A Concrete Goose Chase

 On more than one occasion, I’ve been told that I need to have a “Farm Cam” to catch all of the antics that happen on an almost daily occurrence. 

The dedicated “Farm Cam” is still a dream in the future, but a few days ago I discovered a security camera can be a great substitute. 

It was early morning and morning chores were just being completed. I didn’t wear a coat that day because I figured I’d be back in the house fairly quickly. Walking down to the small barn to feed the pot belly pigs and barn cat and fill up feeders and waterers for the chickens was uneventful and then I began my walk back to the house. 

As I approached the house I heard a goose honking loudly, a usual occurrence because the geese are always begging for food. What was strange, however, was that the sound wasn’t coming from behind the house, it was coming from the front of the house. 

My eyes looked toward the front and only saw the white concrete goose that stands guard in the turnaround of the driveway. 

Now, I know that I’m on the other side of the half-century mark in age but I also know I haven’t completely lost my senses yet. Was I entering that land of no return in hearing concrete animals making sounds? 

I drew closer to where the sound had resounded from. There was not one concrete goose but seemingly two! I definitely needed to get more sleep. 

Of course, what I was actually noticing was that one of the live backyard geese had somehow gotten out of the fence and wandered to the front - seeking out the stoic, non-speaking concrete goose for companionship. 

Picture in your mind this visual: a middle-aged woman in pink pajama bottoms with little pink pigs on them, a short-sleeve t-shirt, hair disheveled and wearing black rain boots. This goose needed to be returned to the safety of the backyard and its flock and I was going to have to do everything I could to get it back, regardless of how ridiculous I looked.. 

I figured it wasn’t much different than corralling a chicken so I crouched in the football stance, arms outstretched, calling out “this way buddy, this way.” All while cars on their way to their respective places of work rushed past. 

It took a bit but the goose finally allowed itself to be caught and as I went inside to change into clothes for my day job I thought “it’s too bad that wasn’t caught on camera - I’m sure it was hilarious.”

That’s when I realized - the security camera on the front of the house had captured it all. 

The video was shared on Facebook and at the urging of several friends, I decided to take a chance and send it to America’s Funniest Home Videos. 

Who knows if this morning antic will be enough to capture the attention of the producers of the show, but it definitely provides for a great story at Christmastime. 

It’s as I always say to people who stop to talk about the antics on the farm - you just never know what’s going to happen next. 

Merry Christmas to all and until next time…

A Cat Burglar

 At last account, there was a mystery going on, on the farm. The chickens were still busily gobbling up their spent grain, and discarded pumpkins that folks had either delivered right to the door or I picked up, and frustration was mounting that each day there wasn’t an egg to be seen. 

Sunny out-of-season warm days happened that should have guaranteed a plethora of orbs and still no eggs. 

On occasion, one would find the remnants of an egg - the shell laying completely clean of yolk and white but then, nothing. 

Thinking that the culprit was most likely another chicken or chickens that had discovered that some pretty tasty things come from their backsides, or perhaps a wayward racoon or weasel that was sneaking into the coop, all on recognizance was set up with a night vision trail cam to capture who the wily thief was. 

The first attempt at capturing the heist in progress was a total failure. The SD card that was in the trail cam experienced an error some time between setting the cam up and checking about 72 hours later. 

Not to be defeated, a new SD card was obtained and once again a waiting period of 72 hours went by. 

Super excited to see what or who the culprit was going to be, the card was taken inside the house to glean through around 400 or so still photos of chickens going in and out of nesting boxes, the occasional dust cloud drifting by and then, the answer to all of the missing eggs was discovered. 

Who would it be but dear Cooper, the barn cat that took up residence last November as a small kitten. 

Photo after photo showing the crafty cat reaching into a nesting box with his murder mittens to gently roll a freshly egg out onto the coop floor and then quietly devour it like it never happened left me absolutely stunned. 

Knowing that the cat had been displaying a beautifully shiny and healthy coat, it all made sense now. Obviously the temptation of having a fresh egg or two every day was just too much for the feline and he had been helping himself to the freshest laid eggs in Jackson County. 

The cat burglar being identified, now comes the dilemma of a trial. Is it banishment from the chicken coop? Perhaps new nesting boxes need to be purchased that allow the eggs to roll back into a secret compartment so that they can’t be readily accessible to fluffy paws.

Whatever the outcome comes to, it has to be that at least some, if not all, eggs need to be saved from an over easy bum nugget cruncher. Efforts to interrogate the guilty party have gone unanswered. 

Until next time…

A Fowl Act in the Coop

There’s a thief (or perhaps thieves) lurking in the chicken coop and it’s going to take some real feather searching to figure out the mystery. 

Every year, about this time, unless supported by artificial light, hens decide to go on a bit of a vacation from producing orb shaped objects from their backsides and cease laying. The biannual molt occurs too where the feathered cluckers lose their feathers and grow new ones. This process takes a lot of the energy away from producing eggs and goes into producing nice, soft fluffy new feathers that will carry the birds through the next season. It is normal this time of year to expect a drop in production.  

However, what’s happened recently goes way beyond what a normal drop in production would be. 

Back in August, the number of eggs being produced by around 30 laying hens (of which most are around 2 years old) dropped off significantly. The weather was a bit off as well so the absence of eggs wasn’t too alarming, at first. 

This phenomenon continued through September and that’s when the culprit (or culprits) started leaving behind evidence that it wasn’t just a decrease in birds laying. 

When collecting eggs from the nesting boxes, broken pieces of shell started showing up. The eggs that remained in the boxes displayed clues of little beak shaped pecking holes. 

It didn’t take a scientist to realize that the coop was dealing with an egg eater. 

Chickens are curious creatures that are omnivores and sometimes even cannibalistic. Nothing is off the dinner plate when it comes time to chowing down. No surprise then that these fowl are direct descendants of the Tyrannosaurus Rex. 

Obviously, once the hen laid her egg, the taste of farm fresh was just too tempting and she gulped it down. So much for getting any profits out of the clucker freeloaders. 

It’s going to take some serious reconnaissance now that the cause of the missing eggs has been identified. Tracking devices attached to the birds to locate which one goes in which nesting box is way out of this small farmer’s price range so it’ll have to be somewhat primitive. A trail cam, stationed precisely in front of the nesting boxes, will have to do to try and nab the culprit or culprits. 

All of this is great in figuring out who’s been eating the eggs but then will come the subject of how to address the sentencing of this fowl act. I’m not one for capital punishment when the crime is ingrained in a thousand year old bird brain but I think relocation may be in this bird or birds future. 

You just never know what’s going to happen on the farm. 

Until next time…

Having a Baby Changes Everything

There used to be a commercial that ran on TV that had the tagline “having a baby changes everything.” 

It showed a woman giving a plump little baby a bath in the kitchen sink with the child laughing and smiling and the woman having the time of her life. Water was splashing everywhere and the commercial was shot in black and white, giving the viewer a feeling of nostalgia. 

You know, it doesn’t matter whether it’s human or animal, this saying is completely true. 

Having never had children of my own and giving my parents more grand-dogs and grand-cats than they would probably prefer, I’ve yet to raise a baby mammal of any kind (other than hamsters and other shelf pets many years ago). 

Chickens, ducks and now more recently geese, have been raised from hatches on the farm but never an animal that needed to depend so strongly on another to grow. 

The puppies that were born a few short weeks ago, otherwise known as the “potatoes”, have definitely changed routines around the farm. They are learning to stand on all fours, trying to create “ferocious” growls (it sounds a bit like a muted coffee grinder) and some have even found their “bark”. Their eyes are wide open now and suddenly the kennel that has been their home for the past four weeks doesn’t seem large enough for their adventurous spirits. 

The other animals on the farm have felt the surge of popularity of the tiny creatures as feed times sometimes are delayed due to needing to get the puppies into a playpen so that they can have a bit more room to run about or the visitors that have wanted to just peer in on the snuggly cuddle puddle that the little ones create. 

It is getting close to the time that the pups will be heading off to find forever homes and I have to say that I’m feeling a bit melancholy. All of the pups will be adopted through the Jackson County Humane Society and all will be given great homes.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t still want to keep them as close as I can for just a little while longer. 

Fostering animals is definitely a skill to learn. It does sting a bit when they leave, but keeping the mindset that they are going to homes that will treat them with so much love and attention makes it a bit easier. Also, every animal that is placed for adoption means that another in need has a place to stay while they wait for their turn. 

In the meantime, I’ll be making sure that the little potatoes learn as much about domesticated life as possible. Things have definitely changed. 

Until next time…

For the Love of Potatoes

 Fall is usually the time where things begin to slow down a bit on the farm. Hot, humid days are replaced by cooler breezes with the trees slowly transforming from their deep green to the vivid colors of southern Indiana that everyone knows and loves. 

One of my many part-time jobs is helping out at the county humane society every Sunday morning and sometimes that work (literally) follows me home. During the slower fall and winter months, I usually welcome a dog that may be in need.

The past three years or so I have occasionally agreed to “foster” a dog for a couple of weeks to help them avoid the trauma of being in a shelter. These dogs are usually small, timid and just need a quiet place to rest. My three resident dogs are the perfect companions for such an animal in need and help them adjust - allowing behaviors that may be warning signs to come out so that a potential adopter receives little to no surprises when they take the canine home.

It was four weeks ago that I agreed to take a 10 pound terrier mix female, who I called Shadow, home to help her. I got her settled in, introduced to the “pack” and prepared to receive a call soon about someone looking to adopt her. I was planning for her spay surgery and knew such a cutie wouldn’t be without a home long. 

One evening though, when sitting on the recliner with her in my lap, I was definitely fed a dose of reality. Looking at her belly, I noticed waves. “Surely not,” I thought, “maybe she’s just got an upset tummy.”

Another look and sure enough - either there was an alien invasion in this dog or she was expecting puppies and from a quick Google search - it would be happening soon! 

I’ve had hundreds of chicks hatched on the farm through the years but never a dog. What was I going to do? What needed to be done? Did I need towels, blankets, warming pads, a nose sucker? 

Thankfully a reach out to connections for quick tips and a couple of weeks ago, Shadow delivered 4 puppies that resembled little baked potatoes. There were three girls and one boy and all received potato temporary names; Spud (male), AuGratin (female), Julienne (female) and Tot (female). 

It will be several weeks before puppies (and mama) will be up for adoption at the local humane society, but until that time these little spuds will learn the ways of country life and how to be a proper companion for someone. I also have to announce that I’m beyond thrilled that my mama has already staked claim on the little one named Tot. 

You know, I had thought about growing potato plants on the farm this season, but time just didn’t allow for it - I guess I should have realized things happen, just not in the way we expect it. 

Until next time…

Ending Up with Hives

A well experienced beekeeper knows that the end of the summer is not the time to be catching swarms or cutting out hives from buildings/trees/etc. At this point in the year, the resources available to newly captured groups of bees is minimal and the chances of them surviving are next to none.

Being that I am not well experienced, nor one to not try something that is seemingly impossible, I didn’t heed that lesson a week or so ago when I agreed to tackle a beehive that was located in an old shed that was due to be demolished soon. 

There’s an observation I’ve noticed over the past few years of capturing bees. People love to watch. I often wonder if they have a sense of morbid curiosity - wondering if the bees are suddenly going to go awol and attack the person in the big white suit. 

Most of the time, it takes a simple shake into a bucket to remove a group of bees that have gathered, or use a cardboard box, and gently scoop them up to place into a beehive box. 

This hive removal that I was going to tackle was going to be one that I wouldn’t soon forget. 

I was able to gain access to the inside of the shed and started to pry a section of the wall where I thought they might be hiding behind.

The walls weren’t the usual drywall but rather thick sheetrock that was set to stand the test of time. It was soon evident that I would need to take a hammer to it and sunk my first hit about halfway up the 8 foot wall. 

One or two little bees came curiously out of the hole so I thought - well, maybe I’ll hit just a bit higher. 

I can honestly say I’ve never been so happy for a full coverage bee suit as suddenly thousands of angry worker bees came pouring out of the 2nd hole that the hammer had made. 

Not to be daunted, I hit the wall again and again further up until I reached the point where the wall met the ceiling. Thankfully the hive went no further than the section of wall which was approximately 3 feet by 2 feet wide. 

Bees were angrily swarming about me at this point as I went to start removing the sections of comb. Honey was pouring from it - coating my beekeeping gloves, the hammer, into the wall, just about everywhere. The deafening sound of honey bees and the intoxicating smell of warm honey created an almost surreal experience.

I placed the comb and the bees into several 5 gallon buckets outside when on a trip back into the shed to gather more, I heard  “hey there! I’m glad you’re back to get the bees!”

It was a neighbor who lived about 50 feet or so from the shed. I nodded and told her to get back into her home- that the bees would be very defensive from my work. She continued to hang out at the fence line until I suddenly saw her start swatting away at bees and finally retreated back into the safety of her house. 

Honey bees, for the most part, are fairly docile until they are riled up and once they get riled up - they’ll stop at nothing to be sure that whatever the threat was to them has been chased far away. Typically, I can work in a hive and then step about 25 to 30 feet away with no concern for being stung. Not this time, when I went to unzip my veil to take a break, two of the bees instantly gravitated towards my face with one of them zinging me right on the underside of my nose. 

To me, honeybee stings don’t feel like the fiery burn of a wasp or hornet but rather an irritating pin prick that swells over time. 

It took two days total for me to finally decide I’d gathered as many as I could and it was time to stop. Bless that neighbor’s heart, she came out again the 2nd time I was there and once again got chased back inside. It’s always best to watch a beekeeper do his/her work from behind closed doors and windows. 

I ended up with 4 stings total which I don’t think is too bad considering the size of hive that I was dealing with. Word is still out on whether the amount of bees I caught will make it, but I’ve given them every chance I can. One thing for certain, this will be one capture that will be talked about for a very long time. 

Until next time…

Farmer's Eye of an Apple

 In the aftermath of losing the farm’s flock matriarch, Gertie, of which I was so humbled by the messages, greetings, etc. on her passing, I’ve discovered something during the 7 years I’ve had the farm, some things I can do amazingly well and others, not so much. 

Take for example the fruit trees which I planted during that first year. I enthusiastically planted 4 persimmon trees (2 of which were grown from seeds), 2 apple trees (a red apple, and a Granny Smith variety) and 2 pear trees. I had planted apple trees at my former home in Columbus, IN, and had amazing success in getting beautiful fruit without doing much maintenance at all. This would be a no-brainer in getting fruit in about 5 years, right?

Well, not so much. As year 4 rolled around, I saw a few tiny buds start on the apple branches that spring, develop and wither away. The same thing happened with the pear trees. No matter, I thought, it was the first year for any fruit and perhaps the trees just needed time to get further established. 

Year five saw a repeat of lack of usable fruit and by year six I was looking up natural remedies for getting fruit to grow without being misshapen. The apple trees were growing baseball sized fruit that resembled some sort of comical monster instead of the beautiful apples which are found in the stores and the pear trees were creating fruit that was the size of peas.

The only trees that were even remotely doing well were the persimmons which started to produce the sticky orange fruit which I turned into pulp that year and made some amazing baked goods for friends and family. 

Now, in year 7, I’m realizing that the pears I planted will never produce usable fruit and are not the Bradford variety but most likely a Callery pear which is also highly invasive and will need to be cut down this year to stop its migration into the field behind the house which it has already done. Chalk it up to learning the hard way. Thankfully the invasive plants should be eradicated by the end of the year through diligence and some serious cutting tools. 

As for the apples, I have a few tricks up my sleeve for those too. I’ve been extremely blessed that the neighbor just across the road has allowed me to harvest from their gala apple trees and these apples will soon make new dog treats.Thanks to a lot of research and talking to experts - I’ll be ready next year with a farmer’s eye when the ground begins to awaken..

It won’t be overnight, but I won’t give up on creating beautiful fruit. Once again, I am taught patience in waiting. Nothing moves fast on the farm and if you try to make it go faster, you’ll find things move even slower. The apples will thrive and there will be new pear trees planted. It is frustrating, however, that the past 6 years I found myself trying to nurture a tree that would try to take over the land. I guess it will now make amazing kindling. 

Until next time…

Gertie - A Life Well Lived

It's never easy when a columnist passes. Those who have read their lives and followed along feel like they too have experienced a loss. In this case, this columnist was a chicken whose name was Gertie. 

Gertie, however, was not like any other chicken. She experienced more in her eight years on earth than some people do in a lifetime. She created art one year by dipping her toes in finger paint and trapesing across white paper to form a sketch (or was it scratch) which was framed and prominently displayed in the living room. 

She had her nails painted one year in Christmas colors of green and red and willingly allowed herself to be photographed with Santa Claus, though I'm sure said 'Claus' was less than amused for holding a bird. Perhaps she asked him that year for some of that mealworm tea. 

She made herself known throughout her eight years, having had many interactions with humans who had experienced her friendly demeanor by gently pecking treats from folk's hands or just coming up to the fence to say hello. Though she was friendly, she always displayed herself royally. Her feathers were always deep gold and always kept as neat and tidy as possible.  

Some of her funnier moments were when she played chase with the Boston Terrier, who has since gone to the other side, Luna at her first home in Columbus. Or, one afternoon, she even wore a small backpack that contained a mini first aid kit that was given from a hospital health event. It was the perfect size for a chicken and the CEO of the hospital even got a kick out of it. 

Gertie was the kind of chicken that ate up the attention and was always willing to say her piece. The barnyard will feel different without her keeping the rest of the hens in line and being first to strut up to whatever treat offerings were placed in the run. 

A chickens' average lifespan is 5 - 10 years so it feels incredibly lucky to have had her for so long. Of course, like all things that we love, I wish it could have been longer. She made it to her 8th birthday and I guess that's probably around 80 years old. She did not suffer and went very peacefully in her sleep. Oh that we all could be so blessed. 

Gertie's musings may have stopped, but I'm sure that another animal will find its voice in the future and keep the dialog going of the way it truly is on the farm. 

Rest in peace Gertie. 

Until next time... 

Gertie was just a chicken - but she was so much more

 I recently experienced the death of the matriarch in my large flock, Gertie. When I found her curled up peacefully under a nesting box, I instantly began to cry. It was as if the air had been let out of the big balloon that was the dream of creating this farm and where it had originated. 

I picked her up gently and cradled her, noticing how soft her feathers were as they always had been, as I carried her out of the coop and laid her atop the non-working freezer that is used to hold chicken feed - keeping pests out. I couldn’t process her death immediately. I didn’t want to bury her right away but I knew that time was not on my side and I needed to work out where I was going to bury her, when and how. Almost paralyzed, I managed to take an empty feed sack and place her in it and then walked back to the house, tears streaming down my face at the loss. I would work at burying her later in the day. 

I need to add, I don’t typically cry any longer at the loss of a chicken. Death on the farm happens. Chickens typically don’t live beyond 5 years and usually my method for disposing of them is to take them to the furthest corner of the property and place them in the field for some forager to carry the bird off and thus feed life from death. This was not going to happen with Gertie. 

Gertie was just a chicken, but what she was and what she represented was so much more. She was the sole survivor of the original flock that I had in Columbus when I first started my journey with chickens and then into farm life. 

Gertie arrived with three other chicks, which I purchased with my dear friend Mel, from a 4H poultry group fundraiser on February 5th, 2015. As they grew, I worried over them having enough heat, enough light, enough food. Then my attention turned to anticipating that first egg when they started to approach 8 months of age. Gertie was not the first of the 4 to lay an egg but when she did it was a moment of rejoicing. Three of the chicks in that first flock were named after my grandmothers’ middle names and one after an aunt; Mildred, Eleanor, Henrietta and Gertrude (or Gertie as I knew her). I loved them all, but Gertie was special as she was named after my maternal grandmother who I was very close to. 

In 2016, life became more complicated as I learned that I would not be able to keep chickens in town. I began to look for other living spots in and around Columbus but what I found was a farm that was located in the town I grew up in, Seymour. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about moving back, but it was close to Columbus and I could have my chickens and still be connected to my friends there. 

The end of October 2016 was very traumatic. I was busy creating a secure, cozy coop for the four chickens when I received a call on a Sunday morning. My dear friend Mel had passed through the night. I recall looking at the four birds thinking that at least I still had them as a memory with her. 

As I said before, death is common on the farm and that memory would not last long. In the following year I lost the first of the original four, Eleanor. I was devastated, but she was buried beside the barn and I vowed to keep the rest as healthy as I could. Then there would be two more deaths with Henrietta in 2018 and Mildred in 2019. Gertie was the one that kept going. 

She visited Santa Claus one holiday season, tolerated having her nails painted green and red, attempted chicken art by walking through finger paints and even got the attention of the CEO at Columbus Regional Hospital when she donned a small CRH branded backpack that contained a first aid kit. 

When 2020 happened, I noticed that Gertie was really ruling the flock. She always got the upper roost, kept the hens in line, didn’t seem to cater to the roosters’ advances and always had the most golden feathers and the fluffiest backside of any of the growing flock. I was concerned that she was “old” in chicken lore but at five years old she seemed to be thriving. 

Then I started writing a guest column for The Tribune and one day I thought, “hey, maybe Gertie could say her piece” and thus the voice of Gertie was born. I heard from readers constantly how they loved to hear her perspective on farm life and her sass (which was a real thing).

When visitors came to the farm, I always made sure to point her out as she would make herself seen - almost demanding to have the attention as the farm’s oldest chicken. She was approaching 8 years old and I was so hopeful that we would see her decade birthday in just two short years. 

Gertie celebrated her 8th birthday in February this year, but the season was rough on the chickens and I know that she was working through some gastrointestinal issues. I tried several remedies but her recovery was not to happen. She died peacefully through the night on August 20th and the last of the connection to my old life in Columbus was gone. 

Gertie was laid to rest beside the barn she lived in which will soon have a marker memorializing her resting spot. There are also plans to name the barn “Gertie’s House” and a plaque will be made stating such. Gertie’s legacy will continue for many years to come and beyond.

Gertie was just a chicken, but you see - she was so much more.

Rest in peace Gertie - you will be missed.

Gertie's Mealworm Tea

Hey all! Jackson County’s favorite hen columnist is back and boy do I have a lot to fill you all in on. It is July and things are sizzling.

I can’t say how much I would love to have a nice cold glass of mealworm tea under the shade of the crabapple tree that is located in our run, but the Mutha Clucka has ignored repeated requests from me and the other ladies to provide such a treat. 

Oh, I know she tries - giving us chilled watermelon and other assorted veggies from the fridge but gosh the tasty earthiness of crispy insects in some ice cold water would just make my afternoon perfect. 

I have been excited about the nice sandy area we have to take dust baths in each day. Nestling down in the coolness of the earth and giving a good shake to the feathers always leaves one feeling refreshed and ready to take on just about anything. I know I speak for my little chicken ladies group that we all enjoy good conversation and a solid nap on a hot July afternoon in the shade is just what we need. 

Cooper, the barn “cat”ken, who is a cat who thinks he’s a chicken, has been sneaking out at night by climbing through the open windows to the coop. Being a very responsible hen, I tried to tell him that this wasn’t proper behavior but he’s still young and thinks he knows better than all of us. He’s not ignorant though - he always returns to his bowl in our coop for breakfast and dinner each day.

The oinkers in the barn, Chester and Spike, have been begging more frequently for food and Mutha just doles out the goodies like it's Halloween. Does she not realize that we all need to watch our weight? She has said something about finishing the “run” for the pigs though so maybe soon we won’t be subject to their grunting all day. It’s so hot that their conversations can really grate on a hen’s nerves. 

I’m hearing the constant calling from the ducks and geese up on the hill and I often wonder what has them so excited. Maybe it’s that new giant kiddie pool that was brought home - why a bird would want to splash around in water is beyond me, but hey, to each his/her own. 

If you need me, I’ll be sitting under the shade of the crabapple, still dreaming about that mealworm tea. 

After all a hen can dream, right?

Until next time…

Fence Gate: A New Farm Scandal?

We’re in the heart of farmer’s market season and it’s been a lot of fun to interact with readers that look forward to these ramblings every other week. It’s always incredibly humbling to know that scratches that come out as random thoughts are entertaining and as many folks have heard - I never know what’s going to happen next out there on the farm. 

Recently, I was able to finish the pot belly pig run and what a joy that has been. The pigs now do their restroom business outside and I don’t have to put near as much work in to muck their pen. 

Getting that run completed though was quite an ordeal in itself. 

To start, I had around 9, 16 foot hog panels to deal with in creating a proper piggy paradise. These panels are relatively lightweight but definitely awkward to handle and have sharp edges where the wire has been welded. You’d think after almost 8 years of farming I would have learned my lesson to wear protective clothing but, no. I did wear gloves but when I was moving the panels, one slipped and put a nice little notch in my shin. Ignoring the ensuring trickle of red, I kept pressing on. I was farmer-tough and I could handle it. 

Yes, the fence panels could have been laid out straight without bending, but never being one to do something simple - I decided that I needed to create right angles for corners to save on the amount of panels I was using. 

A quick YouTube view and I was putting all of my weight onto a panel with a 4” x 4” square post at the point that needed bent. Well, that resulted in another nice scratch right above my knee. 

At this point I must have looked like something out of a Rambo movie with my hair completely mussed, blood running into my hiking sandals and a nice red scratch right above my knee. The panel did get bent however and I continued with the construction of the pen. 

It was a series of measure, sink t-post, pull panel to t-post, attach clips, and repeat. 

Three hours later I finished with a final panel and now had the daunting task of installing a 4 foot wire gate that had hardware that looked like something out of a medieval torture chamber. Should be no problem at all, I thought, as I quickly scanned YouTube again for instruction. The video was only three minutes long so I figured it would probably take me 10 and I could then retreat back inside to the air conditioning. 

I drilled a pilot hole into the fence post and inserted the hanging hardware. Then I started twisting it. I managed to get about 10 turns in before a loud squeaking sound started and the pot belly pigs started going berserk. What the heck - I thought. The video didn’t say anything about that and the bracket in the video twisted in really easily. 

I tried again and again the same sound. Not that it solved things but I thought - hey, I’ll call dear old Dad. He’ll have the answer. The first words out of his mouth when I explained my dilemma were “Did you use soap? If you didn’t use soap you’re going to have to untwist it and do it again.”

If I could have thrown a temper tantrum and gotten away with it, I probably would have at that point. I was tired, dirty, hot and frustrated. “Isn’t there another way?” I pleaded. Nope, that was going to be the only answer. 

I hung up the phone, grumbling, and tried to twist once more - full well knowing that the hardware was seized up and I was going to have to go back up to the house to get the bar of Dove soap, go back down to the barn, untwist the hardware from the post, soap it and try again. It felt like a scandal - why did twisting a piece of metal into a post of wood have to be so difficult?

Needless to say, I did just that and the hardware twisted in without much effort following. I didn’t, however, tell Dad he was right until the next day - I had to preserve some of my pride for a little while longer. I know that from a very young age he’s always told me to use soap for putting in screws, nails, etc. I should have known and I should have remembered. 

I guess I had to resign to that fact too. 

Until next time…

Farmer Goes to Iowa - Brings Back a Typewriter

It is a rare thing indeed to have any time away from the farm, let alone an overnight stay. Anything beyond that - well, that’s as rare as finding a free Taylor Swift ticket in your mailbox. 

However, funny things happen and recently I went spontaneous and set off on a road trip for a few days just to get away and renew myself. I sent a message to my best friend, Ellen, to say “hey, wanna go on a road trip? It’ll be inexpensive and not very far,” and I was thrilled when she responded - “sure!” 

There was just one problem. I didn’t have a clue where we were going to go that fit that description. My best friend lives in Northern Indiana so there are the usual spots such as Chicago or one of the beaches along the MIchigan state line, but we’d done those in years past and neither were inexpensive. 

I started searching sites for road trip ideas either near her home or mine and kept hitting roadblocks - either there weren’t rooms available, the cost was way above the budget or the drive was too far. 

Finally, in desperation I typed in “road trip ideas near Chicago that are inexpensive.” 

Iowa came up in the search.  

Iowa? I thought. You’ve got to be kidding me. There’s nothing but corn there! Why would I want to go somewhere that was away from the farm that was nothing but land with farms? 

After a Google search I found the German village known as the Amana Colonies, the John Deere Headquarters, the Iowa 80 World’s Largest Truckstop, a winery, a few breweries, a Czech Village and a huge farmer’s market and indoor city market all within driving reach from the hotel I had found. I had discovered Iowa was more than corn. 

I messaged Ellen and excitedly told her where we were going. No surprise, her response was “okaaaay???”

She and I set off on a Thursday morning and I was quick to realize the first 24 hours away from the farm can be a little rocky with the schedule changing so drastically. Suddenly I didn’t need to be up at 5am to feed and get things taken care of and the evening was relaxing without having to collect eggs, lock up animals and other chores. 

I also rediscovered my love of looking at old things and she and I found ourselves in an antique shop in Amana, Iowa, one afternoon. I was having great delight in reminiscing about the items on display when suddenly I noticed something that any writer would pause at. 

A vintage Underwood Universal typewriter. 

My best friend reminded me that I didn’t need it- it was more costly than the usual souvenir t-shirt or other such item but for some reason I felt drawn to the heavy hunk of steel. 

I gently pressed the keys- It moved wonderfully. The price was reasonable too. 

“Come on,” Ellen urged. I walked away reluctantly, thinking of the things I could write on such a piece of art. 

I didn’t get far though - before Ellen could stop me I had turned back and approached the typewriter again. Would I find another like it at the price this one was?  How amazing would it be to have a souvenir like this? What a great story this would make for the future! 

Without another moment’s hesitation, I gently closed the lid on the typewriter, latched it and carried it like the most prized possession I had ever had to the cashier. 

As the woman filled the sales slip, she shared that the typewriter had belonged to her husband’s mother who had owned it during WW II and had written many letters on it to those overseas. It added to its charm.

I haven’t found the perfect spot for it just yet, but it serves as a reminder every time I look at it or use it. Just like the slower pace of typing with a manual typewriter, sometimes you have to just be spontaneous and slow down. I know that farm work since I’ve returned seems less taxing. Perhaps I’ll write a novel someday on another break using that Underwood typewriter. In the meantime, I’m just going to work on restoring the machine and getting some new typewriter ribbons. 

Until next time…