Caryn
Living in the country and raising a few head of cattle for the purpose of butchering to feed the family is the way of life for the small rancher. A small rancher is of course, someone who doesn’t sell the cattle for profit, but just uses them for a food source. That is what Bob’s family used to do…Bob and I included. This was a new kind of life to me, as I had never been around cows much.
Corrie, Amy, and I would feed the cows in the morning, or at least the girls would come along. If you have never been around cows when someone is bringing in a bucket of grain, I promise you that you do not want to let small children in there. You see the grain to a cow…well, that’s their candy, and you had better move fast and get it into the feeding trough, or you will get run over. They have absolutely no discipline when it comes to grain.
I remember one cow in particular that I had named Rosie, because of her coat. Rosie was a Hereford cow. She loved her grain. She would run along side me to be first in line. One time, she was running and needed to scratch her belly at the same time, so she tried to do both. The result was that she kicked me in the back of the knee. Man…that hurt. She left a quarter sized bump and a huge bruise. The bump was with me for about a year and the bruise actually re-occured off and on. I can still feel her kick. She didn’t mean to do it of course. She was like a little kid and very gentle, but she loved her candy, and anyone in the vicinity of the bucket had better beware. Needless to say, you can see why the girls watched me feed the cows. They did help with the hay though, but that was done from the other side of the fence where they couldn’t get run over.
Butchering the cows…well that is another story. After caring for the cows and even naming them…probably not the best idea, I simply could not stand the thought or the sight of my pets being shot in the head, even though I knew it had to be, and I was ok with eating the meat. So the girls and I stayed in the house…with the TV or radio on fairly loud while the butchering was taking place.
We have long since moved into town, and we do not raise cows anymore, but I look a little differently at the cows we pass on the roads when we travel, because I know a little more about how they act, and what it takes to raise them than I ever imagined I would.
There are people out there, and we all know them, who simply love the mud. They have a bit of an obsession with the thought of conquering it…usually with their truck. And if we didn’t all like the idea, there wouldn’t be anything like the mud races, but we do and that is why there are mud races. We pay good money to go out and see if someone can run their truck through a mud pit, secretly hoping that most of them get stuck, because we want our favorite to win. For a while, my favorite was my son-in-law, Kevin. He got into mud racing, and bought a special truck for it, and competed in quite a few races. It was fun watching his races.
Now, getting down and dirty in the mud isn’t my thing, but I don’t mind watching other people do it. And many people don’t mind doing it. Maybe it’s the adrenalin rush or the screaming crowd, but whatever it is, people flock to see the next guy do his best to conquer the mud pit. And the adrenalin rush isn’t limited to the racers. Everyone in the crowd is filled with excitement and anticipation as each truck begins his run. Then, mud flying, they are off. Sometimes the mud is tough, and very few racers get through. Then it is a matter of who got the farthest. Other times it’s a little easier, and then it is a matter of who got through the fastest. Either way, it is always a challenge, and a definite crowd pleaser.
During the time that Kevin was mud racing, his boys, Chris and Josh had a chance to feel special too. They could tell people that this truck was their dad’s and that racer was their dad. It was a wonderful way for them to share a guy thing together. And of course, Corrie didn’t mind the whole thing either. Each race is unique, with it’s own set of problems. From trucks breaking down, to being damaged in the race, it 
was a work in progress, and not a cheap one. But in the end, it was a family thing that brought them closer together.
Kevin decided that mud racing was a little to much money to continue with a few years ago, and the truck was sold. They have since moved on to other interests, such as the boys’ sports, but they will always have the memory of the nights spent door deep in the mud, and the days spent washing that same mud off of the truck to prepare for the next event. I’m sure Kevin misses those days a little bit now and then, but the memory lives on and the pictures will always tell the tale of those days…in the mud.
From the time they were old enough to walk, my nephews, JD and Eric were around motorcycles. Their dad loves motorcycles, and motorcycle races. They were in motocross, and learned all the jumping skills that we see at the shows these days. They started out on these little teeny motorcycles, and the bikes grew as the boys did. Since I’m not a motorcycle person, I have to say their races made me nervous, but the boys thrived on it.
After a while, you didn’t expect to see JD or Eric, unless you saw them on a motorcycle, or at the very least, in a motorcycle suit. They had these great little motorcycle racing suits, and they wore them as much as they could. The boys were so proud of the suits and the bikes. When they raced, they poured their heart and soul into it. They worked very hard to learn all the little tricks that added speed to their race and cut seconds off their time or put them out ahead of the guy in front of them. It was all about the race.
They have participated in many events in Casper, as well as in other states. While their sport made me nervous, I was also very proud to hear their names as their ran their various races at the monster truck races and such. Whenever they raced, we screamed louder than 
anyone around us. We were very loyal fans, and they were our favorite racers. It made us feel special to know two of the racers personally.
The years have gone by, and the little boys have been replaced with men, but their love of motorcycles has never changed. They may not race much anymore, but they love to ride and Eric even incorporated a motorcycle into his wedding recently, as he came charging into the outdoor ceremony on his motorcycle to claim Ashley, his lovely bride. I expect motorcycles and even racing will be a part of their lives for many years to come…as they fulfill the need for speed.
When we look back into our own history, we often wonder who we look like. I suppose it gives us a feeling of belonging to look at our ancestors and see a face there that is very similar to our own. Sometimes those faces are uncannily close to ours even. It seems to be a thought that comes and goes throughout our lives…or maybe it is just at the milestones in life.
Everyone asks the new parents, which one the baby most looks like, and it can be hard to tell when comparing babies to adults, so you look at the baby pictures of the parents for those clues. It is funny, however, when your granddaughter mistakes a picture of you for her. That is what happened to me recently. I had been told from the time she was born that Shai looked like me, and even she and I have noticed a resemblance as she gets older, but I have still had a hard time believing that this beautiful granddaughter I have could possibly take after me.
As she has grown up, she has begun to notice the similarities more and more, as have other people who see us together. It was something I never expected, and yet some pictures I see of us are…almost like a mirror image. I can’t explain how very blessed that makes me feel. I always knew too that her mother, my daughter, Amy looked quite a bit like me as well, but to have 3 generations that look alike is unusual to say the least. The cool thing for me is that unusual or not, that is exactly how it is in my family, and I kind of like that.
Through the years I have found myself looking at my aunts, and grandmothers to see if I look like anyone in particular. I have found that I look similar to my Aunt Ruth and I laugh like her too. I look at my mom and I find that she looks very much like her mom, as does my Aunt Evelyn and my cousin Shelley, who is also Aunt Evelyn’s daughter. My sister Cheryl reminds me quite a bit of my Aunt Sandy. It is simply in the genes. Some characteristics are more dominant than others, and those characteristics are passed along, from generation to generation.
Every year since they were born, we have taken Christmas pictures of my grandchildren together. Everyone loves to get those new pictures to compare with a year ago. Kids change so fast. Some years have been a trial, some years feel almost impossible. My grandchildren are all very different people, and they have very different personalities.
That was not totally the problem in the really early years. When you are dealing with infants, they are either asleep or crying. So you work with them and work with them until it is finally right, and after this photo session, you head home to put the baby down for a nap, and take one yourself, because…you have earned it.
As they get older, it’s the fighting that stalls the whole process. This one doesn’t want to sit next to that one, or this one wants to be in the back, not the front, or someone is touching someone else. Oh my gosh, the tragedy of it all. Heaven forbid, having to be somewhere in the picture that you didn’t want to, and if you let them choose, they all want the same place. And all you can think of is next year they will be one year older and it will work better.
Then next year comes around, and you have a whole new set of issues. Makeup is horrible, or is it the hair, they hate what they are wearing, or the inevitable as they become teenagers…they are too tired. So you try letting them pick a few of the poses to break the ice a bit. Sometimes even that doesn’t work well, but sometimes it does, and you end up with a very funny pose, or set of poses.
Ultimately, no matter what the age, with a little persuasion, such as the promise of candy afterward or…maybe bodily harm if they don’t behave, you get a few good poses, and the pictures turn out quite well. And of course, when the pictures are given out, and only the best ones are given out, by the way, everyone just loves them. They all think, “How did you pull that off? Getting them all to smile at the same time.” And of course, you just smile and let them think what they want. You know it was a lot of work, but…it was so worth it. Once again, it is time to start thinking about those pictures…no wonder I have a headache!!
We most often think of the husband being older than the wife in a marriage. But that isn’t always the case, and I happen to know of some very good marriages in which that is not the case. Many people might find that to be odd, but love doesn’t really understand age differences…thankfully.
There can, however, be some funny side effects to being in a marriage in which the wife is older than the husband. I suppose, sometimes it is a good idea to have a bit of a sense of humor…especially if the wife in this marriage likes to…well, rub it in a bit. Bob’s grandmother was 5 months to the day older than his grandfather. Each year on her birthday, she would tell him, “Well, now I’m older and wiser than you are.” He never really said much, but I’m sure he was thinking, “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.”
The way I see it, most of the marriages in which the wife is older, include at least some degree of teasing by the wife, because that is the way most women are. It is what gives life a little spice! There might be people who would disagree with me on that one, but I know that Bob’s grandmother thoroughly loved being 5 months older than his grandfather, and he liked hearing things like she had robbed the cradle, which is usually a term used on men. That one was also used on my daughter Amy, who is 11 months older than her husband, Travis.
Sometimes, it is the unusual that makes a marriage special. The private little joke, the endearing nickname, and yes, maybe the unusual ages of the couple. We look at May/December marriages as 
being odd, but there are very often filled with deep love, though those on the outside of the marriage are always suspicious of that type of marriage. And even marriages with a medium sized difference in age might seem odd to some, but can be filled with the deepest, enduring love that there could possibly be. Marriages come in all kinds of different forms, but it is love that makes the marriage, and love simply doesn’t notice the differences that people do.
My great grandmother lived next door to my grandparents for all the years I knew her. She was my mother’s dad’s mother, and all of us kids loved her very much. Whenever we were at my grandparent’s house, we would always go over to Little Great Grandma’s house. She would always have cookies for us to eat, and she would sit with us at the table and talk a little. We didn’t go over often, because there was always something going on at my grandparents house…always lots of kids there to play with.
Whenever we got to go over, I loved seeing Little Great Grandma. I don’t know who started calling her that, but I don’t remember ever calling her anything else. When I think about my own grandchildren and all the nicknames they have come up with for me though, my guess is that one of the great grandsons got taller than her, and decided that she was now Little Great Grandma. My grandsons, who are all taller than I am now, are always calling me Little Grandma, so it stands to reason that, since my great grandmother wasn’t a tall woman, she would eventually be given that name.
I used to think it was unique to this generation or my family, since my sister’s grandchildren have those nicknames for her too, but when I got to thinking about my great grandmother, and the nickname we always called her, I think it is something that crosses the generational lines. I suppose my great grandmother would have cringed at some of my nicknames, but as times change, so do the nicknames.
I also think it is a form of endearment. Kids call ’em as they see ’em. My grandchildren used to call me the fingernail grandma (I believe Christopher thought of that one) when they were little and trying to figure out a way to distinguish which grandma they were talking about. I do love to paint my nails and they are always long, so I guess it stands to reason. As the years have gone by, I have been Gma, G (came from Josh, it was easier), Gram, Gramama (definitely from my granddaughter, 
Shai), G-pickle (Caalab, my joker, came up with that one), as well as several others that didn’t have a very long life, and so don’t come quickly to mind.
Endearing nicknames are only given to those we love, and since I know my grandchildren love me very much, I can look at the silly nicknames I have acquired over the years, and know that funny as they are…they are my own, given to me by grandchildren who love me with all their heart, and they show me that every day. I love each and every nickname, almost as much as I love each and every grandchild.
I was born the second of 5 girls, with no brothers. For 3 years it would be just my older sister, Cheryl and me, and I am blessed enough to say, “She loved me!” While there would be years when Cheryl and I would fight like cats and dogs, most of our lives have been lived as good friends. Cheryl loved being the big sister, and I always looked up to her. Somehow, she was always the cool one, with a sense of class and sophistication, and I was…well, not. I was much more shy, and awkward, except when it came to gymnastics. I could do that without trouble, but when it came to being one of the kids that fit in with the crowd, I just really didn’t. I guess I was more of a geek, and these days that is cool, but it wasn’t back then.
As I said, I did well in gymnastics and pretty much anything else like that. When Cheryl and I were little, probably about 3 and 1, I could crawl as fast as many kids could run. Mom has movies of me crawling across the floor, and Cheryl trying to keep up by crawling along beside me, but after quickly losing ground, she would have to get up and run to catch up with me. Then she would try to crawl again and would get behind again. The movies look pretty funny. It was the one place I could beat her I guess.
For most of our lives, it didn’t matter who had the upper hand, except in our teenage years, when it didn’t matter what we did, it always ended up in a fight. I’m quite sure it was because I was smart alecky, but I’m not admitting to anything like that, so don’t quote me on it. I will say that I had the ability to be a little aggravating, and my poor sister, Cheryl had to deal with that a lot.
Nevertheless, as the years have gone by, I have learned the value of such a wonderful sister as mine. When the going gets tough, you can always count on her to be there for you. She possesses a quiet strength and an ability to move past irritations and on to peace. That is a wonderful quality, and one I wish I had. I watch her and how she does things, and I try to run my life like she does. I am not saying that she never gets annoyed, or even downright angry, but she is much quicker to move past that and on to peace than I have been able to do. She is my mentor in so many ways, and a role model that I can always respect. And Cheryl, “I love you too!!”
Little girls love to mimic their moms. They see their mom getting ready for the day, and putting on their makeup, and taking great care with every detail, and they learn that this ritual is something very important. Little girls want to be just like their mom, because they love her and they think she is the most beautiful mom in the whole world. These are moments you wish could last forever…the moments before you become a total embarrassment to your child, as most parents do when their kids reach adolescence. For a time…a short time, you are just exactly what they want to be…until you become old fashioned, that is.
Like most girls, Corrie and Amy loved to play dress up, and makeup was a big part of that. I had to really keep an eye on my makeup or I might just find out that it wasn’t lasting quite as long as it really should. Of course, Corrie, being the oldest, was a little better at getting enough makeup on her face than Amy was, until Amy was a little older, that is. My girls always wanted to do the things I was doing, and not just in the area of makeup. I guess it is part of the whole finding yourself process. Before you can find yourself, you have to try out a few different possibilities.
Sure, as mom’s we look back on those moments as maybe a waste of good makeup, or a mess we had to clean up, but in reality it was so much more than an inconvenience…it was a rite of passage, I suppose. Boys are encouraged to have a rite of passage, so why not girls. It is part of becoming a 
woman, but it certainly can be funny as they try to get it just right. And to ask them, it was perfect.
It is just what little girls are all about. It is in their makeup, pun definitely intended. In a desperate attempt to save my makeup, I finally bought the girls some of their own…the kid variety of course. They used the fake stuff, until they realized that it didn’t show up on their faces, and then we had to get something different. They went around with all sorts of different looks. It didn’t really matter, because girls will be girls, and I have seen some very different looks on bigger girls than mine.
For as long as I can remember, my Uncle Bill has been interested in guns. I’m certain that interest dates back to his childhood days. Being the oldest brother, and with his dad working on the railroad and away a lot, Uncle Bill helped provide for the family by hunting and fishing. Of course, many men, and women have an interest in guns, but few turn it into a career.
For many years, Uncle Bill traveled to gun show after gun show, sharing his interest with many people. I remember him telling me about one particular trip that found him driving around Lake Superior on November 10, 1975. For those who don’t recall, that fateful day was the day the SS Edmund Fitzgerald was sunk in Lake Superior during an early winter storm that produced near hurricane force winds. No one knows for sure exactly how the actual sinking occurred, but my uncle told me that it was a storm to remember, and one he very much wished he had not been out in. I suppose I can understand how he felt. A storm that was bad enough to sink a 729′ ship, must have been horrible to drive in.
Since my uncle had lived most of his life around Lake Superior, he knew what an early winter storm could mean. Lake Superior had taken down many a ship and she was ruthless when she got a ship in her clutches. He said he wondered about the ships that might be on the lake in such a storm, and he was not surprised to hear of the loss of the SS Edmund Fitzgerald, when the storm was over. Oddly, the SS Edmund Fitzgerald was the only ship lost during one of the worst storms to ever hit Lake Superior, but that sinking was a permanent reminder of the perils of a life at sea.
Being a collector, Uncle Bill collected all the newspaper articles that came out about the tragedy. A year later Gordon Lightfoot came out with a song called “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” and when I mentioned the song to Uncle Bill, he told me of his harrowing drive around the lake on that fateful day. Then he sent me all of the articles and such that he had saved. When I was done looking it all over, I told him I was ready to send it back, but he said to keep it. That’s how he was and still is. He wants to get history into the hands of those who are interested. Maybe we are alike, he and I, because I enjoy getting little bits of history into the hands of those who are interested too.
