Family Magic Trick

Every time we visit with Grandpa, the kids are treated to a magic show.  This is no ordinary magic show, this is one done by a professional, a master of slight of hand and mind power.  No, really.  Grandpa was an eye surgeon.  Oh, and he's brilliant. 

By some mysterious force, he can make a quarter magically disappear from the table, and using only HIS MIND, send the quarter across the room to a different location.

 He's been doing this same trick for years and the kids remain as curious as ever.....

Paige:     "I have an IQ of approximately 195.745.  Certainly I can deduce the flow of the fifth dimension as dictated by String Theory to precisely circumnavigate the laws of physics to determine the destined arrival coordinate of the Washington State quarter, Denver mint, 2007, once it has been mentally projected across time and space by this dastardly brilliant magician."

Phoebe:       "He wants my red hair.  He's always trying to steal it.  Maybe if I give it to him he'll tell me the secret.  But I like my red hair.  So, I will just sit here and look impossibly cute.  That always works."

Josh:           "Um?  That's strange.  Quarter was there.  Now gone.  How he do that?  Pokemon.  Chocolate.  Candy?  I don't understand....."

When the magic is complete, the quarter is located and the kids remain stumped.

A fun family tradition:  The true magic behind the trick. 

Where'd the Red Hair Come From?

 If I have heard it once, I've heard it a billion times:  "Where'd your kids get all of that red hair?"

Sometimes I smart aleck an answer with something like:
a.  The mailman 
b.  aisle four (hair color) at Walmart
c.  spontaneous generation (when I'm feeling very haughty)
d.  I don't know (when if fact I don't care)

So where did the red hair come from?

It came from genes, genetics, DNA.  A little bit of Viking, a smidgeon of German, a hint of Scottish, and a dollop of mutt.

See?  This is Jerry's sister.  She has mystery red hair, too, in the exact same shade and texture as my three red heads.  Isn't her hair just glorious?  I try not to be jealous, but wow.  Those are some pretty locks. 


So what do I usually answer with when someone asks where the red hair comes from?

e.  Their aunt has red hair.

Problem solved.

Why a Four Wheeler?

Question:   What is the purpose of a four wheeler, anyway? 

 Answer:  To go for a ride with your aunt (who has red hair, so SHE is where the red hair comes from, people!)

 

 Answer:  To cuddle on with your mom (who is sporting awesome Santa socks, by the way).

 Answer:  To go for a cruise around the farm, saying hello to the trees, bees, horse poop, and name rocks.

 

 Answer:  As a consequence of this farm cruise, the dog has now been exercised.  Bonus! 

 

 Answer:  To go for a ride with Dad who is holding on for dear life.  (Cousin and Uncle demonstrate this use.)

 

 Answer:  To learn how to shift gears, use a thumb throttle, and the difference between rear and front brakes. 

 

Answer:  As a stable mount for target practice in case of zombie invasion, apocalypse, or gun control enforcement. 

 

Answer:  Enjoying life with family and friends, out in the sun, surrounded by nature and God's creation.  (And a good excuse for Jerry to wear this flannel shirt.  If the Bahamas thing doesn't pan out, we WILL buy a farm with land and horses and four wheelers, only so Jerry will go full-up cowboy.  Hubba hubba hubby!)

Conclusion:  Four wheelers are for life, liberty, and the pursuit of booty happiness.

The Horse Whisperer

 On the way to the chicken barn, we have to walk (or ride a 4 wheeler) across part of the pasture, often going past, or through, a small herd of horses.

Josh went to camp last year, ranch camp, where he was voted "Best Junior Rider-Boy", and nicknamed the mini-horse whisperer. 

Thus, he is a horse expert, has no fear, and horses do his bidding.

 Me?  They circle around me, nibbling on my clothes, inhaling my hair, and generally scaring the fool out of me.

 See how nice the horse is with Josh?  He's gentle and calm, and loves getting pet by our horse-whisperer, Junior.

"Whatchoo lookin' at, Lady?  Get any closer and those box-blonde locks are MINE."

Christmas Chickens

 

For first time in many years, we spent Christmas with extended family in North Carolina.  We stayed a few days with the Fosters in Raleigh, a few days with the Wagstaffs in Apex, and a few days with the Reynolds at their farm in Cedar Grove.  

During the farm visit, we went to the barn to see the chickens.  And loud-mouthed roosters, too.

Most of the roosters were quite smaller than the hens, but they had style.  And class.

  

This rooster had too much swag.  

"Look at how my waddle waddles.  I'm swag-tastic!"

Josh enjoyed chasing the chickens, making them cluck and screech.  Eventually he would catch one and carry it lovingly around the barnyard, despite his maniacal behavior in actually capturing it.

Phoebe had no problem at all catching this chicken.  It practically walked into her arms.  I thought it was her popular personality, but when she finished rubbing her face all over the back of it, I discovered this particular chicken was missing most of it's back feathers and looked sick and dying.

After this picture was taken, Phoebe got a face full of cleaner, a bath, and an exorcism.

No reason to take chances with chickens!

A Thank You Letter from the Dog

This is Georgia.  Have you met her before?  She's our 1.5 year old Great Dane.  She is a fantastic dog.  Really.  One that breaks the best dog mold. 

We bought her from a breeder near Dallas.  She was from an oops litter; her mother was not supposed to breed due to a bad bite and her dad was not yet full grown though he was on the show ring circuit. 30 seconds of breeder ignorance later and we had a show quality pet for $500 less. 

She is perfect. 

Well, she is now. 

Despite her pedigree, she came home with one annoying, disgusting, expensive malfunction.

Her, um, back end, her um, perineum, was a bit droopy.  So droopy in fact that you could not see her girlie bits.  Her official diagnosis was "severe hooded vuvla".

(TMI.  So sorry.  But this fact is vital to the rest of this post.  Stick with me....)

This problem caused a gross discharge (don't leave!) and persistent licking. (Don't go!  It gets better!)

Our only option was a vulvoplasty, aka, episioplasty. 

She had to get her hoo-hah cut on.

Over the Christmas break, we took Georgia home to our favorite vet surgeon, Doctor Miller, in Durham, N.C.  He was able to fix her right up and make her problems all go away. 

(He also discovered that she had an unperforated hymen, that he also, um, "corrected", hence the buying of dinner in the letter below.  Eww.  Sorry.)

Two months later and Georgia is healed and doing great.  Here is her thank you letter to Dr. Miller.

Hope you all enjoy it:

Dear Doc,

So I hear you're the one to blame thank for fixing the problem with my, um, parts. 

 

At first I wasn't sure how to feel about you. We were complete strangers and then you were very up in my personal space. (You still owe me dinner.) Then I went to sleep, and when I woke up you were there maybe, and my back end was very sore. I was confused and didn't know how you and my back end were related.

And then my person put this plastic spaceship from hell on my neck and I forgot all about you.

Sorry.

But time has gone by and my girlie bits seem much better. I don't itch or drip things anymore, and I lick myself a normal amount instead of all of the time. And my dog friends play with me now instead of following behind me, sniffing, like gosh darn circus elephants on parade. I appreciate that.

My favorite human says I'm much better, too. Good. Now she can do us all a favor and stop looking at my va-jay-jay all of the time. (I think she's weird. Don't tell her that.)

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you. You're pretty cool. My people thank you, too. Thanks. 

 

(Oh, and my humans are all jumped up about some move or something to an island or somewhere I can't understand. But if you want to visit, I approve, and I promise not to lick you, eat your food, or lean on you too hard.)

Thanks again, and I'm still waiting for my bacon dinner.....

Love,

Georgia

 

Running in the Desert

Running in the desert can be tricky.  Somehow, there is a headwind from three directions.  I can't explain how.  It's a meteorological anomaly. 

This is what running looks like in the vast, open spaces of Del Rio:

1.  Running due west is fine.  No wind.  Your pace equally matches the tailwind.  Happy happy!

2.  Turn north or south, and there's the headwind.  It's powerful, but not enough to really mess up your pace.

3.  Turn east and BAM!!! 40 knot headwinds keeping you running almost in place.  Like a giant treadmill with ants and pricker bushes.  Even the dog can't handle it and starts drafting.

Tomorrow I'll assume it's different than is has been for the past three years and I'll tie on my shoes and go for another run.  

Come on, Georgia.  I need a drafting partner!!