It’s no secret that I’m not a fan of cooking. Just take a look in my pantry. You’ll find tablecloths, napkins…just about anything one would need for entertaining. But no food. I never really tried to carry on any kind of cooking tradition. I was complaining to my mom about the lack of chocolate meringue pie at my recent Thanksgivings, and she confided in me that Marie Callender made her pie this year. She also told me that my great-grandmother used to make an oyster dressing that she (my mom) despised. The oyster dressing never made an appearance at Thanksgiving after great-grandmother’s death.
I need to thank my mom for making this executive decision to discontinue that tradition. I’m sure I would not have liked it…but now – my lack of interest in cooking has landed me in a Thanksgiving predicament.
My husband can't wait until the "day after" pie slice, so he can eat it on a steaming hot bowl of oatmeal.
I married a Yankee with three kids. They were raised on lots of northern dishes like chicken and waffles and shoe fly pie. Since I’m the odd woman out, I have learned how to make a few dishes since I would like for them to keep me around. It was clear one Thanksgiving that it’s going to take them a little longer to warm up to some of my Oklahoma dishes. I can’t understand anyone not liking brisket for Thanksgiving, but…whatever.
This was not the day I was expecting. My school was closed in honor of Veterans Day. I woke up at 3:00AM (my usual time), got comfortable, and managed to stay in bed ‘til 7:00AM. My day had endless possibilities. I walked around in pajamas, drank coffee, and watched a little TV, but a missed call from my husband plus a voicemail was how I learned that my father-in-law, Chris Allgyer, the reason we get to enjoy this beautiful country life, died in his sleep. Chris had spent the last five days at home but the previous six weeks in the hospital fighting complications from cancer.
The rest of the day was a whirlwind of tears, visitors, and funeral arrangements. Even the animals were confused at all of the activity. One of my indoor cats ran outside and had still not come back in by our bedtime adding to my conflicted emotional state. I went to bed but did not sleep.
Westerns
There weren't many places we went without Chris. This was before a Valentine's Day dinner at a local church.
In 2004 after we sold our house in the city, we moved in with Chris. The trailer was small, but cozy. Well, not as cozy as it was HOT. He kept the thermostat at 73 degrees all while running the propane heater in the living room. I tried to watch Friends reruns, but he insisted on watching anything on the Encore Western channel instead. Chris loved Western movies. Gradually, the Westerns grew on me. I loved the horses and the old-fashioned cowboy attire. I even consented to watch different versions of the same movie…the old one…. and the really old one. We continued the “watching Westerns during dinner” tradition even after we moved into our own house. Most Sunday nights I would cook dinner for Greg and Chris, Chris would complain that I didn’t put enough chicken in whatever we were having (he called it “dragging the chicken through”), and I would find a Western for us to watch during dinner. After dinner Chris would settle in the big chair, close his eyes, and ask for a blanket. Our thermostat was not set at 73 degrees.
Blackberries
One day while I was mowing Chris’s yard, I came across some wild blackberries. He informed me that he knew about a gold mine of the berries and promised to take me. The next morning we gathered our buckets and I met him at the tractor. I stood on the Bush Hog (kids, don’t try this at home) and he drove us down to the corner of his property. We picked pails of blackberries and I made my first blackberry jam and cobbler. This past summer he was too sick to take me, so while my OSU friend Kim was visiting, I took them both to a nearby blackberry farm. Kim complained about the thorns and Chris could not breath well enough to get out of the car to help. Chris, sitting there in the car, reminded me of how he used to sit in his own truck in the shade and take a nap. The cobbler didn’t taste nearly as sweet as it did the summer before.
Windfall Profits
In the summertime, it was often only Chris and I at the ranch. If I had a little cash on me, I would text Chris and ask him to lunch. His first question would always be to ask me where I got the money. My standard answer would be “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had a windfall profit.” He always laughed and started calling any amount of cash I had on me a windfall profit. We would try to go to lunch at least once a week or two to the post office in Laconia, TN. It was one of his favorite places to eat. For me, not so much, but I would still go and get a little cornbread and green beans while he loaded his plate down with chicken livers, greens, and other country-fried foods. It didn’t take me long to clean my plate so I could be the first to survey the dessert table and report back the selection. I’d pay the tab (a total of $8.50 for all-you-can-eat) and we’d head home. On into the evening he would walk out onto the back porch, turn on the porch light, start up the diesel (I could hear it from my house) and take off for a late night cup of coffee and a lottery ticket. Before I went to bed I would wait for his headlights to come up his driveway. If my husband was still awake, I’d simply say, “Dad’s home.” The truck was parked and the porch light was turned off.
Mitchell, Christin, Chris, and Melissa at Greg's 50th birthday celebration. Chris was proud of his grandchildren.
This morning I woke up to find my missing cat scurrying on the porch past the French doors that face Chris’s trailer. I noticed the porch light at Chris’s still on. I know the evenings of looking for his headlights coming up the drive are gone and that porch light will stay on until one of us goes up there to turn it off. Once I let the cat safely in the house, I thought to myself, “Dad’s home.”
My very first car was a red, 1967 Ford Mustang. Red dust (old paint) clung to every individual who attempted to lean against it.
The vinyl top was mostly gone, and the condition of the seats….well, they were bad. I was taught how to use a screwdriver on the starter to start it. Piece by piece the car was revived to it’s almost original state and accessorized with a collection of B. Kliban Cat pillows. It lasted the rest of high school and most of college then I wrecked it. Bummer. It had the coolness factor. As punishment for wrecking the cool car, my parents bought me a beige Chevy Citation and told me I would be paying them for it. Definitely not cool. Protection Plans by Nova Warranty keep your vehicle secure.
I declined the offer and purchased a little silver Fiat Spider convertible before the month was over. The convertible top had to be duct-taped in the winter.
The next phase of my car purchases was not as exciting. My current Saturn Vue has cloth seats, and yes, there are days when I miss those heated leather seats. It’s not the coolest car I’ve ever driven, but it’s pretty reliable and gets me back and forth to work. It’s just not exactly what I need on the weekends. If you’re looking for affordable used trucks, then you may check out some used trucks in dallas here.
Enter the farm truck. Ours is a 1993 Chevrolet 3500 known by us as “The Dually.” It belongs to my father-in-law, and he is proud to drive it to do “farm-type” errands that involve more filth than usual.
The farm truck is essential to life in the country. Need some lumber? The farm truck can haul it. No trash pick up? No problem. There is plenty of room on the farm truck. Wearing muddy boots? Hop in the farm truck. The inside is trashed anyway. No one will care. When it comes to cool, there is nothing cooler than driving a farm truck…unless it had some cute pillows in the back.
It’s the end of a long work week, but my work day is not over.
At 5 o’clock I’m the most popular (and only) person working at The Goat Shed. The thirteen patrons belly up to the bar consisting of three feed troughs. It’s not peanuts and beer….it’s water and sweet feed….but these customers know what they want, and part of what they want is good customer service.
They have come to the right place. Let’s get this party started.
Do you remember being intrigued by ants as a kid? They were usually associated with summer, picnics, ant farms, and that red and white checkered tablecloth. For me…not anymore. The intrigue is gone.
I love Saturdays. I took advantage of my husband’s solo trip to the lumber yard to give my dusty horses a much needed bath. Completing the task and holding the lead rope of the last horse in one hand, I stepped over the to the water faucet to roll up the water hose with the other hand. Within seconds I felt something…like tall blades of grass at my ankles. Weird. I’m not even standing in tall grass. A quick glance at my shoes revealed the unexpected….hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny little red fire ants had swarmed onto my tennis shoes.
The Enemy
Fire ants. They have been in the U.S. since the 1930’s, coming to us via ships from Brazil. They build nests near water and have been known to take down small animals. This ain’t no picnic ant, people. These guys are tiny and if you see one, you may think it to be harmless. Don’t look away. Within seconds the rest of the army will join the attack. And the sting? That’s where the ant gets its name. You feel like you’re on fire. You’re safer holding a lighted match near a pile of dry wood drenched in gasoline than standing on a fire ant bed.
Jumping up and down didn’t shake them. I was still holding onto a horse, so I had to use my only free hand to wrangle the end of the water hose back into reach. I sprayed my feet which removed most of them. I swatted the tenacious ones crawling on up my legs and got the horse safely back to the pasture. Then I ran like I had never run before to the pool and jumped in up to my knees. I could not believe the pain.
Fire ants had tried to ruin my Saturday. Instead, they ruined my Sunday. I woke up with what looked like Poison Ivy on my hands and ankles. Oh yeah. It itched like Poison Ivy too.
***Sign on for more “Back at the Ranch” soon. Julie mentions she’s got quite a few entries on the back burner. Oops…I wrote “burner!” – Red Dirt Kelly
Showcasing Red Dirt culture ~ authored and managed by contributors with connections to the great state of Oklahoma.
