Dear Uncle Sam

Dear Uncle Sam:

I really tried to do the right thing. When the U.S. Census worker showed up at our door on the County Line last Friday, I told her I had already filled out a census report.

But she had just driven down our muddy road, and she was not to be denied.

She insisted that the sheet of paper on her clipboard said we had not returned a census form.

Good citizen that I am, I tried again.

"Really, I know I'm not supposed to be counted more than once," I told her.

Another good and loyal U.S. citizen - my farmer hubby - chimed in, too.

"We filled one out," he said.

But the lady was insistent.

"Well, if you have time, can we do it again?"

So, what is an obedient citizen of these United States to do, my dear Uncle Sam?

We complied.

Since I was in charge of the first effort and somehow it failed, Randy handled the queries this time. And it didn't take us the 10 minutes advertised the second time around either, even with Randy's impromptu comedic routine thrown in, free of charge.

"How many people live here?" Uncle Sam's representative asked.

"Three," replied my hubby.

Brent happened to be here to attend his cousin's graduation, and we looked at one another. If you have been reading Kim's County Line for awhile now, you will know that I know you are not to count college students. (See Stand Up and Be Counted on April 15, and The Girl Who Cried Wolf on April 17.)

But, I guess Randy decided if we were getting counted twice, Brent might as well get recounted, too.

And then the lady asked the follow-up question.

"On April 1, were any of you at college, in a nursing home, serving in the military, in a jail or in a detention facility?"

"Honey, were you out of jail on April 1?" my loving hubby turned around to ask.

Yes, yes, I was out of jail on April 1 (and any other day of the calendar year, by the way).

"Would you classify yourselves as white Caucasian?" the lady asked. "Oh wait, that's not how I'm supposed to ask it. I'm not supposed to volunteer information for you," she said, looking at my white, Caucasian husband.

"Would any of you be classified as Hispanic?" she tried again.

"Si!" Brent shouted out from the living room, not wanting to be left out of his father's comedy routine.

This poor, misguided lady was probably questioning her insistence we fill out the form, but she soldiered on.

"Now, how do you spell your last name?"

Randy has had his 11-letter last name for 54 years (another question asked by the census lady, by the way). I've been spelling it for nearly 30. And it was a major achievement for both the kids to master our last name in kindergarten.

So Randy spelled it carefully and slowly.

And then he proceeded to again throw her for a loop with both our first names. He is simply Randy - not Randall like the lady presumed. And I am simply Kim. I know my parents didn't believe in nicknames, and evidently, Randy's didn't either.

The nice census lady said we were the only ones on our road not to return our form.

Again, I politely disagreed.

"Our hired man lives two miles straight north, and they didn't get a census form," I said. "And they didn't call for one. So I know they haven't been counted."

"Well, OK," she said. "Thank you."

She sat in her car for quite some time.

I guess she was calling Uncle Sam himself to see if Jake's family had been counted. Or maybe she was just working up the courage to travel further down our sloppy road.

Dear Uncle Sam, I will be glad to take double the money for better maintenance of our roads and for our rural school.

So feel free to count me twice.

Yours truly,
Kim at the County Line

Exhibit A: This proves that I did put the form back in my mail box and raised the faded red flag so my postman would pick it up. And, as it happens, the postal carrier is one of Uncle Sam's employees. So, dear Uncle Sam, ask my postal carrier. Thank you!

Spring Snowstorm

The skies in recent days have been overcast. It's been rain, not snow, that's fallen here on the County Line.

But as I walked earlier in the week, I did feel like I was caught in a spring snowstorm of sorts. Little wisps from a cottonwood tree south of the house floated on the breeze and carried me back to my childhood.


We had a big old cottonwood tree in our front yard. Every spring, the cotton from the tree covered the ground surrounding that tree. And my sisters and I used both the cotton and the green unopened pods to decorate mud pies.


I'm not sure whether we were actually making mud pies in this photo, but we sure could have been. The photo was dated April 1963, so the cotton could have been flying. I was 5, Lisa was 4 and Darci was 1 1/2.

I have fond memories of adding just the right amount of water to dirt and then pouring it into pie tins. The fluffy white cotton and the green pods were just the right finishing touch. It was all about presentation, even back before knowing anything about garnishing via the Food Network chefs.

The cottonwood tree still stands at my childhood home, where it has sunk deep roots into the Kansas soil for the past 66 years or so.

(Dad - Age 10)

My dad was born at that Pratt County farmstead. When he was about 10, he helped his mom plant six or eight cottonwood trees. They went to the Rattlesnake Creek somewhere south of Dillwyn and picked out some trees growing volunteer along the creek banks.

My grandma was a young widow, and the trees were free. A few of the trees didn't survive the transplanting. Others were removed when my folks built the new house. (It's kind of ironic that we still call it the new house when we moved in when I was 6!)


The surviving cottonwood tree has been one of the first things visitors see as they approach the farmstead and one of the last things you see silhouetted by a sunset sky at night.

So it's no wonder that the cotton floating in the air on the County Line made me just a little nostalgic.

I tried to capture the ephemeral wisps floating through the air. No such luck. But I did think they mimicked the fluffy white clouds in the springtime sky.

While there wasn't enough for "drifts" along our road, it did provide a border of white on the dirt road.

And just like the real snow I'd photographed this winter, the "flakes" of cotton decorated tree branches below.

If you remember your Kansas trivia, you'll recall that the cottonwood is our state tree.

When people plant cottonwoods these days, I know they more commonly use the cottonless variety. I suppose it's less of a mess for those doing yard work in people's carefully manicured yards (not that I would know about THAT!)

But I say that's too bad for all the little girls who could use the white fluffiness for mud pies!

Pizza Pasta

In the mood for Italian? Pizza Pasta got a thumbs-up from the hubby. So it will again appear on the County Line dinner table in the not-too-distant future.

This recipe is from one of Jill's friends who has a blog over at www.doodlesandcompany.blogspot.com. Chelsie has lots of good recipes to try, so check out her blog.

I only made half a recipe. Randy is good about eating leftovers, but he does have his limits. It goes together really quickly, which is a thumbs-up from the cook around here.

Pizza Pasta

1 lb. spaghetti or pasta (We used farfalle noodles as suggested by Chelsie)
1 lb. lean ground beef
1 cup milk
2 eggs, beaten
Salt & Pepper to taste
1 32-oz. can pasta sauce
1 tsp. dried oregano
1 tbsp. dried minced onion
1 8-oz. pkg. sliced pepperoni (can use turkey pepperoni)
3 cups shredded cheese (I used a fiesta cheese blend)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Add pasta and cook until al dente; drain. In a large skillet, brown beef with minced onion; drain well. Beat milk and eggs together until well combined. Season with salt and pepper. Place pasta in a 9- by 13-inch baking dish that has been sprayed with cooking spray. Pour milk mixture evenly over pasta. Pour pasta sauce over that. Distribute beef mixture evenly over pasta sauce and sprinkle with oregano, garlic powder and pepperoni slices. Top with shredded cheese. Bake until hot and bubbly, about 25 to 30 minutes. Enjoy!

Note: Chelsie added a can of sliced olives to the meat layer. (The cook at the County Line doesn't like olives, so that was out!) She also suggests adding green pepper to the skillet while you brown your hamburger.

As I said, I made half a recipe in an 8-inch-square pan, so I just used a smaller can of pizza sauce instead of the large jar/can of pasta sauce and halved the rest of the ingredients. It worked out just fine.

Serve with a fruit salad or a tossed salad and a little garlic bread (if it fits into your calorie count for the day). You have a tasty meal in less than an hour!

Musings: The Music of Life

This piano accompanist is breathing a sigh of relief. The middle school music concert is history after last night, and so is my time at school this year.

I love music. That's why I do it. I certainly have no illusions that I am the most competent accompanist around. The paycheck I open each month doesn't come close to covering the gas it takes to drive to town, the interruption to the day or the investment of practice time at home that is never covered by a time sheet.

So I look at my time at school as community service and a way to share my love of music with others.

Accompanists are dinosaurs these days. Most kids - including my own - don't take piano lessons long enough to become adequate pianists, much less accompanists. Piano practice time is squeezed out by club volleyball, little kids' wrestling, MAYB basketball and the myriad of other choices kids (and their parents) opt for these days.

Did I relish my time at the piano bench as a child? No. When the 30-minute timer went off for the day, I usually jumped up so fast it's a wonder the music didn't fly off the piano in the burst of activity-generated breeze.

I have been accompanying at school since Brent was a first grader. I hadn't figured it up until now, but that's 15 years.

If I am honest, there are days I'd prefer to stay home. I have little patience when students are disruptive during class. Why can't they just be quiet and listen to the director?! I know I sound like the old lady I am when I say that school didn't used to be like that.

But then there are the moments that make it all worthwhile. Two of those happened again last night.

Two 8th grade girls didn't just perform the music. They felt the music. And they shared it with every single person in the room.

The vocalist is an absolute joy to work with. She listens carefully to any feedback and works diligently to make the adjustments. Tell her to "lean" into a phrase, and she instinctively crescendos and decrescendos and literally gives me shivers. (That's a good thing, by the way!)

The instrumentalist is a perfectionist. I can definitely relate to that desire to do things well. She is her own worst critic, but she, too, uses crystal-clear tone and dynamics to turn black notes on a white page into true music.

I like to think I'm making a difference - whether I'm sitting at the piano bench or not.

But I don't always have to hear gorgeous music to make me feel like weeping.

I am still thinking about a girl I encountered in the bathroom after rehearsal this week. She was there first. She waited until I came out of the stall and said, "Mrs., I have a question."

"Sure," I told her.

She was standing in front of a full-length mirror, pushing her long hair back and adjusting her clothes.

"What's wrong with me? Is my hair a mess today? Am I wearing the wrong thing? Do I smell?"

"No," I told her. "You look great. I think your hair looks really pretty today. Your outfit is cute."

She stopped me. "No, I really want you to be honest," she said. "Tell me the truth! When I come close to some of the other girls, they look at me and say, 'Oh, __________, get away.' Or they will turn their back, and I can hear them whispering."

I said again, "I am telling the truth. I am being honest. I want you to hear me. Even though it's really hard, you need to realize that sometimes other girls can be mean. I don't know why that is, but it is. So it's not about you. It's about their need to feel better than someone else. If they can put someone down, then maybe, for just a little bit, they can feel better about themselves.

"Try to remember it's not about you, even though it hurts."

I cannot get that girl out of my mind. I know that her home life isn't like life at some of her classmates' houses. So I am worried about her.

Jill's middle school years were the absolute toughest for me as a parent (and no doubt for her as well). I will never forget how mean they were to one another. For several years, I saved a note that I found one day in Jill's pocket. It was from a girl who was supposed to be her friend. It said something about Jill looking like a pig in her cheerleading outfit.

I don't know why I saved the note. Was it to remind me of the power of words? Was it to remind me to really listen to my kids - whether they shared the hurts of the day vocally or exhibited it with a quiet, sullen mood?

Am I naive enough to think Jill was never mean to another girl? Of course not. I'm sure she had her moments even though my constant soundtrack with both my kids was, "Be the bigger and better person."

So I worry about this girl who I don't really know. She was a face in the crowd on the risers before I heard the anguish in her voice this week. Last night, I made it a point to find her and tell her how nice she looked in her dress-up clothes.

I have been that girl. I wasn't the thinnest girl or the prettiest in my class or the girl every guy was clamoring to go out with.

But as I've gotten older, I've realized that most women have felt like that. Even those girls who from the outside looking in have it all - the thin girls with the perfect hair and just the right fashion flair - have that nagging feeling that they just aren't good enough.

It's been kind of a revelation for me as an adult.

But it doesn't change the hurt of a 13-year-old girl peering at herself in the mirror of a bathroom.

So, I hope she heard me - really heard me. If she did, it was worth all the time commuting to town ... practicing at home ... being annoyed at the noise ... the nervous stomach before festivals and concerts.

It was worth every second.

If she heard me. I pray she did.

By Any Other Name

Date night on the County Line: It just might be a 4-wheeler ride in the pasture.

Don't knock it until you try it!

My chauffeur took me along on a jaunt to replace a fence insulator in the Big Pasture. The Rattlesnake Creek is the summer home to some of our cow/calf herd.

Nice digs, huh?


The ride was bumpy at times. (Come to think of it, I think that might be a metaphor for marriage on occasion.)

But with the mission accomplished, I coerced my escort into taking time for a few photos. (He has been very patient with this new blogging world!)

Farmers and ranchers might call these flowers "weeds." But even the lowly weed can be ready for its close-up and make a pretty picture.

What we call a weed is in fact merely a plant growing where we do not want it.

~E.J. Salisbury, The Living Garden, 1935

A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows.

~Doug Larson

A weed is but an unloved flower.

~Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I must admit: I think I love these weeds just a little bit. So I guess they are flowers to me.

Everything's Better with Chocolate

Research tells us 14 out of any 10 individuals like chocolate.

Sandra Boynton

So true, isn't it?

I had to make a couple of cakes for a United Methodist Men potato bar recently.

I know what you're thinking. How come the women folk had to make cake for a men's event?!

Well, I was being nice to my husband, who was in charge of arranging for the desserts. And the men really did do the rest of the dinner.

• They scrubbed the potatoes (a job I hate!).
• They made the chili.
• They cooked some broccoli (lots and LOTS of broccoli. They made enough broccoli that they wanted to know if it could be refrozen. Uh - probably not.)
• They fried up bacon (PLENTY of bacon).
• They diced green onion.
• They opened a can and, viola, cheese sauce!
• They served the meal.
• AND they even cleaned up!

So I was fine with making a couple of cakes.

Since I was making them after I had helped Randy all morning, I didn't feel guilty about using a cake mix as a base. Actually, I wouldn't have felt guilty anyway.

This is one that's always a hit.

Caramel-Fudge Chocolate Cake

1 pkg. (18. 25 oz.) chocolate cake mix
1 cup miniature semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 jar (12.25 oz.) caramel ice cream topping, warmed
1 jar (11.75 oz.) chocolate or hot fudge ice cream topping, warmed
1 carton (8 oz) frozen whipped topping, thawed
1/2 cup English toffee bits or almond brickle chips (OPT.)

Prepare cake batter according to package directions. Add chocolate chips. Pour into a greased 9- by 13- by 2-inch baking pan. Bake at 350 for 35-40 minutes or until a toothpick inserted near the center comes out clean. Remove and place on a wire rack to cool. Immediately poke holes in the cake with a meat fork or skewer. Spread caramel and fudge toppings over cake. Cool completely. Frost with whipped topping. Store in refrigerator. Yield: 12-15 servings.

Note: I almost never buy the toppings in the jars. I have both caramel and chocolate syrups on hand. So I guesstimate how much to pour on the warm cake. And the squeeze bottles make it easier to decorate (see below).

To decorate:

If desired, sprinkle with toffee bits (and you can add more mini chocolate chips).

My family is not wild about toffee bits. Plus, I always think decorating the top of the cake with additional caramel and chocolate toppings makes a beautiful cake to take to an event.

It's way easier than it looks.

First, make chocolate squiggles across the cake. As you can see, they definitely don't have to be perfect.


Then make caramel squiggles going in the opposite direction.


Then, take a knife and gently drag the knife through the chocolate and caramel and the top of the whipped topping.


Doesn't it look festive?

I don't usually bring home much of this cake when I take it to a potluck dinner. Enjoy!

An Epitaph: And the Rest of the Story

The tree is more than first a seed, then a stem, then a living trunk, and then dead timber. The tree is a slow, enduring force straining to win the sky.

~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Wisdom of the Sands

The rings of a tree are said to represent its time on this earth. And, oh, if the rings could tell the story of lives touched by a tree's grandeur!

I got an email yesterday from our friend Dorothy, who grew up in this house, along with her brother, Jim. Her parents, James and Katherine Johnson, were married in 1938. James' grandfather built the house for them as a wedding gift.

She wrote: "The memories I have of the trees is that they have always been there. Jim and I used to spend hours playing under those trees on the north of the house. We had a swing set under the trees, a sand pile and Jim built many roads there with his big construction equipment. Many a mud pie was concocted under those trees, which I decorated with the red berries from the bushes in the yard."

Another little boy - our Brent - also played under trees in the yard.

This freezer box was stationed under the pine outside my kitchen window and was a great hideaway for Jill and Brent while it lasted.

Dorothy added in her email: "The rabbits loved to nest under the trees in the front yard. At certain times of the year, there would be baby bunnies running all over the front yard. We were taught not to chase, touch or torment them because they were part of nature. Dad always said that if we touched them, the mother would disown them because of the human scent."

Randy is definitely a planter. I don't think he could be a lumberman. Of course, if that's how he was raised and that was the family business, maybe it would different.

(Randy & Jill plant the blue spruce in 1987.)

Before the limbs were all cleaned up, Randy was already making plans.

"We should plant some trees," he declared. Yesterday afternoon, we were at a nursery in Hutchinson exploring our options. Pines are not recommended in Kansas any longer. But we could choose blue spruce, autumn blaze maple or willow oak.

This is a big decision. These trees will be our legacy to future generations.

So, just like the members of the Johnson family who homesteaded this part of the prairie in the 1880s, Randy is sure to leave behind a tree or two for another generation to enjoy.

Trees are your best antiques.

~Alexander Smith

Amen.

(This tree in the backyard is home to our swing. It is still alive, well and looking good after a haircut.)