The Fishing Hole

My daughter and son-in-law decided it was time to take some time off and just have fun with their girls on Sunday.  They had been working hard getting the crops out and remodeling their house (the never-ending project) so a day of relaxation was in order.  In a short time an expedition to the pond on one of the farms was organized.  They loaded the truck with chairs, cool whip containers (for the worms), a bucket, (for the fish), two girls, one five years old and one three, a Barbie fishing pole and a Princess fishing pole, one dog, and two adults and took off for a fun afternoon.

Now, the five year old is an old hand at fishing.  She got her first Princess pole two years ago and unlike most little ones, set about learning how to use it.  She practiced and practiced until she could cast like a pro.  Surprisingly, baiting the hook with worms doesn't cause her a tremor.  She thinks worms are cute but fish are slimy..go figure.  So, she baited up her hook and gave it a mighty cast.  Plop! into the pond it sunk.  In just minutes she had hooked a little brim.  She reeled him in like the little pro she is and handed it to her mommy to take it off the hook.

Soon both girls were fishing away.  The time passed and mommy commented that it didn't look like the fish were biting anymore.  The older girl looked at her witheringly, and remarked, "Mommy, you have to be patient to fish!"  Soon the three year old tired of being "patient" and joined the dog in chasing the frogs around the pond.  The only question was if the dog and the girl would go into the pond with the frogs. 

The afternoon settled into barking dogs, squealing girls and laughing adults.  Soon the little one had tangled up her line on her pole and brought it to mommy to fix.  Mommy straightened it out and gave it a trial cast.  Not being as accomplished as her daughter, she landed her cast near the bank of the pond.  She started reeling it back in and soon felt a jolt on her line.  She reeled some more and the line kept trying to get to the bank.  Then it tried to jump on the bank.  Somehow she had managed to hook one of the frogs.  This quickly became a daddy job.  Daddy grabbed the line and pulled the frog to the bank and caught him.  The frog promptly jumped back in the water.  Now the dog decided she would help and jumped in after the frog.  Daddy drug the frog and the dog out of the water and tried to grab the frog again.  Now both girls and the dog are jumping up and down trying to help.  Eventually daddy has the frog corralled, the dog has been called off and the girls are watching in fascination as he works the hook out of the frog's skin.  With a quick caress from both girls for the "poor little froggy" he is returned to his pond.

With the sun going down and feeding to be done, they load up the truck and head back home.  Who says you have to have an amusement park to create wonderful summer memories.  Eat your heart out Disneyworld.

Gray Hair

Raising children will cause you to become prematurely gray.   The amazing thing is that they don't realize the stress that they create until the grow up and have children of their own.  One of those times happened when my son was about 13 years old. 

This was during the time when we were hauling show cattle around to various shows over the summer.  We were a shoestring operation so we did everything we could to cut corners.   While the cattle on the show string we kept them stalled in the barn.  For easy clean-up we bedded their stalls with shredded bark that we bought from a local lumber mill and hauled in by the truckload.  We piled this huge mound of bark just outside the barn.  Naturally, since our farm is mostly hills, it never is simple.  The bark pile was just outside the barn but down a short slope.  To make hauling this up to the barn easier we found a home-made two wheel cart for the kids to use. 

When you take cattle to a show you are provided with a spot to tie them when they aren't being actually shown. It's up to you to provide everything else. That includes their bedding that they will lay or stand in during this time. Most of the bigger shows will have companies that will supply this bedding for a fee. For us, one of the corner cuttings was to supply our own bedding.   Since we were getting ready to take the cattle to the state fair the kids had been assigned the chore of sacking up bags of bark to take.  .  This amounted to a lot of bags, since the kids wanted the cattle to stand high and proud on a bank of bedding in the barns.  The sacking had been going on for several days and the number of sacks was mounting  up, but more were needed.  My job was to keep them working until they had the required number. 

On this day they had a helper in the form of a friend of my daughter.  The three kids had been having a ball working and playing while they sacked the bark.  The friend had finally brought us all to laughter when she proceeded to pull a lawn chair to the top of the small mountain of bark and announce that she was the official "supervisor".  Lunch time approached and I went to the house to get ready.  It wasn't long until the two girls just appeared in the kitchen.  "What's wrong/", I asked, knowing that look too well.  "Oh, nothing.  He's just being stubborn."  I finally pried out of them that they had teased my son too far and he had lost his temper.  So they had left.

We chatted on for a while and I gradually became aware of a thin sound coming in through the kitchen window.  It soon organized itself into a thin, high scream coming from the direction of the barn.  "Help me. Somebody please, help me.  Help me!  Please,somebody, please help me!"  Each call getting weaker and more desperate.  Immediately I knew that something horrible had happened in the barn.  Flashes of him being pinned under the tractor or caught by a piece of equipment tumbled through my head.  I started running.  Never has the distance to the barn been covered as quickly or taken as long.  With every stride I was screaming, "I'm coming. I'm coming. I'm coming!"  By the time I rounded the corner of the barn I was in full rescue mode and ready to lift that tractor off my baby.

I was greeted with the sight of my son trying to pull the two wheel cart up the slope to the barn with a too heavy load of sacks.  As he pulled the front of the cart higher the center of balance moved back over the wheels until he reached the point where he could no long make any forward progress.  He also couldn't go back because the cart would immediately overbalance and pull him down the hill.  In other words, he was stuck.  Realizing that he wasn't in danger just totally pissed, drained the adrenalin out of my legs and I went down in a heap. 

We did eventually rescue him, but I lost ten years and developed a lot of gray hair on my way to the barn.

Where's Your Sister

Being a mother on a farm means that you must learn to deal with the occasional emergency situation.   On most occasions I have maintained a calm grip on the situation, however there are times when the old brain just slips a cog and starts to fizzle instead of think.  This was one of those days.

It was a warm summer day and the kids had been helping hubby with the barn chores.  He had been cleaning out stalls, rearranging the equipment, and in general just puttering around.  I had noticed from the kitchen window that off and on both kids had been riding with him on the fenders of the tractor as he puttered around the barn.  (Yes, I know they shouldn't ride without seats and seatbelts, but I'll bet most farmers are guilty of providing their kids with a free ride.)  Everyone was having a grand time and I went back to cooking.  I had just noticed hubby passing the house with both kids perched on the fenders when my attention was needed to get something out of the oven.  I looked up a few minutes later to see hubby coming through the back door to get something. 

About the same time I heard a horrendous noise coming from the barn.  I could hear crashing sounds, a tractor motor growling, and kids screaming.  Knowing that just moments before the kids had been on the tractor I went flying out of the house.  The tractor that had been sitting in front of the barn was no where in sight.  My son was galloping toward the house screaming at the top of his lungs "GET DADDY".  I immediately started running toward him screaming at the top of my lungs "WHERE IS YOUR SISTER???"  He kept coming, screaming, 'GET DADDY' with every leap, while I kept running screaming "WHERE IS YOUR SISTER".  The noise was reaching a crescendo.  We met in the middle of the sidewalk with me still screaming "WHERE IS YOUR SISTER".  Finally, with a look of total incredulity, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me shouting over my screams "SHE'S RIGHT BESIDE YOU!!!"  She'd reached the house and was just standing in open-mouthed amazement!  I was so panicked that I had never noticed her.

It turns out that the tractor had popped out of gear after everyone had gotten off and rolled over the hill and through a fence below the barn pulling a metal trailer.  Damage minimal-scare factor maximum. 

The tractor we have today has a full cab, a buddy seat and a seatbelt!  Hubby still never leaves a child on a tractor or within reach of a running tractor.  He is very careful with our precious cargo.

Escape

I'm not sure why it is, but if the weanlings are going to have some fun they will do it during the days that I am here by myself.  We have recently weaned some calves, which means we have separated the mama's and youngsters so they will learn to eat their fill without sneaking a snack from mama..  These aren't babies but more like pre-teens.  This group contains several young bulls and, like young males of any species, they will dream up trouble to get into if they are left to their own devices.

We usually place these youngsters in the lot behind the barn, which is convenient for several reasons.  One, they are close at hand to be fed morning and night.  They also are under eye to be sure none of them get sick or get pushed away from the trough and don't get enough to eat.  The downside to this arrangement is that the barn lot borders one corner of the yard.  These youngsters don't take to being shut away from their mama's and their snack bar, which means we get serenaded  with their loud and vocal complaints.  If we're lucky they settle down after a day or two and we get peace.  Unfortunately, this time weaning coincided with a warm spell just begging for open windows and fresh breezes.  The nights got a little long.

This little group had gotten bored with their captivity and cramped quarters.  For the past few days they had been playing and pushing as little bulls will.  Their lot is on a direct sight from my kitchen window so I have watched their antics as I stood at the sink.  This afternoon as I was cleaning up after lunch, I looked out in the yard and noticed all the calves standing at one place along the fence.  On closer inspection, I noticed that some of them actually were standing on the yard side of the fence.  Deciding this didn't look good I stepped out on the porch and saw for the first time that in their pushing and shoving they had completely broken through one section of the plank fence.  Why do they always do this when I'm alone?

The trick was how to get them back into the lot and from there to another lot.  With all the rain the barn lot was knee deep in churned up mud.  Not my thing.  With a little reaching I managed to open the gate from the barn lot to the next lot.  Now to get them to move without having to chase them trough the mud.  One thing I have learned over the years is that it is easier to out think a cow than try to out run it.  Deciding on deceit, I went to the barn and got a feed bucket and carried it to the fence along the lot.  They could see me moving with a bucket and followed on the other side of the fence hoping for an afternoon snack.  Soon they were through the gate and looking hopeful.  Quickly I slid and mucked through the mud to fasten the gate.  With puzzled looks they watched me pick up my bucket and return to the barn.  Poor babies.  I'd had to use an empty bucket because I couldn't get to their feed.

They are still looking hopefully at the house.  I feel like a heel.  Maybe hubby can give them an extra scoop for me tonight.  Or maybe that's just what they get for keeping me up all night.

Black Dog

This seems to be my week for animal stories.  So here we go again.

When we moved to the farm we inherited a collie from the previous owner.  She was moving to an apartment and so we agreed to keep the dog.  She was our first collie and a great introduction to the breed.  However, this is about her best friend.  Dogs are very social and often make friends with other animals.  This friend was a black and white boarder collie who actually belonged to a neighbor.  I really don't know if the dog ever went home, he was at our house morning, noon, and night.  (rather like some teenagers several years later)  We never knew his name so we just referred to him as "the black dog" or later just Black Dog. 

I am fascinated by breeds of dogs and how much their characteristics are bred into them.  Black Dog was of a breed often known as Shepherds, because that is what they did.  They herded sheep.  You may have seen some of the very popular performances at the State Fair where these black and white wonders put on a herding show.  They are playful, industrious, intelligent, eager to please and hard workers.  Black Dog was no exception.  He would sit and look at you with his bright eyes just begging for you to tell him to do something.  Unfortunately we didn't know how to tell him. 

The fun would begin when hubby would get the cattle up to move them from field to field.  Black Dog would drop to his belly and start to ease his way behind the cattle.  Soon he would have one cut out and was moving it away--usually in the opposite direction than what hubby wanted.  So then hubby would start yelling and waving his arms.  Black Dog would grin and work harder.  Hubby would yell louder.  Black Dog would put new enthusiasm  into his herding. Now he had most of the cattle moving away from the gate and back into the field.  At this point hubby starts throwing clods and sticks and turning a deep shade of plum.  Soon the kids are in the action chasing the dog trying to get him out of the field.  With that the cows kick up their heels and head for the back forty.

The interesting thing is that Black Dog was herding perfectly.  He had every move down to a science.  How did he know how to do this?  He was a purebred dog, but he had never had any instruction on herding.  It just came from inside of him.  The problem wasn't his, it was ours.  He was willing to move cattle anywhere but we had no idea how to communicate with him to tell him where!  He would look at us with this quizzical expression on his face as though begging us to just tell him. 

I thought all of this was interesting and to be perfectly honest, funny.  The show that hubby and dog put on was entertainment at it's best. I could often be found at the fence cheering them on.  That is until the day Black Dog gave up on cows and decided to herd ducks.  I had a new hatching of babies and was enjoying sitting on the fence post watching them in the pond. I watched with amusement as Black Dog approached the pond bank.  He lay down and waited patiently until the ducklings decided to come ashore.  Slowly he crept closer and closer.  Easing his way carefully he got between them and the water.  As ducks do they all moved restlessly away from him, rather like water flowing in a ripple.  As soon as they moved in the direction he wanted he would drop to the ground motionless.  When they stopped moving, he would creep up behind them until they started to move forward.  Again he dropped to the ground.  Next time he eased just a little to the right, the flock moved to the left. Keeping a low profile and never hurrying he was moved the entire flock away from the pond and up into the field.  It was poetry in motion.  I was amazed at how perfectly he had herded his flock. 

Then I sat up with a jerk.  He was doing such a good job of keeping them moving that several of the babies were in trouble.  Ducks aren't designed to do a lot of walking.  Several of the little fellows were wearing out.  Some were trying to sit and a few were actually laying down.  This wasn't good, not good at all. Suddenly I jumped off the fence and started running through the field, waving my arms and yelling at Black Dog, all the while looking for some clods to throw.    Reaching my exhausted ducks I turned back to the pond to see hubby sitting on the fence laughing.  I guess he thought the show was pretty entertaining, too.

The Hatching

One of the first things I did when we moved to our farm was order baby ducks from Southern States. I have always loved ducks and since there was a small pond behind the barn next to the house, I just thought we had to have ducks. Fortunately they came "sexed" so we ordered two pairs. (Evidently, determining the sex of baby chickens and ducks is somewhat of an art.) With that, we became the proud owners of a pair of Pekings (white) and a pair of mallards (brown female and green headed male). We didn't realize that the mallards could fly but the Pekings couldn't. This led to some hilarious moments with the white ducks running across the field trying to keep up with the mallards. That is until one day the male mallard didn't come home.

That left us with one proud male white duck with his "flock", one white and one brown. For some reason the little female mallard was quite content to be part of his harem and didn't fly away. Spring came and the two females started to make nests and lay eggs. They knew enough to stay away from the too exposed pond banks and attached themselves to the flower beds in the yard. I guess they realized the dogs would keep the raccoons and weasels away and they would be safer. Ducks are a lot smarter than chickens. What this also did was give us a ringside seat for duck watching. The little mothers became quite accustomed to having kids squatting beside them watching every move.

The morning came when one of the kids noticed that the mallard's eggs were hatching. We all sat intently watching as the mother duck nestled on the nest, checking occasionally to see how her newly hatching babies were doing. It wasn't long before she decided that all had hatched that were going to (several eggs were left in the nest. ). She waddled off the nest and proceeded to march to the pond. Strung out behind her came her ten little baby ducks, eight yellow babies and two brown babies.

When she reached the pond she plopped into the water and swam serenely off. As each baby reached the shore they plopped in and started swimming. Only minutes old and they were as graceful as could be. We all clapped and cheered with tears in our eyes at this amazing sight. It was a Norman Rockwell moment when I knew that farm life was the greatest thing on earth.

As we watched the mother duck turned and proceeded to swim down the line of ducklings checking the eight little yellow ducklings and two little brown ducklings, which were last. As she reached the last two little brown babies, she reached over and used her head to push them under the water. She then turned and swam back to the head of her line. The little brown babies popped to the surface like little corks and cheeping frantically hurried to catch up with their siblings. She repeated this maneuver two more times before it sunk in on us that she really was trying to drown them! In her duck sized brain these two little ducks didn't look like the others and she was trying to remove them! All of a sudden the moment was more Steven King than Norman Rockwell.

Soon the kids and I were running frantically around the pond trying to rescue the two babies. Fortunately it wasn't a very large pond so we were finally able to separate them from the others and herd them to the bank. It was heartbreaking to watch these little babies try so hard to keep up with the other ducklings, cheeping pitifully the entire time. At no time did the mother duck show any interest in the fate of these babies as we grabbed them. She herded the other eight as far from us as she could and looked smug. I never did like that duck after that.

We raised those two little ducks in a pen in the yard until they were big enough that the mother duck was no longer a threat to them. As they grew up they decided that my daughter was their mother. They would follow her around the yard, running to her and trying to get under her if they felt threatened. They went to the garden with her when she picked beans and ate bugs and worms to our delight. They grew up to look very much like their mallard mother and eventually joined the flock on the pond. They seemed to be content with their life, but we were traumatized for months by the events on the pond bank that sunny spring day. A lesson learned...life isn't always Normal Rockwell.

The Hay Field

The view today from the kitchen window is the hay field. The men (my husband and son) are working hard to get the hay baled before it rains again. We've had a wonderful week for hay--lots of sunshine and hot weather. However, on Sunday the hay baler suffered a major break-down. It was Wednesday before we could get back into the field. Then within five minutes it was down again. This time a minor fix, but that was followed closely by another break-down. Then it rained..... Now doesn't that just make you want to run out and buy a farm?

I read somewhere that farming was the third most stressful occupation. I can't remember what number two was, but number one was an air traffic controller. That should tell you how much fun farmers have. However, you won't find a more dedicated group anywhere. They love it all. Yes, there are bumps in the road (some years it's more like major pot-holes) but they keep on doing what they love. I guess the great days of hard work and seeing what you accomplish, the satisfaction of working together as a family, seeing your children grow with responsibility and a strong work ethic, the love of the land that God has given us make all the problems that go along with it seem worthwhile.

My husband grew up on a dairy farm. He knew early on that if he wanted to get ahead in life he would have to do something besides farm. Farming is a great life but you probably won't get rich while you are at it. He went to college, majored in ag-economics, owns an insurance agency and comes home and farms every night. I tell him that he works to support his hobby.

So why do we do it? I honestly can't imagine living in a city. Nothing against cities, they are great places to visit, shop, go out to eat, but then I want to go home. I want to look out my window and see---well, cows and fields and trees and space. I like being able to water my flowers in my nightgown or sit on my porch and watch the grandchildren without yelling " watch out for the cars" a thousand times. I love being able to go to the garden and pick supper. There are few things more satisfying than being able to put a meal on the table that you have grown for your family.

So today we are putting up hay for the cattle to eat this winter. We are using our resources to provide for those creatures that are in our care. Yep, it's a good feeling.