Reasonably Educated Bumpkins

Had a little drama yesterday that ended in tears. Not mine (this time), although I did consider it. Maybe I'll cry later (probably).

Headed over to feed Mom and Dad's cats, fish and cows Saturday morning before breakfast. On a working cattle ranch, "before breakfast" would be two hours before the sun comes up, but on The Pushing Water Ranch that's about 8:30. The girls and I were all bundled up, they in unmatched bright pink and green socks and such, I in my hideous old tweed coat and ridiculous warm hat and muffler. Yes, I said muffler. I know this isn't Antarctica but I am a weenie and I get COLD.

As we walked down the road toward the hay barn I saw a cow out on the road. Crud. A little black steer sneaked into Dad's east pasture several months ago, a fugitive from some other rancho, and he has figured out how to get in and out of the pasture at will, to eat the tender new green grass just outside the confines of his pasture fence. Dad's on vacation and he'll deal with it when he gets back, but in the meantime -- at least until the steer's true owners get off their hineys and come get him -- the little guy has a sweet deal, and his little game hasn't been a problem.

(It wasn't this little guy, but the culprit looks just like him.)

Until this morning. Apparently he brought some friends to the banquet this morning, and one of them, a large white-faced Hereford cow, was lumbering down the middle of the road toward the girls and me as we headed off to feed hay. I calmly pushed her back toward the weak spot in the fence through which I knew she'd made her breakout. As I did so, however, I noticed a few other cows way down the fenceline, grazing outside the fence -- FIVE others, to be exact. And just at that moment an old Ford Bronco came barreling up the road and pulled over. A woman I've never seen before jumped out of her car and almost sprinted toward me. She was lean and sinewy, and she bore the weather-lined face of a capable rancher type; probably a horse woman, I decided.

"THOSE YOUR COWS?" she hollered.

"Sort of," I waffled.

"WELL, YOU'RE GONNA NEED TO GET THEM BACK IN THE PASTURE, OR THEY'LL GET OUT ON THE MAIN ROAD, AND THEN THAT'LL BE BAD. LAW SUIT OR SOMETHIN'." These sentences came at me like machine gun fire. I'm thinking, Cows're out, lady -- it isn't an international incident. But okay, she's being helpful, and she thinks I'm totally new here. I mentally inventoried my appearance: silly hat and matching muffler, hideous coat, sweat pants, white tennis shoes. Two little girls with me dressed in pink, orange and purple. Yup, she thinks I'm new here.

"YA GOT A HUSBAND?" Whoa. What exactly does THAT mean?

"Uh, yeah . . . he'll be home about 2:30. But these aren't our cows; they're my dad's, and he's on vacation --"

"WELL, YOU SHOULD TELL THAT GUY TO GET HIS HORSE AND ROUND THEM UP. NO WAY YOU'RE GONNA GET THEM IN WITHOUT A HORSE." That guy? My husband? Or did she mean my dad -- the one who's not here -- and did she think he has a horse? I could have spent a long time giggling to myself over the visual image of either my husband or my father trying to herd cattle on a horse, but there was no time. This woman had probably been up since 4:00 drinking black coffee and fuming, and she was in a huge hurry, apparently.

"Yeah, I'll have to do that," I answered without irony. As nice and helpful as she truly was I just wanted her to go away, because I really didn't feel like explaining to her how grown people who raised cattle could actually do so without the company of horses. Or why I wasn't freaked out that the cows were out. I guess I'm a bit too Type B, or philosophical, or maybe I just have my head in the sand, but years of practical experience with cows getting out has taught me that they usually don't stray far from the herd. They want a taste of freedom, but more than that they want green grass. And they'll need water after they have their grass, so they usually stick pretty close to the water troughs.

So after a few more manic pronouncements this good samaritan jumped into her vehicle and drove on up the road. I decided to go feed the cows while I figured out my next move, so back we went in the direction of the hay barn.

As I walked I saw the Bronco screech to a halt way up the road by our neighbor Brian's house. Hmmmmm, I wonder what she's doing now? I thought. Maybe warning Brian that his lawn looks a little dry? From a quarter mile away I saw the woman jump out of her vehicle and BOLT into Brian's field and out of range of my sight. Weird. But I had cows to feed, so I turned down the driveway toward the hay barn.

Halfway down the driveway I heard a car approaching, and I turned to see the Bronco backing down the road -- backing a quarter mile? Really? -- so with a heavy heart I trudged back out to the road to see what else this crazed woman had identified as a potential threat to society. She launched herself from the car.

"YOUR NEIGHBOR UP THERE IS ON HIS HORSE, AND I TOLD HIM YOU'VE GOT COWS OUT. HE'S COMING DOWN TO HELP YOU."

"Oh, thank you! That was nice -- thanks for doing that!" I shouted.

"NO PROBLEM!" the woman yelled, and lunged for her vehicle and drove away. Wow. What would she be like on steroids? I wondered.

Sure enough, in a couple of minutes my neighbor Brian came down the road riding his horse. His girlfriend followed in her SUV. Brian rounded up the cows, and the three of us easily pushed them through the gate. We then took a look at the sagging fence section that the sneaky steer had used as his private exit. We shored it up in a half-as -- er, um, we jerry-rigged it with some old boards and tree limbs.

We walked back to the road where my daughters were supposed to be waiting for us; they weren't there. When Brian had pushed the cows toward us (his girlfriend and I waited near the gate to turn the cows in -- close enough to be able to head them off should they bolt, but far enough back to give the cows some breathing room and make them think it was their idea to go through the gate), my girls had actually started screaming as they saw cows running toward them. The cows were far enough away that the girls could potentially have confused them with stampeding dachshunds. "Really?" I said to myself as my daughters, the country girls, screamed at cows who were no threat to them whatsoever. "Is that how you think you act around cows?" So I had made my kids walk up the road to stand well out of the way of the murderous cows, and then the grown-ups set to work putting the escapees back in their pasture. But when we cow herders returned to the road, my daughters weren't there.

I stood in the road for a few minutes talking with my neighbors; Smedley and Sparky came sidling up. They were carrying their biggest stuffed animals, and Smedley had been crying. "What's the matter, honey?" I asked as Smedley burst into tears and approached me to be hugged. Turns out she was sure that something had happened to me when I didn't come back right away, because she couldn't see me. She took her four-year-old sister and unlocked Grandma's house, went in and fed the fish and the cats. Wow, responsibility through her tears -- I'm impressed. Then the girls ran home to our house and packed a couple of favorite stuffed animals, since Smedley was sure they were now orphans and would have to move away.

Upon hearing the word "orphans," Brian threw his head back and laughed. I, however, didn't even blink. I'm used to the drama.

"Honey," I reminded Smedley, "Did you think that Daddy wasn't coming back, too? He's just at work, you know." But Smedley must have had an answer for that, because after fetching the stuffed animals she had dragged Sparky over to another neighbor lady's house to tell her the sad tale. When the neighbor offered to call Daddy at work, Smedley must have felt her drama slipping out of her grasp, and opted instead to "go out looking for Mama." Sparky remained unfazed by the whole spectacle. She happily ran around with her teddy bear while Smedley planned their lives as wards of the state, probably homeless.

Our lives are a perfect hybrid of "Green Acres" and "The Edge of Night." Note to self: teach girls not to scream around cows (or dogs or horses or . . .)

She looks guilty, doesn't she?

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 10:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Just in case you were wondering where to buy your Christmas tree this year, may I make a suggestion? Check out my other blog, Foolery, for my own personal how-to/where-to.

And it WON'T involve Stan and Ollie, so your personal property will be safe.

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 02:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

(Photo stolen from these guys)

If I had been wearing swim fins and a snorkel, I would have been dressed only slightly worse than I was yesterday morning, at 9:00 a.m., while feeding hay.

I had to be at church at 9:30, kidlets in tow, but I had to feed hay first. Got the girls up, showered, dressed, fed, hair done, teeth brushed -- the whole shebang. I matched them lockstep, but added some makeup and hairspray into my personal transformation. So we were all dolled up and ready to go; I remembered to feed the outside cats on the way out, and I had enough presence of mind to grab my old tweed work coat to throw on while I fed hay (it's lovely).

But I felt pretty stupid when I found myself standing on the haystack in a black wool shirt and black tights, throwing flakes of hay into the stiff north wind. Each flake I launched into the air sent a shower of hay and dust cascading back onto my black clothing, and onto my black shoes, which had HEELS. At least they weren't pointy-toed stilettos -- naww, they were just my old black Fart Shoes -- but still, they were grossly inappropriate farm shoes, and they had a mighty thick coating of chaff clinging to them by 9:15.

But by far the worst choice I had made that morning was to apply lip gloss before I left the house. Have you ever fed hay in a gale while wearing lip gloss? No, I didn't think you had; I'm the only one here dumb enough to have tried that one. For the uninitiated, lip gloss has the consistency of glue, and when a 25-mile-an-hour sustained wind whips your freshly-brushed hair across your face, as it will the second you get out of the car, the hair glues itself to the lip gloss and stays there. This tends to occlude one's vision, which can make walking on a haystack somewhat treacherous, relying (as I do) on one's sense of sight to get around.

So, there I was, standing on a haystack in heels and tights and wool galore, wielding a gigantic hay knife, my hair firmly glued down tight over my whole face, feeding hay into a powerful wind.

Not so much.

Warmer.
(Photo stolen from these guys)

Oh, did I mention my nose was running?

I had my own special little prayer once I reached the church.

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 12:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

(With much appreciation to my brother Mantel Man for his editing skills, and for his encyclopaedic memory. Thanksthz!)

Read any children's book that mentions rural living and you will learn that a man who has a cow, a goat, a pig, a horse, and a handful of assorted fowl, is a farmer. This oversimplified definition ought to stay in childhood, but, unfortunately, it sticks, and follows people into adulthood. "Oh, you and Chas are farmers!" people say, upon learning that we live in the country, on a ranch, with (until last week) no access to broadband. This couldn't be farther from the truth.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Farmers grow things; Chas and I do not. Oh, I have teased a geranium into submission on my kitchen windowsill, and I have created the first tropical bonsai plant known to man -- and those are just my successes. You should see the hardy plants I have killed! And Chas is no better. Looking out my window in the twilight one morning recently, I noticed that the lawn is largely dead. Sigh. Nope, definitely not farmers.

Even my "animal husbandry" father was not necessarily a farmer. He did farm for several years in the 70s, and I think he did a good job. By farming he achieved a somewhat vertically-integrated dairy operation, and if you thought a 24/7, 365-day-a-year dairy was an involved pursuit, try adding farming on top of that -- living at the mercy of weather and time on a grand scale.

When a farmer has hay down (hay that's been cut and is lying in neat little rows to dry before it's pressed into bales and bound with twine), black clouds on the horizon are scarier than the Boogeyman. Hay that gets rained on mildews or molds, and if there is too much moisture it can't be baled, or the forces of heat, moisture and pressure inside the bale will combine, combust, and burn your barn down.

(Photo stolen from Michellepio124 on Flickr)

If you've ever wanted to feel the grandeur of Nature, to be inspired by Her power, don't go to Yosemite -- just cut your hay and leave it down to dry until a summer thunderstorm threatens. THAT'S Nature's unassailable power -- and that's a farmer's real fear.

Vignettes of Dad's farming period play in my mind, in the grainy golden Kodachrome colors common to both 1970s photography and to hot summer evenings. Dad rented some acreage a few miles to the east of us; 200 acres, which, in a burst of ingenuity, we dubbed "The 200." Dad would grow corn from summer into fall, and alfalfa or oats from our mild winter through spring.

My brothers and I had two connections to the farming operation. First, when it was time to plant the corn seed, Dad would take two of us to The 200 to help him mark out the field.

Mom had bought several packs of white paper lunch sacks, and these were our responsibility out in the field. We'd walk with Dad along the long edge of the fields, following the irrigation ditch that delivered the water down the rows, and carrying the white lunch bags. We'd fill the bags with large dry dirt clods, both to weigh the bags down and to make them stand upright, and then we'd set each one on the spot Dad had indicated. The bags, white against the turned dark soil, could be seen all the way across the field; they provided visual markers to the guy who would, a few days hence, drive a tractor across the field pulling a special plow. Tractor Guy would drive straight from each white bag at one end of the field to its counterpart at the other end, and the plow would create a long berm of piled dirt. The parallel berms would be spaced at regular intervals across the field to match the spacing of openings (the "checks") in the irrigation ditch. So, we kids weren't just stuffing dirt clods into lunch bags; we were creating order. AND stuffing dirt clods into lunch bags. It was hot, dusty work, and, being the little weasels we were, we mostly hated it. Well, I did anyway.

(Photo stolen from silent encore on Flickr)

The second connection my brothers and I had to The 200 and all of its charms was silage. If this word is unfamiliar, let me explain. Silage is like a big chopped green salad which is aged and fermented and then fed to cows, who like it more than I like ice cream, and that's saying something. Dad mostly made corn silage. The corn was mowed down and sucked into a powerful machine (called a "chopper," probably by the same clever person who dreamed up the name "The 200") which chopped the stalks into a fairly fine mulch. This mulch was blown into the back of a specially-designed silage truck. When the truck was full, the chopper would cut power, and the truck would drive off, back to the dairy to dump its load at the silage pit. And that's where my brothers and I would come in: we'd ride with the silage trucks, at least once a day, until all the corn was chopped. We'd stand beside the road, the truck would stop for us, we'd climb into the cab (usually one kid per truck), and ride to the field for the slow and tedious filling of the truck. Then we'd ride back to the dairy, watch the truck dump its load at the silage pit, and that was that. Thrilling, right? Well, it was -- to scruffy farm kids like us. We couldn't wait for silage season.

(Photos stolen from thejesse on Flickr)

Some day I may tell you about packing the silage with huge tractors, to press as much air as possible from the pile so that the fermentation didn't become a conflagration.

Nahhhhh, I won't.

(Photos stolen from thejesse on Flickr)

I will tell you, however, about how we teased my baby brother Bocci for years after the farming years had come and gone: 6-year-old Bocci would eagerly climb aboard the silage truck, and within about three miles every time Bocci was sound asleep in the cab. Drooling. Bocci was so famous for napping that once one of the hard-bitten truck drivers actually brought a camera with him to capture the moment. He had to climb up onto the cab of his White Freightliner to get the shot, but he got it, and somewhere in Mom's cedar chest is a picture of Bocci drooling all over his striped little boy shirt.

Lovingly preserved in 1970s grainy golden late afternoon Kodachrome, of course.

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 01:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)