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....