Today's Special

     So there's a food booth at the Colorado State Fair that specializes in "out-of-the-ordinary" cuisine. You know, those food dishes you don't normally find on most menus--yak burgers, kangaroo burgers, alligator on a stick, alligator stew, chocolate-covered ants, maggot sandwich--just to name a few. I will say that I didn't patronize this particular food stand when I visited the fair on Saturday. I don't know, I guess I just wasn't in the mood for a maggot sandwich.
     But I'm thinking I could supply their cause. We seem to have an infestation of these yellow and black worms. They're everywhere! It's kind of like when the President addresses the nation--he's everywhere and you're gonna miss Flipper! Well, these worms are everywhere and we can't even find Flipper for all the flippin' worms! Somebody told me we have these worms because of all the moisture we've had. I also have not found all this moisture to which they are referring, but, hey, it sounds like a great reason.
     I think they are New York worms because they are always in a hurry. They get on a mission to get somewhere and they go as fast as their little short legs can scurry across the driveway. Most of them attach themselves to green tumbleweeds. So I don't really need to paint the vivid picture for you of what it looks like when you step on one. The chickens don't seem to want to eat them. I thought chickens ate about anything. The pigs, however, think they are a delicacy!
     I think I could capture a bunch of these and take them to the state fair and sell them to that exotic food stand. I'm thinkin' second income here. Well, maybe it's a first income since I do ranch for a living! I wonder how you'd rope one of these critters? I'd probably have to pick them up and the thought of that doesn't exactly rank high for me on a scale of 1 to 10. I watched them today--they even like to race each other. I told you they are New York worms!
     Getting back to those chocolate-covered ants--do you "oldtimers" out there remember the freshman high school initiations we used to have to endure? For you newbies, that's a legal form of "hazing" freshmen into high school. We used to have to dress up in some stupid looking garb, like wearing a tea-towel for a diaper over a pair of sweat pants, an over-sized straw hat, and, my favorite one, the onion around the neck. I managed to slice my onion somewhat just to impress the upperclassmen. What the upperclassmen forgot was they got to endure the awful smell of the onion. Wearing one for a necklace somewhat took out the sense of smell and it wasn't all that bad.
     The upperclassmen also forgot that what they viewed as "punishment" actually was a reward for us--like having to stay after lunch and help the cooks do dishes. This was back before paper plates were used and actual silverware graced the cafeteria. It always took us such a looonnng time to get those dishes done! And the cooks always rewarded us with cookies or cake for a job well done.
     Initiation also involved a "special supper" prepared by the upperclassmen. It usually involved cow's brains (spaghetti), maggot pudding (rice or tapioca), and, in our case, actual chocolate-covered ants. Some candy store in Colorado Springs was selling them. I thought they were good. They tasted like those Nestle Crunch candy bars.

     On second thought, maybe I'll head back to the fair and try one of those exotic dishes. All but the maggot sandwich--I've seen tooooo many dead cows to go against my better judgment on this one. And maybe I'll take along a few of my "wiggly friends" to see if they're interested! Bon' appetit!

In The Spirit of the County Fair

     It's been a while, hasn't it? I've been busy, I guess. It finally rained, things are looking more promising, the cows aren't chasing the pickup looking for feed, God is good. We're in the heart of county fair season. My boys are too old for 4-H, but I miss them showing. I miss helping them work with their animals, going on daily walks with steers and hogs, and, yes, even the stress involved with getting ready for the fair.
     I wanted to share a few photos of the El Paso County Fair with you. I don't think these kids will mind me using them in my blog. They're great kids--they remind me of my sons when it came to fair time--hard working, helping others, seeing what they could do to help out in any way. They're also in my 4-H club, so they are truly "my kids." I laugh with them, I cry with them, I coach them, I see them through their disappointments, I celebrate with them. And years from now, I get to reap the rewards if knowing I had a small part in their character-building process back then.
     Before we get to the kids, I wanted to talk a little about how I actually got involved in the "fair preparations" this year. I was headed out the door, running late as usual, trying to make the breeding shows at the fair. I had a couple of kids showing heifers and goats and wanted to be there by show time at 8:30 a.m. As I was leaving my yard, I happened to glance at the bathtub that Jake had buried a couple of years ago hoping the ducks would use it for a swimming hole. They don't. These ducks are afraid of water if they can't touch the bottom. Go figure. The dogs love the tub, however, because it does make a great swimming hole for them on triple-digit days. But I'm not sure where the chicken population figures in.
     I happened to see something in the tub and it wasn't a duck and it wasn't a dog--it was a chicken. She was just floating in that tub. I know chickens aren't the greatest swimmers. I was mesmerized at the county fair one year watching the poultry kids prepare their chickens for show. They stood them on five-gallon buckets, soaked to the last pin feather, and were blow drying the hapless hens. One of the poultry kids told me the chickens can't fly off the buckets when they're soaked. They were not, I repeat, NOT using steer blowers, although that might have been fun to watch. Hair dryers seemed to do the trick.
     So I plucked my water-logged hen out of the tub and knew I needed to dry her off. She was shivering uncontrollably and couldn't stand up. I'm not sure if she spent the night in that tub of water, but she was weak, cold (even though it was already 90 degrees), and had given up. I raced into the house and grabbed my hair dryer. About that time my husband drove through the yard and did a double-take. There I stood, hair dryer in hand, hen perched on a bucket, blow drying the egg producer. The more I dried, the prettier she became and the livelier she got. I knew this had to be working, but I also needed to hit the road to get to the show. I quickly finished the job, perched her in the sun next to a pan of water (to drink, not to swim), gave her a little grain, and headed to the fair. When I returned that night, she was running around, clucking like crazy. Success!

     See--4-H leaders can learn from their kids! I knew those demonstrations throughout the years would pay off if I just paid attention to content and not presentation only. Anyway, I wanted you to see the hen in the tub. Sorry I didn't get any photos of the finished product. I also wanted you to see the love of the kids and their 4-H animal projects.

Party Hats & Ice Cream Cones

     We were enjoying dinner tonight at Applebee's when in parades a family plus others who are obviously going to celebrate someone's birthday. I only knew that because they were carrying birthday banners and presents. The presents were NOT a dead give-away, but I kinda figured the birthday banners were. Anyway, it got me to thinking (eating and thinking for me at the same time is way multi-tasking!). Who designed those hats that are worn at birthday parties and sometimes at New Year's Eve parties? You know, those cone-shaped hats that look like a miniature dunce hat precariously perched on a basketball.
     After everyone got seated and before the wait staff could take any orders, everyone in that party had to put on one of these hats, you know with the thin rubber band engulfing your chin so you can't really talk for fear of it stretching to its limit and smacking you right back in the kisser. They do look kinda stupid sitting there on top of someone's head, don't they? Although, when you think about it, no one really seems to mind. They're more interested in seeing if the candles can be extinguished with one fell swoop (I know some people who can't, but that's another blog!) or what's inside the pretty packages. I, for one, am more interested in getting to the heart of the menu and then to the traditional cake and ice cream that follows.
     So, really, where or when did these hats first make their appearance? Any trivia or history buffs out there? I probably could look it up, but that would be just way too easy. So I'm asking anyone willing to offer an explanation here. I do have an explanation, so I'll start this silly little game. Take a good, hard look at the hat when it's sitting on someone's head. Then slowly tilt your own head clockwise until your hair part reaches six o'clock. That would mean your chin is at noon (or midnight, whichever you prefer). Do you see what I see? Yes, it's actually an ice cream cone.
     Look again, quickly before it melts--er, leaves, or goes away, or whatever. The cone hat on top of the head makes it appear as an inverted ice cream cone. So if you tilt your head clockwise (or counterclockwise, whichever floats your root beer), you can see that the person's head becomes the "ice cream scoop" and the hat is the cone.
     So I offer this explanation of why the pointy hats were designed that way--ice cream cones and birthday parties are a great marriage. So much more longevity than any of Elizabeth Taylor's unions. So I think the hat was designed with the ice cream cone in mind. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!!!

Fred

     Fred croaked.
     Well, actually, Fred died. He must be a victim of the drought. I think I first met Fred when he was just a little tad a couple of years ago when it last rained 'a good 'un.' Fred was on my doorstep and I nearly accidentally ended his life then when I stepped outside and he didn't give me a warning sign.
     I didn't see much of Fred after that. Oh, I saw him a couple of times hopping around the yard, looking for a swimming hole. But those were few and far between, as they still are. I never really thought much more about Fred until a few days ago when he surfaced--all petrified in a frog-sitting position. It's kind of sad seeing Fred that way. He was such a vibrant fellow, so full of life.
     But, actually, he appears to be "frozen in time", if you will. We discovered him in the bottom of the well pit. Poor guy probably thought that was his last resort so he tried to find water the only way he could. I'm sure it was dark in that well pit, but, then, I don't think frogs really mind if it's dark. They're probably most happy if there are a few insects to munch on and I"m sure there isn't a shortage of those in the well pit. From the looks of things, Fred grew up to be a good sized fella.
      I'm not sure what kind of stories Fred could tell if he were still alive. Probably a few about how he survived dry conditions as long as he could. I really hope Fred's predicament isn't an omen for the rest of us trying to weather out this drought. Hey, Fred, it's actually thundering outside right now. Could it be? Or is that just you singing your choruses in Froggy Heaven? Well, it's got a nice beat, but you can't dance to it.
      I would have enjoyed hearing Fred croak rather than seeing that Fred croaked!

Hensama Bin Layin

     I am thoroughly convinced that I own a terrorist hen. At first I thought she was simply the "leader of the hood", so to speak. She always comes running up to me at somewhat of an angle, kind of like she's going to jump up and attack, but at the last minute she changes her mind when I give her a piece of my mind. When she sees me or hears me come out of the house, she comes on a dead sprint from wherever she is on the farm. Well, she definitely is a "free-range" hen.
     No vehicle is safe from Hensama. If a door is left open, she not-to-politely invites herself into the vehicle. She'll stand there a minute, contemplating the best way to hop into the vehicle. If it's a pickup, she opts for the floor because it's too far up to the seat. If it's a car, she's pretty confident she can leap onto the seat with a single bound. If the door is shut, she'll stare down the front bumper and eye the top of the hood.
     But Hensama did something a couple of days ago that earned her "the" name. I cruised into the feed barn to toss out a little hen scratch. Hensama came on the run and flogged her way to the front of the proverbial pecking order. I just picked up the nearly-empty sack and tossed out a little feed--along with a mouse. Forget the feed! Hensama spied the mouse and the chase was on. She'd take her claws, talons, whatever they're called, and try to step on the mouse. Mighty Mouse would zig and Hensama would zag. All the while she is clucking at the top of her lungs and the rest of the chicken ranch residents looked at her as if she had totally lost the remains of her pea brain.

     After a couple minutes of unsuccessfully trying to stomp Mighty, ole Hensama finally succeeded. She had the little furry creature slapped down on the ground underneath her claws. Down came the beak with a mighty stroke and little finesse. And that, my friends, was the end of Mighty Mouse. But Hensama didn't stop there. She proceeded to have herself a little mouse for breakfast. Perhaps it's a delicacy for chickens in some parts of the world, but here in Edison, Colorado, I prefer to think of it as a terrorist hen's delight!

It's a Ducky Day!

     Ranchers are much like domesticated ducks. It doesn't take a whole lot to make us happy. Just shut off the wind, give us some sunshine, and, above all, send us rain and we will flaunt our feathers and quack with happiness. Cows are hardy creatures--they seem to be able to exist on bare necessities. They can find a green sprout underneath a pile of dirt, given enough time. And it amazes me how the momma cows can provide, producing calves that flourish even in dismal conditions like we have experienced this spring.
     But last night it finally rained. I didn't sleep much because I didn't want to miss hearing one single drop of rain splat on our roof. It was a beautiful rain, soft and widespread. There was some lightning associated with it, but, in all, it was not violent. It was, as they say, just what the doctor ordered. This morning we were blessed with birds chirping rock 'n roll tunes rather than droll, twangy, 'cryin-in-your-beer' type songs. We were also blessed with puddles in our yard and a lake on the south side of the corral.
     You don't have to be a duck to enjoy the water in the yard. But it didn't take the ducks long to find the liquid treasure and begin splashing away. The chickens merrily clucked and scratched on the "beaches". The cows waded into the ditches and murmured how thankful they were not to have to travel a half mile to water. It was all provided in the ditches for their enjoyment.

     All the animals--dogs, cats, ducks, cows, horses--and humans seemed mesmerized by this environmental change overnight. Everyone seemed to be smiling. The cows didn't tarry over their hay like usual. They wanted to wrap their lips around the moist, albeit still brown, grass. The horses bucked and kicked. The dogs swam a quick lap across the duck's self-proclaimed pond. And I soaked in all of the wonders given to us by The Great Provider. Yes, it was a ducky day indeed!

The Yard Cow

     We have an official yard cow here at our ranch. She's number 183--she doesn't really have a name, but we refer to her by that ear tag number. She's worn that number for several years and for those same years she has held the distinction of being our official yard cow.
     Number 183 usually waits until May to become the yard cow. She always calves early in the season and proceeds to be a great momma cow--that includes teaching her offspring EVERYTHING that calf does and does not need to know--like how to be a future yard cow (if it's a heifer). This is one of those cows who sticks her nose in the caker and stops the range cubes from falling out because she needs to get her "cake" fix before the rest of the herd gets a bite. She also has to beat Numbers 55 and 57, respectively, to the caker.
     She doesn't have to beat any other cow when it comes to being the yard cow. About May, when the weeds are beginning to come on strong and some of the green grass is poking through (remember, this is a story and today, it's a fantasy story!), the yard cow likes to step across the cattle guard and wander on into the yard to see what's growing. She teaches her calf how to gracefully step across the cattle guard as well. There is no jumping, there is no twinkle-toeing across, it's just a long stretch and she's on the other side. Her calf usually has to take a running leap, but is usually successful. If not, the calf can wait until the yard cow returns from her adventures in the yard.
     But since there is no green grass poking through the oceans of sand now pooled in the yard, Number 183 knows where the horse hay is. So she steps across the cattle guard and makes a beeline for the horse hay. She is quite uninhibited, this yard cow. She doesn't mind leaving evidence that she's been in the yard. She sees me coming out of the house or through the yard, and she immediately high-tails it out of the yard. She knows her limits, but she has to push the bounds.
     This morning, Number 183 decided to take a little closer look at domesticated living. There I sat in the dining room, having done the chores and I was relaxing with a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee and preparing to do my Bible study when something outside the window catches my eye. I did a double-take and there, looking right back at me through the dining room window was Number 183. She was scoping out the dining room, either checking to see if I was home or to see if there might be some horse hay or something better in there. Or maybe she was just trying to figure out a way to escape the umpteenth consecutive day of tornadic-strength winds.
     There is a question here that needs answered for those of you who know me and know who, or what, else resides on this ranch. Where, you may ask, were our two fearless cow dogs--Tulo and Air Jordan? Stretched out in front of the dog house, totally unconcerned that Number 183 had invaded their space. And this is what I feed them expensive dog food for?
     I opened the back door of the house, step outside and whistle at Tulo (aka Patches). She hops up all excited, grabs her ball, and heads for the door. Number 183 pivots in the front yard and heads for the cattle guard. I slammed the door shut and left both of them to fend for themselves.