Of Soap and Shells

My grandma passed away more than two months ago, and I still find myself waking and wondering if I can fit a trip across the state line to see her on that day. She left a void that will never be filled. 

Throughout the years Grandma gave me many things that I’ll forever hold close to my heart. Her cowboy boots, Granddad’s cowboy boots, and old love letters between the two of them written in the 1940s. Since her passing, our large family has worked to clean out her homestead, each family combing through years of memories, collectibles and “stuff”. 

Three generations have gone through closets, looked under beds and cleaned off bookshelves. We’ve taken oak dressers, beloved toys from our childhood, photos of champion Holstein heifers from the 1960s and record players with Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys still in the play position.

I took shells and soap. 

One day the kids and I drove to Grandma’s and began sorting through things that we might want to keep forever. In Granddad’s old room, Caroline dug eagerly (we were on a treasure hunt of sorts) through a filing cabinet and found a bag of seashells. She was elated; I was confused. 

My grandparents were not regular vacationers because they had livestock. When hundreds of animals depend on you for their food (or, their milking twice a day), you do not often leave. You can’t often leave. But there were occasions when Granddad would come in from the barn and tell Grandma to pack a bag, they were going on a trip tomorrow. Sometimes they went to Virginia to visit Charlie Potter, a man they ran cattle with on the rolling green hills of the Shenandoah Valley. Once they drove to western Nebraska and showed up on the ranch house steps of a college friend of mine, only because they wanted to see how farming was different in Nebraska compared to Ohio. And apparently, at least once they went to a beach.

I was surprised to find seashells amongst farm paperwork in a filing cabinet, but I was relieved. 

Because seashells meant he – and grandma – took a break from the work of the farm to enjoy themselves. Seashells meant that he traveled far enough to see new land and meet new people that would become a part of his life’s story. Seashells meant that at some point he rested in between the hundreds of decisions it takes to operate a farm, and maybe even put his feet in the ocean. I hope he at least took off his boots. 

That afternoon, I also took soap. 

I have a habit of taking the unopened hotel soaps (lotions, shampoos, coffee…..what is wrong with me?) home with me when I travel. I figure if the Wagon Wheel Inn outside Lusk, Wyoming offered the goodies, I might as well return home with a souvenir. I get this habit honestly, and while cleaning out Grandma’s house I also found a bathroom drawer (maybe two) full of hotel soaps. Pony Soldier Motor Inn, Urbana-Lincoln Hotel, and one bar that didn’t have a name, but did advertise “wall to wall carpet” and a “24 hour switchboard” – whatever that is. Each ancient bar represents places she’d been, while out on a great voyage off the farm. She kept those soaps, and now I will, too. 

To me, these petite hotel soaps represent the exploration of unfamiliar places where she need not cook for the family and hired help or wash milkers. She simply had to be open to the road, likely interpreting the map, and ready for the next adventure. At some point in her 89 years, these soaps represent her courage to leave the farm – and trust me, it takes courage to leave the care of your livestock up to someone else – and see another part of this beautiful country. Even if they did sleep at the Pony Soldier Motor Inn.

Grandma and Granddad left many legacies, but today I think about the lesson they’ve taught in soap and shells. 

No matter how hard you work, how little quit you have in you, or how hard you find it to disconnect – everyone deserves to rest. To step away. To take a break. To explore. Maybe it is a morning walk in the fresh snow when you can’t seem to focus on graduate school studies. Maybe it is a Sunday afternoon drive to see someone you miss. Maybe it is getting back to a hobby you’ve abandoned because life keeps you too busy. Or perhaps, it’s a cross-country adventure just to discover new land and unfamiliar faces. 

Go. 

The work will be here when you get back, but experiences don’t wait.

And if you do find a place that has something worth packing home, do so. You never when those tokens will serve an entirely new purpose. 

In writing this, our daughter asked what the tiny bars of soap were. I told her they were part of her inheritance. She appeared confused, but hopefully one day she'll get it. 

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. 

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 jalapeño 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.

A Speedy Vacation

My husband kindly reminded me this week that my “three-month vacation” is halfway over. That Cody. He’s hilarious.

I was quick to correct him. 

You see, I’ve never been on a vacation where you so easily lose track of the days. What day is it? Well if the trash truck comes by during the 3 am feeding, it’s either Monday or Friday. Any day in between those two I consider Wednesday. If Cody’s alarm doesn’t go off during the 5:00 am feeding it’s Saturday or Sunday.

BOOM.

If you go by this system, it’s almost always Thursday. And that’s OK. Tuesday never did much for me.

I’ve never been on a vacation when science experiments were around every corner. Yesterday I tried to warm some to-go water so Caroline and I could make a jail break for a 1:30 meeting, only to forget to take the lid off the bottle.  

57 seconds later a bomb exploded in our microwave, every window in the downstairs fogged up, Caroline and I both cried and I learned that I did, in fact, have motherly instinct: I was on top of her in .043 seconds flat.

 

I’ve never been on a vacation and forgotten all formal education in 6 weeks out of the office. I said weeks ago that I was still committed to writing, and I am. In fact, I wrote this grocery list just last week:

 

And I haven’t even made it to the grocery. Unless it’s a place that asks for my health insurance card, I have yet to show up.

I’ve never been on a vacation where I’ve had to be so creative. Two weeks ago I started putting baby bedtime time lotion all over her body right around 3:00 when I need a nap. Listen, it’s better than a pacifier dipped in something strong. She has no interest. The lotion never works. Rather, it makes her slippery and harder to hold. I think she’s on to me.

I’ve never been on a vacation where I was so naïve. I actually bought 3 books to leisurely read during my 12-week vacation. I seriously went to a bookstore in Muncie, spent over an hour sorting through reading material, purchased three, and thought I’d read them by night light during the 3 am feedings. Go ahead, laugh. I’m an idiot. There’s no reading on maternity leave. In fact, the only thing I’ve read in 6 weeks is gripe water labels and a will writing tutorial. 

I’ve never been on a vacation where I didn't pack some fun clothes, whether that be a bathing suit or clothes to explore Alaska. What do I pack these days? Oh, 15 diapers, 5 onesies, a clean shirt for myself, two bottles, a pair of socks, a rubber snot sucker, pacifier wipes (listen, it's my first child), extra strength Tylenol, a melted fun size Snickers bar and a can of Frizz Ease. You think I'm kidding?

It doesn't matter if I'm in the car for ten minutes or thirty, it seems each time I get behind the wheel I hear Thomas Rhett's song Vacation. Have you seen the video? 

There are absolutely no similarities between Rhett's vacation and mine. Bummer. 

I don't know where I went wrong, 

but next time I plan on taking a 12-week vacation, 

I'm using a different travel agent. 

No Other Shotgun Rider

"Did you shut off the water?"

- asked halfway through Missouri

Slowly I'm learning just how much I have to learn. 

I learned a long time ago (like, on our second date) that we'd likely take very few vacations that didn't include sorting, buying, selling or showing stock. I guess that was one of the first boxes checked during Cody and I's early extended conversations: we had the same background, same passion and in turn...same future. 

Sometime after we were blinded from being googly-eyed at each other, but before twelve hours ago when I washed a large load of dark jeans with 1/2 pound of wood shavings and five Kleenexes in the pockets, life happened. 

And that is where I begin. 
And so did "vacation". 

We had barely reached the first stop sign (1/8 mile from our driveway) in our journey of 1,350 miles before I asked Cody if he remembered to put the lock over the double latch on the back door of the stock trailer. We were hauling cattle to Council Grove, Kansas for the Sankey's 6N Ranch production sale. Cody told me he did remember the lock, but I conducted a Chinese fire drill of my own just to confirm. He was right. 

We made it seventeen miles on to I-70  before Cody suggested I "take a snooze" so I could drive when his eyes got tired. It was then that I knew: This is the first of many "vacations" where I wouldn't catch up on sleep. 


When we we began our journey west (side note - we have the Journey West blanket  in our downstairs spare bedroom to commemorate adventures such as this - the wool blanket keeps guests warm in the winter and the summer! Highly recommended (for winter)).

Where was I? Yes, when we began our Journey West, I had these admirable Phil Bowman-Intentions of eating well and smart and healthy and not buying anything from a convenience store. I sincerely ate celery and peanut butter and honey crisp apples for the first 2 hours of the trip. 

Yeah well, life happens. Cody woke me beneath the bright lights of a Pilot truckstop, threw the rig into park and told me it's "my turn".
My turn for what?
To win the lottery? To use the neck roller? To fuel up?
Nope.
My turn to eat Combos paired with Mt. Dew, pick the radio station, temperature control and seat adjustment preference. Twenty-seven minutes into my truck driving shift I hit a rumble strip, or series there of, just to prove to Cody that nothing ends well when I'm awakened from a nap.

Ninety-seven miles in and my big-rigging took an unplanned halt. We were just trucks away from a life-altering accident on I-70. We landed close enough behind the accident that we could watch the paramedics work. One minute you think you're in a hurry, the next minute you realize you have all the time in the world. I never felt tired after that deal. 

We reached the ranch safely at 4:00 AM; our niece Bayler was just waking up for a snack. That also put things into perspective for this kidless couple. Sleep is fantastic. 

I spent the next four days finding things around the ranch and surrounding shops/areas that I could stow away in the storage section of the stock trailer and tote back to Indiana without Cody noticing. A wide selection of pumpkins, a vintage mirror and an old mobile beverage cart, a fireplace, twelve servings of beef brisket.........really anything I could get my hands on and secured in tow before he caught on. Listen, if this was my vacation, I was packing souvenirs. 

The weekend went quickly. 
The truck made runs between the ranch and town and my celery was never touched again.
The trailer sat parked, though filled with various items periodically. 
The sale went well. 
Though sleep was limited, the views were not. 

Cody and I debated playing ROCK-PAPER-SCISSORS to determine who had to drive the first leg of the trip back to Indiana. Then I quickly agreed to handle that shift; I then proceeded to drive four miles into town to get diesel. First leg down! By the time Cody filled the tank, then returned from buying lame gas station coffee, I was a soundly sleeping shotgun rider. #WINNING. 

Before I knew it he was waking me again - no lesson learned, I guess - and asking me if I needed to use the restroom. Like a temperamental 13-year-old I shuffled into the truck stop. Ten minutes later I rubbed my eyes in the check out line and asked Cody how far until we hit Kansas City?
"Do you have any idea where we are?"
I looked around. All the folks looked like grumpy typical tourists, diesel price looked familiar, there were dream catchers on a rack beside me, so no...I didn't. 
As it turns out, I slept better as a shotgun rider than I anticipated. 

Cody paid for fuel and I checked the black-hided stock in back, those who had new owners awaiting them east of the Mississippi. I rummaged through the back seat and decided to throw the bad celery out of the tupperware and onto the parking lot concrete; it was simply a lost battle. Then I saw a woman fifteen yards away - approximately 108 years old - picking up trash, watching me toss my sour salad into her lot. I proceeded to pick up all celery sticks and toss them into the pet lot. Dogs like celery, right?

I checked my reflection in the mirror and redid my ponytail; I was looking more and more like a trucker's wife every day. Just. Get. Me. Home. 

In the hours that followed, the celery was replaced by the following items to keep me awake: Gobstoppers, Nerds, bottled water, chicken McNuggets and fries and Craisins. I'm basically the picture of health. 

By mile 329 east bound I was able to easily awake Cody with my rendition of Delta Dawn in which I sang mirroring the sounds of Tanya Tucker...all of them; then, and also now. Have you seen her lately? 

He begged to drive if I would just sleep and no longer sing. My plan worked exactly as imagined. I slept on and off for the next three hours. 

It was pouring rain when we got home, which was (not) appropriate since the pumpkins were packed in the trailer and our luggage in the bed of the truck; learn something new every day, I suppose. 

I also learned that long journeys west - and east, and all over this world - require a great partner and someone looking out for your best interests, always. For instance, Cody knew by the look on my face that the Pilot women's restroom was not going to cut it, so he drove me across the interstate to the Flying J and never asked a single question. That's a good man, right there. 

And frankly, I couldn't imagine any other shotgun rider. 

Shotgun Rider