Sometimes, farmers have to repair their equipment or prep it for field work. In those cases, it helps to have a shop filled with tools and hardware. Jonathan illustrates that a day's work here can be challenging, but with a pipe fitting or two, some brute strength, a pink cap, and some machinist savvy, a farmer gets the job done so that things can continue to run smoothly on the farm. Thanks, little guy.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Jonathan Fixes the Disc
Sometimes, farmers have to repair their equipment or prep it for field work. In those cases, it helps to have a shop filled with tools and hardware. Jonathan illustrates that a day's work here can be challenging, but with a pipe fitting or two, some brute strength, a pink cap, and some machinist savvy, a farmer gets the job done so that things can continue to run smoothly on the farm. Thanks, little guy.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
The Twelve Days of Hunting
It's that time of year again on the SD plains, and in honor of this pheasant hunting season, I've written a little ditty for my husband and his happy band of gun-toting comrades. Sing along, friends!
On the first day of hunting, my true love said to me, "I'm going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the second day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Get in the truck, because I'm going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the third day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Three fat hens? Back in the truck; those are SO not the roosters for me."
On the fourth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because I'm going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the fifth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Fiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get our rooster, or three!"
On the sixth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the seventh day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the eighth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the ninth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the tenth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Grouse are a-leaping. Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the eleventh day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Duck!! Newbies shooting At grouse a-leaping! Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the twelfth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Who's gonna clean these? Duck!! Newbies shooting At grouse a-leaping! Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck,
because WE FINALLY GOT OUR ROOSTERS, BA-BY!"
Happy, safe hunting season, everyone. See you at the Saturday Night Smoker!
On the first day of hunting, my true love said to me, "I'm going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the second day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Get in the truck, because I'm going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the third day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Three fat hens? Back in the truck; those are SO not the roosters for me."
On the fourth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because I'm going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the fifth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Fiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get our rooster, or three!"
On the sixth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the seventh day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the eighth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the ninth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the tenth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Grouse are a-leaping. Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the eleventh day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Duck!! Newbies shooting At grouse a-leaping! Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"
On the twelfth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Who's gonna clean these? Duck!! Newbies shooting At grouse a-leaping! Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck,
because WE FINALLY GOT OUR ROOSTERS, BA-BY!"
Happy, safe hunting season, everyone. See you at the Saturday Night Smoker!
Saturday, October 13, 2012
The Corn Harvest
It's been awhile, hasn't it?
Well, here's what we've been up to since I last blogged. First, the kids have been in prime form, spending their days playing outside and riding along with the guys in the trucks and combines. My mom likes to say, "Around here, we raise free-range children." Want proof?
There ya go.
The land has turned from a misty-gold to a deep, brown-gold, and when a person stands very still by an unharvested corn field, the swish-swishing of the dried leaves as the breezes pass is like the sound of the ocean. It's pretty amazing, really.
But the truth of the matter is this: there isn't much unharvested corn left in our area. Many farmers are entirely done with harvest season at this unheard-of early date. We've got two large fields of corn left, but my dad has found he's got more corn than bins (what a problem to have in a drought year!). This means that the smaller bins around the farm site will be drafted soon, but they've got to be prepped first.
Here's something you may not know: many of the beautiful silos you see on farms these days are not actually used. They are the epitome of a traditional farm, but they are also costly to maintain, and they are used more for cattle operations (silage storage) than for farming and grain-storing purposes. They certainly do make for lovely photos, though.
Some afternoons, when the kids are feeling cooped up (or I am), we walk to the fields where the guys are working, if they are within a reasonable distance. It's a good chance to look closely at the land as it is ripening, down to the smallest of plants. Even the animals become more visible this time of year. The pheasants are really clustering as the row crops disappear, and large herds of deer have been gleaning the fallen ears of corn. Soon, the primary species we'll see in our neck of the non-woods will be hunters.
We may not see much of the autumn reds across our horizons, like we do back in Minnesota, but if one looks carefully...
...it's there! The wild roses offer a veritable sunset of colors during this time.
When Matt sees us coming, he finishes filling, and then heads over to the edge of the field to unload.
"Hey-ya, family!" he calls. "Come to ride along?"
"I'll come and get the kids. Stay put. And you're a farm girl...don't you know better than to wear flip-flops to the field? Get thee some boots, lady!" And he has a point, really.
The minute Jonathan sees the combine has stopped, he starts loping over through the stubble and stalks. He's wearing solid shoes, of course. "DAAAA-DEEE! BRRMM-BRRMMMMM!!" he calls.
"Alright, kiddos, let's go!" Matt says, and he scoops them up. To a mama, there's nothing more sweet than a sight like this:
The first time Grace combined corn with my dad, she was about two. She sat quietly, taking it all in, and then turned to him and said, quite seriously, "Grandpa, this is AMAZING." And really, it is! Watching the ears of corn get mowed, tumbled, and then somehow turned into showers of corn behind our seat is downright miraculous. Jonathan summed it up nicely: "Wow."
We've been blessed with a safe, successful, and stress-free harvest this year. That's about as much as a farmer--or a group of practice-farmers--could ask for.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Doggie on the Lam!
Well, those of you who read this blog via Facebook have already heard the fiasco concerning our dog, Belle, but it's worth recording here so that we have a permanent record of this canine's capers!
A few nights ago, we went out to the garage to kennel the dogs up, as always. Spencer, the beagle, was in the yard, baying with all his might toward the south end of the farm. We noticed he was limping, and he had a small puncture wound on his stomach. But as for Belle, our munsterlander? She was nowhere to be found. Matt called and called, staying up late to see her safely in, but she just didn't show up. We headed to bed, convinced that the morning would find her sleeping on the front porch rug.
But she didn't come home. Not that day, and not the next. During this time, I put out the Facebook and local radio APB on our wayward dog, thinking she probably had gotten picked up by one of the many hunters in the area, or by a helpful farmer somewhere in the vicinity. Now, I'm an eternal optimist. If there is the slightest chance of sunshine, I'm going to claim it. Matt, on the other hand, is what my friend likes to call "a guarded optimist," meaning he'll try to face things positively, but he'll come up with about ten dire scenarios in the meantime. The most plausible of these scenarios? That she had been tracked down by coyotes. Each night, we hear packs howling in the fields around the yard, which is one of the reasons we like to kennel the dogs at night. The other reason has to do with skunks...stay tuned for more explanation. Added to Matt's theory: Spencer's injuries and the fact that our once-feral beagle was now moping around the yard, refusing to go farther than the lawn. Even I had my doubts by day three.
Then, while eating lunch, my mom spotted a lost-and-found ad in the Aberdeen newspaper: "Found: female springer spaniel." To most, Belle looks just like a springer, so I made the call, knowing it was a far shot; Aberdeen is about 1.5 hours from our place. The young man who answered told me that yes, he had found a female springer spaniel. Yes, she had the same collar and tags as Belle. She had been eating a skunk (groan) by the side of the road, and this man's wife almost hit her. When she saw it was a dog, she, being an awesome farm wife, tossed the smelly pup into the back of her pickup and headed home. They then bathed her (skunk and all) and brushed her coat. While she was drying, they put her in their machine shed to play with the kids. "Great! Oh, thank you SO much! We'll be there in about two hours to pick her up!" I said.
"But she's not here now," he said.
"Umm...she's not?" I asked.
"Nope. Hired man opened the machine shed door, and off she ran. So, she's probably somewhere in Aberdeen right now. Might want to check the pound. Or maybe the Humane Society. I'll get you the numbers."
Because apparently, running OVER SEVENTY-FIVE MILES from our home wasn't enough for our perky pooch!
So, I called the pound, and they had just picked up a female springer spaniel. This time, she had no collar (post-bath), so we just hoped for the best and piled the kids into the car.
Now, if anyone from Aberdeen is reading this, please, PLEASE consider re-evaluating your pound system. Here's how it works: a person has to drive to the pound, which is a kennel service 4 miles outside of town. They have to pick up paperwork. Then, they have to take it to the city building in downtown Aberdeen. Then, they have to pay the...wait for it...SIXTY dollar fine and get more paperwork. Then, they can drive back out of town to pick up the dog. However, the pound/kennel service owner works in Britton, so one must do all of this in a crazy time frame: pick up paperwork before the lady leaves for work, get to the city building before five, and pick up puppy after seven in the evening, when she gets back home again.
Really. So, make a day of it. A day when you should have been working to afford the sixty dollar fee. Suggestion? A fax machine.
However, lest I crab on and on about the lack of technology, I should point out that the end result was this: we have our Belle back, just in time for pheasant hunting season, and she is much cleaner than when she left, thanks to a very kind farm family.
And Spencer? He's back to his old, exploring, feral-beagle ways, happy that his girlfriend didn't leave him for good.
A few nights ago, we went out to the garage to kennel the dogs up, as always. Spencer, the beagle, was in the yard, baying with all his might toward the south end of the farm. We noticed he was limping, and he had a small puncture wound on his stomach. But as for Belle, our munsterlander? She was nowhere to be found. Matt called and called, staying up late to see her safely in, but she just didn't show up. We headed to bed, convinced that the morning would find her sleeping on the front porch rug.
But she didn't come home. Not that day, and not the next. During this time, I put out the Facebook and local radio APB on our wayward dog, thinking she probably had gotten picked up by one of the many hunters in the area, or by a helpful farmer somewhere in the vicinity. Now, I'm an eternal optimist. If there is the slightest chance of sunshine, I'm going to claim it. Matt, on the other hand, is what my friend likes to call "a guarded optimist," meaning he'll try to face things positively, but he'll come up with about ten dire scenarios in the meantime. The most plausible of these scenarios? That she had been tracked down by coyotes. Each night, we hear packs howling in the fields around the yard, which is one of the reasons we like to kennel the dogs at night. The other reason has to do with skunks...stay tuned for more explanation. Added to Matt's theory: Spencer's injuries and the fact that our once-feral beagle was now moping around the yard, refusing to go farther than the lawn. Even I had my doubts by day three.
Then, while eating lunch, my mom spotted a lost-and-found ad in the Aberdeen newspaper: "Found: female springer spaniel." To most, Belle looks just like a springer, so I made the call, knowing it was a far shot; Aberdeen is about 1.5 hours from our place. The young man who answered told me that yes, he had found a female springer spaniel. Yes, she had the same collar and tags as Belle. She had been eating a skunk (groan) by the side of the road, and this man's wife almost hit her. When she saw it was a dog, she, being an awesome farm wife, tossed the smelly pup into the back of her pickup and headed home. They then bathed her (skunk and all) and brushed her coat. While she was drying, they put her in their machine shed to play with the kids. "Great! Oh, thank you SO much! We'll be there in about two hours to pick her up!" I said.
"But she's not here now," he said.
"Umm...she's not?" I asked.
"Nope. Hired man opened the machine shed door, and off she ran. So, she's probably somewhere in Aberdeen right now. Might want to check the pound. Or maybe the Humane Society. I'll get you the numbers."
Because apparently, running OVER SEVENTY-FIVE MILES from our home wasn't enough for our perky pooch!
So, I called the pound, and they had just picked up a female springer spaniel. This time, she had no collar (post-bath), so we just hoped for the best and piled the kids into the car.
Now, if anyone from Aberdeen is reading this, please, PLEASE consider re-evaluating your pound system. Here's how it works: a person has to drive to the pound, which is a kennel service 4 miles outside of town. They have to pick up paperwork. Then, they have to take it to the city building in downtown Aberdeen. Then, they have to pay the...wait for it...SIXTY dollar fine and get more paperwork. Then, they can drive back out of town to pick up the dog. However, the pound/kennel service owner works in Britton, so one must do all of this in a crazy time frame: pick up paperwork before the lady leaves for work, get to the city building before five, and pick up puppy after seven in the evening, when she gets back home again.
Really. So, make a day of it. A day when you should have been working to afford the sixty dollar fee. Suggestion? A fax machine.
However, lest I crab on and on about the lack of technology, I should point out that the end result was this: we have our Belle back, just in time for pheasant hunting season, and she is much cleaner than when she left, thanks to a very kind farm family.
And Spencer? He's back to his old, exploring, feral-beagle ways, happy that his girlfriend didn't leave him for good.
The things we do for the pets we love!
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Saturday Mornings
One of the best parts about late Friday nights (see my earlier blog post) is that they are generally followed by lazy Saturday mornings. If we get the chance, here's what a lazy Saturday morning (for everyone but the farmers) looks like around this joint.
It starts with breakfast. Quick quiz: can you guess which egg is the local, farm-raised free-ranger? And then the store-bought organic free-rangers? And then...the regular store-bought egg? Saaaad little store-bought eggs. But this morning, we were equal-opportunity consumers.
We spend our morning goofing around in our comfies. You can count on sleep-like apparel until at least ten. At least.
Then, someone always asks for a bubble bath. It's usually me, and I also request things like chocolate and coffee, but the kids generally win out. Sigh.
After we get dressed--sometimes back into jammies, I won't lie--we head outside to take in the sunshine. Below is the tree outside our bedroom window. This amazing beauty is so shimmering gold that it has woken us up the past two weeks with its entirely believable imitation of the sun. Tricky tree, I tell ya.
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Usually, by ten, the cattle have gone through their paces. They hold to a seriously rigid schedule. At 9:00, they come by the house on their way to the watering tanks. By 10:00, they are heading back out to the main pasture area. However, on this particular Saturday, the cattle picked up on our lazy groove. Not one was doing anything more productive than chewing cud.
Something that always makes me smile is a dog enjoying the grass and sunshine. They just make it a whole-body experience! Spencer begins by arching to one side, and then the other, grumbling deep in his throat with enjoyment. Then, he usually drags himself, army-crawl style, across the lawn on his tummy, grinning the whole way.
By this point, the kids have usually jumped onto the kid-sized (and kid-speed) four-wheeler. They have it down to an art: Jonathan hops on first, and then Grace. He laces his arms around her stomach, and she checks and tightens them, just to make sure. He leans into her back, and they take off...at about .5 miles per hour. Seriously, they crawl. But they do move, which makes the entire experience thrilling and liberating, and their range on the farm is vast, so they can venture out, even if it takes an hour one way.
Because Saturday mornings are like that. Freeing. Slow. And totally enjoyable.
It starts with breakfast. Quick quiz: can you guess which egg is the local, farm-raised free-ranger? And then the store-bought organic free-rangers? And then...the regular store-bought egg? Saaaad little store-bought eggs. But this morning, we were equal-opportunity consumers.
We spend our morning goofing around in our comfies. You can count on sleep-like apparel until at least ten. At least.
Then, someone always asks for a bubble bath. It's usually me, and I also request things like chocolate and coffee, but the kids generally win out. Sigh.
After we get dressed--sometimes back into jammies, I won't lie--we head outside to take in the sunshine. Below is the tree outside our bedroom window. This amazing beauty is so shimmering gold that it has woken us up the past two weeks with its entirely believable imitation of the sun. Tricky tree, I tell ya.
.JPG)
Usually, by ten, the cattle have gone through their paces. They hold to a seriously rigid schedule. At 9:00, they come by the house on their way to the watering tanks. By 10:00, they are heading back out to the main pasture area. However, on this particular Saturday, the cattle picked up on our lazy groove. Not one was doing anything more productive than chewing cud.
Something that always makes me smile is a dog enjoying the grass and sunshine. They just make it a whole-body experience! Spencer begins by arching to one side, and then the other, grumbling deep in his throat with enjoyment. Then, he usually drags himself, army-crawl style, across the lawn on his tummy, grinning the whole way.
By this point, the kids have usually jumped onto the kid-sized (and kid-speed) four-wheeler. They have it down to an art: Jonathan hops on first, and then Grace. He laces his arms around her stomach, and she checks and tightens them, just to make sure. He leans into her back, and they take off...at about .5 miles per hour. Seriously, they crawl. But they do move, which makes the entire experience thrilling and liberating, and their range on the farm is vast, so they can venture out, even if it takes an hour one way.
Because Saturday mornings are like that. Freeing. Slow. And totally enjoyable.
Friday Nights
In a small town, Friday nights in September mean one thing: football. If you are lucky, or someone who checks the local paper each week, you may even catch homecoming, with all its glorious festivities.
The first thing we got in on was the homecoming parade. Now, the important thing to consider when you watch any parade is location. This was our first spot, but we relocated as soon as we realized that the candy-to-child ratio was going to be grim.
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The fire engine's siren started wailing ("Nee-nah, nee-nah!!" screeched Jonathan excitedly), and we knew the parade had begun! I was entirely satisfied to see that children still decorated their bikes with crepe streamers. It's not a homecoming parade without this element, folks.
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The homecoming float theme this year was 'cleaning supplies' (themes are always random and intended to spur creative and funny results), which meant I laughed often, and the kids didn't get the gist at all...with the exception of the candy and mood. That they understood perfectly.
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The two schools' marching bands were in prime form, practicing their songs and strides for the upcoming Gypsy Day competition in Aberdeen. You can have a marching band without a parade, but you simply can't have a parade without a marching band!
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After gathering copious, nearly obscene amounts of sugar thrown our way (we chose our street corner wisely), we quickly headed to the school gymnasium for the annual pep rally. Grace and Jonathan, who have never been to a pep rally, thought it was amazing.
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Once the sun started sinking in the west, though, homecoming began in earnest. Tailgating is part of the standard operation, of course. (Jonathan ate three hot dogs. Three.)
I spent time chatting with old friends and a few classmates while our kids ran wild on the playground. Go to any high school football game, and you will see at least one group of boys scrimmaging in sweaty, rough glory on the sidelines.
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Jonathan watched them intently and wistfully, but he never did interfere. He seemed to know that he was out of his league at that moment. After a while, he ran over to the playground to explore with the other littles.
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The big game began, and the stands were packed. Everyone was ready to enjoy the crisp (okay, downright frigid!) night with hot chocolate in hand.
Side note: want to see the most lovely track and field in SD? Come to this place.
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Jonathan recognized the cheerleaders from the pep rally. He called to them and spent the night strutting and doing incredibly goofy things to entertain the crowd. We make an impression wherever we go, man.
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The game didn't go so well, but where there's hometown pride and spirit, there's fun. The kids came home sandy, hot-chocolatey, frozen, and tuckered out...and so did their parents.
The first thing we got in on was the homecoming parade. Now, the important thing to consider when you watch any parade is location. This was our first spot, but we relocated as soon as we realized that the candy-to-child ratio was going to be grim.
.JPG)
The fire engine's siren started wailing ("Nee-nah, nee-nah!!" screeched Jonathan excitedly), and we knew the parade had begun! I was entirely satisfied to see that children still decorated their bikes with crepe streamers. It's not a homecoming parade without this element, folks.
.JPG)
The homecoming float theme this year was 'cleaning supplies' (themes are always random and intended to spur creative and funny results), which meant I laughed often, and the kids didn't get the gist at all...with the exception of the candy and mood. That they understood perfectly.
.JPG)
The two schools' marching bands were in prime form, practicing their songs and strides for the upcoming Gypsy Day competition in Aberdeen. You can have a marching band without a parade, but you simply can't have a parade without a marching band!
.JPG)
After gathering copious, nearly obscene amounts of sugar thrown our way (we chose our street corner wisely), we quickly headed to the school gymnasium for the annual pep rally. Grace and Jonathan, who have never been to a pep rally, thought it was amazing.
.JPG)
Once the sun started sinking in the west, though, homecoming began in earnest. Tailgating is part of the standard operation, of course. (Jonathan ate three hot dogs. Three.)
I spent time chatting with old friends and a few classmates while our kids ran wild on the playground. Go to any high school football game, and you will see at least one group of boys scrimmaging in sweaty, rough glory on the sidelines.
.JPG)
Jonathan watched them intently and wistfully, but he never did interfere. He seemed to know that he was out of his league at that moment. After a while, he ran over to the playground to explore with the other littles.
.JPG)
.JPG)
The big game began, and the stands were packed. Everyone was ready to enjoy the crisp (okay, downright frigid!) night with hot chocolate in hand.
Side note: want to see the most lovely track and field in SD? Come to this place.
.JPG)
Jonathan recognized the cheerleaders from the pep rally. He called to them and spent the night strutting and doing incredibly goofy things to entertain the crowd. We make an impression wherever we go, man.
.JPG)
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The game didn't go so well, but where there's hometown pride and spirit, there's fun. The kids came home sandy, hot-chocolatey, frozen, and tuckered out...and so did their parents.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Birthdays and Such
What can happen in five years? How about thirty five? Well, let's take a look:
This can happen in five years,
And this,
And even this,
Or this!
Our sweet little Grace celebrated birthday number five this week with a princess party (see photos of Cinderella's castle and garb above), and we couldn't be more delighted (or more nostalgic) as we mark this special holiday. How can one little person change the world this much? People across a tri-state region (heck, nation!) know our girl--sometimes better than they know us--because of her sunshine spirit, which emerged on day one when she became the adored baby in the hospital nursery, "the prettiest, happiest baby here who never gets put down," as one nurse proclaimed. We were enamored then, but that was before we really knew her, and knew the compassion, intelligence, and exuberance she holds within. Happy Birthday, Sunshine Girl!
Now, back to the original question: what can happen in thirty-five years? Well, let's hit the high points, shall we?
This can happen,
And this,
All right, all right...I'm probably missing a little bit in there, but you get the idea--thirty-five years is plenty of time for really good stuff to happen! When I was a little girl, dreaming of the life I'd have as a big person, I had no idea what a wonderful, kind, talented, babe-a-licious man I would eventually meet and marry. I had no clue what amazing children we'd have (or that they'd look exactly like him). And you know what? I'm really, really glad it was all a surprise.
Kind of like this:
(*Note: party decor and guest list assembled by Grace)
Happy birthday to you, Matt, the best husband/daddy/farmer-in-training we could imagine. I am entirely excited about the next five...and thirty-five!
P.S.--For the record, and because I know some family member will call me on it, Matt's actually 34, but the 5-35 comparison just works better. Hush.
This can happen in five years,
And in a moment of quiet beauty, this,
And thank goodness (melt my heart), this,
And even this,
Or this!
Our sweet little Grace celebrated birthday number five this week with a princess party (see photos of Cinderella's castle and garb above), and we couldn't be more delighted (or more nostalgic) as we mark this special holiday. How can one little person change the world this much? People across a tri-state region (heck, nation!) know our girl--sometimes better than they know us--because of her sunshine spirit, which emerged on day one when she became the adored baby in the hospital nursery, "the prettiest, happiest baby here who never gets put down," as one nurse proclaimed. We were enamored then, but that was before we really knew her, and knew the compassion, intelligence, and exuberance she holds within. Happy Birthday, Sunshine Girl!
Now, back to the original question: what can happen in thirty-five years? Well, let's hit the high points, shall we?
This can happen,
And this,
Which may just lead to this,
And then this,
And even this!
All right, all right...I'm probably missing a little bit in there, but you get the idea--thirty-five years is plenty of time for really good stuff to happen! When I was a little girl, dreaming of the life I'd have as a big person, I had no idea what a wonderful, kind, talented, babe-a-licious man I would eventually meet and marry. I had no clue what amazing children we'd have (or that they'd look exactly like him). And you know what? I'm really, really glad it was all a surprise.
Kind of like this:
(*Note: party decor and guest list assembled by Grace)
Happy birthday to you, Matt, the best husband/daddy/farmer-in-training we could imagine. I am entirely excited about the next five...and thirty-five!
P.S.--For the record, and because I know some family member will call me on it, Matt's actually 34, but the 5-35 comparison just works better. Hush.
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