The Broken Toe and The Cow Manure Harvester

Friday Evening arrives. I am frantically trying to make pizza for my children, two of whom are home for the weekend (due to the fact it is my daughter's 18^th birthday) and two of whom are at the football stadium getting ready to march in the band. We are soon to leave to go to the football game ourselves. As I quickly move through the hallway, I decide (unknowingly to me) to cram my toes into a 15 lb bag of potatoes sitting in the hallway. They were left in the hallway by my ever helpful husband who carried them in from the car and set them there instead of opening the door and putting them in the basket in the pantry where they go. Oh well. At least he moved them from the car. Cramming ones toes into potatoes is not a pleasant experience, I would not recommend it. But, being the “tough” mother of four that I am, I continue to walk to the kitchen and stand at the stove saying, “Man, that hurts. Owwww!”

My first born son is standing there watching and shaking his head.

I walk out to the garage to get cheese out of the freezer, and when I am headed back towards the door to go in, I suddenly realize that I can not walk any farther. This is when my ever helpful husband chooses to appear. He looks at me, as I stand leaning on the car with a bag of cheese in my hand and says, “What's wrong with you?”

I begin to cry, which makes me mad, which makes me cry more, but my toe hurts! “I think I broke my toe,” I wail.

“Well, do you want me to do something?”

I think, but do not say, “No, just stand there and look at me holding this cheese and crying.”

He very calmly says, “Do you want me to help you inside? Grab a hold of my arm.” As he sticks it out three feet in front of me. Men!

I finally reach a chair with all this help. My eldest child, first born of my heart, says, “What's wrong?”

I say, “I think I broke my toe.”

“It can't be broken. I watched you do it. It didn't hurt that bad right away. It isn't broken.” You see he knows these things. He is a Lifeguard, and has taken First Aid. He will tell you on any given day, “Legally, I have to stop and offer aid whenever someone is hurt.” Hmmm. He didn't offer “aid” when he “watched” me kick the potatoes. Silly boy.

“I think my toe is broken. It is swelling.” We all watch my toe swell. Weird, I know. But what can I say...

The pizza gets finished, I try to put on my shoes, noway. I debate not going to the football game to watch my darling two youngest children march in the band for two minutes at halftime. What kind of mother would I be if I missed such an important event in the life of my youngest children, who are short changed anyway, being the youngest and all.

The next day is my oldest daughter's 18^th birthday party. I have cooking to do and a broken toe. My dear friend comes to help. Thank goodness. The party was wonderful. The food delicious, but my toe hurts.

By Sunday, my toe is feeling some better. It is black, but not as swollen. My ever helpful husband comes in and asks, “Do you want to walk to the pond with me?” Did he forget?...

I go outside to walk to the pond with him, he has a wheelbarrow with a pitchfork in it. Obviously this is more than just a leisurely walk to the pond.

“I am going to walk to the pond to get cow manure,” He says.

“You are going to get cow manure from the pond?” Not only does my toe hurt, but my brain must hurt too.

“That is where they congregate,” He informs.

So we proceed, me slowly limping along with my broken toe. And him having to walk very slowly pushing the wheelbarrow and occasionally stopping to toss in a pitchfork of cow manure. We arrive at the pond. I sit at the picnic table and watch him as he moves from pile to pile filling his wheelbarrow. Romantic, I know. I bet you wish you could do such romantic things with your beloved. When the wheelbarrow is full we head back. I ask, “What are you going to do with this wheelbarrow full of cow manure?” Knowing that he has been known to store it in a tub in the garage. Lovely. Yes, bet you want that too. Now, don't covet.

“I am going to spread this wheelbarrow full on your garden.” He replies.

“Oh. Good. It needs it. Thank you.”

“I think this would make a good job for one of the children. Do you know which one I am thinking of? He can be a Manure Harvester. I am sure he will be thrilled.” We both laugh.

I go in, my toe hurts.

(I know you are wondering what else he does with cow manure, why was it in the garage? He puts it in his bee smoker and burns it to smoke the bees. See you learned something new.)

And that is the story of The Broken Toe and The Cow Manure Harvester.