Tag Archives: postaday2011

Friendship

Because I’ve {almost} told you every sordid detail of my life.

 Because I haven’t trained my chicken to beat me in Tic Tac Toe.   Yet.

And because I have no great picture of afterbirth to share, I am relying on dailypost.wordpress.com for a blogging idea tonight. 

Topic #136  How do you decide who to be friends with?

Friends.  Deep sigh. 

I am an earthling with few friends.  I could count on one hand with 2 fingers removed how many true blue, to the core friends I have. 

I would not say I decide to be friends with people, I would have to say friendship happens.  Almost like love.  You fall into friendship.  Usually because of similar interests and/or endearing qualities. 

It would be easier for me to relate who I decide NOT to be friends with, but I will do my best with the topic at hand. 

I can sum it up with one characteristic.  Well, two.

The characteristics I find most endearing in others are genuineness and authenticity—Know who you are and be that person.  To illustrate, here’s a story called the Yay-Yuck Man by Max Lucado.

Bob loved to make people happy. Bob lived to make people happy. If people weren’t happy, Bob wasn’t happy. So every day Bob set out to make people happy. Not an easy task, for what makes some people happy makes other people angry.

Bob lived in a land where everyone wore coats. The people never removed their coats. Bob never asked “Why?”, he only asked “Which?” – “Which coat should I wear?”

Bob’s mother loved blue. So to please her he wore a blue coat. When she would see him wearing blue she would say, “Yay, Bob! I love it when you wear blue.” So he wore the blue coat all the time. And since he never left his house and since he saw no one but his mother, he was happy, for she was happy and she said “Yay, Bob” over and over.

Bob grew up and got a job. The first day of his first job he got up early and put on his best blue coat and walked down the street. The crowds on the street, however, didn’t like blue. They liked green. Everyone on the street wore green. As he walked past, everyone looked at his blue coat and said, “Yuck!”

Yuck! was a hard word for Bob to hear. He felt guilty that he had caused a “yuck” to come out of a person’s mouth. He loved to hear “yay!” He hated to hear “yuck!”

When the people saw his coat and said “yuck,” Bob dashed into a clothing store and bought a green coat. He put it on over his blue coat and walked back out in the street. “Yay!” the people shouted as he walked past. He felt better because he had made them feel better.

When he arrived at his workplace, he walked into his boss’s office wearing a green coat. “Yuck!” said his boss.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Bob, quickly removing the green coat and revealing the blue. “You must be like my mother.”

“Double yuck!” responded the boss. He got up from his chair, walked to the closet, and produced a yellow coat. “We like yellow here,” he instructed.

“Whatever you say, sir,” Bob answered, relived to know he wouldn’t have to hear his boss say “yuck” anymore. He put the yellow coat over the green coat, which was over the blue coat. And so he went to work.

When it was time for him to go home, he replaced the yellow coat with the green and walked through the streets. Just before he got to his house, he put the blue coat over the green and the yellow coats and went inside.

Bob learned that life with three coats was hard. His movements were stiff, and he was always hot. There were also times when the cuff of one coat would peck out and someone would notice, but before the person could say “yuck” Bob would tuck it away.

One day he forgot to change his coat before he went home, and when his mother saw green she turned purple with disgust and started to say, “Yuck.” But before she could, Bob ran and put his hand on her mouth and held the word in while he traded coats and then removed his hand so she said, “Yay!”

It was at this moment that Bob realized he had a special gift. He could change his colors with ease. With a little practice, he was able to shed one coat and replace it with another in a matter of seconds. Even Bob didn’t understand his versatility, but he was pleased with it. For now he could be any color anytime and please every person.

His skill at changing coats quickly elevated him to high positions. Everyone liked him because everyone thought he was just like them. With time he was elected major over the entire city. His acceptance speech was brilliant. Those who loved green thought he was wearing green. Those who loved yellow thought he was wearing yellow, and his mother just knew he was wearing blue. Only he knew that he was constantly changing from one to the other. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it, because at the end everyone said, “Yay!”

Bob’s multicolored life continued until one day some yellow-coated people stormed into his office. “We have found a criminal who needs to be executed,” they announced, shoving a man towards Bob’s desk. Bob was shocked at what he saw. The man wasn’t wearing a coat at all, just a T-shirt.

“Leave him with me”, Bob instructed, and the yellow coats left.

“Where is your coat?” asked the mayor.

“I don’t wear one.”

“You don’t have one?”

“I don’t want one”

“You don’t want a coat? But everyone wears a coat. It.. it.. it’s the way things are here.”

“I’m not from here.”

“What coat do they wear where you are from?”

“No coat.”

“None?”

“None.”

Bob looked at the man with amazement. “But what if people don’t approve?”

“It’s not their approval I seek.”

Bob had never heard such words. He didn’t know what to say. He’d never met a person without a coat. The man with no coat spoke again.

“I am here to show people they don’t have to please people. I am here to tell the truth.”

If Bob had ever heard of the world truth, he’d long since rejected it. “What is truth?” he asked.

But before the man could answer, people outside the mayor’s office began to scream, “Kill him! Kill him!”

A mob had gathered outside the window. Bob went to it and saw the crowd was wearing green. Putting on his green coat, he said, “There is nothing wrong with this man.”

“Yuck!” they shouted. Bob fell back at the sound. By then the yellow coats were back in his office. Seeing them, Bob changed his colors and pleaded, “The man is innocent.”

“Yuck!” they proclaimed. Bob covered his ears at the word.

He looked at the man and pleaded, “Who are you?”

The man answered simply, “Who are you?”

Bob did not know. But suddenly he wanted to. Just them his mother, who’d heard the crisis, entered the office. Without realizing it, Bob changed to blue. “He is not one of us,” she said.

“But, but,…”

“Kill him!”

A torrent of voices came from all directions. Bob again covered his ears and looked at the man with no coat. The man was silent. Bob was tormented. “I can’t please them and set you free!” he shouted over their screams.

The man with no coat was silent, “I can’t please you and them!”

Still the man was silent. “Speak to me!” Bob demanded. The man with no coat spoke one word. “Choose.” “I can’t!” Bob declared. He threw up his hand and screamed, “Take him, I wash my hand of the choice.”

But even Bob knew in making no choice he had made one. The man was led away, and Bob was left alone. Alone with his coats.

A Gentle Thunder, Max Lucado, 1995,

“A friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are.” —I didn’t say that, someone else did.

Life is But A Blob of Wetness

It’s calving time again here on the ever so windy plains of Texas.

While the rest of the world is bombarded with severe weather, we remain rainless. And windy. And oh-so-very dirty. Today was field day at my school and when we left there, after battling wind gusts of up to 50 mph,  and no measurable rainfall since last November, we were all simply a walking layer of sunscreen encrusted with dirt.  Seriously, you could have carved your initials in my face. 

Besides all that, it’s calving season here on the ever-so-windy plains of Texas.

My husband spends his days checking heifers.  Now remember my good students, that heifers are very young, first time mothers.  They are the unwed teenagers of the bovine population.  They need to be monitored closely for birthing distress and to ensure they are going to raise their newborn babes and not spend their days drinking ale with their friends and getting new tattoos. 

J-Dub has 20 heifers to watch.  Out of those 20, 12 have calved and the rest are growing closer every day.  So he makes his rounds studying their backsides for floppy and swollen you-know-whats and big, full utters (a.k.a. bags).  But the tell-tale sign that a heifer is about to calve is a raised tail with a crook in it. 

I accompanied him the other day.  The cows who remain pregnant gather around the truck looking for a handout.  The heifers who have calved usually are hidden out with their babies somewhere, or they leave the babies hid out to come get a handout. 

The second cardinal rule of cowboying aside from ALWAYS CLOSE THE GATES is ALWAYS COUNT THE COWS. 

After a quick head count, it was discovered that a heifer was missing. 

 She was quickly found amidst the Skunk Brush, 

with a new, wet baby by her side.

A new, wet baby with a rumbly tummy. 

7 more babies to go.

Birthing Babies

My husband, whose Superman cape is presently hanging in the closet while he lounges in his Lazy Boy has a pretty in-depth resume’.  Among his many talents include cowboss, gourmet chef, drumming dynamo,  and husband extraordinaire.  But most recently, he has added foal nanny.  The ranch he works for decided to buy a horse.  A horse who happened to be pregnant.  The horse nanny position was assigned to J-Dub.  So he’s been watching a bred mare for quite some time now checking her for signs of birthing.  Normally, a horse would have a foal and raise it in the pasture and life would go on without any interference from man. 

But this mare is a bit on the high-end, with good breeding for a cutting horse.  The hopes are that the baby will have good cutting horse tendencies and make a nice investment.

It’s a gamble.  There’s probably better odds betting 13 black with a spin of a roulette wheel.  But I like to play it safe anyway.

Due to the investment of this animal,  instead of putting her out into a pasture to have a baby, my husband built her a nice little stall and has been horse-sitting.  

Much like Prissy in Gone With the Wind, J-Dub “don’t know nothing ’bout birthing no babies.”  Except cows.  Who are put in the pasture to calve.

The reason he must watch this horse closely is the very small window of time in which the foal needs to be “imprint trained”. 

Much like Prissy in Gone With the Wind, I don’t know nothing about imprint training, but this is how I understand it.  As soon as the foal hits the ground, before it even stands up, a human begins working with it in order to imprint its brain  with certain techniques to enable it to be trained easier later in life.   

Last Saturday night we left town for a music festival in a nearby town believing that she was still 24 hours away from foaling.  Some other expert in horse gestation and delivery said if she wasn’t waxing (whatever that means) then we’d probably be okay until Sunday.

But when we returned on Sunday afternoon to check on the little mama, she had a little horsie by her side.

Although we were late and weren’t sure when the baby was born, J-Dub began his work.

He tied up Bobby, the momma, to get her out of the way and keep himself out of danger. 

Then began his newly acquired knowledge of imprint training on the little baby girl.

Mama  pawed the ground, knickered, and kicked up quite a stink, and some dirt, while her baby was taken from her and poked, prodded, pestered, and primed.

The idea of imprint training is to establish a bond between the baby and a human and to get it used to being handled to desensitize it for later training.  J-Dub laid the baby down on its side and rubbed it all over.  He picked up its feet for when it needs to be shod, rubbed under its tail so it won’t spook if a rope rubs it there, flexed its legs, stuck his finger in every orifice on its body and rubbed it all over until it was calm.  Then he rolled it over and did everything again on the other side. 

Then the two were reunited.  Four days later, Bobby the mama, was hauled to a nearby town to be bred back to foal again in about a year.  When the baby is weaned, she will be sent to a trainer and hopefully her imprint training will have taken effect.

J-Dub spent all that time building a nice little horse stall, equipped with pine shavings for a bed, and Bobby didn’t even use it.  Here’s the afterbirth laying in the horse pen.  Isn’t fascinating?  It looks like a big oily rag or something.

I just had to throw that in there.

You can thank me later.

Instagram Addiction

I recently, very recently, like say Friday, was turned on to Instagram via my friend Suzanne.  This weekend I’ve decided I need a 12 step program for it.

You simply can take a photo and run it through various filters to achieve different looks, some retro, some greenish, some reddish, some black and white,and  then ooh and aah.

Here’s a sampling of my pictures.  I hope they create a sense of wonderfulness for you as they do me.

My girls

I love these girls!

Something old and antiquey.

peonies

Grace trying to stick her head in my lap in the lawn chair.
 
Dinnertime!
 
 
 

 

That’s me.

Big cat

  

My favorite:  a ladybug on my leg.
 
 
Instagramically addicted,
Angel
 

In Memory of My Dad #12–When the goings got tough, the tough went over the hill

When my wife, Anne, used to come home and find me gone, one of the children would say, “Dad has gone over the hill again.”  That would mean things at home had become a trifle thick and I’d walked out on the family once more.

No, I don’t mean walked out for good, but I’m impatient taking care of small children.  Believe me, mine were a handful; yelling, laughing, and running all over the place.  I would become exasperated with the young ‘uns and at times I would blow-up for no reason at all.  Then I would remember something from the Scriptures; “Provoke not your children to wrath.”  That’s when I would know that it was time to go over the hill.

Over the hill is where the yellow wild flowers grow in great abundance, looking as if some demented artist splashed great slashes of yellow paint everywhere.  When my girl Angel was a baby, she picked a big handful of the blossoms.  Joley taught her to say “Happy Easter” and her flowers graced the table that Easter Sunday.  The Easter ham never tasted better.

Over the hill lies a pond where the fat, old bullfrogs croak and harrumph the night away.  Once a neighbor gathered a gallon bucket of frog legs there in less than an hour and the antics that the frogs made when Stan or Steve, both sharks in the local Little League, would throw a rock in their midst, it would seem to rain frogs everywhere.

The hill would slope gently down to where a wet weather creek bubbles and gurgles happily before joining Red Deer creek.  The creek is forbidden to the girls who are barely out of the toddler stage.  But I find the remnants of a small dam and I wonder what kind of skullduggery the boys have been up to down here. 

One hill leads to another and that hill is covered with Indian Paintbrushes.  The Indian Paintbrush to me is the most beautiful of all the wildflowers in the world.  Beyond that is another hill where you can’t walk without crushing the State flower of Texas, the wild Bluebonnet.  Bluebonnet Hill at that time was soon to be leveled to make room for a 4 lane bypass around Pampa, Texas, so me and my kids used to gather a handful of the bluebonnets and transplant them in a grove of mesquite bushes not far from the hill.  I hope we were successful in the removal of the wild flowers.  But that has given over to time now and the flowers probably won’t grow where they were transplanted. 

The mesquite grove also provided us with the aromatic wood that we would use for cooking out.  There is no better taste anywhere in God’s great garden than mesquite flavored steaks or chops, and if it was a few days after payday the aroma of hot dogs could be smelled throughout the neighborhood.

I might as well walk a bit farther to where the black Angus and the Hereford cattle make their home.  Maybe I’ll even inspect the water gaps, making sure they are still sturdy.  I remember once during a summer of not much rain, when the owner of this property offered to cut the water gaps out so that the neighbor’s cattle would have a place to come to water in this spring fed watering hole.  Yes, I remember that drought and the neighbor’s kind offer.

Circling back toward the house I see the black Angus, like a small boy’s playthings, on a hill not so far away, the cows ignore me but the calves approach me cautiously.  I don’t bother them and soon they rejoin their mothers.

Now I have come full circle and here is my household still needing me, I hope fervently.  Angel throws herself against my legs wanting to be picked up and carried, Joley’s bright brown eyes welcome me home while she talks a mile a minute.  Stan and Steve rough house each other around the front yard, Stan laughing so hard at Steve’s ineffectual pummeling that his own defenses are almost nil.

These are my kids, how could I have been so annoyed with them only a short time before.

My wife asks, “Where have you been?”

“Over the hill,” I reply, knowing that things are going to be all right once again in the Briggs’ house.

~R.L. Briggs

I’m Not Gonna Hurt You, I Only Want to Chew On Your Neck.

 

The J&A Chicken Ranch, the place I call home, is stocked with 2 dogs and 14 chickens. 

Natural enemies, they are. 

The dogs live in the fenced backyard and the chickens live in a chicken pen and garden shed close to the backyard.  Somedays I like to let the dogs out, and somedays I like to let the chickens out, which leaves a logical deduction that someday they’re going to be out at the same time.  I would hate to raise my chicks to survive the  bitter cold, dangerous chicken hawks, and an owner that leaves them crushed under the water tub all day, only to be massacred by tame dogs.

I’ve been trying to think of a way to introduce the dogs to the 9 week old chickens.

My practical approach has been taking the dogs to the chicken pen, shaking my finger, and yelling “NO, NO, NO!” for at least 3 hours at a time.

My husband thinks no matter how many times I do that, if they are ever left alone, Drew Miller will kill them. 

Drew Miller is my killer hound, my head of ranch security, notorious ’round these parts for polishing off possums, slaughtering skunks, and going a couple rounds with any porcupine dumb enough to stick a bunch of quills in his face.

When Drew Miller sees the chickens, he tenses, his ears go up, drool runs from his massive jowls, but  when I give him the finger shake and the NO, NO, NO technique, he becomes disinterested, wags his long, powerful tail, and meanders off. 

Grace, on the other hand, stares them down.  She is on point, which doesn’t make any sense to me since she is a Heeler. 

She won’t break eye contact with the chickens.  She watches their every move.  I think if given the opportunity, she might kill my chickens.  J-Dub says she will only chase them.

I must make the dogs understand that I love these chickens.  I’m trying to train them by going into the chicken pen and holding the chickens, talking to them, and petting them.  The dogs just watch.  I’m not sure they understand.   I think they’re jealous.

They’re certainly curious of them.  They haven’t acted aggressively toward the chickens yet, but I don’t trust them.  No siree Bob.  I’ve got some more work to do on training my dogs to love my chickens as much as I do.  Or rather, less than I do.  I’d be content if they’d just leave them be.

Teaching old dogs new tricks has taken on a whole new meaning for me.

A Sussy

I got a present from my best good friend Erin the other day.

A “sussy” as she calls it.  That means  a surprise in her language.

There’s Erin in the middle, and my other best good friend Mrs. Z on the right. 

You’ll never guess what the “sussy” was.

Not just one, but two Bob Ross T-shirts.

You see, the other day I was wishing I had these shirts.

Actually, I blogged about it  here.  https://chroniclesofarocketsurgeon.com/2011/04/13/a-dirty-little-secret-no-i-am-not-ashamed/

I took a vow, kinda like a monk, to not buy new clothes the entire year of 2011.  Not a T-shirt for Field Day, not a new pair of panties, not even a Bob Ross shirt.  So Erin helped me out.

Mrs. Z (the one pictured up on the right) gave me a mountain of clothes the other day herself.  Pity clothes is what I call them.  If you want some new threads, but you don’t want to pay for them, just announce that you’re not buying any new clothes for a year.  Then find some good friends like I have.

Between these 2 girls, I shant go naked. 

And that’s good for everyone.

Rain and Reptiles

Lightening, thunder, wind, and RAIN greeted us this morning in the Texas Panhandle.  It has been so dry, the trees are bribing the dogs.  Here in my little town we only average 21.16″ of rain annually.  So far this year, we’ve received seven drops.  Okay, maybe eight.

Technically, we’re in a drought.  We haven’t been this dry since the 1960’s.

Drought Monitor

So every teensy, tiny little drop of rain helps.   Even if it is a couple hundredths of an inch.  My husband is still having to cake the cows, which has nothing to do with chocolate in case you’re wondering.  Usually by this time of the year, they are able to graze, but since it hasn’t rained, the grass hasn’t grown.  Something about that whole cause and effect thing.

Texas: Current 1-Day Observed Precipitation Valid at 5/11/2011 1200 UTC - Created 5/11/11 23:40 UTC

Just so you can feel a tiny bit sorry for me, I’ll tell you how hard it is to go to work while it’s raining  out here at “the Place”.  I gather up my purse, my lunch, my phone, and my coffee cup and hit the door running.  I don’t have a garage.  Nor do I have an umbrella, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have a hand to hold it.  So I must run to the car while the rain comes at me sideways pushed by gusty winds and plops in my coffee.  I also don’t have a paved driveway, I have a dirt one.  Nor do I have an electric gate opener.  So my flipflops become soaked and muddy, and my clothes become wet, and my hair sticks to my head as I get out of the car to open the gate, step in a puddle, get back in the car, step in a puddle, drive through the gate, get back out of the car to close the gate, step in a puddle, get back in the car to head to work. 

But I’m thankful for the rain.  I’m not complaining. Really.  Please don’t mistake this for complaining.  It’s just something new I’ve had to learn since I was used to garages with openers and paved driveways.  Ah, the country life.

Perhaps the rain is what brought a friend into my yard this evening.   He’s from the reptile family, but don’t worry, it’s not a rattlesnake.    You know, the first time I see a rattler in my yard, I’m liable to sieze up and piss myself.  It was only a little turtle.  I took a picture, but it wouldn’t load, so nevertheless you have to take my word for it.

The turtle fellow kinda caught me by surprise, nestled up against the chicken pen.  He’s probably a harmless welfare case out begging for some free chicken scratch or something. 

Actually I have no idea what turtles eat. 

We found a turtle one time a couple of years ago and my niece Ashy tried to feed it some grass and leaves,

but it wasn’t having any part of that. 

I guess it doesn’t matter what he eats, as long as it isn’t chicken, we’ll get along just fine.

Mumbo jumbo

If you could see me as I write this, you would find me sitting in my car in a McDonald’s parking lot (I heard they have free wi-fi), partly killing time before I go to a teachers banquet, and partly trying to blog about nothing.
I missed blogging Sunday, Mother’s day, the easiest day of the world to blog. I mean there isn’t enough paper in the world to contain the words that could be written about dear old Anne. So I didn’t blog Sunday and it bothered me badly.  I don’t want it to happen again. 

Rush, rush, rush.   That’s what I do lately.   And I’m not even a mother.   I don’t know how they squeeze it all in.
Mumbo jumbo.  That’s what is going through my head.
Theres a few things I want to tell you that will not make a hill of beans in anybody’s world but mine. But my head is full of jumbo mumbo or mumbo jumbo.
1.   I just ate a Twix.
2.  There are 4 dirty coffee cups and 2 empty coke cans in my oh so meticulously clean car.
3.  Admitting I have a caffeine addiction is step #1.
4.  I took a huge risk today and let my chickens out of their chicken pen to wander here and yon as they please. They may all be dead when I get home.
5.  I’m about to eat bar-b-cue and then I have to stand up in front of my peers and read a tribute I wrote to my dear friend and co-worker who is retiring.
6. I’m feeling sick to my stomach.
7. I recently, accidentally turned my hair blonde. Its not a good look.
8. Mumbo jumbo.
9. Rush, rush, rush

10.  My toes are wrinkly.
11. There’s only 13 more days of school.  Can I get an Amen?

Glad I got that all off my chest.  I’m feeling much better now.