Small, Medium or Large

My youngest daughter and I were grocery shopping.

That in itself may seem unremarkable.

But, in the course of the conversation as we were wandering up and down aisles, she reminded me of something.

Allow me to share . . .

Our family is large. In a couple of ways.

Six kids, most of whom are over six feet in height.

When they were all still home, these large people ate large meals.

Back then, our supplies were, justifiably, bought in bulk.

It was a necessity if one didn’t want to shop for groceries every. Single. Day.

Which I didn’t.

Sooo . . . bulk.

To us, it was a normal way to live. Peanut butter, miracle whip, honey, pickles, salad dressings, oil, margarine and other foods by the pail. Ketchup in a bag. Soups in gallon containers. Large quantities were deposited in the cold storage according to directions. Then small containers were filled from larger containers and kept in the kitchen for easy access.

By the time the younger kids were helping with meal preparation, this had been the ongoing practice for as long as they’d been alive. Even the older kids had forgotten their ‘long-ago’ when food was purchased in normal-sized containers.

We walked past a tub of margarine. I looked at it. “Huh. Remember when we bought margarine in that size?”

My daughter laughed. “I remember when we bought it in the five-gallon pail and I had to take a smaller container and fill it from the big one!” She went on. “One of my first discoveries when I moved away from home was that food comes in smaller containers. I thought they were so cute and tiny. Little jars of peanut butter and miracle whip. I even had to bring one home to show you.”

“I remember.”

“My roommates thought I was crazy.”

“That goes without saying.” For that comment, I got ‘the look’.

“A person learns so many things when you leave home.”

It’s true.

Life comes in all shapes and sizes.

Small, medium, large. Extra large.

The trick is finding which you need.

GETTING It Right

I love Daddy's stories!

“I’m shopping for my wife,” said he.

“For things she needs immediately.

And while I’m here, I thought I’d get

A special something for my Pet.”

 He wandered round the store a while,

And saw things staid. Or infantile.

Then found that he had ambled to

The women’s clothes all starched and new.

His eyes lit up as he assessed

New ways to help his wife get dressed.

In gowns of rough or slinky mein,

In shades from black to tangerine.

He wandered further through the store

Seeking something she’d adore,

High or low or bourgeoisie,

He fin-al-ly came o’er to me.

“It seemed so simple,” he declared.

“But now I’ve looked, and now I’m scared.

The clothes selection’s vast and mixed,

And I can’t seem to choose betwixt.”

“There’s something that she needed, though,

To wear around the bungalow.

So help me please, I do implore.

There must be something in your store!”

“There’s much to choose from, sir,” I said.

“That’s sure to please your thoroughbred.

But there's one thing I need to know,

Just how big is her bungalow?”

Ted

A guest post by my baby brother, Blair Stringam.
I can call him that because it's my blog...

Got grain?

While growing up on the ranch, we had some very special pets.  

There was the perpetual dog - or dogs - that wandered around with us.  

A cat that would ride on our shoulder when we fed the cattle. (This cat was unique. When we opened the feed bin doors, the resident mice would scurry and the cat would jump off our shoulder and chase/catch said mice. Then he would climb up on the fence, drop down on our shoulder as we walked by and ride to the next bin.) By the way we had a very creative name for him.  He was called “Cat”.

But probably the most loved pet that I had was a Hereford herd bull that we called “Ted”.  

When Ted was growing up we had him in a pen with several other bulls his age. He was always the biggest one in the group.  

We would feed him and his pen mates in the morning and in the evening.

The feeding routine usually involved: me opening the grain bin door and grabbing a bucket. And Ted moving quickly in behind, gently pushing his head under me and shoving me up on the pile of gain so he could eat.

At this point I would finally manage to get the buckets filled, carry them to the feed troughs and deposit the feed there.

Ted would decide that it was easier to get the feed from the trough and go over there to finish his meal.

Then it was safe to shut the bin door and move to the next pen.

Ted grew until he weighed over 2000 lbs, but was always very quiet and very tame.  Dad kept him on the ranch and used him as a herd bull because he was so big and quiet.  In the winter, we would keep him in a small pasture where we would feed him grain and hay and get him fattened up for the next breeding season.

When I completed my daily chores, I would feed Ted at the end of my routine. 

Ted was always at the other end of the pasture.  

I couldn't just call him. I had to walk out and chase him in for feed.  

Well not really chase.

I’d walk out and climb up on his back. Ted would then walk toward the feed trough.  However, he would usually stop at least once or twice. This meant that he wanted to be scratched. As I scratched his back, he would resume his walk.

Once we got to the feed trough he would bow his head toward the ground and I would slide down his neck over his head and grab a bucket of grain. 

We had Ted on the ranch for a few short years.  When he developed a problem that our veterinarian father couldn't fix, sadly, Ted left this world.  

Most people have favorite pets.

I think my sister had a favorite horse. Or ten.

For me, my favorite was big, gentle, half-the-size-of-a-truck Ted.