The Outhouse - Life of the farm with Emily...

Howdy

Turning off the highway and onto a gravel road, you get a “wave” from most everyone you meet. Usually it’s a forefinger held up in acknowledgment of the on-coming driver. Sometimes a pinky pops up from those that I consider to have a “sissy” wave or they’re just plain too lazy to hold up the proper extremity. I’ll admit there’s been times I would have liked to keep all fingers down except the “middle” one when passing a windshield- eating, 100-mph, rock-throwing pickup.

The “four fingers” wave is almost like a hug, a little too personal for me unless it’s from a family member.

Five fingers held up or flashing the headlights on and off either means “stop to chat” or “you’re driving straight with your blinker on.”

No wave at all means someone is having a very bad day or just plain not friendly. Those persons should drive on the designated “crabby” gravel roads.

I wonder if Eskimos stop their dogs and get off the sleds to rub noses?

Would the Chinese bow and hit their foreheads on the steering wheel?

When meeting or passing a combine or other such large machinery on a narrow gravel road, I never try to make eye contact or give the finger wave; it would mean certain death in the ditch.

Two pickups stopped on the road beside each other means you wait behind them until the fellows are done talking. No horn honking allowed on gravel roads; it’s not polite. When the talking is done, the fellow passing you gives a “howdy” finger wave.

A few years ago, we had a township resident that did the 100-mph drive-by three or four times a day on the gravel road in front of our farm. We nicknamed him the “screamin’ demon,” and you could see him coming, followed by his dust cloud, from a mile away. I didn’t particularly care for this fellow, and I think the “demon” went out of his way just to dust us and give a “finger wave” as he passed by.

Being the little problem- solver that I was, I thought of a surefire way to slow the “demon” down to settle his dust cloud and protect all living things in his way. “Speed bumps” would do the trick nicely, I figured, thinking he would have to slow way down to drive over them. It only took a few hours to shovel gravel from the side of the road to the center in three nice, tidy little rows about ten feet apart and six inches high. I patted myself on the back and sat on the picnic table, waiting for the nice slow drive-by. Poof! – the “demon” hit my stakeout without a glance and gave a “finger wave” I could barely see through his dust.

When one of Emily’s ideas doesn’t work, look out!

It only took a few more hours the next day to cut and drag some small branches from the woods and spread along the middle of the road for about 20 feet. This was a battle I was going to win, and “demon” would surely have to slow way down to avoid the mess. Lounging back on the picnic table, sipping coffee, I waited again for the 100- mph duster. Not slowing down a bit, he hit the branches and one flew high enough to take out the mailbox!

Ohhhh, was I ticked as I saw his slimy little “finger wave” through the back window of the pickup.

Calming myself down not to hide in the ditch the next day with a shotgun, my family thought I was nuts when I took my son’s “Buddy Doll” out to the side of the road and propped him up with an electric fence post. Remember “Buddy Dolls”? (Realistic rag dolls the size of a 4- year-old child.)

If this didn’t slow down “demon,” nothing but blood would.

Humming triumph at the picnic table with a side order of coffee cake, I could see the duster speeding down the road towards “Buddy.” Choking on a mouth full of cake and spilling hot coffee on my lap, I about fainted when he didn’t slow down one single bit and “finger waved” to the doll!

We didn’t see too much of “demon” after that dusty day. I suppose he started detouring our side of the county after seeing the “double middle finger wave” in his rear view mirror by a mad woman chasing his truck down the road while dragging a four-yearold child by the hair… Emilysouthouse@aol.com

Techno Drama - 6/12/2008

Years and years ago, Dad was talking to a machinery dealer, asking for a price on a new digger, and the fellow told him he would send a list of his current inventory via e-mail. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dad so mad as he slammed the phone down, saying, “What’s next, tractors that drive themselves?”

Last week I discovered how true his words were. When I was talking to Aunt Helen from her cell phone, I could hear Uncle Curt saying thanks for the paper, with an idling tractor in the background. I asked what was up; she explained that Uncle Curt sat back and read the paper while the tractor’s GPS escorted him straight as an arrow up and down the field by itself. All Uncle Curt had to do was mark his page and steer around at the ends. I set my cell phone on vibrate and high ring tone; if I can’t hear the dang thing, I see it trying to jump out of my purse, escape my back pocket or dance around on the table.

You all know how much Emily enjoys the sight of a wood tick. Last week, one of the little creepy crawlers was spotted on my sleeve and I ran to and fro around the house like a mad woman! While I was brushing the little creepy-crawler off into the toilet, the cell phone rang from my back pocket… Not very good timing for a vibrating phone and a woman being attacked by a wood tick, as both were flushed down the toilet at the same time. I guess “can you hear me now?” was out of the question.

Heading to town for a new phone, I felt totally alone and withdrawn from society. What if Ed needed some parts? – how would he contact me? What if, what if, what if? After a while, I felt kind of free, and awhile after that I figured a little side trip to Herberger’s would be awesome as no one in the whole wide world would know my whereabouts or could interrupt a serious meeting with Sir Calvin Klein.

Following the line of cars turning at the detour sign, I somehow ended up alone in a nice neighborhood at a four-way stop in front of a young man holding a “stop for street workers” sign. Ordinarily, this would have put me right through the roof and the local congressman would have been called, but he lucked out as my mode of communication was in the dunk along with the creepy crawler. Ignoring the street worker’s wave to move on, I had spotted the eighth world wonder and was too fascinated to drive anywhere.

On the lawn beside me was a little round machine about ten inches high sporting the logo of RoboMower. I had heard these machines existed, but figured only kings and royalty had access to them. Holding my breath as little Robo buzzed along straight toward the street, I figured he would be road kill in no time at all. Precisely at the edge of the lawn the little machine executed a perfect U-turn and back the other way he went without missing a blade of grass. Reaching into my purse to call Ed to tell of my amazing find, little Woody was silently cursed. Calvin and his accessories would have to be put on hold for awhile as this little demonstration of technology was by far a better buy.

I wished I had brought some lunch along because Robo had just about finished the lawn and I wasn’t going anywhere, betting myself he would crack a beer and park in the shade after the last round. About that time, a huge Irish setter trotted from around the corner of the house and followed Robo, nosing the machine’s rear. Rehearsing my speech to Ed of what I had discovered, I had to memorize in a hurry as Irish walked over to the last un-mowed part of the turf and took a dump. Forgetting the “beer bet,” I upped the ante, thinking Robo may have a pooper scooper up his sleeve. As Robo approached the dump, he stopped, circled in place for a bit, and then backed up and rolled over on his side. I guessed the techno inventors didn’t own dogs or hadn’t looked that far ahead, and I wondered what Robo’s reaction would be if placed in our cow pasture.

Thoroughly disappointed in Robo’s demonstration, I fired up the old Buick to find my way through the maze of detours. A commercial on the radio caught my interest. IRobot was on sale at the local housewares store for an incredible discount. The sales pitch stated the little round genie could be let loose in one’s home and all the floors would be spotless forever after.

Thinking Irob must be a sissy cousin to Robo the Lawn Whiz, I wondered what the little machine would do if he came across a spider while polishing the kitchen floor. I bet myself a twelve pack that little Irob would scream bloody murder, rotate in a circle to the bathroom, and flush himself down the toilet...

"Pigs Don't Have Necks" 5/30/2008

When I think of all the baby birds, rabbits, stray cats and dogs (even a raccoon) that I have brought home to “save,” I never figured in a million years I’d be the “saver” of a 500-pound sow..

It was late fall and one of those evenings that chill you to the bone. The weatherman finally got a forecast right, saying it would start raining and then turn to sleet and snow. I was out helping Ed “button down the hatches” in the barns when I saw “Big Mama” in the mud hole. Ed said, “Just leave her; she’ll get out on her own.” Well, that wasn’t the right thing to say when my instinct was to be the saver of all animals. Coaxing with a pail of feed near the edge of the hole didn’t budge Mama, nor did my little “oink, oink” noises as I pretended to be a baby piglet in distress. Threatening to turn her into pork chops went in one pretty pink ear and right out the other.

Bright ideas come from desperation as I thought of the lariat hanging in the horse barn. A family friend was a calf roper and had given me one of his old ropes to “give it a try,” per se. I did try roping from the back of a horse once, but all that was lassoed were the feet of the horse I was riding. I seemed to have a small case of “dyslexia” when it came to hanging onto the lariat, two reins and the horse at the same time.

Trying my dexterity at roping a five-gallon pail on the ground from about 20 feet away was the smartest move I ever made as it was mastered brilliantly. And who cared that it wasn’t a calf; I prided myself on being the champion bucket roper for miles around.

Judging mama sow’s neck to be about the same size as the bucket, I gathered up the rope and started tossing. About that time it started to rain, a cold-to-thebone rain, and getting dark. The first few tries came close; the next 50 landed on top of Mama’s head, but without a neck there was no way it would drop around. By this time the rope was slick from the mud and my gloves were lost somewhere between the fence and the mud hole.

When it started to sleet, I was so dang mad at that sow that a few swear words were blurted out that even I had never heard before. This was a battle of immense importance, and I would win or go down trying! I figured if I stood right on the edge of the hole, there might be a better shot at saving Private Mama. Losing one boot in the mud on the way in didn’t stop me; losing the other one just made my day.

Ed came around the corner and turned his hat sideways after awhile. I guess it was somewhat of a sight as I stood soaking wet and covered with mud from head to bare feet – yes, the goop got my socks, too. As he started to say something, I turned and gave him a look from “The Exorcist,” and it didn’t take him long to get far away from my little mercy mission.

I was extremely lucky about the millionth toss. It was either that or the sow was getting up on her own and the rope happened to slip down far enough that I finally had her caught. Now, trying to pull Big Mama out was a different story, what with my bare feet and no traction. My hands were frozen by this time, so I wrapped the rope around my waist and got down on my knees, pulling with everything I could muster.

It was a dead-or-alive rescue at this point while blanking out the little voice in my head that was screaming that I would be the one that would not live to see another day.

Dallying the end of the rope to a post, I was finally confident that both Old Bertha and I would wake to see sunshine in the morning.

Climbing out of the hole, Big Old Mama yawned and stretched, then calmly walked away into the barn. I was furious I wasn’t acknowledged as her savior with a proper “thank you”; she could at least have had the manners to shake my rope off first.

Sometimes the weatherman does get the forecast right.

Color Blind 5/23/2008

It was one of those delightful summer mornings. By 7 a.m., the thermometer read ninety-nine in the shade, and the happy dancing weatherman on TV should have been shot right between his eyeballs. Sipping coffee, I was skimming through the newspaper and asked Ed how we should spend a nice little chunk of extra cash. Reading the article twice to clarify my lottery winnings, I noticed that, at the local county fair, a contest for the hardest water in the area was being held by a local water-softener company. The winner would receive an outstanding lump sum of $300.00, and I immediately daydreamed through the aisles of Herberger’s, deciding what to buy with my half of the loot.

Years earlier the well had run dry on the farm and, without delay, another one had to be dug. They came with a huge truck and drilled pipe after pipe into the ground. A hundred feet, then two hundred, then three. No water or even oil could be pumped to the surface. The chairman of the kitty-whompus operation ordered more pipe, and down they went again to four hundred feet, then five. Ed and I were told they would have to relocate to a new spot and the price would double to start over. I've always been pleased as punch that Ed told the crew to first try another fifty feet down. The well drillers spit out their snoose and tipped over their beers as the water gushed a hundred feet in the air from five hundred and forty nine feet below. We had more water than anyone could ever have dreamed of, and the chairman yelled, “Cap it! This job is completed!”

One teeny tiny little detail was left out; no one tested the water for hardness.

About a week later, I noticed a carroty colored tint to my hair, my lily whites were a shade of burnt sienna, and the toilet bowl had a ring around the rosy orange side. Complaints to Ed were hopeless as “We have water, don't we?” was repeated over and over.

At the time, I had a white horse and, before a show, the required bath was given. I will never forget the comments and rude stares at that horse show as my sweet little white horse was branded as half zebra.

There was only one thing left to do as far as I was concerned, and that was to drill a new well. Putting my plan of attack into action, I bought a container of orange dye and sprinkled “just a bit” in the mud hole that the pigs lounged in. A hose fed the mud hole from the amazing gushing well and, boy, did I sleep with a huge smirk on my face that night.

Raising Yorkshires, a breed of pure white pigs, Ed about had a heart attack when he went out to feed the next morning and observed a pen full of Durocs, a predominant breed of “red” colored pigs. Mad as a wet hen, I decided my plan had worked perfectly, as Ed thought it was the “water” in the mud hole that had caused his pigs to turn into incredible edible strawberry shortcakes.

A new well was promptly ordered from a different company, and everyone was happy ever after as the water tested perfectly soft and clean.

We kept the “gusher” well in working order for fire disasters, and that's where I drew the water from to claim our $300.00.

By the time I arrived at the fair grounds, my water sample had turned a deep dark orange and the smiley water-softener agent about fainted dead away as I held out my hand for the cash. In a scurry of activity behind the counter, the suited-up agents tested my sample over and over again. Mr. Shawn Higgins from the State Department of Health was called in to do a final test and, while gawking at me, asked, “Do you people actually drink this water?” Dang, to this day I wish I would have put on a red wig, decorated my teeth with orange lipstick, and asked Mr. Higgins to kick my shin as it was hard as iron...

One Size Fits All - 5/16/2008

So, I needed to buy a new pair of dress pants for an “off the farm” occasion. Or should I say, I needed a pair of dress pants.

All but a couple pairs of my comfy jeans are “gentlemen’s” models; what can I say, they just fit better. The “girls’” jeans in my closet come straight from the western wear store. If only they made gals’ western jeans in an assortment of colors, I wouldn’t be in the predicament of having to shop for a dang pair of sissy pants.

After teaching all about the dos and don’ts of bread rising and falling in our junior high home economics class, Mrs. Engebretson engaged in a day study about body types. Queen Susan was labeled a perfect ten by the persnickety old teach and had no fruit named after her. Gail was branded with the pear syndrome and Mary ran out of the room in tears with the apple label floating above her head. Kristy placed a tack on Mrs. Engebretson’s desk chair after she was pronounced a fig-shaped look-alike, but I was the odd duck of the class after old four-eyes couldn’t find me a fruit title and instead I was given the vegetable name of “celery stick.”

No hips, no problem… I didn’t mind the nickname of “sticky” in high school after I made it clear that anyone who used it was at risk of a little road rash. But watching the gals tote their toddlers around on their hips later in life was kind of tough while mine were carried to and fro on top of my head.

Legs – another minuscule problem when it comes to “girls’” dress pants. Listen up, Calvin, Gloria and the rest of you fancy clothes designers, when a size ten fits at the waist, that does not automatically mean that all of us ladies have a 30-inch inseam. Believe it or not, there’s one or two of us in this world that have a little longer pair of legs than the one-size-fits-all!

“May I help you?” says the smiling associate with the 28-inch inseams at the 10th store of the mall. Stepping out of the dressing room, missy short legs commented on how grand the slacks looked on me and how well they fit. Lady, look down, do you see where the pants end and the tops of my ankles start?

Really taking the cake was the pair of “10 tall” that were unbelievably long enough but a little loose on top.

Sorting through the stacks, there they were: a single pair of size eight tall! Looking around in panic before another size-eight-tall gal came in the store shopping for dress pants, I grabbed those beauties and ran for the dressing room.

Studying my bottom half in the mirror, I had to get my calculator out and figure the math. The slacks were one size smaller and tagged a tall size, but four inches shorter. “How are you doing in there?” in the happy associate’s voice just about got her a mouth full of ladies’ sizeeight- tall “shut up.”

Thinking about the “off the farm” occasion while flipping pennies into the mall’s fountain, I figured for now I could dye my favorite pair of comfy jeans a very dark blue and starch the crap out of them for dress-up day. It was either that or head to the western store and really Dolly Parton it up with some diamond- studded leather horse show garments.

Staring into the waterfall, the reflection of a sporting goods store appeared with a big red sign on the front window that read “shoe sale.”

Well, everyone knows that the cure for a gal’s pants-shopping depression is a new pair of shoes, so I all but pulled a Forrest Gump through the water fountain to cure my ailment.

Just looking at the rows and rows of new shoes made me feel better, and as I selected a few pairs to try on, I bumped right into a shelf of dye that would work perfect for my jeans. The shopping day was ending on a pretty good note as the salesperson handed me box after box of fine-looking footwear. The perfect pair of brown leathers with a black inlay and major arch took my breath away. I could have traveled all the way to London and never have found such a perfect pair! Happy day, happy day!

Size 7-1/2, please. “Oh sorry, this particular shoe only comes in whole sizes.” No problem, bring both the seven and the eight; there can’t be that much difference between them. London Bridge not only fell right down; it crashed into a zillion pieces as the seven was too small and the eight too big!

As I walked out of the store, I let the manager know in no uncertain terms that my horse wears an odd size shoe and my farrier takes the time to shape it perfectly to his foot for about a hundred bucks less than what you are asking for “one size fits all”…

Hey, Mom - 5/9/2008

Dreaming of the upcoming Mother’s Day, I figured I would have a glorious holiday from sun-up to sundown. Triple chocolate cake would be served on a silver platter at daybreak, along with a dozen roses in a vase sitting on the side table, replacing the alarm clock.

A 52-inch television would be placed at the end of the bed with a single remote control that selected a hundred channels, every one of them Lifetime.

I listened to the sounds in the rest of the house; both the dishwasher and the vacuum cleaner were running smoothly while the washing machine was on a very quiet and nonthreatening spin cycle.

Ahhh, someone had already placed a pot roast in the oven for later, and I could also smell a hint of strawberry shortcake in the making.

A rustle outside the window brought my attention to the sparkling clean white horse that had already been saddled and was patiently awaiting a quiet afternoon ride down the lane. Dang, even the saddle bags were packed with carrots for the horse on one side and an assortment of mini candy bars for me on the other.

“WAKE UP, EMILY, the cows are out!”

Who was it that made that ridiculous quote, something about dreams and having a life? Great expectations, maybe that was it.

Okey dokey, cows, since you have all ruined my day, perhaps someone would take the cow theme of Mother’s Day and grill up a few burgers while Mom puts her feet up. Pancakes and sausage were Ed’s choice for brunch; no problem, one of my top ten favorites. No, no, no, no, don’t put the batter in the blender, you stir it softly like this and then let it rest for a bit while the griddle gets hot.

No, no, no, don’t fry the sausage on high, simmer it on low like this and turn it often so it browns evenly. No, no, no, don’t fry the eggs in oil; add a dash of butter first like this.

Serving up the family brunch, there was something totally wrong with this picture… a completely un-focused photograph!

I didn’t expect many gifts or extra-special days from most of my adopted charges. The two miniature donkeys gave a real testimonial for the term “mother” though. Those little buggers got into more trouble than they were worth, especially the night before a very important horse show when they decided an explicitly groomed show horse needed some midnight exercise and showed him how to unlatch his stall gate. If that wasn’t bad enough, they taught the show horse how to make mud pies while lying down and rolling!

Ed about had a heart attack when Mother Emily came walking down the driveway with six little black and white Peppy La Pews following close behind. Sharing the parenting responsibility with the black and white mother cat, we had a nice, tidy little family for quite a while until the dog barked. Even the pigs received a tomato juice bath that day to get rid of the smell!

Lucy, my orphaned male cat (long story) makes every day a Mother’s Day. I really try to thank him for the field mice and gopher gifts he brings home, but sometimes us mothers just have to draw the line.

Ed still swears up and down that one year he bought me roses and a mushy card for Mother’s Day but left them on the front porch after the emergency phone call. I just don’t think that a tractor on fire is more important than bringing your lovely wife gifts, and to this day I won’t let out that the goat was mysteriously too full to eat her evening grain.

There’s a teenage son in our house that would get mad if I used his real name, so instead of Dustin, I’ll call him Dan. A couple of years ago, Dan signed up for something in school and substituted his real name (Dan) with his social nickname, “Big Dog.”

A few weeks later we received a letter from a prestigious university informing Big Dog that he was more than welcome to attend classes at their fine school.

“To Mr. and Mrs. Big Dog: your son has been chosen to attend Florida State” was another nice how do you do.

Check this out: “Dear Mr. Big Dog, we have located your extended relatives in Ireland and for a small fee will send you a complete name and photo family tree of the Dog family.” Ed didn’t think it was too funny, but I on the other hand just about sent for the “Dog Family Tree” just to see what our Irish relations looked like…

Born Free - 4/25/2008

It’s that time of year again; the colts need to be weaned. It’s such an exasperating time, listening and watching all the commotion when the mares and foals are first separated. I can relate, through, to the mares from when my kids were getting on the school bus the first day of kindergarten. I couldn’t go along to protect them from all the (bad) things and spent the whole day pacing and wringing my hands just like the mares seem to do.

Once the decision is made and the gate is closed on the weaned colts, there’s no looking back or changing one’s mind.

The first thing on the list is to take precise inventory of all emergency vet numbers, first-aid kits and extra lumber to repair fences. All the water buckets and hay racks are removed, and another board is added to the already eight-foot-tall stalls. Then, it’s 24-hour guard duty to see who can escape from Alcatraz first.

When the pediatric hissy fits start, I’ve had colts do the mountaingoat climb over amazingly tall stalls, body slam through solid wood and actually dig down enough to crawl underneath to get back to the mares.

Each year I think back to my very first foal. I bought the (how to) book, read it from cover to cover and was ready for my grand champion to be born! “Ole Bess” went through every chapter of the book in perfect detail; heck, she could have written the dang thing all by herself. According to the book, Bess was getting close to foaling, and I had the delivery room and nursery all neat and tidy. My lookout quarters outside of the stall consisted of a cot with plenty of horse blankets, lanterns, a thermos of coffee, sandwiches and an alarm clock. When the 11- month due date arrived, I started filling out “it’s a foal” cards to send off to all friends and relatives.

On night number one, I couldn’t sleep at all, so I paced back and forth outside the stall, waiting for my precious little foal to be born. Checking the calendar to be sure of the delivery date, I was positive that on night two we would be welcoming a bouncing baby colt. Getting the book out and reading through the foaling chapter, on night three I set the alarm for every half hour; this had to be the night! Calling the author of the book before night number four to make sure he didn’t have any “typos,” I was assured by the book club there were no mistakes. By night five, I was exhausted and had a stern talk with Bess. Sleeping right through night number six, I woke up in a panic, thinking for sure I had missed the event. Bess swished her tail and nodded toward her feed bucket.

It was time to bring in the relief troops, calling on my good friend Brandy to help me out with the night watch. Another cot was added, along with a card table and board games. After 20 rounds of Monopoly and deciding on colt names, we took turns snoozing before the big moment. On night number eight, it was decided the author of the book was a complete phony and didn’t know anything about brood mares!

Short on sleep, I was told my choice of colt names was asinine and Brandy was advised that her snoring was keeping Bess from foaling. The conversation then angled toward my barrette that ended up broken after our sixth-grade slumber party and the grudge match over the new fourth-grade boy that sat in the desk next to me instead of Brandy.

In the middle of all this, Bess’s head disappeared from over the stall gate, and she lay down to have her foal. Book-smart about every step that would happen next, we hugged and cried, then ran for the warm water and towels. I was to be the delivery doctor and Brandy would be my assistant, handing me the items I asked for in the exact order we had planned. Water? Check. Towels? Check. Iodine? No iodine, no Brandy! – she was passed out cold in the straw!

Brandy will be over to help wean the foals again this year, and we’ll reminisce about the good ole days while monitoring the colts’ escape routes. I’ll ask Brandy if she feels “faint” and she’ll ask me if I’ve re-read the “book for dummies” on foaling.

The Color Purple - 4/18/2008

Tickled pink, I was invited to lead the Fourth of July parade with my then barely-out-ofkindergarten four-year-old white gelding. Goose came with the name and it didn’t take long at all to figure out why. In horse talk, goose means “a little spooky” of just about everything that makes a sound, moves, or may move sometime in the future. Too naive to know any better, I happily accepted the parade position without a second thought that Goose might not be up to it. Well, maybe just one little thought of Ed being a spectator and watching me lead the long procession, proudly carrying the huge red, white and blue flag.

Preparing for the spectacular event took a little bit of time and patience as both Goose and I had to look our best as we traveled down Main Street with crowds applauding and cameras flashing.

The sparkle kit for horses didn’t come with directions. First testing it out on a watered down Holstein cow, the red and blue sparkles held well to the hair, but then blended into a bluish purple. The dry, very dry and angry Holstein bull did not appreciate sparkles sprinkled within ten feet of him, and I had to give up cow testing real quick before both the sparkle bottle and I were tossed over the fence. The white goat took to sparkles real quick, too quick as he pooped purple for a week, but not before I figured out that rubbing the mixture against the hair grain was a brilliant solution and Goose would be leading the parade with his legs matching the flag.

Packaged in extravagant wrappings, my red, white and blue outfit came in the mail straight from the Acme Parade Clothing Co. Nothing against the Acme Co., but they must be very little people as the one-sizefits- all blue tights were just a tish snug. The red and white striped shirt fit OK, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out if the square material of stars was supposed to be a bandana for me or a saddle blanket for the horse. It was suggested that I wear plenty of makeup to present the parade in proper fashion. Going the natural look all my life, I had a bit of a problem applying the eyeliner and false eyelashes the morning of the big event. The directions didn’t say anything about eyelash glue or the eyeliner being semipermanent. Rocky the raccoon would have looked very pale in the mirror next to me, as no amount of Ivory soap would remove the black circles. Loose face powder was applied with a fancy applicator, and a thin layer was also applied to my hair, the mirror and the rest of the room when I sneezed into the container. Spending a little time powder fingerpainting on the counter eased my mood a bit. Backing out of the trailer, Goose took one look at the commotion and hopped right back in. With a little coaxing, he was out and saddled in plenty of time and we were both sparkling and dressed to the hilt for our debut down Main Street.

Goose took one look at the fellow in the white coat carrying the flag toward us and spun me right out of the saddle. By the time the band started playing, Goose and I had come to an understanding that the flag was not going to eat him, and we were ready to move forward. Goose’s ears perked up and then laid flat back as dead ahead was a collection of Shriners driving straight toward us in their mini-cars while doing wheelies. Holy Hanna, was I ever in a pickle and the Shriners didn’t have a clue they were about to be totaled out by a terrified white horse! The spin and dump thing was getting a little old, but the fellow wearing the white coat helped me up off the pavement for the second time and saved the day when he ticketed the little cars to the end of the line. Humpty Dumpty couldn’t have said it better as the cymbals in the band crashed at the end of their song and everyone cheered as Goose walked straight down the middle of the street on his hind legs. Through my embarrassed tears, the semi-permanent eye makeup picked a fine time to let loose and my peripheral vision caught the corner of a false eyelash beautifying my cheek. At the end of the parade, the black eyeliner combined with red lipstick and blue sparkles made my face look like one giant purple lollipop.

Making a mental note to write a stern letter to the Ivory soap company, the Acme Clothing people, and the “falsely represented” false eyelash corporation, I was thirsty as all get-out at the finish area and a soda was offered by the man in the white coat. As I sipped the grape Shasta, the clown with the giant green hair thought he would walk up to pet the pretty white horse. Goose saw lunch, and the clown had no clue that his glued-on wig was about to become a horse snack. I was purple, the clown’s bare head was purple, and the helpful parade attendant now sported a suit jacket the color of grape Shasta.

At that moment the festivity planners directly behind us by the grandstands started testing the fireworks for later that evening. Talk about a blur of purple….

Emilysouthouse@aol.com

Captain Crunch Berries strikes again. - 4/11/2008

In recent years, some of my most vivid memories have come about while enjoying a bowl of my favorite cold cereal.

Some crunchy recollections involved realizing my home was hopelessly overrun by Asian beetles, along with a solar eclipse in the middle of the winter caused by a very, very large, misaimed tractor snow blower.

When I was down to the last berry some years ago in early April, a very bad memory started when Uncle Curt burst into the house telling us we needed to fill our water jugs right away. Water jugs? Yep, Uncle Curt informed us that our beautiful evening snowfall was turning to rain, then sleet accompanied by a strong north wind that would topple the power poles by morning. Water jugs? Ed was already out the door when it dawned on me that, without power, the well would not function and, thus, no water would be available to wash cereal bowls. What I didn’t know was that we should have filled both bathtubs, the sinks, the trunk, the extra fish tank and anything else that would have held a drop or two.

The day before had brought above-normal temperatures with more grass showing than snow, so the spring ceremony of removing the heater from the water tank and sweeping out the horse barn commenced. Sorrel boots were packed away and replaced by rubber ones and the purple-and-greenstriped Dr. Seuss stocking hat with the orange ball on the end was switched for my favorite baseball hat.

Usually it’s a loud or strange noise that wakes a person up in the middle of the night, but this time it was the silence, cold and pitch dark. Obviously, we had lost power, so I stumbled out to the front window to see who else around the country was without light. Finding the window was a surreal experience; it was pitch dark on the inside and darker than that on the outside. No yard lights, no lights glowing from the nearby town, nothing. “ED!”

After a nice little “you had it last; no, you had it last” argument about where the flashlight could be found, I went back to bed leaving Ed with a candle that would hopefully melt in his hand. Looking out the door at daylight, I counted on one finger the remaining power poles left standing as far as a person could see. Dang, we would never ever hear the last of Uncle Curt’s “I told you so’s.”

As the saying goes, “When a chicken lays an egg, fry it.”

Ed had dropped off a propane heater for the kitchen and then disappeared to tend to the livestock. I figured out that a thin frying pan placed on top of the heater cooked anything I wanted, even easy-over eggs.

After a few days of melted snow for washing, and cooking with my little propane life saver, the attitude in the house was kind of like farting in a submarine.

Wanting to tear my hair out while staring out the window for hours on end waiting for the power truck to light up our lives, it was time to break away for a day.

Didn’t the shoppers at the electric powered Wal- Mart realize I had come into the store from the depths of doom 20 miles away for a little merriment and perfume testing? Two ladies were just about pulverized by my cart as they argued over a frilly undergarment on sale as I was shopping for flashlight batteries, candles and nonperishable foods! My find of the century was a black and white, teeny-tiny, battery operated television way back in the corner thrift aisle. Zippity doo dah, the power problem was immediately secondary as I could now lounge on the couch watching “The Young and the Restless,” nibbling on my nonperishable, 5-pound box of leftover Valentine chocolates!

When I treated myself to a very large takeout at McDonald’s on the way out of town, the young lad behind the counter seemed a little nervous and confused with the request of a supersized number three power truck.

Back home, it was a little frosty in the house, but a surefire cure was a few blankets, handfuls of outdated chocolates and a long-awaited soap opera.

There are no juicy, Emmy-award-winning soaps on the public broadcasting channel, the only station that would materialize with a little fuzz around the edges. Sinking back to submarine mode, I watched a three-hour special with breaks for fundraising – a documentary on how electricity was made.

I suppose my grandchildren will wonder why the family album includes several 8 x 10 glossy photos of power trucks at the end of our driveway replacing the poles…

Party On - 4/4/08

Thank goodness the month of March is over; celebrating National Agriculture Month just about did me in with all the festivities and party favors!

I’m just wondering, when did all this merriment come into play? Whose bright idea was it to have a party each and every day for a whole month to celebrate pitching poop, milking cows or getting stuck in the mud with a tractor?

OK, OK, I may have a bit of an offensive attitude when it comes to getting stinky or covered in dirt but, seriously, just what on God’s green earth were we supposed to be carrying on about until three in the morning for a solid 30 days?

I suppose “green” is the key word as it’s the color of plants as they sprout to celebrate feeding the world, but then the crops dry up to an ugly brown so harvesting can be done. I’m not too sure, but wouldn’t the “brown” harvest be considered more like Thanksgiving, and we could “party on” for one day in the fall instead of the 30 days it takes for this new extended holiday?

To me, green would be the color of my face as I tried to back a fourwheeled anhydrous tank out of the way of a semi at the elevator as the trucker stood with crossed arms spitting snoose on my tires.

A purplish shade of green would sum it up well when I was told to drop off the tank at Loopy’s 80. You see, all of the trucks, combines and fields in the family have nicknames, and if you’re not smart enough to place the name to the place or thing the first time around, you’re screwed. It would be beyond all reason for someone to say, “Take the first left at 190th Avenue and then drop the tank in the second field road to the right.” Oh no, it’s “Hop in George, hook up the pot and drop it off at the north Dak.”

Celebrating a little older and greener, a decayedwell- past-prime goose egg has a burnt-cinnamon tinge of brownish green to it and, when well aimed, can take down a young sibling with only the smell.

Dad was green for a whole month one time. I bet he was the one who started this 30-day, wondrous celebration from plain old spite with his bad luck one day.

Little brother had graduated from using the Sears and Roebuck catalog under his rump to see over the steering wheel, and we all know at that age every farm kid receives their license. After proudly transporting lunch out to the field, his license was suspended indefinitely due to the little incident between the hood of the pickup and the tail end of the combine.

Dad’s face turned a dark shade of lime green when the oldest brother, pulling a huge load of silage with a tractor that afternoon, turned a tish too short out of the field and tipped the entire operation over in the steep ditch. Later that day, the big bin holding most of Dad’s harvested wheat started to creak and groan. Lo and behold if the whole darned thing didn’t split wide open to unveil the world’s largest bird feeder.

Dad was colored to a military shade of green by nightfall when he went to feed the cattle and there were none to be found. Gate, g. a. t. e. was not a nickname, but very often forgotten after the word “close.” It was a very long night trying to locate 50 Black Angus cows with no moon and one flashlight.

Back to the moment and on second thought, perhaps all farmers and ranchers should extend the 30-day happy hour to having a birthday party each and every time an animal is born. Could you imagine what the price of wheat would be for the flour to make all those birthday cakes? Sugar beets would have to be guarded 24 hours a day to sweeten the cakes, and soybean oil would bring $50 a barrel. Thinking a little more outside the box, every blade of wheat that sprouted would necessitate a happy dance and boots would wear out pretty dang quick, thus placing leather (cows) at a few hundred bucks a pound. Chickens would be laying golden eggs at a hundred bucks a pop, and sheep would be running for their lives protecting their wool from the festival clothing designers.

Yep, I say it should be voted in to start the year long celebration today, April 1st. Or should I say, “April Fools!”…

Treasure Hunt - 3/28/08

Another Easter is past with my kids too old for egg hunting and the grandkids too young. Taking a break for a couple of years won’t bother me any, as just last month the dog came trotting up with a pastel plastic egg filled with melted chocolate and covered in layers of dirt from one of my previous year’s treasure hunts. Oh, I got into the festivities very well – way too well.

Counting out the eggs and neatly placing a few chocolates in each one along with a clue to the next egg, I think I had more fun planning the treasure hunts than the kids did participating in them. The very last egg held the master clue to the mother gift that was usually hidden right back in the house under their beds or in a closet.

Sense and sensibility were sometimes a big part of my downfall when it came to the planning stages of egg hiding. On an early evening before the holiday, a neatly placed egg in an open pig feeder seemed humorous and easy to find when looking over the top, but lack of judgment and hungry pigs in the morning caused the feed to disappear, along with the egg.

Our mailman loved his Easter treats the Monday after, always finding unmapped eggs filled with chocolate treats in the mail box, and then speeding off to the next farm thinking some idiot may have screwed up their clues also.

We had a heck of a time netting the woodpecker that was hopping around on the ground with a plastic egg stuck in his beak. Who would have thought that the silly bird would try to plunk open a bright pink plastic egg in a bird feeder?

Raccoons are usually still snoozing around Easter, but one year a little bandit must have been following me while I was dispensing the treasure clues, as sometime later we found her nest with five or six plastic eggs neatly opened and all the chocolate missing.

Pointing to the eggs and saying “no” to the dog was a silly delusion. Dog sat back and watched, behaving better than Lassie, until after dark when I was inside the house. Easter morning, dog sat outside the house wagging his tail with a heaping pile of treasured plastic eggs at the bottom of the steps. Yeah, smart dog, I suppose he read the clues inside too.

Ed didn’t talk to me until the Fourth of July after the 1990 Easter hunt. Using real hardboiled eggs that year, I didn’t give it a thought that it may not be a good idea to hide a few of them in his pickup muffler. At least when he went to the elevator to pick up feed for the next couple of months, all the guys moved their trucks out of the way and waved him in first.

After I filled up the hay feeders in the stalls for the horses each night, each critter would eat two thirds of the way down, never more, never less. That is, until there was a chocolatefilled plastic Easter egg hidden at the very bottom way in the back. The eleventh commandment should read that all veterinarians must go to early church service Easter morning before attending to an ill horse and writing out the bill.

Shaped like little black birds, the realistic looking milk-chocolate fowl with Happy Easter necklaces came ten to a package, and I had a blast placing them here and there amongst the back trees. It took most of the day and a whole lot of energy as a ladder had to be used, as well as a lot of imagination, to make the flock seem real. I was so dang excited, it was hard to sleep as the clues in the eggs for the kids the next morning would lead them to a humungous gathering of chocolate birds. Since when did we start giving shotguns to the boys as Easter gifts, and was it really mandatory for Ed to take them bird hunting in the back trees at dawn?

I’m figuring if I start this week and make all Easter eggs dog-, pig-, horse- and shotgunproof, along with a super-duper precise treasure map, we should have one enormous Happy Easter treasure hunt in 2009...

Soup or Salad - 3/21/08

It happened again. With twenty bales of hay left in the barn, I told myself to start looking for a new batch. An endless, thankless job that I would rather give to anyone else! Down to two bales, I procrastinated that the ‘hay genie’ would magically appear with a couple hundred squares to tide me over nicely.

“How many do you have for sale, is it covered, green, first, second or third cutting and how much do the bales weigh?” “Oh, and is it this years hay or last years? “ Seems like I’ve asked those questions a hundred times to various fellows knowing that maybe one in twenty or thirty might be on the up and honest side with their descriptions over the phone.

Driving an hour or two to ‘take a peek and smell’ of my horses lunch before buying it was mandatory after a few bad batches were delivered. And of coarse if it wasn’t a hundred and ten degrees it just wouldn’t be worth it now, would it.

I had a ‘steady eddy’ supplier a few years ago. Mr. Jones had baled hay for years and knew how to put up the best. Jones would call a week or two before baling and let me know the approximate date. I could then line up loading and hauling help, have enough hay for the whole year and be a very happy camper. When Mr. Jones started baling his beautiful hay in big round bales he wrecked our tidy relationship. Begging and pleading for small squares was out of the question, he had defected to the other side!

“Second cutting, alfalfa/ grass mix in fifty pound bales” the gentleman on the phone said. Sounded pretty good to me, Okeedokee, I’ll be there in about an hour to take a look. Dusty, course and two leaves of alfalfa to a bale just didn’t work. Not wanting to tell the fellow his hay ‘stunk’ I told him I had one other batch to check out and I’d get back to him. Never ever give out your name and phone number to a prospective hay seller unless you purchase, word travels fast and you’re recorded on the blacklist of fussy horse loving broads.

“Perfect June grass put up tight in fifty to sixty pound bales.” Ohhhh, I could smell it through the phone, I’ll be right there! Dang if the guy wasn’t right, it was very nice fresh green hay today, but by the end of the week after it dried out I would be able to lift the twines up to my neck and what was left of the bale would maybe weigh twenty pounds. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Brome grass pleasantly mixed with one third alfalfa, horse candy at its best!” Yahoo, this was it “Sir, I’ll be there in thirty minutes, please don’t consign it to anyone until I arrive.” Looked good, smelled good, decent weight and he had plenty. “May I open one up to take a little peek?” “Well Miss, this here hay is two dollars a bale and if I open one up I’ll never get the twines back on tight and won’t be able to sell it.” That’s about the time I spotted the snake head sticking out of a corner of the bale- “I’ll get back to you.” Where there’s one snake there’s a whole lot more! “

Second cutting straight alfalfa, heavy squares”. “Just set aside ten and I’ll get them with the pickup later and leave a check if you’re not around.” I knew this neighbor and as much as I didn’t like feeding straight alfalfa it would do for now until I could find some grass or a mix. Problem, BIG problem, I couldn’t lift the bales! One fellows version of ‘heavy’ and the next guy’s was amazing; these bales must have weighed a hundred pounds or more.

The only help I found on the farm was the guy’s dog and he didn’t seem to have any ambition so I thought what the heck, I’ll cut the bales open and stack the hay in layers in the back of the truck. I should have known better, when the bales ‘popped’ as I cut the twines. Flake after flake I stacked a whole three bales in the back of the pickup in a nice neat pyramid. Driving down the highway on the way home a semi’s side wind blew out all but 3 flakes.

Just another day Emily, just another day.

'Bye' Number One - 3/7/2008

Tom Pantera, the editor of this fine paper, told me awhile back that all writers are allowed one “bye” in their careers to babble, so I’m taking mine now. I wear about ten hats and don’t consider this writing thing a career so I figure two “byes” should do me just fine.

The only official writing training I’ve had was my little “Imagine and Write” book in the fifth grade. The OutHouse was penciled in as a dare and it’s been a love/hate relationship with me every week.

Forgive me if the next 800 or so words are out of the ordinary but I’m tired and this handy dandy little column needs to be in Tom’s e-mail by morning.

Trying to write about Dad’s Billy Bass fish Christmas a few years ago was a total wipeout as most of the words were *^#%@)*(. We all gave or received one that year and had a jolly time for the first few songs but Dad was gifted a total of 12 Billy Basses and literally “took them to the river” and they sang their last song under water. I wonder where the four shysters are hiding out that were on last week’s Most Wanted page?

Tom will probably edit this out, but I have to give a plug to the Eden Organic Garden store in the TV guide section. That gal has the neatest assortment of gardening items and gifts that I’ve seen in a long time, a one-stop shop for that impossible-to-buy-for loved one, for sure.

Trooper Andy on page 19 talked about fifthwheel trailers and the legality of pulling one. We have one of those and my selective learning disorder will not permit me to hook it up. Ed hooked it up for me one time last summer to go for a load of hay and I couldn’t get the dang thing backed up. In an informative voice, he told me that the center of gravity was a tish ahead of the old bumper pull trailer, but I had to differ, using the explanation that “the new trailer just hates me.”

The cooking page in The FM Extra usually has some pretty good recipes. I’ve even attempted a few of them with hairy results, but a FISH TACO? Oh Lord, I hope the good folks up in Alaska don’t read this paper as I think we would have a border war going if they found out what we were doing to their fish.

We used to go fishing a lot. One very long time ago a big group of us had the idiotic idea to venture up to Lake of the Woods Resort, rent a cabin and ice-fish for three days. Boones Farm was the wine of choice and, while stuck in a dark ice-fishing house on a lake that was as big as the state of Minnesota, we gals bided the time away sipping wine and gossiping while the gentlemen caught “big fish” in the nearby fishing houses. Bottles of wine “float” in the ice holes, a perfect old-fashioned refrigerator until the bottle is a little less than halffull and sinks to the bottom of the lake along with wide eyes and tempers.

Flipping through the paper a bit more, I discover Metro Lights has memories all over the place for me. I sure hope the M&J Brand Saloon has forgotten about the night 20 or so years ago when a group of us had a little “reaction” to some beer. Brandy and I wore hats that had “S… Happens” scrolled across the front, and it sure did happen, right out the back door by the bouncer, along with the horse that we had snuck in. “Sorry, Brandy, it might not be a good idea to forward this particular column to your mom.”

My mother was visiting from her retirement state of Montana awhile ago, and we met my sister at Rooter’s Bar for happy hour. I had never been in that particular establishment before, and it was a nice surprise of old-fashioned architecture and excellent service.

Eating the free salted peanuts, Mom placed her empty shells neatly in an extra bowl and, when that was full, asked the barkeep to clear the table. Clear he did – promptly dumping the empties on the floor, to Mom’s gasp of astonishment. Laughing, my sister and I explained to Mom that the policy was to eat and drop. Mom chewed up a whole bowl of peanuts in no time, placing the empties in the bowl, and then flung the whole works across the floor and onto an incoming customer, saying, “I did it, I did it!” Sorry, Rooter’s, we’ll take her somewhere else next time.

I’ve never gotten into a lick of trouble at either the Legion or Willy’s Bar, but Todd at Willy’s has frowned at me a couple of times for my ability to eat a 12-ounce prime rib in 2.4 minutes.

Hey, hey, word count says 870, so I’m off the hook and off to bed. Here you go, Tom, edit away…

Service Engine Soon - 2/29/2008

Ireceived a call from a fellow horse enthusiast and was let in on a little secret: a national trainer was driving through our state and had broken down by a small town about 100 miles away with his load of champion horses. I checked my lottery ticket first because this opportunity was surely a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see horses in person that at any other time I would drool over in a glossy magazine.

Checking the map for the fastest available crosscountry trip as the crow would fly, I was off in no time at all with camera and autograph pen in hand.

Even though I was familiar with the local landscape, I was a bit nervous wandering into new territory by myself. But according to the map, there were precise few black lines to indicate paved roads all the way to my destination.

In a heavily wooded area with winding roads, the nice highway turned into a very narrow, almost one-lane park path. Being a professional procrastinator, I was sure the little paved road would turn back into an adult highway in no time, so I kept on with my trip to see the world champs.

Where the Amtrak train came from and where it thought it was going was a dang good question. Probably coming from Timbuktu and en route to a city called What-chama- call-it. As I looked at my watch and got real impatient, the train slowed down and then came to a complete stop in the middle of nowhere, blocking my way. It really ticked me off as I imagined the truck and horse trailer full of fancy steeds slipping away.

Now, I was taught some dang good manners as a child, but the mother of the little boy in the train window making faces at me was just about to get my car rammed against her reclined seat as the train started chugging away.

Ducks are a beautiful breed of bird, and the babies are the cutest little fur balls that were ever created. But when a person is in a hurry, ducks should not be crossing one at a time over a wannabe highway. Mama Duck hissed and flapped her wings at me in very disgusting “stop” sign language as one little duckling after another waddled across the road in front of my car tires. Just how many ducks could a wood duck produce? As the seventeenth fuzzy wuzzy chicklet crossed my path, Papa Duck brought up the tail end with a quack and a wiggle of his tail designing a new white pinstripe on the pavement.

OK, was I at the intersection of County Highway 80 or number 3? Only the little rascal’s shotgun pellets knew for sure, as the road sign had more bullet holes through it than Grandma’s Dunkin’ Donuts. Taking a right would possibly put me 20 miles from my destination and a left could land me 70 miles on the other side of nowhere.

Hungry, frustrated and afraid the champion horses would be on their way to California soon, I opted to take a right turn and munch on the candy bars in my survival kit. Digging to the very bottom, tossing out the flashlight, blanket and moon boots, I found no candy bars, just empty wrappers. I cussed out Ed; he had driven my car the week before and had EATEN MY SURVIVAL KIT!

Driving at a steady, ticked-off pace, I saw the farmsteads and then industrial buildings start getting closer together, meaning I was either approaching the correct town or I was somewhere in Canada. The sound of “ding, ding, dings” along with my dashboard lighting up like a Christmas tree put my temper right through the imaginary sunroof. Stopped at the side of the road, I just sat and stared at the little message: “Service Engine Soon.” Checking the gauges, I saw that the temperature wasn’t up to the red yet so I had a decision to make: save my car and never see the world’s best horses in person or get out and hoof it. Hands down, off I drove with the little flashing light on my dash warning me I would soon be divorced.

The Jiffy Serve Station sign said “two miles ahead,” and right beside that was the correct name of the town where I was destined to see my beauties. Figuring I could take some pictures of the horses along with getting some quality autograph time with the trainer while my car was being fixed, I was on cloud nine. There it was, a gigantic aluminum semi-trailer loaded with national champion horses right in front of my very own eyes. Getting emotional, I decided I needed to use Jiffy Serve’s Jiffy John before gazing at the marvelous animals.

What happened next was beyond all devastation and 50 broken mirrors at the same time. As I came around the corner from freshening up, the trailer was pulling out of the driveway, never to be seen again. As I stood in total despair, the toothless wonder-mechanic was lucky he didn’t have any after he had the nerve to say, “You thould have theen those horth’s, they were stho boothiful.”

Resolution - 2/15/2008

This past New Year’s I figured this would be the year I would decide what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Thinking way back, I decided that being a “king weed puller” was not in the cards for me, just as it wasn’t for my brothers and sisters when we were sent into a bean field with instructions to remove all of the king weeds, most of them wider around than little sister. Only the oldest brother was tall enough to see over the king weed patches and, as he sat on his high throne blaring instructions to us shorter laborers, we snuck out of the field on our hands and knees, leaving dear big brother to deal with Dad and a zillion leftover king weeds. Big brother did not grow up to be an agronomist after he was fired and then ordered to clean the field by himself.

As a young horse trainer’s assistant, I told everyone and the moon that that was surely what I wanted to be when I grew up. Since I was made up mostly of legs at that age, my mentor worded it very carefully that I was light and agile enough to be promoted to “first rider of colts.” Not knowing any better and having a very sketchy job description, I disqualified myself after being tossed over the moon more times than I cared for. I still list “horse trainer” on my resume; in fact, just yesterday I taught my old grey gelding to simulate a horse.

Dog catching was a “maybe” foreseeable occupation. They said I was the best of the best at luring all stray, street-bound dogs to my official yellow pickup truck in no time at all. Given clearance to the city, along with a twoway radio, I would drive by motorists and pretend to be taking a very serious call from Captain Adam 12 himself. My career-ending event was a lab/setter cross that could spot my yellow truck from a mile away when he was cruisin’ the neighborhood. Time after time, that mutt would evade my alley traps and nets as he loped off with a grin on his face and a fake bandanna around his neck.

Now, the pet store stint was the mother of all jobs, and the only one I was ever fired from. Buddy was his name and he lounged in a glassedfront cubicle overseeing his little jungle of fish, rodents and reptiles. One of my assignments was to shine up the front of Buddy’s dwelling before the store opened so everyone that wandered by could clearly see the beautiful, well-behaved little monkey and perhaps take him home. Buddy and I didn’t get along too well from the beginning and, as time went on, he took great pains to make my job pure hell. After each cleaning of his glassedfront home, the little varmint dug in his nose and flicked boogers all over the inside of the glass and then pooched his lips at me in an insulting kiss. Buddy would also look to make sure the store owner wasn’t watching and moon me any chance he got. The cake topper was the day I was cleaning behind Buddy’s wirebacked cage and got a little too close to his domain. That cute little monkey grabbed my hair and pulled me in like a fish on a reel. Held in a death trap, I didn’t dare reach up with my hands or they would be amputated along with what was left of my hair. The only weapon in reach was the broom, and the handle fit perfectly between the wire mesh, giving me one chance in 10 of survival. Just as I slid the broom into the cage to back the monkey off, the store owner came around the corner to see what the commotion was about. Buddy instantly released his grip, sat back with his hands up in the air howling for all he was worth, and I was released for attempted murder on a defenseless monkey.

I think everyone at one time or another has wanted to be a professional photographer. Being no exception to the rule, I’ve shot a few really good Kodak moments on my way to imminent stardom… Way too impatient for shutter speeds or zoom dimensions, I think a master’s degree in instant Polaroid camera use should be sufficient.

Just last Saturday as the Lifetime Channel had consumed my very soul, Ed called in a frantic voice, saying he needed my immediate help with a National Geographic photography session. Rolling my eyes and saying goodbye to Lifetime, I hoped this shoot would be a bit more interesting than the last one of an owl in the barn. Yep, an owl in the barn was the cause for my frostbite and midnight romp of photography.

Hopping in the pickup with camera ready, I asked Ed just what was so photogenic that I had to go out in 20-below temperatures. Driving the truck like it was a snowmobile, he “shushed” me as we snuck up on the subject. Now, how was asking a quiet question in a 3,000-pound truck with the motor grinding away going to scare away the subject?

Pointing to the middle of a field while turning the corner, Ed whispered, “Hurry, shoot the picture!” Well, there was a whole lot of snow and this would be one dang great white photo, but what the heck was I taking a picture of? Oh, come on, no way was I going to take a photo of two foxes on a “date”!

Maybe next year I’ll decide what I want to be when I grow up. Heck, I might even take a writing class and become a featured columnist…

Practical Jokeability - 2/8/2008

Somehow last weekend, Ed and I ended up going the same direction in the same vehicle and ended up at the mall.

Now, I make one trip to the mall a year and that's usually by force, and Ed takes an everyother- year approach.

Finding our way around was easy once we scrutinized the giant map and then got directions from a young man who needed a serious trouser lift. Our plan was a look-see at a new washing machine, but in the scuffle of traffic, we ended up in a practicaljoke store.

Taking the side aisle, I found a nice, cozy, Herman Munster blowup chair to rest in while Ed did the touch, feel, smell and walkabout tour. Watching a bright purple lava lamp for an extended period of time really didn't help my mood, so, daring the store to produce something funny, I started looking around.

The molded fist looked extremely real in the box, but why would anyone buy a fist on a stand? Pushing the "try me" button produced an upwards motion of the center finger with some F. verbiage. Well, F. verbiage right back to you, fist; I tossed the box back on the shelf. Looking closer at the directions, I noticed they read, "Motion Activated." Too good not to try out, I turned on the automatic activation switch and went around the corner, peeking through for the first victim.

Strolling down the aisle was a middle-aged couple that should have been shopping at Macy's instead of the joke store, and I crossed my fingers that they would take a right turn into my trap. They were dawdling and talking. It was all I could do not to run around the corner and push them into the activation beam. The prim and proper lady in her high heels took one last step and – voila! For some reason the gal thought her husband had taken off his own fist and said the F. verbiage to her, and they were out of the store in no time with her digging long red fingernails into the arm of his tidy, pinstriped suit.

Better than "Candid Camera." I had a new favorite store.

The silver pens were innocent looking, all wrapped up in sturdy plastic packages. The warning label on the side read, "Not for persons with pacemakers or heart problems." Not having either one of those and wondering why you needed a warning to write with a pen, I found out in no time. The electric jolt to my thumb woke me and half the mall up with my F. verbiage! Ed thought it was oh-so-funny until he went to write out a check at the counter and I handed him a nice, sleek, shiny, silver pen.

Driving home loaded with our bag of tricks and no washing machine, we met a highway patrol with his lights flashing. Both laughing, we remembered the time that Ed was gifted a red-flashing safety light that we had way too much fun with at the kids' expense. The boys were old enough to stay home alone but young enough to be kidded when we came home from a night out with the red flashing light on the dash. Calling the kids from the car we told them that we were in town and the sheriff had contacted us, saying the boys were having a wild party and they should come out with their hands up. First, one head popped up in the living room window, then the other. Out they walked with their hands above their heads, ready to be arrested, and when they saw us in the car, we soon learned our young lads could recite a whole lot of F. verbiage.

Pete is a friend of ours who is way too old for toys but unable to get past his sandbox era. Coming out to help Ed with the livestock one day, he sported a huge box containing the biggest, fanciest remotecontrol car ever made. Beaming from ear to ear while assembling the overgrown Tonka, we put a big red flag on the antenna with a splash of jet fuel for power. Sure, it was a cool remote contraption, and we all were awed at its wheelies and spinning abilities. Thinking he could scare up some action with the horses, Pete radioed the car under the fence and out to the pasture for a little roundup. Missing from the shop bench was a big old magnet that someone had mysteriously placed in Pete's mini hotrod, playing a joke on his driving skills and thinking the smaller, jet-powered car would immediately bond tightly to our bigger parent cars or a metal building.

Missing the larger magnetizers completely, Pete's remote instantly bonded to the Old Grey's horseshoes and all heck broke loose. With his toy reduced to the size of a matchbox car, Pete wrapped up what was left of his beauty in the ripped-up flag and gave it to Ed for a souvenir. Not thinking, Ed put the red flag in his back jean pocket with half of it sticking out as the two jokers went out to sort bulls… Emilysouthouse@aol.com

How'd That Happen? - 2/1/2008

It was a nice day for travel and, as much as I hate driving to town, even the traffic didn't bother me. The old gray gelding was out of his special feed mix and, even at four degrees below with six feet of snow, I would have made the trip for my good old friend.

Pulling up to the shop at home, I saw the usual after-five crowd milling about telling the same stories and blending up the same chronicles they had the week before. Every once in awhile there's a new happening and the story is hours old by “shop time” with many, many versions for days and years to come.

Ed must have just finished his tale of the time the immigrants came out to our farm to purchase a hog as he was laughing so hard he was crying while explaining how the poor native wanted water and his hand pumping charades resembled something else.

Nick had his chest pushed up and out, and I could see he was about to tell the tale of how he caught the gigantic northern with his bare hands, and that would be directly after the halfhour story of his boat capsizing in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Ray was kicking gravel around with his left foot, meaning the economic revolution of diesel engines was on the tip of his tongue ready to be explained to all whether they wanted to hear it or not.

Nodding nicely and pretending to be semiinterested in all conversation and fables, my glances toward the bags of horse feed and wishes for a helpful hand were dismissed with “the flood of ’67.”

As I hefted a bag of feed out of the trunk, Nick came from around the third-tree-to-theright restroom and said in passing that a fourwheeler would come in real handy to haul my feed to the barn.

There was immediate silence, head-scratching and chaw-spitting while Nick's words sank into the group, and then everyone started talking and giving advice about four-wheelers at the same time. Old, new, used and abused, all makes and models were contemplated and disputed.

The next morning as we were having coffee at the kitchen table, Ed told his cup that one of the guys knew of a great deal on a used but in-great-shape four-wheeler and he thought he'd mosey over to take a look at it. I told my cup of coffee that it was a ridiculous thought and a four-wheeler of any kind was out of the question. Ed's coffee argued back that I would be able to haul horse feed with ease, amongst a million other odd jobs around the farm, making our lives so very much easier.

Agreeing that he should take a look at the machine to ease his mind and “get over it,” I dismissed the subject and went on with my day.

I forgot about that morning and Ed's tirekicking trip, until about a week later when some pamphlets came in the mail with brand-new, shiny four-wheeler photos on the front. When confronted with the materials, Ed explained that he was real disappointed in all he had seen and heard about the used machines and just wanted to compare them to the new models. After some “friendly fire” in the kitchen, I was leaning a tish towards a handy-dandy new machine that would haul horse feed with a push of the thumb, but why fix what wasn't broke?

The southern drawl on the other end of the telephone was unmistakably sincere as the fellow explained that the new and improved next-year's model of four-wheeler would be ready to ship in a week’s time. “ED!”

After a lengthy conversation and all but blaming the dog and the kitchen sink, Ed told his boots that, yes, he had bought a new four-wheeler but promised I would never have to lift or carry anything over ten pounds again on the farm.

Having the salesperson at the feed store carry and place my bags of feed in the trunk, I felt pretty as a princess knowing I wouldn't have to carry the bags to the barn when I got home. Pulling up to the shop, I saw there was no husband or four-wheeler in the yard, not even behind the third tree to the right.

Nick and Ray were milling about and, when asked where I might find my brand-spankin'-new feed hauler, they both pointed in different directions. About that time, Ed came pulling in with a mountain of pig feed on the back of the fourwheeler, parked it, got in his pickup and left. Carrying my feed bags to the barn, I pondered on how big of a brandnew horse trailer I should purchase to

Drivability - 1/4/08

OK,OK, I admit that I’m a wuss when it comes to driving, especially in the winter. What’s the big deal when there’s glare ice and passersby go off at my parked car on the edge of the highway, sneering at me waiting for the sanding truck with a package of Oreos and a half-gallon of milk? That’s the one time everyone is allowed to drink straight from the carton, before the milk freezes anyways.

I really like to keep the car pointed forwards and all four wheels on the pavement. The fellow drivers behind me get a little ticked off and annoyed at my slow going on ice, but I do pull off every two or three miles to let them by to run in the ditch ahead of me. A little slip-sliding and Emily goes right off the deep end of panic and terror.

If I had a little chat with a counselor, I think my caution problem would go all the way back to when I was 10 and my sister and I braved the Bullet ride at the fair. The operator went on a break and forgot we were on the ride, and for a good 15 minutes we were banged around inside out and upside down in the capsule.

A few weeks ago, after our first heavy snow, the county plow was kind enough to clear our road and take out the mailbox at the same time. That part-time fellow should have gotten a speeding ticket as, in his rush to get me out of Dodge, he left our road looking and feeling like a roller coaster. There was no way I could hold even a half cup of coffee without spilling it while driving over two miles of speed bumps! The local operator did fix our nice little trail with the blade, but I think his cousin that also uses our road had something to do with it.

“No Winter Maintenance” is a sign that I will always obey after my one and only time of breaking the law and driving around one. Ed was not a happy camper when he first buried the pickup and then a tractor while trying to pull me out.

Halfways to town there’s a connecting highway with a stop sign. Every dang time I’m happily cruisin’ down the lane minding my own business, another vehicle pulls out in front of me from that intersection and I about land on top of them. They can’t wait a couple of seconds for me to drive by, oh no, it’s a rolling stop right out in front of me as they take off.

I get a big charge out of the town drivers that zip up behind and then race around the first chance they get, only to be stopped beside me at the next red light. Some of the drivers get really ticked off when I stretch and yawn while waiting for the green light.

An unbelievable road rage incident happened to me a few years ago after I found the grand prize at the sporting goods store. It was when the Chinese first started manufacturing authentic Missouri Valley coonskin hats out of polyester.

Buying one each for my family and friends, I couldn’t wait to get home to surprise everyone with my great discovery. A lady behind me started honking and flashing her lights while still in town and by George if she didn’t follow me right down the highway still honking and flailing her arms. Thinking the gal must have had me confused with someone that had murdered her husband, I didn’t dare slow down or stop. Thankful for the oncoming traffic so she couldn’t pull up beside me and take me out, I ditched her on the first field road I could find while feeling bad for the farmer’s corn that I was running over.

Too overwrought to carry my bags in, I just sat at the kitchen table wondering if the lady had taken my license plate number and was at the police station drawing a mug shot of me for some crime I was sure I didn’t remember committing. Turning on the radio, the local talk show host was taking calls and a screeching PETA voice came on describing my car to a tee, saying that I was transporting cats in my trunk and had smashed two of their tails while in a hurried getaway. Ha? This was just all too unbelievable as I counted one, two housecats alive and well at my feet and I would be ripped to smithereens if I had tried to place one of the barn cats anywhere near my car!

The light bulb came on, and when I moseyed outside, it was just as I thought: two polyester coon skin tails had escaped from their shopping bag and were waving for help outside of the trunk…

We Remember - 12/21/2007

Last week, I asked you for remembrances of your special animal friends. Here are the responses:

My beautiful canary Joey, I miss you so much! Your songs always made my day. You put a smile on my face the first thing every morning and if I was down and out you would sing for me and my smile would be back. It was so much fun to play peek-a-boo with you. Thank you for the wonderful memories, Joey. I’ll always love you.
Shawn, Fargo, ND

To Chester- the best dog a man and kids could ever have.
Dennis, Fargo, ND

To Mica and Sheeba- You were the best mutts that anyone could ever have had. You taught me that practice makes perfect and a shepherd cross may well be the best breed ever. Love you, girls. See you at the rainbow bridge.
Bridget, Downer, MN

I remember Maynard and Felix, two cats that came into my life when all seemed lost. There’s a reason for everything and both of you have a place in my heart forever.
Mary, Moorhead, MN

My dearest Bernie, you were a godsend in my life. You knew how I felt and comforted me when I had no one else to confide in and yet knew how to test my patience. We had a wonderful seventeen years together and you are missed. With all my love and gratitude, you are remembered.
Robin, Elk River, MN

To Tigger- You were a big old fluff ball and a great cat. You will never be replaced.
Tyler, Kindred, ND

You did not have a name and were too young to know what life was all about, yet you touched our hearts. Your mother abandoned you at such a young age and bottle feeding was a new experience for us. Your little meows and soft fur are still etched in our memories. We will remember you.
Amanda and Carter, Hawley, MN

It’s hard not to cry when I think of Otis and growing up together. Being a poodle, he never admitted he was on the smaller side when someone bothered me or another dog came close. I still have your tennis ball, fella, and will have it with me when we meet up again.
Dave, Moorhead, MN

To my dear friend Hulda. My protector, my confidant, my friend. You helped me raise my children and keep them safe. I could not have asked for a better nanny. You listened to me when I was frustrated and did not know who else to talk to. You deserve the peace and tranquility you now have but will be missed forever. With love,
Barb, Albertville, MN

Maxine was playful and somewhat snippy when irritated. A standard size poodle was definitely in her lineage; however, she had a streak of "something" else as well. She could jump as high as a kangaroo and straight up, not from a running leap. Her best friend was a much smaller cocker and when the two of them started racing around the yard, it was like watching a canine racetrack run. The cocker occasionally ticked Max off and she'd backslap him off a chair. Max became mysteriously ill one day after a raucous time in the living room and the next day she just went to sleep. We miss Max. She was more than a member of our family; she was everyone's "baby."
RD, Moorhead, MN

God bless my turtle
Elroy. David, Dilworth, MN

Ginger- I admit that I have tried to replace you, but never in a million years will I ever find a more trusting and dear friend. I imagine your long and flowing mane as you run in the tall grass above, no longer in pain. Thank you, Lord, for the once-in-a-lifetime gift of a special mare.
Tami, Enderlin, ND

Goldie was a great dog that loved everyone, including the mailman. We miss you.
Alma, Moorhead, MN

Life is full of surprises, and what a shock it was when little Toot wandered into our front yard one morning. Bottle feeding a fawn was not easy, but Toot grew into a lovely doe and stayed around our farm for two years. We think of her often.
Jim and Susan, Hunter, ND

Mutley was just that. Total mutt. He snuck chocolate bars from the kids’ bedrooms, peed on entering house guests and played fetch as though it was his life's ambition. Mutley chased whatever ball caught his attention, whenever it caught his attention, wherever it was going. That puppy could run. One day Mutley chased one too far and before we could grab him, we heard the screeching brakes.

His life was short, but a happier dog would be hard to find. He died doing what he loved most in the world... playing fetch.
ARM, Pueblo, CO

Harree was supposed to be the kids’ dog. However, as they were in school much of the day, and since moms usually are the ones to feed them and walk them and take them to the vet, much of the time, this becomes much like an adopted child for Mom. So it was in our household so many years ago. And honestly, I have never minded the extra responsibility. We have gone from a no-pet household to having three. We have lost a few over the years, but each was truly a member of the household. They each have had their own personalities and pickiness. Some refused to eat certain foods. One ate just like a goat---anything, any time. One we could not get to stop barking at a neighbor, no matter how many times he saw him. However, Harree adored me and only me. As he got older and older he got crankier and crankier. The time came last spring for Harree to meet his past buddies in doggy heaven. Not only was he cranky, he wasn't eating anymore. I kept putting it off and Ash wasn't going to make that decision for me. That's when our son stepped in and before I knew it, Harree was gone. Ash and I had to put another dog to sleep and it took a long time to get over that. Our son and daughter took it upon themselves to be the adults in this situation and assumed responsibility of an awesome burden. Now when I look at Harree's picture, I also have something else to make me smile--the proud knowledge we have raised such incredibly decent and caring individuals.
Soo, Moorhead, MN

Away in the Manger - 12/14/2007

It was a very silent night when Ed read my Christmas list; apparently a new Featherlite Gooseneck horse trailer with air-conditioned living quarters was out of the question. Penciling in the trailer on my list gave high hopes that a brand-new, shiny, red wheelbarrow would be in my horse barn on Christmas morning. Perfume and jewelry were out of the question; the smell of a horse in the sun and a new halter for accessories would suit me just fine!

One year, I was the recipient of a 5-foot-long piece of iron with steak knives attached to the end. Looking around for a very large cow for Christmas dinner, I was informed we would be going ice fishing. Better safe than sorry, I wore my life jacket under my parka on the extended eight-hour vacation with Ed and a few others to a frozen lake with tiny houses that had no restrooms or windows.

I was granted my very own dwelling with a stinky propane heater and a fivegallon pail for a recliner. It was an immensely enjoyable outing while sitting in the dark by myself, watching the bottom of the lake through a hole while waiting for supper to swim by. A grand time for self-reflection and plotting wicked revenge, to be sure.

Remembering back to past Christmas seasons, I fondly recall the all-out brawls over the Sears toy catalogs when they arrived in the mail around the first week in December. It seems that, in a previous life, we had an entire Thanksgiving season all to ourselves without dodging tinsel and reindeer in the department store aisles.

There were no ponies listed in the Sears catalog. Dick and Jane had a dog named Spot. So did we, but they lived in town and had a pony. We lived on a farm with no pony, and I hated Dick and Jane for that!

On a rather bleak Christmas morning, Dad gifted to Mom a shotgun. I remember her looking at the long box and shaking it a few times, all excited to unwrap her gift. Maybe she thought it was the newestfangled version of a sewing machine – who knows? – but when Dad looked into the double barrels with Mom on the trigger end, he knew that Santa was not coming to his side of the tree for a very long time!

One stipulation that Mom and Dad had for a few years was that us kids were to put on a nativity play before opening our presents.

Practicing each afternoon for a week or so before Christmas Eve, we sometimes drew blood on each other before the days were over. Bandaged up and limping around, we knew “the play must go on” as the boys dreamed of Red Ryder BB guns, my sisters’ hopes were for Barbie dolls, and my great vision was the Johnny West ranch set with Jane West as the heroine.

We six little angels arranged our last play to be just that – the last one – and it worked so well that we all got along great the entire practice week. With great anticipation, we asked the audience (parents and grandparents) to wait in a separate room as we prepared the stage for our grand finale while the youngest brother ushered in the props. Giggling behind the curtain and ready to put the opera to shame, we were dressed in the finest nativity clothing that Mom’s old dresses would allow.

By the piano sat the dog, peeking around from behind the couch was a calf, and on top of the kitchen table stood a goat with a north star duck taped to the top of his head. Clucking around the living room were half of the chickens from the coop, and none of the critters were following their script. Our entire cast was immediately excused from the stage and our acting days were happily over. We did receive a sitting ovation from Grandpa as he slapped his knee and laughed at Mom as she dragged the calf outside by his ears.

Grandma was very much less impressed and made a new stipulation that all children would eat lutefisk on Christmas Eve from then on before opening gifts. Stage fright turned into table fright for a few years…

Merry Christmas, everyone! May your wheelbarrow always be empty, the sun dogs be easy on your eyes, and your lutefisk never be mushy.

Remember the critters

There are several services of remembrance this time of year for our friends and family. I would like to use this space in next Friday’s OutHouse to remember our animal friends. Feel free to e-mail or send in your tribute (subject to editing).

As we don’t have much room, responses will be printed on a first come, first served basis and I will make mine now:

*God bless Pinky. I am so grateful that you were a part of my life. You had the patience of Job to teach me to ride, along with forgiving me in the gentlest way when I forgot my lessons. I will remember you always with love and appreciation. Emily

Please send your remembrances in by noon Tuesday.

Emilysouthouse@aol.com

Snowed In - 12/07/2007

I have a love-hate relationship with snow. The little kid in me wants a couple feet of the beautiful fluffy playground material, but the mature adult side of me says, “Snow stinks!”

Waking up to ten new inches of the crystallized H2O puts one in such a joyful mood. Shoveling used to be an aerobic exercise and, if one was creative enough, initials and secret messages could be carved all over the sidewalk. This year, I would first test myself on remembering where the shovel was, and if found, would break the handle off and shrug my shoulders while pointing to the dog.

I stuffed myself into my insulated coveralls, but the dang things wouldn’t zip up again. Last spring I promised myself they would close with room to spare by this snow season; maybe next year.

The house cat did his little Garfield dance, followed by two short meows that meant he wanted outside. I told him the snow was deep and he was a foolish feline to attempt it, but out the door he dashed, totally disappearing under the snow except for his tail. The tail did a huge loop around the front yard, sticking out of the snow, and back through the front door in a matter of seconds. Shame on me, but I had to laugh and it was a good snow moment.

These leg muscles that we must use to trudge through the fine ice crystals should be warned in advance. By the time I got to the barn to let the horses out, I was walking like Old Saint Nick himself, with no bend-ability left. After the first heavy snowfall, I’m pretty good to remember to not kick the bottom of the barn door when opening it. Yep, down it came off the roof right on top of my head and onto the back of my neck to make a very bad and foul-languaged snow moment.

Anxious to see the weanling colt’s first snow steps, it was a fine, fine moment to watch him hit the powder and do the hot-potato hop as he was eaten alive by ten inches of white wolf. Watching the warnings and closings scroll across the bottom of the television screen, I could swear I saw that in-between Eagan and Enderlin it scrolled that “Emily” was closed for the day. So be it; as I was stranded in the house, I would get out my long lost list of “to dos” and accomplish great things.

I will never list patching jeans as number one on my resume. After breaking the third needle and sewing the legs together, it was time for a snack. All I could think of was cherry cheesecake and, according to the date on the Philadelphia package, we wouldn’t be baking a pan of that today. Improvising, I crushed up graham crackers and sprinkled them on top of an open can of cherries.

Settling on the couch with my very own personal cherry tart concoction, I tuned in to a soap opera that I hadn’t seen for a year. Some of the main actors were the same but married to different people. One gal was having a baby – the same lady that, a year ago, had introduced her granddaughter to the show. Bridget was baking cookies while concealing the identity of her child’s father to her cousin’s maid that used to be the main character on a different channel. Those cookies looked a lot better than my cherry tart mixture so, during the 15-minute commercial, I put the Kitchen-Aid mixer to work on some chocolate chip delights. Finding no chips in the pantry, I sat down with the mixing bowl and ate most of the dough. “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”

After a breather, the next item on the list read “clean closet.” Mad at myself for actually buying the containers to organize the closet items a very long time ago, I dug in. After making a big pile of “no fit” clothes, then putting them in a (maybe next year) tote, the next item pulled out to save or toss was an electric ice cream maker that Ed and I had received as a wedding gift. Blowing the dust off, I thought, “What the heck,” and hauled it off to the kitchen. Some of the directions were missing, but a stubborn, housebound woman wouldn’t let a little thing like that tarnish a good bowl of ice cream!

The Abominable Snowman himself couldn’t have made a bigger mess than that ice cream maker did to my kitchen. Finding out way too late that the missing directions were taped to the lid, I penciled in “wash kitchen ceiling” on the “to do” list after I ate what was left in the bottom of the container.

Digging in the cupboard for some rags, I discovered, there, on the very back shelf, an entire box of Little Debbie Fudge Brownies. “Who can eat just one?” I thought as I sat down, immensely enjoying my little snow party moment.

Ed came in that evening and asked what was for supper. Well, dear, we’re out of everything and I couldn’t make it to town for groceries because of the snow; besides that, we should try to cut back…

Patent Pending - 11/30/07

In the old days, Brandy and I would get together and do a bit of shopping at least once a month or so. Being best friends, we would usually come home with the same style of boots or jeans in alternating colors and then call one another before an outing to see who was wearing the Wranglers or the Levis so we wouldn’t copycat each other.

Discovering a great style of roping boots one year, Brandy cheated and bought the obvious black and brown colors leaving me to choose between the pink and red.

Wearing the comfy Rudolf boots, I ended up with a closet full of matching red shirts, but the two of us didn’t have to worry for a couple of years about color coding.

I got a panic call from my best friend late on a Sunday afternoon. Brandy had gone off on her own to buy a bed and was having a holy hissy fit while trying to assemble the frame and asked for my help. Now, if she would have called me first so I could have gone with and bought a similar sleeping apparatus, there wouldn’t have been any problems, as one of us can follow printed step-by-step directions just a little bit better than the other. Walking into the jumble of frame pieces, it looked to me like one end of the bed was shaped for a small child and the other sized up for a bigfoot. Brandy was sitting in an oversized clothes basket by the corner of the room with glazed eyes, staring off in the distance. Not daring to say “I told you so” as she was holding sharp mechanical tools, I carefully picked up the directions, making sure the closet door was in between us while I did my deciphering.

No problem, step three had been mistaken for step eight and in no time the frame was squared right up. I made sure Brandy’s blood pressure was down to normal before leaving, and all was well until I ran smack dab into the furniture salesman at the front door. Apparently, Brandy had called the store demanding that he come to her home and replace the faulty bed frame. Best friends or not, I left her to do the explaining on her own.

With both of our lives getting busier, Brandy’s and my shopping trips have slowed down to a once-a-year Christmas outing.

Neither one of us had ever experienced the Black Friday sales, so, thinking it would be a hoot and would save us some cash at the same time, this year our first stop was the Western store. Purchasing Christmas halters for our horses at a huge discount, we both agreed that Black Friday was delightful.

Off to Farm Outlet for a “one for a gift and two for us” sale, we found the crowd a bit unstable. While Brandy was arguing with a young man for rights to the last shopping cart, my right hand was just about severed by a gal with three-inch-long fingernails as we both reached for the last box of chocolate covered cherries.

How does one politely say “excuse me” in Christmas language when an extended, long-lost family meets in the aisle blocking your way? Neither Brandy nor I cared that the cousin’s daughter just had a baby, or that old Uncle Frank was home recovering from kidney stones; we had shopping to do! Patience and “excuse me” didn’t work at all, so Brandy started inching the cart up real slow next to Grandma to nudge her along. Holy smokes, neither one of us had ever heard a Grandma swear like that!

Backing down the aisle through the crowd, both Brandy and I dreamed up an invention for next year’s trip: a wristband with a buttonfaced Santa that, when pushed would say, “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas,” and follow with the words, “Excuse me, fellow shoppers.” If that didn’t work, the black Santa face on the other side of the wrist band would speak: “Merry Christmas, ho, ho, ho, move away from the aisle or Dasher will place his horn in your rear end.”

Leaving Grandma’s personal family reunion for our fill of tacos and then our favorite clothing store, we were relieved to find just a few lost souls strolling about. Brandy circled to the left and I went to the right, and we met up at the dressing room doors with a pile of clothes to try on in anticipation of a “one for the relative gift and three for us gifts.”

Now, as all women know, the first mistake we made was filling up on food directly before trying on clothes. The second mistake was made by the sales associate, leaving us alone in our under-drawers in a very small room surrounded by a three sided mirror.

Calvin Klein himself couldn’t have dropped the price enough for us to purchase a pair of candy canestriped socks!

On the way home with our booty of two horse halters and a ripped-open box of chocolate covered cherries, we both decided to add one more thing to our wrist band invention for next year’s trip: a turkey feather that, when pulled, would say, “gobble, gobble, gobble,” and the closer we got to town on Black Friday, the more the wrist band would crap on us.

The Exterminator - 11/23/2007

While reading the paper and munching down a bowl of Fruit Loops last month there was a quick movement on the floor that sped from behind the garbage bin to the space between the wall and dishwasher. Oh yippee, there was a mouse in the house.

I really don’t blame the little buggers for trying to find a warm place to reside, but can’t they grow a little more hair for protection against the weather or hibernate in their nice little tidy outside nests? I pretty much like all animals, but the dastardly little mice should know by now that they are not welcome in my kitchen.

Rummaging through the junk drawer for a mouse trap I discovered what was left of Mickey’s recent happy meal. A packet of Taco Johns extra hot sauce was chewed open by little bitty choppers and half scooped up. The little devil should have keeled over from heartburn, saving me the trouble.

There’s two cats in the house that should be paying their way, but oh no, they would rather sit beside their empty food dish for days before getting enough energy up to chase and exterminate a mouse.

Setting the good old wooden trap in the corner with a bit of cheese for bait, I fully expected to see a disintegrated Mickey the next morning. We had a tricky little devil, no mouse in the trap and no cheese either. OK, we would get out the “Better Mouse Trap” as it stated on the package. Heck, I sure don’t know what New Yorker invented that gizmo because Mickey had another nice meal and thanked the host with a turd beside the trap. Short of standing on the counter with a .22, the “Humane Trap” was tried. Mickey must have been an acrobat as somehow he held the foolproof door open, retrieved the cheese and went back into hiding.

As much as I don’t like the sticky traps, this little mouse was just a hair away from the exterminator having to go to counseling. Using fingernail polish remover to get the glue off my hands, I remembered why I had given up on that particular brand of pest eliminator years before.

Okeedookee, I sure hoped the little rat lookalike appreciated the interruption of my day when I made a special trip into town for some new and improved mouse reduction information. The guy at the hardware store was happy as all getout while loading my shopping basket with everything from an electronic, super-duper, surefire, mouse-away gadget to a fake owl that would scare the daylights out of Mickey, and he would hightail it back to his outside stomping grounds.

The cats started puking from the electronic thingamajig and our little house guest took a dump at the feet of the grand old scary owl.

No war, just emotional trauma on my end as I figured it was time to start thinking like a mouse. I set four of the good old wooden traps in a square; if I were a mouse, I would grab some tasty cheese, then turn around and run for it right over the trigger of the next trap and be squashed.

Too excited to sleep, I kept one ear open all night waiting for the traps to snap. Voila! At 2:07 a.m., I realized my brainstorm would have to be patented. Walking to the kitchen like one of my worthless cats that had just swallowed a canary, there in a jumble were all the traps that had been set off, but no mouse. Grabbing a paper bag to breath into I was contemplating turning the gas stove on and blowing the house up when one of the traps moved. Ha? Sliding the trap back a little bit from underneath the dishwasher, zippp, back it went in. Looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching, I did it again and zippp, back the trap went again! Realizing I had a “mouse by the tail” the situation looked bleak. I could leave the little bugger there to die a long and inhumane death or pull the trap out all the way and be gobbled up alive by his sharp little teeth. “Here, kitty, kitty” fell on deaf and worthless ears so I did the next most logical thing-”ED!”

Not one of my brightest moments as Ed came running out looking for a fire or a robber and tripped over the great horned owl that stood guard over all mice in my kitchen. The trip to the emergency room was pretty quiet and the doctor said Ed’s ankle was just sprained and not broken.

Wearing welding gloves the next morning, I carried Mickey to the hedge away from the house and set him free. Two days later I didn’t dare tell Ed that a very short-tailed mouse stared at me with evil eyes from around the corner of the dishwasher.

"Wilson"!!!! - 11/16/2007

Counting the cars I’ve owned on one hand, friends have scoffed at my affection for the steel peoplemovers, and I agree that I’ve gotten very attached to all of them, regardless of their idiosyncrasies and weary conditions.

Lucky to have such nice parents that went to town to buy a car for us licensed kids to share, we sure didn’t fight over who was going to drive the “Volvo” first!

Our second car to share was the prototype for the early transformer toys. I can’t remember the brand, but the back doors opened up backwards. Big brother took the hinges off and tried to weld and fit them on the correct way but we ended up with half a car in front, then a convertible, then a trunk with doors attached.

“Alice” was my very first purchase – and what a bargain find! Balanced high atop the “sale of the day” rack at the car lot, her sticker price read $200, and absolutely no one was going to talk me into going home without the powderblue beauty. The vitals on the window sticker read, “1966 Ambassador Rambler (as is).” I think the odometer had spun over more than a few times, but that was OK; I was bound and determined to take Alice away from all the mean cars and give her a good home.

The old saying, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth,” came into play when I looked in Alice’s mouth and discovered she had very bad teeth and her tonsils were oozing oil. Nothing that a little duct tape wouldn’t cure. Digging a little deeper, I saw that the poor gal had a very long and ugly crack in her head. Infuriated at the misuse the old girl had been tormented with, I immediately bonded with her and we drove off into the sunset together (for about three miles). The 20- below-zero weather didn’t bother me as much as it did Alice, and she froze up solid as an iceberg.

By the time spring rolled around, young Ed and Uncle Curt had Alice figured out to a T. The old gal hid her secrets well, but the fine print in her manual revealed that, while sporting an automatic transmission, she could be pulled and would fire right up with a huge hiss and a burp. Alice and I traveled many miles together, and, when she just couldn’t go any further, I parked her next to the big old oak tree in the back woods and placed a cross next to her radiator.

The “Blue Bomb” was bought off a neighbor’s hired hand along with half-chewed cigars scattered under the seats. Who was I to know that, while Hilex was a cure-all for germs and smells, it made car interiors and exteriors resemble tie-dyed t-shirts? I thought “Blue” looked pretty snazzy, but there was no way Ed was going to drive around in an Oldsmobile that was longer than a football field and resembled a pimpmobile. Surprisingly, Blue sold very fast at the county fair, parked next to the cotton candy booth.

Fast forwarding to the last five years and a couple of cars later, my trusty sedan “Tony” and I have been through it all. Counting up the miles and tabulating the trade-in value, sad as it was, it was time to make the decision to drive till death or replace Tony with a newer model. Narrowing my list, I lined up 3 appointments to test-drive newer steeds.

Car number one was a butt-ugly color but had more bells and whistles than a New York subway. Close, but I just couldn’t get over the sight of myself driving around in a car the color of cow poop. The next car was a beautiful color and had all the features I was shopping for, but there was a little hitch in the engine that got much louder when I spotted Tony in the rearview mirror. Car three was the cat’s meow! Out of Tony’s sight, the test drive went very well and I was ready to kick the tires with the salesman. With amusement, I let Mr. Acme give the “my car’s better than your car” speech; the poor fellow didn’t have a clue that he was dealing with a gal that had sold horses for half her life. Giving my trade offer, I let Mr. Acme have his hissy fit and then lower his price just a bit. Nope, that wouldn’t do either and at this point it was a total poker game and I was wearing the sunglasses.

Closing the deal a half hour later just a tish above my price and a whole lot under his, I actually felt sorry for the salesman as he was visibly shaking and glassy-eyed. This was the most fun I had had in a long time until Mr. Acme asked for Tony’s keys and got in to drive him away. At that moment I knew exactly how Tom Hanks felt as Wilson drifted away in the ocean.

There’s 10 hours and three minutes left on the three day return rule…

Communication Gap - 11/09/2007

We really do try hard to please our fellow citizens, but sometimes it just plain stinks to be polite.

A few years ago, a local agency called to ask if they could bring out a family of recent immigrants to visit the farm. Sure, why not, and God Bless America. We had a pleasant couple of hours showing the family around, letting the kids sit on a horse, pet a calf, and help feed the pigs. When the interpreter thanked us for the tour the Papa smiled, shook Ed’s hand and said one word, “pieces,” with a huge grin on his face while getting in the car. I looked at Ed and shrugged my shoulders, thinking “pieces” must have meant “thanks” in their language. But, as we found out later, “pieces” was an alternative word for “pork.”

HONK, HONK, HONK” is what we woke up to the next Sunday morning just after daybreak. Somehow, the immigrants had found their way back to our farm by themselves and were sitting in the car, blaring the horn.

Ed was not a very happy camper as we were smack dab in the middle of harvest and he hadn’t gone to sleep more than four hours before. I, on the other hand, poured a cup of coffee and courteously walked out to see what our visitors wanted at five in the morning. Now, sometimes I have a hard time deciphering the cooking directions on a box of Rice-a-Roni or programming a remote control, but trying to understand the immigrants’ wishes was way over my head. After a very long game of charades, my coffee was getting cold and both Papa settler and I were having a spaz attack of frustration. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Papa was thanking me over and over again while eating an imaginary chicken leg.

Finally, a young boy emerged from the car and spoke ever so slowly the words, “Pieces … mean … pork.” OK, so we had a bunch of dang pigs on the farm, it was nice to see you again, and please drive safely on the way back to town.

As I headed back to the house, it dawned on me like a ton of bricks what the new settlers were after: a pig!

Sending Ed out the door to deal on a prime porcine for our new friends was just too good of a picture not to tag along and see how he would manage the task. Apparently speaking English was not on the top of the list for our local agency, but teaching the value of a dollar had sunk in very well. Watching Ed and Papa chat back and forth in a language only the two of them could understand, I stood in utter amazement.

The immigrants had Ed over a barrel in a matter of minutes with a sale price, and off they trotted to the barn to collect up a “piece.” Curiosity kills the cat, but there was no way I was going to miss the end of this delightful morning. Following within hearing distance, I listened to Ed tell Papa a joke. Laughing hysterically, Papa returned a joke to Ed and the two of them giggled all the way into the barn. Thinking back to grammar school, by this time I was really second-guessing myself on the language Mrs. Lillibridge forgot to teach our class. That must have been the semester I was locked up in the coat closet for bringing my horse into the third-grade classroom for show and tell, and he pooped beside Mrs. Lillibridge’s desk.

Papa immigrant selected a prize porcine specimen for their BBQ and placed him in the back part of the mini van for the ride back to town. I just shook my head and reminded myself of the “don’t ask, don’t tell” rule as the settlers drove off.

Still a little confused and befuddled at Ed’s amazing hidden language talent, I was trying very hard not to look him in the eye when he started laughing with tears pouring down. It’s catchy when another person is in such good spirits, and I laughed along with him, not knowing why.

Pointing to the plowed field, Ed sat right down on the ground while wiping the tears away. The subject of his laughter was driving bumpity, bumpity at a fast pace through the field on their way back to the city. The immigrants’ country of origin must not have had very good road markers or perhaps no roads at all. After a quarter mile or so, the minivan made a large loop and the settlers headed back our way. It was about impossible to compose ourselves by this time, but as Papa drove through the yard and onto the road, doing fishtails, he was also laughing and yelled through the open window, “Love de America, be back for more pieces!” in a language we both understood all too well.

Seasonal Disorganization - 11/02/2007

They call it deer hunting season, but I call it the time of year when Ed and a bunch of other guys get zombie-eyed and bungle-brained.

It would make no sense at all to plan ahead and ready one’s hunting equipment a week or two in advance. Oh no, everything must be done the night before in a mad dash, and look the heck out if anyone gets in the way or suggests a different approach to the readiness order.

Hard-boiled eggs, the main staple of deer hunting, are a necessity and must be a guy thing, like turkey is to Thanksgiving. Twelve hard-boiled eggs for each hunter, and that’s just for one day. Reminded one year by Ed that the “other guy’s wife” peeled and diced her husband’s eggs, I packed his 12 little treats nice and neat in the cooler – unboiled.

Like clockwork every year, it’s the mad dash to town, walking in for licenses at the last possible moment before the store closes. Then it’s the stop at the grocery store for the munchy part of the weekend’s diet. Pickled herring, candy bars, pork rinds, multipackages of cookies, and let’s not forget the smoked chicken legs.

I tried to pack a decent meal once. Huge ham sandwiches with lettuce and mayonnaise followed by cute little pudding cups for dessert, but when I saw the dog trotting by with a corner of the plastic baggie in his mouth before the guys even took off, I suspended that offering for good.

Of course, all the orange clothing from the year before is either lost, mangled beyond repair, or conveniently outdated, and a trip to the sporting goods store is required. One year when I met up with the crew on the road during an egg break, the biggest, toughest hunter of the party walked around the side of the pickup carrying a shotgun with a price tag dangling from his carrot-colored hat. Calling him Phyllis Diller, I ran like all getout to my car before I could be shot.

The pickups are shined up from one end to the other, and belongings that have been lost for a year are surprisingly found. One young neighbor proposed to his future bride before rushing off to hunt at daybreak when he found the engagement ring he had purchased the year before under the seat.

That commitment is still on hold.

After the pickup is spic and span, the guns are taken out for spiffing up and residue removal. The same story is told each year at this cleaning time, of how Grandpa used the old shotgun to track for days on end the largest deer ever mounted in the county. Grandma tells the story a bit differently, with the ending being a pricy new front pickup bumper and a ticket for speeding.

Dad used to travel “way up north” to hunt deer and some years would come home with his booty already wrapped in packages. Mom knew he stopped at the local market that sold deer chops on his way home but always complimented him on the freshness and superior taste of the northern deer.

It’s a “my truck’s bigger than your truck” thing when the dilemma occurs to collect a deer from the middle of a muddy field. Some of these guys would put the monster-truck show to shame as they’re drop-dead serious about which one can reach the deer first. Who cares about a measly little transmission, much less shocks or broken body parts?

Ed didn’t realize a few years ago that the game warden was driving the same exact make and model as his pickup. The poor guy stopped in about noon to say no one would hunt with him. Apparently, each time he spotted his buddies and started driving toward them, they all took off like a cat with its tail on fire.

It’s a pecking order when it comes to walking or spotting. The younger you are, the more you walk to flush out the deer for the spotters. Ed used to come home complaining, covered in mud with cockleburs stuck to every inch of his clothing. Now, he comes home complaining of his aches and pains from standing beside a stupid tree all day.

Oh, don’t we just love the season…

Seven Pounds of Aging - 10/19/2007

My oldest son has reproduced. “Now what?” According to life‘s time line, I’m supposed to have grey hair in a bun with a flowered apron and bake homemade bread. “Not in a million years!”

The grandparenting thing isn’t too bad: When the little bundle spits up pabulum, return to sender. Bundle cries, return to sender. Bundle poops, return to sender. All quiet and clean, it’s my bundle to hold and hug.

I really don’t think at a week old my grandchild is too young for a pony; somehow, Ed should be able to rig up a car seat on top of the saddle.

Asked by an acquaintance if I felt old and grey, I punched him out and later pondered if I might have one or two of the socalled aging symptoms.

Doesn’t everyone forget where they parked their car and wander around aimlessly in the parking lot looking like a dork? I have one of those alarm things on my key holder to find said car, but it only honks from 10 feet away. I really think a flare launcher would be a more appropriate invention.

At a recent horse show, I was introduced to a group of up and coming champion 4-H kids. I can’t remember from Adam any of their first names, but I still recall all of their horses’ names, ages and colors.

I get plenty of exercise during the day walking back and forth from room to room. It’s not that I forget where I’m going; it’s that I have to go back where I started to remember what I was going for.

Taking pills has always been one of my major downfalls in the memory department. Used to be, I would take my vitamin in the morning and mark a little X on the calendar as five minutes later I couldn’t remember if I had swallowed the capsule or not. Repeating the same step in the evening, sometimes the morning’s X was down a little further than it was supposed to be and my mind was blown up. Finding a pink pillbox at K-Mart with seven days of AM and PM pill slots was a shopper’s blue light delight! Filling the little cubicles with pills, I was more excited than a kid on their first day of school with a new pair of shoes. Disaster struck when I was in a hurry and took the Monday PM pills in the AM and the empty PM cubby just sat there and stared at me that evening.

Baking is maybe a oncea- year occurrence in my kitchen and its done wearing a baseball cap and jeans. When I do get up the nerve to challenge Betty Crocker, there’s usually four bags of sugar and no flour in the pantry. Digging to the back of the pantry typically uncovers a Christmas gift or two from the year before that was put in a place that I would never forget them when it came time to wrap presents.

Being a checkaholic when it comes to latching gates, I’ve been halfway to town and turned around and gone back to make sure a pasture gate was secured that I had left a horse in that morning. I’ll leave the oven on, the dryer going and the freezer door wide open. Who cares about the piddly stuff?

Since first grade, I’ve carried a little note pad and written reminders for myself. A few times, I’ve walked into a grocery store without my list and wandered around totally hopeless and disoriented carrying an orange.

Someone in my house must have thought I was putting my makeup on upside down as a while back I was gifted a 10- times zoom mirror. Horrified while glancing at my reflection, there in the little round circle was a gorilla staring back at me! At what age does the hair from a woman’s legs transfer to her face? I totally missed that aging process while grabbing a razor and removing all traces of facial hair. Remembering Mother’s words in a flashback, “don’t shave, the hair will grow back twice as long,” I cried for an hour and tossed the mirror in the garbage.

The dingbat episodes come into play every once in awhile.

I should write myself a note to check the top of my head for lost reading glasses, it would save a lot of foul language and time searching. Am I the only one that listens for a dial tone before punching in a number on a cell phone? That is, if I could find said cell phone in my purse while complaining to the person on the other end of the phone that I’d lost it.

I’m thinking a person could use this aging propaganda to her advantage. Dang, I totally forgot I bought my grandchild a pony last week, isn’t this new pony cute? Now, where did I put the Grandchild?

 

Complicated Competition - 10/05/2007

Horse shows and rodeos are great events.Sometime s the weather is a little annoying or the drive a little long to the arena, but at least once you get there, you’re there! The biggest mistake I ever made was agreeing to ride a neighbor’s horse in a fifty-mile endurance ride through a national forest in chilly October.

Vince was the God of horse knowledge in our small community and when he asked me (a mere teenager) to ride his lovely mare Lady in a cross country race, I agreed hands-down before hindsight caught up to me.

Receiving the training details, it was the most fun a girl could ever have on a horse as the conditioning route passed a Mc Donald’s and the mileage worked out perfectly to ride through the drive-up for an after-school snack.

With both Lady and me in tiptop shape, her with a fresh set of shoes and me sporting a shiny new pair of boots, we were ready to conquer 60 other participants on a 50-mile endurance ride through a forest.

Eyeing up the other contestants the night before was an important thing to do and feeling smug, I fit right in with my bell-bottom jeans and hair in braids. Daydreaming of which wall I would hang my blue ribbon on as I passed nerd after nerd polishing their tack, I froze in place and felt like a black sheep as every saddle on the grounds was of English construction while I had come to the competition with my heavy old saddle from the west.

Calling Mom in a panic, I begged her to scavenge the neighborhood and call in all favors to borrow an English saddle and possibly deliver it to the event.

With a big number 48 painted on Lady’s rump the next morning, all the contestants were gathered on their horses in a grassy area ready to rock and roll through the next fifty miles.

The officials let groups of five at a time out on the trail and being number 48, it was all I could do to hold Lady back as she saw 47 horses trotting off into the wilderness without her. By the time it was our turn to start, Lady was hopping on her hind legs and I was holding onto her mane for dear life, as those dang English saddles have no horn!

Seeing mile marker five through a streak of tears, Lady slowed down to a steady trot around marker 10. Not used to posting in an English saddle, by mile marker fifteen I couldn’t feel my legs. I remember praying to go back in time and suck up to the nerds to keep my comfortable western saddle, and at the same time kicking myself for agreeing to such an idiotic competition.

Rider number 16 came up behind me at a fast posting trot and as I politely tried a little conversation I was snubbed as the gal disappeared into the forest. Wondering if it was the braids or the bell-bottoms that offended her, I decided it might be the way I was sitting on my horse (sideways). No longer able to post in the teeny tiny English saddle, it was natural to find the most comfortable position I could!

Promising myself to let the air out of number 16’s tires if I ever made it back to camp, Lady and I treaded on.

Rounding a corner, to my amazement there was a clearing filled with horses, people and food! I had reached the halfway point and allowed a short break while Lady was checked for soundness and given a drink of water.

An hour later, while passing mile marker 35, I realized that eating four sandwiches and downing three cans of coke was probably not a good idea back at the halfway point. Talk about leaving breadcrumbs in the forest, Little Red Riding Hood would have been proud!

Lady had gotten her second wind at marker 40 while I was just hanging on for the ride.

Approaching a meadow with a lonely tree in the middle of it, the next occurrence resembled walking in a football field while not looking where you were going and running smack dab into the goal post. I had bark implanted into my forehead and was flat on the ground. While trying to mount with no feeling in my legs or now my head, I contemplated how many rolls of toilet paper it would take to cover Vince’s house.

Heading south before the little ‘Paul Bunyan incident’, I was completely turned around