A man in demand

First, I have to compliment my husband. He answers his phone. Every time it rings. Every. Single. Time. And I will admit, it often has its advantages.

But other times? Totally annoying.

Which means we disagree on phone usage.

My philosophy is, if I'm in the middle of working on something, whether it's a writing project in the office or an outside job on the farm, I don't let my phone interrupt me for the most part. I like to finish what I'm doing, and call back. And I do always call back. I just get out of focus when I stop desk work to answer the phone, then it takes a while for me to get back on track. And I don't see much point in answering the phone just to say, "Hey, I'm in the middle of starting some irrigation pipes. Can I call you back?" I mean, why not just let the phone ring, and call back? Same thing, right?

Brandon doesn't agree. He calls a lot during the day. A lot. If I don't answer my cell, he calls the office phone. If I don't answer that, he tries the cell again. Then when I call back five minutes later, he says, "Good thing it wasn't an emergency."

Similarly, I call him a fair amount during the day. But he'll answer the phone while straining to hold up a tractor implement with the other hand, and ask if he can call back. Or he'll be in the middle of showing me how to do something, and stop to take a call.

Anyway, all that to say that at least sometimes, I have a point.

We processed calves yesterday. As in branded, castrated, dehorned, dewormed. On about calf number five, Brandon had just finished sculpting out its horns, and had the branding iron going on its head to stop the bleeding.

His phone rings.

He seriously has one hand holding the branding iron on the calf's head.

He answers it:

And tells the guy he needs to call him back at a more convenient time.

A lesson in humility

A little background is necessary for this story. You see, both of us have a couple of college degrees. So the way I see it, we have an obligation to practice proper English. Just like my Great Mimi always told Ole Ted (my grandpa): "Teddy, I paid a lot of money for you to learn to speak correctly. Now please do so."

Brandon doesn't quite agree. (Neither does Ole Ted, but he's another story.)

So I spend a good part of our conversations correcting encouraging him in his choice of words. And he calls me "The Grammar Queen". Which I don't think is quite accurate — I would like to be a lot better myself.

Anyway, Brandon had an opportunity this weekend to set me straight. And he reveled in it.

We were settling in with the laptop Saturday night to watch his new favorite show, The Deep End. (Since it came on, we have traded in Desperate Housewives for what Brandon calls "The Dirty Lawyers", so we now watch "The Doctors" and "The Lawyers" every weekend.)

As he was trying to get comfortable, flailing his legs around under the covers, one of his thighs came in direct contact with my knee, putting us both in a bit of temporary pain.

He said something about what my knee did to his leg, to which I responded with something about my knee being the "immobile" object in the accident, and therefore it was his fault.

He said, "Im-mobile? That's not right."

"Sure it is. 'Im,' as in 'not'. So 'im-mobile', as in I was 'not moving'."

"But your knee had the ability to move. It could be mobile. It just wasn't moving at the time. And mobile means ability to move, not the state of moving or not."

"Hmmm...maybe you're right. I've never thought about that."

So we Googled "definition of immobile". This is what Merriam-Webster OnLine said:

1: incapable of being moved: FIXED
2: not moving: MOTIONLESS [keep the patient immobile]

But Brandon didn't really care for analyzing the second definition. As soon as I read the first one, the mini-debate was over.

"Ha! Yes! I knew it! Come on. Can you please just say I was right? I mean, I am proud of you for backing off so quickly. That told me you really weren't so sure about it. But I just beat the Grammar Queen."

I just mumbled something...

He continued: "Aren't you glad you weren't embarrassed in public with the improper use of that word?"

"Yes, I am. Thank you for pointing this out to me. I am very grateful you saved me from public humiliation with the improper use of 'immobile'."

"Can you please blog about this?"

And that, folks, is how we spend a Saturday night.

One magical time

Monday night was the first in a week of around the clock irrigating for our barley crop about six miles west of our house.

Generally, I take care of this field during the day, and Brandon keeps watch between the hours of 10 pm and 4am. Because I am a big chicken. And completely willing to admit it.

I always offer to accompany Brandon, drive him, or even do the work — if he'll just go out there with me.

You see, this field is pitch black. I am scared of the dark. Already not a good combination.

It's also right off a pretty busy road, which isn't so comforting for a female in the middle of the night. This female, anyway. I realize there are a lot of women who are much braver, and wouldn't have a problem with this entire situation.

Anyway, he very rarely goes along with me accompanying him, or vice-versa. He finds it "ridiculous". He says if he's going to be awake anyway, he might as well just take care of it. So basically, the only times I go with him are when he is super tired and needs a driver, or needs someone to shine a few lights so he doesn't fall in the ditch.

The problem is, I'm much better at waking up for the water changes. Brandon? Not so much. He is a zombie after he first falls asleep, and doesn't remember getting out of bed during the night, even if he got out of bed, turns off a blaring alarm, got halfway dressed, walked down the hall, then returned to bed.

And often, I fall back asleep after so long of trying to get him up during the night.

Needless to say, our overnight water changes are often...late. Or, sometimes nonexistent.

Monday night wasn't so bad. He was only two hours late on the first one, and one hour on the second one.

But, it did mean that what should have been our third nighttime change got pushed back to daylight.

So I wake him up Tuesday morning after I returned from making that third change. And twenty minutes later, I wake him up again.

He complains about how he was up during the night and such.

And I remind him how I offered to go with him every time he left during the night and share in his misery.

"No, you just offered the first time and the last time."

"Um, Brandon, you only went twice last night, remember? So the first and last time would have been every time."

"Oh...You forgot about that one magical time I went."

"That one magical time, huh?"

"Yeah, it was nice."

Oh, if only all of our nighttime irrigating could be "magical"...but actually get done.

Lost and found

We were merrily finishing up work on the farm Saturday evening — Brandon had 55 minutes of irrigation water left, and I just had to return the tractor to Leister Farms — when we got a phone call from a neighbor.

Apparently, our next-door neighbor was hosting a birthday party for one of his toddlers, complete with the rental of a fire engine they were all taking rides in up and down the road.

We learned a long time ago Wilbur wasn't going to be known for being a tough dog. He just doesn't have it in him. In fact, he's pretty much scared of anything. Brandon has a word he calls him for this, but I don't really like to say it, so I'm certainly not going to share it.

Anyway, the siren the fire engine was blasting scared the mess out of him, and our neighbor said he saw him bolting across our yard, through our pasture, headed due east, tail tucked in, head down and not stopping.

So I abandoned my post on taking the tractor home, left it for Brandon to finish his irrigating in, and headed home in search of our terrified dog.

I drove every dirt and paved road (probably trespassing on a few) until dark, calling his name, checking in backyards, asking anyone out walking if they had seen him. No luck.

This is when I remembered he currently had no tags on his collar. I know. Dog owner rule number one. Especially when it's a purebred, good looking dog like ours. But we had just gotten his county tags a couple weeks ago, and I couldn't get the loop back on his collar after I added them.

So I was pretty much convinced that if he got on the main road near our house, he was now a member of a new family, or would turn up as roadkill.

We decided there probably wasn't much use in looking in the dark, so I instructed Brandon to "talk about happy things" and we went to bed.

At daylight, I headed out of the house. My initial plan was to high-tail it over to the farm, deliver Brandon a Valentine's Day breakfast of donuts, go to the 7:30 church service, and be back before 9 to continue my search.

I looked for him on my way to the highway, and started feeling guilty — like I should be staying to look for him while it was early. Halfway to I-10, I realized I forgot my phone. I had to return home anyway. So, I gave up on Brandon's donut breakfast and early church, and headed home.

I grabbed my phone, made some coffee, posted a "Lost Dog" ad on Craigslist and the Maricopa County Animal Care and Control "pets911.com" website. Then continued my search.

About 8:30, I was driving down a dirt road next to the irrigation canal about one mile from our house, and I spotted an older man sitting on his porch with his morning coffee.

I'm sure there's nothing more enjoyable than a stranger wearing old cowboy boots and a skirt (I was dressed for church when I left the house, so when I returned I just ditched the heels for some more practical dog hunting shoes) interrupting your quiet Sunday morning coffee.

So I jumped the canal, ran across the road, and inquired as to whether or not he had seen a Bluetick Hound dog.

"A big Bluetick hound?"

"Yes sir."

"I've got him?"

"Really!? You do!? A male? With a blue collar?"

"Yep. I've got him."

Music to my ears. I jumped back across the canal (Okay, so I slid down one side and climbed up the other. In my skirt.), hopped in the truck, and sped around the end of the road to pick up my dog.

The man, Mike, already had Wilbur waiting in the driveway. He started wagging his tail when he saw our little white farm truck.

I thanked Mike profusely, offered up some cash (which he politely declined), loaded Wilbur and headed home. Where I deleted the Lost Dog ads I posted a mere hour earlier.

I settled on dropping off lunch for Brandon and the 11:30 church service. After I reapplied Wilbur's tags and his shock collar.

The proposal

I know this event took place a long time ago...in fact, it seems to us like it was nearly a decade ago. But, we still get asked about it.

I think it's because proposals have been somewhat romanticized. And I suppose for some couples they actually fit those expectations.

I mean, you have your public professions of love, sappy words direct from a screenplay, roses, candles, etc. Not so much for us. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

In fact, our proposal was marked by a hot dog wiener, seven yelping puppies and my grandpa on a golf cart.

To set the scene, we had traveled down to my parents' house for the weekend from College Station. They had made a trip to Oklahoma, but Brandon, Calli, Morgan and I were scheduled to go on a canoe trip down the Trinity River on Saturday.

Now, this ended up being the worst canoe trip I've ever experienced. The water level was a bit low, the wind was blowing in our face, and the last stretch of the trip required us to battle fierce winds while paddling against the waves across a lake.

We put our canoes in the water about an hour after daylight that morning, and it was fully dark by the time we disembarked on the lake shore. Not to mention the fact Calli and Brandon caused our canoe to tip over in the gator-infested, muddy lake. More than two years later, I'm still not all that happy about it.

Anyway, all that to say it was a pretty rough day, and we had more than a few moments where we weren't all that happy with each other. So he must have been pretty sure about the whole thing.

Sunday rolls around. Calli had returned to College Station Saturday night, which left us in charge of Morgan. We took him to church, and planned to leave that afternoon.

Only as soon as we were back from church, Brandon made a mad dash to pack his things, and was driving me crazy to leave that instant.

I don't think I ever told him this, but I was a little upset/mildly annoyed at how eager and pushy he was to leave my little brother at home by himself. All I wanted to do was at least make the boy some lunch, and Brandon asked, "Can't he make a sandwich?"

Of course, now I know he was just eager to give me a big diamond, which makes his behavior perfectly acceptable. He really does like my brothers.

So we fed Morgan, wished him well for the rest of the day by himself (until the rest of the family returned from Oklahoma) and set off for College Station.

But, once we were on the road, Brandon seemed perfectly calm and content, and suggested we take "the scenic route" back, since we had traveled through Houston on Friday. That "scenic route" or "back way" takes you right by my grandpa's place, which Brandon knew was my favorite place in the world. It also takes nearly half an hour longer.

So we get close to his house and Brandon suggests "stopping by to say hi". I inquired about his sudden disinterest in getting back as quickly as possible, and he says saying hello to my grandpa would just "be the right thing to do". So we stopped.

He didn't appear to be home (we arrived to a bolted gate at the end of his driveway), and Brandon then suggested throwing a line out for a few minutes down at his pond. I asked what exactly he intended to use as bait.

And he pulled a cut-up hot dog wiener from his backpack. Apparently, he had stolen it from my parents' fridge.

I agreed, although I found his behavior in the previous couple of hours awfully strange, and we drove down to the pond. This is where I should mention we were also crating around seven puppies. Seven. My dog, Dixie, had birthed them a few weeks before and we had to travel with them that weekend.

Brandon immediately baits a pole down at the pond, tosses it in, but wasn't exactly paying attention to it. I had been fishing with this boy quite a few times. He is a serious fisherman. Actually, he's serious about just about anything he does. So, for the sake of sounding corny, I knew something was "fishy" at this point.

We ended up having to release the puppies from the crate in the back of the truck because I couldn't hear a word Brandon was saying over all the yelping and whimpering. So then we had them running all under our feet the whole time. Quite a scene.

Then Brandon got all serious in the conversation, and starts looking out across the pond, seemingly pondering life. Totally weird. He asked me a question that had something to do with where I saw myself/what I saw myself doing in so many years.

This is where I caught on to what he was probably leading up to. I remember thinking to myself, you know, I could make this really easy on him, and just give him the extremely cliche/movie screen answer of "With you," and be done with it. But I didn't. I rambled on with some vague answer completely unrelated to our relationship.

He stammered through a few more sentences, still trying to pull some sort of answer out of me that would help him lead up to the big question, and I kept avoiding it. Now, it's funny to me. Probably not so much to him.

Finally, I guess he realized he was getting nowhere, and just dropped to his knee in front of my camp chair, somehow without squashing a puppy, and asks me the one question he really wanted the answer to.

And clearly, I said yes. We smiled. We kissed. We hugged.

Mid-hug, he says, "I can't believe this!"

I quickly stand back and ask, "Uh, you can't believe what?"

"That I'm getting married!"

"Well, ...we, uh...don't have to. You're the one who asked."

"No, I want to. I just can't believe it!"

"Okay, well you might want to be a little more specific before you say something like that."

And so began our story. With many conversations much like that one to follow.

As we made our way to the top of the hill, we met my grandpa on his golf cart. He was the first person to find out and see my sparkly diamond. We like to tell everyone who hears this story that Brandon "caught a lot more than one of my grandpa's fish that day".

Just another day on the farm...

So we got my little sister all married off last Saturday, and returned to the farm bright and early Monday morning. Well, Brandon did anyway. I have the lovely task of getting our 2009 books in order for the accountant.

My bright and early came Tuesday morning. Only, it wasn't even bright yet. Just early.

Brandon had left the house at 1 and 4am to irrigate. He called at 5:30.

"Hey, you awake?"

"Yeah, for about 15 minutes now. Need something?"

"Are you up-awake, or still-in-bed-awake?" Like it was really going to make a difference in what he was going to ask me to do...

I explained I was still-in-bed-awake, but ready to be up-awake.

"Good. I buried a tractor and need you to meet me at my parents' with a chain and the backhoe going in ten minutes."

All I have to say, is it's a good thing I'm a morning person.

And when we got there, I found out how "buried" he meant. The entire tractor was sitting down in the drain ditch. The drain ditch which would soon have irrigation water flowing down it, mind you. I couldn't even tell which implement he had hooked up to the back of this thing.

Brandon hooked up the chain, and I found out I had to drive the backhoe that was supposed to pull it out of the ditch.

And, of course, I got the best picture I could in the dark with my phone. I told him if he would have told me how bad it was stuck, I would have brought my real camera. Which is probably why he didn't.
It really didn't take all that long. And it would have been quicker if I didn't get so stinking scared when the backhoe shifted six inches toward the ditch on me. When Brandon asked why I stopped pulling, I said, "Because it moved! I'm going to slide into the ditch!"

"Yeah, it moved six inches. I don't want you to stop until it moves six feet. You can't get stuck in that thing, don't worry."

I was not worried about getting stuck. I fully knew it was impossible to get a backhoe stuck. I was, however, scared of being tilted sideways in the ditch on a piece of equipment.

Anyway, we got the tractor out, then lifted the implement (which I found out was a blade) with the bucket on the backhoe. When everything was safely removed from the mud and there was less tension, I finally dared to ask how the whole thing had happened.

"Did you just slide off the road into the ditch or something?"

"No, I was blading the drain ditch. I got stuck on this end coming down, but I got out by myself, so I thought I would turn around and do this side of the ditch too. Bad idea."

Yeah, I'd say...

Contributing to the farm

Last night, Brandon somehow convinced me to go to bed at 8:30.

[This is where everyone who really knows me is saying, yeah right, bet that took a lot of convincing.]

He had to wake up at 1:00am to deal with some irrigating. When I reached for some covers (because he pulls all but enough to cover half my body every time he rolls over), my hand barely touched his back.

"Oh, does that mean you want to scratch my back?"

"Um, no, not really. You need to get to sleep. You need to wake up soon."

"But it will help me sleep. Think of it as...your contribution to the farm."

So now I'm wondering if instead of taking a few night shifts next week, I can just offer up a 15-minute back scratch? Worth a shot...

"With this ring, I thee...

throw to a pack of coyotes."

So maybe those aren't the exact words Brandon used a year and a half ago, but they should have been.

He and his buddy Travis participated in a calling contest this past weekend, where they tried to kill more coyotes, fox or bobcats than 52 other teams of men in one day. He got home Sunday morning.

Monday night, after searching through his gear as he unpacked, he told me he couldn't find his wedding ring.

He tried to reassure me by saying, "But I still have my Aggie ring."

And, technically, it is. That Aggie ring probably cost twice as much as his wedding band. But as far as importance? Not so sure about that.

It had surprised me he hadn't worn it to church on Sunday, but he was in a rush to get ready, so I assumed he had simply forgotten. Well, he had forgotten alright. Forgotten to pick it up off the ground after a calling stand that weekend.

He doesn't wear it all that much. He's a farmer, so it's pretty dangerous for him to wear it to workn. But any time we go into town, on vacation, basically doing anything other than work, he wears it. I don't think he's ever worn it hunting. This weekend being the exception, of course.

And I don't blame him for his habits in wearing it. I don't wear my diamond when we're doing things like that anymore. My farm work typically doesn't involve things that are too dangerous to wear rings, so I just wear my wedding band, mainly to avoid ever watching my pretty diamond get washed down an irrigation ditch. Same when we go hunting.

But for some crazy reason, he decided to wear his wedding ring that weekend. Which didn't work out too well against the metal hand call he was using. Apparently it kept making noise as he was working his hands around the call.

So at some point, he took it off so the coyotes wouldn't be scared off by the clanking noise. Only, now he can't remember where it went after that. In a pocket? In his pack? In the snow? In the truck?

And we were able to search everywhere except the snow. So we're guessing that's where it is.

By Wednesday, we had searched through every pair of pants, both vehicles that were on the hunting trip, and every hunting pack, bag and food container. No ring.

So we resigned to get him a new one, especially before we travel to Texas this weekend for my sister's wedding and my family thinks he's weird.

We found some on Wal-Mart.com for around $40, and one on Craigslist for $25. We weren't sure exactly what size he wore, or what it would cost to have one resized, and there's a Wal-Mart right next to one of our fields. Conveniently, I had to drop him off at a tractor there Wednesday afternoon, so we stopped in Wal-Mart on the way.

We walked straight to the ring counter, told the saleslady we needed a men's wedding band, got her to size Brandon's finger, and pointed to one of three options in that size. It fit. We told her to box it up.

Brandon said, "I can handle this kind of wedding shopping."

Quite likely, the quickest sale the lady had ever made at the wedding ring counter. No lie: from the time we parked until we were back in the truck was no longer than five minutes. Max.

As Brandon got out his wallet to give Wal-Mart his $48, he said, "Now if only marriage were this easy..."

Indeed.

A Brandon calculation

So, my baby sister gets married this Saturday. As in, four days from today.

As her matron of honor (Who made up that word, anyway? It sounds awful and old!), I wanted to do something nice for her this weekend, since my Arizona residency has kept me from participating in all the wedding-related events so far (shower, bachelorette party, etc.).

A while back, Allison and I decided we would host a Bridal Brunch for her and the rest of the bridal party.

One of my assigned tasks was to make sausage balls. I wanted to pre-make and freeze them before traveling so we would have one less thing to do early Saturday morning. So I spent an hour Sunday afternoon making my sausage balls.

As soon as my timer went off, Brandon came to the kitchen in search of a snack. I told him if he had to try the sausage balls, he could only have two.

I had ended up with a batch of 42, and thought I could get by just fine with an even 40, considering the small number of guests and assortment of other foods we planned to have.

So he immediately grabbed two sausage balls off the cookie sheet, and popped them in his mouth, practically at the same time.

Later, he hollered from the kitchen, "So you're going to take 39 sausage balls to this thing?"

"No, I made 42. I told you you could have two of them."

"Yeah, I know. So you're taking 39, right?"

"Brandon Leister, you ate a third one, didn't you?"

"Do you want me to eat another one so it's an even 38?"

Oh, that boy...and I still have to get the remaining 39 to Texas in four days, living and traveling with him. Luckily, they're already frozen. I'm hoping they don't thaw out during our flight.

A not so beautiful day in the neighborhood...

Last Wednesday afternoon, Brandon was enjoying a quiet lunch at home, when we noticed both dogs going absolutely nuts outside. Like, Wilbur was twice as loud as when the garbage truck comes down the road. Which is loud, y'all. I'm pretty sure all our neighbors who pay for garbage service twice a week at 6:30am are going to cancel and start burning it.

Anyway, we look out the office window to see two dogs running full speed into our yard. One giant one (bigger than Wilbur), followed by a heeler. Dixie and Wilbur ran out to meet them and defend our property, while Brandon and I both bolted for the door.

Sure enough, we reached it just in time to see Dixie lose her ground to the big dog. Brandon successfully got the invader dogs out of our yard, but Dixie was left with a four-inch gash in her back leg, hide flapping in the wind.

Brandon ran to the safe, grabbed a shotgun, and took out after the dogs, namely, the dangerous one. He found the owner instead, and long story short, they agreed to keep the dog up, pay for Dixie's damages, and informed him the deg was a pit bull-American bulldog mix. A lovely dog to be out roaming the neighborhood, right? Especially when the neighbors on both sides of us have toddlers playing in the yard.

Anyway, Dixie went in for her "surgery" Friday morning. Apparently, that's what they call dog stitches these days — surgery. I collected a check from the dog owner, and picked her up that afternoon. Everyone was happy.

One of the receptionists went to the back to retrieve Dixie, and you could hear her in the lobby saying, "Whoa-oa. You sure don't act like you just woke up from surgery."

Yes, meet my dog. Some said she would be less hyper after the "puppy stage". Nope. Some said after she was "fixed" she would calm down. Wrong again.

Others gave hope she would be better once she had a place to run around more during the day and not be so confined. Folks, we've got five acres, and after she's made three loops around all five of them, she still acts like a pinball going nonstop in the machine.

So they brought Dixie out front, and she jumped up, and was going spastic on the end of the leash while a lady waiting with her miniature Australian Shepherd puppy shielded it in her lap and said, "No, you can't play with that one," ...all while they're explaining to me how important it is I keep her from running and jumping too much the rest of the day.

I refrained from laughing in their faces, but let it all out once I was safely inside my truck. I sent the following message to my immediate family and a couple friends: "So I was just instructed to not let Dixie run or jump too much today. Ha! Clearly, they have no idea what I'm dealing with."

To which my mom responded: "I can only imagine. You will be busy."

My sister: "Oh no! Have fun with that!"

But my dad takes the prize: "A mason in a dog suit" (Basically suggesting this would be as easy as confining my youngest brother in a straight jacket.)

And sure enough, she bolted out of the truck, around the yard, on top of the picnic table, and started jumping up on Wilbur, who was anxiously awaiting her. So I lured her into the pen (the only place I thought I might have a chance) with some elk scraps (from when we processed two elk in our kitchen last fall), where she ran in a circle and jumped up on each side.

Now I'm taking bets on how many days it will take for the stitches in her leg to bust.

And also? Trying to come up with worse ways to meet neighbors than insisting they pay $289 in veterinary services so you don't get reported for animal negligence.

[Seriously. I took her in for an "estimate" — yeah, kind of like a car — on Thursday to make sure it was what the dog owner considered "reasonable" enough to pay. Before I left, they told me if I didn't bring her back for the "surgery" they would have to report me.]