Smoke and Dirt

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that if you see our family in the flesh it is likely you will probably gather a slight whiff of branding iron smoke and our children will be covered in dirt.  

I so enjoy these times.  Everyone knows their place and what they need to do.  There is minimal talk, save for the times I shout out ear tag numbers to John to make sure we are on the same page as he gathers ear notches for me to run BVD tests later.  

We get to spread apart from one another and no one has to breathe my air, which is heavenly having come out of a pretty intense decade of raising tiny babies that often clung to me like spider monkeys.  

The girls need reminded fairly often to quiet down.  They have so much fun playing in boxes, climbing over old oxygen tanks and having sword fights with sorting sticks that they forget there is actual work to be done. 

I can always count on John to make hilarious comments about no longer needing a bath when we both get sprayed with slobber from a rambunctious calf.  

Kenyon is a solid worker and he always keeps the tub and alley way filled with calves.  He loves to talk numbers when we finish and recount how many were bulls, steers, etc.  

The husband runs his side of the chute and I run mine.  We don't talk unless I ask him to pause so I can refill a vaccine gun.  It seems like the wind is normally out of the totally wrong direction and the smoke from his branding iron fills my nostrils for several seconds with each calf.  We never argue during this time.  Processing calves is the one thing that we can do really well together and I always look forward to it.  

We don't have time (or a desire) for things like Saturday college football games or weekends at sporting tournaments which I've seen many families on social media document.  I'm glad they've found their niche in life.  This is definitely ours.  

This is a terrible attempt to photograph smoke in bright backlight.
My apologies.