For Those Women Just Learning To Wrestle Sheep

Since yesterday was uneventful, I decided to bring back an oldie but a goodie. This was one of the two most talked about posts that I ever put on my blog and if you haven't read it you should. It explains a lot about me. (Originally posted September 2, 2011)

           The next day, intent in re-sinking my feet in the mud after the Spokane experience, and working out some of my aggression at the Dear Farmer (we will call him DF for short, just because I like the look of it!) I forced the kids through many lessons with sheep and pigs. The forecast called for the mercury to hit 100 today, so it seemed more therapeutic than crazy to put everyone through their paces simply because I was breathing and snorting like a bull over yesterday. The only thing keeping me from grabbing a bulldozer and plowing through the wheat field where DF was working was the fact that Brett had his first high school football game tonight. I could not wait for that! I think I’ve been waiting for this day since that kid took his first breath.

            He, on the other hand, apparently had not. As he sat over his breakfast, pushing eggs apart as if he were setting up the Nighthawks first play against Pomeroy I decided to continue my uncanny ability to tick off the men in my house by once again opening my mouth when I shouldn’t.

            “What’s yer problem?” I said looking down at him.

            “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head and gritting his teeth in a manner completely juxtaposed to the word used. “I’m just not playing. That’s all.”

            Okay, let’s just leave that one alone. You don’t want to know what I said to him anymore than what he said back. Let’s just say it ended with his bedroom door slamming and my front door slamming. I was done with him for a while. Now, onto the next victim.

            Now, I’m not sexist. When I’m hurt or angry, I like to share the love with everyone. As one of my ex-bosses once told me: when Amy has a good day, everyone has a good day, but when Amy has a bad day…. I was mad at him for a week over that little observation.  Since then, I have come to understand he was right. However, Summer and I had plans to wash her sheep this morning. It had to be done. There was no getting out of it since her 4-H leader was coming to sheer them the next day in preparation for the fair. In addition to that, Summer had been feeling intimidated by the sheep for some time now, so I knew that I had to change my attitude – or at least suppress it in order to get this done, because there is one other rule that is true about me as well. If Amy falls apart, everyone falls apart, and I was not about to let that happen to a scared insecure little girl.

            Therefore,  at 9:00AM, I walked a very reluctant Summer down to the barn to wash her sheep, Dude and Diva. Dude, the male, is about 125 pounds, and Diva, the female, is about 105.

            Now, I love pigs, as you can tell from the name of my blog, but sheep have been a different story. Pigs love you, they want to play with you, please you. They loved to be scratched under the jowls, and when you come to the barn they somehow manage to get their enormous bodies up out of their self-made mud hole and start running around before you even have time to pull out the first marshmallow treat. When you hop the fence, they fight to be close to you, they nip at your heals, and stretch their heads up to you when you pet them. They practically bark like dogs! Now, I’ve heard many rumors about pigs killing their owners and leaving no evidence left that they had done so, but with our pigs, I just can’t imagine. I love pigs!!

            Now, sheep on the other hand are a different story.  Sheep owners of course would disagree wholeheartedly, but in the three months since we’ve had these beasts it has taken everything I have to get close to them. They do not like us. They do not take marshmallow treats, which is just beyond my realm of understanding, and frankly when I look in their eyes they look back as if they would certainly eat me for dinner, given the chance.

            Now, the idea here, in case you have never caught a sheep like myself, is to catch them, hook their lead ropes on their halters, and then take them outside their poop-filled pasture, onto the nice warm grass, and wash them with a hose, baby shampoo, and a potato scrubber. Not to mention, that at some point in time, I will have to take scissors and cut the poopy dreadlocks from their bums. Regardless of the stigma of how dirty and smelly pigs can be, I have NEVER had to do that with a pig. 

            I try to hold onto my good attitude about this and attempt to stay in character as the person “in charge,” simply because I know full well that if I lose it, Summer will give up and walk away completely.

            Unfortunately, I think I should have meditated harder on my attitude, because immediately, things turn bad, as I predict they would. All it took was Summer unlatching the chain from the fence and the little devils start freaking out as if we are here to butcher them right now! I take a deep breath and coax Summer in the fence instructing her on speaking slowly, softly, almost lovingly. I can see little brother Jack climbing up the fence to get a box seat for the main event, as he does every day.

            “Let me do it, Mom,” he says. “I can get them.”

            “No Jack,” I croon. “They are scared. Not this time.”

            I step lightly and end up slipping sideways on a pile of dung. I curse softly about the pigs never leaving crap and realize that Summer has heard me.

            “Sorry,” I say, side stepping away from Summer so that we can box them in the corner. Immediately, the sheep turn and run, slamming their heads into the fence behind them. I take a deep breath as Summer rolls her eyes and gives me the “why-even-bother” look. I suppress the urge to tell her that she wanted to be different than her bothers. She wanted these stupid sheep.

            “Come on,” I say to Diva. “Come here, sweetie.”

             But, sheep are not like pigs, and no amount of coaxing is going to work here. They hate me, and I hate them. The façade of my liking them is shattering and we are now face to face with the reality of what is about to happen.

            A half hour later, I am sweating, the pigs are oinking like crazy from the pen behind me, Summer is almost in tears, and little bother Jack is whooping it up from atop the fence as if we are trying to herd cattle instead of ply a couple of angry sheep out of the fence.

            “Fine,” I say, throwing down the lead rope and gritting my teeth. “Fine. I’ve had enough. Summer, Do it.”

            “Do what?”

            She has a suddenly look of fear in her eyes.

            “Send her over,” I say, glaring hard at Diva. “Send her to me. I’m gonna catch her.”

            “You’re going to what-”

            “Do it!”

            Now, dear reader, you are really going to have to use your imagination on this one. There is a barn door up against my left arm and a gate up against my right. My feet are also braced against both. The idea is that she will run to me and then I will grab her around the neck with both arms and hold her tight. When I catch her – off-guard – she will freeze as these stupid animals always do and then I will call Summer over to put the lead rope on her and lead her out. Seems easy, right?

            I thought of my son, in his football uniform, standing across the line of scrimmage from his opponent, and crouched down into a catching position between barn door and gate. There is not even a hair’s width of room for her to get through. Summer slowly walks up behind Diva and I lean forward. Diva is staring at me, but I can see that she is monitoring Summer as well out of the corner of her bulging eye.

            “Push her button,” I say, referring to squeezing her tail and getting her to run forward.

            “You sure,” Summer asks.

            “Push it!”

            Summer does as she is told and Diva bolts for me.

            Now, I have always felt like I know what the pigs are thinking. I am NOT, nor will I ever profess to be, an animal person. Just ask anyone and they will tell you my rule: if you can’t eat it, it can’t be on this farm.  It’s a known fact that I am not a fan of taking care of poopy animals, but around here, it is also a well-known, and surprising fact that if there is a problem with the pigs that cannot be solved, I can usually solve it. I am not scared of them, they seem to like me as much as I like them, and somehow I seems to know their language without them even speaking. I’m like a pig-whisperer.

            Apparently, I should  have worked on that relationship more with the sheep before assuming that IT was a complete monotone idiot, and that it would just run into my arms and I would catch it.

            It only took me about 2 seconds, much less time than it takes for a bull rider to realize that he had made a big mistake, to learn the language of the sheep and realize that this animal was not as stupid as I had given it credit for. At some point between the button-pushing and reaching my arms, that sheep made an executive decision and I heard what it was thinking loud and clear.

            “I’m going to jump her!” It thought.

            For a moment I could see the truth about what was going to happen and I knew that there was nothing I could do.  And, for some reason that I cannot fathom, I was still hanging onto the stubborn notion that things might still go my way and my plan might work. It amazes me that you can think all of that in two seconds!

            All I remember are hoofs at my face, a warm body hitting my mid section, a gate rattling open, and the feel of two cinder blocks slamming into my back. It was then that I looked into the sheep’s eyes, just before it ran up and over the rest of me, and I realized that it was not only very smart, but very, very scared.

            The sheep was gone before I could even roll off the cinder blocks and frankly, I wished it would have kept on running. I could not breath, I could not move, and both of my children were staring stone-faced at me.

            Now, sometimes when people fall down, they will lay there for a moment and access the damage only to find out that they have had the wind knocked out of them and things were not as bad as they thought. That has happened to me on more than one occasion and I am always pleasantly surprised – especially after becoming a farm wife - to learn how much battering my body can actually take.

            I laid there for a moment, mentally scanning my body and attempting to breath, only to discover to my surprise that I really could not breath and I really could not move. Pain not withstanding, I went from amazement, to understanding, to downright fear as I heard my daughter say, “Amy, you okay?”

            I moved my head to the side and attempted to say, yes, but not much came out but a croak of air.

            This was strange. I realized that I might actually be hurt an the only thing I could even think about was the list of crap I had to do today and the football game I wanted to go to.

            I could see Diva out of the corner of my eye, she was huffing and puffing ans staring stone faced back at me. Poor thing, I thought, as I rolled off the cinder blocks. My second thought was that she was going to taste really good on my bar-b-que later that fall.

            No, just kidding. It turns out that for the second time in my nine plus years here, I was actually, truly hurt. Now, when I was working for the man, years ago, I would have relished an injury like this to put me on sick leave and get me out of that air-conditioned office and onto some much needed downtime. Since being here, working on the farm, raising kids, and writing, I have never once wanted downtime. I loathe it. I don’t want to miss a day of this, and I wouldn’t have time to anyway. After all, Alice doesn’t live here, so there is no one else to get my chores done, and these chores don’t wait for Monday. Peoples lives and bellies depend of what I do; therefore, as I rolled over and tried to get up, I started scanning my mental list in my head for what I could put off and what I couldn’t.

            By the time I got up, Summer had already sent Jack to the house to get the angry football player, and possibly an ambulance.

            It turns out I cracked a rib and bruised my lung and kidney. I didn’t tell my DF of course. Cranky as he was, it was none of his business. I was not about to end this silent treatment over something as little as internal injuries. No way. There was a point to be made here, and I was not about to let it go. I have a self-impossed rule on my farm, as my sister does on hers. If Caroline Ingall could do it, so can we!

            So, cracked rib, bruised lung, and bruised kidney, I showed my girl how it’s done on a farm and we caught that damn sheep and we washed them both. I even cut their butt-locks! That afternoon I dropped Brett off with his team and took the other boys over to wash the pigs. I never cried like a girl. I never called the ambulance or my husband. If Caroline Ingalls could cut into her own leg to let out an infection with a hot knife and the bible without Charles’s help, then by-goodness I could certainly continue my chores with internal injuries!

            That night, I carefully…very, very carefully went to Brett’s first football game. Wave was still on the combine, so Wave’s family came to the game as well. It only took one look from his mother, and expert in accessing my stubbornness, to figure out that I was in fact truly injured this time. I argued against it, but being equally as stubborn as I, she informed me that she WAS moving in tomorrow until the fair was over. No if’s, and’s or butts about it. And for the first time all year, I didn’t have the strength to argue. 

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.

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

D-Day November 8, 2011

I know, I know, I have been a negligent writer who has been gone from her blog for way too long! The reason is that as of the end of September I have been trying to finish THE POLIS and get it sent off to my editor with the VERY HIGH hopes of getting a third book done this year that has been on the back burner since I decided to tackle THE POLIS. Therefore, for about a month, I have been steering clear of the internet during my allotted computer time in order to really hammer out that project. This nose-in-the-air attitude to social media might continue for another month until I finish the book. 

However, since I have received so many verbal comments about the sheep story, (see previous story) I thought I would give you a final update before I get back to writing off-line. The kids did pretty good at the fair. Wave was not able to be there even once due to how late the harvest was, but thankfully his family, and my family, stepped in (as always) and helped out. Summer earned a best in show for the devil-sheep Diva and got a blue ribbon for Dude. The boys took home some reds and some blue ribbons for their pigs as well. The temperature at the fair was almost 100 degrees every day and that caused all of the kids and the animals to be tired and uncooperative, so I was impressed with the efforts of all of the kids, the staff and the parents. 

Not wanting to miss a moment of the festivities, I tried to ignore the pain in my ribs for the whole week and as a result ended up back at the doctor with pleurisy, which is an inflammation of the lining between the ribs and the lungs. Of course, I was just plain mad about that! 

The last day of the fair, the pigs and Dude were (vegetarian warning! Close your eyes mom!) taken away by the butcher, and the whole show was over by noon, leaving us with nothing to do but go home and hope that the animals that we loved so much, and for so long, were quickly removed from the slaughter trucks and "taken care of." 

We had the other two hogs, that did not go to the fair, butchered at the end of September and they turned out to be fabulous! Vegetarian Warning! The morning after we received the meat, I got up and made the kids sausage patties for breakfast, at which time six-year-old Jack proudly exclaimed, "Yummy! Evil Dr. Pork Chop tastes good today!" 

Sick I know...However, that is not the end of the story just yet. Diva, the devil sheep went home with the kids 4-H leader to "finish out" before she will be butchered. She could not come back to our house because apparently, sheep will not gain weight when they are alone. Figures, huh?  Can anyone say high maintenance or...DIVA!  Currently, diva is living the high life at another farm in our area fattening up with other sheep probably looking for the next person to attack! She will go to the butcher on Nov. 8, 2011. 

Vegetarian Warning again! Jack will let you know how she tastes!

See you all on here again after THE POLIS is complete and out of my hands!

August 29, 2011: The Mom Plum Lost it!

Prologue: I only use that because I like that word. It’s so formal, so professional. I just wanted to point out the obvious fact that I have not been adding in my diary for a while. That is because I was at the Palouse Empire Fair with the kids! Well, I’m back now, so on we go to Monday…

Last night it rained. Yes, rained! While my husband was busy musing over what possible time that they would be able to get into the field the next day, I was secretly smiling in the dark. I had not been able to water the lawn since the pump went out on the well, and what water I had given to my flowers had been limited at best. Scooping it out of the pond with the knowledge that I didn’t have hot water to wash my hands in afterward often caused me to put off that chore until it was almost too late. As for the garden, well, I had all but given up on that. The weeds flourished to be sure, but the plants were beginning to show signs of a stress that they might not recover from.

            I let Wave sleep in, and just before breakfast I opened all the windows wide in order to catch the last traces of green air, as I like to call air after it rains. There is something about it that just smells green.  I also cooked pancakes and eggs that morning as if I would have hot soapy water to wash the dishes in afterward.  For a while, with the pressure in the air released and the pressure of the need to water momentarily alleviated, there was laughter in the house once again.

            Our local grocery Mike called just after nine to say that the box of tomatoes that I ordered for the salsa I planned to can had come in. I will make lunches, walk the sheep with summer, and then go get the tomatoes before the water guy comes to fix the pump. I cannot wait for this, but I holding my breath. If it doesn’t work, we will learn that we have bigger problems and right now with the thought of having to wash pigs again tonight that is just not an option I am willing to explore.

            The sheep are unruly as usual and Summer will not be patient with them. She is worried, as am I, how they will act at the fair. They do not like their lead ropes and they end to jump and buck so hard when they are on them that we can barely lead them, let alone have Jack try to lead them for Daddy’s Little Sheppard. Finally, we simply put them back in their pens. They are hot, we are hot, and without water our patience is coming to an end. I walk over to the pigs and pet them on the snouts. I like them so much better then the sheep.

            I pick up the tomatoes in town and upon the return see that the pump guy has arrived. I hold my breath and wander about aimless even with my trusty list in sight. I can think of nothing else but water. I pull out the salsa recipe, but dare not start it knowing that if this doesn’t work, these tomatoes are destined for the freezer instead of the canner.

            Just after 1:00 Brett rushes out the door in a panic stating that he made a mistake. He flushed the toilet and there was actually water in it! I looked at the pump guy who was calmly screwing the face on a power box and said, “Well, that’s cuz’ I’m done!”

            Now you would think at this point I would be relieved and happy, but I guess there was something in the amount of tension that I had been holding inside that caused me to burst like a balloon. Suddenly, the list wasn’t enough to keep me in line, and I was immediately ordering everyone around like a drill sergeant. I quickly thanked the pump guy, barley pausing long enough to send out a thank-you to the universe for not letting this be a bigger problem that it already was. Then I started tossing out orders like baseballs. You do this! You go here! Pick this up! Put that down! Get in the car! Don’t forget your boots!

            By the time we got over to the pigs everyone in the car was tense and therefore so were the pigs, but I couldn’t stop myself. I pushed the kids through a round of “let this pig out, and put that pig in” so fast that everyone, including the swine went ape crazy!

            By the time that was over it was time for sheep practice at the 4-H leader’s house. The kids were hot, stinky and tired. Dustin was soaked from the quick bath he gave his pig, Georgia, and I was still cranky. Jack and Summer walked their sheep, but the other’s behind them were antsy. I was embarrassed to admit that the reason the sheep were acting up was because we all smelled so strong of swine feces that the sheep were unable to concentrate. It was terrible; sheep were jumping for no apparent reason and kids were being dragged around trying to collect them and get them back in line. Finally, I informed the 4-H leader of what the problem might be. In other words, I confessed. We stunk! We did learn however, that sheep don’t like the color red and we had been keeping a red halter on our sheep Diva, who was the main jumper, the whole time that we had been training her.

            When we returned home, Summer and I removed the collar and we could not believe how much calmer she was. Had we only known this a month ago, things might have turned out very differently with Diva.

            I baked tomatoes and quesadillas for dinner and went straight to bed. As on other stressed out woman once said, tomorrow is another day…

August 24, 2011: DAY 6: For Women Just Learning To Wrestle Pigs...

I’m sure by now you are getting sick of me saying “up at 430.” Well, we were up at that time once again. Brett started out this season eating eggs and having a cup of coffee with me before he left. Today, he wanted nothing aside from ten more minutes of sleep on the couch and a promise that I will wake him when I see the lights of Coach’s car. That’s fine with me. More “Water for Elephants!”

            Brett informed me that his girlfriend would be coming over after practice, so I get my jog in early in order to have time to clean the house before she arrives. My friend Cat has a saying, “If you’re coming to see me, stop by anytime. If you’re coming to see my house, call ahead.” While I would love to feel the freedom of this statement, I have major OCD when it comes to my house being clean, and with five children running around, feeding the beast of my desire for cleanliness is difficult at best and often leaves me with my mouth drooling and my heart racing.

            The lack of perfection in my home is something I have had to learn to breathe through, just as other people breathe through paying their bills when they know from the start that they don’t have the adequate funds to do so. While I’m sure that learning to relax in a less than pristine environment is a good thing, I still secretly believe that so is my OCD. I love it. I relish in it. I roll in it like a dog rolls in poo. Okay bad analogy, because we all know how I feel about poo as well. But I will save that for another story.

            I want my house to look as if the maid has been here all the time and I have such a hard time controlling myself that when the kids leave so much as a spoon in the sink, I call them to it and then look around in bewilderment asking them if they see “Alice” anywhere in the house? As you can see, I’m not fully on the verge to recovery yet, but due to other events of the morning, I was unable to get my dishes done before I had to retrieve Brett and his guest. I was mortified, apologizing for the mess, etc. Brett, always there to help like any good, loving teenage son would, looked around the kitchen and said, “What are you talking about Mom? This place looks cleaner than usual.” Had he not had a guest I might have cuffed him.

            At noon, I took Brett’s friend home, delivered Maxx and Summer to Grandma’s for a two-day visit, and went on a parts run to Colfax. Wave’s mother has recently become my hero (not that she wasn’t already) but she has offered to take a small set of our brood on and off this week to help give me a break in harvest. Ahhh…

            At 500 PM, The Ag teacher from Tekoa and his wife arrive to help us load up three of the five pigs that we will be taking to the fair. Just like last year, we will moving them to the FFA barn in Tekoa so that the kids can wash them and work them more intensely during these next to weeks. When we started raising 4-H pigs last year, we all wondered how in the world we were ever going to butcher them. A friend of Wave’s told him that by the time the pigs were ready to go to the fair, we would be ready to kill them. I love our pigs. They are like dogs. Loyal and affectionate. They seem to only want to please, but I clearly remember that last year I felt different by the time we loaded them. It sounds cruel, and it is only a fleeting thought, but as I watched the Ag teacher back the trailer into the stall, I had flashbacks from last year’s pig loading attempt.

            The pigs were playful and jumpy as the teacher stepped in the stall to separate the three we will be taking to the fair. Dominus, Zagar and Alex were quickly separated from the other two, but by the time the gate opened on the back of the trailer they turned into 270 separate pounds of solid hatred, and the five of us were not enough to handle them. Especially with Jack singing to them loudly from atop a fuel tank next to the stall.

            Within minutes, all three of them squeezed under the gate on the trailer and were out in the driveway before we could do anything to stop them. Brett lured them with every marshmallow we had and thank goodness managed to get them back in the fence. Pigs are smart, but they are also playful. They love to follow you, and marshmallows, but it will be over their dead carcasses that they will get in the back of a trailer. Like I said, they are smart!

            It took over an hour and every bit of strength all of us had to get those three snorting, biting angry swine into the back of that trailer, and as the teacher closed the door I was already screaming “good riddance!” in the back of my mind; however, by the time we got to the barn and coaxed the pigs out of the truck and into their new pens they had returned to normal and we were quickly scratching their jowls again. All water seemed under the bridge between us, and we were almost sad to leave, but I knew in the back of my mind that tomorrow, bath day, was going to prove to be much of the same as it was at the barn and once again I would be thinking about how good pork chops are going to taste this winter.  

August 22, 2011: 4th DAY OF HARVEST: Catching up

NOTE TO READER: Since I decided to add my diary on my blog page days after harvest actually began, I am having to play catch up. Therefore, every free moment I get, I will add a day from the past in hopes of being caught up to the current day for you. Please stay tuned. Things tend to get a little crazy on the farm this harvest! 


DAY 4: The kiddos came home Sunday night. For three of the boys at least, this is it for the summer. They normally alternate every two weeks at their other homes for the summer, and now that they are back here that is over. Brett is back on a full-time football schedule, and I will have to work hard the next two weeks to get the rest of them on a regular schedule again. For Summer, this is her last two-week interval at our house for the summer. She will return to her mom’s house for the school year after the holiday.

            I’m super excited to see Maxx as he and I haven’t seen a lot of each other of late. He used to spend all of his time here, but with Brett having more needs now that he is in high school, I seem to be spending more time with Brett these days. That’s fun too, as it used to be just the opposite. Boy howdy, there is just not enough of this mommy to go around!

            So, at 4:30 Brett and I were up again for football. The athletic director, and our neighbor, Ken, kindly offered to pick Brett up in the mornings since he, and his daughters, have to be there anyway. I kissed Brett goodbye and thought fleetingly about going back to bed; but it feels so good in the cool morning air, and it’s so quiet, I have to stay up and sneak in a few more chapters of “Water for Elephants.” I think someone is going to get redlighted today, so I am on pins and needles as to who it is!

            At 7:00 I got a jog in and then I helped move combines again and taught Brett to flag for the first time. He did great. It was only a small move, but just doing that works the kinks out so that he can be ready when we really need him. Harvest is going along well, but every time I even think that thought I want to scream out, “Break a leg,” due to the recognition that you have to be careful what you say or else you could jinx yourself and everyone else. The wheat looks amazing, but shhh, don’t tell, and everything is up and running again. Yikes, scary just thinking it.

            Right now, it’s nice to hear the neighbors on the radio again. Seems like Heaton’s are starting to harvest and Mc Hargue’s are doing pretty well. My Grandpa Squibb works for Mc Hargue’s and today he gave a shout out to Jack telling him to have a good harvest and to keep the farm running well. We can hear all of them, but he can’t hear us. Right now, I like the camaraderie, but ask me how I feel about the radio chattering away in my kitchen by the end of harvest! However, I like being able to hear my grandfather working on the radio. Who else gets to do that?

            I managed to pick a few zucchini from the garden and it looks like I might even get a tomato this year. Oh boy! Terrible year for a garden around here. I don’t know why I even try. I moved a bunch of rock in this flower garden I have been working on all summer. This place is huge and it always has been a work in progress. It probably always will be. I have plans for all of it, but each project is massive and will take time. This flower bed alone has taken two years to establish and it is still not even close to done. All of this is helping me learn patience. Building and growing things tends to do that, and it has also helped me to understand my husband’s never ending patience so much better the longer we are married.  

            I found time to run Jack to the pool for 30 minutes. It just seems wrong not to let the kid swim while he has the chance. He would swim all year if we would let him, and I’ll lay testament right now that that kid will be a scuba diver when he is older. I’ve never seen anyone like him when it comes to diving and holding your breath under water. Brett just told me that they believe deep diving and forcing yourself to hold your breath for lengths of time encourages the blood vessels in your brain to grow and have been know to increase the amount of brain we use. We are not worried about Jack then; he will do just fine in life.

            Had to leave the pool to go on a minor parts run to Colfax. Brett has ridden with me on every run, and the company with my son is nice. He will get his license in a year and half and I know that after that, he will be gone.  I return home, leave Brett to get some sleep and take Summer to Tekoa to practice showing sheep for the upcoming Palouse Empire Fair. She is gaining confidence and doing much better – even though she doesn’t see it. Working on trusting herself will be the key. I think working with the animals will help her to stand on her own two feet. I am very excited to see her in the arena!

            By the time we got back home I had just enough time to make Mulligatawny Soup and rolls and head to my bedroom for a little quiet reading. Although I still have not had much time with Maxx, I am tired, Wave will be here soon, and still have not seen anyone get redlighted from the circus train.  

Did You Get the Tequila?

            It all started at 5:30 in the morning with the alarm clock going off. Where I live, you might have expected me to say that the rooster was crowing; but no, instead it was the incessant jabber of a talk show host ranting about something to do with the price of rice in China. Really, at this time, I could have cared less. All that I could hear was the fact that she had obviously had her coffee, probably Starbucks and most likely made by a barista that I would never see in my kitchen.

            Five thirty was also when the guys from the fertilizer company drove up the driveway and my husband popped out of bed like a jack-in-the-box. Therefore, I guess that I was up too, barista that I must be.

            I climbed over the six-year-old who had crawled in at some odd hour of the night, threw on my sweats and headed for the kitchen. By the time my husband had his clothes on, I had already started a pot of coffee, unloaded the dishwasher, located a piece of paper and started my list for the day. Number one, make four lunches, move the tractor, make the tea, chicken for dinner, bread, start the burn pile, trim the raspberries, rodotill the garden, move the other tractor, piano lessons at 3:00, and pee. I always put that in there as my own little joke to myself, because I know full well that this list will be a page long by the time the morning is over and I will need a break. I also know that I won’t get half of it accomplished.

            I was just on my way to the shower, knowing that it was that or a cup of coffee, when my husband said something about needing a ride to the field.

            “No problem,” I smile. “When?”

            My husband looked out the window. Here, I must digress. If any of you have read my blogs on Spring Work, you must know by now that a farmer looking out the window causes warning bells to ring in his wife’s head. Frankly, it means, “I don’t know. I’m not sure. What do you think dear?”

            However, with Spring Work being so super late this year and farmers all over the Palouse in danger of not getting their crops in on time, my farmer quickly recovered.

            “Now?” he asks.             

            “Sure,” I say. “Let me write a note to the kids.”

            Already I am doing the math in my head. It’s almost 5:45. My son, who is the early riser, will be up to shower at 6:00. Another at 6:15. If the first one isn’t out of the stall on time, there could be a fight. Oh well, I can’t worry about that now. The others won’t see the light until after 7:00, so if we get after it, I can make it back in time to start breakfast and head off any brewing fights. The drive out and back would take a half hour.

            Now, in favor of this blog not being as long a read for you as it was a day for me, let me just speed this up for you – because frankly that is how I experienced it.

            So, on the way out, I’m informed that we need to stop by the fertilizer plant, it’s only five miles out of the way. It’ll only be a second. Just have to tell someone something. Fifteen minutes later, now almost time for the second child to rise and find the note that I am MIA, we just start heading for the field.

            “Think you have time to move a truck,” he asks.

            “What truck?” I say.

            Yep, I’m gritting my teeth. He’s been in the house for the morning routine all blooming winter. He knows full well that four hungry boys can get chaotic without the mommy buffer.

            “It’s at the other field.”

            Now, dear reader, the “other” field in question is almost ten miles the other direction, and moving a truck isn’t like helping your friend move his car down the road. You have to wait a generation for it to warm up, for the farmer to pee, and then it rumbles, slowly, ever so slowly, through the field and onto the road like a very, very old man. And then, as I know all too well, there is always a chance that we may have to stop by the fertilizer plant again. 

            “Where is it going?”

            “To my dad’s.”

            Another seven miles the other way.

            “No way,” I say. “Kids need to get up.”

            “Well, that truck needs to be in the field in an hour,” he states, as if I’m delaying the work that must get done.

            “Fine,” I say. “I’ll go home, get the kids up, ask the eldest can take care of the youngest and I’ll get it done.”

            I race out to the field, practically kicking him out the door and then race back home, hoping like hell that I don’t see a cop and that I’m awake enough to drive because this barista has yet to see a cup of joe! If you think this is tedious, wait till you hear about the tequila!

            When I arrive home the fertilizer team is still there and they are unable to get a much needed nozzle working. I radio the farmer who gives me instructions in some form of farmer-speak over a jumble of other voices on the radio. I race back and forth playing the telephone game between the two of them until finally the damn nozzle magically works. Great, good. One success.

            I race in the house, now hollering for the kids to get up. I give my eldest instructions, thankful that he is willing to help and not in a bad mood. I call the father-in-law to help me move the darn truck, ask the middle child to make the youngest a lunch, and am just about to run out the door when one of the kids reminds me he needs to go to school early. Let me tell you, I flunked math, so by this time, my numbers are starting to get a little jumbled on who needs what by when.

            “Okay,” I smile. “Get your stuff.”

            Stuff attained, out the door, to the school, out to the field to meet the father-in-law, texting the eldest to inform him that I just passed the bus on our dirt road heading straight for the house. I pick up the father-in-law to help get the slow lumbering truck, get a text back from the eldest that one of the younger children has hidden his backpack and that he will “FAIL” school if I don’t find it and bring it to the school RIGHT NOW. I want to tell him that I’m not a fan of capital texting, but I’m driving so I keep it brief. OK.

            About here, I’m wishing for my list to write all this down. I move the truck, all the while have a civil political discourse with my father-in-law, race back to the house, make four lunches, find the backpack which my eldest simply left by the dryer when he got his clothes out, discover a wayward suitcase that had been left her by another kid who had stayed the night a couple of days before, a coat from yet another visiting boy, and some books I need to deliver to the school. You getting all that?

            I am just in the car when my dear husband texts that he needs his tractor moved. He’s waiting. Like time waits for no man, farmers do not wait for busy wives. Around here, excuses can get unpaid helpers such as myself fired. Right now I’m thinking that sounds damn good!  

            “No problem,” I state. “No problem at all.”

            I deliver everything, realizing that I still have not had a cup of coffee, but being a woman, I have to pee anyway. That will have to wait!

            I deliver the goods to the school, only to find my youngest upset because he forgot his lunch. I console him and magically produce the lunchbox that I found left on the counter at the house. Then I race to the field, flag the tractor, only to get a call from the hired man. He’s ready too.

            Done! I get back home, turn OFF the radio, walk straight past the list and into the office to try and edit my book for the upcoming writer’s conference. I got an hour in on my project before I got another text from the farmer.

            In favor of getting you through this, I will give you the final straw. Wish I could say it was stuffed in a blended margarita, but it wasn’t. No.

            After taking the middle child to piano in a neighboring town, helping the youngest with his homework, washing and folding laundry, and just pulling the chicken out to start dinner, I get the call from my two eldest boys that they need picked up from track. Fine, I say. We can eat leftovers tonight.

            I get back in the car, start to drive to the school and I literally have to stop at the only stop sign in town and contemplate who in the heck I am headed for; the hired man, my husband, or the kids. I laugh and sit there for minute. I’m taking a break, I laugh. Right here in the middle of town. I had almost regained my bearings again when my cell phone vibrates. I pick it up and read the text.

            “Hey,” my husband types. “It’s Cinco de Mayo. Did you remember to get the tequila?”

            Needless to say, that man did not get an answer this time.

            Now, for all of you waiting patiently – and of course on pins and needles for me to write “Why Am I a Liberal Part 2,” I will just point out that I haven’t had much time of late. However, I will get on it…after I pee. 

March (I mean April) 29, 2011: Aptly Time To Bitch

Here is my latest update on Spring Work in eastern Washington:

Maybe we are in Fall Work instead of Spring Work - which I've already told you are capitalized in our neck of the woods. It is April 29th, although it feels more like March. It has snowed all morning, it is freezing cold, and the wind is blowing like crazy. I had to put another bag of pellet's in a stove that is normally clean and hibernating this time of year. I had to turn the heat lamp back on for the outside cat, and on top of that our new piglets have runny noses.

Additionally, the boys and I are supposed to be getting ready for Bloomsday, but the thought of training down my dirt road (or as I'm calling it today, my mud hole) in this weather is absurd and just begging for pneumonia. Therefore, this morning, after bracing my face against the wind for the past week just to make a feeble attempt to stretch my legs before Bloomsday, I instead made myself a large banana waffle and loaded it down with butter and maple syrup. I poured a large mug of steaming hot coffee and I sulked all the way to my cubby hole to write instead of run.

Until tomorrow's update~

Why Am I Liberal? (Part 1)

              I get asked this question a lot, usually with a sneer and a confused blink. Sometimes I have to look down and make sure that I still have my clothes on. I’m usually taken aback for a couple of reasons. First, I find the outright question rude. My grandparents and my parents always taught me acceptance. Don’t ever invite yourself to a party, don’t stare when a special needs person is nearby no matter how curious you might be, and above all do not discuss money, religion, or politics – especially in company other than family. Second, I usually fail to provide a good answer because I rarely have a witty, one liner that stops any further inquisition into my unorthodox view of politics and life in general. As a writer, I’m expected to not only have one-liners flowing from me like fresh water from a spring, but I’m also expected to have knowledge of the subject I am discussing, especially when it directly relates to myself.

            I grew up in Tekoa. It is a small town in Eastern Washington. The population at last check was just over 800 people. I now live just outside the neighboring town of Oakesdale, population around 400 souls. I think it is fair to say that small towns in general have a reputation for being more conservatives than large cities. In working with that assumption, I think it is also safe to say that in our neck of the woods, Tekoa is considered more liberal, and Oakesdale more conservative. I grant that that is a generalization, but I’d venture a guess that many of my neighbors in both communities would tend to agree.

            Growing up in Tekoa I cannot recall ever being asked about my religion or my political views. Frankly, I assumed that is because my grandparents had gotten a hold of most of my neighbors and friends and instructed them on proper manners, just as they had me. However, in Oakesdale I have had a much different experience. I have been asked to attend church on numerous occasions, one time with the suggestion that we should go because our mass quantities of children would look so darned cute in the Christmas play. In addition, it has also been suggested that I, and one of my children pray in public. I have been blessed I don’t know how many times – and all of that is fine with me. A good blessing has never hurt anyone as far as I know.

            I have smiled at it all and declined politely, not only because they are my neighbors and friends, but also because I really enjoy hearing about different beliefs and seeing those beliefs shine in people that I want to know better.            

            When I was a teenager, my favorite song to sing around the fire at church camp was “Pass It On.” To this day I still sing it, even though I no longer have the beliefs that I once did. I like that my neighbors trust me enough to share and “pass on” their beliefs to me, and my curiosity at their conviction almost makes me want to agree. I really like these people and seeing them socially on any day of the week would be a welcome visit.

            However, agreeing to attend their church would also be hypocritical, and as my parents and grandparents taught me, an affront to the honesty that binds any relationship. For myself, I figured just keeping silent about my “difference” was good manners. 

            I was okay with that, right up until one cold and windy fall night in 2009 when a local police officer came to my house to have a chat with my husband. Apparently, there had been some discussion about a sign nailed to the fence that surrounded our barn. The officer had been known to drive by our house on occasion because he lived nearby. Often, he would wave and I would wave. It felt good having a man of the law close by. I often told my kids that if there was ever a fire, ever a problem, feel safe because he was just right down the road.

            I had no idea what he and my husband we talking about in the driveway, and I almost went out to offer the man a beer. He was in civilian clothes after all, and had rarely slowed for more than just a wave. I was intrigued as you can imagine. However, a few days prior to the visit I had burned some yard debris on a windy day, and had been very thankful that he had not driven by. I assumed that he somehow found out about it, and that he was here to give my husband a friendly warning about my carelessness. Of course, that was not the case. He just wanted to chat with my husband about that sign.

            Apparently, there had been some talk about the blue and white sign. Some even assumed that it might have been a mistake, or even a joke. It wasn’t. The sign was in our support of Barak Obama and Joe Biden for the upcoming presidential race.

            From what I learned after my dear husband walked through the door shaking his head, the officer wanted to know whose sign it was. My husband told him that I had put it up, and the officer kindly suggested that Wave consider telling his wife to take it down. It was subtle of course.

            “Well, you don’t support him, do you?” the officer asked.

            “Well, my wife really does. I haven’t made a decision yet.”

            “Maybe you should take the sign down until you do.”

            “Well,” my husband said. “You’ll have to take that up with my wife. It’ her sign.”

            All of this was true. We had had some lively discussions in our family about who to support since Senator Barak Obama first started showing up in the news a couple of years prior.

            I could not believe it, or at least I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to throw a fit, stomp my feet and march right over to his house and give him a piece of my mind about democracy. I even suggested sneaking over to his house in the middle of the night and sticking the other ten signs I had all over his yard. But my husband, always the level headed on, reminded me that he was only one person.

            I stewed and muttered something for a couple of days about freedom and acceptance and our forefathers until I finally calmed down. I hoped he did not represent the feelings of all of my neighbors.

            Interestingly enough, I was shocked to learn that he did represent more than I knew. Not that my other neighbors, who had apparently be taught some manners by their parents and grandparents as well, would ever suggest that I take the sign down. But, some were certainly curious, if not outright appalled that I believed the way I did. From one friend, I heard that she was surprised. She just didn’t know I was a Liberal.

            Up until that point, I had actually considered myself a Democrat. But Liberal? As a wordsmith I had to say, I really liked the sound of that better. To me it sounded like branching out into a smaller more dedicated, more knowledgeable faction of the Democratic party, which had for some time seemed to large and indescribable to me.

            My friend, whom I learned that day, clearly understood her own conservative political stance, apologized as well for a remark that she had made about the future president in front of me.

            “That was rude, and thoughtless,” she said. “Knowing you as well as I do, I should have known right away that you were a Liberal.”  

            “He’s not my family,” I laughed. “You can say what you want. It probably won’t change my opinion, but you never know.”

            Since then, more people have asked the question that started me thinking today. “Why am I liberal?” I, like most people on either side of the razor wire fence that seems be dividing this country today, I doubt have taken the time to sit down and really think about it.

            …stay tuned for Part Two of “Why Am I A Liberal.”