Tag Archives: brothers

If these walls could talk, I’d be scared

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I couldn’t help but laugh out loud while reading a short story in the Daily Globe the other day about Iowa Gov. Terry Branstad’s weekend deer hunt.

The photo of the eight-point buck caught my eye, but the part of the story that grabbed my attention was his wife’s declaration that the soon-to-be mounted head could hang in Branstad’s office in the Iowa Capitol. It would not be welcome in the Governor’s mansion.

I would have to agree with Mrs. Branstad on this one.

One of my best friends from college married a man who had a giant moose head hanging on his living room wall. My first thought, aside from the fact that the head took up an incredible amount of wall space, was that Mary would have to wake up every morning for the rest of her life looking at that large critter on her wall. She was obviously OK with that — the two are still married and, for all I know, have added other critters on other walls of their home.

I grew up in a home where there were no mounted deer heads, no mounted trophy fish — just one pair of Texas longhorns that, to be honest, I’ve never thought enough about to ask where they came from.

The longhorns now hang on a wall in the basement rec room on our family farm. They don’t get a second glance, for the most part, from those of us who grew up there. However, a couple of years ago I learned from my younger nieces and nephews why they are too scared to play in the basement without adult supervision. They think the longhorns are going to get them!

As far-fetched as it sounded to me at the time, I can sort of relate.

One of my older brothers shot a coyote a couple of weeks ago and, after proudly posting a photo on Facebook of his hunting success, my sister-in-law commented that she couldn’t wait for it to be displayed in their home.

Seriously?

The bad thing about Facebook —or any written word — is that the tone doesn’t come across in the writing. I wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic or really, truly excited about a dead coyote being on display in the family’s living room.

It turns out she’s the latter.

I can’t imagine getting out of bed in the morning, walking into the living room and facing a fierce-looking, fanged coyote to start off my day. On the other hand, I could potentially consider it a form of exercise. I would probably jump and my heart would start to race. I’d instantly think some dangerous critter worked its way into my home overnight, and then, just as instantly, realize — oh yeah, it’s stuffed.

Randy’s plans for the stuffed coyote actually sound kind of cool. It will be displayed with a stuffed pheasant in flight, quite similar to a piece my nephew had done recently with a red fox and pheasant combination. I did see that particular piece and thought it was really cool.

I do admire the art of taxidermy. In fact, I’ve seen many Facebook photos of the work Brian Almberg has done in his studio outside of Worthington. Sometimes I wonder who in the world would want a stuffed alligator gar in their house, but that’s beside the point.

My brothers are lucky enough to have spouses who are OK with displaying their hunting stories — that’s a large part of why hunters get their prey stuffed — to display in the house. I, on the other hand, will stick to the art of needlework and displaying those proudly on my walls. It just so happens that my next big project will be a scene of pheasants in flight. If it ever gets finished, my brothers can argue over who will get to hang it in their house … perhaps next to a real, stuffed, pheasant.

Just so they know though, I will never — ever — be asking to display one of their hunting trophies anywhere in my house.

It’s amazing we survived childhood

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One of my co-workers said Friday that growing up on a farm was like surviving a death trap.

The comment came after I and another former farm kid shared stories of electric fences, PTO shafts and broken bones.

Laura, our resident city slicker (she grew up in South St. Paul), started off the conversation by saying, “When you guys were growing up, kids actually played outside.”

Well, of course we did. What else was there to do? (Back then we didn’t have home computers, video games, cell phones and iPods to keep us entertained.)

Our farm south of Worthington was a jungle gym, race course, torture chamber and adventure land all rolled into one. Add my three brothers to the mix and yes, I suppose one could say we did survive a death trap.

As a kid, I remember thinking it was fun to put my fingers on the smooth PTO shaft as it ran at full speed. I’m sure I had no idea it could lead to multiple broken bones in my hand or the loss of an arm. Then again, maybe I was just one of those kids who thought it wouldn’t happen to me.

So many of the things we did as kids on the farm probably weren’t well thought-out. Today, I cringe when I think about all the things that could have happened.

Oh sure, there was that episode when one of my brothers got bucked off a Holstein calf and hurt both his rear-end and his pride; and the multitude of times we held back giggles when we told each other the electric fence had been switched off when indeed it hadn’t. There’s also that episode I’ve mentioned a time or two before about breaking my arm and spending two weeks in traction in a Sioux Falls hospital all because of a pedal John Deere tractor.

Then I think about the times when something really nasty could have happened and didn’t — like when a Holstein calf took me for a ride down the pasture lane as a kid, or when we speared carp with pitchforks in our bare feet after the Ocheyedan Creek overflowed its banks and created a pond in our back pasture.

And what was the deal with the electric fence — I’m pretty sure none of us were ever standing in a puddle of water when the zap stole our breath away.

I guess the greatest lesson the electric fence taught us kids was never to trust anyone — especially not a sibling!

We also learned not to trust horses and siblings operating motorized vehicles.

My oldest brother was taken for a ride through the evergreens by a spooked Shetland pony (that was the end of the horse, not the brother!), and another brother ran into the corner of the garage with the go-cart (again, that was the end of the go-cart, not the brother!)

Lest you think my parents had some kind of trend going on here, I’ll just say there’s an old, heavy duty John Deere pedal tractor still lingering around on the farm — the very one that led to a metal rod being put in my left elbow for a while. My mother refuses to part with it.

I’m reminded of that mean green tractor every time the weather changes and my elbow pops.

Feel the burn

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I noticed a scratch on my finger Monday morning. I’m not sure how it got there, though I’m guessing the treble hook of my walleye lure may have had something to do with it.

Anyway, by the end of the day, it seemed I was bumping my index finger against something every few minutes and then wincing a bit in pain.

It was time to get out the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Oh, I’m sure there are other, more modern treatments for cuts and scrapes – and I probably even have a couple of them in my medicine cabinet – but the first thing I thought of was the liquid in the little brown bottle.

I had a bit of a dilemma, however. It’s been a really long time since I’ve had to use hydrogen peroxide on a cut, and I couldn’t remember if it hurt or not. (A person must brace herself for the pain, you know!)

My only memory of hydrogen peroxide as a kid was the way it sizzled on a cut.

Well, after first wetting a cotton ball, applying it to my owie and seeing absolutely no sizzle, I decided to pour some of the clear liquid directly onto the wound.

And there it was – the sizzle – along with an intense throbbing of my finger. Hmm, so I had forgotten about the pain that comes with hydrogen peroxide.

As I watched the sizzle, I was reminded of one of those “growing up” moments with my three brothers on the family farm. We had all gotten into the medicine chest a time or two in our younger years. In other words, we were old enough to know you put hydrogen peroxide instead of rubbing alcohol on a cut, and nothing was ever bad enough for Mom to get out the bottle of mercurochrome – that stuff not only stung, it painted our skin a hideous orange-red color.

Any way, as familiar as I was with treating wounds, I was less than familiar with certain cleaning supplies.

One day my brothers (I think the older one and the younger one plotted this coup) had discovered a bottle of ammonia in the house. They were going on and on about how great it smelled, and said I needed to take a really big whiff of it to get the full effect. (They may have said it smelled like roses or lilacs – I really can’t recall.)

As we stood just inside the back door of the garage, I should have realized something bad was going to happen. After all, we were in the one spot hidden from the view of Mom’s kitchen window – that alone should have put me on red alert.

But no, I was my typical gullible self!

My recollection of the event is rather fuzzy because, well, I think that big whiff I took from the bottle instantly killed a bunch of my brain cells. I have never felt that much of a burn in my forehead since that horrible day. I thought I was going to die.

It ranked right up there with the time one of my brothers maneuvered the three wheeler in such a way that when the innertube and I hit a snowbank, the tube went flying and I did a belly-flop on the driveway. Again, I thought I was going to die.

Isn’t it strange that both of those incidents involved my brothers? Yeah, not strange at all!

Sometimes I think it’s a wonder I ever made it to adulthood having grown up with the three of them.

To My Valentine

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As I was proofreading the pages tonight for our weekend edition of the Daily Globe, I came across a story our copy editor had plugged in at the bottom of Page 1. It was in the "Can You Believe This?" section, our paper’s daily news snippet of the wacky and real.

Well, Ashley found a story that was right up my alley … a story about farming and Valentine’s Day all rolled into one.

Now, my Valentine’s Day comes and goes without so much as a single red rose, a box of chocolates or some fancy schmancy piece of jewelry.

I was actually relieved that it was on a Sunday this year. I don’t have to sit at my desk and watch as vases of beautiful flowers are brought in for the "married or dating" co-workers, or listen as they brag about their evening out with their significant other.

Nope, this year I can sit at home, read my new stash of library books and forget all about the day of romance. I’ll even make sure not to turn on the TV, lest I see one of those darn tear-jerker Hallmark card commercials!

Most of all, I can be thankful that I don’t have a significant other like Bruce Andersland of Albert Lea. Just read about his Valentine’s Day gift to his wife …

ALBERT LEA (AP) — Nothing says “I love you” like a half-mile wide heart made out of manure.

A southern Minnesota man created the Valentine’s Day gift for his wife of 37 years in their farm field about 12 miles southwest of Albert Lea.

Bruce Andersland told the Alberta Lea Tribune that he started the project with his tractor and manure spreader Wednesday and finished Thursday.

His wife, Beth, said it’s the biggest and most original Valentine she has ever received. She said some people might think it’s gross, but she said it’s cute and “Why not do something fun with what you got?”

She said the heart would be darker except for the recent heavy snowfall that mixed with the manure.

Now, I must commend Bruce on his creativity. After 37 years, I can see where this might be just as good a gesture as any … hey, at least he remembered it was Valentine’s Day.

I love Beth’s comment about doing "something fun with what you got," but I can just imagine other farmers trying the same thing on a less-than-understanding woman!

As a farm girl with brothers who wrapped up a frozen cow pie to give me for Christmas one year when we were growing up, I can say without a doubt that manure is never on a woman’s wish list … no matter what holiday!

All I can say is, thank goodness my brothers didn’t go out looking for a heart-shaped, frozen cow pie to give me on Valentine’s Day! (Oh, wait a minute … brothers giving their sister a Valentine? That’s just wrong … even if it is of the cow dung variety.)

Sometimes love just stinks!

When the news hits too close to home

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I was chatting with Daily Globe photoguy Brian Korthals late Thursday afternoon when co-worker Kari Lucin walked up, shoved a couple of papers in my hand and said, “Read it.”

I paid the papers no mind and continued talking with BK about GPS systems in combines.
Then Kari grew more adamant … “Read it,” she said again.

It wasn’t until I read down to the third paragraph that I fully grasped the information thrust into my hands.

I think my first words were, “Oh my God … my brother is losing his job.”

My oldest brother has worked at Farley’s and Sathers, under its assorted name changes, since he was in high school. For 26 years he’s gone to work day after day in the company’s packaging facility.

And yet, when I grabbed for the phone at work, my first call was to Mom and Dad.

My second call was to the public relations contact at Farley’s & Sathers, and the third call was finally to my brother Kevin … the one who constantly comes to my rescue when I have a leaky pipe, an exploded water heater and a sidewalk that is literally breaking apart.

To be honest, I didn’t know what to say to Kevin when I called him. I still don’t.

What do you say to someone who has given his life to a company for 26 years and, in an instant, finds that life turned upside down?

I must say, Kevin seemed to take the news a whole lot better than I would.

“What can you do?” he asked.

Get angry, scream and holler, kick something, punch something … I don’t know. That’s what I might do. And then I would break down and cry.

As a reporter, I didn’t have time to do any of that. I called Michelle Graber and asked question after question … all the while feeling like someone had sucker-punched me.

The call to my brother was a little less professional. It was a call out of concern.

Still, I couldn’t resist typing in a couple of notes … until he heard the click-clack of my keyboard and quickly told me that anything he said was not for print.

There’s a fine line between telling your sister something and telling a reporter something. I will not cross that line when it comes to my family or my friends, and thankfully I found a source that was willing to talk “on the record” about losing his job.

If I’d had more time, I would have wanted to talk to more employees … those who have been there for 10, 20 or 30 years or more. I can’t imagine what’s going through their minds right now.

As it is, my brother will continue to work in his job at Farley’s & Sathers until “sometime between Jan. 4 and Jan. 18.”

My parents will suddenly notice the Jujyfruits, Rain-blo and Now & Later trailers are no longer passing by their farm when the first quarter of 2010 comes to an end.

As for me, well, I will never forget my first – and only – assembly-line job. Those paychecks from Sathers during the summer of 1993 helped fund my final year of college at SDSU.

Oh, how I feared getting my fingers caught in the hot sealer machine … or not keeping up with the circus peanuts on the manual bagging line. I figured anything I did wrong on the night shift would inevitably be reported back to my brother on the day shift.

And, well, you know how brothers can be!