The Cohagen Kid Rides Again...

He's one tough hombre... ...in his Lightening McQueen pullup britches and fishing t-shirt.

I'm not sure what caliber his gun is. It's a pretty good sidearm for when sisters get on your nerves.
(He mostly just hits her on the head with it.)

If you act like you are terribly wounded, and go through a lot of dying contortions, he likes you better.

You may have to die three or four times before you get it right, but when you do, this is the look you get.

Stick 'em up!

The Cohagen Kid never misses.

Rascal...

This morning, after bottle-feeding the bums, I decided to run back in to the house to get an empty margarine container with which to scoop sweet mix/creep feed. There, perched on the counter, with his arm in the fish tank up to HIS SHOULDER, was my son; looking for all the world like a raccoon who got caught fishing. Guilty look and everything. When he saw me, ready to spank him, he started hollering, "I wanna get down, Mom! I wanna get down!" Like that would somehow save his life, or something. He had put one of his cows in the tank and was apparently trying to get it out when he was caught. I left it in there, and now there are 3 goldfish, 4 silver fish and a plastic Angus cow in our fish tank. And the fish are nervous wrecks, now....

I started thinking, though, that he's remarkably like a little raccoon. He likes shiny things, and will stash them in odd places so that we won't take them away from him. He likes water, and dunks almost everything, to see if it will float, sink, dissolve or soften. He climbs EVERYTHING, and when he gets up high enough, he chatters down at us. He makes the dog crazy. He has little scrabbly, dirty paws, and they get into mischief without trying.

You see?

All that's missing is the mask.

Alright, I'll give it a whirl...

Miss Lori, at the Altered Glass blog I follow, gave me a blogging award yesterday, and the instructions to pass it on. I'm thrilled with the funny little logo! Iit's located right above the French word of the day. (Does anyone try those? I retain absolutely nothing, but I'm learning pronunciation...)

Back to the award; I'm supposed to list 5 things I really love, in no particular order. I can DO that!

1. I love the Lord. 2. I love my family...especially when they are sleeping, like right now. 3. Coffee 4. Books, all of them. 5. I love my friends; I love them most when we are sharing books and coffee. 6. I love Mollie, who falls under family, even though she's a dog. 7. Food; and when I say I love food, I don't mean the stuff you're supposed to eat when you're trying to lose weight...that's not food. I mean with real butter, real sugar, real vanilla, white flour, fresh fruit, corn-fed beef, bacon....you get the idea. 8. I love football. 9. And fishing. 10. I love gardening. I'm not good at it, but I love it. (Yes, I know that's more than 5 things! Did you really think I'd stop at 5? Lists are fun! Remember, I did the 89 Things To Do In 2009....)

NOW for the tricky part. I'm supposed to pass this along to 5 other bloggers, with links to their blogs. Hmmm. Well, here goes... I bestow, with great pomp and fanfare, the Fabulous Blog award to: Farmchicks Frantics, Country Wife, Latte Buddies , The Corry Story, and lastly but not leastly, Moments with Marisa.

The instructions for accepting the award are posted on Altered Glass, so I won't retype them here...I will scramble something up, and ooopsies! there we'd be.

(Oh, and I read a couple of very manly blogs that I think are fabulous, and I DID consider awarding them this, just to see if they'd put a picture of a shopping lady on their sidebars, but that's pushing it....so someday when I find a skull and crossbones or some such thing to award your blog, I'll do it.)

Postcards from the pasture...

For my friends whose hearts are on the prairie, no matter where they are... Checkin' the tires.




This is where he left the hat, and I liked the writing next to it.

All the pictures you see of Montana in magazines have mountains looming.

And mountains are beautiful, but there's a whole "nother" side to the state!

(This picture is for Princess Jen, who loves Brittanies. This is as close to a good point as we get.)
I'm always intrigued at how things grow in the most inhospitable places, and flourish.

A hawk, that was highly miffed at me wrecking his rabbit hunt.

Nope, no cows. It's the winter pasture.

The short windmill...

Looking south, past my yard fence.

...speaking of Dads....

It occured to me, today, that Father's Day is fast approaching and here I sit with no ideas. Okay, let's amend that statement...no GOOD ideas. As you can see, I can make my Dad something to eat, like dark chocolate truffles, and he'll be overjoyed. And the same goes for my father-in-law, although his tastes run more to kolaches or homemade donuts.

My husband, now, is the tough one. I can't buy him scuba stuff because A. I can't afford it, and B. I don't know what to buy. He doesn't worship food, of any sort. (I can't believe we've been together 10 years, now, with that sort of difference!) He has more clothes, coats, gidgets and gadgets than he can use or wear in a year.

Out of the blue, I thought of one of those singing fish plaques, to hang on the wall. You know, something unique and tasteful. (I can just see some of my friends smacking their hands to their foreheads....and not because THEY wished THEY had thought of it first....) Really, I wasn't serious, but it was an amusing thought.

So I go to Overstock.com, to take a gander at their singing fish. Sure enough, there was a bass on a chunk of nicely routered plywood, labeled a trout, indicating some identity crisis on his part. A trout wannabe. And it was reasonably priced at $14.95. But wait, this is the good part:

IT WAS SOLD OUT!

I swear it was!

It gets better.

People who viewed this, also viewed: a Scarface cigar box, a plastic Dallas Cowboys clock, AND a 2003 World Series reproduction baseball, unsigned.

Those were our second choices, since some 2000 lucky Dads were going to get the singing bass/trout.

So....

What are YOU going to get Dad for Father's Day? (And if you were one of the one's who bought the last singing fish plaque, contact me. We can maybe work out a deal...)

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Today is my dad's 61st birthday, and I'll bet he thinks I forgot about it. He's been in Washington, watching a granddaughter graduate from high school, and when I tried calling, I got the ranch-sitter! I tried to scan several pictures of him, but this is the only one that worked, so here you go. Isn't he cute? I can really see a lot of Dad in my son, some days.

Here are some things about Bill Dutton that you really need to know:

• He's a great storyteller, in true Dutton tradition. My Dad can characterize and mimic like you can't believe, and often times, when telling a story, he ends up laughing so hard he has tears. Just like those of us listening!



• He loves food. All kinds of food....and he's not scared to try new things. I love that about my Dad! When all the other kids were eating burgers at 4B's family restaurant, we'd be eating sweet and sour pork at Wong Village. He encouraged us to be adventurous in our tastes, and even now, when I order a Thai pizza, instead of pepperoni, I think of him.



• The man can cook, too. I remember watching him "doctor the beans" when I was little, and I think that's where I learned to cook with a dab of this and a smidgen of that. If you ever have the opportunity to taste his barbeque sauce, don't pass it by.



• My Dad has the most tender heart, especially for animals. Although he won't want this to get out (too late!), he's the one who got the pets and named the cows and horses. I thought all dads were like this, and boy, was it a shock when I found out differently.



• A little known fact: he can sing, but he won't, very often. I love to hear his voice, singing the hymns at church.



• My dad is cowboy, through and through, and he always has been, to my knowledge. And when I say "cowboy", I don't mean buckaroo, rodeo or anything like that. Dad rides like he breathes, and always seems more at home on his horse than anywhere else.



• He loves silver things; jewelry and spurs and bits. Dad has great taste in jewelry, and I got a bit spoiled, having baubles for holidays! (I also thought all men were like my Dad, in this respect. They are not. )



• Dad didn't do all that well in school, from what I gather, and I'm not sure why, because he's a lifelong learner; inquisitive, thoughtful and bright. He read us Charlie Russell and Will James, when we were kids.



• My Dad teases, a LOT; but he doesn't always take the teasing back very graciously. I can always tell when I'm being teased, though, because of the twinkle in his eye. And I see that twinkle in his granddaughter and grandson's eyes quite a bit, too!

I hope he doesn't mind that I did this. I guess; what's he going to do, ground me? I love him a lot, and hope he has a great birthday. And gets a really dark chocolate, with a small glass of Merlot, for his birthday treat.

Mysteries of life

Some people think very deep, very profound things, and write them well. If you are one of these people, you'll probably want to go find another blog to cogitate on....

It's not that I DON'T think deeply and introspectively; I'm capable of it. It's just that I spend most of my time pondering the other mysteries of life. The day to day sorts of wonders that no one ever dares speak out loud.

There's a verse in the Bible that comes to mind, and greatly amuses me. It's found in Proverbs, chapter 30, verse 18. In the NIV translation, this is what it says: "There are three things that are too amazing for me, four that I do not understand:" Really? Only three? No, four. I have that many things that amaze me in the space of a cookie recipe!

Here are a couple of mine. These are not deep, but they bug the heck out of me...

1. Why IS it, that the little pluggy thingee in the sink WON'T hold water until you are trying to actually drain the water? Then it holds liquid like it's sealed with silicone! (Do I hear an "amen"?)

2. A dirty house attracts parties of friends and relatives, but a clean house seems to repel them.

3. Wearing high heels OR a skirt will cause a tire to flatten on the way to church or a job interview.

4. Kids can't hear you hollering in their ear with a megaphone on "High", but they can hear the crackle of a candy bar wrapper through 3 closed doors, a running vaccum cleaner, under your sweatshirt. (Hypothetically speaking, of course....)

5. Where does that sweater go, that you shove from side to side in a drawer for three weeks, on the one day you need it?

6. Bad hair days happen for weddings, class reunions, family photos and dates. Good hair days happen for working cows, gardening, cleaning house and days when the kids have the flu.

7. Do ice cubes evaporate, or what? I don't ever remember having that many iced beverages, yet the tray is stubbornly empty EVERY TIME.

8. You can wait until July 15 to set out your tomato plants and your tender annuals, then for the first time since dinosaurs roamed the earth, it will frost. It's HISTORICALLY impossible, but it will happen.

9. We've covered this one before, but I'd really like to know if one half of every 10 pair of socks dissolves in the wash. (I think the Chinese are getting back at us, this way, and perhaps American made socks don't dissolve. Note to self: look into this one.)

You see? I could go on, but I will, in great mercy, stop here. One of the questions that drove me wild for years was, "What makes toothpaste sweet? And if it's sugar, should we really be brushing our teeth with it 2-4 times a day?" I posed this question to my cousin Robert, who happens to be very smart and dentically trained. (I know, it's not a real word, but it should be...) He had actually never thought of that, and after some research, reported back that it was sorbitol...a sort of sugar alcohol that evaporates. Well, now I can brush my teeth without worrying, and so can you.

What sorts of things baffle you?

Go Fish...

I have a fly-rod, and I'm not afraid to use it.

I have NO idea HOW to use it, but I'm not afraid to learn.

I live in Eastern Montana, home of the Walleye Weekend Warriors, and I'm a closet Trout Taker.

(At least I would be if I knew how to use the dang fly rod!)

My grandpas on both sides were fishermen, and I don't remember NOT knowing how to fish. My Grandpa Mosby lived in Lewistown, in the land of fresh spring creeks and trout hatcheries and no bugs. (Seriously. There are really no biting bugs to speak of, there!) He had an impressive supply of FAT worms and was generous with them, although, in reflection, we never really caught a lot of fish with the worms and pink marshmallows. I used to tease him, by tying his worms in knots before handing them to him. He'd laugh, and put them on the hook that way. Fishing in the Lewistown area was cool, dewy and always smelled better, somehow. The trout were firm, pink and DELICIOUS, wrapped in tinfoil with butter. Mercy!

My Gramps, here in Garfield County, took us fishing at Fred Fitch's reservoir. It was a prairie pothole, warm and weedy, with thousands of biting bugs and gumbo mud that would suck in the hapless fisherman. He, too, brought along worms and pink marshmallows, but his worms were much leaner, having tried to make a life in Garfield County dirt. Gramps also taught me how to use lures....little chartreuse spinners seemed to show up better in the murky water....and taught me how to tie quintessential fishing knots. The fish we caught in Fred Fitch's reservoir were flabby, weedy and slow, but we had a lot of success in landing them.

The thing I remember most, from both experiences, was the incredible patience of both my grandpas. They took so much time with us, baiting hooks, untangling lines, cleaning fish. (As we got older, we were "allowed" to clean our own fish. But Gramps made sure we did it properly, neatly and no waste.) I also remember the quiet times spent casting, the thrill of the tug on my line, the sandwiches Grandma packed and the taste of dirty, pastel marshmallows snuck from the bait bag. And as we rattled home in Gramps' old white pickup, with the windows rolled down and the Montana evening air blowing my hair around my face, I remember thinking just before falling asleep, "I wish I could fish every day."

When I came home from college, after my junior year, Gramps had a tackle box made up for me, filled with funny little lures (yes, there was a chartreuse spinner...still the best), enough fishing line to outfit 5 poles, weights, bait hooks, a package of questionable smoked sardine-looking bait, bobbers and a jackknife. We sat down together on cottonwood logs, in the sun at the front of his house and went through it, discussing the proper usage and merits of each component. He liked tackle boxes, because of all the little compartments and places for everything. He'd use every square inch for something. He put my lead weights in a hinged jewelry box, and I wonder if Grandma knew where it had gone.

I made my friends Karen and Heather go fishing, for my birthday one year, in Lewistown. It was a failure as a fishing trip....we lost a pole and about 3 lures, but we laughed all the way there, and rejoiced over our greasy burgers. They were such a treat for starving school teachers!

My boyfriend at the time was a serious walleye fisherman, and tried to interest me in the obsessive world of walleyes, but I could never distinguish the bottom from the fish, and didn't like the confinement of the boat. I prefer to roam and fish, and he was a sit and fish guy. (This isn't why we broke up, but I wonder if it didn't contribute to the deline of the relationship....)

For my first Mother's Day, Wayland and Maggie proudly presented me with my very own fly-rod and accessories....I was SO excited!!! It had been a dream of mine, this landlocked prairie girl, to learn to fly fish! I had great aspiriations, and dragged my husband and daughter to the fly-shop in Billings for expert advice and to have my reel wound. But it turns out that it's pretty hard to get away and get any sort of instruction when you have a toddler. And then you have another. And then your budget gets quite tight, so the choice between fly-fishing instruction and shoes for the kids seems like a non-issue. (Upon reflection, this rainy morning, I may have made the wrong choice here, because the kids seldom wear the shoes, anyway. Hmmm.)

Every summer, still, I miss my Gramps and my Grandpa Mosby so much. And I pat my fishing poles and that funny little tackle box, containing ancient spinners and bobbers, and wonder where I could take them to revive. My fly-rod is still a virgin, and probably will remain so for a couple more years.

Maggie is old enough, now, to start fishing, and she'll be a doozy. I'm anxious to get her to a muddy old reservoir, introduce her to the worms and marshmallows and chartreuse spinners. She'll love reeling in flippy little trout and examining their otherworldly scales. My grandpas would have loved mentoring this one. She'll have a gingersnap in one filthy hand, and a worm in the other. We may get to Lewistown, this summer, to fish the waters God blessed.

For the Fontologist...

I did not intend for this to be the first picture of the garden montage! We use a lot of old farm tools and parts in our garden decor. Maggie put the old pitchfork tines in the birdbath, and the birds actually kind of like it! They perch on it and splash and fuss. In the foreground is some of the honeysuckle monster.

Every year I wonder why I planted the darn thing, until it blooms and causes the most glorious fragrance outside Maggie's bedroom window.

Soldierly iris, in formation, and framed by an old gear.

Pinapple mint...mmmm!
I love the variagation. I love the softness of the foliage. I love the true pinapple scent.


A very, very, very cold baby tomato plant, in it's little plastic tipi.
I think I need to mound up more dirt around the stem. I already buried it about 8 inches deep! All the tomato plants available last week were about 12 spindly inches tall. I'm not sure it's going to be warm enough to make tomatos, in time, but I can't live without the hope of those little red summer flavor bombs!

(I can't think of the proper name of these darling daisiy-like flowers, and I'm not going to go digging through my labels for a blog post...)

This is probably the first time I've planted anything pastel. It goes against my grain, but I couldn't leave these darlings at the greenhouse, and so evolved a soft, dreamy theme. I still pass by, and get the feeling that someone else planted that whiskey barrel!

Baby cucumber seedlings. They, too, are so cold that they nearly crackle. I'm so proud of these little things, braving the frost!

This is a terrible picture of the beans. Between the bean grid and the lettuce ruffles are rows of carrots. "Were" rows of carrots. I could see them a couple of days ago, but after this cold snap, I'm not sure we still have any. I still have seeds (surprise, surprise), so I can re-seed them if necessary.

See that feathery, lacy foliage?

EVIL YARROW INVASION!!!

A closer look at the lettuce, and the bean in the background.

If I squint, I can barely see two little carrot sprouts. That will NEVER do!

Dripping chives....gosh, they're pretty!

Maggie likes to walk by and grab spears to chew on as she plays. It gives her onion breath...ew!

More iris infantry, in front of the blue spruce and beside the rock bench. The little wheelbarrow between them is an old child's wheelbarrow, and is used daily by my "un-gardener" Angus.

Aquilegia lovelies!

They are one of my favorite flowers, and are blooming abundantly right now.

They volunteer all over the place, and I encourage it. There's something about shooting star flowers that just makes my heart happy.

I have a BUNCH of seeds that I haven't yet sown, but I think I'm just going to give it up and do that, this afternoon. In my wool sweater, my winter coat, and mittens. It's JUNE, for pete's sake!!! One good thing: the lettuce hasn't taken a notion to bolt. It can barely grow at a regular rate!

The weeds are forming thick, formidable colonies in my flower beds, taunting me and threatening puny-looking domesticated plants. Don't tell them, but I'm waging war, this week. And I'm not a die-hard organic gardener, either. I'm willing to use herbicide on the weeds that think they can rough me up.

Time travel by tulle...

What do you do on a cold, rainy Sunday, when you can't get to church? Well, the Farmer and his Wife dug out a time capsule of sorts, from the storage area under the house. Maggie wants to use my old Charlie Brown lunchbox when she goes to school this fall, and she simply HAD to inspect it this morning. We got busy and dug it out, along with many other blasts from the past.

Once upon a time, when the Farmer's Wife was a very young girl, my Aunt Margie (pronounced mar-ghee) let my sister and I dress up in her daughter's old prom dresses. It must've made a huge impression in my psyche, because I saved MY prom dress, from 1988/1989, for my daughter to dress up in. And yes, it was big. And yes, it was poofy. And it was very, very pink...with tiny hearts all over the pink parts. Where there wasn't a swath of pink hearts, there was lace or tulle. Think cotton candy, with ribbons. (This was 20 years ago, and I had only $100 of my school janitor cleaning money with which to find a dress. AND I was terribly romantic. All factors in the decision to buy this frothy gown!)

SO, today, after shaking it out and thrilling my daughter, some crazy thought entered my head to try it on! (We are pretty bored. And I had had quite a bit of coffee. Anything is possible.) AND IT FIT!!!! Without sucking in my breath or binding anything....it fit! That made my day. And Maggie really thought I was a queen...she even curtsyed to me. (Wayland laughed, and ran for the camera. )

After trying on "the dress", Wayland and I sat down to read all the Sagebrush Sagas (our high school rag) from 1987. Why I saved ALL of them, I don't know. But I do, now, have some really good stuff on Pam Cayer and Michael Green. Two copies of some things....I believe I'll put them in a safe place until the need arises to properly implement them for public humiliation.

It was a really fun morning! Sort of like a class reunion in a box, only without the pressure. My kids think I'm crazier, but that's okay. And Maggie is loving the Charlie Brown lunch pail, from 1979, and planning what to hide in it's depths; bless her little heart!

A politically incorrect recipe for you...

Before you start getting all incensed about my recipe title, and writing pointed comments for the fridge door, let me tell you that this recipe wasn't named by a member of my family. And I don't know what else to call it. "Native American Woman Corn Casserole" is pretty cumbersome to write across the top of the recipe card. But feel free to call it whatever makes you comfortable.

My Aunt Bert introduced Squaw Corn to us when I was a little kid, and from the first taste, I was smitten. When I got old enough to dig through the recipe box and attempt some cooking, it was one of the easiest recipes to make. Today we're having it with ham, but it's really great with steak, too. This version has been modified a little, because I can't stand not tinkering with food, so this is my take on Squaw Corn!

Squaw Corn

Mix together in a large bowl:

2 cans cream corn

2 beaten eggs

3/4 c. cornmeal

1 tsp garlic salt

1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 cup cooking oil

1 can diced green chilies

Pour half of the mixture in a casserole dish, and layer with 1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese.

Pour remaining corn mixture on top of cheese, and top with ANOTHER cup shredded cheddar.

Bake at 350 degrees, uncovered, until a knife comes out of the center clean. *Maybe an hour? Depends on your oven.

Serve warm.

Kids and Calves

Introducing Annie Light...she finally got used to us, and has become a rather pushy member of the OC herd. After about 3 days of listening to the other calves shlurping the bottles, she decided she'd consort with the common calves and sample a bottle.

Now, she tramples over the top of them getting to the chow, and she's so obnoxious, she makes Daisy look positively prim. She finishes Festus' bottle most days, and consumes a goodly amount of rolled oats and pellets. I think she'll be a keeper!

Annie Light and Festus Jack...little tongues out, in anticipation.

Annie is true black, and fine boned. My other two calves are more dark chocolate colored, and she's making them look a little shabby.

Daisy Mae and Festus
Daisy is still the lead calf and bosses the other two around quite a bit.
Wayland moved their pen fence, to allow them more alfalfa and grass, and last night all I could see of Daisy was her rump and happily switching tail! She's growing at a good rate.
We are going to brand them, this next week, and she will not be impressed.


These are a bunch of 7's, watching the chores with rapt attention. These cows are 2 year olds that just had their first calf this spring, so they are like teenage mothers. Notice there are no calves with them...they are dingbats!

Dingbat 7's, pretending to be scared so they have a reason to dash away. Immediately following this shot, they put on the brakes and turned, once again, in unison to watch the chores again.

They tickle me!

Yeah, that's my boy....he climbs EVERYTHING!

Here he is, wanting to get down in the pen with Daisy and Festus, but he forgot his boots. So he has to cling to the fence like a little sparrow, chirping about the whole situation.

Angus, again. I keep looking at this picture, trying to locate his other leg.

I think it's behind the fencepost.

This looks like a sweet picture, but Maggie has Angus pinned, hugging him. (Angus doesn't like being hugged, unless it's his idea...and Maggie knows this.)

I love this picture of the little feeties!!!

Princess Maggie Bella, surveying her rural kingdom...

This week I'm helping with Vacation Bible School, or VBS, in Jordan, so that's why you haven't heard much from the Chronicles. Now, I know the Bible verse that states" I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me" but I've usually embraced that verse for little stuff...like giving birth. Or working bulls in the corral.

Yesterday, I recreated nine of the ten plagues visited on Pharaoh, 4 times! That's right...4 insane times. The day before that, it was the burning bush, with the voice of God. Today, I'm building Israelite tract housing and we're doing the Passover. And each time, I have 20 minutes to do the lesson, one terrified little junior high helper, and a 5 minute re-setup time.

The glorious thing (and really, it is, once we got past the shock of it) is that although we planned for about 30 kids, we've hosted around 45. Isn't that cool?!

(I think we lost a couple of leaders, though. In fact, the lady who was to do crafts all week, called and said her husband was in the hospital and the doctors just can't figure out what his malady is. Doesn't that sound suspicious? They've come up with "maybe it's the spleen", which is safe, because nobody really knows anything about the spleen, it's location or habits. Hmmmm....)

It has been a little rough, for this laid back family to be on the road first thing in the morning, when we're usually feeding the bums and watering flowers in our bare feet. And we are TIRED! Not just because of the socialization stuff, either.

All the songs in this VBS are aerobic. I hopped on the scale, yesterday morning, and was down two pounds. And it's not because I've been eating salads, mind you. When we get done with the morning songs, there are leaders sprawled in the pews, clutching their chests and praying for air and strength. It's pretty inspirational. But the kids are wound up to a respectable level, for the lessons.

AND (this is a particularly endearing component of the program) when the leaders say key phrases, such as God is powerful, the kids respond with a shout that could fell Jericho's walls, FEAR NOT!

Little old ladies across the street are starting to wonder if God is speaking to them, because while they are making their lukewarm Sanka coffee out of Jordan water, they are hearing "Fear Not!", when they haven't heard a thing in years. The Lord is moving in this town, I tell you, and it's not just with the kids...

Well, I'm off to the shower and Day Three. Please keep us in your prayers, and if you aren't doing anything for the rest of the week, we have jobs for the brave. Fear not!

Lost in Translation, Part I of an ongoing series...

It has been suggested I write about Rancher-ese, a complex form of communication employed by rural Montana men. Thus far, to my knowledge, there has not been a definitive manual on this dialect and it is long overdue. We're going to start with some vocabulary. (And by all means, if you have some to add, please comment!)

A pretty good goudge- This is a term of measurement, used to denote an amount of feed; generally, but not limited to, cake pellets or hay. It can be modified from "a pretty good goudge" to "a little goudge". The amount of the goudge depends on the barometric pressure that day, size of the bale, approximate body score of the cows or mood of the man at that very moment. (Note: if you are his wife, you WILL estimate wrong. Every time. Don't sweat it, you can't be fired.)

A little ways- Again, a term of measurement, only this time it ascertains distance. In my experience, it usually means "5-10 miles as the crow flies", which can be stretched out, depending on the draws and coullees between Point A and Point B. If you have to find a specific fence post, they will direct you "a little ways North of the reservoir". Good luck.

This afternoon- A time span that starts sometime around 10 AM and can extend to midnight of that same day. Usually, I get a call from the Farmer telling me to be ready to move cows "this afternoon". I may get another call in about 15 minutes wondering where the h--l I'm at, already!

A small bunch- Between 15-130 head of cattle.

A minute- A measure of time that can cover anywhere from 15 minutes to 2 hours.

He may stay for lunch- He MOST CERTAINLY will be staying for lunch, along with 3 other guys that are here to help. We'll need something for coffee, too, if it isn't too much trouble. This afternoon.

Were you going to town today?- You are, now.

The summer pasture- One of two pastures with the same name, used during the same time of year (obviously). You are expected to osmotically know which little bunch of cows is going to go in which summer pasture. (You will always choose wrong.)

You didn't have any other plans, did you?- Well, if you did, they are null and void as of this moment.

That piece of paper- The little dirty, smudged, barely recognizable-as-a-document thing that has been laying on the counter since last December, with 3 cow numbers written on it, that is the only thing between us and bankruptcy that you finally threw away this morning. (Glaring and stomping around the kitchen accompany this revelation...)

parts- These are objects with a myriad of descriptive terms that you'll be sent to town for. You will have all the components carefully noted on "that piece of paper"....things like "3/16 quarter counter screw lug nut with a 9/16 half wrench rictofrazzer, stainless, not brass alloy". And I can GUARANTEE you that there will be one crucial detail missing from that description on a $250 non-refundable "part" that is needed in 30 minutes in order to complete harvest, thus saving the family from sure and immediate homelessness. And the rancher who gave you the list will be unavailable by any means of communication...yes, even smoke signals. So you and the parts man will choose the wrong one.

It's no hurry- It's urgent, and needed to be done yesterday.

Here's an actual statement from my husband; see if you can translate it, using the terminology you just learned.

"Hon, we're going to move that small bunch of cows from up North, a little ways to the summer pasture this afternoon. We'll need to give them a little goudge of hay when we get there.

Were you going to town today? I need some parts from NAPA, but it's no hurry on that. The little piece of paper on the counter has the list. You didn't have any other plans today, did you?"

This is by no means an exhaustive chart of Rancher-ese. In fact, there are so many terms that I'll be adding to it now and again as I encounter them. And stay tuned for my special post on Rancher Hand Signals; coming soon.

Print it out, post it on the fridge...

(I couldn't get the image to scan straight.) For those non-native Eastern Montanans, this comic is drawn by Wally Badgett aka MC TinStar, a Miles City cowboy- turned cartoonist. I don't know how many of his cartoons are clipped from the local papers and taped to ranch refridgerators or (rather pointedly) dusty dashboards of feed pickups....