Ice and cold.

I tried to think of something interesting to write about. I tried to think of an intriguing way to approach this subject, I then tried to think of a cool title...all to no avail.

Its cold.

Its icy.

Its really cold.

Really, really cold.

This week has been sorta like this:

Mon. night: -20*

Tue. 9*

Tue. night: -39*

Wed. -6*

Wed. -25*

Thu. 6*

That's not figuring for wind chill. (-54 Wed. am)

I have been learning thankfulness this winter, and this cold snap is totally testing me on how much I am actually thankful in every situation. My normal reaction to this kinda cold would be to whine. And complain. And grouse. Moan. Growl. Complain some more. Tell everyone how bad it is. And then complain. You get the drift. I am not proud of my unthankful self.

God has shown me lately that my happiness is directly linked to my thankfulness. I wanna be happy. I also wanna be thankful. God commands it. I love God. End of story.

(well, not quite. :)

Its easy expected to be thankful for 'Jesus dying for my sins', and for grace, protection, family, friends, etc, etc...

But what about cold weather? What about frozen water pipes? What about vehicles that won't operate properly, due to cold? What about the extra work involved in caring for stock? What about cold houses?

I think those areas are how we prove that we truly ARE thankful. That we truly do use the grace that we say we're thankful for. That we actually do trust God. Trust that He has allowed everything in our lives for our good. "The LORD is good to all: and His tender mercies are over all His works." Psalms 145:9

I have a long ways to go in this area. I want to be truly thankful. In every situation. Even if the temperature is -39 when I get up at 6 am.

I am waiting for this. THIS.

Cows in My Yard...again.

Here they come! ...Yearlings being moved back to their respective pastures, after some sorting down at the corrals.This is such a common scene from my window, that I forget how interesting it is till someone else is here, and rushes to the window to watch. I always enjoy watching, too, and so I grabbed my camera (oops, actually, my friends camera that I am borrowing) and snapped a few pics from the comfort of my dining room window. You won't catch me going outside in the cold January wind, if I can stay indoors! :) Remember? I am a wimp.

They are supposed to stay on the lane going past my house, but inevitably, they must go around the back of my house, and woe is me if I have laundry hanging out! They also love to hang around the cars, licking the mirrors, slobbering on the windows, and scratching on the corner of my house. Until the cowdogs get at 'em. Bite 'em up, boys! This time it was the Boss and his dogs. He has well trained dogs that actually help him. They had those steers moved on past so quick I didn't have time for many photos.

The Boss. The guy Cliff answers to, and works for. The guy that writes our paycheck. I feed him homemade bread occasionally. Just to keep him happy. Just kidding! :) He's a very nice fellow. Loves the Lord. And he's very patient with a certain crazy ranch wife who keeps shooting footage and photos of him at brandings, sortings, cattle drives, shipping, etc, etc. And he has the cutest 2 year-old little girl you have ever seen.

And here is a photo that I had to stick in, even though I can't figure out how to tie in a Narcissus with cattle in my yard. I was playing around with previously mentioned camera, and loved this shot that I got of the Narcissus on my windowsill.

Cooking ~ Pioneer Woman Style

I was given a Pioneer Woman cookbook for Christmas. I had no idea how much it would inspire me. When I browsed through it at Wally World, I was only mildly interested. In the last 3 weeks I have made a total of eight of the recipes! The funny thing is, I am usually more attracted to the recipe books that have 100's if not 1,000's of recipes. Pictures are not important to me. Furthermore, there aren't many new recipes in the book. Most of them I already have been cooking. I think its her writing style that draws me in. She makes me feel like I could step into her kitchen and start exchanging stories of ranch life, cowboy husbands, bulls ruining the garden, and gravy. Anyways, I love the book. I look at a few pages (or more) at least three times per day. :) I know - I am verging on obsessed. Its OK. Ranch Wives get lonesome. While my city-girl friends are texting each other, I am reading The PW Cooks, and chortling in empathy over the muddy jeans.
Here is a review of the recipes I have made...
Mac and Cheese ~ I loved it. But the kids are more used to the store stuff, and this was a bit thick for them. My Cowboy didn't make a comment. He thinks anything besides the meat is just 'filler'. His words, not mine.
Meatballs ~ These were almost exactly like the ones I make every week. Except I don't fry mine before baking. I thought maybe that made them better, somehow, so I did these just like she said. But then I was reminded why I never fry them. And I didn't think it made them any better - just made a smoky house. We all liked them. (why did you think I have been making them every week for 10 years?)
Meatloaf ~ I didn't have bacon on hand to wrap it in, like she does, so I left that off. I am sure that is the crowning glory. But, again, this recipe is eerily similar to mine. Maybe one minor difference. Again, we liked it.
Twice Baked Potatoes ~ This was the only recipe that I was really disappointed in. They didn't have nearly enough salt, and they were too sticky. I like my potato stuffing light and fluffy. But the kids thought they were awesome, so what do I know?
Chicken Spaghetti ~ I made this tonight. It is exceptional. Tastes like chicken enchiladas, American style. We all liked it. I think. (Casserole is filler.)
Jalapeno Poppers ~ I made a 1/2 recipe of these last Saturday night, which happens to be our family movie/pizza night. My Cowboy and I scarfed them all down. Not that the kids would've been able to stand the heat, anyways. I was thinking that i am tougher these days, and so I left some seeds/veins in the peppers. (if you can handle the sizzle, she says) All I will say is that I drank copious amounts of liquid, and ate 2 cinnamon rolls, trying to get the heat out of my poor scorched mouth. (I can't handle the sizzle.)
Chicken Fried Steak. ~ I used elk steak, since I am too stingy to buy beef. I was scared it would be weird. I usually fry it plain, and eat with BBQ sauce. So I pounded and pounded that steak, and then followed her every instruction. It was good. But the GRAVY! I have made that kind of gravy all my life, but never combined it with chicken fried steak before. I was literally eating it by the spoonful out of the pan. The only sad thing about this story -- I had made fluffy mashed potatoes, crispy fried steak, and creamy, hot gravy. I finished exactly at 12:00 noon. Then My Cowboy had to work late. Sadness. But he got his later.
Maple Cream Sauce ~ I made it this morning. I tasted it this afternoon. I haven't made a pie to pour it over, yet. But it tastes like liquid caramel. As a friend would say - "It makes me about go into a coma." :) You get the idea. I may not make a pie. I may just hide it in the fridge, and take spoonfuls as necessary. Shh. Don't tell My Cowboy. He might find it.
Unfortunately, I have taken all the picture with my phone, and am too non-tech-y to know how to get them onto my PC from my phone. So there will be no pictures. You will have to use your imagination. It probably needs exercise anyways. (most parts of us do.) :) Have a cheery day!

My Kids.

I have 4 kids. Well, some people only know me with three kids. I shall enlighten you.
1.Jennifer -- she is, like most 'oldest', a very responsible and wise child. She knows how to take care of her baby sister, and how to split treats so that everyone is happy. She loves to read about horse, draw horses, and dream of the horse ranch she is gonna own someday. Never mind the fact that she fell off a runaway horse, and is now a bit rattled whenever she rides.
2. Franklin --- He is all sweetness, full of feeling and emotion, melting into tears easier than either of his sisters. (We are working on the whole; 'Cowboy Tough' thing. ) He is easily persuaded, much to Jenni's delight and my chagrin. He is enamored with all things mechanical. trucks, tractors, aircraft, robots, anything. If it has a motor, he loves it. He is ok with ranches, but trust me, this kid will one day own a mechanic garage. That or drive the biggest dump truck made. Oh, and DINOSAURS!!! The scarier and uglier, the better. He loves to draw them, play with them, and imagine.
3. Andy--- what can I say? He was a sturdy little tyke, rough and ready. He loved nothing better than to tackle his big brother and sister, and bring them to their knees. He had a grin as wide as the open skies. He had a temper that matched. He was the most likely to follow his father. At least as much as we could tell at age 2. :) He screamed bloody murder if you tried to take him off the back of a horse. Our Andy. The only one of our kids named by his father exclusively. (I didn't like the name.) But he is gone now. He drowned at age 2. (don't even ask how that happened.) He plays in heaven now. Maybe he rides lions up there. He definitely isn't spending his days sitting still...
4. Lucia --- Our sweet baby. Ok, she isn't really a baby anymore, but she likes to cuddle. Likes to tease. Loves her daddy fiercely, and at the same time is shy around him. She MUST get in on whatever the big kids are doing. She hates real food. She thinks the only thing fit to eat is snacks. So we are working n healthy snacks. She is our sunshine. But then, they all were our sunshine at age 2. My favorite age. Always has been. Cliff's too. Lucia has no fear of bugs. She loves to pick them up and squish them. Gross. She is also delighted when she finds a dead mouse in a trap. Crazy kid.
I tell you, God has blessed us so much with these little people. Who can ask for more? And what could be more fulfilling than spending my life caring for them, and teaching them about life? I am proud to be their mommy.

Cattle Drive

I don't ride much. Not because I don't enjoy it, but because I am a mom, and its rather hard to find a babysitter out here on the prairie. And because I refuse to take my babies on these crazy ranch-broke horses. I have had 2 of my kids on runaway horses now, and its enough to give this mom a heart attack. So I usually stay at home. And watch My Cowboy ride away. (with longing eyes. )
But one time, he was needing some help pushing yearlings from one place to another. They had been leasing some land from a neighbor, and it was time to get them back to the X-Bar. No other cowboys were available to help, so I was drafted. I found a neighbor girl to stay with the kiddos, while I found some gloves and a felt hat that was too small for My Cowboy. It was almost too small for me, too, but I crammed it on my head and jumped in the truck with My Cowboy.
It was a grey day, overcast and cool. I was a bit nervous, as I swung up onto the back of my horse, Diva. She was the calmest horse they had, according to My Cowboy. We started out at a walk. Soon My Cowboy asked if I knew how to post. He asks me every time we ride together, and every time I tell him that I do. He has a terrible memory. So we posted. Oh, you don't know what that means, my non-ranch friends? Its a certain method of riding at a trot, so that you don't bounce around and get sore. It is much easier on your posterior. And since cowboys cover alot of ground on horseback, they do most of it at a trot. Anyways.
My Cowboy rode out to the farthest field to get those steers started, and I worked the field closer to the gate. Now, I have helped push cattle before, but I had never started a bunch of them alone. I didn't need to know. Diva, my horse, knew exactly what she was doing. She bore down on a steer,and when it started to run, Diva turned and ran at the next one. I just hung on. I got the hang of it after awhile, and it was kinda fun. I still took longer than My Cowboy, and he had to come help me, once his group were all waiting by the gate.
Then we opened the gate, and began pushing them down the road. (see post on Cowboy Lingo) It was pretty easy at first. But then we rode past several open gates, dirt roads, etc, and of course the crazy critters wanted to go anywhere except down the road. My Cowboy had his hands full, riding up one side and down the other, keeping them from escaping, and when one did escape, getting it back on the road. I couldn't help much. I was supposed to keep them moving. I was at the back of the herd, yelling and trying to chase them out of the bushes and down the road. It would have been so much easier with one more helper. (where were you, Bill?:) there were a few cars waiting behind us. I wished they would have just drove on through. Slowly, of course. But nope. They just sat there. A few got tired of waiting and turned around. Poor guys. After 5 miles or so, we finally got to the X-Bar land, and it was easy from there on. We just had to push them a 1/2 mile or so to a water tank, and settle them. Cliff kindly volunteered to settle them, and I rode on home.

More Winter days...

The days have been slipping past, in a rather slow and easy fashion. Nothing dramatic, nothing too exciting. Just life. The kids studying, the mom cooking, My Cowboy working, the family playing, eating, snuggling up in fuzzy blankets, watching Glenn Beck, Road to Avonlea and Andy Griffith...

It has been cold. Alot of below zero and single digit temps. And wind. And blowing snow. But that's OK. I like the ranch. I am thankful I have a warm house, and I am thankful for the lessons God has been teaching me here in WY. Strength comes through difficulty. Roots grow deep in the buffeting winds. Grace is given in greater measure when I am at my weakest. I am learning to embrace my weaknesses. I am learning that the hard things in life are so worth it. I don't mean hard, as in; hard work, death in the family, or sickness. I mean things like facing temptation every day, being wrongly accused, having to wait for prayers to be answered.

God doesn't think like I think. That I know. But I want to learn to think like God thinks. (did that twist your brain a bit? :)

On the X-Bar...

My Cowboy has been recovering from having all four wisdom teeth pulled out at the same time. He refused general anesthesia. I mean, hello? He's a cowboy. Cowboy Are Tough. At least that's what he told me when I asked why on earth he would settle for local anesthetic. Well, his actual words were: "I'm tough. I can handle it. What do you think I am? Some kind of wimp?" (thanks alot, sweetheart, I had general!)

But that's a standard answer I get from him on any number of subjects that include 'are you sure you can handle that?' or 'It's gonna hurt', or I'm afraid I'll hurt you', etc, etc. He is tough. Alot tougher than me. I don't even try to keep up. Hello. My name is Kay. I am a wimp.

The cowboys have been feeding the yearlings, the tractors are vivid green against the white snow. The yearlings stretch out in rows along the hay, gobbling up the green stuff as fast as they can. They cluster around the feed truck, jostling for a good position, but falling back as the feed starts pouring out, and they begin to eat. The cowboys ride through the yearlings every day. Searching for any sick ones. Roping them and the giving shots, lancing abscesses, and sometimes operating on them.

I look out my window and watch them push cattle through my yard, or running after a steer - rope swinging, and I think how picture-perfect it all is. I am blessed. So blessed.

And as for us here in the warm house - well, Lucia has started trying to say a few words. At last! She likes to squish down into the cracks in the couch-cushions, and yell: "I'm stick! I'm stick!" (stuck) Its rather hilarious! Another favorite phrase right now is: "Mom, Hop! Hop!" (help) that one is impossible to hear without laughing!

Bones and Buckets

It was a Spring afternoon, in the Year 199-something. I was 15 years old. Old enough to know better than doing what I did. I had finished all the cleaning and other miscellaneous jobs that Mom had for me to do, and was going to spend an hour riding, before night fell.
I walked out to the pasture where we had staked my horse out to graze. He was an old horse, extremely gentle. (or was that; lazy?) He was eating the grass that grew up in-between the corn stubble from last year's harvest. I untied his rope, and tried to get on his back. It was too high, so I grabbed the 5-gallon bucket that we used to give him his water with, and turned it upside-down. I put it beside my horse, and stepped up. I flung my right leg up and over his back, and jumped up. Instead of sliding the rest of the way onto his back, my right foot slipped off his back just as I jumped, at the same time, the bucket fell over, and I came down hard on my right foot. I immediately was afraid of him stepping on me, so I slithered and squirmed out from under the horse. I needn't have worried. He was calmly eating grass, and couldn't have cared less whether I was on his back or under his belly.
I knew I had hurt my foot, but didn't realize how bad till I tried to stand. I couldn't. My foot just crumpled. It wouldn't hold my weight. As I lay in the cornfield, I realized that my foot was really hurt, and I would need help. I yelled and yelled. It took awhile before my sister heard me, and came out to see what I wanted. I told her that I had seen a crutch hanging in the shop, and to 'Hurry, go get it for me'. I remember trying to crawl while yelling, and thinking that books make it sound alot easier than it is in real life - crawling with a broken/injured limb. When they brought the crutch, I managed to hobble with it back to the house.
Mom looked at my foot, and it was swollen and bleeding from a cut in the ankle. It still didn't hurt too horribly, shock, I guess. Mom knew right away that it was broken. "That hard, tight swelling means its broken," she said. I believed her. After all, I had 4 older brothers that she had to practice with. She knew when a bone was broken.
So off to the emergency room. Now, remember, my family was poor, and we had no health insurance, so my Dad would talk to the staff at the hospital before he would let them touch me. I sat there in the waiting room, and watched country music movies on TV while Dad argued with the receptionist for what seemed like ages. By now my foot was beginning to throb. Finally they must have come to an understanding, and they took me away to be x-rayed.
(Note - before you judge my dad, you have to realize that only several years earlier, this same hospital charged us thousands for an episode with my baby sister, where they didn't even do anything for her. They had threatened us with a collection agency then.)
So, they did their x-rays, and said; yep, broken bone. Broken heel-bone, nonetheless, which they said was a hard bone to break. Took alot of force, they said. I couldn't figure that, since all I did fall off a horse, and I wasn't even completely on the horse when I fell. They gave me an orthopedic shoe, and some crutches, and said go home and start walking tomorrow. No cast. I was bummed about that. I had managed to break 2 bones in a little more than a year, and neither of them were breaks that needed casts. Casts were the coolest thing - you could ask all your friends to write something on them.
So I went home, and then the pain really set in. I moaned all night with pain, being too ignorant to know there was such a thing as Advil. My brother was rather ticked off by morning. ( I guess the moaning kept him awake.) He asked me 'why I didn't take some Aspirin'?
"I didn't think of it," I said, feeling a bit foolish.
By that evening, mom's experienced eye realized that my foot was getting infected. She took me back to the Dr. He said that there was likely some piece of cornstalk in my foot, and he would try to pick it out. But my foot was too swollen to be able to numb it, so he would have to do it without numbing it. Yikes. I tried to not cry. I was 15, for pity's sakes. But I could not help moaning. It hurt like the dickens, and bled all over the bed. He had these wicked, curved little scissors, that he went straight into the wound with, and cut and dug around with them. I can see his face in my minds eye to this day. I guess because I focused on his face instead of the gory, bloody scene on the bed. And perhaps because it happened several times. That's right. He couldn't find any thing, so sent us home. Two days later, it was getting worse. Mom soaked my foot twice daily in Epsom salts. She put her favorite 'drawing' salve on, which gave me an itchy rash around the wound. She finally took me back in defeat. Here we went again. Curved scissors. Digging in the open wound with no numbing. Bleeding all over the place. Me moaning. Nothing. I would be shivering with cold, and sweating with pain at the same time. It was awful. So the Dr. decided to get serious with it. He scheduled me for surgery. Said I wasn't supposed to eat anything before I came into town. But to take my antibiotics like usual. I complied. But by the time the 9 am appointment rolled around, I was sick to my stomach, with all that antibiotic on an empty stomach. I sat in the freezing hospital room, and what do you know? the Dr. decided that it wasn't serious enough to operate on, so he would try once again to get something out with his wicked scissors.
"We already tried that," I felt like screaming at him. But I didn't. I was still in awe of Dr.'s. (I have lost all awe by now through sad experience.) So back into the wound with scissors. As before, pain and blood was all it produced. So we left. By then, the antibiotic and pain had my stomach in a turmoil.My dad had taken me to the hospital, so he stopped at a convenience store to buy me something to eat. I embarrassed my self horribly, and vomited in the parking lot while Dad was in the store. I was so humiliated, and so sick. But my dad was a trooper. when he came out and seen what happened, he calmly got a water-hose that was hanging on the side of the store, and hosed the area down. I could've hugged him, had I not been so nauseous. Well, that was the last of the Dr visits. I think Mom was rather upset with all the pain he'd caused me with nothing to show for it. She kept using the Epsom salt, and kept me in bed for weeks. Meanwhile, the antibiotics took care of the infection, and I slowly healed. But That wound refused to heal. Mom was sure there was something in there. I didn't care anymore. I just wanted to be able to go to church, and go play with my friends. I couldn't swim that whole summer, cause of the open wound. The bone healed, and I started walking on it.
It was 3 months later... my brother had gotten married that day, and I had been limping all day, cause the dress shoes I was wearing had been rubbing on the still-open sore. When I finally got to relax that evening, I was changing dressings on the wound, when I thought maybe I seen something in it. I touched it gingerly - yep. Something pokey. So I squeezed around the wound, and what do you know? A piece of cornstalk as big around as a pencil, about an inch long, came out! I guess when I fell in the cornfield, a piece broke off inside my foot, and it just took a long time to work its way out. I was in shock. After three moths, I had almost resigned my self to having an open wound on my ankle forever.
We saved that piece and showed it to that Dr. He was as incredulous as could be hoped for. My foot healed up in a few days, and now all I have to show for it is a tiny scar, and some wonky nerves in that foot. I guess that Dr messed some up when he was gouging and digging with those little scissors. But I am glad that it turned out well. And taught me a few lessons in the process.