Baked Goods at the County Fair

It's funny the little things you remember about your childhood once you are an adult.  Sure, some memories make sense.  Birthday parties.  Vacations.  Winning sheep shows (we're ag kids after all).  But others--those that are small and seemingly insignificant at the time--they are some of my favorites.

One of those memories for me was the day the baked goods were judged at the Quay County Fair.  I never won grand champion cake.  I never got a ribbon.  Heck, I never even considered baking something to enter.  For me, it was even better.  I was the granddaughter of one of the two official baked goods judges who served in this role for over 40 years.  Having a grandmother with such high ranking honors entitled us to special benefits.

Every year, Gran would arrive a bit early before her judging shift was to begin to come see us in the barns.  As was her usual motive, she would be dressed to the nines--big earrings, silver necklace, all the diamond rings she could fit on her fingers.  After she visited a while, she would head into the commercial building to do her duty.  Usually at least once my brother and I would sneak over to the commercial building to see how things were going.  Not because it was that interesting watching her sample five loaves of zucchini bread, but because there was a strict rule that no one but judges was allowed in the building and, well, we liked to be rule breakers.  Especially when we knew Gran would have our back if we got into any trouble about it.

When she was finished, Gran would venture out to the livestock barns to our show box bearing a plate full of samples.  She had to taste everything entered and would always take two of the best items and put them on a plate for us.  Other kids would flock around and sometimes we'd share, sometimes we'd down the food as fast as we could before they got to us.

Usually after that she'd head home and venture back out in a couple of days to watch us in the sheep show.  To which she liked to wear the shirt we had embroidered for her the year we won Grand Champion Pig and Lamb, over which she almost got into a fist fight with another grandma.   

Alas, another story for another day.

Family Farm Friday #93: Gran Was a Liar

*I know it's not Friday, but I forgot to hit publish last week and wanted to get this one up.*

Last week, I made a road trip to Iowa with my dad and The Boy from Texas to go and pick out a new ram.  While we were at one of the farms where we stopped, I noticed a lot of dandelions near the sheep pens.  

I asked the owner, "Do you guys have trouble keeping the sheep from eating these?"  He looked confused and said, "No, we don't care, they can eat them all they want."  I said, "No!  They are poisonous to sheep."  My dad and The Boy from Texas jumped in and asked what the heck I was talking about, informing me in no uncertain terms that this was completely untrue.

Immediately, I said, "Yes it is!  Gran told us that we had to pull all the dandelions in the yard because they were poisonous to sheep."  

Continuing on the investigation, I called Little Brother and the conversation went something like this:

Me:  "Are dandelions poisonous to sheep?"  

Little Brother:  "Yep."

Me:  "How do you know what?"

Little Brother:  "Gran said so."

By this point, my dad was rolling at the fact that my Gran managed to convince us to pull all these dandelions on the farm simply by lying to us and telling us they were dangerous to the sheep.  She didn't want to deal with the weeds and knew that if you tell farm kids they will kill the sheep, her work was done.  While I was a bit offended at first, I couldn't help but laugh.  For those of you who knew her, that was classic Gran behavior.

She set us up when we were little kids running around, and kept it up 30 years later.  Good work, Gran.  Good work, indeed.  

Gran's Peach Cobbler Recipe

Last weekend, The Boy from Texas and I were at my parents' house for the weekend and I decided to whip my dad up a peach cobbler using Gran's recipe.  Is there anything in the world better than a recipe on an index card in your grandma's handwriting?  I think not. 

So I followed her directions and had to make some guesses due to the fact that she didn't include everything on the card.  Apparently she thought that future generations would know what temperature and how long to cook something without her telling them.  God bless her, she didn't anticipate me being the future generation!

But in the end it all worked out pretty well and we dined on this as the finished product.  I think that Gran would have been proud!

Gran's Peach Cobbler Recipe

1C sugar
1C flour
1 T baking powder
Salt  (How much?  Gran didn't tell us...I just shook a bit in my hand and called it good.)
3/4 C milk

Sift dry ingredients and stir in milk to make the dough mixture.

1/2 stick butter

In a casserole dish or pan (I used a glass 9x9 dish), put in the butter and melt.  Pour dough mixture in dish on top of melted butter. 

Peaches (I used a bag of frozen peaches and supplemented with two real peaches sliced up.  You can also use one large can of peach pie filling, but the frozen and/or real are better!)
1T flour
3/4C sugar
1/4 C brown sugar

 Mix the 1T flour and 3/4C sugar with the fruit.  Pour fruit mixture on top of the dough in the dish.  Sprinkle brown sugar over the top of the fruit mixture.

Bake.  No one knows how long or at what temperature.  Just go until the crust is golden brown and no longer doughy.  I felt like it took a long time.....maybe 30 minutes?  I baked it on 350 because that's the oven default so I was hoping that meant something.  Who knows.

Enjoy!

Gran and Her Reward

"To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die."

Ten years ago today, my favorite person in the world left for Heaven.  She would not have said Heaven; she always referred to it as "my reward."  My Gran was the kind of grandmother I think every kid should have. 

She baked the best cookies.  Let us play with matches and candles.  Could peel an apple with a pocket knife and at the end have one single strand of skin, never broken.  She was tough as nails and fiercely independent.  Walked a mile every morning. Never missed an episode of Paul Harvey.  Kept Kit Kats in the fridge.  Cursed when she almost burned the house down.  Let us chauffer her around in a little brown Datsun pickup long before we were allowed to drive.  Hummed Clair de Lune everywhere she went.  She kept the farm going when her husband died at 45 and everyone told her she should sell and move to town with her two teenage boys.  Wore a floppy old hat with big shiny diamond rings.  Had a medicine cabinet with iodine and hydrogen peroxide in case you needed to fix something up before your mom saw.  Watched MASH every afternoon.  Made inappropriate toasts and snuck cigarettes in the bathroom.  Also bribed our sheep hauler to smuggler her said cigarettes into the assisted living home.  She didn't yell at me when my horse pulled the air conditioner out of her window or the time I rolled her stock trailer.  She nearly blew her hand off lighting black cat fireworks in the house and throwing them out the front door.

She was a good person.  A strong woman.  A great rancher.  And the best grandma.  I can only hope that I can live up to the legacy she left; that some of her will show up in some of me.  Oh, and that she'll have a fridge full of Kit Kats waiting for us all one day when we go to our reward.

Gran Said A Cuss Word!

“Maybe that's why the good Lord gave us these vivid memory capabilities. When stress hits, we can just close our eyes, lean back and relax, and enjoy a game of Tidly-Winks, the sound of a Pete Rose baseball card in the spokes of our bike, or maybe a nice slice of watermelon - with a sprinkle of salt.”  ~Michael Buffalo Smith

Today my friend Jen is hosting a link up called "Soul Food Friday" where people share whatever feeds their soul...go head over to her blog to read some great stories!

I've never really liked Halloween all that much.  Maybe because it steals my birthday thunder.  But there is one Halloween memory that always makes me smile.

Each year, Gran would make popcorn balls for Halloween.  I remember not really liking them that much because they were hard to chew and they hurt my teeth.  But man, was it fun to help with the cooking.

Cooking at Gran's was always an adventure.  She never used a recipe.  She just sort of eyeballed everything.  95% of the time there would be a timeout taken from cooking in order to play with candles and matches on the table (I think now that Gran may have been somewhat of a Pyro....).  And it was never quiet in the house during cooking.  If you were cooking in the early afternoon, Paul Harvey was on the radio; late afternoon, MASH was on tv; if later afternoon, Peter Jennings World News Tonight was playing in the background.  Oh, and it wasn't a complete stop at Gran's without a Kit-Kat mini out of the drawer in the fridge.

So with that scene set, let's move on to our story.

There we were.  Gran, Little Brother, and me, all gathered around the stove.  Gran and Little Brother on one side in the kitchen, and me kneeling on the bar on the other side of the stove.  First order of business was to pop the popcorn.  Gran didn't believe in microwaveable popcorn, so she heated up corn oil in an old silver pot.  Once it got hot, she would pour in the kernels and they would pop.  She had previously measured out the right amount of kernels and put them into a glass measuring cup sitting next to the stove.

When the grease was good at hot (and MASH was probably on a commercial), Gran reached for the measuring cup of kernels to pour them in.  One minor problem.  She grabbed her cup full of coffee rather than the cup of popcorn kernels.  And proceeded to pour that into the hot grease.

Next thing you know it's like an inferno in there--smoke everywhere, smells like fire, smoke detectors going off.  And in the midst of all this, you hear Gran yell, "Damn!"  At that cue, I headed out the front door and started screaming for my dad, who had been working at the shop.  Did I tell him the house was filled with smoke?  Nope.  That the smoke detector wouldn't stop going off?  Nope.  That there may be a fire?  Nope?  What did I yell?  "GRAN SAID A CUSS WORD!  GRAN SAID A CUSS WORD!"

A minor grease fire and the house potentially burning down, I was cool with.  But Gran saying a cuss word?  Heck no, things were NOT okay!

It's probably been 23 years since I left the house screaming about Gran saying a cuss word, but I remember it like it was yesterday.  Those kind of moments--those kind of memories--are what life's about.

Smart Girls

“The sexiest thing in the entire world is being really smart. And being thoughtful. And being generous. Everything else is crap!” ~Ashton Kutcher

I'm going to admit it now.  There have been times that I've downplayed my intelligence because I did not want people to know that I was smart.  Even as a little kid, I would often not raise my hand in class even when I knew the answer.  There were times in college or in law school when my response to "how are you doing in school" was something along the lines of "well they haven't kicked me out yet" rather than "I'm making good grades."  When I worked in private practice I often responded to the question of "What do you do?" with "I work at a law firm" rather than "I'm a lawyer."

And I'm not alone.  My friend who got into Harvard talks about how she "almost went to school on the East coast."  My mom sometimes intentionally mispronounces words (although she may just do that to annoy me and my brother, I'm not completely clear on her motives).  A girl I went to law school with used to whisper answers in the back of the room and be right all the time but not say them out loud.  An attorney I know constantly downplays her knowledge and abilities to others.

Why do we do this?  Why do women feel the need to act dumb or blend in or be embarrassed about their accomplishments? 

I'm sure there are a lot of reasons.  But I think one of them is the  idea that boys don't like girls that are too smart.  I mean, you don't want to be dumb, but you also can't be too smart.  You'll never find someone if you are too successful or too intimidating.  Way to put this in our heads, society.

An article I read last week confirmed that there are some guys who feel this way--in fact, a recent study shows that men who were told their wives did better on an intelligence test had lower self esteem than those who were told that their wives did poorly.  What the heck??  Well luckily, another guy thought this was stupid as well and wrote a great article outlining the 5 benefits of having a smart and successful wife.  You can read the whole article here.

We are made to be smart and successful.  And when we downplay that, even for something that seems insignificant, we're not doing ourselves--or the world--any favors.  And if you ask me, any guy who is too dumb to figure that out probably isn't worth our time anyway.  Because the good guys?  They like smart girls, they'll support smart girls, and they'll celebrate smart girls successes.

I'm going to leave you with a little story I love. My dad and I were talking recently and the issue of a woman making more money than the man came up.  He says that back in the early 1960's, my Gran was making more money than my grandpa.   My dad remembers her asking him if that bothered him.  His response?  "Hell no, I just wish you made even more!"  That's a guy who had it figured out!

My grandparents wedding photo

9 Years

'It has been said, time heals all wounds.  I do not agree.  The wounds remain.  In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens.  But it is never gone.'  --Rose Kennedy

On this day 9 years ago, Gran went to her reward (as she always called it).  No matter how much time has passed, I still miss her every day.

So in honor of her today, her favorite song, which she was constantly playing on the piano or humming as she walked along.

She made the world a better place.  She made me a better person.  I can only hope that some of that which was in her is now showing through me.

My Dream Dinner Party List

“Surround yourself with the dreamers and the doers, the believers and thinkers, but most of all, surround yourself with those who see the greatness within you, even when you don’t see it yourself.” ~ Edmund Lee 

I've been working on a Dream Dinner Party List for a while now.  This shouldn't surprise anyone.  You already know I love lists....bucket lists, 30 by 30 lists....you name it.  So I heard about this idea that you make a list of the 10 people who you would invite to your dream dinner party.  You know that I couldn't pass this one up.  Here they are, in random order.  I may have gone over the number limit.....whatever, it's my dream dinner party!

Cardinal Timothy Dolan.  This was the name that I revealed last week in a Friday Letter.  I love Cardinal Dolan.  ND Friend has met him in person, and when I think about what I would do if that happened, I honestly believe I would either faint or throw up on his shoes I would be so nervous and excited.  I absolutely love the way that he represents Christianity and Jesus and at the same time seems genuinely happy and funny and full of joy. 

My grandfathers.  Both of my grandfathers died before I was born.  But I can only imagine the kind of men that they must have been based on the children they raised--my parents, aunts and uncles. 

Both sets of grandparents on their wedding days

George Strait.  Pretty sure he's on the list of every girl who has ever ridden a horse or listened to country music.  I can only hope that he would be awesome enough to say, "Sure is good" just like he did on Pure Country, while eating a piece of bacon.  My life would be complete.

Bob Goff.  You guys have read before about how much I love this guy.  He's someone who is out there doing the good that needs to be done in the world.  He's crazy enough to believe that he can make a difference, and he does it.  I think he's the perfect dinner party guest.

Pope John Paul II.  My love for Pope John Paul II started when I was in high school "helping" one of the Hepburns with his book report on the Pope.   I remember being really upset and felling like I knew him when he passed away, and the amazing site that it was seeing his tomb at St. Peter's Bascilica in Rome. He just seemed to be so kind and caring and generous and such a great example of loving others.

Michael Jordan.  I know he's a has-been, but listen here, my 10 year old self will always love MJ and the rest of the Chicago Bulls.  He's a legend, and anyone who wants to try and and compare him wiht Kobe or LeBron can just jump in a lake.

Coach Gundy.  So I could ask him for a job.  Obviously.  Plus, he's super hot.  And he's a man.  He's 40.

 Gran and Mr. Franklin.  I was talking last week about how along with my parents, these two people had the biggest influence on my life.  I miss them every single day and think all the time about how I wish I could tell them one more thing or as them one more question.  Add to that that they were two of my favorite people in the entire world, and it is clear they were going to make the list.

Michael Phelps.   Yea yea, I know that he takes stupid pictures and apparently has a bit of a drug problem and I'm sure he's not much of a gentleman when it comes to his love life, but he's the most decorated Olympian ever. That gets you a seat at my party.

Mr. Right.  Apparently me finding this dude in real life is more complicated than I ever thought it would be, but if he showed up at my Dream Dinner Party, I would then be aware of his identity and could go track him down the next day!

Little Cowboy.  Because seriously, I think he's the funniest kid that has ever lived and the thought of seeing him go toe to toe with Bob Goff or Cardinal Dolan pretty much makes my day.

Now it's your turn.....who is on YOUR Dream Dinner Party List?

Throwback Thursday #60: Roadtrip with Gran

"What children need most are the essentials that grandparents provide in abundance.  They give unconditional love, kindness, patience, humor, comfort, lessons in life.  And, most importantly, cookies."  ~Rudolph Giuliani

In May 2003, I ventured out on a journey. A 6 hour drive from Logan to San Angelo, Texas for Cousin Whitney's high school graduation. With Gran along to ride shot gun. Not everyone gets to take a roadtrip like this....and one year later, Gran would pass away. I count this trip among my favorite memories.

Before we left the house she gave me this big lecture about how her bladder wasn't very good and she was going to have to stop to use the bathroom and if I wasn't going to stop when she needed to she wasn't going. I assured her I was not some driving Nazi and if she had to pee, we could stop!
 

And off we went. When we got to Levelland, Texas, we made our pit stop at Burger King. We headed to the bathroom....where Gran proceeds not to take care of her poor bladder.....but to light up a cigarette. I tell her that she can't smoke in there and shoo her out, cigarette in one hand dragging her walker along in the other.  She finished it on the curb before we hit the road.  (I should tell you that Gran thought she had kept her smoking habit secret for years by smoking on her porch and hiding the hand holding the cigarette whenever the kids went by the house. Unfortunately for her, she didn't have stupid grandchildren.)
 

Once we arrived in Texas, Gran's antics only continued. Cousin Whitney has another cousin (other side of her family) who is a bit (a LOT) OCD. She can't handle anyone touching her food or the dishes that she will use and is really particular about things. Now Gran was a lot of things.....but tolerant of people's crap was not one of them. After the OCD chick pitched some sort of fit in the kitchen, Gran kicked me under the table. I looked over at her and there she sat with the lid to OCD girl's water bottle and she was rubbing her grubby little hands all over it. When she finished, she set it back on the table and watched with pride and accomplishment as OCD girl screwed the lid back onto her bottle. You didn't want to get on Gran's bad side.
 

After the graduation everyone was sitting around at Cousin Whitney's house and we had a toast to her. Gran, ever the center of attention, stood up in the center of the room and announced that she had a toast to make. I was expecting something about the value of education or family or something really deep. I'll be darned if that little old lady didn't stand there in front of the room full of church friends and proudly say, "Here's to those who wish you well. Those who don't can go to hell." That, folks, was Gran-style.
 

If I had the trip to do over, I'd pay more attention. I'd remember everything we talked about for the whole 6 hours. I would have asked her so many more questions about life and love and making decisions. About friendship and travel and grief.  Because if there is any person in the world who I'd like to be like when I'm 80 (or any other age, for that matter), it's my Gran.

The Clothes Line

"I want to live simply, to work honestly, to love completely and to dare mightily, so that when I die, my children, and their children, will know that I died empty, and well satisfied." ~ Doug Robinson

Gran had an old clothes line in her back yard.  It stood in front of the row of trees where we would pick apples to feed to the horses, and next to the shop where my dad could fix any piece of equipment that was broken down at the moment. 

And  I've got vivid memories of being a little kid and running around underneath that clothes line while Gran hung out her sheets.  The queen size ones with the pink flowers.  She'd wear an apron made of yellow terrycloth with red trim, filled with clothes pins.  She'd hang the wet sheets she carried in an old, round, brown laundry basket on the line to dry in the warm sun and the summer breeze. 

 People don't use old clothes lines anymore.  They take too long and we don't have time.  Instead, we pop sheets into a dryer and go on about our day.  Technology has made our lives easier.

But that means there are no conversations about how to choose the best apples to feed a bay horse, no games of tag between the hanging sheets, and no moments spent with a grandma in a yard on a summer day.  There are not kids who help their grandma by holding up clothes pins, no chance to look up at the shapes of the clouds, and no one yelling at the wet dog not to shake on the clean sheets.  We miss out on conversations about checking cows and tea parties and visiting the neighbors. 

Sometimes I think that in trying to make life easier, we've lost what makes life good.

I can sure tell you that I'd trade the dryer in my laundry room and every minute of the time it saves me to be 5 years old again, in the back yard on a sunny day picking apples and hanging out sheets.

(Apparently I have lots of childhood memories involving things in Gran's yard...remember the windchimes?)

Throwback Thursday # 59: The House That Built Me

"Won't take nothing but a memory, from the house that built me..." ~Miranda Lambert, The House That Built Me

Last weekend while I was at Relay for Life, I spent the night in my childhood home.  A double-wide trailer that I lived in my entire life until I left for college.  I hadn't been back in this house for years.  It seemed smaller, somehow.  Maybe because it's packed full of memories.

There is a piece of paneling, on the wall next to he kitchen table. On it, are small hash marks and numbers in my Dad's handwriting. Each mark showing how much my brother and I had grown in the year before.

The hash marks might show you how much taller we got, but if you want to see how we grew, you don't need to look at the paneling. You just need to look at that old house and the memories that it holds.

The rock fireplace where we would practice FFA speeches, pull down our stockings on Christmas morning, blow dry frozen calves in front of the fire, and take family photos every Thanksgiving.

 The kitchen sink where my mom used to wash my hair, and where we ran water over my finger that I almost cut off before we  headed to the hospital for stitches.   The wall where all of our showing banners were hung with excitement each fall.  The picture windows that I was sure my parents would spy out of when I was being dropped off from a date, and out of which my brother used to shoot skunks in the front yard, and Gran used to peak her head in to see if we were awake before coming to the front door in the mornings. 

The living room floor where I had tea parties with my mom and my grandmas, read books with my dad, and watched Alf on tv. 

The bedroom where I got ready for kindergarten graduation and the proms and played camping with Cradle friend and talked about crushes with Teacher Friend. 

The ledge on the front porch where the swallows would build their nest every year and where the old kindling stand sat that my Gran would hide Cadberry eggs every Easter.  The nail holes in my bedroom wall where I had posters of the original Dream Team and George Strait.  The closet that held my mom's "Taos skirt" that my brother decided to take scissors to when he was 4 years old (and for which he proceeded to get a major spanking).

The kitchen table where we ate dinner every night as a family, where we did homework and 4-H record books and science fair projects, and blew out countless birthday candles.  

The spot next to the front door where dirty "barn shoes" were to be removed before manure was tracked through the house.  The phone on the wall where I got my first call from a boy and the corner where over 20 years of Christmas trees stood. 

It may be a trailer house.  And it may be small.  But the memories it holds are something you cannot measure.  It really was the house that built me.

Throwback Thursday #58: The Music

"Memory is a child walking along a seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things." ~Pierce Harris, Atlanta Journal

On my grandma's old pecan tree, the one growing between the pine tree that held our treehouse and the catterpillar tree in the front yard, there were old gold wind chimes. During the fall months the tree would cover the yard in pecans. The rest of the year it's usefulness was just to hold those chimes.  But it was an important job.  Because when the wind would blow, the chimes would play a perfect song, there on the front lawn. 

And there would be my Gran, standing on the front porch, wearing her old straw hat and a dress that she had sewn herself.  Pretending not to smoke a cigarette and humming a little tune, like Clair de Lune.  One that she just finished playing on the organ that sat in the piano room.  A song with no words, only music, fit pefectly for humming.

Mine was a childhood every kid should have been so lucky to have, one that included a Gran's house.  Less than 50 steps from my house to Gran's.  A place that was full of MASH episodes and old slides of trips to Alaska.  Paul Harvey on the radio, betadine and bandaids in the bathroom cabinet for skinned knees, and Kit-kats in the fridge.  A place that smelled of fresh baked cookies lots of afternoons and of popcorn on Sunday nights.  A place where my grandma became mine and my brother's best friend.  Where we would depart from to check cows, go to the bank or to pick peas.  A place that was safe and happy and full of love and music.

Memory is a funny thing.  Ask me about something I did or read last week and I'll struggle to remember any details.  But even though it's been years since I've heard my grandma's voice, or sat with her and my brother to watch the antics of Hawkeye Pierce, or heard the melody of the old gold wind chimes, I'll never forget the music.

*Linking up with Rural Thursdays.

Family Farm Friday #69: Expenses

"Some folks just don't get it. They think owning cattle makes no sense. It takes too much time, too much equipment, not to mention the expense. But the fondest memories of my life-they might sound funny-were made possible by Mom and Dad, 'cause they spent the time and spent the money. You see, the most important lessons helping values grow so strong, come from loving cattle and passing that tradition on."

I distinctly remember being in the 11th grade and standing in the hall in the Corbett building getting ready to go in and give my speech at the State FFA public speaking contest. Mr. Franklin was drilling me with last minute questions and he asked something about why people keep farming. He didn't like my answer, and said, "Tiffany, why do you really think your parents have the ranch? It's because of you and Little Brother--they have it for the way of life and the ability to spend time together as a family." That man always knew more than me.

My Dad always knows more than me too. I remember one night in high school we were all over at the show barn working with the show animals. As I recall, it had been a particularly rough night---everyone was tired, sheep were not showing well, pigs weighed too much, I'm sure Little Brother was swinging a rope when he shouldn't have been. Somehow, the conversation turned to all the time that we spent at the show barn. My Dad said, "When you kids look back, you may remember all the fights we've had, how dumb you think your parents are, how much work we've done here at this barn, but the main thing is that you will remember that your mom and I were HERE with you kids."
When my friend Pharmer Girl shared the picture below on her blog last week, I knew right away that I had to blog about it. I could not agree more, particularly with the line, "the fondest memories of my life were made possible by Mom and Dad 'cause they spent the time and spent the money."

It's expensive to have a farm. Land, livestock, seed, fuel, equipment, medicines, feed (especially when it does not rain).....that all adds up. Usually to more than the income column. And it's not just expensive monetarially, but time-wise as well. My parents never went on "date nights." They never went on fancy vacations. They weren't members of the country club. They invested their time--themselves--in our farm, and in doing so, in our family. If you ask me, that's the best expense that one can incur.
And the investments made and benefits that I recieved go beyond just parents.

It's grandmas. I can't tell you the hours that Little Brother, Gran and I spent driving around checking cows. Both of us kids learned to drive in that old tan Datsun and little blue Ranger, which Gran didn't need, but I suspect kept just for those driving lessons. We learned to peel an apple without breaking the skin, where the best windmill water was located, and how to watch for snakes curled up next to the fence post when you open a gate. We learned, because she invested.
And it's neighbors as well. People who made you homeade bread at Christmas, who bought any random item that we were selling as fundraisers, who showed up with enchillada casseroles when bad news cam, who helped you find rocks for your science homework, who always complained, "Well I wish y'all wouldn't run off so soon" even when you had been at their house for two hours and eaten your weight in Aunt Jean candies and cherry cheesecake. It's ag teachers and the "show family." The people who would shear the finewool sheep, bring snacks to the show box, and spend weeks driving all over creation to find the lamb to win the banner--and then smack you on the back with tears in his eyes when it worked out as planned. The expenses these people--parents, grandmas, neighbors, ag teachers, family friends--incurred and the time that they spent mean more to me than they will ever know.

It's probably true that you can't put a price on fond memories. But I have a sneaking suspicion that if you could, it might look a lot like those farm leger books that we keep in the file cabinet.

Time for Some Checkmarks!

"Tell me, what is your plan to do with your one wild and precious life." ~Mary Oliver

Well folks, my bucket list is shrinking this week! I'm planning on getting two checkmarks between now and Sunday and I'm an excited girl! (To see prior checkmarks, click here.)

Tonight I'm headed to watch two of the first round NCAA Tournament games. Going to a tourney game has been on my bucket list for a long, long time and I can't wait! I've been obsessed with March Madness for years.

It always makes me think of the time in high school when I got in major trouble with Mr. Franklin. At the school the teachers did a pool for the brackets, but instead of picking your teams, they were drawn for you out of a hat. So each participant would have 4 teams that were "their" teams and if they made the final four you got so much money and if they made the championship game you got more, etc. Anyway, Mr. Franklin had me drawing the names out of the coffee cup and he filled in the team by the teacher's name. Well....after picking him three HORRIBLE teams for himself, he told me I was fired and I was to go to the shop and not come back until class was over since I was bad luck! Totally not my fault, but I haven't won a bracket challenge since...maybe I'm cursed?

Anyway, tonight I'll be seeing Baylor v. South Dakota State and UNLV v. Colorado. Of course, due to Cousin Swiss Mister and his insane love for all things green and gold, I will be cheering for Baylor! We'll see if it can top the State Basketball Tournament last week, but I have my doubts. Stay tuned for a blog on this checkmark.

Then tomorrow I will be taking a day off of work (hallelujah!) and I'm headed for Chicago for St. Patrick's Day! Bucket list item to be had: seeing the green river. Did y'all know that they dye the river green for the holiday? I can't wait!

My love for St. Patrick's Day comes from my Gran (and my Irish heritage...it's in the blood you know?) who always celebrated every year. She would always wear a St. Patrick's Day broch to town on her green shirt and go to the Catholic Church corn beef and cabbage dinner. Sometimes she'd talke Little Brother and me along for the fun. So seeing the green river in celebration of St. Patrick and Gran seems appropriate.

Plus, I'm going to have some serious quality time with two of my favorite ladies, going to eat at Bongo Room (reason enough for the trip!), going to drink some green beer, see the parade and finish it all out with an 8K St. Patrick's Day run on Sunday. And maybe more Bongo Room....don't judge me. Anywhere that inspired the Pancake Boy blog is good for two meals in a weekend. Trust me, I'll be back with loads of pictures and stories next week!