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.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
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? :)
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? :)
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
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.
Friday, July 20, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
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?
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?
Sunday, July 15, 2007
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.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 9, 2007
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.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Friday, July 6, 2007
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.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
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.
Monday, July 2, 2007
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.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
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.
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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@#.
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Giggle. And I'm not even a dairy farmer. I love my friends.
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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@#.
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Giggle. And I'm not even a dairy farmer. I love my friends.
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