Reasonably Educated Bumpkins

This little calf was born last fall. Smedley came up with a cute name for the calf on the spot, but just like every cute name Smedley comes up with, I forget it in minutes and end up renaming the animal several times. I'll call this one Bacon.

Yes, I'm well aware this is a BEEF animal, not a PORK animal, but you still remember that name, don't you? More importantly, I still remember it. Let's move on.

Brand-new Bacon was asleep against the side of the barn on this day last fall, lying in the same place for at least three hours. Cows often stash their calves in high grass or in low spots -- any place where they are somewhat hidden and protected -- and then the cows are free to roam, graze, and watch Oprah. Add in the fact that mother cows have no diapers to change, not do they have to carry the little buggers (who can weigh as much as 100 pounds), and bovine motherhood sounds rather pleasant. (Until you remember that in the end they are Mama Hamburgers, that is.)

So I tried to sneak up on the calf to get a photo. Bacon's nap spot was just on the other side of our back yard fence, which is less a yard fence to keep people out than it is a pasture fence to keep animals in. Bacon woke up with a bawl and stood up on shaky legs -- aren't they cute?

That's when I spied Mama Hamburger, quite a ways away.

She was feigning nonchalance, but she was all over me like a duck on a junebug as soon as that calf stood up. (I was still outside the fence and a safe distance from Baby Bacon, because I know better than to get between a cow and her calf.) Here's Mama Hamburger's good side, as she chews and considers the Middle East situation:

Little Bacon tottered off to meet Mama Hamburger and to nurse while Mama finished grazing and watching Oprah.* The end.

*This ending is an obvious fabrication. Cows NEVER finish grazing.

With apologies to my sister Beth, lover of horses and all things horse-y.

If you enjoy this post, head on over to my other blog, Foolery, for some old barn photos. Hurry, though; I don't think the barn can stand much longer.

The horses are back.

Last year my dad leased barn and corral space to a guy who boards Canadian Standard Bred brood mares for the winter. A new group of pregnant mares arrived the other day, about 25 in all. They have access to pasture right now, but Chas has already started feeding them hay.

Once a day Chas takes the girls and walks over to the dairy, through the idle and deteriorating barns out to the west pastures and hay barns. Sunday I went with them in the late afternoon and took my camera.

Here's the hay . . .

. . . and here's some more . . .

. . . and here's a cut bale to load by the armload into the back of the pickup.

The pickup. Ah, that's a good place to set my camera and sunglasses while I'm throwing hay, except that Chas locked it. Chas? Why did you lock the pickup? Can I have the keys?

The keys. Here they are . . .

. . . and there they stayed. Usually Chas loads the flakes into the pickup, then drives out into the pasture while the girls kick and throw the flakes onto the ground. No truck, *sigh*.

Chas monkey-climbed to the top of one stack and threw down three bales to the waiting horses below. The girls and I stayed on the ground, hauling armloads of hay to the front of the barn. 3 1/2 bales makes a pretty big stack of flakes.

The horses were getting pretty hungry by this time. They're extremely nasty to each other, and a lot of kicking and snarling was going on. It did make things interesting walking the hay out to them, one armload at a time. I finally made the girls stay in the barn because I was sure they would get kicked.

See any ears flattened back? There were a lot of hungry, pregnant, bitchy horses with bad attitudes that afternoon.

There were some terribly curious and jealous cows just across the fence as well.

Everyone calmed down and it was time for us to go home to our own dinner.

We watched out for meadow muffins, too. There are so many after only a week that it was hard not to step in them.

There. My requisite horse post for the year. Now I can get back to cows and chickens.

I heard the noise and was standing at the sliding glass door before I was fully awake. Children? Cat fight? No -- wait, I know this sound -- CHICKENS!

(Photo stolen from MyPetChicken.com, a great source for all things chicken)

Our little pullets, in their coop at the edge of the yard, were cackling to beat the band, at precisely the moment that the sun burst over the Sierras and turned my bedroom orange. Humph, just chickens, I thought, and then I was alarmed again. Why are they cackling? Gosh they're loud -- are they out? Is there a coyote in the yard?!

"Mama, Mama!"

My thoughts were interrupted as Smedley burst into the room. We talked right over each other.

"Honey, I think --"

"The chickens are making --"

"-- the chickens are out!"

"-- a LOT of noise!"

Oh.

"Would you put on your --"

"I'm gonna go out and --"

"-- shoes and check --"

"-- see why they're clucking!"

"-- on them?"

Oh. Okay, thanks.

A few minutes later Smedley was back, breathless. "They're all in their pen, Mama! They're fine."

"No coyote then?"

"I didn't see anything," she said. "They're just having a big ol' conversation, that's all!"

Smedley tends to see the world in terms of talking and not talking.

"Were there any eggs?"

"No, I didn't see any eggs."

"Well, Grandpa built them nesting boxes, which is probably where the eggs would be* . . . did you look in there?"

"No -- be right back!"

And away she raced for a second look. A minute later she was back with the report. "No eggs in the nesting boxes, Mama!" she barked.

"Well, thank you, Smed, for checking," I answered. I hadn't thought about a possible egg supply just yet; weren't these pullets just babies the other day? But no, they seem to be almost fully-grown hens, almost ready to pop out an egg a day. And MAN are they loud! It's been a long time since we had chickens, and I'd forgotten what a ruckus they make. No wonder cities have No-Chicken Ordinances. Just wait until the ladies actually lay eggs; the pre-dawn cacophony will be a daily alarm. These had better be some awe-inspiring eggs we're sponsoring.

I hope Chas didn't get the industrial-sized eggs-o-plenty at Costco today.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

*Not necessarily; chickens sometimes lay their eggs on the ground or on ledges until they get the hang of their nesting boxes. At least, MY childhood chickens sometimes made those idiotic choices. Chickens are not known to be MENSA candidates.

(Posted concurrently at my other blog, Foolery)

We visited Redding last weekend, for a stay at the Gaia Hotel in Anderson. Please visit my other blog, Foolery, to read about that.

Here are some photos of the Sundial Bridge, Redding's most prominent feature these days and one of the architectural and engineering jewels of Northern California. If you haven't seen this bridge in person, try to get here. It's truly spectacular.

Hello, Bridge Zamboni Guy. That's what I will call you. That's what I want to do for my next job.

Santiago Calatrava, the designer of the Sundial Bridge, has given Redding quite a gift in this bridge. Please come see it.

I just read that a retired Chico State professor died last night of a gunshot wound. Clicking the E-R link, I held my breath in case I knew who the man was. I really didn't expect to know him; after all, how many retired CSUC professors must there be? I clicked.

And yelped.

It was Professor Richard Ek. I had taken one of my major's core classes from Dr. Ek in the spring of my freshman year. The survey course, "History of Communications," was taught in the largest classroom I had ever sat in -- Holt 170, if there are any Chico State readers out there. My regular spot was in the lowest third of the auditorium, right next to an aisle and a guy named Vince.

Vince and I used to keep track of Dr. Ek's diversions from the topic at hand, which were legendary, and often fascinating. We once counted five major "rabbit trails" during a single lecture. His really good stories were so engrossing that, when Dr. Ek reached the story's end and paused, we would collectively realize how far afield he had led us from our topic, and all of us would laugh.

"But I digress," he would say, and often.

One spring afternoon as I sat waiting for class to begin I heard a commotion in the back of the room. I didn't look up immediately, but heard the commotion roll like a wave toward the front of the room. I looked up just as Dr. Ek passed me in the aisle, his extremely tall and gangly frame bedecked in lemon yellow polyester slacks -- you know the kind with the "crease" down the front actually sewn in? -- and a hand-knitted sweater in a brilliant fuschia. (Go check your box of 64 crayons for that color reference; I'll wait.) It took a while for the room to quiet down, but he waited out our laughter. This was his spring outfit, he explained. He wore it once every spring semester to welcome -- or hurry along -- the warm weather. Then we got down to business, with a digression or two, of course.

(Photo stolen from The Orion)

I never got to know Dr. Ek, as I was in the graphic design program, not journalism. But I learned a lot from him. Dr. Ek seemed to love his vocations, both teaching and journalism, enough so that he kept writing, occasionally, for a local newspaper right up until his death. My alma mater and the community have suffered a loss. My thoughts are with his family.

(Posted at Foolery as well)

It got a little windy here last week.

Not exactly, "Dorothy, don't let go of Toto" windy, but rather windy.

The kind of windy for which the local weather guys often use the word breezy.

This chunk of barn roof nearly took out my dad's zebra finch house. The roof was a bit damaged, but no birds were harmed. Of course, two did get out, and then they remembered that they have no idea how to deal with out, and tried to get back in. The last I heard one of the two was living in a mobile, parked just outside the bird house door. He's now zebra trash.

Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas at all.

Add to my list of things to worry about: ducks.

While there have been wild mallards around this ranch for a few years -- at least, according to my limited awareness -- this is the first year I have ever noticed any mallards try to make a home in the corral across the road. Again, as a caveat I cite my not-particularly-sharp powers of observation. There could actually be throngs of ducks and I have overlooked them.

But I don't think so. I think the three mallards who are trying to keep their tenuous foothold in that grassy corral are new. I did write three; you got that right. Three seems odd, right? As far as I can tell, there are two drakes competing for the attention of one female. I don't actually know what you call a female duck -- probably hen, but I don't know, and I'm too lazy to look it up. FEMALE wins. The boys chase one another around the skies every now and then. I can't tell who to root for and I know if one wins I'll only obsess about the loser.

They have been setting up house for a little over a month. When our big rains came in mid-February there was only dry ground, but it quickly ceded to a massive puddle which has always formed in that spot. The puddle isn't very deep, but what it lacks in depth it more than makes up for in geographical reach. Same concept as American Idol.

There were over a dozen ducks at first, all doing duck things in the shallow puddle they thought of as a pond. We watched out our dining room window as we ate meals, charmed by the many carefree ducks paddling, waddling, and flying by. I didn't know how to tell the little guys that it wouldn't last; Walden West was doomed.

One by one the ducks decamped, until only three ducks remained, and they didn't seem to notice their shrinking habitat. Soon the puddle was maybe the size of a queen-sized bed, and slightly muddier.

Nothing else really threatens the ducks here: no large dogs roam the area, and the only cats passing through are in a hurry to get to Laurie's Cat Cafeteria, so they aren't likely to cause ducks any harm. The horses in the above photo have gone back to Canada to foal, so no large animals will step on small ducks. Coyotes don't usually come quite so deep into human territory, so the only real threat left to the ducks is the rapidly-advancing Valley Heat. Puddles don't stand a chance against spring north winds and summer heat waves.

But just when I was wondering how far a hose could be made to stretch while still maintaining water pressure, an unexpected thing happened: my father irrigated his fields. The runoff from the irrigation turned Sometimes Puddle into Walden West again. The ducks were saved for another week! Unfortunately for ducks, the irrigation water comes every 12 days in a normal year; with lake levels at the top of the water system being low, I haven't heard what the water schedule will be this summer, but water delivery can't be as plentiful as a normal year. I hope the ducks like mud baths and have a good sense of humor.

So I am worrying about ducks now, too.

(Original photo stolen from Steven Pinker)

Sparky screamed as I stepped out through the kitchen door. I hesitated on the step a moment to hear her excited explanation: "There's a TURKEY on the lawn!" I closed the door behind me and headed for my car. Sure there's a turkey on the lawn, I thought. We don't have wild turkeys near the house, and if we did, why would one brave the neighbor's yappy dogs to walk onto our lawn for no gain? That's crazy. We do have turkeys around here, but they stay in the pasture, out of sight up against the berry bushes. I've seen turkeys on the ranch only two times, ever.

Two more steps and I saw the turkey.

It was tall. Did you know that turkeys were tall? I didn't know they were tall. This one could have ridden any ride at Disneyland that he wanted to ride, as long as he kept his wings inside the car at all times, ba-dump bump. This one would have had to stand in the BACK row for Smedley's second grade class photo. This one would have made me nervous in a dark alley, so I readied my arsenal of turkey-fighting words: cranberries, gravy, mashed potatoes, green been casserole, and, of course, STUFFING. Them's fightin' words.

The turkey was not looking for a fight, and he moved on, nervously. Of course my camera was in the house; I watched him closely since I couldn't photograph him as he made giant strides away from the house. I followed slowly, only to watch. He, being bird of extremely small brain, ran crazily in a zig-zag pattern, back and forth across the road and then wildly veered onto the dairy driveway and behind a manger, out of sight. I let him go.

I drove to work dreaming of Thanksgiving.

(Posted simultaneously here and at Foolery)

On my way home from work tonight I saw a hot air balloon. We see them a lot in September, early on weekend mornings. Other than that we don't ever see them, so this was a rare treat.

I saw the balloon again after I picked up Smedley from dance class. It hadn't moved too far up the valley; the wind was very light. I walked into the house and promptly forgot about the balloon.

It was Sparky who saw the balloon after dinner, nearly two hours after I had first seen it. "I'll have to call you back," I told my friend Gubby. "I have to go find a balloon."

About two miles away the balloon dominated a local pasture. "Hey, that's Becky's pasture!" I told the girls. "Who's Becky?" they asked. I can see I need to get out to see the neighbors more often.

Here is a photo pictorial of the balloon as it was carefully deflated and put away. The balloon in its bag was about as big as a beanbag chair. The whole process was very elegant and took under half an hour.

I'm pretty sure this heralds the end of winter and the coming of spring.