New Life Old Farmers

We would both agree that the workshop is still a disaster.  The three bays are slightly improved from a year ago and now at least each section has an assigned function.  I would say the ‘disaster’ status comes from the amount of dirt, broken doors, lack of order and chicken poop that one must deal with inside.  My Loving Spouse would say the ‘disaster’ status comes from broken doors, lack of lighting, lack of time to fix it and ‘people’ (probably me) who keep moving his stuff, (which in my defense, I do not move his stuff.  I return his stuff, because I have this weird notion that tractor parts and power tools do not add to the functionality of our kitchen counters).

One side of the workshop shortly after we moved in, I’d like to say it looks vastly different now, but….

The Workshop is a treasure trove of ‘stuff’, metal bits and pieces, old nails, door knobs, tools, cans of oil, parts of tractors, chains, wire, wheels, a coal-burning stove and a pile of coal.  Then of course there is the ‘junk’.  The ‘junk’ was in a large old wash pail, where My Loving Spouse threw the ‘junk’ when he was ‘cleaning up’.  The wash pail became too heavy to move, which is why it never got thrown out, which is also lucky for me, as I like the ‘junk’.  The ‘junk’ is now being turned into other ‘stuff’, which is a story I’ll save for another day…

One bay has a large door that does not open at all on one end (it only looks open in the picture at the top of the website, as it had fallen off completely), this door needs to be fixed (no small job), and a small door on the other side that has also completely fallen off and a large section of the wall has a hole in it which needs repair as well.  This wall used to be off its foundation, but My Loving Spouse fixed it, so we are making some progress.  You could say it tends to be a bit drafty and cold in the winter, not exactly a warm and cozy man cave.

We need the workshop to work…better.  It is frustrating for My Loving Spouse when he needs to fix stuff, because he cannot see and cannot find things and stuff is always needing to be fixed, like the (bad British word) ride on mower which has broken three belts in almost three days.  To say nothing of the other projects we haven’t finished, started or come to terms over.

It feels a bit like we are at the end of a 10 month pregnancy and now have beautiful but colicky twins….with diaper rash!  The house and farm are beautiful, except where it is not.  Some of the farm’s issues we either didn’t know existed or didn’t know that they cannot be fixed, and we are just a tad tired.  I don’t know how to fix the Work Shop, but my dream for My Loving Spouse is for him to have lots of light, doors that work, everything clean (whoops… he doesn’t care about that), no chicken poop or holes in the wall.  Hmm, I wonder if I could hire someone to do that???  I’d need a really good work force, do you think there is an Amish ‘r Us.

In the end, my fantasy dream Work Shop will include My Loving Spouse inside, happily whistling while he fixes all the things that break, carefully and thoughtfully planning the next step of this massive renovation, with all his tools where they go… or maybe just plenty of light and doors that work.

If I said I wasn’t looking forward to this Monday morning, I’d be lying…..like a rug.  I told My Loving Spouse last night, “You know I love you and the kids?  Tomorrow morning, you will all be gone and well, …… I am sort of giddy with excitement at the thought!”.  The house all to myself, albeit a dirty house, but a quiet one!  Oh, come on you mothers that are rolling your eyes!  It has been six weeks since I had a quiet morning and my sanity left a long time ago.  I had a plan.  Dusting, laundry, bill paying, weeding around the pumpkins, watering and quiet, quiet, quiet.  It was a beautiful thing… then a strange car pulled up with an older lady in it.

“Is that your big black animal in the road?”  

“Excuse me?”

“Down by my house, I live down the street.”

Oh, I thought, one of Our Friend the Farmer’s heifers has gotten out.

“Oh,”  I said, “A cow?”

“Yes”

“Oh, no it is not mine, but I know who it belongs to.  I will go try to put her back in the pasture.  Is it number 203?”

“Well, I didn’t really get close enough to get it’s name”

She looked at me a bit oddly, thinking I might be a bit odd as well, since I knew the name/number of the cow, but not as odd as I thought of her as she’d obviously lived here a long time and didn’t know that the ‘big black animal’ was a cow.  I thanked her again, and told her I’d handle it.  I figured I’d either get the heifer back in and then let Our Friend the Farmer know she’d gotten out again, or I’d not be able to get her back in and let him know she was out again.

I grabbed a long shovel, because it is a good tool to encourage cows to go where you want them to, or protect myself, in case the heifer didn’t like my ‘attitude’.  Our Friend the Farmer always has a shovel with him.  I could have saddled my horse to wrangle the heifer, but that could take too long and I didn’t want her to get hit on the road.  I would have jumped on my ‘bike’ (quad/4 wheeler), except we don’t have one.  Our Friend the Farmer is always saying, “Pat, you need to get a bike.”  So, I jumped into the only available vehicle I had, a tad ‘non-farmy’, my jaunty, cute, red Lexus and drove off down the road to wrangle the heifer.

Cattle like to do three things, eat, drink and poop.  The cow/heifer that manages to get out of the pasture is not actually the smart one.  It is sort of the dumb one, because it not only leaves the place where there is food and water, but it usually cannot figure out how to get back there when it wants to.  My plan was to open the gate to the pasture and then get behind the heifer and ‘encourage’ her in the right direction, I’ve seen this done and usually they are so happy to get back into the pasture they sort of take off at a run as soon as they see the open gate.  Just as I got to the wayward heifer, one of Our Friend the Farmer’s Top Men was there doing exactly what I’d planned to do, darn it.  I didn’t get to be the cow ‘hero’, but I did get to go home to a quiet house.

Tigger is one of the original fierce and mighty barn kittens, and she is also one of the two cats we non-cat people really do like.  Tiggs has been on a roll lately and seems bent on using up some of her ‘9 lives’.

Five weeks ago out of the blue, Tigger had an abrasion with a huge lump on her left jaw, possibly the ‘gift’ of a passing car?  My Loving Spouse put on his ‘farm vet hat’ and palpitated the injury to assist in the healing.  In a day or two, the little striped cat was back to normal, catching mice and laying under the sun on the farm.

Three weeks ago, we noticed that Tigger was looking very, very skinny.  With Tigger in mind, My Loving Spouse (Glory Farm Vet) declared all barn cats needed to be wormed.  Eeeewwww!  I procured the worming medicine and we served the five up a special treat…tuna and worm medicine.

Except….we couldn’t find Tigger…anywhere.  She wasn’t seen all day or night, which is a very rare thing.  There was no sign of the little striped cat and we thought she’d gone off somewhere to die.  I was actually quite distressed and did not relish telling Number One Son and Number One Wife about her, as they are very fond of the little fur ball.

I was beyond delighted the next morning, to see that Tigger was back, looking hungrier and skinnier than ever.  I snagged the barn cat and brought her inside to get some worming medicine into her, except all the tuna was gone.  My Loving Spouse was talked into sharing some of his herring with the feline, this time dosed with worming sauce, honestly even without the worming medicine…herring is a bit disgusting.  Should you like herring, it was wasted on her.  A cocktail of milk and medicine was whipped up, which she happily lapped down.

In two days, Tigger was looking and acting better!  Her coat became shiny and she started to fill out.  We were relieved to have the little barn cat back where she belongs!

Our most prominent cat lover, Number One Wife was here for the weekend and noticed a new large lump on Tigger’s other jaw!  It seemed to be growing and was very hard.  Last night the cat seemed to be getting worse, so My Loving Spouse (Glory Farm Vet) and Number One Wife went into the surgery/workshop to lance the lump.  I weakly offered my help and was glad the help was declined.  The lancing did seem to help the little cat, but both humans came back in reeling from the smell!

Early the next morning, the Glory Farm Vet was concerned as the little cat had a fever and it was rising, so Tigger went where barn cats rarely go… to the real vet.  She was whisked into surgery, the injury cleaned, drained and sent home into the arms of Number One Wife.  Set to rest and recover, she’s settling in nicely where all barn cats aspire to be someday…..inside, on my side of the bed.

I got it!  My green light, my go ahead, all suited up for the game, and I got the nod, I was going in!  I climbed up (seriously, there is like a ladder) into ‘my’ tractor, a big John Deere and set off to work as a baler in Our Friend the Farmer’s field.  I’d been waiting and hoping for the chance to be out and be part of the action….and a tad nervous that I would screw it up.

 I pull a baler affectionately named “Grandma” and, yes, it is older than I am.  Rules for baling… never turn left and do not back up!  Be good at swiveling your head, because you drive slowly down the ‘windrow’ (farming name for the row of hay) watching where you are going and looking back at your baler or in my case “Grandma” to make sure the hay is going in the right way and that the bales are coming out properly.  Slow and steady the balers work the field a bit like ants.  My tractor has air conditioning and a radio, which almost always seems to pick up country music.  I could not help but think about my other job, profession, work, which I left in California.  A bit different… a Realtor selling million dollar (not all but plenty) homes to now…and loving it!

From the cab of the tractor are some of the members of the little baling team, an almost perfectly diverse crew.  Two gals, two guys.  One teenager, one young father, me and the chief baler whose age is somewhat over 70.  Our Friend the Farmer’s teen granddaughter and I bonded yesterday as after 5 hours of baling we were grateful to be within walking distance of Glory Farm’s bathrooms.  We parked our tractors up (that is how you say it here in the country, a tractor is parked ‘up’, not just ‘parked’) and took off on a brisk walk down the trail, through the gates and across the yard.

I felt a little badly that I might be ‘cheating’ on Jubal, but I quickly got over it.  We worked on many different fields so there were trips down the road, waving to our girls out sunning themselves, across the highway and over the rail road tracks.  I loved going down the road!  A big old tractor taking up a lot of the street, just like the tractor sign…except the tractor was bigger and the signs don’t have boobs.

The tractors run on diesel, the balers need grease, string and hydraulics fluid.  The drivers run on Mountain Dew delivered in the afternoon by Our Friend the Farmer when he fills up the baler with string.

Watching the rows of hay turn into a field of tightly bound bales is part of the farm magic.  I wanted to do a really, really good job, because that is who I am, but also because I wanted Our Friend the Farmer to be as glad to have me baling as I was to be baling.

Does this mean I’ve ceased my obsession with cows?  No.  It is just a different season.  We live where there are seasons now and it is the hay season…the hay harvest.

Last year My Loving Spouse baled and bartered for hay for our herd…I wonder how long it would take to bale for a heifer?

After this post was written one of my clever readers made me a present,

that I must share with you…hope you enjoy it as much as we did!

I think maybe we finally belong…here in this country town.  Thank God, truly for everything.  For the beautiful valley, the animals, the hard work and the history, but most of all for the people.  Our new friends….it takes a while to really make them.  I mean, really make new friends…those that accept us, ‘warts’ and all.

I find life funny… and dear…I love my family…and my Lord… this country life, the mud?, sorry the journey’s still out on the mud and on the poop, but I’m learning to live with it.  I look for the positive when blogging, which for the most part is good.  The positive is a big part of our life… but it is not everything…and so the truth is we (the parents, the old folks, the bill folds, the cruise directors) are tired!   We are reaching the end of 6 weeks of extra teens here.. mouths to feed…attitudes to adjust…’situations’ to unravel and attempt once again to be understanding….

And then we got invited to a friend’s house….for a glass of wine… and to just get away from everything…the mess…the heat (they had air conditioning)… those kids, our kids…the herd… and we went…quickly, like parental refugees…ah….and it was nice.  It was cool… it was quiet… it was lovely.  Our friend knew we were tired, that we needed a break, and she still wanted us to come….and she had wine…and snacks…. friends are good.  Real friends… are really, really good…and we are grateful.

A wild and wet storm passed through yesterday with lots of quick but heavy rain, thunder and lightning.  Normally, I would enjoy the excitement and the power of the storm, but this time, I knew how hard it would be on the farmers here.  They’ve been working so hard to get their hay crop in.  Cut hay that is rained on not only has to be dry before it is baled, but it is not worth as much money as the hay that hasn’t been rained on.

Mother Nature is a giving, yet hard and unpredictable partner.  She’s helped to grow an abundant crop, but now the farmers must practice one of my least favorite things to practice…patience.  I’ve had to practice patience as well (darn), as I am set to help bale the hay (in a big tractor) for Our Friend the Farmer when and if the hay is dry enough to bale.  Yesterday was to be my big baling day…until the storm came through.  After the storm, I was glad to do a bit of weed mowing on my faithful tractor, Jubal, which never fails to lighten my outlook.    As I parked my tractor up, I saw the sign that reminds us in the storms of summer it won’t keep on raining and in the storms of life we are never alone.

Today was My Loving Spouse’s birthday.  Thank God for the ‘dyslexic’ offspring, who was not only in charge of the sprinkles, but in charge of the creative arrangement of the birthday candles as well.  The three teens had made the cake and bought the goodies for it days ago, which was nicely appreciated by the birthday boy (?) person… man… head honcho guy.  The Teen and The English Niece dutifully whipped, stirred and baked the cake, while Number Three Son licked the beaters.

Dinner was an all American favorite, hot dogs and hamburgers, to the delight of The English Niece who is spending the summer ‘across the pond’.  She was not ‘keen’ (a very British word) on having her picture taken, but as I reminded her that her Dad was missing her, reading the blog to keep in touch and he’d paid for her ticket to come over, she agreed.

The birthday Brit had requested cricket as the after dinner game.  Being good sports we showed up to play, even though most of us didn’t know a single thing about cricket.  We quickly learned however, that we were going to play French cricket.  Why we were eating an American meal and playing a ‘French’ game on the Brit’s birthday, one can only wonder….

French cricket is nothing more than ‘fancy’ dodge ball.  Everyone stands in a circle with the batsman in the middle.  You throw the ball at the batsman’s shins and try to hit him.  The batsman can knock the ball away with the cricket bat.  We were all pretty pathetic, which actually added to the enjoyment of the game.  The silliness rose in equal proportion to the cheap whiffle balls falling apart.  (Note to self, upgrade, dollar store whiffle balls… not!).

But say what you will about our cricket skill, I’m pretty darn sure we are the best cricket team in Ellensburg.  French, English, American, perfectly pathetic and contentedly so.

Happy Birthday to My Favorite Brit!

The inn is full, sort of..after all, if you want to sleep in the barn, there is still plenty of room.  I would suggest you sleep upstairs in the hay loft, as sometimes there is a skunk that roams the barn at night downstairs.  I’d also suggest not sleeping directly under the cupola as there is a pigeon that tends to perch there and do what pigeons do best… poop, but other than that, you are welcome to the barn, as the house is full.  A full house is still quite new to me.  My home was not a ‘destination’ place…it was small….friends lived nearby…family went to my folks house.  Our move to Glory Farm has changed many things and people come here.  I am still learning how to do ‘it’.

Having a lot of family at the farm for the week is giving everyone a lot of options, which is good, so good in fact that I’ve hardly touched my Secret See’s Candy Survival Stash at all.  People tend to drift off in small groups with the members of the group ever-changing, a bit like changing partners in a square dance.  Yesterday my sister and I weeded the entire vegetable garden, surprisingly enough, no teenagers offered to join us.  However, it was rewarding work and we got uninterrupted visiting time, which is priceless.  In the evenings the teens make loud, fun noise singing with rock band until we go to bed which is when they begin their nightly movie.

Every dinner is a large family dinner and although I know we have some picky eaters here, they tend not to exhibit that trait with so many mouths to feed, I guess they’re worried they might not get anything to eat at all if they do.  Smart kids….

Feeding oneself breakfast and lunch is a life skill and I’m doing my best to make sure everyone learns how to do it.  I do not even bat an eye at Number Three Son as he has orange soda with breakfast…his ration of soda is one can a day and if he wants it downed by 8:00am, well, really who cares?

Becoming a home where people visit is almost as big a change and learning curve for me, as moving to the country.  I still have much to get better at… to pace myself….let things go…buy enough TP….know what really matters…accept that we are all a tad bit quirky and be grateful, which I am…that they want to come.

Oh, to be six.  My Little Nephew was born a year after the last of his Grandparents passed away and so we’ve tried to step into that special role.  We’ve certainly been looking forward to sharing the farm with him, as my Uncle and Aunts did for me, when I was a child… the animals, the tractors, the cousins and the space to just be six.

My Little Nephew quickly discovered the joy of finding a freshly laid egg and as he checks the hen’s boxes approximately 20 times a day the odds of his finding a warm one are extremely high!

The family game…he was a natural complete with the straw hat he snagged from his mother, so much so that the older offspring staged an uprising and put an end to his unlimited mulligans.

With a house full of family, it is easy to find someone to pour the breakfast cereal and Number Three Son is a ready favorite.

Our library seemed the perfect place to stage the k-nex roller coaster building….ah, mess.  But, as I said to My Loving Spouse as we kicked a path through the debris to our room, “It is a happy mess” and one that surprisingly does not bother me, at least for now.

Helping me mow the lawn, he could have mowed all day long.  So far the only thing he is a bit wary of is the cow, as he was just moving in on her when she started to poop.  Boy, you should have seen how fast his little legs could run!

Nothing really compared to being left under the charge of My Loving Spouse for the morning, out in the workshop with tools, tools tools.  Tractor driving was highlighted as absolutely the BEST part of the day!!

My Loving Spouse reported that Whoa Nelly Walton was actually the best baby sitter around, as he was happy to sit in the truck and do little more than turn the steering wheel for what seemed like hours!

Being six, even if you’re cute does not exempt one from dish duty… at least not around here, to which his real Grandmother would be proud….

The day ended with a bit of a crash as he fell out of the swing….but as he said to the chickens… “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow”.