Cliff's new toys

Yesterday we went shopping at Lowe's, and Cliff finally got the new drill press he's been wanting.  

Here you see a happy man.

He's been wanting one of these mop buckets for years, too.  Yesterday he parted with the $60 it cost and brought it home, as well as a new mop.  
What's that you say?  
Why yes, he does mop his shop floor.   
You will never see me as happy as Cliff was to get a new mop or bucket.  Never.  My housekeeping style is casual, at best.  Sometimes it's even nonexistent.  

A couple of boards with holes in them, to put hooks on and hang his valuable stuff on.

Like this.  He will have to paint the new ones first.  

He will put them right up there.  You may be wondering why there are mirrors hanging in Cliff's shop; they are there to reflect light, and hopefully make it brighter.  Never throw away your old mirrors:  Send them to Cliff.

Cliff is off to work

It was hard for me to remember all the things I always packed in Cliff's lunchbox for ten hours spent at work, but I think I managed to scrounge up enough to keep his body and soul together.  
Last night I asked him, "Are you feeling apprehensive about this business of going to work part-time?" 
He admitted to a little uneasiness.   
Today as he kissed me and headed for the door, lunchbox in hand, I said, "I don't like this."  "It isn't going to be so bad in winter when there's not much else to do," he answered.  
I repeated, "I don't like this."  
"I don't either," he said.  "I thought I would, but I don't."  
"Then don't do it."
Now, he may enjoy seeing everybody after so long.  If it turns out it's fun for him, that's great.  But I say life is too short to spend time doing something you aren't crazy about doing just for some extra money that we're not hurting for.  
It's his call.  But if I sense that he's not totally happy about this, I will do my best to steer him in the proper direction.  

Cliff passed a drug screening today

A reader asked in a comment if Cliff ever went back to work part-time like he was considering doing.  So far, he has not; I think that's great, since we've been having such lovely weather.  Cliff has been outside for several hours each day, enjoying our property.  
He has done some preparation for part-time work:  He signed up with the temp service some time back, and yesterday he received a call from them to come in for a drug screening; his former employers are about ready to call him.  This is rather funny when you realize Cliff worked at that place for almost twenty years, and now he has to do a drug test; but technically he won't be working for his former employers.  He'll be working for the temp service.  
So this morning he made the trip to North Kansas City, assuming he'd have to urinate into a bottle for them.  As you know, where Cliff goes, I usually go.  Besides, there's a First Watch just across the street from the temp place, and I was in the mood for an omelet.  There was a little extra cash burning a hole in the "misc" envelope and it's only a week till Cliff's monthly payday.  I rest my case.  
After breakfast Cliff went inside the temp place and I got in the car to wait for him.  He wasn't in there more than ten minutes.  When he came out, he informed me he didn't have to pee in a bottle at all.  They did a saliva test and got the results right then and there.  
I'm so relieved to know that my husband hasn't been sneaking around doing illegal drugs.  
So we expect that Cliff will get a call to work before long.  He actually misses his co-workers, so if he can work one week a month during the wintertime, I think that would be a good thing for him.  He intends to put any money he makes into his tractor fund, which, according to him, is also going to serve as our "going to Glacier National Park" fund.  
So far we've been getting by fine on Social Security, what with our budget and the envelope system, so none of the extra money he makes will be figured into our budget.  
I haven't had anything new to discuss here lately, but it seems as though every time I think I've run out of topics, several things will present themselves to me at once.  So stay tuned.

Where's Cliff?

Lately I never know where to look for Cliff, once he goes outside.  The loggers left a lot of treetops laying around, enough to make plenty of wood for the stove in the shop for at least ten years.  So Cliff has been cutting those walnut treetops into wood, and also getting rid of the limbs and branches left behind when he's done.  As I've said before, he keeps this little acreage as neat as a public park, especially since he's retired.  
So the other day I stepped outside and looked around for my husband and his ever-present John Deere tractor.  I heard the chain saw and located him, and decided to take my camera down for a few pictures.  

 Well, the sound of the chain saw stopped.  But I saw the tractor in the distance, down there by the quonset hut.  

 Yeah, he's just standing there, to the left of the quonset hut.  Technically that isn't a quonset hut; it's half of an old grain bin Emmett Kolster gave us years ago.  But it makes a good storage space for Cliff's valuable junk lumber, metal, barn tin, and old tires that he might someday find a use for.

 Hmmm.  This is not an unfamiliar scenario:  When I see my husband looking intently at a tree, or group of trees, I know a tree will soon be falling.  When I got to his side, I asked what he was pondering.  He said he was thinking about taking all three of those trees down, but if he did, the one leaning toward the quonset hut would land on it.  Then he pointed out another tree he was hesitating about cutting down because it's dead, and dead trees are liable to snap and fall in a different direction that you expect.  In other words, they're dangerous.  However, he figured if he did it a certain way....
That's when I butted in.  "Cliff," I said, "you are really enjoying your retirement, aren't you?"
He agreed.  Honestly, I've never seen the man as happy as he has been these past six months.  
"Since you're having such a good time, surely you wouldn't think about doing something stupid that could kill you and end it all, would you?"  
He agreed, and walked away from those trees.  I try to remind him every day, "Don't do something stupid that could get you killed!"  
Hey, don't we all know somebody who retired just in time to die?  It happens all the time.  In fact, I just heard about another one today.    

 So after our deep philosophical discussion, we headed up the hill so I could take pictures of a farm implement to put on Craigslist.      

It's a spring-tooth harrow.  Cliff measured it so he could include the width of the thing in the ad.  So far nobody has called about it, but Craigslist is a funny thing:  You can have something advertised on there for six months and never get a call or an email.  Then you put the same ad on a few weeks later, and two or three people show up wanting it.  It's all about the right person seeing the ad at the right time.  
I'll leave all my readers with this word of advice:  Don't do something stupid today that could get you killed.  (Unless, of course, we're talking about riding a motorcycle.  Some things are worth a little risk.)

Motorcycle weather

Yesterday we planned to ride today.  They said we'd have highs around 70, and indeed we have.  Last night, though, I got to thinking maybe Cliff would like to spend this golden day puttering around the farm (I use the term "farm" loosely, because we're not real farmers).  
He agreed that at this time of year there's a lot he can find to do on an unseasonably warm January day.  The thing is, it really needs to be at least sixty degrees before we head out on the bike.  Oh yes, there are lots of folks who take pride in the fact that they ride their motorcycles all winter, but Freezing to death just isn't FUN to us.  So we'd have been waiting until noon or so for it to warm up, and then we'd have maybe four hours to ride.  We've ridden all the local roads until we know them like the backs of our hands, and we don't want to get too far from home because we know nightfall (and cool temperatures) come early.  We'll have plenty of riding weather in the spring. 

  Cliff spent most of the day tidying up a small lot that my readers don't often see:  It's part of the original 6 1/2 acres we bought when we first moved here.  For the past few years it was often used as a horse pasture for the former neighbor's horse.  Horses ruin small pastures by cropping the grass so close in the ground that it dies, and eventually nothing is left but weeds.  Now the horse is gone, and Cliff plans to sow some grass seed there.  As long as it isn't overgrazed, the grass will do well.

The loggers got the biggest tree on our place over there in the direction where Cliff is looking.  The treetop was laying there for Cliff to cut into firewood, and he put the smaller limbs in the ditch.  

A couple of years ago, there was a BIG fire in that ditch.  But I digress.  

That shed isn't on our property.  I wish it was; Cliff could fill it up with tractors.  Our property line is a couple of yards this side of the shed.  I wish I knew who to talk to about that property; it's been foreclosed on, and I'd like to know if it's something we could manage to buy.  


Hey, a person can dream, can't she?

ramblings

As you can see, I put my regular picture back on the blog, but my previous entry has the fun picture that David (Hyperblogal) doctored up for me.  If you missed it during the few hours I featured it, just scroll down to the entry before this one.  
I don't do so well with winter, these days.  I more or less just grit my teeth and push through it, trying not to think about the weather and how long it is till spring.  So if somebody can doctor up a picture that causes me to laugh out loud, I appreciate that. 
I've never met David, although I feel as though I know him.  After all, he is the reason my computer is a Mac Mini.  In my comment section and also on Facebook, he extolled the wonders of Apple computers to such an extent that I just had to try one; the Mac Mini was the only one in my price range.  Considering the huge price difference between Apple and Microsoft, I doubt I'll be buying another Mac of any kind.  PC's keep getting cheaper, while Apple products get higher-priced, and we are retired, living on a stringent budget.  When the time comes that I need another computer, I'll probably get what is cheapest.  For now, this Mac Mini is chugging along just fine.  If it ever quits, at least I will always be able to say that I once had a Mac!   


When my husband strolls down memory lane, he sometimes talks about various places in Kansas City where he lived, when he was a kid.  Sometimes he would tell stories that happened when his family lived in the Shirley Apartments, back when he was in the lower grades of school.  For some reason, I've always wanted to know exactly where these apartments were located; Cliff could never quite remember.  
His cousin, Edna, visited recently.  I was asking her how she met her husband, and in the process of telling about the early years of her marriage, she mentioned that she and her husband had lived in the Shirley Apartments.  Well, once I heard that, I stopped her in the middle of her story and said, "Where were the Shirley Apartments?"  
"17th and Jarboe," she answered, without even having to think twice about it.  
It turns out she and her husband lived there at the same time as Cliff's family, and we shared a story that Cliff sometimes tells about some woman attacking his mother, Melva, when they lived there: his mom hit the woman on the head with a pop bottle in self defense, the way he remembered it.  
Turns out it was Edna wielding the pop bottle because that woman was pulling Cliff's mom's hair so viciously.   
"She was a big woman," Edna said, "and she wouldn't turn loose of Melva".  
I don't even know why I cared about these details, but I'm overjoyed to know where the Shirley Apartments used to be, and to have found out who cold-conked who, back in the early fifties.   
Cliff just doesn't talk much about his childhood, so I got a rare glimpse into his past that evening.  


People often assume Cliff was raised on a farm, what with his love of tractors and all things rural.  Not so.  He was born at his parents' home in Versailles, Missouri, but the family moved to Kansas City when he was very young; he attended schools in Kansas City from first grade on (several different schools, because as Cliff says, "We moved every time the rent came due.").  He didn't get to the country until after he married me, and we've been in the sticks ever since.  I like to tell him that if he hadn't met me, he'd probably be living in the suburbs someplace with a boat in the driveway, and not a tractor to his name.  
I'm the one with small-town and rural roots.

The hoist project is finished.

Recently I shared pictures of Cliff erecting a structure intended to support the bargain-priced hoist he bought last spring at a swap-meet.  It needed some work, but Cliff got it working in no time.  
My daughter happened to be here to take a picture the day Cliff actually got the hoist raised to its intended spot.

That plastic barrel is to house the hoist when it isn't in use and protect it from the elements.  

Here you see Cliff putting the hoist to use.  When he's done using it, he'll slide it back into its little barrel-house.  
By the way, Cliff never wore shorts until he was past fifty; then we started walking for exercise, and I convinced him he'd be much cooler if he'd wear shorts.  For a period of two or three years, he did wear them; then he gained weight, they no longer fit him, and he stopped wearing shorts again.  
This year, with one-hundred-degree temperatures for so long, he decided to be brave and buy some shorts.  He's still uncomfortable wearing them in public; he says he feels silly having people see him like that.  I guess that's because he never wore them for so much of his life.  Nowadays unless he's doing something outside or in the shop (weed-eating, welding) that dictate his legs be covered, if it's hot, he's wearing shorts.  

Checking in

Yesterday I said to Cliff, "Your sister Charlene will be calling me soon."
"Why is that?"
"Because I haven't updated my blog lately."
And just like clockwork, Charlene called this morning.  She's the one who lives in St. Louis.
"Have you been traveling?  Is everything all right?" she asked me.
Well, everything is fine, and no, we haven't been traveling.  But every day seems to be "same old, same old", and I don't want to tax my brain trying to come up with something to share with the world.
I do, however, need to put a slideshow on this blog of Cliff building a structure on which he will eventually put the half-ton hoist he bought for a bargain price earlier this year; because Charlene's husband's tractor, the Mahindra, plays a large part in the adventure.  Now, some of you may have seen this already on Facebook or Tales, and I doubt most of my readers will find it very interesting.  But it's for my sister-in-law and her husband.  So there.





This thing is still a work in progress; we'll see how it all works out in the end.  
Oh, Cliff says there's one thing he misses, now that he's retired:  Fridays!  You know, that feeling you have all day Friday at work, knowing that you're going to have two days off?  He misses that.

What's Cliff up to?

The temperature is above 100 degrees, but Cliff is in his shop.  He isn't doing anything strenuous, though.  

He is working with a teeny, tiny piece of a tractor part, a piece of ....

a freshly-cleaned carburetor from an Oliver 550 tractor!  

I realize this is a terrible picture, but hey... deal with it.  

I go out to the shop from time to time to eat a freezer-pop.  We've found out freezer-pops don't taste nearly as good, eaten in an air-conditioned house.  There's something about the way a hot day melts them, turning them to brightly-colored syrup and slush, that makes them yummy.   
Iris doesn't want to leave the air conditioned house, but she also doesn't want me going outside without her.  So she suffers the heat with me.




Here's a brief snippet of Cliff working on the carburetor.  In the background you'll hear the roar of a fan, and Tom T. Hall singing on the XM radio.  
I hate the way Youtube puts links to unrelated videos at the end of my videos.  Does anybody know if there's a way I can prevent them doing that?

Ah, retirement

For two mornings straight, Cliff has gotten up with me, at the crack of dawn.  This morning I wanted to introduce him to the loveliness that is early morning. 
"We should go out and watch the sun come up," I said to him.  
I heard the reluctance in his voice when he said, "Let me go get a shirt on."  
He was wearing nothing but his tighty-whities.  
"Cliff, I wouldn't be scared to go outside stark naked now that we're back here behind the barn.  I always just go out in my nightgown.  There's nobody in a position to see us here."  
He mumbled something, but agreed to go out as he was.
There are some things I had forgotten when I invited Cliff outside at the crack of dawn.  
Because of the arthritis that plagues him, he can barely move when he first gets out of bed.  Some mornings he can't bend down to tie his shoes; I have done it for him a few times when he needed to get going pretty fast.  
Speaking of shoes, Cliff does NOT go outside barefoot.  He's very tender-footed, and if he steps on so much as a grain of sand, he yells as though he'd stepped on a nail.  
However, I assured him that once we walked over about three feet of sidewalk, we'd be walking on the nice, soft grass.  
"Grass won't hurt your feet," I told him.  "Grass is soft."  
We picked up our coffee cups, me walking at a spritely pace, Cliff listing to the left and shuffling along as he's prone to do in the early morning fresh out of bed.  
He stepped gingerly from the sidewalk onto the wet grass and we made our way to the chairs:  one is my gravity chair, the other just an ordinary, sit-up-straight lawn chair.  
"Take your pick," I said.  
He chose the gravity chair, obviously a bad choice, since he kept trying different positions and looking uncomfortable.  So we switched chairs, and he agreed the ordinary chair was better.  
Birds were waking up and singing, but of course Cliff has constant tinnitus in one ear.  "Can you hear the birds at all?" I asked.  
"No, all I can hear is these crickets chirping in my ear."  
After about ten minutes outside, I could see this wasn't Cliff's favorite thing; he was wanting the comfort of his recliner... not that he complained, but I could tell.  
So we came inside to drink the rest of our coffee.  
I guess I'll leave Cliff inside when I go out to see the sunrise.  Some things are better enjoyed alone.  


On another note, we just got back from our first motorcycle ride together since my knee replacement; I was comfortable the whole time (about an hour-and-a-half), and we got back about five minutes before it started raining.  Perfect!  Most enjoyable.

Cliff's last day at work

This afternoon when Cliff clocks in at work, it will be his last day:  He took one of his vacation days for tomorrow, and one for next Tuesday.  This allows him to collect holiday pay for July 4.  
His co-workers had a little barbecue and party in his honor last night.  

How about that cake?  

We only decided a few months ago that he should retire, and now the big day is here.  I have said it before and I'll say it again:  If anybody deserves to retire, it's Cliff.  He was fourteen when he got his first job throwing newspapers out of a station wagon.  When I met him in 1965, he was working at a metal plating shop in Kansas City.  In 1968 he started working part-time for the Country Butcher Shop, and that soon became his full-time job.  He loved being a butcher, although that occupation is the chief cause of the arthritis that now plagues him.  
Work at the butcher shop began dwindling; fewer people were raising their own meat, and Cliff saw the writing on the wall.  I think he went from there to R.B. Rice for three years, until they closed it down.  Then he drove all the way to Marshall, Missouri, to work at a hog butchering facility.  It's the only job he's ever had that he absolutely hated, and he quit just one week shy of a year there.  Then he worked at concrete construction for a couple of guys who were the sons of the owner of the butcher shop where he used to work.  The concrete construction job was hard work, and dangerous, but Cliff loved being outside where he could enjoy the seasons.  
Eventually the brothers disbanded their company, but one of them stayed in the business and Cliff worked for him for awhile, until the time came when there wasn't enough to keep him working steadily.    
I don't remember the exact order in which all these jobs came into Cliff's life, but I do recall each and every one.  He found some sort of pleasure in every job he's ever had except for the one at Marshall.
At some point, jobs dried up everywhere and Cliff drew unemployment.  During this time, I was milking cows and raising baby calves with their milk.  Cliff started helping a local dairy farmer who paid him for his work with Holstein and Brown Swiss bull calves, which I raised.  When the calves were six months old or so, we'd take them to the sale barn.  This really helped out as a supplement to Cliff's unemployment checks.  Cliff, meantime, who had always wanted to be a farmer, got to do some real farming for once in his life.  
A neighbor next door worked at Continental Disc in Liberty; He tried to get Cliff a job there, but the place required a high school diploma:  Cliff had quit school in his junior year.

So in 1993, he went to GED school in the evenings; one Saturday afternoon while he was in the middle of making a pen for my brood sow (yes, I had hogs), his diploma arrived in the mail.  
Our neighbor who worked at Continental Disc had a friend, Velma, who was instrumental in getting Cliff hired.  We owe her a lifelong debt of gratitude for helping someone she didn't even know at the time.  So Cliff was working at his dream job, getting frequent raises, enjoying the first health insurance coverage we'd had in years, and actually getting paid vacations.  We were living high on the hog.
Cliff has always called that place his "retirement villa" because the work is not physically demanding; he figured he could hold down a job there until he died.  
And then this year I convinced him that he needs to experience retirement.  
So here we go, on a new adventure.  Wish us luck!

It's always something

Cliff's brother, two hundred miles from here, found someone who wants to buy our 1988 Ford pickup and is willing to pay almost $4,000 for it.  Trouble is, the pickup has to be transported to Kansas.  I don't drive, remember, so Cliff can drive it there, but he didn't know how he'd get home.  Between him and his brother, Don, they finally devised a couple of different plans of action, depending on what's available Sunday.  
Don is a professional mechanic, and he has some projects he thought Cliff would enjoy helping on, so Cliff figures he'll stay there a couple of nights and come home Sunday afternoon.  I have no desire to go sit in a house in Kansas while Cliff and his brother are playing grease-monkey, so as much as I hated to send Cliff on a four-hour drive alone, I stayed home.  Those people don't even have Internet, for pete's sake!  That, and Don's wife and I have very little in common.  
Cliff was about sixty miles from home when I thought of his meds.  I went to his bathroom and checked:  sure enough, there was his weekly pill-holder.  He'd forgotten all about his pills.  
Now, one of my readers has cautioned me that a person should not suddenly stop taking Lipitor; her husband did that and passed away very shortly afterward.  
Cliff would only be missing two nights pills, but I don't like risk-taking when it comes to my paycheck husband.  
I called the local Walmart and told them my story; the lady there assured me Cliff could pick up enough of his prescription meds at any Walmart to get him through the weekend.  
Sure enough, the druggist in Independence, Kansas, hunted my husband up on the computer and got everything taken care of in short order.  I called Cliff and told him to stop by and pick up his two-day supply of pills.  He sounded relieved.   
All's well that ends well.

An incident from today

Cliff is too sick to go to work today; he got up around ten o'clock and sat in his chair until the Tylenol started wearing off; now he's back in bed.  He asked for more Tylenol, but I reminded him this timed-release version should only be taken every eight hours.  
While the Tylenol was still working for him, lunchtime was approaching, and all Cliff had for breakfast was a half-cup of tomato soup with some crackers.  "Just let me know if you want some lunch," I said.  "I can reheat the tomato soup or fix you something else; personally, I'm going to take this opportunity to have a grilled cheese sandwich."  
"Yeah, that's what I'll have too; a grilled cheese sandwich."  
"But Cliff, you hate grilled cheese sandwiches."  
"I do?"
It's true, he does; he's just forgotten because it's been years since he had one.  Back when we could eat anything we wanted, he let me know early on that grilled cheese wasn't his favorite.  I, on the other hand, love them; anything with melted cheese is good, in my book.  
"Now Cliff," I told him, "I am not going to use this occasion, just because you're sick, to give you something that (a) you don't like, and (b) isn't good for you.  
So I ditched my plans for a cheese sandwich, got frozen veggies and cooked chicken from the deep freeze, and started making our healthy version of chicken gumbo... feeling sorry for myself, of course, because I WANTED MELTED CHEESE.  
As I mixed and added ingredients to the gumbo pan, I thought to myself, "He's in the recliner; he hasn't moved out of it once since he got out of bed.  How would he know if I made a grilled cheese sandwich?"  
So I heated up a cast iron skillet on another burner and started putting my longed-for sandwich together.  
I'd just turned it over in the skillet when I heard Cliff getting out of the recliner.  Uh-oh.  
I grabbed a lid and placed it on the skillet so he wouldn't see what was in it.  
Turns out he had decided to go to bed for awhile; he was feeling pretty puny.  I probably didn't need to cover my evil food.  
Would you believe that was the awfullest-tasting grilled cheese sandwich I've ever had in my life?  I don't know if it was due to guilt (me sneaking around trying to do something without Cliff seeing it), the whole-wheat bread I used, or the fact that I still have a slight fever.  
I can assure you I won't be having a grilled cheese sandwich for awhile.  I've paid my dues.   

Early-morning ramblings

Nancy asked in a comment I posted a couple of days ago, "Did you really post this at 3:14 A.M.?"
Oh yes.  I sleep well most nights; I usually go to sleep within minutes of going to bed.  However, no matter whether I hit the sack at 8 P.M. or midnight, I wake up early.  Usually not at 3 A.M., but often at four, and almost always by five.  I decided years ago that six hours of sleep must be right for me, because I cannot force myself to sleep longer unless I take an over-the-counter sleep aid.  Since I don't have to go to work, I don't often take a pill unless I've had a string of nights of only sleeping four or five hours.  
I'd love to sleep longer.  I lie there awake for an hour, sometimes, hoping sleep will return; it seldom does.  
Michaele left this comment on my previous entry:  "Six miles a day?"
This is in reference to the fact I mentioned walking that far, back in 1983.  
Yes, that year I became rather addicted to walking; there were days I even walked twelve miles.   
It's no wonder my knees are bad, is it?
Here's the scoop:
Cliff worked at a butcher shop three miles from where we lived during that two-and-a-half-year period.  He had a spell of extreme back trouble; he was off work for at least three weeks.  A couple of times he passed out from pain, just getting up to walk to the bathroom.  When he walked, he bent to one side; he absolutely could not straighten up.  
I checked out a book at the library, "The Back Book".  It really enlightened us on back problems and what to do about them.  
One thing suggested in the book was to start walking, because the more you lay around, the worse your back is going to get.  Cliff had tried everything else, including going to KU Medical Center, trying to find relief.  The specialists found very little wrong with him except for some nerve damage and several arthritic spurs, which the doctor said you will find in anybody who does hard physical labor.  There was no medical remedy for these problems.  
So Cliff figured he had nothing to lose; he decided he'd walk the three miles to work every day.  Since I really had nothing better to do, I accompanied him and then walked home alone.  That was my six miles a day.  
When Cliff started walking after being laid up so long, he looked like he was related to a pretzel, leaning to the side from the waist at a precarious angle.  Each day he straightened up a little more until he finally was walking totally upright.  
Cliff's back is still fragile as glass; every morning when he gets out of bed, he lists to one side a bit.  As the day goes on he straightens up, but he always has some degree of back pain.  When weather prevents us going for our daily walk, as it has in the past few days, his back stiffens up even more.  
That butcher shop where he worked for so many years is responsible for most of Cliff's back problems.  He was the strongest person there, so he was the one designated to lift quarter- and half-beefs from one rail to the next.  
You wouldn't believe how strong he was back then, seriously.  One time he had a brush hog mower chained up to a tree lifting it off the ground about three feet, so he could get underneath it and work on it; the chain gave out and dropped it on him.  I was inside the house; he yelled at me, I went running.  He needed me to get on the tractor, turn it on, and lift the brush hog off him.  I didn't have a clue how to do that, so my poor husband, frustrated by my incompetence, lifted the brush hog off of himself enough to squeeze out from under it.  
I remember when our first pig was ready to take to the butcher shop.  We didn't have any loading facilities, but Cliff rigged up something so that hopefully, we could lure the pig up into the pickup bed.  That's the day we learned that pigs are very smart; they know when they're being trapped, and they will go anyplace except where you want them.  After a couple of hours trying in vain to load the pig, Cliff got it cornered, stepped over it, reached down and put his arms around the pig.  Until he stood up with that pig, he and the pig facing the same way, I had not realized how big the animal was:  it's back feet were dragging the ground!  The pig was as long as Cliff was tall.  The feet dragging the ground hindered Cliff from stepping forward with his load, but somehow, amid much squealing from the pig, he got the job done.  Cliff and the pig were about the same weight.  All these kinds of activities, of course, contributed to his "glass" back.  
Speaking of his strength, Cliff had a reputation as an arm-wrestler, so of course everybody wanted to take him on.  The only time I saw him lose (back around 1983), he winked at me so I'd know what was going on and deliberately let a man win.  
He finally stopped arm wrestling when it began leaving him hurting for days after a match.  His right shoulder is afflicted with arthritis from so many years of wielding a knife; it's even somewhat misshapen, and I learned a long time ago not to pat him on the back at that certain spot on his shoulder.  It doesn't take much to make him wince in pain.  
Gee, I was only going to explain the six-mile walk.  I do go on, don't I?  


So far we have twenty-nine people who would like to have PW's latest book.  I hope the person who most wants it, gets it, whoever that may be.  By the way, I have three of her cookbooks to give away later on, in case you never got one back when it first came out.   They're signed, and they're brand, spanking new.  So keep that in mind. 

I slept last night

I took an OTC sleep aid and got in over six blessed hours of sleep before I woke up coughing.  That's the most sleep I've been able to get in four days, and I'm thankful indeed.  
Some folks think I should go to the doctor, because this might be strep.  Well, strep usually runs its course just like colds and influenza.  I realize strep can be serious in children and young people because it can run into rheumatic fever, but how many old ladies have you heard of that died from strep throat or got rheumatic fever?  I'm taking care not to put anyone at risk of catching whatever this is; I was doing some necessary shopping at Walmart over the weekend and one of my favorite people from my favorite church called my name and came toward me with open arms, smiling.  
"Judy," I told her, "you don't want to be hugging me right now; I'm running a fever."  
She wisely stepped back and said, "Well, then, bless you; consider yourself hugged from a distance."  
I don't avoid doctors because of the expense; until next June I have Cliff's insurance plus Medicare, so I don't even have a co-pay.  I just hate to go and have them tell me to let it "run its course".  
Cliff goes back to work today after a three-day weekend, and it's a good thing.  That man does not know how to handle a remote!  When he retires, he and I are going to have to have a talk about television channels, DVRs, and remotes.  (Dear husband, don't take this personally; there was never a man born who knew how to properly use a TV remote. I think it has something to do with the Y chromosome.)  
Football season is almost over.  I'm not a fan, unless you're talking about the local high school games or the Kansas City Chiefs.  In the case of the Chiefs, I don't usually watch the games closely, but I always hope for them to win.  Most years, that is what you'd call hoping against hope.  Every Sunday I've been DVRing three football games so Cliff can watch them at his leisure and zap the commercials.  Last Sunday I told him not to waste his time watching the Chiefs; he took my advice.    
I remember when Cliff first became interested in professional football:  we had moved to north Missouri where we rented a farmhouse, hoping to become real farmers.  We lived there nine months, long enough to realize that you need to pretty much be born onto a family farm in order to have a real farm.  Although we were only a hundred miles away from this area, Cliff was so homesick, it may as well have been a thousand miles.  So in 1975 we came back and located where we are now.  But I digress.  
Cliff was so bored that winter in north Missouri that we went and bought our first color television set; up there in the boonies, only the St. Joseph channel came in really clear; seems like all the Kansas City channels were snowy.  
With color TV, Cliff could tell one team from another, and lacking anything else to do with his weekend time off work, he became an ardent football fan.  I occupied myself reading.  
One Monday night I got so annoyed with this one irritating voice coming from the other room, I went in and shouted at the television, "Oh shut up, you can of crap!"  (I really did say "crap", not a stronger word.)  
I thought Cliff was going to come unglued laughing at me yelling at Howard Cossel.    
Anyhow.  All I have to do now is record a bunch of playoff games on weekends; it will soon be over.  I will half-heartedly watch the Superbowl, just to see the commercials.  
Between commercials, I'll be reading my Nook.

Back to normal

For over a year, Cliff has been working ten-hour days, four days a week.  He would leave for work at 2:30 P.M. and get back home at 3 A.M.  I woke him up each morning at 10 (his request).  He moves slowly in the morning, so by the time he was ready for us to go for our walk, it was usually after 11.  We'd get back before noon and it was time for me to tend to dinner, which was at 1 P.M.  Often I'd prepare something before Cliff got up in the morning and just reheat it.  
As you can see, he didn't have much time for anything else on the four days he worked.  The three-day weekends were nice, though.  
We were only in bed together for an hour or two each night, since I'm always wide awake by 5.  I'd be too hungry to wait till Cliff got up, so we ate breakfast at different times.  
Every three months, the employees where he works have the chance to switch to eight-hour days, five days a week.  He and Tony, the guy he rides with, decided to do it this time.  
I like this so much better!  
We can eat breakfast together; we take our walk, and I still have plenty of time to prepare a meal.  Cliff says eight hours absolutely flies past, after working ten hours for so long.  
Of course, at this stage it's all temporary, since he plans to retire in June anyhow.  He says that ever since he decided to retire, it's really hard to go to work.  He's anxious for June.  
For that matter, so am I.  
Now, on to the weather.  A few days ago the forecast for Christmas Eve was highs in the fifties and sunshine.  "We'll go on a quick motorcycle ride," I told Cliff.  
I should have known better than to trust a long-range forecast.  Now they're talking about sleet and snow and wintry mixes and I don't know what-all.
  
Ever since Cliff's doctor yelled at us about his weight, he's been doing better.  He lost eight pounds, briefly put it back on over Thanksgiving, then lost it again.  Starting New Year's, we're both going to get serious.  I mean, really serious.  I won't be putting that little ticker thing on the sidebar telling what I've lost, because that doesn't seem to help the cause at all, and it makes me feel even worse if I fail, knowing everybody is watching.  
We've done it before, although I'll admit the older we get, the harder it is to lose weight.  But I certainly don't want to face the wrath of that doctor again!  
I won't be harping on the weight thing on this blog; nothing is more boring than hearing about calories and carbs and so forth.  Wish us luck!

What is Cliff doing with all these tractors?

Milly, a city gal, read the previous entry and asked, "Are these antiques?  Special tractors?  And once they are fixed or restored what does he do with them?  
Milly, Cliff just happens to love tractors. 

At one time we had about a dozen of them of various kinds and colors; of the ones in this picture, only two remain.  Some people collect stamps or coins; Cliff collects tractors.  Every one is special to him.  
We do need a tractor for our forty acres, but the newest one in our possession, a John Deere (the green one in the picture), can do the job just fine.  The other tractors hanging around here make up Cliff's very expensive hobby.  
They're more like what you'd call "classic" tractors rather than antiques, manufactured in the sixties and seventies.  

The oldest tractor he has is one he restored with the oldest grandson years ago; it was built in the fifties.  That's it above, before restoration; it hadn't run in several years.  I couldn't find a good picture of it as it looks now, but it's the bright red, shiny one in that first picture.  That grandson is now in his mid-twenties.  Cliff keeps this one for sentimental reasons, and says it will go to Arick eventually.    
The reason he sold off most of his collection a few years ago was that he realized it was silly having all these unused tractors sitting here looking pretty; it isn't good for them to just sit idly by, unused.  
I'm sure you've heard of people restoring antique and classic cars; this is the same, only it's tractors.  
There is no money to be made in fixing up these tractors, and plenty to be spent.  Cliff lost money on most of the tractors he sold; but he had fun working on them, and how does one put a price on fun?  He doesn't golf; he doesn't spend money in bars.  
The huge tractor he's working on in the shop is an 1855 Oliver, far to big to use on forty acres.  But he always wanted to own one, so there it is.  
The little Oliver is actually about the right size for our place, but as I said, we have a John Deere that does everything we need done.  
What does he do with them?  
When he's finished with the small Oliver, he will probably plow the occasional garden with it, and use it to pull trailers around the place; he might take it to a few tractor shows within driving distance, perhaps the ones at Adrian and Booneville.     
The big one?  Once it's completely "broke in" from its engine tuneup, he'll drive it up and down the road and around the pasture once in awhile, I guess.  And walk around it often, admiring its beauty.  
In trying to explain his passion, I've come to the realization that he has a disease!  Tractoritis!  
Do you know of any twelve-step programs for tractor aficionados?  

In Cliff's shop

He has two Oliver tractor projects going at once.  

A facebook funny, kinda

This is what I'm using at present for my Facebook profile picture.  
This morning a Facebook friend, Mike Marlow, left the following comment beneath the picture:  "That's a great picture!  Tell Cliff I almost didn't recognize him with clothes on!  :)"  
That cracked me up, knowing people would be wondering what on earth that's about.  
Mike decided to return and add something:  "That looks a lot better than a hospital gown!  (figured I'd better straighten that out)"
You see, Mike was a respiratory therapist when Cliff had open heart surgery.  Dr. Gallion, the-man-who-walks-on-water, invited Mike to watch the surgery.    
I answered Mike thusly:  "You've not only seen Cliff without clothes, you've seen some of his internal organs!  Even I haven't seen his heart."
And Mike answered, "It was the most amazing thing I've ever seen. I'll never forget it. I'm glad that he's doing well. We should get together sometime soon for lunch or dinner. Tell him hi for me!"  


By the way, here's what it looks like out the window of my computer room.

Doctors

Cliff got up before dawn today; he's practicing for retirement.  
He asked me if I could find a website for Dr. Gallion, the man who did his CABG surgery four-and-a-half years ago.  
I did find a website HERE (scroll down to see the doctor's picture) but it wasn't very impressive, considering Dr. Gallion walks on water.  He went to school at Baylor, in Texas.  If you go to his office, you'll see classy ladies in high heels, dressed to the nines.  Funny stuff, really.  Cliff still smiles when he thinks about the ladies who work for the man who walks on water.  

This is how I remember the good doctor:  he was telling us that Cliff's surgery was successful.  
Keep in mind that Cliff went to see a nurse-practitioner on Tuesday with what he though was indigestion; was referred to a cardiologist, Dr. Nager, the next day; and was scheduled for surgery on Thursday, with doctors who usually require an appointment months in advance.  
But they squeezed Cliff in.  
Oh, Dr. Nager's group is on a website too.  You'll find him HERE.  

This is how I remember Dr. Nager, explaining to Cliff the results of his angiogram.  He didn't make a big impression on us, our first meeting.  But it took him to get us to that man who walks on water.  So I've learned to love him.  He's the one Cliff sees when he needs to check in with a cardiologist.    
Cliff thinks I should write a letter to Dr. Gallion to express our appreciation, and to let him know about the wonderful results of yesterdays stress test.  I did write him a letter of appreciation shortly after Cliff's surgery, and I probably will do so again.  Do you suppose doctors read such letters?    
Here's where it all starts to sound like that old story, "The house that Jack built".  
Cliff would never have seen Dr. Nager had he not gone to our regular clinic to see a nurse practitioner about what he thought was indigestion.  I don't have any pictures of that nurse-practitioner.  
I wouldn't have set up an appointment with that nurse-practitioner if my friend from the outskirts of Washington, DC, had not visited.  I do have pictures of Joanna.

It was cold when she was here, and Cliff didn't really take her for a ride.  They just posed, and I took the picture.  
See, I mentioned to Joanna that Cliff was having indigestion; she said we should have that checked out, because her brother-in-law went to a doctor for "indigestion", and was sent directly to the hospital for heart surgery.  
Which is exactly what happened to Cliff.   
And that's the house that Joanna built.  
So perhaps I need to write four letters.