Flaming Sugar Bombs

*The following pictures were taken the SAME DAY as the brownie-fest you read about in the previous post; within about an hour, actually. There will be grandmothers reading this that are trying to calculate exactly how many grams of  sugar the children consumed in a 3 hour window…..don’t. It’s appalling.

A couple of notes about the setting:

1. It was snowing heavily, which is why so many of the pictures are “flaky”.

2. Yes, we are just outside the parking/cow shed. I have no idea if the children touched anything and I don’t want to think about it.

3. The reason all the marshmallows are blackened is because they had a rock-like consistency to start with. (It’s sort of dangerous to have to pound marshmallows on the roasting sticks with brute force.) And apparently, fossilized marshmallows don’t soften with heat, they just burn.

4. Yes, I do occasionally wash their jackets, snowpants, hats and gloves. I just didn’t do it that day.

5. There are 21 pictures here. Scroll fast.

They can't believe their good fortune.

Fire AND sugar!

The next three photos are "Quick! Blow it out!" poses.

Ooooo, hot!  Ooooo, hot!

If the whole marshmallow doesn't fit on it's own, you can always force the issue with a dirty mitten.

Acute disappointment at the lack of hotdogs....

Molly and Twilla, frisking in the snow. 

They were both so tickled that we all came out to play.

She loves him best, you know!

Thinking of a big story....

"Shhhhhh! There's MONSTERS in the shed!"

"Did I scare you, Daddy?!"

"Snork, snork....you're so easy, Dad!"

I told him to smile like he meant it.

More saccharine, reduced to carbon....

She wanted to have a camp out in the parking/cow shed that night. Since we had a fire and all....

This is the most joyous picture! I love it.

Thanks, Dad! That was SO much fun!!!

Brownie Time!

I went from having absolutely nothing to blog about, to absolutely everything to blog about. What a delightful state to be in!  And my blogs are going to be in a weird order, just by token of how I get images to load. 

In my "Winter morning..." post, I mentioned my friend Shelly, who thought our sheltered life was interesting, bless her heart!  I've been wanting to write more about her for months, but didn't want to embarrass her by going on and on.....

Well, now I'm ready to embarrass her, and I'm going to go on and on. (That's really the only way I write, anyway, as you well know.) Incidently, Shelly was the one who sent me the tiara that I wear when I load the dishwasher. 

Shelly and her husband Don came to visit us in October, when they brought Twilla B. from Missouri.  We loved them immediately, and made them stay a couple extra nights....and to ensure that they wouldn't leave in the middle of the night, Maggie stayed in their camper with them.  Don and Wayland went bird hunting and hiking, and Shelly gracefully endured the kids and I, and our overwhelming urge to bond with any person who lights on our doorstep.  We had a lot to talk about, because Don and Shelly were expecting their first baby in February (no, hasn't been born yet) and I had a lot of cautionary tales. 

I'm certainly not going to do Shelly justice in trying to describe her here, but I'll try to give you an idea of what a beautiful person she is, inside and out.  She's very genuine, gracious and tender, and funny, but it's the dry, smart funny that tickles me so.  Shelly loves homey, warm touches because she is that way herself.  I love her quiet appreciation of beauty, and her inquisitive mind that looks beyond the surface.  She thinks of others continuously, and thinks the best of them which is a trait I wish I had more of.  And she's gloriously creative and artistic. (Here's where she's goiing to start getting embarrassed....but because she's in Missouri and 9 months pregnant, I feel pretty secure that she's not going to be able to do anything about it....)

Shelly is an artist by trade. (Is that the right way to say it?)

Among many, many other projects, she has illustrated four (soon to be five) really wonderful cookbooks.  She and her friend Roxie put them together and they are stunning in their usefulness, beauty and charm. I sit and look at them like picture books, but the recipes are practical and fun, as you will see later in this post.

She's also in a bluegrass band, Lonesome Road, and sent us one of their albums for Valentine's day, along with the "Just a Matter of Thyme" cookbook, and bags of treasures for the kids. (Maggie and Angus were over the moon with suckers, GUM that is generally prohibited but allowed occasionally and other treasures. I hid some of the gum and suckers, because their little eyes were glazing over. But that's another post.)

We set out, yesterday, to try out the cookbook. Angus and Maggie decided on Jan's Brownies, and we put Roll With the Changes on to cook by.  (We've nearly worn it out already.  I'm endorsing this not because Shelly is a friend, but because we really, really, really love it. Really.  Go to www.lrband.com/listen.htm   and see for yourself!)

Here's an example from one of the cookbooks. Isn't it LOVELY? The whole cookbook is illustrated in that manner!

You can see how I just sit and drool over it, and not just because of the recipes....

So Angus and I mixed up the brownies from Just a Matter of Thyme.  I hope she doesn't mind me listing the recipe here....it's JUST LIKE a box mix in consistency, only tastes better because it's homemade.

Jan's Brownies

Preheat oven to 350 degrees and grease 9 x 13 pan.

Mix together: 1 cup melted butter and 2 cups of sugar until light.

Add: 4 eggs and 2 tsp vanilla and mix well.

Add and mix well: 2/3 cup cocoa powder, 1 cup flour, 1/2 teaspoon each baking powder and salt.

Pour into the prepared pan and bake 25-ish minutes, or until toothpick comes out clean.

*Angus wasn't wearing clothes, but he had been sanitized prior to helping.  I encourage anyone else who makes the recipe to at least wear an apron.

Maggie was drawing, very busily, and consented to licking off the spatula.  But first, she had to put the details on the picture.

Angus only helps bake, because he gets to help with the clean-up.

He's really enthusiastic about this responsibility...

Maggie finally realized what all the slurping and groans of happiness were about!

I don't want to hear any lectures about salmonella and other ucky dread diseases...

We lived through it, as kids, and I'm pretty sure my kids are just as tough.

Tougher, truth be told....

Besides, the majority of the raw dough ends up on the skin, not in the tummy.

(I always get chocolate on my nose, too!)

THANKS SHELLY!!!

I'd take a picture of the brownies, but they have been worked over pretty good and are no longer as picturesque as they were when they first came out of the oven. 

(They are exceptionally good with coffee, in the dark of the early morning, when you're trying to read your Bible quietly.)

If you want a copy of the cookbooks, you can find them on most booksellers websites.  Look for Shelly Reeves Smith and Roxie Kelly. 

* We're anxiously awaiting the word this week and next on the Smith baby's arrival! Stay tuned for updates.

** The kids will be dressed in the next post. I promise.

Winter morning on the ranch...

*Warning!

This post contains 18…yes! 18!... pictures of cows and cow related activities. If you are reading the Chronicles to see pictures of half-clothed, savage country kids or for the helpful household hints or seeking societal information about native Montanans recreating in their natural habitat….this post will bore you to bits. Check my sidebar for talented bloggers who cover those topics in better fashion than I do.



**And you can thank my friend Shelly for this post, because this afternoon she told me it’s not boring to read about our cows or the multitude of minute details of our rural eastern Montana life. (She’ll be more careful with her encouragement in the future, I’m sure.)



You remember Millie? She’s this next photo. That’s her before she got all important and told the other cows about our yard. (She’s had serious regrets, since, because now she has to stand on the other side of the fence, gazing wistfully at her little patch of grass…Loose lips sink ships, or grazing opportunities in this case.)

The rest of the pictures were taken on Valentine’s Day, when the kids and I GOT to go feeding with Daddy. It was so exciting! We had been in a steamy, mentholated house for three days and this was a giddy reprieve for all of us. (Okay, more for me than the kids, but when I’m happy, they’re happy-er.)



Here’s a picture of the countryside, all around us. (I’m putting this up for Dykstras, who can’t imagine, in their wildest dreams, how tree-less it is here!) We are the capital of Out In The Middle Of Nowhere.

Now….on to the cows! Did you pour a cup of coffee? It’s going to take awhile.

These are the cows just south of our house (Millie and friends), trailing in for breakfast.  They are the first ones to get fed in the morning, so they haven't had a lot of time to warm up and they are a little grouchy.

Check out the frost on these old girls! It was about -15 that morning, and they were NOT impressed.

We're not feeding them fast enough.

See the one directly behind the bale, trying to figure out how to loosen the bale, before anyone else gets it?

The feed pickup and cow hands...

A whole new meaning to "frosted flakes"! Frosted flakes of hay, that is...

Windmills are beautiful and lonesome, all at the same time. 

This is a new bunch, and they are very suspicious of me, with my camera!

Can you see her thoughts?

"This is HIGHLY irregular, girls.  I don't trust her."

The Farmer, pulling net wrap off the bale so he can unroll it, like a big old cinnamon bun.

These are cake pellets; sort of like breakfast cereal for cows.  It's made up of ground grains, minerals, fillers like corn gluten, molasses, urea sometimes to boost protien, bentonite sometimes to bind, and steamed to soften it.  Then it's pressed through a die, and voila! cake pellets. 

After we roll out the bales, we sprinkle the pellets on the hay, and the cows are crazy for it. 

STILL suspicious, but unwilling to leave the vicinity of the chuckwagon....

Here he goes! Those arms that are holding the bales are hydraulic, and as the bale unrolls it can be lowered to maintain pressure and keep the bale turning. 

Hustling in for the haul....

MMMMMM!

(This picture is from Millie's bunch.)

They are always so pleased, to have hay to wallow around in and chew on.

Some of you wonder how the cows water, when it's so incredibly cold here.  We have wells with fiberglass tanks, and have to break the ice on top, then scoop it out with a shovel.

I remember my Dad and Gramps chopping ice with an axe, on the Big Dry Creek, then scooping. That was HARD work, and I thought they were the strongest men alive.

Marauders in the haystack.  There were probably 30 head of deer in this haystack.  You can't see them all, because most of them were jumping the fence in the back and heading out for the hills.  Deer can consume and destroy SO much precious hay! It wouldn't be so bad if they'd just eat what was left on the ground around the stack, but they paw and tear into bales, and waste a lot.  These deer aren't too worried about us, and act as though we are the intruders.

There you have it: a little sample of the ranch, first thing every morning.  I don't have pictures of Vern, feeding with the tractor, sadly.  While Wayland feeds his cows, Vern feeds four other bunches closer to the house.

Love it!

Since we are required to write about love this weekend, and since I can't seem to follow any requirements in a straight line, here are some things I love.  (Besides the given husband/kids/home/health/family/freedom stuff...)

• I love it when the waffle fills all the squares, but doesn't overflow into a starchy puddle all over the counter.
• I love reaching for the last two socks in the laundry basket and finding they are exact matches, eliminating that pesky "two orphans to float around the drawer" situation.
• I love the chocolate bliss faces when kids lick off the beaters from the cake that was just mixed.
• I love watching calves that are 20 minutes old, wobbly-trotting behind their mothers on the way to the gate, all slurped on and a tummy with a teeny bit of milk warming them.
• I love Doris Day's wardrobe, in every movie she made.
• I love finishing a really, really good book. It's almost like coming home from a long journey to my own bed....big sigh of happy relief. 
• I love soft summer evenings, when the day sort of eases into night almost apologetically.
• I love it when my husband holds my hand when he drives.  (And when he opens the door on the car for me to get in!)
• I love looking at photographs...anyone's photos.  Old, stiff dagerrotype grandma pictures and brand new proud parent hundred of the same pose pictures;  corny travel pictures and silly home pictures.
• I love laughing so hard I'm crying, and not being able to tell the baffled on-lookers what it was about. That makes it even funnier, and I laugh more.  I know. That's lame. But I love it.
• I love finding real, live, true letters in the mail....sandwiched between bills and the Farm and Ranch Weekly.  Better than a pot of gold, to me.

It's the little things, isn't it? This is a teensy little list, but you really couldn't handle any more of my weirdness after a long break from it.  You have to build back up. 

Between Friends Chapter 5

*Chapter 4 can be found at Life With Four Boys .  I had no more cow-in-the-snow or naked-kids-dressing-up-cats pictures to post this week, much less write about, and neither did Denise; we were desperate, just like Fern and Joanie.  I'm sure you can't imagine THAT! Here's Chapter 5....unparalleled in goofiness....


Just then, Fern's cell phone started to ring from the depths of her zebra print purse.  Or rather, to play the tune "Don't Be Cruel" and vibrate.  "Would you ex-cuse me for a moment?"  Fern dug around in her bag, trying not to reveal the many empty Caramello wrappers that were cushioning and obscuring her phone.  It was difficult to maintain grace under pressure. It was even harder to continue to hold in her stomach, encased in black spandex "jeans". 

At last, she pulled the phone from the depths of the valaise and answered, as sophisticatedly as she could with no breath, "He-looooo. Yes, Amelia. Yes, we HAVE met Hans, honey." Fern glanced at the impressive speciman of which they were conversing. He was indicating, as politely as he could, that it was urgent to leave, right that very minute.
"Ah, nooooo. No we have NOT had a chance to chat with him."
It was becoming impossible to carry on the conversation AND the facade with her stomach.
Fern hissed into the phone, "Amelia! I will call you LATER. Mmmm-hmmmm. Good-BYE."

As Hans offered each lady an arm, the three began rapidly walking toward the parking lot. Fern and Joanie were having to trot, with legs approximately half as long and heels twice as high as Hans.  Fern gave up on vanity and focused on not falling or worse, being drug along in a hurry. 

When they'd reached an old, green Ford truck, Hans politely, but firmly insisted they get in.  For their own safety.  But Joanie paused.

"Land sakes! For all we know, YOU killed Clara! Now, you seem like a nice young man...really young, actually....but I have watched all those CSI shows and nice young men can be..." and she paused for air, "....well, they can be villains! I'm not getting in!"

Fern immediately agreed, impressed with Joanie's uncharacteristic good sense.

Hans flipped open a little wallet, revealing a badge and handed it to Joanie and Fern, looking around urgently.

"Federal....Bureau....of Investigation..." Joanie read carefully.
"You're FBI?!" gasped Fern.

"Yes, ladies," Hans put the badge back in his coat. "Now, will you KINDLY get in the truck? I'll explain more as we drive."

Fern looked at Joanie with glittering eyes, behind her bifocals.
"Well, you heard the man...get in!"

As they clambered into the truck, forgoing appearances and panting with the effort, Hans elegantly slid into the drivers seat and started it. It took some effort to get the engine to turn over, and just as Fern was about to offer her understated pink Goldwing bike as a getaway rig, the engine reluctantly coughed to life and they took off. 

Looking in the side mirror, Fern caught a glimpse of two menacing figures, heading toward her Goldwing.

By this time, Joanie's quivering chin had settled down a bit.
Hans spoke loudly, but STILL politely, over the caucaphony of the finely tuned engine of the Ford,

"I'm sorry you ladies got tangled up in this. Here's what's going on..."

"the fat bat..."

"Hey, Mags; what is the one big thing you want to learn at school this year?"

"I want to write my own stories, without anyone helping me with the words and letters. I want to write my stories alone."

This week, Maggie wrote a "lift-the-flap" book, entitled  All Animals Are Cool.   She drew pictures of jungle animals in their habitat and carefully pasted little paper doors over them.  There was a question mark beside each door, so the reader would wonder at the mystery of the door.  I was shocked that she'd even gotten the pages in order, front to back, and stapled neatly.  The only print in the book was the first page that said, "What's behind that door?"  It really frustrated her that I had to help her spell out the words.  One of the greatest delights about a project is the surprise factor, and that's lost when you get help. 

Every day, we get three or four intricately drawn pictures of mermaids, princesses, pirates, elephants and other fanciful characters.  The scenes are dimensionally correct and detailed, and when she tells the story about the picture, it takes at LEAST 15 minutes. 

I can understand why she wants to be able to communicate in print.  Then she wouldn't have to remember the story every time.  The audience could READ it, along with her!

The kicker is that she knows how to read.  She just doesn't know she knows....you know?

I made up word cards this afternoon, thinking if she learned a couple words like "the" and "at", that she'd be more confident.  There were also cards that had "cat", "sat" and "mat".  We added "elephant" at her request. 
She shuffled through the deck, looking for words she needed to make a sentence.  With very little help, she put this together:
"the fat bat sat on a mat"   then: "the cat got the bat"   ending with "splat" 
That was a FUNNY story! We both laughed!

She got busy and put together a couple sentences about "the elephant" and another about "the bat".  I stopped the game before she got tired of it, and she wants to use her word cards tomorrow.  And could we make a card for "ran"?

Maggie is on her way to big stories, written all by herself.

If you are inclined to read Chapter 4....

....go to Life with Four Boys for the next scintillating installment of "Between Friends".  You won't be bored!

Between Friends Chapter 3

"Well, this is what comes of reading a murder mystery for bookclub, " Fern grumbled, hanging her phone up like a lady, instead of tossing it to the ground dramatically as SOME people were inclined to do.She picked up her dog-eared, notated paperback copy of "Death Becomes Her" and headed toward the living room to turn "Days of Our Lives" up so she could hear it while changing clothes.  No one could solve a mystery wearing a muu-muu.

 And heaven knows it was up to her.  Amelia wouldn't leave her post by the telephone for fear of missing the play by play action from her brother. He owned the conveniently situated coffee/tire repair shop next to the police station, and was a wealth of information, true or conjecture, which he cheerfully and speedily shared.  Clara couldn't be counted on; Mr. Puggles or Cuddles or whatever that little dog's name was, distracted her like a hen with a lame grasshopper. Besides, it was all she could handle, making dessert for bookclub.  She was not known for her great culinary skills and under stress, well, there was no telling what would come of those blueberries she was blithering about...

Fern emerged from her boudoir, dressed fit to kill.

"Poor choice of descriptive phrases," she thought to herself, putting her magenta lipstick in her faux zebra-hide purse.  She turned the t.v. off and headed for the garage as fast as her black highheeled boots could carry her. 

She pulled the hot pink Honda Goldwing bike out of the garage, grateful for the sidecar that lent balance.  It was either that or the Harley, and Fern didn't want to draw attention to herself, so the Goldwing was the obvious choice. 

On her way to Joanie's house, Fern went through all the possibilities of demise in her head. 
"Could've been poison...yes, that was the obvious choice, but was it TOO obvious? And how would it ever be accomplished, Clara cooking everything from it's natural, organic state.  Strangulation? No word on that sort of thing from the coffee shop. Heart attack? Drowning in soup?"

Fern pulled up to Joanie's house, parked the Goldwing and tried to poof her flattened grey curls before clicking up the sidewalk to the backdoor.  Odd, though, because the backdoor was already open.  Joanie was so gah-gah about that little Mr. Snuggles that she manically checked the door, lest he escape to a more sane environment.

Stepping over a multitude of canine squeaky toys and tug ropes, Fern gasped, her black gloved hand going automatically to her mouth.  There was Joanie, crumpled on the entry floor, with a note in her hand. 

Picking up the note, Fern read "Keep your Hans off my property!". 
No one could spell properly these days...

Then she knelt to check Joanie's state, keenly aware that "As The World Turns" was beginning, in the background.

Between Friends Chapter 1

   "She's DEAD!"
   Bran muffin crumbs sprayed all over the shiny gold enamel tabletop, as Fern sputtered in shock.  Her frazzled grey curls were fairly shaking with shock as she tried, not very successfully, to regain control of her thoughts and the despised muffin.
   "But she was supposed to bring dessert to bookclub on Thursday!"
   How very insensitive of Clara to die right before the best night of the month! And to leave the girls without dessert, too! She WOULD do that.  Clara had always been an obstrucionist, where events were concerned, jealous that she hadn't thought of them first and preventing thier success at any expense. This was going too far. 
   "Are you sure? Clara was healthy as my hog, Amelia. She was always making broccoli brownies and trying spinach recipes. And JOGGING! At her age, it's indecent to wear running shorts.  I really can't see her tipping over suddenly, in the middle of her Healthy Request soup bowl."
  Fern fluffed around her little egg-yolk yellow kitchen, rolling her eyes and looking in every drawer for her stash of emergency chocolate. Her magenta flowered muu-muu was hindering her progress, being worn mostly for effect and not for the serious work of locating dark chocolate truffles in tight spaces.  Finally, in the dusty wine glasses on the bookcase, she unearthed one lonely, stale-ish irish cream filled bon-bon and popped it into her incredulous, matching magenta mouth. With a sigh of relief, she continued in her cranky dialogue with the well-informed Amelia who happened at that very minute to be tearing apart her own oak paneled kitchen for a similar confection.
  " Well, who in the world FOUND her? Her kids only call once a month, you know, and I'm not sure either of them would have the good sense to realize something had happened! They'd probably assume she was out for a run to the farmer's market for more spinach. And I can't blame them. I couldn't bring myself to call Clara more than once a month, either, and only to tell her what she needed to bring to supper for bookclub....she was so...sour, all the time.  You know, that's what happens to a person when they cut out all the fat and sugar from their diet.  They just shrivel up and get mean."
  Fern paused to take a breath and pour a cup of coffee that would dissolve an ordinary stainless steel spoon with it's strength and viscosity.
   " She had a BOYFRIEND?!!!! HE found her?!!!"
In a small town like Homer, a person couldn't buy coughdrops and get home without many wishes for better health.  There was no comprehension of a secret relationship occuring.  Especially with Fern and Amelia as close, personal friends.  This was indeed an unexpected twist in the plot, and Fern could barely absorb the shock of it.  She sat heavily down in her red recliner, staring at the crookedly hung print of Marilyn Monroe framed in gold plated plastic.  It was too much to take before Days of Our Lives.  Then a horrible, delicious thought occurred to her....
   "Amelia! Do you think, " and a pause for a gulp of coffee for courage, "do you think she could've been murdered?"
  The sound of a phone clattering to the floor could be heard through the earpiece. 
  " I'm calling Joanie! She lives right next door to Clara.  If anyone knows anything, it's Joanie.  Besides, she's got to bring dessert, now."

Warning!

*Just so you know....
Starting today, I'm collaborating with Denise Dykstra of Life With Four Boys on a serial story.  We are both bored with our blogs.  So, for the next 6 or 7 days, we will go back and forth with segments of the story. I have no idea what she will write, she has no idea what I will write. The story starts on my blog, then continues on hers tomorrow. 

This will either be really fun(ny) or really awful.  Either way, it'll get us through one winter week!
Hang on....here we go!

Letters from the cave

Dear Followers (if there are any left),

It has been a LOOOOOOOONNNNNNGGGGG winter, hasn't it? I have single-wide trailer fever, which is the less glamorous version of cabin fever.  Cabin fever brings to mind a cozy fireplace, stew on the stove and Nordic sweaters. Single-wide trailer fever, on the other hand, conjures up microwave popcorn, ratty sweatshirts and Jeopardy blaring on the television. 

FaceBook has been interesting, this winter.  My classmates are organizing a 21 year class reunion in August, in conjunction with a GCHS all-class reunion.  Seeing all of them signing in makes me panic a little....bringing out insecurities I thought were long buried! I found myself wondering if I could somehow lose 15 pounds, get a degree in Animal Science, photoshop and re-do the yearbook pictures of myself, and volunteer in some noble cause....all in about 6 months time.  Really! And before you all start telling me it's just about seeing each other again, and no one cares what you are doing or have done, I can assure you I already know that.  It's crazy.  My high school career was not brilliant and I don't want to have to painfully revisit those days, so I think I'm trying to distract my classmates with new stuff.  Of course, no one is MAKING me go to the reunion, either.

Anyway, as God's great plan would have it, I was asked to help with a simulcast about....insecurity.  I know. And I was voted Most Likely To Lead The Local Dissection And Discussion Of The Book On A Blog. Just so I can't be in denial and get out of anything, I assume. 

Drats.

Valentine's Day is fast approaching...my very favorite holiday! But someone moved it up on the calendar, apparently, because I just turned the calendar over to February and only have eight days to make valentines for 80 people, AND 103 with the kids for friends, cousins and classmates. (That is, of course, an exaggeration, but sitting in front of a pile of construction paper and lace, it feels like that.) Does anyone else make valentine's by hand, anymore? Or is it all e-greetings?

You just read about my battle with the cows, I assume.  Big news, there. 
I finally relented and got a library card in Miles City; we'll see if that helps the book budget out.
We're going to Glasscocks for Super Bowl.  Actually, we're going to Glasscocks for contact with other human beings, with the Super Bowl as a convenient reason.
Bookclub is this upcoming Thursday....stay tuned for the report!
The school bus driver for our route is leaving us, to be a minister in Harlem, Montana at the end of this month. So no bus after that! And that was our favorite part of school, too!

Also (and I've been avoiding this) Wayland's grandpa died last Saturday, and we had the funeral yesterday.  Even though he had been very sick, and died at home, quietly, it was still very difficult.  For some reason, funerals and memorials are harder in the winter. It's already so bleak! We saw a lot of family that we hadn't seen in a while; bittersweet gatherings. 

I've missed you, this last week, and have great plans for upcoming posts. (I know. You're on the edge of your seat.  Well, you'll just have to wait!)
One of my friends recently floored me with the news that he only looks at the pictures and scans the posts for mention of him.  This is sort of how it went...

"You don't READ the posts?"(incredulous) 
"Sometimes. If it has pictures." (flippantly)
"I thought you were following along! You said you read the blog!" (still stunned)
"Well, I don't have time to read EVERYTHING" (defensively)
"Yeah, well I take the time to look at your People of Walmart forwards..." (a bit righteous)
"Well, THOSE are hilarious! That's good stuff, there!" (on to a new topic)
(Thinking to myself, now...) "Well, there won't be anymore pictures for a long time, now. AND you may never see your name in the Chronicles again, buster."  (fluffed)(and retaliatory)(I'm sure he will suffer because of it)(although now he's chortling, because he just earned an entire paragraph of dialogue)(drats)

Thanks for sticking with me during this season of blah!
Much love and many hugs, (especially to the kind reader who sent me cookies and coffee, knowing the fragility of my sanity last week)

The Farmer's Wife 

Cow-tastrophe

It started with one cow. 
#920 found a little patch of alfalfa that Wayland opened up when he plowed around the yard with the tractor. She would, with great purpose, come up the hill from the feed grounds where the other cows were lollygagging, to graze near the yard.  She kept one eye on the house (where squealing and barking eminates with regularity) and one eye on the rest of the cows down the hill.  We named her Millie. And we thought she was cute.

Apparently, Millie could bear the secret of the alfalfa-cicles no longer, and just had to tell one of the other cows about her richness.  And that cow told three of her friends. I think somewhere in the telling, the little patch of alfalfa turned into a glorious field of alfalfa, because Millie ended up with 4 or 5 cows accompanying her the next day.  The 10 square inches of heavily grazed alfalfa didn't live up to the advertisement, but the little bunch of cows noticed that beyond the flimsy two rail yard fence, there were trees and sunflower stalks. 

They sent a scout.

She reported back that, indeed, there was a wonderful opportunity for forage, if only they could slip through the fence.  The other cows (and this is pure conjecture) basically said, "Fence, shmence!" and proceeded to make a plan to crack the yard wide open.  (When you see cows with their heads together, don't be fooled into thinking they are simply trying to stay warm or keep flies off one another. They are plotting. Or gossiping. Cows are the worst gossips.)

The next day, while Millie was pretending to graze on her little patch of now-trampled alfalfa, two of the other cows slipped into the yard. The whole herd had come for the show, and they were standing by the newly discovered parking shed/cow barn. 

I saw the cows in the yard and ran (in my pajamas, mind you) to put on my muck boots to run them out. 

Perhaps you've seen pictures of the 4 foot drifts in our yard that support cats, dogs, birds and kids, but not adults or cows. 

The two villianous cows knew exactly where I could maneuver and where I was helpless, and they sneered at me while I staggered through the drifts, trying to run them out.  They'd take a couple steps toward the opening in the fence, then look at me and taunt with their ears and snooty noses in the air. 

Wayland took pity and came into the yard to help.  They noticed that we were playing man-to-cow offense now, the number of each being the same, and decided it would be in their best interest to leave the yard.  But they were mad about it, and instead of going through the 5 foot opening in the fence, they chose to leave by jumping the fence, taking the top rail down in two different places.  Aren't they spiteful, wicked creatures? And the other cows were applauding and egging them on!

It was unclear who had the victory, but they got bonus points for adding insult to injury.

Thus began the battle.

Cows love a challenge.

So far, in the last 10 days or so, they've managed to sneak in to the parking shed/cow barn in the middle of the night, jostling for position as not all 65 head will fit at once.  When run out by the returning person, they are absolutely huffy and act as though WE are the interlopers. 

They've discovered my front step, and delight in squeezing their bovine butts around the corner, BACK into the yard, to stand by the garden shed where they leave cow plops and chew on dried sunflower stalks. 

We close the big gate from the pasture on them and they try all sorts of things to get back in....first they try to look hungry, hoping we'll take pity and open the gate.  Then, seeing that our hearts have hardened (and they can't understand why) they take to L-E-A-N-I-N-G on the gate, hoping to pop it open.  No dice.  They stare. They glare. They pace, stopping only to glare some more. 

Wayland said, last night as we were returning from Vern and Naomi's, "I'll bet they walk all the way down the hill and around to get in."  Sure enough.  Those old girls had figured out the OTHER open gate, down the hill from the yard and hustled around...WAY around, through another pasture....to bed down, literally, on my doorstep.  And the others in the cow barn (which is no longer the parking shed), of course. 

We exchanged insults, and they grudgingly allowed us to park near the house. 

There are cow plops, frozen and otherwise, all around the driveway. 

They always seem to get in the last word. 

(To be continued....)

Chilled out...

I've been going to write about this for a long time.  It's a curious phenomenon observed in my home, and I'm ready to share.

My husband is allergic to hot food.


He MUST be! 

I have yet to make a meal that he comes directly to partake.  Usually he makes a circuitous route the moment I announce it's ready.  The route may contain, but is not limited to: the bathroom for 15 minutes; the porch to feed the dog, followed by the bathroom to wash up; the bedroom to find the rogue gun magazine from September 2008, followed by the bathroom to wash up; blows his nose, followed by the bathroom to wash up; some obscure webpage that must be read THAT minute, followed by...you guessed it....the bathroom to wash up.

I've tried giving him the old Two Minute Warning, thinking that the problem was my methodology in "springing" the meal on him. (Never mind that I had been clattering and stirring in the kitchen for 30 minutes prior to the announcement...) Apparently, the Two Minute Warning just means he has two minutes to formulate a new route, thus avoiding the steam from the food.

I've tried pretending that we're ready to eat, before anything actually IS ready to eat.  I'm not fooling anyone, least of all The Farmer.  The dog fell for it a couple times, but is now immune to the scam. 

I've tried explaining how it makes me FEEL, when he misses lunch or supper by 15 minutes, due to diversions.  He doesn't show a bit of remorse, even though his lips say, "I know. I'll be there next time..." (The whole FEELINGS thing stopped working a few years back, but it's worth a try.)

I've tried not preparing anything until he inquires about the menu, indicating sincere interest, but by the time I get it all hustled together, he's formulated a route. 

My Gramps was EXACTLY the same way.  If you were to look at their wiring diagram, I'm sure you wouldn't be able to tell one from the other.  And that's not a bad thing; in fact, I loved my Gramps dearly and it was amusing to me, as a child, to watch him vanish into the bathroom while we were all sitting in front of the roast beef lunch Grandma spent all morning preparing.  Now it's MY roast beef cooling, and I've decided that's just how it's going to be. 

That's not a flag of surrender.  I'm still thinking of plots. 
But I'm not going to get mad about it anymore. 

Toofless...

She lost it! And she lost it good. 

While Angus and I were mixing up a cake for PopPops, Maggie was sitting at the table busily working over an apple and glaring at us, because SHE wanted to make the cake.  (Never mind this was the first cooking project for Angus and she's had countless...)

Right before we were to crack the eggs, I hear a little voice behind me, saying

"Did I lose my tooth?"

Maggie opened her mouth and there where the tooth had been was a little hole with a tongue feeling around, looking for the tooth. 

Two thoughts occurred to me, intantaneously:

1. She swallowed it.

2. There will be more drama than Broadway has seen in twenty years of production.

We looked the apple over with great care, and she kept insisting that she HADN'T swallowed it, but she had no idea where it was.  (Meanwhile, the boy was standing at the counter hollering "Can I stir it, now? NOW can I stir it?" And there were eggs there, too.)

Finally, we decided to write the Tooth Fairy a note; a heartfelt, pleading note of explanation.  But NOT this very minute. 

Last night, with a little jewelry pouch and a  green plastic bead (stand-in for the tooth), we wrote a fairy sized note.  She was trotting down the hall to put it under her pillow when her dad and I both hollered that she'd squish the Tooth Fairy in her sleep if she tried that.  It took some talking to get her to ensconce it, instead, in her ballerina jewelry box.

This morning, there was $1.00 in nickels and dimes, which looks like a veritable fortune to a five year old.

Much jumping up and down, much squealing; AND she has a GREAT show-n-tell today.  No more tooth envy for HER!

What happens when a man gets ahold of a bookclub:

I was dying!
And after I got done wiping tears away, good belly-laughing tears, I wanted all the followers to get the benefit of the comment left on my last Underground Bookclub Report and Post.
*The commentator, Robert, is my cousin. Yes, I'll admit that.  We are related by blood and not marriage.  We are the same kind of weird, only his kind of weird is a little smarter than mine.  And his wife, bless her sweet little heart, has just started up with a bookclub of her own. I'm not sure what the rules are with her bunch, but perhaps they should consider adopting this code.

 Robert said...



Welcome to Underground Book Club. The first rule of Book Club is: you do not talk about Book Club. The second rule of Book Club is: you DO NOT talk about Book Club! Third rule of Book Club: if someone yells "stop!", goes limp, or taps out, the book is over. Fourth rule: only two girls to a book. Fifth rule: one book at a time, fellas. Sixth rule: the books are bare knuckle. No shirt, no shoes, no weapons. Seventh rule: books will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first time at Book Club, you have to fight.


I guess an Underground Fight Club would be real similar to our bookclub, with the exception of the "no shirt" addendum.  The only weapons we've seen have been desserts that render us speechless.  And we bend the rules for those. 

It's a blast!

A blast of cold air and snow, that is!

I love this illustration! The tricky thing about going to the sun, this time of year (besides the financial restraints) is the lack of a tropical physique.  So, I guess I'll stay here. Besides, I can't get the car out.

This picture was taken from the front of the house around 4 o'clock this afternoon. Nice, huh?

Our front step...what you can't tell from this picture is the two foot drift in front of it. 

Toward our cattle guard on the hill.

See the little tree on the right, nearly buried? That little tree is four feet tall.

Okay, flashback to Wednesday....

Here's Angus, eating a warm chocolate chip cookie on our deck.  He seriously stayed out on the deck with me for about 15 minutes; not a shiver.

The only flamingos in Garfield County, Montana! I took this picture of our mailbox for Patricia and Pam O.  My sister-in-law Pam Cayer gave us three pink flamingos for Christmas, about 5 years ago, as a joke. She thought trailer trash should, of course, have the gratuitous flamingos.  We put them at the mailbox for the whole world to see, and they've become a landmark of sorts. We get UPS packages with maps drawn on them and the note "South of flamingos". 

This is a typical view on the commute from our house to Miles City and back. 

It looks like this the WHOLE WAY!

Occasionally, there will be a little house or farm in view of the highway, but for the most part, this is it.

This shot was taken at the Glasscock turnoff, our friends who are at this very moment bagpiping and flinging in Miles City without us. 

Blizzard attire.

Makes less laundry if you just don't wear clothes.

They were just up from their "naps", which actually consisted of about 15 minutes of near quiet and slowed down wiggling.

Apple pie for afternoon snack.

I think her mouth has snake jaws that unhinge when she needs more room to swallow the rabbit/pie. 

Armed and ready.

Ready for what? Weeeeeelllll....not for naps, that's for sure.

Hope you all have a good night! I leave some lights on the trellis because it looks less lonesome.

Here's what I've been up to...

...because I just know you've been dying for the report. 

• Sorting socks. For this I went to college...
• Loading the dishwasher, unloading the dishwasher, repeat.  Every once in a while I unload the top rack first, instead of the bottom rack, just to shake things up a little. 
• Preparing meals for a family of foodies. It turns out, they like the finer things in life.  Things that can't be created with a package of hamburger and a box of pasta.  Things like weed-rat and that shrimp stuff...
• Eating hidden cookies, and trying to look as though I was rearranging the cans of beans and spinach. (Note: if you want to hide delicacies, hide them in the canned vegetable section of your cupboard. No-one is going there.)
• Letting the dogs and cats in and out of the house.  I read something one time that defined cats as the animals that were perpetually on the wrong side of the door.  Ain't that the truth?
• Trying to decipher QuickBooks for the school board accounting.  Let me tell you this: there is NOTHING quick about QuickBooks! More on that later.
• Corresponding with an author who is coming to Montana the end of February, bless her heart.  She's funny, East-coast native, liberal, Jewish and brave.  We shock and delight each other (I think) and that's been fun. (Look for "Good-bye Wifes and Daughters" by Susan Kushner Resnick)
• Putting together more 100 piece jigsaw puzzles together than I ever knew possible.  It always seems like a nice quiet activity, then disintegrates into hoarding of crucial pieces and debate over who is the prettier princess in the puzzle. And the kids get a little ornery, too. 

You can see why there hasn't been a blog post in a week's time! What in the world would I write about?

January is March's ugly second-cousin, twice removed.  They are related only by the fact that they are both months of the year.  Where March holds hope for bright days, soft mornings and growing things, January smothers the light and leers at those who smash their noses to the frosty glass of their cells. 


*On a side note....if you are still with me....I've been having a terrible time leaving comments on the blogs I read.  I'll post the comment, then new pages start opening rapidly...like every second....and I have to shut the computer down to stop them.  Talk about making someone crazy! So I AM reading your posts, and when I'm feeling all brave, I attempt a comment. 

Erin, I loved the Bunco hats! Cowboy's Sweetheart, American made is the only way to go, and Dad looks very fine.  Lori, I'm trying to keep up! Rosie, let's get together and talk Twain.  Marina, have you thought of moving more northerly? I can hardly stand that Rhys is growing so fast without the benefit of some strong Dutton influence.  Mark; man, I'm about a week behind on Daily Montana.  I'm working on it.