Cohagen Easter

Here's where we go to worship on Easter Sunday. It's usually cold and windy, and sometimes wet. But most years, the sunrise is spectacular. This year, the sun crept in, behind clouds, and it was a damp morning for singing "The Old Rugged Cross" with the neighbors. Some of the folks who got up at an insane hour for worship.

I like the stocking caps, barn coats, cowboy hats, blankets and rosy cheeks.

The littlest attendee....Angus didn't think much of sitting on a hill for church, but he liked the music, and sang out loudly! Sweet, to hear little voices, praising God....
(Dad made it up the hill with most of his coffee. The rest was on his jeans!)

If you scroll back up to the picture of the rocky hill, look at the highest point. That's where Maggie went, immediately, then needed rescuing by her mother. She's not afraid of heights. I am. Next year, I'm going to hold the boy and Daddy is going to save the girl.

Maggie leads the way, down, followed by Daddy and Angus, and Grandma Celestia in the red coat. We were in a hurry to get to the gym, where breakfast and coffee awaits!

This morning, the menu consisted of:

Cinnamon twists

Breakfast burritos

Cherry coffeecake

3 kinds of kuchen

Link sausage

Breakfast casserole

Coffee and juice

Luke 24:1-8 The Message-

At the crack of dawn on Sunday, the women came to the tomb carrying the burial spices they had prepared. They found the entrance stone rolled back from the tomb, so they walked in. But once inside, they couldn't find the body of the Master, Jesus.

They were puzzled, wondering what to make of this. Then, out of nowhere it seemed, two men, light cascading over them, stood there. The women were awestruck and bowed down in worship. The men said, "Why are you looking for the Living One in a cemetary? He is not here, but raised up. Remember how He told you when you were still back in Galilee that He had to be handed over to sinners, be killed on a cross, and in three days rise up?" Then they remembered Jesus' words.

Daisy

Meet Daisy, our little bum calf! I love this picture of her, because she just got done eating and she has milk foam on her little chin, and you can tell, she's casing the Mom to see if there might be more, hidden somewhere in the barn coat...

Maggie chose her name, but I especially like it because in our family, it has special significance. When I was first married and trying to fit in on the ranch, I had a rough time. There's the Pluhar way and the wrong way, and I always did things the wrong way. And Pluhars were very generous about my blunders, but I could still tell that I wasn't quite getting it. One day, after a particularlly rough day, I told Wayland that I felt like a daisy in a field of lawnmowers!

Ever since then, if someone is a daisy, it means they march to the beat of their own drum, and are a little odd, in a good way. When Maggie was born, we could tell right away that she was a daisy. I'm still a daisy, although I've learned how to fit in a little better. My friend Vickie, is the daisiest of daisies, and takes daisy-hood to a new level, altogether. When we get together, there's no telling what might happen!

So, Miss Daisy-the-calf, so far, is living up to her name, and I've been enjoying her immensely. She's eating milk crumbles, along with two bottles a day, and I've caught her muching on chopped hay. She greets me with her tongue curled out, and when I leave, she makes little moos and follows me. We're going to be good friends, I can tell.

So for everyone who has thoughtfully enquired of my bum, she's doing well, and hopefully will move to my house sometime this week.

Dye job...

I don't know why this cartoon struck me as so funny!

Maybe because I need a dye job in the worst way, and it reminds me to perhaps be a little more subtle...
We dyed Easter eggs Saturday afternoon, on the picnic table, in (are you ready for this?) 60 degree weather!!
Angus dyed the same 3 eggs, 15 times. He's very thorough.

Aren't they pretty? Just love the colors against the white paper towel.

"And this one is mine. And this one is mine..."

"Where did it go?"

I LOVE Easter colors!

This was the most relaxed egg dying I've ever done with kids.

And afterward, they stayed outside and played on the playground in their underwear.

And we ate supper on the deck with Daddy.

Friends Don't Let Friends Plant Yarrow!

(Mugshot of the offending plant)

That's right. At least in my book. This post is in response to the hilarious comment left by Lori on my last post. There was a frantic tone, in her comment, and I wanted to address the issue right away, so she would be able to burn the yarrow seed with peace of mind.


I was suckered into Achillea millefolium by the assurance that it was easy to grow. So easy, in fact, that even beginning gardeners with no experience whatsoever can get it to prosper and flourish! (I now know that if that sort of description is attached to a plant, it indicates a weed. Really. Because if even a fool can grow it, which you would have to be to choose this plant, that means it can grow itself.)


And it looks SO pretty, with feathery leaves, strong stalks and teeny little blossoms all bunched together in a nice little bouquet! Under that innocent facade is a plant that spreads by shallow mats of roots, copious amounts of seeds and will root in any old teaspoon of dirt or gravel. It has taken over my flower beds, despite digging it out every year as completely as I can, cutting off the heads of the survivors before it goes to seed and gingerly spraying it with white vinegar.


I have nightmares that it will slip into the house, some night, while I'm sleeping, and attach itself to the dust.


My friend, J---, who used to sell it to me, cheap, along with the other plants, told me later that it had taken over in her yard too! That was sweet justice, to me, but we made a pact to tell every one not to plant it, henceforth. Friends don't let friends plant yarrow.


I indoctrinate all my beginning gardener friends, then the next spring, offer them "divisions" of the stuff. That's how I know if they are really listening to my advice. If they accept the yarrow, with the iris tubers and the chrysanthemum divisions, I lose all respect for them, and dont try to help them further. They will be calling in a few years, whining about the creeping crud, invading their posie patch and yard. And I will certainly empathise with them, then tell them to pass the word.


Friends don't let friends plant yarrow. You've been warned! Take heed. If it grows that enthusiastically and vigorously in Eastern Montana, where the soil is clay, the water is alkaline, the temperatures range from 100+ degrees in the summer to -40 degrees in the winter, you know it's bad stuff.

Green fingers, brown knees, red face...

My virtual friend, Michelle the Fontologist, had a great post this morning, about gardening. I'd include a link, if I had a clue as to how to do that, but you can look her up on my side-bar of friends and family. I've been studiously avoiding the topic of gardening because, well, it's hard to write about it without getting tears in my eyes when there was snow in April, here! You have to get down on your hands and knees, with your nose 2 cm from the dirt to find anything green on the prairie or in my flower beds. I did that, this afternoon, and found the bravest columbine sprigs! (Or, for Anne, Aquilegia vulgaris) So now I can write about it.

Do you garden? And by gardening, I don't mean just vegetables and useful plants. I mean, do you grow ANYTHING, in a can, a boot, a well-composted bed, sandy knoll, gumbo hole? Do you cultivate?

AND (to me, this is the more interesting question) why do you garden?

So, here's my story. (Yeah, you were just waiting for the big reveal, weren't you? I hate to disappoint followers, so here you have it.)

I really didn't have much to do with gardening or flowers growing up, because we had wicked gumbo ground, alkali water and my mom wasn't all that interested in growing things, I guess. I'm not sure. With those conditions, it had to be discouraging. We did little vegetable gardens, but didn't have a lot of success.

I had a boyfriend whose mother had the most glorious yard and garden, in North Dakota, on the Missouri River, and that was the first time I ever understood that gardening could be more than just to fill the pantry with jars. She had lovely flowers, and really, really enjoyed the whole process.

When I married Wayland, we moved to the ranch after about 9 months, just up the road from my mother-in-law and the Cohagen Botanical Gardens (my title, not hers). It was intimidating, to say the least. AND on top of that, we moved into a little trailer house on a prairie hill. With no existing yard. No native trees. No old homestead flowers. It was the pasture! We didn't have a fence!

My first stab at growing something was a black feed tub with petunias planted in it. My puppy, Molly, dug it up and I cried. The next try was to plant sunflowers in a circle around a birdbath, sitting by the house on prairie ground....which, as I write about it, probably looked pretty funny! Only two sunflowers grew, and not even big enough to flower. One day, when the guys were here building the fence, my father-in-law handed me one of the sad, sad little sunflower stalks and told me that he'd gotten the weed out of the yard. I didn't cry, but I wanted to. He felt bad, when I explained the situation, but there was no fixing it! I can't blame him, because in his yard, it WOULD have been a weed!

We ordered trees from the Conservation District. We ordered 120 trees, to plant in a windbreak. One day, my husband called me at the school I was subbing at and told me to pick up the trees on the way home. I was driving a Geo Prism at the time, and I informed him there was no way to get that many trees! I'd go back with the pickup. He assured me it was entirely possible. I pulled up at the fair building to get my 120 trees and loaded a black garbage bag of soggy sticks. I'm telling you, when I ordered trees, I thought I was going to get TREES! It all made sense, then, how they could sell us trees for $.98 each. I thought that was a bit much to pay for soggy sticks. The next day, we made 120 holes, planted 120 sticks, and today a strong 89 of them live. And look like trees. (I'm STILL a little in shock, over this phenomenon!)

When I put in my first flower bed, I had it all graphed, proportionately, and had spent the winter researching my perennial options. I went to the nursery, and could afford about 4 of the 50 plants that were planned. So I spent the extra $5.00 at the grocery store and bought about 5 packets of annual seeds. Little did I know that those little packets would fuel a gardening disease for which there is no cure!

My mother-in-law, sensing some desperation on my part, offered me portions of her plants. Things like iris, hardy geranium, daisies, and, because I begged, johnny-jump-ups and yarrow. Looking back, I can't believe she could keep a straight face when donating those last two, but she graciously sent them with me. My friends know, now, that yarrow is an evil plant sent from Satan, and that the only reason the johnny's are tolerated is because theirs are the first bright little faces I see in the spring and the last bright little faces I see in the fall.

Now, I garden because it's balm for my heart, and it's constantly surprising and new, and comfortingly the same. I have old friends, like the daisies and irises, and new friends, sedum and lime basil. I long ago scrapped the graph, and now plant lettuce in with the annuals, and beans with the zinnias, because I like their funny shapes and contrasts. And I like grazing as I weed. My beds are messy, and that's distressing sometimes. I forget how topsy-turvey things can get, and promise that I will, next year, more clearly define the territories. I grow sunflowers every year, in remembrance of the ones that perished at the birdbath. I grow scarlet runner beans because they are beautiful and the one annual hummingbird that flies through adores them. I grow hollyhocks from seeds I took from the Texas Tech botanic garden AND from those growing behind the old hospital.

So, do you garden? How did you get started? Why do you do it?

Balance

The friend that challenged me to define myself with one word claimed the word he wished defined him, was "balanced". At the time, I really couldn't see the charm in that, because I took great pleasure in being unbalanced. To me, living with the bubble in the middle seemed a bit normal, ordinary, boring, mundane, etc. What I hadn't really thought through, however, was that a person could be strange and balanced all at the same time. And if you knew my friend, you'd wonder why that hadn't occured to me earlier in the game. (He's reading this, I'm sure, and nodding his head at the rubber candy-butt chicken on his desk....)

This week, I'd give my sister's left arm to have a little balance.

I got to go to church, last Sunday, for the first time in about 6 weeks! We've been sick, had storms, freezing calves, sick again, etc., but finally, I just threw the kids in the car and took off. (We didn't see another car for 65 miles, on the 83 mile trip. And because the kid were fighting, I made them listen to Josh Groban warble Italian arias all the way...) During the songs, I cried, because I was just so glad to be there!

This week, I have CUPS, bookclub, Easter and a school board meeting coming up. I feel the bubble sliding to one end!

I need to get my lettuce and peas planted, and all the dead sunflowers and sundry plants cleaned up, and the broken toys burned, surrepticiously. There goes the bubble, to the other end!

I'm 15 weeks behind, in a 12 week Beth Moore Bible study. Now, how does THAT happen? Oops! Watch the bubble shift....

I don't know where MY rubber candy-butt chicken is....well, I guess the bubble has to stop somewhere.

The lesson I'm slowly learning is that sometimes strange people should work more on being balanced, rather than scoff those who do it well. And God desires that I have a good balance in my life, I know that from reading His word. My mission this week is to take each day, as it rises fresh from the calm night, and look to see how I can do my best, without beating myself or anyone else up in the process. My focus will be less on individualism and more on teamwork. And I'll look in the playbook and listen to the Coach.

Do you struggle with balance?

Easter in Cohagen

Every year, our family goes to the sunrise service on the big butte, west of Cohagen. In fact, Wayland and I went when we were dating! (It was the acid test....if he was willing to get up at 5:30 AM to go to church on a hill, he was a keeper. ) Here's the information, if anyone is interested in going. It's really beautiful, but really cold! The breakfast is just magnificent, and it's fun to visit with everyone.

Easter Sunrise Service

6:00 AM, April 12, 2009

On top of the rocky hill, four miles west of Cohagen on the West Little Dry Road

A potluck breakfast will be held at the Cohagen gym, following the service.

For more information, email me at chuteboss@hotmail.com or leave a comment here, and I'll get back to you!

Scotcheroos

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things to eat in the whole wide world was my Aunt Arlene's Scotcheroos. My mom made rice krispie bars, but Aunt Arlene's rice krispie bars had peanut butter and chocolate! How decadent! And when I was pregnant, I craved Scotcheroos like you wouldn't believe. When I make them, I can't stay away from them, so I quickly package them up and ship them to far off destinations, like the shop. One of my friends just requested the recipe, so I thought I'd post it. If you are inclined to wallow in anything chocolate and peanut butter, here is fair warning: these will be the death of you!

Without further ado,

Scotcheroo!

Spray 9x13 pan with non-stick spray.

In a large saucepan, combine 1 cup granulated sugar and 1 cup white corn syrup;

bring barely to a boil, stirring constantly over medium heat.

Remove from heat; add 1 1/4 cup creamy peanut butter and stir until smooth.

To the peanut butter mixture, stir in 6 cups rice krispies until well-combined,

then pat into the prepared 9x13 pan.

(There will be residual peanut butter mixture left in your saucepan. Take the time to thoroughly scrape this out with a table spoon and dispose of properly, trying not to drool noticably...)

In a large microwavable glass bowl, combine 1 package dark chocolate chips & 1 package butterscotch chips.Microwave 30 seconds at a time, stirring in between times until smooth and combined.Spread THIS mixture like frosting over your peanut butter krispies,and refrigerate the whole works for about 1 hour, until the topping is set up.

These will be quite firm, to cut, so take them out of the fridge about 15 minutes before you want to cut them into bars. These don't have to be refrigerated, after you cut them, but you want to keep them cool-ish, or the chocolate gets quite soft.

Enjoy!

Bummer

I'm starting my herd!

Today, the majority of the Board of Directors of Lang's Fork, Inc. had an unofficial meeting by the corrals to discuss the future of Daisy, the sorta-bum calf that we've had in the barn for about 5 days. The unspoken rule of the ranch is this: We Don't Mess With Bums. (And I'm assuming that just applies to calves, but we've never actually put it to the test.) Usually, if there's a bum calf, the President calls a neighbor; she's my ranching heroine, and I believe she may be reading this, so I'll call her Montana Calamity. She raises them, tenderly, and adds them to her herd.

I've been jealously watching this for a couple of years, coveting the calves. "How," I ask myself, " am I to start my own herd when the only opportunity keeps getting shipped out from under me?" And I have a brand and everything. I've had it since I was 4 years old. It hasn't touched the hide of many animals. Not that I'm bitter...

Anyway, Daisy is a unique bum in that her mother is still alive, but too ill to parent. She has an undetermined illness that is mystifying the President and Senior V.P. They've given her all sorts of shots, to try to get her going, but so far, nothing is working. I suggested that it might be a case of Bovine Post-Partum Depression. (Well, it seemed possible...she's listless, not interested in eating, lays around all the time, uninterested in her calf....See? She's disillusioned with this whole calf notion and her hormones are out of whack.) This idea was met with polite snorts, so I guess they aren't going with that diagnosis. Pity. I think it has merit.

So, in an unprecedented decision, Daisy was bestowed on the Junior V.P.! As soon as we can get a shelter and pen, here, she's moving to the South Fork of Lang's Fork Inc. (I'm not sure that's geographically correct, but it sounds impressive.) I need to call Montana Calamity and interview her as to her feeding regimen, if she's not too upset at the loss of the bum. The kids are excited, I'm excited...the Senior V.P. is less than excited, but resigned to the idea.

Now, to find that branding iron....

On Monday, after the flurry of calf gathering and warming was over, the glamorous job of cleaning the corrals and calving pens was on the agenda. The guys got busy with the tractor and Bobcat, cleaning the corrals and moving snow, so the barn work fell to me.

In true management style, my husband, the Senior Vice-President of Lang's Fork Inc, gave me a 25 lb. pitchfork, told me to get the "big" piles of poop and all the afterbirth, and where I was to toss it. It was pretty complicated. (I'm the Junior Vice-President, and it was transparently clear THAT title is for paperwork purposes only.)

I got busy and after about 3 trips to the dump pile, I started feeling like the maid at the Bovine Inn. Because, you know, the cows are put in a pen, have their calf, stay for about 6 hours, then leave. Kind of like an overnight stay at a motel. They leave the beds unmade, the towels on the floor and trash everywhere. And let me tell you, when I got done cleaning the pen, I didn't leave a mint on the pillow.

It's snowing here, again, this morning. Big, fat, sloppy, gloppy, wet flakes are hitting the window and the ground is completely white. The calendar says April, but spring sure seems a long time coming this year.

Trusty 4 wheelers...in lieu of horses, we have another type of horsepower. MUCH to Maggie's dismay.

Vern feeding the "late" cows chopped hay and cake pellets.

This is a decal on our bale handler, and for some reason, I like how the red, white and blue stand out under all the grime of the ranch.

Scenes from paradise...

Yes, I AM alive, still! I've been trying for two days to download pictures of the aftermath of the storm that hit here, but every time I would attempt the download, the internet would disconnect. We have Wild Blue satellite internet, and it will be the death of me.

Wayland and I borrowed Naomi's camera to take with us, to document the glamorous life of a rancher. I know she thinks we're nuts, taking pictures of cows and tractor tires, but at least there's two nuts!

I never know how these posts are going to come out, with the pictures, so I'll try to explain each photo. But it may make no sense at all. In which case, you abandon the explanation and just look at the details in the picture....

Cow 183, who calved in the night, and agreed amicably to pose for this documentary.

We didn't give her any time to freshen up, but I think she looks pretty good.

These are the cows in "the maternity ward" who we have sorted out as being closer to calve.

They have no regard for our opinion, whatsoever, and aren't calving any faster than the ones we sorted off as late. Here they are enjoying shredded hay, breakfast of champions.

The sideways freezing icicles, next to the old shed. The wind was blowing THAT hard.

This is the dash of the feed pickup, filled with various essential components to the operation.

You see the strap of the binoculars to the left, for looking for cows and their numbers. Then there are gloves, a plastic bag of eartags and marking pen, shotgun shells, half-eaten chocolate chip cookies and the book we record numbers and notes about the cows and calves.

The Farmer, before the stress of the day had strained our relations. He didn't have a chance to freshen up, either. Notice the bushy sideburns. You can tell all the ranchers who are calving and lambing, because they don't get to town to get thier hair cut, and they start cultivating a sort of 1974 kind of look. AND they get a little defensive about it, if you hold up your fingers in the "peace" sign.

Here's #183, again, checking to see if this is her calf. They make funny little moo-coos at their babies; it's hard to describe. You know how women talk to tiny babies? That's how cows talk to calves, sometimes. I think it's so beautiful, to hear them murmuring back and forth.

Vern, putting chopped hay into the hay wagon to take out to the cows.

This is one of the calves we found that was chilled down. He'd just been born, and his mama cleaned him off good, but he was wet and cold, and his ears were starting to freeze.

So we put him in the pickup, with the heater blowing full blast, to transport him to....

...the hotbox in the shop, where he stays for an hour or two, depending on how frozen he was. This is a calf who is ready to get out. He's looking perky and dry.

Wayland with one of the calves that had been born in the barn, the night before.

So that's what we've been doing the past couple of days. Today was warmer, and the sun came out...hooray! Traci and I took the kids to preschool, but CUPS was a pretty quiet affair, since Anne was sick, so we had tea in the church basement and just caught our breath!

I hear babies stirring, awake from naps, so I'd better get off the computer. Hope you enjoy the pictures!

I don't see the tulips, Margaret...

Since I couldn't get pictures off my camera, my mother-in-law sent some from her house.

March, in Montana, ain't for sissies.

The icicles are freezing sideways!

The barn is on the far left; you can't see all the cows, but they're right next to it, and on the hill.

(Okay, you'll just have to take my word for it, but there IS a hill there!)




Pictures of Naomi's yard, toward the south. There are a lot of mad geese, I'm sure, wishing they'd stayed south a week longer...
I know a ranch wife who's probably looking at property in Arizona, right now, wishing she'd stayed south a little longer, too!

Not exactly the look I was going for...

Well, I was going to post my pictures and write about this evil spring storm that's blowing through, but I got a CF error message on my camera. The camera was quite insistant that I change the card, and even though I took it out and put it back in several times ( mistakenly thinking I could trick the camera), it still won't work. It's a pretty smart camera. I'm not getting anything by the EOS, I can tell you that.

So, I decided I'd try to find an image for "blizzard", and lo and behold, this is what I got! I'm 82 miles from the nearest DQ, mind you, so sitting here typing, looking at the picture is almost painful. Angus would say, "Hice cream? ummm...OKAY!", which means, "I'd like somma that, and it doesn't matter what you think, I already okayed it!"

Wayland, Vern and I spent all afternoon yesterday bringing cows in closer to the barns and shelter, and sorting the ones we thought might calve to keep in the pens by the barn. It's that time of year when they ALL look 6 hours away from dropping their calf, so our "In" pen was markedly larger than the "Bye" pen. And one of the "In" cows did, indeed, calve about 20 minutes after sorting. The cows hate all this nonsense, but there's not much cover on the prairie, and with the 3-6 inches of predicted snow, there's 30-40 mph wind! (In one of the pictures on the stubborn camera, you can see the snow blowing completely sideways. ) That's no good for wet baby calves.

Maggie and I fed the bum calf in the barn. Well, not exactly a bum, since her mother is laying there, too. But the cow is so sick she can't feed the calf, so it's been getting bottle fed. It was so much fun to share that experience with my daughter, since that was my favorite thing when I was a kid. When we got done, I asked her what she thought about it and she offhandedly said, "It was alright. But I REALLY like feeding bum lambs better." AND when queried as to her preference of cows, instead of black Angus, she chose purple cows. I'm afraid her ranching career may be a shaky proposition, and we should look into other vocations when the time comes to choose.

And today, the cows are calving with all their might. Wayland and I have talked about how they seem to be more likely to calve when the barometric pressure drops, and there's weather. It appears to be true, to the grief of ranchers everywhere.

I'm going to get busy, here, washing everything I can, because I don't think we'll have power much longer. I'm completely astounded it has stayed on this long!

(And despite being completely technologically impaired, I do know what to do with the CF card, I just don't have the means to fix it right now. I'm just saying that so I won't have a whole lot of helpful tech comments on the fridge door. Just tell me what's going on in your igloo, today.)

Preschool sleepover...

Alright, I'm just going to say it right now: WHY do they call them sleepovers when no-one in the entire house sleeps?

We have cousin Livvie Ann here for the night, for a "sleepover" with Maggie Bella. And it has been so fun! So far, they've worn every dress up outfit they can find, played with dolls I forgot we had, terrorized the cats outside, swung on their tummies, drank hot cocoa, watched about 4 minutes of 3 movies, ate 'asghetti, played mermaids in the bathtub, listened to 3 stories, said prayers and now are quietly giggling in their sleeping bags. So here I am, at the computer, to squelch any tiptoeing or squeals until they finally give it up and go to sleep. You see what I mean?

And the thing about sleepovers, is that someone is going to wake up in the night and throw up. It may be the little brother, it may be the dad, it may be the guest...heck, it may even be the dog! But I can guarantee it will happen. At least that's what I remember from all the sleepovers when I was a kid.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get the sausage out of the freezer because HRH's desire biscuits and sausage gravy for breakfast, and their wish is my command...sort of.

Things that are older than Mike G.

1. Singer treadle sewing machines are older than Mike G.


2. Most California redwood trees are older than Mike G.


3. The Dead Sea Scrolls have been carbon dated, and appear to be older than Mike G.


4. Gene Autry films are older than Mike G.


5. I will have to do some research, but we believe cast iron waffle irons are older than Mike G.


6. Arrowheads are older than Mike G.


7. The United States Constitution is older than Mike G.


8. Some dinosaur fossils are older than Mike G.


9. Is the Bison Bar older than Mike G.? I think so.


10. Turning 40 jokes are older than Mike G., but I couldn't resist!*

*I hope we can still be friends. Happy Birthday!

The Farmer's Wife tells all...Part III

I've been studiously avoiding this question, from Princess Jennevieve...
It's a question that is asking for trouble, I think. Please keep in mind these opinions do not reflect the actual opinions of the Pluhar house, and may, in fact, be completely off base. (There's my disclaimer. You read it here.)

3. If we asked your husband, what would he say your best quality was? How about your biggest vice?

Alright, let's deal with the vice first. The word vice, defined by Webster, is an evil trait or habit. Are you kidding me? That seems a bit, I don't know...harsh, doesn't it? Do I HAVE evil traits or habits? And if I do, do I want to air them in the blog world, knowing full well family and community members are following this, whether they sign the guest book or not...? (After that diatribe, you no longer care what the vice is, I'm sure!) I think he would say it is this: procrastination. There. You have it. My evil trait or habit. Were you hoping for something more evil?

My best quality, according to my husband? That I'm a curious person. And not just in the curious-strange sense, but also in the curious-let's find out sort of way. It causes me to read a lot, talk to people I've never met, take tons of training and classes. Did I mention read a lot?

Three questions down, two to go! Stay in your seats, folks...the ending will be riveting...

"We buy and sell junk!"

I just committed to being a stop on the Cohagen Community Garage Sale, to be held in May, and the more I think about it, the funnier it is! I am ALL about garage sales...some of my best junk has come from garage sales. And community garage sales seem more efficient, make sense and have a sort of party feel to them. Like everybody got together on the same day for coffee and a clothes and Tupperware swap. Nice!

The funny part is, that unlike block-type garage sales, our garages are something like 15 miles apart from each other! So the Tour de Stuff will encompass about 60 miles, round trip. AND, get this: our customers will have to drive a minimum of 23 miles to get to the first stop! You have to really want to get some $.25 paperbacks and score big on gently used clothing!

The other funny thing, to me, is how the idea of garage sales brings out the entrepreneur in me. The minute I signed on, I started looking around my kitchen, trying to evaluate how attached I really am to that pot that is right at this minute full of macaroni, or trying to remember what sorts of sale-able things I have stored under the house. Could I make things to sell? Yeah! That's it! I'll make garden art and when people walk around looking at the yard, as they WILL do, they may buy some! And I can sell the kittens! Or throw them in bags, when the customers aren't looking. By the time they find them, they'll be so far in the tour that they won't have gas enough to turn back and return them....AND if they just leave them at the next garage, we all win.

THEN my mind goes to the yard, and my heart sinks. Do you realize how much work I have to do between now and then to make the place worthy to set up 3 card tables and a clothes rack? Maybe we can get the pergola done, get all the pots full of blooming annuals, have complimentary lemonade and ice tea with brownies on the deck...first, we have to stain the deck.... Can you rent mature trees for the weekend?

And we don't get much company here, so by the time all is said and done, I'll be thanking them as they try to get in their cars with my junk, the whites of their eyes rolling, stuffing dollar bills through the crack in the window...just so they can get away from that crazy farm wife and her kids. Only 8 more miles until the next sale stop!

Can't you see it?

Sadly, by the time the Tour de Stuff gets here, I will have probably only managed to price about 1 card table's worth of stuff, the deck will be unstained (except for the perpetual red Koolaid stains), nothing will be blooming, the customers will be politely looking at the kid's toys scattered around the yard and trying to figure out how to get out of eating the brownies offered by grubby little hands that cause the Koolaid stains on the deck. We will probably have to brand calves that day, so we will all be frazzled and I'll end up paying everyone $3.00/car to go to my mother-in-law's for some truly classy items, in a sanitary environment, where the tulips are in bloom.

And there you have it. Third Friday and Saturday in May. We buy and sell junk.

Muddled Monday Meanderings

In no particular order, you are going to have a sampling of some random little things that run through my mind, here and there, that don't deserve a post of their own.

My neice Kamryn calls me Crazy Mary, instead of Auntie Mary. Her sister, Livvie Ann, who is 3, calls me Uncle Mary, instead of Auntie Mary. This summer, we are going to have Crazy Uncle Mary's Sleepover Camp. I'm still working out the plan, but it will include sleeping in tents on the lawn, 3 wading pools, t-shirt painting, face painting, forbidden foods and a movie on the deck. (Wayland will be looking for lodging for those two days, so watch out!)

This is something I already talked to Traci about, but it's still bouncing around in my head...and NO! I wasn't under any anesthesia when I was thinking of it, either. You know Lazarus, Mary and Martha were dear friends of Jesus, right? And how Lazarus died, and Jesus brought him back from the dead. You know, Lazarus was in Heaven, glorious Heaven, with God. Then, WHOOP!,there he was, back on earth with all the earthly pain and fears again. What do you suppose Jesus told him, in explanation? Can you imagine being yanked back? And what poor little Martha must've been thinking about the laundry and bath issues? (This is why all the Bible studies I join seem to either fold or forget to tell me where we are meeting next...)

My family eats cereal and ice cream out of coffee mugs. Very portable, and your hands don't get cold holding the ice cream. I eat soup that way too, but they prefer bowls for that entree.

Do you apologize to plants when you pinch them back or accidentally yank them out, thinking they are weeds? I thought I was maybe the only one, but then I ran across this passage in People With Dirty Hands :

"When I pull up a good plant by mistake," she writes me at summer's end, "I say to myself Mr Rochester's words after his marriage to Jane Eyre is interrupted: 'Jane, if a man had a lamb that was the love of his bosom and he sent it to slaughter, he could not rue his bloody mistake more than I do.' That's if I pull a whole plant. If I cut the wrong flower, sometimes I say, 'Jane, I never meant to hurt you.' If it's only cutting a live bud when I'm deadheading, I just say, 'Jane.' They know what I mean."

And speaking of gardening...you know I was going to get there! I just watched a French movie, Jean de Flourette, and I want to recommend it to anyone who has struggled with a garden, big dreams and neighbors. It made me laugh and cry and shake my head and wish I had a friend to share the movie with and, of course, talk about it! (It's got subtitles, but if you can get past that, I highly recommend it.) And here's something funny: I'm reading the captions, right? Because I don't actually speak French. BUT the kids started squalling and I found myself shushing them! Like it would matter!

There's a music player at the bottom of this blog and it's loaded with all sorts of weird music, naturally. I have it set to where if you want to listen to the songs, you have to hit the play button yourself. This is in deference to those mommies who check blogs while their kids nap. I can just see someone sitting her poor, longsuffering self down with the much anticipated coffee to read Cohagen Chronicles, only to have Ella Fitzgerald's Cow Cow Boogie waking the baby up. I don't want to be responsible for that sort of thing. ALSO, different posts seem to need different background music...soundtrack, if you will. When you read about the kids, please try Mr. Mom or Loretta Lynn's classic, One's On The Way. Cooking posts are good with jazz. Posts about Jordan and Garfield County go nicely with the old country songs...you get the idea. Enjoy.

Okay, I think that's about all the craziness you can handle this morning. Everyone is on the mend. Be sure and read my husband's post about night calving and the skunk...made me laugh! (His blog changed, and the comments don't work...bummer. )

The dog in the picture isn't mine...I just thought it looked like most people do on Mondays...

Seed Swap Sunday

Well, it was supposed to be Seed Swap Saturday, BUT better late than never, right? Here's what I'm going to do. I'll list the seeds I have for give-aways and the seeds I'd like to get my grubby hands on. If you see anything that interests you, leave a comment. We can email addresses, then, and I'll put the seeds in the mail on Wednesday, when I take Maggie to preschool. Also, if you leave a sticky note on the fridge door (comment), I'll put your name in a drawing for a reclining ceramic frog. He's cute, kitchsy, and small enough (5 inches) that he won't make the neighbors groan if you put him in a flower pot!

Here's what I have:

1. Super Sugar Snap peas (Doesn't that remind you of Sugar Smacks cereal?)
   
2. Blue Lake bush beans
   
3. Short n' Sweet carrots (Grows in heavy soil...mine is sandy. I think Maggie threw those in the cart last year.)
   
4. Peony poppies
   
5. Cosmos
   
6. Zinnias
   
7. Sugar Sprint peas
   
8. Ruby Queen corn
   

Here's what I'd like:

1. Sweet peas (Do you think I've been buying the wrong kind of peas?)


2. Forellenschuss lettuce


3. Pinapple tomatillo


4. Four o'clocks


5. Anything that is vine-y and annual...but NOT morning glories! (That's for Eric Miller...)
   

And, if you have any compost tips, I could use them. It's always too wet, too dry, too green, too brown, too fluffy...never steaming and black. That's my goal and I'm failing miserably.