They Do Grow Up: Funny and Heartfelt Story of a Teen’s First Prom and a Proud Grandma

My 16-year-old grandson has lived with us for the past 4½ years. When he first moved in, he was a full-time brat in residence. You know the type—mouthy, stubborn, allergic to chores, and somehow always just about to clean his room.

But little by little (with a healthy dose of nagging, grounding, and "Because I said so!"), he’s grown into a fine young man. And last Saturday, that fine young man went on his very first date.

A girl (calm down, not a girlfriend) from a nearby high school invited him to her junior prom. Since Grandson is homeschooled and doesn’t exactly have a cafeteria to get rejected in, this was a big deal.

He’s also been harassing me for a church suit for months. I kept putting it off because he’s still growing like a corn stalk in Miracle-Gro, and I didn’t feel like shelling out cash for something he’d outgrow before the next sermon. But oh, look—a prom! Suddenly we need a suit. Fancy that.

Of course, before he left, Jim and I gave him the Official Pre-Date Pep Talk, complete with bullet points:

• Get out of the car.

• Go to the door.

• Shake her daddy’s hand like you’re not afraid of him (even if you are).

• Ask, “What time would you like your daughter home, sir?” like a gentleman and not like a hostage.

• Open her car door. (Every. Single. Time.)

• And when you drop her off, walk her to the door. Don’t just boot her out like she’s a pizza delivery.

Then, just for fun, we acted out the worst-case scenario—the kind of date that ends up as a cautionary tale at girls’ sleepovers:

• Honk in the driveway like you’re late for NASCAR.

• Park in the only available puddle.

• Don’t say hello. Just yell, “Let’s roll!”

• At the dance, ask, “Want some punch?” then follow it with, “Cool. Grab me some while you’re up.”

• Dance with every girl but your date.

• Gawk at someone else and say, “Dang, wish she invited me!”

• At the end of the night, slow down just enough for her to tuck-and-roll onto her front lawn.

You know. Real chivalry is dead kind of behavior.

So the big night comes. Grandson showered, shaved, got dressed—and while I’m pressing his shirt (with actual steam coming out of the iron and my ears), he strolls in and asks me to trim his hair. Now mind you, I’ve been begging him for weeks to get a haircut. But noooo, not until an hour before go-time, when he suddenly wants me to perform a hair miracle in under ten minutes. Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

So off he went, scruffy hair and all, to pick up his date. Then they came back here for pictures. And folks—I’ll be honest. When I saw him help her out of the car and walk her up to the porch like a real gentleman, I nearly lost it. My throat got tight, my eyes watered up, and I had that full-body grandma moment where you realize they’re not a little boy anymore.

I heard later that she told him she thought she had the best date there. And you know what? I believe it.

He looked good. He acted right. And he made her feel special. That’s a win in my book.

Yup. They do grow up.
Eventually.
And sometimes, they even make you proud enough to forget the smell of their teenage laundry.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Confessions of a Police Car Passenger: A Funny Real-Life Ride-Along Story from the Farm

Thanks for all your comments on yesterday's post. It was fun to see what I'd get accused of if you ever spotted me in the back of a police car. Y’all are a creative bunch—and a little too quick to believe I’ve got a criminal streak!

Truth is, I have ridden in the back of a police car—once. And no, I wasn’t cuffed. And no goats were involved. Here's the full story, and I swear it's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—as far as my memory and my flair for dramatic retelling allow.

Jim and I had gone to New York City to see a Broadway show. Our usual routine: drive to a nice, calm Connecticut town, park the car, take the train into Grand Central, and walk from there to the theater. It saves us the nightmare of driving in NYC traffic—which, let’s face it, is somewhere between demolition derby and NASCAR with traffic horns.

On this fateful night, everything went smoothly… until it didn’t. On the ride home, we got off the train one stop too soon.

Now here’s Confession #1: Jim said it was the wrong stop. I said it was the right one. He gave in like a gentleman. And unlike me, he didn’t say “I told you so,” which was frankly heroic. I, on the other hand, would’ve embroidered it on a pillow and mailed it to him.

It was after midnight. Cold. Quiet. The platform was deserted. Greenwich, Connecticut shuts down tight at night and apparently takes the yellow pages with it. We had cell phones, but no taxi numbers. And there wasn't another train until 5 a.m.

As we stood there trying to pretend this was fine and not the first five minutes of a crime show, I spotted a police cruiser crossing the bridge. I started jumping up and down, flailing like a woman trying to wave down an ice cream truck during a hot flash.

The officer pulled into the parking lot. As I ran toward him, Jim followed close behind. The cop jumped out, hand on his gun, eyes on Jim like “Ma’am, blink twice if you’re being kidnapped.” I quickly explained our predicament—wrong stop, no cab, stuck in sleepy-town—and asked if he could call a taxi.

He did better: he invited us into the back of the cruiser and offered a ride to the next station.

Now, this is where Confession #2 comes in: I'd never been in the back of a police car before. So naturally, I asked the hard-hitting questions.

“What happened to the seat cushions?”
“Where’s the floor mat?”
“Is this a budget cut thing or…?”

Turns out, it’s all hard plastic back there. No padding. No carpet. Nothing cozy. Why? Because, as he so cheerfully explained, people try to hide stuff like drugs or weapons in the upholstery—or worse, vomit on everything. (Apparently, a significant part of police work involves hose-down situations.)

I suddenly felt the need to apologize to every officer who’s ever had to scrub someone’s bad decisions off a car seat. Parenting prepared me for a lot, but this was next-level.

We chatted the whole ride—about twenty minutes—until he asked where we were from.

“Northern New Hampshire,” I said. “Up in the boonies. Woods, mountains, and more moose than people.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So what’s the crime rate up there?”

I laughed. “Well, every now and then somebody gets drunk on a Saturday night and gets into a fight at the bar—or with his girlfriend. The rest of the time it’s just break-ins at unoccupied camps. No one dares break into an occupied house. Around here, we’re hunters, farmers, and loggers. Which means we’re all armed.”

He chuckled. “You know, I told the NYPD for years that instead of trying to keep guns out of people’s hands, they should let folks protect themselves. It’d cut down on crime in a hurry.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Even criminals don’t have a death wish.”

Our conversation surprised me. I’d been bracing myself for the usual city-vs-country gun control debate, but instead, he just nodded like he’d seen enough real-life nonsense to understand the value of a good dog, a strong lock, and a responsible gun owner.

By the time he dropped us off, I decided he was one of the good ones—practical, kind, and just cynical enough to get through life with his sense of humor intact.

He even wished us a safe drive home. Talk about service.

The next day, we told the kids Jim had gotten rowdy and the NYPD had to personally escort us to our car, lights blazing, officer saying, “Hasta la vista, baby!” (Picture Arnold Schwarzenegger. In uniform. Maybe chewing a donut.)

The kids gave us a look that said, “Okay, but no one over 60 should quote Terminator.”

So fine. I came clean.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it—one confused stop, one generous cop, one very clean plastic seat… and zero jail time.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

What Did I Do? Funny Blog Challenge: “Why Was I Arrested?”

Most of the time, I either ignore e-mail forwards or give them a quick glance before hitting delete. You know the type—“Send this to ten friends and you’ll have good luck by Friday,” or “Share this heartwarming story to prove you care.” If I actually forwarded every one of them, I’d never get anything else done. Between the chain letters, inspirational poems, and talking cat videos, my inbox would be a full-time job.

But every now and then, one of those forwards catches my eye. This particular one did. It wasn’t sappy, political, or promising eternal blessings if I shared it before midnight. Nope—this one made me laugh. The message said to reply privately to the sender with your answer, then forward it to all your friends. The question?

“If you saw me in a police car, what would you think I got arrested for?”

Now that’s my kind of e-mail. Forget the angels and recipes—this one had potential. I couldn’t resist thinking about how my friends might answer. Would they assume it was something noble, like protesting unfair zoning laws for farm animals? Or something more likely, like disorderly conduct after chasing a runaway goat through town in my pajamas?

I decided this was too good to stay trapped in my inbox. Why not take it to the blog and see what creative “crimes” my readers could come up with? Knowing my friends, I could be accused of anything from smuggling chickens across state lines to assaulting a rooster with a broom handle.

So here’s the challenge—join in the fun! Leave a comment about what you think I got arrested for, then post the same question on your own blog or page. Let’s see what your friends accuse you of.

Just remember: it’s all in good humor. No mugshots required—unless, of course, someone gets caught speeding on the way to the feed store.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Coupon Queening 101: How to Save Big with Smart Couponing and Frugal Living Tips

My daughter-in-law is a fantastic couponer. The stores pay her to shop there. She many times comes away with paying nothing, to having money handed to her after she shops. I've never been very good at couponing so I asked her to write this guest post to teach me, and you, how she does this. And I don't know how she finds time to do all this while managing a large family AND maintaining a fantastic blog all about being frugal.

History of Coupons?

The stigma used to be that only Poor people used coupons.
Coupons have been used in America since the 1800's.
C.W. Post really kicked off the use of coupons when he began to offer costumers .01 off their Grape Nuts cereal in the early 1900's.
Coupons are used as a way of advertising and to market a product.

Coupons are also a bit of a confession that a company's product is over priced if you need a coupon to begin with. With today's economy Coupon stigmas are long gone. It is so HIP to be frugal these days;)

Where to get coupons:
*Sunday papers obviously (although I don't have a subscription to it:)
*In Magazines (the Wal-mart Mag ALL YOU is a great one. It can also be ordered as a subscription from Amazon)
*In grocery store flyers-many are Manufacturer coupons & can be redeemed ANYWHERE
*Contact companies and get on their mailing lists
*Recycling centers can have the coupons left in the papers (get permission first)
*Ask paper boys you might know if they have left over inserts.
*Tell your neighbors to save them for you.
*Hold a Coupon party and swap some-Yes! they do that.
*Start a coupon train, you put what you don't need into a envelope and pass it on to be added to or taken from.
*Start a basket at a school or library like the penny jars. Have a coupon drop it off. Need one take it.
*Google search "printable coupon for _______________"

Most of the printable coupons on the Internet that you'll find are called "Bricks" coupons. Bricks means the Manufacturers have put up a brick wall;) A block so you can't print the coupon endlessly. Most of the Bricks will print twice from every computer you have access to, as long as no one's already printed the coupon from that computer-they keep track with codes. Some bricks coupons will reset each month or later in a promotional run.

Coupons.com and the other sites listed above are also bricks coded so you can print each coupon twice from them as well.

Some stores are leery of accepting printed coupons, others just won't. Every store is entitled to their own Coupon Policy.

DO NOT EVER PHOTO COPY A PRINTED COUPON-THAT IS FRAUD! There are special markings on a printed coupon that disappear when photo copied. After you print a coupon you'll notice in the background in the center of the coupon is a blurry rectangle image or logo-that's a watermark. That's proof it's a legit coupon. Also under the doted bar code usually in the upper right, the numbers under it change with each print. (Just a couple of things to point out if a cashier doesn't want to take your coupon because she thinks it's a copied version)

If you come across a printable "too good to be true" coupon-it probably is. Recently there have been FREE multi-packs of Bounty coupons out. So BEWARE, there ARE fraudulent coupons to print out on the Internet. Most of these will come from Blogs or personal sites.


How to organize Coupons now that you've got some?

At first an envelope in your purse will work. Then you might go to the Accordion folder style or a recipe type box. If you become really serious you'll want the Granddaddy of them all-the Coupon Binder:)

How to use coupons:

*Best way is to wait for a sale, then combine it with a coupon of multiples! If you like Skippy Peanut Butter you could use your .50 off that $1.79 jar and pay $1.29. But why do that if you can wait till it's on sale for .99 and then snag it for .49?

*Most coupons usually come out about 3+ weeks before there will be a sale on the product. They want you to go blow that coupon-don't a sale most likely IS coming.

*You can combine Manufacturers coupons WITH Store coupons.

*If you get a lot of coupons tear the inserts apart so you have all of the same page. Then cut them with a paper cutter - NOT SCISSORS:) You'll be there forever.

*Don't get flustered at the check out! It's OK. Cashiers get grouchy cause they're tired not because you hand them a coupon. (And if they do- then hey sorry for them) I usually just lightly say "it all helps these days huh?" as I hand them 40+ coupons LOL! I'm a regular and they don't even bat an eye... Being nice goes a long way too. Remember they're going to be working their entire shift no matter if your in their line. 6 hours is still 6 whether coupons are involved or not. They have a job because you help pay their paycheck... Don't let them be rude to you.

*If there's a sale that's B1G1F (buy one get one free) you can mix that with a coupon for even more savings. Then the first one you buy is cheaper.

*If you have a coupon for something and it would be free get it! Even if it isn't your brand think Food Pantry, Homeless Shelter, etc. If you don't coupon, start for that reason alone.

*Check those clearance bins! Plenty of goodies have been found there to be used with a coupon. Sometimes you'll get paid to buy things if they cost less then the coupon deduction or you may just snag some free stuff because the store chooses to price down the coupon.

*Coupons are the same as cash. It's a form of tender for a bill. The stores have to wait a little bit to get reimbursed but they make .08 per coupon back for it. In the end they're making $ to take your coupon.

*Don't forget to get your rain checks if a product is out. Then hit up some coupons!

*You can buy something for a rebate with a coupon. However, some Companies are starting to deduct the coupon amount from the rebate check you'll get. Some, just so you know.

*I love this last tidbit.
Did you know that most Millionaires use coupons or are married to someone who does? From the book The Millionaire Next Door
LOVE IT!

There you go, a crash course in Coupon Queening 101

HaPpY SaViNgS Ya'll:)!!!!!!!!!!

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Mother's Dreams: Reflections on Family, Faith, and the Joy of Raising Strong Children

For every mother, there is also a child. So this Mother's Day, I want to take a moment to honor mine—because without them, I’d just be a lady who talks to herself in the car and tells the dog all her problems.

Now, I’m going to brag just a little… okay, who am I kidding? I’m going to brag a lot. It's Mother's Day, and if I can’t shamelessly gush about my kids today, when can I?

Mothers of young children spend a lot of time wondering what their kids will be like when they grow up. Will they be kind? Will they find a good partner? Will they finally remember to change the toilet paper roll without being reminded? And of course, we dream about grandbabies—those sweet little bundles who let you snuggle them and then go home with someone else when they get cranky.

We want more for our kids—more education, more opportunity, more peace, more faith, more snacks that don't come from the dollar store. We want them to be better versions of ourselves, but with fewer bad haircuts and more emotional maturity.

And I’ve been blessed beyond measure. My son married a woman I couldn’t have hand-picked better if I'd had a catalog and a magic wand. She’s a phenomenal mother to my grandchildren—patient, loving, strong, and smarter than I ever was at her age. In fact, if she keeps this up, she’ll be a better version of me when she hits my age… and I say that with all the pride of someone who can finally admit they didn't have it all figured out in their thirties. (Or forties. Or, let’s be honest, ever.)

Their family is a living, breathing version of the dreams I once whispered over a sink full of dishes or while folding an endless pile of laundry that somehow still contained only one sock from each pair.

But I’m not stopping there. My two daughters? Powerhouses. Strong women with hearts like lionesses and nerves like steel cables. They're raising their own children now, facing down life’s curveballs with courage, grace, and just the right amount of caffeine. I see pieces of myself in them, yes—but I also see what’s uniquely theirs: resilience, fierce independence, and the kind of strength that could move a mountain or at least clean a kitchen while holding a baby and answering work emails.

And let’s not forget my four stepchildren—wonderful adults who bring honor to their families and have become an unexpected gift in my life. They’ve woven themselves into my heart just as tightly as anyone born there.

I’m so proud of all of them I could practically burst at the seams—though, truth be told, some of these seams have already given up the fight. Elastic only has so much fight in it.

So here’s to raising children who become the kind of people we once dreamed about when they were small and sticky and asking why fourteen times a minute.

Here’s to the joy of seeing them raise their children—with all the love, lessons, and lunacy we passed on, mixed with their own.

And here’s to all the mothers whose greatest dream wasn’t a big house, a fancy car, or a perfect life—but simply a family that turns out alright in the end.

Because on a farm or in a family, the harvest is sweetest when it's grown with love, watered with patience, and occasionally fertilized with a little chaos.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Stupid Sheep - Part 2: Fence Gates Remain a Mystery

After yesterday's struggle getting my dumb sheep into the other pasture I figured today had to be easier. Surely, those two lambs who gave me the runaround would remember the simple concept of “follow the flock through the open gate,” maneuver, right?

Ha. Foolish me. I keep forgetting who I’m dealing with.

So I opened the gate, called to the sheep, and watched as the main flock hustled through into the lush pasture like it was opening night at the salad bar. All good so far. But then, as if on cue, those same two lambs decided they didn’t want to be left behind again.

Which sounds like progress—until they absolutely body-slammed the fence right next to the gate. Full speed. Zero hesitation. One of them hit it so hard he bounced back and landed square on his woolly little butt, blinking like he’d just met a force field.

Then, naturally, they ran along the fence line in the opposite direction from the actual opening.

At this point, I was no help. I was doubled over laughing, wheezing like an asthmatic donkey, tears in my eyes. I couldn’t even yell at them properly.

Maybe my hysterics triggered some sort of momentary sheep self-awareness, because they both came trotting back toward the gate—probably to investigate what ridiculous human behavior was happening this time.

And then, miracle of miracles, they noticed the open gate.

They looked at it. Looked at each other. Looked at me. And then, ever so casually, like they totally knew what they were doing all along, they walked through the opening. Calmly. Like dignified, rational creatures.

They even had the audacity to look surprised that it worked.

So maybe, maybe they can be taught.

Or maybe they’ll forget again tomorrow and try tunneling in from underground. Honestly, with these two, anything is possible.

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Stupid Sheep: Proof That Common Sense Skipped the Flock

Sheep have got to be one of the stupidest creatures on Earth—if not the stupidest. And before anyone jumps in to defend them with words like “instinct” or “flocking behavior,” let me stop you right there. I have seen things. I have lived the chaos. And I’ve got hoof prints on my boots to prove it.

So the grass in one of our unused areas was getting thick—perfect for grazing. I opened a small gate off the main paddock, called to the sheep, and, thinking I had grain, they came stampeding. If you’ve never seen a flock of sheep in full-speed panic-hopefulness, picture a wool-covered bowling ball with hooves and zero regard for personal space. Now multiply that by twenty.

Most of them followed me right through the gate. Once inside, they realized they were in grass heaven and spread out to graze like it was a high-end buffet. One ewe hesitated, probably debated with all two  brain cells she had, then bravely stepped through to join the others.

So far, so good.

The lambs, who are about two months old now and clocking in around 40 pounds of fluff and nonsense, mostly followed—except for four. These four watched the rest of the flock go through the open gate and then… ran in the opposite direction. Because logic.

No problem, I thought. I moved behind them, doing my best herding dog impersonation (minus the barking, because I still have some dignity), and pushed them back toward the gate. They got close and I backed off, hoping the light would finally flick on upstairs.

Nope. Right past the gate they went. Ewe got to be kidding me. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

Alright, fine. Round two. I got behind them again, repeated my fancy footwork routine, shuffled them back toward the open gate. Still nothing.

So I got a goat. Because goats, while occasionally jerks, are at least smart jerks. I led the goat through the gate several times, putting on a whole demonstration like I was starring in a barnyard instructional video. Two lambs watched, finally got it, and followed. The other two? Still rooted in fear and confusion, bleating like the world was ending while their mothers, bless them, were too busy inhaling fescue to care.

At this point, I’m starting to think these two lambs might actually be allergic to open gates.

I decided to up the odds and opened the other gate—a glorious, 12-foot-wide entrance, practically shouting, “WELCOME, DUMMIES!” I herded them toward it. Surely now?

Nope. Past it they ran. Again.

By now, I’m questioning the entire concept of animal intelligence. I went back to the barn, grabbed a little grain, and called the whole flock back through the small gate into the paddock. Stampede, round two. The plan: regroup and try again, this time with the two stubborn lambs swept up in the crowd.

It worked. The flock stuck together like the herd animals they pretend to be, and finally, the two daft holdouts wandered into the land of plenty. Crisis averted. Grass achieved. Sanity… questionable.

After all that, I’ve come to one conclusion: anything this stupid deserves to be eaten.

But that leaves me with a troubling question:
If you are what you eat… what does that make us when we eat stupid animals?

Just food for thought.
(Sorry. Couldn't resist again.)

(Be sure to check out what happens next at Stupid Sheep - Part 2)

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Me, Sooner Than I Think

I came across this Pickles cartoon the other day, and I had to laugh—mostly because it hit way too close to home. It’s that classic scene: the wife waiting in the car, growing more impatient by the second, convinced her husband’s wandered off, forgotten her, or joined a social club in aisle seven. Meanwhile, he’s probably sitting at home wondering where she went. Honestly, I’ve lived this exact scenario more than once—just swap the characters around depending on the day.

It also got me thinking about how our perspective on age changes as we go along. I remember when I used to think twenty was old. Back then, anyone with a full-time job and their own car seemed ancient. Then thirty rolled around and I thought, “Well, okay, maybe this is what old feels like.” Then came forty, and I decided that was officially “over the hill.” Spoiler alert—it wasn’t. The hill keeps moving, and I’m pretty sure it’s now somewhere past eighty and still climbing.

Funny how that works, isn’t it? The older we get, the more we realize that age isn’t really about numbers—it’s about energy, humor, and how much you still enjoy life (and how fast you can find your glasses). Sure, there are days when I forget what I walked into the kitchen for, or why I’m standing in front of the washing machine holding a TV remote—but if I can still laugh about it, I figure I’m doing just fine.

So when I saw this cartoon, I didn’t just chuckle—I felt seen. Growing older comes with its quirks, but it also comes with wisdom, patience (well, some patience), and a whole lot of stories worth retelling.

I guess when I’m eighty, I’ll probably look back and think, “You know, eighty’s not that old after all.” And I’ll probably still be waiting in the car, muttering, “What’s keeping him?”

(Double click on the image to enlarge)

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©2009 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm