Tales about Tails: A Day on the Kramer Ranch

Our empty nest was pleasantly rumpled this past weekend! Not only were we reunited with our daughter and son, but we ran into a few other guests as well.

This story really begins with the loss of a dog in December –– a dog whose digging wasn't appreciated for it's ability to deter. 

Fast forward through some cold and windy months in which the only yard work completed has been the removal of Christmas lights.

It's Saturday, April 23rd. The kids are home and the temperature indicates no winter coat necessary. It's our last day together as a family for a while. Everyone is campaigning for Dad's famous grilled steaks for lunch. The problem, as most of you can guess, is the wind. Not to be outwitted by the weather, Doug and Cole move the grill to our front stoop.

Doug's first move is to re-arrange one of my unplanted flower pots. So he does. And out comes a giant bird who has been gnawing on some dead earth worms. No one but Doug sees the bird, but it's described as tall, fast and scary. I have my theories as to the species. It takes a lot to make my hubby jump.

In the meantime, Alex and Cole are in the kitchen with me quoting movies and brainstorming cocktail concoctions while preparing potatoes. You know, "boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew."

Unbeknownst to us, there's commotion on the stoop.

Doug is cleaning corn husks out of the grill only to find something even scarier than a bird: a mouse. Speedy Gonzales manages to jump on the ledge with Doug on his tail. He finds refuge under my copper water hose pot. Doug lifts it to find the mouse...along with an unlikely mate: a bull snake. Not a bird. Not a mouse. A bull-freaking snake. 

No need to discuss the fate of Speedy and snake, but let's just say only the bird escaped.

On to the next day on the farm: one kid has gone back to Denver. Cole and I decide to accompany Doug on his cow chores to admire the new babies, which of course, never disappoint. With the temperature dipping, Doug decides he needs to move his sprayer and tractor in the machine shed. Cole and I can help guide him as he rearranges equipment. We set up. Cole goes toward the back of the shed. I stay toward the front. Doug is backing up and I'm doing my job, watching closely and motioning him back. He yells something at me which I can't hear. I assume he's wondering if he's on the right track. I nod and keep waving him on. Then he yells something again. I'm thinking he's trying to tell me something beyond the task at hand.

"What?" I yell back to him. 

Then I hear one garbled word from his mouth.

Skunk.

Skunk?

"There's a skunk right next to you!"

I don't look. I don't dare. I skedaddle my way out to safety in approximately 1.5 seconds. 

Why Pepe Le Pew doesn't spray any of us? I don't know. Perhaps we already smell badly enough. Perhaps Pepe doesn't sense any threat from my helpful mannerisms. Perhaps Pepe heard about the mouse and snake and doesn't want to press his luck.

No matter. If there's anything we have learned from this past weekend, it's not about the importance of spending quality time on the farm with the family to experience wildlife. It's purely the fact that we need a dog.

And that we've raised a useless cat.

Viva Mexico!

Any excuse to go to Mexico is a good excuse, right? A son's high school graduation (2019). Best friends find cheap tickets during pandemic (2020). A nephew gets married (2022).

Ah, Mexico! Turquoise water. White sand. Endless mojitos. The happiest of people. And no wind chill to worry about. It's quite paradis-ical.

Admittedly, I was a bit anxious about this year's trip. Not that I wasn't excited for Dillon to marry his sweet southern belle, but stuff kept happening. Flights were being cancelled. Our room status was questionable (our fault for our fickle decision-making). Shootings were happening on resorts. And, of course, there's still the whole Covid thing and making sure we could make it back to the U.S. God forbid we get trapped in paradise!

After sending many annoying texts to our kids to ensure they were prepared for the trip (Got your vax cards? Did you all take a rapid test? Don't forget your passports! Leave your fake IDs at home), I finally told myself it was time to quit worrying and have fun. And fun we did have. The wedding was beautiful with top-notch toasts. The spa treatment was heaven. The food was exciting! Yes, exciting! When knives are juggled, that's exciting.

But there were a few bumps on the trip. A little spat because I was taking too long to get ready the night we arrived. (I always take too long, but there's less tolerance after a long day in airports and drinks to be had.) Back to the bumps. Too much tequila for the tiniest girl in our travel party. A bladder infection for the oldest girl in our travel party. And a bout of nausea for the most allergic-ridden girl in our travel party. But we carried on like troopers!

Then Covid testing day arrived. The worry had been lingering in the back of my rum-infused brain, especially whenever I heard our son cough. As it turned out, my worrying was merited.

As we walked through the hotel lobby to the testing site, Cole seemed particularly nervous. Then he confessed. He hadn't really taken a rapid test before leaving AND he had actually felt like shit.

He was afraid we wouldn't let him go to Mexico.

Solid logic.

So, we waited and fretted to get our noses swabbed. Then they took us all back to a little dark room. It all felt very criminal. We lined up, passports in hand, and let the nurse poke our noses. Then we were led back to another little dark room to await results. A guy came in with purpose and walked directly to Cole. My heart fell. This was it. Cole was going to miss his first week of college, quarantined in a Mexican resort. His life was ruined.

As it turned out, the guy just wanted our passports and Cole just happened to be sitting there. And within a few minutes after my heart attack, the negative Covid results were all delivered. Hallelujah, let's go drinks more rum.

I'm not sure if there's a moral to this story. I don't think so, except maybe, just maybe things always work out. Even for the good-hearted liars.

A Christmas Greeting and Tribute

This might be the first year since 1997 that I haven't sent a Christmas card. Let me just say this: I'm sorry you didn't get to open an envelope with the Kramers slapped into a Snapfish holiday template with a carefully selected sentiment. I could blame many things (including a lack of ambition), but I'm going to point a finger at the one culprit we're all so entirely sick of. Congress. 

Kidding.

Actually, Doug and I got COVID right around Thanksgiving. Certainly, it put a wrench into that holiday and the few weeks after. But we were thankful we were able to celebrate a beautiful family wedding before we got sick. Almost the entire Kramer clan (including a very, very pregnant niece who lost her mucus plug and gave birth to a perfect baby girl a day later.) Our kids got to experience their first time being in a wedding party. Alex made a smashing toast as Maid of Honor. And Cole just got smashed. Cole's adorable girlfriend, Anna, also attended her first Shelby County wedding. It's been rumored that she regarded it as the best weekend of her life.

Mikayla and Adam's wedding was certainly a celebratory event of the year, because there's been a few health challenges in the family. And most recently, some heartbreak. But overall, we have much, much to be grateful for. In true bullet point fashion, here's a few highlights from 2021:

• Alex sold her car. She made the adult decision to lesson her carbon footprint and use a bicycle to traverse the hills of Denver. And the extra snaps in her account has the added bonus of allowing her to pay rent. (And not to brag, but she made music editor at 303 Magazine.)
• In addition to the successful completion of 1.5 years in college and working a job, Cole grew a mustache. (Again, not to brag, but it was nearly all filled in.)
• Doug had a busy year with harvest, but was happy to have his wife take off work for a half of a day to drive a tractor for him. He also happens to raise the most lovely cows you could ever meet. They're practically pets whom I never think we should sell.
• Stef drove a tractor. Doug still thinks she should keep her bank job.

As a family we vacationed in Colorado where our pretty daughter resides (thus, the traversing through Denver comment). It took Doug and I an hour to park in a lot we could see across the street from our hotel. Anyone who has driven in the 5-points area, will understand that the problem wasn't completely us. It was probably 75% us. 25% Denver street design. It was a feat. We also made our way north to quaint little Estes Park where we toured the Overlook, ahem, I mean The Stanley Hotel where we were equally disappointed and relieved not to witness any paranormal activity.

Doug and I continue to cheer on our beloved Hawkeyes, making a few weekend trips to Iowa City to cheer them on. Oh yeah––and to see our son. As has been the status quo, we become hopeful, then in an instant, our hearts are broken. I am speaking of the Hawks. Not the kid. We are happy to discuss the Hawks' travails and losses with our parents, who have known the joy and heartbreak longer than us. But they raised us to endure.

Speaking of joy and heartbreak, I must end this blog with a tragedy and a tribute. Our Percy took his last run down the highway yesterday. For the last twelve years, the little dog has filled our hearts with joy, laughter and love. Two days ago, we took this picture in front of the tree. It only took sixteen times for us to get Percy to sit still. But we did. And it will be our last.  Yesterday, my husband quoted John Grogan as we were all grieving for the loss.

"A dog has no use for fancy cars, big homes, or designer clothes. A water log stick will do just fine. A dog doesn't care if you're rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb. Give him your heart, and he'll give you his."

Rest in Peace, our stinky little barker. We love you.

Undressed

Every Sunday night I step into my closet to plan my wardrobe for the work week.  The outfits I pick are based on a number of factors: what meetings are scheduled, if it's after Labor Day, how high the AC will be running in my office, and, of course, how good my pedicure is holding up for open-toe shoes.  Now, I don't hold myself strictly accountable in case I do something silly like plan to wear a polo with khakis on a day that's not a Friday.

This little exercise usually makes my mornings go a bit smoother. Even though there's no more pouring Fruity Pebbles for the kids, I do have a number of other duties to conquer in the morning: exercise, vetsulin shots for Percy, prayers, shower, makeup, Gayle King, etc. Sometimes there's a hitch that throws my schedule off. The dog pukes in the garage. The cat needs my love more than ever. The hubby needs my love more than ever. But the biggest hitch to my morning routine seems to be when an outfit doesn't come together. And, as you already know, this is after I've already planned it out! 

I've never been accused of having OCD. Anyone who has opened my cupboards knows this. But I wonder if have a bit of a disorder when comes to attire. Take this morning for example.

Because I knew it was going to be a little cooler today, I was excited to wear my new plaid dress pants from the rubi j store (a charming boutique in DT Harlan, Iowa*). But when I put on the shirt I wanted to wear with said pants, I was sorely disappointed with the sight before me. A gut and a muffin top was all I could see. "What in the hell good did all this summer running do?" I said to myself. So, after berating my middle-aged self, I whipped it off to regroup. A voice from the bed (which has a clear visual into the closet) told me I should probably consider changing my bra as well. While I appreciated the suggestion, I didn't have time to reconsider my underclothes. I had a shirt to find.

Next shirt: Same color (off white). Slightly different style. Same result. Yes, the definition of idiocy is doing the same thing over again and expecting a different result. Thank you Mr. Einstein.

Next shirt: Orange, perhaps to celebrate the first day of fall? It sure seemed like a good idea until I put it on and became a pumpkin-pie-headed freak.

I began to panic, and went back to my original choice. Maybe I was being too hard on myself. I was not.

Finally, in the deep recesses of my closet, I found a cute dusty rose camisole that passed inspection. It did require a strapless bra (to go over my non-strapless bra) because it was a little low cut. Not a problem. Finally, it was ago.

I was off to work, speeding happily on M16 when I happened to look down and noticed my strapless bra slipping, slipping, slipping. It had fallen to my stomach. I had no choice. I had to zip back home and change into a different, more reliable strapless bra that Doug was quick to help me find. (Such a sport...)

Five minutes later...

I was back on to M16, happily speeding once again when I looked at the color of the ponytail holder on my wrist. Horrors. I grabbed a brown one. You see, all my accent colors were black. I glanced at the clock and made an important decision. I'd have to let this one go. Chances were I wouldn't even use the ponytail holder.

Now, I'm a fairly rational and somewhat intelligent person. I read the news and understand that there are issues in the world that matter and what I wear to work on any given day isn't going to help Haitian refugees.

But here's the deal. We are all just human. And sometimes we cling on to those little things that give us a sliver of creative control, even if it does take several iterations to get it right. I'll tell you one thing about it: my hubby never seems to mind.

*shameless plug for my mother's store

Ah! Family Picture Day.
That was a good day to plan an outfit.

The Meddler

It was my turn to pick the movie. As some of you might know, we rotate who picks the movie in our house. Then we pick an actor out of a hat to narrow down the selection. I happened to draw Rose Byrne and was quite excited about the possibilities. Bridesmaids. The Internship. This Is Where I Leave You. Spy. So many good ones to choose from! But despite the 237 streaming services we pay for, all of those movies had a rental fee. (We'll pay hundreds of dollars in streaming services. But we draw the line when it comes to paying an additional $3.99 to rent.)

After an intense IMBD search, we found a movie called "The Meddler" starring Susan Sarandon as Marnie: a widow who moves from New York to LA to be closer to her daughter, Lori, played by Rose Byrne. As you might guess Marnie takes an extensive interest in her daughter's life... and just about anyone else whom she meets. Her daughter's friends. The genius at the Apple store. A patient at the hospital. 

As we watched, I felt a little tingle on my neck. Marnie left several messages, every day, for her daughter. She tended to weave the topic of her daughter into any random conversation. She casually bursted into her daughter's home without knocking. (Why knock? She had a key!) And she always, always, always had advice to give.

I realized, without a doubt, there were some substantial pieces of me in her.

About the time this realization was setting in, Doug shouted out, "I could strangle her! She's driving me nuts!"

Well, okay.

It's been two years since Alex graduated college. Cole just finished his first year in college. I 'd be a liar if I said I don't look at Life360 daily. Usually a few times. I also have to coach myself not to text or call the kids with every fleeting thought that crosses my mind. And when they don't respond, I attempt to Snapchat that I find difficult and depressing.

It's not so easy to turn down the maternal chatter in your brain that goes something like this: "are they safe? are they safe? are they safe? are they happy? are they safe?" (I'm guessing the paternal chatter is lower in volume and frequency with a periodic blip of "did they get their oil changed?")

Back to the movie.

It becomes apparent that Marnie is navigating her grief by wedging herself into other lives. However, she is doing this in the most earnest and compassionate of ways. Eventually the term "meddler" seems inappropriate. It becomes a touching tale with a superb acting performance from the beautiful Susan Sarandon. In other words, I cried.

I don't ever remember feeling like Doug's parents or my parents were overly involved in our lives. Of course, there weren't cell phones in our early twenties. Looking back, I feel like they were perfectly involved, helping us when we needed guidance. But letting us live and make the mistakes that all young adults should make. 

So, I'll try harder to give the kids their space, giving them advice when they ask or letting them know important stuff like when the new season of Ted Lasso comes out or how cute the cat looks on the counter. In the meantime, I'll focus more of my attention to the hubby. 

I sure hope I don't drive him nuts.

A Tribute to Dad on Father's Day Weekend

 My father the second-born, only boy of five kids. I would describe my aunts (Dad's sisters) as vivacious–always ready to greet anyone with a hug and a kiss. I remember Grandma Shirley telling stories of family outings when the girls tore into anything of interest as little Ronnie walked around, hands behind his back, studying things. He was also the kid who needed to be coaxed into going back to school on his second day of kindergarten. Needless to say, my dad isn't a social butterfly, and not very inclined to greet people with a hug and a kiss. But I did learn a few things from him.

Lesson #1: Power of Laughter

Some of my early comedic heroes include Bill Murray, John Belushi, Gilda Radner, Dan Akroyd, Chevy Chase, and Ron Ronfeldt. In addition to laughing at the Coneheads, I laughed at my dad. He was uncommonly funny. Dry. A bit twisted. He didn't tell stupid dad jokes like "Three men walk into a bar...the third one ducked." No. He created games like "The Dead Game" and at-home versions of "Name that Tune." I won't explain The Dead Game, as it involves obituaries and a temporary reprieve of decorum. Name that Tune was a bit more innocent–a family tradition beginning shortly after I began piano and learned classics like "Mister Frog is Full of Hops." Dad could almost always name Mr. Frog in one note.

Dad didn't always love attending my activities (Overly-involved parenting wasn't really a thing in the 80's.) It never bothered me. But it was nice when he came to Senior Night when the football team and marching band were being recognized. As the athletic director thanked the parents for all of their support and dedication to the kids, he leaned over to Mom and whispered, "What instrument does Stef play again?" Now, that's just funny.

Lesson #2: Work is Good

I don't know any dad in this part of the world who doesn't try to impart a work ethic into their kids. Dad was no different with his only child–a delicate daughter whose preference was to stay inside and either read or play barbies. I had a lot of standard first jobs: mowing, babysitting, and the pinnacle of all first jobs in Shelby County: walking beans. At first I was excited to be on an exclusive crew of bean walkers and making the high salary of $3/ hour. It only took me about 30 minutes (at most) to tire of the bugs, heat and monster button weeds. But I did it. When I was asked, I did it. One summer, I seemed to be enjoying a reprieve of the fields. Dad took notice of my lazy summer days. One night at supper he mentioned that Forrest Adams was needing bean walkers and I better be ready to go the next morning. My heart sunk to the floor. Being the quick thinker that I was, I replied, "I can't! I have to exercise tomorrow." To be fair, I had just started on a new program. It wasn't a lie. Dad didn't scold me. He chuckled. And rather than feeling resentful, I felt, well, foolish. (I can't imagine if my husband, a true farm kid, would've told his dad he couldn't walk beans because he was starting a new exercise regimen.) It took some time, but eventually I began to understand the value and fruits of working hard. 

Lesson #3: Humility

When my dad was playing football in high school, the coach pulled him aside before a game one night and asked him if it would be okay for the announcer to call out his son's name, instead of Dad's, in the starting lineup. The coach assured him that he would still start and play the whole game. But it would mean an awful lot to the announcer. Who was my dad to argue with that?

One time when I was was in grade school or junior high, I was bragging about how fast I was. (I was super uncoordinated, just fast.) Dad sat and listened. Eventually, he said, "I was pretty fast in school too." Ha! Of course, I didn't believe him. He was an old guy (probably around thirty) who wore work boots and jeans. So, he challenged me. We went out in the yard, he still wearing his boots and jeans. He gave me a head start, which I assured him I didn't need. But lo and behold, he kicked my ass. 

I guess you could say my father is a "character" guy than a man of show. That's why he'd much rather be seen on an antique Indian motorcycle with hints of rust on the gas tanks, as opposed to riding a shiny new Ducati or even a brand new Harley. It's hard not to respect that.

My dad, protecting me from the fish!

The summer after I graduated from the U of Iowa (Bachelor's Degree in hand), I got a job detasseling. I had had a few accomplishments in my life by then, but Dad told me more than once, how proud he was of me for doing that job. It was humbling. It was hard work. But fortunately, I knew how to laugh. All gifts from my father.

Of course, I learned many more things from Dad...things like driving a stick shift. But my favorite lesson of all from him? Love comes in all forms. He might not be a big hugger. But when I stop in for a visit over lunch and Dad shows me his tomatoes or a funny YouTube video, I feel his love for me.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Love ya to pieces. 

Getting Dirty

By guest blogger, Alex Kramer 

A few weeks ago, I had the radical idea that fully submerging my hands in soil would solve all my problems. This stemmed from a romantic daydream of working and living on an olive farm in Italy, listening to records and writing music in my free time. But I don’t live in Italy. I live in Colorado. And despite growing up in a cornfield, I rejected any notion that I might enjoy working with the land. I was too punk for that. Nowadays, I tend to reject the notion that to be one thing you can’t be another. So I took my tattooed, blue-haired, semi-city-fied self out to the farm — Esoterra Culinary, to be exact — and prepared to be schooled. 

It wasn’t my dad’s farm, that’s for sure. Mark, the man that owns the farm, and his young daughter (probably 7 or 8), greeted me with raw fennel to snack on and a tour of all the produce they grow — rows of chicory, raspberries, tomatoes, sunchokes, and so much more just starting to sprout, seeking the spring sun and rain. It was the lay of the land, if you will. Then they put me to work. 

For 3 hours, I hung out pulling bindweed and planting peas in the mountain heat and morning breeze. Amongst plants I can’t remember the names of, I got dirt successfully wedged in every crevice of my hands. Mark’s daughter told us about her future plans to open a raw food restaurant with her friend — she even made us a plate by cutting greens straight out of the ground so we could sample her work (shockingly, delicious; the girl knows what’s what). She showed us her mom’s sundress and told me she would like her hair to be a rainbow. I think it would suit her.

I told you I originally wanted to put myself in this foreign situation to solve all my problems. Those problems include a need for movement, a stressful job/boss, and a long-pushed-off eating disorder. Eating disorders, actually. I have such a complicated, tumultuous relationship with food that’s been exacerbated by anxiety, depression, and life circumstances for years. It’s been festering in the heat of my life. All these things swarming along inside my head have external effects — and food became a battleground. After years of negative thoughts and a fair amount of repression, I didn’t feel like hating myself anymore. I went back to therapy and was honest, am continuing to be honest. I’m volunteering at a culinary farm that’s already begun changing my perception of food. Something happens when you eat vegetables straight out of the ground. There’s a new appreciation knowing exactly what’s keeping my brain thinking and my heart pumping. I understand why the bunnies like it so much.

Everything that I was, that’s been done to me, and that I’ve done to myself is a past-tense. The future is as green and fertile as the pea shoots (hopefully) coming out of the ground. 

The next morning: Sunday. I’m writing this in my pajamas, listening to Muddy Waters and watching it rain by the window. I am sore in places I haven’t felt since soccer but daydreaming of the flowers that will come from the rain. And despite the mosquito bite on my face and the large strip of sunburn on my back, I am already looking forward to next Saturday.

Alex. True Blooded Farm Girl.