Daffodils up in February!

Just a dusting of snow this morning. It snowed off and on all day yesterday too...when it wasn't raining that is. Still, Peg's daffodils are peeking out, tucked into the corner of the foundation as they have been faithfully since long before I came here. Bulbs are like money in the bank, except that they pay interest by making the place look nice, which is hard to spend, but mighty enjoyable just the same. Actually I think the clumps beside the house were here before the family bought the place over forty years ago, and for who knows how long before that.

Another Farm Side deadline has come and gone; this week compensation for unfunded takings of private property, in particular regulation of what the view looks like, is the focus. It was pointed out quite strongly to me recently, by a local agri-pundit, that the folks driving by the place don't own the view and are really reaching when they tell you that you can't put wind generators in your back fields because they don't like the look of them. Let's see what response that opinion brings!

Our January 31st present in 1988 

At Peck's Lake cabin one 

I know just where I was eighteen years ago this morning and exactly what I was thinking. It was clear and warm and very springlike for so early in the year that morning too. (Today I awoke to unexpected darkness. Yeah, I know it's always dark that early in January, but last night there was snow to brighten things up. This morning it was raining hard, banging the tin porch roof like a kid with a new drum. Perhaps I should check the weather channel now and then. Going to have to dig out the boss's extra rubber boots for the barnward slog this day.)

In 1988, I was debating at this hour of the morning, awake and who wouldn't be, how early I dared call our dearest friends who were going to take Liz to spend a few days with them, while the big doin's went on at our house. We lived in town then so the boss went up to the farm to milk and do chores and left me alone. (Good grief I was an independent fool.) I guess it was around nine thirty that they came and picked up our little one for her "vacation" with her favorite people. She actually took her first steps at their house, not so many months before that day. They didn't mention it because they thought we knew. It was wildly funny when I called Caroline a few days later and said, "Elizabeth is walking," and she said, "Oh, wasn't she walking before?"

Anyhow, by the time they came I was enthroned on the sofa in the living room, wishing the boss would forget the darned cows and come and get ME. St. Mary's was calling me loud and clear and it was TIME with a capital T.

By noon-thirty Liz had a sister. She was sure a keeper. Happy eighteenth birthday Becky, our quirky, funny, quiet one, Emerson Drive fan extraordinaire, middle kid, that oh, so hard spot in the family lineup. We thank you for all the years of help and fun and cooking us great dinners, especially your best-in-the-world macaroni and cheese. Many happy returns new voter, soon to be driver and ready for college young adult. We sure do love you!

DG on a roll 

View From Cat Head Mountain 1979 

Walking back to the house at night, finished with work and ready to rest, is always a special time for me. I stop by the heifer yard, look up at the stars or across the valley to the town lights and just unwind, dial down, reflect and get ready for the end of the day.

Last night the moon was dark and it should have been a good time to gaze at Orion making his endless quest across the winter sky. Sadly, I could barely make out the stars in his belt. Smoggy air and light from those same towns diminished the night's starlight almost into oblivion.

I remembered decades ago before farm and cows, camping at Tirrell Pond, which is actually a gorgeous lake in the Adirondack Mountains. We spent the evening hours standing (on the beach that you see in the picture at the site above), looking up at the whole Milky Way Galaxy sprawled across the sky in glorious abandon. You could pick out tiny stars so far away that they were no more than specks of sky dust. It was worth hiking in October and camping cold to see such a sight mirrored in the glassy little lake. Then today I saw this story on the Associated Press that told me what I already knew.

If you live in the city, or even near it you miss a lot.

This was the day to take Nick's stitches out. Perhaps this should have been a job for a veterinarian who has the proper tools. You know, a brightly lit table, hemostat clamps, teensie-weensie little scissors, professional help and all.

Oh, well, it takes about twelve bucks worth of gas to get to the vet's and back, plus eating up half an otherwise useful day, so Alan and I undertook to get 'er done ourselves.

First the table. The kid has been sleeping downstairs on his camping cot, because his room is cold as a polar bear's den in the winter. That made a table. Then some electical tape to help ease the pup's urge to rip our throats out if we got a little clumsy. Not that Nick is that type, but, hey, you never know.

Then tiny, hooked sewing scissors, a seam ripper and my little bitty electrician's needle-nose plyers.......now where the heck were they?

Oh, yeah, still in my tackle box out in the front hallway. They work the nuts for messing with lures and such and for taking hooks out of sunfish, which have the tiniest mouths of any fish I have ever seen.

I opened my big green box and the scent of rubber worms and WD-40, Skin-so-S0ft and slowly melting swimming grubs burst out. The smell of good summer afternoons on the lake, catching a bazillion rock bass or evenings swaying with the rocking of the boat as we waited for those huge rainbow trout to suck up a worm and begin the battle.

It fired me right up for the task of removing those little black knots of thread from little Nickie's back knees. He was such a good boy, just lay there thumping his hard black tail on the cot as we dug around trying to grab the threads and snip them. Alan wound up taking out most of the stitches because I couldn't see them well enough. Now our border collie boy no longer has his cone head on and is relieved of the itching of those pesky stitches. For myself the unexpected flashback to the best times that Alan and I spend was pay enough for playing dog doctor first thing in the morning.

Inside the wood furnace, night. Photo by Alan 

Please, please, please, take a minute and read this post at Thoughts From the Middle of Nowhere. Maybe one of you can tell me just what the USDA is thinking of, trying to import chicken meat from China, where bird flu is rampant. I can't seem to think of a logical reason why we might want to do something quite that dumb.
Thanks

Liz and Sequoia, one of her cow buddies 

Just as we were about to head upstairs last night, the house filled up with smoke. It smelled like it might have been coming from the woodstove, kind of sweet, and grandpa's pipish, but we couldn't be sure. So we looked. The upstairs was innocent, no tinge of smoky air there. We therefore descended deep into the bowels of the cellar.

I hate it down there. The stairs are steep with a wobbly railing. It is dark and crawly and full of weird things left behind by previous tenants. I just don't like it. However, there was no doubt that the smoke was thicker down there, although it didn't trigger the smoke detectors.

The scent was evasive, clearly there, but not traceable. The boss took off the back of the oil furnace, the fan of which runs air over the plenum from the woodstove, to turn hot water into hot air to warm us. The belt that drives the fan was severely cracked, not much more than flapping idly at the pulley, so he replaced it with one that was hanging from the chimney and turned it on.

Bang, it sprang into action faster than it has run in years. Dust billowed out of the registers all through the house. We have had at least THREE different repairmen look at three different problems with that old air furnace in the past couple of years, including an annual tune-up, wherein they are supposed to find problems like that. None of them spotted the cracked belt. It has certainly been that way for a long time, as the furnace is pushing more air than it ever has in the four years we have lived up here. Boy am I going to have some dusting to do. We checked all the smoke detectors and left Gael the run of the house. She will wake us up if a heifer so much as bawls off key, so we figured she would be a good addition to the more traditional safety technology.

Then as a last resort I went outside with a flashlight to see if I could find the source of the smoke. Sure enough there was a soft, gentle, southerly breeze blowing. The plume of steamy smoke from the stove curled quietly up over the apple tree and right down to the cellar window. Talk about a wild goose chase. Oh, well, I FINALLY got the boss to show me how to change the furnace filters and we found the bad belt. We should be warmer now.

Just one question on this morning's topic. When are they going to start sneaking a little peek into the character (or lack thereof) of the folks they hire to teach, coach and monitor our kids at public schools? You have to undergo a background check, finger-printing, wear a badge etc., etc., etc. to "cool out" hot horses at the race track. I know this because I used to do that little job, and the maps of my calloused finger tips are no doubt still on file somewhere. However, you can look after innocent children without doing any of that stuff because teachers have a heck of lot better union than hot walkers.


Anyhow, here is another sex offender and this time he was working at OUR school! He was coaching the swim team, teaching fourth grade and, for an extra-curricular activity, hitting on the children placed in his care...right where we personally entrust our two younger children every day. Nice huh? I suppose I should be glad this his alleged victim was a sixteen year old rather than one of his fourth grade students. And glad that none of our kids was in his class or on the swim team.

Rumor among the students says that the girl's father beat the stuffing out of him. Good move.

People ask us all the time, "Why do you have a big scale in your dining room?" 

People ask us all the time why we have this huge set of scales in our dining room. We are never quite sure how to answer, because there is no real reason. We bought it years ago when a local knitting mill went out of business. They must have done a lot of weighing because they had several of these big ones, plus a number of somewhat smaller units for sale for various prices. I think we paid $125 for ours.

Anyhow we were noodling around the old warehouse where the sale was being held and both, separately, came to the conclusion that one of them would be just right for this old house. We just had to have it.

My mother-in-law was alive then and living up here (we lived in town and commuted). She was as taken with the scale as we were, when we hauled it home, but we couldn't figure out how to get it into the house. Thus it lived on the porch for several years until she passed away and we moved up from town. When we hired movers to bring the fridge and other heavy items up we got them to bring the scale indoors. Now there is sits among the guitars and shotguns in all its glory.

The guys went to get some wood from some real good friends of ours yesterday. The town cut some elm on them and they let us have it. There is just nothing to beat free wood, and we are staying nice and warm on the strength of it. The fellows did get to talking and get home late, which is understandable. Farmers hardly ever get to see their friends to visit with because they always have a pile of chores waiting at home. I am glad they got to catch up on the news. We didn't get out of the barn until 8:30, but the boss is taking a bunch of calves to the sale today, which will give us earlier nights from now on for a while.Seems to take forever to warm milk in this weather. Last year we had so many heifer calves we are still struggling to house them. This year it looks like the bulls are going to make up for it. Three in a row now. Only one was by an AI bull, Ocean-View Extra Special, who came out with a very disappointing proof, so it isn't such a bad thing I guess. We have nine yearlings in one pen, with two more needing to go in there, calves in the sawdust shed and in every empty cow stall in the barn.

Alan got his new chainsaw tuned too. They have to adjust the choke after ten tanks full of fuel and he had reached that point. I worry about him using it, even though he is old enough to drive, or will be soon. Still he is getting the box elders all cut down and made into wood, which makes the place look a world better. They are such scrubby trees and crop up everywhere.

We love the woodstove, but it added an awful extra lot of work on the boss to keep enough wood ahead heat this huge place and run the place alone (except for us) too. It makes a huge difference when Alan can cut up a bit when it gets busy.

Wednesday noon, deadline for the Farm Side. Getting that puppy written leaves little time or energy for blogging, even though that is so much more fun. However, the paper actually pays me so they get priority today.

This week the column hit on the Hoard's Dairyman judging contest, the new BSE case in Canada, the failing (to put it mildly) audit of USDA on packing companies, dairy monopolies, and the outrage of National Dairy Promotion and Research Board handing over six million bucks worth of checkoff dollars to the EPA to buy a new stick (air emissions monitoring) to beat dairy producers with. Nice of them to spend our money on us that way. I have to thank Sarpy Sam for giving me ideas about where to dig up some of the dirt on these topics. Not all the ag news that's fit to get upset about is printed here on the "right" coast.

And last but far from least, condolences to the family, friends and readers of John Jablonski, fellow Recorder columnist for lo these many years. His passing sure was a shock!

If you want to spend a buck on Friday you can read all about it on the opinion page at the paper's website.

Big snow flakes here today 

Water cress on ice.....in the garden pond. 

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 

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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