Supporting Local Businesses

When it's time for an oil change in my truck--as it was recently--I make an appointment with Jason Andrist at Bird’s Auto.  I usually ask for the oil change along with a general checkup of tires, fluids, and all that stuff under the hood (see why I have a mechanic?) so I know the truck is in good shape for a long haul.  

I’ve taken my vehicles to Jason for almost ten years now.  I completely trust his advice and workmanship.  If Jason tells me something needs to be fixed right now, I know that it’s a true thing.  Often when I take my truck/car in to him, he’ll give it a once-over and then call me is we can prioritize:  what needs to be fixed right now because it’s a safety issue, what will need attention in the intermediate future, and what can really wait for quite a while.

Taking my car to Bird’s goes back to a philosophy that my Daddy told me, and my husband reiterated:  patronize your local small businesses, particularly the plumber, the electrician, and the mechanic.  Maybe it’s because, as farmers, Dad--and now Captain--are sole proprietors trying to make a living so they get it about owning your own business and the fluctuations thereof as well as the pride of building a solid reputation among your neighbors.

When I can, I make it a point to buy local.  I take my car to Bird’s Auto.  I buy (most of) my landscaping plants from Joel’s Greenhouse in Pine Island or Houstons in Kasson.  My plumber is Zumbro Valley Plumbing in Mantorville.  My well repair guy lives down the road from me.  If I needed a new well, I’d be calling Thein Well Company.  And let me just say that Troy at Hardware Hank in Pine Island has been my savior more than once when Captain has sent me in to get new nuts, bolts, or screws.  I can take the old item in with me and find Troy and tell him, “I need this.”  It saves me from bumbling about back in the nuts and bolts section making a mess.  Plus I get to find out how Troy’s family is doing and how business is for him, and most likely I will find something to buy for myself.  

I used to buy all my floral arrangements from Arel’s in Pine Island, but Ken and Barb retired about a year ago.  For awhile, I used Hy-Vee floral and was never disappointed.  Now Pine Island has a new florist called Tulips and Truffles which is my go-to place for floral deliveries.

When you support your local, family-owned businesses, you are supporting your community because those businesses pay taxes that are used to pay for streets, schools, and law enforcement.  I hope I'm not repeating some political campaign tag line, but when the businesses on main street are thriving, pretty much everybody is thriving.  When those businesses make money, they build houses and buy new cars and go out to eat in your town.  Everybody wins, so it only makes sense.

I’m not saying there isn’t a time and a place to patronize the big box stores because, make no mistake about it, I have made plenty of middle-of-the-night trips to Walmart for this, that, or the other thing.  However, when you can, please join me in making buying local a priority.

Images from:

http://www.independentwestand.org/

http://thewowstyle.com/30-inspiring-and-successful-business-quotes/

www.pinstamatic.com

Never Forget

If you are like a large percentage of Americans, your Memorial Day weekend likely involves a grill, adult beverages, and a cluster of friends or family or both.  This is important because sharing good times with those we love is what makes life fun.

If you are like a smaller percentage of Americans, your weekend also includes a visit to a cemetery where you pay respects to loved ones who have passed.  

This is important because it’s respectful to remember those who came before us.

As a kid, I remember making those trips to the cemetery.  We made a day of it.  After chores were done in the morning and we all got cleaned up, Mom would cut some irises from her flower beds, and we would head out to the Oronoco cemetery where my mom’s dad, Emil Prokasky, was buried.  From there, we would head to Grandview Cemetery on Marion Road in Rochester where my dad’s parents were buried.  They, and now my dad, are in the section right along Marion Road by the praying hands monument.  Further into the cemetery to the south and west, there are a half a dozen or so of my dad’s aunts and uncles.  I remember searching that section with dad when we were kids and finding all of them, almost like a treasure hunt.  

Captain and I tried to find them again one year when we stopped to visit Dad, and I couldn’t find a one of them. I know darn good and well they are there, but I couldn’t find them.  I’m sure Aunt Donna or Aunt Linda knows where they are.  I should have them meet me there sometime and show me again.

If you are like a smaller yet percentage of Americans, you visit the cemetery during the Memorial Day services that honor our fallen soldiers.

In Brogan World, we combine these things and do a picnic at his mom's after we do the cemetery services. First we go to St. Michael’s cemetery where we pay our respects to Captain’s brother, Pat, who was killed in a farm accident in 1984, and Captain’s dad, Jim, who drowned on a fishing trip to Canada in 2007. After that, we go to Evergreen cemetery in Mantorville where we pay respect to our niece, Angie, and to Leah's dad, Max, who are buried there.  

The whole cemetery service thing was a new experience for me when I got married.  I didn’t even know they did this sort of thing at cemeteries.  We haven’t missed one in 28 years, and it gets me right in the heart every time.  The VFW representatives honor the fallen veterans, then the auxiliary ladies honor their members who have passed, and then a local priest or minister blesses those present and those passed.

Then it’s Taps and the 21-gun salute.  This is where I bawl every time.    

Because remembering our fallen military people isn’t just important.  It’s a duty.

Let me say that again.

It is our duty to respectfully remember those who have served because all gave some, but some gave all.

We all need to get down on our knees this weekend and thank God that we live in this country where there are good jobs that provide a federal holiday when you can gather with friends and family to celebrate and to remember the ones who are no longer here.  And while we are down on our knees, do not forget.  Do not EVER forget that we can do those things because there were young men and women throughout our history who answered the call of duty to serve and protect our freedoms.

God bless you.

God bless America

God bless our military personnel and keep them safe in their duty.

Image from: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/13/a7/14/13a7144e2ebba0ffb71665aa44375722.jpg

I Speak Fluent Sarcasm

In the course of my life, I have sometimes been described as rude, abrasive, and bitchy.  Sometimes those were accurate statements.  Sometimes, I was just excessively sarcastic and got mislabeled.

The sarcasm must be an inherent trait, because neither one of my parents had it.  In my recent tip-toeings around Pinterest, I found several posts that said the Aquarius zodiac sign was notoriously sarcastic, so I'll blame it on that.

Most of the time, I am sarcastic when adding side comments to a  story that I am telling.  

So this idiot passed me in a no-passing zone and I was like "So you think that five seconds you just risked your life and mine for is going to what...make you famous?"

If we are watching Big Bang Theory or Friends, I laugh more at the sarcasm than anything else because my theory is:

I don't recommend sarcasm as a means of deliberating hurting someone's feelings; that's just mean.  If I were going to liken it to cooking, I would say sarcasm shouldn't be the salt that you splash on every aspect of your food.  It should be your cayenne pepper that you use with judicious caution because some spice is good, but too much gives you indigestion.  

Most times I keep it in my head because, well, you can't go around blasting everyone.  F'rinstance...one day not long after Young Man got married and started his new life, we were talking and he said, "Mom, you have no idea how expensive laundry soap is!"

Bite your tongue...bite your tongue...say it in your head:  You're right, I have no idea because in 25 years of marriage and motherhood, I have never once done a load of laundry.  The laundry elves always magically had that taken care of for me while I slept. I am so sorry that you have to deal with the nasty realities of life, my child.

I keep my sarcasm skills honed sharply just by interacting with Captain.  He makes it so stinking easy!

Captain is hard-wired to think the worst about any scenario.  If you want to know the absolute worst outcome on anything...ask Captain; he'll be able to tell you.

Me, I am eternally optimistic.  This creates some friction.

Early in our marriage--and remembering those comments about my personality--I would try to be Mrs. Warm Fuzzy when Captain was on a negative kick, and our conversation might go like this:

Captain:  The corn is planted.  It probably won't grow.
Me:  You can't think like that.  Of course it will grow.  You took all the right steps to make sure that there are as few weeds as possible, as much fertilizer as possible, asked questions of all the right experts, and did it as cost effectively as anyone else could have!

Didn't make a dent in his perceptions.  I tried, failed, and went back to my default so that our current conversations go more like this:

Captain:  The corn is planted.  It probably won't grow.
Me:  I'm sure you're right.  You have never planted corn in your life and have absolutely no clue what you're doing.  I'm sure there will be hail, fire, pestilence, and earthquakes...possibly a small civil war.  You'll be lucky to get one bushel off 300 acres.
Captain:  Your're mocking me aren't you?
Me:  Who me?  I would never do such a thing.

Even Captain's mom, who is in the top two of my favorite people, gets blasted sometimes.

Captain's mom:  I'm sure you guys are tired of helping me with [insert chore] all the time.
Me:  You're right, we can't stand you.  Helping you because we love you and it's the right thing to do has absolutely nothing to do with it.  

Maybe the only person who isn't persecuted by my sarcasm is Molly, and that's only because she inherited the art from me and gives as good as she gets.  If we ever did get into it, I'm not sure who I would put my money on!

Images from:
http://www.lovethispic.com/image/243882/heavy-sarcasm-may-be-present
https://instagr.in/p/1070198738259643091_1943090609
https://www.pinterest.com/source/minionsonly.com
http://ww4.soulmatelifequotes.com/kwrf=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pinterest.com%2F#sthash.iqXWdPIC.qjtu
https://www.pinterest.com/source/minionsonly.com

From Road Rage to Peace and Contentment

My niece’s birthday was this past weekend, so my mom and I drove over together.  My mom is still pretty independent, but a 2-hour drive to Chippewa Falls wasn’t necessary for her to do since I was going to the same place at the same time, right?

We took the scenic route through Wabasha, Nelson, Durand, Mondovi, Eleva, and then through Eau Claire north to Chippewa Falls.  It was a beautiful day to just leisurely toodle down the two-lane country roads.  

Apparently not everyone else was of the same mind because at one point another car when flying past us (in a no passing zone on a hill, mind you).  Five miles later when we caught up with him at an intersection in one of those little towns, my mom turned to me and said, “Should we flip him off?”

Mother!  NO...do not flip him off.  Do you even know what that means??

I told her to stick her tongue out at him instead.  Yeesh!

Road rage tends to be rampant in our family.  Captain has no tolerance for stupid drivers, and this mild-mannered, soft-spoken, gentle man becomes a fanged monster in the face of driver stupidity.  He yells things like Nice use of your turn signal, peckerhead!  Or maybe Hey dumbass, when you go in the ditch driving 70 mph on glare ice, I”m not stopping to help you!  

Captain’s mom handles dicey driving situations differently (as a passenger).  She will gasp and grab the oh-shit handle or the dashboard.  Like that’s going to prevent an accident.  All that will do is break both of her arms if there is a collision!  

I do a lot of yelling and screaming at other drivers (like they can hear me???) when I see something stupid.  What the hell?  Do you KNOW there is a speed limit here?  Did you eat a big bowl of stupid for breakfast??  

But, stupid drivers aside, we had a nice visit on the drive over there.  Mom stayed there for the weekend, and I came home so I could attend another niece’s last high school choir production.  I took the express route home down I-94 to Baldwin and down to Red Wing.  I like this route because (a) it’s faster and (b) I pass through Ellsworth, Wisconsin, and must stop at the creamery for fresh cheese curds that are still warm and squeak.  Their retail shop also sells bratwurst seasonally that are flavored.  Our favorite is bacon and cheese curd brats, so I loaded up on cheese curds and brats and headed home.  

Yesterday was plant the garden day.  Most years, this task falls to me and Captain’s mom.  We always get the stuff in the ground, but it isn’t always pretty.  We have crooked rows and haphazard hills of vining things.  This year, Captain was present and accounted for to help, so our rows are military straight thanks to two stakes with a string tie to them to make straight rows AND a measuring tape to make certain the rows and plants were all far enough apart to get our rear-tine tiller through.  It’s a very pretty layout.  I love garden planting day because there is so much potential as I look at it.  It doesn’t always turn out that way.  Last year, our green bean crop was a dismal failure, even after replanting.  

This year we planted tomatoes, kohlrabi, green peppers, eggplant, zucchini, green beans, Swiss chard, radishes, leaf lettuce, cucumbers, potatoes, and squash.  If everything grows like it should, I will be able to restock my pantry shelves with canned green beans, salsa, stewed tomatoes, tomato juice, and vegetable soup.  Although I will have to go to a farmer’s market to get the carrots for the soup because those just don’t do well in our garden.  We have way too much clay in our soil.

Tonight I am taking Mama Bear to the nursery to help her buy a few annuals to do a couple of pots. Baby steps...you have to start small. That way you aren't out much money or time if you find it is something you just don't care to do. Or, if you absolutely love it, you can add to your container addiction over time until you're like me and have 28 different pots!

I'm glad I ended my weekend on a peaceful, content note in the garden and left the irritation of stupid drivers behind!

Images from

http://www.prettydesigns.com/32-funny-quotes-to-make-a-joyful-day/

http://www.stockpilingmoms.com/2012/05/pinterest-daily-pin-gardening-quote/

http://www.craftsy.com/blog/2014/08/you-know-youre-a-gardener-when/?ext=Pinterest_Gardening_OP_BLOG_2032&utm_source=Pinterest&utm_medium=Social%20Engagement&utm_campaign=Pinterest%20Followers-Registrations&initialPage=true

May Basket! May Basket!

So the last post about the outhouses elicited some comments, and my own memories, of May baskets.

Most of you may know May Baskets as the sweet little tradition similar to this recollection of a reporter, circa 1871:  "A May-basket is — well, I hardly know how to describe it; but 'tis something to be hung on a door. Made of paper generally, it contains almost anything, by way of small presents you have in mind to put in it, together with your respects, best wishes — love, perhaps. It is hung after dark at the door of anybody the hanger fancies. — Which done, the said hanger knocks and scampers."

Not so in Planet Potsdam, where I grew up!  May Baskets were events of epic proportion equivalent to an alien invasion.  If the Potsdam Immanuel Lutheran group (yes, this was a church thing!) had targeted you, we would descend on you like a plague of locusts.  Or an army of Ninja warriors.  Or maybe an army of Ninja locusts.  You just never knew.

So how it usually worked, from my best recollections, is that along about Wednesday, someone from our church would get an urge to “hang a May basket” on someone.  Multiple phone calls ensued to get it set up.

This all required logistical planning--who was going to bring sloppy joes, who was going to bring bars, and who was going to get the two to three buckets of candy.  That’s right...plural buckets.  I am also fairly certain, although I was not in this informational loop as a child, that someone considerately called the housewife who would be invaded at least a day or two ahead of time to give her a heads up so some spiffing up of the abode could be surreptiously accomplished without raising any red flags with her children.  

Then there was the strategical planning.  The army of Ninja warriors consisted of usually 10 to 11 couples and 15 to 20 kids.  Transportation was a major issue.  A meeting place and time was designated, and at the appointed hour, kids would cram into the back of two or three pickups.  Adults were in two to three cars, and these were the lead vehicles.

As the convoy approached the target, the lead vehicles slowed down and the pickups with kids stopped so the kids could all bail out and scatter into the darkness.  The lead vehicles then continued to the front yard, horns blowing (blowing horns was a big deal for this group), and exited their vehicles shouting “May Basket, May Basket!”  

Having been on both the giving and receiving end of things in these events, I’ll give both perspectives of what happened next.

The Ninja warriors, having had a head start, were all finding hiding places.  This could be as simple as behind the lilac bush or as stealthy as the middle to upper branches of the old crab apple tree, from whence the Ninja could wait for an unsuspecting searcher to walk below and then drop out of the tree--hopefully--just behind them to scare them senseless while the NInja raced away to hide again.  The object here was for the targets to find all of the Ninjas before the Ninjas could infiltrate Command Central where there was candy, pop, and a bathroom.

Some families had amazing yards with lots of dark nooks and crannies that made exceptional hiding places (also important later in the evening...we’ll come back to that) but some were lit up like Christmas with few hiding places of note.  

So, on the flip side, as the target of invasion, you would just be going about your business as normal (except for Mom, who knew what was coming) and then BLAM...there were cars racing into your yard with horn blowing and a bunch of crazy loons yelling “May Basket, May Basket!”

The ensuing bedlam of I can’t find my shoes...screw it, I’ll go barefoot! and I’ll check the hayloft! from the kids along with Come in and have a beer! from the adults made for absolute chaos for a few seconds until the targeted kids lined up their defense plan and hit the dark.  

Someone always ran headlong into someone else or crashed into the lawn mower that got left in the back yard because it was out of gas or got so winded/laughed so hard they puked.  Nothing should surprise you on May Basket night.  The search would continue for maybe 30 to 45 minutes before either Surrender was called or a truce was negotiated due to dry throats, empty tummies, and full bladders requiring a trip to Command Central.

After the initial search and seizure portion of the evening, whether you were the invaders or the targets, the rest of the night settled into the same routine.  

The adults would stay in the house with their refreshments and they would have two to three tables of shaskoup going.  This is a card game that I have never heard referenced outside of Planet Potsdam.  I tried to Google it and I got suggestions for shake up and shack up.  I thought maybe I wasn’t spelling it correctly (and please let me know the correct spelling if you know it), so I added “card game” to my Google search and got the suggestion for smash up.  So I don’t know...maybe this is a made up game from Planet Potsdam that doesn’t exist anywhere else.  

Anyway, from what I could gather as a child, this was a cross between maybe bridge and 500 or pinnochle and euchre...I was never quite sure because I didn’t know how to play any of those games.  If it wasn’t Go Fish or Crazy Eights...it didn’t exist in my world.  Oh, and Slap Jack.  And War...

But I digress.

So the adults were playing cards.  This particular game that I can’t spell or play requires two decks of cards being combined and dealt out to six players.  There was bidding involved, and the high card was the queen of clubs, dubbed the Curly Queen, but I don’t know why.  This competition could get intense!  

There would be the usual off-color jokes told, neighborhood news, and good-natured insults.  Until someone on a team made a bone-head play or biffed the bidding, and then all bets were off and all hell could break loose.  That’s when the kids would decide that refreshments were done, and they headed outside for their own fierce competition.

In Planet Potsdam, we played Midnight Starlight.  I believe this is also sometimes called Ghost in the Graveyard.  It was basically hide and seek, but the seekees had to get back to “base” (normally the front steps of the house) before the seekers could tag them.  I think there were some more complicated rules in there, often made up on the spot to suit someone’s needs, but I’m not entirely certain.  It’s been so long since I played that game that the memory banks are a little fuzzy.

Anyway, along about 11:00 or so, one of the moms would come out on the front steps and yell that the food was ready and come and get it.  So this is really where the plague of locusts comes in because these 15-20 who have been tearing around the front and back yard like demons for two hours are starved and parched.  If the adults were smart, they’d loaded up their plates first because by the time the kids got through...there really wasn’t a whole lot left.  

Sadly, the tradition of May Baskets has gone the way of tinker toys, the metal Slinky, and jacks...mostly relegated to us middle agers and older.  That’s too bad because those May Basket memories are some of the best from when I was a kid.  I’m guessing that my Planet Potsdam peeps would agree!

On a closing note, I will share a quote that my cousin, Dawn, said her dad repeated every year on the First of May: May Day, May Day! Outdoor necking starts today!

Outlaws and Outhouses

I was walking around the yard the other night checking out flower beds to see what’s popping and what is not.  Around the garage and central boiler, I have a crop of heirloom hollyhocks.  The seeds I planted years ago came from Captain’s mom who got them from her mom who grew them back at the family farm.  So there is a generational connection there.  

Did you know that hollyhocks are biennials, meaning they only bloom every two years?  Luckily, when we got the seeds from Captain’s mom, we got enough so that we get blooms every year:  one year we get pink and white flowers, and the other year we get magenta flowers.  

Back in the day, hollyhocks were planted on just about every homestead as a way to camouflage the outhouse because they get up to 7 feet tall and could pretty easily shroud the ugliness of the facilities.  Of course, in these modern days, we don’t need to use them for that purpose, but they do make nice camouflage for fences and such.  

Speaking of outhouses, they were sort of a big part of my childhood.  Not because we actually had one that we had to use.  No, it was an entertainment activity for my dad and his cronies.

Between Dad and his two best friends, they could come up with mischief schemes like noboby’s business, but always in a light-hearted and never mean-spirited way.  Except for that one top-secret thing that I will share with you if and when the records are ever declassified.

So, very often, their mischief of choice was to go out after dark, load an old outhouse in a pickup, and take it to someone’s house where they would sit in the yard blowing the horn until lights came on in the house and someone came out.  

The rules of the game were easy:  if you gave them beer, they wouldn’t leave the outhouse.  If you didn’t...well, there was going to be an outhouse in your yard!  Part of the fun, if they did end up leaving an outhouse somewhere, was going back to get it and having some more beer and visiting with the homeowners.  I remember hearing lots of stories as a child about their late night adventures.

Even as an adult, I get to hear about it because every time I see one of the participants, which is frequently as our network of mutual friends is huge, he tells the story of their late-night visit to my house.

I was a young newlywed with a home of my own.  I was standing at the kitchen sink one night washing dishes while Captain was taking a shower.  I saw lights coming down the street, which was odd because there were only a handful of houses on our street and all the occupants were already home and in their houses.  

Then I saw the lights turn in our driveway.  Oh fun, company!  Some of our first visitors as homeowners.  

Then--THEN--I saw the outhouse in the back of the pickup, and I saw three goofballs in the cab of the pickup all with shit-eating grins on their faces.  

Knowing full well the rules of the game, I yelled for Mike to put some clothes on and then ran for the fridge to grab three cans of beer, pop the tops, and head out the door to distribute it.  

Too late, they’d already unloaded the outhouse in my front yard.  

I figured I should have been exempt from this particular practical joke because my dad was part of the team and--hey--I followed the rules!  Nope, no such luck.

At any rate, we had a nice visit with three of my all-time favorite people for a couple of hours and several more beers all around.  

On their way out the door, they happened to see the old porcelain toilet that we had taken out when we remodeled the bathroom.  A deal was struck that they would take that one with them instead of the outhouse, and we could do with the outhouse what we wanted.  And off they went.

Turns out they stopped at another neighbor’s house on their way home in full Game Mode, blowing the horn in the yard in the middle of the night, and wouldn’t you know they had another nice visit before they finally called it quits for the night.

So now I had an outhouse in my yard.  Hmmm...what to do with it.  I could have planted hollyhocks around it and kept it...made it a conversation piece of my landscaping.  

Who was I kidding?  I was Bigfoot’s daughter down to the bone.  I was going to pass it forward to someone else!  Captain and I drafted a high school friend of his and made a midnight run with it a few weeks later.  We secretly (no horn blowing for us) left it for Captain’s best friend in his driveway, which just happened to be on a busy intersection just outside of Pine Island so EVERYBODY saw it!

Eventually we retrieved it and returned it to it’s rightful owner so that HE had to come out with beer for ME, I might add!

My dad and his buddies might have had a unique approach to entertainment and mischief, but they never hurt anyone and it always provided them with some fun...a lot of fun, actually.  

We all need to make mischief and do fun stuff or what’s the point of living?  Whatever your choice of entertainment is, indulge it!  Just don’t hurt anyone in the process.

Calf Chores

With Captain going long days planting corn, the calf chores at home have fallen to me.  I get to do this for a few days every spring and a few days every fall.  Just enough to remind me I’m very thankful I don’t have to do it twice a day every day.

We buy baby bull calves from local farmers, and we raise them to market weight animals for butcher.  That’d be where you get your tasty steaks and burger, my friends!

We don’t usually get the calves until they are several days old, meaning they are no longer drinking from a bottle and therefore have to take their nourishment from a pail of milk.  Personally, I don’t mind bottle feeding calves, because they get the concept when you shove a bottle in their mouth.

Pails of milk...yeah, not so much.  

They don’t understand they need to put their noses DOWN into the pail to get what they want, so you have to trick them--I mean teach them--differently.  This involves sticking your fingers in their mouth and once they start sucking, put their head in the pail of milk.  

Of course, by doing so, I now have one arm elbow-deep in a pail of sticky milk, one hand holding the pail of milk which is also clamped between my knees to, hopefully, prevent the inevitable head butt.  All this in a stooped or hunched posture because my arms are too short to do otherwise.  I must make quite the picture to passersby.

A neighbor did tell us a trick years ago that was easier.  Use rubber duckies.  No lie!  If you put a rubber ducky in the pail of milk, the calf is intrigued by it, tries to suck on it, and in the process learns that if his nose is in the pail of milk, he gets to eat.  Weird, but it actually does work.

I couldn’t find any spare rubber duckies last night, so I had to resort to the old-fashioned approach to it.  And yes, in that stooped posture over a pail of milk and a hungry calf, the inevitable head butt causes more of the milk to flume out of the pail and into my face, hair, and eyes than sometimes get into the calf.  Now I’m also wet and stinky.  Joy and rapture.  

But sometimes they are so darn cute, you just can’t get mad!  Well, yeah, I can...but I get over it fairly quickly.  How can you look at this face and be mad?

My mom told me when I was helping her feed calves when I was a kid, that the calves head butted like that because when they were nursing from Mama Cow, that head butt would stimulate milk flow.  I bought it at the time because--hey--I was just a dumb kid and didn’t know better.

Now that I am older and wiser and have done some nursing of offspring myself, I am here to testify that if I had been head butted like that during nursing, I’d have dropped the baby on the floor and curled up in the fetal position crying.  That cannot feel good to a cow!  

Anyway, I am on calf duty for a few days.  This is always interesting.

Captain approaches this quite differently than I do.  He mixes all the milk (water and powdered milk replacer) in a 5-gallon pail in our milkhouse in the barn, and he carries the pail to Calf Country where he divides the milk into individual pails.  This is all well and good for him because he is a big strong man.  Me?  I’m a weak, out-of-shape woman of a certain age.  I have to mix the milk in the individual pails and carry those out to Calf Country.  

I can carry four of those smaller pails at one time, which works out well if we are only feeding, say, 8 calves.  We get up over 10 calves, and that is a lot of trips back and forth from the milkhouse to Calf Country.  I try to be positive and think of it as my exercise program.  I don’t always convince myself, though.  

Once everyone’s tummy is happy in Calf Country, all those pails need to be washed.  Not a big deal you might say, and you might be right if the milkhouse had a working floor drain.  Alas, ours does not, so the wash water needs to stay contained in the 5-gallon pail while the smaller pails are dunked and scrubbed in it.  After the final washing, that water needs to be carried outside and dumped out on the ground.  It’s not complicated, it’s just harder than it needs to be.  But it is doable, and I got it done.  

I’ll do it again for the next few days.  This is my contribution to the farming thing while Captain is otherwise occupied.  I can’t drive the tractor and planter, so I have to do what I can here at home.  If you want to find me, look in Calf Country!