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!
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
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."
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."
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
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 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.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
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
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
Monday, April 9, 2012
Spring has Sprung!
I know, it's not a very catchy blog title! I just thought I would pop in and update ya'll on where I am at on writing, farming, raising kids, and pigs, and a husband...two dogs and a billy goat. No just kidding.
As farmers we take the winter off, which means that I spend the winter writing - which I did. I finished THE POLIS and will go to The Wenatchee Writer's Conference in May to try and sell it to an agent. This was a difficult book to write for me because it was in a different genre. This is a Young Adult adventure book instead of my usual Women's Fiction. Thankfully, it is done and put away, knot-tied on the binding until May.
In addition to writing, this winter Wave and I did a fair amount of fishing for Steelhead, winter camping, game playing, and hot tubbing. We did not get to do a lot of sledding or igloo building with the kids so that was a bummer. We took the kids to Disneyland for Christmas and then we went to Kauai in February. For those of you that did not hear, once again we had plane trouble over the Pacific and had to be returned to Hawaii which once again resulted in free plane tickets. Last year they had engine problems, this year the windshield "shattered" half way over the ocean. Most people think we are nuts if we attempt to go back to Hawaii again. As I have said though, we always get there, it's the making it back that seems to be a problem for us!
Since then, I have been working on my third book, which some of you know the title to, and others might not. For those you don't, I am keeping it a secret from the internet world. The title is too good, too yummy, and too leading. I don't want anyone else to have it - greedy me! It is once again a women's fiction book and it has caused a lot of "laughter through tears" as I have been working with my good friend and accomplice Mary in the character planning process. We are actually gaining stomach muscle from all of the gut-holding giggling we have been doing while plotting out this nasty little gem.
Yesterday was Easter, and I just wanted you all to know that we ate some DIVA! If you don't know who Diva is, read the last blog. She is the devil who tried to kill me last September. Therefore, we ate her. And, I have to admit that she was fairly good. Wave was a master chef, especially for someone who never cooked lamb before. My problem was my imagination. All I could see were the poop covered dreadlocks that I had to trim off of her "roast" area last Fall. I only had a bite because I could not get over that image for anything. That being said, master chef at the grill or not, lamb will not be my favorite meat. We did have some more "Evil Dr. Pork Chop" as well, in the form of a shank ham, and it was divine! I can eat that because - as I said before - I never had to clean a pigs butt, or trim their poop from their hind end. Never. Not once.
As for pigs, we are off to Moses Lake with another 4-H family next week-end to start the whole project rolling once again. Yeah!! I love this time of year! It means more time out doors and more blogs about farming with a pack of young un's, a yard full o' animals, a stressed out tired farmer, and a hot headed farm wife. I love this time of year...no really, I do.
FYI: You should see these pigs though, they are said to be grand champions boars, but they look more like a bull dog/rhinoceros mix. They are monsters and I think they come with their own weight lifting sets and boxing gloves. They might scare me worse than Diva, if that is possible.
Summer and Jack will not be doing sheep this year - most likely because I said, "Hell No!" Instead, they are raising bunnies. They each got one for Easter. They are a mini Lionhead mix and they are so super stinking cute!
Well, happy Spring and back to writing!
Amy
As farmers we take the winter off, which means that I spend the winter writing - which I did. I finished THE POLIS and will go to The Wenatchee Writer's Conference in May to try and sell it to an agent. This was a difficult book to write for me because it was in a different genre. This is a Young Adult adventure book instead of my usual Women's Fiction. Thankfully, it is done and put away, knot-tied on the binding until May.
In addition to writing, this winter Wave and I did a fair amount of fishing for Steelhead, winter camping, game playing, and hot tubbing. We did not get to do a lot of sledding or igloo building with the kids so that was a bummer. We took the kids to Disneyland for Christmas and then we went to Kauai in February. For those of you that did not hear, once again we had plane trouble over the Pacific and had to be returned to Hawaii which once again resulted in free plane tickets. Last year they had engine problems, this year the windshield "shattered" half way over the ocean. Most people think we are nuts if we attempt to go back to Hawaii again. As I have said though, we always get there, it's the making it back that seems to be a problem for us!
Since then, I have been working on my third book, which some of you know the title to, and others might not. For those you don't, I am keeping it a secret from the internet world. The title is too good, too yummy, and too leading. I don't want anyone else to have it - greedy me! It is once again a women's fiction book and it has caused a lot of "laughter through tears" as I have been working with my good friend and accomplice Mary in the character planning process. We are actually gaining stomach muscle from all of the gut-holding giggling we have been doing while plotting out this nasty little gem.
Yesterday was Easter, and I just wanted you all to know that we ate some DIVA! If you don't know who Diva is, read the last blog. She is the devil who tried to kill me last September. Therefore, we ate her. And, I have to admit that she was fairly good. Wave was a master chef, especially for someone who never cooked lamb before. My problem was my imagination. All I could see were the poop covered dreadlocks that I had to trim off of her "roast" area last Fall. I only had a bite because I could not get over that image for anything. That being said, master chef at the grill or not, lamb will not be my favorite meat. We did have some more "Evil Dr. Pork Chop" as well, in the form of a shank ham, and it was divine! I can eat that because - as I said before - I never had to clean a pigs butt, or trim their poop from their hind end. Never. Not once.
As for pigs, we are off to Moses Lake with another 4-H family next week-end to start the whole project rolling once again. Yeah!! I love this time of year! It means more time out doors and more blogs about farming with a pack of young un's, a yard full o' animals, a stressed out tired farmer, and a hot headed farm wife. I love this time of year...no really, I do.
FYI: You should see these pigs though, they are said to be grand champions boars, but they look more like a bull dog/rhinoceros mix. They are monsters and I think they come with their own weight lifting sets and boxing gloves. They might scare me worse than Diva, if that is possible.
Summer and Jack will not be doing sheep this year - most likely because I said, "Hell No!" Instead, they are raising bunnies. They each got one for Easter. They are a mini Lionhead mix and they are so super stinking cute!
Well, happy Spring and back to writing!
Amy
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