Bumblebees

Me and Woody.  That’s what I called us.  We were six and five in 1966, living on 52nd and Kedzie, on the south side of Chicago.  Woody carried a little red metal tool box that year, everywhere he went.  The handle flipped this way and that but fit perfectly into his little hand.  Summertime and big, yellow fuzzy bees were bumbling on dandelion tops. 

It was my job to stomp on them and his job to collect them and place them in the trays of his tool box.  We went walking around the block, back when kids could walk around the block, stomping and collecting bumblebees.  I would “kill” them and he would pick them up and put them in the toolbox.  Our collection.

The streetlights came on; our cue to go home.  Woody put our treasures under the bunk bed in our room.  I had the top; he the bottom.  He used to put his feet up and kick the wooden slats to send me a message.  I used to throw my dolls and toys down, wallside, sneak attack, to hit him back.  We giggled.  Innocence.

Mother heard a dull buzzing sound coming from our room.  It kept getting louder.   Upon further inspection, she detected it was coming from under the bed.  That morning we had gone to school so she took it upon herself to investigate.  The sounds were coming from inside Woody’s little red toolbox.

I would have like to have been a fly on the wall when Mother opened the box and hundreds of previously stunned bees came to life.

The Sound of Silence

Winter Camp.  Barren trees, whipping winds; a chill that blows through a jacket and rattles the bones.  All around me this November day are signs of hibernation.  The chitter of squirrels is missing.  Songbirds are gone.  Flowers have wilted and died.  Grass is every shade of brown.  Days are short.  Only the occasional caw-caw of the black crow breaks the sound of silence.   The crow is the only sign left of life.   Stillness and solitude in the campground.  Crackle of fire and hiss of hot dog  at the end of a whittled branch is the only warmth.  Feeling alone.  Feeling peaceful.  Able to feel.  Feels okay.   Another day.  November in the big woods is divine.  Time to think.  Time to be.  Me.  Alone with my thoughts and plans and hopes and dreams. 

Hocking Hills, OH where the Delaware Indians carved a long ago life.  On a trail I spooked a deer; a majestic eight point buck in his prime.  He blew at me and waved his flag.  A gift.

   At daybreak along a well worn trail, I happened upon a cave years ago carved by glaciers.  Colorful rock, sturdy, and home to early man.  Ancient.  Sitting on a stone perch, I can imagine life for its inhabitants.  Holed up against the elements.  Safe. A good life.  For sure.

November people are sung under the blankets in their soft beds.  Plastic blue tarps cover pontoons and RVs.  Children are finishing homework.  Bikes, bats and balls are put away.  Crock pots are out and soups are made.  Turkeys are being flash frozen by the millions.  Christmas trees are baled, stacked and ready to ship.    Me?  My nose is cold.  My campfire is hot.  Winter camp.  My favorite time of year.  Time to think.  Time to be.  Time to reflect.  A simple time.  Quiet before the storm.

Stuck, Stick, Stuck

The dynamic duo never disappoint when it comes to heavy equipment.  We just took delivery of a 5000 series Deere tractor with a nice front end loader and within an hour I got “the call.”  She’s not stuck, she’s STUCK.  It took a real professional to accomplish this; someone gifted in the art of forward and reverse.   I don’t get my undies in a bunch anymore.  It is just another day on a farm blessed with two skilled technicians, Adam and Bryce.  When they are not busy destroying things, they are playing in the sandbox with their elephant masks on.

It was the mud’s fault–slicker than dog sh*t

As this year’s farm season winds down to a crawl, I thought it would be fun to take a look back at the glory days of summer.

“Lets drive around with our masks on!

“Events” this year include a backhoe with a splinter shoved up its grill, the 8WD JD 9300 articulating tractor–an unstoppable tractor–stopped so bad that it took two more big tractors and a cruise ship tow line to get it out, a ruptured muffler that got a hillbilly fix job, a Blue Ox with blown rubber, shattered glass on a red jeep, and the best:  using the spray rig with 60′ booms to launch a little bass boat–stuck only because SOMEONE forgot the rig was loaded hundreds of gallons of water.  She went straight down to Davy Jones’  locker.  Brilliant.

Morning Wood

Then there was the day the Freightliner missed a step and fell into a ditch.  Good times.

These days I wake up happy simply because we haven’t been a featured story on “I Survived.” 

Git-r-Done

The trusty yellow fixer upper.

Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.

True Grit

1st Birthday Bear

When we brought her home from the hospital, our sons took one look at her blanket and said, “Pink Stinks.”  Surviving a home with built-in older brothers, one of whom wanted to name her “Hotdog,” has put a fair amount of grit in Jennifer, our youngest and only daughter.    These boys have tortured her dolls simply to spark a reaction.  They have smothered her in “the dutch oven” and are guilty of too much monkey-in-the-middle.    I drew the line when at the tender age of four, they had filled a water bucket up in the front yard and told her she was old enough to learn how to “breathe under water.”

My Stinky-Winkie is 24 years old as of this writing.   Her brothers are 30 and 28.   She grew up with Michael Jackson’s Thriller album, Power Rangers, and Leo DiCaprio.  Each October she morphed into a princess, a butterfly, a witch, or a superhero.  She danced.  She brought me hand picked flowers.  She loves traditions and decorating the Christmas tree.   The years have clicked past so fast and now, when I look at her, I see the most amazing woman…a culmination of life experience and education infused with kindness, common sense, and wit.

Daddy’s Baby Girl

She is a mother now.  My grand-doggie is about 5 lbs., has dark chocolate eyes, and a long tail that is almost as long as it’s body.  Our “Hotdog” is Lola; a red mini-dachshund, and she loves her momma.

Lola Bear

Jennifer and I share a knowing, a commonality, a connection that I know will pass to the next generation.   This is what makes daughters so SO special.  The hand that rocks the cradle, rules the world.  She is my finest hour; my hope.  When I look at her, I see my perfect self in the most selfless way.

A turning point:    I’ll never forget the time we went shopping because I needed an outfit.  Jennifer was all of 15.  A black and white polka dot dress caught my attention so I picked it up.   In pure SWAT-team mode, she grabbed my arm, and urgently demanded,  “Put that back, Mom, right now.  That’s for old people.  I’m trying to save you.”   Surprised and mildly offended, I argued on behalf of my selection.  My case wasn’t complete before an obviously geriatric grey haired lady, supported by a cane, appeared from the fitting rooms, wearing “my” outfit.   Jennifer shot me a victory look and had the grace to not say another word.  We still laugh about it.

When the kids were little, I was so smart.  They would ask me something and I could give a satisfactory answer or at least get by.  They bought it.  Every time.  When they started questioning me, the backup standard was, “Because I said so.”    That response was golden for a long time.  These days they see my games and call me out or google everything.   Even my best explanations are suspect until verified.   I was gifted in the answer department until the damn Internet came along.

One day Jennifer will find all this out and I will sit on the sidelines, watching and smiling inside.

1st Day of Kindergarten

Our World Traveler

Time to Cancel His Show

Obama is a character; a shell game in the flesh, a puppet.  He acts for the audience and will say anything to get what he wants.  Remember transparency promises? 

He is coddled by the media and embraced by all that is fake in Hollywood.  He performs well in a controlled environment.   He is a man without without substance and this was painfully demonstrated during the first presidential debate on October 3, 2012:  The Rocky Mountain Smack Down.

Finally, the world got to see the insecure, smug Barry Obama as Romney chipped away at his facade.   For the first time in years, BO was on his own up against a business professional with no one telling him what to say via teleprompter, and having to attempt to defend an abysmal record over the past four years.  Obama is a narcissistic neophyte who does not have the experience or competence to hang with the big boys.  The emperor wore no clothes.

Both wives were seated

before the debate began and Mrs. Obama looked concerned, worried, and fearful. 

Did anyone else pick up on that?  After the debate, the mainstream media looked like someone had just died.  Then Al Gore gets on and comes up with the high altitude excuse for BO’s poor performance.  Really?  Rubio had it right when he said that Obama’s ideas aren’t any better at sea level.

During the debate, Barry couldn’t look the American people in the eye because deep down, he knows he is a fraud and it was humiliating for him to have to answer questions–coming from someone other than David Letterman –because he was exposed.  The president got it all wrong, likely because the fog in which he and his senior advisers are allowed to live had declared the election over weeks ago.  This led Obama to underestimate his opponent and overestimate his own position.   Earlier in the week President Obama told interviewers that his debate preparations were “a drag” because his advisers were making him do his “homework.”  If he didn’t have time to meet with global leaders, he certainly didn’t have time to do any homework either.

Obama made a grave error in believing his own hype during the last month of the campaign. Obama can never get back the moment in which he, by underestimating his opponent and overestimating himself, allowed Romney to become a plausible alternative.