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I opened one eye and rolled my head to one side so I could get a glimpse of the bright red digital numbers silently screaming at me from the clock on the nightstand. 2:37 a.m., it read. Somehow, I’ve never needed an alarm to prod me from my intermittent periods of fitful slumber during calving season.

“Somewhere between giddily goofy and gloomy, you will find a happy medium,” I pontificated while attempting to quell a near riot in the living room.

Every small town has a group of farmers who meet up every morning to mull over the world’s problems while they drink their second cup of coffee (the first one was consumed while the morning chores were being done).

A friend of mine has enforced a rule in her home where every week, they practice "meatless Monday." Last Monday, she self-righteously posted on Facebook a picture of her garlic herb mushroom pasta, along with an admonishment for us all to "live a little more consciously."

As weekly Tuesday auctions go, it was pretty typical. I arrived at about quarter after 1. I was there in search of a few yearlings to finish out a pen, but they were still going through the last of the killer cows and Holsteins.

’Twas not my best day. An apple harvest truck had a flat tire, and the best the truck shop had to offer was on the scene. They were having difficulties getting the wheel nuts loose so they could replace the defunct tire with a good one.