Dear Momma

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

Hunting season has arrived! All the hunters are cleaning their guns and preening around in camouflage costumes accessorized by that lovely shade of safety orange.

I can see the anticipation of the hunt shining in Lance’s eyes as he loads his rifle and heads out into the rising sun in his yearly quest to invite Bambi to dinner. The entire event will last only a few hours with the most serious complication being how to negotiate a barbed wire fence without tearing a draft aft in the camo pants which are so new, pin pricks from the Cabelo’s price tag are readily visible.

The women of the family smile indulgently at the male preoccupation with the deer hunt. Men don’t know what a real hunt is.

With less than a month before Christmas, the female of the species is sharpening her claws on the old family cookbooks in preparation for the protracted and grueling test of endurance known as the REAL Holiday Hunting Season.

The experienced huntress knows that the relentless pursuit for baking ingredients, decorations, cards, wrapping paper, presents, and a parking space would find the most fearless deer hunter crouched in a fetal position whimpering for mercy within a matter of hours.

Female veterans of the Holiday jungle wisely pace themselves for the month-long challenges of scouting and competing for the quarry, then preparing and repackaging it within deadline and budget constraints.

Expecting the unexpected, like, standing in line for an hour for Mutant Ninja Turtle paraphernalia only to discover she’s run out of checks, our heroine emerges bloody but unbowed just in time to return to the lair and keep meals, laundry, and household running smoothly.

Here in the country, the farm wives are so accomplished at these Holiday Hunting chores they even have time to make craft items, experiment with new recipes, donate time and talents to church and community projects, entertain visitors and have their hair done! And it’s all done without mirrors, nervous breakdowns or Valium.

I realize it will probably take years for me to rise to the calm expertise of the average farm wife in coping with the stress of the Holiday Hunting Season, Momma, but it’s a worthy goal!

This country living is so much fun!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

There just aren’t enough doctors in the good ol’ USA. All over America, small communities struggle to attract and retain doctors. Of course, we’re very lucky here in the Oologah-Talala area to have two of the best in Dr. Sam and Dr. Wes. Problem is, their names aren’t on the list of $5 per visit doctors our health insurance provides.

I know it sounds silly, but I was hoping for a good old fashioned General Practitioner who makes house calls and accepts payment in the form of chickens and home grown tomatoes.

Now a days, doctors are all specialists. They go to school for eons to learn more and more about less and less until they finally reach their goal of knowing positively everything about absolutely nothing.

So there I am, newly pregnant, staring at a list of strange specialist-type names, thinking that one of them will ultimately deliver my baby after months and months of poking and prodding in ways that would have gotten them buried on Boot Hill not so many years ago.

The only thing I was sure of was that if I had to have a specialist, I might as well go wholehog and have a female doctor. This being my first experience, I’d like to have somebody who knows what it feels like. Besides, I’ve heard lots of horror stories about male doctors who say asinine things to their patients such as, “It couldn’t hurt THAT bad,” or “It’s only false labor.” If a male doctor said something like that to me at the wrong moment, I could conceivably tear his head off and stuff it...whew! I guess my hormones are running away with me again...

Once I decided on a woman doctor, that narrowed the field of choices to three. I thought I’d call them all and set appointments to meet them before making a final choice. I knew exactly what I was looking for--sort of a cross between Joan of Arc and Betty Crocker.

My simple hopes were dashed by the nasally voice on the other end of the doctor’s appointment book. She informed me I had to run through a battery of tests, have nutritional and financial “counseling” before meeting the doctor. “Now, wait a minute!” I snapped in my best snarly pregnant-woman voice. “Do you mean to tell me I have to decide on which doctor I want before I even MEET her?”

“That’s right. OUR doctors don’t DO consultations.”

I couldn’t resist, Momma, “Fine. I’ll lurk in the clinic parking lot until she comes out!” I thought if I could find a Mercedes or Jaguar with personalized license plates that read “BABIES-R-US” or “WAAAH” or something along those lines, I’d be getting close.

You see why I believe there aren’t enough doctors? If there were a little more competition out there, maybe the doctors would regain their entrepreneurial spirit and actually talk to a potential patient before grabbing enough money to make their monthly car payments. And, Momma, what if there were as many doctors as lawyers? Can you imagine the ads during the re-runs of Marcus Welby? “FREE COFFEE AND CIGARETTES ON YOUR FIRST VISIT” or “NO FEE IF YOU CROAK.” The possibilities are endless!

So as soon as this baby is born, I’m going to medical school. That ought to put this country one step closer to socialized medicine.

This country living is so much fun!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

I had been practicing for weeks in eager anticipation for the BIG DAY. After all, I had a reputation to uphold!

As a connoisseur of the art of April Foolery, I long ago discovered the keys to pulling off a successful jest.

First, if at all possible, use the telephone.

This not only protects the perpetrator (me) from a smack in the chops, whether by accident or design, by the perpetrate. It also prevents premature gag detection by hiding from an astute target a tell-tale playful gleam in the eye, or a stifled giggle during a critical moment of the set-up phase.

Secondly, timing is critical.

The earlier in the day you pull the prank, the less the likelihood your target has already been hit by someone else. And never let the victim stew longer than necessary before announcing the prank. 

Prolonging the gag can permanently brand you as cruel rather than clever, thereby eliminating any future opportunities for this type of endeavor, at least among your immediate circle of acquaintances.

Next, you CAN prolong the spirit of fun if, after the successful completion of the gag,  you have a ready suggestion for your victim to pull a prank of their own, and even help them to play it. That way, the embarrassment of being “gotten” is relieved and their creative juices are distracted from the pursuit of immediate revenge.

And finally, KNOW YOUR VICTIM! If you don’t know how he or she will react, drop the joke, or the consequences can be unpleasant and far reaching. I learned this one last year the hard way.

After calling a number of carefully selected neighbors to beg their assistance because our cow Agnes was having a difficult time giving birth to what appeared to be a two-headed calf, I was satisfied that the joke ended at exactly the right moment in each case except one.

All were preparing to jump in their trucks when I ended the phone call with a hearty “April Fool!” and received a chuckle of appreciation from the person on the other end.

But when I tried to reach Leonard, his daughter Pam answered the phone. I stupidly went ahead with the joke, never suspecting that she would hang up on me in mid-sentence in her frantic haste to find help for me. It took 15 minutes of busy signals before I could get back through and sheepishly whimper “April Fool.”

I haven’t seen a lot of Pam in the last year, but every time I do, she gives me a suspicious sidelong glance, as if I were a hand grenade with a missing pin.

I realize this all sounds a little Machiavellian, Momma. But the downfall of any prankster usually occur when overconfidence leads to disregard for established practice. 

Oh year, this year I did the usual early morning phone calls to announce my unexpected (gag) pregnancy to you and Daddy and the rest of the immediate family...but just as a warmup.

This year’s major hoax was going to be a real doozy.

Every other day my sweet, unsuspecting, semi-airheaded home care nurse arrives to change the bandage on my IV. I’ve been such a model patient throughout my six week program that for April Fool’s Day, I figured a simple mid-treatment cardiac arrest might be just the ticket.

All week while administering my IV treatment, Lance had numerous heart attacks of his own as I practiced convincing moans, groans, gasps, and chokes ending with a clutched breast, and my head on the table top.

Though breaking most of my time-developed rules of successful April Fool’s pranks, I felt confident that I had planned for any contingency.

I knew I could yell “April Fool’s” before the nurse could obtain a kitchen knife to begin an open heart massage.

It was a close call--I yelled in time, but it was after the announcement that she headed for the kitchen knife muttering, “I’m going to kill you for this!”

What I hadn’t planned on was the appearance of curious baby Carleigh, who was supposed to be watching her favorite show Barney in the living room. She was apparently at the kitchen door as I gasped for air and she saw me slump down to the table! Her terrified shriek, “MOMMY!!!” is still ringing in my ears.

Though she calmed down immediately when I sat up with a goofy grin, to this day when anyone approaches my IV tubes, Carleigh stations herself protectively at my elbow like a miniature Rush Limbaugh in the presence of liberals.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson, Momma.

But no...there was still the prank on Lance I HAD to pull.

Originally, he was supposed to be out of town for the night and I was going to put this gooey, slimy (but harmless) stuff the kids call “Gak” in his shaving kit for discovery later in a distant hotel room.

I knew it always takes him a while to develop his sense of humor about practical jokes, but when his plans for an overnight stay changed, I couldn’t resist the temptation to put the clammy goop under the covers on his side of the bed.

Lance didn’t come to be until long after I had fallen asleep, so I missed the initial response. I didn’t wake up until he flung back the covers, turned on the light, and was threatening to shoot the dog he assumed had messed in the bed. When he realized what had really happened, he was so mad he spent the rest of the night on the couch and refused to speak to me all the next day. 

After this year’s disasters, I promise, Momma, I’m cured from my  April Fool’s Day capers FOREVER ...

NOT!

This country living is so much fun!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

There he is ... down on his knees in front of the calf feeder again! His swaying rear end is blocking my view of his face, but I can see his head is cocked to one side in frustrated scrutiny of this metal contraption before him. He inches forward on his knees a little more and places his cheek flat on the ground. Laborious grunting and energetic lip quivering accompany this final strain against the unyielding bars.

Then, in one furious leap he is up, caught in the frenzied throes of a temper tantrum. Stomping his feet, he bellows his rage at what he obviously considers faulty engineering. AFter a few minutes he calms down enough to walk slowly away as he casts a last murderous glance over his shoulder at the feeder. 

Though I know exactly what’s coming next, I continue to watch as he lurks in the shadows of a nearby tree to wait fo rthe poor unsuspecting calves to approach the feeder for their evening repast. He lowers his head in feigned nonchalance as a pair of innocents pass by him and move easily through the gate of the feeder. The instant both calves have a large mouthful, he jumps out and savagely nips them both on the rear! This painful jolt has the desired effect of causing the calves’ mouths to pop open, and a sizable quantity of food to spill on the ground where the old bully is waiting to gobble it up.

No, Momma, I wasn’t talking about Lance! While I admit there are a number of similarities in both style and temperament, Lance is the purple-faced biped sprinting around the corner brandishing a 2 by 4 and screaming epithets at Rocky, our 13 year old gelding, whose recent habitual breech of etiquette is described above.

Rocky was already “in the dog house” as far as Lance was concerned.

A few weeks ago, a whole batch of cows had been “synchronized” so that they would all come in heat and be able to receive embryo transplants on the same day. The vet was on his way to the ranch, and it was essential that all the cows be in place before he arrived.

All of them were - except one, who stubbornly refused to be penned. So Rocky was put to his intended use - the fine art of rounding up cattle. After 30 minutes of skirmishes with just one cow, I knew we were in for a long day when, to the accompanying b3eat of pounding hooves, there was a string of loud profanity that would have made a sailor blush, followed by a  harsh command to Rocky to “CATCH THAT %#!^)&* COW!”

Poor Rocky! He can’t help it if his 50 yard dash looks more lik ethe Talala Turtle Race. I’d like to see Lance run any faster with that much weight on his back. I was glad the little horses’ feelings would be spared by virtue of the fact he didn’t speak much Anglo Saxon, and that Lance had neglected to find a whip before mounting.

I don’t knoiw what it is about our place, Momma, that turns reliable horses into stubborn, conniving brutes. It seems they just sit around the pasture, twiddling their hooves, thinking up ways to get into trouble. Do they just have too much free time? Or are there other influences at work here? Loneliness? Locoweed? That little accident last spring?

Hmmm ... that could be it ... Momma, I have a little ocnfession to make. I didn’t tell you about it before because I was worried you might come to the conclusion that we ought to sell the ranch and move back to San Antonio. But enough time has passede that I can now tell you the rest of the Rocky story ... next week.

This country living does have a few rocks in it.

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

Liberty! Equality! Sorority! Let the Sisterhood of Mothers everywhere rejoice, for SCHOOL HAS STARTED! Behold, the Herald of Freedom appears on the horizon in the form of that big yellow bus.

I can now relate to this giddy jubilation, Momma ... at least on Tuesdays and Thursdays, because Carleigh is now a successful cadet in the hallowed halls of Cary-Lyn’s day care. This major milestone in both our lives has taken almost a year of concerted effort to achieve.

Accepting wholeheartedly the premise expounded in the baby development books that the first two years of life form the backdrop against which the rest of a child's earthly existence is played, I wanted to supervise every moment of it, and reveled in my good fortune to be present for every glorious “first” my baby experienced. The fact that her first word was “cookie” instead of “Momma” left me undaunted. I realized that she had no reason to call me because I was always there. Our separations in her first two years can be counted on one hand.

I also reveled in Carleigh’s good fortune to be raised far from the maddening turmoil and toxic atmosphere of the city. My mind’s eye envisioned her growing healthy and strong, exploring the wide open vistas of lush green meadows with her four legged buddies.

Wanting her to experience the unconditional love of dogs in particular, I saw to it that she was surrounded from birth by three of the sweetest canines on earth. Carleigh’s first grasp was not of a plastic rattle, but the fuzzy flexible ear of an adoring canine.

In the seclusion of country life, Carleigh was allowed to roam the backyard unfettered by diapers and clothing, weather permitting. Originally intended to engender unselfconsciousness about her body and to facilitate potty training, when the practice resulted in the added bonus of markedly reduced laundry duty for me, I saw absolutely no reason to discontinue it.

The occasional visitor to our ranch would chuckle in wonder at the patient tolerance of the dogs as the naked baby rough-housed with the animals, pulling their jaws apart to count the sharp pearly whites or to examine the length of squishy pink tongues.

The problems didn’t begin to surface until Carleigh started to walk. It never occurred to me that her comradeship with the dogs would translate into a total lack of fear of ALL animals, including cows and horses. One day we got a phone call from Howard instructing us to look out in the front pasture. There was a cluster of cows, horses, chickens, dogs and cats moving in unison behind the tiny marching figure of the naked Pied Piper of Talala, who had gotten it into her head to go visit Howard!

I had expected some imitations of animal behavior due to the amount of time she spent with her furry playmates. The way Carleigh rubbed her head against my legs in a cat-like display of affection was so cute! And the al fresco consumption of small amounts of dog food wasn’t too alarming either. Then, a visitor tried to remove a toy Carleigh was playing with, and instead of shrieking “MINE!” or “NO!” like a normal child, the infuriated toddler sprang forward on all fours protecting the toy under her body while emitting a low growl of warning. I finally had to admit that, just maybe, she could benefit from some exposure to other children.

The thunderbolt that I, too, needed a few breaks from the constant burden of child care hit the day I invited my friend Jan over for lunch. Sadly eyeing her elegant placesetting of Barney placemat and cup of juice on which I had thoughtfully placed a plastic training lid, she shook her head and said pityingly, “You need to get out more.” Following her gaze, I discovered with a shock that I had been cutting up her meat for her! A couple of days a week of freedom might be just what the doctor ordered.

Thrilled by the prospect of the swings and slides in the backyard of Cary-lyn’s, Carleigh was eager to start this new adventure... that is, until she actually saw that room full of more children than she had ever seen in her life. Figuring the pitiful wailing (and my guilt at leaving here) would subside within minutes of my departure, I tried to extricate Carleigh’s deathgrip on my leg by step-dragging her to the door. Needless to say, Momma, the first attempt at day care ended in tragedy in less than two hours when the establishment called me to come pick up my still bawling child.

Months later, after she has assured me that she wanted to go to “Thkool,” we pulled up to the day care driveway. Carleigh, tearfully defiant, refused to even get out of the car!

Thank Heaven for those loving, patient saints at the United Methodist Sunday School who finally, a few moments (then hours) at a time, overcame Carleigh’s conditioned separation anxiety, enabling her to make it through the first entire day at Cary-Lyn’s!

The coin that wears the beautiful face of freedom on the front has a flip side, though. It seems almost every time Carleigh goes to day-care, she brings home the latest vogue in viruses which sweeps through the rest of our family with a vengeance. The last one carried the endearing charm of constant visits to the bathroom to expunge foul toxins from both ends at the same time.

But I’m NOT giving up, Momma! I’ve stocked the shelves with every over-the-counter antidote known to man and at least 50 boxes of Kleenex.

This country living is so much (UGH!) fun!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

Judging from the flood of coupons and recipes in magazines and Sunday papers, the Holidays are fast approaching.

It seems, though, that this year’s national preoccupation with food has taken a gratifying turn towards creative recycling. The implication is that we are not to worry about buying or preparing too much of ANYTHING.

Starting slowly and sanely, the marketing emphasis now is on what to do with Thanksgiving left-overs, as recipes for Ranch Style Turkey Tetrazzini, Cranberry Jubilee and Stuffing Flambe abound.

But this phase is only a warm up for the hard core pitch to buy and prepare those items which never appear on my shopping list EXCEPT for Holiday consumption. In my case, I can never get rid of all the cranberries. Why is it that no matter whether I buy canned cranberry jelly or whole cranberries for homemade sauce, my guests use just enough to moisten a dinner roll?

But not to worry, Momma! By the time Christmas is two weeks away, we’ll be inundated with suggestions on how to avoid waste and have fun with just a little more of what we CAN’T buy - time and effort.

How about Pitted Date Marmalade spiced with (optional) left-over cranberries with that delectable (but again, optional) crunch that only Durkee Onions can provide?

And there’s no reason to feel guilty if you can’t eat it all - just put that crescent roll on a string, slather it with peanut butter, dip it in bird seed and PRESTO! - you have an instant holiday feast for our little feathered pals.

If you use that half can of condensed milk (since the recipe never uses the whole can) for your next facial, then you can use those stale bread sticks to chisel it off.

Don’t throw out those wilted snow peas! Sprayed with glitter they make a festive statement for holiday packages. Your tiny Victorian village collection could benefit from a complete re-roofing with slivered almonds and the addition of “trees” in the form of leftover broccoli spears starched with gelatin. Don’t forget to dust liberally with that 3/4 sack of leftover coconut “snow.”

Be sure to include the kids in your craft quest! To keep those budding Picassos BUSY while you struggle to make the angel hair pasta stay on the wreath, why not let them dismantle Thanksgiving’s turkey carcass, dip the individual bones in sugar crystals and string them together in a glittering chandelier? this is not only FUN, but time-consuming and educational, too!

Add color to your guest bathroom by letting your children stamp each sheet of every toilet tissue roll with cookie cutters dipped in (you guessed it) leftover cranberry sauce. Guaranteed to dazzle holiday guests, the indelible dark red stain on unmentionables will also serve as a permanent and festive reminder of your hospitality.

The list is endless, and carefully concocted so as to inflict intense guilt on anyone who hasn’t utilized every scrap of food and isn’t so exhausted by Christmas morning she can do little more than belch tiredly over a coffee cup. Last year I went nuts with the glue gun making “festive” jewelry out of leftover macaroni and tiny little rocking chairs out of leftover pretzels.

This year, I think I’ll reduce stress while conserving time and energy. Surrounded by pictures of all those delectable recipes, I will serve my guests with a brick of cream cheese and a box of crackers and encourage them to use their creative genius to PRETEND they are consuming one gastronomic delight after the other. And little Carleigh can quietly play on the floor with “marbles” made from last year’s cranberries.

This country living makes me so rebellious!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

The ground hog says we’ve got six more weeks to go. But in an election year, the true harbinger of Spring is the heartwarming cacophony of campaigns for public office.

Whether it’s the class of new Republican freshmen in the House or a local race for a school board seat, the enthusiastic idealism of beginners to the political arena is always exciting -- they’re like a nest full of naked baby birds, with eyes closed and mouths wide open. All motivated by a sincere desire to serve, these energetic spitfires see from afar the Goliaths that need to be slain (or at least hobbled), and are blissfully unaware of the system constraints within which they will have to operate.

If and when their passionate drive to “make a difference” gets them elected, they are smacked in the face by the frustrating realities of political life -- living under the microscope of public scrutiny, colleagues who block everything you try to do, regulations that have to be satisfied, rules that have to be followed, and blocks of political allies with different axes to grind.

Then, just as the fledgling finally learns to effectively fly through the political wilderness, Lo and Behold, it’s election time again, and a new, naked baby bird is teetering on the edge of the nest, squawking for votes. As an incumbent, the fledgling will now have to explain to a suspicious constituency why he wasn’t able to accomplish those things that look so easy from the outside, the original goals of the platforms which put them into office... That you can’t take money out of one fund to put into another area... That stringent affirmative action requirements have to be adhered to before heads can legally be rolled... That written reports of certified engineers have more legal clout than the verbal guesstimate of the most trusted mechanic in town.

“All you have to do is get this pointy little pigskin ball over that last white line down there more times than the other guy,” sounds easy enough. But would you send someone in to play before he understands that those other guys are going to try to take the ball away from him, knock him down or at least block his path? Oh, and there are rules, by the way. LOTS of them. And they change every so often.

I realize that comparison misses the mark a little, Momma, because at a football game there are knowledgeable whistle-blowers, with flags of absolute authority, charged with the task of keeping it FAIR.

I admire folks with the gumption to throw their hats into the political arena, Momma. And nowhere is the process more exciting than right here on the grassroots level, because here, every single vote counts! In a national election block of thousands or even millions of votes are bartered over as deliverable commodities, engendering apathetic turnouts at the polls. But here, since races can be won or lost by such a small margin, the voters have the true sense of power originally intended by the Constitution.

It is that raw power voters have in small towns that makes the spring campaign season so dynamic, especially when the candidates are known personally, some from birth. Strong opinions positively crackle through the air as friends, neighbors, and even family members find themselves on opposing sides. The dangers of hurt feelings or permanent rifts in relationships are very real.

And there are no guarantees. Even when I am positive a candidate has done everything humanly possible to solicit input from the voters, and then acted in accordance with that direction, I am often surprised by the lack of support for that candidate from the very people for whose views he has endured black eyes and kicks in the shin to represent!

Lance says in west Texas, three “Atta-boys” cancels out one “Uh oh;” in marriage it takes 100 “Atta-boys” to cancel one “Uh oh;” but in small town politics, 10,000 “Atta-boys” don’t mean SQUAT!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

One of the most delightfully quaint bastions of rural America is the country co-op. This is a unique institution in which normally cantankerous individual farmers and ranchers unite in the best pioneering spirit to provide the necessities of life for their families. In our case, the only thing standing between us and having to run around in a storm with a kite and a key is our friendly electric co-op, VVEC.

For instance, in the city when it’s stormy, everyone has to depend on lacquer-haired TV personalities to tell them to turn off their televisions, computers, and electric toothbrushes to prevent a lightening bolt from zapping the appliance, or worse, a tooth.

But out here in the country, our friendly electric co-op performs this service for us. Anytime a lightening bolt strikes in a four county area, they turn off our electricity for us and leave it off until the storms are safely in Arkansas.     *$()#@*&$(%&^JR^f. Woops! There it goes again--computer malfunction due to a power shortage. Must be lightening in Pawhuska. Now I’ve gotta stop and reset all the clocks!

Probably the best example of our kinder, gentler electric utility is the fact that we even get to read our own meters. I feel like a trusted member of the country community when I go out to read my own meter every month and realize that this is one of the few places on earth where the “Honor System” is still viable. Anytime I’m tempted to cheat, like during the summer when the air conditioner hasn’t had a rest all month, the slogan on the bill reminds me that the co-op is “Owned by those we serve,” and I would only be cheating myself.

To a city girl who’s never owned a utility except during a rousing game of Monopoly, the implications of co-ownership are really quite thrilling, Momma. It does present its own set of problems, though, like how to spend my $5 dividend check which rolls in every year.

It would be a lot more fun if they’d just make me a loan of $5-million like they did to Precision Tubulars. I could really get into spending a $5-million check. But then my neighbors would be mad at not only them, but at me too.

One can’t be too critical though. After all, if it weren’t for VVEC, we couldn’t have electricity here on the farm because PSO didn’t think we were profitable enough to bother running electric lines out here to us in the sticks. So, VVEC brings it to us. The markup is a little stiff, but it’s good to have electricity.

Without electricity, there’d be no television, so we wouldn’t get to watch our television weathermen say, “Uh...” 25 times every three minute weathercast; we couldn’t get to buy computers that get wiped out every storm; the cows wouldn’t have poles upon which to scratch; our dog Buster wouldn’t have anything to substitute for fire hydrants; and midnight snacks would really be hard to find in the dark.

So thank you, VVEC. I do wish you would try to take better care of my money, though. I need it worse than Precision Tubulars did. Oh well, maybe the Corporation Commission can help you this time, that is if we owners get enough signatures on the petitions to get the Corporation Commission to audit the books. 

It’s the least we can do for our own company.

This country living is so much fun!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

A baby’s first Christmas has a magical quality which transforms the usual jaded commercialism into an experience of wonder and delight.

Just try to be furious with the frenzied traffic or stolen parking place when a baby is giggling in hysterical glee at her first sight of twinkling Christmas lights--it’s impossible. Even the rather uncharitable sounds of tow women snarling like enraged hyenas over the last toy of its species became a Christmas carol to Carleigh. She belly-laughed at the harangue and howled right along with them as if she thought this was another rendition of the dogs barking Jingle Bells.

Seeing Christmas through her eyes made all the sights and sounds new for me and refocused my thoughts on another birth long ago in Bethlehem with fresh poignancy.

Carleigh’s first Christmas began with the news that Santa Claus was coming to Talala for a final reconnaissance of the heart’s desires of our more junior residents. While excited about the photo opportunities presented by the baby’s first visit to Santa’s knee, I also harbored some concern. Since Carleigh has already expressed a profound distaste for even the shortest and well-groomed facial hair, I was worried about the possible scars to both Santa and Carleigh during the traumatic first glimpse of the flowing white beard of Father Christmas. To alleviate my fears (and to acclimate the baby), poor Lance spent the whole day with his face wrapped in a big white bath towel.

It worked, Momma! Upon being placed in Santa’s lap, Carleigh dimpled into a wonderful toothless grin as she raked her fingers through the long snowy curls.

Santa’s elves, however, were another matter. As she munched on the crumbs of her first Christmas cookie, Carleigh eyed the green-clad helpers suspiciously, probably wondering if their feet followed the contours of the pointy shoes which curled up at the toes. I never considered preparing her for an elf who could remove his teeth at will.

Watching the excited gleam in a child’s eyes as she opens stacks of brightly-wrapped packages which contain longed-for toys is so much fun. But the sight of a baby ripping, shredding, then eating the wrapping paper while innocently oblivious to the actual gift is hilarious! Only after all the paper and ribbons had been removed from view could we get Carleigh interested in toys. She seemed to prefer the stuffed animals the best for, finally, here were fuzzy creatures who didn’t try ot get away when she grabbed their ears and gouged their eyes.

But as much joy as she received during the season, Carleigh unknowingly delivered back to those around her. And not just to all the relatives who were eager to make her laugh or to announce once and for all the remarkable resemblance of her left earlobe to that of someone’s Neanderthal great uncle.

In fact, one of the most rewarding Christmas events of the year was accompanying Grandma Houghtling and all of her other grandkids on her Meals-on-Wheels rounds. The idea was that we would all sing carols as Viv made her deliveries, provided the recipients didn’t object.

We had no way of knowing how receptive the folks would be, but every one of them was delighted with the surprise. All of the ladies ached to hold the baby as we regaled them with the traditional favorites. One woman was so overwhelmed, her rheumy old eyes misted over and I could almost see the glow of a cherished Christmas from her past in the tear slipping slowing down her cheek. Her gnarled old hands gave Carleigh an affectionate squeeze as she managed to say in a strained whisper that we had just given her the best Christmas present she had ever had.

Yes, all in all, it was a wonderful Christmas. The only low point in the entire season came on Christmas Day as we were driving along the country roads on our way to town. Every place was so deserted, we had the growing conviction that The Rapture had occurred and we were the only ones left!

Oh, and Momma, I took so many rolls of pictures! I just hope Carleigh remembers her first Christmas as more than one long flash bulb mirage.

This country living is so much fun!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

Maude was always different from the other chickens. Even as a baby, Maude was more outgoing and fearless which endeared the fluffy little chick to Lance’s heart. Though we never changed the name, we weren’t too surprised when Maude turned out to be a feisty little rooster undaunted in the protection of his hearth and harem by arrogant guineas, marauding dogs or two legged giants collecting the unhatched heirs to his domain.

It all started one evening when Maude rushed at me with out-stretched wings and murder in his eye. The game began when I rushed back at him skwaking loudly and flapping my elbows. The rooster accepted the challenge enthusiastically and jumped into a savage attack, thrusting his talons forward in a menacing display. We went a few rounds flapping and kicking at each other until I had to stop for laughing at this stupid chicken attempting combat with a foe 10 times his size!

The next morning as I emerged with a load of wet laundry, Maude was waiting for me. Lurking in the shadows, the rooster waited until I reached the bottom step before stabbing my leg with two vicious pecks and retreating back under the porch. As I sat amid the scattered load of now-dirty laundry listening to the victory crow and rubbing the peck marks on my leg, I gained a new respect for the insolent rooster. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. I was astounded at the thought that Maude was capable, not only of holding a grudge, but of sitting up all night hatching the ambush that was so well conceived and perfectly timed.

Over the next few months, the “dueling rooster” game got out of hand. Maude’s sneak attacks became so frequent and violent that the only defenses were a wary eye and a swift kick in the head. Even the other animals turned against him. The guineas plucked his tail bald. The cats smacked him with extended claws. The horse and dogs chased him around the yard. Even the hens avoided his amorous advances. That really made him mean.

Visitors planning an extended stay were warned about Maude and issued hefty sticks for defense. Carine, our French exchange student, accepted the situation with equanimity. As she calmly hung her clothes on the line, her genuine all-American baseball bat always rested handily against the laundry basket. I guess she thought all normal American families had attack roosters.

We finally had to do something about Maude when Debra, our 8-year-old city cousin, came to visit.

One morning I heard a blood chilling scream followed by shouts for help from the back yard. My imagination flashed horrible Alfred Hitchcock-like scenes as I raced for the back door. Debra was unhurt, but sobbing hysterically, trapped against the chicken house with Maude pacing threateningly up and down, a bloodthirsty glint in his eye.

Debra and I supported the death penalty for Maude, but Lance urged us to consider the mitigating circumstances surrounding the crimes committed by his favorite chicken. During his formative months, Maude had witnessed the execution of several of his feathered brethren. This trauma was further compounded by my little “game.” Besides, weren’t we just a little ashamed of being afraid of a chicken? Maude was sentenced to solitary confinement for the duration of Debra’s stay and released on his own recognizance thereafter. The rehab program consisted of efforts to find suitable employment for a rooster of such unusual talents. The parole board suggested a unique “Chase the Chicken” work-out studio, or a cock fighting arena. Of course, the biggest and nastiest cock fight in the state is the current gubernatorial race. And, Momma, can you think of a better place for an old rooster with an attitude? So let’s hear it - Maude for Governor!!

This country living is so much fun!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

Lance is so proud of his baby pheasants, Momma. From the moment they arrived, looking more like tiny stuffed floral arrangement ornaments than living creatures, Lance has carefully nurtured them and monitored every step of their growth.

He put down burlap sacks for them to walk on so their little feet wouldn’t slip through the small criss cross pattern of chicken wire on the bottom of their portable cage. And this cage is specially equipped with heat lamps, special wild bird baby food, state-of-the-art feeders, and medicated water to drink.

I had facetiously suggested that the pheasants would grow up to be better adjusted birds if they had a stereo system, and, of course, we would need to start saving for their formal education regarding the hazards of life in the wild, coping with coyotes and avoiding the folks in safety orange outfits during hunting season.

Lance read everything he could get his hands on about pheasant raising and played with them every evening as soon as he got home. At dusk, he moved the cage out doors and turned on the light to attract bugs for the anxious beaks of his surrogate children. Lance sat there, delighted for hours, catching large months, stuffing them through the cage wires and watching the little birds race around playing “keep-away” with the monster insect.

As the little pheasants grew steadily and the weather grew warmer, Lance moved them out under the pecan tree for a little natural air conditioning. And there they flourished - until this week.

The storm clouds thundered menacingly as the little captioned Oklahoma maps flashed across the TV screen. Lance was uncharacteristically calm as the hard rain pelted the baby pheasants. He was confident that wild birds could easily survive a little rain. The frantic cheep-cheep-cheep got louder and louder as the wind and rain pounded harder and harder. Finally, the cheeping stopped. Still unconcerned, Lance decided during a lull in the storm to go check on them.

I watched out the window as he neared the cage. The horrified expression on his face gave way to a frenzied scramble for boxes. I flung open the back door as Lance shoved the box of cold lifeless lumps of wet feathers at me. His anguish was plain in his voice, “Honey, I killed them! I killed them!” He ran off to collect the rest of the flock as I turned the heat lamp on the barely recognizable chicks. The grotesque faces with closed eyelids over bulging eyes looked more like creatures fro Mars than Lance’s little darlings.

There didn't seem to be much hope, but Lance was determined. He needed to get the pheasants warm as soon as possible. He turned on the oven and slid them inside. Then, realizing the birds needed oxygen, too, Lance pulled them back out of the oven and grabbed the hair dryer, turning it on full blast. He murmured encouragement to the barely breathing babies, “Get up! Walk! Daddy didn’t mean to kill you!”

The combination worked! Slowly, the hypothermia left the stiff little bodies. The feathers began to fluff dry and hoarse cheeping filled the kitchen. Soon the pheasants were flapping around attempting to escape the confines of the box.

The miraculous revival was complete. Lance didn’t lose a single chick.

After the catastrophe passed, Lance pondered the emotional roller-coaster ride of the past two hours. Much more devastating than fear of financial loss was the terror of losing a family of chicks on whom he had lavished his time and love.

That innate bond between the caring and the cared for brings out the best in both.

This country living is so much fun!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

Having just returned from delivering Chuck, our latest candidate for freezer fodder, to the butcher shop in Chelsea, Lance leaned through the door, “C’mon...bring the camera.”

Normally, I like surprises but from his grim, urgent tone of voice, I deduced that he must have had an accident...and of sufficient severity to require insurance photos.

Since Lance was walking without a limp and I didn’t see any blood, I figured damages must be limited to the truck and trailer. I checked the sides of the rig for dents as Lance went around to the back of the trailer and opened the gate.

“Look!” Lance proudly proclaimed as he hoisted up, for my viewing pleasure, the only part of Chuck to return to the farm that day -- the skinned, long-horned head. The grisly souvenir was made even more gruesome by the fact that Chuck’s eyes were still firmly fixed in their sockets, staring at me in glassy accusation.

Deja vu, Momma! Remember the time I bought what I thought was a bargain basement priced ham, then almost fainted when I unwrapped a giant pig’s head on my kitchen counter?

Kit had a blast for several days playing with the head, putting it out in the road to startle passing motorists, and on the porches of previously friendly neighbors and ringing the doorbell. Since Kit’s morbid sense of humor was genetically implanted and encouraged by his father, I shuddered to think what macabre scheme said father had in mind for this head. Maybe I’d better find out.

“What, pray tell, do you have planned for that?” I asked uneasily as he snapped a picture of me holding Chuck’s gristle-covered head at arm’s length. He looked away and mumbled something about a hat rack for his plethora of baseball caps.

“Fine with me...as long as you clean off this, uh, tissue. And get rid of those EYES!”

“No problem,” he assured me as he cinched tight one end of a long piece of wire around Chuck’s horns. Then he carried the head out to the pond, threw it in the water, and carefully laid the wire on the bank, figuring to retrieve the skull in a few days after the turtles had picked it clean.

Either the turtles were on strike, or maybe they just ran out of triscuits to accompany this gourmet buffet, for the next day the hideous head was sticking up out of the water. It had been the object of a chewing session, but most of the facial tissue, though shredded, still clung to the skull. And those ghastly white orbs were completely untouched...

Then, Lance had an inspiration during one of his morning forays to the “Think Tank,” a term of endearment for the bathroom which has enough various reading materials stuffed into it to equip a small library. He came running out, yelling “That’s it!” and excitedly waved a copy of FAMILY CIRCLE magazine, which surprised me, since his tastes usually run somewhere between PROGRESSIVE FARMER and the WALL STREET JOURNAL. Then he rushed out the front door, leaving the magazine on the coffee table.

It was open to an article in the crafts section which showed how to make darling little ornaments and garlands out of fruit, bread, peanut butter and birdseed to hang outside to ease the hardship of the starving feathered creatures who hadn’t flown south for the winter.

My initial bewilderment changed to stupefied horror when I looked out the window and realized what Lance was doing! He was affixing Chuck’s meaty head to a branch overhanging the driveway in front of the house! It was even more disturbing, Momma, when I considered the extent of creative depravity necessary to look at a picture of a beautiful bell festooned with ribbons and birdseed, then conjure up the gory idea of Chuck’s head serving as a “bird feeder!”

“Dear FAMILY CIRCLE, Here’s a picture of the craft project inspired by your article on page 121...and, over in the corner is our new project from your February issue - a birdbath for buzzards!”

I objected strenuously, but he refused to take it down, saying that crows needed to eat, too. Yeah, right. I had eerie, Edgar Allen Poe visions of going out for my morning walk and passing under an engorged crow perched on one of the horns who ghoulishly croaks, “Got some MORE?”

And wouldn’t the neighbors and delivery men be alarmed to think maybe we had taken up the cheerful hobby of chain saw massacres? Or maybe we had moved out and this was now the infamous residence of the Addams family?

“Naw...,” he was starting to grin, “they’ll just think ol’ Chuck’s keepin’ an eye on us...”

This country living is NOT about plastic pink flamingos in the front yard!

Dear Momma,

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

Lance took me to my first livestock sale in Coffeyville.

We parked way down the street and filtered through all the trucks and trailers that jammed the entrance to the grounds. As we passed the holding pens, I peeked through the slats and saw the sad, scared waif eyes seeming to plead with me for some kind of escape from what was to come.

And sure enough, Momma, my first impression as I walked through the door was of a Roman amphitheater with tiers of seats in a semi circle from which the spectators could view the offerings of the day presented in a railed sand arena. The gladiators brandished long sticks menacingly as they prepared for the first batch of blunt nosed, curly tailed Christians.

The iron gate swung open and the head gladiator, Col. Jack, ushered in a group of victims - the cutest little piglets I’d ever seen (of course, they were the first little piglets I’d ever seen). The little pigs capered about and gleefully began a stiff-legged soft shoe, leaping and pirouetting in time to the auctioneer’s lilting, but unintelligible, refrain. Then the other iron gate swung open and the little pigs were gone.

“What happened?” I asked Lance.

“They sold.”

“Who bought them?”

“That guy on the front row in the coveralls and orange cap.” (That really helped - there were only five of those!)

“How much did they sell for?”

“Didn’t you listen to the auctioneer?” He grinned.

Before we could plumb the depths of this fascinating lesson from Auction 101, the next group of pigs appeared.

The whole feeling of the event began to change. As pig after pig sashayed through the ring, I could see they were enjoying being center stage. Some were even wearing earrings! I tried to understand the qualities distinguishing a “good” pig from a “bad” pig in this piggy beauty contest. Lance tried to explain some of the finer points, such as nicely rounded hams (But I just dismissed that as a blatantly sexist criterion).

Since most of the buyers were on the front row, they must be able to discern something I could not. Perhaps the interview portion of the pageant was revealing the true character of the contestants. As we neared the front, the pungent odor of “character” became readily apparent.

As the sale wore on, the pigs got bigger and bigger and uglier and uglier. When the biggest ones came through, I wondered how they could balance such massive bulk on such little legs and feet. They looked like potatoes on toothpicks.

Finally, the paragon of pork appeared, a 775 lb. boar. I hadn’t seen anything like that since the last political convention.

Though it is still a mystery to me who bought what for how much, I understand enough to feel sorry for Col. Jack. You know, Momma, he bid first on every pig that went through that place, but he never won a single bid! It was his own fault, though. He shouldn’t have started every bid at $40, if that’s all he had with him.

At least I learned that when we go back to buy our own pigs to take more than $40 so we can out-bid Col. Jack.

This country living is so much fun!

It’s been an interesting week for your city girl in Talala.

Some things never change, no matter where one lives. Neighbors are always neighbors, and look out for each other.

This week a strange truck came up the drive to the house, drove around a little, then left without stopping to say “Hi.”

We didn’t think much about it till the next morning, and on our way to town, we stopped by Howard’s place across the road to ask if he knew who it was. He didn’t. You know what he did, Momma? He hung around all day while we were gone, watching our place for strange trucks!

I thought that was so nice.

This week a man from the Railroad came to our town meeting, presumably to convince the citizens of Talala to close one of our streets so the Railroad could better protect us from ourselves, and to keep us from running over their trains.

Apparently putting warning lights and a bell at the most dangerous intersection of track where visibility is blocked by the grain elevator is not going to be enough to save us. Only closing that intersection and re-routing traffic along a new Railroad-funded street will help save enough money so the Railroad can afford to put in warning systems at the other two intersections. If we don’t let them put in the new street, they can only afford to put in the one warning signal at the dangerous intersection. I guess putting in a new street is cheaper than installing those high-tech systems. You know, Momma--all those expensive things like lights and whistles. And of course the land for the street wouldn’t cost the Railroad anything (except for a few attorney’s fees). They could just jerk that lease out from under the feed mill. Donald Trump, look out!

The poor man from the Railroad, who was obviously a well-trained expert in public relations, was disappointed we didn’t understand the economics of the situation. He was trying so hard to be our Daddy. Do you know he cares more about our safety than we do? He gently suggested that small towns like Talala were dying out and we needed to face that fact. Isn’t that sweet? Our epitaph could read, “Here lies the ghost town of Talala--Run over by the Iron Horse.”

I guess the town wasn’t quite dead yet. They banded together and voted him down unanimously. He left on the rail he came in on.

Yes, Momma, small town neighbors are the best there are. They’ve got lots of spirit and courage. And they care about each other. And they’ll probably outlive Mr. Scott and the Railroad.

Country living is so much fun!