Khakis or Cow Poop

Joe's out of town tonight, judging FFA record books. He is happy to do so, as he used to be an officer in his "section" back in the day, and then did a lot with FFA as a part of his job as both a teacher and a state supervisor in agriculture education. He'll see some of his ol' buddies, talk to other professional agricultural people, and get away from the farm for an afternoon/evening.

(I'm on my own, however, so if the post is short and has some errors...forgive me. I have a baby infatuated with a small basketball that is biding me some time.)

Anyway, he had to do a lot of work before leaving this afternoon, because of our busy calving schedule. Chores that usually are completed in the evening had to be done early, on top of having a couple of new calves this morning, and one getting ready to calve as he was getting ready to leave.

Just as Joe put on his neatly pressed shirt and sparkling clean khakis, he took one last look at the pasture across the road.

The one where the four calves had gotten mixed up and gone the wrong way, thus ending up on the wrong side of the fence, separated from their mamas.

Now these are not the newest calves, but are ones that I would equate to a toddler. An "Amelia" aged calf...and if you have ever met our girl, she's a dandy. She marches to the beat of her own drum, and would, if given the chance, bust out of our yard to go conquer and explore the world.

Anyway, Joe decided he could probably just get in the truck and in his good clothes, get the calves back in the right spot, as it wasn't that far to go.

So, off he went, and we went on with our merry afternoon of playing and laundry.

A mere ten minutes later, a splattered Joe came marching back to the house, splattered with cow poop on his dress clothes. Just poor timing, he encountered the wrong end of a ripe calf, and there you go.

So, he knew he would be a few minutes late, but in his words,

"It is either clean khakis or cow poop, and these folks will understand."

I'm certain they will, and I have completed that load immediately, as who wants to have cow poop khakis?

Don't Mess with Texas

...or a farm wife.

So today, I was stopping at my house in between visiting my grandma (who is 97, by the way...watch out, Farmer Joe...I am going to live FOREVER!) and picking up Josie from preschool. I had to do a quick laundry switch. I hopped out of my vehicle, sleeping little ones in the back and ran in to put towels in the dryer.

I know, I lead a very stressful life.

Deadlines, I tell ya.

Anyway, as I hopped out of my house, I noticed an unfamiliar white van down at our lake. "Our lake," is really my grandpa's, but it's supposedly a good place to fish, according to my outdoorsy cousins (I wouldn't know, and Anna would LOVE to find out!). We frequently see friends and my cousins riding the Gator down to this lake.

No big deal.

However, today is Friday. It was about 11:30 in the morning, and this was not a Gator. In fact, it was pulling into the entrance, kind of funny, and folks were getting out.

So, feeling gutsy (thanks to the fact that I was on the phone with my buddy Kath, and I knew that if I was taken down, she could call the authorities!!), I hopped back into my car and headed down to see what these dudes were doing.

This is the glory of country living...all this space, all this wonderful outdoorsy-ness, and a lot of unfamiliar folks who are mere steps from your sleeping babies.

The van was full of dudes, and when I stopped and asked if I could help, they countered that my dad had said they could fish here.

Now, if you know my dad...he doesn't necessarily enjoy the company of strangers, especially when it's someone, somewhere they shouldn't be.

So, I told them maybe a small fib ...that we had just bought the property and weren't allowing any folks to fish anymore.

So the rest of the conversation was something like this:

The dude: "No one?"
Me: "No one."
The dude: "Not anymore?"
Me: "Not anymore."
The dude: "No passes? No guests?"
Me: (thinking to my self...what the heck is this? a country club?) "No."
The dude: "No?"
Me: (in my firmest, I used to be a teacher voice) "No."

Thankfully, no more begging, pleading, etc., and the men were on their way, but as I left to pick up Josie from preschool, my heart was racing.

So this is what it's like to feel like a bad a$%!!! Don't mess with Texas, there, city slickers, there's a new sheriff in town.

Now, mind you, I am not a bad a$%, because I kept Kathleen on the phone, the car in drive, and promptly called my husband, mom, and dad to brag on myself. However, I have come to an interesting observation about this country living. Although I crave the proximity of neighbors at times, sidewalks always, and friends nearby, I am no longer used to not knowing who is near my house.

I crane my neck when someone is going by "too slowly."
I take note of a car that drives by "too fast."
I wave at my neighbors and gawk and unfamiliar drivers when they're on our road.

How welcoming is that?

Not really, I realize that, but my point is, because I know who's coming and going, I feel safe, and when I don't, I don't. My kids, my husband, my house, they are all in my care, and I am territorial of them, for sure. While my friends in the city have home alarms, I have a barky dog, and an eagle eye. I want to be gracious to guests, but just because it seems out in the open doesn't mean it's free for the taking.

Thus me becoming a bad a$%!!

So, if you want to come fish, fine, but please come up and ask me at the door, and don't try to beg me.

You don't want to mess with Texas!

The Right Reaction

I got to hit the road again with my buddy, Holly Spangler. We headed to Chicago (i.e., the land of milk, honey, and Nordstrom), where we were in attendance at another event for Illinois Farm Families. Holly recapped the event nicely, and you can read it here.

Anyway, the event was really interesting. While it was all for a good cause, supporting the Be Bold, Go Red campaign for the American Heart Association, the networking we did while we were there was fascinating. I met other women who blog, stay at home, work PR, produce television shows, and also enjoy a cocktail, getting their eyebrows threaded (yes, honestly, I did this, and I highly recommend it) and discussing their lives, children, husbands, etc.

I tried desperately to fit in.

I tried.

I tried to not poke around too much at the food, which was not the average Farmington party fare. There was discussion that the baba ganoush  was not really good baba ganoush (which Holly and I laughed at later, and I claimed I thought it was just a nickname Owen Wilson used for Vince Vaughan in Wedding Crashers...which, ironically, Vince Vaughan's mother was there and her book, which had her in a pair of stretchy pants on the cover and discussed meditation, was part of our swag bag...weird). Anyway, except for a few topics (traffic and Greek food, mainly), Holly and I fit in great. We had a great time.

However, it wasn't the topics that I worried about discussion, it was my reaction to one. Our hostess for the evening was Sara. She is fabulous, great networker, excellent blogger, really interesting. Anyway, we got on the subject of hair or skin or something (there were lots of spa treatments available that night), and she mentioned that she had gone Vegan.

Huh...interesting.

This topic came up a few times during the course of the evening, and each time, women around Holly and I proclaimed to her,  "Oh, good for you!"

Good for you!

 Really? Good for you?

It's not like she said she finished a marathon, or her kids had gotten into a really good college or she had received a promotion.

She went Vegan.

Good for you?

Now, please don't take this as a knock at being Vegan. Sara explained that dairy and meat and the like were making her feel weird, her skin acted funny, etc. I get that. I'm all for not having crazy skin and not feeling gassy. However, the reaction was interesting to me. Why is it good for you? Why is going Vegan, not purchasing, not eating, not utilizing the very product in which we produce, the product's profits we use to pay for insurance and gas and preschool and jeans (the ones I got for a STEAL at Nordstrom that very day!) good for her?

Why it is good for her? Why didn't I step up and say that I had gone anti-Vegan...eating meat and/or drinking milk at nearly every meal? Why didn't I pipe up and ask more questions, other than, "So, your skin is better, huh?"

Duh.That's just what she said!!

Why didn't I have the right reaction?

Because, it's still not socially acceptable to be pro-beef in the presence of trendy women, I think. I was there as an ambassador of the agricultural world, and I just responded, "Oh!" I was the girl in the half marathon two springs ago wearing a stinking steak on my shirt for TEAM BEEF, and I said, "OH!"

UGH!!

Why didn't I have the right reaction? Why didn't I ask her if she had tried switching make up as I had a few years ago, which did wonders for my skin (thank you, Bare Minerals!). Why didn't I defend the beef industry by using that anecdotal evidence?

Because I was afraid of not fitting in.

Welcome to high school again.

Sigh.

Anyway, I'm doing better through writing this as an afterthought I guess, but I need to step it up a bit. That's why I'm put in places like this event. I should have been less concerned about the right reaction, and just been at peace with my reaction.

So, my hope is that the next time I'm faced with a "I went Vegan, so good for you" conversation, I will continue to be respectful, but respectfully explain to them that not all that crazy anti everything bit works all the time.

Not to mention...what the heck and where in the heck do you EAT?

Unfinished Business in an Unfinished Basement

It's March, and it's snowy.

Honestly, this weather.

Anyway, we're still calving (only 70ish more to go!), and thanks to the change in weather, Joe has had to be extra careful, checking the whereabouts of mamas so the calves can be easily checked, tagged, and brought in somewhere if necessary, out of the elements.

That somewhere, currently, is my unfinished basement.

Yes.

Basement.

As in, underneath my house.

Don't worry. Our basement is basically a cellar, one where we store things like paint and Christmas decorations in plastic bins. One where there may or may not be the potential for moisture or mice. Our basement will be handy to go to if a bad storm comes, but unlike my life in town as a kid, we won't ever have an air hockey table, TV, and laundry room down there. There's no option for a "finished" basement here.

Anyway, back to the calf.

This little guy (or girl...I forgot to ask) is warming up in our dog pen (even though our dog is too much of a freako to enjoy this basement condo) underneath my floorboards, awaiting Joe to give it a shot of really warm milk. Cold temperatures in the night coupled with snow has made for not prime conditions for this little calf, but he's going to do all he can to give it a good start. I'm to purchase some whole milk today while I'm in town at the gym, just in case it needs some extra help.

Meanwhile, my girls are fascinated by the fact that there's a calf in our basement. Even though they see calves out their windows and with their dad nearly every day, having one in the basement is truly novel, truly exciting, and kind of weird. They want to go down to the basement, hoping to pet it, cuddle it, and possibly give it a bottle.

Joe's just hoping for it to warm up.

I'm hoping that a basement calf isn't a gateway to a bathtub calf.

There's A Lump in My Throat and Ravioli on Her Shirt

So it's no secret that I have been a baby factory for the past seven years. We have been blessed, oh-so-blessed, to have a gaggle of healthy, happy kids. All but one have celebrated birthdays thus far, and while every birthday brings great joy by ways of a party and presents and happiness for another great year, it is my first daughter's birthday, this Friday, March 2nd that doesn't just bring me great joy, but I find myself close to tears during the days leading up to it.

I am watching her now, pedaling her bike up the road to the pasture. She's fresh off the bus, has had her snack "on the go" (as she put it), and is now back outside to be with her dad. She came in apologetic about the ravioli splatter on her shirt, as she was bumped at lunch, but that didn't cause the lump in my throat (Shout is my best friend).

It was how big she is.

How old she seems now.

How just seven years ago, I wondered who my sweet little baby would resemble, whose personality she would favor, how she would act/be/become when she went to school.

And she's there.

And so is that lump.

My girl is something that I never imagined, despite the pink we doused her in as an infant, she is my farm girl, my tomboy. She knows more about the cattle than I probably ever will. She and her dad have a special relationship thanks to hours they have spent together. She is responsible and caring and trustworthy, and I don't doubt she would have become that on her own, but thanks to her time as a farm kid, doing farm kid things, she has gained a lot of maturity, and she's just seven.

But she's SEVEN.

My baby is SEVEN.

Where did my time go? In seven more years, she'll be in high school (gasp), and seven more...college.

I can't even begin to think about that.

So, for now, as I watch her hop over the fence with great ease, walking slowly amongst the cows, I see my girl the way I hoped she would be at seven: caring, careful, and carefree. My little girl has grown up a lot, but not too much, and, thankfully, not too fast.

Because there's still ravioli on her shirt.

Function, Not Fashion

Let me just preface this post by saying that I did wear bibs in the 90s. I have a few pictures of myself at Barn Dance (did your sororities do this, or is it just a land-grant school thing? That's another post, another day) wearing a cute pair of bibs...cute, but it was Barn Dance, and it was the 90s.

However, there are a pair of bibs bouncing around in my dryer currently, and I will tell you, they are for function, not fashion.

My whole mission of this blog is to debunk stereotypes. It is to fight the image of a farmer as some hick wearing bib overalls, chewing on a length of hay. It is to show you that my husband is someone who does work hard, often times manually, but has a master's degree and once upon a time held an executive position in a company.

 And he may wear bibs now and again.

And that doesn't make him a hick.

Rather, Joe's bibs make him appear to be almost like Superman and Clark Kent. The layered look is in, and farmers like my husband are working it! Today, he came home from helping his friend with a land sale, and was wearing his bibs. I was surprised, as I knew that he had to be in professional dress for most of the day. However, like Superman, Joe peeled off his bibs to reveal his dress shirt and khakis. Impressive that a mild mannered "picker" from an auction can come home, throw on a pair of bibs and check cows, concealing his fanciness beneath layers.

These bibs are worn for warmth and protection in the winter...protection from manure and mud and other maliciously dirty things, and are worn for coolness (the temperature, not fashionably cool) in the summer. My father-in-law wears bibs almost exclusively. Bibs allow him to do multiple dirty jobs (think Mike Rowe), but come in the house and peel off the overalls and enjoy lunch without having to sit in dirty or smelly clothes.

He would also contend that his bibs with the most holes are the best in the summer for natural air conditioning, but we won't discuss that any further.

Anyway, my point is, bibs for farmers are out there. They are worn. They are utilized, but they are not worn by the farmers in my world for anything than function. You won't see my husband or father-in-law at the family dinner at Easter wearing their bibs. Those are delegated for work, only, and possibly a trip to town for a work related errand.

Period.

So, while the Gap had a few pairs of bibs in their stores this last fall, I would highly recommend you not bothering, as you'll look either like someone who needs to go check calves or feed hogs or someone who regrets wearing bibs to a Barn Dance, and now she is trying to fight against the Hee Haw persona of folks who live where there are barns.

Moral of the story: Function not fashion on the farm.

The Tale of the Coffee Can

Once upon a time, there was a Folger's coffee can. It contained the coffee that Farmer Joe and his wife drank nearly every morning. It lived a good life, housed in the family pantry, on the second, left hand shelf, next to the strawberry Nesquick. It breathed life into the tired Webel family, providing the necessary caffienation that is required for raising four kids, calving 120 cows and surviving on the farm.

It lived a happy life.

Until it turned up empty and in the dishwasher.

Seriously.

The dishwasher.

Am I the only one who thinks it's kind of weird to constantly wash coffee cans (and I say can, but it's the plastic tub...but who wants to constantly write plastic tub...I'm digressing.)? Joe thinks that coffee cans (tubs) are necessary on the farm, and if I "accidentally" let one slide into the garbage can, it is fished out and placed back in the dishwasher for another washing.

Sigh.

You see, there are a lot of nuts and bolts on the farm, and I'm not being frilly and metaphorical. I'm serious. There are a lot of little pieces, parts, nuts, bolts, screws, nails, syringe tips, hoses, pieces of plastic that go with one thing that could also go with another. So, I am to keep the coffee cans, wash them, and place them around my house to keep aforementioned do-dads.

Generally, the coffee can gets put to use immediately after leaving the dishwasher, and that is well with my organizational soul. However, sometimes, the bright red can (although red is an accent color in my house) sits on my counter for days...just waiting for its contents.

Just teasing me to try to throw it away.

Mocking me with its stupid black lid and happy white and yellow writing.

Making me crazy as I hold myself back from throwing it in the yard...where it would stay longer than on the counter, so what's the point?

Anyway, I love coffee, but I hate coffee cans. I have one in my dishwasher currently, taking up valuable space, as I try to cram sippy cups and bowls around it. I refuse to wash it by hand, but know that if Joe finds it in the garbage, I'm in for a discussion of the necessity of coffee cans in the machine shed's shop.

So, if you have a lovely pantry with fancy glass or clear plastic organizational containers, or a shop that houses nuts and bolts in Mason jars, like the ones I have seen in softly lit photographs on Pinterest, good for you.

I'll take an artsy picture of my coffee can and post it so you can "repin" if you wish!