How Quicken Saved My Marriage

It's that time of year again. 

Time for Hubby get ready for taxes.

Each year I would contemplate leaving home, but I never knew exactly when the time would strike.  As it was, I would usually seclude myself in the sewing room or just find an urgent need to go to the grocery.  Then it would go on for days, so that was only a temporary solution.  We would all creep around the house, whispering and tip-toeing because daddy was "doing the taxes".

You see, Hubby is a man who literally thinks in numbers.  They just make sense to him.  So naturally he does the taxes.  He also is scrupulously honest and slightly paranoid, so he keeps every scrap of paper that he thinks the IRS might need if they chose to look.  He also is a totally disorganized bookkeeper and file clerk.

 In fact, his file was a shoe box.

His account book was another box with all of his cancelled checks for the year.

His method for preparing his taxes was to get the two boxes and commandeer the dining room table.  He then would proceed to go through every check and every receipt and put them in piles on the table.  Each pile would represent a deduction, such as vet bills, cattle supplies, fencing, repairs, etc.   When all the scraps of paper were assigned to a pile he would total up each one, creating a list for the accountant to use for filing our taxes. 

By the time he finished he was in deep despondency.

By the time he left the boxes at the accountants, the accountant was in deep despondency.  In fact, he may have been the only one to dread the appearances of the boxes more than me.

Then, in a moment of insanity, I hesitantly suggested that I might be able to help out.  Hubby's look of disbelief spoke volumes.  I do NOT think in numbers.  In fact before the advent of calculators I would be hard pressed to do simple mathematics.  However, I do like computers and all their programs.  I proposed that I would enter all the checks into a new program called Quicken.  Then all we would have to do is print out the resulting lists of checks.  He reluctantly agreed to let me try.

What I didn't realize was that the challenge would be deciphering his system into Quicken's categories.    For example:  Truck gas went into one category for farm use.  Car gas went into another.  Unless, the truck was used for personal use, then it was car gas.  Or if the car was used for farm use then it was truck gas. 

Then there is the problem of figuring out what the check is actually for.  For one thing, Hubby's first grade teacher must have been on leave when they taught writing.  He just has terrible penmanship.  Then he adds cryptic instructions on the memo line.  2B-BM.  Once I quit giggling, I figured out that was 2 bulls to B. Mattingly.  Occasionally, even he couldn't read it and we'd have to do some creative investigating to determine were to categorize the expense.

It hasn't been all smooth sailing but eventually we worked out a system that has allowed us to print a report for the accountant to use (with lots of mark outs, notes, and messages written on it!)

The accountant was so excited he almost cried.

The Cows Are Out

There are few calls that come in to a farmer that cause him to jump faster than the one that starts, "Your cows are out!"  The other Sunday we were just settled in for a little quiet time.  Hubby was watching a ballgame and I was talking to my sister on the phone.  Right in the middle of our conversation another call came in.  Checking the number, I realized it was a neighbor, so I poked hubby and told him to call back on his cell.  Within seconds he had jumped up and was grabbing his coat, starting for the door.  "Wait!"  I yelled.  "What's going on!"

"Those fool cows are out and heading for the road!"  he yelled as he pulled on his boots and grabbed his hat.  With that he was gone.

In a bit I heard the ranger roaring down the drive and knew the round-up was on.

Fences are the never-ending chore.  No matter how good the fences are, cows have an instinct for finding the post that is rotting underground and ready to be shoved over, the section that has stretched and can be pushed down and trampled, or the post that has weak staples and can be tugged loose.  This time it was a post along the creek that had been undermined by the flowing water.  Once it was down, the cows clambered down the bank, crossed the creek and entered the now empty tobacco patch.  The tobacco patch has no fence and borders the little road in front of the house.  They were happily heading for the roadside weeds when Hubby and our son arrived.

Using the four-wheeler and the ranger (like cowboys used their ponies) they started rounding up the frisky cows.  In any herd, there is always one that is the ring-leader for mischief.  Get her headed in the right direction and the rest will follow.  It wasn't long until they spotted the ring-leader--she was the one turning on a dime, dodging past the four-wheeler and charging back to the open field.  "Head her off!"  screamed Hubby, and the race was on.  After several sliding turns in the mud and a couple of reverses they finally had her and her herd heading for the creek. 

Upon reaching the creek bank, son slipped off the four-wheeler and slid down the bank to continue the herding process.  Stepping into the frigid water he kept to the line of rock that would allow him to cross in a shallow area, thus keeping water from coming over his boot tops. (Every farmer learns these shallow places pretty quickly.)  Shooing the last cow through the gap in the fence, he turned to return to the bank and get his tools to fix the fence. 

He had just reached the ranger, to get a shovel and a hammer, when a shout from Hubby brought him up short.  "GET BACK YOU BITCH!!"  Wheeling around, he realized the ring-leader was heading for the gap with her whole herd eagerly following.  Knowing that in seconds they would reach the breached fence and escape once again, he leaped for the fence.  In his hurry he forgot to watch for his little ledge and stepped into deeper water.  Freezing water rushed into his boots which immediately became glued to the bottom of the creek by sheer weight.  Already moving forward in his headlong rush to stop the cattle, his momentum carried him face-first into the creek.  His outraged yell carried to the ridge top.

The ring-leader cow stopped just short of the fence, looked at the wet, furious human at her feet and gave a short cow snort that sounded a lot like a laugh.  Turning aside, (as though she had never intended to cross the fence) she wandered off, chuffing a little chuckle as she went.

Probably wise.  I think son was envisioning using cow-hide for fencing material.

The Tiger is Loose

The call came into my son last week from his friend, "Tell your dad that the tiger is loose!  I repeat...the tiger is loose!"  Laughing, my son obediently called his dad and relayed the news.  Hubby hung up the phone and grinned.  "It looks like Mark is out and about again!"

Several weeks ago we had another call that a big, farmer friend, (and I mean big literally) had lost a battle with a crazy cow.  It seems he had been wading into a group of cattle to sort them out when one of them just went a little crazy.  Dropping her head, she charged, knocking the farmer down, then continuing to head butt him as he was on the ground, pinned to the fence.  Fortunately, his son was helping and rushed to head the cow off.  They pulled his dad to safety then loaded him, protesting, into the truck and off to the hospital. 

When we heard that he was actually staying in the hospital, we knew he was really hurt.

It turns out he had a broken pelvis, cracked ribs and bruises.  He was going to be housebound for a while.  Any time you take a farmer who is used to being out every day, checking on things, doing his chores and seeing that everything is done to his satisfaction and tell him he is going to be delegating chores for a while, it is bad!  Real bad!

In total frustration he read books, watched television, and stared out the window as his chores were done by others.  There are few things that will drive a man crazier than seeing someone doing something and you can't show them how they could be doing it better!  It's not a reflection on the helping friends and relatives.  There isn't a farmer born that doesn't put his heart and soul into his farm.  He knows every inch of land, every gate that sags and needs lifting,  which calves need a little extra feed, and which waterer is likely to freeze.  He knows where the best hay bales are stored for the new mama cows,  which cows are likely to need extra attention close to calving,  and where the cattle like to hide during blustery, cold winds.  He's learned how the barn door has to be propped to keep the wind from blowing it open,  how the key has to be jiggled to get the old tractor to start and a thousand other things that come from being there day in and day out.  All information that just cannot be explained to others.

His buddies rushed to the rescue.  No, not to do the chores, but to entertain him while he recuperated.  They came in shifts to tell him stories, repeat the latest news (gossip), and assure him that his son and hands were trying hard...and he could probably get it straightened out by summer!

Time passed slowly.  So when the word arrived that the tiger was loose, we all gave a little cheer.  (Probably none so loud as the helpers!) 

It's good to have you out again ...and don't believe everything they tell you.   You'll have everything back in shape well before summer.

(FYI -The crazy cow is now hamburger.  Enjoy your Big Mac.)

Storm Time

Kentucky has been pummeled this week with a stream of storms marching across the state.  I sat the other night listening to the news warning of "Ping-Pong ball" sized hail, 60 mph winds, and torrential rains.  The newscaster warned that there would be roof, window and siding damage from the hail and that any creature outside during one of the outbursts of hail would be injured.  He went on to say, that with 60 mph winds there would also be damaged roofs, homes and fallen trees. 

This line of storms was going to be north of us, but I have to say that my second thought, after one of concern for the folks in the path, was for the poor insurance agents who would be inundated with damage claims.  I know.  I married one. 

Weather is the number one concern of farmers.  They worry about too much, too little, too late or too early.  They deal with the ravages of the storms both on their animals and their land.  The only others that I know that worry that much are insurance agents.  A major storm means problems for the insured as well as their agent.  Add the two together and you have a man that paces the floor and mumbles a lot.

Several years ago we were the ones in the path of the storms.  I have only gone to the basement twice to hide during vicious weather and that day was one of them.  Looking out the window I saw a wall cloud marching steadily across the field and heading straight for us.  I didn't even know what it was, but I knew it was serious.  I yelled for my daughter and we both flew down the steps to the basement.  Our basement isn't additional living space but a dingy, concrete storage area filled with boxes and left over stuff.  Not an appealing place, but it looked pretty good to me then.

Huddled there we listened as it sounded like the world was being torn apart.  Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. Silence.  We cautiously climbed the steps not knowing what would greet us.  The house was intact but the yard was covered with debris.  My beautiful trees were still standing but each one was sadly damaged.  They looked like someone had twisted the tops out of them.  Ragged chunks of wood had been ripped out and tossed to the ground. 

We fought ourselves out of the house and sadly surveyed the ravaged landscape.  Everywhere we looked were trees down, fences damaged, barn doors blown off, barn roofs pulled up, siding ripped off, electric lines down, limbs blocking the road, and over all the plaintive moans and bellows of the cattle as they sorted themselves out.

Shortly, Hubby and Son showed up, grabbed chainsaws and disappeared to check the cattle and clear roads.  Within minutes of their leaving to rescue our farm the phone started ringing.  With electricity out over much of the county,  the office had no lights, and more importantly, no computers, so everyone had left to take care of their own damages.  So the next call after the insurance office was the agent's home...except the agent was out checking his own mess.  Before he left, he warned me, "Everyone will be calling.  Get their names and phones and I'll call them back as soon as I check the farm."

For the next day, by the light of my trusty oil lamp, I answered calls from frantic people.  My heart went out to them in all their suffering for their losses and damages.  "Take pictures!" I implored, "Lots and lots of pictures!  Then secure your home as best you can to prevent further damage.  The adjusters will be there just as soon as they can."  And the adjusters did come, some by that night and more by the next morning.  They crawled over roofs, slithered under houses, sympathized and gave hope.  "Yes, it will be fixed.  Yes, you are covered." 

For days Hubby alternated between securing his own farm and tromping through fields and yards with adjusters.  He became a walking directory of the names of people who "fix" things,  helping this owner find a roofer, that one a plumber, another a contractor to replace siding. He was everywhere, lending a hand to spread a tarp, rounding up cattle that had strayed, cutting up downed trees, offering encouragement and assistance. 

Eventually order was restored.  Now it is just another of life's stories we tell at get-togethers.  However,  for me the memory I carry is of "Super-Hubby" charging off the hill to be sure that all his insured and/or friends were taken care of. 

He's quite a guy.

Herding Cattle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we thought she was just another pretty face.

Get the Birds!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Plant That Ate the South

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dog Days of Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Having air conditioning has completely changed the way we live. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Anniversary

Sunday Hubby and I celebrated our anniversary.  While sitting quietly watching the Ohio River flow endlessly by, hubby turned to me and asked.  "When we married did you ever think you would be married nearly 50 years?"  I thought for a minute then smiled.  "Sure.  I thought we'd be married happily ever after....I just didn't have a clue how long that was!"

We married over a Labor Day Week-end, before everything was air conditioned.  The church was packed and steaming hot.  They say.  I don't remember it.  I was pretty much a mannequin for the day, carefully dressed and posed by my mother and aunt.  Back then brides didn't have much to do but show up when they were supposed to for showers, luncheons, parties and the big day.  We wrote thank you notes and smiled a lot.  Mama and Aunt Anne were in charge of the plans and decisions.  After all, it was my parent's party--we were more of the theme for the day.  Brides today have a lot more input...but it suited me.  What did I know about planning a party for two to three hundred people?

The reception was at my Aunt's home, a gracious setting with a beautiful yard.  The food was certainly simple by today's standards of dinners and lavish buffets.  We had cake, punch, finger sandwiches, nuts and mints. Period.  No liquor for the guests, but the cousins all gathered on the porch off the kitchen to flavor their cups with the bottle my older cousin had thoughtfully stashed.  The bride and groom didn't get to join them as we were too busy in the receiving line and posing for pictures.  However, I'm pretty sure my dad and uncle did.

Just as we finished with the obligatory pictures of feeding cake to each other and posing with various relatives, my aunt pulled us to the side and informed us it was time to change into our "going away" outfits and leave so the guests could depart also.  A little different from today's brides partying into the night.  We dutifully changed and were cheered off through a shower of rice and well-wishes.  We jumped into the waiting car and drove down the street.  Suddenly, we felt a little lost and forlorn. For the first time in weeks, no one was there to tell us what to do.  We were on our own.  It was exciting...and a little scary. 

Little did we know, that feeling would pretty much describe the next 46 years...exciting and a little scary.

There were lots of high times.  The birth of our children, the purchase of our first house, the satisfaction of paying off our first car, the contentment of quiet nights together, the fun of backyard ballgames, the rewards of seeing your children become good parents and adults, the peace of looking out over your own land at sunset.  There were low times too...three miscarriages that tore our hearts, a sickly child that kept us worrying at night, years of wondering if we could make ends meet, the helpless pain of seeing your children deal with heartaches, sicknesses that would take loved ones as well as sicknesses that struck us.  Through it all we found our strength and support was only a hand-reach away. 

Did I know what life would hold all those years ago when I dreamed of "happy ever after"?  No, but I couldn't imagine it without my shining knight by my side. 

Still can't.