One of my Kansas City Internet friends, Kevin, remarked in a comment that he just couldn't believe I was such a brat as a child.
Kevin, believe it. Oh, I didn't do dangerous things. I was actually very moral, and believed God was watching every move. I didn't lie. I'd didn't steal. I wasn't destructive.
But I had a mouth on me that wouldn't quit. Now, for the first twelve years of my life, my parents were switchboard operators in small towns. So if my mom asked me to do something and I sassed her, or simply refused, she might come at me, but she couldn't leave the switchboard for long unless Daddy was there to take over; somebody might make a phone call, and they had to go through "Central" to do so. So, I'd yell something at her, or refuse to do some simple thing: she'd get up and head toward me, and I'd go running outside, far far away. When we lived at Eagleville, sometimes I'd climb up in a Box Elder tree so she couldn't get to me. Oh, I got spankings, serious ones; they just didn't seem to do a lot of good.
Normally I wasn't asked to do chores of any kind (can you say spoiled?), but if I was asked, I'd make a terrible scene and refuse, even if we had a houseful of company. That's the kind of brat I was.
The brat still lives inside me, but nobody these days tries to make me do anything I don't want to, so she slumbers peacefully. Anybody who REALLY knows me will vouch for this, but I wouldn't put them on the spot by asking them to testify to the fact. Of course my readers don't see this side of me. Do you think I'd let let a brat take over my keyboard? Not on your life!
As Ree Drummond would say, "I'm just keepin' it real."
I have had two different people say they'd like to buy Max, Bonnie's calf, when he's ready to butcher. So if the first person backs out, I have a backup buyer, which is nice to know. If Bonnie never comes back in heat, Max has eight more months before he is ready. If she were to come in heat today and be bred, he'd only have seven months. At this point, I've pretty much resolved that she isn't going to start cycling. After a lifetime of dealing with cattle, you learn not to get your hopes up on things like this; it only leads to disappointment.
But we probably won't get one at this late date. Trust me, if I want one badly enough, Cliff will see that I get it. He wouldn't want to stir up my inner brat.
Here's my life's theme song. Sing it, Dino.