Spectacles

You know I'm a big fan of old movies..."How to Marry a Millionaire" is one of my favorites. In that movie, Marilyn Monroe plays a girl who is tragically near-sighted, as well as vain, and carries her glasses around in her purse until she is safely in the powder room. She has NO idea what her date looks like, or how to order off the menu. At one point, she's sitting on the airplane (the wrong flight, of course), explaining her plight to the gentleman next to her. She tells him that guys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses. (I'm pretty sure she never really had that problem...see the picture....but she embodies my insecurities about the implements!)

I've sort of worn glasses since I was about three years old. I say "sort of", because I wore them rather like Marilyn...if my mother was around, I put them on; if I was in a social situation, I'd leave them in my purse. When I got to high school, I got contacts. And they HURT! So I didn't really wear them, either. Most of the time, I just sat at the front of the classroom, which had the unintended effect of getting me good grades. (So I didn't LOOK like the brain, but the teachers assumed I was more interested...)

I finally gave in, last week, and went to see the optometrist for the first time in about 6 years. Braving my insecurities, I slunk in the door, grabbed a People magazine, and prayed for better eyes...you know, miracles COULD happen...maybe....

The good doctor spent a lot of time on my eyes...better in one, better in two...what is the lowest line you can read clearly....little drops that make me look like a ghoul....

I was starting to get a little worried, because there were a lot of "hmmm"'s and "let's try this"'s. Finally he revealed that I'm a truly odd case; I have one far-sighted eye and one near-sighted eye, and my brain has trained itself to adapt the sight at a high rate. My noggin is basically doing the job of lenses. GREAT!!! Except that I still needed lenses, to help at night and with computer fatigue. DRATS!!!

They ushered me down the hall to the Wall O'Frames. Now, before going in, the Farmer gave me a budget. "Keep the frames under $200. Or else."

Have you seen frames for glasses, lately? Better yet, have you seen the bargain frames for glasses, lately? Well, let me tell you, it's enough to keep a girl in the powder room for the rest of the dance...that's all I have to say.

Finally, after 20 minutes of agony, I selected a pair. But on the side, they proudly proclaimed their designers, Juicy Couture. I finally got the courage up to ask the little girl who obviously supervised the area, whether they were, um, appropriate for my age and station in life. She all but patted my elderly, age-spotted hand and told me that the women who designed that line were in their 40's, and I might be able to carry it off.

My next choice was: glass or plastic. (Which is more green? Smaller carbon footprint?) I went with plastic, keeping my budget in mind. Extra super-duper-scratch-lint-smear-and-reflection-protection? When I hesitated, she told me that they had made a lot of advances since the last time I had gotten glasses. (I made a mental note to call Lily and make that appointment for my annual Covering O' The Gray...) Oh, all right; let's get the protection. Transition lenses...no-line bifocals? Well, by this point, I couldn't take anymore veiled references to my aged-ness, so YEAH!, and budget be damned. A girl has to have SOME luxuries...

The Farmer entered the salon, about this time, blinking from his eye-drops, and all but recoiled at me wearing the new frames. "What do you think, honey?", I ask him, expecting the usual answer of : "Yeah. Looks good. Whatever makes you happy, dear.", only to get: "I'll reserve comment until we get to the car...".

WHAT?

"Well," he mutters, "they sort of look like...cat-eye glasses. In a way."

I'm NOT going through that whole process again, so I grit my teeth and think of Marilyn. She looked pretty good in cat-eye glasses. Not that I'm Marilyn. A not-so-gracefully aging sort, maybe.

Fast forward to the next week, and I now have my glasses. And, just like the hair, the women think they are edgy and cute; the men think they are...a little...well....maybe....retro?

Marilyn Monroe sincerely had more going for her, but I can still relate to her role and self-conciousness with the spectacles. This morning, the Farmer said I looked like a sexy geek. Hmmm.

...and that will be the saying we have embroidered on the coats for Langs Fork, Inc., if we ever get around to ordering them.

Meet the Malus sisters, all gussied up in their spring finery! To me, they look like two ladies who put on their best boofy white dresses and have no-where special to go, so they're just going to stay home and sip tea out of their fancy china teacups, and ease into summer. They hum a little, courtesy of the chubby bumblebees bouncing from blossom to blossom. The sisters smell soft and sweet, and Angus hugs them because he just can't help himself.

Yesterday afternoon, the kids and I sat on the swing and talked about the Malus sisters. We looked at the blossoms, and how they are star shaped, and then we looked at the end of the Pink Lady apple Maggie snuck out of the fridge and found that same star! Angus hung on the end of the swing and chattered about the bees, and picked me some more flowers for my hair. We passed the Pink Lady around, and each took the biggest bite we could. Maggie is anxious to see the little apples, and she usually eats quite a few green ones through the summer, testing them. Angus climbs up into the little trees and plays pirate.

Wayland and I planted these trees the first spring after we moved into our trailer. They were some of those sticks from the NRCS office I was talking about in a previous post! It has been 9 years since then...amazing! They have been the growing-est little things, and every spring I hold my breath until I see the leaves. They produce the funniest little apples...not crabs, yet not "big" apples. Just the right size to eat, when you're swinging there with your Bible, in the sunshine, trying not to see the weeds in the yard.

If you come for a visit, I highly recommend sitting between the Malus sisters and listening to them whisper with the Montana wind. You'll likely get a sticky, dirty kid to swing with you, and they'll inform you of the bees and the apple stars, and tell you other nonsensical stories, while trying to "share" your lemonade.

The Occasional "Odd Duck"

Yesterday, I mentioned getting a new copy of Gourmet magazine, and how happy it made me. The subscription to Gourmet was a birthday gift to me, from my friend Anne, who somehow knew it was something I'd never do for myself, but would enjoy immensely. She was right, of course. I adore that girl!

Anne has been a blessing to me, and an unexpected kindred spirit that I didn't see coming! Some of you reading this have known Annie since childhood, and have better stuff on her than I do. We can talk later. Or you can leave an "Anonymous" comment here...it won't be traced.

We are both underground foodies, buying hummus ingredients on the sly, and having miso in our cupboards, where other people have good old vinegar. She delights me with her crazy soups and I've teased her into eating salads that she would otherwise have avoided.

We both have about 20 mismatched teacups, each, and love Victoria magazine. But we wear jeans everyday.

Annie reads crazy books, and it often turns out I read crazy books...then we swap. I'm now the proud owner of "The Ascent of Rumdoodle" , a book I never would've picked up on my own, but it tickles me to no end. When I first met her, I could tell she was a great candidate for the Underground Bookclub, and my instincts were right; and now, when she doesn't show up because of Pork Lady commitments, we are lost without her.

Plants, shoes, and fishing...all shared passions. We both shoot, but she does it so much better that I don't even attempt to do so when she's around. My fragile self-esteem can only take so much...

I love that we can pray together. I love that we laugh so much together, and that we've had the privilege of sharing many cups of coffee. Annie is one of those rare people that are weirdly cool, or perhaps cool-y weird, and I'm so grateful to her for her friendship and (this is so shallow, I can't believe it) her maple cookies.

So, Miss Anne, when you get home, call me! It's been a long time since we had a C.U.P.S meeting, and we miss you. And don't worry; I won't reveal your secrets on the blog. Yet. But maybe your Coffee Toffee bar recipe...

Happiness is...

• a new Gourmet magazine and two napping kids.


• finding a king-size package of Raisinets in your giraffe print purse, unopened, during that same nap-time! ( I realize that's pretty specific. Work with me.)


• finding volunteer plants under the dandelions and fireweed...good plants, NOT YARROW!


• clean sheets, dried on the line in the sunshine.


• a new "old" movie from Netflix, in your mailbox. (Think Marilyn Monroe or Ingrid Bergman)


• a friend who will play dress up with you, even though he's a boy and would really rather play with Thomas the Train. (That's from Maggie.)


• the Schwan man showing up with fresh ice cream, JUST when you need it!


• French press coffee and half & half, on the deck, with good company.


• a sleeping kitten on your lap, while you type.


• the sound of meadowlarks out your window.


• fudgesicle moustaches on two year olds.


• napping kids. (Did I already mention that?)


• seeing a bluebird in the apple blossoms.


• a new email from an old friend.


• life in the slow lane, at the end of a dirt road, with loved ones surrounding you!

Quiet spring afternoon in Montana

"Mommy, I was BORN to be a princess."

"Here on the ranch?"

"Of COURSE!"

Wheeeee!

The only horse you will ever see my husband ride...

Always has a tongue between his teeth!

Someday, it's really gonna hurt...

Sand rocks and sky

This picture is for Grandma Celestia; she's a prairie flower, too.

Back in time, to 2004...

...one of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries.

-A.A.Milne

It rained, last night and today, and rather than fold laundry, like I SHOULD, I grabbed out my scrapbooking stuff and started working on Maggie's album. I got two whole pages done, and they look like a 2nd grader threw them together. It's pathetic.

Anyway, as I was putting the 28 pounds of gadgets one needs to use, in order to put together two stinking scrapbook pages, I found this little 3.5" floppy disc. How curious! We haven't seen those around for a while....

I popped it into our dinosaur of a computer and what did I find, but Maggie's pictures from the hospital; you know, the ones they take in order to put one on the website for adoring aunties, uncles, friends, granndies and long-lost college roommates who saw your name in the paper.

They were the pictures taken right before the hospital staff released us into the big, wide, scary world with our baby, and less knowledge than would fit on a business card about how to take care of her. Can you believe how irresponsible hospitals are? You'd think they'd kick families out in stages.

"This one may take an extra day...the dad got lost in the corridor, looking for the pop machine, and the mom hasn't figured out the sticky tabs on the diapers..."

or

"My! THOSE parents obviously read and cross-referrenced the What To Expect book! Let's throw them out, and see how many calls Ask-a-Nurse gets this week..."

Anyway...

Here's a picture from that sticky July day. My darling daughter, with a dimple and the best guardian angels God could send!

Treasures from an afternoon with PopPop

PopPop Vern is absolutely crazy about our kids, and they are absolutely crazy about him. And if they don't get to see one another for 48 hours, there will be whining and carrying on, the likes of which you've never seen. And the kids get pretty cranky, too...

This afternoon, PopPop called and said he'd be by around 4 PM, to pick them up, so they could get some fish for Grandma's pond. And he would have them for a couple of hours, at least. Well, we reluctantly let them go. (They were waiting on the front step, with a bag and their little coats, when he drove up.)

Around 6, we went over to pick them up, and they were outside playing all over the relics PopPop has gathered and ensconced by the garage. Maggie came running over, looking a little worse for wear, and breathlessly inquired, "Mommy! Do you want to see my dead lizard and my butterfly?!!!"

Well, shoot. Who WOULDN'T want to see a dead lizard and a butterfly? (Don't answer that.)

So she fetches up this enormous plastic Ziplock bag....that could've held about 50 dead lizards....and sure enough, there in the very bottom, was a dead-for-certain horned toad and a rather fraggled looking little yellow butterfly. Well this IS thrilling! She was pretty sure we should hold them, too, to feel how soft.

Maybe later.

We sat on the lawn and visited with PopPop and Grandma for a little bit, and intervened with Angus and his endless climbing on Grandma's pond about every two minutes. I was sort of hoping we might accidentally "forget" the treasures, but Grandma diligently reminded Maggie of them, anytime she set them down. (Grandma has a mean streak that isn't readily apparent when you first meet her...)

Well, we finally got everyone loaded up in the Honda Big Red and blew home....two grubbier than possible kids, dead lizard, dead butterfly and all. And when we got home, Wayland and I consented, finally, to hold the butterfly, but we're going to wait a while on the horny toad....'til he dries out.

It was a glorious time, and now the kids are watching Pinocchio and loving up the kittens on the couch, and I'll bet they sleep good tonite. I would imagine PopPop will, too....

Get This...

So, I'm on goodreads.com this morning, looking at my list of 241 books "to-read" (because I don't have enough laying around here, unread, already) and I see this little section called "Upcoming Events". This would be where GoodReads lists authors and the new books they are promoting at booksignings and book tours. So I bite. SO many authors come to Montana, particularly EASTERN Montana; that I had to check it out. Maybe John Grisham will be making a sneak appearance in Miles City. You just never know.

It would appear anyone can write a book about anything, and get published. Seriously. These are some titles of REAL BOOKS...I'm not making these up. I couldn't make these up if I tried.

• What Does Your Tongue Look Like, by Angela Schumer
• Cupcakes of Doom: A Collection of YARG! Piraty Comics, by Ray Freisan
• The Raman King and I: How the Inventor of Instant Noodles Fixed My Love Life, by Andy Raskin
• Chicken Butt, by Erika S. Pearl
• The Hog Prince, by Sudipta Barlan-Quallan

I'm SERIOUS! Go look for yourself.

Now, I have great respect for authors, for the most part. It takes a lot of sweat, time, research, creativity, commitment and cats purring in your ear to write a book. Not to mention the selling and marketing end of it, which I know nothing about. Authors have to be a bit tough skinned, yet vulnerable, to do the job they do. So please know I'm not disparaging them in any way here. I like authors.

I've been told I should write a book. I have no idea why or about what, and I honestly thought there was no way I could write anything that anyone would read. Well, it would appear I was wrong. If there are readers out there for a book about what your tongue looks like, I guess there's readers for just about anything! So if you happen to see a title on GoodReads upcoming events called, Did You Know Jello Is Flamable? and Other Things No-One Told Me About Motherhood, by Mary Pluhar; check it out. I'll be the only booksigning in Cohagen, Montana...guaranteed!

Lila's Rhubarb Cake

Once upon a time, I dated a USFWS guy from North Dakota. And his mom and I became wonderful friends...in fact, when we broke up, I secretly never "broke up" with his mom, and we still write to this day. Lila is one of the very best cooks I've ever had the privilege of eating for. I can say that without hesitation! This is one of the recipes she so generously shared with her "food groupie". I make it every spring, and eat almost the entire pan by myself, because my husband and daughter deem it too sweet. I get the feeling Angus will share the pan with me this spring. We haven't met anything too sweet for us! It's a great potluck dish, or just for putting in your bowl for breakfast, for eating on the deck watching the sun rise.

Lila's Rhubarb Cake

Place 4-5 cups diced, peeled rhubarb in the bottom of a greased 9x13 pan.

Over the rhubarb, sprinkle 1 c. granulated sugar, then sprinkle 1 regular package raspberry or strawberry jello.

On top of the sugar/jello/rhubarb, sprinkle 3 cups miniature marshmallows.

In a separate bowl, mix a yellow cake mix according to directions, and pour over the top of the whole rhubarb mess in the pan.

Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour.

*Put a cookie sheet on the rack below the cake, as it usually boils over.

The Reluctant Homemaker...

So, have you ever noticed how it's a lot easier to tell on yourself than to have others talk about you? Or maybe you don't have that problem, because you're a little more pulled together than the average bear.

I'm going to tell on myself. But first, you may need a little background. (Some of my friends and family already know where I'm heading with this, and they just went to get a couple Tylenol and a cup of coffee. We'll pick them up later...)

I love the 1940's-1950's housewife images! You know the ones; the mothers with the immaculately set hair, lipstick, perfectly pressed full skirt, apron, heels and potroast. Deep down in my soul, I long to be one of them. In reality, I'm the anti-housekeeper. I don't MEAN to be! There's just something in me that never gets around to cleaning the crevices in the refrigerator door, because I'd rather be making homemade valentines. There's nothing about waxing the kitchen floor that causes my heart to thrill. I usually end up reading Dr. Suess to the kids on the floor of their room, instead of washing down their walls.

And I DO love making the home a comfortable place to be, and I DO like a clean, pulled together home. I just never seem to be able to do that and get other things done, too. My poor husband came from the land of waxed floors, alphabetized spices and regularly shampood carpets, and I know he suffers.

Here's what happened:

I washed a load of "whites" and they came out bright blue. All of them. And now, they are hanging on the clothesline as a testament to my unhousekeeping. Apparently, there was a length of blue fabric in the bottom of the washer that I had put in, intending to wash with jeans, and at the last minute, did a big old switcheroo with the loads. All my white dishtowels are now a soft, bright blue. And they ARE kinda pretty! But not white anymore.

As I was hanging them up, I thought of two things. First of all, my friend Mike W. (Lord Master of the Universe) told me that he needed someone to call him once a week and tell him, "You're an IDIOT!". And I think I need that call, too. (If more than one of you volunteer, you'll have to go on a weekly rotation, because I can really only handle ONE call a week.) Incidentally, I did give him a call, the following week, and after his 3 minute spiel about who he is and what his job is, I told him he was an idiot. I'm not sure it was appreciated. He didn't really think anyone would do that...

Secondly, I should be more embarrassed and concerned at my un-housekeeping. I need to try harder. I need to pay closer attention. I need to be a detail person....on the right things. After all, this is my JOB, for pete's sake! Just because the Scrubbing Bubbles are supposed to get all those little dirty spots, magically...they just don't.

Well, now my jeans are actually in the wash, and I checked closely to make sure there was no bleach anywhere in the vicinity, but they'll probably come out with rust spots or some other blight. So I'll hang them out next to the blue towels, and hope there's nothing red in the NEXT load....

Do you have any housekeeping tips for someone who just doesn't get it?

Calf on the lam...

Cordelia, the cow-cat. Daisy Mae...she's trying to determine if I have a bottle behind that camera.

Festus Joe; sunning himself beside the calf shelter.

We also had another calf, here, for about 18 hours. Wayland found her mom, bogged in mud and dead, and I was bequeathed another bum. But because she'd been "mothered" so long, she was having nothing to do with us. Maggie named her "Light" because she likes the word, but I called her Annie. Yesterday afternoon, while I was doing chores in the house, Maggie went out to see the calves. I think she tried to get close to Annie Light to pet her, and ended up scaring her through the fence. Annie L. then proceeded to run about a mile, to the county road, at a high rate of speed. By the time we got organized, she was GONE. So we went to PopPop's house and reported the loss, but we'd located her at the next turnoff up the road. Wayland ended up running her through the gate to join the bulls across the road, and it is yet to be determined what the fate of Annie Light will be.

But for now, Daisy and Festus are soaking up the sun in their pen, and enjoying spring.
Daisy is the smarter of the two, by far. The other day, I looked out to see her grazing on the green grass. Festus was in the corner chewing on a dried thistle tumbleweed.
Daisy eats the calf crumbles; Festus sucks on her ear.
We may have determined why he's not gaining....
He's just dumb.
But we love him, and Daisy loves him, too.

Corral Couture

This post is being written as a public service announcement for all those misguided, but well-intentioned women who choose to work cows with their husbands and father-in-laws. For others, reading this will raise more questions than it answers, but it must be done. Lives may be saved. Or, at the very least, marriages...

When dressing for the corral, many factors must be considered. The first factor is the weather. In Montana, you can go from 80 degrees and sunny, to rainy with intermittent gusts of 50 mph wind, in a matter of minutes. Think layers. The tricky part of layers is what to do with them when you aren't wearing them. In our corral, it's not acceptable to drape them on the fence or the seat of the Mule. You must be able to remove or add them in a matter of 3 seconds, between giving shots, but they must be concealed before or after that action. I'm still working on the process. Any and all ideas would be welcome, here.

The next factor (and I can't believe I'm revealing this, here, but we've had tense moments over this, just this week) is color. That's right; what color does one wear to the corral? Well, I got talked to about my grass green sweatshirt being too bright. It scared the cows. Never mind that they are SURROUNDED by green grass, for MILES, 24 hours a day...the color of my sweatshirt scared them. I was given the parameters of tan, blue and certain subtle greys as colors for the corral. And my jeans can't be a "bright" blue. *

*The DAY after getting the color lecture, I walk into the corral to find my father-in-law wearing a red plaid shirt. RED. PLAID. Well, THAT blends... When I enquired as to the color, I was informed he was trying to blend in with the red calf table. Apparently, when you are corral management, there's more flexibility in your color options.

Another factor that often gets overlooked is, apparently, fit. Yesterday, I wore a larger tshirt that came halfway down my hip pockets. It was loose, cool, and covered a couple of holes I had snagged earlier in my subtly blue jeans. "You wearing your nightshirt?" was the comment. Well, no. I had gotten the color right, the layering right, but missed on the fit. You must have decent tailoring, it seems, and pockets. Woe the woman who enters the corral without pockets! Because you'll always be asked to carry lists, extra needles, pens, fruit snacks for the kids, etc.

Jewelry is frowned on, but I rebel in that I always, always wear earrings. Always. It's good to remind them that I am, indeed, still a girl. Sometimes, I think, it has been the difference in my ass-chewing. They maybe held back, a little, because the light reflected off the earrings got in their eyes and distracted them. Who knows? But it's worth the extra effort.

Hats....baseball caps are REQUIRED. I've rebelled here, too, a couple of times, and they end up pulling a scroungy old greased up hat from behind the seat to "loan" to me, effectively chastising me in the wearing of it. So here's what I came up with: a navy blue Dally-O hat with (are you ready for this) a RED hibiscus print under the bill...I see the flash but the cows don't! I'm sure this will result in a lecture, soon, but for now they can't figure out how to justify it, because for all intent and purpose, I'm wearing dull blue. Hmmmm....

Always wear good boots. You'll probably be in situations where you'll be stomped on, or you'll need to shift the 4-wheeler with your foot, and you'll be glad you wore tough footwear. And, of course, they have to be big enough to layer socks, AND a subtle tan or brown. Because your feet might scare the cows.

I hope this cleared up some common questions about wardrobe for bovine gatherings. If you have any additional comments or suggestions, PLEASE leave them in the comment box. I can use all the help you have to offer. And now, I'm off to launder all our branding clothes so we can get ready for the last bunch, later this week.

Fiesta, Montana Style

Tacos, enchiladas and dip, oh my! Wayland, doing what he does best....

Pinata!

Cordelia, coveting tacos...

Peachy drinks....

I couldn't resist...

Tracita Katie and Kellie, partaking of the buffet.

Tomas, sans kilt.

We act this way, whether or not we've had frothy drinks!

Angus and Ali, in Big Red

Can you believe how CUTE these babies are?

L to R: Ali, Maggie, Kamryn, Ben and Angus
Ole! Traci Lee, Marisa, Kellie and Katie

The party is just getting started....

Daisy and Festus...

No, we did NOT get a picture of them with sombreros!

Right before we fell on the food and commenced to founder. I love all the sombreros!

Senor Baggypants

We only see Katie and Kellie once a year, at luaus or fiestas...what a treat!

Muy loco hombres....

The littlest senorita, Skyler May

Ruby

Well, there's a big old hole in our family that used to be filled with a silly red dog. We had Ruby put down on Wednesday, and it's been a lonesome time here in the Pluhar home. And especially in the pickup.

Wayland and I first saw Ruby when we went to a Christmas party at a neighbor's house. We pulled up in the yard and saw this beautiful young Setter under the deck, looking a little out of place with the cowdogs. We were, and still are, absolutely dog-crazy, and couldn't stop looking at her and petting her. It turned out she belonged to the daughter of this neighbor, and her roommate, and they had bought Ruby to breed for money for college, but didn't have time or room to do so. Ruby was left alone a lot, and even though the girls liked her, they were just too busy to have a dog.

The day after the party, we got a call from one of the girls, wondering if we'd be able to give Ruby a home. Well, yes! We were SO excited to welcome her! We'd been married only a short time, and with no kids, we had a lot of time for her.

It turned out that Ruby was the sweetest dog, and beautiful, but not known for her intelligence. We called her the Prom Queen....she'd have lots of dates to the dance, but you'd never see her on the honor roll. What she lacked in brains, however, she made up for in loyalty. She chose Wayland as the love of her life, and wherever you'd see him, there'd be a red shadow.

After we'd had her about a year, she developed a terrible cough, and started losing weight, so we took her to our vet in Miles City, and began an adventure that would eventually take us to Bozeman, requiring two surgeries removing 2/3's of one of her lungs to remove infected, dead tissue from a needle and thread grass. We poured a lot of money into her that year, but we met some incredible veterinarians who are now good friends that we wouldn't trade for all that money. The surgeries cause such stress to Ruby's system, however, that it caused her to develop perianal fistula that would never be cured.

This condition was eventually what brought us to the decision to put her down. She was in constant distress and pain, and it wasn't responding to any treatment. Ruby was still a pretty young dog, 8 1/2 years old, but she was miserable, and we couldn't stand to see her going through that.

In our hearts and memories, we'll always see her running through the grass, red coat turning amber in the sun. We'll look for her each time we get into the pickup. We'll think of her when we come across a "lovey" stuffed animal that she packed outside without our knowledge. We'll miss her on the couch, her soft ears flopped over her paws. We'll miss seeing her bark at a dangerous sagebrush, while Molly and the rabbit 10 feet away try to figure out what she's doing. Yes, there's surely a big hole in our family, now.

We buried her under the sandbanks, here at the house, where she used to go and look for rabbits and varmints. Oddly enough, I noticed some wild roses on either end of her grave. How appropriate, I think; the roses are tough and tenacious, they bloom for a short time each year, and while they bloom, they are delicate and sweet, like our little dog that lived with such fullness for a brief season in our life.

Books and Brisket

Last night was our last "official" bookclub of the year, at Traci's house. And because it has been such a wild week, we all limped in, flopped down at her kitchen bar, and commenced eating. It was very quiet, right at first, because until we had a little protein, no one had the energy to talk. Can you believe that? Women who were too tired to talk? I'm serious!

Here's the funny part about having bookclub with a bunch of country girls:

1. There will be meat.

2. You may have entertainment, featuring a cow.


We were about halfway through our first glass of wine or cucumber water, when Traci looks out the kitchen window and exclaims, "Hey! I think that blind cow is calving!"
Several of us rush to the window to assess the situation, and Karen G. asks for field glasses. The cow is turned the wrong way for us to see anything, and the binoculars were unavailable, so we went back to our wine and clam dip, but occasionally, one of us would look out to see if anything was progressing. No calf, so I think she was messing with us.

Then, we lined up, plates in hand, to partake of the spread. Here's what we had, besides the appetizers:
Beef brisket, beef ribs, 3 different kinds of BBQ sauce, potato salad, beer bread, beans with bacon, chocolate cake and cookies n cream ice cream. No vegetable or fruit to be found! Well, there was cucumber slices floating in the water, pickles in the potato salad, and green onions in the crab dip, but that was it. And we ate until it hurt, and laughed a lot. Then we rolled to the living room to discuss the book.

Oh, yes, there was a book, and eventually we got around to talking about it. In April we read Riding on the Bus With My Sister and it was really interesting, and provoked conversation about living with divorce, family members with special needs, government, societal views, faith and public transportation. It was heavy food for thought.

Our summer book, chosen by Karen G. , is Sophie's Choice; many have seen the movie (not me, sadly) but none have read the book. So it should be great! Summer is a long, lonely time for our bookclubbers, so we are planning a field trip to Big Fork in July, because it's cooler there, and Celestia has the room for us to flop around on the deck, drink tea, discuss the mysteries of life (men) and paint our toenails, and watch the kids shivering in the wading pool. I love these women!

This is the way we go to town

On Monday, I decided to dash to Jordan to visit the new greenhouse and get some milk at the grocery store. And I made the mistake of telling my husband the plan. He promptly turned around and informed his dad, who called and asked if I could pick up branding supplies. It was an evil intervention, and I'm sure Wayland knew EXACTLY what he was doing, thinking he could save me from sure verdant destruction, and preserve his checkbook.

Here's the deal: if a rancher finds out ANYONE is going to town, for ANY reason, they have a list of parts and cogs and gears and vaccine and other sundry items as long as your arm. And all of them are most urgently needed, within the next 10 hours, or the place will fall to pieces. Even though, 10 minutes ago, before they knew you were going to town, they were going to make it work, somehow. It's true. And every ranch wife reading this is nodding her head, laughing and saying, "Amen, sister! Preach on!".

So, back to the branding supplies. It sounded innocent enough. "They are all ready to go," says he. "Just pick them up...you don't have to worry about a list," says he. "But could you also get another 25 red Z eartags for calves? " Sure! No problem! (He lulled me with that whole no-list-to-keep-track-of thing.)

So I get to town with two crabby kids who fell asleep on the way and had 15 minutes of nap. Just enough to turn them into badgers with a toothache. There's no reasoning with them. So as long as they are strapped into the carseats, all they can do is snarl and chew on their paws. Good enough.

First stop, the feed store, to pick up milk replacer. So far, so good...I put it on the floor of the front seat. PLENTY of room for plants.

Next stop, Main Hardware, for the branding supplies. (I thought I was being so clever, getting them before flowers, so I could just have a nice, level bed of supplies on which to put the darling geraniums...) My first mistake was in not taking a cooler to put the vaccine in. So we had to pack it all in an insulated box with ice packs. A BIG insulated box with icepacks. But now, I'm on the clock. I have approximately 30 minutes to shop, and 30 minutes to drive home in. Then Leslie tells me the pour-on is in the shed around back. Pour-on! I forgot all about THAT branding supply! Mistake #2.

So I pull the Trailblazer around back, to load the last of the branding supplies, and we completely and totally fill the back end of that outfit up with boxes of pour-on. Completely. Totally. There's about 6 inches of room on top of them to put boxes of plants. Short plants. Maybe 4 short plants.

And we haven't even gone to the grocery store yet! But that's next on the list, because we have to get water and milk. So 5 gallons of water, 2 gallons of milk, 2 lollipops later, we are back in the car, going to the greenhouse. The badgers have been appeased with sugar, because I'm thinking they may have to hold plants, and I want them to do as little damage as possible.

So we get to the greenhouse, finally, and explode into the place. Yes, that's right, we had 15 minutes to do our stuff. It reminded me of one of those shopping shows, where the contestants get a cart and 6 minutes to fill it. Only I had sticky badger speed bumps.

AMAZINGLY, I had made a list of what I needed for my pots, three days ago, and even more astoundingly, had remembered to bring the list!!! (Those who know me, are picking their jaws up out of their cold coffee, after reading that...) So I blew through that greenhouse, in 15 minutes, gathering 5 boxes of plants and leaving petunias bending from the force of the trip! Got the kids loaded, and had plants stuck in every open 4 inch space. All I could do, backing out of there, was pray that we didn't have a flat tire on the way home. That would've been ugly.

But we made it, intact, sticky and filthy; plants, kids, branding supplies, milk and milk replacer. In 2 hours,counting travel time.

Today, I'm going to Miles City, with my husband...the BIG town....and he has another list. I wanted to go to the greenhouse there, but it's not looking good. We ARE taking a trailer, though, so if I get creative, I might get another geranium or two home...

Thanks, Mom.

Here's a picture of my Mom and I, ready to go to a rodeo in Jordan...at least that's what it says on the back of the picture, in her beautiful, precise handwriting. I was not quite one year old, but already in bell bottoms, and I don't know if you can tell, because the picture is a little faded, but we have MATCHING tank tops! (1972, so they were polyester. We were hot. Literally.) You can't really see, but she's wearing pointy-toed cowboy boots with black tips, I think.

As I sit here, trying to type a tribute to my Mom, with jelly faced kids climbing on me, and fighting like raccoons, I have a MUCH greater appreciation for who she was, and how much of her life she devoted to us.

She was an older mama, just like me, in the day when most women became mothers at 19 or 20. And she lived in a little trailer house on a hill, just like me, when her kids were toddlers and preschoolers. She went from being an independant, working girl with a red GTO convertable, to a stay-at-home mom and ranchwife that had to fit the whole family in the cab of a pickup.

Here are a few memories I have of my Mom, from when I was growing up:

There was always coffee, and the house usually smelled like coffee. I love that!

She had a most impressive record collection, because when she was single, I think she bought music before food. As kids, we learned to appreciate Patsy Cline, Jim Reeves, The Sound of Music and a funky little album called Groovy Grubworm.

Mom made us all the cool childhood treats: Jello blocks, Rice Krispie treats, chocolate chip cookies, and cinnamon toast. BUT, if you pretended like you were sick to stay home from school because you didn't like the teacher, she would make you toast soaked in warm milk. (She could be THAT mean! I think I have the recipe, for another little girl who may do that...)

She read, constantly. There were books everywhere, and we went to the library often. And we got a LOT of books at garage sales. For me, books are still security and comfort, and I think they must cut down on energy costs by insulating your home if you line the walls with them.

Mom took (and still takes) horrible photographs of people. It's one of the things I love best about her. There are a lot of pictures with the tops of heads cut off, or people too far away, or a little blurry. I love that she spent more time enjoying friends and family, rather than practicing taking pictures of them. She'll hurry and try to get the shot, because she's been busy visiting or playing with the kids. Love it!

My Mom really took time with people, and made them feel special. She would stop what she was doing to have coffee with someone who dropped by, or if one of her friends was needing time and love, she'd forgo mopping the floor to listen to their problems. When we got home from school, we'd sit at the table with her and eat graham crackers with frosting and talk about our day. And my Gramps loved to visit with her, and have coffee. Even though she didn't get all the stuff done on her list, most days, she got more done, relationally, than a lot of people do in a lifetime.

She wasn't afraid to be silly. What a relief to children! Mom enjoyed the Apple Dumpling Gang with us, and books like How Fletcher Was Hatched. She'd laugh until she cried, and we'd laugh at her! And when Aunt Arlene came over and they gave each other perms, they laughed a lot and drank a lot of coffee. We could never figure out what was so funny, and they shooed us outside or downstairs, and visited and laughed more.

We were hugged a lot. And told we were loved, a lot. And we still are.

We got spanked a lot. With wooden spoons. (We earned most of those spankings, honestly.) And we spent some time sitting in hard old kitchen chairs, watching the clock slowly tick the minutes to freedom.

Mom got up, first thing in the morning, and drank her coffee and read in her Bible and her Daily Bread, and prayed. That was the first thing we saw, most mornings. It was her quiet time, her get-ready-for-the-day time, her little window of calm before the storm of life hit.

There are so many little things and big things that can't even be touched by a blog post, about Mom. I've never really tried to put them down, in writing, and find it really difficult to capture her with words. How do you describe a mother's hug, or her voice, or her funny little habits, or the things that drive you wild that make a mother a mother? Well, I can't do it justice, probably not in a million years.