Blood and Band-Aids

With orange handled Fiskars, I was cutting up little pills, dividing them in half with the scissors, one by one.   You have to put a lot of pressure into each cut when cutting a hard tablet.  Painfully, I missed and cut the palm of my hand wide open.  Bright red blood spurted out of a three stitch hole. I filled up a paper towel or two using direct pressure and held my bloody paw above my heart.

I reached for the Johnson & Johnson Band-Aids to doctor this one up myself.  Stitches are for wussies.  When the bleeding slowed down, I started applying a bandage, and that’s when  I “lost it.”

Grief is a sneaky thing. 

In the 1960′s through the 1980′s my Grandmother worked at Johnson & Johnson in Chicago and was the head of quality control for bandages at J & J (as we called it.)  Grandma Ashbaucher made sure every Band-Aid that left the manufacturing plant was sterile and perfect.  She was so good at her job, that she was twice voted Johnson & Johnson’s National “Employee of the Year” and flown to New York to receive Johnson & Johnson’s National Leichen Award.

So there I was, at the kitchen sink, bawling my eyes out, proud to be opening a J & J Band-Aid bandage, remembering my childhood boo-boos and the white tin boxes the Band-Aids came in, and accepting that the torch has been passed on to someone else, maybe another Grandma.  Not only did she have a stellar career there, but that company also paid for my father’s college education at Roosevelt University. He began working at Johnson & Johnson in 1960, at 19 years of age, in the mail room.  It took him 9 years of full time work plus part time night classes to earn his B.A. degree in Finance.  I attended his college graduation in 1969 when “Laugh-In” was on television, so when he came out in his black robe, everyone said, “Here comes the Judge” –like they did on the show.

My dad, James W. Ashbaucher, gave back to J & J for years, moving up through the management ranks, and later in his career, left to be a Vice President of several other international corporations.

Sadly, they, along with the era that brought us Johnson & Johnson’s No More Tangles shampoo, and Legg’s Pantyhose in Eggs, have passed away.  It is bittersweet when I see J & J bandages on store shelves–knowing that they are in my blood.

My favorite picture of Grandma Ashbaucher

So today, I put my Band-Aids on and cried; grateful for the childhood memories of my Grandma bringing home a box of Band-Aids that “flunked” her high standards, but were good enough for my knee as long as she added a couple of kisses to it.

Big Bertha

Today October was in her prime. The fiery maple leaves were stunning as they floated down by the hundreds.   Hoards of honkers were flying in formation 30 feet above my canoe as I slipped in one last day of paddling before the snow flies.  My dog was balanced between my knees; risky business for sure!

One of my personal goals this year was to catch and land a fish from a canoe.  Adding a 50 lb. dog to a narrow, low profile, 13′ canoe, along with a couple of spinning reels locked and loaded with hooks, had me questioning my sanity.  But hey, I’m a pretty good swimmer.

I was casting a Mepps Spinner, looking for just anything to hit and figuring I’d get skunked while learning how to maneuver the canoe in the wind while actively casting to targets along the shoreline and trying to control the dog.  My only goal was to not hook me, the dog, or get us all dumped in the drink.

Mepps are my  favorite “go to” lures for the bass on our lake.  If the water is dead calm, I might throw a Luhr Jenson Woodchopper, which is a top water lure,  just to scare the bejesus out of myself when a fish surfaces and strikes.  You don’t catch as many fish using top water, but boy, the ones you do get are worth the wait.

 If people concentrated on the really important things in life,

there would be a shortage of fishing poles. 

All at once, I had a solid strike on the Mepps.  I knew I had a Big Bertha when the fish starting towing my boat like a 15 hp. Evinrude and the drag on my reel was singing.  All hands on deck!

Grateful I had a little trout net with me this time, I reached back for it and got ready.  Remi stayed low in the boat through the bucking, running, and dancing on top of the water that this fighter was doing.  As I reeled and played the fish out, I caught a glimpse of it and my heart skipped a beat.  IT WAS A BIG-BIG BERTHA! She was at least 6 lbs. and closer to 7.  A real fattie.

I worked the pole to guide the fish as close to the edge of the canoe as possible and then using the net as a spatula, scooped real quick to flop it up over the side and into my lap because there was no way the little trout net could hold this pig.  I had to pin it down against my thigh with my left elbow so I could work with pliers on the treble hook as that stupid fish kept thrashing around, seriously rocking the boat.  Remi earned her Master Angler patch today!  She laid down on the bottom of the canoe and let that fish slap her silly.  We took some pictures and released her.  Thank you Big Bertha you big, beautiful girl.  Here’s the link to my Hornbeck Canoe…so you can see what a challenge this day was!  http://www.hornbeckboats.com/boats_nt_13.php

Anastasia Beaverhausen

Dogs are not allowed indoors at an elite pheasant and deer hunting ranch called Muy Grande Resort that we stayed at with friends in northern Michigan, near Hillman.  Since I knew the temps were going down to 31 degrees and my child my German Shorthaired Pointer wasn’t about to be kenneled on a straw bed outside, I brought Remi’s trailer so she could be comfortable and warm at night with Mommy.    Her master slept on silk sheets in this 40,000 square foot ridiculous log complex that came with a 24 hour chef and all the high end liquor you could pour.  We rubbed elbows with guests from around the country who had sharpened their storytelling and colorful yarns so well that these sportsmen could make a fisherman blush.  (The light on my bullshit detector was glowing red by the end of the night.)

The Man Cave lockers were filled with double barreled shotguns.  Yellow, green and red shotgun shells were lined up in a roll call above, in the cubbies.  Leather couches were arranged so that the men could engage in bold faced  lies as they guzzled booze–and still not miss a massive buck passing by.  Oil cloth Filson jackets and buffalo checked Stormy Kromers hung from pegs.  The whole place stunk like an Old Spice commercial.  After a few martinis, we were ready to pick from the spa menu and, as Kings of the World,  order up Sean Connery rub downs and mani/pedi combos.

Fall colors were peaking and we saw many deer  in this high fence operation scoring in the 200 range.  Every man walked around trying to hide his big boner.  This was easier for some men than others,  just ask Anastasia Beaverhausen, whose husband, she claimed, after her third Appletini, was hung like a horse.  Oh, we were bad.  We laughed and lost ourselves in luxury until…

my Airstream’s thermostat quit.  31 degrees, remember?  It was a three dog night and I had one dog.  The extra blankets I carry on board were deployed and we toughed it out.  I could see my breath.   I spent the better part of the next day trying not to bash the thermostat with a hammer as its digital E7 error code popped up with every button combination I tried.  In desperation,  I googled an online site called JustAnswers.com.  It cost me $32 in tech support.

The first thing the tech texted me was, “Do you have the Dometic CC2 model?”  I went over and looked. I am not stupid.   I texted him back, “There is no writing on it.  I’m a girl.  It is a rectangle and it is white.”  So, knowing it was a lost cause, he texted me back,   “Just unplug it, wait five minutes, and plug it back in.”  Best $32 I ever spent.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

We smelled “the smell” again.  In the same place.

Behind the wall, in the front vestibule–just like before.

Two weeks ago I was dumb enough to believe my husband’s declaration, “It’s just a dead mouse.”  In my defense, several winters ago a grey field mouse set up shop between the walls in our house.  He made little scritch-scratch noises that were kind of cute and since he didn’t eat much, I let him freeload.  Now and then I would “accidentally” drop a sunflower seed on the kitchen floor just so I could see the flash of his little pink belly.  It was all sunshine and lollipops until the rotten bastard died in the wall.  Game changer, let me tell you.   It bloated and stunk for a bit but we all got over it–well, except for Mr. Mouse.

Thinking that I just had to tough it out again, I lit soy candles and spent most of my free time upstairs, praying that no one would ring the doorbell.  After a week, we decided that a mouse could not possibly make that much smell.  Bets were placed that it was a racoon. The reek took on a life of it’s own.  I started sticking my nose inside my shirt and walked around smelling my boobs, waiting for it to go away, still clueless.

The following week, the doorbell rang.  I took a deep breath, ran downstairs, and opened the door while trying to slip outside to talk on the porch.  Our farmhand, Bryce, shot me the skunk eye.  He caught a big whiff.  I said, “dead mouse,” and he said, “No way,” and made a bee line for the basement.  From my spot on the porch, I heard his gagging.

Our freezer had quit and dark, thickened venison blood was dripping out of it, pooling on the floor, all putrified.   We looked at each other and I said, “Let’s get out the matches.”  Burning the house down at that point seemed legit.  I told him if he won’t let me burn it down, then I will start packing the suitcases.  Instead, Bryce called Adam and told him to grab a dolly from the barn on his way over.  Adam showed up with the elephant masks, too.  I ran away.

Meijer had everything a killer would need to clean up a big mess:  mops, duct tape, black plastic garbage bags, shovels, and bleach.  Lots of it.  I didn’t quite know how I was going to use the duct tape, but figured it was essential.  On my way home I noticed the backhoe was out.

A Horse Called Music

It’s one of those melancholy moons tonight where memories bend and reflect.  The wine helps.

Earlier today I was listening to the 30th annual Farm Aid radio show, featuring Willie Nelson (and many other bands)  live from Chicago, my home sweet home.

His song, “A Horse Called Music” is so beautifully written that I get lost in it until the tears that trickle down bring me back to the here and now.  The song fillets my heart and lays it wide open…especially at the end.

Click the link and let the words and tender tune soak into your body.  My gift to you tonight.  Elevated cowboy art, featuring Merle Haggard.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_Hc8cEplSQ