Wednesday, July 4, 2018

Me Before You

Time flies when you spend your evenings pulling corn cobs from the crisper drawer of the refrigerator.

Caroline turned two years old on Sunday and in 24 months' time I've learned time passes more quickly when you're living for something beyond yourself. I mean, I thought recess went fast decades ago, but motherhood moves at lightning speed. 

Very few songs you'll hear on the mainstream radio keep my attention for two full minutes. But the current song that garners my full attention when broadcast is Brothers Osborne's "I Don't Remember Me (Before You)". It's a song about a guy who - despite seeing pictures or hearing stories - can't remember himself before he met the love of his life. It is spellbinding.

Although there are ways I can relate to that song, I certainly do remember life before I loved Caroline. 

For instance, 

Before Caroline my Amazon searches consisted of must-read books, Liverpool jeans and kitchen gadgets that allow me to open and aerate wine more quickly. 
Two years in, and my Amazon searches consist of toddler water shoes, Pull-Ups and gummy vitamins. 

Before Caroline, Cody and I could talk about anything, anywhere, any time. 
Two years in, and our breakfast conversation goes something like this:
"I have to breed C-O-W-S first thing this morning. Your plans?" Cody asks.
"When we get home from town I'm going to fill the P-O-O-L. Have you charged the J-E-E-P?" I respond. 
"Yes. It's behind the T-R-A-C-T-O-R." 
Our adult dialog is a constant spelling bee to avoid losing track of the tasks at hand. 

Before Caroline I never gave a second thought to the pigment of the outer edge of my drink ware.
Two years in, and I realize you can ruin a person's entire morning by pouring milk into the wrong color cup. 

Before Caroline I enjoyed showers. 
Two years in, and I can shower, shave and moisturize in less time than it used to take me to undress. Motherhood is a prime case study of survival of the fittest efficient. 

Before Caroline I could get into the refrigerator and simply select what I needed then promptly shut the door to keep the cold air in. 
Two years in, and I find myself giving a diaper diva a four-minute synopsis of the practical uses of every condiment on the door shelves, followed by a 30-second lesson on energy and appliance efficiency. She never seems to care about the energy lesson because I repeat it five times a day. 

Before Caroline I could try on clothes in a dressing room without saying a word....other than, "The hell? Did I grab the wrong size?"
Two years in, and I find myself saying these phrases on repeat:
"Do NOT unlock that door."
"Stand up! Do NOT peak under that wall!"
"I appreciate your self-confidence, but please stop licking the mirror."

Before Caroline I would spend my evenings doing chores and focusing on heat cycles, levels inside the creep and mineral feeders and pasture growth. 
Two years in, and I find my feeding time twice as long because I have a chore pal who thinks cows in standing heat is hilarious,  enjoys getting her hands in bags of feed to explore textures and likes picking forage samples and showing me every red clover she can find. 

Before Caroline my time was my own. 
Two years in, everything takes twice as long, but is one hundred times over more gratifying. 

There are days when I'm not sure who is learning more, Caroline or her parents, but let's keep that between us.
And while I'll never be a mother that claims to not remember the me before her, despite the self-doubt and dry shampoo, I like this version of myself a whole lot better. 

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

What I Learned from Polly

In recent conversation, I thought of a name I hadn’t in years. 

“Powell. Are they related to Polly Powell?” I asked my cohort.
“Yes, same family. How in the world do you know Polly Powell?” he questioned, back. “She’s quite a bit older than you.”

I thought back briefly to how I knew that name. 

“When I was young, like, your daughter’s age, she was fair queen and she stopped and talked to me at the fair. And that made my entire year. I hadn’t thought of her in a long time,” I explained to him. 

It turned out to be an association so simple, yet quite significant. 

It was true; I hadn’t thought of her in a long time, but she influenced me greatly. During a demanding week of schedules, obligations, heat and responsibility, Wayne County 4-H Fair Queen Polly Powell didn’t pass up an opportunity to visit with a young, impressionable girl. One she did not even know. She got down on my level and asked me a couple questions. I studied her crown and sash. She had perfect teeth. Some things you just don’t forget. 

A decade after Polly, at the age of 17, I was crowned queen over the fair. It was because of that brief encounter years before that I made a conscious effort to be aware of the younger people around me during that week. Who was watching me? Who could I say hello to? It really was incredible how one (very one-sided) conversation left such an impression. That entire year, I tried to be more like Polly.

And so, a lesson for those in the second half of their 4-H career about to spend a week at the county fair, or the ones who are getting organized to attend a national junior livestock show somewhere across the country: 
You're in a unique position to offer something very positive to those around you. 

There are little eyes upon you, who think you’re the best, the expert, maybe even an idol of theirs. Perhaps the greatest swine showman or steer fitter or wood worker or cake baker they’ve ever seen. They already know your name, probably your club or your state association. There is someone who would love to say hello to you, to learn from you, or someone who may just stop by your stall to watch you work. Let them. 

Meet them. Get to know them. Show them how. Teach them. Show them what kindness is. 

It is in those brief encounters that you may encourage a hobby, dream or livelihood. 
You may build a bit of confidence in someone who is lacking it terribly. 
You may bring a bright spot to a day where there hasn’t been sunshine in weeks. 
I encourage you to look around during the busiest of weeks and find someone who could use a brief “how’s it going?” from you, a possible mentor. 

Last Friday the Wayne County 4-H Fair Queen Contest committee hosted a reception for all sixty former Wayne County 4-H Fair Queens at Centerville High School. The earliest queen in attendance was 1959 – how awesome is that? I attended hoping to visit with gals I hadn’t seen in a long time, but also to officially meet Polly. I wanted to thank her for influencing my actions so many years ago. She wasn’t in attendance. I did take a look at the historic wall hanging they had on display to confirm just how old I was when Polly Powell was queen. It was 1992; I was just shy of 8 years old. 

Twenty-six years later, and I still associate very good things with a gal I’ve never met because she created an opportunity to influence a little girl.

Although I do remember the dress she had on that day in 1992 (ask me what I ate for breakfast - I have no idea) what was special about Polly wasn’t the fashion in which she wore her crown as a queen, but rather the way in which she used it to show kindness.

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

I Want More

The house that built me sat close enough to I-70 that we could see the interstate when the corn was down, but we couldn't hear it. We knew if east or west bound lanes were stopped, but it required the use of binoculars to figure out why. 

To pass time in the late 80's, early 90's, we'd use Dad's commercial grade walkie-talkies to contact truckers passing by...under the condition, of course, that we never told the truckers where we were located. We'd often ask the drivers where they were heading to, coming from or hauling. If really feeling ornery (quite often), we'd taunt them and tell them we heard truck driver wore pantyhose. This is the exact reason why we couldn't reveal our location: I guess mom didn't want a fleet of semi's lining our road, trying to track down mouthy kids. 

Because let's face it:
We weren't talking to Teddy Bear. 

Time seems to repeat itself. Thirty years later, Caroline is spending her early years in a house that sits on a busy highway. A portion of nearly every day is spent in our yard, trying to get semis to honk at us. I've taught her how to move her arm up and down and yell, "HONK! HONK!", and though she's small, every once in a while, she's able to garner enough attention that a driver actually does honk at her. It becomes the highlight of her day. 

But as soon as the truck is out of sight, without fail, her response is the exact same, "Mommy, I want more!" She even signs "more, please" to reiterate her wishes. 

It didn't take long for me to notice the trend. She'd work her arm up and down for five trucks until one finally took notice. Then, as soon as the one or two honks were done, she instantly wanted more. And guess what ol’ mom did to make sure that happened? I took part in the charade – darn near throwing out my back to get the attention of a Red Gold rig. 

One or two honks more honks, then she instantly wanted more and more. 
But isn't that the world we live in? 
We get a little bit of something that we like, and immediately we want more. 

We want our kids in more activities so their time is packed with social events, constant stimulation and activity so they don't miss out on anything. 

We get numerous "likes" or reactions on Facebook and we feel the urge to post more often to get positive attention from a random sample of people. (This is where regular selfie offenders about wear me out.)

We continue to say "yes" to volunteer projects, group involvement, giving feedback, youth activities and more because someone told us five years we were good at it. Now we're edgy, can't remember the last time the entire family was around the dinner table for a prepared meal and actually quite exhausted because we're pulled in one hundred different directions because someone else wanted more. 

Sometimes too much of a good thing is not in fact, good. We deplete our resources of time, energy and attention to the point where the things that need them most (our children, marriages and families) are getting the short end of the stick. We run our bodies and minds into the ground trying to get everything done because someone wanted more of us. We forget to take care of ourselves because we’re taking care of something else less important, often forgetting:

“But we held up our end of the deal!” we tell ourselves, when the season is over or the project is done or the event has successfully passed. 
Sure – but at what expense?  

“The things that matter most should never be 
at the mercy of the things that matter least.” 
- Goethe 

At what point is what we have before us, or on our plate, enough? 

This is an area where I struggle as a parent: teaching an almost two-year-old that we can't always get more when we want it, even if we say please. Moderation in all areas in life is a positive thing, and that is a lesson I’m learning myself in my mid-thirties. 

There are several groups I’m learning to engage in less often (this means learning to say no to a commitment or not volunteering simply because no one else will) during this stage of life. They’re each wonderful groups which have a special place in our livelihood, but right now they’re just not at the top of my priority list when it comes to time, energy or attention. It is a tough lesson to learn by someone who has always been involved in so much, but the choice has afforded me more slowed, intentional, quality time with the brown eyed brunette that I live with. Actually, both of them.  

Tomorrow will roll around and we’ll continue to “HONK! HONK!” at truckers in hopes that they respond to the little girl in a big yard on the busy highway. I’ll quit putting in a lot of effort to garner “More!” results from semis, partly to teach Caroline a lesson and partly to keep my back in working order. And, I’ll continue to find ways to show Caroline that saying “I want more” won’t always yield the best results in life. 

Sometimes we have to step back and say, 
“I have enough.”

Parenting is serious business isn’t it? 
Especially when you can’t tell who is teaching whom more. 

Friendly reminder:

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Reporting for Jury Duty

I grew up watching Perry Mason and Matlock, so my expectations for jury duty were pretty high. 

With fifty or so other Wayne County residents, I reported to the courthouse Monday morning to serve my civic duty. We have a nice courthouse, with exceptionally tall ceilings, large windows, spots of stained glass and a budget that apparently doesn't support air conditioning on 85-degree days. 

This was my first experience with jury duty, so I read from front to back the handy booklet they give you at check-in. I was especially interested in the glossary in the back, so I could at least pretend to know what they were talking about. I usually have the Dateline cases solved by the time we get to this point in the show, so I needed to brush up a bit. 

The judge weeded through the fodder pretty quickly once we got started. He asked if anyone was currently convicted of a felony or on probation. As fate might have it, the gentleman to my left was excused during that time. I have a real knack for picking a seat. 

Down the line we were asked if we knew anyone in law enforcement well enough that our opinion could be swayed, or we could obtain special information about the case. I was shocked at how many people in our random sample of fifty folks are related to police officers. My personal favorite example was the gal whose great uncle was a traffic cop. With more questioning, we learned he died three years ago, so she felt confident she could keep quiet about the case, should she be selected as one of the twelve. 

I considered raising my hand and telling the judge that my date to the winter semi-formal dance my senior year of high school is now an undercover officer, but I didn't want to get into the messy details of adolescence.

Four selected jurors were quite vocal in their belief that the defendant was guilty until proven innocent (rather than innocent until proven guilty) so that got them on the fast track for dismissal. I wondered what jaded life experience had gotten the four to that point, but I didn't ask questions. By this time, we were an hour into the process and nine seats remained open. My goal was to avoid all eye contact so perhaps they would forget I was there. 

While sitting on the sidelines, admittedly just waiting for my name to be called, I thought about all the things I could - and should - have been doing on that Monday:
Exploring outside with Caroline
Visiting Grandma
Writing scripts for three agronomy videos to be shot next week 
Answering Monday morning emails
Grocery shopping
Laundry to the line
Prepping dinner
Rescheduling a dentist appointment
Creating marketing pieces for a February 2019 event
and so much more.
Instead, I sat in a hot, old room waiting to be casted onto the 2018 version of 12 Angry Men

Then came Roger. 
Roger was probably fifty-five, but on this particular day he appeared to be closer to seventy-five. He moved extremely slowly to the jury box and wasn't stable when moving between the rows of chairs. His hair was unkept. His sweatshirt had stains down the front. She was unshaven. His white K-Swiss shoes were grass stained.
The judge asked Roger if there was any reason why he couldn't serve on a jury for the next three days. 
"I'm having a hard time staying awake. I'll admit, I fell asleep during the movie, here in the beginning," he went on to quietly tell the judge. 
"Sir, you'll have to speak up. This is being recorded and we cannot make out what you're saying. Do you have a special circumstance that is making you so tired this morning?" the judge asked. 
"I went to work at 10:00 last night. Got off at 7:00.......I went to my mother's and gave her a bath......I'm trying to get her into a nursing home but I can't afford that right now.....Then I came here......I'm just tired," Roger finished, slowly and still a bit muffled. 
"When do you go back to work?" asked the judge. 
" 10:00," Roger said with his head down. 

Instantly, my better-things-to-do list became incredibly insignificant and trivial. I became sincerely grateful for a night of rest with Caroline's sleep talking as my only interruption.  I closed my eyes and prayed for Roger, his mother, and rest for both. I prayed that God would bless him in a special way this week. 
Roger was dismissed. I hope he went straight home and slept before reporting back to work. 

Two other men were dismissed from duty because they admitted that if they didn't report to work that day, they would not have the funds to pay child support. My case for inconvenience was growing weaker and weaker. 

One lady admitted she has trouble paying attention, and if they put her in a room with windows for three days, all she'll do is watch the leaves blow in the breeze. The entire east wall of the courtroom was windows. She was sent on her merry way. 

One by one, the selection process narrowed down the pool of viable jury candidates. I became more vested in the process because I realized I was quite capable of serving in such a way. Caroline was taken care of for the day, dentist appointments could be rescheduled, I have a good sense of right from wrong, and I was capable of listening to facts and making my own judgement. 

Of the fifty or so who walked into the courthouse that morning, only seven were left as unselected. I was one of the seven. I took three flights of marble steps to the ground floor and texted Cody, letting him know I was able to communicate again. 

I blew out of those courthouse doors like a free woman. 
A free woman with a realization that God has a way of putting life's troubles, worries and problems in perspective. 
It took me over four hours of sitting and listening to strangers' experiences, priorities, home life and circumstances to realize how fortunate I am. All of that, before a minute of testimony was heard.

It is true:

I never even got to hear a minute of the trial, which turned out to be fine by me. Even though I truly believe my years of job shadowing Angela Lansbury would have paid off tremendously in that moment. 

Maybe next time. 

Wednesday, May 9, 2018

Old Friend Leaving Town

I’m having a terribly hard time coming to terms with Elder-Beerman closing. 

Some of my earliest memories were walking from the parking garage across the sky bridge to the massive department store. I remember when Mom would have gifts wrapped and how precisely the paper was folded, tied with a perfect, sparkling bow. I remember eating at the restaurant with Grandma. I’m not certain of the year, but at some point they closed that restaurant. It should have been a sure sign, then: you stop feeding people, the end is inevitably near. I think the year was something like 1989.

In my teen years Mom took me to the Clinique counter to learn more about applying make-up. Suzy also did my make-up for the county 4-H fair queen contests I participated in. When I was crowned queen, mom took me back to Elder-Beerman to find a couple suitable dresses to wear to present ribbons and trophies. 
Then I moved to college, but not before visiting the grand old store for things that college girls wear: jeans that wouldn’t fit after the first semester, sweaters that would make me cringe when looking at photos a decade later and shirts that made it quite obvious why I didn’t meet my husband during my four years at Purdue. 

My first job out of college took me to Washington, DC. Before leaving, I burned up my 20% off coupons, card holder rewards incentives and yellow dot coupons. I remember finding a pair of business gauchos I loved, so I bought them in every color Elder-Beerman had available. I invested in comfortable pumps that would get me from my apartment in Arlington to my office at 1301 Pennsylvania Avenue. They had a good sole and sturdy heel. Both were required; I stepped on a lot of sidewalk grates. 

One of my favorite memories from Washington actually included Elder-Beerman. I worked at the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association out east. One afternoon, we were having a meeting about animal health and all the leaders from that industry were welcomed to our office. One of the key influencers on The Hill, shot callers, Big Dogs – we actually called her Mrs. BAYER – came to our office for the event. She made over my necklace and asked who my designer was? 

I remember thinking: “Lady, I’m barely making rent in a ground floor apartment where my windows are chalked shut with a 2 x 4. I plan my meals around which political reception I’m going to attend for the food. I don’t have a personal jewelry designer!”

Of course, I didn’t say that. I thanked her for the ravishing compliment and told her my designer’s name was Erica Lyons. She’d claimed to have never heard of her. That was probably because this woman didn’t shop the discount section of Elder-Beerman.

In 2016 I visited a corner of the store that I never knew existed as a child: the maternity section. I sincerely remember in that moment thinking how Elder-Beerman has seen me grow up, through so many phases of life. 

Now, as a mother, my visits to the beloved department store require a trip to the second floor where the children’s clothes are. My focus has changed to stocking a future closet with things which are on sale now, that Caroline can eventually grow into. 

My wardrobe has shrunk tremendously over the years, for a couple reasons: 1) I’ve learned to find a few staple pieces that will remain in style despite the trends, so at my age I focus more on classic than what is currently in style; 2) it is more fun to shop for someone with rolls on her thighs (to clarify, I’m talking about Caroline), than to be in a ladies’ dressing room, myself, and 3) two words: Farm. Payment. 

In fact, in 2018 my goal was to see how long I could go without spending a penny on myself. This challenge excluded things like face cream or toothpaste but focused on frivolous spending on things I wanted rather than needed. I’m proud to say that I did not spend a penny on myself this year until we took mom to Nashville the last weekend in April. I stopped by Elder-Beerman several times January through April, but my Platinum Elite card never came out of my purse. 


Is my foolish personal goal the reason they’re closing?? I’m going to be sick. 

When the last racks are cleared later this spring, Richmond will have lost such a huge part of downtown. Nowhere else can you sit in your car and enjoy a JoyAnn Bakery treat, then walk across the street and try to fit into a pair of jeans because they’re a Door Buster bargain. I’ll really miss washing down that cookie with a big glass of guilt. Also, nowhere else in town can you bring in bags of Goodwill clothes and then receive coupons to purchase more things to fill your closet. The irony is abundant.  

Mom and I have already discussed making our last run to our beloved Elder-Beerman, together. It will be the end of an era in terms of visiting downtown Richmond, mother/daughter shopping days, actually visiting a store front to purchase clothes, then hiding them in the trunk until our husbands aren’t home so we can sneak multiple bags into the house. 

Oh, Elder-Beerman. You’ve been a good, fun and faithful friend. 

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

Playing Second Fiddle

Two weeks ago my sister and I surprised Mom by taking her away - off the farm - for a weekend in Nashville, Tennessee. We had a really wonderful time together celebrating Mom's 65th (6-5!!!) birthday. I can't remember the last time the three of us shared a hotel room, but it brought back fond memories. Mom still put the unused hotel soaps and lotions in her suitcase so the staff would restock each day. Old habits die hard. 

We ate well over three days and didn't sit still much. In fact, I think the longest we were stationary was during a 2-hour show at the Grand Old Opry. One day we walked over five miles checking out the Music City attractions. We did take Mom to Broadway St. so she could experience the crowd, live music from the "next great ones" and stale beer smell. She didn't seem overly impressed, but I think she enjoyed the people watching. 

One stop we made on Broadway was to The Second Fiddle, an old honkytonk with a small stage and large assortment of historic Nashville memorabilia along the walls. 

We sat and watched a small band play a few old, recognizable classics. The lead singer obviously had the attention of the crowd with the microphone, but not without the talent of the few behind him. They truly were playing second fiddle at The Second Fiddle, I thought to myself. What a way to spend a Saturday. 

Each band member played passionately and loud, waiting for someone to drop a couple dollars in the tip jar next to the stage speakers. I noticed almost all of the band mates were wearing wedding rings. I wondered if their spouses were playing at a bar next door, or perhaps even waiting tables there. When they were done playing, they packed up and left so the next small gig could move in. But the band seemed to split, and all seemed to go separate directions. 

I thought about how I spend my time, where I invest my energy and where I might play second fiddle. Sometimes after my husband folds the towels I desperately want to re-fold them the way I prefer (with crisp, even folds), but in a rush to mark the next thing off my list, I put them away without doubling the effort, thankful for his contribution to our “band”. 

And while we were in Nashville for three days, I was constantly expecting Cody to call asking questions about how to prepare one of Caroline’s favorite meals, or what to give her for teething or how to properly put her hair in a ponytail, following her natural hair part. And do you know what? He never did. The only time he called me in three days was to ensure we weren’t at a Waffle House on Sunday morning when it made national news

Semen tank and open fire: 
Dad/Daughter bonding, I guess

The truth is, not all of us can lead the band at all times– though I think often as women we have a hard time realizing that. We have an instinct to lead all areas at all times with our hands in everything, and quickly become overwhelmed, stressed or short fused when things don’t go just as we planned. 

If you look around, you’ll find a large group of folks who are perfectly content playing second fiddle, doing what they need to do, to make a business work, a family function or an event go on without a hitch. You'll find people take care of small details quietly, and doing it well. You’ll see classmates who need not be the center of attention, custodians who never once complain (even during flu season…) and men who don’t drive the bus, but they sure keep it running. Those are the “second fiddles” who actually make the band sound great. Those are the people who play smaller roles to make life’s band grand. 

Those are also the people who don’t consider refolding the towels after someone else already has, they just put them away without another thought. Studies show that most second fiddle players are not mothers. I do all my own research. 

I guess if there was no one to play second fiddle we wouldn't have much of a band. Or church. Or school. Or business. Or home life to raise our families. 

So I return from Nashville with a new perspective, a new outlook on my role within our home and community and newfound respect for those perfectly content in the back row. 

You make life’s music worth listening to.

Save me a seat. 

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Barbie's Brand

There is a special place in my heart for First Ladies

I've never done a book report on any of them, not yet read a biography and could only pick the last nine or so out of a crowd. 

Barbara Bush, Nancy Reagan, Rosalynn Carter, Betty Ford, Pat Nixon, and Lady Bird Johnson

Women of class, patience, structure, grace, nerves of steel and put-together faces, each of them. But beside that, each made a difference in their own ways:

Betty Ford removed the stigma of alcoholism after sharing her own battle and opening the Betty Ford Clinic. 
As first lady Nancy Reagan became almost synonymous with her Just Say No campaign against drug abuse.
We'll always remember Barbara Bush for her work and legacy in literacy. She was the one who encouraged us feverishly to read to our children.
Michelle Obama will be remembered for her campaign to eliminate childhood obesity. 
And on the other hand, Dolley Madison will always be remembered for her fantastic personally-packaged baked goods. 

Wrong gal?

We were watching the coverage of Barbara's death last evening in the living room, the three of us. Ironically, as decades of First Lady footage played on our television, I sat with Caroline, a stack of bedtime books next to us. We don't go to bed before reading around a dozen each night. 

Once I got Caroline to bed, I sat and continued to watch the coverage of a life well lived by a woman who gave so much to her family and the world. As we watched in silence, I wondered about my life's mission and if one day people will be able to so easily recall my mission as they can with Betty, Barbara, Michelle and others. 

Would it be my constant calling to find the best in (almost) every day?
Would it be my willingness to forfeit comfort to save a few bucks?
Would it be my preference of humor to alleviate life's general, nagging pain?

My mental quest for answers was interrupted: 

"I almost forgot! I picked something up for you today," Cody said, breaking the silent observation of Bush coverage and jumping out of his recliner. "Be right back." He left the house, but was back in less than two minutes. 

He came into the living room and tossed this onto the couch where I was sitting:

"Your own bale knife! 
I know you love that Elanco one you've had forever 
but this one is pink. 
And I know you hate pink 
but at least you know I won't borrow it," he continued. 
"And in was in the sale bin 
- less than five dollars - 
so I knew you'd be happy about that."

My husband - with whom I share my home and life - travelled throughout his day and was reminded of me when when he spotted a $3 pink blade knife in the bargain bin.

I guess in terms of creating my 
brand, mission and legacy, 
I have a way 
- as in, many, many miles - 
to go. 

Oh Barbie, teach me your ways. 

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Forever Gone

My sister is just returning from a spring break trip with her family. They went to a beautiful all-inclusive resort in Jamaica, passing a whole week by soaking up sun beachside, sipping fruity drinks and enjoying unlimited ice cream after dinner.

Cody, Caroline and I returned a few weeks ago from our family spring break trip. We went to an all-inclusive resort in South Dakota, and by resort, I mean his sister’s house. There was a bull sale on the high plains we didn’t want to miss. We enjoyed jalapeƱo beef jerky from the Dakota Butcher meat shop and each of us packed our insulated work boots for the haul northwest.

If there was ever a brief comparison story to illustrate the differences between two sisters, our spring break destinations would be it.  

While we were gone, I failed to have our mail stopped. Between trying to pack Caroline and I’s clothes and coats into a single carry-on bag, detailing the chores for our help on a single sheet of paper, moving cattle around so work load would be lighter, wrapping up a few writing projects so I wouldn’t have to take my computer…stopping the mail delivery completely slipped my mind.

You can imagine my surprise when I walked to the mailbox on our first day home to find no mail. Not a single piece. Not even the newspaper. I called Mom to ask if she’d picked it up, by chance. She hadn’t. I visited the post office to see if they held it, by chance. They hadn’t. In fact, our deliverer confirmed that we had a normal, heavy load of mail each day we were gone.

I’ll tell you, it is an uneasy feeling knowing that there was mail and communication directed to you and it is forever lost. Especially over a series of days. We have no way of knowing what we’ve missed, what importance it held or who has that information now.

I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that forever gone are the annoying, constant AARP solicitations that I began receiving when I turned 30. Yes, I still remember when thirty was old, and I really don't like to think about it. 

Forever gone are the Reid Health bills that I inevitably would have had to call for clarification on. That actually saved me some time. 

Forever gone are the sale catalogs from all over the country promoting the next great one

Forever gone are the Elder-Beerman coupons that would have been really valuable this weekend. I heard they’re still honoring their 70-percent off yellow dot clearance, and you can’t put a price on that! Let's not even think about possible spring catalogs for Pendleton or Rod's that I'll never see.

Think of the money I'll save. 

Forever gone are the invitations to switch internet providers, cell phone providers and insurance agents. Adios. 

Forever gone are any possible payments we might have received on cattle or genetics sold over the last couple months. How do you tactfully request payment when you’re not sure they didn’t already send it?

Forever gone are the VOTE FOR ME election propaganda postcards.

Forever gone are the list of possible bills, save the dates, spring wedding invitations and extension office reminders. If you’re reading this: can someone please resend those?

Forever gone is an entire list of possibilities: personal letters, Easter cards from great grandmothers who live far west of here, Cattle Business Weekly editions we’ll never see again and even Publisher’s Clearinghouse opportunities. What if this was our shot at the big check? Except, I think that is probably one of those things you actually have to play to win.

We’ve come to terms with several days of lost mail. But if the person who swiped it is reading this: Will you kindly return anything of importance? Or, just pay all bills in full, and on time, and we’ll call it even.

The last thing I need is some postal pillager giving me a bad credit score.