Too Much Drama
Shane and Justin H. are leaving tonight for Kentucky in Shane's car. Tomorrow Shane will transfer to a semi tractor and drive it back to Kansas for Lynn, who purchased it. Justin will drive Shane's car home. It's Shane's way of making a little money during the rest of the week when he'll be off work because it's too wet to do basements.
I gave Shane my obligatory admonition as he left. "Be sure to pull off and sleep if you get tired. Don't keep driving."
"Yes Mother."
**********************************
I told Wes today, "My life has way more drama recently than I have any need of."
Now that I think of it, the only things I want to talk about don't sound so overly dramatic, so maybe it was my imagination that created the drama.
On my day off from school Monday when I was planting my garden in the misty, moisty weather, just ahead of more misty, moisty weather moving in, Dad, Lowell, and Joey were trying to load the Angus bull onto the trailer. They got him into the catch pen, or very close, several times, and then the herd would make a break for the far corner of the pasture, pert little black calves and fat Mamas and all, high-tailing it for distant parts. Dad and Lowell are capable of emphatic vocalizations at such times. But patience is the part of wisdom if you're easing them again toward the catch pen, so this scenario kept repeatings itself: patient, quiet, slow maneuvers, quick action to close the catch pen gate, gently prodding the unwanted cattle out of the catch pen toward a strategically-opened gate, snapping it shut just ahead of the bull, yelling at the bull when he escaped, flailing sticks and arms, etc.
I heard Joey off at the north edge of the farm howling at the neighbor's dogs and getting them to answer back. A nine-year-old should probably not have had to face down the bull anyway. Howling at dogs is safer.
"You're welcome to come help," Lowell called out to me. I ignored the invitation, neither fleet-footedness or bravery in abundant supply at the moment.
From his perch on the limestone rock pile, during a catch-your-breath break, Lowell asked if I have any broad-leaf plants out. "I just felt drift from that 2 4D they're spraying across the road in that wheat field."
"Is that what I heard--the Co-op sprayer? I am so not impressed. It's way too windy--from the east yet, carrying it right over this place."
"An east wind is just right for keeping if off Ben Weaver's wheat though. That's the good part." (Ben Weaver's been dead for several years now, but it's still "Ben Weaver's field.")
" I just put out a newly planted pot on the table on the porch."
"Well, go get it in right now."
"What about all those perennials that are coming back in the flower beds near the road? I think I'll go glare at the Co-op guy." So I did.
The spray monster was coming toward me when I strode out, hands on hips, and stared/glared at the driver.
In response, or for some other reason entirely, he turned his big, wide-wheeled, tall rig around and roared off across the field again, away from me. Good riddance.
****************************
Last night, the cattle were out. We first spied them on the road, but they had traipsed across the very wet front lawn to get there. A phone call to Lowell, Grant's timely arrival home just then, and Hiromi's help made short work of putting them back in.
Hiromi thought to mention later that he thinks they were in the garden too, but they "probably didn't do too much damage. I saw lots of holes, and I don't think you made them."
I don't think so either. Not too much damage? That would be untypical of any cows-in-the-garden scenarios I'm familiar with.
***************************
We had lots of hail during the night on Monday. I can't believe I slept through it. The steel roof outside our bedroom window usually roars during such times. The newspaper reported hail three inches deep in Partridge, three miles away. Most of it had melted by morning.
On Wednesday, I thought to check the daffodils at school that the students and I had planted last fall--at least 60 of them. They were beautiful at the end of last week. I think every flower was butchered by the hail. Petal pieces were strewn on the ground, and some of the stems were broken over. The remaining flowers were sliced and torn.
Oh well, we'll start looking forward to next year's daffodils.
I gave Shane my obligatory admonition as he left. "Be sure to pull off and sleep if you get tired. Don't keep driving."
"Yes Mother."
**********************************
I told Wes today, "My life has way more drama recently than I have any need of."
Now that I think of it, the only things I want to talk about don't sound so overly dramatic, so maybe it was my imagination that created the drama.
On my day off from school Monday when I was planting my garden in the misty, moisty weather, just ahead of more misty, moisty weather moving in, Dad, Lowell, and Joey were trying to load the Angus bull onto the trailer. They got him into the catch pen, or very close, several times, and then the herd would make a break for the far corner of the pasture, pert little black calves and fat Mamas and all, high-tailing it for distant parts. Dad and Lowell are capable of emphatic vocalizations at such times. But patience is the part of wisdom if you're easing them again toward the catch pen, so this scenario kept repeatings itself: patient, quiet, slow maneuvers, quick action to close the catch pen gate, gently prodding the unwanted cattle out of the catch pen toward a strategically-opened gate, snapping it shut just ahead of the bull, yelling at the bull when he escaped, flailing sticks and arms, etc.
I heard Joey off at the north edge of the farm howling at the neighbor's dogs and getting them to answer back. A nine-year-old should probably not have had to face down the bull anyway. Howling at dogs is safer.
"You're welcome to come help," Lowell called out to me. I ignored the invitation, neither fleet-footedness or bravery in abundant supply at the moment.
From his perch on the limestone rock pile, during a catch-your-breath break, Lowell asked if I have any broad-leaf plants out. "I just felt drift from that 2 4D they're spraying across the road in that wheat field."
"Is that what I heard--the Co-op sprayer? I am so not impressed. It's way too windy--from the east yet, carrying it right over this place."
"An east wind is just right for keeping if off Ben Weaver's wheat though. That's the good part." (Ben Weaver's been dead for several years now, but it's still "Ben Weaver's field.")
" I just put out a newly planted pot on the table on the porch."
"Well, go get it in right now."
"What about all those perennials that are coming back in the flower beds near the road? I think I'll go glare at the Co-op guy." So I did.
The spray monster was coming toward me when I strode out, hands on hips, and stared/glared at the driver.
In response, or for some other reason entirely, he turned his big, wide-wheeled, tall rig around and roared off across the field again, away from me. Good riddance.
****************************
Last night, the cattle were out. We first spied them on the road, but they had traipsed across the very wet front lawn to get there. A phone call to Lowell, Grant's timely arrival home just then, and Hiromi's help made short work of putting them back in.
Hiromi thought to mention later that he thinks they were in the garden too, but they "probably didn't do too much damage. I saw lots of holes, and I don't think you made them."
I don't think so either. Not too much damage? That would be untypical of any cows-in-the-garden scenarios I'm familiar with.
***************************
We had lots of hail during the night on Monday. I can't believe I slept through it. The steel roof outside our bedroom window usually roars during such times. The newspaper reported hail three inches deep in Partridge, three miles away. Most of it had melted by morning.
On Wednesday, I thought to check the daffodils at school that the students and I had planted last fall--at least 60 of them. They were beautiful at the end of last week. I think every flower was butchered by the hail. Petal pieces were strewn on the ground, and some of the stems were broken over. The remaining flowers were sliced and torn.
Oh well, we'll start looking forward to next year's daffodils.
posted by Mrs. I at
6:55 PM
1 Comments:
I am sorry about the daffodils. Now that the rest is over and everyone survived, the co-op sprayer and all, (oops, the plants?) I dare say I enjoyed the glimpse into down-home-real Kansas life. I do wish I could have seen you glaring at the driver. : )
By
Anonymous, at 4/11/2008
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