Farmerwife Biker Woman

I have been MIA from posting here since last fall.  That is mostly due to They gave me sketchbooks - a blog about the journey to rediscover my artistic-ness.  I have a degree in graphic design, which probably should've been a plain old art degree.  I have rarely drawn since graduating, but have started again and am sharing my story.  Check it out if you're intrigued.

On with the posting.  This won't be about farming or gardening.  (The garden is planted and the wheat heads are filling.)  Today we're going to talk about wearing leather.

My college boyfriend had a motorcycle.  I looked forward to the noise of him rolling up to the dorm, knocking on the now nonexistent glass doors, and off we'd go.  That guy became my husband and he sold the cycle shortly before we married.  I had nothing to do with that decision.  He was building a business and busy farming, so cycle riding just wasn't happening often enough to justify having the bike.

As our kids grew, he sometimes spoke of wanting a Harley.  It was mostly a passing thought and we continued raising our children and working.  The past few years, as one kid left the nest and the other was inching her way out as well, he mentioned it more often.  Then, in March, my man finally decided we're not getting any younger.  He wanted to grab onto that dream of us riding around the state & hopefully parts of the country.  He calls me his little biker woman.  People who know me personally may find that comical.  I like to write, but I am not a talker.  I am not outgoing.  I am not terribly daring.  I am, however, married to an outgoing talkative somewhat adventurous man.  He has joked about getting me into leathers - pants, jacket, boots.  I laughed, not really thinking about the realities of riding long distances.  Now, we have leather jackets and are shopping for leather chaps and good riding boots.  I'm kind of a safety freak.  That's an understatement.  I AM a safety freak.  He's wearing a helmet because it makes me happy.  Wearing leather gives you more protection if anything happens (short of getting completely squished  . . . pretend I didn't say that).  Cowhide is much tougher than wimpy people skin.

Going from a gardening, working, farmerwife/mom to biker women hanging out on the back of a Harley can be odd.  We went for a ride with some friends recently.  Six of us on three Harley's pulling into a very small town with the street blocked off for a car and tractor show.  Now, we are all basic ordinary Joes, but that's pretty well hidden by the black leather and big ole' motorcycles.  We slowed to a stop at the edge of the barriers and paused, deciding which way to turn & where to park.  In my mind, it seemed eyes were settling on us with some apprehension, but they were probably just glancing our way.  One of the guys joked we could be the sequel to Wild Hogs.  I wanted to take off my helmet and yell "Hey, we're all small town people too!"

I know my farmerwife look.  I know my office look.  I know my fighting cholesterol look.  I'm no fashionista, but I'm comfortable in those skins.  However, I haven't fully fleshed out my biker chick look.  Helmet hair is an issue and I'm a pale-skinned, sunscreen-wearing, not-so-young person.  I don't care about "tatts" as my husband calls them and I don't care about bling.  But then, my husband wears Dockers when he rides (hates jeans), for now.

We really do need to toughen up our image... just a teeny bit...

For the Love of Dirty Jobs

Some farmerwives are working partners - driving the wheat truck or milking the cows.  Some don't do heavy farm work - sticking to the house and meals & usually another job off the farm.  I am in the middle.  I don't drive the heavy machinery.  I do clean the heavy machinery.  Shop Vac, Turtle wax and Windex - those are my farm tools.

cleaning tractor windows with affection

We spent a few hours this past weekend cleaning the seed wheat out of the drill.  I explained a bit of the drilling process in Muddy Roads and Clean Wheat.  Once the drilling/planting is complete, ALL remaining seed wheat must be cleaned out to avoid mice getting in to eat it and make messes in the process (ew).  Cleaning up farm stuff is a dirty job.  After June's wheat harvest, I helped dig, vacuum, and blow the dirt & wheat chaff out of the endless crevices in the combine.  Dirtiest. Job. Ever.  Kind of looked like I'd been skiing through the wheat stubble on my head.  Following that effort -  shampoo, rinse & repeat?  You better believe it!

I don't generally look forward to these dirty tasks.  In fact, I must admit that enthusiasm is not my first reaction when I hear "Wanna' help me clean the tractor/truck/combine?"  However, I say yes because I married a farmer.  I love my farmer and our teamwork time.  Heading back to town with grimy clothes and windblown hair - mission accomplished - it's a lovely satisfaction knowing farmer and farmerwife accomplished the task side by side.

Did you read that?

I am awful at regular blogging.  I have brilliant and humorous stories - farmerwife, gardening, working, parenting ... when I'm not sitting at the keyboard.  My sister & I have hilarious IM conversations and she, on occasion, has said "You should blog that! That's funny!"  Obviously it doesn't happen.  Well, the past few weeks have been a comedy of errors with people not reading the full content of emails I've sent from work & home.  However, instead of delving into the dirty details of email skimming (of which I'm sometimes guilty) and risking you skimming this post as well, I will instead just write what my sister told me too...

That!

There... Enjoy your smile for today.

Sticks Rocks!

Harvest is over and we can take a little break from farm talk.  Remember, this is a "rambling" blog.  So, time to ramble about work a bit.  There is always music in my office at the university.  Nine ladies, ages 19 to 50ish, listening to one radio.  Our likes range from various modern stuff to country to oldies to the two oddballs who like rap.  The radio is on either country, pop/rock, or a station playing a mix of "oldies" - 1950's to 90's, but mostly 70's & 80's.  Us "older" ladies like that one quite a bit.

The other day I was discussing vacationing and my search for a good concert at the end of June.  Amazingly enough, Styx was playing twice within half a day's drive from here!  Yeah!  Unfortunately, it was the week of harvest and I was bummed that I couldn't even attempt to go.  Dang!  As I'm whining about this, one of our student workers turns to me and asks... "Who's Styx?"  (Though I think in her head she probably was saying "Who's Sticks?") ....... WHAT?!  'Who's Styx?!?'... My face was temporarily frozen in disbelief mode...  o_O ... REALLY?   The elders razzed her for being clueless.  Thankfully she'd seen Big Daddy recently and remembered the court scene mentioning the critics not giving Styx their due.  Not that it actually helped because she didn't recognize any of the incredibly awesome classic Styx songs I played for her.  She did know Mr. Roboto.  Ugh.  (No. I will not include a link to their worst song ever.)

Wow, I'm still in disbelief just typing out the conversation....

Next day, same office, oldies station playing.  "Okay, do you know who the Steve Miller Band is?"... pause... "No.  Why?  Should I?"  I didn't have to respond this time.  Another elder said emphatically "YES!"  That turned into a discussion of what her parents listened to.  Turns out her dad listens to some guy in the pickup on his way to work.  Talk radio?  Nope.  Some old album he really likes.  She looks it up in her phone and asks... "Have you heard of Bob Ci-gar?" (.... ba-hahaha ...) "or Bob Say-gar?" (...ahahaha...)  She's a terrific and obviously very young girl, but... oh my.  Through my laughter and tears I get out - "Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band." 

Seriously... How old am I?

Parts "Я" Us

"You need to go on another parts run."  This time it's my son calling and, fortunately, no odd descriptions needed.  "They'll have a sack of parts with Grandpa's name on it."  Alrighty.  "But you could also check to see if the part on back order is in."  I think I spoke too soon.  "We ordered it Saturday and if they have it..."  wait for it... wait for it... "it'll be a square with holes in it and pins sticking out." pause ... laughing...   I reply, "Oh man, you guys really need to be on my end when I get these calls.  Okay, I'll go get it and bring it with supper."


At John Deere, they have the sack ready and it's all good, until I ask for the back ordered part.  Joe (I believe Pete doesn't work evenings) goes in the back, then comes back and asks if I really want the something-or-other (he uses the real name, which I don't remember) because it's nearly 8 feet long (my husband says I heard him wrong) and heavy.  I later discover it's something my husband ordered for the combine header to replace after harvest.  "Well, no, that won't fit in my vehicle.  There should be something the guys ordered Saturday."  

This, but silver with less "pins" and a hole in each side.

They check the computer, find that the mystery part has indeed arrived and bring out another sack.  I look in to discover an over sized metal Lego.  I have no idea what it's for, but, yep, that's it. 

RePete

My husband and son headed to the field at 8 am yesterday for the first day of harvest.  I called at 11:30 to ask about lunch.  Along with the lunch order, my husband informed me he already needs me to run to John Deere (or drive, it’s a little far for a run on a hot day).  Hey!  I get to see Pete on the first day!  Most people have not cut a lot yet.  Not a lot of break downs yet.  That means not a lot of questions and dilemmas yet.  I’m kinda’ looking forward to seeing Pete before mayhem sets in.  If you’re reading this, you may have read the October 2010 post about Pete.  He’s The Man.  I mean, he’s the John Deere parts man who knows pretty much whatever you need him to know.  You need to read Pete’s the Man to know about Pete.

Back to the phone call.  My husband says, and I quote, “You need to swing by John Deere and pick up a belt for the tachometer for the cylinder.”  …. And that’s all he says….. I know, right?  I wait a moment and repeat his words and add, “I suppose they’ll know what that means?”  After a brief explanation of what the belt for the tachometer for the cylinder does (which I immediately forgot), he adds, “It’s for the 7720.”  I ask, “combine?”  He, of course, uses his you-KNOW-this voice “That’s what our combine is.”  You’d think I’d remember that – I help wax it every year and it rumbles by me numerous times each harvest – large numbers on both sides.  He then relays his conversation with Pete earlier in the morning about trying to fix the belt/tachometer/cylinder ailment with greasing or oiling or something – I forget.  But the fix isn’t going to last – need a new belt.  I’m glad to hear he already talked to Pete.  Then he says “You’ll know it’s the right thing if it looks like a big rubber band.”  Okay!

I get a big box of fish & chicken at Long John Silvers and the nice drive-through lady gives me an extra box when I tell her it’s for the guys in the field and one of them might need to take his food to the elevator with him.  Next stop – pick up the big rubber band thing.

I’m in farmerwife mode today and head straight to the parts counter.  The first guy at the counter, we’ll call him Joe, asks what he can do for me.  I see Pete at the far end helping somebody.  I think they strategically place Pete there so the other guys get more practice at part finding.  Oh well, we’ll give it a shot.  I unfold my note - “I need a belt for a tachometer for a cylinder...for a 7720.”  Obviously Joe knows more than me.  He starts typing in the computer before I get out “7720.”  I mention my husband called and talked to someone.  He asks if the part was pulled out.  Umm…huh?  “I …don’t know?”  Joe heads to the back and I realize he was asking if it was supposed to have been set out for me to pick up.  Oops.  Joe returns empty handed and I tell him Pete gave my husband some advice on trying to fix the belt/tachometer/cylinder situation, but we’ll need the part after all.  Joe leaves again and returns with a large clear rubber band looking thing.  That’s it! (I think.)  Pete is free and Joe casually tells him what’s going on and asks Pete if he advised just using a rubber band.  They both laugh.  It’s nice to see Pete in a good mood and it’s nice to get a part without making someone ask Pete.

Hydration Appreciation

My garden is watered via a hose - trickling in ditches and "dishes" - no sprinklers.  It's a conservation thing. And our dog completely loves it.  I unwind the hose and she happily dashes to the garden gate.  The water fills thirsty indents while I weed or pick veggies ... or smack mosquitoes.  Daisy follows me to each area, investigates briefly, then flops down in a dog-size dent nearby.  That doesn't last long in the summer heat.  She retreats to the shaded deck, returning only if I call or if she needs a drink.  I adore our neurotic mutt (she barks at everyone), but face slurping is generally off limits.  However, this is one time when it is always allowed because I'm fairly certain she'd just feel awful and offended if it wasn't.  

The routine:  Daisy shows up and stares at the hose lying in the dirt.  "Hey girl - ya' thirsty?"  I lean down, lift the hose, cup my hand and let the water trickle into it.  Slurp, slurp, slurp... slurp, slurp.  Wagwagwag.  (I swear I can see her smile.)  My head is just above hers.  She gratefully and quickly plants a sloppy dripping kiss on my chin.  "You're welcome!"  Yes, I say that out loud and with enthusiasm.  Back to the deck she goes.  Back to watering & weeding I go.

I'm kinda' glad the dog is the only one who wants to drink from the hose.