A Grain Scoop, My Guns and Gage’s Guns

Not to complain, but I’ll be glad when Curley’s kid returns from college. My role as chore girl is wearing me out. This morning he stopped to ask if I could scoop out his grain bin. It was damaged by high winds last night.

I might be a little squirt, but I can shovel grain by the bushels all day. So me and my big guns, known by some as my farm girl, hay-bale throwing biceps, got this.

Before I headed off to scoop, I had to stop at the farm store for a new shovel handle. One of the kids left mine in the driveway after shoveling snow. I ran over it.

The local farm guys were sitting around shooting the breeze. That’s what they do all day. I grabbed hold of the nail display counter when Gage gave me a big grin.

Since Gage isn’t from around here, I hardly know the man. He sold his ranch in Montana and bought one here a mere fifteen years ago.

Gage pried me away from the nail display, lifted me above his head and began tossing me around. Although it’s only in Kansas I’ve experienced the sport of women tossing, I’ve grown accustomed to it.

“Gage, I don’t think your wife would appreciate this,” I yelled from the ceiling.

“She won’t know. I sent her off to work this morning.”

The men sitting around the tables shot Gage warm smiles of approval. I think these are based on Gage’s attempts to fit in. For one thing he’s able to keep his wife working. For another, he’s proving his guns are as tough as their guns. That is, he can lift a woman who weighs as much as a bucket calf that’s ready for pasture.

After Gage put me down, I came home and fixed my grain scoop. I don’t have time to think about how impressive it is that he can toss around a little woman. A bushel of corn weighs about half as much as I do. Curley says he has around 8,000 bushels in his busted up bin.

I’ll ask Gage to do the math of my powerlifting.

Sheep Shearing Week

“Shearing the Rams” by Tom Roberts 1890 via wikipaedia

The only job I hate less than plucking chickens is shearing sheep.

Curley needed me to shear his sheep for pasture this weekend. That’s what I’m off to do again today. I was surprised Curley asked me to help out.

A couple of years ago I sheared his sheep. Typical for me, I got bored. I groomed his sheep instead. They looked kind of like this:

I didn’t think they looked so fancy, but Curley did. I learned later he ratted me out down at the feedmill.

“Any of those poodle looking sheep out in my pasture are from Simone’s shearing.”

“I’ve told you Curley. She’s got a lot of book smarts but no common sense,” PJ said.

Then the conversation turned to the catastrophic consequences that happen when our town’s youth is allowed to go off to college. Losing common sense is a well-known consequence of a college education in my town.

I learned about the poodle-sheep conversation from my feed mill mole, Ned. He’s shirt tail relation and his cover is good. Nobody knows he’s married to my third cousin from the next county over. If they did, nobody would talk about me in front of Ned.

I’d then be clueless about my lack of common sense and other stuff.

Because of my past experience with shearing Curley’s sheep, I decided to show some common sense and shear them right. I admit I’m not the quickest sheep shearer around. Yesterday I only sheared 41, but I was careful. I razor burned three sheep I think.

If I can shear 40 today, I’ll only have two days worth of Curley’s sheep left. I’m hoping I can hold myself together in the common sense department. Around the middle of the week, I’ll find out if I succeeded when I talk to my feed mill mole.

Jess, A Comet & A Whole Lotta Fender

My cousin Jess just called. Cousin Alphonse needs us to help ready his organic potato patch again this year.

Alphonse lives on a place about thirty miles out. He began raising organic taters several years ago and he’s making a killing. This year he’s planting all his east forty.

“Good golly, that’s enough taters to feed a small country,” I told him.

“Those city people love buying organic taters. This year I’ll have enough.”

Jess makes me ride with her in her Comet. It’s payback for what I said in 1982.

“Is it mere coincidence the only word rhyming with Comet is vomit?”

I’ve grown up since then. I accept the Comet, but it isn’t the right car to take to Alphonse’s. Because of the low clearance of a Comet and Jess’ bald tires, we get stuck in ruts on the dirt roads.

While riding to Alphonse’s, we’ll listen to some tunes in the Comet. Although we begged her to keep the car stock, Jess ripped out the original radio and installed a cassette deck when those came out. She lets me pick the music.

“What you wanna hear? Conway Twitty or Freddy Fender?”

“I wanna hear BOTH!” I yell.

If you’ve driven a tractor without a cab for hours with nothing for miles to look at but dirt and weeds, you’ve probably wound up doing the same as me. I get prepared. I don’t let myself get stuck on an either/or with music.

While Alphonse tries to start my tractor, I’ll pat the tractor’s fender.

“Hello Darlin–Nice taseeya–It’s been a long time.”

Alphonse doesn’t get my Twitty pauses because he never rides in Jess’ Comet.

“You just drove her last year. And it looks like her gas turned to kerosene.” Then Alphonse will start throwing tools and cussing.

Around noon, Alphonse will get the tractor started. I’ll hop on and take off singing loudly in my very best gringa.

“Vaya con Dios my darling…”

I’ll be stuck on Fender going around in circles in the dirt. On Monday, Alphonse will have something to tell the guys down at the feed mill.

“I put her on the tractor and she sang at the top of her lungs all day. Had the dogs baying and chasing the chickens.”

The other guys will shake their heads sympathetically.

“All I know is it came from her daddy’s side. We don’t make a fuss like that on the tractor in my family,” Alphonse will say.

Playing Around in a Roundabout Way

image wikiepadia                 When I left the Kansas prairie and headed for the big city, I discovered my first roundabout. I found driving the inner lane of the roundabout delightful. I made many laps. It reminded me of driving the tractor around in circles all day in a field. Except on a roundabout I could go faster and make tighter turns.

One evening as I was playing my vehicle version of tilt-a-whirl on the roundabout, I saw red lights in my rear view.

“Miss,” the nice officer said. “Are you lost? You’ve been stuck on this roundabout for a while.”

I tried to explain I was just enjoying driving the roundabout, but the officer made me exit and advised me not to play on the roundabout anymore.

At this same time I was working in one of those office towers. I didn’t have an office, but was situated at a brown folding table in the conference room. After I made innumerable copies of what I suppose were very important documents, I’d sit at the table, all day collating, stapling, folding–into thirds, stuffing–into envelopes.

I developed my own system for collating, stapling, folding, stuffing and I hate to brag, but word of my efficiency soon spread through the entire office park.

One morning my boss was sitting at my table. He was involved in a pressing matter, research I’d guess for all the documents I was overseeing.

“Hey, look at these.” I said.

I held up a couple of plastic duck bills on strings I’d bought from a street vendor.

“I say we wear these bills and quack at each other all day.”

My boss gave me one of those stern fatherly looks.

“We have a lot to do. We really don’t have time to play around,” he said with a heavy sigh.

I put the duck bills away, but he said the same thing to me nearly every day for two years. “We don’t have time to play around.” A sigh always followed.

He was a kind man and a fair boss. He was just one of those no funny business kind of people. Like the officer in charge of stopping people from misusing the roundabout.

Food Adventures #5: Wheat

image wekiepeadia                                      Yesterday, a friend brought me a bushel of cracked wheat and some fresh vegetables from her garden. I spent most of the afternoon packaging the wheat for storage because a bushel is quite a bit for one person. It’s all the food that comes in during this time of year that keeps me busy…and eats into my blog posting time.  

I was able to get the kids to try the wheat by promising them it would turn to gum if they chewed it long enough. They were pretty impressed. Otherwise, I have no hope they will help me eat all this wheat.

With the cracked wheat and fresh garden vegetables, I tried a salad today. After soaking the wheat in water overnight, I drained it and mixed up a version of Taboule. It turned out surprisingly good although the wheat I was given was not the bulgar variety.

At the last church potluck I attended, I tried a good wheat pudding salad with cream cheese and pineapple. I was able to get the recipe so I’ll probably try some of that with my bushel of wheat. My other plan is to mix the cracked wheat with some other grains I can buy at the feed mill for a hot breakfast cereal. If I can get ahold of some sorghum, I can’t imagine a better breakfast.

The corn will be ready soon. Fortunately, it’s given away to anyone who will pick it. I will! It’s several days of intense labor, but I shuck it by the pickup truck loads and freeze it for the winter.

Food is an obvious need in our basic needs. In recent years, I’ve grown to take my food less for granted than I once did. There are many reasons my approach has changed. How about you? Have you changed your food habits or methods of obtaining it?

Grumpy Old Farmer Guy Round II

Where do old trucks go to retire? Kansas. Here, they live in barns and come out during harvest for a sound working out.

Seeing all these old monsters from the 40s and 50s is one of my favorite parts of harvest. Seeing them line up for several blocks waiting to dump their grain is also amazing. I cannot believe no one has come to film a documentary on all this. I could be wrong, but I think the majority of America would be shocked that a lot of their food is being hauled from the fields in antique trucks.

As a kid I drove quite of few of these workhorses and I can say with certainty, they don’t make trucks like they used to. I ran over a cornerpost with four strands of barbed wire in one my grandfather had. The truck didn’t have a scratch. If not for the destroyed fence, no one would have known and I wouldn’t have gotten into trouble.

The grumpy old farmer I talked about yesterday has such a truck. It’s about a ’54 Chevy dually with a red cab and looks like it just came off the assembly line. I’m not kidding. His truck is pristine.

He rolled it up on my scale yesterday. Of course I went into my “Heatwave” rendition, very appropriate since the temperature on my scale was right at 118 degrees just then. I was at the “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah” part when the grumpy old farmer leaned his head out the window and interrupted.

“I thought I told you yesterday to shut your trap,” he growled. “I don’t want to hear that hippie —- when I come into town.”

“Sure. So Sorry,” I smiled.

After I waved him off the scale, I stood there thinking. And perspiring. How was I supposed to know the grumpy old farmer didn’t like hippie music?

Also, it seems the grumpy old farmer is putting a political slant to the songs I’m singing about the hot weather. I stayed up all night tossing and turning. I have to come up with a new song.

If anyone has any ideas, let me know. The only rules that I’m aware of are no songs about the state capital, or probably the nation’s capital for that matter, and no hippie songs obviously.

On What This Has to do with the Price of Eggs

image: wikipaedia

As with nearly every food item, the price of eggs has me reeling. Although I’m not at all hip on store-bought eggs, the ducks I was lifting from have begun nesting. Further, stormy weather has my friends’ hens too upset to lay any eggs so I checked on eggs at the grocery store last night.

The cheapest eggs were $1.73/dozen with tax. I was pretty taken aback after getting stealing duck eggs for the last several months. Since I have no shame, I begged the store manager for some cheaper eggs. He sold me three dozen of quickly expiring (today) eggs for $1.10/dozen.

One of my friends, a retired bartender, suggested I pickle them for longer storage. That turned out to be a fabulous idea. I went to the fruit cellar and dug out some more of my granny’s old canning jars. Then, I found a fabulous recipe for pickled eggs and made some adjustments for my personal taste.

I wore myself out canning as a kid, but the canning jars work great for storing eggs and other stuff I like to soak in vinegar. With the eggs, I am more careful in the preparation for safe storage. Here’s how I make them:

1. Boil a dozen eggs. (I boil them for ten minutes then let cover and set aside for 30 minutes.)

2. Bring a cup of vinegar (I use red wine vinegar), a cup of water, a little less than 1/8 c. sugar, 1 t. sea salt, a clove of minced garlic to a boil and let simmer half an hour. Set aside to cool.

3. After the boiled eggs have cooled and are shelled, layer them in the canning jar, pour the brine over them and refrigerate. They’re ready to eat in about three days and will keep for about six months. 

I haven’t tried the pickled eggs with a glass of beer yet, but it sounds like the perfect breakfast for the next camping trip I have planned in a couple of weeks.

My Ultimate Dream Job in Junk

image: wikipaedia

As a kid growing up in the 70s, my favorite television show to watch at friends’ houses was “Sanford and Son.” I think that’s where my fascination with treasures found in the trash began.

I’ve always tried to be kind to my trash collectors. I’m one of those people who will leave cold drinks out by the trash to show my appreciation on trash collection day.

Although I’ve never seen a female trash collector, I’ve always thought it would be a great job. If I were to get hired, I’d want to “man” the back of the truck so I could get a good look at what was being thrown away. I imagine that I would find some wonderful treasures.

My vision is to haul these treasures home and even open my own salvage yard as a side gig to my trash collection job. The name and message of my business would be:  Simone & Son. We buy and sell junk.

I know that’s copying off “Sanford and Son,” but I think it’s quite catchy.

My Brief Stint as a Cocktail Waitress

image: wikiapeadia

Many years ago when I was still in the workforce and plunked down in Kansas, I picked up a gig at the local country club (no tipping allowed). I was very pleased that they would hire an elderly, formerly professional degreed woman to carry drinks on a tray.

After working my tail off for several months, I decided to ask the boss for a raise. That’s what I’d always done at all my other jobs.

“Look, I’m paying you $8 an hour and that’s good money for a woman in this part of the country,” he said.

He did have a point. I smiled and went back to hauling drinks to the men sitting at the tables. The next day I resigned.

My Summer Gig

 

I’m very excited that I finally found employment. It’s seasonal, but it’s all that’s available now. My position is elevator girl.

No…I’m not operating some high-class Otis dealy-ma-bob where I push a button when passengers say, “Fourth floor, please.”

There are no such things where I live. Instead, it is a grain elevator where America’s bountiful harvest is stored until it can be shipped across the country on the railroad. 

My new gig as elevator girl is to check the grain trucks in, run their numbers on bushels and moisture and whatnot and sweep up any spilled grain. Oh, how I love to sweep!  Yes like any girl with a whole lot of education, I’m working on an angle. If possible, I’ll sweep the spilled grain, store it up and sell it back once I have a large supply.

There are several other perks to the gig that I see. One is I’ll be able to wear my grungy clothes. This is not a job requiring my tailored suits, low heels and hose. For that much I am grateful. Two, I can see the possibility of working an angle, i.e., spilled grain that I sweep. Three, for a writer I can definitely see there will be some material I can glean from this gig.

Finally, elevators are one of the most dangerous jobs available. They can collapse so I see merit to that. Living life dangerously is a somewhat exciting prospect to me. 

The pay is interesting. Eight bucks an hour, which I’ve been told over and over is some fine stinking money for a woman where I live. I suppose. After I pay taxes out of that and pay for the babysitter, I’ll end up with a net of $600 a month. Here’s more good news. The grain elevator is one block from my house. Yee-haw, I can walk to work so no gas money.

Of course I’m looking forward to the many luxuries I’ll be able to buy with the extra cash. With my first paycheck, I’m treating myself with some store-bought biscuits in a can. I’m tired of making my own biscuits all the time.