by Billie on September 20th, 2008
Last night, I was at a local grocery store (groan) buying produce. A very short, white haired gentleman in what I would guess to be his 70’s approached me with a confused looking smile. He confessed that he was in a bit of a hurry, but had a bunch of nice coupons that he would like to give to someone. He thrust them into my hand, gave it a pat, smiled, and walked away. None of the items were on my list, but thinking of the man’s simple kindness, I found all of the products in the store, put the coupons on the shelf next to the item, and finished my shopping.
Some of the best moments in the last few years of my life have come as a result of random kindnesses on the parts of 70+ year old gentlemen. They don’t breed them like that any more.
by Billie on September 17th, 2008
It has been a quiet week in Wausau, WI, my hometown.
The horses have been staying in their pastures. The dogs have not rolled in anything stinky, and the rain has made everything just a little bit prettier.
Karen and Kathie (my mother and her twin sister) were at Karen’s house in Wi. Dells. Tiny little women, standing just under 5 feet tall, the twins are still the troublemakers that I imagined them to be in their youth.
It all started with a simple phone call. I had been invited to spend the weekend at my mother’s house and was calling Friday evening to let them know what time I’d expected to arrive. Karen answered the phone, I told her my plan and she gave me a dissertation on the fruit salad that she was preparing.
It has everything Billie, everything.
Peaches
Plums
Grapes
Blueberries
Strawberries
Kiwi
Cantaloupe
Watermelon
Honeydew
Mint
and NO banannas.
I told her that was great, great, sounds super.
Then she started on the salsa she was making.
Onions
Peppers
Cilantro
Tomatoes
Corn
Peaches
I wasn’t as attentive as I could have been at this point because frankly, I hate onions and peppers and never eat the Salsa that she makes, which after about 34 years as my mother, I would assume that she knows.
Then I heard a long story about going to the market for the above ingredients and picking out Mogen David wine (if it can indeed be called that) for my brother who was also due to arrive that night. It seems their grocery had an extensive selection of micro-brewed beer, of which they purchased what sounded like an entire section.
At this point, the woman on the phone dissolves in to peals of hysterical laughter. I was my aunt, Kathie. She had taken over at the groocery store report, which I had not noticed. They found this so funny that it took a full three minutes for me to here intelligible words on the other end of the line. While I don’t understand why this old joke is still funny, twins are weird that way.
After 406 hours of driving, I arrived in the Dells to find a gaggle of family members around the backyard fire pit. The Mogen David and micro-brews had been flowing for a while, it seemed. Everyone was in good cheer. My mother (of 34 years) offered me veggies with bleu cheese dip. It seems the little fact that I am hyper-allergic to molds seems to have skipped her mind. Good thing I’d asked what kind of dip. I know that some societies and cultures throughout history have sacrificed their firstborn, but I like to think that my family was not plotting against me….
We went to bed late.
The next morning, I was wakened by the sound of my brother’s voice, perhaps that of an angel. The voice offered to get me Starbucks if I would get up and get dressed right away. Since I will never turn down Starbucks cinnamon dolce lattes, I got up and got dressed quickly, without really knowing why.
It seems the cold, rainy morning has dissuaded his business partner from coming down. The guys had a large booth in the art festival at the local park, and Brad needed some help opening and staffing the booth. Groaning, I agreed to help, pulled on a jacket and clomped out of the door with hot latte in hand.
Not many people stopped by the booth at first, but once the first scrapbooker crossed the threshold, the place filled with damp shoppers.
At one point, I felt someone looking at me.
He stood about 6′2″, with an impressive mustache and beard. Perhaps in his late 40’s, it was hard to judge looking at his face, lined with creases and tanned an almost unnatural hue. He had shoulder length gary hair that was mottled by patches of the deep black it had once been was tied back with a black bandanna. His denim shirt was tucked into fairly tight, black jeans, held up with a studded leather belt. Over this he wore a black leather vest, festooned with patches and pins. On his feet were the requisite black motorcycle boots with a large, silver Harley Davidson buckle on the side.
He stood out in the drizzle. The woman with him sighed, pulled at his sleeve, and walked on alone.
I joked that he should come in, as he looked like an avid scrapbooker.
He informed me that he had made several scrapbooks for his kids, and others liked them so well that he has been paid to make a few more for friends. He was looking for fancy edging and embossing tools.
This is why I am not in retail!
Brad had run off for this fine moment, so I was not going to be fired from volunteering.
It seems that Brad’s version of helping means manning the booth so he can get lemonade, funnel cakes, cheese curds, corn dogs, another latte, corn on the cob, and so on. The boy must have tapeworm, that kind of metabolism can not be genetic (not one of his siblings suffer from this affliction).
I dashed off at three to lunch with a couple of friends, threw my overnight bag in the car and headed to Madison.
On the way, I had to stop at King Coffee, owned by my friend Ike. He makes the world’s best Soy Chai and, since we have been friends for many years, I am compelled to stop. Then, to support his business, I bought a scone.
I arrived at my client’s farm at 6:00, a bit later than I’d hoped. My friend and equine photographer Christel arrived at the same time. Our mission was to bring Abra (Duncan and Donarwind’s mom) and her new foal (Pedon – a Trakehner/Hanoverian colt that was born this June) into the barn, groom them to an immaculate shine and braid their manes. Abra’s mane had been allowed to run free and was incredibly long and thick. I got the pulling comb and scissors and got to work. After an hour I was through prepping her mane, and proceeded to braid and button it (I know Dino, laymens terms: Putting the mane into little, tiny braids, no longer than 1 inch wide and as tight as possible. Then, folding the braids up and sewing them into place.)
With such a cooperative mare, this was done in 45 minutes. On to the baby. Christel distracted baby as owner Marlin brushed both mare and foal. Unfortuantely foals have a very short attention span, and soon Pedon was trying to eat my jacket and bite my chest. Braiding took a long while, coupled with much ducking and dodging.
By the time we got into the house, it was nearly 10:00. Skipping dinner, Christel and I hurriedly washed up and changed into clean clothes so we could fulfill mission 2. Sunspot. At the Frequency. In Madison. Release party for their third new song this year. Early show. Crap. We missed the band’s departure by about 10 minutes. I thought it would be cool for some of the Wausau contingent of friends to show up at a less local gig. We sent good karma, but were disappointed to miss them.
I guess our karma was returned, because in reality we had to wake at 4:00 in the morning and should not have been out.
We returned to the house at midnight, went to bed and were quietly wakened by Marlin, well before sunrise. He wanted to have a bit of a jump start on the day.
After a hurried breakfast, we headed down to the barn to feed the horses, loaded Abra and Pedon in to the trailer, and hit the road for Mequon. Since I was the only person with experience, I drove the truck. Both Christel and Marlin must have fallen asleep, so I was left with the woman on the GPS device for company. She wanted me to take 94 to Milwaukee, I declined and took lesser travelled roads. Every given opportunity, GPS lady told me to turn right. She was in the back seat with Marlin, so I could not reach her to turn her off (or throw her out of the window).
After almost 3 hours on the road, we reached Crossed Rail Stables. We were there to have Pedon inspected by the ISR/Oldenburg registry. The inspector, Christian is from Germany and travels over for the annual inspection tour. In order to be registered, all horses must be inspected and the parents must also be approved for breeding by Christian or his German counterparts.
There were 17 foals and 9 mares presented. Pedon recieved a passing score and was accepted into the registry. By the time the inspections were over, it was 4:30 in the afternoon. Then there was paperwork to process and the branding of newly registered foals. We finally left with a good score (in the middle of the pack) just before 6:00, returning to Madison at close to 9:00.
Christel and I helped to unload horses and equipment, feed everyone, then hit the road for home. We drove, singing to every song on the radio, to her house near Pittsville. By the time I reached my own home it was 12:30.
The dogs were happy to see me, and put on a very rambunctious show. The cats were less indifferent than usual.
Waking on Monday was quite a tedious bore.
Today, I had lunch with the Lad. It had been a while. Definitely good to talk to someone who shares so many personality traits, some shared history, and general outlook. There are some facets of his personality that I enjoy a very geat deal. Others that drive me mad. I am not sure if these are our differences, or if I am not particularly fond of what I see in the mirror.
by Billie on September 8th, 2008
I was telling myself the other night how tough and brave and bold a person I am.
It was all balderdash and bluster, but in the end it worked.
You see, I walked into Ballyhoo’s all by myself, knowing that I would have to wait at least 10 minutes for my companions to arrive.
I sat at the bar, ordered a stiffener (soda, as I am not much of a drinker and also had to drive) and rocked out to Sunspot.
Two 40-something, burly bikers complete with leather vests, full beards and snotrags on their heads offered me a chair when the rowdy 20-somethings behind me got obnoxious. Not without reservation, I accepted the seat and shared polite conversation with the fellows until my friends arrived.
At some point during the evening, a tall, lanky 50-something man decided to join us at our table. He wore his hair in an unruly mop of grey, and had the largest eyeglasses I have seen for many a year. To induce conversation, he slyly looked at me and said “let me guess, mother and daughter?” in a lecherous tone. His drunken state must have protected him from the death rays that shot from my eyeballs in the immediate wake of his assininity. I am 34 years old, my friend is 29. To the best of my knowledge, and even though I am less likely than a fried pork sandwich to win America’s Next Top Model, I do not appear to be a woman of 50+ years of age.
I uttered some truly snarky responses to this man, and told him loudly and in no uncertain terms to leave our vicinity. Then I swore at him. After ten minutes, he got my drift and went to bother other patrons.
For a shy girl, unleashing the dragon was pretty darned fun. The comment leading to this reaction was not. I am feeling very sorry for myself indeed.
Fortunately, Mike, Ben, and Wendy put on a great show. They visited with us between sets almost to the exclusion of the other people in the bar, regaling us with tales of dead van batteries and flagging down assistance in Merrill by means of dancing on the sidewalk with jumper cables in hand. I love it when Sunspot comes to town!
Sunday was spent working my little brother’s booth at Art In The Park with Kevin as my assistant. It turns out that assistant means “get lots of junk food and complain when you are out” in man-speak. Like every child’s dream mother, I gave him endless cash and let him eat until he was sick. Oh, the wicked side of Billie is coming out at last!
by Billie on September 6th, 2008
Last night, while enjoying the Sunspot show at the Fillmore, I was once again broadsided by the fact that I am truly afraid of people.
While logical enough to realize that most are not wielding weapons with which to injure or kill me, I am still uncomfortable in any social setting. I do not know how to banter or exchange witticisms. Actual conversation escapes me. Strangers are terrifying. If City Pages included a Social Ineptitude award in the annual best of issue, I would be the recipient.
In what I think was a sudden rush of kindness (or mean-spiritedness), Dino whisked me away from my little comfort circle and introduced me to an entire table full of people. This table included one of my favorite Citizen Wausau bloggers. How thoroughly intimidating on so many levels. Everyone seems so shiny, pretty, and comfortable.
I escaped with my life after a few moments, and sat quietly with my little group of friends. My lame version of rocking out was on display as I sat in my chair nodding my head, tapping my toes, and singing along at the furthest, darkest corner of our table.
As the evening wore on and my band of merry companions drifted home, I had enough nerve to get up and actually dance a bit. This has not happened for many years. It was a momentous occasion.
How I envy those that feel the freedom to express themselves through movement. I just can’t do it unless I am home alone and the dogs are in another room.
Because I honestly do like the band (lyrics especially – you purists can scoff all that you want, I am too afraid to talk to you anyway) I am going to Ballyhoos to see them again tonight after attending Sweeny Todd at the Grand.
The ordeal that I am already stressed about is that I am to meet my friends at the bar. This is torture. I hate walking into any bar by myself. Worse, what if I have to sit alone for more than 15 seconds? Strangers may try to talk to me. Or, they may not, in which case I will sit alone and feel pathetic.
I seem to be loosing feeling in my left arm… yep, it’s cardiac arrest. What have I gotten myself into?
by Billie on August 29th, 2008
Yet another week, coming to a close without having accomplished all that I had hoped.
The fence project is now on hold, until I get some help stretching and anchoring the fencing material to the fence posts. Definitely not a one person job. Go ahead, ask me how I know and how long it took to fix the huge, resulting mess last night…
I have been making strides with the horses of late. Duncan (my three year old with the raging testosterone) has worn a saddle three times now, all without drama. I was brave and took him for a hand walk around the property last night with a bridle and saddle. He had a couple of rude moments, where he decided to try and drag me where he wanted to go (near the ladies) but my will prevailed and Duncan behaved like a gentleman.
Baby Joey (registered now as Sunspot) is getting to be huge and has outgrown his suckling halter. He is so big that he is now in a yearling halter – if and when he deigns to allow me to put such a contraption on his face. Babies.
Last week, the veterinarian came out to draw blood for Joey’s first Coggins Test (it tests for an equine specific illiness that is very contagious and is similar to the AIDS virus in people) which all horses are required by law to have done annually in Wisconsin. Knowing this, Joey would allow us to pet and fawn over him, but would not let me put his halter on. We finally resorted to petting him while shoved up against the brick wall that is his mother. The vet quickly found a vein on his neck, filled a vial with blood, and off we went.
The next fun bit of the vet’s visit was to look at yearling Donarwind’s left hind leg. He had injured what would be the middle of his shin last year. It seems he was offended when the fence shocked him, so he kicked at it. The fence wrapped around his leg and gave him a rope burn. We had it ultrasounded and x-rayed to make sure that there was no damage to any internal soft tissue (ligaments especially in this case) or to the bone within the next couple of days.
For weeks, I had to cold hose his leg for 15 minutes twice per day to keep the any swelling at bay. Then, I had to debride any necrotic tissue, medicate, then bandage the leg from his fetlock (snkle) to just below the knee. Last, but not least, was giving an oral antibiotic as well as an anti-inflammatory medication to the little guy. Thank goodness he only weighed about 400 pounds at the time!
Since we had been very proactive in his care, Donarwind seems sound and healthy with only an ugly little scar to tell the tale of his encounter with the fence. Lately though, I have noticed that he is not quite right when he canters. So, Dr. Margaret had a look at the leg. It seems that the scar tissue is simply not able to grow at the same, very rapid rate as the rest of Donarwind’s body. I am applying a lanolin-based topical cream to the leg twice a day now, in the hopes that it will soften the scar tissue enough to allow for growth. If not, the scar tissue may actually constrict around the leg, thereby pinching the tendons, ligaments and splint bones in it, at which point a skin graft may need to be performed.
The visit was not over yet, the best was yet to come.
Duncan and Killarney, both now 3 years old, were due for their first dental exams. This process is fascinating as well as somewhat disturbing.
A speculum, comprised of a halter with metal plates that fit over the horse’s front teeth and a ratchet on each side of the horse’s mouth, is placed on the horse’s head. The plates are ratcheted open and locked into place, at which time the vet can examine the horse’s molars by pulling the tongue out of the way and peering in with a flashlight. Killarney wanted nothing to do with this, so the doctor gave her a mild sedative. Finding that her teeth had some wear patterns that needed mild correction (horses grind their food and can develop sharp points in their teeth). Grabbing a dental float (this is a file on a long handle), Dr. Margaret began to file off several sharp points. Killarney objected strongly to this, so she got just a little more sleepy-juice. The job was finished in mere minutes.
Duncan stood quietly for his exam, and was rewarded with the report that his teeth were in good shape. He has several molars about to erupt and still has most of his baby teeth in front, as does Killarney, so we will revisit the situation in a few months.
Equine dentistry is really interesting, and far too complex for my understanding. The bottom line is that someone files down a horse’s teeth with a metal file. If the teeth are in really bad shape, a dremel-like tool is used.
It is not inexpensive to have this done, but is necessary to keeping any horse in good health. Our horses have exams twice annually, and in general have their teeth floated every year or so. It is especially important to have the teeth of young horses examined, as they sometimes grow extra teeth (called “wolf teeth”) that lie just where the bit does, which can lead to extreme discomfort. They are usually removed just as wisdom teeth in people are.
That is your lesson for today.
I am on my own this weekend and haven’t decided what to do. Definitely some hiking, probably with one or more dogs. Working horses. Feeding horses. Cleaning horse poop out of the pastures. Mowing pastures. Why must I always think of more work to do?
by Billie on August 26th, 2008
The past couple of weeks have passed in something of a blur as I have been running like mad to get done all that I think I should. Outside of work, I literally do not encounter actual live humans, with the exception of Jennifer, who is a great help around the place.
My latest foray has been back into the world of fencing. Last weekend, in addition to achieving the color of a healthy lobster, we managed to put in all of the rest of the big corner posts as well as fancy gates for all of the paddocks.
This past weekend I took a brief hiatus from fencing to attend an American Trakehner Association inspection down in Watertown on Saturday. My friend and Equine Photographer, Christel, came along for the ride, leaving my house at 4:30 AM.
The inspection was for mares (female horses over three years of age) to be approved for breeding for the association (stallions undergo a far more rigorous test as they can pass their genetics on far more readily than a mare can in her lifetime).
First, the mares’ height, girth (where the saddle goes) and cannon bone (equivalent to our shin) length and circumfurence were measured and recorded.
Next, each horse was walked and trotted in-hand on a hard surface so the inspector could study their gaits and soundness.
The next step was showing the mares on what is commonly referred to as “the triangle” – the horse is walked in-hand around a small triangle, then trotted around a lager one. In this, the inspector is looking for the horse’s natural straightness while in motion, as well as the overall quality of the gaits.
The last portion of the inspection was the “at liberty” phase. In this, the horse is turned loose in the arena and put through their paces, including the canter.
At the end of each horse’s performance, the inspector gave comments about their overall conformation, balance and movement, so even the spectators came away with a tremendous wealth of knowledge.
Of the nine mares presented, eight were approved for breeding. Of those eight, three had been imported from Germany last year by the inspection hosts. These were some spectacular horses!
After the inspections had concluded, I attended a class to become an ATA brander. All registered Trakehner horses are allowed to be branded on their left flank with the Trakehner moose antler brand. The branding is done with an iron that is heated in a forge, and takes only about two seconds to complete. Most horses are really good about this, and as it is a cauterized wound, it heals very quickly and the horses allow the brand to be touched immediately after it is made.
I was nervous about plying my hand on anyone’s valuable horse, but after two hours of “classroom” teaching, each of the four branding candidates were allowed to practice with a cold brand on the instructor, then with a hot brand on deer hides. Thankfully, my sample brands went very well, and I am now approved by the ATA. A set of branding irons of my very own should be on their way shortly, and I will be the official brander for the Midwest as of next week.
We returned home at about 8:30 to Kevin and a couple of his buddies visiting from Chicago. Fortunately for us, they had just started dinner on the grill (I understand that they nearly set the house on fire in the process), Jennifer was there doing final prep work with her two young horses that have come to my house, and Malinda came to eat with the gang.
Dinner was a fun affair, but after doing evening chores and showering, I could not wait to go to bed, tired from the long day.
Sunday morning saw me waking again before the birds, this time for a horse show in Marshfield. Christel had spent the night as she was the official show photographer, and we somehow managed to make it to the grounds by 6:30 AM. Jennifer met us there with two horses which she unloaded, passed over to us, then went to my place to pick up the two young horses.
Before Jennifer returned, we had braided the manes of the horse and pony in our care and were chatting with my students Wendy and Kiersten who had parked next to us and were dispensing coffee.
By the time Jennifer returned, we had only a few minutes to braid and groom the babies before the show started.
Somehow we managed and I took her yearling Dutch colt, Caspaar, into his first ever class. A blur of horses, including those that I was showing made it through the triangle in front of the judge, and as quickly as they had started, my classes were over… well, it was about 2 hours, but in the mad rush to prepare all of the different horses it flew past pretty quickly.
Two year old Dutch gelding Boaz was the star of the show, winning both his Dressage Suitability In-Hand and his Hunter In-Hand class, then finishing his second ever show with an Overall Grand Champion ribbon.
Caspaar was in a more gangly stage and forgot that he could trot in-hand, so he didn’t fare as well, but did come home with fourth and fifth place ribbons.
5 year old Pony of the Americas gelding Romeo took second in his Sport Pony In-Hand class while 18 year old Dutch mare Greeable came home with second place honors in Dressage Suitability. I was tired as heck from all of the running that these classes demand!
The real reason that we took the babies out was simply to desensitize them to all of the chaos and noise that horse shows entail. It is ever so much easier to contend with a frightened 700 pound baby than it is with a 1200 pound three or four year old! Fortunately, both were remarkably well behaved and even stood tied to the trailer quietly munching hay until we took them home. Ribbons are simply icing.
The rest of the day was really easy for me! Wendy and Jennifer had both packed coolers with water, soft drinks, sandwiches and desserts for all. I sat in a chair and acted as coach to the five students who were competing in the Dressage (patterns done at various levels which progress from really basic walk/trot through the Olympic level) and Equitation (where the rider’s skills are judged, not the horse) classes. Wendy and Kiersten also participated in the Prix Caprilli (Dressage tests with jumps thrown in) so everyone spent some time schooling over the practice fences.
All of my students came home with handfuls of ribbons, the horses were beautifully behaved, and no one threw up! Success!!
For those who have asked, The Lad is still around. He is turning out to be a good friend indeed.
And now, back to fencing!
by Billie on August 10th, 2008
Can you hear it?
I don’t think that I am imagining it…
I think that the Mormon Tabernacle Choir has come to town and is singing the Hallelujah chorus in my pole shed.
Hay Stacking, Summer 2008 has come to a close! We have over 2500 bales put up, and in desperation gave the last two wagon loads to my friend Jennifer in recognition of all of her help… oh, and because not only is the pole shed full, I just can’t face stacking any more!
Next year, I believe that I will investigate cup stacking as a new hobby and will feed my horses nothing but the finest rice cakes.
Even having worn gloves, my hands are slightly swollen, blistered in places and sore from the constant bite of strings into my flesh. My knees ache from constantly stepping into the inevitable holes between hay bales. My abdominal muscles, which like to hide out in their padded lair, are shrieking at me. My left shoulder and arm are abnormally large due to the manner in which I had to load the hay elevator. There are still assorted bits of hay chaff lodged in my ears and plastered to my scalp, despite numerous showers and one very lengthy bath laden with Epsom salts. I feel pretty!
by Billie on August 9th, 2008
Last week, we took a brief respite from baling hay to attend Kevin’s father’s memorial service in one of the Chicago suburbs. It was emotionally draining. Perhaps later I will share my funeral-type stories, but am not up to it just yet.
What I fail to understand is why there has been such a length of time between the passing of a loved one and their memorial service. Both my grandmother and Roger had passed about two months prior to their services. For me, this just opens again a wound that is beginning to heal.
It has truly been a year of death for our family, which I am learning now extends to the families of friends. In addition to losing my uncle, a cousin’s teenage daughter, my grandmother and Roger, two close friends have lost grandparents just within the last month. I truly hope that with the change of seasons, we will put this trend to rest.
Back on the farm we are again baling hay… it is simply amazing to see the sheer volume of hay that has already been taken off of our modest fields. As of last night, the count is just over 1200 bales (each of which weighs 50-65 pounds and must be stacked by hand) harvested from a total of 15 acres. We are still working to bale and stack the majority of our largest field, and our lovely hay guy tells me that there is enough hay remaining there to fill 4 to 5 more wagons (each holding roughly 200 bales). We are literally running out of space in the pole shed!
Last year we baled hay from about 20 acres, which yielded a total of 750 bales, or 38 bales to an acre. This year, we are averaging over 150 bales to an acre. That is really a lot of hay! Aside from the regular torture of unloading and stacking it, the benefit is that we will not have to spend thousands of dollars to purchase hay as we have in past years. Another benefit, though questionable, is that I am developing arms that would make the Incredible Hulk quite jealous.
I am eternally grateful to our little cherubic hay guy Ray for his dedication and kindness. His latest feat was quite a pleasant surprise. It seems he had driven past a farm that had a hay elevator sitting outside. He casually walked up to the door, met the farmer and somehow convinced this stranger to send his hay elevator over to our farm for a few days. Ray is remarkable.
The benefit of the elevator (which is like an escalator for hay bales) is that instead of having to heave hay bales incrementally up to the top of the stack, we simply allow the elevator to do the heavy lifting and position a person at the top of the pile to stack bales. Genius! Since we are stacking hay to the rafters, this is eliminating a tremendous amount of labor and causing me to swear far less than I had been.
Last night, Kevin refused to come out and help, so I was once again stacking hay by myself (and cursing under my breath). Ray noticed the situation and lent a hand. I was royally upset by Kevin’s laziness, and still am, to be frank. I can’t help but feel that it is ridiculously unfair to even allow this 69 year old man to do my work for me, but I am ever grateful that he does. I keep hoping that a day will come that I can return the kindness.
The other fun project that has been consuming my time is the mowing of our horse pastures. We have a bumper crop of thistles growing this year, seemingly out of nowhere. The pastures are dotted with six foot tall thistle plants, and other various weeds that the horses will not deign to eat. The messiness drives me crazy, so my trusty lawnmower and I are out mowing pastures every chance that we get. It is slow going, as the tough thistles must be run over multiple times and the lawnmower deck is a meagre 48″, but thus far I have one immaculate pasture.
My quandry in this specific task lies in the fact that there are large numbers of prairieland creatures that inhabit the pastures. Specifically, little brown clumps of hair in the shape of moles or something similar. They are cute little buggers. Last week, I mowed one down, not realizing until I came across it’s lifeless form. I had to quit mowing at that point. I felt like Cluny the Scourge. (Yes, I am a hopeless dork and am referencing Brian Jaques’ Redwall Abbey).
I am now mowing at a snail’s pace watching vigilantly for little brown furry creatures. I cheer for them as they run, and shout encouragement to those that run in my intended path. Thus far, I do not believe that I have wreaked any additional havoc on their little community.
Taking this time to mow leads my thought in many directions. The latest of which stemmed from the realization that I do not like anything about clowns – I find them frightening and not the least bit amusing. From there, I gave thought to parades, which I do not care for either. I have decided that the only parades that I would like to see at present would be:
– Young, virile farm hands looking for hay to stack, or
– Tall, muscular firemen dressed as Klingons, who also want to stack hay.
I have such a one-track mind.
by Billie on July 23rd, 2008
Last week, as I had feared, our hay guy cut the front pasture. The next day, he spirited himself over and raked the fallen hay into windrows. The next, he reappeared and baled the hay.
That meant, on Sunday night I had two wagons full of hay which needed to be put away before any possible rainfall, which was in the forecast for the overnight.
Fortunately, friends Jen and Katrina both volunteered to come out and help me to unload and stack the 200 or so bales of hay.
Jen arrived, we bred one of her Dutch Warmblood mares to my young stallion, visited the other horses and set to work on the hay. Within 3 hours we had stacked all of the hay (just about the time Katrina was able to arrive due to scheduling issues) with Jen acting as a slave driver, pushing me on in the heat.
It felt teriffic to finish that hay stacking. I was hot, plastered in sweat and hay particles, my arms could only hang weakly from my shoulders. We sat in the shade and ate popsicles to celebrate the completion of stage 1…
That was several days ago. Yesterday, hay man Ray appeared out of nowhere and cut another 4 acre field. Today, I spotted him raking the hay, then saw him actually baling some hay…
I was crushed.
However, Ray is a lovely man in his late 60’s or early 70’s. He stands about 5′9″ with a slight stoop. His close cropped white hair, perpetual farmer’s tan, cherubic face and quiet manner make him instantly likeable. I like him.
We chatted for a few minutes and went back to our respective chores. He finished baling about 80 bales at the same time I finished mowing weeds in one of the back pastures.
Some of the bales felt as though they might be a bit damp, so Ray had quit for the evening. We parted ways, and I went inside to get a bit of dinner and return some client phone calls before heading out to unload the hay wagon.
An hour and a half later, I finally changed into a long-sleeved shirt and long pants, put on my work gloves and headed out to the pole shed.
It was dark, as the sun had begun to set, so I flipped on the interior lights and got the shock of my lifetime. Ray had come back to the farm and started unloading the hay from the wagon, as he knew I would be up late tonight doing it by myself. I was utterly stunned and I don’t believe that I could speak for a moment (unlike my typical habit of chattering on and on… like now).
Ray, who was atop the pile of hay stacked in the corner of the barn, gently looked down at me and told me that he was just unloading my hay.
He didn’t think that I should do it alone.
Had I known that Ray had returned, you could bet I would have been back outside in a heartbeat! I have a hard time with the idea of asking for help, and oftentimes feel guilty when I have asked for someone’s help. I could never have allowed him to do my work for me!
Nonetheless, this sweet little older fellow (that I’ve met less than a dozen times) was in my barn, refusing to leave having only unloaded a quarter of the hay on the wagon.
We worked together for about 45 minutes, in companionable silence. Once in a while he would take a brief rest and share and tale of the horses on his own farm, the grandkids, or how the 20 pound rock he’d gotten jammed in his haybine (hay cutter) going through my back field. (I have the rock as a totem on the back porch).
When the job was done, Ray quietly said goodbye and waved as he walked back to his truck.
I am astounded by this act of kindness and generosity, especially being the jaded cynic that I am.
What a singularly lovely gesture.
by Billie on July 13th, 2008
I dragged myself out of bed this morning feeling like a lumber truck had run over me, causing its load of logs to fall off which then in turn rolled and bounced over my body. I am sore. Muscles I did not know that I have (never was good in biology) are screaming at me.
It is all because I had conceived of another of my “great” ideas. I have had beautiful fence posts sitting in a nearly forgotten pile, waiting to be put in as real corner posts for all of the back pastures. My friend Jennifer and I decided that the time had come to put them into the ground.
My first job was to run to town to get diesel for my beloved tractor. Check
Next, I had to take the platform off of the back of the tractor. (I use this to haul hay, water and grain to the horses). Check.
Then, tools and supplies needed to be gathered. I had to locate and arrange all of the tools that I thought we might need… challenging, Dad and Kevin tend to use tools and never put them back where they belong. I loaded shovels, post hole digger, bags of concrete, four posts and my water bottle onto the riding lawn mower’s wagon (made from materials reclaimed from the old barn before it was torn down).
Jennifer arrived and we wrestled for half of an hour trying to mount the huge auger onto the back of the tractor. Since we are strong and belligerent women, we knew that this had to be possible, though at times it surely did not feel that way. Eventually we won out over gravity, got the heavy beast on, and set off for the field.
We figured out how to engage the PTO shaft and soon the auger was spinning. The tractor’s hydraulics are a bit jumpy, so learning to raise and lower the attachment somewhat smoothly was a bit of a challenge. We were in business! I carefully lowered the auger into place… and nothing. It seems that the pin that connects the drive mechanism to the auger had sheared off. I didn’t even know that the thing had pins.
Back up to the pole shed we went in search of anything that we could use. Since my father is a collector of odd parts, we found a huge bin containing bolts, nuts and washers. Taking handfuls of parts in varying sizes, we headed back down to the field.
20 minutes later, a new pin was installed and we tried again. Post hole one was great! The auger smoothly removed dirt at a blistering pace, the hydraulics were cooperative and we were in business! After cleaning out the hole by hand with a post hole digger, I poured half of a bag of concrete in… this is when I realized that I had forgotten to bring water down to the back of the field.
Back up to the pole shed to get several buckets, fill them, then back down to the field I went.
I poured water in the hole, Jennifer dropped a post in, I poured the rest of the concrete in and we refilled the hole with dirt. Success!!! We had our first corner post in place!
The next hole proved more difficult. We sheared at least 6 pins trying to achieve anything greater that the one foot depth that we wound ourselves at. Our soil contains precious few rocks (most are fist sized or smaller), so I had a hard time believing that we had hit anything underground. Finally, we gave up and moved on to the next hole. The same thing happened at a depth of just over two feet. Jennifer and I were becoming proficient at replacing pins in the auger.
We soon discovered that the problem might be the speed with which we were trying to dig. I slowed the RPM’s by about half, and we tried again. Before we knew it, we had a hole! In went concrete, water and another post! Holes 3 and 4 were quickly completed as were 5 and 6. In a mere 4 hours, we had put 6 fence posts into place!
I was tired, hungry and ready to quit. Perky, energetic Jennifer was not, so we headed to the front of the pastures. Here I have to say that when we put in the fiberglass line posts (those that run the length of the pastures) we used a surveyor’s transit to create straight lines. When we put the loafing sheds in, we used a transit from every conceivable angle to keep all lines as near to perfectly straight and square as possible. Dad had the transit. I have virtually no sense of spatial relations. In the back none of this mattered much to me, as no one would likely ever see any possible imperfections. The front is ridiculously visible. We would have to measure.
Kevin arrived home from his motorcycle riding class just then, so we enlisted his help. Back up to the pole shed to get the 150 foot measuring tape. Back down to the field to start measuring.
We measured as best we could from the corners of the loafing sheds to where we thought the fence should be. Our target was 40 feet from the shed to the new and improved fence line. In went posts at both ends, from which we strung a reference line of orange baling twine. Having measured, looked and planned, you would think that the line would be straight. We no sooner put post 3 in the ground when the realization struck that the line could not possibly be straight. Something was horribly wrong. I think. Since the gravel lane in front of the pastures meanders in a line with many curves (due to the large piles of topsoil which our excavator has yet to remove from the property) having any point of reference for the eye is not possible. The standing fence line was hastily thrown in, and is is no way even something that resembles a straight line, making visual clarity even more difficult to come by.
On that note, and as the sun was well on its way down, we decided to quit for the day. Jennifer and I are going to give it a try again, perhaps on Tuesday.
I can definitively state that sitting at a desk in an office does nothing to prepare one for manual labor.
Stacking hay this week (please, let it be next week) will put me in the hospital.
