Today was a good day for cleaning on the farm. We aren’t setting any records so I know that there has to have been a warmer January in years past, but I sure can’t remember it. I did some measuring for the new chicken coop(s) and aired up the tires on the manure spreader while I waited for it to warm up today. It didn’t take long and I was able to drag out the hose and wash the pickup. I don’t often get that chance in the middle of winter - it was in serious need. It got me thinking about the cleaning process for all of the animals here.
Even where animals are concerned, there are obvious differences between boys and girls. Out in the chicken coop the girls spend lots of time preening and looking in the mirror. That’s not to say that the roosters are a matted up hot mess, but you just don’t see them taking the time. Chickens also LOVE to take dust baths - I have never seen the roosters take one of those either. A dust bath is suppose to help control the fleas and keep their feathers in order, but to the outsider it just looks like some random flapping in a hole hollowed out by the hen. It might also pass for a seizure. Each hen only gets a set amount of time before they are kicked out by a sister who needs the shower. It reminds me of a family getting ready in the morning. There’s always someone pounding on the door needing to use the bathroom. If the hen isn’t willing to turn over the facilities she will get stepped on in short order as the next occupant takes over her space. You and I have a defined place to bathe, but for an animal with gobs and gobs of room it just doesn’t make sense. What makes that particular spot so good? It doesn’t necessarily have to be free of poop, I’ll tell you that.
The cats are no different. The toms do their best to clean themselves, but they certainly aren’t going to sit and lick if there are better things to be done. When we first moved here we were shocked at the mats and stickers in Patty’s fur. He clearly wasn’t worried about what he looked like. Someone needed to tell him that it is better to look good than to feel good. After a little brushing and lots of petting he is as soft and fluffy as any other kitty, but it’s from no doing of his own. Right now he’s walking around with a few “passengers” stuck to his butt. Hey, if he’s fine with the dingleberries so am I. I don’t think Cat Fancy is planning on using him as a centerfold anyway. The paper they print on isn’t that big.
The female cats spend approximately 45 hours a day cleaning. I’m not kidding. Of course, when they are done they go roll in the dirt just like the chickens. Color me shocked. They always choose the same spot to do it, too. They either have to be under the tree in the front yard or in the flower bed right by the walk. They are going to be sadly disappointed when that spot gets filled with mulch it the spring. I hope it doesn’t make them cry uncontrollably.
I think it’s time to get some animals that prefer to be dirty. Hogs do a pretty good job of covering themselves in mud each day. In the end, that bacon doesn’t taste the least bit gritty. I guess that goes to show you that it is what’s on the inside that counts, huh? Well, that and some hickory wood and seasonings.
Things are about to really pick up around here. I need to get those chicken coops built and put up a cross fence in the hog pen. It’s hard to believe that when I kept saying I would get hogs in March I meant a month from now. The winter is a time to relax a little around here, and it appears that I forgot to do that. I will just keep adding to my “not now but very soon” list and hope the days get long enough to do it all in a big hurry. I guess I could have done some of them today, but the cleaning process can’t wait.
I better go. It appears that the patch of dirt by the walk is free and I have to get ready to go to bed.
TJR
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
The Stresses of Parenthood
I got an email this week from a parent of one of my former students. It seems that she is undertaking a research project and needs a little help from the farm. In her high school (yikes!) science class they have an assignment that requires them to identify variables and all of that fun stuff. She has decided to hatch eggs and see how things like egg thickness impact hatchability. Enter the farmer.
She is needing about 24 eggs to hatch and was wondering if she could buy some eggs to hatch. I agreed to give them to her as long as I can have the chicks back to butcher later in the summer.
This is a LOT of pressure as a parent. Who says that these roosters are doing their job? I know they are “practicing” but maybe they have no idea what they are doing out there. We never had that “talk” that farmers should have their roosters. They could be completely inept in the reproductive arena. I haven’t had any talks with the hens as to their level of satisfaction, so I have no idea where we stand. And what about these hens? It’s possible that the chicken house is built on a naturally occurring radioactive hotspot. What if the hens are all sterile and are just putting out the eggs so that I don’t have some sort of “I could have done better” parental angst? At least I am not conservative enough to require a wedding before the offspring arrive. That’s a lot of weddings. It’s also VERY expensive when you are the parent of both the bride AND the groom. Then there is the question of the legality of the polygamist chicken household.
When chickens lay the eggs they don’t need to sit on them and keep them warm right away. Eggs are able to “wait” a bit until the hen has a big enough clutch to be worth it. As long as the eggs stay at a reasonable temperature (like cool room temperature) they will still be viable. I told the parent that I would pull the eggs when they are ready and hold them until I have 24. What if I accidentally put all 24 in the oven and ruin them all? What if I decide to pop them all in the freezer for some reason? Aside from the mess I would have, I would also deliver eggs that will ruin her project. Oh no!!!
Those parents with just a few kids sure have it easy. I sort of feel like the Duggars over here. I’ve got a whole house of chickens I am trying to parent. It’s so hard to instill values and a moral compass to so many offspring. On the “up” side, if any of them appear to be immoral or get mouthy I can always butcher them and have dinner. Try that, Michelle Duggar!
In the next couple of weeks I will be turning this gathering of eggs over to be hatched, and in April I will turn another group of 18 over to a first grade teacher to hatch with her students. I will end up with a nice freezer full of organic chicken to eat for the fall and winter. That certainly sounds good. I don’t often roast whole chickens, so I need to start amassing recipes for the oven and crock pot. I’ve also got to remember to take lots of pictures of the chickens so that when the 1st graders are older and ask where their chickens are I am able to tell them they are roaming freely on the farm (and show them pictures).
This all brings up another project. With a couple dozen new chickens coming I am going to need to build a new coop. I have the building itself, but it no longer has a fenced yard around it. At one time it was a chicken house but the fencing has been taken down. With the chicks hatching a couple of months apart I will have to have two places to put them. If chickens have not been raised together it is difficult to put them together, as they end up fighting to the death. I do not need to have some ½ grown chickens to eat. Cornish hens are pointless.
This parenting thing is so stressful.
She is needing about 24 eggs to hatch and was wondering if she could buy some eggs to hatch. I agreed to give them to her as long as I can have the chicks back to butcher later in the summer.
This is a LOT of pressure as a parent. Who says that these roosters are doing their job? I know they are “practicing” but maybe they have no idea what they are doing out there. We never had that “talk” that farmers should have their roosters. They could be completely inept in the reproductive arena. I haven’t had any talks with the hens as to their level of satisfaction, so I have no idea where we stand. And what about these hens? It’s possible that the chicken house is built on a naturally occurring radioactive hotspot. What if the hens are all sterile and are just putting out the eggs so that I don’t have some sort of “I could have done better” parental angst? At least I am not conservative enough to require a wedding before the offspring arrive. That’s a lot of weddings. It’s also VERY expensive when you are the parent of both the bride AND the groom. Then there is the question of the legality of the polygamist chicken household.
When chickens lay the eggs they don’t need to sit on them and keep them warm right away. Eggs are able to “wait” a bit until the hen has a big enough clutch to be worth it. As long as the eggs stay at a reasonable temperature (like cool room temperature) they will still be viable. I told the parent that I would pull the eggs when they are ready and hold them until I have 24. What if I accidentally put all 24 in the oven and ruin them all? What if I decide to pop them all in the freezer for some reason? Aside from the mess I would have, I would also deliver eggs that will ruin her project. Oh no!!!
Those parents with just a few kids sure have it easy. I sort of feel like the Duggars over here. I’ve got a whole house of chickens I am trying to parent. It’s so hard to instill values and a moral compass to so many offspring. On the “up” side, if any of them appear to be immoral or get mouthy I can always butcher them and have dinner. Try that, Michelle Duggar!
In the next couple of weeks I will be turning this gathering of eggs over to be hatched, and in April I will turn another group of 18 over to a first grade teacher to hatch with her students. I will end up with a nice freezer full of organic chicken to eat for the fall and winter. That certainly sounds good. I don’t often roast whole chickens, so I need to start amassing recipes for the oven and crock pot. I’ve also got to remember to take lots of pictures of the chickens so that when the 1st graders are older and ask where their chickens are I am able to tell them they are roaming freely on the farm (and show them pictures).
This all brings up another project. With a couple dozen new chickens coming I am going to need to build a new coop. I have the building itself, but it no longer has a fenced yard around it. At one time it was a chicken house but the fencing has been taken down. With the chicks hatching a couple of months apart I will have to have two places to put them. If chickens have not been raised together it is difficult to put them together, as they end up fighting to the death. I do not need to have some ½ grown chickens to eat. Cornish hens are pointless.
This parenting thing is so stressful.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
The New Math
It seems like there are lots of things here on the farm that just don’t add up. I’m not talking about my taxes. Those are up to the accountant to figure out. I think all of the other puzzles around here are due to the new math (that‘s what everyone blamed everything on 25 years ago, wasn‘t it?). Another one today just brought a puzzled look to my face.
I am liking these days with a little more light when I get home. The chickens were actually still out in the yard when I got home from town today. Usually they have long since put themselves to bed. Last night I wandered into the coop after dark and gathered all of the eggs while the chickens snored around me. It was kind of strange - they didn’t even look twice at the man in the (new) rubber boots and large fluffy jacket. The egg count added up to the usual - no more, no less. Chickens are just neurotic enough to do something like that. Hello Rain Chicken.
Here’s where things get strange. I walked into the coop this morning to check the feed and noticed that there was one egg already sitting in a nesting box. I grabbed it and almost took it to the house before deciding that would be a pain. It was still piping hot from the chicken - I could feel it through my glove. That seems kind of gross once you see it in writing. Hmmm.
When I went in this evening there were more eggs in the chicken house than there are chickens to lay them! Either someone is hoarding them and decided to give up their stash, or they are kicking into overdrive to bring in more cash. I have no idea. I have NEVER heard of a chicken laying more than one a day, but I guess anything could happen. I know that I got them all, so I put off all of the questions to the chickens. It just doesn’t add up. Who knows. I will guarantee you that no stray chicken wandered in, deposited an egg, and then wandered back to their own home to piss off an owner waiting for breakfast.
The other night it was quite nippy on the farm. When I checked the thermometer at 9:15 it was 22 degrees. We’ve gotten in the habit of putting the cats in warm places for the night during the winter, and when Other went out to check on the kitties about 9:30 there was a little surprise waiting. There was a frozen snake on the walk! It wasn’t a huge one - probably 3-4 feet long, but puzzling nonetheless. I (of course) got called to put on my bibs and get rid of it. It was nearly frozen solid. How does a snake just appear on a night like that?
I honestly looked up to see if there was some sort of hawk circling above to pick up what it had just dropped on the concrete. I’ll bet he would have really been hacked after going to the trouble of flushing out a snake on a night like that only to loose it to a case of butter beak.
In the end, the best I could come up with was that it crawled out of the foundation of the house and got 10 feet or so before freezing to death. Wouldn’t you think it would turn around when it felt the cold air? I guess not. Oh, and yes, we do get snakes in the basement on the farm. I just found another little one down there last night. At only a foot long it would have been cute if it wasn’t a serpent. You just get used to the chance that you might see one when going to the deep freeze. You clean up your undershorts and go about your business. Now, if one appears on the living room floor I might have to be scraped off the ceiling and sedated.
If you mention a boot thief around here you might get a chuckle. I always use the same muck boots to chore. They are always on the porch by the door ready to slide into. With the large quantity of driveway gravel, mud, and chicken poop packed into the tread, they are not fit to wear into the house or anywhere else. I don’t think the folks at NAPA over in Baldwin City would be impressed with my boots if I wore them to get some new parts for the grain truck. They’d smell me coming, but that does not equal a quality impression. Or new friends.
Imagine my surprise when I stepped out one morning to find they were gone. I immediately smelled a rat (not literally - we better not have THOSE around here, too). I went back upstairs and gave Other the what-for as to what was done with my boots (as the day before had been a day off of work). The puzzled look I got told me that I wasn’t going to find them there. I finally gave up and wore other boots to do my chores.
I have NEVER found those boots. When I got home that night we looked in every building on the farm and all over the house to find them. They are gone. We even looked in buildings we haven’t look in since summer. I’m not sure why I thought said boots ended up there, but I can say I checked. I even looked in the dishwasher and clothes dryer. You know how you sometimes do things when you are on the phone and don’t know it? That’s what I was hoping for. Nothing. Other did say that even if they had been taken as a gag, they would have been returned long before we spent and entire evening walking the property. I even looked at the whole yard in case one of the cats dragged them out of the porch. The dog wasn’t in the house yard, but you just never know what that fat Gene might do. Alas, no boots.
I sound like some crazy anti-government loon when I swear that someone snuck onto the porch and stole them, but that’s all I can figure. Never mind that they didn’t take the gun that was sitting right there. Those boots were valuable, man.
This new math just has to be some sort of communist plot. Things just aren’t adding up around here.
TJR
I am liking these days with a little more light when I get home. The chickens were actually still out in the yard when I got home from town today. Usually they have long since put themselves to bed. Last night I wandered into the coop after dark and gathered all of the eggs while the chickens snored around me. It was kind of strange - they didn’t even look twice at the man in the (new) rubber boots and large fluffy jacket. The egg count added up to the usual - no more, no less. Chickens are just neurotic enough to do something like that. Hello Rain Chicken.
Here’s where things get strange. I walked into the coop this morning to check the feed and noticed that there was one egg already sitting in a nesting box. I grabbed it and almost took it to the house before deciding that would be a pain. It was still piping hot from the chicken - I could feel it through my glove. That seems kind of gross once you see it in writing. Hmmm.
When I went in this evening there were more eggs in the chicken house than there are chickens to lay them! Either someone is hoarding them and decided to give up their stash, or they are kicking into overdrive to bring in more cash. I have no idea. I have NEVER heard of a chicken laying more than one a day, but I guess anything could happen. I know that I got them all, so I put off all of the questions to the chickens. It just doesn’t add up. Who knows. I will guarantee you that no stray chicken wandered in, deposited an egg, and then wandered back to their own home to piss off an owner waiting for breakfast.
The other night it was quite nippy on the farm. When I checked the thermometer at 9:15 it was 22 degrees. We’ve gotten in the habit of putting the cats in warm places for the night during the winter, and when Other went out to check on the kitties about 9:30 there was a little surprise waiting. There was a frozen snake on the walk! It wasn’t a huge one - probably 3-4 feet long, but puzzling nonetheless. I (of course) got called to put on my bibs and get rid of it. It was nearly frozen solid. How does a snake just appear on a night like that?
I honestly looked up to see if there was some sort of hawk circling above to pick up what it had just dropped on the concrete. I’ll bet he would have really been hacked after going to the trouble of flushing out a snake on a night like that only to loose it to a case of butter beak.
In the end, the best I could come up with was that it crawled out of the foundation of the house and got 10 feet or so before freezing to death. Wouldn’t you think it would turn around when it felt the cold air? I guess not. Oh, and yes, we do get snakes in the basement on the farm. I just found another little one down there last night. At only a foot long it would have been cute if it wasn’t a serpent. You just get used to the chance that you might see one when going to the deep freeze. You clean up your undershorts and go about your business. Now, if one appears on the living room floor I might have to be scraped off the ceiling and sedated.
If you mention a boot thief around here you might get a chuckle. I always use the same muck boots to chore. They are always on the porch by the door ready to slide into. With the large quantity of driveway gravel, mud, and chicken poop packed into the tread, they are not fit to wear into the house or anywhere else. I don’t think the folks at NAPA over in Baldwin City would be impressed with my boots if I wore them to get some new parts for the grain truck. They’d smell me coming, but that does not equal a quality impression. Or new friends.
Imagine my surprise when I stepped out one morning to find they were gone. I immediately smelled a rat (not literally - we better not have THOSE around here, too). I went back upstairs and gave Other the what-for as to what was done with my boots (as the day before had been a day off of work). The puzzled look I got told me that I wasn’t going to find them there. I finally gave up and wore other boots to do my chores.
I have NEVER found those boots. When I got home that night we looked in every building on the farm and all over the house to find them. They are gone. We even looked in buildings we haven’t look in since summer. I’m not sure why I thought said boots ended up there, but I can say I checked. I even looked in the dishwasher and clothes dryer. You know how you sometimes do things when you are on the phone and don’t know it? That’s what I was hoping for. Nothing. Other did say that even if they had been taken as a gag, they would have been returned long before we spent and entire evening walking the property. I even looked at the whole yard in case one of the cats dragged them out of the porch. The dog wasn’t in the house yard, but you just never know what that fat Gene might do. Alas, no boots.
I sound like some crazy anti-government loon when I swear that someone snuck onto the porch and stole them, but that’s all I can figure. Never mind that they didn’t take the gun that was sitting right there. Those boots were valuable, man.
This new math just has to be some sort of communist plot. Things just aren’t adding up around here.
TJR
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Llamas aren't llovable
This place used to be a llama farm. Not just a couple of llamas for fun, either. Like, a herd or something. I always thought it was a bit odd that when we would come to look at it the owners always had to be here, but the reasoning was that they didn’t want anyone unknown around the llamas. I thought llamas were kind of cute, interesting, and unusual. Not something you see roaming the flatlands of Kansas very often. Llamas are exotic!
When we signed the contract on the house Mr. and Mrs. Roper were great about letting us bring things out. There were some items that were a pain to store (like the big tractor) and they just let us move everything into the north shed. It was at that point that Mr. Roper said that with all of the rain he was having trouble getting in fence posts for the llamas at the new property. Although the farm had been on the market for 18 months (and they had the new place that whole time), they had not started preparing to move in any way. He was concerned that they would not have the llamas removed by the time we closed on the house. It was raining a lot, so a muddy oasis comes to mind.
Since we had moved some things to the farm a couple of weeks before closing I figured that it wasn’t a problem to have a week or so after closing to get it evened out. The Ropers are really nice folks, and out here it pays to be neighborly with the closest folks around.
I learned some things pretty quick:
1. Llamas aren’t cute up close. They have evil devil eyes and mangy fur.
2. Llamas have no sense of personal space. When the walk up to you they don’t stop until they are touching you. It’s weird and upsetting.
3. Llama don’t herd. They have a mind of their own and won’t leave if they don’t want to.
4. Llamas are curious. This might be the reason they chase you. That might also be the devil eyes.
5. Llamas scream. I can only describe it as a demonic laugh. They do it when they see something they don’t like. Apparently they didn’t like me, my machinery, or the dog. Or me.
6. Llamas do spit. Before that they snort a little to bring up a good snot rocket. They are evil.
Not at all attached to the list is the joy of having a new place and still having the previous owner show up everyday to feed the animals that they left behind. It sort of makes you feel like a renter or share-cropper. You see how well share-cropping worked out for the cotton farmers.
Needless to say, one week turned into two which quickly turned into six. Yes, six weeks later we still had llamas and daily visitors to feed them. It was at this point that I shared the following information: If I have to look at these llamas any longer I am going to haul them to the sale barn and BBQ the fat one.
Since they were all named and treated like children, this kind of got the ball rolling. One of the other neighbors kindly brought over her stock trailer to move them and the fun began. I had just had some surgery, so I was unable to help (rats). It was definitely a treat to watch them wrangle them into the trailer and haul them the mile down the road to their new home. With much screaming, pushing, and hitting they were in their trailer and on the way. Of course, they were also covered in masticated corn and snot. I tried not to laugh but cannot attest to my success in that vein.
It did take two loads in the stock trailer. I don’t even remember how many there were. I don’t know what you call a large group of llamas. A school? A gaggle? Let’s just go with an annoyance. So, the annoyance of llamas was gone. I literally did a little dance of joy in spite of the heat and my infirmed condition.
There shall never be an animal of such lineage on this farm again. I still hate them and haven’t been near one in ages. Cows, pigs, chickens - sure, why not? Pack animals designed for other countries? Absolutely not. We’re having beef for dinner…
When we signed the contract on the house Mr. and Mrs. Roper were great about letting us bring things out. There were some items that were a pain to store (like the big tractor) and they just let us move everything into the north shed. It was at that point that Mr. Roper said that with all of the rain he was having trouble getting in fence posts for the llamas at the new property. Although the farm had been on the market for 18 months (and they had the new place that whole time), they had not started preparing to move in any way. He was concerned that they would not have the llamas removed by the time we closed on the house. It was raining a lot, so a muddy oasis comes to mind.
Since we had moved some things to the farm a couple of weeks before closing I figured that it wasn’t a problem to have a week or so after closing to get it evened out. The Ropers are really nice folks, and out here it pays to be neighborly with the closest folks around.
I learned some things pretty quick:
1. Llamas aren’t cute up close. They have evil devil eyes and mangy fur.
2. Llamas have no sense of personal space. When the walk up to you they don’t stop until they are touching you. It’s weird and upsetting.
3. Llama don’t herd. They have a mind of their own and won’t leave if they don’t want to.
4. Llamas are curious. This might be the reason they chase you. That might also be the devil eyes.
5. Llamas scream. I can only describe it as a demonic laugh. They do it when they see something they don’t like. Apparently they didn’t like me, my machinery, or the dog. Or me.
6. Llamas do spit. Before that they snort a little to bring up a good snot rocket. They are evil.
Not at all attached to the list is the joy of having a new place and still having the previous owner show up everyday to feed the animals that they left behind. It sort of makes you feel like a renter or share-cropper. You see how well share-cropping worked out for the cotton farmers.
Needless to say, one week turned into two which quickly turned into six. Yes, six weeks later we still had llamas and daily visitors to feed them. It was at this point that I shared the following information: If I have to look at these llamas any longer I am going to haul them to the sale barn and BBQ the fat one.
Since they were all named and treated like children, this kind of got the ball rolling. One of the other neighbors kindly brought over her stock trailer to move them and the fun began. I had just had some surgery, so I was unable to help (rats). It was definitely a treat to watch them wrangle them into the trailer and haul them the mile down the road to their new home. With much screaming, pushing, and hitting they were in their trailer and on the way. Of course, they were also covered in masticated corn and snot. I tried not to laugh but cannot attest to my success in that vein.
It did take two loads in the stock trailer. I don’t even remember how many there were. I don’t know what you call a large group of llamas. A school? A gaggle? Let’s just go with an annoyance. So, the annoyance of llamas was gone. I literally did a little dance of joy in spite of the heat and my infirmed condition.
There shall never be an animal of such lineage on this farm again. I still hate them and haven’t been near one in ages. Cows, pigs, chickens - sure, why not? Pack animals designed for other countries? Absolutely not. We’re having beef for dinner…
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Bad Kitty
Does this thing look guilty to you?
It should.
This is Maxine. If you remember back a week or so, she was supposed to be named Doris. Well, we got her and she didn’t look much like a Doris. Must be because she didn’t have a lilac rinse in her hair and wasn’t wearing SAS shoes. She ended up as Maxine. That was my choice from the list of names I was given. I wasn’t given much to choose from - Lisa, Evelyn, and Susan were on it. Maxine was literally the best choice. That doesn’t say much. It should be known that Other has YET to take a cat to the vet and uncomfortably say its name when they ask. That might get some of these things named appropriate names like Fluffy and Bootsy.
So Miss Maxine has been living in my sun porch. I love this room. It was originally the front porch that stretched the width of the house, but it was enclosed and heated and air-conditioned in the 80’s. It seems a little trashy, but it’s a great place to hang out. I can’t wait to sit out here when it snows and enjoy the 180 degree view. Or when Maxine is on the outside of the door looking in.
Mrs. Roper went on and on about how sweet this kitty is. And she is indeed sweet. She failed to mention that she had only been kept in the house and that she was only about half grown. I can’t go shoving this kitty outside when it is in the single digits. So, Maxine is living in the porch until spring (and ONLY the front porch).
Although I am tickled with about any animal addition to the farm, I AM NOT an indoor pet person. I don’t want their fur places that I sleep or eat. With all of this space out here I am not sharing my home with an animal. I live in the country. It shouldn’t be my job to clean up poop unless I am shoveling it in a manure spreader. Maxine likes to poop, but I won’t be pulling the manure spreader up beside the house anytime soon.
Today while I was work Maxine thought it would be a good idea to climb onto my Christmas cactus and see if she could tip over the stand it was on. She was successful. It also successfully broke the bottom off the pot and mashed all the leaves on one side of the lily next to it. It must have scared her pretty good because none of her toys had been touched - she must have spent the rest of the day in her bed. I didn’t tell her that my dead grandma is probably making a kitty voodoo doll of her right now with scraps of left over fabric. She was an exceptionally frugal lady who previously owned said cactus. Don’t piss off the German lady, even if she’s long since left this world.
Little Maxine will either LOVE or HATE her life when she gets to be an outside kitty. I can’t help but think she’s lonely during the day, but I wonder how she will like sharing her food bowl and taking care of her own safety. Good luck Maxine. Other will probably be in tears for days when I shove Maxine out with the toe of my muck boot. That’s not going to deter me, though. This cat gots to go!
While we are on the subject of animals, you should know the next post shall be about llamas. My take on these vile beasts and their infringement on my property is not to be missed…
This is Maxine. If you remember back a week or so, she was supposed to be named Doris. Well, we got her and she didn’t look much like a Doris. Must be because she didn’t have a lilac rinse in her hair and wasn’t wearing SAS shoes. She ended up as Maxine. That was my choice from the list of names I was given. I wasn’t given much to choose from - Lisa, Evelyn, and Susan were on it. Maxine was literally the best choice. That doesn’t say much. It should be known that Other has YET to take a cat to the vet and uncomfortably say its name when they ask. That might get some of these things named appropriate names like Fluffy and Bootsy.
So Miss Maxine has been living in my sun porch. I love this room. It was originally the front porch that stretched the width of the house, but it was enclosed and heated and air-conditioned in the 80’s. It seems a little trashy, but it’s a great place to hang out. I can’t wait to sit out here when it snows and enjoy the 180 degree view. Or when Maxine is on the outside of the door looking in.
Mrs. Roper went on and on about how sweet this kitty is. And she is indeed sweet. She failed to mention that she had only been kept in the house and that she was only about half grown. I can’t go shoving this kitty outside when it is in the single digits. So, Maxine is living in the porch until spring (and ONLY the front porch).
Although I am tickled with about any animal addition to the farm, I AM NOT an indoor pet person. I don’t want their fur places that I sleep or eat. With all of this space out here I am not sharing my home with an animal. I live in the country. It shouldn’t be my job to clean up poop unless I am shoveling it in a manure spreader. Maxine likes to poop, but I won’t be pulling the manure spreader up beside the house anytime soon.
Today while I was work Maxine thought it would be a good idea to climb onto my Christmas cactus and see if she could tip over the stand it was on. She was successful. It also successfully broke the bottom off the pot and mashed all the leaves on one side of the lily next to it. It must have scared her pretty good because none of her toys had been touched - she must have spent the rest of the day in her bed. I didn’t tell her that my dead grandma is probably making a kitty voodoo doll of her right now with scraps of left over fabric. She was an exceptionally frugal lady who previously owned said cactus. Don’t piss off the German lady, even if she’s long since left this world.
Little Maxine will either LOVE or HATE her life when she gets to be an outside kitty. I can’t help but think she’s lonely during the day, but I wonder how she will like sharing her food bowl and taking care of her own safety. Good luck Maxine. Other will probably be in tears for days when I shove Maxine out with the toe of my muck boot. That’s not going to deter me, though. This cat gots to go!
While we are on the subject of animals, you should know the next post shall be about llamas. My take on these vile beasts and their infringement on my property is not to be missed…
Monday, January 16, 2012
Fool Me Once...
I like old stuff.
I’ve always liked to work on old cars and fix things up. I’m not deterred by the prospect of doing some work on something if I know I will end up with something that lasts me years. My mother has said that she and I are just too dumb to know when we are in over our heads. I have set out on many a road trip in a vehicle that is much older than I and had no issues at all (except for that engine I blew in my VW bus). Giving up some of the creature comforts we take for granted makes things fun for me as long as the third degree burns I get from the vinyl seat doesn’t leave a scar. It’s all fun and games until someone has a thigh that permanently looks like a waffle. Not pretty.
The majority of the cars around here (at least the four extras) are from the 60’s and 70’s, the tractors are from the 40’s and 50’s and the grain truck is from 1958. Those are years when they built stuff to last out of metal that was substantial. I love it. It also makes me sound like a grandpa. Or stingy.
When we got ready to move I knew just what tractor would be the first one (notice I said first). We needed something big to take care of the large jobs on the farm - a Farmall M. At the time that they were built they were the largest tractors made and worked millions of acres in this part of the country alone. Finding one around here is a bit of a challenge. Those that are still left and still running well are usually working on farms each day. It would be a challenge.
After lots of looking I found one about an hour southwest of the city we lived in. It looked good, had new tires, ran well, and had a front loader that went with it. It would be our “go-to” loader tractor. It seemed perfect except for the distance. By my closest estimate I figured that it was about an hour and 45 minutes (by car) due east of the new farm. The catch is that “road gear” on a tractor is about 16.473 MPH. Calling it road gears is really a misnomer. It should be called “slightly faster gear that will still make you want to slit your wrists”. I decided that the best thing to do would be to hook it to the pickup with a chain and pull it. We could go just a little bit faster, which just might add up in the long run. I was willing to do anything to reduce the sunburn I was going to get. Not to worry on that one.
I might just offer up at this point that Other did not grow up in the country doing things such as pulling tractors around. Other had never even been on a tractor. The only thing working in my favor at this point was ignorance of the task at hand. This was going to be fun. I had a feeling I would get one shot at this.
Fast forward to the middle of May when we got the tractor. Other was NOT happy about pulling me with the pickup. I explained that we wouldn’t go fast and that I would do all of the braking for us, so there wasn’t any danger of the tractor hitting the pickup. The country roads that we were slated to travel were not too busy. It all seemed doable. It also seemed how the captain of the Hindenburg probably explained his landing plan to the copilot.
The whole trip to get it Other griped about this process - being nervous and all. The idea was to drive it through the town where it was and then hook it to the pickup once we were in the country again. It seemed like the best way to control it and I DID NOT want people thinking this fine piece of 60 year old iron didn’t run. So, that’s what we did. I don’t want to bore your with the details, but the trip took FIVE HOURS!!! It was freezing cold and misting. I had myself bundled in everything I could find in the pickup to keep warm - I had a towel wrapped around my head and two coats zipped around me.. By the end of the trip I was so delirious that I was talking to the animals in the pasture beside the road. It was that much fun. I am pretty sure that anyone who saw us immediately knew we were freaks. The only thing that saved us was that I did not write the address of the new house on a sign and wear it around my neck.
I had certainly not anticipated the earful I would get at the end of this five hours. You would have thought Other had to pull the tractor by hand. The click of the flashers had been mind numbing. The passing vehicles had been nerve wracking. The hills had been too much to handle emotionally. I knew that just the sight of this tractor in the shed might cause Vietnam-style flashbacks. Oh, the drama.
Here is the tractor at the end of the trip. She looks happy, no? Ivana has provided us with many hours of service and never sputtered once (did I mention all of the old machinery gets named?). She likes her new home. Other staunchly refuses to drive her. In fact, I think I have seen a shiver at the sight of her. Maybe it is just the rush of warm memories.
Long story short, I found the grain truck I wanted an hour north of here. It needed a head gasket and would have to be towed home. Other made it known that I would need to find someone else to help. Apparently the ignorance the first time we did this no longer existed. I tried everything. “We can pull it much faster - it’s a truck!” Didn’t work. “It isn’t that far this time - it won’t take but a couple of hours.” Didn’t work. “Don’t you want to show that you are capable of something like this?” Didn’t work. “All of the couples are doing it these days.” Nope.
Soooo, I had to call my brother. He was happy (I think) to drive on up and help out. He’s kind of like me - the lure of crawling all over some greasy old piece of machinery outweighs the torture. He and I also share this insanely nostalgic view of the past so if it resembles something dumb we would have done 25 years ago he’s ready to try it again. If given the chance to own all of the machinery we used growing up he would sell one or all of his children. Sadly, that stuff was old back when we used it, so I am going to need something more valuable than his children to swap.
Sure enough, it took two hours to get her home. After a week overhauling it she runs like a champ. I’m not saying there is much left of the muffler, but announcing one’s arrival is a good thing, right? She doesn’t look like much, but there isn’t a single dent in it, and I am only the third owner. She’s got such history. A coat of paint, and she’ll be the envy of the county. I’m sure it’s already the talk of the county anyway.
I’ve always liked to work on old cars and fix things up. I’m not deterred by the prospect of doing some work on something if I know I will end up with something that lasts me years. My mother has said that she and I are just too dumb to know when we are in over our heads. I have set out on many a road trip in a vehicle that is much older than I and had no issues at all (except for that engine I blew in my VW bus). Giving up some of the creature comforts we take for granted makes things fun for me as long as the third degree burns I get from the vinyl seat doesn’t leave a scar. It’s all fun and games until someone has a thigh that permanently looks like a waffle. Not pretty.
The majority of the cars around here (at least the four extras) are from the 60’s and 70’s, the tractors are from the 40’s and 50’s and the grain truck is from 1958. Those are years when they built stuff to last out of metal that was substantial. I love it. It also makes me sound like a grandpa. Or stingy.
When we got ready to move I knew just what tractor would be the first one (notice I said first). We needed something big to take care of the large jobs on the farm - a Farmall M. At the time that they were built they were the largest tractors made and worked millions of acres in this part of the country alone. Finding one around here is a bit of a challenge. Those that are still left and still running well are usually working on farms each day. It would be a challenge.
After lots of looking I found one about an hour southwest of the city we lived in. It looked good, had new tires, ran well, and had a front loader that went with it. It would be our “go-to” loader tractor. It seemed perfect except for the distance. By my closest estimate I figured that it was about an hour and 45 minutes (by car) due east of the new farm. The catch is that “road gear” on a tractor is about 16.473 MPH. Calling it road gears is really a misnomer. It should be called “slightly faster gear that will still make you want to slit your wrists”. I decided that the best thing to do would be to hook it to the pickup with a chain and pull it. We could go just a little bit faster, which just might add up in the long run. I was willing to do anything to reduce the sunburn I was going to get. Not to worry on that one.
I might just offer up at this point that Other did not grow up in the country doing things such as pulling tractors around. Other had never even been on a tractor. The only thing working in my favor at this point was ignorance of the task at hand. This was going to be fun. I had a feeling I would get one shot at this.
Fast forward to the middle of May when we got the tractor. Other was NOT happy about pulling me with the pickup. I explained that we wouldn’t go fast and that I would do all of the braking for us, so there wasn’t any danger of the tractor hitting the pickup. The country roads that we were slated to travel were not too busy. It all seemed doable. It also seemed how the captain of the Hindenburg probably explained his landing plan to the copilot.
The whole trip to get it Other griped about this process - being nervous and all. The idea was to drive it through the town where it was and then hook it to the pickup once we were in the country again. It seemed like the best way to control it and I DID NOT want people thinking this fine piece of 60 year old iron didn’t run. So, that’s what we did. I don’t want to bore your with the details, but the trip took FIVE HOURS!!! It was freezing cold and misting. I had myself bundled in everything I could find in the pickup to keep warm - I had a towel wrapped around my head and two coats zipped around me.. By the end of the trip I was so delirious that I was talking to the animals in the pasture beside the road. It was that much fun. I am pretty sure that anyone who saw us immediately knew we were freaks. The only thing that saved us was that I did not write the address of the new house on a sign and wear it around my neck.
I had certainly not anticipated the earful I would get at the end of this five hours. You would have thought Other had to pull the tractor by hand. The click of the flashers had been mind numbing. The passing vehicles had been nerve wracking. The hills had been too much to handle emotionally. I knew that just the sight of this tractor in the shed might cause Vietnam-style flashbacks. Oh, the drama.
Here is the tractor at the end of the trip. She looks happy, no? Ivana has provided us with many hours of service and never sputtered once (did I mention all of the old machinery gets named?). She likes her new home. Other staunchly refuses to drive her. In fact, I think I have seen a shiver at the sight of her. Maybe it is just the rush of warm memories.
Soooo, I had to call my brother. He was happy (I think) to drive on up and help out. He’s kind of like me - the lure of crawling all over some greasy old piece of machinery outweighs the torture. He and I also share this insanely nostalgic view of the past so if it resembles something dumb we would have done 25 years ago he’s ready to try it again. If given the chance to own all of the machinery we used growing up he would sell one or all of his children. Sadly, that stuff was old back when we used it, so I am going to need something more valuable than his children to swap.
Sure enough, it took two hours to get her home. After a week overhauling it she runs like a champ. I’m not saying there is much left of the muffler, but announcing one’s arrival is a good thing, right? She doesn’t look like much, but there isn’t a single dent in it, and I am only the third owner. She’s got such history. A coat of paint, and she’ll be the envy of the county. I’m sure it’s already the talk of the county anyway.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
One Flew Over The Farm
Country folks have a fixation with the past. Maybe it’s all folks, but it just seems that those people who live out where the land lays out in the front of them always want to know what used to be around them. We’re all stewards of the land, but I’m of the belief that if you live out where the world is less spoiled it is your job to keep it that way. We are always improving things, but have an eye on what used to be. We also have an eye on how much gray hair we are getting.
Other and I are busy planning for the spring. There will be dozens of trees planted here before the summer hits and lots of little projects taken care of. We’ve got a long weekend here, so I am hoping to cut down about 10 trees and haul off brush. I can’t wait to fast forward years when things are grown and a park-like oasis sits in this part of the section. Don’t we all have some vision of a “Victory Garden” worthy scene right where we live? I guess that vision is what makes things move forward each day.
Last week I happened to talk with Mr. Roper for an hour or so and asked about pictures of the farm when the big barn was still standing. I’m obsessed with what used to be around here. It just seems that with so many people living around here that have known the place forever I should be able to get more information.
It didn’t take but an hour and Mrs. Roper showed up at the door with pictures to give us. One of them shows the big barn before it fell (in the middle of the night trapping one of their goats), one of them shows the barn as a pile of rubble, and my favorite is a large framed aerial shot from 1999. It isn’t all that long ago, but MAN this place looked different. After staring at these pictures for many hours and analyzing what had changed, Other and I decided to find older aerial shots.
I contacted Vintage Aerial online and found out that the only other picture of the farm that exists is from 1978 when it was no longer a dairy. Needless to say, I ordered a large picture from them this morning. It will require a car loan, but it is worth it. We have gazed at the proof several times today and are shocked at what used to be. There are buildings there that we never knew existed, and there is no sign of the manicured yard that we now take pride in. The three season porch on the front of the house was still a real porch and the kitchen had not be added on the back of the house. There are less trees in some spots and more trees in others. There aren’t any junked cars sitting about, but it certainly does not meet my criteria of tidiness. I can tell you I wouldn’t have bought the place looking like it did. Some may call me anal, but I don’t like to have tractors, trucks, or implements sitting out for no reason. Each night everything gets put in sheds. The next time someone takes an aerial of this farm it had better be freshly mowed and neat!
Here’s the farm in 1978:
TJR
Other and I are busy planning for the spring. There will be dozens of trees planted here before the summer hits and lots of little projects taken care of. We’ve got a long weekend here, so I am hoping to cut down about 10 trees and haul off brush. I can’t wait to fast forward years when things are grown and a park-like oasis sits in this part of the section. Don’t we all have some vision of a “Victory Garden” worthy scene right where we live? I guess that vision is what makes things move forward each day.
Last week I happened to talk with Mr. Roper for an hour or so and asked about pictures of the farm when the big barn was still standing. I’m obsessed with what used to be around here. It just seems that with so many people living around here that have known the place forever I should be able to get more information.
It didn’t take but an hour and Mrs. Roper showed up at the door with pictures to give us. One of them shows the big barn before it fell (in the middle of the night trapping one of their goats), one of them shows the barn as a pile of rubble, and my favorite is a large framed aerial shot from 1999. It isn’t all that long ago, but MAN this place looked different. After staring at these pictures for many hours and analyzing what had changed, Other and I decided to find older aerial shots.
I contacted Vintage Aerial online and found out that the only other picture of the farm that exists is from 1978 when it was no longer a dairy. Needless to say, I ordered a large picture from them this morning. It will require a car loan, but it is worth it. We have gazed at the proof several times today and are shocked at what used to be. There are buildings there that we never knew existed, and there is no sign of the manicured yard that we now take pride in. The three season porch on the front of the house was still a real porch and the kitchen had not be added on the back of the house. There are less trees in some spots and more trees in others. There aren’t any junked cars sitting about, but it certainly does not meet my criteria of tidiness. I can tell you I wouldn’t have bought the place looking like it did. Some may call me anal, but I don’t like to have tractors, trucks, or implements sitting out for no reason. Each night everything gets put in sheds. The next time someone takes an aerial of this farm it had better be freshly mowed and neat!
Here’s the farm in 1978:
TJR
Friday, January 13, 2012
Crying Fowl
I’ve got the day off from the 9-5, so I am sitting in the three season porch this morning enjoying the sunrise. I would probably rather be at work, as later this morning I have to go to the Dr. to have my knee drained and shot full of drugs - it won’t be pleasant. The crippling arthritis that is slowly eating my body has decided to fast track my left knee and see if it can get it replaced with plastic and steel. It just might succeed. Robofarmer to the rescue!
As I write this our newest kitty (Maxine) sits in the windowsill looking out at her property for the first time. We brought her home last night after dark, so she’s just now seeing what she’s up against. Mrs. Roper called me several days ago whining about a cat that was going to be put down on Thursday because it didn’t have a home and wouldn’t we just LOVE to save it. Soooo, here we are with another cat. Sheesh. This one is so cute and scared. She was an indoor kitten, so now is not the time to introduce her to the barn - it is 10 degrees right now with a nice layer of snow. I’m not an indoor pet person, but I’ve got a heart!
After talking with a friend at work I decided that it would be a good idea to share the vagaries of fowl with the outside world. Chickens really are quite entertaining specimens. I could sit and watch their work for hours at a time. Truth be known, the combined time I have spent out there at the coop ranges in the days rather than hours. That coop is really just a smaller version of this whole world we live in. Some of them even remind me of people I know.
Chickens have quite the pecking order. There are the nosey ones, the sweet ones, and the ones that were mean in high school and still are. As they start to grow and establish this pecking order it is kind of hard to see them repeatedly picking on some poor hen and giving her the run-around, but it is all for the greater good. They need a place to fit in their society - kind of like the comfortable world that we live in each day. There’s always that one that you just know the other hens talk about, too. The one out here is a little buff Orpington who is obviously a little smaller than the rest. She’s psychotic. She always has somewhere to go at high speed and isn’t afraid to run over others in her path to get there. When I walk up to the fence she acts like I just put her in there and she can’t wait to get back out and see the world again. Mind you, she’s got a huge and secure yard. I haven’t told her that the only way she’s getting out is stuffed with garlic and rosemary, but I will if she pisses me off.
I find it a good idea to talk to them like humans. It makes the tough discussions we have to have much easier. When I find a broken egg in the nesting boxes it is much easier to have a team meeting if they know my approach. This must be why I find it necessary to greet them each day. They look at me like I have two heads, but I don’t care. Each morning I throw open the coop door and say really loud, “Good Morning, Chicken Family!” You know, like Tye does on Most Extreme Home Makeover. I don’t have the bullhorn, don’t worry. It doesn’t incite a riot about where they are going on vacation or what their new house will look like, but it does cause a stir over the cracked corn they are about to get. They all like to scream “Move that bus!” at the end of the day, too.
If the weather is especially windy or cold I close the door to the outside yard at dusk. Since the light comes on in the chicken house at 4:00 in the morning, they stand patiently waiting to get out the next morning (if a chicken doesn’t have at least 14 hours of sunlight they won’t lay nearly as much). When I open that door in the morning they come shooting out of that house like it’s on fire. I refer to it as the “Chinese Chicken Fire Drill”. It really does look like a gang of teenagers running around a car at a stoplight. Fights usually break out because one of them got a larger piece of corn that was just scattered. They are after their paycheck, man. It immediately sounds like it is hailing as their beaks peck the hard ground getting every possible speck of food. Chickens love to pick out little things that are round to eat. God help the rolly polly. Or pinkie toe.
Chickens snore. Honest. They are some noisy sleepers. Must be what it sounds like over at Sunset Acres when the old folks are done watching Wheel of Fortune. I think they can poop while they sleep, though. That’s the only explanation for the amount of cleaning I have to do in there. Come to think of it, they can poop while doing anything (except chewing gum).
In case you were wondering, roosters crowing at sunrise is a myth. THEY CROW ALL DAY! It is actually a way for them to mark their territory. I think I would prefer that they lifted their leg, though, as these two are at it all day. One sings first tenor, the other is more like a soprano - both at the top of their lungs. It also isn’t necessary for them to open their mouth and stretch their necks - they can do it ventriloquist style. The first time they crowed it sounded like speech class full of pubescent boys at the high school. All of the hens whirled around and looked at them like they has just announced their bid for President. The hens have their own “crow” as well. They always brag after they lay an egg. In doesn’t seem to draw a crowd to congratulate them, but they do it anyway. I can tell when someone has laid an egg if I am in the house, the silo, or the north shed. I usually yell thank you. When you don’t have neighbors the chances of looking like a freak go down considerably.
OK, kids, that’s about enough. It’s time for me to hold the new kitty and sip my tea. Ah, the joys of another day in the country.
TJR
As I write this our newest kitty (Maxine) sits in the windowsill looking out at her property for the first time. We brought her home last night after dark, so she’s just now seeing what she’s up against. Mrs. Roper called me several days ago whining about a cat that was going to be put down on Thursday because it didn’t have a home and wouldn’t we just LOVE to save it. Soooo, here we are with another cat. Sheesh. This one is so cute and scared. She was an indoor kitten, so now is not the time to introduce her to the barn - it is 10 degrees right now with a nice layer of snow. I’m not an indoor pet person, but I’ve got a heart!
After talking with a friend at work I decided that it would be a good idea to share the vagaries of fowl with the outside world. Chickens really are quite entertaining specimens. I could sit and watch their work for hours at a time. Truth be known, the combined time I have spent out there at the coop ranges in the days rather than hours. That coop is really just a smaller version of this whole world we live in. Some of them even remind me of people I know.
Chickens have quite the pecking order. There are the nosey ones, the sweet ones, and the ones that were mean in high school and still are. As they start to grow and establish this pecking order it is kind of hard to see them repeatedly picking on some poor hen and giving her the run-around, but it is all for the greater good. They need a place to fit in their society - kind of like the comfortable world that we live in each day. There’s always that one that you just know the other hens talk about, too. The one out here is a little buff Orpington who is obviously a little smaller than the rest. She’s psychotic. She always has somewhere to go at high speed and isn’t afraid to run over others in her path to get there. When I walk up to the fence she acts like I just put her in there and she can’t wait to get back out and see the world again. Mind you, she’s got a huge and secure yard. I haven’t told her that the only way she’s getting out is stuffed with garlic and rosemary, but I will if she pisses me off.
I find it a good idea to talk to them like humans. It makes the tough discussions we have to have much easier. When I find a broken egg in the nesting boxes it is much easier to have a team meeting if they know my approach. This must be why I find it necessary to greet them each day. They look at me like I have two heads, but I don’t care. Each morning I throw open the coop door and say really loud, “Good Morning, Chicken Family!” You know, like Tye does on Most Extreme Home Makeover. I don’t have the bullhorn, don’t worry. It doesn’t incite a riot about where they are going on vacation or what their new house will look like, but it does cause a stir over the cracked corn they are about to get. They all like to scream “Move that bus!” at the end of the day, too.
If the weather is especially windy or cold I close the door to the outside yard at dusk. Since the light comes on in the chicken house at 4:00 in the morning, they stand patiently waiting to get out the next morning (if a chicken doesn’t have at least 14 hours of sunlight they won’t lay nearly as much). When I open that door in the morning they come shooting out of that house like it’s on fire. I refer to it as the “Chinese Chicken Fire Drill”. It really does look like a gang of teenagers running around a car at a stoplight. Fights usually break out because one of them got a larger piece of corn that was just scattered. They are after their paycheck, man. It immediately sounds like it is hailing as their beaks peck the hard ground getting every possible speck of food. Chickens love to pick out little things that are round to eat. God help the rolly polly. Or pinkie toe.
Chickens snore. Honest. They are some noisy sleepers. Must be what it sounds like over at Sunset Acres when the old folks are done watching Wheel of Fortune. I think they can poop while they sleep, though. That’s the only explanation for the amount of cleaning I have to do in there. Come to think of it, they can poop while doing anything (except chewing gum).
In case you were wondering, roosters crowing at sunrise is a myth. THEY CROW ALL DAY! It is actually a way for them to mark their territory. I think I would prefer that they lifted their leg, though, as these two are at it all day. One sings first tenor, the other is more like a soprano - both at the top of their lungs. It also isn’t necessary for them to open their mouth and stretch their necks - they can do it ventriloquist style. The first time they crowed it sounded like speech class full of pubescent boys at the high school. All of the hens whirled around and looked at them like they has just announced their bid for President. The hens have their own “crow” as well. They always brag after they lay an egg. In doesn’t seem to draw a crowd to congratulate them, but they do it anyway. I can tell when someone has laid an egg if I am in the house, the silo, or the north shed. I usually yell thank you. When you don’t have neighbors the chances of looking like a freak go down considerably.
OK, kids, that’s about enough. It’s time for me to hold the new kitty and sip my tea. Ah, the joys of another day in the country.
TJR
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Gratitude!
I find that even though many animals here on the farm seem “expendable” it doesn’t seem to stop us from personifying them. This chicken is bossy, that cat is rude, the dog is always grumpy, yadda, yadda. Which brings me to gratitude.
I haven’t written much about the daily saga surrounding the plethora of cats around here. There aren’t actually that many but it keeps expanding. Eventually Other and I will be those people you see on pet hoarders trying to figure out how 492 cats are living in the shed.
Currently there are two fixed females (Shirley and Beulah) and two fixed toms (Gene and Patty) with one REALLY mean tom making the rounds every few days (Shelly). Before anyone brings it up, I should say that I already know that some of them have names of the wrong gender and most of them have names that you would find on the roster at the nursing home. I should tell you that Other is in charge of naming the cats. It seems to be a point of pride that these names cause embarrassment when telling outsiders about them. Did I mention we are getting another this weekend and her name has already been slated as Doris. Yup. You won’t hear me refer to her by name down at the Co-op while getting hog feed.
Anywho, the weather here turned “brisk” later today. Currently is it blowing 40 mph from the north and snowing to beat the band. It wasn’t bad early on, but when the wind changed directions things went south. Literally. We aren’t predicted to get a lot of snow, but right about now I am wishing that I had put the chains on the plowing tractor. Oh well.
When I got home from town today I locked up the chickens, lit the stove in the dog house, and built a substantial blaze in the wood stove in the garage for said kitties. I know, they are barn cats. It just seems that since the stove is there and the wood is stacked I should stoke it up for them. It didn’t take too long for the thermometer in the garage to read 78 degrees. Not bad for a freestanding garage built in 1930. I wish the house was that warm.
Here is where the gratitude plays in. As I am standing in there trying to decide whether to take off my coat the two toms enjoying the heat started fighting. Initially, I calmly reminded them that I could be in the house like all of the town folks, but I was working in the nastiness to show them some love. It quickly turned into raised-voice preaching with an occasional thump on the top of the head. Dumb cats.
I just wonder about all of the things we do for the comfort of these animals. No doubt there were many chickens, cats, cattle, and hogs that survived the blizzards of 1912 without these conveniences. That must be why their playfulness is such a pisser - I think they should be throwing themselves at my feet and scratching out a love note with their sharpened claws. Maybe I will remind them of that when I go out to load the stove before I go to bed.
Here’s hoping you get all the snow you hoped for but no too much. We certainly don’t need 18 feet for goodness same. We aren’t in Alaska…
TJR
I haven’t written much about the daily saga surrounding the plethora of cats around here. There aren’t actually that many but it keeps expanding. Eventually Other and I will be those people you see on pet hoarders trying to figure out how 492 cats are living in the shed.
Currently there are two fixed females (Shirley and Beulah) and two fixed toms (Gene and Patty) with one REALLY mean tom making the rounds every few days (Shelly). Before anyone brings it up, I should say that I already know that some of them have names of the wrong gender and most of them have names that you would find on the roster at the nursing home. I should tell you that Other is in charge of naming the cats. It seems to be a point of pride that these names cause embarrassment when telling outsiders about them. Did I mention we are getting another this weekend and her name has already been slated as Doris. Yup. You won’t hear me refer to her by name down at the Co-op while getting hog feed.
Anywho, the weather here turned “brisk” later today. Currently is it blowing 40 mph from the north and snowing to beat the band. It wasn’t bad early on, but when the wind changed directions things went south. Literally. We aren’t predicted to get a lot of snow, but right about now I am wishing that I had put the chains on the plowing tractor. Oh well.
When I got home from town today I locked up the chickens, lit the stove in the dog house, and built a substantial blaze in the wood stove in the garage for said kitties. I know, they are barn cats. It just seems that since the stove is there and the wood is stacked I should stoke it up for them. It didn’t take too long for the thermometer in the garage to read 78 degrees. Not bad for a freestanding garage built in 1930. I wish the house was that warm.
Here is where the gratitude plays in. As I am standing in there trying to decide whether to take off my coat the two toms enjoying the heat started fighting. Initially, I calmly reminded them that I could be in the house like all of the town folks, but I was working in the nastiness to show them some love. It quickly turned into raised-voice preaching with an occasional thump on the top of the head. Dumb cats.
I just wonder about all of the things we do for the comfort of these animals. No doubt there were many chickens, cats, cattle, and hogs that survived the blizzards of 1912 without these conveniences. That must be why their playfulness is such a pisser - I think they should be throwing themselves at my feet and scratching out a love note with their sharpened claws. Maybe I will remind them of that when I go out to load the stove before I go to bed.
Here’s hoping you get all the snow you hoped for but no too much. We certainly don’t need 18 feet for goodness same. We aren’t in Alaska…
TJR
Friday, January 6, 2012
A tale of two coons
Actually, it was just one coon with two run-ins. That just doesn’t sound as flashy as a title, though. This was something I was sure you would get a kick out of even though it happened the first week we moved to the farm. That kind of makes it a little more entertaining, actually.
Although we were just getting settled in, I couldn’t wait to putter around out on the farm. I took every opportunity I could to wander around and through the buildings I had never been in and see what treasures I could find. Each day I marveled at all of the good fortune that was dumped on me.
I realized quite quickly that being in the middle a section of wheat and soybean fields meant automatic critters in everything, especially the food for the barn cats. I rather enjoyed my trip out to the north shed each evening to move the cat food into storage and wander back to the house. As I did it I always thought to myself, “I have got to get the ladder out and fix the yard light on that shed.” Do they call that foreshadowing? Yup.
Cut to one evening when I realized about 10 pm that the cat food was still out. As I wandered out to the shed to put the food up I started to hear something that didn’t sound too much like a cat in the shed. I knew just how fat one of the cats was, but it would need to be doing some work on the parallel bars to make that much racket. I decided that I would just pull the sliding doors shut and head back to the house since I only had a flashlight and a pair of Crocks to use as a weapon. As I pulled the door shut something came flying out of the shed right across the toes of said Crocks. After I finished pottying in my pants I decided that I would need to get a burning barrel to get rid of the boxers I was wearing. I also knew that I was the man of the farm, and showing Other my skidded up drawers might just collapse the pedestal that I had crafted over the past week to stand upon. Fooey.
It was at this point that the desire to be the top of the food chain kicked in, so I ran after the raccoon. I’m not sure what I would have done if it would have stopped and turned around, but shaking hands and offering to give her a lift to town probably wouldn’t have cut it. Needless to say, when I got around the corner of the other shed she was gone.
Fast forward to the next day when I decided that I was going to need to wander around a bit more. It was about noon and the birds were chirping. What could go wrong? I owned all of this, for goodness sake.
The farm has an addition on one of the sheds that contains a large diesel generator that will run the whole farm should the power go out. Truth be known, I’m pretty sure that it would run most of the farms in the township, but they would certainly need to chip in on fuel. Or help with the coons.
I had decided on this day to figure out how to start this generator and just kind of see what the whole thing was about. I opened the garage-style doors and began to walk round the generator looking to check the oil, antifreeze, and basically assert my dominance on another piece of my paradise. The building where the generator is housed has a concrete floor with the machine in the middle of the room - picture a tractor without the wheels. I was marveling at the good fortune of having something this cool and handy. I could just picture five foot snow drifts and neighbors looking longingly at the only warm house for miles. My abode powered by this miracle invention would become the hot spot in the areas where others would come to have the comforts of the 21st century.
I stepped back to the doorway and stood there pondering just how loud something like this would be and whether I could cause the whole place to burn down by trying this on my own. About that time, I began to hear something moving around and making noise above me. I looked up and the raccoon perched right above my head said to me, “You should probably enjoy the last few seconds of sight, ‘cause I am about to scratch your eyes out.” I am positive of this. No doubt.
For the second time in 12 hours I wondered just how much poop your body is able to pour into your pants out of fear. I was pretty sure that the 97 pound raccoon above me was laughing with sadistic glee. I quietly shut the doors and stood there trying to regain feeling in my legs. You know that feeling in your legs right after you narrowly avoid a car wreck? Yup, that’s it.
I immediately knew that this raccoon was not getting the better of me. I wasn’t willing to blow the generator to pieces with a shotgun just to exact my revenge, and I had not yet purchased a smaller gun (mind you, I am no gun advocate, but I have to keep myself at the top of the food chain around here). I hopped on the four wheeler and rode down the road to the Roper’s new house a mile away. Mr. Roper was happy to head down on his tractor to dispatch said raccoon. That really isn’t a very interesting part of the story - he shoots it and tosses it in the front loader of the tractor. Done.
There, now you know the raccoon story. For those of you who now have a crushed image of me, you will be happy to know that I have since battled many other animals with bullets here on the farm and remain victorious. When given the right tools, I am quite capable of takin’ care of business. I still cringe at the damage that I probably did to my manhood that day standing on the porch of the previous owners asking them to coming down and shoot something for me.
Did I mention I was wearing the Crocks then as well?
TJR
Although we were just getting settled in, I couldn’t wait to putter around out on the farm. I took every opportunity I could to wander around and through the buildings I had never been in and see what treasures I could find. Each day I marveled at all of the good fortune that was dumped on me.
I realized quite quickly that being in the middle a section of wheat and soybean fields meant automatic critters in everything, especially the food for the barn cats. I rather enjoyed my trip out to the north shed each evening to move the cat food into storage and wander back to the house. As I did it I always thought to myself, “I have got to get the ladder out and fix the yard light on that shed.” Do they call that foreshadowing? Yup.
Cut to one evening when I realized about 10 pm that the cat food was still out. As I wandered out to the shed to put the food up I started to hear something that didn’t sound too much like a cat in the shed. I knew just how fat one of the cats was, but it would need to be doing some work on the parallel bars to make that much racket. I decided that I would just pull the sliding doors shut and head back to the house since I only had a flashlight and a pair of Crocks to use as a weapon. As I pulled the door shut something came flying out of the shed right across the toes of said Crocks. After I finished pottying in my pants I decided that I would need to get a burning barrel to get rid of the boxers I was wearing. I also knew that I was the man of the farm, and showing Other my skidded up drawers might just collapse the pedestal that I had crafted over the past week to stand upon. Fooey.
It was at this point that the desire to be the top of the food chain kicked in, so I ran after the raccoon. I’m not sure what I would have done if it would have stopped and turned around, but shaking hands and offering to give her a lift to town probably wouldn’t have cut it. Needless to say, when I got around the corner of the other shed she was gone.
Fast forward to the next day when I decided that I was going to need to wander around a bit more. It was about noon and the birds were chirping. What could go wrong? I owned all of this, for goodness sake.
The farm has an addition on one of the sheds that contains a large diesel generator that will run the whole farm should the power go out. Truth be known, I’m pretty sure that it would run most of the farms in the township, but they would certainly need to chip in on fuel. Or help with the coons.
I had decided on this day to figure out how to start this generator and just kind of see what the whole thing was about. I opened the garage-style doors and began to walk round the generator looking to check the oil, antifreeze, and basically assert my dominance on another piece of my paradise. The building where the generator is housed has a concrete floor with the machine in the middle of the room - picture a tractor without the wheels. I was marveling at the good fortune of having something this cool and handy. I could just picture five foot snow drifts and neighbors looking longingly at the only warm house for miles. My abode powered by this miracle invention would become the hot spot in the areas where others would come to have the comforts of the 21st century.
I stepped back to the doorway and stood there pondering just how loud something like this would be and whether I could cause the whole place to burn down by trying this on my own. About that time, I began to hear something moving around and making noise above me. I looked up and the raccoon perched right above my head said to me, “You should probably enjoy the last few seconds of sight, ‘cause I am about to scratch your eyes out.” I am positive of this. No doubt.
For the second time in 12 hours I wondered just how much poop your body is able to pour into your pants out of fear. I was pretty sure that the 97 pound raccoon above me was laughing with sadistic glee. I quietly shut the doors and stood there trying to regain feeling in my legs. You know that feeling in your legs right after you narrowly avoid a car wreck? Yup, that’s it.
I immediately knew that this raccoon was not getting the better of me. I wasn’t willing to blow the generator to pieces with a shotgun just to exact my revenge, and I had not yet purchased a smaller gun (mind you, I am no gun advocate, but I have to keep myself at the top of the food chain around here). I hopped on the four wheeler and rode down the road to the Roper’s new house a mile away. Mr. Roper was happy to head down on his tractor to dispatch said raccoon. That really isn’t a very interesting part of the story - he shoots it and tosses it in the front loader of the tractor. Done.
There, now you know the raccoon story. For those of you who now have a crushed image of me, you will be happy to know that I have since battled many other animals with bullets here on the farm and remain victorious. When given the right tools, I am quite capable of takin’ care of business. I still cringe at the damage that I probably did to my manhood that day standing on the porch of the previous owners asking them to coming down and shoot something for me.
Did I mention I was wearing the Crocks then as well?
TJR
Thursday, January 5, 2012
In the beginning...
…there was a realtor.
Maybe I should clarify. My partner and I lived in the big city and had decided that a move to the country was needed. I had purchased the small home in the middle of everything about 12 year prior, and it was time to not have any neighbors. The small neighborhood was perfect for Gladis Cravitz, but not so good for someone who had an arsenal of vehicles and likes to weld things.
I should say that this was not a whim. I grew up in the sticks. We always had some cattle or horses roaming around. The majority of the good childhood memories I have were made on weekends and during the summer when I stayed on the farm with my aging grandparents acting as hired hand. It was a pretty even balance of cattle operation and crop work, so I had my hands in lots of different things. It never occurred to me during this time that I might live in the city or do anything other than farm, but life just seems to evolve. Or is created depending on which side of the fence you stand.
So, back to Cindy the realtor. This gal had her hands full. Not only did she have to sell a house in the worst market since God created realtors, but she had me to deal with. My partner, “Other” as we continue forward, wasn’t really so picky. I however, had an image in my mind of what we needed. The right balance of outbuildings with mature trees placed in the correct spots within 30 minutes of my “real job”. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?
Sheesh, poor woman.
After loosing one property while waiting for the house to sell we were starting to get a little antsy. Granted, the first property was far from what we really needed, but it was a place to call home when the little house sold. Thankfully, Cindy found our little piece of paradise and we were set. “It’s even got the silo that you told her we had to have,” Other told me. “I’m not sure what you will think of the basement, but I think the house is cute. Once you see all of those buildings you will be sold. There isn‘t a neighbor within a mile, either!”
Honestly, when we drove in the driveway I could have cared less if it even had a house. It was just what I wanted. Curving driveway through mature trees, milkhouse, two machine sheds, and lots of fenced corrals - that house could have been a dump.
It almost was.
That’s not quite fair I suppose. It has a rudimentary cellar and is the typical two story farmhouse that’s nearly a century old. It just needs LOTS of TLC and no furniture with wheels on it. I would hate for everything that we need to sit on to end up in the low spot in the middle of the first floor. It probably didn’t help that Mr. and Mrs. Roper had well over a dozen animals in the house and chain smoked cigs that I am sure she hand rolled while waiting for the bacon to crisp up. There were some sponge painting issues as well (which were quickly fixed). I remember telling my friends that it smelled like a 50’s diner. The image that gives you should be just about right.
Alas, paradise is ours.
As you read forward you will find a smattering of tales from the farm so far as well as the daily happenings that occur with this life. We’re just getting rolling, so this is the best time to join in the fray - the chickens are laying, the hogs are due in the spring, and Gene the farting cat has made himself at home. Pull up a chair and sit a spell - things are always changing when The Jolliest Rancher is at the wheel.
TJR
Maybe I should clarify. My partner and I lived in the big city and had decided that a move to the country was needed. I had purchased the small home in the middle of everything about 12 year prior, and it was time to not have any neighbors. The small neighborhood was perfect for Gladis Cravitz, but not so good for someone who had an arsenal of vehicles and likes to weld things.
I should say that this was not a whim. I grew up in the sticks. We always had some cattle or horses roaming around. The majority of the good childhood memories I have were made on weekends and during the summer when I stayed on the farm with my aging grandparents acting as hired hand. It was a pretty even balance of cattle operation and crop work, so I had my hands in lots of different things. It never occurred to me during this time that I might live in the city or do anything other than farm, but life just seems to evolve. Or is created depending on which side of the fence you stand.
So, back to Cindy the realtor. This gal had her hands full. Not only did she have to sell a house in the worst market since God created realtors, but she had me to deal with. My partner, “Other” as we continue forward, wasn’t really so picky. I however, had an image in my mind of what we needed. The right balance of outbuildings with mature trees placed in the correct spots within 30 minutes of my “real job”. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?
Sheesh, poor woman.
After loosing one property while waiting for the house to sell we were starting to get a little antsy. Granted, the first property was far from what we really needed, but it was a place to call home when the little house sold. Thankfully, Cindy found our little piece of paradise and we were set. “It’s even got the silo that you told her we had to have,” Other told me. “I’m not sure what you will think of the basement, but I think the house is cute. Once you see all of those buildings you will be sold. There isn‘t a neighbor within a mile, either!”
Honestly, when we drove in the driveway I could have cared less if it even had a house. It was just what I wanted. Curving driveway through mature trees, milkhouse, two machine sheds, and lots of fenced corrals - that house could have been a dump.
It almost was.
That’s not quite fair I suppose. It has a rudimentary cellar and is the typical two story farmhouse that’s nearly a century old. It just needs LOTS of TLC and no furniture with wheels on it. I would hate for everything that we need to sit on to end up in the low spot in the middle of the first floor. It probably didn’t help that Mr. and Mrs. Roper had well over a dozen animals in the house and chain smoked cigs that I am sure she hand rolled while waiting for the bacon to crisp up. There were some sponge painting issues as well (which were quickly fixed). I remember telling my friends that it smelled like a 50’s diner. The image that gives you should be just about right.
Alas, paradise is ours.
As you read forward you will find a smattering of tales from the farm so far as well as the daily happenings that occur with this life. We’re just getting rolling, so this is the best time to join in the fray - the chickens are laying, the hogs are due in the spring, and Gene the farting cat has made himself at home. Pull up a chair and sit a spell - things are always changing when The Jolliest Rancher is at the wheel.
TJR
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