The Kromer

The ‘Kromer’. It’s standard cold weather wear on the farm and ranch. Shades your eyes, keeps your ears warm, and ties down when the wind gets out of control, yet still makes for stylish headwear. Will and I were doing chores a few days ago and I wondered aloud (within earshot of my lovely bride) why William looks so much better in his Kromer than I do in mine. Without hesitation she said, “Because you’ve got a little tiny Peanut.”

That’s not what I heard. I was taken aback. How could the size of one part of my anatomy so affect the fashionableness of another. And why in the last thirty years hadn’t she said something. I mean, I wear hats all the time. Do they all look funny because I have a….well…. you know….because, well, doggone it, I shouldn’t think that should make a bit of difference, and I started to stew about it right then and there. She saw the consternation on my face. I blurted out, “Why didn’t you ever tell me that THAT (and I pointed down there) made my hat look bad?!?”

She gave me the strangest look and then started laughing. “Peanut, Peanut, PEANUT! You’ve got a little head!” I cleaned my ears thoroughly and will pay closer attention to others enunciation from now on. I promise.

Growing Up??

I could have done it. It wasn’t that far and my depth perception is still pretty good. Right foot on top of the fuel tank and left foot on the side of the pickup box and ta-daa! Eight feet max from the swather platform to the fuel tank, then maybe seven or eight more to the pickup. I contemplated it. I visualized it. I thought, “Who am I kidding?” I climbed down from the swather, walked around the fuel tank, and put the tailgate down on the pickup to get my tools. There’s too much summer left to give in to my ego and get hurt.

Yes, I’m afraid those days are slipping away. Invincibility paired with quick healing are seemingly things of days past. It has been a gradual learning curve, but I’ve come a long way over the years. My better half driving me to the ER is happening less and less frequently.

She had fair warning. We hadn’t dated a month when she got to haul me to the hospital the first time. Why is it always such a surprise when I get hurt? I always think, post accident, why did I think that was a good idea? I wonder what my lovely pre-bride would have thought or done if she would have known that this was just a prelude of things to come.

It was a week or two before county fair. My niece’s steer was tied up in the barn during a rainstorm. Lightning struck the barn and must have grounded through his brain, because he was nuts after that and a twelve year old certainly wasn’t going to be able to show him. Sometimes it’s good to be young and strong and dumb, sometimes it’s not. This was probably the latter. I told her dad I could walk it out of him.

We tied a new lariat to the end of his halter. My plan was simple. I would hold on close to his chin and turn his head when he got jumpy. If he tried to get away, my brother could lock down on the lariat, and he’d stop. That was the theory. All was well for about thirty feet. The steer tried to make a break for it and I leaned into his halter and bent his head around. He wasn’t slowing down much, so my brother set his feet and that new rope stretched out nice and tight. Why I thought 300 pounds and 25 feet of rope where going to neutralize a crazed 1300 pound steer is beyond me, today. For a moment it seemed to work though. That rope stretched out like one of those balloon launchers before he couldn’t hang on any longer. It shot between the steer and me, over the halter, then wrapped under the halter back behind us. It was off to the races and I was basically tied to the steer.

We went step for step most of the way around the corral before I got tangled up in all the rope and went down. Apparently, that was the moment he had been waiting for. Now, Angus are a Scottish breed, but he did that Irish river dance thing on my legs. When he got tired of pulverizing me, he took off like a race horse and unwound me like a yo-yo. That nice new nylon rope went around and around and took most of the skin off my belly, chest, and back. I was so happy to be free of that calf I just laid there thinking how comfortable the mud in the corral was.

When I decided that my feet were pointing the right direction, and I didn’t seem to be losing too much blood, I sat up to see what I’d missed. My brother had dallied the steer to the fence and was beating him over the head with a board. When he was satisfied he had made his point he looked over at me and asked, “Are you OK?” Surprisingly, yes, I was OK, for a while.

I was young, and thought I was tough, and was desperately trying to impress a lady, so I didn’t say much for a couple days. My bride to be and I were having lunch and I was not talking about my 4-H skills. When we finished I stood up and everything turned yellow and down I went. She insisted on taking me to the ER which I argued feebly against. They x-rayed my legs and found I had nothing more than a broken ego. My legs looked like those dance charts in music class though, only hoof prints instead of shoe prints from my waist down. The ER doctor looked at my ribs and the leg x-rays and said, “This happened three days ago? Cowboys are idiots.” I didn’t tell him I wasn’t a cowboy, and I couldn’t argue with the adjective.

Identity Crisis

For the 86th time, on the fourth of July, the entire country celebrated my mom’s birthday. Those of you that know her, know she has her quirks and strong opinions.

Allison leaned back and said, “Do you know what one of my favorite things your mom did over the years was?”

I was hesitant to answer. Was she serious? Sarcastic? Was I suppose to guess?

“I just loved it when she duct taped a big X on her suitcase when we flew somewhere.”

I don’t know if it was because she was a child during the depression, or because her and dad didn’t have two nickels to rub together through the 50’s and 60’s, but she didn’t want to lose anything, and by golly someone might take her luggage by mistake. Never, in all of our travels, did I see a similar, enormous, circa 70’s, green, hard-sided suitcase, but the one I did see had a large silver X on it. Come to think of it, she never lost it either.

I made a comment about the generation. The cake pans, tupperware, and folding chairs all had names on them. They all loved to share, but they needed the necessities back. Then I made my mistake. I always have to tell a story. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

I was 21 and sharing a drink with an attractive young lady. The way I remember it, I was making good headway and the evening was looking promising. She giggled at the appropriate times and gave the overall impression that she was enjoying my company. She seemed quite interested in my shirt. She played with my sleeve and, I guess, checked out the quality, because she wanted to know what brand it was.

It was a new shirt and I didn’t know, or care what brand it was. Most of my nice clothes had disappeared at college, so I had gone shopping to replace them. I asked the gal at the store what looked good, and that’s what I bought.

So, that’s how I got to this point in the evening, pretty girl, leaning in close, and my heart rate beginning to rise. Just so all of you know, that was the high water mark in the evening. I told her to check and see what kind of a shirt it was. She pulled my collar back with one hand, and quickly covered her mouth with the other.

“What brand is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what’s it say?”

She tried to stifle the laughter, but she failed. She finally said, through gasps, “It says, DAN HUEBNER!”

Mom strikes again. My mother, bless her heart, had sewn my name into every article of clothing I owned. Where she found fabric name tags is beyond me, but the air rushed out of my entire evening and ego like a big balloon. It made about two loops and went ‘thud’ on the floor.

It’s not like it’s going to damage our marriage, at this point, but my lovely bride laughed way too hard at that story. She sat on the couch and laughed. She let out a snort a short time later just thinking about it. Then she walked by me on her way to bed, quietly chuckling. I thought she was going to reach over and check my collar.

Irish Yoga

It surprises me how many people comment about the age of my children. “Only a couple more years and it’ll just be the two of you. You won’t know what to do.” Well, this week was kind of a dry run.

Andie moved to Orlando. Laurel and Varsha are on their way to D.C. The boys have been at Chadron State football camp. Forgive me, I’m a man. I spent the first day of just the two of us for the first time since 2010 thinking, “OHHHHH Yeah!!!”

We got up early and brought the last batch of pairs in from the home pasture. We sorted and hauled most of the day, the cool breeze turning to a hot baked wind by late afternoon. But, I’m a man of focus, and I’m not letting cattle, or weather, or fixing the sprayer and rolling up the last of the wire side track me. I’m headed for the house on a mission, and you can imagine how utterly happy I was when my lovely bride offered me a glass of wine.

Some of you will remember what happened with my last glass of wine over a year and a half ago. I was even less prepared this time. I was so focused on my day that I think I stopped at the house around noon and had a bit of salad. On an empty stomach and most likely dehydrated I smilingly raised my glass and drained it. The next thing I know, I’m laying on the living room floor doing Irish yoga.

I couldn’t feel my teeth and I was singing, “Riunite and it feels so good, Riunite and it’s understood.” I have to tell you, I’m somewhat surprised and embarrassed about how much of that song I know. Sometime, during my serenade, Allison went to bed, but she left me in the living room in the ‘Drunken Dog’ pose. I was on my knees, backside up in the air, arms extended back with palms up, head facing to the right in a little puddle of drool.

That’s the position I was in when my phone woke me. Now, when my phone rings after 9 pm, I freak out a little. No one calls me after 9, except when my kids are scattered to the four corners of the world and it must be an emergency. I’m up and scrambling for my phone, but my arms are asleep, so I just flail them at the phone like pool noodles. I succeed in knocking my phone across the kitchen floor.

If I wasn’t so stubborn and cling to the past so tightly, I’d have a smartphone and could at least have answered it with my nose or face recognition or something, but, noooo, I still have a blasted flip phone. I dive on the floor and start pushing it around trying to bite it or bang it against the cabinets with my head hard enough it might pop open.

For the second time, the phone says “Call from 308…”, I only have about one ring left and it goes to voicemail. I spin around and get hold of it with my toes and pry it open. I desperately throw myself towards the speaker and shout, “What is it?!” A perky voice answers, “Hi! This is Heather. You’ve qualified for a six night stay at the resort of your choice.”

I start SPEAKING IN TONGUES! I have no one to interpret it but the dog, and she must have known what I said because I saw her scooching toward the stairs on her belly.

Stay sober friends, and have a romantic weekend. I’m sleeping on the couch.

It was dark!

I try to share my hard earned wisdom in the form of fatherly advice to my boys. I share it at cross country practice with Tyler. With Tyler, it’s more brotherly advice, from a much, much older brother…..crap, that took a wrong turn. Anyway, I tell him more stories than he needs to hear, but I’ve got so much experience in what not to do, I feel he benefits.

This week is marital advice, and since it was such good advice, I thought I’d share it with everyone. We were hosting a grade school basketball tournament and I was sent to clear the kids off the weight deck. There can be no youthful shenanigans on the deck. When the kids were gone, I started shutting off lights. I noticed my lovely bride over by the door, foot up on the wrestling mat, bent over tying her shoe. I know you ladies don’t understand this, and we certainly don’t have time to address the male of the species, but I suddenly had an urge to pursue my own youthful shenanigans on the deck. In stealth mode, I reached my objective undetected. I was just about to commence said shenanigans, when she stood up and looked at me.

I stared into the eyes of a COMPLETE STRANGER. My hands were millimeters from a sexual harassment charge. I made a big sweeping motion with my arms and ran my hands through my hair, mostly to try and hide my face. I bolted out the door and flew down the stairs. I sprinted into the commons area and slid to a stop in front of my actual lovely bride. “You’re not upstairs!” She gave me a quizzical look. “You’re supposed to be upstairs, you can’t just leave my unsupervised like that!” Marital lesson —- Know your backsides, and, um, get a yearly eye exam.