L.M. of the U.

My friend Anne commented in the Lewistown post that Mike Waterman also goes by the title "Lord Master of the Universe", which is true, but only for a couple people, and I feel I should explain here, lest you think he has delusions of omniscience, or drinks heavily, or something like that....

I met Mike at a New Clerk's Workshop in Helena, where he gave a presentation on how to code everything in school bookkeeping to about 60 terrified new clerks.  All I remember about the presentation was that he used famous T.V. bars and the only one we got was "Cheers".  The codes were like Swahili, and I must confess, are only slightly better today. I flunked the workshop, but learned to knit.  That's another story entirely...

The next time I saw him was in Miles City, where again, he was trying to impart his love for and knowledge of school finance to a room full of jaded, middle aged clerks who REALLY came to the workshop to get away from the office and go to Walmart.  And (this is my theory alone) because I think Mike flirts a little with them, and they all secretly have a crush on him.  (You must realize that 99.999998% of school clerks are female.  He stands an easy 6 foot 2 inches, and when you walk into a room of school clerks, there's always a cluster of women around him. He can't help it...there's no one else to talk to. That, and he knows the Swahili of School Finance.)

Anyway, he walked up with his 3lb OPI badge that stated his name and title...it was impressive.  I don't know what possessed me to do it, but I read the badge and asked him who he thought he was, Master of Time, Space and Dimension? and he replied that, no, actually he was Lord Master of the Universe.  And I remembered it, and have referred to him as such, ever since.

Incidentally, he has a nameplate in his office with the title emblazoned on it; a gift from grateful rural clerks that he's helped with all school accounting aspects.  We still don't know the 13 digit codes, but we have his office phone number memorized and it's our lifeline when we can't figure out the Swahili on the computer screen in front of us. 

I'm going to get in big trouble for posting the picture of L.M. of the U., but that's a chance I'm going to have to take....it's just too good not to!  This is a Spirit Week photo from last year. At least that's what he tells me.  This may be how he dresses on Casual Fridays....

But wait! There's more!

I ALSO finished Les Miserables night before last!!!
I've been working on that tome since last spring....February, I think.
It's a magnificent book, and I wish I could pick it for a bookclub selection, but alas, it has 1260 pages of fine print, and I would be kick-ed out of my own club. 
Anyway, I just had to broadcast that, because it was quite a literary accomplishment, and worthy of a celebration.

Woohoo!

After that last post, I thought I should tell you about other things that happened this week, besides pest control. I really HAVE been doing more than trying to kill flies.

Yesterday, I drove to Lewistown for a mentoring session with my friend Mike Waterman, the Lewistown Public School's Business Manager and Financial Wizard.  We were setting up my school accounting system on Quickbooks, and he assured me that he had worked the finer details and awfulness out.  It would be a piece of cake.  No problemo.

When I got to Lewistown, the man was headed out the door to do a radio broadcast with his superintendant on the local airwaves.  I set up my computer and tuned in to hear the show.  Local, small town radio talk shows are difficult to describe.  You want to shut it off, but you can't, because sure as you do, the one big community shocker will occur and you will have missed it.  Little old ladies will be clucking, store clerks talking as they "straighten" the racks, the coffee bunch at the local greasy spoon shaking their heads and you won't have the faintest idea what happened on the radio at 10:23 a.m. because you impatiently shut the dang thing off.

Nothing of the sort happened, sadly, and when Mike got back, we got busy with the Quickbooks. Mike loves school finance. He's weird that way.  I  like him, but  it's still quite strange.  Most people tolerate school finance, some are rather interested, others have nightmares about it; Mike loves it.  I would say I fall somewhere between tolerance and nightmare, depending on the time of year. Mike has the same sort of humor I do, which is rare, and we laugh a lot through the torture, so that makes it a leetle more tolerable.

We had lunch, after a couple of hours of slavery, at Lola's, a little sandwich shop on Main Street.  They make crepes instead of tortillas, and about 20 different types of gelato.  Mike's wife, Lisa Waterman joined us for lunch.  Let me tell you a little about Lisa Waterman.  She's the healthiest person I know. She puts spinach in macaroni and cheese.  And I'm pretty sure she uses whole wheat macaroni, but I can't prove it.  Last year, when I visited them in Lewistown, she confided that she was doing two Beth Moore Bible studies simultaneously, but that neither group knew about the other group.  I find that hilarious! Would that be an infidelity? Or just a secret?

Mike bet me that I couldn't eat my whole crepe wrap with my hands without spilling. (Like eating a soft-shell taco) He said if I could do that, he'd buy my gelato.  Oh, YEAH, I got the gelato! There's no way I'd lose a food bet, with more food as pay-up. 

I won't bore you with the details of the afternoon. (Unless you, like Mike, love school finance...if so, I can email you the finer points.) We got Quickbooks where I need it to be, with the exception of being able to reconcile with the county Treasurer.  That's a little detail we need to work out.  Reconciliation is rather essential, I think.  Big Problemo. 

I finally left Lewistown around 6 p.m. and drove home, my head aswirl with numbers and codes and accounting nonsense.  Driving is good therapy, some days, and it was nice to have the time to unpack my brain before I got home.  Two hours of unpacking the brain can get down to some things that should be better left packed, but by the time I hit that, I was too busy dodging deer on the road to really start scraping the corners.

Most of this week has been consumed with school finance, and I'll be glad to be done with it for the weekend. So now you know, I do other things besides destroy spider webs in household appliances and scare flies!

A deep, meaningful post for your contemplation...

"She wouldn't hurt a fly..."

How many times have you heard that old phrase, and thought it meant the person was meek and gentle? Well, I'm here to suggest that perhaps it's not that she wouldn't hurt a fly, it's that she can't.

She's not coordinated enough.

I've been trying to put a hurting on the flies moving into our house for the winter. And it's pathetic, let me tell you. I don't know if it's my old lady no-line bifocals, my cheap (free gift from the insurance agent for spending $7900/yr) flyswatter, or my general clumsiness, but it's nearly impossible for me to actually get a fly killed.

They die laughing. That's about my only weapon...

The kids have been in and out of the house all week, with the warm weather and kittens, and each time the door opens, the force of it sucks about 5 flies in to our home.  These flies have come to Insect-opia, because there are more crumbs and spills in our day than June Cleaver saw in her entire life. They are happy. They sit around on my counters having little fly-parties over the Teddy Graham remains. They stick their nasty little fly-tongues out at me, when I go for the swatter. Apparently word has hit the streets that this is a safe place, except for the wind my swatter makes as it swooshes through the air over their heads.

The Farmer is a crack shot, and just like the Little Tailor in that Mickey Mouse movie, he can "kill seven in one blow".  There's no messing around, with him.  It's over, when he gets the swatter. Or even a magazine! But I can't wait for him to come home every evening, greet him at the door with a beer and a flyswatter, and request carnage.  He's had a long day; the last thing he wants to do is prove what a man he is by eliminating the bugs from our house....

So, I work at this every day, darn it, and eventually, I think, the flies will die of old age, or there will be a couple stupid ones that sit 25 seconds too long and I'll gain some advantage and confidence.

*Can you believe how pathetic my life is? I'm writing about killing flies, for pete's sake, on my blog.  And that's as exciting as my week gets, folks.  Stay tuned.  Next week, we'll explore why the Old Lady swallowed the fly....a question that has mystified generations of preschoolers. *Groan*

Wanted!

The Cocoa Kid

May be armed with dimples.

Height: Approx. 2 1/2 feet

Weight: Depends on what is in his pockets

Eyes: Green and twinkly

Hair: Sandy blonde (and when we say 'sand', we mean actual sand.)

May be traveling with small cats, assorted trucks and unidentified objects in the aforementioned pockets.

Recently potty-trained!!!

This hombre gravitates toward grandparents in possession of sugary treats.

Lock up your cookies, candy and frosting.

Reward!

(If you keep him, that is...)

"I'm just crackers for cheese!"

If you recognize that line, then you're probably a Wallace and Gromit fan, too. We adore this little claymation creation, in the Farmhouse, but it occured to me that not many, if ANY of our friends watch these movies, too!

We recently bought the DVD, "Wallace and Gromit and the Case of the WereRabbit", and have laughed our way through it twice or four times, now. I love all the British humor, the gentle pokes of fun at UK stereotypes, and the expressions on the character's faces.  In "WereRabbit" there's also a lot of gardening humor, which I laugh at, but that my family doesn't catch. Wayland likes all the gizmos and gadgets, and the kids like Gromit, the dog, who is the only one who really knows what's going on throughout the movie.

The next W&G movie due to come out is "A Matter of Loaf and Death" in which they run a bakery.  Gardening, baking, gadgets, British humor....how can I not love this?!

Lessons learned in Kindergarten

A lot of kind people have been inquiring as to how Kindergarten is going for Maggie. And we ask that question ourselves, because she doesn't really say much about the whole deal.  After much prodding and thinking back on the last couple of weeks, here are some of the things she's learned:

1. Boys don't really like to be kissed. Even if they are nice boys, they don't like kisses. (Whew!)
2. How to count backwards. (She demonstrated, and by golly, she's got it! I was just worried about the whole counting forwards thing.  I never thought of backwards.)
3. What to do if there's a fire or tornado at school. (Another thing I hadn't thought about, but will now lay in bed with my head racing at the possiblity of such disasters.)
4. You don't learn to read on the first day of Kindergarten. Or even the second day. Everyone keeps telling her she's going to learn to read at school, but so far, no dice. 
5. She has Hot Pocket envy.  A little girl who rides the bus with her has Hot Pockets for lunch every day.  Maggie has a lunchbox full of delicacies, but nothing to put in the microwave.
6. How to play baseball. It's her favorite part of school, she tells me.
7. Her least favorite part of school is the stretches they do first thing in the morning.  I think she's frustrated that she can't do them perfectly.  At least, I'm guessing that's what it is, after watching her try to show us here at home. 
8. Threes, fours and twos are easy to write. Fives are nearly impossible.  So many turns and lines and curves!
9. Homework? What homework? Her teacher sends a paper home to work on with the parents, which we do, then we send it back. But she never actually takes the paper out of her backpack and hands it in.  I just found 4 homework papers in her backpack, neat as a pin.  Perhaps I can mail them.  Or paste them to her sweet little forehead in the morning. 
10. And if you want a playdate with your friends from school, just invite them! Mom will get out of the corral sometime around 3 p.m. and whip up some milk and cookies for the gang! (Fortunately, my friend Heather called and alerted me that this was the rumble at school amongst the younger set. That could've really been ugly, except that all the parents would have to drive their kids 12 or more miles to get to the playdate, and perhaps that would've deterred them.)

End of the bloomers...

...speaking, of course, of the summer flowers! What were you thinking I was talking about?

I'm sure you noticed they are all close up shots.  That would be because there are only about 3 sorry little stalks of flowers left, and I didn't want to show you the dead ones.  This post is mostly for Fontie, because we are garden nerds, and I haven't posted anything for her since the hoppers hit, in June. (Doesn't that sound like an old-timer? "Back in '09, when the hoppers hit...")

Tortilla time!

Tortilla rolling pin, getting ready to flatten some dough.

It's hard to capture the whole picture...

Here's a tortilla ready to go, one in the pan, and flour everywhere.

There's no way to make tortillas without flour everywhere. If you had a picture of the cook, there's flour from nose to toes.

A few summers ago, when Angus was just a baby, my Aunt Bert taught me how to make homemade flour tortillas.  There is just no comparison, between the homemade ones, and those you buy in plastic packages in the store....once I started making them at home, the store tortillas seemed very flabby and bland, rather like North Dakotans on a Brazilian beach. (I'll give you a minute for that mental picture...)

My Dad made me this tortilla rolling pin, that I just love! He really, really dislikes working with wood, so it's a precious gift, and I smile everytime I use it.  His father, my Gramps, made me a big handled rolling pin that I use for cookies and piecrusts, but it didn't work so hot with tortillas.  This little rolling pin has more movement, and creates a more even pressure.  And it's just cute!

Here's the deal: some of my readers LOVE recipes, but true to my flaky fashion, I didn't really learn a measurement recipe for these.  (Bad luck for those of you collecting farm recipes.)  I'm sure you can find one on the net, or in a good cookbook.  Aunt Bert showed me about how much of each ingredient to use, about how much to mix it, and about how long to cook them.  And they turn out about right.  If you come visit me, I can show you about how much, how long and so forth.  But no sneaking off to write it down!

While I'm making the tortillas, on the back burner of the stove is a pot with pork sausage, chopped onion and red spuds, chili powder, cayenne pepper, garlic, cumin, salt and whatever else I can think to throw in.  It's different every time, but starts the same!  When it's time to roll them in the shells, we usually top the mixture with sour cream and sometimes salsa. Wayland likes shredded cheese, too.  They're pretty rich this way, and if you want something lighter, try butter and cinnamon sugar. (I have no idea how many Weight Watcher points that is, but it has to be lighter than the sausage filling, wouldn't you think?)

I've already started training on Maggie, and she's getting pretty good at rolling them out. Her's turn out a wee bit thick, but they are pretty good.  I always think of my Dad and Aunt Bert when I'm making these, and wish they could be here to share and laugh and tell stories and tease.  And eat piles of homemade flour tortillas.

Hole-y Bloomers, Batman!

*Be forewarned that this post will contain references to undergarments.  My mother does not know I'm doing this, so don't hassle the poor woman if you see her out in public.  She did the best she could, with what she had to work with, raising me. 


I'm going to tackle an issue that faces nearly every household I've polled, and is never spoken about or dealt with.  It occurs on every income level, every age group, every gender and every class of people. 


No, it's NOT simple chronic halitosis!!!


I'm talking about hole-y underwear.  And you KNOW you have some, so don't start with me!  Panties with a tenuous grip on the elastic, and you have to guess which hole is the one to put your leg through.  Boxers that are transparent in some strategic places, so much so that you can read the newspaper through them.  (You laugh.  I did that to prove a point once.) Tightie whities that are no longer tight, nor anywhere near white, because they've been washed with the jeans about 200 times. String bikini underwear that started out as maternity briefs.  Brassieres that are tokens to modesty; they aren't supporting anything.

You DO have something, don't you?!!

And why do we keep them?!! Why do we continue to launder, fold and put away these disgraceful pieces of our wardrobe?  Are we scared that we will one day run out of the "good" underwear, so we keep these as a safety net of sorts? ("Net" being the key word here...) Will it put us in the poorhouse to buy one package of new underwear for $6.95 at Walmart?  Will we have to explain to someone why we threw away a piece of clothing that still had, maybe, one more wear in it?

I just got done folding a load of whites (off-whites) and it occurred to me that at least 5 of those unmentionables that I folded, have completely passed from clothing to wisps of thread tangled together around an elastic waistband, and that perhaps it was time for them to go to the Great Laundry Basket in the Sky.  This daring domestic move will necessitate me buying a package of new underwear! *Gasp!* I didn't budget for it this month, so I may have to wait until next month for the big purchase, which puts me in peril of not having enough undergarments to last between washes.  This will cause me to have to do laundry more frequently! And so begins a chain reaction that may, in fact, bring about world peace or something as profound. 

So, what do you say? Are you with me? Will you commit to throwing away at least two pair of your hole-y undergarments, with no guilt or remorse?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I'm not going to report every moment that happened since last Thursday, even though I know you are poised at the edge of your seat, coffee cup in hand, hoping for each blessed detail of my weekend.  Buy a paper, honey, and get some real news!  (Of course, it may very well BE in the Jordan paper, by this time...) 

In no particular order, here are the five worst things that happened, on the furlough:

• Beth scared the dickens out of us in the motel, the first night, by telling true stories of home invasion and loonies coming to a Walmart near us.  It happened to be the only night we didn't have big, strong, law-enforcement trained men with us.  Yes, we were alone.  And tired, the next morning.
• Texas Tech lost to the Longhorns. EVEN after I hung the banner on gameday in the townhouse, wore Red Raider everything, painted my nails Guns Up Red, and prayed for the team.  It was not a blow-out, but it was sad. 
• The wedding that took place at the resort while we were there had a D.J. hired until 11 p.m. and he was very serious about making sure the entire resort heard the last song, "Another One Bites The Dust". 
• There was no cell service, so I couldn't call and check on my babies.  I felt like I was being held hostage.
• I had a headache from Friday afternoon until today! I think it was the massage, releasing toxins into my body. 

The five BEST things that happened during furlough, in no particular order:

• The afternoon at the spa, getting a manicure, pedicure and massage....it was heaven!  And I'm telling you all right here, right now; if I ever perchance win a 37 million dollar lottery, I'm buying every household of every person I know and love, a professional massage chair.  It's true.  You'd better hope I start buying lottery tickets, now, and that I like/and/or/love you.  Mmmmmhmmm.
• Breakfast buffet on Sunday at Old Piney Dell.  Those two words together, 'breakfast' and 'buffet', pretty much ensure it's going to be a good time.  We had mimosas, and obscene amounts of breakfast food. 
• Grown-up time to visit, without worrying about where the kids were or what they were up to.  They were safe, we were relaxed....it was a lot of fun!
• Finding crazy greeting cards and reading them out loud to each other, when we were downtown Red Lodge....the girls, that is.  You don't actually have to purchase them to enjoy them, and they were everywhere!
• Time with my husband, not worrying about what I should be doing or what he should be doing, or what the kids are doing.  It turns out, I really like that man, still.  He's alright. 

And those were the low and high lights.  Then I came home to a school board meeting, and a full day on Tuesday of preconditioning calves.  The manicure is looking a little chipped, and I think the effects of the massage have worn off, but the memories of the good time are still here!

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...