Storm Time

Kentucky has been pummeled this week with a stream of storms marching across the state.  I sat the other night listening to the news warning of "Ping-Pong ball" sized hail, 60 mph winds, and torrential rains.  The newscaster warned that there would be roof, window and siding damage from the hail and that any creature outside during one of the outbursts of hail would be injured.  He went on to say, that with 60 mph winds there would also be damaged roofs, homes and fallen trees. 

This line of storms was going to be north of us, but I have to say that my second thought, after one of concern for the folks in the path, was for the poor insurance agents who would be inundated with damage claims.  I know.  I married one. 

Weather is the number one concern of farmers.  They worry about too much, too little, too late or too early.  They deal with the ravages of the storms both on their animals and their land.  The only others that I know that worry that much are insurance agents.  A major storm means problems for the insured as well as their agent.  Add the two together and you have a man that paces the floor and mumbles a lot.

Several years ago we were the ones in the path of the storms.  I have only gone to the basement twice to hide during vicious weather and that day was one of them.  Looking out the window I saw a wall cloud marching steadily across the field and heading straight for us.  I didn't even know what it was, but I knew it was serious.  I yelled for my daughter and we both flew down the steps to the basement.  Our basement isn't additional living space but a dingy, concrete storage area filled with boxes and left over stuff.  Not an appealing place, but it looked pretty good to me then.

Huddled there we listened as it sounded like the world was being torn apart.  Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. Silence.  We cautiously climbed the steps not knowing what would greet us.  The house was intact but the yard was covered with debris.  My beautiful trees were still standing but each one was sadly damaged.  They looked like someone had twisted the tops out of them.  Ragged chunks of wood had been ripped out and tossed to the ground. 

We fought ourselves out of the house and sadly surveyed the ravaged landscape.  Everywhere we looked were trees down, fences damaged, barn doors blown off, barn roofs pulled up, siding ripped off, electric lines down, limbs blocking the road, and over all the plaintive moans and bellows of the cattle as they sorted themselves out.

Shortly, Hubby and Son showed up, grabbed chainsaws and disappeared to check the cattle and clear roads.  Within minutes of their leaving to rescue our farm the phone started ringing.  With electricity out over much of the county,  the office had no lights, and more importantly, no computers, so everyone had left to take care of their own damages.  So the next call after the insurance office was the agent's home...except the agent was out checking his own mess.  Before he left, he warned me, "Everyone will be calling.  Get their names and phones and I'll call them back as soon as I check the farm."

For the next day, by the light of my trusty oil lamp, I answered calls from frantic people.  My heart went out to them in all their suffering for their losses and damages.  "Take pictures!" I implored, "Lots and lots of pictures!  Then secure your home as best you can to prevent further damage.  The adjusters will be there just as soon as they can."  And the adjusters did come, some by that night and more by the next morning.  They crawled over roofs, slithered under houses, sympathized and gave hope.  "Yes, it will be fixed.  Yes, you are covered." 

For days Hubby alternated between securing his own farm and tromping through fields and yards with adjusters.  He became a walking directory of the names of people who "fix" things,  helping this owner find a roofer, that one a plumber, another a contractor to replace siding. He was everywhere, lending a hand to spread a tarp, rounding up cattle that had strayed, cutting up downed trees, offering encouragement and assistance. 

Eventually order was restored.  Now it is just another of life's stories we tell at get-togethers.  However,  for me the memory I carry is of "Super-Hubby" charging off the hill to be sure that all his insured and/or friends were taken care of. 

He's quite a guy.

Herding Cattle

The view from the kitchen window was dark and gloomy this morning.  So I didn't spend much time looking out. 

About 8:30 a cheerful voice called through the open window, "Don't you even notice when you have a whole herd of cows in your yard!"  Jumping up I ran to the door to be greeted by the grinning face of our son.  "It was dark!" I sputtered.  "Where are they?"

Still grinning he responded, "I'd say they are about to the third row of beans, by now."

My beans!  Carefully nurtured for those precious late beans before the frost get them, they were just now in full production.   My tomatoes!  And the boys pumpkins!  Planted a little too late they were just now turning orange.  The little boys had checked them nearly daily for the change from dark green to pumpkin orange.  It was going to be a race to see if they would mature in time to be jack o'lanterns.  Somehow I just hate to let those last struggling plants in the garden go, knowing how long it will be before we have fresh vegetables again.

Now in full panic I dashed back into the house to jump into my clothes and garden shoes.  I emerged just in time to see my son appear with a feed bucket.  "Come on girls!", he called to the five heifers standing in the garden. (Not a whole herd but enough.) "Come on and get your breakfast!" he cajoled.  Stepping back on the porch, I watched as they focused on the feed bucket and the hope of some more goodies.  As they rounded the corner of the house,  my son's Australian Shepherd fell in behind.  I stared in open mouth amazement as the young dog, that we all had assumed would never amount to anything but a nuisance,  took the heifers to the barn.  As they headed down the side of the barn, she left them to run ahead and position herself in the drive.  There she neatly turned them through the gate and into the field.

"Did you see that!" came the excited shout.  "She's a natural!"

It was a pretty sight.  Especially since no one had really ever worked with her.  It was all instinct and genetic background.  Now, admittedly, the heifers were going back to the field where they were fed every morning. So they weren't exactly difficult to move, but she could have done the wrong thing and they would have kicked up their heels and taken off.  I've certainly had them do that to me.  Instead,  years of careful breeding for just those herding qualities came forward and she just knew what to do.  Amazing.

And we thought she was just another pretty face.

Get the Birds!

The back porch talk had drifted to the subject of dogs.  Good dogs, bad dogs, neurotic dogs (mine), heroic dogs (theirs) and unique dogs.  In a pause in the conversation my son interjected, "The dog I think I will never forget, wasn't even mine, but he sure was unforgettable!"

It seems that during the time he was living in Kansas he had helped a neighboring farmer during harvest time.  Mostly, I suspect, to play with the big equipment.  During their days together the subject of hunting came up.  The farmer expounded on the qualities of his fine hunting dog.  According to the farmer he was about the best thing that ever happened.  He would go on and on about his ability to find the best birds and flush them out.  Hunting season rolled around and Son mentioned that he was going to go try for a few birds.  "Take my dog!" the farmer offered.  "You'll be sure to come back with birds.  He's the best!"  Son was delighted and was about to mention that he really didn't know a lot about hunting with a dog, when the farmer continued.  "In fact, why don't you take my boys with you to help you with the dog?"  That seemed sensible, so a time was set up for the hunt.

Early the next morning the two boys, aged 11 and 16, showed up with the dog.  A big, muscular animal, the dog was fairly quivering with eagerness to be off on the hunt.  In fact, so were the boys.

The three of them started off and in no time the dog froze to a point.  At a signal from the boys he flushed a big pheasant.  Shots rang out and the pheasant flew away.  "That's OK", Son consoled.  There will be more."  The process was repeated several times with a couple of pheasants being shot.  Each time the dog retrieved the birds and proudly brought them to the hunters. 

They were continuing their walk with the dog ranging out ahead when suddenly he froze into a point in front of a pile of junk metal and weeds that was in the corner of the field.  The hunters approached and a huge covey of quail exploded in all directions. Since quail and pheasant season overlapped by a few days, both were in season, so the hunters banged away happily.  Seven birds plummeted from the sky. 

As soon as the last shot was fired both boys dropped their guns and made a dash for the dog.  Each grabbing whatever part they could hang on to they began screaming, "GET THE BIRDS!!  GET THE BIRDS!!"  Son stood there transfixed by the sight of the wriggling mass of legs, arms, heads, tail and snout as the boys attempted to hold the excited dog.  "GET THE BIRDS!!" they screeched again.  Startled out of his daze, son took off at a gallop to retrieve the fallen birds.  Hunting through the weeds as quickly as he could, he found the birds and stuffed them into his jacket.  Counting to himself as he went, one, two , three, four, five, six.  Where was seven?  He searched some more as the wail went up again. "GET THE BIRDS!"  Finally spotting it he snatched it up and returned to the boys. 

In bemusement he watched as the mass untangled itself into the identifiable forms of boys and dog.  Dusting themselves off the boys approached , with the happy dog following.  "What the hell was that about?!" Son demanded to the group.  "What happened to the dog?   Why did you tackle him?  He was perfect retrieving the pheasants."

Grinning the boys looked up.  "He doesn't like pheasant, but he loves quail!"

The boys went on to explain that he would have eaten every one of the quail before you could stop him.  "So we tackle him to keep him from eating them!"  Bursting into laughter Son looked from disheveled kids to hopeful dog, shaking his head in wonder.

It seems the perfect dog had one little flaw.  He really liked quail.

Chuckling to himself he couldn't help but wonder if he had actually been invited on the hunt to be the "retriever"!