Have you ever thought about how much time you spend in a day searching for something?
I’m always searching — searching for my car keys, searching for a dropped stitching needle, searching for story ideas or lead paragraphs — or searching for little slips of paper that contain important things like phone numbers or email addresses.
Sometimes I go searching just for fun.
A couple of weeks ago — two days before my Grandma died — I went searching for sheds. It was a beautiful Monday afternoon and I’d taken the day off work to get my dad to a doctor’s appointment. We returned home earlier than expected, and I took full advantage of the 70-plus degree afternoon. Time spent out in nature is never wasted. Time spent looking for deer sheds and having no luck is disappointing — but still not wasted.
These past two weeks I’ve had several hours of disappointing walks looking for sheds, but back on that Monday afternoon — my first time out looking for sheds this year — I found two.
I was so excited! One was a three-point antler, the other a five-point. I took pictures and sent them to my nephew, and then I was chastised for going without him.
In all honesty, if I’d waited for Matt to go searching for sheds with me, he would have found both of them and they wouldn’t be proudly displayed on top of my curio cabinet — alongside the three other antlers (one of which I found, two of which were gifts from Farm Bleat readers).
Searching for sheds not only gets me outdoors, it gets me walking many miles as I follow deer paths, duck under tree branches and step over gopher mounds and downed tree limbs. At the end of the journey, I’m not sure who is more tired, me or my dog, Molly. The poor girl logs many more steps as she follows critter scents hither and yon.
I guess you could say she’s searching, too.
Last Saturday, it wasn’t me that was doing the searching so much as it was my parents and their 9-year-old and 7-year-old grandkids. The kids were guilty of misplacing the television remote during their Friday night sleepover at the farm, and my folks couldn’t figure out how to turn the TV on without it.
They tore the entire living room apart, pulling cushions out of chairs and couches, looking under blankets and behind furniture, pulling everything out of the toy bin and going through the drawers of VHS tapes and DVDs.
There was no sign of the Hershey bar-sized remote control.
Just before two of the three grandkids left for home Saturday night, Reece had made a comment about eating potato chips while they were up late Friday night.
Mom asked, “Do you suppose the remote is in the potato chip bag?”
Well, Reece darted to the kitchen, grabbed the bag and opened it up.
There, among the collection of smashed sour cream and onion Lay’s, was a greasy remote control.
The TV is back to blaring on Sunday afternoon. My parents have their feet up and their ears tuned to some polka dancing show on RFD-TV. That’s their subtle hint to tell me to go home — at least that’s what I tell them.
All is well. The search is over … at least until Dad misplaces his eyeglasses again.