Potholders

I am a very sentimental person.  I treasure and cherish items given to me be loved ones--especially home made items.  Like this treasure here.

 I know it doesn't look like much.  It is, after all, a simple pot holder.  It's rather worn and torn and obviously heavily used.  I have two of these pot holders.  They were made by a lady who's been dead many years now.  She lived to be 90 something and was a respected member of our community and was a friend of my Grandmother, Mrs. Osborn.

Mrs. Osborn was a very small lady.  I remember going to her house (which was a former hardware store) with Grandma to deliver eggs.  She and Mr. Osborn were always nice to see us, always offered me a slice of homemade bread or piece of gum.  Grandma didn't just deliver the eggs and leave; no, we would sit and visit for what seemed an eternity to me.  I remember the smell of their home and the rag rug on the living room floor.  It was huge.  Mrs. Osborn also attended our church.  She always sat in the second pew, close to the door.  I even remember once she passed out during the service.  She was all right, but I remember the scare she gave everyone in Church that day.  I also remember her telling me that when she was a child, she was scared of tornadoes and thunderstorms because her father got her family up one dark night and sent them all to the cellar during a storm.  She shared that it was a very long time before she would go to bed without her shoes on.  She was a very nice lady, and her potholders are a reminder of her.

"Mrs. Osborn's Potholders" are not just a treasure to me, but to the women of my family and to the women in the small community of Englewood.  In fact, that's what they are known as, "Mrs. Osborn's Potholders." Everyone knows what potholders you are talking about when you label them such.

 See, I actually have a new "Mrs. Osborn's potholder" awaiting use.  When Grandma B. died, and Mom, Sandy and I were going through the house, we found some "Mrs Osborn's potholders" that Grandma had stashed away.  While we didn't fight over the potholders, we did quickly split them up among the three of us.  I know that eventually, I'll have to break down and use these, but I can't make myself do so yet.

The old potholders with the new.  All treasures to me.

These potholders are also a treasure to me.  My bloggy friend, Karin, (Lovin' life at the end of the Dirt Road) sent these to me.  See, the pumpkin fabric you see in the background is the same fabric as my curtains.  (It has chickens on it, which you can't see in this photo.) Karin's a quilter but also makes these beautiful potholders.  They are so pretty and her stitching is very nicely done too.  Karin threatened me about using them--she wants me to use them, to get them dirty and to abuse them.  It's going to be hard, but I will do as she wishes.  But every time I use them, I'll think of Karin and her generous spirit.  Just as I still think of Mrs. Osborn every time I use those old worn out , handmade potholders.

Orphans

June 15.  That's the last time I blogged.  I'm bad.  Very bad.

Let's see...it's been 100+ since June 15.  No rain to speak of since June 15.  We've finished Miss Kat's summer Volleyball season.  She still has weight lifting and practice 2 days a week, which is good for her.  The garden is doing much better this summer than last.  We're eating lots of Zucchini and Summer squash.  I've canned and froze carrots, made pickles, and relish and even canned and pickled beets.

The last week, I've been busy being a substitute Mommy.  We found 4 orphaned kittens, but we lost 2.  They lasted a week, but both black kittens died on the same day, last Tuesday.  I'm not sure if we just didn't feed them enough, or if Fletch "mothered" them too roughly, or if they just weren't meant to make it.  We all were sad, but we're determined to keep the other 2 alive, and so far, so good.

I think the babies were 3 weeks old when we found them.  It's been two weeks and yesterday, I successfully got them both to drink and eat from a saucer and to use a litter box.  Prior to this, Fletch has been acting as the Mommy, and taking care of the hindquarters much like a mother cat would.  You do know that mother cat's lick babies bottoms to stimulate urination and defecation, right?  Well, Fletch has performed that duty for us since the day we brought the babies into the house.  Those kittens would eat from their bottle, and then waddle over to Fletch for their "bath".  They'd lay down or turn their hindquarters towards him, and he'd lick away.  He's not always gentle, and sometimes, he'd flip one end for end with is extra large tongue, but he mothered them!  I, for one, was happy to have him provide this service.  But, they are old enough now to be box trained, and it went fairly easily.  One pooped in my lap (on a towel fortunately) and one pooped on Andy.  Come to think of it, it was the same kitten...

Anyway, that was a signal to me that they are now old enough to go by themselves.  So far, I'm using a cardboard box with sand in it.  These guys will NOT become house cats, so I'm hoping sand will make for an easier transition to the outdoors.

I decided it was time to move towards weaning on Saturday when both kittens decided to chew on the bottle nipple instead of suck, and both attacked the bottle.  Moving to the saucer has so far, proven to work fairly well.  They still tend to suck up the milk rather than lap it, but I mixed some ground chicken meat up into it and they devour that chicken.

 We haven't really named them...maybe because we don't want to get too attached, but one is being called PITA (short for Pain in the A...) because he has to be held. Not on a lap, but on a shoulder.  He will climb up a body and not worry about any skin that is bare.  He (or she) has also been known to sink those tiny claws into lips and ear lobes, innocently purring all the while.

The other baby doesn't really have a name other than "Short Stack" or "Baby."  He's not as agressive of a climber, but does like to sleep nestled beside anyone sitting on the couch.  Either with us, or behind the couch.  This baby is a pale yellow tabby, so pale that he almost looks white.  A dirty, yellowish white.  PITA is solid gray, my favorite color for a cat.

We don't have any idea what happened to their Mamma.  We suspect coyotes.  We've lost several of our cats in the last two weeks (at least six), making us wonder if the drought has been hard on field mice and rabbits, causing the coyotes to resort to catching our cats.  I hope this trend ends soon, we depend on our outside cats to keep mice, snakes and other critters away.

Regardless, we're doing our best to keep the cats remaining at our place, including the two little hooligans living in my house.

backing up trailers

My Dad always believed that a "woman's place was in the home."  Don't worry about the logic of that statement, since his wife did a "man's" job at the elevator.  His belief applied to me since I was his daughter and he made the rules.

Because of this, I didn't go work cattle or help with any of the outdoor chores.  Dad didn't even want me to see him pull calves or repair prolapsed uterus's or castrate cattle.  It just wasn't "seemly" for me to see such things.  It caused several arguments between he and I during my teen years.  I hated his old fashioned views and believed that I could do anything I wanted to do.  Granted, I didn't really want to work as hard as Dad and my brother Steve did.  I disliked someone telling me I couldn't do something.

I still tend to be that way.  If you want me to do something, just tell me I can't do it.  Cause, I can guarantee that I will do it, just to prove you wrong!  Because of these "old-fashioned" beliefs, I never learned how to back up a trailer.  I never needed to.  Dad or Steve pulled the trailer.  I was just a passenger.  I never really even wondered how one backed up a trailer.  I assumed it was no different than backing up a car, except you had something behind you that you had to watch out for.

Then I started dating Kevin.  Who had a boat.  That we took to the lake.  Where Kev asked me to back the trailer into the lake so we could load the boat.  He assumed that being a country girl, I knew how to back a trailer.  I certainly didn't tell him anything differently.  Heck, how hard could it be?

So, I got out of the boat, went and got the Bronco, and attempted to back the trailer.  My first problem was there were lots of guys standing around near the boat ramp watching me.  My second problem was that stupid trailer just wasn't going where I thought it should go!  I had no idea how to get it down that ramp.  I'd try to back it up--straight back--and it would move from one side to the other.  I'd pull forward, get it straight, and try again, and it would move to the other side.  I couldn't figure out which way to turn that wheel.  I'd turn it to the left, thinking the trailer would go to the left, but it would go to the right.  So I'd turn the wheel the other way, but it still wouldn't go where I wanted it to go--straight down that ramp!  All those guys were watching me and I knew they were laughing at me because I couldn't back up that darn trailer.  I finally got mad, and embarrassed and turned the bronco off, got out, marched down to the edge of the boat dock and told my boyfriend that he'd just have to do it himself.

He laughed at me, then tried to placate me by calling me "darlin'" and  went up and backed up that trailer, slick as you please.  He made it look so easy.  Which didn't help my mood any.  I informed him that I would never back a trailer, and to never ask me to do so again.

He didn't, for many years; until the kids joined 4-H and had livestock.

Because Kev's job required him to drive 150 miles a day, getting the livestock to the fair, and to the weigh-ins, became my responsibility.  Kev always backed the trailer up to the gate for me, and I'd get the critters loaded up and would pull the trailer to town.  If I had to back it up anywhere, I would con my friend, Kim, into backing the trailer for me.  She knew how to back the trailer, and didn't make fun of me for not knowing how to do it.  This worked well until one day Kev said that it was time I learned how to back the trailer.

Ugg.  I hate having him teach me something because he'd get frustrated with me, I'd get frustrated with him, and we'd both wind up mad.  But he made me do it.  I got so I could back up the trailer if I had lots and lots of room because I'd have to pull forward and back up several times before I manged to get it where I needed the trailer to be.  Kev would be supportive, but would also laugh at me because I always got flustered and usually mad.

These past 2 weeks, Miss Kat and I have been going to the Hill and have been loading the barn tin on the trailer to haul to the salvage yard.  Kev told me that I'd have to be careful because I might have to back the trailer.  I assured him that I'd manage to do it without backing that trailer.

I was wrong.  The first day, I needed to back that darn trailer.  Since it was just Miss Kat and I, there was no one else to do it.  It took me a very long time, and several passes, but I finally got that darned trailer backed up and turned where we needed it.  We went down two days ago for another load and I backed it where we needed it.  This time, I didn't have to pull forward nearly as often.  And today, we went again.  Today, I only  had to pull forward once, and that was at the salvage yard.  Yes, I not only backed up the trailer, I did it in front of men who are not related to me.  And they didn't laugh and I didn't get flustered, and I got it in one shot!

I call that success.

I still haven't backed the trailer up in front of Kev, and I imagine when I do, I'll be nervous and will mess up simply because of his presence.  Now that I can back the trailer, I can't imagine there's not anything I can't do!  I am woman, hear me roar...watch me back up the trailer!

Ridin' Miss P

It rained here Saturday night.  Not a lot, but we don't turn away any drops of rain.  I do know what caused it to rain...

I rode a horse

It's been 10 - 12 years since I've ridden.  Both the horse and I survived the momentous occasion.

Kev got up Saturday morning and asked me if I wanted to go to the ranch with him to pick up rock.  Since I think the ranch is just about one of the prettiest places on earth, I jumped at the chance.  He loaded up the trailer while I got dressed and we hit the road; leaving my sunglasses and my camera at home.

When we got to the ranch, Dad was on horseback, cutting out a sick yearling from the herd.  I could watch him ride and work cattle all day.  He might be pushing 70, but Dad still sits tall in the saddle. He wasn't very happy to have another sick steer, because he's lost several from this shipment.  He likes to keep his death rate less than 3%, and this shipment of cattle is ruining his percentage.  We helped him doctor 2 steers and I fed the other sick ones he had doctored yesterday while Dad and Kev drug out and disposed of a steer who died in the night.

After we helped with the sickies, Dad asked me if I wanted to ride his mare, Puta to the stables.

Did I hear him right?  Did  he just ask me to ride the horse to the stable, and did he really call her Puta?

Puta is a not-very-nice word in Spanish.  I was flabbergasted that my father said that word, and that he named his horse that word.  He informed me that yes, it was her name, and no, he did not name her.   (I decided to call her Miss P.)

I jumped at the chance to ride to the stables.  Fortunately, I was wearing my boots, so I was good to go.

Normally, Dad's work horses are 16 hands tall.  Apparently, over the last few years, he's decided he likes to be closer to the ground, and Miss P is not 16 hands tall which meant I could actually get my foot up in the stirrup without any trouble.  Dad's legs are still a little longer than mine, so I couldn't get my feet completely in the stirrups which mean Miss P would have to stay at a walk.  Dad assured me that she's a good gentle calm horse, so I didn't have to worry about her deciding to run off with me.

I headed towards the stables leaving the men to do whatever they were doing.  But, I forgot exactly how to get there.  Did I have to go clear back to the house? Or could I cut across the pasture and go in the back way?  I looked around and decided to take one trail that looked like it would circle back to the stables and we headed out.

Miss P wasn't really eager to go where I pointed her, but she acquiesced and we headed down...to the junk pile.  Ugg.  I should have listened to the horse.  I apologized to her, and let her have her head and we headed in the right direction.  About this time, Dad and Kevin came back up the road looking for me.  They'd already been at the stables, and not seeing me there on on the road, got worried and headed back hoping I wasn't laying dead somewhere in the grass.  It was nice knowing they had such faith in my riding abilities...

They then made me pose for a photo, which Dad took using his phone.  (And which I hope never gets transferred to any other device or printed.)  The way they acted, you'd think I hadn't been on a horse in 10 years or so... I rode down to the stables, and we turned Miss P out with the other horses.

My day of riding was over.  But, I'm thinkin' that I just might not wait another 10 years to ride!

Long lines

Big E wasn't a very big town, but we had two elevators, the CoOp, and the Bunge CoOp.  Mom  worked at the Bunge Elevator. Our house, which we bought right after my 8th grade year, was 2 blocks south of the CoOp.

During those days, most wheat was delivered to the elevators in farm trucks, not the big semi's that most farmers use today.  Farms were still family farms and they were pretty small.  Most of the Wheat trucks had been bought in the 50's and 60's and held 300-400 bushels.   Wheat trucks were usually driven to town by the wives, daughters, and younger sons of the locals.  Small trucks meant frequent trips to town which  meant long lines at the elevator, sometimes stretching from the CoOp past our house and out to the edge of town. There could be 20 - 30 trucks in line at any given time.  Many of the drivers knew to take a book along to pass the time.  Drivers either read, or visited with one another by yelling from truck to truck, or if the elevator was slow dumping trucks, they'd get out and congregate in small groups which would break up and re-form as the drivers had to move their trucks one to tow places forward in line.

I have to admit, sometimes the line of trucks in front of our house were annoying.  They'd be there from 10 in the morning until midnight or later.  The exhaust could be smelled in the house.  You could always hear the rumble of truck engines and the grinding of gears.  I would usually check a couple of times a day to see how long the line was, or how fast it was moving and sometimes, I'd check out the custom cutters.

There were a couple of times when I made treats for some of the drivers I knew.  I was in 4-H and I was always trying out new recipes.  I know that at least once I made cake donuts and gave some to some of the drivers sitting outside.  A couple of times, I had girls ask to use the bathroom and a few times, I was asked to "Call Mom and have her tell Dad that the line is really long, so I won't be back for a while."

Before I started working at the elevator, I envied the girls driving the wheat trucks.  They had a "job", and got to drive a truck to town, read, and talk to cute custom cutters.  I never dwelt on the fact that those trucks weren't air-conditioned, that they were slow, rough-riding, or that the girls were hot, sweaty and bored while waiting in line to dump their loads.  I also didn't realize how much pressure they were under to hurry to town, get dumped and get right back to the field to be reloaded and start the process all over again.

And yet, knowing that it wasn't that glamorous, I still miss those days of the long lines at the elevator.