Kissing hands and shaking babies

I love politics. Maybe love isn't the word, but I have a sense of obligation to politics. Like it's a responsibility to be involved, even if it's an annoying, dirty game and you sometimes end up voting for the person you dislike least.

So I went to a rally for my favorite U.S. Congressman from Montana (yes, we only have one), who is running in a neck and neck race for the U.S. Senate.

He showed up in Miles City on his bus, and Karity and I showed up at the campaign headquarters in our farm truck. With a little American flag for her to wave. You know, train 'em up young.

And so, we had to see if politicians really do kiss hands and shake babies. Or something like that.

Turns out they do.

Thanks for indulging this Republican mama, Denny.

Now go win this race and get us a Farm Bill passed already.

Tractor lullabies

Love, love, love her onesie. Thank you Anita! And yes, we totally planned to wear it.

Last week Daddy needed me to help drive tractor for a few days. Actually, he asked Karity if she would drive for him, and I went along to help her out. You know, things like steering, clutch, shifting, seeing over the loader, etc.

Oh, and staying awake.
I was the one responsible for that.
She most definitely was not.

You see, I did not know this, but tractors are the perfect soothing machine. Simply take one cranky, fussy baby, put it in it's car seat, put the arm rest of the John Deere 4440 down, tuck the car seat in the corner of the cab and strap it down with a tarp strap (oh, I never claimed not to be a redneck), and away you go.

We helped Daddy for about 8 hours one day.
Karity slept for 7.5 of them. Hard. Conked out sleep.
Which was great while we were working.
However, that night was a different story.

She was up at 1 a.m.
She was up at 3 a.m.
At 4 a.m., I heard a little "ppppbbbbbbtttttt........" noise, and I turn on the light. She was laying in her bassinet, blowing spit bubbles and smiling with glee. Full on ready to get the party started. We were up for the day. And it was a long day!

They say train whistles blow in the key of F (or something like that). Apparently, John Deere tractor engines hum in the key of "passed out."

So if you ever see me out randomly driving around the corn field in the middle of the night -- even in the dead  of winter -- don't worry.
I'm just singing a little tractor lullaby.

On Day 3, I added my new puppy to the team. It's a wonder we got any work done at all! Who else is totally cracking up at the way Karity is holding the tarp strap like she's on a carnival ride!

This is how you get your days and your nights switched!

Have baby, will travel

Karity and Mommy, right before things went downtown. (I think she's saying "O"!)

Karity took her first "big" trip this last week. We crossed state lines. Don't worry, I think we were legal.

We drove to Denver, then got on a plane and flew to Oklahoma to visit her Grandpa Brad and Grandma Gigi, her Aunt Maggie, Uncle Eric, Aunt Mandy and cousin Trayson, her Great-Grandma Choat, and her great aunts and uncles and cousins!

I was a little nervous about driving 8 hours with her, but we left at 4:30 a.m. and she slept most of the way -- as long as the car was moving. Tim drove -- he was pretty brave to sign up for the trip with us.

She was really good in the airplane too, which I was even more nervous about. I SO did not want to be that lady with the screaming child. The one who helps the store that sells noise-cancelling headsets in the airport make lots of money. But before we got in the airplane ...

... things got a little interesting going through security. I remember when screening got stricter ... first it was the liquid thing, then the shoes, then the whirling scanner where TSA can see all of you, like ... all of you. Yeah, all those trials. I remember how frustrating it was to go through security and have it be such a new hassle every time. I thought the "strip-down-to-dangerously-close-to-naked-while-unpacking-a-laptop-and-taking-off-your-shoes-and-chasing-white-plastic-tubs-as-fast-as-you-can" routine was as bad as it could get.

It wasn't.

Try doing all the above with a baby strapped to you.

That's when it really gets interesting.

That's the thing about life. There is always something worse. Something harder. You can view that as a bad thing, or a good thing. And it can be a bad thing -- or a good thing.

We sailed through the Denver airport fine, and were so excited to see her Grandma GiGi waiting for us in Oklahoma City! It was a great couple of days, and reassuring to know that it is possible to travel with kids. In fact, a lot of people do it with a lot more of them all the time. (And I'm now keenly observing them and taking notes in the airport!)

Unfortunately, on the way home, I ended up on the "worse" side of the things can always get worse. I won't go into detail because I do not want to relive that day. That very long day.

However, some critical observations I made:

1. Metal detectors in Oklahoma City must be much more sensitive than in Denver.
2. TSA don't care.
3. Baby Bjorn's have metal in them.
4. But no one really knows where.
5. TSA will do their best to find out.
6. Babies aren't the only ones who get frustrated and cry.
7. Kind older ladies are really nice to younger women with babies in the airport.
8. Especially when they get held up ridiculously long in security and miss their flight.
9. Do not use the word "molest" to describe TSA when you go through security a second time.
10. They will show you the meaning.
11. When life stinks, remember, there is always something more difficult.

Through it all, Karity held up like a trooper, and if given the chance (and I will be) I'll do it all again. We'll put up with a few inconveniences to keep our country safe and to see our awesome Oklahoma relatives.

But next time, the Baby Bjorn is joining the jacket, the sunglasses, the phone, the purse, the shoes, the jewelry, the laptop, the spare change, the baby lotion, the sunscreen, the diaper cream, etc. ... and taking its own ride through security!

Karity and her beautiful Grandma Gigi.

Karity loves her Okie grandparents!

No rain, just cats and dogs

Hank and "Mama cat." The first cat that ever commanded his respect.

We needed a cat. Bad.

Travis doesn't like cats, but he doesn't like cats less than I don't like mice.

So my nice cousin Bill brought down a mama cat and her wild gray baby cat. I put them in the bunkhouse, gave them food and water, and left them alone.

The first two days they stayed in the bunkhouse.

The second two days they were gone, not to be seen. At this point I was worried Hank had not adjusted well to them, if you know what I mean. (One time we found the neighbor's cat in our yard. It was uh ... not so much "with us" anymore. Had gone on to the Happy Hunting Ground. Hank had bought it the ticket. Bad day. If you ever want to hear a good story, ask Travis what he did with the cat. Please don't judge, we told the neighbor nicely and apologized profusely. I really did feel terrible.)

The fifth day, guess who shows up in our house garage? Yep. Mama cat. 

I told her cat's couldn't live in the garage, they had their own big bunkhouse. 

"That's silly," said the cat.

I told her Hank would eat her.

"Oh no he won't," she said, and swiped at Hank, clawed at him, and chased him out of the garage. 

I told her I wouldn't feed her in the garage.

"Oh, I bet you will," she said, and meowed nicely. So I fed her. 

The sixth day she brought her baby with her. 

We now have two cats living in our garage, and Hank walks on tiptoes, because I have never seen a cat give a dog (much less a blue heeler) the what-for like this little lady does. I mean, she can stand her ground. I think she has a pretty big advantage given the fact that Hank is blind. Poor Spanky.

But so far we haven't seen a mouse around. And for me, no mouse in the house is worth two cats in the hat. Um, I mean, garage. 

All is fair

Filling out entry tags the night before the fair, and wondering why I didn't do this earlier,
and knowing I probably will be doing it the night before the fair again next year, just like I always have.
(And being relatively impressed with the fact that the tags are still the exact same as they were 24 years ago!)

It's fair time in Miles City -- the highlight of most country kids' summer, and the "year end" of the 4-H calendar. It's the Superbowl, the World Series and the NFR of the 4-H world.

I was an 11-year 4-H member, and I will, until the day I die, remember the agony and nerves and last-minuteness of getting projects ready for the fair. Sewing projects completed. Tack box cleaned and packed. Bread baked. Record books completed. 4-H story written. (For you young whipper-snappers today who don't know what a 4-H story is, we had to write an essay about our year in 4-H, and we also, in my day, had to write a story for each of our individual projects. I did not become a writer by choice, I think I was simply beat into submission by writing 4-H stories!) Suitcase packed. Animals loaded. More record book work. Animals unloaded and bedded down.

I remember the night before project judging day, one week before the fair, when I was about 10 years old, sneaking out of my room and finding my mom, who was up vacuuming. It was 11 p.m., late for a 10-year-old. I was nervous about project judging and wound up from the rat-race of getting everything complete, and I started to sob. I'll always remember her stopping what she was doing and fixing us both a cup of Earl Gray tea. She told me I had done really good on my projects, and it was all going to be okay.

And it did come out okay. I would get reds sometimes, and my sheep would get loose in showmanship sometimes. My horse would act up, and my food would sometimes be a pile of mush by time it made the 48-mile trip to town in the summer heat. But I also got my share of blues and reserve and champion ribbons, and my final year, I won grand champion Round Robin Showmanship and a snazzy 4-H belt buckle. I'll keep that tarnished thing forever.

4-H shaped who I am, and I know any other member who toiled for and enjoyed the fair would say no different. Through that 11-year long process I learned the rewards of working hard in preparation, putting a polishing touch on an item for presentation and judging, and learning to both win and lose graciously.

I could write post after post on my 4-H experiences, the good, fantastic and ... otherwise.

But I think what sums it up best is the fact that last night, just like 24 years ago, I stayed up too late. (1 a.m., which is the equivalent of 11 p.m. to a 10-year-old.) I was getting entries ready for the fair. I entered 25 photos, four sewing items, two beaded necklaces, and three scrapbook items. I didn't have to do this. My Mom didn't make me. I didn't have to meet a project minimum.

But still, just like I did 24 years ago, I entered too many items, shot for the moon on completion, stayed up too late, and scurried frantically at the end to get everything together. And just like 24 years ago, I got nervous, and I worried about choosing the right entry, making everything look nice, and getting it all done on time. And, just like 24 years ago, I did get (most of) it in on time, and breathed a huge sigh of relief when it was all in place and entered.

I'll go back tomorrow and check out the ribbons. But more than that, I'll enjoy the satisfaction of participating in a county fair, competing and displaying workmanship, and sharing in the camaraderie of those who do the same. Oh yeah, and I'll um ... check out the ribbons. (Did I mention that?)

Because there's nothing like moving home and being able to take in your county fair as a resident.

And there is nothing like the satisfaction of a blue ribbon, whether you're 10 years old, or 34.

Mornings like this

Up early.
Lots to do.
Baby fed.
Baby changed.
Baby happy.
Mommy happy.
Going good.
Coffee in cup.
Cereal in bowl.
Ready to eat.
Then work.
Daddy in.
Baler broke.
Daddy not happy.
Need parts from town.
Store closed in an hour.
"Can you go honey?"
Plans change.
Dress the baby.
Baby screaming.
"Can you pay a bill too?"
Find an envelope.
Can't find a stamp.
Need an address.
"Why is baby screaming?"
Change clothes.
Fix hair.
Quick, some makeup.
Find the cell phone.
Baby in car seat.
Baby still screaming.
Daddy finds address.
Coffee in go cup.
Blanket on baby.
Go cup in car.
Purse in car.
Car seat (with baby) in car.
Bill (with stamp and address) in car.
Cell phone in car.
Cell phone dead.
Where are my sunglasses?
Out of gas.
Fill up with gas.
Head for town.
No time to waste.
Baby asleep.
Crap.
Forgot the diaper bag.
Back up the driveway.
Don't run over the dog.
Baby wakes up.
Leave car door open.
Run into the house.
Grab the diaper bag.
Refill diapers.
Grab some graham crackers
(for breakfast)
Back to the car.
Kick dog out of car.
Head for town.
Deep breath.
Mornings like this,
Despite the craziness
I love my job.

Grandpa's saddle

Me with my Grandpa Tom, a true gentleman and cowboy.

There are a lot of things in life that I love, but two of my passions are family (most of them, most of the time!) and memorabilia. So even more special to me is family memorabilia. To me it's not about the value or the quality of the item, it's about the sentiment, the nostalgia ... the story.

These came together in a very special way last week, when my Grandpa Tom gave me one of the most special gifts I've ever received -- a saddle.

It's not a brand new saddle, which makes is so much more special. It's his saddle.
The saddle he put many hours on packing into the mountains.
The saddle which he saved for several months to buy.
The saddle that was witness to many happy memories on hunting trips with family and riding on the cattle he enjoyed so much.

This 3/4, double rigged modified association tree, rough-out piece of personal history is stamped L.H. Brand Saddle Co., Ralston, Wyo. (Anyone who knows saddlemaking knows that a saddlemaker's stamp is like an artist's signature.) Grandpa told me he and Grandma Hazel were living in Red Lodge, Mont., at the time, around 1976 or '77, and he saw it on display at the feed store in nearby Roberts. The store owner asked him if he was interested in it and he said no, not at the time. But the owner said he'd like for him to just take it home and use it for awhile if he wanted. So Grandpa did, and decided he liked it. After a few months, he went back and purchased it.

L.H. Brand Saddle Co., Ralston, Wyo. According to some quick research,
L.H. "Hamp" Brand ran the country's first saddlemaking school.

When I was in high school, my dad gave me a saddle that my cousin had made. It's a smaller-built saddle, and over the years I've found I could use a double cinch and a bit more heft. So I've always borrowed one whenever I was home. Now I don't have to do that anymore. The ironic thing is my first saddle was made by  Rory McDowall, who is my Grandpa Tom McDowall's nephew.

I'm not sure I'll ever be the cowboy my Grandpa Tom is, but I do know I'll always cherish his most important piece of cowboy gear, and I look forward to logging in a lot of good miles -- and memories -- on this special piece of leather.