FarmWives on Furlough

I'm not going to be posting for a few days, and I didn't want the last post you read to be one about cobwebs in my washing machine.  If something happened to me, that's all you'd remember...that crazy woman who thought cows were beautiful and had cobwebs in her washing machine.  This will not improve your opinion of me in any way.

Once a year, to celebrate our birthdays...

...a couple of us ranch wives take off for a weekend in the city.

We eat without counting calories or worrying about how many dishes the meal is going to produce...

...and we go to a spa for a manicure, pedicure and massage.

Sometimes we shop.

Our husbands join us for the second night and following day.

This year, we are going to Red Lodge...

....and hope to get some fishing in, before we come home to plant winter wheat and finish pre-conditioning cows and calves!

And remember...Wreck 'em Tech! Guns Up!

(I hope we are all still friends after the game on the 19th...)

Yes, it's really THAT bad...

*If your name is Naomi J. Pluhar, please be advised you should shut your computer down at this very moment, without reading this post, and walk to your very neat laundry room and cheer.  The rest of you may stay, provided you are not easily horrified....



I went to put a load of laundry in my washing machine, this afternoon, and found a cobweb.  That's right.  I didn't think it had been THAT long since I'd used the machine, but apparently it was long enough for a diligent little spider to construct a home in one of my appliances. How sad is that?!!! 

Don't answer that.

By midnight, tonight, I should have something for everyone in the family to wear, AND clean towels for them after their weekly bath.  I'm not going to promise clean sheets.

Rancher-ese, Corral Terminology

Some of you remember the first Rancher-ese post, and know that it dealt mostly with general terms that anyone can use.  This post is specific to the corral, and I felt that since there are a lot of wives helping with preconditioning this time of year, a little clarification would be helpful.  Fore-warned is fore-armed. 

Maybe - As in, "maybe we'll work those cows from Jacobsen's this afternoon".  In  Rancher-ese, when they say 'maybe' about their plans, it means 'absolutely'.  When it is something to do with YOUR plans, however, 'maybe' means 'there's no chance in h--l'.

Sorting - This is the process by which you separate cows from calves, cows from other cows, bulls from cows, and (note this) newlyweds from those who have been married 10+ years.  Women will always sort wrong.  It doesn't matter if they draw a big old X with spray paint on the spot you are to stand in the corral, you will ALWAYS be in the wrong spot.  And you will always bring too many, not enough, the wrong number tag, wear the wrong color shirt and so forth.  Newlyweds are easy to spot, working together in the corral (or those couples dating) because you can see cold sweat breaking out on both their faces; her from trying so hard and knowing that she's failing, and him from not exploding and coaxing his little honey to try again.  The rest of us get hollered at, and holler back or throw down the sorting stick and stomp. 

Get around 'em - Sacrifice your body to stop the tide of cows, or the one old crow that is determined to go through the gate.  Take one for the team.  I believe this is also a test of fidelity to the cause and as to whether you will follow directions blindly. 

You okay? - You'd better be, because we have another 60 cows and 113 calves left to work.  This may or may not follow the 'Get around em' command.

Do you think you can handle... -(Fill in the blank at the end of that statement) This terminology is applied to situations where you are being entrusted to a job you are not allowed to screw up, and the only reason you are actually tapped for the job is because they couldn't find any truly qualified neighbors to show up that day.  It usually involves syringes, vaccine that costs $5.00 a dose and has only been ordered for the exact number of animals you will work. You will invariably get the syringe that locks up on the 5th dose, and panic, causing the whole clockwork-like machine to come to a grinding halt.  The man (your husband or father-in-law) will sigh, roll thier eyes, try the mechanism which will work perfectly for them, then hand the dysfunctional syringe back to you saying it's fixed.  It's not fixed, but you'd better make like it is. 

Keep an eye out for...-While you are doing three or four "Do you think you can handle" jobs, you will also be instructed to look for the cow with the speck in her right eye that they saw when we were gathering, OR for missing tags.  (A little note, here: one time I was told to look for missing tags and diligently looked, reporting several.  They went ahead and turned the cows out, without replacing the tags, and finally I queried as to why.  Apparently, it wasn't just missing tags, but a specific tag on specific cows that may or may not have had them in the first place.  I stopped looking.)  You will never see the right animal. 

Count 'em out -Count all the cows as they pour out of the pen into the next pen.  Pick a random number close to the number you think you counted.  Your count will NEVER, and I repeat, NEVER match the male count.  If they have numbers that don't match, they just assume the right number are there.  If you have a different number (which you are guaranteed to have), they will do the sigh and eye roll, and go by their number anyway.  While you are counting out the cows or calves, you are not allowed to raise your hand with your pointer finger, to keep track of the animals.  You must do it solely with your eyes, and if possible, count by two's, even if they are coming through the gate 3 and 5 animals at a time. 

Let's go to the house for lunch -You'd better hustle on in there and get it laid out.  And while they are in the living room, with their stocking feet up, you'll be cleaning up the dishes afterward.  You'll just sit down, to hear the tail end of the gossip, and the Boss will say, "Well, I suppose we'd better get out there and get those cows back to pasture.  They should be mothered up." (I'm fortunate in that my mother-in-law makes dinner, and I don't have to generally work too hard on this.  But occasionally, it turns out this way.)

That's about it, for Corral Terminology.  If you have any other terms that are used your corral, please let me know, and we can add them to the post.   

Ultrasounding the Heifers, or "How Bossy Gets Her Big Girl Tag"...

I know some of you just read that, and are thinking, "Wait a minute.  Did she just say they ultrasound the heifers? Isn't that an OB procedure they do on pregnant women?"

Yes, it is.  And pregnant cows, too.  Which is part of the reason my dear husband acted like such a smarty pants when we had our doctor's appointments with each child.  He was positively blase' about the whole deal, because, frankly, if you've seen one ultrasound, you've seen them all, in his mind.  There was no choking up, no tears of wonder.  Nope.  He and the technician were pointing out things and talking about measurements, and I was squinting at a blurry black-n-white-n-grey screen, hoping to see something that looked like a hand...recognisable and distinct.  But I digress...

We ultrasound the heifers, the coming two-year olds, that have been bred for the first time, to get an approximate date of calving and the sex of the calf.  It's great, because we are able to sort off the heifers that are really early or really late calvers, so we only have to get up around the clock for 2 1/2 weeks in March, rather than 6 1/2 weeks.  It hasn't improved the morale in the calving barn, at all, but at least the intense crabbiness is a bit shorter lived. 

The vet that does the ultrasound is from Baker, and he's in such demand that you have to call a month in advance, bribe his secretary with chocolate and/or flowers, conduct covert investigations on when the neighbors are getting THEIR heifers ultrasounded, and then, finally, just beg to be put on the roster.  (It's not QUITE that involved, but it's starting to get close.)  We were told he'd ultrasound our heifers right before dark on Sunday night, or start right before daylight on Monday morning.  And he was NOT kidding.

We gathered the 113 unsuspecting little heifers yesterday morning and brought them to the pasture next to the house.  At 4 PM, we gathered them out of that pasture into the next stage of the holding operation, into the lower pen.  And then we waited until dark, Vern and I pacing a groove in the linoleum of Naomi's kitchen.  Wayland deals with it much differently, and retreats to the computer or behind a magazine.  Finally went home to put the kids to bed, and got the call that he'd be there and ready to go at 6 in the morning.  (He stayed at Vern and Naomi's that night.)

This morning, before the raccoons were out of the trashcans, we were back at the Boss's house, ready for action.  And action means ultrasounding 100 cows an hour! 

Vern brings the heifers down the alley and loads them, our neighbor Melvin coaxes them in the chute and gives them a shot once he hears the word (pregnant), Wayland catches the cow in the chute and rearranges tags (cuts out fly tags, puts in big girl tags).  The vet is coveralled and has a glove up to his armpit, holding a wand that gives the images.  He inserts his arm in the cow, up to his armpit, and tells me (the bookkeeper) whether the cow is bred (pregnant or open), how long she's been bred (# of days), and whether the calf will be a bull or heifer calf.  Then he puts the Ivomec on her back, OR marks her with a pretty pink grease mark if she's open, and we turn her out.  This all happens very quickly, as you might guess, if you think about 100 cows in 60 minutes. 

A good rate of bred versus open is about 90:10 percent, and this year we were 94:6 percent.  And one of those 7 open heifers was what is termed a "freemartin", a female twin to a bull calf.  They get too much testosterone in the womb, and are rendered sterile. In fact, as my father-in-law puts it, they have a "growth" or basically, testicles.  They are almost 99.9% sterile, our vet explained, except rarely they are bred.  He said he knew of one that was bred, and the ranchers named her "Blue Moon". 

After haircurling coffee, and a couple cookies, the vet loads up and heads off to the next ranch, and we sort the opens from the bred heifers.  The open heifers will be hauled to Miles City to be sold in the sale yards, and the bred heifers are returned to pasture with thier big girl tags, the number they will have as a cow for the rest of their Lang's Fork career. Later this fall, we will sort off the heifers that are very early calvers or very late, and sell them as bred heifers, and they will go on to calving careers on another ranch. The heifers this year are all tagged with numbers beginning with "8" because they were born in 2008; 800-8106.  When we look at the tag in the pasture, we can tell how old the cow is by the beginning number. 

I wish we had pictures, but there's no one to take them, because we all have jobs that require concentration and immediate action! The heifers look at us a lot differently, now, and they have acquired an air of maturity, in the last 6 hours.  Or perhaps that's just wariness.  Either way, they are on their way to the sale barn or to motherhood next spring.

Underground Bookclub Satellites

I'm always astonished at the interest in our little bookclub, everytime I post.  We just have so much fun, and I wish there was a way to share that with more people.  However, the club has reached maximum capacity, so we can't add any more bodies...BUT if you are interested in forming your own satellite UBC, that would be a great way to start a gathering that may take off into another sort of bookclub!

Here's our format:
As the founder, I assign everyone a month to host the club.  We have to work around pregnancies, calving, lambing, planting, school teacher schedules, and Bobby Burns night (the Scottish national holiday).  We picked the second Thursday of the month to meet at the house of the host, and it is potluck.  The hostess is in charge of lining out the potluck, and that is one of the funniest aspects of the group! I've had clubbers say they can't come up with enough things for people to bring....are you kidding me?!!! Bring food!!! Armloads! My biggest problem is the cutoff on menus, but apparently some people have a hard time assigning. 

The only people allowed to come are the members themselves, and a nursing child, if they have one.  If your kids are weaned, they stay home. The end of discussion.  This precedent was established early in UBC, and is one of the reasons we have people who will drag themselves to the group, with infected teeth, labor pains and broken bones.  It's truly a retreat for us women.  (We have had one author, as a guest, which was quite entertaining, and one mother-in-law as a guest, and I missed that one so I can't comment one way or the other...but guests are rare and apparently must be from out of state or published, and the author was the only male ever to break into the inner circle.  That was a sort of big thing. The husbands don't know what we talk about or what we do, but they know it involves food, and they know if we miss bookclub that the rest of the month will be nearly intolerable in their home. They make sure we get there, and don't ask questions when we return.)

Because we live 25-50 miles from each other, we often carpool, which ends up being an extension of UBC! We have pre and post- club discussions.  Free therapy.  And sometimes we sample the food on our laps, purely to determine the quality and worthiness of the dish for the exalted members. Of course. We have, in emergency instances, met at the local cafe in the backroom, but it's very hard to be Underground that way.  And we aren't nearly as candid, because the walls have ears, don't you know?

So, if you want to join us, virtually, check on my blog for the report every second Friday of the month for the new selection, and if you are doing a satellite group, please let me know and we can link together! 

Karen's Choice

The Underground Bookclub met again last night, after a summer hiatus. We always agree, in April or May that we should take the summer off, but by the end of June, are groaning and wishing we had bookclub to run to. It makes returning in September very sweet, though.

Karen chose the summer book for us: Sophie's Choice. It was a rough read for some, and others just didn't get it read for personal reasons or because they got the wrong book and then were unable to get the right book from their friend who forgot to leave it at the Cohagen Post office, or something like that....
It was a great discussion. We have such interesting, intelligent women with varied backgrounds and stages of life, so you just never know what will come up or be examined. I always leave bookclub thinking, "Well, drats. Now I have to re-read that part!"

Anyway, if you had been sitting outside the window, looking in last night, you would've shaken your head in disbelief. We were all just so happy to be there, and so relaxed, that 8 women talked, laughed, ate, laughed, ate, talked, and so forth, for about three hours. And when you go to Karen's, pretty much all you get accomplished is eating, because the woman is a consummate hostess, and there's stupendous food in every room. (I didn't make it to the bathroom, but I wouldn't have been surprised to find a little covered dish of chocolate truffles there. Come to think of it, those little pregnant bookclubbers spent an inordinate amount of time in the loo. Hmmm...)

Here's the menu breakdown:

Appetizers: Sheepherder's Hors' Doerves (saltine crackers, onion, cheddar cheese and orange slices...it is REALLY GOOD, and hails from Ingomar's Jersey Lily) and some really divine melba toast, cream cheese, sliced pork and sweet/sour horseradish sauce. And that was in the living room. With wine and hand squoze lemonade. I could've just stopped there and been content.

Main Dish: Chicken enchiladas, in corn or flour tortillas, with homemade guacamole, salsa, sour cream and fresh tomatos to top it with.

Sides: Scallopy sort of potatoes, a bean/shrimp salad, and fruit salad.

Dessert: Banana splits, with the works, and Kafe Utza coffee.

By the time we got done eating and laughing and talking, I actually ached, and it almost hurt to drive home. Now THAT'S a successful evening!

Our next book selection, for those that are following along in satellite bookclubs, is Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, by Lisa See. (Beth chooses a book, then in the same breath changes her mind. But I believe this was the final choice.)

What happened after the bus left....

Rather like Paul Harvey's Rest of the Story...

My day went something like this:

1. Maggie on the bus! Wait until the bus goes over the hill, then drive that same direction to go to PopPop's house to pick up the Boy. (Didn't want Mr. Kluck to think I was following him, checking on his speed and safety procedures....even though the thought HAD occured to me.)
2. Ranch meeting in the entry of PopPop's house, with the outcome being a vaccine/calf creep/hydraulic hose trip to Jordan. After I get my hair and make-up done. And could I do that in about 45 minutes, if it isn't too much trouble?
3. After minimal primping, load the Boy up and make an Agricultural tour of the little hometown burg, 23 miles away.
4. Back to PopPop's house to deliver the watermelon cookies (I know, ew!) that Angus picked out for his granddad, and to phone in the vet supplies that weren't on the list and that I had miscounted on. Drats.
5. Lunch with the Farmer and his son. This was eventful, as the young man who bought the cookies thought he should stay with PopPop for lunch, and was transported, kicking and screaming, to his own table. It was not pretty. We had leftover pizza and spanish rice and cucumbers, since I didn't get home in time to make a fresh lunch.
6. Angus went down for a nap; I posted the blog.
7. Wake the boy up, kicking and screaming, to meet the bus.
8. Many hugs, kisses, milk and cookies and the report on Kindergarten!
9. I'll spare you the rest of the evening....

Maggie's day, from what I can tell, went something like this:

1. Ride the bus to school, and get off, wondering what to do.
2. Got help settling in, from one of the older girls...quite impressive.
3. This middle part is a little blurry, and we keep getting details as the day goes on. I think they did something with the letter L, and she says Mr. L has a squeaky voice in his song. Hmm. And they played a letter game and Billy Baker cried, but there's no crying allowed in school, and that's really strange, but then they did some other fun things and Billy Baker was better. (Not sure about this part, and that may be total fabrication, but that was the report.)
4. Ate lunch. Not really. But ate all the vegetables, and most of the cookies. There's no sharing food allowed in school, and that's really strange, but then they played the "Mashed Potato" game where the ball was hot, only it wasn't really hot, it was just pretend hot, but it burned her right there...see?
5. "I didn't take a nap" "But I rested, but I missed my family just so much."
6. Ate a snack. Out of the lunchbox. At the table.
7. The bus came and she left. But had to go back and get her packpack. And got on the bus. And the big girl brought her her lunchbox. And coat. (Which she left on the bus, by the way...got THAT call from Mr. Kluck this morning.)
8. Came home and had milk and cookies with Mom and Angus, who she really, really missed so much.
9. Went for a tractor ride with Daddy and then PopPops, to report on her day.

I'm sure there's more, but like I say, we are getting it in bits and pieces! Her day sounds infinitely more interesting than mine! I called Grandma Celestia, to see how HER day went, and the dear woman was still upright and sober, so we consider that a success! We'll see how Thursday goes. (I am to put soup in her little container, for that day, and also provide cheese and crackers and more cookies. We'll see.)

Maggie and Angus have been getting along like children I've never met, today, and they are playing big games outside, cooperatively. And no-one was up before 6:30, this morning. No one.

And today, the bus came and took my baby to school...

We've been preparing for this day since July.





"Now, I'm FIVE. Now, I can go to school, right, Mom?"

"Yes, baby, you will go to school this fall! Just two more months."

"How many days is that? A hundred?"

"No, about 60 days until you go to school. It's coming..."

And so the dialogue went, the numbers changing as we got closer.


We bought the backpack about 2 1/2 weeks ago, and the first morning after the UPS driver brought it to us, she came into our room to wake us up.

"Do you want to climb in, sweetie, for a snuggle?"

"Just let me take off my packpack, first."


Then we got the supplies for school. Pencils, markers, erasers, glittery pencil bag, princess folders, colored pencils, and, (best of all) a little thermos that looks like a crayon, with a lid that doubles as a cup. All these were carefully inventoried and stashed in the treasured backpack. Her brother had serious pack envy, and although Daddy tried to give him one from the garden shed, it was a dismal attempt, compared to the glossy lavender pack with the name "Maggie" emblazoned on the back.


She wanted to use my lunchbox, from when I was in school, and declined getting one of her own, which rather surprised me. We examined the box, checked the latch, and determined it was worthy. Then we started planning lunch menus. (A little note here: when a girl believes herself to be princess, she will request royal lunches. Tricky, when the Queen Mum has a trailer-house budget...)

The wardrobe was rather dicey, as well. You see, when you go to a country school, the best thing you can wear is good jeans, a nice tshirt, and sturdy shoes. That's not all that glamorous, and it took some talking on my part, to get her to submit to the dress code. The glitzy new boots helped.

Last night, I packed the royal lunch, we very carefully laid out the clothes, double-checked the supplies in the pack, rolled her bedroll up, packaged cookies for her bus driver, read "The Kissing Hand" and packed it, bathed WITH SOAP (that's big), and she wiggled her way through a couple of stories and her prayers. When I came back into the room, after getting her drink, she told me, very solemnly, that she would miss me, but that she'd write a letter to me, and promised to come home and have milk and cookies, and discuss her adventures. Then I turned out the light, checked my email with a big lump in my throat, and went to take a shower and cry for about 20 minutes. Wayland thought I had completely lost it.

This morning, I tiptoed out to make coffee and (yes, you know it's coming) have quiet time, only to be met by HRH in the kitchen. It was 5:30 a.m.

"Is it morning, yet, Momma?"
"Sort of...yes."
"I ride the bus, today!"
"After I've had coffee, child, after I've had coffee..."
"YES!"
"Why don't you take your cat back to your room and.....play something."
Skippety-skippety-skippety-skip! (She's obviously having a hard time leaving the nest, and I admire how she tries to protect me from all that drama. Don't you think?)

Which brings us to the pictures.

The only thing her heart has desired, for two months, has been to ride on the bus. She sees it as a symbol of growing up, I guess, and certain freedom. And she LOVES her bus driver, who by the way, is an ordained minister. Now, how cool is that, I ask you? Her teacher is her adopted grandmother, and her bus driver is a minister, AND she's got her very best buddies as co-kinders.

Here comes the bus!

No worries about traffic, here....

Around the bus....so fast it's almost a blur!

See the nifty thermos? Full of chocolate milk...mmmm.

Here's Mr. Kluck, pleased with his cookies. Maggie didn't even pause; she was on her way to find the seat and make friends. No tears, no clinging, no whining. And Maggie handled it well, too.

Shelf Life

I'm posting this so you know how truly crazy we are about books, in the Farmer's Homestead. We've actually talked about building a room like these, to house our growing library. You've never seen two bigger nerds, than us, when we get to bookstores! We love the smell, the feel, the sound, the colors of books, and honestly, I think we need to look into a 12 Step Program for people who love books too much. Really, the only thing missing in these pictures are huge, comfy chairs, an espresso bar, and a big old table on which to spread all the tomes and refreshments, and a couple of cats.

What do you think?
Crazy?

Or, do you want to come over, when we build the room, and spend a week or so...

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.)