A 62-day May
President Trump signs executive orders left and right, so, as a constituent, I have a favor to ask of him. “Mr. President, please sign an executive order making the month of May 60 days long.”
The reasons for my request is that May is way too short. All the spring work and all the enjoyable spring activities compete with the limited 31 days of May. Sixty-two days in May would make it easier to pursue my three main pastimes — gardening, fishing and going to graduations — family and otherwise.
The moderate weather in May squeezes my recreational time severely with necessary work — cleaning the garage, tilling my gardens and neighbors’ gardens, planting, watering and weeding the garden, mowing the lawn at least once a week, turning the compost pile, trimming tree limbs, burning the brush pile and old native grasses, cutting the old growth from the ornamental grasses in our home landscaping, hatching new baby chicks, cleaning the chicken house, planting food plots, writing columns, etc.
Plus, May is the best time of the year to travel a bit and visit old friends. So, you see that my request of President Trump for a 62-day May is very logical.
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Well, I’m doing my very best to get both work and play done in May. I’ve already told you about my tour of Wabaunsee County. A week later, we drove to northwest Arkansas to see our old friends and accountants, the Penn Cilpushers. When we arrived, it wuz raining lightly and it continued to rain and sprinkle for most of our first two days there. That area got more than 3 inches of rain.
But, in spite of the weather we had a lot of fun catching up on our respective family members, getting a little bizness handled, playing cards, watching Royal’s baseball, shopping at Cabela’s and at the huge, new At Home store, where I bought a handy, dandy lightweight gardening stool.
The last evening there we ate at Chuy’s Tex-Mex Restaurant. We got there at 5 p.m. on a Friday night and the place wuz already packed. Needless to say, the Mexican food was delicious and the service top-notch.
The next morning we headed home via northeast Oklahoma to find the home of an old Iowa pheasant hunting buddy, Gunner Ryder, and his wife who’ve become confirmed Okies. It took all the wisdom of the GPS unit in our SUV, but we finally found Gunner’s home down a winding gravel road. It’s a beautiful place on 20 acres with a good fishing pond that has a built-in limestone spillway/waterfall.
We shared a couple of Bloody Mary’s and took a walking tour of his acreage, complete with visits by their two friendly mules that they use for trail riding.
When we finally hit the road, we stopped in Yates Center to see the new home of my brother and sister-in-law. They’ve retired and their lovely home is ready for their advancing years, even it they’re not.
When we arrived home, we found we’d received 3/4-inch of rain, which helped the crops, but didn’t make a dent in the on-going need for runoff in the ponds.
An old rancher was complaining in the feedstore about his bad luck in marriage. He said, “I’ve been married three times looking for the right woman, but three divorces later, I’ve decided it’s better and cheaper if I just open my pasture gates myself.”
From Dean, an interested reader in Colorado comes this e-mail: “I read with interest your April 30, column about Pittman-Robertson. Few people know about this. During the Obama Administration, sales of guns and ammo went through the roof. Colorado Parks and Wildlife, as well as other agencies, enjoyed unprecedented revenue from Pittman-Robertson during these years.
And, your story about the farm boy drafted in WWII reminded me of what I was told was a true story. A widower and his two single adult sons lived and eked out a living on a small farm and ranch. To say the sons weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed might have been generous. One of the boys was drafted into the military in World War II and left to defend his country.
In two or three weeks, he returned home. The first thing he did was go to the barn and climb into the hay mow. His father asked him what he was doing and he replied, “The Army guys told me they didn’t need me and I could go home.”
His father then asked, “Why.”
The son replied, “They said ‘there’s no hay in the mow.’ How did they know?”
Another Colorado reader, Peggy, e-mailed: “I’ve enjoyed reading the silly old songs that our mothers taught to us as children. They brought back a lot of memories.
I remember one more. I suppose it was our mother’s way of teaching young children their “numbers” (how to count), long before any mother had ever heard of day care or pre-school. The song/poem goes:
“One, Two….buckle my shoe.
Three, Four….shut the door.
Five, Six….pick up sticks.
Seven, Eight….lay them straight.
Nine, 10….big fat hen.”
I remember that one, too. Probably why I’m wise enuf still to count to 10. Have a good ‘un.
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