Fog and Earthquakes

Disclaimer:  This is not a scientific research paper, and in all likelihood contains no scientific facts.

Yesterday, Oklahoma had an earthquake.  5.1 on the Richter Scale.  Pretty exciting at least for us.  Not that I felt it or anything, but my husband and daughter did, so I can live vicariously through them I guess.
Buildings shook (vibrated really), some people close to the epicenter had windows broken.  I wish I had been outside at the time to watch the animals, but alas, I was cooking for 100+ people, but that is another blog.
This morning as I am taking the kids to school...
We notice the fog.  (I know you are wondering what this has to do with the earthquake.  You will see, keep reading)(Really, I just wanted to discuss the earthquake.  So cool!)  The fog is floating, as fog is want to do, but it is in an unusual place.  The fog is mid-air.  About the top of the trees is a layer of fog, crystal clear above and crystal clear below.  It looked kind of like a fog sandwich, with the fog as the meat. (Why is so much of my life and thought spent on food.) I point it out to my two darling children.  We discuss how it looks (mostly me, discussing).  I ask my highly intelligent (no, really) child why it is that way.  He shrugs.  I guess his brain has yet to awaken.  I pose a probable cause,  the fog is confused because the earth moved yesterday.  He says, "Mom, its fog.  Can it get confused?" He is probably thinking his mother is confused or insane.  Oh well, I delight in tormenting my children with my insanity.  It makes them think.   I tell him to ask for permission from his science teacher to research weird fog and let me know.  I pose another cause for the fog, maybe God is confused because He moved the earth yesterday, or maybe He just forgot where He put it.  My daughter says, "Mom, He is God, He can't be confused or forget."  I knew that, but she didn't know I knew.  "Ever so correct," I reply, "Your theology is impeccable."
The fog was very interesting.  I have never seen it do that before.  God is so amazing.  Never a dull moment.

Ode to a Clothesline

Ode to a Clothesline

Oh you old fashioned, out of date contrivance for drying clothes

Freshly washed laundry, hung with cute little wooden pins, 

On the line to dry in the wind.

Tall (actually, a little shorter please, I am short and squatty) and strong,

Standing there in my dreams, with the laundry being scented with

Cool, fresh breezes.

Oh how I wish my beloved would make me a clothesline

Instead he whines about the dampness of the sheets

As he crawls between.

The clothes are in the way, laying flat on the bed to dry

So they will not shrink, or get out of shape,

And have to be replaced.

A clothesline in its simplistic beauty, is so useful,

And frugal, saving money that would be spent on

Propane by drying the clothes in a mechanical device

Reducing our dependence on foreign oil ; ) (for those who

like politically correct poetry, that is for you, I care not)

Making the clothes dryer last longer and sing fewer songs.

Clothesline, you are so beautiful to me.

Clothesline, of my dreams, beautiful laundry swaying in the breeze.

Clothesline, oh how I wish you were mine.

Clothesline!

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.

A Bee Story (Rather Humorous, I do say)

Last Autumn, I took a class on how to raise honey bees.  The class lasted about six weeks.  After the first couple of weeks, I told my husband, "I can't do this.  I won't be able to lift all this stuff and do all the things you have to do."  He very calmly and sweetly says, "You go take the class and I will help you."  So, I take the class.  I find out about someone in our community who raises bees and arrange for us to meet him.  He does not do things like the class teaches you, which is fine.  There is more than one way.  We order our bees from him.  Four "nucs", that is what a starter set of bees is called.  However, we don't get them until July, which is very late.  Whether it is because he made a mistake or didn't know what he was doing, I don't know.  So now we are trying to get the bees ready for winter.  Because it is so late in the season, we are having to feed the bees so they will make enough bees and honey for the winter.  One of the things I learned in class and from this beekeeper was to not ever do things with the bees in dark, fuzzy clothing, or on a cloudy (dark) day.  Remember that it will be important later.
The first time we go out to the bees in our cute and stylish bee suits, it is 100 degrees, I am taking pictures.  When I get tired, I get in the truck and wait for my husband who wore short pants (hint, hint) and dark black, fuzzy socks.  He gets in the truck, I say, "That went well for a first time I think."
He says, "All except for when I got stung."
"You got stung?! Where? How?"
"A bee flew up my pants leg."
"So what did you do?"
"I squished him.  When I squished, he stung."
"Why did you squish him?  You aren't supposed to kill the bees."
"Tracey, at that point, I had few options."
Several times he has been to feed the bees in black socks and short pants.  Guess what?  He gets stung almost every time.  You would think... well maybe not.
We are feeding the bees, it is time to feed them a pollen patty.  I had to make these from a recipe from our beekeeper friend.  They didn't come out quite like they should have, I don't think.  Every time I get ready to do something with the bees, my husband says, "That is not what so and so does," or "That is not how so and so said to do it."  Finally, I say, "Fine, you do it.  I am done."  (My healthy Irish heritage, sometimes gets the better of me.)
My husband has been taking care of the bees by himself ever since.
One evening after supper, he gets up and says, "I am going to feed the bees."
He takes forever.  My phone is dieing, so I get up to go plug it in, wondering where he is.  As I walk to the bedroom, I catch a glimpse of him in the garage.  He is bent over, breathing heavy, and shirtless.  He never goes with out his shirt.  I think... I hope he is okay... If he has a heart attack and dies I will kill him... he doesn't have nearly enough life insurance to support me.  (I didn't really think that at the time, but later. It just makes the story better.)  I open the door and say, "Are you alright?"
He says, "They were," panting "chasing me."
"Who was?"
"I think I lost them."  Heavy breathing, pant, pant
"Where is your shirt?"
"On the deck."  pant, pant  "I think I only got stung once."
"The bees were chasing you?  Really?"
"I think one was in my shirt."
Now understand the bees are not anywhere close to the house.  They are across the creek, and around the corner on the other side of the woods.  (I later learned that he ran even farther than straight to the house in order to lose the bees.  He ran past the gate, down to the orchard, then to the house.)
He ran all the way home, trying to lose the bees.  I guess he did manage to lose them.  Do you know what he was wearing... short pants; dark, black, fuzzy socks; and it was dusk (almost dark).  All big "no nos" when working with bees.
Will he ever learn?  See you next time on the same bee channel...

Molly in the Garden

We are starting to plant the garden.  The Sugar Snap Peas are up.  Potatoes are planted, along with some broccoli, cauliflower, and a few peppers.
We were working in the garden, Jerry, Jack, Molly Jo and myself.  Jerry had gone off to do something.  So Jack and I had finished the task of putting the seed potatoes in the rows. Molly Jo was supposed to be covering them up with soil.  She was using a garden rake. Which she didn't know how to use, by the way.  Jerry had showed her, but as Jack said, "Molly, it is not a broom.  You can't use it like a broom."  In her defense, the dirt was a little hard to move with the rake.
Oh, well.  She was complaining loudly.  So, I decided I would cover up the row next to the one she was working on with my hands.  I was pretty quick and got ahead of her.  She decided she would get rid of the rake and use her hands too.  As she is covering the potatoes with dirt using her hands, Jack says, "Molly, you want to hear something funny?"  All the time he is saying this, he knows the reaction that is coming.
Molly says, "Whatever.  Tell me, Jack."
"The pigs peed in this dirt,"  Jack says.
Well, you can probably guess the rest.  She came unglued.  "OOOooo.  Gross.  Nastiness.  I am not eating these potatoes, they are growing in nastiness."  She wails as she grabs the rake, she looks at me with a look that could make roses wilt.  Jack and I are cracking up.  It was quite funny.