Farm Fresh Blog

Other Half and I both share the same character flaw: procrastination. Part of it is that we are spinning so many plates at once that we have to prioritize certain things. People who live like this have a higher tolerance for dog hair on the floor and tall grass in the yard. They also have the ability to sleep with dogs. This is due to the aforementioned tolerance for dog hair.

Now this said, our tendencies toward prioritizing and procrastination almost always have a way of biting us in the butt. The problem being - we prioritize the wrong things when we procrastinate. For example: the air conditioning in my Toyota 4Runner.

My little putt-putt car is a 2000 Toyota 4Runner that has over 263,000+ miles on it. The only thing I do to that truck is put gas in it. My idea of maintenance is - putting gas in it. When forced by the state, I will put new tires on it, and I give it an oil change then. I do not possess automotive care skills. Other Half possesses these skills, but there is that whole procrastination thing. I have a tendency to treat my cars like I treat my riding lawnmowers -

"if it's moving forward and grass is coming out the side, it's fine. Keep goin'."

Last year there was a major hitch in the giddy-up with my little 4Runner - loud screeching under the hood. Hmmm.... sounded like a belt. (Like I would even know!) Neighbor across street heard the screech and became concerned enough (code: tired of listening to it.) to advice me to try rubbing soap on the belt.  I did. Nothing. Nada.

One of the guys at my office sprayed some fancy spray on it. Nothing. Nada.

Now although my automotive skills are non-existent, I am fairly observant and I noted that while the engine was screaming, the air conditioner would quit working. As soon as the screaming stopped, the AC would resume. I noted this. I did nothing about this. But I DID note it.

One day the check engine light came on, as those suckers tend to do and I stopped by one of those auto parts stores.

I assure you that I did this only because I cannot get the car inspected with a check engine light on. Because, as was pointed out early, "if it's moving forward, and grass is still coming out the side, it's fine. Keep goin."

The woman who was diagnosing the check engine light told me that light was caused by my oxygen sensor. While she was there, she listened to the screeching and proclaimed that my air conditioning compressor was going out. That sounded expensive.

Part Two of procrastination is COST. I'm poor. All my money goes to the feed store, so anything that looks like it will cost money (except for the health of my animals!) is definitely a lower priority. And besides, after screeching for a few minutes, it would quit and the air conditioner would come back on. Remember our mantra: "If it's moving forward . . . "

This was all well and good until last August. With a final objective scream, the air conditioner died - in August - in Texas. I had *@!* - - myself. (cannot be completed in a family-friendly program.)

So, I drove without air conditioning. Too many other things were going on. I was selling a farm. I was moving. I was buying a farm. And I was poor. So every day, I drove that sucker to work, arriving at the office, sweaty and smelling like a homeless person. This went on until cold weather arrived. (Cold is such a relative term in Texas. For those of you in Canada, substitute the word "balmy.")

I was definitely going to fix the air conditioner during the winter. But the money I had saved up went other places. (As money tends to do. It's slippery stuff!) So Summer arrived and the air conditioner still hadn't been fixed. The tires had been replaced. The oil and air filter had been changed! But I was facing another Summer of sweating because air compressors cost money. I hadn't even bothered to check how much. After all, the very word "compre$$or has dollar signs in it, so why bother?

That was until something happened.

Last week Other Half drove the jeep to get it inspected. We have a jeep too. It doesn't have air conditioning either. The AC isn't broke though. It's just that it's an off-road jeep and those don't have AC. Needless to say, OH called me at work to complain that he was hot and sweaty and wanted sympathy.  At this point I said,

"See what you're feeling now? That hot, sweaty, nasty feeling?"

He allowed as how it was a nasty feeling.

"Well that's how I ARRIVE at work every day, so I don't want to HEAR ABOUT IT!!!"

Put that way, he had a better understanding of how I felt without air conditioning. So he called a friend of his who is a whiz bang auto mechanic. His friend recommended a friend of his who used to work for Toyota for years. The man was now living his dream as a cop and doing auto repair on the side. (He probably could make better money staying in auto repair work.)  Anyway, I called Peter.

I met Peter outside a restaurant while on my hot, sweaty ride to work last Friday.  He came outside, wearing a policeman's uniform and slurping on a cold drink. He popped my hood, peeked inside, and said,

"Your air conditioner doesn't work because your belt is gone."

"Huh?"

He took a slurp.  "Your belt. See? There's supposed to be a belt there."

"Really?"

Alrighty then. This should have been a clue to Peter what he was dealing with.

So he picked up a belt on Saturday and I met him at his house Sunday morning.  Peter looked at my little 4Runner the way I would look at an abused puppy. After a while, he stopped asking, "When was the last time you had XYZ done?"

I think he got tired of seeing me cock my head like the RCA puppy staring at the phonograph.

At one point, he reached into my engine with some long tool and popped out something.

"Look at this!" he exclaimed as he shook it in excitement.

"What is it?" I was only mildly curious.

"It's a SPARK PLUG!!!" He was aghast. "I've never, in all my years as a mechanic, EVER seen a sparkplug so worn, in a car that STILL RUNS!"

He was so horrified at my spark plug that he informed me he was keeping it to show other mechanics and as an advertisement for Toyota. Alrightie then.

So three hours later, Peter had fixed my AC, tuned up my engine, fixed my accelerator, and fixed my back brakes. Then he charged me $120. He had the same look in his eye as an animal rescue person. I think he was afraid to send me back home with the car. As I tooled out the driveway, he decided that our next project would be to replace the shocks, because, 

"When was the last time you had the shocks replaced?"

"What? Those springy things?"

He bit his tongue.

I agreed to bring the car back to him when I had saved up enough money for shocks. And as I tooled down the road, chilling out with my frigid air conditioner, I was thankful for people like Peter - honest mechanics who believe there is more to an engine than "If it's moving forward, and grass is still coming out the side, it's fine."

I wonder what Peter would think of my lawnmower.

Meet Oscar!

 Oscar is a baby Boer/Spanish goat. I like him because he's also a natural muley - no horns. I hope he's fertile and throws that gene.

I'm not a big fan of buck goats, but I am a fan of milk goats. No buck = no baby. No baby = no milk. No milk= no goat milk soap.  You see where I'm going here.

My girls are Nubians, and although I prefer to breed to a Nubian buck, this is Boer goat country. Because I cannot keep the babies, they must be sold and around here, if it looks anything like a Boer goat, it sells for more money.

I like the Boer/Spanish cross because the Boer gives me a meat goat and the Spanish gives me hardiness. I started with this cross and found it to be quite trouble-free.

Last March I borrowed a buck from a friend of mine. Unfortunately, Bronco Billy had a bad habit of not staying home. Since I didn't want him teaching my other goats and my sheep how to escape, I sent him back home after only two weeks.  I don't know if my girls were bred and settled or not.

 Bronco Billy

I could just do a simple blood test, but we have already established the fact that I am lazy, thus, I chose to just wait and see.  If they're pregnant, they'll have babies in a few months, if not . . .

Enter Oscar:

By the time they come into heat again, Oscar should be settled and old enough to take care of business.

Other Half acquired Oscar yesterday when he and Lily went to help a friend gather goats and send them to market.

His friend gave him pick of baby bucks and OH came home with Oscar.  The poor little guy was not well received by our girls. They can be quite snotty. Oscar wants to be with the goats, but the sheep treat him better. I don't feel too sorry for him because the rest of the baby goats ended up at the butcher. Oscar got a name and a home. And Other Half's lemon tree . . .

Oscar should be less worried about the dairy goats and more worried about Other Half finding him with this tree!

"Whoever does not see God in every place,

does not see God in any place."

                                 Rabbi Menachem Mendel Of Kotzk

I am a lazy cook. I live by the motto -

"If it takes longer to make it than it does to eat it, it isn't worth it."

That said, I've just discovered a new way to cook!    Solar!

I know!  In a typical Texas summer, it gets hot enough to turn your seatbelt buckle into a branding iron. I started tossing around the idea of solar cooking for the ranch in North Texas. Because we haven't built a house yet, we're still living out of a travel trailer. Let me say it again,

It gets HOT in Texas!

If you're living in a travel trailer, you don't want to do ANYTHING to heat that sucker up. You can cook outside over a campfire. That's easy to do. There's lots of mesquite wood just layin' around! BUT . . . hot summers often come with a drought up there.  Drought means no camp fires because we don't want to start forest fires.

So I started looking at the Global Sun Oven and was impressed enough to try one. All the research is good. They even use it on Mount Everest. Great for camping and home use. This is a real winner in Third World countries where finding cooking fuel is a problem.

Check it out:    http://youtu.be/VvATI3yuVak

Dear Friend and her husband have one and swear by it. So I took a chance and ordered one. Got that puppy set up this morning and tried something simple. Rice.

I set it up on top of the pickup truck because a certain large gray member of the family "might" just play with the solar oven if he can reach it.

 Yes, he would!

The oven is light - only 21 pounds. It's easy to set up. Just unfold the panels, open the plexi-glass lid, put your food inside, close and lock the lid, and wait for the sun to cook your vittles!

This was sinfully easy! Just put your stuff in there and leave it alone. Not only does it not heat up the kitchen, but you don't have to worry about anything burning!  This is MY kind of cooking.  It's like a crock pot but you never have to worry about burning the house down. Uses no electricity. It reaches temps of 350-450 degrees. Not bad. You can also bake with it.

Woo hoo!  Well on my way to Green Cooking!

Note: The hardest part about cooking in the solar oven is climbing in the back of the pickup truck! People who don't have horses, sheep, and goats in the yard won't have that problem.

I just finished Jill Conner Browne's latest Sweet Potato Queen book, "Fat Is The New 30 - The Sweet Potato Queens' Guide to Coping With (the crappy parts of) Life" and as always, JCB does not disappoint.   Get it. Read it. You'll love her.

Her parting words were so profound that I wanted to share them with you:

"What if, when you woke up in the morning,

ALL you had LEFT was what you had

thanked God for the night before?"

Wow. Something to ponder.

I am sorry to report that due to the warm, sunny, humid weather we've been experiencing lately, our current lawn crew simply couldn't keep up with the grass in the yard.

 Hey! Don't laugh!  They are cheap and energy efficient. Unfortunately since we cut back in numbers, and the weather is favorable for grass growth, yesterday I found myself in the most annoying situation of having to mow the yard with a PUSH MOWER!

I KNOW!

How the hell did THAT happen?

Now mowing with a push mower is an activity guaranteed to push one to obscenities, (especially if one's ownself is given to frequent trips down that path anyway!)

It starts with well, starting the damned thing.  That requires a fair amount of pulling. This wasn't easy when I was 12 years old. My shoulders are now 48 years old. But while my shoulders may have deteriorated, my command of the Sailor's English Language has improved. Just ask the dogs watchin' me pull that danged cord yesterday.

Suffice it say, after much pulling and cussing, the engine poofed to life and off we went - me and the lawnmower. It is a self-propelled beast. At least it is until I wear the little knobby thingees off the front wheels because I never let go of the stupid handle. I often fail to notice this until the front wheels have dug little ruts in the earth.

So I cruise along, me and the mower, plowing through high grass that chokes out most mowers. (Mine would be one of those mowers too. . .) Thus, in order to make any progress, I must lift the mower, set it down, let it chew, lift the mower, move forward, let it chew, repeat. This is an agonizingly slow process, and is hard on the back and shoulders. This is also a recipe for the invention of new vocabulary words.

And that's when one starts to think about new mowers. Yes!

Yes, we did! 

The start-up cost is pretty hefty, but the maintenance is low. AND it's energy efficient. Not only does it use no gasoline, it uses no power from me whatsoever.

Well, except opening the gate . . .

for the three-horse power lawnmower!

Very little is required from the user except for some monitoring to make sure they leave the water well and the trucks alone. One can simply sit in a lawnchair with a glass of lemonade and mow the yard.

 It's hard work, but somebody has to do it.

My Other Half works night shift most of the time, except one weekend a month when he works day shift, or unless someone is gone, then he works dayshift, or unless there is a big something-or-other going on, then he works dayshift. He is supposed to get two days off, unless someone is gone, or there is a big something-or-other, then he gets one or no days off. Having worked this shift for almost 33 years, he prefers the night, and like most vampires, doesn't really get going until the sun goes down.

I am a day shift creature. I'm up with the animals and turn into a pumpkin shortly after midnight. While Other Half can function for long periods of time with little or no sleep, I'm a bitchy bear if I don't get my required 8 hours.

He will work for days on just 3 hours of sleep and then collapse to sleep 24 hours at a time.  That can NOT be good for the metabolism or anything else.

Which brings us to last night. After he came home from the cattle sale yesterday, he crawled in bed and slept, and slept, and slept. He did not rise until 8 PM. When I came home from work and went to bed, he was just getting geared up. Other Half was bouncing around like a cocaine-addict. (Imagine Robert Downey Jr. in Sherlock Holmes.) Fortunately he has two willing partners in his midnight madness - Trace & Dillon.

During the night I was vaguely aware of bumping from the living room, but ignored it. With Lily and Ranger sprawled out across the bed, not much concerned me. (Monsters can't come past Ranger.)

When Other Half finally came to bed at 5 AM, I rolled over, opened one eye, and asked, "WHAT have you been DOING all night?"

To which he happily replied, "We've been having a SLUMBER PARTY!"

Oh dear. Let me describe for you the canine frat house that greeted me when I finally got up this morning:

I opened the bedroom door to find a trail of dog toys from the hallway to the living room. The dogs' wicker toy basket was pulled away from the wall, and EVERY toy they own was spread out on the floor - kongs, balls, knotted gym socks, nylabone thingees, sticks, frisbees, and what was left of their Angry Bird toy. The entire house reeked of popcorn - because what else do you serve at a slumber party?

I can assure you that they spent all night watching something like this:

Hatfields & McCoys
Lonesome Dove
Band Of Brothers
Any Kind of John Wayne marathon
Or any other kind of movie where people get shot or blown up

Trace and Dillon are still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning, but other Half is in a popcorn-induced coma.

His patrol dog is snuggled in beside him and his Border collie lies beside the bed. They spent the night outside and so are more than ready to sleep all day under the fan.

The good thing about having 8 dogs is that no matter what you want to do, when you want to do it, you will find a canine partner more than willing to accompany you. 

Saturday officially starts at midnight on Friday.  Go to bed shortly after midnight. Sometime around 1 AM, Other Half phones to say he has completed doing charges at the jail and is now doing report. Reminds me that we are sorting calves and taking them to the sale barn as soon as he gets home. Joy, joy, thrill, thrill.

Am awakened at 6 AM by Other Half who bounces into the bedroom like a squirrel on crack and kisses Dillon (but not me!) How does the DOG rate a morning kiss and I just receive a "Get up! It's time to work cows!"

"Mom, don't hate me because I'm beautiful."

I inform Dillon that he is a Bird Dog, not a Cow Dog and thus will not be attending today's adventure. His feelings are hurt. The D-Man is a sensitive soul.

Pull on jeans and boots. Shuffle into kitchen. The sun is barely up and it's foggy.  While Other Half goes to barn to feed livestock, I rake and sweep shavings out of cattle trailer which also doubles as a dog kennel. Don't laugh! It makes the perfect kennel - covered & confined. What more do you need?

Put dogs in kennels. Let Lily come along but assure her that she isn't needed since we are working cow/calf pairs in tight quarters. Dangerous for little Ninja Dogs. Tell her to sit in the truck. She is disappointed but does as she's told.

 "B-b-but what if you need me?"

Assure Ranger that if a cow dog is needed, he will be the Head-Man-In-Charge. Since he is fast, tough, and already believes the world is trying to kill him, an enraged momma cow is less likely to stomp him in the ground.

  "Piss on Bad Cows!"  

Cows and calves have been locked all night in roping arena. They are hungry (they are always hungry) and happy to see us.

 Note steer with horns on the right.

That's Willie. Remember Willie?  Scrawny roping steer that has managed to avoid a trip to the sale barn for the last year and a half. Despite the fact that we've taken at least 3 other groups of cows, Willie has managed to slide/slither/squeak through attempts to get him in the sale barn group.

Truth be told, Other Half wasn't even trying. He is fond of Willie and hates to see him go. I'm not a big fan of horns. I am even less a fan of horns that eat and do no work. Son and I outvoted Other Half, and Willie was slated for this journey to the sale barn.

With very little trouble, (Okay, there was 'some' trouble and we almost called in a dog)

    "Me???!!!" 

. . . we got the calves (and Willie) sorted and loaded onto the trailer by 8 AM.  I lobbied hard to sell Paisley too, but Other Half pointed out that she had managed to raise (i.e. not kill by neglect. Read: When It Rains, It Pours) her calf and should thus be given another chance. By 8:25 AM we were off to the sale barn. 

 Willie in the chute at the sale barn.

Dear Friend Helen who takes care of the stock when we go to the ranch in North Texas was sorry to see us sell the calves and Willie. She had gotten attached to them. She texted me to tell me that she thought she was now  Buddhist and wanted to make pets of my cows. I reminded her that she eats Taco Bell and Whataburger.  Other Half told her that she would see Willie again in her next taco. She was not amused. He is mean like that sometimes.

I reminded her, and myself, that as long as we eat beef and wear leather, we must raise cattle. These cows have been humanely raised and enjoyed a happy life.

With the cattle dropped off, we headed back home. Other Half went to bed, and I got ready to go to my 'other job,' the one with a paycheck from a government agency and not a sale barn.

And that's the anatomy of a Saturday!

Guess what I found this weekend on the way to the ranch?

Fields and fields of sunflowers!

 If I had been driving,

I would have run off the road when I saw them! Look at this! Like the drums of Jumanji, they called me!

Apparently Texas farmers have decided that sunflowers are a nice cash crop and are now taking advantage of it. They are hardy, drought-tolerant, and weeds and bugs are not much of a problem.  Deer like the little plants but not the big ones. Hogs ignore them altogether.

Judging by the number of fields, they are profitable too. After seeing all this, even Other Half was beginning to toy with the idea of growing them. That's not really an option, since I don't see him plowing up all the cow pastures to raise flowers, but it's a nice thought, and perhaps we could devote a small pasture to it, just for grins . . . and photographs!

Life in the country comes with perks, like wildflowers, stars, and silence. But the flip side of those perks of living in the country is the mud, mosquitos and lumps. Yes, lumps.

People who live in the county understand the generic term "lump." A lump is an unidentified 'something' on the landscape that wasn't there earlier.

Let me give you an example: Years ago, I came home from work one afternoon to find an excited dog greeting me at the gate. Katy was given to wild affection, but her mood seemed particularly crazed that day. (It had been a good day for Katy.) That's when I saw the lump. There, in the back yard, was a red lump. Hmmmm. . .

I narrowed my eyes and noticed another lump. And another. In the country, lumps are usually not good things. In this case there turned out to be ten red lumps in the yard. Katy had managed to break into the hen house. There was nothing left of my rooster but feet and a comb.  Does this better define the word 'lump' for you? 

Which brings us to this morning.

"Yes, please, get to the point."

This morning I was walking the dogs when I noted Lily slow her trot to a cautious walk and raise her eyebrow. Something nasty was afoot. Ever watchful of snakes, I snapped to attention.  There, in front of Lily, was "a lump."

Dillon hustled over to examine the lump too. Since no one leaped back, I assumed the lump was not a coiled snake. That's a plus. It was gray. Now this is the part of living in the country where one talks to God. Living in the city, one prays for good parking spaces, living in the country, the prayers run a bit more like this:

"Dear God, please don't let that be another one of the neighbor's chickens."

As I got closer I couldn't see any feathers on the ground, but still couldn't identify it. It was small and gray.

"Dear God, please, please, please don't let that be one of the neighbor's cats!"

When I got over the lump I could see that my prayers were answered. No chicken. No cat. But Briar had indeed murdered someone.

(I didn't take pictures. It was gross.)

Briar had murdered a possum.

"I 'terminated' a possum."

And then, in true Briar fashion, she had licked it all night. Who knows if the poor thing was dead before she started licking it, or after hours of being used as an all-day (night) sucker. Much of its fur was gone. Briar was immensely pleased with herself. She is now three years old and a definite threat to anything not on hooves.

Other Half, who doesn't like Briar (big goofy, often wet dog) will be pleased that she killed a possum.  The neighbor with the chickens will probably be pleased that Briar killed the possum. Briar is most certainly pleased that she killed the possum.  But I feel just a little sorry for the possum and hope his end came quickly rather than spending a night of torture.

"Mmmm. . .  a possum-flavored sucker! Mmmm . . . "