A Letter from the Edge of Somewhere

So, I was sitting at my desk tonight…11:30…about to reach a good stopping point for the night. Actually, Todd would tell you I’m sitting at HIS desk, but it’s only his because he stole it from me exactly one year ago. I have been unable to create a strategy to take it back. My only successes are when he is out of town or when I mess it up so badly that he will not sit down at it. The mess thing I just figured out tonight. It’s kind of like Kryptonite. I’m going to try again tomorrow and maybe I’ll have a desk better than my dining room table.

But I digress.

I was closing up shop when I decided to check my email one last time. Would there be a Groupon for a monkey sanctuary? Would there be a note from a rich man in Tanzania who wants me to be his heir?

Better than Tanzania. Better than monkey sanctuaries. There was this. I got permission to post it, but I have to be honest: I was thinking of posting it whether permission was granted or not. Meet Mrs. Wheatfield. She lives in the middle of Nowhere, skis like fiend, cooks like a prison chef, and manages farm animals, domestic animals, and kid animals out in the middle of, well, nowhere. She needs her own blog. Trust me. She does. But since she won’t ever do that, I’ll share mine for tonight! This is a day in the life of a crazy farm wife.

Dear [It was written to me, but Insert Your Own Name for a More Personal Feel]:

If you were here right now, it would give you SO MUCH creative energy. I say that because when you live in a place that is nearly uninhabitable for 9 months of the year, spring time is an electrifying, pushy and beautiful experience. Cranes, bald eagles, frogs, little bouncing lambylambs, ticks galore, teensy little calves with eartags bigger than their heads, deer everywhere. Trees are exploding with neon leaves like a long forgotten promises finally fulfilled. Magical.
Have you ever wondered what squirrel shooting in one’s pajamas, a pig in a hole, and setting live traps for your own darn pets have in common? I’ll tell you. They all took place in my newly minted farm life on Sunday. The whole family went on an early morning squirrel shoot in our pjs and mud boots. Very enjoyable, though deflating. I like to think of myself as a much better shot than I am. Then we attended a post graduation party in the afternoon. The graduates and various members of their clan drove up, climbed out of their various pickups, grabbed shovels and picks and things, and went over to a smoking pit and pulled lunch out of the ground. Have you ever seen O Brother Where Art Thou when they eat that nasty gopher rodent on a skewer? Same idea, just ever so much larger, and thus, grosser. No gloves. No meat thermometer. Just slabbed up that underdone looking porker and slapped it on a platter. I reverted to claiming vegetarian inclinations on the spot, and did so for my whole family. We don’t eat pork. Only vegEtables. Sorry. And after wrongly assuming we had two male kittens, we made a vet appt for the male and the pregnant female to both become a little less so on Monday. The vet told us we had to catch them on Sunday. No problemo. After all, they are our cats, and we are their people. 3 days and a live trap later, we finally got both adjusted. Very cool, a live trap. That and the shock collar made short work of some serious animal problems we had going on. I think we’ll keep both for potential teen problems later.
HEY! I am the new owner of a kelty. A just right Kelty. A $50 Kelty that I saw in the paper and only had to drive over 2 hours to get it home. Hope you appreciate your Craig’s List!
P.S. This is Missy again. I just want to assure you that I didn’t make any of this up. Sometimes the squirrel-shootin’ truth is stranger than fiction.
P.P.S. What’s a Kelty?