Nothing is Ever Simple

I love to sing.  I'm not very good but that doesn't change my enthusiasm or enjoyment.  I sing, mainly, in the church choir under the direction of a very tolerant and gifted director and teacher.  Our little choir practices diligently before presenting an anthem or special for the congregation.  They are all friends, so they are usually very complementary and make us feel good about our efforts.

This past Sunday was a little more special. 

Our church is the proud possessor of a Pilcher Pipe Organ that is now 100 years old.  To celebrate this we hosted a recital by Dr. Wesley Roberts, who is the Professor of Musicology, Piano and Organ at Campbellsville University.  The choir was to join in with Dr. Roberts on two anthems.  It was a special day with lots of visitors and we were all excited, and a little nervous about our part in it.  I had repeatedly warned the family that I would be tied up that Sunday afternoon with the recital and reception.  They assured me that it would not be a problem.

Hubby went to pick up the grandkids for church while I went early to practice.  He arrived with just the little girl, since the two little boys had opted to chore with their dad.  Everything was smooth until Hubby leaned over during church and whispered a suggestion that we just grab a sandwich at home instead of going out to eat as we usually do.  I glared at him but he piously bowed his head.  "How are you going to convince your little princess to go home if she ever gets to our house!"  I hissed.  "I'll handle it" he blithely returned.  The problem being that our granddaughter can wrap her grandfather around her finger and tie it in a bow!  I knew she wouldn't give up her afternoon of our undivided attention easily.

We had driven separately, so by the time we arrived home for our sandwich, the two of them had it all worked out.  The granddaughter was going with him to church to hear Jo-Jo sing then we would all change and go to her brother's ballgame.  Since Hubby isn't the most patient of people with entertaining little ones, I figured that the best case scenario would be that she would cuddle up and nap and worse case he could take her out and let her play in the classrooms.  So I took off to church for our pre-singing warm-up, with them to follow shortly.

The choir was in their places in the front pew, the church was filling up and I still hadn't seen Hubby.  Then suddenly his head was next to mine and he was whispering urgently.  "I've left Hadleigh in the nursery.  I've got a cow calving and I've got to go back home. "  With that, he was gone.  The choir members looked at me quizzically.  "How did he know he had a cow calving?  Did she call him?"  one questioned, laughing.  I just shook my head...I didn't know either.  I was left wondering if there was even a sitter in the nursery or did he just leave our granddaughter playing?  I finished the rest of the afternoon with one eye on the sanctuary door wondering if I would see her wandering around. 

The program was wonderful.  We sang with enthusiasm and hopefully didn't miss many notes.  Pictures were taken, friends greeted, cookies tasted, and the event was over.  Hadleigh joined me after spending a happy hour playing under the supervision of an older child and we rushed off home.  She babbled happily from the backseat about the "really loud organ" and the prospect of seeing the new baby when we got home.

As I got within sight of the hill I spotted the vet's white truck parked in front of the barn.  "Oh, no!" I murmured, "The vet is here.  That's not a good thing."  A little voice piped up from the back seat, "It's OK, Jo-Jo.  He's really a nice man!"  "That's true'" I thought, "but you sure don't call even a nice vet on a Sunday afternoon unless it's bad!"  She jumped from the car and ran to the barn to see the new baby with me running behind hoping that it wouldn't be sad news.  Hubby scooped her up and told her to be quiet and we would go see the baby. 

We all crept into the barn and peeped over the stall at the tiny, black bundle laying on the hay.  Mama cow crooned a low moo-o-o and licked the little head.  "Sh-h-h!" Hadleigh cautioned me, "You have to be quiet!"  We crouched down and the little girl and the little heifer looked at each other.  Hubby and I looked at each other, a perfect ending.

It turned out that he had spotted the cow in labor on his way out to town.  Realizing that he needed to help her and he couldn't do it with a little one in tow, he came on to church and, surprise, left her in my (?) care.  Fortunately, one of the older kids was already staying in the nursery with a couple of other children.  If he hadn't gone back, we would have lost both cow and calf.  The calf had her head back over her shoulder, an impossible position for it to have been born.  The vet was able to reposition the calf and all ended well.

On a farm, nothing is ever simple. 

Even church concerts and sometimes calving.

My Mommy Certificate Has Expired

I think my Mommy Certificate has expired.

You know, that certificate they award you when your first child is born...the one that enables you to be two places at once, see out of the back of your head,  answer a hundred questions before coffee, arbitrate small wars over the last cookie and large wars over curfews, cheerfully read "Lightning Larry" for the four hundredth time,  all while rescuing the cat from becoming the new bath toy and your best saucepan from being used to fill the freshly dug pond in the flower bed. 

I think those certificates have a time limit on them.

Last week I got a call from my son.  "Mom", he queried,  "Can you do me a favor?"  "It depends on the favor." I reply.  (No dummy this mom...I've learned to hedge my answers!)  "Could you watch the kids. We're on the way to the hospital."  No hedging on that...that's what families do.  "Drop them off on the way and keep us informed!", I answered. 

My daughter-in-law had been suffering all week with a major reaction to some medication.  Miserable, she had toughed it out as long as she could.  In a few minutes, I was standing in the drive-way, surrounded by three little ones, waving as mommy and daddy  drove away. 

In a short while my son called and said they were sending her to the hospital in Lexington.  There a team of doctors would spend the next week getting the reaction under control. 

So, suddenly, I had three little ones to take care of and get to school and activities.  Thank goodness for cell phones.  First call. "Uh, what time does school start?" 

Usually you have a little time to work into this life.  All of a sudden we were back to juggling supper, homework, baths, bedtime, clothes, early wake ups and rushing off to school.  Then there were the football practices, games, and dance class. 

We got them to school on time every day.  They were clean, dressed and fed.

We were exhausted!

However, there were compensations.  The hill rang once again with the sounds of kick ball in the back yard  and children's voices as they helped feed the cattle.  Even the old farm bell was called back into service to round everyone up for bath time.  My favorite time was snuggling in bed with the smell of fresh washed children wafting over me, while we read bedtime stories.  Eye-lids drooping as we neared the end of the nightly "Lightning Larry" and "Mr. Putter gets a Cat", heads getting heavy and finally only quiet little sighs.  (Then the kids would go to sleep, too.)

The struggles were getting everyone fed, clothes washed, house picked up, errands run, kids collected, and extra-curricular activities squeezed in.  Getting organized enough to run a tight ship and keep everyone on schedule was a challenge for us.  Hubby found himself pitching in and running kids to school, supervising baths, and helping pick up.  The kids were great at telling us what we needed to do and where we needed to be. 

By the end of the week we had our routine down pat.  I was proud of us all --kids and grandparents alike!

Our daughter-in-law is home now, and doing much better.  The kids are sleeping in their own beds and we are back to occasional grandparent duties.  However, if I am honest, I'll have to admit that I enjoyed having them here.  I miss hearing them tearing up the sidewalk, yelling that they're hungry, after school.  I enjoyed having them doing homework in the kitchen while I started supper or playing outside the window while I cleaned up.  I even miss the water all over the bathroom after baths.

However, if I'm still being honest, I'll have to admit that it took me days to rest up.  I just don't move at that speed, all day, every day anymore. 

My Mommy Certificate has definitely expired.

The Iowa State Fair

My daughter has become a proponent of her adopted state, Iowa.  According to her, the people are friendlier, the sun hotter, the farm land richer,  the football better, and the winters longer.  She is pretty much right (although, I don't think they have a lock on all the friendly people) .  However, when she started in on how much better their state fair was than ours, I protested.  After all, in Kentucky, we have the largest climate controlled facility, under roof, maybe in all of the United States!

Then we went to the Iowa State Fair.

The granddaughters were showing for the first time at the fair, so naturally the grandparents had to attend.  The girls are showing miniature Herfords, their parents method of getting them hooked on showing cattle.  These gentle little creatures are the perfect introduction into cattle showing.  The girls, at seven and nine, were able to handle them with ease and fell into the routine of caring for them with enthusiasm.  It took a little getting used to for us old people, seeing these perfect cows in small sizes.  

Part of showing at a State Fair is that the animals are part of the fair experience for the people attending.  Therefore the cattle have to be on display in the barns for a certain number of days before and after the show.  That means we have time on our hands that we can use to explore the fair.

So, Hubby and I took it all in.

No wonder two movies and a long running stage production were based on it.

No wonder the New York Times best selling travel book, "1000 Places to See Before You Die" listed the Iowa State Fair as a must see.

No wonder the attendance is over one million people.

It was FUN!

It was an old fashioned county fair on steroids.

The fairgrounds cover 435 acres in Des Moines.  Established in 1878, the grounds are covered in trees, streets, sidewalks,  grass and shrubs.  It's rather more like a little town than a facility.  Adding to the small town feeling is the fact that 160 acres are set aside for 2300 camper sites.  Families move in for the entire two weeks and "vacation" at the fair.  These sites are rented for years in advance with families passing their sites down through generations.  The campers arrive and compete to "outdo" each other on their spots.  Decks, awnings, patios, even pools appear overnight.

The animals are stalled in wonderful, old brick buildings built in the early 1900's.  Exhibits, 4-H projects, agriculture displays, activities, and commercial booths were all housed in a variety of other buildings along tree lined streets.  Benches are placed invitingly in the shade of the trees.  Fairgoers wander from building to building in a seemingly endless parade.

Ask anyone what their favorite thing is at the fair and their answer will probably be "the food"!  My daughter had proclaimed that she was planning on eating her way through the food booths.  After wandering through the over 200+ food vendors, I began to see what she meant.   In Kentucky, we have the same basic vendors for all events with a few special "fair food" booths.  The fair foods tend toward how many calories you can put in each bite.  Think deep fried hamburgers on a doughnut. 

Now don't misunderstand, the Iowa food wasn't low calorie (although they did have a list of low calorie, healthy foods offered on their website.)  However, the emphasis was how delicious and representative of Iowa could you make it.  The highpoint of our list was the Pork Chop on a stick.  (Iowa is #1 in hog production)  This is a boneless chop, grilled to delectable tenderness, served on a stick so you can eat it like a popsicle.  Yum!  (In case you wondered, they serve 60 different items on a stick, ranging from caprese salad  to the delicious pork chop.)  You can grab a bucket of homemade cookies or a full sit down meal at one of the restaurant type booths.  Originally all the food at the fair was provided by local churches and you can still get breakfast, lunch and dinner at the Methodist Church booth.

We tried to taste it all.

Some favorites.  Hot Beef Sundae--mashed potatoes smothered in roast beef and gravy.  Smoked Ham sandwiches (and beef and lamb).  Macaroni and cheese with sweet, spiced barbeque on top.  Red velvet funnel cakes.  Gigantic sweet rolls.  I never could find the chocolate covered bacon on a stick!

Now if I could just button my jeans again!

The Country Auction

When Hubby bought into the insurance agency in 1977 he also became partners in the real-estate and auction company that was part of the business.  Those first few years were full of learning as we all became acquainted with the world of insurance and real estate.  From the first the whole family was enamored with the country auctions.  They were a family affair with the wives and children pitching in to help with the many jobs required to pull off a successful auction.

There aren't as many country auctions today as there were then.  In the early years, the entertainment on about any Saturday was attending a good auction.  Whether it was a farm and machinery auction, estate, or home and contents, people would pile in to see what bargains were to be found, listen to the auctioneer's patter, and visit with neighbors.  Anything and everything would fall under the auctioneers gavel.  You might buy a bucket of nails and bolts, a car, a hay baler, and a set of china all at the same event. 

We all loved helping.  Mostly Hubby and his partners would do the heavy stuff, like lining up the machinery, hauling the furniture out of the house to display in the yard, marking off parking places, placing the household goods and smaller farm items on big farm wagons, as well as, showing the property, advertising, and the thousand of other details.  Occasionally the wives would be called upon to help empty a house and prepare the household goods for display and sale. Mostly though, the kids and I usually only would help on the day of the auction. 

My job was to sit where I could see the crowd, close to the auctioneer,  and write down who bought what and for how much.  This is called "clerking" the sale, a job that became much easier when they started using numbers instead of everyone just calling out their name. I kept them all in stitches with my jumbled up names when I would try to catch what was said when they shouted out the buyers.  It made for more than a few embarrassing moments when they would settle up their bill and try to identify who had bought what.

 Hubby and some of the men would hold up items, if they were small, and take the bids as people nodded, raised a hand, or used other signals to indicate their bids.  The men would then give a shout, or wail, or squeal to indicate they "had" the bid.  Each one used a different sound so the auctioneer would know exactly who had seen the bid. In spite of stories of people bidding against themselves, this crazy system actually helped to prevent this very thing.

The kids would "run" the sheets.  That meant that they would take the list of items that had been sold and who had bought them to the "cashiers".  They in turn would separate the sheets and organize them so customers could quickly pay for their items.  The kids were then free to enjoy the auction until they were needed again.  Often this meant joining in the bidding.  Our son once got carried away and bid $2 on a big stack of water hoses.  He proudly brought them home and stretched them out.  Out of nearly 300 feet of hoses he managed to sort out enough, that didn't leak, to keep us in hoses for several years!

The whole day had a carnival atmosphere with excitement heavy in the air.  People would arrive early to view the items for sale and plan their strategies for acquiring their purchases.  Those interested in the farm or machinery would do some last minute checking and discuss their plans with one of the men. Neighbors and friends would visit and stake out a shady spot to wait for their items of interest to come up for bid.  Kids would roam in packs looking for friends.  Usually a local group would prepare lunch and soon the air would smell of hot dogs and hamburgers, while the crowd was tempted by an array of homemade cakes and cookies. 

The central character in all this hustle would be the auctioneer.  Like the ring-master in a circus his voice would boom out over the loudspeakers, extoling the crowd to "gather around" and "prepare to be amazed"! A good auctioneer had a line of patter much like a stand-up comedian.  He was constantly joking with the crowd, calling out to individuals, and encouraging them to "turn loose of some of that money...after all if you don't spend it your kids will when you're gone!" 

No one was safe from the auctioneer's eagle eye or joshing tongue.  If he spotted two women that were after the same quilt or piece of antique glassware, he would immediately try to start a good-natured bidding war.  "Mable, you can't let her get this prize for such a paltry sum.  You know you would spend twice as much if you bought it new.  Just raise her $5"  Mable would and he would immediately turn to the other lady. "Now, Susie, you aren't going to let her steal this unique piece for that amount.  If you raise her one more time, I'll bet ol' Albert will tell her she can't bid again and you'll have it."  The women would soon be laughing and getting into the spirit of the bidding, calling out "Albert can't tell me what to do!" or "I'm at least going to make her pay for it if she gets it!"  The crowd would laugh and cheer them on until finally, flushed with victory, one would reach out to claim her prize.

A good auction might last all day (or even longer on a few occasions) with the crowd settling in for a day of fun.  The auctioneer would continue to keep the items moving with the workers hustling around seeing that everything was seen and bid on.  Excitement would build as the bigger items sold with everyone straining to see who had purchased the farm, house or tractor.  Interest would peak as smaller items would reveal an especially nice pair of antique crystal candlesticks, a lovely old wedding ring quilt, or a rare treasure like a beautiful, portable wind-up record player in a lovely cherry cabinet.  Treasures would be acquired and some lost to a higher bid, but everyone would leave with a feeling of satisfaction after a day of high entertainment.

There is nothing like a farm auction for country fun.

                                                         * * * *

Rest in peace, Jim.  I'll bet you are auctioning off halos and harps in heaven and organizing an angel band.

The Tractor Snob

Our son has a beautiful blue merle Australian Shepherd (for you non-dog fanciers, she is grey, black and white...don't ask me where the term blue merle comes from!)  Our son hates leaving her at home alone while everyone is at school or work, so he brings her to the farm every day for me to "dog-sit".  So she is a farm dog during the day and kid guardian/house dog at night.

Ellie is a sweet dog, utterly devoted to her master and family.  In fact, she spends most of the day waiting by the old farm truck for our son to return to the farm. 

When she isn't waiting she chews up things--like my little 4th of July Flag.  Or she barks at the buzzards that fly over the yard--I swear just to tease her.  She also is one of those dogs that could get muddy sitting in the middle of a drought.  She delights in "herding" the cattle and is really a pretty good cow dog...if only we knew how to tell her what we wanted.  She loves to chase cats and rabbits but is dumfounded if she catches them.  Our son swears she was chasing a rabbit on one of the hot days until the rabbit just gave up and laid down.  Screeching to a halt by the panting bunny, she sat down and yipped encouragingly until he caught his breath and could get up.  Then she yipped one last time and trotted back to the truck.  What fun is a rabbit that won't run?  

She is our son's constant companion and rides with him wherever he goes.  As soon as the engine is started she jumps into the floorboard and gets ready for action.  She rides in his truck, the Polaris and the cab tractors.  The kids have even taught her to jump onto the saddle of the 4-wheeler and hang on behind whichever kid is using it.  If you are going, she is going too.

She has always ridden in the big cab tractors with our son.  They are roomy with lots of windows so she can look all around.  If something interesting appears, she whines at the door until they let her out to give chase.  Then she catches up to the tractor and they let her back in. 

Then our son decided to trade tractors.  The one he had been using was a little too big for his purpose and needed some repairs.  Rather than spend the money he decided to get a different tractor.  He found a used one, which, while perfect for his needs, is a bit smaller than the old tractor. 

The first chore for the new tractor was cutting and raking hay.  Now that Hubby is home, we usually have two tractors running as hard as they can go.  Ellie bounced out and climbed into our son's tractor and left for the hayfield.  The morning passed and the men returned to the house for lunch.  After lunch they returned to their perspective tractors to continue cutting hay.  Ellie looked at first one tractor than the other.  Then with a sheepish look, she followed Hubby to his bigger,  newer green tractor.  Son, shook his head, while Ellie rode off with Hubby for an afternoon of cutting.

That evening, as we sat on the porch, we were laughing over the dog switching tractors.  It seems that son's tractor was a little cramped for her and she decided to ride in the big tractor where she could stretch out. 

Son reached out and gently rubbed her head as it rested on his knee in apology.    "I kind of sympathize with the guy whose girl left him to ride in the fancy sports car.  I hate to admit it dog, but I guess you are just a tractor snob!"

He's Coming Home!

Life is getting ready to change on the farm.  Hubby is coming home...to stay.

After 38 years of owning and operating his Insurance and Real Estate firm he is passing it off to his younger partners and coming home.   It is truly the beginning of a whole new era. 

He's been talking about retiring for the past year or more.  The discussions have gradually become more serious and I began to think he just might be going to do it.  The kids and I discussed it and Hubby and I talked but nothing was ever decided.  Leaving a business that you have put your life into is not a small decision.

Thirty-eight years ago he made a leap of faith and decided to join a friend in his insurance agency.  That first year was a time of learning and falling in love.  Hubby discovered that insurance was the perfect blend of selling and business, both of which he excelled at.  He immersed himself into the world of insurance and found himself enjoying learning the clientele and all their various needs and problems.   I have often been amazed to hear him answering a call at home and being able to remember the policy and coverage to reassure an insured with a loss.  He loved going to the homes, farms or businesses and visiting with the people while they discussed their insurance needs.  It was satisfying to be able to help people when a loss occurred.  For him, the business was about helping others.

So, even talking about retiring was a big step.

 So after several months of talking, he announced that he was definitely going to retire on January 1.  The kids and I exchanged a glance and began making plans for our "Retirement Lottery" selections.  You see, none of us were really sure he was serious.  Let me tell you there were some serious bets being made on when he would actually "do the deed"!  We all lobbied for the date that was closest to our choices...all is fair in love, bets and retirements.  Hubby just smiled and went to work. 

January came and went and so did February.  I think the challenge of getting out each day and going to work in the snow kept him from leaving.  That and he could leave all the snow chores for our son to take care of!

Then he announced that he would be retiring on April 1.  Out came the calendars as everyone checked their dates to see who would win the lottery.  April came with green fields and blooming trees and Hubby kept going over the hill and into town each day.  After a little head-shaking bets were crossed off and new ones added.  The family started having serious discussions on whether or not he actually would retire. 

The next date he announced was June 1.  "This one is the real date!" he proclaimed.  "I want to be off in June so I can get my hay up without stressing."  I thought that one might actually be accurate since I knew the anxiety of trying to catch the right number of sunny days when you were only off Wednesday afternoon and Saturday afternoon.  In a perfect world you would cut on Wednesday and bale on Saturday or cut on Saturday and bale on Wednesday.  I can tell you that it is a rare year when it works out like that.  So my money was on June....until June was marching on.

So when he announced that he was going to retire, for sure, on July 1, we all just looked at him and replied, sarcastically, "Sure you will!" (By then we had all lost our bets!)

Well he did.

Today is officially his last day of work.  Tomorrow I will have company on the farm.  I will no longer be the one in charge.  I will no longer be able to plan my day with no interruptions.  (I will no longer be able to sneak in an afternoon of book reading without anyone knowing!)  I will have company and maybe even a little help with my chores. 

It's the beginning of a whole new era for us.   Part of me is excited to begin this new adventure.  The other part of me  wonders if I shouldn't start looking for a job as a Wal-Mart greeter.  The hill may be too small for both of us.

Sisters

I have always envied people who came from big families.  It seems like they always have so much fun at their huge get-togethers involving spouses, cousins, in-laws and out-laws.  The best part of big families is that there always seems to be one sibling that is also a best friend.  It's not just the fact that they are related and love each other, but they are also the confidant that shares your late night confessions and holds your deepest secrets. 

I have one sister.  That's it. 

Not only do we only have each other but we are about as opposite as two people can get.  I love her dearly.  I would do anything for her.  I will probably never really understand her. 

To begin with she is five years older than I am.  That's no big deal now but when I was 2 and she was 7, or when I was 8 and she was 13, it was a big deal.  Then add to that the fact that we are so totally different both physically and emotionally that if she hadn't looked so much like my dad and I looked like my mom, the small town minds would have had a hay-day with our differences. Trust me, if you put 100 people in a room and tried to pick out my sister, you would pick 99 others before you picked her.  We are really different.

As a child, she had auburn hair that curled perfectly around a redhead's fair skin and freckled face.  She grew to five feet nothing tall and weighed a whopping 89 pounds in high school.  Dainty and petite, she was born persnickety.  From an early age everything had to be neat, organized and controlled.  Her dolls would be kept in untouched condition, arranged by size, on her shelves.  Her entire room was always immaculately neat with every item in it's appointed place.   I swear she could make her bed in 2 seconds because she even slept neatly.  I gave up trying to sneak into her room early on because I knew she could tell if I even walked on the rug!   She never appeared anything but totally together--blouses tucked in, belt fastened, socks folded neatly at her ankles and shoes clean.

I, on the other hand, was none of these things.  I appeared at an impressive 8 lbs. 8 oz. with a robust appetite for everything!  I had stick straight, brownish blond hair and I outgrew her before I was 10 years old.  From an early age I was attracted to anything that created a mess and dirt!  I could be found happily making mud pies (yes, kids really did do that!), grubbing out miniature ponds for my dirt farms, digging worms for fishing, hunting nightcrawlers, climbing trees, chasing dogs, catching insects, wading in puddles and sliding into home base. My preferred toys were guns, bows and arrows (for playing cowboy and Indians) and a baseball glove.  Any dolls I had were quickly reduced to disgrace by my penchant for dragging them with me as I galloped off on my stick horse.  My clothes were generally, ripped and torn, grass stained and disheveled. As far as I was concerned, socks and shoes were optional and I usually opted not to wear them.

My sister preferred staying inside and doing quieter and cleaner activities.  She probably spent a lot of time fantasizing about having a normal sister.

My mother, bless her soul, tried to teach both of us to enjoy the things she prized.  As an avid needlewoman she spent hours teaching us to knit, crochet, embroider, needlepoint, and sew.  My sister's efforts were neat, meticulous, and lovely, turning out perfect needlepoint chair cushions, crochet scarves, and embroidered samplers.  Mine were wrinkled, stained, misshapen, wobbly, and usually unrecognizable as any useful object.  (She still does the most beautiful crochet afghans and perfect needlepoint, but I can identify nine trees by their leaves and build a fire with one match!)

My mother considered me a lost cause and turned me over to my father to raise. 

I always think of my sister as Melanie in Gone With the Wind. Meek and mild, always doing what is expected of her.  Quietly letting others take the lead and carry the load, but coming through with an unconquerable  strength when the chips are down.

She probably would think of me as Calamity Jane.

The Parking Pass

We are dedicated fans of the University of Kentucky.  We have never had basketball tickets but have managed to have season tickets for the football program for the past 40 years.  For those of you who might not realize it, getting season basketball tickets at UK involves either lots of money, someone dying and willing them to you, or a little larceny.  Season football tickets are much easier to obtain.  Mostly because you won't see our football teams as regular prime time features on ESPN. There have been times, I swear, that they should have paid us to attend!  However, we are and will continue to be steadfast football fans.

Sometimes the best part of the football games takes place in the parking lots.  We have been tailgating with the same friends since before our children were born.  We faithfully fed all the kids and their friends mountains of food before games while they were in college.  Now it is payback time and the kids are packing the food and feeding us. (We moms still manage to contribute a dish or two.)

The party starts several hours before game time with the adults nibbling and the grandkids tossing footballs.  For the past several years we have parked in a grassy lot, under a shade tree.  Unfortunately, a renovation of the stadium, new roads, and building expansions have caused all the parking to be rearranged.  The news came on Wednesday.  We were all separated into various lots all over campus.  Panic reared it's ugly head.

"What do you mean, we're in the White-Green lot!  Call up there and tell them we want back in Purple or else!!!"  Hubby demanded in frustration. 

So I called the number provided, fully expecting to be on hold for an hour or two.  Surprisingly, my call was answered by a very polite girl.  I explained my problem and she very sweetly promised to do whatever she could to see that our group was reunited but it probably wouldn't be in our old lot since it had mostly been eliminated.  I in turn, unloaded on her all the frustration and anxiety that Hubby had unloaded on me.  "I know we don't donate tons of money to UK, but you would think that 40 years of sitting in the rain and snow for losing teams would count for something!"  I sputtered.  In all fairness, they weren't always losing teams and we've had a ton of fun attending the games.  She responded kindly, "You are right and we will see what we can do about getting you moved to a lot that will suit you."  After a few minutes more she had my pertinent information and I had released all my venting.  Then she paused, "That's the other line calling and it's the ticket office.  I really need to take this call.  I'll call you back."

We disconnected and I thought, sarcastically, "Sure, you'll call me back!" I was pretty sure I had been dumped and that was the end of things.

An hour or so later the phone rings.  A cheerful voice announced, "I've been doing some looking around and I have a suggestion that might suit your group.   I think you might like a new lot we've opened in the Arboretum.  It's really beautiful, grassy and shady, and you'll be right next to where your old lot was.  I can move you and your friends there it you want."  She went on to explain that they were trying to take requests from people wanting to move out of a lot and match it with people wanting to move into that lot.  Sort of like a huge puzzle.  Out of the thousands of ticket holders there were a bunch of people confused and frustrated just like us, so that's a lot of juggling of requests.

Throughout all of this she remained calm, sympathetic, cheerful and helpful.  I suspect the office must be supplying tranquilizers in a dispenser by the water cooler.   Either way, she deserves a raise!  Heck, she deserves a commendation.

 Instead, I invited her to join us at the next tailgate party!

Zero-Turn Fun

Hubby recently had an errand in a neighboring county.  He asked if I wanted to "ride along".  "Ride alongs" are about my favorite thing.  It gives us a chance to catch up and I get to see some of the pretty views outside of other people's kitchen windows.  We were chatting and enjoying the sights when I suddenly exclaimed, "Wow!  I sure don't want to live there!"  Perplexed, Hubby obligingly looked at the lovely home surrounded by a large perfectly manicured yard.  "Why not?" he inquired, intrigued to discover my reasoning (or lack of it). 

"Look at that yard!"  I demanded.

 "OK", he replied, looking closely at the yard, mowed to perfection in a lovely plaid pattern.  "What's the problem?" 

"I would be a complete basket case trying to keep it mowed in those meticulous straight lines crossing at perfect angles where everyone can see it!",  I declared.  "Thank goodness a straight line is an impossibility in our yard!"

You see, I am the yard mower.  I'm not particularly good at it but I would sure rather mow a yard than a hay field.  So, my job is the yard.  When we first moved to the farm we had an old tractor style riding mower.  I hated it!  I was constantly running over flowers, toys, and even small trees because I just couldn't think fast enough to slow down before I ground them up.  All my flower beds were designed so I could mow in a gradual sweep around them to keep from chopping up all the landscaping or having to stop and back up.  I hung that mower under our plank fence on a regular basis because I wouldn't get stopped in time to keep from sliding under it.  In short I was a hazard.

So to preserve my flowers, provide peace and keep me mowing, Hubby bought me my first zero-turn mower.  It was lovely to handle, responding with a touch, easing around trees, creeping around flowers, speeding up or slowing down with a simple change in pressure.  Peace was restored.

The thing about zero-turn mowers is that you use two levers to control your speed, and direction.  Pushed together they go forward, pulled back together they go backward, push one hand or the other forward or back to make turns.  It took a little practice, but soon I was scooting around the yard with glee.  The only problem is that you have to keep both hands on the levers at all times.

Our first mower came equipped with two nice cup holders.  I spent the whole summer trying to figure out how anyone could take a drink without mowing in circles. (I never got up enough nerve to try it.)  Because I have a hard time with this concept,  I am constantly mowing in swerves and swoops.  A bug annoys me and I forget and swat at it...opps swerve to the left.  My sun visor needs adjusting....opps, swerve to the right.  A limb needs to be held aside...disaster!  So, my mowing, while it gets the job done, is not picture perfect.

Fortunately, there are so many bushes, trees, flower beds, buildings, and other impediments in our yard that mowing in anything other than circles, curves, sections, and strips is impossible.  It's also fortunate that since we are on a hill, to see my pattern you would have to fly over us.  So I just swoop, curve, zig and zag happily around all the obstacles with no concern over creating a lovely plaid in my yard. 

Although, I think I might be creating a nice paisley.

The Truck Butting Cow

I am married to a farmer who is also an insurance agent in a rural community.  Sometimes the insurance companies, that he represents, have trouble understanding some of the claims they receive.  I can understand this,  they are located in cities. 

A prime example of this came a few years ago when a farmer came into the office to report a loss.  It seemed he needed a new door on his pick-up truck.  Hubby filled out the papers while chatting with the farmer about "farm stuff"....you know, hay, weather, cows, weather, fencing, weather...you get the drift.  "Now," he says, "How did this accident occur?"  "It wasn't an accident", the farmer declared, "she did it on purpose!"  A little taken aback, Hubby frowned and asked, "Who hit your truck on purpose?"  "That old cow!" replied the farmer with some frustration.  "Ummm, who is an old cow?" Hubby queried in some confusion.  "Not a who" he replied, "an old cow!  Probably the best cow I've got!"

It seems that he had taken his truck to the field to check his cows and while he was driving around one of his cows had suddenly charged the truck, butting into the passenger door.  Not satisfied with that she did it again and then again, before wandering off in disgust.  The result was a badly dented door and a confused farmer.  He confessed that he didn't know why she had attacked the truck, but since she had raised a dandy calf he was willing to forgive her.

The door was duly paid for and repaired and the story chuckled over and forgotten.

Then a few weeks later the same farmer returned to the office to report the loss of another door on his pick-up truck.  It seems that he had again taken the truck to the field to check on his cows.  Again the cow with the dandy calf had charged the truck, repeatedly.  The result was the same, a badly dented door that needed to be repaired.  "Why is she doing this?"  Hubby questioned.  Shaking his head, the farmer replied, "I don't have a clue, but she sure has a thing for my poor old truck."  "Well,"  hubby advised, "You might consider checking your cows from the tractor for a while until you figure her out!"

A few weeks passed and the farmer again showed up in the office.  "Now don't tell me you need another door!"  Hubby exclaimed to the farmer.  "Nope", he replied, "but I've figured that old bitch out!"

"I've spent the last few weeks watching that old cow.  Every chance I'd get I would go to the field and just sit and watch her.  I got to know her really well.  She's a good mama and what I call an 'easy keeper'.  She feeds her baby good but doesn't lose weight like a lot of good mama cows do.  Then, after a while of watching her I began to see why she was keeping her weight up so well."

"What did you discover?", asked Hubby with interest.

The farmer replied, "I had put her in a field with a lot of cows with newly weaned calves.  So to give the calves a little extra while they are learning to eat on their own, I keep a creep feeder in the field. (For you non-farmers this is a metal bin with a corral around it that lets the little calves "creep" under the bars for feed but keeps the bigger cows out.)  I got to watching that old cow and I noticed that she attacked that creep feeder just like she did my truck.   So I decided to investigate."

"I took a good look at the creep feeder, which was an old one I had used several years. After poking around I discovered that there was a weak seam on the back corner.  She had figured out that if she butted that back side, the seam would open a little and a trickle of feed would flow out.  She would then enjoy her snack."

"Watching her butt that creep feeder, I thought back to when she had attacked my truck.  At that time I had her in a field with pregnant cows, which meant no creep feeder.  When she saw my truck door she evidently thought it was a strange creep feeder and so she attacked it to get her feed 'fix'!"

By now both Hubby and the farmer were laughing over the antics of the crazy cow.

"I just wanted you to know that I would be checking cows from my tractor from now on so you won't have to replace that door again!"

By now the entire office was laughing about the truck butting cow.

You just don't get claims like this in the city.