Barbara is on the loose!
Friday, September 28, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
The Mouse-Pee Stove
My mother is a saint. I called to ask her if we could come over for dinner since I didn't think we'd have a working stove by evening. After calling about replacement parts for the broken stove and discovering that it would take no less than $160 to fix it, I had gone out to try to clean out the mouse-pee stove. When I opened the top up, revealing the pee and poop littered insulation, the smell hit, and I started gagging. When she heard about by gagging troubles, Mom offered to come out and give it a go herself.
I was eating a snack when she showed up, so I just watched and let her dive in. As she was yanking out the insulation, I saw something. "Baby mouse," I said. She jumped back like an alligator was snapping at her arm. "Is it alive?" (The horror in her voice doesn't translate in type.) "No," I said laughing (I know... It's not very nice to laugh at a saint.) and took a closer look. The three pinkies were clearly shriveled, and I plucked them out and dropped them into the trash can.
Having finished my snack, I grabbed the shop-vac to help speed up the process. Mom stepped back, and I started sucking up poo-pellets and insulation. After a moment, I caught a glimpse of something else, and startled, I yelled and jumped back like an alligator was after my arm. Three more pinkies nestled in the insulation had been exposed, and these looked fresh. (No, I did not squeal like a school girl. At least I have that to soothe my pride.) We had another good laugh, shook the willies off, then I sucked them up with the shop-vac as fast as I could.
After Mom had gone back home, I tore apart the other stove, cut out some clean insulation, and installed it into the mouse-pee stove. Our neighbor had left his furniture dolly for us to use while we tried to resolve our stove fiasco, so feeling empowered, I decided to see if I could move it back into the trailer. Thankfully, Reanna was there to help steady and lift, and we managed to get it up the porch stairs and into the kitchen. We are women. Hear us roar.
Today, my back is a little sore, but we have a working, non-stinking stove. And I shall forever call it the mouse-pee stove. Which is gross, but I can't help myself.
I was eating a snack when she showed up, so I just watched and let her dive in. As she was yanking out the insulation, I saw something. "Baby mouse," I said. She jumped back like an alligator was snapping at her arm. "Is it alive?" (The horror in her voice doesn't translate in type.) "No," I said laughing (I know... It's not very nice to laugh at a saint.) and took a closer look. The three pinkies were clearly shriveled, and I plucked them out and dropped them into the trash can.
Having finished my snack, I grabbed the shop-vac to help speed up the process. Mom stepped back, and I started sucking up poo-pellets and insulation. After a moment, I caught a glimpse of something else, and startled, I yelled and jumped back like an alligator was after my arm. Three more pinkies nestled in the insulation had been exposed, and these looked fresh. (No, I did not squeal like a school girl. At least I have that to soothe my pride.) We had another good laugh, shook the willies off, then I sucked them up with the shop-vac as fast as I could.
After Mom had gone back home, I tore apart the other stove, cut out some clean insulation, and installed it into the mouse-pee stove. Our neighbor had left his furniture dolly for us to use while we tried to resolve our stove fiasco, so feeling empowered, I decided to see if I could move it back into the trailer. Thankfully, Reanna was there to help steady and lift, and we managed to get it up the porch stairs and into the kitchen. We are women. Hear us roar.
Today, my back is a little sore, but we have a working, non-stinking stove. And I shall forever call it the mouse-pee stove. Which is gross, but I can't help myself.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Of Mice and Ethics
I have been thinking again lately, and I've decided to give it up. The thinking, that is. At least I'm going to give up my expectations for thinking logically and completely through something. I'm not sure it is possible at this stage in life, with this swirling life. I have ideas in my head to blog about, and if I ever manage to address the idea in a post, it gets mixed up with thoughts of eggs and construction and kid drama. I have more to say about this current inability to expand on a thought, but there are other pressing things to write about. Like the stoves.
Friday, Joe, Finley, and Reanna set out to bake some chocolate chip cookies. They got the dough all mixed up and the first pan in the oven, and a few minutes later, the smoke alarm went off. The cookies were charred. Our first thought was that the timer got messed up. In went the next pan, timer set, and soon, more smoke was pouring out of the stove's vent. After a head scratch, we discovered that the oven's heating element was not turning off. A thermometer showed temps had reached over 600 degrees. We turned the breaker off, and the stove was switched out with one we happened to have in the shop. I was so thankful to have a back-up.
Next morning, I set about baking some apple crisp. The oven preheated, and as I moved closer to put the pan in the oven, the smell hit me like a freight train: mouse pee. Dry-heaving, I opened the windows and turned on the fans, and, as Chris was gone for the day, called our neighbor to please come over when he got home to help me move this stove out of the trailer.
As we sat out in the shop with the stinking and broken stoves later, we joked about selling the mouse pee stove on craigslist. "Works perfectly fine," the ad would say. "Have another, so don't need this one." But then we might end up on an episode of People's Court. There were other options. We could take the broken one back into the house, plug it back in and leave for the day. Then maybe the trailer would burn down, and we could use the insurance money to finish the house. However, it might look suspicious if the insurance adjuster noticed that our valuables were safely out at the time. Oh, well.
In other news, the nights have been cooler, and the mice are trying to make their way in. I heard the telltale scritching sound in the wall yesterday morning, so set up the traps, and -SNAP- caught one in the pantry about midnight. Good-ol' Victor traps. I just wish they were quieter.
Friday, Joe, Finley, and Reanna set out to bake some chocolate chip cookies. They got the dough all mixed up and the first pan in the oven, and a few minutes later, the smoke alarm went off. The cookies were charred. Our first thought was that the timer got messed up. In went the next pan, timer set, and soon, more smoke was pouring out of the stove's vent. After a head scratch, we discovered that the oven's heating element was not turning off. A thermometer showed temps had reached over 600 degrees. We turned the breaker off, and the stove was switched out with one we happened to have in the shop. I was so thankful to have a back-up.
Next morning, I set about baking some apple crisp. The oven preheated, and as I moved closer to put the pan in the oven, the smell hit me like a freight train: mouse pee. Dry-heaving, I opened the windows and turned on the fans, and, as Chris was gone for the day, called our neighbor to please come over when he got home to help me move this stove out of the trailer.
As we sat out in the shop with the stinking and broken stoves later, we joked about selling the mouse pee stove on craigslist. "Works perfectly fine," the ad would say. "Have another, so don't need this one." But then we might end up on an episode of People's Court. There were other options. We could take the broken one back into the house, plug it back in and leave for the day. Then maybe the trailer would burn down, and we could use the insurance money to finish the house. However, it might look suspicious if the insurance adjuster noticed that our valuables were safely out at the time. Oh, well.
In other news, the nights have been cooler, and the mice are trying to make their way in. I heard the telltale scritching sound in the wall yesterday morning, so set up the traps, and -SNAP- caught one in the pantry about midnight. Good-ol' Victor traps. I just wish they were quieter.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Randomness
Turns out the pullets have been laying. Finley came running into the house a little while ago, insisting I had to come immediately. As we hurried out the door, she explained she found where the chickens had been laying in the stable, and Zivah said (I swear I heard her correctly), "Oh, this is bad on so many levels!" Finley then gathered all the eggs, washed and dried them, set them in some cartons, and put them in the fridge. Guess I'll have to give her a cut of the next sale of eggs.
Yep, Z is something else. This morning, she came into my room as I was trying to pry my eyes open, and proudly told me she had gone potty and had gotten dressed all by herself: Cars underwear, camo shorts, and Titan's t-shirt. She later asked me to put her hair in 3 ponytails, but those didn't last long as apparently they interfered with the tiger costume.
And Joe lost his first tooth this week. Principal Delk pulled it for him. I was taken a bit by surprise, as I didn't think the tooth was that loose.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Death and New Life in the City
As we have been under the weather for longer than I care to think, not much has been happening at The Funny Farm. We haven't been working on the house, we haven't butchered any chickens, and nothing extraordinary has happened that I would care to report.
There was, however, a tragedy last Monday at Farm Team35 (as my brother and sister-in-law's little venture in the city is called). A neighborhood dog broke into the chicken tractor and killed all four chickens. When a neighbor saw what was happening and tried to stop the massacre, the dog busted right though the chicken wire in another spot and ran off.
I might have been more upset than my brother was when I heard the news. I had read that chicken wire wasn't much of a match for raccoons, but I had no idea that a dog could do this kind of damage so easily. Setbacks are bound to happen, ("It's always something" is heard around here all the time.) and life would be a downer if we let them stop us from pursuing our dreams. So my brother buried his chickens, then set about fixing up the tractor with some sturdier wire mesh.
Yesterday, he drove out to Poultry Hollow to pick up some new birds. When I saw the pictures, I had to fight off a little chicken envy. He picked out a black and gold Polish (bottom right) that he named Arlene, and I'm going to have to get one of my own some day.
May these new ladies have many years of happiness and productivity in their new home.
There was, however, a tragedy last Monday at Farm Team35 (as my brother and sister-in-law's little venture in the city is called). A neighborhood dog broke into the chicken tractor and killed all four chickens. When a neighbor saw what was happening and tried to stop the massacre, the dog busted right though the chicken wire in another spot and ran off.
Yesterday, he drove out to Poultry Hollow to pick up some new birds. When I saw the pictures, I had to fight off a little chicken envy. He picked out a black and gold Polish (bottom right) that he named Arlene, and I'm going to have to get one of my own some day.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
It took almost two weeks of sick kiddos to bring me down, and I have the feeling the smallest one did me in with her in-your-face coughing. So I will do my best to ignore that huge pile of dishes in the kitchen, and if the kids come to blows, so be it. I will not subject my sore throat to the strain of raising my voice to get any one's attention.
And all those roosters will live another day or two.
Thursday, when Chris got home, I told him I hadn't been feeling well, and Big Papi had been without water all day. Big Papi has this bad habit of knocking over his watering bowl, then kicking it to the back side of his pen where I am reluctant to retrieve it. So Chris went out to take care of it. A few minutes later, he came storming in and said, "Big Papi's going to die tonight!" Apparently, Big Papi had attacked Chris. "So, you weren't ready to kill him when you found out he attacked me," I said. "I see how it is."
For the past few weeks, we have been anxiously awaiting the birth of Sandy's baby. Sandy is the neighbors' donkey. Every day on the way to and from school, we would scan the pasture or barnyard for Sandy to see if she had a little one by her side. Finally, on Friday morning, we got a call from the neighbor.
With all we've been dealing with lately, my garden has been completely neglected. Everything, except for the grass, has died out. It is getting a little late for any attempt at a fall planting, so I guess I'll just forget about it for now, and hope next year will be better.
And all those roosters will live another day or two.
Thursday, when Chris got home, I told him I hadn't been feeling well, and Big Papi had been without water all day. Big Papi has this bad habit of knocking over his watering bowl, then kicking it to the back side of his pen where I am reluctant to retrieve it. So Chris went out to take care of it. A few minutes later, he came storming in and said, "Big Papi's going to die tonight!" Apparently, Big Papi had attacked Chris. "So, you weren't ready to kill him when you found out he attacked me," I said. "I see how it is."
For the past few weeks, we have been anxiously awaiting the birth of Sandy's baby. Sandy is the neighbors' donkey. Every day on the way to and from school, we would scan the pasture or barnyard for Sandy to see if she had a little one by her side. Finally, on Friday morning, we got a call from the neighbor.
With all we've been dealing with lately, my garden has been completely neglected. Everything, except for the grass, has died out. It is getting a little late for any attempt at a fall planting, so I guess I'll just forget about it for now, and hope next year will be better.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Raspberry Harvest
A Chicken Plucker At Last!
Big Papi's days are numbered.
This morning, I finished building a chicken plucker.
This is not the barrel-style chicken plucker I started months ago. After discovering that the barrel we had was too brittle, I've kept my eye out for a newer barrel to buy, but life with kids makes things complicated, so I haven't had the chance to get one. It became obvious, though, that these chickens need to go. Soon. Not only is Big Papi mean, he has taken to waking at 4 a.m. and crowing like a desperate Paul Revere. To boot, the other young roosters destined for the knife have also started crowing. At least they are kept far enough away that I can't really hear them in the mornings. And on top of all this is the fact that I have to feed them. So. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Sunday, I gathered together the motor, pulleys, and belt off an old concrete mixer, a section of 3" PVC pipe, and some lumber and began building a table-top plucker:
After my first test run, I realized the fingers were spinning the wrong way, so I had to swap the configuration around. Then after applying some paint to make cleaning a little easier, I slapped it all together, and walla!
Admittedly, the design could be refined quite a bit, but this is the best I could do with what we had. And I'm guessing it will be a heck of a lot better than plucking by hand and having to singe off hairs.
This morning, I finished building a chicken plucker.
This is not the barrel-style chicken plucker I started months ago. After discovering that the barrel we had was too brittle, I've kept my eye out for a newer barrel to buy, but life with kids makes things complicated, so I haven't had the chance to get one. It became obvious, though, that these chickens need to go. Soon. Not only is Big Papi mean, he has taken to waking at 4 a.m. and crowing like a desperate Paul Revere. To boot, the other young roosters destined for the knife have also started crowing. At least they are kept far enough away that I can't really hear them in the mornings. And on top of all this is the fact that I have to feed them. So. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Sunday, I gathered together the motor, pulleys, and belt off an old concrete mixer, a section of 3" PVC pipe, and some lumber and began building a table-top plucker:
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