Biggest fish of my life

I already mentioned Brandon did all the catching on our fishing trip last weekend. No need to dwell on that any longer.

But, I didn't mention he caught the biggest fish of his life over the weekend.

And here she is, y'all:

all whopping three pounds of her.

Bass are pretty much known for putting up quite a fight for their size. Something Brandon has had a great deal of experience with over many years of fishing.

But when this gal got on the end of his line late Sunday afternoon, he just knew he had the catch of the day. Which I guess he did...in our boat.

So he's hollering at me to get the net, running around the boat, following this fish thrashing on his line. And right before the fish surfaces, he shouts, "This is the biggest fish of my life!"

Then when I scooped her into the net: "Or, maybe not..."

But to Brandon's credit, this catch did make the biggest contribution to our fish fry.

The difference between fishing and catching

So, Brandon and I embarked upon a little fishing trip the weekend before Easter, in hopes of catching enough fish to be able to invite a few friends to a Good Friday fish fry.

As I've already told most everyone who asked about our trip, it was more like I went fishing and Brandon went catching. Of the 12 bass we were able to bring home, I think two were mine, maybe just one.

Which didn't go over so well with my pride.

I'll admit, I spent half of Sunday sulking on the back of the boat, not wanting Brandon to provide a single other "tip" for the day or "suggest" another bait, or really, say anything to me at all.

But, I felt much better on Monday when his luck began to wane as well. Pretty soon, he began asking every fishing boat we encountered what kind of luck they were having, what type of bait they were using, etc.

On toward the evening, after speaking with our last boat of fellow fishermen, Brandon asked me, "You know, I'm asking all these guys what they're using. How come no one asks what we're throwin' in the water?"

I replied, "Well, probably because they know that if you're asking, you're not catching."

"Hmm, you're probably right..."

We decided to try to make this trip an annual event. But hopefully I'll get to go catching next year, and Brandon can fish from the back of the boat.

Fiesta for one

I'm not sure why so many of our stories around here revolve around food, eating and mealtime, but that seems to be a rather prominent trend. Maybe it's because some days, mealtime is the only time we really see each other to engage in conversation.

Anyway, ...I'll start getting to the point.

If there's anything we try to manipulate in our schedules, we make a solid attempt at sharing supper together. At home. At the same time. Pretty close to every night.

But, supper time on the farm can be...unpredictable. At best.

So we both do little things to help this happen. I try to plan ahead as best I can so that even if I get summoned to my tractor driving post in the late afternoon, we have something semi-prepared, or at least have the meat thawed out, don't have to make a grocery run, that sort of thing.

We check in with each other mid-afternoon to get a game plan for the evening (who's finishing up which chores, etc.) and an estimated arrival time for Brandon. To at least give me something to shoot for as far as meal preparation. So we don't have to eat cold food or wait on something to finish cooking that causes us to be late for a water change. Most of the time, anyway.

Lastly, Brandon gives a "warning call" when he's feeding or heading this way. This is when I usually pop the bread in the toaster oven if it's part of our meal, start warming both our plates if the food happened to be ready early that day, or make any other sort of final touches.

But all this planning and preparation?

Went out the window earlier this week.

This is where I really get to the point.

Now, Brandon did call to check in a couple hours before he planned to arrive home. And told me he had just eaten "two monster burritos" at his parents' house that were "Like, so big I couldn't finish the second one."

So, you could say I got a warning. But the thing is? Some Most days, he's about as close as they come to a bottomless pit. So two burritos at 4 in the afternoon? Doesn't necessarily put a damper on his dinner consumption plans.

I continued making the Mexican Fiesta Pizza I had planned. Admittedly, not the tastiest thing we've ever had around here. But it was a Pampered Chef recipe (the kind that come with their cookware) and it would use up two things we had in the fridge that were on their last lag. It was one of those maintenance meals. Nothing to write home about.

Regardless, I made this Fiesta Pizza. For the two of us. And I waited for Brandon to arrive home.

He walks in the door, starts talking to me, stops at the kitchen counter, picks up a piece of Fiesta Pizza, and eats it. No big deal. I'm okay with appetizers before we sit down. I get a couple of plates out.

Only, he says, "Oh, no. I'm done. That's all I need. Monster burritos, remember?"

I cock my head a bit, drop my jaw, and send not-so-nice eyes his way.

"Uh, something wrong with that? I warned you I ate those burritos."

"No, it would be fine, but now I have to go sit at the table and eat the supper I made for us by myself, because you just ate yours standing up here."

"Oh, you were waiting for me?"

Like this was some sort of new idea! Something he didn't expect. Something we don't go to great lengths to plan. Something he doesn't nearly insist upon, even if it means we have to eat at 9pm occasionally.

He did sit at the table with me while I ate. But I'm not so sure that was really optional.

Don't even think about it

So a few days ago, Brandon was browsing the classifieds at CouesWhitetail.com and came across an ad for a female hound pup:

I know. Adorable, right?

Going through the classified ads there is like an evening ritual for Brandon, so I thought nothing of him lingering on this puppy ad for a minute or two.

Then, two nights later, he revisited that ad and saw it had been updated to "Sold". Later, he was browsing Craigslist and asked if they had pet ads.

"I don't think so. Why? What kind of pet would you be looking for?"

"Oh, just one for the farm."

"Like what? A chicken?"

"No...no...a farm [mutters inaudible word]."

"A what?"

"A farm... [practically under his breath] dog."

I just gave one of those wife looks. Which I'm quite good at by now. You know, the one that says, "You might as well start packing your bags now if this conversation goes any further."

He quickly said, "Oh, it wouldn't stay here, don't worry. I would keep it at my parents'. So it could hang around the shop and stuff."

"Yeah, because that worked out real well for the last one?" [That's how we lost Wilma, Wilbur's litter mate. By sending her to Brandon's parents' house, alongside a busy road.]

Not to mention the fact this might take some approval from his parents first. His parents who already have three dogs of their own.

Anyway, I basically let him know that in no way, shape or form would we be owning another dog anytime soon.

You see, Brandon doesn't listen to Wilbur howl all day long. He doesn't have to yell at Dixie all day for her jumping and yelping. He doesn't have them going crazy every morning, running in circles at his feet, when they get let out of the pen. He didn't have to chase them down from neighbor's yards before they semi-learned how to stay in ours. He rarely even feeds them. And he certainly isn't the one who hunts down Wilbur when he gets scared and runs away.

So another dog? No big deal for him.

I, on the other hand, have informed many of our friends that even if both our dogs died tomorrow, it might take years for me to get another one.

Even after rehashing all this, Brandon continued to look up hound puppy ads on Backpage, just Googling "hound dogs AZ", etc.

I finally told him, "Okay, you've got to get rid of all this. I'm a sucker for puppies. I don't want to see any of it. Do not make me think this might be okay."

But he said, "It's not just you. Everyone is."

"Including you? Really?"

"Yep..."

Who would have thought? Brandon, the animal slayer, a puppy sucker.

Wishing there were two of me

Monday was just one of those Mondays that makes people dread Mondays.

We don't worry about the whole Monday thing too much on the farm, since every day is basically the same. With the slight exception of trying to fit in some church time on Sundays. Between water changes, of course.

But this Monday, Mid-day, after I had:

• woken at 4:45am and sent Brandon out the door to man some water,
• spent two hours working on a writing project,
• made a water change and temporarily tended a blown out ditch (Brandon had to fix it later with the backhoe),
• purchased a money order at the bank to cover Brandon's traffic ticket and mailed it all off,
• driven 25 miles to the other farm to tend water there for two hours, including an overflowing ditch,
• picked up a prescription and a few staple grocery items (milk, jalapenos, Rotel),
• loaded hay for cows that still hadn't been fed at our house and picked up business mail that gets delivered to Brandon's parents' house,

Brandon sent a barrage of text messages concerning my remaining tasks of the day, including:

• completing and printing financial statements for our loan officer with the Farm Service Agency,
• gathering materials for our meeting with the accountant in the morning,
• finally feeding the cows that expected a 7:30am meal,
• taking a check to the fertilizer company to pay the balance on our monthly bill,
• making a couple more water changes, and walking the entire field to make sure everything was wet, in time for Brandon to order more water for remaining dry areas,
• returning to the field at dark to turn off fertilizer and set up the ditch for more water to arrive at 6:30am,
• come up with something for us to eat,
• and updating our cattle records with a breeding I observed the day before.

And during all this, I'm still thinking about the 16 unedited pages I left open on my computer screen that morning. Which are due to my client shortly. Like, as soon as I can get them done.

That's when I sent him a message that said, "I think this is just one of those days where I could use two of me."

And he agreed.

Because if my day was overwhelming, you don't even want to imagine his.

Aunts and uncles

Aunt Katie and Uncle Brandon, that is.

As Brandon put it, "There's going to be a baby around at Christmas! Like, this Christmas! That's going to be so weird."

My sister, Calli, called recently to tell us Baby Bitner is on his/her way. Apparently all I could say at the time was, "Wow...wow...wow." Because at some point in the conversation, she was all, "Katie, if you say 'wow' one more time, I'm hanging up."

So I quit saying wow.

Anyway, this whole situation has caused a couple of mildly humorous situations between Brandon and I.

To begin, the night my sister called, after we were in bed, Brandon asked, "You don't think this is going to start some sort of race to see who can pop out the most in the next five years, do you?"

I, very calmly, replied, "Well, Dear, if there's anyone who thinks that, I'm mailing in my white towel tomorrow." Because I'm not even remotely close to jumping on the baby bandwagon.

Then, every time we would talk to my parents, we'd say, "Hey, Grandma!" Or, "What's up, Gramps?" Or some other variation. And Brandon would ask my mom how Uncle Morgan and Uncle Mason were doing.

So a few days later, I asked him, "You know, you keep talking about Uncle Morgan and Mason, but you do realize you're Uncle Brandon too, right?"

"No, I'm not," he replied, "Not a real one anyway. I'm only part of all this by marriage. It doesn't count."

"So, your 'Aunt Ann' isn't your 'real' aunt? And my 'Uncle Dale' isn't my 'real' uncle?"

"No comment."

So I guess it's going to take a while for Brandon to adjust to this whole idea.

Apparently, Uncle Mason isn't so sure about his new role in the family either. From the story I heard, my parents and Mason were all in the car watching Morgan's baseball game when they received The Call.

From all accounts, the hangup was followed by a solid five minutes of silence while all three of them sat in shock.

The first words came from Mason: "Uncle. ...I'm going to be an uncle in the eighth grade."

My mom corrected him, saying he would be in high school before the baby arrived. Then they finished the baseball game in silence.

Now that the surprise has worn off, we're all gearing up for the fall arrival. Some of us more so than others (ahem, ...Grandma). I mean, the kid is probably the size of my big toe right now and already owns cowboy boots.

Congrats, Baby Sister. And welcome to the family, Baby Bitner.

Why you get an education

Not long Two days after I moved here, Brandon had me hard at work on the farm. Walking, sometimes running through fields with shovels and giant boards to help the water flow.

On about day three of my farm training, we were taking a mid-morning break on the side of the road, dumping muddy water out of our rubber boots and catching our breath. It was a Saturday, so there was quite a bit of family traffic on the road.

As we sat there, exhausted, covered head to toe in mud and water, I said, "You know, I bet every one of these parents driving by is turning around telling their kids in the back seat, 'You see? That's why you get an education.' Little do they know, there's nearly three Masters degrees between the two of us."

I've told that story many times, and some of my mom's teacher-friends have told me they've gotten some mileage out of it too, as far as giving those "follow your dreams" kind of speeches. But we all know it's probably true.

Brandon gets people asking what he's doing farming with his sort of academic achievements all the time. In fact, he's really been surprised by the number of people involved in agriculture themselves who have asked similar questions. But I really like the answer he often gives. It's not just your standard "because it's what I want to do," answer.

He usually says something like, "I got an education so I could have options and choose what I wanted to do for myself, not just so I could get a good job in town."

And that's why Rocker 7 Farms is around. Because we're educated.