Yep, I'm Gonna Talk About Plaid...

I am known in certain circles for my plaid jacket. I've been spending time in more agricultural circles lately and as a result, I'm just wearing a jacket instead of being that girl in the plaid jacket.

It is so, so freeing.

My original plaid jacket (And hot damn, I wish I had a picture) was a gift from the Berry Queen. She was about eight months pregnant with her fifth Berry Baby and angry about her size. She projected these feelings of size onto my birthday gift and as a result, she gifted me with a men's size XL plaid jacket. I loved that jacket, and as time went on, Mal grew to love it as well.

About three weeks ago, I decided to play the role of the good Samaritan. I was driving down the road and there was a woman standing beside a dog that had clearly been hit. I felt bad, swore up and down, and stopped my car.

The woman was also a good Samaritan because she hadn't even hit the dog. The person who hit the dog had driven away. The dog was still alive and was quite docile and quiet and I couldn't see anything visibly wrong with it. The woman went to question the two houses nearest us to no avail.

I decided to make a quick call to the vet's office (Three years of owning an accident prone horse taught me to keep the vet's number always at hand) and asked if we could bring the dog in.

I was standing on the side of the highway with an older woman who had her hair and makeup done and who was wearing heels and a nice outfit. I had no clue as to how to get the dog into her car.

I noticed that the dog was not bleeding or really even dirty at all, so I thought, I know! And I grabbed my plaid jacket, rolled the injured dog onto the jacket so that I could use it as a sling/stretcher. The dog was placed in the back of the car and driven to the vet's office.

Unfortunately, the injuries to the dog must not have really set in until he was transported. Upon getting to the vet's office, myself, my clothing, and my jacket were thoroughly coated with blood.

I fear the worst for the dog as he was in much worse shape when he got to the vet's than when I first saw him on the side of the road. The lady from the vet's office asked me if I wanted my jacket back and said that if I did, i would have to wait as they were working on the dog.

I left without my jacket and spent the rest of the day feeling terrible because someone's dog was hit on the road. I can't imagine how I would feel if my Dixie was hit in such a fashion.

Now my search for the next plaid jacket begins. It has to be a men's XL, it has to be the perfect flannel, it has to have the right color, and it has to be able to endure years of bonfires and other types of redneck debauchery.

A Plan...

I have a plan of sorts.

And really, I'm aggitated that I have to even make a plan for this sort of thing. Like, really? I'm twenty five years old. That's right. I'm TWENTY FIVE YEARS OLD. And I still have to plan this sort of thing.

Four days ago, I wrote this post.

I was feeling deflated and confused and then elated that I had done something so productive as to have clicked my mouse and make my desktop pretty.

(This is, in fact, the sort of thing my life has come down to. Sigh)

I wrote that post after another date with The Cowboy.

(Only instead of riding up on a wonderful steed and riding double into the sunset, he drives up in a North American car. If only he'd shown up in a golf shirt and flip flops with a Mitsubishi Lancer, I don't think I would have nearly as much trouble with this. But he does things with his spare time like hunting moose and he doesn't look at me in horror when I talk about things like mud and guns and blaze orange. And I have to say, I'm a sucker for someone who digs blaze orange.)

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THIS GUY.

Does he dig me like I dig a twelve guage shotgun? Does he think that opening day of deer season is the best day for a date all year? Does he want to sit by the river decked out in camo with pockets full of bird shot, talking in whispers until dark? How would he feel if I took his car out and spun the tires on the gravel? How would he feel if I took out my JEEP and spun up some mud?

I have all these pertinent questions to ask and now he's off chasing Bullwinkle eighty thousand miles away.

And I know he's in his blaze orange.

At any rate, I have a plan. It took me days to come up with this plan, lots of thinking and calculating and practicing while I drive down the road in my oh-so-sexy JEEP.

I'm going to call him.

That's right. Twenty five years later, I am grown up enough to come up with a plan that involves calling a person on the phone.

Only I have to wait until he returns from his chasing of Bullwinkle.

And while that happens, I am going to write this essay that has been weighing on my mind and also? Also?

I'm going to stop being a crazy person.

Don't say I have no goals, dammit.

And Then All The Farmers Laughed

I've created a bit of a stir in CowTown over the summer. I know, I live in a small town and that when people do things, other people talk. I just didn't think that this one little thing I've been doing would create this sort of... talk.

I've been walking.

I've been walking the gravel roads of CowTown all summer long in an attempt to rein in the size of my ever expanding bottom. My bottom remains the same size and my riding boots still do not comfortably fit, but the talk of the crazy girl who just keeps walking remains.

At first the farmers(no cute and single ones, don't worry, I checked) would stop in their pickup trucks and chat with me. I've been chatted with by people in 4 X 4 trucks, by people on four wheelers, by people in tractors, even. One farmer (Cute, but not single) stopped and asked me if I was ok. Like, you look to be going at quite the pace, are you alright? Are you freakin' out about something?

Nope, nope, not going anywhere. Just trying to get some excercise.

*Blink* This led to a thirty minute conversation on Communism and the direction that Obama wants to take the U.S in. (I tried to follow. I really did. But I haven't watched the news or studied a political platform since... Well, now, I don't know. At least he was interesting, but he did cut into my walking time.)

Another farmer (Distantly related to me) stopped at the beginning of the summer and asked if I needed a ride.

No, just trying to get some excercise.

*Blink*

Another farmer (old enough to be my father, distantly related to me) stopped and asked where I was going.

Just up the road and back.

And then he said, What, you're excercising?

And I thought, YES! Someone who would finally understand my plight!

And then he laughed at me and said "Well why in hell don't you get yourself over to my place and put these twenty five hundred bales of hay in my mow. You'd kill two birds with one stone!"

He drove away when I asked how much he'd pay.

Sigh.

Yet another farmer in yet another truck stopped and offered me some candy he had sitting on his front seat.

Thanks for the support, neighbors.

We were at a dinner for all the local farmers, (Not surprisingly, none of them single and cute) at a table full of farmers and the talk of my walking came up. Along with guffaws of laughter. GUFFAWS. These people were GUFFAWING at me.

They then pointed out that perhaps my time in the city had worn off on me.

Ouch.

At any rate, I'm thinking of investing in a home gym of sorts, only my gym would have to be stored in the barn because of our lack of space in the house.

And then I could excercise to my heart's content and not have to face GUFFAWS of laughter at the next farmer's dinner.

I am a woman full of hope, if nothing else.

My First Post From High Speed Internet in Cowtown!

Oh, the speedy, speedy glory. I can now access YOUTUBE! And other awesomeness like videos of all my friends on facebook! How cool is this?

Sadly I have no pictures to upload as I have been busy doing incredibly redneckish things around the house, like shooting and hauling around rocks. I don't know why, but every time I try to make a flower/grass/plant bed suitable for growing things, it turns out that at some point in history, my father used it as a rock pile. Excellent for the upper body workout, not so excellent for planting things that are pretty in.

Like Pear Trees! SuperNan and I purchased a Pear Tree today and I am so excited! I would have preferred an apricot tree for the jamming posibilities, but a pear tree I will settle for without fuss. It must be better than a Manitoba Maple, and cheaper than any kind of Oak.

I am naming my Pear Tree Hope, and will have photographic updates regularly on her progress.

In the throws of my redneckishness the other day, I went to visit a dear friend who said I could use his property to dump burnables any time I wanted. I was sweaty, unnattractive, and clad in my favorite John Deere baseball cap. I was half being glad of and half bemoaning my single status when he said the following:

"Amanda, you're sitting in a big rusted out pickup truck with a load of wood you picked up yourself. You're drinking a beer and covered in mud and loving every minute of it. You drive a Jeep and play with freakin' guns in your spare time. No one is ever going to date you again. No one is that manly."

Sigh. I'm not sure if I should be incredibly proud, or incredibly dejected. Either way, I took two truckloads of wood debris away the other day. I still have something tiny embedded in my right eye and a sunburn on my shoulders that will only get worse as the year goes by.

And hot damn, he is right. I'm loving every minute of it.

A List of Updates, Bullet Style...

- High speed Internet service is coming to CowTown TOMORROW. I haven't updated my links list, or anything, since I've moved home but I hope that changes soon. I also plan to have pictures up now that it will take less than an HOUR to upload them.

- Zydeco has sustained yet another odd affliction. He has a swelling on his belly that is bigger than my fist. And I have giant man-hands, so it is a pretty big swelling. We are monitoring it and taking his temperature to see if he might require a vet.

- I just bought a friggin JEEP. I really can't afford a vet right now, and as such, I'm hoping that prayer will work wonders for my horse's ailment.

- Tia is showing outward signs of her pregnancy! Zydeco is so excited at the prospect of becoming an uncle that he is practicing for racing around with a yearling daily. Tia and Summer continue to be poor players of this game called "I Am So Happy To Be Alive That I Must Leap Everywhere I Go" but Zydeco continues to try and entice them.

- The JEEP is the source of much joy in my life. I love watching my friends climb in and ask me if I have a foot stool handy to make the process a bit more dainty.

- I bruised my shoulder shooting at clay pidgeons yesterday. Pics of the injury to follow once I have access to high speed Internet IN MY HOUSE.

- Summer has arrived (The season, not the horse. He showed up last October and has settled into a steady routine of biting my horse and his eighty five dollar blanket quite nicely). As a result of the onset of summer, I am working on my redneck tan, and in the midst of planning great things for The Ranch.

- My garden plans for this year are in the works and I'm sure that Jooms will be thrilled at the prospect of more home grown sweet corn.

- HIGH SPEED INTERNET. In less than twenty four hours. Life is worth living.

Drawn to a Close...

Deer season is now over for me, and I have to say that I'm a little sad because I didn't get to shoot my fancy new gun at anything. I contemplated taking out a squirrel or two, or maybe a road sign on the way home, but my redneckedness only goes so far.

Davey shot his first deer this year, on Saturday while we were all out together. Dixie, my wonderous Little Muppy, brought the deer to him just as she is supposed to do. I have to say that I'm more than a little pissed that she didn't bring the deer to me, because she is after all MY DAMN DOG. He hit the deer with a perfect shot, right where all the experts say you're supposed to hit it. We ended up having to track it for a period of time through brush and prickly ash that tried to take both the eyes right out of my head a large number of times.

While we were out with Dixie, I noticed that she was peeing quite frequently, a sign that is not a good one because in 2003, Dixie almost died from having bladder stones. Several hundred dollars later, she was restored to her chipper old self. She wasn't acting like herself yesterday, and today when she came home from hunting, she laid on the couch with me feeling quite feverish and looking very pouty.

I'm taking her to a vet tomorrow to see what they can do. The surgery will cost over a thousand dollars, and while I really can't put a price on my love for Dixie, I can't make a thousand dollars spring from my ear next Tuesday, either.

I'm very scared at this point in time because if the condition is worse than it was last time, there may be nothing we can do. I fear that it has gone to her kidneys because she has an odd swelling on her back. It could just be backfat, because she is a bit of a pudgy little beagle, but I'm scared that it indicates something much more serious.

My irrational self wants to sell a lobe of my liver on the black market and fly her to some fancy schmancy surgical unit like they do on the Discovery Channel. My more rational self knows that this just isn't possible.

As soon as we get to a vet, we'll have more information to work with. I wait with baited breath until then.

Guns! And Deer! And Blaze Orange!

Deer season was off with a bang today, and the 'rents and I were out in the bush before six a.m. to see it through.

Before I went hunting, however, I had to run to the barn at four and feed the horses. I love how Zydo and I are more and more alike each day. Every time I run down to the barn to visit him, he's napping. When I get there in the middle of the night? Wide awake. Oh, insomnia-pony. How I love thee.

The road into the bush has been fixed up by the logging companies this morning, to I only had a medium case of whiplash once we off-roaded our way in. My father is now concerned because if the road gets much better, soon every city person and their Aunt's Honda Civic are going to be in there, and the deer will all run away. Apparently, someone fixed up the roadways through his friend's hunt camp, and that happened to them. (And not to have anyone thinking that I'm picking on Honda Civics, I'm sure there is a great number of Mazda Proteges in there, too.)

At any rate, there was only one or two boring little water holes to go through, whereas usually there is a veritable pond or two awaiting us. It is usually around pond time that SuperNan starts screaming and clinging to whatever she can get her hands on, including but not limited to the barrel of a gun or two. Fortunately, we are very safe and sober hunters, and our firearms are locked up tight until legal shooting time. Oh, being a law-abiding citizen. How I love thee.

I didn't manage to shoot a deer this year, but on Saturday and Sunday the whole gang is coming out, including the wonderous Uncle Dixie and her deer-finding powers.

I'm pumped. If I shoot a deer this year, expect many gruesome pictures of myself, my trusty skinning knife, and a pile of intestines right here on my blog.

What Do You Have to Kill Around Here to Shoot a Duck?

Seriously?

I think I'm the master duck-repeller. We only saw like, ten ducks tonight. They all flew by together. AND I was standing behind my mother when I saw them.

And, you know, since I'm such a nice hunter, I decided NOT to shoot since it would have taken her head off first, and totally messed up any chances I had with the ducks.

But hot damn, am I ever itching to shoot at something other than a blaze orange disc with my new toy.

Pics of the Beast...

The beast and I made it out bright and early Sunday morning after I got about three hours of sleep. Oh, working in a place where you are dealing with the police until hours after your shift ends. How I love thee!



Of course, right after you come in from hunting early in the morning, you need to pose with your mom before you insist that she make you a nice, big brekky of pancakes and eggs so you can have a full tummy while you nap. Because, My Lord, I really needed a nap.



After my nap, I went outside to shoot some trap. Shooting trap is always a good time, and as per usual, I shattered the first clay pidgeon like it was my job. I wanted to just blow on the end of my smokin' barrel before I sauntered into the house, but that wouldn't have helped to hone any of my skills.

I think I hit about five or six out of twenty, which means that my gun is sighted in and I'm not too bad of a shot. Or it means that the gun is not sighted in and I'm a bad shot. Or any other combination of the above mentioned factors.

Regardless, a nice way to spend a sleepy Sunday before heading off to work.

Jobs and Ducks and Guns -- Oh, My!

I've been phenomenally busy as of late, that type of busy where you sleep for two hours at a time, and each time your body reaches proximity to your bed, you are unconscious before you even make contact with your down duvet.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you, because my sleep has been deep and luxurious and well-deserved.

I had one of those nights at work on Friday that leaves you standing in your horse's stall near midnight with silent tears working their way down your cheeks. I haven't posted much about my job here, other than that I have one, for confidentiality reasons. I'm working with kids and I'm not allowed to talk about them, much less write anything about them on the Internet. I will say that thus far, I'm feeling really good about my job. I feel like I'm getting the hang of how things work, like I go every day and am part of the grown-up world of those who have jobs in their field.

Like every new thing in life, however, it has its ups and downs and I think that working with kids is particularly frustrating.

Fortunately, my mood was quickly changed when my parents returned from The Big City bearing yet another gift: A Mossberg 500 12 guage pump shotgun. It comes with a rifled barrel as well, so I can use it for ducks and deer.

I need to put a note in here and say that this purchase was entirely by surprise and entirely the fault of my father. He simply refuses to share his 12 guage Remington Wingmaster with me, the selfish type of dude that he is. Personally, I think he's just scared of how damn good I am with his gun. Nothing quite like getting your butt whooped by your own daughter with your own gun, I'm sure.

At any rate, yesterday was the opening day of duck season 2007 and this morning, after being at work until one thirty, I was up before the sun getting ready to sit by the river and wait for some ducks to fly overhead.

At one point my father called in a whole flock of them and, as luck would have it, we all must have decided to shoot at the same duck. The ballistics came back and it turns out that my mother hit it in the chest, and my father hit it in the neck. However, my dad and I were shooting the same type of shot, and since I'M THE ONE WITH THE WEBSITE, I'm telling the Internet that I SHOT THE DUCK.

So there.

Putting the Red in Redneck...

We were supposed to do straw today. By 'do straw' I mean make it into bales, transport the bales from the field to the barn, and then deposit them inside the barn.

I know that it doesn't sound like such a difficult task, but really, it is a monumental task when it is time to put straw (or hay, or anything that exists on the planet Earth) into a mow. Everything had seized from the last time we tried to use it. I shattered the motor on the elevator before the fifteenth bale got in, the baler refused to make bales after the first load. The wagons would not extend so that the smaller tractor could pull them, and I think we made four trips in total to the tractor dealership.

However, I did manage to get some posts painted, a load into the mow with the help of SuperNan, and a helluva lot of work done in the barn. Clearly I spent enough time outdoors to end up looking like this:



I also did a good amount of work indoors today, work that started out with a trip to the lumber mart. Now, clearly, women should not be permitted within the walls of this sacred building; however, those darn hippy liberal yuppies have gone and made it legal. So in I went.

This is what the barn looked like when SuperNan and I started out:


This is what it looked like when SuperNan, my dad, and I finished:


Now, I know I make it sound like I did ALL the work here, but mostly, I just supervised, throwing out suggestions here and there while wielding a can of Bug-Whacker. At one point my father yelled that if I didn't stop spraying the damn bees, he would collapse before the job got done and THEN who would make the power tools work?

It was a bit of an adventure to start out with. If you look very closely at the finished product, you might see that there is a tuft of my hair stuck in it. Before we realized that we were in over our heads (there's a pun here... wait for it) I was standing on a chair with a drill in one hand, an assortment of screws in the other, and an eight foot long piece of plywood on my head. SuperNan was holding up the other end.

Now, I would have loved to grab a picture of me with this lumber on my head, but, well, you know... THERE WAS AN EIGHT FOOT LONG PIECE OF PLYWOOD ON MY HEAD. The drill was giving me some lip over something or other. I think it had to do with making the screw go into the wood. In the end, I gave up trying to hold the plywood to the cieling with my head, put it down, and made my mother search out my father, who was still stewing because NONE of the equipment for straw-making would co-operate. In fact, I think he may still be stewing now.

Hell, he may be stewing from now until every last morsel of that straw has been peed on by our horses.

At any rate, I think it is by far the most productive day off from work I've had in weeks. Tomorrow I get to start painting the barn. I've wanted to beautify the place since long before I had a horse, but now that I do, I want even more for him to have a lovely home to live in.

As soon as I get the Clifford border off my bedroom walls, I think he and I will be about even

Officially a Farm Girl...

I became a woman of the Country today, learning how to drive my first ever tractor. I did so in the presence of two incredibly yummy-looking pool boys (Francois and Xavier, I've named them) who were a little stunned to see a girl decked out in cut-offs, well-worn Docs, and a ball cap needing instruction from three different people on how to start the tractor. (My parents were the first two, and the six-year-old Precious Boy was hollering "Drive the tractor, Auntie! Drive!" Helpful, Lovey. Thank you.)

The real reason I never learned to drive before was due to the fact that tractor work is the honorable work. It's the prima-donna position in farming, and as such, the youngest is often stuck performing the tasks that I did. You know, the shoveling of the shit, the feeding of the calves, and that one time I was awarded the prestigious position of having a cow vomit in my mouth. Yes. Good times.

Fortunately, I am no longer the youngest who resides on or near The Ranch. Oh yes. The very Precious Boy pictured here in the John Deere (And I must ask, why is HE in the good tractor?) will now be my rival for tractor duties.

Fortunately, at this point, he can't yet reach the pedals.

Considering his father was around six feet at twelve, I figure I have a good six years left of tractor driving.

And a grand six years they shall be.

[Ford Tractors, John Deere Tractors, Farm Work, Farm Girls, Hot chicks on tractors]

Its Called Being Obsessive....

I have been spending an inordinate amount of time peering at my garden of late, waiting for it to spring into bloom. Tonight I brought the Precious Boy out with me to sit and stare, waiting for some sign of life other than the occasional earthworm or ant to pass me by. Within ten minutes he was incredibly bored, but I soon found this little shoot underneath a pebble of dirt. I immediately had to photograph it and now I must ask: Do you think this is a bean plant? Or is it just another pesky weed? I suppose that time will tell. I also suppose that the old adage is not at all true, and that a watched garden really does grow.

I also spent a small amount of time wandering through the barn, admiring what I have accomplished thus far and what I have yet to accomplish. See here the horse stall that will soon become a tack room. Picture it waist-deep in debris, trash, and cat food containers. And then look at the picture and tell me that I am not WonderWoman. And then if you do tell me that I am not WonderWoman, be sure to leave your address so that I can find your car and remove its distributor cap accordingly.

Also, you can see here my bull pens above at the right. They are clean, relatively speaking, and once I build up the nerve to remove the cob webs from them, I'm sure I will be in business to start thinking about preparing them for other things to live in them.




Here are two pictures of a terrifying experience I had tonight. I had to go down into the very, very scary basement of my parents' haunted house to fix a fuse. I've never before fixed a fuse, the flipping of that irritating little switch, but upon peering down into the basement stairs (See the picture to your left) I really did feel the need to stop and get a strong drink. Once I was down there, I didn't bother to photograph a thing on the way to the fusebox, because the terror that was in my heart over the thought of something ending up on my person was almost enough to cause heart failure. However, once I turned around, I couldn't not take a picture.

While the basement may be terrifying to some people with its six foot cielings and its dug dirt floor, I really have to stop and stare at the beauty of it all. Did you know that someone dug that basement with his own two hands? He placed the foundation there without the help of trucks and workmen and a company with a union. I wonder about the person who laid that foundation sometimes. Did he ever stop to think that a hundred and eighty years after he dug that foundation, a young girl would be living in the same house dreaming of being a farmer? Did he ever think that this same young girl would have spent her lifetime in that house, being scared of the creaky sounds it makes? Did he ever think that I would sit alone in my computer room and wonder about him, if he had a lovely young bride to bring him a jug of sweet tea, or if he had beer instead?

I wonder about him, sometimes. I wonder if he led a good life or a bad one. Mostly I wonder if he knows that I am still in awe of his work, almost two centuries later.

[A New Life, Long Term Goals, Farmer, Farming, Calf Pens, Haunted House]

A testament...

See my back?

Does it look like a pretty, pretty tan?

Oh, no. Not a tan.

That's pure working-in-the-barn-all-day filth, Baby.

Now, the question remains: Do I shower before heading to the beer store in Dad's pickup? Or do I live up to my redneck standards and just throw on the lumberjack jacket?

Introducing the newest, and shortest lived, member of our family...

This nifty little fellow is named Bertrand the Bat. He flew over SuperNan's head tonight while she was sitting at the computer, innocently checking her message boards. She didn't scream initially, except for when she had to get my attention. Sometimes I take after my dad a little bit, and I guess I tend to be hard of hearing. Or just completely absorbed in the neat things surrounding me. Which are rarely made up of bats.

Fortunately enough for us, he flew into the kitchen and for a brief period appeared to be napping atop the kitchen door. He looked so cute and cuddled up there that I thought - momentarily-about wrapping him and I up into my lumberjack jacket and dozing together. But then I realized that it was a FRICKIN' BAT and he was in our FRICKIN' HOUSE so I came to my senses and got the broom.

It was at this point that all Hell broke lose because my mother dispatched herself to go get my father, the Ultimate BatBuster. I, unfortunately, was left alone with the bat for all of five minutes and I suppose my time in the Big City must have worn off on me because when he started flying DIRECTLY AT MY FACE I felt the need to commence shrieking with all my might. SuperDad soon came to the rescue, fully equipped with a handy-dandy fishing net. I was surprised because I was expecting him to come up to the bat with his bare hands and grasp him by his thin little neck to toss him out the door.

But this was not to be the case. My father caught the bat with the net, and we all oohed and ahhed at the beauty of him because he actually was like a little mouse with wings. My mother is quite fond of mice, having performed many animal-friendly breeding projects on genetics with them in her college days. My father does not quite have the same affection for mice going on, but he tends to love all wildlife, especially turtles, and apparently bats. And so we all wished Bertrand the best and set him free in the garden like the good samaritans that we are.

I'm sure we'll all get a good laugh the next time the little bastard breaks into our house and lands us all with a nice case of rabies.

In all, I suppose just another Friday night in CowTown.

[Bats, Ridding your home of Bats, BatBusters, Napping Bats, Rabies]

My week's work...

I finished my garden today. It was a momentous event, finishing that garden, and as I leaned on my pitchfork surveying my work, with sweat dripping off my chin and dirt coating my body, I must say that I felt entirely satisfied.

My father thought that it would be a neat trick to give me a plot of land that is actually the foundation for some old outbuilding, or perhaps a sacred Indian burial ground before it was discovered that bodies need to be several feet beneath the ground. I didn't find any bodies -- and if I had, you can bet there would be all kinds of pictures on here -- but I did manage to find a whole host of enormous rocks that took all of my might and strength to remove. Some were small, but there were three sections of what was once a medium sized boulder that I had to lift out, and as I lifted them I cursed. I did not curse quietly and under my breath; no, I cursed loudly enough that the whole of CowTown could hear me, I'm sure, and if we had a mayor or a police force, I'm sure that someone would have given me a noise violation, or at least a warning. I must stop here and say that this is one of the many, many reasons we live in the middle of nowhere, because we can pee in our back yard -- or the front, if we prefer -- and we can scream obscenities at any time of the day or night and never encounter any trouble as a result of it.

This is the last picture that I took today, although I did far more work than is here. I have everything planted and all the rows staked, as well as a trelis up for the peas to climb. My mother was somewhat upset that I didn't photograph the entire process because the photo of turned over dirt doesn't really do it justice. This garden was originally rock-filled sod which I had to remove piece by piece. After that, I added six wheelbarrow loads of the finest four-year-old red veal shit that all of Eastern Canada has to offer. Then I brought about four loads of topsoil from the load that we got two years ago, after which I had to turn the soil again, pick out the remainder of the rocks, find a trelis and set it up, create another trelis, dig seventeen thousand holes, and plant a bunch of stuff.

Projects like these really make me think about the people who lived long before us. Those people couldn't just run to the SuperCentre, grabbing an Iced Cappuccino on the way, if their gardens failed. Of course, as soon as the seeds were in the ground the anxiety came over me, and what if none of the little plants come up? I will be the laughingstock of CowTown for sure, because what the hell kind of farm girl can't plant a miniature frickin' vegetable garden?

If nothing comes up, I plan on blaming the fact that no Round-Up was sprayed in the creation of this garden.

[Rural Life, Garden, Vegetable Garden, Country Living, BackBreaking Labor]

Oh, the weekend....

I got to spend the weekend reminiscing with a friend from public school, a friend who managed to get herself married, and now she has this husband hanging around all the time, but he's ok: He's one of the ones who has a job and a GMC pickup and everything. Together with the husband, she bought herself a farm and on the farm she is housing all kinds of neat stuff like cows, chickens, and a bull that is twice, or maybe even three or four times, the size of one of those ridiculous SmartCars. (That's why we buy big vehicles that aren't environmentally friendly out in the country: Crack the hood of your Mazda Protege over the rump of one steer and you'll be a Silverado fan for life.)

The barn is glorious, oh so very glorious, and every time I was in it I wanted to burst into tears and wrap my arms around the neck of every creature within it. Unfortunately, the creatures within it were not as interested in me and I had to settle for photographing everything within distance of my camera's 16x optical zoom.

She also just received a shipment of day old chicks from the feed store (Because out here in the country the names of stores are rather misleading. The gas bar nearest us sells liquor and subs, and the feed store also sells baby chickens. I think it makes perfect sense but the city folk find it a little confusing.) As I was photographing the chicks, three suburban pre-teens were eyeing me warily and asking if this was like, my first time on a farm or something. I grinned and squealed "Oh, Y'all don't even KNOW! And Y'all, Ah just lu-uv y'alls bayby chickens! Can Ah take some home with me?" And after I did that, they stopped bugging me and my friend just had to snort and roll her eyes because what on Earth is hotter than a farmer snorting and rolling her eyes?

I forget what this cow's name is, and I'm sure its a very creative name, like the Spanish word for steak or something. I'm sure he will make a very good steak too, one that is juicy and succulent because they feed their cows apples in their spare time. APPLES. I've never heard of feeding cows apples but it is supposed to make them nicer and the next time I get cows? I'm so totally feeding them apples because there is nothing worse than ill-tempered bovines.

My weekend started out with a trip to see Big Brother and Family, during which time she received another lesson in Why One Should Avoid Auntie Like The Plague: The Flash of that Damn Camera. Since getting my camera I have been a little obsessive about taking pictures but I have to say that Hey! It's digital! I don't have to print any that I don't like and so why not take thirty seven of her doing the same thing because eventually I might just get that perfect angle and become a world-renouned photographer using Shit Luck as my merit.

A good weekend in all.

In praise of the lumberjack jacket...

Last year I turned 22 on my birthday, and it was probably the best birthday of my life for a variety of reasons. The Berry Queen bought me my very own plaid lumberjack jacket, and I realize now that to describe a lumberjack jacket as plaid is redundant in and of itself because do they come in any other color?

I love my lumberjack jacket with a love that is fierce and strong, because it is warm and cozy, it is comfortable, it is plaid, it is soft. It acts as many things: a blanket, a comforter, a jacket, a shawl, and sometimes even a boyfriend. When I wear the lumberjack jacket I know that I can be single for the rest of my life because its like being wrapped up in something safe and warm and comfy and really, who needs a smelly man who's likely to leave razors on the bathroom counter when you already have a lumberjack jacket on hand? Not me, that's for sure.

Mal wore the lumberjack jacket out for a cigarette this weekend, and I think it was the first time in her life that she ever experienced the lumberjack jacket-y goodness. We were driving to a wedding on Sunday and she turned to me as we were lost for the seventh time in a random parking lot. There was an air of seriousness about her, a sincerity on her face when she looked at me and said:

"I'm sorry for judging you for wearing the plaid jacket."

"What?"

"No, really. I'm sorry for judging you. I wore it out for a smoke this morning and it was seriously so comfy. I get it now. I get why you love the jacket so very much."

I have to say that there is really not a conversation that I value as much as that one, and I know that it is a friendship based on strength and trust when she admitted that something so hideous and unbecoming can be so loved at the very same time.

I've decided to punish her for her months of ridicule come this October. I think she needs her very own lumberjack jacket, so that she can wallow in the flannel goodness even when I am not around. And then every time someone comes over and finds a plaid jacket jammed into the recesses of her closet, she'll have to flounder for an excuse as to why she owns such an abonimation. But then, while she's floundering, perhaps she'll realize that she doesn't need an excuse, and she can weep and proclaim her undying love for plaid jackets and hold it in her arms and she can know without a doubt that this is what true love is really all about.

Country Music is NOT THAT BAD....

I love country music. I will never stop loving country music. I think I spent over two consecutive hours today listening to country music, from Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson (And if anyone knows someone who is in prison this Mother's Day, be sure to tell them to have Mamma Tried played for their mother on the radio station) all the way to the newer country artists like Sugarland and Taylor Swift.

Teardrops on my Guitar: Really, I have to say that it is brilliant. And there have been many, many people who have caused me to leave teardrops on my guitar. Thankfully, they don't stain the finish. Baby Girl by Sugarland? "It's a long way from here/ To the place where the homefires burn/ Well its two thousand miles and one left turn" I dunno, the song just speaks to me. A friend drove out to The Ranch last week and she was amazed that you could get to my house with an hour and a half of driving and two turns.

New country doesn't really do it for me in the same way that old country does. I love most of the original Johnny Cash because of how plain and simple it is. Most of the new country has added so many musical interludes, doubling up on the voices, tons more backup, and a lot more extra ... stuff.

Country music is bashed all the time. I hear it in jokes, I hear it in the groans I get when I freely profess my undying love for Toby Keith, Kenny Chesney, Blake Shelton, and Gary Allan. (If any of you fine men are reading, and you would like to marry a 22 year old Sociology graduate, please contact me ASAP. Thanks.) People actually groan.

But the thing is, the new country? Has pretty much no twang at all. There aren't too many stories about bird dogs, the farm going under, little Timmy losing his leg, and someone's wife cheating with his brother. I mean, those songs exist -- but not in today's mainstream country.

I think what really made me love country with all that I have to love country with was my Culture class last year. I never considered Rednecks a culture, I never thought that we could be considered our own people, with our own set of norms, traditions, unspoken rules, language types, and so forth. But the more I look at culture, the more I look at Redneck culture, the more I realize that wow, we really are a grou punto ourselves. We are worthy of recognition, we do have our own style of music, ways of life.

And if you listen to the lyrics of our style of music you'll find that it is not that much different than your average easy-listening station. Which is why the hardcores like me stick to Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson, Don Williams, original Johnny Cash, and of course, Hank Williams.

Toonses

[Country Music Rednecks]

The epitome of class....

Spring is in the air, which mean it's high time the LumberJack Jacket resurfaced.

It's also that essay time of year. Read: I need beverages, gumballs, cigarettes, and comfy clothes.

So picture, if you will, my lovely self, hair without product and tied up, proudly displaying the LumberJack Jacket, beneath which is donned my favorite duff beer hoodie, listening to Toby Kieth and toting with me a twelve pack of buck-a-beer.

This is gonna be one fine essay, I can tell you this much.

Toonses