I can see the eyes rolling...I'm a stay-at-home mom, why in the world should I be overwhelmed? Why should I feel any type of stress when my big daily decisions consist of snack and wardrobe choices and whether or not the beds are made?
Well, I know my deadlines are generally self-imposed, I'm not working on curing cancer with my decisions, but a girl is allowed to feel stressed, right?
Last week was rough around here, and I couldn't put my finger on it until this morning as I was driving (yes, I get up at 5:00 AM to exercise. Yes, I know that's crazy, but that's the only time I have to myself!). As I drove down the blacktop, the sun was starting to rise, peeking up over the tassels of the maturing corn. It gave off an almost strobe light effect, and was pretty cool, but when I reached the corner where our field with the downed corn is, it stopped. The light was no longer a rhythmic shadow and shine on my windows, but had a choppy discorded rhythm. Upon realizing that it wasn't the clouds, but the up and down and all around of the corn that was causing this effect, all I could think of was dread. Fear. Nervousness. Anxiety.
Harvest is coming, and it's going to be a bumpy road.
Talk about foreshadowing.
The guys have been working on installing the reel, an attachment to the corn head of the combine that will help pick up the twisted and downed corn in our fields. While we do not have a lot that is on the ground, a little can go a long way. My hope is that we'll get to those fields first, get it done, be pleasantly surprised with the results, and have smooth sailing from there.
Yeah, right.
This is already a stressful time in our family, even though Joe is a good pre-marketer of his grain. Meaning, he works with a trading advisor to sell his grain at a price that is hopefully the best, but also the safest bet for our family. Many farmers sit on bins of grain and wait for the markets to go up and up, waiting to sell when the price is at its highest. They can spread out their grain checks throughout the year as the market waxes and wanes. Need some cash? Sell a little gain. This is a gamble, and while it works for some farmers, for us, a family of six depending upon this income for the entire year, we cannot make that bet. So, we sell our grain with the safe bet, spread out our income with careful budgeting until the fall when our loads of grain are sent to the elevator. Now, we don't go out the next day and book a trip to Disney or buy a new vehicle or whatever. I would love to do that...don't get me wrong, but there are operating costs and bills and that little guy who we welcomed in May (but cancelled our maternity coverage the year before...oops) that we need to pay for!
So I guess my stress about the house and the kids and whether or not I'll be able to put the laundry away is really a substituted stress. I am substituting the stress of harvest and being a single parent for a few weeks for the stress of daily life. I am displacing my worries about finances and bills and instead focusing on why my curly hair is now back to the "white trash wave," as I fondly call it when my hormones are off. I'm stressing about the state of the front porch and our shoe system that isn't being utilized because I don't want to have to worry about whether or not the grain will yield its maximum.
I can't process that, because, I don't fully understand the process still, but I do understand the implications a difficult harvest will have upon my family and my life.
So, I sit here this morning, worrying about taking all the kids to my haircut (Hopefully the white trash wave will be remedied with a fresh cut...because that's important! Note the sarcasm.), because I would rather worry about things that I can control, and talk about that to Joe, and sweep the downed corn and dry August under the rug.
Hopefully my weird overwhelmed feeling with subside when that combine fires up and the results won't be as dire as I am making them out to be. My hope is that I am just adopting the pessimistic attitude that most farmers get right before big farming events.
Hopefully.
Showing posts with label fall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fall. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
There's Always a Chance
We've been watching the weather with great interest. Every night, our lovely weatherman predicts the weather with intense emotion and excellent description, "Great day for being outside! Sun, sun, sun! Low humidity! There's a chance of maybe a shower or two popping up, but for the most part...a great day!"
Always a chance.
Never definite.
If you're wanting to run outside, get a tan, swim, or wash your car, this weather is awesome. If you're a farmer where we are, as well as a great deal of the state of Texas and into the Plains, you're dying for a rain.
There was a chance today. The sky has blued up three times today, complete with lightning, thunder, the whole works.
Not even the pavement got wet.
Joe is trying to keep optimistic, but whenever there's a chance, he'll say, "Do you know what a tenth, two-tenths, half inch (whatever) could do for our crop? Do you know how much we're losing every time it doesn't rain."
Sigh.
There goes my dreams of the denim couch in the Pottery Barn catalogue...not that I would ever really go and buy it after the fall, but with cash in hand, a girl can dream, right?
We're starting to worry around here, and that is never fun. Decisions are second guessed, dirt is kicked without conversation when the farmers gather, and worried faces scan the radar for just a sliver of green to pass our way.
We could be worse off, I know, but this month of August is already rough with summer ending, school starting, and with harvest just a breath away, and if we could just get a good soak, we'd be ready for the crop to finish its maturing process.
It's sunny now, and when Anna gets off the bus and the girls (and boy...even though he just sits in the stroller), and some friends will go outside and enjoy this lovely day, complete with low humidity, a light breeze and sun, sun, sun. I'm going to stay hopeful that a rain will come, so we'll go out and enjoy this nice afternoon because tomorrow, there is always a chance.
Always a chance.
Never definite.
If you're wanting to run outside, get a tan, swim, or wash your car, this weather is awesome. If you're a farmer where we are, as well as a great deal of the state of Texas and into the Plains, you're dying for a rain.
There was a chance today. The sky has blued up three times today, complete with lightning, thunder, the whole works.
Not even the pavement got wet.
Joe is trying to keep optimistic, but whenever there's a chance, he'll say, "Do you know what a tenth, two-tenths, half inch (whatever) could do for our crop? Do you know how much we're losing every time it doesn't rain."
Sigh.
There goes my dreams of the denim couch in the Pottery Barn catalogue...not that I would ever really go and buy it after the fall, but with cash in hand, a girl can dream, right?
We're starting to worry around here, and that is never fun. Decisions are second guessed, dirt is kicked without conversation when the farmers gather, and worried faces scan the radar for just a sliver of green to pass our way.
We could be worse off, I know, but this month of August is already rough with summer ending, school starting, and with harvest just a breath away, and if we could just get a good soak, we'd be ready for the crop to finish its maturing process.
It's sunny now, and when Anna gets off the bus and the girls (and boy...even though he just sits in the stroller), and some friends will go outside and enjoy this lovely day, complete with low humidity, a light breeze and sun, sun, sun. I'm going to stay hopeful that a rain will come, so we'll go out and enjoy this nice afternoon because tomorrow, there is always a chance.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Communicating Fabulously
Okay, so I have this pretty interesting opportunity next week. I am headed to the Illinois Commodity Conference, and while there was a time that I might have run screaming from something like this, I'm actually really looking forward to it. The title of the whole conference is "Tell Your Story," and how appropriate is a person like me in attendance to hear other farmer's stories? Awesome. I even have been offered the chance to work in a smaller group of other ag communicators. A few of us "ag communicators" have been given the chance to sit down with the PR executive who is heading up the Farmer Image Campaign the different Illinois Agriculture groups (Farm Bureau, Illinois Corn and the like) have been working on. I'm excited to be a part of that training.
However, there are two aspects about this experience in which I am terrified about:
What if they ask me to actually talk about commodities? I mean, seriously, it's the Commodities Conference, for Pete's sake! Do I really know ANYTHING about commodities? Let's just hope the people pay attention to how fabulously I'm dressed...
BUT WHAT DO I WEAR???? (second freak out moment)
Yargh.
These are important things. What if some one asks me an agricultural question? Seriously, these people who attend conferences such as this either majored in agriculture of some sort, grew up on a farm, call farming their livelihood, or just love being around aggie people. Honestly, what if some one asks me what I think about the markets, what will I say? What do I think about anything agricultural? And, most importantly, what shoes will I be wearing? Do I carry a big bag, or does that make me look too high maintenance?
Yikes!
My hope is that my nerves will subside; I will ask Joe for a crash course in ag communications, and the gray kitten heel Calvin Klein shoes I bought (majorly on sale, I might add) will not kill my feet, but just look fabulous!
Say a prayer for me.
However, there are two aspects about this experience in which I am terrified about:
What if they ask me to actually talk about commodities? I mean, seriously, it's the Commodities Conference, for Pete's sake! Do I really know ANYTHING about commodities? Let's just hope the people pay attention to how fabulously I'm dressed...
BUT WHAT DO I WEAR???? (second freak out moment)
Yargh.
These are important things. What if some one asks me an agricultural question? Seriously, these people who attend conferences such as this either majored in agriculture of some sort, grew up on a farm, call farming their livelihood, or just love being around aggie people. Honestly, what if some one asks me what I think about the markets, what will I say? What do I think about anything agricultural? And, most importantly, what shoes will I be wearing? Do I carry a big bag, or does that make me look too high maintenance?
Yikes!
My hope is that my nerves will subside; I will ask Joe for a crash course in ag communications, and the gray kitten heel Calvin Klein shoes I bought (majorly on sale, I might add) will not kill my feet, but just look fabulous!
Say a prayer for me.
Monday, November 1, 2010
It Ain't Over...
Okay, remember the joyous whoops and small dances that occurred last week as our harvest was complete? Remember the thoughts I had about potentially having another warm, adult body in the house? Remember how I thought that the busy-ness in this business was OVER?
Well, I was WRONG.
Here I am, on November 1st, watching as headlights create two strong beams of light through my kitchen window. No, we're not planting some crazy crop that will last through a harsh Illinois winter, nor are the guys taking a joy ride on the four wheeler out in the "back."
No, no, no...it's tillage time.
The trick with fall field work is that in our family's operation, we don't turn off the combine and head off to some great vacation spot. There's no, "Hey, great season, guys! See you in six months!" Instead, hardly a beat is skipped, and the guys are back on tractors, pulling three or four different tillage tools, depending on what needs to be worked, disced, chopped, or "dominated." Our fun new tool is this enormous piece of red (and if you know us, that's shocking...we run green tractors and red trucks) and shiny, sharp and scary, spiderish looking thing, that works the ground "just enough."
Tillage work around here is a fine tuned, carefully calculated art form.
This meticulous work, however, can take place at all hours of the night. The scientific (ha, ha) reasoning behind this is that dirt is dirt, and if a frost is hard or an early snow falls, you're out of luck for fall tillage work. These all nighters adds stress on this farm wife's life, but that's another story.
Anyway, our operation takes great pride in the fact that the farmers not only become good stewards of their land during the planting and harvesting times, but also understand the topography of each of our farms. Since we farm in three counties (which makes us sound really fancy, but when you live a mile from two county lines, it's bound to happen), there are many different fields that need many different tillage operations.
I thought, before I have become more worldly in this agricultural science, that black dirt and big clods were the way that ground should look when it was worked. Stalks and remnants of the past crop should be hidden, like gray hairs or messes stashed in random closets before company comes. However, this is not the case. Our tillage tools may sound like something that should be participating in an Ultimate Fight Challenge, but they are actually massagers of the land, working it just enough so that a crust won't form and the crops that go in that field in the spring will have a good chance of coming up. The Dominator and the Turbo Chopper 3000 are fancy names for tools that are making the land better, not ripping it up. They are gentle giants that keep the soil from exposing all of its good stuff for the harsh weather to strip away.
I know that this is necessary, and that with November comes the threat of crazy early winter weather, so the guys are working long hours, again. I am thankful that they are good farmers, because in the end, it all gives us a better crop to provide to the nation.
However, it does not help the fact that I am left at bed time to give three baths, read sight words, chase monsters out of closets, and have no one to discuss who should be voted off of Dancing with the Stars.
But, again, that's another story.
Well, I was WRONG.
Here I am, on November 1st, watching as headlights create two strong beams of light through my kitchen window. No, we're not planting some crazy crop that will last through a harsh Illinois winter, nor are the guys taking a joy ride on the four wheeler out in the "back."
No, no, no...it's tillage time.
The trick with fall field work is that in our family's operation, we don't turn off the combine and head off to some great vacation spot. There's no, "Hey, great season, guys! See you in six months!" Instead, hardly a beat is skipped, and the guys are back on tractors, pulling three or four different tillage tools, depending on what needs to be worked, disced, chopped, or "dominated." Our fun new tool is this enormous piece of red (and if you know us, that's shocking...we run green tractors and red trucks) and shiny, sharp and scary, spiderish looking thing, that works the ground "just enough."
Tillage work around here is a fine tuned, carefully calculated art form.
This meticulous work, however, can take place at all hours of the night. The scientific (ha, ha) reasoning behind this is that dirt is dirt, and if a frost is hard or an early snow falls, you're out of luck for fall tillage work. These all nighters adds stress on this farm wife's life, but that's another story.
Anyway, our operation takes great pride in the fact that the farmers not only become good stewards of their land during the planting and harvesting times, but also understand the topography of each of our farms. Since we farm in three counties (which makes us sound really fancy, but when you live a mile from two county lines, it's bound to happen), there are many different fields that need many different tillage operations.
I thought, before I have become more worldly in this agricultural science, that black dirt and big clods were the way that ground should look when it was worked. Stalks and remnants of the past crop should be hidden, like gray hairs or messes stashed in random closets before company comes. However, this is not the case. Our tillage tools may sound like something that should be participating in an Ultimate Fight Challenge, but they are actually massagers of the land, working it just enough so that a crust won't form and the crops that go in that field in the spring will have a good chance of coming up. The Dominator and the Turbo Chopper 3000 are fancy names for tools that are making the land better, not ripping it up. They are gentle giants that keep the soil from exposing all of its good stuff for the harsh weather to strip away.
I know that this is necessary, and that with November comes the threat of crazy early winter weather, so the guys are working long hours, again. I am thankful that they are good farmers, because in the end, it all gives us a better crop to provide to the nation.
However, it does not help the fact that I am left at bed time to give three baths, read sight words, chase monsters out of closets, and have no one to discuss who should be voted off of Dancing with the Stars.
But, again, that's another story.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
The Lure of a Flat Surface
I'm a little OCD when it comes to my house.
Strike that, I'm a lot OCD when it comes to my house. My girls know that when the day is done, we're to pick up our toys, usually together so that they can get them back in the system that I have adopted as of late. Even my three year old, when playing with her grandma, has been known to proclaim, "We need to get this stuff organized before we get anything else OUT!"
Oh boy...
Anyway, my husband is very organized, but in an organized chaos kind of way. Usually on birthday party days, baptisms or as my "Christmas Wish," I beg him to clean his office, and all the dead fly bodies, dust bunnies, and random cell phone bills, pop bottles, etc., etc. He has his office to do with whatever he wants, but some times ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! My poor OCD brain nearly explodes when I walk by the room!
However, during truly busy seasons, Joe doesn't have time (or so he says) to put anything away, and the lure of the flat surface is strong. During harvest, calving, and planting (which, now that I think of it, is roughly 3/4ths of the year), one can find me obsessively clearing off countertops, tables, dressers, even floor space, putting away all things Joe.
Today, however, as I was putting things away, I was less concerned about the act, rather, found myself laughing at the things I was trying to find places for. Friends of mine have complained with me as I lamented on my husbands obsession with cluttering up my flat surfaces, but their husbands are insurance agents, bankers, computer guys. What weird things could they possibly leave out? My one friend who's husband is a surgeon has come close with some interesting gastro-intestinal book, but nothing like what I have found just this morning.
Just for kicks, I thought I would enlighten all of you non-farm folk with some of the things I get to identify and then try to find a place for in my house.
Here it goes:
-Four pairs of questionable work jeans. By questionable, I mean, is it mud or poop?
-A Vet Kit, complete with tools that look like guns used for vaccinations
-A random tube...could be for a tractor, probably for a cow (yuck)
-no less than 5000 grain tickets (to save or not to save?)
-a flashlight
-Napkins from Casey's (I suppose from a breakfast or lunch on the go)
-Two travel coffee mugs, both given to us by some agricultural company
-Bovine Rhinotracheitis-Virus Diarrhea-Parainfluenza3-Respiratory Syncytial Virus Vaccine (this was in my butter cubbie in my refrigerator)
-One single fork, perched next to the sink, leftover from a late night bite of apple crisp
-and about 10 seed corn/chemical/John Deere Dealership caps
So you see my OCD dilemma? What the heck does one do with a random tube?
I have tried to develop a system, however, and that generally includes piling it on his dresser in the back by the mud room.
I guess that's probably not exactly fair, considering I am cluttering his flat surface, but where in my system of baskets and cubes and bins does a vaccination gun fit?
My hope is that now that the busy season is over, we can come together (under the Umbrella of Peace) and help resolve this issue of flat surfaces and the cluttering there of.
Here's to hoping.
Strike that, I'm a lot OCD when it comes to my house. My girls know that when the day is done, we're to pick up our toys, usually together so that they can get them back in the system that I have adopted as of late. Even my three year old, when playing with her grandma, has been known to proclaim, "We need to get this stuff organized before we get anything else OUT!"
Oh boy...
Anyway, my husband is very organized, but in an organized chaos kind of way. Usually on birthday party days, baptisms or as my "Christmas Wish," I beg him to clean his office, and all the dead fly bodies, dust bunnies, and random cell phone bills, pop bottles, etc., etc. He has his office to do with whatever he wants, but some times ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! My poor OCD brain nearly explodes when I walk by the room!
However, during truly busy seasons, Joe doesn't have time (or so he says) to put anything away, and the lure of the flat surface is strong. During harvest, calving, and planting (which, now that I think of it, is roughly 3/4ths of the year), one can find me obsessively clearing off countertops, tables, dressers, even floor space, putting away all things Joe.
Today, however, as I was putting things away, I was less concerned about the act, rather, found myself laughing at the things I was trying to find places for. Friends of mine have complained with me as I lamented on my husbands obsession with cluttering up my flat surfaces, but their husbands are insurance agents, bankers, computer guys. What weird things could they possibly leave out? My one friend who's husband is a surgeon has come close with some interesting gastro-intestinal book, but nothing like what I have found just this morning.
Just for kicks, I thought I would enlighten all of you non-farm folk with some of the things I get to identify and then try to find a place for in my house.
Here it goes:
-Four pairs of questionable work jeans. By questionable, I mean, is it mud or poop?
-A Vet Kit, complete with tools that look like guns used for vaccinations
-A random tube...could be for a tractor, probably for a cow (yuck)
-no less than 5000 grain tickets (to save or not to save?)
-a flashlight
-Napkins from Casey's (I suppose from a breakfast or lunch on the go)
-Two travel coffee mugs, both given to us by some agricultural company
-Bovine Rhinotracheitis-Virus Diarrhea-Parainfluenza3-Respiratory Syncytial Virus Vaccine (this was in my butter cubbie in my refrigerator)
-One single fork, perched next to the sink, leftover from a late night bite of apple crisp
-and about 10 seed corn/chemical/John Deere Dealership caps
So you see my OCD dilemma? What the heck does one do with a random tube?
I have tried to develop a system, however, and that generally includes piling it on his dresser in the back by the mud room.
I guess that's probably not exactly fair, considering I am cluttering his flat surface, but where in my system of baskets and cubes and bins does a vaccination gun fit?
My hope is that now that the busy season is over, we can come together (under the Umbrella of Peace) and help resolve this issue of flat surfaces and the cluttering there of.
Here's to hoping.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
This Time of Year
It's homecoming week. Although we don't have much to do with our daughter's school's homecoming, I tend to get excited over events such as these. I'm an event gal, always have been. As a high school student, homecoming brings back the panic and terror over finding a date for the dance, as well as the band show (yes, I am a band nerd, thus the panic over a date), skit night, coronation, bonfire, and the big game. As a college kid, I loved homecoming because it made me just feel so happy that I wasn't one of those "old" alumns out at the bars, reliving their glory days... oh, to be that young, sweet sorority girl again. Heck, I was even on the university's homecoming court, starting the trend to wave at both the east fans and the west fans during our introduction at halftime. I'm soooo fancy.
Anyway, this time of year is exciting to me already, but now being a farm wife, even though it's stressful and lonely and irritating, I'm still pumped for fall, and all it has to offer. I want to wear a set of school colors and hang out with old friends. I want to watch a football game and feel extremely loyal to a team. I'm a University of Illinois grad, so watching football is horrible, and my high school team has now consolidated so many times I have lost track of their football mascot. . .Tigers to Bulldogs to Cougars. . . OH MY! My feelings toward fall are sentimental, mainly because of the whole point of homecoming, but are now intensified by our farm life.
We have such a vested interest in the fall, that homecoming seems so extra, so unnecessary, such a waste of time during a busy season. Yet, I still yearn to participate in all the fall activities. It's hard to convince Joe to head to a football game two hours away on a perfect fall day, just for fun. He's not wired for that type of fun. On a fall day, you should be in a semi, on a grain cart or something, darn it, and if you're not, you should take out a fence or mow.
Duh.
But this is not a whiny post. . . because based on your lack of comments, I know you all love those. This the point of my ramblings: fall needs no pomp and circumstance. Our parade is the parade of green machines as they head to the next field. Our big game is going on right now, and Joe is the KING of the festivities (which makes me the QUEEN...SWEET!!) This is our big time, our big dance, our big game, and why should we celebrate anything else with more grandeur? Joe is in his ultimate busy-ness, living in the present with all the great things going on, so there is no need to reminisce of the past. What's going on now is fun, exciting, and a true example of all things fall.
However, if anyone asks, I would gladly bust out any and all of my homecoming court paraphernalia and wave while sitting in a convertible!!
Anyway, this time of year is exciting to me already, but now being a farm wife, even though it's stressful and lonely and irritating, I'm still pumped for fall, and all it has to offer. I want to wear a set of school colors and hang out with old friends. I want to watch a football game and feel extremely loyal to a team. I'm a University of Illinois grad, so watching football is horrible, and my high school team has now consolidated so many times I have lost track of their football mascot. . .Tigers to Bulldogs to Cougars. . . OH MY! My feelings toward fall are sentimental, mainly because of the whole point of homecoming, but are now intensified by our farm life.
We have such a vested interest in the fall, that homecoming seems so extra, so unnecessary, such a waste of time during a busy season. Yet, I still yearn to participate in all the fall activities. It's hard to convince Joe to head to a football game two hours away on a perfect fall day, just for fun. He's not wired for that type of fun. On a fall day, you should be in a semi, on a grain cart or something, darn it, and if you're not, you should take out a fence or mow.
Duh.
But this is not a whiny post. . . because based on your lack of comments, I know you all love those. This the point of my ramblings: fall needs no pomp and circumstance. Our parade is the parade of green machines as they head to the next field. Our big game is going on right now, and Joe is the KING of the festivities (which makes me the QUEEN...SWEET!!) This is our big time, our big dance, our big game, and why should we celebrate anything else with more grandeur? Joe is in his ultimate busy-ness, living in the present with all the great things going on, so there is no need to reminisce of the past. What's going on now is fun, exciting, and a true example of all things fall.
However, if anyone asks, I would gladly bust out any and all of my homecoming court paraphernalia and wave while sitting in a convertible!!
Friday, September 24, 2010
Safely Enjoying Fall
Did you know that this is farm safety week?
I didn't until my friend on Facebook, McDonough County Farm Bureau, reminded me. Thankfully, farm safety week did not land on the week that we were using our farmer scaffolding. All joking aside, farm safety week is during a time that slow moving vehicles frequent back roads; augers are being used at great length, and bleary eyed farmers are pushing to finish fields, despite being tired.
During this week, I have been late to various activities, as I tend to be. However, my tardiness has been increased thanks to the slow moving vehicles, tractors, wagons, what-have-you that are taking up road space and going roughly 3 miles per hour. Even though my frustrations are great, I have to take a minute and remember that the person behind that wheel is some one's dad, uncle, grandfather, husband, wife, mother, daughter, aunt or cousin. Someone who would be mourned greatly if a person like me, late to a mom's group, were to compromise their safety by following too closely or passing without really having a lot of room. I have to remember that they are just trying to be safe.
Unfortunately, nearly every farm family has some sort of "war story" in regards to a farm accident. A friend of mine just called to tell me her friend lost a brother tragically in a farm accident. My grandfather was nearly crushed by a tractor as he was unloading it from a trailer. We have had close calls with fingers, fingernails, heads needing to be stitched up and the like. However, a tragedy, knock on wood, has never occurred. I believe this is truly to the credit of the farmers in our operation.
Joe especially, maybe because I spend the most time with him, is freakishly safe. He calls my dad's mower, the one he walks behind, the "Man Killer," and regularly calls him when he's working with it. When his job is to watch the unloading auger during harvest, he does not allow any of our children to be anywhere near him, as disappointed as they may become. That's not something you mess around with. As irritating as it may seem at times, Joe never wears his wedding band. When we first started farming, I would hound him to at least wear it to church. However, I just found it in his "junk" drawer as I was rummaging for some change. A few short months ago, I would have been irritated with him, but I am thankful he has a finger to wear the ring on, as some farmers have lost a digit thanks to proclaiming their love publicly by wearing a wedding ring while working on equipment or with livestock.
There's too much to lose if one does not exercise safety on the farm. Period. I am thankful that I haven't had to endure a loss of a loved one or take anyone to the ER because of negligence or a freak turn of events, but there are those who have. For them, I am deeply sorry. There have been times that I haven't been able to reach either Joe or my dad, and I have played out the absolute worst in my head, only to be, thankfully, corrected by the simple call proclaiming that they couldn't hear their cell phones.
Going to get preachy here: Even though it's annoying to be following equipment on the road, or having to wait for a combine as it moves from a field to the road, please exercise caution around farm vehicles and equipment. Remember that someone like me is expecting a loved one home to kiss my daughters good night.
I didn't until my friend on Facebook, McDonough County Farm Bureau, reminded me. Thankfully, farm safety week did not land on the week that we were using our farmer scaffolding. All joking aside, farm safety week is during a time that slow moving vehicles frequent back roads; augers are being used at great length, and bleary eyed farmers are pushing to finish fields, despite being tired.
During this week, I have been late to various activities, as I tend to be. However, my tardiness has been increased thanks to the slow moving vehicles, tractors, wagons, what-have-you that are taking up road space and going roughly 3 miles per hour. Even though my frustrations are great, I have to take a minute and remember that the person behind that wheel is some one's dad, uncle, grandfather, husband, wife, mother, daughter, aunt or cousin. Someone who would be mourned greatly if a person like me, late to a mom's group, were to compromise their safety by following too closely or passing without really having a lot of room. I have to remember that they are just trying to be safe.
Unfortunately, nearly every farm family has some sort of "war story" in regards to a farm accident. A friend of mine just called to tell me her friend lost a brother tragically in a farm accident. My grandfather was nearly crushed by a tractor as he was unloading it from a trailer. We have had close calls with fingers, fingernails, heads needing to be stitched up and the like. However, a tragedy, knock on wood, has never occurred. I believe this is truly to the credit of the farmers in our operation.
Joe especially, maybe because I spend the most time with him, is freakishly safe. He calls my dad's mower, the one he walks behind, the "Man Killer," and regularly calls him when he's working with it. When his job is to watch the unloading auger during harvest, he does not allow any of our children to be anywhere near him, as disappointed as they may become. That's not something you mess around with. As irritating as it may seem at times, Joe never wears his wedding band. When we first started farming, I would hound him to at least wear it to church. However, I just found it in his "junk" drawer as I was rummaging for some change. A few short months ago, I would have been irritated with him, but I am thankful he has a finger to wear the ring on, as some farmers have lost a digit thanks to proclaiming their love publicly by wearing a wedding ring while working on equipment or with livestock.
There's too much to lose if one does not exercise safety on the farm. Period. I am thankful that I haven't had to endure a loss of a loved one or take anyone to the ER because of negligence or a freak turn of events, but there are those who have. For them, I am deeply sorry. There have been times that I haven't been able to reach either Joe or my dad, and I have played out the absolute worst in my head, only to be, thankfully, corrected by the simple call proclaiming that they couldn't hear their cell phones.
Going to get preachy here: Even though it's annoying to be following equipment on the road, or having to wait for a combine as it moves from a field to the road, please exercise caution around farm vehicles and equipment. Remember that someone like me is expecting a loved one home to kiss my daughters good night.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Country Cross Training
No, it isn't a typo, for all you cross country runners out there. I can hardly find the energy or strength in my arms to type, and it's not because of an amazing run or crazy work out I just completed in the comfort of a gym. It's because I just finished scrubbing the scuzz off of my house and garage.
Are you jealous?
Part of the joy of living in the country is peace, quiet, a large yard, great views, and all the scum and dirt and grossness that comes with living on a gravel road. We did what was best for our family (well, mainly me) with the remodel of our house, and that was to do it all at once, and not live in it while we were doing so. However, the outside "fix up" has been a slower process. We have added decks, landscaping, sidewalks, a driveway, replaced a porch floor, trimmed trees, but still have a few more steps before we (again, mainly I) feel like it's complete. One of the not-so-fun aspects of this ordeal was the cleaning of our siding.
Yargh.
I love my white house, as it has a classic farmhouse look, but seriously Grandma (God rest your soul), what were you thinking with the white siding? Geesh. Anyway, thanks to my mom, some bleach, TSP cleaner, and a scrub brush, I embarked on the adventure for the day.
Anyone jealous yet?
Seriously, if you want some instant gratification, find some scum and zap it with this formula. It's very gratifying.
Anyway, my point for today is that holy cow am I tired, and again, it's not because I was slated in my crazy-organized exercise mind to "cross train" today. I have been on my feet, up and down, scrubbing, stopping to make lunch for my family, then back at it on a ladder, then with an extentable scrubber (usually used on tractors and semis). Thankfully, as I was cursing the bumpiness of the north side of our yard, teetering atop my ladder, Joe came in and set up farmer scaffolding. . .i.e., a pallet on the loader tractor. He came to my rescue- I was beginning to envision myself falling to my death off the tippy ladder- and finished the job, so I could go off and curse my gravel road and all its nastiness (again) on the front side of my house.
What I have taken from today is that I am happy to have heavy machinery around to help me do the lovely projects that come with having a home. I am so thankful that Joe was in and out today as well to help me finish up. I just hope that I am able to literally pick up the kids when I get to my mom's house. I don't think this project was ever completed in the years my grandparents lived here, nor the 10 years the various renters lived on the premises. Here's hoping I don't have to do this for another 10. Yikes.
Are you jealous?
Part of the joy of living in the country is peace, quiet, a large yard, great views, and all the scum and dirt and grossness that comes with living on a gravel road. We did what was best for our family (well, mainly me) with the remodel of our house, and that was to do it all at once, and not live in it while we were doing so. However, the outside "fix up" has been a slower process. We have added decks, landscaping, sidewalks, a driveway, replaced a porch floor, trimmed trees, but still have a few more steps before we (again, mainly I) feel like it's complete. One of the not-so-fun aspects of this ordeal was the cleaning of our siding.
Yargh.
I love my white house, as it has a classic farmhouse look, but seriously Grandma (God rest your soul), what were you thinking with the white siding? Geesh. Anyway, thanks to my mom, some bleach, TSP cleaner, and a scrub brush, I embarked on the adventure for the day.
Anyone jealous yet?
Seriously, if you want some instant gratification, find some scum and zap it with this formula. It's very gratifying.
Anyway, my point for today is that holy cow am I tired, and again, it's not because I was slated in my crazy-organized exercise mind to "cross train" today. I have been on my feet, up and down, scrubbing, stopping to make lunch for my family, then back at it on a ladder, then with an extentable scrubber (usually used on tractors and semis). Thankfully, as I was cursing the bumpiness of the north side of our yard, teetering atop my ladder, Joe came in and set up farmer scaffolding. . .i.e., a pallet on the loader tractor. He came to my rescue- I was beginning to envision myself falling to my death off the tippy ladder- and finished the job, so I could go off and curse my gravel road and all its nastiness (again) on the front side of my house.
What I have taken from today is that I am happy to have heavy machinery around to help me do the lovely projects that come with having a home. I am so thankful that Joe was in and out today as well to help me finish up. I just hope that I am able to literally pick up the kids when I get to my mom's house. I don't think this project was ever completed in the years my grandparents lived here, nor the 10 years the various renters lived on the premises. Here's hoping I don't have to do this for another 10. Yikes.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Best of the Best
There's a canned Facebook status that keeps rolling through my news feed, and it reads something along the lines of "being happy isn't having the best of the best, it's being happy with what you have." Or something like that.
Now, while I totally agree that we shouldn't lust after things or covet others (isn't that one of the BIG TEN to abide by?), shouldn't we want the best of the best for our lives? Shouldn't we always strive for greatness and truly be happy when we have achieved both?
In agriculture, farmers are constantly striving for the best of the best. The best seed for their field's particular soil types, the best application practices for chemicals (gasp. . . yes, we do use chemicals, but note that neither me nor my children have a third eye, eleventh toe, or second belly button!), as well as the best equipment (no question at this operation. . .John Deere). Currently, the talk around here is the best time to start harvesting, which field will be the best to start with, as well as which variety of corn/beans we planted will yield the best.
The farmers are ready to be at their best, to reap what they have sown. They are fired up and getting jittery, however, I am struggling. Yes, I know, again, but the end of August and beginning of September is going to be a time, I am figuring out, that I start to feel hysterical. School has started, and while I am in LOVE with the fact that I have a kindergartner, I used to be a teacher. And now I'm not. And, upon entering the school the first day, holding my daughter's hand, I felt the tug that this is where I belong. I used to be good. I used to use school to create my identity. I used to GET PAID. I'm left feeling as if I am not at my best of the best.
Farm wives, the ones that do not drive the tractors, haul the grain, or work (so I guess the three of us that are left) are to hold down the fort while the farmers go great guns and run all hours of the night, livin' the life. While I know that Joe will be completely and totally in his element, and loves to keep busy, I will be busy, too, exhausted and disappointed that I won't be getting what I need to accomplish done in the small window of time I have when I'm not needed to play Barbies or basketball with my kids.
Why do I want to constantly put on my best of the best, when at the busy times, when I am basically a single mom, survival should be the goal? And now that I am this farm wife and stay at home mom, what is my best of the best, really? I know in my heart that it is to be a wife and a mother first, but some times isn't it easier to point to what you accomplished during a day that makes you feel as if you truly did the best of the best?
I am excited for the start of harvest, don't get me wrong. I am looking forward to seeing my husband's face when he reports a good yield, calculating the bushels per acre, and his excited report when the acres harvested are more than the acres left standing. Although this defines our livelihood, and I understand that, should I be considering this as my best of the best? When I am still learning the ins and outs of farming, how can I determine what is great and what's not-so-great? And, if I'm not using our livelihood as a barometer for success, are completed laundry loads accomplishments worth accolades? No one in my family really cares that the windows are washed, so why do I equate this to success these days?
What's wrong with me?
Nothing, I'm just me.
Thus, I'm putting my Sad Sally attitude up this harvest season. If the guys point to the land and think that's their best of the best, I am going to point to my girls and say the same. While I don't get a paycheck for what I'm doing (well, a teeny tiny one from BlogHer), what I will reap are three children who will remember that Mom used coupons to buy Nutty Bars, because that's what Daddy loves, and we ate them all together on the tailgate one late harvest night as a family. They won't remember whether or not my windows were washed by the end of the week, but will remember that I took time to finish Ramona and Beezus that night. Joe just wants me to be happy and supportive, and to try not to sigh when he works late. I will try my best.
The relationships I cultivate this season will be my best of the best.
Now, while I totally agree that we shouldn't lust after things or covet others (isn't that one of the BIG TEN to abide by?), shouldn't we want the best of the best for our lives? Shouldn't we always strive for greatness and truly be happy when we have achieved both?
In agriculture, farmers are constantly striving for the best of the best. The best seed for their field's particular soil types, the best application practices for chemicals (gasp. . . yes, we do use chemicals, but note that neither me nor my children have a third eye, eleventh toe, or second belly button!), as well as the best equipment (no question at this operation. . .John Deere). Currently, the talk around here is the best time to start harvesting, which field will be the best to start with, as well as which variety of corn/beans we planted will yield the best.
The farmers are ready to be at their best, to reap what they have sown. They are fired up and getting jittery, however, I am struggling. Yes, I know, again, but the end of August and beginning of September is going to be a time, I am figuring out, that I start to feel hysterical. School has started, and while I am in LOVE with the fact that I have a kindergartner, I used to be a teacher. And now I'm not. And, upon entering the school the first day, holding my daughter's hand, I felt the tug that this is where I belong. I used to be good. I used to use school to create my identity. I used to GET PAID. I'm left feeling as if I am not at my best of the best.
Farm wives, the ones that do not drive the tractors, haul the grain, or work (so I guess the three of us that are left) are to hold down the fort while the farmers go great guns and run all hours of the night, livin' the life. While I know that Joe will be completely and totally in his element, and loves to keep busy, I will be busy, too, exhausted and disappointed that I won't be getting what I need to accomplish done in the small window of time I have when I'm not needed to play Barbies or basketball with my kids.
Why do I want to constantly put on my best of the best, when at the busy times, when I am basically a single mom, survival should be the goal? And now that I am this farm wife and stay at home mom, what is my best of the best, really? I know in my heart that it is to be a wife and a mother first, but some times isn't it easier to point to what you accomplished during a day that makes you feel as if you truly did the best of the best?
I am excited for the start of harvest, don't get me wrong. I am looking forward to seeing my husband's face when he reports a good yield, calculating the bushels per acre, and his excited report when the acres harvested are more than the acres left standing. Although this defines our livelihood, and I understand that, should I be considering this as my best of the best? When I am still learning the ins and outs of farming, how can I determine what is great and what's not-so-great? And, if I'm not using our livelihood as a barometer for success, are completed laundry loads accomplishments worth accolades? No one in my family really cares that the windows are washed, so why do I equate this to success these days?
What's wrong with me?
Nothing, I'm just me.
Thus, I'm putting my Sad Sally attitude up this harvest season. If the guys point to the land and think that's their best of the best, I am going to point to my girls and say the same. While I don't get a paycheck for what I'm doing (well, a teeny tiny one from BlogHer), what I will reap are three children who will remember that Mom used coupons to buy Nutty Bars, because that's what Daddy loves, and we ate them all together on the tailgate one late harvest night as a family. They won't remember whether or not my windows were washed by the end of the week, but will remember that I took time to finish Ramona and Beezus that night. Joe just wants me to be happy and supportive, and to try not to sigh when he works late. I will try my best.
The relationships I cultivate this season will be my best of the best.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Et tu, Elmwood?
There are certain stereotypes that all people who don't live in an urban area must fight against. Farmers especially have to constantly work on their images, fighting common misconceptions such as the thoughts that we are uneducated, un-worldly, or out of touch with the rest of the country.
However, when a rural community puts on an event that works against all of this, trying not to reinforce these stereotypes becomes an uphill battle.
Case in point: hog wrestling at Elmwood's Fall Festival.
Seriously. There's going to be hog wrestling. In the mud. And, I believe shirts are optional.
Sigh.
I am working on trying to place farming and rural living and agriculture in a positive, educated, exciting, albeit some times dirty light. Thanks for the setback.
Regardless, we will not be participating in the hog wrestling events, and neither will my hog producer uncle, nor will my hog farmer father-in-law. They don't have to wrestle hogs on a regular basis, as their operations are tightly run ships that don't require gettin' down and dirty.
I guess I should take in this competition and see who's participating. Maybe there is good exercise to be had by rolling around in the mud, trying to gain one's footing while chasing after a greased pig. Maybe I should get a team of six together and try it out; then I wouldn't have so many judgemental thoughts, per se, and instead make some concrete and real observations on this rural past time. . .
Maybe not.
I think, instead, I'll hope that those participating will have hit the "First Annual Beer Tent" prior to the competition, and not be aware enough of ones surroundings to realize how a competition like this is so ridiculous and embarrassing to an otherwise beautiful and interesting rural community.
Here's hoping.
However, when a rural community puts on an event that works against all of this, trying not to reinforce these stereotypes becomes an uphill battle.
Case in point: hog wrestling at Elmwood's Fall Festival.
Seriously. There's going to be hog wrestling. In the mud. And, I believe shirts are optional.
Sigh.
I am working on trying to place farming and rural living and agriculture in a positive, educated, exciting, albeit some times dirty light. Thanks for the setback.
Regardless, we will not be participating in the hog wrestling events, and neither will my hog producer uncle, nor will my hog farmer father-in-law. They don't have to wrestle hogs on a regular basis, as their operations are tightly run ships that don't require gettin' down and dirty.
I guess I should take in this competition and see who's participating. Maybe there is good exercise to be had by rolling around in the mud, trying to gain one's footing while chasing after a greased pig. Maybe I should get a team of six together and try it out; then I wouldn't have so many judgemental thoughts, per se, and instead make some concrete and real observations on this rural past time. . .
Maybe not.
I think, instead, I'll hope that those participating will have hit the "First Annual Beer Tent" prior to the competition, and not be aware enough of ones surroundings to realize how a competition like this is so ridiculous and embarrassing to an otherwise beautiful and interesting rural community.
Here's hoping.
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