Not another make-you-cry column, hopefully

I had a very sappy and kinda sad column ready to fly onto the page this week, but something nagged at me.
I read and re-read it trying to edit my way to satisfaction. Eventually I came to the conclusion that while what I said is “important” (just go along with me here!), I had a gut instinct that things needed to be lightened up around here. So, here’s my attempt at makin’ things lighter for you — hopefully making you smile (if only for just a little bit)!
Last night at 8:45 p.m. I wasn’t hungry. So, what to do when there’s nothing to do and you’re not necessarily hungry? Eat, of course.
So I proceeded to scour the fridge/freezer hoping to find that right snack to quench the hunger I didn’t really have. When I opened up the freezer, I found spaghetti sauce. Not just any sauce. (A sauce that has a multiple page recipe cannot be described as any old sauce.) It was my late Grandpa Don’s.
Mom has recently perfected the ever-evolving dish and made a batch. Part of my birthday present was individual frozen servings of my beloved Grandpa’s sauce.
So I made all the necessary components needed to eat the spaghetti dish and sat down to enjoy.
Well, this dish evokes a million memories of my Grandpa Don and Grandma Rosie. Both have died, but both live vividly in my memories. Christmas can’t come without warm thoughts of this dynamic duo.
One Christmas, my over-the-top, larger-than-life Grandpa purchased a tree too large for the house. So what to do? Well, open the grate to the upstairs and then you’ve got a tree downstairs and another upstairs at the same time! Two for the price of one!
Or the old fridge that contained every version of every condiment from every decade. All resting near a small hole where Grandpa instructed us grandkids to kick ice cubes when we dropped them!
Bullet holes up Grandma’s living room seat and on the wall around her chair where Grandpa tried to kill a squirrel. (Many uninvited animals inhabited in my Grandparents’ home. See a relative if you’re interested in hearing one of these shake-your-head stories.)
Booming laughter and lots of love.
After my Grandpa died, the family had to sort out his many hobbies. Grandma, who wasn’t all that well herself, could be seen dragging a wagon full of stuff to and from the little house (which was used for storage).
A worker.
Memories of when my mom had me go water this plant someone gave my Grandma toward the end of her life. (Grandma had a self-diagnosed “black thumb.”)
As I was filling up the water jug, Grandma hollered from her chair, “I don’t know why your mom just won’t let that thing die!”
Or when she was battling the ants. I visited during one of those wars and Grandma told me frankly, “I don’t know who’s going to die first — them (the ants) or me!”
Incredible sense of humor. Happy hearts. Joyful memories.
I feel these memories may be “you had to be there” kind of stories in print. I hope I’m wrong.
I hope you see that the deep, unrockable way my grandparents loved me and the family has left lasting footprints on my heart. I won’t ever be able to shake Grandpa’s booming laugh from my ears or Grandma’s warm hug from my arms.
I won’t be able to go through a Christmas without thinking about that tree. The cousins. My aunts and uncles. And my Dunkle Bug. Bubble bread.
And I don’t want to.
Spaghetti will never be just spaghetti to me.

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

How many Oehlschlagers does it take to kill a rooster?

Being the avid list-maker that I am, I took full advantage of the long weekend to document all the tasks I wanted completed.
Now living on a farm with four young kids, I’m sure you can imagine the wide variety of chores to pick from. There was anything from mopping to laundry to groceries to farm work.
Among things to do on the farm side was “kill Jerry” — the rooster, of course. And that was like my No. 1 thing I wanted done.
So as Sunday came and church went, the Oehlschlagers came over to assist with promises of a barbecued bird for dinner.
As kids were napping, we set out to rid ourselves of the menace our head of the henhouse has turned into.
But then we learned there was a bull missing. So the search began and Jerry had to wait. It’s amazing to me how a four-legged compact-car-sized mammal can “hide,” but he did.
And when John had to perform a minor surgery on Patrick’s leg in my garage with a box cutter (it was a new blade, I think), alcohol and tweezers, I realized my day was not turning out the way I wanted.
Rain was also threatening ... great.
But soon enough, the bull was located, legs were bandaged and gloves were donned (Matt thought about putting on his paintball mask but braved Jerry without it).
And into the chicken house they went. Jessicca manned the video camera while me and the kids watched as the men encircled Jerry.
I waited impatiently with the ax I can barely lift. And as Matt and Patrick brought the bird out, one guy on each end, I pretended I didn’t see them whence as I took a whack. When they saw that I really do have the upper-body strength of a toddler, I was vetoed as executioner.
Jerry took his last breath and I learned up close and personal the meaning of “a chicken with his head cut off.”
Ahhhhhh!
Soon after the mess was cleaned up and Jerry was relaxing on the grill, I took a moment to look back on his time at the farm. I thought I might be sad, but nope, I still believe he was/is the spawn of Satan.
Jerry got the last laugh, though. That guy was so tough he was nearly inedible!
Everybody left tired and hungry but satisfied.
What could bond a family more than chasing cows and kids, cutting your brother’s leg open and then harvesting your own livestock?
Good times. Perfect memories made out of an imperfect day.

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Four kids + camping = FUN

Around these parts camping is a part of life. Every summer you head to the nearest body of water with some friends or family, take camping gear, a fishing pole, bug spray, some food and you’re set.
A cheap weekend of bug-bitin’, skin-burnin’ fun!
I grew up camping. Every summer our extended family would gather at one of the area lakes, pitch some tents and stay there a while, creating memories filled with cousins covered in mud, swimming in ice coolers, hot dogs on the grill and more.
And we still go every year, just now, us kids have babies of our own.
Matt and I attend faithfully every year, leaving at dusk with apologies, citing our baby on the way or baby just born as the reason we cannot camp.
But this year, with our final baby nearly a 1-1/2 years old, we decided to join the ranks of the all-night campers — all six of us in our four-person tent!
FUN!
The kids were very excited as we loaded up the Suburban to capacity and headed to our destination. I felt there was really no way this could go wrong. My plan: to wear the kids out so they literally collapsed inside the tent as we zipped them inside.
So, after dinner, fishing, s’mores and visiting, we made our trek to the tent. Matt kept saying, “Let’s just go home...” But instead, we continued on.
The kids were passed the point of exhaustion and had slid into the delirious, silly phase. One moment they’re squealing with joy, the next screaming out of complete over-stimulation.
We purposly went to bed while everyone else was still awake, as to not keep them up as we waited out the storm in our tent.
Inside our tent was a catacombs-like pile of bodies (ours were alive though) and pillows and blankets. Masen (the youngest) jumped from end to end like a spider monkey, not caring who he landed or stepped on. This (I’m sure you can imagine) led to loud protests by the other three who then began to shove around, in a get-off-me war that seemed to last forever.
Eventually, (after ignoring several pleas from Matt to give up and go home), one by one kids began to drift off.
Bella was the last to give it up, not surprisingly, and she was also the one who woke up at who-knows-what-time in the morning to wail loudly into the silent wilderness for a long 15 minutes.
No one slept well on the hard ground, especially in a tent made for a much smaller family.
And soon the sun was up. And so were the kids.
No rest for the weary.
My first words to Matt, “That was a bad idea.”
But not even a week later, we were planning to camp again next year, with modifications of course.
I’m thinking camping is like childbirth. If you remembered how awful it was, I’m sure you’d never do it again!

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

"Hairy" situations on the farm

Day after storm #2, and I’m retracking my steps to figure out what sort of karma manure I’ve stepped in!
My family has been the victim of two hair catastrophes in less than two weeks!
INCIDENT #1 — This past Monday I threw caution to the wind and said “Yes” to the gum my big-eyed, lip-pouting older children begged for.
BIG MISTAKE! Even after my one-minute discussion about the dos and don’ts of gum-chewing, Rylan soon came running into the kitchen, “M-O-M!!!”
Before I even turned around I knew.
So, I took a breath, said a little prayer that the sticky, hard-to-next-to-impossible to get out substance was in a male child’s hair.
And, thankfully, it was!
But Rylan does EVERYTHING he can in the most meticulous fashion and putting gum in his hair was no different.
It was like the child rolled the gum into a play-dough-like log, set it on top of his head, did a head stand and then rubbed his head into the carpet!
The gum was not in his hair, it was super-glued onto his scalp and strapped down with hair!
Wanda said, “Peanut butter and ice.” Nope, didn’t work. So, I told Rylan, go to the back porch, “I’m gonna cut it out!”
He cried the whole way. After the buzzer got stuck in the peanut butter mess, I went for back up — my trusty hair-cutting scissors.
Now my precious 3-year-old has a lightning bolt-type bald spot on the top of his already shaved down head! Phew!
INCIDENT #2 — (Some background info: I cut my family’s hair. And not just because I’m cheap; I really like to cut hair.)
So, it’s no surprise that my eldest daughter might be interested in my pastime, after watching me cut her dad’s hair and her siblings’, as well as her own.
And I will tell you that I’m VERY careful with my children and scissors — really, only the older two have ever held a pair of skin-puncturing, hair-cutting blades. But consciously I know children will disobey — innocently or not.
So why I was surprised when I got that phone call at work that Tuesday with the horrible news, I don’t know.
Time stood still as I listened to Matt tell me how Kadence had chopped three inches off the left side of my baby Bella’s hair and created a slab of one-inch bangs across her forehead (or, more appropriately, scalp!) I had to take MANY deep breaths before I drove home to see the damage.
One look and I knew we needed professional help. An emergency trip to see Chelsie with my unfriendliest child did not sound like a fun afternoon, but I sacrificed.
I realize now all is well.
Probably by week’s end I won’t see my son’s “bald” spot and the shock of Bella’s VERY short hair has worn off.
The sun will rise just the same on my house with less hair than it did with more.
Hair disasters have become all too common in my house these days. Soon there won’t be enough kid hair left to cut off, even out, etc.
I better not be next!

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Baby Bella turns 2

Those of you from large families may understand how younger children have to fight for food, drink, attention and really survival in general.
Our third child, Bella Rose, has assumed that role perfectly. She’s cute on the outside and a down-right dirty survivor on the inside.
Mom calls her other persona: “Dark Bella” aka DB.
Some (my dad is really the only one!) don’t believe she exists. Mainly because DB is hidden beneath Bella’s Cabbage Patch doll likeness: (Oehlschlager-round head, button nose and tiny mouth). But believe me, when Bella feels threatened or is just in a salty mood, DB surfaces.
Last Tuesday we celebrated her second birthday. Bella cares not a lick about her age — it’s all just a number to her — higher the age, bigger the conquest, I suppose.
I have witnessed Bella, who doesn’t talk much, transform into DB, grab ahold of a sibling at the calves and football-hug them until they succumb to her mighty arms.
She’s tough as nails and can take any item away from any of her brothers or sister no matter the height challenge. She watches for someone to leave their play post, where they had cautiously guarded their toys from Bella’s captivity. She stalks her prey and one moment of weakness and their precious activity is DB’s for the taking. Her timing is impeccable.
Another aspect of my Bella, is that she is very particular about who she is chummy with. I think it’s a defense mechanism. She’ll choose my dad above anybody, including Matt and I. And most people are met with a low gaze from behind an “approved” adults legs. She may look cute and shy, but don’t underestimate her. DB is lurking close behind, waiting to protect, if necessary.
In all sincerity, my Bella Rose, named for my late Grandma Rosie, is a joy. I truly believe, even though they never met, Bella received some of these attributes from my grandma’s “scrappy” DNA.
Bella, who arrived unexpectedly 15 months after Rylan and only 10-1/2 months before our baby Masen, is a vital piece of our family puzzle.
She compliments the rest of us perfectly and I pray she will harness her inner “DB” to be a positive force in her life and those around her.
Happy Birthday, my Bella Rose. And may God be with those that cross DB!

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Happy Birthday, Rylan!

You know those people who say you look/act like your pet? Well, I guess that makes me a cow.
Not really, but it seems I’ve had a lot of babies very quickly and they all seem to come at the same time of year, every year! So Matt has classified me as a fall/winter calver.
This is OK to me, but what that means since we have six members in our family is that beginning with our anniversary in September, we have a birthday in every month until February — not to mention those other present-heavy holidays.
So this is definitely birthday season at my house.
We kicked off the season last month with Rylan’s (our second oldest) birthday. He was 3 on Oct. 24. Rylan (aka “Bub Man”) is an interesting fellow. He is known to gallivant around in nothing but pink snow boots and underwear. (About a month ago his attire would have included a binki, but the man has been forced to give that addiction up!).
His birthday party went off without a hitch, unless you count the several tractors, trucks and the like! Oh yes, he is a man with a love for wheels, to say the least. I was worried he would literally stroke out when he opened his presents since I knew there would be a set of John Deere tractor pajamas Grandma Helen made among the mess of toys.
But, Bub never ceases to amaze. He became so enthralled by all the wheels, I think he glazed over and I (kid you not) at one point I heard him ask his cousin, Sidney: “Would you open this for me?” He didn’t stroke out, he checked out!
Soon the man was back to his old self and some time the next week he followed me outside to hang clothes on the line. He was buck naked, of course, and it was one of those days when the wind had a bite. After getting a taste of the breeze, he opted to stay on the back porch to take his bike for a spin.
The weather didn’t seem to bother him too much because he stayed back there even after I finished the laundry.
I had just sat down for a break when Rylan came rushing in.
“It’s cold out there, I need some underwear!”
And then he was off again! What a guy.

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

My cows aren't colorblind!

One summer evening, when Matt was tucked safely away at some thousand-head calf sale at the Stockyards, our cows decided to do some traveling of their own.
I had just put the little ones down to bed and had settled into the faraway world of celebrity gossip, when I noticed something out our living room window.
A very excited calf was doing some jump-kick thing with his hind legs as he ran in a celebratory way across our lawn and on down the road.
AHHHHHHH!
As I ran for the phone, my worst fears were realized — ALL the cattle had gotten out and were stampeding down the road!
So, I took a deep breath, and went outside to assess the situation. Not long after, some good-hearted folks down the road pulled into the drive to let me know we had cattle out. Yep, I knew, I told them and I had no way to get them back in.
So what did these neighbors do (in compact cars, I might add)? They loaded up and pushed the cows back up the road and safely back into the pasture.
Good neighbors are not only great, but vital.
Especially when you have scheming cattle like we do. I know those cows know when Matt leaves. As soon as his red truck drives off, they hit the road, too! (And according to Eldon Cole, recent research suggests cattle CAN see some colors!) So, they know!
Like when I was walking to our blackberry patch one summer night and heard the unmistakable sound of a big mammal chomping on corn husks in the garden. I cautiously readjusted my gaze to the left only to find our bull making a buffet out of the garden!!!! Ahhhhh!
I wish I could say that’s all the experience I have, but it’s not.
My latest ordeal was more celebratory on my part, though!
One Saturday as I was folding laundry I noticed we had a cow out on the road. Of course, Matt was at a sale and the kids were home with me. So what to do? This time, I took matters into my own hands.
I put the kids in a secure area (their beds) and headed out. I ran (hopefully nobody was watching!) to the barn and found an empty feed sack. As I walked to the gal cautiously, I told my self, “Don’t say ‘Here, cow!’” But the first thing that came out as I rattled the empty bag was just that. She looked at me, shocked I guess, and continued with what she was doing. I was no threat, obviously.
Since I got her attention, I believed I was on the right track. So I said it again and shook the bag like crazy.
Well, then the old gal took notice and started toward me. Ahhhhh!!!!! Panic-stricken because that lady was hungry and this lady had only an empty bag of feed, I took off running to the barn. Well, she started to run, too, thinking she was gonna miss out on a tasty snack.
By chance my brain told me “Open the gate!” So, I did. And in she ran.
AL-LE-LU-IA! (If you know me, you can hear me singing it now!)
I called Matt (from inside of course — I didn’t forget about all those kids waiting) and told him of my recent victory. He was proud.
If only that was the only drama that day. Soon, I heard a noise from inside the bathroom ... Rylan had locked the door. With him inside. And, this 3-year-old was content NOT to escape!
Day in the life, I suppose.

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Where she'll land, nobody knows!

A few years ago I never would have thought my No. 1 request on my birthday/Christmas list would be a bread maker. But here I am. 25 years old. Four kids and a husband. Farm with the likely characters. And a sort of amnesia to the path my life took to get here.
Don’t get me wrong, I want nothing else than to get up at the crack of dawn every single day and change diapers, fill sippies, corral the young’uns, feed/water animals, etc. But as I sit here and look around at my unexpected life, I feel a sense of gratitude for the Man above who ignored all my selfish wishes as a college student and put me on the path I am today.
See, while I was on the Capitol beat during an internship for my college newspaper, I dreamt the dream that one day I would be Senator Fairchild. Not long after, my life took what I thought was a south turn, and we had our daughter Kadence. (Who was 5 on Dec. 1!)
So out the window went my legislator, singleton college-girl dreams and down the pipeline came the non-traditional married college student from a small town (yep, I moved back home!).
After college graduation, I began a new journey, one I swore I would never do — work at the Lawrence County Record!!! But again, what a blessing.
Yes, I work for my family’s business, but to me, everybody who works at The Record is my family. I’ve spent A LOT of time here over the years, and most of the people who work here are people who knew me before I knew them, if that makes any sense. Plus who can get that dang ink out of their blood? I sure couldn’t!
I know I’m still very young, and I realize my life will take many, many more turns, and I guess that’s OK. But as my first born, the child who started this beautiful mess, celebrated a milestone birthday, it gave me pause to reflect and be thankful —‘tis the season, right!
Thanks for my life. It’s unscripted to me but my path is not unknown. God knows where I’m going to land, and up to this point, he’s proved to me he sure has a sense of humor!

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Hello. My name is Ginia and I am cheap.

When you print something for thousands of people to read, I guess you can say “the cat’s out of the bag.” And much to Matt’s dismay, I’m sure.
See, I’ve wondered for a while now how Matt really views my “ways.” And then last night he told me.
“You’re the cheapest person I know.” And I don’t think he necessarily meant it as the compliment I took it as!
But, nevertheless, I am. At least I strive to be.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no miser, I’ve just got a love for order and logic and living the “cheap” fits in.
I LOVE to make order out of things. I even offered, begged and harassed a coworker to organize her basement. (She hasn’t taken me up on my offer, yet!)
When my house is filthy — and with four kids and a husband, it is a constant battle — I feel out-of-sorts, like I can’t operate. It’s paralyzing to me when my “cleaning schedule” is not just right on track. So I plan, make schedules, make list after list after list, all in the name of order. And, this includes finances.
As you can imagine with little kids and a farm, we’ve got a drawer full of bills and only a pocket full of money, so I’ve had to figure out ways to make things stretch to cover the gaps. Like everybody, I’m sure.
I read and read and read different ways to do things with less money. I’ve found that when you make something from scratch — food and other household items — you are almost ALWAYS saving money!
I’ve got all sorts of ideas in the works. Way too many to list all of them, so here’s just a few:
Homemade laundry soap • use a lot of those ingredients in place of household cleaners you just thought you had to buy to clean your toilet, sinks, floors, tubs and as dishwasher detergent • can your own veggies and jelly • make homemade bread • create a dryer ball in place of dryer sheets or cut dryer sheets in half and then reuse two of the already used sheets per load — three times the use per box! • wash and reuse plastic bags • save all plastic containers from grocery items (like sour cream containers) and use as snack bowls for little kids or in place of purchasing plastic containers • I use vinegar instead of fabric softener • bar soap used for the laundry soap can also be used to wash your family! • hang clothes on your clothesline when the weather isn’t subarctic • use half powdered and half whole milk to stretch your liquid gold consumption ... I could go on and on!
My goal is to buy ingredients instead of convenience items and I know this isn’t for everybody. I’m not even a perfect cheapskate. Don’t judge me if you find us waiting in the McDonald’s drive thru for burgers that I surely could have made cheaper at home. (Believe me, I am hating handing over that cash!) But, it’s necessary sometimes.
Knowing where we spend/save every dime is freeing to me. A deep breath. Relaxation. Knowing I’ve worked hard to get the most out of what we’ve got.
And at the end of the day, after everything has been put where it goes (hopefully), I can rest easy on the couch with my DVR (yes, I gave in to the satellite!), knowing that I’ve worked to be my most-efficient self. And yes, that means cheap.

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Eggs for sale

Aparently we haven’t cleaned enough poop with four kids, because we decided it was time for more chickens.
Fifteen to be exact.
Yes, we purchased (willingly) 15 more things that eat, drink and poop like crazy and I’m starting to question my sanity.
I think this farm thing has gotten a little out of control! (And Matt’s still talking about getting — actually he’s already ordered — 15 MORE little winged broilers!)
See when Matt came to me eager to share about his “find” of the exact type of laying hen he wanted, I can truly say I was supportive.
My logic, cruel as it may sound, was that 15 sounds like a lot, but with cold nights and four very young kids we’re bound to lose a few, right?
Wrong! Three weeks later and all 15 are still flopping around! Can you believe it? I can’t!
But wait, our cute canary yellow-chicks have morfed into odd-colored, long necked maniacs!
And I thought kids were high maintenance.
These chicks get fed like 300 times a day and every time you lean over with a morsel of food they act famished.
And the water dish. It stays fresh looking maybe ene second after you place it into the box, and then they trample all sorts of interesting objects into it. AHHHHH!
It doesn’t help that I have four “helpers!”
Like back during the first few days the chicks came home, I thought I’d put them in this neat little “fancy” cage we had from some other farm adventure.
The kids watched with sheer amazement as I took each little birdie and placed her gently into their new abode. After I had transfered the heat lamp over and all four kiddos were perched around the outside peering in, an alarm went off.
The bars. Are they just a little too wide?
But before I could act on my instincts, the fiasco began.
Paralyzation set in as I watched my days-old chicks escape from the cage and wind their way through and around my children’s feet narrowly escaping a trompling death.
Luckily, the kids were as dumb-founded as I was, leaving me enough time to bark out an order:
“nobody move!”
And they (the kids) obeyed! Phew.
I soon had all 15 chicks safely tucked back into their original box and decided that animals that come to our house just better get used to the cardboard lifestyle. We all had to.
And just today I started thinking. In four months — give or take — we will have a total of 18 laying hens. I had to get a calculator (sorry Mrs. Neely) to figure how many eggs that will be a week: 126!!!
Can anyone say:
“Eggs for sale!”?

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Welcome home, Riki

Charlie said I should title this column, “Riki and the Rooster,” but then all you readers of this column would understand right away how my cousin’s visit to the farm went a few weeks back and I wanted it to be a surprise.
See Riki is originally from Hawaii and lived in Missouri for a while and graduated from Mt. Vernon High School. She then returned to Hawaii where she met her husband, and they (Andrew is in the military) are stationed in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. (I know, poor souls moved from paradise to paradise!)
So as you can see, Riki hasn’t had much experience (as her cousin has, like I’m some pro!) with farm life.
When she came back to the mainland for a visit to introduce her Missouri family to her new husband, I took the opportunity to introduce Riki to the farm.
We planned to gather the entire family at my house one beautiful Sunday afternoon. Fairchilds came from near and far to meet Andrew and visit with Riki.
Meal time went off without a hitch. And before our Baggo tournament could begin, I (innocently) asked Riki if she would check to see if there were any eggs in the chicken house. Hearing this request, the rest of the Fairchilds (who have been privy to my rooster experiences) eagerly gathered by the chicken house for the “show.”
Now, before you start thinking I’m the meanest, most inhospitable cousin in Lawrence County, you need to be aware of the many signs Riki was given that this was a set up.
#1 — I asked Riki to take off her high heels to wear a pair of Matt’s knee-high work boots.
#2 — The ENTIRE family didn’t walk, they ran to the back yard to watch.
#3 — Since angles might have been an issue when documenting the experience, two people decided to video tape.
#4 — I gave Riki a bucket and showed her how to swing it. (I thought she knew I meant in self-defense, but looking back, who knows what she thought motivated the advice.)
I will admit I felt a small pang of guilt or maybe regret as I opened the door and Riki apprehensively walked inside with me lovingly assuring her along that everything would be OK.
So as the rooster “introduced” himself to Riki and laughter, tears and screams ensued (not all from Riki, of course) I knew I had done the right thing.
In fact, I think this will be my new thing — invite city friends and relatives over to check eggs. Initiation, I guess — an insight into the life we lead, spurs and all.

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Why Do I Keep Buying White Socks?

White socks. Or at least what used to be white socks have become my Achilles’ heel.
No matter the strength of my will power or the potency of my bleach, I can’t seem to get my boys’ socks to look like they’ve ever met water!
It’s no help that Rylan doesn’t like to wear shoes, but he LOVES to wear socks. Or that Matt’s work boots leave permanent orange badges over the body of his socks. Or that Masen likes to de-sock himself and chew on his teeny foot clothing. (Don’t ask me why dried drool is gray.)
I pride myself on stain removal. I brag and brag about my ability to remove unwanted stains from clothes. So every time I wash socks I cry and whine.
Usually I meet stains head-on with all the weapons in my arsenal ready to attack. But so far these socks have taken all my hot-water soaks, baking soda blasts, bleach washing, hanging in the sunshine in stride.
Every time Rylan races to his Sunday school class with Ms. Marcy and throws off his shoes, I worry.
Do people think I never scrub my floors? Or that I don’t make Rylan change his socks?
Matt asked me the other day as I lamented about the state of my family’s socks, “Why don’t you just buy dark socks?”
And I fired back, “Have we ever met?”
See, I’m one of those typical “Type A” personalities who likes control and win a little too much. I’ve told you about my schedules and anxieties about things that shouldn’t matter that much. But they do.
It’s pathetic, I know. It’s a problem, I know.
But, NO, I’m not going to give in to the gray-sock bully. I’m going to keep right on Googling my problem, seeking the advice of those who’ve gone before me and praying for a solution.
God decided that half of my family of six would be boys. And it seems boys play in a whole other laundry ball game. Their dirts a little dirtier, their grass stains are a little deeper and the magnitude of their grime is more wide-spread. And I’m still learning the ropes.
I love my boys. But I’m not real fond of their socks.

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Mean Roosters Make Good Soup

I have lived in the “city” (Mt. Vernon proper) all my life — with the exception of college.
Since my husband and I purchased a farm, I’ve been experiencing a little culture shock. Seems this city girl has a lot to learn!
Farming was never in my mind as a career or pastime or hobby or really anything for that matter. And those who know me, or I guess knew me, cannot believe I live on a small beef farm. The reality of it is laughable to them. Not because it’s a humorous position, but because I, the former Coquette, Show Choir party gal am riding shotgun in a pickup opening gates for my cow-loving husband.
Matt (my husband) has always wanted to be a beef farmer and I guess this life is his wish coming true. We’ve got a small corner of the earth we run some cattle on. And as of now (the farm roster changes almost daily) we’ve got four young kids, a couple dozen cows, a bottle calf named “Lucky Lady Sally,” one dog, one cat, seven chickens, a rooster, a vegetable garden to tend to, fruit trees, and oh yeah, a little mouse I cannot seem to capture, so I guess he should be included on the masthead.
Like everybody else, we’ve got more to do than the day is long, but we’re enjoying all of it.
I hope you keep tuning in every month to see what we’re up to on the Oehlschlager farm — the freshman farm gal/new mom learning the tricks of the trade. My goal is to provide some information to those who haven’t been exposed to this lifestyle, but mostly to provide some comic relief to those who live it day in and day out.
My short time as a cattleman’s wife has given me more respect than I can show for all those making their living working the land. So my brand-new, never been broken into hat is off to you, veteran farmers.
I’ve got a lot to learn!

As seen in the Lawrence County Record www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

Salutations

I have lived in the “city” (Mt. Vernon proper) all my life — with the exception of college.
Since my husband and I purchased a farm, I’ve been experiencing a little culture shock. Seems this city girl has a lot to learn!
Farming was never in my mind as a career or pastime or hobby or really anything for that matter. And those who know me, or I guess knew me, cannot believe I live on a small beef farm. The reality of it is laughable to them. Not because it’s a humorous position, but because I, the former Coquette, Show Choir party gal am riding shotgun in a pickup opening gates for my cow-loving husband.
Matt (my husband) has always wanted to be a beef farmer and I guess this life is his wish coming true. We’ve got a small corner of the earth we run some cattle on. And as of now (the farm roster changes almost daily) we’ve got four young kids, a couple dozen cows, a bottle calf named “Lucky Lady Sally,” one dog, one cat, seven chickens, a rooster, a vegetable garden to tend to, fruit trees, and oh yeah, a little mouse I cannot seem to capture, so I guess he should be included on the masthead.
Like everybody else, we’ve got more to do than the day is long, but we’re enjoying all of it.
I hope you keep tuning in every month to see what we’re up to on the Oehlschlager farm — the freshman farm gal/new mom learning the tricks of the trade. My goal is to provide some information to those who haven’t been exposed to this lifestyle, but mostly to provide some comic relief to those who live it day in and day out.
My short time as a cattleman’s wife has given me more respect than I can show for all those making their living working the land. So my brand-new, never been broken into hat is off to you, veteran farmers.
I’ve got a lot to learn!

As seen in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com

I know it's illegal but...

I know it’s illegal but ...
I killed a snake.
There, I said it. Come arrest me now because I am guilty.
Hang on just a second there before you fire off all those “snakes are good” letters. I challenge all you snake-killer haters to react calmly and not kill or seriously injure an uninvited slithering house guest just hanging out on your laundry room floor.
My guess is most of you red-blooded Americans would react just like I did — scream and slam the door.
But after my initial freak out, reality sank in and I realized that if I didn’t do something immediately, the snake would continue his journey into the depths of my house and probably resurface some day in another inopportune moment.
So I decided to take matters into my own hands. I found a knife, a paring knife to be exact (not my most brilliant decision). I slowly opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief when the unwelcome reptile still was there.
Bending down carefully, I tried to inflict mortal pain on the lethargic snake. It took two stabs before the apparently annoyed snake noticed me. But when he turned his head toward me and mockingly stuck his tongue out, I lost it. I turned and grabbed the closest, biggest thing to me (a mostly empty bleach bottle) and swung away to save my life.
After a while, the snake succumbed to my attempts to kill him, and I left the carnage for Matt to clean up. (It was the least he could do.)
Looking back on my actions, I sound a little harsh. But I believe they were justified.
Physically the snake did no harm (besides elevating my blood pressure), but mentally, I’ve not been the same (you can stop laughing now!).
Because now every time I turn on a light, I envision a giant black snack coiled up, rocking its head back and forth, hissing. It’s not good. I’m hoping some day I won’t have to look down the toilet searching for snakes on my ascension to the porcelain throne.
So the snake paid his dues, and I’m paying mine.
I hoped the snake was just lost and not one of many living near and/or with me. But I got a phone call at work the other day.
Matt said Rylan told him he found “a worm” in the laundry room.
Aaaaahhhhhh!

As published in the Lawrence County Record
www.lawrencecountyrecord.com