I happen to be a perfectly good roadmap reader, just not for my husband. When I travel alone around South Dakota, I always manage to get to my destinations just fine without a quarrel. If I make a wrong turn or am uncertain, I pull over and consult my South Dakota map. It's no big deal. My travel routine is to scan the roadmap before departure, memorize pertinent highway numbers and go. Most junctions are self-explanatory upon arrival. I also add an extra hour for travel to cover major wrong turns. I don't obsess over routes to any South Dakota town. When in navigation doubt, I ask a local.
Many women base their reputation on their cooking the way ranchers base their reputation on their cow-calf operation. A lot can be determined about a woman by her willingness to share her recipes. Not only am I flattered anytime I'm asked for a recipe, but I will share it. Happily. It's the least I can do for just having received what I consider a compliment. Yet, there are women who are very guarded and greedy about their recipes, and are unwilling to share them.
Since taking our oldest child to college, my husband and I have been experiencing the beginning stages of empty nest syndrome (besides panic). I keep trying to buy milk in bulk, set the table and make meals for four, and am having to get used to taking hot showers again instead of lukewarm-turned-cold ones after everybody else has showered. Thankfully, the hubs and I are not entirely empty nesters yet.
Coffee-shop ranchers who question why local ranchers don't have their bales off their hayfields yet are referred to as "road experts" at our house. Road experts are people who do not currently put up their own hay, but drive by hayfields and generate opinions about others' haying operations. Road experts sometimes publicly share what they'd do regarding other people's hay bales still in the field and the advice gets around. The hay boss at our house is fussy enough about our haying operation as it is.
Whether it's a determined lead cow wanting to veer the herd in the wrong direction, through the trees or straight ahead when we want them to turn, reliable communication is helpful because cows, trees and rocky canyons complicate the process. When our family splits up to get everything gathered, we all like knowing what's going on at the other end when we can't see ahead or behind, where someone's at, or where more cows are.
People keep saying, "It's gonna be a bad winter" and I wish they'd stop saying that -- at least around here where I can hear them. The more people say it, the more likely it will come true. I have been hearing a lot of talk this summer about the impending doom (winter) we're going to be facing this year. I don't understand why people are bringing up that dreadful season when it's still beautiful summer. I prefer to forget about winter until it's inevitable that I have to face it. Talking about winter is the same as people talking to my daughter about school starting.
In every cow herd there is at least one, if not more than one lead cow. The same could be said — and has been said in our car before — about certain women on the road or in a crowd with "lead cow" syndrome. Being heavily tailgated while driving somewhere then passed by an impatient, eager-to-be-in-front woman driver that seems insistent on being ahead of other cars could be categorized as a lead cow. If they aren't leading the way, they want to be. In a herd, lead cows are the ones that always end up in front, leading the others when being trailed from place to place.
If you eat dinner, is it at noon or in the evening? Not long ago, a reader asked me if I refer to "dinner" as the noon meal or evening meal. I hesitated with my answer, because I'd never considered what I justify as dinner. I had to think out loud about what I normally say when I speak of the noon meal and the evening meal. If it's noon, I usually say, "Get in here. It's time to eat lunch." If it's evening, I tell everyone, "Hurry up. Supper's ready." Repeatedly. I do use the word "dinner," but attach it to other words.
Some people get revved up about going on a carnival ride or riding a bull for its excitement factor. Ranchers on the other hand, get revved up when they can drive by, admire and count their round bales. After consecutively experiencing dry spells that produced a puny hay crop, counting bales on a good hay year is not so much a to-do item as it is one of life's little pleasures to a rancher.
The act of a farmer or rancher sending his wife to go get parts is referred to as going on a "parts run." This is because farmers and ranchers generally want the parts-getter person to hurry in retrieving the needed parts in hopes of getting machinery fixed and salvaging some of the day's plans for haying. Most women who marry into this lifestyle -- the kind that requires ample equipment repairing -- do not remember saying in their marriage vows at the altar that they committed to going on parts runs.