Trail Riding Lessons

For several years, the B5 Gang has enjoyed two lovely weeks of camping and trail riding in Brown County State Park.  We go one week every spring and one week every fall.  It’s tradition…and last week was THE spring week. 

Our bi-annual packing experience has been honed over the years.  Since I merely SIT on a horse (I’m no Cowgirl, as any of the other four members of the BG Gang can – and WILL - tell you), Cowboy and the girls don’t really prefer my “help” with horses, tack, or anything remotely resembling equine comforts.  They realize that IF they depended on ME me for this task, we wouldn’t get very far down the trail.  I DO, however, have an important job.  I plan meals, shop for food, and pack the HUMAN comforts for the week. I think they appreciate it…or they WOULD…if ever they tried to go without me. But I digress…

Upon arrival at the campground, the well-oiled B5 wheels were set in motion, and we soon congratulated ourselves on the quickest and most flawless camp set-up in recent history.  We were ready to map our first course for the week.  Girl 1 & Girl 3 started tacking up horses, Girl 2 & Cowboy pulled out the map and a highlighter, and I packed snacks and drinks to-go-style.  Soon we were mounted and stepping out into the wonderful wilderness of Brown County State Park.

Since I no longer have a horse of my very own and was forced to “borrow” a horse I’d never ridden before (I’m not bitter…no, not me…but that’s a story for another day), I was a teentsy bit apprehensive as we made our way up and down trails.  I may or may not have been white-knuckling it every time Harley and I  encountered obstacles…I tried to explain to Harley that I’m a SITTER, not a JUMPER.  Noting my apprehension, Cowboy quickly started advising me.  His little lessons, as usual, eased my apprehension, and it wasn’t long before I finally was able to sit back, relax, let Harley do his job, and just soak up the surrounding beauty.

Cowboy has this innate internal compass.  I swear that man can be in pitch-black darkness, turned around several times, hung upside down by a rope, and STILL accurately point to North.  In contrast, my innate internal compass is limited to “remember to hang a Larry at the loopdy-loop tree.”  Since Cowboy long ago gave up ever trying to teach ME how to find True North (thank the Heavens above), I listened as he quizzed the girls on what they remembered from past lessons.

 

Much to his dismay, with the exception of Girl 3 (who isn’t half-bad), they pretty much inherited their mother’s lack of an innate internal compass. 

 

As we headed back toward camp, Cowboy was naming trees.  Then he was listening for bird calls.  It really is ridiculous what this man knows.  You would think that after 23 years of marriage, I might start learning at least a LITTLE BIT of the stuff he holds in that brain of his, but alas…no.  I just am not gifted with the sense of direction...or sun placement…or trees…or birds…or training horses…or providing medical care for horses…or HORSES IN GENERAL for that matter…no…I can’t teach any of that.  They pretty much let me tag along on trail rides because I’ve been nice enough to ensure they have towels and shampoo…and s’mores…and snacks for the trail.  It kind of bummed me out when I came to the realization that I can’t really teach them ANYTHING about camping or trail riding.  I mean, seriously…I’M THE TEACHER!  I’m the teacher of school subjects, anyway…In all honesty, Cowboy is the teacher of life.  I’m a band-aid-sticker-onner.  Cowboy is the hugger that soothes the wound of the deeper hurt.  I’m the food cooker.  Cowboy shows them how to feed their souls.  In a way I’m really happy that he is all of that for them.  It’s really really cool to watch a dad teach his children, and it’s really really cool to see them interact with him.  But DANG IT…why’s he have to make me look so bad?  I obsessed over this for the duration of the ride.   When we stopped for a rest, it became evident that I would just have to figure out a way to show them how useful Mom can be for this trail riding stuff.  I mean, honestly…I can’t let them think they can start going without me!

The next day of trail riding was much the same as the first…blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…I was starting to get a little jealous.  “There must be SOMETHING I can teach them out here in the wilderness,” I thought.  And then it hit me…I’VE GOT IT!!  I can teach them a very important lesson…probably a girl’s most important lesson of all…a lesson that Cowboy would NEVER think to teach, because he has never had to learn it himself.  And here it is…are you ready…?

WEED IDENTIFICATION

POISON IVY

STINGING NETTLE

Because when you’re three hours away from camp, and there’s not a pit toilet in sight, it’s essential to know what weeds NOT to use!

Happy trails! :)

Viva la Mexico

The B5 Gang split up last week when Cowboy and I embarked on a much-needed vacation. Rising at o’dark-thirty, we tossed a few things in bags, kissed Girl 1, Girl 2 & Girl 3 (who didn’t get out of bed to see us off, btw), and headed to the airport. Everything went right…no traffic, quickly found airport parking in the economy long-term lot, immediately picked up by the shuttle, early check-in sped us through the ticket counter, and upon arrival at our gate were told that we would board early and leave early.  YAY! 

The flight was great…no turbulence, smooth landing. We landed 20 minutes early in Cancun, Mexico, and at 10:00 a.m. it was already a sunny 75 degrees. We easily slipped through immigration, found our bags waiting at the luggage carousel, handed our customs paperwork to the attendant, bypassed the vultures trying to sell timeshares in the lobby, and a driver called us by name, escorting us to his van.

Traffic was light, and in 20 minutes we were at Puerto Cancun. I slipped inside, bought two ferry tickets to the lovely Isla Mujeres, boarded the ferry, and in no time at all the captain began backing away from the dock.  I lay my head on Cowboy’s shoulder, breathed in the salt air, felt the tropical breeze blowing through my hair, and must have taken a bit of a siesta, because before I knew it, we were at the resort. A bellman unloaded our bags, opened his arms wide, and said “Welcome home!”

Ahhh…(deep, dramatic, contented sigh…) There could be only one explanation for the easy-breezy path there…

The entire universe had conspired to put us right there, in that very place, at that very time. This could mean only one thing:  I BELONG in Mexico. I was smiling. Cowboy was smiling. The resort staff was smiling. Even those silly Mayan gods must have been smiling.

Our week was amazing. Views previously enjoyed but erased by the passage of time once again flooded our vision. We took in every morsel of it, intent on memorizing the horizon, the crystal clear turquoise waters of the Caribbean, the reflection of the sun’s rays on each surface, the rumble of the waves.  Each night we fell asleep to the sound of waves crashing at our balcony, and awoke to the same. We soaked up the sun and wiggled our toes in sand. We marveled at sea stars, sting rays & colorful fish. We were captivated by pink sunrises, golden sunsets & burning red full-moon dusks. We watched as streaks of lightning pierced a dark night sky, and a colorful rainbow graced the morning's dawn. We met new friends, learned their stories, laughed with them, cried with them, and shared our common faith in the Creator who blessed us to be there together, embracing the beauty that surrounded us. It was an awesome week.

And suddenly, it was Friday evening…the night before the dreaded moving-out-and-going-home day. Cowboy and I decided to deviate from our normal routine and walk into town for dinner. Mistake #1. Never EVER leave a gorgeous, tranquil, private beach with lovely resort restaurant for a tent restaurant on a public beach. Never. Did you hear me? Don’t. Oh, the food was delicious, it was the experience that was excruciating. Inebriated girls stumbled into the sea and “somehow” lost their bikini bottoms. Men (and woman) blew cigar smoke right over our table. Two 60-something grannies decided to change their bathing suits, nearly losing their towels in the process. And then, as if a sign from above, it began to sprinkle. We walked back to our resort and stepped inside the lobby just as the skies opened up and torrential rains came pouring down.

Saturday morning we tossed our things in our bags, headed to the buffet for breakfast, said goodbye to our new friends, checked out of the resort, and headed to the ferry. Once there, I realized something important that would have been nice to have known exactly one week prior. Had I not been captivated by the easy-breezy path, I might have realized it sooner...I had purchased two round trip tickets for the ferry. Hmmm. Where WERE those tickets? Did I keep them? Did I toss them? As I opened suitcases, searched pockets, and dug through bags, the ferry pulled away from the dock. Darn.

After a thorough search, I came up empty handed. No tickets. Darn again. Cowboy rolled his eyes, approached the ticket booth, and bought two ONE WAY tickets to Cancun. We maneuvered our bags through the waiting area and plopped down on a bench. I opened the front zipper of my carry-on to stow away the receipts for the new tickets and guess what I found. Yeesh. The round trip tickets. Oops. This time a “SANDRA!” was attached to Cowboy’s eye-roll. Yikes.

We boarded the ferry, found a seat on the top deck, and made our way to the mainland as dark ominous clouds began to settle above us. We encountered traffic that doubled our transit time to the airport. We stood in a long line of grumpy passengers at the ticket counter, picked the wrong security checkpoint line, and got stuck behind a woman who apparently “looked suspicious” to the TSA. All the while, unbeknownst to us, a monsoon was fixin to hit Cancun. I’m not kidding. Monsoon.

We ambled to our gate where throngs of people filled the seats and overflowed to the floor. Sheets of rain pelted the windows. Grumpy home-goers were drinking their sorrows away in the airport bars. Annoying announcements were being made over ear-piercing loud speakers. Every flight was delayed by the storm.

We waited. And I got antsy. And we waited some more. And I paced.

Finally, four hours after we had arrived at the airport (two hours after we were scheduled to take off) our flight was called to board. “Just wait, San…no hurry,” said the cowboy. So I waited. Against my better judgment, I waited. I was the 2nd to the last person through the gate, and WHO do you think they chose for a “random search”…?  Me. They opened my carry-on, they opened my purse, they ran a metal-detector over me, they patted me down, and soon after they eradicated the last morsel of my dignity, they let me pass. And Cowboy chuckled. I saw it. And I wasn’t happy.

We descended the stairs to the tarmac where there was a bus waiting. Yes, a bus. The rains were so heavy that they were bussing passengers across the tarmac to the waiting plane. We boarded the bus, and I was mentally preparing to make a mad dash for those flight steps. I was DETERMINED to the be the FIRST ONE to board that dry plane, by golly! The other passengers were either old or carrying babies and car seats, so I was SURE I could win the race to the top.  My adrenaline was pumping…I was on my mark…and then Cowboy reached out, touched my arm and said “Just wait, San…no hurry.” So I waited. Against my better judgment, I waited. And I was the 2nd to the last person off the bus.

There was a looooong line of people on those steps waiting to board that plane. I was 2nd to the last in that never-ending line. I got wetter, and wetter, and wetter. The man behind me got impatient and began yelling “PUSH ‘EM IN AND RUN ‘EM OVER!” He sounded a lot like Cowboy (ahem). And it was in that moment that I realized…

The entire universe had conspired to put us right there, in that very place, at that very time. This could mean only one thing: Mexico was taunting me. I wasn’t smiling. Cowboy wasn’t smiling. The tarmac staff wasn’t smiling. And I silently cursed those stupid Mayan gods.

Hasta la vista, baby!

I Didn’t Know I Married My Father in Law

After 22 years of wedded bliss with this man I call Cowboy, it has become evident that I am married to my father-in-law.

I first met my father-in-law, Big Dad, over 25 years ago. At the time he was a burly and bearded semi driver, but his smiling eyes gave him away instantly. He teased, poked, and prodded at me, and we quickly formed a bond. I became his daughter.

A natural story-teller, I’ve often shaken my head at the yarns my father-in-law spins. He always has a funny story to tell, and he never fails to deliver increasing dramatics as his audience responds with howls of laughter. Big Dad has never met a stranger in all his born days. The man could talk the ear off a lamp post. And intuition…oh yes…if he gets a feeling that someone is having a bad day, he’ll do something to make them laugh. It’s his duty.

Big Dad is one huge tease. He pokes, prods and cajoles anyone and everyone (nearly to the point of exasperation). To say his is stubborn would be an understatement. He, of course, will deny this to his dying day. And probably the biggest thing of all:  Big Dad hates to be late to anything…that is, unless he is galavanting all over town, visiting and chatting to his heart’s content…then it’s okay to be late. It’s his call. And trust me, when he makes the call, and the man says it is time to GO, he turns completely impatient and you GO…now! There is no waiting, no last-minute chatting, no time for belabored good-byes, you simply GO. If you don’t go, he’ll leave you. I’ve witnessed it. Once when Big Dad and Mom B were visiting us, Big Dad determined it was time to leave. He threw up his hand, yelled “Goodbye!” and headed out the door. Mom B, of course, could not leave without a few parting words, hugs and kisses. By the time she made it out the door, Big Dad’s truck was rumbling down the driveway. Cowboy and I stood on the porch giggling as we watched Mom B chasing Big Dad, laughing the entire way!  

A flashback of this particular incident came to mind a couple of years later when our little family of five was preparing to meet Cowboy’s parents for dinner.  Roughly three times throughout the day Cowboy had stated what time we would leave, and roughly five more times when the bewitching hour was near, Cowboy warned his daughters that the bus would leave with or without them. That magic hour struck, and the girls were still fussing over silliness, not prepared to leave. Cowboy took me by the hand and calmly escorted me to the waiting truck. He turned the key in the ignition, backed out of the parking space, and with a honk of the horn, began slowly driving down the lane. In an instant, three little girls came flying out the door, running down the drive screaming “WAIT!  WAIT!  STOP!”  With heavy sigh and glint in his eye, Cowboy put on the brakes, rolled down the window, and asked them if they would like a ride. We made it to dinner on time. All five of us.

When I first met Cowboy, I couldn’t help but think his personality was a lot like his mother’s.  Kind, gentle, patient, helpful, bubbly and fun…but over the years he seems to have morphed into a younger version of Big Dad…that “left behind” moment was probably the first big indication.

Also like Big Dad, Cowboy is a story teller. Something always reminds him of a happening from his younger days, and time after time the girls have asked him to repeat a story he’s shared before. When the girls were really little, Cowboy would make up stories about a fictional character named “Granny Fletcher.”  To this day I imagine they think she was a real person who did the craziest things. 

Probably the strongest intuition Cowboy possesses is his ability, like Big Dad, to hone in on people’s emotions. We’ve gone to dinner many times when he has turned to me and said “our waitress is having a bad day…I’ll see what I can do about that.”  Generally I groan and say “No, please…leave her alone!” But every time that notion has struck him, he’s turned on the silliness, and we’ve always left the restaurant to the sound of a laughing waitress. 

And harassment teasing…? Cowboy, like Big Dad, has mastered it.  He often approaches drive up windows looking like a…well…a crazy man.  I was with him once when he made his away through a Wendy’s drive-up at lunch time.  When we reached the window he immediately began messing with the cashier, asking for pepper packets, knowing full well that they didn’t carry any. The fun  teasing lasted for several minutes. Finally, the girl said “wait” and quickly returned, flung a gray plastic pepper shaker through Cowboy’s truck window, and laughed “There…take that…are you happy now?” He kept that pepper shaker in his glove box for months.

I can’t even begin to list the things he has done to the tellers at our bank. It’s embarrassing. Truly. I apologize to them every time I visit.

One day this week Cowboy stayed home from the jobsite to take care of some things here at home. Just before noon he announced that he needed to run some errands. Knowing this trip would likely turn into a Big-Dad-style galavant unless someone (a.k.a. ME) was able to intervene, I spoke up, “I’ll go with you.” With a curled up  nose and a frown he looked at me and said “Who invited you?”  Not to be deterred, I grabbed my bag and headed to his truck. We made two stops: TSC and Lowe’s (or, as Cowboy calls it, “Slows”).  He of course teased and poked and prodded the staff at each store, and he of course stopped to talk to anyone and everyone he knew (and even someone he didn’t really know) when the opportunity arose, but I am proud to say I managed to keep him on a narrow path and we arrived home in time to get Lil to her dance class. Success!

One thing I can say is unique about Cowboy is that he has a knack for coming up with the strangest ideas. For instance, this morning Cowboy and I had a discussion. It was a silly discussion surrounding a check. Yes, you read that right, a check…written to me by a friend. As we sat at the kitchen table drinking our morning coffee, Cowboy looked over at the check on my errands pile and said “Wow, she has really good handwriting.”

I nodded.

“No really, look at this…that’s good handwriting.”

Again, I nodded.

“Oh my gosh, look…she used a straight edge to draw that line right there…look at that…” and he held it up for me to see, “she used a straight edge!”

This is where I spoke up. “Oh, don’t be silly, she did not use a straight edge, she simply drew a nice straight line.” 

And then it surfaced…that Big Dad stubbornness.

I listened for several minutes as Cowboy tried desperately to convince me that my friend must use a straight edge to write her checks. I kept shaking my head no. I watched as Cowboy dug through the junk drawer and pulled out a straight edge, laying it across the line drawn on the check, viewing it at several different angles. He continued to insist she used a straight edge. I continued to shake my head no, and I might have sort of laughed. A lot. This must have irritated him a bit, for it was then that he spoke a little louder: “I’ll betcha a hunnerd bucks she used a straight edge!” Seizing the opportunity, I stretched out my hand and said, “I’ll take that bet, partner…let’s shake on it!” 

Soon after, a flutter of text messages began back and forth between myself and my friend. To make a long story short, I’ll just say…I won the bet.

To further expound, let’s just say…Cowboy isn’t over it yet. He contends that she must first PROVE to him that she can draw a straight line without a straight edge. Furthermore, he’s just stubborn enough about this (and tight-fisted enough) that I’m certain I’ll never see my “hunnerd bucks.”

Following this epic disaster of a bet, and a few household chores, Cowboy announced that he was “going to town.” I groaned and reminded him that we had a family reunion at noon and we would leave promptly at 11:30. I don’t think it was a nagging type of reminder, but I can’t be sure.

Really, I knew I should have ridden with him. That little voice inside my head kept saying “someone needs to go with him!” but I had so much to do, and I figured I could always call him repeatedly on his cell phone if worse came to worse, right…? So, away he went. Alone. Disaster in the making.

My first call to his cell phone was at 11:46. No answer.

My second call to his cell phone was made as I made my way through the kitchen at 11:48. While awaiting his answer, I looked at Emma and said, “Is your phone ringing? I hear a phone ringing.” Emma rushed to find her phone, “Nope…not mine.”

Where was that ringtone coming from?  “Emma, there is a phone ringing…I hear it…it’s playing ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’” That’s when it hit me. Cowboy’s phone is programmed with a unique ringtone for each of us, and MY ringtone…you guessed it… is ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’ Wouldn’t you know it…Cowboy’s phone was lying right there on the kitchen counter. NOW WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO?!

I stood for a moment, gathering my thoughts. “What would Cowboy do in this situation?” I asked myself. Then, I took a page out of Big Dad’s book. I looked at my daughters and said “We’re leaving…dad will just have to figure it out.” We jumped in the car, and as we began our descent down the lane, guess who pulled in…grinning.

Flashback: to a time when I watched Big Dad pull away with Mom B running after him. Flashback: that moment I first became aware that I was seated next to a younger version of Big Dad, driving away from home with three screaming girls chasing us. 

Yes, it’s true, I’m married to a younger version of Big Dad. But I just can’t help but love them both dearly, quirks and all.

I Don’t Like Surprises

I have never ever liked surprises…not any surprise of any kind…at all. In 22 years of marriage Cowboy has tried three times to surprise me. The first time he came home from work early and said he was whisking me away for the weekend. I had a meltdown in the car. The second time he called me about an hour before he came home, saying nothing more than “pack a bag.” I had a mini-meltdown prior to his arrival. The third time he gave me nine days to absorb and prepare. He told me he’d learned a few things over the years. 

Keeping this in mind, imagine my surprise at a totally new revelation…me…the one who doesn’t like surprises…at 42 years of age…with three nearly grown children…PREGNANT?  GASP!  Now imagine the ensuing meltdown after realization struck.  It wasn’t pretty.

The first niggling thought hit me on Friday afternoon, March 18th.  I spent the afternoon with my nephew Grant, who is four, while my sister Nikki (who is expecting in July) taught a theatre class for our local homeschoolers.  When Grant and I returned from our excursion, Nikki and I sat talking for a moment about how she was feeling. She commented repeatedly about how quickly her belly was expanding. I put my arm around her shoulders in that big-sister way and said, “Sweetie, we both may have been born small in stature, but our pregnancies always make us big as boats…” and before I could finish voicing my thought, I felt the color drain from my face. Immediately my inward struggle began “Am I pregnant?… Me? ….I can’t be pregnant…can I?…Really, Lord…?…NO!…this can’t be happening…wait…I don’t even LIKE surprises!”  I suddenly felt very queasy. 

That night Lindsay, Lily, my mother, and I went to dinner and a high school play with my aunt Marjorie. I was with my family; I had looked forward to that night; I should have been enjoying it…but I was gloomy and miserable, and I was trying with all of my might to act normal and not show any signs of distress. The night is a blur…you’d have to ask them how it went.

The next day, Brian, his mother, and I drove to Lexington, Kentucky, to pick up Emma from her spring break internship.  I could not carry a conversation to save my soul. I was lost in thought, begging God, hoping my suspicions were wrong, and pushing down that growing feeling of nausea.

On Sunday following morning church services, I sat at the lunch table with my pregnant sister and our friend Carrie. The conversation quickly turned to pregnancy, of course. I was caught between the urge to bawl my eyes out and flee.

That evening, Cowboy looked at me and said “what is up with you?  Are you sick?  Are you upset about something? You’ve been acting strange for days.”  I could only stare back at him.  He continued, “Do we need to go somewhere and talk?”  I will never forget the look on his face when I said “Ummm…maybe…I don’t know for sure…I think I might have some news for you that could quite possibly bring a HUGE life-changing experience around November or so.” At his shrug, shake of head, and the look of “I’m-completely-confused-by-women,” I whispered “I…think…I…might…be…” and I put my hand on my belly.  His glance shifted to my deliberately-placed hand, and when his eyes returned to mine, I was somewhat amused by the wave of realization that I watched slowly roll over him.  There he stood, wide-eyed and speechless. Then he laughed, “YOU? The one who doesn’t like surprises…? Well, SURPRISE HONEY!”

On Monday I decided I had to know for sure, so I trekked to our local CVS and bought a pregnancy test.  Still in complete denial, I figured I had just wasted a perfectly good $10 bill, but to my horror the next morning, that little plus sign appeared.  I slowly descended the stairs to tell Cowboy the news.  Hands shaking, I held up the stick for him to see, and immediately incoherent drivel began tumbling out of his mouth, “What’s this mean?…The lighting in here is terrible…Do I see what I think I see?…Why are you shaking…?”

Yes.  Positive.  Pregnant.  Parents over 40 with three children half-way out of the nest, and there we stood…staring at the little pink plus sign that without uttering a single word told us definitively we would soon be starting ALL over.

I closed myself in my bedroom that Tuesday, March 22nd, and I cried.  I prayed for wisdom, guidance, and most of all DESIRE for the growing baby inside me.  “Lord, I need desire for this child…please give me the desire to be a new mother again!”  I sent crazy hormonal texts to Cowboy…. I can’t DO this! … What is God THINKING?  …  Can I DO this? … WHY????!!!! …  How long do you think we can keep this a secret? … Let’s not tell until June…maybe July… We’re good parents, right? …  This is a miracle, right? 

After about 50 of those messages, I received ONE in return: “We may think we have life all mapped out, but it’s not about us, it’s about God’s plan. It’s all about reconciliation. I love you.” 

I wanted to clutch my hands around his neck, squeeze and shake until his eyes popped out…but instead I sent one final message: “Is THAT supposed to make me feel BETTER?!”

From that moment, there was no end to the odd little conversations that swirled around me.  Had everyone always talked about babies and pregnancy as much as they were now?  What was WRONG with these people?!

For example, that Tuesday night, mere hours after my pregnancy was confirmed, we went to dinner with our good friends, Bruce and Ann.  Cowboy asked if I was up for it.  “It will be good for me,” I said, “take my mind off of this for a while.” No such luck. Bruce just HAD to share the story about a friend who, several years ago, was surprised by his wife’s pregnancy…one they had determined would NEVER happen…they had taken deliberate measures to ensure it wouldn’t. Bruce and Ann laughed whole-heartedly as he related the story. Brian and I just sat stunned.

On Wednesday I saw my chiropractor friend Dr. Julie, who had recently been in contact with another 40-something friend who’d just found out she was pregnant.  “She, like you, has a 20-year-old and a 16-year-old…can you IMAGINE?!” I stood there speechless as the thought ‘Er…ummm…uh…well…NO…honestly, I CAN’T imagine…and by the way, can I get her number….?’ raced through my head.  In the end, all I could utter was a simple “Wow.”

At the dinner table that evening, out of the clear blue sky, Lindsay asked “Mom, what exactly is post-partum depression?”  Okay, God…if THIS is the way you bring me around to DESIRE, you need to try a different approach…seriously…

By Friday I was so far into the denial stage that I had convinced myself something else was dreadfully wrong. I was SURE it must be some kind of life-threatening cancer which caused that dumb pregnancy test to show a false positive. Yes, that MUST be it…I needed to talk to Susan, my nurse friend. As I related my symptoms to Susan and told her about the pregnancy test (denial CLEARLY filling my soul), I saw a look of sympathy cross her face. She cocked her head to the side and gently said, “Honey, you’re pregnant.” I stood stunned. “No, no, no Sue…you aren’t hearing me…I CAN’T be pregnant. I can’t. Something else is horribly wrong.” Another sympathetic (or was that a ‘how-can-you-be-so-stupid?’) look, “No. Sandy. Listen to me. You’re pregnant.” Then she wrapped her arms around me tight, cried with me, prayed for me, and assured me it was okay to feel angry or mad or sad or hurt or whatever I felt…it would all come in due time…God’s timing is perfect. 

On Saturday, March 26th, we had a family luncheon with that gargantuan group of descendants named “Bane.”  Sixty-seven aunts, uncles & cousins gathered at MCL Cafeteria.  Among them all, there was ONE baby present. Baby Bentley. That precious, smiling, six-month-old wonder baby, who in his short lifetime, has already overcome a myriad of challenges. I held him, fed him his lunch, snuggled with him, and the entire time kept thinking “oh wow…I don’t think I can DO this!”  Brian took him from me just as a cousin looked over and said “Does that give you any ideas, guys?”  Another walked up and said “Whoa…did you guys forget to tell us something?!”  It was all in jest, of course, and I half-heartedly laughed, but the entire time I kept thinking “If ONLY you people KNEW!” 

Another Sunday rolled around, and during lunch, my dear friend Carrie and I were playing with toddler Luke.  She shot off the smart-alleck remark “It’s not too late for you and Brother Brian to have another one, you know!”  She laughed. I squirmed.

On Monday, the 28th I saw my massage therapist.  While she was cranking away on my sore shoulder, she said “Sandy, you spend so much time taking care of everyone else…tell me what you ever do for YOU when you have the time.” I nearly cried… TIME? WHAT TIME?  DON’T YOU KNOW I’M STARTING ALL OVER AGAIN?!  I simply answered “I don’t really know…I guess I’ll have to think on that,” then I followed up with an un-voiced prayer…. “Desire, dear Lord, please give me DESIRE!” 

On Tuesday, the 29th, we saw Bruce & Ann again. Ann said “Can you believe your babies will be all grown up soon?  What will you DO when you have an empty nest?!” I simply shrugged my shoulders and said “Oh…I have a feeling Brian and I will always be surrounded by kids.”  

Desire, Lord…Desire….I know I’m selfish…I admit it…but remember, I don’t like surprises!

Sunday, April 3rd. Beautiful sunny day. I sat soaking up the sun in my lawn chair, book in hand. Cowboy walked up behind me, wrapped his right arm around my neck, and placed his left hand on my belly. “I love both of you,” he whispered, then he kissed my cheek and walked away. As joyful tears filled my eyes, the weight of my guilt was lifted, and I felt an odd feeling wash over me.  “What IS this…?” I wondered, “Joy…?  Love…?  Happiness…?” Yes, all of the above, and maybe a just a tiny hint of desire. “Oh Lord, I am so humbled by your gifts…thank you!” 

I am richly blessed, I know this for a fact. I’m beginning to come around.  Maybe this surprise won’t turn out to be so bad after all!

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

The week of April 11 was rough for Cowboy and Girl 2.  Nightly checks at two-hour intervals were beginning to take their toll, and Cowboy was staggering around looking like he hadn’t slept in days.  When he came inside for breakfast following his early morning mare check, he said every sign was telling him we would soon have a foal.  Yep, he was sure it was going to happen TODAY!  He muttered something incoherent like “she’s really bagged up…looks like she’s waxing…soft in the poll…uhh…no, wait…I’M the one soft in the poll….SHE’S soft at the dock!”  (For you non-horse people out there, the “dock,” or top of the tail, gets soft just before a mare goes into the labor…the “poll,” on the other hand, is the top of a horse’s head!) It was very plain to see Cowboy needed a good long night of uninterrupted sleep.  But as we all know, there is no rest for the weary…and good things come to those who wait.

Cowboy and I had a meeting to attend, so arrangements were made for Girl 2 to stay behind and keep an eye on things, and she had strict instructions to text message me if anything started happening.  By 11:00 a.m. I was SURE she must be in the the middle of a tough delivery and she hadn’t texted me yet (the nerve!), so I sent her a message:

ME: “anything happening?”

EMMA: “nope. just moving around alot. how close are they when water breaks?”

ME: “CLOSE! Her water broke?”

EMMA: “no.”

I did a mental eye roll and then a new messaged popped up.

EMMA:  “when i go out to the barn she stands still and munches on hay. when i go inside she starts pacing and breathing hard.”

ME:  “stay out of the barn until she is down on the ground. i know from experience when you’re in labor you just want to be left alone.”

EMMA: “mom…really?…TMI.”

(For those of you not up on the acronym lingo, TMI stands for ‘Too Much Information.’)  I giggled and tossed my phone in my purse.  I would wait.  Good things come to those who wait.

When we returned home from our meeting, we anticipated a mare lying in her stall, but no…Baby stood in the corner, tossing her head at us.  Lifting her nose and curling her lips, she glared at us in defiance as if to say “GET OUT OF MY BARN!”

11:00 p.m.: still no foal. Cowboy scheduled “foal watch” with Girl 1 and Girl 2, and we headed to bed.

12:21 p.m.: I was rudely awakened by a slamming door and sat straight up in bed. I muttered to Brian “I think we have a baby,” as I heard boots running through the family room and up the stairs.  Girl 1 poked her head in the bedroom door, “DAD!  THERE’S A FOAL ON THE GROUND!” Then she turned on her heel and ran back down the stairs.

Cowboy laid, breathing deeply, no movement.  I reached out and touched him, “Brian…there’s a foal on the ground.”  He turned toward me, but laid silent. 

“Brian, are you awake?  Honey, Baby had her foal….” 

Slowly he sat up, and I could see him trying to clear his head.  He stood, walked to the bedroom door, closed it, then returned to the foot of the bed and looked at me. 

“Honey, turn on the light and get your clothes on,” I said, “Do you know what’s happening?” 

“Ummmm…yeah…something is in the house…?”

“No dear, it’s the foal.  Baby had her foal.”

“What?! How in the devil did it get in the HOUSE?"!”

Okay, this is where I realized some SERIOUS intervention would be necessary…so I got a little loud…

“BRIAN! GET YOUR CLOTHES ON AND GO TO THE BARN; THERE’S A FOAL ON THE GROUND!”

That did it.  He jumped as if shocked by a ‘ZAP!’  “Oh my GOSH!”  He grabbed his pants and his boots and took off for the barn.

By the time we reached the barn, the foal was on the ground, Baby was standing over him.  Within minutes, Pablo was up on his long wobbly legs, trying to get around to his momma, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to nurse.  So we waited…and waited…and waited…

At 2:00 a.m., Pablo was still standing, pacing back and forth in the stall, and he still hadn’t found the path to the udder.  I announced I was going back to bed. “I hope he figures out how to nurse soon,” I said, “he sure is a strong little guy; he hasn’t laid down yet!”

At 2:15 a.m., Brian joined me in the bedroom.  “The girls are going to watch him until he starts nursing.  I need some sleep.”

At 2:30 a.m., Lindsay popped her head in the door, “Dad, he’s still not nursing and he won’t lay down either.”  Brian sighed deeply and said “Can you give me about 30 more minutes?”  She could.  She did.  3:00 a.m. came around pretty quickly, and she knocked on the door once again.  “Dad…?  Still nothing…I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.”  Once again, Cowboy rose, pulled on his pants and boots, and headed back to the barn.

At 5:00 a.m., I went out to see if I could relieve him and give him a chance to sleep.  Church would be starting in 5 short hours, and Cowboy was going to have to preach.  He really needed some rest.  When I got to the barn, he was on his knees milking Baby, trying to save as much of that all-important colostrum he could save.  “He still can’t do it, and he still has not laid down. Dummy Foal Syndrome. I called the vet.”  Three hours later, still no nursing, still no laying down, still no vet.  But good things come to those who wait.  Patiently.  Or…not so patiently. 

At 9:00 a.m., the vet finally arrived to a very sleepy (but still refusing to lie down) and quickly dehydrating (nine hours, no nourishment) foal.  Doc took a quick look, said “He’s too pretty to let anything happen to him, let’s fix this!” And in short order, the colt was tubed, the momma milked, and colostrum distributed directly into the colt’s stomach.  Pablo soon found his way to the ground, took his first nap, and we waited.  At 11:15 a.m., he stood and nursed for the first time!  See…good things come to those who wait!

Following church I asked Cowboy to lay down and nap for a while, but he insisted he would be fine.  I don’t know how he did it, but he got through the day on about 2 hours of sleep.  At 8:45 p.m., his head hit the pillow and he was out like a light. I wish I could say the story ends there.  But no.  At 9:00 p.m., there was a soft knock on our bedroom door, and Girl 2 peeked in.  “Dad…?  You awake…?  Pablo is constipated and really straining.  I think he needs an enema.”  From the lump next to me came a low rumbling growl.  Cowboy sat up…pulled on his pants and boots…mumbled “why do I DO this?” and he descended the stairs, journeying again to the barn.

And guess what…?  We are expecting foal #2 any day!  Good things come to those who wait.

When A Cowboy Travels

Cowboy and I come from a long line of home bodies. We never have been good travelers; we prefer to just be home. This past weekend, however, we were provided an opportunity to expand our definition of “HOME” when we travelled to a little town called Cannonsburg in eastern Kentucky. 

Early in our marriage when we had two tiny children and nothing but time, Cowboy and I traveled frequently to attend church meetings. We have been blessed to meet church people from Indiana, Ohio, Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, Georgia, Alabama, and Texas. Once upon a time, when Girl #2 was only six weeks old, we met a wonderful preacher, Elder Glenn, who asked us to visit his church in the Ohio/Kentucky/West Virginia tri-state area. Sixteen years and huge guilty conscience later, we did just that.  It was a visit long-overdue…but I’ll get to that in a minute…first I have to tell you about our welcoming committee in that area of Kentucky. 

Our first official “state” meeting came soon after crossing the border. Two gentlemen in an ancient pick up truck were driving very slowly in the left lane. The truck, decked with a truck-cap-style camper perched precariously on the rusted bed and held in place with bungee cords, had no side or rear view mirrors. The camper was whopper-jawed in a way that made the truck look as if it was strolling sideways down the road. Cowboy determined that Uncle Cletus had bumped a little too hard against one side wall in his sleep, sending the whole kit and kaboodle rolling into a ditch. Poor fella. But as we cautiously passed them on the right, we noted Uncle Cletus looked alive and well as he sat driving that old truck with his nephew riding shotgun, a trusty pit bull between them. It couldn’t have been a more fitting scene had the words “WELCOME TO THE BLUEGRASS STATE” been emblazoned on the back bumper!

Our first “in-person” meeting was with Jimmy, who worked the counter at the Hampton Inn Ashland. His friendly welcoming smile and sweet southern accent diverted my attention away from the first impression of faded blue jeans and a button-down shirt open to reveal what must have been his favorite tee. He gave us our room key, explained that it worked better if you swipe them slowly, informed us that snacks and coffee were around the corner, wished us a wonderful stay, and told us to call the front desk if we needed “anything…anything at all.” And we knew he meant it.

Cowboy and I boarded the elevator, pressed the button for the 2nd floor and made our way down the hall to find the doorplate of our room (#233) adorned with a picture of a white cowboy hat. It made Cowboy feel very special to think they reserved that particular room just for him.

After depositing our bags in the room, we ventured back downstairs just in time to meet up with our church friends Elder Frank and his wife, who treated us to dinner at a nearby Bob Evans, where we met Julie, our waitress. Julie was a lively, fun and spunky red head who called us all “baby,” and high-fived the preacher Frank when she learned he was a Wildcats fan (ahem…who ISN’T a Wildcats fan in Kentucky?).

After taking our drink orders, Julie turned to Cowboy and asked “Where y’all from?” Cowboy replied “Indiana.” Julie looked at him quizzically, then started, “You know, I went to Indiana once with my boyfriend to a big monster truck rally thing that he likes…anyway…it was in Indy, at that Lucas Oil stadium…? I kept sayin ‘what in the world do they have all these huge pictures of Peyton Manning for…do they like him here or somethin?’” Stifling a giggle, Cowboy explained that Lucas Oil Stadium is THE Colt’s stadium… “you know, where they play?”    “Ooooooh” she said, “that makes COMPLETE sense now!”  Julie was a southern sweetheart we Hoosiers couldn’t help but fall in love with. She apparently felt the same since she spent many long moments with us sharing stories about her boyfriend, her church, her daddy, and her Wildcats (the 2009 team was her favorite).

Being the home body that I am, it was evident very early on that we needed to make a stop at the local Wal-Mart.  Being the man that he is, Cowboy dropped me at the door and said he’d wait in the car.  Even in the relative solitude of the car, it didn’t take long before he made a friend.  As Cowboy sat fiddling with the radio, he looked up to see a woman walking toward him, pushing several Wal-Mart carts. She motioned for him to roll down his window.  Surprised by the gesture, Cowboy complied, and she began to explain, “My husband is inside doin our shoppin. I didn’t feel like goin in, so I figured I could gather up the carts while I’m waitin.”  Cowboy wasn’t sure if this was her way of pointing out that he should also find something productive to do, or if she was just being friendly. It turned out to be the latter. After finishing her commentary, she prepared to walk away, but first said “Nice car, by the way!” Yes, there are definitely some friendly folk in that neck of the woods, and they fulfilled their “welcome committee” duties quite well.

Without a doubt, the best part of the trip was arriving at the church for their Saturday night meeting. It was there, in that humble little building that Cowboy finally had the 16-year reunion with Elder Glen that he’d been longing for. Elder Glen proudly announced to everyone that he “knew this young man when he was but a little boy!” (We didn’t have the heart to remind him that Cowboy was a grown and married man with two young children at the time of their first meeting!) In addition to the reunion with Elder Glen and his wife, we met Brenda, Geneva, Katie, Joe, Charlie, and so many many more whose names currently escape me, but whose love for the Lord and their church family was certainly undeniable. They shared with us, hugged us, asked about our lives, our blessings, our church, and our family. They encouraged us with their words of wisdom and their pure hearts.  And it was there, in that little town 4-1/2 hours from home, that we realized we were home. 

This weekend, in Cannonsburg, Kentucky, we found it to be true…home really IS where your heart is. <3

Moments in the Life of a Carpenter’s Wife, Part 1

Cowboy is a cowboy by choice, Carpenter by trade.

The Cowboy Way is my loving husband’s fantasy, and he escapes to it at any opportunity. Who can blame him? A lover of nature and animals, what better way to pass a day than to saddle up and ride the range, strolling peacefully through God’s amazing creation? Sadly, my Cowboy can’t seem to find a range in east central Indiana, and pesky little things like bills can’t be paid living in a fantasy, so he relies on his other incredible talent for silly things like food and shelter.

In our 21 years of wedded bliss, one thing has become strikingly clear to me…a carpenter’s house truly is always the last to be done. Cowboy has often said things like “Honey, I do that kind of stuff all day long, why would I want to do it HERE when I get home?” (Translated: “I have a horse to ride, for crying out loud!”) 

I let Cowboy convince me that we should build a house once. It sounded like a marvelous idea that summer of 1994. What I didn’t know at the time was that my custom-built home wouldn’t actually be finished until May, 1999…just in time for the new owners to move in.

When we first viewed our current home in February 2002, we saw there was plenty of remodeling work to be done, but Cowboy shrugged his shoulders and said “No big deal, that’s simple. We can manage it.”

Mmm-hmm.

Nearly nine years later, this past Monday morning at 9:34 a.m., my cell phone rang. It was Cowboy. “I’m on my way home,” said he, “The project has hit a stall, and I’m going to have a few weeks off. Start clearing things out of the family room, I’m tearing out that rock around the fireplace and hanging drywall.”

Now if I were not a seasoned carpenter’s wife, I would have been soaring…after all, nearly NINE YEARS of looking at that ugly sinking rock wall and stuffing its cracks with steel wool to keep the mice from coming in was a bit wearing on the nerves, but I’m a big girl carpenter’s wife now, and I’m sorry to say I breathed a heavy sigh of frustration as I trudged to the family room grumbling.

Two hours later I began questioning Cowboy as he measured room sizes and door sizes. “While we’re in this mess, I thought we could  replace the trim and the interior doors too. Oh, and I called John to come and give me an estimate for re-painting the entire house. It needs it.”

“Wait!” I said (probably a little too harshly) “Are you SURE you’re not going back to the job site before all of this gets done?” Cowboy shrugged. “They’ll just have to wait until I finish this project.”  Sigh number two passed my lips unchecked…

Mmm-hmm.

It was with a mixture of joy and trepidation that I watched demolition begin in my family room Monday afternoon. Plastic was hung, mortar was chopped, and rock after rock was carried out of the house until all that was left was a gaping hole in the wall to the garage, a second hole in the floor to the crawl space, and the sound of crisp five degree winter winds blustering through said holes, whipping at the plastic barrier. I shivered as I mentally calculated the volume of steel wool needed to fill those holes, and Cowboy explained what he would do “tomorrow.”   

Tuesday dawned bright and early with the ringing of Cowboy’s phone. I stifled sigh #3 as he explained “It’s just a meeting with the architect. I won’t be long.”

Several hours later, as the sun found its hiding place beyond the barn, Cowboy’s truck rumbled back up the drive way and he entered the house. “That meeting took longer than I thought it would…aaaaannnndddd…uhhhhhh…I kinda have to go back tomorrow.” I stood motionless for a heartbeat, then slowly turned to look at the plastic-and-tarp-strewn family room without saying a word. Cowboy’s eyes followed mine, and when I returned my gaze to him all I saw were two big blue eyes and a sheepish grin.  *SIGH!*

…stay tuned…

The Independence of a Doer

Cowboy was raised an independent doer.  Growing up on the farm, if he saw something that needed done, he just did it, with Big Dad’s blessing. 

Take, for example, his first independent project using wood, a circular saw and bent nails: rabbit cages at the age of 12 or so.  Simple stuff, right?  I mean, what 12 year old doesn’t hammer out bent nails and brandish a circular saw while his dad is out driving a semi across country?  No biggie.  Little Cowboy saw a need, Big Dad wasn’t around to do it, it had to be done, so he did it.  And, as the story goes, when Big Dad got home and saw him working on the project, he simply asked “Whatcha doin’?”  Apparently satisfied that Little Cowboy had it all under control, he left him to the task.

This was the story of Cowboy’s life.  Different scenarios throughout the years, of course, but ultimately always the same ending.  And that, as they say, is how a doer “does.” 

Being the doer that Cowboy is, it’s only natural that the same doing gene be passed along to his daughters, right?  Our girls are pretty much doers.  They see a need, they tackle it.  Except for one silly little thing…their dad is not Big Dad.  Cowboy doesn’t turn a blind eye and let them do their thing like his dad did for him. 
Take, for example, the hay rack.  Girl 1 and Girl 2 know that we need a new hay rack, and they are more than willing to build one, but they first must get the okay from Cowboy.  The conversation came up one afternoon as we ate lunch.  It went something like this:

Girl 1:  Do you remember we need a hay rack?

Cowboy:  Yep.

Girl 1:  When can you build it?

Cowboy:  Some day.

Girl 2:  I can build it.

Cowboy:  Oh really?  You know how to use power tools?  You know how to use a saw?  Can you cut a straight line?

Girl 3 (jumping in):  She can’t DRAW a straight line! 

Girl 2 (shooting evil looks at Girl 3):  Sure I can do it.  How hard could it be?  Where are the tools?

Cowboy:  In my trailer.

Girl 2:  What trailer?

Cowboy:  The black trailer.

Girl 2:  (looks at Cowboy with a blank stare)

Cowboy:  The one in front of the barn…the one I take to work…the one you walk past every day…

Girl 2 (as realization dawns):  Oooooooh THAT trailer!  I knew that.  I can do it.

Cowboy:  How will you do it?  How will you draw a straight line?

Girl 2:  I’ll use the little triangle doo-hickey.

Red flags pop up in Cowboy’s mind.  First, she doesn’t know what the tool trailer is, and second, she doesn’t know the name of a speed square.  He laughs, sympathizes a bit, then says no, sorry, no can do.  Cowboy will do it when he has time.  This is where Girl 2 turned it on thick.  You know, all that annoying nagging stuff about being responsible and being able to handle the job and “don’t you trust me” and all that nonsense.  Cowboy didn’t reply, he just sat quietly eating his lunch.  Girl 2 was smiling, obviously thinking that Cowboy’s silence meant he was considering it.  She’d give him a few days to think about it and try again.

Interestingly enough, later that same day, after Girl 1 left to meet a friend, I let Libby-the-big-dog outside to use the facilities and asked Girl 2 to please remember to let her back inside shortly.  Libby, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, likes to roll in manure and eat gross stuff when no one is looking.  An hour later, Libby was scratching at the door, begging to be let in.  Uh-oh.  “EMMA! Why is Libby still outside?”  Oops, she had forgotten.  Ha ha ha, laughs all around, jokes about responsibility and independence. 

And that’s when it happened.  As we were laughing, the grossest of all doggie grossness reared its ugly head…and ears.  Libby walked over to the only piece of carpet we have in the house and without any warning whatsoever, she upchucked a full size, intact rabbit.  In one piece.  Whole.  Except the head.

Cowboy winced.  Girl 2 gagged.  Girl 3 ran away screaming.  I covered my eyes.  Libby sprawled spread eagle on the hardwood floor and sighed.   

This is where Cowboy, in an attempt at full seriousness and with the stern-dad voice he doesn’t generally use, “encouraged” Girl 2 to express her responsible independence in all its blazing glory by picking up the gross headless mess.  I was cheering:  Show him your stuff, Girl 2! Show him you can do it; you can handle it; you are willing and able to manage anything that comes your way; anything boys can do girls can do better!

With a look of complete and utter disgust, she refused. 

I guess this means she won’t be building a hay rack anytime soon either.

With the Flip of My Clippers

About a year ago Cowboy determined in his mind that I should be his barber.  It was totally his idea, born from three clear facts:

1. he likes it cut every 4 weeks
2. barbers cost money
3. Cowboy is cheap
 
It became clear from the moment he conceived this idea that I had no say in the matter whatsoever, though I tried repeatedly to argue that I was NOT a barber.  “There’s nothing to it,” said he, and off he went to the drug store to purchase a clipper kit.

It was late morning when he came back, tossed the kit on the table, plopped in the closest chair, closed his eyes and said “Whenever you’re ready.”

Oh boy.

Being the perfectionist that I am, I was nervous about my new responsibility, not that I didn’t have experience in barbering (if you can call it that).  My dad was a barber by trade.  He frequently cut hair for friends and family in our kitchen when I was growing up.  I always enjoyed the buzz of his clippers as I sat watching him do his magic.  I doubt Dad ever knew he was teaching me how to use a comb as a guide around the ears, or how to hold longer hair up with the comb and snip it with scissors...surely some of his talent had rubbed off on me over the years, right?

I rummaged through the pieces of the new kit, familiarizing myself with the contents, opened the little booklet titled “So You Think You Can Be a Barber” (or something of that nature), and began to read.  I effectively stalled for about 10 minutes before Cowboy finally said “Sandra, I don’t have all day.  Just do it.  It will be fine.” 

Easy for you to say Mr. Man of Few Words who knows nothing about these things, I thought to myself.  Okay, here goes…deep breath…I can do this.  And I did it; and it turned out fine.  Cowboy opened his eyes, looked in the mirror, and congratulated me on a job well done.  Pressing a thank you kiss on my forehead Mr. Cheapo said “Three more haircuts just like this and the kit will be paid for,” and out the door he went to do what Cowboy does.

From that day forward, every four weeks, I have cut his hair.  Sometimes I cut it shorter, sometimes I leave it longer, sometimes I use fancy Dad-taught methods like using a comb to cut around his ears and trim his sideburns.  I began to like being in charge of Cowboy’s hair.  In fact, I started to feel a little proud of myself.  Not to brag or anything, but his hair always turned out pretty darn good.

What is that Bible verse, again?  “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”  Yes, that’s the one.  I should focus on it more frequently I suppose. 

It was Saturday, four weeks since Cowboy’s last haircut, and just like clockwork, he brought the kit to me, plunked himself in the chair and closed his eyes for a nap.  I set up shop, tied the cape around his neck, and humming my little haircutting tune began clipping away, clipping away, clipping away, until…

Oops.  Before I could suck that word down deep into the hidden depths of my soul, it came tumbling out of my mouth in a low whisper, just like that:  “Oops.” 

There was no emotion involved, no gasp attached, just a simple oops…similar to the way I would say it if I’d dropped my napkin or some such thing.

You know, a girl can learn a lot with a little word like “oops.” It’s such a powerful word.  It’s really amazing how that one simple little word, in combination with clippers in your hand, can strike fear in a man. 

The moment I let that little “oops” fly, and as I assessed the damage over his right ear, Cowboy’s eyes popped wide open and his eyebrows did a little dance way up high on his forehead. 

“What?” he growled.

Oh nothing…go back to sleep.

“No. What?” 

Well, it’s just that, well, I’m thinking maybe I should cut your hair a little shorter this time…you know, warm weather and all. 

I couldn’t help but notice his eyebrows as they turned down sharply, and his eyes got this little squinty thing going on.

“What did you do?” he muttered. 

Well, it’s not bad really…okay, it’s kind of sort of a little bit bad. 

“Can you fix it?” 

Depends. 

“Just taper it more.” And seemingly satisfied to have settled this little conundrum with such a simple solution, he closed his eyes again. 

Now this, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call denial.  Clearly, reality had not yet struck Cowboy's brain, because to him it was simple:  “just taper it more, I will finish my nap, and all will be good as new.”  But for the life of me, I couldn’t recall ever learning from my dad how to “taper” around a bald spot, and I began to laugh out loud.  It started as little stifled giggly stuff, then began to roll headlong into a bend-at-the-waist bellow, when (dummy me) blurted out:

Honey, I don’t think you understand the depths of this oops! 

Cowboy was not amused.  Uh-oh…low eyebrows and squinty eyes again.

“Fix it” he demanded.

I’ll try. 

“Do something.” 

Okay, okay, okay. How about this:  we’ll give it three days and I will try again.

Cowboy did not laugh. 

Five days tops, it will be good as new! 

“Am I going to have to wear a hat in church tomorrow?”

Maybe. 

“Just fix it.” 

I know, I know!  Let me find a marker, I’ll paint it! 

“NO!” 

I stood there laughing for what seemed like ten minutes.  Cowboy sat expressionless, and I began feeling those steely blue eyes piercing me.  After getting myself back under control and once again donning my clippers, I told Cowboy I would just cut it shorter.  Lots shorter. 

“Fine,” was all he said.

When I had finally done the best I could do, he went to the mirror to see for himself:

“That’s great.”

Yeah. 

“I like my hair short any way.” 

Good. 

“I look mean.” 

Sure you do. 

“I look military.” 

Yep. 

“It’s fine.” 

Whew! 

“Just don’t let it happen again.”

And with that, he planted a kiss of reassurance on my forehead, and headed out to do what Cowboy does, bald spot and all.  I guess that means Mr. Cheapo will be back in my chair again in four weeks.

The Horse Hoarder

This is my cowboy on this sunny Friday afternoon.

He put in a good half day of construction work today. I don’t really know why it was a planned half-day. I think he mumbled something earlier in the week about having a small bathroom repair for someone in the morning and that he would take the rest of the day off, but I can’t be entirely sure. I was only half listening. I’m kind of bad about that sometimes. (Oh, by the way, my camera says I took these photos at 1:57 p.m. This is really important to note.)

I came home earlier than normal today too. Girl 2 and Girl 3 take part in a science class with other homeschoolers on Friday mornings, and typically the afternoons are reserved for running errands, but not today. Why? Because this morning Cowboy said he needed Girl 2 to get home early. Girl 1 had to work, and Cowboy wanted to go look at a pony, so Girl 2 had to go with him to ride it. My friends, let me take this moment to announce: we are buying a pony.

Now before you go assuming some bad non-listening stuff about me, let me defend myself up front by telling you that this time I truly WAS listening FULLY, and even though he SAID he was going to LOOK at a pony, I have learned to listen instead to what he MEANS. He definitely means we will own a pony before this Friday is over. Do you know how I know? Look at this…

This is Cowboy in his truck. He is leaving our farm. He’s headed out to “LOOK” at a pony…with our horse trailer attached. The trailer, I’m sure he would say, is going along with him “just in case.” (For the record, my camera says this photo was taken at 2:01 p.m. Have you figured out where this timeline thing is going yet…?)

Anyway, as he left the house he defended his shopping trip by delivering his usual disclaimer: “If I buy it, it will be a project pony. I can train it and turn it in a couple of months.” There was no need for a reply on my part. That silly argument may have worked on the first nine horses, but I’m not falling for that trick again. I’m smarter this time.

At this point in the story I could post a few more “wait for it” pictures, but to save your precious time and my precious blog space I will cut right to the chase. See this…?

It’s Cowboy and his truck coming home…this picture was taken at 5:58 p.m.
Then there is this one at 6:00:
 
And, oh my golly…what is that coming out of the trailer at 6:01?

SURPRISE! Wow, that sure looks like a pony to me!

Now you should not think the story ends here. No sir. Not yet. The end is near, but before I get too far ahead of myself, let me take a moment to remind you of the quote above. You know the one…it included some silly words like project pony…training…turning…couple of months.

As Girl 1 led the pony into the barn, Girl 3 asked Cowboy how long the pony would be staying. “We’re probably going to sell him,” Cowboy said. Did you catch that? PROBABLY. Do I need to translate for you? Yeah, didn’t think so.

Meet Vegas:

Blue roan Quarter Pony

Isn’t he handsome?

He kissed my camera at 6:11…

Made his bed at 6:14…

And completely stole our hearts exactly 60 seconds later.
Welcome home Vegas.

I’m such a sucker.

A Change Would Do You Good

Brian teases me a lot about "toughing out" this marriage of 20+ years. He jokes about having invested so much time in training me that he can't possibly switch partners now. After all, a change would just be too much work. Isn't he lovely? Bless his heart. (My friend Scott laughs when I use the phrase "bless your heart." He says it's code for "you're an idiot.")

My hubby will no doubt snicker at this post, but heregoes...

I am a bit of an obsessive person. Always have been. When I'm "in the mode," you can't divert my attention. It's a lovely thing when there's work to be done, but it's not so lovely when we're trying to have fun. And I worry. About everything. It's my nature. My darling has put up with this behavior and worked around it for years, rolling his eyes or shaking his head at my "weirdness" now and then, but mostly just shrugging his shoulders and giving in to my silly obsessions because he always knows that it is pointless to argue with me.

It pains me to admit it, but I'm not reasonable when I'm obsessive.

Then came this dream of his. These horses. This barn. This ministry. Combine those things with his love of life, love of children, and his endless silliness and laughter...my personality flaws are just no match for these things. I have been plucked up out of my box and plunked down into a new one.

Case in point: Before we built the barn and started hosting large group gatherings, I would have worried myself sick over toddlers bustling about...what if someone got hurt? I would've had organized activities for little ones...they can't get bored OR dirty! I would have driven myself crazy thinking up games for teens...they can't be shy and uncomfortable, we have to help them "break the ice!" And adults...they'll need snacks, drinks, and OH MY...what if they walk into my house and see I'm not perfect?! The thought of all of these things would have sent my life into a momentary tailspin with my husband - Mr. Even, Mr. Steady, Mr. Go-With-The-Flow - bouncing wildly like the loose caboose of a roller coaster train.

But last evening, as the glorious warm spring day was ending and the sun was moving low into the sky (Brian just LOVES to tease me when I write this way), the horses were standing at their gates curiously watching craziness unfold. Two 4-H clubs were meeting together in our barn. It was filled to the brim with children, teens, and adults. Toddlers were scurrying up and down the aisles, in and out of barn doors. Little ones were getting dirty in the sand, kicking up dust and <*gasp*> climbing on the manure pile. Teens were grouped together chatting and snapping pics with their cell phones. Adults were talking and laughing, sharing stories and experiences. Everyone was enjoying their time here, and I was looking around at the crowd, realizing that I hadn't done ANYTHING to make this stuff happen! And you know what? I LOVE having a barn full of people! It's MAYHEM, and it's...yikes! IT'S FUN!

Okay, so maybe a little bit of what Brian teases me about is true. He has changed me. And he has worked long and hard to do it. Bless his heart. ;)

Going, Coming, and Chasing

A few changes have taken place over the past few weeks here at Jordan's Crossing. First and foremost, we said farewell to our equine friend Star whose new home is with one of our riding students, Miss M. Miss M waited a very long time to get Star (who was pregnant with Boomer when she decided to buy her), and we were all thrilled when the day finally came that we could deliver her to her new dwelling. Star was a wonderful mare who gave us both Zoe and Boomer, and she will be a great friend and 4-H project for Miss M.

Now for any of you who know this family well, you will rightly ask, "Who took Star's place?" Of course we didn't have an empty space for very long! Soon after Star left Emma learned of a pony named Britches in need of a home. She called the owner, secured the purchase, and away went the truck and trailer to bring Britches home.

Surely you don't think I'm speaking of Britches without sharing a funny story...? What would a new pony be without a funny new-pony story?! First a little background: Britches had a short "vacation" here last winter -- he lived with us for 10 days between transfers from one owner to another (both of whom are friends of ours). Britches has always been known for one particular bad habit - playing "catch me if you can" in the pasture. When he stayed here that short span of 10 days, Emma was getting pretty good at convincing that pony to come to her without a chase. Well, the day Britches came to live with us for keeps, Emma was at a friend's house so Brian offered to pick him up and bring him home. Somehow Brian got totally distracted that day and absent-mindedly turned Britches out into an open 2 acre pasture. Bad idea! Just about the time night fell and it turned completely dark, Brian remembered that Britches had a wound that needed attention and he tromped out to the pasture to doctor him. Brian was gone for a very long time before my phone rang. "Can you come help me please?" I slipped on my boots and headed out to the barn to see what he needed, and was shocked to find him saddling up Dixie. "What are you doing?" I asked increduloulsy. "I can't catch that pony, and I can't let him win this battle, so I've got my lariat over there and I'm going to rope him I need someone to stand at the gate and come out to hold Dixie once I catch Britches." Now, I KNOW my husband is a cowboy in his heart, but seriously, I don't recall ever seeing him PRACTICE with a lariat before, and I was pretty darn sure that Dixie didn't have a clue what roping entailed. But not wanting to pierce his pride, I walked with him out to the pasture and opened the gate. As he entered the pasture and took a moment to set Dixie up, Lily hollered "Dad, how are you going to see anything out there?" He responded "By the light of the moon, babe, by the light of the moon!" And off he went to corner Britches. Now I won't bore you with all of the details, but I will say that if there had been the least bit of light that dark and beautiful night, it would have been a comical show I'm sure, but all we heard were hoofbeats and whinnies...back and forth...back and forth. After about 30 minutes and a long pause I finally yelled "Honey, you have to THROW the rope, not just hold it!" His response? "I'm afraid I'll miss and spook Dixie!" And with that, he tossed the lariat, which went flailing behind him, caught in Dixie's tail, and caused her to jump and dance and prance past the gate as Britches ran full force to the south end of the pasture. I couldn't hold my laughter any longer, and that got a glare with a "humph," at which time Lily hollered out "Dad, are you having fun?" And he replied, "I sure AM Lil!" That did it for me -- I KNEW it! This wasn't about catching a pony at all, but about my husband's sheer desire to feel like a cowboy under the blanket of stars. The end of the story is this -- Brian never caught that pony with his lariat that night, but as Dixie trod her way back to the gate to leave the pasture, Britches sure did follow her. He didn't like that his new playmate was leaving him. He let me pet him at the gate, but he wouldn't let me put a rope on him. Emma came home around midnight, and the next morning all three of us went out to try to catch that pony again. But guess what? Emma didn't need our help. Brian learned one very valuable lesson...it always helps when you arrive with treats in your pocket. :)

Enjoy your goings, comings, and chasings -- "...do it with joy, and not with grief: for that is unprofitable for you." Hebrews 13:17

Angels in Hay Season

The girls and I just returned from a mini holiday at Kings Island near Cincinnati. They had never been to Kings Island before. I hadn't been in 22 years. Brian doesn't enjoy Kings Island...AT ALL! He hates the rides, he hates the walking, and he hates the crowds. I, on the other hand, LOVE IT! Going to Kings Island was a family tradition for as long as I can remember. Being from a large family, it was not hard to find enough people to go together and get the reduced "group rate." (My mother reminded me this morning that she remembers paying $6 per person...a far cry from what we paid this week!)

As a kid, the day of that "big event" brought alot of excitement and anticipation. We would all gather at Uncle Paul and Aunt Dee's house early in the morning. The men would squeeze into the front of Uncle Paul's blue pick up truck with the white camper shell. My mom, two or three of my aunts, and a whole passel of cousins would climb in the back where there was a mattress and a cooler full of food. Singing songs and laughing, we would crane our necks to peer out of the camper shell window vents, each of us hoping to be the first "spotter" of the Eiffel Tower. It was always a great deal of fun! We would ride ride ride, eat lunch in the parking lot, take in a show, and ride some more until the sun set and the fireworks began. (Funny, I don't remember the rides home. Probably because we kids would sleep all the way, likely being carried to bed by equally-exhausted parents!)

That trip was always a summer highlight for our family, and I really wanted my kids to experience something akin to it, so Brian and I agreed they deserved a mini vacation. I talked to my best friend Rita (who has 4 children close to our girls' ages), and we made the plans and reservations for a two-day event. In a nutshell, we had a BLAST! Rita, who is not a rider by any stretch of the imagination, followed the two little ones while I took off with the five teenagers. It was so nice for our families to enjoy the time together.

On the flip side however, was the "fun" that Brian had here at home. As the girls and I were leaving Tuesday night, Brian headed out to pick up two wagonloads of hay. While we girls were chill-axing at the resort, Brian and three of his buddies arrived at the field to find only one wagon load of hay ready. They waited about an hour for the 2nd wagon before they headed out. On the way home they had a flat tire...ever try to change a tire under a wobbly load of hay? When they finally got back to the barn and started unloading and stacking, one of the helpers pulled a shoulder muscle. Needless to say, the job didn't get done Tuesday night! Brian was exhausted and frustrated when we talked early Wednesday morning. After I hung up the phone I said a little prayer specifically asking God to aid my husband in his tasks at home.

Thursday morning dawned and I called Brian again. He was trying to figure out how to give riding lessons to five students and unload and stack that hay. Feeling guilty for being away from home when he needed us, I offered to leave the park early enough to be home in time for the girls to instruct the lessons. He insisted we stay and enjoy our time there. "I'll work something out. Don't worry."

I should learn by this point in my life that I don't need to worry when God is in the matter, for "something" did work out, and it was nothing Brian planned. God delivered angels in the bodies of our students' parents! While the girls and I wrapped up our "mini vacation" and Brian instructed students in their riding lessons, three parents and a male student unloaded and stacked hay. And when the final lesson was over, that student and her grandfather stayed to help feed horses. Those acts of kindness were a major blessing to Brian and us girls. Those men and that one little girl performed a labor of love that served us all! Yet again I have been treated to a "God moment" lesson. Yet again, I am humbled to think that His promises were fulfilled in these acts of kindness. "Seek not ye what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, neither be ye of doubtful mind. For all these things do the nations of the world seek after: and your Father knoweth that ye have need of these things. But rather seek ye the kingdom of God; and all these things shall be added unto you. Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom."

Shotgun's Predicament

After years of breaking ice on water tanks and fighting frozen hoses, Brian finally splurged and purchased an automatic watering system for the pasture. A few days after his prized package arrived in the big brown truck, Brian called his buddy Keith for help. The two scheduled the day before Thanksgiving as their work day. Thanksgiving Eve morning dawned, Keith pulled in with his backhoe, and Brian met him in the pasture with plumbing tools and a shovel. The men worked all day while the horses watched intently from a safe distance, but when they returned after a late lunch, they noticed the horses creeping ever closer to the trench that was being dug for the new water line. Ignoring the horses, they continued the task at hand until Shotgun decided the grass looked greener on the other side of the trench. Now for those of you who don't know Shotgun, let me give you a little background. He's an older horse, slower than pond water, a real sweetheart, but a big lazy lug. Considering this, you'll understand the shock that came over Brian as he watched Shotgun approach the trench...and...JUMP! Now for some horses, this would not have been too big of a deal. After all, some horses have jumped far higher and further than would have ever been necessary to clear this trench, but Shotgun's half-hearted act of courage turned into quite a comedy. Being the slow lazy lug that he is, he didn't jump far enough, and the poor boy's back legs didn't clear the jump, leaving him stuck in quite a predicament. Now I could continue this story, but my words just wouldn't do the rescue mission the justice it deserves, so I've posted the video of this portion of the drama. You'll see for yourself that Shotgun just doesn't let this excitement bother him! Before viewing the video you'll want to stop the site background music on the music player to the right. I'll now close these comments by quoting Lindsay's boyfriend Chad (because his words just seemed to sum the whole scene up quite perfectly), "How many hillbillies does it take to dig a horse out of a trench?"