The irrigation boots came nearly to the tops of my thighs and the shovel was heavy with mud. Following directions, I avoided stepping on the top of the ditch. I put my shovel in the water and slid into the ditch water. It was cool and I had to fight for every step, counterbalancing myself with the shovel. By the light of the pickup, we filled the gaps in the ditch where the water was traveling where he didn’t want it.
In terms of being a farmer’s sweetheart, I’ve struggled to find my place and to feel like I’m contributing. I rarely help him in the field or the feedlot, usually just bringing lunch. I don’t brand, wean, calve, or bale. I can, quilt, and cook. Continue reading
I read on Facebook that fall is the time for pumpkin spice everything, including lattes. While I’m sure they’re tasty, fall is something entirely different here.
The calves in the feedlot have been bawling night and day and the nip of fall air tugs at a man’s sleeve during the 4 a.m. heifer check. Most of the irrigation water has been turned off, freeing up 5 a.m., so silage choppers can roll through the fields soon. Trucks are rolled out of shops and hooked at the ready to 30 ton silage trailers and the cattle trucks are rumbling up and down the highway.
My kitchen is as hot as was on the 4th of July as I hustle through boxes of produce, reveling in each “plink” of a jar sealing its goodness in for winter time meals. I can’t help but be proud seeing the rows of colorful jars on the shelves, just like grandma’s. Clean football jerseys dry in the laundry room and Biology books clutter the kitchen table as boys yawn and finish one more assignment after practice and chores. Continue reading