The transition

I moved this little ole blog over to our own hosting last week, but forgot to mention it for anyone who was following via Google, rather than typing in the domain name.

In order to keep up with us in the future, actually visit http://KatieandBrandon.com, or add this feed link to your Google Reader or other RSS reader.

If you were "following" with Google, Google Reader is probably your best bet.

Sorry if we were lost in cyberspace...

[Twitter: @KatieandBrandon]

The immobile mobile phone

That's what I have right now. It looks like it's straight from 1990 and has zero battery life.

Oh, and it causes Brandon to shake his fists in frustration. Daily.

[Aside: It also contributed to my wipe out last week. I was on the phone when that happened with one of my very favorite people, and trying to change some water at the same time. The phone had already died once while I was talking to her and attempted to close two port lids and run back to the truck in time to plug it back in before the battery died. Which failed. So I really didn't want to lose power on her again. In all my hurrying to make it back to the safety of my charger, I didn't notice the mud that caused me to crash.]

The reason the lack of mobility I have with my cell phone frustrates Brandon so badly? For $50+, I could become mobile again.

The catch: in a mere 20 days (which will be a total of about 50 since I lost mobility), I can get a free phone. One that doesn't cost a dime. So for a couple months of inconvenience, I save us a minimum of $50.

Makes perfect sense to me.

Brandon doesn't quite agree.

In his world, I should be attached to that phone 24/7, because that's how he operates. But he operates that way out of necessity for our business. I, on the other hand, could go (and have gone) days without receiving a single phone call, as long as I'm with him. So it's just not that important to me.

And the only time it's really an issue is when I have to work on the backhoe (it's the only piece of equipment without a cigarette plug where I can plug my phone in). Which has happened twice. And believe me, we both remember those two times very well. They were times where Brandon Could. Not. Wait. to tell me something.

And every time I spend $50 on anything, including groceries? I get grilled.

"So, how much was that grocery bill?" he asks.

"$82."

"Hmmm...that could have bought a cell phone."

Then we go through the whole process of me trying to explain that it's not about the spending $50. It's about the spending $50 when, in a few weeks, I can spend $0. And the fact that I don't have that option with other things, like providing sustenance for his hungry belly.

So here we are, roughly 30 days later, still having the same conversations as days one, two and three.

But I'm holding strong.

Only 20 to go...

The cookie monster

Monday afternoon, Brandon discovered one of my grocery purchases from the day before: Blue Bell Fudge Bars. We always have ice cream, but during the summer, he likes to have something cold, quick and portable to run in and grab. So I bought a box of 12 bars for the week, estimating they would get us to the weekend, even if we each ate two a day.

Let's just say my estimate was wrong. I realized that on Monday when Brandon had devoured four fudge bars before supper.

Sure enough, by Thursday, they were wiped out. I had two, y'all. Two. I averaged half a fudge bar each day.

Brandon's average? 2.5.

Then, he had a bad day yesterday. One of those don't-talk-to-me-about-my-problems bad days. [His reasons were totally justified. It was a big deal. And we do talk about things later, after the "mood" has worn off.]

So I got out the reserve break-and-break cookie dough from the freezer, hoping some Toll House chocolate chips would brighten his day a bit.

I don't know if he was trying to drown his sorrow in a plate of cookies, or if they really helped on some level, but he was serious about mowing through them.

I only made 12, thinking that would get us through a couple days, even taking into account Brandon's normal cookie consumption.

Not so much.

Before supper was ready (which went into the oven immediately following the cookies), he had eaten five. Sometime between supper and bedtime, consumed four more. And the midnight snack he grabbed for his 3am irrigation run? The remaining two cookies.

At least I ate one.

But really? Ten cookies in eight hours, half of which he was sleeping? Pretty sure I would have a belly ache.

Becoming a real farmer

So it rained last night.

In all the right ways, thank goodness. It hit the fields where it didn't matter, and pretty much missed the ones where we had hay down. But all that is beside the point.

The real point here is that now my husband thinks he's a bona fide meteorologist. That, or he just has a special connection with Mother Nature.

You see, we've been threatened with a late summer monsoon rain for going on two solid weeks now. Every afternoon, it would cloud up, we could see some rain in the distance, and occasionally catch a far-off lightning bolt, but it never would quite come to fruition in our part of the valley.

Yesterday morning, upon being outside for a mere two hours, Brandon said, "It's going to rain tonight. You watch. I haven't said that with confidence yet, but it will rain tonight."

So this morning, when we awoke to half an inch on one part of the farm, a little more than that on another, one-tenth at our house, and just a few sprinkles where the hay is, Brandon couldn't resist gloating a bit. (If you can imagine that, of course. I mean, let's look past the whole scorpion prediction incident.)

As we were sitting down for lunch, he really let loose with it: "I told you it was going to rain, didn't I? I haven't said that yet, even though it's clouded up almost every day. But I knew it was going to happen last night. I totally called it. Say it ain't so! I'm like the best weatherman ever or something."

"Or maybe you're just finally turning into a real farmer?" I offered.

He didn't appreciate that one very much. "I've been a real farmer."

But at least he was quiet about his rain prediction after that.

The makin' of climbin' trees

A few weeks ago, I finally got around to trimming the trees around our house, which at that point, were in dire need. I had intended to take care of it before Allison visited in early May, if that tells you anything.

Every other time I've been in charge of the tree trimming (Or every time the trees have been trimmed since I said, "I do." However you want to look at it.) I have received quite a bit of criticism, and Brandon has typically ended up whacking the tree to pieces afterward.

This time, I determined, I would get the job done. Even though I always felt like he left the trees a little too bare, I didn't want to catch any grief for "leaving the job half done," like that was what I intended to do or something.

So I worked on my first tree a bit, then had Brandon give me a few pointers on what additional trimming should be done.

These were his instructions:

"You see how I've left these trees a smooth trunk all the way up? That's what makes it a good climbing tree. You want to get any branches that are growing down, and all the little shoots and branches that get in the way of climbing. The main trunks and limbs should be smooth."

"For climbing?"

"Yeah. I've already started making these into really good climbing trees. We need to keep it up."

"Uh, Brandon, who is going to be climbing these trees? You planning on it?"

"Maybe..."

So if anyone is interested in joining Brandon, we have about seven "good climbin' trees" in the making over here.

Why I don't jump the ditches

My parents gave me lots of things: food, shelter, love, nurturing, encouragement, and on and on.

They did not, however, provide me with the DNA required for things like coordination.

Which is why Brandon had to be so careful with his purple big toe, and often calls me "Grace," followed by a "Yeah right..." under his breath.

Anyway, a point of contention in our marriage we often is meet is the fact that I don't (or won't, interpret it how you will) jump the irrigation ditches.

This drives Brandon absolutely up the wall. Because when it's time to work the only action words allowed are "Go!" and "Fast!" — definitely not "Take an extra 20 seconds to run to the closest bridge."

But I do it anyway. I'd like to think it's just to watch him roll his eyes, because that's awfully cute, you know, but it's not. It's because I know my ditch-jumping skills very well. They don't exist.

Anyway, Brandon doesn't exactly appreciate this, because it takes a little extra time (in the form of seconds, y'all). But I place my safety, well-being and dryness above his disdain.

And until Friday, I could say that in 2.5 years of irrigating, I had never really fallen into the ditch.

One time last summer, I had a leg get pulled in by a giant check that just had too much weight behind it (in the form of a wall of water) for me when I started yanking on it to get it out of the ditch.

But I had yet to slip and fall while lunging across the water. I took great pride in this.

I can't tell you how many times I've had someone ask me, upon watching Brandon jump a ditch, if we ever fall in. And my standard response? "Brandon does."

Because he does. All. The. Time.

Now, we do have a few smaller ditches I will attempt to jump if there's not a close bridge. But we have this one ditch, at the field we have cotton in right now, that is a monster. And I NEVER jump that sucker.

Wouldn't you know, that this field is primarily my responsibility, too (as Manager of Rocker 7 Farms West and all). And has big gaps between the bridges. Meaning, I sometimes have to walk down five borders or so before I can safely cross.

Most of the time, I'm okay with that. But some days, when it's 115 out, and there are bad spots on the ditch bank (where all the dirt has been washed away, leaving only the concrete edge of the ditch itself, testing my coordination skills to the max), I look at the other side longingly, wishing I could jump.

There was only one place down the entire ditch I ever attempted to jump. There, the concrete had cracked and shifted, creating a little ledge on one side, if you will. When the ditch was only half full of water there, I could land safely on that ledge without having to chance stretching all the way across the thing.

I had to work in this particular spot Friday afternoon. So I braved it and jumped across, safely making it to The Other Side to close the port hole. Coming back?

Not as graceful.

There was a lining of mud that had crept it's way up into my landing ledge. So, as I'm sure you can imagine, as soon as my foot hit it, I slipped. And crashed. Wiped out.

Did I mention this field is also right along a busy road? Routinely traveled by Brandon's friends and fellow farmers? Who drive by honking and waving all the time?

Yeah...

So before I could even fully take in the pain of my wipe out, I scrambled to my feet and ran to the truck, hoping I could make it out of there before anyone we knew saw me.

Once there, this is what I saw:

Ouch. Is all I have to say.

So I immediately called Brandon and told him to never give me a hard time about not jumping ditches again, because clearly, I'm not cut out for it.

I also asked to be placed on the injury list for weekend irrigating.

I'm limping down the ditch bank (and across the bridges) instead.

Other people say y'all. ...Right?

When Brandon and I began our trip to Colorado, he said, "You know, about every other person we'll see up there is from Texas."

"Vacationers or people who have relocated?" I inquired.

"Both."

Indeed, he was right. On a 30 yard stretch of sidewalk in town, there were two people wearing Texas shirts. We passed cars with TCU, A&M and t.u. decals. While eating supper, a couple walked in carrying a baby decked out in t-sip attire.

Seriously. Everywhere you looked, there were signs of Texas. Which didn't bother me at all, of course.

Anyway, the last night of vacation, we were coming down from the mountains and decided grabbing a good burger sounded good.

And it was.

As our waitress was making her final round at our table, she asked Brandon, "Are y'all ready for y'all's check?"

As soon as she left to retrieve it, Brandon told me, "Hundred bucks says she's from Texas."

"Why do you say that?"

"She said 'y'all'."

"Other people say y'all."

"Nooo, noo, no. Not like that. She said 'y'all' twice in one sentence. I'm telling you, she's from Texas."

"Brandon, other people say y'all. I've heard it."

So the waitress returns, check in hand.

Before she even reached our table, Brandon asked, "Are you from Texas?"

"Yeah...why?"

"The 'y'all's'," Brandon replied, "Because she [pointing to me] is too, and thinks other people say it too."

"Oh, yeah," she said with a red face. "Where are you from?"

"Close to Houston," I replied. Because being from Texas does not mean you automatically know where my town is.

"Me too," she said. So, of course, I inquired further.

Turns out, she grew up in Baytown, which is probably 23 miles from my parents' house.

She asked if I was going to Gatorfest this year. Apparently she's a fan.

But seriously, other people say y'all, right?