Here's a story that points out one of the many holes in our educational system. No one seems to look quite closely enough at new hires. And getting rid of them once they are hired is a real challenge.

Anyhow, a teacher's aide at an area school was arrested for "three counts of second-degree rape, three counts of second-degree criminal sexual act, two counts of third-degree sexual abuse and one count of endangering the welfare of a child." He is alleged to have perpetrated all these crimes upon a fourteen year old child. Terrible right? Disgusting and all that. The school district fired him and rightly so.

Ah, but, here's the catch, guess why- "for lack of required certification to be a teaching assistant". Yup, couldn't fire the guy for being (allegedly of course) a sexual predator, but still working in a public school. Nope, they ditched him because his credentials weren't in order. "During the investigation......(the) school district checked (the suspect's) teaching background with the State Department of Education and learned that he lacked proper certification," a school offical was quoted as saying. Apparently they didn't even look until he was arrested.

At least he's gone.

Another case of BSE or mad cow disease was revealed yesterday to have been discovered in Canada. And didn't our puppet Secretary of Agriculture just murmur something along the lines of, "Nothin' gonna change, bahse, nothin' gonna change...we got us a deal."

Yup, they have a deal all right. Canada can do whatever they darned well please in regard to inspections (see Thoughts From the Middle of Nowhere, January archives on this). The folks from other nations who used to buy our meat can run scared because of the incredible carelessness of a meat packing company with its offices right here in NY, our industry can lose the trust of our local customers too, but we got us a trade deal with Canada, so nothin' is gonna change.

It makes me so mad. The markets we American producers depend upon for survival are being buried in imports, often illegal, (as in the case of milk protein concentrate, hauled in without tariffs to make cheese,) that are not produced under the same standards to which we are held. Our government spends a fortune checking up on us; here at Northview we have sometimes been under the thumb of as many as five different milk inspectors at one time. They regulate us to death and even expect us to dig into our own pockets to pay for it, as in the ongoing argument with the EPA over them coercing dairy farmers to monitor their own air emissions and even pay a fine up front.

Then they cook up deals, wherein any body who can do it cheaper or who can benefit big agribusiness consortia, even many that are based overseas, can import materials that were never subjected to those strictures. Thus we often get to pay for the privilege of putting ourselves out of business, while foreign entities sell our customers inferior and even downright unsafe products. Grrrr.....

It is January, at least two months before we can really expect anything to happen on the change of seasons front. However, if you watch and listen closely, subtle changes are occurring each day as the hours of sunlight lengthen.

First a white-breasted nuthatch was merrily yelling out its summer mating song as it hammered at a sunflower seed near the feeders yesterday. (You can hear both summer and winter calls here. ) I had a friend who used to call these clever little birds "ass-ups", which is crude but descriptive of the way they hitch around the side of a tree, clinging to the bark. I also heard, but didn't see, what I do believe was a robin at the same time. I know they winter over quite often up north, but they never show up here at Northview until along about this time. Guess it is warmer over on the other side of the river, where all the south-facing banks are.

Then yesterday afternoon I noticed that the cows are beginning to shed. A lot. You might think that warmer weather brings this about, but it is longer day-length that does this trick too. The hair falls out fast this time of year and it seems like everything (including us) is soon coated with it.

There is also an elusive somebody coming around the feeders, but not showing its face. I keep hearing a loud, wheep, wheep call like a downy woodpecker on steroids. I'll bet it is a red-bellied woodpecker, but I am not familiar enough with the call to be sure. Maybe he will show his day-glo orange spotted head on the suet soon so I can be sure.

The Paint big cheese, just before the wind. Thinks pretty highly of himself doesn't he? Another photo by Becky

I have always hated the wind. Since we moved here to this hillside, exposed to anything the river wants to throw at us, I hate it even more. It is hard to believe that it could make a place this old and big and strong shudder and bend to its will, but it does. Oh, how it does.

Earlier this morning it was so darned unnaturally beautiful for January that I kept finding excuses to go outside and hang around. The horses finally could get out after all the ice the past few weeks. They loved it and bucked and rooted around in the mud and rolled like fools. Becky even took a few pictures of DG bucking and teasing Jack to play through the fence.

We were all in the house when it hit. Wham. Like a fist. Like a mountain. Like a landslide of cold, hard air. Thirty seconds after the first gust it ripped my greenhouse from its moorings and gave it the old who-flung. The girls could not get out to bring the horses in for several minutes because it was just too dangerous to even try to go outdoors. You couldn't even hang on to the big, heavy, wooden back door.

Now it has cleared off some. The horses are happy back in their stalls with a big feed of hay to help them warm up and dry off. However, my Christmas present is smashed into the mud on the other side of the driveway, with its legs in the air like a dead raccoon on the side of the highway. Maybe the guys can salvage it later when the wind dies down.

New baby bunny. Photo by Becky. Guess these guys were a couple of weeks old before they were discovered 

Get that camera away from me....by Becky

Yesterday we had one of those days. First there was Bungee. Bungee is a BIG calf. She belongs in the pen with the other BIG calves, where she can drink from an automatic waterer and eat from a feeder, instead of being tied in the aisle with little calves. They are hand watered and given TLC not needed by those beasts in the pen. However, Bungee's other name is Houdini. The the guys got sick of catching her and tied her up with the babies.

Doing babies is my job when kids are at school. When I attempted to hang her nice big bucket full of luke-warm water, she grabbed the rim and dumped the entire pail on the region that might be my lap if I were sitting down at the computer (which I would much prefer as opposed to watering six-month old calves by hand). I was plumb ticked off. All my other long johns were in the washer, so it was spend the whole day looking as if I had suffered an unfortunate accident or shiver without them. Avatre, who knocked Liz down going after her water, is another BIG calf that WAS on the walkway. I can tell you that before breakfast was even considered yesterday, Avatre and Bungee were both galloping around the big calf pen happy as kids at recess. 'Nough said.

Then last night the guys were telling stories out of school while the last cow was milked. They both glory in tales of their excesses in hall ways and class rooms. The girls and I, being more conservative types, went out to the milk house to start tearing down so we didn't have to hear yet another put-one-over-on-the-teacher story.

We were just getting started when they came out laughing over some real humdinger of a tale. I don't know why the boss didn't look to see what we were doing before he hustled over and unhooked the pipeline from the tank. I do know that what I was doing was hitting the switch that pumps about five gallons of milk at a shot through the pipe he was unhooking.

It got him square in the face. It also got the door, the microwave, the jackets on the ladder and pretty much everything on that side of the milkhouse. It was a real Keystone Cops moment. We placated him with promises that it would be worth the discomfort of suffering a milk bath because of the benefit to his complexion. The three bottle calves went a little short because that was their milk all over the walls, ceiling, and husband.

Oh, well, farming is known to be a hazardous occupation, and yesterday just proved it.

Small sky country 

A great big thanks-a-lot to Brooklyn-based Atlantic Veal & Lamb, for getting our beef market with Japan closed again. Nice work fellas. (A Google search for the company reveals an interesting number of court actions involving them. Take note that they handle a good deal of meat imported from Canada, which it appears that they re-export.)

"This just simply should not have happened," said US Secretary of Agriculture, Mike Johanns. I couldn't agree more.

Heck, Japan only used to import over a billion dollars worth of US beef every year. And trade was JUST resumed in December after being closed for two years due to the discovery of BSE, or bovine spongiform encephalopathy, in two cows in this country. Now the above company is alleged to have shipped some veal containing spinal material to Japan. Japan is displeased in a big, big way. That practice was not permitted under new trade agreements, so the minister of agriculture there slammed the door shut to American beef once again. The USDA has removed the company from the list of businesses that are allowed to trade beef with Japan, and is investigating their activities. However, I am sure it will take more reassurance than that to get the market open again. Shame on the meat company for not following regulations and on the USDA inspector who let the violation slip by him. American agriculture really needs friends like that. Not.

We all went to the gym* (see glossary below for technical terms) today for a nice workout. First we all went on the stair master**. Then we all did 123 cycles*** on the treadmill**** and 25 on the Bowflex*****. There was much whining, a real no pain, no gain kind of thing. Except the boss and me. We have been partaking of this kind of workout for so many years that we know that the best way is to just shut up and get it done.

*haymow
**mow ladder
***pulling these things off the skid steer bucket and dragging and stacking them
****bales of alfalfa hay, 70 pounds each
****bales of nice straw, much lighter, thank God!

Yeah, we got in a nice load of hay and straw today and put it up in the mow. My nephew always used to say that unloading hay was like a trip to the gym, and I guess he must know. All I know is that I am glad that it is done.

I see that two more people have been charged in matters relating to the secretive organization Earth Liberation Front or ELF. These two are blamed for a fire bombing of a slaughterhouse and of a lumber yard. I have been ranting about these radical domestic terrorists for years in the Farm Side. It is good to see some of their crimes coming home to roost. This pair is facing up to twenty years in prison along with some hefty fines if convicted.

Today was test day, the day a Vermont Dairy Herd Improvement representative comes to measure how much milk the cows are producing and to take samples to monitor quality.

Today was also ice day. Our ground is still blanketed in the same carapace of ice that has clutched our driveways and walkways in its frigid grip for months.

And it was raining.

Hard.

Thus when Liz and I attempted to go to the barn, because we could see by the milkhouse lights that Tim was over there waiting for us, we could not do so. It was simply impossible to walk at all on the flowing-water covered ice. I made it to the spruce tree and just started sliding willy-nilly down the hill. I don't know how the boss got over there, big feet or something I guess.

To heck with it I thought, gave up and struggled back to the porch. Of course after a bit, the boss came along with the skid steer and spread some sand so he could have a little assistance with milking and testing. By then it was too late for Liz to help, as she had to be at school by eight and had to shower and make that challenging 25-mile drive to the college. We kept the other two home from school. It would have been completely impossible for them to walk down either driveway and neither of us could leave to drive them because of having to test. I figure if they can take days off for long dead explorers and all manner of conferences and meetings they can have a driveway safety holiday now and then.

Nick getting his little plastic booties on for a trip outside. 

$416.31 -that is what an overnight stay, an x-ray, a vaccination and some fancy tailoring set me back for Nick, who is back home by the way. That is more than I paid to purchase either his mother or his big brother, both of whom were born of imported parents, with Gael's father being an open sheep dog trial contender on the national level. (I bred Nick myself). Major sticker shock! I spent eight of my more youthful years working as a tech and receptionist/dog washer/kennel cleaner/whatever else was needed for a vet and I have some idea of the markup in pet vet services. Still I expected to get nailed for maybe two hundred for last night's services for my idiot dog. I should have known when I saw the marble counters on the new hospital that I was in trouble.

When I got home and began to check out the details I became plumb unhappy. They hosed me fifty-three bucks for a distemper, hepatitis, leptospirosis and parvo virus vaccine. The farm vet will give them for eight or ten bucks. In fact I often buy my own from Drs. Foster and Smith (about three-twenty a dose for one kind, less than two bucks for another) and give it to the dogs myself. In fact, Nick's dose for this year was and is, sitting in the fridge right now. I knew he was due and figured, what with any exposure he might get at the animal hospital, I would let the vet do it. My mistake, I guess.

They were kind to Nick; I think they did a good job and they were open when none of the other clinics around were. Still, it pains me to pay more for one dog call, even with minor surgery involved, than I usually spend on a whole months vet care for over a hundred cattle. All I can say is ouch.

What a night. I normally let the three border collies out for a couple of minutes before we go over to milk. We are way back from the road and they know where they belong, so this is normally not a problem. They run out in the back, take care of business, and run right back to the porch.

Tonight however, something was amiss. Gael refused to go out, Mike raced back in at warp speed and Nick just disappeared. I got out the shepherd's whistle and called. He minds very well, especially the whistle, so I couldn't believe it when he didn't come right back.

I threw on my coat, grabbed a flashlight and hustled over to the cow barn. Once, several years ago, when he was young and impetuous he took off the same way and drove the sheep down in the ravine between the farms and it took Alan and me hours to get them out. This time, however, the two old sheep that we still have were communing with the show heifers with no dog in sight.

By the time I got back to the house he had returned, bleeding from both hind legs, big tearing wounds, and lame as heck. I thought coyotes had gotten him. The damned things have been so close to the buildings nights that you can hear them over the vacuum pump when we are milking. However, Alan backtracked him down to the road, where he had clearly been hit by a car. A neighbor who had seen the accident called a few minutes later to confirm this. The driver of the van who hit him didn't bother to stop. It wouldn't have made any real difference to the situation, but it would have been a nice gesture to have done so. Anyhow, Alan and I hauled him the 35 miles over to Burnt Hills Animal Hospital, where he was X-rayed, bandaged up, and put in a cage to rest up until tomorrow when they will sew him up.

We still think coyotes were involved. There are tracks all over down where he was hit and he is just not inclined to leave the yard like that. The dogs are all well trained and he is the most biddable and obedient of the three of them. We are thinking either they were chasing him or the other way around.

I am thinking too that I am going to have to do something Alan has been begging me to do for several years. He wants Nick for his own dog. Mike is my number one and everyone knows it including the dogs. They all look to me as the boss lady and food owner, but while we were there getting all that medical work done, although I was doing the holding and turning and such, that little border collie never took his eyes off that boy. His whole being was straining to get back to his kid. No matter what I may think, I do believe he may have made up his own mind about just whom he belongs with.

I would like to direct your attention to a new blog, just started within the past few days. Although you might find it just a tad unlikely for a farm girl from upstate New York to be writing updates about Professional Bull Riding, that is just what is happening at BuckinJunction. Our girl, Liz, has taken on a new writing project and she is having a lot of fun with it. She knows the bulls, the stats and the cowboys so if you are interested in the PBR wander on over for a bit. Although I am of course, a doting mom, I am not exactly a bull riding fan, but she has me reading it.

She says she is going to write about her own cattle too, but so far the topics have been taken up more by the likes of Little Yellow Jacket and Paulo Crimber.

Anyhow, I hope you have time to make a teenager's day and give her a few hits on her site meter.

Cold out, but not so bad in. 

The stained glass doors. Soon to be covered with unglamorous plastic to keep out the freezing winds. 

Herd Health

We had a great time at herd health this week. In theory one performs that management function on a monthly basis. However, here at Northview we only actually seem to get it done about once every three months. We don't have either a huge herd or a real massive budget surplus, but it still seems to work out all right.

Anyhow, we really like our veterinarian, who is a good friend along with being an outstanding animal doctor, so there is always an element of fun involved in the mix. Along with running around the barn puncturing butts with vaccines, checking for pregnancies, dehorning calves and all that good stuff we get a chance to catch up on each other's frantic lives for a few minutes.

This time, we found out that England, my favorite cow, is carrying a calf by Chilton. (Yay. Now if only it's a heifer.) And that the evil queen of the east line, 97, who has been getting meaner with each passing day, is NOT pregnant, and thus will be helping us pay our county taxes in a couple of weeks. Her stall will make a perfect spot for Alan's show heifer, Bayberry, who is not doing well with the heifer bunch and needs to come inside.

Then came the fun part.

The good doctor brought in her ultra sound machine. I had heard about this device many times and expected something about the size of a shopping cart. Instead the machine, which allows earlier diagnosis and confirmation of pregnancy and sometimes sexing of the fetus, was in a cardboard box smaller than a compact car battery. I had also expected some kind of complicated screen sort of thing with graphs and charts and the like, but instead the operator views the cow's interior with what looks like Martian space goggles.

We soon got to see that number 115, Voldemar, is indeed carrying a little bitty calf, smaller than my pinky fingernail. She gave 104 pounds for the tester last month so that was good news indeed. Then we took a look at 103's baby, which was enough larger that Liz and the boss could see the heart beating. My lousy vision without my glasses denied me that pleasure.

We are very aware of the unborn calves once they start to grow large. You can see them kicking. If like me you are a less than svelte middle aged woman squeezing into stalls beside bulging pregnant cows, you can FEEL them kick, sometime quite vigorously. Heck, Liz even talks to them, when they occupy the interior portions of her show darlings. However, it was especially cool to see such tiny, unformed future bovines. I am glad we had the chance and am thankful to our veterinarian for taking time to offer it to us.

We think Mr. Stinky has left us for a bit, although the dogs still have an ominous fascination with the back of the freezer. I put some mothballs back there out of reach of the pets. They seem to repel rabbits, so here's hoping Mephites mephites thinks like the Easter Bunny and hops away.

John's hat hanging out with a really strange head. 

How do you get a skunk out from behind the freezer on the back porch? That's where Mike says he is and he should know...and if he is still out there, how do you get the dogs out past him without him firing off a shot? I need to know.

Seen in an area mall entryway last weekend: Two young Amishmen seated at one of those video games where two players can race cars against one another with lots of smashing and crashing. They were looking over their shoulders kind of sheepishly, but having a heck of a time.

Becky stayed inside to vacuum and cook her famous mac and cheese tonight. Along about half way through the night she put her Green Day CD into the player and cranked 'er up. The house immediately filled with a miasma of stink that could only come from one source. That's right, he was up on the back porch looking for cat food I guess. Anyhow, the entryway didn't smell too awful good when the rest of us came in from the barn, although he didn't let off a full shot at least. Guess this means that they will have to change the name of the genre from punk rock to skunk rock.

I have another entry for the calves lost in holes thread. Our farm actually consists of what was historically two smaller farms. (Both incidentally have similarly inconvenient and miserable cow barns, leading me to believe that the same sadist designed both.)

Anyhow, there is a nearly unnoticeable creek between the two places. It only makes itself known when it is in spate, but then it fairly roars. Therefore we have about a five-foot high oil tank with both ends cut off acting as a culvert to carry it. It is buried deep in the ground, because the little stream cut itself quite a channel over the years. This results in a thick, earthen bridge.

Some years ago, back when we had hired help that didn't share our last name, a newborn heifer calf jumped the fence that serves (sometimes) to keep critters out of the creek, staggered down the fifteen foot drop and vanished into the culvert. It is at times like that when you discover just how much gravel and how many logs and branches and hunks and hanks of other debris that a little creek can carry. For hours everyone tried different means of reaching the terrified animal, which just bored deeper into the nearly blocked culvert every time she saw somebody. Finally our ever intrepid hired man, who was thin as a rake, crawled up from downstream and snagged the calf with a halter, which he tied to a rope threaded from upstream, since there was just too much calf to go downhill. Everyone then did a big old heave-ho and hauled her to safety. It was about as much excitement as we needed for that day, but we kept the calf anyhow. Figured she'd earned it I guess.

A spooky moon hunkered low above the northern mountains, half shrouded in an icy fog bank, when I rolled out this morning. The whistles on at least two of the valley's firehouses sent an eerie chord reverberating shrilly through the cold darkness. That always worries me. Small town dwelling brings mental responsibility. When you hear that scream, chances are it is making that racket for someone you know, at least well enough to pray for, if nothing else.

Last night the near midnight quiet was split by shrieking sirens too, as emergency vehicles, one after another, raced west up the valley right past the house. At least a half a dozen sped by. Same goes on the worrying front. I don't know what happened, although I probably will find out when the paper comes. I lay awake all too long.

Of course some of that was going to the Farm Bureau meeting last night. I am on the county board and love it, but all that industry information, politicking, and socializing just gets me plumb wired up. It always takes me a long time to wind down to sleep. We have herd health this morning though, so I guess I had better get moving.

If any of you local readers want to, you can join NY Farm Bureau at a reduced rate during the ongoing membership drive. Call or email me and I will sign you right up. There is a great discount program now, with lower prices on everything from Dodge Trucks to hotel rooms. Don't let any issues you might have with the national branch of the organization scare you away from state and local. You don't have to look any farther than the farmers' tax exemption or the new licensing rules for driving heavy trucks to see what New York Farm Bureau does for you.

Alan 

This is the strangest January, weatherwise, that I can remember. Even though temperatures are reaching forty and fifty degrees by early afternoon, the ice is as hard and widespread as it was before the thaw. The boss has put out more than half a ten-wheeler load of sand already, but it just washes away or sinks below the surface of the ice daily. There isn't a single one of us who hasn't fallen at least once and Alan is black and blue (he likes to run a lot, which is fairly typical of a teenaged boy I guess, however impractical in this season.)

I am real glad of the warm weather though, despite the ice, for a couple of reasons. One of them is, of course, saving firewood. Another is critter comfort. About three days ago one of my many hot air balloons of conceit was firmly pricked and completely deflated by, of all things, our rabbits. Farm Side readers may remember last summer, when Alan bought a couple of cute little bunnies, then was stung by yellow jackets while holding his. She got away and hid under a building. He spent quite some time catching every barn cat, possum and woodchuck within acres in his humane trap before he finally lured her out from under the old hen house. Well those two bunnies were sold at the auction as does. Since I used to run a rabbitry with as many as seventy-five rabbits at one point, I confidently checked to make sure the auction boys were right. And, yep, sure enough they were both does.

Which makes it hard to explain why Becky came in from rabbit chores the other night and said, "Mom, one of those rabbits has GOT to be a buck. There's a nest full of fluffy brown hair and it's moving."

I went out and looked and sure enough, there are baby bunnies out there. Red Baron is the mama and Snowy, who used to be a girl before he proved me wrong, the dad. I am hoping the thaw lasts long enough for the new arrivals to hair over and handle the winter weather. The kids are hoping to make a little of their investment back selling rabbits at the Easter auction market.

Stormy and Deetzie AKA Comedy

I walked on green grass this afternoon. Soft, lushly lumpy, crispy crunchy at the edges, real honest to gosh green grass. I could feel my chest swell with a rush of rising joy as my feet squashed down into it (guess the lawn could have used another mowing last fall).

Is it any wonder that spring is such a beloved season? That just one long, narrow strip of green could cause such elation is cause for reflection....especially since all that green grass is visible and walk-on-able simply because we did an inadequate job of insulating the pipes that carry hot water down from the outdoor woodstove to heat the house.

As long as the snow doesn't get too deep you can see that strip of green out there all winter, straggling across the yard in all its glory. You can find the same strip in the summer because it is planted with different grass than the old lawn. The new stuff is thick, wiry and dark green, not to mention very traffic tolerant. (It even survived having the whole darned herd of dairy cows punch it all up the last day before frost the fall before last). The old grass is thin, soft and a sweet lime green, just wonderful to walk in barefoot (in warmer months and with great care to avoid the thistles that lurk beneath it). In June it is studded with wild violets in white and two shades of bluish purple. The boss's dad planted it when he was a teenaged boy, working as a gardener for the wealthy folks who owned the place then.

I came indoors and contemplated starting some geranium seedlings. With all that grass out there it feels like time.

I am getting plumb sick of so-called experts at farm magazines pandering to anti-farming special interest groups. These folks, merrily making a living selling stuff to farmers, while deriding everything they do, should have learned from world political history that appeasement NEVER works. If the dairy industry caves to animals rights or environmental groups on any of their trumped up issues, they just ratchet up their want list. However, the editor of Dairy Herd Management, Thomas Quaife, constantly suggests that we comply with ridiculous demands rather than going on doing what we do best-producing inexpensive, healthy food while taking expert care of the land.

He suggested in this month's issue that we spend our dairy check off dollars, intended for promotion of dairy products, to fund a dairy farm air emissions study to the tune of six million dollars. This is despite the admitted fact that the industry already funded such a study and the results were ignored completely by special interest groups. Surprise, surprise! Since when did those sort of folks pay any attention to science when it doesn't reflect their chosen point of view? Quaife mention that the farmer funded study might produce, "definitive research that shuts up the anti-dairy activitists once and for all." That has never happened and is NOT going to happen this time either, so we might as well save our money for the dairy promotion for which it was intended.

Today's assignment is the Isaac Hurlburt Diaries. A descendent of Mr. Hurlburt took the trouble to transcribe his 1862, 1871 and 1874 journals online and they make great reading. It is well worth the trouble of deciphering archaic spellings and parts that are missing due to the age of the documents. You might consider them the 1860s answer to blogging.

Isaac's farm was truly diversified, like most of his day. Throughout the year, besides farming, he was a logger, butcher and carter and also traded and trained horses; he cut poles, sold firewood, grew apples, feed for his animals and hops to sell. He had cows and oxen, sheep, horses, chickens, a sugar bush, Just reading what he and his family did each day in order to survive makes me tired. As you will find if you read the Farm Side this Friday, he even got a dog to churn the butter with a dog-powered treadmill.

He and his family knew how to have a good time too. Here is his entry for this day in 1862, "Friday, January 10, 1862 I and Mary visited Wm Hurlburt and Family found Persity verry feable Ann and Bery came from School Weather windy and thawy." The whole family often visited friends and family or went to social events at the church or school. "Sunday (June) 22 I was at Home all day Some of the children went to meeting Mr Puller Preached at the Cook School House Stafford and Isabel came Here just at night."

I often take a few minutes to read the entries in Isaac Hurlburt's diaries, just to compare farm life today to that in his era. It sure helps put things in perspective, especially the occasional posts about battles in far-off states like Kentucky.

Would you believe that it was still dark enough for a flashlight to be real helpful at seven this morning? The sun is supposed to be putting in an appearance by 7:24 so it is usually quite bright by then. However, it was weirdly gloomy and damp out and stayed dark about as late as I have ever seen it this time of year. We had to turn fans on in the barn that hadn't whirled a blade since early fall, and the air was still heavy. Then by ten AM the sun was shining and it has been lovely ever since. We have made it up to nine hours and fifteen minutes of daylight or what passes for it. Beats December anyhow.

Of course the new camera ate its batteries so I can't go out and take pictures. The chickens very nicely posed in the flower bed this morning, but the batteries were dead when I went out to take their portrait. Guess the lady at the store was right about rechargeables.

Liz and Spruce 

.

I have heard of revenge, but this story beats all. It just goes to show that if you must light mice afire, you had better do it a LONG way from your house.

I never did like mice much, and this one proved that they can be dangerous for other reasons than just carting hanta virus and Lymes disease around. However, John Deere's magazine The Furrow published an article in the January issue saying that they do a lot of good out in the crop fields by eating weed seeds. Seems scientists placed sticky cards covered with seeds of noxious weeds, like giant fox tail and velvet leaf, out in fields. Mice removed one third of the seeds in 48 hours. Crickets do much the same, according to the article. (Those are a bit more popular with me, as I like to hear their cheerful chirping late in the summer.) Iowa State University researchers call the small creatures, "Little Hammers" in the fight against pests in the fields. I guess we need all the little hammers we can get as long as they stay out of the house, whether aflame or not.

For a bunch of stay-at-homes, we sure got some travelin' done this weekend. You wouldn't believe the stuff we saw. Saturday we went to the city to take care of some belated Christmas gathering-type stuff with my brothers. The trip down and back not dull. First we passed a small airport where the whole field was covered with snowboarders carving up the snow behind kites like you might see on an ultra-light. They were quite graceful, like swooping, soaring raptors hitting the updrafts on a summer day.

I checked into the sport and found that it is called kite boarding, except when you do it in the snow, wherein it becomes snow kiting. It looks like something that would have been a whole lot of fun back before we turned twenty. In those days we loved to ski while being towed behind the neighbor's snowmobile and the sports look fairly similar. (They are also alike in that you aren't going to catch me doing either now.) You can get a basic kite for about $199. Guess you just add a snowboard and some flat, snowy ground...oh, and maybe some lessons.... and you are G2G.

Next we drove through the historic district of the city where we were treated to the sight of a massive young gent, about seven feet tall, strolling up the middle of the road carrying a huge pile of binders under one arm and dangling a telephone by its cord from the other, sort of bouncing it down the street. He was gently swaying and staring off into space like he had been puffing on something a bit stronger than Virginia Slims. We wended our way carefully around him and went on our way shaking our heads. I am sure that sort of thing doesn't even raise an eyebrow downtown, but to us rural folk it was plumb unique and different. About the only thing you see wandering down the middle of our roads out here is an occasional woodchuck or maybe a stray cow.

Then Alan saw three owls sitting all in a row in a tree. I missed that amazing sight, as I was keeping the car pointed at the road, but I sure wish I could have stolen a glance.

Add in the maniac in the red car who whipped around us at a red light, running the same at about fifty MPH right in town, who only avoided t-boning two on-coming cars because the other drivers were awake and quick, and you have an eventful journey.

Believe it or not, after all that sensory overload, we actually went out again today to a retirement party for my aunt. Had fun too. I am feeling almost like a citizen of the larger world.

Open the door, please, please, please.....

Above is the first picture from our new digital camera, a Canon A520. Nick and Gael are wishing oh so hard that they could get into the coop and get those bunnies. Thanks to Courtney for helping me start using it.

Favorite Cows

Pretty near everybody who keeps multiple animals has a favorite or two, even if they'd rather not admit it. It is certainly that way on a small dairy farm. Every day, twice a day, you get out there and milk them and in between they are fed and cleaned up after and all those sorts of chores. Spending all that time with them, you get to know them pretty well. They all have different personalities and you soon notice them.

Having said that, things happen to animals, just like they do to people. Folks have car accidents, or are victim of all sorts of calamities. Cows get caught in fences, beat up by other cows and have other troublesome difficulties too. I can attest, from a lifetime of personal experience, that calamities almost NEVER happen to animals that you don't like. If there is a cow that won't go in her stall, that kicks you every time you come within reach; if she is a dirty, snidely, miserable witch, nothing will ever, ever happen to her.

However, your favorite cow, now, that is another story. If there is a loose wire she will get caught in it. If there is a bully she is sure to be the victim. My personal favorite cow is a little black Citation R Maple daughter named England. She is not particularly lovely, being too small for the ideal and having a head shaped like a cracker box. She is not particularly friendly either, with feet that are so light they come right off the floor quite easily when she wishes to express displeasure. However, she is clean, easy to milk and a wonderful producer. She was, in fact, top ME heifer last year in our barn. She is also a red carrier and has a sweet calf by Golden Oaks Andy, which I named E-Train.

Naturally, she stepped on her back teat the other day. Then she did it again the day after that and the day after that until she had it mangled like hamburger. The boss managed to get her stanchion adjusted so she isn't doing it any more, but it was almost impossible to get any milk out of the injured teat because of the swelling. I was distraught more than someone who doesn't love a cow could imagine. That kind of injury all too frequently leads to infection, loss of the affected quarter or even unplanned culling of the victim. The prognosis is never very happy for a cow with a crushed teat. Then, last night, I could not get poor England milked by machine no matter what I did.

Enter Alan, who is a real good guy when he wants to be. He sat on an upended bucket for at least half of milking, with his head in her flank, trusting her not to kick him to hell and back and hand milked her. Unless you are Amish this is a darned hard job. Had he not done it though, I don't know what would have happened. It certainly would not have been good.

This morning although things didn't go perfectly, I was able to get her machine milked. She was a lot more comfortable than she was last night too. I sure am hoping she comes along and doesn't step on herself again. Anyhow, I have to say thanks to Alan for buying her at least a bit more time.

Another summer camping picture

Ring around the moon tonight. They say that it is a sign of ill weather to come. The forecast is for cold and clear, but that ring is plain evidence of ice clouds up there somewhere. The first quarter looked like a chilly grin in the center of a circle of pearly silver, bound by a border of almost-red like rusty blood. It was the biggest and least iridescent moon ring I have ever seen. Wonder what it bodes for weekend weather.

Logger Justice

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There came to mind a true story about a young girl who used to work in a well-known restaurant up in the Oneida County area. This was back in the days when loggers lived in the woods all winter, used horses in their work, and had a code of honor rarely observed today. One day a young fellow, new to the crew, made a remark to the young lady in question. It must have been a pretty rude remark, although she didn't actually hear exactly what he said. However, one of the older gents waved a hand to bring the rest of the crew with him and ordered the offender outside. They hauled him out of sight of the public, stripped him to his birthday suit, pitched him into a snowbank and stood around watching him for a spell. When his ardor was plumb cooled they left. A while later the restaurant owner found a shivering hunk of blue goosebumps out behind the place, (still bereft of appropriate covering, which the loggers took along with them) and offered him a table cloth to hide his embarrassment while he went for some pants. Needless to say, he found alternative employment and didn't bother that waitress again.

Ah, Friday, the day the Farm Side runs in our local paper, the Recorder. Since delivery is anything but reliable here in our just-barely-rural location, I signed on to the paper's website to see if FS actually made the day's edition. (You never know what might happen between my word processor and the editorial page.) I also love to find out what the title is each week, as naming each column is not my privilege. Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that the paper has begun running a pay site for its online edition. I can't blame them I guess, as most of the other local dailies have done the same thing. However, it makes me melancholy to be able to read the New York Times online version in all its singularly biased splendor, when I can't get to my own column without slogging down the hill from hell, through snow and sleet and freezing rain, all the while hoping that the paper delivery-meister actually brought it and that it isn't enthroned in some soggy snow bank somewhere. (There is something discouraging about having to dry the darned thing by draping it over the step stool on the kitchen heat register-that's MY spot!)

Anyhoo, I discovered that for a buck I could register for one day and read the paper from my trusty little green desk right here by the dining room window. Thus I dug out the Master Card, billed that massive charge to it and looked over this week's Farm Side in splendid comfort. The title turned out to be Farmers Always Learn to Adapt, and my mention of the nifty local weblog, UPSTREAM: a Mohawk Valley Perspective, made the cut. Hope it brings the author some well deserved traffic, as he has some compelling opinions on area politics and history.

I guess I can afford a dollar. Now I only hope that the paper-meister brought the hard copy so I don't have to shell out another fifty cents down at the self-service machine at the post office for a copy for my files.

A little taste of perfect peace.

This morning we arose to a world encased in silver-white hoar frost, with the ground frozen hard as a bowling alley. Every single blade of grass, each twig and all the dried stems of goldenrod were coated with thick, bright icing like a huge, valley-sized wedding cake. It was blindingly lovely to look at, but ever so cold to venture out in. Therefore I am posting for your enjoyment (and my own) a picture taken from a sturdy little wooden row boat anchored over the best rainbow trout fishing I have ever experienced. We were watching the sun coming up over Peck's Lake NY when I took it with our Canon AE1 camera.

Alan and I have spent many July mornings (not to mention afternoons and evenings) in this favorite cove of ours, either fishing from the rowboat or watching deer and ducks from the silence of the gliding canoe. Even mergansers , which are normally very wary birds seem to have no fear of the little metal boat, perhaps because it is so utterly quiet. Here in the early days of January, with our surroundings covered with water in its most solid form, it is comforting to remember those golden summer days. Sometimes the only thing that keeps me chugging along is secret memories of that wonderful lake...that and the knowledge that I have a reservation for a week this July too.

"For the most part, I mean, it was a big adjustment (when I got home) just trying to get in that mindset of being able to just roam, run around without fear of being shot at or where to look for danger. … It's unexplainable. I mean, just to go from that mindset to being able to walk around freely and just enjoy it."

Above is a quote from a CBS story entitled ‘Marlboro Marine’ : Home Front Woes about a young man, Lance Cpl. Blake Miller of Jonancy, Ky., whose picture was featured on many news services around the world as particularly representative of the military in Iraq.

What struck me most about the story was how much we here at home truly take it for granted that we can walk around freely as he says. Oh, we may lock our car at the mall or cast a wary eye on suspicious looking strangers when walking in an unfamiliar spot, but for the most part we wander around oblivious to our surroundings and quite contented to be that way. Out here in the country I always have an ear cocked for rustling in the bushes, because you never know when a bull might get out or a coyote come prowling too close to the house in search of barn cat sushi. However, unless I am out in the fields during hunting season I certainly am not worried about getting shot or listening for incoming missiles and watching out for snipers in doorways. This poor young man instead has been panicked by merely hearing something that sounded like a rocket propelled grenade.

How at once terrible and yet wonderful it must be for our young people to come home after their time away from that privilege of freedom. It must constantly be on many of their minds, how great the contrast is between here and there. I am sure they appreciate the here a good deal more than most of us who haven’t been there.

On this second day of 2006 it is back to business as usual, although the kids are all still home from school. (This is admirable on the help-in-the-barn-front and excruciating on the sibling rivalry front. If I hear one more word about football, smoke is going to issue forth from both my ears and fireworks are sure to follow.)

I don’t have a lot of positive thoughts about prospects for prosperity in the coming year on the dairy-farming front. A lot of ongoing trends appear to be on the point of converging to make things ugly. One of these situations is the reopening of the Canadian border to mature cattle. As the US has been scrambling frantically to get Japan to readmit American beef in the wake of our two cases of BSE (also called Mad Cow Disease when looking for dramatic effect) they can’t really avoid offering the same deal to Canada without looking stupid and hypocritical. (Not that behavior of that sort has been a problem in the past.) The USDA wants to get it done by midyear and you can bet that they will. However, the free and easy import of Canadian cows is rough for smaller dairy farmers as it facilitates further expansion for the big guys, some of whom import a tractor trailer load of springing heifers every few weeks. This increases the supply of milk and, with that old debbul cause and effect, it also lowers milk prices for everyone.

While the border was closed, small farmers enjoyed both higher milk checks in their mailboxes and a higher price for replacement heifers when they had a couple to sell. (Ironic how the CWT program claimed all the credit for this, when it was really just a coincidence that the program was instituted at about the same time as Posilac was rationed and the border closed, with a side helping of lousy weather nationwide.) Big guys can afford to flood the market with cheap milk, as they get the best deals on hauling and volume premiums and have the benefit of economy of scale. Little guys just get washed away with the extra milk.

Then there is the marketing situation. Milk supply in the USA is controlled almost entirely by a few gigantic food companies. When there is an ample amount available they close their plants to farmers who are not under contract to them. Heck sometimes they close the plants entirely. This leaves smaller, less desirable from their point of view, independent farmers forced to join them or lose a place to sell their milk. This results in lower prices once again, along with the loss of quality premium programs and the need to accept heavy debt in the form of equity. It is hard to stay small in the new world of farming today.

Weather is another not so positive circumstance. For the past decade or so, our summers have been either extremely dry or wet as a tropical rainforest. Heck, last year we had both a summer long drought and the wettest fall in ages. With this going on, fields lose their fertility; it is hard to put up either enough feed or feed of adequate quality to keep the cows producing well. Even purchased feed supplies are short this winter. Expensive too.

Add in increased fuel prices, which raises the price of fertilizer, sky rocketing taxes, hard to find help and an aging farm population, along with ever increasing environmental regulations and a mass exodus from NYC to rural areas and you have a rather frightening aspect for the New Year. Maybe there will be cows at Northview this time next year and maybe there won’t. It depends on how inventive and resilient we can be. Time will tell.

Snow collies

Winter has its rewards. We bought some second and third cutting alfalfa hay from an area dealer and it is of spectacular quality. It is a real pleasure to watch the cows grab a mouthful, and then chew it with as much enthusiasm as a kid with a jaw full of bubble gum. They only get three bales split among the lot of them, as they get other hay throughout the day. It is gone in minutes.
I like to stand at the end of the aisle and watch them eat each night before I go to the house. There is something deeply satisfying about the simple contentment of animals. They are not complicated creatures in their desires and pleasing them seems straightforward and somehow correct.

When all is done in the barn the scent of smoke from the woodstove as we walk across to the house is another joy. The men have brought in cherry and hickory for the fire today. In the sharp, cold night air it smells like the pipe of a favorite grandfather or something good cooking in the kitchen. It speaks clearly of home and hearth and comfort in a cold season.

Inside the house Liz is treating us to a New Year’s Eve dinner that is a rich delight. It smells as good as the woodsmoke in the yard. She spent the day baking cream cheese brownies and herb filled bread. Then since her dad gave her a break from evening milking, she made lasagna with sausage from our pigs, ground beef from the last angus we raised, and four kinds of cheese. Along with a fresh salad it will make quite a meal. I guess we don’t have much to complain about today do we?

I wish a safe and enjoyable New Year’s Eve to all tonight. Everyone knows the rules, if you drink don't drive; if you drive, don't drink. Now we can all hope that everyone follows them. For us, sitting at home with a half-hearted argument over Giant's football vs. PBR rodeo is enough excitement for the five of us. It is Liz's day for the remote so I am betting on rodeo. If anyone sees midnight I will be surprised, although anything is possible. Me, I have a whole pile of good books and tomorrow morning off. Ahhh....

Cactus 

Nancy, do you know this fellow? 

A December day at a glance: We have had snow, then rain, deep cold and then thawing, leaving the ground locked in the iron embrace of real slick ice. Walking is miserable for us clumsy humans and the chickens don’t find it too hot either. They were sauntering down the driveway by the house today, peering about in search of bits of grass that had melted up out of the snow and picking up little stones for their crops. Every time one of the big, heavy roosters hit an icy spot his feet went right out from under him and he slid downhill on his feathery fanny like a kid on a sled. No damage was done, except to chicken dignity, but whenever one fell, much flapping of wings and hysterical clucking ensued. They were sure that the ice was attacking them from below. Good thing they couldn’t see us inside the house laughing our gizzards out at their activities. At least the fat fellows have started sleeping in the heifer barn so we don’t hear them crowing all the hours of the night like medieval night watchmen on patrol.

The guys have started serious construction on an addition to the milk house. They poured concrete for the foundation this fall and built a 55 gallon drum into the floor for a muffler for the vacuum pump when we move it out there. However, they were too busy to get to the wooden part until now. It will be nice to get the pump out of the main barn so we don’t have to hear it. We have a temporary pump and motor in place on the floor behind the north side cows and it is so loud it actually hurts to work around it. It will also be wonderful to have storage for tools and such out of the milk house proper. Something about clutter plumb annoys the milk inspector. Our current personal farm torturer is a super fussy fellow and not fond of anything out of place, so tools on the floor and windowsills just drive him crazy. He reacts by writing us up. I won’t miss that.

Becky and I went up to the city to get an oven element for the stove. Of course the old one expired right in the middle of a Christmas cookie baking frenzy last week. It was genuinely painful for the cookie junkies among us to be without a means to make more. Add to that the fact that pot pies were impossible and casseroles hopeless, and you could find some sadly deprived folks around here. However, the nice new one is all installed and all things edible are once again possible. Hooray!

1001 birds. To me that is an amazing total, but that is how many my baby (all things being relative) brother, his lovely wife, and I counted today during the National Audubon Society's annual Christmas bird count http://www.audubon.org/bird/cbc/. The weather was foggy, dull and damp and we were sure we wouldn't see a darned thing. However, we had a bit more territory to cover this year, which was really nice. (There is nothing like a little new scenery.) Also the birds seemed to be hanging around near the roads and buildings, so although they were hard to identify, because of the terrible light situation, there were lots of them around.

We had no more than walked out of my mom and dad's house to get in the truck when we saw a mess of birds in a tree across the road. They looked like tiny little crested gold finches, but they were cedar waxwings. The fog made them appear much smaller than they actually were. The same thing happened all day. Crows looked like starlings; starlings looked like sparrows. We spent far more time than normal sitting on various roadsides puzzling over identification of common birds that would normally only require a glance.

We stopped during the early afternoon at the farm home of my favorite aunt and uncle. Matt and my uncle walked the land while Lisa and I drank coffee and tea with my aunt and watched the feeder. They burned more calories, but we saw more birds. Some years, however, those sweetly familiar acres, where we all played as kids, yield everything from blue birds to pileated wood peckers.

It was a great day, as it always is. For me besides enjoying family, the high point was seeing an entire flock of cardinals along one seasonal use road. Another fine sight was several pairs of red breasted nuthatches, the most I have even seen in one place at one time. We used to call them itty-bitty-beeping-robot birds for their jerky movements and distinctive calls.

I asked the lady who runs the count and she said that our family has had the Mayfield south territory since 1989. My dad and mom started with it, and over the years both of my brothers and I have helped. Now Matt and I do most of it, with help from his wife, and sometimes from Alan and Matt and Lisa's daughter, Tawny. This year, however, the kids stayed at Grandma's house to play together.

I hope Clan Montgomery can keep on counting for many years to come. Bird counting is a lot like treasure hunting. You never know what you will find, or when that next "Ooh, Ahh," bird will flick out of the bushes in front of you or call from the swamp beside the road. I love it.

Merry Christmas from Northview. We wish you all a joyous day and gentle things for the year to come. A strange, cold fog blankets the three big windows this morning. Usually they show me the glittering lights of the village and a few frosty stars this early on a winter day. Today they look as if they were covered with a cottony blanket. I could barely see the light on the milkhouse porch when I stood on the stair landing by the window there.

It is supposed to be pretty warm this weekend and that is not unwelcome after all the early cold. Sure saves on the firewood.

A few of our farm related worries were lifted yesterday on Christmas Eve. I for one am grateful. Mango had birthed her calf when I went to the barn for the early morning check yesterday. It is oddly marked, mostly white with a weird little black triangle on its forehead, the reverse of a normal black head with a white triangle. Sadly, it is a bull, but we have had a plethora of heifers this year and have no right at all to complain. At least there will be no Christmas morning emergency delivery as we had feared all week.

Then, when Liz went over to set some beet pulp http://www.ag.ndsu.nodak.edu/coping/forageli.htm to water up for her show calves, she found a surprise awaiting her. The barn had an extra occupant. Egrec, the wild heifer, had come inside of her own accord. http://northviewdiary.blogspot.com/2005/12/well-egrec-is-still-out-on-hill-all-by.html

After a summer of wildness, she had headed for the hills when we brought the other heifers in. Then over the past week she took to jumping over the gate of the heifer pasture and then jumping in and out of the cow barn yard so she could hang out with the sheep and commune over the fence with the show heifers in the sawdust shed. She even jumped in with them one day…and then right back out again.

When the guys got a stall ready we drove the big white yearling into it and locked her up. I swear she heaved a big sigh of relief. As soon as she was in the barn she acted as quiet as any yearling. It was plumb strange.

We think she may be blind in one eye and maybe that has been causing her extreme spookiness. Certainly, when she hears our familiar voices she settles right down. Outside she had even jumped a five-bar gate, uphill, rather than let us lock her in the barnyard.

It is a huge relief to have her properly confined. Had she ever gotten down on the Interstate someone could have been killed. All she had to do is jump one more gate or wander through when it was open for the milk truck and we would have had big problems. We even discussed the possible necessity of shooting her if she headed that way. Now she is safe in the barn, although we will probably have to sell her because of her disrespect for fences.

Anyhow, we can hopefully spend the day in the house, napping, reading or watching the football game like regular folks. (If nothing major breaks down that is).

I hope you all get to do the same or whatever other thing it is that will make your Christmas special.

Make sure you don't miss Sarpy Sam's post yesterday on Thoughts from the Middle of Nowhere. He has a story there that will surely not make the headlines, what with the press having such a violent allergy to all things Christmas. However, I know most of us ordinary folks will love it. You can find it here: http://nowherethoughts.net/sarpysam/archives/1415-Baby-Found-in-Barn.html

You can also read the whole weblog at the link a little lower down on the right.

We had a very vocal, vituperative, vociferous and darned near violent discussion in the milk house tonight while we were finishing up. I was heating a bottle of milk for the new half-shorthorn calf. I was also whining because it seems to take forever to get it warm when you are in a hurry to get to the house.
One of my delightful offspring informed me that it had something to do with the high specific heat of water. Another chimed in that that figure is 4. something or other joules per gram °C. The original kid asserted that it was one. And so the battle began.

How can I describe how little I care? It makes my brain hurt to worry about such stuff. They didn't even teach us about specific heat in school. Maybe it hadn't been invented yet. At any rate, all the hot air in the milkhouse didn't do a darned thing to get that calf bottle any warmer. However, we had to drag out a college text book and do a google search to settle the point...and guess what.
"The specific heat of water is 1 calorie/gram °C = 4.186 joule/gram °C which is higher than any other common substance." (http://hyperphysics.phy-astr.gsu.edu/hbase/thermo/spht.html) So, they were both right in their way, just using different units of measure. I still don't care.

Mike herding water at Peck's Lake

Courtesy of Merriam-Webster online dictionary you will discover that a cobbler is:
1 : a mender or maker of shoes and often of other leather goods
2 archaic : a clumsy workman
3 : a tall iced drink consisting usually of wine, rum, or whiskey and sugar garnished with mint or a slice of lemon or orange
4 : a deep-dish fruit dessert with a thick top crust

These are the only definitions offered by this trusted online source. I also perused well over half a dozen other online dictionaries and no matter where I looked, cobblers are either folks who work with leather to produce footwear, sweet drinks, desserts or are seriously maladroit.

However, the other day in English class, where Becky and her school mates were reading Poe's The Murders in the Rue Morgue (http://bau2.uibk.ac.at/sg/poe/works/murders.html), a visiting student teacher had other ideas. In this story a cobbler is mentioned only in passing, when the protagonists are discussing the apparent prescience of one of them. However, the student teacher pounced upon what he viewed as an unfamiliar word and asked the class what a cobbler did. When no one rushed to answer, he called on Beck, who tends to know such things because she reads anything and everything from trashy teen romances to The Three Musketeers in its original language (just for the fun of it). Of course, she answered that a cobbler is a shoemaker, as that is the commonly accepted definition.

The pedagogue was incredulous and suggested that she think of peach cobbler, as that would give her a clue as to the correct answer.

She was totally bumfuzzled and admitted it. Shocked at her ignorance he then gave her his chosen definition of a cobbler. According to this college-educated-educator a cobbler is a man who puts down cobblestones in the streets.

Hmm, maybe, could be, possibly so, but ol' Merriam-Webster doesn't seem to agree.

Guess I will have to find a better dictionary. Or perhaps a more widely read teacher. Anyone can make mistakes, but to ridicule a student for giving a correct answer like that is plumb egregious and I don't mind saying so. Maybe he needs to read some romance novels or something.

I also wonder what the heck peach cobbler has to do with paving the streets, unless of course, you are Hansel or Gretel.

Startin' 'em young 

Feeding the fowl 

The great chicken mystery…..or life is never boring no matter how pointless the excitement may be. Last night we got done at a reasonable hour, so I took Nick out for a bit of a run while I checked the woodstove. When we returned to the house he alerted on something on the porch. Since he is not allowed to bother cats, I gave him heck and started to go in the house. However, something caught my eye and I turned to find the white rooster and the hen without a beard perched on the back of a lawn chair.

This would never do; chickens are not allowed to roost on the porch. I grabbed them and chucked them out into the snow. I had just settled into my computer chair when suddenly I heard a sort of tap, tap, tap on the kitchen window. It became so annoying that I went out to see what the heck Alan was up to.
It wasn't Alan though. The tapping was caused by the white rooster banging his wings on the window above the sink as he tried to roost on the windowsill. What a pesky piece of poultry. I shined a flashlight in his eyes and he flew away.

A few minutes later Alan announced that there were feathers all over up by the stove and the other two chickens were gone. He threw the porch pair into the horse trailer and we made angry plans to deal with those darned coyotes in a very summary manner. There was talk of 22 vs. 12-gauge and where the best place to intercept their twilight peregrinations might be. How dare they come down right into the house yard and take my birds!

Then this morning Ralph came over to the barn and informed me that at least the other rooster had survived because he heard two of them crowing. Figures the coyotes would take the hen and leave that noisy bugger instead.

Later, when I went up to check Nick in his run all the chickens were there looking for stray dog kibble. The whole four of them miraculously restored to their usual feathery glory. They looked amazingly lively for having been killed by coyotes just the night before. Certainly, something chased them around while we were milking last night and there sure were a lot of feathers pulled. However, we will have to call it….dum-da-dum-dum...
the night no chickens died.

Cookie was Egrec's mother's sister. However, she was as gentle as a puppy and a great pet of everyone. That sure was a muddy summer when I took that picture.

Well, Egrec is still out on the hill all by herself in the snow. She looks real good at least, since the guys are giving her a whole tractor bucket load of feed all to herself every couple of days. She is fat and her hair lies in thick, shining swathes on her back. She seems to be softening her stance on having company though.

When she was first out there, after having quit the bunch when we brought them in for the winter, we didn’t see her for days on end. There is some snow, so we could always tell by her tracks that she was coming in at night and eating, but no other sign of her did we see.
Then last week the guys were felling dead elm trees in the field behind the barn. That lot adjoins the heifer pasture. When they felt eyes on their backs and looked up, there was Egrec on the lower side of the fence watching them like a high school kid at the homecoming football game. Her eyes were big as saucers as she observed their chainsaw ballet. She stayed the whole afternoon as they felled, blocked up and split the dead, barkless trees. Then she was gone again.

Wednesday, Liz put her paint horse, Disguised Image, or DG, out in his yard for some much-needed exercise. His turn-out also adjoins the heifer lot and is overlooked by my kitchen window. He was delighted to buck and kick and race the sun and I enjoyed the view.
Then as I polished plates and shined the silver I saw that he had company. Egrec was standing right next to him on the other side of his fence. Spotted Medicine Hat in bay on silver and spangled Holstein all white embellished with black, they communed happily all afternoon. They made an unlikely pair out there with the wire between them.

For DG odd companions are nothing new. Last year a four-point buck came to the same spot every day and tussled with him over the fence. It was quite a sight to see the little white colt biting faces with the velvet-antlered deer as they played. Even though it was mighty tempting to turn buddy buck into venison last fall we let him be, and I think he is still hanging around the house. There is certainly some large deer hiding in the sumac by the driveway every so often. However, he got real careful about letting people see him after going through a couple of hunting seasons.

Anyhow, loneliness seems to be overcoming independence in Egrec’s tangled little bossy brain. Yesterday the boss said that she tried to squeeze through the pasture gate when he fed her. If it hadn’t been almost dark and he hadn’t been alone he would have brought her right on down to join the herd. I suspect that sometime this week we will be able to get her back where she belongs.

This just in: Liz got a 99 on her Chemistry 111 final exam in college. booyah.

Big dog fight here last night. Right in the middle of the living room in fact. Younger border collie brother, Nick, (6) lit into older brother, Mike, (11) with genuine, four star, malicious intent. It was plumb ugly and a darned good thing I was standing right there when it happened. Otherwise there would have been some vet bills for sure. As it was my gorgeous little ninety-four-cent African violet was a casualty and lost a number of leaves and flowers when they tipped over the table it was sitting on. At least they stopped when I let out a stupendous bellow of, "That'll do!!" Guess it pays to maintain my position as dog boss and owner of all the food. Nick and I had an intense little discussion under the dining room table where he ran and hid after said bellow. Then I chucked him in his crate to ponder his sins for a while.

Later I brought some nice, fluffy rye straw over from the barn and stuffed it into the Dogloo in his kennel. Thus he had the option of being warm when I made him stay out all day today. He is well haired up and pretty much used to the cold, so it didn't really hurt him any. However, I figured a few hours of cooling his jets would make it a little easier for him to behave when I brought him back in. He did go in the doghouse now and then but for the most part spent the day barking at cats and running back and forth. I kept the two of them apart tonight just in case. Guess it's the price you pay when you maintain an artificial pecking order. Young vigorous dog, Nick, would be top dog over my old boy if I let him be. However, I don't.

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