No Peace on the Hill

It's beautiful on the farm.  The redbuds are blooming and their soft purple blooms add a beautiful contrast to the light, delicate greens of the newly leafed out trees.  The deep velvety green of the cedars lend a depth to the background, making the colors stand out like a beautiful bouquet.  I love spring.

The black cows and dainty calves stand out like jewels on the lush green of the fields. I could watch their frolicking and playing all day.  Everything is so new and perfect. 

Then this perfection is broken by the loud bawl of an unhappy resident of this bucolic landscape.  Soon an entire chorus of bellows, bawls and moans fill the air.  "I guess you've decided to wean the calves" I yell to hubby as we stand in the yard.  "It's time to let their mamas rest a while and get ready for the next calving season", he yells back.  "They aren't too happy about it", I screech.  "Guess the sign wasn't right.  They'll settle down in a while." he bellows back.

The calves in question are milling around in the barn lot that borders the yard.  After getting the cattle up yesterday for their bi-annual check-up, the mama cows were returned to the field and their 6 month old calves were left in the lot.  It was time for them to be weaned from their mamas.  They had been snacking on grain for a while, so they knew how to eat, they just weren't quite ready to give up the nice easy milk meal.  So they stood at the fence and hollered for their mamas to come back and get them.  The mamas, who had been watching out for these babies for the past months were just as upset about the situation.  They, in turn, were bellowing back telling their babies to come on to the field.  It wasn't a symphony.

Naturally, this always happens when the weather turns warm enough to open the windows and air out the house.  That means that even phone conversations are a challenge.  "Is that your cat?'  "No, it's a calf"  "In the house?"  "No, they are in the barn lot."  "Are they hurt?  Are they dying?"  "No", I laugh, "but they sure think they are!"  Sleep become a sometime thing.  I woke up from a deep sleep the other night with a start that caused my heart to pound.  After several hours of quiet, one of the calves had awakened to discover his mama wasn't there.  The quiet of the night was broken by a long wail of disbelief.  Soon the entire lot was crying out their loneliness. 

Turning over, I viciously kicked hubby who was sleeping peacefully through it all.  "What's the matter.", he sputtered.  "The calves woke me up.", I snarl.  "What do you want me to do about it." he asks reasonably.  "Nothing." I reply, "but if I'm going to be up all night, you sure aren't going to sleep!!!"

Fortunately, the calves get over it and settle down before our marriage is irreparably damaged.

Gun Control?

Gun control is a hot topic in our rural area.  While I can see the point that the easy availability of guns makes them readily accessible for those who have mischief in mind, I also know that eliminating them would probably cause an uprising in my neck of the woods.  People in the rural south take their guns seriously.

There was a time when most people kept a rifle or shotgun handy for the occasional varmint that raided the hen house or chased the cows.  Today, I see a lot more  recreational shooting.  Lots of the men (and women) in our area go hunting for deer, rabbits, squirrels, and doves.  There are gun clubs popping up where enthusiasts can go to shoot at targets and show off their weaponry.  I get that.  It's fun.  It's social.

My father had two girls.  As a natural born tomboy that resisted all of my mother's efforts to civilize me until I reached my teens, I became my dad's companion for many of the "boy" activities.  I went fishing for crappie and brim when I was but a little tyke. I hiked, camped and rough-housed with the boys with delight.  When I was about 9 or 10 my dad decided I was old enough to learn to shoot.  A lot of his decision was based on the theory that it was much safer to be around guns if you knew how to handle them responsibly.  He presented me with the treasure of my childhood.  A youth sized Winchester 22 pump rifle that had belonged to him as a boy.  All of the boys in the family had learned to shoot with that little rifle and I was the youngest. 

For weeks I practiced dismantling and cleaning the little rifle. (Rule # 1-you are responsible for cleaning and caring for your own gun.)  I was allowed to dry fire as often as I wished (no bullets but learning the feel of the gun and how to aim and handle it.).  I did that until the motion of automatically putting the gun's safety on was as unconscious as breathing. (Rule # 2 - you don't move after shooting until your gun is on safety.)   Only then did he take me to the woods for target practice.  The constant refrain was safety, safety, safety. 

Surprisingly, in spite of my terrible eyesight and thick glasses, I was a good shot.  I loved the challenge of gauging the wind and movement to hit the little targets he would put out for me.  Sometimes it would be a walnut hanging high above me or a tin can set upon a post.  Bits of paper stuck on a tree or a tin can thrown into a stream became targets for our practice.  We spent many hours walking, talking and stopping to shoot in easy companionship. 

I eventually graduated to a larger single shot 22 that he had fitted with a scope to compensate for my eyesight.  I even did some skeet shooting with the boy cousins using a lightweight shotgun.  I never did hunt and never wanted to.  I didn't want to kill anything and certainly didn't want to clean it (rule #3-you dress what you kill). 

Years later I would become an extension agent and did my turn at taking kids to 4-H camp.  When the leaders were setting up the various activities and assigning adults to head them, they discovered that they didn't have anyone to teach riflery.  The men all looked at each other and realized they had other jobs that couldn't be ignored.  Hesitantly, I cleared my throat.  "Umm.  I could take that."  They looked at me in doubt.  Up until that time they had only known me in a suit, pantyhose, heels, and every hair in place in my "agent personae".  (Obviously, at camp in July I was wearing shorts and a top--but it was matching!  My mother had finally gotten her way with me!)  "I, umm, really can shoot."  I offered.

"Well," one suggested, "let's go down to the range and see what you can do."  They all trooped out to see the show.  Once there they presented me with a single shot 22 and a box of shells.  I immediately opened the breech to check it and grimaced at the grime.  "Don't you teach them how to clean their guns?" I inquired.  The leader mumbled something about some supplies being in the office.   I then loaded up and took sight on the target, shooting first from a prone, then kneeling and finishing with a standing position.  I was showing off and I knew it, but the gods were kind and I manged to hit the target.  The men watched in respectful silence as the target was reeled in.  Softly, in the background I heard one mutter, "Damn!  Give Annie Oakley the job and don't piss her off!"

Guns are only a tool to be used wisely.

Kentucky Bourbon

My hubby is probably the best bourbon ambassador in Kentucky.  Wherever he goes he promotes Kentucky bourbon.  When half of Iowa showed up for our daughter's wedding, he sent everyone on tours of several of the local distilleries.  (Did I mention that we live within 2 miles of Maker's Mark, as the crow flies, and there are 3 major distilleries within 20 miles, and about 6 within 50 miles?)  He then served bourbon to everyone at the wedding reception.  They all went home converted bourbon drinkers.  I am convinced somewhere there is a demographics expert scratching his head over the concave of bourbon drinkers located in Scotch and Canadian Club drinking Iowa.

As we travel, we check out the local bars to see if they are carrying good bourbon.  This usually involves some "spirited" conversations with the bartender and local patrons.  (Bermuda was the hardest place to find bourbon, that dear little outpost of England.  Ireland carried the best selection of really, really good bourbon.)  The group we travel with most has become accustomed to hearing hubby request (maybe even demand) bourbon.  I admit I am not quite as determined as he is and will try other drinks.  In fact I became quite enamored with Jameson's Whiskey while in Ireland, however it didn't taste quite the same on this side of the pond.  In fact, I am rather like a coed on summer vacation.  I flirt with others while I'm away but return willingly to my old love when I return home.

The most frequently asked question we get on our trips is, what is the difference in bourbon and whiskey?  The answer is both complicated and extremely simple - every bourbon is a whiskey but not all whiskey is a bourbon.  Whiskey is defined as a distillation primarily from corn or rye, but may be a blend of grains.  Whiskeys don't have to be aged, but some are.

I guess you might say that bourbon is a sub-category of whiskey.  While whiskey can be made anywhere in the world, bourbon must be made in America.  Also, whiskey, by definition is pretty general, bourbon is very specific.  It must be made from at least 51% corn but not more than 79%.  Although, it may include other grains such as wheat or rye.  It is bottled at no more than 80% alcohol.  (The proof number on the bottle will be about twice the amount of alcohol.)  It is then aged in new, charred oak barrels for a minimum of 2 years.  Speciality bourbons may be aged up to 20 years or longer.  (If you've got some extra cash-or a lot-try some Pappy Van Winkle 25 year old bourbon for a real taste experience.)  While bourbon can be made anywhere in the United States all but a couple are made in Kentucky.

Why is it called bourbon?  It actually is named after the county that it was shipped from, when Kentucky was just a frontier and the pioneers shipped their corn crop to New Orleans in the form of corn liquor.  The barrels of whiskey were loaded onto flatboats that took the Kentucky river to the Mississippi river (eventually) .  When they were shipped, the barrels were stamped with the place they were shipped from, Bourbon, for Bourbon County, Kentucky.  Thus the barrels were referred to as "bourbon".  Interestingly, there are no major bourbon distilleries in Bourbon Co. at this time.

Well, I have worked up quite a thirst.  I think I will head for the bar and have a little bourbon -- purely in the efforts of research, of course.

Boomer

We have had, over the years, many dogs on the farm.  Most of them have chosen us rather than being a rational decision.  We took in a poodle-schnauzer cross that couldn't deal with the owner being at work all day and half the night (she chewed up everything in the house in her anxiety and boredom).  We inherited a collie when we bought the farm.  The border collie from down the road was here constantly with our dogs.  My father brought a small terrier cross with him when he moved in.  You get the drift--we have a hard time saying no to needy dogs.

Probably our most memorable find was Boomer. 

My son and a couple of his buddies had agreed to help in tobacco on a farm nearby.   The farmer sent them to the tobacco barn to do some cleaning and preparing for the influx of tobacco to come.  Upon arriving at the barn they commenced to start sorting the clutter of broken tobacco sticks, trash, and assorted flotsam that collects in a barn that isn't used.  They had worked their way to the corner pile of rubbish when one of the boys noticed that the rubbish was moving!  Knowing that there are several animals that might make use of a rubbish pile for a home, they approached cautiously.  Using a long stick they carefully poked at the pile.  To their surprise a fearful whine was the response.  Peeking carefully, they saw a small bundle of brown fur and  the two frightened brown eyes of a puppy looking back.

Speaking softly they coaxed the puppy out of his hiding place.  Thin and fearful, he approached the boys.  Boys and dogs have a way of communicating that is beyond science.  Soon the pup was happily following the boys around as they finished their job.  When the time came to leave, they looked at each other and with pain at the pup they would have to leave behind.  "Don't look at me.  My dog would eat this pup for lunch". one volunteered.  "Nope, not me.", answered the other to the questioning looks of his friends, "My little brother is allergic.  No pets."  They both turned to look at my son, who shrugged, "I'll take him home.  My mom will take in anything."

I arrived home to find the pup in the living room.  As soon as I walked in the pup sensing a new presence (and maybe a less than welcoming atmosphere) huddled in the corner behind a chair and looked back fearfully.  I looked at the newcomer and at my children, "No. No. and NO.  We already have two dogs we don't need any more ! Besides--have you looked at his feet!  He's going to be a big dog!"  The brown eyes looked at me beseechingly.  The two pairs of blue eyes begged.  It wasn't long until I was worn down to the "he has to stay outside and you have to take care of him" stage.  Thus, Boomer came into our lives.

There are some dogs that are destined to be the great pets of your memory.  Boomer was one of them.  He was mostly German Shepherd and grew to be a massive, gentle dog.  He was full of quirks that completely defeated all my efforts at training.  He had obviously been tied and probably abused.  At least that is the best explanation that we could come up with for the obsession about anything on his neck.  He would wear a collar but I had to sit on him to change it or attach his rabies tags.  If I attempted to put him on a leash, he would just lay down.  Pretty effective when you weigh 80 pounds.  He had beautiful manners,  following the basic commands of sit, stay, lay down, and come with calm dignity.  However, he would not get in a vehicle.  If you have ever tried to load 80 pounds of reluctant dog, you know he won.  Did he remember riding to be dropped at the farm?  Who knows.  I finally gave up trying to change him.

For all his size and looks (German shepherds can look very intimidating) he was the most loving and gentle dog we have ever had.  He loved children and would allow them to pull and tug at him with an expression of doggy happiness.  He could be found watching over the kittens in the barn with a benevolent eye.  He happily followed the kids in whatever adventures they came up with on the farm, keeping them firmly under his supervision.  In fact, he took his responsibility as guardian very seriously, watching over all the residents of his farm.

That included me.  We soon noticed that when I was alone on the farm (meaning hubby wasn't around) that Boomer became my protector.  When someone would stop by to see if we had bulls for sale or to see if hubby was there, Boomer would place himself, quietly and calmly between the visitor and me.  There he would sit, exhibiting absolutely no threat, but stating clearly, "You have to go through me to get to my people". 

He was a special dog.

The Lettuce Bed

My hubby is descended of a long line of farmers.  His father farmed, his grandfathers farmed, his great-grandfathers farmed and so on and so on.  After so long a time the farming instinct is programed onto the very chromosomes of his makeup.  He can no more ignore their urgings than a beagle can ignore the urge to trail a scent.  It's part of their genes.  So with the advent of warm weather he is overcome with a frantic desire to plow and plant, regardless of the fact that we grow no crops and have few acres that are tillable.

There is no fighting genetic instinct.  As the days warm, out comes the old tractor and the even older plow.  As soon as the ground dries past the mud stage he is hooking the tractor and plow up and hunting someplace to play in the dirt.  He immediately heads to our garden spot and with a sigh of contentment drops the plows and revs up the old tractor.  Soon the steady chug of the tractor can be heard and the neat rows of turned earth begin to extend out from my window.  Instead of quiet contentment I feel a surge of panic.  The garden wars have begun!

You see, once he gets started plowing, if I don't watch him closely he will plow every inch of space he can reach.  Each year the garden spot gets a little longer and little wider.  Then true to his ancestors teachings of not wasting an inch of usable land, he will happily plant it all.  Then, he will hurry on to the more important aspects of farming for the rest of the season and leave the weeding, picking, canning and freezing to the women--or in this case woman, me!  So the bigger it gets the more I fuss and demand he cease and desist or at least help.  It's a rite of spring.

Another rite of sping, is the burning of the lettuce bed.  Once the garden is worked up hubby starts to gather all the fallen limbs and branches from the fields, cleaning up so pastures can be clipped  and hay cut.  Then he goes through the barns and looks for any burnable trash that has collected over the winter.  This might be paper feed sacks, scrap lumber, broken tier poles from the tobacco barn, or broken tobacco sticks.  After the barns he will clean up around the house and woodpile gathering twigs, bark, scraps of left over stove wood or, if I don't watch him, broken yard furniture!  In short, anything that will burn is tossed onto a square in the corner of the garden.  This must have been a messy winter because the pile soon grew to be nearly six feet tall. 

The purpose of burning this pile is to use the heat of the fire to sterilize the soil of any weed seeds or roots so that only lettuce seeds will sprout in that area and we won't have to pick weeds out of our salad.  After the lettuce seeds are sown, the area is covered with a piece of tobacco canvas to keep other seeds from blowing in from the surrounding fields and to protect the tender young sprouts of lettuce.  This is also the way old time farmers prepared tobacco beds for planting the little seeds for plants for their tobacco patch before the advent of float beds and purchased plants.

Finally, the last rite of spring, the hot dog roast.  When the kids were little we would have the first hot dog roast of the year gathered around the glowing embers of the lettuce bed.  We would spread blankets on the cold ground and happily eat a supper of charred dogs, dripping catsup.  Then we would polish off this nutritious meal with blackened, melting marshmallows.  So hubby happily called all the grandchildren and their friends to come to the farm for the annual hot dog roast.  "When are you planning to do this?" I inquired.  "Tonight" he replied.  I looked at the clock, it was then approaching 3 pm.  "Um, you'd might want to go on and start the fire", I suggested.  "Not, yet, we'll do it later when the breeze dies a little".  "Honey, that's a lot of wood.  If you don't start it now you could be roasting hot dogs about 3 am!" 

The bonfire was a huge success.  The kids stood around in awe as flames shot through the big pile of brush and leaped into the heavens.  The fire raged and got hotter and hotter.  The men backed up and decided to let it burn a while.  Two hours later the kids were beginning to get mutinous.  "We're hungry!  We want to roast hot dogs!" Seven little expectant faces looked up at me.  With resignation, I opened the gas grill and started cooking hot dogs. 

It took the promise of a cook-out at a later date on the creek with a small fire to convince them to give up and eat.

I missed the timing on the lettuce bed -- I think it would have cooked perfectly the next morning.

I"ll bet we don't have any weeds in our lettuce!

This Old Farm

Out the window the yard is glowing in brilliant spring sunshine.  The wind (which never seems to stop blowing on the hill) has a decided chill to it, but it is too beautiful to stay inside.  The men are busy spreading fertilizer in the hay field in front of the house.  As soon as they started I began to worry that they would crush the late buttercups that bloom just over the hill.  They try to straddle them but in the big picture of expensive fertilizer and needed hay, my buttercups will be sacrificed if need be.   As soon as they finished I wandered out to see what damage had been done.  To my delight I was greeted with the sight of pale yellow blooms nodding in the breeze.

These buttercups are part of the flowers that were planted around the original home on this site.  Over the years with freezes and thaws, plowing, digging varmints, and various other reasons for the dirt to shift, they have migrated from the top of the hill to the middle of the hay field.  Instead of the usual bright gold trumpets surrounded by a single row of petals of the other buttercups in the field, these have a triple row of surrounding petals in a pale yellow, making them look a lot like a tiny peony bloom.   For some reason, while the foliage is always thick and healthy, they manage to bloom only occasionally.  Some years they bud, but never open.  Sometimes they just grow and don't bud at all.  This is evidently their year.

As I stood, surrounded by their blooms I looked back up the hill at the farm house and thought about all the people that had lived, loved, laughed,and cried, on that land.   Our little church in town will celebrate it's 250th anniversary this year.  The actual church building isn't quite that old, having been built slightly over 200 years ago.   That shows that the town was a thriving community, able to support the building of a fine brick church, by the early 1800's.

I love our little farm house but since it was built in the late 1940's or early 1950's it's a relative newcomer to the land.  When we remodeled several years ago we discovered that parts of the house pre-dated the mid-1900's style.  A little questioning uncovered the fact that the house we live in had been built after a tornado partially destroyed the previous house.  The family had just incorporated parts of the house left standing into the new home.  When we excavated for an addition we discovered huge foundation stones that probably were from a structure even older than the one hit by the tornado.   Logical, since the farm was originally part of a land grant given to a Revolutionary War soldier for his service.

For at least, 200 years farmers had been raising livestock, cutting hay, planting crops, and living on this land.  They had loved it, cared for it and left it, hopefully better, for those who came after them.

 So as I stood in the sunshine gazing across the farm, I wondered which farm wife had ordered the bulbs, planted the flowers, and enjoyed their beauty.  How many people had enjoyed their bright blooms on a spring day before me?

What I really wonder is, will our husbandry of the land leave such an enduring sign of our passing?

Spring on the Farm

This has been spring break time for the grandchildren, so naturally they have spent it at the farm.  Normally April is the perfect season in Kentucky, but this year it has been winter far longer than we like.  I had high hopes of enjoying the boys' week off of school by spending lots of time in outside activities.  What we actually did was hunt things to do in slowly warming weather. 

We spent one fun afternoon going to the movies.  Who knew it would cost as much as a down payment on a small house to take three boys to an afternoon movie.  Now I remember why I would sneak candy bars and pop corn in my purse when my kids were little.  After that adventure, the cost of buying a movie and having popcorn and a movie at home seemed a cheap way out!  Eventually, the week did turn off pretty and the boys and I were able to have a picnic in the park and attend a local animal park.  So the week for them turned out pretty well.

If you are married to a farmer and you have a cold, wet spring it is not a fun time.  Hubby has a list of things to do that he has literally been working on all winter.  "When the weather breaks", he would mumble in front of the fire, "I need to get the barn painted."  Or, he would mutter while driving to town, "As soon as it dries up some I want to fix the gate in the lower field."  The list is never-ending and always growing.  That's farming.  The jobs are always there.

This week, with daylight savings time in full effect and the days now lasting until bedtime, hubby has been rushing home from work to change to farm clothes and run from one spring chore to another.  Working frantically until dusk (about 8:30-9:00) he struggles to utilize every minute before it gets wet again.  This week with three hungry boys in the house, waiting until 9:00 to eat isn't an option, so I found myself cooking and feeding all night.  All I wanted was for everyone to finally get fed and go to bed so I could.  (I'm not near as spry as I once was and chasing three boys all day wears me out!!)

So, when a friend in town called to say they were initiating the patio with a cook-out, I literally jumped at the idea.  A whole night with adults and maybe even a few adult beverages--count me in!  Saturday arrived and plans were made to drop the kids off at their home before continuing on to the patio party.  I figured with two grown men on the farm and one teenager in the house, I surely could get a bath and get dressed.  I was in the middle of lathering my hair when I heard a disturbance at the door of the bathroom.  Figuring if it was bad enough I would hear more,I hurried on.  When I emerged from the bathroom I was met by three serious and quiet faces, two of them tear streaked.  "What happened", I queried.  Immediate tears flowed.  Oh, Oh, this could be bad. 

"I didn't mean to break it but I had to"  sobbed the littlest one.  "Break what?" I asked. "The little door" he responded, "I had to kick it to get out!"  "Out of where?"  "The trunk."  "What trunk?"  "In the car."  At this point I took a deep breath and lined the two little boys up.  "OK", I said sternly, "How did you get in the trunk and WHY WERE YOU IN THERE!!!"  Grandma's control was cracking a little by then.  It took a few more questions but the story finally was out.  They had noted that I used the dash button to open the trunk to unload our picnic supplies when we got home .  So they used it to open the trunk and then proceeded to crawl in.  (The reasoning on this is still a little vague.)  The older one then pulled the trunk closed.  It wasn't until it latched that they realized they were in the dark and couldn't open the trunk.  That's when they remembered that there was a little door behind the armrest in the back seat that opened into the trunk.  (Two car seats in the back seat with two bored little boys led to the discovery of this about two minutes into their first ride in the new car!)  So they kicked until the door broke open.  The four-year old then crawled through the hole, but the 6-year old wouldn't fit.  So he directed the little one to crawl to the front and punch the button to open the trunk, releasing him.

Thank goodness they knew of this escape hatch.  I shudder to think how long it would have taken us to find them in the garage.  The upside of the adventure is that I had two very chastised and well-behaved little boys for the rest of the evening.

Oh, the patio party. 

Hubby reported that he would be ready to go just as soon as he finished plowing the garden and the neighbor's garden and checking the cows and...........

I called and told them we would be glad to come to the next one, providing it was after the time change and and the onset of freezing weather!!