Whirlwind

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A post from Mary...

As usual, the summer is flying by. We are down to the final few weeks before we will be forced back to somewhat of a routine. And the kitchen re-do? It has kind of been at a stand-still this summer. It will get done. In time.

We survived a full eight day county fair, and actually, we are still recovering. Our fair overlapped with Molly's fair, and we probably found ourselves watching this kind of action at the same time.

There were lots of high points, like watching Abby bravely handle her big dairy steer, that weighed in at 1300 pounds.
And here, Edey winning best in show with her sweet Clementine.
Photo Jul 30, 2012 3:15 PM

And Caleb, polishing Buckley to a winning shine for the show ring.

But also the lows, as the market animals were paraded one last time in the ring, for sale to the highest bidder.

It's never easy to say goodbye to the animals we have loved the past few months. Selling the steers was hardest for all. We have had them since they were only a few days old and when they sell, they are about 20 months old. Caleb's big black dairy steer was bought by some farmer friends. And while the end plan for him is still for consumption, he has a little more than a month on their farm to relax. We went and visited him this week.
I know many of you will want to comment about this part. How do we do it? How do our kids handle it? Why are we knowingly putting our children through this? I'm here to say it isn't easy. I had a hard time with it myself as a kid. I was one of the few kids that openly cried when I had to walk my steer onto the trailer heading to the processors, and only come back to the barn with a halter in my hand. I could get emotional about it even now. It was hard.
But as I tell my kids, you have to think about the good. The fact that those little calves were spared a frightening and stressful trip to the sale barn at only a few days old. Instead, they came to us, and had a warm, clean barn and the best of care. They were loved on...scratched in all the right spots, treated with fly repellant in the summer, got to lounge under a big shade tree in the heat, never missed a meal. It was a good life. And it ended. It's just the way it is. And we will remember them. And we will start it all over again in a few months. New faces to love. New curls of hair and new spots of color to get to know. More to love, again.

 

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Lasiurus borealis

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A post from Mary:

Little known fact about me: I used to have an elaborate dead animal collection. Mostly birds. It was part of my dowry, and the frozen brown paper bag traveled from the homestead to the rental home when we married. I had collected it over the years, often finding perfectly intact specimens on the bridge at the end of our farm lane, most likely traveling the freeway of the stream and getting hit by cars as they flew over the bridge. I would identify them and tag them with the date and where and how I came to have them in my possession. Then in the freezer, in the brown sack they'd go. A budding naturalist. Maybe a slightly unusual collectible. But, when we moved to our home, I decided to toss them. Some of them were pushing a decade of age. It was time.

I give you that background information about me so you are not shocked when you read ahead...

It is a nice day. I go for a jog. I find a perfectly wonderful dead bat on the road. I must bring it home. I am only about one mile from home. My hands are sweaty, but I can carry it. The kids just must see this fellow.

Bats tend to evoke scary thoughts and images. But have you ever really seen one? They are incredibly intricate, beautifully made little flying teddy bears. I don't think I know a softer fur. Tiny little faces with little snouts and pricked ears. Silky, but super tough wings.

So we got out the field guide. I knew what kind it was, but I wanted my gang to go through the steps and figure it out. We examined, measured, mapped. A male Red Bat. Lasiurus borealis.

And when we were done, guess where he ended up? Bagged, and in the freezer. Maybe the beginnings of the next generation of dead animal collections.

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Happy Birthday to me

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A post from Mary:

It's my birthday today. And like my father, I have never really wanted a big she-bang every year. This year was one of those more significant milestones, and my husband was so kind to ask me if I wanted to do it up in big party fashion. I wasn't interested. I like the created by the kids type celebrations. The breakfasts in bed, where you hardly get a bite before everyone is all over your tray.

But there was one routine event on each birthday, that I grew accustomed to and now sorely miss. It was that call from my grandmother. It's no secret how special she was to me, my sister, and many others. Never forgetting your day, her sing songy rendition of Happy Birthday, a call packed with love and praises for who I was and how special I was to her. It has been something I have greatly missed the past few birthdays.

Last year, for my birthday, my sister gave me a cutting from my grandmother's beautiful Gardenia. The huge potted plant-tree, was put out on the patio all summer and then brought inside for the cold months. It was a regular fixture at her house. Even in the dispersal of her estate, it was claimed by an uncle and lives in his home now. I was thrilled to receive a cutting from it. I have it in my bedroom window. It has grown some, but I was worried it wasn't thriving. A few weeks ago, i was happy to see some new buds on it.

And today, on the morning of my birthday, I parted the curtains to let some of the sun in and saw one single fresh bloom, newly opened.

A birthday message from above. Just for me.

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Fireman

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{A Post from Mary}:

I live with a four year old fireman. Having raised three children through different stages of obsessions.....horses, kittens, bulldozers....I am not unfamiliar with the pattern. So far, in my experience, the interests shift and change over time. And I usually do my best to be interested in their current love. We check out library books, usually cleaning out an entire shelf on one topic while the librarian raises her eyebrows. Gifts are given at birthdays. Special trips. The usual. But my youngest, Aiden, is stuck. Stuck with a love for firemen.

I enrolled him in a nursery school. Right next to the fire station.

There was the super realistic fireman outfit given by a sister in law---worn every day, no matter how hot it got. Seeing his face reddened and sweat beading up on his brow, but him being still determined to sport his getup like a real fireman would.

Fireman boots.

Fireman movies.

Fireman apps.

Playing at the playgrounds with, you guessed it, the tall fireman poles. We are beyond the typical "Stop, Drop and Roll! " He knows all about guages, detectors, extinguishers and hoses. Rolls and rolls of toilet paper unrolled and carried through the house as his "hose".

Making him an "air tank" out of a 2 liter bottle, some ribbon, foil and leftover nebulizer tubing.

Parking at our local grocery store, always in the space next to the one where the hydrant is. Letting him have "hydrant time" while I sit in the car and peruse the store flier. Multiple trips to the station to see the trucks and talk about fire with the very nice firefighters there. Random stops along the street to get out and see particularly nice hydrants.

Receiving a real fireman mask from a friend. And hoping he will only sleep with it and not put it on in the middle of the night. Knowing which public restrooms have the sprinkler systems or other smoke detectors to see. And faking the need to use the bathroom just to go see them. And talking about it. Talking about anything fire. My mom has one story from when a heat lamp in the barn caused a near fire, but the whole fire fighting crew came out. She has told and retold that story.

Seeing him get up on the stage at our latest 4-H meeting, in front of 50 people and without any hesitation, and do his own impromptu talk on firefighters without a shred of insecurity.

So last night, when I hastily finished the dinner dishes to go stand guard as he climbed up and down a ladder,

in only his briefs,

taking his mask on and off, as practice,

I tried to remember the days before the obsession with firemen. It has almost been a year, I think. And as much as I have learned about firefighting as we both have been through this journey, I am wondering if this is just going to be his thing. He wants to be a firefighter.

And you know what?

I am good with that. He will be a good one.

 

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Six weeks of goodness

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Postfrommary

You know how sometimes you get on a culinary "kick" and you make one recipe part of your list of usuals....and then sometimes you forget about them.....for a long time?

And then when you suddenly recall them or crave them, or find the recipe card all scrunched down in your recipe box and have that....Oh yeah.....these were good! moment.....Am I the only one who does that?

Here is one such recipe. I first started making these before we even had kids. The fact that the batter kept for 6 weeks was vital. Now,with many more mouths, they don't need to last 6 weeks. But it is so convenient. Make up the batter. Put it in the fridge. Scoop out some, bake it and have warm fresh muffins whenever. They are super moist and I would like to think all that bran gives them a push towards healthy. Give 'em a try. I don't think they will disappoint.

Six Week Bran Muffins

5 c. flour

5 t. baking soda

2t. salt

2 t. cinnamon

1 t. nutmeg

15 oz. box of Raisin Bran cereal (8 c.)

3 c. sugar

4 eggs

1 c. oil

1 quart buttermilk

2 t. vanilla

Beat eggs, oil, buttermilk and vanilla. Add dry ingredients and stir well. Add cereal last, mixing in well. Transfer to large plastic container with tight fitting lid. Store in refrigerator until ready to use. When ready to bake, don't stir batter. Dip batter out and fill paper lined or greased cups. Bake 20 minutes at 375 degrees. Batter keeps for up to six weeks in fridge.

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