gotten some sleep and still  mushers are crossing the finish line.  The race, while it has been won, is not over until the last musher crosses the finish line and collects the red lantern.

Before I move on to other things, I have one story that caught my attention from the race.  I think it illustrates the rugged individuals that take on the challenge as well as the unpredictableness of racing through a winter wilderness.

Scott Janssen is  a very successful mortician with a chain of funeral homes in the Anchorage area.  He had been a sponsor and friend of Paul Gebhardt for years and decided in 2007 to try mushing himself.  He is an ardent outdoorsman with a wry sense of humor.  You can learn more about him on his Facebook page, the Mushing Mortician. 

This year is Scott's third Iditarod and although the conditions were far from ideal he was enjoying his experience.  The going was rough, over ground that was just sparsely covered with snow.  The dogs were strung out in front and going at a good clip, which means the sled is banging along behind like the end of "crack the whip" when Scott looked up and saw a tree stump directly in the path.  Sleds don't come equipped with steering wheels so he lurched to one side of the sled in an attempt to by-pass the stump.  Unfortunately, he hit a tussock of grass that caused the sled to turn over and slammed him into the stump.  In Scott's words, he then went "night-night".  He awoke to find his dogs had returned and were huddled around him sleeping.  He thought that was odd, especially when he noticed a light covering of snow on them.  Instead of being out for a minute, like he had thought, he actually had been unconscious for about 2 hours. 

In true mushing tradition, he checked himself out, decided he was o.k. and proceeded to repair his sled.  He admits it probably took him a little longer than it normally would but he eventually got his dogs and sled back on the trail.  He's getting along down the trail and thinking he's got everything under control when one of his dogs runs on the opposite side of a tree from the gang-line.  (On this part of the trail they are literally running through the woods.)  Fortunately the harness is designed for just such an event and breaks away, freeing the dog.  The dog runs ahead of the team and down the trail.  Scott, fearing that the dog would get lost, calls to him and begins to run after him.  In by-passing the team (which has stopped) he hits a thin spot in the stream he must cross and breaks through the ice.  The dog meanwhile has returned to the team, so Scott climbs out of the shallow water to run to the sled to reattach the dog.  The water on his boots turns to ice and he slips, falling and breaking his right leg. 

Now he is lying down hill from his sled and unable to drag himself to it.  He does manage to get out of the water, but he is wet and doesn't have his gloves on.  It doesn't take long before he begins to fear hypothermia and frostbite.  He knows that there are mushers behind him on the trail, but he doesn't know when they will come.  He can only hope it is in time.  Just when he is beginning to wonder if he'll turn into an ice cube he hears the approach of a team.  Soon he is looking into the concerned face of Newton Marshall, the Jamaican musher who has run in three previous Iditarods.  "Hey, Mon.  What can I do to help?"  Newton locates Scott's sleeping bag and ground cloth and is able to begin getting him warm.  He then retrieves the GPS tracker device that is mandatory for each musher and is attached to the sled.  This device also has a SOS button which they activate.  Newton, then stays with Scott until help arrives in the form of some of the snowmobile riders that travel up and down the trail doing some of the thousands of jobs needed to keep the trail clear and the race running.  Rescues, being one of the jobs.  Assured that his fellow musher will be taken care of, he continues with his race.  (Note:  During a race only another musher may help a musher.  Accepting assistance from anyone else is an automatic scratch.  In this case, a moot point, since Scott is out of the race anyway.)

Because of the inaccessibility of the location the only way to get Scott out and to a hospital is by air.  The Army sends a Black Hawk helicopter to swoop down and retrieve the injured musher.  The snowmobilers will gather up his gear and dogs and take them to the closest check-point for them to be returned to Anchorage.

Scott was checked for head injuries - not serious- and had his leg set and in 24 hrs. was ready to head for Nome to welcome in the winning mushers. 

Comments from Scott:  "Maybe helmets should be required equipment."  "The coolest thing was refueling the helicopter in mid-air on the way to Anchorage.  They propped me up so I could watch.  Neat!"  On a serious note, he does think that the GPS trackers should be worn by the mushers at all times instead of on the sled.  Because he couldn't reach his tracker to signal for help, he very well could have died. 

Iditarod Upset

When I went to bed last night I thought the story of the Iditarod was all sewed up.  Jeff King had established about an hour lead over Ally Zirkle and all he had to do was just keep on to Nome for the win.  However, Mother Nature took a hand and it wasn't that simple.

Coming down from the mountains onto the shore they began to experience extreme winds, gusting up to 55 mph and creating a ground blizzard of blowing snow.  King, with a comfortable 1 hr. lead over Zirkle is struck by a severe gust of wind and blown off the trail and into a pile of drift wood.  There he would spend the next 1 1/2 hours untangling his dogs and sled and getting them settled and back on the trail.  The dogs were unhappy with the wind conditions and King decided that he just couldn't push them to finish and scratched.  Ally, not knowing that this had occurred, persevered down the trail and into the next check-point, not realizing that she had passed King on the way.  Once there she took stock of her dogs reluctance to run head-on into such a gale and decided to rest and hope the wind died down.  (This is not just a breeze but hurricane force winds, at below freezing temperatures with ground snow blowing in sheets parallel to the ground. The winds are flipping snowmobiles over and tearing off windshields.   All along the trail mushers are pulling off and seeking protection for themselves and their dogs.)

Now it gets weird.  While she is resting in the check-point, Dallas Seavy, who was in third place behind her, charges into the check-point and out again without stopping for a rest, thinking he has to catch the leaders, who he thinks are a couple of hours ahead.  Ally, realizing she has just lost the lead, hurries out after him.  They tear off down the trail in the wind and snow, on the final 22 miles into Nome.  The funny part is that Dallas thinks the light he sees dogging his trail is his father, Mitch Seavy, who was running in fourth place behind him.  Remember, he still thinks he is in third behind the leaders.  Now, he knows that if he lets his 54 year old father run him down and pass him his family will never let him live it down.  With that thought he goes all out on his drive for Nome, running beside the sled or ski-poling to help push them along.

With that determined light behind him he charges down the street toward the finish line, running beside the sled.  Reaching the finish he collapses onto the seat and drops his head in exhaustion.  An official drapes his arm over his shoulders and says, "Do you realize you just won the Iditarod?"  He looks up in amazement and just two minutes later, Ally Zirkle comes rushing down the street to her third, second place finish in the last three years. (Dallas' dad, Mitch didn't finish for third place  until about 2 1/2 hrs. later. 

The time---8 days, 14 hours, 9 minutes.  A new record.

Maybe there is something to youth and strong legs after all.

2014 Iditarod--The End is in Sight

Those of you who have followed me know that I am an avid follower of the Iditarod sled dog race in Alaska.  I have been enthralled for the past week following the various mushers and their dogs across 1000 miles of frozen trails.  Thanks to the Internet, I can follow from my kitchen table with instant GPS tracking, video interviews at the rest stops, streams of written articles, and more statistical information than I can possibly interpret.  I feel like I am cheering on old friends as the familiar names march across my screen.


This year's leaders are fast approaching the end of the race as they close in on the finish in Nome.  With only about 80 miles left to cover, the world is waiting to see which team will cross the finish line first.  Unlike most sports the competitors are not all under the age of 30.  In fact, age has it's definite advantages in this sport, for it is a race demanding knowledge and wisdom as well as fitness and strength.  Each racer (called mushers) will face 1000 miles of Alaskan terrain with only his abilities and his dogs.  Speeding along for hours on end without seeing another human they will have only themselves to rely on as they deal with whatever the wilderness will throw at them. 


This year the weird weather we have been experiencing has taken a toll on the Alaskan weather, too.  The beginning of the race was over trails that were often rock and dirt rather than packed snow.  This meant the sleds were being thrown from rut, to rock, to tree, to dip, to rut instead of gliding on a cushion of snow.  The sleds survived but the mushers were a mass of bruises, sprains, and bangs.  Several scratched due to the conditions.  Later they faced snow that had melted and refrozen into sheets of ice, that made the hills and mountains into torturous toboggan runs.  Rivers that normally would be frozen into flat roadways, had thawed and refrozen, creating piles of ice blocks that made for hazardous travel.  Add to this temperatures that reached -40 degrees and fierce winds and you have a race to remember--if you survive.


The leaders at this point illustrate the value of experience as well as training and endurance.  The lead is virtually tied at mile 891 where the three top competitors are checking in and resting at White Mountain, 77 miles from Nome.  Ally Zirkle, 44 years old, is the only woman in the leaders, although far from the only woman in the race.  Ally has come in second the last two years and has been a strong leader during the last part of the race.  Virtually tied with her is Jeff King, who is 58, and is striving to win his fifth Iditarod.  Coming on strong right behind them is Dallas Seavy, who at 26, is the youngest of the leaders.  Dallas is hoping for a repeat of his 2012 win, when he became the youngest winner in the Iditarod history.  Following him is his father, Mitch Seavy, aged 54, who won the race last year.  Next is Martin Buser, 56, a four time winner,  and Sonny Linder, 64, who finished 2nd in 1981.  It fascinates me that in a world that worships youth and considers athletes to be "over-the-hill" by 40, this race that is a grueling physical and mental challenge should be dominated by those with some age and wisdom. 


Just to clarify, this is the top six of 53 racers that are spread out over the course of the race, with 14 more that have already scratched.  Men and women, young and old, all competing equally.  The test being in their knowledge as a musher, the athletic abilities of their dogs,  their fitness and strength, and their strategy for the race. 


Another point to know, although Ally Zirkle is the only women in the leaders, should she win, she will not be the first.  Libby Riddles won in 1985 and claims that honor.  While Susan Butcher won a total of four times in 1986, 1987, 1988, and 1990.


The next few hours and 77 miles will see some real excitement as the leaders jockey for position and race for Nome.

Grandsons

I always thought I would be the sweet, cuddly type of grandmother that was adored by her grandchildren.  After all I loved to cook (especially cookies), raised two kids that became delightful adults, and had a bunch of fun doing it.  I had visions of happy children, enjoying quiet games in a house that smelled of homemade goodies, while hubby and I enjoyed the peaceful scene. 


Reality isn't quite the same.


Last week I gleefully made homemade chocolate chip cookies knowing that the boys would be out after school.  They were fresh out of the oven and cooling on the counter when the kitchen erupted with coats, boots, gloves and boys.  The littlest one immediately announced that he didn't like that kind of cookies.  "You haven't even tried them!"  I exclaimed.  The middle one started rooting in the pantry looking for a box of Little Debbies.  "They're fresh out of the oven!  Still warm!  Try one!" I begged.  Looking put upon, they dutifully munched a cookie.  "See, I told you I didn't like them."  The little one announced, digging into the store bought cookies. 


About that time the teen-aged grandson wandered in and finished off the homemade cookies.   Teenagers can be so rewarding--especially when it comes to cleaning up food.


Life just doesn't seem to turn out quite like you dream.


In fact, having three boys and a little girl descend on our house is more an exercise in chaos than tranquility.  I spend most of my time grabbing flying toys, rescuing the dog, settling squabbles, and handing out food.  Instead of soft mummers of love I'm more likely to be shouting commands like a drill sergeant. 


The other day, I had just cleaned up after lunch and the kids were all off playing.  The little girl, who is two, was having a tea party in the sunroom, the teenager was deep into a video game, the middle boy was playing a game on my iPhone and the youngest was playing with a small car in the kitchen.  Suddenly there was the sound of a crash in the kitchen.  I rounded the corner to find him standing, barefoot, in a sea of broken glass from the coffee carafe he had managed to knock to the floor.    "DON'T MOVE!"  I screamed.  For once in his life he actually obeyed a command, probably more from shock than actual obedience.  Leaping across the floor, I yelled for the seven year old to grab the baby and keep her in the den and out of the kitchen.  I grabbed up the little boy and threw him onto the bed in the bedroom and told him not to move. 


I frantically swept up the glass praying none of the others would run into the kitchen and step on a stray splinter of glass.  After sweeping the floor three times I finally decided it was safe and returned to the bedroom to check on the little boy.  I was confronted by a tear streaked, hic-upping bundle of misery.  In all the confusion and shouting he had decided his days were numbered.  "I-I-mm s-sorry." he sobbed. 


I wrapped my arms around him and assured him that I wasn't going to strangle him--this time anyway. 


Sometimes a hug is better than a lecture. 

Robert

I was lucky enough to grow up in a very close-knit family.  My father and his brother were only 11 months apart in age and had been raised, virtually, as twins.  They were incredibly close.  When I was young they lived on the same street in town and were in business together.  Naturally, we were in and out of our Uncle's house about as much as we were ours.  They had two boys and a girl, daddy had two girls.  Our ages stair stepped down with a year or two between.  I fell between the two boys. 

I grew up following the older brother everywhere I could and plotting mischief with the younger brother, Robert.  He was the baby of the clan.  A sweet, chubby child who, as my aunt proclaimed, was her one experiment with the rhythm method of birth control.  (It took me about 20 years to figure out what that meant!) 

Robert took after his father's father, in that he grew and grew.  Pawpaw was 6'6"  in an age when a tall man was 6'.  Robert passed him up and achieved 6'9" in his prime.  Unfortunately, a mild case of polio as a child left him unable to comfortably support his large size.  While he could walk very well, any type of extreme exercise left him in pain.  The basketball coach almost wept.

He could have been a brat.  Bigger than all his school mates, teased and ridiculed as only kids can, he nevertheless remained a sweet tempered, gentle natured child.  Over the years he developed a penetrating intellect and a wicked sense of humor.  He loved people and people loved him back.  That didn't keep him from poking fun and taking more than a few down from their high horse. 

Robert loved trying new things and following new ideas.  This took him down some strange roads but also produced some beautiful things.  He became interested in art and painted some exquisite figurines, paintings, and other objects.  A pair of lovely, Thai dancers are the pride of my dining room right now.  He sang beautifully and played several instruments.  Always a good cook and a gourmand, he decided to become a chef.  He attended school and educated us all on the finer points of eating well.  His inquiring mind took him down the path of alternative medicines.  He became a well-known expert on herbal medicines.  He was always willing to think outside of the box and explore new possibilities.

His adulthood took him far from home but he never forgot about his home town.  He delighted in coming "home" and seeing what everyone was doing.  A considerate, caring man he donated countless hours to the less fortunate--something he never spoke about.  However, almost any other subject was fair game.  His quick wit and penetrating intellect kept us all on our toes.

I always thought of myself as a pretty sharp conversationalist.  Robert, however, could reduce me to
giggles and stutters.   I can see him now, leaning down and peering into my eyes, while his danced and twinkled.  "Now, Jo.  Are you sure you want to stand by your statement?" he would ask about whatever we were deep in discussion about.  "Yes, indeed."  I would proclaim, sure that this time I was right.  He would then puncture my argument with a well placed barb that would leave us laughing and me deflated!

Robert, the world is a better place for your being in it.  You did "your own thing" regardless of what others thought, but you were always true to yourself.  We'll miss you.

The Drunk's Cure

For years, all of our vacations and most of our socializing took place at cattle shows.  We would spend a week at the State Fair, a week at the National Jr. Angus Show, a few days at the North American Livestock Exposition, and then a day here and there at other shows.  Usually the same group of parents and kids would show up.  The kids would visit and care for the cattle while the dads supervised and talked shop.  The moms doled out food, watched for accidents (moms always expect the worst), and caught up on each other's lives.  Some of my dearest friends were found in those cattle barns.

We were sitting in the barns one day when one of the wives entertained us with a tale  of how she broke her husband from coming home with too many beers under his belt.

It seems, in his younger days, he loved to go out with the guys and drink a few beers.  He would then stumble home in the wee hours and fall into bed.  His bride wasn't too taken by his activities or his buddies.  She tried pouting prettily.  Didn't work.  She tried pleading earnestly.  Didn't work.  She tried reasoning.  Didn't work.  She resorted to shrewish nagging.  Didn't work.

Finally the night came when he stumbled home, after a night of whooping it up with the boys, to discover his bride waiting up for him.  Smiling sloppily, as only a drunk can, he peered at her.  "Aw honey.  I just had a few with the boys.  It's ok." he mumbled.  She simply pointed at the couch and he promptly fell down and was soon snoring peacefully. 

Now this was a seriously pissed woman. 

She wanted revenge.  She wanted retribution.

She turned and marched into the bedroom and gathered up all the bedclothes she could find.  With arms loaded she marched into the living room and piled them on top of her sleeping husband.  Not satisfied with that, she gathered up the afghan and a couple of jackets laying around and piled them on too.  With an evil smile, she gathered up her coat and headed for the door.  On the way out, she turned the thermostat up as high as it would go and went home to sleep at mamas.

He reported later that he woke up in the night, burning up, and thought he had died......and gone to hell!!!!  

He became a "one beer" man overnight.