Barbie's Brand

There is a special place in my heart for First Ladies. 

I've never done a book report on any of them, not yet read a biography and could only pick the last nine or so out of a crowd. 

Barbara Bush, Nancy Reagan, Rosalynn Carter, Betty Ford, Pat Nixon, and Lady Bird Johnson

Women of class, patience, structure, grace, nerves of steel and put-together faces, each of them. But beside that, each made a difference in their own ways:

Betty Ford removed the stigma of alcoholism after sharing her own battle and opening the Betty Ford Clinic. 
As first lady Nancy Reagan became almost synonymous with her Just Say No campaign against drug abuse.
We'll always remember Barbara Bush for her work and legacy in literacy. She was the one who encouraged us feverishly to read to our children.
Michelle Obama will be remembered for her campaign to eliminate childhood obesity. 
And on the other hand, Dolley Madison will always be remembered for her fantastic personally-packaged baked goods. 

Wrong gal?

We were watching the coverage of Barbara's death last evening in the living room, the three of us. Ironically, as decades of First Lady footage played on our television, I sat with Caroline, a stack of bedtime books next to us. We don't go to bed before reading around a dozen each night. 

Once I got Caroline to bed, I sat and continued to watch the coverage of a life well lived by a woman who gave so much to her family and the world. As we watched in silence, I wondered about my life's mission and if one day people will be able to so easily recall my mission as they can with Betty, Barbara, Michelle and others. 

Would it be my constant calling to find the best in (almost) every day?

Would it be my willingness to forfeit comfort to save a few bucks?

Would it be my preference of humor to alleviate life's general, nagging pain?

My mental quest for answers was interrupted: 

"I almost forgot! I picked something up for you today," Cody said, breaking the silent observation of Bush coverage and jumping out of his recliner. "Be right back." He left the house, but was back in less than two minutes. 

He came into the living room and tossed this onto the couch where I was sitting:

"Your own bale knife! 

I know you love that Elanco one you've had forever 

but this one is pink. 

And I know you hate pink 

but at least you know I won't borrow it," he continued. 

"And in was in the sale bin 

- less than five dollars - 

so I knew you'd be happy about that."

My husband - with whom I share my home and life - travelled throughout his day and was reminded of me when when he spotted a $3 pink blade knife in the bargain bin.

I guess in terms of creating my 

brand, mission and legacy, 

I have a way 

- as in, many, many miles - 

to go. 

Oh Barbie, teach me your ways. 

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.

The Tradition

The house was locked up tighter than Ft. Knox and lights out. 

Caroline was sound asleep in her crib and her chest was moving up and down (at what age do parents stop checking this?). 

Prayers were said, and I was so, so close to sleep. 

That's when I heard my cell phone buzz on the nightstand. 

A text from Cody, two time zones west: "You may need to keep an eye on 301. I think she's starting.”

Keep an eye on 301? My eyes were about to shut for five straight hours, I thought to myself.

Work Hard, Rest Hard

And so, the last three months have been as such. It has only been at night, when the sun settles somewhere far past Indiana, and it is dark and cold that the cattle calm enough to focus on what they’re all supposed to be doing this time of year: Calving. 

The good news is that we have barn cameras that allow us to watch what’s going on outdoors without getting bundled up. 

The bad news is that we have barn cameras that allow us to watch what’s going on outdoors twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week (if you have the stamina). 

The worst news is Cody can access those cameras from his phone, no matter where his travels take him. 

My phone is my alarm clock, and my alarms are set as follows when I think something shows signs of calving overnight: 

The wake schedule is basically 
like having a new baby in the house.
And I wonder why my under-eye 
cream doesn't seem to be working. 

I haven't always answered the call of duty, though. On one particular night in late February I slept through three texts and four phone calls from Cody. He went on to contact a neighbor for help, while I slept soundly in the house. We have amazing rural neighbors. 

The months of January through March have been comprised of spot lights cutting through pastures, warm gloves and late night texts between husband and wife, and not the exciting kind. These are the kind of texts that silently say, "We're in this together, even when hundreds of miles apart." 

He sends me shots of the beautiful countryside he’s seeing from coast to coast and advice on how to handle difficult situations at home, while I send him photos of the newest calves to hit the ground and video of our sweet Caroline. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?

Each morning and evening (and sometimes overnight) I come in the house and unbundle. Usually exhausted, sometimes frustrated, but never questioning the work. I was raised this way and Cody was, too. Caroline – the greatest and slowest farm hand I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with – already has the farm life engrained in her. I have to bribe her out of the barn with goldfish crackers.

Sometimes she watches me struggle to move a rogue calf or pen a pair and seems to say,
"Dad would have had this done thirty minutes ago."

In our dining room hangs a poem given to us on our wedding day. The gifters - my in-laws - no doubt knew the bride and groom well, and all that they (we) were about to embark upon.

The Tradition

Some folks just don’t get it.

They think owning cattle makes no sense.

It takes too much time, too much equipment,

not to mention the expense.

But the fondest memories of my life

– they might think sound funny –

were made possible by Mom and Dad,

‘cause they spent the time and spent the money.

You see, the most important lessons

helping values grow so strong,

come from loving cattle

and passing that tradition on.

In less than a month the grass will be green, temperatures will be warming, and we’ll be able to look across our pastures and see a flurry of black calves (plus two red ones) running with their tails up, exploring the bounds of the farm. 

Cody’s travel will slow and he’ll be home regularly, which means I’ll probably need to start cooking full meals again. 

The sleepless nights will be a tired memory that paid off with a healthy calf crop. 

And we’ll pass The Tradition on.

Until then, 

with every wake up call or 

dark trek across the barn lot, 

I'll Just. Keep. Swimming. 

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. 

Winter Olympics: For the Rest of Us

"I'm about over the Olympics," I said one night last weekend. We were approximately an hour into the opening ceremonies. 

I've never been much of an athlete. 
My lack of athleticism is likely fueled by two parts inherited kankles and one part non-competitive spirit. I just wasn't built for spandex. 

Field Day in elementary school was my least favorite day of the year. I only entered the jump rope competition because I knew it was the first event and over before the day got hot. I've never been the kind to glorify athletes, participate in endurance training or follow a restricted diet. Ever. 

Some folks really get into the Olympics, and to each their own. I really get into sipping wine from a VitaFerm cup while looking at cows but I wouldn't expect everyone to get into that, either. 

I think that in order for the Olympics to be extraordinary, you need to show us what a normal person would look like doing the same event. These professionals make it look easy; I want someone to make it look to scale. 

Show me someone  - who doesn't live on Cliff bars, Vaseline and adrenaline - with a dad bod and a bad knee going down a snowy hill with a hundred little speed bumps with nothing more than glorified ironing boards covered in Crisco under their feet. Then I'll be impressed. 

I'm sure Chloe Kim gets some kind of high off her head spinning around in circles out in the open, cold air. But really, all she needs to do is open a vet bill outside in the driveway during the month of January. Same light-headed effect. My head is still spinning from the October invoice.

"I just can't get into figure skating," Cody said Sunday night as I was playing 52 pick-up in the living room.  
I didn't have a verbal response to that, rather more of a silent, "Thank you, Jesus," in my head. For folks like us, if we wanted to see people get dizzy in glittery spandex, nude tights and heavy make-up, we'll just road trip to watch our niece's dance recital in South Dakota. 

I don't understand curling, but if I were forced to participate in an olympic event, this is the one I would dominate. I practice the form and speed weekly when following Cody across the kitchen floor, through the dining room to his side table so he can grab an Angus Journal with boots dropping snow and - stuff - onto our linoleum and carpet. With a curious toddler as my shadow, I work quickly with a Mr. Clean mop to ensure whatever dropped from his Muck boots is not confused for remnants of a chocolate snow cone. 

Cross country skiing seems impressive until you realize most stockman do the same throughout the winter months, while carrying an 80-pound calf and simultaneously opening gates. We don't really think about getting a gold medal during this event, as we're more concerned with getting to the barn before the aggressive momma cow reaches us...and then saving the ears. Add a coyote and a rifle to the event and you've planted yourself smack dab in the middle of a biathlon competition. They should come practice at our place for Beijing 2022. 

Though I make the games seem trivial, I'll admit that we'll probably tune in a couple more times before the winter Olympics are over, just so we sleep better knowing tomorrow is already half over some place in the world. It's easier to get out of a bed on a Monday when you consider that someone is actually making a conscience effort to make timed runs down narrow, twisting, banked, iced tracks in a gravity-powered sled on a Tuesday.