Family

Father’s Day 2017

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“Whoever does not have a good father should procure one.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

“My dad was my best friend and greatest role model. He was an amazing dad, coach, mentor, soldier, husband and friend.” – Tiger Woods

“When it comes to Father’s Day, I will remember my dad for both being there to nurture me and also for the times he gave me on my own to cultivate my own interests and to nurture my own spirit.” – Jennifer Grant

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I suppose that looks like an odd combination of people to quote – a scholar with some interesting, provocative views on the world, a world class athlete with some questionable personal issues, and an actress from Beverley Hills 90210.

All are valid quotes though, and I feel that my dad will get a kick out of them once he reads them.

I think it’s probably easier for women in general to write about such things, especially about their fathers. I think just about any of us in the agriculture field was a “daddy’s girl” whether we knew it or not. Some of us while growing up maybe dabbling in ag because it was our father’s hobby, born into a the family business, or we fell into it unexpectedly.

My father grew up in Northeastern Wisconsin into a poor family that subsistence farmed well into the 1960’s. They grew what they needed to survive, had a hodge podge of livestock, and contracted to grow cucumbers for a local pickle company- Bond Pickle Co. that used to be right on the rain system in Oconto, WI.

His love for gardening, hobby farming, and an increased interest in naturalism strengthened over the years and after traveling the world in the military. There were always vegetable gardens and flower beds while I was growing up. He didn’t need anything fancy. He was brought up to work hard and lead by example, and that work ethic showed in his leadership while progressing through the ranks first in the Air Force and then the Navy. He instilled those same traits, work ethics, and mentalities in me.

Over the years he’s focused on rebuilding my family’s property- the natural wildlife population has slowly come back- quail, turkeys, foxes, birds not seen in the area for years, etc. It’s turned into one of his greatest joys. You don’t need to be a “farmer” to appreciate what you can do for the land, and in turn, what the land can give back to you. Imagine his surprise (or, maybe not) when I ended up in the middle of nowhere Nebraska and eventually started a job that no one had ever expected me to do (including myself)- farm and custom harvest.

Even though some of our worldy views may differ, he’s always encouraged me to explore, go out into the world, and find what was right for me. He’s always supported my decisions and yet knew when to stand back and let me make the mistakes we all make when we’re young and stubborn and have our own lessons to learn.
Here’s to the fathers in the world that (tried to) patiently teach all of us while growing up- whether it be in the world of agriculture, driving a stick, rebuilding an engine on a car, complex math equations that we never end up using in real life, changing a tire, their best ways to do certain things.

Here’s the the fathers who work long tiring hours at the office so their wives can be stay at home moms and create more of a traditional/conservative home life.

Here’s to the father’s who are gone for days, weeks, or months on end to provide for their families. Whether be it over the road truck drivers, pilots, military, etc. Sometimes our professions are our choice and what we dreamed of as being little, sometime it’s just purely a job that is financially the best way to selflessly provide. Everyone makes a sacrifice- but our society seems to place the focus of the sacrifice on the mother- let’s not forget about the father.

With that said, let’s not forget about the mother’s for whatever reason are raising their children by themselves and have to fill both parental roles.

And even on the flip side of that- here’s to the single dads that do the equivalent of a single mother and seem to never receive those same accolades.

Here’s to the dad’s who are the stay at home dad’s- being a stay at home parent is no easy task, and here’s to the men that realize that them staying home works the best for their family and situation.

And also, please let’s not forget about the father’s who no longer have their children with them on this Earth. The emotions, feelings, reactions, anger, guilt, etc. all still are very valid to the men who have lost a child. Fathers and men are not immune to this. Take a moment and think of them on this day.

To my daddy: thank you for teaching me about so many things over the years, and I appreciate each day with you, along with all of the sacrifices you made for our family. Our family is blessed to have a hard working, kind, generous soul as our rock.

-Love,
Your Punky.

This entry written in cooperation with HarvestHER. Go checkout our Facebook as well!

 

Grandmothers & Apples

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“It is remarkable how closely the history of the apple tree is connected with that of man.”
― Henry David Thoreau

I’ve been meaning to write a few different blog posts in the past few weeks, but today this one grabbed me by the figurative balls. This is one of those writing that screamed at me to sit down and write.

Today is one of those days that bring a hint of fall, and with that the feeling of melancholy and nostalgia. It’s in the low 60s, cloudy, cool, damp, and grey. The kind of day where you need some sort of comfort food.

Today, that food is apple crisp. (Mostly prompted by the fact that I had a bunch of apples that needed to be used soon.

I had two grandmothers (as most people do), both very different.

My mom’s mother was Grandma and my dad’s mother was Granny.

Grandma and I were extremely close. I spent an incredible amount of time at her house, She was patient, she was kind. She was a beautiful woman that has part of her soul in mine. She was German and Polish and an amazing cook that could whip up a feast at the drop of a pin and made it seem so so easy. Holidays were spent at her house and no one left without feeling uncomfortably full. Food always brought the family together, and just about every woman in the family has an inherent feel for cooking.

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I only have a few pictures of my Grandma on my computer. I swear she looks like Queen Elizabeth II.

Grandma passed away when I was seventeen, between my junior and senior year in high school. She wanted to pass at home, and that’s what we did for her. My mom, aunt’s, my cousin, my dad, and I all took shifts caring for her. As hard as it was for us to watch, we took care of her every minute in her last weeks on this Earth, bathing, cleaning, and doing the dirty jobs that come with an eventual death. I wouldn’t give up that experience for anything. There were so many tears, but so many laughs and memories made. Her funeral of course was sad, but joyous knowing she was again with my grandfather and family, probably having one hell of a party. At the cemetery we toasted with champagne and poured an entire bottle over the turned dirt for her and my grandfather. Maybe odd, but so fitting for our family.

I inherited the vast majority of her dishes, cooking ware, etc. Some items I’ve had to replace over the past few years out of necessity, and I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt throwing the items in the trash. Then I know exactly The Look she would have given me and exactly what she would have said, (something along the lines of “Don’t be foolish. Get something brand spankin’ new and nice for yourself. You deserve it.”) and probably would have smacked me on the arm.

The first Thanksgiving I cooked after I moved to NE, I was (unfoundedly) nervous. It was my first “big traditional meal” that I was going to prepare, and I wanted to do it justice. I had gotten up way early that morning and I remember standing in the kitchen thinking of all the stuff I needed to do. All of a sudden I felt totally calm (Matt might not have agreed) and I swear our house smelled like her house, and I knew that she was there. And that Thanksgiving went off without a hitch.

I miss her now more than I did after she had passed. She would have loved my husband and their cheeky humor together would have been an absolute riot.

Granny on the other hand, brings back different memories. She was French-Canadian and Belgian and grew up speaking French at home. She could have been a model in her younger years, and that beauty masked a very hard and poor life growing up.

The smell of wood smoke and fall remind me the most of her. Growing up, her property was where the family gardens were and I remember planting and hoeing rows of cucumbers, squash, pumpkins, corn, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, and whatever else that ended up getting planted that year. One row that was always planted without fail was a line of gladiola flowers for my aunt Susie. They of course were the first to bloom and I remember running down the hill each spring to smell them and knowing that the rest of the garden was on it’s way out of the ground.

Her land, my parent’s land, and my aunt and uncle’s land created one giant property that provided for a series of deer hunting towers and blinds built by my uncle, a refuge for wildlife, and the best fort building material that a kid could ask for.

There was a beautiful ancient red maple tree in the front yard that during the summer provided an immense amount of shade for parking, sitting and playing under, etc. It served as second base for kickball and softball games, and during the fall was the most gorgeous tree on the road. Sadly, a few weeks ago the age and weight of the tree became too much for it, and one of the large limbs fell across the road and split the tree. The REA/power company came out and cut it down before any more damage would happen. My mom sent me pictures when they were cutting it down, and part of myself felt like it was being cut along with it. The yard looks empty and bare now, and I’m dreading driving past when I return home for Christmas.

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The Tree. Photo credit actually goes out to my mom a few years back on this one. Later on this year after the bottom of the trunk is exposed, my dad plans to count the rings.

On the property there were apple trees, six of them that I remember. The type of apple trees that were so old and big that they drooped with age and apples. The apples themselves were so tart that you could hardly stand to just eat them by themselves, but they made excellent pie apple and stored well in the cellar. What I wouldn’t give now to have one of those trees nearby.

Granny, to put it politely, was not known for her cooking skills. The whole family knew it, and it’s been a butt of jokes. One of the things she could make though was her apple pie.

She made it the old fashioned way, with the left over bacon grease and lard. Enough of it to make a cardiologist have a heart attack on sight. Those tart apples got sweeter and held up the crisp inside of the pie like nothing else.

Granny sadly passed away only a few years ago from Alzheimer’s. I was able to drive back home for the funeral in between wheat and fall harvest, and even though I was told by my family that I didn’t have to, I’m glad that I did. Granny and I weren’t close, but a smell of a wood fire brings me back to her house in a heart beat.

So today, in my nostalgic mood, I bring you apple crisp.

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pretty apples!

Grandma’s Recipe for Apple Crisp
1 tsp. salt
1 c. flour
1 c. uncooked quick oats
2 c. sugar
1 tsp cinnamon (or apple pie spice)
1 stick butter

Butter the bottom and sides of a 9×12 baking dish. Slice or dice apples to cover the whole bottom of the pan, plus a little bit more. The firmer/crisper the apple, the better. (For this instance, I just used a hodge podge of apples that I already had, including Granny Smith, Gala, and Braeburn.)

Mix all dry ingredients in a bowl and sprinkle over the apples in an even layer.

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mmm butter.

Take the stick of butter and thinly slice and layer over the dry mix.

Bake at 350F for approx. 35 minutes or so, until the apples are tender and the top is golden brown. (You may want to check for dry spots on top and add a bit more butter in those places).

I also sprinkle some coarse sugar over the top.

And of course, vanilla ice cream.
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No bacon unfortunately was used in the making of this recipe, and the edges were a bit more done than I’d have liked them to be. (I’ll blame it on getting used to a new oven…yeah, I’ll go with that.)

As this blog suggests, I’m cooking something and that means that we’re home- for a little while. I’ll catch up on our exodus from North Dakota, getting back home, our weekend visitors, and the Grapes of Wrath soon.

Day 70.

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We’ve been in New England, North Dakota for two weeks now, and surprisingly it’s gone fairly well up until a few days ago. Starting in mid-August, ND weather usually turns into a crap shoot- you never know what you’re dealing with really. When we were here last year, it was 80 degrees on a Friday, two days later that Sunday was a high of 35 degrees with freezing rain. Nasty and miserable. Thankfully we had a stretch of good, hot weather that cooked our fields. There were some late starts, early nights, and a few days where the farmer told us not to bother.

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durum durum.

Even with it being stop and go, we so far have managed to cut all of our farmer’s spring wheat, and about a third of the durum. The past few days we’ve been running up against green durum that isn’t quite ready, and we’ve been playing the “find the dry patches in the field” in between the threat of rain.

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stupid weeds.

Durum is a very specific type of hard wheat. It’s worth much more than the typical hard red winter and hard red spring wheat that’s typically grown. Regular wheat is used for feed and flour, but amber durum is to make flour for pasta and can be processed into semolina. After the durum is ready to be cut, farmers can get a bit fanatic to get it off as soon as possible- if ripe durum gets rained on, it gets bleached out, which causes it to be worth approx. a dollar less per bushel- which adds up to be a lot.

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The canola is still a ways out yet, but was sprayed earlier this week. Fingers crossed, we can jump on that in a few days. We straight cut canola here, which is always a fantastic time (/sarcasm).

Sunflowers (or, just “flowers”) are a pretty big crop in North Dakota as well. We don’t cut flowers, but a lot of our fields border flower fields. Seriously, how can one not be happy when there’s a couple hundred acres of these looking at you?

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sunflower fields forever.

 

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I mean, really. flowers!

When we’re here in ND, we cut back on how many people we need. Because all of the grain goes right to the farmer’s bins, we only have two truck drivers. We also only run three combines and one cart. Matt hops in a combine up here, and I’m usually on the ground until the remaining college kids go home. We only have one up here this year, so I’ll hop into that combine, and we’ll have a total of six people.

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white sage and goldenrod. nothing to do with anything.

We rent out part of a house/pheasant lodge to stay in, and it has a full kitchen, living room, and dining room set up. By this point of the year, it’s fantastic to be able to have real meals, space to relax that isn’t a hotel room, and a tv to watch the Olympics. The South Africans that came up here with us are an absolute blast. Damn near every night we cook family style and actually all sit down around a table with good food and drinks, which I think has improved the general mood greatly. We’re all away from home, and this makes it feel less so. The inside jokes and stories have definitely increased in the past week.

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The warm fuzzy “family” feeling makes for practical jokes if you’re not paying attention.

We’ve got (high) hopes that we can be done here around August 20th or so and head back home to Valentine. I’m ready to be home for a little bit before leaving for York, Nebraska for our high moisture corn job, and I’m definitely ready to see my dog again. Our farmer’s hired man, Ben, has a pup that makes me miss my dog tons more, but he helps me watch the combines go around the field, and is damn good company (and a pretty decent afternoon nap and cuddle buddy).

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Thanks for hanging with me, Trapper!

We didn’t work at all yesterday, and Jan (one of the South Africans) cooked us an amazing meal of beer can chicken done on the grill. Ben and Trapper showed up, and we spent a long time laughing and putting down brandy. Ben also brought us a bunch of lamb, and I am beyond excited. Lamb is something that American’s just cannot cook right, and the SA’s are going to do something amazing with it tonight.

An Open Letter to all Moms

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Dear Mom,

I’m now in my late 20’s, and I have to say something.

I’m sorry for being such a little bitch when growing up.

Maybe that’s over the top. I know I was a typical teenager.

Contrary to what I may have said in those (obviously) frustrating years, I didn’t know everything. I was simply trying to figure out the world by myself in a hormonal fueled state, when school tended to suck, I was constantly tired, and it was easier to be with friends who all had a mutual understanding of what we were all going through. Balancing school, extra circulars, a part-time job, loads of homework from AP and college credit classes, trying to be a good student, trying to be a good daughter, trying my hardest in general, and for some of us, medical conditions it was hard. You tried to make it easier for me, but the fact of life is, it needs to be hard so we all grow a backbone to get through life. That hardness makes us harden and grow, like how a beating wind makes a tree grow stronger.

And I know you knew it was hard. For one, you were a teenager at one point too. You remember the pressure at home, at school, and not to mention the social and peer pressure that makes school just plain suck sometimes.

And you had to sit by and watch me go through it too. I know it was hard for you- I heard you cry at times. I cried too. I don’t think either of us liked our fights. We both tried our best, but sometimes our combined best was maybe just average. You see, we’re both stubborn and hard-headed. We’re only human. Eventually you had to let me make my own mistakes, and oh, did I ever make them. Some of them you tried to warn me, other times you knew I just had to go make that mistake and learn (sometimes slowly).

It brings be back to my first few sentences I’m sorry I was such a pain in the ass.

Because now that I’ve gotten older, lived with other people, moved out-of-state, have actually lived in the same residence for almost four years (a feat in itself), have a job and a husband- well, it makes a girl realize (and question) some things.

– I’m sorry I didn’t do “more”. At the time it felt like I was giving everything I had, but no one realizes how much you grow and stretch to do more as time goes on. Hindsight is a bitch.

-No, I didn’t know everything and how the heck did you resist just throttling me and smacking me upside the head?

-How the hell did you do it? I don’t even have kids yet. That’s still down the road. But with both my husband and I working the same job and hours, we can work 14+ hours a day every day when it’s not raining. Food still needs to be cooked, dishes still need to be washed, errands still have to be done, laundry still has to be washed and folded, a dog has to be taken care of, luggage for three months needs to be packed, house needs to be cleaned, bills paid, and on and on and on. There are times where I want to stop and scream. And let me reiterate I don’t even have kids yet.

-I’m sorry for the constant eye rolling. Again, how did you refrain from smacking me upside the head? At that angsty teenager phase, the last thing we all wanted to hear was “Just wait until you get older! You’ll understand.”

I can’t say that I’m totally at that 100% of understanding, but holy crap- I’m miles closer to understanding that comment now.

Would it have really killed me to just wash the damn dishes like you asked? Cleaned my room? Even wiped down the bathroom counter? Do my own laundry? Cut down on the back talk? The eye rolling? The stomping off? The breaking curfew? Not calling if I’m going to be late?

No. It damn sure wouldn’t have.

So, I apologize. Yes. Your stubborn hard-headed little girl is apologizing to you. I wasn’t a shitty kid, but I had shitty moments. There were times I thought I knew better what was right for myself, and you had to sit by and watch silently. There were times when I bucked your authority and strongly disliked you.

But damn it- you were right. You can freely, unabashedly, unselfishly take a moment to pat yourself on the back, gloat, and say out loud “I told you so.”

You know all of those little things though? Remember when I was so sick for that year- I still remember you buying me endless puzzle books, cooking my favorite foods to coax me to eat, renting me movies, even going to the library each week to the awesome aide there could pick out new books for me. I remember when the fevers would get so high, that you would sit with me in the bathroom while I shivered in the bathtub and cracked jokes to make me laugh. I remember the anger and rage in your eyes yelling at the doctors all while softly stroking my hand. You supported me and kept me going through painful physical therapy. You’ve held me while I’ve cried, and you’ve kicked me in the butt (verbally) when I needed a wake up call. Even when you held in your excitement at the birthday gift you got me a few years ago- the new Spirograph set because you knew how much the original set I played with growing up at Grandma’s meant to me.You put hours upon hours into my wedding because I simply didn’t have the time (and who doesn’t have time to plan their own wedding?). Or when I was home a few trips ago and go so violently sick with the flu, you stayed on the chair while I laid on the couch. Me, a 28-year-old who has obviously gotten the flu without you being there, but you were there and I needed you. I could go on and on. We all could.

When we’re teenagers and young adults, I don’t think we truly realize how much our moms do.

You self-sacrifice. You are patient and kind. You love us. You support us. You encourage us. You try to protect us for as long as you know you can.

You spend years trying to nurture us into a self-sufficient, open-minded, strong, independent woman full of dreams and opportunities. You try to prepare us for the real world.

And then in what must feel like too short of a time since you gave birth to us, you have to let us go. You let us go out into this big scary world of life, knowing that we’re going to fall. Repeatedly. We’re going to get knocked on our ass and sometimes you can’t pick us up and kiss our bruised knee to make it better.

How hard that must be for you to watch.

But, I’ll let you in on a secret. A secret that probably isn’t really such a secret after all, because you have a mother. And she had one. And generations of women have followed this path.

We all need our mother. We will always need your love, guidance, and grace. No matter how far we move, how often we don’t call (and know that we should just pick up the stupid phone for a quick call), how busy we get, how often we travel, no matter what we see and experience in life, we all need our mom.

Because I honestly don’t think that there’s a stronger bond between mother and daughter.

And when I have kids of my own some day, I’ll call you on the phone ask how the hell you did this. How did you keep sane? How did you manage? And, you’ll silently smile into the phone, tell me to take a deep breath and know that the pattern is just repeating itself.

So, this Mother’s Day, but just like every other day, I’ll tip my ball cap to you, Mom. Tip it to how strong you were, are, and will be, even when you don’t think you are.

Mom, I love you and I wouldn’t be who I am today.

To all Mothers, including the mother-like figures in all of our lives, Happy Mother’s Day.

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Four generations- I’m obviously the baby.