Big Rocks in Little Boots

On her first day of kindergarten, I stood in an empty afternoon parking lot and texted Cody, “No one is here???”

He responded seconds later, “Of course not. You’re 45 minutes early.” Sometimes his common sense drives me absolutely nuts.

I sat on the bench anyway, wondering if Caroline had been worried sick about me all day, as I had been about her. Turns out, she didn’t even know I was gone.

Months later and when my schedule allows, I love parking on a side street and picking her up from school. She typically talks so quickly and with such enthusiasm that I know all about her 8:20 AM – 2:40 PM day by the time we get back to the car.

But this day was different.

“Why didn’t you give me pants with pockets today?” Caroline asked me as I kissed her head and grabbed her little hand.

I looked down to see what she was wearing: leggings.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I thought you liked stretchy pants?” I tried to justify my 6:00 AM wardrobe selection for her. Who doesn’t like stretchy pants?

She suddenly stopped on the sidewalk and held my hand tightly as she tried to keep her balance. One at a time, she pulled each cowgirl boot off and dumped them out.

“Well, I’m sure glad you came to get me ‘cause I found these for you today and I didn’t have pockets so I just put them in my boots.”

Three rocks fell out of her boots and onto the sidewalk. She slipped her cowboy boots back on. “Ah. That’s better.”

The child had walked with rocks in her boots all day in an effort to please me.

“Caroline. Honey, you did not have to save those for me.”

“But I’ve never seen any like them! I found them during recess.”

“Morning or afternoon?” I asked, not that it mattered.

“Morning. I didn’t find any after lunch.”

In five years of motherhood, I’ve been gifted approximately 400 rocks, most off our farm. Many get shoved in pockets and later removed from the washing machine, but there are a few I’ll keep forever: The one she brought to me when I was in the hospital with Cyrus as he battled RSV at 6-weeks-old, the one she gave me when I was at Riley with Cyrus for his appendectomy and critical infection (sure sounds like a sickly little boy, doesn’t he?), the one she found in the barn lot that she is absolutely positive is Jesus’s tooth, and of course, I’ll keep these rocks, too.

Caroline with the rock she brought me, 

sitting outside Reid hospital 

when infant brother Cyrus had RSV

Because these rocks awakened me to the lengths Caroline will go to please me. What an eye-opening set of rocks! What a tender heart (and tough feet) she has to find such an object and want to share it with me, no matter the cost.

I praised her for the rocks. I studied the rocks and held the rocks and even showed the rocks to Cyrus. I’m sure this will shock you, but he could not care less. “What ‘bout ‘em?” he asked, confused as to what the fuss was all about. Caroline stood with such pride for being the gifter of greatness.

These little rocks in tiny boots taught me a lesson that day. Our kids are watching. They’re watching how we react to little victories and favors. They’re watching how we visit with them during the unremarkable conversations in the barn or on the couch. They love to watch our eyes light up in the same way we love to watch theirs.

I was reminded of this advice from Catherine M. Wallace, Author: “Listen earnestly to anything your children want to tell you, no matter what. If you don't listen eagerly to the little stuff when they are little, they won't tell you the big stuff when they are big, because to them all of it has always been big stuff.”

And these rocks in a little Ball jar on top of my dresser, they may fit in a size 9 toddler boot, but they’re big.

Really big.

 

The Stockman's Wife: Year Two

When I was about twelve-years-old -- after a long, stressful day of working cattle -- Momma made me shake her hand (she's not much for hugging) and promise her I'd never marry a farmer. 

I made that promise. 

With my toes crossed. 

Instead, I married a stockman.

Well, didn't that turn out well?

A Tribute to the Stockman 

by H. W. Mumford

Behold the Stockman!

Artist and Artisan.

He may be polished, or a diamond in the rough – but always a gem.

Whose devotion to his animals is second only to his love of God and family.

Whose gripping affection is tempered only by his inborn sense of the true proportion of things.

Who cheerfully braves personal discomfort to make sure his livestock suffer not.

To him there is a rhythm in the clatter of the horse's hoof, music in the bleating of the sheep and in the lowing of the herd.

His approaching footsteps call forth the affectionate whinny of recognition.

His calm, well-modulated voice inspires confidence and wins affection.

His coming is greeted with demonstrations of pleasure, and his going with evident disappointment.

Who sees something more in cows than the drudgery of milking, more in swine than the grunt and squeal, more in the horse than the patient servant, and more in sheep than the golden hoof.

Herdsman, shepherd, groom – yes, and more. Broad-minded, big-hearted, and whole-souled: whose life and character linger long after the cordial greeting is stilled and the hearty handshake is but a memory; whose silent influence forever lives. May his kind multiply and replenish the earth.

Let's just skip right to the chase: 

1. Your time is no longer your own. We don't even have children, but on August 10, 2013 I gave up any right to hide in a closet, read Cowboys & Indians and pretend to be busy. 

He busts through the mud room door. 

"Can you throw on some boots and come help? It will only take ten minutes."

This is a trap. 

There is no such thing as ten minute tasks when you're a  Stockman's Wife. 

And unless you have two hours to commit to a "ten minute" favor, don't do it. 

Make something up. Say you're marinating steaks, or something. Say you're on the phone with Direct TV to renew his ESPN subscription so he can watch the Royals. 

Avoid "throwing on some boots" at all costs if you want to get any of your to-do list done. Trust me. 

2. Dinner may be served anytime between 4:00 PM and 11:00 PM. There is no prediction for this. While you're thawing meat, there is no indication of when it will actually be consumed. Now is a really good time to forget anything you remember the quack Dr. Oz saying about timely protein consumption. He's as backwards Bruce Jenner. As you plan a week ahead like your fancy pants Facebook friend does - and publicizes - regularly, just know that your menu will not transpire as her's does. All you can do is invest in great storage containers and a self-sufficient husband who is able to operate a microwave. And for goodness sake: don't resort to the crockpot daily. No one wants to live life on a 6-hour boiled piece of mediocre meat. 

Hey Pinterest. I don't need to know how to recycle my old volleyball t-shirts into a glamping tent.  Show me a way to make a nutritious meal that can be re-presented perfectly 3 hours after it's been first served. You know, right after we get the cows back in. 

3. There is a difference in being lonely and being alone. Stockmen travel. They drive. They sort. They move. They're not much more than cowboys with a far-better connection with cattle than horses. But my goodness, they don't let the grass grow under their boots. This is an important lesson: There is a difference in being lonely and being alone. Being alone is part of the deal. Stockmen travel. They discuss and deal. They promote. They gain miles. Alone time is awesome.

It's during this alone time that the Stockman's wife gets stuff done. Rocking babies or mopping floors or pre-treating jeans or digging out an old hobby or reading a book or - frankly - sleeping. But probably worrying about the Stockman in a peacefully, quiet home. With wine? No question mark needed. 

4. No feed plan is ever set in stone. Right about the time you memorize the chore list, ol' nutritionist decides to switch things up a bit. Half rations become full rations and full rations get mixed with some magic dust. This circus has the likeness of the frustration felt when you get a recipe perfect every third try. Is it worth it? You ask yourself at 5:47 on a Tuesday morning, wearing basketball shorts and a wifebeater with wet hair. Then you remember: If these deals bloat out.....it's your fault. Dry erase boards with good instruction become a dear friend of the Stockman's wife. 

5. Functional gifts are the best gifts. This becomes very real, very quickly. So long, diamonds and massages. On our second Christmas the Stockman gave me four pairs of work gloves: one for every season. I could not have loved it more. It made me think of the half-truth promise I made Momma years ago; I think I ended up right where I hoped to be. It was an invitation to work side-by-side daily. And an invitation to get a load of work done while he was on the road.   I've learned that a Stockman will note gift ideas  year-around. Things I need. I tend to purchase gifts the week (3 days) before the occasion. 

I happily work at the local co-op.  What would I have done with a diamond pendant, anyhow?..................

6. You will learn to run. And no, not for fitness. You and I both know I only run if I'm being chased. You will learn to run to the parts store. To the dry cleaners. To the vet to pick up something you need after running all over God's green earth to get the unruliest heifer on the farm in, alone. You'll run buckets to thaw frozen pipes and run bailing wire where it's needed most: a gate. 

Forget the sunshine and rainbows when you marry a Stockman. You're more likely to encounter rain clouds over hayfields, pink eye in your favorite cow and poison ivy in the most inconvenient places. Plus many mornings to see the sky before the rest of the world, late nights working as the crickets sing and sun burnt skin with a story to tell. 

And that tacky little burn line will lead me right in to next week's blog. 

Stay tuned. 

And pass the aloe. 

To Read about the original Stockman's Wife, go here. 

The Trapper Keeper Marriage

It’s funny the things you learn about a person after you’ve married them.

Super funny.
So funny that Cody nor I were laughing last night as we discussed the coon trapping binge I’ve been on for a few weeks.

Let me back up.

We’ve had unwelcome visitors in our feed room recently. 

They trespass.

They dig.

They rip.

They self-serve.

They have destroyed several perfectly good bags of feed.

After consulting strangers, friends and relatives regarding bait,  I set the trap and anxiously (weird, I know) awaited results. I’ve gotten into the routine of going to the barn first thing in the morning to check the live trap. I report back to Cody our hits or misses.

For as successful as we’ve been (we’ve been feeding a small nocturnal army for some time, apparently), Cody just doesn’t seem to get the same satisfaction that I do when there is another free loader caged in our feed room.

The most I've used the garden rake all summer. 

The first raccoon was caught when Cody was out of town and I enlisted my Dad’s help in disposal.  

Fast and Easy.

The second raccoon was caught when Cody was home we had a debate on how dispose of it.

“What’s your deal with not wanting to shoot this coon?!” I feverishly asked him one morning.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’ve gotten soft hearted with age. I used to hunt all the time in Kansas. I loved it,” Cody responded.

I fastened a necklace around my neck and packed up my laptop.

“Whatever. I’ll take care of it when I get home. Don’t even mess with it. It’s a rodent. A thief  And it’s eating our cattle feed. I’ll kill him, no problem.”

Cody poured my coffee into an insulated mug.

Slow and steady.

Calculated.

Calm.
I strangely wished I could be more like him. 

Meanwhile, I was rushing through the house like a tornado in heels.

“Geeeezo preezo (a coined Cody Sankey phrase). I had no idea that I had married a cold blooded killer.”

I lost it.

“Well I had no idea I married a woman!”

We both laughed.

And said our PS Prayers. Much needed.

Cody confirmed that he’d get rid of of the coon before I got home that night.

And he did.

Two nights later I walked out to the barn in the pouring rain to set the trap again. Cody advised against it. I, however, was on a roll. I followed Uncle Hal’s advice and used sardines.

We caught another one.

A huge one.

Cody was less thrilled than I.

With little discussion, he told me he’d again take care of it.

Fast forward to yesterday.

That is when I gathered bait to catch creeper number four and Cody remarked that we should give the trapping a rest until we knew we still had an issue.

In return, I gave him a quick – but passionate - synopsis of the value in being proactive rather than reactive.

In one ear, out the other.

Marriage.

“I just don’t like the look they give me when they're in the cage,” he said.

“Like…..just put the bullet in their head. I promise they’ll close their eyes.”

He didn’t say much. I felt kind of mean, raw.

“Did you shoot the last one? I didn’t see your gun out,” I asked.

Game changing question.

I could tell by the look on Cody’s face that he wanted to tell me something but he was afraid to do so. 

It was the exact same look he gave me when he reveled that he forgot to bring home The Show Malbec wine during his last trek to Michigan.

“Cody. Did you shoot the last raccoon?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cody. Did you shoot the last raccoon?”

“Why does this matter?”

At this point I didn’t know if I was dealing with Cody Sankey or Rachel Dolezal.

“Cody. Did you shoot the last raccoon?”

“I got rid of him. Don’t worry about it.”

“Is it dead?”

“He took a ride and a fall.”

I was furious.

I took off my earrings and stomped upstairs. He stood at the base of the steps and called up, asking why I was so upset about disposal of a stupid raccoon.

“Because! I worked hard to catch them and you apparently load them in the bed of your truck and take them on a joy ride. Then give them a head pat. And a scratch behind the ears. Then turn them loose!” I yelled down. I could almost see him smiling at the base of the steps.

No bueno.

“No offense, (I took offense as soon as he said that) but all you really did was grease the cage and throw some salty fish in it. The cage did all the work.”

I didn’t know if I should laugh at his joke or ring his neck. I decided to put on barn clothes instead.

I responded with Silence.

That’s powerful.

After my blood pressure leveled out and Cody got done with a customer phone call I gently – this took effort – asked him where the raccoon was? Did he drown it? Shoot it? Throw it off of a bridge? Tie fireworks to his back? Hang it from a tree?

I strangely had to know.

This is where I stopped dead in my boots and thought maybe I should listen to his reasoning.

“Linds, I am not kidding when I say that the raccoon gave me puppy dog eyes when I went out to shoot it.”

This.

Right here.

This is when I asked myself: Who did I marry?
The Cody at the alter was gravel voiced and calloused and rugged and hardy.

Two years later he’s standing in the kitchen telling me about a heart-to-heart he had with a dirty raccoon.

“It like scooted back in it’s cage and stared at me. And I knew I wouldn’t feel good about shooting it. So I loaded it up, told it not to come back to Wayne County and drove it across two county lines and dumped it. It jumped off the tailgate. It was really fat.”

I stared blankly at the man I love so much.

Thinking of how much I wanted to kill him.

I don’t remember my response. 

I do remember walking out to the garden to weed, water and pick.

I walked back to the house to get gloves.

I trap. He keeps.

"This marriage deal,” I began as Cody made his way to the barn. “I learned today that I’m the trapper and you’re the keeper. We’re no longer BowSankey. Two years into this forever deal and we’re now TrapperKeeper.”

"There are worse things, I guess," he responded. 

Slow and steady. 

Calculated. 

Calm.
I strangely wished I could be more like him. 
Balance, my friends, is everything.

I am the trapper.

He is the keeper.

Together, we will change the world.

Or, at least waste expensive diesel fuel to 

transport fat rodents from 

one county to the next.

In the spirit of saving their souls. 

Ugh. 

Don’t even get me started. 

Again.

Fifty Years Apart

Today is a very special Wednesday.

Two of the most important people in my life

celebrate another year of influence.  

This beautiful blonde, The Original Jean,  turns 85 

And this courageous cowboy, my husband,  turns 35

On March 11, fifty years apart, 

my destiny was shaped in a special way. 

Checking cows last night I wondered about the greatest lesson The Original Jean and Cody have taught me. 

Put grandkids with solid lung capacity in the trunk to avoid admission costs at the Preble County Fair? 

Nope.

Hold on to things for ten years, then see if they really matter?

Nope. 

When I was young - I'm talking like six years ago - Grandma's kitchen table was the safest place. It was only there that I felt comfortable enough to tell her about the changes, disappointments and searching I faced in life. Though she married young, she didn't seem to judge, she just listened. Her advice was never gushy or deep or even Biblical. Her advice always referenced patience and was typically this:

"You don't have to marry the man. 

Just let him take you to dinner."

Yeah, thanks Grandma. Because of that advice I went through about 403 first dates and started a few fires that nearly burned me to the ground. I also ate a lot of really good meals. Hence the fat jeans/skinny jeans drawer in my dresser. 

I also sifted, because of The Original's advice. 

What I believed was real. 

What I selfishly prayed for. 

What I expected. 

All totally wrong, but silently I kept The Original Jean's advice in my back pocket. 

I don't have to marry him, 

just enjoy the company without expectations. 

Really shoddy long-term advice for a gal who grew up playing M.A.S.H.

Anyway, on March 11, 1980 there was a new kid on the block in Kansas. He looked like his Papa Laflin and had a restless spirit like his dad, Chris. 

Papa Laflin and Cody

And despite giving him the wrong phone number, he still treated me to the dinner that The Original Jean encouraged.

For the record, it was the Worst. Food. Ever. 

But the company sure made up for it. 

He is a passionate man. Made of grit and contemplation. 

He generally doesn't say much, asks plenty questions and his mind never shuts off. 

He constantly evaluates, processes and projects. 

I just typically repeat my question because he takes too long to answer. 

Patience. 

If these March 11 babies have taught me anything, it is patience. 

They've taught me that worrying does nothing. 

They've taught me to let go of expectations and see where life fearlessly leads. 

They've taught me that life happens when you put down the map. 

They've taught me to be careful what you pray for. 

They've taught me that yelling louder doesn't make someone understand what you just tried to explain. 

They've taught me that just because they think they did, doesn't necessarily mean someone remembered to latch the gate. 

They've taught me that sometimes it doesn't pay to to buy the cheap stuff. 

They've taught me that "expectations" is "get a life" spelled backwards. 

Just kidding. 

They've also taught me this:

The best things happen when you're not looking. 

So put away the grand plan and let life go where it will. 

I trust you'll learn that 

the best surprises are the ones 

that had nothing to do with all of your worry.

 

Happy Birthday, Grandma & Cody!

Ten Years Later

“It’s amazing what a man 

thought was important enough 

to keep ten years ago.”

Cody made this statement last Saturday as he threw a toolbox down in the yard in an effort to clean out his office. You would think – after moving from Kansas to Oklahoma to Michigan to Indiana – he would have sorted through the contents in his office over the last ten years, several times. 

I guess sometimes, amidst the spirit of a move, emotion allows us to easily overlook the tossing, and encourages us transport everything to the next “home”.

Beautiful Economy, Indiana is the last place the pieces of CS' life stopped, and we aligned our calendars to find a day that we were both actually home - on the same day - and decided to sort. 
Oh boy, did we sort.

Kansas City Chiefs art from the early 1990’s

A Viking helment

Puppy collars for dogs no longer around
Bovine lubricant by the gallon

File after file of things studied at Oklahoma State University

Angus Journals from 1999

A party cone hat - identical to the one below

First pay stubs

Registration papers from cows that first calved in 1994

Letters from gals I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting…

All things important enough to keep ten years ago.

The next day, during the Super Bowl I mentioned to Momma how we had spent our Saturday.

“Oh, was it tough?” she asked, thinking of all the memories being tossed.

By the way:

(I know with confidence (I texted her yesterday to confirm details) that Momma still has Laura’s baby teeth wrapped in tissue paper inside a ceramic jar , a splinter that was plucked from Luke’s little body after a furniture incident and my baby book. Granted, my book is still wrapped in plastic and hasn't been tainted with a dot of ink in thirty years, but she kept it, nonetheless. Tossing doesn't come easy for Momma.)

I responded:

“No, it was mostly Cody’s stuff so I had no problem tossing it,” said the helpful wife. “I did find a box of my birthday cards in the file cabinet I had forgotten about. I put them in plastic and moved them to the storage barn. I have no idea where they’ll go when we decide to clean out the storage barn….” 
My focus drifted to guacamole.

Some things are pertinent to have around in order to get through particular stages in our life. I'm certain Cody couldn't have made it though undergrad or graduate school without a viking hat. But just as time changes paths, it changes priorities,  too. 

Ten years later, I’m not just speaking of “stuff” that may be kept around.

What about the other things we had ten years ago that we’re still in possession of?

Ease.

Devotion.

Scars.

Ideas.

Goals.

Fear.

Resentment.

Love.

Beliefs.

Jealousy.

Faith.

Worry.

Excitement.

Bitterness.

Remorse.

Confidence.

Ten years ago, which of these things 

were you desperately keeping within you? 

Which ones are you still carrying, today? 

Why?

Some things are important enough to keep.

To store.

To preserve.
To still find among – or within – us ten years later, soliciting a memory.

And others are better left in the past. 
Or the burn barrel. 
Sort wisely. 

Anyone have a burning desire to learn more about Prairie Chicken Management in Oklahoma?

Faster Than The Egg Nog

The last blog post of 2014. 
Where does the time go?
Down the drain faster than the egg nog. 

I called Cody, just after hitting the road for work:
Me: YUCK! I'm going to PUKE! I just took the last of the milk for breakfast and I took a big gulp of it as I pulled onto the highway - IT WAS SOUR! And I couldn't spit it out because I was on the highway. BLAH! I need a toothbrush!
Him: It's funny you called. I saw that you took the last of the milk so I just chugged some egg nog on my way out the door. Definitely bad. DEFINITELY. BAD.

I laughed - and gagged - all the way to the office. 

That sums up 2014 for us. Week days drag on, then all of the sudden sour milk makes you realize just how quickly time moves: Faster than the egg nog. 

I'm generally not one for annual resolutions because...well, they're a part of my life only until March. But in 2015 I feel compelled to share a few big things I'd like to accomplish, ongoing throughout the year.

1. Take Care

I'm committing to taking better care of myself. Not only does this include eating better, it also entails flossing and not popping my knuckles. Also, exercising if there is time. Baby steps. 

I'm committing to taking better care of this house. I mopped with my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser this week and was so embarrassed by the dirt found on the sponge by the end of the task that I removed the eraser and wrapped it in a plastic bag then disposed of it, as if to hide evidence. It was as though I was disposing of a smoking gun. Momma would have been mortified. 

I'm committing to taking better care of my husband. No husband should be left to suffer through a breakfast of sour egg nog. I could have at least offered him some of that Dollar General Wonder Bread he kindly provided me................

2. Find Beauty

My friend Laramie (remember the gal who - for once in her life - was on time and it saved her life?) is my best example of finding beauty in every day. I don't know how much time in a day she spends taking photos, but if I had to guess  I'd say it may account for a second job. But she's damn good at it, and I'm grateful. Sunrise to sunset: She has a great eye and a trigger finger. Her ability to see things reminds me to open my own eyes. 

Photo by Laramie Smith 

How does she do that?

In 2015 I'm committing to finding beauty in the strange world around me. Everyday: To finding, studying and appreciating the beauty. 

As practice, I took these two shots as I wrapped up my evening:

I call the left one "Toothpaste on Faucet" and the right one "Dirty Dishes"

Move over, Laramie. 

There's a new Beauty Finder in town. 

Kind of. 

3. Communicate

In 2015, I commit to writing again. 
Not for work (though I will because my livelihood depends on it). 
Not for this blog (though I will because my sanity depends on it). 
But for the sake of connecting. Or, reconnecting. 

And to keep my handwriting in tact. I wrote a check two weeks ago and could barely decipher my own script. 
I'd hate for someone to try to cash my check for "Two Hungry and Fifty Six Daubers". 

58 Daubers are just too many. 

In My Life, B.C. (Before Cody) I wrote one letter a week to friends or family across the country without second thought. With an ink pen. The kind with no backspace. 
It was natural. 
It was easy. 
It was fun. 
I had time. 
I did laundry occasionally because I had four closets and no one questioned it. 
I didn't have a husband...or cows. 
But now I have grand responsibility and even bigger love. 

In 2015 I commit to starting again, to writing one hand-written note a week. The kind of letter - that - three decades from us will find in a shoebox tied with string. And they'd read in it in awe, trying to match my handwriting with a font. And they'll wonder what a New Years Resolution was. 

My Goals for 2015 Summarized 

(see, you could have skipped to the bottom and saved some time)

1. Take Care

What have you neglected?

2. Find Beauty

What have you overlooked?

3. Communicate

What words do you need to speak?

I hope that when I awake from the holiday haze in February I've stuck to my written words. I wish the same for September, when I'll wonder where the summer went. And next December, when I sit down to reflect again, I hope you can hold me accountable by thinking to yourself: I saw one of her letters. 

Or, you could think: She definitely looked 

thinner when I saw her in June. 

Whatever comes to your mind first.