Here at the Foster Farmlet, we are currently experiencing a phenomenon known to many who live in rural areas, but is relatively new to us. I think the official word for it is Super-poly-feline-kitten-saturation. Basically, for those of you who are unsure of what exactly that entails, it is a remarkable thing how in a time period of just one week, two innocuous cats can (apparently) spontaneously self-generate into a small herd of 10 mostly black, hairy, scrabbling mewing pests. This would ordinarily be a non-issue with me, as the cats and I have a sort of truce going on, where they don’t bother me, and I don’t bother them, but when you have 10 cats on your front porch, and you are attempting to work on that front porch, you cant help but interfere in each other’s lives.
Of course the kids are thrilled with all this and are always also on the front porch, building little structures for the “pwecioush wittle tings”, utilizing my tools and other things that I typically discourage them from messing with, such as the small step ladder that I used to climb up onto the railing with, was found necessary to be utilized as a barrier to keep the villainous dog that harasses the kittens off of the porch. That would have been fine, except it all happened in such a short time period that I climbed up the step ladder, onto the railing, and then stepped right back down with the expectation of it still being there. It wasn’t, and the little fur-balls didn’t even have the decency to attempt to soften my fall.
These kittens have the usual names for cats. I’m sure every household has cats named Fighter, Fighter Socks, Snotty, Snotty-Eyes, Black, Todd, Runtie, and Wolfie. I have a fool-proof method that I have had great success for changing cat’s names with in the past. If I say “no, we’re gonna call that cat Such-and-Such” it is met with great protest and complaint. But if I just start calling it a new name, my children will ask me why I call the cat by that name. My response? I just tell them that is what The Chickens call her. The children all are fully aware that I am fluent in Chickenese, and while I cant actually speak it, I can understand it quite well. They take all this as naturally as if I told them that “ticks are bad”, as I have been telling them this ever since we first got chickens. It works great, works every time. After all, who are they to argue with the chickens? It stands to reason that if the chickens call the cats by a name, that the cats must be in communication with the chickens, right?
I personally believe that every father should have at least a few chickens around, if just to share a little blame with at certain awkward moments. We currently have one kitten that I feel obliged to change its name to “Skunky”. The thing is, I was painting the colomns of the porch down low, and this black kitten thought my paintbrush a delightful toy, while I was using it. What can I say; I succumbed to the terrible, heavy-pressing temptation. My problem now is even my children, who fully believe that I am a very gifted “Chicken Whisperer” refuse to believe that the chickens were able to wield the paint-brush well enough to paint the bright white stripe down “Black’s” back. I would be pleased to hear from any of you some other methods of avoiding culpability in such situations.
It is so hard to be the responsible parent when you get such a delightful variety of responses to your irresponsibility. Just this morning, we had such a moment when I made an encouraging statement to my kids about the fun of eating great quantities of fresh beets wouldn’t always be found until much later away from the table (to put it delicately). I look around after such a statement, and I see the cold, disapproving stare of my eldest, the sweet, accepting smile of my next oldest, the rolling eyes of my wife, and then the mischievous, infectious cackle of the three year boy. A regular cornucopia of emotional responses. How can a daddy resist? It was just like the time that I felt prompted to eat an entire table napkin at the dinner table in front of my kids. At least it was a Wendy’s napkin (brown) and I could claim it was whole wheat. It was hysterical at the moment, but now I have to keep explaining to them why it isn’t ok for them to eat napkins. And it can be quite embarrassing to be forever explaining to other adults why my kids are perpetually trying to eat their and everyone else’s napkins. It just doesn’t look good, any way you slice it. I’ve tried blaming it on the chickens, but I haven’t had a lot of success convincing adults of that yet. Later, Dan Foster
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
about a book SOMEONE should write...
Here is a spin on an old joke: Question: what do you call a white guy in the middle of 8 mexicans? Answer: Dan. Ahhhh, summer time on the roof-tops. The smell of asphalt cooking in the kettle, the smoke wafting off of the "hot-mop" as you hear shouts of "Mas caliente,- ahora!!" and "ia-yi-yi-yi!," singing and generally happy chatter. The two white guys are in the corner of the roof working together, glum and morose, seldom talking even to each other. I always enjoy the opportunity to actually work with my guys, at least the hispanic ones, maybe cause I dont fully understand what they are saying about me. It is so interesting how their culture is in some ways more "chauvanistic" than ours, and in some ways, not so much. I am still learning much about the culture. One funny thing as we were loading the roof, 80 foot in the air (over a retirement rest home) with the crane, I was going over some stuff with Eloy, my crew leader. I told him not to set a whole pallet down on the roof at once because I was unsure of the soundness of it. His broken reply: "Yeah, 'cause if we break old people; we have to pay like they new".
Something much, much, much less fun than mopping hot asphalt on a roof 80' high in the air with people who speak a different language is working in the bathroom with a three year old. You see, there are certain things that are taboo to us adults that are just unimportant to people under three years old or three feet tall. Isaiah is quite potty-trained; he's a good little pooper, and the other morning he did his little #2 in the toilet first thing. "Good boy, way to poop! Nobody poops like you, boy! You are the poopingest!!" Ummm, I might interject something here, a warning or disclaimer that if you are eating lunch, or are somewhat squeemish, you might want to just quit reading this right now, as from here on I describe quite graphic illustrations of the incompetence of the local helpless father.
So, as usual, Brynn leaves to go running just about dawn, foolishly leaving me in charge of children. Tsk, tsk, when WILL she learn? I am in the living room, trying to watch the weather, so that I can tell my guys what to do, when I hear Isiah yelling something from the bathroom. I tell him "Just a few more minutes, when I get done watching the weather, I'll be right in there." Now in retrospect, the smart thing to do probably would have been to hustle right in, making this Unwise action: #1, the first in a series. Yes, that's right, he had pooped in his pants, 10 minutes after pooping in the toilet, and had done quite the number at it, too. But being the helpful lad that he is, he got impatient and had contrived to help get it off and started cleaning it up. Needless to say even Daddies who dont do diapers (it was in the pre-nup) dont need help from people less than 3' tall cleaning up poop. Appearently they have a tendency to step in their dirty underwear and walk around in the bathroom. (thank the Lord for vinal flooring!) So the first thing I do is scoop up underwear and chuck it into the sink. This was Unwise Action: # 2. Again, in retrospect, I'm thinking that the toilet would be a good place for large chuncks of fecal matter, rather than the sink. As I am trying desperately to rinse the abomination down the insignificant sink drain, Isaiah is getting impatient, so I ask if he needs to poop still, he says "yes", so in my frustration, I told him to get on the toilet and poop. Unwise Action: #3. Poop is sticky, and it smears. A LOT!! A more experienced father would have realized that little people who poop in their pants often have poop all over their back side too. And the difficultly of approaching the toilet for people who are less than 3' tall makes a mess however you do it, if your backside is sticky. How was I supposed to know all this? Brynn never told me that... I never read this anywhere, people just dont talk about it!! It seems like it would be appropriate to put some notes up above the toilet stating something to that effect if you are planning on being absent during prime pooping times of the day.
Well, the next thing I did was the first wise thing that I had done all morning. Well, sort of. I should have shut the door behind me when I did it, but anyway, I very clearly and firmly told the boy to sit and not move a muscle. Then I went outside and hailed my jogging wife in a voice that will probably cause the chickens to stop laying for a week, "BRYNN, I NEED YOU IN HERE!!!!!!!!!!" Then as she sprinted into the house I discovered Stu had crawled into the bathroom and had discovered the joys of freestyle fecal fingerpainting using an all-organic brown color. I guess it is all the rage with kids 2' tall and less. As I took turns pointing and staring, I suddenly remembered an early appointment at my office that I urgently wanted to get to. Every thing must have turned out OK, though. When I returned home from work (a few days later) the bathroom still smelled strongly of Clorox.
As I write this letter, I have arranged babysitting for the 4 children, and plan on taking my lovely, sweet, hard-working wife out for a little wining and dining. I think she deserves it, dont you? Maybe after dinner and perhaps a movie, she will talk to me again, after leaving her in that bathroom. You know, I'm am all about sucking it up and getting it done, but a man has to draw a line somewhere. After our meal, we may discuss publishing a booklet or some sort of resourse for dads. I am thinking of calling it the "Feckless Father's Guide to Feces". Hasta luego, mi amigos!
Something much, much, much less fun than mopping hot asphalt on a roof 80' high in the air with people who speak a different language is working in the bathroom with a three year old. You see, there are certain things that are taboo to us adults that are just unimportant to people under three years old or three feet tall. Isaiah is quite potty-trained; he's a good little pooper, and the other morning he did his little #2 in the toilet first thing. "Good boy, way to poop! Nobody poops like you, boy! You are the poopingest!!" Ummm, I might interject something here, a warning or disclaimer that if you are eating lunch, or are somewhat squeemish, you might want to just quit reading this right now, as from here on I describe quite graphic illustrations of the incompetence of the local helpless father.
So, as usual, Brynn leaves to go running just about dawn, foolishly leaving me in charge of children. Tsk, tsk, when WILL she learn? I am in the living room, trying to watch the weather, so that I can tell my guys what to do, when I hear Isiah yelling something from the bathroom. I tell him "Just a few more minutes, when I get done watching the weather, I'll be right in there." Now in retrospect, the smart thing to do probably would have been to hustle right in, making this Unwise action: #1, the first in a series. Yes, that's right, he had pooped in his pants, 10 minutes after pooping in the toilet, and had done quite the number at it, too. But being the helpful lad that he is, he got impatient and had contrived to help get it off and started cleaning it up. Needless to say even Daddies who dont do diapers (it was in the pre-nup) dont need help from people less than 3' tall cleaning up poop. Appearently they have a tendency to step in their dirty underwear and walk around in the bathroom. (thank the Lord for vinal flooring!) So the first thing I do is scoop up underwear and chuck it into the sink. This was Unwise Action: # 2. Again, in retrospect, I'm thinking that the toilet would be a good place for large chuncks of fecal matter, rather than the sink. As I am trying desperately to rinse the abomination down the insignificant sink drain, Isaiah is getting impatient, so I ask if he needs to poop still, he says "yes", so in my frustration, I told him to get on the toilet and poop. Unwise Action: #3. Poop is sticky, and it smears. A LOT!! A more experienced father would have realized that little people who poop in their pants often have poop all over their back side too. And the difficultly of approaching the toilet for people who are less than 3' tall makes a mess however you do it, if your backside is sticky. How was I supposed to know all this? Brynn never told me that... I never read this anywhere, people just dont talk about it!! It seems like it would be appropriate to put some notes up above the toilet stating something to that effect if you are planning on being absent during prime pooping times of the day.
Well, the next thing I did was the first wise thing that I had done all morning. Well, sort of. I should have shut the door behind me when I did it, but anyway, I very clearly and firmly told the boy to sit and not move a muscle. Then I went outside and hailed my jogging wife in a voice that will probably cause the chickens to stop laying for a week, "BRYNN, I NEED YOU IN HERE!!!!!!!!!!" Then as she sprinted into the house I discovered Stu had crawled into the bathroom and had discovered the joys of freestyle fecal fingerpainting using an all-organic brown color. I guess it is all the rage with kids 2' tall and less. As I took turns pointing and staring, I suddenly remembered an early appointment at my office that I urgently wanted to get to. Every thing must have turned out OK, though. When I returned home from work (a few days later) the bathroom still smelled strongly of Clorox.
As I write this letter, I have arranged babysitting for the 4 children, and plan on taking my lovely, sweet, hard-working wife out for a little wining and dining. I think she deserves it, dont you? Maybe after dinner and perhaps a movie, she will talk to me again, after leaving her in that bathroom. You know, I'm am all about sucking it up and getting it done, but a man has to draw a line somewhere. After our meal, we may discuss publishing a booklet or some sort of resourse for dads. I am thinking of calling it the "Feckless Father's Guide to Feces". Hasta luego, mi amigos!
Cowboy Up!!!
Here is a news flash for you all (at least it was news to me): I am a cowboy. I didn’t even know it, but I found out just today. The worst part of it is that I apparently I am the worst kind (in my mind) of cowboy, the “faux” cowboy. It isn’t that I have anything against real cowboys; it is just that in today’s world it seems all you have to do to call yourself a cowboy is listen to country music. Well, turns out that you don’t even have to do that! I’ve always had the somewhat antiquated belief that if you want to call yourself a cowboy, you should at least have ONE cow. More than one is fine, although then maybe you should refer to yourself as a cowsboy; eh, maybe not… Cattle-boy might be alright though. Anyway, I always reckoned that if I was to be at all honest about my livestock of choice, I should be a “Chicken-boy”, which also lacks that certain panache, if you know what I mean.
Well, anyway, my mom is planning a big “cowboy-western” style “shin-ding” (is that a cowboy word?) at their place and she asked my wife to help with the decorations. It worked out pretty well; Brynn had just finished up on scrap-booking and was casting around for something to throw herself into. She found it, alright. When I came home that evening, she was bringing loads of trash IN the house from her grandpa’s old dump behind our “back 40”. I try not to ask very many questions when I see this very specific kind of behavior, but I inevitably get dragged into it, and get pounded with questions about how this looks; what do I think about this, etc. The problem with all these questions about my opinion is this: I often don’t have the right answer. Example as follows: when asked if I thought the denim decorations were cool for this party; I answered “no” for the following reasons. I wear denim, but I don’t have cows. Exactly everybody I know wears denim, but very few of them own cows, thereby giving denim wearers an exemption from cowboy-hood.
That was soooo very left-brained of me. I was instantly bombarded with Better Homes and Gardens, Mary Engelbright, and Country Living magazines; all proving to me how wrong I was by the scores of glossy pages showing western themed denim-decorated walls and such. What could I say in the presence of such well studied experts? Humph, and me growing up on a farm with real cows and horses. I guess that wearing denim not only makes me a cowboy; it makes me dumb too, since I wear it almost exclusively for the lower half of me. I will allow that in the old west days most cowboys probably wore denim, but most cowboys also picked their boogers too, so could we not draw the same conclusion about people who pick boogers? Welcome to the club, everybody who is over the age of 1. All I have to say is: Saddle up, pardnuhs!
Got a pretty good quote of the day, too, from my wife Brynnie Berra, or maybe I should call her Yogi Brynna: “If it weren’t for the kids, I’d be a pretty good parent.”
Well, anyway, my mom is planning a big “cowboy-western” style “shin-ding” (is that a cowboy word?) at their place and she asked my wife to help with the decorations. It worked out pretty well; Brynn had just finished up on scrap-booking and was casting around for something to throw herself into. She found it, alright. When I came home that evening, she was bringing loads of trash IN the house from her grandpa’s old dump behind our “back 40”. I try not to ask very many questions when I see this very specific kind of behavior, but I inevitably get dragged into it, and get pounded with questions about how this looks; what do I think about this, etc. The problem with all these questions about my opinion is this: I often don’t have the right answer. Example as follows: when asked if I thought the denim decorations were cool for this party; I answered “no” for the following reasons. I wear denim, but I don’t have cows. Exactly everybody I know wears denim, but very few of them own cows, thereby giving denim wearers an exemption from cowboy-hood.
That was soooo very left-brained of me. I was instantly bombarded with Better Homes and Gardens, Mary Engelbright, and Country Living magazines; all proving to me how wrong I was by the scores of glossy pages showing western themed denim-decorated walls and such. What could I say in the presence of such well studied experts? Humph, and me growing up on a farm with real cows and horses. I guess that wearing denim not only makes me a cowboy; it makes me dumb too, since I wear it almost exclusively for the lower half of me. I will allow that in the old west days most cowboys probably wore denim, but most cowboys also picked their boogers too, so could we not draw the same conclusion about people who pick boogers? Welcome to the club, everybody who is over the age of 1. All I have to say is: Saddle up, pardnuhs!
Got a pretty good quote of the day, too, from my wife Brynnie Berra, or maybe I should call her Yogi Brynna: “If it weren’t for the kids, I’d be a pretty good parent.”
the walmart pharmacy
So here we go again... We finally broke down and went to the Dr.'s office last Monday, because it just seems like we were never very well, and got Rx's for all of us boys. Isaiah had some really nasty yellow pus-like substance oozing out of one ear, and Dr Barker gave him some stuff to take care of it. Well, it didn't and so back Brynn went to Dr. and the general idea is that there is likely something in there, like a small Lego, a peanut M&M, or perhaps an Easter egg for all I know. He would do it, too, if he thought he would get a laugh out of you for it. Well, after listening to Brynn recount the Boy's Dr. office visit, I was really proud of him... without ever admitting it hurt, even adamantly denying that it did, he still wouldn't let the Dr. get even close to that one ear, while letting him tug on the other one. That's my little tough 3 year old boy, (though he would be quite offended by the title of "little boy"). His little independent spirit came to mind later as I was in line at the Wal-mart pharmacy. I'll come back to that a little later; but first I'd like to dwell a little on Wal-mart itself.
How I despise Wal-mart!! Well, not really Wal-mart, but mostly the people that go there... Not all of them, of course, but it does seem to be the perfect catalyst for producing a great place for the worst people from our planet to come together and show each other their quirks, their tattoos, and WAY too much of their obese bodies. I saw one young gal with that seemingly obvious fashion gaff of wearing a low slung pair of pants with a shirt that didn't come down nearly far enough, revealing a bludgeoning view of skin directly above a remarkably too tight belt that brought to mind things such as... oh say, huge doughnuts, tubing the river, or maybe the "Michelin teenager". Its just the sort of thing that makes me want to go up to the person and tell them that they aren't required by anybody to go forth and publicly disgrace themselves, that a shirt that fit, and pants that were made to actually fit something besides a railroad tie, could cover acres of love handles. but, you know, my social obligations only go so far, and, as my wife is perpetually telling me; I have a rather narrow world view, and despite my recent liberal education completion, it has not really yet proved me liberal-minded.
So let me back up a little. I was on that end of town anyway, so I thought "I'll save some time and beat the after-five crowd at Wal-mart and avoid some weirdos." So I go to the photo place that sent me the email last Tuesday to tell me they had my pictures, only to be told in person that they didn't have my pictures. Well, actually the guy went to the file and looked and then when he didn't find them, he just quietly turned around and started winding film through a machine, not even telling me he didn't find them. I didn't even know that people still used film, and was dazzled briefly by it until I realized that i had (for some reason) ceased to exist to this man behind the counter at the photo counter. After talking to some one else who seemed to have a longer attention span, he searched in vain for my photos, explaining to me briefly the somewhat mystic and awe inspiring powers associated with Wal-mart.com. So, getting skunked there, and feeling somewhat dazed, I turned to go get my Rx from the pharmacy. Imagine my joy when i see a line reaching from the pharmacy counter clear into the main aisle. "ah", I tell myself, "here is a great chance to pause and reflect on the delicacies of being in close contact with my fellow man"... or something like that. After waiting about 20-30 minutes, I am next in line, finally!
Just then a guy comes to the front of the line and exclaims loudly that "wow, what a long line! Oh, man, I'm never going to get to work on time, now... blah, blah, blah" giving the not-at-all-vague impression that it would be much appreciated if I would let him go ahead in front of me. Now, I have always leaned towards punctuality myself, so I had some small amount of concern for this young fella who apparently had never been to walmart before in his life, but i did feel that same "social obligation" rising in my throat. My first, and no doubt, incorrect, inclination was to let him coast on in, but after a moment's reflection i realized that here is a young guy who has had the misfortune of a society that has led him to believe that there is something special about him besides the remarkable "unremarkible-ness" of him. The special-ness he felt was in direct contrast to what the Lord sees in us as valuable created independent beings; in other words, he was very unique, just like everybody else. I thought that perhaps he never had a daddy, just a very doting mama, that was perpetually whispering that he could do anything he wanted to, and instead of being the president, or say, an astronaut, he opted for getting good at cutting through lines at Walmart. So, obeying my "social" conscience, as I am likely to do, I told him where to go...The back of the line of course. It didn't take very long, though before I could hear him again, going through the whole thing to several people behind me, alternating stories between worrying about losing his job if he shows up late, and worrying about the food he had in the oven at home, and sure enough, there he was right behind me, talking this time to him self as my eyes are fixed straight ahead at the now all-too-familiar pharmacist. And since he obviously is not talking to me, since I am obviously not listening, he is telling himself out loud how worried he is becoming about making it on time. So here comes my pesky conscience again, and thinking about my little independent 3-year old stoic patient, I cut the guy some slack, and did him a favor. I turned to him and (to the great pleasure of the old guy sitting at the bench nearby) gave him a gentle, well couched response about exactly how much of my personal obligation and responsibility he was entitled to, to ensure that he get "whatever" out of the oven, or get to work on time, and maybe even gave him a small lesson about working the ETA out and figuring where you want to be when, subtract the time it takes to get there, subtract the time you'll need there, then subtract travel time again, add 10% for each time slot for unexpected events, and then go do it really fast, so that you can go do something else really fast. At least, that's how it comes to mind now, my "social conscience" rises so very quickly sometimes that it has the unfortunate effect of bringing up levels of adrenaline with it, and thereby diminishing my memory, since i cant both remember and yell at the same time. That may be handy at times, but it is just as unhandy at other times. Anyway that was most of my day, the rest of it was spent wondering what kind of medicine could be so important to a guy under thirty that if he is going to burn the food in the oven, or if he will lose his job if he doesn't get to the front of the line wouldn't just wait until tomorrow? oh, well I hope the 6 minutes that i made him wait didn't kill him... I should turn on the news and see if anyone fell dead just outside of walmart. here's to self-sufficiency and independent spirits in our young. They will stand out like a sore thumb in the future. (or at least like a bulbous midriff...) Daniel.
How I despise Wal-mart!! Well, not really Wal-mart, but mostly the people that go there... Not all of them, of course, but it does seem to be the perfect catalyst for producing a great place for the worst people from our planet to come together and show each other their quirks, their tattoos, and WAY too much of their obese bodies. I saw one young gal with that seemingly obvious fashion gaff of wearing a low slung pair of pants with a shirt that didn't come down nearly far enough, revealing a bludgeoning view of skin directly above a remarkably too tight belt that brought to mind things such as... oh say, huge doughnuts, tubing the river, or maybe the "Michelin teenager". Its just the sort of thing that makes me want to go up to the person and tell them that they aren't required by anybody to go forth and publicly disgrace themselves, that a shirt that fit, and pants that were made to actually fit something besides a railroad tie, could cover acres of love handles. but, you know, my social obligations only go so far, and, as my wife is perpetually telling me; I have a rather narrow world view, and despite my recent liberal education completion, it has not really yet proved me liberal-minded.
So let me back up a little. I was on that end of town anyway, so I thought "I'll save some time and beat the after-five crowd at Wal-mart and avoid some weirdos." So I go to the photo place that sent me the email last Tuesday to tell me they had my pictures, only to be told in person that they didn't have my pictures. Well, actually the guy went to the file and looked and then when he didn't find them, he just quietly turned around and started winding film through a machine, not even telling me he didn't find them. I didn't even know that people still used film, and was dazzled briefly by it until I realized that i had (for some reason) ceased to exist to this man behind the counter at the photo counter. After talking to some one else who seemed to have a longer attention span, he searched in vain for my photos, explaining to me briefly the somewhat mystic and awe inspiring powers associated with Wal-mart.com. So, getting skunked there, and feeling somewhat dazed, I turned to go get my Rx from the pharmacy. Imagine my joy when i see a line reaching from the pharmacy counter clear into the main aisle. "ah", I tell myself, "here is a great chance to pause and reflect on the delicacies of being in close contact with my fellow man"... or something like that. After waiting about 20-30 minutes, I am next in line, finally!
Just then a guy comes to the front of the line and exclaims loudly that "wow, what a long line! Oh, man, I'm never going to get to work on time, now... blah, blah, blah" giving the not-at-all-vague impression that it would be much appreciated if I would let him go ahead in front of me. Now, I have always leaned towards punctuality myself, so I had some small amount of concern for this young fella who apparently had never been to walmart before in his life, but i did feel that same "social obligation" rising in my throat. My first, and no doubt, incorrect, inclination was to let him coast on in, but after a moment's reflection i realized that here is a young guy who has had the misfortune of a society that has led him to believe that there is something special about him besides the remarkable "unremarkible-ness" of him. The special-ness he felt was in direct contrast to what the Lord sees in us as valuable created independent beings; in other words, he was very unique, just like everybody else. I thought that perhaps he never had a daddy, just a very doting mama, that was perpetually whispering that he could do anything he wanted to, and instead of being the president, or say, an astronaut, he opted for getting good at cutting through lines at Walmart. So, obeying my "social" conscience, as I am likely to do, I told him where to go...The back of the line of course. It didn't take very long, though before I could hear him again, going through the whole thing to several people behind me, alternating stories between worrying about losing his job if he shows up late, and worrying about the food he had in the oven at home, and sure enough, there he was right behind me, talking this time to him self as my eyes are fixed straight ahead at the now all-too-familiar pharmacist. And since he obviously is not talking to me, since I am obviously not listening, he is telling himself out loud how worried he is becoming about making it on time. So here comes my pesky conscience again, and thinking about my little independent 3-year old stoic patient, I cut the guy some slack, and did him a favor. I turned to him and (to the great pleasure of the old guy sitting at the bench nearby) gave him a gentle, well couched response about exactly how much of my personal obligation and responsibility he was entitled to, to ensure that he get "whatever" out of the oven, or get to work on time, and maybe even gave him a small lesson about working the ETA out and figuring where you want to be when, subtract the time it takes to get there, subtract the time you'll need there, then subtract travel time again, add 10% for each time slot for unexpected events, and then go do it really fast, so that you can go do something else really fast. At least, that's how it comes to mind now, my "social conscience" rises so very quickly sometimes that it has the unfortunate effect of bringing up levels of adrenaline with it, and thereby diminishing my memory, since i cant both remember and yell at the same time. That may be handy at times, but it is just as unhandy at other times. Anyway that was most of my day, the rest of it was spent wondering what kind of medicine could be so important to a guy under thirty that if he is going to burn the food in the oven, or if he will lose his job if he doesn't get to the front of the line wouldn't just wait until tomorrow? oh, well I hope the 6 minutes that i made him wait didn't kill him... I should turn on the news and see if anyone fell dead just outside of walmart. here's to self-sufficiency and independent spirits in our young. They will stand out like a sore thumb in the future. (or at least like a bulbous midriff...) Daniel.
chickens, soap, and toilets
Just a quick note about another day at the Foster farm… So maybe I over did it a little, I spent (relative) big bucks on a bunch of baby chicks that we don’t need, so that we can have even more eggs that we can’t eat. Too bad there isn’t a small horde of protein starved orphans living in a van “down by Gar creek.” The problem is, I just can’t resist the nearly continuous, almost agony-filled “aaaaaaaaaaaahh!” from my girls that is so nearly continuous, it sounds like a neo-fugue or a demented song round, intermixed with “They are SOOOO cute!!!” So I slammed together a tiny little brooder house, in my tiny little shed, for my tiny little chickens with my tiny little chicks and my big boy watching. Yup, all of us, including the big dumb dog working on it. They were all quite impressed.
So that was fun and all went well as we went inside and stressed the importance of washing up after handling poultry only to be shocked to see how many bubbles come from 3 really jazzed up kids out of one bathroom with a pump-style liquid soap dispenser. A question to you more experienced parents; at what point does it all become less shocking? Because, well, I’m tired of feeling like I have to manually lower my eyebrows occasionally in order to prevent rumors circulating around the Haven-Yoder area about me getting a facelift that pulled a little too tight.
Well, what’s a little soap anyway; it cleans up nicely… you don’t even need to use any cleaners. Unfortunately, the same could NOT be said about the next event, which involves Isiaih cupping toilet water with his hands and drinking his fill—Yup, that’s right, straight out of the toilet. That’s my boy. Anyway goodnight all, I think I am going to wash my mouth out with soap just thinking about it.
So that was fun and all went well as we went inside and stressed the importance of washing up after handling poultry only to be shocked to see how many bubbles come from 3 really jazzed up kids out of one bathroom with a pump-style liquid soap dispenser. A question to you more experienced parents; at what point does it all become less shocking? Because, well, I’m tired of feeling like I have to manually lower my eyebrows occasionally in order to prevent rumors circulating around the Haven-Yoder area about me getting a facelift that pulled a little too tight.
Well, what’s a little soap anyway; it cleans up nicely… you don’t even need to use any cleaners. Unfortunately, the same could NOT be said about the next event, which involves Isiaih cupping toilet water with his hands and drinking his fill—Yup, that’s right, straight out of the toilet. That’s my boy. Anyway goodnight all, I think I am going to wash my mouth out with soap just thinking about it.
(end of Nov, '07)
Started snowing about 3:00 yesterday and and just stopped early this morning. Got about 2-3 inches total. Nice and gentle, and lows in the low 20's with highs in the mid 30's for the last couple of days. I spent a little time yesterday "prepping" for winter; cleaning up, winterizing the chicken shed with a heat lamp to warm the chickens and their water. I wondered if the chickens would sleep with a bright light on in their roost, or if we would have a bunch of really sleepy wide-eyed insomiac chickens running around if it never got dark for them. Speaking of chickens, the other night we were sitting around the house with the sliding door open and I heard a great squawking, so I grabbed my little .22 pistol and flashlight and ran out to check it out. Sure enough, there was a nasty old possem sitting there eye-balling my mobile egg factories, fixing on disassembling them piece by piece. So I blasted him, but good. Then after I threw him in a hole, I thought "that would have been a lot more fun with a .357 mag", so I got one. Possems; Look out! You may not be any deader after being shot with my new gun, but you will have larger holes in you! The day after I told Brynn to send Isaiah out to check out the dead possum and take his new toy 6-shooter (so cute, we match now). He was delighted! He was a little scared at first, so he spent a little time warming up to it by yelling at it and shooting at it with his gun. Finally he lost all fear and really started poking it in the eye with sticks and hitting it, dancing around the hole, calling it a monster.
The day before T-day, Brynn was here at the house planning on cooking up a storm, about eight different dishes to take to my parents, when we lost electricity about 5:00 in the Morning. Our stove is electric, as is our water pump, our Microwave, our blenders, our lights and many other things that we get pretty used to being available to us. Luckily for Brynn the power kicked back on for about 10 minutes, enough to run the pump and Cuisinart and half cook some stuff. It finally came back on around 2:00, just barely enough time to get everything cooked before we left for my folks. The crazy thing is that once we got to my parents, we were there for an hour or so and then THEY lost power. Dad was a little more prepared, and we went and started the generator. I had to talk dad into starting it, but it was a good thing, cause the power didn't come back on for several hours. Can you imagine a house with no lights and 16 little kids running around? All that excitement? WOW!
Well, I had better go, Izzy is up and helping brynny make pancakes for his birthday breakfast. We have more presents for him than we ought, but they are almost all from garage sale, and so very cheap. He really resisted having a birthday, though,insisting that 1) he didn't want a birthday, then 2) he had already had one, but I think he will come around yet! Bye
The day before T-day, Brynn was here at the house planning on cooking up a storm, about eight different dishes to take to my parents, when we lost electricity about 5:00 in the Morning. Our stove is electric, as is our water pump, our Microwave, our blenders, our lights and many other things that we get pretty used to being available to us. Luckily for Brynn the power kicked back on for about 10 minutes, enough to run the pump and Cuisinart and half cook some stuff. It finally came back on around 2:00, just barely enough time to get everything cooked before we left for my folks. The crazy thing is that once we got to my parents, we were there for an hour or so and then THEY lost power. Dad was a little more prepared, and we went and started the generator. I had to talk dad into starting it, but it was a good thing, cause the power didn't come back on for several hours. Can you imagine a house with no lights and 16 little kids running around? All that excitement? WOW!
Well, I had better go, Izzy is up and helping brynny make pancakes for his birthday breakfast. We have more presents for him than we ought, but they are almost all from garage sale, and so very cheap. He really resisted having a birthday, though,insisting that 1) he didn't want a birthday, then 2) he had already had one, but I think he will come around yet! Bye
Rules of Engagement on Foster Farm (or Farmlet, as the case may be)
Well, let me start by just saying that THEY started it. last summer, the coons (RACcoons, rather, not Uncle Ray and Aunt Mim) took action against me and mine by deliberately and methodically destroying the entire 4 100' rows of sweet coon that I had planted, watered and fertilized, (this being hauled in specially from a neighbor who by all appearences, specializes in fertilizer production and little else, since he has 8 horses on 1 acre of pasture) all leaving us with exactly 4 ears of unripe corn I had picked before they decided to go General Sherman on me and try the "Scorched Earth" wartime policy, presumedly to get me to leave. Of course I didn't, and true to the laws of escalation, I retaliated and killed 2 of their own. That was all fine and good, but I guess that I.C.U.R.V. (the International Council Uv Rodents and Varmits -they are not the best spellers, I guess) conspired with IPOOP (International Purlioners Of Other's Poultry) against my helpless mobile egg factories, (since the lack of real opposible thumbs prevents them breaking and entering my house and doing any real harm to me), and so one chilly evening we were sitting around the house with the door open and we heard a great squawking. I proceded to do a check up and discovered that we were indeed being invaded by a hostile enemy. I made short work of him; I had a military tribunal right there in the chicken house, found that nasty old 'possom guilty of conspiring to attack a non-combative civilian entity (chickens are about as non-combative as it gets, which most likely would be the reason behind the name calling), and sentenced him to death, all in as long as it took me to cock my gun.
I realized that things would likely only get uglier from here, so i upgraded my firepower to something that would intimidate the enemy into submission. Well, it didnt work. Brynn woke me up about 1:30 to tell me that the ducks were going nuts outside. I sat up and thought about it (not too clearly, though as 1:30 happens to be one of my very favorite times to not think too clearly) and decided that I had done such an excellent job of "demonstrating" the effectiveness of my new gun in my backyard (note: Thanks to N. Korea for that idea) that I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP wouldn't dream of another attack. But either I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP . inteligence is too lacking to discover that i had much supierior firepower, or perhaps they lacked the basic education to have learned about the US/USSR relations during the Cold War period in regards to military deterance. Or maybe they have just declared holy jihad against the infidle poultry, but regardless, I woke to find, yes, a dead duck and oddly enough, one of my sentries disabled and under restraints. (Cat was stuck in the live trap.) Clever little devils!!
BUT, this ain't over yet! I've got the chicken house under full time night survailence now (the baby moniter), reset my traps, loaded my "superior firepower", put my boots and pants by the door (pretty chilly outside and I want to avoid the "cold nosing" incident that Jerry Clower speaks of), and taped a flashlight under my gun. So; Bring it ON, I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP!!! I'm ready for you....
So Far:
Dan Foster 3
I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP 1 (and a bunch of corn)
P.S. My intelligence tells me that the I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP union has been so successful that they have decided to have a semi-permenate union... they are now refering to themselves as :I.C.U. POOP
I realized that things would likely only get uglier from here, so i upgraded my firepower to something that would intimidate the enemy into submission. Well, it didnt work. Brynn woke me up about 1:30 to tell me that the ducks were going nuts outside. I sat up and thought about it (not too clearly, though as 1:30 happens to be one of my very favorite times to not think too clearly) and decided that I had done such an excellent job of "demonstrating" the effectiveness of my new gun in my backyard (note: Thanks to N. Korea for that idea) that I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP wouldn't dream of another attack. But either I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP . inteligence is too lacking to discover that i had much supierior firepower, or perhaps they lacked the basic education to have learned about the US/USSR relations during the Cold War period in regards to military deterance. Or maybe they have just declared holy jihad against the infidle poultry, but regardless, I woke to find, yes, a dead duck and oddly enough, one of my sentries disabled and under restraints. (Cat was stuck in the live trap.) Clever little devils!!
BUT, this ain't over yet! I've got the chicken house under full time night survailence now (the baby moniter), reset my traps, loaded my "superior firepower", put my boots and pants by the door (pretty chilly outside and I want to avoid the "cold nosing" incident that Jerry Clower speaks of), and taped a flashlight under my gun. So; Bring it ON, I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP!!! I'm ready for you....
So Far:
Dan Foster 3
I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP 1 (and a bunch of corn)
P.S. My intelligence tells me that the I.C.U.R.V./IPOOP union has been so successful that they have decided to have a semi-permenate union... they are now refering to themselves as :I.C.U. POOP
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)