With age comes issues

Steve and I were a sight for sore eyes Tuesday morning while we milked together.

As we find ourselves getting older, we find that we are much slower at many things than we used to be when we were youngsters in our 20s.

Being tied down to the couch because of illness isn’t just a one day ordeal anymore. Heck, when we were young we still worked like mad when we were ill.

Hacking because of a cough, didn’t slow down the well-oiled machines we were.

A sprained ankle? Forget about!

Cast on the foot? Cover that baby with a bread bag.

We had to carry milking units between cows, throw feed to the cows using a silage fork-I miss seeing my biceps bulge – and unloaded 13 wagons of small-square bales one at a time.

Five loads with almost 200 bales on it were wimp-work for us.

Being out of our prime became very apparent this particular Tuesday morning.

Steve was feeling under the weather. His cold was throwing him under the John Deere tractor in our shed.

He finished milking with me and even helped finish all the chores after milking. He felt “good enough” to help with cleaning the manure out of the holding area. We put fresh bedding in the second barn.

His body allowed him to attend a meeting in the morning with the Farm Business Management lady.

He sounded like crap when he talked. His voice was all gargley. I told him he should not go to the teachers house; she probably didn’t want him spreading sick germs anywhere near her young children.

They had their meeting in the garage!

I can’t say too much.

I wasn’t in all that great of shape Tuesday a.m. either.

While milking, during his moments of cold-induced weakness, a cow kicked the teat-dip cup out of Steve’s hand. It flew toward the front of the cow, just out of arm’s length.

“Here, just a minute,”I said, “I will get it for you.”

I tossed the water hose, with a spray nozzle on the end, near the teat dipper. It’s very handy to use the handle on the nozzle as a hook.

Just as I tossed it forward, the cow kicked in the perfect direction to land her foot directly on the top of my arm.

This happens quite frequently in the milking parlor. Most of the time the 1800-pound beast will feel the uneven ground and step off my forearm.

No harm done.

It just so happens that in this particular melee, Steve was standing right next to me, and he gave this beast a shove.

He shoved her as hard as he could.

Well, if you don’t know cows like I know cows, here’s what happens when you push a cow.

She pushes back with all her might. When you stop pushing, she stops pushing. One time, an employee was pinned between a cow and a post and he yelled for me to help him. I just looked at him and calmly said, “Quit pushing her.”

She quit trying to turn him into a pancake and he walked away a little red in the face.

So…when my doting husband tried to push the beast off the love of his life, well she dug in – right into my forearm. and I mean she dug and tried extra hard by grinding her left hoof into my skin.

All I could do was scream, “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

My arm was toast. It felt like ground-up toast.

I have no idea what ground-up toast feels like, but my arm really hurt.

My right arm was out of commission. Steve was slower than molasses.

We were a sad sight, but with no other bodies them to help finish, we were stuck with each other gimping along.

It’s several days later and my forearm is the size of the sausage stick I saw in the deli case at Cashwise. It’s probably going to turn the same color too.

Age sure makes illness and injury a problem.

Till next time…HUGS!

This writing could be refreshing!

I announced my retirement from column writing, after 18 years.

Many, many people have asked me, “What are you going to do now?”

I think i may have come up with a little something.

This morning I wrote my thoughts on my blog “Getting Kerry’d Away.”

It was so refreshing to be able to use words like “pissed off” and “hell.”

That’s the real Kerry.

When I wrote for the small-town newspapers, I often had to censer myself. I couldn’t mention this store, because that store would get upset and pull its advertising. I couldn’t use naughty words, because the ears of some of my readers might not have stomachs for it. Words like “puke,” “shit,” and the “f-bomb” were banned. Well, I can understand the last two words being a bit offensive, but puke?

So I am going to focus on writing for this blog. When I have an urge to write, I am going to write. I better have some sort of portable electronics with me at all times. Thank goodness for the iPad Mini and the Samsung Galaxy S5. (I love technology.)

I hope you follow me. Besides, it’s free. I will also share my Twitter account and Instagram info at a later time. Right now my technology is all upstairs, and I am too lazy to go retrieve it.

Have a great Sunday!

This is twisted

So I am watching National Geographic this morning – it’s about the only time i get the living-room television to myself.

I don’t even know the name of the compelling show I was watching, but that is a mute subject. Although, I may have to contact them via the Internet to let them know I think there show listings online are totally wrong, or too difficult to find.

So I am watching this show about how hyena families – I really don’t like hyenas – have to survive in the big “bowl” out somewhere in the big masses of Africa.

Also living in the bowl are lions, wildebeest, water buffalo, butt-ugly vultures and countless other kinds of riff-raff.

During the show, I was getting disturbed by the atrocious hyena.

A poor, helpless water buffalo was stuck in some muckity-muck.

Well, it didn’t take long for those darn hyenas to have their noses and ears to the skies and they figured out the buffalo was an easy target.

Needless to say, being the ruffians that they are, they chose to start eating the water buffalo while he, or she, was still alive.

And they chose to start eating it from the ass-end. (I suppose this was the softest spot.)

The entire scene made my stomach hurt a bit. I mean, even though the water buffalo is not the cutest creature living in this “bowl,” that title belongs to the baby lion cubs, it did not deserve to be eaten alive.

I felt awful for the creature.

Then it hit me.

Why in the hell, doesn’t PETA protest against this type of behavior?

Instead they choose to rally against farmers because they twisted the tail of a cow to keep her from becoming a danger to the people around her.

There was a scene of a lioness laying in a dry area of the “bowl” and the flies were assaulting her wounds.

I am sure they were laying little fly eggs in her owies.

Why wouldn’t they be a little pissed off that nobody, not even the Aborigines, were saving the lioness and bandages her wounds.


I don’t know! In their upscale, penthouse offices as this poor lioness dies in the middle of the cauldron?