The Souvenir

After we wed nine years ago, many evenings were spent in our small home on the edge of town trying to stuff all his Kansas/Angus/ranch memorabilia into an Indiana/Shorthorn/farm house I’d lived in alone for five years. Our styles were so similar: rich in history and stories of days and people gone by. What I didn’t consider was what it might be like to marry a fellow collector.

Too late now.  

Nearly a decade later and we’re still passionate about what does and does not belong around our farm. Does it have a story? Does it belong in the family? Was it once living? All questions we ask ourselves as we continue to make this homestead our own.

So you can imagine my surprise when I came home from work to find a five foot headstone erected in our front yard a couple weeks ago. 

While most families return home from vacations with sunburns, t-shirts and keychains, we came home from our trip to Kansas City with a headstone that boldly displays someone else’s initials.

It was an honor for husband Cody to be asked to judge the Bred & Owned (bred and raised on your farm, home grown, not purchased from anyone else) show at the National Junior Angus Show in Kansas City. To add extra sweetness, he was able to ask his father to be his associate judge.

The entry way to the prestigious show ring was flanked with two tall flint rock monuments commemorating the event. Throughout the few days we were at the show while Cody judged, I did notice him study the monuments. He touched them. Tried to rock them. Mentally judged their weight. Studied how they were free-standing. Never in my right mind did I think we’d haul one home.

Finally, it was time to pack the four of us back into the truck and head east to Wayne County. Cody walked over while I was saying goodbye to Missouri friends, “Did you see those stones by the ring?”

“How could I miss them? It’s like the Kansas Stonehenge.” He didn’t appreciate my joke.

“Well, they put them up on the silent auction for folks to bid on throughout the week…” he continued like a kid about to explain how he ended up in the Principal’s office.

“You didn’t. Please. Please tell me you did not bid on those,” I pleaded.

“Well just once or so and turns out no one else wanted them!” by his excitement I knew how this story was going to end. “I only bought one. The other will go the to Angus Hall of Fame.”

“Of course no one wanted them! They look like headstones!” I was not believing my ears.

Cody was so excited about this souvenir to commemorate the opportunity to judge the bred & owned cattle with his dad, that he didn’t even sense my frustration. “Did you bring the joint check book?” he asked with a pep in his step, as though he’d won the grandest prize of all.

“No way, pal, this is coming from your personal savings. Buying your headstone was not in the budget this year with the home renovation. Wait. Doesn’t it have words on it?”

“Letters. NJAS ’22. National Junior Angus Show 2022. It’s a souvenir. The year I judged with Dad,” he remarked.

Ugh. Now he was tugging at my heartstrings. “I thought they gave you coolers as keepsakes. Couldn’t we have stuck with the coolers?” I asked as he walked in the opposite direction.

One pallet, two skid steers, three state lines and four weeks later the rock (headstone) landed outside beautiful Economy, Indiana. He organized a team to help him place it on our farm before I got home. Not his first rodeo.

For four weeks now I’ve mowed around the headstone and roll my eyes each time. What a souvenir we’ll have to will off to our kids. I just hope Cyrus one day marries someone more patient that his own mother who can appreciate the free standing family headstone.

Last weekend we sat outside admiring the freshly mown yard, an Indiana sunset and American flags blowing in the breeze. Life is good in rural Wayne County.

“I just have one regret,” he said. Of course, my ears perked up.

“I wish I would have bought both of those stones. To balance things out around the milkhouse.”

Friends, if you drive by our farm and see fresh dirt under the NJAS ’22 souvenir, think nothing of it.

 

 

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Coop Clean Out

“I looked at the forecast. The next couple days will be the nicest we may have the rest of the year,” he said while making coffee.

 

When my husband begins speaking this way, I know he’s not about to offer to drive us to Brown County to see the leaves. Rather, he is about to suggest we get something dreadful accomplished outside. 

 

Wrangle and bring cows home from summer grass?

Pull up all the temporary fence?

Vaccinate and tattoo calves?

 

Worse:

 

“It would be a great time for you to work on your part of the chicken coop. Mine is pretty much done,” he finished. 

 

When we wed and bought this farm seven years ago, Cody was in his early thirties and I in my late twenties. We both had established careers, lifestyles, and homes. I remember the first time I visited him at Michigan State University, where he taught. Walking through the farmhouse that sat on the university farm was like visiting an Angus museum. Archived photos framed on the walls, old leathercraft passed down from generations, buckles and bronzes. My walls back home in Greens Fork also told stories of a farm family rich history, Clay township pride and Shorthorn cattle memorabilia. 

Combining homesteads proved to be a monumental task. We didn’t have nearly the space needed to decorate with our favorite pieces of history. Some (actually, a lot) things had to be moved out to the old chicken coop turned storage shed. 

 

And there everything sat for seven years. 

Until COVID hit, and Cody got a wild hair (he was climbing the walls to board a plane and get back to work but the CDC advised against it) to clean out his portion of the tiny outbuilding that stored our things. 

 

I’m not a hoarder but I’m certainly not a tosser. In fact, I don’t get wild hairs to throw things away, ever. I’m a keeper, cataloger, storyteller, chronicler. Life has been good up to this point; I want to remember it when I’m old and senile. 

 

So, I’ve kept old purses with sticky lifesavers and concert ticket stubs inside. 

Senior pictures with “Stay cool, Bowman” scribbled on the back (oh, if they could see me now!).

Approximately 100 CDs and mixed tapes of which I have no way of playing.

Newspaper clippings about the 2000-2001 Hagerstown football team (that Ben Warner was one heck of a kicker).

My deceased aunt’s personalized stationery (boy, wouldn’t that confuse people if I began sending letters on that). 

Books I’ll never read. 

A 1998 wall calendar of beach scenes (I’m afraid of water). 

Empty apothecary jars found in a house my parents tore down 20 years ago. 

A box of jeans I hope to never fit into again (ever heard of the Freshman 15?). 

Bent whisks. 

Chipped pie plates. 

A cake stand with no top. 

A spring wreath that is now a gorgeous home to a mouse family. 

 

And that was just within the first five steps of walking in the chicken coop.

 

I looked to Cody’s half of the shed: Sorted. Stacked. Labeled. What a showoff. 

 

That day I cleaned out nine Rubbermaid tubs of stuff. Much went into the trash, but things worthy of use were donated to non-profits. I still have embarrassing amounts of things to sort through. 

 

But as I sit at the dining room table and pen this, a cold front is moving through Indiana. It’s raining now, 46 degrees and harvest has halted. We probably won’t have another nice warm, sunny day until March 2021.

 

Looks like the wild turkey feathers I found in the ditch while on a walk a decade ago will be pardoned for another season. 

Quarantine

Quarantine

quar·an·tine

noun

a state, period, or place of isolation in which people or animals that have arrived from elsewhere or been exposed to infectious or contagious disease are placed.

Also, a situation where you have a burning desire to try every recipe you’ve ever encountered.

Like everyone across America, I’ve been cooking much more in the last two weeks. My previous routine included cooking a large meal on Sunday and Monday evenings, then Cody would take flight on Tuesday, and the kids and I would live on leftovers until Friday when Cody would return. The COVID-19 travel ban has changed all of that. I’ve cracked open cookbooks I’ve not used in five years. I am so thankful for the local Hagerstown IGA; they’ve consistently had everything I’ve needed.

The increased appetite also stems from a group of eight college sorority sisters who are terrific cooks. We often swap stories of desperation when trying to visit with the UPS man who won’t make eye contact because you’re still in yesterday’s mascara, and husbands we’ve been married to for years, but are just now revealing that they don’t like Miracle Whip. Who knew? Talk about sleeping next to a stranger.

Our sisterhood group also swaps recipes. Between all of us, we have 18 children that line our dining room tables morning, noon and night. Also, ten times throughout the day for snacks.

One is a ranch wife in California; her recipes include a lot of fresh food and wine. Three are farm wives in Illinois and Indiana; they’re really into crockpot meals and things you can prepare at 11:00 PM the night before, then bake the next day. One is a pharmacist in Illinois; her recipes always include the calorie count and nutritional facts (gross). One is a marketing big-wig for John Deere; her menu usually includes meals that can be enjoyed on-the-go in a tractor or combine cab. Friend number seven is an engineer for August Storck; she figures out how to get Werther’s Originals on your grocery shelf. Her recipes will rot your teeth.

My recipes always include beef. 

Being a good and supportive friend, I work very hard to try each recipe the girls send out. We had five-course meals three nights last week. I’ve made dessert more in the last two weeks than I have in the last 35 years. My jeans are begging for me to eat a spinach salad, but I can usually shut them up with another Werther’s caramel brownie.

Our kids still don’t know how to practice social distancing, so I have yet to go to the bathroom alone. They’re also really into sharing food right now. If I hear, “Mommy, close you eyes an’ open you mouth,” one more time, I’ll probably put myself in legit quarantine. Maybe in Mexico. 

Because of this new routine, I also get stuck eating cold oatmeal at 9:00 AM that someone abandoned because they found a book to read, half-eaten chicken tenders at 1:30 PM after I get them down for a nap and grapes drenched in ketchup at 8:30 PM when I’m finally cleaning up the kitchen for the day. I don’t know the calorie count on crumbled chocolate chip cookies I’ve consumed, but it has to be around the 10,000 range. We don’t waste cookies in this house. 

I’m so thankful for the recent beautiful weather we’ve had so we can get outside to work, play and burn a few calories. On Saturday and kids and I went to town and walked four miles before the rain moved in. I felt great about the exercise and the fresh air we each enjoyed. So, we stopped by The Dairy and ordered cheeseburgers to celebrate. 

I wanted to lose 10 pounds this year. 

Only 13 left to go. 

Tax Time

A year ago I absolutely swore we wouldn't be in this position, again.

Yet, here we are, shuffling through stacks of invoices, searching for receipts and trying to update software on laptops that should have been replaced three years ago. 

Tax time is comparable to working cattle in that it typically doesn't bring out the best in husband and wife. Like working cattle, tax preparation rarely goes as planned. It’s about teamwork, and coordination and patience. It’s basically thirty-five years of marriage wrapped up into several short days, tied with an ugly bow of procrastination. 

In an effort to appear to be a well put-together couple, my job is to coordinate records and compile them into presentable form to encourage minimal questions on the day we meet with our accountant. It ain't easy. 

Two weeks ago we began sorting through invoices, many that Cody was certain would never see the light of day. 
How many gates can one guy buy in a year? A lot. 
How many fenceposts can cover the exterior boundaries of our place? Even more.
What day did 608 leave our place? What state did she go to? And how much did she sell for? Cody can tell you within seconds. 
I don't really remember 608. Probably because she looked a lot like 606, 607 and 609. 

On Friday Cody came in the house as a man on a mission. He asked, "I put a stack of diesel receipts on the microwave in October. Where did you put those?"
I laughed. 
Oh, I don't know. 
In a folder labeled "Diesel Receipts"? No. 
In your office under a paperweight? Nope. 
In the junk drawer? More likely. 
In Caroline's "Keepsake" (finger paints) folder? Getting warmer. 
Inside page 68 of the Thanksgiving issue of Country Living that was tossed under the spare bed because someone unexpectedly showed up at the door the week before Christmas? This was the most likely place of all.
But they weren't there, either. 
And this is why tax time = hell. 

This week, I find myself updating software on a laptop that 1) I've never used before 2) is about 10 years old 3) is not a Mac. This is just asking for trouble. 
"I'm trying to update our Quicken records. What is your password?" I asked Cody.
"Bull......I think," he said. 
I typed it in:
"Nope."
"Try Angusbull."
I typed it in:
"Nope. It probably has a digit in it."
"Bull1?"
I typed it in:
"Nope."
"1GreatBull?"
"You can't be serious," I finally responded, already knowing he was. When the time came to call the help hotline, I left it to Cody. Only he would be able to answer his security questions. I have no idea what his first pet's name was, but if I had to guess, I'd say Bull. 

We meet with our accountant - a friendly, patient, man with a head full of grey hair - next week. I'm sure there will be plenty of questions from him, explanations from Cody and note taking by me.

No doubt, a new system brought on by the development of Sankey Creative will force 2018 to be better, but that does nothing for our marriage in the week ahead.

There's always next year. 

Secret Weapons

This summer brought a lot of change to our family. A July baby, of course, being the greatest change, shedding a whole new light on just how much of a partnership marriage really is. The carpet in our upstairs is only three years old but I’m certain we are about to wear a path from pacing throughout the darkest hours.
ut

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m certain we are

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ut to wear a path from pacing throughout the darkest hours.

Then in August Cody accepted a new challenge/job, but not after much discussion as a family. This included confirming with CJ and I that we could, in fact, keep one another - and a herd of cattle – alive while he traveled the United States. We confirmed that sounded doable. We were also running on three hours of sleep and didn’t know where I ended and she began.

Right about the time CJ and I get a routine down I’ll be heading back to work, but so far so good. We haven’t faced a task on the farm that the two of us gals couldn’t take on; ask me again when the snow falls and I hope to still say the same.

But let me tell you something about choring with an infant: It ain’t easy.

I will admit: I have three secret products that keep me on track, CJ fairly happy and the herd thriving. I’ll share those three with you – and only you.

Our little secret. 

1. Yoga mat shoes

High five to those moms who 1. Mom and 2. Go to yoga.

We’re only 20 minutes from the closest yoga studio (I think?), but I have no plans of attending a class that tells me to pray like a dog. Don’t get me wrong: I’m certain there are benefits to wearing elastic pants and stretching like a llama in heat, but when I have that kind of time, I just want to drool on my pillow.

Instead, I bought “yoga mat shoes” at the grocery store (spotted them in the sale bin while waiting in line) and now – every single day – I step on a yoga mat. On my yoga mat I open gates, sort stock, toss buckets, fill feed pans, throw hay and sling a car seat from one adventure to the next. What yoga pose encompasses all of those movements?: It's called The Strung Out New Mom.

Advanced levels allow you to hold a glass of wine while doing all of the above.

2. Car seat base paired with a Kubota

Can’t carry buckets and a baby? Strap her in the Kubota.

Fussy baby? Strap her in the Kubota.

Think you see a cow in heat but fearful you can’t correctly ID her in time and get the baby out the door? Strap her in the Kubota.

Baby hasn’t taken a nap in two days? Strap her in the Kubota.

The changing views, growling diesel engine, ability to see mom and taking in lots of fresh air keeps CJ occupied (actually, asleep) and me buzzing around the farm crossing things off the to-do list. This was the first modification Cody made after accepting this job: a safe way for me to haul the baby and get things done.

3.  Concept-Aid 50 lb. Power Tub

Cody can ask me to

•    Feed hay

•    Get cows off a hay field

•    Work with the vet to preg check stock

•    Mail in blood samples

•    Assist in the splinting of a broken leg

•    Hold it all together with a smile on my face – for the most part.

But feeding mineral tubs alone?

Yeah – that’s where I used to draw the line.

There’s just no way a 500 lb. gal like me can move a 200 lb. mineral tub by herself.

And the baby doesn’t exactly pull her weight.  

But there is a new kid on the block. 

VitaFerm came up with the  Concept-Aid 50 lb. Power Tub and it must have been built for ladies on the farm.

It is the same product our cows need as the nutritional value of grass changes, and delivers the same results. The only difference: packaged in a smaller size so the Gals of Management can pasture-deliver without any kind of awkward llama pose. This has been a game-changer at our place, allowing me to take care of something I never could before.

 

Now, if the folks at Biozyme could just come up with a way for CJ and I to effectively move a mature bull off the herd without fear, there would be nothing we couldn’t do together.

Maybe we’ll just stick to mineral and yoga shoes, for now.

Since CJ has pretty well mastered the mineral feeding, I think next week we will attempt something even more dangerous and agonizing: trying on clothes in a public dressing room so I can go back to work without looking like a hobo. 

Stay tuned. You all know how I feel about dressing rooms.

This is a sponsored post brought to you by BioZyme. The opinions are completely my own based on my experience.