The Seven Year Visit

My father arrived at my house one pretty November day for a visit.  It lasted for seven years.

We didn't realize when he showed up that it was anything more than another of his "wandering" week-ends.  In another age he would have been right at home with the pioneers who always wanted to see what was on the other side of the mountain.  Every so often he would get the urge to get out and wander the roads wherever they took him.  When my mother was alive he would often walk in on a Friday evening and tell her that if she could be ready in 30 minutes she could go with him.   Never one to miss an adventure, she kept a small bag packed with extra make-up, underwear and necessities.  Together they would go wherever their fancy would take them.  Sometimes they would have great surprises of out of the way diners and cozy motels and sometimes they would have hilarious tales of "Ptomaine Willie's Cafe" or picnics in downpours on lonely roads.  Whatever the adventure they always had fun and thoroughly enjoyed their rambles.

Now sixteen years into his second marriage he often rambled the back roads with a buddy of his, so his stopping by on the way home wasn't a real shock.  We added another plate to the table and enjoyed his tales of his week-end.  The night grew late and we suggested that he just spend the night and go home the next day.  We should have been a little suspicious when he carried in two large suitcases.  However, the kids were delighted to bunk in together so he could have our son's room, in exchange for the fun of having Granddaddy around. 

The next day he pottered happily around, fixing this or that, telling tales to the kids, and just in general enjoying our company.  He said that since he was now retired and had no job to hurry home to, he would just stay another day.  Three days later, hubby pulled me into the bedroom and shut the door.  "What is going on?  When is he going home?  He's intruding on my bath time!!"  (with one bathroom, slotting one more into the morning schedule was a little hairy)  It was time for a little talk.

We settled down at the table for a cup of coffee.  With a little gentle prodding the story came out.  He was getting a divorce and he needed to move out of his house until everything was settled.  With a sigh, we realized we now were a family of five.  Our son and daughter survived sharing a room longer than I would have thought, before finally coming to blows.  It finally became apparent that we would have to make more permanent arrangements. 

Daddy, who had cheerfully settled into the small town routine, checked with his coffee buddies and located a mobile home for sale.  He toyed with moving it to various places in the county where he could live "close to nature".  That translated into living back a rural road where it would take me 30-45 minutes to get to him.  Looking into the future and seeing a time when I would need to be able to reach him more quickly than that, we suggested something a little closer.  With glee, he replied that he thought he could live on our farm just fine. (That was a little closer than I had meant, but it was too late.)

Which is how I wound up with a trailer in my back yard (and another adolescent to keep up with, but that's another story)

Lost Memories

For all that I love "gadgets" and electronic toys (I am writing this on my ipad) I do wonder if we are losing something tangible along with the paper. I began writing this blog to put down some of my memories for my children and grandchildren, but they are too busy to read it. Sometime in the future they will want to know some of these stories, but will they be able to locate them at that time? The wonder of lovely hand-written letters is that they can be tucked back in a drawer to be unearthed years later. Then they afford a lovely visit to people and times gone by.

 I have several letters that my father wrote to my mother while he was traveling as a shoe salesman across the area. They offer a rare glimpse of my parents as young lovers. He writes of simple things..the people he has met, the places he has seen and his love for her. His humor is revealed in one letter addressed to "Neal Smith's Brat, Stanford, KY." The letter arrived at the little post office. When my mother went to pick up the mail she was informed that she had a letter, but she would have to identify herself before they could let her have it. Knowing my father and his sense of humor, she tried everything she could think of, but the postman wouldn't give it to her. Finally in exasperation, she gave in, "Yes, I'm Neal Smith's Brat". She got her letter.

My grandfather wasn't a great letter writer but he kept meticulous records of everything. These records offer a tantalizing view of life on the farm in the early part of the century. The list included not only purchases but comments on their use and need. "A pound of ten penny nails to replace roof on chicken coop blown off by storm." "Fee to blacksmith to replace rim on wagon wheel" "Payment for use of steam combine to gather wheat crop" "wages for shearers to shear sheep" "sale of two work mules to Walker farm" "sale of 20 bales of straw to school district for teacher's horse stall"

A friend reports that her granddaughter receives letters from her paternal great-grandmother. These letters have to be answered before another is written. The grandmother uses the letters to write little stories of her life and children, thus creating memories for her young great-grandchild. The child writes of her school and friends, thus giving the grandmother a chance to know more of her grandchild's life. What a wonderful gift they are giving each other.

Now our communications tend to be e-mails, text messages, or phone calls. Where are the tender treasures that we can pass on to our children? Will they ever see the information so blithely assigned to electronic void? What if the technology changes (as it will), then will we be able to see the letters, notes, pictures, and memories? Will they just be lost?

There is something to be said for the big box of pictures taking up space in my upstairs closet. At least someday I know my grandkids will be able to enjoy seeing their dad dressed as batman with a mask and a blue bath towel for a cape. They can giggle at the picture of their mom in the perm she just had to have about the fifth grade that left her looking a lot like a squirrel peeking out of a bush. They can see their grandparents as they grow with age, from slender young parents to rounded grandparents.

Have we discovered technology but lost the memories of a generation?

Hug a Farmer

It's hot!  It's dry!  Everywhere I look I see fields drying up, corn curling and turning brown, trees with yellowing leaves, plants wilting down, and people dripping.  We're having an awful summer.

Farming is one of the highest stress jobs in the world.  Some days I really can't figure out why anyone would put themselves through this nightmare called farming. 

Because of weird weather fluctuations in the Midwest over the past few years, corn prices have been soaring.  Although, as my grain farming son-in-law reminds me, so have the fuel, fertilizer, machinery, and land costs.  However, the strong corn market has caused literally thousands of acres of former pastureland in Kentucky to be planted with rows and rows of corn.  Driving through the state one sees field after field planted in the spring with high hopes of a bountiful yield and extra money for the farmers.

Young farmers, hoping for a quick start on the road to success, have sunk everything they could borrow into seed corn, land rent, fertilizer, planters and combines.  Banks, hoping for a boost in the failing economy, have happily lent the money.  An exceptionally early spring sent everyone hurrying to get as much ground planted as possible.  Before long the countryside was covered in little rows of green, feathering their slim foliage over the brown earth.  The farmers walked proud as they checked their fledgling crop. 

Then it quit raining and the temperature started to rise.  During May the temperatures hit the nineties.  (May is usually a cool, damp month)  In June the temperatures soared into the 100's--and stayed there.  Day after day the heat beat down.  The corn that had started out so bravely, began to curl it's leaves.  Farmers started to spend hours studying the radar maps on their computers.  Televisions were tuned to the weather channel.  Still the heat continued.  Farmers started praying for rain and watching the skies.

Then, as usually happens in the south, we started getting "pop up showers".  Those late afternoon showers that "pop up" quickly and just as quickly disappear.  We literally watched it rain a downpour on the field across the road from our farm, without getting a drop.  Louisville flooded from a massive 5 inch rainfall, we had a 20 minute shower.  Storms would gather, be tracked across the radar map, sure to hit us, only, at the last minute they would fade out and be gone.  Over the weeks some rain would fall, but it was never enough.

The acres of corn were starting to turn brown.  The waist high crop was doomed.  Even if rain came now, it would be too late.  The corn that has survived has not made ears due to the stress and high heat.  Only a small portion of the Kentucky corn crop will ever see market.  Some farmers will literally face bankruptcy.

A few states had managed to miss the worst of the drought during June and early July, but now are experiencing the same obsessively high temperatures and dry weather. Some analysts are saying this is the worst drought since the dust bowl in the 1930's.

 It is not a great time to be a farmer, however, you won't find them quiting.  They'll dig in their heels and fight to figure out a way to keep putting food on the tables of America.  We will continue to be well fed and clothed because the farmer is out there keeping on doing his job in spite of everything that the weather and economy can throw at him. 

If you happen to see a farmer today.  Shake his hand and maybe even give him a hug.  He's having a rough day and could use the support.

Onion Head

Back when the kids were young, we received a call from a cousin in another county.   He requested to speak to one of the kids.  Soon a conversation was taking place that consisted, on my end, of  "Oh, that's bad", "She did?", "Poor little thing" and "Sure!  Sunday would be great!"  I made frantic signals to let me have the phone, but by then the hook was set and all the cousin had to do was reel us in.

It seems that one of his Hereford mama cows had presented him with twins.  One developed pneumonia a few days after birth.  To save the little one they, kept him in the barn for a few days so they could treat him.  During this time they fed him on a bottle.  However, when he was reunited with his mama, she evidently decided that one calf seemed to be the ideal number.  No amount of urging would change her mind.  The call was to see if our kids would take on the job of raising the calf on a bottle. 

Naturally, they said yes!

Sunday came and the cousin arrived with the tiny little calf in the back of his truck.  His soft red coat was crowned by the blazing white face of the Hereford breed.  He immediately became little Onion Head.  The kids fell into the job of being surrogate mother with a passion.  Soon the morning was beginning with two kids mixing calf starter (powdered milk) in my sink and rushing to the barn with the filled bottle.  Morning and night they fed the little red calf.  Soon he recognized their voices and would bawl loudly for them to hurry up! 

They created a home for the little mite in the corner of the barn with a couple of gates.  It wasn't long before they decided that he needed to be out in the sunshine.  I would watch out the kitchen window in amusement as the two kids, the little red calf, and assorted cats and dogs would trail around the yard.  I never did figure out if the calf thought it was a little people or a dog, but he played and jumped happily with both kids and dogs.  Soon they abandoned closing the gate to his pen and he wandered around the yard at will.  When he became tired he would head back to his pen for a nap.  Several times people drove up to the house to report that a calf had gotten out in the yard.  I would laugh and thank them while little Onion Head looked on cheerfully.

I did finally have to curtail some of his roaming, the morning that my daughter came back in the house to mix a little more milk for his bottle.  By now he was coming to the house each morning for his breakfast.  When she crossed the porch and entered the kitchen door, Onion Head followed her just like he had seen the dog do.  The next thing I knew, I heard little clomping footsteps crossing the kitchen floor.  He was waiting at the sink watching her mix his breakfast, when I declared that enough was enough.

We often had cattlemen come to the farm to look at our cattle or just shoot the breeze.  A friend had wandered in one afternoon to check out one of the show heifers and offer a little advice on feeding.  On his way out of the barn he walked by Onion Head napping in his little pen.  He detoured past his truck and came directly to the kitchen.  "You've got a problem with that little Hereford."  Seeing the seriousness of his look, I was glad the kids were gone for the afternoon.  "What do you mean?" I asked.  "He's sick, really sick.  I suspect he won't live much longer."

With a sinking heart I headed for the barn.  Little Onion Head was curled up listlessly in a nest of straw.  I sat down beside him and lifted his head into my lap.  He sighed and lay there looking up at me.  I stroked his soft red hair and murmured gentle words.  Sure enough, in a short while I felt his little chest rise, fall, and fail to rise again.  The vet arrived soon after and checked him over.  He said that when he had pneumonia as a baby, his lungs had scared and adhered to the chest wall.  Everything was fine until he grew enough to cause the chest to expand and the lung to rip free.  He bled to death.  It was unavoidable and unknowable.  That didn't make it easier. 

We still remember the little red Hereford that came to live on the Angus farm.

Dr. Amazing and the Miracle Girl

Sixteen years ago during summer break from her freshman year in college, our daughter was involved in an accident that nearly took her life.  A harrowing three weeks in the hospital and 6 years of surgeries followed.  Now, although walking on a leg covered in scars, she is recovered and a typical busy mom.

While she was home for a visit last week, she realized that the doctor that had treated her during those first weeks in the hospital and the months of surgeries and recovery that followed, had a satellite office in the neighboring community.  He was the orthopedic surgeon with the trauma team that treated her from the first moment she arrived by helicopter.  At the time he was the Chief resident in orthopedics and remained her doctor though out her hospital stay and until he finished his residency under the doctor that became her primary ortho doc.  He was an incredibly compassionate man who never forgot that patients were people, not just injuries and that parents were hurting too.  In addition, he put her sixteen breaks back together like a tinker toy, determined to make everything work in spite of incredible odds.  During this time, the three of us bonded like super glue.

"I really want to go see him.", she declared, "do you think he would remember me?"  Even though we hadn't seen him for nearly ten years, I was sure he would.  She called his office and requested a few minutes to say "hi" as a former patient.  His receptionist reacted in a thoroughly professional way. "You want to what?  He's only here two days a week and he is crazy busy on those days!"  At this point, my calm, collected, aways in control daughter, became a little unraveled around the edges.  With a sob in her voice, she replied, "You don't understand!  He's the reason that I can walk!  I won't take long but I really want to see him!"  The receptionist, God bless her, told her to come on and she would see that she got a minute with him.

We arrived when his appointments were nearly finished, with reading material, prepared to wait until he could spare a few minutes.  She went to the window in the waiting room and told the receptionist that she was here.  Before she could finish we could hear a voice saying, "Is she here?!"  In moments the door opened and they motioned for us to come back.  As we walked in, my daughter was immediately enveloped into a bear hug.  I looked on with tears in my eyes and said "Isn't it wonderful to see her walk in the door?"  Swaying gently as he hugged her, the doctor looked up and said, "No.  The wonderful thing is to see her alive and well!"  With that he grabbed me and pulled me into the hug as well. 

We finally broke apart, to see his entire staff clustered around, with tears in their eyes.  Immediately, he whipped out his phone and tossed it to his nurse.  Realizing that a photo op was happening, my daughter and I quickly added ours to the waiting hands.  The staff immediately started requesting "the rest of the story!"  It seems he had been telling them about our odyssey since he found out we were coming.  With tears in our eyes, we answered questions and filled in the events of the past years. 

Then the doctor turned to my daughter and said, "I was just talking about you this morning.  A young intern had come to me, questioning whether he was taking the right path with his life.  'What are the rewards and benefits of this?' he had wondered.' I told him your story.  That," I said, " is the reward and the benefit is seeing you healthy and happy." 

That was hours before she decided she just had to see him.  Like I said they are "bonded". 

Small Town Cops

I was having a last cup of coffee the other morning when the phone rang.  Glancing at the caller ID (isn't that the handiest thing-knowing who you are going to talk to?) I saw that it was hubby.  "Are you going to exercise this morning?" he asked.  "Well, yes, I just haven't quite gotten up the energy to get to the gym yet", I replied.  "When you go, be sure and keep your speed down." he laughed," Donnie is on the prowl!" 

It seems the coffee group had met, as usual, at the local Hardee's which is on the corner of our busy intersection. They had been highly entertained by watching one of the local policemen pulling over cars as they approached the congested area around the shopping center and intersection.  He would pull them over  and then drive around the "loop" and come back and park again, ready for the next one.  Admittedly, most were exceeding the 45 mph speed limit by 15 to 20 miles and needed to slow down, but it is in an area that changes to a lower speed limit and catches a lot of us off guard. 

He stopped by hubby's office later that morning and was telling about his efforts.  It seems that he wasn't writing tickets just giving a warning, wanting more to make people aware of the speed limit and slow them down.  However, one guy when stopped, rolled his window down and snapped, "Just give me the ticket!  I'm in a hurry!"  Donnie, politely, obliged.  It took about 10 minutes to do the paperwork and all the formalities.  The warning takes about 2 minutes.

It seems that sometimes it pays to keep your mouth shut.

Before you get the idea that Donnie is just another "Barney" cop, let me set you straight.  Our local police have a big job that is getting bigger as the large city crimes are coming to our little towns.  They not only have to deal with the real crimes of the area, but they also have to do all the things that we expect of our small town police.  That means responding to strange beeping noises in the house (a smoke alarm with a low battery), the occasional cat up a tree (yes they still do that), blocking traffic for funerals, providing security for local activities, and just generally being nice guys (and women). 

Donnie over the years has ridden herd over our kids as teens.  Slowing them down by giving them warnings, keeping an eye out for them as they tested the boundaries growing up, and being comfortable enough for them to call on him if they needed help.  However, the time that stands out in my mind was the night he was the one to help us.

When our daughter was 19 she was involved in a head on collision when the other driver went to sleep.  We were leaving town for a night out with friends and actually drove up on the accident scene.  By that time, the ambulance had left and the State Police were working the scene.  Recognizing her car, we attempted to get some information out of the officer.  He stonewalled us, probably because he thought he was working what would be a fatality scene.  All we wanted to know is where she was and he kept telling us to go ask downtown.  Just when the frustration and fear had built up to explosive levels, Donnie pulled up.  Unlike the State officer, he knew us, knew our daughter and knew that we needed to know where she was.  He flagged us over and told us that they had taken her to the local hospital and were STAT flighting her to Louisville.  If we wanted to see her we needed to get to the hospital. 

I've never forgotten his kindness and understanding that night to some very frightened parents.

You Can't Wear New Tennis Shoes

I have learned over the years that you can't wear new tennis shoes on a farm.  Athletic shoes (sneakers or tennis shoes to us old folks) are my footwear of choice.  They are comfortable, lace up so they don't fly off when you chase down an escaping child, and you can wear them anywhere.  However, there is a direct correlation to new, clean, white tennis shoes and disasters.

Early on, when the kids were small, I was tripping around the kitchen one night in my new tennies, when hubby burst through the door.  "Come quick!  The cows are out! "  "I'll be right there", I called as I headed for the bedroom door.  "Where are you going?!!!" he stutters.  "Just to change my shoes", I replied.  "NO TIME!  COME ON!!"  So off we went. 

We headed for the field where they were last seen in the pitch black dark.  Sure enough the field was empty and there was a gaping hole in the fence.  It seems the bull took issue with the bull in the next field and they took out a section of fence.  The cows, sensing a good show, quickly followed through the gap to watch the contest.  The only thing more fun than rounding up black cows on a dark night is chasing them.  You not only can't see the cows but you can't watch out for their "calling cards" or manure splats they have randomly left behind.  I hadn't gone 10 yards before I felt my foot slide and issue a sucking sound.  Yep!  New white tennies were now green!

Another day I was calmly snapping beans on the porch, when ear-splitting shrieks filled the air.  "Head her off!  Don't let her go that way!"  "MOM!  STOP HER!"  Jumping to my feet, I looked frantically for the cause of all the hysteria.  Coming around the barn at a dead run was the newest show heifer, two leaps behind came son, and two leaps behind him daughter, losing ground fast.  The heifer had evidently decided that the process of learning to walk on a lead wasn't near as much fun as being in the herd and was fast removing herself.  The path she was taking was leading straight through my garden and into the unfenced hay field beyond.  Turning her back would save time and energy trying to trap her in the open field.  I took off at an angle to cut her off, running through the corner of the garden.  I successfully turned her but not before my beautiful new shoes were covered in wet, rich mud!

The last straw came the night hubby came to the house calling for all hands, immediately.  It seems that one of the cows had managed to get through the fence by the creek and fallen down the bluff.  Stunned and hurt, she was in immediate danger of letting her head fall into the shallow water and drowning.  Ropes were grabbed and we hurried off to rescue her.  Naturally, being the one with the least muscles or weight, I was sent to hold her head while they pulled her to her feet.  Gingerly, I waded out into the chilly water, watching yet another new pair of shoes, turn an interesting shade of greenish, brown from the muddy creek bottom.  The cow was saved, the shoes were doomed.

I still buy new tennis shoes, but now they stay in the car.  I don't put them on until I am off the farm and safe!

I Hate Farm Life

Some days you can't suppress your true feelings.  They just have to come tumbling out.  Which is why I was muttering "I hate farm life",  with every step as I trudged across the hot, crunchy field on a murderously hot July 4th.

It all started when hubby rolled out of bed at practically daybreak on the holiday morning.  A day off for farmers who hold down other jobs is simply an opportunity to see just how much they can cram into one long day.  He was issuing orders as his feet hit the floor.  "I'm going to feed and then go check on the tobacco, but the garden needs watering before it gets too hot".  "Ummph!"  I muttered as I tried to get both eyes open to find the coffee pot.  "Remember to check the amount of water in the cistern before you turn on the pump."  "What? Me? Is that before or after my coffee?"  "Well," he responded cheerfully, "I'll be too busy and it's going to get to 102 today, so you'd better get started on it early."  I guess that means before.

An hour and a half later I had about finished watering the tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, eggplants and peppers.  I decided to water the two rows of beans that my hose would reach, sending a sad glance at the remaining beans and corn that were wilting already.  Hot, wet and muddy from dragging the hose through the dirt, I headed back to the house to prepare breakfast.  Hubby in turn arrived fresh off the Polaris Ranger (a gator like farm vehicle) he had ridden to the tobacco patch and back.  As soon as he had finished he announced he was off to cut a field of hay for a neighbor.  He climbed merrily into his air conditioned tractor and left.

I cleaned myself up and decided to do a load of sheets to make the beds up fresh for my daughter's visit next week.  One thing about 100 degree heat, it will flat dry a load of clothes on the line lickity split!

The small field of hay cut, hubby runs back through and reports that he is going to work on the fence in the back.  Boundary fences are always a problem.  The rule is that the fences belong to both parties and both are responsible for putting them up and keeping them in repair.  However, in reality it usually falls to the one with something to keep in to do the work.  The farmer neighboring us grows crops--we have cattle.  He doesn't care about the fence unless the cows get in his crops.  The fence is old and falling into disrepair.  Replacing it is an expensive and time consuming task that is awaiting a joint effort planned for the future.

I had just settled down for an afternoon break and some peace and quiet, when the phone rang.  An irate voice informed me that our cows were out and heading for the road and another farm.  With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I asked who this was and where were the cows.  According to my caller they had crossed the neighbors field, the corner of his field and were heading down the country road.  Visualizing car wrecks and lawsuits, I assured him that I would get the message to hubby and we would take care of it.  I frantically called hubby's cell to pass the news along, only to hear it ringing in the other room.  Drat!  He'd left his phone in the house again.

I dashed to the barn only to discover that he had taken the Polaris to the field.  That only left me the much harder to drive 4-wheeler.  I hate driving it and haven't used it since we got the much easier to handle Polaris.  After spending precious minutes trying to get it started (why do they always do that to me!) I spent more time trying to figure out how to put it in reverse.  Surmounting that problems I backed out and headed for the first gate heading for the back.  The six calves in the field, hearing a motor and hoping for supper, immediately trotted up to the gate.  I dismounted, barely remembering to put on the break, and unhooked the gate.  I pushed it open and it immediately sagged to the ground and came to an abrupt stop.  Back wrenching strains only got it open about five feet.  Not enough for the four-wheeler.  I looked at the curious calves and realized that if I did manage to drag it open far enough to get through, the calves would escape before I could drive through and drag it closed. 

In frustration, I realized that the only way to get the message to hubby would be to hike to the back of the farm.  With the heat searing down on me, I started my walk.  Reaching the back, I found no trace of hubby.  Yelling brought no response.  Finally, I called the guys at the tobacco patch who reported he had been seen heading for the house.  I turned and hurried back to intercept him (all uphill).  Just as I reached the crest of the hill, I spotted him going down the drive.  Naturally, he didn't see or hear me.  More frantic calls alerting everyone to send him home if spotted. 

He finally wandered back through.  I actually had been on the opposite end of the fence from him--I just picked the wrong end to check.  Naturally!  A call to the irate neighbor brought to light the fact that the 20 cows in question were a mixed herd of white, red, and spotted cattle.  We only have black cows. 

In exhaustion I sat with my mouth open in disbelief.  All that walking in the tortuous heat and they weren't even our cows!  Yes, sometimes I think I could get used to living in a city.

Irrigating Tobacco

It is HOT!!  We have had four days of temperatures around 104 degrees with another 10 days forcast with high 90's and low 100's.  Add to that a rainfall total that is woefully below average and you have the beginnings of a major drought.  At a time when we should have grass in the pastures we are already feeding hay we had hoped to save for the winter months.  The view from my kitchen window these days is brown and crisp.  All I can say is that at least we have air conditioning--although I may have to moonlight as a greeter at Walmart to pay the bill.

As miserable as the temperatures are, the frustrations that they cause farmers as they watch their income shrivel up in the fields, is the worst.  The fall hay crop is burning up , the corn is curling into little pointed spikes, and the tobacco is beginning to get yellow leaves and some is even beginning to bloom from the stress.  This means that at a time when everyone else is running for the indoors and air conditioning the farmers are running to their fields to try to save their crops.

Just as the temperatures peaked, Murphy's law kicked in.  (If anything can go wrong, it will!)  My son left for Wyoming with his family (although 30 hours in a car with four kids may have him thinking that being in the fields is better) and his partner's wife was admitted to the hospital with an emergency gall bladder surgery.  For three days hubby and I looked at each other and watched the thermometer and wondered how we could set up an irrigation system by ourselves.  Just when we had decided it had to be done, the partner returned home and the friend system kicked in.

With temperatures hovering around 104 degrees hubby, the partner and a friend gathered in the tobacco patch to start laying out the pipes for the irrigation system.  The pipes were run down the row of tobacco with tall sprinklers sprouting up.  These would shoot sprays of water in a circular pattern covering about 7 rows at a time.  When these were adequately watered, then the pipes would be moved and another section would be watered.  The water would be supplied from the creek bordering the tobacco patch.  A tractor is set up to run the pump and push the water from the creek to the sprinkler system.

Of course, Murphy's law is still in effect.  After laborously priming the pump (it takes a lot of water to prime a 5 inch pipe), the pump begins to push water into the pipes.  All is well for a minute then the men are rushing around in a geyser!  The seal has broken and the five inch stream of water is drowning everyone.  Finally they get it turned off and rescue the seal from the middle of one of the pipes and start all over.  Soon water is shooting in glistening arcs over the thirsty plants.  Now, all there is to do is sit and watch to be sure that the tractor doesn't overheat or something break down.  Of course, at 104 even sitting in the shade is hot. 

It doesn't take long before the pipe has all but drained the deep hole in the creek.  In just an hour and a half they have dropped the water level by about 18 inches.  The creek is low because of the low rainfall, so there is nothing to do but wait for the water to fill the spot back up.  The plan is to water morning and night and hope the creek will run enough to fill the hole up in between. 

If you know a rain dance, feel free to join in!