My Baby

Baby Chicks

Little Girl:  “Mommy, where do baby chicks come from?”

Mommy:  “From the Post Office, honey.”

The best part of winter is looking through chicken catalogs to pick out spring baby chicks.  I admit it:  I’m a chicken hoarder.  This admission is the first step of the 12 step “STOP IT” program that has just accepted me.  Oh, I didn’t sign up for it; my family held an intervention.

Here’s my dilema:  there are heavy breeds, light breeds, rare breeds, and fancy breeds.  There are Polish chickens and prolific chickens.  There are broilers (good eaters) and breeds who grow their own hats.  Some breeds are friendly and some are Pitt Bulls.   Darling pictures of chickens dressed in every solid hue pose as cover girls on these pages.  Other chickens, including, but not limited to, spangled, barred, spotted and chickens who lay colored Easter eggs are featured in the centerfold of the McMurray Hatchery catalog.  McMurray sells side orders of peacocks, guinea hens, ducks and geese, too.  My chicken catalogs are all dog eared and hiding in “the library” under the bathroom sink next to the toilet paper because God knows no one in my family will go in there to replenish a roll.

Day old baby chicks are shipped to homes from growers via the United States post office and some baby chicks (leftovers and overruns) are shipped to places like TSC or your local farm/feed store in bulk orders.  If you order chicks online or through the catalog, the minimum order is 25 of these mix and matchers.   If you are into picking up chicks, just a few at a time and not very picky, instant gratification is only a moment away at your local TSC or farm/feed store. 

Usually I will place an order for a couple dozen and when I open the box, I find a baker has been counting.

The postmaster has called me at 4 a.m. to come and get my chicks. NOW.  She will open the back of the post office for me.  They chirp a lot.  It drives the mail sorters crazy.    Generally I get “the call”  when standing in the checkout line at the grocery store with a full cart.   The Chicks are in!

Big Nasty and The Turd

Big Nasty

(Unfortunately) we like to name our vehicles on the farm.  Big Nasty is the stuff road trips are made of.  She’s sporting lots of chrome and someone has “Bedazzled” her dash.  BN is a Peterbilt 379 EXHD  18-speed fuller with Georgia overdrive, complete with a sweet set of chicken lights on the front bumper.  Last week she was hauling boats from New York to Florida and this week she’s all ours.  

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Adam and I blew out of Flint on Thursday morning, running and gunning for the Jersey Shore.  (Slow it down now, Momma)   We made 700 miles in 12 hours with a couple of pit stops.  BTW… these people on the east coast need to take a Motor City driving class.  Despite several of their attempts to cause great bodily harm to us, the crash bar on my Ford Taurus sounded off just once, thanks to my superior driving skills.   After this experience, Adam and I made an executive decision to get a custom made image placed on the Ford’s rear window shade screen.  This screen moves up and down with the push of a button so we decided to leave it down until someone deserves to receive a message.

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The truck yard where Big Nasty was parked was near Manhattan so, as luck would have it, we got a two-for-one on this trip.  My oldest son, John, (Adam’s bro) has a NY apartment  close by so we bunked down with him on Thursday night after a pizza treat and some small talk.   I brought John the perfect gift…two drinking glasses that said “Little Joe’s, Grand Blanc, MI” on them and some fresh baked cookies.  Ok, I wanted to bring fresh baked cookies, but I didn’t have time to bake so I bought them and made them look fresh baked.  There, I feel better.

Big Nasty

My Taurus averaged 29.3 mpg with BN as a wind break.   Adam is “The Green Hornet” and I am “The North Star”…our saweeeeeeet  CB handles.   10-4 back door.   TRIP REPORT:  We made friends with a Wiggle Wagon (truck tractors pulling two or three trailers –legal in OH), avoided getting any Driving Awards from Town Clowns in Plain Wrappers, and, luckily, all the Weight Watchers were closed.  We didn’t have to slow down in the Antler Alleys either.  We saw one Cowboy Cadillac going to the Pokey with a Smokey and Adam saw some nice seat covers from his elevated perspective.    We kept it between the ditches and put it to the floor, looking for more.   At 1:30 a.m. on Saturday morning we rolled into The Buick.

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For more adventure, check out our YouTube video featuring “The Turd” at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rYzbKdUotI

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Sandy Beaches, Grand Hotels, and Pole Dancing

Man Towing 1947 Airstream with Bicycle

dictionary.reference.com/browse/collude

verb (used without object), col·lud·ed, col·lud·ing.

1. to act together through a secret understanding, especially with evil or harmful intent.

Here’s the not-so-secret secret:  understanding what it means to possess one of these iconic trailers starts the day you hook one up and bring it home.  Think shiny, pretty.  Think round, happy thoughts.   The shape sets us apart; Airstreamers are secretly pleased with themselves for thinking outside of the box.  We (think we) have an elevated understanding of style, durability, and value without being snobby about it.  Was that snobby?  We feel responsible for the life of our trailer–knowing where she’s been before, if buying used (as most of us do) or if she’s been restored.  Those leaving a dealership keep meticulous records to pass down one day–if that day ever comes.

Facts from Airstream, Inc.  

Airstreams are made in the U.S.A.

Airstream is a state of mind … the company’s silver-bullet travel trailers have been streaming down the nation’s ribbons of highways for more than 75 years and have become as common and well-loved in the culture of America as blue jeans and tees.

Founder Wally Byam began the enterprise in the 1920s by selling plans for building trailers, which led to the design and launch of “The Clipper” in the early 1930s. The company makes travel trailers primarily, but also produces its Interstate touring coach with full amenities. Airstream has produced about 140,000 travel trailers and motor homes since it began, and roughly two-thirds of them are still making trails. Airstream is a subsidiary of Thor Industries.

Alumapalooza 2012, at the factory grounds
in Jackson Center, OH

Through the use of a website called Air Forums, we exchange maintenance tips, road trip stories, organize rallies, dream, fly flags, and explore.  

 We connect, cook, cribbage play, convey, critter watch, cajole, create, and sometimes a rally morphs into EPIC proportions.    Such was the result when 25 Airstream trailers rolled in from GA, OH, IL, MO, OK, MI, IN and Canada to Mackinaw Mill Creek Campground at the tip of Michigan’s Mitten near Mackinac Island and its Grand Hotel.   Many do not realize that Michigan is a state of two peninsulas, the upper and lower, which are surrounded by Great Lakes Michigan, Huron and Superior.   That being a fact, we hauled up a tournament salmon fishing boat for personal tours of Mackinac Island and blasted under the Mighty Mac a.k.a. the Mackinac Bridge, one of the longest suspension bridges in the United States.

Captain Adam pilots us under the bridge.
Photo Credit:  Ed Rottinger

Our Caravan
Pole Dancer, Tin Loaf, Hen House

This rally had everything including eye-candy photography and fudge.  Lots of fudge.  The shops on the Island cook up a nasal assault as they pipe the smell of fudge being

Photo Credit
Steven Mentz

made into the streets.  Horse power is the only power on Mackinac Island.  Visitors are clip-clopped back in time as hooves meet the street.  Couple this destination with some folks very experienced in photography, and EPIC starts to evolve.  For starters, the August moon was full and one of our Airstreaming couples set up a large, professional  telescope on the sandy beach one evening.  The “Troll Pot Luck Dinner” was filled with raffle prizes, wine, and a buffet that rivaled the Grand Hotel’s buffet lunch.    Some of us landed king salmon,  toured a lighthouse or two, or slathered ourselves in suntan lotion on the dunes beaches.  We trolls, living under the bridge, showed those Yoopers a thing or two when we kayaked Drumond Island, drove the Historic Tunnel of Trees Route 119, and hit the Casino in St. Ignace.

The Grand Hotel’s
Buffet Lunch Table Setting

The photography in the YouTube video alone is worth the time to watch it.  It began with a pre-rally on our farm near Flint, MI and features the Grand Hotel and Mackinac Island horses and homes.  It ends with a “We make ‘em, You take ‘em” pancake breakfast on the last day.  Enjoy!

The Show Pony

Captain Adam and The Pole Dancer moored at the Straits Marina in Mackinaw City, MI.

Once upon a time, there were three small children whose mother loved them equally and unconditionally.  Jak was the oldest followed two and a half years later by Adam followed four years later by Jennifer.   HOWEVER, as time went on, these little angelic beings created an alternative universe for themselves.  It happened innocently, and when it happened, it stuck.   It stuck not because it was true, but because it was funny.

Jennifer on her 1st Birthday, Swimming Lessons for Jak at 6 mos., A Nautical Theme for Captain Adam at 3 mos.!

Their father, John, ran for United States Congress in 2010.  The entire year was a blur.  John and I felt a calling, as patriots, to give up our personal lives to go to Washington D.C. to serve and save our country as farmers once did when our republic was founded.  The scope of the campaign was massive and our children became involved in every aspect.  There were speeches, rallies, door-to-door knocking, signs to be placed, and many public appearances.

One day, toward the end of the run,  Adam got a wild burr up his butt when I asked him and his sister to dress up and be present at another one of our events.  He shot Jennifer his signature grin, looked me right in the eye, and snorted, “Nope.  I’m tired of being your Show Pony.”

Jennifer gasped–then the light bulb came on–her chance to grease the wheels and work Mom over good.  She faced  Adam and said, “Well, if you’re the Show Pony then Jak is the Stallion.  I guess that makes me the Donkey.”   We all busted out laughing.  Jennifer had been the work horse behind the scenes, scheduling events, answering calls at campaign headquarters, video taping speeches, walking in parades, and handling all the grunt work with poise and professionalism.  Adam was running the farm and our Subway Restaurants so he was already tapped out each time we would ask him to spruce up and show up.  Our son, John a.k.a  Jak, was working and living in New York so his siblings felt that he got a “Get Out of Jail Free” card, having only to show his support through phone calls and emails.  It was one of those spur of the moment family funnies that will live in infamy.

To this day, Adam remains my Show Pony.  He is the one with the flash and the quick wit.  He does eveything big:  boats, trucks, and tractors.   He has my father’s sense of timing, his invention, and his creativity.  I recall the scene from Apollo 13 when the space capsule was freezing cold and the astronauts were in peril as Americans sat frozen in horror waiting for mission news.  Jim Lovell’s mother, Blanche, had this exchange:

The 2010 campaign was the best of times, it was the best of times.  As a family we have never worked harder for something or had more fun doing it.  It was an honor to hold the public trust for even a short while.   As the results poured in on that November 2010 election night (we ran on the Republican ticket in a 70 percent Democratic district against a 30+ year incumbent) we finished 4 points short.  In all other races, in all previous years, the Republican candidate never came within 36 points of taking the seat.  There were no losers that year.  When you give all you have with all you’ve got–and grow friendships and faith along the way–then the experience ends with getting more than you gave.

Our Sweet Little Jennifer-Bennifer, all grown up.

Baby Rose

The Birds and The Bees

Our sweet German Shorthaired Pointer, Anna, was six years old when we drove her to Wisconsin to be bred to FC AFC Dr. N’s C. J. MH, VC  a  recognized champion in the National Bird Dog Hall of Fame.  350 miles, some Mickey D’s, and two pit stops later we arrived at his kennel ready to take a picture of the dogs when they met and mingled.  I figured there would be at least a half of an hour of photo ops as they became acquainted;  sniffing, greeting, and circling.  I wanted to pose them side by side for a picture we could frame.  Afterwards, I imagined both lovebirds would go into a private kennel while we owners drank champagne and passed cigars around.  

Dr. N’s C.J.

As soon as Anna hopped down from our truck, CJ was on top of her.  He is a boy who has been to this rodeo before.  John and I were equally shocked at the speed of connectivity.  Even Verizon Wireless would be impressed.  We locked eyes in panic and John rushed to Anna’s side.  The camera dangling around my neck was my only move…I was stopped cold, frozen in my tracks.    The kennel owner explained how important it is that we witness the blessed TWENTY MINUTE event to prove he used the correct stud.  (Jeez-Louise, I would have believed him anyway.)

After 25 years of marriage, we were honestly embarrassed in front of each other.  I thought I had seen it all, but had to laugh (inside) watching John hold Anna and whispering to her, “It’s okay, Anna, it’s okay,” as CJ’s tongue lolled out the side of his mouth.  Throughout the service, John locked eyes with me and I with he, and we did our best to feign dignity.   The stud’s owner shot me the skunk eye when she noticed the camera.   We were busted.   I didn’t bring it for the express purpose of doggie porn, I assured her.   We were totally green –and Anna was too by then.

May 1, 2003  -  Whelping Day

A few short months later, we had a litter of eight speckled pups and all the joy our hearts could hold.  Their little squeaks were music and they would cuddle in our arms for hours.  The first five weeks were a piece of cake; Anna did all the work.  After that, they figured out how to get out of their enclosure and left us gifts of every size.  One pup would be a keeper; a gun dog to take over momma’s job.  We had to pick. 

Ours had to have the best nose, lots of intensity, and we wanted a white-ish one, a real “looker”.     There was one pup in particular who was especially connected to Anna.  She kept by momma’s side and did a lot of sitting.  She was heavily ticked and the darkest dog–and some in my family thought she was the ugliest one.  She was fat, too.  A big, round, fat, full puppy.  As the rest of the puppies were sold to hunting homes, somehow Creekwood’s Ramblin’ Rose stayed behind.  My fat baby Rose–the dog only a mother could love.

Remi at 8 weeks

Nap Time in May

Rosie proved to be a solid hunter.  She had a great nose and made trips to Iowa and the Dakotas where she put up hundreds of pheasants.  John did a great job getting her ready.  Everyday we worked on obedience and field training.   Her deep chest was full of air and her stamina rivaled that of any professional hunting dog.  Everyone wanted to hunt behind John’s dog.

Anna and Rose, doing what they were born to do.

Fate Steps In

Anna, our sweet momma, grew jealous of Rose.  She began to take off with Rose and run away, trying to lose Rose.  They would be gone for two hours and Anna would come back first, feeling triumphant.  Then Rose would (thankfully) show up and we could all breathe again.  Our solution was to never to let both dogs out at the same time.  For months it worked until one day the housekeepers were here and they unknowingly let both dogs out at the same time.  Sure enough, Anna took off and Baby Rose followed.  It was a 20 degree November day filled with flurries and dropping temps as the night drew down.   No Anna.  No Rose.  Finally, John’s cell phone rang.  A frantic lady said, “Hurry, come out to Baldwin Road.  Your dog is hurt.  I hit it with my car.”

We shot through the front door, dropped the truck in drive, and fish tailed down the road spitting snow, ice and salt.  In a sad way both of us secretly hoped it wasn’t Rose.  When we got to the scene, Anna was standing and Rose was in the back seat of a car, wrapped in a red blanket.  Her upper thigh bone was snapped and exposed.  The opposite hip was out of the socket, rendering her a paraplegic.  The lady said that after she hit the dog, it spun around and was dragging itself across the icy road by it’s front legs and crying out.  She couldn’t leave it.  Using the information on Rose’s collar, she called us.  THANK GOD for responsible drivers!

At Michigan State’s Veterinary Hospital in East Lansing, we learned that her whole caboose was shot.  She was four years old, in her prime, and fully trained to do what she was born to do–hunt upland game.  We opted to have her leg surgically repaired with rods, plates, and pins and the hip was placed in a sling that we lifted each time she had to evacuate.  You learn those nifty words in the hospital.  After six months, the rod became infected and had to be removed.   The vets at State assured us that the bone had healed and it was strong.  The day we brought her home from the hospital, I heard a loud snap.  She screamed and hobbled on three legs.  John and I knew we were back to square one.  At this point, having gone through all the pain that I know we three could tolerate, we opted to put her down.

Fate Steps In

Training Day

Buckets of tears later, while staring out a window, a random thought popped into my head.  I wondered if Dr. N’s CJ was still at stud.  If we couldn’t have Baby Rose anymore, maybe we could get a half sister? (Anna was ten years old and wasn’t viable.)  At 13 years of age, trusty CJ had sired an impressive litter seven weeks earlier.  Off we went, hearts in hand, back to Wisconsin, where we played with a pack of puppies and picked a perfect pup– Remington’s Iron Maiden, Rosie’s sister!

3 Months Old: Our first camping trip!

Anna accepted Remi with a scowl, but soon enough everybody loved everybody.  Now fully trained to pheasant hunt, Remi has just turned four years old.  I tell her every day that her Daddy was a champion and her sister was loved.  She just looks back at me with impatient eyes that say, “So are you going to hand over that treat, or what?”

Eyes on the Prize

Remi honors Cash

Remi in Winter White

Remington’s Iron Maiden

Rose and Anna