Wednesday, March 25, 2009

A Day in Town

Two bull sales in one day. Does my husband know how to live, or what?

It was a long day; I’m so glad we started with good coffee. Up and down the aisles we walked, stopping at each pen to gaze thoughtfully at the creatures inside. Truly they all looked the same to me – well, apart from the colours, I mean.

But, oh the differences Hubby could see.

“Look at the back end. See how much length there is behind the pin bone?”
“See how round that is – that’s all beef, and that’s what we want.”
“These ones aren’t finished – I’m not interested in them.”
“These are great, but they’ll go too high”

He looked at the bulls, then read about each one in the catalogue. Birth weight, rate of gain, and scrotal measurement were all considered.

And on, and on, and on…

After three hours, we went inside to enjoy a meal before the sale began.

This was definitely more interesting for me. The food was great, but the people were even better.

Mostly men, but a handful of women, too. Lots of chatting, and laughter. Some back-slapping and, “Haven’t seen you since the last sale!” comments.

Soon enough the sale began. The only suit in the place was on the auctioneer. A dapper-looking chap with darting eyes and a dimple-framed grin. He was having fun, but not at the expense of getting the job done.

“Look at the length of these bulls,” he quipped. “Longer than a kiss from your mother-in-law!”

Near the end of the sale, he warned the crowd, “If you wanna buy a bull from Reg and Mike, you’d better put your hand up now ---- or come back next year.”

After the bulls were sold, 15 heifers were to be offered. Again, he explained to the crowd, “When you think this is over, don’t leave -- ‘cause we’ve got some Saler heifers coming up at the end. But a feller’d have a tough time explaining to his wife how he went to a bull sale and came home with heifers instead.”

In the end, we bought a couple of bulls, and three heifers. And there was no need for Hubby to explain to his wife. She watched it all unfold in living colour. Twelve hours later, we were back home. When I closed my eyes I could still see all those bulls in all those pens.

Since turnabout is only fair, I wonder how I’ll get him to attend a quilt show with me next week. It will be my turn to gaze longingly, check measurements, and if we take a cheque book, maybe I'll even bring home a treasure!

Friday, March 20, 2009

My Husband Needs a Purse


Not a fancy designer bag – not even real leather – but something to keep his wallet in so that it’s not in his pants' pocket when they hit the washer.

Perhaps you can relate. I think this is event #7 at our place. In 35 years of marriage, I have never washed my own wallet, but I’ve managed to scrub his clean at least seven times. It’s not that I’m more careful with my own stuff – it’s because I’d notice my purse going into the washer, and I keep my wallet in a purse. Yes, my husband needs a purse.

A purse would have saved the dinosaur tooth that met its demise in the washer. What 65 million years in the Alberta Badlands couldn’t accomplish, 45 minutes in a front-load did quite nicely.

Since it was my fault (probably all seven times), I thought I’d take responsibility this time and look after the replacement of the cards. Some were easier than others. The Blue Cross cards could be ordered by phone, but the birth certificate required a visit to the Registry office. Since hubby can’t get away to do that (and it was my fault anyway), I created a letter of permission. He signed. I drove to the registry. And the helpful clerk behind the counter handed me the forms.

I quickly filled in the required names, birthdates, etc., but I struggled with the ‘reason for application’. I needn't have worried -- the woman behind the counter readily understood, when she read, "altercation with a washing machine."

She just smiled.

Maybe her husband needs a purse, too.