New Life Old Farmers

Six cats are a lot of cats, even for a farm.  We use to walk into the barn and the mice would scatter.  Now we walk into the barn and the cats scatter, diving into their ‘cat’ holes in the barn floor.  Then they pop their heads out to see if it is ‘safe’ to re-enter, which is a pretty funny sight.

The Bride is a cat person, a cat whisperer in fact.  She has been wooing the feral cats on every visit.  She fell in love with Pooh the first time they met and immediately made plans for kidnapping the kitten.  (Except she told me about her plans… so that wasn’t actually very ‘kidnapper’ like).  The Groom is a dog person, but fell in love with Tigger (or as he says, “he really likes her”), which is sort of the same thing when you are a dog person.  Tigger & Pooh turned into some pretty nice pets.  There in lies the problem, barn cats life expectancy is short, or as my loving spouse bluntly states, “Something usually gets them”.

‘Something’ getting Pooh or Tigger was a bit hard to stomach.  Having three indoor cats was not an option.  The kids were working on turning two of the feral cats into pets, which meant trapping them just for starters.  We all realized that the best thing to do for our barn kittens was to let them upgrade to city kittens, where their life expectancy would be long, they’d be well (really well) loved and the kids would get a pair of really nice cats.

The fierce & mighty duo have moved to Spokane with the newlyweds, so far they seem to be adjusting pretty well.  Those of us left at the farm miss them, even me, but we know we’ve done the right thing.

I was on my way to the store this Saturday morning and smiled at my favorite sign.  It reminds me, that I am not in Los Angeles county anymore!  I passed a jogger and a garage sale too, not so different from city life.

I also passed hunter guys!  (Big exclamation mark here!)  In the field, at the side of the road, with dogs, cameo wear and guns!  Big guns…huge even…, okay not that huge.  Shot guns doing that thing shot guns can do where they are sort of broken in half, with half on their should just walking around like it was a normal Saturday.  Hunters go hunting, I get that.  But when they ‘go’ hunting, they ‘go’ somewhere and I never thought that the somewhere they went was ‘here’.  They were right on my road somewhere between my favorite tractor sign and the garage sale!  Walking around with their hunting dogs, a normal part of this time of year.

All my years of living in the city kicked in.  My first thought was that they were the police looking for a bad guy, hoodlum, gang member, escaped convict.  Then I realized that they were ‘normal’ people just hunting on Saturday morning and I thought…I am not in Los Angeles any more!

I called my loving spouse.  He said, “Dear, you are living in the country now.”  “Yes, but they are on my road…”.  “Well, it is that time of year.”

I was a tad freaked out.  I decided to settle myself by doing something I do understand for this time of year… Starbucks, pumpkin spice latte, which I find almost always helps.

I was mostly back to normal when I got home, where the fierce and mighty barn kittens met me…with a snake.

The cats and the chickens share the barnyard pretty well, scratching and chasing bugs.  Tigger & Pooh, the fierce and mighty barn kittens go into the chicken run and eat chicken food.  Some of the chickens go in the barn and eat cat food.  This wouldn’t be a problem except the cats are ‘barn-broken’ and the chickens are not.  I don’t want the chickens pooping in the barn, gosh darn it, I just cleaned it!

The dogs know when it is dinner time and they let us know it as well.  Dinner time is the only time we can let our terrier Daisy out of the run without a leash, even then it is a bit of a gamble, however she usually makes straight for the kitchen door to get her meal.  Except, last night she saw the chickens and took off after them sending 16 chickens running in all directions, Pooh climbed to the top of the hen-house, feathers and fur were flying.  The teen was yelling at the dog, but as Daisy is deaf, calling her was no help.  Well, the truth is she was never very good at coming when she could hear.  My loving spouse came ‘sprinting’ (with a new hip and a bad knee, he was sort of ‘sprinting’) out of the workshop where he caught the dog with his boot, just as Daisy had one black chicken cornered.

With the dog and her proper dinner, which was not chicken back in her run, we set about trying to find the rest of the animals.  Pooh was peeled off the side of the chicken coop and we started to count chickens.  9 inside the chicken house, 5 hiding behind the barn and 2 missing, 1 red hen and 1 black hen.  No dead chicken bodies to be found or floating on the pond.  No missing chicken anywhere!  Those chickens may not be smart, but they sure know how to hide when they are scared.  Both missing chickens eventually came back to the chicken coop, which eased our anxiety.  We can’t let that happen again….

One terrier for sale… cheap.

I never really cared about pigeons one way or another until I moved to our farm, but now I can quite clearly state that I hate them.  They are a pooping, disgusting bird and I am being kind.

If you believe life on a farm is one tranquil moment after another with the hens cackling, the kittens playing, the horses trotting about, then you missed my day today… by a long shot.

Our hay barn is roughly 20 feet tall with a vent at the very top.  A screened vent, no less to keep disgusting birds like pigeons out.  However, a long time ago, years I am guessing the screen came partly loose which gave the pigeons not only a way in, but a place to perch.  In their perching time, they also pooped, a lot…for a long time.  So when we moved in, our hay barn had a vent with a screen and a solid foot or two of pigeon poop.  High up, hard to get to, and completely disgusting.

Today was the day.  I was already dirty (what a surprise) so I decided it was time to get that poop down!  My idea was to set our orchard ladder off to one side and pull the screen down with my 12 foot tree trimming tool, thereby bringing the poop down as well.  By setting the ladder to the side, when the poop avalanche came, it would miss me.

I called the teen to come out to the barn, just in case I fell of the ladder (which unfortunately has happened before), besides I don’t really like going up ladders so I needed the moral support.  The only good thing I can say about this particular pack of poop was that it was dry, dusty, but dry which at this point was a good thing.  The teen and I decided, that I should add a wide-brimmed hat to my outfit mostly for the protection when the poop avalanche came.

Everything about my plan worked, except putting the ladder off to the side.  The screen opened up and that big old pack of poop came down and hit me square on the head.  The hat did help, until I had to pull the rest of the screen off.  I had to tilt my head back so much that the hat wouldn’t stay on, so I got the screen off and got dusty old pigeon poop in my eyes and ears as well.  I was covered from head to toe.  I hate pigeons.

The hay barn is looking a lot cleaner and I feel sort of victorious, (now that I have had a shower).  However, I would love to ban all pigeons at our farm.  Number One son’s next visit needs to be spent on his target practice and the pigeons as his target.  In fact, I’m thinking of bringing in Number Two son from NYC for the weekend to give him some back up.

It is hard to write with the distraction of our horses, who are now racing through their field.  We don’t know what has set them off, as they usually spend their day as dedicated lawn mowers.  At this minute however, their tails are flying and their hoofs are pounding  They are so beautiful when they run.  Perhaps they heard the rodeo was in town.

I did love our first trip to the rodeo.  We were so close to the action that as the posses thundered in bits of flying dirt came sailing into the seats in front of us.  The hoof beats were loud and the riding fast and very impressive.

Obviously, the rodeo comes mostly from the age-old skills needed to run ranches.  Cattle roping, quick riding, calf tying, and the ability to stay on a bucking horse, all by riders who impressively look like one with their horse.  The rodeo also seemed to show some age-old truth about the differences in men and women.  All the men’s events called for the rider to leap off, fall off, jump off, get bucked off or get pulled off to safety.  I did notice that there were two rodeo events for women with barrel racing and calf roping, the only two events where the riders actually stayed on their mount.

An elder gentle man once told me an age-old truth.  He said:

1 boy = 1 brain

2 boys = 1 brain

3 boys = 1/2 brain

I’m not sure how many boys it took to decide to try bull riding, but I’m guessing it was at least a few.  It takes a lot of men to assist with the bull riders and they all need the ability to be brave, run and climb fences quickly.  The bull riding itself is an amazing act.  Of course the fact that they don’t just get killed is part of the amazement.  I am also impressed that after being tossed around like a rag doll, that they can even get up and walk.  I felt like I had whip-lash just watching them.

One of the more humorous county events was Wild Cow Milking.  Again, I’m pretty sure thought up by a whole group of boys, as the cows are very wild, do not want to be caught let alone milked and the kicker…. you’ve got to talk a buddy into helping you do it.  There were two entries for the event.  The wild cow is set loose and the rider ropes it.  Let me tell you a wild cow is not only one big animal, but it is not too happy about being in a rodeo.  Once roped the second man runs out to try to hang onto the cow, so the roping man can milk it.  The cow is thrashing the guys are hanging on to it as it drags them about.  The bell rings and then they try to convince the judge that the mark in their bottle really is a drop of milk.  No one won this event as no one actually came up with any milk, but it was entertaining.

For me, the best part was the Pick Up men.  Unlike ‘pick up artists’, these men are not only helpful, but amazingly athletic.  They are the two riders in the arena to assist with the bull riders and the bucking horse riders.  They ride different horses for each event, one for strength and one for speed.  Watching them race up alongside the bucking horses, as they are thundering around the arena, stay with them and then pull the riders off to safety was awe-inspiring every time.

All the horses seemed beautiful to me, exceedingly well-trained which one knows doesn’t happen by accident, but takes hours and hours of hard, consistent work.  The riders calm, confident and capable (with great cowboy hats), yep, I did love the rodeo.

The first day of our Kittitas County fair is in the books.  Various fair food was consumed by the family of gyros, nachos, kettle corn, chocolate covered strawberries, funnel cake, hot dogs, elephant ears and huckleberry ice cream.  My stomach hurt before we even showed up, so my consumption of these culinary delights was somewhat limited.  Today, however, is a new day and as we will be ‘working’ in the church chocolate strawberry booth, I will have a second chance.  We got off yesterday to a typical somewhat frantic start as there were wardrobe issues.  The teen and my loving spouse were set in their new cowboy shirts, the bride & groom didn’t care and I did what I usually do… try on ten different combinations, go back to where I started, give up and leave.  I shouldn’t have been concerned as true Country Fair wear was as varied as any other fair I’ve been to, there were just a lot more boots.  Cowboy boots with short-shorts was a look we’d not seen and have no intention of trying.  Little pink cowboy boots on little girls were cute, fancy red boots on full-grown men not so cute.  Mostly boots a bit dusty, well-worn and well used.

We toured the exhibits of food, crafts, photos and animals.  As we are a somewhat competitive bunch, we’ve all got our plan for next year.  My loving spouse will enter his zucchini chutney, the bride’s going for the photography, the teen is trying to talk us into a bunny, the pumpkin growers might have some competition from yours truly and the groom just wants to be a judge for the baked goods.

Due to the wardrobe mal-function we were a bit late to the hog auction thereby earning us the last seat in the house, which was front row, one foot, yes, just 12 inches from the pen.  Prior to the hog auction, the thought of raising a pig for the fair was sounding rather fun.  A few hours later after being 12 inches from pigs pooping and peeing up front and personal, then the next pig rooting (farm term for sticking their nose in stuff) in the past pig’s poop has cured me currently of this idea.  The kids were all cute, coming in as freshly scrubbed as their pigs often with a scrub brush in their back pocket.  I imagine there were a few moms outside the pen with a scrub brush of their own.

I spent most of the auction literally sitting on my hands for fear of being mistaken for a bidder.  Let me tell you, this community supports their 4-H kids and pays for their pigs!  Our friend the farmer bids on his grandkids’ pigs, but only on their first hog to make it to market and now we know why.  The 234 lb grand-hog went for $5.50 per pound and no matter how you slice it, that is some expensive bacon.  As I am use to sitting in bleachers for sporting events, I did inquire of him, who we were ‘rooting’ (sporting term, not farm term) for… the granddaughter to get a high price or him to get a low price.  “Oh, it’s a win-win”, he said, “The money goes to the kids”.  I didn’t grow up on a farm and I didn’t grow up with any grandfathers or their support, so I especially think these kids are pretty lucky.

We are going ‘over the hill’ today, if you can call the Cascades a ‘hill’.  After living in Southern California for so long, where there was every shop imaginable and attainable within a ‘short’ (depending on California traffic) drive, a trip ‘over the hill’ is our opportunity to catch up on our retail needs.

With a craft fair looming and a farm filled with inspiration, I am beside myself with delight to get into a Michael’s craft store.  My coupons are packed, Michael’s card tucked into the wallet and two or three ‘reminders’ to my loving spouse about how much I ‘need’ to go to Michael’s.  Do I know exactly what I need ?  Well… I will know when I see it.

While we’re over the hill, we have a dinner date planned.  Much needed and long-awaited, somewhere by the water.  Just us two old people, no one to tell… eat more dinner, don’t move the rice with your hand, don’t shake the rice off your hand onto the table, take your elbows off the table, don’t slurp your milk, use your napkin, whose turn is it to do the dishes?,  and their ever-loving replies… ‘hun?’  ‘what?’ and my personal favorite ‘not mine’.

My loving spouse adores the ocean and needs to see it regularly.  We were getting excited to go and explore Long Beach, Washington, as it sounded delightful.  He had gathered the information on the best beach to go to for dinner from our current resident expert in all things, our friend the farmer.  The mis-communication could have been his English accent, but somewhere along the way the two men’s planning abilities hit a snag.  Long Beach is a 4.5 hour drive… one way.

We are nearing the end of the summer days, which means we will be back to just one resident teen in two days.  The summer of teens went well, but honestly 61 days of other people’s teens is a tad longer than is sane for them and for us.  We’ll rethink our planning for next year or we’ll actually plan next year, what a concept.  We do believe we’ve given the teen’s a great experience and opportunity, so we are glad to have this home to share with them.  However, fall is looking really good.

Our teen will be back at school in no time, but of course not until after THE fair and THE rodeo.  One of the lovely parts of living in a small town, is that when there is a big event happening, it is a big event for everyone.  There are no membership requirements, no need to live in the right part of town or go to the right school, the right church or have the right friends.  THE county fair and THE rodeo is for everyone and it seems everyone is involved.  Even the farming is stopped for the weekend, no hay is cut, fluffed or baled, as there is a lot of excitement in the air.

(I love living here, as I just went to the Rodeo office for some posters and a gift for the English teen.  The man working the counter tipped his hat to me.  Old time manners, got to love them!)

Our first fair will be some welcome family time with the teen and the Bride & Groom.  We’ve worked the system making three trips to the Feed & Seed to buy Wrangler cowboy shirts and receive our ‘free’ rodeo ticket each time.  Prior to ‘kick off’ (or what ever rodeo term there is for barrels, roping and bucking) we’ll “do” the fair and might even go to the livestock auction.

The little I know is that the 4-H kids have been raising bunnies, pigs, cattle, sheep (that for some reason need to be walked daily which makes them ‘better’ sheep), dogs and horses.  There is judging and a live stock auction, where the kids can sell their livestock animals.  I asked our friend the farmer exactly who buys the livestock animals.  “Oh, the biggest group of bidders is usually Grandfathers.” ” Oh, so it is a little like a silent auction?”  “No”, he says, “There is nothing silent about it”.  I hope for his sake that he takes a really big wallet as he’s got 12 grandkids.  Who knows maybe we’ll bid on a pig!

There has been a lot of ‘putting up’ in our little valley and unlike the old expression ‘put up or shut up’, the farm truth is ‘put up and share’.  These goodies were delivered by neighbors just in the past week.  Besides the fresh picked carrots, there have been apples, apple juice, and of course the ever abundant zucchini, as well as a couple of tomato plants.  It is not uncommon for us to come home and find fresh vegetables left for us on the kitchen porch.  My loving spouse has perfected ‘putting up’ zucchini chutney, an adaptation of the favored British green bean chutney.  We are now sharing zucchini chutney around the valley with our neighbors, who say thank you very nicely, look at it slightly puzzled and inquire politely as to how they eat it.

Getting the ‘darn spruce tree’ into burn-able size wedges is a job in the works.  The actual Lumber Jack language for it is called ‘splitting wood’, when it in fact goes ‘right’ and the wood does ‘split’.  These large rounds are not dry enough to even attempt to split yet.  I really do like to have a ‘go’ at the smaller logs, as some days, it is therapeutic to have some thing to whack.  I previously referred to splitting as ‘whacking wood’, personally I prefer this saying, since there is still an awful lot of whacking and not as much actual splitting going on when I try it.  My loving spouse bought us some fancy wedges that split the wood easier.  The truth is that they are very good, but I still get them stuck fairly regularly.  I’ve learned that un-sticking the wedges is just part of the process.  I am improving considerably, not so much at the splitting, but at getting the wedges stuck.  I now seldom get every single one of our wedges stuck in the same log.  Another farm truth is that if I whack two of these logs I will need a gin.  If I whack three, I will need Advil and a gin.  If I whack more than that, I will need my head examined.

City truth or farm truth, there is really very little I know for sure, but I do know that the Lord God loves me and so does my loving spouse.  I can believe them both.

“Fear not, for I am with you” Isaiah 43:5  Of course I seem to forget this often, but it is always good for me to be reminded in a new community or old, through wild fires and snow (which I’ve yet to experience and ought to be entertaining for this Southern Californian) and especially through this summer of teens.

I could never have had this life adventure on my own.  I know so little about farms, animals and restoring this old home.  It is crucial to have someone who has experience and knows what he is doing.  My loving spouse is our expert and I believe him  when he tells me, “Sweetie, that electrical wire is not hot, you can go ahead and cut it”…. POP!

I am now permanently taking myself out of the electrician pool of workers.