And the answer is...

*

Great guesses on yesterday's photo, but everybody's thinking on the large side. Our back yard shelterbelt is home to flocks of charming little Hungarian Pheasants, fondly known as huns. Which of course don't stick around long enough for me to get a decent photo of my own.

*

Cool Tracks

*

Guess who's been playing on the snow bank outside my living room window:

(click the photo to enlarge)

*

Location, Location....

*

They say location is everything in real estate, so we kept that firmly in mind when we bought a house last year. As in, it's located in town, instead of way out in the sticks like our ranch, which will come in handy now that our son is getting old enough to be involved in after school activities. It's actually an apartment building, and we reserved the smallest unit for our infrequent stays, when either the weather or our schedule demands. 

We call it the Townhouse. Original, right? It is four blocks from my office, three blocks from my son's school, and in the past month I've gotten lost twice driving there from work. What can I say? It's a gift.

Last Sunday evening I had a meeting in town. As usual, we dawdled around until the last minute, then threw stuff in a suitcase and dashed out the door. I couldn't find my cell phone, so I grabbed my husband's. We arrived at the Townhouse with a school backpack for the kid but no lunchbox, three pairs of socks but no clean jeans. Like I said, as usual.

Ordering pizza seemed like the simplest way to deal with dinner. One quick phone call. Easy peasy.
Except right off the bat, the girl asked, "What's your phone number?"

Uh…good question. I don't dial my husband's cell phone number, just click his name in my contacts list. I stammered, stuttered, and said, "I think it's…"

"Oh—kay," the girl said. "Will that be delivery, or carry-out?"

Wait. Delivery? I hadn't thought of that. It was three degrees outside, so I said, "Delivery. Definitely."

"What's the address?" she asked.

I rattled off a street number and name.

"Um…." She poked at computer keys. "Are you sure? According to my system, that street doesn't exist."

"It's right up the hill from the high school," I insisted.

"On the south side of town, then."

"Yes. Oh. Sorry. I said north, didn't I? I meant south."

There was a quiet sigh, the sound of a woman thinking, Why do I always get the morons? "Got it," she said. "Apartment number?"

"Uh…" Huh. The back door we habitually use doesn't have a number, and I've never bothered to notice which apartment was which. "The one on the bottom," I said. "At the back."

Another sigh, but she clicked more keys and said the delivery person should be there in forty minutes.

Thirty-eight minutes later, it occurred to me I'd failed to specify the street was south east, and I'd given them a faulty phone number so if the driver was wandering aimlessly around town, she wouldn't be able to ring me and ask for guidance.

I called the restaurant again. "Hello? This is the person who ordered a large Canadian bacon delivered…"

"Oh." You, her tone implied.

"I may have given you the wrong address," I said. "And phone number."

"Yeah. We noticed."

I hastily gave her the correct information, then hung up and went out front to meet the delivery driver at the curb since I still didn't know the apartment number. She pulled up and warily got out of the car, as if she feared she was dealing with someone who might have a tenuous grasp on reality.

"I was here before. They told me nobody lives in the bottom rear apartment." She clutched the pizza to her chest and darted a glance at the house, her expression suggesting that it had occurred to her I might just be a hungry burglar.

"Well, we don't. I mean, not really. Just sometimes, when the weather is bad…" Uh, not helping. I gave up, pried the pizza out of her hands and said, "Never mind. What do I owe you?"

I tipped her extra to offset the possibility that she would dial 911 as soon as she got in her car. And next time, I'll just pick up the stupid pizza. It'll be a lot less stressful for everyone.

*

  

Squeaky Snow

*

We've got a high of five below today, which means it's way too cold for snowmen. I had to explain that to a friend from Alabama last winter, who has never experienced snow that's too cold to pack into a ball.

Whenever there's an ice or snow storm in the south, the southerners tend to freak out and the northerners tend to mock them. I used to be one of those northerners, until I got to experience an ice storm in Texas. I drove two blocks to the grocery store, got stuck in a dead level parking lot, had to go back in the store and buy cat litter to get moving. Then I drove the two blocks home, parked my pickup and didn't leave again until it thawed.

Southern ice and snow isn't like the stuff we get up here. It's slushy and wet, slicker than ours. Miserable stuff, basically. So for all you southerners, I wish just once you could experience squeaky snow. Believe me, it's a lot more polite.



After kid's wrestling practice. Ambient temperature- -15 Fahrenheit. 

*

You Should Know Me By Now

*

Two months post hip replacement surgery, I'm happy to report all is going well with my husband's recovery. When Greg started misplacing his cane, I took it as a sign he didn't need the thing much. It also brought back memories of my grandmother, when her doctor first consigned her to using a cane.

She'd sit down, prop it next to her, then get up and walk away. Fifteen minutes later, she'd say, "Oh, darn. Where did I leave that cane?" And then we'd backtrack through every room in the house until we found it. Right where she left it, oddly enough. And always in the last place we looked, too.

I'd been away at college for a few weeks and was home for a visit when she gave me a disgruntled scowl. "Did you see I'm using a cane now?"

"Nope," I said. "Been here two days, can't say I've noticed you actually using it at all."

The key point in my husband's recovery—from his point of view—was the day he was able to get into his tractor. This allowed him to follow Dad and I around and 'help' us do the chores, otherwise known as constructive criticism. Luckily, tractors are loud and there is a limited amount of communication possible, so he was easy to ignore.

He could also drive the pickup, which was great because we could make him drive to town for parts and the milk I forgot when I bought groceries. Wasn't like he had anything better to do. The physical therapist was less impressed when he delivered himself to his first appointment.

"Have you been cleared to drive?" she asked.

"Was I supposed to stop?"

Probably best I don't repeat her answer here. Family show and all that. 

One of his first errands was to pick up feed for our newly weaned heifers and bulls. It comes in forty pound bags, fifty to a pallet, so each pallet weighs a ton. At the feed store the pallets are loaded onto our flatbed with a forklift. If possible, we unload them at home with a tractor that has a pair of metal forks attached to the front of the bucket, but some of the places we want to store them cannot accommodate a wooden pallet, so they have to be hauled off bag by bag.

Such was the case with the bull feed, which we keep in an old two horse trailer parked next to their pen. The bags are slippery plastic-coated paper, so I bear-hug them around the middle, stagger to where they need to be stacked, and heave them onto the pile. Yeah, it's a picture of beauty and grace.

On this particular morning, I unloaded and stacked two pallets of bull feed. Then we moved on to the heifers. The first pallet had been loaded into our old four horse trailer at the feed store, but hauling another could've popped the bald tires, so the second came home on the flatbed.

Putting it in the horse trailer was tricky, because in addition to the straight forks carrying the feed pallet, the tractor bucket has a grapple fork mounted on top like massive salad tongs. If Greg tilted the bucket wrong, he could punch holes in the roof of the horse trailer, which sort of negates its value for storing feed.

He eased up close, attempting to line up with the narrow door of the trailer while also keeping the bucket at the exact right height and tilt. Dad and I helped by making a whole bunch of completely contradictory hand motions.

The grapple fork ripped a chunk of chrome off the roof.

The project sort of went downhill from there, with all of us growing increasingly frustrated. Finally, the pallet was inside the trailer, flush up against the first pallet…and sticking out six inches too far for the door to close. Greg revved up the tractor for a mighty shove. The whole trailer moved, but the pallets didn't budge.   

More arm waving, another chunk of chrome torn off. Greg paused long enough for me to climb up and open the tractor door. "We're gonna break something if we keep this up. You'll have to take it somewhere else," I said.

"There is nowhere else," he declared. "Just toss the bags off by hand."

Given that I'd already 'just' unloaded a ton of feed, I may have gotten a bit huffy and suggested he toss them off himself.

"I would if I could," he snapped. And then this man who's known me for over twenty years looked me straight in the eye and said, "Fine, then. Where would you like me to put them?"

You'd think he'd know the answer to that one by now.

*

Scary Stuff

*

Per an impromptu poll taken in our roping arena, the five scariest sounds in the world in the ears of  a horse:

1.  A hissing rattlesnake.

2.  A lightning strike within fifty yards.

3.  Velcro.

4.  The crinkling of a Walmart bag.

5.  Cannon fire.

Now if you'll excuse me, gotta go patch some bridle reins.


*

A Fair Wind

We complain a lot about the wind here, but the fact is, it makes for good cattle country. It keeps the flies down in summer. More importantly, you rarely see our cows pawing through snow for grass. The wind keeps parts of the pastures bared off so they can graze freely, which saves us a bunch in winter feeding. And because our winds vary from north to west to sometimes south and east, they tend to bare off different parts of the pastures from one week to the next, so the cows can use most of the grass.

So here's to the wind. Nice to know it's good for something.