Mini-motorist

So just a quick post of random things I remember about learning to drive Juniper style…

My very first memory of “driving” is sitting on my dad’s lap steering the tractor, I might have been 3 or 4… Dad?

Secondly I remember being in kindergarten and “driving” Old Blue while Dad loaded the back… that must have been the longest it ever took to load a truck… Dad would jump down and give it some gas (I couldn't reach the pedals) then he would hop on back as I steered down the center of two rows, and then he would hop off and give it some gas… and on it went.  Looking back, we must have been picking up a few leftover bales or something, it seems ridiculous to try and do a legit load in this manner.

Finally, in 4^th grade, when it was time to learn to drive for real, Dad taught me to drive in the Chevy Luv (what a great ride) we would drive in the field and around the farm.  Haha… I remember once heading to the barn from the house, apparently I gave it a little more gas than Dad thought necessary (yup, started right at the beginning!) so he yanked the E-brake part-way down the hill and saved the day. 

Later that summer, we were in the field near Henrie’s and Dad found himself without a needed tool.  So I got sent on my first solo trip.  I don’t know that Mom was nearly as impressed as I was.  So that was it… I was a driver.  And like every 4^th grader, I was now ready to show off my new skills to passengers.  So, Kristen in tow, we set off on an adventure…

However.

I got confused regarding the gearing… I was thinking I needed to be in 4^th gear to go up the hill.

Oops.

So again, down by Henrie’s, I only made it part way up the hill before it died… frightening.  But with my superb skills we backed straight down the road.

No we didn't. 

We ended up in the sagebrush.  We were upright though, with no noticeable damage to the Luv.  Of course we had an audience… TJ, Tyler, I’m sure some of the Campbell boys, and I don’t know who else came by just in time to add to my embarrassment.  Don’t you worry though, I got the gearing all figured out and I was a pro by the time it came time for Drivers Ed the summer between 8^th and 9^th grade.

Side note: that summer I was also in 4-H… sewing was not my favorite thing.  I just wanted to be done, Dad came in as mom was trying to convince me to take my time and do a good job on my shorts (what???).  He told me that if I drove the sewing machine like that he would think that that’s how I drove his pick-up and he would have to take away my driving privileges.  Boo. :(

Mike and I took private lessons in Burley so we could get the lessons over quick and would be available to help on the farm (I think that’s why they put us in private lessons).  Anyway… the difference between the two of us and the “city folk” was striking to say the least.  I remember Mike and I looking at each other like “Is this guy for real?”  When we pulled into the gas station and the teacher wanted to know if we knew how to gas up the car.  We also heard horror stories about the other students.  Like when two separate students ran off the road into the same person’s front lawn… oopsie! 

One more driving story comes to mind, the city cousins came to visit, one who was a little older than me (I was 15) had never driven.  I thought “I’ll let you drive!”  Bad idea… I thought we were going over the hill by Crippen’s.

I didn't let her drive home.

Dad wasn't happy that I let her drive at all.

What are your best “learning to drive in Juniper stories?”  Or for you parents your best “watching kids learn to drive in Juniper stories?”

Forts

I love, Love, LOVE this one from Crystal.  Forts were a big part of growing up Juniper style.  Where else would kids be allowed to exercise such creativity?

From Crystal:

I think we should give mention to the many clubs and clubhouses/forts that accounted for so many of our days.  I particularly remember being a small child and being excluded from the “big” kid’s club house.  Where if I remember right Jami was queen and Aaron was king ….dang they were cool. 

But I do believe that when we became the “big” kids (Doug, Brad, Laura, Jerica, Myself and occasionally the younger boys Jason, Forest and Levi) is when the real fort building took place.  The “old house” or old church farm grain bin was really a carpentry experience training facility.  We were not shy about stealing old slabs of wood and less old buckets of nails and hammers to turn our “old house” into a three story mansion.  

Of course accomplishing this feat did not come without some painful learning experiences.  For example: If you slip while standing on the bar which stretches across the rooms (the only way to reach the third floor area with your hammer) you should make sure to gracefully fall in front of or behind said bar and not take it up the center.  

When building a swing use enough twine.  

When building a floor use enough support boards and nails.

The best feature of our fort was the trampoline swing.  We found the frame of an old one man jumper; you know the kind the little trampolines that are about two feet wide and 8 in off the ground.  The frame had only two legs remaining.  Simply by hanging the legs on the bar that ran through the center of the house we had the best swing man has ever built (we just had to remember not to swing to high or the entire thing would jump of the bars….which happened many a time).  

Second best feature was probably the toilet in the corner …don’t know what that was ….Doug?

Does anyone have a picture of the “old house?”  Remember the lean on that thing?  …haha, and yet we had no qualms about standing on the roof.

The “old house” was not our only fort, just the most popular.  We also had “the valley,” and old pig pen …the one where we lost the hammers and made Dad and Ross not too happy, we had forts in the mountains and forts in the straw stacks (remember picking buckets of carrots, who knew that 10 gallons of carrots was not a feasible lunch for 5 kids).   

P.S.  If any of you do have a pic of said house send it my way and we will get it attached to this post.  jami_c_hurst@hotmail.com

Fireworks

From Jerica:

Laura and I were reminiscing on the good 'ol days in Juniper when we remembered the story of Brock and the firework.  I'm not sure what it was but I think it was one of those bloom flower ones. Anyway, we were standing at the end of the sidewalk where the two bushes were, lighting these fireworks when one burned a hole in Brad's shorts and went up my shirt and making its own exit. It was my favorite Scooby-Doo t-shirt too. My mom just found out about that story last night and the look on her face let us know she wasn't too thrilled about it happening, but just laughed it off anyway.

Thanks Jerica.  I remember lighting one of Kristen's night shirts on fire with one of those party poppers.  And, if I know Brock and the rest of the Juniper boys, there are plenty more "fireworks" stories to be shared. ;)

Forget the Glass Slippers... This Princess Wears Irrigating Boots!

One summer afternoon (the summer where I ripped the seat out of every pair of pants I owned), we had finished hauling hay fairly early in the day, there was a leak in the main line down at the flat that needed repaired.  For any of you who have not had the privilege of a seek-and-find the leak in the line mission, you have a generalized mud hole and somewhere beneath all this mud is one (hopefully) hole that has to be identified and repaired.  This clearly involves a lot of digging, and a lot of mud.  Dad and I dug down around a riser to what we hoped was the problem area, my left leg was down in our hole and my right leg was up out of the hole.  Did I mention the part about a lot of mud?  Yeah, so my right leg was gradually sinking into the mud as we worked in the hole.  We finished up in that spot (I honestly don’t know if we had found the source of the leak at this point) and as I went to walk away, I discovered my right leg was firmly planted in that thick mud.  As hard as I pulled, the only thing moving was my femur out of the hip joint.  I started to take my foot out of the boot thinking this would be my only escape.  Dad saw my solution and was like “No!  The mud will cave in around the boot and you won’t be able to get your foot back in or the boot out of the ground.”  After several more tries it was apparent that leaving the boot behind was the only option, besides, it already had a hole in it.  We finished our job and I walked back to the pick-up with one boot and waited for the courier to bring me a new pair of boots and pants (yup, ripped those ones out too… while hauling hay earlier in the day) and didn’t think much more about the lost boot.

Fast-forward a few years, I am now married, it is Christmas Eve and we have just finished singing carols around the tree and Dad tells us he wants to give us all a gift. 

Wait… WHAT?!?! 

We begged EVERY SINGLE Christmas Eve for the last 20 years to open a present on Christmas Eve and the answer was always “No.”  Who is this guy?  

It was a different kind of gift.

The one you never wear out.

The one you never outgrow.

The one that never goes out of style.

The one you never forget.

He went around the room and told each individual how much he loved us, and why he was proud of us.  When it was my turn, he mentioned how he appreciated my hard work and how much he had enjoyed and now missed working with me on the farm.  And how every time he walked by my boot sticking out of the ground as he worked, he got a little tear in his eye.

I had a lot more than a little tear in my eye at this point.

Fast forward a few more years.  The farm had decided to abandon one form of child abuse and upgrade from hand-lines to pivots.  As they dug out the risers one by one, they came to “our riser”, yup, the one with six inches of rubber boot sticking out of the ground next to it.  Dad told the guys he wanted that riser, they told him there was one already dug out he could have.  “Nope,” he needed “that riser.” 

Not sure how much later, a few weeks or a month-or-so later, I went to Juniper for a visit.  As I walked up the sidewalk, there in the flower bed was a riser, and my boot, buried, six inches showing above the ground.

I smiled.  I'm still my Dad's Princess.

“Did you see it?”  Mom asked as I got to the front door?

Apparently now that I had seen it, she believed that she would be able to take this “lawn ornament” out. 

Nope, this, like the memory of the day it was lost, was to be a permanent fixture.

I love you Dad!  Thank you does not begin to cover my debt to you.  You are my hero in every sense of the word.  Happy Father’s Day to you and all the other Juniper dads that taught me to work, that allowed me to make mistakes and taught me how to fix them.

Mom figured out how to make it work!

Side note about hand lines:

A few weeks ago I was taking care of a kid in the ED who told us he wanted to be a farmer when he grew up “Best job there is” he said.  The patient, his dad, the doctor and myself talked a little about farm life and the doc asked how they watered, “wheel lines or pivots”… wait… what about hand lines?  So they said how pivots were the only way to go and the doctor (who was apparently paid in milk shakes for his farm work as a child) asked “Do you know what you call hand lines?”  Everyone just looked at him waiting for the answer… “Motivation for higher education!”  Haha.  Looking back I always think of moving hand lines as a good memory, admittedly though, there was often a great deal of repentance required on my part before I could go to sleep those nights!

Little Things with a Great Impact

                                                   

Jami and Dad

From Juel:

Sorry if this one is preachy, but it needs recorded somewhere, so I guess this is a good a place as any. 

Kammy was sick and needed some medicine from Tremonton one morning.  So, before daylight Jami and I headed out in the van.  We made it as far as the rest area and the van started giving us troubles.  Let’s see, Jami was only _?_ years old at the time.  We did manage to get the van to the other side of the freeway (headed home side) before it died completely.  Upon discussing our options (If I remember right it was cold outside), we decided this would be a good time to pray, we needed help!  Well, we prayed.  I knew the next car by would stop.  Not faith.  Knowledge.  Just knew it.  I think I told Jami, but not 100% for certain that the next car by would stop. Anyway, we prayed and as we were praying a truck went whizzing by about 55 mph rocking the van, my heart just dropped.  As we ended our prayer and I looked up, there was a Cadillac backing up towards us. When it passed, I have no idea, but it was a female trucker on her day off, smoking a stogie, who was open to revelation from our Father in Heaven.  And she gave us the much needed lift back home.  The Lord truly does watch after his sparrows.

Jami’s Recollections:

I don’t remember it being cold, but I do remember it was overcast (not sure if it was rainy or cold or just stinking early!).  It was a Monday morning, and we were headed to Tremonton for some much needed de-lice-ing supplies… so yes, Kammy was sick, sick of kids passing lice back and forth, sick of combing through 3 wiggly little girls’ long hair with a tiny comb, sick of endless (more than usual) piles of laundry, sick of bagging up belongings… you get the idea. 

I remember the van breaking down (seems like that was not too unusual at this time).  But we needed help for sure!  I did not want to hoof it back home!  Dad did not tell me he knew the next car would stop until after the ordeal was over.  The gal was very nice and offered to take us all the way home, but weather was such that we just had her stop on the interstate and drop us off next to the dirt road that led to the barn, we hopped out, climbed the fence and walked back to the house… don’t remember what we did, but somehow we got the supplies we needed and eventually got rid of the crazy lice.  And I did learn much about the power of prayer through this experience and also how good people are.  There are good people of every race and religion and the Lord is able to work miracles through these good people.  And I must have been about 11 or 12 Dad.

A funny little side story (at least I think so) from Jami:

                      Kristen and Jami

Haha... I remember during this whole lice ordeal mom asking if she could cut my hair.  What was she crazy?!?  No she couldn't cut my hair.  So being the amazing mom she is, she patiently combed through my thick long hair with that insanely fine toothed comb day after day.  Several weeks later Kristen and I were rolling bales in what felt like 200 degree weather, during the day we decided we would need to cut our hair if we were to continue our Summer employment.  My mom was gone, so we called Diana to see if she would cut our hair for us.  She agreed and the hair that went to my mid-back was cut to just below the chin. When I got home my mom was so upset with me.  It's my hair!!!  I always thought she was upset that I cut off my beautiful long hair, it wasn't until years later we were discussing it that I realized she was upset because she spent all that time saving my hair from the lice and then I showed my thanks by chopping it off.  Oops!  Sorry mom!  

Sissies

From Utahna:

The earliest thing I remember (besides running from deadly roosters--do you guys remember those?!?) was when  Jami and I were in charge of feeding the pigs.  It was not uncommon for dad to come in after dark and ask if we had fed the pigs.  A few,  OK, lots of times we had to answer  "no".  So, we would have to go feed the pigs in the dark.  No, it couldn't wait 'til morning because that was our responsibility to feed them every day.  We got to eat today and the pigs needed food too.  So Jami and I would walk hand in hand shaking from fear of the dark (at least mine was) to feed the pigs.  That was a long walk too I assure you. But you better believe we didn't forget to feed our pigs again... for a while... you know at least a day or two :) No, I really am grateful for this simple lesson taught at a young age of being dependable.  The other lesson learned is sisters are always there for you!

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I only remember being sent out to feed the pigs after dark once, it was quite frightening.  It was dark and there was just enough of a breeze to make the extension piece wired to the auger make an eerie squeaking noise... you know the noise that interrupts the silence right before the bad guy jumps out in a horror flick?!?  I remember holding hands as well (let's not figure out how old we might have been).  And the shaking... a mix of fear and anger. I'm sure Dad took some undeserved verbal hits that night.  But I too am grateful for the lesson I was taught this night (and apparently on other occasions this is just the one that stuck in my mind) to be dependable and do the job you agreed to do.  And I am SOOOO grateful for Utahna.  Once we decided we didn't want to kill each other I had the best, most loyal friend for life a girl could ever ask for.  Love you sis!

And yes, yes, I remember running from deadly roosters!  It was the only way to get to Kristen and Catie's!

Oh Deer!

Like most of you, I have always been known for driving at “reasonable speeds”.  Dad and I had an agreement that a “reasonable speed” for Juniper Road was 45 mph.  One morning I was headed to school in the blue Pontiac Phoenix (not much of a looker, but man, that was a cozy ride).  Really, I was only doing about 45, I promise.  Just past Rushton’s, but not quite to Ben’s, a suicidal deer jumped out of the tall grass in the borrow pit… Thunk.

Nailed it.

So, I thought “well, I’m less than a mile from home, I should probably turn around and run home real quick and let Dad check out the car and make sure it will get me safely to school and back home again.  As I was driving back to the dairy, I was a little nervous about telling Dad about my misfortune, trying to figure out exactly how I would present my predicament and trying to figure out what Dad’s reaction might be (Why was I worried?  Have you met that guy?  Does not anger easily…) 

Thunk.

Are you serious?!? (Some other expletives may or may not have crossed my mind at this minute.)

For Real.  I totally hit another deer. 

Good grief.  Now I am really nervous about telling Dad.  My stomach was in knots as I walked into the barn parlor where Dad was completing the morning milking. 

Me in a shaky voice.  “Dad?”

Dad let the current batch of cows out, closed the gait, and turned to listen.

“I hit a deer.  But I was only going 45, I promise, you said 45 was a good speed for this road.”

Dad “Not when there are deer!”

I continued with my tale at what I’m sure was 100 miles a minute. “But then I turned around for you to look at the car and... I hit another deer.”

Dad shot me a look of disbelief and kind of laughed (what a relief).  “You hit two deer?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you didn't hit the same deer twice.”

“Yeah, I’m sure, there is no way that first deer could have jumped out of the grass that fast again.  I hurt her for sure.”

Dad got the next batch of cows going and followed me to my car.

Observing the deer feces (and fur) on the front of my car, “You scared the crap out of them!”

Haha… I love that guy!  We checked out the car, all looked well, but decided just to be safe I should drive the Suburban to school (maybe he was worried I would hit another one and needed a better defense?). 

It’s Juniper/Malta, I don’t know why I was surprised when everyone somehow knew about the deer before I got to school.  Everyone except Diana… haha it was like 6 months or a year later when she asked me about my deer episode. :)

And yes, dad went out and indeed found TWO dead (or nearly dead) deer part way up the hill.

Your Mother Doesn't Need to Know About This

So, I'm not really sure if this is my story to tell, but it is a story I'm quite sure Dad would not tell, so you are going to get my version...  If it is too controversial maybe it will be a two part post: Part I She Says, Part II He Says, type deal.  Anyway, on to my story.

Utahna and I were hanging out at the house one evening and Dad came in and grabbed us letting us know that he needed our help with something.  Like obedient daughters do, we followed Dad to the barn where he explained the predicament he was in and what we were to do to help reverse the situation.

See, Dad had pulled up to the barn in our classy white Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight, the one with the awesome red plush interior.  He was just going to run inside, so he put the car in park (or so he thought... who put neutral right next to park anyway?!?).  You are all familiar with the landscape of the dairy, from the barn you go down a slight incline and at the bottom you can go right toward Sanford's place, or left toward the Rushton's farm.
OR....

You can go straight.

Straight into the ravine.

Oops.

That's embarrassing!  

So when we got there, there was our beautiful car, nose first in the ravine.  We hooked our car to the tractor (can't remember which one) and I hiked down the ravine to steer the car as Dad pulled it out.  I remember wondering how safe the car was to be in, but I trusted Dad and we retrieved the car safely.  

Following the expedition, Dad says to us.  "Your mother doesn't need to know about this."

I guess he was serious too, cuz a few days later Tuna and I were laughing about it while we were working in the garden with mom and her response was one of shock "WHAT HAPPENED???"  I really thought he would have told her...

Sorry Dad... haha, but not that sorry, or I probably wouldn't have posted it here for all of Juniper to discover!

The Real Enemy

Have any of you read the Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites series by Chris Heimerdinger?  They were popular at our house for a while.  In the second book some Gadianton Robbers find the time warp and make it from Book of Mormon times to present day.  Of course this is fiction, who believes in time warps?

Except.

When you have to get up before the sun to feed the cows, this somehow seems like a very real possibility.  What if the Gadianton's were hiding between the stacks?  I had to check.  In hind sight, I'm really not sure what I would have done had I confronted one Gadianton.  Probably pee.

Thankfully, I never encountered such an enemy.  The real threat, however, does not walk around with a loin cloth and war paint armed with swords and cimeters.  It disguises itself as some sweet, loving, barnyard creature, innocently lapping up spilled milk from the barn floor, sweetly rubbing against ones leg begging for attention, purring with contentment.

Until...

You approach the stack in the dark.

Aaaahhhhh!!!  Bat cat strikes again!  Full on heart seizure ensues, finally, as your heart beat nears normal, you carefully peek around to make sure nobody saw, realize that somehow, amazingly, your pants are still dry, and finish feeding the cows.

The other very real enemy to cow feeders???

Who of us have not had to traverse upward between two stacks in pursuit of hay in a fashion similar to this:

Thanks for the demo young Jason.

Anyway, that moment when you have neared the top and a dang flock of birds decide to exit the stack and greet you?  Or fly into you.  (Have you seen that old bird movie?  Frightening.)  Start heart seizure process again only this chain of events may or may not include you falling to near death bouncing between the two stacks like a Plinko chip.

It's amazing any of us made it out alive.  Really.

Do you miss it?

About a year after I left home, I received a letter from Utahna and Crystal containing pictures of them in their pipe moving garb with sarcastic notes attached.  I put them in my scrapbook and wrote my response to my sisters:

Written Summer 2003:

Do I miss it?  A few years ago the answer may have even surprised me... YES!  I miss most everything about it.  I miss getting out in the open and working, I miss getting on the back of a hay truck and throwing bales around, I miss the thinking time I had while milking the cows, I even miss moving lines once in a while (I know my biceps do anyway).  I don't think there is any work that gives more satisfaction than farming... there is a definite sense of satisfaction in this career.

Yes, I miss farming, but not nearly as badly as I miss farming with my Dad.  I miss that every day contact with my hero.  I miss talking to my best friend each day as we worked in the barn or the field.

Dad taught me so much on the farm.  He taught me to work hard and take pride in working hard.  One day I was particularly upset as we were hauling hay, it seemed everyone else was on the back of the trailer just riding around as Dad and I picked up all the bales.  I expressed my frustration to Dad and he turned to me and said, "Jami, take pride in kicking someone else's butt!"  Of course as I approached dating age he changed his story, "Jami, if you want to date any of these boys, you're going to have to stop out working them!"

I learned many gospel principle's while working on the farm.  Who knew the barn could be such a spiritual place?

I am so proud to be a "farm girl."  I am surprised every day at what those two little words mean to people.  It means I come from a good family; it means I know the value of a dollar; it means I am not afraid of working hard; it means I know how to be part of a team.

I miss it... and I know the two of you will too!

Udder Chaos!

Straight from my journal... and everyone knows you can't lie in your journal.  Haha... wish I would have written more about my farm experiences and less about my romantic obsession of the week...

Added commentary is in parenthesis.

May 29, 2000-Memorial Day

Fed my cows at 6 am, then went to the flat and Dad and I moved 3 lines and set one line over the fence. We were waiting for Ross to come and pick up the line, but after waiting a few minutes, we got a little bored so we moved one of Alberto's lines (Ahh, yes, farm bored).  Boy!  That was fun!  NOT!  It was mud up to about my knee!  Ross finally got there and while we were picking up the line we got stuck, so Aaron had to walk about a mile to get another pick-up and a chain to pull us out.  In the mean time, the rest of us walked about 1/4 mile with hammers, pliers, and fence posts to build a gate.  Good times.  We made our gate and got the line all picked up, so I'm thinkin' "Yeah! I'm goin' home!"  So I sat on the tool box and took off my boots and socks.  (This is where things get interesting.)

Well... there had been a  cow get out through our gate.  So they (Dad and Ross) decided they should probably put it back in.  First they were chasing the cow on foot, running down the fence line yelling at the cow.  I thought it would go right in the gate (like every other cow we'd ever chased-sheesh... you think a girl would learn from experience).  Well, obviously the cow had another plan and she took off.  So, Ross got in the pick-up and continued the chase.

Well... Brad and I were sitting on top of the big tool box in the back.  Now, I don't know if Ross forgot that we were back there or if he really just didn't care (I tell myself the first and it helps me sleep better at night).  But off we went... swerving back and forth, slowing down and suddenly speeding up again, bouncing over sagebrush, uneven ground and what felt like small sink-holes.  There was more than one occasion when Brad and I wondered if we would make it home alive.  We were holding on for dear life.  Every time we turned we prayed that we would stay on the toolbox.  When we swerved left Brad had white knuckles and silver-dollar eyes.  One violent jerk of the steering wheel and we were suddenly turning right which meant Brad could relax a little and it was my turn in panic mode with the wide eyes and white knuckles.  Back and forth it went.  (These 5-10 minutes felt like hours... I think Brad will agree.)  Finally we hit a bump that knocked Brad off the toolbox and into the bed of the truck.  Normally, I would have helped him.  But, since my own life was in jeopardy, he was on his own.

Every time we slowed down a bit, poor Brad would try to make it back to the tool box, but just as he would get up we would speed up and he would jerk backwards or we would swerve and he would hit one of the sides of the pick-up.  Finally, he decided we were never going to slow down, so he decided to just go for it, naturally, just then, Ross slammed on the breaks and Brad once again hit the side of the pick-up.  But this time, he landed in a corner and decided that he would just stay there.

The corner looked pretty cozy... pretty safe.  Safer than the toolbox.  So, I let go and let myself fall into the back of the truck.  Unfortunately, I landed on a chainsaw and my bare foot hit a roll of barbed wire from previously mentioned fencing project.  So my little toe was all cut up.  But like I said, the corner represented safety, so when I got to one, I stayed there.

The crazy chase wasn't enough to scare the cow through the gate, but I guess she decided the fence would be OK.  So she went right through the middle of it.  (Cows!)  One more fence to fix before we could go home...

After the cow was safely on the inside, and fences mended, I asked Brad if he wanted back on the tool box.  He shook his head, a definate "NO!"  However, Aaron joined and made a third passenger, Brad decided the tool box would be okay if he was the middle passenger.  We decided we had just experienced something far better than a carnival ride (though neither one of us wanted a second ride... ever).

You can take the girl out of the country...

From Juel:

Wish I could write as Jami does, but guess you’re stuck with my style.  Right now my thoughts turn to each of those whom I have had the privilege of working with.  I truly did enjoy my time working with each of you and have many special memories that are near and dear to my heart.  There was a lot of hard manual labor done and with each of you the tasks became almost fun.

 I think we’ve all split our pants out and had to work through it.  Two I particularly remember, one was Jami, at the beginning of a hot hay hauling day and the second Crystal in the same situation.  I just remember that they both got lots of hay down their pants on those days, but neither shirked from their duties, embarrassed as they may have been.  When it had to be done they just did it.

Becky and Esther were two of the absolute best pipe movers.  They were kinda short and the barley kinda tall.  But that did not faze them one bit, even when they had to carry the pipe over their heads.  

Sara & Beth, many memories of them feeding in adverse weather; but with their great attitudes, they took a lot of crap in fun and never failed to give it right back with interest.

All of Ross's girls took their turn feeding calves, and I think they all drove truck for us at one time or another.

If any of you men or children want to know what made your wife or mother the wonderful strong devoted person they are.  The answer in large part is growing up in Juniper.  They always had it in them; they just got to exercise it.  And find out exactly what they were made of in a little patch of hallowed paradise we like to call Juniper.

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FYI, for anybody who has not had the privilege of splitting out their pants, it is not the hay going down your pants that is the problem... just sayin.  

P.S. I swear I split my pants out every day for a week that summer... good times.

Confessions of a Farm Girl

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: For protection of the innocent (cough... oh, excuse me) it is IMPERATIVE that Uncle Ross not be allowed to read the following.  Thank you in advance for your cooperation!

Signed,
The Management


From Jami:

So, being a "girl" in the farm-world is no small thing.  First off, no one thinks I belong (ask Grandpa Hurst) and secondly, no one expects me to be able to keep up and pull my own.  So I am already at a disadvantage and have to prove myself an asset.  I had to put forth 150% effort to be able to hang with the guys.  Up until now, I have been reluctant to concede that I may have gotten a little a tiny bit a smidgen of an iota of special treatment.

Aaron and Jim, you are gonna want to make sure you are sitting for this.

One hot summer day (I believe I was 14 going on 15) Jim, Aaron and I were loading the truck (I wanna say Old Blue, but why were there 3 of us loading Old Blue?).  I may have taken a few bales from the boys (WHAT???  Ross and Dad did it to me!!!)  Fed up, Jim and Aaron united in letting me know "Fine!  If you think you can load the truck by yourself, do it."  They both sat down and folded their arms.  

I'm sure they expected me to get backed up and beg for their help... Ha!  They don't know the determination of a farm girl.  I was loading that truck just fine by myself.  

However...

Not too long after they sat down, Ross happened to drive by to check our progress and found two strapping 16-year-old young men sitting idly with their arms folded while one ultra determined 14-year old girl carried out the work of two grown men.

He wasn't happy.

Like at all...

What was I supposed to say?  I apologized to them after Ross left...

Yeah I didn't.  

I giggled and smirked as the three of us finished loading the truck.  I probably didn't take their bales though...for the rest of that load...who can really remember though?

Juniper Transit Authority

From Juel:

HAY, anybody know how many people you can put in the front of Old Blue?

From Crystal:

Rides back home to the farm were often uncomfortable.  Getting there, there was plenty of room for all to ride in the cab or on the bed, but once the trucks were full we all had to fit somewhere.  At the end of one crop of hay we sent home a truck that was not quite full and Doug and I, just kids, were thrilled when Dad said that we could ride on the top.  Before taking off Dad reminded us again that before we crossed under the highway we needed to get in the hole.  I remember thinking, ‘well, we’re not stupid.’ 

Douglas and I sat at the front of the truck enjoying the breeze and talking and laughing.  We were completely distracted.  All the sudden Doug yelled something and laid on his back.  I looked forward to see a cement wall coming fast toward my face, mere feet away.  I laid back just in time and watched as the cement roof of the underpass sped past a few inches above the end of my nose.  We were just kids, I remember giggling with Douglas as we rode underneath and again as we recounted the story to my father, who must have been sick to the stomach.

I recently reminded my father of this story and mentioned that my memories were probably distorted and that the underpass was probably not as close to my face as I remember it being.  He told me that the reason we stack our trucks as high as we do is because we cannot fit one more row of bales on.  I don’t think that wall could have been more than 6 inches above us. 

(Editor's note: And they think farming is unsafe for children... pssshh) :)

From Jami:

While old blue is a fine choice in transportation.  The 10-wheeler offers more comfortable, more luxurious, more passenger area.  As a kid I loved to ride on the overshot with my little fingers curled around the front of the worn planks.  Clearly, there is more space when not loaded with 7 (right?) layers of hay, however I can assure you, this fine piece of antique farm machinery could haul just as many bodies from the field as it did to the field.  Seating configurations were creative to say the least.  

I recall one day in particular we were riding back from the flat, there must have been 10-12 passengers in this 3 passenger vehicle.  Dad drove, I was in the middle, and I believe Doug and Brad were in the cab with us.  I'm not exactly sure who all was with us that day (Joe, Sam, Aaron, Steve, Jim, John, seems like maybe Tim that day...anyway), but it seems like we had a passenger on each running board (possibly two), and 4-5 boys on the hood of the truck   What's more impressive is that Dad handled all 3 pedals himself-which was not always the case in a crowded truck...lol.  I think I was in charge of the stick shift... teamwork folks, teamwork.  

Leave a comment for all to enjoy... what are your most memorable "transportation" moments???

Also, if anyone has a pic of old blue, send 'er my way... I'd love to have a visual!

The Day Bertha Blew

This is one of my favorite memories of the farm... and one of the greatest stories.  I used this story for an English class a few semesters ago for a "narrative" assignment.  Good memories!  

The Day Bertha Blew

Fall 2000:  Uncle Eldon (a border patrol agent in Bonners Ferry, Idaho) is at a government convention in New Mexico where he runs into a Forest Ranger from Idaho Falls.  After talking for a little while, the Forest Ranger says, “Well, here’s a funny story for you.”  He proceeds with a tale about how “some dairy farmers from Juniper, Idaho” sent their kids to take care of a dead cow and “just dumped it” on BLM land.  Juniper has a population of less than 60 people and only one dairy farm.  Eldon replied, “Hey, I think I know those guys.”  When Eldon called to verify the tale, Dad said “We’ll have to get Jami to tell you the real story.”  

It was one of the best summers of my life.  I was fifteen years old and my dad’s “right-hand-man” on the farm.  One of the fringe benefits to my job was being the only girl working with the summer help--eight or so teenage boys, including Jim and Brock. Jim a short, muscular guy with a wide smile and charming sense of humor was quick to tease at any chance given him.  Brock was the popular guy at school.  He was smart, played sports, and never lacked in female admirers.  He was the proverbial tall, dark, and handsome… and totally ripped!  On a scale of one to ten, he was a fifteen.

The summer had seen the routine chores of milking cows and caring for livestock, as well as two big cement projects and hauling hay.  Summer was starting to wind down; we had just finished putting up third crop hay and wondered what jobs were in store for us this hot August afternoon.  The warm wind blew scattered clouds across the blue sky and the unmistakable stench of the dead cow located on the other side of the barn.  Lest you think the hot August weather preserves a dead dairy cow for a week, I assure you, it does not.  Bertha was inflating at the rate of a helium balloon.  Relocating the cow a safe distance from human smell capability jumped to the top of the day’s to-do list. 

Dad instructed the boys and me to take this cow and dump her “somewhere off the road”; so as not to cause any problems with the Bureau of Land Management (BLM).  We hooked a chain around Bertha’s feet and Dad helped us load her on the back of Old Blue, our trusty-rusty-used-to-be-blue-older-than-my-grandpa International flat-bed hay truck.  We loaded up and off we went.

We bounced down the gravel road as a thick cloud of dust circulated the cab of our truck.  I sat between Jim who was driving and Brock in the passenger seat (see? fringe benefits).    We laughed and argued over who would have the privilege of unloading our putrid smelling balloon cow. I cringed at the thought of being the one chosen to touch the smelly beast.  A few miles later, we turned off the bumpy road onto what can only be described as a cow trail.  We traveled over two strips of loose powdery dirt as tall, dried grass and sagebrush scraped the bottom of the truck.   Mind you, we fully intended to follow Dad’s directions and give Bertha a fine resting place “off the road”; but then… there at the end of the path was a lonely cedar fence post illuminated by heavenly rays.    It was the answer to our prayers.  Dad had left the chain attached to Bertha’s feet.  This fine discovery would allow us to simply connect the chain from Bertha’s feet to the post and drive off.   Bertha would come off the truck; we would collect our chain and be on our way back to the dairy.  No one had to touch her. 

As Jim started to connect the chain to the post, Brock noticed that through our bumpy travels Bertha had shifted to the edge of the truck with her feet hanging over the side of the bed.  Brock decided it would be easy to merely push her legs and she would come off the truck in 180-degree fashion.  He began to push on her feet.  I may be blonde, but I am NOT stupid.  It does not take a rocket scientist to figure out what will happen to a bloated cow upon impact after a four foot fall.  I backed away keeping my eyes on Brock and Bertha and quickly took cover at the front of Old Blue, knowing something epic was about to go down. 

I can see it now like it happened yesterday-everything started to happen in slow motion.  With one final flex of his perfectly sculpted chest and upper arms, Brock pushed down on Bertha’s hind legs, off she came.  Upon landing, air launched into Bertha’s chest, her jaws started flapping and she started “mooing” (no joking).  Not only was she now speaking to us, but dead-for-a-week-cow-juices were spewing out her mouth with Old Faithful intensity.  After the initial shock wore off, Jim and I looked at each other and began laughing hysterically.  Not Brock, girlish screams came from his direction as his arms and legs were flying and flapping about as if trying to do an Irish jig.

When his dance finally ended, Brock stood alone, spitting with fervor into the dried sagebrush.  Mathematically speaking: open mouth whilst screaming plus dead-cow-mooing equals no bueno.   Translation for the English speaking folks: not good for Brock. 

“Hey, there’s water in the truck.” I smirked through my laughter.    

“No thank you!”  Brock replied emphatically, “I will not be having fluids for a while.”  Apparently, bloated cow juice doesn’t taste very good.

Never being one who could control the giggles to save someone’s feelings, I laughed all the way back to the dairy; as a now embarrassed Brock sat silently next to me looking out the window.  I laughed all the way from the barn back to the house where lunch was waiting.  Through the laughter, I managed to relay the story to my dad who laughed so hard tears streamed down his face.

After lunch, Dad and I walked back down to the shop where Brock was working on a project.  “Hey Brock,” my dad called, “tell me what happened today.”

“I’m sure Jami told you” was his flat response.  The “Do we really have to talk about this?” apparent in his voice.

“Yeah, but she tends to exaggerate.”

 “Not this time.  I admit it, I was dancin’, prancin’, screamin’ like a girl.”  Our laughter started all over again as Brock slumped his shoulders in resignation.

“And that,” I told Uncle Eldon through the family newsletter, “is the real story.  One I have thought of and giggled to myself about countless times.  A tale I have recounted at the request of my Dad and others on multiple occasions.  In Juniper, we call it legend.”