Sad Sack

Bored? Lonely? Depressed? Call it what you will, it drove me outdoors today ... to my garden, although I use the term very loosely.

Yes, this is my iris bed. I weeded about half of it early this spring and hadn't touched it since, except to cut some lovely irises. I don't enjoy gardening. Can you tell?

God sent a spider. It wasn't actually in the garden, or that would have been the end of my gardening exploits for the day.

Was he bored? Lonely? Depressed? He didn't hang around very long, and I was okay with that.

It took all afternoon, but I got the little garden weeded. You can see the pile of weeds on the black plastic - way more weeds than irises in the garden. However, the irises will live; the weeds were dragged to the corner of the woods where they will rot or root or do whatever else weeds do.

The benefits? It felt good to do some physical labor. The garden spot sighed in contentment. I talked to all the weird bugs I saw, including that crabby spider. I now had something to blog about. And, tomorrow is another day. Yay!

~*~ ReWrite ~*~

I'm in the rewrite/edit mode of my book. I began the book with an Introduction, the first line being, "I married a dairy farmer when I was 53 years old." It seemed like the opening of the book needed a little more punch, so I have combined the Intro and some of the original first chapter. Instead of an Introduction, the book will begin with a chapter called "Welcome to the Farm."

If you haven't read any of my book, or if you need a refresher, you can read the first draft intro and chapters here to compare. I REALLY would love some feedback on this. Do you prefer the original or the new version? If I keep the new version, there won't be an introduction and I will have more rewriting to do on the "Cows Are Out" and "Welcome to the Farm" chapters. Are you totally confused? Please read my newly revised first chapter below ... and leave some comments!

Welcome to the Farm

“‘You are my wife.’
‘Good bye, city life.’
Green Acres we are there.”
-Vic Mizzy

“Oh, crap! The cows are out!” With that, Weldon pushed away from the breakfast table and was up and out the door.

Wait! My Cheerios will get soggy! But, what’s a new wife to do? I slipped into some shoes and hurried after him to see what all the fuss was about. Sure enough, black and white cows were kicking up dust in the road, a few were lazily munching on grass beside the tractor shed, and others stood in front of the hay barn, looking as though they might climb in for a tasty morning snack.

Weldon had circled down the road and was herding the frolicking cows back toward the barnyard and, from the other direction, I noticed his mom and sister jogging up the road toward us. They live here on the farm and always keep an eye out their kitchen window, just as Weldon does. I guess it’s a farm thing. His sister Pat called to Weldon, “Where do you want the cows to go?”

“Right over there by the big silo,” he yelled, pointing. “I guess I left the gate open after feeding them this morning.”

With that, Pat and Mom Edith opened their arms and shooshed the cows away from the hay barn, toward the open gate. Weldon told me to round up the hooligans hiding on the back side of the tractor shed. “Spread out your arms and make yourself real big! Don’t use your cute little kitty cat voice. Sound mean! Chase them towards the silo, but don’t let them hurt you!”

Don’t let them hurt me? They might hurt me? What in the world had I gotten myself into! But, what’s a new wife to do? Coming up behind them, I spread out my arms as wide as I could and flailed frantically. It seems I scared the crap out of two of them. Plop! Splat!

“Eeuuuww. They’re crapping on me!” That did it! With the deepest, gruffest voice I could summon, I bellowed out, “Okay, that’s enough. I’m serious, you guys. Get back where you belong!”

They kicked up their heels, sending clods of earth flying, and hurriedly joined their cohorts in a mad rush to get through the gate. When they were all back in, Weldon securely fastened the gate behind them, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

“Welcome to the farm,” Pat called out, a big smile on her face.

They went home, we went home, and, yes, my Cheerios were soggy.

Thus ended my first up-close and personal experience with the cows.

~*~*~*~

I married a dairy farmer when I was 53 years old.

Upon hearing my story, people inevitably ask, “Did you ever think you’d end up on a dairy farm?” As if I could imagine something that had never even tiptoed across my mind! Dreaming and imagining aside, let me acquaint you with the real-life events that brought me to the farm.

My not-yet-husband Weldon and I met via an on-line dating site. We both lived in North Carolina but, in retrospect, the hundred miles that separated us was nothing compared to the difference in our lifestyles. I had been living the single-again, corporate life in Charlotte for ten years, and Weldon had spent his entire life on the family dairy farm outside the small town of King.

As we got to know each other by chatting on the phone and corresponding through e-mail, I was careful to ask the important questions: Is your divorce final? (Yes.) Do you live near water? (Yes, there is a creek and a river.) Would you plant raspberries for me? (There are black raspberries growing just a few steps from the front door.) With the essentials out of the way, we began our back-and-forth Saturday or Sunday drives between Charlotte and the farm. He liked me. I liked him.

Weldon made it clear that he wasn’t looking for a dairymaid and that he in no way expected me to help with the farm chores. It seemed to be a match made in heaven; so, seven months after our initial meeting, we married and I moved from the city to the country.

This new lifestyle was unlike anything I had experienced before: marriage, motherhood, life in the woods of northern Minnesota, missionary work in Haiti, eight-to-five office duties. Nope! It seemed I was ill-prepared physically, emotionally, and spiritually for life on a dairy farm. In spite of my best efforts, it wasn’t long before I started whining (only on the inside, of course) as the daily routines aggravated and irritated me.

You don’t have to live on a farm to experience frustrations, difficulties, and setbacks. Life is full of crap - be it real, proverbial, or psychological. As I recount my struggles and victories in adjusting to farm life, I hope you’ll recognize a similarity to problems you are facing and find encouragement to win your battles. The choice is set before us: deal with the yuck or wallow in it.

God is using life on the farm to work something new in me, making me more real and more thankful for each day, for each experience. He can take the difficulties in your life and work exciting new things in you, too. When life gets challenging or down-right discouraging, a change in our perspective can change our attitude, and a change in attitude may be just what is needed to get back to truly enjoying the life we have been given.

Walk with me … but look out for the crap.

~*~ Feel free to share this with all your friends who read and/or write :) ~*~

Psalm 39

I've been reading through the Psalms this year during my morning "quiet time." I read, ponder, and jot down my thoughts and questions. The psalms are much more than lovey-dove songs of worship. I've questioned the anger, the violence, and the honesty expressed by the authors. I shouldn't be surprised, of course, because the psalms were written by people just like us: sometimes full of faith and spiritual wisdom, sometimes upset with life and frustrated by our God who doesn't always answer the way we hope or expect.

Following are my thoughts from Psalm 39.

*~*~*

Since my time on earth is brief, fleeting, a moment, a breath - why should God care about me? I guess because he sees eternity. It's really hard to wrap my little brain around it.

Verse 6 says, "We are merely moving shadows, and all our busy rushing ends in nothing." So much for all our hecticity! I made that word up :) Oh, if I could just put this truth into my heart and soul. I'm not as busy outwardly as many people, but on the inside I'm a veritable whirling dervish. Oh, Lord, let me stop. Let me have such peace on the inside that it oozes onto those around me. It's a delightful picture, but is it me? I can't quite see it. Maybe instead of oozing, I could use the word bubbling. Peaceful bubbling. Better!

Since we are just moving shadows, verse 7 follows very nicely. "And so, Lord, where do I put my hope? My only hope is in you."

Lord, I'm a traveler passing through. I'm your guest on this earth. Please leave me alone so I can smile again (verses 12 & 13). Oh, you gotta love David :)

*~*~*

There's much more in Psalm 39, but that's how my brain went this morning.

We're not here for long, so let's enjoy the path set before us, remembering that we are guests on this earth. Eternity awaits.

Icky Okra

I'm from up north, y'all. But do I try to adjust to southern ways and do things with southern charm? You betcha! I mean ... Yes, ma'am!

Take okra. Please! Take okra!! No one seems to really love it, but everyone plants a ton of it in the garden and then tries to give it away to the neighbors. I had never had okra before coming to the farm and I haven't had much since then. It's just so dang slimy!

However, my lovely mother-in-law has shown me a good and easy way to cook the stuff. Yes, it's a little slimy while you're cutting it, but at least it isn't slimy when you put the finished product in your mouth.

Are you getting excited or simply trying not to gag? This is a "wing it" recipe, by the way. I usually need to have exact measurements, so if I can do this, you can too! Here we go.

Fried Taters and Okra

Ingredients: butter, onion, potatoes, okra, salt & pepper, corn meal

Start by choosing your frying pan. That will determine how many potatoes and slimy green veggies you'll need. Chop your onion, cube the potatoes, and slice the okra into rounds. I suggest you use at least twice as much potatoes as okra, but that's just me.

Toss a hunk of butter in the frying pan and throw in the onion and potatoes. Fry until the potatoes just begin to get soft. You can put a lid on it to speed up the process. Then add those charming little okra (okras?). Add salt and pepper, or get creative with some additional spices. I don't care.

If you want to use precooked potatoes, simply fry the okra and onion first and then add the cooked potatoes. Either way, once everything is in the pan, if it's looking a little dry, add some more butter and continue frying until everything is cooked and sizzling nicely.

Next step, sprinkle yellow corn meal over the whole works. Stir. Repeat. The potatoes and okra should have a nice coating of corn meal, but there shouldn't be excess piles of corn meal sitting in the bottom of the frying pan.

Continue to fry until everything looks delightfully browned. Dish it up and holler, "Come and get it!"

By gully, that's good eatin'!

(This post may look strangely familiar to some of you. That's because I originally shared this recipe on my "Piece o' Cake" blog in September of 2012. However, I made Fried Taters and Okra for supper tonight and just knew you'd want the recipe. You're welcome.)

Life Is Like a Box of Chocolates

Forrest Gump made a valid point and it was a good movie, but I had my own revelation this morning.

(We interrupt this blog to share a startling truth. The author wrote the title for this post and the first line, which you just read. She then went to the kitchen to eat breakfast, opened the Parade magazine, and the very first line her eyes happened upon was, "Is anything special planned for Forrest Gump's 20th anniversary?" Today, July 6, is the 20th anniversary of the film! And, without knowing that fact, the author chose this very day to make a comment about Forrest Gump? That is so strange and weird and crazy. Not that it matters or means anything, but still.... We now return you to the blog.)

Forrest Gump made a valid point and it was a good movie, but I had my own revelation this morning: Life Is Like Picking Raspberries. Actually, my first thought was Bible study is like picking raspberries. Then I expanded the idea to maybe all study is like picking raspberries. And finally, voila! LIFE is like picking raspberries!

Here's how picking raspberries works. You have an empty container in hand and methodically head in one direction around and through the patch, picking every berry in sight. Perfect! You now have quite a few raspberries in your bowl.

When you turn around, congratulating yourself on a job well done, you are amazed to see some berries hanging right there in front of your eyes. "How did I miss these beauties?" So you retrace your steps, now going in the opposite direction, and you find almost as many berries as you picked on your first pass. Ahh. Life is good.

You could go home now, but if you want to make sure you get all the berries, you have to make one more trip around. This time you'll look underneath the leaves, squatting down for a new point of view and lifting up individual branches to discover more hidden berries. Yum!

No more berries here, right?

Wrong! These were hiding under the leaves.

To get the most berries, this same routine has to be repeated at least every other day. Yes, it's time consuming, but if you like raspberries nearly as much as I do, you'll find it's totally worth the effort.

Who knew there could be so many more raspberries than I gathered on my first trip through the patch? Who knew that every day (or every other day), there is more wisdom and beauty to be discovered? Who knew that every year can reveal so much more than I first understood or imagined?

Life is like a box of chocolates. Life is like picking raspberries. I think I have discovered the ideal: Pick raspberries, then sit down and enjoy them with a box of chocolates. Or, like I did the other day, make a fresh raspberry pie in a chocolate-coated crumb crust.

 

Ahh. Life is good!

Crap Happens

Cats and kittens fed - not just these two little ones,

but all the big and small in four or five locations around the farm.

Black and red raspberries picked to enjoy with our breakfast.

The psht-psht-psht of the pulsator from the barn

echoing soothingly, almost imperceptibly in my ears.

That's because I'm in the house, not in the milk parlor :)

Yes, life on a dairy farm can seem quite idyllic.

However, my life, just like yours, has plenty of frustrations, problems,

and, to put it bluntly, crap.

To set the record straight, I'm writing a book.

You can read an introduction to the book and a few chapters here. I'll add another chapter every now and then, so keep checking back. More importantly, when I'm done with the painful part of editing the book, I'll publish it and hope you will want to read it in its entirety.

Until then, keep the sunny side up!

Morning Meander

First stop: the big tractor shed. I talk to the kittens (even if I don't see them) in my little "kitty cat" voice so they get used to hearing me. Wild mama Ginger showed up with 4 little ones about two weeks ago, and I got my hands on her two "yellow" ones this morning.

The 2 dark ones are females, the 2 yellow ones are males.

Couldn't get all 4 of them in one photo. Better luck next time?

Next stop: the old granary to feed Ginger's sister Freddie. Freddie has babies, too, but she hasn't brought them out for public display yet. Then on to the hay barn. Indira was out and about, so Pat and I took the opportunity to love on her babies.

Two males. This is definitely the year of the tom cat!

Pat put fresh hay in their cage and mom & babies snuggled in.

This has been a crazy year for cats "stealing" babies, families moving in together, and mothers dragging their youngsters from one locale to another. That's why Indira and her little ones are caged for now.

Marmalade's four are growing and doing well. They started out in the lumber shed, but now hang out under the hay barn.

Yup, four little toms.

After a stop at the milk barn to visit with friends (both human and feline), I finally started my slow stroll down the farm road to the highway.

The obligatory photo of Pilot Mountain.

Weldon has started cutting the wheat.

The wheat is chopped as silage to feed the cows until the corn silage is ready this fall.

Heading home. Notice the Sauratown Mountains behind/above the trees, center right.

A stop at the "poopy pond" to see the ducks.

The mom in the above photo has older babies following her. If you look up and to the right of the mother's head, in the first band of green grass, you'll see a little black spot. That's Hansel (a cat, of course), silently hoping for some dessert. He finally gave up and headed to the shade of our front yard to "catnap" the morning away. 

Here's another mom with "babier" ducklings in her wake.

I wasn't home long before Mom Edith came by with strawberries. She had hulled and cut up three flats for me, so I simply had to add sugar and put them in freezer boxes. The other flat of fresh berries went straight to the fridge for our enjoyment over the next few days.

Mmmm. Berries.

If every morning were as sweet and slow and serene as this one, I could totally live on a farm!

~*~ Kitty Season ~*~

It started on Wednesday. Gretchen had four babies. She's a good mama.

In a box on top of shelving in the old milk parlor.

Four cutie-patootie babies.

On Thursday, LaPli had babies. I had to "point & shoot" in the dark.

In the hay barn, behind hay bales and a cardboard barrel. Looks like five babies!

 This evening, LaPli was out and about, so I tried another shot.

Yup! That's SIX babies.

Ten babies in two days.

Anyone want a kitten?

A Rainy Sunday

What do farmers do on a rainy Sunday when they want to get off the farm? Well, they go visit another farm, of course. This past week, Dr. Taft told Weldon about his prolific ewes, one of which had quadruplets and another that had triplets.  He invited us to come see them, so we did.

We drove through the rain to Stauber Farm and Dr. Taft met us at the door. I couldn't help but notice his two beautiful cats in the porch, snuggled together on a fat, round cushion. We need a huge porch with lots of fat, round cushions for all our cats, right?

We crossed the highway, went through a couple gates, and entered the sheepfold. He raises St. Croix Sheep, and you can read about them on his website. (Just click on Stauber Farm above.)

As we walked, Dr. Taft updated us on the sheep. Another ewe had had quadruplets last night! He said his sheep hadn't birthed quadruplets in about six years, so this has been quite the spring. Now I'll just post some pics, because I don't know what else to say, other than they were totally cute, especially the little lambs with their high-pitched bleats.

Don't tell the sheep, but there are some little chicks hiding out in another room of the sheep house, staying cozy under a warming lamp.

The guys below didn't make a peep but kept a close eye on us, perhaps ensuring we weren't up to any shenanigans.

Thank you, Dr. Taft, for introducing us to your delightful animals. Good luck with all those babies!

~*~ Frio and Fria ~*~

The phone rang just before Weldon opened the door to head out for morning chores. He answered it, and I could hear his side of the conversation. When he hung up, I asked, "Was that Pat?"

"Yes."
"A baby calf?"
"Yes."
"Sure am glad it wasn't born yesterday morning! I'll be out shortly." Yesterday morning it was -2°; this morning, by comparison, it's a balmy 20°.

A few minutes later, while I was getting the cat food ready, the phone rang again. "Hi. It's Pat. Get out here as soon as you can. We might need your help. It's twins!"

By the time I got down to the barn, the babies were safely ensconced in the milk parlor and Weldon was busily cleaning them up with warm water from the hose. It was like a sauna bath with steam filling the whole room. He washed while Pat and I dried.

We then carried them to a quilt by the stove, dried them off more thoroughly, and covered them with another quilt. Pat started asking about the French and Spanish words for "cold." It didn't take long before she had them named: Fria (the little heifer, above left) and Frio (the little bull, complete with bull's-eyes, above right).

We then went out to feed the bigger baby calves and I got a picture of the proud momma. Just the night before we had commented on how huge she was. Now we knew why!

Before I headed back to the house, Fria and Frio were still shivering under their quilt. By now (an hour or two later), I bet they're comfy cozy and have a number of cats sitting atop them to ensure they are feeling safe and loved. If you look closely (just above Frio's head), you will see little Minnie already contemplating the possibilities.

So ... how has your morning been? 

A Surprise Ending

This morning I walked up to the front of the church carrying a "Honey Buns" box filled with the paraphernalia I would need to do the Children's Message. One little guy called out, "Oh, yeah! Honey Buns!" Sorry, buddy, but there are no Honey Buns in the box.

Good morning, children. One of my favorite chapters in the Bible is John 1. I could read the whole thing to you and then read it again. But, instead, I'll just read two verses. First, do you know some other names for Jesus?

"God!" "Lord!" "Mary!"

Uhm, no. Good try, but Mary was the mother of Jesus. I don't think anyone ever called him Mary.

"Savior!" "Emmanuel!"

Good job! Another one of his names is "Light of the World." Now listen to verses 4 and 5 from John, chapter 1. "The life of Jesus gave light to everyone. The light keeps shining in the dark, and darkness can never put it out."

I took Weldon's big, black Mag-Lite from the box and turned it on. Let's see if I can put out this light. I took a white cloth napkin from the box and laid it over the light. Is the light gone?

"No!!"

Okay, let me try this again. Next I doubled the napkin. Is the light gone?

"No!!"

One of the boys said, "Hey, try that black thing," as he pointed to a black woolen scarf in my box. Good idea. I put it over the flashlight asking, Is the light gone? Mmmm. This time they had to look more carefully, so I asked one of the children to come and peek under the scarf.

"Yup! The light is still shining!" He was pretty excited. One by one, the children had moved closer and closer to me.

Next, I wrapped the flashlight in the white cloth and the black scarf, laid it on the floor, and covered it with the box. Okay, someone will have to come and peek under here and see if the light is still shining. One little girl got her face down low and close, and then ALL the kids were huddled around the little 8" by 12" Honey Buns box, trying to get a glimpse of that flashlight.

Slipping my hand under the box, I unwrapped the flashlight. Suddenly, they all lifted their heads (and maybe their hands!) and with one voice cried out, "YAY!!!"

Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that response. Even now, the memory puts a smile on my face. The darkness CANNOT put out the Light ... and that IS something to cheer about!