Today is Farmmom's birthday, and if this whole blogging thing is good for anything, it ought to be to get a whole buttload of people to wish my mother a happy b-day.
So, hit the comments, and wish her a happy day. Do it for her. Do it for me. Do it for your country!
Ok so birthday wishes have nothing to do with patriotism, but it sounded good, all right?
In honor of this special day, I've assembled some quotes. Some are on motherhood, (since she is my mom,) and some are on birthdays. Enjoy!
This is part of the essence of motherhood, watching your kid grow into her own person and not being able to do anything about it. Otherwise children would be nothing more than pets. -- Heather Armstrong
My mother's great. She has the major looks. She could stop you from doing anything, through a closed door even, with a single look. Without saying a word, she has that power to rip out your tonsils. --Whoopi Goldberg
Whatever with the past has gone,
The best is always yet to come. - Lucy Larcom
Everything I know I learned after I was thirty. - Georges Clemenceau
They tell you that you'll lose your mind when you grow older. What they don't tell you is that you won't miss it very much. - Malcolm Cowley
Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been. - Mark Twain
You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely. - Ogden Nash
Women deserve to have more than twelve years between the ages of twenty eight and forty. - James Thurber
Youth is the gift of nature, but age is the work of art. - Garson Kanin
We are all born naked and screaming and if you're lucky that sort of thing won't stop there. - Unknown
You're not getting older, you're getting better. - Unknown
May you live all the days of your life. - Jonathan Swift
Birthdays are nature's way of telling us to eat more cake. -- Anonymous
Like many women my age, I am 28 years old. -- Mary Schmich
Here's wishing the wonderful lady who rocked me to sleep, patched up my bangs and scrapes (of which there were plenty,) taught me to be a good person, gave me perspective on the world, offered advice even when she knew I wasn't going to listen, and generally helped to build me into the person I am today, a wonderful birthday.
After all, without her birthday, I wouldn't have mine.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Things....
I have a great story... just can't quite get it down on paper (the sound effects aren't coming out right) so I'm gonna keep working on it.... It's coming, though.
This morning, Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth The Umpteenth, aka Lizzy Dog, aka Farmmom's pup, is getting her baby factory shut down, and Farmdad's pup is getting his shots. So, I'll be playing puppy chauffeur in the morning, and likely puppy nurse in the afternoon. Probably keep Dizzy Lizzy with me for a couple of hours after she comes home at least, just to be sure everything is kosher.
Tomorrow, we're off to the cattle sale again!
Probably take Farmdog along, just because she enjoys going on rides. I'd take Fuzzy Pup but he doesn't like the leash and he'd probably spend the whole day offering to kill one of them big furry things for me.
Cattle sale etiquitte; Don't bring your dog if it's gonna be a nuisance. So, Fuzzy Pup stays home, until I get him taught some more manners....
This morning, Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth The Umpteenth, aka Lizzy Dog, aka Farmmom's pup, is getting her baby factory shut down, and Farmdad's pup is getting his shots. So, I'll be playing puppy chauffeur in the morning, and likely puppy nurse in the afternoon. Probably keep Dizzy Lizzy with me for a couple of hours after she comes home at least, just to be sure everything is kosher.
Tomorrow, we're off to the cattle sale again!
Probably take Farmdog along, just because she enjoys going on rides. I'd take Fuzzy Pup but he doesn't like the leash and he'd probably spend the whole day offering to kill one of them big furry things for me.
Cattle sale etiquitte; Don't bring your dog if it's gonna be a nuisance. So, Fuzzy Pup stays home, until I get him taught some more manners....
Friday, February 27, 2009
Light Blogging
Over the weekend. I'm at FarmBro and SIL's, playing with the munchkins.
They call it babysitting. I call it playtime.
Ya'll enjoy your weekend, cause I sure will!
They call it babysitting. I call it playtime.
Ya'll enjoy your weekend, cause I sure will!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Dowsing
There is a practice, handed down from generation to generation in rural areas. It's used by city workers round about here to locate old pipes that never made it into the city diagrams.
This practice is much-maligned in some circles, and much heralded in others.
I'm talking about dowsing.
There is a lot of controversy over this particular subject even amongst those who believe it works. Some say that it is the body getting in tune with Mother Earth and communicating with the conscious mind through the medium of the pendulum or rods.
Others say it's an outside force pointing the rods and the dowser in the right direction.
A lot of people say it doesn't even exist.
Some of ya'll will believe, and some won't. It's up to you to make up your mind which group you fall into, and how you feel about it.
The man who's opinion I always respected most on the subject had little to say about it, really.
When asked, grandpa would say "We can do it, some folks can't. I don't know what it is, I don't know how it works, but then, I don't know much about how that dag gum teevee does it either, so that's all right."
Grandpa witched hundreds of wells, with scary accuracy. He could tell you where to drill a well, how deep you'd have to go, and how many gallons per hour the well would support. When people went missing, he was right there looking for them, too.
When Elizabeth Smart went missing, Grandpa called to offer his assistance. Shortly after that call was made, he came to the Old Homestead, bearing his rods.
After a short discussion with Farmmom, a hair brush that we both shared was stripped of a few hairs, those hairs were tied onto the rods, and we trooped outside.
I'd seen grandpa witch a well, and I'd seen Farmmom check the path of a water line, so I had an idea what was going on.
Grandpa told me "Stand here, hold the rods like this, loose, let 'em sag a bit, thats right, and close your eyes. Think about finding the person the hairs belong to."
He and Farmmom then walked in circles around me, and I tried to think about finding things.
One rod swung back and forth, following, near as I could tell, one set of footsteps, impeded by my shoulder as the person would walk behind me. The other rod swung immediately around and began bumping me on the shoulder.
After a while, grandpa told me to open my eyes. I was sure that I'd failed the test, and wasn't a dowser, given the wacky behavior of the rods.
Grandpa pursed his lips for a moment and then said "I've never seen anything like this."
Slightly dissapointed, I asked "So I'm not a water witch, then?"
"Weeeel, no, I think you are."
Remember I mentioned that they used hairs from a brush that Farmmom and I both used? Apparently, one rod had followed Farmmom like "a puppy on a string" in grandpa's words, and the other had never followed anyone, just flipped around and started bumping on my shoulder.
They got hairs from both of us.
The relevant authorities in Salt Lake declined Grandpa's help, something that bothered him until she was found. But he'd planned on dropping everything and taking Farmmom and I to help look for her.
After that, I spent some time experimenting with this strange talent, finding quarters tossed into the yard, things like that. Farmmom told me that she had to use copper rods, while her grandfather, grandpa's dad, had used a forked stick exclusively. She told me of how Great Grandpa would forget to wear gloves, and wind up with bloody hands from the stick twisting in his hands, pulling him this way and that.
It's a family tradition, she told me. Not everyone in the family can do it, but there's usually at least one in every generation.
"Never take money for finding a well," Grandpa told me. "It ain't something we learned to do, it's just something we can do." He got a thoughtful look in his eye, "When I was a kid, my dad told me we were just helpin' out the neighbors. When I got older, I figured that since I really didn't have nothin' to do with it, it wasn't right for me to charge folks."
The man would spend hours tromping through fields, finding a pocket of water and asking the rods about it. He did it right up till he physically couldn't do the tromping through the fields. And he never accepted a dime for it.
I've never witched a well. I've never been asked to, but I'm a dowser. It's one more piece of the heritage I inherited from my grandfather.
I believe, do you?
This practice is much-maligned in some circles, and much heralded in others.
I'm talking about dowsing.
There is a lot of controversy over this particular subject even amongst those who believe it works. Some say that it is the body getting in tune with Mother Earth and communicating with the conscious mind through the medium of the pendulum or rods.
Others say it's an outside force pointing the rods and the dowser in the right direction.
A lot of people say it doesn't even exist.
Some of ya'll will believe, and some won't. It's up to you to make up your mind which group you fall into, and how you feel about it.
The man who's opinion I always respected most on the subject had little to say about it, really.
When asked, grandpa would say "We can do it, some folks can't. I don't know what it is, I don't know how it works, but then, I don't know much about how that dag gum teevee does it either, so that's all right."
Grandpa witched hundreds of wells, with scary accuracy. He could tell you where to drill a well, how deep you'd have to go, and how many gallons per hour the well would support. When people went missing, he was right there looking for them, too.
When Elizabeth Smart went missing, Grandpa called to offer his assistance. Shortly after that call was made, he came to the Old Homestead, bearing his rods.
After a short discussion with Farmmom, a hair brush that we both shared was stripped of a few hairs, those hairs were tied onto the rods, and we trooped outside.
I'd seen grandpa witch a well, and I'd seen Farmmom check the path of a water line, so I had an idea what was going on.
Grandpa told me "Stand here, hold the rods like this, loose, let 'em sag a bit, thats right, and close your eyes. Think about finding the person the hairs belong to."
He and Farmmom then walked in circles around me, and I tried to think about finding things.
One rod swung back and forth, following, near as I could tell, one set of footsteps, impeded by my shoulder as the person would walk behind me. The other rod swung immediately around and began bumping me on the shoulder.
After a while, grandpa told me to open my eyes. I was sure that I'd failed the test, and wasn't a dowser, given the wacky behavior of the rods.
Grandpa pursed his lips for a moment and then said "I've never seen anything like this."
Slightly dissapointed, I asked "So I'm not a water witch, then?"
"Weeeel, no, I think you are."
Remember I mentioned that they used hairs from a brush that Farmmom and I both used? Apparently, one rod had followed Farmmom like "a puppy on a string" in grandpa's words, and the other had never followed anyone, just flipped around and started bumping on my shoulder.
They got hairs from both of us.
The relevant authorities in Salt Lake declined Grandpa's help, something that bothered him until she was found. But he'd planned on dropping everything and taking Farmmom and I to help look for her.
After that, I spent some time experimenting with this strange talent, finding quarters tossed into the yard, things like that. Farmmom told me that she had to use copper rods, while her grandfather, grandpa's dad, had used a forked stick exclusively. She told me of how Great Grandpa would forget to wear gloves, and wind up with bloody hands from the stick twisting in his hands, pulling him this way and that.
It's a family tradition, she told me. Not everyone in the family can do it, but there's usually at least one in every generation.
"Never take money for finding a well," Grandpa told me. "It ain't something we learned to do, it's just something we can do." He got a thoughtful look in his eye, "When I was a kid, my dad told me we were just helpin' out the neighbors. When I got older, I figured that since I really didn't have nothin' to do with it, it wasn't right for me to charge folks."
The man would spend hours tromping through fields, finding a pocket of water and asking the rods about it. He did it right up till he physically couldn't do the tromping through the fields. And he never accepted a dime for it.
I've never witched a well. I've never been asked to, but I'm a dowser. It's one more piece of the heritage I inherited from my grandfather.
I believe, do you?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Knives
A lot of people talk about their knives. I've never really talked about mine, since it's less of a toy and more of a tool, for me.
See, everyone in my family has always had a pocket knife on them. Except for, for a few years, me. For a few years, I was in high school, not cutting twine, etc, and got tired of having the slip-in-the-front-pocket style knife jabbing me every time I sat down. So I quit carrying one.
Fast forward to my 18th year, when I started working road construction. Farmmom and I were running across a lot of situations that required a pocket knife, as you do when you work outdoors... and I didn't have one.
So, Farmdad dug in his myriad of knives and tossed me this one:
I had planned on carrying the big chunky thing for a few days, until I could find, and purchase, something of my own. Then I became comfortable with it, and I kept forgetting to get a new knife... and then I began to love it.
It's big, it's bulky, but it's my knife. After four years of every day carry, various cutting and hacking activities, that knife is nearly as much a part of my ensemble as my rings. I don't wear it when dressed up, but that's about it.
The clip allows me to slip it into my back pocket, clipped over the outside of the pocket, and know exactly where it is at all times, unlike the no-clip models I'd tried before.
In this picture you can see two places on the grip which look like there ought to be something in them:
There used to be. Those slight hollows used to be the home of two pieces of fancy skateboard tape... on steroids, I guess. It was the same style of "grip" material, except more so. They were glued in with something that seemed to be a molecular bond... and I wore them out. Not only did I wear them out but they came loose in the middle, first. Not as surprising as it might be, considering the small screw holes that they were concealing. I have no idea what was intended to be screwed into those holes, but they're threaded and everything. The grippy-bits been gone for a couple of years now.
The finish is beaten, battered, scratched, worn away, and otherwise abused, as you can see. But the blade is just fine:
The blade lock has never malfunctioned on me, opening or closing, and while it has been sharpened with everything from a restaurant grade motorized knife sharpener to a steel from a high-end set of kitchen knives, it's always gotten the job done for me.
No matter whether the job is cutting twine, re-adjusting a loose screw, prying open a paint can, picking muck out from under my fingernails, trimming a mane, removing cockleburrs from various of my furry children, or, once, as a visual aid during an offer to cure that whole "testosterone" problem, this knife has gotten it done.
I can operate it one-handed, despite its size, and wouldn't trade it for all the shiny little toys in the world.
See, everyone in my family has always had a pocket knife on them. Except for, for a few years, me. For a few years, I was in high school, not cutting twine, etc, and got tired of having the slip-in-the-front-pocket style knife jabbing me every time I sat down. So I quit carrying one.
Fast forward to my 18th year, when I started working road construction. Farmmom and I were running across a lot of situations that required a pocket knife, as you do when you work outdoors... and I didn't have one.
So, Farmdad dug in his myriad of knives and tossed me this one:
I had planned on carrying the big chunky thing for a few days, until I could find, and purchase, something of my own. Then I became comfortable with it, and I kept forgetting to get a new knife... and then I began to love it.
It's big, it's bulky, but it's my knife. After four years of every day carry, various cutting and hacking activities, that knife is nearly as much a part of my ensemble as my rings. I don't wear it when dressed up, but that's about it.
The clip allows me to slip it into my back pocket, clipped over the outside of the pocket, and know exactly where it is at all times, unlike the no-clip models I'd tried before.
In this picture you can see two places on the grip which look like there ought to be something in them:
There used to be. Those slight hollows used to be the home of two pieces of fancy skateboard tape... on steroids, I guess. It was the same style of "grip" material, except more so. They were glued in with something that seemed to be a molecular bond... and I wore them out. Not only did I wear them out but they came loose in the middle, first. Not as surprising as it might be, considering the small screw holes that they were concealing. I have no idea what was intended to be screwed into those holes, but they're threaded and everything. The grippy-bits been gone for a couple of years now.
The finish is beaten, battered, scratched, worn away, and otherwise abused, as you can see. But the blade is just fine:
The blade lock has never malfunctioned on me, opening or closing, and while it has been sharpened with everything from a restaurant grade motorized knife sharpener to a steel from a high-end set of kitchen knives, it's always gotten the job done for me.
No matter whether the job is cutting twine, re-adjusting a loose screw, prying open a paint can, picking muck out from under my fingernails, trimming a mane, removing cockleburrs from various of my furry children, or, once, as a visual aid during an offer to cure that whole "testosterone" problem, this knife has gotten it done.
I can operate it one-handed, despite its size, and wouldn't trade it for all the shiny little toys in the world.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Happy Birthday!
Today is FarmBro's birthday, tomorrow is his anniversary. Since I know my SIL occasionally reads this blog, I'm gonna go ahead and drop them a line so they don't think I forgot them when I say....
Happy Birthday LawDog!
I figure since I've met him, and happen to know when his birthday is, it's only polite to wish him a good one!
The post office wouldn't let me mail a stripper general delivery, though. Something about regulations......
I have to confess that when I started this blog, I didn't read many myself. LawDog's was one of them. In a way, I suppose you could call him my BlogFather, since it was while I was reading his blog that I decided to start mine.
Or maybe I'm the illegitimate BlogLoveChild of both him, and AD since both of them really inspired me through their stories to give this whole thing a shot.
So thanks guys, for being such excellent writers, and down-right good folks, and for making a crazy skinny chick in Colorado think that just maybe, she might have something to say that the blogosphere might be interested in hearing....
Now write more!*
*Yep, I slipped a plea for more entertainment into a touching post. I'm that shameless. *snicker*
Happy Birthday LawDog!
I figure since I've met him, and happen to know when his birthday is, it's only polite to wish him a good one!
The post office wouldn't let me mail a stripper general delivery, though. Something about regulations......
I have to confess that when I started this blog, I didn't read many myself. LawDog's was one of them. In a way, I suppose you could call him my BlogFather, since it was while I was reading his blog that I decided to start mine.
Or maybe I'm the illegitimate BlogLoveChild of both him, and AD since both of them really inspired me through their stories to give this whole thing a shot.
So thanks guys, for being such excellent writers, and down-right good folks, and for making a crazy skinny chick in Colorado think that just maybe, she might have something to say that the blogosphere might be interested in hearing....
Now write more!*
*Yep, I slipped a plea for more entertainment into a touching post. I'm that shameless. *snicker*
Monday, February 23, 2009
Quick Note
A few days ago I posted a giggle (well it made me giggle) about someone finding my blog through a search for "why the FBI is looking for me" or some such...
Poking through the sitemeter, there are more of them.
Folks, if you're wondering the whys, hows, and wherefores of the Federal Bureau of Investigation... This blog is not where to find it.
It disturbs me enough that folks are finding me through these searches that I'm contemplating going back and removing the post that's leading them to me.....
And now, back to your regularly scheduled roofing.
Poking through the sitemeter, there are more of them.
Folks, if you're wondering the whys, hows, and wherefores of the Federal Bureau of Investigation... This blog is not where to find it.
It disturbs me enough that folks are finding me through these searches that I'm contemplating going back and removing the post that's leading them to me.....
And now, back to your regularly scheduled roofing.
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