Waterworks

What happens when my husband gets me a brand new bathroom for Christmas?

I trash it.

So maybe "trash" isn't exactly correct. But "temporarily damage" definitely is.

After more than four years, Brandon finally decided it was time to actually make a master bathroom out of the hole in our house where birds kept nesting.

He kept insisting he wanted to "finish what he started" when he demolished the entire room (stripped it down to the drywall and concrete and knocked out a giant window). Sometime this November, he realized as long as he was farming, this was not going to happen. So he broke down and hired someone.

And as of yesterday, we had a functional, pretty bathroom, with just a few final touches to add. Okay, so maybe a countertop and sink for the vanity isn't exactly a "final touch", but if you really knew what we started out with, you might think so.

So, yeah. Shower and toilet are installed and working. We have a tile floor I want to replicate in the rest of our house. I have a pretty red wall. And the vanity, which was by far the most difficult to component to come by, is installed. Unfortunately, my driving resulted in a cracked sink in the countertop that came with it.

I will fully admit I had absolutely no grasp of reality when it came to home remodeling/repair until 2009. Until then, I was a poor college student who could call a landlord for repairs, and just dealt with the things I didn't like about my rental residence. Brandon had already spent several years working on this house before I came on board. He just laughed at me when, every time he sent me to the store after a needed item, I would call and say, "Are you sure we need this? You must have no idea how expensive these things are. Can't we just get by without it?"

...I'm pretty sure some of this was just an exercise for me on spending money when we need to.

Anyway, the vanity. After checking Lowe's (three times), Home Depot and Ikea, I told Brandon there was no way I could spend what was required to purchase a brand new vanity, sink/countertop and faucet. So we began looking on Craigslist. The one I really wanted was about two inches longer than we needed, and stood against the opposite wall than it would in our house. Another one I really liked was on the northeast side of Phoenix, and their asking price was too high. And so on...

I finally, the night before I left Texas, found a suitable vanity, complete with a double-sink countertop. The faucets were ugly, but I found a couple for $25 at Home Depot (which, if you've ever walked down the aisle of faucets, you'll know this is cheap).

So I take this thing home, park my truck, and fly out the next morning. When I get home, Brandon informs me somewhere between when I picked it up and it getting to our house, one of the sinks cracked.

And that's where we stand. An installed, open-top vanity in our otherwise-complete new bathroom.

Other "finishing touches" yesterday included me installing light bulbs in the bar over the mirror, and electrical/light switch plate covers. Things like that.

I was screwing in the second light bulb when Brandon called. Still on the phone, I was climbing out of the open-top vanity (I had to stand in there to reach the lights), and must have kicked the sink valve.

I turned around to find a wall of water (remember, these valves haven't been opened in nearly five years, which builds up a lot of pressure) spraying up my pretty red wall, on the ceiling, to the floor, and basically soaking everything in there. Including the inside of our open-top vanity.

I started shouting into the phone, "Oh, no! Oh, no! Noooo! I just ruined our pretty bathroom! My red wall!"

...As I reached through the waterfall to close the valve.

The aftermath was not so pretty. But most of the damage was easily taken care of with some towels.

I am concerned I may have fried the electrical outlet. It started making a buzzing sound after I got the water turned off, then a snap sound, and it's been quiet ever since. And it's the only outlet in the entire bathroom.

The only really bad damage was the ceiling:

My untrusty valve:

Let's just say it was quite the experience for my first big home improvement project.

Wherin we get wiped out by an eighth grader

I have to begin with this fact: I now have giant brothers.

We went to Texas for Christmas to find I am the family runt. My baby brother has a good fifteen pounds and two inches on me. My older baby brother has twenty pounds and five inches on me.

Five inches, y'all.

As in, Brandon and my brother who I witnessed being born are now the same height.

So, the boys thought they would be able to throw their weight around a little more now.

On my second day in Texas, they challenged my sister and I (she's been taller than me most our lives) to a game of basketball, thinking they would finally be able to beat us.

But, they didn't even come close. We ended up not even really keeping score because we didn't want to embarrass them. Let's just say we would have won by a very decent margin.

After that game, we decided to have a Christmas Morning Boyer Family Basketball Showdown.

We paired up like this: Katie, Brandon and Morgan vs. Calli, Eric and Mason.

In our team huddle before the game started, I directed Brandon to guard Calli (she was by far the biggest threat), Morgan to take Eric, and I would have Mason.

Morgan questioned me on this: "But Katie, Mason can beat you up. Are you sure you want to guard him?"

I responded with, "Morgan, who on that team can't beat me up?"

And Brandon added, "Uh, she has a point, Morgan."

Anyway, the game finally started. In the first possession, Calli came down with a rebound and swinging elbows, nearly knocking me out when one of them caught my forehead. The next day, she had a bruised elbow and I had a red bump on my head.

On the third possession, I had the ball at the top of the key (the imaginary one, since we were playing in the driveway), and managed to get around my defender. One step in front of the goal, I lifted into the air to make what I thought would be an easy layup over the front rim.

The next thing I knew, however, Mason and I were tangled up, sprawled out on the concrete. Apparently, he was thinking more along the lines of me being a football receiver catching a pass in the end zone, rather than a basketball player going up for a layup. I now have a sore hip and a couple bruises to show for that.

A bit later in the game, Brandon crashed the board for a rebound, and ended up flat on the concrete after another tackle by Mason.

Toward the end of the game, Brandon took two more turns being wiped out on the ground by Mason jamming a knee into his thigh.

And let me tell you, these are only the highlights. They don't count the endless over-the-backs, bear hugs and elbow throws Mason dished out during the game. To his own teammates as well.

Despite the linebacker on my sister's team, Brandon, Morgan and I ended up winning the game 20 to 10. I'm pretty sure Calli is going to have Eric running sprints and doing drills in preparation for our next game.

And Brandon and I will be searching for football pads to wear.

Hey, what's this?

We had a wonderful Christmas with my family. All but the last ten minutes anyway.

My sister, almost brother-in-law, Brandon and I were saying the last goodbye to my aunt before heading home. The goodbye went a little long, and Brandon became bored.

A friend of my cousin had arrived a few minutes earlier and left her keys on the kitchen counter near us. The keys included what Brandon described as "a flashlight/lighter looking thing".

And of course, he just had to play with it and figure it out.

He picked it up and said, "Hey, what's this?"

...Right before he found a button that released a giant puff right in the middle of the five of us.

I'm sure you can already imagine what the key ring held.

Two seconds later, I said, "My nose is a little tingly."

Three seconds later, we were all doubled over. On fire.

From pepper spray.

I had my face in the kitchen sink. Everyone else escaped outside.

We spent the next ten minutes coughing, choking, gargling water, and basically feeling like we stuffed habanero peppers in our noses and down our throats.

Somehow, it seemed like I caught the worst of it, even though it practically blew directly into my aunt's face and merely side-swiped me.

When I had finally recovered enough to laugh about the situation (when we had all made it into the car and five miles down the road), I said (between coughs), "All I know, is I want some of that stuff."

How old is she?

So, I flew to Texas on Saturday.

After spending more than an hour in airport lines, I made a mental note to buy lighter Christmas gifts next year. I woke up on Sunday with bruises on my shoulders from the two bags of gifts and bridesmaid shoes I was carrying.

Anyway, back to the real story of the day here.

When my mom and I got to Baytown around 4pm, all I had eaten all day was a peanut butter and honey sandwich and two small apples.

We've covered the fact my appetite is quite a bit larger than the sustenance this meager amount of food had provided.

So, we decide to pick up some Chick-fil-A for us and my MeMe, who we were on our way to visit.

We had a super eager order-taker at Chick-fil-A, which I tend to appreciate. Makes for a much more pleasant fast food experience.

My mom orders her healthy grilled chicken sandwich, and I order my slightly less healthy chicken nuggets and waffle fries.

Then we stand there debating what to order MeMe. The fact she recently got a new set of teeth helps the eating situation, but there are still some concerns. To begin, she only has one eating hand, since the other one was paralyzed from her stroke.

Trying to be funny, our order-taker says, "Well, to make it easy on you, we have chicken, chicken or chicken."

We politely threw him a few laughs, then continued our discussion...

Mom: "Hmmm...what should we get?"

Me: "Well, I think the nuggets would be easier than a big sandwich..."

Mom: "But do you think she would like them?"

Me: "I do. And she typically eats whatever we bring."

...And so on.

After a few minutes, the over-zealous order-taker, in his most helpful manner, asks with a sweet smile, "How old is she?"

My mom and I exchange a little chuckle, then say, "Um...she's 88."

"Oh...well...okay," the order-taker says, clearly surprised. Pretty sure he was betting on an answer more like three.

"Well, the chicken salad sandwich is a popular item among our seniors," he said.

Mom and me: "Perfect!"

And indeed, it was perfect. So was the order-taker's expression when we said "88".

One good thing about the desert

My mom is a big fan of where I live. She thinks a giant cactus is the prettiest thing ever. (I know. Even Brandon, who grew up here, thinks this is crazy.) When we've driven her through places we think are ugly here, she stares out the window wide-eyed and comments on how beautiful it is.

My dad? Not so much. He says the only thing worth seeing in this state is Brandon and me. He likes his swamp.

He called in the middle of the day a few weeks ago, and when I answered, his first words were, "Well, Baby, I finally found out one good thing about the desert."

"What's that, Dad?"

"Well, you won't ever have to move cows in mud up to your knees. That's what I've been doing today."

"Um, maybe not. But Brandon's going to move them in the middle of a dust storm later today."

Dad laughs...

"Well, I guess we all have our problems then, don't we?"

Sure do, Dad. Sure do.

A "cluttered" tree

I'm a big fan of Christmas trees. Live Christmas trees.

I remember my sister and I being very upset at Christmas from the time Mason was mobile until he was, oh, I don't know...seven? And he finally quit eating the tree. Because for all those years, we had one of those artificial trees that was too skinny and didn't make the house smell like Christmas.

So last year, on my first Christmas in my first house with my first husband one-and-only-love-of-my-life, I ran out and bought a live Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving. And we decorated it together:

This year, we've been a little more busy, and I've been talking about getting a tree since Thanksgiving, but it just hasn't happened yet. We did head out after one last week, but the tree lot was already sold out.

I had pretty well resigned I wouldn't have a tree this year. After all, I'm leaving for Texas in just a few days. Was it really worth it? Probably not. And I was coping okay with this new reality.

But Sunday night, that love of my life I mentioned surprised me with a tree. Maybe he just knew how his Christmas would turn out if I wasn't really in the Christmas spirit?

He was awfully discreet with his surprise, though. It was probably in our house for a couple hours before I found it.

I was in the kitchen busily making sunflower seeds when he arrived, and he ended up going outside to pen the dogs and feed the cows for me so I could keep working on that. I did notice it took him nearly three trips in and out of the house to accomplish that task, but just figured he had other things to do out there.

Finally, when I left the kitchen to retrieve more sunflowers to deseed (which is probably not a word), I found the tree.

Me: "Um, when exactly were you planning on telling me you bought me a tree?"

Brandon: "I don't know..."

Me: "You know what this means, right?"

Brandon, mumbling: "That I have to help decorate it."

I went ahead and got the tree skirt set up and put the lights on myself so all he had to do was help with the ornaments.

I gave him the big box of ornaments, and set out the come-in-a-box nice ornaments for myself, thinking he wouldn't have the patience to open all those individual boxes.

B: "You mean I have to do this whole box?"

K: "Well, until I finish with these. I didn't think you would want to take all these out of the boxes."

B: "No, I don't."

By this time, he probably already had ten ornaments on the tree.

K: "At the rate you're going, you'll have them all up in less than five minutes anyway."

B: "Well, that's my plan."

He continued racing.

A while later...

B: "Why do we have so many ornaments?"

[We do not have that many ornaments.]

B: "This is ridiculous. We don't need this many ornaments. Our tree is just cluttered."

So I take a look on his side of the tree...

K: "That's because you have them all within a one foot radius. Maybe if we spread them out a bit, it wouldn't be so bad?"

Here's Brandon's side of the tree; we'll call it Side B:

Now, a look at Side A:

And Side C:

Please note, neither of these are the back of the tree. It is completely bare.

So basically, the only part of our tree holding ornaments is the top-front, where Brandon could stand in one place and add ornaments directly in front of him — without either bending or reaching.

Coincidence?

And he did finish the entire storage box before I had the dozen or so Hallmark Keepsake ones in place.

But, I do have a Christmas tree. A live Christmas tree.

Stuck pig

I was catching up with my dear friend Allison last night, and toward the end of our conversation, I started shouting, "Oh yes! Yea! Alright!"

"What is going on?"

"Well, you remember that story about when we were hunting a while back and I got all that cactus stuck in my leg, and there was one piece I couldn't get out? I just got it out!"

"Oh, okay. Um, ...congratulations?"

Apparently I was a little over-the-top excited about the cactus, because Allison wasn't quite sure what to do with the news.

Here it is, folks. A whole quarter-inch of cactus, finally out of my leg after five weeks.

What did you do today?

Yesterday morning started so typical. Started the coffee pot. Checked email and news headlines. Fed cows and released dogs from the pen. Ate breakfast. Headed to the in-laws in my pajamas to shower (another story entirely).

But, as soon as I pulled up there in our irrigator truck, Brandon was headed out to the cows. He had received a call from his dad's employee saying we had a calf born sometime that morning that was probably already dead.

And, of course, it's one of our Brahman cows. With a purebred Brahman calf. So the three of us head out to take a look. Yes, still in my pajamas.

When we get there, the calf is surely near frozen and approaching death. You see, the night before was by far the coldest night we've had all winter (which began last week). This morning was the first time we woke up to a blanket of thick, icy frost covering everything. And, the morning this cow decides to give birth.

But there were just the slightest signs of life. Its eyes were open, and it seemed to be breathing okay. Just, like I said, near frozen. Motionless. So I retrieved the pickup, we shooed away the crazy, protective cow, and Brandon lifted the calf onto the tailgate.

It was so frozen, its head didn't even hang down when he lifted it up by the legs. Its neck stayed completely stiff. Brandon described it as more like picking up a board than something that was supposed to be alive.

This is when we find out our nearly dead calf is a heifer. A purebred Brahman heifer. Which is probably the only reason the subsequent events occurred.

On our drive from the pasture, I asked Brandon what he thought the chances of survival were.

"About three percent," he said.

"Really? I was thinking more like one percent."

We both agree it's best to be as pessimistic as possible in situations like this with animals.

As Brandon says, "That way, if it does work out, you can be pleasantly surprised with a good outcome, instead of disappointed with the likely one."

The only place we thought we could take her where we could really get her warm - quick - was inside. So, into Brandon's parents' laundry room we went with our frozen calf.

[It was probably a good thing my in-laws were out of town. Although, now that I'm posting this to the World Wide Web, it doesn't matter all that much.]

We gathered some old towels (which have now been properly washed and sanitized, promise) and a blow dryer. We both went to town rubbing this calf down with the towels (her two back legs were still soaking wet) and concentrating the blow dryer on her head, neck and belly.

Brandon was called away to load a hay truck, and I was left alone with a dying calf.

When he returned, I was still at it with the blow dryer and rubbing, and had added my socks to her hind legs. I knew humans released most of their heat through their heads and feet, so I figured if there was even the slightest chance animals were the same, I could sacrifice my socks.

Of course, Brandon got a good laugh and wanted to know what in the world I was thinking when he walked back in.

Whatever it was, it worked. When Brandon came back, he increased the chance of survival to 25%. He also informed me I had been working on this calf for two hours. Time flies when you're saving lives, I tell you.

Brandon retrieved a space heater, and we got a couple more old towels to wrap around her.

And finally, after more than three hours, she began to shiver. The first sign of her body actually trying to warm itself. The inside of her mouth and her breath was still ice cold. This was seriously a frozen calf when we found her, y'all. We just thawed her out.

At some point in this ordeal, I asked Brandon if he thought the cow would even take her back after all this.

"I'm not sure, but from what we found this morning, a bottle baby would be a great problem to have."

Agreed.

Somewhere between four and five hours, she actually sat up. This is when we started letting ourselves get excited. Brandon increased her prognosis again to 75% survival. Quite an accomplishment from the one to three percent we originally guessed.

Since she was finally upright, Brandon headed out to milk the cow. We weren't sure how much energy this little heifer had left in her after such a warm welcome to the world. I stayed with the calf and our trusty little blow dryer.

And this began a whole new battle. But, not a battle we even thought we would reach in the beginning.

In Round One of the feeding attempts, Brandon ending up spilling more on her than getting it in. What little pressure she was placing on the bottle was more of a chewing action than sucking. Needless to say, it didn't work out so well.

At this point, she had been sitting up for around an hour, so we decided it was time to transfer her outside. Brandon carried her to the back yard, then had to go load another hay truck.

Before he left, he said, "I think we're looking at a 90% situation now. 95% if we get all this milk in her."

So there I was again. Only this time, left alone with a very much alive calf, rather than a very much dead one. And a Mason jar full of cow milk I had to get down a calf that didn't know how to drink. Lovely.

That's where I spent the afternoon. Hanging out in the grass with a calf and a bottle. I just kept shoving it in her mouth every five minutes or so, and somehow managed to get about one-third of the stuff down her throat.

Once a good two hours had passed, she stood for the first time. After many nosedives into the ground, her back legs finally held steady enough for an entire 75 seconds.

I guess she liked the feeling, though, because she kept at it for the next half an hour. Finally, she stood again. And took a few steps. Backwards.

By the time Brandon came back, she had successfully walked about ten feet backwards. Not a single step forward. Still wobbly.

Then, as he approached, she took off, and nearly ran to both of us.

Brandon said, "At this point, I'd say there's a five percent or less chance she dies."

We still had quite a bit to go on the milk, but a standing calf is much easier to work with.

After a few unsuccessful attempts on both our parts, we decided to have Brandon hold the bottle while I kept a finger in her mouth and squeezed the nipple. This was the feeding method for a couple minutes, until she suddenly caught on to the whole sucking concept. I got my fingers out just in time, and she went to town on that bottle.

When it was sucked dry, she started ramming her nose into both of us.

"It's time to take her to the cow," Brandon said.

This was the moment of truth. Now that we had a live calf, we either had to get her back on the cow, or we (which really means I) were going to be making bottles several times a day for the next few months. Obviously not a desirable outcome (but more desirable than a dead calf).

We slid her into the pen, and the cow immediately took over. The problem? The calf wanted nothing to do with her. When Brandon started walking away (he had been holding the bottle when she caught on), she tried to climb through the fence to follow him.

One hour later, we had all the other cattle fed, and it was already getting rather cool out. Sure enough, our calf was already shivering and still not taking to the cow all that much.

So we loaded the cow in the chute to teach the calf how to nurse. Eventually, she figured out the milk came from the back legs, and we were in business. We ended up loading both of them into the trailer for the night in attempt to block some of the cold night air and keep them in a more confined area where the calf might stay closer to cow (she still liked us more).

As Brandon said, "After spending all day bringing her back to life, the last thing we want is to lose her now. We're taking all precautions."

And that's where we're left this morning.

When we had reached about a 75% survival rate, I told Brandon, "You know, if this thing really lives, it makes me want to call everyone I know and say, 'I brought a 98% frozen calf back to life. What did you do today?'"

Right before bed last night, Brandon told me this calf was the closest he had ever had one come to death and survive. "It was as near dead as I've ever seen when we got to it. I don't think I've even had one half that dead survive."

...Which also made me beat my chest a little.

And now we're off to make sure she survived the night!

In the spirit of Christmas...

The Leister household baked Christmas cookies yesterday afternoon. I mean, what else do you do when the farm is rained out?

Okay, so technically, I baked the cookies. But Brandon came in from loading a hay truck in our front yard just as I started decorating them.

And now I'm thinking they might have been better off without his help.

Here is what we called his "fallen angel"...not so angelic, eh?

We did make sure to promote diversity (we're equal opportunity cookie decorators):

Some of the more polished cookies (ones I did):

And what did Brandon have for breakfast this morning? A star, candy cane and snowflake. My stomach hurt just watching him consume all that sugar so early.

The many hats of a farmer

As Brandon headed out the door this morning, he picked up his "work hat" and said, "I need a new work hat. This one's done."

To which I was very grateful. The hat was months past being wearable in public.

I assumed he would simply walk into our room, pick up one of the 32 hats in there, and be on his merry little way. Not the case.

He did go to the bedroom, but I heard him say, "I don't have another hat to wear. I need to get a new one."

To which I immediately jumped up and ran back there to set him straight help him.

"Noooo, nooo, no. Don't you even think about it Brandon Leister. Are you really telling me you can't wear a single hat in this house to work? We're going to find you one."

And I was insistent on this due to the following hat situation in our home.

The wall in the Hunting Room:

The "nice hats" hanging next to the door in our bedroom (partially over our bed, mind you):

The hat rack between Brandon's two dressers (Yes. Two. Just for him. Someday we'll have to go through the whole closet space breakdown in our house.):

There are 11 ball caps on that rack, y'all.

Even these photographs leave out the two probably floating around our house somewhere, three on the dash of his truck, and one he left at his parents'.

No way was I letting him leave the house in search of a "new" work hat. While we were sifting through his hats, he found a few more "old work hats" he was finally willing to part with.

So we ended up with a grand total of four hats to be thrown away:

I told him, "You don't know how long I've waited for this day. This is great!"

One of the suggestions I had for a work hat was turned down.

Me: "You know you're never going to wear it anywhere else. Why not just wear it to work and ruin it?"

Him: "Because I gave one just like it to [former employee] and it was his dunce hat. I'm not wearing it."

Me: "Well, can we at least drop some of these off at Goodwill then, if you never have intentions of wearing them?"

Him: "No, not yet."

He finally found one suitable and placed it on his head.

He said, "I always liked the look of this hat, but it seemed like it sat funny on my head. Like up too high or something."

I quickly assured him it looked just fine.

Before he left, he said, "You know, this is a big day for me. Parting with these prized possessions."

I made sure to holler out the door behind him, "You know, now that you mention it, that hat does look a little funny on your head. Have a good day!"

Wherein I cave to the cold

About this time last year, we were having nightly disagreements over the heater.

Last August, we paid an outrageous electricity bill. Like, so bad I don't even want to mention the numbers. Since then, I have been determined to not pay the Arizona Public Service Company a dime more than what is absolutely necessary.

Which meant I was completely against heating our home. Every night, Brandon would beg for the heater. Every night, I would dismiss his begging. And together, we would freeze.

A little more than a week ago, this cycle began to repeat itself. The temperature inside our house would range from 60 to 66 degrees. All day long. So even at noon when the temperature was relatively warm outside, I was still walking around in full sweats, a beanie and fluffy socks inside.

Then last night came along. Brandon was making his routine weather checks before we headed to bed, and I was standing behind him. Shivering, because I didn't have my sweatshirt on at the time.

He announces Weather.com was predicting a freeze tonight. So was AccuWeather.com. And NOAA.gov. (I mean, doesn't everyone check the weather from a minimum of three sources multiple times a day?)

And not just tonight. For the next four nights or more. At this announcement, I simply walked over to the thermostat, clicked the heater on, and listened to the sound of relief.

Ten minutes later, Brandon asks, "Hey, what's that I hear blowing air constantly? Did you...did you turn the heater on?!"

"You bet I did. As soon as you said four nights of freezing temperatures, I walked over there and flipped the switch. It's time."

And last night, I didn't have to sleep in full sweats. Or a beanie.

The year of the bird

Forget the Chinese Calendar.

2009 was definitely The Year of the Bird for us.

It all started when they invaded our home. And continued when they kept coming back. But then, when our sunflowers were two weeks from being harvested, they really did us in.

Turns out 53.2 acres of nearly-dry sunflowers is a 24-hour all-you-can eat buffet for birds.

The experimental sunflower crop of 2009 was harvested two days ago. Quite successfully, I might add. But prior to that, my job every day for two solid weeks? To load the four-wheeler, take it to the field, bundle up, and chase birds across the sunflowers with a certified "for agricultural use" mini-pistol (it looks like a water gun), and ammo called "Screamer Sirens" and "Bird Bangers".

You see, the fields on this part of the farm are flanked by the following: Interstate 10 on the north, Super Wal-Mart, Sally Beauty Supply and Panda Express (among other places of business) on the west, a housing development to the south, and the Snyder's Pretzels factory to the east.

Needless to say, a shotgun really isn't an option.

So, we stick with our "screamers" and "bangers" and the minimal threat they pose to massive flocks of blackbirds.

My mom called one day while I was on bird duty and asked what I was up to. After I told her, she said, "There's not some sort of net you could put over them or something?"

"Mom, over a 54 acre field of sunflowers? I'm not talking about a garden here." (But I was a lot more polite about it than that statement sounds here. All about tone, right?)

After just the first five days, I ran out of ammunition. The only manufacturer in the U.S. for this stuff? Located in Greenville, Mississippi. And, since it is classified as a "pyrotechnic", they make you sign your life away to buy it, and charge you a $30 HAZMAT fee, tacked on to whatever outrageous overnight shipping price they had.

And the only distributor in the entire state of Arizona? Located in Yuma, at the Vegetable Growers Supply.

Unfamiliar with Arizona geography? Yuma is located three hours southwest of Buckeye. Right on the border of both California and Mexico. And that three hours is through some of the most barren desert landscape possible. From what I've seen, I would classify it as the second ugliest drive in the state.

Brandon was a little upset I didn't make it back that evening in time to help him move cows. But I told him, "Look, I drove to Yuma today so I could chase birds for another entire week. Let's just be happy about that, okay?"

Anyway, it didn't take very many days of chasing birds before I loathed it.

Brandon asked one day why I disliked it so much. I told him, "If I really felt like it was doing any good, it would be fine, but I blow a screamer through them, they fly twelve rows over, and we repeat. They never leave."

Trying to be motivational, he asked, "Well, how much are they eating while they're flying around?"

I was forced to answer "Nothing," to this question, but I'm not sure it made me feel much better.

Brandon was driving a tractor in the field next to me when I left to change water one afternoon. I guess a giant flock migrated in, and he went to resume my post, because I received the following text messages:

"You were right about these birds."

"They keep coming back."

"When are you going to be back?"

We eventually were able to get the birds to migrate out of our field and into some cotton several times a day. You would feel a temporary sense of accomplishment and pride in your work. Then, as soon as you turned your back to celebrate a little, they would begin migrating right back in mini-flocks of thirty or so, and before you knew it, the entire mass of them was back in the field.

But it's all over now. They're still out there pecking at what was left behind the combine, but at least they're not eating up our profit all day long anymore.

And one of my jobs today? To add more mesh screening to the attic ventilation holes around our house so birds quit nesting in there.

I'm telling you, it really is The Year of the Bird.

Finger lickin' good

Somehow, we made out with an entire pecan pie from Thanksgiving dinner.

(I'm just going to attribute it to my favorite daughter-in-law status. Good thing I don't have much competition.)

I was nice enough to save the last piece for Brandon. And by last "piece", I'm talking a good quarter of the pie, y'all. Anything smaller would be classified as a "bite" by Brandon.

So, here he is, enjoying his piece of pie, which was already two-thirds consumed at this point:

Told you it was big.

So big, in fact, he just had to eat it like a sandwich.

So here you go, Mason. Never let Brandon give you a hard time for not using utensils again.

I like what I see

Brandon has shared this story at every social encounter we've had since it occurred. He seems to enjoy it. So I thought I would just make it a little easier on him.

Last weekend, we were helping ourselves to leftovers at his parents' house. It was our first meal of the day at 11am, so I was a little hungry.

Okay, starving.

Anyway, we make our plates. I have four corn tortillas with shredded pork and salsa in them.

Apparently, four tacos is way too much for me to be eating.

Brandon exclaimed, "Four tacos! You're going to eat all that?! Really?"

...And then proceeded to make a big fuss about the four tacos on my plate.

In order to eat my four tacos in peace, I finally replied, "You know what? When I look in the mirror, I like what I see lately. So you just keep it up over there, and I'm going to eat my tacos. All four of them."

He just said, "Wow. How can I argue with that?"

And I enjoyed my tacos. All four of them.

Following the mountain goat

Hunting season is officially over for us. And thank goodness. The farm needs attention, and I'm ready to stay out of the cactus.

I had another close encounter with the beloved desert plant last weekend. As if sitting in it weren't enough.

And it was all because I made a conscious choice to follow my husband over the mountains, through the canyons, up the rock walls, ...and eventually into the cactus.

Anyone who has ever traipsed through the mountains with Brandon knows he has the climbing abilities of a mountain goat.

I, on the other hand, do not.

I was always one of those kids everyone called grace. Due to my lack of it. Let's just say things haven't changed much.

I fared rather well on Friday, kept up with him, and really can't complain one bit about that day.

Saturday was a different story.

The morning was great. We made a nice little trek to a mountain top where we had a rock cubby hole and an excellent vantage point for glassing.

But for some crazy reason, Brandon wasn't satisfied to remain there all day. Despite the good view and all the deer we had seen. No, he wanted to go across to the next mountain, through a little draw, and up and around another mountain.

After all that, we didn't see one deer that evening.

Just before dark, we set off to make our way back to the trail. Brandon's "hunch" on the best way back led us to three different sets of rock bluffs, each with a 40 to 50 foot drop. Not exactly ideal.

So, we backtracked to find a new route. At this point, dark was quickly approaching. And Brandon was in a bigger hurry than usual. He was not handling my slower-paced mountain descent very well. But it was dark. And steep. I thought I was moving fast.

At some point when I was practically running to catch up with him, I got tangled in a cactus, tripped, and sent a giant piece of it into the flesh on my shin. When I finally caught up, I told him what had slowed me down some. He said, "Well let's get it out."

But I wanted off that mountain.

So we forged on.

By the time we arrived back at camp, all the rubbing my leg did on my overalls had broken off the cactus thorns flush with my skin. There was no pulling them out. For the following two days, my leg was red and puffy around the thorns, and I ended up removing some bits and pieces.

After all this, I had to watch him scale a rock above me Monday morning. I was supposed to follow. He was seriously rock climbing. Hanging mid-air from a giant bluff, where one slip of a hiking boot would have had dire consequences. I couldn't even watch him do it. No way was I taking that same route.

When he was halfway up, I yelled at him, "Brandon Leister, if you don't come off this mountain today, I will never forgive you." And I meant it.

Luckily, we found a different route for me. Still climbing across giant rocks, just not up the side of a completely vertical one.

Brandon had the opportunity to see me absolutely petrified this weekend. Like the kind of pure terror where tears are streaming down your face and you're shaking all over and just can't stop. He found it extremely entertaining.

Some of the rocks boulders on these mountains look like they could topple over on top of you any second. They are leaning on edge, supported by a corner, and stacked only against one another.

All I was doing to scare myself to death was climbing down from the exact same rocks I climbed up through. Only going down, I could see below me. The only way I got up those rocks in the first place was by telling myself, "These rocks hold bears. They can hold 140 pounds of human."

That's right. The fact the rocks I was climbing into held bears was my only comforting thought.

But, I made it down (obviously). Without a scratch.

Well, except for the remaining cactus thorns in my leg, anyway.

Which brings us to Tuesday night. Three days after the cactus incident. I got out a pair of tweezers, and pulled this out of my leg:

A full half-inch of cactus thorn.

There's just one left I can feel under the skin, but can't find where it needs to pop out. Other than that, I'm all healed.

And that's what I get for following a mountain goat.

Husband of the century. Still under debate.

The night we returned from Brandon's deer hunt, I was unloading the cooler and heard him banging on the back door in the office, flashlight in hand.

I let him in and realized he had a regular flashlight, not his scorpion-hunting blacklight flashlight.

"What were you doing out there?"

"Oh, I was just checking to see if I was going to get the Husband of the Year Award."

"Oh really? And how did that go for you?"

"I'm more like Husband of the Century. We have green grass. And I'm not talking about green bermuda grass. Green rye grass."

"So how does that qualify you for Husband of the Century? A green yard was practically a prenup for us. It's the only way I agreed to move to the desert."

"I said I would give you a summer yard. I didn't say anything about a winter yard."

"Well, I just said a green yard. Period."

Thank you

To all veterans for their service, and their families for their sacrifice:

If you give a mouse a...saltine cracker

Wednesday morning, just after breakfast, one of our big hay customers calls to set up a load. He had mentioned to Brandon he might be coming out to visit sometime soon, so at the end of the conversation, Brandon asks if he knew when that might be yet.

Bob from Texas says, "Well, we'll be pullin' out of here Sunday, and should be at your place Monday mornin'."

Brandon stammers a bit, and I stare at the phone with a dropped jaw. (Dude's from Texas. He talks loud. I could hear everything.)

You see, Brandon's deer hunt (and our last hunting excursion for 2009) is this weekend. We planned to head out Thursday afternoon and return Monday evening.

Which, luckily, bought us a little time with Bob.

Brandon informed him we would be out of town until Monday and asked if we could plan to get together Tuesday instead. Bob agreed.

Because the other problem with this situation was I had been out of town until the night before this phone call. And we all know what happens when men are left alone in the house.

In fact, the day before I returned home, I received a call from Brandon. Just to warn me my house was a disaster. No other reason for the call. It didn't help much that we've been running in and out on all these hunting trips for the past few weeks either. Or that we have processed two giant elk in the middle of our kitchen recently.

So, Wednesday quickly turned into a cleaning rampage to muck out our house. While I was at it, I rearranged the pantry and cleaned out the fridge.

And the pantry part is where the mouse comes in. We have these two boxes on the bottom shelf of the pantry to hold things like granola bars, popcorn, trail mix, craisins, raisins, pretzels, etc.

I realized our snack items could be condensed into one box. But when I got to the bottom of the granola bar box, I found a shredded wrapper and pieces of granola and mouse...residue.

I began sifting through the other things on that shelf to look for more evidence. I moved things around as slowly as possible, trying not to disturb any slumbering mice. I'm not really scared of critters like that, I just don't really want them jumping out and surprising me.

Sure enough, the unopened box of saltine crackers had a whole in one corner, and one stack of crackers had been disturbed.

Brandon came in a bit later, and I said, "Hey, I think we have a mouse in the pantry," and showed him the shreds of granola bar wrapper and cracker box.

"Yep, sure do. It probably came from a camping trip. I've never had one in the house before."

"Well, we did have the box of crackers when we were camping."

Then, this morning, I noticed the little sucker had tried to make his way into a bag of tortilla chips. So I found our mouse poison and we set it up on the bottom shelf, where everything he has tried to eat has been located.

And now we wait.

The only problem? Leaving town.

After Brandon set the bait, I said, "Great, now the mouse is going to eat that stuff and die tonight and we we're going to find him rotting in our pantry in four days."

Brandon: "Yeah, and Bob and his wife are going to walk in here Tuesday wondering what the smell is, and I'm going to have to tell them my wife just doesn't keep a tidy house."

A Midwest jingle

So, I am off to Indiana today with Brandon's mom to visit his sister, Amanda.

While I was packing yesterday morning, Brandon made up a little song about my trip. And continued to add verses to it for a solid 20 minutes. And followed me around the house singing it to me.

It went a little something like this:

You're going to see my sis-ter...In-the-Midwest,

And I'm going to miss you...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

You're going to see some lea-eaves...In-the-Midwest,

You're gonna fly on an air-plane...To-the-Midwest,

You're gonna miss me too-oo...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

Don't wanna sleep alo-one...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

You're gonna be co-old..In-the-Midwest,

I'm gonna want you he-ere...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

Have to irrigate alo-one...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

You're gonna want me too-oo...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

...

...

...

There was a lot more.

It was quite entertaining. And creative. And after a while, mildly annoying. I mean, how many verses can a song about visiting the Midwest possibly have?

The most disgusting thing

Our third calf of the season was born yesterday afternoon, in the middle of a giant wind/dust storm which sent temperatures plummeting overnight (finally).

After the wind subsided just a bit and the calf had its first nurse, Brandon and I ventured into the pasture to weigh it.

This is usually always a fiasco due to my lack of coordination and slow reactions, but went surprisingly smooth yesterday.

Brandon tends to get a little frustrated with me reading the weight because it takes me so long to call out a number — while he's holding the calf in front of him mid-air. But the scale ends up inches above my head (because of his height advantage), and looks like it's jumping between a ten pound difference (maybe because his arms are shaking so much).

I finally called out "Ummm, 52...no 54...maybe 56? 54, that's in the middle. We'll go with 54."

And Brandon set the calf down.

I heard a very loud "Ewwww!"

Before I could even see what happened, he said plainly, "This is the most disgusting thing that's ever happened to me."

That stuff on his hand? Newborn calf poo.

"It gets on my pants a lot, but never this much and never a handful of it," he said. It was on his pants, too.

The water hose alone did nothing for this mess. It was a bunch of slimy, almost rubbery, sticky goo. He had to rub his hands around in the rocks to remove any of it.

And that's the most disgusting thing that has ever happened to Brandon Leister. Which is saying a lot, believe me.

A double dog dare

We had a really hard time finding deer this past weekend on the hunt. The evening after Brandon's dad got his spike, I found another one a mere 182 yards from where we were glassing, but passed on him.

We had to get back to tend to hay business, so the next day was our last one out. We didn't see a single deer until noon or so. Another spike, but we weren't even sure if this little guy had even broken the skin yet, so I passed again.

After only seeing one deer in ten hours, and scanning the mountain side that entire time, Brandon began calling them in. Chatting with them. He had his tripod and binoculars set up about ten feet behind mine, and I heard him have the following conversation:

"Come on, Mr. Deer. Come out, come out, wherever you are. Come on, big buck, stand up. I dare you to come out. I double dog dare you."

Maybe we were getting a little crazy at this point?

"Don't squat with yer spurs on"

You know, the old country saying. I've actually never liked it all that much. I do not appreciate the slang spellings like "yer." Surprising, I know, when you think about where I come from. If you asked my youngest brother for the proper spelling of "your," this is probably what you would receive.

Regardless, I found out what this saying was all about this weekend. Desert style, anyway. Something like, "Don't squat in a pile of cactus," is more appropriate out here.

I guess I missed that memo in the Desert Dwellers' Welcome Guide.

Because it's exactly what I did this weekend. In a giant patch of prickly pear.

We were deer hunting. Brandon's dad and I both had tags for the first hunt of the year in this unit. Dean killed a spike the second day of our hunt during what Brandon calls "The Two O'Clock Stretch." (A common time for deer to rise from their bedding spot to stretch a little, maybe feed, maybe water. A five to ten minute window for hunters to have a mid-day shot.)

Brandon and I hiked over to take some pictures for him, help him bone out the meat, and then continue hunting that side of the mountain in attempt to fill my tag.

I was assisting by holding a leg out or something while Brandon worked the knife, and decided to squat down for better position. But I didn't look behind me.

Big mistake.

Immediately, I had sharp pains in every angle of my glutes. I started grabbing at the thorns, but obviously had visibility issues. I pointed my rear toward Dean and asked for help.

I think my father-in-law was less than thrilled about finding cactus thorns in my back side. He kept apologizing, but I assured him to continue saying, "No, it's fine. Really. Just get them. Please!"

So, another lesson learned about surviving in my new habitat. Always check behind you.

In violation of "Man Law"

Until this week, I was unaware it was possible for a woman to be in violation of a "Man Law," but I was wrong.

We have this thing in our house. In my kitchen, actually. I've mentioned it before. Not fondly. It's called the Man Closet.

This is what it looked like:

Did I mention this was in the middle of my kitchen? Like, directly across from the butcher block.

This was the last piece of evidence of the bachelor pad our home formerly was. Oh yeah, except for the Hunting Room.

Until two days ago. Now the Hunting Room stands alone.

I started this project while Brandon was at home. I was not trying to be secretive. He was ordering cattle medications and electric fence parts online, so I started this project to keep busy while I was waiting on him to start processing my elk meat.

He walked into the kitchen when I had everything pulled out on the counter and said, "What are you doing?"

"Just keeping busy while I was waiting on you."

"This is a man law violation."

"What, an organized Man Closet?"

"No, a woman organizing the Man Closet."

In the conversation that ensued, I found out his main complaint was he wouldn't know where things were when I was finished.

Here, I tried really hard to bite my tongue, and I knew it was the wrong thing to say, but I couldn't hold it any longer and it escaped: "Um, because you really think you know where things are now?"

"Well, at least I know what general area to look in?"

"Oh, like you know to look in the Man Closet?" Oops on that one too...

"You don't even know what most of this stuff is, so how are you supposed to organize it?"

He announced he was leaving for the farm a little later, so I waved two welding rods in the air and said, "Want to take these with you? Because I do know what they are. And I don't recall us having a welding machine stashed around here."

But he replied, "Oh yeah? What's that thing out under the barn you walk by every day then?"

Oops again...

He eventually left me to my work. During the adventure, I found we owned one of these:

And wondered why in the world there were so many scattered brown paper bags from the hardware store and loose nails and screws lining every shelf in the closet with such a handy tool available.

I even labeled every sealed container to ease the confusion on knowing where things are, and hopefully dismiss his main complaint.

Granted, one of them is labeled "miscellaneous small things," because that's about as descriptive as I could possibly get with the random assortment of things I found to place there. But, I even labeled the tool box with "screwdrivers, pliers, heavy duty stapler."

Neither of us knew we had a heavy duty stapler.

The finished product:

I know it doesn't really look all that much better. But at least all like items are stored together (all painting supplies in a box, light bulbs stacked together neatly so as not to topple off a shelf so easily), everything is upright (rather than thrown haphazardly in every direction), and there are no loose nails, screws, nuts, bolts, fasteners, etc., floating around.

I was even able to fit in this crate of things, which had been taking up floor space in our office:

Brandon did admit it looked much nicer, as he knew all along it would, and that it needed to be done.

But then last night, he was standing in front of the womanized Man Closet and said, "Ugh! Where are the screwdrivers?"

"The toolbox. The labeled toolbox that says 'screwdrivers.' Which should be a logical place to look anyway."

When he found the one he was looking for: "I had to open the lid. How annoying."

So it's a man law violation to keep tools contained inside a toolbox?

Noted.

And then it was my turn...

To kill something.

We made the experience about as exciting as it gets for a cow hunt.

Or I'm just guessing, anyway, since it was the first time either one of us had ever been on a cow elk hunt. Brandon and his friends are much too manly to take down a cow, and I didn't come across any elk hunting opportunities as a Texas resident.

We only had three chances to make something happen. The hunt opened Friday morning, and I had a cousin from Tennessee in town Saturday night who I hadn't seen in more than a decade.

We made it into the mountains just in time to catch a few elk headed out to feed Thursday evening and put a game plan together for the next morning.

Brandon's dad and I enjoyed some coffee, breakfast and good conversation for about an hour before Brandon actually rolled out of bed at 4:30 Friday morning (yes, he's the big, bad hunter), which was the time he suggested we leave camp the night before.

When we finally made it out, Brandon and I hauled off the mountain side in the dark, and ended up climbing two other mountains before we were in position to bust out a cow, calf and bull his dad caught going into the trees to bed from his vantage point.

At 75 yards, the cow pegged Brandon, but was out of my sight behind a tree. At 100 yards, I had a perfect shot. She had stepped out, but her head was in a dead tree and I wasn't absolutely certain it was the cow, so I held off. By the time I was certain, she was high-tailing it up the mountain, with the calf and bull close behind.

At 125 yards, I had a shot on the move, but couldn't get my rest right. At 200 yards, I had a shot in the back as she went straight up the mountain, but I didn't want to take it due to some confidence issues. And at 300 yards, I had half a second to take a shot before they all went around the side of the mountain, but didn't capitalize.

So basically, I blew it.

That evening, the only elk we saw were at least a mile away right at dusk. Nothing we could make a move on.

Saturday morning was crunch time. We went out on a bluff at daylight just in time to catch another bull, cow, calf trio and a spike heading to the trees. Brandon and I dropped our jackets and half our gear, including my binoculars, with his dad and hauled off toward them. His dad thanked us later for wearing all those clothes when he had to pack them back to the Jeep.

Before we could get within 800 yards, the bull, cow and calf had disappeared. We decided to head down into the trees and come up on the other side of them to catch them coming out. So we set off across the wide open face of a mountain, and Brandon spotted a cow feeding at 300 yards on the next ridge over.

We dropped and got set up, but he had about a six inch elevation over me, which was just enough for the cow to be too low for me to see her over the hill. So we waited.

Eventually, the bull and spike we had seen earlier both made their way across that same ridge, after some cows we suspected were out of sight at the bottom.

Then, about 400 yards away, the cow and calf were migrating toward us. I was just getting ready to move the gun to that cow at 360 yards, when I spotted a closer elk moving out of the trees.

"Is that one of those bulls coming out, or is it a new cow?" (I had to ask, since we left my binoculars at the top, thinking I was just going down to shoot.)

Brandon, after a quick look: "Nope, it's a cow."

Me: "Move the gun on her?"

Him: "Yes, and get ready to shoot."

Me: "Okay, I'm on her. Can you zoom it in?"

He cranks the scope to nine-power for me so I can stay in the gun...

Me: "Keep going."

Him: "That's all there is."

Me: "Oh, crap. She's far away."

30 seconds later, still steady on the cow..."Okay, can I shoot now?"

"Yep, whenever you're ready."

All of a sudden, I turn into a shaking, heavy-breathing mess. I take a few deep breaths and still can't get completely steady, but decide I better shoot before the elk moves on me.

And then I hear, "You smoked her!"

But I loaded another bullet and ran up 50 yards, just in case.

After 15 minutes or so, we made the hike over to find my cow. Sure enough, the only move she made after the shot was a ten yard nosedive down the mountain. This was about the only move possible, since I blew out both her shoulders. At 320 yards. Yes, I'm quite proud of that.

When I told my dad about the hunt, particularly my shot, he said, "Man, Brandon better watch out and think twice about all this target practice you're getting. 320 yards is a long way off for him to be sitting on the tractor."

Anyway, Brandon's dad was able to maneuver the Jeep down the mountain to within 500 yards of the bottom, where Brandon and I had drug the elk to get our meat and pack it out. This was very fortunate, since we had left it more than a mile away straight up a mountain.

The men packed out the meat, and I packed out the gear. They are both still giving me a hard time about this, even though I repeatedly insisted I could help pack out my own elk. I think they just enjoy having something to hold over my head.

We all enjoyed the obligatory Coors Light to celebrate my kill, then made our 1.5 hour drive back to camp.

Hunt over.

And of course, the pictures:

We now have two elk in the freezer, with two coues deer tags left to fill.

I think we'll make it through the winter.

A farmer's confession

We jumped right back on our irrigating schedule following the hunt and weekend livestock judging trip. On the second morning or so, I was trying to get Brandon out of bed to make the morning water change.

I am a morning person. Brandon is not. He wakes early by necessity. If he had it his way, he would work until the wee hours of the morning, when I barely function, and wake near my lunch time.

So, many mornings are quite a battle and usually involve an hour (or more) of me waking him up every five minutes.

This particular morning was no different.

Finally, I told him, "I think I might be a better farmer than you. At least all my water changes are on time."

He said with a sigh, "I know...In the beginning, when we're planting, I'm all gung-ho, crazy worker. But then in the end, I'm like, 'I don't care about you, crop.'"

And I think he actually pouted when he finally got up to change his water.

Katie's perspective: The hunt, week two

Day eight: Bill paying day. As part of my duties, I pay our monthly credit card bill and check the statement. I see Brandon made a mere $47 charge at the Safeway in Payson, AZ. This made me smile.

On my bank and post office run, I notice one of our cows made its way out of the pasture and into the alfalfa field. The reason this is bad is two-fold: the alfalfa field doesn't have a fence and is flanked on one side by a road, and the alfalfa could make the cow bloat up really bad. But, I get the cow back in the fence without any damage.

But the day gets better again when Brandon's mom begs to take me shopping that afternoon. And not just any shopping; super-clearance-like-I've-never-seen-before shopping. Let's just say she didn't really have to twist my arm all that hard.

And then, we get there, and I hear the alert for my picture text messaging go off. I just stopped dead in my tracks, looked at Rayanne, and said, "That's a picture. I just got a picture." She suggested I take a look at it. Good idea. So I crossed my fingers as I dug my phone out of my purse, and sure enough...there was an elk. And Brandon.

The hunt was over! He was coming home. I was no longer Head Irrigator or Hay Salesman. Oh, and we had an elk to hang on the wall...hooray.

This set off a fury of text messages between the two of us as I tried to get all the details. In one message, I asked, "You are taking lots of pictures with my camera, right?" He replied, "Duh. Of course." But, as you can see from the elk albums, Brandon must have a different definition of "lots," because we don't have that many pictures, and half of them came from Dean Rovey's camera.

On the way back from my 10pm water change, I remember I haven't fed our dogs, so we swing by the house. Halfway down our road, Wilbur high-tails it out in front of us, making a beeline for the house — from our neighbor's yard. I think he knew he was not supposed to be there. I decide it's time to pen them up.

But before we make it to my house, we find a cow. Laying in the middle of the road. The same one I put back in the pasture that morning. So, we chase her into the corral at the house and call it a night.

Day nine: I'm leaving for a lunch date with Brandon's mom and a couple other women in a dress and high-heeled sandals. I glance in the rear view mirror and find a cow in the alfalfa field. Again. So I chase her back in. Did I mention I was wearing a dress? And heels? Mid-chase, one of our hay customers calls to let me know he's sending a truck the next day. He asks if Brandon is home yet.

"He's on his way. And it's a good thing, because right now I'm chasing a cow through our field in a dress."

I send Brandon a message to let him know it's time to move the cows to a new pasture. He agrees. (As if he had any choice.)

Brandon returns and brings Dixie and Wilbur each an elk leg. I congratulate him on his grocery bill accomplishment.

Me: "Hey, I saw you only spent $47 on groceries. That was impressive. I'm really proud of you."

Him: Sporting a nervous grin...

Me: "That's not all you spent, is it?"

Him: "Well, it's all I spent on the credit card."
Me: "So how much cash did you have with you?"

Him: "Not enough to avoid putting some of it on the credit card."

Oh well. I totally expected that one anyway.

He also comes up with the best idea ever: pay someone else to irrigate the sunflowers for the weekend so I can go away with him.

Day 12: We begin cutting up elk meat. And we continue cutting, grinding, packaging and sealing elk meat. Thankfully, Brandon's mom chipped in for the entire eight hour ordeal, and we sent her home with one package of ground elk. And an invitation to request more, of course. Anyone need a roast?

Day 13: Dixie and Wilbur begin enjoying the ten gallons of elk scraps I sealed up in the freezer for them. Really. Ten gallon size bags. After I gave one away. The scraps make them quite a bit easier to pen up at night.

Day 14: Life begins to resemble our "normal" again. Just in time for my cow elk and deer hunts — back to back.

Katie's perspective: The hunt, week one

My two-week chronicle of events surrounding the Great Elk Hunt of 2009. A long read.

Day one: Brandon finally heads out for the big hunt. Only about six hours later than planned. I begin my water-changing duties on our sorghum in the evening. It was surprisingly easier than I expected (this field had been a pain all summer), and I managed to not let a single drop of water flow over the ditch while moving checks. A minor miracle.

Day two: My first full day as Head Irrigator for Rocker 7 Farms. Also the day of my first mistake as Head Irrigator. I determine the water needs to be turned off at the sunflowers and sorghum the next morning. So I call the water people, place a new order and make my shut-off request.

Not two minutes later, the nice lady calls back and kindly lets me know I don't currently have water running at the location I requested it be turned off. I check my little cheat sheet of field and canal lateral numbers, and sure enough, I had given her the wrong location. She told me it happens all the time. I think she was trying to ease my embarrassment some.

I receive a frantic call from Brandon as I pull up to the sorghum field to make my third solo water change that evening. It's the night before the hunt begins, and he found a bull. Definitely a shooter. But he can't decide if he wants to shoot.

He was quite obviously worked up, and rambling so fast I had to really concentrate to catch every third word he said.

"He's a good bull. No doubt about it. A trophy by anyone's standards. Everyone's telling me to shoot him in the morning. I just don't know if I want to. I mean, I've had six months of anticipation for this hunt, and all these guys are coming, and I have all this food. I'm just not sure I want it to all be over at first light in the morning. I don't even feel like I've hunted yet. ...."

Day three: Brandon calls to tell me he decided to pass on the first bull. I knew he would. And I settle in for a long week without him because I knew he would use every last day he had.

I load my first three hay trucks, collect our money, and send them on their way, since I also assumed the role of Head Hay Salesman while Brandon was away.

I finish irrigating the sorghum and sunflowers for this round, and start irrigating the alfalfa at our house that evening. Every two hours. All night. Brandon tells me he plans to get up at 3am the next day, and to call anytime that night if I get scared.

So I'm laying there wide awake at 2:45, scared out of my mind. I wait until precisely 3am, since he was getting up then anyway. And he answers. The fourth time I call. But all he says is, "I'm going to take a little nap. Sorry you're scared, but I can't do anything. Go to sleep." Thanks, Dear.

Day four: I finish the alfalfa at our house, and get water ordered for the alfalfa at our Palo Verde field. And I don't mess up on the water orders this time. Improvement. Brandon again sees bulls. Just not any he wants to shoot.

Day five: I continue the irrigating, and work on some writing projects during the day. At 5am, I notice my water level in the ditch looks low. So I secure a measuring stick from a neighbor, and find I'm missing 100 inches of water. 100 inches we've been paying for. I get that fixed, but Brandon has to call the next day to get them to credit our account because I was too timid to pursue it well enough. Again, he sees elk. Nothing to suit his fancy. It's like we have the same conversation every night.

Day six: Brandon makes his usual calls in the early afternoon and when they come in for the night. Both times, I ask, "So, did you see anything?"

"Yes, I see elk every day. But no, I still haven't found one I want to shoot."

"Okay, well you're just making me a little nervous. You only have three days left." The last thing I wanted was for him to come home from his "monster bull elk hunt" empty handed.

And the irrigating continues...very slowly.

Brandon's mom accompanied me on every middle-of-the-night irrigating trip to Palo Verde because she knows how much it terrifies me to go out there by myself at night. And his dad let me drive his truck at night, since it has a side light that lights up the whole ditch bank. Both of these things were welcome gestures.

So, about 11pm, Rayanne and I are making our way back home from Palo Verde. I pass a cop parked with his lights out on the side of the road about one mile from my house. And half a mile later, another. Only the second one pulls onto the road behind me, and doesn't turn his lights on until he has closed the distance between us. The speed limit on this road is 50. I was driving 45. But he throws his lights on to pull me over after following a short distance, and his buddy pulls in behind him. He makes his way up to the truck, and I ask why I have been pulled over, since I can't for the life of me figure out what the reason might be.

The response? "Oh, we'll get to that. License and insurance, please?" (They don't ask for your registration out here.) So Rayanne and I start rummaging through the truck for all the paperwork.

"Where are you headed?"

"Well, we've been out irrigating my alfalfa field, and my house is less than a quarter-mile from here."

I don't think he really believed two women were out irrigating in the middle of the night.

Finally, after holding us up for 15 minutes, he decides it's time to divulge why we've been pulled over. The reason? We were driving a Dodge truck. Apparently, there had been several thefts in Phoenix (40 miles away) lately involving only Dodge trucks.

Are you kidding me? That's really reason to stop two women at midnight? With two cop cars? And follow them for a quarter-mile without your lights on?

I was not a happy camper. I explained to the officer I would be traveling the same route, in the same truck, at roughly the same hour for the next few days, and asked if I needed to plan on being stopped every night. He told me it was certainly a possibility. This was by far the most outspoken I have ever been with a law enforcement officer in my life.

Needless to say, I was very glad I was not alone. I think I would have driven seven more miles until I got to the 24-hour Circle K before I stopped for two cops in the middle of the night. Just because I was driving a Dodge.

Day seven: At this point, I'll admit, I was starting to back down from my "supportive wife" role. The water in Palo Verde had been taking twice as long as it should, and I had been thinking all along I would finish it in time to meet Brandon up north and join him for the weekend. If not, I wouldn't see him until Day 12.

He calls to tell me he had two different bulls in his scope, and decided to hold off at the last minute. Oh, and also? Our crop guy called today, and I need to start watering the sunflowers in two days.

So, I was frustrated with the water, disappointed about my weekend, and probably not the nicest person this day.