Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Fantasy Pinterest

I was trying to get on my shoes and brush my teeth before church Sunday when I passed Cody in the living room, grabbing his iPad. 
His iPad, rushing out the door on a Sunday morning?

"I'm going to need you to drive to church this morning, if you don't mind. I need to update my fantasy football team," he said.
I got one foot in and laughed. "Are you kidding me?" 
"No...all of my players are injured. Except for that Martavis - the Pittsburg Steeler - he's out for drugs."
That stung a little
"Fantasy Football is so ridiculous!" I continued, giving my hair one final spritz (fog) of FrizEase. 
Cody defended his hobby as he filled two travel mugs of coffee. "I mean, I'm sure there is a fantasy Pinterest or something that you could play in."

I stopped dead in my boots. 

He, actually, didn't know how right he was
There was a Fantasy hobby I could lose myself in. 
It's called Pinterest. 

Someone else does all the work - and makes it look good. 
Guys are spending time drafting players that would never realistically be on the same team. 
They're talking about playoffs four months in advance. 
They're investing time, energy and effort into crafting a line up that they'll track closer than a trophy buck this fall. 
But they'll never step foot on a football field. 
And you. 
Look at where your decisions have led you. 
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to recycle your old toilet paper rolls into customized greeting cards?
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to turn peanut butter and jelly sandwiches  into cake pops?
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to recycle your kid's basketball t-shirts into a tent? 
You think you have enough time/patience/stamina to make a button necklace?
Let someone else throw that pass, make that tackle or super glue their fingers together - and to the dog - while you just sit back and watch. 
That's what HGTV and ESPN are all about. 

It makes us strangely competitive.
All of the sudden, Cody is talking about players' performance like he personally trained them. Like he has a true stake in this running back's performance. 
"He should have had that!"
"Why in the world would he have done that?!"
And, he talks to his friends about where "his team" lies compared to theirs. 
Still reeling from Luck's performance during the first two games of the season. (Calm down. He did this last year, too. I think the wind blows his beard in his eyes.)
And Pinterest has created and stimulated this strange need for us to create the most perfect family photos, most perfect wedding, most perfect fall outfit, most perfect meal, most perfect mud room, most perfect engagement photos and most perfect birthday cake for the princess at home. 

Who are you trying to impress?
It did not work. 

Stop. I can't even. 
Stick to Cinnamon Toast Crunch. 

It's expensive. 
I have no idea what kind of investment (do you see the sarcasm dripping off of that word?) Cody has in Fantasy Football. Does it cost money? Don't answer that. 
Let's talk about all of the money you've spent on powered sugar, scarves and chalk paint. 
Enough said. 

Name cropped to protect the innocent. 
You're welcome, Emily. 

It's not real; None of this is real: 
Actually, sir, Andrew Luck doesn't even know you exist. Why are you so hung up on his Sunday performance? And Martavis doesn't care who you are. Which is probably a good thing. 
And "your team" realistically belongs to m(b?)illionaires like Robert Kraft, Jim Irsay, Martha Ford and Dan Rooney. Do you think they get hung up on a pass interference?
No. They have another cocktail. And fire someone. 
And you, Pinterest Pam, the reason your outfit doesn't look as amazing as her's?
You're a real, beautiful size 10. 
She's a 0. 
Which is only a size if you still shop at American Eagle. 
The reason your make up didn't turn out like her's?
You don't have a make-up artist, professional photographer and studio. 
The reason your wreath doesn't look like her's?
Well, frankly, you're not crafty. And that's ok! That's why Hobby Lobby exists. 

And, you're Pinning quotes like this, trying to find your true heart. 
Or something?
Honey you need to step away from the iPad and get some rest. 

Listen, I love Pinterest as much as anyone
But I've come to realize that - frankly - Fantasy Football has nothing on Pinterest when it comes to removing us from reality and planting us smack dab into an unrealistic, candle-lit, burlap-covered life. 
Fantasy Football or Fantasy Pinterest: Which is worse?
I mean...
You're making your husband eat salad out of mason jars. Get ahold of yourself. 

Photos courtesy of Pinterest and Pinterest Fail. Thanks for submitting them.  

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

A Halter Broke Life

Caution: Objects in the pasture are larger than they appear.
And they're kinda spirited.

'Tis the season. 
We're halter breaking calves in our tiny part of the world.
Trying to teach the animals that we're not fixin' to kill, brand or ear tag them. 
Trying to teach the spouse that we're not fixin' to kill, brand or leave them. 
It's a real fun time. 
In fact, I've come to realize how closely it ranks up there with trying on swim suits. There is dread and anxiety when it begins, and such relief when it's over. Usually. Sometimes. 

The further we get into the process, the more I've learned that halter breaking calves - spirited, black, large calves - can parallel one of life's greatest lessons:

Don't buck the system and expect to end up on top. 

Just kidding. 

This process has become a get-home-at-5:28-every-evening-and-report-to-the-barn-to-tie-up-calves project. 
I feel like I'm 14 again. Except for the size of my jeans. 
It's daily. 
It's tiring. 
It's stressful. 
It's repetitive. 
It's for good reason. 
It pays off in the end. 
Halter breaking calves is a lot of things that life is.

A Halter Broke Life: It takes persistence. 

This process - attempting to rope the wind and make it your friend (welcome to the early stages of Cody and I's relationship, by the way) - chronicles the importance of persistence and how it can really change lives. 
For the better, for the record.

A Halter Broke Life: It takes persistence. 

And time. 
Time is tough to figure out:
A 30-minute nap lasts just 37 seconds. 
A 30-minute meeting can last up to five hours, dependent upon the topic, attendees and cell coverage. 
The halter-breaking process has reconfirmed this thought: 

A Halter Broke Life: It takes persistence. 

And repetition.  
Don't give up. 
I heard once that Michael Jordan got cut from the basketball team and Steve Jobs hated the taste of apples, or something. 

A Halter Broke Life: It takes persistence. 

Persistance from you. 
And yes. I'm talking to you. Quit breaking eye contact. 

Trying to forget. 
Losing the weight. 
Eliminating the debt.
Asking for forgiveness.
Trying out for the team. 
Submitting your resume. 
Reorganizing your priorities. 
Dialing the digits on your phone. 
Attempting the recipe one more time. 
Proving yourself. Wrong or right. Proving. Yourself.
Reading through the instructions, slowly and carefully. 
Trying - just once more- to start the family you've dreamt of. 
Untangling your tongue and stomach to come up with the words. 
Washing down the sink what you've started and working through it again. 
Going back to the doctor's office because you know something just isn't right. 
Trying. Again. One more time. The last time. Maybe. Because you know. In your heart. 

The persistence that you need to incorporate into your life
parallels what these rogue cattle at our homestead need to understand: 
Don't be afraid. 
- what you're going through - 
is all part of a plan Bigger than your own. 

Are You Living A Halter Broke Life? It takes persistence. 

And courage. Yours. 

And, really great leather gloves, patience of steel, quick feet and a show stick you're willing to sacrifice. 

But mostly, persistence. 

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

The Thing About Gates

My Dad has a way of feeding me blog fodder. Pieces of insight striking enough to stick with me. I have no recollection of anything he told me when I was 14. 
But now, I listen. 
Now might be a good time to check out Dear Ol' Dad to understand where I'm coming from. 
He has his quirks. 
He loves good food, good beer and good products that don't let him down. 
So, in an effort to enrich the lives of his sons-in-law and son, after dinner Monday Dad gifted each of them a bar of his favorite soap. The soap that he's used for years because it lathers well with the washcloths he and Momma got for their wedding, 37 years ago next month.  

You really should attend our Christmases. 

But it wasn't the soap that got me thinking over the weekend. 

Time ran short; it seemed we had just received our marching orders and before I knew it, folks were packing stock trailers, trucks and carseats. Dad reflected on all that he was able to get done having an extra pair of hands helping him. 

"It's amazing how much more work you can get done when someone opens the gate." said Dad. "When you work alone you have to stop the truck or tractor in front of the gate. Climb down. Open the gate. Walk back to the truck or tractor. Drive it through the gate. Then stop the truck or tractor behind the gate. Climb down. Close the gate. Walk back to the truck or tractor. And finally get to work."

He was right and I was feeling a tick guilty. Every time CS calls me out of the house, the garden or the flower beds to simply "open a gate" I get a bit frustrated. If I'm working along side him it doesn't bother me. But to alter my work to do something as simple as opening a gate? 

For the record, this is how I shut a gate. 

And this is how CS shuts a gate. 
He didn't grow up knowing the fear that 
coincides with cattle raised around cornfields.  

We prefer Homestead Gates 

The thing about gates is that they can make or break productivity. 
The thing about gates is that they control speed in which you move forward. 
The thing about gates is that they become a passage to better places.
The thing about gates is that they wait - patiently and silently - to be used. 
The thing about gates is that they are only as good as the folks who use them - dragged across gravel, climbed with dirty boots,  hung as they should be or lifted up so they perform perfectly. 
The thing about gates is that they are a newly discovered way to greener pastures (if not secured). 
Opening gates - though such a small gesture - can really move a person forward. 

So you. 
Yes, you. 
Reading this. Right Now. 
What gates do you need to open?

What gates do you need to open for yourself - what is standing in your way?
What seems to be the most insignificant obstacle that needs to move before you can pass through to the next phase?

Or even more - 
What gates do you need to open for someone else - what is standing in their way that you can help with?
That person in the back of your mind that needs your help, phone call, attention, understanding. Isn't it time that you opened their gate?

"It's amazing how much more work you can get done when someone opens the gate."

Something as simple as opening a gate. 

And for goodness sake, latch it while you're there. 
And don't forget to plug in the fence. 

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

The Little Garden That Could

If the above title sounds familiar, it's because this is the second blog I've done that tells the story of something orange that we've rescued from the trash pile. If you don't know the story of our alcoholic lawn mower, now might be a good time to click here and read that story. 
We were just dating then. 
I should have known. 

Anyway, back to the garden...

I'm not good at giving hard advice.
Go after it now or  wait until it's right: I can usually nail that. 
Left or right at this stop sign: I need time to think.   

I told Cody when we bought the farm that I wanted a garden. He seemed to blow off the idea, seeing as how - since we've met - I've wanted to learn to quilt, paint the old hutch in Momma and Dad's barn, write a book and lose fifteen pounds. He knows my goals are high and my ambition sometimes gets washed away in a flood of obligation. 

But this spring I was serious. 

And we had a really serious conversation (it may have mirrored the Corn Crib conversation) about the garden. 
And how it's an obligation. 
And it needs attention. 
And it needs water.
And tilling up the yard we've worked so darn hard to replant would be a new commitment. 
Why would I want to till it up? ....blah blah blah. 
One by one, I saw a quilt, a hutch, a book, and fifteen pounds roll through my mind. 

But then - he agreed to it. 
With a compromise, of course. 

Rather than till up the yard we'd worked to hard to re-seed, we decided to do "raised beds"...straight out of Pinterest?
Straight outta used Vitaferm mineral tubs. 

We took the empty mineral tubs that had already served their purpose in the pasture quite well and drilled holes in the bottom. 
Then we cleaned a feed floor and filled our "garden" with three parts: dirt/manure/straw. 
Unconventional, but has anything about our marriage been considered the "norm"?

Green beans, lettuce, tomatoes (x4), peppers and zucchini

And then we waited for rain. 

We didn't have to wait very long...

 And that rain did really great things for my fake green thumb:

Week after week, our Vitaferm garden provided.

And then I spotted this guy.
 Can you see the finger-size predator, 
munching on our cherry tomatoes?

We enjoyed this spread often 
this summer, with a side of beef. 

So many tomatoes, you'd think I had a country music album in stores. 

This little garden, built out of tubs in the toss pile and waste that could have fertilized a field, has done so well for us. In fact, besides the the two of us, it's fed my parents, a neighbor, two fat rabbits and an unruly heifer that found it one July afternoon. 

We know now what we did wrong:
Planted the tomato tubs too close together. 
The soil is so fertile, but drains too quickly. 
The lettuce never came back after one cutting - no idea what we did wrong there?

You know that thing in your life that you've wanted to do, take on or accomplish?
::That thing that your heart desires:: 
Whatever captures your mind for more than a fifteen mile stretch on your drive home. 
Whatever you wonder - or wander - about. 
Should you start it? Yes. 
Do it. 
Make a plan. 
Try it out. 
Invest in it. 
Use your five free hours on it. 
Seriously, Do It. 
Try something new. 
You're not going to live forever.
One day you'll look back and wish you would have started sooner. 

I know I did. We took a leap, did things differently and have enjoyed watching this garden grow. And, I'm already stock piling Vitaferm tubs for next spring. But I refuse to rinse them out; I'd hate to mess up a good thing. Doesn't every garden need the Amaferm® advantage?

For real gardening advice, that doesn't involve cattle production, you should check out The Blog Bloom. 

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Picture Pen Day

I had somehow avoided the event for four years.
For four solid years I had the foresight to plan something important at work, avoid my brother's phone calls or conveniently travel out of town.
But this year was different. 
Different circumstances.
Other outside obligations belonging to someone else.
My naivety showed when answering brother Luke's question: "Do you have any meetings Friday?"
I quickly revealed that I didn't. 
Rookie mistake.
After four years of avoidance, I had just agreed to helping in the picture pen.

Picturing sale cattle is not for the faint of heart. 
Or those who get easily offended by swear words.
Picture day is my least favorite farm event, so to those who make a living doing this:
I salute you.

1. Friends who show up on picture day are the truest of friends, especially if they understand what it entails.
My friend Cheyanne showed up after a last minute request for help, bless her heart.
No really, bless her heart. 
I sincerely told her that I wasn't sure I could return the favor. She grabbed her sunglasses out of the truck console anyway.
Friends who help on picture day sign an invisible contract that they'll never judge you or your family based on the escapade they're about to be a part of. That contract also requests that they clear their memory of any recollection of the day as soon as their truck pulls off the farm. Friendship is more sustainable that way. As is reputation. 

2. Don't invite your significant other to picture day unless you want to end said relationship.
This is the best way to end a relationship softly. Simply invite the significant other to the worst day to observe your family dynamics and they'll suggest "a break" before you get to LOT 50. There is stress, tension, foul language and fifteen years of built up frustrations vocalized in just 8 short hours. Who in their right mind would want to marry into that? If you want to keep them around, simply forget mentioning when picture day is.....until it's over. 
You're welcome.

3. Sometimes the least appreciated folks are the best resources. 
Momma had the job of moving cattle from the chute - down the lane - to the picture pen. She would then stick around and take the heifers back once pictured and videoed. Sometimes, her position outside the pen (not running around like the lunatics inside the pen) made her a focal point for the cattle. It was in these instances that photographer Laramie would yell to Momma to get the ears - or get the heifers attention so she is poised for the photo. In her defense, Momma had watched us in the pen, armed with streamers and party horns, make a scene. She had nothing to use but herself, so she resorted to:
Give me an E,
Give me an A!
Give me a G!
Momma was an Eaton Eagle, after all. 
Certainly not conventional, but the sixty-something cheerleader got the job done.
Good help is hard to find. Luckily, we had Linda on our team. 

4. Keep the stress carriers in the barn. 
I'm speaking of people.
Those who are exceedingly nervous about the day will go, how the photos will turn out, how the cattle will cooperate and how the 2:00 clouds will move through should be kept chute side, working alone with the cattle and a stereo - and no other individuals. They can find their way blowing out heifers, cutting out fly tags, applying fly spray and staying unusually anxious alone. This arrangement is better for everyone, cattle included. Our family stress carrier arrived to the picture pen on the last two lots. He was dismissed 78 seconds later. Simply put: his passion made him crazy. 

5. The family that pictures cattle together is hopefully speaking to one another come Christmas. 
This is a very real concern. The things muttered, screamed and thrown would be worthy of a restraining order in any other circumstance. But picture day is different. Its like everyone involved comes with this heavy coat of armor over them: Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. 
That mantra lasts for about fifteen minutes. As soon as the first head enters the pen, you're throwing stones and dodging sticks with the rest of them. It's personal. You have favorite lots. You have a vision for the herd, the farm, the breed. Cattle folks are the most passionate. 
The goal on picture day is remembering that you're all on the same team with the same goal: To show these sale lots in their best light to promote your program. 
And, to still be invited to Christmas. 

Picturing sale cattle is not for the faint of heart. 
Or those who get easily offended by swear words.
To those who make a living doing this:
I salute you.

Only you can wait on dozens of animals - in the sweltering heat - to perfectly position their feet, head and ears simultaneously, in an effort to meet someone else's expectations....and still have the patience to deal with the people behind the cattle at the end of the day. 

BSG cattle will be sold in the 2015 Leveldale sale, the Great Shorthorn Revival and The Ohio Fall Showcase.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

The Stockman's Wife: Year Two

When I was about twelve-years-old -- after a long, stressful day of working cattle -- Momma made me shake her hand (she's not much for hugging) and promise her I'd never marry a farmer. 

I made that promise. 
With my toes crossed. 
Instead, I married a stockman.

Well, didn't that turn out well?

A Tribute to the Stockman 
by H. W. Mumford

Behold the Stockman!
Artist and Artisan.
He may be polished, or a diamond in the rough – but always a gem.
Whose devotion to his animals is second only to his love of God and family.
Whose gripping affection is tempered only by his inborn sense of the true proportion of things.
Who cheerfully braves personal discomfort to make sure his livestock suffer not.
To him there is a rhythm in the clatter of the horse's hoof, music in the bleating of the sheep and in the lowing of the herd.
His approaching footsteps call forth the affectionate whinny of recognition.
His calm, well-modulated voice inspires confidence and wins affection.
His coming is greeted with demonstrations of pleasure, and his going with evident disappointment.
Who sees something more in cows than the drudgery of milking, more in swine than the grunt and squeal, more in the horse than the patient servant, and more in sheep than the golden hoof.
Herdsman, shepherd, groom – yes, and more. Broad-minded, big-hearted, and whole-souled: whose life and character linger long after the cordial greeting is stilled and the hearty handshake is but a memory; whose silent influence forever lives. May his kind multiply and replenish the earth.

Let's just skip right to the chase: 

1. Your time is no longer your own. We don't even have children, but on August 10, 2013 I gave up any right to hide in a closet, read Cowboys & Indians and pretend to be busy. 

He busts through the mud room door. 
"Can you throw on some boots and come help? It will only take ten minutes."

This is a trap. 
There is no such thing as ten minute tasks when you're a  Stockman's Wife. 
And unless you have two hours to commit to a "ten minute" favor, don't do it. 
Make something up. Say you're marinating steaks, or something. Say you're on the phone with Direct TV to renew his ESPN subscription so he can watch the Royals. 
Avoid "throwing on some boots" at all costs if you want to get any of your to-do list done. Trust me. 

2. Dinner may be served anytime between 4:00 PM and 11:00 PM. There is no prediction for this. While you're thawing meat, there is no indication of when it will actually be consumed. Now is a really good time to forget anything you remember the quack Dr. Oz saying about timely protein consumption. He's as backwards Bruce Jenner. As you plan a week ahead like your fancy pants Facebook friend does - and publicizes - regularly, just know that your menu will not transpire as her's does. All you can do is invest in great storage containers and a self-sufficient husband who is able to operate a microwave. And for goodness sake: don't resort to the crockpot daily. No one wants to live life on a 6-hour boiled piece of mediocre meat. 

Hey Pinterest. I don't need to know how to recycle my old volleyball t-shirts into a glamping tent.  Show me a way to make a nutritious meal that can be re-presented perfectly 3 hours after it's been first served. You know, right after we get the cows back in. 

3. There is a difference in being lonely and being alone. Stockmen travel. They drive. They sort. They move. They're not much more than cowboys with a far-better connection with cattle than horses. But my goodness, they don't let the grass grow under their boots. This is an important lesson: There is a difference in being lonely and being alone. Being alone is part of the deal. Stockmen travel. They discuss and deal. They promote. They gain miles. Alone time is awesome.
It's during this alone time that the Stockman's wife gets stuff done. Rocking babies or mopping floors or pre-treating jeans or digging out an old hobby or reading a book or - frankly - sleeping. But probably worrying about the Stockman in a peacefully, quiet home. With wine? No question mark needed. 

4. No feed plan is ever set in stone. Right about the time you memorize the chore list, ol' nutritionist decides to switch things up a bit. Half rations become full rations and full rations get mixed with some magic dust. This circus has the likeness of the frustration felt when you get a recipe perfect every third try. Is it worth it? You ask yourself at 5:47 on a Tuesday morning, wearing basketball shorts and a wifebeater with wet hair. Then you remember: If these deals bloat's your fault. Dry erase boards with good instruction become a dear friend of the Stockman's wife. 

5. Functional gifts are the best gifts. This becomes very real, very quickly. So long, diamonds and massages. On our second Christmas the Stockman gave me four pairs of work gloves: one for every season. I could not have loved it more. It made me think of the half-truth promise I made Momma years ago; I think I ended up right where I hoped to be. It was an invitation to work side-by-side daily. And an invitation to get a load of work done while he was on the road.   I've learned that a Stockman will note gift ideas  year-around. Things I need. I tend to purchase gifts the week (3 days) before the occasion. 
I happily work at the local co-op.  What would I have done with a diamond pendant, anyhow?..................

6. You will learn to run. And no, not for fitness. You and I both know I only run if I'm being chased. You will learn to run to the parts store. To the dry cleaners. To the vet to pick up something you need after running all over God's green earth to get the unruliest heifer on the farm in, alone. You'll run buckets to thaw frozen pipes and run bailing wire where it's needed most: a gate. 

Forget the sunshine and rainbows when you marry a Stockman. You're more likely to encounter rain clouds over hayfields, pink eye in your favorite cow and poison ivy in the most inconvenient places. Plus many mornings to see the sky before the rest of the world, late nights working as the crickets sing and sun burnt skin with a story to tell. 

And that tacky little burn line will lead me right in to next week's blog. 
Stay tuned. 
And pass the aloe. 

To Read about the original Stockman's Wife, go here. 

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Buying A Farm

Two years ago today CS and I closed on our farm. 
(Have you read about the incredible way we found this old homestead?)
It was a Monday. 
I worked through an Answer Plot practice all morning. My boots were drenched with dew. 
We went to the title company to sign our lives away....kind of. 
We went to the church five days later to sign our lives away....for real. 
We bought a farm on a Monday and married on that Saturday. 
Started married life owing someone. 
Life isn't for the faint of heart. 

Between the wedding and reception we took one photo at the new farm. 

So on this day - exactly two years after closing - let's reflect on 

Rome Wasn't Built In A Day
Well, this would have been great advice to receive two years ago. 
We had ambition as big as the world. 
We had a balance the size of Maryland. 
We got creative. 
The key to success is paying in full. Trust me. 
The key to success is frustration. Trust me. 
The key to success patience. Trust me. 
Or, trust Cody. I'm not really good at patience. 

Remember, things of quality have no fear of time. 

How poor newlyweds wash the house. 

That old corncrib in back moved into our home. 

 Pay no mind to the semen shipper. 
And, that rusty chair belonged to my great-great Granddad, Oscar. 
Happy Trails (to you)

Good Neighbors Make Great Neighbors
We have neighbors who have brought us homemade jam, 
made our hay under dark clouds, 
helped me tend to a broken leg in the barn when CS was out of town, 
and showed us their samurai swords - - - in case the government overstepped their boundary (even more)
Good, dependable neighbors are sure hard to come by. 
We lucked out. 
Good fences are also really, really important. 

It's OK To Take Two
Why do you feel so obligated to take one lunch tote when Farm Credit offers them at their "customer appreciation day"?
If they really appreciated us, they'd knock out the interest rate.
An insulated lunch tote - that cost $1.18 when you order 300 - probably won't be missed. It would have cost $7.99 had I bought it at Meijer.
The lender asked for everything short of a blood sample. 
You can ask for two totes. 
Don't you remember my Dad's advice?

Save Your Money
I'm serious. 
Your pennies.
Your change. 
Your five dollar bills. 
From your first steer to your first job. 
Save your money. 
It all adds up. 
Saving pennies buys flowers in the spring and mums in the fall. 
Saving pennies buys seeds for the garden.
Saving pennies buys fence insulators and diesel fuel tanks. 
Saving pennies buys new windows. New windows lower electric bills. 
Saving pennies buys food when guests are on their way. 
Saving pennies buys gravel when the rain has changed things. 
Saving pennies buys paint. Lots and lots of white paint. 
Saving pennies buys pasture mix and fertilizer from Harvest Land
Saving pennies buys tractors, 4-wheelers, feed bunks and cows. 
Saving your pennies can buy cows. 

Every farm has a trash pile
This is real. We're all in denial of it. Listen to me. 
Take it from Blake & Miranda: No family is perfect. 
(I  am still not over this. 
And Reba and Narvel. My boss is lucky I'm getting out of bed this week)
Every farm has a trash pile. Be grateful that you even have a "farm".
No farm is functional without some dirt. 
Operational and successful doesn't come without a little pain and work. 
Everyone has weeds. 
Every home needs a place to discard their garbage. 
Every farm has a trash pile. 

This is just the beginning. 
I asked Cody what he's learned from buying this old farm and he has a list at his desk.
I have yet to review it. 

Rome wasn't built in a day. 
Good neighbors make great neighbors. 
It's OK to take two. 
Save your money. 
Every farm has a trash pile. 

Come see us sometime. 
We've been here two years and you've never even stopped. 
But give me an hour notice. 
You and I both know I have "cleaning" to do in this old house.