Wandering Eye

We have to ask ourselves if Sonny's penchant for chatting up the ladies had anything to do with Cher's abrupt departure.

I suppose we'll never know.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Thwarted Plans...And That's OK!

(WARNING: There are a startling number of parentheses in this post. I'm not sure where they all came from, but they appear to have hijacked this entry. I hope you'll make it through OK. T-Dub)

Today, I was going to A) sleep in, then B) can up a bunch of chicken and beef I bought on sale this week, then C) go into the office and write a few articles for Wednesday's paper.

That was the plan.

I did Part A.

Then I jumped into Mike's truck, ran to town, grabbed the family a dozen donuts and myself two sodas (one for now, one for the fridge) through the drive-thru at our local donut shop, and got back home without anyone finding out I left home in my jammies. (Except the drive-thru girl, and I think she'll keep it between us.)

All set to start on Part B of today's plan, I went to the refrigerator only to find no chicken. Not a single breast. What happened to my chicken? Then I remembered...I'd put the chicken in the freezer because I didn't want to chance it beginning to get even a little "off" before the weekend. I bought it from a grocer I don't usually buy meat from and I just didn't want to chance it being anywhere near on its way out, you know?

Anyway.

As much as I was looking forward to putting up the jars of meat for the year (we're down to our last pint of canned chicken), I admit it didn't take me long to decide to use the time I'd planned to work on Part B of today's agenda another way.

I hopped back into bed with my favorite Christmas present.

OK, technically, it's Mike's Christmas present, but it is one of my favorites.

I caught up on updates from a few of my favorite blogs on the magical glowing Kindle.

And, now, I'm going to again crawl back into bed next to my slumbering husband (he worked from 6p last night and got home after 7a today) and do a little in-depth studying of a subject I feel the need to master:

Nothing like snuggling up next to your sweetheart on a blustery winter's day, and learning the fine art of letting things rot. So excited! (And by the way, I'm not kidding when I say blustery. I've been watching leaves swirling outside our front picture window the whole time I've been writing this. I love swirling leaves.)

Where was I? Oh, I was excited. Very excited...I can't wait to become a master composter.

(See the little glimpses of bedding surrounding the Kindle and book? That's my VERY favorite Christmas present this year...a beautiful quilt made by my Aunt Carol for Mike and me. I LOVE it! Not only because it is exquisitely crafted -- I'm fairly certain she won a ribbon at the county fair for this, this fall; I'll have to check -- but it's made with love and care, which she imparts in all of her handmade creation. She is such a lovely lady...I adore her. Thanks again, Aunt Carol. It makes me happy everytime I look at it. Every single time. So happy, in fact, for the first time in our 15 years of married life, Mike and I make our bed every day. And, I'm sure that makes my Mom happy, too. And Mike's mom. Our messy bedroom is pretty much legendary. Aunt Carol had no idea how many lives she would touch with this quilt.)

Anyway.

Before I go back to bed with my Diet Pepsi from Donuts Plus (there's an oxymoron), let me leave you with a shot of this little sweetie.

Macy was bringing in firewood and picked this little guy up and brought him in to say hi.

Hi, little rooster boy, who hatched in our home a few weeks ago. Glad to see you! Do you remember this place? Smell familiar? No? That's because you and your aromatic sibs aren't living in here anymore. Still, we love you dearly and are glad to see you growing like a little weed. (Note the lovely natural color variation in Macy's hair. Remember those days, ladies? The days of free color highlights? Those were the days.)

OK, we've covered a lot of territory this morning. I'm going to leave you now and go crack my book open for the very first time.

Don't even get me started on how much I like to crack open a new, never-opened-before book.  Or snuggle next to a sleeping husband. Much as I like Mike's Kindle, I'm a bonafide non-virtual book girl, through and through.

I'll get to Part C of the plan a little later on. Part B was going to take hours. No sense abandoning the plan altogether.

Love from the farm,

Teri

Loving Words In the Garden

Mike was commenting to me that some of the recently planted onions were looking good - specifically (he pointed out, I did not) the little patches that I had planted. He was worried that the onions he and Adam had planted weren't looking so hot.

I was basking in the warm glow of his praise, then superciliously said, with eyelashes fluttering, "Well, perhaps if you had been praying over your onions as you were planting them back there (behind me and Adam), like I was...."

"Oh, I was praying, all right," he immediately answered.

"Oh, you were?" I asked, eyebrow arched.

"Yeah, I was praying you guys would quit mooning me," he replied.

I had no words.

I simply turned and walked away.

And resisted scratching my itching, peeling, low, lower, lower back that I had so trustingly exposed to him during our time together in the garden.

Good thing he's a good kisser.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Dating In A Small Town

Occasionally, Mike and I try to go on a date, just the two of us. There was a time when this was met with cries of protest, alligator tears and pouting. Now our 4 kiddos are plotting what gourmet creation they'll be free to come up with while we're gone. I don't understand why they don't pursue the gourmet creations while we're home, so we can enjoy them, too, but I suppose that's one of life's little quirks, isn't it?

We live outside a really small town, encircled for a 50-mile radius by other small towns, but if we extend the radius by another 25 miles or so, we hit Flagstaff, and that's a lovely little city. (I know it's technically a metropolis, but you'd never guess by visiting. Thank heavens. I love that Flagstaff doesn't feel big.) Being surrounded by smallness, which we really do love, also means having very limited date night options. Yes, we could drive across the high desert and find a dark quiet place to stare at the stars, but it's windy, it's cold and let's face it, I have trouble climbing up on a hood these days. We'll save stargazing for another warmer night, with lawn chairs; for now, warm, warmly lit interiors are better date destinations. Flagstaff is really the closest place with such places.

But here's the deal, Mike had to get up for work this morning at 4 a.m. so a trip to Flagstaff wasn't on the agenda for a date last night. Actually, a date wasn't really on the agenda. Here's one of the secrets of having several kids: you catch as catch can. Since I had to do a WalMart run, and Mike was game for going along: Presto! Date night!

So, off we went to WalMart, two towns over, where we browsed for a few hours. Yes, you read that right. And yes, I know most of us dread WalMart day and get in and out as fast as we can. But that was before we lived outside of a very small town. Now, WalMart is occasionally an adventure to be savored - we won't just beeline it to the aisles containing the items on my itemized list. No, it's date night - we'll wander the aisles a bit. Venture into places we don't normally explore together.

Only thing is, you wander out of your regular route and you sometimes come upon some unfamiliar and upsetting things. Like this for instance.

There I was perusing some girlie things, when Mike came at me with a bottle of this stuff. For those who aren't Spanish speakers, let me let you in on a little secret. "Moco" isn't a nice warm, rich beverage. No, that's "mocha." I understand your confusion. "Moco" means snot. Yep, what we have here is a bottle of Gorilla Snot, playfully called "Squizz." Don't believe me? Look at the picture.

Here's the cherry on top. This is a hair product. It is meant for people to buy on purpose and willingly put on their hair.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the proverbial straw atop the camel. No longer will I refer to time at WalMart as date time. Because I can't feel romantic feelings in a place that I know encourages people to be standing nearby with a bucket when a primate decides to hock a loogie. Or wants you to think they encourage such a practice.

So, Mike and I can go to WalMart, and we can go together, but we cannot ever, ever, ever refer to it as a date. Ever again.

Now, just one more thing, while I'm making rules.

Mike, honey, remember that bag of Dubble Bubble you let me buy? That 1 pound bag, which the label clearly states has about 72 pieces of gum in it? Please don't ever let me buy one again. Or, at least don't leave me alone with it. We got home after 10 p.m., it's about 10:30 a.m. now, and the bag is gone. It is all gone. Every last piece. In just over 12 hours, 6 of which I was sleeping through.

You know I have a bubble gum problem. You know this. Why did you leave me alone with the Dubble Bubble? Don't you know me at all? You know what this means? We need to spend more time together, continue to get to really know each other's finer details.

Maybe we should go on a date.

Love from the farm,

Teri

Romancing the Hen

While Miss Ellie and I were doing the chores the other morning, she exclaimed, "Look, Aunt Teri! I found eggs!" I wondered how she would react when I explained to her that those weren't eggs in the nest box, but colossal chicken poos; then I looked up from filling the chicken waterer and saw to my surprise that there really were eggs in the nest box. Two beautiful big brown eggs.

It's been some time since we've had fresh eggs around these parts.

Why, I wondered, did we suddenly have eggs again? Why, when Lone Hen had not laid an egg since she planted her fluffy feathered bottom on our farm lo those many months ago, is she suddenly laying eggs? Could it be that the new man in her life has inspired her? Does Rooster Boy have Lone Hen's biological clock a tickin'?

It turns out that Lone Hen hasn't been holding out on me all these months. She's been holding out for love.

You go, girl. (And, Rooster Boy, whatever you're doing, you keep it up, fella!)

Love from the farm,
Teri

Sexy (Email Classics)

Written May 9, 2009

As I was (euphamistically speaking) "preparing the garden" for plowing this week, I had the following thought:

A real man doesn't know sexy until he's seen his woman standing on a 10-foot pile of steer manure, throwing it by the shovelful into the back of his F250 pick up. Wearing a fuschia handkerchief. And a denim skirt. In the wind. With wrap-around eye protection. For 4 hours.

(Ok, part of that time was spent throwing said manure on the garden, then refilling the truck with HORSE manure, and throwing THAT on the garden. Next year: bags of steer poo from Home Depot. I'm just sayin'. Christmas presents of poo are ok. Just ask my sister Lynda. I gave her steer poo for her bridal shower.)

The saving grace? The eye protection was more Dale Earnhardt than welding class. My life's pitfall at the moment? Using a Dale Earnhardt comparison as if it's a positive thing for a girl.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Two Things (Email Classics)

Written August 6, 2009

First, let me begin by saying that Mike is one of the smartest men I know - he can spout history, natural world/ science facts like nobody's business. He can troubleshoot any electrical issue, build or fix anything. Makes me feel like an intellectual twit at times, because I don't remember squat. And I can't hammer a nail in straight.

That said.....


WHEN METAPHORS DON'T WORK
I dropped Tanner off at the Junior High this morning, the girls at Hulet Elementary School and Adam at the High School (for day one of his SENIOR YEAR), then promptly called Mike as I was driving down Buffalo Street, "All the chickens have left the nest!" I announced.

Dead silence from his end. Then he asks in a somber, confounded voice, "They're all dead?"

Color me perplexed. Then it hits me: when you actually have chickens, and their population has been dwindling because of a conniving invisible coyote, the whole "chickens leaving the nest" metaphor doesn't quite work.

I'm noodling a replacement.

ACTIVE LISTENING
Meanwhile, last night Mike and I are laying in bed after tucking all the kids into their beds, full of anticipation for their first day of school. Mike asks, "So, what are you going to do tomorrow?"

I groan and respond, "Oh, don't even ask - I'll have to do all of the farm chores because I'm not going to get the kids up early for that, have to get them all ready and their lunches packed, take them to school, come back and water the garden since the pump wouldn't work while the electricity was off this afternoon, then can the green chilis. I need to get some work done on our taxes, too, and keep the laundry going. I'm not sure how I'm going to get it all done."

As I was trailing off on that last sentence he responds in an upbeat voice - but in all seriousness - "Yeah, but are you looking forward to having the day to yourself?"

I actually laid there and sputtered. It may have been the first time in my life I have been reduced to sputtering.

All I can say is, just for today, it's a darn good thing he's pretty.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Fido Lives Out His Days on the Farm (Email Classic)

Written August 27, 2009


Remember when we were all young and you heard of dogs getting old and sick, and when the dog wasn't home one day after school, the kids were told that ol' Fido or Rover or Butch had gone to live on Uncle Ronald's farm in Kansas to happily roam the fields of flowers and chase butterflies?

Well, we actually are "Uncle Ronald's Farm" for a little Jack Russell Terrier named Billy. Billy came to our farm last spring after living an unfulfilled life in Scottsdale where he wasn't satisfied with life by the pool. Billy wanted to roam. Billy wanted to hunt. Billy wanted to be let through the towering arcadia doors to pee on the leather couches just once, for crying out loud.

Billy was attacked while lounging poolside in Scottsdale by a vicious coyote. It took weeks of IV's, drains and lots of antibiotics to nurse little Billy back to health.

So, one day, Billy came to live on the farm with us. Now, you should know that our neighbor has teased us that our farm should be called "Harmony Farms, where no animal will ever meet death," because he didn't believe we'd ever get around to butchering a chicken or a pig, in spite of our professed intentions to do so. Given this, it would seem that our farm would be the perfect landing place for Billy, the recuperating pup.

Well, Billy came to our farm where he now hunts and he romps through the alfalfa fields, and he chases small things under the wood pile.

And, one dark spring night, he was attacked by a coyote. Again.

There were 5 puncture wounds on either side of his little belly, making it clear that coyote just clamped on him broadside and tried to carry him off. But Billy, he's a fighter. He wriggled free, left a trail of blood under the girls' bedroom window, and lived to carouse his way through another summer.

Flash to this morning:

RRRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNGGGGGGGG......

Mike: "Hullo?"
Teri: "Hey, I have to say you look HOT driving that truck!"

(Oh, sorry, it's just that we had just passed each other on the main drag in downtown Holbrook - he on his way back from an early safety meeting at work, me having just dropped off kids at school. And, I was NOT, by the way, on my way to McDonald's to get a soda before heading home.)

Mike: [Bashful protestations. "Aww shucks" and guffaws.]

Teri: "Oh, whatever. Anyway, what are you doing when you get home?"

Mike: "Getting ready to go to your mom's to finish her trim. Why?"

Teri: "Well, I was wondering, do you think you could get the porcupine quills out of Billy's lips?"



"Welcome to Harmony Farms. WE may not kill you, but it's almost certain SOMETHING will."

Harmony Farms Mortality Rate:

Humans: 0
Turkeys: 25%
Ducks: 33% (Not counting the dead duck lying in our yard whose origins we're not sure of.)
Chickens: Whatever 3 remaining of 35 works out to be. And that's just for this year. If we added last year's carnage it'd be more like 3 of 60 remaining.
Dogs: 25%
Cats: 6 of 7 remaining (sorry, not into higher math this morning. I'm recovering from the flu, cut me a break)
Horses: 0
Pigs: 0 (that would be part of the neighbor teasing; they should have died months ago)
Goat: 0 (but she's only been with us a few months. Give it time.)

* Disclaimer: I did scoop 3 dead fish from the tank the other day, but I refuse to count them.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Tomatoes On My Ankles (Email Classics)

Written September 5, 2oo9

Yesterday afternoon, I was just wrapping up a writing project, had already run all the mom/household errands, and just learned that we won't be elbow-deep in pig parts until at least Saturday evening or Sunday after church. Do you know what this meant? Was it possible?? I started getting all warm and fuzzy at the prospect of a date with Mike. Maybe sneak off to dinner or a movie. Just the two of us. It doesn't happen often. After living in the sick house for over a week, it would be a welcome outing.

Then I glimpsed the massive rolling cooler sitting in my dining room, full of tomatoes gazing pleadingly at me to end their miserable half-life -- they're no longer growing and sunning themselves in the garden, but they haven't yet fulfilled their destiny to provide nourishment for our family..... (Ok, I'd promise to quit ascribing human qualities to the vegetables, but I'm just not sure I'll be able to keep that promise.) The bottom line is, the tomatoes were picked Sunday, a week of fevers, snot, sniffles and questionable bathroom behaviors intervened, and it was now Friday, and we were going to lose the whole lot if we didn't jump on it.

So, I resigned myself to the fact that the responsible thing to do was to can those tomatoes. My friend in farming Emily stopped by and dug in, as she always does, bless her little pointed head.

The preparing the tomatoes for canning was time consuming but easy work. The waiting for three batches to be done, when you had to boil EACH batch for 95 min (altitude adjustment required) was the pits.

Not only did I not enjoy a lovely date with my hubby last night, I woke up this morning to find myself sitting straight up in a chair in the living room, apron still on, and with tomatoes splashed on my ankles and feet. Mike is crashed on the couch. In a moment of panic I looked over to the kitchen to make sure we'd turned the heat off of the last batch of tomatoes. We had.

Then I looked down again at my getup and my 2nd thought for the morning was "I just LOVE this apron. I think it's my favorite." (Thank you again, Aunt Carol, for my beautiful birthday aprons. Today my favorite is the burgundy/gold/sage/cream/black floral striped one.)

What a vision Mike and I present. Him in fetal position, cold on the couch; me with feet flat on the floor - and judging by the crusty little texture where my cheek and mouth meet, undoubtedly I had some head lolling and mouth breathing going on for at least part of the night. We're beautiful.

Romance on the farm can be hard to come by. Especially with tomato ankles.

Love from the farm,
Teri