Vacation, times two

Hubs left for vacation last night with a group of friends.

When Steve leaves, I go on vacation too. I live by the seat of my pants and do whatever I feel like doing!

Steve is with a group of adults that are participating in the Minnesota Agricultural Leadership (MARL) program. It’s the grand finale of his enrollment. As of minutes ago, a Katie, another participant, kindly posted on facebook that they have arrived in Zaghreb, Croatia. (I know Steve is horrible at updates, so I don’t expect any from him. Thankfully, there are plenty of women in the group that will keep people updated.)

Although, I wish I could speak with Steve at this very moment to hear about what the country is like.

I know there will be posts on the MARL facebook page as to what the group is up to, but I wanted to let Steve know that things are well here at home with some blog posts.

Wait! What! a message just popped up from Steve saying, “I am here!”

I immediately called him through facebook video. I hate to admit it, but I teared up a bit. Little pools of water were forming in the corners of both my eyes.

I miss him. already and it’s only been 18 hours!

He showed me the weather in Zaghreb and it was icky, rainy, cloudy. FYI: The weather is not nice in Croatia at this time of year – cold, rainy, windy.

I shared conversation with several other class participants and laughed a bit and gave a “Thumb’s Up” to Christian Lillienthal for packing only a backpack for 12 days of travel! That is how I travel too. Only a carry on!

I hope Steve truly enjoys himself. I hope he doesn’t think of the farm too often. I would like for him to not think of the farm at all, but that is impossible. Zack, our herdsman, and I have it under control. Well, Zack mostly has it under control.

Live large today dear Stevie! Step outside of your comfort zone just a little bit each day!

Love you and miss you!

Wow, just wow.

So, I was WIDE awake last night from approximately midnight until 3 a.m.

I don’t know why.

It could have been Hubby’s snoring or the fact that the dog was being generous and giving me 5-inches of the bed. Every time I moved the dog would grumble.

I mean, really?

I decided to get up and fold laundry, go outside to push up feed and check on the cows.

It was all rather boring. I didn’t match the corners on the towels, it’s really quiet at that time of the morning and none of the cows looked ready to have a baby calf.

I played several games of Solitaire and didn’t win a single one.

I finally fell asleep a few hours before it was time to get my butt out of bed – 6:30 a.m.

Steve was going to a meeting and I wanted to send him off.

Surprisingly, I feel really good today.

I thought my day was moving along just fine – and it’s already 8 a.m.

That was until I decided to get ready to run into town to visit the accountant and banker.

I carefully put a quarter-sized dollop of hair gel into my left hand.

I then proceeded to rub it all over my face.

All the while thinking, “Hmm, that smells different this morning.”

Eee gad!

I may need a nap later, but at least my facial skin will hold it’s shape! (Yes, I did wash it off, but it feel like there may be a residual affect.)

Does my skin looked toned?
It should!

The Queen, Steven and Diggy-Diggy

Me, jealous Ole and Diggy-Diggy!

So, I have been in a historical-fiction groove for some time.

Recently I watched a documentary on the Royal Family.

It has occurred to me that my husband can be a wee bit like Queen Elizabeth.

She makes a lot of decisions based on how it will affect the “Crown.”

I mean, who needs to deal with emotions?

She leaves emotions at the back door, because, you know, she never uses the front door.

My husband has a tendency to make decisions based on our “crown” as well.

That crown would be our dairy business.

Feelings be damned!

This morning we had a beautiful heifer calf born shortly before the start of chores. I was on the schedule to be outside at approximately 6:30 a.m.

I walked into the milking parlor and noticed there were four milk bottles in the carry-all, instead of just two we had last night.

“Really?” I said. “We had two calves born over night?”

“Yep,” Steve replied. “The one is doing just fine, but the other one it a little off. I am not so sure it’s normal.”

I walked up to the calving barn and, sure enough, that one calf didn’t look quite right.

It was laying out on its side, the tip of its nose was chilly and it looked like it had just finished smoking a doobie.

I returned to the milking parlor to retrieve the bottles of colostrum to feed, Diggy-Diggy.

Yep, I named her after Stephon Diggs. I saw a shirt with this printed on it and knew I was going to name a calf that. I am assuming there are going to be a ton of animals and humans named Diggs. I like to be unique. I mean, who is going to name their son or daughter Diggy-Diggy?

I knew I would have to feed Diggy-Diggy using an esophageal feeder, she hadn’t even tried to lift her head yet.

I gathered my needed equipment and headed over to my baby calf.

She was still spread out and on her side. It was not problem moving the feeding tube down her throat and into her tummy, she didn’t buck one bit.

“I am going to fill your tummy Diggy-Diggy,” I said.

After her feeding I remembered that momma cows will lick the heck out of their babies.

I grabbed two handfuls of fresh, golden wheat straw and started rubbing Diggy all over. I rubbed her soft belly. I scrubbed over her ribs that fell like a washboard. I even scratched behind her ears and rubbed my knuckles in the space between her eyes.

When I did scratch behind her ears, she leaned into my hands like I was the cat’s pajamas!

I even gave Diggy-Diggy my warm Columbia coat.

I wanted to give her all the warmth I could.

Remember I said there were two calves born. I knew I had to feed “Whitey.”

I took off my Columbia parka (the warmest coat I own) and threw it over Diggy.

I had other work to do, so I had to leave my Diggy, but when I returned, she is trying to stand up.

All she needed was a wee bit more tender loving care! I dressed her in a calf jacket, and promised to come back after my remaining chores!

At that point, I was in love with Diggy. I dread the day she has to move to the heifer raiser.

I asked Steve if we could keep her here. I pulled out all the stops: huge smile, sparkle in my eye, told him how sweet she would be, I could keep her with Tiny and Gastón, etc.

“Can we compromise?” he asked. “We can keep her here until she is weaned and then she can go to the other farm.”

Bloody hell, you might as well tell me “no” right now. Why wait six weeks? That would be like ripping my right arm off, because we would become so attached!

Next time I think I may have to ask him while I am naked! That way, I would appeal to his emotions. No straight-laced business decisions then.

I would do it for the crown.

Diggy-Diggy will go to the other farm, eat and be happy. She will return home a few months before she is going to have her own baby – like 22 months from now!

I will remember her. I hope she remembers me!

Let it snow, let it snow, LET IT SNOW!

There is nothing like a new snow fall, when doing chores, to  make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

The first reason is this: if it is snowing, it means the temperature is moderate. I know less-than-moderate temperatures are coming, so I enjoy the snow when it comes.

The second reason this snow makes me warmer inside that a teenage-love affair, is that I think snow is amazing beautiful – especially before people mar it up with foot prints, cows muck it up with poo and the wind casts it’s spell and turns it into a brown, dirty mess.

This morning, while the temperature hovered around 20 degrees F, I couldn’t help but take pictures. My thumb was frozen. Of course, I did forget to take pictures of the excitable bull calf causing a brouhaha with the cows. Somehow the big bugger managed to escape his Polydome. He was out for a while too; he was almost licked to death by pseudo-momma cows. He was so full of cow saliva, even my gloves were wet by the time I finished, which is why my thumb almost froze off and fell into the snow, while taking pictures.

Too Sweet!
I caught this image while I was watching the gates for Russell. Zach, our herdsman, was petting his Jersey heifer Cassidy.
There's gold in that there milk house.
Who says we don’t have class. Even the milk house has a golden faucet. I give it about a week before it looks icky. I took this picture just before I came into the house for breakfast.
This is Tiny, the small Angus beef calf I purchased from our son Joe. I should change her name to Tubby as she is getting kind of fat. Today she was fed a different ration in an attempt to keep her lean and svelte.


This is my, OK, our favorite dog since our Chocolate Lab Bob passed away last year. Ole is a pit bull-cross and one of the smartest and sweetest dogs I have ever owned. I owe it to the person we adopted him from. She trained him well and he loves it here on the farm.

Sadly, I lost a video I had of Gaston, the goat. He was just giddy in the snow! He was literally bouncing off the walls in his open-front pen by Tiny Tubby. So you will have to accept this image of defiance. He actually did his stunts just after I snapped this image. We love Gaston!




Womens’ part in boardrooms

(Don’t worry about how I look in my contemplation image. My urge to think, and write, often happens in the early morning – after I have a cup of coffee, but before I have a shower.)

Recently I attended a meeting of a local cooperative. If you are not familiar with how a cooperative works, it’s simple.

The owners of the cooperative are its members. So if a person does business with a cooperative, say purchases a bag of feed for her favorite pet goat, she is a member of that cooperative.

Anyway, as I looked at the board members sitting at the head table and listened to who was up for re-election as a board member, it puzzled me as to why there are not women sitting at the table. Were any women even asked to be a board member?

Is it because many women take off-farm employment or is it our rural-Minnesota roots that prevent women from even being asked?

You know, the fastest growing segment of agriculture is women owner-operators.

Even if the women are not listed as owner-operators, you can bet they have a say in the day-to-day operations of the farm business. Unless, of course, you are of the generation that believes women should be cooking, baking, doing the books and feeding calves.

You wouldn’t believe how many times I get asked if I take care of the baby calves on our farm. I cringe. I don’t like taking care of calves, but put me in a skid loader or a tractor for spreading manure and I am just fine. I can shift our John Deere 2940 with so much as a hop-scotch skip.

Steve does the books on our farm. I could, but I choose not to. He loves doing the books and he is good at it. In fact, he excels at it. I don’t need to be involved. We do have an agreement that anything costing more than $700 needs to be discussed between the two of us. He has his money; I have my money.  We can do with it what we wish, as long as it doesn’t exceed that $700 bench mark.  (For some reason, his savings account grows much faster than mine, but that’s a story for another day!)

Women are also making a move in the sales industry as professionals offering service to ag businesses. Years ago, it was rare to see a woman salesperson knocking on the door. Most of the time it was a man asking for “the man,” and if said man wasn’t home, the sales MAN left. I do know about farming, sir.

Today, many sales women come to help us on the farm. Agronomists, co-op field reps and large-business sales women.

I hope to see more women working as members of local, regional, state and national ag-business boards.

I challenge nominating committees to ask women to become members of boards.

I challenge the women to say, “Yes!”




A Day in the life of …….

As many of you know, I spend a majority of my time helping out on our dairy farm. Steve has dubbed me the “Fecal Manager,” because, as you know, titles are important.

Not. I am going to keep my title. I often share it with friends and family because I think it is hilarious!

I spend about 60 percent of my time every day working with manure in some shape or form – runny, lumpy, chunky, grainy. I clean the walkways. I clean the lounging lots and change out the bedding.

As miserable as it sounds it is all very important. Clean cows is a definite need on a dairy farm. To the left, if that’s where the picture ends up when I publish this story, is my main piece of equipment. (Well, it’s not actually this particular skid loader, I prefer the John Deere skid loader.) The inside of the bucket, as you can tell is covered with manure. That’s because I was already cleaning the poo out at 7 in the morning when I thought of doing this “Day in the Life of….”

I have recently been holed up in my way-to-large-home for several days. Over the weekend, I was suffering from a migraine that was just painful enough to make it difficult to work. I went to bed on medication Monday evening. Tuesday morning my head felt great, but my back was out. Two more days of respite and I didn’t care what I had to do, I was going to go outside and work.

When someone is sick on our farm, it’s hard for others to pick up the slack. We are all just very busy. Nobody wants to pick up my slack and work with manure, so it just builds up. I had several days of poop piled up to take care of. Besides, when people call in sick, I have a hard time believing they are sick, so it’s tough for me to be sick. I know of people that call in sick at least weekly. I mean, who in the world gets sick once a week?  But, I digress.

As you can see in the image, the poo was almost over the top the foot part of my boots. Thank god for muck boots! I always feel bad for the cows when they have to stand in this much poop and eat. It must be miserable. In this photo I am standing in the outside area of our second group of milking cows. They have to eat out in the elements, so I figure the least I can do is keep their “dining-room floor clean.”

In fact, I think that is what I told them when I started cleaning.

“Go into your living room now, so I can clean the dining room.” I am such a nerd.

These photos show a before and after of our lot that holds the cows that are not being milked. It was a chore to get these cows out of the dining room.

I explained to them, “You need to go outside to play. I really need to clean up your dining room. It’s horrendous!” Some of the cows thought it was going to be their last meal, as they kept sneaking back into the area when I turned my back to chase other cows.

The nerve!

“Just go out and relax on the pasture,” I said. “I know you are hungry, but as soon as I finish, I will let you back in to eat.”


This is what I found when I finished scraping most of the manure out of their yard and into the manure spreader.

I felt like they were all Peeping Toms. (By the way, who said the peepers name was Tom? Maybe it was David or Bob?)





Cleaning out pens is no job for the weak minded. You can’t beat yourself up if something goes wrong or if you totally trash a fence, an overhead door or a latch.

And when I clean up pens, things do go wrong. I consider myself a re-rookie. I haven’t had to do this job for more than two years. My depth perception can be a bit off, if I don’t wear the proper vision correction equipment. 

I clearly remember ramming this latch with the back of the skid loader and swearing under my breath. (OK, it wasn’t under my breath.) Notice the good one on the left and the wonky one on the right.

The gate doesn’t even close properly. I ruined this one several weeks ago. I don’t recall if I was wearing my glasses or not. I should get the latch replaced. I just haven’t had the time to haul my ass to Lafayette to purchase a replacements. Having a broken latch is just asking for a cow chase at three in the morning! I would be on everyone’s fecal list at that point.

Once I finished cleaning the manure, it was time to help Steve and Zach sort off a few younger animals to sell to another dairy farmer.

This went rather smoothly. These heifers are all due to have calves within the next two months. During that time, we won’t have enough room in our existing facilities to add additional cows, which is where these gals would go after they have babies. Yes, inventories of animals needs to be managed either by selling younger animals to other dairy farmers or selling older animals to the food chain. It’s all quite complicated. (note sarcasm here)

While moving these heifers I mentioned to Zach that the bedding was “awful” and “would need to be refreshed.”

He just laughed at me and said, “Wait until later. The hoof-trimmer is coming today and it’s going to need to be cleaned out tomorrow. (Now you know what I am going to be doing later this morning.) We put all the cows needing trims in the area pictured. The cows are nervous and get upset large intestines, which results in poo everywhere!

Then I remembered that Tiny, the beef heifer, and Gaston, the Goat, needed feed. I love visiting them when a few days have passed without speaking with each other. I swear Gaston gives me kisses on the nose. I had to make several trips with a feed tub because of my back, but they loved the food and me! I often sit in the feed bunk and Gaston will lay on my lap, and then I scratch Tiny’s back and neck. It’s my nirvana.


Sorry for the ginormity of this image, but it’s hard to see what’s going on.

It’s time for several cows to get their hooves trimmed and taken care of. Yes, you have all seen images of horsies with big long toenails. The very same thing can happen to cows if they are not given enough opportunity to wear the hooves down.

We have several lazy cows that don’t like to walk around on the cement. Every several months, we have to clip their nails. We also check for any other issues with their feet. We found several cows that had warts in between their toes and sores on the bottom of the hoof. Glenn does an amazing job of fixing our girls up and getting those toes in shape.

In this image he is putting his catching chute down on the ground. This contraption catches the cows so he can work on their feet.

(Scroll down for a continuation.)








It was then that I realized I was hungry. By this time it was only 10:30 in the morning, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast. Off to the house to fry me some eggs and cheese. I was going to take a picture of my meal, but alas, I was too hungry and ate the entire plate before I remembered. So you can look at my empty, messy plate. It was delicious!

Well, by then it was only mid morning. And I had way to much stuff to put on this blog already. I chose to stop my adventure of chronicling my  morning. Trust me, it just involved getting rid of some more stuff, via the manure spreader and skid loader – smelly old silage that we also spread on the field.

I did try to clean out the manure pit a bit, but quit that as I kept getting stuck at the bottom of the ramp, slipping and sliding in the Gehl skid loader because the tires are worn down to the smoothness of the satin sheets that Tammy Wynette sings about.

My heart palpates when I can’t go in reverse to get out of the pit and there is a pond of poo in front of me.

But that’s going to be a story for another day. I am already laughing about it!

So rather than a picture of my day, you are getting a picture of a few hours. Sorry for the misrepresentation in the title. If you are upset take it to the news media. That seems to be the trend and it probably would be considered news-worthy information these days. (P.S. I grope the cows udders every day. I think they like it.)













It’s time to get back to work

After spending the weekend either on my Sleep Number Bed (I’m a 45.) or sprawled out on our brown, leather sofa with a smelly Pit Bull-cross named Ole for company, I just needed to get outside this morning.

No, my illness, whatever it may be, has not subsided and I still occasionally get throbbing pain on the back, left side of my head.

I just deal. If I go into the doctor, I know what he/she will say, “It’s a virus. Here take these opioids to feel better.”

The fresh air helped a bit to clear out my sinuses and I haven’t experienced a pain in my head since. (Sure I have felt a pain in my ass, but his name is Steve and I love him.)

It was a great day to be out at 6:30 in the morning. The sunrise was amazing, but I didn’t take any pictures. I can only have so many sunrise images hogging space on my phone’s storage card that is the size of a flea’s single bed.

Gastón and Tiny were very happy to see me. After all, it had been almost 48 hours since they gazed upon my cheerful face and shared nose rubs with me. Yes, every morning when I go out to feed the cute yellow beef heifer and white goat, we rub noses. Sometimes Gastón gets a bit careless and a slime line will connect my nose to his, but I deal with it. I love him too. 20171127_074513_resized

At first these two beasts of burden did not get along. Tiny would head butt Gastón and Gastón would run away.

Tiny still steals treats from Gastón, which is exactly what she is doing in this image to the left. You see, I love Gastón and he loves Guinea Pig feed, so every two weeks or so, I purchase a bag of Guinea Pig feed and mix it into his cracked corn that I steal from the beef cows, which is where I stole Tiny from. So, I guess in the end, it’s all good. Right?

After spending a bit of time with these two hooligans…I have to sit in the feed bunk, where Gaston is standing in the image and pet them for a few minutes…OK, a lot of minutes…I was off to check on the cows that are going to have babies in the next few weeks. I knew there was one special cow still in that barn.

Sure enough, Number 570, was still there, after having a difficult birthing event last night. She was up and about chewing her cud, and so I thought she would be fine, then I observed her udder. Talk about a milk tank! It was full!

We have a special headlock in our close-up pen that allows us to milk cows that we do not want to put out in the barn for health or safety reasons. Number 570 is still a little wobbly on her feet, so we milk her in this barn.

I have said for years that I miss milking in our old stanchion barn, where a person gets to know the cows as individuals, not just numbers! Just kidding. To us, our cows will always be numbers. I think it’s socially acceptable now, being that Eleven is a girl’s name in the Netflix series Stranger Things. 20171127_080424

If you haven’t seen my video on our Hoffman Dairy Farm page, take a look. I confess, I am by no means a videographer and don’t really care about how I look, but it’s a cute little clip. It shows where a big 2000-pound Holstein loves to be scratched.

It’s been years since I milked a cow like this and it took me a bit to get down on my knees to put the milking unit on her and take it off. I didn’t have to do that when I milked years ago.

Number 570 is a beast. See that milking bucket in the right corner. She almost filled it half full with fresh, warm milk for her baby calf., pictured below. 20171127_072738

He’s a cutie, isn’t he! He wasn’t real interested in eating so I had to use the esophageal feeder to get that colostrum into his belly. He’ll hate me now, but love me later when he’s taking his nap on a full belly. (This image is from when I first climbed into the Polydome to feed him.)

I was a great morning. I got some fresh air, got up close and personal with a few animals and came into write this blog, while Stevie made me a big bowl of oatmeal.

Life is good.

Shelby affirms my ideas

So, last night I ventured up to the infamous Twin Cities to listen to one of my all-time favorites Mr. Don Shelby talk about “Journalism: Facts Matter.”

It took me a bit to get up there. First as I was arriving at a predetermined meeting point of a friend’s condo, she called and said she was running late and we should just meet at the venue.

No problem. I will just pull over and type in a new address in Google Maps.


As I was leaving my son’s girlfriend called and needed some help with something that I should have been home to assist her with.

I called her and consequently got totally off the predetermined directions from Mr. Google. I ended up way on the east side of the Cities looking at the Wisconsin border.

No worries. It was beautiful and I had the time.

I feel awful that I couldn’t help the girlfriend and I hope she knows that I would have turned around in a heartbeat if she had wanted me to.

She’s a sweetheart!

So anyway, I digress…again.

Don Shelby is, in my opinion, an outstanding journalist and person.

He explained how we all have a duty and responsibility to make informed decisions when it comes to elections. It was his job to inform the public of the news.

Shelby iterated, “The founding fathers wanted to give citizens a public dialog without going to jail.”

He stressed how the first amendment is written for the people, not for the media. It is there for people to become informed and to make decisions on their own.

“The thing I respect most in this world is your informed opinion,” Shelby stated.

He was honestly trying to purvey the truth when he actively shared the news.

Shelby was raised in a home where responsible decision making was the norm. He said his father read both the morning and afternoon newspaper from front to back and nobody bothered him, while he intently educated himself on the workings of our nation.

His dad passed that responsibility on to Shelby; it was his responsibility to help citizen’s make informed decisions.

“Journalists get your attention on things that need our attention,” Shelby said.

That’s what he was trying to do when he was a paid journalist. He’s not so sure that’s what is happening today.

I asked, “How did you deal with the frustration of having to lead with fluff stories like Brad and Anjelina Jolie-Pitts baby news?”

“I quit,” he said.

He is disappointed in the fact that sometimes it’s more about ratings than NEWS.

“It’s like a popularity contest in high school,” commented Shelby.

A lot of the discussion dealt with where to find good, compelling and TRUTHFUL news to make informed decisions not only at election time, but also on matters that affect other aspects of our lives. Hear a story on how the environment is being harmed, call your legislator. Read a story on the legislators doing away with a valuable program, call your legislator.

According to Shelby, we need to find a reliable source of information from a publication that required reporters to get the facts correct. If the facts are incorrect, the journalist should be looking for a new job!

“If you get it wrong, you’re fired! “Avoid social media. Use trusted sources are the ones that don’t get it wrong.”

Now I have to go find a news source that doesn’t get it wrong.

I believe that news media today is lazy. They find news by scouring social media and using it to create a news story. They don’t have AT LEAST three sources and if they do, it turns into a shouting match and I can understand a damn thing any panelist is saying.

What is news?

It’s not a dog being able to say “I love you.”

Or Brad and Angie’s baby.

(By the way, Shelby does not watch the news anymore, much like many of the people in attendance. When he announced that the crowd applauded. When he saw a lead in that had to do with the top story being “how to find jeans that don’t make your ass look big,” he looked at his wife and said, “I miss me.”)




Shoes can be confusing

So, I find myself staring down at the new pair of sandals I purchased for our mini-vacation we had last week.

Yes, I have them on my feet. They are not the ever-so-popular flip-flops, or “thongs” like we used to call them when I was but a child, which now means a bit of string stuck between your butt cheeks.  I mean, why wear underwear at all when you have to chisel that threat between two sides of muscle mass? (P.S. we call all see when you are wearing a thong with your favorite pair of black yoga pants or Lula Roe leggings – your ass jiggles something fierce. Some people likes jiggly asses; I find it disturbing.)

But alas, again I have digresses from my original thoughts.

My shoes.

I find myself wearing a pair of shoes that are much older appearing then my inner soul is telling me.

According to my soul, I should be wearing sparkly flats with a bit of Twinkle Toes built in!

Man I wish Twinkle Toes came in a women’s size 11!

These shoes even tell my soul that I should veering toward wearing shoes that no longer have laces.

Yes, the shoes are tightened around my feet by Velcro, invented in 1948 by Swiss engineer and mountaineer George de Mestral.

I know, I know.

There will come a time when I will think of Velcro as “The World’s Greatest Invention.”

I mean, it could hold me shirts together, my pants and yes, my shoes.

I just didn’t think it would come so soon.

Who knows, down the road…Velcro may hold thongs in place?

Today, I shall appreciate that I turned 49 this past week, and go shopping for shoes!sandals

What do you do when the sun shines? You make hay!

I normally don’t help with haymaking anymore. So today I made sure to prepare one of our favorite suppers to deliver to the guys in the field – turkey supreme.

When I took it to Steve in the tractor, I rode in the buddy seat and drove the tractor using the spinner thingy on the steering wheel. First consider that years ago I was told it was a very difficult job and that I would have bales that looked more oblong than round. And second, I was sitting in the buddy seat while driving and Steve was behind the wheel, where the driver should be.

He manhandled all the controls while eating; I steered.

I must say, “I did alright!”

Take a look at my bales! Some round; some not.

P.S. Gonna go take videos of wrapping the bales. Back soon.


Hauling bales off the field, just a few at a time!

Russell making faces while siting in the drivers seat in the semi. Notice

the bale on top that probably wasn’t so round.

My perfectly round bale.

This one is not so round.

Russell the show boat! He takes after his mother!Helping with the driving!