Let a Sleeping Dog Lie

Now when you are a dog, going to the Indiana Dunes means running wild on the endless beach and digging up fish bones until the cows come home.  You get to wade up to your pink belly in Lake Michigan, biting at the white caps and rollers.   It also means getting to run free on the wooded trails–trails that are full of poison ivy and adventure.   It’s all good when you are just a dog.

 

 Remi and I loved our time at the sand dunes. 

We visited a buffalo farm and dined on a gourmet dinner of tenderloin and buttered morels, expertly prepared!  My mom and I jumped in a sand hole because it was there and we could.  We were part of a small Airstream rally that weekend as we slurped up ice cream cones and buffalo stew.  We fed the mosquitoes at night and our campfire stories were interrupted by a ring-tailed intruder who scampered up a tree.  We stayed long enough to see a blaze orange sun-ball set against the downtown Chicago skyline.

The trip home was uneventful, which is the best kind of trip home when you are flying solo pulling a trailer.   We parked in the driveway and headed straight to bed.  Reunited, Remi snuggled up against daddy all night and he liked it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, John woke up itching and erupting with poison ivy sores.  Did I mention that he is violently allergic to poison ivy?   HE naturally attributed the outbreak to his working on deer blinds and food plots the day before on Holly Road–where he is building a deer preserve.   That sounded good to me so I went with it. 

The lines of red scabby skin and puss sores cover his forearms and face.  He keeps wondering why it keeps coming out more and more.  I keep letting him wonder.

Could it be right where a little doggie, who missed her daddy, was curled up after a romp in the vine covered Indiana woods?  “Ruttt-Ro!”  At this point, I’m thinking it is best to let a sleeping dog LIE.

 

I Spy With My Little Eye

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I spy with my little eye new life stretching out in the glorious spring sun.  The fields on our farm are awake.  Dainty flowers, climbers and clovers, and buds — all ordinary, yet extraordinary.  Come take a walk with me!

 

 

Birth Days

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How sweet is it that my youngest son and my mother share the same birthday?  May 16.  How coincidental is it that my brother’s son and my father share the same birthday too?  October 16.  In our family, Grandma and Grandpa both have grandsons born on their birthdays.  However, my nephew ratchets it up a notch:  he has the same exact name as my father.  Good times on ancestry.com for future generations!

 

THE BIRTHDAY CAKE  ~by Victoria Chase

What goes into a birthday cake?

Sift and stir, and beat and bake

A cake that must be grand and fine

For a great big boy of nearly nine!

 

“What will he be when he grows up?”

High hopes are raised on the rolling board!

Fond, foolish memories that mothers hoard,

And love too full for a measuring cup!

 

Quick fear for the hurts the future holds,

Fierce anger, too, for the men of might

Who leave a world of pain and fright

As a heritage for nine-year-olds!

 

What goes into a birthday cake?

Sugar and salt, and smiles and tears,

Butter and eggs, and hopes and fears.

Sift and stir, and beat and bake;

That’s what goes into a birthday cake!

 

Momma’s Having a Hot Flash

Wine ordering websites need to come with an R rated warning.  S e r i o u s l y

After 10 minutes on wine.com, I need a room and a vibrator to go with my cigarette.  Who writes this stuff?

“Effusively juicy, rich and concentrated, showing plenty of snap to the crisp and well-spiced flavors of wild berry, dark currant and plum tart. Orange-infused chocolate notes linger on the exotic, mocha-filled finish.  There is real mineralite within this bouquet that, returning after 30 minutes, offers alluring ocean spray scents rolling in off the ocean.  It clams up a little towards the finish, shuts the lid tight and consequently there is the sensation of less persistency here compared to the Taylor’s or Smiths. But the Big Johnson has a knack of filling out with bottle age and becomes both gentle and generous with the passing years.

Somebody pry my fingers off that Johnson and bring me a towel and a cold compress.

 

More Horsepower

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Planting time is here and, of course, we have breakdowns.  The 55 recently had a new fuel injector installed and when we tried to start it, all she gave was the sound of silence.  The dealer hauled it back to the shop with a promise that the tractor will be back in two days.  (insert skunk eye)

We also had a main hydraulic cylinder explode on the disk (which has only happened on one farm in the last 100 years) and replacement parts are a week away.  Typical.  Just about the time we are back up and running, the rain will be here to muck it all up.

Despite all the parts that work until we need them and the problems that crop up, we somehow manage to get our seeds in the ground on time.  Scaring them helps.  We name our tractors for that purpose. 

The fields start shaking and break open when the roar of our VelociPlanter gets close and then we stomp ‘em good with the big wheels just to lay a whoop-tail on ‘em.

 

Our stacks get to schmokin and the disks get to rollin and the packer gets to crushing.  Then we start digging, injecting, and cussing up a storm. There’s always a few wrench throws and busted hands or  broken backs when it comes to fixing on the fly.  Those moments are balanced by the “How Many Times Were You Flipped Off” Competion.  Each operator keeps count of how many California waves they get from the general public–who are always in a hurry.  We go as fast as we can, always, but drivers still get ticked off and make dumb decisions…like trying to pass us on a hill.

We put on our mean mugs

grab coffee jugs;

make our engines lug–

and get the job done.

Good times!

Three Mile Island

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We were four brave souls who risked life and limb to participate in an expedition out to Turnip Rock, located three nautical miles from Port Austin, in Michigan’s thumb.  Our cast of characters included explorers from the states of Louisiana and Michigan.

Did I mention that there were titanic sheets of ice on the lake only 30 days ago?

None of us has any real expedition experience; it’s just that some of us have more brawn than brains.  This was risky business; disaster could strike at any moment:

  • One spill in the 40 degree waters of Lake Huron
  • Getting bombed by seagull poop
  • Getting caught in a riptide that dragged us out to sea
  • Breaking a nail
  • A tsunami could get us, after all, there really was an earthquake that day!

We threw our kayaks and canoes into a black covered trailer (a very covert operation) and made sure our last will and testaments were in good hands.  The trip was a three mile paddle out, three miles back, and it took three hours without “horsing around.”

Of course, we had to film the expedition!  Click on the orange link below to join us on this epic voyage.

Turnip Rock Expedition 2015

 

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