We learned to eat everything
By Sheila Donnelly/Austin Daily Herald

Last week was MEA and my son Timmy had two days off from school. He and I drove to Minneapolis and took the trolley ride from St. Anthony Main to see the sites of downtown Minneapolis.

I had gone on the trolley ride once before with Timmy when he was 2 years old, but he became sick and threw up on me the entire trip. This time, the ride was more pleasant for both of us and we took in more of the surroundings.

We went to a restaurant after the trolley ride and Timmy ordered one of the largest bacon cheeseburgers that I ever seen. He was relishing every bite but he started to slow down with the last couple of bites.

I said, "You look really full, you don't have to finish those last bites."

Well, he stuffed what was left of the sandwich in his mouth anyway and then he got a look like a zombie while he was forcing himself to chew that huge mouthful. I told him to go to the bathroom and spit it out, as he looked to be in pain.

He did this and returned to the table looking relieved. I don't know how or why he stuffs his mouth, but at least he doesn't talk with his mouth full.

Whenever someone doesn't want to waste food or tries to eat every bite on his or her plate, this reminds me of my dad. He would never let us throw any food away. Dad especially loved eating fried chicken. If we slowed down with our eating and set our bones on the plate, he would grab for the bones and say, "Aren't you going to eat that?" He would then take the bones away from us and eat what was left and say, "There's a lot of meat on this bone."

This was embarrassing if I had a friend over to visit. He would reach for my friend's food. Dad sat at the head of the table and ordered mom and his daughters to wait on him. He was the only one who was served a fresh green salad in a salad bowl with Western dressing drizzled on it. He was the king at the table and all the food was served to him first.

Dad was a great eater and sometimes it seemed like a race at the dinner table as we ate and stared at the dwindling pile of fried chicken hoping to get a second piece when we finished eating our first piece. Mom usually set aside the breast, as she only liked white meat. Every meal, dad commented, "I don't care how much you put on you plate, just so long as you eat all of it." I didn't really understand this statement, as it seemed like there was never enough potatoes for my growing brothers. Dad would watch my brothers like a hawk as they loaded their plates with food and if any of my brothers would pile more than his share of potatoes on his plate, Dad would order them to remove some for the rest of us.

Maybe mom got tired of peeling so many potatoes night after night and that's why there never was enough. I know that I would get tired of peeling potatoes night after night. Besides the potatoes and meat and vegetables, my mother always served a homemade dessert. She enjoyed baking, but none of her children are big sweet eaters to this day. I still make sure I eat all the meat on my chicken bones, but it took me a long time to quit feeling guilty about leaving anything on my plate.

But I got over the guilt since no longer is anyone watching me like a hawk.

Women can answer questions, too
By Sheila Donnelly/Austin Daily Herald

Hunting season has been going on in our area for a now the past month. Duck hunting was a couple weekends ago and this past weekend was pheasant hunting.

Hunters, who drive slowly up and down the dirt road that runs in front of our house, are peering into the ditches and the harvested bean fields to see wildlife. Every time the drivers leave are when we see the deer, pheasants and wild turkeys. I am glad that we see the wildlife more often then the hunters driving by in their trucks do.

I used to despise the hunters when I first moved to this farm. Men would drive up in their trucks and honk for me to come out of my house and then ask if they could hunt in our woods. Sunday mornings were the worst when I would be getting the kids ready for church and two or more guys would drive up and sit in their trucks and honk. I finally refused to go out and speak to them or even go to the door. One time I had two guys give me the finger when I shook my head at them from the window.

Our eldest son is the one we let hunt on the property. He has an indoor job and likes to tramp the woods, pasture and fields. He keeps the gates shut and lets us know if something is amiss.

Because a road runs through our property, I have had hunters come on our land when they don't have permission. They have left the gates open, which has caused the cattle to escape. This hasn't happened lately, but during hunting season we are constantly checking for trespassers in our woods and backfields. This year, I was feeling glad that no one had driven up to ask to hunt.

Then, last week, when I was busy writing, my neighbor drove up in his truck. He and his brother-in-law got out of the truck and knocked at the door. My neighbor rarely says anything, but I knew right away that his brother-in-law wanted to hunt.

When I opened the door, the brother-in-law said, "I was wondering if your husband would mind if I hunted."

I raised my hand and interrupted him, "Stop right there. You lost me with that line. YOU WERE WONDERING IF MY HUSBAND ..."

He interrupted me, "Yes, I was wondering if your husband would mind if I hunted across the road in your woods."

I interrupted, "Don't ask what me what my husband thinks. I own this property too. I pay taxes on it. You are speaking to the owner. Ask me if I would let you hunt on our property. Don't you know how to speak to women? Am I not a person? You lost me with your first line ... your husband."

"Well, would your husband mind if I hunted over there?" he insisted.

"Look, you aren't listening to me. No, you cannot hunt here. You had better learn how to speak to property owners and realize that women own property too. I tell every man I meet who speaks to me, as you are, that they had better learn to speak to women and treat them better. No you cannot hunt here," I repeated.

This guy was unfazed and said, "Oh, so I'm not the only one who you tell this too."

He was really trying my patience and I said, "No and I am busy. Goodbye."

I closed the door and I was furious. Are all the men in my neighborhood missing parts of their brains? They act like cavemen. This has happened to me so often that I am going to be after all of them even more anytime one asks me if my husband would mind.

I will interrupt them and say over and over, "Yes, I sure the heck mind."

We must look out for each other
By Sheila Donnelly/Austin Daily Herald

It has been amazing weather with the temperatures in the 70s on Sunday, but the drought continues.

We have had to purchase hay for our cattle since August, as the pasture quit growing. Tom sold some young bulls a couple of nights ago. He had quite a time loading the cattle up and it didn't go well, as many of them jumped over the gates he had set up for a loading pen. Now he has to make the gates higher. Tom wasn't happy with the cattle and they way they were behaving. He didn't get as many loaded up as he had wanted. Fortunately the man who hauled the cattle is very patient but these cattle are trying his patience too.

Our pasture is across the road from where our house sits. We used to bring the cattle up to the barn when we wanted to have them loaded up. The barn has gotten so decrepit and is falling down that we had a loading pen built across the road for the cattle to go into. It had worked the two times before that we sold cattle, but the other night, nothing worked. We really didn't want to have a rodeo and we had what looked just like a rodeo, with cattle jumping every which way.

When we first moved to this farm more than 23 years ago, cattle jockeys were more prevalent in the area. There was one guy who would show up once a month and drive into the yard and ask if we had anything to sell. I never trusted him and I knew he was ripping us off every time he bought an animal from us, telling us over and over what a good deal he was giving us.

When I complained to Tom about him, Tom said, "He's an OK guy. He's just trying to make a living. Of course he wants to make a profit."

I would argue that we were nice people and we were trying to make a profit too. I didn't like this jockey's manner of how he wouldn't get out of his car and come to the door, but would roll his window down and speak loudly to me when I looked out the door from the house. One day he drove up and I was feeling ornery. I was thinking how I didn't like him and how he had ripped us off a couple times. Tom was out cutting wood. I walked up to the jockey's car, he had his window rolled down and he asked, "Got anything to sell."

"No," I answered.

"Is Tom around?" he asked

I didn't want him to see Tom, because Tom was always nice to him, and I was worried that Tom might sell him something.

I said, "You have got a funny job driving up to people's houses, sitting in your car and asking if they have anything to sell. We never know when you are coming, and you come at all different times of the day."

He knew I didn't like him and he said to me rather surly, "Your husband has a weirder job than me. He buries people."

"Well at least he doesn't drive around and go into people's yards and ask if they have anyone to bury," I retorted.

His face turned red, he sputtered at me and I could see that he couldn't think of anything to say. He started his car, revved it up, spun around in our driveway and tore out of the yard with the dust flying. I remember I started to laugh and knew that I had finally gotten rid of him. Tom came into the yard on the tractor with a load of wood as the car was tearing out of the driveway.

Tom said, "What did you say to him, Sheila?"

I told him what had incurred and he shook his head. "I didn't think he'd get so angry but at least he won't be coming back," I said.

"That is the one good thing," Tom agreed, shaking his head.

You better not lose this hat
By Sheila Donnelly/Austin Daily Herald

This all started with a hat.

My brother Pat, who is the oldest sibling of 11 in the family I grew up in, left his Greek wool fisherman hat at my son Danny's house last Memorial Day. Danny gave the hat to me to return to Pat. The hat sat on a dresser in my bedroom all summer.

A week before my daughter Mary's wedding, Pat called Danny and said he wanted to make sure that Danny brought the hat to the wedding so he could finally get it.

Danny phoned me quite irritated that I still had Pat's hat.

Danny said, "Look, I gave you the hat to give to Pat three months ago. This is upsetting to me that you didn't follow through."

"I forgot about the hat. I have been so busy this summer. When he comes to the wedding I will give Pat his hat," I said.

Two days before the wedding, my daughters Molly and Bridget were goofing around trying on clothes and Molly put Pat's hat on was prancing and dancing around the house in it.

"Don't lose that hat. That's Pat's hat. I will get killed if you lose it. Put it back on my dresser. I have had it since Memorial Day. Danny will get really angry if Pat doesn't get it back," I warned.

Well, Molly didn't put it back. She placed it on a pile of clothes and

I misplaced the hat in my bedroom. We were storing everything we didn't want on the main floor in my bedroom during the wedding doings.

Right after the ceremony Pat came up to me and said, "I heard you have my hat."

"Yeah, yeah, it's in my bedroom. I'm sure I can get it for you," I answered.

We had Mary's wedding reception at our farm and when we got home I went to find the hat, but my bedroom had been turned into a nursery for all the babies at the wedding. I asked Molly twice to help me find Pat's hat.

Molly said, "I'm not looking for his hat. We're having a wedding."

Pat came up to me several times at the reception and asked me if I had his hat.

I ran up to look for the hat in my bedroom a couple of more times, but there were just too many people and too much was going on. When Pat was leaving he party, he asked me again if I had found his hat and I said I would, get it to him, but it was too hard to find it in my bedroom when there was so much activity going on.

The next morning, I moved a few items in my bedroom and lo and behold, I found Pat's hat. I gave the hat to my sister Kate to give to Pat and told her all the trials I had gone through with the hat. She said that she couldn't believe that he had asked me about the hat over and over at the wedding.

Her brother-in-law, Martin, who was visiting from England overheard our conversation and said that he would like to take the hat on a journey and e-mail photos of the hat to Pat of the places he went.

He would let the hat tell the story.

Last week, after a couple phone calls from Pat on the whereabouts of his hat, he received the first e-mail and photo attached of his hat.

Pat e-mailed Martin back and wrote that he didn't like some bimbo playing around with his hat. The hat replied that were no jobs in England and he would be coming home soon. Pat rang me up irritated about the whole situation. I could hear his wife in the background loudly proclaiming that the hat cost $45 and he'd better get it back.

I didn't tell Pat who had the hat when he asked me. The hat can tell him soon enough.