Come On Baby Light My Fire

After spending a few hours running errands and talking to friends on Thursday, the time to scuttle home came. I loaded up Ridge and pointed the Explorer, away from Elk City and toward our life on the open range in Cheyenne. The trip started out uneventful, as they do every Tuesday and Thursday. I decided to drove home the back way, through winding county roads, rather than the highway. I don't know why I do, I just like the scenery I suppose.
Not far outside of Elk City, a utility pickup was stopped in the middle of the road. The air on the sides of the truck was in that blurry wave that frequents the sides of charcoal grills and, I don't know, most other kinds of FUCKING FIRE. Just as I stopped, two guys bailed out and hustled to the back for a fire extinguisher. Clearly something in the back of their truck was ablaze. Before these two could get the extingusher going, a fiery bit of debris flew onto the dry, brittle grass of the nearby pasture. The two men dropped their fire extinguisher and ran quickly to the expanding flames, trying in vain to stomp it out. With Oklahoma in the middle of a
drought, these two thinking this would help is like thinking a b.b. gun can stop a freight train. Needless to say, it was fucking on.
I immediately got out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1 and, before the dispatcher could patch me through to the fire department, the fire had burned at least two or three acres. I mean, this bitch was up in smoke like a hay stack.
After the sea of flames had spread like rapid flood waters over the pasture, the two men gave up their defeated campaign of stomping it out. They walked quickly away from the blazing truck and the even hotter field. I pulled my car around, rolled down the window and told them I had already called the fire department.
And that's when I realized that this was one of my old friend's big brother. I've known this guy most of my life and, bless his heart, his life has always been some bizarre mix of a reality television show and one of those skit comedy shows. In other words, you just never know what the hell is gonna happen in any day in the life of Bobby.
After I told him I made the emergency call, he thanked me. Because Ridge was in the backseat, overrunning with the pure excitement only a near disaster can bring an adventurous 4 year old boy, I felt like staying at a wildfire would just be, I don't know, bad parenting. Bobby agreed that I probably should get out of Dodge since the welding equipment that had started the fire in his truck were still in it. I asked Bobby if he and his co-worker wanted me to take them somewhere, perhaps a place not going up in smoke. But, he was shackled to the responsibility of staying out there with his work truck until the fire department arrived. I tried for a moment to persuade him, but he was staying the course.
So, as I turned around, I hoped the fire department would get this under control faster than some other wildfires that have raged in Oklahoma under these dry, dusty conditions. But apart from my concern, I couldn't help giggle at the thought of Bobby, with all his many mishaps, had in part started a wildfire right in front of my disbelieving eyes.

Just A Talk Among Friends

Dear One Hour Photo Place,
Hi, How are you today? Me? Well, I'm not well, not well at all. You see, I don't feel like I'm the asshole for assuming that you'd have my photos finished within an hour. That is, after all, directly in the name of your business. It's how you advertise. The three words "One Hour Photo" are displayed all freakin' over your store. Now, because the last four times I've developed with you it has taken at least three hours for you to get my stuff done, I knew when I started uploading my photos that it'd take awhile. I was fine with this. I still had to pack up my scrapbooking supplies and drive the 30 minutes on over to Elk City and then unload my boxes. Sure, the other ladies would have a jump start on me, but I would at least get to hear the sailor talk from a bunch of 30 something mommas. Really, no one does pervy quite like my friends.
Since it was 7 pm when I sent the photos to you, I figured I would run up to your store right before you closed at 10 to pick up my stuff. I mean, that's triple the one hour promise. So, you can imagine my complete and utter fucking shock when you told me that they would not be finished until 1 pm today. Seriously, you open at 8. I realize that I did send almost 200 photos. That's a lot, I get it. But, assuming that you are part of a nation wide chain and that the big dicks in your corporate office are pretty obsessed with the now-elusive profit, I would think you probably have to be equipped to print that much relatively quickly. I mean, "One Hour Photo" is all over your store, surely you would be prepared to handle more than one customer in that hour.
Naturally, I would like to ask you if this is some sort of joke. I don't fucking want to be on Punk'd, Ashton. But, since I know in my heart that you are rather serious, I need you to explain to me how the hell it takes you 8 hours to develop 158 pictures. I sincerely think you should change the name of your service to "One Day Photo." Sure, we crazy old ladies in the scrapbooking posse would all be less inclined to use your business, but I also wouldn't be a big bag of swinging hormones wrapped into a ball of pissed off when I did.
So, even though I wanted to spend my time scrapbooking my family's more recent activities, I guess I will just do some random photos from the early part of last year. Having Christmas done by January would have been awesome, it would have. And, if I would have sent my photos to the OTHER "One Hour Photo" place like Miss Smarty Pants Mollie so wisely did, I'm sure I would have got it done. But, I didn't. Quite ignorantly, I held out faith this, this would the time you got it done in a responsible amount of time.
Suck it, assholes.
Love,
Shonda

Dear One Hour Photo Place (again),
Okay, so maybe I'm the asshole. I don't know why I thought I ordered like 158 photos. Somehow I got that first 1 confused with a 7. My bad. Remember that cluttered mess that was your college professor's desk? Yeah, that's my head.
I'm sure you are a little pissed about all that dry sarcasm in the last letter. Man, I was kind of a dick. You see, I haven't been able to scrapbook the last two times the ladies got together because I was photographing weddings. I still have freakin' t-ball to do from this summer. So, I'm gonna blame my nasty behavior on my motherhood insanity. My boys' books are getting kind of behind and I just can't let them grow up without all the shenanigans being well documented, you know, in case I need to use the whole, "Look at what you boys put me through" to keep my old ass out of a third world nursing home because I don't want to forget a moment.
The young girl who was working last night was not nearly as helpful as you, hard working manager. I'm really sorry that I said I was going to the other place. You know I could never leave you. You guys really do take good care of me and I hope you except my sincere apology. I can't believe you are going to have almost 800 photos done by 11 am. WOW!
So, please, don't suck it. I'll suck it. I'm totally the asshole.
Love,
Shonda

Old Friends Are Gold

I first came to know Jimmie Jackson when I was at the end of my high school career. I know I am using "career" a little foot loose and fancy free, as the bulk of my time was spent acing six-packs as opposed to sixth hour. But, that's neither here or nor there now, although my crafty beer drinking skills definitely served as a firm foundation for my friendship with Jimmie.
He went to work for my mother and her business partner Sherisse at their former hair saloon, The Creme of the Crop. Stop laughing, it was the 90s. Jimmie was unlike anyone I had ever met before. He was a large man, both in his size and in his vibrant personality. He was silly in ways that I still struggle to explain. His smile was that of a child, devious and ornery and, in so many ways, quite innocent. He was tender, he let his heart by seen by anyone who cared to see it and I loved him for that. And, he was gay, which put a human face on homosexuality for me. Although a few of my childhood friends have since come out of the closet, Jimmie was the first gay person to openly share his struggles and his triumphs with me.
Now, to understand Jimmie you need to know that he was a queen with a flair for drama that ran deep in his . spirit. And that, by the way, is just how he talked me into allowing him to color my hair a week before prom. The outcome was suppose to be deep red highlights. It was not. Instead, my hair was streaked with thick bands of a dark shade of purple that was almost magenta. Naturally, I cussed for a few moments while Jimmie poured me drinks, but it eventually faded and even grew on me a bit. That's the story of how I went to prom my senior year with purple hair. Mind you, this was before the funky-colored hair craze kicked off, so I now inadvertently look kinda like a fashion trailblazer, a farce I am willing to continue.
In keeping with Jimmie's love for the dramatic, he aspired to someday star as a Cher impersonator at a drag show. He loved Cher almost as much as he loved his mother, which was a lot. Seeking out research for his future show, sometime during that same time period, Jimmie and Sherisse talked my square peg mother not only into driving to the city to rock out at a gay bar, but even managed to talk her into letting me come along as well. Jimmie found an ID for me to use, so off we went. For about the first minute in the gay bar, I suffered a bit of culture shock. But then Jimmie introduced me to the owners and a few of his drag queen friends and I was in total heaven. These girls showed me their fabulous collection of evening gowns and metallic lipstick while I slammed keg beer in their dressing rooms. For an 18-year-old girl from Western Oklahoma, this was an epic adventure. We danced late into the night, hopping from gay bar to gay bar. Even as I type this now, a decade later, ABBA plays in my head as I recall shaking my booty with a multi-colored feather boa streaming behind me.
Although Jimmie was a solid 15 years older than I was, we became fast and furious girlfriends. We would stay up late into the twilight, sobbing over my latest teenage crisis while Jimmie consoled me and guided me toward much-needed giggles. He was full of love, ready on demand to dispense affection to those in need. I always marveled at how he freely put himself out there for new friendships, even though he had been burned in the past. He was a sweet spirit and, in so many ways, an innocent soul.
Then I grew up and our adventures took Jimmie and I in separate directions. After a few years, I had almost lost track of my friend. But then, through their miracles of myspace, he found me. Right off the bat, he told me of the death of his mother. Through our emails, his pain in that loss was profoundly seen. As I said before, Jimmie was incapable of loving only a little and his relationship with his parents was paramount in that. After a few emails, he just asked for my number. I sent it to him and within minutes my phone rang. We talked and reminisced for hours. I told him of the love of my life, Rowdy, and our two children and he told me of his, Ken. Jimmie laughed out loud at the prospect of me living on a ranch, running around in the mud chasing cattle. I laughed with him, knowing that image is that of fine comedy.
Our communication continued for months and I had planned to photograph his wedding to Ken. But then, out of the blue, it just stopped. I emailed him a few times, but got no response. After awhile, I was lost once again in my daily existence and forgot to keep trying. Little did I know, my friend had gotten ill.
So, you can imagine my surprise and my guilt when my mother called me on October 8 to tell me Jimmie had died. Truthfully, I still don't fully know what killed him. I just know that he had been sick for most of this year. I also know that he was one of the finest people I've ever had the good fortune to call my friend. I am comforted in knowing that in the last few years he found the love of his life. He was true to himself in ways few people have the courage to be. He was full of love and full of life and he ushered in acceptance for all people. Above all, he was a friend.
Jimmie's memorial is in Enid tomorrow. Sadly, I won't be able to attend. I've been meaning to write this ever since I learned of his tragic passing, but each time I sat down to it, the pain choked my words. It's hard even still.
Jimmie,
We loved you for all that you are. I hope we meet again somehow in the great scheme of things. You were the best example I know of honesty in the face of great scrutiny. May peace find you, old friend.
I love you,
Shonda

Our Country Boy Convert

Here we are on day 4 of the Webling invasion on the ranch. In case you don't know what I mean, my friend Mollie's boy has been bunked up with us while she and her man have been partying down in Vegas.
As my husband would phrase it, Carson is a town boy. Now, for my non-Okie readers, I'm sure you are giggling at the notion of a young man who lives in a community of 10,000 that goes by the name of Elk City being a "town" boy. But, to Rowdy, any area that is inhabited by more than, I don't know, 500 people spread out over 20 square miles might as well be South Central Los Angeles.
Just a few hours away from home, Carson the "town" boy, he's already picked up some of my "country" boys' ways. On morning one and morning two, he found his way to the bathroom to tinkle in the potty. But, by yesterday, he was outside with my boys, masking in the freedom of whizzing off the porch.
Rowdy, as you know, is totally down with the exploitation of child labor. The day he found out I was pregnant with Ridge Rowdy daydreamed about the day he could bark, "Jump down in that grainery, boy, and clean that shit out," or "Run down there and grab that gate and let's sort of those sick calves." I could go on forever. And, as Rowdy continues to inquire about just when I will be caving in and bearing one more future employee, I know his motivation. Dude, we are getting old and we need some teenagers about the time we are 50.
Anyways, after the boys finished their lunches, we went outside to to play and sweep underneath the carport. When Ridge got his new boots for school, we started calling his beloved old pair that he's worn every single day for a year his "work" boots. He just couldn't take the pain of totally retiring them, plus it keeps the new ones looking shiny a little longer.
So, as we went outside, Carson shucked his checkered shoes and pulled upon a spare set of ours while declaring, "These are MY work boots!?
Yup, he's becoming a country convert. Rowdy is basking in his victory. He has one more night with us, so perhaps I'll send him back in a pearl snap with a lunch pale full of calf fries.

Breakfast Chubbie at the Quick Lube

One of the best things about living in the rural part of the country is the businesses, not just because the merchants lather you down with friendly service, but also because necessity often breeds multi-faceted stores. For example, in my little town, you can buy a hand-crafted blue suede couch at the same place you can tag your car and renew your license.
Just down the street from my auntie's restaurant is another of my favorites. On one end of a new tin building, you can have your oil changed and tires rotated. On the other end, you can sip on some top shelf chai tea.
As you, my brilliant readers, are well aware, I have the sense of humor of a 14-year-old boy. If I can construe any sentence into carrying a sexual undertone, I will giggle to myself at the sheer genius of my witty word play. Everyone else normally just scrunches their eye brows at me while they yammer on about how I'm almost 30 and, even worse, responsible for turning my darling sons into upstanding young men.
Anyways, as I left the restaurant this afternoon, I noticed that the local quick lube (which in itself is grand, right) was advertising its newest product on the outdoor marque. In big black letters, it said, "Now serving Breakfast Chubbies."
Seriously, I laughed until I shot sweet tea out my nose as I thought, "Breakfast Chubbie, huh? That's exactly what Rowdy served me every morning until the first kid was born. Hell, I think that's how we got the first kid."
Speaking of getting screwed, crude oil had its biggest jump in history on the October futures board as investors searched for a way to hedge against the falling dollar. I mean, clearly when the government just starts printing freakin' money to bail out banks and insurance companies is going to make the value of the American dollar plummet. In other words, that buck in your pocket is worth much less today than it was a week ago now that you and I, the American tax payer, have so kindly picked up the tab for these huge corporations practicing poor business. Oh, and filling up your car is going to be more expensive. So, bigger price tag with less valuable currency.
But, even with the economy melting into a Freddie Kruger-like nightmare, I still love that I can get a breakfast chubbie at the quick lube. Ahhh.....Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind....Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine

Grocery Store Prices, Just Makin' It Up As We Go

In order to fully appreciate this little conversation I am posting below, you need to know that I was at my local grocery store and literally standing in between the clerk and the assistant manager as they shared this exchange.

CLERK: She got some of that iced coffee, but it's not scanning. Do you know how much it is?

ASSISTANT MANAGER: Ummm....no I don't.

(brief pause, then clerk just pounds in a few numbers,)

ASSISTANT MANANGER: Just charge her 99 cents.

CLERK: I just charged her $1.99.

ASSISTANT MANAGER: Great, that'll work.

Then I'm just standing there, mouth gapping open in shock, looking at the clerk then back at the assistant manager. As soon as the assistant manager, the clerk had the same look and whispered to me that she would just charge me the 99 cents.
In spite of that, I was still shocked. And not because I mind paying the extra buck. It is, after all, just a buck. But, shocked because the assistant manager is just ballparking prices and willing to accept charing a customer, I don't know, DOUBLE. So, readers, tell me what you think about this.

The Spirit of the American Farmer

The alarm clock buzzed at 5 am. As though I was still dreaming, I sprung from bed, turning the damn thing off. Crawling back into bed, I remembered that Rowdy told me he had to be up that early.
"Baby, if you are still wanting to get out of bed at 5, then it's time to wake up," I said, softly shaking his shoulders.
I stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of water. When I returned, he was still half-asleep. I didn't want to go back to bed myself until I knew he was awake. After all, I turned off his alarm without thinking. Rowdy's unfettered will to work even in the most undesirable circumstances has always amazed me, so I knew he would be up in just a second.
Since I hitched my wagon to his star five years ago, my knowledge of agriculture families has taken on a new definition. Most of what I thought to be true before has gone to the wayside, things I didn't even know was done has turned out to be the foundation of farming and ranching.
With our operation, Rowdy has to be a jack of all trades. Before he goes out each morning and when he comes in late at night, he scours the internet for market data. And not just the Chicago Merchantile Exchange either, all of them. He scouts weather patterns and veterinary trends. He mechanics on everything from bulldozers and large tractors to pick-up trucks and plows. His days are long, longer than anyone else I know and I've never heard him even mutter a small complaint.
The rain fell early this year, so he's started sowing wheat. Although no time of our year is technically slow, this is hands down the busiest. The success of the crop is so dependent on Mother Nature, circumstances completely beyond our control. It must be done when it can be done.
I don't know anyone else who saves their vacation time to farm, but Rowdy's little brother Chad (please click on Chad's name for the GREATEST story ever) comes out every year to drive tractors and labor in the unforgiving Oklahoma sun. He lives in Edmond, a suburb of Oklahoma City, with his wife and children. Although he isn't technically involved in agribusiness, he is still married to our farming and ranching success. I'm sure many others are committed to their family's businesses as well, but I think his is particularly true of farm and ranch families. It's not just the notion of livlihood, although that's an issue at hand, but also being a part of the whole, belonging to something larger than yourself. Chad knows the prosperity of our year, or lack thereof, is tied to this expensive slither. Plus, he and Rowdy are closer than perhaps any other two siblings on the globe. I mean, they are like Fidel and Raul Castro, dominating a country, close. Although we do pay Chad for his hard work during this time, there are some things money cannot compensate for. He and his wife could use this vacation time to be off on some lover's retreat together. Hell, he could spend it swaying in the hammock in his backyard. Instead he's caked in sweat and dirt, tending to cattle and plows for us. In fact, Chad's childhood on the farm continues to play such a large role in who he is today, he wrote a song about it.
So, when Rowdy and I were in John Deere, the same dealership my grandfather ran the parts department and worked on many a tractor for nearly 40 years until his death four years ago, I spotted this bumper sticker on one of the office windows. It spoke to me, not in a tripping on acid way, but in a waxing nostalgic way.
Of course, our greatest motivation in this line of work is to provide for our family. But, even though we produces only a small little dent in the country's food chain, it is there, on the kitchen table's of strangers. We know that China already produces 1 out of every 2 vegetables grown each year. We might not be able to match that ever again, but we can at least do our little part.


PS--For all your readers who visit my page for my foul-mouthed antics and mishaps, I will be posting one you'll love later on this evening. I promise to dry up my recent sappy behavior.

This just in, George Bush touched my heart today.

Now before anyone of you pass out or suspect that I've been smoking heroin, rest assured I have not. If you know me at all, you probably know that I've been a pretty big critic of President Bush's. But today, as he gave a press conference in Iowa, he gave notice to those in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, due to their recent floods, but then assured that all the smaller communities will likewise be attended to by their government. That region of the country, by the way, is one of the most critical. I know many of you might not see it like that, but instead see it as a fly-over state like my beloved Oklahoma. But, Iowa raises a huge portion of our domestic crops and therefore is essential to our country's independence.
Now, don't get me wrong, I will hope that the president keeps his word. There was one other time I was all moved by him. I'm sure you know the one I'm talking about, him standing on top of World Trade Center rubble with his arm around New York City's fire chief as he declared his promise through a bullhorn to make those who knocked down those buildings feel our wrath. Well, Osama is still at large and just the other day Georgie made that comment that he just wasn't that concerned about bin Laden at this moment.
But, that aside, it really did warm my heart this afternoon when I heard the president make that pledge. I've been a small town girl my whole life and likely will always be. Like most small town folk, I often feel that our vast contributions to the nation are overlooked due to our smaller population.
So don't faint or call my physician. I'm fine. For those hard-working people of ALL of Iowa, let's keep the government to their word. If these family farms fail, corporate farms will swoop in and take their place. And, trust me, that's not good for anyone. Just ask anyone who recently suffered from food poisoning at the otherwise harmless hand of the tasty tomato.
Kudos to you, Mr. Bush.