Ready, Set, Write!

Harvest is done. The Palouse Empire Fair is over. The pigs have once again been sold. The rabbit has been let out of its cage to dig a burrow for the long winter ahead. And, my first Fall work is finally complete. 

Many people asked me why I didn't write about this Fall. For one reason: I did not have any time. Many people asked me if anything fun happened. Did I have to pee in a pop bottle in order to keep my feet on the tractor peddle? Did I have to wrestle a pig into submission to get him loaded into the trailer? Did I yell at The Boss on the radio and embarrass him in front of half the county? No and yes and no.

Who knows? Maybe I'm getting better at this farm wife stuff, or maybe it's just tiring me out, but all that I do know is that now, after eight months of helping my husband outside I am ready to light a fire, turn on the tea kettle, grab a blanket, and get back to writing. I have been doing it for a week now, and frankly, I couldn't be happier. (But you all know the rule: Don't tell The Boss that!) 

My plan was to revisit my favorite piece of writing that I have completed and fine tune it, but when I sat down to do so I realized that -as it is - I am in love with it. I am in love with Hank (but don't tell The Boss) and I am in awe of Maya. They breathe for me, and they walk, and every time I am in St. Maries I look around to see where they are. I know they are there and hopefully, they know I am there too. As a result, I am pitching it. As is. And...and I am doing the unthinkable and giving it to The Boss (who, for the next three months is my husband) to read. 

In the interim, I will hop onto another locomotive, with another set of characters. This time full of a trainload of women who drink way more than they should and often spit wine through their noses. You know, my closest girlfriends! I am looking forward to doing the field work on this one, and hopefully at the end coming up with a final result that will make all of you laugh as much as I do. If I can make you spit wine out your nose I will have succeeded! 

Therefore, that is where I am at now. I hope you all have a great winter. I will see you on the other side - sane or not! 

Are You Registered To Vote?

I normally don't get into politics on here, but since my son and I have been discussing the roll of government during the first part of school, and during the upcoming election, I thought I would add this little thought.

I double checked my voter registration at Colfax new Elections office on Friday. Have you checked yours?

I have always felt that my vote is not only my right; it's my responsibility to protect. And by that I mean that if I want to vote, I have to be the one to make sure that my vote counts.  As a part of the philosophy, I have always made sure that my registration is still in effect prior to each election. Four years ago, after voting in every primary and every race since I was 18, I mysteriously did not receive a ballot for the presidential election. I called the elections office and they said they would mail me another one. They did. No ballot. No explanation. As a result, I drove to the elections office and cast my ballot in person to be sure that my vote counted.

To this day, I have received all other ballots and I expect to receive the one for the upcoming election as well, but as a precaution I stopped in to the office ahead of the ballot mailing to be sure that there was no problem that I could head off now; a confusion over my address since there is another woman with the same name in my county, a signature issue, a red flag since I did have a problem four years ago. Anything that might hinder the only chance I have to give my opinion in the upcoming race for the presidency as well as so many of our other important offices.

According to the election official, all is well and I should receive my ballot. I expect that I will. However, even if I don't, I will be sure to follow up and make sure my vote counts. Why? Because it's not only my right, it's my responsibility to protect that right should I so choose to exercise it.

Plowing Is Hard...Very Hard

            Harvest seemed like it would never end; so much so that I never even had a chance to blog about it. Frankly, it happened like this: harvest came in like a lion, and the sucker left the exact same way. It ended on my birthday, and really, that it all I remember about it. Harvest was not nice to me, so I was not nice to it and therefore, did not write about it.

            In the interim, we went to the fair, sold the piggies, L and then came back home to dig out from under the smell of swine on our boots and grease on The Boss’s jeans. The kiddos went back to school and I settled myself in for a long winter’s nap. Yeah, right! Do you know me?

            As most of you know, last Spring was my first attempt at driving a tractor. From getting her stuck, to killing it and free-wheeling backward down a steep hill, to peeing in a coffee cup. If you’ve read my blog, you know that it was an “experience” to say the least. But I found out that I loved working with The Boss. I loved being in the tractor alone. I loved singing country music at the top of my lungs simply because it seems like the type of music a person should listen to in a tractor. Yee-haw! In addition, this season, thankfully, I got a newer tractor. Her name is Rosie and I love, love, love her! She shifts on her own without grinding gears, she is smooth, she has power and digital readouts and everything a modern numbskull like myself needs to not kill myself on a hill. Yea! So when The Boss asked me to plow, I said, “Hell, Yeah!”

            “You sure?” he said. “I know you are super busy all the time, and plowing is hard.”

            “I’m totally sure!”

            I recalled that learning to harrow and cultivate were difficult at first, and therefore I assumed that plowing would be too. However, I recalled that I liked plowing – at least I did when I used to ride with The Boss before. What I like about plowing is that the plow takes a field of golden straw and turns it under to make a distinct line of brown and black dirt clods. In essence, there is no mistaking where your line is, like there is with harrowing or cultivating. Now, to digress, if you are a farmer, or The Boss, you are probably saying to yourself, “Oh, there IS a distinct line when you are harrowing and cultivating too.” But, no, there isn’t. It’s just like when they say that everyone knows what a 5/8” socket is just by looking at it. No. No, they don’t.

            Anyway, my point is that because there is an obvious line, I figured it would be easy to follow. Not so. You see, with plowing, you have to drive with your head turned almost zombie-like backward the whole time, in order to watch the plow line, all the while reminding your hand not to turn the wrong way. In other words, this is pretty much opposite of what you were taught in driver’s-ed and it’s hard.

Not only is plowing hard, but the ground was rock hard too. It has not rained here in forever – like before harvest forever! That left the ground so hard in fact that every time I got the plow going I would break something. First it was the bolt which holds one of the plow blades on. So, I had to drive the Boss’s tractor while he drove my out of the field to the service truck to fix it. Then, as he was bringing my tractor back to me, I broke the plow blade completely off of his. Switch, out he goes again. This continued on and on, back and forth, right up until one moment when I turned a corner and I felt the tractor sigh and lunge forward, only to look back – like I should have been – and see the whole entire plow, with hydrolic hoses splayed and bleeding like intestines, sitting about 20 feet back be itself on the gold and black ground.

            Plowing is hard.  Very hard. Well, after many reapplications of deoderant, and well as the first desires I’ve had for a smoke in years, we finished one field and The Boss said, “Let’s give this up until it rains.” Thank ya Jesus!

            I think I’m out of the woods – until he tells me that I have to drive my tractor home. On the road. With actual people watching, and cars driving by. Cars with mommies and children and people who are trusting that those others on the road are only there because they feel competent to be there.

            “You can do this!” he says.

            And so I do. I mean, after all, who else is going to do it. So I drive, scared out of my pants, wobbling from the yellow line to the ditch, to the yellow line, and back to the ditch. It was scary. Really scary. Worse than I imagined. But finally we got to our road. Our sweet, wonderful, washboard, dusty, dirty road that I always hate to drive my car on but I now LOVE to drive the tractor on. We get back and I pull up next to The Boss and step out to let my tractor cool down.

            “Well?” I said. “I did it!”

            “Yeah,” he said, walking back to my plow. “But you hit something.”

            “No,” I said, racing down the ladder. “Do, I didn’t!”

            “You did,” he said. “Didn’t you feel it?” 

            “No,” I said. “I didn’t hit anything. I promise.”

            “Then where is that plow blade?” he asked, pointing to the severed arm of one of the plows?”

            I don’t know folks. Might be time to rethink my day job. 

For Our Brother and Sister Farmers in the Widwest

This summer, we have watched the stories of farmers in the midwest who are suffering through one of the worst droughts in 50 years. We shook our heads at pictures of corn plants that were only half sized and starving for rain. We've gritted out teeth as we heard that many ranchers had to send their cattle to market early instead of risking their loss by the drought. We sent good thoughts to those soybean farmers who were unsure whether they would get good yields, and all through it we prayed that we would not see a similar fate this year.

Farming is one of those jobs that no matter how big the combines get, how fast the trucks fly to the elevator, or how strong you think you have made your business, it can all be for not if Mother Nature chooses not to cooperate in your area.

Sadly, for the midwest, it appears that Mother Nature has decided to slam them with first a right hook and then, while they were down, a left. First, they are impacted by the worst drought in 50 years, and now, while the fields are dry and brittle, they are going to be lamb blasted with the remnants of Hurricane Isaac. From what I understand, it will help some farmers and could turn other dry fields into muddy bogs.

Therefore, while it is annoying to be broken down more than usual, stressful to worry about the costs of parts and labor, and exhausting putting in 16-17 hour days, we, here on the Palouse, have nothing to complain about compared to our brother and sister farmers in the midwest. Our thoughts go out to you. 

There ARE Canadian Werewolves In Our Barley Field

     After a long, long, long day in the field yesterday, my 7-year-old and I came home to spit-shine the house and make dinner before The Boss and hired hands came in for the evening. It was 7:00 and I had just started the salad and made myself a drink when I heard the combine drivers bantering back and forth about the pack of coyotes who were following along behind the combine tires attempting to catch the field mice that were scurrying out of their burrows. Jack had been playing with his new airplane at the counter while I started the taco meat. I was smiling at the light banter wafting over the hum of combines. After the difficult days we have had this harvest, it was very nice to hear the men and women just chatting with one another about such a normal event. Jack had just laid his head on the counter to watch the pilot flying his styrofoam plane when one of the combine drivers caught his attention. 

     "They were werewolves," he said. 

     I looked at Jack, who picked his head up and turned quickly to the radio. I practically spit my drink on the counter as I rushed over to the radio and pressed the call button to silence the driver. I was concerned that this was going to cause a night of terror and one little boy squishing me in my bed. 

     "You did it now," I said lightly to the driver, hoping to convey the problem. "Jack heard you." 

     "Oops," the driver said. "Sorry about that."

     Jack quickly walked over to the radio and I asked if he could talk to the driver, so I handed him the radio in hopes that the driver would let him know that he was joking. 

     "Jack to 37," he professionally called. 

     "Yeah, Jack," he said. "This is 37." 

     "What did he look like? Was he brown of grey?" 

     As the combine driver calmly explained that he was brown, and not real big, Jack was nodding his head and thinking as hard as his little brain could go.

     "Okay," Jack said. "What you have there is a Canadian Werewolf. They can be scary and can be mean." 

     "I thought so," the combine driver continued. "That was why I stayed in my combine." 

     "That's good," Jack said. "Did you see yellow eyes?" 

      Holy Hell, I thought. 

     "Nope," the hand said. "No yellow eyes, but I didn't get real close either." 

     "That's good," Jack said. "You better stay in your combine though just to be safe." 

     "Copy that," the driver said. 

     "Okay," Jack said. "Jack out." 

     When Jack got off the radio, he calmly walked back to the counter and picked up his plane, resuming his concentration on the pilot. 

     "Boy," he said. "It's a good thing I talked to him. Canadian Werewolves are the worst." 

There Is A Snake In Your Bathtub

Last night our hired gal wandered out of the shower with a weird smile on her face. I asked her if she had a nice shower and she responded, "I did. After I got the snake out of the bathtub." 

The funny thing about this is that we don't have snakes here. Sadly, in 10 years I have never see one anywhere on our property or anywhere on the Palouse. I was just about to ask her what in the world she was talking about when I suddenly remembered that my 7-year-old had bought a yellow and black plastic snake at a yard sale the previous day. Apparently, this was a snake that grew when placed in water overnight. It grew all right and when our poor hired hand walked in and opened the glass door on the bathtub it just about gave her a heart attack. 

My Husband Is Not THE BOSS Anymore...

I'm not sure what happened to him, or if he hired someone else to take his place this Harvest, but my husband is not The Boss anymore. When he needs parts he says please and thank-you, when he tells me to flag the combines one way, and then I proceed to lead them the other way, he simply helps me turn around, when I bring supplies out to the field he smiles and looks me in the eye and often gives me a pat on the back, and he actually kisses me and hugs me when he comes in the door at night. And all of that without watering down his sweet tea with whiskey, and I can't imagine why.

Today we were out of bed at 5:00 AM, with him headed out to the field and me headed 30 miles away for parts. The kids were still asleep, so I quickly made the crew their lunches and set them out in the yard for pick up. Then I filled the service truck with diesel, washed the windows, and cleaned out all of the garbage out of the cab. I tidied up the house and pre-shower I was out the door and in the car. By 7:30 I had picked up belts and pullies from the parts department and managed to sneak in a little grocery something - this is something that farms wives sneak in on the sly. The Boss might be on his best behavior, but you never, never stop for anything else when they are sitting in the heat, in the field, waiting for parts so they can start working. I delivered the parts and got back home just in time to see the kiddos getting up for breakfast. I was here no more than an hour, just long enough to put groceries away, clean the bedroom, and start some laundry when I got the call again. We needed more belts.

By 10:00 this morning, I had already driven for parts twice. When I got back The Boss, at least I think he is The Boss, was covered from head to toe in chaff, which is the scaly dry casings that go around the seed, as well as a bunch of dust and some ground up stubble. Now, unless you have driven a truck or a combine you cannot -  no matter how much you try and imagine it or compare it to some kind of itch that you have been through - even begin to comprehend how much chaff falling like snow around you on a normal day itches. Today, my husband had to actually get in the back of the combine where the chaff spits out the back and dig it all out with his hands, pulling to toward him, his shirt, his sweaty body and all the way down to his feet. Getting plugged happens, and as a result, unplugging happens as well, but when it happens on a 97 degree day, before noon, when you will be out in the field without a shower until almost 10:00 PM, that would put anyone in a bad, bad, bad mood.

But, for some reason when I pull up with the second set of parts, he manages to walk over, smile and once again say Thank You! I'm starting to wonder just where The Boss is. Maybe he hired a stand in and is really on a beach in Tahiti somewhere.

"Bitch Please!"

Note to my readers: If there are typos, confusions, yawning, and a general sense of delirium surrounding this it is only to add to give you a real feel for what harvest does to all of us here on the front line. Therefore, you are welcome...and good night.

"Bitch Please!" and "Oh Hell No!"

Those are the favorite sayings of the Mommies, and they are so apt now. I have not written in a couple of days because A. I've been busier than a bee in a hive at honey making time and B. I'm not sure if most people know this, but there is a code of silence in farming that a writer like myself does not understand, and yet is supposed to be as faithful to as a wedding vow.

That being said, "Bitch Please!" and "Oh Hell No!" have come to mind so much in these sunrise of this harvest season that I am willing to break the code of silence to tell you a little about WHY.

"Uggh!" (Another Mommy Meeting favorite.)

Here is the deal: today started out like every other day this harvest, waking at 5:00 AM to a cup of coffee and heading out the door. Today, we were moving to a new field, so I had to make a pot of coffee, barely wake the kiddos to tell them that I would be gone for a while, and sneak out the door in order to follow these orders: "Get Truck A. Meet at Field 1. Jump in truck B. Take it to Hired Hand X, who will then give you a ride back to Truck A where we will all be waiting to go to Field 2. (take a drink of coffee; pretend to process this information) In the meantime, have Hired Hand B go get fuel and meet us at Field 2, and oh  yeah, give B directions because B won't know where it is." (Drink again. Smile, nod, give The Boss a kiss, and pretend you've heard any more than "Get Truck A.") The only problem is that by the time you get to Field 1, the plans have changed because there is a break down.

That is pretty much every morning before 5:00 AM, but today we not only had one combine breakdown, but two, and we had one truck break down as well. So, now we are down to two combines, one good truck and one back up truck that cannot keep up with the combines.

Oh well, we get it all done, and I return home to get hired hand X (I think) only to discover that my son's rabbit Fiver wanted to get out to play in the grass; therefore, while X waited in the car for me, I reached in to open the hatch for Fiver who promptly bit deep into the soft flesh between my thumb and wrist. "Bitch Please!" I was screaming as I pulled my hand out of the rabbit cage only to discover the rabbit had a lock on my wrist and was not about to let go. Now, I'm not an animal lover (remember the sheep, people!) but I am not an animal hater either; however, when that rabbit would not let go and the pain was too much to bear, I could do nothing more than grab my coffe cup and whap him over the head with it. ( And no, it is not the one I peed in!)

Now, PETA relax before you get all up in my business and turn me in for abusing this blood sucking rabbit! At this point the coffee cup seemed more humane than the thoughts of the potatoes and carrots and chicken broth that I really wanted to water board him with at that moment. Kidding! (Not really, but for liability purposes I have to say that.) Anyway, as I looked down at my punctured flesh that hurt as if rattlesnake venom were coursing through my veins, I started cussing. And not a little cussing, but a helluva lot of cussing. I used all the bad words I could think of and I might have even made a few up. I was whooping and hollering and dancing and swinging that cup, and all the while X was staring at me, as was my son. They were not amused, and X thought that I was a little out of line. Bitch Please! 

I thought that would be the highlight of the day until about 3 hours later when the combines were moved and I was back home getting ready to take the kids to register for school -which I am NOT ready for- when hired hand Z comes in to let me know that the state patrol was doing a sting in our wee-little-itty-bitty farming town and our only truck that can keep up with the combine capacity has been shut down and told to return home.

"OH HELL NO!" 

Now, you all know I'm a faithful liberal. I am a democrat, an Obama lover and a Hillary junkie. She's my heroine - in all senses of the word, but Bitch Please! ARe you friggin serious? (Yep, another gem!) 

And this plays right into all the stuff you are not supposed to say in farming. It has taken me a heck of a long time to learn that farming is like being in a big family; there are some things that you just don't discuss: money, religion, and politics. But, Oh Hell No! Don't you people have another better to waste our tax payor dollars on than pulling over farmers on the second day of harvest when they are trying to do nothing more than to get their crop to market? I mean seriously? Is this what you got up for this morning? Is this what you strapped that gun your hip for, and placed your badge on your chest, or wherever the hell you place it these days? Is this what your swore to protect, and defend? You are out on the road protecting the people against farmers and truck drivers who are only trying to make a living in the short window of opportunity that we have between one rain storm and the next. And why are they doing this? In my somewhat informed opinion it can only be as a way to balance the state budget that our current state administration - as well as so many others before them - has been lax in doing. I have been supportive to our local school administration when our governor has taken money from their accounts in order to follow the voter- approved state mandate that was put in place to balance the budget at all costs all the while driving home on roads that have been rumbled stripped, ripped up and rumble stripped again because opps! someone did it wrong the first time. I have listened to people who have worked plowing roads for the state bitch (please! haha) because they were mandated to be at work during a dry winter and sit on their dead asses watching The Real World and whatever other non-reality based nonsense is on the boob-tube because the state had allocated money for that position and therefore, in order to keep that money flowing to that position should the snow ever decide to fall, the money had to be spent on that position no matter what. Otherwise, some necktie junkie might decide that the best way to balance the budget would be to get rid of that snow plow drivers because there hasn't been a need for them for the past two winters.  Bitch Please! Is your Mama actually proud of you as you adjust your necktie on capital hill and mandate rules for the "little people" who are stupid enough to live in the Real World beneath you? Let me make it simple for you while you feather your hair: don't rumble strip the road on a highway where there have rarely been any head on collisions from people crossing the yellow line unexpectedly, don't promise money to our schools and then steal it back because your incapable of balancingy our budget in the first place, only pay for a plow driver when it is needed, and leave the hard workers in this state the hell alone so we can do our jobs and not end up on the welfare rolls!  Is that clear enough?

Have the politicians not seen the news? We have farmers in the midwest who have no crop because of drought. These are people who will now have to rely on government aid to bolster them up because times are hard. How's that for balancing your budget? 

I know this goes against all of my liberal upbringing, and some people in my neighborhood are going to go all smug about what is stuck in my craw because they blame the liberals for bigger government and over reach and all of that blah, blah, blah, but seriously? On this issue? I know it is environmentally important for our trucks to be in tip top shape and not be spitting emissions up into the atmosphere. I am an environmental FREAK! I want that more than anyone. And, I know it is important that we follow the letter of the law, but for shit sakes, (another fav) we are only on the road for 4 weeks out of the year. 4 weeks. We are not full time truckers, and in most cases, our trucks never even leave the dirt roads. In many cases we travel less than 20 miles from our homes on any given year.  So, why send out a troop of State Patrolmen to pull over the whole of the little town of Oakesdale on Main Street at the ass-crack of dawn on the second day of harvest? Bitch Please and Oh Hell No! I've got a better idea. Why don't you take those big suburbans and diesel sucking monster trucks you are driving and spend your time busting child molesters, and thieves, and drug dealers for the next three weeks and leave us good citizen, tax payers, and damn hard workers the hell alone. 

Hell, after harvest, you can come over, inspect my truck, tell me what I need to do to be environmentally friendly, and I'll even thank you and buy you a beer. Until then, leave us the hell alone and let us do our job! 

Amen Sista! 

(Yep...another Mommy Meeting Doozy!) 

T Minus 3 Hours And Counting

Well folks, it's here. Ready or not, here we go. Preparing for harvest is like planning for a family reunion, Thanksgiving, Christmas dinner, and giving birth all at the same time. Dramatic? I doubt most farm wives would think so. For the past two weeks I have been shopping, planning, cooking, cleaning, cooking some more, and cleaning some more just to prepare for what is about to happen 3 hours from now.

At 1 o'clock today, my oldest son is coming home to clean out his combine and start cutting wheat for the first time. This evening my AWESOME mother-in-law will arrive with her camper, 19+ dozen cookies, multiple precooked frozen meals, kimchi for me!!! and that amazing elbow grease and unending patience and advise that I know I can count on from her. Tomorrow morning our truck driver will move in her camper and we will welcome one other truck driver and a new combine driver that I have yet to meet, but that I pray likes my cooking! 

Yesterday we had a fabulous car wash for 4-H. Those kiddos hustled and washed 37 cars and made well over $500. My arms still hurt, but it was blast!!! Last night,  I managed to make 4 batches of my girlfriend's yummy cheesy campfire potatoes, a ton of Frank's Red Hot Chicken (recipe credited to another girlfriend!), some BBQ chicken and a pesto pasta. I also filled all of the fire extinguishers, so if there is a fire story in here this year, it will be my fault, and I managed to harvest some of my own crop - my raspberries to make raspberry jam and put away pie filling. At about 5:30 my girlfriend stopped by to tell me that she is pregnant. (I'm still crying!!!) and my father-in-law dropped off boxes of peaches that needed canned right now! And you all wonder why I have yet to publish another book, right? 

Today, starting at 6:00 AM I wrapped my sleeping son in a blanket and moved a truck out to the field, sharing probably the last cup of coffee that I will share with my husband for a month. I already miss him like crazy, but I am happy for him too. This is what his does. This is to him like a book signing is to me. This is why we do what we do, as an old friend of my so eloquently philosophized every time he drank whiskey and got to talking about farming. 

Since then, I have been Spring cleaning! My house looks freaking amazing, until...T Minus 3 Hours from now. 

Here We Go Again!

I can't believe it is "that time of the year" again! Time for school clothes shopping, harvest, canning, baking, preparing for fall sports, the Palouse Empire Fair, and of course...time for my husband to turn back into THE BOSS!

For those of you who are new to this blog, or have simply forgotten because it has been so long since I have blogged about my life, I will tell you that I am a writer, mother of five children, volunteer librarian for the Oakesdale Grade School, one of the assistant coaches for our new AwEsOmE Cross Country Team, farm wife, and of course unpaid hired hand to the man who is my husband for all but three seasons of the year : Spring Work, Harvest, and Fall Work. We are now about to enter Harvest, at which time the man who has been my best friend, my husband, my ally, and my confidant will turn back into THE BOSS!

The hardest thing about Harvest for me is morphing from wife into employee - especially when your a pro-bono employee. The job of a farm wife is simple; make lunches in the morning for 2-3 people, get breakfast for the kids, clean the house, run for parts, move equipment, run kids to the pool, find time to transport kids to school shopping and fall sports practices, run drinks out if someone forgets to grab enough, drive 30 miles for more parts, make lunch for kids, clean up again, do laundry, mow the lawn or weed flower gardens, water the lawn, help kids work their animals because the fair is looming (YEAH!!), move more equipment, try and can a fruit two, or freeze veggies, get dinner going, oh crap! kids need picked up from the pool, serve dinner to the kiddos, and then be ready to listen to the events of the day while The Boss showers and eats dinner. And that's just one day.

It doesn't look that bad in writing, and if it is done right, it isn't that bad. It's the things you don't plan for that get you. Accidentally running out of bread, running out of water like last year, break downs, kids getting sick, having a lawn mower break down and having to decide whether to tell The Boss and have him out working on it at 11 at night when he should be sleeping, or just letting the lawn grown a foot tall and see if anyone notices. Harvest is not a gentle rhythm, it is a constant drum beat that only speeds up and gets louder and more chaotic until all of a sudden, someone tells you to STOP!  It's over. And you have been so busy you didn't even know it.

My husband and I have been doing this together for ten years and in that time I have cried, yelled, screamed, cried some more, ran over his lunch box with the farm truck innumerable times in one sitting when he complained about something that I can no longer remember, and even told him to Go explicative himself, on the radio where three other farm families and all of our hired hands were listening, simply because he didn't say thank you.

However, I have always made him a lunch, always fed him his dinner, and even laid out his towel and sweats in a candle lit bathroom as a way of saying, "I'm sorry for over-reacting to you being an insensitive, over stressed monster today who never tells me thank you for all of the hard work I do from 6 AM to 10 PM and for forgetting to telling me you love me for four weeks ever season. Clearly I was out of line. My bad."

Often it takes my mother-in-law who is an ex-farm wife herself, my father, an ex-farmer, my father-in-law, and my mother, all of who farmed as well, to keep me cooking with the frying pans instead of beating The Boss over the head with it. They all remind me, depending on which on I call, that ALL farmers all like this - and especially one whose harvest is the sole support for six people and three employees. They have to remind me that come late September or early October he will look up again and smile and hug me and say, "Wow, we did it again! We made it! Thanks for the help." Who me?

This year however, The Boss decided to take a pre-emptive strike. Last week he took me out to dinner and a movie, took me camping alone, has texted me to tell me he misses me - and that man hates texting, and went shopping with me to help me get prepared for harvest cooking so that I will not be so stressed out. At the end of all of that, I said, "Are you just doing this so that I will be nice to you this harvest when you are so caught up in work that you forget all about me and how hard I am working too?"

He put his arm around me and got a sly smile on his face and said, "No (good answer), but it sure would be a bonus if you were nice."

 Okay...I promise I will be nice...cross my heart!

Here We Go Again!

I can't believe it is "that time of the year" again! Time for school clothes shopping, harvest, canning, baking, preparing for fall sports, the Palouse Empire Fair, and of course...time for my husband to turn back into THE BOSS!

For those of you who are new to this blog, or have simply forgotten because it has been so long since I have blogged about my life, I will tell you that I am a writer, mother of five children, volunteer librarian for the Oakesdale Grade School, one of the assistant coaches for our new AwEsOmE Cross Country Team, farm wife, and of course unpaid hired hand to the man who is my husband for all but three seasons of the year : Spring Work, Harvest, and Fall Work. We are now about to enter Harvest, at which time the man who has been my best friend, my husband, my ally, and my confidant will turn back into THE BOSS!

The hardest thing about Harvest for me is morphing from wife into employee - especially when your a pro-bono employee. The job of a farm wife is simple; make lunches in the morning for 2-3 people, get breakfast for the kids, clean the house, run for parts, move equipment, run kids to the pool, find time to transport kids to school shopping and fall sports practices, run drinks out if someone forgets to grab enough, drive 30 miles for more parts, make lunch for kids, clean up again, do laundry, mow the lawn or weed flower gardens, water the lawn, help kids work their animals because the fair is looming (YEAH!!), move more equipment, try and can a fruit two, or freeze veggies, get dinner going, oh crap! kids need picked up from the pool, serve dinner to the kiddos, and then be ready to listen to the events of the day while The Boss showers and eats dinner. And that's just one day.

It doesn't look that bad in writing, and if it is done right, it isn't that bad. It's the things you don't plan for that get you. Accidentally running out of bread, running out of water like last year, break downs, kids getting sick, having a lawn mower break down and having to decide whether to tell The Boss and have him out working on it at 11 at night when he should be sleeping, or just letting the lawn grown a foot tall and see if anyone notices. Harvest is not a gentle rhythm, it is a constant drum beat that only speeds up and gets louder and more chaotic until all of a sudden, someone tells you to STOP!  It's over. And you have been so busy you didn't even know it.

My husband and I have been doing this together for ten years and in that time I have cried, yelled, screamed, cried some more, ran over his lunch box with the farm truck innumerable times in one sitting when he complained about something that I can no longer remember, and even told him to Go explicative himself, on the radio where three other farm families and all of our hired hands were listening, simply because he didn't say thank you.

However, I have always made him a lunch, always fed him his dinner, and even laid out his towel and sweats in a candle lit bathroom as a way of saying, "I'm sorry for over-reacting to you being an insensitive, over stressed monster today who never tells me thank you for all of the hard work I do from 6 AM to 10 PM and for forgetting to telling me you love me for four weeks ever season. Clearly I was out of line. My bad."

Often it takes my mother-in-law who is an ex-farm wife herself, my father, an ex-farmer, my father-in-law, and my mother, all of who farmed as well, to keep me cooking with the frying pans instead of beating The Boss over the head with it. They all remind me, depending on which on I call, that ALL farmers all like this - and especially one whose harvest is the sole support for six people and three employees. They have to remind me that come late September or early October he will look up again and smile and hug me and say, "Wow, we did it again! We made it! Thanks for the help." Who me?

This year however, The Boss decided to take a pre-emptive strike. Last week he took me out to dinner and a movie, took me camping alone, has texted me to tell me he misses me - and that man hates texting, and went shopping with me to help me get prepared for harvest cooking so that I will not be so stressed out. At the end of all of that, I said, "Are you just doing this so that I will be nice to you this harvest when you are so caught up in work that you forget all about me and how hard I am working too?"

He put his arm around me and got a sly smile on his face and said, "No (good answer), but it sure would be a bonus if you were nice."

 Okay...I promise I will be nice...cross my heart!

Happy Anniversary to The Boss

I like to joke about him a lot on here as being The Boss or The Farmer, but today I just want to say Happy Anniversary to My Husband. I am really blessed to have such an amazing, crazy, happy, interesting marriage. We met when we were little because his step-dad and my uncle were in a band together called "Loose Gravel." I still have no idea why this man fell in love with me. All I know is that he says I was about nine years old, which our parents confirm. He said one day his step-dad took him to my uncles house for band practice, and when he saw me in the backyard he said he had tunnel vision and all her could see was me. He told me he has been a hopeless case since then. I honestly don't remember when I fell in love with him. It was probably at one of those band concerts. All I do remember was a dance when we were like 10 or 11 in Tekoa where I thought I would die because I couldn't talk to him, many visits to his mom's house where used an 8-ball to tell our futures, the band picnic where we had our first kiss out behind the barn, getting grounded from the phone as a teenager because we fell asleep talking to one another in the days before long distance was free. I remember waking up that morning, and waking him up too. I guess that was the first time we slept together, right? We went our separate ways because I was determined not to live in this podunk for the rest of my life. I told him that I didn't want to get pregnant and be stuck at home with a bunch of kids while he was at work and then with his friends at the bar. That was the end of it; I didn't even give him a chance. I married someone else when I was 21, and as a result, he did too. He found me again as he was driving down the road and saw me pumping gas at a quick stop. I had been trying to figure out how to tell my family and friends that I was getting a divorce. I hadn't told anyone. He pulled in to say hi and before he could say anything I told him that! Crazy! That is the short of a very long journey, but to end I will tell you that five months later he came to visit me after work. We were reminiscing about our interesting past and I asked him if he ever knew what happened to that 8-ball. That was when he reached under the seat and pulled it out and handed it to me. I asked it then if we would be together forever, and it said yes! Happy anniversary honey...forever won't be long enough. Until we are stars... Love, Amy

Coffee Cup Latrine

          I was not going to tell this story on my blog, but after I shared it with my grandmother today she said, with tears in her eyes, that I had to do it. Since it is Mother’s Day and I love my grandmother, I will go ahead and share what else happened during the day titled, “First Gear? There is a first Gear?”

          Let me start by telling you one thing about myself that only a few of you know. I am legendary for going potty anywhere, anytime and around anyone. I have peed behind a dumpster in Couer D’ Alene while my high school buddy Tim waited just around the other side, in the field of course, on back roads as cars drive by, on highways, behind a dumpster in Spokane while The Boss stood sentry, rarely in an outhouse, on just about every spot of land up in the St. Joe National Forest and frankly I don’t care who is up there, in my husband’s shop bathroom (YUCK), behind a tree in a park in Portland, on a busy street on Maui with toads hopping beneath my skirt, behind a dumpster in Anaheim….you get the idea here.

          If you know nothing eles of this farm wife, you will know that I am not a shy person and I figure that is how man has been doing it for years, so why not a woman. Are you with me here? It’s a protest thing. I say, “Drop trow!” any time you need to ladies, which might be why it has been medically verified by an ultrasound tech that I had the smallest bladder she had ever seen. I don’t hold it. Not for long.

          In order to help you understand how I ended up in a place where even I wouldn’t pee, I also need to introduce you to my tractor. I drive a Versitale. I don’t know the number, and honestly I don’t know if that is the correct spelling of the word or not, and I don’t care. It’s not even worth me looking it up. This thing is old. Really old, and it has issues.

          For this story I will tell you of the worst issue: it gets stuck in and out of gear a lot, and when it does this you cannot do anything about it until the only combine/tractor mechanic in the county has time to come out and help you. The Boss informed that that if you are patient with it and make sure that you are shifting smoothly from one gear to another it will never get stuck. He was right. It did work every time that I slowed down and took the time to shift it carefully. The only problem is that I am only 5’1” tall and the clutch is about 7’5” away from the seat. Being short for much of my life I had learned to adapt to this by scooting my butt forward in the sea, grabbing the gear shift for support, and then pushing my foot to the floor before pulling the lever out of 2nd gear (which is what I roll in) and down into neutral when I need to stop, or vice versa.

          This particular fabulous day (as you know if you read the other story) I had to stop because someone was calling me and I couldn’t see my harrow line over the dust being blown about the cab. So I stopped, grabbed the gear shift and then moved into the butt-scoot foot-slamming when the damn chair swiveled about 30 degrees and my foot almost slipped off the clutch. Since I was still holding the gear shift for leverage, of course I pulled it forward and bam! The darn thing was stuck. NO! I cried out, trying to patiently jimmy it back into gear, or out of gear, since I had no idea where in the world it was. That baby wasn’t moving.

          Have I told you all how late this Spring Work is? Have a told you that every minute is as precious as honey dripping from a beehive? Well, it is, and now I know that I am going to be the one delaying it. By this time I had readjusted my foot on the clutch and slowly…every so slowly…inched it backward. Surprisingly, the tractor started moving. I slammed my foot back to the floor and called the Boss.

          “It’s going still,” I said.
         
          “Then go,” he said. “Don’t turn it off. If it kicks out of gear, and puts you in neutral, we will deal with it then. And, if you absolutely have to stop; stop. Okay?”

           So, I went. I was happy not to delay anyone; at least, I was happy until about an hour later when the two cups of coffee I had drank that morning had hit my bladder. On top of that, the dust was making me very thirsty. For the next hour I took little sips of my water and did my best to keep my mind off of the balloon building in my stomach. I loosened my belt. I sang songs, which got louder and more crackly as the time passed. I wiggled in my chair. I took deep breaths. I stopped drinking water, but I was NOT going to stop that tractor.

          Finally, at about 11:00, something had to give; either the tractor moving or my bladder. I put the clutch to the floor and the tractor stopped. There I sat, in a dusty old tractor seat that swiveled, with my leg out stretched, the tractor stopped, and still no way to get down to the ground to relieve myself. I think some form of delirium set in. You know, like when people are dehydrated and walking through a desert and they see a mirage of water? At some point they start running and begin to laugh with glee at the thought that what they want – what they need – is finally within reach. That was me.

          So, I leaned over and opened the door to the tractor and looked down. I could see what I needed. It was only three steps down, and it wasn’t a mirage; but still, there was no way to get to it. It started to laugh, but my diaphragm apparently put too much pressure on my bladder because after the first giggle I realized that laughing could be my worst mistake. I stopped doing that right away, and then looked ahead out the window to keep my eye on all things dry. Well, clearly you can understand that at this point, I only had two choices; stop and pee, or keep going…and pee. The boss said, “Don’t stop,” and I did not want to hear the cute little chiding that I would get from him – and the mechanic - if I stopped the tractor and advised them of the reason why. No way. No how. I was not going to let being a female with a medically proven small bladder be the joke of Spring Work.

          So, there I sat, with a full bladder, a running tractor, the ground within reach and…and idea that made me laugh despite the pain. I looked around to be sure that no one else was in my field. Yeah, right, like that’s ever happened. Unless, someone with a pair of high-powered binoculars is bird watching on the top of Steptoe Butte and just happened to fall upon me, I’m safe here. So, I look around for something to pee in. My lunch box would have been a great target. Please keep in mind that my left leg is fully outstretched to the floor and in order not to swivel I have to hold onto the gear shift that is up above the right side of the dash with my hand. But no, I was not going to pee in my lunch box. Even I cannot stoop to that level. After all, I only had one!

          So, I looked behind the seat, careful not to swivel, hoping that someone had left an empty pop bottle (hey, if I guy can aim at that, so can I) a small bucket, a cup, something. Wait! No way! I couldn’t! The hell I couldn’t. That sucker is what got me into this in the first place, and unlike my lunch box, I had more than one of them at home! So, I picked up my travel coffee mug, pulled the lid off, and then proceeded to wiggle very carefully out of my pants. I’m not going to go into too much detail here, because I think this is one of those subjects most people in America still shy away from, but I will say that I was way better at aiming at that cup that I was aiming at my harrow mark on that field. And why not, I am an expert at peeing.

         So, I did it. The only problem was that I had drunk TWO cups of coffee and not one. So, I had to – as crude men say – pinch it off. Sorry, I know that wasn’t very Puritan of me! My Irish and German roots are showing again. Anyway, full coffee cup in hand I had to open the window with one hand, hold the steering wheel with the other, and keep the clutch in all without spilling a drop or having the chair swivel and killing the tractor.

          Long story short (again, sorry) I did it. I was proud of myself and I was laughing all day trying to decide whether to tell the Boss. In the end, of course I was going to tell him. I tell him every thing about my bladder because it makes him laugh – and this Spring Work he needs a laugh. So, that night I brought the coffee cup in, threw it away and told him that we wouldn’t want that one anymore. 

         “Why?” he asked.
       
         “Because I peed in it.”
       
         “You what?” he laughed.  
         
         “I couldn’t stop the tractor, so I had to improvise.”

         Frankly, I thought he would pat me on the back like a guy and say, “Way to go!” Instead he asked a stupid question: “Why didn’t you stop the tractor?”

         “Because you said not to,” I advised, turning a little red in the face.

         “I didn’t say not to,” he said.

         “Yes, you did,” I say. “You said, keep going. Don’t stop unless I absolutely had to, so I kept going.”

         “But peeing is absolutely having to,” he said.
   
         “But I would have killed the tractor.”
     
         “Why didn’t you just put it in neutral?”

         Now, keep in mind that he has a lot on his mind and the last thing I want to do is remind him of the fact that I still need the mechanic, but how could he forget what he said after all of the trouble I went through to keep rolling today.

         “Remember?” I said. “I got it stuck in gear when the chair swiveled.”

          “So?” he said, still looking at me ridiculously. “You still could have put it in neutral.”

          Hello, people? My man has lost his mind. Stuck gear shifts won’t go in neutral!

          “How?”

         “The gear shift up above the throttle,” he says.

         “What gear shift?” I say.

         “The other one,” he says. “I showed it to you when you started. The one you put in 4th gear.”

         “It has a neutral?” I said.

         At this point, he just started laughing and like many other times in my life I made him swear not to tell anyone. Boss or not, I will kick his ass if he does.

First Gear? There Is A First Gear?

To explain being out in a dirt clod field all alone for a whole Spring day, I would have to start with deer. The deer that a person sees when they are driving a tractor are something that ardent hunters only dream about. In the early morning mist, with the smell of grease on your hands, a barely warm cup of what is left of your coffee in hand, and the first country hits of the day playing in the speakers overhead while your kidneys are jostled awake by the plow marks you are crossing, the deer are truly the best part of the day. They are usually eating grass in the CRP fields that boarder your own, seemingly oblivious to even the thought that anyone, or anything else, might disturb them. Once you crest the hill, lifting your coffee cup high to be sure not to spill the precious amount left, they lift their heads, still chewing their cud, and stare at you as you deadhead toward them. And, shockingly, they never stop chewing, they never stop watching you, and they never leave. It’s like something to do with the color red, instead of hunter orange, coming over the hill lets them know straight away that they are safe. That was the best part of my day. The worst: well, where to begin. First, as all of you know, I have not been out to the field for over a week. Here on the Palouse, it has rained, hailed, and rained some more. So much so that farmers were actually laughing instead of scowling, leaving the rest of us to want the run for cover even after the torrents eased up. During the delay, the Boss thought that we should use the time wisely and Amy-proof the tractor and the harrow. This was done in a kind way of course. It was like a gift, right? But, I knew what it meant: she’s a danger. Not only to herself, but to the equipment. I tried not to be insulted! No seriously, I was thankful, because today I went out there with a new harrow and a new cable to pull the harrow with. I looked fancy! I was so excited to get going and finish the field in record time, there by securing my unpaid employment on the farm. There were only two problems; one, the field was WAY wetter, more more wet, (Is wetter even a word??) than it had been before increasing my chances of getting stuck, and two, I couldn’t find the mark where I left off harrowing the week before. With every minute of time precious this Spring, I decided to go around the outside of the field to find it. I went once, twice, and then finally, I just had to take a stab at it and go. I went that way for a while, happy to be helping. Happy to be making progress. I avoided almost all of the plowed ground, even though that is what needed harrowing the most. For those of you who have not harrowed, let the expert tell you why you do this. (Yeah, right!) Harrowing is basically pulling lines of spikes over the ground that was plowed, or chiseled, last fall, in a crossways direction, in order to smooth it out for the next tractor to fertilize. My field had chiseled ground on the hilltops and plowed ground in the valley’s. Now, due to the rain, plowed ground was a major problem in the field I was working today. Picture what happens to a plowed garden after a series of torrential rainfalls. That is what we in the business call muck! I did my best to avoid muck – even though it needed harrowing really bad. Today, I was going for quantity, not quality, and frankly, it showed. I just wanted it done! To do this, I had to cross-harrow a hill top which consisted of crossing over the top, turning around at the base (or valley),driving back up, and cresting back down the other side. In doing this, I had to pull a monster-hill, which the Boss, and another helper, assured me was safe – and that the tractor would not stall. Well guess what? It stalled, going up the hill! Causing the tractor to free-wheel backward right into the new Amy-proof plow! (FYI: I was informed by a reader that it seemed a little confusing to them that I backed over a plow while harrowing. He said he was a critic and a novice and therefore that might have been why he was confused. Well, it felt like a plow! It dug in and held my in place on that ever-loving hillside like a plow would!) I call the Boss panicking until he kindly tells me to shut up! And listen, and thankfully after all of his years of experience he guides me through the process of starting it again and gunning it up to the top of that hill with instructions NOT to cross-harrow UP a hill. Cross-harrow across a hill. I texted my girlfriend with shaky hands and she said, Well, now you’ve crossed that off your list. Get going again! But that was not the worst of my day. I get going, as instructed, still shaking, straight down the other side and right into the plowed ground I was trying to avoid. I feel it lugging before I can even do anything to change it. I remember the boss saying that if you feel it getting sucked down, turn the wheel and head for higher ground, which I did. That only caused me to get a jack-knifed tractor stuck deeper in the field. Two hours later, and many miles of pacing up and down our road mentally abusing myself for my stupidity when the guys from the local fertilizer company brought a tractor out to pull me out. They were laughing, probably enjoying pulling the blonde newbie-chick out of the mud, and one of the guys said to me: “You know what we say about tractor drivers, right?” “No?” I said. “There are two kinds of tractor drivers. Those who have been stuck and those who are going to get stuck. Welcome to the club!” That made me feel so much better that after I finished, I delivered two cases of beer to the fertilizer company! Thanks guys for not making me feel like a dumb blonde! P.S. And thanks for showing me how to put it in first gear! Addendum: Just thought you all would like to know that I have been removed from harrowing for a while and placed on something "easier." Hmmm? Wonder why?

Forecast: Sunny and Scary

My last blog was April 24. Today is May 5. In that time I have only been on the tractor for one day. One day. The rest I have spent at home with the Boss staring hopefully, longingly, dejectedly out the window at the rain. And boy howdy has it rained. It has rained so hard every day that there were sometimes that even I was leery about going outside. There were sheets of rain, torrential downpours, thunder that went on and on as if the sky had an empty stomach all night long. Lightening that struck so close that it left me dodging from out building to out building in order to get the the shop. In that time I have written 1/3 of a book that I was not even supposed to start until the kids returned to school next fall, I've fixed the harrow, weeded everything I could find, I've gone out to lunch with the boss a number of times, hunted mushrooms in the mountains, and of course cleaned, cleaned, cleaned. Why does this blog sound boring to you - because it is! I am ready to get back out there and finish this harrowing business. But...be careful what you wish for. I can only presume that I will have more interesting stories to write you next week...

DAY 4: Chicks Make Better Tractor Drivers: Especially When They Bury It In the Mud!

          I guess I will call yesterday Day 4, but with all of the intermittent rain creating a stop and go work environment around here, I am starting to lose track. Yesterday, the sun was shining bright, it was 80 degrees, and I harrowed my second field. The night prior, I was chatting with a friend in the store who assured me that I would learn to love driving tractor. I have to admit, I was skeptical, and the next morning my stomach hurt at just the thought of driving again. Thankfully, the Bosses dad was there to help me get started, and he even harrowed the most troublesome parts - the small sections of field which are boarded either by someone's wheat field, a drop-off bank, or a mud bog, which I like to call quick sand. Finally, at about 9:00 A.M., the Boss's Dad let me go on my own. My nerves were still shot, but again I recalled all of the times when I have had to learn something new in the past. I could do this. I knew I could, and if I didn't, well, it would give the Boss something to laugh about when we are older - way older! Remember the days when I tried to have you drive tractor, Dear. What a joke. You SUCKED! However, that little joke will not come to pass, because after an hour out there alone, I really did enjoy it and I think I did a pretty good job. Which reminded of a text that I received the other day from a girlfriend and confidant.

          This girl would have made a way better farm wife than I have, and probably a better farmer than most men in the county. That is why she is my confidant, because I know of all of my girlfriends, she understands the nuances of my cussing rants whenever I get irritated on the farm. She also understands the golden rule of farming alongside a farmer - complain to your girlfriend and NOT to your farmer. They are much to busy to hear a girl bitch about the fact that she is sick of grease in her hair! Girlfriends who have been raised on a farm, on the other hand, they will drive right over and wash your hair in Dawn dish soap if that is what gets you back out in that field!

          Anyway, one day as I was doubting abilities to my friend, she sent me this text: U've got the skills. u'll see :) u definitely rock tho!...women likely make better tractor drivers if only because we would ask ourselves if we can make it thru the mud bog - before the tractor is buried to the cab...oh, and if you bury it U R still cool 'cause U R a chick and you went for it!

          I had to share that one with the Boss, who wholeheartedly agreed. He said, that he knew that I would not get stuck. He says I am the first girl in the text. I'm cautious. Hell yeah I'm cautious! I don't want anyone taking photos of me and putting it up on the video screen of farmer-screw-ups they like to show at the local tavern. After all, I might have grease in my hair! Anyway, I digress, I didn't get stuck, but right after quitting time, which is 3 P.M. for me since I have to get the kiddos off of the bus, I turned the tractor over to the Boss's Dad. I wasn't two miles down the road when I get the call. He was stuck, big time! I'm smiling like crazy, because it wasn't me, but if it would have been,can you just imagine how cool I would be!

SPRING WORK: Day 3 - Rated R for bad Language and Crude Humor

I was not going to put this little story on my blog simply because it was inappropriate, but after sharing it with the whole of the local grocery store this morning I figured, what the hell. You all are brave if you have been following me anyway.
Sunday was Day 3 of Spring Work, and I was happy because today Brett was driving tractor, and not me. His turn to suck! The Boss took him out just after 8:00 A.M. to give him his first lesson. For those of you who don't know, Brett is 15 and up to this point he has only plowed for us, which apparently, although I have never done it, is not as technical as harrowing. I waited until just after 10 o'clock to text the Boss and get a read on the competition.
How's he doing?
He's a natural.
Figures.
Such a natural in fact that the Boss is going to leave him out there to get that much needed spraying done. I spend the remainder of the day doing what farm wives do when they are not on a tractor: cleaning house. Now, I have always liked to clean my house. In fact I have severe OCD about it. I am so anal about it that the joke around here is that you better hold on to your coffee cup if you want more because if you set it down I will have picked it up and put it in the dishwasher. I like a clean house, and I liked that I had all day to clean it.
Well, all day that is between moving equipment, cleaning rabbit cages, making lunches, answering texts, paying bills, doing the endless laundry, teaching the other son to mow the lawn, playing with those new cute piggies, and constantly reprimanding my daughter for letting her bunny sit the counter. Remember the Sheep? Rabbit is starting to look mighty tasty about now.
Anyway, I digress. The funny part of the day is when I get a text from Brett that he is broke down. Bad.
The bar thingy snapped in half and a green thing is missing. And, I'm in the back of the field. Way in the back.
Hmmm...let's see...nope, I don't have those is the tool drawer. In fact I don't even know what they are, but he says it's bad, so I have to go with that.
Does it need welded? I ask.
Yeah Mom, he texts back. It's bad.
Crap! I advise him not to tell the Boss yet. He just started spraying and I don't want him to have to stop if it isn't necessary. I grab my daughter, more so that she would keep her bunny off of my furniture than anything else, and I head out to the field.
When I get there I see that he is not lying; not only is he in the back, but he is way in the back, high on a hill and behind a ditch that we cannot cross in the pick-up. No way. No how. So, he decides to walk down to meet me. We wait, and when he gets down to us, he retells the story.
I say, "Well, lets not just stand around here, let's go have a look."
At which point I get a groan from the daughter. She is not at all interested in walking back through the field. She's too tired. Which to me means: she needs to get out and walk through the field. So, we do and boy howdy is it a hike. The tractor is alike a mirage on a highway and I swear that it is getting further and further away with every step.
Finally we make it up there and I look at the two broken parts. He's right, it's a bar. But it's more like an iron finger that holds two bars together. In addition, there is a green thing missing that holds the bar on, but it doesn't need welded. The finger and the green thing are attached by screws and the screws are missing.
"Hell," I say. And this is where this blog get's the R-rating for language and crude humor. "I can fix that on my own. I don't need a penis to fix that."
When I say that, I am referring solely to a funny story another farm wife told me about her daughter backing the trailer up. I have blogged about this before, but it is so funny it is always worth bringing up again. My friend's daughter wanted to wait for Dad in order to back the trailer up for her, and her mom, the farm wife, said to her, "You don't need a penis to back up a trailer. Have you ever seen your dad whip out his penis to back up a trailer?"
Since then, I have used that as my own motto whenever I talk to my children about what we can and cannot do on our own. It's wrong. It's crude. But funny? Yeah!
"Did you check the toolbox for parts?" I ask.
"What toolbox?" he says.
"The one on the front of the tractor. It has bolts and junk."
"Nope," he said. "Didn't know there was one."
We pop up there and dig around until we locate a bolt, a washer, and a nut. Then we find the tools and I proudly walk over and replace the green thing. I rock! Hell yeah, I rock. I've heard hired hands call the Boss for less.
"There," I say, wiping the dirt directly on my butt for good measure. I earned that dirt. It's going home with me.
"What about the finger?" he says, pointing to the other broken part. "You still might need a penis for that."
"The hell I do," I say. "Get over there to that tool box and find the part."
By this time the Boss has gotten word over the radio that we are broke down and that it is his wife, his son and his young daughter out in the field trying to fix it, so he is on his way. I'm fairly sure that Brett is over at that tool box texting the Boss like mad, advising him that I am making the penis comments again and that he better get out here STAT before something gets broke even worse.
"Well," I say as Brett comes back. "What did ya' find."
"Nothing Mom," he said. "I told you we needed to call the Boss."
"No we don't," I say, pushing past him.
By this time, the Boss is already hiking up the hill, so I'm rummaging even faster. I can do this without him. I know I can. But, I can't. There are no fingers in there. I turn around to face the Boss, dejected at the fact that he had to rescue the damsel in distress - and I'm talking about Brett here. Just kidding.
"What's the problem?"
"That finger," I say. "Don't you have a spare here? If you did I could have fixed it without you."
"Did you see all the chain in the toolbox?" he asks.
He's being super nice, but I know he hated shutting off that sprayer.
"Yeah," I say, following him like an eager puppy back to the tool box.
"Well," he said. "All you do is wrap this chain around it and bolt it tight. It's a farmer fix, but it will get you through the day."
"Oh," I say, watching him simply put it around the bar.
"See, Mom," Brett says, grinning at me. "Guess you needed a penis after all."

DAY 2: I Suck!

I’ve never been told that I suck by a boss. Never. Not once. Not even on the day that I dumped the narcotics all over the ground in the pharmacy, or the day that I tripped over the leg of the fork lift and went sliding through the warehouse on my hands and face. It’s not to say that they didn’t want to say that on occasion, or that I was always that best one of the job, it’s just that none of them were ever close enough to me personally to tell say that I sucked at something to my face.

Day 2 on the job here, I got told just that.

You see, I was glad for day 2. I had been looking forward to day 2. The reason: I was not going to be on the tractor and further embarrassing myself. I was going to Moses Lake with my children, and some good friends, to get pigs from an auction for the boys’ 4-H project. If any of you have read my previous posts you will not that you did not see the word SHEEP in here. No, you didn’t. And you won’t.
The day was sunny and bright, and I knew that it would only be better the further we got into the middle of Washington state. The only problem was that the Boss’s (I like capitalizing his name. The Boss, The Farmer, DH, Husband, etc.) other help, aka his dad, was away for the day as well, leaving the Boss without any one to help him move or run for parts. However, there was nothing I could do about that. I had informed the Boss of this scheduling problem before he hired me, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

So, off we go, with one excited young man, one grudging and complaining young man who didn’t think it was fair that he should have to get out of bed for his pig, and one missing man. One of my sons had another commitment and since that commitment was school, and future career, related, he was given a hall pass with the promise that we - the pig purchasers - would pick him out a nice, cute, orange pig. I would not tell you that part, but it matters later.

8:00 A.M. with lunches made, Farmer off, the kid with the hall pass gone, the two older boys in truck to get pigs, and coffee in hand, we were all of the road.

I am ready, until one of the two older boys who was awakened to purchase his pig starts complaining right out of the shoot that it is not fair that he has to get up on his day off and pick out his pig when I am going to pick out a pig for the kid on the school field trip.

Now, as most of you know, I’m a fairly nice mom. Even my kids have accidentally alluded to that on occasion. But, as they know all too well, there are three things that I do not allow: bitching, complaining, and not taking responsibility for your self – especially when it comes to something you, yourself, asked to do. Therefore, we are not yet 100 feet from the driveway when I just about opened the door and booted his non-coffee drinking butt out and said no pig for you! Instead, I rolled my eyes and talked happily with the other one.

One thing I have noticed with the varying ages of my children; maturity comes with drinking coffee. It’s really that simple. Those who drink coffee in the morning, know that the only time their lips should he parted around the others drinking coffee is when they themselves have a sip betwixt the cup and the lip. This young man had yet to take up the habit, and therefore, had yet to learn the rule, so I told him simply to zip it. Don’t start. We had a long way to go. Wisely, he did.

However, we ended up just the other side of Steptoe Butte (about 10 miles from home) when the first question popped out from the backseat.

“How long ‘till we get there?”

“About 2 hours,” I say, and then quickly add to avoid any finger pointing if I was wrong about the exact minute of our arrival. “Maybe a little more.”

“What?” the non-coffee drinker exclaimed. “You never said we were going that far! God, this isn’t fair!”

Now, Dear Reader, I could bore you with that conversation for a long time, but I don’t need to. Most of you have kids, so I think you can use your imagination on how I responded. The day I had been so looking forward too, was already on the verge of being ruined.

We made it just to the other side of the town of Steptoe before the question was asked again. I seriously wished I wore a baseball cap like other people so I would have something to lean over the back of the seat and smack him on the head with!

In addition that that, the coffee-drinking son had decided that since he was now the driver, and I stupidly applied the rule years ago that the driver got to pick the music, that he would put some rap on to get us revved up for the morning. Let me tell you, “Hell no! Double Hell no! No way! No how. Not for 2 more hours!”

So, still not wanting to part my mouth for more than my sip of coffee, I simply reach forward and pull the plug on his iPod/Phone/Thingy to stop the madness! Now, Dear Reader, just so you know, I’ve done this before. Many times. It’s kind of a game with us. He puts crap on, and I take it off, until we find a compromise – which we usually do.

“Put it back on,” he says sternly.

“No way,” I say.

“Do it,” he says again.

“Not on your life.”

I can see a smile cross his lips and I am just about to plug it back in and start pushing buttons through the worst of his music to get to something I can stand, while still allowing him to have his music, since I did instill that stupid rule, when the non-coffee drinker pops his head through the seats like Donkey in the movie Shrek and decides to defend his brother by throwing the rule in my face.

“You said the driver picks the music,” he said, crappily.

“Not this time,” I say, still smiling over at the driver.

“But that’s not fair,” he sneers. “You said. You made the rule and you can’t just break it when it fits your needs.”

By this time my coffee is gone, and so is my patience. I turn around and say, “That’s enough.”

“But!”

“Enough!”

“No,” he said. “You made the rule, now you have to live by it.”

“I don’t have to live by anything. This is my car.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “You make us live by your rules, so you have to too.”

Never in my life have I had a kid continue to argue with me that didn’t know when to quit. Usually it simply takes a stare down, or a change in my tone, or something that subtle to let the child know that they have crossed the line from funny into disrespectful. This child had apparently not learned when that line was crossed. It took me practically leaning over the backseat and changing my voice into Gandalf the Gray in order for him to get the point.

“Your voice shall not pass over this seat again!”

That worked again for a while, right up until we reached Sprague, which is about 45 minutes away. This kid clearly wanted a fight.

“So,” he said. “Is this Moses Lake?”

I wasn’t even going to answer. You see, there is another rule that I have in my life, and my kids – especially the non-coffee drinkers – know it all too well. If you ask a question and I don’t answer it, you know that it was a stupid question. While in school there may not be stupid questions, between children and parents there are. And they are usually asked just to piss a parent off. And boy howdy, had he finally succeeded. I was like Papa Smurf yelling at his smurfings by that point!

“HAS IT BEEN TWO HOURS YET!!!!!!!!!!”

By the time we reached the first rest area five miles out of Sprague I got the first text from the Boss. No one was there to help him and he needed help.

Hmmm…let me see…I’ll just drop the kids here, turn around real quick and get right on that. Stupid question, so therefore, no answer.

To make a long day, short, I will say that we got to Moses Lake and it was warm! That was the best part. The worst part: the non-coffee drinker said, “Why should we have to pick out my brother’s pig. You said we all had to come. I had to come, even though it was my day to sleep in, so I don’t think we should have to help him at all.”

Not wanting anyone from whom I was purchasing a pig to think that I might be abusive in anyway, I walked off again mumbling something about spoiled rotten, ungrateful, unhelpful, non-coffee drinking little…. And wondering if these people, who were rednecks like myself, were serving alcohol at this little shindig. No such luck.

Let’s just move on to say that we purchased the pigs and, aside from the warmth, that was the only other highlight of my day. On the way back home, pigs in pick-up, both kids finally laughing because those pigs were so damn cute they could put anyone in a good mood, the texts start coming in from the boss again. Thankfully, I was back by Steptoe Butte when I got the first text.

I’m ready to move, and I’m sitting here waiting.

Timing is everything.

Great, I text back, feeling pretty darn smug at the fact that I could be there for him when he needed me. I’ll drop the pigs and the kids at the barn, flip up the OVERSIZED load on the truck, and be off to help you in two shakes of a…

No…no sheep, or lamb, references. I was barely surviving as it was. By the time I booted the kids and pigs out at the barn, the texts were coming in with exclamation points.

I went ahead and moved the truck while I waited for someone to get here, and now it’s stuck. Bring a chain and some fuel, ‘cuz I’m going to need some soon too, because no one has been here to bring me that either.

No problem, I text.

I’m just so darn proud that I pulled into the driveway when I did. If this had happened an hour ago, I would have had to pull over on the side of the road in order to safely answer the litany of texts I would be getting about abandoning him during Spring Work. (Which, I do want to say I really, really did feel bad about. Anyone married to a farmer feels bad about that.)

So, I proudly find the chain and he fuel, and drive it all out to the field. Half way out I get more texts. Can someone please tell me why I have a cell phone? These texts are from the kids at the barn. The pigs are too small, they keep hopping through the fence and running all over the road.

Okay, now I’m just laughing. I’m laughing so hard I am putting other drivers in danger. I can just picture them; my two oldest boys, and my daughter who is now there too, whooping and hollering and chasing pigs all over the gravel road. I am still laughing, while their freaked out, exclamation point texts keep beeping in, and I’m hauling-ass in this loud rattling service truck to the Boss who is counting seconds, so I only have time to text back two words.

Handle it!

Fast-forward to the boss who is still waiting, and now you will understand why it is that I suck! Not because the pigs or out and I wasn’t there, or because everyone in the world seems to need my help because they – pardon my French – need to take the tit out of the mouth for a change - but because I have to drive the stuck water truck out of the mud bog that it is slurped down in while being pulled out by the Rogator, which for those of you that don’t know, is a sprayer that is so tall that it looks like an Autobot on steroids.

I get in, and the Boss says to push the brake off and turn the wheels so that we end up back on the road. I push the square deeley-bob brake-thingy and listen for the hiss that indicates the brakes are off, then I turn the wheels. This maneuver in my mind is akin to parallel parking, if you can imagine that. Turn the wheel to the right, and the bum of your water truck will move to the right as well. Simple, right? I am glad that I am here to help. Me, with my great insight into backing up.

So I turn, and he pulls, and pulls and pulls, and my bum moves the other way, further into the mud and possibly – no certainly – a foot deeper. I see the Roagator stop, the Boss get out, and slam down the stairs, so I climb out to meet him.

“Did you take the brake off?” he asks.
He’s still being patient, but I can see that his patience is going to have it’s limits and all I can feel is the blonde hair standing out like a sore thumb on my head.

“Yeah,” I say, pointing up to the square deeley-bob brake-thingy.

“Well, it’s on,” he says.

“Well, I pushed it,” I say shortly. “It hissed.”

“Try again,” he says, stomping back to the Rogator.

I got back in, slammed my hand into the square thing, and gave the signal to move. We do, I turn, and again we go the wrong way. The Boss doesn’t even give it another try. He gets out, and slams the door with that look I am all too familiar with. The one that says, Do I have to do everything myself!

I get out, recalling my first days on jobs elsewhere, knowing that I need to keep my mouth shut and listen, and he has me come stand by him so that I can get a better view of the trouble I have been causing. I walk over to him, careful to keep a safe employee distance and nod my head. Yep, the Boss is right, the truck is not going the right direction.

“What do I need to do?” I ask him.

“Your in the mud,” he says, pointing at the truck. “I am pulling you backwards. You need to turn the opposite direction that you are.”

“Oh,” I say.

Yeah, like I should just know that. That, I want to tell him, comes from being a boy and spending most of your high school career purposefully stuck in the mud with other boys. Girls don’t do that. We just don’t. We are not that…Well, anyway…

Trying to lighten the mood, I accidentally, for a moment, slip back into being his wife. This is more dangerous for me than him because if I have to look at him as my husband and he is still looking at me as an employee, and he is mean – or even just honest with me - things are going to be bad at home tonight. Real bad. I won’t forgive him. He knows that, and so do I, but I’m tired, and after having the non-coffee drinker picking on me all day, I stupidly reach out for a little comfort.

“I suck, don’t I?” I ask pitifully.

“Yeah,” he says, uncrossing his arms and walking away. “You do.”

Let’s just leave it there for the day…and hope that Day 3 is better.

DAY 1: SPRING WORK: Watch out. A harrow can bite you.

I don’t like it when signals don’t work correctly. And I’m not talking about turn signals or hazard lights. I’m talking about signals a boss gives an employee. I have not been an employee for nine years now. And just to clarify for the sake of my blog, the definition of an employee is a person who works for another for financial or other compensation so please don’t try to placate me, or deviate from my intent here by trying to apply the Rosen/Romney standard to my plight.
Now back to my original comment: I have not been an employee for nine years. Back in the days when I was an employee there as one thing I appreciated in some bosses –even the ones I loathed – their ability to give good directions. If they did not give clear directions, I was not the best employee.
Yesterday, DAY 1 in my new job, the signals did not work correctly. It started out like this:
It was a nice sunny day. My boss – who I have already decided is not my husband when I am on the ethereal clock – told me that since there was little wind that day he needed to “spray.” In this case he needed to round-up our fields to prep them for planting. However, since it was a nice day he wanted to take a couple of hours to move my tractor out to the field that I would be working, and teach me to harrow. After that, he would spray and I would be done for the day because he did not want to leave me in the field alone on my first day. That makes sense to me!
By 7:30, with four kids fed and off on the school bus, I had our lunches made and was gung-ho -ready to show him that although I had no farming skills – and I mean none – I still learned a damn lot about listening and following directions, and I knew from my previous employment that I could learn fast.
So, we move out to the field and he keeps saying how important it is that he spray – right now. Living in eastern Washington, most of you know as well as I do that days without wind are at a premium around here and when you get one you better use it wisely. So, I ask him how long I will be out here. I have a reason for this, but I don’t want to tell him yet – even though it directly affects him.
To add one note, when the boss asked me to work for him he said it would be insane, asinine, crazy, and downright irresponsible for me to work after the kids get out of school. I agreed. Besides, after school, I spend most of my time moving tractors, sprayers, trucks and running for parts – so, right, I should not work. Okay, I know, I just applied the Rosen standard myself. That is called comic relief because I’m not laughing later.
Therefore, he does the math, which I swear all farmers spend have the day doing. And at this time, he is being good as gold and patient as can be with me.
“Let’s see,” he says. “It will take about two hours to teach you, but then I do need to get spraying.”
Cool, I think. Home by noon so I can do that thing I have to do this afternoon.
Now all employees know that their first day on the job they are expected to listen and not give advice, so I nod my head, look at the clock and say, “Okay. Sounds good.”
We get to the field and the boss teaches me how to start the tractor, warm it up, and lay out the harrow, which promptly gets tangled. A harrow is a series of long bars with big spikes set along each bar that when folded up can tangle like a pair of arthritic hands folded in prayer. So, we hop out and start yanking and pulling and the boss says to me, “Watch out. A harrow can bite you.”
So, I move out of the way as he starts yanking and pulling, leaving me to stand there and think, what am I going to do if he’s not here. Call him on the radio to help me unkink my chain. Hell no!

I wouldn’t hire me to stand around.
So I grab a spike that I think poses the greatest threat to our tangle and he smiles approvingly at the gesture. Let me just digress to say that men as strong, and my husband is damn strong after years of pulling harrow. So as I am holding, and he is yanking hard, hard, harder. The harrow pulls free, and promptly slams my hand between it and the harrow bar. Luckily, the spike missed my hand.
But as I am trying not to scream, throw up, pass out like a baby, my boss – who let me say has a bit of affection for this employee – rushes back to me, pulls the harrow bar out and starts apologizing. I say I’m fine and pull away, not wanting to have to press sexual harassment charges the first day on the job and all. I turn away, look down and see that between my pinkie knuckle and my ring finger is a bump with a purple bruise, not on one side, but on both and my rolling stomach tells me that it bruised all the way through. I chalk it up to lesson learned: Watch out. A harrow can bite you.
Finally, we get to the lesson, and it goes as expected. I pretty much suck. But hey, I’m not going to let that stop me. It’s my first day. So I learn and he still maintains a good attitude about it and then we stop to get him off to his sprayer and on the way back he says, “I wish I could just leave you out there.”
It is now noon and that is when I pull out the trump card that farmers are not concerned with in the heat of the move.
“I have to get our daughter from school at 3:30. I can probably go another hour.”
Once again, he’s doing the math. Keep in mind that he said I should never work after the kids get out of school, and that we were only going to be out here just to teach me and then he needed to spray.
“Damn,” he says. “This just isn’t going to work.”
“What?” I say. “Me?”
“Yeah,” he said. “There is no way you are ever going to get anything done if you have to leave early.”
I take a deep breath and remember that I hate when signals don’t work. Tell me what you want. Tell me to dig a six foot hole, two feet wide, and I will do it. Don’t tell me to dig a six foot hole, two feet wide and then three feet in act like I should have known that you wanted and 8x6.
So, being the first day on the job, I take a breath, nod my head, realize that I – as the newbie – must have missed the signals, and vowed to listen better tomorrow.
Just wait until tomorrow…it only gets better.

Colfax Book Club April 12, 2012

I am honored to be attending the Colfax Book Club tonight to discuss SUMMER SNOW. The book club chose it as one of their book club reads and we will be meeting for wine, food and discussion about my favorite topic - small town women's fiction!

If you are interested in ordering SUMMER SNOW for yourself, or for your book club, please check it out on www.amazon.com or www.barnesandnoble.com. It also available locally at most Hastings locations. I have to give Hastings a GREAT plug. They are amazing to work with as an author. They make it easy to place books in their stores - and they actually pay their authors! Bonus!!!

You can also check it out at your local library, or order it directly from me by emailing me at the above email address. If you order directly from me you will get a signed copy of the book, plus a book mark. If you are interested in having me attend your book or writing club to discuss the writing process, women's fiction, young adult fiction, or who to come up with ideas in your own backyard, please send me an email! For book clubs, please ask me for a group discount.

Best,
Amy