Feeling my age

It all started on ebay. I should never have bid on that old derelict tractor, but my finger had a mind of its own, and awful a sudden there it was. I had won the auction, and an Allis Chalmers G model tractor was my very own. All I had to do was brave the elements, risk life and limb, dodge morons and the worst semi-paved roads in the nation, flatten my posterior by sitting on it for over 24 hours, and it was in the driveway. Now all I have to do is regain the ability to do anything other than limp around the house holding on to various body parts and groaning. Maybe when I grow up a bit I'll learn some restraint. At any rate, there are now 3 (count 'em, three) G models lined up in military precision under a shade tree next to the driveway. They are easy to keep lined up, since none of them run. Of course I have high hopes; combined with my vast mechanical knowledge and oodles of spare time, those babies should be field ready in no time at all. What was I thinking?

The tractors are part of a three-pronged attack we plan to implement. Weeds(plenty of), water (lack of) and bugs (way too many of) are our three big enemies. In my constant search for a way of staying on the farm all of the time instead of trudging to Huntsville part of every week, we are working on a plan. The tractors are our answer to weeds. Pushing a hoe around has its limitations, as satisfying as it may be, and this particular type of tractor is the best ever made for cultivation. They were only made for 5 years, 1948 through 1953, in Gadsden, Alabama. We now have one from 1948, one from 1952, and one that doesn't appear to have a serial number, so we don't know if its real or my imagination. But if it isn't real, we did a whole lot of driving for nothing. I'll get some pictures and post them, but in the meantime, do a search for Allis Chalmers G, and you can get some cool pictures. It's worth it. They look more like dune buggies than tractors. The ultimate plan is to convert them to electric, and charge them from solar panels, but for now I just need to get them going. The weeds aren't playing fair - they already started.
Water is an ongoing issue. Some of you know we drilled a 700 foot well last year, and capped it when we ran out of money before we hit good water. When I win the lotto next week, I'll pull the cap off and drill some more. We'll either hit water or molten rock sooner or later, and if it isn't water we'll probably take a vacation until the eruption is over. In the meantime, though, we're pushing as much water as we can through miles of hose, and hoping for the best. It's been a little over 4 weeks since we've gotten enough rain to germinate seeds. At least there's no mold growing in the basement. Not damp enough down there. But it will rain, sooner or later.
Bugs are loving it so far this year. Warm, dry, and plenty of weeds to hide in. But we've sent out eviction notices this week. We finally found something that is organically approved, and deadly to all manner of beetles and other bad guys, and it's coming to town today. If you're a bug, and if you want to live to see your children and grandchildren grow up to destroy things like you've been doing, you have until sundown to get out of this town. It's not big enough for all of us, and we've brought in a hired gun to take you out.

On a lighter note, my arms are scratched up from picking blackberries, we have juice from wild plums in the freezer waiting patiently for cold weather, when we prefer to make our jelly, and the main crop of tomatoes are starting to come on. Wendy has rescued the eggplant (we hope; man, that stuff is hard to grow in our clay!), and if it ever were to rain, all manner of good things would pop out of the ground. We've had a couple of spectacular crop failures already this year, but some things have been more successful than we thought they would, so on balance, the first half of 2008 has been a good one. Yes, that's right. We're at the halfway point. If there is something that you decided to accomplish in 2008, and you're not well along the way, get going. You've waited as long as you can.
I just remembered about 128 things I've been supposed to be pushing along this year, so I'll take my own advice and push along, too.

Accidental Leisure

It finally happened. Like always, just when you don't suspect it, it happened. We got up early, rushed around putting baskets together and packing milk for Saturday delivery, and made it to Nashville only 10 minutes late, which is in reality early for me. After chatting with customers and guzzling Tandy's coffee (City House), we headed for home close to noon. We arrived after 4pm. I'm still not completely sure what went wrong.

According to Wendy it all started last Thursday, when the smallest bladder in the world (Carleigh's) began screaming for relief as they drove home from Nashville. The closest exit was #37, so Wendy pulled off, and there it was - a small sign that just said "Raspberries". All I heard for 2 days was how pretty that little sign was, how cute the lettering, what nice colors the people had picked out for it, and on and on like e-i-e-i-o. Slow to pick up on things like most men, it never really occurred to me what was likely to happen next.

Fast forward to Saturday, and after I had blown past exit 37 without stopping, I realized (was reminded of) the error of my ways a few miles further south, jumped the median and went back. Silly me, I had thought I was on my way home. The sign was still there, in all it's radiant glory, proclaiming that there were berries just a mile or so down the road, so off we went. A half hour later, armed with all the berries the very gracious ladies had picked, after sampling their blackberries and with Wendy clutching a bag of cherries, we waved goodby to our new friends and headed even further away from home searching for a cherry/peach orchard they told us about, you guessed it, just a couple miles on down the road.

When we got to the dead end, a very nice young woman insisted upon searching the local phone book for "Forgies", calling them, and getting directions to their orchard. Of course she also learned that they were between cherry and peach crops, and had nothing for sale. But intrepid traveller that I am, I valiantly drove past the orchard, turned around and drove past again, to indelibly stamp the sight and location in the feeblest (is that a word?) part of me. The time? Oh, maybe 2pm.

Now I did have to get some money from the machine and go pay for the last load of hay we'd put into the barn, and of course the debit card was at home, so I'll have to admit that we did go straight home at that point, but we immediately left again, so I'll claim it as a pit stop only. We weren't home even 15 minutes, and off we went, first to the bank, and then on to Lonnie's house with cash in hand. We almost got there. There's a fellow whose retirement plan for over 20 years has been to buy antiques at estate auctions and store them in various places. He has a flea market that is right between the bank and Lonnie's house. Fortunately for us, most of his stuff is really antique, not just cute junk, so we didn't find any got-to-haves there, but we looked for a while. And to make it worse, less than a half mile further there's a true junk market that we'd been eyeing for a while. No more luck there than at the first place - this one was truly junk.

We finally made it to Lonnie's, paid him and started home. By now my hands are twitching, because I forgot to mention that in the brief time we were at home, our new hoes had arrived, and all we got to do was look at them, caress the handles, and jump into the car. I had a good head of steam worked up, and was headed for the house when I saw something that instantly made me 14 again. Right by the side of the road was a grove of wild plum trees, and that thing in the middle that was bright red was not a bird. It was a plum! If you have never had wild plums, go get in your car and drive south until you either hit salt water or find plums. The house and job will still be there when you get back. It's worth the trip. I won't say that I'd kill for plums, but to be on the safe side, don't block my path.

What could I do? I did the only thing a man in my condition could do. I started knocking on doors. The cherub-faced little Amish girls sweetly informed me whose property the plums were on, but no one was home, so I trudged on back empty-handed. We did stop at one more flea market on the way, but my heart wasn't in it. All I could think about was those little Amish girls with a step ladder picking plums that were meant for me. Wendy was a lot of help, though. She kept hitting the Heisman pose and suggesting that's what I'd look like stiff-arming the little girls as I grabbed a bonnet full of plums from them and ran. The idea that I'd stoop to stealing plums from children! Still, I'll bet I could outrun them, at least to the car.

Home again, home again, jiggity jog. Yes, we took our hoes out for a spin. Yes, we actually got to sweat some before dark. Yes, the house was full of fresh cherry pits. But there was no joy in Mudville, mightly Casey had struck out in the plum quest(with apologies to Ernest Thayer-don't ask who he is, just go read the poem) . I'll find some plums, but I won't share. Go find your own.

Our Next Day Off

Okay, since we've never been ones to quit after only one try, we decided to have another day off. Sunday seems to work better than any other day, for a lot of reasons, one of the biggest being tradition brought on by our society's predominantly Protestant work ethic. In our case, our delivery schedule is such that we don't have to pick and pack on Sundays, and I'll admit that I have a fond habit of walking the fields on Sunday mornings, searching for arrowheads, smushing bugs and kicking up dirt clods. I can easily fit into the country bumpkin stereotype, in fact more easily than I can fit into some of my not-so-old clothes. (As an aside, we just got a new stove after going for longer than my manly pride will 'fess up to without one, so my girth is growing.) Anyhow, Sunday is our only chance for a weekly day off.
Now I'm a planner. I have at various times been called schemer, dreamer, plotter and conniver, but I think all of those words are just euphemisms for planner. So I'm busily planning our next day off, and I have to admit it's not going well. Our next door neighbor tends to mow parts of his large yard 6 days a week, and I'm pretty sure he has a turbocharger and a set of glass packs on his industrial strength mower. Working in the fields is always fun, but a lot less so with him drowning out all the birds, bees, and shrieks of the bugs I'm stomping. So on Sundays when he doesn't mow the temptation is very strong to get out and listen from the vantage point of mid-bean row or pea patch. And you can't just stand there....
The other reason our next day off is not looking real good is Wendy. She's too hard to please, but I've hit on the one thing that is sure to bring a smile to her face. I just ordered her a brand new, personalized, state-of-the-art scuffle hoe. I know, I know, but I'm that nice a guy. Nothing's too good for my partner. And it should be delivered Saturday afternoon. I said I'm a planner, didn't I? I will recommend to her that she spend Sunday lolling in the shade, sharpening the blade, seasoning the handle, and plotting her attack on Johnson grass and cockleburrs, but I fear she will sneer at me, sniff the air, grab the hoe and take off. She's not one to sit while weeds are growing bigger and tougher. Pity the weeds, and share my chagrin - another day off spent on. We'll try again.

Our Day Off

It's not a big secret that it's hot. We're both several shades darker than a month ago, and I feel several years older. May and early June is perhaps the busiest time of the year for us, and as most of you already know, our picking crew is Wendy and me, with help from Carleigh and Noah. So we sometimes get stretched a bit thin.

Finally this weekend we decided to take a day off. Never mind that the weeds need attacking, or the August veggies need planting, or that the pigs have decided to worm out from under their fence, and they've been meeting us halfway to the barn every morning for a week. Never mind that the deer have found us, and we need to get some kind of barrier up, or that we literally have a fox in the henhouse. Everybody deserves a day off occasionally, right? Of course, cows have to be milked, pigs fed, and the other daily chores, but heck, that's just everyday stuff. We're talking about a day off. Maybe we'll even go for a drive, or fishing, or even sit in the swing and read a book. So here goes.

We started off in good shape, not even going out to feed and milk until 7am. That's a real relaxed schedule, and even the cows didn't seem to mind. Of course the sun was up already, and it was a bit warm by then, but what the heck. It's our day off. Since we're both pretty much workaholics, I did have a few little piddly things I wanted to take care of, so after the milk was put up and breakfast over we set out. We decided to walk through the blackberries and gauge whether there'll be any this year (indecisive) , then picked the tomatoes (a real early treat this year). So far so good. By now it's after 10, and in the low 90's. There was this one section of fence that I didn't get to last week, to finish off our little kitchen/trial garden here next to the house, so I spent a few minutes on it. Meantime Wendy was watering newly seeded flats and pulling the last few things out of the oven/greenhouse. Still not too bad. Then my stupidity ramped up. I found some watermelon seeds, and it just so happens that there is a long row full of weeds that is sadly in need of melons. So in the second hottest time of day, on our first day off in months, here we are pushing hoes through endless ranks of weeks in the broiling sun. But we were having fun!

While recovering in the shade and trying to decide what leisure activities to engage in, I remembered the two rows of pole beans we had meant to put trellises up for. Most of the posts were in, but I had run out before getting to the end of the last row. Oh well, that shouldn't take too long, and it really needs doing, because the beans are starting to run. And 96 is just a number, and we'll still have some time left over to frolic.

So all of the starch is now drained out of me, and I finally did get to sit in the swing with a cool, refreshing beverage in hand. I think I enjoyed it, too, but I'm not real sure because Wendy (who spent the last couple of hours of her day off cooking) woke me up to tell me dinner was ready.

What's a guy to do? Maybe next Sunday. We're lousy examples of how to relax.

The Perfect Day?

The last day of May was as close to a perfect day as I can recall. I'm already living in the past, if only a week past. We were up and out early, marveling at the dawning of a new, misty day, and picking for Saturday's baskets. For those of you who haven't seen dawn in a while, wake up! It's worth it. And just tell me one good thing that happens late at night. I didn't think so.
The cabbage loopers hadn't made an appearance yet (can't say that anymore), the harlequin beetles were under control (can't say that anymore, either), and the day promised to be hot, bright, and good. All three happened. Then something else happened. I picked, sliced and ate a tomato, ripe on the vine. In May. A first for me in my entire life. Even as a kid in southern Mississippi we never had ripe tomatoes in May. This year I got lucky, guessed right, and got rewarded. With any luck at all, you basket-getters out there will be rewarded very soon, too. There should be enough for a small tomato or two real soon.
The squash is coming along, and has started blooming. We have our fingers crossed that the blossoms make squash and don't just drop off like they sometimes do. Tomatoes and squash in June makes my head go all giddy. And I'm not a giddy kind of a guy.
We're hauling hay right now, and it goes like this: After we work all day, and have decided to knock off and try some new cold beverage instead of working until dark, the phone invariably rings. The folks we get hay from are very good at calling us first, but it's always after 6pm, and it's always "we've got 150 bales of hay if you want it. Come get it and bring money." So we heave ourselves more or less upright, hook up the trailer, and head for the hayfield. After 3 years of buying from the same people, we've started paying them to load it for us, but we still have to get it home and throw it up into the hayloft. It's a lot of fun early in the morning, less so late in the afternoon. Anything over 90 degrees is just a bonus, too. That's how I keep my skin smooth, and my countenance so youthful. Sweating out pork fat will do that, you know. Every time I take my shirt off and wring out close to a quart of liquid from it, I thinnk I'll sell off all the animals. But when I go down to the barn the next morning and catch the smell of new hay, and feel the welcome tightness of muscles seldom used, I change my mind. Just think of all the money I save by not going to the gym. Plus, the gym isn't full of ticks, so I'd still have to find a way for blood transfusions if I didn't work outside at home. Whoever said that guineas will keep ticks under control was just trying to sell guineas. The only control for them is a pair of tweezers.
But back to May. After a genuinely good day, and just as night was falling, I went to get the tractor and trailer from where I had parked it in the middle of the field (having stopped halfway to the house to move cows from one pasture to another), I saw the first lightning bug of the year. Last year Wendy saw the first ones in mid-April, and we had decided this year that the drought had killed them all off. But finally they've come out. Not in the numbers we're used to, but at least they are here. We've been looking for weeks. In those areas where Roundup is used routinely, they never come back anymore. That poison kills them, just like it kills honeybees. Another time I'll tell you my opinion of the poisons that are routinely used, and the monstrous companies that push them off onto us, but for now, I'll just smile and remember a good day.