Unplugged

After 6+ weeks of no signal from the dish, we called Dish Network and shut 'er down. They promised all sorts of wonderful deals if we'd remain valuable customers....upgrade our package (of 4 channels? ANYTHING would be an upgrade!) for half price, send out a service representative, free movie channels....and we politely declined. So, we are free. Even with the four channels, we really only watched PBS occasionally, and the evening news twice a week. The only thing about shutting the tube off that makes us even sort of sad, is the loss of Sunday afternoon football. But, really, in the big picture, I think we can deal with that. We'll just take the kids to a sports bar. (NO, NOT REALLY! I know there are grannies out there, swooning and fixing to write a big old comment for the fridge door!)

Now, I'm going to go through the movies, and cull. (I know, I know...that's a cow term. That's what we do, here, so that's the vocabulary we use.) I think I'll send most of the movies to grandparent's houses, and then we can rotate them in and out, when the dark days of winter set in.

I really hate it when people get all pious about not having television, and act as though they are morally superior. Of course, I think that the United States society would be better off without the 2390 channels of trash we plop down in front of, watching 30 seconds of each channel and finding nothing on. But I also know that it can be a wonderful thing; I've been in hospitals and dentist's offices and been very grateful for the diversion. Many people can be reached in a short amount of time when disasters strike, and you can find out what's going on in the world, rather than being insulated in your safe little burrow. (I like my burrow, but I understand the need to know what's going on in the rest of the jungle...)

I grew up without television, save that at the grandparent's houses, and I don't really remember resenting the absence of it. I DO remember being the only child in the United States who thought the Dukes of Hazzard was a medieval show, until I saw an episode at a friend's house, and being at a distinct disadvantage when we played TV tag at recess. But I was a child who lived worlds and lives through books, and television was a sad second to my imagination.

Well, the Farmer took the Princess and the Heir Apparent to visit their grandparents for awhile this morning, so I'd better get busy around here and swab something or sort something. It has been a treat to complete a blog post in under 2 hours! Happy Saturday, and I hope you all are out doing something fun for Labor Day, so you won't read this until Tuesday morning. Labor Day is also a national holiday, here at Lang's Fork, Inc. but it is appropriately celebrated by laboring!

Putting out saltnminrall...

Molly Jo, supervising the entire operation...

Every job has a boss, and she's ours!

Have you ever read Hank, The Cowdog? That's a pretty good narrative, from a dog's point of view, about life on the ranch...

The coming two's, snoopy teenage cows , wondering what's shakin' at the salt trough...
...Are those KIDS?.....

We're outta here!!!

Saltnmin'rall

Mix 'er up....

Making sure Daddy pours the saltnmin'rall just right.

Prairie princess

Stompie McStomps-a-lot

Top o'the hill!

I love tests!

Yes, I was one of those kids, in school. I lived for test days. I was terrible, however, at the daily sort of assignments. I got them done, and they were done pretty well, but they really grated on my nerves. As did writing papers. (I liked the research on papers, and if I could only have presented the information verbally, I'd have really shone...) But, tests...now, TESTS were FUN! I loved that they were sort of mysterious, tough, one sitting, and there was rather a science to taking them. Once, in college, my cousin Carl Lee needed a victim to take I.Q. tests for his Master's classes, and I had the opportunity to really work the old test-ing brain out. (I think he passed the class, and probably got extra credit for finding a most remarkably inept testee, and sticking with it....)

When I find quizzes or tests on blogs, I take ' em. Today, on a blog I follow, called This Ain't New York, there was a post called the Random Dozen....a dozen unrelated questions for the blogger to answer. It's as close to a test as I can get, today. (Domestic disasters not withstanding....) So here, for your reading pleasure, is my answers to the Random Dozen. Pour a beverage before you start; that way you have something to spurt through your nose as you read....

1. When you go to Wowmart, what one thing do you get every single time, besides a funky-wheeled squeaking cart full of frustration? A headache. Seriously. That is one store that I can barely make myself enter. I missed the female shopping gene, somehow, and these stores are particularly painful for me. With regards to products, however, I'd probably walk outta there with greeting cards.

2. What is something that people are currently "into" that you just don't get or appreciate? Facebook. And I really wish I could do it, because there's a whole sort of culture there, and much information is shared that I miss. I end up relying on my husband, the Farmer, for all the news that is news, in e-land.

3. What is something that really hoists your sail that other people might feel "ho-hum" about?
Well, it's not school finance, that's for sure! Oddly enough, this is sort of a stumper. New high heels and old jazz. How's that?

4. Favorite song to sing in the shower or car? I'll give you two, since one is nonsensical..."Icka-backa, Soda Cracka" for my kids, and "Amazing Grace".

5. A really great salad must have this ingredient: Imagination! There's nothing worse than a boring salad. Well, there ARE worse things, but I'm trying to keep it in context, here.

6. Advice in a nutshell to new bloggers (one or two sentences): Don't worry about who's reading your blog, or what they think. If they don't like your stuff, they can stay away....

7. What was the alternate name that your parents almost named you? Do you wish they had chosen it instead of the one they gave you? My parents never revealed my alternate name, if there was one, but I always wanted a "cooler" name. I was a "Mary" in a generation of Kimberlys, Brittanys, and Tiffanys.

8. What in your life are you waiting for? The housekeeping fairy. And self cleaning bathrooms. They show that sort of thing on the Jetsons....

9. You get a package in the mail. What is it, and who is it from? It will be a package of treasures, some new, some old, mostly Red Raider-wear and retro fun, from my Aunt Bert! Oh! and there might be a Texas cookbook enclosed. And a letter that brings tears to my eyes. Have I ever told you about my Aunt Bert? I'll have to do another post....

10. Today--what song represents you? Gollies, I can find something in every song! Perhaps, Pat Green's Crazy. There's a line in there that says, " If I am truly crazy, don't you know I like myself that way. If I'm really goin' on out of my mind, won't you hop on board, and make your getaway?" Yeah. That's probably the one....

11. What is one thing that blogging has taught you about yourself? I was surprised to find my enjoyment in writing! And to find that if I write (type) everyday, I'm a much happier person. How weird is THAT?!

12. How are you going to (or how did you) choose the clothes you're wearing today? What do they say about you in general or specifically how you're feeling today? Well, drats. I chose them because they were on top of the "working-clothes-that-fit" pile, and they scream, "This dame shops at thrift stores; a long-time Texas Tech Red Raiders fan, with a strong agricultural background and funky taste in jewelry." I'll leave it to your imagination as to what I came up with.

Blessedly, the Random Dozen list is done. Anyone else?

"Did you just say, 'The bathroom is flooded?'...."

Those were the words mumbled by my husband, from under his pillow, at 6:43 this morning.


And yes, the bathroom WAS flooded, and the boy-child was miraculously alive, in his room wailing, his mother tearing through the house, looking for anything terry-cloth that may be used to swab up the floor. Thank the good Lord that I'd had half a cup of coffee, or this paragraph would probably have had a different flavor, and my blog would be tagged as inappropriate for family viewing....

Have you ever listened to Bill Cosby's first album, Bill Cosby, Himself ? There's a sketch he does, called "Kill the Boy", where he comes home from work and his wife is sitting on the couch, barely hanging on to sanity, and she orders him to go upstairs and kill the boy. That sketch leapt to my mind this morning.

The morning had started like every other morning....I wobbled out to the kitchen, attempted to make coffee undercover, and leaned on the counter while it perked, coaxing it to go faster. After pouring the nectar from Heaven into Mugsie, and motivating into the living room, I breathed a sigh of anticipation, sucking in the aroma from the French roast and half & half....aaaah, life is good. Just as I took my first, life-restoring sip, I hear pitty-patty-pitty-patty-pit, and "Gah Mornin, Mom!". So close. So very close.

We had coffee together, Angus and I, and after about 10 minutes of sweet snuggling, I told him I had to go to the bathroom, and left him there on the couch, like a little angel, awaiting my return. (This was a tactical error on my part....I should've packed him in to his father, where if not supervised, he'd at least be busy torturing the other adult in the house. Note this, mothers-to-be.)

When I came out, I heard Maggie quickly departing from the house to the deck, and Angus crying. Great. They are fighting, already. It's never good to try to discipline in your pajamas, so I chose to get dressed, quickly, before wading into the fray. (I know, wading...ha, ha!)

I came out of my bedroom, into the kitchen, to see Wayland's son standing in the middle of the floor, bawling because he had fallen in water, or at least that's what I thought he'd said. That's odd. So I followed the trail of wet footprints, on my newly mopped floors from yesterday, down the hall to the scene of the crime.

It was grim. The bathroom floor was completely covered in water and little pieces of partially decomposed toilet paper. Water was still coming from under the lid of the toilet, although it was starting to slow a little, seeings as how the boy had stopped flushing, because he'd slipped and fallen. In the potty water. And walked through the house. In poopy pants.

Which brings you to the opening paragraph of the story....


I will mercifully spare you the details of the rest of the morning.

We also mercifully spared Wayland's son his life, at the pleading of the Princess, who, although she wanted to sell him just LAST WEEK, mind you, decided she really, really loved him this morning. Good thing someone loved him....

I'm going to go finish my coffee, now, and begin the Complete Household Sanitation Project.

*And I don't want to be getting sticky notes on the fridge from grandmothers who tell me these days go quickly and to enjoy them. You may find the child, gift wrapped and squalling, on your doorstep, for you to spend some short days with him. I can get him to Texas, Iowa, Florida, Idaho, Colorado, Kentucky, the United Kingdom....no one is safe.

Personal revelation to the masses, #276

I know. You've been waiting for some post, ANY post, for nearly a week. And thrill of thrills, it's a personal truth-or-dare sort of post....yes! You will have dirt on me. Sort of.



I am organizationally impaired.


There. You have it.


My mother-in-law has been waiting for me to publicly admit this, I'm sure, so she can let out the breath she's been holding for 10 years, give or take 11 months....


I've been going through cupboards, book cases, drawers and glove boxes this week, in a vain attempt to create more storage space and purge nonsensical flotsam and jetsam. I've tossed (and this is an accurate count) no less than 43 margarine/cottage cheese/sour cream container lids whose partnering containers have long since been abolished to the Great Burn Barrels. I've pulled 2 black garbage bags of too small kids clothes for St. Vincent De Paul...some of them were size 18 months, and my son is 3 years old. You think it was time? I rearranged two bookcases, so that we could fit another 10-12 books in them. We don't dispose of books, here, because we read and re-read nearly all of them, every three years. (Okay, "we" being me, and Maggie. She can't read, yet, but she examines all books, even the ones without pictures. ) And I found about 30 magazines with recipes that I haven't taken the time to transfer to files. I got sort of busy having children, and moving cows. But it's time to transfer or toss.

I do like organization. I do like clean and neat. And my mother did teach me how to do all that.

It seems I get all bogged down, in my sorting and organizing. I fold outgrown children's clothes, and I see them wearing the clothes; sort of like home movies, for a mother's eyes, only. I start going through the tupperware cupboard, and my son wants to build forts with the margarine containers...well, sure! I start to tear out recipes from the magazines and get lost in the travel articles. I attempt to straighten books and end up surrounded by stories that are like old friends; "Oh THERE you are, Big Red! I haven't seen you since I got married. And here's Ivan Doig...wonder what's going on at English Creek. Ah, Rory Stewart and The Places In Between...in between what, I wonder? Perhaps I should take a peek..."

And I'm an absolute miser when it comes to buying organizational and storage containers. I don't like plastic, and as I stand there in the Rubbermaid aisle, I can think of about 297 things I'd rather spend $12.95 on. But when I get home, and stand in front of the closets, I think to myself, "Drats. Another bad choice made, with the right brain...." Plastic seems so icky, but try to find metal or wood organizers that hold up to preschool abuse, or that rednecks in trailer houses on the prairie can afford! So I shut the closet door....nay, back up against it with all my weight and will it to shut, with my substantial rear end....and promise to really, truly buy the Rubbermaid containers next time, cross my heart.

Please don't think I'm complaining, or trying to flake out, about where I live or how. We have been blessed with the perfect home for our family, and we have more than we need, in food, shelter and clothing. My management of these resources is the problem. Or, perhaps, mis-management.

At any rate, this week, in the Farmer's home, all the tupperware has lids. The laundered clothing in the childrens' drawers is the appropriate size and season. The books aren't double stacked in the 5 bookcases in the general public's view. The boy's trucks are stored neatly in the closet and the princess has her dresses hung color wise.

And tonight I will have dreams of rejected piles of junk, piling on top of me, in retaliation for the purge. (It will probably just be the cat, sitting on my chest.....)

The Letter

I took Maggie down to the bus, for her first ride to school, today. It wasn't the official first day, just school picture day, but the teacher and bus driver said she could ride with the rest of the kids and there was no way to stop her!

I had been worried about perhaps crying a little, because everyone has been asking me if I will, and I was worried we hadn't gotten all the "stuff" together that she needed. So we sat there in the car, after saying a prayer for a good and safe day, chatting about kid stuff and what was going to happen that morning. I was starting to feel a little sniffly, and then I saw a couple letters on the floor addressed to Maggie and me. My neice Kamryn had given them to us a few weeks ago, with the stern warning not to read them until we got home. We had honored her request, but sort of forgot about them. And there they were!

The letter to Maggie was long, heartfelt, and sweet, and we both sighed and blessed Kamryn. Then it was time to read mine. I'm going to type it out, here, in it's original spelling and all.

I love you crazy Mary!
and if magie
tries to tell you
a seceret
she will burp in your
ear cos she did
it to me.


I consider myself warned.

I was laughing SO HARD! I had tears in my eyes, alright, but they were from deep, loud laughter! Isn't that one of the funniest things you've ever read? Kamryn is eight, and I'm sure she was highly offended at that prank, and wanted to ensure that I didn't get the same experience. It saved the morning. I'm still laughing!


Oh, and my neices call me Crazy Mary, instead of Auntie Mary. Really. And it's REALLY fun, when they run across the church parking lot, yelling that title with glee.

Fashion on the farm!

I bought a bunch of fabric, last summer, intending to get some skirts and tops sewn up for Her Royal Highness, but didn't get that done....among many, many other things!

Anyway, when Aunt Bert was here this summer, she and Grammie Karen got busy and whipped up two dresses and a broomstick skirt. Maggie is over the moon, with the new dresses! I didn't get a picture, yet, of the last dress; coming soon in a photo post.
This is the dress Aunt Bert sewed, back and front. SO pretty! I wish I could wear it!

This is the broomstick that Grammy Karen sewed. It matches her new boots! And it really twirls! Maggie's ready for a dance, now. Cowboy PopPops could teach her how.

See? New boots, AND a twirly skirt!

The big OC herd...

...got in my yard, and acted as though they owned the joint!

Here's a picture of Daisy, taken off the deck, as she lounges in my potentillas. She all but stuck her tongue out at me, when I told her to get out of there! Annie Light, after grazing through the flower bed, had to take a big rest in the shade of my Aus tree.

The Princess, sans clothing, getting them up and out.

Look at their ears. They are thinking mean thoughts about her, but they know they're in big trouble, and they don't want Mama to come down off the deck. When Mama gets there, the jigs up.

Daisy is taking Maggie for a run. That calf is awfully canny, and I believe she'll make a really annoying lead cow. She WILL be lead cow, being all knowledgeable about ranchers and hay and pellets, and all....

Since these pictures were taken, the herd has gone down 33.333%. Festus just kept getting worse and worse, and was just getting to be a sack of bones, so Wayland finally had to shoot him. He did so without telling me first, and that was probably a good thing. But Daisy and Festus were very close, and Daisy is still grieving, I think. He said she followed him for about half a mile, after he loaded Festus up.

These girls are growing well, and I think we'll be able to hold our heads up, come sorting time this fall. I don't think they are going to be shrimpy at all!

Big Boy Pants

We are potty training Angus....still. (You can take a minute, right now, and say a prayer for us....)

He is perhaps the most stubborn individual I've met. (...and I don't want to hear about any OTHER stubborn individuals in the Dutton family, so you can just stop with the suggestions in the comment box about heredity and what goes around, comes around...) You can't bribe, beat, suggest, applaud, peer-pressure or bait this child into doing something he's not absolutely convinced isn't his idea. And potty training is most definitely not his idea.

I've tried all the old tricks. (After all, this isn't my first stubborn child; just my MOST stubborn child.) Let him sit in wet pants....nothing. Get an M&M after the trip....nothing. Stickers....he "own't wike stickers". Go see PopPop.....shoot, PopPop stops anyways. I even bought him really groovy Lightening McQueen underpants, so that maybe he wouldn't want to get them all wet and icky....um, well, he's not as compassionate about keeping cartoon characters nice, as I'd hoped. In fact, there's no concern whatsoever.

Yesterday, I went to Walmart in a huff and bought 14...yes, double digits....big boy pants, with every cartoon super-action hero you can name! * We are going to DO this! And we are going to do this while Daddy is busy harvesting, so he doesn't have to be here for the trauma and the drama. From Mama.

I took them out of the sack, proudly showing the trainee his new big boy pants. Maggie LOVED them. Maggie WANTED them. Angus shoved them away and said, " I own't wike 'em, Lightening Queens! I own't want 'em Lightening Queens! " Of course.

He must've slept on the idea, and decided otherwise, because this morning, he wiked 'em. And he's been trying them on, about every 20 minutes, all day. Oh, no...they aren't wet, when he changes them. He just gets tired of wearing, say, Buzz Lightyear, so he digs through the pile until he finds Nemo. And then he's a Nemo man until he remembers he saw Wall-e, so he does the old switcheroo of underoo, and voila! he's a Wall-e man!

And we've made it through the morning fairly dry. I'll spare you the details. But you can imagine, when I find a pile of cartoon underpants, how I gingerly go through them, hoping beyond hope that they are all dry....sometimes they are, sometimes they aren't.

I'm hoping we make real progress this week. I'm hoping for initiation on his part, of the run to the restroom. I'm hoping we get through one day with 60% of the super-heros dry. I'm hoping we get this done before I take him to Kindergarten, in 3 years.




*A little tip, here. One should always try to calm oneself, before purchasing anything in a tiff. Who knows what one may come home with, otherwise? Standing in the aisle, in front of all those crisp little Underoos, I suddenly had this feeling like buying 29-350 pairs, and locking the two of us up in the bathroom until he came out dry and trained. I am so sick of changing britches. But I reined myself in, and only bought 14, which I thought showed remarkable restraint. My husband thought I had maybe lost my marbles, when he saw the number of big boy pants, but then he's not the one laundering them, either.

Twilla B.

If you have been a Chronicle follower for a while, you probably know we had to euthanize our Irish Setter, Ruby, earlier this summer. It was one of the hardest things on our little family, and there's been a big hole where a floppy eared, silly red dog once filled in our hearts. About a week after we walked around, missing our left arm, so to speak, we decided to apply to adopt another setter from Save Our Setters. They are a rescue organization for Irish and (I hope this is right) English setters. The process is quite involved, and includes an extensive application, vet check, and several people reading through the application before we were even considered for a dog.

Last week, I got an email from the S.O.S. organization that said they had a dog that may be a good fit for our family. We looked at her profile, and after reading her story, knew that she belonged with us! What we didn't know was that about 20 other families thought she was the dog for them, too. Her foster mom, Shelly, called us, and we visited for the longest time, asking questions and actually interviewing each other! Shelly said that Twilla is an affectionate, gentle young dog that loves other dogs and kids, and would fit into a young family with a stable lifestyle. She said Twilla is still a little unsure about life, and rather timid, but that she will be good with a lot of love. And Shelly recommended to S.O.S that we should be Twilla's new family.

Twilla will come to live with us in October, when Shelly and her husband come for a vacation in Montana, and we can hardly wait! Maggie is having a hard time with her name, but in one of her fairy movies, there are Twillerbies, and she calls this little dog, Twilla B. I just got an email forward from Shelly that said Twilla was named after her rescuer's newborn neice, and that they just knew she was that special.

One of the unexpected blessings of this (rather long) story, has been getting to know Shelly, and having a new friendship. We are looking forward to having Twilla B. here, in October, and we are just as excited to meet Shelly and Don in person.

So, that's the beginning of the Twilla Tales. As we get more pictures and video, we'll put them up to share. Shelly told me that Twilla doesn't really care for "paparazzi" , so glamour shots are tough to get. Quite the opposite of Molly, my Brit, who actually pauses and poses....

*You should know that we are considered the Crazy Dog People in Cohagen. We chose non-stock dogs for our family, which was against the Code of the County, and proceeded to spend more money on their maintenance and care than some ranchers spend on a horse. Not that we're proud of that; it just is what it is. So you can imagine how much flack we are going to get for getting another setter....

I guess if we're going to be Crazy Dog People, we may as well embrace the title, and do it right!

Quiet time.....right.

I love my quiet time in the morning, with my coffee and my thoughts; it's where I read my Bible and pray and plan for the upcoming day.

And I haven't had it since the kids were born, except, maybe 3 times.

My kids have some sort of sensor (probably the same one that tunes into the phone when it rings) and will wake from some serious slumbering if there is a change in the ambient temperature of the kitchen air, due to my body being there.

I have tried everything. I've made the coffee the night before, and set the timer to go off at 4:30. They meet me at the pot at 4:35. I've gone outside to grind the coffee, under a heavy blanket and bathrobe, on the deck. They greet me at the door, blinking. I've tried getting up earlier. They could match my early-ness, and have more energy at 3:45 in the morning than any human being ought to have. My son now slips into our room around 3 a.m. and into our bed, so it's not like I can just take the coffee pot into our bedroom and sit on the floor under that heavy blanket over a steaming cup of joe and my Bible. They have all the bases covered.

To add insult to serious injury, I can call my best friends at 9:00 a.m. to see what they are up to, and they have the unmitigated gall to speak softly into the phone, "Well, ------ is still sleeping, so I'm just folding up my laundry and having a little quiet time." "Really?", I respond, " You guys must've had a late night..." (Hopefully)
"No, the kids were in bed by 9. " At which point I question exactly WHY we are really best friends. It was the same when the kids were infants. I'd call T. and H. and B. for a little sympathy, during the 15 minutes my daughter slept during the rinse cycle of the dishwasher, only to hear about little -----'s 4 hour nap, and how they got 2 rooms painted, the floor mopped, a shower taken and (you know what's coming...) a little quiet time.

Do they give them sedatives? Cough syrup? Tie them to the bed?

Now I must tell you that I do get prayer time. I pray while the kids are fighting, while Bob and Larry are singing that cheery little Veggie song, while I'm trying to get the stain out of what's left of our carpet, while dinner is burning, while I'm trying to locate the little darlings in the 200 square miles of prairie where they went on a "quest" with the dog and bum calves. Oh, I pray, all right! It's just not quiet. Sometimes I get to read my Bible, in about 3 minute spurts, while I tell them I'm going in to the bathroom. (That's when they escape to the prairie...)

There are women who nearly glow, talking about their quiet time in the morning, with God. Focus on the Family applauds the endeavor, Today's Christian Woman just assumes all women get this. I always feel like sort of scrunching down in my seat when I hear of it.

I realize that these years go fast, and pretty soon all I will have is quiet time. I will be wishing for little bouncing bodies and chattery voices and sticky kisses before my coffee in the morning! And I do love them. I just wish I could figure out a time to recharge that isn't somewhere between the hours of 2:00 a.m. and 3:15 a.m. (I'm sure they'd figure that one out, though...)

(And if you think I could be having quiet time, instead of blogging, you should know that I'm typing this while the kids are running back and forth, chasing the cat, and Wayland is trying to capture them to eat Cocoa Pebbles or yogurt. It's not quiet. And it's not yet 7 a.m.)

Pick your poison...in a preschool sort of way!

Can you match the ice cream flavor with the member of the Pluhar household?

1. Chocolate Fudge Brownie
2. Huckleberry
3. Chubby Hubby
4. Toasted Coconut Sesame Brittle

A. The Farmer's Wife B. Maggie C. The Farmer D. Angus

We had an ice cream revolution this week, and instead of buying our usual gallon of vanilla, and toppings, we purchased 4 pints of fun flavors. Tonight was the first night of the tastage. The Chocolate Fudge Brownie was met with near rapture. The Huckleberry was examined with great suspicion, but as it was ice cream, it was given the benefit of the doubt and consumed. The Toasted Coconut Sesame Brittle raised eyebrows and lowered some members' opinions of what was acceptable in dairy products. Chubby Hubby is still in the freezer, unopened, awaiting a big debut tomorrow. (Notice I didn't say 'tomorrow night'...)

What's your favorite flavor? Is there any ice cream you absolutely won't eat?

Racing the wind...

So, here's a secret: I love racing with antelope. (Don't tell my mother...)

When I was a girl, about 8 or 9 years old, I think, I was with my Dad and Gramps in the back of the pasture, coming back from checking mineral or something mundane like that. We were in the old feed pickup, and it was hot, so the windows were rolled down, and there was a breeze stirring the dust around. We startled a small bunch of buck antelope, and they started to run, not quite alongside us, but parallel to the pickup. I remember Dad giving the pickup a little gas, and the antelope gave it a little gas. We were on a good road (for the pasture) and Dad got a little smile and gave it some more gas, and the antelope picked up speed, too. They love to race....I think it's because nothing in their world can run as fast as they can, so the challenge of a really fast opponent is too good to let go. Anyway, I can remember feeling like we were flying and the antelope were, too. Finally, we had to slow down a little, for a change in the road, and they turned and blew across the road in front of us, and pulled up, too. They had won, and that was all they had to prove. I can see that whole thing in my mind as clear as if it had happened yesterday.

Yesterday, I took the Honda Big Red and Molly, and put out salt and checked wells in the big Winter Pasture, that we are using in the summer. (Another thing to confuse me, but that makes perfect sense to the Farmer and his father...) We had gotten done with the project and were on our way back, on the road, and this little band of buck antelope, who'd been turning up where we were and looking for a rumble, gave us a serious challenge. The road was good, so I took them up on their offer. We were running pretty good, for about a quarter of a mile, when a butte rose up between us. I took the left, they took the right, and I thought our race was over, because there was a good chunk of rough country for them to run through, to get back to the road I was on. I drove on, thinking about my Dad and how fun it was to run the antelope.

When I got to the flat, they blew out from behind a hill, running with all their hearts. They really must've wanted to race, because they had a lot of opportunity through that terrain to veer off and leave. I smiled to myself, and gave Big Red some gas. They really poured on the coal and gave it all they had. I could see that I was going to have to slow up a bit, because of the road, and the moment the lead buck sensed my heisitancy, he turned and the whole bunch ran in front of me. Their mouths were open, their bodies stretched out, rumps fluffed, and they were having the best time rubbing my nose in the dust, figuratively speaking. When they had proven they had won the race, they pulled up and watched me drive on. They really earned that win, and I had to laugh at their insistance on a run.

The pronghorn is classified as the second-fastest land mammal, just behind the cheetah, although they can maintain their speed longer. I didn't realize it, growing up, but they are found only in a small area of the United States and Canada, and are just as exotic as African animals to others around the world. I don't know all the scientific data on them, but I do know that they run like the wind blows and they love a worthy competitor. When they run alongside the outfit, they do look like they are almost in flight, and it makes my heart thrill.

Parenting 101 , Part 1

My friend Marisa is going to have her first child, sometime in September; we are so THRILLED! Everytime I talk to her on the phone, I end up giving her a cautionary child-rearing tip...mostly because she can hear what's going on in the background and that's the best way to explain it. I am compiling, here, a list in one spot for her to refer to. Hopefully eliminating the need for her to write the tips down on stray papers in her house, causing her husband to wonder, as he finds them.

1. Any breakfast cereal with the word "Pebbles" in it is banned from the house. When moistened with milk, the little chocolate/fruit coated puffed rice will stick to children like ticks on a sheep, then fall off around the house as they dry...for Mom to step on and powder.
2. Toads make lousy pets. As do grasshoppers, fish from the reservoir and large spiders captured from the deck. The mortality rate is pretty high.
3. Learn to like cold food, because that's going to be the temperature of your sustenance from here on out.
4. Nothing draws a whiny, needy child to you like a phone call. Seriously. If the phone rings, it sets off an alert in their little bodies, compelling them to locate the Mama to hang onto and whine. The more important the phone call, the greater the volume. They will want ONLY things they know they can't have, and sob like you are beating them when you indicate with your free hand, "No!".
5. The same woman who raised you on the principle "Spare the rod, spoil the child", will tell you that you shouldn't be so hard on your babies. This may cause some bewilderment on your part; just know that the minute you have a baby, the rules change for your parents. Grit your teeth and smile, and go ahead and buy that economy pack of wooden spoons.
6. All children's toys come with 59 accessories and parts that must interface in order for the toy to work. You will NEVER have all the parts at the same time. You will, however, locate them tangled in your vaccuum or under the refrigerator when you move 20 years later.
7. They don't play with those toys, anyway. They like boxes and sticks and rocks and anything belonging to a parent. Save your money.
8. Children have amazing memories (for some things) and the minute you throw away the 112th picture or broken Happy Meal toy, they will NEED it. They will also remember every embarrassing detail about life in your household and share this information with any old person in the grocery check-out line. These are the same children who are unable to recall where they left their new tennis shoes outside, how to unplug the sink for the water to drain, and the complicated procedure of putting on a stocking cap.
9. The days are 73 hours long, the years are 10 minutes. This is the strangest time warp, and one you'll never be able to wrap your brain around.
10. You will long for peace and quiet, but when you finally do get it, it will be TOO quiet, and you'll want them back, with their grubby little fingerprinting paws and their chirpy little voices.

This list is by no means exhaustive, and will be added to as tips come along. Feel free to add your own tips in the comment box.

Redneckedness

Before you judge us too harshly....

We can afford to buy a real kiddie pool, and we did, early this summer. AND we bought swimsuits, too. Biggest waste of $15.95 I've ever spent.

This is what it looks like: the calf water trough. And yes, you can tell by the wet, wet hair that they probably got right down in it. It was disgusting....all that kid-dirt floating around in there....the calves wouldn't go near it, for awhile afterwards. Not that I blame them.

Maggie has finally learned how to pull out the blue kiddie pool and fill it herself, but it lacks that cowboy ambience, and also it doesn't warm in the sun as nicely as this black tub.

(Wayland's sister, Dawn, has very civilized pictures of her kids swimming in Kentucky on her blog Stonefield Stories. The pool is clean, not green, and the children are appropriately clothed. We represent the rural, hick-ish side of the family. Someone has to be the redneck cousins.)

The light on this is not great, but I love how free Maggie looks and how big the sky is.

Check this out...

It's very seldom I read an article on the internet that I want to pass on. It's even more rare that I want to stand up, after reading one, and shout, "AMEN, Brother! Preach on!"

I happened upon a blog that was discussing vegetarian vs. omnivorian lifestyles, and took the time to comment...quite strenuously, as you may have guessed. I was reading through the other comments, an article kept popping up in those who supported the meat-eating faction, so I thought I'd go there and see what was so outstanding about this piece of journalism.

There's no way for me to do the article justice. I encourage you to read it, by the link I'll put here, if you eat food. Yes, that's right, just if you eat food. Which, in my estimation, will cover the entire population....

Tell me what you think, after you get done with The Ominivore's Delusion.

Oh, For Tech's Sake!

Some of you know that I really, really love football. Some of you know that I really, really, really love the Texas Tech Red Raiders. Some of you know that I also really, really love my friends, Scott and Traci Glasscock who love the Texas Longhorns. Some of you know that three of us friends have a girl's weekend for our birthdays in September, and the husbands join us on Day 2. It's the best weekend of the year, and we all look forward to it and hang on to the promise of it when things are going rough the rest of the year.

I just looked at the Red Raider's football schedule.

Yes, as you can see, my Red Raiders play their Longhorns on Couple's Night of the getaway weekend. When we are supposed to be sitting in Old Piney Dell Restaurant, plowing our way through the best food to be had in the great state of Montana. When we are celebrating Traci's and my birthday. When we laugh and drink outrageous wine and talk about anything but kids and farming.

This is going to be a SERIOUS test of our commitment to friendship, tradition, and sportsmanship.

I just have to say this: Last year, the Red Raiders, in a stunning ESPN-worthy moment, dehorned Texas in a really big, televised game. So the Horns are out for revenge. AND this 2009 game is televised, on ABC.

SO....

Scott Glasscock and I will be sitting there, at the restaurant, trying not to bolt to the nearest television, and making small talk with the others while trying to hurry them along with their steaks and twice baked potatoes. And I realize not everyone is quite as excited about football as I am, so I'm going to work on cultivating some self-control between now and then.

And I also realize the odds of the Red Raiders winning this game are not all that encouraging (Texas is #2 in the pre-season polls), but anything can happen, you know?

Mercy!

Stay tuned, the weekend of September 18-20th, to find out how it ends. (Hopefully, not the friendship...)

Bulls

Today is Day 3 of the Bull Removal and Relocation program, a job we do every early August. They've been in with the cows for a little over a month, taking care of business, and now it's time they come home, to rest up and prepare for NEXT June. Yeah, it takes them that long.

As you know, when we move cows, I wear makeup and earrings, because it's good to remind the guys that there is a woman in the mix. It doesn't seem to create any more empathy or leniency, but at least they are reminded. But when I get ready to move bulls, I always think, "It's so I'll look good in the ambulance."

I'll tell you right here and now that I am really scared of bulls. My Dad did a good job of putting the fear of those black devils in me, and I've seen what they can do. They weigh over 2000 lbs, easily, and they don't care if they smash whatever is in their way. Yesterday, one of them shoved another with all his might, and the underdog's leg snapped, in two. Their legs are BIG, like the rest of their bodies, and it just popped like a twig.

We are on 4-wheelers, and there's no protection, to my perception. To the bulls, we are just really irritating flies with wheels. And my father-in-law and husband really and truly expect me to wade in there and show them who's boss. Neither the bull, nor I, are really convinced of that. It's some pretty high adreneline stuff, considering we are in rough country, the bull has the weight and mobility advantage, and knows the pasture better than me. I keep telling myself that I can do long division and he can't, but somehow that's not all that reassuring, the idea of superior intelligence. And if you take a whole person, and divide them up into the parts that a bull could make you, it's less comforting. Perhaps I should look into another example of higher thinking....

And the guys really are not all that worried or concerned, and they are rather amused by the bulls, after they ram them with their 4-wheelers and shout obscenities at them. And they know I'm scared, so that makes it a little more amusing.

My Dad wouldn't let us near the bulls, and I remember him on one occasion, using buckshot on a bull. I have a lot of respect for that man. If I had had a gun yesterday, I think I would've used it. But the job has to be done, and we are down to using women in the mix. It's a hard-won privilege, to be allowed to help with the cows, and I really do love being out there. With the COWS.

So, I see by the clock that the hour has come to face the job. My funeral plans are in the front of my Bible, along with the list of pallbearers and choice of minister. (You laugh; it's true!) I'm going to wrastle the kids into the car and haul them to Grandma's house, and put on my Texas Tech cap and Nutra-lix sweatshirt for courage, and wade in. (That's the best I can do, armor-wise. Sad, sad, sad...)

The Chronicles continue....

*Update: I lived! Unfortunately, the bull with the broken leg did not. There is no way to repair a broken leg on a bull, and we were unable to get him to the sale barn in Miles City. If we had taken him to the sale barn, he would've had to have been able to walk off the trailer on his own power, AND not have a fever, which he almost certainly would've had, in order to sell him through the ring. And we had just taken another lame bull to the packing plant for hamburger, so there was no possible way to salvage the meat. A sad ending for the bull, but I'm glad he isn't hurting anymore. Without being unnecessarily graphic, the leg was only held on by hide. It was awful and this was the right thing to do.

We only have one more bunch of bulls to get, and we're going to wait a few days on them. The guys are working on getting the combine running for harvest, and grain cleaned out of the bins. There's so much tension, because we are teetering at the edge of harvest, and it continues to shower, the hoppers continue to close in, and the crops are ripening unevenly. Without a big heat blast, to finish it up, the crops languish. And every rain lowers the protein in the seed heads, which is the big nutrient, and the higher the protein, the better the money. It's a nail biter, I tell you, this ranching business! More later...

Ten Commandments of Coffee (according to me...)

1. Thou shalt have no beverage before coffee. In the morning, that is.
2. Thou shall NOT REHEAT old coffee left in the carafe, defiling the sacred cup. (And you know who you are....) There's always time to make one little fresh serving. Or to swing by a coffee shop, if thou art in a civilized geographical location.
3. Thou shall buy fresh beans, not grounds.
4. Thou shall not hoard thy fresh beans. Buy in smaller packages, and if they are in danger of going stale, have a coffee klatch to use them up.
5. Thou shall not covet thy neighbor's espresso machine. Make the best coffee thy can within thy means, and be grateful for thy French press.
6. Thou shall NOT consume or serve decaffienated coffee between the hours of 4 a.m. and 2 p.m.
7. Thou shall NOT BREW WEAK COFFEE. It is better to not brew coffee at all, than to dishonor the sacred bean in this manner.
8. Thou art prohibited from referring to instant granules and tiny tea-bags o'java granules as coffee. They also defile the sacred cup.
9. Thou shall consume coffee in conservative amounts on six days of the week, but on the seventh day, thou may pour an extra cup on the day of rest. (There are some, again, you know who you are, who abstain everyday except Wednesdays and Saturdays. Thou art twisted, sad individuals, and I am praying for you.)
10. If thine office coffee offends thee, step up and provide good coffee for the work force when thy can. They shall fall down and call you blessed, and thine influence will extend far beyond those generous carafes.