Some people think all country folk do is work. Well it might look like work to the outsider, but it is pure fun and games. Here are some of our favorite pastimes:
“Pasture shuffle” also known as rotational grazing. This activity involves building fence to break big pastures into small pastures, usually done with “hot wire” or “hot war” if you’re from SW Arkansas. Once the pastures resemble a game board it’s simply a matter of moving the cattle from one pasture to the next to keep them on fresh grass. The only winners in this game are the cattle.
“Tire Toss” or “never leave home without a spare”. Note, I didn’t say a “good spare” because on a farm if it’s a spare it’s not a good tire anymore. This game involves looking at all the old tires on the place and picking the least likely to blow out for the trailer or truck. It’s a favorite of tight wads world ‘round.
“Pen game” which is sorting cattle. This game is for mature audiences only because the language can get a little colorful. We play the pen game when sorting calves off from their mommas for weaning, or when trying to match up calves for our very complicated and occasionally profitable marketing schemes. Cattle love this game; it’s an Olympic event for them. Events include: “shin and thigh kicks”, “head tossing” and “gate crashing”. Some people have elaborate corral systems; some just have wire, panels , faith and a lot of finger crossing.
“Hot wire relays” or rolling up and laying out electric fence. This involves some upper body strength. We roll up our electric fence and pick up the electric fence posts several times a year. The posts are evolved lawn darts with sharp metal points that stick into the ground, so for fun we have been known to reenact the sword fighting scenes from Lord of the Rings and have javelin throwing competitions.
While the rest of you are suffering from boredom on some beach somewhere this summer, we’ll be living the dream on our little slice of paradise.
Kids are the champions of “pat answers”, or perhaps just my kids. Here are some of my favorites:
Maybe they learned this technique from us.
Yes, it’s a linguistic ballet, where the idiom quickly becomes the idiot if you're not careful.
Happy Mother’s Day; now, go treat your momma special…because I said so.
We have some young friends that are getting married this summer and I have learned a few things over the years that might make the wedding go a little smoother. Weddings are special but they are rarely perfect, try to enjoy the day and let go of the little things that only you will remember 20 years from now. Here are some examples from my own experiences:
Most importantly remember this new journey you’re striking out on is a team effort, you better like the person you’re marrying because you might not always feel loving toward them, and best wishes!
Middle children are very special people. Raise your hand if you’re a middle child. Come on, you know you want to make me happy and draw attention to yourself. No? Well, the internet must be wrong about middle children. My middle child has always been my favorite (don’t tell my eldest or youngest because I’ve always told them they were my favorite when no one else was around) just kidding, what kind of mother would choose a favorite!? But I digress, this is about my middle child and I can’t even give him the attention he deserves here without distractions from those other two.
Historically the first child has tons of pictures, in every outfit, in three different poses. The middle child has fewer photos, in hand-me-down outfits, usually with the older sibling doing something weird in the background. This doesn’t mean middle children aren't equally as loved, it just means now both parents are sleep deprived and a little nuts. For the third child, a birth certificate might be the only evidence they truly exist. Don’t even get me started comparing the baby books.
Middle children are the peace makers. They give in to the older sibling so they can have someone to play with, and they give in to the younger sibling to make her stop squeaking. When he was little my middle child said the funniest things; “Is Mickey Mouse a rat?” and “When I grow up I want to be a Canadian like Fozzy Bear.” stand out as some of his best quotes. Middle Children will sit in your lap longer, hug more often, remember your birthday, make sweet cards, brighten your day, and yet even they will eventually leave home. But eventually they come back, everyone needs clean clothes and homemade cookies once in awhile.
When you’re young with small children and farming for a living money is often tight. Creative folks come up with little ways to save a dime like changing your own oil or giving home haircuts to the kids. I had gotten pretty talented (my opinion) at cutting the boys’ hair when they were little, to the point that my sister-in-law even trusted me to give her boys their summer buzz cuts once. I finished the first two without a hitch. But the third one, my own son, was a disaster. I had taken the guard off the clippers to trim around my nephew’s ears and forgot to put it back on before I gave my eldest son his haircut. I buzzed up the side of his head almost to his crown. ALL of the hair fell away and I was devastated. Frantic and in tears I called my husband “I accidentally shaved Rick’s head…I mean ALL the way to the skin! What do I do?” I married a very pragmatic and level-headed man, the kind of guy that can fix anything with duct tape and baling wire; a real problem solver. He said “Make it look as good as you can. When I get home give me the same haircut and we’ll tell him we have ‘Army Man’ haircuts.” I have pictures of the two of them sporting their “Army Man haircuts”…bald, smiling, and in denial. Now, the time I messed up Rick’s hair when he was 16…that’s a different story.
I've come to realize that there are some gaps in my cultural literacy. I was in a sleep deprived stupor through most of the '90's. This first occurred to me when I heard a cool new song on the radio and someone informed me that "Ice, Ice, Baby" wasn't a new song and had actually been overplayed in the '90's. I had my first two children 15 months apart in the early '90's, and a third about the time the first two were sleeping all night. For most of that timeframe we had a 1982 Caprice Classic that had COLD AIR, regular sized tires and an AM radio. The AM radio choices were rather limited back in those days. You could get sports, talk radio, So, for nearly a decade I could only listen to "Sesame Street", classic country and talk radio...and to be honest talk radio was over my exhausted head. I can sing "C Is For Cookie (and that's good enough for me)" as well as all of Johnny Cash and Porter Wagner's early music, I know, it is pathetic.
Those first two kids are out of the house, I occasionally get the remote control, and I'm fascinated with television programs that I missed during the decade I lived under a rock. So while you all are staying current, watching reality TV and listening to modern music, I'm playing cultural catch-up and I'm still working my way through the '90's.
Did you know there is such a thing as a teeny tiny branding iron for steaks? My husband received one as a groomsman’s gift several years ago. Since we’ve never had trouble with steak rustling in our area, we’ve never found an occasion to use it, but it’s cute, has his initials and makes a nice knick knack on our living room shelf. When our daughter was 9 she finally took notice of the mini-branding iron and asked her dad “what’s that little branding iron for?” He told her it was for branding chickens. She found me busily eradicating weeds from my flowerbed and said “Dad said that little branding iron is for branding chickens is that right?” If you’ve spent any time around a 9 year old, you know all about their penchant for asking question, after question, after question. It gets tiresome. On this occasion I played along, “oh yeah that’s right, branding chickens…”
Months later my daughter and some other kids were speaking at a local civic club about their county fair projects. One of the members asked our daughter “What do you have to do to get your chickens ready for the fair?” to which she replied “Well, first we have to brand them.”
I am very good at getting things to rot, don’t believe me just peek in my fridge. That special skill prompted me to begin composting about five years ago, and let me tell you I can rot stuff like it’s my job. My little compost pile is in the garden because I’m a lazy gardener and refuse to use a wheelbarrow. Most people, especially urban gardeners, like to keep their compost in pretty little wooden boxes, or fancy plastic tumblers. Not this gal, my grapefruit peels, egg shells and coffee grounds are right out there for the world to see. It has been good for my garden soil, and aside from the time I accidentally set it on fire, it has been pretty successful, at rotting stuff that is. Being a lazy composter is really easy, but you can’t get in a big hurry. I only turn my compost pile about twice a year, but that newly enriched soil underneath is worth the trouble.
Some people compost because it’s good for the environment, I compost because I live in the country and we have always carried out and dumped our kitchen scraps (that’s what we call compost in the country), saves on trash sacks you see. When I was a kid and had to carry out the scraps I would gag, and sometimes I’d do more than gag. My parents thought I was lazy and trying to get out of that chore. They were right about the lazy part; hence I’m a lazy composter.
Our Labrador, Daisy, smiles at people. Her smile is executed by curling her lip and nose back and bearing her teeth. It comes across as a snarl and if you don’t know better you might think she’s plotting bodily harm. Many a delivery person has huddled in their vehicle waiting for us to intervene. Daisy just wants to say “Hey there, welcome to the ‘Death Farm’.” I suspect visitors don’t know we call it that in jest. When we drive up and she’s in the driveway she smiles until we give her a good rubbing. We usually comment on her beautiful smile “there’s that happy smile, Daisy” or some such nonsense that she probably translates as “blah, blah, blah Daisy”.
Daisy also gives little “love pats”, really they’re “love me pats”. She will sit in front of you and if you don’t take the hint and pet her, she’ll use her paw to rake her nails down the fleshy part of your thigh, better hope you’re wearing jeans not yoga pants, slacks, skirts or shorts. She loves cuddling and thinks she is still a 20 pound puppy, and will climb into your lap if you’re sitting, weeding the garden, changing the oil on a vehicle, or whatever, and that’s why we lovingly refer to her as “In-the-waisy”.
Daisy is a chicken killer. We’ve come home to chickenicide many times. She doesn’t eat them, which kind of infuriates my husband; she just slaughters them and leaves them for us to dispose of. She took out my ducks when she was younger. She pursued them like Jaws, swam them down and one by one she decimated that little farm flock.
She eats cow feed, and cow manure for that matter. She hangs out at the chute waiting for calf fries when we castrate, oh yes Daisy has some very nasty habits. So, when you visit, smile back, give her a good rubbing and whatever you do don’t let her give you sugars!
Our 8 year-old Black Lab, Daisy, has moved into the house. She’s a smart cookie and started her campaign to be a housedog shortly after we bought our daughter a Shih Tzu puppy (housedog). Imagine how slighted Daisy felt when the new kid was hanging out indoors. Daisy moved herself in initially during storms, pending storms, chances of precipitation, or just partly cloudy days by giving us the bum rush as we opened the door. Then last summer it was so miserably hot and she realized we have a cooler alternative to the pond; she began rushing past us to get inside on hot days. My free time last summer was spent sweeping up tons of Black Lab hair (who knew Labs had so much hair!?).
My dad gave Daisy to our son when he was around 12. He also gave our other son a yellow Lab at that time, unfortunately that poor dog was killed chasing cars on our country road (like so many before) I remember our distraught daughter wailed “we live on a death farm”. Daisy learned her lesson about chasing cars the hard way; she was run over in front of our kids while they waited for the school bus. We rushed her to the vet and she had some serious injuries, but she bounced back and that might explain why we’re so willing to cater to her. Daisy loves to ride in the feed truck, and she prefers to ride shotgun, but she will let me sit there if I get in first. Now that she’s getting older and arthritic we help her in and out of the truck. Our son (Daisy’s boy) who’s now 20 and away at college often asks “how’s my dog?” Eventually I’ll have to explain to him that she has moved into his room.
Growing up on a farm with chores and responsibilities can equip a person with more common sense than less cerebral activities like sitting in front of a television (“idiot box” as my dad refers to it) or so you’d think. Despite my upbringing and various on-the-farm experiences there have been times in my life that I’ve “checked my brain at the door” and made some pretty dumb mistakes. I’m the kind of person that only makes the dumb mistakes once, which is evidenced by the fact that I still have all ten of my fingers.
Once, when working a truck load of stocker calves* the calf in the head chute bit me on the finger hard enough to break the skin and leave a nice bruise. You might be asking “how did the calf get your finger in his mouth?” Well, I’ll tell ya, he was the sweetest acting little thing you ever saw, licking his tongue out and giving me an innocent look with his big brown eyes. His mannerisms said “hey, I’m just someone’s sweet little ole bottle calf…let me suck on your finger”. I took the bait and said “hey, this is someone’s sweet little ole bottle calf, he wants to suck my finger” and then I stuck my finger in his mouth. He clamped down so hard I had tears in my eyes and stomped my foot. After I wrenched my finger back, I was met with chute-side laughter from my husband and father-in-law. Bruised finger and bruised pride; that’ll make you wish you’d used your brain.
*calves that are purchased or “backgrounded” and grazed, and/or fed to a certain weight before being sent on to the “feeder” phase of beef production.
City folks take their sewer systems for granted, until something goes wrong and then they just blame the city.
“Country folk” know that buried in our yard is a little magic box that keeps all that stuff under wraps, until something goes wrong, and then we call a plumber.
Septic tank repairs are something we avoid discussing in polite company (polite company might want to leave this discussion right about here). Face it you’re never going to see a do -it-yourself program where neighbors work on one another’s septic tanks. Septic tanks are the antithesis to a buried treasure.
My plumber is a very nice forgiving guy. Here’s how I know this: One day my plumber was doing a little work on our septic tank, I knew he was coming that week; I just wasn’t sure which day. We hurried in the house after work/school one day and all elbowed and raced our way to the bathrooms, not knowing the plumber had parked in the backyard, near the septic tank. I happened to look out the window and saw my plumber just as he jumped out of the hole he was working in. When I realized what we had done I wanted to crawl into a hole…not THAT hole obviously. I rushed out and apologized profusely. He said “It’s not the first time.”
There should be a national Plumber Appreciation Day.
When I was a new young bride preparing for my first potluck at our church my husband, wanting to save me from the possibility of any embarrassment, informed me that “everything at Zion potlucks are made from scratch”. So, I made my first pie, coconut cream. I had been allowed to help in the kitchen a very small amount growing up, probably because my hands always looked like I was an auto mechanic, (hey, I’m a farm girl). I made the entire pie from scratch. I was confident from all the bowl and spatula licking I did that people would beg me to join the Women’s Auxiliary and chair the cookbook committee.
I kept a keen eye on that pie at the potluck. “Lots of people are getting my pie” I whispered to my husband. After the plates full of main course food were emptied I held my breath waiting for people to heap praise on me for my pie. To my horror, I saw people eating the meringue, and coconut cream but they were leaving the entire crust on the plate, like a bunch of two-year-olds. “Honey, what’s the deal? No one is eating my crust!” I whispered. He said, “I’m sorry but this crust is so hard I could use it to patch concrete”. From that day forward my husband makes the pie crusts and I make the rest, we’re a team, it’s a good system.
It’s February and most of us have already broken our new year’s resolutions. This year one of mine is to contribute to this blog, although I wonder who on earth will read my mundane musings. One of my other resolutions is to keep my own garden weeded.
Weeding my garden has become the bane of my existence ever since my well-intentioned husband, who often creates work for himself as a hobby, scooped up a front-end loader full of “that real good mulch and manure from around the hay ring” and dumped it into my garden. That spring my garden burst forth with the most beautiful purple carpet of Spiny Pigweed you’ve ever seen. For years, I have busied myself removing this prolific version of Amaranth from my garden before the plant gets large enough to have the stickers that cause lots of pain and discomfort to my already gnarly hands. Besides, who ever heard of a county agent with a weedy garden?
The Pigweed in my garden is enemy number 1. In reflecting on this hate-hate relationship I have with this weed, it occurred to me that Pigweed could also be a metaphor for removing other useless things from my life. Clutter, gossip, worry, oh the list of Pigweeds we let creep into our “garden” or life is endless. These “Pigweeds”, like the real thing, are easiest to remove before they take root and get those great big stickers that make us avoid the weeding task. So I challenge you to join me in keeping our gardens weeded!
Melissa Beck, her husband Paul, and their three children are fully immersed in the rural life of South Arkansas. And a busy life it is. In Melissa's words, "meet me at the barn ... there's work to be done."
