Month: February 2011

What’s the worst word that can ever be uttered in Texas?
Ice.
The schools shut down, the roads close, and the newscasters spend 24 hours a day reporting on the amount, kind, and location of the nasty stuff. To outsiders it seems a little over the top. Okay, a lot over the top. And when I first arrived from a lifetime of Ohio living, I joined the snickering group of Yankees laughing at the crazy Southerners.
Until I drove in it.
Up north they have this stuff called road salt. Truckloads of salt and chemical concoctions standing at the ready to sweep over the snow and ice, melting away the problem. Behind them comes the snow plows sweeping the roads clear.
In Texas?
We have like 3 truckloads of sand for the entire metroplex. And when that is depleted? Hope your pantry is stocked cause you ain’t goin’ nowhere.
Ice storms in the south turn the roads into palatial skating rinks, and since the cars have wheels and not blades… well you get the picture.
So earlier this month when the forecasts called for the biggest ice storms since the early 80’s, I rushed to Walmart with every other inhabitant of Wise County. The shelves were emptying quickly and the aisles were jam packed, but all shoppers were friendly and patient…a nice surprise.
Our little farm sits between two itsty bitsy one-car bridges on a quiet little county road. The fact is, being stranded out here is a real possibility. So we prepared like the pioneers prepared for the winter. We loaded up on hay for the cows, we purchased a generator, we gathered our batteries and firewood. We even filled our tubs with water to flush the toilets in case the electricity went out. Although we have a well, the pump is run by electricity. We did all of our laundry, dishes, and cooking needed for blackouts.
We had done all we could do, so we settled in for the night, wondering what tomorrow would bring.
We awoke to blinding light streaming in through our windows. The sun bounced off the 2 inches of ice covering the ground. The kids rejoiced at the ice-day off school and watched in awed wonder as 4 more inches of snow fell on top of the ice. It was beautiful. And we were stranded. We couldn’t even find our driveway, let alone traverse it.
We did experience a few small blackouts. And we had to continually take a hammer to the thickening ice in the stock tank. Getting the hay to the cows proved a little daunting, and the ice forming on their backs caused concern, but their coats seemed to thicken overnight and they huddled close together to keep warm. 
Overall it was awesome. Our little piece of paradise looked like a winter wonderland and the kids spent hours outside playing in the most snow I have witnessed in my 13 years as a Texan.
We were trapped in our snow lodge for over 4 days, but honestly it was more like a mountain vacation. Eventually the temperatures rose and the snow melted faster than seemed possible. Everyone groaned about having to go back to the real world. We all marveled about how it had been so much easier than we thought.
Then the washer broke.
I was prepared to rough it during the ice storm of the decade, but not when school, work, and sports were calling. I spent every evening of the next week washing clothes in the bathtub for those in need. A household of five people can really generate a lot of laundry in a short period of time. The most frustrating part? Every time a Hopper male walked into the bathroom and witnessed me hunched over the claw-foot tub, laughing ensued. No one had given any real thought to how their clothes were clean when there was no washing machine.
I’m pretty sure the washer quit because of the 10 plus wardrobe changes taking place hourly by the front door during the snow storm. It is impossible to find real winter clothing in Texas, so layers must be used to keep the frostbite away. Every time the front door slammed, I would walk up to a little boy stripping down to his skivvies, leaving behind piles of wet clothes. He would soon return with two more layers of dry clothes and head back out into the blinding whiteness. 
Thankfully the washer is now fixed, and we spent a lot of time getting reacquainted. Hopefully my days as pioneer woman are over.

Grant using the neighbor’s wakeboard as a snowboard.

See the driveway? Yeah, me neither.

  View from back porch.

 Eventually Andy was the only one strong enough to even break the ice.

Know what’s scarier than two huge cows running at you? 
Four big ‘ole bovines chasing the tractor as you push that puppy into high gear racing to the feeder.
I have grown accustomed to the personalities of the mommas, they are slightly pushy, but regularly give in when pushed back. The baby bulls, however, are still developing their attitudes and from what I’ve seen so far, these boys are gettin sold before long.
If you remember, the mommas were named Jenny and Clara. I allowed the boys to name them since they were not destined for our kitchen table. I specifically told Grant and Sam that they could not name the babies since they would be sold. So imagine my surprise when I went to help Grant feed the quartet the other day and he called out, “time to eat Bolt and Steve.”
Steve?
Who names a cow Steve?
Apparently Grant.
When questioned as to his name choice, he declared, “he looks like a Steve.”
Well, that is just an insult to Steves everywhere. This is the ugliest calf I have ever seen. I am sure he will make a fine meal for someone someday, but he is definitely lacking in the cute factor.
He is also the most skittish creature I have had the misfortune to be standing too close to. Luckily Missy (our catahoula) has saved me from his quick-as-lightning legs more than once, but his stupidity makes me nervous. He’s also so lazy that he prefers to nurse rather than chew.
His momma, Clara, is the thinnest of our bunch. We began providing extra hay in another bunk, assuming that since she is the meekest, the others were taking advantage. It turns out, only Steve is taking advantage. Rather than muscle his way to one of two feeding bunks, he prefers to just wait it out and nurse. Bolt, so named by a relative who had a pet bull during childhood, has weened himself and is more than willing to use his increasing weight to make room for himself during dinner.
Frankly they both keep me looking over my shoulder. Steve is frightened by his own shadow and Bolt has an attitude that seems destined for the bull-riding arena.
Bolt is handsome. For a cow. He looks like a shrunken version of those great big mean looking bulls in a field of heifers. He has no fear. He is already pushing the two moms around. So far his mom pushes him back. Limousin cattle are supposed to reach their full growth at two years of age. But the boys are already 2/3 the size of their moms and they won’t be yearlings until late July. So how big will they get if they grow for another year?!
Like everything else we have endured with these cows, there is gonna have to be some quick thinking. A departure plan if you will.  A corral to ween slacker Steve, and some research into cow sales. Then comes transportation.
Think they will fit in my truck bed?
The warm weather brings hope of green pastures. I admittedly will not miss the hay. Hay in my hair, down my shirt, stuck to my socks. It gets everywhere… like sand.
And cow patties. After a hard winter in Texas, we have enough cow patties to fuel heat for an entire third world country. Anyone want to start that business? You can have them for free, it will be our little contribution…

Jenny, Bolt, Steve, and Clara. Bolt and Clara are looking at the camera. Thankfully Steve’s head is hidden…