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.

It ain't heavy, it's my garden.

the chair, the book, the paper - a plan

I cannot imagine spring without a garden or summer without the harvest.  However, as fall approaches, the garden and gardener grow a bit weary.  The spinach & peas were done long ago.  The cucumbers have succumbed to mites or beetles or a case of the-gardener-doesn’t-love-us-anymore syndrome.  I’m tired of keeping those stupid carrots watered.  And forget about the out of control tomatoes – who eats all those anyway?  Fighting heat, drought, weeds, bugs and ever-present wind…  At this point, I’m fairly certain I won’t be planting so much next year.  I should know better.

Winter slips by.  Shortly before the calendar announces spring, I notice seed packets and seed potatoes appearing in stores.  My Growing Vegetables in the Great Plains book whispers from the shelf behind my chair.  The garden beckons rototiller-man (my husband).  Suddenly I’m planted in front of a seed display, pulling out envelopes – “Hmm, maybe leeks this year…or turnips…do I want to fight smut and grow my hubby some corn? (I hate corn, bleh) … oh, those red spotted beans look cool."  Here we go!

Before planting can start, there is the planning, square foot by square foot.  
I swipe a piece of graph paper from one of my kids and start mapping.  Let’s see, I planted tomatoes here last year, but over there the year before, so....  (Disease fighting tip – don’t plant tomatoes in the same place every year.) Square by square everything finds a home.  This usually takes a day or two.  
I like to marinate ideas.  They taste better that way.

Then – nearly my favorite time of year.  Trenches are hoed, holes are dug, peat is added (lots of clay in the soil here) and seeds are sown.  Waiting begins.

2011 garden in May

I have a white plastic chair at the edge of my garden.  It wasn’t planned, I pulled it out of the shed one day to take a break and there it stays.  It’s excellent for musing a garden plan or admiring the day’s effort, for watching bees working the oregano or squirrels straddling the fence or just waiting around for things to grow.  Once the garden is in – the plastic white chair is my hammock.

The first fruits are the best part really – first green onions, first red radishes, first tender asparagus, first crisp rhubarb, first little green tomatoes that take forever and a day to ripen.  The rest of the summer entails watering and weeding and picking and hoeing and staking and watering and mulching and fixing and plucking and canning and watering and cutting and pulling and on and on.  

2010 garden late summer

Gardening is good for the body and soul...until it's not... when the ole joy-of-gardening battery starts to run down.  A few tomatoes go bad on the vine, the cucumbers don’t get watered soon enough.  Mites stake a claim on the eggplant.  Weeds sneak in under the pumpkin vines.  The squash bugs just won’t go away no matter how much you yell at them…  About that time I start watching the forecast for the first frost.  Hoping...  The die hard gardener will plan for this.  Fairly certain I’m not one of those.  I cover my tomatoes a time or two before plucking the green ones to ripen indoors.  This year I was oh so ambitious and covered up the best plant every night in late October – sheets & towels & straw.  Made it to November 1, then threw in the towel – or off, however you want to look at it.  Probably a record I’ll never break.  Later the sad brown remnants are hauled to the community compost pile.  Next year I will NOT plant that many tomatoes!  And forget corn for at least 10 years.  Smut – ew!

Well, it’s April 4.  The soil has been worked and evened out and the onions went in before the rain chased me out of the garden.  A stack of seed envelopes sit next to me – too many once again.  I blame Dad.  Every year he announced the garden would be reduced and every year he’d just keep adding.  I know there are worse addictions, though it’d be nice if this one didn’t involve squash bugs.

Once in a red moon...

My alarm shrieked at 1:45 am this morning.  An odd hour indeed (and yes I am exceptionally sleepy today), but there is a perfectly good explanation.  A total lunar eclipse happened last night, coinciding with the winter solstice.  My daughter and I put on coats and mittens and scarves and blankets and went out into the back yard to see what we could see.  We looked up and were amazed at the almost unreal beauty of a cloudless sky filled with a ruddy red moon and many bright stars.  Occasionally a bit of fog would float in the periphery, framing the scene above, but never obscuring that intimidating moon.  While I leaned back to watch, Becca brought out her camera and tripod and started snapping shots.  Well, snapping is inaccurate.  The longer exposure needed to capture light in a dark winter sky made her camera sound like it was nearly frozen.

As I lay there watching this grown up child of mine capturing the moon, my mind went back to what seems like a few days ago.  A mom and two kids camping out in one bedroom, watching a huge red moon through the window panes.  I don’t remember how old my children were, just that they were old enough to wake up and watch in awe, but too young to stay awake for all of it.   They vaguely remember that night.  I remember it well – one of those treasures of motherhood that will be tucked away until the next middle-of-the-night excursion.

Confessions of a Snowaholic

I wrote the following last fall.  Since blogging time has been preempted by the chaos of fostering, adopting out and now owning one of the kittens, I am being lazy and reusing my snow rave.  Plus, I am again bummed by this winter's lack of snow . . . 

I was born during a blizzard. Either that was incredibly appropriate or a monumental influence on my infant psyche. 

I don't remember a time when I didn't love snow.  The more the better.  Blizzards are cool - trying to see across the street while it's piling up in the driveway.  I know, I know!  You're probably yelling "WHAT?" in disbelief.  You hate cold and snow and gray days.  Believe me, I try to be sympathetic.  I know snow can be dangerous, costly and annoying.  I know it can ruin plans and force your heating bills up.  It has postponed a few trips in my life.  I try, but I'm beyond all help.

The high today is predicted at 78° - in mid October.  People are loving it.  I'm thinking - summer is supposed to be over (anything over 75 is summer to me).  I'm sure you think I need medication for this.  A chance of snow is forecast in a couple of days.  You're looking at the 50% chance and thinking "Aw man!"  Not me - I will watch it over the next couple of days hoping for the 50% to climb to 100%. "c'mon get up there...yay 60% now!...woot 70%!...dang, we're back to 50%"  It's odd, I know.

I root for the temperature to drop - below freezing is best.  (Of course I hate the heating bills, but as I said before - I'm not always rational.)  I HATE, LOATHE, & DESPISE heat - anything above 85 or 90.  On a hot day you can only take off so much (really) and it drains you, makes you tired and prickly.  Cold grabs your nose & wakes you up.  Brisk days put a zing in your step.  (Stop shaking your head.)  And when you get inside it's all about snuggling up in sweatshirts & afghans & sipping hot chocolate.  Not - get away, you're sweaty...need more ice.

Snowaholics (I actually wondered why spellchecker didn't recognize that - ha) are a persecuted people.  My peers (husband included) gripe about the snow & cold.  I usually keep my mouth shut to let them be content in their misery as well as to avoid the eyerolls & sideways glances.  Snowhaters are a harsh group.  Mention your love of snow as they grumble through their sweater & scarf and you WILL feel the wrath.  (Feeling guilty at all ? . . . I thought not.)

I leave you with these thoughts as a plea for leniency...

Breathtaking white landscapes (and without snow, yes, naked trees can be scenic), snowmen, snowball fights, snow angels, snow forts, Daisy bounding through drifts, no yard work, using 4 wheel drive, sledding, wearing layers & big ole boots & gloves, building fires, thick fuzzy socks, snoozing on a snowy afternoon, Christmas & Christmas goodies (MUST be cold & snowy to truly enjoy those), seeing your breath, catching snow flakes, bragging rights over whose drifts are higher, moisture for the fields, bragging rights over who drove through the worst storm on the worst roads for the longest time, no bugs.

Don't you just LOVE it? (at least a little bit) I DO!!!

You know you need one!

Kittens are a lovely and entertaining distraction.  We moved Farm Cat and her family to our house nearly 3 weeks ago now.  The kittens were wobbly little fluff balls then.  And now – bigger fluff balls chasing toys and ribbons and each other around the bathroom (their temporary home).  They collapse into a pile of sleepy purrs on the lap of anybody who sits on the floor, but only after they’ve exhausted all possible ways human legs can be used as a jungle gym.  The only problem with all this is I don’t get anything done besides kitten-watch.  I find myself drawn into their play, or just sitting and staring at their antics, smiling…until I remember I’m supposed to be getting ready for work or making supper or picking someone up or any number of important things. My husband calls them the three stooges (times 2).  They are a comedy of leaps and tackles and falls.  Sometimes one will be sneaking up on a brother or toy when yet another comes flying from the side and there is a tumbling of legs and tails.

One or two at a time, they get to explore the rest of the house, experience a little one-on-one time and meet our dog, Daisy.  Daisy and Farm Cat are already friends.  Farm Cat would very much like to rub against Daisy’s legs and Daisy would very much just like to play.  They seem to have settled on hello sniffs and sitting close to each other when the humans are too boring.  The kittens however, either want to play with Daisy’s nose or paws or they watch her warily and make tiny little hisses.  She looks back quizzically, wanting to play, but not really sure how to do that with such a tiny little creature.

Our favorites change almost daily.  They have their own moods and personalities and when they come running to greet you each day, you just want to scoop them up and hold them all morning.  So, it is time to get them to their new homes!  As much as we’d love to keep any or all of them, eight is not enough – eight is TOO MANY! 

If you are a cat lover and have a home that is in need of a fluff ball, let us know.  Some things of importance - They are all boys and will be eight weeks old on the 11^th.  They have been eating dry cat food for about two weeks now and are nursing less each day.  Their mother is a calm and friendly tabby who has taught them well, including how to use the litter box. (Yay!)  They will have their first distemper shot within a few days. Also, we may not be able to keep Farm Cat, so she may need a loving home as well.  She was just spayed yesterday and today is nursing like nothing has happened, though the vet said that will only be possible for a few days.  She has her rabies and distemper shots.

 

My daughter shot some video of the kittens last night.  You can view it here - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rf5LC2cnDbQ.  And be prepared to fall head over heels!


(If you want to know the unique story behind Farm Cat and her "little" family, check out the blog in September - "Then there were seven!" )

Pete's the Man

“Can you farm today?”  No, this doesn’t mean I’m headed out to work the fields.  It usually precedes a trip to some farm-related establishment or ride shotgun to do some cleaning/maintenance or a bit of chauffeuring is required.

On a recent afternoon, parts were needed from John Deere.  Because my knowledge of machinery is very limited (none), this requires some explaining by my husband.  Him: I need two picker bearings for the Fallowmaster. Tell them it has a square shaft and is an older 35' Fallowmaster.  Me: Okay.  Him:  If he can’t find it right away, they may have a record of one we bought before.  Me: Okay.  Him: It’s not the undercutter bearing.  We’ve gotten those too.  The undercutter uses a similar, but different, bearing.  The undercutter is an older Sunflower Richardson and has Richardson pickers.  Keep in mind, none of that is relevant to what I’m needing.  Me: Ha. (scratching out my notes)  Him:  Make sure they don’t give you an undercutter bearing. (Like I would know.)  Him: (Something) is not really a pillow block – more of a sandwich. (I can’t really remember what that was about – I’m using the notes I took that day.  I take a lot of notes when he calls for parts.)  Him:  And, if they’re still not sure, ask for Pete.  Me:  Which Pete? (There are two.)  Him:  Somewhat grumpy Pete.  You know him.  Me: Yeah, just making sure.  End of conversation.  Just to clarify, the John Deere part guys are generally very helpful and friendly.  However, the guy who apparently knows it all is Pete and I think Pete gets tired of being the go-to guy, because he can get a little impatient and mildly irritable at times.

So, it’s a quick change to old clothes and grab a drink and a snack (never know what you’ll wind up doing or how long you’ll be at the farm) and I’m out the door.

John Deere is huge and has a nice front area with all kinds of tempting merchandise inside the main front doors.  That’s for the fake John Deere people.  Real John Deere people, aka farmers, use the side door that leads directly to the parts counter.  Today I am a farmer, so straight to the parts counter I go.  As usual there are a few men sitting on stools or leaning into the counter, discussing things I haven’t a clue about.  Old men, young men, father-son duos – most in well worn jeans, farm stained shirts and dusty farm caps - all with an incredible amount of knowledge of their machinery.  I am in awe of them.

Back to our picker bearings.  Dave tells me I’m next, so I start to explain what my guys need.  He reaches for my note and I hold on – "this will only confuse you.”   He gives me a funny look, but starts searching on the computer.  Him: Is it a 1 inch or 1 and a half inch? (or something like that)  Me:  Um, he said you would just need to know it’s a square shaft and it’s an older 35 foot Fallowmaster.  Him:  Well….no…. (staring at computer)….hmm...  I then repeat all of my husband’s comments (except the irrelevant parts).  He still looks perplexed and keeps scrolling through something on the computer.  I chat with one of the managers while he is looking.  I didn’t want to do it to him, but finally, I fall back on “He said Pete would know what he needs.”   I get an ever so slight dirty look and he says “Well, Pete will probably just say 'I don’t know' too.”  But he gives in and walks over to Pete.  I hear my father-in-law’s name and Fallowmaster and apparently Pete didn’t say “I don’t know” because Dave immediately went to the back and brought out two boxes.  Thank goodness for Pete.  I thanked Dave and hoped Pete really did know.  There could’ve been two paper weights in there for all I knew.

It turns out Pete was right.  The Fallowmaster has two new picker bearings and I earned my Farmerwife stripes for the day.

Then there were seven!

soaking up lap time after supper & story telling

The cat that adopted our farm greeted us last night with a half eaten mouse.  I was impressed.  My daughter was grossed out.  I was impressed because she is feeding six little ones and can use the extra protein.  Yes, I said SIX!

The story of Farm Cat began before harvest in June.  My son was at the farm by himself and heard insistent meowing.  Here comes this scrawny loud friendly cat.  He shared his beef stick with her and scratched her bony back.  A couple of days later we all went out to get things ready for harvest.  (There is no house on our farm - just machinery & storage buildings.) She was still there, still friendly and still skin and bones - literally.  It was like petting fur-covered bones.  Lucky for her, she showed up at the best time of year.  Harvest started and we were out there every day with scraps.  By early July she had taken over the place, so we got her a flea collar and started leaving cat food in her tree.  As the bony edges softened, I pondered taking her to the vet to be spayed.  Ponder, ponder.  We also started searching for a home.  My husband is somewhat allergic to cats and we didn't want to worry about her out there in cold weather.  We found a willing friend in mid August, but didn't make plans to move her right away.  A week after we talked to him, I noticed her tummy was a little big and soon after that it was really big - way too big to just be full of food.  Dang!  Deviously, I wished we had moved her right away!

So, over the next few weeks her tummy grew . . . and grew.  Last week, while the guys were loading seed wheat, I sat in the back of the pickup with a very lumpy purring cat on my lap.  You could easily see the little dudes in there wiggling around.  Hmm - looks like she's probably going to have four.  I thought that seemed like a lot for our little cat.  The next day she didn't show up.  And then the next day, after some loud weird meowing calls from my husband, she comes walking from behind a covered cow/horse trailer.  And . . . she was thin!  We thought the trailer sides were too high for her.  We were wrong.  I looked in through the shoulder high openings and there in the straw was a pile of multicolored fur.  I opened the side door and took a quick count - four, no FIVE . . . NO SIX!  I yelled "That darn cat had SIX KITTENS!"  My husband's response was "Stupid cat!"  He really does like cats, but now we had to find homes for a few more than we expected.  Sigh.

As we looked around the trailer, we realized she must have been using it as a safe spot for longer than a few days.  If you're squeamish, skip the next sentence.  There were rabbit feet and bits of fur scattered about the trailer.  It turns out she is a good hunter and found the perfect place to eat in peace.  Now it's home to seven.  And right now pretty much all that goes on in there is sleeping and nursing - lots and lots and lots of nursing.

a circle of fur and purr

With a little family now, I've been contemplating names.  We hadn't actually named Farm Cat.  We were going to let her new owner do that, but what the heck.  I'm thinking either Unsinkable Molly Brown or Edna.  The kittens are all tabbies -  three dark, two grey and one ginger.  I have dubbed the next few weeks What Shall We Name Them Days.  So far - for the dark trio: Larry, Curly & Mo; Crosby, Stills & Nash; or Winkin', Blinkin' & Nod.  The grey duo: Woofer & Tweeter; Abbot & Costello; or Caeser & Brutus.  The ginger cat will NOT be Ginger.  I'm thinking either Honeybuns, Sugarpie or Macaroni.  I haven't checked the boy/girl status, so that may influence the name game.  In the meantime, we'll just keep cuddling them and taking pictures.

Muddy Roads and Clean Wheat

I should be driving a pickup right now.  It rained, so I’m not.  Weather dictates schedule most of the time in farming world.  My scheduled farmerwife job for the day was to drive 40 miles and pick up my men.  By the way, I’m officially changing my title from farmwife to farmerwife thanks to my daughter (see July 9 post).  Spell check won’t recognize it, but isn’t that how all new words start out?  Anyway - Last night a storm rolled through and left 4 inches in the farm rain gauge.  That makes driving two heavy trucks, one filled with wheat, out of a dirt (mud) farmyard and on country roads more challenging.  Trip postponed - no ride home needed.

tractor not pulling the drill

You might be pondering why the wheat was going somewhere else or you may not care one bit.  Doesn’t matter, I’m telling anyway.  In the fall, a week or two before drilling season, the seed wheat needs cleaned.  Now you’re wondering what we’re drilling for.  Well, it’s not oil (unfortunately) or water.  That’s what planting wheat is called.  No, you cannot actually say "planting".  That brings dirty looks from lifelong wheat farmers.  They will promptly correct you and may consider you a bit of an idiot if they’ve had to explain it before.  Drilling involves pulling an implement called a drill (of all things) behind a tractor.  The drill makes thin ditches, the seed wheat falls into the ditches through tubes connected to a grain box and then is covered up by another part of the drilling implement.  I’ve never fully understood why we can’t call that planting, but I like a happy husband so I don’t ask anymore.  Now he's saying something about planting being more precise than drilling - okay fine.

Back to the business of cleaning wheat.  (Yay!)  There are no detergents or Merry Maids involved.  The wheat has to be cleaned to get out the bad stuff such as shriveled or broken grains, bug bits, evil weed seeds, dirt and other undesirables.  Naturally, this is not done by hand.  Small farmers, well tall farmers too I suppose, especially those on family farms, generally take their wheat to a grain cleaning facility at an elevator (grain elevator – not up & down type – then again…it moves the grain up at times and down at times, I guess that works too, but I digress…again.)  That sentence was entirely too long.  Apologies.  My fact checking husband notes there are traveling grain cleaners – large contraptions on semi trailers - that will clean wheat at your farm.  There.  He’s happy now.

our classic (old) wheat hauling truck

I started out intending to relay the various “jobs” this farmerwife winds up with.  Obviously I lost my way.  We’ll save that for another day.  Lord knows I need more ideas as it’s taken me almost two months to write again.

Happy seed wheat cleaning time!

Razing Memories

They tore it down today. I am so incredibly bummed it’s just silly. The air condition-less (at that time) dorm I mentioned in a previous post is no more. That old limestone monument to college days gone by is now just a pile of rubble. According to the experts it was decrepit & had to go – make room for the new style of housing the spoiled children need these days. I feel old. Well, I suppose to them I am old. I would’ve thought I was old if I saw me when I was in college.

Now it’s all about suites – adjoining rooms and a shared bathroom for too few students. How the heck are they supposed to get any character building done like that? We crammed clothes, shoes, pictures, makeup, hair products, cassette tapes (yes, cassette tapes), boom box, micro fan, illegal hot pot, overpriced school books, stuffed animals, ruffled bedspread, and high school memorabilia all into a room the size of your parents' bathroom. Plus - two twin beds, two creaky wooden desks, two creaky wooden chairs and a wall phone (no cell phones, no free long distance). I think there was a dresser too, but I’m not sure. There must’ve been because I don’t know where else we’d have kept our underwear. Funny how I can’t remember where I stored underwear in college. Anyway - You learned to live in cramped quarters and compromise without driving each other nuts. An excellent life lesson.

For two years my college buddies & I lived on the lowest level, otherwise known as “The Ghetto” and we were proud of it. Our doors were usually open & we’d wander in & out of rooms – staying to do homework, yak about boys/partying, or watch soap operas. It was usually necessary to leave your door open if you left to visit a Ghetto neighbor. This was so you could smell if the water boiled away in your illegal hot pot and the egg you were making started burning (or blew up).

You can end on that odoriferous note or read this one last mushy memory. Many evenings I ran up the stairs across from our room to the locked side door where my boyfriend (now husband) was banging on the door. Off we’d go in his illegally parked blue Grand Prix. The steps are gone. The heavy door is gone. So sad.

Photo by owner of illegally parked Grand Prix
(my dorm was behind him)

All we are is dust (or tomatoes) in the wind

Ages and eons ago, my best friend & I blew into this Kansas college town.  We were homesick Colorado chicks suffocating in a tiny dorm room with no air conditioning, 110-degree days and the last puny fan left in town.  And then there was the WIND.  Every. Single. Blasted. Day!  Unbelievably, you kind of get used to it.  I know this because about a week after we arrived, we were walking to class and something seemed odd.  We couldn't put a finger on it - what was so different that day?  It took us a good 5 minutes to realize the wind had stopped.

Wind has cost us shingles, a van window, a van door, a few random pieces of mail, a tree, and large sections of a heavy wood fence that wound up in the neighbor’s yard.  They called it straight-line winds – like a tornado, only it doesn’t go round and round.

All this wind makes gardening a challenge.  I, of course, garden.  I had what I would call average-ish gardens until we moved across town and gained a fabulous sunny garden with perfect soil.  Suddenly my garden was above average-ish.  I had tomatoes that grew full & tall - more surface for the wind to push around.  It was common for the wind to have blown over several of my plants, wire cages and all, by summer’s end.  Last year my husband had a brilliant idea - electrical conduit for tomato stakes.  So, I walked into the hardware store/lumber yard place and asked for electrical conduit.  As I was directed to the 10’ metal pipes, the sales guy asked if I needed whatever it is you usually need when you buy conduit. (He was more specific.)  I said, “No, I’m using them to stake tomato plants.”  Looking perplexed, he exclaimed, “Wow, you must grow killer tomatoes!”  I explained about the wind issue and this was my solution.  He seemed amused.  It wasn’t until I was hauling the conduit into the garage that I realized I hadn’t mentioned to him that I was cutting them in half.  Oops.

Oh, and they’ve worked great.  Excluding a tornado, I think I’ve conquered the wind on this one.

Recipe or horror movie?

In the summer my work hours start at 7 am. My husband is a night owl & my kids are typical teenagers. Summer means going to bed before my entire family, including the dog, and then getting up well before the entire family, including the dog. My intentions to maintain a decent schedule are a mere daydream by mid summer. The family entices me with movies or games or conversation. Rapscallions!

This reluctance to hit the hay means some mornings at my desk can become a slightly sleep-deprived haze. My task yesterday was to make a list of various policies needing additional proofing. So, I jotted my list and set it aside. Done for the day and home I went. At work this morning - I turn on the computer, check e-mails, chat with the ladies a bit and then it's time to go over the list. I spread my paperwork in front of me and scan down the list of policies, e.g. Severe Weather Policy, Travel Policy. About 2/3 through the list I read this: "Missing Student Casserole." I stare at it for a moment wondering if I just can't read my own handwriting, but there's no mistaking it reads "Casserole" instead of "Policy."

Seriously, could you read that and not burst into laughter? Thankfully, my coworkers shared in the joke. However, I think they may have tired of my occasional chuckling as I continued working on the list throughout the morning. At least it kept me awake!

Chiggers, Coyotes & Peas - Oh My! (or harvest 2010)

Harvest is the pinnacle of the farmer's year.  We recently finished harvest so I'll share a bit of it.  You should know that we live in town and our family farm is about 10 miles out with no house there anymore - just various buildings and machinery.

We have gained a farm cat who will need a new home sometime before winter. (husband is allergic) She's friendly, adorable and now has some meat between her skin & bones. Any takers?

A calm twilight after 2 days of wind & heat brings out the wildlife. A fat badger scurried away when I pulled into the farm that evening. Then, as I was finishing up cat visitation, some coyotes started howling & yipping unnervingly close (adrenaline rush/goose bumps.) I saw some hazy figures in the distance & quickly plopped the cat up in her tree and drove off. That's when I realized the figures were four deer observing me.

My 17 yr old daughter & I still both fit in the combine with Alan. Only now I can't see much in front of me & when we get out it takes awhile to walk normal again.

We can still all four fit in the big tractor, but it's humorous, especially when Becca knocks it out of gear with her overly expressive elbow.

Overheard while riding in the combine with Alan: 
My son asks via the CB (needing to know how soon his dad wants to dump on the grain cart) "How much wheat do you have out there?" 
dad - "A whole lot." 
son - "That is NOT helpful." 
dad - "I won't know until we finish this field." 
son - "Okay, can you now answer my question the way it was originally intended?"

Chiggers like me better than my son. A night without bug spray is painful, especially behind my knees. I guess I'm just sweeter.

Becca - "Why do they say farmwife? You married a farmer, not a farm."
Me - "It's kinda' like housewife."
Becca - "Except you didn't marry a houser."

Mother/son entertainment during a field supper - try to land Alec's hat on each other's heads until Alan snatches it & tosses it into the ditch.

Becca - "They make pink John Deere shirts. Why can't they make a pink John Deere?"
(yes, she was joking)

I am driven by one ultimate goal each night: Keep all the hot food hot until the last man eats!

Me to my Pop-in-law: "Want some peas?"
Al - "Oh my, that was too much last night. I still have that great big cup in the fridge"
Me (louder) - "I said PEAS, NOT TEA."

Next day to my Pop-in-law (handing him lunch): "There's a cookie in there too"
Al - "What???" & looks at me like I'm nuts
Me - "A COOKIE"
Al laughing - "Oh, I thought you said a turkey."
(I love him - hearing challenged & all.)

Al - "Those are some real good pork chops!"
     No joke here, I just love to impress him : ] 

The men I cook for: one prefers handheld food, one wants all hot home cooking (my hubby-he wins), one loves fruit and hates sweets and another hates fruit and loves sweets. It's a challenge I relish - at least for one week out of the year.

Farmers generally have names for each field - often after whatever family used to own it or you still rent from, or by the closest road or town. Two of ours are super clever - the furthest east one is "Over East" and the newest one, which is the now the furthest west is - yup - "Over West"

I have a good guess how many miles to each field, but directions tend to sound more like this: drive north, turn left at the black top, turn right at the feedlot, turn left at the road that goes by the water tower. Once you go past the really big tree that hangs over the road in a low spot - you're almost there.

And I'll end with my version of the farmer wave. -Innn- (One finger lifted casually off the steering wheel - okay it's a skinny, short finger, but you get the idea)