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Where does the time go? We are already in the middle of 2020, certainly a year to remember, and now we are marching through summer at a record pace. Of late, even with being more tied to the house and having less outside activities to fill my days, the time seems to be flying past my face like a movie on fast forward. The youngest member of our clan, Zeppelin, will be two in October. Seems like he was just brand new only yesterday with the new car smell still evident when you cuddled him in your arms. Looking at him now running across the yard is my gauge for how how quickly time is passing.

It would be an understatement to say this year is passing uneventfully. Lately I turn on the news, grab the headlines, and turn it off again before I get drawn into the endless drama. I want to be informed, but not immersed in it lest I stop moving and just stand in the middle of the room strumming idly at my bottom lip. The stories continue to be so mind boggling, that if I let myself I would spend hours sitting on the pouf in my living room staring at the screen in disbelief. This morning they were doing a piece on college students throwing COVID-19 parties with a prize going to the attendee who came up with the virus first. Really? If I could unsee that story I happily would allow it to be erased from my memory banks. The sad part is these same young minds will be running our country in the not too distant future. Sigh.

With disturbing news stories interrupting the dreams of sugar plums dancing in my head, I have been searching for other outlets for my thoughts. One thing I’ve noticed is how distracted I have become. Yesterday morning I put a small pot of water on to boil with four eggs in it for my potato salad. Boiling eggs is not rocket science. You place the eggs in the water, bring to a boil, cover, remove from heat and allow to sit for 25 minutes. Easy peasey. My cat could do it, and I may let her if my mind doesn’t behave itself. I was working on a project on my computer that has a due date rapidly approaching. When involved in either drawing or writing, yesterday’s project involving both, I tend to switch into the right brain zone. You could parade a brass band through the living room or disrobe on the table and both activities would probably go unnoticed by me. Struggling with a logistic issue my mind was fully focused on my laptop. Every once and a while I heard a little “ping”. Not registering something was amiss, I continued trying to unravel the dilemma in my software. In the fog of my concentration an olfactory hint was delivered to my nostrils by the universe. A smell, like burning rubber, yanked me abruptly out of my trance. “The eggs”!! Ach. The huevos, now reduced to four little dark brown bullets, were permanently glued to the bottom of my once loved pan. “Adios”, I said, by way of a eulogy, as pan and bullets met a nasty end in the bottom of my trash can. Darn.

Later on after a work-driven eight hours, I decided it was time for a little R&R. Sinking into a hot tub is one of my favorite ways to relax after a long and tiring day. Aside from simply being tired from working all day, like many other people I talk to I’m not sleeping well. The night before I went to bed at 9:00 and woke up nearly every hour after that until around 3:00 a.m. when I finally gave up and put a pot of coffee on. I’ve tried melatonin, glycine, deep sleep, and just about everything else short of having someone bust me over the head with a sledgehammer immediately before retiring.  A friend suggested loaded blueberries from the Mile High Store (CBD based items) to help me sleep. I wanted to sleep, not hallucinate, so decided to pass on that idea unless pushed to the wall. Too much going on under this blonde hair I would guess. At any rate, sometimes a hot bath helps me to grab a few more z’s before the sandman leaves town. Going into my back bathroom I set the stage for a blessed moment of relaxation. I lit my aroma therapy candle, turned on the hot water, rescued my robe from the closet and hung it on the back of the bathroom door and went off to make a cup of tea to enjoy while I soaked. Ahhhhhh. While in the kitchen the phone rang. It was an old friend I hadn’t talked to in a while so I got involved in catching up for a moment. Retrieving my tea from the kitchen I sat on the couch enjoying my conversation. You might be saying “what about the bath water”? Where were you when I needed you? My friend made mention of something involving water which triggered a panic response in my cloudy brain. OMG. Like an Olympic runner I scaled the pouf in front of my couch, rounded the corner to the dining room on one foot, headed down the home stretch through the kitchen, and bolted into the bathroom. The water had already reached the crisis point and breached the dam. Had I been about five minutes longer it would have reached the carpet in the bedroom. What a mess. My toilet brush and holder were literally floating along in the current.

It feels lately, though this is not based on any collected data, I am always behind. Two steps forward and one step back as they say. What I am doing that is making me feel pressured is undoubtedly self inflicted. Most of my life I have been a doer. Nose to the grindstone, busy hands, all that good stuff my grandmother taught me. Relaxing is an art I am learning to appreciate as I accumulate birthdays and I feel I am finally getting a handle on it. A friend sent me the white rabbit below. She said it reminded her of me. “Er, thank you?”

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So, as you can see I am in serious need of a mental tune up. Many times I have explained to people I am a creature who functions beautifully in order and peace. This need for order probably contributes to my sense of having a place for everything and everything in it’s place. Chaos throws me completely off and is what appears to be the word of the day of late. When I get in the car I have to be doubly diligent to pay attention to my surroundings. The other day I drove home from the grocery store with my tailgate down. People were honking and I was blissfully waving hello all the way home thinking they were being friendly. When I realized my mistake I noticed several bags hadn’t made the cut. Backtracking I rescued a bag of apples in the middle of the street. The onions and celery are as yet unaccounted for. Look for a picture of a rosy red Honey Crisp apple on your next milk carton ad.

Sensing this need to regroup, last weekend I took a much needed road trip with a friend. We are comfortable hanging out together because neither of us is a threat to the other and we follow the guidelines for social distancing when we get together. Lake Tahoe was our destination. The plan was to go to one of the many beaches there, find a vacant stretch of property, eat our picnic lunch, and after enjoying the scenery and fresh air return home. It was wonderful. There weren’t many people in the park we chose. We sat on our piece of acreage along the shoreline with few people passing by and only a huge flock of Canada geese for company. One of them apparently had a foot fetish and was totally fascinated with my bare feet. I wondered afterwards if it could have been the disgusting purple nail polish on my toes that caught his/her attention. This goose came so close I kept thinking it was going to take a nip at me but it never did. How soul soothing it was to be outside with the tall redwoods forming a canopy above us and the gloriously blue water of Lake Tahoe glistening like a jewel before us. I absolutely recommend getting out and about, safely of course, to push reset for your state of mind.

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Hope all of you are doing better than I am. Stay safe and be diligent. Together we will muddle through this piece of history as well and come out on the other side.

 

 

 

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2020 to me could be easily described with a chart detailing the general state of the union and those living in it.  In January the arrow might been pointing perhaps to the right of center in the NORMAL (we’re never totally normal) section which would be at the far left. As the arrow begins to arc more to the right and things begin to go haywire the arrow moves quickly into UNUSUAL. By March the arrow had moved further right to WEIRD, finally ending up at the extreme right in DOWNRIGHT BIZARRE. In my estimation we have finally gone to as far right as we can without moving off the chart entirely. I’m beginning to think the atmosphere is so strange if an alien spacecraft were to land in Old Town Sacramento and little green men were to deplane right on Front Street someone would hand them a mask and not even give them a second glance.

I remember thinking in 2019 I couldn’t wait for 2020 to show up on the calendar. I had somehow survived my first year without Rick next to me in bed and was beginning to show signs of life again. 2020 looked to me to be fresh and untouched, the perfect blank page on which to start the beginning of a new chapter in my story. I found myself looking forward to it with guarded anticipation. Whoops, my bad.  Had someone said to me last year 2020 would be the year of the COVID-19 pandemic, our country would erupt with civil and racial unrest, police reform would be instituted across the board, and the whipped cream on the sundae would be a highly charged, contentious and divided political climate I might have once again headed towards the closet with my bag of fiery Cheeto’s and a bottle of Gray Goose. Sigh. Being by nature a rather silly being I am struggling to locate my sense of humor of late. It seems to have put up a sign like everything else in world, “CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”.

Though California is beginning to awaken from it’s sleep with stores pulling up their blinds and beauty parlors turning their signs from CLOSED to OPEN, cases of the virus continue to be on an uphill climb. The world, at least for me, has gotten smaller. I find myself thinking about what I am doing wherever I am rather than just being able to enjoy the activity I am involved in. Masks have become part of my daily routine. Because I am one of only several who can still run a sewing machine in my peer group, I have been busy sewing masks for friends and family. Now along with my keys, my purse, and a bottle of water, one or two masks and a container of hand sanitizer are included in my must haves when leaving the house. Yesterday while in the market a lady smiled at me (she was not wearing a mask). My mask had frogs dancing across the front which I assume was what elicited this reaction. I smiled back but realized she had no idea I was smiling so I said “I am smiling, you just can’t see me.” to which she replied, “Yes, I can. I could see it in your eyes.” Even though she wasn’t wearing a face covering that was nice. People are angry. Let’s face it we here in the United States are not used to inconvenience. It is touted as a free country by its creators and we like to hold them to that promise.

The head of a grief group I am part of said something yesterday that rang true to me. We are being asked to learn a new way of being. Change for humans is never a garment we wear easily. Truly we are creatures of habit comfortable in our way of doing things and resistant to having things turned upside down. Sometimes there isn’t a Plan B. Right now I think we only have Plan A to deal with for at least for the time being. This totally sucks I agree but since we are all in the pot together perhaps it would be prudent to at least attempt to swim in the same direction?

My best friend calls me an idealist. I’m not a fan of labels, but perhaps this one applies. I tend to think the best of people out of the gate. Sometimes I am disappointed but more often than not I am not. I prefer thinking people to be honest, dependable, kind, generous of spirit and loving than to presume they are not. I don’t like the idea of waiting for someone to screw up and then pouncing on them the moment they do.  I believe most of our life we spend our time making mistakes, correcting the error, then heading in the right direction until we mess up again, and repeat. The important thing to my mind is we learn from these course corrections and hopefully adjust our behavior accordingly.

For my peace of mind and to locate a bit of normal in the midst of chaos my friend and I confirmed our reservations for a weekend getaway at the coast for much later in the summer. Three days basking on the beach, enjoying the beautiful California sunshine and doing nothing requiring any heavier thought than lifting a book to eye level and sipping something intoxicating from a straw. OMG. My mind is doing a tap dance just thinking of it. Yes. This I consider a total sanity check and I am already deciding what to pack in my overnight bag.

Keeping myself occupied beyond writing on my beloved blog, I have been working on several projects with my daughter as well as some sewing projects as I mentioned earlier. I also have my work with a non-profit I’ve been associated with over the past six years. I encourage those of you out there interested in doing some volunteering to sign up for whatever opportunities are available in your area. God knows we have some extra time on our hands these days. A lot of the jobs posted I have noticed are those requiring little interaction with others, with many being able to be done at home. There is nothing as soul nurturing as being involved with something altruistic that is not about you but rather benefits someone else. If ever there was a time we needed to nurture our souls I believe right now has a bullseye stamped right on it.

As much as I love to be in the kitchen I am trying not to devote too much of my day to preparing food. The downside to cooking is you are probably going to eat what you’re producing. Seems to me at least this would be the next logical step. Then as your pre-pandemic pant size begins no longer to be your mid-pandemic pant size you are forced to go shopping for new pants which in the present climate isn’t the safest place for you to be. Another downside is that many places won’t allow you to try clothes on as the fitting rooms are off limits. If you do go ahead and buy pants and take them home only to find they don’t fit, the stores won’t take them back because they are not accepting clothing returns. I have one friend who simply ordered a supply of yoga pants on the Internet in various sizes and is riding this out until the gyms open, which they are now trying to do, to exercise the weight back off. Good luck with that. It is usually a whole lot easier to load the pounds on then it is to peel them back off in my experience.

In this strange new “now” I find a lot of interesting things to look at personally. My creative self, often lost in the flurry of activity I always seem to immerse myself in, has risen to the surface. Dusting off my sewing machine was the first sign of this resurrection, quickly followed by my taking out my drawings I haven’t had, or rather made time for, in the last year or two, and a book I’ve had in mind for several years now has a first chapter rather than continuing to be just an idea yet unhatched in my tattered brain. Yay.

A friend of mine called yesterday to tell me mercury is in retrograde. This means, for those of you not in the know (like me – had to look it up) that Mercury is moving in the opposite direction of the Earth. This, if one believes it to be, effects communication, travel and learning. Good news. After I hung up I did some deep breathing exercises and then consumed a half a pint of Chunky Monkey. I tried to convince myself I was doing this as a sacrificial gesture to make room in my crowded freezer for more important items such as meat and frozen foods but even my own mind couldn’t wrap its arms around that pile of horse droppings. Sigh.

An hour of so later the phone rang once again. Looking at the screen lighting up I controlled the urge to run and save myself from whatever the dreaded retrograde was sending my way. In the end my curiosity overrode my survival mechanisms and I pushed the screen to accept and said hello. It was my hairdresser. We had our first appointment since the pandemic several weeks ago when my roots had reached the step just beyond critical and she put me beautifully back into balance. Lovely girl. Aside from being excellent at understanding how to color and cut my hair, she’s a charming lady who I enjoy talking with while my roots are cooking. I have only been with her the year since I moved but during that time we went through the usual hits and misses associated with getting a new hair dresser and had now had reached the happy zone just before the virus arrived. Before Emily there were three other ladies at my previous address and amazingly each one in turn just as I got settled moved out of state. What are the odds? Assuming this call was an appointment change of some sort I asked what was up. Wrong question. Why didn’t I grab the vodka and make a run for it? Hindsight really is 20-20.

Emily, it seems, and her husband and three children have decided to move to Texas and are leaving in two weeks. Really? Is it me? Who was I in my former life Vlad the Impaler? Why can’t Mercury just go in the same direction as Earth? Apologizing for the short notice she assured me her friend in the same salon would have my color specifications in hand for my next appointment and take good care of me. Please. This isn’t my first hair salon break-up. Last time I got a similar assurance and she dyed my hair the color of merlot (I am definitely more chardonnay). Ugh.

So my chin is held high. I am deep breathing like a long-distance runner and trying desperately to keep the faith and allow the happy thoughts to have their way with me. Hope you all are doing the same. Until next time – stay safe.

 

 

 

 

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The last day of my trip to Manitoba had arrived. Butterflies flitted around in my stomach as I packed my suitcase and got ready to leave for the airport. Bob J. was to drive me. The man never seemed to stop. The day before while sitting next to me on the beach he had disclosed this was the most time off he had taken off since his wife had passed away. In another world, at another time or under different circumstances I believe those piercing blue eyes might have more than intrigued me. However, as I was not moving to Manitoba any time soon and most definitely he was not relocating to Northern California it seemed more prudent to just entertain an occasional bit of wishful thinking and leave it at that. Nonetheless, I found him both most attractive and definitely interesting and I felt sorry to be leaving both him and his lovely family in my rear view mirror.

Taking a last look around what had been my nest for the last nine days I zipped my luggage and took a final walk down the hall into the now familiar kitchen. All hands were on deck that morning including Bob, Sr. who was seated at the table blowing on a cup of coffee. A bag of wild blueberry muffins sat on my place mat with a handwritten note pinned to it from Chris “for my new and dear friend Susie for her trip“. A lump in my throat now joined the butterflies doing a rumba below my belt. The children were all questions as usual. “Susie, why do you have to go? Are you coming back? Can we come to California some time and visit you and go to Disneyland?” I didn’t have the heart to say this was probably goodbye. We took lots of pictures which are stored for me to revisit one of these rainy days when I am sorting through my memories.

Bob J. pulled the truck up outside. Hugs and kisses were spread all around along with the promises people make to keep in touch and see each other again. I remember looking out the back window of the truck as we rattled down the dirt road and seeing them all standing in the yard waving, Chris dabbing at her eyes with her ubiquitous apron.

Bob J. was especially quiet as we drove along even for him. I think there were a lot of unspoken thoughts left hanging between us we both allowed to manage themselves. Going back was to be different than arriving. Coming in they picked me up at the Winnepeg Airport and we drove the three hours to the farm. The plan this time was that I catch a commuter plane to Winnepeg at the local small airport. Once in Winnepeg I would board a commercial flight to Vancouver, and then on to San Francisco. This would eliminate the long drive to Winnepeg and back for Bob J. who needed to turn his attention back to the farm where it was needed.

About a forty-five minute drive from the farm the airport turned out to be small indeed. Other than an assortment of hangers housing the private planes stored at the facility, there was a tower, a large two story structure where passengers and families could wait or grab a bite to eat at the snack bar, and the tarmac itself. Most of the planes visible were smaller prop types, the only exception being the one larger plane with a line of about ten windows which I assumed was to be my ride of the day. In spite of all the traveling I have done over the years this was to be my first and until now my only flight on a commuter jet.

Bob J. and I sat next to one another in the waiting area. I took the opportunity to thank him for allowing me to be part of his and his family’s lives for the past few weeks. In turn he thanked me for coming and giving them an understanding of me and my life in California and the work I had done. At one point he covered my hand with his. I believe for him this was a gesture requiring some forethought and effort. We sat there quietly his hand on mine until my flight was called. Exchanging a warm hug I turned one more time to look at those lovely blue eyes before facing forward and walking across the tarmac towards my plane. Sometimes you look back in your life and wonder “what if”. For me this would be one of those times where I wonder what today would look like had I made different choices back then. However, one cannot spend their life looking in the rear view mirror. As my therapist is wont to say, “that is not the direction you are going”.

Ascending the steps into the plane I was surprised to find it rather small inside. On each side of the plane were rows of seats two to a row. The seat backs were folded forward against the seat cushions themselves. I chose a location about half way back and put the seat back in the upright position. There were six or seven other passengers getting situated with me but no crew in sight at that point. Storing my carry-on bag I sat by the window. Two figures emerged from the building I had just exited. Both were young, very young, and both wore uniforms, one with epaulets on one shoulder. Oh-oh. They looked more like they’d be piloting a Tonka toy then a commercial airplane. Momma. Obviously coming in the direction of our plane as it was the only one on the runway my butterflies began to actually fight with one another as the pair came up the steps and entered the doorway. Sigh. Not only was I going up in a small plane but I was going up with Jack and Jill at the controls. The pair introduced themselves as yes, the pilot and co-pilot, the young lady occupying the second seat. It would not have surprised me if someone said they were still in high school. The co-pilot also doubled as the crew. Before taking off she hunched down on one knee and ran over the safety features of the plane including where the restrooms and exits were and the procedure should we experience a drop in oxygen. Mine was already dropping. Before liftoff we were offered bottled water or a soda and a bag of nuts or chips. All the amenities. Check and check. For those of you old enough to remember when flying used to be a luxurious experience, I for one have to say I miss those days. Hot meals, excellent snacks, free drinks, magazines, head phones and complimentary blankets and pillows. The good old days. Now if you are handed a small packet of pretzels (usually about 7 to a pack) you consider yourself fortunate. Everything has a price tag attached to it during your flight and foot and elbow room has been reduced to such an extent by the time you land you are picking out china patterns with the person in the adjacent seat. These days I view air travel as similar to riding on a bus with wings.

After securing our seatbelts we taxied effortlessly down the runway and were airborne. Before the engines surged us forward I took one last look out my window to see Bob J. still visible standing inside the window of the building where we had waited.  A moment of regret hung over me before I pulled my book out of my backpack and settled in the the ride. I remember thinking that was one of the smoothest and pleasurable flights I had ever been on. The pilots did an excellent job both going up and coming down and in between we soared without incident like an eagle gracefully among the glorious clouds.

In Winnepeg the attendant at the gate for my flight to Vancouver came on the PA to announce my flight was overbooked. The airline was offering a free round trip value $300 to any travelers willing to wait for the next flight on the board. Hmmmmm. I went up to the desk and asked if I could still make my connecting flight to SFO in Vancouver if I accepted their offer. The answer I was given was was yes. Okie. Cooling my heels in the airport for the next three hours I found every position known to exist to achieve comfort on the seats in the waiting area. In between I grabbed a quick lunch and ordered a sandwich to stick in my back pack to eat later on the plane. Naturally my Vancouver flight was delayed. My luck just seems to run in that direction. Darn. Finally getting on board in Winnepeg the flight attendant said I would be really pushing it on the other end to connect with my next flight. Getting to my gate for the connecting flight apparently would require traversing a long expanse of airport in Vancouver to get to my next plane. Goody. Also, customs had to be dealt with. Sigh.

Arriving in Vancouver it was as promised. Customs lines were backed up as usual and by the time I got up to the agent I was really pushing the envelope if I was to make the next flight. After going through my luggage thoroughly (I must have a criminal face) the agent confiscated my bottle of water and my hair spray. The hair spray perplexed me so I asked why. It seems people can actually store a bomb inside. “Okay, you’re on to me. Take my Aqua Net but pleeeeease let me go or I’m going to miss my plane.” Finally I was freed. I sprinted down the aisles of the airport like a horse released from the gate at Daytona luggage flying behind me. Just as the gate agent was closing up shop for my departing flight I rounded the corner. Thankfully she let me board. The plane was totally packed and my seat was towards the back, the middle seat of three across. Stowing my gear in the overhead bin I squeezed by the portly gentlemen taking up the aisle seat and sat down in between two male passengers. Made it. Whew.

During the flight home I reflected on the week behind me. It brought to mind people who are brought into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. The season people come into your life for you to share, grow or learn. They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never learned. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy, but only for a season.  My farm family, I believe, were season people. We kept in touch, but as life does it insinuates itself into your plans and moves you in different directions than originally planned. Last I heard the girls were in high school and Bob, Sr. had retired due to health issues. Bob J. had remarried and we had all moved on. Think of them often and my time in Manitoba. Seems like it was only yesterday I was sitting in that warm and friendly kitchen. Take time to have adventures in your life, it passes so quickly and then the chance to grab the ring is gone.

Have a great day, stay safe, test the water.

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Waking up in spare bedroom on the farm in Manitoba on the morning of my ninth day there, I realized I had just one more night before my trip came to a close. Looking around the cozy room my mind captured a mental picture to place in my memory book. I would remember the cheerful curtains decorated with cherries, the antique rocking chair in the corner with the colorful afghan Chris had given me as a welcome gift tossed over one arm, the photo gallery of family pictures lining one wall, and the birds singing happily in the boughs of the huge oak tree just beyond the window.

Dressing in capris and a tee instead of my usual work attire, I headed towards the kitchen. As usual the family was gathered there. Eva and Dawn were talking excitedly about our road trip. Bob J. was answering their barrage of questions about where we were going and what we were going to do while I loaded another unbelievable Chris breakfast onto my plate. Lake Winnepeg was to be our destination he was telling the girls. Sounded wonderful. For me any place with a body of water was probably a good place to be.

The girls were excused from the table to go with their mom to get dressed for the day. Bob J. filled in the details on our Lake Winnepeg destination. Specifically we were going to Grand Beach Park. Lake Winnepeg, he went on to say, was one of the largest fresh water lakes in the world. Grand Beach Park, though a bit touristy for his tastes, offered everything to do outdoors from swimming, boating, fishing, hiking to an amusement park. The latter he told me was what had the girls all a twitter when I’d arrived on the scene. Let me insert here when I was a kid I loved amusement parks. No matter how high the roller coaster, how stomach turning the ride, I would be first in line to hop on board. As I crested and rolled over forty this became less of a draw for me. In particular I am not fond of rides that jerk you about like a writhing hose on full water power or flip you upside down like a pancake on a grill. Nope, not for me.

Chris, characteristically, had packed us a huge wicker basket filled with sandwiches, snacks, icy cold bottles of water, lemonade and fruit for us to nosh on during our trip. There were times when I really considered proposing to the woman but didn’t get the feeling she would be inclined to leave Ray to move to California with me. It would be a marriage of convenience, mostly tipping the scale on my side. As much as I enjoy cooking, and I do, it would be lovely to have someone else man the fire from time to time particularly with as practiced a hand as hers.

The weather cooperated offering up a gorgeous day with only enough of a breeze to cool us off paired with a gloriously blue blue sky interrupted only by white fluffy clouds occasionally floating by. The girls amused themselves picking out animals and shapes from the passing clouds while Bob J. kept me entertained with history of the areas we drove through and Manitoba itself. The massive array of books in his library apparently were not just for show because he had an impressive knowledge of what he was speaking to which added another layer to my admiration of the man.

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Often I speak of my “near perfect moments”. That day held many of them. Driving along with the windows down, the girls chattering, Bob J. weaving his stories, and the countryside fully dressed for spring with wildflowers covering every hillside was definitely bordering on the nearly perfect.

We arrived at the beach around noon. What a lovely expanse of sand it was, a long line of grassy dunes marking its border. Bright beach umbrellas protruded out of the sand here and there and just out of reach of the incoming waves a group of children were busy building a sand castle. “Ahhhhhh”, my soul murmured. “Home.” Removing my sandals I dug my toes deep into the warm sand. Bob J. carried the heavy picnic basket and umbrella while I tagged along behind loaded down with towels, buckets and shovels, a bag of sunscreen and changes or clothes for the girls, and my backpack. Walking in the sand will quickly point out what parts of you are out of shape. In this case after walking what felt like five miles there were so many places to point to I couldn’t narrow it down to a particular area of my body. Once the blankets were spread out and lunch consumed the girls wriggled out of their shorts and tops their bathing suits already on underneath. Grabbing buckets and shovels they ran down towards the water to play. Watching the children plop down oblivious to the sand sticking their skin and begin to dig reminded me of the basic joys of being a child. For most children, not all certainly, childhood is a place of infinite possibilities where dragons breathed fire, unicorns pranced in glittering rainbows, and life, so complicated as we get older, was defined by far simpler terms.

Bob J. dozing in and out in his beach chair didn’t offer much by way of conversation. Left to my own devices I reflected on what an interesting and enjoyable time I’d had on the farm. I would miss them all each in their own way. They had welcomed me as though I was family and I had come to consider them as part of mine. Leaving would be bittersweet. Home was beginning to whisper my name, but knowing I most probably never see my Manitoba clan again left me feeling a bit melancholy.

The day passed quickly. Bob J. and I played frisbee after his nap. With a long drive still in front of us we packed up our gear and retraced our steps to the truck. Exhausted from sun and fun, both girls napped in the back seat most of the ride home. For me leaving the ocean behind always left me sad. Though home has always been where I have hung my hat at the time, the coast has always felt the most like a permanent home to me. Growing up in Nova Scotia with the sea at my back yard left an indelible fingerprint on me that has remained throughout my lifetime.

That night Chris outdid herself. Grilled lobster with drawn butter was the star of the show accompanied by sweet ears of corn, savory garlic bread, and an enormous tossed salad packed with vegetables from her garden. We finished it off with a slice of rhubarb and strawberry pie. The girls browned and exhausted went to bed without a murmur as did Bob J. and I. My plane was leaving just after lunch the following day so it would be time to say my goodbyes. Why is it times you get so much joy from seem to pass in an instant and those you wish would go quickly by drag on like an insurance seminar? Always I will remember that trip as the years tear off the calendar. Some experiences are just rich and this would be one I would count as such.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My time in Manitoba was quickly coming to an end. I wanted to spend some time working with the animals again before I left and the opportunity afforded itself on my eighth day on the farm. Ray, once again my information highway, said the new calves needed to have ear tags. Interested I asked if I could tag along. (sorry) Ear tags help the farmers identify the gender of the calves as well as track its parentage. If you have a bumper crop of babies each looking much like the next, you will need to have some way to tell which calf belongs to which mother. The mothers, I was told, instinctively will be protective of their offspring. The objective is to perform this task with the least amount of stress to both parties. A calf cage or crate was to be taken out to the field. This will separate the baby from it’s mother temporarily during the procedure while allowing the mother to remain close by and get less agitated. The cow may get testy during this time I was warned, so I was not to get too close to her hind quarters or I might get kicked. Ray explained it is important the tagging be done properly or you risk infection, the tag could get ripped out, or bacteria could easily travel from one small creature to the next. Got it.

I got dressed in my knee boots this time before being prompted to. Mucking about in the cow pastures you are likely to step in a lot of, well, a lot of. Meeting the men by the barn as requested, the cage was already hitched to the back of the truck. Dobbin, the dapple gray was saddled and loosely tied to the gate. Bob J. and were to ride out in the truck with Ray following on Dobbin in case they needed to round up any strays. Coming to the first field we caravaned through the gate stopping just at the perimeter of the grazing herd. Bob J. said there should be five calves in this pasture, though we only counted four. Most likely the missing calf and mother were hidden beyond the tree line so we would have to look the stragglers once the other four had been tagged.  Helping them unload the contents of the bed of the truck I noticed an ominous looking tool reminding me of the eyelet setter I had at home in my sewing kit only much larger. This was used as a “punch” if you will that helps set the tag. Asking if it hurt, my answer was no. As a disclaimer, no calf has ever stepped up to the mike to confirm this to be true so I’m just going to have to take the farmer’s word for it.  Ray said it was similar to ear piercing in humans. Let me just insert here, had I seen that tool headed for my ear lobe I would have continued to wear clip on earrings. I’m just sayin.

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I got my ears pierced in my early twenties. My mother worked for a radiologist at the time we called Dr. Pat. Dr. Pat had mentioned he had pierced his daughter’s ears. Mother, knowing I was planning on having mine done at the mall asked if he would consider doing mine as well. Even at that age with two toddlers in tow my mother still worried I would get an infection and die. Losing my dad when he was twenty-five had a profound impact on her and by God she wasn’t going to lose me. Being an only child with an overly protective widowed mother can be both a blessing and curse. You get all the love and you get ALL THE LOVE. Sigh. My mother was a bit of a helicopter parent before the phrase was ever coined. I would happily have just gone to the jewelry store at the mall. To relieve her mind, I showed up at radiology for the appointment and was guided into an exam room for the procedure. Dr. Pat had a reputation for being a bit of a practical joker so he arrived fully gowned with gloves and mask on. On a tray he carried an enormous syringe. Fortunately they caught me before I fled out the door and explained it was a joke. While there he told me the story of his visit to Tijuana over the summer with several of his colleagues. They were on a sort of busman’s holiday down in the Baja Peninsula doing some pro bono work in a small clinic. After a rigorous couple of days with no A/C they decided to stop at a bar in Tijuana on the way home and enjoy a couple of cool ones. As the story went they washed the cervaza down with Tequila shots and everyone got el borracho (plastered). One of the locals in the bar, spotting an easy mark in the inebriated Dr. Pat sold him an enormous sow which they somehow loaded in the back of his station wagon and brought home to the wife. Story was she was less than elated to see both him and the pig. After some heated discussion and most likely in exchange for an expensive shopping trip for the wife the pig was allowed to stay. Fortunately, they lived in a lovely ranch style home in an exclusive area mostly dedicated to horse owners so it was zoned for livestock. When the tony ladies in the area were out walking their pedigree pooches, Dr. Pat would slip the custom made rhinestone collar on Gordita (always thought that was kind of a rude name) and walk her around the neighborhood as well. At one point I believe the neighbors actually got up a petition to have this behavior stopped as unseemly but apparently it isn’t illegal to walk swine in public. He and his wife got a divorce not long after that, not surprisingly as you might imagine. Last I heard he got custody of the pig.

One by one we rounded up the calves and their mothers. Let me preface by saying the calves do not just walk into the crate provided for them. It’s like putting Boo, the Queen of Cats, in her carrier to go to the vets. You don’t just say, “Boo please get in” and the cat aquiesses. Oh no. You hide the cage and sneak up on her while she’s sleeping. You gently carry her towards the open door of the crate being sure she does not actually see the crate or a hospital visit (for you not her) is in the offing. Once she realizes what you are up to you push and she resists, repeat for a half an hour until she’s finally inside. I was handed a bottle of adequate size to satisfy Baby Huey and told once the calf was secured to feed him or her while the procedure was being performed. Believe it or not I asked what was in the bottle. Even for a blonde that was a fairly dumb question. Milk, yes, you win the teddy bear.  Ray slipped a rope around mama’s neck who wasn’t looking happy, while Bob J. rounded up the little one and after a bit of maneuvering got it in the crate and the head stabilized. My part of the program was easy because I had the goods. The little one happily sucked on the bottle while Bob J. did what was needed to be done with not a lot of fanfare thankfully. I cannot stand to see any animal hurt including human animals.

For a brief time in my late twenties I was a dental assistant. Believe it or not I graduated top of my class (Particularly after the what’s in the bottle question. I know!). After graduating, I was placed in an orthodontist’s office as a chairside assistant. Working in a school environment was vastly different than working in the field itself. For one thing our “patient” in school was a dummy (no offense meant). He was an actual dummy we called Fred. Fred was life sized with a full set of perfect teeth and sat obediently in the chair. Never once did he bite me, scream, cry or bleed all over his bib. This, when working with actual live patients, was definitely not the case. Our patients were largely children as braces were the mainstay of our office. Doing xray’s on small mouths should come with hazard pay. I cannot count how many times I was bitten, or had to nearly go to the mat with a small patient to get a set of full mouth xrays completed. The dentist, though delighted with my two handed dentistry techniques was less than thrilled with the “faces” I was involuntarily making while he was working on patients. It seemed they were instilling fear rather than confidence in the person sitting in the chair. After a year I determined dental assisting was not the life path for me but that is another blog.

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After all four of the babies were tagged and released to their waiting mamas Ray was dispatched on horseback to round up the missing pair. When he returned Bob J. was educating me on the disposition of cows. Cows, like most species, each have their own personalities. For the most part he said they were not aggressive, however, that is not always the case and you should always be mindful around large animals and be respectful. Bulls were another matter entirely. For those of you who don’t know the answer to another dumb question, cows are female and bulls are male. Bulls can be very aggressive particularly around other bulls and especially when a cow is in heat. Thankfully there were no bulls on the property. How the calves came to be we didn’t get into but perhaps that falls under TMI.

After accounting for and tagging all the calves in two of the four pastoral areas, we broke for lunch. Chris outdid herself that day piling slices of her wonderful homemade bread with cured ham and lacy Swiss cheese. A large bowl of pasta salad was served family style in the middle of the table loaded with cherry tomatoes and spinach as well as a plate of sliced tomato, avocado, cucumber, and dill pickles. For dessert rhubard crisp with vanilla ice cream. Nap please. No nap was on the schedule so we dragged ourselves back out to the field and spent the rest of the day finishing the job we started. The cows were lovely all in all and not a one gave me as much as a dirty look.

Over dinner we discussed what I wanted to do with my last official day on the farm the following day before boarding a plane the day after that for California. It was decided the girls and I would go on a road trip with Bob J. at the wheel giving me an opportunity to see some of the surrounding countryside and allow Chris a much needed day of R&R.  My muscles were reacting to a hard day’s work as I blessedly sank into a tub of hot water before heading to bed. A bit of melancholy had begun to sneak into my being that night. One more day and then back to the reality of job, home, family and day to day life. Ah well, vacation or relocation doesn’t usually last forever.

 

 

 

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My seventh day in Northern Manitoba with my farm family was to be spent with Chris and the children. What a lovely day it was. On this particular day I was pulled into service in the kitchen, a job not unfamiliar to me. That evening there was to be a party in my honor which was such a lovely gesture on their part. Chris, as usual, would be doing the catering.  In her typical efficient way, she had printed menus for her guests. One was handed to me before we began dicing and chopping to provide a glimpse of what we were to be preparing. Breakfast that morning was self serve. Cold and hot cereal with a large bowl of fresh fruit and a plate with a variety of Chris’s homemade breads were set up on the dining room table for anyone to help themselves. Three golden crusted pies were lined up on the sideboard by the open dining room window to cool with strict instructions from the cook not to be touched.

Reading the menu I could see it would be a busy day. The cocktail hour was to begin at 5:00 out by the patio. Icy margaritas, wine and beer would be served for the adults enjoying a cocktail, and lemonade and sweet tea for those too young to imbibe or not inclined towards adult beverages. The appetizers, mostly comprised of ingredients from Chris’s impressive garden, were to include pastry wrapped asparagus with mustard sauce, sausage stuffed mushrooms, and deviled eggs as well as whatever contributions the guests provided. For someone who had spent little time in the city Chris had a very sophisticated palette. I noticed her reading material included magazines such such as Bon Appetit and Food and Wine, magazines I also enjoyed.

Eva and I were dispatched to Chris’s garden to gather some of the necessary ingredients. What an amazing touch the woman had with growing things.  Some of the vegetables in the massive garden area I had never actually seen on the vine before. I was fascinated to peer inside one enormous leaf only to find a cauliflower tucked under the wing of one fold. Up until then I had only seen cauliflowers in the vegetable section at the market. Carrying the baskets provided by our hostess for our harvest, Eva and I filled each to the brim with huge beefsteak tomatoes, green onions, sweet peppers, bouquets of basil, springs of mint, summer squash, cucumbers, and whatever else was on our list.

The main course was to be lamb. I was pleased no lambs were included in the cast of barnyard characters on the farm so it was not to be a family member served to the guests. Chris explained they got their lamb locally which didn’t surprise me. During my stay I had seen several large flocks grazing in the area. Though I had not mentioned it, coincidentally lamb happens to be one of my favorite meats. Growing up it was often the main course at my grandmother’s table alongside a bowl of mint jelly or creamy mint sauce. I assumed, since mint had been included on our shopping list, one or the other might be showing up that night as well. This was not to be lamb as I had ever prepared it before, however. Several whole lambs were going to cooked outdoors on a spit. Sounded wonderful. When I was living in Alabama I attended a huge backyard party where a whole cow was cooked on a spit. Watching that spit revolve all afternoon was too much for my delicate nature bringing out in me the urge to rescue the poor thing and run away with it. Brings to mind a quote from Dr. Seuss’s The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,”He took the Who’s feast, he took the Who pudding, he took the roast beast.” I vowed to avoid the spit area later in this day and simply enjoy my dinner.

Back in the kitchen the aromas were beginning to titillate my nostrils. The lamb was to be served alongside a cheesy, creamy zucchini gratin, crispy Greek lemon potatoes, several salad selections including a fully loaded garden salad and Chris’s simply amazing yeast rolls. Oh yummy for my tummy. I was put in charge of the Caprese Salad, creating several eye catching plates of ripe ruby red tomatoes alternated with slices of mozzarella cheese. This was finished off with fresh basil, and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. If an organ could do a happy dance my stomach would have been in the middle of the macarena.

After a quick lunch, the girls were relieved of their aprons and left to play outside allowing Chris and I to to concentrate of the tasks at hand. There is something immensely satisfying to me in the preparation of food. Perhaps it’s the colors, or the aromas, or just the immense gratification you get when someone puts a bite of a dish you’ve prepared in their mouths and says “yum”.  A meal, to my mind, should be party for our senses. We eat with our eyes, our noses, our mouths and even our ears. There’s nothing as tantalizing as the sound of a good piece of meat when it hits a hot grill. Good food arranged artfully on a pretty plate is just appealing. No matter how mouth watering your food may be, if you just throw it on the plate and hand it to someone to eat, the full enjoyment of eating the meal is somehow diminished. As good as the meat and potatoes on the left might taste, a person might not feel as enthusiastic about taking a bite of it as they might what is displayed on the plate to the right.

The Caprese salad plated and wrapped, I asked where to store it. The kitchen had one large side by side refrigerator and every inch of storage space was already accounted for. Chris directed me to the sunroom. The sunroom was at the back of the house. It was a large shotgun style room with a bank of windows running along both ends and the yard side. During the warmer months Bob P. said the screens kept the air flowing in and the bugs out making it a lovely place to sit and let your bones dry out after a long day of work. On the inside wall there was a side by side refrigerator and though I had not seen it Ray had mentioned a large walk-in freezer in the barn where they stored butchered meats.

Setting the Caprese dishes on a shelf in the refrigerator I remembered Chris asking me to grab several jars of pickled green beans which she said I would find in the cupboard next to the fridge. Having been told the Mason jars were in alphabetical order (of course) I easily located the appropriate jars under the sign marked “G”. Like many farmer’s wives, Chris said she canned and preserved several times a year for off season months. Looking at the amount of jars, it seemed an excessive amount of food for five people but at harvest time it was my understanding there were plenty of mouths to feed, and if not I believe most preserved items enjoy a fairly long shelf life.

Mid afternoon with everything done and tucked away we separated to catch a shower and clean up for the evening ahead. I had not thought to pack a dress for a week on a farm, so Chris, about the same size as myself, offered me a choice of several light summer dresses from her closet.

Always I have gotten butterflies when having to integrate with a large group of strangers. It’s not that I’m an introvert, I actually love interacting with other human beings, but too many of them at once I find a little overpowering. Once dressed I wandered out in the garden to find Bob J. already dressed and seated in the shade in a lawn chair. After surveying me with his gaze as if checking for weapons he commented that I cleaned up very well. In the world of Bob J. I believe this was a compliment, so I took it as such. In turn I thought he “cleaned up well”. Face free of stubble, hair combed, a freshly pressed shirt tucked into a well fitting pair of clean jeans, most attractive. We sat next to each other for a while enjoying the lull before the storm. He shared he was glad I’d come and that his family had been pleased with how I’d rolled up my sleeves and got dirty along with the rest of them. I thanked him knowing it was high praise from someone who did not relieve himself of praise easily. The moment hanging between us was broken by a truck driving through the gate allowing the energy to dissipate. Excusing myself, I went inside to let Chris know our first guest had arrived and to see what I could do to help.

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About forty people ended up filling the chairs out back, some filtering inside after the sun set and the bugs made their nightly appearance. The margaritas were as promised icy cold and tart and if possible each course served was better than the one preceding it. The lamb, well I don’t have words. Ray had cooked it to perfection. It was tender and juicy and, yes, served with mint jelly and sprigs of fresh mint. The tables were set up eight to a table with a smaller table for the children of which there were exactly ten. Twinkling lanterns were strung from tree to tree to provide illumination. Each table was beautifully decorated with long trails of wildflowers. A young man I recognized from church the day before sat on a bale of hay entertaining us with country music and playing his guitar. Desserts were served with a lovely after dinner wine. Chris’s triple berry pie, a recipe I use to this day, was the star sitting alongside a glass bowl of trifle, an assortment of cakes and plate after plate of cookies and bars. About nine, people starting peeling off and heading towards their vehicles as the next day was a work day.

What a wonderful night that was. Everyone pitched in. Once the last guest’s taillights had disappeared down the road we all carried something into the kitchen. Eva and Dawn, running on a sugar high, had to be carried sniffling into bed. Chris and I stayed up late and washed dishes putting leftovers in containers to be stored in the fridge. When finally I walked down the hall towards my room I realized I would really miss this new family of mine. It was a night I shall always keep with me, and of course the blueberry pie recipe.

Chris’s Triple Berry Pie

Double Crust Pie Shell

2 Cups all-purpose flour
1/2 Tsp. salt
2/3 cup shortening
1 Tbsp. white vinegar
4-5 Tbsp. milk

Combine flour and salt in small bowl. Cut in shortening until mixture looks like course crumbs. Sprinkle with vinegar. Gradually add milk tossing with a fork until a ball forms. Cover and refrigerate for 30 mins.

Divide pastry in half leaving one ball slightly larger than the other. Roll out the larger of the two to fit 9″-10″ pie plate. Transfer pastry to pie plate. Trim to rim. Brush bottom of shell with 1 Tbsp. water whisked with 1 egg white. Reserve the rest.

Roll out second shell to fit over top of the first. Set aside.

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Filling

2 1/2 cups blueberries, sorted and any stems removed
3/4 cup raspberries
3/4 cups blackberries
3/4 cups white sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
1 1/2 Tbsp. lemon zest
1/2 tsp. lemon juice
1 Tsp. vanilla
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
1 egg white
2 tbsp. water

Place berries in large mixing bowl. Whisk together remaining ingredients and pour over berries. Using your hands gently turn until well coated. Pour into prepared shell.

Lay top pastry over berry mix. Press and seal edges with bottom shell. Trim as needed. Cut four slits in center to vent. Brush top with remaining egg white/water mixture.

Bake for 50 mins. or until browned and bubbly.

Cook on wire rack.

 

 

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By day six on the farm I had fallen into the rythm, sort of the heartbeat, of life there. It isn’t like working in the city, where you are hired for a specific skill and for the most part and you get up every morning and go apply that skill on your job.  On the farm there are jobs to be done by each participant in addition to providing help wherever else you are needed on any given day. If you have nothing to do, someone will find you something to fill your time. Nobody is standing around waiting for the world to hand them an agenda. All hands are needed to keep the process moving forward. It was nice to be a part of that, if only for a short time. I can see where being born into a farm family you take this strenuous schedule in stride accepting it as routine. You work until the work is done. The only exception was Sunday. Sunday, thankfully, was for the most part a day of rest and I was looking forward to getting in on some of that on my sixth day there which happened to fall on a Sunday.

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I attended church services with them in the morning. The little girls reminded me of myself at their age. Both were fidgeting in their seats dressed in their glossy Mary Jane’s with their little bodies confined by frilly dresses they would happily exchange for bare feet, shorts, and an old tee shirt. Other than our two little princesses, the dress was generally casual. Church really isn’t a place to show off your new duds anymore. As a child I remember going into church with my grandmother. Never did I see her without a hat, gloves, nylons, heels, and a suit or a dress at Sunday services.  In the cooler months I can remember the addition of her much prized fox stole, flung over one shoulder the poor fox still attached. These days people show up in whatever they grab out of the closet. Jeans are acceptable attire as are shorts in the summer and ski jackets in the colder months. The last time I went to church in California the kid in front of me was wearing his pajama bottoms. For me it’s all fine. I’m pretty sure, though I’ve never actually gotten the final directive from up above, the Lord doesn’t put much stake in what our clothes look like. I believe he focuses more in the direction of what we are thinking or what we are doing, rather than what shoes we are wearing.

The church structure was so charming with white siding and a tall steeple. A bell showed through a tower window. Though the siding was clean and well cared for the building appeared to be quite old. I was told later it had been around many years and held some historic significance in the area, marked by a gold plaque hanging in the vestibule. The sermon was invigorating enough to keep me from lowering my chin to my chest which is always a blessing in itself. A group of young singers took the stage after the minister had spoken and soon had everyone clapping and stomping their feet. Following the service the “flock” met in the great room for a mouth watering smorgasbord of homemade cakes, pies and other goodies washed down with freshly brewed coffee and lemonade. I found the people for the most part extremely friendly and welcoming. Several times I was drawn into conversations with local ladies about how I came to find myself in their midst. They seemed fascinated anyone would sign up for such a trip without knowing who they were going to see or what might befall them once they reached their destination. I couldn’t argue with their logic. Ninety percent of my family and friends were on the same train going down the same track. Sometimes I’m fascinated by it myself when I reflect on my time there. At the time it seemed to have worked out well so I was simply enjoying doing exactly what I was doing.

At the end of the food line there was a small craft sale of sorts comprised of what looked to be mostly homemade items set up on a folding table . I admired a tea cozy someone had crocheted mentioning I could knit but had never mastered crocheting. The two women standing next to me seemed perplexed I could even knit. Apparently their image of women from California was of ladies oozing glamour and money looking ready to step out of the pages of Elle or Cosmopolitan. Pampered females with maids to maintain their fabulous homes and “people” who cleaned their pools and manicured their impressive yards. I hadn’t applied so much as a hint of blush since my arrival. At the time I traveled there I was renting a room in a condominium, doing my laundry at the nearby laundromat, and my “yard” consisted of a small patio with a table top fountain and a well faded patio umbrella. I probably dashed their illusions to pieces by not showing up in a haute couture gown wearing a tiara perched on my head with my lashes heavily laden with mascara. Had I know I was representing I would have at least used a curling iron on my hair. Interesting about preconceived notions. They often hit so far off the mark.

After church, it was decided we would go into town and enjoy breakfast at the diner. I had not seen the town as yet so was excited for a chance to explore. One parcel of acreage seemed to blend into the next as we drove along. Horses grazed in white fenced pastures here and there and tractors chugged along barely visible in clouds of dust in open fields. Chris sat in the front seat with a sleeping Dawn on her lap. Bob P. had elected to stay at the church to play cards with a group of friends. That left Ray at the wheel and Bob J., Eva, and I to take up the back seat. Eva was chattering at warp speed as we drove along switching subjects so quickly it was impossible for me to keep up.  Bob J., being his usual introspective self, gazed out the window so frequently you’d have thought the answers to the major unanswered questions plaguing mankind hung there on a suspended flash card for him to review. One thing I had learned about the man is he didn’t speak often, but when he did at least he had something interesting to say. I liked that. There is an old saying about many an important thing can be said in silence. Can’t remember the exact quote but you get where I’m going here. At times in my life I’d dated men who had said a lot, but not much of it had substance. This was a refreshing change of pace.

Alerting me we were approaching the town, Ray made a joke about it being so small the town council could have saved money by having the “Welcome to” and “You Are Now Leaving” notifications printed on the front and the back of the same sign. We pulled into the bustling parking lot of The Country Cottage Diner and found a spot far in the back. Chairs had been lined up under the eaves and people were seated chatting among themselves. A sign on a podium outside the front door said sign in and be seated. Adding his name to the waiting list Bob J. suggested he and I take a brief tour of the downtown area while waiting for a table to open up. The General Store was directly across the street, yup the sign really read General Store. Bob J. said the large brick building also housed the post office and a small branch of the Ministry of Transportation which I understand is the DMV’s Canadian cousin.  Further down the block was a gas station, and across from that was a hardware store and bait shop, a video rental place, and several specialty shops. The commercial area of the town was followed by a bank of beautiful old homes with inviting porches lining both sides of the main drag (I had a feeling it might be the only drag). All and all the tour took about five minutes. Walking back we saw Ray signalling our table was ready.

Inside the diner to the left was a long line of stools and a counter. The stools were mostly occupied by older gentlemen either reading an open paper or feeding their faces. Behind the counter the cooks could be seen through a hole in the wall busily filling orders. My stomach was happy to know breakfast was in the offing. To the right of the counter was a mishmash of tables followed by a long series of booths next to the windows. We sat at the larger circular booth in the corner with one child in between each parent for management. I ordered Eggs Benedict, my favorite. It was absolutely delicious served with crispy homestyle potatoes, spicy sausage links, and a heaping bowl of fresh fruit. Each table started out with a basket of assorted muffins which were served with local honey. People stopped by our booth often to say hello to the family exchanging bits of local gossip or information pertaining to farm business.  I was, I’m sure, a bit of a curiosity. Chris told me they usually didn’t entertain that much traffic when eating there by themselves.

Back at the ranch, so to speak. Chris and Ray went off with the girls to tend to the animals who after all didn’t know the difference between Sunday or Monday when it came to their stomachs. Bob J. and I sat on the fence and watched the horses in the coral. Hopping down he asked if I’d be interested in a ride. I accepted the invitation with the assurance he would put me on the horse with the mildest disposition. It had been years since I’d ridden and didn’t want to end up on the ground or worse making (pardon) a horse’s ass of myself. Hoisted up on the saddle I was pleased I remembered how to hold the reins and that I hadn’t fallen off before we reached the path that led out of the compound. We rode about an hour and a half sometimes just walking along slowly and other times loping along next to each other. It was starting to cool off for the day and the bugs had begun searching for new meat so reluctantly we turned our horses heads back in the direction we had come. We rode in complete silence for a while, neither of us feeling the need to fill the void with words. It was lovely.

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Writing this reminds me again how I do love horses and have great respect for them. Majestic animals who allow us to slap leather contraptions on them and hop on their backs with mostly quiet acceptance.  The most wonderful experience I ever had on the back of a horse was while vacationing in Rosarita Beach, Mexico. Rosarita Beach is a lovely little tourist mecca on the Baja Peninsula. In my early twenties my first husband and I often camped on the beach there with the children. On this trip we had come with a rather large group of his family members. Our tents were lined up in a row along the tree line right on the beach.  A group of locals approached us one afternoon with five or six horses in tow asking us if we wanted to ride. There were no saddles, only colorful blankets thrown across their backs. It was necessary to stand on a rock to get on board. Without a saddle there were no stirrups available to help you on hop up. The beach stretched out before us and my horse seemed eager to run. Holding tight to the reins I clinched the sides of the horse with my knees. My legs felt every contraction of the animal’s muscles as he galloped along through the glistening surf. Truly that was such a lovely sensation I have difficulty finding the words to describe it. Freedom I suppose is would cover it nicely. A complete communion with another species might also say it well.

So I close the page on Day Six of my farm adventure. The end is now closer than the beginning and I remember feeling melancholy at the thought of leaving my adopted family and their lovely farm behind.

 

 

 

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Day five of my Manitoba adventure began early as usual. After getting myself organized for the day I greeted the usual faces seated around the breakfast table in the kitchen. Omelets were on the menu, and like in a fine dining establishment I was asked to choose from the ingredients on the table and a delicious personal omelet was delivered to my plate by our chef de cuisine, Chris. I liked sitting in the kitchen with my new friends. The children were always a welcome addition to the table, bubbling over with enthusiasm for the day ahead and filled with youthful exuberance for the world around them. Even if I still was in the process of waking up, I enjoyed seeing their fresh little faces across from me over another great meal.

Bob J., Ray and I were once again on our own. That day, I was told, we were going to be working with the animals, which was perhaps my favorite facet of farm life. Yay. Ray, always a fount of information, filled me in on our schedule for the afternoon. Apparently several times a year they “drag” the pastures to redistribute the manure. Oh boy. Poop again. They wait until the pasture patties are dry to do this. Ewwwww. Truly I cannot think of a subject more unwelcome to my stomach than excrement but certainly if you raise animals you are going to have waste. Having visited the pig pens with Eva and Dawn and unfortunately finding it necessary to inhale once I’d exhaled, I am here to tell you there was no shortage of animal waste in a farm environment and what there is beyond fragrant.  They don’t call odiferous people pigs for nothing. Whew. Cows aren’t much better I’m afraid. I can remember driving across Kansas turning the corner on one dairy farm after another and wondering if the incredibly strong ammonia stench would ever leave my nostrils. The human body, as amazing as it is in how it processes our intake, certainly could use an adjustment on how it is scented when recycled. I’m thinking lavender or camelia might have been a better fragrance choice. I’m just saying.

Bob J. suggested I wear old clothes, and in particular old high boots. This did not bode well for my day. Sigh.

As I have said there was all variety of critters roaming about the farm compound in addition to the herds in the field. Chickens wandered freely about the yard chucking and pecking at the ground, there were half a dozen goats who made their home there, and probably ten pigs and a litter of piglets in the large pen beyond the barn. When we toured the piggies quarters, Chris mentioned as Eva and Dawn get older they will most likely become active in the local 4-H program. Each girl will raise a pig to be shown at the county fair and then auctioned off to the highest bidder for meat. I wouldn’t make a good farmer. Already I had become attached to several cows and a piglet. Most probably I would become vegetarian if I had to sacrifice one of them for Sunday dinner.

Knowing how to tend to these creatures takes years of training, knowledge handed down older generation to younger over countless decades. There are vaccinations that have to be given, births to be overseen, proper feeding guidelines, as well as weather and sickness to be taken into consideration. The vet came while I was there, a woman perhaps in her mid thirties. Watching her work with confidence with the larger animals was inspiring. The animals seem to almost sense this person is there on their behalf. Always I have admired veterinarians. Unlike physicians tending to humans, vets have to versed in a wide variety of skeletal structures and a myriad of species nuances. I might do well with dogs and cats but the first time someone brought me a boa constrictor with a head cold or a tarantula with a hang nail I’d be outta there. Also, the likelihood of a human patient biting you is probably minimal, but vets must face unhappy patients with both claws and sharp teeth every day. I’ve seen Boo, the Queen of Cats, in action. To say she resists a visit to the vet is to put it mildly. I have to nearly go on a reconnaissance mission to get her in the cage. Funny thing though once I get her into the office the staff seems to be competent enough to keep her calm. She sits there quietly as though that was her usual behavior while they probe and poke at her. Cats, go figure.

Ray also told me you have to be aware how many cows are grazing on your land. Too many can be harmful to the land itself. There are a lot of pitfalls to farming apparently. Luxurious crops could be taken down by extreme weather, drought, insects, and many other variables. I found it all both fascinating and perplexing at the same time. My grandmother grew up on a farm and this experience definitely gave me more understanding of what her life might have looked like as a girl. Often when I was small she commented on how women today were “spoiled”. She said in her time there were no cake mixes, prepared meals, frozen dinners. Women back in the day were in the kitchen cooking their meals from scratch with no help from Betty Crocker.

I’m sure she would have been both pleased and surprised to find me working the farm in Manitoba. On morning five of my visit Bob J. and Ray were going to ride out to the pasture in the tractor. My job would be to follow them on the three wheeler carrying the water cooler, lunch, and some tools. Let me reiterate once again it took me three times to get my driver’s license and years to perfect my driving skills. Not only have I never ridden on a three wheeler but most certainly I’ve never driven one. As a kid I dabbled in boys with motorcycles but never actually drove one myself. The only time I was ever even alone on a bike was when I was in high school. A boy I knew had a Triumph 750. I was expressly forbidden to ride on the back of this machine so naturally that was where I was to be found. Hank, the owner of the bike, stepped off to go into a convenience store. He instructed me to straddle the bike and stand firmly on both feet until he returned. Check. Two minutes after he entered the store I leaned slightly to the right and the rest was history. Thankfully, once again I escaped maiming or certain death but his bike wasn’t quite so lucky. That was the beginning and the end of the motorcycle period of my life story. Not wanting to appear to Bob J. and Ray to be a sissy, in particular after my antics of the previous day when I had fallen through the bush and flown down the side of the hillside. So, the three wheeler it was, the three wheeler it would be. My instructions were simple. “Stay on the dirt road do not drive anywhere near the edge of the road. Do not, repeat do not, put your legs near the wheels while the vehicle is moving. Avoid deep ruts at all costs.” Um, “help”.

I hopped on the beast trying to look poised and confident. Bob J. got the machine running for me and explained the shifting situation. Sigh. Inside I had a feeling this was going to make yesterday’s freefall look mild in comparison. Gamely I inched forward. The snail creeping down the path next me was beating me by a mile. Bob J. and Ray were putting a lot of real estate between us as I chugged along at about 1/4 mile an hour. Finally they stopped and Bob J. jogged back to where I was to check on me. Explaining they had hoped to get to the field sometime before sunset, I was instructed to pick up the pace a bit. Okie. The avoiding the ruts portion of the instruction didn’t make it easy going. Since it was a dirt road there were both rocks and ruts at nearly every juncture. Once again my spine was inching up towards my brain. Bob stuck his hand out the tractor to indicate he was going to stop. I did the same lowering my foot to the ground before coming to a complete stop. Don’t try this at home. Doing specifically what I’d been told not to do my leg hit the back wheel taking off the top layer of skin on my calf. Oh-oh. At first I thought I’d just be quiet about it but since it was beginning to look as if I might need a tourniquet I thought I’d better turn myself in. Thankfully working with heavy machinery regularly they kept a fully equipped first aid kit on board for such occasions. Bob J.’s eyes if rolled any higher towards the heavens would have disappeared inside his head. Sorry.

Once I was doctored to they began the “dragging” procedure which was basically accomplished by a piece of equipment attached to the back of the tractor and, yes, dragged along behind it. Well named, yes? Most of the afternoon was spent tending to one pasture after another. Half the time I rode in the tractor with one or the other of the men and the rest of the time I was on the dreaded three wheeler with instructions once again to try and keep myself out of the ICU. Kay.

That evening after a delicious meal of the fresh fish Bob J., Bob P. and I had provided for the table, we sat outside in the lawn chairs until way beyond the time the sun had gone down for the day.  A fire pit had been filled with wood and a lovely crackling fire burned inside the circle. The girls, allowed to stay up a bit late, were dancing in the flickering light. In the tall grass fireflies made what I was told was a very unusual showing making it a very magical evening.

Sleep, I have to say, came easily during those days. You worked hard, you played hard, then you slept hard. Wish I could put the sleeping hard part into action these days. Particularly since the pandemic my dream state is filled with vivid weird dreams and interrupted nights.

Day six on the downhill slope of my trip comes next. See you then. Stay safe.

 

 

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Day four in Manitoba was all about fishing. We had been allowed to languish in bed until nine if needed and then the plan was to have breakfast, load up our gear, and head to the river. I was not what you might call an experienced angler. Up until I had married my ex-husband truth was I had never cast a line in the water. Actually, that is incorrect. I did catch a flounder as I recall on a rare outing with my first stepfather. When I had excitedly hauled my fish in the boat he told me flounders were bottom feeders not fit for eating and I would need to toss it back. I was to find out years later, flounder was not only tasty but good for you. I was nine. I caught a fish while he, an experienced fisherman, did not. We weren’t exactly close. I’ll save this story for my next therapy session.

My people really weren’t outdoorsy. The one and only time I ever went camping with my mother was in Yosemite. I was a freshman in high school. In order to coerce her outdoors, my stepfather had to rent a high end travel trailer which was where she spent 90% of her time during that week enjoying martinis in her wedgies. Meanwhile, my stepbrother and I were rafting down the Yosemite river, panning for gold, and watching the fire fall at sunset. My mother’s idea of roughing it would be to stay at a hotel without room service. She always described herself as a “hothouse flower” and that is fine. Everyone has their niche to fill. I adore my mum so whatever venue she chooses to make her happy, makes me happy as well.

So, at precisely nine fifteen I arrived in the kitchen at the farm to enjoy one of Chris’s excellent breakfasts. Not to disappoint, I found Ray and Bob J. already seated at the table shoveling in some really delicious looking Belgium waffles. Yum. After clearing the syrup from my lips, I applied lip gloss and sunscreen, grabbed a ball cap for extra coverage, and headed for the decided meeting spot by the barn door. The two Bob’s were already by the truck loading up fishing gear, a cooler, some folding stools, and a water cooler. Though still early, the sun, already hot against my back, was letting me know it was just gearing up for its day.

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The area we were going, as it turned out, wasn’t too much of a drive. The truck could only take us so far, however, after that I was told, we would need to walk in the rest of the way.  Parking under some trees for shade, we unloaded the bed. Bob P. said we had about a forty-five minute hike to the river. Since I was a girl I was given the lighter items to carry such as poles and the tackle box, while the men hauled the heavy cooler between them with the other items piled on top. Sometimes it pays to be female. The underbrush was quite dense in spots and insects were prolific. I had doused myself with insect spray before leaving the house which seemed to keep them at bay. At some points the drop off on one side of the trail was very steep. Several times I nearly lost my footing when stepping across loose rocks and gravel. Holding the poles in one hand and the tackle box in the other didn’t leave me much to balance with. Just when I was starting to feel tired the men signaled to me from up ahead we were going downward from the path. Oh. The bank angled straight down in this area. I could hear the water flowing below and see the river through the gaps in the trees so knew we were getting close to our destination, or at least to the river itself. Yay. Bob J. was first down the side of the hill with Bob P. following close behind. They slid more than walked down the slick slope with the cooler sort of careening along in the middle. Bob J. yelled for me to watch my footing. As the words reached my ears, I took my first step down the hill pushing through a matted patch of greenery.  I stepped into the air beyond where I stood, which was all that was available at the time to step into. Suddenly I was airborne, soaring like a flying squirrel floating from one tree limb to another. Both men watched in amazement as I sailed past them landing with a loud splat in the middle of the river. The impact, thankfully more frightening than hurtful, caused me to release what I was holding as well as all the air in my lungs. Lying there wet, embarrassed and gasping for breath I watched as the bait box bobbed and weaved in the current. Bob J. was quickly in hot pursuit as the poles were beginning to submerge where they landed. Whoops. The only thing wounded on me was my pride and a scrape on my elbow fortunately. After checking me out for injuries and finding me in one piece, the two men just shook their heads. Unspoken but hanging in the air were the words “women, right?”

After all our floating gear was recovered, we located a good spot along the river to set up “camp” for the day. The lush foliage around the water’s edge afforded us some shade, a blessing since the sun now high in the sky was taking no prisoners. Whew. Bob P. helping me load my hook with a fresh worm, I cast my line in the water and settled in to wait for a tug. I have to admit that eviscerating a worm is not my favorite pastime so whether it was more “girl” stuff or not I allowed the men to do the dirty work for me. My ex used to tell me the worms don’t feel a thing. Uh-huh. It didn’t look like it felt good to me, and I’ve never read an affidavit from a worm confirming that it did.

I caught three small fish that day.  When I pulled the first one in Bob P. said it was crappy. Pardon me? Turns out this was not an assessment of my fishing skills but that they were all crappy, or rather black crappie, a popular pan fish and quite delicious when tossed in a frying pan. About one o’clock we opened the cooler and helped ourselves to a lunch consisting of wonderful sandwiches Chris had provided for us. Secretly I was determined to bring her back to California with me to have her cook for me for the rest of my life. Delicious bread piled high with thin slices of meat and fresh vegetables from the garden. Along with her other gifts, Chris had a way with yeast and flour baking them into the most wonderful grainy breads. Our sides were potato salad, coleslaw and a colorful fresh fruit salad, which in the heat was a particularly welcome treat.  The Boys, tossed down a few cold ones and threw in a few fishing stories, while I stuck to the container of lemonade included in the cooler to keep me level headed for the hike back to the car.

Bob P. filled me in some of the missing spots of his life after a brew or two. His wife, Bob J.’s mom, had passed away some ten years back. Like Bob J. and Anna, he told me, he and his lovely Lizzie had been married right of school.  Actually, she was married right out of school with Bob P. leaving school in tenth grade to help his parents with the farm. He had done his time in the military during “Nam”, as he put it, but didn’t offer any further information about his experiences there. A silence fell over him on mentioning that period of his life. Guess that said enough. Sometimes a lot can be revealed in silence. I can still picture the military cemetery where my father was buried. White crosses spreading for miles in every direction. So much loss.

Bob P. knew nothing but farming, and didn’t seem to care to. This land, these crops, his family were to be the patches in the quilt of his life. No more, and no less. That seemed, to my eyes at least, to be sufficient for him. He talked about the rough times, when crops were ruined by weather and money was tight, or when Lizzie got sick, and then when he lost her, but when he spoke of the farm and the land a sort of peace settled over him which I found quite lovely. I would hope I could find that kind of contentment in my life at some point.

A breeze came up as it had every day since my arrival making the trip back to the car less arduous. The three of us talked easier in the cab of the truck on the drive home. Sharing part of you with others helps to form the beginning of the bonds that bring us together as friends. At the ranch the little girls were waiting for me when we drove in the yard. Eva slipped her hand into mine and said she would take me to the much promised puppies. Dawn, not one to be ignored took my other hand and the two girls guided me to an old shed behind the barn. Pushing open the wooden doors we stepped inside. A fan was whirring loudly in one corner where a blanket had been laid out. What looked to be a large hound dog or similar breed lay on top of the blanket next to seven or eight tiny fat bodies all feet and tails looking to be enjoying their afternoon siesta. How sweet they were. The mama, I had been told, was named Ariel after the Little Mermaid. What a gentle lady she was. Checking me out thoroughly and seeming not to find me wanting, she allowed me to kneel down and pick up one of her babies and cuddle him to me. How I love puppies with their little blurry eyes and their sweet milk breath. I wished I could tuck this little man in the folds of my suitcase and take him on the plane with me. The puppies had no names yet, Eva informed me. Chris explained later they name them when they personalities begin to emerge, a ritual the girls are very much a part of. Eventually homes will be found for the majority of the litter. If one stands out as a good working dog he or she may be kept for the farm. Dogs are not pets on a working farm apparently. They are treated well, and loved as part of the group but they do not come in the house and put in their hours along with everyone else. Several cats were present in the yard as well. The felines were there for rodent control and only one, Sam, almost sixteen could be seen languishing on a chair in the family room or enjoying his evening meal in his bowl in the kitchen. He had put in his time working and was now free to take pleasure in his retirement.

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Another wonderful day was put to bed along with tired and well browned me. The day to following would be busy so sleep was essential and it didn’t take long for my eyes to close after turning out the night. I was heading into the midpoint of my trip. Day five was on the horizon.

 

 

 

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iStock_Farmer_field_farm-RGBFarm life, I was to learn, was comprised of work, work, and more work. When you have all variety of animals you are responsible for, there is no day that gives you license to fall out of bed at noon, stretch your arms over your head, and seat yourself at the kitchen table until your coffee gets cold. Each day you wake up early, get dressed, put some fuel in your belly and get after it. Hungry animals cannot wait for you to check how many likes you got on Instagram, or balance your chi with your yoga guru, or watch the news. It’s an entirely different way of life.

Observing my newly acquainted farm family coming together as a team was inspiring to me, still is. Each member worked selflessly for the common good of the whole. I have never thought of it as so before now, but I would suppose a farm, if managed well, may be the perfect socialist environment.

When no seasonal labor was present, three men made their homes on the property. Bob P., was the ring leader of the “boys”, as Chris referred to them, and the elder statesman at seventy five. He kept his clothes in the bunk house located on the far end of the property, a space he shared with additional labor when they were hired on. Bob J., his only son, (a daughter lived in Vancouver), occupied the main ranch house, and Chris, Bob J’s daughter and her husband Ray lived in a large ranch style house about a half a mile down the road. All three men in spite of the age disparity shouldered equal responsibility when it came to labor. I have to say, for a man showing a bit of wear, Bob P. seemed in amazingly good shape. Very little extra overlap showed above his belt line and his arms were still well muscled where visible below his shirt sleeve.

The only woman in attendance, or woman “fully grown” as they say in the south, was Chris. Chris was twenty-six. I knew this only because women of her age feel free to toss their age about like a puck at a hockey match. We older ladies tend to hold that number a little closer to the vest, answering when asked, “40ish”, when fifty is really knocking on the door.  Not to be excluded by any means, were the two youngest members of the clan, Chris and Ray’s daughters, Eva and Dawn, four and two and a half respectively.  All six of them managed an appropriate portion of the work according to age but not really gender.  It became quickly apparent when I came on board my being female didn’t exclude me from getting my hands dirty right along with the males in the group.

In rare moments of quiet, I grabbed the opportunity to take in the gorgeous countryside around me. Manitoba is a prairie province by definition, the land marked with long flat expanses, plateaus, lush soil, and an abundance of rivers and lakes. The front porch swing, often where I found myself after hanging up my hat for the day, allowed me an uninterrupted view of the front yard which stretched to the road and on forward to the horizon. I remember the quiet sitting there. No city noises to break the silence only the soft hum of insects hovering above the magnolia bush and the occasional whir of a farm machine firing up somewhere in the distance. There was something extremely satisfying about working that land.  Would I want to do it 24/7? Not I. Would I do it again for ten days? Tomorrow.

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Bob J. and I knew enough about each other from the numerous phone conversations and email correspondence we had shared to consider ourselves virtual “friends” before I arrived. This rubbed some of the newness off generally associated with meeting someone for the first time.  As we had gotten into our stories over the previous year, he had shared with me the loss of his wife, Anna after a three month bout with Stage 4 ovarian cancer. She had been forty-seven. They were high school sweethearts, married right after graduation. Chris, as I mentioned, was their only child. Anna, Bob told me, had wanted a large family but an emergency hysterectomy after Chris was born made that impossible. Accepting she was to have only one chick, she doted on her only daughter and the two had become very close. The loss of her mother when Chris was expecting her first grandchild had been devastating. Talking to him then, I had no idea I would find myself in a similar situation some twenty-five years later when I lost Rick, but life never reveals many hints of how your story is to unfold.

The first time Bob J. and I found ourselves alone was on my third day on the farm. After a busy morning at the feed and grain, then back to the main farmhouse for a quick lunch, I accompanied him to check on the cattle in the fields. Before Dawn would let me go, I had to promise a visit to her puppies as soon as we returned. For a while we drove quietly. No air conditioning in the truck cab, we rolled the windows down to get some air circulation. It was warm, but not hot outside and a lovely breeze played with the back of my neck. I asked about the cows, questions a person with little knowledge of cattle might need answered. “What do they eat”, “how do you bring them in from the pasture”, oh, and “do they bite”? He laughed when I asked if cows bite, telling me it would be unlikely a cow would bite a human but he wouldn’t suggest sticking my fingers in one’s mouth to test his theory. As we talked I found him very knowledgeable on a variety of subjects. Sometimes I think we tend to lump people under the heading of what they do, before finding out who they actually are. In his spare time, which I’m sure was little, he said he was an avid reader. This would account for the impressive library I’d noticed in the living room. I had also noticed there wasn’t a television. When asked if he had a TV he simply said, “never watch it”. I think that was the first time in years I spent ten days without picking up a remote, and I can’t think of a time I missed it.

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Bob got out and opened the gate leading into the nearest pasture. In the distance a loosely structured herd could be seen grazing near the fence line. I was fascinated by all the calves. I do love babies of all makes and models, and these were no exception. When we got close the cows gathered around the truck checking us out before we opened the doors. Reaching behind the seat Bob pulled out several heads of iceberg lettuce. Handing them to me he said, “give them this they will love you for it”. After several days around the herds they would follow the truck when I whistled out the window. He called me the “cow whistler”. I’m pretty sure it was the lettuce that sealed the deal but he was tell me later the cows appeared to still look for me for some time after I left. Who knew I had cow pheromones?

Checking on the new little ones and filling feeding troughs turned out to be an all afternoon affair getting us back at the main house around supper time. Walking into the now familiar kitchen I was surprised to find no pots on the stove and no tempting aromas to alert my stomach something delicious was on it’s way. Asking where everyone was (and the food??), Bob J. said he’d forgotten to tell me tonight was the night they were to spray the crops. This meant a late night and a barbecue at the campsite afterwards. If I was hungry it was suggested I make myself a sandwich to tide me over. Make? Myself? Funny how quickly one can adapt to being spoiled.  I have always been the one in the kitchen so it had been near bliss for me to have someone else take over the responsibility of meals for a few days. Don’t misunderstand me I love to cook, but even when you’re doing something you love it’s nice to take a break and do something else for a while. Fine. I really got a clear understanding of why men got married at that moment.

Around ten with the little ones tucked in with their grandfather along with another promise from me to see the puppies, Bob J., Claire, Ray and I once again headed out towards the fields. This time we weren’t there to tend to the cattle but rather to the crops planted along the fields farther out. These fields, Ray told me, were mostly geared towards hay and grain for the livestock but they did have several fields of corn and other cash crops as well. I inquired as to whether I should be worried about what they are spraying and got a vague answer in return. Uh-huh. Fortunately I sat high up in the enclosed cab of the tractor with Bob J. What an experience that was. At one point he needed me to drive the tractor while he directed me. Seriously? Are you insane? It took me three shots to get my learners permit. Good Lord. Somehow, either his excellent guidance or once again the business of God taking care of drunks and fools, I managed to edge the huge machine where I was directed without running over Bob J. or doing damage to anything in the immediate vicinity. The full moon shone brightly across the crops giving the spring evening a more fallish feel to it. After several hours ,with Chris and Ray working the other fields, we stopped for the day and made our way in a small caravan to what they referred to as the “campsite”. The campsite turned out to be a very large travel trailer, well equipped I have to say, in a clearing in the middle of the woods. A massive faded striped awning jutted out from the roof with four or five lawn chairs arranged beneath it. A fire pit occupied the center of the open space with rocks forming an irregular circular border. The first order of business was to spray ourselves with insect spray. Oh good, if I hadn’t picked up enough chemicals earlier in the night I surely would have risen to full capacity on this spraying. I could hear the insects buzzing around my ears so figured the spray was perhaps the lesser of the two evils.

Chris began removing covered bowls from the fridge, handing me a plate of hot dogs and one piled with pre-made hamburger patties to take out to “the boys”. Lanterns hung from several tree branches and a fire was crackling in the pit. The additional light illuminated Bob J. at a large barbecue behind a wooden picnic table. Chris and I laid a plastic cloth over the table. Between the two of us we carried out bowls of potato salad, macaroni salad, and tossed green salad as well as buns for the burgers and dogs and all the condiments. Yum. An uncut watermelon rested in a cooler filled with ice alongside several bottles of local wine which we took care of emptying before loading our plates.

What a wonderful way to end another great day. Driving back it was amazing how many stars decorated the night sky without the disruption of all the lights typical in more populated areas. My head hit the pillow around three am. Thankfully, we were allowed to sleep until nine due to the late night and I intended to do as I was told.

Day four would be a break in the action. I understood fishing was on the calendar, and of course those sweet puppies. Yay.

 

 

 

 

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