Black, White, Brown and Crazy

Have you ever lived with someone you didn’t trust?

You know, that feeling of sleeping with one eye open.....contemplating putting a lock on your bedroom door.....considering changing your security system pass code just in case they’ve seen you punch it in......that uneasy feeling of being completely unaware of what goes on in the house when you’re not there.....

Dixie was found in a snowy side ditch on a cold January day two years ago. I didn’t find her - I wasn’t even in the state that day; but somehow, this 6th generation feral dog from Randolph County now shares a house with me. 

I don’t even know what kind of dog I live with. The vet told me she looked part Terrier and part Beagle. She said Dixie wouldn’t be a big dog, and her tail wouldn’t grow to be very long. She also told me Dixie had perfect ears. This particular vet doesn’t practice anymore.

In two years, Dixie has come a long way from that bitter cold side ditch. I used to be able to carry her around in the front pocket of my hooded sweatshirts. I’d consider doing that now, but my hoodies have had their pockets chewed off. Rest assured, unlike Dixie, I don’t have an appetite for fabric. Or leather. Or couches. Or the neighbors’ trash. Or left over...”tissue”...from branding, dehorning and  castration day at the farm. 

Dixie has strange attributes that make many in the community think she is part fox. She has a fox-like tail, crouches slyly in the tall grass before pouncing, acts very sneaky and is quite keen. 

Well, everything but the last two. 

She’s actually been given a registered name, RFD Dixie - Retarded Fox-Dog. I think it flows well. She’s registered on the CTLATAOCACOIYSTOYP List - Clay Township List of Animals That Are Ok to Call Animal Control On If You See Them On Your Property. She ranks up there with raccoons, opossums and the crazy old goat that used to live next door. The town Marshall called last week; so far, she’s racked up the most calls in 2011; not something I’m proud of, but at this point I take credit anywhere I can get it. 

Dixie enjoys a variety of activities on a daily basis. She loves taking a stroll around Greens Fork when I let her out every morning at 3:18 a.m.; when she shows up on my doorstep 17 minutes later she enjoys bringing unidentified objects into my house. Of course, I never see these because I’m half asleep, in the dark and don’t have my glasses on. Don’t worry, I generally find them 1-8 days later...under my desk. 

She enjoys chasing cows completely away from the gate we’re trying to get them through and also chasing 43 Amish buggies that ride past the farm every Sunday. She enjoys shredding calving record books if she is left in the truck for more than six minutes and also removing every individual bullet out of a box ammunition, and placing them through out the interior of a farm vehicle. I got in the truck last month and thought I had just missed a reenactment of World War II. 

Over Christmas break I decided to go where no woman has gone before, or since the day I moved in: I cleaned out from under my bed. In the process, I learned that Dixie had completely shredded the poly-lining under my box springs, as well as the 2x4 that supports the center of my mattress. It was no wonder my back had been killing me for weeks and that, just recently, my mattress had taken on a droopy shape, suggesting a 500lb. man slept right in the middle of it for 20 hours a day. Under my bed, where a supportive box spring had once been, Dixie had made a fine bedding of wood chips and poly-lining. 

Dixie’s performance as a “guard dog” is outstanding, and year-round. In the spring she digs holes all over the front yard as though to trip anyone not welcome. In the summer she drinks all of the water out of my flower pots so she’s able to stay hydrated while keeping watch for predators. In the fall Dixie barks at any leaf that falls, awaking me in the night hours. And in the winter, Dix is great at marking her territory in the snow directly next to my steps so that any visitor knows she means business. 

She really is the gift that keeps on giving. All Year Long.  

Dixie has taught me a lot in the two years we haven’t actually killed each other. If it wasn’t for her I would probably still believe that Wrangler work boots really can withstand anything, that my yard doesn’t have a mole problem and under the spare bedroom bed, in vacuum sealed plastic, is a secure place to hide family quilts and handmade doilies. All lessons learned. 

Once, when I was away from home traveling, a man from Oklahoma brought a semi load of hay to BSG. Before he left, he offered the entire load to Dad if he could just have my parent’s well-behaved Jack Russell, Aggie.

 He didn’t skip a beat. “You can’t have that dog - she’s been through hell and high water; she’s a damn good dog, and off limits. However, I will pay you the entire amount of that load of hay and give you this crazy pup here,” said Dad, pointing to Dixie. The Okie took a long look at Dixie and bowed out. He claimed he’d had a lot of crazy women in his life that appeared to be cute and fun in the beginning, but eventually tried to kill him. And he didn’t need another. 

I will admit, it’s nice coming home to a pup. She’s always happy to see me and always wagging that muddy tail all over my just-dry-cleaned white slacks; a real joy. 

Truthfully, she went missing for hours during the freezing temperatures last week, and I was sick. I tried to remember if I rubbed her ears or patted her head before I left for work. Did I call her by her name or by some variation of “stupid black female dog?” - I couldn’t remember and I had a lump in my throat just thinking about it. 

Hours later, low and behold, through the snow covered bean stubble, across the side ditch and under the moonlight, Dixie came running enthusiastically to my car on Bond Road. I opened the door and let her right in, giving her the biggest hug that pup had ever received from me.

......She was completely covered in mud, snow, grass and was dripping wet. 

Absolutely the only dog I know who can find muddy water to play in 9 degree weather. 

The Growing Tree

This morning I woke to snow falling in the early morning hours; it made me think of an old friend.

Looking back, I guess I don't really remember when we became friends. Ours' is like that friendship that you stumble into, where you're both in line for the restroom at the wedding of a friend's second cousin; and while you both had other things you would have rather done that night, ultimately you're glad you showed up. Neither of us said a word, we didn’t have to. Instantly a bond was formed. One that would span time, distance and weather many storms. 

I suppose I first noticed the Tree after Laura and I rearranged our twin beds. Rather than her closet, overly-full with swim caps, pom-poms and cheerleading tights, I now had a view that looked directly out the south window of our bedroom; and from there, I could see the Growing Tree. 

It was smaller then. It’s limbs were still developing and it’s trunk looked like a thumb tack emerging from the ground. It was amazing how the breaks in the tree limbs outside my window, the breaks in the tree line that separated our land from the Kinsinger's and the fencerow all lent a perfect view from my room to the Growing Tree, nearly a mile away. 

I was smaller then. A twin bed was roomy enough for this young gal and sharing a room with a sister five years older  was more than a girl that age could ask for. 

And I have watched that Tree grow...

I’ve watched hundreds of sunrises light It’s branches on fire, so beautifully it seemed every detail of the Tree was illuminated; and countless sunsets have hit the Tree so perfectly during feeding time, I wished I had a camera around my neck to capture the moment, rather than a scarf. 

I’ve passed It on my way back to the furthest pasture on my parent's farm; usually bored with walking and maybe a little winded in four layers of frozen clothing, It is always a welcome site - the Tree means I’m close to my destination. 

 The Growing Tree has sat quietly in the background of many photos I’ve taken of our Shorthorns over the years; I never asked, and I suppose It never minded.

I think the Tree took pride in being a (second-in-line) focal point; years of being tucked away, far off the beaten path allowed It to shine when needed, which wasn’t often. It’s never been given much attention, but It never once complained; never trimmed, chopped or even climbed upon. 

However, the Growing Tree has not gone completely unnoticed. We’ve found It to be a convenient place to toss rocks found as we’ve walked the land.  Stones that would likely tear up a mower, now rest at the deep roots of the Tree; they too weather storms and wind on top of the hill, just as It does.

It’s felt blistering hot summers that made It’s branches limber and warm. It has experienced sub-zero winters that brought ice and snow making the Tree crackle and pop with any gust of wind that moved It’s stiff and sore limbs. The high winds have embraced It and the calm, star-lit nights have healed It. The old Tree has watched hundreds of cattle move in and out of It’s view, serving as shade for the few that were bold enough to get  close to the electric fence. It’s watched the Kawasaki Mule zip right past with out even a second glance, and my Momma walk her tired legs across the hills that lie before It, with two pups by her side. 

The Growing Tree has witnessed It’s share of fall-outs back in that corner pasture, as the crew of Bowman Superior Genetics lost their tempers over early calvers, broken mower blades, slow walkers, ill-positioned help while moving cattle, coyotes and water hydrants that had been left on for hours. 

While standing under the Growing Tree’s arms you can look far northwest, beyond the fence and hay field, through the crop ground and down the rolling hill -  and see homestead in which I grew.

On the second floor, far left hand window, resting on the front corner of that old home, is where I laid my head for twenty years; and I watched that Growing Tree grow, on the top of a hill on land that Mom and Dad didn’t even own when We became friends.

And while I’ve watched It’s branches grow and sprawl, into what Dad thinks will eventually be his high tinsel fence, The Growing Tree has watched me evolve, too. 

I used to look out that old window to that Tree and pray Mom and Dad would buy the farm up the road, the one where the Growing Tree lived. I knew nothing about the land, the plans Dad had for Mom and us three children or even how many acres it was. As a young girl I just knew Dad wanted it, so I wanted it, too. 

It was sitting there in the moonlight when I cried in the late summer of 1998 when Laura moved away to Indiana University, leaving me a room all to myself, a whole new closet to store my own clothes in and a remote control I didn’t have to share; surely something I’d dreamt about as a child but when that time came, I was miserable. I was lonely; and when I looked out across the moonlit fields, at the Tree that had a whole hill, open sky and private pasture to Itself, the Tree looked lonely, too. 

It sat in complete peace, like an old and faithful friend, as I stared blankly at It through wet and bloodshot eyes in 2007 after driving home from Washington, DC after learning we lost Granddad. 

The Growing Tree sat patiently when I said goodbye as I moved away to Purdue, then away to Washington, DC - unsure of when I’d return. But wouldn’t you know, that old Tree was still sitting there, patiently, when I came home from my east coast adventures. 
It never left; I did. 

And It was there just last weekend, when I traveled back to the homestead with a family and baby of my own. 

Looking back, I had a terribly hard time when Luke left for college. I finally had a house to myself - and all of Mom and Dad’s attention - which, could have been considered a blessing or a curse at 17. I hated the fact that I had to ride to school, battling snow drifts on Sugar Grove Road, alone. I hated that I was now getting  to the barn at 5:00am, rather than 5:30am Monday-Friday, because we were one man short - and he was the one who gave all the rinsing and blowing directions! I hated how lopsided the dinner table felt with four when Laura left, and now three with Luke gone. 

Mostly, I just hated the change. 

Seeing my difficulties, Mom bought me a framed picture that simply had the word “Change” on it. It showed one lone tree, changing through out the seasons. At every angle, the tree beautifully transformed...

Instantly, I had peace in my heart. How ironic Mom had found a picture of a Changing Tree, that was nearly identical to my own Growing Tree - that she knew nothing about. 

Growing Tree

Changing Tree

Today, the Growing Tree is still there, as strong and beautiful as ever. 

The fall outs at BSG still happen. 

The tears still fall, only not as often, and over completely different matters.

The “Changing Tree” still hangs in the corner of my bedroom where I used to lay my head, gathering dust along with other pieces of Laura and I’s teenage years. 

It’s comforting to know that when I go back home, and our shared bedroom has been turned into a make-shift-fairy-tale-dress-up room, the memories aren’t all gone. I can still stand at the window and look across the land and see the constant, silently supportive, Growing Tree. 

And to me, that is peace enough. 

More of A Guideline Than A Rule

Growing up, there were three things of zero significance at the Bowman’s: 

1. What the Jones’ were doing

2. Hollywood

3. Expiration dates

I remember a bottle we kept in our medicine cabinet. It was tiny, made of brown plastic and had a white lid; I cried every time I saw it coming my way. 

 Yes, Mom and Dad still have the same, old Merthiolate on the shelf

Merthiolate...a stinging red liquid Mom dabbed on every one of our barn cuts, bike scrapes and any incident that involved a nail. Sometimes, we would throw such fits about having it applied to our wounds that Mom and Dad would wait until we were asleep before they dabbed it on. One weekend after moving home from Washington, I ran across that little bottle on the very top shelf; fear ran through my 24 year-old-body. Out of curiosity, I checked the label: EXP 3/1980. No wonder it burned; using it in 1991 was like applying kerosene to an open wound using a match. 

And I’d like to think the scar on my lip, which I conveniently received the week of my senior pictures, would have healed just a little quicker and more naturally if I didn't treat it with Neosporin that had expired in the same month I was potty trained. 

I used to wonder how things like this happen. Medicine was bought obviously because there was an ailment in the household; but was it ever used? I can promise you anything  bought for Dad has never been touched. When he snapped  his arm in two on the farm, he never took a Tylenol and waited four days before he went to see a doctor. Dad would have rather walked around with his arm tied to a 2 x 4 by a handkerchief for a year than spend two hours at the doctor’s office. 

And don’t get me started on food. My parents have canned more vegetables in the last fifteen years that I’m convinced they will survive any major crisis. Mom claims it is genetic; her Mother still has canned green beans in the basement that were there when they bought the farm - in 1959. For my birthday in August Mom will give me buckeyes and Almond Joy balls that have been frozen since Christmas; and I’m pretty sure the last hamburger I ate at their house was beef still left from Laura’s first 4-H steer - a holstein. I suspect this, not because it tasted bad,  but because the wrapper Mom threw in the trash read, Pick Pocket. 

With out a doubt, there are two things that will easily pass the test of time and live forever (in separate ends of the house) at the Bowman home: 

Vaseline and Canned Beef

The best canned beef in Wayne County! No really, first place. 

Don’t get me wrong; I clearly understand that if my parents hadn’t been so frugal, we wouldn’t have been able to do the things we were fortunate enough to do growing up. Their conservative ways allowed us to spend our springs playing in hay mows, our summers splashing in the Greens Fork River and also send the three of us to college. With Holiday Inn conditioner, of course.

Over Thanksgiving I asked mom for a Band-aid to go on the tip my finger. 

“Yep, we have those - bottom shelf, all the way to the back,” she said. 

Sure enough, I found this box of Band-aids that Mom likely picked up circa 1964. 

“What about these other ones? They seem bigger...and more.......stable?” I yelled to mom from the bathroom.

“If you’re talking about the ones in the metal Band-aid box you can forget it. Get your grubby fingers off," said Dad. "I bought them on a race trip to Talladega in 1969 and I have every intention of using those up by September.”

I rest my case.