Monday is Family Dinner night (at least for now).  The actual night changes with the family's schedules.  But, this week it was Monday night.  After cleaning up and finishing the dishes, I noticed that one of the kids' cups was missing.  The picture above is an old one, the spaces in this cup holder that Tyler made me are now completely filled with cups.

I was so tired after cleaning up that I didn't even check to see whose cup was missing.  I just figured it was outside or under a couch or something and that I would find it the next day, but I didn't.

Tuesday evening I drove kids home after watching for meteors in the night sky.  I was tired again.  I almost grabbed the trash and threw it on the car to take to the dumpster, but I wasn't really up to it.  It actually is hard for me to get a big trash bag into the dumpster because I am so short.  It is hard to hold up the lid with one hand and then lift the heavy bag up above my shoulder height with the other arm.  So, I didn't, however, when I got back home I did take the trash bag out of the can to tie up because it was stinky from dirty diapers.

That's when I heard a loud clink.  I didn't think anything of it at the time, but after washing the many cups and putting them back into the holder, I was wondering where the missing cup could be.  Suddenly I remembered the "clink," and I had a vision of a squiggle (one of the youngest 4 grandkids) throwing their cup away.  They love to throw things away.  I currently have many less forks than I used to, but I can always replace them with garage sale finds.  These cups are special though, and expensive.  I really didn't want to lose one, especially if all that stood between it and me was a trashbag of stinky diapers. So, I did what any self-respecting grandma would do.  I dug into the stinky trashbag, and shore 'nuff, there was a cup at the bottom.  And, it did belong to one of the squiggles.  In fact, it was one of the twins'.  It was Zeb's.  

Now it is safe and sound back in the cup holder.  And, all is well in Fernnook.

 

I call them kamikaze flies, but they are really not on a suicide mission, so the name is a bit off.  Although, I must admit, if they spend too much time dive-bombing in our home, they really are on a suicide mission.

Kamikaze flies show up at night.  They are just like regular flies except they zoom through the air and never land.  They are so irritating if you are reading at night because they roar past and dip down to almost touch you then sceech away.  They are loud, they are frenetic, and they are irritating to the nth degree.

I don't like them.

The other night as I was trying to get my jangled nerves settled down, I was sitting up in bed working on a crossword puzzle to get sleepy.  I couldn't relax though because the most kamikaze of flies ever was driving me bananas.  He was moving so fast that I couldn't even see him.  I could hear him though, indeed, I could!  Then I had an absolutely brilliant idea.  I am sharing it with you in case you ever find need of figuring out a way to outsmart one of these little guys.

I turned on the light in the adjoining bathroom.  Then I turned off the light in the room I was in.  Then I walked into the bathroom, and, sure enough, Mr. Kami followed me in there.  Then I quickly sidled out of the door and slammed it.  He was caught.  I also stuck my hand back in really quick and turned off the light.  Kamis always settle down as soon as it is dark.

I share this with my adoring audience in the hopes of helping someone stay sane when faced with a similar situation.

The Mayberry Times (which comes out weekly) never disappoints.  The following Speak Out was in the July 3rd edition.  You may wonder what Speak Out is, but the name itself really gives it away.  It is a small section that allows readers to write a comment or opinion in 250 words or less.  Sometimes it is signed, but often (as in this case) it is not.  Here you go...

Reader Dislikes Fast Food Fry Changes

I was always taught that if it's not broke, don't try to fix it.  The only reason I go to fast food restaurants is that I want french fries with my meals, and I am willing to bet I am  not the only one who feels this way.  Yet, so many of my (previously favorite) eateries are messing with what always worked before.  I don't want fries that are waffled or wavy, (which is not so groovy when they don't taste like a real potato).  Please, can't we just let fries be fries?

I personally like regular fries also, but I must admit that I would never think to write to the newspaper about it!  I was highly amused at this though, and I am very glad the author had the time and energy to write in.  Despite like regular fries, the only thing I absolutely demand for them is that they be hot.  Cold fries just do not pass muster at all!

And that reminds me of the time that I visited my college roommate's house and family potato chip factory in Fulton, Missouri.  We got to snatch a few fries off the assembly line.  They were piping hot and sooo delicious.  That was when I first realized that hot potato chips are to cold ones what hot fries are to cold fries.  

This is not what our "herd" currently looks like.  First of all, all of our cows (that is both of them) are black baldies.  We did have three head of cattle.   One cow (I will tell you that story in a minute), one heifer calf, and one bigger heifer (I already told you that story here). 

A few weeks ago I was mowing the side yard when I looked over and saw our mama cow laying in the barnyard lot.  She was laying in a strange way, so I stopped the mower and walked over.  She was dead...she was unbelievably just dead.  It must have happened fairly recent to my finding her because her calf nursed off of her while I was watching and seemed to be getting some milk.  Kent had suspected that she was older than the farmer who sold her to us had told us she was.  But whatever was the issue, she is now gone.  Well, she is in the corner of the field (which is where we dragged her to), and sometimes, when the air is very still, there is an unpleasant odor.  We are down to two head of cattle.  That is one reason we are nowhere near the label of "Homesteader," but are just plain ole' "Mom and Pop" farmers.

I really began this post to relate two different stories that happened to us over the last two days, but thinking about one of those two stories reminded me of the recent dead mama cow.

We had an event last night to attend.  Kent also had a meeting to attend (by Zoom) part way through the first event (which was a concert that my nephew, D. Jay, was giving at the Lemonade House Grill in town).  Our idea was to leave home quite early so that Kent could order his food, eat, and then sneak out to join his Zoom meeting.  And we did just that.  We left about 30 minutes before we would have otherwise.  But, as providence would have it, after passing Uncle Ken and Kenny Joe's house, we saw an old tree had fallen right across the road, effectively blocking our only exit.  Kent got out to see if the two of us could move the tree.  Nothing doing.  So, we turned around and headed to Billy's house to see if he could bring the tractor.  It was a relief to see that he hadn't already left for the same event, and he brought the tractor and drove to the tree.  By the time we got back there were already two cars lined up on the other side.  They were as stuck as we were, except they were trying to get in, not out.

The tractor was a trooper and moved that heavy tree, and we were soon on our merry way.  However, instead of being early, we were just barely on time, and Kent didn't make his meeting because his food wasn't even ordered until the music was well underway.  By the time he ate, it was nearly finished.  The other committee members were quite understanding!

Then today the Harding and Martin families was going on a float trip on the Sparkling Jewel (Current River).  I was sliding through the morning trying to get several things done before we left.  In the midst of my sliding, I looked out the front computer room window and saw a large black thing.  The large black thing, on closer inspection, turned out to be Chocolate Milk (our calf).  This escape entailed quite a bit of work repairing the fence using old roofing tin and old fencing.  Thank God for baling wire!  It is almost as good as duct tape to fix things.

But, again, we came skidding in just in the nick of time to the float office and didn't miss a thing from the family float.  In fact we had a lovely time!

But, it just shows to go you.  I mean it just goes to show you, to be grateful even in the midst of difficulties.  I thanked God all last evening that that tree didn't hit a passing car when it fell.  It could have killed one of us.  I also thanked God today that the calf didn't get out while Kent was gone.  I would not have been able to fix the fence alone, or at least would have had a much harder time doing so. 

The best laid plans....

 

I have written before about the differences in language between the Big City (just 3 hours away) and this Mayberry-like place where we live...differences like:

"I don't care to" (which I grew up knowing as, "I don't want to") in Mayberry means, "Sure!"

"Let's have a bunking party," means, "Let's have a sleepover."

"She's showing out," is said here rather than, "She's showing off."

But, last week Kent heard a co-worker (Belinda) say, "I have to tilter when I get home."

Naturally he looked confused and asked her what she meant.  She looked at him in surprise and put her hands out like she was holding onto something and started moving them up and down.  He got the picture, being the bright man he is.  "Oh, you mean you are going to till the garden."

"Yes, I am going to tilter."

Kent said to her, "I guarantee that word is not in the dictionary."

Her reply? "It's in the country dictionary."

Now I have to do a survey of old Ozarkians to see if that is true or not.

Meanwhile, in Fernnook we had a tea party for the older women in the area.  It was lovely getting to visit with them.  We followed it up with a sister-sister-sister-sister-in-law bunking party at Fernnook Lodge.  I am happy to report that a fun time was had by all, though there was not a bit of tiltering going on.

We have a heifer.  We also have a cow.  A little over year ago we took both of them to a friend's house to be bred.  The cow calved about 3 months ago, but the heifer never did.

We have been suspecting for sometime now that she may not get with calf.  Her heat cycles seem to be a bit erratic, but our butcher told us we could bring the heifer (tag number 238) to his farm to see if his bull would breed her.  Unfortunately our heifer lost her 238 tag somewhere along the way of being hauled or of mixing in with the new cows.  

She has been with Mr. Bull now for about 5 or 6 weeks.  In fact, she has been penned up with him alone for much of that time.  Since she has had enough time to be bred, Kent scheduled to have her pregnancy tested today.  That meant he had to take the trailer out to the butcher's place, which was over an hour away.  Then he had to take the cow to the vet which was another 30 minute drive.  The plan was that if she was bred, he would bring her home, but if she wasn't he would take her back to the butcher to become hamburger.

He texted me from the vet's office.  "She is in her 3rd trimester and should calve in the next couple of months.  Is that even possible?"  He didn't ask that because he didn't know that it was impossible.  He texted it out of complete wonderment at what was going on.  

No, it was not possible.  That would have meant she was with a bull 6 months ago, and believe me, we would have known if a bull was in our field.  None was.

The butcher called Kent and when he heard the news, he said, "I thought she was bred."  Then he called back a few minutes later and he said, "Hey, that's right around the time all our other cows will give birth."  Then he called back again and said, "Maybe that is one of my cows."  By then Kent was nearly home with her and the butcher said, "Just go ahead and put her in your field, we'll figure it out later."  Kent didn't want to do that because on our mom and pop farm, it is difficult to load cows.

So, he took her back to the butcher.  (It was getting to be a long day for Kent.)  And, when the butcher saw her, he knew it was one of his cows.  Now, they have to figure out which one is truly ours and put her with the bull.  So, maybe, we'll have a pregnant heifer in about 6 weeks...or maybe we will have a lot of hamburger.  But, wouldn't it have been funny if she hadn't been bred, and Kent had taken her back immediately, and the butcher had butchered his own cow?  Maybe sort of like I have butchered this story!!

We had a calf born just after Christmas last year.  Kent really likes to castrate his bull calves on the 2nd or 3rd day after birth before they get too big for us Mom and Pop farmers to handle.  It never really happens that way, though, and we usually have a big ape of a bull calf before we get to castrate it. Still, hope springs eternal in the small farmer's heart, so we began to try in any way possible to sneak up on that calf to castrate it.  We tried for weeks.  We tried in the day; we tried at night.  

We were convinced it was a bull calf.  It's momma is particularly skittish about her babies, and she wasn't having any part of us getting close to either her or the calf.  Joel, however, got close enough one day that he said, "It's a bull calf!"  And Natalie got close enough one day to say, "I am pretty sure it's a bull calf."

Day after day we tried to get close to the calf.  One night, Tyler and Kent tried to sneak up in the dark and use the calf-catcher that Tyler brought with him.  Didn't work.  We looked at ways to make a homemade calf scooper upper, but they really were beyond what we felt we could finagle.

Finally, I took to feeding hay and calling in the cows.  Kent though the momma would be less intimidated by me.  She was really resistant to coming into the barnyard to eat at all, and he was worried because there wasn't any grass left in the field for her.  It took several days, but finally one day after I fed the hay and walked away, she went in to eat.  Progress!  Hope began to sparkle again.  A few mornings later, just after daylight, I fed hay, and she came in to eat.  I snuck around the barn, and ran to shut the gate.  We had her, her calf, and the other 2 year old heifer in the lot!  So, I called Kent (cell phones have their use!), and he called Billy, and the game was on.

Together we maneuvered the two big cows out and kept the calf in.  The guys tackled the calf, and then I went in to help hold one of the front legs.  Kent laid out the knife and the iodine.  Then he reached down and pulled up her top hind leg and we all gasped.  It wasn't a bull calf at all.  We have a cute little heifer.  And, we have another story in the annals of Fernnook Farm.

On the way to the hay rack tonight a funny thing happened.  Well, actually it happened after visiting the hay rack, but, the point is, it happened.  Kent left for a meeting after dinner, and just as he was going out the door, he turned and said, "I need someone to give hay to the cows."  Well, it just so happens that that particular "someone" is me.  So, I went out to give hay to the cows.  It is really muddy right now.  We have had a lot of rain and snow and freezing and thawing going on around here, and that makes for major mud issues...especially in barnyards.

Today is Tuesday.  Tuesday means a lot of folk come over to our house for dinner, and today's meal had most of the usual crowd attending.  So there were hundreds of kids and dozens of adults both in the house and running around in the yard when I went to the hay rack.  I pulled on my trusty boots, not the ones in the picture above, those were from years gone by, but my nice muck-type boots, and headed out with hopes that I wouldn't get stuck in the mud.  And, I didn't get stuck, but something funny did happen.  It happened because I am so short and the mud is so deep.  I got the hay out of the barn, walked fairly well toward the rack, and then just as I reached it, I sunk in deep.  The top of the rack was over my head, so I had to push and shove and heave to get the hay up and in.  In the process, a load of hay went down my front on both the outside and inside of my shirt.  It was in all the wrong places and immediately began to itch like mad.

I had to go back into the barn to turn off the light, and before turning it out, I had the brilliant idea to take off the offending clothing items and pick out the hay.  Immediate relief!  However, as I was standing there with my top half in the buff, I heard distinct squelching noises come from right outside the barn.  Panic ensued!  I yelled, "Don't come in yet!" and I began to get unbuffed as quickly as possible.  It may have taken me 30 seconds or more to realize that the squelching I was hearing was the poor cows navigating through the deep mud to get to the rack.  What a relief!  My hide was saved, and I can give hay in the future with the knowledge that no one is the wiser to what an old woman looks like who is trying to unhay herself in the barn on a muddy day.