Socklessness

It's my firm belief that socks bind a free spirit.  

I know they also keep feet sanitary and provide a cushion between shoe leather and skin.  Sometimes they're fun colored and express an individual's personality. They keep toesies warm.  Some people buy those socks with "R" for right foot and "L" for left foot, and RELIGIOUSLY wear their socks according to the letter on the sole. If they can only find two "L"s, they break out in a cold sweat at the cosmic implications of such a dilemma.  

I'm a barefoot-er sort of person. 

(Confession: this morning I didn't wear socks inside my Muck boots, fed cows, tromped around SOCKLESS for two hours, then came home and have been puttering around barefoot. No one knew until this very moment. And the world kept turning.)

  

I completely resent having to wear socks in the winter. 

Or any other time, really, but winter is the worst.

I don't mind my skin getting wet if I step in a little puddle of melted snow, but I nearly come unglued if my sock gets wet as a result of such an incidence. It's just...YUCKY.  

I don't like the way socks creepily smunch down until they're all wadded up around my ankle. And THEN they start easing off the ankle to the end of my toes.  When I was a moon boot wearing kid, I could hardly stand the creeping socks. I still can't. It's just....YUCKY. 

Socks are evil things for being in groups of three or five in the laundry. That vexes me.  Or for fading unevenly so that one is slightly lighter than the other, making a pair seem not q-u-i-t-e a pair.  Then what? 

(I know. It's a bitter diatribe. I've been holding this sock resentment in for years and only today felt brave enough to air my thoughts. Work with me, here.)

I like the freedom of bare feet.  

I like feeling the world with 'em.  (Yes, even the LEGOs. Talk about waking up your senses and feeling alive! In pain, but definitely alive.)

I like looking down and seeing my toenails painted.

I like that I can pick stuff up without having to bend over, simply by using my toes.

I like having feet tough enough tor trot across a gravel driveway in the summer. 

I like not worrying if my white dog sheds on the black socks.  (Who has time for that sort of anxiety, anyway?)

I like not slowing down to pull socks up or locate them.

Now, then...

are you a Sockie? 

When was the last time you bared your sole?

(I'd like to point out that there's nothing morally or ethically superior about either camp; we are who we are, and that's that. I don't understand the "L" and "R" people, but I don't condemn them, either. I might laugh at them, and hide their "R" socks occasionally, but I respect them for their devotion to the letter.)

 

Fwicasseeing Wabbit Season

Before you read this post, go ahead and watch the Looney Toons video posted in the side bar.  It'll put you in the right frame of mind for this...

I'll just go mix up a cocktail whilst you do.

Isn't it funny?!  

Well, it is if you're not a duck...

Today I made rabbit for lunch. 

Technically, I made about 8 rabbits for lunch, I think.  

I tried not to count the little legs. 

I tried not to think about the meat being rabbit, for that matter.  "It's just meat.  You cook meat all the time. Cute meat, even. (I think cows are adorable.) It's just like fish or chicken or any old thing." Because really, that's what it IS. 

It's not Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit cottontail in a little blue jacket from Mr. MacGregor's garden...

I hope. 

If it was, he and his friends were really tasty!

Our family friend, Sparky, asked the other day if I would cook rabbit if he brought some cleaned meat.  Well, sure!  Why not?! How hard could rabbit be? It's stringy, dark meat. Roast the dickens out of it.  Little sauce and spuds...shazaam!....lunch.  

And really, that's all it took. 

I found a recipe on the internet that had been scaled down from a recipe by a chef in Reno, NV, so it gave the impression of being more reputable than, say, one clipped from the back of Backwoodsman magazine. (Those recipes make me nervous. I can never tell if they're a joke or not. Especially when they suggest snipe can be substituted for rabbit or skunk....highly suspect....)

It seemed the only trick was cooking the rabbit for 3 1/2 hours at 350 degrees in a covered roasting pan. 

Hunter's Rabbit

 Ingredients

1/2 cup olive oil
1 rabbit, cut into 6 to 8 portions
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
15 medium-size mushrooms, quartered or sliced
2 shallots, minced
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
Pinch dried thyme
Pinch dried parsley
1 bay leaf
1 cup tomato sauce
1 cup red burgundy wine
1 to 2 cups beef broth
Directions

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

To a large warmed skillet over medium heat, add 1/4 cup of olive oil. Sprinkle the rabbit with salt and pepper, to taste. Add the rabbit to the hot oil and brown on both sides. Remove the rabbit to a medium-size casserole dish.(If you are making a LOT of rabbit, put it in a black enamel roasting pan. And stick that bad boy in the oven while you go on to the next part; a little extra roasting won't hurt it.)

In that same skillet, over medium heat, add more olive oil. Add the mushrooms and shallots (AND 2 T minced garlic cloves) and saute for about 2 minutes (or until the onions are nearly caramelized...it'll be all right). Transfer the mushroom mixture to the casserole. Sprinkle the flour, thyme, parsley and the bay leaf over the rabbit and stir in the tomato sauce, wine, and the beef broth.(OOOOKKAAYY...just put the flour and spices in a bowl, pour the wine and broth over them and wisk until smooth. Really. It's a better method. Then pour the whole mess over the meat.) You may add a pinch more of salt and pepper if you wish. Cover with foil and put in the oven to bake until the rabbit is tender, stirring every hour (Don't bother stirring...just roast the heck out of it. It will work! I promise!), about 2 to 3 hours. Rabbit meat should pull off easily from the bone with a fork. Remove from the oven and serve. (Preferably over mashed potatoes, because the broth is to die for...)

This recipe was provided by professional chefs and has been scaled down from a bulk recipe provided by a restaurant. The Food Network Kitchens chefs have not tested this recipe, in the proportions indicated, and therefore, we cannot make any representation as to the results.

Recipe courtesy Frank Vargas, chef at Louis' Basque Corner in Reno, NV.

I forgot to take pictures of the finished product! A doubled recipe served one intrepid young girl, two bottomless pits of men, and one rather worried cook, with only enough leftovers for a small evening warm over for one person.  

We'll certainly be making this again, and are thinking of using....oh, I don't know....duck?

  

Greetings!

I love Christmas cards.

I love writing them out and thinking of the dear ones I'm sending happy greetings to. I know it's more efficient to print out labels to put on the envelopes, or even have printed envelopes done but I like handwriting the names and addresses.  As I script "Victoria, Australia" or "Sharon, Massachusetts" I'm reminded how rich my life is...and how friends (AND family) can be found anywhere, any time in life. 

I like going to the post office with a big old wad of cards to stamp. I know, too, that postage can be printed at home, but I like having the postmaster fan out my stamp options and being able to choose (and discuss my choice) with her.  We chat as I put the postage on each and every card, then they're slid across the counter in a pile to be posted and begin their journey.

I think one of the happiest parts of Christmas is getting the mail and finding more cards than junk or bills. We open them greedily, pour over the pictures and carefully read the letters tucked inside.  Later in the afternoon, when everyone is busy with other pursuits, I make a cup of tea and re-read them, amazed at "how those kids have grown" and "when did they get old".  

This year, I noticed too many names crossed out in the address book.  Jake and Grandma Esther Frank...I miss getting their card, with Grandma's note about the weather and hoping the winter was going well for us feeding cows.  Grandpa Bud's name isn't on the card I send to the Curran house in Miles City. I can't find Vickie Harris anywhere, but oh how I'd love for her to see how the kids are turning out.  

There are new addresses, though, too. I probably need to get an address book JUST for Jeremy Aumaugher's family; we have had a new zip code every year for the past 5 years I think!  Retiring friends, new friends, friends' KIDS who are now sending cards from their own grown-up home...

I just finished writing out the last of our cards for 2014, so they won't be in mailboxes until after Christmas day. As I wrapped the rubber band around the fat stack, I was thinking about the people who read my blog. Some of you get cards from me, but many don't, simply because I have no idea who's reading!  Here's our Christmas card this year:

You can print it out, stick it on your fridge, draw mustaches on it...whatever.

But at least you got one!

I found this quote in Beverly Cleary's brilliant book "Ramona the Pest".
It fits perfectly with this picture of Maggie and her strong-willed, adventurous friend Cece! (Birds of a feather, really.) And it also fits how I feel most days.

I know.

It's not Christmas-y or winter-y in the least.

We'll all get over that, I'm sure....

Joy To My World

I have to tell you....

this has been a season of worry, uncertainty, fear, and stress. 

We're living a good life, truly.  We have a cozy home, good food, great health, loving friends and family. (Ooo! And new furniture, thanks to Daisy and Rosie whose steer calves we sold this fall during a strong market!) But right now there's change that is a little bewildering, so we're living in reactionary mode rather than proactive planning mode. 

Today was a gift.

This morning, I was praying for joy.  ANY joy. A good shot of joy. 

Okay. A double shot of joy, neat...not even on the rocks, okay?  

(There will be some who have to look that reference up.  Don't judge when you do, okay? It really has been that sort of year.)

And God served it up with a festive cocktail napkin. 

I somehow managed to get a hair appointment with my old friend in Miles City in a last minute call. I haven't had a hair cut or color since June...and there was healing to be done, here, on a couple levels. 

We didn't ship or move any cows this morning, rendering the appointment null and void.

(At Lang's Fork Inc. that's a cotton-picking miracle.  No matter when I schedule an appointment, there will be one of these events occurring. Guaranteed.)

My "town jeans" fit AND WERE CLEAN!

Another miracle.

I was listening to the radio thinking that "Old Dogs and Children, and Watermelon Wine" is one of my very favorite songs, when 3 minutes later it played.  I'm not kidding. 

"I was sittin' in Miami, pouring blended whiskey down, when this old grey, black gentleman was sweeping up the lounge..." One of the best jobs of songwriting I know, preceded only by Tom T. Hall's "I Love".  (The man was brilliant. And why do we not have these sorts of songs now? It's all "Shake It For Me, Baby" junk...) But I digress...

I found the non-grocery things on the list without going to Walmart.

God is good.

(Break into the "Hallelujah chorus" here...)

In a completely random dash into Albertson's, I ran into non other than the great Sally Hagedorn (mother of one of my best pals) and we had 20 minutes of sweet sharing in which I found out that she had gone to ITALY...of the Sistine Chapel, Tuscany, and so forth...and secured a couple hugs. (Sara Hagedorn Calvert, you've got some 'splainin' to do...)

Shortly thereafter, I saw my brother Barry in Reynolds Grocery for the first time in two years and was able to give him a hug and visit for about 5 uncomfortable minutes. (We're not close. This was another miracle.) 

The checker and boxer at Reynolds asked about my kids, and not because they were glad the children weren't there.  That was heart warming! (Reynolds is where I get hugs from the checkers, too.  I love that place.)

The hair appointment was filled with laughter, hugs, inspiration and....gosh, I'm thrilled...lots of hair color!  And yes, healing of an old friendship. 

I returned home to find there are no dead cows, the house didn't burn down despite the tree and crockpot, everyone is STILL healthy and happy, and there isn't any staining on the new furniture.

A whole mess of joy, plopped down in my lap and on my head, blessings abounding!

Joy to the world.

At least joy to MY world.

*fist bump with God*

A Wild Yarn

My friend Elise bought a knitting book several years ago with the most hilarious, hideous sweater patterns to make for men.  The patterns themselves could probably have been made a little more classy by using different yarns, actually, but the models used to display the sweaters were beyond redemption.  Truly.  Every one of them was posed in such a way that we could just tell they had been talked into this particular modelling gig by someone they owed lots of money to, because there was no possible way for them to pull off "sexy beast" and "my sister knit this for me" at the same time (which seemed to be what the pattern designers were going for).  

As we sat in the park and looked through the book, we laughed until tears were in our eyes, each picture funnier than the last!  And ever since then, we've been looking for the same sorts of patterns and pictures for each other...kind of like unbelievable JELL-O recipes; so awful you can't look but you can't stop looking.  

I think I finally have enough images that I can make up the calendar of sweater centerfolds that we've been planning.  I plan on hanging mine in the living room like a piece of art. You know, similar to a velvet Elvis; everyone will see it, but no one will say anything because it's impossible to come up with anything that really does it justice. 

As a teaser, I'm going to post a few NEVER BEFORE REVEALED IMAGES here, so that you can see what still cracks us up:

As if the peach and mint green cap sleeve sweater wasn't enough, the polyester pants demand a pose that makes you squirm uncomfortably at the viewing of the whole mess...

Interpretive dance should probably never be used to sell sweater patterns for men.

Belted sweaters seemed to be easier to carry off, especially if one didn't have to pose with any other models.  (We have much better belted sweater images. I didn't want to shock you TOO much before the calendar came out...) I was hoping to catch a glimpse of a Star Wars guy in the background of this set, but no such luck.

I think she's grinning because she won a fantasy football bet in which these guys had to wear the sweaters for a week in Lukenback, Texas or something.  

I cannot come up with a single person, male or female, that I'd gift with a granny square tank top...even the ones that I'm not feeling so charitable toward right now.  No one deserves that sort of abuse. 

(But these models seem completely tickled with their wardrobe at the moment! There may have been a cocktail party just before the photos to ease the pain.  I don't know.)

Here's that "look" I was talking about....he's not happy, Bob; not happy. 

The best for last...

Elise hasn't seen this one!  

The photographer was obviously in a hurry to wrap up the shoot because he didn't give this poor chap time to put on his polyester double knit wide-legged pants! (He DID manage to snag a sexy hat, probably hoping to draw attention away from...*ahem*....and it almost worked.) 

Gives one a whole new perspective on knitting, doesn't it?!

Won't this be a great calendar?

And a year long testament to twisted friends forever...

Beulah Claus

Every December (and many days in between), I think of Beulah Brown...oh, how I miss her!

She was an elegant little woman who had the gift of knowing a child's heart and enchanting them at every turn. Married to Bill Brown Sr., a "cattle baron" (to me, at the time) that my Dad worked for from when I was four years old until I was seven or eight, she was the resident ranch grandma...but a more glamorous grandma than we'd ever encountered in our short lives.  My brother, sister and I were the only ranch "babies", thereby doted on and completely spoiled, not only by Beulah but also the Brown kids who were teenagers at the time. 

But Beulah...

She always seemed completely delighted that we'd shown up, as though she'd been waiting for us all week.  And indeed she may have been, because her candy drawer (at kid level) was always full and free choice to any child who might show up. She ALSO had those squatty little half-cans of Coca-Cola for us (instead of plain old water) and she'd pour them over ICE.  We were so important (and wired) that you couldn't stand us. I'm certain that if she'd had a supply for little umbrellas, we'd have had those in our Cokes, too. (Mom talks about getting after us for grazing through the candy drawer and Beulah got after HER.  That was OUR drawer.) Isn't that marvelous?! 

Beulah had a guest room with two twin beds where we slept if we stayed overnight. Everything in the room was blue (even the TISSUES) and everything matched.  For us kids, it was like spending the night in a castle or something. There were soaps in the bathroom that were shaped like shells. She had TELEVISION and we were allowed to watch it!  She had a whole pile of toys that we were allowed to drag out at our pleasure, even if we were only going to be there for 15 minutes. 

I have so many happy memories of the years we spent at Brown's. My Dad worked very hard, I know that, and our "bunkhouse" was pretty shabby now that I see pictures of it, but there were things like ranch Christmas parties, a quonset dance, the hired men and Brown kids pulling our saucer sled behind the pickup all morning one Christmas, and Beulah.

I don't know how old we were when THE Christmas happened....I think I may have been about 5...and it was as though Santa had scripted it for us kids.  We always had Christmas Eve in our family because my Dad said that he always hated having to wait for gifts until Christmas morning and when HE was a grown up, HE'D open presents on Christmas EVE. (Bless his heart, he still can't wait.  I love that.) So, after stockings on Christmas morning, we were bundled up and drove the short, short way to Bill and Beulah's house, much to our surprise. 

Beulah had a huge tree in her A-frame, sunken 1960's (modern in the 70s!) living room, and it was decorated like they do in department stores....perfect and sparkly.  She led us down the three carpeted steps and across the room to the tree and showed us the presents under the tree.  

The presents that all had our names on them. 

A LOT of presents.

Beulah and the Brown kids had played Santa for us three, and they were so excited to see us have Christmas that morning!  

I know there's a photo in my Mom's album with us sitting in front of the tree with our loot.  We have a slightly dazed look, as kids who'd just had their socks blessed off would have.  

It wasn't the gifts, though. 

It was the complete unexpectedness of dear people thinking of us as family and delighting in our surprise. 

It was the validation that Santa really did exist, that magic happened, and we KNEW it.  We knew we were loved and that our parents and grandparents would have gifts for us.  We never imagined that there would be Santa elsewhere. 

Beulah's birthday was in December, either the 9th or the 10th, I can't remember because her husband Bill Sr.'s birthday was either the 9th or 10th, too, and they celebrated together...as my Dad and Karen do in June with the same dates!  

I don't think it was any coincidence that one of the kindest, most generous souls I've known was born in the month that is known for love and joy. 

And I can't wait to get to Heaven to find Beulah, hug her tight, and go straight to the candy drawer which will be right at my height, full of my favorite chocolates, and no such thing as "no more".

*In a funny memory, my baby brother was just learning to talk when we moved to Brown's and he wanted to marry "Booz" when he grew up. He couldn't say "Beulah", so she was "Booz"....and at age 2-3, he couldn't imagine a more perfect woman.*

And they lived happily ever after...

This is not the truth.
This ending came about because the storyteller, having woven an amazing tale of good vs. evil, heros and villains, princesses who originate humbly and rise by virtue and good luck to royal statuses, wraps up the saga with those iconic words of finale because they flat can't come up with anything more at the time.  They've got nothin'.  So they proclaim that all lived "happily ever after" and toddle off to make a bologna sandwich with a big glass of milk.

It's not true, of course.

It's sort of a lazy, slap-down-the-ending, we're-done-here,-folks, don't-worry-your-cute-little-head ending to a story that sticks with kids for a long time.  This is rough, because kids want MORE!  We ALL want MORE!

(This is how Disney makes their dough...Lion King, 1 1/2, 3, 14, etc.)

Really, though...
Cinderella STILL had a veddy ticked off step mother and sisters, not to mention the new in-laws.
Sleeping Beauty lost how many years?  When she was LAST awake, it was wax seals on parchment letters; today, instant messages and Twitter.
Goldilocks? That chick will have recurring nightmares about bear beds after hibernation, don't you know?

And the list goes on.

I don't mind fairy tales...
Truly, I don't.
I like the clear black-n-white good vs. evil examples.
I like that commoners can accidentally or by good luck become kings and queens.
I like the tiaras.
:)
And I like that girls feel beautiful when they put on a crown, that boys feel brave and noble when they pick up a sword...or shovel to kill a rattlesnake.  I like the crafty old crones who are witches, because they aren't just hanging out in the nursing home, waiting for their lukewarm tapioca pudding.

But I have always felt very unsatisfied with
"And they lived happily ever after!"

I'd really like something more along the lines of:
"And they lived through the ever after; working hard, embracing the day, finding love and grace especially when they didn't deserve it, with good, strong coffee to motivate them every morning! Their adventures, big and small, are another story for another time..."

NOW you can make a bologna sandwich.

Spoiled Child

Second generation of spoiled children, that is...

My Aunt Bert sewed wonderful things for my siblings and me, sometimes clothes, sometimes toys. (I still have the black elephant she made for me when I was 6!)

This last year, since she's "retired", she's been designing and sewing clothes for her grand nieces.  They get to choose the fabrics according to the style of the dress, then....voila!....a unique, personal dress that suits the lucky girl who gets it in the mail! 

I don't know if you can see (or if you care) but Maggie has a fondness for Amy Butler fabrics; very modern and hip fabric designer that only licenses a precious few designs each year. 

I'm glad she recognizes good design in fabrics and that Aunt Bert has good taste in patterns for the eclectic choices of cloth! 

And because Maggie has done some sewing for 4H projects, she appreciates the amount of work that goes into these garments.  She and Bert are a great team!  

In defense...

And we grow up....

(I wrote this several months ago and found it in my "drafts" folder. )
(Who KNOWS what's lurking there, right?)

Today I went to a high school classmate's dad's funeral/visitation.

This is something grown ups do, something I didn't think I'd ever have to muster up and gracefully attend.  This is what my folks are supposed to do....comfort the hurting friends, deliver casseroles, talk about 25 years ago in high school...

But here we are.

My high school classmates are now grandparents, losing their parents, retiring in seven years, taking high blood pressure medication.  

We're the grown ups!  

When did THAT happen?!  

For some reason, we 19 are coming back together after 25 years, now.

Getting each other's addresses.

Forming fantasy football leagues with each other. (And kicking each other's butts therewithin.)

Calling each other on birthdays. Not just the "big ones". 

Heck, celebrating TOGETHER on birthdays!

Challenging one another in fitness and personal growth goals. 

Talking politics and religion and how the world is going to hell in a hand basket.

Admiring each other's receding hairlines, greying beards and temples, sharing tips about hormonal changes.  

They're so DEAR to me, these people who knew me when I didn't even know myself! 

It was oddly poignant to step outside after visiting my classmate and friend to see the GCDHS homecoming parade going by. It's the 100th year of our high school, so each class and organization did a specific decade for their float.  I don't know who did the 1980's, but they really needed help from someone other than Wikipedia.  Really.  NO ONE on the float had leg warmers or big bangs or parachute pants or those big combs in their back pockets or Bon Jovi music or ANYTHING.  But they tried really hard and threw homemade brownies.  

Monday, my Aunt Bert and I will travel to Lewistown to visit one of her high school classmates from the 1960's...I want to say 67, but I might be wrong.  They're at almost 50 years of friendship.  What richness!  

Do you think kids from small towns are closer and keep in touch better than other places?  

Is Montana exceptional this way, because we have so few people?

AND....this is my biggest question....
do they whitewash rocks in the initial of their town and year of graduation on the sides of hills in towns other than Montana?!?  

Feed Cows?

When Angus was quite little (maybe three years old), he'd inquire conversationally of his father over every lunch, "So...how was your day? Feed cows?".  I think he got tired of just asking what his dad had done that morning (and it was ALWAYS "fed cows") so he just took care of business right away. Even now, when the kids get off the bus in the afternoon, I'll ask them how their day was and "Feed cows?" which is our code for "Everything pretty much the same thing?"

This winter, I've been given a little bunch of cows to feed every morning!  They're last year's first calving heifers, only now they're really big girls....coming threes!  

I put the kids on the bus first thing, then go over to the Big House to get my wretched white feed pickup that no one else wants to drive.  It's a six speed never-in-the-right-gear diesel machine with no emergency brake so if I park on any sort of slope at all (in neutral, of course) it rolls away.  This means that in order to open the gate on the hay corral, I have to put it in Granny, then shut it completely off so it doesn't merrily take off down the hill. (Granny is the slowest, lowest gear...at least that's what my dad called it.)  

The Beast has a good radio (for which I'm eternally grateful) and I can get KGHL on AM which is the radio station my Dad always listened to when he fed and I rode along. "Tradio" is on while I'm feeding...a radio show where people can phone in if they have something to sell or are looking for something to buy.  Usually it's guns, household items, the random puppies, but this morning there was a free fresh deer hide for anyone who wanted it, AND the opportunity to get (also free) old hens if you were willing to go catch them.  KGHL plays classic old country music, so when it's not Tradio, it's Ray Price and Patsy Cline as the soundtrack to my morning.

Here's my good help:

Here's why she loves to go feediing cows:

Bunnies live at the haystack.

Really DUMB bunnies.

And they run deliciously fast and sneaky like!

The Beast has a hydraulic bale bed on it, so I can lift the bale onto the back of the pickup without having to have a tractor.  (Please note the fact that the arms are almost perfectly centered in on an imperfectly round bale. If they AREN'T centered, the bale won't unroll well and the feeder person will end up pushing it down a hill by hand.  I'm thrilled to have this placement documented for all the world to see, because I have to run controls inside the pickup, looking in the mirrors and over my shoulder out the back window to get it placed and loaded. This was a fine moment for me!)
(And yes, I had to shut the pickup off to take this picture so it wouldn't roll.)
(Like my father-in-law's eyes if he sees this particular blog post, bless his heart...)

 Often times, when I lift a bale I end up exposing a hidden, dumb bunny which results in happy yipping and a good chase while I close the gate.

 Here are my girls:

 This happens to be the bunch with my heifer Rosie and Maggie's heifer Lucky who you will see in the following picture.

We noticed a funny thing about the cow named Lucky....the sum of the numbers on her tag (223) ends up being lucky 7!  She's easy to pick out of this herd because she's the only one with a white beard, as Maggie says.

This is what the bale looks like when it's all unrolled.

(They're suspicious of me taking all these pictures. Something's up, but they don't know what...)

I also check their water every day to make sure it's not frozen over and look to see if they have plenty of salt'n'minral (sic). 

Then I return the Beast to the main house and resume my day if they don't need me to feed any other bunches that day. 

This day went pretty quickly because I didn't have to fight a lot of snow or mud, and the water wasn't frozen over necessitating me chopping and scooping ice out of the tank. 

It's a pretty good way to start the day! If you want to come ride along, I'd love the company...

Confession #422

I fell out of love with Downton Abby when Matthew died.
*whew. there, I said it*

I was Downton before Downton was cool, Just as the rest of the world started really plugging in and watching Season 1 and 2 to catch up, really.  And I still watch it....I just don't LOVE it.

BUT...
I'm devouring this show entitled "Call the Midwife".
It's set in the east end of London (very poor neighborhoods) in the 1950s and is based on a real, true midwife's memoirs. The midwives live with nuns at a place called Nonantes House and work side by side with them to care for mothers, babies and community.  It's just a dear show, saved from being schmaltzy by having realistically flawed characters and a sense of nostalgia, not sugar. The producers have taken great pains to ensure historical and cultural accuracy, right down to the way the nuns knit....continental as opposed to the odd American style.  The music is 1950s wonderful, interspersed with holy vespers sung by the nuns.
I cry with happiness and anguish, nearly every episode...

Here's the cast from Season 1




My guilty show is "Selfridges" which is about an insanely charismatic, marketing genius who started the first department store in London around the turn of the century. (Yes. They're BOTH set in London.  It's BBC!) He's rather a philanderer but has a fair, decent heart so I forgive him as I'm bawling him out while I watch.  This one is about to go the way of Downton Abby, I'm afraid, so it may only be one of my favorites for one more season...
Oh! It's based on a real person, too!  I watched a documentary on Harry Selfridge and the t.v. show seems to be taking pains to stay true to his story.  (Really, he was such a character that they didn't really HAVE to make anything up.)

Sometimes I get all lost in the fashion and setting details of both shows, missing big chunks of the plot in trying to figure out what china pattern they're using or taking notes in my head on the cut of a gown. (You know. Because I'm very likely to sew my own walking suit...*sarcastic sigh*)

AND....
(yes...there's MORE)
in January, I'll be starting the Australian show "Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries".
It should be deliciously wicked and NOT set in London. (Melbourne, I think.)

Now you know.

Sorting

Today was one of the hardest days of the year for me.
It's one of many because as the writer of the Momastery blog, Glennon Melton, explains, there are some people who are just "much-y".  We feel happy too "much-y", we feel worry too "much-y", we feel sadness too "much-y".
I think it's wiring.

Other hard days include:
Sending my kids to school in August. (I only had them for 3 months! I want more time!)
The last day it's humanely possible to fly fish in the year.
Any day I have to go to the dentist.
Most holidays. (Oh, the PRESSURE...)
And the day we sort bred heifers for sale.

Today we sorted bred heifers, choosing which ones to sell and which ones to keep to calve out in March.

Someone else is going to calve 60 of our girls this spring and the thought of it nearly puts me down.

I KNOW we can't keep them all! I know this. We don't have the time, man-power or resources (feed and pasture) to calve and keep them. And cows are worth so much this fall....selling the bred heifers at these prices is fiscally brilliant.

But....
it's not just THIS year that the sort and sale affects.
As we go through these girls and cut numbers "bye" or "catch", I see ten years of ranching in each of them.
Ten years of production.
Ten years of calvings, brandings, vaccinatings, shippings, winter feedings.
In farming, it's year to year.  You don't plant this year?  You can plant next year. It's a short term decision.
In ranching, with cows, each sale or retention essentially affects 10 years. Theoretically, each of these heifers could produce calves for 10 years.  Probably there would be 80 percent of them that would do so, with good management of bulls and nutrition.

So as I stand at the gate, watching the "bye" girls trot past, I see 10 years in each of them.
I always, always, ALWAYS fear we're cutting too deep.
One year that Langs Fork Inc. decided to sell extra bred heifers in order to save resources during a bad winter (smart!), I ended up crying while pleading with my father-in-law not to sell so many.
I was worried that in a few years our numbers would be too low, and besides, they were beautiful heifers. Beautiful young cows!
The truth of the matter is that our numbers could have been too low due to death loss because there wasn't enough feed for all the cows. Or to the loss of calves because we couldn't keep up with the babies in the storms that would have died to exposure.
It was absolutely the right thing to do.
I cried for two days, in the shower, sad at the sale of those heifers.

Now I know that it's just my weakness.
I almost can't bear to part with bred heifers.
There's so much hope with each of these girls! I can't stand the thought that someone else will calve them out in March!
Sentimentality is a rotten trait for anyone in ranching to have, and I know this to the core.  I appreciate there are men who make these decisions that I just need to show up in the corral to implement, because I'm not to be trusted with the bred heifers.
I'd keep them all.

(In fact, I was seriously contemplating using the money from my two steer calves this fall to buy 007's bred heifer calf because I've been watching her heifers for years...they're always nice and they're always bred when we preg test.  But she was one of the keepers so that's good.  We'll use the money for a new couch, instead.)

I'm comforted by the fact that Daisy's heifer, Violet, will be here this spring and is due to have a bull calf! Along with 007 (Jane Bond), Daisy produces good heifers and I'm excited for Violet's calf in March.

What Every Mother Sees When She Watches a Game

HER kid is the only one she focuses on...

For Your Shivery Enjoyment...

We live in a tough country.  One has only to look at a map of Eastern Montana to realize that the first people to settle here must have had a horrible time of it, just by what they named land features.  We have Hell Creek, Devil's Creek, Frozen Dog Creek, Skunk Arroyo, Deadman Road. (In fact, many of the faithful have "Hell Creek" on their baptism record.  That always makes me smile!)

One of the places we drive past on the highway to Miles City is Deadman Road.  We've seen it all our lives and so don't think much about it, but one evening in my bookclub someone happened to wonder out loud why it would have been named that.  A little discussion ensued and this tale came out of it, given by a person who had been in the area long enough that we trusted her as a source:

One night, when cars were not reliable at all and there was no such thing as phone service in this part of Montana, a couple was driving home on the road in some tough weather.  The car broke down, but the man knew where they were and told his companion to stay in the car, that he would walk to the nearest place for help.
(You can see where this is going, can't you?  I still get the shivers, just typing it.)
In order to fully appreciate how scary this was for the lady who was left behind, you need to know that it's still one of the most remote regions in the lower 48, and when you're alone on the prairie with the wind blowing, you're REALLY alone.  As alone as you'll ever be in your life.
As I remember the story that was told, the man had been gone some time when she heard terrible screams in the distance...ungodly screams.  She locked all the doors of the car and hunkered down as low as she could, and I'm sure prayed her heart out.
The next day, the man's body was found high in a tree with no clue as to how it could possibly have gotten there.

I don't know if this is a true story or not, but it's a wickedly scary one to ponder when we drive by the sign in the night on our way north to Cohagen.

(If anyone has more details or accurate story, please leave a comment!)

I'd Clean My Oven For You

In the last couple years, there have been reverse-snob remarks and memes that proudly proclaim that "you're the friend I'd have at my house when I'm wearing yoga pants with my hair all a frizzle and the dog is throwing up on the hall carpet with the kids stringing up their stuffed animals and the toothbrushes by the kitchen sink."

Well, isn't THAT a complimentary picture?!

I understand that the idea is that we'd be good enough friends that you'd forgive that sort of thing and roll with it, but I just can't go down that road. 

My dear, if we are truly good friends....

I'd clean my oven for you.  

You won't have to look at that coffee cake and wonder if some black remnants of meals gone wrong in the past have sifted down while it was baking.  

I love you that much.

I'd shower for you. 

I may not have time for that sort of "luxury" today because I've been moving cows with my husband all day, the kids are whining because they're HUNGRY (again. still.) and the dog is looking ill, but I'd do it for you.

I love you that much.

I'd make fresh coffee for you.

Even though the coffee in the pot is perfectly good; it's three hours old and the charm is gone.  There are grounds in the bottom of the cup I poured 15 minutes ago.  It's tough.

I love you that much.

I'd find a clean hand towel for you.

They're at a premium some days.  I think the Farmer thinks they're "rags" because we haven't bought a new one since we got married 15 years ago and these are looking rahther shabby.  The kids used two of them in the maternity box with the last batch of kittens we had.  But I'd find one for you.

I love you that much.

I'd clean off the front seat of my car for you.

It's the "junk drawer" of automobiles....with my fencing gloves, homework slips to sign, a couple water bottles, four-leaf clover earrings, sombrero from the fiesta two years ago...  

I'll sweep it off for you.

I love you that much.  

I'd dust the t.v. for you.

I'd bring out the real china for you, not just the Chinette.

I'd blow dry my hair for you. 

I'd sweep the deck for you.

I'd make the pizza dough that takes 36 hours to cure.

I love you that much.

(If you were at my house and NONE of these things were done (except the fresh coffee), please know that it wasn't because I don't love you.  It was because I just didn't have time.  

Was the bathroom not a place you contemplated your last panel of shots?  Love.

Did you feel comfortable going barefoot in my home?  Love.

Homemade cookies?  Love.

Big hugs through tears? Love.)

I don't want to get to the point I don't invite or welcome people at my house because it's not "perfect" or because I'm not "perfect", but I want you to know that it's sort of a big deal if...

I'd clean my oven for you. 

Are You Ranch Wife Material?

I happened to stumble on a little quiz today for women dating (or aspiring to date) a rancher.
Of COURSE I took it!

But I was a little baffled by a few of the questions.

For example:

Would you rather A.) Eat out  or B) Have home-cooked meal?
Any current ranch wife would choose A,
We're the ones who make the home-cooked meals, three times a day.  Dang straight, we'd rather eat out!

What is your favorite color?  A.) Turquoise or B.) Black
Um....the ACTUAL correct answer would be C.) Green.
Green like grass, alfalfa, John Deere and (this is so obvious) MONEY....which comes if you have an adequate supply of the first three things mentioned in the same breath.

Do you highlight your hair?  A.) Yes  or B.) No
The correct answer is A.) Yes.  But not always in a salon.  Ranch wives get highlights in their hair by actually being out in the sun many hours.  And silver "highlights" from working cows with their husband and/or father-in-law.

Do you like to vacation in the summer?  A.) Yes  or B.) No
Who DOESN'T?
It's just that our "summer vacations" usually have a parts pick up involved or delivery of cows to a sale barn.  They're really more "stay-cations", but we'll take what we can get. Especially if we get to eat out while we're there.
*In a funny side note: on my way back from Tour de Friends 2014, I got a call while in Belgrade that my friend and cousin needed a swather part from the New Holland dealer there.  Could I maybe pick it up for them? Well, sure!*


A more comprehensive quiz would include the following questions:

1. Can you cook?

1.a. For more than 6 people in one meal?

1.b. With no recipe and only 5 incompatible ingredients?

1.c. In 30 minutes, after working cows with your husband and 4 neighbors all morning?


2. Can you handle "flexible" schedules?

2.a. "Flexible" meaning: immediately going from town clothes to corral clothes?

2.b. With the distinct possibility of having to go to town in the corral clothes for vaccine?

2.c. Or pick up herbicide chemical, because THAT plan changed, too, in the last 15 minutes?


3. Are you good with animals?

3.a. Like snakes in your flower bed?

3.b. Or skunks on the front step?

3.c. Or mice who try to sizzle up your coverall leg in the barn/granary/feed store?

BONUS: Or bulls in your yard in the middle of the night?


4. Do you like people?

4.a. Specifically, the 25 people who live in your community?

4.b. MORE specifically, the 25 people who live in your community who will know when you go to town, feed your cats, how you voted in the last 3 elections, secret ingredient in your potluck meatballs and what your mother's maiden name is?

4.c. All the people in a 150 mile radius that will come racing when your grass is on fire, attend your wedding and funeral, bring casseroles when you have surgery, spend $700 on your kid's 4H cake at the fair, put your cows in when they're out on the highway?


5. Are you good with numbers?

5.a. Numbers of cows counted as they streamed through the gate 3=4 at a time?

5.b. Numbers on parts you're supposed to pick up from John Deere that may or may not contain the letter (trick!) z or n?

5.c. Numbers that the guy who called for your husband gave you that will affect your life because it has to do with the price per pound of your calves, way to reach the cattle buyer in the next 3 states for the next 2 days, truck driver that will show up on the pre-determined date to pick up those calves and alternate dates there-in.


6,  Are you susceptible to falling in love with long eyelashes and knobby kneed babies?

6.a. Even when they're in your pickup truck on the floor?

6.b. And poop on the door of that same pickup truck?

6.c. In March, when there's a freak spring storm that dumps 8 inches of snow in 6 hours, then drops to =10 degrees not counting windchill?


7.  Do you have a high tolerance to pain?

7.a. Where you may tear your ACL and continue to work for another 8 hours?

7.b. Then the next day, drive yourself to the doctor 82 miles away, with a grocery list and parts to pick up?

7.c. And blame yourself for the whole damned mess?



If you managed to answer "yes" to 18 of those questions, you're nuts.
And potential ranch wife material, at least for a few years, bless your brave heart!

If you ditched the quiz 3.4 questions in, I applaud your intelligence and decisiveness...
but pity your lack of adventurous spirit and ability to roll with punches.

(It should be mentioned that some of the most unlikely aspects make the best ranch wives, simply because they don't have any idea of what they're getting into and just plough in with everything they've got.  I'm friends with some of these brave girls and will never cease to admire their chutzpah in a profession that takes strong women down daily.)

Take Me Home...

The kids and I went to the Big Dry country on Monday to see the folks and my (step...because the distinction is important to some) sister Meghan, who was spending a couple days on her way to a conference in North Dakota.  

The little white dot in the center of the picture is home....nestled on the creek by those matronly cottonwood trees who put on their gaudy best before settling into stately grey, black and white for another 6 months.  

 The Men.

They were supervising the graveling project Dad had going on around the new pens.  

I call this one "The Board of Directors".  

 Angus and his friends...

(Check out that nice fence!)

Discussing important matters, such as how Doc (the horse she loves with all her heart) missed her and needed her to come back and ride....

This is a very Dutton-y picture of my Dad. 

I love that. 

On the Hay Creek road, driving home from Miles...

Up that same road, headed straight north...

Mirror pictures mess with my head, but are so neat...we see where we're going and where we've been, all at the same time; the life perspective we need but can never manage to capture.

Red pears in the morning...

the last color of fall before the winter greys.

Oh, how I soak it up!