A Very Random Day.

I usually try to have theme - a story to tell when I write a post. Not today. Today is Random. I just want to record what happens in my life on a random day. A day that I was not planning to record. I just sat down and thought - hey! Why don't I write down what I have been doing today, and maybe one day it will be interesting to my kids. Or someone. You never know.

So.

6:22 am: Woke with a start, knowing instinctively I had overslept. Yep. Was supposed to be up at 6. Anyways. Jump out of bed, (yes, I usually jump) dash to the coffee pot, and start it. I always get the coffee going first thing. That way My Cowboy can sip something to wake him up while I fix some eggs.
Meanwhile My Cowboy gets up - groggy from lack of sleep the last few months of night-calving - and stumbles out to the truck, leaving to check the heifers yet again.

7 am: breakfast has been made and eaten. I check my email. And Pinterest. And FB. Of course.

8 am: I get off the Internet and call my sister, trying to motivate myself to tackle the cleaning. It works. She assures me that I am not crazy to hate cleaning my shower, and sympathizes with the dread of mopping my kitchen. We talk. I clean. Soon my bathrooms are shiny, my kitchen floor is shiny, and we're still talking.

11:30 am: Off the phone - now I am hanging out clean laundry, marvelling at the warm spring air in March. The birds are singing. I love hanging out laundry.

11:45 am: The kids have asked repeatedly "When is lunch gonna be ready? Is there anything to eat?" I tell them to wait for lunch. I want them to be hungry - cause I know that the PW spaghetti casserole is not as well-favored in their eyes, as it is in mine.

12:00 pm: My Cowboy has just driven in the yard in a huge, John Deere tractor with a bale-buster attached...   Reheating leftover PW casserole. Mmmm! Smells wonderful. I dish it up and we eat.

12:15 pm: Brewing more coffee.

12:30pm: Serving strong black coffee with brownies.

2:00pm: simmering chicken carcass and onions, and garlic with water for chicken stock. Strain, pour into jars, seal. Put in the pressure canner - heat.

2:30 pm: Txt my friend: "Any news on the arrival of Baby Williams?" :) Reply says: Yes! Baby Boy!!! PTL!  I smile. it makes my heart warm and fuzzy. Babies do that to me.

2:50 pm: Take the lid off the pressure canner - and burn my finger on the steam. Duh. Such a newbie mistake - and I have been canning for years. Seriously annoyed.

3:00 pm: Mix up some cinnamon roll dough in my Kitchen Aid. Take pictures. Lots of pictures. Maybe one day these pics will end up in a cookbook. Mix up frosting for the cinnamon rolls - with a little cream cheese, just to put them over the top.

3:15: Send the kids out to bring the now-dry towels in from the line.

3:20 pm: Take the dry sheets from the dryer, and load the dryer again.

4:00 pm: Get the kids started on Sunday School lessons, ask them to tell me their verse. Jenni knows it perfectly - Frank needs a bit more review.

4:25 pm: Check the car for any trash - get the water bottles out and washed. And refilled. And put in the fridge. The kids always get an extreme case of thirst about 15 seconds after we leave church. It's amazing. Water bottles are magic.

4:30 pm: Mix up a batch of pizza dough.

4:45 pm: Take some home made freezer chicken stew out of the freezer, and plop it in a pan - cover with foil and bake.

4:50 pm: Start the bath for the girls. They want to bath in my big tub. Fine. Lucia goes potty - only she sits right on the edge of the seat - and dribbles down her leg, onto the floor, etc. So much for Saturday Cleaning.

5:00 pm: My Cowboy comes in. He eats a cinnamon roll, and tells me he has to go through the cattle yet. I cling to him for a minute - I wish he could be done for the day. But I know that I likely won't see him again for several hours. I ask him if he likes the cinnamon rolls. I know he does - I just like to hear him say it. :) He says: "yeah - so I think I will take another one!" And he grabs one as he goes out the door.

5:30 pm: I put the pizza in the oven. I fold the clean clothes. I put the sheets on the bed. I tell Lucia to stop screaming and let Jenni wash her hair. (Jenni has been begging to wash Lucia's hair for some time now.) I sit down and check FB again. And post something weird and sentimental. Then I think of all I have done today, and I wonder - why not write a quickie blog post about my day?

 So I did.

Edit:: Just found out the baby is a girl! (I think...) Ok. Major communication fail...

How to Graft a Calf.

Have you ever heard of 'grafting fruit trees'? How about grafting a calf?

Ah. I thought that might be new to you.

It's quite a normal, frequent procedure on a cattle ranch. At least the ranches I have been on.

First off, the seasoned mama cows are usually pretty good mothers. But the first time heifers are often less...motherly. Sometimes they will refuse to let the baby suck milk - and that is a bad thing. Sometimes they even kick their babies. (Please don't insult yourself or anyone else by suggesting that we have evolved from any kind of animal or non-human organism....I can't imagine any woman I know who would kick her newborn!)

Anyways, so when the new mama won't let the baby suck, we  try to find a cow who will adopt it. However, since most cows aren't too interested in the social aspects of an abandoned baby - we must convince her to adopt.

Here is an abandoned baby - only a few days old, or less.

 So, My Cowboy has to do the un-fun part of cowboying, and skin a calf that (in this case) has been dead for 2-3 days. This calf died during or shortly after birth. My Cowboy cuts the skin off with a skinning knife.

 Meanwhile, I ooh and aah over the cuteness of baby cows. My Cowboy has tied this baby up by the legs, so that it can't jump off the truck and hurt it's little self.

 My trusty sidekick is always standing ready to help... or just make me smile!

 Despite being tied up - this calf managed to flop off the truck somehow, so My Cowboy had to slip a rope 'round it's neck, and head it back to the barn.

My Cowboy with his new pet. (just kiddin)

He slaps the wet hide from the dead calf over the back of the live calf.

....Ties it on with red twine - always available on any ranch. He makes slits through the hide on each corner, and slips the twine through the holes and under the chest and belly, tying it on securely. The idea is that if the cow smells her calf's skin - she won't know (or care) if it's actually a different calf. Then the abandoned/orphaned calf can live in disguise as her own. And everyone will be happy.

Sometimes it works - sometimes it doesn't. Here is the mother of the dead calf, and here is My Cowboy - pushing the abandoned calf inside the calving pen.

She sniffs the calf warily...

Success!!! Within seconds, that hungry baby went for the dinner table, and she let him. Yay! I slipped out to leave them bond in peace... The hungry baby has a new mama, and the sad mama cow has (unwittingly) been comforted by what she thinks is her own sweet baby. And My Cowboy doesn't have to bottle feed this calf. :) Everyone is happy.

...And if you think cows don't get sad, well, you should've seen the poor mama cow whose dead baby I pulled into the barn with the truck a few days ago. She bawled mournfully the whole way in from the field. Sniffing her baby - trying to figure out what was up. And when we put her in a pen, she went crazy trying to get back out to her baby. We had to put the dead baby in with her, just to keep her quiet till My Cowboy could go graft a live calf for her to mother.

I even felt sad for her.

Now I think I should stop writing about sad mamas, or I shall have to find my tissue box.

No~Bake Cookies

I have always loved these easy cookies. I mean - it's kinda cool to make a cookie without baking, right? They are good to remember when your oven quits working, or you can't have gluten, (oats are gluten-free) or if you can't seem to bake cookies without burning them! (Just kidding on the burning part. I know you can bake cookies without burning them - that's just me that burns cookies, right? ) Anyways. I love easy recipes! Just dump and stir. This recipe is full of chocolatey-gooeyness. Yum.

First, you throw a stick of butter into a pan over medium heat. Let it start to melt...

 Then add 2 cups of sugar. Yes, I know it is a lot of sugar - please add it all! You won't regret it.

 Dump in a 1/2 cup cocoa powder.

 Add 1/2 cup milk.

 Stir it all together.

 I used a whisk to get it a little smoother. It does not have to be perfect - a few lumps are ok. Let it bubble up and boil for a minute. Please use a timer for this step. If you let it cook too long, it will harden into crystallized lumps. (ask me how I know)

After it boils for one minute - remove pan from heat and add your oatmeal...

 Plop in the peanut butter...

 Pour in some vanilla...

 ...and stir it good.

It's ready! Drop by spoonfuls onto a sheet pan lined with waxed paper or plastic wrap. Did you know after cooking for upwards of 20 years, I bought my very first roll of waxed paper this month? I don't know how I lived without it so long. Please go buy some waxed paper. It makes life so much easier.

 They need to cool off and firm up. Try to keep the kids and husband away for an hour or so. (Good luck with that.)

 Dig in!

No-Bake Cookies

1/2 cup butter (1 stick)
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup cocoa
1/2 cup milk
1/2 peanut butter
3 cups oatmeal
1 teaspoon vanilla

Melt butter in pan over medium heat.
Add sugar, milk, and cocoa. Bring to a boil for one minute.
Remove from heat and add oatmeal, peanut butter, and vanilla.
Stir well. Drop by tablespoonfuls onto a lined baking sheet.
Cool 1 hour. Makes 24.

Florida Memories ~ Boating Philippi Creek

   Oh, how I love boating!
 
My dad has had a small aluminum boat as long as I can remember. Not a fancy bass boat, not a fast speedboat. Just a small, open boat - wooden bench seats, and you steered with the 'tiller', no steering wheel needed. Basically you grasped a handle connected to the motor, and turned it to steer the boat, as well as control the throttle. 
    I loved that boat. Since it was open, you sat pretty close to the water. I loved sitting by the edge, and trailing my fingers in the water as we motored along. I loved feeling the waves slap the thin metal beneath my bare feet... the salty spray would mist my face till it was dripping, and I would taste the salt on my lips.
    Kneeling in the front of the boat - I would delight in the ocean wind rushing over my face. I would turn and look at dad, sitting there with the wind plastering his straight black hair back over his high forehead. He looked even more like his Cherokee heritage, with the sun shining on his face, bronzed dark by the Florida sun.
    We would skim over the water - scooting between tall sailboats and running past fancy yachts, until we reached the island. It was a small island, you could walk from one end to the other in five minutes. we'd get off the boat and wade to shore, stepping carefully around the broken beer bottles. We sometimes found the most magnificent seashells there.
    I remember one time we found a huge shell, but it still had the little creature inside. We took it home, and mom was sweet enough to try and cook that thing out - poor mom. Our kitchen reeked for hours.

     About once a year, we would do a Philippi Creek boat ride. Philippi Creek ran through the Pinecraft park, and while everyone else was content to photograph it, fish in it, etc, my dad put his boat in it.
     We would put the boat in the water at the park, then mom would drive the boat trailer home while dad, my sister and I would get in the boat and putter slowly downstream.
     I say slowly - because it was slooow. At least at first. That creek is quite shallow at some places, and the sand bars change constantly. I would sit in the very front of the boat, and I was the official lookout for sand bars. I would strain my eyes to see the bars before we hit them. Sometimes I would see them in time, and sometimes I wouldn't. Then we'd hear a soft 'thud', and dad would patiently pull out the paddle, and poke it into the sand, pushing until we floated free.
     We floated through tall beds of reeds, growing 8-10 ft tall. We went slow over the beds of seaweed that wanted to tangle the propeller. We went quietly past herons and cranes, standing elegantly on one leg. The manatees were dark lumps in water as we floated past.
    We cut the engine to barely more than an idle when we went past the mansions built on the river's edge, where they put up signs that warned: "No Wake".  We looked with amazement at the huge yachts and perfectly manicured lawns that were part of The Rich People's Places. They were winter homes of millionaires and movie stars. I looked with longing little-girl eyes at the built-in swimming pools and expensive swing sets.
    The sun beat down hot on our heads, and I would run my fingers through the cool water, then run my wet hands over my face. I watched the gulls overhead, and gazed at the fluffy white clouds. It would take several hours till we reached the Bay.
    We would always end the Creek ride with a stop at a small fish shop. We would tie the boat to a piling, and my dad would walk to the fish shop and use their phone to call mom. She would drive the van with the trailer down to the dock.
   While we waited, dad would buy a smoked fish, and we would sit at the picnic table and eat it with our fingers, right out of the foil. The smoky flavor was delicious! Then we would get back in the boat and run it around to the docking area, where mom would be waiting.
    By then it would be dusk, the lights twinkling on all over the city. The air would be getting cool, and my face  would be caked with dried salt residue.
   We would load the boat onto the trailer and pile into our orange VW 'hippie van'. :)  Then we'd drive back home, tired, sun kissed, and salty. But oh, that was the best way to spend an afternoon!

Our boat looked similar to this one at: http://duroboat.com/boats-details.php?modelClass=14 

Florida Memories~Selling Citrus.

In honor of winter and snow - I am going to do a series on my memories of Florida winters. I am doing one of the few 'bad' memories first. :)

   The place was Sarasota, Florida.
  
   The year was 1980-something.

   My dad and brothers worked at the local citrus-packing plant. I remember so well the day my father brought home a huge bin of oranges. The plant he worked at was a high-end citrus gift shop, and they only sold 1st class fruit. Somehow my father got a chance at a bin of the culls, and he took them. To a 6-year-old little girl, that bin looked enormous.

    The next day, my mom brought a bunch of little brown paper sacks out, and filled them with the nicest looking oranges. Then she tucked several bags into the basket on my bicycle, and told me to go 'round to every house on our street, and knock at the door. When someone answered, I was to ask them if they wanted to buy some tree-ripened oranges. I think they were 1-2 dollars per bag.
    I was unsure - but started out. I'd take a bag of oranges and walk up to a door, knock or ring the doorbell, and wait. When someone came to the door, I would politely ask if they wanted to buy some oranges.
    After a few streets, I getting tired of the routine - but I wanted to sell more before going home. I walked up to a particularly nice house, and rang the doorbell. A lady came to the door, and when I asked her if she wanted some oranges, she got a strange, annoyed look on her face. I will never forget what she said:
   "But I have orange trees in my yard! See? Right there! Why would I want to buy any oranges?"
   
   I was so embarrassed and humiliated. How could I have totally not seen the trees? But I hadn't. Although they were rather small - still, how could I have missed them? I stammered out a weak apology, and left as fast as possible - my cheeks burning with shame.
     I think that was the last house I visited that day. I just couldn't face another stranger. It wasn't the last time I sold oranges - nor the last kind of fruit I 'peddled' from door to door. It was just the first time, and the most memorable. But believe me - I never repeated that mistake ever again. I always looked carefully for orange trees before going to some one's door.

                                  This is the kind of bike we rode in Florida.
            
                                  Stay tuned for more Florida memories!

Valentine's Day in the Life of a Ranch Wife.

My birthday falls a mere 4 days before Valentine's Day. I always loved that as a kid - because my dear, sweet mom would (almost) always make me a heart-shaped cake for my birthday. I loved it. I think it started the love of valentine's day in my life... I have always loved the pink ~ the flowers ~ the candy ~ the lacey, girly, sweetness that is unique to Valentine's Day.

But little girls grow up.

Fall in love with the man of their dreams.

Marry and bear children.

Learn to clean a house and clean up her soul.

Learn what true love is...

...Then they hear a calf bawl.

At 2 am. Seriously. 

I sat up in bed - trying to figure out why there was a cow right outside my window. 

"And the window must be open, it's so loud! Why would My Cowboy open a window in the middle of the winter?"

I know - my thoughts were less than coherent. But in my defense, it was 2 am. Seriously.

I got up and walked out to the kitchen, trying to figure it out... As the light from the laundry room shone out through the crack in the door, it hit me; there was a calf in my laundry room. I cautiously peek in the door, and sure enough - a new calf lay there, bawling piteously.

Where was My Cowboy??

I tiptoed gingerly around the calf - trying to avoid getting my toes smeared with new-baby-calf-slime. What in the world do you do with a calf that acts like it is dying? And the noises coming from that calf were amazingly loud. In the quietness of the night, it was deafening. 

I ran to the kids rooms and quickly shut their doors, hoping that they wouldn't wake up.

Back to the calf...

I didn't want to bug My Cowboy, in case he was in the middle of pulling a calf. (he probably didn't have his phone on him anyways.) So I did the only thing I could think of - grabbed a rag and rubbed that baby hard. Hoping to coax it to live. I had no idea what was wrong with it - but it sure seemed like it was dying - with its neck stretched out stiff, and its eyes glassy.

Finally, 40 long minutes later, My Cowboy showed up. By now I was getting slightly deaf from the incessant bawling. (Slight exaggeration)

Cliff said that it was already born and laying on the snow till he went out for his first check of the night. Pretty cold night for a wet baby to be laying on the snow! He tried drenching it with colostrum, etc, but to no avail. He took it out in his truck to the barn, and awhile after that it expired. Poor thing. Till all was said and done, he finally came to bed at 4 am.

So, my friends, while you were eating heart-shaped pancakes with cute lil heart-shaped strawberries, I was fixing a big plate of eggs for My Cowboy, and his Wranglers were already smeared from hours of wrestling with baby calves.

Love? Oh yes. Not as pretty, but just as true.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had been planning to go to town yesterday for some cool Valentine's Day treats for my kids. I wanna be the fun, cool, mom too. But when my littlest one came down with a cough/fever, I decided to stay home. So I made some funny mustaches  for my kids' drinks at lunch. I wished for red punch, but all I had was water. You know what? They didn't even notice what they were drinking. They were enamored with the 'staches! What do mustaches have to do with V~Day?? No idea. It was just something cute I had seen on Pinterest, and was about all my brain could scramble up after a 2-am calf ordeal. (In my defense, I did make red finger jello. It was quite well received. :)

Love? Definitely. Not pink - but love.

In the afternoon I worked on my cinch some more.

The cool frame My Cowboy made for my birthday gift. Is he talented or what?

 Here I am stringing the cinch.

Weaving the diamond.

 The kids were doing whatever it is that kids do. I let them have a holiday from school.

 

Done with my first cinch!

               Several mistakes, but overall I am pretty pleased for  my first try. I am definitely hooked.

 Do I like to celebrate Valentine's Day? Yes. Do I like to get flowers and chocolate and cards? Yes. But when life happens, and my child is sick, and my husband is working his tail off day and night for us - I don't waste even one moment on regret or disappointment. Life is now. Life is to be enjoyed. I sit up late when the family is sleeping, to wash My Cowboy's smeary, caked-on-filth coat.
                                                   Love? uh-huh.
He wanted to go to town and get me flowers, but had to work. It's all good.
                                                Love? you bet.

 I played a game with the kids. I made dorky little mustache straws, and we ate red jello. I hugged my husband, ignoring the odor of afterbirth, and we shared a smile and several good laughs... we are family, we all love being together, and no matter what day it is, we love living this life together. We said: "Happy Valentine's Day!" to each other, because we love each other. We have many celebratory meals, days, and moments throughout the year where we give each other presents, special meals, and fun memories. When a holiday slips by unnoticed - it's ok. Seriously.
                                      Love? Oh, so much love.

Happy Valentine's Day!

7 Years Ago Today... (or: the birth of a son.)

The day began calmly enough... a few small contractions, not too painful, not too intense. But as the day wore on, the pain and exhaustion became almost unbearable. 18 long hours later, our 3rd child -and second son - was born.

We named him Andrew Wayne. 

My Cowboy wanted an Andy. I stipulated that only if his full name was Andrew.

But it was shortened to Andy pretty quickly.

He was 9 lbs, 9 oz.

That is a big newborn, just in case you don't know. He didn't fit in newborn sized clothes, because at 24 inches long - his little legs couldn't even stretch out.

He was an exceptionally good baby.

He was a rambunctious little boy, as soon as he could walk. Which was soon. He had me worried for awhile, because at 6 months he couldn't even sit by himself. My friends told me it was because he was so chubby. It must have been - because at 7 months, he began to sit up alone. A week after he learned to sit alone - he started crawling. Bam. At 9 months he was walking. Everywhere.

I distinctly recall 2 times where I thanked God for sparing his life...

1. Someone forgot to latch the baby gate by the stairs, and he rolled his chubby little self all the way down a steep set of stairs that had concrete at the bottom. I rushed over and when I got to the steps, he was laying perfectly still on the next-to-the-bottom step - looking up at me with very wide-open eyes. Perfectly unharmed. Thank you, Jesus!

2. We lived in a small trailer park, right next to a busy highway. One day while playing outside with the kids, he some how managed to escape my wary eye, and it took me 5-10 min of running frantically hither and yon, (with visions of semi-trucks and kidnappers in my head) till I found him, playing calmly under a bush. Oh, thank-you Jesus!!!

Today - he plays with angels and saints, and since its his birthday, I thought it deserved a

 THANK-YOU JESUS!!!!

Thank you that Andy is safe.

Safe...to play with kids and Jesus, all day.

Safe...never to worry about sickness or pain.

Safe...I never have to worry about kidnappers.

Safe...I never have to wonder if he will love Jesus.

Safe...never to be rejected, misunderstood, or hurt.

Safe...Always safe with Jesus.

I thank God so often that one child is forever safe.

Happy birthday, my son. I miss you. I love you. I can't wait to see you.