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by C.J. Mouser After growing up in Texas, C.J. Mouser and her husband, Fred, eventually found home on a small farm in west central Florida, where they and children Jenny, Jillian and Jake grow oranges and raise swine. A collection of goats, cats and dogs also call the farm home, along with the occasional rattlesnake, alligator or "marauding wild hog intent on a little romance" in the sow pasture. Other articles focus on family. "Sometimes the threads that hold the family together are as fragile as spider silk, and as convoluted and complex as the main switchboard at the IRS." Their farm spans thirty acres in Hardee County, where they raise livestock, oranges, and the occasional few acres of some type of cash crop. Although her husband had some background in animal husbandry and livestock management, life on the farm was a new experience for C J and their three children. Her readers have learned to expect to laugh and occasionally cry, as she describes her joys, trials, and tribulations in such tales as Ricardo Ropes a Pig, The Maternal Instinct, Memories on the Hoof, and Never Take a Duck to Bed. Mouser, who is also a freelance writer and columnist for several different Florida newspapers, followed her own path to become a writer. "I have no formal education. In fact, I'm 45 years old and haven't finished high school," she says. "I am a prime example of 'don't let this happen to you'." Faithful readers who can't wait for her next story, however, would say she's done just fine. |
Nobody prepared me for the days of in-between. Well, maybe they tried to, and maybe I just wasn't paying attention. Daddy was six-foot four, and when he began complaining that the ground was a lot further away than it was back when he was twenty, I wasn't sure what that meant. Or when Mama said that she could remember when she could be on her feet all day and half the night, and not think twice about it, I was unimpressed. No one warned me that the days of in-between would come at a point in my life, when I needed my physical endurance most of all. Although I suspect that there is never a good time for this transition to occur, it seems that buying a farm is not a good time in life to discover physical frailties. One day, I could hop a four-strand barbed wire fence without even thinking about it. The next, it seemed that the entire world was fenced off, and I was spending every waking moment searching for gates. One day, I just put my hand on the post and over I went. Just like I'd always done. The next day it was there; that little niggle of doubt rears its ugly head, and suddenly there's a new category. "Things I usta could do". Nowadays, when the subject of things I usta could do comes up, at the top of the list is fence jumping. Fence jumping is a valuable ability when you live on a farm. It can save you hours of walking time, and is especially important when there is an urgency to reach sanitary facilities. It's all about confidence, you know. I'm sure that there are things that I could still do if I was convinced that I could do them, but it's the potential failure that scares me, and frankly, the scenarios that float around in my head regarding fence jumping, scare the waddin' out of me. There are three likely results of my trying to jump a barbed wire fence nowadays, and none of them are pretty. One: I would run toward the fence, and upon reaching the fence would stop dead still and chicken out. Two: I would run toward the fence and place my hand on the post and jump, and in the unlikely event that my arm could support my weight, I would hang a foot on the top strand of barbed wire, and fall flat on my face on the other side. Three: I would run toward the fence and reach to place my hand on the post and miss, and then I would slide toward the ground scraping all the hide off the under side of my arm as it grates down the post. Before the pain from that action really set in, I would land chest first into the barbed wire, probably hard enough to puncture at least one lung, and then before I can mercifully pass out, I would hang myself, or at the very least, cut my throat. Then, if I'm lucky, I would drag myself back the way I had come, wounded, dejected, humiliated, a little smarter, and praying I don't bleed to death while I search for aid. Anyway, needless to say, my 'usta' could do list is now a lot longer than my 'can' do list when it comes to physical exertion. I have firmly and thoroughly reached the days of in-between. The end of the days of waking up in the morning, and bounding out of bed before my eyes are open. The end of the days of scurrying around life so fast, that I meet myself coming around corners. The end of the days of fence jumping, and the beginning of the days of parting the strands of wire…and going in-between. Now, before you go getting all depressed (assuming you have yet to reach the days of in-between) know that there are some advantages in slowing down a bit. You tend to notice things that you never noticed before. Like that little clump of wildflowers next to the gate, or the sound the sand hill crane makes as it soars overhead. Granted, things take longer to do, injuries take longer to heal, and details take longer to remember. But. Sunsets are more breathtaking and beautiful than ever, accomplishments mean more than they ever did, and small victories soon take the place of, and become sweeter…than large ones. |
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