Posts Tagged ‘Corvallis’

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JANUARY 25

Monday, January 13th, 2025

Before I start on the farm, a word about the Altadena fire and the Viehl family living there: still all safe on this Monday morning. The house not burned, but the property under blockade re the fire, so no access. No electricity, no natural gas, timing for return uncertain. Peter and Co. living in the little Palm Desert cottage co-owned with Allison’s mom, but without a change of clothes, shoes, and etc. Fortunately they do have two cars, so they can shop for food and daily necessities like food and new underwear (not in that order, of course.) To repeat: all profoundly grateful that their home was spared.

Now, back at The Wood: yes, time for a farmer’s seasonal chores. Like cleaning out the barn, tending the garden, cleaning the fireplace. It seemed a good idea to make a new access point in the fence to allow the ATV to enter without crossing the lawn. We have a relationship with Mitch (you’ve met him earlier) in which we call him for jobs outside Larry’s mandate, and he calls us when he needs some extra income outside his regular job. Works both directions, and he was on hand to manage the break in the fence.

The point was to haul the downed wood stacked about the pastures to storage in the barn. This would facilitate mowing next year, as well as prevent the blackberries from building thickets on top of the stacks. These stacks are now safely in the barn, filling 6 bays of split firewood. You want any? Let us know. We’ll even add a dozen eggs when you come to get it. Ha.

But work goes on inside the farmhouse as well. Did I tell you about the TV in the living room? That we had a cabinet built, a TV screen installed, the furniture rearranged? The device to enable satellite coverage was attached, trials executed, all seemed to be well. Then. Larry wanted to watch a football game, as per the plan. Used the remote to open the cabinet, and that’s when I arrived on the scene to hear him exclaiming “No! Stop! Stop!” The TV screen slowly emerged from the cabinet, and stalled, bent, cracked, broke. Well, for now, at any setback, we say aloud: at least our house didn’t burn down. Perspective gained, right?

Later today: mission accomplished. New TV, purchased yesterday. Phone call to Dish, and this techie arrived to install. Bravo!

Next subject: phones. For my birthday, Larry offered to purchase a new phone for me. Nice! My old one is an 11 Pro, which is actually fine, though a a bit short on storage. Missing some tricks, chipped, very old century. So, missing any Apple store in Corvallis, we went off to the Verizon shop. While there, Larry thought he’d update as well. Both got 16 Pros, not top of the line, but good enough. Then the fun began.

The tech guy there would move the info from old phone to new phone. Except he couldn’t. Missing some passcodes. After an hour in the shop we left, Larry having turned in his old phone, apparently all good. Me? Yeah, no. Took both old and new phones home, phoned Apple Care. Spent an hour and a half with some very patient soul in Someplace, Texas, and this morning I’m no further along. Seems that according to some security protocols, I won’t be able to send or receive email on the new phone until January 18. WTF? What is so secure about January 18?

And. The old charging cords won’t fit the new phones. My earbuds won’t fit the new phone. (Yes, I know you can get the kind that just stick in your ear and bluetooth or someone does the rest. These devices do not stay put in my ears. Apparently my ear canals are sub-standard and too narrow to accommodate bluetooth.) So, I’ll have to buy new buds with cords attached. Why do they change the sizes of the charging cords? They’re more efficient? They’re better looking? No, sorry. The point is, they can sell all new merch. Right?

But our house didn’t burn down.

What’s new (again) is the commitment to addressing the oak copse on the slope just east of the house. This will require lots of input from agencies, so that’s the first step. See what Fish and Wildlife and Benton County and Nature Conservancy can offer by way of expert evaluation. We’ve had crews here just this fall, and the main observation is that the parcel is too small to be worth agency financial cooperation. Well, fine. But we need someone to tell us exactly what can be done. We’ll hire someone (no, not Mitch) to execute when we can get a plan in place.

Ryan Cheeke, ranch guy, plans to plant clover in the western-most pasture, which should continue the improvement of the soils — and, sidebar, will look beautiful for the season.

The creek-bed areas need rehabilitation. Benton County planted an assortment of trees and shrubs with the intention of aiding riparian creatures–frogs, salamanders, maybe fish? However, many of the trees failed, and the bushes, particularly the spirea (unfortunately), grasses, and blackberries have thrived. They are, of course fenced off, making access by machine difficult. Jerod Jebousek, Fish and Wildlife guy, says that the natural landscape is not always beautiful. There you go.

The days are getting longer now, and the bulbs have broken ground. The chickens are fine, thanks for asking, and we’re just watching spring arrive.

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DAYLIGHT SAVINGS

Saturday, November 2nd, 2024

Last day, right? Getting ready to wake up and brush your teeth tomorrow in total darkness? Resetting the furnace controls, putting that last screen on the garage window, taking care of the chickens’ new watering system? Well, I know you aren’t doing that, but we are.

I have to report that Gracie chicken is no longer with us. She simply disappeared sometime yesterday, and we have no idea what happened to her. She had been moulting heavily for days, was especially snappish and bossy, feathers everywhere (except where they belonged, on her). You know the expression “plucked chicken” and you expect that it’s in reference to one already deceased? It’s not pretty, and we did wonder how she would keep warm these last cold days. Anyway, hawk? Coyotes couldn’t have gotten into the orchard, but a cougar could have. It will remain a mystery. Now we wonder who, of the remaining four, will ascend to the throne.

I’m not sad. She was too mean to the others for me to feel any warmth for her, but I do regret that we failed to keep her safe. Keeping chickens is relentless. No more than the responsibility for any other animal, I suppose, 🧐. Hmm. I have to interrupt. My computer suddenly flashed a smiley face on the bar. Did it think this was a funny moment? It has never before, to my knowledge, contributed to the blog. I tapped on the little face and suddenly there was an array of emojis from which to choose. As you see, I picked the puzzled face. Next I suppose it will presume to edit me in the way Word does on its site. Don’t know what I think about this development. For all you know, maybe the computer IA is writing this whole thing and I’m simply sitting in front of the fireplace working my Spyder.

Okay, back to the chickens: We needed a new watering system because they had been in the practice of climbing onto the lid of the existing tank and, from there, pooping down into the tray of fresh water. Ugh. What we have just installed is a device with little nipples along its side which provide drops of clean water on being pecked. The nice woman at WilCo insists that the birds are so attracted to the bright shiny nipples that they can’t resist pecking. And they can’t get up on top of it. Hope this works!

Other farm news: not much. The tractor is in the barn for the season, the garden cleaned of spent tomato plants and etc. The tree leaves aren’t all down yet, so there’s that to do in a week or so, but now we can just look forward to the season’s concert tickets, fall football, our new TV which is set to arrive sometime before Christmas. In the living room! Yes! We may soon be able to watch a movie AND have a fire on the hearth.

Allison has taken the reins on our Thanksgiving plans (everyone should have an Allison, for many reasons) and has secured a VRBO in Corvallis where all the extended family can gather for the holiday. I have been assigned pie duty, will be expected to provide the cranberry sauce and order the turkey in a timely fashion. Larry and I will not be spending nights at the VRBO, so everyone can have time and space alone if desired. We did just learn that Mrytle’s old-fashioned electric turkey roaster is out in the shed. Mrytle was Larry’s mom, if you don’t know. And don’t worry, we’ll make sure there’s Jimmy Dean sausage in the stuffing.

But before that, we’ll be heading to Altadena for Peter’s birthday celebration on the 23rd. Yes, we’re going to fly. It’s only 2 hours. I know, but he is my first-born, dearly beloved, and of course we will be there. Man up, Jane. I am.

Thought I’d end with a couple of photos. Fall at the farm. Don’t forget to set your clocks back tonight! 👍🏻😊.

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APRIL

Friday, April 19th, 2024

Larry cooks dinner. Gotta love it! This beauty is chicken thighs. Having overnighted in white wine, they were sauteed along with the endive. He added a chopped salad? Oh, maybe I made the chopped salad. Anyway, delicious! I always thought endive was pronounced “en-dive,” right? But learned from one of my more sophisticated friends that it is correctly pronounced “on-deev.” You can decide for yourself . . .

In farm news, the cows are back. Probably at least 50, yearling steers, chewing down the westside pastures up to and around the barn. I’m glad to have them back, but it does give me pause when I want to take my morning walk down the road. They see me coming and rush over to the fence, then start to follow, moo-ing, plainly wanting something from me. Whatever that might be, I don’t have it. Out? They just want out? I do think that, when they see a person, they believe that change is coming. And they are certainly eager for it.

We’re about to make the leap into raising chicks. Gracie-the-chicken has been living alone for several months now, and although she faithfully lays her egg every day, I’m sure she’d like company. She needs her flock. To this end, we need to improve the environment where the birds will be safe. This means tackling the run, which is lumpish, weedy, impossible to mow (must be weed-whacked) and, acutally, ugly.

So Mitch is here today. He wrestled the rototiller around in there yesterday, is raking it into smoothness today, and will help plant lilacs along the west boundary for shade, and then build a cage for the young birds when they’re old enough to be outside but still need protection from Gracie, if she doesn’t get broody and imagine that they’re hers. Could happen, we’re told.

So what have I been doing while Larry is farming, and cooking dinner? I’ve been struggling to dispose, one way or another, of the baggage we’ve been hauling around all these years. Not just from our lives, but those of several generations back:

You know the kind of stuff I mean. The tea and coffee service from Great Aunt Clara. Cut glass pitcher. Sterling silverware. Mom’s diaries. Larry’s and my high-school annuals? All those photos! Twin bed sheets and blankets. A roasting pan for a twenty-pound turkey. Okay, easy. Donate this stuff!

Last night we went to a meeting for One Hundred People Who Care About Corvallis, and heard about the Community Thrift Store. They take everything, and the proceeds go back to the community in the form of grants to various local NGO’s. Open Wednesdays and Saturdays from 8 to 6. Yes they’ll take my old Nikon camera. That sweater I knit but haven’t worn since Jenny was a baby.

Jenny successfully divested her family’s dining-room set, a grand piano(!) and other treasures, with the help of on-line markets when they moved to their new house. Even got a little cash for it. Maybe a little easier when you live in a huge city, but maybe that’s just an excuse.

And now it gets a little harder: What about my MFA thesis? “Who are these minor characters and what are they doing in my novel?” The vase etched with Larry’s name, presented on retirement from Columbia Management Company. The framed illustrations I did for the children’s book which never got published? The children’s stories I wrote but never submitted. Don’t think the Community Thrift Store is the answer here. But still. Throw them away?

I don’t know why my mom hung onto her diaries. Sister Martha keeps a daily journal of her every day’s life. Don’t know what Mary is up to, but she has a lot to write about, if she isn’t. And isn’t this blog a kind of diary? Hmm. I guess so. But. Ha! “But” means I’m about to argue my own position. See, I mean to entertain you with this record of old people who take up farming. I don’t think Mom had that in mind. Nor does Martha. But, if I don’t get around to tossing my MFA thesis, kids, just do it.

Changing the subject: About the new truck? We’d said we wanted Grandson Will to be in charge of naming the vehicle, and he obliged with the name Bob Junior. We’ve shortened it to L’il Bob, which sounds more down country. Larry says it isn’t a farm truck because it isn’t dented, rusted, dirty, but it’s getting a farm-truck name anyway.

Tonight we had the pleasure of Face Timing with David and Caroline. They’re in Wanaka, New Zealand, it being Friday afternoon where they’re living, Thursday evening here. We get used to it. Caroline is still recovering from a ferocious bout with Covid, but is up and around a bit. We had a long discussion about their plans, which more or less boil down to “we don’t know.” Apparently they can live in both NZ and the US alternately, so long as they don’t trigger some clock ticking with regard to which state gets to tax them.

Tomorrow, I plan to start a knitting project — a sweater for a baby boy. I love this! I love to knit, especially things tiny enough to be completed within the space of, say, a couple of good novels I’ll listen to on Audible while I work. This is for the expected grandchild of one of Allison’s great friends. No, you don’t know her and neither do I, and it doesn’t matter. I wonder. Maybe someday, in some future, a woman somewhere will be wondering if she should just keep this cute little blue sweater or take it to a neighborhood thrift shop. I hope so!

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OCTOBER

Saturday, October 14th, 2023

What’s going on over there? An annex to the chicken coop? A pen for goats? A wall to keep the house from sliding down into the wetlands? I’ll get to the answer in a minute.

But no solar eclipse here this morning. A thick fog obscures everything beyond the first trees around the house. Nonetheless, a good reminder that the heavens go on turning, despite evidence here on the ground.

And, our family gathering this past week: Mary and Matt arrived in Portland from White Plains on the evening of the 2nd, drove to Corvallis on the 3rd. Martha also came over on that day, and the Eagleson girls were reunited. It’s strange to find yourself with women who look like you, but don’t. We remember things differently, but always laugh anyway. What Dad said that time, how old Grandmother was, Mom’s recipe.

The farm for a couple of days, the beach for a couple, and on to Black Butte. Here’s a shot at Black Butte — gorgeous weather:

I’m the sister in the middle. The way I remember things is always the correct way, of course, and you’ll just have to believe me. Martha is an inveterate photographer, and thus has evidence in her phone dating back decades, it seems. I don’t have any photos of the three of us, but if you check with Martha?

Right. So, what is going on here at the Wood?:

These are just the frames, of course, and concrete will be poured next Tuesday. I think these look pretty gorgeous as is, and am way impressed with the carpenter skills of Allen and Chance. But what they’re accomplishing is, in fact, a wall, which will be visible only from below. The curves will be stone benches around the maple trees, and the land, which does indeed slope toward the wetland, will be filled with the excavated dirt and replanted with grass. The idea is to reduce the amount of grass immediately around the house to a manageable degree, letting the rest rejoin the pastures. Mowing, watering thus greatly reduced.

Here are Allen and Chance. I should say that it has been raining during most of the time they’ve been here, but this was a sunny moment:

Why are we even doing this? Yeah, I know. It started with the thought that we could plant trees in the large patch between the driveway and the coop, thereby eliminating one patch of “lawn” to be tended. I mean, of the sort and size that would need to be professionally selected and installed. This means help from Bill Peterson, our “landscape” guy. But he’s really a landscape architect and he had a few other ideas for us to consider. Hahaha. We simply couldn’t resist.

Larry is out picking the rest of the apples for the year, the Braeburns, I think. They will join the others waiting in the shed refrigerator to be prepped for the freezer. He just finished washing and cutting one up for lunch. Said it wasn’t going to be easy, as they’re pretty worm-afflicted.

We’d get to work this afternoon, but are planning to attend the wedding of Katie and Everett, neighborhood “kids” at the Stuart-Barnses home across the way. So far, it looks like the festivities will be free of the rain that’s on tap, but so far hanging back. A wedding day to remember: the annular eclipse! I wonder if they planned it this way.

Ah. The Oregon/Washington game is about to start. Okay. Apples maybe tomorrow. But I have forgotten to describe our trip to have a look at the apartment being built at the Terwilliger Building’s Parkview. This was the first opportunity for a walk-through with our designers and the craftsman who will be building cabinets and etc. Larry took photos, but there’s not much be to seen except bare walls and this shot of the view we’ll have:

We will be able to “move in” in January, although we won’t exactly be moving in. What we will have is a place to stay overnight in Portland, and security for the future when/if one or both of us need more help than can be provided at the farm.

All for now. I believe this is my 98th blog post. Starting from 2014! Time. Marches. Almost 10 years, or will be if I wait until January to post number 100. I hope you’ll be with me!

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POLLEN COUNT

Thursday, June 15th, 2023

You can’t stay inside on a day like this! Highest pollen count in decades for Corvallis? Grass seed? Yes, but, my allergies?

I thought I’d left my hay fever behind when we moved from Minnesota and its ragweed. And then came the great wave of hazelnut (filbert, to some of you) planting in our valley. Corvallis, the Grass Seed capital of the world now has a second claim to allergy-generation fame.

But instead of sneezing and coughing, I get hives. Yes. Red, blotchy, itchy hives. I call my beloved Dr. Jen, and she suggests something called Zyrtec. Comes with all kinds of warnings, but hey. If it works? It doesn’t.

I see a product advertized. Allegra Hives. Yes! Specifically for hives. It doesn’t work. Not to feel too sorry for myself, but have you ever itched so fiercely that you can’t even try to sleep? All night? You can try Eucerin, but over your entire body? What would that do to the sheets?

I call Dr. Jen again and she recommends Xyzal. (A ridiculous name — how would you even pronounce it to the pharmacist when you call?) “24 HR ALLERGY” Take it, Dr. Jen says, with Pepcid AC. Today, I’m holding my breath because the hives, while still there, DON’T ITCH. I went outside in celebration, into the wind, the pollen be damned.

Okay, that behind us, let’s get on with the blog. Ryan, cow guy, has been busy. The west-most pasture had been planted in early spring to fescue, but to lie fallow this year. I like that word: fallow.

Then last week, came the thresher crawling over the field. I don’t have a photo of this stage, so use your imagination. Because next came the rake to gather the grass into windrows. Another word I like. Windrows. And this time, I have a photo:

And finally:

The bales will be stacked, then loaded onto a truck, and stored in one of Ryan’s barns. Next year, the plan is to plant sweet peas in this field, a legume meant to fix nitrogen, but which look and smell gorgeous as a bonus.

How are the bees doing? It’s a little hard to tell, but Allen came over to assist in settling the creatures into their new habitat. Here’s what that looked like:

We think they’re doing well. Apparently they have to be fed at first, before they set out to gather nectar and — pollen! For energy, the nectar, and for protein, the pollen. Who knew we’d have so much free protein for them?

Allen brought his family with him, and here are his two little girls making friends with the chickens:

It’s true that the chickens haven’t managed to enjoy the swing Larry made for them, but little girls know what to do with one:

We’re just back from a Nature Conservancy trip to visit Sycan Marsh, and learn about the fire management programs they’re implementing there. Their before and after photos are compelling, and the personnel are passionate and smart. The marsh is a mile-high meadow, and, speaking of words, I asked one of the staff the definition of another of my favorites, “fen.” What’s a fen?

Although both bogs and fens are similar types of wetlands as they are both considered peatlands, what sets them apart from each other is the source of their water supply. Fens typically are fed by a steady source of ground water whereas bogs are usually enclosed depressions filled by rain water.

Larry is standing at the sink, preparing to create one of his specialities for dinner, Szechuan Sweet and Sour spare ribs, when he says Hey! Look out the window!

Not sure why this photo came up super-sized, but it seems an appropriate ending to this afternoon’s blog. Wish you were coming for dinner — it’ll be delicious!

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ME AGAIN?

Wednesday, March 29th, 2023

I know. But I’ve been busy? So I’ll start with spring chores: Here’s Larry busily pruning the grapes on the arbor:

There. Now you’re all caught up. See the nice blue sky? Lovely life on a farm.

This morning we went for our newly scheduled “longer” walk. Our regular exercise routine, in which we worked out with our trainer, Nancy, twice a week, has been upended. First, when we discovered the luxury of an actual gym in the local golf-course buildings, exercise on the dirty floor of our garage lost all appeal. All those shiny machines, mats, balls, weights, pulleys, bars, and no one else there using them in the real gym? Seriously, just Larry and me and the morning sun on the beautiful green golf course out the windows? See photo. You’ll understand:

Okay, it’s true, sweet Nancy is not there on Zoom to remind us to keep our knees bent, or whatever, and we do miss her. There’s just not sufficient wi-fi coverage in this beautiful new gym to make Zoom work on the computer, and the tiny screen of a cell phone didn’t make the cut, either.

But if we’re to be on our own, we have to absolutely have a schedule and one of us has to enforce it. That meant the walk is Tuesday morning. By “longer” I mean down to the first bridge and back. We can’t see Muddy Creek from there, but there’s an eagle’s nest in one of the straggly oak trees in a copse just off the road. Often enough, as we pass by, we can see the white heads of the adult pair, and hope soon enough to spot the babies.

This walk nets about 3,000 steps for me, fewer for Larry, obviously, and offers us an excellent opportunity to discuss if Pete Buttegieg should have gone to Ohio earlier, even if on paternity leave. Paternity leave?

And what could have been done to avert the banking crisis, given the warning signs. Passing motorists move to the middle of the road and wave, so that’s nice, but we haven’t determined the answers to the above. Sorry.

On the way back up our driveway, we stop at a the sound of rushing water in the first creek. There hasn’t been water in that creek for three or four years, so it was a welcome surprise. Especially as we’d just experienced our own water crisis. Yep. The well ran dry last Monday. This is an absolutely existential fear of mine. Without well water, no farm. Period. So, it’s been my job to monitor the water level in the cistern and adjust use accordingly. On my defense, this rainy year? But, when we checked, no water to be seen.

Here’s how the water system in the house works: You wouldn’t want to drink water from our well just out of the ground, so we have this reverse osmosis machinery in the shed which delivers clean water to the house, and leaves the outside water as is. The plants don’t care and neither, apparently do the chickens: (Yes, the black thing is a Traeger, has nothing to do with water at all.)

So the first thing we do is call “No Drought” in Lebanon (about 20 miles down the road). They could bring us 1,000 gallons of clean water to fill our reservoir, for $400. Obviously, that’s not sustainable, so the second phone call goes to Oregon Pump. Jake, our Water Guy, could be here in the afternoon to discover what was going on.

The well and the pump served the original house down by the barn, which we’d torn down to build here up on the hill. We were assured that it was a viable, dependable well, been operating without fail, apparently for dozens of years. Not to keep you in suspense, it was the pump, Jake found, which failed, not the aquifer. A pump can be replaced, which it was the following week. It turns out a family of two can live on 1000 gallons of potable water for a week. You might find that useful to know. But you do have to limit the number and duration of showers, and hand-wash the dishes. The laundry has to wait.

Because I haven’t written for a long time you might be wondering what, if anything of importance, we’ve been doing. Besides pruning the grapes. So Larry has been busy outside building next year’s garden. First these cute boxes, created with help from Mitch:

These are made from cedar planks, will obviate the necessity of crawling about on hands and knees to harvest the coming bounty. Next, the dirt necessary to fill them:

Larry has filled the boxes first with mulch gathered out by the little shed. Including, of course, the detritus from a year’s worth of cleaning the chicken coop. That’s got to be good stuff. So when this lovely compost from the Tack Shack gets layered on top, should be some darned fine tomatoes. Right?

My turn. What have I been doing? Remember all those onions we gathered last year? We haven’t perfected an onion storage practice, but I was able to sort out still okay candidates from a burlap bag hanging in the garage. I learned you can freeze onions easily, but decided they needed to be chopped up first.

Got them in small plastic bags after they were frozen, and now have a great supply, if the creek don’t rise . . . I’m referring to the freezer failure of earlier in the year which lots of our fruits and veg from 2021 were thawed, and thus destroyed.

We’ve been watching a hilarious show called Clarkson’s Farm, in which farming disasters are filmed. No, it is funny, and painfully familiar.

It’s not a farming disaster, but our ATV had to go in to the shop today. This means a trip to the rental shop in Philomath for a trailer, then back to load up the ATV and on to Albany for repairs. The kind of annoying chore that can eat up a day. But, Larry decided he needed more potatoes to plant, and after dropping off the rig, went on to Shonnard’s Garden Shop. What would have been a good episode for Clarkson’s was filming Larry parking the truck with trailer attached in the busy lot of the garden store. Or rather, trying to back out of the parking space with trailer attached.

However, our lives aren’t only about the farm. After the condo sold, we’ve been road-testing various hotels in Portland. Last Thursday, I had a massage at noon (I know, I’m totally spoiled with a once-a-month visit), went to a movie with my Chicks friends in the afternoon, and then hung out in our newest hotel candidate, the Paramount while Larry went to a meeting. It’s been the nicest so far, but I have to report that the burgers we had for dinner in their restaurant weren’t that good, and the bar where we went for dessert after Larry got back, was loud and not that comfy. So. Here we are.

Our new place at Terwilliger, the Old Folks Home, won’t be ready for occupancy until next January, so we still have more hotel visits to enjoy while in Portland. Or not.

We’ve cancelled our planned trip to Boston to see Charlie direct the latest B.C. musical, after learning that we wouldn’t have that much opportunity to actually spend time with him. We do love him and are sure he will have an amazing career. I promise we will attend his first opening on Boadway, or off-Broadway, but the problem is, Boston/New York just doesn’t get any closer to Corvallis. At out ages, we have the crotechety attitude that maybe our beautiful grandkids should travel to see us. I don’t know. Some old people like to travel. Or so I’m told.

Music? We’re both in our separate banjo/guitar worlds, trying to sort it out sufficiently to enjoy participating in a bluegrass jam we discovered that meets every second Wednesday. So far our participation has been just frozen terror that we may get called upon, and pure fun being part of the music. Today, for Larry, it’s Cherokee Shuffle, and mine, Don’t That Road Look Rough and Rocky. The trick is to memorize the music and be able to play with/in front of others. You can look up those songs up on YouTube and see what we’re up against.

That said, the sun has set, dinner dishes done, and it’s time to practice! See you next time!

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NUMBER SEVENTY-ONE

Thursday, February 16th, 2023

I just counted. The first post I wrote was in July of 2014. I’d meant this blog to act as a record of our project here on the farm. Like a diary, or journal, if I had ever been disposed to write a diary, or journal. Which I hadn’t. Simply not that much of interest happened often enough to be worth dedicating a notebook to such an undertaking.

Then when I started this, I discovered that I was doing it more to entertain an imaginary audience, and looked for funny, silly things to record. Of course, I do like to write, and this was an opportunity to exercise my imagination. Except for the photos, which haven’t been photo-shopped (no idea how to photo-shop something anyway), there’s always been an imaginative overlay to the reporting. In other words, don’t exactly trust me. Got it?

Here I am again after a two-month layover. Mid February already. So, what’s been going on? Lots of what I’d imagine real farmers would consider winter work. Pruning the orchard. Building raised beds for the garden. Deadheading all the landscape stuff.

And in our case, trying to accommodate artifacts from the condo in storage or down here in Corvallis. Errors were made by the moving company, and we found some large artwork that was meant to be in storage unloaded into our shed. Right.

I had observed out loud one day that, for Larry, a job to be done announces itself as something he, himself, must do. A wonderful quality, but here in our dotage, not always practical. Case in point, what to do with several large paintings that had erroneously arrived here, all wrapped in camouflage cardboard and thick paper. Me: “We can’t hang those here ourselves. It would take scaffolding, several muscular assistants, certain skills we don’t have. We’ll have to hire someone.”

Hahaha. We got an estimate. $2,000 for the job, plus mileage from Portland. Okay, stop. Think. No, we can’t hang the Lee Kelly oil, but everything else?

We can do this. Here’s how that looked:

I need to tell you that the mirror came in pieces, so the thing had to be reassembled, which involved tiny pieces and tiny screws and lots of colorful language. But it looks lovely here and we can find better uses for two thousand dollars. Right?

Another major project we’ve initiated is the discovery of the right place to stay overnight when in Portland. Which it seems we certainly are and will be going forward. So. A hotel. Which? We’ve tried four, now, and find each not quite right. First, a modern, simple, bare minimum room at the Convoy. Next, Larry stayed at the Fairmount to attend a meeting, and he did approve of that one, but it’s not in the right neighborhood.

How about the Marriott down at Waterfront? Right spot. We could ride the streetcar from there to everywhere (thanks now, to Vik, who secured Hop cards for us and is instructing us in the usage of the system). But the hotel? Nope. Made for giant people, and when I can’t sit to read a book on the chair or sofa without my legs extending straight out like a six-year old, nope. The bathroom door wouldn’t close, the entry door wouldn’t open. Yeah, nope.

On to last weekend. First, we had to go north for dentist appointments which, on arrival, we learned, were correctly scheduled for some time in April. WTF? We both had the Feb. date on our calendars, but, again, mistakes were made. Okay, on to our next hotel, the Hampton Inn right in the Pearl District. It’s nice, it’s fine. But we are learning that a hotel room with but one chair is just not comfortable when we have hours to spend there. Even when I can sit in said chair like a normal person.

So, we’re 0 for 4. And, btw, when the TV in the hotel offers Netflix, but you must sign in with your own personal account, and you have not brought your user name and password for Netflix with you, you’re screwed. Why doesn’t the hotel just provide the damn thing? Oh well.

Now, to change the atmosphere, here’s a photo I took last week on my early morning walk down the road:

Magic. Or at least I think so. Oh, and this was on the way back up the road. Just so you’ll know.

I haven’t told you about the bluegrass jam we’ve found down at the Philomath Grange. Every second Wednesday, from 7 until it’s over. Larry and I have been taking lessons from a guy in Corvallis, guitar for Larry, banjo for me, and this is an opportunity to participate in the music with other folks.

It’s a mixed bag for sure. The first time, we didn’t take our instruments, just sat in the back of the circle and listened. Fun! Feeling braver, we did take the instruments next time, and joined in at the “beginners circle.” Again, this was fun, though terrifying. The thing is, you have to play totally by ear. No music stands. Someone calls a tune and you just try to plunk along with. All fine. It’s definitely best when the person calling the tune chooses something recognizable as bluegrass, not, like, some Rihanna tune from, what, Barbados, by which I mean no disrespect, but where are the chord changes? Yes, that does happen. Anyway.

In preparation, Larry and I have acquired books entitled Banjo for the Complete Ignoramus, Guitar for same. Surprisingly, they seem pretty helpful. When’s the next Second Wednesday? Just looked. March 8. Not that much time.

We’ve been trying to arrange a trip to California to see Peter and Allison’s place in Palm Desert, but all the arrows are pointing down. First, I’m having a little eye problem, perhaps detached retina, which means I’m not to fly just now. So, we can drive? Except we’ve just heard that it will be raining all week on the days we meant to be there. Okay, we give up. We’ll go to sunny California when it’s, you know, sunny?

And, speaking of Netflix, we’ve been struggling here at the farm as well. First, my new computer, which doesn’t speak English as I understand it, and the family TV, which plays well enough although the sound comes and goes. We called on a geek, advertising in the local co-op, who came and was brilliant in taming my computer, but had no luck with the TV. We are therefore, going to Eugene this afternoon in search of not only a replacement TV, but a person to come and install the thing. Too much to ask for? I’ll let you know next time.

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MOSTLY LARRY

Sunday, March 6th, 2022

So he’s been in a funk most of February. The weather? Too cold to do anything outside, too cold for golf. His knee? Doesn’t work properly after the replacement replacement. Doc says there’s just a lot of scar tissue. Well, whose fault is that? Taxes? Yes. Larry’s really brilliant in a lot of ways, but bookkeeping isn’t one of them. His computer loses things, or whatever he needs is in Portland, or he never got it anyway.

Right. But now it’s March. It’s still cold, but the sun is shining. A guy can always bake bread!

It’s just as good as it looks. Side bar: Grammar note. I believe I’m supposed to say “it’s just so good as it looks.” But I’m a newly-arrived fan of John McWhorter, linguist at the NYT, and love the way he writes about language. (Well, about everything.) Remember when I was being proud of myself for using a semicolon? He quoted someone — I forget whom — saying people just use semicolons to demonstrate that they went to college. I suspect he might say the same thing about the usage above.

Okay, back to Larry. Don Quixote battling the voles, moles, deer, and, I have to admit, sometimes the chickens, threatening his serenity in our wild enclave. We have an orchard (he has an orchard?) as well as a vegetable garden. Both now fenced against the deer. No one can do anything about the voles and moles, but the chickens?

In the beginning, we both worked to surround the fruit trees with first, a newspaper mulch. Idea gleaned from the Huntington Garden in Pasadena, courtesy of Margie Lindbeck. This didn’t work here in rainy Corvallis, and we moved on to chicken wire under each tree. Lots of work! Staples, shears, sharp points? This because, by then, we had actual chickens, who love nothing more than to dig in the exposed dirt under each tree. Thereby exposing the tree’s roots.

Of course, weeds would grow through the wire, so we added a layer of chips (gleaned from the fallen oak trees on the property) atop the wire. Looked nice. For a year or two. But the chickens kicked the chips off the wire into the surrounding grass, making mowing difficult. The weeds grew through the wire and chips anyway.

Next, we had Mitch and Chance build a run along the orchard’s west border, covered with wire to keep the hawks out, and felt the the birds had adequate, safe, territory and didn’t need to be in the orchard at all. Then we had a fiery summer, and Rhody, Maddie, and Grace had no shade under which to shelter from the heat. In the main orchard we found them huddled behind two large planting boxes, the dirt and moisture from the watering system providing them shade and refrigeration. We tried putting the patio umbrella up in their run to shade them. Hahaha. No, they had to be allowed into the orchard. Where they resumed kicking and digging under the trees.

Now our story is up to today, and Larry’s search for a meaningful project. What if we dug up the wire and used landscape fabric, topped with landscape size rock as handsome, sturdy, chicken-proof mulch under the trees? Good idea! Here’s what that looks like:

And finally:

We haven’t yet turned the chickens loose to see what kind of damage they may be able to do. So what’s the point of all this work, anyway? You see the smile on Larry’s face? Sure, he could be lifting weights in a gym someplace but I think this has been more fun. You can ask him.

What have I been doing all this time? Besides cooking, laundry and so on you mean? Good question. With all that left-over yarn from Alli’s sweater, I thought I would just knit myself something. Didn’t have a pattern, but I could piggy-back on what I learned from Alli’s. Um. What I have, after many hours of work (okay, I listened to books from Libby and Audible) — what I have is a great overgrown, lumpish potato sack. Warm, yes. But the sleeves are too narrow and besides, it’s kind of all-over ugly. I canvassed my sisters, and they were thoughtful, supportive. If I love knitting, I should tear it up and make it right. I said I tell them what I decide next Sunday at our regularly scheduled phone visit.

Got the sweater out of the Good Will bag and thought about unpicking all those end pieces I’d sewn into the body with a darning needle. Nope. I just couldn’t. I’ve now put the thing back into the Good Will, and turned it in. It’s OVER.

Next? I hand-picked all the fallen blossoms from the camellia by the front door, and the daffodils are blooming. We both feel better!

The sky is beautiful right now, dinner is smelling pretty good, Larry is chilling with a beer, laughing at something on his email feed. I can’t discuss world affairs on this blog, but I will say I’m mindful of our good fortune. See you next time!

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Oh, February

Sunday, February 20th, 2022

That dreary tag-end of winter while we wait for the light to come back? It hasn’t been so bad, all foggy mornings and moon-lit nights. Fires in the fireplace and books to read. Then this:

Ryan showed up with his shiny new tractor hauling what he informed me is a field cultivator. Time to work on the west pasture, been lying fallow all year. But first he had to thread the needle through gates below the barn.

Love the way Ryan solves problems! An old board and a stump from the burn pile, and there’s a ramp. Do you wish you had a farm? This cultivator opens like a book, and soon there were wide swaths of brown earth where green weeds had been. Nice.

Next on the calendar was Martha’s arrival Saturday mid-day, in Corvallis to take her sister (me) to the ballet in Eugene Sunday afternoon. Apparently the word “ballet” can refer to individual works of varying length. In this case, we saw five individual pieces, all choreographed by women. Traditionally, we were told in the program, men wrote the steps, women simply performed them. The way of the world. The best dance of this new order was the story of ghosts, come to frequent the stage after a performance when the audience has gone home. Those gorgeous bodies. Sigh.

The next week, my neighbor-across-the-field, Marjorie, invited me to join her on a trip to Inavale, a riding academy. She was “auditioning” her dogs for a place in the kennel there, which one does when we’re talking about a kennel in an academy. No worries, her two dogs are beautifully trained, and were accepted for a spot when called for.

Here’s one of the boarders in the academy. Seriously:

But honestly, we’re talking about a completely new world here. Thoroughbreds, and silk jackets, and beautiful boots. You know, a fox and hounds? Right here in Corvallis? There will be a show later in the spring, and I can’t wait to go. That afternoon, we were lucky to watch a rider schooling a young Icelandic pony (?) in a training circle. Just sitting in the sunshine while I learned about such things as “shoulder in” and “hard stop.”:

But back to the farm. Larry has been engaged in a battle of wits with the local herd of deer, members of which have determined his garden is a good lunch spot. They can jump over anything we’ve posited so far, and just laugh as they hear us talk about getting a dog. They know Larry, they know that’s an empty threat. But spring is in the air, the seed catalogs have arrived. What to do?

I think this is called hog wire, which Mitch and Chance spent all day yesterday attaching to the existing rail fence. See the tall post in the corner? That will brace posts of equal height attached to the current posts, and strung along that higher level with wire strands. Think this will work?

In the background, you can see the field I mentioned earlier. And those straggly plants in the foreground are baby leeks. Yum.

Larry has descended from his atelier where he was watching golf and reading the Economist, asks if I’m ready to go. We’re looking for a dimension of mirror which I can hang on the bedroom door, to enable some attempt at fashionable hair drying in which I can see the back of my head. “Atelier?” It’s because I was writing about that riding academy. Was also reading “The Other Bennett Girl,” in the style of Jane Austin. Must make a course correction! Yikes!

Until next time . . .

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SOLSTICE

Friday, October 1st, 2021

“Oh my gosh! Larry! Come quick!”

“What?”

“I don’t know. A really big cat, and it has a long tail. Just walking along behind the fence.” But Larry can’t come quick, and by the time he stumps into the dining room, I’ve become impatient and opened the door to the porch. The animal startles, stares, and bounds away. Larry can just see his head as he disappears into the weeds.

“Looks like a feral cat.”

“No, it’s bigger than that. What does a cougar look like?”

“Jane.” He knows I like a good story, but he isn’t willing to go so far as cougar. “I don’t know. It was probably just a cat.”

So he doesn’t believe me. My bad. I shouldn’t have opened the door. But I know what I saw. “You do know because I just told you.”

Ha. Won that argument.

And while I can’t really ID a cougar, I am pretty confident of my skills in the kitchen. Example:

Right. You can probably tell that the first shot was an apple pie that stayed in the oven too long, but you might need help recognizing an angel food cake in the second. Doesn’t work without a tube pan.

Maybe it was just a cat.

And Kelly, I’m glad you’re not piggy-backing on my Hulu account!

Larry and I had an executive meeting to plot preparations for fall. 1.) Pull out the wire mesh around the orchard trees, fertilize, determine how to deal with the chickens digging around the tree roots. 2.) Build shelves in the new shed. 3.) Clean and organize the old shed. 4.) Move the picnic table down to the barn. 5.) Move tender plants into the greenhouse. Most of these chores demand a two-legged man, so we’re working on that, too.

We’re asked to decide what to do about the newly prepared pastures. Plant something now to look better, which will be sprayed next spring before planting with fescue? Just leave the dirt fallow, do nothing, and spray whatever comes up next spring before planting with fescue?

Why not plant some nitrogen-fixing legume, then till it in? I ask. Don’t spray! We need advice, but Jarod, of F&W says this question is above his pay grade. We remembered Donna Schmidt, Benton County, recommending the Institute of Applied Ecology. Sounds pretty fancy, and right here in Corvallis! I phoned them, got connected with the director, who has expressed interest in seeing what we’re up to, and will come out here next Tuesday to have a look and make suggestions. This is good!

And here’s what’s fun: Over the weekend, Amy and Mike came to town to visit Amy’s sister, Marjorie, and Ted. They had expressed interest in collecting some of our oak firewood to take back to their home in the mountains near Prineville. They’re pretty amazing. Just back from a long trip across country, camping out every night on the way. They heat their home with just a wood stove. They eat, Mike tells us, only meat that they harvest. “harvest!” That’s a word.

“Do you hunt with bow or rifle?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

I have a photo, but it wouldn’t be fair — you’ll just have to imagine the glorious push-broom mustache and the laughing eyes behind it.

Someone mentioned the big cat I’d seen earlier that day. Amy, who reminds me of my own sister, Mary, asked a couple of questions about it/him, and pronounced cougar. Yes! She explained that a 2 year old male would be looking for his own territory in this season. Neither Larry nor I doubt her authority.

They loaded the trailer and as they were leaving, Mike produced a package of two frozen elk steaks for us. Like New York strip, he said, and proceeded to tell us how to cook them. We must use a tenderizer gadget, he insisted, and be sure to under-cook them. In a cast iron skillet or on the fire. Well. Wow.

And speaking of sisters, Happy Birthday, Martha! A day late, but she’ll forgive me, I think, because I gave her a present: A jigsaw puzzle featuring insects arranged artistically. Yep. Good old Dad.

See you in October!

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