The Barn Raising

There is probably nothing that is more fun to a farmer than the Farm Machinery Show, which is a huge gathering of all the equipment, tools, supplies, and implements that a farmer could ever dream of owning.  Accompanying this display is a collection of  enthusiastic and determined men and women just panting to show how each and every one can revolutionize the farmer's life. 


Hubby and a farming friend set off early one morning, with stars in their eyes, to view all the new items.  They would happily spend the day discussing the merits of a 15-row corn planter versus a 10-row (regardless of the fact that they couldn't turn one of them around on our farm), dreaming of splitting a winter's worth of stove wood with a new high powered splitter,  climbing on tractors that cost more than our farm and are bigger than our garage, and generally enjoying visiting with the other farmers doing the same.


They arrived home that afternoon, exhausted from walking through the exhibits all day, and fairly dancing with excitement.  Like two schoolboys they both started talking at once, interrupting each other in their enthusiasm to tell me about their great find. 


"We bought a barn!"  one spouted, "No, we bought two barns!" the other interrupted.  "I'm going to put it right there" Hubby bubbled, waving his arms in the general direction of the front field.  "We can build it ourselves and it was a terrific buy!" They turned and high-fived each other in jubilation.  I stood in the drive and stared at them in amazement.


It seems that they had each bought a metal hoop barn, that would arrive in pieces and all they had to do was assemble it and attach it to a foundation.  (A hoop barn, for those uninitiated, is a huge barn that looks like a big tin can cut in half lengthwise.) The plan was to do our barn first, then move to the friend's farm and do his.  They assured me that they had studied it carefully and it should take about 3-4 days to assemble.  However, because they had to pour a concrete foundation they would allow a week for each barn.


Shaking my head slowly, I looked at them and asked, "How old was she?"  "Who?" Hubby responded innocently.  "The pretty saleswoman that talked you two into this?" I responded as I walked away muttering to the effect that there was no fool like a farmer at a farm machinery show.


In due time a tractor-trailer truck appeared loaded with the metal, quarter round ribs, that would be bolted together to form the barn.  They didn't look like much, all stacked together in bands, but what did I know. 


With great excitement, they studied their plans, and contacted the concrete company that would pour the foundations.  In due time the concrete was finished and the men were ready to begin their barns.  They looked around at the thousands of bolts that would hold row after row of metal hoops together to form the structure and decided that it might be a little harder than they thought.


The morning they picked to begin the barn, they were up early and studying the plans when they looked up to see a line of trucks coming up the drive.  One by one they parked around the top of the hill and began to unload their tools.  The word had gone out that the two farmers might have bitten off a little more than they could chew and all their buddies from their coffee group had turned out to help.  Soon the barn site swarmed with men, shouts, laughter, and the whine of power tools. 


Day after day they showed up and solved the challenge of the construction of the big tin can barn.  It took two weeks and was not quite as simple as they had been led to believe.  However, the men came each day with cheerful enthusiasm.  When the first barn was finished, they took off two weeks and then moved on to raise the second barn on the friend's farm. 


These weren't kids.  They were mostly retired and mostly farmers, but some were just friends who wanted to help out.  It was a real barn raising!  The only payment was a debt of gratitude that can be called upon at any time. 


The outcome is two beautiful metal hoop barns that have proven exceptionally useful, a deep sense of accomplishment for a super group of men, and a lump in our throats from the overwhelming helpfulness of our friends and neighbors.


If you ever need anything guys...you can count on us for help!


PS
The friend's wife and I have decided that he and Hubby are not allowed to go to the Farm Machinery Show together again!!! EVER!

Eating Weeds

Back in the day of little country roads, the roadsides were left to Mother Nature to maintain.  No one bothered to mow them neatly or spray them for weeds.  Consequently, they were perfect for my favorite spring time chore.  Asparagus hunting!


My father spent a good bit of time riding up and down country roads as he delivered furniture around the county.  As he wandered he would keep an eye out for the tall, ferny fronds of asparagus.  This asparagus was abundantly planted by the birds that ate the bright, red berries from the fern in the fall.  They then deposited the seeds (complete with fertilizer!)  as they sat in bushes or fences up and down the roads.  Over time these seeds sprouted and matured into healthy asparagus beds in the area between the roads and fields that was left unplowed or mowed.  The plants sprouted early in the spring and if left unpicked would grow all summer into tall, delicately ferny fronds.  At this stage they are easily spotted from a moving vehicle.  My father would then take careful note of the size of the stands and the location for the next spring's hunt.


Sometime in late April or early May, Daddy would arrive home from work and announce that it was time to go asparagus hunting! 


Off we would go driving to the first of his "special" spots.  Parking on the side of the road, Daddy and I would jump out and begin the "hunt".  This involved looking for last years dead stalks or scanning the roadsides for the slender green stalks just sprouting out of the ground.  The best was to find a stand of dead stalks because that indicated a well established patch that would yield several fat (or skinny) stalks of fresh asparagus.  We would kick away last years dead growth and run our fingers as far down the short, fat stalks as we could to get to the tender, white bottoms.   The skinny stalks were bent until they naturally broke at the tender point.  The really tall, tough stalks were broken off to make the roots keep sending up new shoots.


If we were lucky we could talk my older sister into coming along.  She wouldn't get out of the car for love or money...too many wiggly, creeping things out there for her!  However, she would read a book until we whistled, then move the car on down the road as we wandered and hunted.


Our "hunts" would yield enough fresh asparagus to feed us happily until the season ended. We would feast like kings on asparagus with hollandaise sauce, asparagus casseroles, or asparagus with lemon butter or cheese.


Our roadside ramblings did cause a few raised eyebrows and some interesting situations.  Not everyone quite understood our obsession or that we would eat weeds from the ditches.  (Although, having raised domestic asparagus in my garden for years, I can assure you that our roadside asparagus was exactly like my home grown!)


On one such occasion a local lady approached daddy on a slow afternoon in his furniture store.  Daddy was sitting in a rocking chair enjoying a rest in the breeze from the open door.  The good woman walked in and Daddy jumped up to see if she needed any help.  "No-o-o" she drawled, hesitantly.  "Well, what can I do for you?" questioned Daddy, intrigued by her manner. 


She shuffled her feet a little, and quietly responded.  "Mr. Gaines, I know times are hard.  I guess people just don't need as much new furniture as they once did."  Puzzled now, Daddy replied, "Well, you know we do have a fine supply of used furniture that wouldn't be quite as expensive as new."  Becoming even more flustered, she said.  "Oh, I don't mean I need something, but that business must be bad for you!"  Then she floundered on, "I mean, I saw you and your girls out on the roadside collecting bottles for the deposit and wanted you to know that our church has a little fund if you need money that badly."


Choking back laughter, and not wanting to offend a possible future customer, he managed to reassure her that while things might be a little slow, he wasn't quite reduced to collecting bottles for the 5 cent deposit to pay the bills!


I'm sure she was convinced he was just too proud to accept the help offered.  Especially if he explained that we were picking weeds for supper!

The Dress-Up Box

An overnight visit of the grandkids coincided with a thunderstorm that knocked out our internet service.  That meant no x-box, no Netflix, no computers, no handheld games, and three grumpy kids on a rainy day.  After a spell of tv watching, games and a couple of attempts to make me lose my mind, the little girl came to me with a request.  "Make me a princess dress." she demanded with a smile.


Thinking hard, I rummaged in the back of my closet for something suitable.  My questing fingers brushed something smooth and silky (not my usual blue jeans and sweatshirts).  I grasped the hanger and gave a tug, finally dragging out a brightly flowered, short robe from years ago.  "Perfect!", she squealed with delight, as I wrapped the robe around her and tied the sash.  She turned regally in her finery and strutted out of the room to find her crown (and kingdom).  I watched her swish down the hall and was instantly transported back to my childhood and the playhouse.


Visiting my grandparents was the high point of my summer.  My mother worked and since her parents lived about 3 hours away, short visits weren't practical.  So we often were shipped off to spend weeks at a time with my grandparents, which also helped with summer baby-sitting.  I thought my grandmother was a bit crotchety but looking back I am amazed with her patience and forbearance.


They lived on a street of small houses in the town where my grandfather worked at the telephone company.  Fortunately the street had several families with children about our ages.  All summer we ran and played in a pack of kids.   We not only weren't entertained by the adults we were expected to entertain ourselves invisibly.


We were expected to be out of the house shortly after awakening and remain out until bedtime. We were fed at regular intervals (my grandmother made wonderful cookies that were placed just inside the back door for a quick "grab and go" snack.) but basically we were to entertain ourselves, stay out of trouble, and not interrupt the work being done around the houses.  (Failure to follow this rule often meant being caught and given a job to do.  Consequently, we avoided the houses unless it was a dire emergency!)


The neighbor's house across the alley was home to a girl my age and an unused chicken house.  Since the pack of kids ran to more girls than boys and since the building was in a "girl" yard it became our headquarters.  Boys were allowed or not, depending on what game we were playing.  We spent days scavenging  around the neighborhood for treasures for our new playhouse.  A discarded table with a broken leg was perfectly usable when taped and propped against the wall.  A rejected bucket became a seat, a crate another seat, and so on until we had "furnished" our playhouse.


My grandmother, invited in to inspect our new palace, looked thoughtful and smiled as she continued on to visit the neighboring mother.  Both women were found rummaging in drawers and closets for the next day or two.  Early one morning, while we girls were busy in our playhouse there was a polite knock on the door.  Upon opening the door we were surprised to see the two women standing outside.  Arms loaded they inquired if they might come in for tea.  Delighted, we ushered them in.  They deposited their bags and bundles in the little room and started producing their treasures. 


First out was a mason jar of juice, a paper bag of cookies and cups and napkins.   Placing these on the table (after being sure the broken leg was secure) they looked at us and asked, "Don't you think a nice tea like this requires that you dress up a little?"  We looked at our normal summer attire of shorts, blouses, and sandals, and shrugged.  Like magicians, pulling a rabbit from a hat, they started unloading the box they had brought.  Out came dresses, scarves, belts, necklaces, hats, and shoes.  Flowing skirts in bright colors drifted to the floor.  The treasures of their closet cleaning lay awaiting our pleasure in a sumptuous pile.  With cries of delight we were soon draping ourselves in dresses, cinched up with scarves or belts.  A broken necklace became an elegant bracelet, a stained scarf became a perfect shawl, all donned while we clumped around in the cast off high heels. Soon hats and mismatched gloves completed our tea attire.  Never has a tea had such well dressed attendees.


The dress-up box became the treasured start of many adventures that summer.  The  dresses (and a contribution from the men of some suitable boy things) became pirate costumes, Superman, cowboys, Indians, princesses and princes.  Castles were stormed, seas crossed, maidens rescued, rockets launched, bank robbers captured, along with lots of elegantly garbed princesses doing princess things.  Not a day passed without a colorfully garbed character being seen around the playhouse,  generally being pursued by several equally sumptuously attired members of the pack.


No summer has ever been as magical as the summer of the dress-up box.


Maybe I need to clean out a closet or two.

Wildfires

Most of the time, I try to keep a little giggle in my posts.  Most of the time, I can find the humor in life.  As a farmer, this week has about drained the giggle bucket.  Instead my bucket is filled to overflowing with horror, grief, and painful empathy with the farmers in Oklahoma, Kansas and Texas who have watched helplessly as their farmland was devastated by wildfires driven by heavy winds. 


You may have seen a short news report during your nightly dose of politics, weather, and mayhem.  Most may have thought since nothing more was mentioned of the fires that it was over and done with.  I wish.  The truth is that it will be weeks, months and even years before the ranchers, pastures, livestock, buildings, fencing and livelihoods are re-established.


I have spent days looking at reports and pictures from the aftermath of these fires.  Homes leveled, barns gone, miles of fences destroyed, and picture after picture of bloated, dead cows.  (Other livestock was lost..pigs, horses, chickens, sheep but this is predominately cattle country.)  As a farmer, my heart goes out to the people who are trying to deal with this devastation.


A farm is a business but so much more than that.  We are talking about families that have devoted their lives for generations to protecting the land and nurturing their cattle, all while they build for future generations. These states are now looking at about one million acres burned.  Another reported it as 1000 square miles.  Mind boggling.  That's a million acres that are now without grass to hold the soil, fences, buildings, trees, telephone poles, homes, barns, or corrals.  They are dotted with the decomposing carcasses of cattle, horses, dogs, cats, coyotes, deer, and all manner of small wild animals that were either trapped by the flames or overcome by smoke.  I'm talking thousands and thousands of animals.


All over the area, ranchers are riding their land searching out surviving animals.  Sorting them into those that can be saved and those that can't.  The ones too injured to survive are shot to prevent further suffering.  Nothing, however, keeps the ranchers from suffering.  Many a rancher has done his job with tears running down his face.  The livestock that can be saved is herded until a place can be found to care for them. With no fences and no corrals, loading cattle in open country is not the easiest job, so you see weary men gently encouraging a line of weary cattle down the roads to safety.


Gathering the cattle isn't the only challenge.  There is no grass and the carefully harvested bales of hay burned with everything else.  Also, there are calves that have lost their mothers that need to be bottle fed if they are to survive.  A daunting situation made bearable by the outpouring of donations coming in from the farmers and ranchers across the country.  Before the rest of us had processed the need, the farming community had started organizing help.  Tractor trailers loaded with round hay bales started arriving as soon as the news was out.  Donations of fencing supplies, feed, calf starter (powdered milk for the babies), and hundreds of other items were collected and loaded on trucks driven by volunteers.  Water, clothes, and household goods were added to care for those who had lost homes as well.


This much we can do, and we are doing.  However, only time will heal the land.  Within hours of the fires being put out, the wind had blown away the ashes leaving miles of bare dirt and sand.  Everywhere you look the wind is blowing this sandy soil into drifts and a blowing cloud of dirt.  As one rancher observed, it is like looking at the great desserts. 


So tonight when I look out over the greening hills of Kentucky, as I make my way to the barn to feed our two little bottle babies and watch the cattle graze in peace in the pastures I will say a little prayer for those families who have lost so much.  The tears on my face won't make their load any lighter but maybe they will know that we care.  

Ground Hogs

The early warm weather had all of us out in the yard enjoying the sunshine when the dogs set up a chase into the front field.  With lots of excited yips and yaps they burst around the barn and over the hill.  In a short while they came back to the yard proudly bearing a dead ground hog. 


Now, before everyone gets all sad...I know Puxitawny Phil is considered a lovely bearer of spring tidings or continuing winter but ground hogs are a nuisance.  The are large ground digging rodents that dig all over the pastures, in the barns, under equipment, creating holes that can trap an unwary walker or a sleepy cow.  I never knew a farmer that didn't hate the creatures. 


Not only do they dig up stuff but they are murder on my garden.  They will eat my tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants faster than I can pick them.  The barn next to my garden has been home to literally generations of ground hogs that have resisted all attempts to eradicate or just irritate them into moving.  They slip out at night or early morning and munch, munch, munch.  Then when the dogs get wind of him, he rushes back to his den under the barn.  Which means he gets an early breakfast and I get an early wake up call from all the ruckus!


So one less ground hog wasn't a source of grief.


We haven't had real hunters for dogs since Boomer and Amy.  They kept my yard littered with ground hog carcasses aging to the exact degree of "ripeness" to be a dog delicacy. 


Boomer was a big German Shepherd while Amy was a Snoodle (a Schnauzer-Poodle cross) that probably didn't weigh 15 lbs.  They were constant hunting companions and would happily head out each morning across the fields looking for excitement.  (Never underestimate a terrier or a poodle.  They weren't bred as playthings but working hunters.  Terriers are invariably fearless, domineering, bossy little dogs.)


Over time, Boomer and Amy had perfected a hunting plan for ground hogs.  First they would find a den.  Ground hogs dig underground burrows that can run quite a distance.  Each den and run will have two entrances, so if the ground hog gets in trouble he can always leave by the other opening.  Nosing around they would locate both entrances.  Then Amy would head into the burrow.  Snarling and growling she would confront the ground hog underground.  The ground hog would turn and run for the other entrance to escape and run right into Boomer waiting for him.   One less ground hog.


Thanks to these two we had some relatively ground hog free years on the farm. 


We also had a problem of smelly, decomposing carcasses in the yard.  We would haul them off.  They would proudly bring them back.  We tried burying them.  They would dig them up and proudly bring them back, dirty.  It seemed we always had a strange odor floating in the windows.  (I don't know why but the aging process was important to these dogs.  I never saw them eat one of the creatures, but they had to keep them as trophies!) 


My father got tired of this rather quickly, since Amy was his house dog.  He was washing her hair off trying to keep her from smelling up his trailer after spending the day with her trophy in the yard.  In desperation he began grabbing the carcasses and throwing them onto the tin roof of the shed by his trailer.  There in the summer sun they would cook and dry to hard lumps. 


It about drove Hubby crazy having to climb up and scrape off the lumps and throw them away.


There is nothing simple on a farm.

Proud Mama Moment

My daughter was relating an incident that made her particularly proud of her girls and their priorities.  The girls had rushed home from school to finish their homework and grab a bite to eat before they left for their best night out each week.  Tumbling Class!  Both girls seem to enjoy being upside down more than being on two feet.  For one hour each week they flip, somersault, cartwheel, and do handstands with a group of their friends.  Frankly, they amaze their old, not so limber, grandmother.


Homework finished they quickly jumped into their tights and headed for the door.  Before they could open it their daddy burst in, calling, "I need help with a mama cow!  Come quick!"  Hesitating, my daughter looked up at her hubby, weighing the need to help the cow with the disappointment of her girls.  "Uhhh.  It's tumbling night...." she mumbled.  He nodded his understanding of the problem, but shrugged.  The cow and baby couldn't wait.  She started to turn when a voice piped up behind her. "Well, what are you waiting for?" demanded her youngest, "Let's go help that baby!", chimed in the oldest.  With that, both girls jumped into their muck boots over their tights, grabbed their farm coats and out the door they went.


The new mama was a first time heifer.  Heifers don't have prenatal classes and sometimes they seem a little unsure of what they are supposed to know by instinct.  This one was a classic case. Instead of finding a nice, sheltered place to deliver, she had hunted until she found the one big, mud hole on the farm.  There, she had delivered her little baby which was now cold, wet and muddy.  Then instead of rushing in to clean it up and encourage it to get up and nurse, she was standing there looking at it in puzzlement.  She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do, but she wasn't anxious to claim that little ball of mud.


If the calf was to make it they had to get it dry and cleaned up.  Then they had to get the new mama to do her part and start acting like a mama!


My daughter started walking the cow toward the barn while her hubby and the girls gathered up the little calf and put him in the ranger.  The girls watched the calf while the adults herded the mama cow.  With the girls opening and closing gates, fetching hay and cooing over the baby, they soon had the little family in a stall, safe and warm.  Now dad would take over and see that mama and baby got off to a good start. 


Looking at her watch, my daughter shouted to the girls to change their boots,  they could still make half of tumbling class. With a dash and a slam they were off. 


As my daughter related, it was a proud mama moment.  Proud that her daughters realized that occasionally events and happenings mean that they don't always get to do what they want.  Proud that they realized that the health and possibly life of the cow and calf depended on prompt and quick help.  Proud that they understood that they had a responsibility to the animals that were under their care.  No questions asked,  just quick response. 


That's what farm life teaches kids.  It's a big part of why we farm.


It sure isn't to get rich!