I'm not sure if there is a member of the Rice family who doesn't make lists. Perhaps it's genetic.
Mother and Dad were always making lists on those punch cards Pauline gave them ages ago. There must have been thousands of those cards which they cut neatly in half to last twice as long, and to my knowledge they never used them all up. There was a little paper/pen holder attached to the kitchen wall where the half-cards and a pen lived. Nik would call that a stationary stationery condo.
Grandma Rice would call me over to her house to show me her grocery list. She would carefully explain each item to me in extreme detail then tuck the list and her cash inside her little snap purse. By the time I walked back to our house 50 feet away, she was calling to go over it again to make sure it was right. I understand why now but at the time, it drove me nuts. When we brought the groceries to her house after shopping, we had to go through each item to make sure it was exactly as she had ordered it.
At any given time, I have probably four or five lists going. There is a to do list that breaks down day to day for a week or more plus a category called "other" for upcoming projects. I have a list going for ideas for lessons to teach every few months at church. I made up a master list of monthly family activities concentrating on such things as: recycling, what to do in different emergencies, collecting medical and insurance items, ways to save $, ideas to protect ourselves, staying positive, time saving ideas, homemade cleaning recipes, how to assembly a 72-hr emergency kit, family phone numbers and contact information, fun activities, service projects, getting people registered to vote, investments and having everybody over in Sept. for a day where we clean all the vehicles, make sure everybody checks out the fluid levels and tire pressure. I make up grocery lists, blog idea lists, things I want to remember if I ever start dating again.
The problem with lists is that you can never keep up with all the stuff listed. Also, making a list doesn't tell you the steps to preparing for activities. There's probably a list for listing that list somewhere.
I remember my dad once telling me that a person needs something to look forward to each day, some project that gets you up. I can't seem to incorporate something that gets me up early, but I do lie in bed in the mornings mind-walking through things I want to do or need to do that day. A good therapist would say that's "being in the now", not wasting energy on the past or the future. Not a bad idea, plus it works.
My dad was a wise wise man...
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Katy
My dad was the only one to call me Katy, and he did so only occasionally. He always pronounced it in a soft tone, so I paid attention.
One particular morning, he came in and woke me up, much much earlier than normal. He said, "Katy, I need your help, the bull is loose in the yard." Now, I knew right away this was a crisis because he never would have asked a daughter for help with such a dangerous thing if he hadn't truly needed it. I was up and ready in less than 30 seconds. I followed him outside and it was almost pitch dark, probably around 4:30 a.m. with just enough pre-dawn light to see the big white bull moving around in the yard.
He didn't have a Ferdinand-like disposition and as far as I know, we had never had a bull on the loose in the yard and no instruction booklet on the subject either. I didn't know how we could ever get him corralled again, but Dad had a rope, and Dad could do anything. We gently tried to coax him into the corral, my dad no doubt using the cow herd as temporary bait. Mother was probably somewhere close but I don't recall seeing her.
I had never seen my dad scared before in my entire life, but this day he was shaking. What courage it took for him to get near the bull and slip the rope through its nose ring, I cannot imagine, but it was impressive. We just kept encouraging Mr. Bull to return to his pen and eventually he did.
It was a pretty somber morning and I've never forgotten it. Things could have turned out a whole lot worse.
One particular morning, he came in and woke me up, much much earlier than normal. He said, "Katy, I need your help, the bull is loose in the yard." Now, I knew right away this was a crisis because he never would have asked a daughter for help with such a dangerous thing if he hadn't truly needed it. I was up and ready in less than 30 seconds. I followed him outside and it was almost pitch dark, probably around 4:30 a.m. with just enough pre-dawn light to see the big white bull moving around in the yard.
He didn't have a Ferdinand-like disposition and as far as I know, we had never had a bull on the loose in the yard and no instruction booklet on the subject either. I didn't know how we could ever get him corralled again, but Dad had a rope, and Dad could do anything. We gently tried to coax him into the corral, my dad no doubt using the cow herd as temporary bait. Mother was probably somewhere close but I don't recall seeing her.
I had never seen my dad scared before in my entire life, but this day he was shaking. What courage it took for him to get near the bull and slip the rope through its nose ring, I cannot imagine, but it was impressive. We just kept encouraging Mr. Bull to return to his pen and eventually he did.
It was a pretty somber morning and I've never forgotten it. Things could have turned out a whole lot worse.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
The Ravine
I was watching American Pickers again the other day but can't tell you just why. It's the show where two guys drive across the country in their van looking for old junk to sell in their stores. In the many hours I've watched that show, there is not one thing I'd ever want to buy or frankly, for that matter, own. I have enough junk of my own.
My parents had a barrel that was used for burning paper, cardboard and the like. What discarded stuff couldn't be fed to the cows or at least the pigs, had to either be burned or put into a big metal water trough that got hauled to the dump from time to time. When the metal trough got high enough (nowhere near full), Dad would load it up and haul it to the dump. This is not the city dump I'm talking about here. My Dad had his own dump.
Up on the dry farm, there is a ravine. As a child, the ravine seemed almost as big as the Grand Canyon actually is. Up, up, up the road he would go to the dry farm. Back, back, back the truck would go towards the ravine. I always got out first because there was little doubt in my mind that one day we might, might, might just go a little too far and end up in there ourselves.
You didn't just drag the stuff out with a rake and leave it there, either. It had to be hand-thrown into the ravine. There's stuff in there from tin cans to a wonderful old cabinet radio that quit working. It was a sorry day when that thing went over into the ravine. I'm sure these pickers would have a hay-day if they got a chance to rifle through all that discarded stuff. My recollection is that Dad filled in the ravine though after a county dump came to Dayton.
You knew better than to take anything out of the junk ravine. It was just a given, and besides, Grandma Rice always told us that if we didn't wear gloves when touching junk, we would get polio. Grandma was believable.
The only thing that ever left the dry farm ravine alive was Old Blue, my dad's Chevrolet truck that he later gave to Johnny Gailey.
My parents had a barrel that was used for burning paper, cardboard and the like. What discarded stuff couldn't be fed to the cows or at least the pigs, had to either be burned or put into a big metal water trough that got hauled to the dump from time to time. When the metal trough got high enough (nowhere near full), Dad would load it up and haul it to the dump. This is not the city dump I'm talking about here. My Dad had his own dump.
Up on the dry farm, there is a ravine. As a child, the ravine seemed almost as big as the Grand Canyon actually is. Up, up, up the road he would go to the dry farm. Back, back, back the truck would go towards the ravine. I always got out first because there was little doubt in my mind that one day we might, might, might just go a little too far and end up in there ourselves.
You didn't just drag the stuff out with a rake and leave it there, either. It had to be hand-thrown into the ravine. There's stuff in there from tin cans to a wonderful old cabinet radio that quit working. It was a sorry day when that thing went over into the ravine. I'm sure these pickers would have a hay-day if they got a chance to rifle through all that discarded stuff. My recollection is that Dad filled in the ravine though after a county dump came to Dayton.
You knew better than to take anything out of the junk ravine. It was just a given, and besides, Grandma Rice always told us that if we didn't wear gloves when touching junk, we would get polio. Grandma was believable.
The only thing that ever left the dry farm ravine alive was Old Blue, my dad's Chevrolet truck that he later gave to Johnny Gailey.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
No Mixing
Some people will think I'm making this up, but I never tasted a casserole until I went to college. No mixing the food before eating. It didn't seem unusual; that's just how it was. My dad didn't believe in them. In fact, he referred to them as "damn" casseroles, using the same tone of voice as describing Utah Fishermen. His thoughts were that a good cook didn't have to throw stuff in a pot and mix it all together.
There were a few more eating rules, such as:
1-Meat, potatoes and vegetables for the meal, but they needed to be spaced so as not to touch each other.
2-Gravy could go on the mashed potatoes but not usually on the meat, except at Thanksgiving.
3-One should apologize if one should accidentally get a drop of gravy on the edge of the gravy bowl.
4-Anyone who actually put the gravy spoon to rest IN the accidental drop of gravy on the edge of the gravy bowl was considered so insensitive as to probably not be invited back. The rest of us knew better.
5-Cheese was not put on the dinner plate. It was pre-cut in a plastic Tupperware container and was put on a smaller saucer that was also used for the bread, which also was not put on the dinner plate.
6-Jam had to be so thick as to rival the consistency of half-setup cement, and the more sour the better.
7-Place settings were done quite properly, forks on the left, etc.
8-A separate plate or dish was used for dessert.
9-Whipped cream had to be handmade, none of that Cool Whip stuff or Spray Cream.
10-Food was passed from right to left.
11-Baked potatoes were to be scooped out with a spoon before eating and the shells were not to be put back with the uneaten baked potatoes.
12-Nothing was served from a pot on the table.
The mid-day meal began at noon. The table was cleaned up, leftovers put away and dishes washed, dried and reshelved by 12:15. If you missed that window, you wouldn't have known we had eaten.
I gave up trying to maintain all the rules when I was raising my family. If they got Campbell's soup warmed in a microwave and served in a paper bowl with some toast, they considered it a warm home-cooked meal. One can live indefinitely while still using paper plates, paper cups and plastic utensils. I'm not proud of it, but can tell you it's possible.
When I went to college, a roommate made a casserole. I was hesitant and felt just a tad disloyal as I tried my first bite. Wasn't good, wasn't too bad. That's still my take on casseroles.
There were a few more eating rules, such as:
1-Meat, potatoes and vegetables for the meal, but they needed to be spaced so as not to touch each other.
2-Gravy could go on the mashed potatoes but not usually on the meat, except at Thanksgiving.
3-One should apologize if one should accidentally get a drop of gravy on the edge of the gravy bowl.
4-Anyone who actually put the gravy spoon to rest IN the accidental drop of gravy on the edge of the gravy bowl was considered so insensitive as to probably not be invited back. The rest of us knew better.
5-Cheese was not put on the dinner plate. It was pre-cut in a plastic Tupperware container and was put on a smaller saucer that was also used for the bread, which also was not put on the dinner plate.
6-Jam had to be so thick as to rival the consistency of half-setup cement, and the more sour the better.
7-Place settings were done quite properly, forks on the left, etc.
8-A separate plate or dish was used for dessert.
9-Whipped cream had to be handmade, none of that Cool Whip stuff or Spray Cream.
10-Food was passed from right to left.
11-Baked potatoes were to be scooped out with a spoon before eating and the shells were not to be put back with the uneaten baked potatoes.
12-Nothing was served from a pot on the table.
The mid-day meal began at noon. The table was cleaned up, leftovers put away and dishes washed, dried and reshelved by 12:15. If you missed that window, you wouldn't have known we had eaten.
I gave up trying to maintain all the rules when I was raising my family. If they got Campbell's soup warmed in a microwave and served in a paper bowl with some toast, they considered it a warm home-cooked meal. One can live indefinitely while still using paper plates, paper cups and plastic utensils. I'm not proud of it, but can tell you it's possible.
When I went to college, a roommate made a casserole. I was hesitant and felt just a tad disloyal as I tried my first bite. Wasn't good, wasn't too bad. That's still my take on casseroles.
Monday, December 24, 2012
The Big Box
I remember the Christmas that my dad took me out to one of the old sheds, one rarely used that once had a bat in it (the flying kind) which cured any searching-for-presents virus I might have had. He pulled out a big box, about five feet long by four feet high and 9 inches wide. I could not believe my eyes nor contain my joy when from the box, he pulled out a brand new bicycle and proceeded to assemble it!
It was blue, and wonder of wonders, it was a 2-Speed bike, unheard of at the time. The lower speed was for going uphill and the higher one for picking up speed going downhill. It looked almost exactly like this one, but without the back carry-stuff-on-it bar:
That thing took me more miles than Alladin's magic carpet. It was used daily in the summer to go get the cows, pass them up to block off the McCullough's driveway, then pass them up again to ride them fast into the corral. It took me to the store, to Colleen's house, to softball games. It got crepe paper streamers weaved in it's spokes to ride in Clifton's summer parades.
I do not remember it ever having a flat tire, though it must have. I do remember crashing it once. I was on my way home from the store and on the downhill run past the canal where you pick up significant speed, so much so that it's almost impossible to slow down enough to be safe. All would have been well except that a danged snake was crawling across the road and my bike ran right over it! It traumatized me so much that I lost control and took a bad spill on the asphalt. My pants got ripped and my knee was dripping blood, but the worst part was that the handle bar turned completely sideways and there was an ugly scratch on the right handlebar. I limped home and thought for sure my dad would kill me, but he didn't. He just straightened out the handlebars and life went on.
Happy Christmas Eve!
It was blue, and wonder of wonders, it was a 2-Speed bike, unheard of at the time. The lower speed was for going uphill and the higher one for picking up speed going downhill. It looked almost exactly like this one, but without the back carry-stuff-on-it bar:
That thing took me more miles than Alladin's magic carpet. It was used daily in the summer to go get the cows, pass them up to block off the McCullough's driveway, then pass them up again to ride them fast into the corral. It took me to the store, to Colleen's house, to softball games. It got crepe paper streamers weaved in it's spokes to ride in Clifton's summer parades.
I do not remember it ever having a flat tire, though it must have. I do remember crashing it once. I was on my way home from the store and on the downhill run past the canal where you pick up significant speed, so much so that it's almost impossible to slow down enough to be safe. All would have been well except that a danged snake was crawling across the road and my bike ran right over it! It traumatized me so much that I lost control and took a bad spill on the asphalt. My pants got ripped and my knee was dripping blood, but the worst part was that the handle bar turned completely sideways and there was an ugly scratch on the right handlebar. I limped home and thought for sure my dad would kill me, but he didn't. He just straightened out the handlebars and life went on.
Happy Christmas Eve!
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Yikes
There's an old country performance with a "That's Good/No, That's Bad" routine. We kind of had that here at the home this week.
Sunday I woke up with the flu Nik had last week so stayed home from church. About noon I heard Kyle in the kitchen saying "Sh**!" Kyle usually doesn't talk like that, for sure around me at least, but I was too sick to say anything and truth be known, I've said it myself from time to time, though I keep trying not to.
Shortly thereafter, he came running into the living room where I was resting and said, "FIRE! WHERE'S THE FIRE THINGEY?" I told him it should be in the broom closet and dragged slowly off the couch. By the time I reached the kitchen, he was spraying it inside the furnace closet in the vicinity of the breaker box. It did put out the fire.
I was too drained to get scared or angry; my main thought being, "Boy, this is going to be expensive"...sort of like the plumber we had to call in last week when the kitchen drain wore through and collapsed in on itself.
Kyle told me the power had gone off in his room so he was going to check the breaker. Before he slid open the door to the breaker/furnace area, he noticed a light and wondered why he hadn't seen that before. When he opened the door, there were flames shooting out from a plug. Now this plug had apparently been hanging from the ceiling in there for decades and none of us had ever noticed. I don't even want to know how it ties into the system.
Jason came right over and checked it out, ran to Lowe's for a plug end and repaired it. So far so good.
It dawned on me a while later that if I hadn't had the flu, I wouldn't have been home to respond to Kyle's question about the fire extinguisher and who knows what could have happened, especially since the flames were in the same area as the gas furnace.
When it comes to Guardian Angels, we must have several.
Sunday I woke up with the flu Nik had last week so stayed home from church. About noon I heard Kyle in the kitchen saying "Sh**!" Kyle usually doesn't talk like that, for sure around me at least, but I was too sick to say anything and truth be known, I've said it myself from time to time, though I keep trying not to.
Shortly thereafter, he came running into the living room where I was resting and said, "FIRE! WHERE'S THE FIRE THINGEY?" I told him it should be in the broom closet and dragged slowly off the couch. By the time I reached the kitchen, he was spraying it inside the furnace closet in the vicinity of the breaker box. It did put out the fire.
I was too drained to get scared or angry; my main thought being, "Boy, this is going to be expensive"...sort of like the plumber we had to call in last week when the kitchen drain wore through and collapsed in on itself.
Kyle told me the power had gone off in his room so he was going to check the breaker. Before he slid open the door to the breaker/furnace area, he noticed a light and wondered why he hadn't seen that before. When he opened the door, there were flames shooting out from a plug. Now this plug had apparently been hanging from the ceiling in there for decades and none of us had ever noticed. I don't even want to know how it ties into the system.
Jason came right over and checked it out, ran to Lowe's for a plug end and repaired it. So far so good.
It dawned on me a while later that if I hadn't had the flu, I wouldn't have been home to respond to Kyle's question about the fire extinguisher and who knows what could have happened, especially since the flames were in the same area as the gas furnace.
When it comes to Guardian Angels, we must have several.
Friday, November 2, 2012
I Do
Remember when you were a kid and got swinging so high you were sure you were going to go "over the top"? I do.
Remember when you got pushed so hard by somebody that you flew out of the swing entirely and landed on your back on the ground, knocking the air out of you so hard you thought you'd die for sure? I do.
Remember getting your fingers pinched in the chains so tightly you thought your fingers might come off? I do.
Remember twisting round and round until the chain/rope wouldn't turn one bit more, then letting go, unspinning so fast the world was a blur, then spinning back up and repeating the pendulum motion until the swing just stopped--but your equilibrium didn't? I do.
Remember standing on a wooden swing and moving your knees to pump you up faster, standing there with wiggly legs sure you were going to slip and fall on your back and knock the air out of you so hard you thought you'd die for sure? I do.
Remember swinging in those big farm tires that were so uncomfortable that no matter how you got situated, you were miserable...that and the smell of too much rubber next to your nose? I do.
Remember when your desire to swing, low or high, changed to a serious case of nausea just watching someone else swing? Maybe you're too young, but I do.
Remember holding onto a rope, sitting on a board, swinging from a tree out over water? I do not...nor have I ever regretted it. It ranks right up there with skydiving or bungee jumping.
Remember when you got pushed so hard by somebody that you flew out of the swing entirely and landed on your back on the ground, knocking the air out of you so hard you thought you'd die for sure? I do.
Remember getting your fingers pinched in the chains so tightly you thought your fingers might come off? I do.
Remember twisting round and round until the chain/rope wouldn't turn one bit more, then letting go, unspinning so fast the world was a blur, then spinning back up and repeating the pendulum motion until the swing just stopped--but your equilibrium didn't? I do.
Remember standing on a wooden swing and moving your knees to pump you up faster, standing there with wiggly legs sure you were going to slip and fall on your back and knock the air out of you so hard you thought you'd die for sure? I do.
Remember swinging in those big farm tires that were so uncomfortable that no matter how you got situated, you were miserable...that and the smell of too much rubber next to your nose? I do.
Remember when your desire to swing, low or high, changed to a serious case of nausea just watching someone else swing? Maybe you're too young, but I do.
Remember holding onto a rope, sitting on a board, swinging from a tree out over water? I do not...nor have I ever regretted it. It ranks right up there with skydiving or bungee jumping.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Who Goes There?
One day (of course at night on a Saturday) the lens fell out of my glasses. Being blind as a bat, I held the missing lens in place the best I could with one hand and used the other to drive to the nearby Shopko. The optical shop was closed but they don't have a wrought iron gate, so their displays were still available. I was searching through them for one of those little tiny screwdrivers that I buy and never find again, looking a little like Sherlock Holmes working a case, when someone called out a friendly, "Hi, Kay!" I figured if they knew my name, I should say "Hi" back and did so. Without my glasses, I don't recognize my own face in a mirror so I pretended to be looking at the display with rapt attention, which of course I was.
When she got closer, I saw it was my good friend and neighbor, Belle. I've known her for a quarter of a century. She raised Kyle from when he was a baby until he was well into grade school. She was such a good babysitter that he (and many others) would stop in and visit with her on their way home from school years after. He still stops and gives her a hug now and then. Anyway, I explained my dilemma and she laughingly helped me find a little screwdriver.
When she got closer, I saw it was my good friend and neighbor, Belle. I've known her for a quarter of a century. She raised Kyle from when he was a baby until he was well into grade school. She was such a good babysitter that he (and many others) would stop in and visit with her on their way home from school years after. He still stops and gives her a hug now and then. Anyway, I explained my dilemma and she laughingly helped me find a little screwdriver.
Friday, October 5, 2012
THUD!
I've debated whether or not to come clean, but figured why not? The few Cliftonite people who read my blog probably already know about it, and surely no namesake still survives.
My dad named his cows (and their names just might have been the same as some of the women in town whose personalities and traits may have had some semblance to certain said women). It seemed perfectly normal to me and I thought my friend's dad must have been a little strange, as their cows were all named "Cow". I questioned almost nothing my dad ever did or said...other than that one time when I learned my lesson.
There was one cow that was a bit high strung. I'm sure she far surpassed her namesake, especially as time went on. She always made me very nervous, staring me down on a regular basis. Dad knew about this and told me to stay away from her the best I could, advice I took quite seriously. One day, however, I was stuck in the middle of the corral, boots on, mucking in the manure, when I found myself unavoidably in the same general area as this bovine. I was trying to hurry as fast as bow-leggedly possible when she gave me a look that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. All I seemed to lack at the moment was a red cape.
Pure adrenaline shot through my entire body. In one second, I learned cow language and the words she screamed were: "I hate you and I am going to kill you...right now!" I was a good ten paces from the fence but covered them all in about five seconds flat, even leaving one of my boots right where it got stuck, finishing in stockinged foot. (At times like these, you don't care about such details.) I hit that fence at full speed, second rung from the top. If I had had five more seconds to build up speed, I could have cleared the thing like an Olympic high jumper. At almost exactly the same moment my foot hit that rung, she smashed into the fence right below me, THUD!
I don't remember going back for the boot, but my dad took her to the auction the very next day.
I REMEMBER A HOLSTEIN NAMED ANNIE
WHOSE “HOMING DEVICE” WAS UNCANNY;
SHE WAS CRAZY AND MEAN,
A WILD MILKING MACHINE
AND WAS ALWAYS CHASING MY FANNY!
My dad named his cows (and their names just might have been the same as some of the women in town whose personalities and traits may have had some semblance to certain said women). It seemed perfectly normal to me and I thought my friend's dad must have been a little strange, as their cows were all named "Cow". I questioned almost nothing my dad ever did or said...other than that one time when I learned my lesson.
There was one cow that was a bit high strung. I'm sure she far surpassed her namesake, especially as time went on. She always made me very nervous, staring me down on a regular basis. Dad knew about this and told me to stay away from her the best I could, advice I took quite seriously. One day, however, I was stuck in the middle of the corral, boots on, mucking in the manure, when I found myself unavoidably in the same general area as this bovine. I was trying to hurry as fast as bow-leggedly possible when she gave me a look that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. All I seemed to lack at the moment was a red cape.
Pure adrenaline shot through my entire body. In one second, I learned cow language and the words she screamed were: "I hate you and I am going to kill you...right now!" I was a good ten paces from the fence but covered them all in about five seconds flat, even leaving one of my boots right where it got stuck, finishing in stockinged foot. (At times like these, you don't care about such details.) I hit that fence at full speed, second rung from the top. If I had had five more seconds to build up speed, I could have cleared the thing like an Olympic high jumper. At almost exactly the same moment my foot hit that rung, she smashed into the fence right below me, THUD!
I don't remember going back for the boot, but my dad took her to the auction the very next day.
I REMEMBER A HOLSTEIN NAMED ANNIE
WHOSE “HOMING DEVICE” WAS UNCANNY;
SHE WAS CRAZY AND MEAN,
A WILD MILKING MACHINE
AND WAS ALWAYS CHASING MY FANNY!
Friday, September 28, 2012
Yoooohoooo
Teeley, Kyle and I were watching it rain the other night and noticed Swirl outside 30 feet away playing under the swingset. Tee opened the door, Kyle whistled and Swirl came running in. It's bizarre how she responds to his whistle. If we whistle, she just looks at us like "Huh?" That's if she even looks up at all. Tee was saying how funny it was and how Kyle would probably do the same for his kids one day.
That lead to a discussion about the farm. I told them how we used to stand at the top of a field and make a long whistling yoohoo noise. The cows would look up and saunter on over, head up the road and turn into our yard. In retrospect, it's probably more remarkable that an entire herd of pea-brained cows were so well-trained that they even responded at all, let alone monitored themselves and automatically turned into the right yard than that it is that Swirl responds to Kyle's whistling.
I hadn't whistled that call for years, but as soon as I did, both Teelay and Kyle immediately groaned. Apparently, I used it a time or two when they were younger.
That lead to a discussion about the farm. I told them how we used to stand at the top of a field and make a long whistling yoohoo noise. The cows would look up and saunter on over, head up the road and turn into our yard. In retrospect, it's probably more remarkable that an entire herd of pea-brained cows were so well-trained that they even responded at all, let alone monitored themselves and automatically turned into the right yard than that it is that Swirl responds to Kyle's whistling.
I hadn't whistled that call for years, but as soon as I did, both Teelay and Kyle immediately groaned. Apparently, I used it a time or two when they were younger.
MOO
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