The Allison Automobiles....You can't make this stuff up.

This past Wednesday, I retrieved my car, a 2000 Nissan Maxima we have affectionately deemed “Stella,” from the auto repair shop. Our other vehicle, a 2006 Ford F150 we call “Wyatt,” escaped from the shop only a few days before. I suppose I should be thankful that I managed to escape with a bill just a hair less than a thousand dollars. At the Allison household, however, we have no sense of humor about automotive repair, and the vehicle debacle sparked a walk down automobile memory lane for the two of us. Let me preface my story with this: I have owned two cars during my entire driving life-a 1997 Red Mercury Tracer (“Annie”), a gift from my precious grandparents on my sixteenth birthday and the aforementioned “Stella.” Comparatively, Joshua’s car history is much more sordid, and I cannot help but suspect that his “kiss of death for cars” could have contributed to our recent rash of bad luck. Hence, I have affectionately titled this entry “You can’t make this stuff up,” and well, read on….perhaps you will understand precisely what I mean:

• Chevy Astro Van: Since Joshua swears that he once owned a Mitsubishi Gallant that only ever had a problem with the timing belt, I suppose that this is the vehicle that started it all, a minivan so cliché that practically every Southern family in 1996 owned one (or the Ford variety: See Loser Cruiser 1.0). One night on his way home from Stillwater, Joshua, behind the wheel of the family Astro, slipped on a patch of ice and lost control of the vehicle, slamming into a bridge embankment. Now, in the State of Oklahoma, I would call that “Failing to Operate a Motor Vehicle at a Speed Reasonable and Proper,” and as the story goes, the Oklahoma Highway Patrol agreed with me. Joshua disputes my assessment but admits that during his skid, he managed to take out about six orange traffic barrels. Per Joshua, said barrels are actually filled with sand and water, and they cost around $250 a piece to replace. As a result of this encounter, the family Astro became approximately three feet shorter, and because of some alleged “miscommunication,” Joshua was ticketed by the Oklahoma Highway Patrol, a citation he is still bitter about to this day. Only my husband could attribute total blame for a single-car accident and its aftermath on the Oklahoma Highway Patrol. Oh, and the ice…I stand corrected.
• Ford Bronco: As long as I have known Joshua, he has had a thing for old Ford Broncos. You know, the big boxy ones that look sort of like an old Landcruiser or Scout? Apparently, he owned one for a brief period following the infamous Astro. This gem did not have air conditioning and had a hole the size of a basketball in the passenger seat that apparently went all the way through to outside of the vehicle. Accordingly, when Joshua drove the Bronco, he could lean over and see the road literally as he was driving over it. One time, Joshua went out to the Bronco to discover that a snake had coiled itself inside his cab. One can only guess how this animal gained access to the vehicle. After enjoying his dream car for only a short while, the transmission went out while he was in town, and he was forced to drive the Bronco home several miles…in reverse.
• 19 Seventy-Something Chrysler LaBaron: Joshua swears this car was “really nice” AND he paid only $400 for it. Read that sentence again and ask yourself: Is that possible? Despite its charmed beginnings, this vehicle literally went down in flames. While Joshua was driving his mother to work one day, he smelled smoke and within a matter of minutes, the infamous LaBaron burned to the ground in the middle of the intersection at 71st and Riverside in Tulsa. While the fire department put out his smoldering LaBaron, local drivers, aggravated that Joshua had the audacity to allow his vehicle to catch fire at a major intersection during rush hour, added insult to injury: They flipped him off and yelled obscenities as they rubber-necked past the grisly scene.
• Loser Cruiser 1.0: When Joshua and I started dating, he occasionally picked me in up in this vehicle-a 19 Ninety Something Maroon Ford Aerostar complete with extended cab. According to Joshua, his mother backed the Loser Cruiser into a tree, meaning that the tail light was attractively duct-tapped (because having a vehicle repaired by a licensed mechanic relatively close in time to the event that actually necessitated the repair is never an option for an Allison vehicle). I have to admit some affection for this vehicle: My family owned the same model (not extended cab) in a lovely caiman green. During the entire term of our ownership, a taillight was always out no matter how often my father replaced it. Maybe the Allisons were the wiser-They elected to surrender early to the inevitable and just put the taillight out of its misery. When we traded in our Aerostar, I remember Mom talking about how she prayed the transmission would not fall out of the vehicle while the car salesman took it for a drive. Joshua was driving this vehicle when he was hit by a deaf lady. She proceeded to cuss out a Tulsa Police officer who arrived on the scene…in sign language. Joshua’s insurance company eventually had to sue her to collect for damage she caused to Loser Cruiser 1.0. The Allisons suspected the same lurking transmission problems and sold the vehicle to the church janitor for next to nothing, figuring it would probably amount to nothing more than scrap. Five years later, Joshua and I spotted the bearded janitor driving the Aerostar at an intersection by our house. We recognized the busted taillight.
• Loser Cruiser 2.0: When Joshua was not visiting me in the aforementioned Aerostar, he brought the brown Ford Taurus station wagon, complete with a trash bag duct-tapped over a rear window (See previous comment regarding Allison repair policy). Joshua’s brother, Ethan, apparently shot the window out with a BB gun after setting up a target on a tree right in front of the family car. Now, Ethan was a teenager at the time when none of the 10,000 calories he consumed made it above his neck and certainly long before he became a Green Beret, but he explained the incident by simply saying: “I didn’t think I would miss.” During the time we dated, I lived at Kappa Kappa Gamma house at the University of Tulsa, and Joshua would park his ride at the law school across campus and walk to the sorority house on foot to pick me up. I have to admit I found this little routine a little endearing, in that, he obviously did not want to embarrass me in front of my sorority sisters.
• Shenobi: After Joshua and I married, we shared “Annie” for some time. I drove him downtown to work in the morning and went on to class at TU, picking him up around 5:00 that evening. When Joshua changed schedules, we started looking for another car on our poor newly-wed budget. My grandparents had a family friend who had a 1986 Nissan Sentra with about 30,000 miles on it that they offered to us for next to nothing. Now, do the math: This car practically lived in its garage. Joshua and I decided that since it was a Japanese car, we needed to give it a Japanese name. Joshua deemed this little red number “Shenobi” which is Japanese for “Lethal Wind.” Shenobi ran perfectly for a year or so before his age and long garaged life began to catch up with it. Too poor to pay for the repairs, Joshua put Shenobi on blocks in our driveway, an option certainly not out of the ordinary in our old neighborhood (See my “Redneck Neighbor” Entry), bought the repair manual for a car produced the year my college graduate sister was born, and proceeded to fix the vehicle. It hobbled along for another few months, including a tow or two, before officially becoming property of the Salvation Army. We paid a little over a thousand dollars for Shenobi, and at the Salvation Army auction, some joker paid over $700 for it. We had no idea we were so generous,
• The Van: After Shenobi, we were certainly in no better position to invest in another automobile. I was in the middle of law school, and Joshua had just started a new job at Quiktrip. My grandparents again came to our rescue: They offered us their 1992 Ford Econoline conversion van, complete with curtains, a fold-down bed, captains chairs, a TV and a VCR. Even though this vehicle was not exactly a commuter car, we were in no position to be picky. I had a rather colorful history with this van: My family borrowed this van to go on the worst vacation of my entire childhood, a trip that leaves me scarred to this day. While on this infamous roadtrip, my sister, Emily, got the stomach virus….literally in the van. After the horrors I witnessed on this trip within the belly of this beast of a van, I still break into a cold sweat if I overhear anyone talk about having an upset stomach. In fact, as a result of this very trip, I forced Joshua to promise that he was on permanent barf duty when our possible future children get the yaks. In exchange, I will handle absolutely anything else…I mean, anything…blood, boogers, snakes, horrible gangrenous wounds, etc. I swear, when we picked up the van from Meme and Papa’s house, the same wicker trash basket where my sister, well, you know, on that trip was still in the back. This should have been an omen. During our ownership of the van, we always questioned whether the air conditioner really worked. I am of the opinion that the belly of the beast was simply so expansive that it had to run about a week to cool off during August in Oklahoma. As you might imagine, its top speed was about 45 mph. On the morning of its death, Joshua headed for work around 5:30 in the morning, and he called me to tell me that he had been in an accident. In my panic, I thought I heard him wrong: The breaks went out and he hit something. Well, he actually hit Quiktrip, his place of employment. How many people can say they ran a car into their employer’s building and still got promoted twice that same year? Apparently, as he was pulling into a parking spot, the break pedal went to the floor. Luckily, he was going so slow that the momentum carried him only up the curb and against the Quiktrip building, crunching a pay phone booth in the process. After the accident, my poor husband had to go inside the Quiktrip in his uniform to fill out an accident report. Can you imagine the scene? “Hi, I’m Joshua. I am the manager on duty this morning, and I just wrecked my huge ass van against the side of the building.” Later that night, I went into the same Quiktrip to get a drink and the employees were still laughing about it. On an aside, I think that Quiktrip must have had some pity on him: They reported the damage to the pay phone booth but it did not cost us anything but our pride. We like to think that they told AT & T some drunk hit the thing in a giant van and drove off. We parked the van on the street for a few weeks with a “For Sale” sign on it. The “baby-sitter” from next door (See “Redneck Neighbor” entry) called to make an offer. He bought a scooter instead, and we donated another vehicle to the Salvation Army. We like to think that we were the givers of the year. We should have been at Texas Stadium with Jerry Jones on Thanksgiving, dropping coins into the huge red Salvation Army pot with the homeless kids while Carrie Underwood sang “God Bless America” and Tony Romo ate a greasy turkey leg.
• Time for a New Car: After the death of the van, Joshua and I were back to old reliable “Annie” as our only means of transportation. I like to think that Joshua drove “Annie” for a while thus resulting in her air conditioner going out…in August. Trying to survive the bar exam before buying a new car, I drove “Annie” back and forth from Tulsa to Bristow during an Oklahoma summer without air conditioner. In August, I would change out of my business suit into soccer shorts and a tiny tank top to drive home in the hair-dryer heat wind tunnel. There were several times I seriously contemplated driving home in my bra, panties, and flip-flops. One fateful day, I hopped on the turnpike in my skimpy driving outfit, and a tire blew out, resulting in a few good spins in both lanes of turnpike traffic. I saw my life flash before my eyes. When I came to on the side of the turnpike, I spotted the McDonald’s on the turnpike just ahead. For those of you familiar with the turnpike, my accident happened immediately upon my entry at Bristow. I contemplated walking down the entrance ramp, but I worried another vehicle might hit me coming around that curve. I called my friends, fellow Creek County lawyers, to come and pick me up, telling them I estimated I was only a few hundred feet from the McDonalds, the golden arches looming like a mirage in the dessert. I grabbed my briefcase and laptop bag and started walking down the shoulder of the turnpike basically in my skivvies as truckers raced past me, honking and cat-calling out their windows. Soaked in sweat and too delirious to be embarrassed, I arrived at the McDonalds parking lot to find my friends rolling in laughter: They could not even see my car it was so far down the turnpike. My bruised ego recovered and so did “Annie”: We repaired her tire and gave her to Joshua’s sister, Hannah. Hannah took “Annie” to college this weekend, and frankly, that little red car will probably outlast the news ones we have now.
• Summer of Car Repairs: Although I could describe how I did a few more circles on the Turnpike during a rain storm without plunging to my death on my way to court one day while driving “Stella,” I will happily move forward to the present. Well, it is August, and as all Okies know, car repairs never happen in the winter. They happen in the 101 degree heat in some asphalt-covered location (i.e. Turnpike shoulder, Wal-Mart parking lot), leaving their owners to pit in dress clothes and heels waiting on the tow truck. A few weeks ago, Joshua was driving home to Bristow when he randomly blew out two tires on “Wyatt”…..two tires on the same side without hitting anything! I arranged for a two-mile tow to a Tulsa tire shop-It cost well over $100. After dropping a few hundred dollars on two new tires, a requirement for any vehicle repair visit, we returned home only to discover one of “Stella’s” tires was getting low. I took “Stella” to the tire repair place, paid for a patch, and drove her to Drumright where I was teaching a legal class. When I came out to my car in the dark parking lot, my repaired tire was flat. A phone call to the tire repair shop the following day yielded an apology for the “miscommunication”: I paid for the repair. They accepted my payment. They neglected to tell me the tire could not be repaired. I retrieved the vehicle and drove at over 60 mph on said tire. Again, I narrowly escaped death. When Joshua and I prepared to take “Stella” to the repair shop for what we could only hope would be an actual repair, we discovered that one of Joshua’s not-new tires was now flat. Both cars now had flat tires. Joshua had to take a vacation day to address this problem. A few days after we purchased our tires, “Stella” started screaming…I mean, making some noise like something out of the bowels of hell when I drove it. This is an especially classy reality for a new lawyer to face...driving down Main Street in Bristow while my car literally howls, making awkward eye contact with potential clients and people I know at every stop light (because, of course, every light is red when you are driving a screamer). I called the repair place. They assured me my vehicle was perfectly safe, albeit embarrassing, to drive, and we scheduled a repair for the screaming “loose belt” the following Monday morning. Well, on the Friday morning before said appointment, the air conditioner stopped blowing cold air while I was en route to McDonalds (yes the same locale previously featured) for coffee. I did not worry, assuming I could simply get my coolant recharged during Monday’s repair appointment. When I came back to my car, coffee in hand, “Stella” was dead. We towed her to the repair shop, resigned to driving the green pick-up for a few days. The following day, Joshua drove the pick-up to meet me for a wedding, and the vehicle would not go much faster than 60 mph. Fearing the worst, replacing a belt and compressor in one car and a transmission in another, we hobbled to the repair shop.
• Small Town Saviors: Well, once again, we love our little town life. A family friend at the Ford dealership repair shop had pity after hearing this latest chapter in the pathetic Allison automotive sob story and facilitated a quick and an inexpensive repair for “Wyatt” the pick-up truck. Two weeks and several hundred dollars later, I am relieved to have my car back, purring like a kitten, blowing cold air, and mercifully, no longer screaming. We are both hoping for a few repair-free months for the Allison automobiles, a wish that seems relatively plausible as the Oklahoma summer draws to a close. We talked about doing some car shopping, maybe picking out a new Allison automobile, but frankly, I am somewhat reluctant to push our luck. After all, those little hybrids are just so cute that I would hate to dictate their destiny by affixing the name “Allison” to the title.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

Emily and Lauren's Theme for the Summer!

If green means go, then red means....

Our family shared in the excitement of purchasing a Massey-Ferguson Tractor this past spring. Since the blessed delivery day, this red gem has experienced the following technical difficulties: (1) Blinker lights not functioning, (2) Gas gauge does not work, (3) fuel filter/gas tank clogged with what was first classified as “bad diesel” by our oh-so-suave tractor dealer. The tractor recently returned from the shop after the first attempt to clean the fuel filter failed miserably. Now, before the latest repair shop visit, the tractor dealer returned the tractor, deeming it repaired, before it promptly died in the back pasture during its first mow following its “repair.” The tractor dealer, a seemingly nice man who addressed this problem only after I practically phone stalked him, including a call to his wife, and Dad appeared in person at the tractor dealership to convey his disappointment, originally blamed our fuel problems on “bad diesel” certainly purchased by us and absolutely not related to the diesel in the tank from his dealership when it was delivered. When he finally picked up the tractor again, this time to steam the gas tank, he called Dad to report that apparently Massey-Ferguson is going to probably have to recall our particular tractor model because the factor that made the fuel tanks (in India) apparently shipped tanks full of fuel and the fuel molded and clogged all the systems in these models. The tractor was in the shop for over two weeks...and during this time, the grass continued to grow. Apparently, our tractor dealer apologized profusely, insisting that he wanted us to enjoy our tractor. Well, I’m bitter. I should identify our dealer or perhaps even provide a link to his website, but, in the interests of avoiding litigation (only a mild deterrent for me), I will say merely this: Nothing runs like a Deere.

Update: The tractor is back and running perfectly…something we expected from a brand new tractor.

4th at the Farm!

On the 4th of July, Joshua and I hosted a BBQ with some fireworks for family and friends. We had a wonderful time and hope to make it an annual event. For the sake of brevity, I will share only the pictures! Hope to do it again next year!

Emily and Lindsay....roomies and farm girl wannabes.

The family getting a tour of the barn. I just love Joshua's Grandad Jim in this picture...hands on his hips, so very Grandad Jim.

Emily and our family friend, Big Al, petting Sophie...

Big Al trying to sweet talk one of the girls....

Our friend, Cheri, enjoying a hamburger in an oh-so-ladylike fashion....

Meme and Papa chatting with Emily and Lindsay....

The Hulls! I love that Alvin found a friend immediately in Joshua's cousin, Clara.

(From left), Joshua's Aunt Diane, his Grandma Sue, and his Grammy Evelyn...

Joshua's aunt Diane and cousin, Olivia---Notice that her little brother, Ian, had to figure out a way to get in the picture!

Mom and our friend, Cheri, enjoying the 4th! I love this picture!

Lindsay, throwing like a total girl....

Dad playing ball with Joshua's cousin, Forrest...

Dad, Emily, and Lindsay smiling (and sweating) in the front yard. Classy lawn chairs, ladies!

A belated cows entry

Just before the 4th of July, our family set out for the sale barn in the hopes of finding the first heifers (female cows that have yet to calf) for our herd. As many of you know, we have been looking for these ladies for some time, trying to make the right decision that will not result in some swollen cow floating in the pond three weeks from now. Before we visited the sale barn, we tried to run down multiple private sellers, seeking 6-10 Angus/Brangus Heifer Yearlings, but perhaps because of the season (and the availability of grass to fatten the heifers through the summer), we could not find any commercial stock within our age and price parameters. So, at 7:00 AM on a Saturday morning, we arrived for a country breakfast followed by the cattle auction. Let me treat you to the highlights before proudly introducing you to our lovely ladies:

Pep Talk: Before we left for the auction, we were very excited. I mean, we were “jumping around in the driveway” excited. Dad tried to temper our excitement, giving us a classic pep talk. He warned us that when we purchased our first heifers at the auction, we should “Act like you’ve been to the endzone before.” No dancing, no celebrations, no squealing. Apparently, legitimate cattlemen do not squeal when they successfully bid on an animal at auction.

Friends with Bovine: Our family is so blessed to have a wonderful friend named Odell who helped us through the entire heifer selection and delivery. He warned us not to get first heifers too small (300-400 lbs) or bloated with water (to make them look heavier for auction). He recommended that we purchase black heifers (Angus, Brangus) and consider what he called “Black Baldies,” black angus bred with Hereford which shows as a black-bodied heifer with a white face. The “Black Baldies” offer what Joshua described as “Hybrid Vigor,” meaning that mixed breed heifer possesses the ideal traits of both Angus and Hereford. After we purchased our lovely ladies, Odell delivered the ladies to the Farm and told the boys he was proud of them for making nice selections. Both of the boys seemed particularly pleased that Odell approved of the purchases!

Heifers, Bulls, & Steers: Mom and I decided that we could easily identify a heifer from a bull from a steer simply upon entry into the auction arena without needing to peer awkwardly between the animal’s back legs: A heifer strolls in casually with her girlfriends almost as if she is glancing through the sale rack at White House-Black Market on a Saturday when she has nothing better to do. A bull charges in, puffed up, maybe a little sweaty, with a wild look in his eye, head-butting the auction employee and trying to avoid the paddle and find the heifers at the same time. Lastly, a steer enters the arena like a man who just got off at the wrong bus stop-He is confused, lost, and minus a pair of essentials.

Auction Highlights: When you attend the auction every Saturday, the rules regarding registration no longer apply to you. This good old boy in the row behind us purchased cattle all morning long, and every time the auctioneer would ask for his number, the man would confirm he, in fact, had not registered and been assigned a number. The auctioneer would look exasperated and merely reply: “Lot 74, Sold to Pappy.” Perhaps one day our family will be identified by such an affectionate nickname….no number required! Lastly, as we were loading up to bring our girls home to the Farm, we passed a cattle trailer literally covered in shit. I realize this is a family blog, and my grandmother likely will not approve of my language. Frankly, there is simply no other term that can quite so accurately describe the amount of animal feces on this trailer. It looked like a mobile cow poop dirt-dobber’s nest. I could not tell you the color of the trailer….well, that’s not true. It was brown.

Without further adieu, please welcome six lovely ladies to our herd…


This is Gertie, standing in the weeds....

My favorite, our Black Baldie, named Sophie. She is very tame and enjoys getting a pet from her people.

Little Cecilia stepping off the trailer...

Miss Sophie making her grand entrance....

The boys getting ready to unload the girls..

For your amusement...

Certain elements are absolutely essential for any successful visit to an amusement park. No amusement park visit is complete unless the temperature is at least ninety degrees Fahrenheit with one hundred percent humidity. You must feel sweat in body crevices you did not know you had such that you are willing to literally dip yourself in the brown, foamy water on the graffiti-splattered log ride to cool off and wait in an incredible line for the opportunity to do so. Once you feel the sweat begin to bead under your eyeballs and start to trickle down your cheeks, you know you are ready to pack yourself into back-and-forth rows of humanity for the exciting privilege to be jerked around in a loop for thirty seconds or so. A little wobbly, you step off the ride only to observe a mass of sweaty humanity (and their thirteen illegitimate children) stuffing their respective faces with fried food and multi-colored drinks composed mostly of high fructose corn syrup. During any solid amusement park visit, this will certainly not be the last time you observe these dietary delights.

Fully aware of all these clichés, Joshua, Hannah, and I set out for Frontier City this past Saturday. I wanted to share with the blog universe a little about our adventure. After our visit, I have reached certain conclusions:

• I am a Big Chicken: Since I was a little girl, I have been terrified of amusement park rides. I remember crying on a bench at Disney World when I was maybe twelve because I was simply too scared to board the runaway mine train. I did not ride a roller coaster until I was at least fourteen when I was too embarrassed to admit my phobia to my school friends. As the Zingo chugged slowly up the first hill, I remember thinking that if I survived this ride, I would never ride another roller coaster. Frankly, every amusement park experience since then has been some twisted variation of that fateful day. When Joshua and I went to Six Flags before we married, I was too embarrassed to admit to this boy I liked that I was trying not to throw up as they fastened the shoulder straps over me, my feet dangling in the air. On another visit, he tried to get me to ride the Titan. I stepped into the car, looked up to see how high the ride went, and stepped directly out on the other side. My sister and sisters-in-law have always ridiculed me about this phobia, and I secretly think my husband arranges these amusement park encounters because it is one of the rare times he gets to really see me squirm. This weekend, before we tackled any big roller coasters, we rode this little ride that spins one way in a circle and goes up and down. For you readers familiar with our beloved Bell’s Amusement Park, it was probably somewhere between the Himalaya and the Scrambler. Two cars behind us, a little girl clenched the bar and screamed bloody murder throughout the entire ride, the veins literally popping and pulsing around her eyeballs. I thought to myself: Girl, I’ve been there. Later, my charming sister-in-law, Hannah, allowed me to get strapped in for the upside-down and backwards roller coaster before turning to me and saying something like, “It will be over before you know it, but, of course, Leah wet her pants on this ride.

• I am a Germ-o-Phobe: My mother always told me that as a small child, I would always avoid filthy bathrooms. One time, Mom and Dad convinced me the circus was over at intermission because I refused to use the toilet. I have to admit that I still experience that apprehension, particularly in amusement park bathrooms. I think that Frontier City literally had one public bathroom in the entire park, and on the day of our trip, half of the stalls were closed with signs indicating they were not in working order. Despite these signs, park visitors remained skeptical. Why is that? You could put up a sign that says, “Some creep loaded the toilet with paper towels and smeared feces on the walls of this stall. Out of Order” and people would still peak inside just to be sure. At amusement parks, the floors of the bathroom are always wet, and the origin of the water is always unknown. Filthy children with face paint peer beneath stalls. Employees leave the restroom without washing their hands (Although frankly, I am not convinced they are any dirtier than those of us that elected to wash our hands in the amusement park restroom). You wait in line to use the facilities, and inevitably, the longer that you wait, the more concerned you become about what your predecessor is doing the stall you are soon to occupy.
  Needless to say, I psyched myself out and immediately left the line for the restroom. Later, I would get desperate with only a Port-a-Potty in sight. I approached the potty booth with another lady, each of us tentatively tugging at the door handles on blue row. I finally found an unoccupied unit and left my new friend to fend for herself. Holding my nose, I immediately began to recite the most important rule of Port-a-Potty etiquette: No matter what you do, do NOT, I repeat, do not, look in the toilet. I closed my eyes and assumed the position just as my new friend wrenched open the door to the unit she HAD to have seen me just enter. During this brief moment of panic, I managed to make awkward eye contact with several other friends waiting to use the plastic facilities.

• I am a Snob: Since I officially became an adult, I don’t know that I have ever visited an amusement park that I am not a little embarrassed to be there. Amusement park attendees are always colorful: Gigantic women in wet tube tops with Tinkerbell tattooed on their right shoulders eating a turkey leg followed by a line of barefoot and crying children wearing the remnants of an oversized lollypop on their faces, the “Pat”-like visitor that, despite your best efforts, you cannot tell whether he/she is a man or a woman, families dressed with matching, tucked-in polos armed with professional cameras snapping pictures of some absolutely indistinguishable concrete monument erected in front of the saloon façade, teenage brace-faces covered in pimples getting hot and heavy against a tree covered in about a thousand hardened gum wads, each a different fluorescent color. Frankly, the amusement park crowd operates like social birth control-It is a warning to our society about the all-too-real results of hasty couplings. Despite these thoughts, I visited the amusement park. We were literally among the masses. The odds some visitor looked at me like I was some weirdo have to be pretty high.

• I am a Picky Eater: Before we left the park for the day, we decided to cap off our visit with a funnel cake. After waiting in line for several minutes, we placed our order with an uninspired summer employee covered in powdered sugar. While we waited for our funnel cake to be prepared by some invisible employee in the back, the girls that took our order threw curd and powdered sugar at one another, dipping their hands in the powdered sugar after wiping the counter with cleaner and licking their finger tips before repeating the process. When our funnel cake was ready, one of the girls held the funnel cake at the window and looked at us in silence. Perhaps she wanted to use telepathy to inform us our order was ready. Had we not just paid ten dollars for the funnel cake and if we were not somewhat afraid of the funnel cake girl, we might have given her a stern lecture about professionalism and demanded a refund. We opted to take the funnel cake, complain to her boss, and leave the park immediately. Our passive-aggressive campaign for revenge against the funnel cake girls continues with this blog entry.
  

We returned to the farm about 10 PM, having only spent about five hours at Frontier City. We are certainly not as young as we once were. Our amusement park experience left us so very disgusted, we just may not go back….till next year.

Old Love

On June 7, 2008, John Robert Chubbuck, my cousin, married his college sweetheart, Stacey Sheely. Our entire family traveled to Oklahoma City to celebrate their union. Although the rehearsal dinner, wedding, and reception all remain worthy of my mention, one episode has lingered in my mind, particularly today. After the ceremony, Dad told our family about how he witnessed John Robert’s grandmother being escorted to her seat before the wedding. As the usher guided her to her seat, her husband of many years, already seated and gripping his oxygen tank, recognized her approach, and his expression immediately changed. He smiled and unabashedly admired her, letting a little “ooohhh” escape his lips as if they two remained the only people in the room. Even though he may not have recalled the names and faces of old friends he would see at the reception later, he undoubtedly knew her as his own, the wife of his youth.

As Dad recounted the story for our family, his eyes filled with tears as he looked to my mother. Today, a client visited my office, seeking help for her husband of sixty-four years who suffers from dementia. He sits at the Rainbow Nursing Center in Bristow, eats pudding, and speaks absently about cows and horses he has not owned in years. I noticed the same look in her eyes as she described her brilliant husband: It was an expression of passion. Thinking back on the wedding, I remembered the Pastor spoke of a bond that continues until a husband and wife are separated by death-A wedding is only the beginning of the story, a moving tribute to young love over in a matter of hours. Although our society is seemingly transfixed by sex, intimacy, although related, is an emotional bond that grows beyond that fateful wedding night. It is achieved at the moment we begin to rejoice in the familiar in our spouse, and it is compounded by the shared history of a life spent together. It is the comfortable way our hands link together without intention. It is the strange warmth in the pit of my stomach at the sound of his laugh. It is the way I hardly sleep without the sound of my best friend sleeping beside me.

One day, when our bodies and minds begin to fail, it is the connection that will always bring me back to that moment where our story began and remind me of the skinny handsome boy nervously standing directly to my right. Oh, young love is so very sweet, but I think I am beginning to understand that old love is just as sweet. Cheers to the Bride and Groom….May the entirety of your story be as sweet as its beginning….

Can you identify this pond scum?

We currently have some well, crud, covering certain areas of our pond, and we need to get rid of it. Joshua and I have been joking that we need to get some asexual carp to eat this crud. Dad is going to take the pictures to the OSU-Extension office. Preston's dad suggested throwing some sheet rock into the pond. Apparently, the lime helps kill the crud. We are open to any suggestions. Frankly, I blame the turtles.

It did not really gross me out before, but the little things poking up out of the water look like slimy fingers. And with that, I am officially grossed out.

Turtle Sniper

As the weather warms in Bristow, the highways have become littered with adventurous turtles, braving the warm asphalt in the hopes of exploring what can only be the surreal just on the other side. It is almost like an obstacle course, weaving through the turtles and inwardly rooting for the awkward animals to survive without being squished by some 18-wheeler. I am, however, not so romantic about the snapping turtles living in the pond, eating our catfish and literally peaking above the surface of the water to locate our bobber so they can grab onto our hooks. Removing the turtle from the hook is just the cherry on top after you discover that it was not a large-mouth bass you ensnared, but rather, an obnoxious turtle. I remember once my cousin, Travis, covertly left his baited pole in the water at the catfish pond, and we returned to find a turtle on the line the next morning. Grandad was little upset, but I remember all of the cousins watching in sick fascination as he immediately beheaded the turtle with his pocket knife.

After our fishing trip, Joshua conducted a little campaign of turtle and snake population control with his 30-30. I was officially the spotter, and part of me felt a little compelled to yell “Pull!” every time I spotted a little head peak above the surface (undoubtedly looking for an orange bobber). Here is the death toll:

Turtles Sniped: 6

Turtles Escaped (Possibly injured): 1

Cottonmouths Obliterated: 1

This is not an actual shot of the Cottonmouth he killed although it is very similar. I mainly just posted this to creep Joshua out.

He seems a little exasperated that I am taking his picture for his blog before his big hunt. Obviously, I am unnecessarily delaying the inevitable onslaught for such womanly pursuits as picture-taking and blog-writing. The previous picture is penance for picture-taking grumpiness.

Perch, Perch, Perch, Another Perch, Perch, Perch....

Determined to overcome our previous miserable fishing failure, we returned to Aunt June and Uncle Gary’s pond equipped night-crawlers, ready to apparently feed every tiny perch in the pond. Fishing in this pond is absolutely never boring: I remember fishing this pond with Emily and our cousins, John Robert and Travis, and there were times where Grandad literally did not do anything but throw back our catch and re-bait our hooks. You always catch fish at this pond! Perhaps that is why last week’s no-catch episode seemed so insulting. We tossed in our lines and proceeded to reel in literally perch after perch. It seemed the longer we fished, the smaller the perches became! If only we could catch one of those big bass! Joshua had one on the line, pulled it out of the water, and watched as it wiggled off the hook and splashed loudly back into the water. After about ten perch between us, Joshua finally caught his bass, and well, you will simply have to look at the picture...

We think it must have hatched last week.

Family Mow Down

This past weekend, the family, armed with our fancy new brush hog for the new MF, set out to mow down the Farm. With Dad and Joshua managing the MF, Mom, Emily, and I waged war with the riding lawn mower, the gas-powered and electric weed eater, the edger, and the blower (Joshua calls it the “Yuppy Broom”). With five helping hands, our beautiful yard revealed itself in very little time. If our other respective professions fizzle out, I believe I can confidently say we may have found a family calling in landscaping.

We finished the day with a little trespassing. We fished in Aunt June and Uncle Gary’s pond, albeit with fake worms, and discovered that the Farm fish are apparently a little snobby. The girls picked wild flowers and made a pretty floral centerpiece for the dinner table. While Joshua grilled hamburgers, Mom and Emily kicked up their feet in the front yard while Dad and I worked on our jump shots. As simple as it sounds, these family farm days warm my heart and refresh my spirit for the week of work. This fellowship improves my outlook about my job and the thousands of trivial things that clutter my calendar. At the end of the day, I always feel the absence, standing under the stars in the driveway in my socks and watching the tail lights disappear down the hill in front of our house.

Hamburgers!

Look at the pretty flowers we pilfered from Aunt June's property....Come on, Aunt June, don't they make you want to come back to Oklahoma?!?

Notice the covered parking now available for Dad's new Ford Taurus...We are still taking applications for a name for his new car. In honor of one of my favorite TV shows, I think we should call it "Dwight."

Notice Mom's John Deere T-Shirt. The guy at the Massey-Ferguson dealership told us he could get us some red t-shirts with "MF" on them. I am somewhat uneasy about this....MF? Really? It just seems moderately profane.

Emily posed for this action shot because, clearly, we did not catch any fish on plastic worms. Even if we had used live bait, Emily spent more time casting than actually fishing.

This was Mom's view from the pond while we were fishing....

My boys...in their straw hats and work boots.

Emliy and Joshua grin for the camera. My cue was "Act Like You Like Each Other." So natural.

Emily took this picture because I think she was afraid to pick up the turtle. Very National Geographic.

We found several budding fruit trees and vines on the property after we cut the grass around them. We think this one is a plum tree, and it has some fruit on it. Next year, we will need to do some spraying and fertilizing to ensure a better crop!

Our peach tree!

Our apple tree!

We trimmed back the vines, and we already have grapes growing. We plan on making some delicious grape jelly.

The girls pull off dead grape vines from the fence.

Dad using his gas-powered weed eater. Notice the grape vines along the fence. Many of the vines around the corner are coming back with full leaves and baby grapes...

Joshua doing his very favorite Farm thing....

Our First Farm Toy!

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce you to the latest addition to our Farm family? A Massey-Ferguson 2615! For the past few warm weeks, the grass around our house grew so significantly we started to joke that it looked as if a certain and quite unsavory former occupant still lived here. Armed with just a riding lawn mower, there was simply no way we were going to be able to tackle this farm task. Joshua and I hired a friend to mow things right around the house, but with so much grass around our farm house and in the pastures, it became immediately apparent that it would cost a few hundred dollars every couple of weeks simply to manage this growing fire hazard. We started pricing tractors, thinking that we might find a junker to cover the season, but we soon learned that tractors hold their value far better than automobiles. In the tractor business, even old junkers do not come cheaply, and if they do, you always have to wonder about the safety issue, particularly when Dad and Joshua may be way off in the pasture working by themselves while the girls are off on their adventures.

After looking around at tractors of all shapes, sizes, and colors (John Deere, New Holland, Kubota, and Massey Ferguson), we found a wonderful deal at our brand new local Massey-Ferguson dealer. The dealership is located at the corner of Highway 48 and Highway 33, making it only four miles or so from the Farm. They handle all service repairs and stock all parts for the tractor, and with the cost of gasoline, the proximity means that pick-up and delivery for parts, warranty work, and repairs will not be any added expense. Equipped with a front-end loader, our tractor is a fifty horsepower (enough power to hold a hay bale on the front and back), two-wheel drive red beauty. Enjoy our pictures!

Even the girls have to learn to drive!

Dad mastering the front-end loader...

Fueling up before our first ride...

We are legitimate farmers now!