Savvy has a mullet – short and businesslike underneath, and long and flowing in the back. Tragic. Tricks just has a little fuzz trimmed around her face. She busted out of our shearing chute.
We're regrouping for now.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Sheep shearing Part 1
Yes, we have sheared half a sheep. It took all weekend. The damn shears are crazy hard to sharpen. We resorted to the hair-cutting scissors.
Savvy has a mullet – short and businesslike underneath, and long and flowing in the back. Tragic. Tricks just has a little fuzz trimmed around her face. She busted out of our shearing chute.
We're regrouping for now.
Savvy has a mullet – short and businesslike underneath, and long and flowing in the back. Tragic. Tricks just has a little fuzz trimmed around her face. She busted out of our shearing chute.
We're regrouping for now.
Adventures in walking
And I don’t mean hiking or climbing mountains or power-walking through the suburb. I mean walking outside to the chicken house, or to the car. It’s sad, really.
I’ve always been fit, in a non-competitive way. Able to do what every Westerner can: Whatever needs to be done. Maybe not expertly or even well, but, basically, we git ‘er done (as my friend Barb says). Dig a hole, change a tire, build a fence, build a bookcase, plumb a sink, add an outlet, draw the pirate, catch a fish, cook a fish, grow a garden, can pickles, ride a horse, siphon gas, row a boat; that’s all in the Code of the West. It applies equally to men and women, gay and straight, punk kid and geezer.
But now that I’m 55, I’m screwed. Tough year, on top of 25 soft years at desk jobs and city living. I get tired and wobbly. I turn wrong, and my back spasms and I’m on the floor. Lifting things will hurt, sooner or later – or both. My arms and hands are weak. It’s pathetic. I think it’s getting better, though. I try to keep working at it, short of pushing the back too far. My doctor wants me to go to physical therapy, but I’ve wimped out. I think I can do it on my own, without exercises divorced from work and purpose, and without some stranger in my face. Anyway, I didn’t mean to get all old-person-whining-about-health-problems on you. I was just saying I’m a bit wobbly on my pins when I get tired. So the other day I was tired, tidying the south porch, hauling an armload of coils of bright blue and black plastic pipe up the steps and over to a hook on the wall. And I look down through the coils and I’m stepping onto the flimsy plastic grill over the crawl-space hole. “Not good,” I think – then in a weird mishmash of slow motion and fast motion I fall down and to the left, am extruded through the 14-by-28-inch hole in a flash of checkerboard red and black (the pipe?) and thinking “buffalo plaid!” I am suddenly hanging upside down by my right pants cuff, in the dark.
Everything is still.
I wonder if I’m hurt. I could be hurt. C. was inside – she wouldn’t have heard anything. She wouldn’t hear if I called. I could be hanging here for a long time. Worse, my foot could come loose and I’d fall on my head. In the powdery dirt. Under the house. This won’t do. So I climb my own leg, get an arm up onto the floor and reef on that stuck cuff. It’s jammed pretty good but I get it loose and suddenly am right side up. A little shaky, but teakettle over ass. I climb out, wobbling a bit, and go inside. C. looks at me over her book. “I fell through the floor,” I say. “I thought I heard something,” she says, going back to her book.
I’ve always been fit, in a non-competitive way. Able to do what every Westerner can: Whatever needs to be done. Maybe not expertly or even well, but, basically, we git ‘er done (as my friend Barb says). Dig a hole, change a tire, build a fence, build a bookcase, plumb a sink, add an outlet, draw the pirate, catch a fish, cook a fish, grow a garden, can pickles, ride a horse, siphon gas, row a boat; that’s all in the Code of the West. It applies equally to men and women, gay and straight, punk kid and geezer.
But now that I’m 55, I’m screwed. Tough year, on top of 25 soft years at desk jobs and city living. I get tired and wobbly. I turn wrong, and my back spasms and I’m on the floor. Lifting things will hurt, sooner or later – or both. My arms and hands are weak. It’s pathetic. I think it’s getting better, though. I try to keep working at it, short of pushing the back too far. My doctor wants me to go to physical therapy, but I’ve wimped out. I think I can do it on my own, without exercises divorced from work and purpose, and without some stranger in my face. Anyway, I didn’t mean to get all old-person-whining-about-health-problems on you. I was just saying I’m a bit wobbly on my pins when I get tired. So the other day I was tired, tidying the south porch, hauling an armload of coils of bright blue and black plastic pipe up the steps and over to a hook on the wall. And I look down through the coils and I’m stepping onto the flimsy plastic grill over the crawl-space hole. “Not good,” I think – then in a weird mishmash of slow motion and fast motion I fall down and to the left, am extruded through the 14-by-28-inch hole in a flash of checkerboard red and black (the pipe?) and thinking “buffalo plaid!” I am suddenly hanging upside down by my right pants cuff, in the dark.
Everything is still.
I wonder if I’m hurt. I could be hurt. C. was inside – she wouldn’t have heard anything. She wouldn’t hear if I called. I could be hanging here for a long time. Worse, my foot could come loose and I’d fall on my head. In the powdery dirt. Under the house. This won’t do. So I climb my own leg, get an arm up onto the floor and reef on that stuck cuff. It’s jammed pretty good but I get it loose and suddenly am right side up. A little shaky, but teakettle over ass. I climb out, wobbling a bit, and go inside. C. looks at me over her book. “I fell through the floor,” I say. “I thought I heard something,” she says, going back to her book.
Meh...
Mondays are tough. Up with the alarm. Wearing shoes and socks. Missing my dogs. All these people around. It's a shock. I know I'm lucky to have a job that (almost) pays the bills – I'm just saying it's a shock.
So I went to the Lawyer's Nursery traveling tree sale Saturday, and bought Jonaprince and Northern Greening apple trees, and three shrubs. They are bare-root trees, and about six feet tall. Seemed like a great deal for $12. I hemmed and hawed and almost didn't go, thinking I could save money by ordering some root stock and grafting scions from our two apples at the Ancestral Home. I think apple root stock runs about $3 per tree. But I want fruit ASAP, and we're not getting any younger. So I'll get some root stock, too, and cover all bets. How could I have too many apples? There's cider and pies, and the animals would eat them, too.
I'm worried about gophers eating the roots and killing the trees, so I made cages out of half-inch hardware cloth for the roots. Damn nuisance. But the baskets should protect the roots until the trees are big enough to withstand some gopher pruning. And once the trees are that big (a couple of years) I'll worry about the charmingly named apple maggot. Not a problem if you use pesticides, but we don't, so it'll be a challenge.
Got the trees in the ground. C. planted four pounds of spuds that were lost but turned up after a month or so.
Em came up, as did KC and his friend Cullen. The boys worked on the truck, and helped me dismantle the hoop house over the spuds. Cullen rolled a very large rock into place in a garden terrace. C. and I dug it out of the ground (leverage is a wonderful thing) but it was great to have muscle to move it into line. KC is going to auto-mechanic school in the fall, and I am just going to let him have his way with the truck. It's not running now, and it's not the end of the world if never runs again. (breathe) He knows something about cars – not as much as he thinks, though. Yeah, it makes me nervous, but it's probably important to trust him to fix it.
So I went to the Lawyer's Nursery traveling tree sale Saturday, and bought Jonaprince and Northern Greening apple trees, and three shrubs. They are bare-root trees, and about six feet tall. Seemed like a great deal for $12. I hemmed and hawed and almost didn't go, thinking I could save money by ordering some root stock and grafting scions from our two apples at the Ancestral Home. I think apple root stock runs about $3 per tree. But I want fruit ASAP, and we're not getting any younger. So I'll get some root stock, too, and cover all bets. How could I have too many apples? There's cider and pies, and the animals would eat them, too.
I'm worried about gophers eating the roots and killing the trees, so I made cages out of half-inch hardware cloth for the roots. Damn nuisance. But the baskets should protect the roots until the trees are big enough to withstand some gopher pruning. And once the trees are that big (a couple of years) I'll worry about the charmingly named apple maggot. Not a problem if you use pesticides, but we don't, so it'll be a challenge.
Got the trees in the ground. C. planted four pounds of spuds that were lost but turned up after a month or so.
Em came up, as did KC and his friend Cullen. The boys worked on the truck, and helped me dismantle the hoop house over the spuds. Cullen rolled a very large rock into place in a garden terrace. C. and I dug it out of the ground (leverage is a wonderful thing) but it was great to have muscle to move it into line. KC is going to auto-mechanic school in the fall, and I am just going to let him have his way with the truck. It's not running now, and it's not the end of the world if never runs again. (breathe) He knows something about cars – not as much as he thinks, though. Yeah, it makes me nervous, but it's probably important to trust him to fix it.
Monday, May 5, 2014
How do you like your giant grubs?
Raw, of course. That's what Roz said.
C. dug up five of these huge wiggly things in the garden. Freaked her out. They're three or four inches long! Creepy and very cool. I admired them then fed them to the chickens. Really should have taken them to the restaurant called Grub 'n' More, down on the highway.
C. looked them up – California prionus beetle larva, or prionus root borers. We found a couple of dead adult beetles in the building last year. The grubs live in and eat the roots of trees like pines, plums, locust and others, and often kill the trees.
Imagine them washed up and fried in butter. Or not.
C. dug up five of these huge wiggly things in the garden. Freaked her out. They're three or four inches long! Creepy and very cool. I admired them then fed them to the chickens. Really should have taken them to the restaurant called Grub 'n' More, down on the highway.
C. looked them up – California prionus beetle larva, or prionus root borers. We found a couple of dead adult beetles in the building last year. The grubs live in and eat the roots of trees like pines, plums, locust and others, and often kill the trees.
Imagine them washed up and fried in butter. Or not.
Indoor guinea
Found J-n-E in Nadine’s room this morning (that's the classroom south of ours, named for the big maroon cabinet that used to be in there). Earl told us there was a guinea in the house last night, but I was too tired to care. I caught him and carried him out. Should have handed him over to the chickens, who are all quite indignant about what he tried to do Henley, the big black hen, yesterday. Hormones are running pretty high in guinea land.
We should probably put a couple of the males on Craig's List. Four is too many. They are too busy fighting to eat grasshoppers.
Planted four plum trees yesterday. Apparently sheep are crazy about plum leaves. I'm still pissed at them. I'll tell you about it when it starts to seem funny.
I'm off to work. I wish I could stay home and get more of the garden beds ready to plant, but nooooo. Too busy to take time off. And the back could use a rest, anyway.
We should probably put a couple of the males on Craig's List. Four is too many. They are too busy fighting to eat grasshoppers.
Planted four plum trees yesterday. Apparently sheep are crazy about plum leaves. I'm still pissed at them. I'll tell you about it when it starts to seem funny.
I'm off to work. I wish I could stay home and get more of the garden beds ready to plant, but nooooo. Too busy to take time off. And the back could use a rest, anyway.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Johnny-and-Edgar takes a time out
Found him like this in the netting over the chicken yard this morning. He doesn't seem to be hurt. Look at those pretty white eyelashes.
Yesterday I did some tilling, including under the old hoop-house shelter for the big animals. C. planted spuds there, some sprouty ones from storage. Hauled over some bedding out of the barn for mulch. C. planted peas and basil. Worked on the tilled up area on the south side of the garden, picking out grass roots and adding terracing.
Since we're working on the old animal pasture in front of the building (the future orchard), I foolishly thought I could let the big animals back in to chomp some of the green grass, since their area is getting eaten down. Put hoops and chicken wire up over the raspberries. The crap apple has fencing around it. And I'm working right there, so I can keep an eye on things. None of it is fenced well enough for permanent grazing, but should be fine for short-term, right? Everybody will be interested in fresh grass.
Those little bastards the goats made right for the raspberries. I hollered and threw things, which they found amusing. So while I'm beefing up the berry fence, I turn around and there's Pants, finishing up the last of the crab apple's leaves. He jumped the four-foot fence into a tiny area and pulled the tree over and started munching. C. came and lured the goats away with grain, and I shut them back into their brown pasture. Shitheads. The other guys are still munching green grass, and behaving. I'd better go check on them.
Yesterday I did some tilling, including under the old hoop-house shelter for the big animals. C. planted spuds there, some sprouty ones from storage. Hauled over some bedding out of the barn for mulch. C. planted peas and basil. Worked on the tilled up area on the south side of the garden, picking out grass roots and adding terracing.
Since we're working on the old animal pasture in front of the building (the future orchard), I foolishly thought I could let the big animals back in to chomp some of the green grass, since their area is getting eaten down. Put hoops and chicken wire up over the raspberries. The crap apple has fencing around it. And I'm working right there, so I can keep an eye on things. None of it is fenced well enough for permanent grazing, but should be fine for short-term, right? Everybody will be interested in fresh grass.
Those little bastards the goats made right for the raspberries. I hollered and threw things, which they found amusing. So while I'm beefing up the berry fence, I turn around and there's Pants, finishing up the last of the crab apple's leaves. He jumped the four-foot fence into a tiny area and pulled the tree over and started munching. C. came and lured the goats away with grain, and I shut them back into their brown pasture. Shitheads. The other guys are still munching green grass, and behaving. I'd better go check on them.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Guinea fight!
Johnny-and-Edgar has been getting into it with the young dude who deposed him as lord of the guineas. The young guy doesn't have a name and I don't recognize him unless he and J-n-E are fighting. They go round and round and over and under, full-out running and flying at each other and biting. The rest of them go about their business, chirruping and buckWHEATing and eating bugs.
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