The Black Sheep

Laverne: “It’s okay, Shirl. Go ahead and tell her. Lots of ewes have this problem.”

Shirley: “But it’s embarrassing.”

Me: “What’s wrong, Shirley?”

Laverne (whispering): “She’s got worms.”

Me: “Oh my, well yes that’s a problem”

Laverne: “I think she has lung worms. She coughs and hacks when she runs.”

Me: “I’ll get the vet right out here.”

Shirley": “Can we keep this just between us?”

Me: “Um, it might be a bit too late for that…”

(Vet says Shirley’s lungs are clear, no pneumonia.  Started her on a de-wormer and she should be on the mend in a few days.)

100+

"Heh, heh, heh, heh...

heh, heh, heh, heh...

heh, heh, heh, heh, heh..."

It's so hot here absolutely nothing is happening except some panting.

 

Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom…

You know what it’s like when you’re trying to do something and your kid keeps bugging you by saying your name, over and over and over again until you finally have to stop what you’re doing and give them what they want?

 

It seems to be an inherent behavior of ALL types of kids.

Rose

Rose: I just had a thought...

Sophia, Dorothy, Blanche: Congratulations.

Rose: Oh, thank  you.

(silence)

Sophia, Dorothy, Blanche: Well, what was it, Rose?

Rose: What was what?

‘Tis the Season to be Freezin’

Sweet corn that is, not the weather; it’s actually quite hot and humid here. But, it is sweet corn season and my Step-Dad plants about 1/2 an acre of it every year. To get it processed it helps to recruit energetic and enthusiastic teenagers.

In no time at all they’ll have it stripped down and ready to cook.  (Not really, he had lots of help.)

The next phase of the project took place in the “summer kitchen”, a.k.a. a turkey roaster in the garage. Waiting for the water to boil was the last chance to sit, after that it was full speed ahead. Cooking the corn for two minutes then an ice water bath for two minutes.

We made the teenager do all the hauling back and forth from the garage to the kitchen where my Mom and I hand cut it all off the cob. My hand is still cramped.

Twenty seven quarts today and there’s plenty more where that came from.

 

I’m beat and I’m going to bed now. I don’t care if it’s only six o’clock.

Bald is Beautiful

Cathy shaved her head tonight. I think she’s adorable.

I Want My Life Back

(I can say that because I didn’t muck up the planet.)

Three more days of playing chauffeur back and forth to the city twice –a-day for drivers education lessons, after that, two more weeks of the summer-classes-from-hell. Then I’ll have my life back. Then I can tackle the 8-foot tall weeds in my entrance garden.  Then I can sit with my goats and debate politics and religion.

“I’d actually prefer to discuss grain futures if you don’t mind,” said Luke. “I noticed we’re getting low on grain and would like to know if you plan to acquire some in the future?”

Thank You

The cards and gifts are arriving in Cathy’s mailbox and I cannot thank you enough. They are showing up at the perfect time as she has had to return to the hospital with a fever and is having a hard time keeping her meals down again. They had drained 7 1/2 liters of fluid off her abdomen two weeks ago, (I’ll pause here for a second while you think about how many soda bottles that is). After they drained it, she was able to keep her meals down, now the fluid is building back up.

She excitedly told me about “a colored picture someone sent all the way from California and an angel to keep in her pocket.” I’m losing track of how many cards and scarves she’s mentioned already. Bless you all for taking the time to brighten her day just a little bit. It means so much to us.

(Giant group hug!)

Who Was the Idiot That...

Alright people. Who was the idiot that signed me up for two accelerated classes this summer? And why, pray tell, did they do such a ridiculous thing? Don't they know that two accelerated classes really equal four regular classes, which is pretty much full-time college student status? In. The. Summer. Hello?

Oh wait, I think it was my idea...

never mind.

If you don’t hear from me again until August, well, don’t worry I’m just buried under a mountain of homework, overgrown by weeds, topped by piles of manure.

It’s a glamorous life I live.

I Really Need to Ask Better Questions

Lanny, my neighbor, and I were talking awhile back. He’s the guy we call Noah because he has at least two of every animal you can imagine on his farm. He mentioned he had some extra wool lying around and wondered if I’d have any use for it.

Well, uh, yeah. Hello!

So that’s been quite some time ago and I’d forgotten all about it. The the other day he called me up and said, “Hey, do you still want that wool?”

“Well, how much do you have?”, I asked.

“Oh, about three bags full.”

This is where I should of asked “How big are the bags?” But I didn’t. Instead I said “Sure, I’ll take ‘em!” Because I envisioned three bags of wool like what you would get at a wool festival or buy at a yarn shop. You know, the size of a medium sized wastebasket.

I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a commercial wool bag. And I certainly didn’t know they were 16 feet long and five feet wide.

Twenty minutes later Lanny was in my driveway with his pickup COMPLETELY overflowing with wool. An ENTIRE pickup load. That he had to TIE DOWN to keep it from falling out.

That’s a full size ladder in the background of the photo, folks. There is 350 lbs of wool in those bags. THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY pounds.

What on earth am I gonna do with 350 lbs of wool?

It would make great quilt batting. I calculated it out and I can make 140 twin size quilt batts with 350 lbs of wool.

140!!!

I won’t make 140 quilts in my lifetime, for crying out loud.

I could sell it, but it costs money up front to have it made into batting. Is there even a market out there for locally grown wool batting? Quilters, what do you think?

Anybody have any brilliant ideas on what I should do with my “free elephant”?

Why We Do It

Sometimes pictures tell a better story than I ever could.

As they were leaving with their egg, one of them said, “I’m going to be a Mom.”

I—nearly—peed—my—pants.

I’m sure my cousin had some ‘splainin’ to do about how that works on the way home.