Reasonably Educated Bumpkins

We have a new neighbor.

That is to say, we have recently become aware of our neighbor, who may or may not be new to our neighborhood, and who may or may not be living single.

I first became aware of this neighbor a couple of weeks ago while tossing and turning and generally not sleeping. Neighbor was making a racket.

"Chas?" I loudly whispered.

"Yeah."

"Do you hear that sound?"

"Yeah."

"Any idea what that might be?"

"A cat?"

"Well, that's what I thought, but it's more like a dog, but not like any dog I've ever heard. It's not a coyote."

"I dunno."

"I'm thinking bobcat."

"We don't have bobcats."

"I know, but . . . what, then?"

"I dunno."

"Thanks. You've been helpful."

I'm not usually that chatty in the middle of the night, or that sarcastic. Yes I am.

So the other night I heard it again, repeating over and over and over, for as long as I stayed awake, and probably much longer. Calls at short intervals, always the same. Kind of a bark, but not exactly. Cat-like, but it'd have to be a huge cat. This time, though, I was sure it was a cat, a huge cat, come to eat up the kittens of our slutty outdoor cat, who shall henceforth be called Teenage Pregnancy StatistiCat. I writhed in my awakitude, guilty over the kittens who were probably now Bobcat Snacks. Couldn't I have just brought them inside for one night until Teenage Pregnancy StatistiCat got her proper mother groove on? I knew the honest answer to that, but it didn't make me feel any better about the kittens.

We finally saw our new neighbor last night. As Smedley and I walked past the dining room window, she stopped cold and said, "Look! It's a _____!" (Don't want to give it away just yet.)

And sure enough, it was. Running around in the dairy yard at dusk, looking for something. Food? Mate? Offspring? No clue. But it must have doubled back through the network of barns because it next appeared in the opposite direction, standing between us and the afterglow of the sunset, making the mysterious call I've been hearing lately. Over and over and over, nose pointed north. For the next hour.

Here's our new neighbor, or one of his shirttail relatives:

(Photo stolen from Wikipedia)

Okay, I realize y'all were just humoring me, pretending to be surprised, when you had probably guessed it way back in the second paragraph. And I'm surprised that I didn't guess it myself, since we used to have a fox family living quite out in the open in the corner of the east pasture that's protected by berry bushes.

So much makes sense now -- the empty kitten box that was completely tossed (no self-respecting cat would do that), the crushed plastic Easter eggs which had to have been bitten open, and no remnants of the foil from the devoured chocolate eggs. What cat would eat foil? Or chocolate, for that matter.

Yep, that fox is bold. I think we'll have some interesting encounters this summer. I plan to be a good and kind neighbor. But if he thinks I'm buying him more chocolate eggs he's got another think coming.

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 01:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

(Photo stolen from tusptangar on Flickr)

We bumpkins have been accused of seeking entertainment in the growth of grass, in the drying of paint. Well, that last one's true, but I'm here to tell you that most of what you hear about the denizens of rural America is false. Made up. Hooey. Hokum. Malarkey. Balderdash.*

We amuse ourselves in all sorts of ways that don't involve the p a i n f u l l y s l o w passage of time. The photo above, for instance. Do you know what that cow is doing? She's ruminating, of course. Also, wondering just what in heck these crazy people are up to now. But most of all, she's processing her dinner, and any minute now she's going to lift her tail out of the way and . . . and that's where the checkerboard comes into play. It's called Cow Pie Bingo. Whichever square is anointed by this cow -- ain't she a beauty, by the way? -- wins big, big money for whichever lucky bum(s) bet on the pooped-on square. After it's all over the spectators all go home to finish watching the paint dry.

Out here in the country, an impressive panoply of activities is available: there are tractor pulls, destruction derbies, rodeo events, quilting bees, livestock auctions, barn dances, harvest festivals, and even mutton busting. (The photo below shows mutton busting for what it really is: a child's death-defying ride on a domestic sheep, a vicious animal known for wild and unpredictable ways. Good heavens, that boy may get wool rug burns!)

(Photo stolen from this guy)

There is one activity, however, that eludes us. I'm talking about, of course, cow tipping.

(Photo stolen from these folks)

Whole web sites have been dedicated to debunking the idea that such an activity is actually possible. I'm not going to bore you with the physics, even if I knew them. I will tell you my personal beliefs about cow tipping, in no particular order.

~ Cows sleep on PosturePedic mattresses, just like the rest of us. Good luck finding a cow that actually sleeps standing up.

~ Trying to sneak up on a cow is about as easy as herding a cat.

~ Once you have successfully sneaked up upon and startled a static cow, you will discover that she is as big as Grandpa's Buick, and almost as maneuverable. But not quite.

~ The catch bull assigned to any given pasture with dozing cows will not find your cow tipping attempts NEARLY as funny as you do.

~ Cow tipping was invented for frat boys, by (and for the amusement of) the people who brought you snipe hunting. How would you like your snipe cooked, Bluto?

So let's recap. Lots and lots of activities out here in the sticks. Have I been to any of the above-mentioned laugh riots? Nope. Well, two. But I was dragged there against my will. Okay, I lied -- I've been to a few of them. But even bumpkins can get our tractor pulls on ESPN 2.

Back to what I was doing.

*We are nothing if not colorful, however.

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 11:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

I've been missing for about two weeks now, due to my family being sick, one by one, and then succumbing to the crud myself. I still sound like James Earl Jones imitating a donkey, but I'm vastly improved.

While I've been recuperating I have missed the best time of the year around here. I suppose fall is the best time of the year anywhere, but it's especially sweet, after the punishing summers we get in the north valley, to have 80 degree days in November. The wasps take advantage of the Indian Summer to swarm around the south sides of buildings in the still warm air; since both of our outside doors are south-facing, it's hard to get in and out of the house without letting at least one wasp inside.

(Photo stolen from this guy)

The orange trees in our front yard are suddenly obstructions we can't see past, as the branches sag lower under the fruit loads they bear. The young oranges are heavier and heavier with juice, pale yellow among the shiny green leaves. Weren't the oranges green just yesterday? I guess I haven't been paying attention.

Today Chas took the loppers to the fig tree in the back yard. I used to have a go at it once or twice a year, trying to keep it in line. I gave up. Fig trees will one day co-rule the earth with cockroaches.

Through the open windows tonight I can hear the bawling of cows separated from calves, other cows, and familiar territory. Mom and Dad moved some cows around today, from one pasture to another, and on a warm night following such a big cattle move it can be cacophonous around the ranch. Lucky for me I sleep like the dead.

Finally, people who know far more than me have told me to expect a cold winter this year. They offer as evidence the surprising number of early acorns already fallen from oak trees -- Farmer's Almanac stuff. I could have saved them the trouble; it's going to be a cold winter when oil prices are nearly $100 a barrel and climbing -- Murphy's Law stuff.

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 09:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I wrote this a while back, one warm spring evening, for no particular reason other than I was hit with a sudden inspiration.

I don't get hit very often these days.

My blogging friend Jeff wrote about the Orland Water Project a couple of weeks ago. Reading Jeff's blog reminded me of my essay about irrigating, so I had to go dig it up, changing only a few things. While irrigation season is wrapping up now, the feelings that inspired me to write this essay a couple of years ago can be fanned quickly into full flame by the scent of pasture on the wind.

(photo stolen from these guys)

Thoughts On Irrigating

Irrigation season is in full swing here in Orland. If you're lucky enough to be a part of the Water Project, as my parents are, it's just a matter of waiting the twelve day interval for your turn to get the water.

When Mom and Dad are on vacation (perhaps it's simpler to determine when they're not on vacation), Chas and I occasionally irrigate for them. Usually Chas, these days. With two little ones at home, irrigating, or "getting the water," as we call it, can be tricky. It involves a minimum of three hikes out to either of the ditches, and it's no place for anyone under four years old. So, since at any given time one of us will be at work, the anointed irrigator has to take the girls along and leave them safely strapped into their car seats for a few minutes.

But let me back up a bit. The manager of the water distribution is called a ditch rider. He'll call a day ahead to remind you that the water is coming, give you an E.T.A., and tell you to whom you're turning the water when you're finished (usually the same farmer year after year, but sometimes there's a change-up). The water, which originates in the Stony Gorge Reservoir, flows downhill and dumps into Black Butte Reservoir, about 10-15 miles away in the Coast Range foothills to the west. Water has been allotted to each property in the project based upon acreage. For example, Dad receives about fifteen hours of water every time it’s his turn, which represents the time it takes for his acre/foot allotment to flow out of the ditch. He never needs all of his allotment, but the allotment is a fixed amount, and the pasture gets what it needs, so it isn't a problem.

Being a member of the Water Project is a part of the property rights, but it is also a responsibility. Unless you sell your water every season and forfeit your turns, you take the water when it comes, middle of the day or night. Which brings me back to my part of the story.

The ditch rider calls. When you learn the approximate hour the water will come, you plan it out in your mind. "If I water the north side first," you reason, "it'll still be light when I change it an hour later." Or, "I really want to watch Washington Week in Review [or, more likely, SpongeBob Squarepants], so I'll do the south side first . . ." and so on. Late yesterday afternoon I planned it all out as I was driving my fussy children home from Chico. I left the girls in the car (which I could not do in late July or they'd be little cinders when I returned), raced into the house to change my clothes and shoes (sling-back mules, though fashionable, only signal to the cows that you are a major rookie) and grab some fruit for the kidlets. Drove out as far as I could, parked in the shade of the hay barn, left the girls strapped in their car seats with wide-open windows and fruit-smeared faces, and tromped west to the gate.

The evening could have been lifted from a Marlboro ad. As I walked west through the pasture toward the slowly dropping sun, the world was bathed in yellow light. Cloudless blue skies were rippled here and there by swooping barn swallows. Sharp shadows from a line of ground squirrels standing at strict attention just ahead of me; the persistent north wind gave away my advance. Like synchronized swimmers they raced for their burrows and disappeared en masse. No squirrels upwind of my path even noticed me. A couple of sleek red cows, Dad’s prized Limousins, munched at the manger, pausing only a moment to wonder what I was doing there. "Keep eating, girls," I told them. More red cows ahead, most idly chewing, some tense as I passed too near a quivering red calf. Some cows were gold-edged black forms silhouetted against the blazing yellow sun. All soon went back to eating. Magnificent. Even without a horse, I was the Marlboro Man*.

The roar of water churning against the gate broke the spell as I approached. Now it was time to get down to business. Tip-toeing along the slim north edge of the ditch to the concrete slab above the gate, I nearly lost my balance as a strong gust of north wind caught my back (just what I need, to fall into the ditch in front of those mildly disapproving cows). Pulled up the gate and out gushed the water. Back across the ditch edge to close the east gate. There's something almost exhilarating about cranking down a gate (turning an iron wheel against a threaded iron bar, which slowly lowers the wooden plank gate and cuts off the water flow). There's very little load against it, so the wheel just flies. You settle into a bobbing rhythm as you spin the wheel as hard as you can. The gate drops quickly and easily, the turbid water rises and seeks a new escape. Quite a different story from raising a gate against a full head of water. That's where muscles come from.

Turned around. To the east across the valley lay the Sierras, indigo. Mt Lassen, still spotted with snow this early June evening, peeked at me around and above the barns as I walked back to the waiting car. I felt a renewed connection to the land and animals, to the place where I grew up. Silly, maybe, but not as silly as the Marlboro Man visions in my head -- man controlling beast and working with nature, carving out a life from the land, blah blah blah. I may be a girl (a euphemism for "female"), wearing waterproof Birkenstocks instead of cowboy boots, and keeping close to the fence in case the bull is cranky, but I was still the Marlboro Man.

My reverie evaporated as my daughters' whines drifted against the wind to my ears, and I realized that the Marlboro Man probably never had to babysit while out on the range.

__________

*Coincidentally, the author of one of my favorite blogs, Confessions of a Pioneer Woman, refers to her husband as Marlboro Man; I SWEAR I didn't copy that! This was written two or three years ago!

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 05:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

From time to time I will post things I have previously written and posted on my other, less thematic blog, Foolery.

http://foolery.typepad.com/foolery/

The following post, "Berry-Picking," is from late June of this year. I miss most of each year's berry season due to heat, mosquitos, vacation, and sheer laziness. I'm already grumpy about missing this year's crop, and so I'm posting this here, a eulogy for my favorite fruit.

* * * * *

Tonight the girls and I headed out for a walk after dinner, since the south wind had come up and it had cooled down quite a bit. We didn't get far before we noticed that the blackberries are ripening! It's a couple of weeks earlier than I was expecting. We scooted back to the house for some containers, then back to the giant briar hedges which separate the east pasture from our neighbors to the north.

We call them blackberries, but they're really Himalayan blackberries (Rubus armeniacus). The hedges grow about 10-12 feet high, and it's anyone's guess how wide they've grown. The entire north hedge burned to the ground about 17 years ago, though you'd never know it now. Foxes, coyotes, and all kinds of birds and field creatures live within the brambles growing over the "creek" which is actually irrigation run-off. Himalayas are a horticultural plague which botanist Luther Burbank introduced to the west coast; kind of like the south's kudzu, only with the most delicious berries you've ever eaten. They are far sweeter than true blackberries, and about twice as large when they're at their peak in mid-July.

It's a long-standing family tradition to make homemade blackberry ice cream for Fourth of July. The tradition persists, whether or not the berries actually ripen in time. This year we're in like Flynn.

As we were picking from the neighbor's side of the thicket, up walked the neighbor with his two daughters. "Hi neighbor!" I said. "We're stealing your berries." He didn't look too concerned.

We picked a vat of berries, and with any luck I'll have enough to make a cobbler this weekend. If I can keep Sparky out of them, that is.

Posted by Laurie LaGrone at 08:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)