The Little Garden That Could

If the above title sounds familiar, it's because this is the second blog I've done that tells the story of something orange that we've rescued from the trash pile. If you don't know the story of our alcoholic lawn mower, now might be a good time to click here and read that story. 
We were just dating then. 
I should have known. 

Anyway, back to the garden...

I'm not good at giving hard advice.
Go after it now or  wait until it's right: I can usually nail that. 
Left or right at this stop sign: I need time to think.   

I told Cody when we bought the farm that I wanted a garden. He seemed to blow off the idea, seeing as how - since we've met - I've wanted to learn to quilt, paint the old hutch in Momma and Dad's barn, write a book and lose fifteen pounds. He knows my goals are high and my ambition sometimes gets washed away in a flood of obligation. 

But this spring I was serious. 

And we had a really serious conversation (it may have mirrored the Corn Crib conversation) about the garden. 
And how it's an obligation. 
And it needs attention. 
And it needs water.
And tilling up the yard we've worked so darn hard to replant would be a new commitment. 
Why would I want to till it up? ....blah blah blah. 
One by one, I saw a quilt, a hutch, a book, and fifteen pounds roll through my mind. 
UGH. 

But then - he agreed to it. 
With a compromise, of course. 

Rather than till up the yard we'd worked to hard to re-seed, we decided to do "raised beds"...straight out of Pinterest?
Nope. 
Straight outta used Vitaferm mineral tubs. 

We took the empty mineral tubs that had already served their purpose in the pasture quite well and drilled holes in the bottom. 
Then we cleaned a feed floor and filled our "garden" with three parts: dirt/manure/straw. 
Unconventional, but has anything about our marriage been considered the "norm"?

Green beans, lettuce, tomatoes (x4), peppers and zucchini

And then we waited for rain. 

We didn't have to wait very long...

 And that rain did really great things for my fake green thumb:

Week after week, our Vitaferm garden provided.

And then I spotted this guy.

 Can you see the finger-size predator, 

munching on our cherry tomatoes?

We enjoyed this spread often 

this summer, with a side of beef. 

So many tomatoes, you'd think I had a country music album in stores. 

This little garden, built out of tubs in the toss pile and waste that could have fertilized a field, has done so well for us. In fact, besides the the two of us, it's fed my parents, a neighbor, two fat rabbits and an unruly heifer that found it one July afternoon. 

We know now what we did wrong:

Planted the tomato tubs too close together. 

The soil is so fertile, but drains too quickly. 

The lettuce never came back after one cutting - no idea what we did wrong there?

You know that thing in your life that you've wanted to do, take on or accomplish?

::That thing that your heart desires:: 

Whatever captures your mind for more than a fifteen mile stretch on your drive home. 

Whatever you wonder - or wander - about. 

Should you start it? Yes. 

Do it. 

Make a plan. 

Try it out. 

Invest in it. 

Use your five free hours on it. 

Seriously, Do It. 

Try something new. 

You're not going to live forever.

One day you'll look back and wish you would have started sooner. 

I know I did. We took a leap, did things differently and have enjoyed watching this garden grow. And, I'm already stock piling Vitaferm tubs for next spring. But I refuse to rinse them out; I'd hate to mess up a good thing. Doesn't every garden need the Amaferm® advantage?

For real gardening advice, that doesn't involve cattle production, you should check out The Blog Bloom. 

The Stockman's Wife

This is for you, 

Stockman's Wife.

The Stockman's Wife. 
Not a job for the faint of heart, soul or mind.
It's a rare breed, those who can turn the bull-sale-season title of "Weekend Widow" into "Weekend Warrior" and get far more done than just ten loads of laundry, whole-homestead window-washing, grocery shopping, temporary fence tear-down and accurate book work.

The Stockman's Wife.
She knows who bred who, Who Made Who and who rode who due to her impeccable ability to memorize the pedigrees of every female on the farm. She knows their dam, their full sibs and their due date. She can tell you the year the female came open (2011) and the exact reasons why she wasn't shipped. And three years later, she can still convince you that you made the right decision to let that female stay. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She knows - and enforces - the importance of one check. The one check that her husband is authorized to carry in his wallet, unsupervised. The one check that he can use at his discretion, as long as it's not spent, but rather invested. The Golden Ticket, per say, to the next best thing to stir dust in a stock trailer coming down the lane. The one check that she knows won't be spent on jewelry or flowers or even a new dishwasher. The one check that hopefully brings to the ranch new animals - or genetics - that will build the program. 

The Stockman's Wife.
From states away she celebrates the profits made by the family program, as reported from the texting-fingers of her son, caught up in the action. Three hours later, The Stockman's Wife does not apologize when she absolutely loses her head because her husband - and son - decide to "invest their profit" into yet another breeding program addition. The Stockman's Wife had every intention of "investing their profit" somewhere else; such as the Farm Account. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She welcomes with a beautiful smile - coupled with a strong handshake - the guests who stop by to see sale cattle just minutes after her husband has left for the airport to fulfill an out-of-state Breed obligation he's committed to. She uses her best judgement as she discusses the animals and speaks as a family. She is honest, and upfront and proud. She uses humor and grace. Potential buyers sort stock with ease because of The Stockman's Wife's presence. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She rarely exceeds the speed limit, but if done, she's on her way to the vet clinic or the parts store. Upon arrival she tries to read the abbreviated words she scribbled down, but soon learns she can't tell differentiate between a 
G or a 6, a
1 or a 7 and even a 
B from an 8. 
She proceeds to drive  home even faster, convinced she'll be making a return trip due to her shoddy penmanship. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She misses obligations for which she bought new clip-on earrings because she noticed a calf with blood in it's stool. Her schedule isn't by her own design, but rather an accumulation of gestation cycles, 4-H meetings, sports schedules, feed truck deliveries, vet appointments and herd visits - none of which belong to her.

The Stockman's Wife.
She cries at the kitchen sink watching watching her favorite cow get shipped to town, and no one knows. 
She visits her Daddy's old friends at the nursing home in town and no one knows. 
She watches the ceiling fan at 2:27 AM worrying about the price of corn and no one knows. 
She also has a stash of Hershey Chocolate with Almond bars in the the back of the deep freezer and no one knows. Thank goodness. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She knows the difference between a heat and a hot heat. 
And I'm not just talking about Arizona. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She doesn't leave the farm or ranch much, but she does dress up to go to the bank, the grocery, the post office and her Momma's house - all of which she visits in the same day. She baffles the bank tellers with the adventures on the range and puzzles the Post Master with the strange things she ships to places that he - at 74-years-old - never knew existed. She spends extra change out of her own purse on insurance, tracking and delivery confirmations for things that will eventually arrive a day early. The Stockman's Wife cannot associate a price with peace of mind. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She makes cookies for the UPS driver and thanks him for not shaking the semen tank as he walks it to the house. She then proceeds to talk his ear off because he's the only adult she's spoken to in five hours. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She prays. 
She prays for her family, their herd, their land and their future. 
She prays for doors to open and rain to fall. 
She prays for healthy calves and healthy doctor reports. 
She prays for strong markets, strong fences and strong kids. 
She prays for our Country and for her grandkids who will one day have to clean up this mess. 
She prays for her best friends she hasn't found time to see in two years and also the women that drive her absolutely crazy, bless their hearts. 

The Stockman's Wife. 
She's never been one for crying over spilled milk. 
But a busted bottle of Draxxin? Oh yeah, she'll cry over that. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She is no longer the young lady anxious to receive a diamond ring from The Stockman, because her long, slender hands have been tainted by callouses and knuckles that simply won't back down. Her wedding band won't come off and hasn't in 36 years. She does, however, still appreciate pendants. And also dinners in town in which she does not have to prepare. Christmas is coming...you're welcome, Stockman. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She has a special love/hate relationship with Shorthorn Country magazines, Angus Journal editions and other stock publications. She understands they offer her husband monthly anticipation followed by profound joy, but they become a nuisance to dust under (or simply around in the case of last-minute company). She sorts through the new issues to see what other families are doing, what other ranches have to offer and quite frankly, what is suitable to wear to the next Auxiliary breakfast. She can count on one hand - - OK, two hands - -  the times she has been quite tempted to use these publications as kindling in the fireplace. But her Momma never went that far, so she never does, either. 

The Stockman's Wife.

She keeps close watch on fuel prices, 

coupons, 
the radar and

Gazette wedding announcements 

knowing that she may be called to react to any of the above at any given moment. 

The Stockman's Wife.
She latches every gate. 
Closes every door.
Rolls up all pick-up windows. 
Double checks hydrants. 
Keeps track of all syringe caps. 
Monitors the toilet tank ensuring it fills properly. 
And double checks the oven and stove top. 
Because her nightmares entail what could happen if any of the above were neglected. 

The Stockman's Wife. 
Not a job for the faint of heart, soul or mind.
It's a rare breed, those who can reveal every emotion while preparing food for a funeral dinner, then turn around and assist in the delivery of a calf in the same afternoon. 

Linda, Sharee and all the Stockman Wives of the world,
we salute you. 

Click here to check out what Sankey's have to offer this weekend at the 6N Ranch in Council Grove, Kansas.

Holding On To Letting Go

Have you ever been to the point in your life when you say firmly and aloud, "It's time for me to let go."

I have.

But unfortunately that tiny, yet persuasive, voice inside me decides to run her mouth and the next thing I know I'm still holding on to letting go. 

And the letting go never happens. 

I once heard of a gal who others called a "minimalist" - I had to look up that term. Turns out they do exist. 

I'm not one of them. 

Anyhow, she kept only one of everything in her kitchen. 

One spatula. 

One dishrag. 

One skillet. 

One pie plate. 

One mixing bowl. 

I had to look her up on Facebook. 

She appeared happy and real. 

But Manti Teʻo's girlfriend apeared happy and real on the internet once too, so...

Her motto seemed to be, "Use what I have, find what I need"

Rather than "Overwhelm with excess and hope to survive"

A real photo from my kitchen. 

Monday it finally happened.

Cody and I had our first Come To Jesus meeting in our kitchen, and it was regarding plastic cups. 

I believe that the 41 plastic cups that we have left over from our reception are plenty to keep around. 

He, on the other hand, has collected a plastic cup from every livestock sale or show, trip to Eskimo Joe's, Alaskan fishing adventure, Michigan Sate, Detroit Pistons/Lions, Oklahoma State, or Lansing Lug Nuts game. And he passionately wants to keep them. All of them. 

This is only the stack he washed and put in the cupboard Monday night. 

I will admit, 

using all and any grace that I have left over from my mid-cold-kitchen-floor-rant,

I have learned so much from these darn plastic cups. 

We discussed the cups. 

The meaning behind each. 

The function behind few (there were just a lot of cracks). 

The memories tied to each. 

The tossing, possibly. 

And moving forward. 

We stood in the kitchen two nights ago and had a conversation that reached far beyond plastic cups with more stories dripping from the sides of them that I care to hear.
We even talked about several of my things that have stuck around - come hell or high snow - from one house to the next. 
I was far more guilty than he. 

The truth is, we each have a tendency to hold on to things that hold us back. 

Or snag our progress.

Or regress our time. 

Or move us flat backwards. 

Sometimes we hold on to things because they bring back a certain memory in our own timeline and we feel like clinching that physical thing ensures we'll never forget. 
Sometimes we hold on to things because we're not ready to let go. 
Sometimes we hold on to things because we shoved them under the bed five years prior and have no recollect of doing so. 

Sometimes - and all too often - the things we hold on to have greater significance - and take up greater space - than plastic cups. 

Moving forward I'll be evaluating things around me and the significance they hold. 

Not just the "stuff" that fills my kitchen

but also the "stuff" that fills my time

and also the "things" that occupy my mind. 

Consider those things in your life taking up "extra space" - there is a lot you can toss, huh?

And just so we're clear, I wasn't even mad when I decided to toss my Farm Credit insulated mug with a broken lid. I think eventually I'll earn another one?

It's amazing what a person can see by the light of a burning bridge.

The Pioneer

I do admit: 
My stomach was in knots the entire day on January 1st...and it wasn't because of the previous evening's champagne.
Well, not entirely.

As we ran errands weeks ago in his truck, Cody told me he wanted to work cattle on January 1st.
I remember when he said it we were lifting something heavy. 
It was likely when moving our things (when I type our things, I mean his) from temporary storage onto the next great adventure at the homestead. 
I remember that when he made the statement, four quick things went through my head:

1. Oh...... (#*%&!) crap.
2. Why are we moving this 200 lb. junker?
3. What is this 200 lb. junker?
4. January 1 = Fixin' To Be Just A Really Bad Day. 

In reality, "work cattle" encompasses things I've done and enjoyed for decades at Bowman Superior Genetics:
Pen.
Sort. 
Tag.
Treat.
Blood test when appropriate. 

Yet, when Cody put it on our to-do list I was instantly consumed with worry. 
How would this rodeo turn out?
What will it be like working cattle in which I have never touched?
Where are my docile Shorthorns?
Will he yell?
...Louder than me?
I'm not yet totally familiar with the lay of this land - how will we corral them?
We're using that tub system for the first time: Is it ready?
Are we??

I had these visions of black cattle running wild down the state highway, crossing county lines, attracting attention of state troopers and even making headline news. And trust me, in my occupation, headline news is the place you work to avoid. 

But then the late-day cold set in on the first day of 2014. 
And so did real life.
And we got down to business. 
And the afternoon of working our cattle together went well. 
Really well. 

I told Cody when it was over - 
...after all gates were secured
...after the tagging box was put away 
...after the chute had been cleaned out
...after the girls had been sorted and each had hay and water
"That went so much better than I anticipated"
He responded, "Did you expect the worse?"

And sadly I thought to myself: Absolutely.

In that very moment, I realized that I've traveled into this way of living where I anticipate the worst based on past experience. 
Either from my own past, or others'.

A few poor experiences growing up, and while exploring the west during college, have completely changed my perspective. 
Fear is an incredibly powerful thing. 
It can make you cry. 
It can make your nerves consume every inch of your being. 
It can make you alter your entire way of living. 
But isn't it time that the fears that we live with - large or small - are put to bed?

In 2014 I challenge you to be a Pioneer.

The Pioneer eliminating the fear inside holding you back. 
The Pioneer that isn't afraid to do things alone. 
The Pioneer who accepts less money for more happiness.
The Pioneer who says the things that you need to, even if they break a heart. Even if it's your own. 
The Pioneer who is so brave that you don't realize there are people against you.
The Pioneer who actually stands up for yourself, for once. 
The Pioneer who loves. 
The Pioneer who pays no mind to those who surround. 
The Pioneer who forgets the expectation. 
The Pioneer who doesn't measure self worth with a mirror or a scale. 
The Pioneer who quits judging other people. Who are you?
The Pioneer that changes how you live in 2014. 
The Pioneer who has a full tank of gas and a week's vacation. 
The Pioneer who goes against the grain. 
The Pioneer who finally realizes "me" is enough.
The Pioneer who who questions authority. 
The Pioneer who finally appreciates it. 
The Pioneer who doesn't sneak over the wall, rather the one who breaks through it. 
The Pioneer who fords the river without a fear of pressing the space bar. 

We live in a place and time where it seems 

every square inch of this Earth has been discovered.

Still, our ability to be a pioneer in our own individual pursuits has never been greater. 

I don't know where you're going, or where you need to be. 

I don't know your passion or what keeps you up at night. 

What I do know is that you'll go much further if you let go of those fears 

- large or small  - 

that inhabit your mind. 

Be a Pioneer. 

Stand up to those worries, fears or concerns. 

Address them.

It doesn't matter if you know not where you're going - or even if you do -

Let your heart not be troubled. 

2014: May it be Your year - 

Oh pioneer
I sing your song
It's the hymn of those who've gone before and those who carry on
Pioneer
Your work is hard
But the future of us all rests on the shoulders of your heart

Where are we going
Oh I don't know
But still I've got to go
What will become of us
Oh I don't care
All I know is I'll go anywhere
Pioneer

Oh pioneer
So young and brave
Be careful of the careful souls who doubt you along the way
Pioneer
You orphaned child
Your mother is adventure and your father is the wild

Where are we going
Oh I don't know
But still I've got to go
What will become of us
Oh I don't care
All I know is I'll go anywhere
Pioneer

Let your heart not be troubled

I won't run when bullets chase me
I won't rest where arms embrace me
I will love when people hate me
I won't hush, no you can't make me
Send the dark but it won't break me
You can try but you can't change me
Take my life, they will replace me
I won't hush, no you can't make me
I won't hush, no we will sing

Where are we going
Oh I don't know
But still I've got to go
What will become of us
Oh I don't care
All I know is I'll go anywhere
Pioneer

Let your heart not be troubled