Problem Solving with Lauren

I had great plans for Friday. I was going to mow grass and move hay in addition to capturing the horses for farrier day (equine pedicure) Saturday. There was a wrench in those plans though. First my grandma was in a minor car accident and I had to sit in the emergency room while the doctor told her she had whiplash. Then when I finally got home to mow I found a flat on the lawn mower. Initially I aired it up and had about fifteen or twenty minutes of mowing without problem. Then it went flat. Then it wouldn’t air up when I drove the compressor down to it on the four wheeler. Then the four wheeler wouldn’t start. This brings me to today’s blog, Problem Solving with Lauren.

1.      Discover problem

2.      Stare at it ineffectually

3.      Cry

4.      Curse

5.      Wander seemingly aimlessly around the farm while actually being on a quest for a certain tool that you know you own, but actually cannot find. Anywhere. In this case, a M***** F****** Jack. (Step five actually includes repeating steps three and four)

6.      Get pissed

7.      Turn into Farm MacGuyver and make a jack out of a stick and an overturned wheelbarrow

8.      Apply physics

9.      Shout, “Yeah, take that B****” at the inanimate object of your choosing

10.  Air up tire and go about your merry, feeling on top of the world until the next piece of equipment breaks

With a long enough lever man can move the world. Or a lawn mower. Take that Murphy. You know where you can shove your stupid law!

Barnyard Tales Chapter 6. Death Wish

Have you ever pictured the great moments in your life as if they were in a book?

“The weathered barn wood slipped past her fingertips. The texture immortalized itself in her memory even as the sensation flew past. It was gone in a moment, but that moment lasted forever. The sensation of hand hewn wood would be with her forever; always drifting right past the ridges and whorls, always right out of reach. Her body turned with the effort of reaching for the wood. One leg struck a board catapulting her sideways; saving her life.

Milliseconds to outsiders felt like slow motion to her. Every sense was alive. The air rushing past her face. The delicate sensation of her foot slamming into oak and sending her shoe flying helter skelter. The hard shove of a stair upon her back and the finality of her concrete bed as she gazed up towards the heavens from whence she had come.

The girl was dazed, confused. She stared towards heaven wondering that she was alive. Golden straw peaked around the edges of the gaping space. Like a gilt picture frame on her demise. Pain was distant then; but the longer she lay the more her muscles cried out in agony, the stronger came her bodies cry. Soon it would be insistent. Soon she would not be able to ignore the call. The girl debated lying there longer. But who would come? Who would hear her pleas and cries?

No one. She was destined to be her own white knight. She rose, shakily at first, but more confident with each passing second. Rough barn wood was again beneath her fingers and hands she levered herself up and slowly climbed the stairs. Her jeans were ripped. Her body torn. Her eyes swam with concussive force.

Slowly she walked towards the house. Slowly she climbed the stairs. Slowly she entered and stoically she took what came.”

Actually, no, she didn’t take that stoically. As soon as I told my mother that I had fallen through the barn loft it went something like this:

Mom: “Are you okay?”

Me: “Yeah, I think so.”

Mom: “Is anything broken? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Me: “I don’t think so.”

Mom: “Well, that was stupid. You won’t do that again will you? I told you to be careful up there. Now get your ass back outside and finish feeding the horses.”

And then I cried. Not the pretty stately crying, but the "is that girl sobbing or beating a dying moose to death with a sick eagle" kind of crying. Because I make a sucky heroine. But I did go find my shoe and finish feeding the horses. And I did become really sensitive to falling off of things, like straw bales, in barn lofts, when there are access holes cut in the floor that lead directly to the barn basement. Because, I LEARN.

Except, maybe not because I fell through another barn just last year. Damn. I really am a sucky heroine. I'm like, hand me the flashlight and let me take a shower by myself in the haunted house with a lightning storm. Nothing bad will happen this time. Really! As much as I go into run down barns it is apparent. Clearly I have a death wish.

An amusing side note: I also only landed one half of my body on the step and I got a hematoma the size of a softball on one side of my butt. My parents both thought it was hilarious to say, “Only Lauren could fall through a barn and do a half assed job. It would have killed anyone else.” *snicker, snicker*

They’re so sympathetic.

Barnyard Tales Chapter 5. Automatic Truck Wash

Everyone has an enemy. At age 15 mine was an enemy of the most vile sort, an ex friend. We had played together as children. We had ridden horses all over the combined acreage of our families and beyond. She taught me how to ramp four wheelers and do donuts. We nearly died together multiple times. She taught me how to drive.

Alright, so her teaching me how to drive actually involved her coming over to my house and persuading me to take out the truck destined to be mine into the front pasture for lessons while it was loaded up with five hundred pounds of wooden posts and the ground was wet. It ended poorly, go freaking figure, but it was educational! I learned that you can’t really rock a five speed, burned clutch smells AMAZING, and believe it or not cat food does not give traction to F250s. I know. I know. Mind blowing, right?

I also learned that my parents have the world’s best senses of humor in the history of life. They got home and noticed the truck was missing. Panicked. They saw it in the pasture and my then friend and I came flying across the expanse on her four wheeler, arguing and bawling, as I told her that I was not going to lie to them and tell them someone tried to steal the truck. Then they started laughing their asses off.

I’m pretty sure that if I had normal parents I would be dead. If my poor four wheeler driving skills had not ripped the down spouts off the barn with the manure spreader, maybe anyone else would have thought it was funny; but I doubt it. I’m trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

Actually, I was a pretty straight-laced kid which is why my then friend and I split up. I wanted to stay home and read. She wanted to go out and drink. It led to some quarrels as you can imagine. Then things escalated. We would come home to find the horses loose. Gates pushed inward so it was obvious the animals did not unchain them themselves. There were flip flop prints! Trees were mysteriously cut down across the driveway. Mischief was everywhere. It ran rampant. We had to bicycle lock the paddocks closed after one particularly bad fight amongst the stallions. But the crowning glory was that poor old truck.

To this day there is some debate about what really happened, but I am telling you the tale as I believe it. Mostly because if I am wrong then I caused even more property damage and should probably be an indentured servant right now.

The old grey F250 was the farm truck. Earlier that day I had loaded it up and taken the trash back to the holler for disposal. I parked it in its place of honor beside the granary as I always did, which is to say in neutral with the parking brake on. (Appropriate parking was not included in my lessons. Give me a break!) I thought nothing of it. It was the same scenario that had played out a thousand times before. I left the truck and went over to a friend’s house until after dark.

About nine pm my dad heard the horses making a ruckus outside and went to investigate. He shone the light around and saw no horses loose and then he noticed it. A faint glimmer from the lake behind the barn. He walked closer. The narrow beam of the flashlight illuminated an empty space where the truck should have stood. With a sigh he turned the light towards the double gates by the barn, as he feared they were standing wide open from the force of a two ton pick-up truck rolling backwards down a slight incline. He walked through the gates, sure now that he knew what the glimmer was in the lake. The silver of the hood was just barely visible through the murky water. The headlights shone through the liquid like blurry mirrors reflecting the fiery anger back at him that I am sure he must have felt in that moment. In the distance an owl hooted. Without a word he returned to my mother in the house.

“That’s something you don’t see every day.” He said with characteristic aplomb.

“What was it?” She asked, expecting another escapade.

“Oh, just my truck in the lake.” They stared at each other for long moments before calling me and telling me to, “Get my ass home.” Because I had to “go swimming.”

Yes, they made me swim out and hook a chain to the truck so that we could pull it out with the tractor. And that is how I learned what a lee spring is. Mom stood on the bank cracking jokes about my failed attempt at a drive through carwash, as I freaked out about shorting wires and being in a LAKE. To occupy my time I took stock of the mushy surroundings and noticed that the parking brake was no longer set. The owl hooted again, and over the sound of the tractor I still swear I heard my former friend's laughter.

This hangs over my dad's desk. Talk about a sense of humor.

And after that the truck still ran. I can honestly say that you can’t drown a F250. There you go Ford. You are built tough, and clearly you are the only brand that can stand up to my abuse. Now you just need to start making some downspouts…

Barnyard Exposure aka Games Farm Kids Play That Others Don't

One special thing about growing up on a farm is that you are exposed to a lot that most people in less rural areas don’t get the pleasure of experiencing.

Take for example the classic barnyard game of, “Find the mummified animal in the barn loft!” Maybe you want a rousing round of "Mommy what are those two horses doing?" Or perhaps you want to play “What did the dog drag into the yard now?”

Honestly, I don’t know how kids understand biological sciences without these great teaching experiences. There is nothing like tripping over the crusty remains of a raccoon or possum to teach you about the important part oxygen and heat play in decomposition. And there is nothing like the combination of spring on a farm and tripping over a mystery skull to learn about anatomy, and for bonus points figure out what animal the bones came from. Deer? Cow? What kind of femur is that anyway?

I. Am. So. Lucky. <- trace amounts of sarcasm mixed with actual gratitude

The really strange thing is that growing up with this you become used to it. It doesn’t seem strange. You walk around the dog knawing on some sort of hide. You learn to not panic seeing a dried snake baled into the straw. I  honestly never thought anything of it until I brought my city born and raised best friend and roommate home with me for the first time about six years ago.

I will never forget the look of horror on her face the first time she stepped out of the car.

J, horrified: “Lauren, what is that?”  The look of revulsion in her eyes startled me. I followed her pointing finger expecting to see a decapitated kitten, or something similarly tragic. Instead I saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Me, blasé: “Oh, that? That’s a spine. Looks like a deer I think. Come on in.”

Honestly, it is a miracle that she ever came back.