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!
After a quiet Thanksgiving, the West Coast members of the Viehl clan were rounded up to join in celebrating Elsa’s wedding. Elsa is the grand-daughter of Allan Viehl, (Larry’s brother), daughter of Kelly Viehl Anderson, and thus a full-blood member of the tribe. The ceremony was to be in Boone, Iowa, and no, I’d never heard of it either. But I’m not blood at all, so feel a bit like an interstellar time traveler when my space ship delivers me to a tribal event such as this wedding.
The West Coast members are, at this time, Larry, Peter, and Andrew Viehl. We were missing Allison, Peter’s wife, and David. Allison gave up her place for the trip to Andrew, and the other available Viehl, David, simply wasn’t available.
Tom and Jenny and I were happy be to hangers-on when the space ship was this beauty:
Yep. A private plane. Seriously? But the tribe called, and why not? We landed in Des Moines, checked into a motel in Urbandale, and went to find something to eat. Which turned out to be an affair called Smokey D’s, once featured on Guy Fieri. They do know their BBQ in Iowa, and how to serve it. Check. I experience the first wave of sweet mid-Western culture in a place where infants and toddlers can be observed chewing on a rib.
By the way, the legend on Andrew’s jacket means Just Enjoy This Life — a good mandate which were were determined to observe.
On to Ames the next day in our rental cars. A moment of hilarity when the dude checking out the cars wondered if Peter and Larry were twins. What? No, that lasted longer than a moment and soon became the springboard for lots of smart remarks. Of course, Larry loved it.
At the new motel we were able to check in, change into our wedding finery, and be off to the wedding in the afore-mentioned Boone. At the end of several dirt roads, we found the wonderful barn-like structure, a newly, purposefully built, venue. And there they all were.
At this moment I discovered that I’d left my phone behind in my every-day purse, and would have to rely on others for photos to share.
First, here are Larry and Allan. Allan has had the misfortune to stumble on the stairs at home on Thanksgiving Day, to break both bones in his left leg, and thus get to attend the wedding courtesy of a wheel chair. Now these two might look like twins, right?
Fortunately, Allan had his boys there to take care of him. They run big in this tribe, as you can see from the next photo, which, sorry, is the only one I can offer. This is Kyle, Allan’s second son, dad to Delaney who, upon learning that we were coming, was shocked. “You mean there’s more Viehls than just us?”
My sister-in-law, Gloria, is one of those talented, amazing women who can make works of art out of the assignment to make, for example, cookies for the reception.
She made those? Dozens of them, all different? Yes, plus little place-treats, cookie pops dressed up in a tux or bridal gown, by the hundreds. I think Starbucks got the idea from her. Anyway, she belongs to a tribe of her own, the Gaymans, who were there with husbands and sons and daughters and grandkids . . .
What about the bride? Getting there. Elsa is Kelly’s youngest, and she is stunning, gorgeous, smart, and well, tall like the rest of them. As the attendants were coming down the aisle ahead of the bride, we were treated to one beautiful, very tall young woman after another. Ah. Got it. Elsa played college b-ball, and these women were her team-mates and friends. Wow.
I don’t know anything much about the groom, except he seems pretty happy. Duh.
I got to sit next to Steve, Elsa’s dad, at the wedding dinner. He’s a devoted, successful hunter — if you’re his Facebook friend you could see the photos of the gorgeous birds he brings down and home. I took the opportunity to query him about cooking the elk steak I mentioned in an earlier post, and told him I’d post the results. That will have to wait until I actually cook the steaks, and then I’ll let you all know.
I had a chance to talk with Ken, Kristi Viehl’s husband, who works for the FAA, doing traffic control for the Sioux City airport. He’s a lieutenant colonel in the Air Guards, spends active duty when deployed, wherever they send him. Such as the Middle East, for example. This year, somewhere in the southern U.S. Not sure where, but it does mean being away from home for the duration. From Kristi and their two munchkins, Emerson and Hudson. Tough. Appreciated.
We were with the tribe for about 7-8 hours out of a three-day trip. All worth it. Especially as we got to be with our own far-flung segment for the entire time. And who wouldn’t like flying in a sweet little airplane, with a pilot who graduated OSU in ’17, who began flying with his dad at the age of 6, who got his license at the age of 17? Even this confirmed flightophobe could relax and enjoy looking down on the plains and mountains of this-land-is-your land, etc. Okay, I’m lying. I didn’t actually relax. But the mountains are exciting seen from that close.
Back at the farm, Larry has recovered his mojo, successfully tuned the tractor with an appliance delivered by Amazon. Say what you will.
Yesterday, a rain-filled, dismal, morning, a crew arrived to remove huge patches of blackberry, which they’d earlier sprayed to death. And now, the fields are mowed, the leaves spent, fall has arrived. Welcome home.
No, we haven’t gotten our shots yet. Yes, both my sisters, plus all Allison’s California relations and friends are protected. “You have to be proactive,” they tell me, which is good advice, of course.
No, one can’t be vaccinated at the mass event in Reser Stadium without documentation of a place in the chosen hierarchy. “Just stay on the line and an informed respondent will be with you momentarily,” promised the pleasant voice on the Benton County vaccine help line. For an hour. Wait, what does “momentarily” mean?
Terwilliger Plaza, the old folks’ home with whom we’re registered for down- the-line-emergency/ just-in-case lodging when and if we ever sell our condo or one of us falls off the tractor, can’t get the vaccine. Because we’ve decided, apparently, to vaccinate teachers before old folks in this state, this county. I think this is wise, and proactivity can do nothing to alter our place in the queue.
So we wait.
In the meantime, it snowed! I still get a childish jolt of euphoria when I wake to a white wonderland. A girl of the rain-drenched Willamette Valley. Guess the same thrill doesn’t occur to the boy who grew up in Minnesota. I had to beg him to come with me for a walk. These are sheep across the road from us, and a lonely hawk:
But the snow didn’t last a day. I claim that winter isn’t over, which is true, even if winter holds no further guarantees.
The Lorax? Dr. Seuss? Okay, I didn’t quite remember exactly what Seussian figure it is, so had to check with Amazon after this cute little truck showed up at our gate Saturday.
“I speak for the trees,” the Lorax says, “because trees have no tongues and cannot speak for themselves.” A quick trip further into the literature and I learned that a town in California once banned the book in their schools because it portrayed logging adversely, unfairly. Adversely for sure, if not unfairly!
But our Lorax was here to saw up and chip the oak tree that fell by the road last month. All was going well, until. Well, it is mud season and the Lorax got very adversely and unfairly stuck.
The Little Tractor That Could to the rescue. I won’t accuse Larry of enjoying the opportunity to get out the chains, but what man doesn’t like using his toys?
And here’s the result of the job Andy and his crew completed after the equipment was safely parked on the road:
Come the spring, we’ll rent a splitter and haul it over to this sweet pile of firewood. Andrew, Charlie, Will? Come on down/up to the farm for a few days of hard labor and cousinship bonding? The pay’s good.
The drama for Larry continues with the solar panels on the barn. Seems whatever device is meant to be monitoring the power extracted and added to the grid has failed. This has to do, unfortunately, with a computer and modem specific to the job, and Larry has been unable to decipher the instructions he gets from the system’s creators somewhere in Minneapolis. So, neighbors Ted and Patrick to the rescue. These are both engineers of one sort or another, and well-certified for handling this problem. I wish I had crashed the party down at the barn to take photos of the head scratching which went on for a couple of hours before the discovery of a way forward. I’m pretty sure, given these guys, there were not a few laughs. But I waited too long, and we will all just have to use our imaginations.
Today’s challenge has been the attempt to get ourselves subscribed to the local newspaper, the Corvallis Gazette Times. The offices of which in Corvallis are closed. But it’s owned by the Albany Democrat-Herald (where do they get these names?), so we thought to take a road trip over to that city while our cleaning women did their magic here. Only to learn that these offices are also closed, in this case, by the pandemic. But a phone number on the door roused a woman inside who took our info and handed out a copy of today’s edition as well. It feels settled to have an actual newspaper in hand. And think of all we use old newspaper for! No idea if there is a political slant to the news we’ll find on board.
And in the course of the journey, we identified a coffee shop to investigate, come the day. Vik and Gordon tell us about the coffee shops they’ve discovered and patronized in various towns in the area, and this appeals to our sense of travel well executed.
Mitch and his bro-in-law Chance have arrived to have a look at the extension for the chicken run they will build for us. Going to get those birds out of the orchard proper while still allowing for hawk-protected free ranging.
And it’s raining. It’s okay. Water in the well! See you next time.
For Andrew — here are the photos I promised of the “great-flood-so-far”:
We walked down the path to the river that morning. Luckily we didn’t do anything stupid like drop a phone in the water, or fall in, but Grandpa said his right boot had a leak and his toes were getting squishy. No help for that, so we walked along Llewellyn back to our driveway. There’s never much traffic along the road, but everyone who passes smiles and waves. This is nice. We don’t know one another, but it feels like we belong here.
We always stop to see if there are eggs, and this day the answer was yes:
Okay, buddy, your turn! The photo of the BMW was an excellent start, but if you’ll send more, I’ll post them here next time. Deal?
It’s been a busy week here at the Wood! After struggling with our hot water system, on the advice of the plumber, we decided to go ahead with a change to reverse-osmosis treatment for the household water. This involved a great new tank in the shed, causing a round of rearrangement where the patio chairs and the Traeger used to spend the winter. I cannot tell you how reverse-osmosis works, but it does allow us to dispense with the Britta filters for drinking water, get hot water to the shower without a five-minute wait, and, we hope, a return to actual white linens from the washing machine.
The next day was the beautiful Wednesday-the-20th. We celebrated with some neighbors, correctly distanced — wait! Does this now go without saying that when we meet anyone we will be correctly distanced? How long, oh Lord, but okay? Anyway, we sat out on their meadow, watched the sun set, toasted the peaceful change of power with some champagne, laughed and told stories. Practically froze, because hey, it is winter and this outdoor gathering stuff, while saving lives, friendships, and sanity all around? Sigh.
Speaking of which, we got a notice that Benton County and Samaritan Health were joining to offer mass vaccination on Reser Stadium field next Tuesday and Wednesday. Didn’t mention how they’d offer the second dose, so I’m not sure if we should jump in. We have an arrangement with Terwilliger to get the shots after they’ve completed the Assisted Living vaccinations, but have no idea when that will be. Kind-of tempting to join the crowd down at the stadium. We’ll see.
Back on the farm, our favorite crew from Peterson Landscaping showed up early Thursday morning to plant three maple trees in the north-facing yard. This is with the idea of providing shade in the hot afternoons on the porch. Side benefits will be to soften the house into the surrounding land, offer birds a stop between the oak copse and the distant standing oaks. Maybe to induce the owls who nightly serenade us to make a home nearby? Those owls sing all night long, and it’s perfect background noise for sleeping.
And on the subject of trees, we’ve been talking with Matt, the county planting contractor, about adding trees to the creekside habitat. At the moment, this habitat consists mostly of spirea, Oregon Grape, wild roses, red alder. He’s coming back next week with the trees he can find in the nurseries. Ash, alder, willow, maple. We thought maybe a couple of dozen, but he says, no, 600, depending. This is courtesy of our grant from Benton County, and wow! Gonna be fun!
Bob Altman, vesper sparrow guy, visited with Jerod Jabousek from Fish and Wildlife to consider planting shrubs in the pasture lands to encourage the nesting of vesper sparrows. These birds apparently like to live among grazing cows, but they do need intermittent bushes to house their nests. In the past, cows haven’t grazed on the F&W land, but we can work with Ryan, cow guy, to pasture them in a timely dance with the wild flowers and birds.
Now it’s Saturday morning. Blue sky, frost on the land, Larry cooking his breakfast, all’s well. See ya next time! Andrew, send those photos!
Okay, we give up. Our campaign against ground squirrels has ended in rout for the little buggers — sheer numbers have overwhelmed our firecrackers, boy pee, poison, hired guns, shouting. We’ve withdrawn to the patio and flower beds around the house on which we’ve sprinkled cayenne in the last ditch hope to protect our petunias and geraniums. Plenty of lettuce and green beans at the grocery, right?
What about the thistle mentioned in the last blog? After several days slogging around the pastures with a backpack sprayer addressing the thistle and tansy, Larry called our guy at Fish and Wildlife. “Too late to spray,” he says. “Only thing you can do now is mow.”
Wishing he’d called Jarod a week ago, Larry headed for the barn, hitched the brush hog to the John Deere, and is just now employing the nuclear option. Off with their heads! It’s supposed to hit 95 this afternoon, so best get the farm work done early.
As you can imagine, I’m not much help when farm work gets beyond weed whacking, so have been staying inside these hot days making pickles with Vik, more pickles — bread and butter — with Larry manning the slicer. An earlier round of sauerkraut is now fermenting away in the garage refrigerator, but that’s about it until and if the apples ripen. We still have “produce” from last year in the freezer, and I made something resembling pear crisp yesterday. Nothing crisp about it. Ugh. But Larry will eat it. Good man.
So what have I been doing? Reading all day and painting my nails? Kind of. But those of you who are old like me may remember suffering through home ec back in high school days. Had to make a blouse or skirt or something, maybe an apron for the beginners? My sisters and I lived in outgrown clothes packed up from family in Ohio, and on my mom’s sewing skills. Which weren’t wonderful. As in, she’d buy a bolt of cloth in a burst of economy or efficiency and make up matching outfits for the four of us. Oh God. Martha finally got a job at a clothing store in the summer and we could use our babysitting/crop-picking/cannery-work money on real clothes.
Does that all sound appropriately pitiful? Yeah! It was. Well, somehow I never got over it, and have turned again to my sewing machine. So the point of this long narrative is that I needed a yard of plain white shirting, and went to the only fabric store in town, JoAnn’s. They didn’t have white. I mean? We’re very busy, the clerk told me. Everyone’s stocking up.
Can this be true? No one I know but me sews anything in the clothing line. Sure, quilting is definitely a thing, but we can hardly be running low on white cotton. Sigh. Interesting times.
Okay, I’m taking a moment to go out and shoot photos. We want to see Larry on the tractor, after all. Back soon.
Looks hot and tired, huh? While I was out with my phone I decided to take a few more shots:
Larry’s garden. I’m not that fond of orange flowers, but when I asked him what was up, he said because he can see orange flowers. Oh. Color blind, he can’t see all the lovely rose, pink, lavender blossoms. Awww. Well bless his heart. It’s his garden, after all.
We’re going for Biggest Onion at the county fair. These are Walla Wallas, one of which will last us a week, and we have maybe 25? Plus another 50 assorted red, yellow. Seems the squirrels don’t like onions.
And the grapes. Not ripe yet, but the question is whether the birds will get them all when they are.
A little farm trivia: chickens have a particular song when they lay an egg, which I can’t reproduce but you’d know if you hear it. So while I was taking photos, Rhody climbed up on the water dispenser and started singing. Oh good, I thought, I’ll just bring the egg in on my way. Except it was Toastie’s egg. What the heck? She was crowing because her buddy laid an egg? Maybe she doesn’t know we can tell the difference. Hmmm.
Larry just came in, says he’s through for the day. For sure. Well, call me if you want a supply of onions!
This is my second attempt at a photo essay by First Grandkid Andrew. The first disappeared into the ether and I have one word for anyone planning to write a blog using Word Press. Don’t.
But, here’s a photo of Andrew, which is not, of course, part of his photo essay:
He came to the farm to work, and here he is hard at it:
He’s shoveling dirt into the old feed trough, which we thought to utilize as a planter. It’s right by the old well, so water is available, and wouldn’t filbert (aka hazelnut) trees be a fun idea?
I changed my mind. It’s too damn hard to manipulate this f-ing app, if that’s what Word Press is, and if there’s an opportunity to post another photo, I’ll give it a shot later when I’ve composed myself.
Last post found us sending David and Caroline off to parts unknown, which materialized as Vancouver BC, where they spent a few weeks before heading back to Hawaii. Right now I believe they’re in England somewhere, but communication is sketchy with these two. If and when they actually move, I’m sure they’ll let us know.
After their visit, Jenny and her family came to the farm for a couple of days. Somehow I didn’t take any photos, which I regret, but at least that means I don’t have to commit a half hour and my usual sweet temperament to post them. I’ll just say it was great fun to see them, to catch up on Alli’s life in Colorado, and at Seattle Prep where Will is a Junior-to-be. Jenny and Tom have purchased a “fixer-upper” and have launched the project with a search for an architect who will understand that a dollar means a dollar. Good luck with that, but miracles do happen.
Peter and Andrew arrived next, to help with the latest downed oak, some tractor work on the above mentioned feed trough, and whatever else occurred to the aged p’s.
Speaking of miracles! I refer to the fact that this photo arrived right-side up and in the right place. Pushing my luck, I try again:
I am so on a roll! Peter at the controls of the trusty John Deere — but as happened in the past, the tractor sprang a hydraulic leak and this particular job came to an ignominious halt. The tractor got hauled away as Larry, who is usually sure he can fix whatever (see next topic) wisely deferred to the local John Deere folk.
Mom and Peter here. Love the cowboy hat!
Peter and Andrew drove off on the 4th — yes, they drive from Altadena — and we sat on the porch enjoying the rare, consecutive visits from our kids. In our rocking chairs. But farm life waits not her tired caretakers. The watering tanks were up to their tricks.
The construction error that cost the life of the calf had been remedied, but the float valve in the operative one declined to shut off the water supply, and, on going to check, we discovered a flood. This, of course, can drain the well, and though we can get along while the well recovers, the cows can’t.
Call Ryan, (cow guy) I say, with an edge of hysteria.
“I can fix it,” says Larry.
Oh God. Yes, he probably can fix a stupid float valve, but . . .
“Look, it’s simple. You just have to . . .”
A day goes by. The fix endures, until it doesn’t Another flood. This is not, dear readers, Larry’s fault. It finally required a real true plumber and a whole new system.
But in working with the tank, we’d seen a scummy slimy forest of algae in the tank. Goldfish to the rescue:
Ten “feeders” who bring the number of our personal livestock to thirteen. So far as we can tell, they’re doing a very good job. Don’t know how they feel about cows sucking up their water, but we can hope that they will thrive.
We made a dash to Black Butte to make up the beds for the Hawley family who will be staying there for a week, starting the 16th. As their time corresponds exactly with Camp Estrogen, and as Camp E will be held at the Ball family home there, it will be fun to finally get a chance to meet Jutka and the kids.
On Monday, we were lucky to be on the southbound trail of Ellen Banks and her new beau, George. Ellen is technically our grand-niece-in-law, but she has always been one of our grandkids in our hearts. She lives and works in New York where she met her lovely Scottish boyfriend. They’re driving down the coast to Pasadena, then back to New York. Yes, driving to New York. Kids!
Back now at the farm, alone again, we’re enjoying a spell of rain-ish weather. Actually welcome, as we have time to figure out how we’ll be watering the new plants down at the gate. Plants heretofore watered by the old fashioned bucket and pail system. Can you buy a two-hundred foot hose? I’ll let you know.
Okay, I gave up and finally updated my Word Press, managers of my blog site, and everything looks different. Will I be able to load photos? Lets check:
So far so good. Only took me a trip upstairs to find my old computer on which I found navigation instructions. I have no idea how the formatting on this new system will look when published. It’s a journey we’re on together.
Anyway, I took this photo this morning to illustrate the large bat-wing mower, powered by Fish and Wildlife, which is taking down the ocean of grasses and wild flowers earlier planted by same. The wild flowers did grow, but were quickly overshot by the Astoria bent grass, a troublesome invasive. They will spray with something called Springer, to which the flowers are supposed immune, in the hope to give the flowers competitive edge next year. We’ll see.
But the title of this piece is loss. Let’s start with David and Caroline, who arrived Monday evening, we being the first stop on their epic road trip to, well, that’s a good question. They hadn’t yet decided on Monday evening. But by Tuesday evening, when Larry and I had begun our watering system for the gate plantings (it’s Hot here, like high 90’s.) D and C walked down the road for an evening stroll and discovered that one of the calves had been stuck behind the barbed wire enclosing one of the streams. This would account for the loud, relentless moo-ing we’d been hearing all afternoon.
Larry and David undertook to crawl under/through the fence to, um, what? lift the calf out? Which probably weighs 200# by now, but, something had to be done. The land inside the stream fencing is rough, weedy, and, in my opinion, too dangerous for a couple of oldish tenderfoots to attempt. Didn’t listen, and, amazingly, the threat they represented to the poor lad caused him to scramble through the barbed wire, to no apparent ill effect. Momma came running, and we supposed the drama to be over.
But there are 16 calves, and we could only account for 15. Where was the last one?
Later that night, well after dark, the distraught moo-ing continued. A neighbor texted to say that she’d tried to get across the fence (a really really bad idea — not only barbed wire but electric — to comfort the cow (how do you even try to comfort a cow?) Bless her heart. This was enough to persuade Larry that we had to call Ryan, the cow’s owner.
He said there was nothing to be done until morning when he’d come over and try to find the missing baby. The moo-ing went on all night.
The baby was found the next morning. His head had somehow been caught in the watering tank. He didn’t drown, but suffocated. Ryan sent someone over to collect the body, and to amend the tank housing. He was philosophical, says loss accompanies the business, that the calf had not suffered, but died within seconds, that nothing could have been done to prevent his death. The cows were moved to a different pasture.
The neighbors have not been so sanguine. The tanks (four of them) were designed and build by an engineer from NRCS as part of the stream-protection grant. Something must be done. This seems such a human impulse. We will inform the agency of the problem. Meanwhile, the mourning continued through the days and nights, hard to hear. I saw Caroline walk down the road and try to extend human comfort to the mother, who stood alone in the corner of the field nearest to the tank. I do not know if her sentiment was received.
But. David and Caroline! What an amazing couple. Caroline believes that Hawaii is responsible for her cancer, or at least partly culpable, and so she doesn’t live there. Of course, that is where her home is, at least so long as David’s job is in Hawaii. So she travels. Apparently they have gamed the credit card points system to a degree that approaches genius. David keeps the home and the cats, and seems perfectly content with their arrangement.
They eat according to a plan that is narrow to disappearing. Caroline records every bite onto a digital site, and her will power can move the mountains, drain the oceans. She wavers not. And listen to this. Her entire wardrobe travels with her. Everything she owns. In two suitcases. Normal suitcases, not trunks. She is cheerful, mindful, entertaining. She laughs, she rescues each tiny insect and removes it outside. She believes in the transcendent. David adores her.
Now they’re on their way, perhaps to Canada, perhaps to Montana. We may or may not be advised. God speed. And our life sinks back into the comfort of habit. We have a real dinner, which includes, you won’t be surprised to hear, sausage. As we speak, Larry is outside talking to the crew we’ve engaged as a test to care for our lawn. The lawn looks beautiful. It has taken two men three hours to accomplish what Larry manages in an hour and a half. I’m not paying them for three hours work every week! Larry says. There goes my idea that he might relax and enjoy a game of golf every now and then.
The installation of sky lights in the attic/snug/whatever room goes on in fits. The actual installation is now complete, but the wiring of overhead can- lights may be undertaken next Wednesday. The wall-boarding? We seem to be a project that is slipped into interstices of the contractor’s real jobs.
Now it’s time to post this and see what travels across the ether. Sorry there weren’t more photos! Maybe next time?
I’m not exactly afraid of snakes, but I don’t like coming across them accidentally. If there’s one in the barn, okay, I’ll just leave the barn. You can imagine the look on my scientist-entomologist father’s face when I once postulated, with all the wisdom of my 8-or-so years, that women are probably averse to snakes because of that long-ago unfortunate business in the Garden of Eden. My dad actually snorted at such foolishness, and I can hear him still.
Maybe you don’t notice the snake in this photo? The gray coil with the black stripe. No garter snake, this fellow. He unwound to about 3 feet, slowly realizing that he was un-hibernated and a very well behaved dog was watching. (Larry — yes, Larry — even commented that if he ever got a dog, it would be one of this dog’s brothers.)
Her name is Callie, and she belongs to Casey, who was down by the barn setting fence. The snake appeared when Casey pulled a snag tree out by the roots in order to facilitate the farm gate installation. This is where the cows will unload, if and when. But what’s important is that he also, finally, hauled away the tangle of fence post and rusted wire that had been decorating the entrance to the barn.
On the wildlife front, a New Year’s resolution has us walking Llewellyn to the end of Muddy Creek bridge and back, watching the river harvesting trees on her banks, swelling with the rains, and, to our delight, a river otter appearing just upstream from the bridge. Saw us and immediately submerged. Probably a nutria, scoffed my neighbor. Or mink, maybe. People! It was an otter.
Okay, Larry got the orchard trees pruned and then it was time to spray. While Larry has embraced the concept of out-sorcing the more challenging farm chores, he still reflexively goes straight to “I’ll do it” in many cases. And so it is with orchard spraying. However, copper sulfate, the spray authorized by organic farming, is pretty toxic. Must be applied before fruit buds are set, and the ground beneath the trees has to be protected. As you can imagine, no chickens can be present during the operation. So spreading the tarps, managing the fussy spray applicator, took more hours than the day has light. Had to be carried over to the following day, but he did it. Our trees are now safe from the fungal blight that has threatened the very life of one apple, one cherry tree.
Now the fun part. We had a long visit with Bill Peterson, Landscape Guy. We have wanted to add a couple of trees to the entrance gate at the lower end of the driveway, and at the point where the driveway gravel gives way to the courtyard gravel up by the house. Bill’s crew is good to go, we just have to see which trees he can source. Probably Japanese cherry up top and mountain hemlock by the road. Hold on! Just Googled mountain hemlock. Huge. We want an evergreen conifer, but? Maybe there’s a smaller cultivar? Will check. Anyway, the work will also continue on our path through the oak copse. And, just in time, the clouds are gathering. Won’t be as much fun to watch from under an umbrella. Just kidding about the umbrella.
Been thinking about our mission here. The plan is for Ryan to spray the low field along Llewellyn, then plant fescue or other forage. But our sprayed fields have been slow to green up this fall and winter. I begin to wonder if we haven’t strayed from the idea of improving the soil and veered instead to the raising of beef. The point of grazing is to manage the savanna/oak landscape, keep the grasses in check without fire or tractor power. But. How much spraying is too much? Yes, we have to reclaim the land from invasives, but has the cart gotten out in front of the horse? The whole plan is Fish & Wildlife conceived, so we have, in the vastness of our inexperience and stunning lack of knowledge, agreed. I think about our little otter, and the herons hunting frogs in the neighbor’s field, who have not yet tested our new pool but I have seen them contemplating a visit. What’s best for them?
Now Larry’s lovely chile is simmering on the stove. Chile Colorado, a Christmas gift recipe from daughter Jenny. I can hear the first raindrops and smell the bread rising. He prunes and sprays. He cooks, he bakes! Lucky me!
I know, surprise. We actually have a neighborhood. Terri, the only one we know, had the idea to have a “gathering” after the fire (which I’ve mentioned before). Good idea! We met a couple across the way who raise Islandic sheep, and the wife’s mom who lives in the original, small house on the property. Another woman, who owns a large property adjoining the sheep people, has just built the first home she has lived in for 40 years, her entire adult life. When her husband died several years ago, she sold some of the property, inherited from her family, and built her home. Been living in a trailer on the property those long 40 years. Good for her!
But the best outcome from the party, from our point of view, was the acquaintance of a couple, whose property adjoins ours, who are passionate about chickens. (You knew I’d get around to chickens, right?) The gentleman has volunteered to come over and take care of our birds whenever we want to get away for a while. Like for Thanksgiving, when we’re heading to Pasadena. Hooray! He has met our chickens, pronounced them nice and healthy. This is actually a big deal, as we have been wondering how we’d find a chicken-sitter when the time came.
So, finally, here they are:
They haven’t seem excited about being “free range.” There they were, the whole orchard open to be explored, and they just huddled around the coop. Back door open, good to go. So Larry and I were pretty surprised yesterday, when out in the orchard ourselves setting mole traps,to find the girls clustered around us, well away from home base. We had been bringing them treats in order to introduce ourselves to them, but still, this was new. Edith, the Rhode Island Red, is the bravest, and will come right up to the little cup I hold to investigate the dried corn within.
This was a fun trick for us. Now when they see us, they come right over. They still won’t go abroad when we aren’t there, though, which is good, as I saw a hawk sitting on the fence post one day. And they are averaging an egg a day among them, which is just the right amount.
But chickens are not the only news around here. A massive dust cloud got our attention the other day, and on examination, we found this monster in the field along Llewellyn:
This proved to be Mike, employee of USF&W. Seems the permit to build the vernal pool had finally come in, and work is underway. This work, Jarod, our main F&W Guy, explained, is “jurisdictional.” Which means permits were required from the Corp of Engineers, State of Oregon, and Benton County before earth could be moved. Because we’re in a jurisdictional flood plain. Fortunately the permits came in just before the promised rainfall later this week. Here’s what this looks like now:
When finished, the “pool” will be about a foot deep, and native plants will, theoretically, colonize the space. But it won’t look like a pond, alas, just a marshy wet-land. The aquatic community of birds, salamanders, frogs, however, will love it, Jarod insists, and come January we will be deafened by the chorus of Coastal green frogs, photo below:
Larry is, at the moment, driving his tractor in the later-this-week rainfall, after a fraught morning when the automatic brush-hog release feature didn’t function. Over to the John Deere folk with a photo of the problem, and, problem solved, but not in time to beat the rain. So here’s a photo of him yesterday when the sun still shone on his vision garden:
Really, it could happen to anyone. Say you’re checking out at Costco and your old college buddy phones at that moment to wish you happy birthday and you get a little distracted. The wife has to sign, and she puts the Costco and Visa cards in your shirt pocket, she’s pretty sure, but when you try to pay at the service station which is 75 miles from Costco and 75 miles from home, your credit card is missing. You’re not wearing that shirt. Oh crap. So you use your wife’s card and here’s the fun part. You have to put a hold on the card until you can get back to Bend, and you will have to use her bank card any time you go shopping at the farm. Because you’re not on her account, you will have to take her with you when you go, for example, to the Corvallis Home Depot, and she simply can’t understand why it takes a half an hour to select the correct widget for your Whatsit. If she had just handed you the stupid cards like a normal person — but wait. You can only think that. Do not say it.
But it’s okay. He got the cards back now and we’re good.
On Sunday morning, early, Cory and Tiffany arrived to wash all windows and screens, upstairs and down. This was to take 6 or 7 hours, a big job. They were efficient, thorough, and we were glad Craig’s List delivered them to us. But why! does anyone name his/her child Tiffany? Think, people. It’s a jewelry store, could we just leave it at that?
Everyone is running ahead of the rain. On Monday, Bill and Allan, Landscape Guys, stopped by to discuss the trail through the copse. I put on my boots (Larry still not back from his trip to retrieve his Visa card) and we decided on the path, angling down to emerge at the base of the giant, old-growth fir tree which stands alone, an anomaly here, taller than any oak will ever grow. We decided that Allan will carve the path with his little one-man skidsteer, and mark the path with green tape. The marking will let Sam, Tree Guy, know which trees must go, which must not be touched.
Tuesday was the long awaited move-the-coop day. Adam, who is the Brush-clearing-along-the-fence Guy, and his dad would do the job. In preparation, Larry has leveled the new site, built a foundation, and lay and attached wire (he calls it cloth, but, it’s not) a couple of feet around the perimeter to keep foxes, etc., from digging under and into the coop. Yes, I am surprised that he knew how to do all this! Here we are:
Yes, that’s grass inside the coop. Nothing too good for our girls! But where are they, our girls? To be continued. Meanwhile, Larry has undertaken to read “Living with Chickens” from cover to cover. A little alarmed to learn that the author’s flock quickly expanded to 55. “That’s not going to happen.” he muttered from deep within his comfy chair.
Allison, daughter-in-law, has been here since Sunday, helping get her Amy established in the little house she and friends are renting for the school year in Eugene. I love having Allison here, and although she usually has time to organize a cupboard or two of mine (I’m serious, I love this!), on this occasion the task with Amy proved too great. Exhausting, because Amy’s room in the basement of the little Eugene house has proved to be, um, well, shitty. Her words, not mine. Amy keeps her off-season clothes and stuff here at the farm, which is great because she has a reason to visit us when collecting whatever. Good news, at the end of the day, Amy has secured an upstairs bedroom, and all’s well.
Wednesday: Sam Carter, Tree Guy, arrived with a reduced crew, to do what he could toward completion of the week’s work we agreed upon. Main guy out sick after pine-cone harvest-induced illness. Elk hunting with Dad, not to be missed. Meaning the week will extend well into late September. We actually don’t care. The idea is to clear one section of the copse of as many as 150 small oaks to provide living room for the older trees. (And for our path.) The trick is to maintain a level of canopy that allows the wild flowers underneath to thrive. Too much sunlight and the grasses crowd out the flowers. Too little sunlight and the oaks can’t achieve the natural, expansive shape with which we’re familiar.
After two day’s labor, here’s what we have:
While this was going on, a great cloud of dust began to fill the sky. This would be Ryan’s (Cow Guy) work, disc-ing the field along Llewellyn. You could see the dust, but not the tractor, and smell the dust, and see it settling on our newly cleaned screens, the porches, inside the house if we didn’t get all the windows closed. But, speaking of rain, where is it?
On Thursday, the rain finally arrived. As did Bill, to discuss the selection and placement of trees that will mark the beginning of the homestead place, end of the road, where the rough gravel becomes more civilized. It was a thought from the beginning, forgotten about, but we do like the idea. Also to be considered, some similar treatment down by the entry gate. Bill is promoting manzanita trees there. Sidebar: When I went to Google to have a look, the first entry was a selection of battery-operated, glittered gold or silver, table-top trees. Wow. Who knew? But no, we mean real trees. I always believed manzanita to be an Eastern-Oregon, high desert shrub. Trees. Hmm.
This was the day when Larry acquired the sod to go inside the coop. Home Depot is just a short hop from the chicken store we’d identified along the road to Albany, so let’s go check it out! Drove into the place where, indeed, dozens of chickens were roaming about. But it resembled nothing so much as that horrid Harris Ranch cattle feed lot down I-5 in California. Just dirt. A variety of birds, from turkeys on down, scratching about a few wooden coops here and there. Ugh. A woman, chased by a bulldog came to enquire if she could help. Um, we’re wanting a couple of chickens? Turns out, the sign advertising the place does say “chicken” not “chickens” and what’s for sale there are eggs and chicken meat. So this is what they mean by “free range?” Yeah. Don’t think so, but thank you. It’s probably too late, she advised us, but we could try the poultry exchange at the fairgrounds. Although that was last week. Maybe someone still has some birds for sale. Anyway.
This morning has been devoted to putting up the apple crop. Provided by just the one tree which succeeded in fielding a real crop. So. Perhaps 50% of the apples were afflicted with worm-age, but hey. My dad-the-DDT purveyor for the Willamette Valley, back in the day, used to tell me that if one objects to the use of insecticides, one should be willing to choose the wormy apples at the grocery store. Well, good point. I know I always try to choose the best specimens when shopping, but now I’ve raised these organic beauties and we’re going to eat them. Of course, I carve out the wormy spots, don’t worry.
Seven apples, 2.5 pounds, these will go into the freezer, and when solid, into a plastic zip-lock for a future apple crisp. Yum! Next up, the prunes. What am I going to do with them? I’ve learned that they’re not free-stone, so that means either drying, canning, or freezing them whole. Fortunately, there aren’t vast thousands of them. Any suggestions welcome!
Okay, lunch time. Gotta go. Up to Portland this evening for a nice weekend with Peter, dinner with friends, nice. See ya.
