Clarifying Questions

First, let me set the scene.  Last night Phil was next door discussing a project with our neighbor, Sam.  Sam and Mary live there, and they are very nice but not people we click with.  They hold drumming and bonfire parties for almost every solstice and shoot off fireworks that are a delight to our kids. (I know so little of them, that I'm not even sure of the last name.)  Well, tonight I tried to reach Phil about 4:30 pm to lobby for him to pick up a pizza on his way home.  Alas, when your husband is rolling trusses he's not frequent with the phone answering (unless it's the emergency code of wife: you know, two close together calls).

We had nothing in the house for dinner, but when Phil and I finally connected he right away turned around to run one errand for me, and I didn't have the heart to mention a pizza errand too.  However, I lamented, "I'm pathetic, we have nothing to eat for dinner.  I'm *planning* tomato soup and grilled cheese".  Phil loves these foods, and is gracious, and was hungry enough to eat straight Velveeta cheese like product, so he (I'm not kidding) cheerfully replied, "I'll make that as soon as I get home". He could hear Sean wailing in the background, and I'm sure, sense the thin ice in my voice.

Turns out we didn't even have good bread for grilled cheese.  So, after our gourmet cheese quesadillas and tomato soup (can we talk about have psyched the boys were for this meal???), I fed Sean and then gave him bath in his new wash pod (for which he coos his love, and sobs his distress at being separated from), then Phil took him on a little walk about outside.  

As I was later clearing the table, Phil told me about his walk with Sean: "I took him around and we saw Mary.  But I didn't get too close.  Mary smelled Sean's feet, but I pulled him away before she licked them".

WHAT!??

Now, when Sean was super squeaky new people kept telling anybody who would listen to smell his head.  But his feet?  I hadn't heard anyone comment on his sweet feet . . . and I know that Sam and Mary sort of move to the beat of a different drum than we do . . . but . . .

Trying to hide how creeped out I was suddenly feeling, and miraculously managing not to curl my lip as I monotone-ly said, "Sam and Mary, Mary?"

Phil replied: "Mary, our cow".

And, people, that's why you only give your livestock animal-names.

Mary, your days are numbered . . .

A quick peek out to the east pasture and our backyard revealed our three happy cattle chomping away at grasses. A not so quick second peek registered that one of the threesome was actually in our backyard, and much less so in the east pasture. Freaking out I grabbed the phone to call Phil, and simultaneously ran to pound on the door to my dad's home. I got Phil's voicemail, but thankfully my dad's face, "Mary's out! Mary's out! Mary's out!" Dad met me in the backyard where I was erratically (wasting time) looking for the grain, not so ready to ford the pokies in my flip flops. I sort of tried to suggest to Dad that we should just corral Mary until Phil got home . . . thankfully Dad was not phased. And then, lickity-split, Dad got Mary back in the pasture. I was kind and left Phil a follow up voicemail.

Kyle the Cow Whisperer

 

Kyle loves to go outside with Daddy. He loves feeding and teasing the pigs, but even more loves to captivate all three cows with the grain bucket. When the bucket is not to be had, he'll settle for tossing handfuls of grass towards (not necessarily into) their feed trough. The cows fare better than the pigs on this one . . . when Kyle goes to feed the them, he exuberantly grabs handfuls of grain and then takes aim for their mouths . . . which, it turns out, are awfully close to their eyes and ears. So the poor fat slobs have to blink and jerk their heads away while simultaneously trying to catch the sands of grain. Good farm fun.

Our Wild Pheasants Hatched!

About three weeks ago some avid mowing displaced a mother pheasant, revealing quite the clutch of eggs: 15. Phil decided it would be a fun project for the boys see the eggs hatch. This time an actual incubator was purchased (last time we learned the hard way that a crockpot isn't the greatest . . . more like the eggs learned the hard way . . .) Fast forward to yesterday: within hours the 15 eggs went from a few pecked spots to all-but-one hatched. One guy didn't crack his way out, and by 9:30pm or so we just had to help him, bu he was not for this world. The rest--all 14 of them--are now thriving, busy, cheeping chicks. All that damp fluff is fluffy, and the kids can't get enough peeks at them. It is so funny to watch them, especially when one loses balance and rocks back and forth on his back, with two little stick-legs flailing. (Don't worry, that part only lasts a second, but it's cute.)

Roman's Roller Skate Birthday

 

Roman just turned five, and my sister for some reason thought Skate Plaza was in order. I secretly though she was crazy . . . but pumped the kids for it and showed up with lowest of low expectations. I pictured a passel of crying grammar students. But as soon as we entered the roller rink of my youth I got giddy with excitement and cursed myself for wearing sandals; which meant I was sockless. We found the birthday balloons and then quickly hurried to get the boys skated up.

Once they were laced up I turned them loose--with apparently no instructions, so I had to wrangle Deacon from the floor next to the sidelines (the only place you wear street shoes), and get him going with the flow. Bryce fell down 47 times in the first five minutes. This was the not the most fun activity of Bryce's life. Usually he's so athletic, so given to catching on enough to have a blast--even if the rules or point of the game elude him. Skating was tumbling onto hard floors and having your mother fall to pieces laughing over it all.

Feeling less than a gold-star mom, I decided that socks or no socks I was going to skate too, to ensure my kids' fun day. I even tried to sneakily hand the shoe-barrista my sandals as I hid my un-socked feet (which were probably standing on carpet that rivaled the number of years I've had a drivers license).

I laced up feeling all confident, then stood up (still) feeling all confident, then moved and wondered how much it would hurt a grown woman to fall flat on her face going zero miles per second. How was I going to move? How was I going to help my kids, when I need them to serve as human walking canes?

Somehow I staggered onto the wood floors, and tried to call my kids to come in my direction--you know so I could commence with providing motherly assistance. At this point I completely lost any interest in my own (lack of) ability to skate, and was absorbed with pride and amusement with Deacon's new found talent. He scooted, he inched along, he smiled from ear to ear, and as far as he was concerned he was ice-skating! That's right, he proudly asked if I noticed him ice-skating on his roller skates.

Life got even better. He skated along with his cousin Roman and soon they were hand in hand. Overcome with cousinly love Roman bestowed his special glow-stick my little roller skater. Then Daniel skated with Deacon, Bryce did not skate with him. Bryce was ever my shadow, and only meandered away from me when the call of the limbo rang in his ears.

Do you even have any idea what the criteria are for one to be qualified to be the roller-rink emcee? I'll tell ya: overly long hair, sneakily tight pants, an eighties cop mustache, and some crazy skating moves. This thirty-something captivated the kids. All the kids. Even the preteen fatties wearing Daisy Dukes. Even the older-then-me adults out on a 4:30 date night. Everybody limbo'd. Amusing doesn't even begin to describe my feelings, as I witnessed a bulgy-bear soccer mom in the short-shorts and a one-sleeved long-sleeved sequined tiger print tee . . . limboing.

Bryce came into his own when Aunt Adie passed out the arcade tokens. Hand over fist he collected tickets like nobody else. Grandma Greta chaperoned the boys game after game, and the boys would run madly over to where I was camped (with Papa Glen at the party table). After cramming their tickets in my hands and receiving tons of lavish "go get 'em" praise from me, they shot back out to win win win. We ended up collecting enough between the two of them for two candy necklaces and five army men.

Grandma & Papa had brought a Star Wars cake--so many happy little boys. Roman opened his gifts and loved them all (he's fun to give to). Bryce and Deacon's private school is a remodeled roller rink. Now I'm hoping that the school will relocate so we can reclaim the rink. I'll pass on the Daisy Dukes (you're welcome) but get that one-armed/one-sleeved sequined tiger print tee ready--oh, and my own personalized skates.

Equine Gender Barriers

Not because I had to stop anything, but just as a general rule of thumb reminder, I just told Deacon he was not allowed to touch Dolly [the horse we're boarding for a neighbor] with his sword. "Okay! Okay!" Deacon cheerfully answered, "I won't Mommy!"

Bryce, who always wants to make sure he completely understands the whys and wherefores, said with a very strong questioning tone, "because she's a girl horse, Mommy?"

Heaven help any geldings that wander our way.

And then there were none.

 

Now we own none animals. (We are blessed to have a packed freezer.) Let me be more precise: none live animals.

We bid adieu to our twenty-odd chickens Saturday and photographed our last egg haul. Then we celebrated the Lord's Day and a flambe'd the rustic coop. On Pinterest I began a farm living board for the sole purpose of finding a chicken coop that doesn't look like a chicken coop . . . because I love having chickens, just not next to my front door. We plan to start anew next Spring with a new front pasture location, near the in-progress shop--conveniently located so Phil can continue to do all the chicken work.

Now we're just boarding a horse. But our neighbors have a hysterically fun to watch bunny rabbit and four chickens, so still bring your wellies if you visit.

Gravedigger?

 

Or maybe Olivia? Ok, so I can't remember which porker these chops once were, but so yummy (even better in focus).

Cow Close Up

 

Apparently I wore l'eau du grain.

The Pig Whisperer

 

Three pigs joined our ranks today--my freezer is so looking forward to developing a close personal relationship with them.

Due to fantastic last-day-of-school plans, the boys and I had to wait to make introductions until after dinner (speaking of dinner: ham, tenderloin, pulled pork, roasts, chops, bacon).

As soon as Bryce and Deacon crested the hill, and the three crazed pinkies blitzing through the pig-pen became visible, the boys appropriately squealed, "Pigs!" And leaped in the air as though an all-you-can-eat consisting of ice cream and Oreos awaited them, reachable only by a giant slip n' slide.

Boys raced ahead, and Deacon scaled the hog paneling in a snap. Then after being assured (though he wasn't that worried) that these pigs were not like the hogs in Old Yeller, began heckling: "Pigs! Piggies! Pigs! Piggies! Pigs!"

Bryce took this all in and determined that he too wanted to harass the pigs. Hogs raced about. Deacon crazy-walked in tortoise-esque pursuit maintaining a running commentary peppered by some serious giggles.

Finally, delirium ensued when a pig pooped.
Deacon chided, "Piggy! you better wipe your bottom."

Phil and I chose not to say anything ('cuz when you're thankful a concept has sunk in, you turn a blind eye). We actually turned ourselves completely around to hide the fact that we were laughing. Deacon chorus'd ad nauseum--Bryce said not a thing, but repeatedly stole bemused glances at his apparently witless parents.

Boys. Pigs.

Lambing

Baby Lambs! Are pretty gross at first . . . according to Phil, who took the boys out to see Sam the Butcher during a spree of lambing. Those pictured are older (two days old or so at least).

There are so many things I love about this photo, namely:
1) Deacon brought his pirate sword. 2) In the left background one ewe is spot-on facing the camera. 3) Two lambs--#35 and #9--are visible in the middle background.

Also, I am slightly disturbed that all the sheep have been spray painted. Moderately disturbed. Okay, it's weird.

Meet Sam the Butcher

Yum-o! Organic. Fresh.
A little bit rough for the nancies out there.
It's plain, good, all-American red meat.

No, it's not a political endorsement for my friend and yours, Gresham Bouma--it's Ruby the Scottish Highlander!

According to Deacon, he shot the cow.
According to Bryce, he shot the cow.
Patton had no comment.

Now Three Cows

Thanks to an abundant rainfall, we had much more grass than we (Ruby) could eat, and so she's now got two friends. Ruby is a petite heifer, but these two guys are youthful and thus more petite than she, and it is funny to see her lording over them--a gal has got to use her horns now and then.

They sure look delicious!

Do a drive by and come see our lambs!
Phil and the boys hitched our new stock trailer--for it's inaugural run--and made their way to the Casebolts to pick up the five cute woolly lambs. (Both Bryce and Deacon love to ride in the truck, and truly Phil could have buckled them in to do a three-point turn in the driveway and they would have been pleased as punch with the outing.) As it was, glowing upon their return home, they popped down out of the truck bellowing to me, "Mommy, we have sheepy lambs!" As we peeked in at them, Bryce noticed how quivery they were and began encouraging them to rally their spirits; Deacon showed them his loud gun (and I quickly found a different activity for Deacon).

Whenever Phil is working outside (or even inside) life really becomes a party for them; Nana Judy has decked them out with a vast array of plastic tools so that they nearly always have a close version of whatever tool Phil is using . . . so . . . prior to departing to get the lambs, Phil had assembled various and sundry things that lambs need, and boys quickly hopped to it to get their own drills and hammers to work alongside. (Regrettably, Deacon later used his hammer to rat-a-tat-tat on the side of the stock trailer, and was accompanied by the lambs' chorus of rat-a-tat-tatting hooves.)

When it came time to unload the lambs, we had to send our vividly exuberant boys to the hills so the lambs would be less skittish about leaving the trailer--though rather than easily dismount, at least two of them attempted Olympic leaps and gave themselves sad limps.
We're already pretty smitten with them, and Opa already placed an order for a leg-o-lamb . . . so we'd better not get too attached.

Butchering le Boeuf

Fair warning, this photo is disgusting; it shows two dead cattle, one of which is fully skinned. But the boys enjoyed seeing the butchering process, and I want to memorialize this little gem of an experience for prosperity and all. After seeing both beef shot, Bryce looked up at Phil and said, "Daddy, so now are we going to cut them up into elk steak?"

Friday, October 23rd was the day our Angus Beef (one black, one red) met their end. No more Rocky and no more Rosie. Now our lone Scottish Highlander will adorn our sparsely grassed hillside--and really Ruby stole the show anyhow, since she looks like a squat little yak.

Here's to a full freezer for us and others.

 

Before & After: Stock Trailer

 

Oh how purdy we looked for a few days with a rusted (but not actually old) stock trailer in our yard. Thankfully, I'm married to man of many talents, and in a weekend he'd sanded, primed, painted and accent painted it into a thing of relative beauty. Now all we need are a couple tons of beef cattle to break it in (or maybe thirty goats, or 500 rabbits, or some mules--oh and yes please do check out the bumper sticker that Phil preserved from the first owner, if you're ever lucky enough to be driving behind us).

Beatin' the Heat

Tonight Deacon burst in to the house calling, "Doggie water, doggie water!" Patton had found the best place to relax after chasing the bumper.

17 Scratch That, 14 Chickens

It turned out that we had more roosters than we'd originally thought (yes that does explain why the egg counts were low). No longer are we 17 chickens strong. After these three edged closer to being chicken dinner, Bryce requested that all the remaining chickens be induced to follow suit, "Look! There's more chickens to get over there! Can you pound those chickens too, Daddy?"

Getting the Eggs

Part of our morning routine is egg-gathering, and of their own accord the boys have elected to take turns. One of my contributions to our marriage was a large french egg basket (courtesy of Oma Bev). Phil has always turned up his nose at using the basket--but both boys love being able to carry the eggs by themselves. The first egg is always chucked inside (a morning ritual if you will), and then that reminds us to remind the boys to, "be gentle, be gentle".
On Friday the 3rd, Bryce got the eggs and Deacon took that opportunity to visit the nearby the four wheeler once more before we left for a very fun weekend in the Tri-Cities for Fourth of July festivities. (More on that later: we're waiting for photos to be sent to us, as our camera spent the entire weekend hiding in my purse tucked under a diaper).No photo, but this morning when Deacon got the eggs he also pet our broody hen!

"I hold the bars"

Tonight Bryce and Deacon enjoyed their first four-wheeler rides. Their reactions were so positive, that a second (joint) ride was a must! Bryce was thrilled, and other than waving at me with a huge grin, also adopted the catchphrase, "I hold the bars", varying his intonation to first request, than declare, then share his experience. Deacon was delighted, but demonstrated his enjoyment with a very intense little face. Phil was absolutely thrilled that they didn't mind the noise--apparently it added to the ambiance . . . a very fun first!