WHAT??

Dealing in my RealFood Underground, as I call it, I often end up with boxes... Boxes with potatoes, or apples, beef, etc -- and most of the boxes are reused from the original manufacturer. I had this on the counter, full of apples, for a day, and then I noticed the label:

Aw, so wholesome.

"Wholesome Farms." Don't you love that? And look at that beautiful picture of a farmstead with the sun rising (setting?) in glory, it just screams "Nature!"  Wholesome nature, at that. Ah, bliss...

But wait...

Oh my...!

What is this fresh crop from "Wholesome Farms?" Liquid Whole Eggs. That's enough right now to make my decision. Liquid whole eggs? Don't whole eggs include the shell? How do we liquify the shell? Hmm..  Oh, I know! Citric acid! Bingo. Yummier and yummier, yes?

But we aren't done with this "Wholesome" bounty yet - we're gonna pasteurize (cook? irradiate?) these dissolved-shell-liquified-eggs AND homogenize them - after all, we don't want dissolved shell sinking to the bottom, or yolk forming a top layer... ew, no, THAT would be gross... (?)

For a final dose of "wholesomeness," look at the packaging information... This.. crop.. comes in BAGS. I don't know about you, but nothing says "wholesome" and "farm" like something packaged in a plastic bag [and liquified, pasteurized, homogenized, dissolved]!

Would you eat this product? DO you eat this product? (I have no idea what is done with it. Scrambled eggs schools? Omelets at restaurants? Maybe used in baked goods?) Would you eat other 'wholesome' foodstuffs "dissolved, liquified, pasteurized, homogenized, packed-in-bags?" How about chicken? Thaaaat sounds tasty.

Know your food. Know your farmer. Don't trust a cutesy name and logo - obviously it doesn't mean much...

This Wasn't Me

My aunt sent me this via email. I have no idea if it's true, but she decided it looked like something *I* might try, and she wanted to dissuade me from the idea, preventatively...

Why We Shoot Deer in the Wild

(A letter from someone who wants to remain anonymous, who farms,
writes well and actually tried this)


I had this idea that I could rope a deer, put it in a stall,
feed it up on corn for a couple of weeks, then kill it and eat
it.  The first step in this adventure was getting a deer.

I figured that, since they congregate at my cattle feeder and do
not seem to have much fear of me when we are there (a bold one
will sometimes come right up and sniff at the bags of feed while
I am in the back of the truck not 4 feet away), it should not be
difficult to rope one, get up to it and toss a bag over its head
(to calm it down) then hog tie it and transport it home.

I filled the cattle feeder then hid down at the end with my
rope.  The cattle, having seen the roping thing before, stayed
well back.  They were not having any of it.

After about 20 minutes, my deer showed up - 3 of them.  I picked
out a likely looking one, stepped out from the end of the
feeder, and threw my rope.  The deer just stood there and stared
at me.  I wrapped the rope around my waist and twisted the end
so I would have a good hold.

The deer still just stood and stared at me, but you could tell
it was mildly concerned about the whole rope situation.  I took
a step towards it; it took a step away. I put a little tension
on the rope ... then received an education.

The first thing that I learned is that, while a deer may just
stand there looking at you funny while you rope it, they are
spurred to action when you start pulling on that rope.

That deer EXPLODED.  The second thing I learned is that pound
for pound, a deer is a LOT stronger than a cow or a colt.  A cow
or a colt in that weight range I could fight down with a rope
and with some dignity.  A deer -- no chance.

That thing ran and bucked and twisted and pulled.  There was no
controlling it and certainly no getting close to it.

As it jerked me off my feet and started dragging me across the
ground, it occurred to me that having a deer on a rope was not
nearly as good an idea as I had originally imagined.  The only
upside is that they do not have as much stamina as many other
animals.

A brief 10 minutes later, it was tired and not nearly as quick
to jerk me off my feet and drag me when I managed to get up.  It
took me a few minutes to realize this, since I was mostly
blinded by the blood flowing out of the big gash in my head.  At
that point, I had lost my taste for corn-fed venison.  I just
wanted to get that devil creature off the end of that rope.

I figured if I just let it go with the rope hanging around its
neck, it would likely die slow and painfully somewhere. At the
time, there was no love at all between me and that deer.  At
that moment, I hated the thing, and I would venture a guess that
the feeling was mutual.

Despite the gash in my head and the several large knots where I
had cleverly arrested the deer's momentum by bracing my head
against various large rocks as it dragged me across the ground,
I could still think clearly enough to recognize that there was a
small chance that I shared some tiny amount of responsibility
for the situation we were in.

I didn't want the deer to have to suffer a slow death, so I
managed to get it lined back up in between my truck and the
feeder - a little trap I had set before hand ... kind of like a
squeeze chute.  I got it to back in there and I started moving
up so I could get my rope back.

Did you know that deer bite?

They do!  I never in a million years would have thought that a
deer would bite somebody, so I was very surprised when ... I
reached up there to grab that rope and the deer grabbed hold of
my wrist.

Now, when a deer bites you, it is not like being bit by a horse
where they just bite you and slide off to then let go.  A deer
bites you and shakes its head -- almost like a pit bull.  They
bite HARD and it hurts.

The proper thing to do when a deer bites you is probably to
freeze and draw back slowly.  I tried screaming and shaking
instead.  My method was ineffective.

It seemed like the deer was biting and shaking for several
minutes, but it was likely only several seconds.  I, being
smarter than a deer (though you may be questioning that claim by
now), tricked it.  While I kept it busy tearing the tendons out
of my right arm, I reached up with my left hand and pulled that
rope loose.

That was when I got my final lesson in deer behavior for the
day.

Deer will strike at you with their front feet.  They rear right
up on their back feet and strike right about head and shoulder
level, and their hooves are surprisingly sharp.

I learned a long time ago that when an animal - like a horse -
strikes at you with their hooves, and you can't get away easily,
the best thing to do is try to make a loud noise and make an
aggressive move towards the animal.  This will usually cause
them to back down a bit so you can escape.

This was not a horse.  This was a deer.  So, obviously, such
trickery would not work.  In the course of a millisecond, I
devised a different strategy.  I screamed like a woman and tried
to turn and run.

The reason I had always been told NOT to try to turn and run
from a horse that paws at you is that there is a good chance
that it will hit you in the back of the head.  Deer may not be
so different from horses after all (besides being twice as
strong and 3 times as evil) because the second I turned to run,
it hit me right in the back of the head and knocked me down.

Now, when a deer paws at you and knocks you down, it does not
immediately leave.  I suspect it does not recognize that the
danger has passed.  What they do instead is paw your back and
jump up and down on you while you are laying there crying like a
little girl and covering your head.

I finally managed to crawl under the truck and the deer went
away.  So now I know why when people go deer hunting they bring
a rifle with a scope - to sort of even the odds!

All these events are true so help me God,

An Educated Farmer

After laughing and appreciating the well-written tale, I responded to my aunt: "Yet another reason why grass-fed is healthier!"

Farm Truck

Boy, I'm moving up in the world, lemme tell you...

I'll wait while you pick yourself up off the floor.

...

...

Ok, that's better.

We went and picked up a few items from my Granny's estate, and one of them was this beauty:

Suh-weet!

It's a 1963 International Scout - customized. My grandparents bought it from Granny's brother in the 1970's. Around the time I was born (1978), my mom nicknamed it "The Great Pumpkin" (she was forever naming vehicles). Grandpa chopped it somehow - turning it into a pickup, more or less. You can't tell from the outside, but inside the cab, just behind the front (and only) seat where the roof meets the rear window, there are welding marks. Maybe it used to have a backseat? I remember bouncing off the interior of this while Grandpa drove through the woods to cut firewood with my dad.

The above photo shows its extrication from the shed where it has been parked perhaps 20 years or so. You can barely see a boat suspended from the ceiling above the site where the Scout was parked; Hubby first had to disengage that boat from the upper portions of the scout; a rope had finally given way, and it's rear half had come crashing down. It has a hole, but it seems the scout isn't any worse for wear.

Hubby tried and tried to get it started, and had the engine actually running (!), but the clutch has had problems for years, and without it the PTO winch on the front wasn't going to operate anyway. We had to get it back to our area (12 hour drive minimum), so we had to trailer it, which took some doing (and 3 other pickups)...

I'm sure those old ramps will be fine...

One pickup to hold and stabilize the trailer, one to run a winch through a pulley attached to the front end of the trailer bed, and a third to eventually drive up and hold the back end of those ramp planks securely to the ground. It actually went smoothly and according to plan, about which I continue to be astonished.

Around the Scout we strapped the (somewhat rotted) side boards to the trailer (it's a hay trailer my grandpa made) and packed various boxes, bags, a bed frame, four dining room chairs... and to top it off, standing at attention in the back of the Scout was a push lawnmower - you know, the kind with whirling blades and no motor? I've always wanted one of those!

We may or may not have looked like the Clampetts on the road home...

Here's a view of the svelte interior of my new rig: 

All original interior

We've made some upgrades. We've removed the dog food bag (and scrap of what looked like a sheep skin) from the seat (of course, now the hole with springs is exposed, but anyway..). We've washed the algae and moss from the windows.

And that's about it. 

I need to reattach the nylon strap that keeps the driver's door from slamming into the front fender when it opens.

We're hoping to return it to its former glory, which included both first gear and reverse, and I will have a handy mobile toolbox (and kid hauler) to use to:

     a) fix fences 

     b) transport cheap livestock from nearby neighbors 

     c) show off in local car shows.

Not really on that last one.

I bet I could brood chicks in the bed of it, though...

Relative Abnormality

Now that things are slowing down (outdoors) and I have time to read and think more (oh, you thought I should have time to do laundry and mop more? Hm, maybe you have a point...), I get that double-dose of entertainment from my choices.

The first dose, I assume, is common to us all. We make a choice to read or research something because we are interested in it. And then, "yay, what a fun thing to read/learn/do!"

The second dose, for me, may be unique. I analyze just what it is that I am so thrilled to read, and I laugh out loud and shake my head at the subject matter.

Take this, for instance:

by J. I. Rodale

I borrowed this gem from a friend and market-gardener. But seriously??? Over a thousand (fairly antiquated) pages about compost? This is what thrills me???

And because yes, it does, I am entertained all over again.

But even I didn't expect there to be paragraphs to take my breath away. Man, they could write back in the day. Listen to this:

"One man will say, "From whence will come the raw materials with which to make compost?" and go straightaway to the chemist for a bag of something. He thus identifies himself as part of a system of soil banditry - taking, but hot giving.

Another man does not question. He knows that God gave an adequacy of everything and that if he seeks he shall find. He goes forth upon the highways and ventures into the byways. He comes home laden with the necessary stuffs, the wherewithal to mix a dish fit for the most savory carrots or the most exotic zinnias. He is weighted down with humus materials, both animal and vegetable, which the unknowing bystander considers trash or worse, but which, like the touch of Midas, will turn into gold under his competent hand."

Be still my heart.

I am finding compost poetic. We are talking here about scrounging manure (or maybe even roadkill??) and... it's beautiful.

Trust me, if this were anyone else, I'd be laughing at them. How can I do less to my own self?

New Idea

Okay, so I have a new money-making scheme.

My husband used to watch a YouTube channel of this crazy guy that rednecked cars into trikes, and other wild antics. He also had some useful 'how to clean the carburetor' videos. Of course, when it was discovered he had been a voyeur/pedophile, they cancelled him, but not before he'd shown off his $15,000/mo checks from YouTube.

I think I could do that. Not so much the how-to carb thing, and not so much useful to anyone, but for antics? Oh yeah. I even have a good name for it. "How Not to Farm." Or maybe "Idiots with Animals."

If I only had a videographer for that last episode...

Since Sir Loin was a wee calf 2 months ago, I've been trying to get Hubby to use the dehorning paste on him. It hasn't gone well, so finally, at or just past the age at which the paste is an option, I decided I'd better do my best on my own. Ahem. I reviewed the video I'd bookmarked on YouTube, on how to use Dr. Naylor's Super Easy Dehorning Paste:

Okay, so they don't call it "Super Easy" but it sure came across that way to me. "Allow the calf to rest away from other animals."

What was that about optional anesthetic, or tranquilizer? Hm.

The other day I did the first step; shaving around their horn buds. I found an old rechargeable electric razor that had a little flip-up part for sideburns. Sideburns = calf horns, yes? Apparently no. Maybe the battery just didn't have enough juice, but the first attempt on Ground Chuck (he's handicapped, I'll have to write about that next) stopped the razor cold. And the fur was jammed in the trimmer, having bogged down like a jeep on safari (you need a land rover. Trust me.). I took it back into the house, along with several strands of Chuck's fur, and got out the big gun. Er, trimmer. It's an old Oster hair trimmer that my grandma used on my uncle and all the neighbor boys in the '50s. I don't even know where or how to oil the blades, but it cuts smoother than anything else, according to those on whom I've used it. Of course, it's not rechargeable, so I had to drag out the extension cord (you thought I'd bring the livestock indoors, didn't you?), and then turn it on. It starts up slightly reminiscent of a jet engine; it takes about a minute to get up to speed, and the whirring sound slowly rises in pitch.

I did manage to shave both Chuck and T-Bone, if barely. For some reason they don't like to hold still when there is a motorized blade buzzing in their ear. They retained their eyesight, too (also barely). :]

So a day or two later, I found my blue rubber gloves, my recently-purchased-just-for-this-purpose vaseline, and Dr. Naylor's Magic Goop. Oh, and a clothespin that had sprung, in place of a popsicle stick.

First I tried to rub a ring of vaseline around Chuck's horn buttons, as shown in the video. Hm. It was less a 'ring' and more a series of blobs, some in the right spots, some not. Good thing he has long, protective eyelashes. I did the same to T-Bone, having tied him to the plum tree.

Now for the goop... Because of their twitchiness (or mine?), I tied Chuck to the clothesline pole, with a very, very short lead. Like none. Then I got a little pan of molassified grain to occupy him (he NEVER gets that kind of thing) while I carefully, gloves on, opened the Goop and scooped a bit out on my clothespin. I gently applied the paste, mostly in just the right spot, with the girls looking on (having been warned to stay far back and not touch this stuff or Chuck all day unless they want holes eaten through their bodies).

A bit of perspective: My neighbor told me to be careful of rain when I did this. His friend had a hole in his barn roof, that leaked on a calf with dehorning paste. The water fell on its head, the paste ran down the side of its face, and truly dissolved that which it touched. Its jaw bone, everything. I'm sure it had to be put down, if it wasn't dead from that.

Back to How Not to Farm: Chuck wasn't quite as nonchalant as the calves in the video. He paused from his grain chewing to shake his head and look startled. I did get both horn buds coated, however, and stepped away to put the lid on, prepare the hazardous material for T-Bone, etc. Chuck snorted, and pulled at his rope and I turned back to look at him. He was rubbing his head on the pole. I hope my clothesline pole doesn't dissolve, I thought.

The next thing I know, Chuck had gotten enough room in his rope to reach the ground, where he was rubbing his head and face in the grass. It was at this point I knew this was not going to work out like I'd hoped.

Thankfully I'd briefed myself in the "in case of..." section of the instructions, and determined, quickly, to "rinse thoroughly in a lot of water." I hollered to Organique to "Turn on the hose, a lot!" Which she did. I picked up the business end of the hose, and apologetically began to "rinse" Chuck. Cattle don't naturally take to rinsing, apparently, because there was a lot of rope-tugging, sputtering, snorting. I would give him a second to catch his breath, and "rinse" again. I also hollered at Big Sister to bring me a gallon of white vinegar, which took her several tries to locate, but she finally brought it to me. I eased off the hose for a moment, and with another apology, doused Chuck fully with vinegar. Repeat tugging/sputtering/snorting. Poor critter! But it was better than letting his face dissolve, yes? I repeated the water and vinegar for some time before finally letting him to his destiny in the sunshine, away from the (probably dissolving) grass.

T-Bone was spared the treatment. I came indoors and updated my facebook status to "Well, I won't be trying THAT again..." (really, I could probably just copy/paste that status a few times a week, at least.)

The calves have recovered from all but the bad haircut and just a wee bit of greasy petroleum jelly in their hair. I'm not sure if *I* have recovered, but I think I would feel better about it if I were a YouTube sensation, pulling in $15K/mo, don't you?

Making Up For It, Part 4 (Or How Not to Love Your Neighbor on Christmas Eve)

Truly, you must read Parts one, two, and three, if you haven't yet.

Where were we? Ah yes:

"Mom!" Big Sister yelled. "You killed BUSTER!"

My heart sunk, and my eyes about popped out of my head. Buster?!? WHO the heck is BUSTER???

Little Artist answered that thought, "Yeah, that's LEXI'S dog!"

Lexi's dog? They only met that girl once! And they have two ankle-biters that chase our van, but neither looks like THAT thing! This can't be right! Oh my gosh, I've killed a LITTLE GIRL'S DOG on CHRISTMAS EVE?!??!?

I just wanted to faint away. The presumed owner is a family that lives up at the beginning of our driveway, and the granddaughter who lives there played with the girls when we had been working on the fence in fall. I'd had two interactions with them in the year or so they'd lived there - I took them homemade soup and bread when they moved in, and didn't even get their names in return, and once got a phone call from the grandma when our dog had escaped and gone up to their house to play - our lab picked up one of their dogs (looks like a chihuahua-sized doberman) in her mouth - and the daughter (lexi's mom?) about came unglued. While no one thought our dog was being aggressive, it still (understandably) unnerved the person who considered it 'her baby.' 

And I have, lying dead in my backyard, another dog from that household?!?

Like a criminal wanting to turn back the clock, I told the kids (who were really not that upset - they knew the condition our hens were in, and understand that animals who prey on livestock are not to be tolerated) that they were NOT to tell anyone about this! NOT their grandma tonight at Christmas Eve, nor their cousins, nor their friends, nor ANYONE. EVER! I was still a little on edge, do you think? :) They looked at me with big eyes, and asked, "why?" but I don't know that I answered coherently. I was too busy imagining some sweet little girl knocking on my door on Christmas Eve, asking if I'd seen her favorite dog Buster, who had once saved twenty-six kittens from being run over on the freeway (or some other selfless, angelic act). Hurry up and come home, let's get out of here FAST! I still had sewing to finish up, and I managed to, and I even made it through the evening without anyone spilling the beans (I think the next day Hubby had to brag about it to someone, and the notoriety began...).

As it turned out, no one came knocking. If indeed it WAS 'Buster,' he was one kept in a kennel outdoors who "was mean" and from whom the girls hid from on the trampoline when they played with Lexi that one afternoon. [And I've had time to prepare my statement: "Have you seen our dog? Small, brown, long hair, red collar." and I will say, "I'm not sure. Does he kill chickens?" And they will back away, muttering about musthavethewronghouse, and I will close my door with a smile, because we will both consider ourselves blessed. :) ]

And while I certainly felt terrible about having killed someone's dog, I did NOT regret it, if that makes sense. In the country, NO ONE can have an animal that terrorizes, injures, or kills other people's animals. And hopefully (those people did move from town though) everyone understands their responsibility in that way. We certainly do; imagine your animal causing damage to a top milker in a dairy, or scaring a prize racehorse that gets hurt... Wow. 

Truth be told, the owner of the dog is liable for the losses it caused. I have obviously not sought that, but I could've called the county animal control and filed a report and all that. I was well within my rights defending our animals on our property, and could've gotten compensation. I felt justice had been done, however, having laid to rest this problem. And besides, it seemed a little much to knock on their door on Christmas Eve, carcass in one hand, cookies in the other... "Is this your dog? Oh good. [dumps body on porch] You owe me $100. Oh, and Merry Christmas! I baked these for you!" 

**Lest you be concerned for the alleged Buster, and any pain he experienced, Hubby says he was shot through his ignorant head and was dead immediately - he died much better than my chickens, and that is how you tell the good guys from the bad.

Making Up For It, Part 3 (Or How Not to Love Your Neighbor on Christmas Eve)

Be sure to read the first and the second parts.

Where were we? Oh yes, the report of a shotgun...

...And the dog, feathers in his mouth, dropped.

(well, actually he flipped, then landed in a firm drop.)

Along with the immediate feeling of protecting and saving (what was left of) my hens, several thoughts collided in my head, before the echo of the shot had even returned. Wow, that was loud!... Oh NO, who's dog did I just *kill*?!?...Wow, that bump on my cheek; THIS is the gun I was to afraid to practice with when Hubby was teaching me to use his guns!


I was stunned, and shaking from the adrenaline, the cold, the fact I'd just used a firearm while in my slippers. (you might be a redneck if...) The dog didn't even twitch, and I began coughing and scrambling - I need to call Hubby. He needs to come home NOW, and bury this dog, before someone comes looking for their pet. Where is the phone? In the sewing room, that's right.

I took the 8 steps to the back door, beelined for the stairs, and called him. Between choking breaths, my raspy voice said, "You need to come home and bury someone's dog. Please, now!" He thought I'd said he needed to bury OUR dog, and that I'd finally come to the end of my rope with her. :) I explained, and he said he would pay for his purchases and head home directly. There was some discussion of how many shots it took (I only had one bullet. Shell. Whatever), what size the shot was (I don't know. It was on your dresser. It fit in the gun.), did I eject the shell (huh?), where I hit him (I'm not going back out there, YOU come check!). It took him a long time to get home, or so it seemed to me. I emerged from the sewing room, trying to steady my wimpy self, and found the kids by the front door putting on their coats and boots, ready to check things out. "You are NOT leaving this house! You just stay put until daddy gets home."

I sat down on the stairs, PRAYING he would get there before I had to face whomever might actually value the wicked beast, and tried to relax. To my chagrin, the kids all headed for the dining room window, which offers the best view of the backyard... and also a fairly close view of the evidence.

"Mom!" Big Sister yelled. "You killed BUSTER!"


To be continued..

To Make Up For It, Part 2 (Or How Not to Love Your Neighbor on Christmas Eve)

Read part 1 first. :)

So I rounded the house on the east, where there was now NO dog and NO chickens. Our dog in her kennel continued to bark, facing toward the chicken coop, to the west. Here, like this:

I jogged toward the northwest corner of the backyard - to the coop. Most of the chickens were in front (eastward) of their coop, clucking nervously, but I didn't see any marauding canine. Our dog, in her kennel, continued to bark. I jogged back toward her, and considered letting her out, because she seemed more likely to find the intruder. I thought twice though; not wanting to shoot at anything (if I had to) with her in the mix. Where did that beast go??? Perhaps it had left, circling the west side of the house as I had come around the east? I jogged that direction, and stood at the east corner of the house, looking down the driveway for movement or any sign that the animal had left. I was momentarily glad we had no neighbors within viewing-distance - I was sure I made quite a sight; frilly half-apron flapping in the breeze, worn slippers, shotgun in hand, chest heaving from the freezing air... and bits of thread and sewing-fallout all over me I'm sure.

Maybe I heard something, or maybe I just turned around, but I saw The Critter running along the chicken house, towards me (though probably 100 feet away still) with one of my hens in its mouth!!! "Oh no you don't...!" It saw me as it came alongside the playhouse, turned in front of it, dropped the hen, and went racing across the backyard toward the swingset the way it had come. I thought very little, except that I didn't want to shoot my chickens or my dog, and that I had better do it before he was out of sight on the other side of the house. I raised the gun, aimed just in front of him, tracked him until our kennel wasn't behind him (from my perspective) and... <<<boom>>>...






To be continued...

To Make Up For It.

I've been a terrible blogger lately. I'm so sorry. To make up for it, I'm gonna tell you a story. However, I do  caution sensitive readers... (as if any sensitive readers could read here for any amount of time...).

I'm hoping the statute of limitations has run out by now... :)

Last Christmas Eve, I was chained to the sewing machine, where I usually am on Christmas Eve. Hubby had gone to the local toy/household/seasonal cheapy store (where HE usually is on Christmas Eve). It was early in the day, but we intended to be at the inlaws for the evening (and again the next morning), so it was my last chance to finish up gifts and projects. The days before were taken with cooking and baking, and prior to that we'd spent a few days with Gigi.

We were sad to note, upon our return from Gigi's Big City, that a predator had killed a couple chickens, and injured almost all the rest. They were bleeding/wounded mostly at their tail area; feathers missing, blood-stained, etc. We hadn't seen the coyotes since September, but figured that is what had happened. [The worst of it is, we had them cooped up - but the door is an old screen door, and the glass had cracked in a windstorm. Apparently the glass fell out, leaving just the screen for protection.]

In any case, I was in the sewing room, upstairs, with a view over the driveway (facing south). I was on the phone to my mom when out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of brown in the driveway. Being otherwise occupied in more ways than one, it didn't register as it normally would have. When I finished my conversation, I noticed I could hear the dog (in her kennel) barking, and the chickens clucking noticeably. I hollered to Big Sister to see what was making the dog bark, but I had the door locked (and the children banned from the room), so she didn't hear me. I yelled again once or twice before getting up and opening the door to the hallway to yell down the stairs. I turned into the girls' room (view to the east, side yard, swingset) and went to the window to see if I could see which way the dog was barking, and ascertain anything.

Just below me was a terrible sight. A fairly small brown dog was mauling one of my hens. My heart just seized up within me. I slammed my palms on the window and shrieked the most ear-piercing girly-girl scream ever (I'm so not proud of that). I tried to open the window, but we had wedged a broom handle to keep it from sliding open (when Organique spent a naptime shredding the screen and pitching anything within reach to the small porch below), and I could not get it out. I slammed my hands repeatedly on the glass, and screamed even more, without having any affect on the violence being done there below.

I turned and ran down the hallway - in my slippers and frilly apron - saying things like, "I need a gun. Where's the gun? You are NOT going to kill my chickens you filthy ba*****." Hubby keeps one by the bed, so I ran that way and grabbed it up. Hubby had taught me to shoot the .22, and I looked for the spot wherein you put the ammo. "Where's the little slidey-thing? I can't find the thingy. Oh Lord, what do I do?" I turned the gun over, back and forth in my hands. No slidey-thing. But on its underside, a springy area. I remember that. I lifted my eyes to the dresser top, covered in nuts and bolts and keys to things, and saw shotgun shells. I grabbed just one, and dashed back up the hallway, turning the shell this way and that, wanting to make sure I knew which end was which. Firing cap. That goes to the rear. Genius, I tell you. I flew down the stairs while tucking the shell into the little springy slot, and said to the girls in my most firm voice, "Stay IN this house!" and I was out the front door (towards the driveway). I crossed the front lawn towards the east side yard and swingset muttering, "I need to get it into the chamber. How do I do that? I don't know what to do." My left hand on the foremost grip responded to some kind of genetic instinct* and I heard the oh-so-Hollywood sound - "shuh-shuck!" of chambering the shell. My eyebrows lifted in wonderment, and a little bit of surprised pride, THAT should do it. I came around to the side with the swingsets and saw.... nothing.



To be continued...






*My mom (who died, see About Us) told me, when I was young, that the purpose of my conception was so my dad could have a hunting partner. As it turned out, I wasn't the boy they expected, and my dad met the Lord when I was a toddler, and thereafter laid down his idol - guns and hunting - so I think a little part of me must be wanting to fulfill my original - if misguided - purpose. :)

More Facebook

I know I made up some Facebook Etiquette a while back, but I continue to be perplexed at what this window into human behavior offers. Now, I am NO paragon of wisdom when it comes to discretion or good judgment, but even I can be surprised by others.

For instance:

I don't post angry hate-filled rants against people (called by name)... or end the rant condemning the hatred of the other person. Truly, I can't decide if I'm more annoyed at a public rant, OR the absurdity of raging against a 'hater.'

I don't post obvious information about my hormones (I'm sure they have authored a few status updates, but I try not to advertise them).

I don't post about my birth control choices or undergarments (unless laundry counts as this...?).

Now, these are mostly silly, personal preferences. I have good reasons (do all the men on my friends list want to know about some of that??), but none of these things qualify as dangerous.

But what about the smart phone updates? Now, my phone is not smart enough for this, but I'm still trying to wrap my brain around anyone posting exactly where they are right then. I know anyone seeing it is a "friend" (unless you don't have your privacy cinched up tight), but really? Do you want people knowing you're not at home? Or out of town even? Maybe I'm just being weird, because certainly we all may update that we're going on vacation, or something. I'm not sure why the instant updates seem more nefarious to me... If anyone does the little "...is at Olive Garden" updates, I want to know why. Does that sound snarky? I hope not; I really don't know why people would post the restaurant they're eating at, or the store they're shopping.  Perhaps this is my fear-of-man showing up, feeling inferior that I don't get to eat out at that place, or that often, or have ever shopped there...{I wonder if there's a "...is killing chickens." app for the iPhone...} Or, MORE nefarious, maybe my friends AREN'T posting... Maybe the phone is doing it for them! Hmm... Should I warn them? "Jane, your ANDROID is advertising your location! They know where you are. Be careful!"

Then again, I'm sure there might be people who find my "barnyard updates" a little too informative for taste, too... :)

Sparky

Gigi, I may have mentioned, is Catholic.  She's her own brand, though, being pro-choice and (very) pro-birth control. Her early plan was to become a nun, which didn't work out, but sometimes I wonder if she'd have been this kind:

It's hard to see (and I had to take about 23 photos to get it this good), but this nun toy spits fire.  Sparks, actually.  It's a wind-up toy with those weird robotic-style feet that walk it along, and every few steps she stops and something inside made of steel grinds against something inside made of flint, and sparks fly out of her mouth.

Or did, before my kids wore her nearly out.  Now you're lucky to witness a feeble flash as she marches along.

My mom went to Catholic school back when this kind of nun served as teacher.  I'm sure you know someone with the same stories she told... :)

I'm SO In.

Did you hear that the IRS is now offering a tax deduction for nursing mothers?  That is, that breast pumps and 'other breastfeeding supplies' will now be deductible?

Seriously?

What kind of "other breastfeeding supplies" do you suppose they're talking about?

Because I have some really effective supplies.  A pair of them, actually. They've put in years of service, and continue to do so. [Is this a retroactive deduction, do you think?]

I have some questions though. How would I figure my deduction?  Maybe it's like the 'home office deduction,' where you add up all the property taxes, heating, cooling, electricity, maintenance, etc that your home requires, then proportionally allot part of it as the 'office' expense based on square footage. Should I track the costs of running my body? Food, medicine, clothing and the like? But how would I determine the proportion of my 'equipment?' By weight? Volume? Surface area??? And is it to be measured at the start of lactation, or year's end? Maybe the 1040 instructions will just come with a chart: Find your height, cup size, and ta-da, the percent is done for you.

I've heard about the IRS hiring some 20,000 new agents. I think now I know why. All us nursing Mamas will need someone to double-check our figures. Where do you think they'll be getting the training for such audits? The TSA? I'd heard a lot of talk on the Right about Obama giving yet higher pay to federal union employees, but I had no idea these were the kind of 'benefits' being offered.

Textus Impossibus

Are you a text-er?  Do you text message others?  Do you know how hard it is for me to write those sentences, using nouns as verbs?  How about, Are you a sender of texts?  Do you send text messages to others?  Ah, that's better.  But it only gets worse from here.

I've recently started sending and receiving text messages. Like facebook and blogging, I like the ease with which it connects me to others.  I like sending a text message to my farmer, asking him "where's the beef?" and hearing that he will call the butcher shortly.  Or asking my motherinlaw exactly which April date is my niece's birthday, so I can mark it on the calendar.

I've sent and received text messages before, but only under duress. :)  That is, if I was "roaming" and the text was cheaper than the call.  My extended family of in-laws uses text messaging quite a bit, and I've been bummed to be the last person to find out that a close friend (who is also a relative) had her baby, or other "news" that I missed out on because I was "out of the loop."  This is my own fault, mind you; I've grumbled before, receiving a "you are the best mother to your child/children" award, knowing it cost me 15¢.  Really?  If I'm so worthy, why don't you know whether I have one or more offspring? :D  I still don't know who sent that to me, or how many of us mothers it was sent to, but it still cracks me up.

So, I've now added a whopping $5 to my cell phone bill, and for that I can send and/or receive 250 text messages per month.  Which solves the problem of knowing when someone important is in labor, but has brought up a whole other issue.

can u guess what it is
i cant wait 2 tell u
ready? its sumthin that drives me crazy @ txting

Aaaaaaaauuughhhh!

I always thought I was a numbers girl, you know?  Memorizing my bank account numbers, and even my Power Company account number.  But I find that in my old age, I'm getting a little wordy, too (hmm, maybe that's why I have a blog?).  I've been reading poorly-written Christian fiction on my kindle (they were free.  Good thing.) and critiquing them to no end, astonished at the incorrect labeling for real-life things, or the unlikely conversations/plot twists/whatever.  And clichés?  Gag me with a spoon.  Anyways.  About words.  Using text messages is supposed to (I hear) save time and effort, doing away with the pleasantries necessary in a voice conversation, and get your questions answered and details ironed out without interrupting anyone's day.  Much.

But here's the thing.  I happen to believe punctuation is handy, and purposeful!  So I type my text message with appropriate apostrophes, commas, capitals, periods, etc.  I write out "to" and "you" and other things, because I just cannot bring myself to write such purposeful mistakes. Errors, they would be.  BUT - My text messages need to be 160 characters or less, else they become two text messages.  And I'm nothing if not frugal.  So I end up with a problem.. I type out my nice little text message, and realize it's going to be too long.  So I have to back up and use smaller adjectives and fewer qualifiers, or whatever.  If that's not enough, then I have to make errors, changing "to" to "2" and "you to "u" and worse.  It's excruciating.

By the time I'm done writing, rewriting, and un-proofing, I've spent eight minutes on something that would've taken one, had I just dialed the daggum number in the first place!

So - do you send and receive text messages?  Do you use the abbreviated misspellings?  Does it bother you?  Will I ever get comfortable using such things?




**I do not want to be understood as condemning the use of misspelled words in text messages.  It just bothers me to do it.  Like someone who just can't handle clutter on their countertop and constantly cleans it off (gee, now THAT would be a useful neurosis!). :)

Incongruity

They say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

However, I think there are exceptions.  Books covered in images of shirtless muscle-men with waist-length flowing hair and gripping a half-undressed woman are usually, well, trashy novels.  Girl-p*rn, really.

A while back I was searching for a handful of classic kids books, and was hitting up the second-hand stores in Town to see if I could avoid the shipping costs of buying online.  Hubby and the kids waited in the van while I perused the back wall of one such shop, passing over the obligatory Microwave Cooking cookbooks and MS-DOS how-to manuals.  A demure, older Mennonite woman walked to the back of the store as well, and went directly to the far end of the wall.  A-ha, I thought.  That's where the good stuff is.  I pretended to continue searching along as I slowly made my way in her direction, waiting until she had made her selections and left the area.  I happily strode towards the Good Shelf.

To find books covered in images of shirtless muscle-men...

I laughed to myself, when standing in line to buy some 50¢ crayola paints, the woman was turning in a good-sized stack of similar novels to get 'credit' towards the purchase of the new stack.  Classic literature indeed.  Silly me. :)

Just goes to show that you can't judge a book by its cover...?

Organique Was Here

 My mom used to laugh when we passed a "Kilroy was here" mark.  In a frozen cabin with a group of handicapped adventurers, on a railroad overpass in the mountains, on a short brick wall near a school.  Those are the only places I actually recall the funny caricature, but it stuck with me because I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the humor was about, nor could she explain it.

We have a similar, if less funny, version of that in our house.  And it takes a practiced eye to really decode the "Organique was here" message.  See if you can figure it out:

Exterior latex primer, sliding glass door.

Ditto

New Decor in the Guest Room

A Closer Look

I especially love that last one.  Need some cinnamon?  No problem!  I hope you like paprika too.  You can probably put it through the sifter and remove the italian seasoning.  Actually I'm considering marketing this new cinnamonpaprikapoppycayennegarlicalum spice.  What do you think?

I don't have a picture of my suspiciously-rearranged jewelry boxes.  And considering I changed out my earrings (briefly, like for a day) in the neighborhood of 2007, it's not like I'd know if anything was missing, really.

But in our home, there is no graffiti of one peering over a wall.  The "Organique was here" messages abound, however.

Health Food

For sure...

You Might Be the R-Word, If...

I'm civilized.  I really am.  At least, I try to be, where it counts, playground notwithstanding.  In fact, Hubby uses the R-Word to harass me upon occasion.  I apparently still have my pride in place, because I always haughtily raise my eyebrows and my nose, and disparage the thought..

But...

A few months ago I had our windshield replaced.

A few weeks ago it cracked.

I wasn't sure if there were warranties or anything, so I called the local installer and they said they'd have someone come inspect it to see if it was from a rock, or stress, or what.

The guy came, found rock damage (doggone it) and I didn't realize until the young man left that I'd: a) stepped out of the house barefoot to talk to him, b) stood in the front yard, and c) held Baby on my hip.  You've heard that, right? (forty seconds at the link will explain it..)  Of course, that's probably happened routinely, but not usually with witnesses.

***

Cousin was by to let his son try and scare up a bird or two (not my chickens) and loan me a(nother) gun for my predator problem.  He shot his 12-gauge (NOT the one I borrowed), and part of the wood came apart from the barrel, and he lamented he'd have to take it home and fix it.  And THEN he thought he might have some duct tape in his new (old) blazer/bronco/whatever (that he recently TRADED for).  I warned him that such action could only mean one thing, not that his ego is as tender as mine...

***

And then there was the exchange about the gun he loaned me, that prompted me to say, "If my cousin loans me a gun, and then tells me just to bring it with me to church to return it, what does that make me?"

I'm not sure I can comply with the terms of this loan...

Before & After

Before you realize your daughter isn't just greeting you...

And after you realize she has a camera in her hand...

Not The Shot

This is not the shot that would've made you laugh.

It's not the one my dad intended, when he grabbed a large rock, and gestured to my hubby to do the same.

It's not what he hoped I'd capture, after they both pelted their rocks in the direction of this guy.

I couldn't get that shot, see.  Yes, it would've been funny to see the water splashing toward this longtime family-friend (and sometime family-foe [hehe] ), and maybe have the silhouette of him flailing about in an attempt to stay dry.

But my brother had just called me.  And because I couldn't keep Baby safe while operating my camera while talking on the phone, I prioritized and handed the phone off.

To this guy.

All I could think, as Dad was implementing his dastardly ploy (and I realized what he was actually doing), was, "That's my phone!!"  Not that such information would've made him pause much, if at all.

This photo was taken post-prank, and you can see my phone is thankfully safe and sound.

Oh, yeah, and that guy is too.  ;)

Abundant Harvest

What, you disagree?

Well, let me tell you...

At some point a few homegrown indian popcorn seeds were tossed into Hubby's potted ponderosa pine in the corner of the dining room.  They sprouted last winter, and s l o w l y grew through spring, and into summer.  A couple of them were uprooted or otherwise bit the dust, but eventually we had a very classy stalk of corn growing in the dining room, aside a stubby little pine tree in a big, ceramic pot.  I can't even uproot volunteer tomatoes from the WRONG place in the garden, and I certainly couldn't hurt this tall, spindly effort at survival.  When it started to tassel, well, we all laughed.

And then we were astonished when it began to put forth an ear, with silk.  Just a little one, with a little bit, mind you.

And then we questioned whether or not a single stalk of corn could self-pollinate.  We knew the little tassel-bits had to fall on each strand of silk to produce a full ear of corn, but did it have to be pollen from a different stalk?  Could it manage to reproduce all on its own?  We decided we would find out, eventually.

The stalk began to dry out (I looked, but couldn't find a photo on my hard drive), and Organique pulled on it's long leaves many times, and it was bent, and we propped it back up... Eventually Hubby 'harvested' the ear... What do you know, it did it!  It managed to reproduce!  And counting up the kernels of corn, it actually reproduced near about "an hundred fold."  Makes me wonder what a successful stalk of regular corn generally manages.  Several-thousand fold?

In any case, it's enough to plant a nice little stand of popcorn next year, if we so choose.  Such lovely stuff.