I made the mistake of looking at my daughter’s fashion magazines yet again. These things either make me laugh or make me mad. Sometimes they cause me to scratch my head. I always find amazing all the “new” rabbits Madison Avenue continues to pull out of its proverbial hat. Somehow designers, manufacturers, and retailers  convince millions of women each season that this is in or that is out, that hair must be curly, straight, wavy, “piecey,” beachy, or whatever. (I’m supremely glad to have hair and am happy when it’s clean and neat). Continue reading →

I’m still picking peaches from our trees, and they’re also falling off faster than I can use them. Fifty cups of peaches have been frozen, so I’m expecting our ancient freezer to go out sometime this year (hopefully in winter). Murphy’s Law, you know; it’ll probably give up the ghost in August. Continue reading →

Have you ever noticed that things seem to break and generally mess up or need attention in batches, never only one at a time?

We just discovered that one of the bulls is limping. We don’t know why. We’re hoping he’ll recover in time to do a little work next winter. Timing is everything. Continue reading →

I have fond, if hot, memories of my parents making plum and grape jelly.  I remember accompanying them to pick the plums at least once when I was very small, probably too small to do much actual picking. I can definitely conjure up the feeling of intense heat in our kitchen during the creative process.  It was memorable. (And it was the same when they put up pickles a little later in the summer). This was before we had central air and heat.

As I remember, I gratefully escaped to one of the two rooms with A/C units—-and lost myself in a Nancy Drew mystery book. I remember spending many happy summer days that way. If it was too hot to ride a bike, play a little kickball with the neighborhood kids, or climb a tree, I wanted to read, make something, or go to my friend Pat’s house to sit in their one air conditioned room. Pat had brothers, and her brothers had friends. So we might bring out a board game (at which I always lost), play with little cars, or read comic books. If the boys weren’t around, we might haul out the dolls. Whatever we did, it always seemed to be accomplished on the floor.

We all have memories of summer. My own remembrance of plum jelly manufacture unfortunately didn’t include how to actually do it. So when our neighbors kindly offered us some plums last week — and asked if I knew how to make jelly; the gentleman’s response to my negative answer was to suggest it was about time for me to learn! And I agreed.

The first time one does anything, it’s an adventure. Zack chided me for even attempting this project, as busy as I am these days. We have an expression that covers this sentiment perfectly. Like several other of my most beloved expressions, this one was translated badly from Yiddish, by a relative I never even knew. It was passed down — with several of her other gems — by her daughter, my mother’s first cousin, now also sadly long gone. The expression goes like this, “If you don’t have any trouble, go out and buy yourself a little pig.” The point is that if things are going too easily or too smoothly, we always seem to find ways to busy ourselves — so that we become overwhelmed again.

When Zack suggested that perhaps I didn’t really need yet another project, I casually dropped the fact that HE was the one who wanted bees recently. I rest my case. New experiences are almost always welcomed here, for experiences make memories. And the way things often turn out; they give me something to write about.

The next day found me on a ladder picking plums from the overloaded tree. The neighbor admitted that several others had already taken what they needed. I don’t know what he does to that tree, but it was amazing. He and I picked enough for at least one big batch of jelly or jam. His wife offered to share her recipe, and I was grateful. But when I saw it was from Joy of Cooking, I told her not to bother, because I had my own copy. (As it turned out, MY newer edition had NO recipes for jelly. I suppose the editors decided modern cooks didn’t have the time and declared jelly making a lost art).  I decided to trust the recipe included with the Sure Jell box, novice that I was.

I believe this must have been a banner year for plums. Both our local groceries had completely sold out of the regular package (as opposed to the variety for low or no sugar jelly) of Sure Jell. In desperation I close another brand and was grateful to find it. (Probably contains the exact same ingredients and formula, like generics and name brand pharmaceuticals). Zack’s father’s wife reported the same shortage at Wal-Mart and another store or two near them. As it turned out, I was forced to delay my jelly making for a day. By that time, Sure Jell was again available, and that was what I used. I suppose I’m a victim of name brand recognition.

So I learned how to make the jelly. (Zack chose that day to disappear into his shop to fashion a workbench that absolutely couldn’t wait). It turned out I had enough plums for two batches of jelly. The time was easier than the first, of course. And if we have as many grapes as I think we might, I plan to make grape jelly as well. There is no doubt that it was/will be hot, sticky, messy work. There was gorgeous, fuscia colored juice on every surface, including me. I was in the kitchen for hours, cleaned up twice, once for each batch. But to show for it, I have 11 jars of gorgeous, plum jelly, and am very, very proud of myself, in the same way I’m proud that I can drive a stick shift, haul hay, stretch fence, write a story, draw, paint, sculpt, knit, or “clean up good” (to the point, thank goodness, that people who see me during my normal work days don’t recognize me. But on the other hand, this certainly says something about my everyday appearance).

Our senses can trigger memories buried deep within our brains — the smell of gardenias or sheets just off the line — the sound of church bells, a train whistle, birdsong, or a screen door — the rough texture of a cat’s tongue, the softness of a baby’s skin, the warmth of a puppy or kitten. The first taste of my very own homemade plum jelly rewarded me with memories of a thousand childhood mornings in an instant — when exactly the same unique taste was part of my breakfast.

Ah, summer, the season of lovely, growing things. Summer’s about to kill me.

All around us, there has been rain, but oh no, not here. We often claim we live in some sort of meteorological black hole. Our weather only sometimes resembles the forecast and rarely matches that of our neighbors. An old high school acquaintance posted on Facebook recently that he was so happy there had been no days over 100 degrees — and here it was the middle of June in Central Texas. HELLO — Our thermometers at strategic spots on various decks and porches have registered as high as 109 — and certainly well over one hundred several afternoons. Like I said, we’re in our own zone. So I spend much time watering. I water the garden. I water the flowers. I water the dog.

Ah, the summer garden. I water. I weed. I pick. I wash. I pinch off bugs and worms.  I shell black-eyed peas, cut the “spines” from the spinach leaves. I cook squash.  And squash. And squash. Don’t get me wrong. I do love squash. It’s just sort of labor intensive, but not nearly so much as the peas and spinach, which I also find delicious.  With all the peelings and scrapings and discarded parts, I’m often tempted to start that compost pile I’ve always threatened. But that would be yet another project demanding my attention, and extra time is something I truly don’t have in the bank.

Soon there will be potatoes to dig, wash, and prepare. And onions. And peppers and okra to pick. And tomatoes.  And cucumbers.  And cantaloupe. And whatever else I forgot. If I don’t go out to pick the asparagus each and every day and sometimes twice, it turns into little trees before I know it. Asparagus and okra are impatient vegetables. I think sometimes they can grow visibly larger in the time it takes for me to walk from one end of the garden to the other.

Although our plums are barely ripe, our kind, generous neighbors offered me enough of theirs to make two batches of jelly. This was a new experience for me, and one that deserves its own story. (Stay tuned).  Soon we will have peaches to freeze and grapes for more jelly — and for wine. I can’t think about that yet. So much work. And hot work to boot!

So for all my trouble, I was stung by something in the garden that burned like fire and now itches uncontrollably.  But we’re eating well.  At least I am. When Zack is hungry, he’s apt to grab the first thing he sees — or want meat and tomatoes as quickly as possible. I warned him if he didn’t start helping eat some of this squash, a garden would not be on my agenda next year. Although Zack does a huge amount of work plowing, tilling, planting and mowing around the perimeters— it seems  he always becomes consumed with some other major project just about the time the garden becomes a real chore. Then the weeding, watering, picking, cleaning and cooking all falls to me. And sometimes the eating — unless I put it in front of him and tell him, “You’ll eat it and you’ll like it.”

The ducks and ducklings flew away when our tank dried up. I guess those babies learned to fly just in time – -and I hope they found another home close by. From what I could see, of their newly discovered navigational skills, they might not have made it very far.

A bird has been feeding her little ones — in one of my hanging baskets. She occupies herself, for hours a day, fussing at one of the cats. And he, in turn, spends an inordinate amount of time staring at her and the little “peepers” in the nest. It isn’t the first time a bird had chosen this particular piece of real estate for a home.

The dog seems to need more attention in this weather. He certainly has more baths. I’ve found a trick to keep him still while I shampoo and rinse him with the hose I will share this with you because I’m a true humanitarian. I discovered quite by accident last year that if he has one of those chewy stick things in his mouth, he’ll stand stock still for the entire ordeal until I release him to shake off and enjoy his treat. Other than the drooling, it’s a minor miracle. You’re welcome.

The humans around here need more showers in the summer time too. Spending most of our time outdoors and with the kinds of “job descriptions” there are here, we always seem to be hot, dirty or both.  I’m grateful we don’t live in the desert. We might think it’s dry here, but I know for a fact it can be worse.

I also discovered that I can keep the dog still much more easily for his “pedicure” if I sing to him.  If you ever heard my voice, you might think he’s betting I’ll stop sooner if he’s still and we get it over with quickly. I prefer to think he’s the only one who truly appreciates my dulcet tones.

Have a lovely, HOT week everyone. Remember the sun block and drink plenty of fluids!

Zack has fond, childhood memories of helping to rob honey from the bees his grandfather kept. Later, Zack and his father kept a few bees as well. So for years, Zack has talked of having our own bees here at the ranch. There have always been bees in various trees here. But we’ve never “cultivated and managed” them. I rather hoped he’d only talk of this and never actually do it. But oh no, not  Zack. When he plans a thing, it happens.

Early this year, Zack started ordering supplies. His father delivered the supplies he still had, passed down now to the third generation (like the wine-making supplies he gifted us with a few years ago). For weeks, we had a pile (including two hives and “supers”, several smokers, hats, veils, and other equipment) growing in our living room. In April our bees arrived (thanks to someone locally who picked up his own bees — over a hundred miles away. He very kindly offered to pick ours up, too).

We donned our safety gear, prepared sugar water to calm the bees (keeps them busy eating), and readied the hives. Zack was excited. I was terrified. But when we started the procedure, I didn’t even think about all those potential stingers buzzing around us. The bees weren’t aggressive, and we were as protected as possible. No one was stung.

We prepared the hives and frames, and opened the two “traveling boxes” (not so easy) that contained our two complete sets of bees, each with a queen. We “poured” them into the new hives (interesting to say the least), placed the queens, inserted the frames, provided sugar water for them to eat until they found their own food, and left them alone. They seemed to like their new digs, and as far as we know, they’re just fine. We see plenty of bees visiting various flowers all around the ranch. Zack checks the hives periodically (without all his gear now), and we hope to have honey in a year!

About a month after our bees arrived, a neighbor called to ask if we could clear a water meter box where bees had taken up residence. (Small town, news travels fast). Zack, always optimistic, readily agreed and ordered a third hive. While we awaited its arrival, spring rains flooded the meter box. By the time the hive arrived, the bees had deserted for higher ground. I was secretly relieved, but Zack was terribly disappointed. He’d been looking forward to yet another new experience — and a third batch of bees to add to his growing little apiary.

A couple of days ago, there was another call. A different friend asked if we’d like to remove bees that had invaded his pump house. None of his ranch hands wanted to go into the building. This time Zack was ready. (I was again terrified). So today, in the heat of the summer, we packed up crowbars, smokers, buckets, hats, veils, etc., donned all the protective gear and dove into our next adventure. We located the bees within a wall of the small structure, turned off the electricity, and (with great difficulty) pried loose several boards. This did NOT please the bees. We set a rag on fire in a smoker (which has a small bellows-type device on one end) and calmed the bees somewhat with smoke. (The sugar water only works if they’re hungry. These bees had an established honeycomb and plenty of summer flowers to visit).

It was difficult, hot work in the little building, and by the time we had pried enough boards away to uncover the honeycomb (and several hundred bees), Zack was starting to cramp up badly. We robbed some honeycomb and decided to return another day to finish the job. Several bottles of Gatorade later, we squeezed the comb through cheesecloth and enjoyed some honey for our day’s efforts. I’ll let you know later if we’re able to capture the queen!

We’ve known for some years that there was a burgeoning toad population at the ranch. Frogs, toads, not sure I can tell the difference without a few minutes on the Internet to refresh my memory (some other time).

We’ve known for some years that there was a burgeoning toad population at the ranch. Frogs, toads, not sure I can tell the difference without a few minutes on the Internet to refresh my memory (some other time).

When our large, shallow stock tank fills up each winter or spring, we hear the frogs begin to “sing.” (I don’t know where they go when the tank dries up each summer). When there was a leak under our ancient hot tub on the back deck, every toad within a 50-mile radius seemed to congregate there. They formed a community, met, courted, coupled, and made little toads.  LOADS of toads. Once the leak was repaired, the majority left, moved on, went to college, whatever. A few stayed on. Two weeks ago, we started seeing Tiny Todds all over the place. I had to scoop several up from the breezeway and put them back outside. They are all alternately called Todd (for the way “Todd Toad” just mellifluously rolls off the tongue) or Pete (after the toad in “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?”, one of our most favorite Coen Brother’s movies of all time).

Big Pete (or Todd, if you like) has been around for at least a couple of years, perhaps many more. He took up residence for a while in Stinky’s dog house on the back deck (near the hot tub, obviously a place of fond memories for the enormous amphibian). We would find him happily curled up in the old blankets there during the winter. This is the same, huge, $2 doghouse I happily dragged home one year from the County Wide Garage Sale — the same doghouse Stinky gleefully deserted when we allowed him onto the breezeway (and he finally figured out the doggie door). Now he shelters under a tarp draped table when the wind blows. This is a dog that hates wind and storms. But I digress.

I’ve found a couple of smaller Petes and Todds happily hopping this same general vicinity over the years. Even when we don’t see them, there’s ample evidence of their presence. Who could have imagined that toad droppings could be so large? I thought we had rats until our friend Ron the Hunter/Gatherer matched the poop with the proper poopee. How he’s so certain of these things, I’ll never know. But he’s rarely wrong.

One of the smaller Todds took to entering the doggie door and bothering the dog. This became pretty annoying when it happened repeatedly in the middle of the night. Poor dog was startled from a peaceful sleep, had no idea what had hopped on him, and barked like a banshee (just under our bedroom window). And we were growing pretty tired of catching Todd or Pete and putting him out both day AND night. (“Zack, that toad’s on the breezeway again. Zack. ZACK!  Never mind, I’ll do it myself!)

One Todd made his way into the greenhouse where he hibernated all winter, dug deeply into a potted plant. With my live and let live attitude (unless it involves a snake, mouse, or insect in the house), I looked the other way. We’ve had lizards winter in the greenhouse before as well. I could live with it. The larger Todd took up residence last summer in a planter box on the back deck, and that’s when the problems began. He would torment the dog, then dash back to his planter box. Poor Stinky is not by nature a digger and has, to his credit, NEVER dug up my flowers or the yard in general. But he couldn’t seem to help himself no matter how many times I told him no. He’d look sheepish and do it again — dig up the planter box going after the toad. I moved the toad a few yards away to a moist spot near the green house hose, but he always returned to the back deck. We never actually caught Stinky digging in the planter box. I believe this was strictly a nocturnal event. The first few times it happened, we thought he was burying kibble, another quirky habit our overweight pooch developed when he finds a little extra food in his bowl. Like one day he might starve. This is unlikely. But it soon became obvious that this was no kibble situation.

As the toad became larger and was able to tunnel deeper and faster, Stinky kept up stroke for stroke. He’s dug out my moss rose plants three times so far this season. Just that planter, no other. Same as last year. Once a Pete picks a planter, he rarely relocates by choice, even when chased by a large, determined dog.  A smaller Pete had taken up residence in a different planter, and finally, early this morning, I had enough. As I gazed sleepily out my kitchen window, there was the pile of dirt next to the planter, moss rose here and there, dead soldiers in the war of the toads. Marching outside with murder on my mind, I spotted Big Pete on the deck. Luckily I was one of those little girls who played with grass snakes and horned toads. Frogs and everyday toads never held the same appeal, but I didn’t miss a beat in grabbing the enormous, surprised Pete.  I marched into Zack’s shop, stuck out my hand with the squirming toad — like I had singlehandedly captured Hamas. “Give me a box and where should I put him?” I demanded. Zack was busy putting a coat of stain on a shelf, so I knew I was on my own. And just like that, the Toad Relocation Program began.

Big Pete was unceremoniously transported to his new, damp home under the overhead water tank — in a wood screw box from the hardware store. Just the right size. I feel certain he’ll love his new digs, especially when the tank overflows. This is several hundred yards from Stinky’s back deck and my moss rose, so we’ll see if toads can find their way “home” as cats and dogs are able to do, often from great distances.

Within minutes of my return, a stroke of uncanny luck! I spotted Little Pete in another corner of the back deck, and repeated the entire relocation process (right down to presenting the creature to Zack before I placed him in his travel case (which I had left in the workshop trashcan from whence it originally came).  I suspect this won’t be the last time I use the wood screw box. From now on, I’m keeping it handy.

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

I was sitting in Zack’s woodworking shop this morning, shelling black-eyed peas I picked from our garden. This is the same garden we painstakingly prepare each year, agonizing over late freezes, then melting in the Texas heat to tend, weed, water, and pick. Between the cost of the plants and seed, the water, wear and tear on equipment, the high fence we built ourselves, and our time; each vegetable ends up costing astronomically more than what might be procured from the supermarket. Is there a difference? Oh yes. And it’s not only the taste and purity; it’s so much more than that.  Besides, you’re able to complain for months about the heat and all the work, such a definite plus.

I was sitting in Zack’s woodworking shop this morning, shelling black-eyed peas I picked from our garden. This is the same garden we painstakingly prepare each year, agonizing over late freezes, then melting in the Texas heat to tend, weed, water, and pick. Between the cost of the plants and seed, the water, wear and tear on equipment, the high fence we built ourselves, and our time; each vegetable ends up costing astronomically more than what might be procured from the supermarket. Is there a difference? Oh yes. And it’s not only the taste and purity; it’s so much more than that.  Besides, you’re able to complain for months about the heat and all the work, such a definite plus.

Zack was in his own world, making shelves for his workshop. I knew when I tried to carry on even the simplest conversation that he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. Eventually, and with great effort, I managed to stop myself from talking entirely. He was concentrating on dimensions. Best I keep silent to avoid distracting him. So my mind wandered as I shelled the peas, not usually one of my favorite occupations.

It’s all in the attitude, you know. I convince myself of this daily, because it makes mundane chores so much more pleasant. Instead of dreading ironing, I find it “relaxing (when I finally manage to find the time, often after everything in the basket has gone out of style). Instead of despising dish washing, I find it “therapeutic”. And before I know it —- IT IS!  Because we put in two little stationary when we made this old farmhouse habitable, I have a wonderful view of the back yard, “The Lane” the cattle use to reach the windmill trough, the wild grape vines on that fence, the field beyond, and the hills in the distance. Because I positioned my bird feeders (seed and hummingbird nectar) and birdbath in my line of sight, standing at the sink is a tremendous joy instead of a chore.

As I shelled the peas, a tedious task, I remembered doing this same job as a very young child —with my mother and probably my aunt as well. I did so many things with both of them. The long years since they left me sometimes fog the details of my earliest memories. “Unzip them”, my mother would laughingly instruct me regarding the peas, coaxing my little fingers into control. And as peas popped and rolled all over, we’d laugh. Being an older-than-usual, first time parent — a career behind her and only one child to raise— with a supportive (even older) husband, Mom found more patience than she might have otherwise been able to muster).

I’d already had childhood and summertime on my mind. Last week I planted yet another gardenia bush. Perhaps the third time’s the charm. They’re temperamental creatures. The blooms began to open a few of days ago, much to my delight. Each time I catch a whiff of that wonderful fragrance, it takes me back to a time long past, my childhood backyard, and my mother’s three gardenia bushes.

As I sat shelling peas, I considered how life can swing full circle, perhaps only for an instant — or sometimes as a large, conscious, premeditated choice (as in our case). There was Zack happily working away, probably with a few thoughts of his uncle’s workshop that he loved as a child. And I was lost in memories of peas, gardenias, and parents. Most likely neither of us could have appreciated the gifts of this lovely, peaceful morning during earlier stages of our separate lives. We were busy with school, careers, families, cities, action, and the grindstone. But here we are now, happy as can be, feeling very lucky for a thousand reasons (that one of us isn’t paralyzed, for one thing), and living a simple life very close in some ways to the deep roots from which we grew. A great aunt (by marriage) shared something with me in her later years. (And it was, quite frankly, the only thought she ever imparted that had any wisdom to it at all).  “Each stage of life has its pleasures”, she said. And indeed, it is so very true.

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

Last week I began this column, but it became much too long. I ended with a joke about an exhibit of bulls and a husband who ended up in traction after the wrong comment to his wife.  Now that might not have made much sense at the time, but perhaps it will after reading the following. Or not.

Last week I began this column, but it became much too long. I ended with a joke about an exhibit of bulls and a husband who ended up in traction after the wrong comment to his wife.  Now that might not have made much sense at the time, but perhaps it will after reading the following. Or not.

Let me paint you a verbal picture of our painting escapades, with Zack still physically challenged, recovering from Guillain-Barre:

There we are on the scaffolding, a smallish model for two grown people to share. The conditions are hot but windy. We should have waited for a calmer day. Everyone knows you don’t paint in the wind, but Zack has a schedule in his head. It might as well be written in stone. The painting was planned for this particular week. One thing hinges upon another. Windows and doors have been covered with paper in preparation; spackling and detail work has been done. There will be no postponing.  There will certainly be no arguing or even discussion. I have learned better.

The sun is often in our eyes. Zack holds the paint sprayer, sometimes above the level of his elbows, a very difficult task for any length of time in even a healthy person. We take breaks if he needs them. When he becomes overheated, dehydrated or exhausted, he loses all perspective and pushes on instead of resting, until I insist (and insist and insist) that we stop.

We’re tired, uncomfortable and having difficulty keeping our balance. We concentrate hard to avoid tripping on the electrical cord (connected to the sprayer) as it weaves to and fro at our feet and Zack moves about the scaffolding (scaring me to death as he often backs close to the edge). This would be challenging even for someone with normal balance.

Tubes from the bottom of the sprayer lead into the full, heavy paint can. Normally this paint might be hooked to a ladder or scaffolding. But because of Zack’s difficulties, it is instead attached to ME. I’m holding it as high as possible (not easy), bobbing and weaving, attempting to anticipate his every move and gesture (like a shadow. I still have a little trouble with that telepathy thing sometimes). I’m trying not to spill the paint or let the cord trip us up. I’m hoping not to step off the high platform and drag him with me, connected as we are by the cord and tubes.  I’m trying not to catch a face full of paint. If I’m not quick enough following his movements, the tubes will pull from the sprayer, requiring reattachment and copious expletives.

My “assistance” is criticized frequently and with little tact as the “boss” barks directions. No matter which way we turn or spray, the breeze blows the paint all over us. Soon we’re both covered with a fine mist of white, then a thin layer. I spill some paint. I’m too slow. I‘m standing in the wrong place. I allowed the tubes to pull loose (again). Intent as Zack is upon finishing the job (in this century) and staying upright, his mind slips into auto pilot.  Polite discourse is not high on the agenda. I decide to forgive him until later. He has no idea exactly how I’m managing to do all that I’m doing. , nor does he care. He doesn’t need to, never thinks about it. Not his job.  A multi-tasker I am NOT (by nature). Fast I am NOT. But neither of us fell off the platform or met with serious injury. By the time we finished, I was ready for a rubber room. In solitary.

I began last week’s piece by writing the following: I’ve heard it said that the most stressful times in a person’s life may involve moving, having a child, breaking up or divorce, undergoing construction —or experiencing a death. I joked that at least one of these things might lead to another. As with many of our “adventures”, it was a minor miracle neither of us was hurt while constructing the carport. We were fortunate we didn’t split up during the “close quarters” and stress of togetherness during the painting phase especially. And Zack was very, very lucky I didn’t put him in traction.

(Now that he’s better, I can joke about it).

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

I’ve heard it said that the most stressful times in a person’s life may be moving, having a child, breaking up or divorce, undergoing construction — or experiencing a death. I’ve often joked that at least one of these things may lead to another.

I’ve heard it said that the most stressful times in a person’s life may be moving, having a child, breaking up or divorce, undergoing construction — or experiencing a death. I’ve often joked that at least one of these things may lead to another.

I told Zack the other day that construction of the carport (with me as his up close and personal painting assistant of several days) could have led to a breakup, had it continued much longer. He joked (as usual) that he liked to think of that possibility as “trading me in on a newer model.” I joked back that he was lucky I didn’t prefer to think of it as homicide.

If we had a video of the two most stressful days, he would never have believed it. Who was that impatient, grouchy man? It was like Laurel and Hardy on the way to divorce court. Zack can become so focused on the job at hand that he blocks out everything else. In part, this is a survival tactic during recovery from paralysis. He was having a hard enough time keeping his precarious balance on the scaffolding, holding the sprayer level — at a challengingly high level for his recovering arms. His hands and fingers weren’t working so well either. I was having problems of my own. But he wasn’t aware of or interested in those.

Assisting Zack during his recovery from Guillain-Barre hasn’t been easy — mainly because he’s chosen such difficult challenges all the way through, at whichever level of recovery he’s been. We call our ranch the Rehabilitation Camp. Never one for patience, he’s pushed and pushed, refusing to allow the syndrome (and the recovery) to hold him back more than or longer than absolutely necessary. Zack is a man of purpose. He has things to do. Even when he wasn’t ready to take on a certain project, he assumed that with my help, we would make it happen. And so we did, often with great difficulty (and often distress) — because he wouldn’t give up — or wait until he was better. Zack wasn’t going to sit around and wait. I’ve often insisted that this drive has fueled his recovery.

Zack’s refusal to accept even understandable restrictions required more of me than he had any right to expect. He never seemed to realize this, and I rarely pointed it out. I figured I could at least try to do whatever he asked of me. It never seems to occur to Zack that I’m physically unable or ill equipped to do certain things, lift heavy items, etc. He often doesn’t register that after helping him for hours, I still must find time for my own chores, shopping, cooking, laundry, paperwork, bill paying, maybe even a little writing, catching up on a myriad of things, etc. (Whine, whine). Sometimes I must actually rest, an alien thought to Zack. This seems to perplex him. After all, what have I to be tired about?

“You complain that you don’t have enough time, yet you sit for hours at your computer,” he tells me. He doesn’t realize that sometime sitting’s all I can manage. (So why not in front of the computer?  When Zack needs to rest, he watches old movies. We all have our opiate of choice).

Things ARE so much easier now that I’ve gone from caregiver to assistant. I even have a little time to myself, much less than he thinks and worlds less than I need. I have the feeling that to wrangle a full day or two off from THIS demanding boss, I’d need to be so sick in bed that I couldn’t function. And not wanting that, I won’t complain further. I figure if HE can push himself to come back from total paralysis, persevere through the physical disabilities and challenges he still must overcome, then I should be able to follow along.  Next week I’ll describe our painting scenario, and you’ll better appreciate the inclusion of the joke with which I’ll close (not that I approve of physical abuse. I am however a fan of self defense).

A man sporting various casts and tubes lies in traction in the hospital, black and blue, covered with bandages. His visiting friend asks how he ended up in this sorry state. “I’m not quite sure,” the man replies — and goes on to describe a livestock show he and his wife attended. “We were viewing an exhibit of bulls, each with a sign showing how many times the animal had serviced a cow in the previous year. “Look, honey, this one says 63,” says the wife. That’s more than once a week. Hmmm.”  She gives him a little wink. They move from stall to stall. “Wow, this sign says 150! That’s more than twice a week. You could sure take a lesson from this bull here,” she chuckles and pokes him in the ribs. The next sign reads 365. “Honey, that’s every day!” She gives him a long, meaningful look. “Yes,” the man answered his teasing wife, “but I’ll bet it wasn’t with the same old cow.”

“And that’s the last thing I remember before I woke up here.”

Have a great week everyone!

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

As a rule, a man’s a fool. . . . .

I really thought I finally had my whole style thing together, all figured out. In fact, I was feeling pretty smug about it. I long ago made peace with my out-of-control curly hair, learned a couple of ways to wear it that were relatively trouble-free. I must be able to pull it back when I work.

As a rule, a man’s a fool. . . . .

I really thought I finally had my whole style thing together, all figured out. In fact, I was feeling pretty smug about it. I long ago made peace with my out-of-control curly hair, learned a couple of ways to wear it that were relatively trouble-free. I must be able to pull it back when I work.

I’d accepted the fact that I was never going to walk in stiletto heels or high platforms again.  More’s the pity. And mini skirts, well, I said goodbye to those some time ago unless opaque tights are involved. I had found the type of jean that fits and looked as well as can be expected on a woman’s body (as opposed to an anorexic teenager’s). Stretchy jeans rule. And no straight legs for me. No sir.

Moreover, I’ve decided that I can (and do) wear the same few pairs of jeans and black slacks I’ve owned for years. I like ‘em. Why get rid of them?  As long as I rotate some old and new jackets (longer than 27 inches, always, usually picked up on EBay for a song), it’s OK. Work clothes are easy. Bags must be all leather, and if they’re Fossil or B. Makowsky, so much the better. Boots of all varieties and the 20-year-old Ferragamo flats in many colors (for dress) work for winter. The same Ferragamos, Born sandals and sneakers are good summer. Work boots all year round. Turtlenecks with jackets in winter, tank tops with hoodies in summer. I really thought I had it all figured out.

So what was the problem? Well, it always seems we humans like a change now and then.  Here’s a poem my father taught me when I was small. — Still so true today:

As a rule, a man’s a fool.

When it’s hot, he wants it cool.

When it’s cool, he wants it hot.

Always wanting what is not.

Universal truth. I thought I was immune to wanting change. But I was wrong. I know better than to cut my hair all over or cut it in layers or anything drastic like that. I must be able to slather on enough goop to slick it back into a tight bun or chignon when necessary — and can let it go wild when appropriate. So why did I think about changing my hair? Well, I was tired of it. I was the proverbial fool from the little poem.  It didn’t look right. I thought I needed some softening around my face.  Blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda. Vanity, thy name is woman.

The above introduction brings me to the point where I’m standing in front of a mirror with wet hair, scissors in one hand, a few candidates for wispy bangs in another. I say to myself, “I have no forehead. My hair is too curly. This will never fly for summer. I know this will be a huge mistake. I know I will regret it. I KNOW I will SO regret this.— Well, what the heck?  Be adventurous!” SNIP. And just like that, hair that hadn’t been more than trimmed regularly at the ends for over 20 years got a big surprise.

I’m trying to remember exactly how I dealt with this kind of  “do” years ago. You’d think I’d remember, but I’m still experimenting a bit. Sometimes it looks awful, has a mind of its own. The hair iron my kids gave me a few years ago makes it TOO straight. When I was younger, there wasn’t any such thing as too straight! It’s all a little more trouble, takes a little more time, and I still have to work on my technique — but you know, I kind of like it. And if I put enough goop on it, I can still pull it back when I’m desperate! When I’m working outside, no one around here cares about my hairdo.

So I admit it. I needed a change. I told Zack not to panic. He looked a little bewildered when I walked into the living room after the attack I made on my hair. At least I wasn’t changing cowboys, only looking for a little variety in hairstyles.

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

I finally figured out today why malls are so popular, not that I had particularly wondered about it before. The answer hit me all of a sudden, out of the blue, and probably not as I might have expected to receive such an epiphany.

I finally figured out today why malls are so popular, not that I had particularly wondered about it before. The answer hit me all of a sudden, out of the blue, and probably not as I might have expected to receive such an epiphany. There I was slowly being sprinkled/splattered/covered with the paint Zack was spraying liberally upon our new carport (still under construction).  The weather was warm and windy. I was perched on a scaffold high enough from the ground that stepping off backwards would definitely have left a mark (or worse). My arms were tired from holding the paint can high — attached to the tube of the sprayer —which was attached to Zack. I was trying to anticipate and intuit Zack’s every move, read his mind, stay out of his way, and see that neither of us tripped over the electric cord. I was holding everything high, because Zack can’t do all this himself, doesn’t have the upper body strength he had before he fell ill, nor the balance nor dexterity. He was reaching as high and for as long at a stretch as his recovering arms and hands would allow. (Talk about a challenge. But he insisted on doing this. And honestly, I doubt I could have persevered to do it alone). When Zack tired, we took breaks. The painting has continued for days. It’s this kind of stubborn independence that’s allowed Zack to come back from the complete paralysis of Guillain-Barre. His ambitious projects and recovery are wearing me out.

Oh yes, malls. I’m getting there. I was as protected as possible from the paint. This grew more and more uncomfortable as the day warmed. One bandana covered any stray hair (under my cap). This almost worked. If I had sideburns, they would have been white by the end of the day —and from paint, not gray from the stress of being the trusty assistant to a demanding boss (a close second). As it is, the hair just over my ears was painted, in the area where Dagwood has those trademark “wings”.  Another bandana protected my complaining sinuses from fumes. After a week of massive allergies (brought on by exposure to fungicide (rose spray —no good deed goes unpunished), I was taking no chances. My arms were bare and almost chalky white after hours on the job as painter’s helper. (Zack fared worse than I did). Large sunglasses kept my eyeballs from harm. It took fifteen minutes to clean paint flecks from those glasses when we finally stopped each day, and they aren’t pristine even now. If you’d like to learn more about the best methods of cleaning flecks from skin and hair, just ask.

Malls. My mind wandered, trying to escape the unpleasant sensation of wet paint speckling my skin. No matter which way Zack pointed the sprayer, the wind brought a shower of white upon our heads. Murphy’s Law. I wished I were at a mall. The thought popped unexpectedly and unbidden into my head.

I don’t even much LIKE malls. Well, maybe once every season or two.  Last Mother’s Day, after over a year of caring for Zack in hospitals and at home, I was doing almost all my shopping on the Internet. I barely left the house except to take him to physical therapy or run to the grocery store or some other local errand. Leaving town to visit a mall or large store was out of the question. My daughter and son decided I deserved a shopping spree. Poor Becca, being the closest geographically, was the obvious choice to accompany me. (Josh turns to mush after a few minutes in a mall. Even if he lived nearby, he would NOT have taken me shopping. It wouldn’t have made for a pleasant holiday for any of us).

Last year, Becca and I left “my patient” alone for the first time since his hospitalization. We prepared food and glasses of sweet tea, left everything in the fridge, ready to eat or drink. Zack wasn’t totally helpless at that point. And he wasn’t ready to use power tools, so we figured he’d be bored but reasonably safe. (I wrote about this shopping spree). Becca and I were away for 9 hours, driving for almost two, round trip. We shopped. We ate. We shopped some more. I out shopped my daughter, but it was unavoidable. Zack survived. I made up for lost time, purchased everything necessary to survive a year or more in style (or at least presentable when I “clean up good.” That was the last time I leisurely visited real brick and mortar stores for MY needs, a year ago. This Mother’s Day all I asked was that Becca to help me list some things to sell on EBay. Forty-three things, to be exact. Several of these items were mistakes I made by ordering online during my “confinement”. Mother’s Day came and went, and the painting resumed.

And so there I was, paint raining down on me, thinking of malls. And I know why. Malls provide mindless escape, more interactive than a movie. You can walk and window shop and eat and visit (if you aren’t alone). You can buy things or not. It’s possible to try on outfits for upcoming events or those that will never happen, imagine entire scenarios of sartorial needs that might prove the old adage of anticipation being better than reality. You needn’t think seriously of anything more than what money you might spend. A shopping person is not painting, doing chores or projects, caring for pets or lawns or flowers or loved ones.

And this, dear friends, is why we have malls.

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

Is it just us?  Zack and I each spent an inordinate amount of time this morning on the telephone making and receiving several different “business calls” on a variety of subjects. Sometimes it seems everything just falls on your head at once. Modern life has become so depersonalized with the automated voice prompts, the difficulty reaching a real person with whom to speak, the globalization of business (where the person who controls some area of life in one’s own little realm is no longer local but will try to help from another state or country —sometimes, it seems, another planet. Then there’s often the seemingly impossible challenge of finding intelligent life out there when a live person is actually reached. It makes me nervous for the future of the human race as a whole.Is it just us?  Zack and I each spent an inordinate amount of time this morning on the telephone making and receiving several different “business calls” on a variety of subjects. Sometimes it seems everything just falls on your head at once. Modern life has become so depersonalized with the automated voice prompts, the difficulty reaching a real person with whom to speak, the globalization of business (where the person who controls some area of life in one’s own little realm is no longer local but will try to help from another state or country —sometimes, it seems, another planet. Then there’s often the seemingly impossible challenge of finding intelligent life out there when a live person is actually reached. It makes me nervous for the future of the human race as a whole.

There are too many layers. It’s not like when I call the local feed store and tell them I think I paid my bill twice and they say, “No problem. Do you want a check or to apply it to next month’s bill?” So easy and stress free. Sensible, cordial response. Problem solved. (Actually, I think THEY caught it first and called ME. I just love small towns!)  

I won’t go into too many details, because, let’s face it, you all have your own difficulties like this, and you don’t need to be frustrated with ours. There’s already enough stress in your life. Believe me, we’re frustrated enough. (If I drank, I’d go throw back a double). One situation involved a problem with a utility company meter reader failing to relock a gate he had unlocked on our property (twice). The first person took the report but wasn’t able or willing to give the name of a local supervisor and also unable or unwilling to give even the location and contact information of the corporate offices of the company.  If no one in customer service has a clue as to who supervises our meter reader, how can someone eventually find the supervisor so he can remind the reader to secure a customer’s property? It took several phone calls and an email to receive a response from someone locally. That phone number is no longer listed in our phone book. The only way to reach our local folks is to dial the toll free number, speak to someone in another state, and hope for the best. (Take a valium first).  Because of deregulation, there are so many layers now that one hand has trouble knowing what the other is doing. And the rates have gone up, not down. Believe me, it frustrates the employees as much as the clients.

One of our calls involved the disappearance of funds from an investment account. You know how it’s possible to check your own accounts now online? Well, suddenly, a lot of money that used to be there yesterday just wasn’t any longer. Gone. Vamoose. Disappeared. How about that for a surprise?  Our various problems with this major national company have been ongoing for well over a month. Every time we call, we speak to a different person (often in a different office in a different part of the country). There is little continuity. Incorrect papers are sent to be filled out. Time is wasted. No one there seems to know what they’re doing. Corporate America. It really makes you wonder.

Another call was to Social Security. Three times, on three different occasions a specific question has been asked of three different people. A different answer had been received each time. Ah, government.

Everyone knows that when one asks for technical assistance these days, it’s probable one will be connected to someone in another country who has little command of the English language. So I’m guessing I don’t even need to go any further in this explanation.

One call required us to listen to three rounds of automated prompts before “0” could be pressed in desperation —because we knew from the get-go it would be necessary to speak to a real live person.

I think I can stop now, although there was more. You get the idea. Now that I’ve whined and complained sufficiently, I must add one very important thing. Bet you thought I was going to say that this is just part of modern life. It shouldn’t be, but it is. And we all have to deal with it. Well, no, I’m going to say something else.

As we have found through misfortunes of our own and those of our friends —whose deathly serious problems, losses, and sadness lately seem to have trumped ours geometrically (is it the configuration of the stars, or what?)—EVEN THE BAD DAYS ARE GOOD DAYS. I know people lying in hospitals right now teetering painfully on the brink between here and the other side who would give anything they had for the frustrating morning Zack and I just spent. And I wish to heaven I could give them that gift. We all should take deep breaths and count our blessings each and every day.

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

We looked at some cows today. Zack may not be 100% yet, but we’ve been without income from cattle for two years now, and it was time. Made a deal for a few. The original guy who was to deliver our ten new head of cattle had a breakdown with his truck. His trailer would have been small enough to make the turn through our front gate. (Did you catch that ominous hint of foreshadowing?)  OK. So the seller of the cattle must have been hot to get his check. Wanted to deliver today no matter what. He called another guy who agreed to do the deed. We had told the seller there was no rush. It was already getting late in the day. It drizzled all day today and more rain is expected tomorrow. We told him he could wait days or even week if necessary. But, oh no. He had to send them today. The plan was to put the new cows in the lot so they could settle down for a while, then let them out later. We’ve been working on that lot for a month now.We looked at some cows today. Zack may not be 100% yet, but we’ve been without income from cattle for two years now, and it was time. Made a deal for a few. The original guy who was to deliver our ten new head of cattle had a breakdown with his truck. His trailer would have been small enough to make the turn through our front gate. (Did you catch that ominous hint of foreshadowing?)  OK. So the seller of the cattle must have been hot to get his check. Wanted to deliver today no matter what. He called another guy who agreed to do the deed. We had told the seller there was no rush. It was already getting late in the day. It drizzled all day today and more rain is expected tomorrow. We told him he could wait days or even week if necessary. But, oh no. He had to send them today. The plan was to put the new cows in the lot so they could settle down for a while, then let them out later. We’ve been working on that lot for a month now.

By the time the other guy got to the seller’s place and finally here, it was dark-thirty. And guess what?  His trailer was about as long as Florida. But ever optimistic, he tried to make the turn into the front gate. Got stuck. I don’t mean sort of stuck, or just a little stuck. I mean completely stuck right across our county road. His truck tires were making huge ruts in the soft earth in front of our gate as he tried to alternately back up and go forward— to straighten out and make it through. He couldn’t get traction. He couldn’t back up to get away from one of the posts (that he was actually up against by that time) to straighten himself out. Zack tried to pull him with the tractor, but that didn’t work too well. When he finally was able to back up a little bit, he backed right up into the little incline of the property across the street. Stuck again, still blocking the road. About five or six cars were forced to turn around and go back/around. I was the traffic cop. — Had the farm truck there with the flashers on.

Our “across the street neighbor” came out to see what was going on. (At one point, I had our farm truck in his driveway). Three guys in a truck asked if they could help and were hugely relieved when I said “Thanks but no”. Two neighbors came by, chatted a bit, backed up and went around. One came back a little later to help. Finally in desperation and with a sudden inspiration, the driver detached truck from trailer. At this point, all the many lights on the huge trailer went off. Big hazard, but my headlights were pointing at it, so hard to miss. The truck had a couple of wheels through the gate, in deep ruts. The trailer was still completely blocking the road. Even detached from the trailer, the truck still wouldn’t budge. Zack pulled it on through the gate with our tractor. The delivery guy drove his truck on into our place, turned around, then exited through the (unblocked) cattle guard. Thank goodness we have two gates at that spot.  He hooked up to his trailer at a different angle —almost a right angle. (Big gooseneck connection). He tried and tried and was finally able to pull the trailer on up the road, turn around and come back from the other direction.

We had given up on the idea of bringing this truck and trailer into the place and taking the cattle to the lot. We were just relieved the trailer full of cattle was no longer stuck across the county road. The driver was able to back the trailer near to our open gate (next to the cattle guard). Our helpful neighbor parked his truck to block part of the open space. I parked the farm truck to block the rest of the opening. Zack and I stood on the cattle guard (on the other side of a low fence. —Couldn’t have a skittish cow jump —and land unexpectedly on the cattle guard). We let them come out slowly on their own, right there at the front gate, and that was finally that. Poor cows. We may not see them for days now! The whole ordeal took two hours. I feel like I was out there for weeks. What a night. If anyone ever tells you he’s going to deliver your cows in the late afternoon of a rainy day, emphatically insist that he wait, and don’t take no for an answer. Then be certain the trailer’s less than 36 feet long!

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

We wished that our fruit blossoms not be zapped by late freezes this year. And somehow we dodged that bullet (unlike last year when all fruit was lost).  At this point, it looks as if we may actually have a bumper crop of peaches, a few plums, and a few pears on our young trees. — Too soon yet to know about persimmons, pomegranates, grapes and pecans.
We wished that our fruit blossoms not be zapped by late freezes this year. And somehow we dodged that bullet (unlike last year when all fruit was lost).  At this point, it looks as if we may actually have a bumper crop of peaches, a few plums, and a few pears on our young trees. — Too soon yet to know about persimmons, pomegranates, grapes and pecans.  

Some things come back to life after the winter sleep much later than others. For instance, our tiny fig tree that’s been trying its best to grow for the last three years or so always greens up late. Every spring, Zack says, “Look at this. It’s DEAD!” And with that, he starts breaking off pieces of the poor little thing to show me. Every year, I push his hand away in horror and tell him it’s still dormant and needs more days of warm weather. Zack is not a patient man. Sure enough, the little fig tree will look for all the world like dead sticks for weeks later than everything else. Then suddenly, tiny leaves begin to appear. Every year it’s a little shorter in stature, though, due to Zack’s emphatic and demonstrative “pruning.” I think we’re producing a bonsai fig.

So many things can go wrong with fruit-bearing trees and plants — from the time the blossoms bring us one of our first breaths of spring — until they may eventually bear ripe fruit. So although things do look promising at this early stage, only time will tell the final tale.

We’re also putting the first plants into the garden just now. We  finally took down last year’s old, dry plants stalks a few weeks ago (Other projects trumped striking the garden during the winter). Zack broke up the earth — with the large tiller behind the tractor — then the hand tiller, to make rows.  Every year we promise ourselves we’ll wait until April 15 to plant the garden, and every year we break that promise. But at least this time, we managed to hold off a little longer. Looking at the 10-day weather forecast, it appears there won’t be any late cold snaps. We’ll see. “APPEARS” is the operative word. Last year we replanted three times when unexpected, late freezes killed the tender plants we had enthusiastically and prematurely entrusted to the earth. A year or so before that, we awoke one April morning to frost on our bluebonnets. This was a first in my memory.(Life is full of surprises). Our current crop of bluebonnets (and boy is the patch thickening and expanding!)  just started blooming during these past few days, so wish us luck with this weather thing.

It’s always so exciting to begin again with this seasonal renewal, the affirmation of the return of warmth and promise. However — soon the reality of watering and weeding (in the hot, hot sun of late spring and summer) will set in. If most of the fruit matures and most of the garden plants do well — and if we’re lucky enough to have a wild mustang grape crop (for wine and jelly), we have just created almost endless work for ourselves come summer. Of course, I wasn’t thinking of any of that as I gleefully planted veggies this afternoon. (Well, OK, maybe for a fleeting moment).

Last year, there were no grapes or fruit due to the late freezes. And still, I almost worked myself to death with only my flower beds, the garden maintenance, harvest, and pickling of cucumbers and okra. How will I ever manage to wash, prepare, and cook or freeze all the fruit, weed the garden, and handle the bounty — if everything “makes”?  It will be necessary to enlist Zack’s help, for sure.  This will be the first growing season since he fell ill that he may be able to more fully pitch in to help reap what he hath sewn! Follow-through is everything!

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at <http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/>.

I’ve known for a while that Zack and I are becoming dinosaurs. We live in an old house on an old family place, own old things and often (but not exclusively) enjoy old, simple, reliable ways. We seem to know (old) things that no one else knows, remembers, or thinks is important any longer. We understand how to operate things that are outdated and of little value to many in “the modern world.” I’m a stickler for proper grammar when no one else seems to care. Zack likes people to actually have knowledge of a subject they consider themselves expert on when they expound.I’ve known for a while that Zack and I are becoming dinosaurs. We live in an old house on an old family place, own old things and often (but not exclusively) enjoy old, simple, reliable ways. We seem to know (old) things that no one else knows, remembers, or thinks is important any longer. We understand how to operate things that are outdated and of little value to many in “the modern world.” I’m a stickler for proper grammar when no one else seems to care. Zack likes people to actually have knowledge of a subject they consider themselves expert on when they expound.

The other day, we visited a large office supply store chain. Zack needed cartridges for his fountain pen. These are no longer available to fit each and every brand, but come in a few generic varieties. You have to hope there’s one to fit the pen you might own. While there, we asked the young woman behind the service counter if the store sold fountain pens. “Fountain? (pause) Pens? (Pause). I don’t even know what that IS”.  We were taken aback. (It isn’t like we’re closing in on a century of life or anything even close).  It was an office supply store. She called a supervisor. He wasn’t sure. So he guided us to the same pen display we had already perused. Nope. Calligraphy pens were as close as he could come. At least he knew what they were.

Today in our local post office, a neighbor asked the clerk for a fountain pen to complete a label. (To our generation, this is like asking for Kleenex or Clorox instead of a tissue or bleach). I had to laugh. Of course, she was handed a ball point, and I told her my story. She said, “I have a better one than that. I had to upgrade to a new cell phone last week.  My old one was really, REALLY old. The girl who helped me was busy punching all kinds of buttons with her thumbs on the new phone, faster than I could even follow with my eyes. She set the thing up, and presented it to me. I asked if she thought I should send the old one in to the Smithsonian. And she said, ‘What’s the Smithsonian?’ “

I suppose I can understand that a twenty-three year old woman might never have encountered a fountain pen. Penmanship is no longer taught in the public schools around here. Cursive writing isn’t taught either. This is interesting, because at least up until a few years ago, there was a portion on the SAT test that required reading in cursive. Proper grammar is not expected or even graded on the statewide TAKS test. (This makes me crazy). And Zack questioned, don’t kids even read any more? See the occasional old movie? Surely somewhere, a person would encounter the term, “fountain pen.” But perhaps not.

I ran into an acquaintance the other day, a writer. When I asked how the book was coming along, he indicated he had had a couple of good days, had been working away on his Olivetti. It occurred to me that even I think of typewriters as outdated. I own two wonderful old models (Royals, both) and cherish them. But I write on my laptop. Zack is the same. We also shy away from texting and using wireless connections to the Internet on our cell phones. It’s just too expensive, and we don’t need to be connected 24/7 to anything but the kids or Zack’s father — in case of emergency. We have computers for the Internet (which we LOVE. A world of information is at our fingertips).

The old dial phones we own and enjoy as antiques no longer work (completely) with our new phone systems. Young people will soon no longer have any idea what a dial phone is. Many already do not (unless they watch old movies).  I made a partial list of other things that have become extinct are seem to be on their way. See if you can add to it:

Standard shifts in automobiles

Roll up windows in vehicles

Cars without air conditioning

Space heaters

Telephone booths

Telephone operators

Beer can and bottle openers (affectionately known in some circles as “church keys”

Roll up can opener keys (as in sardine can)

Skate keys

Black and white movies

35 mm cameras, film, and movie projectors

Mercury thermometers (that must be shaken down before use)

House calls by doctors

There are many other “dinosaurs.”  A young friend commented that until she read a story on my blog, she had never heard of cloth diapers. I suppose not. There are plenty of kids now who have never learned to tell time using a clock with a face, so dependent are they upon digital readouts. Many don’t know what a clothes lines or a clothes pin is, or washboards or wringers — or so many things that are a part of everyone’s rich family history. Most have never used a sewing machine or repaired anything themselves. (I know plenty of adults like that too).

The other day our ice maker stopped working. Rather than frantically and immediately call the repairman as most of my friends would do, I wiggled my finger around and determined that water wasn’t filling the trays. Further investigation yielded the fact that there was ice stuck in the fill tube. I went for my trusty hair dryer (the one I no longer bother using for my hair) and heated the tube until the chunk of ice melted. Problem solved, expense averted, and no waiting around for a repairman. I understand that being retired (or as retired as one can be working on a ranch full time); I have time to bother with things that others must rely on professionals for. Or at least my time is more flexible. As little of it as I can spare, I still have more time than money.

The world is truly changing, just as it always has and as it always will. Perhaps these days, it’s changing a little faster than ever before.

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

Boots the Cat (or possibly Wild Thing, but we really suspect Boots) is trying once again to contribute to the family larder. And I truly wish he’s stop. For several mornings now, we’ve found bunny parts waiting on our front porch. This is quite an unwelcome surprise. Sometimes we step out in sock feet to don a pair of muddy boots (so we can go out and get muddy all over again). Lately, we almost step in something too gross and gory to describe in detail. Sometimes it’s a leg or maybe a head. Sometimes it’s half a carcass.

(not for the queasy or faint of heart)

Boots the Cat (or possibly Wild Thing, but we really suspect Boots) is trying once again to contribute to the family larder. And I truly wish he’s stop. For several mornings now, we’ve found bunny parts waiting on our front porch. This is quite an unwelcome surprise. Sometimes we step out in sock feet to don a pair of muddy boots (so we can go out and get muddy all over again). Lately, we almost step in something too gross and gory to describe in detail. Sometimes it’s a leg or maybe a head. Sometimes it’s half a carcass.

Many cat owners have had the same experience. Our older cat, Tiger, now retired to the house for his own safety, previously held the position of resident rabbit and rodent hunter in the feline pecking order. His late brother, Smokey, often brought us the bounty. But we discovered after a time that Tiger was the true hunter and Smokey, being both lazier and larger, stole his brother’s treasures to “play with them” for a while, then present them as his own. Once, long ago, Smokey dashed into the house with a squealing, still-live baby bunny. He scurried with it under a bed, assuming he couldn’t be reached. He seemed quite proud of himself. In that instance, through human intervention, the bunny got lucky.

The cats always seem to leave the evidence where we will readily find it (an “AHA momen,t, if there ever was one! “Aha” here is a euphemism, folks). One of the Vet’s assistants put forth the explanation that the animal wants to help feed the family, proving his worth. I suppose Tiger before — and now Boots— figure if they bring us fresh meat now and then, we’ll continue doling out Meow Mix and other delicacies when hunting season is over. And after all, one hopes a farm or ranch cat will keep down the rodent population. We can’t exactly instruct Bootsy on the anatomical differences between bunnies and mice. If it’s smaller than he is and it moves, he will go after it.  The few times we’ve caught Boots early enough, “playing” with a bunny, we’ve intervened (hopefully in time), and relocated the unfortunate, intended prey.

I’ve unfortunately witnessed the result when Stinky the Dog (and others of his kind) discover a rabbit nest. The result is horrifying to me, and it happens so quickly, there’s no time for intervention of any kind.  In one gulp, down goes the prey, hair, bones, and all. (And here we’ve been so careful not to allow him any bones that might hurt him). As disgusting as this rabbit eating practice is to me, I understand it’s a natural instinct for creatures whose ancestors were noble hunters. I notice that, with the dogs, there’s absolutely no thought of returning to “the pack” with some of the bounty. I suppose, with canines, it’s every man for himself.

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

Ever since I was a kid, I begged to take a little boat onto the stock tank here at the ranch. Timing is everything. The tank dries up without enough rainfall. One cannot go boating when the pond is dry. So I would only beg and whine about this the better part of each year. In summer it was an academic question.Ever since I was a kid, I begged to take a little boat onto the stock tank here at the ranch. Timing is everything. The tank dries up without enough rainfall. One cannot go boating when the pond is dry. So I would only beg and whine about this the better part of each year. In summer it was an academic question.

My childhood memories of the tank centered on skipping a few stones with my father.  When I had children of my own, I carried on this proud tradition, taught them the joys of rock skipping as well. One year we fired off bottle rockets over the water on the Fourth of July (or New Year’s. I can’t remember which).

I clearly remember conversations with my elders about the joys of the tank. They usually went like this;

“Can I walk down to the tank?”

“No, there are snakes near the water.”

“Can I make a raft and float it on the tank?”

“No, there are snakes near the water.”

“Can I climb that tree near the tank?”

“No, snakes can climb trees. Just ask Jamie and Sammie.”

And the always popular, “You stay away from that tank now!” I received similar responses concerning the river.

Jamie and Sammie lived on the ranch with their parents. I was jealous as hell that they were here all the time, while I was forced to return to town every Sunday evening. But even Jamie, the younger of the two, was a good bit older than I was. He’d pretty much outgrown the innocent childish joys of the great outdoors by the time I could have learned a good bit of mischief from him. Plus I expect he’d been forbidden to initiate me.  I do remember Jamie with a BB gun once, and if my parents, aunts, uncles and their cousins — not to mention his parents — had known he had a gun of any kind within five miles of me, they’d probably have had his hide. So I was pretty much on my own. As I grew older and brought friends with me on Sunday afternoons, we ALL heard the warnings of everything we shouldn’t do or touch.

Most of my childhood queries about doing things independently on my Sunday afternoon visits to the ranch went very much the same way each time. There was always the admonition tacked onto the end of everything, “Be careful.”  I hear those same words coming out of my mouth now when I speak to my kids. And they’re in their late twenties now. (I probably need professional help).  I was warned not to reach under rocks or logs — or stick my little hands into dark places. I was warned not to go into the barn. “There are snakes in the barn”. I wasn’t allowed to walk near the gravel pit, the “cliff,” or near the river. You guessed it. Snakes. Or maybe for variation, it might be, “You can fall off the edge of the cliff.”  I was warned about wasps and ants and every other imaginable danger. It was a wonder I matured normally at all. (I suppose there’s still some question about that, depending upon whom you ask).

Growing up way too overprotected is the price paid when a kid enters a childless household and an entire, childless, extended family. The effect is compounded when the family members welcoming the surprise newborn range in age from 42 (my mother, the baby of her family and four years my father’s junior) to well into their fifties (most of their siblings and cousins). My friends had grandparents of this generation. I was one of the only kids whose father had white hair (which he actually had since age thirty). But I didn’t know any better for a long time.  And later I realized I was quite lucky to have come into this world at all. So I shouldn’t have complained. But that’s another story.

I was slightly less sheltered in town,  even allowed to ride my bike a few blocks to school on my own, drive a car at 14 (damn dangerous if you ask me), things like that. (Didn’t they realize there were snakes in town too?) I must have managed to make it through all my required developmental stages with my psyche relatively intact. I was allowed to go to college in New Orleans, but no farther.  I found no snakes there — or in New York (where my poor  family must have been horrified I moved). I discovered a few snakes in Florida. None of them turned out to be deadly.

When I returned to Texas and chose to live at the ranch (always my very most favorite place in the whole, entire world — despite it being apparently fraught with danger, both seen and unseen), I was initially pretty much terrified of everything. Gee, I wonder why. Between Jamie, then Zack and our friend Ron, I learned what to really worry about — and how to hopefully avoid danger as much as possible while still enjoying myself immensely in the great outdoors. Much has to do with common sense and not being a totally stupid idiot moron. And experience is a great teacher (long as you don’t kill yourself while you’re in the “school of hard knocks”).

When my children were small, we took a little ski boat on a real lake nearby, so they didn’t ask to paddle anything out onto the tank a la Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer. There were no small boats here then anyway. That would have been considered a luxury. After Zack bought a little fishing boat and some paddles, I envisioned a picnic basket and parasol, but that pipe dream evaporated into the morning mist that often rises from the tank itself. There was no time here for such frivolity (if fishing weren’t involved). There was fence to run, cows to tend, brush to burn! (You get the idea. Work, work, work).

It took Becca and Jared to finally realize my lifelong, romantic dream of boating on the tank (like models in a pointillist, Georges Seurat painting). When the kids had mused about going out on the water, Zack offered the little boat. (Becca had forgotten it, and Jared hadn’t noticed, unceremoniously stored as it was, in a far barn). Sometimes it takes a couple of kids with some time on their hands to make unexpected things happen. Sometimes it takes kids or guests to make Zack stop working for a few minutes. Within the hour, we were fulfilling my modest, little childhood fantasy. Next time I’ll pack a picnic basket —and take a parasol!

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

Well, it’s official. We’re going to be apiarists. No, it isn’t illegal. Not even immoral. It means we’re going to keep bees. This has been percolating for a very long time, and it was one of those things I rather hoped Zack would talk about forever and never actually do (like getting horses). But if Zack says he will do a thing, he most often follows through, which is usually wonderful but sometimes a little scary. There’s always another project around here. No wonder I never catch up.Well, it’s official. We’re going to be apiarists. No, it isn’t illegal. Not even immoral. It means we’re going to keep bees. This has been percolating for a very long time, and it was one of those things I rather hoped Zack would talk about forever and never actually do (like getting horses). But if Zack says he will do a thing, he most often follows through, which is usually wonderful but sometimes a little scary. There’s always another project around here. No wonder I never catch up.

 Zack’s  grandfather kept bees, and he has wonderful childhood memories of robbing the hives in the heat of the summer, covered with protective gear from head to toe, the smell of the warm honey, insects lighting all over him. (YIKES!) Somehow this was never my idea of heaven. I can’t imagine why. If I had tried with all my might, I don’t think I could ever have conjured up a vision of myself willingly surrounded by hundreds of bees. Well, life is full of surprises.

So I’m nothing if not interested in new experiences. Count me in (as if I had a vote. In my new, unexpected position as Zack’s trusty assistant, helping him with things he still cannot do, I often have little choice in these matters. Besides, I firmly believe that his enthusiastic interest in new things and willingness to try almost anything —even if I have to finish it— are aiding in his recovery). Usually I prefer my new experiences to be exceedingly safe, timid person that I am. But Zack assures me I probably won’t get stung. Gee, that’s reassuring.  For years Zack has talked of having bees. If he hadn’t fallen ill a couple of years ago, I’m certain we would have done this already. More than a few best laid plans were delayed. That happens when one wakes up paralyzed and spends six months in hospitals— and the next year or two relearning how to move.

Zack’s been poring over catalogues of bee keeping supplies. Dwayne, the UPS guy has been wearing a path to our door for the last few weeks with a box of this or that. It’s gotten to the point that if we see him in town, we ask if we can save him a trip. At the moment, there reside in the center of our small living room a bee hive, a super (part of the whole queen/workers/drones system, the trays for the honeycombs, hats, nets, smokers, and gloves. It’s all pretty interesting. (There are special entry and exit parts for the Queen, workers or drones. Sort of like the Hotel California; some of them can check out any time they like — but they can never leave). One of the hats with veil belonged to Zack’s grandfather —pretty special. Zack says he probably wore it as a youngster. Two of the smokers are antiques. Zack’s father brought the old honey extractor from his barn to ours a few months ago, and a couple of old hives.

One of our veterinarians keeps bees, so Zack consulted with him about various resources. He generously offered to pick up our bees when he drives out of town to pick up some additional bees for himself. After all, this probably isn’t something we can bid for on eBay and have Dwayne deliver in his UPS truck —although I didn’t check. Perhaps it’s possible!

 There’ve been bees on this ranch all my life, but they were wild and free, lived where they chose, and didn’t share their honey. They visit my flowers regularly, most noticeably our Texas sage plants. These burst into fragrant, lavender blooms a week or so after a heavy rain. Then they attract so many bees that their combined musical buzzing mimics a small helicopter. During those times, the sage seems alive with bees. There have been various “bee trees” here over the years, sometimes occupied and sometimes not. The last bee domicile of long standing was vacated a couple of years ago for unknown reasons and hit by lightning last year. (It seems to have survived). So far, no occupants have returned. One of the many signs I routered several years ago for placement throughout the ranch reads “Bee Hive Drive” for obvious reasons, and is nailed to that tree.

We expect our new additions next month, and Zack is like a little kid anticipating the holidays.  We must clean and paint the old hives (if they’re worth saving), paint the new one that arrived unfinished, and put everything in place. We donned our gloves and hats —for a trial run of sorts; we wore the stuff to a masquerade party last week. In one of those rare, unexpected, serendipitous coincidences, two other people came dressed as bees. She was the Queen Bee, of course, with crown, and he was the Worker Bee, with hard hat and tool belt. Funny stuff. This Bee/Bee Keeper combo was completely unplanned. So we took a picture to commemorate the occasion.  I guarantee you our new bee keeping attire will never look as clean as it does right now.  The hat and veil Zack wore were those belonging to his grandfather.

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/

Since it seems that many women I know (and some men) are watching their weight or actually losing some, I feel obligated to follow up on my newest diet plan. I wrote a while ago that I was inspired by the weight loss of various friends. One in particular (the Weight Watcher’s gal) is definitely keeping it off. Boy does she look great!  Not completely sure about how the others have fared or will fare over time. The votes are still out.Since it seems that many women I know (and some men) are watching their weight or actually losing some, I feel obligated to follow up on my newest diet plan. I wrote a while ago that I was inspired by the weight loss of various friends. One in particular (the Weight Watcher’s gal) is definitely keeping it off. Boy does she look great!  Not completely sure about how the others have fared or will fare over time. The votes are still out.

I was lucky and so spoiled most of my life. I ate anything within reason and never worried about my weight when I was young. Over the last ten years or so, I’ve had to be more careful. It was only a few pounds, I told myself. I’d gone from skinny to average in a world of people who seem daily to become increasingly larger. Guess I sort of accepted it. I never truly committed to any diet, because I didn’t think it was crucial. Until recently.  I calculated where “only a pound or two per year” might land me later, and it was a sobering thought.

While Zack was in the hospital, one of his occupational therapists suggested a book called “Eat Right for Your Type”. It’s all about different diets for different blood types, and is aimed at encouraging good health and avoiding food reactions— as well as maintaining a healthy weight. I ordered the book over the Internet (where I’ve done most of my shopping since Zack fell ill). Zack, the kids and I read through it, and as much as I do NOT believe in fad diets of any kind, this plan, based on a doctor’s experience with thousands of patients over many years made some sense. Mostly it just seemed to be solid advice about eating well. But it was tailored to specific bodies. When I first glanced at the book, I was still taking care of a very sick man 24/7. Any plan to add any new challenges seemed destined to fail.

In January, when I knew better than to make resolutions, I did decide to develop even better eating habits (although I thought we were doing pretty well in that department already). Coincidentally I ran into a friend who had lost twenty pounds over several months and looked and felt great. She hadn’t been heavy to begin with. She’s a few years older than I am and does NOT look it or act it. Turns out she was following the blood type diet, along with a few variations. That caught my interest. But what really hooked me was that she and I share the same blood type. So she could guide me on specifics. And when she told me that a little dark chocolate was OK, that was it for me.

 For some unknown reason, I had finally reached the point where I could get serious about eating healthier. “It isn’t easy”, my friend warned me. But I felt if she could do it, I could do it. It made more sense to me (and was a lot cheaper) than a doctor’s weight loss program and more convenient than Weight Watchers (which is such a good program, I hear). The diets that work aren’t really diets at all, but sensible eating habits, lifestyle changes.

Zack and I are different blood types. According to this book, he can eat things I cannot. My kids are the same type as each other, but different from Zack or me.  And of the four of us, I was the only one who wanted to drop a few pounds. The funny thing was that, with few exceptions, Zack’s food preferences closely followed his diet recommendations. It was as if, all during his lifetime, his body instinctively knew the best fuel. And while I had more exceptions, my food INCLINATIONS, likes and dislikes closely followed the book’s recommendations. My kids were already eating mainly good things, and exercising like it was their job. I still need to work on that exercise thing.

So what did I give up? When I tell you (part of it, because within categories, there are also “no-no’s”), you won’t believe it, because it sounds so limiting. But it honestly hasn’t been bad. And it works (slowly. So far about four or five pounds a month).  No red meat, wheat, or Dairy. The ideal diet for my blood type would be vegetarian, but that isn’t going to happen. Even the author of the book recognized Americans’ dependence on animal protein. So eggs, chicken, turkey, and fish are allowed. Obviously no processed foods or many sweets, no soft drinks. Within each category of foods, there are things that are not beneficial to my system. I don’t eat certain grains, nuts, fruits, vegetables, fish, beans, legumes, breads, grains pasta, spices and condiments. I eat no mayonnaise or ketchup, and strangely, no pepper of any kind. Some foods are supposed to be particularly beneficial, for instance, pineapple. Go fig. Lemons and grapefruit are allowed, but not oranges or tangerines. (Different effect on stomach acid).  

I won’t bore you with more details. I’ve eaten chocolate only a very few times in the last two months. I can’t believe it myself. I don’t even want it most of the time. I eat less and am rarely hungry, but sometimes I do feel “empty”. I find the foods I’m eating are interesting, because I didn’t eat them so much before. . I eat tofu for additional protein.

 Two of my new snacks are corn cakes (similar to rice cakes but better and harder to find) with avocado, apples with peanut butter, dried pineapple or rice cakes with honey for a sweet. In my previous life, I avoided peanut butter like the plague and shied away from apples.

I’m not saying I’ll be able to do this for the rest of my life, but I’d sure like to lose another ten pounds or so —and keep it off.  I can’t really see where the first eight or so pounds came from, but the scale doesn’t lie. I’d like to claim I feel better now, but the truth is that I felt just fine before. And so far, the blood type diet hasn’t removed my aches and pains / wear and tear. I suppose one cannot expect miracles!

Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at  http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/