Confessions of a School Party Mom Flunkie

There are a lot of things about parenting that no one tells you at the baby shower. All those sweet little index cards that experienced mothers and well-meaning aunties write out full of helpful parenting hints contain things like "You can't spoil babies; kiss them more than you think is healthy!" and "Always carry a diaper in the glove box of your car. Trust me on this one." are all good and fine, but most of them deal with "baby" or "toddler" situations.  Almost no one (including the good Dr. James Dobson) writes about perplexing issues involving grade school age (5-12) children.

I'm not talking about what to do if they contract chicken pox or how to handle "The Talk".  There ARE books about that. What really kills some of us are things like school parties and sports events.

Now, I'm certain there are Very Organized and Creative Mothers who look forward to such things. It gives them an opportunity to showcase their talents. They're the ones who actually have real Easter baskets for their kids to put the plastic eggs in, instead of plastic grocery bags hastily borrowed from the teacher. Their party treats bring to mind a Martha Stewart magazine cover, with olives minutely sliced into spider legs on top of perfectly peeled deviled eggs. They show up at basketball games with personalized, superbly FAN-tastic ensembles and pull out little handlettered banners with all their kids' teammates names and numbers on there in gold.

If this is you, bless your heart, you'd probably better just stop reading the Chronicles here and go amuse yourself on the Pinterest website.



I THOUGHT I could be one of those mothers. (In retrospect, I have no idea why because nothing in my past would suggest or even hint at this sort of tendency...)

And I probably could try a little harder.

It would help if I could ever nail down the date and times of events.
I DO try!
I read the school emails and newsletters and Facebook posts with my planner open, pen in hand, writing down everything important as soon as I encounter it. But I always miss the hidden clues that the other mothers glean from the same documents....things like, "And all the kids will wear pajamas that day" or "Please send one ingredient for Earth Day tacos."  I end up writing down the right date/wrong time, or vice-versa.  Or they change the date on something and I miss that in the subsequent email.

I honestly have stood in front of the cupboard and thought these things, folks:

"I suppose I can't stuff plastic eggs with Vienna sausages, cocktail onions, or plain old marshmallows..."

"I probably can't take any of those for school treats, either..."

"What is the world record time for Jello set up?"

"Game....I'm responsible for a GAME?!?!?!  Like, Sort the Lucky Charms...that might work."
"But not for Halloween."
"Dang."


I'm telling you.
It's BRUTAL.

The older the kids get the less pressure there is on the school front, thank goodness, but the sports mom thing kicks in then. They have practices at specific times in specific places and need important things like real honest-to-goodness basketball shoes. It turns out, most sports also require sports physicals from genuine doctors, not just notes from the parent saying "She's up to date on her shots and hasn't had anything contagious for a couple weeks now."

At games, the parents wear team colors and have cash for concessions.
SERIOUSLY!
They don't just show up showered, with their last check in their pocket (because they forgot to order new ones two weeks ago).  And they show up at the right gymnasium or field. They show up on the appointed day to take their turn selling concessions. In team colors. WITH CASH.
Apparently, this is no biggie for most people of the world...


Today is the school Easter egg hunt.
We miraculously had both plastic eggs and candy, so my cherubs boarded the bus somewhat prepared. But now I have to come up with treats of some sort, and it's not looking promising.

Frozen corn...
Two not-too-brown bananas...
Coffee beans...

*sigh*

The Farmer's Wife Abroad {Part 1}

October 9, 2015

A large part of adventure and travel is discomfort.  

No one ever tells stories of easy flights, acceptable food, or calm touring. It's always the nine hour layovers in Newark, roaches on the wall of the villa, or bumpers being torn off the rental car that get the air or page time, right?  This travel adventure of mine is no exception.  

And on that cautionary note, we begin.

I'm going to skip the whole check in the airport in Billings, flight to Denver in 45 minutes part.  There's absolutely nothing remarkable or interesting about any of it, except to say that my traveling companions had twice the luggage I did, being scuba divers who were spending a week on a Caribbean island.  

I was traveling with Ivan and Jenny Jasper, their two kids David and Yulena (twins, age 10), and a gentleman I only ever knew as "Doc" who was a family doctor from Sheridan WY. (Truly, I never did find out his last or given name. Ivan seemed to think he looked like a tall Ernest Hemingway, but I didn't see that resemblance. He certainly wasn't as rough as Hemingway, and his sentences were much longer.) 

We had what seemed a longish layover in Denver, but in reality it was a just-right layover...enough time to buy a good snack, stretch our legs, and regroup before flying on to Newark.  Even so, I couldn't take much of the sitting and waiting, so I told the others I was going for a stroll to stretch my legs and took off down the concourse. 

At the end of the concourse, rounding the corner just ahead of me, was an elderly lady in very classy clothes, taking her carry on and purse for a walk on an airport cart.  I still have not learned the traveling rule that one does not talk to just everyone one encounters on the journey, so as I rounded the concourse and was about to pass her, I said, "Are you talking a walk for exercise?" (being concerned that perhaps she needed help across the airport and having time to do so).  Why, yes, she WAS, although she was a bit embarrassed to be caught with what looked like a walker. I confessed that I was stretching my legs as well and asked if we could share a few yards as it's much better to walk with someone in that sort of place.  

We exchanged the usual pleasantries and I asked where she was bound. 

"Boston, Mass. to visit my old friend who is house bound, now." 

I was so tickled that I stopped walking and nearly did a happy dance!  

"That's my favorite city! I love Boston!", I exclaimed. 

"What do you love about it, dear?", she queried, quite interested in my response.

Well, we really didn't have the time for all that I love about Boston, but I quickly rolled through Fenway and the Red Sox, the Museum of Fine Arts, seafood twice a day, Engine 8 Ladder 1, the Freedom Trail, Make Way for Ducklings....

When I took a breath, she laughed and revealed to me that she'd grown up in Boston (well, NEAR Boston, in Quincy) and that she loved many of the same things. 

As we walked and visited, she asked where my destination was on MY trip and I told her I was going to Bonaire to cook for scuba divers.  At that, SHE stopped walking and nearly did a happy dance....she had been a scuba diver back when scuba diving wasn't all that popular, in the 1950s.  In fact, when she was on a trip with one of her pals, she'd gone snorkeling and sent her husband-to-be a telegram informing him of this thrilling activity; he was concerned and asked everyone in his office if this was a decent thing for a young woman to be doing, as he had no idea what the word even meant! 

By the end of our little encounter, I had a new friend.  If I'm ever in Cheyenne, WY, I'm to look up and stay with Mrs. Joanie H.  We must report back on our trips over coffee.  (I need to do it soon, though, because she's 93 and only has about 10 more years of good health, according to her.  This is quite true, and I must tell you that I almost fell over at the revelation of her age.  She LOOKS about 75, I promise you, and shows no signs of allowing Father Time to place speed bumps on her current path.) We said our goodbyes, bade each other safe travels, and reluctantly parted ways.  I wish now that I'd taken her photo.  

As I boarded the plane for Newark, I thought to myself that I wanted to remember that someday I'd be telling MY life adventures and stories to people who came to visit me in the nursing or retirement home, or to whippersnappers in the airport, and I need to live a life worth telling.  

A Hiking We Will Go...

Heigh-ho the merry-oh, a hiking we will go!

Now that the kids are older, our options for vacation activities are getting more and varied.  You wouldn't think hiking would be a big deal since pretty much everyone can do it, but two years ago when we tried, the kids were just too little to go on a trail of any length that would satisfy the Farmer. They got hot, I got grouchy, he was exasperated...
As Jerry Seinfeld so sagely observed, "There's no such thing as 'fun for the WHOLE family'."
(That oughta be on a tee shirt in the Montana tourist traps.)
(If it were, there'd be a corny moose on it. For some reason, the face of Montana tourism is the moose. I'm a native Montanan and I've seen maybe two moose in my life. Even people who live in Western Montana barely see them. And yet hundreds of thousands of tourists are walking around the world with plastic moose keychains, moose-y tee shirts, moose covered mugs, that seem to proclaim Montana is just crawling with them.)
(Moose, not tourists.)

On our hike, we saw nary a moose.

On our whole trip, we saw nary a moose, save the ones in the tourist dives.
Were we even IN Montana?!?
*sentence dripping with sarcasm*

Anyway....

The hikers set forth!

Now that they've looked at the map, they know EXACTLY where they're going. And they're going there as speedily as possible. (You've gotta make good time at the beginning of a hike, because at the end, there's sometimes crawling and whining involved.)
(We're not moderate people, my kids and I. The Farmer is. He would keep a good steady pace for the duration.)

As badly as I hate to admit it, fall is already here in Montana...

We ate wild raspberries to keep up our strength. 

And also trail mix, but the raspberries were way more fun.

Also at the beginning of the hike, we climb hills just because they're there, and examine the rocks.

The worms kill the trees, eventually, but not before leaving a mysterious, almost alien code for us...

How can something so lovely be so sad at the same time?

I guess most lovely things are, really. 

There were tunnels!
Places that looked quite batty and damp.
The rest of the family was thrilled!
I did Lamaze breathing and tried to think of nice things; not things, say, like bears trapping us in the damp batty place (because we smelled like wild raspberries) or what went crunch under my foot as we passed through.

Montana, Idaho, and Washington state were burning, thanks to the conservation efforts of bureaucrats who are opposed to logging (my other rant...moose and bureaucrats....that's whatcha get at the Chronicles).  Even so, Montana is wildly lovely. This almost looks like a black and white photo, but it's full color, no editing.

I'm always thirsty for color, so I was delighted to see the gold on the mountain! Montana's motto is "Oro y Plata" which is "Gold and Silver", but not all our gold is a mineral.

Another cave. 

(I mean, "TUNNEL".) 

Twice as long as the first. 

Most likely we'll die. 

At least Angus is armed, now.

You see how far back I am?! I was trying for the good picture. When I pulled the camera down, however, and realized I was the only one still IN the batty, damp, prisonous tunnel, things got real.
I made good time out of that cave.
(I mean, "TUNNEL".)

At the end of the hike was my other fear...
Heights!
You can't tell how very far up we were on this very long bridge, but we were really high.  And my babies went to the edge, of course, because that's what one does on a terribly high bridge....to look down and calculate whether one would live if they fell from such a height.
My palms are getting sweaty just typing this...

 And THEN we got to somehow find our way down "The Mountain of DOOM" to sit by the edge of the road to wait for the Farmer to jog back to the car to come get us because we were floppy tired by then.

(The "of DOOM" phrase was something Maggie and Angus tacked on to the end of everything at one time and found hilariously funny. And it kind of was.  Especially when they'd come to me with a kitten "of DOOM".)

We kind of wished we'd had the opportunity to do another hike this trip, but it got hot, Maggie got sick, and our prairie legs were very sore after all that up-and-downness.  

First Day of School 2015!

This year, we missed the actual first day of school at Cohagen.  We were on vacation at Fairmont Hot Springs and frankly, I didn't think the kids were going to fall desperately behind if they didn't make it for the annual "look over the new books and write a paper about what you did this summer" day.  Instead, we spent an average of 5 hours a day at the pool, shopped for school clothes at the amazing second hand stores in Boze-angeles, hiked, ate nachos for supper, visited the Phillipsburg Sweet Palace, maybe swam some more, and came home with dreadful colds.

The teacher and I texted back and forth, though, and had Maggie convinced that she'd missed three chapters of advanced calculus and quantum physics, plus a 10 page cursive written paper about what she'd done this summer.
Angus was to get two cookies.
(A couple years ago, Maggie told her teacher that she was all sorts of abused...that she got in trouble all the time and had to work like a slave, but all we ever did to Angus was give him a cookie.
But she's not overly dramatic or anything...*rolling of eyes*)

Anyway, here we are on August 31st, beginning another school year.

It's already different.

This morning, they both packed their own lunches.
They were dreadfully virtuous in this project.
Spaghetti, carrots, apples, grapes, HEALTHY granola bars, juice...
I would imagine that after school there will be a desperate search for sugar, but during the day they'll be eating like 40 year old half marathon runners.
By Friday, there'll be deals being cut over whether or not Nutella and crackers constitute a suitable "main meal"....

They've given up protesting the traditional "first day" photos and now very patiently pose for their mother.

Maggie's wearing the hat she found in Bozeman, the fairy necklace from her friendly cousin Cece, earrings purchased at the farmer's market in Butte, and a Texas Tech shirt that is literally older than she is (by about 2 years). 

Ever finding her way in the fashion world, she's having a hard time with this transition into tweenager...

Angus, on the other hand, is wearing whatever was on top of the clean clothes in his drawers which happened to be his Spokane shirt, Jordan Insurance Service hat, and jeans without holes.  We stopped at Walmart and got everyone new socks and underwear, so I'm hoping, hoping, hoping he's also wearing those, but it's anyone's guess. 

Making silly shadows...

The mother photographing shadow makes me laugh!

I have to catch her when she's unaware.

It takes my breath away, how lovely she is and how stinking grown up she's getting. 

You can tell she's my girl, though, by the flower in her hair.

Country kids play cattle guard tag while waiting for the bus...

If this was the 100th day of school, I'd be able to say that this was a lunchbox that was forgotten by the wayside while the kids played tag, but being the first day of school, it will be remembered and make it to the institution of learning in good shape.

Sometimes I like pictures that show perspective. 

Two kids in a big, big country...

Here she comes!

The new bus has a sweep bar! The kids didn't know about it, and Angus nearly ran right into it. It also has a PA system so the bus driver can play music or yell at them. (BUT, as she pointed out, it came without cupholders. What gives?!?!)

It's awfully quiet here, now, and I'd better get the breakfast dishes done. Think I'll listen to a little Prairie Home Companion and drink more coffee while I'm at it...

Hollyhock Hold-Em

Gardeners are gamblers.

There. 

I said it. 

There's no gardener twelve step recovery program, no Alcea Anonymous, no counselling or therapy groups because....get this....gardening has gotten this reputation for BEING therapy. (Can you beat that? It's being introduced in grade schools and prisons, for crying in a bucket! There's all this concern over legalizing marijuana in the U.S., while an insidious addiction is being released to vulnerable and unknowing citizens LEGITIMATELY.)

This time of year is the worst for gamblers....er....gardeners.

Every hardware/office supply/pharmacy/grocery store has a little auxiliary greenhouse set up to "deal" the cards (plants).  It's impossible to resist, even for those without dominant horticultural genetics. The greenhouses are just so...green, and bright, and smell good! After a long Montana winter, the colors beckon even the strongest willed curmudgeon.  

"Ooooo! Petunias! My grandma always grew petunias..."

and

"The tomato plant is $2.00 and will produce, like, 50 tomatoes.  I just spent $2.00 on ONE tomato at the grocery store and it'll be gone in 24 hours..."

or

"I grew a sunflower in a paper cup in first grade.  I could TOTALLY grow a garden this year. With petunias. And a hanging basket.  No...TWO hanging baskets."

You see?

EVIL!

And that's just the beginning!

When the soul is truly lost, one begins cutting moral deals with oneself. 

Example: "I don't spend money on cigarettes or gym memberships or even brand name salad dressing. I DESERVE a few flowers. And a couple tomato plants. And a rototiller."

Or so I've heard.

But the really ugly secret is about the underground plant deals going on in May, between gardeners of a certain level of commitment/addiction...

Here's the thing.

You can't move a day lily, iris, salvia, or viola in these circles unless you have a new varietal bootlegged from a cousin in Texas, say, who got it from Mexico, say, and "borrowed" the "cuttings" or "seed" from a garden they were walking past on a historical tour, say...

These are serious players. 

They're pro. 

Don't think you can offer up a regular old Harrison's Yellow rose *yawn* and get a blue poppy root. 

You'd better have something good. 

Something coveted in that zone.

Something....special.

The tricky thing about putting plants on the table in eastern Montana is that there are very, very few organisms that can survive in these conditions....-40 with windchill and no protection in January, 98 degrees with no humidity in July.  Basically, anything that will grow in either Siberia OR the aforementioned Mexico; preferably something that will grow either/or. 

Kind of like gardening on Mars.

And that's not mentioning the soil factor! 

The plant also has to be alkali tolerant, for the most part, and acclimated to gumbo soil which is basically clay pot stuff...goopy slick to cement consistency. 

This reduces the pool of plants even further.

Montana garden-lers have to learn to bluff really well or discover new species every few years.

If I lived in Missouri, I'd be throwing down Sophora secundiflora starts (Texas Mountain Laurel) and fishing for Aquilegia coerulea (blue columbine)...*wistful zone 5 dreams*...but here in Cohagen, I'm stuck with Russian sage and yarrow. 

I'm down to shuffling my own plants in my own yard, having no talent for bluffing or money for discovery.  

It's bleak.

HOWEVER...

It occurred to me when I was trying to unload some perennial geraniums and Siberian iris this spring that my mother-in-law (of the Pluhar Botanical Gardens) retired and moved last fall, forgetting to pack her abundant inventory of plants. Google searches don't have any information on the "respectable time to wait before garden salvage may commence" so I'm still in flux as to how long to refrain from relocating the loot.
I mean, saving the abandoned plants, of course.
And then...

Deal me in, kids; I'm back in the game!

actually
steal my MIL's plants. I may use the rhubarb and asparagus, but we've had a longstanding agreement about that for years, so it's not a dramatic showdown in any way.>

Reasons We Live For Summer

• FISHING.
• There are no school nights for three months.  THREE MONTHS! We can stay up with glow sticks and sparklers and movies on the Disney channel.  
• Bare feet or flip flops; either way...it's a glorious way to live.
• Milkshakes. (Or any other form of ice cream, but this is the pinnacle of ice cream perfection....) 
• Campfires, which occur on non-school nights wearing only flip flops or nothing on feet.
• Running through the sprinkler! 
• Windows open 24/7, drowning in fresh air....aaaahhhh....
• Days that last for approximately 18 hours, give or take a couple on either end of summer. (That's not a "fact", but it sure feels good to say it...)
• Tomatoes
• No school nights!!!! Did I mention that already?
• Baseball. (Go Red Sox!) (No. Really. GO!!! Hit, run, field, pitch strike outs....GO!!!!)
• Running in shorts...not insulated coveralls or fleece lined anything or stocking caps.
• Digging in the dirt. All of us.
• Fat, black cows with gorgeous big calves in a green pasture, grazing and growing the best steaks in the United States, amen. 
• Sidewalk chalk pictures of happy things, bright imaginations on display fearlessly.
• Bubbles
• Lakes and boats and eating chips in swimming suits before hitting the water again....barefoot, on an 18 hour day, before a campfire where the best steaks in the United States are grilled. 
• G&Ts on the deck....or at aforementioned lake.
• Friends and family in the Redneck Guesthouse!  We don't really get company the rest of the year, but in the summer our loved ones come sleep in our ancient camper/bunkhouse until they can't stand it. (About 3 days is the brave average.)
• Hammocks.
• Geraniums in pots that are, yes, predictable and unoriginal, but dear...and we have to water them every day. 
• Vacation Bible School...I'm going on nearly 20 years of VBS (with stops and starts in the middle), my kids have been every year of their life.  God touches lives here, you all; pray for your local VBS leaders and kids.
• Car windows down, hair blowing, Eagles blasting from the speakers....
• County fairs.
• COLOR!  Oh, my goodness....for 9 months of the year, all we see is grey, brown, and the occasional John Deere green on the tractor. In the summer we see dandelion yellow, popsicle blue, the indescribably beautiful red-white-and-blue of our nation's flag, green winter wheat, orange sunsets....we're so thirsty for color, and for three months of the year we just soak it up.
• Rodeos. My kids don't see nearly enough, but rodeo = summer to me.
• The smell of warm sagebrush....  I'm pretty sure God will pipe that into Heaven for us.
• Birdsong.  It's silent here, except for the wind.  The larks and blackbirds are the soundtrack to summer on the prairie in the summer.
• Branding smoke.  Oh, for homesick if you're gone this time of year!
• Potato salad and potato chips.  I know you can make it any time of the year but it really and truly is seasonal for me. 
• Swimming til cold, sear on the shore, repeat...
• Beer. Don't judge.
• No school nights. For three months. Barefoot. 18 hour days.

To be continued...

(Why do YOU live for summer?) 

Lyrical

I'm an obsessive reader, devouring books as some might consume M&M candies. Writing, when it's really good, pulls me up short and causes me to reread passages several times (sometimes aloud) in order to savor the way the words create a thought or scene. 

Do you do this?

It's the same way with songs.

I know they're really poems set to music...that alone is kind of stunning when you think about it because the rhythm and meter has to match, never mind the actual tune. When it all comes together...wow! 

There are lyrics that cause me to play and replay a song, marveling at the writer's ability. 

For instance: 

"We run....come undone, like a string on a sweater that you pull but you know better, but doing what you shouldn't's half the fun..."

(We Run Sugarland)

The song is okay, but that little chunk of the chorus grabs me every time.  

Exactly.

All the strings I've pulled in my life...

Or this from Ian Tyson's song Fifty Years Ago:

"If I could roll back the years, back when I was young and limber, loose as ashes in the wind, had no irons in the fire..."

In the chorus we hear:

"And the sighing of the pines up here near the timberline 

makes me wish I'd done things different, but wishin' don't make it so..."

Youth isn't described any better than "loose as ashes in the wind" in my opinion. 

He also has a song about looking back and realizing certain things in your life (especially relationships) have been "gambled and lost like summer wages".

**If you haven't listened to Ian Tyson, run (don't walk) to the nearest music store and get his album All The Good'uns for a glorious introduction to his songs. Then, after you're hooked, I'd recommend Live at Longview.  You won't regret a penny.

(AND you'll feel like you're riding with my Dad in the pickup, driving a pasture in Montana...)**

Tom T. Hall kills me, as you know.

" 'How old do you think I am?' he asks.

Well, I said I didn't know.

  He said, 'I turned sixty-five about eleven months ago.'

I was sittin' in Miami pourin' blended whiskey down

when this old grey black gentleman was cleanin' up the lounge."

And that's just the tip of it! 

(Another album everyone should own...not borrow, my friends, but OWN IT.)

Pat Green has no end to good lyrics in his music...no end. 

Try Poetry on for size:

(You get the whole song, here...it's THAT GOOD. Hit the link to listen along!)

"Some things I've done make my conscience burn

My very spine shudder and squirm
I only hope that I've learned from my sin
I heard a voice when I was thirteen
Got baptized - washed up clean
But the world has a way, if you know what I mean
To scuff you up again and again

I can't explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there's always more than what appears to be
And when the light's just right
I swear I see poetry

Now, somebody made every natural thing
From the soul, inside out to saturn's rings
How my baby smiles and how Ray Charles sings
Of course we were created
The clouds make rain, the ocean makes sand
The earth breates fire, and lava makes land
Now that took a mighty hand
And a wild imagination

I can't explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there's always more than what appears to be
And when the light's just right
I swear I see poetry

The dreams I dreamed came back ten-fold
The friends I have, to the woman I hold
I look down, I'm on streets of gold
After all the mud along the way
And sometimes the big old mystery
Just leans right in on me
And whispers that I'm home and I am free
And I'll take that any day

I can't explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there's always more than what appears to be
And when the light's just right
I swear I see poetry"

-lyrics by Walt Wilkins

Here's my last one for this post:

"The lakes and pines, they bleed of beauty and grace.

And the rivers, they run wild like an endless race.

The forests soar so tall then they fall to the sea,

as the church bells ring and sing in harmony..."

That, if you can believe it, is a Kid Rock song. 

He's not generally known for his poetic soul (see following picture), but he really nailed it with this one.

The tune is really wonderful and the rest of the lyrics are the same.

I don't think I've ever listened to it just once in a sitting; I always rewind for a second round. 

(There will probably be a second "Lyrical" post, but this is all I have time for today.  Besides, it's going to take you a little while to get over my dad, Tom T Hall and Kid Rock being mentioned in the same post...)

And we grow up....

(I wrote this several months ago and found it in my "drafts" folder. )
(Who KNOWS what's lurking there, right?)

Today I went to a high school classmate's dad's funeral/visitation.

This is something grown ups do, something I didn't think I'd ever have to muster up and gracefully attend.  This is what my folks are supposed to do....comfort the hurting friends, deliver casseroles, talk about 25 years ago in high school...

But here we are.

My high school classmates are now grandparents, losing their parents, retiring in seven years, taking high blood pressure medication.  

We're the grown ups!  

When did THAT happen?!  

For some reason, we 19 are coming back together after 25 years, now.

Getting each other's addresses.

Forming fantasy football leagues with each other. (And kicking each other's butts therewithin.)

Calling each other on birthdays. Not just the "big ones". 

Heck, celebrating TOGETHER on birthdays!

Challenging one another in fitness and personal growth goals. 

Talking politics and religion and how the world is going to hell in a hand basket.

Admiring each other's receding hairlines, greying beards and temples, sharing tips about hormonal changes.  

They're so DEAR to me, these people who knew me when I didn't even know myself! 

It was oddly poignant to step outside after visiting my classmate and friend to see the GCDHS homecoming parade going by. It's the 100th year of our high school, so each class and organization did a specific decade for their float.  I don't know who did the 1980's, but they really needed help from someone other than Wikipedia.  Really.  NO ONE on the float had leg warmers or big bangs or parachute pants or those big combs in their back pockets or Bon Jovi music or ANYTHING.  But they tried really hard and threw homemade brownies.  

Monday, my Aunt Bert and I will travel to Lewistown to visit one of her high school classmates from the 1960's...I want to say 67, but I might be wrong.  They're at almost 50 years of friendship.  What richness!  

Do you think kids from small towns are closer and keep in touch better than other places?  

Is Montana exceptional this way, because we have so few people?

AND....this is my biggest question....
do they whitewash rocks in the initial of their town and year of graduation on the sides of hills in towns other than Montana?!?  

For Your Shivery Enjoyment...

We live in a tough country.  One has only to look at a map of Eastern Montana to realize that the first people to settle here must have had a horrible time of it, just by what they named land features.  We have Hell Creek, Devil's Creek, Frozen Dog Creek, Skunk Arroyo, Deadman Road. (In fact, many of the faithful have "Hell Creek" on their baptism record.  That always makes me smile!)

One of the places we drive past on the highway to Miles City is Deadman Road.  We've seen it all our lives and so don't think much about it, but one evening in my bookclub someone happened to wonder out loud why it would have been named that.  A little discussion ensued and this tale came out of it, given by a person who had been in the area long enough that we trusted her as a source:

One night, when cars were not reliable at all and there was no such thing as phone service in this part of Montana, a couple was driving home on the road in some tough weather.  The car broke down, but the man knew where they were and told his companion to stay in the car, that he would walk to the nearest place for help.
(You can see where this is going, can't you?  I still get the shivers, just typing it.)
In order to fully appreciate how scary this was for the lady who was left behind, you need to know that it's still one of the most remote regions in the lower 48, and when you're alone on the prairie with the wind blowing, you're REALLY alone.  As alone as you'll ever be in your life.
As I remember the story that was told, the man had been gone some time when she heard terrible screams in the distance...ungodly screams.  She locked all the doors of the car and hunkered down as low as she could, and I'm sure prayed her heart out.
The next day, the man's body was found high in a tree with no clue as to how it could possibly have gotten there.

I don't know if this is a true story or not, but it's a wickedly scary one to ponder when we drive by the sign in the night on our way north to Cohagen.

(If anyone has more details or accurate story, please leave a comment!)

Time In

When I was about eleven years old, something or someone inspired my mom to load me up in our crew cab dually pickup one day to take me to town to play junior high basketball.  I don't remember her really talking to me about it, although I'm sure she did; it just seemed like it was out of the blue. To my recollection, we'd never attended a basketball game and we didn't have television, so I'd never really watched it being played...except goof-ball at school on play day.

I DO remember her making sure I had sweatpants and tennis shoes, an odd, uncomfortable wardrobe change for a girl who basically lived in jeans and cowboy boots.  

I also remember the terrifying feeling of not knowing anyone there and being completely intimidated by the size of the gym and noise.  I didn't know what was going to happen, what was expected of me, or why Mom didn't stay.  And I was the only one there in sweatpants, everyone else being clad in shorts and tee shirts.  I was really tall for my age, nearly 5 foot 4 inches I think, by then, but not coordinated in any way.  I was ALSO a book worm who was basically scared to death of people. 

All I'll tell you about the rest of the experience is that I couldn't figure out which scrimmage team I was on, who I was supposed to "guard", what I was supposed to do with the ball the one time I got it, dribbling didn't happen for me, and that when I was walking back uptown with my sister later, Wayne Shawver rode by on his uber cool bike and called us "Cattle Annie and Little Britches."  It was an apt description, actually.

Mom asked me on the way home how it went and I told her I didn't like it, but I felt bad about that because I knew it cost money to drive in and time that seemed wasted for HER.  

We tried it one more session with the same results and never went back.  (Incidentally, both my younger siblings loved the game and were really good at it!)

This fall, one of the other moms at Cohagen sent me information about junior high basketball in Jordan for 5th and 6th graders.  She indicated that both the other "big" girls from our school were going and wondered if we'd thought of sending Maggie.  

And so, it's time.

We got her sports physical yesterday afternoon, along with a very professional looking pair of Nike basketball shoes and three pairs of shorts. I had polled three friends, two moms and a dad, about what the cool kids are wearing to basketball practices these days, hoping to at LEAST avoid the wardrobe embarrassment.  

The moms replied that as long as it was basic and black, we were good to go.  

The dad had nothing, really, except that Maggie'd get 5 fouls a game and that she shouldn't take any home with her.   

When I told her this, she said, "What's a foul?" 

Her coach truly has a tabula rasa with this one. 

The biggest concern for Mags right now (and I think she's losing sleep over it...) is that they MIGHT have a game on Halloween night.  

This is a legitimate concern that has both of us reconsidering our commitment to this venture.

There's 364 days between Helen Green's popcorn balls and we're not willing to make it 788.  

I mean, we all know my kid's not going to play WNBA ball, right? 

In all seriousness, I hope she has a great experience in basketball, even if it's just for one year.  

I hope she has a good time with girls her age, learning to work together for a common goal, building each other up in encouragement. I hope she learns enough about basketball to be able to enjoy watching it and playing HORSE on the playground.  

I hope the other basketball moms don't call me Cattle Annie.

*Practice starts Monday, so updates to follow!

It's Just Not My Cup

I'm not a progressive person, technologically speaking.

I don't have an iPad/Pod or Kindle. 

I hate the computer panel in the "new" car that requires a 3 hour training to run.

My smart phone is getting a little too big for its britches and I shut it off frequently, rather than listen to it alert me to every message, score and update available. (By the way...YES, I KNOW my voice mail inbox is full. I keep it that way on purpose.)

And I think Keurig coffee makers are killing conviviality.

Whew!

There, I've said it...and probably will get some fall out for it. 

Do you know what Keurig coffee makers are?  Those space age looking machines that sit on the counter of everyone's kitchen now; you tip out a little door, insert a minuscule canister of premeasured coffee grounds, close, place your coffee cup under the spout, push a button and in seconds you have a steaming cup of coffee.  It's very convenient, quicker than lightening, no muss, no fuss...

I can see why they're popular.  Especially for someone living alone who doesn't want to brew a whole pot of coffee just for themselves, or for families with all sorts of crazy schedules who leave the house at different times.  

But that's just the thing:

How welcoming is THAT?  

Coffee brings people together.

I was raised with certain coffee rituals.  

The first smell in the morning was of the coffee my folks were brewing. Plans for the day were made over cups of coffee; not just between Mom and Dad, but also when there was a crew for branding or shipping.  When kids were dropped off at school, there was sometimes a migration of moms back to our house to discuss life, laundry stains and refill the go-cups. Pots were put on when we saw dust up the road: "Grandpa and Grandma Mosby are here!" 

There's a certain script that used to be followed by everyone:

Host: Can I get you a cup of coffee?

Guest: (politely) Oh, don't go to any trouble...I'd have a cup if you were going to make some for yourself.

Host: (relieved) It's no trouble at all!  (bustles around, filling the pot, measuring coffee, etc.) 

There's chatting while the coffee is brewing, then...

Host: How do you like your coffee? Cream or sugar?

Guest: I'd take a little cream if you have it.

And the conversation commences.

This little back and forth opening sequence to a visit is hard to pull off if all the host has to do is push a button for coffee to appear in a cup and handed over.  It ISN'T any trouble and the guest knows it.  

Then there's the personality of a brew.

In our family, weak coffee was a sign of weak character.  

A good strong cup of coffee was redemptive...all sorts of things could be said about someone, but if "they sure make good coffee" then they were probably all right at the core.  

Many times, there was only time for one cup so it had to count...you can't make it all morning on a namby-pamby cup of java, you know?  Besides which, it's just a waste of grounds to simply color the water.  

Warnings or praise would be issued prior to visits to someone's house. "They make awfully weak coffee..." or "One thing about it, __________ sure can make coffee!"

Keurigs are disappointingly, industrially predictable and one can't determine a thing from the cups issued thereof.  The owners can buy different pods of different flavors, but ultimately it comes out the same...smooth and balanced.   

I've gone back to a percolator, myself, simply because it takes up less space and looks charming on my counter.  There are no filters to buy and it makes happy little burbles as it cooks.  It makes enough coffee for two to four people at once. I can carry it all around the house if I wish, and it doesn't leave a scorched taste in the coffee if I forget to unplug it right away.  When I have company, we follow the time honored script you read above, the little pot chugging and glugging away in the background as we wait and visit.  My friends and family know I make my coffee a little too strong, and there's probably warnings to that effect as they come up the drive.  That's okay...you can always add water or cream, but you can't fix a weak cup of coffee.  

Progress is very good, and I admire people who roll with it easily.  This post wasn't to castigate anyone who has a Keurig....which would be about 80% of the U.S. population, now....so if you have one and love it, great!  I just hope the culture of hospitality and the art of making coffee from grounds in a pot is not lost in the convenience and practicality of the space age coffee machines being used today.  

*~*~*~*~*~*

I have this pergola; a beautiful, open-yet-shaded place that I designed and the Farmer built.  At each corner is a big raised planter where I put my vegetable and flower mess.  (Try as I may, I cannot plant vegetables without flowers. And vice-versa.) There's a fire pit on the northeast corner and a picnic table under the center, and though my plans were to eat there, we generally end up sitting there with beverages, not food, dogs panting underneath, and talking about really important things such as whether hummingbirds really hum with their beaks or whether the carrots are ready.  (It's designed, you see, to be able to graze as we visit....plucking a pea in mid-sentence or deadheading with a glass of wine in hand.) 

Last year, I saw in a catalog that there was such a thing as solar powered white lights.  You know, the little white Christmas lights one drapes on a Christmas tree?  Immediately I thought of the pergola!  She needed those.  She HAD to HAVE those!  So I ordered some.  Three sets, to be exact; two strings for the pergola, one string for my garden gate/seat....I wanted the pretty sparkles, the little stars in the night.  And they did not disappoint!

Tonight, after the whole family was in bed, sleeping sweetly and deeply, I wandered out with my glass of  chardonney and strawberries to sit in the pergola at the picnic table. It's so incredibly serene here when the wind isn't blowing, and the stars were brilliant.  The moon was nearly to the mouse's whisker stage...slivered and white.  Earlier in the day, the prairie was LOUD with birds and wind, but now....soft and quiet!

The bluish-white lights that I had strung on the pergola were softly dancing in the darkness with the slight breeze, casting j-u-s-t enough light for me to set my wine glass down and see the little coat that had been left on the picnic table when it got too hot for a cowboy (or Indian) to wear denim.  I hadn't thought it would be cold wearing just my pajamas, but it was, a little, so I draped the coat on my shoulders to break the breeze, blessing and admonishing at the same time the child who had dropped it there. 

The cats found me.
And they were mystified..
It was the time for people-bodies to be in bed and for CATS to be ruling the yard! 
I had no food (curses!) and I had no blanket (drat!) so they gave me a very quick "we-know-you're-crazy-but-we-understand" rub on the ankle and bounced off into the night to do their cat jobs. (Which I hope consists of slaying mice and laying waste to meadow moles; sworn enemies of mine.)

The dark covers up all the warts and wrinkles of my yard and garden and leaves just the form, the scent and the...feeling.  In the light of day, all I see is what I'm not getting done and what is lacking, but at night it's so serene and lovely!  I sit there with my child's coat on my shoulders and see the Big Dipper, which was the first constellation I ever recognized when I was a child, and think about how teensy I really am, how amazingly miraculous it is that I'm allowed to spend even 15 minutes in this world, how incredibly blessed I was to be born and live in Montana, and how my wine is getting bugs in it because of the solar lights. 

There's no such thing as Better Homes and Gardens moments, here; no matter how great the build up.  :)

So, I wave good night to the moon and promise her I'll be back another night, accidentally wander back through the 15 inch tall maple twigs, and toast the cats' efforts with the soggy strawberries in the bottom of my wine glass...

Summer is coming...

Mental Diarrhea...

THAT got your attention, didn't it?!
(Oh, how I hope my mother doesn't read this...)

I've got all sorts of little, insignificant thoughts that can't stand alone as a post, but I feel the overwhelming (and probably ill-advised) need to share them with you. 

For instance...
Nearly every morning, when I run, I meet this grumpy old skunk who is trundling back to his burrow after a long night of carousing up and down the creek.  We've gotten sort of accustomed to one another; I holler so he knows I'm coming, he raises his tail in greeting, we keep going.  This is going to sound completely deranged, but I've gotten to where I look forward to seeing him and am disappointed when he's not there.

It's pie season!  Yes!  Remember last year, when I went through about a month of sincere pie-love?  It's back.  Cohagen School is having a harvest dinner/pie auction on November 18th, and I think I should start practicing now.  Sour cream raisin pie....I think there's probably only one person in ten that like a sour cream raisin pie and I'm that one, here.  With meringue.  *sigh*  Pie love...there'll be more on this, later. (Incidentally, if you're planning on coming to the harvest dinner and think you'd like to bid on a pie, I will take requests now, to ensure that your favorite kind is there.  And if I can't do it, I know of a couple other pie girls who CAN!)

My bum calves, Lily and Willy, are gone.  I know.  I'm a little sad.  Do you know what makes me cry, about this?  It's not that they're going to be hamburger soon...although that's not a pleasant thought, either.  It's the thought of how scared and bewildered they must've been at the sale barn, how frightening the sale ring was for them.  Every year, that nearly kills me.  But next spring will come, with new flower-baby bums, and we'll start all over again!

This is out of the blue, but do you watch the music/movie awards shows?  I usually don't, simply because they're deadly boring.  But when I DO, it brings out the worst in me; for about thirty minutes, I find myself cattily looking at the over-the-top fashion (good and bad), watching the faces of the nominees, rolling my eyes at the acceptance speeches.  Last night was the CMA awards and I got sucked in because Brad Paisley and Carrie Underwood were hosting, picking on EVERY person in country music.  It was highly entertaining when they brought out the Tim McGraw and Faith Hill Barbie dolls. And this morning, I notice that everyone is all in a fluff that Taylor Swift got Entertainer of the Year.  Drama, drama, drama...(She had a lovely dress and wore it well.  Drats. I can't even disparage her fashion sense...)

Today is Sara Hagedorn Calvert's birthday!  Huzzah! Now THERE'S a girl who can understand pie love, sad bum goodbyes, and friendly skunks....  :)  Think Bon Appetit meets Agri-news.  She's a treasure of a friend and I'm so grateful she e-ntroduced herself last year.  Happy birthday, Sara!

Tonight is bookclub; we've been reading One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp and you'll get the report/menu tomorrow.  I know.  You'll be waiting breathlessly until then....

That's all for right now.
See? It wasn't as bad as you'd imagined after reading the title of the post, right?

Melange

Melange (pronounced m-lazh) is a French word that basically means "all sorts of different things altogether".  Sort of like a junk drawer of ideas when you find it at the Chronicles....lots of little thoughts that can't stand alone as a post, but that I want to share with you.

First, the depressing news about my garden. (Let's just get the bad stuff over with, shall we?)
We have had grasshoppers in plague levels. 

Here's my little tomato/flower/cucumber planters in a "before" picture:

Plant lovers, cover your eyes....it's brutal....

And "after":

 Same bed, one week later....those WERE marigolds in front, remember?

Enough about the hoppers.

On to another depressing topic...

:)

I turn forty this year.

There, I said it.

Whew!

And I had tossed around the idea of running a K race...any K; 5K, 10K, 1K.  It just seemed so...I don't know....standard and typical of someone turning forty.  We can't have that, now, can we?

Anyway, I get this magazine called Runner's World, which is full of people who take their running VERY seriously.  So seriously, in fact, that I can't believe I didn't have to have an interview and an approval before subscribing.  Really.

Yesterday, I was looking through all the races that are being held around the nation and overseas, and found THE race for me.  It's a half-marathon, which is incredibly intimidating (the "m" word...) and I'd have to be able to run it in just under 4 hours, even more intimidating.  I'm slow, folks.  But I think I can get faster for this one.

It's the Diva's Half-Marathon, and there's going to be one in Vail, CO next September.  It's my race.  Listen to the little write-up:

"Runners get the royal treatment-just after mile 12, they recieve a feather boa and tiara; at the finish line, "hunky" firemen hand them a glass of bubbly and a rose."

AND

"It is not just about the run but the whole weekend experience. All our events will host a 2 day Health & Fitness Boutique, a Girls' 5K (open to all ages and genders), a Diva Lounge and more. Some of our races will also host yoga sessions by the beach, Diva Pub Crawls after the race, spa specials, winery visits and more. Each city gives the race its own special flavor for a wonderful weekend with the girls or with family where mom, sister or daughter are stars."

I looked at the website and one can even personalize the running bib!

I think I'd better start working NOW. 

But doesn't that sound like a good first race?

Next topic of discussion:

And this is completely silly, but I've been thinking of it for the last couple of days...

Excluding major appliances (even the Kitchenaid mixer), what 5 tools could you not live without in your kitchen?

It's harder than you think, narrowing it down to 5!

I came up with:

1. My little plastic scraper thingee from Pampered Chef...it scrapes flour off the counter, impossibly stuck food off pans...everything.
2. Wooden spatulas made by one of our hunters.  They are invaluable AND beautiful, made of different woods.
3. That in-between sized knife that is bigger than a paring knife but smaller than a big carving knife. 
4. A really old grater that grates really finely...perfect for lemon zest or cheese or carrots.
5. I don't know if this is a tool, but I have this big kettle that I use for everything...pasta, meats, soups, candy.  There's nothing it doesn't work for.  AND it has a clear glass lid, so I can see what's going on all the time without removing it!

What's on your list?

One more thing: fantasy football. 

I have a draft tomorrow and I have no idea what to do.  One of my high school classmates put together a league, just for fun and so that we could all reconnect, and I let myself be talked into joining.  It's not like I don't get deeply engrossed in the season, anyway...become fiercely competetive over events I have no control over.....re-play games in my head as I drive....wear the same "lucky" shirt every Sunday for 20 weeks.  Now I have a new reason to watch! And my team's name is Hail Mary, which is appropriate on so many levels...

But I'm absolutely lost as to how to do this draft thing.

Any help at all would be greatly appreciated.

I have my list of players, and perhaps I'm a little too ambitious for the first time out.  See what you think of my first round picks, made a week ago and now may have to be revised:

QB- Michael Vick (He's everyone's 1st round draft pick, I'm guessing; so predictable.)

WR- Terrell Owens (I wanted Crabtree, but his health is iffy...darn it!)

RB- Frank Gore (And I KNOW he's a 49er and they're miserable this year...again....still...but I like the guy.)

TE- Vernon Davis (Although, maybe I should look at Marcedes Lewis....input?)

I don't even know how many rounds I need to prepare for!

Blessedly, I'll end the melange there.

Happy Saturday!

Enough!!!

My poor little Chronicles have been suffering...
And I apologize to those of you who faithfully check in, to catch the latest, scintillating news from Cohagen.

While I was loading the dishwasher this morning, I decided part of the reason is that I've been looking at Facebook a lot more, and posting little blurbs there.  Apparently, I'm not one of those people who can run both a blog AND a Facebook page.  I think there's more value in my blog, and most of the same people read it, so I've decided to check FB only on Sundays and Wednesdays and write about life here, at the Chronicles. 

So.

What's new in Cohagen?

Our new school teacher is here!  Joni and Aaron Carroll arrived last weekend from North Carolina, bringing two U-Hauls of shtuff, 4 dogs (I think) and shocking the heck out of me when they recognized us in the grocery store.  Aaron is a Chronicles reader (who scolded me for the lack of recent posts) and Joni recognized the kids and I from pictures, here.  I was sort of dazed, having driven in from the Dutton Family reunion in Lewistown, and heard this voice down the pasta/beans/juice aisle: "That's Mary!"   And a woman I've never seen in my life came hustling over like we were old friends.  All I could think was, "I missed a cousin, somehow...?!"   Maggie latched onto them, immediately, and started giving all sorts of friendly advice and guidelines, completing her earlier interview and informing both Carrolls that they "could" stay until she went to high school.  (We're having a rough time with this whole "new teacher" thing...)

The Carrolls will be featured in a future Chronicles profile post, with pictures and all that.  (See, Aaron?  You want posts, you got posts...about YOU!) 

The farmers around the area have begun harvest, sort of jerkily, because everything is ripening oddly. I'm headed out to the field today to take some photos, for those of you who like farm-y sorts of posts.  Stay tuned for THAT thrilling, upcoming segment...

The Garfield County Fair is going on this week!  Yesterday, the Farmer and I went in to judge 4H projects.  He judges things like woodworking, metal working and poetry. (I KNOW.  Poetry.  Who knew?!)  I judged 4H foods and photography again. I'm not big on vampire things, but remember how cartoonishly vampires are depicted when faced with garlic?  Pulling their cloaks across their faces and shuddering?  That's how I feel about chocolate chip cookies and brownies after I judge the fair.  I vant to run avay...quvickly...from any baked goods, today.  Lots of good little cooks in Garfield County! 

In other news, our hired hand Dixie left to pursue her dreams in Helena, MT.  (Okay, that was maybe a little romantic for "seeking employment out of Garfield County"...)  We miss her; lunch was always fun, because she was always bringing us the latest gossip and scandal rocking Jordan that week. Now, we've got nothin'.  Even the meatloaf tastes less exciting. (You know....because meatloaf is generally a rocking sort of main dish...)

Football is back!
Another year of character building for a San Fransisco 49ers fan....   Again.  Still.
My consolation is that no matter how awful my 49ers are, the Broncos are consistantly worse! 
Last year, I won a rather glorious bet on the 49ers/Broncos game that was played in London.  My prize was that the LOSER betting for the Broncos had to start every email to me with the score: SF24-DEN16.  It was so, so sweet...mostly because it was a score that will be burned in both our heads for at LEAST two more years.
This year, the 49ers and the Broncos won't face off at all, and I'm not gonna lie...the season sort of pales because of it.  There goes our one chance of winning a game...!

In garden news, I have 109 stubbornly green tomatoes, 6 zucchini that will become fritters tonight, 30-ish carrots without tops (because Angus can pull tops off, but not carrots out of the ground), relentlessly cheerful marigolds, and stems of everything else that the grasshoppers have devoured.  Oh!  And more toads and frogs than we've ever seen.  And you'd think they'd be just completely obese, these amphibians, because of the multitude of grasshoppers, but they are actually modestly trim.  That may be because they're spending all their time hopping away from the kids.

We transported one hapless toad to Lewistown for the family reunion, where he sat for three days in a little old plastic bug case, looking at himself in the motel mirror. He was too depressed to die.  Maggie was completely mystified as to why he refused all the luscious bugs she offered up to him and finally agreed to release him in the wilds of Frank Day Memorial park in the labrynth garden under the daylillies.  The vacuum of the empty container immediately sucked in two skinny earthworms who reside there, still.  Worms are more resiliant, but less interesting.  Further bulletins as events warrant...

We have three kittens for give-away!
Kid trained, mother approved!  All orange and white tiggers...contact us if you are interested at all.  I'll throw in a free bag of zucchini with every sucker....I mean, taker. 

That's all the news that IS news, from my house. 

Stay tuned for more zucchini recipes, a farm girl fashion show, the New Teacher Feature, a startling new Crazy Mary question and answer, bum calf updates, harvest horrors and much, much more...