Tag Archives: family

The Birkie

You know those canoe races I do? The ones where I can’t beat my Mom?

You know that triathlon where the boys couldn’t beat her even when they worked together?

The training my Mom does for the event this last weekend is no doubt why none of us can catch her all summer long.

For 18 years my Mom has skied the Birkebeiner, a 50 Kilometer ski race from Cable to Hayward. Of course being my Mom she doesn’t just ski it, she does disgusting things like come in third in her age group in a race of more than 8000 participants.

While I do ski I haven’t yet done a Birkie, instead I’ve tagged along with Mom and her friends as a spectator on most of the Birkies in the last ten years.  So this last weekend I drove all by myself to meet up with my brother so we could watch our Mom ski the Birkie, a very cold Birkie.

When Tyler and I got up Saturday morning, we noticed it was a bit chilly.How cold was it you ask?

Too cold for GU that’s how cold.

For those of you not up on your gooey supplements GU is an energy… uhh… goo that athletes can eat during races. It comes in a little foil pack that can be…well… gooed out into their mouth easily delivering a shot of carbohydrates and other important stuff. It helps a person do crazy things like keep skiing for hours in below zero weather.  Often in the Birkie you will see racers staple the GU to their numbered racing bibs so they can grab it and rip it off and eat it without stopping.

On Saturday morning thermometers were at ten below at start time. At that temperature nobody staples on their GU. At ten below they would be GUsicles, nobody wants a GUsicle.

After delivering a hitchhiking skier to the start of the race Tyler and I had  hiked out along the trail at the halfway point to watch for Mom. The first sight Tyler and I had of herwas as she came barreling across the trail at us yelling “Get my GU! Get my GU!”

This raised some questions in our minds.

A: Why she couldn’t get her own GU?

B: Where was the GU? Did she have it? Were we supposed to have it?

C: Were we going to be in trouble later for fumbling the GU feed that we didn’t know we were supposed to be doing?

D: Did the race and the cold do her in? Had the last of her marbles been lost on the trail?

E: If “D” is even a question why do both of us keep contemplating joining the insanity and racing ourselves?

While Tyler and I stared in confusion Mom made it clear that the GU was tucked into the hip of her ski pants and that she needed it out and opened up for her.

Now.

Tyler, the dutiful son, dug it out, opened it and looked up to Moms best impression of a hungry baby bird on skis.

I, the not so dutiful daughter, took pictures.

You don’t get to be one of the fastest grandma’s in the Birkie by hanging around with your kids midway through a race.  In seconds she had sucked her GU down and was headed back down the trail, leaving a her son staring at an empty packet of goo wondering what had just happened.

Tyler and I continued to ponder what had happened as we scooted down to Hayward where we were able to catch Mom on the trail one final time as she came across the lake before finishing in town. It wasn’t until later when she had sort of warmed up that we got the answers to our many questions.

A: Her hands were frozen and she knew if she were able to get it out of her pants she’d never get it open

B: It was of course stuffed in her pants so that it wouldn’t freeze, she was expecting us to be there and was watching for us so we could help her out. Poor watchers we had been distracted by one of her high school skiers moments before and would have missed her if she hadn’t come at us yelling!

C: Nope, ever since the time the group of us giving her a personal feed tripped her… twice… so long as she stays on her feet it’s a job well done!

D: It appears some marbles have remained in her head. It’s possible that after a night with the shotski they left, but that’s a whole different issue.

E: I have no idea.

Congrats to Mom and all her friends – Not only did you have great ski’s, but you did it with minimal frostbite!

Anne, as soon as your ready to commit to that babysitting I’ll send in my registration for next year! 🙂

If not I’ll see you at the finish line!

Have fun at worlds!

Michigan Entertainment

When John and the girls and I go visiting we always like a good project or activity.  Sitting around and visiting is fine after dinner when you are stuffed and worn out from the day and the kids are in bed, but up until that point we like to do something!

That said, we aren’t picky. For instance, we went to see Tyler and helped build a dog kennel.  We went to Michigan a few weeks ago and went snowshoeing and skiing. So this weekend when we took Storm back to Michigan and an escapee dog at the vet clinic chewed through two doors and part of a wall it wasn’t a problem… for us. We had a fun time running to get supplies and helping start to put things back together, then we left after the easy part was done. Other peoples’ projects are the best!

After we had called it quits on the repairs, a raccoon was spotted in a tree in the front yard and real fun began.

First up was to assess whether or not the raccoon seemed to be ill. Uncle Jim, as the vet, thought a diagnosis would best be accomplished with the reaction to a small rock from a slingshot.

Then we found out that John is not a very good shot, Uncle Jim is pretty decent, and all I can hit is a barn.

Had Marcia been there she would have showed us all up. Rumor has it she has been using Good and Plenty’s in a wrist rocket at thirty yards to scare away hawks that are snacking on the songbirds at her feeders. Not only is that the best use of a Good and Plenty I’ve ever heard of, but it’s also some pretty good aim!

After a few pebbles connected with the raccoon, the official diagnosis was that he had woken up during the last few days of warm weather and when it started getting chilly, climbed up the first tree he came to in order to fall back asleep. Since the aim of the slingshooters was too poor to bother the coon overly much and the tree was a fairly inappropriate place for a raccoon to sleep away the rest of the winter in, John was sent up the tree.

He was really upset by that…

… just kidding. Did you see that grin? John loves climbing trees, any excuse will do.

Did you know that law enforcement officers frown on climbing the trees along Madison’s State Street? John does.

Much shaking and poking later… …the coon was out of the tree and John took a rest… …while the ground crew went to work.

Uncle Jim, while good at aerial diagnosis of raccoons, is not the best coon herder.  It started out looking like a professional job, until the raccoon made a break for the garage.

I, the picture taker/Clara holder, was not near enough to see the part where the raccoon tried to burrow in under a bunch of boxes and Uncle Jim took matters into his own hands.  Ever since the coon was on the ground and Clara said “meow” I’d been holding her our of the way of the “kitty.” But when they came out of the garage I was all eyes!

A live, feisty, barking raccoon held at arms length made for a very quick trip across the yard where the coon was released back into the woods. Released with form that can only be explained by years of playing bean bag toss on the fourth of July.

Tonight the raccoon is hopefully snuggled up somewhere more appropriate for the rest of the winter, and if he is very smart thanking his lucky stars he lives in Marcia’s back yard and not in mine.

The moral of my story: We’d love to tackle a project with you if we ever visit, but you don’t need to worry about what it might be, we are very easily entertained!

OFG on Skis

All right! All right!

I know, it’s been DAYS since I’ve written, but seriously people calm down.

I was out of town, and now I’m back and I’ll tell you a story, show you some pictures and we’ll all be happy right?

Right.

SO…

Ever since my Uncle Jim, ( You remember him? ) Started cross country skiing again and setting OFG records some members of my family (myself included) have been harassing him, on his speed or lack thereof (it’s almost like a tradition, remember the triathlon?).  Last weekend while we were in Michigan visiting for another Storm surgery there was some time to play when the vet work was done.  It was then that I think Uncle Weasel enlisted Ivy’s help in getting me back for all my back talk on his skiing speed.

Sunday morning was beautiful, calm, sunny and cold, 7 below when we headed to the Allegan forest. Knowing it was a bit chilly out I had dressed the girls and I appropriately.  Ivy had double socks and mittens and lots of layers under her snow suit, Clara was bundled up and then put into my amautik. I had long underwear, sweatshirts, jeans, snow pants and the amautik (which I can’t wear unless it’s at least down to about 20-25 or I overheat) lots of socks, mittens and my thickest hat on. After we hopped out of the car and got suited up we spent a nice leisurely Ivy paced 10 minutes on the trail and I mentally congratulated myself on all my layers.

Then Ivy was DONE. John swooped in and took her on piggyback snowshoe ride and Clara and I headed out with my Uncle down the trail. So here I am, dressed to be virtually standing still skiing with Ivy at seven below, really skiing down the trail. I had a thirty pound heater on my back with the ability to lurch from side to side  (that’d be Clara) no poles (can’t use them in the amautik and don’t need them with Ivy) and my perfectly layered clothing was suddenly way too much! Clara soon feel asleep in her cozy spot but would grumpily and noisily wake back up if the motion of the skis was a bit too much (gliding all the way over one ski or the other, almost falling down, etc.), or if we were to, heaven forbid, stop.

I had a great time trailing after Uncle Weasel down the trail,  as I admired the beautiful morning and tried not to be trailing behind by too much I discovered something.

He is pretty speedy for an OFG!

But take away Clara, three extra layers and give me back my poles and I think I’d have him!

The Christmas Cookies

Yesterday I wrote about a few of the traditions in my family, but the Connell family Christmas Cookies were too big of an event to fit on the same post. Now that my laundry pile is much reduced I’m back to tell you more than you ever wanted to know about our Christmas Cookie making tradition!

The event begins a day or two ahead of the gathering of people when Grandpa and Granny (sometimes with assistance by others) use the old hand grinder to grind up almonds and lemon peel and mix them up into the dough. Just the making of the dough is a bit epic, and we haven’t hardly started yet!

Next we gather as many family members (and sometimes brave friends) as possible into the farm house in Pewaukee where we will shape and bake the cookies.

Once gathered the cooking making begins with the rolling. That’s grandpas job and has been for as long as I can remember. Sometimes he has helpers, sometimes he smashes the dough into his helpers face to make “nose prints,” sometimes it’s hard to be Grandpas helper.

Then a cutter must come and trim edges.

They are followed by the butterer…

…who is followed by the sugerer.

Once sugared they are cut into squares, or if Ivy is helping something with about four sides, not necessary straight nor uniform in size.

Then they are finally picked up and baked.

After baking they are cooled on racks before getting put away into the tins. This has been my Dads job for many years. This year there was much harassing about how he is almost as good at it as the 90 year old lady (my great grandma) who’s job he inherited.

Which brings us to the next part of the tradition.

The harassment.

The cookies are too thin, too thick, not buttered enough, too little sugar or not enough. “Your making postage stamps again!” is often heard to be yelled at a cutter. Oddly enough, Granny in the baking position gets very little flack on her work, I’m thinking this isn’t a coincidence.

And all this fun, it’s been going on for years.

I asked Grandpa this year just how long we have been making Christmas cookies.

He said: “Since 1848.”

He was kidding.

Just a tip, never trust Gramps, they don’t call him “The Big Fink” for nothin’.

Then Granny told how they were not always made this way. My Great Grandma used to cut them out with a round cutter and dip them in butter and then in sugar. Granny thought that was ridiculous therefore we don’t do it that way any more. After we got that story  behind us (it’s a yearly event) we attempted to figure out just how long we have been making the Christmas cookies. It turns out 1848 isn’t too far off. The recipe is entitled “Lena Puchners Christmas Cookies”, it calls for 5 cents of potash, (we’ve updated that to baking soda in our new fangled ways and the cookies seem no worse for the wear) and in the top corner is written “Hayton.” This means -stop reading now if you want to save yourself from the family history- that the Connell family (my Moms, Dads family) had brought the recipe to Pewaukee with them from Hayton Wisconsin where they used to live before my Great Grandfather (James A Connell – Grandpa’s Dad) bought the farm in 1913.  My Great Great Grandfather (Richard Connell)  had died when James was only 16 and so when he came to Pewaukee at the age of 28 he brought his mother (Betsy Amelia, who is sometimes called Betsy and usually called Amelia which always manages to confuse me) and her Christmas Cookie recipe along with him. Shortly after they were joined by Jessie (my Great Grandmother) the maker of the round cookies.

What does all this mean?

It means that while we have no idea who Lena Puchner was, or how long before the move Amelia may have made the cookies, we do know that Lena’s got some pretty darn good cookies and my family has been making them for at least a hundred years.

Now that’s a tradition.

Traditions

Back from the long weekend of Christmas celebrations we are tucked back into our cozy house reliving the love and beauty of the season…

Sort of.

We are back, the house is still freezing cold, the laundry is sorted and piled on the floor, the hunting stuff is strewn about, the new toys (for young and old) are piled up waiting to find new homes in the morning, the children have only recently stopped yelling and requesting water, Piper is shivering on the couch under her blanket and worried we might leave her behind again at any moment, and the cat is doing her best to be on top of everything.

John is updating our yearly Christmas Book (one of the best newlywed gifts ever by the way) and I’m doing my blogging thing while a fire is trying desperately to turn our frigid house cozy.

Happily home.

Sort of.

Despite my dubious enjoyment of our homecoming we did have a great long Christmas weekend filled with traditions.

My Dads side of the family is traditional in their traditions. (Is that possible? Lets say it is.)

First we stuff forty to fifty people into one house.

They all bring food. (Can you get more traditional than that?)

There is traditional food like stuffed Vienna bread. (If this didn’t show up I’m afraid my mother would be forcibly ejected from the house until she went and made some.)

And there is not so traditional food. Aunt Jeanie always brings something interesting and new, this year she made Spanakopita. I’m not sure what it was, there was something green inside and I ate it all anyway. It was good, very good.

The next tradition is that we squish everyone into one spot, ask my very Finnish family to have patience, stand still, and do what someone else tells them to while we take a picture. (HA!)

 

Miraculously this seems to work every year. The picture taker puts up with a lot of abuse but the picture does get taken. This year cousin Jack took the picture. (He does that now, if you need a picture you should find him. If he can get this family to hold still and smile he can do anything!)

Then then evening turns into a mass of talking, eating, running kids and game playing.

Can you have a tradition of noise? There is a lot of noise.

It used to be the uncles (five of which are my Dads brothers) would play Scrabble and then another group (headed by most of the five  in-law aunts)  would find the new nosiest game ever (think Pictionary) and see how many dirty looks they could get from the serious Scrabble players.  The last few years I haven’t seen a scrabble board but the noisy games have continued. It  just goes to show, Scrabble is nice but you just can’t make a tradition out of it like you can screaming answers above the din of a noisy house… or something…

On my Moms side of the family the traditions are older a bit more reserved and to be honest, a few of them are decidedly odder.

We eat things called prick headed monkeys. They are much tastier than they sound and involve no monkeys whatsoever.

This year was the 98th year the Connell family ate a Christmas dinner around the same table. (unless it was more, but we can only say 98 years for sure)

Every year Grandpa hangs his ornament on the tree while telling the story about when he “was just this high” it broke and he fixed it with Micky Mouse bubble gum. (It’s still fixed by the way, Mickey Mouse bubble gum has some incredible staying power.)

We cook a pudding that is only mildly edible, light it on fire and than smother it in something called hard sauce to make it palatable.  In the last few years John has been leading the family in singing “Varsity” while the pudding burns.

Finally there is the making of the Christmas cookies. This actually occurs sometime before Christmas, (we are clearly too busy singing and burning things  day of) and is an EVENT. Since it is an EVENT it’s getting a posting of it’s own, stay tuned!

I offer no explanation for any of this other than it is – tradition.

Traditions, love em or hate, you just can’t have Christmas without em!

Hope your Christmases were merry and your laundry piles are small!

Jarring?

Why do we call the process of preserving food in jars canning?

Why not jarring?

These are the questions Tyler and I asked each other in our canning delirum at one in the morning.

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The weekend was planned as a venison canning weekend. And it was. The last of the 64 pints are in the canner as I type.

Of course had we not found so many other things to do we’d be done already and we’d have skipped the delirium last night.

But where’s the fun in that?

The first set back in the canning progress was that Sarah and I have never been brillant about rationing time spent together.  That history is a whole post that involves two countries, too much Diet Coke and a lot of tears, so I won’t go into it here. I’ll just say we saw each other, it was fun, and I probably should have been canning.

Then after staying up canning until delirium set in last night Tyler took me grouse hunting this morning.

I recommend hunting with Tyler.

Today he was my guide/Sherpa/driver/child sitter/dog handler.IMGP5953

While I did see a grouse and lots of track this morning I didn’t get a shot off , but I’ll forgive my guide/Sherpa/driver/child sitter/dog handler, he had his hands full.

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Toe Jam

Tyler and I both have a tendency to come down with athletes foot.

I have taken the prevention route by never wearing socks and shoes.

This is a technique that earns me odd looks, smart alec comments, and cold toes in December but prevents the problem outright.

Tyler wears steel-toed boots all day.

He is far beyond prevention.

Tonight I found out Tyler’s most effective cure for his athletes foot. It was a cure I found to be disturbing, disgusting and frankly down right fascinating. Tonight I watched his dog Turk lick every little crevice of Tyler’s feet and then chew off anything that wouldn’t lick off. 

I hate licking dogs.

I really really do. The licking, the repetitive slurping noise, the fact that dogs seem to do it most often in quiet house late at night. Just thinking about it makes me want to yell at a dog. YEECH!

Take a licking dog and add to that Tyler’s feet, (Which I will not describe because this post already includes more information about either of our feet than anyone wanted to know, but I will point out that his athletes foot is bad enough to welcome Turks treatment!) and I was squirming as I watched in horror and fascination the treatment Tyler’s feet were getting.

Tyler, because he is after all my little brother, just laughed at me and encouraged his dog.

So I took pictures to post online after he went to bed.

Siblings, aren’t they great!?!

Personally I’m sticking with cold toes in December!

Goodbye Kansas!

The last day in Kansas…

The day started out in the fields with flocks of snow geese flying over. (You may have to click on the picture to make it bigger but you should be able to see them in the upper right corner.)  They were so low and brilliant as the bright sun reflected off them I had to stay and marvel awhile as Tyler walked off, unimpressed for too long by something un-shoot-able. Moments later he spooked “one of the biggest eight-pointers he’s ever seen in his life” and a doe out of the treeline and became suitable impressed by non-shoot-able wildlife.  Not too long after that Tyler had found a pheasant in a brush pile, and a covey of quail.  My Mom and I saw a lot of quail, got a lot of the “flutters” and left Kansas without getting one of our own, but we did see a barn owl that morning and that’s a trade I’m willing to make!

That was just the first hunt of the day. As Tyler said,”You just never know what you are going to find when you get out of the truck.”

Mom very nicely offered to pack up back at the campsite while we kept hunting and when we dropped her off we finally saw the prairie dogs of Prairie Dog State Park. I will admit, it’s entirely possible that I find prairie dogs far more amusing than I should. Remember the flock of blackbirds? They were a bad time waster, if I had prairie dogs out my window I’d be useless!

Tyler pulled me away from the prairie dogs back to the birds where we not so very nicely repaid my Mom’s kindness by shooting all the birds while she was gone.

Admittedly all the birds is an overstatement. There was a covey of quail that confused us, gave us the flutters, and made me drop the apple I was eating. I still didn’t managed to hit one. Tyler did, but he’s sort of disgusting like that.

I’m OK with him being a disgustingly good hunter though because I got one more pheasant the last day. Not just any pheasant,  it was a bird Tyler shot at first and missed! HA!

Mom joined back up with us in time to see me fall in two more gigantic holes, but missed all the good shooting.

Aside from getting a pheasant that Tyler didn’t, my other highlight of the day was when Buzz and I were off on our own hunting. We found a strip of grass between a bit of woods and a lake.  As we walked into it, about three million ducks and geese came off the water, three deer ran out of the woods and Buzz pointed a hen pheasant in the grass. (Ducks above Buzz on the left)

You truly just never know what you’re going to find when you get out of the truck!

We ended the day in a field recommended by the guide we met (looks like his website is still in the works, I’ll link to it when it’s up and running), and it was a good one!  Unfortunately our overtired dogs were wild and crazy as they ran nose into the wind and managed to bump most of the 100 or so pheasants that were in the field out of range or run them out the backside of the field! It didn’t put any more birds in our game vest but it sure was a fun field to end the trip on!

I’m going to continue to attempt to block the 13 1/2 hour all night drive back home, complete with getting pulled over by the cops from my memory, and then I’ll be ready to start planning the next trip!

The Dogs

We’ve got five dogs with us here in Kansas, four Brittney Spaniels and an English Setter. The dogs are what make the trip worthwhile so I thought they deserved a little limelight tonight, so here they are…

First we have Tyler’s dog Turkey:

Today Turk tried to make my legs as tired as his. He’d look a little “birdy,” trot off with his nose to the ground, then stop and look back at me as if to say, “Come on!”  Early this afternoon I followed along at a fast walk for ten minutes before he put up a hen pheasant. So of course later in the day I HAD to follow him just in case. Except this time he was just headed to a corn field for an easy run back to the truck. I think he did it on purpose, he’s that kind of a dog.

Then there are my parents dogs:

Rosie is the oldest of the dogs, but can still steadily trot along all day. She was the star dog who found my pheasant at the end of the day today, Rosie got extra treats from me tonight!

We have Birkie, whose escapades today involved jumping off the embankment next to the road into Tyler’s arms, and causing a  traffic jam on a log bridge on our way out the fields tonight. After being stuck on a wet slippery log for a very long time I managed to get her to turn and we both made it dry to the other side, but she had me worried for a while!

The English Setter is Misty, she spends the first few minuets of every hunt looking for my Dad, her main hunting partner, when she resigns herself to the fact that she’s stuck with us she’s wonderful to watch in action as she sneaks up to birds. Too busy hunting to be caught in a picture this is the best we’ve got of her this trip. Misty is the white dog starting at Tyler willing him to get up and keep hunting.

And then there is Buzz.

Buzz (on right) and Birkie sharing a drink.

The youngest of the dogs Buzz is just over a year old and is most commonly referred to as a “doofus”. Also known as a “block head” and on one memorable moment “Turk’s pale shadow that smells like shit.” He is overly fond of rolling in stinky stuff, requires a close eye in the field, and drinks more water then the rest of us combined. Despite all of that today Buzz was my lucky dog.

Yesterday morning Tyler shot a pheasant and carried it around with him the rest of the day. He called it his lucky pheasant and we figured it might have been true because Mom and I shot nothing while Tyler continued to fill his game vest. This morning I started out hunting with Buzz.  One of the first things he did was run down a wounded pheasant and retrieve it, so I stuck it in my vest and called it my lucky pheasant.  Buzz and I saw a quite few more birds on that hike, though none shootable. Then Buzz spent the middle of the day resting while my lucky pheasant and I covered a lot of ground seeing almost nothing! It wasn’t till the last hunt of the day that Buzz and I went out together again and the first thing we did was put up a covey of quail.

Just so you know quail make me “get the flutters,” as Tyler would say, and I haven’t been able to hit one yet.  Just imagine walking up on a stock still dog thinking you are about to flush a large pheasant out of a clump of tall grass, when all the short grass around you erupts with little birds! The quail take off low to the ground like bats out of you know where as you try to get over the shock of it all and pick one bird of the dozen or so to try to shoot. Unsurprisingly I’ve taken a lot of long, poor, unproductive shots at the “little bastards” as Tyler has affectionately taken to calling them.

After the covey went up and the “flutters” were got by both Tyler and I the quail sailed away I realized something: It must have been Buzz who was the lucky dog and my lucky pheasant had just been dead weight (literally) that I’d been dragging around all day. With an optimistic outlook I crossed the crazy log that Birkie later trapped me on, yelled at Buzz as he rolled in cow manure and finally found more pheasants!  Tonight was the first time I had a shot at a pheasant all trip. Thankfully my Mom and Tyler with their years of experience and faster reflexes were nice enough not to shoot it before I did, but they were ready to be back up if needed. They weren’t!

Tomorrow is our last day, and Buzz is hunting with me!

Kansas Holes

Tonight as we discussed our favorite moments of the day we realized that many of them had something in common.

Watching people fall into holes.

Unfortunatly it wasn’t watching “people” fall it was watching me fall.

Normally when you are hiking if one foot disappears up to the knee in a hole you lunge your second foot forward to catch yourself, stumble a bit and move on.

Here in Kansas land of gigantic holes completely covered with prairie grasses that’s not the case.

Here once you lose one foot there is a very high chance that when you try and save yourself you will instead end up with both feet in a huge hole. Then comes the teetering, and the tottering, the attempts to save yourself, save your gun, and the praying that no birds go up while you are so compromised. Sadly no matter what you do, you still end up on the ground.

I was not the only one to have this problem, just the only one to have witnesses.

Both times.

Tyler described his favorite moment of the day as when he looked over and saw Mom walking though the field and a hat sitting on the ground…. I was under the hat.

Mom described her favorite moment as watching  me try to save myself as my body “bent like a willow stick in the wind” while my feet and legs looked like they were “stuck in cement.”

Sadly I never got to see anyone fall today.

Instead my favorite moment actually involved hunting and watching Misty point and then circle around in front of me to put up running pheasants between us.

My hope is tomorrow I tomorrow it’ll be my turn to watch someone else fall in a hole and that the birds Misty puts up will be roosters instead of hens!