ReluctantFarmChick.com

As I read various people’s blogs I wonder what it is about me and my life that makes it so absent of stories.  Like there’s someting that’s repressed or missing.  But then as I considered it further, I realized that my life is as full of stories as anyones.  It’s just so close to who I am - to my reality - that I don’t see it as "a story."  It just is.  So here I am - sharing.  Tentatively.  Madge wrote a beautiful post about when she was 11, and she was inspired by someone else . . . so I’ll keep the theme going.

You must know that I don’t specifically remember myself at 11.  I actually had to do the "in which year was I 11?" math and then sort of remember details based on the year.  It was the year 1978 (there - now you all can do the math).  This story actually starts when I was still 10.  My family (2 parents, 2 brothers and me) were living in Somerset West (near Cape Town), South Africa.  My dad had been the business manager of a small college there, but for some reason was working for. . .a company that also employed a lot of Koreans.  I can’t remember the name of the company, I just remember him getting impressive presents from Korea from some very gracious people.  It was the only time that I can remember my dad not having denominational employment.  

We were getting ready to move to Rhodesia (Zimbabwe on this map).  My dad had been called to be the auditor for our church’s division office in Salisbury (Harare).  I wasn’t part of the discussion referring to the timeline of our move, I just knew that I was going to start the school year in Somerset West, but would not be finishing school there.  The school year in South Africa goes with the calendar year.  Being in the southern hemisphere summer break is in December.  So in January (or whenever school started back) I got SOME school books - not all of the "writing in" books because they’d probably be different at the next school, and it was too expensive to buy stuff I wasn’t going to completely use.  Also, because we knew that we’d be moving, my oldest brother was sent to boarding school near Johannesburg, because that was closer to relatives, and to where my parents would be living.  They didn’t want him to have to move schools part way through the year - with starting high school and all.  It was a very sad time.  I remember my mom sobbing for a week after dropping him off at the airport.  She said she felt like an arm had been pulled out of her body.  I remember feeling completely inadequate because I couldn’t help her to feel better.  

I can’t exactly recall when we left Somerset West, or what event took place to make it the time to leave - I just remember living with my grandparents in Pretoria.  Sort of a "stop over" on our way to Rhodesia.  But then something in the political scene in Rhodesia made it too dangerous to proceed, so we stayed in Pretoria for a while longer.  And my brother and I were enrolled in a small school there.  I believe it’s the same school my mom might have attended as a child.  To get to this school we had to take a city bus to the center of town, and then another city bus to a bus stop near the school.  Then we’d walk the rest of the way.  My mom took the bus with us several times, and met us on our way back several times, to make sure we’d know which buses to catch.  It must have been very difficult for her to let her little kids out that way.  If I were to make a comparison, it would be like me dropping my kids off at the DC Metro to get to school.  I’m sure lots of people do it, but considering our current lifestyle, it just seems like I’d have a hard time doing it.  But that was how it was at the time.  I’m glad my brother was there - he always watched out for me - and carried my backpack if it was too heavy for me to run when we were late for a bus.  That school does not have a pleasant spot in my memory.  I remember some kids from there, but only because we met up again when I went to highschool.  I only vaguely remember names from that time.  My non-memory might also be because we were there so briefly (again, I don’t recall the time period).  It was hard because in our home we spoke English.  I could understand some Afrikaans - the other "national language" in South Africa at the time, but it was not comfortable for me.  I couldn’t hold a regular conversation in Afrikaans.  But this school was an Afrikaans one.  That meant all the kids there were fluent in the language, and the classes were taught in Afrikaans, with English being offered as a "second language."  I remember having to give two speeches in Afrikaans.  I was completely out of my element.  And I did NOT prepare as I should have.  And I was so embarrassed by my performance, I could hardly stand to be there.  I also remember the teacher trying to get us to memorize poems in Afrikaans.  I can still recite one of poems.  There was another poem she tried to get us to learn.  I remember her trying to teach us intonation and expression.  She wanted us to say a phrase in a certain way, and the entire class did not get it.  We just sat there and listened to how she wanted it said, and we did our best to imitate her, and we failed miserably every time.  She’d get SO frustrated.   I remember that phrase, and how we WEREN’T supposed to say it, very well too.  I also remember music class, for some reason.  It seems a different person taught us music.  And all the songs were in Afrikaans.  It was just like a sing-along.  No instruction, as I recall.  Just singing.  For fun, it seemed.  Which was fine for me.  And gym.  We had sort of a tumbling/gymnastics class, the idea of which I LOVED, but the actual doing of which I hated because people were watching me when I failed my tumble pass.  The part about living with my grandparents was cool.  I shared a bedroom with my grandmother.  My brother and I would talk about which TV shows would be on in the evening on the way back from the bus stop. (TV only started at 6pm - that with a sort of short devotional).  It was the only time we’d ever had a TV in our lives (till we moved to America).  Monday and Wednesday started out in English, then switched to Afrikaans at 8pm.  Tuesdays and Thursday started out with Afrikaans and switched to English with the 8pm news.  We never watched TV on Friday nights, and the weekends alternated between languages - with lots of American shows dubbed over to Afrikaans.  We watched CHiPs in English though.  I had to go to bed half way through it (because the clock, and my mom, said so).

We were there for enough time to realize that the current way of living was too unsettled.  My dad was able to do his auditing job from South Africa, because to go anywhere from Rhodesia for his job would require him to fly through South Africa anyway (geographically that doesn’t make sense, but South Africa was the hub through which most people went to any southern or central African country at the time).  My dad’s job required quite a lot of travelling.  So we moved out of my grandparents’ house and into a rented house in Johannesburg.  Right next door to the school where my aunt (my mom’s sister) taught.  This was a cool thing because my aunt became my teacher.   I don’t know why time, or the passage of  time, is so hard for me to remember at this stage.  I don’t remember much about school during this time.  But I remember odd bits about church life and time outside of school.  I don’t remember any specific friends.  I was in a class with a first cousin and a couple of 2nd or shoestring cousins.  So we played together.  But I don’t remember having a "best friend."  The school (and our house) was right next to a city park - that’s where we had recess.  I vaguely remember walking there and having a feeling of being completely disconnected.  Like I didn’t belong.  Not in Johannesburg.  Not in Pretoria.  Not in Somerset West, because my friends there had gone on without me in their lives.  And not in Rhodesia, because we hadn’t gotten there yet.  I don’t remember school ending.  I don’t remember good-byes.  I do remember not going back to that school the next year.  Somewhere during that summer break we made the move to Rhodesia.

This holiday crept up on me unawares.  The only reason I knew it was happening was because the bank was closed when I got there.  And there was an event in "Veteran’s Park" in our little town.  I know if I listened to the radio or got out a bit more there’d be no way I’d miss the holiday - it’s not like it goes unpublished.  We were doing a cooking class in the community room (you know - that wellness job of mine).  And Jake, the very gregarious director of tourism (who says his job is to get "heads in the bed" for our town), asked if we’d come across the street after our class for a short ceremony.  They were going to add the name of a young soldier to the monument in honor of our town’s boys whose lives have been given for our country.  I’d never attended such a ceremony, and given the size of our town (population less than 3,000) I thought it would be a good thing to experience.

It was quite a ceremony, with a local TV station reporting and the highschool ROTC cadets strutting their stuff as Color Guard.

The Master of Ceremonies is a local church pastor who did a very nice job.

There was a collection of veterans who gave a gun salute to the fallen soldier.  And a lone soldier in the distance who did taps.  The drizzle and cold weather were particularly gray.  It was all fittingly somber.

I felt so sorry for the family of the soldier.  They have made the ultimate sacrifice - the death of their young son.   I couldn’t hold back tears as they unveiled the soldier’s name on the monument - to forever be honored for his service and his sacrifice.  There are so many more who serve and sacrifice for the freedoms that we enjoy.  It was a great reminder of something that I so often take for granted.

Every week I swear I’m going to blog more faithfully.  I mean, there’s so much going on - it’s not like I’m lacking for information.  But I have this feeling of needing to have "stellar" writing - something witty or amusing or clever.  And my life just isn’t that witty or amusing or clever.  So here’s the ramble.

This past weekend my kids participated in a choral festival in Georgia.  There were over 200 kids there from all over the place.  I went down with a friend to listen to their performance and was totally blown away by the quality!  Granted, their teacher here worked with them for the past several months so they’d be familiar with the music.  But bringing that hodge podge of miscellaneous groups together and getting them to sound like something decent is quite the feat.  Here’s a poor-quality iPhone shot of part of the group.

The empty chairs are where the strings came in during some of the pieces - they added quite a lot to the overall effect.  We drove home after the program - which means we got to bed somewhere around 1:30am.  Maybe that’s how come I feel so totally wasted today (my dad always said "you paint the week red on Saturday night - we were out on Friday night, but it’s having the same effect).

A project that has been looming for a little while is getting our chickens OUT of the garage and into a new dwelling somewhere on the farm.  I’ll take pictures of them soon - but just know that chickens do not take a long time to grow up.  Prince Farming is quite fond of his chicks and is worried about what wild life might not respect chicken life as much as he does.  I told him we might need to appease the Raccoon and Hawk gods with a sacrifice or two, but he’s wanting to take a chance without that pay-off.  Last Thursday we started working on getting the small barn ready for chickens.  It’s been a bit of a dumping ground since we moved here, so there is a lot of clean-up to do.  It’s not done.  I did spend some time helping to stack some HUGE logs.  They were HEAVY.  And after only 2 hours of work out there my back ached.  And my wrists haven’t been the same since.  We were going to do more work on the chicken house on Sunday, but . . . . I’ll have to tell you about that another time.  Brace yourselves.  It just might involve a cow story.

This week we have a cooking class - actually we call it a "Lunch & Munch" - don’t know where that term came from, but it’s stuck.  In my non-farm, non-home life, I am the coordinator for a Wellness program which is grant driven (not-for-profit).  We do all kinds of lifestyle classes, including smoking cessation, healthy living, dealing with diabetes, cooking classes, and wellness lectures in public schools, among other things.  It’s a fairly new program, and from year to year we never know how much work we’ll have to do (or get paid to do - there’s always a lot to do).  So tomorrow is a short class - we’ll do the same thing twice (11am and 12pm).  We have to have everything done in short order because people come through on their lunch hour and hope to get interesting information and a good meal out of the deal.  So today we prepped and cooked.  And we video-taped the demonstration so that people could be eating while they watch how to prepare the dishes.  I am also responsible for the recipe cards - had to get them printed, cut, and collated.  It’s been a FULL day.  And tomorrow will be the same.

Next week I have committed (advertised and everything) to having a Christmas Card stamp class.  I’m very excited about doing a class again - it’s been over a year already (can’t believe I said that out loud!).  So I needed to figure out what I’m doing so I could get an order placed so my materials would be here in time for the event.  I’ll post about that soon - I want to have the cards done so you can see what I’m up to.  It just added to an already full day today.  I placed an order.  I just hope I have thought it all through enough to have what I need.

This week is full speed ahead.  Thursday is going to get here and I’ll be ready to take a nap, but I’ll have the chicken thing to contend with.  Unless Prince Farming gets distracted by something more pressing.  One can only hope.  Although I’m REALLY ready to have those smelly things  (chickens) OUT of the garage.  It just doesn’t seem fitting to have 25 fully grown chickens roosting in the garage, does it?!

This about sums up my rambling post:

(My kids will tell you - and so can I- that my title is "alliteration" - a word on last week’s English test. . . those education dollars at work) 

I didn’t have to work on the farm this weekend.  We had some friends over, and the husband went out and did what I normally would be doing (digging a trench for a faucet by the barn and piecing together water pipe - skinny stuff . . . a one-man job).  Prince Farming was on the borrowed excavator digging a trench from a water source (broken pipe in the field) to the old barn for the water pipe to rest in (and not freeze during the winter).   So I feel really blessed, and amazingly rested.  And without a funny story for your reading pleasure.

Last Monday I shared a post about despair.  For some reason my humor is sort of leaning toward the political genre, which is odd because politics and me just aren’t that close.  I’m not a US citizen (nor am I here illegally, if you’re wondering ).  I have a hard time following what’s going on and giving any kind of intelligent analysis.  Actually - I probably have a hard time giving intelligent analysis anywhere in my life, but that’s a whole ‘nother post.  Maybe it’s just that politics is the primary topic every time I turn on the radio.  But every week I get this little video podcast that makes me smirk, or giggle, or laugh out loud, or sigh with a "I wish I could have thought that out and said it first."  And sometimes, no matter how simplified it is, I just don’t get it.  Or it doesn’t strike me all that funny.  Which is okay too.  Helping little minds understand big things, Uncle Jay has a great way ’splaining things and I thought maybe you’d enjoy hearing a couple of my favorites.  I would hazard a guess that it isn’t so much the politics that strike me as funny as the irreverence does. That’s probably more like it.

I haven’t watched this week’s video cast yet.  But with everyone talking about the financial mayhem that we find ourselves in, I thought it would be appropriate to share a simplified version of what’s going on.  Check this out.

Another one that is fairly popular (by vote of most clicks) is the congressional recess episode.  It’s pretty funny too.

Hope you have a great week!

No, no - I’m not completely heartless.  I don’t laugh at people who are experiencing despair (I might laugh WITH them though).  I laugh at the company and the writers who work for www.despair.com .  Their company slogan is:  "We’re not happy ’till you’re not happy."  They do these crazy lithographs that smack of the popular "Motivators" posters.  Here’s their "Despair" demotivator:

There are about 100 other lithographs - all laugh-out-loud funny.  Here’s a fairly current one, for which they’ve gotten a lot of flack:

And in response to an irate citizen who reamed them for their complete insensitivity in the government demotivator, they created this one:

If you have a hard-to-shop-for cynic on your Christmas list, this is a great place to find a gift (I get no kick-backs from this endorsement - it’s purely for your convenience and enjoyment).

Here’s an example of another one of their recent releases. You can get this on a T-shirt.  I own the Pessimist’s Mug (the non-executive one).  This is a take-off from that mug  (I think these people consume truck-loads of caffeine and work between the hours of 1am and 4am)

If you go over and browse their site, be sure to check out their video podcasts.  You might get a chuckle from one or two of them too.

Stop it - I told you I was going to post some stamping.  Here’s a card I made for Prince Farming for our Anniversary - way back when I started blogging (okay,  not THAT far back - it was July of this year). 

This card is a departure from the norm because a) it’s fairly plain and simple, b) there’s no paper involved and c) there’s only one layer and NO ribbon.  I also don’t normally use metal hinges to create the spine of a card. It is within acceptable norms, because a) I used stamps and ink;  b) There is one layer;  c) it is embellished (hardware); and d) it is embossed (a process through which color crystals, adhered to a surface with embossing ink, are heated / melted, giving a "raised" impression of the stamped image).

This card was copied "verbatim" (as far as my memory serves) from a card I saw demonstrated by Brent Steele on the Stampin’Up! Bermuda cruise (April ‘08).  So it also meets my normal criteria because it is "cased" (copied and shared) as are all of my creative endeavors. 

Cutting the sheet metal was a bit of a stretch because I was trying to keep it a surprise for Prince Farming, and I couldn’t find the right tool (it was way down in the shed - HE knew where it was, but I couldn’t find it in any of the tool boxes here at the house).  I ended up heating it up (with my heat-gun) and then trying to snip through it with something he brought home from the hospital (why they need industrial-looking snips, I’m not sure.  They definitely WEREN’T suited to what I was cutting, but they did work).  Then I had to file the edges so no fingers got sliced.   And I used a "Crop-a-dile" to make the holes for the hinges/brads and to make the "shot marks" through the road sign (that’s what signs look like around here - why do people shoot signs?).  I also distressed it with my little pliers - just for effect (and to copy Brent’s card).

I think this card was a good choice for my first real "card" share because I’m feeling rather manly with all the farm work I’ve been doing for the past week.  Hay is almost done (just needs to be hauled to the barn).  My life is going to settle down a bit now that it’s done.  Besides, my kids are leaving for Outdoor School for a week.  My plan is to dig out my stamp room.  If that happens, I’ll show you before/after shots next week. 

Happy Stamping Sunday!

This is something I received via email, but just crack up every time I see the picture.  Thought you might enjoy it too.

- - - - - - - - - -

        Tough Love vs. Spanking - Good Argument

Most of the American populace thinks it improper to spank children, so I have tried other methods to control my kids when they have one of  ‘those moments..’

One that I found effective is for me to just take the child for a car ride and talk.  Some say it’s the vibration from the car, others say it’s the time away from any distractions such as TV, Video Games, Computer, IPod, etc.

Either way, my kids usually calm down and stop misbehaving after our car ride together.  Eye to eye contact helps a lot too.

I’ve included a photo below of one of my sessions with my son, in case you would like to use the technique.

    Sincerely,

    LARRY

Two weeks ago I created a Wordle ( here.)  A wordle is a crazy word-cloud made up of the most used words on a blog (or other writing that you enter).  I thought it would be fun to see how my blog has developed.  Or changed.  So I took a snap shot of my blog wordle again, and here is the art that was generated.

I love how prominent "Rooibos" is.  And "Prince" and "Farming".  "Chicks" is cool too.  And, as is true in my life right now, "housekeeping" is nowhere to be found.

You can have your own wordle created here.

Hope you’re enjoying your weekend.

So I finally got to go see the Allergist.  Again.  I went last month, but when I made the appointment they failed to tell me to cease and desist any allergy medication I was taking.  I should have known this all by myself, had I been thinking.  But I wasn’t thinking, and nor did they think for me.  So I made another appointment - one month out.  First appointment of the day.  Lucky me (didn’t have to wait for the doctor to be done with patients who might have arrived late or who use up more than their allotted time).  I didn’t totally know what to expect.  I knew that a person gets these "scratches" with various toxins, and then they rate your reaction to these toxins.  But again, I wasn’t really thinking.  Nothing new there. 

After the doctor rolled up my sleeves (I had short sleeves on - she just rolled them up further), she cleaned both arms thoroughly with a drenched, single cottom ball (no avoiding the drops - she meant business. . . I was to be all clean/er).  Then she took this thingy which I can’t describe, and the best picture I could find is this:

That thingy in the hand is like 8 "scratchers" with needles in each middle.  The scratchers have been "living" in a puddle of allergen matter.  The doctor put all eight against my skin and wiggled the device around to make that poison enter my body.  "Just like a little scrape," she said.  (FYI - that thingy is a one-time use deal.  She put it in the sharps container after she used it once. I was relieved to see this.)   She had 3 trays like the one above.  But I think only 8 of the 9 slots had stuff in them - I only see room on my arms for eight sets.  So she went down the insides of both my arms with these poison "scrapes".  I asked her if I could scratch them.  She thought I was kidding.  Right after she was done administering the poison, this is what my arms looked like (BTW: It’s hard to take pictures of your own arms using an iPhone - excuse the angle):

I’m not joking when I tell you I started itching.  I mean, I’M NOT JOKING!!!  The doctor looked at me like I was so cute, and I couldn’t possibly be ready to scratch.  Let me tell you, I was READY TO SCRATCH!!!

But I didn’t. 

Not even once.

I did use the magazine to fan madly, but no touchy, no scratchy.

She said she’d be back in 20 minutes.  Fine.  I’ll just sit here and wait.  Don’t mind me.  I’m fine.  Really.  (Can you say "creeping madness"?)  Never mind!  I’m fine.

She came back 20 minutes later.  Her eyes flew open.  She said "OMG, I’m so sorry!  OMG!" etc etc etc. 

Now, her reaction was of only slight comfort to me.  See, it’s not like I’m surprised I have allergies.  I made the appointment after all.  I KNOW I have allergies.  I was just trying to figure out exactly to what (other than cats, cleaning, cooking, loud kids, and disrespect).  But to be completely honest, I did sort of relish her huge surprise.  She said "you must be itchy!" 

Umm, let me think about that one, hmmmm.  YYYYEEEESSSSSSSSSS I’m about to climb the walls!!!

She kept on making exclamations of shock/horror/surprise.  It was enough to disrupt my crazy desire to scratch the skin off my arms and start making me worry about whether she’d let me walk out of the office without some sort of insulated protective suit against the terrible out-doors.  There were welts on my arm.  The largest were probably dime-size.  There were three of those (Cats, Dust mites, and . . . can’t remember, maybe Ragweed).  After listening to her go on about it all, I realized that it wasn’t the size of my reaction to individual toxins, but the fact that there were scratches from every single batch that had a more-than-mild reaction.  She was also very excited about my reaction to molds.  Of all the batches, I thought the mold one looked the least worrisome.  But she explained that the mold scratches were actually only very mild toxins, and most people didn’t react to them much at all.  I had mosquito-bite size reactions for all the molds.  My arms were totally red and splotchy.  I’d never seen anything like it.  I am not allergic to horses at all.  But I am crazy allergic to their environment.  I can play golf, because that grass is fine with me, but the trees on golf courses put out pollens that might make me stop breathing at any moment.  The way she was talking, my life is just about over.  I can kiss it all good bye.  I will check in to my glass room, and never venture out. Ever.  I was all excited about walking out of there with these huge growths on my arms so people could marvel at this freak of nature and give me all sorts of sympathy, but that didn’t happen.  She washed me down with that glorious and generous alcohol rub again, and the itch (and the lumps) all but disappeared.  This is a picture of that. . . sorry it’s not as exciting as I’ve built it up to be:

The doctor was kind enough to take the picture for me, and asked me to email a copy to her.  It’s not that impressive, looking at it.  But it gives you a slight idea.

I left her office with a whole sheaf of papers:  the kind of whole-house filter I need.  The kind of pillows and covers - both for pillows and mattress and comforter.  The dehumidifier - to keep the humidity below 40% (my hair doesn’t do well with humidity over that anyways - I’ll play that game).  I was waiting for her to write an order that would prevent me from ever cleaning or cooking again.  When I said so, she just looked at me like I was confused.  Duh.  She gave me medicines, and coupons for medicines.  And brochures from several vendors pushing their wares on poor allergy-stricken people like myself.  She told me I can definitely NOT work on the hay process (oh woe is me, reluctant no more).  And I shouldn’t ever mow the grass, unless I’m wearing a significant (and nerdy) face mask.  And on.  And on.  And on.  She says there’s never a season or place where I’m not allergic to something.  How terribly comforting.

Whatever.

I have been debating for a long time going for allergy shots.  She said I’d only have to have 2 a week for the first several months (TWO a WEEK!??!?).  And eventually I could wean myself down to 2 a month over the next 5 years (FIVE YEARS?!??!?).  Umm.  Or I could just itch.  And scratch.  And water.  And snort. Just like I’ve been doing for 40 over 30 years. 

This week’s Topic on the Heads or Tails site is:  BOXES

And today is a perfect day to talk about boxes. Yesterday I made a phone call to the Post Office, asking whether they had a special delivery for me.  Nope - not yet.  This morning I woke up early and made the same phone call.  Steve (at the PO) didn’t even have to look through the mail - the box was in.  So I dragged myself out of bed and drove and a respectable speed the nine miles to the post office.  I walked through the door (6:47am) and I knew my box was there.  I totally knew.  This was my box:

I knew the box was there because I could HEAR it.  From outside.  I’m sure that Steve didn’t mind my coming to the PO before business hours, because it allowed them to do their work without the extra sound effects.  It’s amazing how much noise this box made.  When I got home and looked inside the box, this is what we found:

Thirty-something chicks.  They were hatched on Monday in northern Ohio, and mailed (priority mail) to us here in the boondocks.  How cute are they?  And LOUD!!!

Obviously, the chicks couldn’t stay for long in this box, so we moved them over to this:

We had to dip their little beaks into sugar water, and then into their starter food.  This is what introduced them to their sustenance for from now on out.  And they picked it up like champs.  Amazing.  Apparently baby chicks don’t need food for the first couple of days of life outside their eggs because they have reserves from their yolk sacs.  Who knew!!?  But around day 2 or 3, they start getting hungry and thirsty.  And we helped them out.  They arrived just in time.

By the way, this box is housed in another box. . . this one:

Prince Farming and our son made it good and cozy so that the chicks can’t get out, and the dogs can’t get in.  And this box is actually inside the garage, so other wild critters can’t get to them either.  For now.  They’ll live here for a while until they’re older, and until Prince Farming has figured out and built their out-door fortress.

When the kids got home from school, there was tons of excitement.  If these chicks look a little stressed, you can figure out why.  They’ve had a rough few days of life, but from now on out, I think they’ll be very happy in (and out) of their box

Hopefully these critters will do better than these did.  And here starts another chapter, or sub-story line, of my farm life.

You can play Heads or Tails too, or check out other BOX posts by clicking here.