The Never-Ending Story

It's been quite a busy year on the Funny Farm.

At the start of 2019, we had been in the new house for just over four years, and for four years, we had stared out the front windows at that eyesore of a trailer. Although I had wanted to tear it down right away, life's diversions had forced us to focus our energies elsewhere. But now its time had finally come.

With the trailer gone, I was determined to extend the driveway up to the house. Since Tennessee is fairly humid, the number of dewy mornings far exceed those that are not. I was tired of wet feet and shoes on the mornings I had to leave the house. So in April, we contracted someone to help us with our next project.

Next on the list was a carport.

When I called Thomas. the building inspector, out last week for the final inspection, he didn't take long to give me the thumbs up. Then he sat down on the landing I'd built off the side door. "I'm just going to take a minute. It's so peaceful out here." We chatted a bit more, then he sighed and stood up. "I'll see you for your next project," he said. And in my head, I laughed, thinking that surely we wouldn't be taking on any more building projects. Hadn't we gotten the house just how we wanted it?

Last night, after slapping a second coat of sealant on the side steps and landing, Chris and I stood out on the back deck. It desperately needs to be refinished. Chris noted that before we did that, there were a few pieces of decking that needed to be replaced. We talked about how some of the 2X6 joists had needed replacing earlier this year. 

"Next time we need to replace any 2X6s, maybe we should seal the tops of them up, then use composite deck boards to prevent rot. 

Or maybe we should put a roof up. It gets so hot out here, we don't sit out here much during the summer. But you know what would be really nice? A three-season porch- like the one at my Aunt Lillian's place."

"That would be nice," Chris answered. 

And somehow, we started planning to tear down the entire deck, pour a foundation, lay, some block, and make sure to plan for a wood stove to warm us while we sat out there in our later years watching the goat herd munch on fallen leaves.

Maybe I will be seeing Thomas again, after all.

Some Non-Holiday Cheer

Let's admit it: my record with chickens this year hasn't been the greatest. Some time in the gray, depressing days of last winter, I ordered a slew of chicks. It was a ridiculous amount, considering the number of chickens we already had, but I needed something to look forward to. A new batch of Polish, Ameraucanas, Whiting True Blues, and some other odds and ends was exactly what was called for.

The first few Ameraucanas I had several years ago were champs at pushing out blue and green eggs. But fate took those beautiful birds away, and in coming years, any Ameraucanas (or Americanas) I acquired seemed to have lost the genes to produce such colorful eggs. Finally, I discovered the relatively new True Blue breed and was determined to add some color back into my egg production.

Spring and summer were hard on my poor chicks. As Zivah was already raising her 4H chicks in the stable, I was forced to put my young babies out into the aviary with the rest of my flock. Predators got in and wiped out all my new Polish birds and many of the others. On top of that, they didn't get the access to grower feed they should have, as older birds tend to be bullies to youth that aren't their own. My new birds grew at a pathetic rate, and I lost hope of seeing any eggs by them this year.

Today has been a dreary day. I was contemplating life in this world and not feeling too cheerful when I figured I should brave the chilly damp and feed my chickens. After throwing out some feed and getting wrapped up in cleaning a feeder, I almost forgot to check for eggs. There haven't been many lately. Most days I only get two or three. The only consistent hen has been a weird, little silkie cross that puts out a small, creamed-coffee-colored egg. But today...

A Mid-August Post, 2018

The kids are back in school, and I am trying to regain my brain-hold on the world outside of the one that is occupied three young voices.

First Day of School photo. They hate this ritual.
I enjoy seeing their evasive antics each year.

I had big plans for their return to institutionalized education. Most of those plans have been waylaid as plans tend to get. At least there is predictability in that things hardly ever work out as planned. I guess I can find comfort in that these days.

Today, however, things are going as planned. Thanks to my less-than-disciplined gardening practices, I ended up with a large pile of volunteer winter squash. It would have been nice if it had sprouted a little later in the season, but I will take them as a gift of grace at this point in life. The reality is that since the squash ripened mid-summer, most of them won't keep through the winter, so I determined to can some as soup for quick, easy meals in the future.

Huuuuge. (See foot for reference.)

I actually remembered to buy carrots and celery from the store this morning. That in itself was a small miracle. I usually only remember one thing at a time while I'm out, and I remembered to drop the kids off, get the oil changed in the van, AND stop at the store. Out in my jungle of a garden, I dug up some onions. This was another small miracle as the stalks had long ago died out and I it took a keen eye to spot where to dig. 

Back inside, I whipped out the food processor to make the slicing of veggies quicker. I can't say the appliance sliced much. Most of the carrots and celery were just mangled into little bits. But that's fine; the soup gets pureed in the end. Next they were cooked for a bit in the pan while the squash finished roasting in the oven.

Since Finley is a vegetarian, I decided to can some of the batch in smaller jars using veggie broth. I prefer the soup made with chicken broth, so I used full quart-sized jars for us omnivores.

As I had never canned soup before, I consulted the internets and read somewhere to leave the pureeing until you use the soup later. So now, I sit typing as eight jars of future goodness spend their allotted time in the pressure canner.

Speaking of the internets, I got to thinking. There are so many resources available online. Any time I have a question, I can consult that world wide web and find an answer or two. Most of the skills in life we might ever want to hone, we can learn about through YouTube. I got to thinking about how my kids despise the idea of eating any animal they knew in person and how it would take desperation for them to gladly eat home-raised meat. At least, in the event of a zombie-apocalypse (and inevitable failure of the nets) our family might survive a little better than most. We will have soup that might last a week.

A Thursday in June

We got back from our trip to Montana on Saturday.
Montana.
Big Sky country (also known as God's country).
The place you can order iced tea without the UN-sweetened descriptor.
The home of (some of) my ancestors.
The land my family would travel to every summer of my childhood- where memories are thick.

I had talked about Montana enough that, last spring, my youngest asked if we could go there. When I told her it was too expensive to go and that we would have to wait awhile until we had saved some money, she cried. I didn't know then that a year later we would all be there again- this time to bury my dad's ashes. Bittersweet provision.

There's too much to tell about the trip, except to say that it was wonderful. Time was spent with extended family; the kids were exposed to new and beautiful places and got along with each other far better than I expected. I am debating if magical is too strong a word.

Back home in the heat and humidity, I found my tomatoes and chicks were three times the size as  when I left and the weeds ten times larger. I am exaggerating. But only a little. I've spent the last several days making my way through laundry and weeds, trying to reclaim some order.

This morning, I weeded some of the front flower bed, trying to finish up what I suckered the kids into starting for me. Finally, the sun pushed away too much shade, so I wandered out to check on the chickens. I had forgotten to close the gate last night, so hoped I wouldn't find any carnage. [That is unless it was the ugly, white, little rooster I've been needing to dispose of.] The little ones I knew would be alright, as I had locked them in the coop to give them a chance to eat their crumble without harassment from the older birds.

There were no clumps of feather in the chicken run, so I opened up the coop to check on the little ones. Next to the small, chicken door, a Cuckoo Maran appeared to be sleeping, eyes closed and breathing regularly. I clapped my hands to startle it awake, but it didn't flinch. "Great," I thought. "Something is wrong with it." I had three fourths of a mind to walk away and started to do so, but apparently, my new thing is trying to save small animals in distress. I scooped it up and headed to the house.

Cuckoo Marans (and Barred Rocks) have lovely feathers. I cradled the bird in my hand, marveling at its softness. the poor bird's head bobbed and drooped as I walked. I had almost made it to the stable to grabbed the bag of Quik Chik electrolytes when, down the front of my shirt and shorts, the bird released its bowels- and in that same moment, its life.

And so it goes.

Hamster Drama

We had crawled into bed a little later than normal. It was almost 9:30, and I had given up making sure the kids were tucked in. I figured they would find their way to slumberland eventually. No sooner had I pulled the blanket over my legs when I heard a knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in." This late at night, I try to make it sound as unwelcoming as possible, but that strategy never works.

The door opened, and there stood Joe in obvious distress. "I think Tiger Eye is dead."

Chris and I were immediately out of bed, following Joe upstairs.

There was Tiger Eye, half-sprawled across the floor of his critter tank, still as a rock. Chris leaned in a little closer. "He's not dead yet," he said and picked up the hamster. Tiger Eyes whiskers moved ever so slightly. Several pieces of poop clung to the hair around his butt. Chris put him back down.

Tears welled in Joe's eyes while we discussed the possible causes of Tiger Eye's pending demise. Had he been getting enough to eat? Joe had been feeding him. Finley had given him some apple last night. Maybe he was just old. Smokey, chugging water in his nearby critter tank, was older. Diabetes? Some other random hamster illness?

I glanced at the container that held Tiger Eye's food. Only a pinch of millet seeds were left. Looking down into the tank, my eyes searched the shavings. Normally, a well-fed hamster will have a stash of food somewhere, but I saw nothing. My stomach turned at the thought that Joe may have inadvertently been starving Tiger Eye to death. Finley just cleaned the cage a few days ago, maybe that was why there wasn't any food...

Joe picked Tiger Eye up and stroked his fur. TE's eye were mere slits and his ears laid back. He wore a pathetically tired expression. So cute and sad.

I can't just let him die, I thought to myself. He needs easy food. Something to perk him up. Electrolytes.

"Joe, go to the shop and grab a bottle of Gatorade."

While Joe ran to the shop, I searched the medicine cabinet for a syringe.

Back upstairs, I sucked some Gatorade into the syringe, and while Joe held TE up, I ever-so-carefully squeezed a drop into the hamster's mouth. He swallowed. Another drop, and he swallowed again. A third drop pooled in TE's mouth, then slid down his chin, threatening to drop to the floor. My heart sank a little.

Maybe the smell of some food will perk him up.

I ran down to the fridge and yanked off two small pieces of broccoli. Back upstairs, I shoved it in front of TE's nose, but it was obvious TE was too weak to do anything about it. We tried some more Gatorade, and I couldn't tell if he swallowed any or not. Joe set TE down on his leg, and we watched as TE's nose twitched a bit. I needed to find something easy for him to eat. Yogurt? I wasn't sure how good that would be for a dying hamster. I went through the cupboards in my mind, and landed on the perfect thing: peanut butter.

Downstairs again, I grabbed the peanut butter and a toothpick, then ran back up. With TE back in Joe's hand, I waved a tiny glob in front of TE, then tried to push it into his mouth. Half of the glob caught in the hair around his mouth while TE seemed uninterested in opening his mouth. I wasn't about to give up. Gently, I shoved the peanut butter between his lips, and waited. Finally, Tiger Eye seemed to come to and work the peanut butter down his throat. More Gatorade, then a little more peanut butter.

Ever so slowly and slightly, Tiger Eye seemed to perk up. The next time I offered the Gatorade, he reached out and grabbed the nozzle with his paw, eyes still mostly closed. We set him down with a glob of peanut butter in front of his nose, but he was too wobbly to hold himself up. Joe held him again while I spooned a tiny bit more to his mouth. TE nibbled it off the toothpick. After another drop of Gatorade, we took a break to observe the poor little hamster. He was doing a tiny bit better.

Back at the fridge, I found the container of spaghetti noodles Finley had cooked the night before. That would be a nice, easy thing for a sick hamster to eat. Upstairs, I put a few bits in front of Tiger Eye, which he managed to either eat or stuff in his cheek- I wasn't sure which. Then we offered him some of Finley's hamster food, which he stuffed in his cheeks.

It was getting late. We piled more spaghetti, the broccoli, and some shelled sunflower seeds in TE's tank, then after a quick little prayer, Joe set him gently inside. Tiger eye sniffed at the food, then tried to stand up on his four paws. Wobbling and shaking, he turned away from the food, and carefully scooted some shavings aside and curled up into a ball.

The rest of us retreated to our rooms, Joe with red eyes.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I wondered was if Tiger Eye was dead or alive. I dreaded going upstairs to see. Chris had already been up and informed me TE was still alive. In what state, he wasn't sure. I woke Joe up and we went to check on him together.

Sure enough, he was alive, and with most- if not all- of his strength back.

One hamster: saved from the brink of death.

Spring and Bees on the Funny Farm

Mother Nature and I have a few things in common, primarily that we both can be wishy-washy and not sure of what it is we want.

Mother N had me shivering in my skivvies yesterday at Joe's trap practice. The night before, temps had dropped below freezing, and we had woken up to frost on the ground. I expected all the apple blossoms and baby leaves to wilt in defeat, but they look like they aren't playing Mother N's games this time around and will carry on as if this is a normal spring.

Last Wednesday, I picked up a new package of bees. Having made it a full year without killing off my first hive, I figured it wouldn't be completely irresponsible to add more bees to the farm. Not even bothering to don a bee veil, I dumped those bees in the new hive as if I had done it a million times. This time, though, I strapped the box with the queen bee in it directly to a frame with a rubber band and squished the two frames as closely together as I could in hopes that the worker bees wouldn't draw out any burr comb this time around. I had hoped to check on the new hive Saturday, but Mother N wasn't cooperating. It finally warmed back up enough today to let me check on my hives. I'm learning that bees will do as they please, regardless of your bright ideas.

Thankfully, the queen decided she didn't want to lay any eggs in the burr comb and had wandered off to a different frame to do her business. (She's marked with a blue dot.)

Convinced that the new bees were doing well enough, I opened up my first hive. I love these bees. While the new bees were buzzing around like mad (though not aggressively), my old hive didn't even seem to notice that I was there. Third frame in, and I found some capped brood. 

I hope I'm doing this correctly... Since I am only using medium, 8-frame boxes, I figure the bees will want 3 boxes for the brood chamber. Then I added a queen excluder and a new honey super on top of that. Pretty soon, if the bees are happy enough to make some honey, I'll need a ladder to get in.

Funny Farmers at the Swine Show

"Old dogs can learn new tricks, but things are a whole lot easier if you grow up doing them." - Me

Two days before the 4H Regional Swine Show, and two things were apparent: 1) Not having our own livestock trailer, we weren't entirely sure how we were going to transport the hogs, and 2) Chris wasn't going to be able to help me.

Our neighbor had a livestock trailer, but it was big enough to hold a small herd of cattle- far too big for me to handle. He did, however, have a pen fashioned from livestock panel that he had used to transport goats in the back of a truck. This sounded fantastic. I wouldn't have to deal with a trailer. But how were the kids and I supposed to coax two 200 pound pigs up a ramp into the bed of a truck? After soliciting advice from our other neighbor, I realized that would probably take a small large miracle, so we decided to move on to plan C.

Tuesday afternoon, the day before check-in, we strapped the livestock cage into the trailer Chris used for his mower, threw down a sheet of OSB, and wrapped the cage with a tarp for a wind break. That finished, Zivah, Joe, and I decided we should do a trial run loading the pigs so we knew what we were in for the next morning.

Now, if we had listened to our 4H agent, and if I had pushed to get the transportation figured out sooner, we would have had the trailer ready days in advance and would have been feeding the hogs on the trailer so they would be used to loading and unloading. But no. Funny Farmers have to learn the hard way.

The pigs weren't having it. More interested in digging up the dirt along the wall in the stable, it took a lot to steer them toward the ramp. Once there, one step on the ramp, and they would push their way elsewhere. It was exhausting. After a half hour or more of frustration, Joe managed to trick the pigs onto the trailer by slowly scooting the feed pans up the ramp while they ate. Letting them back into the stable that night and reloading them in the morning didn't seem like a good idea. We made them sleep on the trailer.

The next morning, we were off. Not having dealt with a trailer much before I was a little nervous about the drive, but we were in it this far. I wasn't going to back out now.

First stop was the vet for health papers. As we waited for the vet to come out, I sat on the tongue of the trailer drinking my coffee. I couldn't believe things were (finally) going so smoothly. We had manged to pull together supplies for the show, had loaded and strapped everything down, and were right on schedule. The vet came out, I sat my coffee on the bumper, and after a quick check, I was in the office paying the fee and receiving the papers. Back out to the truck, and we were on our way again.

A couple miles down the road, I reached down for my coffee. But it wasn't there. After a few moments of panic, I told myself and the kids that there was a chance it was still on the bumper. There happened to be a house at our next turn with a driveway that cut the corner, so I pulled in, and Joe jumped out to check. Sure enough, there it was.

We made the rest of the hour-long drive without incident, and pulled up to the agricultural center barns at MTSU. There was a line of trailers in front of us, waiting for check-in. A small army of people were waiting to help unload and direct the pigs to their pens, and by the time I had parked the truck and trailer, the kids and pigs were already settling in.

The other pens in our row were designated for other Marshall County exhibitors. Our "next door" neighbor was a high-schooler I hadn't met before named Jayme. We started peppering him with questions, trying to figure out what we were supposed to be doing. He answered our questions and let us follow him around, watching as he washed and fed his hogs. Since one of the other exhibitors hadn't shown up, there was a spare pen, and Jayme made a point to share it with us so we would have a place to store our supplies. He was scheduled to show his hogs in the pure-bred show later in the afternoon, so we finally left him alone and went to grab a bite to eat before the show started.

Now, I knew that it was customary to shave the pigs before showing them, but by Tuesday night, I was so stressed and exhausted, I figured if we just made it there and managed to show the pigs- hairy as they were- that would be a win for us. But the success of the day so far made me feel a little braver, and before leaving for the evening, the kids and I decided we would get up early the next morning to wash and clip the pigs before things got hectic in the barn.

At 5:30 the next morning, with soap and clippers in hand, we were out the door and on our way back to Murfreesboro.

Only a few people were there when we arrived, so we didn't have any trouble getting the pigs to the washing station, scrubbed down, and back to their pens. But when the pigs had dried off, I pulled out the clippers and tried to snap on the attachment. It didn't fit. We would have to hold the attachment in place while clipping them. Joe's pig, Chip, didn't give Joe too much trouble, but Rosie was another story. As I stepped into her pen to start, she started ramming and nipping at my legs. I fended her off for a good five minutes, getting in a swipe with the clippers when I could until she finally calmed down and I was able to finish the job.

Showmanship was first, starting with the older kids. We asked Jayme how we would know when our turn was up, and he showed us where the sheets were posted with the heats listed. When our time came we got the pigs to the show ring and managed to get them back. Next up was the "skillathon"- a testing of the kids' knowledge about all things hog related. By this point, I was so exhausted, I managed to convince the kids that we would skip the state show the next day and try to get the pigs home that night. Besides, snow and ice was forecast for the next day, and that was nothing I wanted to deal with on top of it all. All that was left, then, was to show the hogs in their cross-breed classes, load them up, and get home.

Surviving that round, I actively started worrying about how we were going to get the pigs loaded back up in the trailer. Thankfully, Jayme was nearby.

Now, I must admit, I was a little embarrassed by our trailer. Ours was the only one in the lot NOT an actual livestock trailer. I was expecting Jayme to at least snicker or give me a horrified look when I pulled up and he saw our trailer. But, bless him, he didn't even flinch. I was afraid I might back into someone's hog or a post, so asked Jayme to back the trailer up to the barn door for me- which he did with ease. And while Jayme was backing the trailer up, another kid about Joe's age walked up to me. "Is that your trailer?! That's great!" He proceeded to tell how impressed he was and how clever it was that we didn't spend a lot of money on a livestock trailer. And a tiny bit of my embarrassment turned to pride.

I don't know if we would have been able to get the hogs on that trailer without Jayme, but having a big, football-playing guy that knew pigs helping, it didn't take long. He proceeded to help us load up all our gear, then told us he hoped to see us back at it next year. Next I knew, we were on our way home.

I'll tell you what, it still makes me tear up a little bit with gratitude for all the help Jayme was to us. 4H kids are the best.

Back home, I managed to back the trailer up to the stable, ready to unload. Rosie tromped off the trailer fairly quickly and into the pen. But Chip was another story. He was feeling a little motion-sick from the ride, and didn't want to move- much less step onto the metal grate of the ramp. I got up in the trailer with the hog-board, got behind him, and started pushing. He grunted a little and set his feet a little firmer on the wood. I managed to get him closer to the edge of the board, but he refused to let himself get pushed onto the grate. The harder I pushed, the more intense his grunts became. I could feel the bruises forming on my knees. Every time I though I had him close, he pushed back and shoved past me. I didn't think we'd ever get him off.

After several minutes of head-scratching, I came up with the idea of scooting the cage off the trailer, so Joe and I unstrapped the cage and slowly yanked it toward the back of the trailer until Chip was finally forced off the board. Seeing that he no longer had solid footing beneath him, it didn't take a lot more effort to coax him down the ramp and into the stable.

It was nearly dark by the time we got the rest of everything unloaded and put away. Finally able to realx, we reveled in our accomplishments for the week, Zivah daydreaming about showing a hog again next year.

Hogs on the Farm

Sometime in September, I got an email from the 4H office. Would any of our kids be interested in raising and showing hogs? I asked Zivah. "YES, YES, YES!" was her immediate response. Joe wasn't quite as enthused, but once he figured he might be able to make a little money off the sale of the pig in the end, agreed to participate as well. 

A couple weeks later, we had a pen erected around my garden plot in hopes the hogs would do some clean-up and tilling for me, some bales of hay and plastic-covered wood for a shelter, and a good amount of excitement. We were hoping for a male and a female. The male we would butcher when the time came and share half with my brother, who was "going in" on the whole thing with us. The female, if all went well, we would breed in an effort to expand the Funny Farm's meat production prospects.

The hogs were delivered on a Saturday in mid-October. The smaller of the two was a barrow, weighing in around 50 pounds. The bigger, pink one was a gilt, weighing about 75 pounds.

They did a great job tilling up my garden, and we ended up building a pen off the stable so they would have some dryer shelter when the rains came. The kids have taken them out a couple times to work on their showmanship skills (which was quite the thing to watch); and now it is January, and the 4H Junior Swine Show starts tomorrow. Time does fly. (I'm glad pigs don't.) Chip, the barrow is now weighing about 200 lbs, and Rosie is right behind him in size. I wasn't sure they would make it to show weight, but they did!

We are trying to decided which would be better: coaxing the pigs up a narrow ramp into a cage on the back of the truck, or me driving a trailer. It is all kind of nerve-wracking for a city-raised girl like me, but, oh, what an adventure.

Wesley Nicholas Eulogy by Mark Nicholas

Good morning. For those who don’t know, I am Mark, the eldest son of Wesley Nicholas, and I’d like to share a few things about my Dad with you this morning as we remember, celebrate and give thanks for his life.

Wesley Bernard Nicholas was born on December 30th, 1946, to Joe and Isadora Nicholas, who were both in their mid 40’s when he was born. As an only child, he grew up in the small oil refinery and railroad town of Laurel, Montana, which sits on the banks of the Yellowstone River and just west of Billings by about 15 miles. Montana is well-known as the Big Sky Country and from the town of Laurel you have a good view of the Pryor Mountains to the southeast and the impressive Beartooth Mountains to the southwest. The reason I tell you this is that this place and these views were deeply imprinted in my dad and no matter where else he lived, no place could be or ever would be home to him like Montana.

Growing up the only child of older parents, my dad had a fascinating childhood in that he was exposed to a variety of things by HIS dad, who was a skilled and resourceful jack of all trades. His dad was the town’s deputy sheriff, the water treatment plant operator, mechanic, machinist, building inspector and a pilot, among other things. This meant that my dad had a broad view of the world and what was possible. As a kid my dad was a paperboy, played trumpet, was a photographer and earned his pilot’s license in high school. He also dabbled in hunting, golf, and wrestling, but the most formative and favorite activity of his childhood by far was being with his dad and working alongside him in their garage shop, which was a wonderland of tools, machines, oil, steel, bolts, and screws. It smelled industrious and was industrious. It was a place where possibilities could become a reality. And it was the place where my Dad’s jack-of-all-trades skills were cultivated and honed. (And … if any of you have ever been inside mine, my brother’s or sister’s garage, you will how see these values are still in play, a couple generations later :)

For example, in the back there is a photo of a homemade tractor that my dad and grandpa built together.

After high school, Dad moved to Bozeman and attended Montana State University, where he studied mechanical engineering. While there he connected with a girl from his hometown by the name of Barbara and they became friends, playing cards and hanging out socially. During that time, Dad became smitten with Barbara, and though I’m told it took some convincing, he won her hand and they were married in September of 1968. After graduation, Dad accepted a job as a manufacturing engineer at the Western Electric plant in Omaha, Nebraska, where they moved in 1970.

(Actually, there was a little stowaway onboard who also made the move with them. This guy, whom they hadn’t met just yet. ;)

So Omaha, Nebraska, became the place where my dad and mom set up their tents and raised their family. I was born late summer of 1970, a year a half later my brother Mike came along, and then 4 1/2 years after that, our little sister Wendy was born.

In thinking back over our dad’s life, there are so many memories, stories and values that I could stand here and tell you about. But for those of you here who have only known him the past 7 years that they’ve lived here in Middle Tennessee, I want to share a few of his meaningful traits with you, in hopes that you will know him and his legacy a bit better.

The first thing that comes to mind is our dad’s work ethic. As I mentioned previously, he was an engineer and worked at Western Electric (which later became AT&T). His job there at that plant was to design telecommunications connectors for cabling operations. In the 70’s it was all copper cabling but in the 80’s they switched to fiber optic cable connectors. He was a quintessential engineer and was always concerned with detail, precision and process. At the dinner table when my mom would badger all of us with the question “how was your day?”, when it was my dad’s turn he would tell about some supremely boring machine process and how it had to “be exact” and how the part’s variance could not be off more than “1/100th the thickness of a sheet of paper”. I still don’t know how thick a regular sheet of paper is and probably never will - but he did and he cared and that made him good at his job.

Dad was a self-described workaholic, but it never did interfere with family. His work life was deeply patterned and systematic - he went in to work early by 7am and was home by 4:30 on the dot every single day (this to avoid the non-existent ‘rush hour’ traffic in Omaha, Nebraska). He’d come in the house, drop his keys in the ashtray on top of the refrigerator and briefcase on the counter in the same spot. In the kitchen he’d kiss Mom on the cheek then head straight to his lazy-boy recliner to read the newspaper until dinner was ready at 5pm. In all our years at home, this pattern was as predictable as the sun rising in the morning and never wavered. Looking back, I am deeply grateful for the consistency that he offered, even in something as seemingly trivial as this.

My siblings and I considered our Dad to be an extraordinary and thrifty do it yourself-er and we grew up in awe of his abilities. Whether it was building us a treehouse, re-roofing the house, fixing the cars (I never once remember my dad taking a car in to a mechanic for anything), electrical, plumbing, repairing clocks, etc, no matter what it was, our dad could do or fix seemingly anything.

My dad was not selfish with his abilities and routinely shared them with others. He was the go-to guy for all the widows at church who needed their cars repaired, free of charge. He would be at church several Saturdays a month working on the antiquated boiler system so we could have heat the next day during services. He also ran the “tape ministry” at church, which meant that he would record, duplicate and distribute cassette tapes of the sermons to shut-ins around town.

Dad’s work and acts of services were very formative for us kids, and his actions showed us that we were to give ourselves away on behalf of others.

That sounds a bit like the way of Jesus as well.

Faith was a crucial element of our Dad’s life. He was raised by his parents (his mom in particular) as a Christian Scientist, which if you know anything about it, it is a pretty wacky religion. It was in college and during a time of searching that my mom invited him to a Bible study she hosted in her apartment. He became curious about Jesus and Christianity and after talking to a pastor there, eventually placed his faith in the saving work of Jesus Christ and developed a deep love for God’s Word.

As I mentioned earlier, he was always looking for ways to serve his local church, but throughout his Christian life, he and my mom supported many foreign missionaries as well, in a number of different countries, several of whom have become lifelong friends.

After retirement Dad became a Gideon and devoted much of his spare time to distributing Bibles and serving as Treasurer of the local Gideon chapter.

You can see the pattern here… a life well-spent serving others.

But there’s a couple more things I’d like to briefly add.

Music was so very meaningful to our dad. He loved playing trumpet and was a great player. In high school he was often asked to play “Taps” at military funerals, he marched in the Tournament of Roses parade one year and traveled many places with the Montana Centennial Band. In Omaha he joined the Western Electric company band and would play annual holiday concerts, in nursing homes and so on. He also played around on the saxophone and piano. One of my favorite memories as a child is that he and my mom would often play duets on the family piano to serenade us kids as we’d be going to sleep at night. Dad would take the high, melodic parts and my mom would take the lower, rhythmic arrangements. My favorite song in their repertoire was "Jamaica Farewell.”

And even though he let us play with it when we were older, it was clear that his large console stereo system was one of his most valued treasures, and he would love to play his albums or listen to music on the radio for hours on end.

For being a pretty reserved guy, music was the thing that kept his emotions right at the surface. He and my mom’s love for music permeated our home, and the net result is that we kids loved music as well.

My dad was kind of a quiet person and not one who ever looked for or sought attention from other folks. However, he was always quick with a joke or a quip. I’ve noticed in a number of the condolences that people have offered that they remember him as a funny guy. Dad liked to think that his humor was dark and even started writing a memoir a few years back that he titled “Dark Humor”. But truth be told, his brand of humor wasn’t dark at all - rather it was DRY humor or WRY humor even. Kind of like if Bob Newhart was a bit more awkward and a bit more silly - that’s the kind of humorist our Dad was. A lot of times, during a family conversation, everybody would be talking about a topic and Dad would be sitting there not contributing anything, but then POW, out of left field he’d toss out a quip, joke or funny observation. Almost like a non-sequitur, he was there just waiting to pounce with a joke or something that would tickle him.

His humor was the thing that let us know he was paying attention and that there was a world of thought going on inside his head.

Dad’s humor was almost always self-deprecating. In the back on the table, there’s a little life history printout that Dad wrote back in 2004 that would give you a small glimpse into his funny mind.

There is a lot I’ve left out and more I wish I could say to let you know about our dad. But in closing, there is a single word that I think sums up my dad’s life and his legacy quite well. And that word is Fidelity, which means:

Faithfulness to a person, cause or belief AND demonstrated by continuing loyalty and support. And also, accuracy in details.

Our Dad - and our mom’s husband - was faithful to us, his family. He was faithful to his friends and faithful to his God. He was loyal and always supportive. I heard him say several times that he wanted to be known as someone who always provided for his family. And by God’s grace, he was able to do just that. Thanks, Dad, for leaving us with a good legacy to aspire to and a story to live into. Your story was a good one and we are grateful for your fidelity in all our lives. We look forward to seeing you again in the resurrection, your body, mind and soul restored and glorified. Until that day, we’ll be missing you being here with us.

And while I’m being thankful, I want to publicly honor and give thanks to our Mom, who sacrificed so much in caring for Dad his whole adult life, but particularly towards the end as his MS became more pronounced and burdensome. Dad endured so much without complaint, and you were there with him, holding his hand every step of the way. I love you, Mom, and I can only imagine the truckload of crowns being readied for you in heaven. Thank you for setting a loving example of faithfulness too.

And finally, to my parents’ friends at Smyrna Baptist Church - thank you for your welcoming kindness to my parents in their relatively short time here. You have given them a place to belong and a church home away from their Montana home. May God bless you for this. To God be the glory.  

July 2017

My grandmother always wore a long-sleeved shirt and a large, round, straw hat whenever she went out to work in the garden. Several years ago, I realized it might be wise if I started providing my face with some shade when I was outside, so went on the hunt for a similar hat. I found one at Target, bought it, and tried to wear it once. But since it was made of some horrible, plastic, fake straw, it was so hot, I never wore it again. Today, I wandered in to our local lumber yard, and encountered a stand of hats. The big round ones were made of the same lousy plastic, but there were other options made form actual straw. So I bought one.

This week is promising to be miserable. High heat and humidity dominates the forecast. I suppose I should be glad that I didn't plant anything other than some tomatoes this year and don't have much obligation to be outdoors, but I am finding if I don't get a good dose of outside every week, my spirit suffers.

I tried to get some sour dough starter going; but either my starter isn't strong enough yet, or I didn't give the dough enough time to rise, so I ended up with a little sour dough brick instead of a loaf. I sliced it, harvested the only tomatoes ripened in the garden, and proceeded to make myself a tiny tomato melt. I cut the 4 or 5 cherry tomatoes in half, nestled them into a generous layer of mayonnaise, topped it with shredded cheddar cheese, and threw it in the toaster oven. Then I ate it very slowly. I might have to steal some tomatoes from my mother's garden and try baking another loaf soon.

In other news, my bees seem to be doing well. I'm too much of a chicken to really dig into the hive at this point, as I have either killed or almost killed the queen more than once. But I took a good look at the top super last week (a third 8-frame), and several of the middle frames had capped brood, and the bees were working on filing the outer frames with honey. That prompted me to get on painting the boxes I bought last month, and so a 4th super has been added to the hive. At some point, I guess I will have to work up a little more courage and inspect the whole hive if I want to do this beekeeping thing right...

We had another critter get into our coop a week or so back, and thanks to the security cameras Chris installed, discovered this time we had a raccoon infiltrator. It killed Fluffy and all of the chicks the two mama hens had hatched. So, thanks to the possum and raccoon, our two favorite hens (Fluffy and Goldie) have both been killed this year. I wouldn't mind so much if a predator came in once in a while and picked off a rooster or two, but it appears these lot of boys have no interest in defending the flock.

Finley is off at band camp, and Joe is at a robotics day camp this week, so things are quieter around the house this week. Then the kids head back to school in just a few short weeks. Summer is flying by.

June 2017

Rumor has it that inquiries are being made about the state of my garden, so I figure it is high time for another update:

The weeds are growing nicely, as are the five tomato plants growing with them. 

One of the tomato plants growing this year, is a volunteer, the other four are starts from my brother. I have yet to put the cages around them, and I better do so before I risk damaging their limbs. Pardon me a moment while I take care of that.

*****

It's hot out there. The volunteer tomato is already sprawling too much to cage it. It has been sporting several, little green tomatoes for the past week and is teasing me by not letting them ripen. Thankfully, my mother, who is a more diligent gardener than I, gave me several yellow tomatoes last week that I devoured with some salads slathered in bleu cheese dressing. I have been diligent enough to weed around my tomatoes, but need to top with some compost and mulch so the weeds have a little harder time coming back.

If I manage to till the garden for a third time, I may get around to planting some winter squash. We shall see.

I do have a plan in the works to foil those pesky weeds. I have scalped the grass in a good sized area next to the current garden and covered it in black plastic. The hope is that all the grass will get killed off, I can build several raised beds, and put down some of that commercial landscape fabric between and around the beds to prevent weeds- and specifically that evil Bermuda grass- from growing up into my beds. The problem with my regular garden is that, although I edge it in the spring, we are far too busy to weed-eat the edge every week when we mow, so by the end of the season, Bermuda grass has infiltrated the whole garden. It's awful. 

Moving on to other things, my bees seem to be doing well. 

We just finished fencing in a new section for the beef cattle. They pasture they were on had been eaten down quite a bit, and the three steers had started getting into the habit of finding weak parts in the fence and getting out. I was so desperate to get them on the new grass that I put off protecting the maple and oak trees in the new area, and went out to discover they had rubbed a good section of bark off the maple. I'm hoping it survives. Today, I braved the heat and did my best to protect them from further damage with some t-posts and barbed wire.

Out in the chicken coop, I discovered one nesting box always had one, both, or the other of two hens sitting on some eggs. They must have decided that such a tedious job was more fun with a friend.

Now that some chicks have hatched, they are sharing the mothering duties as well.

I never get tired of seeing new chicks. It continues to be a problem, however, that a good number of them grow up to be roosters. And since we have bantams in the mix now, they don't show much promise of growing into good meat birds. As such, I have decided that the coyotes living nearby will soon be surprised with some tasty treats. 

A Cold in May

My tonsils are whimpering, and my Eustachian tubes are irritable. It is a minor miracle that I am breathing through one nostril. Zivah is camped out in the guestroom with similar symptoms, though her coughing is more frequent than mine.

I might come across as a less-than-dramatic person, but the truth is, there is plenty of that going on inside my mind.

Dramatic Me: WOE IS ME!
Logical Me: Shut up. You aren't even close to being near death.
Dramatic Me: The snot!!! It runneth like a river from my nose!
Logical Me: Stop exaggerating.
Dramatic Me: Oh, who will save me from this misery!
Logical Me: Are you borrowing from the Apostle Paul, or Dr. Seuss?
Dramatic Me: I need to write poems about the agony of having a cold in spring. begins coming up with other words that rhyme with snot
Logical Me: debates with self whether it would be wiser to work through the cold or sit on the couch and rest
Me Me: listens to all the inward banter and decides it would be okay to ignore major housework and sit on the couch to write a little

I bought a new hummingbird feeder. The one the birds liked best grew mold in the inverted bottle that was impossible to clean out. The new feeder sports a wider mouth and little slits instead of  holes that are supposed to keep the wasps and other bugs out of it. I'm happy with the ease of cleaning but am not sure the birds like drinking through the slits.

Our second female duck is sitting on a pile of eggs. She just recently moved her nest right in front of the door, and while the other mama would run out in fright when I came in to check on things, this mama stays and hisses like a mad cat about to claw you to pieces. We will soon be overrun with ducks. If anyone in the Middle Tennessee area wants a few, let me know.

I started digging the Bermuda grass out of the garden a couple weeks ago, but as things tend to go around here, I still haven't finished, and the tomato plants Mark gave me are hanging on to life while they wait for transplantation. Guess there won't be much of a garden this year. I did manage to spray the fruit trees yesterday.

The gold finches are back. I should take a break to research whether they are migratory birds, but I am assuming so, since I never see them over the winter months. They have a habit of hanging out on the driveway in the mornings. When we leave for school, we scare them up, and their droopy flights always catch my attention. It's as if they are too heavy to stay aloft and start diving toward the ground. Then a few hard flaps, and they swoop back up, only to drop again.

For the Bird and Bees

There is so much to tell.

While the writer in me wants to take the time to tell the story, the utilitarian in me would like bullet points to get through it all. 

In my last report, Goldie was sharing a nest with the duck, and I had plans to separate them. We moved Fluffy and her chick, Bailey, out to the stable, along with Goldie and her chicken eggs. Everyone settled in nicely. The duck was happy to have her nest all to herself, and Goldie barely blinked at being moved. Bailey took to snuggling up with Goldie and her eggs at times. On chillier night, all three would snuggle up together in Goldie's nest.

When Goldie's eggs started hatching, the two baby chicks took to Fluffy right away, while Goldie stayed on the nest, waiting for the rest to hatch. It became apparent they never would, so I removed them before the stink got bad. Soon, they were a tight knit little group of two mamas looking out for three chicks, regardless of who had sat on the egg.

Meanwhile, the duck still had a week to go on her eggs, and her pile kept growing as she incorporated any egg laid on the floor of the coop. 

Then we acquired some bees. I waited a little too long to check on them after installation, and was confronted with some large drawn-out combs attached to the bottom of the feeder. 

The good news was that I could tell the queen was laying. The bad new was, I didn't know what damage I did when removing the comb, if any. A week later showed spottily-capped brood and perhaps some attempts by the bees to make a new queen. I will check soon to see what happened.

Back in the chicken coop, the duck hatched out five, cute, little ducklings.

Soon after, we moved Goldie, Fluffy, and the three chicks back out to the coop.

That was a mistake. 

A few days later, Goldie went missing. Aside from a few downy feathers scattered about, there was no sign of her. We checked everywhere: in Jane's hutch, underneath the coop, behind the feed bins, everywhere. I couldn't understand it. There was no way I saw that she could have escaped the aviary and wandered off. Maybe, I hoped irrationally, she was so loved, God whisked her away like he did Elijah.

The next day, I checked the coop, and -horror of horrors- found a mangled, half-eaten Bailey in the back corner of the coop. Something was getting in.

Now, I know there are these little articles floating around the internets about opossums and how great they are because they eat ticks. But chicken keepers don't care. Chickens eat ticks, and opossums eat chickens. Opossums are not welcome here on the farm.

The next morning saw a possum in the trap outside the coop, and we will have to be a little more careful with the hole (aka. possum access) we have in the gate that lets us chain it shut.

In other news, we finally put up the bat houses I received last year for my birthday. I stood outside at dusk a few nights ago, and was delighted to see two or three little bats swooping through the air above the farm. We have no idea if they are making use of the new accommodations, but at least the bats will know they are welcome here.

Messing with the Mamas

I underestimated the duck.

After noticing the duck had laid one egg back in the nest with Goldie yesterday, I snatched it out and placed it in another pile of duck eggs in a different corner of the coop. This morning, I went out to check on the birds, and noticed first thing that there was only ONE duck egg where I had left the pile the day before. Befuddled, I dug around in the mound of hay surrounding the single egg, thinking they might have gotten buried in the hay, but nothing was there. I glanced back over toward Goldie's nest (that the duck had just abandoned when I came in), and there they were. Somehow, that duck had moved her eggs back to the nest she was cohabiting with Goldie!

Meanwhile, Fluffy-Head was getting hungry. As soon as I threw down some feed a few feet away from her nest, she jumped up to eat, and I was able to get a picture of her chick.

Finley named the chick Bailey after her band-mate that shares a birthday with the chick.

I figured I probably needed to move FH and her chick to the pen in the stable so they would have hassle-free access to food and water. I plan to move Goldie and the chicken eggs out there later tonight, in hopes she won't get too shook up by the move and the duck will get to have her duck-egg nest all to herself. Who knew birds could be so complicated?

Funny Farm- Fowl Feature

It's springtime once again on the Funny Farm. The daffodils and a peach tree are blooming, the tulips are poking up through the soil, and the grass looks green and lush. And this weekend we might get snow. I am a little disgruntled.

We are also in the throes of chick-fever. The incubator is cooking up some eggs, and out in the chicken coop, there are other things happening.

A few weeks ago, I noticed Fluffy-Head, our little white silkie, stubbornly sitting in one corner of the chicken coop floor. I was a little surprised, because I had been good about gathering eggs daily, and knew there couldn't be but a few under her fuzzy bum. A few days in, and I finally caught her off the nest grabbing a quick bite to eat. Only one egg. But I could tell, she was determined.

About a week later, I caught our other silkie hen, Goldie, acting a little broody.

Goldie was sitting on a big pile of duck eggs, her little body not quite big enough to cover them all. Worrying that she wasn't going to be able to keep them all sufficiently warm and that the longer incubation period for duck eggs would be hard on her, I swapped the duck eggs out for some chicken eggs. Though Goldie grumbled a bit when I lifted her off the nest, she settled right back onto the new eggs without much complaint.

But, poor little Goldie. I didn't realize there was a kooky mama duck half fixated of that pile of eggs. Periodically, when I would go in to gather eggs or check on the birds at night, that duck would be nestled down next to Goldie. Then, disturbed by my intrusion, she would jump up and run off, leaving Goldie to tend the nest solo again. On top of it all, mama duck is still laying eggs, mostly in locations other than the original nest. Even though I've tried to pile them up in the spot she laid most recently, she'll keep going back to sit on the nest with Goldie. I guess ducks aren't too bright.

Yesterday, Finley noticed that Fluffy-Head's egg had pipped. I watched for a bit while F-H was off her nest, and sure enough, out popped a beak, breaking free another little section of egg. Quick births seem to be rare occurrences. Eggs are no exception, so I knew enough to be patient and wait until morning to check on the chick.

Last night, a cold front moved in, and today isn't nearly as warm. Fluffy-Head is refusing to move from the nest, but periodically, I can hear the chick peeping somewhere under the fluff. I am tempted to try to snatch F-H off the nest just to catch a glimpse of her baby, but am not sure I want to traumatize them. We'll see. Impatience may overcome my empathy.

A Letter To My Cousin Once Removed

Dear Jeff-

When I talked to my mother this morning, she said she told you she wasn't going to tell me that you commented on the increasing infrequency of my blog posts. Obviously, she did anyway.

Just so you know, I was about to start this letter, when I remembered that I needed to call my accountant before I didn't remember to. He told me it wouldn't be a bad idea to put off invoicing until after the new year, so that is one thing off my plate for now. That is welcome news, since my plate seems fuller than my husband's on Thanksgiving Day. There is the load of laundry sitting in the washing machine begging to be dried. (I'm not worried about that, though. It's winter, and the laundry can sit in there for a solid day before starting to smell musty and needing a re-wash.) The toilets are about a week overdue for a scrubbing. Finley baked cookies yesterday for holiday parties at school, and the kitchen counter is littered with dirty pots, pans, and utensils. (I have been threatening and coercing and heaping guilt upon that girl in an effort to get her to clean up after herself without being asked, but apparently the part of her brain that dictates order does not function. I am hoping it is just a hormonal, pre-teen thing, and not something that is permanently broken.) It's a good thing we don't have mice. The amount of crumbs scattered throughout would make them fat and happy. The truck needs to have its intake gaskets replaced. I have bales of pine needle sitting in my un-weeded flowerbeds. You are beginning to get the picture.

Truthfully, there have been at least one hundred posts I've started in my head, but pushed aside in an effort to accomplish the things on my mental list of priorities. A few times, I actually sat down and started to type one out, but I was either interrupted or my thoughts veered completely off the original path and I gave up. Today, however, priorities have shifted and come hell or high water, I'm writing.

It occurs to me that some of the blame for my failures lie squarely on the shoulders of your cousin, my mother. I have people suggest that I set aside a time slot for writing (or other artistic endeavors that fall short of the survival category). Frankly, though, my mother did a lousy job instilling a habit of self-discipline in me. As well-intentioned as my intentions are, I just can't seem to keep appointments with myself.

Now, if some one else gives me an assignment and a deadline, I'm on it. Paper due in the morning? I will eek it out in the wee hours of the night. Kids out of underwear? The washing machine jumps to action. Knowing this about myself, I did sign up for an art class this year. Having shelled out a chunk of money and someone to tell me what to do, I've actually painted a few things this year (see below). Perhaps I should hire you to be my writing boss, and then the words will flow.

I don't know why I've let your expectations dictate my morning, but they have. And what will I get in return? You have a way with words, but aside from a clever poem every decade or so and the occasional (and I mean occasional) e-mail, I never read anything from your pen. If I ever find out that you have a trove of stories and poems ferreted away in a desk somewhere that no-one has had the pleasure of reading, I will be first upset, then delighted. So I suggest that unless there are a myriad of legitimate excuses your retired self cannot write, you make use of the frigid, Montana winter and scribble a few things down.

I hope you and Sandy are staying warm and well.

Fondly,
-w