Irvin King

We’ve had some interesting characters show up at our doorstep over the years:

The man who showed up in the middle of the night begging for diesel for his mustang, offering me Monopoly money.

The girl, not in her right mind, who rolled her car and was more worried about the suspended license she was driving on than the baby in the back seat.

And how could we forget about Spanky, the trucker passing through from Kansas, who as fate would have it, worked on Cody’s grandparent’s ranch 30 years ago.

Most recently there was Irvin King.

It was about the best Friday night we’d had this summer. The humidity was low, the sun was setting, the weekend agenda wasn’t full. The kids and I had just gotten done choring while Cody was at a south pasture checking cattle and fences along the river.

The kids played in the backyard while I put clothes away upstairs. As I carried the laundry basket up the stairwell, I stopped at the window to enjoy the view. How long have I waited to be able to look out a window and see our kids enjoy the property?

Except, there weren’t only kids. A man had made his way up the sidewalk and was talking to the children. At first glance I thought it was my dad, in work pants and worn belt, t-shirt tucked in. But after a few seconds I realized the person visiting with the kids was a stranger. I dropped the clothes basket and raced downstairs.

Instantly, he reminded me of my grandpa Bowman, who died in 1989 when I was just 4 years old. Gentle nature and soft spoken.

The man told me his Cummins motorcoach had broken down on the side of US-35 and he asked if he could simply pull it off the highway into the access drive into our hayfield. This sounded fine, except we don’t own the land across the road. I called the neighbor to the north and he didn’t hesitate; he permitted that they park there overnight, no problem.

Of course, I couldn’t just let this stranger that had walked onto our property leave without some questions. Nothing out of ordinary Lindsay protocol: Name? Home state? Reason why you’d drive through Economy, Indiana?

The man I was visiting with was Irvin King. He is in his eighties, still farming row crops and cattle in West Virginia. He was passing through our area because of a more important detail: He used to race. In fact, Irvin is also known as the Flying Farmer.

He revealed to me that he and his wife were on their way to a race when they broke down. Irvin is a name in sprint car racing, though you wouldn’t know it by visiting with him. He was more interested in our cattle and kids than he was talking about his history. But there is nothing a little light internet stalking can’t uncover.

Irvin King is a Sprint Car legend. People today are still commenting on race websites about watching him race and dominate the sprint car world in the 1960’s and 70’s. You can buy photos of Irvin off eBay, Amazon and collector sites, all of him in the winner’s circle, standing proudly next to racing machines he built and won with.

The kids stayed close while we visited briefly. I asked if he and his wife would stay for dinner; he declined. As the sun sat, Irvin walked back down the side ditch and loaded back into his motorcoach.

I regressed 30 years and began acting like 8-year-old Lindsay. I felt as though a celebrity, maybe Reba McEntire, was camping in our yard and I just wanted her to befriend me. All evening, all night, and for the next 48 hours I looked out the window waiting for him to reappear. He never came out of the coach.

The next morning I asked Cody if we should take him coffee.

“No.”

That afternoon I asked Cody if we should take him towels.

“No.”

That evening I asked Cody if we should take him a meat and cheese tray. WHO DOESN’T LOVE A MEAT AND CHEESE TRAY? 

“No.” 

The next day I asked Cody if we should invite him to the kid’s birthday party we were hosting in 36 hours. I bet you can guess Cody’s answer.

Mr. and Mrs. King were parked across from our farm for two days. We never visited again.

But the kids sure ask about him. Because they hang on legs while adults visit, they picked up on his racing story. We’ve Googled “Irvin King race” time and time again to look at his successes and his story. Quite remarkable that such a character ended up broken down (of all things) in front of our farm.

That was July. More than a month later, I went to the mailbox to find two autographed photos of Irvin King himself. He had traveled back through the area and was kind enough to leave these keepsakes for our children. An interesting character we won’t soon forget.

I don’t love living on a highway, but I do love the opportunities if affords our family. Our puppy Sadie likely wouldn’t say the same.

Mike the Mule

In the closing minutes of a recent meeting, a client of Sankey Creative remarked, “I enjoy reading your blog. I don’t know how you keep finding things to write about.” I told the gentleman that finding the uninterrupted time to sit down and write has always been the challenge, rather than finding things to write about. Somehow, stories or topics just always seem to...come out of nowhere. 

That was last Thursday. 

On Friday afternoon, the kids and I returned home from Ohio with a load of feed. Cody met us at the truck and said, “You’re not going to believe this. The strangest thing. I look out to the pasture and all the cows are stirred up, something really has their attention. And across the pasture goes a white horse!”

“What?!” I asked him. “Where did it come from? Where did it go?” Cody didn’t have solid answers for either of those questions. The white horse seemed to appear from nowhere, then disappear again. 

An hour later all four of us were working outside when Cody yelled, “Lindsay! Look at the woods! There it is!” And sure enough (Cody hadn’t been drinking in the middle of the afternoon), out of the woods emerged a large white horse. 

This is not the horse that emerged from our woods.
This is a result from Googling, "White horse woods"

The cows were stirred yet again, so we needed to take action by calling neighbors. The first neighbor just laughed and said it wasn’t theirs. The second neighbor just laughed and said yes, in fact, he was missing Mike the Mule. In our defense, we hadn’t been close enough to the majestic animal to determine it was actually a mule, not a horse. 

In the same minute that we determined where he belonged, Mike the Mule took off running north, then he cut across our yard. Then he did something really stupid: He stepped onto Highway 35. 

Here is probably where I should describe where we live. We live just west of the crest of a hill on a terribly busy highway. You can look west out of our drive and see ½ a mile, but looking east only grants you about 75 yards. That isn’t a long distance when trying to pull out onto a road where people may be going 60+ mph. Much to our dismay, we don’t have a dog because of this location. I’ve scraped enough barn cats off the highway with a scoop shovel to know that I don’t have the intestinal fortitude to own a family dog. 

So, when Mike the Mule stepped onto Highway 35, my heart sank for multiple reasons. Cyrus was on my hip and Caroline was by my side and they both thought it was pretty awesome that a magical white horse appeared out of nowhere and wanted to play with their cows. I had a bad feeling they were about to see something no child should. Then, my animal adoring husband decides to step out on to 35 and try to stop traffic at the crest of the hill so Mike the Mule doesn’t turn into Rex the Roadkill right in front of our farm. 

You have to understand Cody and horses. Having grown up on a Kansas ranch, horses are quite special to him. His parents still have his childhood horse, Socks, on the ranch and Caroline visits Socks and friends when we travel west. When Cody saw a horse(/mule) in danger, he stopped at nothing to try to get it out of harm’s way. 

So there I was. Baby on the hip, toddler on hanging on to my leg crying for her daddy, a white mule trotting a straight line down the double yellow of 35 and low and behold, a Red Gold semi barreling up from the other direction. 

“This is not going to end well,” I told the kids. “We’re going to the house.” 

Of course, I couldn’t, because while Mike did seem special, I also cared about the well-being of Cody, who had suddenly turned into Walker Texas Ranger right in front of our very eyes. He was going to save the world. And by the world, I mean Mike the Mule. 

Of course, my mind kept clicking back to how I was going to call my in-laws in Kansas and explain to them that Cody got into a tangle with a Tahoe because he was trying to save a random mule from getting clipped in front of Caroline’s concerned, and always curious, eyes. 

Quite luckily for all parties involved, I never had to make that phone call. 

A black suburban, silver Fusion and beige Buick all barreled over the crest of the hill but avoided Mike and Cody. The Red Gold truck slowed his ascent up the hill and pulled over the shoulder with his flashers on. Mike the Mule made a very smart decision and took a left through our double red gates and went back onto our property. Cody closed and latched the gate behind him.

Mike’s owner came a short time later with a halter and lead rope. Cody got Mike haltered and lead him back up our ditch to a pen where he would be safe until the owner returned with a stock trailer. 

While filling milk cups for bed, Caroline looked out our south window which overlooks the pens. “Look! Daddy got me a white horse!” she yelled out. I broke her heart by reminding her that was Mike the Mule and he’d (hopefully) be gone before she woke up the next morning. And he was. 

Every day since, we’ve traveled St. Road 1 and seen Mike the Mule out grazing where he is supposed to be. Caroline looks for him each time and she’s grown quite fond of the rogue rascal. I, too, look for Mike at every opportunity. Not because I necessarily like him, but because I want to ensure he stays where he belongs and doesn’t become the reason for a long-distance phone call back to Kansas. 

The Hummingbird

It was an overdue simple and quiet Saturday morning. 
Even the highway in front of our home seemed to have fewer semis, boats, campers or livestock trailers climbing the hill. 
The sun was bright and the air was perfectly cool.
Last Saturday was the first morning in so many that I simply sat outside and enjoyed it. 
I read through two issues of Cowboys & Indians. 
Had three cups of coffee; and as a result got the severe jitters.
Half-heartedly watched heat across different lots; if they went behind the grain bin I was slow to move my chair. 
Thought of how I asked for a new day to start again; and I got it. 
Thought of all of those I know who are lost or hurting. 

For a reason I don't know, there are so many people in my life who feel lost or are hurting. 
For all of those who are lost or hurting. 
Who are waiting for answers.
Who are living with shattered hearts. 
Who have fears and concerns that they don't know how to address. 
Who are lonely, feeling forgotten. 
Who are mourning a loss. 
Who are living a lie.
Who are barely getting by.
Who are tired of trying. 
Who are broken. 

My mind drifted between those hurting and back into the pages of the magazine. 
What can I do for my hurting friends? My story could always be worse. Who designs these ranch houses? They are not from Economy, Indiana. These people did not lower their living room ceiling so the wood panelling would fit. When will I travel west again? 
My heart was on fire for those broken, uncomfortably near and far, and it had nothing to do with the Friday night pizza. 

Nine O Ranch

Over and over I replayed this Eliza Tabor quote in my head:

“Disappointment to a noble soul is what cold water is to burning metal; it strengthens, tempers, intensifies, but never destroys it.”

Suddenly, I heard a loud buzzing. 
A helicopter-over-your-head buzzing. 
A stinging insect-in-your-face buzzing.
A super-fast-relentless buzzing. 
I quickly looked around. It was right in front of me. Feet from my face. Floating on the air. 

A hummingbird. 

Before I truly realized what it was, I jerked in my seat. The tiny bird hung there for seconds, but I had obviously startled it in the same way it had I. The hummingbird was on another flight in no time. 

It flew away and landed in a small group of branches in a tree. But not for long. It was gone again in seconds. Just around enough to make its presence known. Just long enough for me to forget the heart pain.

I looked back to the magazine but thought maybe I shouldn't. A view like that can't be followed up with pages from a book. 

I grabbed my phone and simply searched "hummingbird lesson". I needed more from that little bird than just a brief encounter.

And below is what I found. 
For all of those who are lost or hurting. 
Who are waiting for answers.
Who are living with shattered hearts. 
Who have fears and concerns that they don't know how to address. 
Who are lonely, feeling forgotten. 
Who are mourning a loss. 
Who are living a lie.
Who are barely getting by.
Who are tired of trying. 
Who are broken. 

The Story of the Hummingbird 

Once upon a time, a huge forest was being consumed by a terrible fire. Frightened, all the animals fled their homes and ran out of the forest. As they came to the edge of a stream they stopped to watch the raging wild fire, feeling discouraged and powerless. 

They were all bemoaning the destruction of their homes. Every one of them thought that there was nothing they could do about the fire, except for one little hummingbird.

This particular hummingbird decided he would do something. He swooped into the stream, picked up a few drops of water and went into the forest and put them on the fire. Then he went back to the stream to do it again and again and again. All the other animals watched him in disbelief; some tried to discourage the hummingbird: 

“Don’t bother, it is too much, you are too little, your wings will burn, your beak is too tiny, it’s only a drop, you can’t put out this fire.” 

And as the animals stand around disparaging the little bird’s efforts, the bird noticed how hopeless and forlorn they looked.

Then one of the animals shouted out and challenged the hummingbird in a mocking voice, “What do you think you are doing?”

And the hummingbird, without wasting time or losing a beat, looked back and said, “I am doing the best I can.”

So there is the message for you. 

If you need it. 

Or perhaps I should say: when you need it. 

Remember the Hummingbird. 

Later that morning we loaded cow/calf pairs to move miles away to graze. I told Cody about the hummingbird and we concluded that neither of us had ever seen one on our farm previously in two years. It was the sign. It was needed. I was grateful.

Sunday after church we we went to Orscheln's (it's becoming a habit, after Mexi) and spent 10 minutes reviewing hummingbird feeders for our yard. How do you pick the perfect feeder to attract your new friend when they all look so....bright and plastic? 

It hangs now it our yard. East of the milk house, by the blooms. Away from the rocking chairs but close to the swing. I can see it from our kitchen window. 

Though you may feel so small in these trying times, remember this - 

You're doing the best you can. 

None of today's photos were taken by me, with the exception of our milkhouse. 

But What If I Don't?

Oh my gosh...I should go!
But why?
I shouldn't. 
But I can!
But why would I?
There is no time. 
But I'm so close. 
But why would I?
What would I say?
I'd be setting myself up for disappointment. 
Maybe even disaster. 

But what if I don't?

This was the internal conversation I had with myself several times last week. You see, I didn't write because I was at a communication conference (I know, the irony); the National Agri-Marketing Association annual conference, to be specific. 

As I took the stairs (and by stairs I mean elevator) to the 16th floor where my room for the week sat, I couldn't help but take in the Kansas City view. 

...And maybe sing Kansas City Lights in my head. 

Something caught my eye as a scanned the buildings, lights and old signs that dotted the historic stock town skyline. Only two blocks away, on the side of a building was a recognizable brand, and one of which I've been a card-carrying member since I got my license and could drive myself to the local Wooden Key. 

Wait. WHAT?! 

I'm this close to the Hallmark world headquarters? 

How did I miss that when I planned my week?

I went to my room and opened my laptop. Before my mind plotted anymore, I needed to confirm that this was fact and not fantasy. 

It was fact. 

Meetings. 
Engaging.
Socializing. 
Networking. 
All things NAMA continued throughout the week and each time I went to my room, or a breakout session didn't hold my attention, my mind drifted to the thought that I was just two blocks from the institution that held my "dream job" - writing for Hallmark. 

The familiar tug-o-war conversation clouded my thoughts each time. 

Oh my gosh...I should go!
But why?
I shouldn't. 
But I can!
But why would I?
There is no time. 
But I'm so close. 
But why would I?
What would I say?
I'd be setting myself up for disappointment. 
Maybe even disaster. 

But what if I don't?

I went back through the conference's jammed schedule and found one hour between sessions when I could sneak out and go to the Hallmark headquarters. 
To introduce myself. 
Give them a business card. 
Or two. 
Maybe tell a joke. 
At 3:00 I visited with a few industry colleagues and let them know I'd catch up with them closer to 4:00. I had an errand to run. I took the Heel-Toe Express out of the hotel and down the Kansas City sidewalks. 

This is not me. 

You and I both know I have my mother's cankles. 

Before I knew it, though maybe a bit further than the estimated two blocks, I was much closer to the beloved brand I'd seen in the sky days before. 

           

I walked the long corridor to an entrance that appeared to be official. You know, because I'm a very formal person. Truly, if I wasn't there on business I would have likely pecked on the first floor windows until noticed. 

A security guard, proudly still serving at the approximate age of 114, greeted me as soon as I entered the foyer. 

"Can I help you?" the guard asked. 

"Yes, this.....is a strange request. But for twenty years I've had the dream of writing for Hallmark. I'm in Kansas City this week on business and I saw your headquarters were so close. I just....Can I speak to someone in your Creative department?"

"The name of the person you'd like to speak with?"

"Oh, well, I don't have a specific name...." I was losing steam with gramps. 

Blank stare. I'm not sure he wasn't blind. 

"I have business cards....for my blog! Can I give you these and you see that they make it to someone in the Creative writing department?"

"I can't do that," he softly said, calmly crushing my dreams. 

"You can't do that? They are just business cards. Just so someone can find my blog. Nothing dangerous. No white powder......," I continued. Anthrax was not what I imagined my joke would be about, but in this point of the charade I was running out of ideas. 

"I cannot do that," he sternly replied.

Guess he was serious. I wondered briefly if I was something like the 187th street-wanderer he'd dealt with today?

"Here. Here is the internet code (it was a website: http://corporate.hallmark.com/company/hallmark-jobs) to find a job. That is all I can do. Go to the museum. If you haven't been there," he finished. 

I don't want to go to the museum. I don't even want a full time job!  I actually love my job! I just want someone to read Jean's Boots. My thoughts stayed internal. 

"Where is the museum?" I asked, deflated. 

"You passed it walking in. Just at the other end of the corridor."

I thanked him and left, putting my cards back in my shoulder bag. Dang it. 

I took the Heel-Toe Express back down the echoing corridor and entered the museum and gave it one last shot. 

The gal behind the desk to me to go across the corridor and speak with the security guard. I reveled that he had sent me her way, and she was just as confused as I. She reached in a drawer and gave me the exact same piece of paper with the Careers link on it. 

The communications geek in me was glad that they were at least consistent in the their message. 

I quickly walked through the amazing Hallmark Visitor's Center and tried to digest as quickly as possible all the history and heirlooms meticulously displayed in one place. 

Norma Rockwell's Kansas City Spirit

Even a Hereford made it into the history. 

My visit to Hallmark was brief and unsuccessful. A lot like I envisioned the "disaster" in my pre-planning thoughts, in fact. I didn't get "inside", I didn't get a free-lance gig and I didn't get my blog business cards to Hallmark Creative. 

But I did learn a lesson. 

Home almost a week now I've thought of that strange experience and wondered what got me to charge over there with such expectation and slight confidence? 

That question is easy to answer with another:

But what if I don't?

I knew that if I left Kansas City, within blocks of Hallmark, and never tried to promote my passion, I would have wondered for the rest of my life what might have been. The easy part happened: I got shot down. The hardest part would have been to wonder what if for the rest of my life. 

So what if you did the same?

What if you downsized...everything?

What if you told her how you really felt?

What if you asked for forgiveness? And, what if you extended it?

What if you moved home?

What if you went to the meeting?

What if you started taking care of yourself, now?

What if you apologized?

What if you stood up for yourself?

What if you wrote the letter?

What if you left the well paying job for one that made you happy?

What if you were made uncomfortable, for once?

What if you made the phone call?

What if you registered for the course?

What if you admitted to it?

What if you didn't care what they thought?

What if you actually pushed yourself?

What if you told someone?

What if you did it? That one thing.

But what if you don't?

Let my story of two business cards still on my kitchen table be a lesson. Your greatest pain in life could lie in wondering what might have happened had you compiled the courage. Don't let that happen. 

But don't just listen to me. Take it from this guy:

Side note: Anyone know anybody who works for Hallmark?

Fourth Annual Jean's Boots Christmas Letter

It's the evening of December 23rd and I'm just sitting down to write my obligatory Christmas letter that outlines the middle-of-the-road happenings in our world for the last twelve months.. 
For the sake of time, I hope none of you have dial up.

Though there were no earth shattering events to fill the last twelve months that went by so quickly, 2014 was good to us.

We logged countless outdoor hours while making improvements to the farm we bought last August:

• New electric in three barns
• Outdoor lighting 
• Created a working system
• New high tinsel fence on the west property boundary
• Cody installed four new waterers
• Converted the crop ground into pasture
• Caught two stray cats eating our barn cat's food

The inside of the house got a little attention, too, as I discovered the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and spent many Sunday afternoons "erasing" things. Just get the deal wet and wipe away! Note: The Mr. Clean Magic Eraser is, in fact, an eraser. It WILL erase paint. From walls. 

Though we've made awesome progress on the interior of the homestead, it's still an old farmhouse. And mice like old farmhouses when the temperature drops outside. After nagging (guilty) about setting a trap, one morning I found Cody standing in the middle of the kitchen with a mouse trap clamped on his finger and a teaspoon of peanut butter plopped on his forehead. And on the cupboard. And the window over the sink. Trap setting gone wrong. I made a sincere effort to not laugh aloud but it made my insides burn and I had a mouth full of coffee. PS Prayers were brief - and sticky - that day. 

In 2014 we celebrated one year of marriage and continue to charge through year two. Daily we learn more and more about one another and how we process thoughts differently. A brief, recent example:
After discussing dinner options one Friday evening:
Him: Let's go there. It's low-lit, kind of dark...
Me: Whoa. Is this really a date night? (optimist)
Him: No, I just don't want anyone to see the mud on my jeans. (realist)

Cody was on the road often for work in the last year,  so I enlisted the help of my family to keep this place operational. This plan typically worked. Typically. Until one Saturday when Luke and I were feeding hay and we were reminded why Dad generally gave us to-do lists for different farms growing up. Even in our thirties, we tend to get ourselves in situations. 

These photos were all taken after we miraculously got the tractor pulled out. 

This place could really use a good freeze. 

In May great friend Katie Mae, of Fancy In The Country, and I took our annual girls' trip and decided to head east rather than west.

We antiqued, dined and explored all that West Virginia had to offer....including the Mystery Hole. In my thirty years of life, The Mystery Hole was one of the most strange, creepy, this is how Dateline always starts, places I've ever been. But we took the tour, experienced the bizarreness that is The Mystery Hole and lived to tell about it. 

In November I was fortunate enough to spend ten days in Argentina studying their culture, economics and agriculture systems. What an amazing opportunity. While I was enjoying the land of red meat and Malbec, Cody was judging the junior Angus show at the North American. I was bummed that I wasn't able to be there to support him, but modern technology really pulled through for us.  

As did the wine.

I did try to focus on personal development a bit in 2014 and really challenged myself to do better. Some personal achievements only worthy of sharing in this obligatory Christmas letter:

1. Made gravy from scratch that was digestible:

2. Took this panoramic shot of Buenes Aires without puking on the glass:

3. Got on a real serious health kick and used the local trail to walk three miles 

for three days straight. 

Three months ago. 

My goal for 2015 is to fine-tune my organizational skills so that Cody doesn't have to call me at work looking for the 4-wheeler keys. Or, send this photo two hours later illustrating where he actually found said missing keys. 

As soon as I saw it, I remembered: I hung them on that random wire on the side of the barn so I could run out to the mailbox. I was afraid if I carried them, they'd get lost in the shuffle....Hopefully my fine-tuning in 2015 brings Cody some sort of relief.

While we gladly spend the great majority of our evenings on the farm, every once in a while we leave the farm - together. In 2014 I surprised Cody with George Strait tickets and he returned the gesture with Eric Church tickets months later. How lucky are we to see two great ones in one year?

I think it's only fitting:

Another year turned into a memory. That's so hard to believe. I sure appreciate you keeping up with Jean’s Boots as I wear out more soles than I care to count. 

The Sankey’s wish you the best in 2015.

Lindsay Jean

The Deer Wrangler

Bear with me, it is an interesting story. One of which I forgot until I was in Argentina in November.

We were dining before a tango show and one of the gals at my table decided to begin the dinner/drink conversation with this question: "We've spent seven months together in class and traveled to Argentina as a group; what is one thing other participants don't know about you?"

For as boggled as my classmates appeared to be by the challenge, they sure offered up some incredible stories: 
1. As a young gal, one woman found a bear drinking fresh milk out of the can that her cows had just filled, so she got a gun and shot the bear...which proceeded to run around the Minnesota countryside with a metal milk can stuck on it's head. 
2. One guy was a hired man on a ranch in Texas where a triple-murder took place. He had to testify, then went on to help arrest the killer....who happened to be another ranch hand at that time. 
3. Me? I only tackled a deer. 

I was thirteen years old when a stray deer decided to jump into Momma and Dad's herd. And let me tell you: Cattle don't take too kindly to rigid, awkward visitors. 
In fact, when this particular deer jumped the fence and joined the BSG crew, it chased our animals and scared the cattle greatly - causing them to find any way out: Over or through fence. 

And, you remember how I react when the cattle get out, right?

Since I was small, cattle getting out has sent me into complete shock. Crying, puking, shaking - no matter if I'm 13 or 30 - my reaction is the same: Bad. 

Darn that random deer, shaking up my world that day. And the thing about deer: they never really slow down. 
The deer ran. 
Across pastures. 
Over fences. 
Along borders. 
Until finally, Dad and brother Luke corralled it onto the feedlot floor. 

It was a scrappy thing, ramming and jamming into the red gate at the south end of the feedlot floor. The deer really wanted out of the situation (as did I), but seemed to have lost all sense (as did I). It repeatedly ran full force into red metal gates that were going nowhere. What an idiot. 

Luke and Dad were lined up one behind one another, preparing (kind of) for the deer's next move. 
Momma and I stood at the end of the feedlot floor, as spectators next to the barn. I wasn't the best spectator; my head was yakking between my knees. 

Below, a true-to-life sketch of the layout just before things...got running. 
The deer (brown stick deer) is by the red gate between the south silos. 
Luke is the first green X. 
Dad, the second. 
Momma and I are to the left, by the barn. 

Back to me with my head between my knees: Suddenly, the deer calmed down a bit, as if scheming. Breathing. Preparing. 

And he turned around. 

The deer charged full steam ahead, northbound, head down, towards Luke and Dad. The hooves scrapped across the concrete bottom. Scampering. Scuffing. Speeding. 

Luke leaped towards the deer - missed him. 

Seconds later Dad did the same - and the deer flew by him, too. 

At this point in the day, I was frustrated, scared, freaked out, sick, confused, and mostly just flat out MAD. 
This deer was the reason that our cows were out all over the farm. 
I decided to take matters into my own hands. 

I stepped out in front of the the raging reindeer, grabbed the SOB by it's belly and took it down, rolling the animal on top of me. He was such an angry little elf carrier. It's legs flailed aimlessly (actually, he was trying to kill) and it's razor sharp hooves whipped around like knives. 

 I held the Edward Scissor Hands Jerk as close to me as I could while Luke yelled out, "Hold on to him, Jeany! I'm going to go get a halter!"
Yeah, thanks Luke. Least you could do. Literally: The. Least. You. Could. Do. 

I managed to hold the deer as tightly as I could onto my chest until Luke and Dad took him off my hands. They tied him up and - because he had an identification tag - called the DNR. When the officer arrived he gave me some long speech about how I should have never tackled the deer, how people die from getting cut by their hooves, what a risky decision it was, blah blah blah. I must have given the guy a really bad look looking during his dissertation because Momma squeezed my arm really hard.  

Much to my dismay, I was then known as "The Deer Wrangler" in places far and near. I just wanted to be a prom queen. 

Seventeen years later (wow), it is strange how I remember it all so vividly. I remember punching the deer once before they loaded him onto the trailer. Hateful? Maybe. But hell hath no fury like a thirteen year-old-gal who despises anything which causes the cattle to get out. 

Weeks ago, while I was in Argentina Cody left a gate unchained overnight and woke to a woman pounding on the front door, letting him know that there was a cow grazing in the front yard. 

"Yeah," he said - in his calm, cool, collected, Cody tone. "It was one of those mornings when it was a good thing you were countries away."

I nervously laughed as I sat in my Rosario hotel room, envisioning the entire event. He was totally right: No one wants to see a gal flat tackle her husband because he was the reason that the cows roamed boundlessly. 

But then again, 

maybe that comes in year three?