Paint Sticks

My camera is broke, and it's been raining around here the past few days! What that means is I don't have much for photos to show you.
In the meantime, here is a story for you. Any young ranch wives may particularly enjoy this tale.
When my parents were first married, my grandfather (my dad's dad) stopped by after gathering supplies in town for a day of fall cattle work, and realized he forgot paint sticks. He was a little frustrated after going all the way to town just for supplies. My mom wasn't sure what he needed paint sticks for when working cattle, but was excited to be able to help, and informed him she had a whole bunch and would bring them along in the morning.
My grandfather gave her an odd look, likely wondering why she had a supply of paint sticks laying around (my mom wasn't raised on a ranch), but agreed and left for home.
The next morning, early I'm sure, my mom dutifully and happily presented my grandfather with about eight paint sticks - as in paint stirring sticks.
To hear my parents tell it, my grandfather just looked at her, dumbfounded. You see, he was referring to cattle marking paint sticks.
"What could you say?" was my dad's laughing remark to how his dad responded to his new daughter-in-law's happy attempt to help him with his odd supply list request.
Good luck to all you ladies who marry into ranching families, especially those who weren't raised in agriculture! After 27 years, I can assure you my mom has learned a lot, and taught a lot, to everyone in the family she married into : )

A tagging story

I've been told this story, starring myself, for as long as I can remember. I heard it again this weekend, and thought I would pass it on to a new audience.
Once, when I was really little (we're talking 2 or 3 years old), I went with my mom to tag calves. I actually went almost every day, regardless of the activity at hand.
Anyway...
I've mentioned some cows are nasty about having their calves tagged, and I mean it. There is no way to explain having a big cow dead set on destroying you to protect her baby. Dealing with these cows is something we put up with, because after their calves get a little older they typically mellow out, and having a protective instinct is a good trait to have in mother cows.
Well, on this particular day my mom found "that cow," as in the really bad one who would hunt you down, run you over, come back and maul you, if you simply got near her calf, had calved. This was one mean girl, and my mom knew it.
In good ranch wife fashion she got her taggers and book ready, pulled the feed pickup between the already irritated cow and her calf. She then quickly jumped out, grabbed the calf, and drug it under the pickup's flatbed to tag it. At the same time the cow rounded the pickup, bellowing (they're really loud), blowing snot and throwing dirt. She proceeded to try to crawl under the pickup too, and was rocking it pretty good to hear my mom tell it.
Enter me.
In my wise two-year-old prime, I got out of the of the pickup to help, (it must have sounded like she needed it). I walked around, stuck my head under the pickup, and likely began chattering away (I've always been a bit of talker), as this big, loud, mad cow continued to try to tip the pickup over so she could kill my mom and retrieve her baby.
My mother still goes pale at this part of the story, and ironically enough I have no idea if she got the calf tagged that day or not. I do know she was ready to kill me after she found out the cow hadn't.
I made it out without a scratch, from the cow or my mother.
This wasn't the first, or last time, I had such incidents either. It's amazing my mother doesn't have more gray hairs really.