I Didn't Do It!

I have been accused of many things in my life.  Some accusations were correct.  Others were way off base.  This time no one can pin it on me.  I was out of the state!

We lived in the country until I was nine.  My sisters were (still are) considerably older than me.  My play mates were our cats.  I could chase them around the green grass all morning.  After lunch we would snuggle in the warm sunshine.

We moved to the city when I was nine.  I was the typical latchkey kid.   I came home to an empty house after school.  But it was never lonely.  There was always a cat to welcome me at the door and give me endless hours of attention.  My parents frequently accused me of bringing cats home and pretending I had found them at the door.  I will take the Fifth on that.   

I am a cat person.  My children accuse me of getting older and being a cat hoarder.  One can not hoard cats.  Accumulating them through the years is easy.  Seeing how many can fit in bed with you without your husband catching on is the tricky part.

Seriously, we only have two cats.  A male and female.  They get along fabulously.  Bo, the male, is muscular at 17 pounds.  Brizzy, the female, is petite at 7 pounds.  Don't let the petite cat fool you.  She can stalk Bo, pounce on his back and take him down.  Brizzy has to stretch out one white paw to touch Bo while they sleep.  They complete our household.

So, Doug and I had a surprise waiting for us after a weeks vacation.  Twelve feet up in our maple tree was a tiny black kitten. (Let me say again; I was out of the state.  I did not plant this kitten!)  Her body was all eyes.  She had a pitiful mew!  The poor kitty was lost and hungry.  I told her, "Don't worry!  Doug's a fireman.  He'll get you down!"

Sure enough, Doug reached out his arms and down she scampered.  Where did she come from?  We live five miles from town and a half mile from our nearest neighbor.  We bundled her up, jumped back in the truck to ask our neighbors if they lost a kitten.  No one claimed her.  So we sped into town for kitten food. 

While Doug was in the Country Store purchasing food, I was in the truck scheming.  This kitten needed a name if  Doug was going to let me keep her.  And I was going to keep her!  Doug hopped back in the truck and I announced,  "I think we should call her Midnight."

"I was thinking the same thing," he said to my astonishment.  He wanted her too.  I had married a keeper!

Midnight's meeting of her new brother and sister went so-so.  Brizzy was appalled at the idea of another female in the house.  In fact, she hissed so much she got a sore throat and had to visit the doctor.  Bo was a little more excited.  He realized this meant there would be kitten food in the house for him to steal.  He was so excited about that, he meowed and meowed with joy.  Then he got a sore throat and had to go to the doctor too.

Now we are one happy family. The cats have settled into their routines.  Brizzy and Midnight roll around and pounce on each other.  Bo watches and wonders what all the exertion of energy is about.  Bo sleeps at my feet.  Brizzy snoozes between my legs.  Midnight sleeps curled up by my neck.  Doug, well, he pretends he doesn't notice the felines taking up most of the bed and snuggles beside me.  We are family!

No Yellow Flags

Have you ever been to a car race named after a number and has multiple flip-overs and fires?  I have.

In south Texas I went to drag races.  The race lasted 4.5 seconds.  Don't blink twice or you miss them.  After we moved to Iowa Doug and I went to stock car races.  It's deafening.  Your chest vibrates as the cars go rumbling by.  The races last forever.  Especially if there is an accident and the yellow flag must come out.  The excitement is high nonetheless.  I have now discovered something here called Figure 8 races.  It is the coolest thing since Rockem Sockem Robots. 

My son, Robby, our cousin, Shannon, and myself drove a hour away to a town with a population of 1,232.  We walked into the Fair Grounds where a lady was perched on a bucket collecting the cash admission fee.  Settling in the stands I observed we were improperly dressed in our regular t-shirts and bedazzled tank tops.  We were not wearing neon colored t-shirts that were at least two sizes too large and advertised our favorite driver.  Nor were we wearing our towns'  fire department t-shirt.  (Yes, I know.  Doug is a member of the Irwin fire department.  But he has yet to snag a shirt.)

I searched for the track.  All I could see were a couple of tractor tires stacked up toward both ends of a field of dirt.  Dirt that was being hosed down by the local fire department.  It took the firemen five minutes to muddy the field and fifteen minutes to get the truck unstuck and off the field.  The firemen then donned their fire gear in the summer heat.  They positioned themselves three feet from the track beside their fire extinguishers.  I was getting the impression this was going to be exciting. 

Poxed cars shook up to the field, which to my surprise, was the track.  These guys (I didn't see any female drivers.  We are the more intelligent species.)  were wearing helmets and t-shirts or muscle shirts.  Most drove with only one hand.  There was no real track.  They just went around the tires in a figure 8 pattern trying not to crash in the middle as they accelerated.  It didn't matter if they piled up around the tires.  The drivers kept the pedal to the metal until one car would be spun around, shoved out of the way for the other cars pass.  Sometimes the cars would be stubborn, refusing to be pushed aside.  This would cause one car to be tossed into the air crashing onto its roof perhaps even onto another car.

The red flag would come out and everyone would have to stop, back up and make room for the front loader.  He was the hero to unflip the car and push the degraded car off the track.  Off zoomed the cars again.

Debris flew in every direction.  Cars zipped over bumpers and fenders that littered the track.  There were no yellow flags in this race.  If the car died, hopefully the driver was in tune with his motor and could limp to the edge of the field.  If not, the car stayed where it conked out.  It didn't matter if it was smack dab in the middle of the eight or on the tight turn around the tires.  I'm positive a lot of praying was going on in those dead cars.

Two flagmen wearing shorts were stationed on the sides of the track within flying distance of the mud.  They looked like black spotted cows when the night was over.  What about the firemen and their extinguishers you ask?  Yes, they used them.  Three times!  The fire truck roared onto the track when flames shot out of a tired engine.

Robby now thinks this is his future employment.  He plans to pony up $200 and buy an old clunker.  He's positive he can assemble a team to jazz up the motor and strip down the extra weight.  I know he has t-shirts.  I have seen him drive with one hand.  He is qualified.  I have just one request of him.  I really like pink.  Could your t-shirts be neon pink so I can look good while you are on the track with the flying hoods and smoking cars?

Slave Labor vs. Life Insurance

Never inform your children you have life insurance.  They will find creative ways to do you in. 

My sweet son, Robby, visited me for two weeks while Doug was away working.  During this period he discovered I  had a life insurance policy.  He then declared he needed to help me with the many outside chores.  Robby referred to this as "slave labor."  But I know he was really trying to kill me to get to the life insurance.

Robby hopped on the zero turn radius riding lawn mower. "Be careful," I warned.  "Since the drought last summer the ground has become like a washboard."  The sweet son smiled and pulled his sun glasses down.  I trotted off to pull some weeds.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a blue streak.  Robby was zipping from one end of the property to the other.  His butt was bouncing so far off the seat, the motor was in danger of stalling.  I feared Robby would soar off as he whipped around the turns.  Then I saw him doing 360's in Doug's precious grass.  My heart felt weak.

Three hours later Robby was done mowing the lawn.  (It takes me a day and a half.)  "Hey mom!"  Robby yelled.  "Where's the chain saw?"  Oh no!  His next slave labor project (aka get mom to have a heart attack) was to cut down as many dead pine trees as possible.  And we have a gazillion.

Robby cut and I loaded the branches on the trailer.  He was making my heart weaker.  Every now and then he would yell. "Sh--!, F---!," or "Oh My God!  That was almost my finger!" 

He devised many heart stopping ways to cut down trees.  Like this.

And this.

And this!

While you're at it, why cut the tree up, when you can carry it to the burn pit?

Seeing that my ticker was still ticking, Robby insisted we go to town and buy a sledge hammer.  He was going to smash the many concrete monstrosities Doug wants gone around  here.  I envisioned flying concrete embedding themselves in my handsome son's body. 

While no pieces flew where they shouldn't have, Robby didn't make the pieces very small either.  He pushed the gigantic chunks to the burn pit.  Grunting and groaning and cussing all the way.  I was positive we would be making a trip to the ER for a hernia repair.  Or a heart replacement for me.   

At the end of the two weeks, I was still chugging along-barely.  Robby commented that he would bill me for his slave labor.  But, I know he was really thinking, "Damn!  My mother's going to be around until her 90's like the rest of her relatives." 

Ode To My Lawnmower

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

I ride you in the grass and then you die.

You make me want to cry!

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

I tinker with you so you'll run.

You turn my fingernails black, I wish I had a gun!

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

I try start you, you don't even click.

I think I'm going to be sick!

This is for my riding lawn mower of blue.

I hate you!

A divorce is coming between you and I.

I'm giving a green one a try!

Escapees

There is a trick to herding cows.  My observations are they do it differently in the South as opposed to the Midwest.

Doug's beach bum sister and her accountant husband own many acres in south Florida.  The natural thing to do with it is to purchase livestock.  Cows are cute and smart.  Why not buy three of those?

Makes sense to me.  Except I guess you have to check to make sure they have a tail and are not pregnant.  While baby cows are cute too, they are a bit skittish. 

My photo hound husband was sneaking up on the sleeping baby cow with camera in hand.  A tap-tap to the rump and baby was awake and darting across the field through the barb wire fence.  Pointed wire obviously does not slow down baby cows.

His sister knew how to get baby back on the right side of the fence.  Just call it.  "Here cow, cow, cow.  Here cow, cow, cow."  We waited while baby ambled further into the neighbor's field. 

She hollered at her son, "Bring the cow's ball.  We'll throw it and baby will chase it on this side of the fence."  Wow!  She has a dog-cow. 

Thirty-three throws later, her arm was sore and the cow was happily munching grass under the neighbor's tree.  "Just leave it," reasoned her husband.  "He'll come back through the barb wire tonight."

His sister and her family scuffed into the house.  That's when Doug, Nicole, Candace, and myself got to work.  I can not tell you how we got baby to the right side of the fence.  But I can assure you no cows were harmed in the process. 

Midwesterners are real cowboys.  I experienced an escaped cow round up on my way home the other evening. 

A truck in front of me was driving at a snails pace with it's emergency lights on.  I noticed another truck about a half mile ahead on the hill stopped with it's emergency lights on also.  Then I saw them.  Four escaped convict cows being herded by a madman (I mean angry!) on a four wheeler. 

The four wheeler was chasing those cows toward the pen a half mile away.  The cows stampeded  from one side of the road to the other.  The madman zigzagged behind them, losing traction in the fresh mud. 

The cows darted down the stream by the road.  I noticed a girl in grass up to her waist waving her arms and yelling at the cows. (No, she was not yelling "cow, cow.")  As the cows turned around she bobbed through the grass after them. 

Back on the road the four wheeler resumed it's quest to the pen.  Other people appeared out of the grass by the side of the road to cheer someone on.  The madman or the cows?  I wasn't sure.  But the cows stomped by them and the madman slung mud on them as he continued his weaving down the road. 

Twenty-two minutes later the cows were back in the pen.  I could now drive by the weary mud covered group.  The madman was letting a fence post hold him up.  The girl from the grass was removing her boots.  I think she should have had waders instead.  Her blue jeans were black and stiff with mud way past her knees.   

The cows were gazing down the road where they had come from.  They had escaped to the nearby hog confinement.  It must have been some party there that lasted until the cows came home. 

Drag Queen

When people find out I was a preschool teacher, I become the go-to babysitter for all kinds of things.

"Will you watch my house?" 

"Of course."  I guess chasing ten little imps around for three hours a day makes me trustworthy.  It is great fun to see other people's decorating taste.  I have only one question-Why a deer head in the dining room?  I don't want a head watching me devour the rest of his body.

Then there's the, "Can you watch my dog?"

This is a little more up my alley.  Dogs.  Kids.  They are basically the same.  Give orders.  Feed on a regular basis.  Clean up poop.  No problem.

I watched my cousin's dog for a weekend.  He ran off on walks.  Ran around the property without supervision.  Slept outside in his kennel.  He was like having a teenager.

My Uncle's dog stayed with me for two months.  (My 95 year old uncle, who lives alone, was recovering from a broken leg.  He is now fine and back out on the farm.)  She could make pitiful eyes like my preschoolers.  Her ears needed scratching every day.  We walked every day. (  Yes, even when it was 3 below zero.  I froze my nose off.  Don't know why it couldn't have been some of my butt.)  The dog demanded people food with those eyes.  Doug had to share his spaghetti.  He hasn't forgiven me yet. 

In San Diego I had an exceptional student, Julia.  We have known her family for about twenty years.  She was the apple of my eye.  (I once asked her if she knew how to blow her nose. As I was grabbing a tissue for her, she replied "Yea."  Snot was snorted in a three foot radius.) 

I understood why her father, J.R., asked me to babysit his new baby.  (Sorry, Julia, you are no longer your Daddy's baby.  But I will still claim you.)  I am responsible, quiet, and trustworthy.  He left me with his candy red '68 convertible Camaro.  It must be exercised every week.  Gotta blow all the junk out of the carburetor you know.  It can go from zero to seventy in 3.2 seconds.  This baby beats all the sports cars in the neighboring towns.

The Camaro will only be with me for two more years.  I should be able to claim the unofficial drag racing queen trophy by then.  Thanks J.R. for making me famous.

Hide and Seek

Mother nature has a sick sense of humor.  I'm not sure I appreciate it.

I awoke early on April 1st.  April Fools Day is my favorite day of the year.  It's the only day I can trick anyone and everyone and not get back lash from it.  I yanked open the dining room blinds and was promptly blinded.  Stark white snow covered every inch of the ground. My butt hit the chair as my mouth dropped open.  I know Mother Nature was watching and laughing hysterically.

Now I love winter and snow.  But this has been a long cold winter for this southern girl.  I took a few deep breaths and thought, "Mother Nature I can roll with this."  I pulled on my snow pants and parka and headed outside to snap some pictures. 

Signs of spring were appearing everywhere.  The plump robins had returned to search for worms.   Tulips were starting to push their green leaves through the frozen winter soil.  I could hunker down and survive a couple more days of winter.  After all I had an extended vacation planned  in sunny southern California.

The flannel sheets were striped off the bed to be replaced with cool silky summer sheets.  Snow pants and parkas were laundered and folded away in the trunk.  Light weight jackets and wind breakers were hung in the closet with care.  Tea bags were replaced with instant tea.  I dumped the stale ice that had been lounging in the ice maker since September.  By the time I got home from California the ice would be fresh for sun tea and warm weather would flood every crevice of my life.

Seventeen days later I returned home to warmer weather.  We hauled Doug's precious lawn mower in for the annual exam.  I scaled the ladder and spent a week pruning our six apple trees.  Doug began the laborious task of deweeding some of the flower and vegetable beds.  (He has to get in there before me to desnake it too!)

Then it happened.

May first, forty two days after the first official day of spring, it snowed!  It snowed five inches!  Being the neat and orderly people that we are, we had put the snow shovels in hibernation in the potting shed.  The snow kindly drifted on the potting shed door so we couldn't open it.  This was not a light, fluffy worthless snow.  It was wet and heavy and good for making snowmen snow.  But it was spring.  Not time for making snowmen.  

My tulips had bloomed and were snow covered.  The asparagus and rhubarb that were popping back to life had to have a blanket.  We bailed our mower out of the lawn mower doctor store, but we couldn't help all the other mowers sitting outside in the snow waiting for a home. 

"Alle alle achts und frei!"  Mother Nature please bring spring out of hiding!