Desperate in Germany

As near as I recall, I was walking along the tree row on the north side of our property when my wife called me with a question regarding our upcoming trip to Germany.  We were going on account of a back surgery for my wife, as Germany had the cutting edge in the program at that time.  It seems the travel agent we had been working with had phoned her, saying that there was another couple scheduled to be at the same hospital during the same time frame as we were.  It happened that this other couple going at the same time had a request.  Since it was to be the husband who was going for the same reason, (back surgery) and since the hospital was located approximately 1.7 miles away from the hotel booked for both spouses not having surgery, and since that distance was walked whenever possible due to high cab fares, would I be willing to walk this man’s wife, as she had some trepidation about this all, on the to and from journeys each day for the 12 days we planned to be there?

Hooboy.

In that split second before my wife finished telling me this, I could imagine it all. 

We would walk the darkened streets and become momentarily lost.  Her young violet eyes would look trustingly, but with a little distress, up into mine.  I would, with my able form beside her, make rapid calculations as to where we were and deftly guide us back on course, all the while fending off any unwonted stares from the street fellows.  Upon arriving at our hotel, she would thank me profusely. 

No, No.  Not at all.  That would be far too awkward.  I did not want any part of this. 

We had never met these folks, but I felt I needed to be helpful if it was asked of me, so I told my wife, “Yeah, I guess I can, but I hope she’s old.” 

I did not want anything like my imagination had played out so adeptly.  An older lady I could be fine with.  I would treat her as my mother and be glad to shepherd her back and forth.  A younger one with violet eyes, no way.  And more than likely, I thought, it would be an older woman, since most folks going for back surgery were that type, my wife being the exception.

I pretty much forgot about it all anyways.

Getting left in a little under two weeks and the first time for me across the pond occupied my mind. 

We landed in Dusseldorf around 6:30 a.m. their time, to an empty, somewhat dated airport.  Customs involved a little ticket booth affair with a sleepy agent who stamped our visa and waved us on through without even making eye contact.  Our driver was standing in a line with several other drivers, all holding signs with the last names of whom they wished to convey onward.  We jumped in with him and started the hour and a half ride to our destination, Hattingen.  Our driver dropped us off at our hotel and we settled in and caught a quick snooze to try to combat the jet lag. 

Mid-afternoon we strolled downtown.  One of the main streets was holding some type of bazaar where one could buy all types of food, dainties, and trinkets.  We had not changed over very much of our money yet, so we refrained from buying anything.  Although their street vendors selling bratwurst did tempt us, we finally settled for an American style restaurant serving chicken fingers and fries.  I tried to locate some of the street names on the hand drawn map given to us by our travel agent that led in the direction of the hospital, but to no avail.

Back to the hotel and we learned that the couple whose husband was to have surgery the same time as my wife had arrived and would be down to the lobby to meet us in about 45 minutes. 

She was young.  About my age and had violet eyes.

He was friendly enough, just ready to do something to get rid of his chronic back pain caused by a series of accidents.

The next day, our cab driver took us to another town for MRI’s, back tracking on the road we had come in on.  He delivered us back to the hospital, and after some time I told my wife I was still weary and planned to walk back to our hotel, catch a shower and nap and return later in the afternoon.  I started out, hand drawn map in hand, in the general direction of the hotel.  I say general, because there was an old factory (no longer in use) positioned fairly close to the hotel and it had a towering smokestack which could be seen easily from the hospital.  I kept it in sight and knew it wouldn’t be long until I was showering and taking my nap.

A light rain began to fall as I trudged along.  I was sure to be cognizant of the street signs and match them to my hand drawn map so I could find my way back when I (ahem) was guiding the fair young damsel on our journey later in the day.  About forty minutes later, I realized the smokestack was no longer in front of and a bit to my left, but rather, it appeared to be some ¾ of a mile to my right.

It seemed that either my hand drawn map hadn’t been consulted closely enough or a street sign had been missed along the way.

An hour later I was getting close to my home away from home.  Except for one remarkable obstacle.  Just on the other side of a long expanse of fence was the smokestack.  I knew there would be a gate somewhere.  But there wasn’t.  Another quarter mile of fence and I was completely beyond the smokestack.  I was now totally soaked, chilled and ready for a good hot shower.  Wearily I trudged back to the beginning of the fence, got on the other side of it, and finally to the hotel.

Getting back to the hospital later that day wasn’t a problem.  “Yes,” I told myself, “This will be a piece of cake later today.  I’ll guide unerringly.”  But I needn’t have worried.  It was stormy, with a windy rain that evening so we caught a cab.

Violet eyes and I met for breakfast the next morning of out of this world bacon and eggs.  I decided the bacon we chewed on back in the States must have had all the goods wrung out of it compared to this stuff.  We traversed the mile and a half to the hospital, visiting easily.  I hardly had to watch my street signs. 

I had this. 

But the fates didn’t.

We started out that evening for the hotel at a brisk clip.  I wasn’t in shape for this, and violet eyes definitely was.  It took all I could do to keep up with her.  I learned later that she had the same problem with me.  We constantly raced each other without ever knowing it.  By the end of two weeks, I had a Charlie horse in my right thigh that didn’t go away for several months after I was back home.  We settled into the easy conversation of the morning, albeit raggedly, between huffs and puffs on my part.  It was late, and the streetlamps didn’t give off any too much light.  Twenty minutes later, it seemed the lights on the smokestack were generally the same distance away as before.  Ten minutes later, I realized we had walked by this certain shop window twice.  Five minutes later, violet eyes broke from her extensive life history to comment, “Haven’t we walked by this church steeple once before?”

Hooboy.

This did not look good at all.

By the time I saw the aforementioned shop window coming into view for the third time, I called a halt.  My able form that had earlier bulged with decisiveness, shrank in despair.  Even the fluffy brown curls ringing the violet eyes hung limply in the mist that had begun to fall.  It felt like it could be a long night.

What to do now?  No shops were open anymore at that hour, and even if they would have been, the language barrier would have struck us down immediately.  I told violet eyes I needed to get my bearings, but each time I just about had them, she would break out on some more family history. 

All at once I thought of something.  Google maps.  Would it work in this back street on the other side of the world from where I usually used it?  Hey.  Anything is worth a try to grab back a bit of her lost confidence, er, mine I mean.

It actually worked, and I was immensely grateful.  Although, by the time we got to our hotel, it had changed to the other side of the street during our absence.  But that was a minor consequence. 

She gave me a wan smile as we neared our rooms and we said good night.  Ah well.  No effusive thanks from her.  And then my door rattled with a knock.  I looked out to see her standing there, still dripping and cold. 

“My key won’t work in my door.” 

Me.  Me to the rescue!  My able form quivered with confidence, or was it from cold?  I strode the three doors down and jingled the key in the lock.  Ta da!  I swung the door open with my arm lingering on the doorknob in sort of a gracious bow. 

She acquiesced and thanked me profusely. 

Cabin Fever

I recently became personally aware of a malady that seems to be making its rounds to some of those I know and think a lot of. 

It seemed serious enough to me that I thought a third post this week was in order.

Now I do wish to be careful; this isn’t something to panic about necessarily.  As far as I know it hasn’t reached pandemic proportions. 

But from what I understand, it is something you don’t want to get, and therefore, while I don’t want to use my pen in an unreasonable way, I do wish to put out the clarion call to those near to the ones whom I speak about.

As they say, you never really know about a sickness, tragedy, or disease, until you yourself have been affected by it. 

So I find it.

I have done some research on cabin fever, and pledge myself to do more, simply for the sake of humanity, since I have now come in contact with it.

From what I gather, cabin fever affects those who have been cooped up for too long, especially those who live in very cold climates and have to stay inside for long hours at a time.

The symptoms include, but are not limited to, irritability, negativity, and listlessness. 

As you can see, it probably isn’t a fatal malady; but for those living with or nearby one who is affected by such, could drive them to distraction, the end of which may prove near fatal.

I would ask those who live in cold climates, particularly those who live on top of the 49^th, to check themselves for these symptoms.

I would even go so far as to narrow the contact tracing down to a location known to me as where some of my nearest kin resides. 

A very flagrant remark was made by one who lives there, regarding my last post. 

Said remark insinuated I was not only a foodie, but also an interior decorator. 

It goes without saying that such remarks spring from a serious case of cabin fever.

While I’m am far removed physically, my heart reaches near to the one who made this remark and I offer my condolences.  I do hope your sickness is short lived and soon you will return to your normal, functional, rational health.

A Simple Wish

Today, my wish is simple. 

There is a new shed going up on the north side of town.  The owner thereof has advertised he will rent it out by sections to those wishing to store stuff in it, or, to those wishing to do business out of it.

He has even gone so far as to offer customization if those renting get their name and plans in soon enough.

I haven’t put my name in.

Yet.

But I wish I could.

I’d like the east bay.  It looks about 30 feet wide by about 50 feet long.  I’d plan on putting an overhead door on the south side, in the 30-foot wall, with a walk-in door to the side of it.  Next, I’d ask the owner to section off the space inside in half. 

In the front half, I’d run windows all along the east wall.  I’d skin the rest of the front half in gray tin.  Against the back (north) wall I’d have a Dyco workbench/cabinet in place.  I think I’d choose blue for its color.  In it I’d have grinders, clamps, and general tool sets.  Along the west wall would be a heavy-duty welding table that was regular height for half of it and half of regular height for the rest of it. And in the floor, I’d have several anchor points with chain recessed to hook on to.

I’d have plenty of light over the bench, and a nice, modern welder in the northwest corner.  On the south side of the welding table would be a vice that left no question as to its capability.  A regular torch, plasma torch, and large diameter cutoff wheel and a band saw would round out the tool inventory up to the south wall/door.  Just in case, I’d want an overhead crane, nothing fancy, that ran up to and over the welding table on an east/west track.

I’d probably go with a black insulated ceiling, and I’d want an exhaust fan in the roof that I could switch on remotely.  The floor would have a gray epoxy coating with just enough grip in it so I wouldn’t slip easily, but not so much that I couldn’t broom it down or wash it out efficiently.

Of course, it would have heat and a/c in it.

And I know, you think I’ve sort of slipped a cog don’t you. 

Because fellows like me are supposed to have hobbies that involve wood in order to fit in with the ‘in’ crowd of fellows like me.

But just hold on, I’m not quite done yet.

In the back room, I’d like a nice window on the east and north wall.  A door from the front half on the south wall and an outside door on the east wall would be nice.  A nine-foot ceiling would be standard, and for the floor I’d go with that tile stuff that looks like a 1×6 weathered board.

I’d like the south wall (insulated of course to cut down on noise) sheet rocked and then I’d like some tongue and groove 1×6 aspen boards over that.  Maybe on an angle?  Not sure on that yet.  I’d sheetrock the other three walls and do a really heavy-handed skip trowel effect for texture.  The west wall would be a burnt orange color, and in the southwest corner would be an honest to goodness wood stove; one that you have to cut wood for.  A/C would be independent of the front half.

I’d probably use can lighting around the perimeter, although I’m old fashioned enough that I’d probably want a lamp over by the recliners, opposite the stove, for aesthetic appeal. I’m not so picky on the color of the north and east walls, although I would like the windows trimmed out in distressed black, so something to tie them and that orange together would be nice.

In the north and east corner would be a small kitchenette, and under the north window would be a bit of a table.  On down the aspen wall from the stove would be a coffee bar.  There would be an espresso machine for those who can’t seem to do without it, and I imagine I’d grab me an americana from it occasionally, but a set of simple pour-over coffee utensils would probably do well enough for me.  I’d like a semicircle of those Adirondack chairs around the coffee bar.  They sit so well, and they have those wide armrests that rest your hand and your coffee mug nicely.

I suppose somewhere there would be a place to plug this ole computer in, in case I ever got the twitch to write something.

In my off time I might idle back there, and you could stop in and pour yourself a java and help me with the latest conundrum. 

I imagine I would need a sudoku book there in case my good wife ever showed up; although such a book to me is utterly useless and proves time and again my total inadequacy when compared to her.

But the real reason for this all, the primary wish, if you will, would be what I would do in the front half.

And there, I would take all the shopping carts that have ever made me mad and gently fix them up, so the wheels are straight to the frame, they push easily, and turn when you actually want them to turn.  Really, I think I could stay busy there for as long as I wanted into the foreseeable future.

Then I’d take them back to Walmart, and maybe charge just a bit in order to pay the rent that I would owe to make my dream come true.

Don’t even get me started on what the cart that I used yesterday acted like.

Mixup by Geronimo

(Warning. Lengthy writing. All who prefer short, concise writings should desist from reading, especially those who have lived in this area previously and who have my number for writing pieces too lengthy.)

I left Pratt livestock with a load of 16 classy, healthy, bright-eyed heifers weighing in at 540 pounds each. 

Calves like those are visual therapy to a cattleman.

My load was an easy 8,500 pounds; I could haul 12,000 pounds if I had to, but I had 100 miles to roll up towards home and didn’t want anyone down on the trailer floor when I got there. 

I purchased these heifers as guaranteed open, or in other words, they were guaranteed not to have a baby calf in them.  Just in case, the man selling them had given them all a shot of Lutalyse, a drug commonly given to cause an abortion if there is, in fact, a fetus involved.

We rolled homeward, and 1 ½ hours later I was kicking them out into pen 2 in our home corral.  They didn’t look weaned, so I kept them in that pen for a number of days before turning them into pen 3, which has a gate open to some wheat pasture adjacent to the corrals and which had some 30 other calves, already weaned, fence broke, and grazing in it.

I made sure to turn these 16 in when all the rest came up for water, so they could ease out with them and know the way back home.  I also made sure to turn them in in the morning, so I could keep an eye on them for the rest of the day, and if need be, ride against them if they took off running.  As far as I knew, these 16 weren’t fence broke, but that didn’t bother me too greatly, turning them in with the others and all.

And all went mostly according to plan. 

In ones and twos, sometimes threes, they made their way out with the rest and generally stayed with the group.

Except for two of them.

I made a cardinal mistake then.

After a couple of days with those two hanging around in the corral, I figured it was time to show them the way out to wheat pasture so they could start gaining some weight.

And I made a second cardinal mistake.  I drove them out midafternoon instead of early morning.

There was a sharp twang as the fence was blasted through, and cracking tree branches as they plowed their way across the tree row right in front of them.

I wasn’t too concerned yet; I had had this happen before, although maybe not quite so viciously as it was playing out now.

Almost always when this had happened before, the one or two on the run would see their cronies over the way, and being a herd animal by nature, would take down the fence a second time just to get in with them.  Once the fence was fixed, I usually didn’t have to worry too much about them anymore.

But, as one rocketed in a westerly arc, and the other split off in a southerly direction, there was one word that imprinted itself on my mind.

Lutalyse.

It was too late to do anything about it then, but I knew it for the truth when I thought of it.

I’ve had the occasional calf that was treated with that drug go loco for several days. 

Now it made sense why these two hadn’t joined the rest, and a whole lot of other things made sense also, including the fading black blobs out in the distance.

I romped the four-wheeler up to top speed in pursuit. 

I hit a couple of terraces at speed and gently flew for some yards afterwards, coming in for a smooth landing each time.

The one heading west circled around towards her cronies on the wheat pasture a quarter mile back east.  I left her be and turned my attention to our new southern belle.

But she was a foxy one.  She blew through two more fences in quick succession and headed for some rough country where I was tasked with either keeping up and more than likely getting flipped or use some covert methods.

I chose the latter, running far out in front and easing back her way in a nonthreatening gesture. 

She flippantly took down two more fences. 

I decided I had better leave her be for a bit to see if she might decide to come back on her own.  She was foaming pretty badly around her mouth already anyways.

The other one had stopped about 500 yards from the group on the wheat pasture and they had seen each other and were talking back and forth. 

Slowly, I pulled in behind her with the intention of moving her closer.  At this point there was no reason to try to get her back home; I didn’t care if she took the fence down to get in with the rest.

And then we had a black explosion.

She turned and came straight at me. 

I said, “Okay lady, if that’s how you want it, let’s roll.”

I diced off to the side and she blew past, out to the west again. 

Now I know if any neighbors end up reading this, they may be provoked to open the court case against us they have always been minded to. 

We seem to have had a few too many getaways. 

But what is interesting, in all of the getaways the common denominator has been that they always travel south.  This one going west and now north was odd. 

I’ll chalk it up to that drug.

She took down one fence and leaped another a half mile from home and was moving along faster than I liked to see. 

A mile north of home she took down another fence.

At that location I made a misjudgment that nearly caused me some bodily damage.  That heifer charged up the bank of a tail water pit, dug some 50 or 60 years previous, to catch the run-off water from the flood irrigation used to water crops in those days. 

I had been to that small pond a number of times both for ice skating and pheasant hunting; I had never been over on this side of it.  The sun was getting lower, and it cast the leeside, which I was facing, in a deep shadow, making it quite difficult to judge the angle of ascent.  That wily girl had bounded over it with apparent ease, so I sent myself and the four-wheeler up it in the thrill of the chase.

It proved to be quite a bit steeper and longer than it looked. 

My four-wheeler was bogging a bit as we neared the top, and I had to give a bit more throttle to make it over.  That bit of throttle was just about the undoing of it all.  The front end definitely started to curl back on top of me; I threw myself forward and was just able to overcome the precarious situation.

We bounced down on the other side and into the dry bottom of the pond.

She was waiting for us and took the red plastic fenders of the four-wheeler for the red blanket of your regular matador decoy and hammered into us, head down, head on.  We all stopped, me stunned from the force of it all, she with fight in her eye, and not more than 3 feet away.  I got a very clear visual of her carotid pulse as it pounded away in her neck.  She lowered her head and charged again, but she was too close to do much more than jostle us both.

She took off again towards the north.  And to the north/northeast was the town of Montezuma.

Things took on a grim reality as I tried to head her off time and again.

Once, another close call, she charged at full speed into the flank of the four-wheeler, lifting the back wheel high enough and with my speed at 30 m.p.h. or better, nigh well rolled us into a mad tumble.

And then it was off north again. 

Actually northeast. 

Towards town.

About then my good wife called.

She said the boys were coming to help me.  I said fine, but they shouldn’t bring their trucks as both were quite new and I told her how badly I was getting charged on a fairly regular basis by then. 

I couldn’t believe it.  That girl was a good 100 feet away, pawing the ground.  I thought, “She’ll never charge from that distance.  They never do.”

But she squatted back on her haunches, sprang forward, and here she came.

All 100 feet.  Right in my face.

I skittered off to her right just in time.

We twirled and twirled, she charging, I dancing away, albeit on the four wheeler.

And I realized, desperately, that we were edging closer and closer to town. 

And darkness was settling in deeper and deeper.

Austin came in close to where I was and called to say he would take over if I and Bryce wanted to go find the other one.  He would use his truck; I told him it would get hammered.  He said if it did it did.  We couldn’t have this loco calf on the loose in town. 

I scampered off south, and Bryce and I found the other girl about three miles from where I had left Austin.

She promptly took down the neighbor’s fence and streaked farther south.  I was able to curb her travel in a quarter mile or so and bring her back to where she had gone through the fence. 

Bryce was waiting just a bit back of that on the road, and once she bounded out, he flanked her with his truck.  With a fence on both sides of the road, I switched position with Bryce.

With me at her side, and Bryce’s growly diesel behind, the fight pretty much left her, and we were able to trail her home and back to pen 2.

About then, Austin called Jan and told her to bring a rope. 

That crazy one had gotten crazier, and they were now only a quarter mile from town.  Bryce jumped on the four-wheeler to go help with the rope, and after I had the fence for the wheat calves temporarily gussied up, I made my way to the Bryce’s truck to join them. 

Before I could leave, I got a call from Austin.

“Bring the gun,” he said.  “If we can’t get her roped, we’ll have to shoot her.  We’re too close to town.”

So, I found the gun and got myself over to where they struggled. 

The four-wheeler didn’t go into reverse anymore; it was left in a haphazard angle to the road a way back from where they were.

And it was almost full dark.

They dallied onto the receiver hitch on Austin’s truck, Bryce drove, and Austin in the bed, ready to lasso. 

He made a good throw and had her.

She took off, and Bryce tried to slow her. 

They had her down to a heaving, thrashing mess when she suddenly took off pell-mell around and in front of Austin’s truck. 

The rope flew up wide and high and she went by; Austin got out of its way just in time, as it snapped down across the side and hood. 

We figured the truck was dented, but on later inspection, there was a very slight ding and a few minor scratch marks, neither of which kept him from fetching home his new bride in it a few months later.

Meanwhile, Bryce jumped in his truck and spooled up the turbo to a scream, heading back home to hook on to the trailer.

He was soon back, and we got ready to get that critter pulled in. 

But alas, it was not to be.  She found some insane energy reserve and flipped around and through us. 

We did manage to double dally on a trailer stake and left the original dally on the receiver hitch.  I was afraid if we unhooked that one, we’d lose her.

This second dally posed a real risk of getting a finger caught and amputated. 

We took care and soon had her within a few feet of the trailer’s edge, when she took off again around to the front like the other time.

Except the rope was dallied to the trailer and she came to it’s end at the same time she came even with the edge of the door.

There was a crash as she slammed into it.  She was momentarily stunned and if we would have had our act together, we could have heaved her in right then, but she manifested a fair amount of fight yet, even then, and I didn’t want anyone getting kicked.

And then it was over.

She totally gave up.  No amount of prodding would move her. 

So, we three picked her up and bodily lifted all 540 pounds of her up and into the trailer.

We looked up at that point, and not 200 feet away was Geronimo Street, which is the southmost street in our little town, and south, 2 ½ miles, was the corral whence she had vacated. 

Surprisingly, not a single vehicle went by that whole time on either of the two roads we were near to as we struggled in that inky night.  I’m afraid if they had, it would have set us up for a whole ‘nother go ‘round.

Bryce and I went one direction to fix fence, and Austin went to look at his pickup and get things generally put away.

We all gathered for supper, some 6 hours after the first snap of the fence, a very dirty, drained, and disconsolate bunch.

The boys turned into men that night. 

I turned into an old man.

That second one died the next day.  Totally ran out, I guess.

(It should be stated that if we had horse savvy, a good horse, and a general basic instinct, a lot of what happened wouldn’t have; but, we don’t, and therefore you have the story as it is.)

Doing Battle

I did battle with myself yesterday.

Actually, I did battle with myself for most of this past week.

And the battle I did this past week reminded me quite much of a certain battle I did some years ago.

That battle of years ago was the result of a snap decision that was made some 500 yards away from a material/gift shop I was nearing.

“A novel idea,” I thought.  “I’ll pull right in here and buy my wife a piece of material to sew herself a dress with.”

As I neared the front door, I felt a strong sense of trepidation.  I seemed to have felt this feeling before, not unlike when one is called to account where all the odds are stacked up against them.

But I marched onward in my mission, only realizing that once I was inside the door, the sweat was already trickling down my face, although it was a rather mild day. 

I stared unseeingly, as a face of one who worked there swirled into my vision and became vaguely recognizable.

“How can I help you?” she asked, kindly.  Although at the time I felt so threatened I wasn’t so sure what I perceived as a friendly lilt in her voice was actually a mostly suppressed laugh.

“Uh, I—I’ll just look around a bit and if I need something I’ll holler.” 

“Sure.  What are you looking for?  I can get you in the general area at least.”

She knew a lost soul when she saw one, that’s for sure.

“I’m thinking of buying a piece of fabric for my wife.”

The agony was growing on me, and I made haste to make my selection, having perspired enough to need several large Mountain Dew’s to replenish all lost fluids.

I took what seemed to be a ravishing light blue to the counter, whereupon I was met with a new dilemma.

“How many yards would you like?” she asked.

I had horror memories of a story I read of how this dude was trying to buy gloves for his sister for Christmas and the clerk wanted him to feel her hand to see if it was the same size as his sisters.  Of course, that clerk was spiteful; I hoped this one wasn’t.

But she did ask me if my wife was the same size as her or one of the other ladies working there. 

The sweat began to make dripping sounds as it hit the floor.

I squenched my way out of there and dried off as much as I could before I presented my offering made by extreme sacrifice to my wife. 

She was dutifully kind and considerate with her remarks.

*****

And so, this last week, I had this little idea, but that little idea immediately put me in a storm.

Because, you see, it called back to mind with startling clarity the above scenario.

My sweet daughter told me about some shower soap she really liked for guys to use.

Since I’m the impressionable type, and since she often impresses me, sometimes for money, and sometimes for other things, I secretly took heed to what she said.

My first impression, before I heard the rest of the story, is that special shower soap is for wussies. 

But then she said the name of it, and I thought, “That name doesn’t sound too bad.”

So, I secretly looked it up and ordered some online.

Now, I like that soap.  And I thought to myself it might do for something I could slip to a couple guys for Christmas, provided I could go about it in a manly enough way. 

But the catch 22 here, was that I couldn’t get any ordered online in time, although there did happen to be a Bath and Body works store nearby. 

And the battle commenced.

I did not want to be caught in that store in person. 

I pretty much had the whole thing argued down and wasn’t going to do it, when it so happened that I was in town with my brother-in-law, and he needed to stop at the mall.

I made a similar snap decision as I had years ago and flashed into that store while he was a long way away.

But agony fell upon me again.  The wife of a coworker of mine, both whom I hadn’t seen in years, was in the store.

She recognized me and called out a cheery hello.  Or was this another case of a squelched laugh?

I manned up and told her hello, but I made her promise not to tell her husband where she saw me.

I made my exit, again feeling a desperate need for Mountain Dew.

Surprisingly, as I tossed the hard-won prize to my brother-in-law, he said, “Bath and Body!  I like the stuff from there!”

And for some reason, my boys were acting like they wanted some of that stuff. 

It sort of recompensed all the warfare involved, although not the Mountain Dew expense account.

Foodie

My sister, the one who is next younger than me and lives in Canada, and the one who has a write up ready for the guest blog but won’t send it, made two statements about me. 

I question the veracity of both.

So, I took it upon myself, as the end user of such statements, to check them out.

To begin with, she used a word that I had heard for the first time only three months ago.

Her first statement claimed that I was a foodie.

I looked that word up.  It began circulating in 1980, which leaves it a fairly young word.

I tend to be careful not to toss young words around carelessly myself.

One definition I found said a foodie is a person having an avid interest in the latest food fads.

Fads?  Me?  Involved in fads?  She meant flab, more than likely.

Another definition said a foodie is someone who seeks out the best eating experiences whenever and wherever they can.

Does she have a grudge against me?  This makes me out to be some sort of indiscreet guy who falls headlong for any new food fad, regardless of the flab, flap, or flak.

I’m a McDonalds guy. 

Okay, I’ll go one worse. 

I’m a McDonalds chicken nugget guy. 

I don’t see all the uppity folks who eat the latest and greatest joining me in the line at the counter there. 

I think the cold weather where she came from did something to her thinking process.

The next statement she made implied that I was picky in my eating.

To put it mildly, I was stunned. 

But then it dawned on me that she was using picky in place of a different word, and therefore I was exonerated.

At first I thought she was referring to the condition of some folks who, when a new dish is placed before them, won’t try it.  You can put whatever reason you want to in there as to why they won’t, and probably any of them would be a correct definition of a picky eater.

But I don’t struggle with that.  I’m game to give stuff a try.  Providing, of course, that it falls within reason.

So, I was absolved of that charge. 

I’m quite sure she was referring to a strict discipline I hold myself to and inappropriately called it picky.

My discipline is stated thus—

I read a while back that when our body lacks in any specific food group or ingredient, we become hungry for something of that nature. 

It makes total sense to me, and I’ve since tried to be obedient to that.

If, say, I sit down to a meal that has pizza, thin and crispy crust with pork sausage, which hasn’t been in a box and still emanates a visceral, flavorful smell at that, and a lettuce salad, my body sits up and takes notice. 

And, beings as my makeup is unique, just like my wife’s, my sister’s, and yours, it falls that my body gets hungry for pizza and not so much for lettuce a high percentage of the time. 

It’s rather humbling, to stick to this discipline, but if you want a healthy happy life, some sacrifice is always necessary, as they say. 

At the expense of my wife being cross with me, I have to forego the lettuce; but that works too.  Because almost always, on those kinds of days, my wife’s body is calling for lettuce and not so much pizza, so it generally works out. 

And the same discipline goes for chocolate sauce, in case you wondered. 

Anyway, I think I have proven my point; I’m neither a foodie nor picky.

Cinch Up

It’s actually rather hilarious that I write about cattle, horses and things. 

Sure, we’ve had cattle on the place for the last 10 or 15 years, but we really haven’t run enough numbers to say we are experienced hands in it.  Yet I write like we are.

I’ve sat in the saddle a few times, and we have a horse on the place, I suppose for aesthetic appeal as much as anything.  I do well if I can stay astride and can’t do much more than that.  Yet I write like I know something about it.

And there are things that I hold important; things around the place, things in the house, and things that happen, that mean a lot to me.  And I write about them.  But you have things in your life too, so I really don’t need to clutter it up with my things.

Now that I’ve the disclaimers out of the way, I’ll rattle on.

I bought a used saddle from the local gettin’ place.  The guy told me he wasn’t so sure that crossbeam down the center wasn’t broken, so he let me have it at half price of half price.  He told me to be careful the first time I did any roping off of it.

I smiled out loud on the way home at his last remark.

Because once I got home, I made my way over to my neighbor, Ron, and had him show me how a person is supposed to buckle the thing onto a horse.  (I had to ask someone else how to put the bit in.)

Rope from it?  Ha.

Anyway, I got home and threw it across our horse’s back and proceeded to buckle it up.  I noticed she was grunting around a fair bit, and skittering this way and that.

I learned later that you never tighten up the back cinch, that most saddles don’t even have them, and that it’s a wonder she didn’t buck me right off then and there for tightening it like I did.

But I have retained a bit of know how about saddling up, and it’s so common sense I’m quite sure you will already know it.

Simply put, make sure your cinch is tight.  (The front one, that is.)

A cinch is a wide strap, usually made of numerous smaller pieces of rope, that swings under your horse’s ribs and up the other side to buckle in. 

Some horses know the trick and swallow a bunch of air when you place your knee up against their side and reef that belt through the buckle for all you are worth. 

It’s never a bad idea to make sure your cinch is tight a little while later once the air is gone from their lungs. 

You wouldn’t need to cinch up tight at all if you and your horse are both going in the same direction, at a general rate of speed.

But everything hits your face if you are going at a nice clip and you get in a storm; your horse sees something it thinks it should avoid and takes evasive action, you didn’t see it, and you are expecting to go a different way.

If your cinch isn’t tight, you and your saddle will do a neat little maneuver and you will be riding on your horse’s side instead of its back quicker than you can say Jack Sprat.

That’s okay if you know how to ride on its side; I’ve never perfected it myself.

It seems to me, that if you end up leaving your cinch loose, you will end up with trouble to yourself and your horse also.

And I’ve worked on just enough committees, and seen a little bit of life, to know that if you decide to make a selfish move that relieves yourself of some extra attention that you could give, that it ends up troubling yourself and at least one other person, if not more.

It always seems to pay, in the long run, to stop and check your cinch occasionally.  You are the only one who knows just how tight it is or should be. 

Five Finger Discount

I used to hate auctions.  Household or farm auctions, that is.  To me they seem so pointless.  You never know when the item you are interested in will sell, so you stand around for hours when you could be doing something more beneficial. 

Finally, they get to the item you are interested in.  Your heart rate immediately spikes to, say, 165 bpm , and you start shaking all over.  You don’t want to look like a fool, but what to do?  The auctioneer doesn’t see your hand, so you start doing a dance routine that has those nearby giving you a sideways look whilst taking sideways steps away from you.

And then the item sells for twice what it would new, and you either got royally hosed since you bought it and those who once stood nearby now chuckle at you, or you walk away to your vehicle empty handed and heart full of bitterness and those who once stood nearby now stare in disdain at the spot you once occupied.

I still don’t like auctions.  Household or farm auctions, that is.

But I digress.  Auctions aren’t really what I had in mind when I got started with this, however, it was an auction that got me into the mess I’m about to describe.

There were some cattle panels at a farm auction that I felt like we needed.  So, I hooked up my small trailer, took the end gate off, since the trailer was too short to haul a full-length panel on, and got on my way to the event. 

On the way to the event, I had another event.

I stopped at the local parts store to pick up some items.  I waited at the counter, as another customer and his son were waited on.  It didn’t take long for me to get the feeling something was up.  Mostly because this was taking an awfully long time.  And then I saw what was taking so long. 

The man would tell the parts person one thing at a time instead of giving him a list to work on.  And it was only after I saw the thing happen that I realized my peripheral vision had seen it happen several times earlier. 

I saw the man give an order for the parts man to get, and as soon as the parts man left to get it, the man scanned the counter with its promotional items, picked up a pliers on display, and dropped it in the sack already containing some the parts the parts man had gotten for him. 

I was so incredulous, I simply stared, dumbfounded, at the man. 

His cool, light blue eyes spoke a very clear message, “You say something about this, and I’ll make sure you don’t speak at all for the next few days.”

He eventually left, although after my visual confrontation with him, he didn’t get any more five finger discounts.  I got the parts I needed and thoughtfully climbed into my truck.  So thoughtfully, in fact, that I didn’t see the fellow with the light blue eyes sitting in his truck right beside me.

And so thoughtfully, in fact, that when I backed up to leave the place, I forgot I had a trailer behind me.

But I became conscious of that fact when the trailer behind me rounded a turn, which my truck didn’t happen to be rounding, and arrested all reverse motion by cramming itself into the side of my truck bed. 

I was totally amazed and awestruck at my stupidity. 

The man with the light blue eyes laughed uproariously as I drove forward and came even with him to straighten out.

I backed my dented pride and bashed in truck straight this time and got out of there.

And the panels went way too high at the auction; even though I never placed a bid, that auction cost me greatly.

Gender Specific Food

I feel called upon to treat on this subject, even though I know there will be some of you who think it unnecessary. 

Some of you will outright disagree, no doubt.  You have that right, you know. 

I hold that most foods fall into one of two categories. 

Neutral, and Gender Specific. 

Neutral foods are just that.  Either gender enjoys eating them.

Gender Specific foods are just that.  If you are male, you will enjoy certain foods more than females, and vice versa. 

Now before any hackles start standing too greatly on end, lips are pursed or hands get perched on hips, allow me to state my case.  And if you happen to enjoy the food that I say that your gender may not, that is perfectly okay. 

But for the new brides who are starting out in the culinary business, this may be the thing that you come back to over and over in your married life. 

That’s good if you do.  You don’t necessarily need to thank me each time.

*****

Take Spaghetti.  Just trying to spell that word should give anyone a clue to its gender. 

Yep.  You guessed right.  It’s female. 

I hear tell the old mountain men who came down out of the hills and into the forts on this side of the range could take on 5 pounds of meat in a single setting.  That’s five pounds.  When you ladies think you have a fairly nice sized roast that you put in the oven on Saturday evening, look it over.  That whole thing would feed just one of those men.

Now.  Put a plate of spaghetti in front of one of those men. 

Watch him. 

He looks it over, prods it roughly here and there, notices it’s oblique, nonessential appearance, pulls a noodle out, smells it, pulls it, licks it, and finally gingerly tries to eat it.  But that ain’t the end.  It’s only the beginning.  We can hardly bear to watch as he struggles, (manfully) to load the stuff onto his fork.  The noodles wage war just like they always do.  They get cold and gummy as he toils them around and around on his plate.  The meat slips away to the bottom of the mess.  I see the old man look disappointedly at his savory dish, and, finally in disregard to any small amount of etiquette he may have been given, cup both hands and scoop the whole thing towards himself.  Even then it defies all odds and a few noodles cling to his beard, shining out like fluorescent ribbons against a cloudy, opaque landscape.

What that man needs, is a steak.

Quite simply put, it even sounds right.  You don’t have to waste any extra syllables when making your wishes known.  Holler “steak,” and we all know what you need.  Bring on a medium/medium rare steak and the gender specific question is rested immediately by the rush and dead quiet around the table as every male ties into and devours his kind of food.  It eludes my comprehension why some folks would order, say, chicken, or ribs, at a restaurant when there is a steak to be had.  For sure if someone else is paying for it.

Casseroles are a unique dish.  They start out female, but, if properly aged and reheated numerous times, morph into male.  If you could begin the dish like they end, sort of seasoned through, solid and dried out, they would be a fine meal every time you eat them.  It’s that beginning, where they are generally runny at the nose and flat on your plate that leaves you a doubting Thomas.  But they get there, if you give them enough time.

I’m not advocating that women start growing mustaches.  Not at all.  But it might be instructive, should they paste a fake one on for a short time and indulge in their favorite dessert of cupcakes.  I think you can figure the rest out on this entrée.

I would be remiss if I didn’t treat on Peanut Butter.  I know, I know.  George Washington Carver is a man you say.  And I would agree.  But I suspicion he may have had a marital spat to settle, and a dozen roses hadn’t done the trick.  So, he goes to his lab, and, because he had something amiss between him and his better half, worked out a potion that has been sure to qualm any misgivings in that area since.  Really, he did us men a favor in creating such a feminine dish.  We have to be careful we don’t overuse it, though.  Two things happen if you do.  1, your wife tends to think you like the dish since you keep bringing it home.  This can be hazardous to your health when you tell her you really don’t care for it.  2, After you tell her you don’t like it, it fails as a peace offering, and she ends up eating it, in public no less, to spite you. 

We could name more, but this will have to suffice. 

All the best in your cooking and eating thereof.

(I have a feeling the good wife and sweet daughter may feel they need to vindicate themselves after reading this.)

Small Talk

I read an article a while back that conducted a survey on conversations.  Supposedly, the article claimed a deeper, more connective conversation can be had if the small talk is skipped and searching, difficult questions are asked instead.

An example is if you stepped up to me at some gathering and we are total strangers to each other.  You ask without preamble, “What is the most difficult heartache you have experienced in your life?”

More than likely, I would mumble something about not commercializing my heartaches in reply. 

But I guess for the folks who stepped up to the challenge in the survey, it brought about great results.

I will take a stance against such conversations right here and now.  I don’t get a gathering where, as I make my way around the room, I am actively hearing about people’s most private moments. 

Please. No.

Because what happens when you are done with that gathering?  Everyone goes home as a bunch of bug-eyed emotional blurbs and warm fuzzies. 

Pretty soon, you would be addicted to emotional baggage and warm fuzzies and that would be the norm at any function. 

A bird’s eye view of participants shows all with furrowed brows, tears dripping here and there, and slumped, heavy shoulders. 

Give me a break.

A while ago, I was against small talk as such. 

Like the time the school board entered my room with pasted on smiling faces.  We talked about the weather and all sorts of small stuff.  I was screaming inside at them to “Get to the point, boys.”

But lately, and for sure after reading that article, I’ve seen a fair bit of value in small talk.

Of course, it needn’t be the main, or only, course in a conversation.

Small talk seems to give a sense of time and place that I think is necessary to human beings. 

I know we don’t remember half the stuff we talk about in small talk.  And I suspicion we probably never even think about three fourths of the stuff we say in small talk before we say it. 

If I ask you how you are, you will say, “Fine.”

Every time, whether you are or aren’t.

Am I getting too repetitious trying to prove my point?

My point is this. 

We are getting a few Christmas letters sprinkling into our mailbox. 

I like Christmas letters, but if you look at them, they are really a bunch of small talk. 

And that’s exactly what they should be.  They give me a sense of time and place about your life. 

Sure, I guess if you want to broadcast to all the folks on your Christmas letter list your latest and deepest private moment, you can.

But, unless I know you really well, I’ll run the thing through the paper shredder in respect of my feelings for you.  Perhaps would even if I do know you quite well.

So, this is sort of a Christmas letter.

We started out the year building up a new homesite for Austin.  At that point, he had no plans of marrying, although he knew who he would like to marry. 

But God works in the form of coffee cups that arrive in the mail, and a little note that happened along with it. 

And today, he is married to Lindsey Brooke, the one whom he had hoped for, and they are residing in the homesite he started.  And I daresay his cup of joy is full.

We had hardly caught our wind from his wedding and getting him settled when Bryce and I had a visit one day.  It seemed that a meeting I was planning on attending was standing a bit in the way for plans he wished to pursue.

Many miles had separated him and the one he thought fondly of, as she went to Africa, and he to India.  And the space of two years absence didn’t seem to decrease the feelings of affection that the two had shared before leaving for their respective destinations.

So . . . three months after we married Austin- Jan, Lexi, and I landed at Pensacola Florida Airport.  And driving in to pick us up was a western Kansas Ford truck with Bryce and a blonde southern belle named Roxanne. 

But I prefer to call her Doc.  Seems to fit somehow.

Life has settled back some, now that both boys are gone.  The change is good, although it has been thought provoking.

And it gives me a good chance to play disc golf with the sweet daughter.  At least with her, I have a decent chance of winning, whereas with the boys, my whole playing career flashes before my eyes as I watch the long, level throws they make, and I realize that I shall probably never win against them.

And, you’ve probably heard enough from me, via this little blog enterprise, that I don’t need to go on and on.  But I do wish to thank each of you for reading what I write.  It has made this hobby worthwhile, and I hope I can continue for some time yet.

Oh.  My good wife and sweet daughter are doing well, in spite of me, in case you wondered.

Merry Christmas to each of you. 

Enjoy the small talk.