South Dakota - Summer 2018

Rapid City has these really neat statues of the US Presidents all around downtown.

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Visiting Independence Rock on the way home

My cousin Laura & I played with these dolls when we were growing up!

Rock Climbing

Cousins

When I was growing up, Grandma & Grandpa Cloyd would come and visit us every so often. Quite a few times they would bring my cousins, Jennifer and James with, which was the best thing that could happen to us kids in the early 90s. Jennifer & James were about the coolest people we had ever met. They were from Arkansas, and had a cool accent. They did cool 'rebellious' things, and never ever got caught. They were a little older than Scott and I, so they were always a little bit smarter, a little bit stronger, and a lot more cool. They knew the coolest card games, and how to cheat at them. Sometimes James would go by 'Jimmy-Dean' or 'James Dean,' which sounded even better. Maybe his middle name is Dean, I don't remember. But James would strut around acting and singing like THE James Dean, and even though we had no idea who James Dean was, we thought that was cool too.

When I was about 6, Grandma & Grandpa and Jennifer & James came to visit. Jennifer and I were out exploring the old buildings and fields at our house. For some reason, wherever we lived, there were countless septic tanks, cisterns, underground grain bins and stuff like that around. Well, Jennifer hopped on the lid of one of these septic tanks, the lid slid off, and Jennifer fell in. Somehow while falling, she had grabbed the side of the opening, and was dangling down inside the septic tank above the water, or whatever gross looking gunk was down there.

As a side note, I remember 'storing' live fish in these tanks at one point in my childhood. I guess to keep them so we could catch them later? I have no idea. I never remember re-catching them. Poor fish.

Anyway, Jennifer said, "Sheena, run get Ann!" (James and Jennifer always called my mother 'Ann' instead of 'Annee,' which added to their coolness.) This was my five minutes of fame. I was the hero. I ran with my little 6-year-old legs up the hill to our house, maybe an eighth of a mile. Breathlessly, I reported: "Jennifer fell in the -" Who knows what I called it. I'm sure I didn't know what it was back then. Anyway, mom ran down the hill, I'm sure with kids and grandparents following not far behind. She grabbed Jennifer's arms and pulled her out. She was still as calm as a cucumber, and  when mom tells this story, she always says, "And after all that, her glasses were still on! They hadn't even fallen off!"

A few years down the road, we moved to the wild western part of the state. When Jennifer & James came to visit, the best thing to do was make rafts and play in the ponds on the ranch. We spend hours...DAYS out there, building rafts, catching mud guppies, having moss wars, swimming and more.  I'm sure I learned more about flotation then than I ever did in a classroom.

One summer, all of us went on vacation. We would drive a fifth wheel camper, which was never accessible until all of the bikes, sail boards, and rafts had been removed from the inside. Once they were, we loved spending time on the water. One day, Jennifer and I had this great idea to paddle across the lake. We were probably 11 and 15, but it was a large lake. We tied the sail board and raft together, and off we went. As we got to the other side, I was exhausted, and then the wind picked up. We started back, as the wind blew us further and further down the lake, instead of across. I feel for Jennifer, because I remember being no help, and she had to paddle through the wind, towing me behind. Mom and Grandma and Grandpa were on the shore, watching us come back, and since mom and Grandma never ever worried - oh wait, that's not right. Grandma and mom were worried sick, and contemplating if there were roads far enough down the lake to go and pick us up. Somehow, though, Jennifer managed to paddle us back within a few hundred yards of our campsite. Hopefully Jennifer didn't mind too much, maybe she was paying me back for saving her from the septic tank.

Visiting South Dakota

 Here are the rest of the pictures from our trip to South Dakota. 

 Helping Grandpa feed the buffalo calves

Getting a hug from Grandpa, but not too happy about it. 

 Helping Grandpa feed.

Jack, the horse, decided the bird feeder was his personal snack.

P wasn't so sure about Grandma's burros.

 Chilling with Grandma

 Helping Grandma at the newspaper office.

 Playing in the Edgemont Park

Things get serious when the tongue comes out.

 See what I mean?

One last visit to Scott & Rachel's. Scott and Aleah above.

Penelope and Bradley had fun playing.

 And pretending they were sleeping.

Edgemont is still a very small town. Things I heard: (mom don't print this in the paper!!)

-Someone I don't know stopped me on the sidewalk, "Oh, is this Penelope?" 

-Me: "I'm Annee Cassens' daughter." Other person: "Oh! You're Penelope's mom!"

-"I haven't ever seen you around town before...." 

And a final parting shot:

Yes, very exciting, I know. But, this is how I spent 1/3 of my childhood. Waiting for a train to pass at this very railroad crossing. What great memories!!

And then I was mauled by a dead buffalo

I'm really not a phobic person. I'm actually quite calm, other than that time I found a snake in my bedroom. But I am afraid of buffalo. Actually, as some hoity-toity people have corrected me, they are called bison. But I like calling them buffalo, so will continue to do so. Excuse my incorrectness. I am just as afraid of bison as I am of buffalo. And also dead bison and dead buffalo.

Now, on to the story. Some time in the 90's, my eccentric dad decided that it would be cool to raise elk, buffalo, skunks, and other wild animals. This is probably why I rarely had friends come over growing up. Or maybe it was because I didn't have many friends to begin with, I'm not sure. Anyway, one of the main reasons for keeping wild animals was so that hunters could hunt a trophy animal. And I actually did it. Twice. And I'm not really a hunter. The first hunt wasn't that exciting, other than the super cool picture of me, a trophy elk, and my first love, M.H., that I routinely show off to any guys that think I'm a weeny. Or that think I’m available and I want to send the message that M.H. will HUNT YOU DOWNy. The second hunt was more interesting.

First of all, let me tell you about my fear of buffalo. Buffalo enthusiasts, like my father, will tell stories of how buffalo can flip a semi with a swing of their heads and charge faster than a cheetah. Tail up of course. I lived in fear of these large creatures. And let me tell you, they are VERY large up close.

One of the scariest memories in my childhood happened when some seemingly responsible adults drove out into the pasture with a bunch of kids in the bed of their pickup. I was one of those kids. After a buffalo was spotted, the seemingly responsible adults decided to drive over to the buffalo. RIGHT NEXT TO the buffalo. Then the bunch of kids (with the exception of me) decided it would be cool to pet a buffalo, so they hung out of the pickup bed trying to touch the buffalo. I was in the fetal position underneath of a spare tire shaking. All that I could think of was upside-down semis. And never reaching my fifteenth birthday. 

Long story short, I survived, entered adulthood, married a 'normal' person, and lived happily ever after. Then one day my dad called me up, and somehow convinced me to be the star of a hunting show that was set at his ranch. So I found myself back on the ranch wearing camo, holding a large rifle and saying things like "There are 5 BIG buffalo, just the other side of that ridge."

Soon I was nearly ready to hunt my first (and hopefully last) buffalo. As I started getting the rifle ready, the producer & video photographer decided that it would be amazing if we did what is apparently called an 'over the shoulder kill shot' or something simple like that. For some reason it is really hard to get and unique. Soon I realized that this required me to crawl on my belly very close to the buffalo. VERY close. And there were five of them.

Since it would have been awkward to back out at that point, I crawled, terrified, to a fallen tree. I noticed there were no other trees around that I could quickly scamper up just in case. I had no way out. But I did have a gun. I was told that it was essential that I hit the buffalo in a very small area behind his ear, or else the buffalo probably wouldn't die, and would require more than one shot. So I aimed carefully, said the line "It's just you and me now, Big Boy," and pulled the trigger. As my shoulder was nearly detached from my body and I opened my eyes, I was very pleased to see the buffalo had crumpled to the ground. It was a perfect shot, or so they said. I didn't care much that I had gotten 'the Big Boy,' that I was on a TV show, or that they had gotten the prized 'over the shoulder shot.' I was simply ecstatic that I was not being charged by a wounded, crazed animal. So we walked up to examine the trophy bull.

And then I was mauled by a dead buffalo.

It went something like this:

The guide, producer, and video photographer walked up to the dead buffalo. I was still a bit scared of the buffalo, though it was clearly motionless, and tip-toed carefully about 30 feet behind. Someone decided to poke the buffalo on the head, and it then started grunting and wildly shaking its head and trying to roll around, minus the use of its legs. I immediately sprinted the opposite direction, really wishing there was more than sagebrush in the near vicinity. The producer yelled to the guide, "THIS THING AIN'T DEAD!! GET THE #$#$&* GUN OVER HERE NOW!" The guide had been smart enough to leave the gun back by the truck, and ran off to get it.

Luckily, as sometimes apparently happens, the buffalo was only paralyzed, and I actually was not mauled by a dead buffalo. The buffalo was then, ahem, taken care of. After much convincing, I was made to crouch next to the buffalo for some post-hunt shots. The buffalo was just like a big teddy bear and I immediately lost my fear of buffalo. NOT.

Disclaimer #1: Yes, this actually happened and yes there was a TV episode made with me hunting said buffalo. Yes, I have watched it, and No I do not have a copy, so No you can't see it. I once had a copy of it, but for some reason it 'disappeared' during our move out of state.

It's Rally Time!

Every August, I get a little big nostalgic for the Black Hills, the home of the famous 'Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.' Which is rather odd, since I'm not your typical Harley-girl. In fact, I don't think I have ever even gone to the actual rally. But it still reminds me of hot summer evenings, loud rumbling Harley Davidsons and college life in Rapid City.

As thousands of motorcycles descend on the Black Hills, many people cringe or leave town for the week. Some cyclists are rowdy and some are strange, but all are good for people watching. Once, while driving in Rapid City, I witnessed what I was certain would be a gory, blood-splattering event. A motorcyclist zoomed up beside us and proceeded to stand up on the seat of his motorcycle. I know, some people do tricks and can do all sorts of things on a motorcycle. This man was not one of those people. He had no skills whatsoever, and my stomach did summersaults while his motorcycle wobbled ferociously side to side. At the last minute, the man sat down, steadied his bike and zoomed off.

Motorcycles remind me of the time I tried to give Wayne a heart-attack. I almost succeeded. Wayne went through a phase one winter when he bought a Gold Wing. It was nice, and had a cushy seat for me on the back. However I was always cold on the motorcycle, since Wayne insisted on driving it year-round. So Wayne bought me a nice jacket that you could 'plug in' to the motorcycle and it would keep you warm. Sort of like an electric blanket jacket. This jacket required some kind of wiring to be done, and Wayne did it himself. After completion, Wayne suggested I try it out. I sat on the back of the motorcycle and Wayne attached the wires. Everything was great. Wayne then started the motorcycle, and as it rumbled to life I started convulsing. Wayne FREAKED out, killed the motorcycle, and as I nearly fell over laughing, insisted that I was never EVER to do that again.

During the rally, you can often see 20-30 motorcyclist together on a highway. They rumble through the hills like this in their motorcycle 'gang'. No helmets, of course, because you can't be a scruffy motorcyclist if you are wearing a helmet. There is no law requiring it, and helmets are rarely seen. Now that I live in a state where there is a helmet law and fewer motorcyclists, I get a huge kick out of seeing a 'gang' of Harley dudes out for a drive. There are usually three, MAYBE four riding together, trying their best to look really mean in their safety helmets.

Recently we were in line at the local deli 700 miles away, when the man in front of us had a Sturgis Rally shirt on. I got excited and said, "Oh, hey, Sturgis Rally! We used to live there!" The man's wife was standing next to him, and apparently what happens in Sturgis stays in Sturgis, because he just kind of 'humphed' and didn't say much about it. It's always too late when I get a brilliant idea, and like always, I got a brilliant idea too late. What I should have said was, "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? Oh YEAH, that night at the Sturgis Rally!" And proceed to go into details about the wild things I allegedly saw him do in Sturgis. Oh well, I will just have to chuckle to myself about all my great ideas.

Confessions of a Ranch Girl: "Something's rattling in the freezer."

I am currently reading what has become my favorite book of all time. It has had me in hysterics and soon thereafter bawling like a person with manic depression. I am not revealing the title of this book, for fear someone has or will read it, and will thereafter never look me in the eye again. Anyway, this book has inspired me to write more about a subject that doesn't seem all that interesting to me: My childhood. After reading this book, I realize how funny things are several years after they happen. After you've been out in the great wide world awhile, you also realize certain things, like how odd it really was that your dad had a collection of snakes in the freezer.

I am not trying to insinuate that my parents 'ruined' me or that I had a 'traumatic' childhood. That is unless you think living with snakes in your freezer is traumatic. Plus if I tell any stories too offensive, my parents can just shake their heads and say something like, "She was too young to remember....it didn't happen that way at all," or "You know, she really wasn't the same after she fell off the barn on her head."

So back to the snakes in the freezer part. That wasn't just a attention grabbing line to keep you reading. When I was growing up, we had real snakes in a real freezer. Lots of them. Although I am terrified of rattlesnakes, frozen or unfrozen, my dad is apparently obsessed with them. Whenever we saw a rattlesnake, whether we were in the car driving or riding horse in the pasture, dad would catch the snake and bring it home.

It takes some skill (and luck) to catch a rattlesnake. I have never attempted this, but after seeing it done many times I consider myself a bit of an expert. First off, you MUST be wearing tall leather cowboy boots. Apparently rattlesnakes can't bite through leather, and if when they strike at you, you won't have to rush to the emergency room to get the anti venom. Next you walk up to the snake and say, "Here, snaky snaky snake," real nice and gentle, so they will be calm. Just kidding. Once you walk up to the snake they get angry, coil and make a loud eery rattling noise. To this day I hate grasshoppers because they make a sound similar to a rattlesnake. So now while the snake is curling around, you find an opportunity to step on its neck with the heel of your cowboy boot. Once this is done, you take a few deep breaths, reach down, and grab the snake right behind the mouth, thus prying the mouth open. Sort of like when you catch an alligator, if you pry its mouth open it can't bite you. Not that I have experience catching alligators either. But you get the idea. Now you have to transport the snake home. Sometimes this entailed my dad driving the vehicle with one hand and the other hand out the window dangling a snake. Once home, dad would put the snake carefully into an old gallon ice cream bucket, shut the lid, and stick it in the freezer.

Rumor has it, if you freeze the snake for less than 24 hours, the snake will come back to life when you thaw it. I think we tried this theory out once, but that memory actually does fall under the 'she was too young to remember' category, so I won't divulge upon that story.

So normally we would have 5-10 nicely preserved rattlesnakes in the freezer. I have no idea why this was the preferred way of killing them. Every once in a while, when dad was gone, mom would be getting something out of the freezer for dinner (yes, the SAME freezer that the snakes were in) and say "There are too many snakes in here...Scott, go bury some of these in the yard, your dad will never know." And the  freezer would soon be re-stocked with fresh rattlesnakes.

These frozen snakes had no real purpose or use other than occasionally fertilizing the yard. They were often brought out when we had guests, who would either be intrigued or terrified, and for some reason decline any food that was offered to them. When dad started a conversation with, "Hey, I got something to show you," I learned to cringe and leave the room.

I was always terrified of rattlesnakes, because you can actually die from their poison. According to modern medicine or rancher lore, I'm not sure which, you had two hours to get the anti venom before you keeled over. From our ranch house, it was a good hour to a small hospital where they might have carried the anti venom. If they didn't, it was TWO hours to the regional hospital. So when we were far out in the pasture, I was perpetually nervous about getting bitten, and glad that my mother was known for breaking a few speed limits now and then.

One summer Scott and my uncle David, decided to keep two rattlesnakes as pets. They made a cage in which I hoped was secure enough to keep the snakes inside. Another summer I barely slept at night after finding a live garter snake in my room. Speaking of snakes in my room, recently I was back home visiting, when I snooped in my old room to see what was there. On the closet in my room, on a shelf was a box. On top of that box was....umm....a small snake skeleton, all nice and neat. I have no recollection of it being there before, and that is something I definitely would have noticed. I have come to the conclusion that either a) one of my brothers put a frozen rattlesnake in my closet to scare the wits out of me b) it was just another live snake in my room, that died there and decomposed. Either scenario would be entirely possible.

Other things that might be found in our freezer: Vegetables from the 1980's (mom, just throw it out!), deer capes (the skin used to mount a deer head), and elk antlers (I'll save that for another story).

Another time when I was back home, dad and I were trying to find space in a freezer to put some meat in. We were in what we called the bunkhouse, a small building next to our house that was possibly once a garage, once a home and now mostly used for storage. There was a freezer in the bunkhouse, and dad opened it up to take a peek. It was pretty full. Dad mumbled a series of "humph's" and looked around until he pulled out a feed sack, said, "What do you spose this is?" and pulled out an entire antelope head, complete with large horns. For some reason I wasn't surprised, and seconds later looked at our feet and said, "Dad, there's a dead cat in here." There on the floor was a dead cat. I'm not making this up. Dad looked over and said, "Aww, I wonder how that got in here. That was my favorite one!" My dad saying he has a favorite cat is like a normal person saying they have a favorite sickness. As in, "That time I got pneumonia was my favorite!" So dad grabbed the dead cat and did what he did to all good pets on the ranch - threw it over the fence.

Somehow I survived childhood without ever being bitten by a snake. And now if you ever witness me doing something that normal people would consider 'weird' or 'odd' you can just tsk softly and say, "Well you know, she grew up with snakes in the freezer."

The Elixir of Life

As I was cleaning the house yesterday, the smell of Clorox brought me back to the many visits from Grandma & Grandpa Cloyd. We kids knew the visit was soon when where were made to help do an extensive cleaning on the house. Then Grandma arrived, and it was out with huge pails of Clorox water and rags to scrub every nook and cranny of the house because it was 'SO dirty!' We probably never told her we had spent the last week cleaning, anticipating her arrival. Clorox was used for everything - an elixir of sorts. Cleaning, disinfecting, foot soaks, laundry, etc. Needless to say, by the time Grandma & Grandpa's visit was through, the house (and maybe yard) smelled like bleach.

My Grandma Cassens, however, must have leaned toward the more natural side of life. Anything could be fixed by one thing: Honey. Honey was so versatile, that you could not only clean and disinfect with it, but it also healed practically everything: A cold or the hiccups for instance. I can remember her wrapping up a boo-boo of mine with a bandaid and a drop of honey. Honey was eaten with everything and kept by the caseload in the basement.

Now Baby-Girl is teething, and I'm wondering what I should do to sooth those tiny gums. I think I'll pass on the Clorox, but maybe a dab of honey would cheer her a little. Who knows, maybe it will cause all her teeth to painlessly come in, cure any future colds, and potty train her too!

Bellhops and other necessities

When I was growing up in rural South Dakota, I had heard words like bellhop, valet, and room service. These things were a bit mythical, and us kids never really knew for certain if they did actually exist. Certainly not anywhere near us... but maybe, maybe it was possible, that in some distant place called New York City, you would need someone to open the door for you.

Wayne had a conference last week and Penelope and I came with. We were lucky enough to stay at a beautiful resort. A five star resort. A very fancy five star resort. Since childhood, I have learned that there are such things as valets and bellhops. And this place had them.

We had driven our 2000 Honda, much to Wayne's chagrin. Wayne's newest car was missing a tire, and we couldn't get a new one before we had to leave. This car's passenger door only opens about four inches, due to running into a deer a while back. I road in the backseat for most of the trip, but sometimes crawled up to the front seat to sit with Wayne. Upon arriving at the hotel, you are not allowed to park your own car, so we drove up to the valet. Mr. Valet, complete with suit and cap, smiles and attempts to open my door for me. After the first four inches, his smile tightened into a grimace, as he man-handled the door. Needless to say, the door now opens ALL THE WAY. We are lucky the whole door didn't fall of right there. There is now a dent where Mr. Valet crunched the hinge-side of the car door into the front corner panel.

We checked into the hotel and got a large amount of small bills for the perpetual tipping of endless services. It was "Mrs. Douglas, may I get your bag" and "Mrs. Douglas do you need your mini bar replenished?" I have never been referred to as 'Mrs. Douglas' so many times in my life.

We had arrived late, and once in our beautiful room, didn't want to leave. So we ordered room service for dinner. Our table came complete with linen napkins, flowers and butter pats cut into shapes. It took the room-service-person 10 minutes just to set up our table, make sure everything was arranged perfectly and pour our drinks. Our dinner was nicer than most meals we have eaten in an actual restaurant, and it was nice to let Penelope crawl around while we ate.

One evening Wayne was out, Penelope was asleep and there was a knock at the door. "Good evening, Mrs. Douglas, would you like your turn-down service now?" A few years back I learned what a turn-down service is. Someone from the hotel comes to your room, puts on soft music, dims the lights, pulls back the covers and fluffs your pillows. Just so you don't have to bother with doing it yourself. Sometimes they even put a chocolate or candy on your pillow. Oh, the luxury.

Our pampered stay came to a close much too soon. When Wayne finished with his conference, he came back to the room to retrieve us and our luggage before we checked out. I grabbed Penelope and a few bags, and started out the door. "Where are you going?" Wayne asked. "Um...I'm leaving, aren't you?" I said. "I can't get all these bags!" He said. There were only two, plus a garment bag, but I guess it was too much for Wayne. He called the bellhop to assist the 'Mr. and Mrs. Douglas party' with their bags. If only we had driven the shiny new car, Wayne would have fit right in.

Back at home, after a long day of work, Wayne came home. When he went to bed, he noticed I had left his lamp on for him. The covers were pulled back, and he noticed there was something on his pillow. A chocolate. As he curled up to sleep, soft music floated through the room. And as he drifted of to sleep, he was most likely wondering how long it will be before I stop teasing him for needing a bellhop to carry his bags.

Country Bumpkin

When I was a kid........

Growing up as country bumkins, we Cassens kids had a quite a few things in the world waiting for us to discover. One of them, was that many interstates have more than 2 lanes. One year we went to Denver. We were flabbergasted when the interstate turned into 3, 4, and 5 lanes! And look at all the cars! There is one behind us AND one in front of us! Hey, let's wave at them! Wait, better yet, let's make faces out the back window! Wow, so much fun. At one point, I remember we decided to act like we had never seen cars, buildings, and signs before. I don't think we had to act much.

Well, low and behold, when I graduated from high school, I moved to the big metropolis of Rapid City. I have never really loved driving, and merging, stoplights, and one way streets (don't ask...) were all new to me. My greatest fear was having to take the interstate. Which meant I had to MERGE, which I hated.

So, last weekend I went to Salt Lake City. By myself. With Penelope. Penelope does not like riding in the car. I was quite apprehensive about this endeavor, but it actually went very well. I was able to get Penelope's naps to coincide with most of the driving.

On the return trip, as I was driving through the city, I kept tensing up every time I could hear Penelope sigh or wiggle. It was then that I realized I was driving and merging in six lanes of traffic, and my biggest fear was that Penelope would wake up.

You've come a long way, country bumpkin.

Items

When I was a kid, we knew this cool old fellow by the name of John McPhail. He would send us tape cassettes (remember those?) that he made himself. There might be anything on the cassette - music, stories, strange noises, etc. But there was always a little bit of personal news he would record himself, and they would be labeled as items. For instance....
"Item No. 2 Aunt Susie in North Dakota called us the other day and told us about a skunk that got in their barn and...."
So anyway, when I have random bits to report, I will start organizing them as 'items'.

Item No. 1
I am sorry that many of you aren't able to leave comments on the blog. I do not know what is wrong. I have the same problem on other peoples' blogs. Sometimes Blogger will let me comment, sometimes not. How annoying!

Item No. 2
We have had ups and downs with P's sleeping habits, and are currently on an up! Saturday night she slept for 11 hours without waking up! Last night she slept 11 hours again, waking up once. I wish I knew what makes her sleep and what makes her wiggle. Anyway, it feels great! Although there are downsides to this new 11 hour development. 1) Mommy has grown accustomed to waking every 2-4 hours, and still does. 2) Mommy wakes up well rested, but with a throbbing chest. But who am I kidding? This is great! I never knew I could think so clearly, diaper with such precision or rock so gracefully.

Item No. 3
We were out shopping somewhere, when some lady stopped to say something about how cute our baby is. Then she proceeds to say something like, "no hair now, but that means she will have beautiful hair like her mommy when she gets big." First of all, thanks for thinking my (thinning) hair is beautiful. But secondly, does that really make sense? I doubt whether or not she has hair now correlates with her hair later in life.

Item No. 4
I have noticed that Penelope's skin must absorb whatever smell is around her. After someone holds her, she smells differently. I bet I could accurately tell you who has been holding my baby in a blind scent test.

Item No. 5
I'm all out of items for today. A few pics:

Penelope's (Bigtoe's) newest toy is her feet, there are usually close at hand...

.....or in her mouth

Here is an example of the pre-11-hour sleeping nights. I was trying to make scrambled eggs. Speaking of eggs....

I had the most startling revelation the other day. I am a bit embarrassed to say this ol' ranch girl didn't know this. We were chatting with friends Gary & Marsha the other day, when they mentioned something about considering getting a rooster. So I opened my big mouth: "How in the world do you have eggs without a rooster?"

Apparently, my whole life I didn't realize that chickens lay eggs without roosters! Chickens reproduce just as any other animals, it's just their eggs are fertilized & turned into little baby chicks outside of the body, instead of inside. You learn new things all the time!

Midnight Meanderings

A little insight to my thoughts last night while feeding Penelope at 12:30 (Yes, a.m.):

Usually I either don't remember or quickly forget my dreams. However, last night I made a point of remembering the dream I was dreaming when I got up to feed Penelope. I am neither an expert or dream fanatic, only stupefied as to how bizarre dreams usually are.

So, in my dream I was on the ranch I grew up on, out in the corrals. There were horses in one of the pens, but one of them had gotten out through a hole in the fence. (OK, pretty normal. What is weird is the horses that were there were ones that we owned when I was about 10, not any horses we owned in recent history. Weird how my brain put those particular horses there.)

Then, this guy is there with a pickup and trailer. On his trailer is an airplane. (odd, who drives around towing an airplane?) He gets into his plane, apparently to find the horse that got out, and attempts to take off. After failing, he ditches the plane. Then I look in the back of his pickup and see a space where a first aid kit should have been, but was missing. (Why would I notice that? I'm sure that probably "means" something important.) Anyway, the guy with the plane wasn't just anyone. He was a very specific someone, who I had met once in my life. I think he was the town drunk/sleezeball and for whatever reason, he was working for dad for a very short period of time. Why would I pick him out to be in my dream flying an airplane?

Then Penelope squeaked, so the dream ended and I got up to feed her.

At that point I was thinking about food and Thanksgiving (I must have been hungry). So I started to think about turkeys, then about chickens and the bizarre foods we eat.

When I was little, mom would always buy this canned chicken. When I say canned chicken, I mean the whole chicken was in a large can, skin, bones and everything, all attached. You opened the can and pulled out a small fully cooked chicken. I have never seen this since I have been buying groceries myself, and now seems a little odd.

Then my mind roamed to making some sort of cranberry salad/relish for Thanksgiving. When I was little.....we would always have jellied cranberry 'stuff' from a can. You cut off both ends of the can and pushed the stuff out and it stayed in one crisp cylinder. I think I ate too much of it years ago, because the thought of eating it again makes me a bit sick. However, I recently I saw something cool that would be fun to try: buy this jellied cranberry stuff, slice it, and use Thanksgiving-themed cookie cutters to cut out cool shapes, then use them as a garnish. Just a thought for those overly ambitious souls getting more than 4 consecutive hours of sleep at a time.

Then I was thinking of other weird foods we eat that seem perfectly normal until you think about them: Tubed crescent rolls, biscuits, and cinnamon rolls. Who came up with this idea, and how long do they last? Indefinitely I think, as long as they are in the refrigerator. After thinking about this a while, I feel slightly grossed out. I have no problem making biscuits by hand, and I've figured out how to make cinnamon rolls with the bread machine, but how am I ever going to figure out how to make crescent rolls by hand? Sounds like a lot of work. I guess I will just have to continue buying those cardboard tubes, and put up with the loud POP that always scares me more than a rogue mouse in the floorboards.

Penelope finally succumbed to another few short hours of sleep, so that was all the random-food thoughts I had for the night. Here's hoping for a great Thanksgiving that does not include whole-canned poultry, jellied cranberry stuff, and tubed crescent rolls.