Greetings!

I love Christmas cards.

I love writing them out and thinking of the dear ones I'm sending happy greetings to. I know it's more efficient to print out labels to put on the envelopes, or even have printed envelopes done but I like handwriting the names and addresses.  As I script "Victoria, Australia" or "Sharon, Massachusetts" I'm reminded how rich my life is...and how friends (AND family) can be found anywhere, any time in life. 

I like going to the post office with a big old wad of cards to stamp. I know, too, that postage can be printed at home, but I like having the postmaster fan out my stamp options and being able to choose (and discuss my choice) with her.  We chat as I put the postage on each and every card, then they're slid across the counter in a pile to be posted and begin their journey.

I think one of the happiest parts of Christmas is getting the mail and finding more cards than junk or bills. We open them greedily, pour over the pictures and carefully read the letters tucked inside.  Later in the afternoon, when everyone is busy with other pursuits, I make a cup of tea and re-read them, amazed at "how those kids have grown" and "when did they get old".  

This year, I noticed too many names crossed out in the address book.  Jake and Grandma Esther Frank...I miss getting their card, with Grandma's note about the weather and hoping the winter was going well for us feeding cows.  Grandpa Bud's name isn't on the card I send to the Curran house in Miles City. I can't find Vickie Harris anywhere, but oh how I'd love for her to see how the kids are turning out.  

There are new addresses, though, too. I probably need to get an address book JUST for Jeremy Aumaugher's family; we have had a new zip code every year for the past 5 years I think!  Retiring friends, new friends, friends' KIDS who are now sending cards from their own grown-up home...

I just finished writing out the last of our cards for 2014, so they won't be in mailboxes until after Christmas day. As I wrapped the rubber band around the fat stack, I was thinking about the people who read my blog. Some of you get cards from me, but many don't, simply because I have no idea who's reading!  Here's our Christmas card this year:

You can print it out, stick it on your fridge, draw mustaches on it...whatever.

But at least you got one!

I found this quote in Beverly Cleary's brilliant book "Ramona the Pest".
It fits perfectly with this picture of Maggie and her strong-willed, adventurous friend Cece! (Birds of a feather, really.) And it also fits how I feel most days.

I know.

It's not Christmas-y or winter-y in the least.

We'll all get over that, I'm sure....

Joy To My World

I have to tell you....

this has been a season of worry, uncertainty, fear, and stress. 

We're living a good life, truly.  We have a cozy home, good food, great health, loving friends and family. (Ooo! And new furniture, thanks to Daisy and Rosie whose steer calves we sold this fall during a strong market!) But right now there's change that is a little bewildering, so we're living in reactionary mode rather than proactive planning mode. 

Today was a gift.

This morning, I was praying for joy.  ANY joy. A good shot of joy. 

Okay. A double shot of joy, neat...not even on the rocks, okay?  

(There will be some who have to look that reference up.  Don't judge when you do, okay? It really has been that sort of year.)

And God served it up with a festive cocktail napkin. 

I somehow managed to get a hair appointment with my old friend in Miles City in a last minute call. I haven't had a hair cut or color since June...and there was healing to be done, here, on a couple levels. 

We didn't ship or move any cows this morning, rendering the appointment null and void.

(At Lang's Fork Inc. that's a cotton-picking miracle.  No matter when I schedule an appointment, there will be one of these events occurring. Guaranteed.)

My "town jeans" fit AND WERE CLEAN!

Another miracle.

I was listening to the radio thinking that "Old Dogs and Children, and Watermelon Wine" is one of my very favorite songs, when 3 minutes later it played.  I'm not kidding. 

"I was sittin' in Miami, pouring blended whiskey down, when this old grey, black gentleman was sweeping up the lounge..." One of the best jobs of songwriting I know, preceded only by Tom T. Hall's "I Love".  (The man was brilliant. And why do we not have these sorts of songs now? It's all "Shake It For Me, Baby" junk...) But I digress...

I found the non-grocery things on the list without going to Walmart.

God is good.

(Break into the "Hallelujah chorus" here...)

In a completely random dash into Albertson's, I ran into non other than the great Sally Hagedorn (mother of one of my best pals) and we had 20 minutes of sweet sharing in which I found out that she had gone to ITALY...of the Sistine Chapel, Tuscany, and so forth...and secured a couple hugs. (Sara Hagedorn Calvert, you've got some 'splainin' to do...)

Shortly thereafter, I saw my brother Barry in Reynolds Grocery for the first time in two years and was able to give him a hug and visit for about 5 uncomfortable minutes. (We're not close. This was another miracle.) 

The checker and boxer at Reynolds asked about my kids, and not because they were glad the children weren't there.  That was heart warming! (Reynolds is where I get hugs from the checkers, too.  I love that place.)

The hair appointment was filled with laughter, hugs, inspiration and....gosh, I'm thrilled...lots of hair color!  And yes, healing of an old friendship. 

I returned home to find there are no dead cows, the house didn't burn down despite the tree and crockpot, everyone is STILL healthy and happy, and there isn't any staining on the new furniture.

A whole mess of joy, plopped down in my lap and on my head, blessings abounding!

Joy to the world.

At least joy to MY world.

*fist bump with God*

A Wild Yarn

My friend Elise bought a knitting book several years ago with the most hilarious, hideous sweater patterns to make for men.  The patterns themselves could probably have been made a little more classy by using different yarns, actually, but the models used to display the sweaters were beyond redemption.  Truly.  Every one of them was posed in such a way that we could just tell they had been talked into this particular modelling gig by someone they owed lots of money to, because there was no possible way for them to pull off "sexy beast" and "my sister knit this for me" at the same time (which seemed to be what the pattern designers were going for).  

As we sat in the park and looked through the book, we laughed until tears were in our eyes, each picture funnier than the last!  And ever since then, we've been looking for the same sorts of patterns and pictures for each other...kind of like unbelievable JELL-O recipes; so awful you can't look but you can't stop looking.  

I think I finally have enough images that I can make up the calendar of sweater centerfolds that we've been planning.  I plan on hanging mine in the living room like a piece of art. You know, similar to a velvet Elvis; everyone will see it, but no one will say anything because it's impossible to come up with anything that really does it justice. 

As a teaser, I'm going to post a few NEVER BEFORE REVEALED IMAGES here, so that you can see what still cracks us up:

As if the peach and mint green cap sleeve sweater wasn't enough, the polyester pants demand a pose that makes you squirm uncomfortably at the viewing of the whole mess...

Interpretive dance should probably never be used to sell sweater patterns for men.

Belted sweaters seemed to be easier to carry off, especially if one didn't have to pose with any other models.  (We have much better belted sweater images. I didn't want to shock you TOO much before the calendar came out...) I was hoping to catch a glimpse of a Star Wars guy in the background of this set, but no such luck.

I think she's grinning because she won a fantasy football bet in which these guys had to wear the sweaters for a week in Lukenback, Texas or something.  

I cannot come up with a single person, male or female, that I'd gift with a granny square tank top...even the ones that I'm not feeling so charitable toward right now.  No one deserves that sort of abuse. 

(But these models seem completely tickled with their wardrobe at the moment! There may have been a cocktail party just before the photos to ease the pain.  I don't know.)

Here's that "look" I was talking about....he's not happy, Bob; not happy. 

The best for last...

Elise hasn't seen this one!  

The photographer was obviously in a hurry to wrap up the shoot because he didn't give this poor chap time to put on his polyester double knit wide-legged pants! (He DID manage to snag a sexy hat, probably hoping to draw attention away from...*ahem*....and it almost worked.) 

Gives one a whole new perspective on knitting, doesn't it?!

Won't this be a great calendar?

And a year long testament to twisted friends forever...

Beulah Claus

Every December (and many days in between), I think of Beulah Brown...oh, how I miss her!

She was an elegant little woman who had the gift of knowing a child's heart and enchanting them at every turn. Married to Bill Brown Sr., a "cattle baron" (to me, at the time) that my Dad worked for from when I was four years old until I was seven or eight, she was the resident ranch grandma...but a more glamorous grandma than we'd ever encountered in our short lives.  My brother, sister and I were the only ranch "babies", thereby doted on and completely spoiled, not only by Beulah but also the Brown kids who were teenagers at the time. 

But Beulah...

She always seemed completely delighted that we'd shown up, as though she'd been waiting for us all week.  And indeed she may have been, because her candy drawer (at kid level) was always full and free choice to any child who might show up. She ALSO had those squatty little half-cans of Coca-Cola for us (instead of plain old water) and she'd pour them over ICE.  We were so important (and wired) that you couldn't stand us. I'm certain that if she'd had a supply for little umbrellas, we'd have had those in our Cokes, too. (Mom talks about getting after us for grazing through the candy drawer and Beulah got after HER.  That was OUR drawer.) Isn't that marvelous?! 

Beulah had a guest room with two twin beds where we slept if we stayed overnight. Everything in the room was blue (even the TISSUES) and everything matched.  For us kids, it was like spending the night in a castle or something. There were soaps in the bathroom that were shaped like shells. She had TELEVISION and we were allowed to watch it!  She had a whole pile of toys that we were allowed to drag out at our pleasure, even if we were only going to be there for 15 minutes. 

I have so many happy memories of the years we spent at Brown's. My Dad worked very hard, I know that, and our "bunkhouse" was pretty shabby now that I see pictures of it, but there were things like ranch Christmas parties, a quonset dance, the hired men and Brown kids pulling our saucer sled behind the pickup all morning one Christmas, and Beulah.

I don't know how old we were when THE Christmas happened....I think I may have been about 5...and it was as though Santa had scripted it for us kids.  We always had Christmas Eve in our family because my Dad said that he always hated having to wait for gifts until Christmas morning and when HE was a grown up, HE'D open presents on Christmas EVE. (Bless his heart, he still can't wait.  I love that.) So, after stockings on Christmas morning, we were bundled up and drove the short, short way to Bill and Beulah's house, much to our surprise. 

Beulah had a huge tree in her A-frame, sunken 1960's (modern in the 70s!) living room, and it was decorated like they do in department stores....perfect and sparkly.  She led us down the three carpeted steps and across the room to the tree and showed us the presents under the tree.  

The presents that all had our names on them. 

A LOT of presents.

Beulah and the Brown kids had played Santa for us three, and they were so excited to see us have Christmas that morning!  

I know there's a photo in my Mom's album with us sitting in front of the tree with our loot.  We have a slightly dazed look, as kids who'd just had their socks blessed off would have.  

It wasn't the gifts, though. 

It was the complete unexpectedness of dear people thinking of us as family and delighting in our surprise. 

It was the validation that Santa really did exist, that magic happened, and we KNEW it.  We knew we were loved and that our parents and grandparents would have gifts for us.  We never imagined that there would be Santa elsewhere. 

Beulah's birthday was in December, either the 9th or the 10th, I can't remember because her husband Bill Sr.'s birthday was either the 9th or 10th, too, and they celebrated together...as my Dad and Karen do in June with the same dates!  

I don't think it was any coincidence that one of the kindest, most generous souls I've known was born in the month that is known for love and joy. 

And I can't wait to get to Heaven to find Beulah, hug her tight, and go straight to the candy drawer which will be right at my height, full of my favorite chocolates, and no such thing as "no more".

*In a funny memory, my baby brother was just learning to talk when we moved to Brown's and he wanted to marry "Booz" when he grew up. He couldn't say "Beulah", so she was "Booz"....and at age 2-3, he couldn't imagine a more perfect woman.*

And they lived happily ever after...

This is not the truth.
This ending came about because the storyteller, having woven an amazing tale of good vs. evil, heros and villains, princesses who originate humbly and rise by virtue and good luck to royal statuses, wraps up the saga with those iconic words of finale because they flat can't come up with anything more at the time.  They've got nothin'.  So they proclaim that all lived "happily ever after" and toddle off to make a bologna sandwich with a big glass of milk.

It's not true, of course.

It's sort of a lazy, slap-down-the-ending, we're-done-here,-folks, don't-worry-your-cute-little-head ending to a story that sticks with kids for a long time.  This is rough, because kids want MORE!  We ALL want MORE!

(This is how Disney makes their dough...Lion King, 1 1/2, 3, 14, etc.)

Really, though...
Cinderella STILL had a veddy ticked off step mother and sisters, not to mention the new in-laws.
Sleeping Beauty lost how many years?  When she was LAST awake, it was wax seals on parchment letters; today, instant messages and Twitter.
Goldilocks? That chick will have recurring nightmares about bear beds after hibernation, don't you know?

And the list goes on.

I don't mind fairy tales...
Truly, I don't.
I like the clear black-n-white good vs. evil examples.
I like that commoners can accidentally or by good luck become kings and queens.
I like the tiaras.
:)
And I like that girls feel beautiful when they put on a crown, that boys feel brave and noble when they pick up a sword...or shovel to kill a rattlesnake.  I like the crafty old crones who are witches, because they aren't just hanging out in the nursing home, waiting for their lukewarm tapioca pudding.

But I have always felt very unsatisfied with
"And they lived happily ever after!"

I'd really like something more along the lines of:
"And they lived through the ever after; working hard, embracing the day, finding love and grace especially when they didn't deserve it, with good, strong coffee to motivate them every morning! Their adventures, big and small, are another story for another time..."

NOW you can make a bologna sandwich.

Spoiled Child

Second generation of spoiled children, that is...

My Aunt Bert sewed wonderful things for my siblings and me, sometimes clothes, sometimes toys. (I still have the black elephant she made for me when I was 6!)

This last year, since she's "retired", she's been designing and sewing clothes for her grand nieces.  They get to choose the fabrics according to the style of the dress, then....voila!....a unique, personal dress that suits the lucky girl who gets it in the mail! 

I don't know if you can see (or if you care) but Maggie has a fondness for Amy Butler fabrics; very modern and hip fabric designer that only licenses a precious few designs each year. 

I'm glad she recognizes good design in fabrics and that Aunt Bert has good taste in patterns for the eclectic choices of cloth! 

And because Maggie has done some sewing for 4H projects, she appreciates the amount of work that goes into these garments.  She and Bert are a great team!  

In defense...

And we grow up....

(I wrote this several months ago and found it in my "drafts" folder. )
(Who KNOWS what's lurking there, right?)

Today I went to a high school classmate's dad's funeral/visitation.

This is something grown ups do, something I didn't think I'd ever have to muster up and gracefully attend.  This is what my folks are supposed to do....comfort the hurting friends, deliver casseroles, talk about 25 years ago in high school...

But here we are.

My high school classmates are now grandparents, losing their parents, retiring in seven years, taking high blood pressure medication.  

We're the grown ups!  

When did THAT happen?!  

For some reason, we 19 are coming back together after 25 years, now.

Getting each other's addresses.

Forming fantasy football leagues with each other. (And kicking each other's butts therewithin.)

Calling each other on birthdays. Not just the "big ones". 

Heck, celebrating TOGETHER on birthdays!

Challenging one another in fitness and personal growth goals. 

Talking politics and religion and how the world is going to hell in a hand basket.

Admiring each other's receding hairlines, greying beards and temples, sharing tips about hormonal changes.  

They're so DEAR to me, these people who knew me when I didn't even know myself! 

It was oddly poignant to step outside after visiting my classmate and friend to see the GCDHS homecoming parade going by. It's the 100th year of our high school, so each class and organization did a specific decade for their float.  I don't know who did the 1980's, but they really needed help from someone other than Wikipedia.  Really.  NO ONE on the float had leg warmers or big bangs or parachute pants or those big combs in their back pockets or Bon Jovi music or ANYTHING.  But they tried really hard and threw homemade brownies.  

Monday, my Aunt Bert and I will travel to Lewistown to visit one of her high school classmates from the 1960's...I want to say 67, but I might be wrong.  They're at almost 50 years of friendship.  What richness!  

Do you think kids from small towns are closer and keep in touch better than other places?  

Is Montana exceptional this way, because we have so few people?

AND....this is my biggest question....
do they whitewash rocks in the initial of their town and year of graduation on the sides of hills in towns other than Montana?!?  

Feed Cows?

When Angus was quite little (maybe three years old), he'd inquire conversationally of his father over every lunch, "So...how was your day? Feed cows?".  I think he got tired of just asking what his dad had done that morning (and it was ALWAYS "fed cows") so he just took care of business right away. Even now, when the kids get off the bus in the afternoon, I'll ask them how their day was and "Feed cows?" which is our code for "Everything pretty much the same thing?"

This winter, I've been given a little bunch of cows to feed every morning!  They're last year's first calving heifers, only now they're really big girls....coming threes!  

I put the kids on the bus first thing, then go over to the Big House to get my wretched white feed pickup that no one else wants to drive.  It's a six speed never-in-the-right-gear diesel machine with no emergency brake so if I park on any sort of slope at all (in neutral, of course) it rolls away.  This means that in order to open the gate on the hay corral, I have to put it in Granny, then shut it completely off so it doesn't merrily take off down the hill. (Granny is the slowest, lowest gear...at least that's what my dad called it.)  

The Beast has a good radio (for which I'm eternally grateful) and I can get KGHL on AM which is the radio station my Dad always listened to when he fed and I rode along. "Tradio" is on while I'm feeding...a radio show where people can phone in if they have something to sell or are looking for something to buy.  Usually it's guns, household items, the random puppies, but this morning there was a free fresh deer hide for anyone who wanted it, AND the opportunity to get (also free) old hens if you were willing to go catch them.  KGHL plays classic old country music, so when it's not Tradio, it's Ray Price and Patsy Cline as the soundtrack to my morning.

Here's my good help:

Here's why she loves to go feediing cows:

Bunnies live at the haystack.

Really DUMB bunnies.

And they run deliciously fast and sneaky like!

The Beast has a hydraulic bale bed on it, so I can lift the bale onto the back of the pickup without having to have a tractor.  (Please note the fact that the arms are almost perfectly centered in on an imperfectly round bale. If they AREN'T centered, the bale won't unroll well and the feeder person will end up pushing it down a hill by hand.  I'm thrilled to have this placement documented for all the world to see, because I have to run controls inside the pickup, looking in the mirrors and over my shoulder out the back window to get it placed and loaded. This was a fine moment for me!)
(And yes, I had to shut the pickup off to take this picture so it wouldn't roll.)
(Like my father-in-law's eyes if he sees this particular blog post, bless his heart...)

 Often times, when I lift a bale I end up exposing a hidden, dumb bunny which results in happy yipping and a good chase while I close the gate.

 Here are my girls:

 This happens to be the bunch with my heifer Rosie and Maggie's heifer Lucky who you will see in the following picture.

We noticed a funny thing about the cow named Lucky....the sum of the numbers on her tag (223) ends up being lucky 7!  She's easy to pick out of this herd because she's the only one with a white beard, as Maggie says.

This is what the bale looks like when it's all unrolled.

(They're suspicious of me taking all these pictures. Something's up, but they don't know what...)

I also check their water every day to make sure it's not frozen over and look to see if they have plenty of salt'n'minral (sic). 

Then I return the Beast to the main house and resume my day if they don't need me to feed any other bunches that day. 

This day went pretty quickly because I didn't have to fight a lot of snow or mud, and the water wasn't frozen over necessitating me chopping and scooping ice out of the tank. 

It's a pretty good way to start the day! If you want to come ride along, I'd love the company...

Confession #422

I fell out of love with Downton Abby when Matthew died.
*whew. there, I said it*

I was Downton before Downton was cool, Just as the rest of the world started really plugging in and watching Season 1 and 2 to catch up, really.  And I still watch it....I just don't LOVE it.

BUT...
I'm devouring this show entitled "Call the Midwife".
It's set in the east end of London (very poor neighborhoods) in the 1950s and is based on a real, true midwife's memoirs. The midwives live with nuns at a place called Nonantes House and work side by side with them to care for mothers, babies and community.  It's just a dear show, saved from being schmaltzy by having realistically flawed characters and a sense of nostalgia, not sugar. The producers have taken great pains to ensure historical and cultural accuracy, right down to the way the nuns knit....continental as opposed to the odd American style.  The music is 1950s wonderful, interspersed with holy vespers sung by the nuns.
I cry with happiness and anguish, nearly every episode...

Here's the cast from Season 1




My guilty show is "Selfridges" which is about an insanely charismatic, marketing genius who started the first department store in London around the turn of the century. (Yes. They're BOTH set in London.  It's BBC!) He's rather a philanderer but has a fair, decent heart so I forgive him as I'm bawling him out while I watch.  This one is about to go the way of Downton Abby, I'm afraid, so it may only be one of my favorites for one more season...
Oh! It's based on a real person, too!  I watched a documentary on Harry Selfridge and the t.v. show seems to be taking pains to stay true to his story.  (Really, he was such a character that they didn't really HAVE to make anything up.)

Sometimes I get all lost in the fashion and setting details of both shows, missing big chunks of the plot in trying to figure out what china pattern they're using or taking notes in my head on the cut of a gown. (You know. Because I'm very likely to sew my own walking suit...*sarcastic sigh*)

AND....
(yes...there's MORE)
in January, I'll be starting the Australian show "Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries".
It should be deliciously wicked and NOT set in London. (Melbourne, I think.)

Now you know.

Sorting

Today was one of the hardest days of the year for me.
It's one of many because as the writer of the Momastery blog, Glennon Melton, explains, there are some people who are just "much-y".  We feel happy too "much-y", we feel worry too "much-y", we feel sadness too "much-y".
I think it's wiring.

Other hard days include:
Sending my kids to school in August. (I only had them for 3 months! I want more time!)
The last day it's humanely possible to fly fish in the year.
Any day I have to go to the dentist.
Most holidays. (Oh, the PRESSURE...)
And the day we sort bred heifers for sale.

Today we sorted bred heifers, choosing which ones to sell and which ones to keep to calve out in March.

Someone else is going to calve 60 of our girls this spring and the thought of it nearly puts me down.

I KNOW we can't keep them all! I know this. We don't have the time, man-power or resources (feed and pasture) to calve and keep them. And cows are worth so much this fall....selling the bred heifers at these prices is fiscally brilliant.

But....
it's not just THIS year that the sort and sale affects.
As we go through these girls and cut numbers "bye" or "catch", I see ten years of ranching in each of them.
Ten years of production.
Ten years of calvings, brandings, vaccinatings, shippings, winter feedings.
In farming, it's year to year.  You don't plant this year?  You can plant next year. It's a short term decision.
In ranching, with cows, each sale or retention essentially affects 10 years. Theoretically, each of these heifers could produce calves for 10 years.  Probably there would be 80 percent of them that would do so, with good management of bulls and nutrition.

So as I stand at the gate, watching the "bye" girls trot past, I see 10 years in each of them.
I always, always, ALWAYS fear we're cutting too deep.
One year that Langs Fork Inc. decided to sell extra bred heifers in order to save resources during a bad winter (smart!), I ended up crying while pleading with my father-in-law not to sell so many.
I was worried that in a few years our numbers would be too low, and besides, they were beautiful heifers. Beautiful young cows!
The truth of the matter is that our numbers could have been too low due to death loss because there wasn't enough feed for all the cows. Or to the loss of calves because we couldn't keep up with the babies in the storms that would have died to exposure.
It was absolutely the right thing to do.
I cried for two days, in the shower, sad at the sale of those heifers.

Now I know that it's just my weakness.
I almost can't bear to part with bred heifers.
There's so much hope with each of these girls! I can't stand the thought that someone else will calve them out in March!
Sentimentality is a rotten trait for anyone in ranching to have, and I know this to the core.  I appreciate there are men who make these decisions that I just need to show up in the corral to implement, because I'm not to be trusted with the bred heifers.
I'd keep them all.

(In fact, I was seriously contemplating using the money from my two steer calves this fall to buy 007's bred heifer calf because I've been watching her heifers for years...they're always nice and they're always bred when we preg test.  But she was one of the keepers so that's good.  We'll use the money for a new couch, instead.)

I'm comforted by the fact that Daisy's heifer, Violet, will be here this spring and is due to have a bull calf! Along with 007 (Jane Bond), Daisy produces good heifers and I'm excited for Violet's calf in March.

What Every Mother Sees When She Watches a Game

HER kid is the only one she focuses on...

For Your Shivery Enjoyment...

We live in a tough country.  One has only to look at a map of Eastern Montana to realize that the first people to settle here must have had a horrible time of it, just by what they named land features.  We have Hell Creek, Devil's Creek, Frozen Dog Creek, Skunk Arroyo, Deadman Road. (In fact, many of the faithful have "Hell Creek" on their baptism record.  That always makes me smile!)

One of the places we drive past on the highway to Miles City is Deadman Road.  We've seen it all our lives and so don't think much about it, but one evening in my bookclub someone happened to wonder out loud why it would have been named that.  A little discussion ensued and this tale came out of it, given by a person who had been in the area long enough that we trusted her as a source:

One night, when cars were not reliable at all and there was no such thing as phone service in this part of Montana, a couple was driving home on the road in some tough weather.  The car broke down, but the man knew where they were and told his companion to stay in the car, that he would walk to the nearest place for help.
(You can see where this is going, can't you?  I still get the shivers, just typing it.)
In order to fully appreciate how scary this was for the lady who was left behind, you need to know that it's still one of the most remote regions in the lower 48, and when you're alone on the prairie with the wind blowing, you're REALLY alone.  As alone as you'll ever be in your life.
As I remember the story that was told, the man had been gone some time when she heard terrible screams in the distance...ungodly screams.  She locked all the doors of the car and hunkered down as low as she could, and I'm sure prayed her heart out.
The next day, the man's body was found high in a tree with no clue as to how it could possibly have gotten there.

I don't know if this is a true story or not, but it's a wickedly scary one to ponder when we drive by the sign in the night on our way north to Cohagen.

(If anyone has more details or accurate story, please leave a comment!)

I'd Clean My Oven For You

In the last couple years, there have been reverse-snob remarks and memes that proudly proclaim that "you're the friend I'd have at my house when I'm wearing yoga pants with my hair all a frizzle and the dog is throwing up on the hall carpet with the kids stringing up their stuffed animals and the toothbrushes by the kitchen sink."

Well, isn't THAT a complimentary picture?!

I understand that the idea is that we'd be good enough friends that you'd forgive that sort of thing and roll with it, but I just can't go down that road. 

My dear, if we are truly good friends....

I'd clean my oven for you.  

You won't have to look at that coffee cake and wonder if some black remnants of meals gone wrong in the past have sifted down while it was baking.  

I love you that much.

I'd shower for you. 

I may not have time for that sort of "luxury" today because I've been moving cows with my husband all day, the kids are whining because they're HUNGRY (again. still.) and the dog is looking ill, but I'd do it for you.

I love you that much.

I'd make fresh coffee for you.

Even though the coffee in the pot is perfectly good; it's three hours old and the charm is gone.  There are grounds in the bottom of the cup I poured 15 minutes ago.  It's tough.

I love you that much.

I'd find a clean hand towel for you.

They're at a premium some days.  I think the Farmer thinks they're "rags" because we haven't bought a new one since we got married 15 years ago and these are looking rahther shabby.  The kids used two of them in the maternity box with the last batch of kittens we had.  But I'd find one for you.

I love you that much.

I'd clean off the front seat of my car for you.

It's the "junk drawer" of automobiles....with my fencing gloves, homework slips to sign, a couple water bottles, four-leaf clover earrings, sombrero from the fiesta two years ago...  

I'll sweep it off for you.

I love you that much.  

I'd dust the t.v. for you.

I'd bring out the real china for you, not just the Chinette.

I'd blow dry my hair for you. 

I'd sweep the deck for you.

I'd make the pizza dough that takes 36 hours to cure.

I love you that much.

(If you were at my house and NONE of these things were done (except the fresh coffee), please know that it wasn't because I don't love you.  It was because I just didn't have time.  

Was the bathroom not a place you contemplated your last panel of shots?  Love.

Did you feel comfortable going barefoot in my home?  Love.

Homemade cookies?  Love.

Big hugs through tears? Love.)

I don't want to get to the point I don't invite or welcome people at my house because it's not "perfect" or because I'm not "perfect", but I want you to know that it's sort of a big deal if...

I'd clean my oven for you. 

Are You Ranch Wife Material?

I happened to stumble on a little quiz today for women dating (or aspiring to date) a rancher.
Of COURSE I took it!

But I was a little baffled by a few of the questions.

For example:

Would you rather A.) Eat out  or B) Have home-cooked meal?
Any current ranch wife would choose A,
We're the ones who make the home-cooked meals, three times a day.  Dang straight, we'd rather eat out!

What is your favorite color?  A.) Turquoise or B.) Black
Um....the ACTUAL correct answer would be C.) Green.
Green like grass, alfalfa, John Deere and (this is so obvious) MONEY....which comes if you have an adequate supply of the first three things mentioned in the same breath.

Do you highlight your hair?  A.) Yes  or B.) No
The correct answer is A.) Yes.  But not always in a salon.  Ranch wives get highlights in their hair by actually being out in the sun many hours.  And silver "highlights" from working cows with their husband and/or father-in-law.

Do you like to vacation in the summer?  A.) Yes  or B.) No
Who DOESN'T?
It's just that our "summer vacations" usually have a parts pick up involved or delivery of cows to a sale barn.  They're really more "stay-cations", but we'll take what we can get. Especially if we get to eat out while we're there.
*In a funny side note: on my way back from Tour de Friends 2014, I got a call while in Belgrade that my friend and cousin needed a swather part from the New Holland dealer there.  Could I maybe pick it up for them? Well, sure!*


A more comprehensive quiz would include the following questions:

1. Can you cook?

1.a. For more than 6 people in one meal?

1.b. With no recipe and only 5 incompatible ingredients?

1.c. In 30 minutes, after working cows with your husband and 4 neighbors all morning?


2. Can you handle "flexible" schedules?

2.a. "Flexible" meaning: immediately going from town clothes to corral clothes?

2.b. With the distinct possibility of having to go to town in the corral clothes for vaccine?

2.c. Or pick up herbicide chemical, because THAT plan changed, too, in the last 15 minutes?


3. Are you good with animals?

3.a. Like snakes in your flower bed?

3.b. Or skunks on the front step?

3.c. Or mice who try to sizzle up your coverall leg in the barn/granary/feed store?

BONUS: Or bulls in your yard in the middle of the night?


4. Do you like people?

4.a. Specifically, the 25 people who live in your community?

4.b. MORE specifically, the 25 people who live in your community who will know when you go to town, feed your cats, how you voted in the last 3 elections, secret ingredient in your potluck meatballs and what your mother's maiden name is?

4.c. All the people in a 150 mile radius that will come racing when your grass is on fire, attend your wedding and funeral, bring casseroles when you have surgery, spend $700 on your kid's 4H cake at the fair, put your cows in when they're out on the highway?


5. Are you good with numbers?

5.a. Numbers of cows counted as they streamed through the gate 3=4 at a time?

5.b. Numbers on parts you're supposed to pick up from John Deere that may or may not contain the letter (trick!) z or n?

5.c. Numbers that the guy who called for your husband gave you that will affect your life because it has to do with the price per pound of your calves, way to reach the cattle buyer in the next 3 states for the next 2 days, truck driver that will show up on the pre-determined date to pick up those calves and alternate dates there-in.


6,  Are you susceptible to falling in love with long eyelashes and knobby kneed babies?

6.a. Even when they're in your pickup truck on the floor?

6.b. And poop on the door of that same pickup truck?

6.c. In March, when there's a freak spring storm that dumps 8 inches of snow in 6 hours, then drops to =10 degrees not counting windchill?


7.  Do you have a high tolerance to pain?

7.a. Where you may tear your ACL and continue to work for another 8 hours?

7.b. Then the next day, drive yourself to the doctor 82 miles away, with a grocery list and parts to pick up?

7.c. And blame yourself for the whole damned mess?



If you managed to answer "yes" to 18 of those questions, you're nuts.
And potential ranch wife material, at least for a few years, bless your brave heart!

If you ditched the quiz 3.4 questions in, I applaud your intelligence and decisiveness...
but pity your lack of adventurous spirit and ability to roll with punches.

(It should be mentioned that some of the most unlikely aspects make the best ranch wives, simply because they don't have any idea of what they're getting into and just plough in with everything they've got.  I'm friends with some of these brave girls and will never cease to admire their chutzpah in a profession that takes strong women down daily.)

Take Me Home...

The kids and I went to the Big Dry country on Monday to see the folks and my (step...because the distinction is important to some) sister Meghan, who was spending a couple days on her way to a conference in North Dakota.  

The little white dot in the center of the picture is home....nestled on the creek by those matronly cottonwood trees who put on their gaudy best before settling into stately grey, black and white for another 6 months.  

 The Men.

They were supervising the graveling project Dad had going on around the new pens.  

I call this one "The Board of Directors".  

 Angus and his friends...

(Check out that nice fence!)

Discussing important matters, such as how Doc (the horse she loves with all her heart) missed her and needed her to come back and ride....

This is a very Dutton-y picture of my Dad. 

I love that. 

On the Hay Creek road, driving home from Miles...

Up that same road, headed straight north...

Mirror pictures mess with my head, but are so neat...we see where we're going and where we've been, all at the same time; the life perspective we need but can never manage to capture.

Red pears in the morning...

the last color of fall before the winter greys.

Oh, how I soak it up!

Time In

When I was about eleven years old, something or someone inspired my mom to load me up in our crew cab dually pickup one day to take me to town to play junior high basketball.  I don't remember her really talking to me about it, although I'm sure she did; it just seemed like it was out of the blue. To my recollection, we'd never attended a basketball game and we didn't have television, so I'd never really watched it being played...except goof-ball at school on play day.

I DO remember her making sure I had sweatpants and tennis shoes, an odd, uncomfortable wardrobe change for a girl who basically lived in jeans and cowboy boots.  

I also remember the terrifying feeling of not knowing anyone there and being completely intimidated by the size of the gym and noise.  I didn't know what was going to happen, what was expected of me, or why Mom didn't stay.  And I was the only one there in sweatpants, everyone else being clad in shorts and tee shirts.  I was really tall for my age, nearly 5 foot 4 inches I think, by then, but not coordinated in any way.  I was ALSO a book worm who was basically scared to death of people. 

All I'll tell you about the rest of the experience is that I couldn't figure out which scrimmage team I was on, who I was supposed to "guard", what I was supposed to do with the ball the one time I got it, dribbling didn't happen for me, and that when I was walking back uptown with my sister later, Wayne Shawver rode by on his uber cool bike and called us "Cattle Annie and Little Britches."  It was an apt description, actually.

Mom asked me on the way home how it went and I told her I didn't like it, but I felt bad about that because I knew it cost money to drive in and time that seemed wasted for HER.  

We tried it one more session with the same results and never went back.  (Incidentally, both my younger siblings loved the game and were really good at it!)

This fall, one of the other moms at Cohagen sent me information about junior high basketball in Jordan for 5th and 6th graders.  She indicated that both the other "big" girls from our school were going and wondered if we'd thought of sending Maggie.  

And so, it's time.

We got her sports physical yesterday afternoon, along with a very professional looking pair of Nike basketball shoes and three pairs of shorts. I had polled three friends, two moms and a dad, about what the cool kids are wearing to basketball practices these days, hoping to at LEAST avoid the wardrobe embarrassment.  

The moms replied that as long as it was basic and black, we were good to go.  

The dad had nothing, really, except that Maggie'd get 5 fouls a game and that she shouldn't take any home with her.   

When I told her this, she said, "What's a foul?" 

Her coach truly has a tabula rasa with this one. 

The biggest concern for Mags right now (and I think she's losing sleep over it...) is that they MIGHT have a game on Halloween night.  

This is a legitimate concern that has both of us reconsidering our commitment to this venture.

There's 364 days between Helen Green's popcorn balls and we're not willing to make it 788.  

I mean, we all know my kid's not going to play WNBA ball, right? 

In all seriousness, I hope she has a great experience in basketball, even if it's just for one year.  

I hope she has a good time with girls her age, learning to work together for a common goal, building each other up in encouragement. I hope she learns enough about basketball to be able to enjoy watching it and playing HORSE on the playground.  

I hope the other basketball moms don't call me Cattle Annie.

*Practice starts Monday, so updates to follow!

Pink Perspect-acles

I write most of these posts in my head, riding the four wheeler behind whatever bunch of cows we're moving that day.  The thoughts usually hang there for a long time, being "edited" while I do the dishes or fold laundry or drive to town.  Sometimes I get as far as a "draft" here on Blogger and let it sit for days. Sometimes I dump the post because it's too much of something...self-righteous, long, boring, political, personal.  Or I simply lose interest in that thought and move on to something different.  

Like football.  

Or "lime JELL-O with tuna" recipes. (Was that not the stuff nightmares are made of, or WHAT?!)

Today I'm going to drag my little soapbox out, though, shakily climb up, and speak bravely for a few minutes while the coffee's still powering the neurons in my brain.  

Brace yourself.

Recently, it was indicated that I grew up with a "rosy experience" in ranching that may be a bit unrealistic about today's real life agri-business.  

You can imagine I chewed on THAT for quite a while on the four wheeler.  

And not in anger, either.  (Although at first there was a little personal indignation...)

I hadn't ever really considered that having a good attitude about living on a ranch would be thought of as unrealistic! 

You see, I grew up on a little ranch across the county in the 1970's and 80's; perhaps the hardest time to be in agriculture since the 1930's.  We didn't have hired men; it was our family and the neighbors who helped with the big jobs like branding and shipping.  There weren't the brilliant labor saving tools like hydraulic bale beds or cake feeders that worked with levers from inside the pickup like we have now.  For example, to load cake, we had to shovel it on to an auger that dropped it in the pickup box; to feed it, we then shoveled it out of the pickup box to the cows.  Financially, agriculture was in a crash with producers that had borrowed too much money from credit lenders that went under, prices for the products (cows and grain, cotton, etc.) tanked, inflation was insane throughout the country.  It was a desperate time.  

My dad finally left the ranch for many weeks out of the year driving a cattle truck to make enough money for us to survive without selling all our cattle.  Mom, Gramps and us kids took care of the cows and held things together as well as we could while he was gone. 

This is the condensed version, of course.

It wasn't "rosy" by any stretch of the imagination. 

 

Interestingly, though, I grew up loving the ranching lifestyle.

 

My Dad and Mom never expressed resentment over having to get up to check heifers at night during calving, feed the cows during those incredible blizzards of 1977-78 with minimal resources (and every other winter), check water and fix fence on crazy hot days.  They certainly worried, paced as the lightening crackled over the dry prairie in the summer, prayed as they tried to get through snow drifts or gumbo mud, agonized over the red in the ledger, and discussed tough times with the neighbors.  I know there was despair, depression, awfulness that wasn't made evident to us kids at the time, but they never once cussed or blamed the ranch for any of their struggles. 

What we DID get from them was delight every spring over the baby calves and mama cows. (Both my parents chuckled over those babies.) We got to keep the bum calves we managed to save and raise them as our own cows, experiencing the joys, heartbreak, and hard decisions of "management".  We each got our own brand for our animals. (My folks gave me the OC brand when I was three. It's almost like another set of initials, it's that personal.) We got to be part of the crew at branding and other exciting events! (It wasn't "work" for us kids.  The neighbors came!  Stories were told over the breakfast table...BETTER stories were told at the corral or in the pasture.)  We helped feed the crews, trying like everything to make sure they ate too much good food, hospitality being a point of pride.  The same kind of pride that came from seeing the calves we'd worked so hard over all summer weighing up nicely in the fall when we shipped them.  (I know they weren't huge, but they were always healthy.) 

It wasn't rosy by conventional terms.  But it was real.  And my folks, grandparents, and neighbors gave us a good attitude toward the work we had to do, the hope that the next year would be better (or just as good), and an appreciation for the lifestyle and people doing it.  

It's certainly not the life for everyone. 

I know that. 

It's scary and hard, very uncertain, physically demanding to the point of breaking.  But if it's the life for you, then you'll see the good things in it.  I think that's why I see the personality in the cows and don't mind feeding or working them in the crazy Montana weather.  I like that my kids look at what we're doing and say to friends that come to visit, "We're raising your hamburger!"  I love being able to work with my family and neighbors at something that really does matter. I admire and respect the people who passed that down to us, and want to make them proud, too. 

 

Just because it's hard, doesn't mean it's not good. 

Other people make their living doing hard things, too.  (MOST people make their living doing hard things, truth be known.)  

It's not a weakness to have a sense of humor and hope about what you do, to find little things to appreciate while you're doing it.  It doesn't make you less serious about your life's work to laugh about it once in a while, or delight in certain aspects of it.  There's no shame in being thrilled that your heifer is bred.  It's okay to cry happy tears over the last truckload of grain finally in the bin. It may even be healthy to go fishing once in a while, so you're refreshed and ready to go round and round in the tractor for another 10 days or fix 5 miles of fence.  

(These are revolutionary words and I should probably end the diatribe before I get all crazy and start talking about inviting neighbors over for a fiesta once a year in May...)  

Maybe I was raised with (and still maintain) a rosy ranching experience.  

Maybe not everyone in this business was.

And that's okay.

We all get to choose our own way of thinking, our own approach to life's challenges.  

I guess mine is tinted pink. 

 

 

How to Get Yourself Uninvited From Potlucks For The Rest of Your Life

1. Volunteer to bring a JELL-O salad to the next community potluck.

2. Dig out your vintage "Joys of JELL-O" pocket cookbook circa 1967. (My Aunt Bert bought one for me on our Lewistown trip yesterday.)

3. Locate the recipe for Molded Chef's Salad on page 69. (Don't get distracted by the glossy Ring-Around-The-Tuna...garnished with curly endive and radish roses on page 65!)

4. Read through the recipe to ensure you have all the ingredients.  It could be tricky.

(You realize this is a lime JELL-O based recipe, right?  With tuna?  And hardboiled egg? 

AND an anchovy-mayonnaise dressing?)

5. Assemble ingredients according to the recipe.  

6. (You may need a bit of wine in order to fulfill this next step.  Or a gas mask.)  Pour the lime JELL-O in the circular mold, then add the tuna mixture and egg as directed.  (Be STRONG!  This is gonna get you out of COUNTLESS potlucks in the future!!!)  

7. Chill the completely disgusting JELL-O mold in the fridge for 2-3 hours until firm. 

8. Prepare the Creamy Anchovy Dressing...if you're still game.  Mayonnaise and anchovies mixed to put atop a lime-tuna-egg-vegetable salad.  It's...remarkable. And greyish.  (Another glass of wine would not be the worst idea, here...)  

9. Unmold the now-firm Molded Chef-Salad on a plate of crisp lettuce leaves.  

(It may not look EXACTLY like the picture in the JELL-O recipe book.

All the better!  Remember our mission?  No potlucks for the rest of your life!)

10. Plate the salad, garnishing with the anchovy dressing, and present it to your family for a "taste test".  

I will spare you the gagging and spewing of green JELL-O into the garbage can, but suffice it to say that you will have a Get-Out-Of-Potlucks-Free if you take this little gem to the next one.

Sara Hags, I challenge you to a wine pairing with this dish...

I didn't read through the cookbook very carefully when I was in Lewistown, just enough to see that the original cook (Margaret Argenbright) had written notes on her favorite recipes about who she'd served, the date, and whether the recipe was good or not.  She did NOT have a note on this recipe, but there was a smudge on the corner of the page indicating that she, too, had probably stopped at this recipe and marveled at the incompatibility of the ingredients and flavors. 

Good luck and keep jelling!