Brother Fishing

Our intrepid camping ally, Ancient of Days.

It's Summer.

Camping time again.

Something our family has done for the past 1000 years. Okay, so I only remember the last fifty or so, so I'm guessing.

We have had a lot of adventures in that time.

Today, I'm remembering one that happened because of our little blue tent trailer.

Our little trailer was purchased in Calgary, Alberta in January 1978. It was so cold that day that I thought the flooring was a sheet of tin.

In my defense, linoleum can resemble tin when it is frozen solid.

When the planet heated up a bit, we opened our new purchase and discovered a tidy, little world in itself. Three neat beds and a square central floor.

Perfect for a family of eight.

It has taken our family everywhere.

For many years, we camped yearly in a beautiful campground in Saskatchewan.

Kimball Lake.

And that's where this story takes place.

Our two youngest were napping.

I use this word lightly.

Because there was no 'napping' happening.

Youngest Daughter (YD) was on the bed she shared with her older sister.

And Youngest Son (YS) was in the playpen on the floor.

Something he had learned to crawl out of.

Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem.

Let me describe our trailer to you.

It has three wings that fold out to form the beds.

The canvas wraps around each of these wings and hooks securely underneath with elastic cords.

It is possible to slide through those spaces.

If your small enough.

And YS, at thirteen months was definitely small enough.

He crawled up onto the bed.

Rolled against the side.

And slid through.

Now it wasn't a long drop to the ground underneath, but it would have given the little fellow quite a jolt.

YD, three, had been watching.

She saw him slip through.

And, with uncharacteristic three-year-old speed and fortitude, leaped across and grabbed him.

“Mo-om!”

My good friend, Tammy and I were seated just outside, visiting.

Suddenly, we saw a pair of little legs kicking and wiggling out of the side of the trailer and heard my daughter call out.

I ran into the trailer.

YD and the top half of YS were visible.

She had both of his hands and was leaning back, trying to keep him from sliding further.

He was giggling happily and trying to wiggle out of her grip.

“Mo-om!” she shouted again.

I grabbed my son and pulled him to safety.

Then put him back in his bed with stern instructions to stay there.

That tiny son is now a husband and father.

But every year, when my Husby and I put up our little trailer, I think of the small boy and his almost escape.

I picture those little legs protruding from the side of the trailer, kicking merrily.

And his sister, recognizing his danger and holding on frantically with all of her three-year-old strength..

It's a good memory.

Sunset Dating

Just the two of us.

My Husby believes in date night.

A least once a week.

He and me.

Fun.

In our earlier, more penurious days we got creative.

In nice weather, long walks.

Around town. Along the river bottom.

Sometimes, we'd wander through the mall, just looking.

Occasionally buying a hot chocolate or ice cream cone to share.

Going grocery shopping.

Having an evening picnic.

Wonderful times.

As we near retirement, dating consists of movies, dinners, theatre and concerts.

Still fun.

As long as we're together.

A couple of evenings ago, Husby's truck broke down.

He pulled into the nearest parking lot, called first for a tow-truck, and then me to come and bring him home.

I arrived long before said tow-truck.

Looooong before.

Together, we waited.

Nearby were several formal restaurants.

And an A&W.

Not wanting to leave the truck until help deigned to arrive, Husby suggested that one of us run across the street to the fast food outlet and grab a couple of burgers.

I volunteered.

Between you and I, I'd rather do that then instruct a tow-truck driver if and when he decided to show up.

Ahem . . .

I returned.

We ate.

Have I mentioned that the world looks better on a full tummy?

Well, it does.

We talked and laughed.

Sitting on the tailgate of the truck in the warm sun.

And the cool summer breeze.

Oh, we both had places we needed to be.

Things that needed doing.

But, for that moment, all that was important were a couple of burgers.

The tailgate of our truck.

The warm summer evening.

And the two of us.

Re-discovering the perfect date.

In our sunset years.

One. Last. Time.

Don't let the innocent expression fool you!

Our eldest son had a world class talent.

World class.

If it had been an event in the Olympics, he'd have taken home the gold.

But there wasn't.

And he didn't.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Mark was born with the ability to throw a tremendous, colossal, stupendous, prodigious, enormous, fantastic, howling, mind-blowing tantrum.

I know that many children do.

Even some adults.

But no one has ever done it quite at the same level.

And he saved his best performances for when we were in public.

Usually in the toy section of the local department store.

Sigh.

When he was three, he gave his most memorable performance.

Well, I certainly can't forget it . . .

He wanted a toy.

I can't remember which one, but he wasn't getting it.

The family budget was already suffering chills and fever.

Any unnecessary purchases would have surely sent it into a coma.

We started to move away from said toy.

Mark realized that his begging and pleading had come to naught.

He dropped to the ground.

And began to flop around like a landed fish.

Then the screams started.

Ear-shattering. Air raid worthy.

Now, my Husby and I had learned that that proper way to handle a tantrum was to just keep walking.

Which we did.

To this point, it had never worked.

We discovered that Mark could flop and scream AND keep up with his moving parents.

See?

Skill and talent.

But this day was a little different.

This day, we had unexpected . . . help.

As we ducked around the corner, and before Mark could start after us, an elderly gentleman walked up to our writhing boy and stood there, looking down at him.

Mark finally realized that someone was standing beside him.

He opened his eyes.

To see a perfect stranger.

“I guess you'd better come with me,” the man said.

Tantrum instantly forgotten, Mark scrambled to his feet.

“MooooOOOOMMMMM!”

His father poked his head around the corner.

Mark ran to him and grabbed him about the knees in a grip fuelled by three parts fear and one part . . . okay, four parts fear.

My Husby silently looked at the man.

Both of them smiled.

And just like that, Mark's public tantrums were finished.

Oh, he still treated us to private performances, but never again were we humiliated in public.

We often think of that man.

A father?

Grandfather?

Whoever he was, his wisdom . . .

. . . and timing . . .

Were one of the greatest blessings of our parenting years.

I wish we could tell him.

Rise and Shine

Go ahead! Sing!

How do you 'rise and shine'?

Throughout my life, I have been summoned from sleep in various ways.

Some gentle.

Some strident.

All annoying.

My mom, a member of the 'never wake a sleeping child' sorority, let me sleep in till I woke up on my own.

Well, until I went to school, that is.

Then, her usual wake up call consisted of, “Diane! Get up! The bus will be here in ten minutes!”

Okay, I will admit that she usually called me much earlier than that.

I just wasn't listening.

Ahem.

Dad's form of summoning consisted of one word. “Spring!” And it was always obeyed instantly.

Mom, you could coax and cajole, but dad?

You moved.

Because.

Often, I found myself standing beside my bed with no idea of how I got there.

My Husby took a more creative, albeit (Oooh! Good word!) equally annoying route.

He would sing.

Badly.

And loudly.

In our house, 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!', the usually bright, happy, uplifting anthem from Oklahoma, sounded more like . . . honking.

Or a chorus of frogs.

Or ball-bearings rolling around in a hubcap. (Don't ask me how I know what that sounds like.)

His 'singing' brought instant . . . let me put it this way: No one slept through it.

“Dad! Aarrgghh!”

Success.

Moving ahead . . .

Our oldest son had recently become engaged.

To a beautiful girl.

Our entire family had traveled to Fort Macleod to a reunion.

Our future daughter-in-law was bunking with our other daughters.

It was morning.

There was far too much sleeping going on.

My Husby decided he needed to do something proactive.

He went to the door of the girls' room.

Cleared his throat.

And started singing.

You really haven't heard 'Oh What a Beautiful Morning' sung quite like he sings it.

Our future daughter-in-law looked at her future sister-in-law. “Does he always do this?”

FSIL's answer was muffled by the pillow over her head. “Yes.”

“Oh. Maybe I'll have to rethink my joining this family.”

She did join. She comes from hardy stock.

I thought I'd tell you that in case you were worried.

Back to my story . . .

This morning, my alarm woke me.

“Bla-Bla-Bla-Bla-Bla-Bla . . .”

Suddenly I missed my Mom's repeated time updates, my Dad's single word warnings and my Husby's singing.

It's all a matter of perspective.

Sex (Lack of) Education

No

Yes

This story is about sex.

Ahem . . .

I was raised on a ranch.

There are animals on a ranch.

Animals that do ‘animal stuff’.

Eating. Sleeping. Growing.

Making other ‘little’ animals.

Which then eat. And sleep. And grow.

And make other little . . .

You get the picture.

It was the rhythm of life throughout my childhood.

The statement, ‘I grew up with it’?

Applies here.

My earliest memory of the whole ‘animals fulfilling the measure of their creation’ happened when I was four.

Roundup.

A great red and white sea of animals had been penned in the main corrals.

One jumped atop another.

“Daddy, what’s that cow doing?”

My dad turned and looked. Then realized that he wasn’t quite ready to explain the whole reproductive process to his wide-eyed daughter. “Oh,” he said. “Ummm . . . resting his feet.”

“Oh.” I was satisfied.

For a while.

Oh, he did explain things.

Later. When the whole ‘resting his feet’ explanation started to wear a bit thin.

Yes, being raised on a ranch is an eye-opening experience.

By the time I was in grade nine, I knew it all.

Or thought I did.

We were in biology class. My favourite science.

The teacher was talking about animal reproduction.

Yawn.

Specifically: chickens.

“Now the chicken ovulates once a day,” he was saying. “That’s where we get our yummy, delicious eggs.”

I was with him this far.

“But when . . . exposed  . . . to a rooster, the egg becomes fertilized and a chick results.”

Wait a minute.

Roosters have a purpose? Other than the obvious one of chasing us kids around and being generally obnoxious?

Hold the phone!

Unfortunately, my astonishment was, much to my dismay, expressed verbally.

“What?!”

Whereupon (good word) every kid in the class turned and looked at me.

And snickered.

Sigh.

Yep. I was nearly 14.

And I had just learned that birds follow the same reproductive channels (so to speak) as other animals.

Okay. Now, I knew it all.

I just wish I could forget it . . .

The Gap

Look closely. The gaps are there . . .

Okay, I don't want to suggest that there is a generation gap in our family but . . . well . . .

Yes. There is a generation gap in our family.

And it was never more obvious than it was that day.

Several of my grandchildren had been over for the long weekend.

A fun time, made even more fun by the 'launch' of our new pirate-ship playhouse.

All of the kids were in the house.

Because it had decided to rain.

And our intrepid pirates didn't want to get wet.

Ironic, I know, but there you are . . .

The oldest girls were colouring.

The eldest was also singing.

At least I think it was singing.

“You are Beau-ti-ful! You are Beau-ti-ful! You are Beau-ti-ful!”

Over and over and over.

After a few minutes of this, I leaned over the table, collected her attention and said, “Your record's stuck.”

Now this was a term from my childhood, teenage years, adulthood.

In fact, right up to the present day.

It was something I thought everyone knew.

I was wrong.

She stared at me, blankly. “Huh?”

I thought she must have simply missed what I said.

I repeated myself. “Your record's stuck.”

“Huh?” she said again.

I stared at her.

She stared at me.

Finally, “What's a record?” she asked.

“A record,” I struggled gamely forward, “A record is what you listen to. On the . . . record . . . player . . .” my voice dwindled away.

She was still staring at me, blankly.

Oh. My. Goodness.

I can't believe that this newest generation hasn't even heard of records! Why it's only been a few years since I used them. 

Ten at the most.

I looked at her.

Nine years old.

Oh.

Then I thought of all the things she would never understand from my childhood.

She would never pick up a telephone, crank the handle and hear the word, “Operator.” or stealthily lift the phone to listen in on the neighbours' conversations. 

Never see the 'Indian-head' test pattern and hear 'O Canada' at the beginning of the television day. Or hear 'God Save the Queen' at the end of the day, before the TV goes dark and silent. 

Wringer washers.

Cassette tapes.

Never sit around the table after dinner, listening sleepily to the hired men discuss their day's experiences with the boss.

And I thought of all of the things that I wouldn't - or didn't want to - understand from hers.

Yep. Generation gap.

Gives us a little breathing room.

Probably a good thing.

Terms of EnDEARment

He is a Honey Bunny!

I admit it.

I call my Husby names.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby was serving on a church committee with several other men.

One of which worked as a police detective in his real life.

Tough guy to the world.

Sweet and kind underneath.

It was evening. After supper but not yet bed time.

The phone rang.

I answered.

What followed was, to me, a fairly mundane conversation.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Diane. Is Grant there?” I recognized the voice of our friend, the police detective.

“He is! Would you like to talk to him?”

“Please.”

“Just a moment!” I turned and hollered - okay, yes, I do that - “Honey Bunny!”

Grant answered from somewhere in the bowels of the house.

“You're wanted on the phone!”

He appeared and took it from me. “Hello?”

There was a pause. Then, “Are you a Honey Bunny?”

I saw my Husby's face turn slightly pink.

Here was his good friend, the policeman.

Tough guy extraordinaire.

What should he say?

He looked at me, rolled his eyes and grinned. “Yes,” he admitted finally.

His friend laughed. “Good,” he said. “So am I.”

Even the most unlikely . . .

In the Eye

The Stringam ranch house had one delicious feature. 

That kids love.

And parents hate.

The kitchen ran right into the hallway, which ran into the living room, which ran back into the kitchen.

Or, alternately, if one wanted to change things up a little - from the kitchen into the living room into the hallway, back into the kitchen.

A perfect setup for running laps.

Which we did.

Usually at mealtimes.

Because it kept us near the kitchen but not completely under Mom's feet.

Unfortunately, in an effort to keep us safe, Mom would inevitably holler, “You kids stop that before someone loses an eye!”

We would stop.

Oh, not because we were afraid of losing something important.

But because Mom usually had a large spoon or knife in one hand when she said it.

Okay, yes, we were afraid of losing something important.

Moving on . . .

It was suppertime.

Mom was cooking.

My brother and I were running.

Mom said, “You kids stop running! Someone's going . . .!”

That was as far as she got.

I skidded out on the corner just going into the turn between the living room and the hallway.

There was a chair there.

Large.

Heavy.

It, and my eye, had what could only be called a 'close encounter'.

It won.

Remember what Mom said about 'losing an eye'?

Well, she was close . . .

There was the sound of contact.

Then the pause.

Then the shriek.

Mom came running.

I was writhing around on the floor, screaming. Both hands clamped over my right eye.

I'm sure Mom's heart probably stopped.

She pulled my hands away probably expecting to see the fulfillment of her prognostication (Oooh, good word!).

Fortunately for me, it hadn't happened.

The fulfillment, I mean.

My eyebrow had taken the brunt of the blow - puffing up and out quickly.

And remarkably.

I looked like a prize fighter.

Mom dragged me, still screaming, into the kitchen.

Where she produced her largest and deadliest-looking knife.

I stared at her, then clamped my hands back over my injured and decidedly puffy eye and screamed, “No, Mom! Don't cut it off!”

You see, when she picked up the knife, she had been looking for 'cool'. Something to lay against my wound to take down the swelling.

I was looking at an instrument of a far more radical method of 'swelling removal'.

Fortunately, her more humane treatment was what we went with.

“Diane! I'm not going to cut it off! The knife is cool. It'll help the swelling!”

Oh.

I finally dropped my hands and allowed her to continue.

She pressed the cool surface against my eyebrow.

Ahhh!

Moms know everything.

I'd like to say we stopped running.

Forever.

That we learned our lesson. That one close call convinced us that Mom knew whereof she spoke.

I'd be lying.

George and me. (Pre-running days)
Beneath us . . . the chair!

Stating the Obvious

You see animals. They see . . .

Sometimes, all that matters is the obvious . . .

Our grandchildren were playing.

A little background here . . .

Husby has an extensive collection of plastic animals.

Mammals, reptiles, birds, amphibians, fish, vertebrate, invertebrate.

Animals from every continent of the world.

And from every age.

Yep. Extensive.

He bought them for his grandkids.

He says.

Said grandkids love playing with said animals.

They have been a great source of entertainment for many years already.

And, due to durability and indestructible composition, will doubtless continue to perform this service for many more years to come.

Countless scenarios had been acted out.

Did you know that a dolphin and a North American bison could be roommates and best friends?

Well they can.

Back to my story . . .

Then three-year-old, Rini, our budding science buff, was playing with two-year-old Thorin.

The theme of the day was dinosaurs.

Rini was acting as voice for the brontosaurus.

Thorin, the same for the triceratops.

Rini decided a teaching moment had presented itself.

“Look, Thorin,” she said. “You have a triceratops!”

Thorin stared at her. Then looked down at the toy in his hand.

“Tri-cer-a-tops,” Rini said again. “Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin frowned.

Rini started in again. “Tri-cer-a-tops. Tri-cer-a-tops.”

Thorin smiled and opened his mouth.

Rini smiled, too. Encouragingly.

Thorin pointed to the horns on the dinosaur's head.

“Pokies!” he said happily.

Yep. Sometimes all that matters is the obvious.

A Piece of Real Estate

It's done.
Following several thousand man-hours of sorting, packing, hauling, mistakes, searching, finding, more packing, more hauling, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, Daddy is safely installed in his new home.
It was not an easy decision to make.
He loved his condo.
And his independence.
But though he remains clear mentally, his once-robust physical self grows steadily weaker and more frail.
He's better off in a place where his meals are provided and help is always very nearby.
It's bittersweet.
We know he will be cared for.
But the memories of what used to be crowd close.
Bringing tears.
Life on the ranch was an adventure.

Every day a blur of what needed to be done and what happened while doing it.

From this...

... to this.

But there's a saying: Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened!

Life isn't over.

Here's to new adventures.

I love you, Daddy!

Juicing Cows

Okay. Call it what you want . . .

Cows.

You see them in the fields. Standing. Eating. Wandering about. Staring contentedly at nothing.

They are in the barns. Being milked. Standing. Eating. Wandering about. Staring contentedly at nothing.

They care for little calves. Nursing. Licking. Bellowing. Giving the occasional kick. Ignoring.

You know them as ‘meat’, ‘milk’, ‘cheese’, ‘cream’.

We know them as aggravating, funny, stupid, perverse, blind, ornery and endlessly hungry.

And the reason we get out of bed in the morning.

We’ve called them cows, dogies, critters, some terms unprintable here.

And our bread and butter.

Our family raised Polled Herefords.

A breed known for its gentle disposition.

And beef production.

We also kept one ‘milk’ cow. Usually Holstein.

A breed known for their milk production.

Near the Stringam spread was a herd of Jersey cows.

Also known for their high dairy output.

And gentle disposition.

Dad pointed them out as we drove past. “See. Diane! Those are Jersey cows! They give milk!”

Four-year-old Diane, nose pressed against the car window, “Oooo!”

I will admit that, occasionally, things got turned around in my little girl mind . . .

The next time we drove past that particular field, I pointed excitedly to the quiet animals out grazing. “Ooo! Daddy! Look! It’s those juicy cows!”

I was right.

Fight or Flee

Which are you?

I just read that, when faced with something dire, a person will fight.

Or a person will fly.

Sometimes, we don't know which one we are until the climactic moment.

Allow me to illustrate.

My bedroom was across and down the hall from the bathroom.

And I wasn't an 'early-to-bedder'.

These two facts will become relevant . . .

I had been reading.

Something I did every night.

For a very long time.

I finally decided it was time to get ready for bed.

Which included brushing and scrubbing.

And all things hygienic.

I should point out that all other members of my household had long been asleep.

Or so I thought.

I finished my evening ablutions. (Oooh! Good word!)

And, clutching my toiletries bag, headed for my bedroom.

Now the words 'across and down the hall' may sound like a long distance.

It wasn't.

But it was enough.

And it was dark.

I darted toward my door.

And was just reaching for the doorknob when a voice came out of the darkness.

“What are you doing!”

Okay, it was the voice of my father, so it shouldn't have given me the fright it did.

But the fact remains – I was frightened.

And then, the ultimate response.

Fight?

Or fly.

Let me describe:

Pitch dark hall.

Household asleep.

Girl with large imagination and small intellect dashing across the hall.

Quickly, so as to avoid things that might come out of the darkness and 'get her'.

Voice rumbles out of said darkness.

What does girl do?

Fight?

Fly?

No. 

Girl crumples to the floor.

I am not making this up.

My legs folded up and I fell to the floor.

When faced with a crisis, or so I thought, I curled up.

Like a little spider.

But with less legs.

So, which are you?

Fight?

Or fly?

When you decide, let me know.

I will be the shivering little puddle of goo.

Curled up on the floor.

Sigh.

Toddler Timing

Me. And six of thirteen.
I know what I'm talking about . . .

For any of you who have children, are around children, or have heard of children, you know that their timing is the one thing about them that remains totally impeccable. Always.

Theirs is the voice you hear chanting, “I gotta go potty!” immediately after you’ve pulled onto the freeway.

The disembodied face that appears at your bedside just as you’ve dozed off.

The crash and the “Oh-oh. Mom!”, when you’ve got both hands kneading sticky bread.

When split-second timing is needed, the children in the immediate area are on it.

I have two examples:

My Eldest Son was sitting watching TV, his youngest daughter, aged nine months, perched on his lap. The two of them, with the rest of the family had been happily engrossed in ‘Arthur Christmas’. The credits were rolling and the sound of Justin Bieber singing a Christmas song filled the home. There was a pause in the music and Mr. Bieber could be heard, talking in the background. “It’s that time of year again! Time to let all of your problems go!”

At which point, said daughter, with accurate and impressive sound effect, let those pesky little problems go. Directly into her diaper.

Remember when I said, ‘engrossed’? I used that word deliberately.

My second example involves the same son, before he was married. Or a father.

But still involves children.

And timing . . .

Eldest Son was sitting in Sunday School class, discussing, with the other members of the group, the life of Paul. This man, an apostle of Jesus Christ, suffered many indignities and horrors to his person during his life. On occasion, he was dragged before local, and at times, high authorities.

At one point in his life, his captors hauled him up before King Agrippa.

The teacher introduced this significant ruler’s name in stentorian (real word!) tones.

His pronouncement was immediately followed by the loud scream of an infant seated with its parent in the back.

See? Timing.

The class broke up. Some 30 seconds later, order restored, the teacher grinned. “And that was Paul’s exact reaction!”

I don’t know how they do it.

The timing thing, I mean.

It’s a talent they are obviously born with.

Some of them maintain it throughout their lives . . .

No matter what time it’s set for, I always, always walk into my daughter’s room ten minutes before her alarm is due to go off.

And I know as soon as I sink into a steaming hot bath, or start doing something sticky in the kitchen, that my other daughter is going to telephone.

Timing. You know what I’m talking about . . .

My Short Ranching Career. Part Two.

Blair. Getting animated.

I bought another big growthy (once again, that word) heifer.

She was tall. She was dark red. She had a white face.

But there, her resemblance to a normal Hereford ended.

She was not the typical quiet animal you usually associate with the breed.

Nope.

She was jumpy and would get agitated . . . easily.

I worked with her to quiet her down. Trained her to tie. To lead.

I would bring her into the barn, place a halter on her, tie her to the fence and groom her.

She enjoyed it.

Think of it as getting a good back scratch. But in this case using a comb.

She had lots of hair which meant that I could groom and cut it to make her look like the perfect heifer. This was important because purebred cattle breeders often had cattle shows where they would exhibit their animals and I wanted my heifer there.

I prepared her and got her ready for her first big exhibition.

Now we knew she was a little nervous so my veterinarian/dad told me to give her a tranquilizer to help her calm down.

When I arrived at the cattle show, I backed the trailer to the arena area, then opened the back of the trailer, untied my prize heifer and began to lead her out.

I had worked with her so much that I thought we were friends.

I soon discovered that we . . . weren’t.

When she saw the open door in the back of the trailer, she bolted.

And kicked me in the chest as she flew out.

I was caught completely by surprise.

She really connected as she kicked and my world started spinning.

Now in order to help you understand the force that a heifer or bull can kick with, picture having a 600 pound boxer punch you.

With everything he has.

My breath was gone.

I didn’t want to let go of the halter because some other poor unsuspecting person might get run over. I managed to hang on long enough to slow her down, but finally I had to let go. However, a friend and I finally cornered her and got her tied up at her assigned stall.

Then I called my very capable, very reliable, extremely intelligent veterinarian/dad and asked what I should do.

He said to give her a little more tranquilizer.

Considering that I did not want another repeat of the kicking episode, I complied.

The tranquilizer was just taking effect when I took her into the show ring for her group. She stepped lively and I was able to present her well to the judge.  He placed her in one of the top spots.

Then the tranquilizer really kicked in. So to speak.

My heifer planted her 4 feet squarely and stood there with her belly hanging, causing her back to bow.

She was very hard to move. At one point as I tried, she started to lean on me.

I felt like I was trying to maneuver a drunk around the show ring. 

By this point, the judge had almost all of the animals placed and came back to survey the group.  As he looked at my heifer, he sighed and moved her down 8 places.

8 places!

By this point, however, I didn’t care.

When the heifer category was over, I loaded her up and headed home.

I worked with this heifer for several more months and once again thought she was quiet and cooperative.

Again, ‘thought’ is the important word here.

Dad and I were given the assignment from the young Hereford breeder association to compile a booklet on how to prepare a heifer for a cattle show. This involved taking pictures of clipping and grooming an animal to make them look their best.

My heifer had lots of hair that we could use to demonstrate (only their hair dresser knows for sure).

As I groomed and cut, dad took pictures.

The clippers that I was using where very large and noisy. If you used them for long, your hands would feel numb. I was clipping hair along my heifer’s belly when suddenly I was lying on my back, looking at the ceiling of the barn.

The clippers were in my hand buzzing away.

I looked at dad. “Umm . . . how did I get here?”

Dad told me that my heifer had just kicked me. She had kicked so fast that I didn’t see it coming. 

She was very agitated and dad and I spent some time trying to get her settled down.

This was very difficult considering one of us had just been assaulted.

Finally, she was calm again, and dad and I could finish the pictures. Then I took her back to her pen.

As I walked down the hill to the ranch house I realized that my chest hurt. I lifted up my T-shirt. Let’s just say that she did her work well.

And I began to evaluate how important it was for us to continue our relationship.

My Short Ranching Career. Part One

A guest post by Little Brother, Blair!

Blair. And bull.

When I was 12, my activities consisted of going to school and working on the ranch.

I tried to find ways to avoid the later, but dad was very good at making sure that I . . . didn’t.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate dad for this.

This changed . . .

One day dad and I went to the barn to check on a yearling heifer that had been very sick.

I don’t remember what disease that she had, but I do remember that she was so ill that all she could do is lie on her side and breath unevenly. Staring and unresponsive.

As I observed her symptoms, I concluded that it was very unlikely that she was going to survive.

I helped my dad give her a gruel that consisted of oatmeal and liquids. We had to slide a hose into her mouth and down into her stomach. Then we poured the gruel into a funnel at the other end of the tube.

As dad looked at the heifer, I’m sure he determined that there was not much hope for her.

Dad had to make a trip out of town for a few days so he charged me with the responsibility of caring for our invalid.

As he gave me the instructions on how to care for her, he concluded by saying “if you can save her, you can have her”.

Suddenly my perspective changed. All my efforts from that moment were devoted to trying to help the heifer recover.

I made sure she had fresh straw for bedding.

I made sure that she was fed her gruel.

I know I said a few prayers.

Mother was very helpful to me. She helped make the gruel and give it to the heifer.

A few evenings later, after mother and I gave the heifer her dose, she seemed to be trying to roll from her side onto her stomach. We helped her and the heifer held up her head.

Mom said that we should try to get her to stand.

This was a difficult task considering that the she weighed about 600 pounds.

We both pushed and lifted and the heifer slowly rose. She staggered a little then stood solidly on her feet.

Mom and I both cheered.

From this point ‘my’ heifer made a swift recovery. She grew up to become one of the young cows in dad’s herd.

She always had a white patch of hair on her side because she had been on her side for so long.

A cow version of bed sores.

A couple of years later she had her first calf. A growthy (Okay, that might not be a word but it is descriptive.) healthy bull calf.

That bull calf grew up.

And one day a cattle rancher visiting dad’s place looking for a bull spotted mine and he and dad agreed on a price.

Nursing that heifer. Feeding her. Caring for her.

Spending time with her.

Loving her.

Totally worth it.

In more ways than one!

Two Less Gophers

He only looks cute.
See that hole? Not good.

Warning: Many, many gophers were mortally wounded seriously harmed  in the telling of this story.

I want to preface this story with the fact that gophers, on a ranch, are bad news. They dig holes that unsuspecting horses and livestock stumble into, breaking legs and other appendages. They eat bushels of valuable grain. And they make dozens more little gophers. Who grow up to cause even more trouble. Thus costing ranchers hundreds, even thousands, of dollars. Gophers may look cute, with their little dark eyes. Their fur and their ‘chirp’. And their I.Q. which, if it went up a point or two, would reach the level of ‘imbecile’. But they are very bad news. Think of them as the little rats of the ranching world.

On to my story . . .

On a ranch, the use of firearms is a necessary skill. Coyotes, wolves, cougars and other predators can, and do, threaten the herd.

Marksmanship is also a necessity. If you’re going to use a gun, better hit only what you are aiming at. There can be no crazed waving of a gun. No popping off shots indiscriminately.

Let’s put it this way. ‘Bullets leave an indelible mark.’

So we kids on the ranch were taught the proper use of guns. And, during the summer, had daily target practice.

Our targets? The thousands of gophers that infested the prairie hills. We were actually performing two feats in one. Perfecting our aim and ridding the ranch of its number one pests.

It was my turn to be trained in the all-important use of the ‘22’.

Husby loaded me and my trusty little gun into the cab of the pickup and headed out to the nearest pasture. A piece of land heavily pock-marked with the mounds dug by our little, furry vermin. For several minutes, things went well. Gophers would pop out of their burrows. I would aim and fire.

My record, though not stellar, was approaching good.

He moved the truck slowly across the uneven ground. A gopher popped up. And another directly behind it.

I aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger.

Both went down.

I blinked. Two?

We drove closer and I got out. Yep. Two. The second had been blindsided because of the first. As a rancher’s daughter, it was one of my finest moments.

Okay. It doesn’t match the contributions made, daily, by the people fighting disease in every corner of the globe. Or those who constantly put their lives on the line in our defense.

Still, it’s a record that hasn’t been topped by anyone from our ranch.

For a country girl, a real contribution.

Every Wednesday, Delores of Under the Porch Light issues a six-word challenge.

This week's words?

marksman, stellar, blindsided, indelible, crazed and imbecile.

I'm sure she didn't foresee my using them to describe one of the less-desirable facts of life on a ranch.

Sorry, Delores! :)

Hurry over and see what her other followers have created!

Funny Friday

July (sort of) Friday Funny

Today’s post is July’s Funny Friday, a regular feature published on the last Friday of every month. Yes, we know it’s August but July ran out of Fridays. Totally not our fault.

Funny Friday is a collaborative project. Each month one of the participants submits a picture, then we all write 5 captions or thoughts inspired by that month’s picture. Links to the other bloggers’ posts are below, click on them and see what they've come up with. I hope we bring a smile to your face as you start your weekend.

Here’s today’s picture. It was submitted by 

Someone Else’s Genius

 1. They’ll never get through our starting line.

 2. He only looks tall.

 3. Don’t worry, big guy. We’re here to protect you . . .

 4. Maybe if they gave each of us a ball . . .

 5. You go. We’ll follow. Maybe.

Click on the links below and let some other bloggers make you smile:

Someone Else’s Genius

Confessions of a part-time working mom

The Momisodes

Sanity Waiting to Happen

Cluttered Genius

Stacy Sews and Schools

Baking In A Tornado

Black Sheep Mom