Hot Firemen!

I whipped out my cell phone and sent an urgent text to my daughters (unmarried daughters).  "There are 30 hot firemen in my back yard.  Get here quick!"

The responding text was not quite what I had expected.  "What? Why??  Are your sheds on fire?"

Didn't they realize their not-so-normal mother would not text them about a shed going up in flames?  I am trying to find them Iowa boyfriends!  Never mind the girls are on the west coast and wouldn't make it to  my house before these hot firemen hit the road.

A few weeks earlier Doug arrived home from a firefighter meeting with his arm in a sling.  Someone was going to be holding a tree cutting class for firefighters.  (Really.  They do not know how to cut down trees?  Even my Marine son can man-handle a chain saw.)  The firefighters needed some volunteer trees to be chopped on.  That's when I realized how Doug had hurt himself.  He threw his shoulder out shoving  his hand skyward while jumping up and down. 

Yes, we have trees to be removed.  When we purchased this lovely acreage we were informed we would need a chain saw.  (Doug salivated at that.)  The many, many pine trees on the property had spider mites and were dying at an epidemic rate.  Doug was more than happy to oblige and donate his trees to a class.

That is how I got 30 hot firemen in my back yard. 

It was one of those days where the temperature didn't rise above freezing. Twelve vehicles descended upon my property.  Men spilled out and began dressing.  Well they were dressed, but not for cutting trees.  They donned chaps and bright orange and yellow hard hats.  Their breath clouded the air and they stamped their feet trying to find warmth.  It was like a tree cutting mating dance.

They divided up into groups of ten.  Each group had an instructor.  The instructor pointed and talked and handed over chain saws.  Soon the air was full of buzzing.  I'm sad to say these men were not trained well.  As the dead tree started to topple, no one yelled "Timber!"  All I heard was "Tree coming down!"  Duh!  We could see that.

Interestingly one man was his own group.  Perhaps he told them he knew what he was doing.  An instructor led him to a lone tree, did a little pointing and yakking and left him.  This solitary man began to cut.  He cut low.  He looked skyward.  He cut high.  He looked around at all the other wood demolishing men.  He pushed on the tree.  He cut again somewhere in the middle.  The tree was stubborn.  It was still standing.  He pushed again.  Then he spread his legs lifted the chain saw and attacked that poor defenseless tree.  The tree crashed to the ground without so much as a "Tree coming down."

Two hours later sixty-one trees were prone on the ground.  The freezing men threw off their orange head coverings and chaps and piled back in their vehicles.  They roared out of the driveway probably on the way to a cold beer.  Doug had succeeded in getting the insect infested trees to the ground.  Thus leaving me a staggering amount of mangled trees to drag to the burn pit and no possibility of an Iowa firefighter boyfriend for my girls.

There is consolation in this endeavor.  If I ever need trees cleared for a fire, I know thirty hot firemen who can do the job.  Okay, I do not really know if they were hot.  It was freezing outside.  They were bundled so tightly only their eyes peered out.  But aren't all firefighters hot?  I'm married to one!

Our small Iowa town, Irwin, has a wonderful, efficient, volunteer fire department and rescue squad.  Thank you to all of them for everything they do.

On another note,  Irwin is having it's winter blood drive on Monday, February 3rd from 11:00-5:00 p.m.   There is always a need for blood from trauma patients to surgery patients to cancer and burn patients.  Please come out and donate.  The gratification is instant.  Hope to see you there.

I Won't Grow Up!

Sometimes life must be attacked as a child.  I have been known to do this many times according to my children.  I keep telling them it would be boring to have a normal mother.  This fall, once again, I enjoyed life as a child.

Have you ever had one of those ho-hum days where you wore sloppy clothes and not a trace of make-up?  You know, the day that maybe you cleaned the oven and are grimy from the roots of your hair to the socks on your feet.  Then a knock comes at the door.

The knock on my door that crisp autumn day was a ghost from childhood past.  Forty-four years to be exact!  Curt was the boy who lived two houses north of us.  At the ripe old age of five, I donned my mother's high heels, secretly borrowed my sister's prom dress,  and married Curt in my living room.  He wasn't exactly there, or knew about the arrangement.  Nonetheless, it happened.

We caught up on  lost years for over an hour.  We bragged about our wonderful spouses, the best ever children, and lively grandchildren.  (O.K.  I boasted about my grandcats.)  It was during the conversation we realized we would each be at a hay ride at his brother's house the following weekend.  Granted I was far more excited about this than he.

The evening of the hay ride was Iowa cool.  Meaning anyone from south of Interstate 10 would freeze their fanny off.  A giant John Deere tractor (I was told it wasn't a large tractor.  But by city-girl standards it was King Kong size.)  pulled a wagon piled in the middle with bales of hay.  I coerced Curt into riding along too.   He shouldn't miss the fun of bumping though a freshly cut corn field with the stars twinkling and the moon grinning at us. 

The ride was exhilarating.  All the fresh air had made us hungry.  Luckily there was a pot-luck supper in the house.  The warm house.  The men were discussing the combining happening on Monday.  It was then Curt realized they would be working by our house. 

"Hey!  Do you and Doug want to come ride along?"

Do girls from the south stick foot warmers in their boots when it's 50 outside?  Absolutely!

Monday morning I awoke to visions of five year old  me going out on the tractor with my dad.  I would beg him to let me ride along.  There was no cab, no air conditioning or heat, no jump seat.  Just him with me gripping his waist as to not fall off.  Those are memories I cherish. 

Surveying the combining operation from the road was like watching "Dancing with the Stars."  Everything was choreographed perfectly.  The hungry combine ate the corn at an alarming pace.  The grain cart appeared just as the combine was full.  Grain was transferred.  The cart lumbered away to the idling semi-trucks.  Once again there was corn flying from the back of one vehicle to another.  Then the semi roared down the road to stash the corn in the grain bins. 

I was not a child by myself.  Doug was as excited as I was.  I climbed up the five steps to the combine cab while Doug hopped in the semi.  Curt slammed the door behind me and we were off.  I didn't have to hang on to his waist for dear life, there was a jump seat.  I didn't freeze my nose off, there was heat.  But, my goodness, I had only seen so many buttons and levers and screens in an airplane.  Curt managed to cut corn, watch the screens, push buttons, move grain from the back of the combine to the grain cart, and talk to me simultaneously.  I, on the other hand, could hardly watch him do these things and chew gum.

Several passes later, we stopped momentarily.  Curt and I jumped out and Curt's dad, Stan, and Doug jumped in.  I thanked Curt for an educational experience. 

 "Don't you want to ride in the semi and see how the corn goes into the grain bin?"

He didn't need to ask twice.  Doug had already done this with Stan.  I didn't want to be left behind.  Besides I had never seen the inside of a semi truck.  The only thing I knew about them was they roar pass my house with road dust billowing behind them.

I hauled myself into the cab and we zoomed past our house.  Yes, road dust was following in our wake.  Once at the grain bins, the corn poured out the bottom of the rig moving along into the proper bin.  It all happened very quickly and electronically. 

All too quickly our afternoon of farming was over.  Doug and I went back to our little 4.5 acres.  We felt like Cinderella.  The corn-hungry combine turned back into a pumpkin.  The tractor and grain cart tuned back into white mice.  And Doug and I were  just common folks again.  But I know I do not want to grow up and will continue to strive to live life as a child.  Sorry to my children-You're stuck with me!

The Case of Returning Children

You know you have achieved empty nest freedom when you can sleep through the night without getting up for a 2:00 am feeding.  Or in the middle of a dead sleep you are awaken by the sound of dinner being upchucked all over the newly painted wall.  Or as you softly slumber a teenager pokes you in the forehead because the cat is afraid of the thunder.  Then the children (now adults) come home for a visit.

All three of my wonderful children had been home for a few days of slave labor, bonfires, marshmallow toasting, and just fun.  Nicole stayed a few days longer than her brother and sister.  She has never been one to sleep well.  She'd roam the house like a zombie on his last night, moving do-dads, eating goodies while leaving a trail like Hansel and Gretel, waking me up to let me know Robby had missed his curfew.  Obviously things had not changed.

I awoke to an insistent tapping on the bedroom door.  "Mom, Mom!"  The screaming whisper propelled me out of bed so as not to wake Doug.  He, of course, could sleep through child "emergencies."

Stumbling into the dining room I drowsily asked Nicole what was so important at 12:30 am.

"There's something in the heating vent!  I hear it scratching!"

"I have lived here for nearly two years, dear Nicole.  There are no ghosts.  Anywhere!  Go to bed and sleep!"

"Sshhh!"  She commanded like a drill sergeant.  "Hear it?  I think it's a bat."

Sure enough, there was scratching coming from the heating vent on the floor.  We tip-toed closer and listened.  It was then the noise got louder and closer.   My angel wings propelled me back so fast I crashed into the dining room chair.  "Shut the vent!  Shut the vent!"

Brave Nicole slammed the vent closed before the offending noise could charge out at us. 

"It's probably a mouse.  We've had mice in the house before.  We can keep the vent closed and he will go back to where he came from," I rationalized. 

It was after we almost needed rescuing from the uninvited intruder that Doug appeared.  Nicole filled him in on what was happening declaring adamantly it was a bat.  "I saw it's head with my flashlight.  I feel sorry for him stuck in that vent."

Would she really feel sorry for him if he whipped out of the vent, attacked her red hair, and flew off with it?  If indeed it was a bat.  Which, of course, it was not.

We all held our breath as Doug opened the vent.  We turned blue.  We had to gasp for air.  No noise came out of the vent. 

"Let's all go back to bed.  There is nothing in that vent but imagination,"  Doug proclaimed. 

After a peaceful night sleep I joined Doug in the kitchen.  He was sipping his coffee admiring the snow covered landscape.  I brewed my tea as Doug wandered up stairs.  It was then the small brown mammal hanging on the curtain of the door caught my eye. 

A bat!

Did I yell at Doug or would this awaken the bat and he would attack my hair?  I tried to whisper loudly.  "Doug!  Doug!"  He didn't hear.  I tried to screech softly.  "Doug!  Doug!"  Then I plain out screamed.  "DOUG!"

Once again Doug came to my rescue.  Forgoing his coffee, he donned thick work gloves and a heavy towel.  I convinced him despite his close-to-the-head haircut, he needed a hat.    He efficiently snatched up the bat and threw it outside.  Bat story over!

The moral of this story is your children do grow up.  They still wake you out of a dead sleep.  But sometimes they do know what they are talking about.