Knickers in a Twist

There are only a couple of things I would change about my fabulous apartment ('The Penthouse'). I wish it had a garage, and I wish it had a washer/dryer. Granted, it does have the hookups for the w/d, but I'm using that space for storage. And honestly, I go home to the farmhouse so often I usually do my laundry there.

But because of the recent barrage of ice and snow, I hadn't been able to get home for a couple of weeks. Needless to say, the laundry situation was starting to get desperate. And, I was making a trip to KC and most of the things I wanted to wear were in the hamper, so I was at DEFCON 9, which spurred me to do something I hadn't done in ... well, I'm not sure I've EVER done it ...

I loaded up the car and headed to the laundromat.

Now you have to understand, for all my openness, when it comes to my skivvies, I'm a pretty private person. So I was thrilled/relieved when I got to the 'mat and no one was there. I chucked my stuff into a couple of washers, set the dial, and settled in with my book. But while I was reading, a couple of things happened.

One: As the sun went down, I discovered that the mat was UBER-CLOSE to one of the main streets in town, and as the sky got darker, the lights inside seemed to get brighter - and I had put my clothes into washers that were right next to the HUGE BAY WINDOW. I broke out into a cold sweat, panicking about all of those cars driving past while I was fishing my gitch out of the washers.

And, two: SIX other people came to do their laundry as well. TWO of which were dudes. ACK! At this point, all I can think about is my underwear swirling around in the dryers for God and everyone to see. Panic, panic, panic. Why didn't I just go BUY new underwear?! I am seriously thinking about leaving my stuff in the washer until all these people leave.

And I did. For a while, anyway, but then I finished my book and had nothing else to keep me occupied. I think I set new land speed records for the amount of time it took me to get my things out of the washers and into the dryers (the ones WAY in the corner, which weren't really what one could consider 'private', but it made me feel a little better), then from the dryers into my basket and into my car.

Whew. Who knew the laundromat would be such a terrifying place? Me, now. So on my way back to The Penthouse, contemplating all manner of ways to avoid having to go to that horrible place ever again. Then it hits me. 'Note to self. Seriously consider purchase of wash tub and board in case of future laundering emergencies.'

No matter how you spell it ...

I'll admit it every day of the week: I'm a grammar and spelling nazi. To me, they're immediate, distinct badges of education and professionalism. You know that a person means business when they can put their intentions into words, placing all of the letters carefully into the correct order ...

Which, my friends, is why I have to look away every time I pass this sign along the highway. Yes, it says 'Year End Clearence'. It sends intense, shooting pain up my spine and makes my hand itch for a red pen (or a can of red spray paint). But, on the other hand, I honestly doubt that his sales have been very negatively effected by his lack of a dictionary. (and, apparently, the signmaker's)

The Hello Habit.

In rural areas and small towns, you're taught as a kid to look people in the eye and say hello. When you meet someone or pass a person on the street, whether you actually know that person or not, your parents teach you that it's bad manners not to say anything.

I'm saddened to say that I've gotten out of this habit, and I've gotten into the habit of simply smiling and looking at my shoes. (What in the BLUE BLAZES?? WHY do I do this?? I'M even slightly perturbed at it. Nonetheless.) It was a tough realization I came to just today, while I was grocery shopping on my lunch break. Lunchtime at the grocery store is an odd time ... it's when construction workers, moms, farmers, retired folk, students, and other random odds and ends do their shopping - mostly people who are from this area. And into this environ I wandered this afternoon.

First, Salvation Army bell ringer. I smile at him. He smiles back and issues a hearty hello. I offer a quiet hi. Next, whilst perusing the produce, I get to the lettuce where a stocker has her cart planted in front of what I want. I eye her. She catches me and says hello! Taken slightly aback, I return the greeting and grab my lettuce. Okay, so service workers and employees say hello. Not too surprising.

But I ain't done yet. FOUR TIMES while I was shopping the aisles, complete strangers said hello to me. By this time, I was beginning to note my internal urge to just smile and look down, so I made myself look them right in the eye and say hello back.

How on EARTH did I end up with this SHY bit to my personality??!! Where did this come from?? How long have I been this way?? Why did I start just smiling and looking away?? This is very disturbing, honestly. And simply will NOT be acceptable any longer. That is IT. I shun thee, shyness. I shall be an eye-looker and hi-sayer from henceforth.

It's time to PANIC! oh, wait, nevermind.

I love weather forecasts. ALL WEEK last week, the outlook for this weekend was getting progressively treacherous, hazardous, awful, ICE! SNOW! WIND! SLEET! 1/2 INCH ICE ACCUMULATION! FREEZING TEMPERATURES!! ARMAGEDDON!! SAVE YOURSELF!!

So of course, on Friday afternoon, panic ensued in the general population. Wal-Mart and all the grocery stores were overwhelmed with frenzied shoppers, doing their best to save their families during this bleak time. For, undoubtedly, there would be no getting out this weekend, what with the world covered in ice as they were predicting.

I have to admit, I was no different. How can you think otherwise, when the 'chance' of sleet is 100%?! I braved Wal-Mart, got myself some ice melt salt, munchies, and propane. Went home, made sure my grill was still working (cause with all this ICE coming, the power lines would surely be down), put my flannel jammies on and snuggled in for a long weekend of crocheting and reading by candlelight.

As it turns out, the ice, rain, wind, all did occur. However, the weather forecasters' tarot cards were slightly off, in that they failed to reveal the sub-tropical TEMPERATURES that would accompany this storm. Sure, the weather was still kinda nasty, but nowhere near the state of national doom that was called for.

Almost makes me feel guilty for not doing a bloody thing this weekend.

Almost.

Coffee talk.

So, how've you been?

Oh fine. You?

Well, since you asked ...

I did indeed go deer hunting. Apparently, though, the deer were being persnickety and I didn't see anything that I could shoot. Others, however, who shall remain nameless, did manage to bring home the, er, venison. Which, over Christmas, I shall be crafting into jerky. Mmmmmmm .... is it wrong that it's only 8 AM and jerky sounds good? I agree. Next topic.

Over Thanksgiving, the fam enjoyed some deeelicious Reubens out of the corned beef I crafted. It wasn't perfect, but it made for a good sammich. And anyway, I learned a valuable lesson for next time. The moral of the Corned Beef Story was: Hey, L, maybe next time, if you're soaking twice the amount of beef called for in the recipe, you might want to think about doubling the REST of the recipe.

Um.

I know what you're thinking. And no, I didn't eat paint chips as a child. In my defense, there weren't any weight indications on the packaging so I had no idea how much meat I was preparing. (Plus, I'm not much good at following recipes all that closely anyway. Hey, that doesn't mean I can't keep trying!! Ha!!)

One thing that I apparently did manage to figure out, though, was a pumpkin spice pie. That pie's praises are apparently still being sung. The only problem with it? One of the 'magic' ingredients is a Seasonal/Limited Time Only deal. NOT FAIR!! I finally make somethin' tasty, but The Man says I can only make it for a limited time!! Guess what I'm doing on my lunch break? Going to Hy-Vee to empty their shelves of that stuff. Hope my dad isn't just fibbing about liking that pie, 'cause I'm gonna be making one every weekend until EASTER. :)

Just joke. Maybe only until like St. Patrick's Day or something.

Why??

Why, oh why, do Best Buy's holiday ads have to be so awful?? I vote that if there really are any children out there who sincerely act the way those Bitchy McBratty-Ungratefulsons do, all they deserve for Christmas is a red arse.

Remember the time that the holidays were about hanging out with your family and that guy called ... oh, what was his name? ...

Oh yeah!

The blog! I promise updates this week.

Opening Day

It's not quite baseball, but it's the same sort of time-honored, sacred rite: opening day for rifle-hunting deer season.

And it is about time. In the past few days, I've been dangerously close to plastering several of the damn-ed devil creatures onto the front of my car. TODAY, on my morning run, I met a textbook-perfect buck who was just hanging out by a creek, about half a mile from the DOWNTOWN area. Maybe I should start running with a rifle slung across my back. :) Yeah, THAT'S a good idea.

Wait. Was there a point to this post? Uh, not really, but I'm gonna keep writing anyway ...

Just down the road from the Broken B homestead, there's a huge Conservation area. Needless to say, during this time of year, the gravel on our road gets ground into a fine powder with all the hunters trying to beat each other to the best hunting spot. It's the only time of year that we actually have to look both ways before we walk across our road - it's like Craftsman Truck Racing meets the hunting channel. (Note to hunters: Slow down. And wave back when we wave at you. It's just good manners.)

So tomorrow morning, the guns'll be a'blazin. And though that particular shade of screaming orange is NOT the most attractive for my complexion, a-hunting I shall go. in hopes of tagging a deer. And if I do manage to get one, I see a jerky craft day in my future. Mmmmm ... wish me luck!

And, happy/safe hunting!

Warning: Flammable.

This commentary says it better than I could. It's a very dangerous cycle we're getting into, with the current frenzy to "save the planet". How long will it be before we've burnt all our food for fuel, food prices are out of reach for the already-strapped middle class, and the left-wingers who began the global warming battle cry are compelled to raise taxes so the government can pay for America to eat. Hey! maybe then the obesity crisis won't be such a problem.

It's a crock.

This weekend, I offhandedly mentioned to my mom that I had a hankerin' for corned beef brisket. As soon as I'd said it, she immediately took me to the Magic Deepfreeze and produced TWO of said cuts of meat. The only stipulation was that I'd have to 'corn' it myself.

Me: Wha? I don't know how to do that.
Mom: Voila! Here's the recipe.
Me: Cool. But I don't have a crock.
Mom: We'll find one.

And so we did. That's one thing about Broken B Farms ... if you're looking for something, it's most likely there somewhere. Truly. If you were looking for a wooden replica of Sputnik that was carved by a man named Jose, using a maple tree that grew in Pennsylvania - it's probably around, you'd just have to look. :)

So we found an awesome crock - yeah, I said awesome - it's just the right size, and it doesn't have any cracks in it. And last night, I corned me some brisket! (see evidence in photograph - am I crafty or what?!) And get this: The 'marinade' has vein-popping amounts of salt in it, so the brisket basically sits in that crock in this salty, spiced brine for eight days! Then, goes into the fridge for six more days!

For as long as this takes, it had better be good. But hey, the bright side? No need for turkey this year, we'll have corned beef brisket for Thanksgiving dinner!!

I mean it!

Dear Mystery Bruise on My Knee,

First of all, I have no idea why you're here. I didn't invite you, and I sure as Shinola don't remember doing anything to deserve you. Okay, so maybe all the crashing around I've been doing on the farm lately may have encouraged you to show up, but it's time for you to go away. You've taken up residence on my knee for the past TWO WEEKS, not getting any worse, not getting any better ... just hanging out, and it's maddening, honestly. You can take your weird greens, your signature bluish-black, and your vericose purples, pack 'em up and head 'em out. I would like to wear a skirt to work at least once this week. Thank you.

Signed,
Me.

... and man, are my arms tired.

Outcome of this particular weekend on the farm: a brand spankin’ new fence. And a couple-a scratches and cuts from ill-tempered barbed wire. But, I'm not worried about that, they will heal. This FENCE is FOREVER. :)

This process started a few weeks ago, when we had a bulldozer in to clear out the fence line. Essentially what this means is the dozer takes out all the brush and big trees out of a fence that’s falling down. We do this when we've patched and patched, and simply can’t repair the fence any more – we just need to start over (kinda like Michael Jackson’s plastic surgery). Our grandfather’s grandfather’s father used to clear land like this with one of those two-handed saws and a couple of draft horses. I’d never make it as a settler.

Anywho. When the way is clear, you don’t just slap a new fence in. You have to decide if you’re going to put the fence back in the same place, how you’re going to rotate pastures, how you’re going to get cattle in, where they’re going to get water, and various other strategeries. We decided to put the fence back in the same place, but a watering tank was a good idea for the bottom of the hill. (I wish I could describe the installation process here. All I can say, though, is that it’s a BIG deal.) That was Thursday. Friday: The Corner Posts. Gigantic, Heavy, Massive, Awesome hedge tree trunks that were cut out of the old fence get put back into the fence as the anchors. They’re sunk 6-8 feet in the ground, surrounded with concrete and dirt … these will most likely still be there, holding the fence, when they put ME 6-8 feet in the ground, surrounded by concrete and dirt.

Saturday: After a brief debate with my dad over just exactly how long the fence is (very specific measurement words like ‘yonder’ and ‘betcha’ and ‘s’pect’ were used), we decided it’s about an eighth of a mile long. Then, when we came to terms with the fact that the fence wasn’t going to build itself, we got to work. First, more wooden posts. We put 8 or 10 of those in the fence line – carrying, digging, shoveling, tamping – voila! Next, steel posts. Steel posts are about 6 ½ feet tall, and to put these in the ground we use heavy tools and elbow grease. Over one end of the post, we put a ‘driver’ – a 3-foot-long, steel, tube-looking thing with one solid end. Then, essentially, picking the driver up and slamming it down on the top of the post with as much force as you can muster, several times per post. That’ll get your heart rate up. Whew.

Sunday: This, is the ‘easy’ part. ‘All’ we had to do on Sunday was string/stretch the wires and attach them to the wooden and steel posts. Five barbed wires, 1/8-mile, two hills, oh and did I mention it had rained all weekend? Add 25-pound, muddy boots too. But! No pain, no gain, right?! So, we pulled, stretched, measured, clipped, wired and steepled the barbed wire to the posts, and we have what I definitely consider to be the best damned fence on the farm. (Course, I may be a little biased.) And I have sore shoulders ... but if you ask me in public, I'll totally deny it.

The Cattle Call

There are several reasons a farmer would want to call up his/her cattle. He or she might be moving them to a different field, or just calling them together so he can make sure they're all still present and accounted for, or he could be getting them in to 'work' them ... and for as many reasons WHY a cattleman would call his herd, there are as many ways HOW he does it.

Farming is a family tradition. A farmer's methods, secrets, and tricks of the trade are built solidly on how his grandfather's father's father did it back in the day. And I bet you if there was a way to hear each family's cattle call now, you could trace it back down through the generations just as accurately as a family tree. I'll do my best to describe some calls I've heard over the years ...

My family: sic-caaaayaah! C'mere girls! (or, c'mere bulls! You don't want to offend the boys.)

Others I've heard:
WOOOoo! (yep. A farmer will just stand on the top of the hill and woo! at his cows)
heEEEY cows!
some just drive out to the field and honk their truck horn
SIC-heifER! Come on!

You know, I don't know what would happen if a new person showed up and wanted to call up somebody else's cows. (Honestly, unless somebody was stealing somebody else's cows, I can't think of a reason why that would happen in the first place.) But whether they'd come or not is a good question. Maybe I oughtta try calling ours differently next time I'm calling them up. I'll let you know how it goes. :)

A Tale of Grass and Ivy

It all started with rotational grazing. This is a technical term that means: turning your cows out into one field of grass at a time, while letting another field lie dormant so the grass there can grow again. Savvy?

This past weekend it was time to turn some cows out into a new field. But before you do that, you have to go around and check the fences in the new field to make sure everything's still up and will keep the cows and calves in. I took off in the four-wheeler with my wire pliers and fencing materials, and drove along a particularly brushy perimeter. It was hot out, so I was only wearing a tank top. (and jeans, too, of course. ONLY wearing a tank top just wouldn't be smart. Plus I shudder to think of the fashion statement a tank top and roper boots would make. Yikes.) Along the way, I dove into the weeds a couple of times to fix the fence (go me), and had the four-wheeler roll down the hill without me on it (boo, me). It didn't do any damage, though, it just decided it didn't like the view from the top of the hill, I guess. So it rolled to the bottom and waited there for me.

Fence fixed, cue the cows. Then, I called the cows and turned them into the new field. (I wish this blog had audio. You'd get a kick outta how we call our cows. Every farmer does it differently.) They were ecstatic - it's like when you go to a Chinese buffet and they're out of crab rangoon. When they put more rangoon out, everybody in the restaurant kinda looks around like, 'What? There's more rangoon? I hadn't noticed.' Then SPRINTS to the buffet to get some. Cows are like, 'WHEE! New grass!' And they trot very excitedly out to the new field.

So the cows had food, and all was well. Until I got up to go to the gym this morning. AAAACCCCKKK!!! MY ARM!!! IT'S ITCHING, AND I THINK IT'S ON FIRE. Nope, no fire. Just The Ivy. Damnitall. I hope those stupid cows are happy. They certainly got the better deal this weekend.

And the Oscar goes to ... the possum.

After a weekend of birthday debauchery (thank you, dear KC friends!!!!), I moseyed my way back to North Mo. I stopped 'for a bit' at the farm to check in and see what projects are coming up. And, as is usually the case, my mom and I made dinner and started chatting and watching sports, and 'a bit' turned into midnight and I decided to stay the night.

So while mom was putting the leftovers away, I went to put the girls in their kennels for the night. (the 'girls' being what we call our three border collies. Although, I have to admit. There are some human girls I've wanted to put in kennels in my lifetime. But that's not a part of this particular story.)

One thing about the farm is, after the sun goes down, the place is DARK. We have a yard light, but it doesn't do all that much. So, I go out to get the girls with a flashlight. I find them out in the side yard, sniffing around at a shadowy lump on the ground. On further inspection, I find a mangy looking, curled up, glassy-eyed possum. Hadn't ever seen one of those before. All dead animals are sad, but EEEeeeeewww. So I put the girls up and fed them, and returned to the scene of the crime. The possum was still there. I nudged him with my boot, and he lolled over, tongue hanging out, lifeless. I thought about getting some gloves and disposing of him. But before doing that, I remembered just who I was dealing with ... a professional actor. He sure did look dead to me, but hey, who knows? So I left him there.

And in the morning, I went out to look ... and he had disappeared. It's a MIRACLE!!!! He had looked SO DEAD!!! Seriously, the glassy eyes and everything - them possums is miraculous!! If I ever see this one again, I think I'll name him Hey-seuss. Or maybe Lazarus. Or what was that guy's name in South America who woke up on the autopsy table last week?

Do you think that possums have 'near death experiences' when they do that? Like, do you think that possum is going to try and live a better life, now that he knows what the afterlife looks like? Maybe he feels like he's been given a second chance?

Ah yes. Something to possum. I mean, ponder. :)

At First Light (and a cute side story)

Sure, it’s a phrase you hear often in old cowboy flicks. But I’ll be damned if it’s not still useful. I got up this morning when it was still dark and had coffee with my folks. They’re going to work cattle today. Why today, you ask? Since it’s the middle of the week, and I can’t help because I have to work? Well, my dad’s going to be out of town for the next couple of weekends with his job, and they have to be done this month, so that’s just how it works out. But, of course wanting to do what I can, we finished our coffee then I went with them ‘at first light’ to get the cattle in the lot. Many, many things can go wrong at this stage of working cattle, so the more people you have to help, the better. Cows can run through fences, they can JUMP fences (I swear to God it's true. You’d never guess, but some of these old girls can jump like gazelles. You can’t help but marvel at their grace, even as you’re seeing RED because they just got out and now you have to go get them back in.), they can just scatter and all run different directions around the field … the possibilities are endless for them, actually. But, when you have several people all moving them in the same direction, they usually go where they’re supposed to. And this morning, except for one cow/calf pair, we got all the girls exactly where we wanted them. And we did it all at first light. (incidentally, is there a 'second light'?)

The Side Story:

Then, I promptly jumped in my car and zoomed back to Kirksville to get ready for work. I was going slow enough, though, that I happened to catch a sight that made me giggle. The highway to Kirksville goes through several teeny towns. Through one of these towns, there’s an access road that leads down to a small river. Every once in a while, you’ll see people who have parked their vehicles on one end of this access road and walk to the river and back for exercise. This morning, an old farmer about 65 years old, was out walking. He had his white tennis shoes, his short-sleeve, snap-front blue plaid shirt tucked neatly into his blue jeans, his cap … and his pliers on his belt.

Because you simply never know what you’re going to run up against when out walking. The first time you don't bring your pliers is when you need them the most. It's a good life lesson there. :)

Yahoo! had an article today, about a rising trend in prep schools – growing gardens that the students work. They grow everything organically, and use some of it in their school dining hall. The purpose of these revived ‘agriculture’ programs, they said, is to teach kids where their food comes from, what kind of effort it takes to grow, and what kind of effect ‘conventional’ farming has on the environment.

Overall, I think their intentions are good. Kids have to actually do some physical labor (PREP SCHOOL KIDS even!), they learn how to get their hands dirty, and they learn to appreciate that food has to come from somewhere other than the supermarket. The efforts they're making there are admirable, I think. They're inadvertently raising awareness of what farmers do for the world. What I do not think is beneficial to these programs, is the part where kids are learning how 'bad' it is to farm conventionally – with pesticides, herbicides, fertilizer, etc.

Sure, on a very, very small scale, they’re probably getting a couple of meals worth of food out of their garden. They don’t have to totally survive on what they grow, and they’re not having to make a living at it. They’re most likely being taught to think that growing food organically is the only way we ought to do it. But they’re not getting the whole picture. It takes a hundred thousand times more input, effort, planning, money, machinery, and yes, chemicals, to have enough to sell for a profit – to live on for the next year – than it does to have a green bean or two on your plate every once in a while. Organic farming is a very nice idea, but until the economics of farming get a drastic makeover, I don't think it is widely feasible.

Plus, I wonder if any of these kids' parents use chemicals on their lawn. While we’re all up in arms about caring for our planet perhaps people who think farmers are the only ones who need to change their ways, ought to take a look at their luscious, Technicolor-green grass… ? But that’s another soap box entirely. :)

Mulching, Sorting, Dipping

This weekend was one of the most spectacularly beautiful - ever. Mid-60s and sunny, it made me so happy to have useful, productive things to do outside.

But first, I had to check out the local karaoke scene on Friday night. Met the bar owner, the kind-hearted but sad old alcoholic, a truck driver who sang 'You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me Lucille,' and a couple of other characters I'm sure to run into again. To be honest, it wasn't anything close to the Red Balloon in KC, but since the Balloon is one in a million, that's to be expected. However, the beers were cold and cheap, the people were fun, and the book has a few gems in it that I can work with, so it's karaoke game on as far as I'm concerned!

Saturday, I took the truck and my dog and checked cattle. We had a missing bull at one farm. Mom and Dad hadn't seen him for a couple of days. This is typically cause for a bit of alarm, as the bull could have gotten out on a neighbor's farm and that's no fun. When that happens, you have to call your neighbors, get him in, fix the fence, it's a pain. However, Kip and I successfully located him, just chillin' under a tree by the creek. Good deal.

Next, Kip and I went to another of our farms where my Dad has had some bulldozer work done. There is a creek running through this farm, and the creek is so deep that it separated off a few acres where we couldn't get to it with a truck. Not ideal, because you want to be able to access your whole farm for various reasons. So, with all the dozer work, we put some grass seed down on it, and I worked most of the day Saturday spreading out hay on top of the seed. It'll probably take a couple more days of working to get it all covered, but I made a good dent in it. While I was working, I listened to my Cardinals drop yet another game to the Cubs. Boo, Redbirds.

Sunday was a busy day too, Mom and I worked on sorting some of the things in a recently-deceased family member's estate. I cannot fathom keeping some of the things this elderly family member kept. Newspapers from the 60s, calendars from the 80s, bank statements and ledgers from the 40s ... I am fairly certain the trash man never went to that house. But he's got his hands full now!

Sunday evening was a 'neighborhood' party. A neighboring family on one of our farms had a son they were going to baptize in the pond behind their house, then have a bonfire and dinner. I have to be honest. I didn't really want to go. I was totally exhausted from working outside all weekend, so it took some convincing, but I finally went. And had a wonderful time. People are just so different here. You walk in to a room of strangers, and walk out with a whole passel of new friends.

So, a jam-packed weekend of funning and farming and cattle and conversation and now, I am going to bed!

Death of a Legend

There was a story of a research parrot's death on MSN this morning. The parrot had learned to recognize 50 objects, colors, count ... the article said he was like a colleague to the research scientists who worked with him evey day. They were very, very blue over his passing.

The death of a dear 'friend,' reminded me of another sad death that occurred recently on Broken B. I think I've spent a couple of posts talking about how proud (and rightly so) my dad is of the genetics he's put together in our cattle herd. He contributes one decision, in particular, to a good amount of his success: about 10 years ago, he bought a bull that everyone told him not to buy. He was green (young), and all the old farmers said he wouldn't turn out to be anything special. But dad had done his homework on his lineage and pedigree, and thought otherwise. And he was right. That bull has thrown some of the most awesome calves I've ever seen (yeah, I'm gonna say it) in the tri-county area. He has a lot to do with how good our cattle herd is today.

A couple of weeks ago, we had several spectacular thunderstorms here. Rained like crazy, thunder crashing and lightning snaking across the sky. During storms like those, you can expect the lightning to occasionally strike trees, barns, or even animals. And during one of the big storms, the old bull that dad was so proud of was struck by lightning and killed.

It was a dark day at Broken B. He was given a proper burial, and we're even going to construct a grave marker for him. There probably won't ever be another one quite like him, on our farm at least. True, he couldn't count or speak like that parrot, and he didn't get his own story on MSN, but I'm pretty sure that parrot didn't have as many near-perfect progeny as he did. He will be sorely missed.

Hay is for ...

Yesterday I saw several HUGE truckloads of hay, heading south for the winter. I used to just think that all those farmers in the south were just crazy – why didn’t they just buy hay from their own area instead of paying all the trucking costs to get it from way up here? But after the drought we experienced a couple of years ago, I completely understand, and I feel terrible for them.

During the last drought in North Missouri, my parents (and every other producer in the area) were thinking they were going to either have to a) buy more land with ponds on it to put the cattle on – not the most frugal plan, being that land is around $1,300 an acre, or b) buy some hay to feed because the grass was all burned up and the cows didn’t have anything to eat – also not terribly frugal, being that big bales of hay are around $60 each, or c) sell some cows – not something that anyone, anywhere, anytime, wants to be forced to do, because at that time the market had tanked.

But my parents held out as long as they could, and it finally began to rain. There really isn’t any good that comes out of a drought, except that the farmers who have extra hay get to make a little extra money selling it to farmers who don’t have any. Believe it or not, it’s become such a trade that there are even hay brokers who are in charge of such things. They kind of stalk around the areas of the country where there’s an abundance of bales sitting out on the hills, and they make offers to the guys running the tractors in the field. And this year especially, I bet those brokers are making some serious bank off the poor guys down south who have nothing to feed their cattle this winter.

It’s always a gamble, isn’t it? Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down, but because you love it, you keep on playing the game.

Incredible Talent

Okay, so this has nothing to do with the farm, but it can't be ALL farm life ALL the time, now can it?!

I am consistently amazed by people who can create such beautiful works of art that have a powerful visual (and in this case technical as well) story to them. This is pretty incredible. Watch it if you have a sec ...

http://potw.news.yahoo.com/s/potw/23115/strokes-of-genius

Phase II

Phase II

Part of the deal I made with my parents when I moved to the area was that I would get myself a solid job with a good, steady paycheck. This aspect of my relocation has confused some people, I think. The question I usually get is: ‘But isn’t farming a full-time job?’ and FOR SURE, it most definitely is full-time, and then some. But. Farming is also inherently volatile. You can bust your ever-lovin’ arse 24/7 on a farm one year and just manage to break even. Then the next year, your luck, the markets, and the weather all align in sweet, sweet harmony, and you can make a little bank.

So, to use a word I’ve heard one or two times here of late, to ‘hedge’ my position, I got a day job. It’s a great job, and it’s working out pretty nicely so far. The only not-perfect thing about it is that to get any kind of salary, I had to go to a town about 30 miles away from the farm. I decided that the easiest thing to do would be to get an apartment in the bigger town and just commute to the farm on weekends.

Welcome to The Annex

The bigger town I mentioned is a decent-sized college town. And did I mention that I got my sweet job at exactly the same time that all the college kids were coming back to school? And did I mention that there are NO good places to live when school is in session?! Yeah. I drove around, called through the classified ads, drove around, called real estate companies, drove around … no luck at all. Was getting truly disheartened at the realization that I might have no other choice than to live with my parents. Made more phone calls through the classifieds.

Score – one apartment was actually available! I get directions to said abode, and take off in the general direction. Getting closer and closer to the location, I thought, ‘Wow, I didn’t know there were any apartments on this end of town.’ Then I arrive at the spot. Here’s my train of thoughts: “Um, this is an auto body shop. With a set of stairs going up the side to what is probably the apartment on the upper floor. NO WAY. I am not going to live with paint and cutting torch fumes.’ Then I proceeded to drive away without even looking at it. About two blocks away, I think, ‘Wait a minute. What ELSE have I got to look at right now?! What the hell.’ So I go back.

And IT IS AWESOME. The place is gigantic, the air filtration system is totally separate from the shop so I got NO fumes at all, the shop is only open from 8-5 M-F, I have no noisy neighbors, the landlords are SUPER-nice (They volunteered to help me if I ever have car trouble, they’re paying for a couple of extra utilities they don’t have to, and they even restore old cars. When I asked if they’d let me help them fix up Marge next year, they were stoked), it’s right next to a running trail, it’s fantastic. I signed a lease right then. It already has a name: Broken B East – The Annex.

Oh, and did I mention this college town has a sweet dive bar with Friday night karaoke? Don’t worry, when I go, you’ll hear about it.

The Fruit (Juice) of My Labor

This is IT. This IS IT. THIS IS IT! After spending approximately 18 hours in the scalding hot sun, picking roughly 3,287,423 (give or take a few) tomatoes, then 28 hours of cutting, cooking, stirring, pouring, smashing, boiling, heating up the jars, making sure the lids sealed correctly, FOUR QUARTS of tomato juice is all I ended up with.

Okay, maybe I exaggerated the work leading up to the four quarts just a little bit. But, it's my own fault. I was the one who convinced my mom to teach me how to can tomato juice - she just wanted to throw them all out, because she knew full well how much work would go into this endeavor. But, the upside is, now I know how to make tomato juice! And it's going to be the best tomato juice I've ever tasted before in my entire life.

And if it isn't, then I'll bet it'll make a mighty satisfying bloody mary. :)

Hunting ... sort of

It's funny, but one of the first questions people ask when I tell them I'm moving, is 'So, how's the dating scene in Tiny-Town?' Well, the way I look at it, it's like going shopping at a TJ Maxx or a Marshall's: you have to sort through a lot of things that just aren't you, but you can find some real gems there too.

I'm not gonna lie. There are NASCAR fans in the country. There are boys who would rather hang out with their hunting dog than people. There are dudes who wear pliers on their belts - always. Sometimes even to church. There are some dudes whose mission it is to get rip roaring hammered starting at exactly 5:00 PM every day. There are dudes whose daily vocabulary includes words like 'warsh' and 'sumbitch' and 'wild turkey'.

But. There are also guys who like to go have a beer and play poker. There are guys who play on summer softball leagues. Dudes who work hard and play hard and enjoy the hell outta life. They love to get their hands dirty and work on old muscle cars. Some guys put their heart and soul into building and improving their farms. And they're good guys to the core.

It's kind of funny, because those chicks in the cities whose first question after "You want to buy me a drink?" is "So, what do you drive?" would have it easy in the country. It's such a small community, everybody knows exactly what everybody else has. People like to talk about other people, and the conversation easily goes to, 'Did you see So-and-So's new truck?' or 'Joe Schmoe must've sold some cows, 'cause he's building a big new machine shed out behind his house.'

The other huge difference between dating in a small town and in KC, is that your parents probably know who you're going out with. And they know his parents, and his grandparents, and probably where he lives, too. Makes it tough to date a jackass, which is what I'm good at. So maybe this small town dating thing is a good thing ...

The Decision

Well, friends, many of you know this already, but I've still had some people asking. And yes, the polls have closed, the votes have been tallied, the hanging chads have been checked (Chad? Chad! Get down from there!), Florida's votes have been re-counted, and it has come down to a very close election. But, the votes are slightly more in favor of Broken B Farms.

It is definitely going to be a transition for me, but, one that I feel that I need to make. I know that a very small number of you will miss seeing me around and about in the city. But, on the bright side, the amusing and sometimes inane blog posts will keep on comin'. And, it's not like I'm moving to another country (Already did that once. Won't do it again.), so you can count on seeing me every once in a while. And of course, if you want to experience the Farms in living color, you only need ask. I'll show yo' citified selves around.

Thank you all for being so supportive.

Wait, this isn't Kansas

We are (still) haying. But, we're on the last 80 acres, so we're almost done! Hurrah! I was glad we were in the hayfield today, though, cause I saw the coolest thing.

As you go through a field, the grass types and thickness can be really varied. I was mowing this afternoon and on top of the hill the grass is just, well, puny. It's wispy and short, and was dried out and ready to bale about an hour after it was mowed. But, it's a good thing it's that thin. There was a very light breeze coming over the hills this afternoon, and as I got further into the field with the mower, I glanced around at the rest of the field and my eyes caught something moving through the hay on top of the hill.

The breeze, through the magic of air temperature and all things atmospheric, had created a mini tornado in the hayfield! It was moving along the ground, erratically, like a meandering drunk person, swirling the hay around. Every 10 feet it would pause for a second, grab the little wispy hay and spin it WAY up in the air (like as if it were saying, 'Hooray!'). Then it would continue on its staggering path, pause, and do it again. But, once it moved into the thicker hay, that was too heavy to jubilantly throw in the air like it had been doing. So I'm glad we have some disappointingly skinny grass on that hill. It was a wicked cool thing that I had never seen before.

Of course, I'm finding more and more that the weirdest things strike me as awesome ... clouds, cattle, dirt. Yeah, dirt. It's a long story. And one that I promise I'll only tell if I've sucked the life out of every other topic I can think of. :)

A kick to the head.

For the record, I did NOT kick anyone, but I wanted to. Badly.

I'm driving to KC this morning, my neurons firing at only a couple of degrees north of comatose. (thank you, coffee) I get all the way into the city without incident, until I get downtown. Where I saw one of the most blatant displays of duality in recent memory. A woman driving a Prius (saving the environment, you know). Which, while being just about the most hideous-looking vehicles on the planet, I otherwise am agnostic about. However. If you're going to be so concerned about the air, the environment, the very, very greenness of it all ... why, then, would you also be smoking an air-and-lung-polluting cancer stick? It's like ordering a Big Mac and a Diet Coke, perhaps. One cancels out the other? Jeezy creezy.

Horse sense.

When I was growing up and showing animals in 4-H and FFA, we had training on how to deal with animal rights activists if they approached us at county or state fairs. I was accosted one year at the Missouri State Fair, and words cannot even describe how surprised and hurt I was. People, who have absolutely. no. inkling. of who I am or how I treat my animals, in my face, telling me what a horrible person I am. Did they know I feed my animals a very precise nutritional diet twice a day, every single day? Did they know I trained them, worked with them, and brushed them every single day? Did they know I bathed my animals regularly? Did they know that I was showing that particular animal because I was proud of it? Why then, would I treat it badly? I invited them to help me take care of my animals for a couple of days and show me how they think I should be treating them. They (surprise!) declined.

So now, I hear this news. There are no more horse slaughter plants in the United States. I have mixed feelings about this information. On the one hand, horses are beautiful, useful creatures and it makes me sad thinking about them being killed for meat. But on the other hand, when horses get old, what else can a person do with them? I know a lot of farmers who use horses to work with their cattle. The horses end up being a family pet, and the farmers get really attached to them. But they also have to look at their horses from a practical point of view: when the horse gets old and can't help them on the farm anymore, you have to do something with it. You can't just keep it around, because you probably need the money to buy a new horse. So you sell it to a packer. It's sad, but it's a fact of life. I also can't help but think, if a horse can be useful, isn't it better to use it than have it just die on your farm and not be useful to anyone?

But, no matter what my opinion is of it, here again, animal rights groups have gotten into something they should have thought more about. Now, because the groups have spent a lot of time and energy literally attacking horse slaughter plants, there aren't any more in the U.S. The interesting twist to this is that now horses are being sent to slaughter plants in Mexico.

Mexico, where they have absolutely no regulations on treating animals humanely. Nice going, rights groups.

Who needs a business card?

Advertising is kind of like farming. Once you get into it, it's in your blood. You notice things that other 'normal' people probably don't notice - not because you want to, necessarily, but because you just can't flippin' help it.

So this weekend, I was thinking. I do that sometimes. In advertising, our ultimate goal, our perfect world, our coup de grace, our 'I rule the world' scenario, is to have customers tattoo our client's name on their forehead. And, in a sense, businesses who sell to rural Americans have figured out how to do this.

My dad recently went into a mechanic shop in town. He was looking for the proprietor, but found another young man sitting at the front desk. This is how the conversation went.

Dad: Hi there. Is Aaron around?
Front Desk Dude: Nope.
Dad: Oh. Do you expect him back sometime today?
FDD: Yeah.
Dad: Do you know when he'll be in?
FDD: No.
Dad: Um, okay. (laughing) You sure aren't very talkative, are ya?
FDD: (laughs) Nope.
Dad: Well, can you tell me the phone number here so I can try and call Aaron later today?

And the guy at the front desk, not knowing the phone number for his workplace off the top of his head, starts rifling around the desktop. Not finding any shop stationery or anything with the phone number on it, he reaches down, opens a desk drawer ... and pulls out a trucker-style baseball cap. Which, of course, has all the shop's info on it. Address, phone number, the works.

And my dad wears that cap all the time now. As close as an advertiser could ever dream of to having my dad tattoo something on his forehead.

I have a problem.

My name is Laura, and I think I'm a farm snob.

Yes, it's true. I am fiercely proud of the fact that I grew up on a farm. I've noticed it more and more over the last couple of years, and it doesn't show signs of diminishing. I think it may be akin to the sense of connection and pride that people from different ethic backgrounds feel. Farmers are a minority in the United States, and yet are vital to its economy. I'm proud of that almost to the point of being arrogant.

On a personal level, it amazes me that when my parents came back from my dad's stint in the Air Force, they bought 13 cows and had to purchase the 100-year-old farmhouse and the home acreage from my granddad. They didn't inherit a thing. They had both graduated from university, my dad started practicing with a local vet, and my mom taught school. Mom was from a city, and had never even seen anything born! From that small beginning, they have scratched and scraped, and put together an enviable herd of cattle (Yep, I've heard the talk around town. It's true.), a solid set of farm implements and equipment, and an incredible amount of land.

And what burns me to my very innards, is that some people still feel justified in thinking farmers aren't very smart. They just imagine that that Grade A Black Angus steak on their plate just happened by accident. Or, even more disappointingly, they don't think about where it came from or what had to go into it at all. What I wish they could realize is the sheer volume of not just peripheral, but expert-level knowledge, that a farmer has to have to be successful. Speaking just from my experience (I can't even begin to guess at what other specialties a crop farmer has), 'just' being in the cow/calf, hog and sheep businesses, these subjects are in my family's realm of expertise:

- genetics and breeding
- commodity markets
- animal nutrition, health and pharmacology
- diesel (and other) mechanics
- veterinary (dad) and vet tech (the rest of the fam)
- construction, plumbing, electrical, welding
- business and accounting
- asset and money management
- governmental bills, programs, applications and deadlines
- and a million other things I'm forgetting right now.

Just because farmers are one of the smallest minority groups in the United States, doesn't mean they're a lesser group. Just because farmers may talk a little slow, doesn't mean they're gray-cell deficient. Just because farmers drive old trucks and wear jeans with holes in them, doesn't mean they don't have the means to buy new ones. Operating a successful farm takes ambition, sweat, muscle, a high pain threshold, smarts, talent, a sense of humor, courage, gumption ... and pride. If you don't have these things, you won't be farming for long.

In thinking about it though, I guess I can live with the less-than-brilliant reputation. It's all worth it when I hear of someone buying a cured ham for $80 when I know you can almost buy an entire pig for that much. It's all worth it when I hear of someone paying $200 for a steak dinner when I know you can almost buy a quarter of a beef for that.

And it's the farmer who's not very smart? :)

Simple, yes. Easy, no.

Had my 'Tuesdays with Meers' today. Which means dragging my carcass out of bed long before the cowboy-favorite first light, tapping a vein to administer caffeine therapy, and hauling myself down the two hour road to the City.

On the way there this morning, I was driving through a small town (aren't they all?) called Jamesport. This particular town is unique in that it has a large population of Amish people, who have turned it into as much of a tourist attraction as is possible, really, for this area. You can go to Jamesport and get beautifully hand-crafted furniture, homemade canned and baked goodies, jams and jellies and spices and baskets and plants and all kinds of wonderful stuff. The skill and artistry that goes into these things - without the use of technology - is incredible.

I have the utmost respect for the Amish, especially the womenfolk. They cook without microwaves, sew without electricity, clean their houses without vacuums, raise passels of children without Clorox Antibacterial Wipes, cultivate beautiful gardens without Miracle Grow ... Their resilience amazes me. I know it's not just a way of life for them, it's also their religion. But I can't possibly fathom how hard it must be for them to KNOW there's an easier way and still choose to reject it. To be around people who use modern tools and technology, to even see those things in action, and yet choose the more difficult lifestyle.

Honestly, before I drove through Jamesport just this morning, I hadn't thought about this much. But can you imagine what the conversations must sound like with their kids as they grow up? 'Hey dad, how come we don't drive cars?' 'Hey mom, what's mascara for?' 'These chores sure would go a lot faster if we had a tractor like Billy does.'

Sometimes I think it would be heaven to just chuck everything that 'makes your life easier' into a big dumpster. Enjoy total simplicity. In my mind, it's a beautiful, uncluttered thought. Then I get an email from a friend and I use my credit card to buy a tank of gas for my car and I make a 500-mile road trip to go see her. And then I have to admit that the Amish lifestyle is something that I can truly appreciate and respect, but not so much so that I'm going to go enlist.

You can take the girl out of the city ...

But when you put her back there, she's probably gonna bring some of her redneck toys for the kids to play with. :) Before Independence Day I couldn't resist buying some fireworks. It took a little time and convincing, but we had some pretty sweet tank wars in the parking lot today. And there may have been some Roman soldiers and ninjas involved in the mayhem as well.

Laura McTwo-Tone

Most people have a pretty distinct idea of what a farmer's tan is, right? When a farmer takes off his white t-shirt, it looks like he's still wearing it. But I've developed the girl version of the farmer's tan. Let's call it the Farmess Tan. In order to accomplish this tan, you must wear a sport bra or tank top, jeans, and boots outside in the sunshine - every day. You'll get the world's most Swedish Beautyesque glow on the top half of your fuselage. However, the bottom half ... resembles more of the glow of the moon. With, of course, a few strategically-placed skeeter bites on it.

Surf and Turf

MSNBC featured a story today about fish prices (I know, riveting, right?). But, believe it or not, I think it's relevant. What's happening is middle-class Chinese people are becoming more affluent and are able to afford food they haven't been able to buy before. Including fish. So, with this growing demand, of course, prices go up. Wild fish, lobster, etc. are getting more and more expensive.

So, what does this have to do with anything? Well, when you think about it, on the one hand it makes me sad, because the only way I'll be able to afford a lobster dinner at a restaurant now is if I either a) work there, or b) am on a date. But, it's also a good thing, because with lobster and fish getting expensive, when folks go out for a nice dinner, they'll more often choose STEAK. And that warms the cockles.

The Price of Tea in China

By now, we are all acutely aware of the infallible nature of the Chinese version of the FDA. It amazes me that with all their technological and scientific advances, they still consider themselves a 'developing country'. Since the ex-Chinese FDA minister was executed, the events in China have fascinated me. They have had so many episodes of product recalls because of deadly chemicals, poor quality, etc. in their exports, and yet they can still say - with a straight face, and even sounding like they believe themselves - that the rest of the world shouldn't be skeptical of the entire country's exports just because of one company's mistakes. One company?? WHICH ONE??

At any rate, that's not my point. What concerns me, is China's backlash. In their minds, they truly don't believe they've done anything wrong. They believe that they're being unfairly punished when our FSIS officials either hold their products in customs to fully inspect them, or deny them clearance to the States because they don't meet our standards. So how does China retaliate? Instead of taking the criticism and doing something positive about it - like setting standards and working to meet them before they try to shove their sadly below par products onto us - they ban products from the United States from being imported into their country.

And oddly enough, besides being insanely irked at their asinine behavior, this has me slightly worried, because this stuff always rolls down hill. And here's the hill that's being built: China imports a lot of American beef. China starts being stubborn and boycotting American beef (and other food products, to be fair). The States are stuck with more cattle than they had planned. Because there's an abundance of it in the country, prices go down. Cattle farmers get less money for their product.

And if you have cattle that you need to sell, with corn prices being so high (although, with the MASSIVE crop that's expected this year, prices are still high, but have leveled for now), you're not going to keep the cattle on your farm and continue feeding them. You're just going to take it on the chin and hope you make more than break-even. Remember the phrase, 'what does that have to do with the price of tea in China?' In this business? A lot.

Do ad people need a Big Brother?

It’s true - besides farming, I have an incurable interest in advertising. Can't help it, it's a disease, but one that I gladly foster. :)

Recently, I started thinking about my role as a societal influencer. Granted, I do not do any work for any ginormous (it's a word! In the dictionary!) companies like P&G or Johnson & Johnson. But, as small as my part is, there are others who have a scary amount of influence. And I thought about how interesting it is to me that our role as advertisers puts us in a position of fairly substantial societal influence, and yet we aren’t required to carry any sort of professional license to do so. Just thinking about some of the characters I know in this business – even limiting it to Kansas City folk – wielding the power of media to influence the masses scares the livin’ bejeezus out of me. (Pinky, are you pondering what I’m pondering?)

So, other than our Creative Directors, to whom are we specifically responsible? Sure, we have governing entities like the FTC and AAAA to make sure we’re following the hard and fast laws of advertising (they’re really more like guidelines, anyway, right?). But who’s keeping the books on our ethical responsibilities? Who’s making sure ‘Their ads made me do it’ isn’t going to be the next line of defense some serial killer uses in court? In truth, we all know of some ads that just make us want to die. But I’m not talking about ads that are merely craptastic. Those are easily dismissed. I’m talking about ads that make you think, ‘help’ you create an opinion about yourself, and practically force you to act on that opinion.

Wait, isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing? Isn’t that the very definition of a good ad? That’s exactly my point. Remember back in the day when kids were killing each other for their Air Jordan Nikes? How did that get started? I don’t know for certain, but if I had to guess, it would have something to do with the way they portrayed those shoes and that brand to the public. Granted, having people literally killing for your product is horrifying, but it’s also awfully high praise, don’t you think? Having brought up the Air Jordan scenario, some of you are thinking, ‘Wow, I can’t imagine what it would be like to have people dying for my product, or the product I advertise … But I bet it would be good publicity.’ How do I know that’s what’s going through some of your heads? Because I thought it too. And neither you nor I are required to have a license to influence society. But I promise I’ll use my powers only for good (the good of my clients, that is). Isn’t that enough?

Fair 'n Cowboys

This past week was the Sullivan County Fair. When I was in 4-H and FFA back in the day, at one time or another I showed horses, hogs, cattle, and sheep (blech - only when my sister forced me into it); and I had sewing, entomology, cooking, and welding projects on display for judging. It was always a BIG deal, but the most fun was always the night we (my sister and I) had our cattle in the barns and had to stay overnight and 'watch' them. Ha. Yeah, 'watch' is a loose term, here. When we were in high school, our curfew was always 10:30. Always. So this was the one night every year we were able to party like underage rock stars. We never wasted that one night, for sure. And the 4-H gods must've been smiling on us all that time, 'cause we never got nabbed for the stuff she and I and our friends pulled. So, since I don't know what the statute of limitations is on shenanigans, no details will be given in writing here.

Needless to say, after aging out (yeah, that always makes you feel good, doesn't it?!) of 4-H and FFA, being at the fair these days isn't quite the hootenanny it was then. *sniff* But, it is fun to walk through the cattle barn knowing just exactly what those kiddies are going to be up to later that evening. Heh, heh. Sinners.

They always have some evening entertainment things at the fair, and this year one of the new things they brought in was a mounted shooting competition. Basically, it's a more complicated form of barrel racing, with costumes and pistols included. They ride horses as fast as they can around a series of about 15 barrels and cones with balloons on top, shooting pistols at the balloons. Whee-haw, GUN SLINGING!! I hadn't ever seen it before, so I thought I'd go check it out before I hit the 'club'. After standing and watching for a couple of minutes, talking to one of my parents' friends about what I think of our new tractor (stay tuned for that report - it has its highs and lows), I went over and asked one of the cowboys about their guns and ammo. (Come on, you're not surprised.) I wanted to find out how they could zip around the ring, guns blazing, popping balloons, and not have any kind of safety issues with spectators. They mostly use 45s and shoot blank shells, and it still pops the balloons from the heat of the powder hitting them. So now, the next time you're in a conversation about cowboy shooting competitions, you'll be able to throw that little gem of knowledge out there. It's alright, you don't have to thank me.

When You Gotta Go

As a girl growing up, it was typical that I would find myself working outside for long periods of time. As you know, busting your hump outside in the summertime is thirsty work. But all too often, we'd be far, far from the niceties of indoor plumbing. Now, for a dude, this provides absolutely no problems at all. In fact, many of the guys I know find a sort of macho pleasure in relieving themselves outdoors. I was in a conversation just last weekend, no lie, where a grown man told me that it was a shame someone was building a house down the road from his. Now, he said, he'd have to quit peeing outside when he was out working in the shop. Because, you know, the shop is so far from the house (he must not be aware of the proper definition of 'far', as his shop is 50 feet from his house. But anyway ...)

Maybe it's a Cro-Magnon thing, maybe it just comes with the Y chromosome. Wherever its origins are, it is definitely not a part that's included in a woman's assembly. So when a chick is out on the back 40 and she didn't bring her Port-a-John with her, she's got no other choice than to cop a squat.

It's not easy. In all honesty, it's damned precarious. In teaching some of my girlfriends how (yes, I have done this. Camping trips, emergency road trip situations, etc. sometimes call for a crash course in outdoor trow-dropping.) I have discovered that it is actually something that requires some skill - balance, logistics, bravery, and a keen eye for poison ivy. To save the faint-of-heart, I will not go into details here, but suffice it to say that it is a very delicate maneuver, and not one to be attempted for the first time while one is, let’s say, schnockered. (giggle. Oh, the stories I could tell there, but use your imagination. It does not end up in a very pretty place.)

And if it’s this tough for chicks to do now, just think of what it was like for pioneering women who trekked out here in woolen skirts back in the day? Now THAT must’ve taken talent. I know how I feel after spending just one day out in the hayfield – I can only imagine the bliss they felt when they used their first indoor water closet. But, I hope they know their traditions didn’t get completely flushed down the toilet.

Sunset

The pure (accidental?) artistry that goes into these things never fails to astound me. We had some fabulous thunderstorms here today, the clouds were unbelieveably amazing. And I celebrated the ending of the day with a giant ribeye steak, a glass of red wine, and this view from the back picture window of the farmhouse.

Thank you, and good night.

Small town Saturday night

In the city, I've sometimes been known to go to a bar by myself. I usually don't have any problem sitting solo at the bar, having a drink. But going out in a small town is a difficult thing to do by yourself. Even me, who grew up here, it's a tough thing. My reason is probably silly, but it's that first time you walk in the door. The natives instantly sense a stranger in their territory, there's a malfunction in the natural order of their evening. Record scratch, bar falls silent, everyone turns to look at you. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating (but not MUCH!), but I've always felt really self-conscious. So, my little bro came in town last night, and we went out on the small town. :) Warning: This blog posting is rated PG-13, for singing, explosives, stalking, and some lewd language.

First stop, a bar about 15 miles away that we had heard had karaoke on Saturday nights. The town where this bar is located has about 300 people. And, when I asked my brother (we all call him Boo) about the quality of the song book, Boo told me he didn't think there was going to be much selection, as it was just one of those party karaoke machines. So, as you might expect, I had very low expectations. BUT! When we get there, 'everyone' (by this, I mean 'all 15 people') is out in the beer garden outside the bar. Boo and I hook it up with a couple of cans of $2 beer, from a bartendress who needs a good bra like drag queens need Nair. Holy cantaloupes, honey, HIKE 'EM UP! We're there for about 10 minutes, when the karaoke guy starts setting up - outside! With stuff that's very similar to what my dear Clarette has, only the book is much, much, much less exciting, sadly. But, I mustered up some gumption and busted out some Pat Benetar's We Belong. This is not the best part. As I get to the chorus, about halfway through, "We belong to the night, we belong to the thu-u-under!"

Fireworks. Literally.

No lie, someone who lives about two blocks away from the bar started shooting off big, cascading fireworks JUST as I got to 'the thunder'!! When I walked off the stage, I feel incredibly confident that a) I rocked the bejeezus outta that song, and b) it was probably one of the most amazing karaoke experiences of my life. (photographic evidence is forthcoming)

THEN, Boo and I decided that we were gonna end on a high note and head to a bar in Milan. Another round of $2 beers (this time in bottles, Boo was drinking Busch light. In a bottle.), and I run into my cousin (who has always reminded me of Alan Jackson) and one of his drinkin' buddies. In the course of the evening, the conversations we had included topics like drinking, motorcycles, bulldozer and construction work, the dude who shaved his head and got a mohawk just to spite his wife, the crazy drunk chick hitting on a married guy, a cheers to 7/7/07 ... and the young'un who was stalking me around the bar. Bless his heart, he was very sweet ...

I'm standing there talking to my cousin (Marty) and his friend (Steve) and this tall, skinny, hammered dude comes up and starts complimenting me. I always try to be gracious, so I said I liked his hat, which was a Cardinals baseball cap. Which only seems to light his fire even more, to the point of my uber-embarrassment. My cousin, seeing my dismay, turns to the dude and says, 'Listen. F@ck off. If she wants to talk to you, she'll come and find you.' And even though Marty isn't the biggest dude, when he starts preachin' the law, most people feel inclined to be a believer. So, this guy left. But for the rest of the evening, he was never far away, and every time Marty'd go to get another beer, dude would sidle up to him and say, 'Hey, I'm just waiting for you to tell me it's okay to talk to her.' Marty's responses - each different and every bit as colorful as the first, as you can surely imagine.

Ah, it was a good evening. And now that I've been re-introduced into the local scene - although not completely reinstated yet - I will most definitely be doing it again, whether my brother's with me or not.

The only problem with nights like this: the 5:30 alarm clock to go work cattle. Which is very close to the textbook definition of misery. Somebody get me an ibuprofen and a bloody Mary.

Chaaarrrlieeee!

It's a magical leopleuridon! HA!

So,

who wants a high five?! No? Maybe a handshake?

In the news ...

Small towns are hotbeds for gossip: it can't be helped. It's human nature to want to know what's going on with people, and with such a small population around here, you're going to hear some gossip. However, where you find that gossip might surprise some folks ... because it's in the local paper.

There are several even teenier towns that surround my home town of Milan (prounounced MY-lun. It's true. Just go with it.), population 1,600ish. So, when Milan's main newspaper comes out every week, these little towns each have their own column, which is written and submitted by someone in their town. The column, however, for most of these towns, consists of who in the town had relatives over to their house for a birthday party (including what sort of cake and ice cream they had), or who went to someone else's house to go fishing (complete with a report on what type and how many fish were caught, and whether or not they were immediately fried and eaten for dinner). You get the drift. I'm not sure I can really consider it the opposite of big city newspapers, so much as an entirely different view of what's going on in the immediate world around us and what's important. Admittedly, it may be a bit silly and nosy parker, but it's also a good source for conversation topics when you run into those people!!

And just for fun, here are a few more of the headlines in the good old Milan Standard this week. (Note the front page pic ... the two photographs on the left hand side are: Top, a mail carrier is retiring, and Bottom: a stink bomb was found attached to a realty sign in someone's yard. No kidding, bomb squads were called. Hey, you never know, us country folk can be pretty clever with that sort of stuff!)

Milan City Council has a Light Agenda at June 18th Meeting
Helms Family Reunion Held
Country Club Bridge Group Hosts Luncheon
Red Hatters Celebrate 1st Anniversary
Marriage Licenses
Sullivan County Circuit Court Proceedings (this one was fun growing up. You could NEVER get away with a speeding ticket without your parents seeing it when it came through the paper!)

Add in some board meetings, ag news, birth, death and marriage announcements, and a couple of ads here and there, and that's the gossip ... uh, I mean news ... from Milan.

The Problem with Phoebe

We have a big porch on the front of the farmhouse, as, in my opinion, all farmhouses should. You can see out onto the front acreage, and it's a beautiful place to sit and watch the sunrise. The only problem with it is that birds like the view as well. In the past, barn swallows have been the main residents of the porch rafters. (Barn swallows - you know, the ones that dive at your head like feathered fighter jets when you walk into their territory. It's terrifying, really.) But, last year, my dad decided to get crafty and nailed a rubber snake (see pic of this very intimidating snake) very strategically in the area where the swallows usually build their summer homes.

And it worked!

Until now.

Dad is waging war against a new winged foe now: a Phoebe. She makes this sound like someone is whistling at you: hey YOU! Or, as one of my bird nerd friends pointed out, she also kinda sounds like R2-D2. She's kinda small and looks totally harmless to me. But she's proven to be insistent, determined ... and ridiculously brave for such a little bird. For, not only does she seem to be completely impervious to the rubber snake, but she also seems to be making fun of my dad's tactic. 'Cause she's building her nest ...

on the snake.

The Education of Kip

So I'm trying to train one of our border collies, named Kip. She's about two years old, but no one's had the time (or patience, really) to train her. Kip's mom, Sidney, we trained a long time ago, so it's way easier and faster to just get Sid to bring the cattle in or go get the sheep, rather than have to take the extra time to really work with the new kid. Black-and-whites are dogs that naturally like to be useful, which in their minds means gathering things. I've seen them herd pigs, ducks, even children! Kip has that instinct, and you can just see it in her eyes when she tries to help with the animals, she wants sooooo badly to be useful. So, even though dog training isn't on my current resume of abilities, I thought I'd see if I couldn't teach her a thing or two about how to correctly gather stuff.

First, I noticed that when we were going to the field, she would get so eager to help that she would run ahead of you in anticipation of what's next. That's not good. When she did that, if the animals were standing right next to the gate, they'd RUN! So we had to fix that. I got a leash and we started walking. And we walked. And walked. After about three times of that, Kip knows how to 'heel'. Hooray! Gold star for Kip.

Next, we needed to work on a group of commands that we use with Sidney to drive animals out or bring animals into a pen. They're the same basic commands for both, but the concepts of driving and bringing are difficult to grasp. You're asking the dog to first gather the animals into a group, then move them all at the same time. We use commands like: bring 'em, take 'em out, move up, go back, and easy. It's a lot for a new kid to take in, but bless her heart, she's getting it. In the last couple of weeks, there have been several animals doing a lot of running, while Kip just chases after them, not sure of what she's supposed to be doing with them.

Besides being infuriating because the dog isn't comprehending the commands you're trying to use, animals running around willy-nilly isn't good. They can run through fences, which is BAD. They can die from heat exhaustion, which is EVEN WORSE. But, the fences have held, and the weather has been gorgeous. (Once again, the weather is an important factor. You just never get away from it on the farm!)

Last night, though, when we brought the sheep in, the only command I had to give to her was 'Bring 'em'. She knew exactly what she needed to do and how to do it, and she did it - it was awesome!! When I gave her a treat and some lovin' and told her good job, her eyes were dancing like a little kid who just learned how to ride a bike. It was so cool.

Leave a message at the beep ...

Here on the farm, my Sprint service is roaming, so I keep my phone off most of the time. Usually when someone wants to get hold of me, they'll leave me a message so I can call them back on the farm phone when I can. And occasionally I get some real audio gems left for me, as was the case from one of my (unnamed here, to protect the, uh, guilty) friends on Saturday night. Transcribed here for your enjoyment.
------
Hey! It's (Name withheld, but you know who you are!). I ... am … over at (SOMEBODY'S HOUSE) and we’re drunk off our ass. Say hello. Okay, okay, we’re drunk. I just wanted to call and show the love and, um, find out how your days as a milkmaid are going. And ... we love you and (NAME) wants to come visit you on the farm, on the dairy farm, cause you’re a farmer in the dell. And so, if you'll call us we’ll make a road trip to come and see you. So ... that ... you feel like one with the universe. Plus, I’m not afraid of cows, I’m only afraid of horses. And you don’t have horses, you have cows. So call me! (In the background: Hey, maybe she does have horses.) Oh sh@#, do you have horses? F#@* that sh@#.
-------

Giggle. And I'm not even a dairy farmer. I love my friends.

Broken B Firsts

I have discovered that even when a farm has been around for more than a hundred years, there are still occasions for 'firsts'.

- After farming for his entire life, my dad got his first brand new tractor this spring. The pride of accomplishment on his face when they delivered it was enough to make me cry ... and then make him pose for a couple of pictures. :)

- After driving the tractor through its first 30 hours or so in the hayfield with a mower attached, dad finally had to give up the reins to me last night. And I didn't shut the tractor down until after midnight. That's never happened on our farm before. (Maybe because we've never had a tractor with this many lights on it before!) Although I'm sure Patsy never imagined her song would be altered quite like this, I had occasion to entertain myself by singing a rousing rendition of 'I go out mowin' ... after midnight ... out in the moonlight ... just hopin' you may be ... somewhere out mowin' ... after midnight ... searchin' for meeee ... '

- I'm pretty sure no one's ever sung that on our farm before either. But you never know, I guess!

Rainin'

It’s funny how rain affects life on the farm. Most days, when the sun is shining, there are enough things to keep you busy outside from sunup to sundown. But when it rains, it prioritizes things in a hurry – only the most important things get done. And especially during hay season, a farmer always keeps one eye on the job he’s doing, and one eye on the skies. Haying isn’t necessarily a difficult thing to do, especially if you’re baling the big round bales and not small square bales. Haying is, however, a fairly labor-intensive, weather-dependent summer sport. First, you go through the field with a tractor that has a mower (we have a disc mower) attached to it. Then you let that cut grass lay in the sun and dry out for a day or so. You go through it with another tractor with a rake attachment, then, that gathers all the cut grass into rows. Last, with (surprise!) another tractor, this time with a baler attached, you drive down those ‘windrows’ of hay and the baler sucks it up, rolls it up, ties it up, and spits out a nice big hay bale. Then when all the haying is done, you gather all the bales into a barn, or a hay pen in a field, line them up and fence them off, and you use it to feed your livestock in the winter. Voila!

I don’t know if all farmers are this way, but my dad feels about his field grass like a lot of suburban men feel about their lawns: almost unreasonably particular. If dad has some hay cut that’s waiting to be baled, and it gets rained on, the man is not at all pleased. In his defense, the hay quality isn’t as good if it gets rained on, and he likes to do things ‘right’. So, yesterday the horizon started to get black, we had some hay down, and it threw our haying operation into frenzy mode. Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines! Fire up the tractors, race around the field with the implements, and get the hay baled as quickly as possible. Go, go, go! Done!

The rains came down, and leisure ensued. Napping, sitting on the porch, and general laziness for all. We did the chores, worked with the border collie Kip (more about Kip later, I promise, 'cause she cool), then I went for a run in the rain. Except for that stupid semi that pelted me with water while I was running … jerk … it was an awesome day.

Don't forget to look both ways ...

At a sunset. Tonight, I saw the most breathtaking sunset I can ever remember seeing. And the most awesome thing about it was that it took up The. Entire. Sky. All of it. At the same time the sun was blowing up the clouds on the western horizon, the thunderheads in the southeast were catching some of the action as well. Everywhere I looked it was literally a dizzying, giant color explosion. It was like the guy who runs the sun was retiring and this was his last day on the job. Wow, man. Nice work.

Rural Driving Wave

When I was growing up in rural North Missouri, it was pretty standard procedure to drive with one hand on the top of the steering wheel when you were on the highway, so you could ‘wave’ at oncoming drivers. It didn’t matter whether you knew them or not, you ‘waved’ at everyone. Now, when I say ‘wave’, this was no full-on, whole hand, beauty queen-style wave. No, there was a very particular way to do it, and if you didn’t execute it correctly, people could tell you were from out of town (and nobody wants people to think that). There were many things to know about this wave, none of which was, or has ever been, outlined in official guidelines, to my knowledge. However, in the event that you ever find yourself driving through a rural environ, I’d like to provide you with a few of the finer points of the Rural Driving Wave.

First, you need to initiate the wave when you’re at just the right distance from the other driver, to give them enough time to see your wave and respond in kind. This precaution in taken because there are some people who only wave back – those are usually people who don’t have much initiative, in waving, and just in general. Second thing to be aware of is that you need two kinds of waves – one for people you know, and one for people you don’t know. When you wave at people you know, that’s the easy one: wrist on the steering wheel, with five fingers extended. Note: until you are experienced in this procedure, it is best not to actually move your hand in a waving motion. The proper rural waving motion has its own set of guidelines and should only be attempted by people who have years of practice. Now, the wave you give to people you don’t know is totally different and more difficult, because you can say a lot of things with this wave: Hi there fellow rural dweller, I don’t know who you are but I’d probably stop to help you if I saw your car broken down on the side of the road, I’m a cool/nice/bad-ass/fun/redneck/old/cranky/etc. person, I appreciate your awesome car … a wave is almost worth a thousand words. These types of waves are tough to pick up, because it’s almost like you’re speaking a new language. But to learn any language you need the basic ‘vocabulary’. So here is where I recommend you start. The heel of your hand, your thumb, and your pinky finger need to remain on the steering wheel for most beginner-style waves, allowing your other three fingers a range of motion. When the oncoming car is about 20 yards away, raise your index finger as far as it will comfortably go, then let your middle finger and ring finger naturally follow. It’s a skill, for sure, so don’t worry if you don’t get it just right the first few times you try.

I should probably warn you, though, that if you’re not driving a truck and wearing a baseball cap, the chances of folks waving back are slim. The Rural Driving Wave has seen a slump in its usage in recent years, so you could call it a dying art. But, I tell you, when you pass someone on the road who does wave back, you’ll feel like you just made a new friend. But, sometimes all it takes is a simple action to get a positive reaction and make someone’s day. Try it next time you’re in the country, I’m certain you’ll like it.

The Deal

It's been on my mind for ... I have no idea how long. Probably at least a year. What's going to happen to the family farm when my parents can't do it anymore? My brother, the heir apparent, decided to abdicate to drive trains. My sister has gotten entrenched into her life, to the point it would be nearly impossible to leave.

And then there's me. Growing up, I was always outside on our farm. I loved it - and still do - with every fiber of my being. I put a lot of years into this operation. And admittedly, I've also put a lot of years between myself and the day-to-day here. But no matter how daunting it may be to think of relearning it all, I can't even begin to describe how my soul would wither if I didn't have this place.

And yet, on the other hand, I have built an awfully nice little life for myself in the city, too. A life that I'm proud of, and pleased with where it could take me.

Knowing this, the opportunity has been given to me to take 30 days to reconnect with Broken B Farms and do some thinkin'. So that's what I'm doing. And I'm going to take this opportunity to share some of the small town farm life stories, scenery and daily goings-on here.