The native woodsman

After 11 years of marriage, I think that I know Martin pretty well: I know the tv shows that lure him into a hypnotic gaze, his choice of beer, flavor of gatorade, the fact that he douses everything in ranch dressing... hell, sometimes I can tell what he's thinking and finish his sentences -- which irritates him. And I know that it irritates him-- and that's why I do it.

Still, he has the power to stun me with his random proclamations. Like the one he sprung on me last week:

"I can smell deer."

Really, I say skeptically. You can smell...deer.

"Yea, I just noticed it the other day when I was outside."

How do you know that you smell deer? What do they smell like?

"Sort of musky, like a fox."

Please, that's like saying that some kind of meat tastes like chicken.

"Maybe it's because it's summer and they're sweating more. Maybe I smell their sweat. But I'm telling you: I smell deer!"


Martin's super-human skill sent me scurrying to the internet where I embarked on an unsatisfying search for answers. As to the deer perspiration question, I dug up an ambivalent paragraph in "Deer of North America" in which biologists suggest that deer, in fact, do not sweat.

My quest for information on humans smelling deer yielded even less, which tells me that with all the ludicrous and idiotic information posted on the web, even the internet has its limits.

So I'm highly skeptical of Martin's olfactory sense. But I'll grant him this: in nine years living here, he's shed his suburban skin. On Friday a bird mysteriously found its way into our kitchen, and bashed up against the window until I called Martin for help. Any able-bodied soul can snag a bird, but Martin approached it with an arm-full of laundry and plucked the bird out of the air. With one hand.

So for the time being, I'll let him think that he smells sweaty deer.

What's your chicken return policy?

For as much as I harp on Martin's compulsive purchases and his "as seen on tv" impulse buys, it's his yearning to expand the farm's population that scares me most.

He has this way of squeezing remarks into the conversation...

In the midst of writing up a grocery list one evening, Martin announces: "The sheep look lonely in the big field. I'm tempted to pick up a few more."

Or after a pilgrimage to retrieve Maisie, he offers this alternative to fencing: "Maybe Maisie won't run away if she has company. We should get 2 more border collies."

(me: Great, then we'll have three missing dogs.)

And in response to Hadley's habitual wanderings:

Martin: "Hadley needs a job around here."

She's 2. What do you want her to do?

Martin: "We should get chickens. Then she can collect the eggs."

Apparently, more animals will solve all of our problems.

So far, my stock answer to these musings is the same: Martin, don't you dare.

And I've changed my tactics. I'm no longer running interference on trips to Target, Walmart, or Bed, Bath & Beyond. Instead I'm monitoring excursions to Tractor Supply, where baby chicks and duckings are sold by the trough-full.

This weekend there's a nearby sheep & wool festival (no doubt that's on everyone's calendar). In addition to peddling sweaters and knitting supplies --and lamb kabobs-- breeders also offer sheep and sheepdog puppies for sale.

I'll be on high alert.

About Last Night

Whatever kind of lousy evening you had last night -- trust me -- ours was worse.

After I stupidly decided to run errands during rush hour, with two cranky kids after a long day of work...after getting stuck in a sea of red lights...after draining the truck to fumes because I couldn't find a gas station with diesel...after a panic attack and finally, fueling up... after I drove home with our brand new over-priced porch furniture in a torrential rainstorm... after I rolled up at 8:30 with unfed kids and water logged wicker chairs...

...the dog ran off.

Martin didn't say a word. He didn't get a coat. He just fired up the gator and drove off in the inky rain.

Thirty minutes later he returned and almost immediately, Maisie ran off again. Because I failed to barricade the dog door.

Martin set out again in the rain. And eventually found the dog. After getting the gator mired in mud and vines by the river. And after he pushed, rocked and shoved the gator free (while Maisie incessantly barked and taunted him). And after he nearly got attacked by a pissed-off, hissing possum who bared his teeth in anger after the dog collided with it. After that, at 10:45, we shed our wet clothes and ate dinner.



Why Martin stays married or continues living on this crazy farm with this nutty dog is beyond me.

Spring Stuffing Season

We may be baking with summer temperatures, but it's still April -- the season for spring cleaning. Time to throw open the windows, air out the house and declutter closets, shelves and attics. But around here, it's spring "stuffing" season.

Old houses are notoriously storage-challenged and ours is no different. There's a decent closet in the master bedroom and a sliver of space in the guest room but that's about it, aside from the attic. Which is why in spring, I heave our summer clothes down the attic stairs and stuff/wedge/cram them into any spare closet nook, dresser or shelf. That's why my wardrobe is scattered among 4 rooms.

That's why I can't find anything.

Adding to storage limitations is Martin's penchant for shopping. Every time I'm out of town, he entertains himself by flashing his credit card at every big-box store in a 30-mile radius (You thought that only chics do retail therapy? Think again.)

Martin's journey begins innocently enough -- an outing to buy batteries -- but he'll quickly snap up some dvds for the kids, tube socks and boxers, and then a few "as seen on TV" items -- a bio-enhanced cutting board the repels germs; an upside-down hanging tomato planter; a hand-held steam cleaner that spits out lavender and lilac aromas. But his true weaknesses? Large tupperware containers, flashlights, throw-blankets, first-aid kits, and water bottles -- guaranteed, he comes home with those on every trip.

These $200 shopping excursions drive me nuts, which is why he hides most of what he buys. Especially things he doesn't want. Because Martin lives by some strange shopping commandment: thou shalt not return purchases.

Instead he shoves unwanted wares -- sometimes with the receipt taped to the box -- on a top shelf, far above my 5'3" frame, where they sit undiscovered. Until spring stuffing season.

That's how I found the hideous electric-blue tea kettle, roosting beside the first-aid kit collection. And a brand-new electric toothbrush (rejected when he found a "cooler" model). Or my personal favorite: the FlipFold -- a plastic board that facilitates the folding of clothes, directions included.

In the past, I've gotten rid of Martin-gear by smashing it to smithereens. I disposed of old furniture and artwork ("artwork," I use loosely) stored in the barn, by hurling it out the hayloft door. Not only did the tv, picture frames and particle-board hit the ground in a magnificent smash, but the journey rendered them unsalvageable.

But heaving plastic containers out of the house isn't as dramatic. So I'll go the old-fashioned yard sale route. Somewhere out there I'm sure someone's thinking: "I'd love to fold my clothes...if only I had a plastic board that could show me how...."

"I shouldn't be alive"

These are Martin's words after a recent dog retrieval mission.

A little dramatic in my opinion. Then again, I wasn't clawing my way through waist-deep snow drifts in the dark. (But if I had been, I would have worn gloves and snowpants....)

Judging from blog entries, it appears as though Maisie rarely embarks on a great adventure. But in fact, that dog runs away all the time.

All. The. Time.

Minding Maisie is like having a third kid. Worse, actually. At least the kids stay put when we tell them to.

Despite her frequent disappearing acts, we haven't purchased a GPS dog tracking system. They're super expensive and effectiveness is questionable. And an underground fence is out of the question until springtime.

So Martin and I either tie up Maisie or keep an eye on her -- methods that fail daily. The dog is like a ghost. One minute she's snapping her teeth at a horse's heels or snuffling up cat food, and the next she's gone, out of sight and ear-shot.

Recently however, Maisie's been grounded -- thanks to the snow barrier blocking her escape. Even she can't run long distance through 3 feet of snow, so instead she sprints up the plowed drive and runs home again. It's been a relief.

But Monday I made a horrific discovery: the dog was in ghost mode again. Thawing and freezing created a nice crusty top layer, substantial enough to hold a 29-pound dog. Whereas we still plunged into knee- or hip-high snow.

Martin announced that Maisie retrieval down by the river was not only impossible, but "sheer lunacy." The gator was undriveable and we'd never make it on foot. Maisie would eventually come home when she was hungry.

But you can never underestimate the power of worrying. By nightfall Martin realized that forging through snow drifts was less daunting than my constant fretting. At 7 he clomped out into the darkness.

Thirty minutes later he phoned in a report: "I'm barely past the back field. This is impossible."

"So you haven't found her yet?"

"No, I want you to understand that I can barely move!"

"Is that your way of saying that you're giving up? You're not coming home without her, are you?"

pause

"No."

Fifteen minutes later Martin reported that he found the dog...and now he was going to kill her. "I was nearly buried alive," he announced. "I could have been trapped and you wouldn't have been able to get me out."

"I would have called 911," I told him. "After you got the dog."

Eventually one surly husband appeared with a cheerful Border Collie -- gleeful that once again, the big guy had found her. Another successful jaunt.

I'd like to say that we won't let Maisie escape or that she won't bolt again. But it's only a matter of time.

I just hope it's after the snow melts.

The Dog Whisperer

After this weekend's sheepdog training clinic, we learned a few things about Maisie and her herding style.

The most obvious lesson: allowing her to chase sheep around a field at warp speed -- in Wile E. Coyote/Road Runner fashion -- is not productive. Maisie should practice moving sheep in a small pen where she can gain confidence and we can correct her and teach her specific commands. Such as "come by," which tells her to move clockwise around the flock, and clockwise, or "away."

The other notable fact is that Martin has a knack for this. He quickly caught on to Jack's training tips.

Maisie moves the sheep; Martin moves Maisie

And he started thinking like his dog, as Jack often says, and even thinking like a sheep and sensing what they would do.

Jack passes on a few pointers

Our next job is to build a small pen for Maisie to practice. (I see a trip to Tractor Supply and a truckload of fencing and T-posts in our future. Sigh...).

We'll see how much dog and handler can learn before the next clinic in November.

Better than flowers or chocolate

This past weekend I loaded up Thing 1 & Thing 2, as well as all the accessories needed to A) supply a third-world nation, or B) travel with toddlers for 2 days. With our bounty of sippie cups, juice boxes, goldfish crackers, diapers, portable crib, blankets, pillows, swimming gear, multiple changes of clothes, etc, we drove 3 hours to our friends' house in the mountains. Martin held down the fort at home.

All he had to do was feed the sheep, horses, and smaller beasts. Muck the stalls. Entertain the neurotic dog. Mow around the house, bush-hog the fields, weed-whack, water the new trees, spray them against pests. And move his office furniture into the Mouse House.

We both know that he got the better end of the deal. Cake walk.

Still, it didn't stop my long distance nagging ("that farm better look ship-shape when I get home..."), though admittedly, I didn't expect much. Even when he claimed that he cleaned up the barn.

Well, imagine my surprise when I rolled up the drive at 11 pm -- knee-deep in McDonald's wrappers, with two limp, slack-jawed toddlers in the back seat -- and snapped on the lights to see this:


Sorry, no "before" photos available but take my word for it: even when the barn is clean, it's a mess. It's always awash in cobwebs on the ceiling, grime layers on the walls, and dust bunnies the size of snow drifts. And that's just the dirt. Don't forget the debris.

Traditionally, "tidying" the barn means taking all the random junk -- mountain bikes, garden hoses, extension cords, saw horses, tools, horse blankets, jumps, buckets, paint cans -- and condensing it all into one corner of crap. Where it can gather more cobwebs, horse hair and dust bunnies.

Well, Crap Mountain is gone. I have no idea what Martin did with it -- I assume it's been relocated to the loft -- but frankly I don't care. The barn is junk free. And the wall are so clean, they look white-washed.


Bottom line, I don't know what inspired Martin's cleaning frenzy and I don't want to know. It was an awesome surprise. And anytime he hears that disaster we call an attic beckoning him, I say: don't fight the urge...follow your instinct and clean, man, clean!

Mouse House Makeover

The transformation is complete! The Mouse House, former milk parlor....then 80s' apartment...then rodent infested hole-in-the-wall....is now a place of beauty.

Bubba, our good friend & contractor worked his magic -- he hammered out some bigger windows, added another door (for a future deck), did a little hocus-pocus and voila! A civilized work space.

Before:

And after:

From the other end:

Check out the trippy lights, man

And no more peeing in the bushes. Bathroom w/shower.

It looks pretty sweet. Now if only Martin wasn't going to junk it up with all of his office equipment. I really think that it's better suited for me and my minimal amount of stuff. Hmm, maybe he should move back down to the basement....

Nirvana on wheels

Every so often Martin announces, "If we could get another vehicle, I'd get a pickup truck."

He says it as if we don't have one.

When in fact, we own TWO: Big Rig and Chitty.

So here's the scene this afternoon at the farm. Martin's vehicle dream team.
Wake up Martin! The two on the right are just here for Mouse House renovations. Don't get attached.

These are a few of my favorite hates....

About a month ago, I posted Martin's Hate List...for no other reason than it's random and he's held onto it for 15 years (if you missed it, see the list.)

Not to be outdone, I hatched a list of my own. The unofficial rules of this exercise: it can't be personal, like "I hate Martha" and it can't be obvious... "I hate slow drivers," or "I hate running out of milk when I'm eating cereal."

It has to be something uniquely "you," which --shesh -- brings me to #9 on my own list.

Most of things that I've itemized lead Martin to state the obvious: "You have issues."

Of course I have issues. I'm weird. That's part of my charm.

But I also remind him that he's warped me into the person that I've become: someone who writes a hate list!

Today seemed a good day for it. I'm half-way through a medium bag of M&M's (that 12.60 ounces, folks) and it's raining hard outside, which probably means it's raining inside as well.

That sucks. I hate it when it rains in the house.

Just kidding. That isn't really not on my list. I was just warming up.

Okay, here goes. My list. Feel free to sound off or comment with your own hates...assuming the censor function on this blog isn't up to its old tricks.

My Hate List (in no particular order)

-humidity
-rice pudding
-dancing
-people who rarely phone, but when they do, start by saying "hey, it's me..."
-purposeful old-style misspelling, as in "the Olde Towne Shoppe."
-ice tea in plastic bottles
-being tired
-new housing developments
-writers who describe anything as "unique"
-being approached by someone I know while I'm working out at the gym
-the term "lover" as in, "we're lovers."
-car washes
-jiffy lube
-parents who refer to themselves in the 3rd person when talking to their kids
-people who bend back the covers on paperback books
-cold feet (literally)
-monkeys, baboons and other primates
-mud
-taking the last sip out of a glass, even my own
-people who use a close-up picture of their kid as their facebook photo

and finally, a late but loathsome entry:

-the lint condom on the washing machine!

Technical difficulties

A few of the loyal 6 out there who read my blog instead of working, have complained that they have been unable to post comments. Am I censoring posters, they ask?

No, of course not! I just don't want to hear from you!

I consulted the great lint-condom retriever/lawn boy/technical lackey who shrugged and said, "I dunno." But after nagging and badgering him, he worked his clickety-clack magic, click this, unclick that, reload a widget here and there and shazamm!

I don't know if it'll work now, but give it a whirl (and email me if problems prevail). I promise not to censor you.

Unless you say something disparaging about my dog. The kids are fair game, me, Martin... but Maisie's perfect so don't go there.

Oops I did it again

I lost the lint condom down the drain pipe behind the washing machine.

I loathe the lint condom. The product's real name is "Washing Machine Lint Trap" but it'll always be the lint condom to me. The directions read something like, "slide the open end of the lint trap over the discharge hose and, gently holding it between thumb and forefinger, unroll the wire mesh down the length of the hose..."

I understand it's purpose: to catch lint and debris from the wash that would otherwise clog the plumbing. But I don't know why we have this stupid thing. I'm not blaming it totally on farm life and our septic tank, but lemmie put it this way: we never needed one when we lived in spitting distance of a 7-11.

Then again, what do I know? I hadn't the foggiest clue that some kitchen sinks don't have garbage disposals until I yanked that metal thingey out of ours and stuffed a fist full of corn husks down the drain. But that's another story.

You are supposed to remove the lint condom before it reaches full capacity, but there is no warning when time's up. Only the sound that you are too late. Usually I'm dozing on the couch, dreaming of a babbling brook or water cascading down a rock face... when I snap awake and bolt down the stairs. I slap a hand over the washing machine button, which stops the gushing waterfall, but it's too late. A stream flows along the slanted floor of our settled house. Rivulets of water whisk dust bunnies and dead bugs across the cellar until they pool out of sight beneath cabinets and shelves. I curse, dump towels on the floor to stem the stream, and stomp back upstairs.

Back in the olden days, our condom sheathed a laundry hose which dumped unceremoniously into a rickety sink. But when we gussied-up the cellar, the contractor concealed the laundry pipe within the wall. At the time, this seemed like an aesthetically-pleasing stroke of genius. But we didn't account for condom slippage.

The first incident was alcohol induced. Martin and I were kid-free and drinking & watching movies one evening, when I decided to start a load of laundry (yea we live it up). Discarding the used lint condom, I held the new one suspended over the drain pipe, when -- zoom! -- down the drain in the wall it went.

Fortunately Martin was also buzzed and not too mad about spending that evening fishing down a 2-inch pipe with a wire hanger. By some miracle, he hooked the lint trap and pulled it out.

This time, I don't know what happened. I just heard that all too-familiar sound of a river running through it. I slammed the machine off and extracted the end of the hose to discover, not a lint-filled condom, but no condom at all.

I don't know how or why it fell off, but this time Martin cursed. A lot. He threatened to cut through the wall, sever the pipe, summon a plumber... when in his last ditch effort, he blindly snagged the thing, again thanks to a bent wire hanger.


In the future we need to rig a fail-safe method to prevent the condoms from disappearing into the wall. Meanwhile, I've decided to channel a redneck version of Mommie Dearest, one who embraces the utilitarian wire hangers in her closet, and declares: NO MORE PLASTIC HANGERS!

Never trust a plant

Our neighbor Ernesto was cruising along the drive in typical dust-raising speed when he spotted me and hit the breaks, spitting gravel. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but he pointed to our wood pile.

My wood pile. I take some perverse pride in it since I salvaged, hauled and stacked the logs myself.

It is a lovely wood pile, I thought as I walked toward him...stacked by yours truly....maybe he wants some of it...

"Do you need some wood?" I asked. There's not a lot, but I'm feeling generous....

"No!" He looked kind of horrified, like I'd just offered him nuclear waste.

"No, I just wanted to tell you that the wood's covered in poison ivy. If you burn it, the poison ivy will get in your lungs. You'll end up in the hospital."

I peered at the tendrils of gnarled vines wrapped around the logs. How did he know it was poison ivy? How could he be so sure?

Let me back up a few decades here.

Long ago me 'n Poison Ivy struck an agreement. It would leave me alone and I wouldn't brag about my ivy-resistant powers. And for much of life, I've cavorted in poison ivy. I played hide and seek in its leafy patches and bedded down in it at sleep-away camp. Wove garland crowns out of poison ivy and danced in the moonlight....

There was always a trade off of course. From birth, mosquitoes have devoured me to the bone. Still, that old adage "leaves of 3, let it be" was meaningless. Poison ivy was my friend.

Til I turned the ripe old age of 30, and nature and age bestowed some memorable gifts: my first wrinkles around my eyes, my first gray hairs... and poison ivy re-neged on our deal.

"That's poison ivy!" Martin practically crowed as I manically scratched the bubbly red patch on my arm.

"Impossible! I must've been attacked by a mosquito colony. I don't get poison ivy."

"Well, you do now."

And wouldn't you know it, my powers failed right when we moved to the farm. Where poison ivy grows thick and plentiful by the bushel. Around here you could harvest it, string it together, and it would encircle the earth twice.

But without those Calamine lessons of childhood, I am powerless at identifying the plant. Much to Martin's dismay. "How can you not know poison ivy?" he asks incredulously. You'd think I'd just announced that my hobbies are flag burning and painting swastikas.

"I dunno. Everything's leafy and green around here! I don't understand how you see it so easily!"

Martin tests me constantly. "What that? What's that?" I lob out random plant names.

"Honeysuckle? pachysandra? boxelder?"

"No! Leaves of three...how many times do I tell you this?" He gets pissed about this. "Comeon, you've got kids now!"

Like that denotes some kind of responsibility.

But just about the time that Martin's going blow his stack, I feign sudden understanding. Not because I recognize the plant, but because Martin has a tell: "what's that?" When I hear that, I know that that's "it."

"Oh, that's poison ivy," I say knowingly. He looks momentarily relieved. When he's gone, I go back to plunging through leaves of three, four and five to pick berries. I hope my secret powers return soon.

And truthfully, no one's perfect. Even the great Poison Ivy Hunter stumbles. Last year while I was at a softball game, Martin called frantically because Hadley the Barbarian had eaten poison ivy.

Fortunately, babies are not susceptible or don't develop a reaction until they're older. And for now, I'm gambling that the kids will be like me -- immune. They don't have a choice. I can't identify the damn stuff anyway.

my former BFF, now frenemy

Project Mouse House

If the couple who previously owned our farm suddenly reappeared, they'd find the house they left 8 years ago. Aside from finishing the cellar, we haven't painted a wall, replaced a drape, a window shade, a square of wallpaper. The little wooden frog they forgot, suspended over the kitchen window, is still airborne -- dust covered but ever-present. The only changes in their absence: spidery cracks in the plaster and peeling wall paper.

So you'd think that after 8 years we'd spruce up the place and give it some personal touches.

Nope. We're renovating the Mouse House.

In its former life, the Mouse House was a milk parlor -- a concrete block and tin-roofed structure adjoining the main barn, used for cooling and storing milk (I think. Any dairy farmers out there, correct me if I'm wrong). By all estimates the barn, milk parlor and silo were built around 1920.

By the '70s with its dairy days behind it, the barn was converted for horses and the parlor stripped of milking equipment and turned into an apartment. By the time we came around, it was a boys' club, outfitted with a poker table, a few taxidermy-challenged animals, a basket full of shotgun shells and a rusted fridge stocked with ketchup and a case of Bud.

Though the previous owners only used it for poker, it did have its share of full-time residents. Birds nested in the oven and exhaust fan, and rodents bedded down in the walls and rafters. We immediately called it the Mouse House.

In those rookie months of ownership, we were blissfully clueless about the many farm repairs and what they'd cost. We gutted the Mouse House with great gusto and hatched grandiose plans for an apartment with a bedroom addition and a deck.

Then reality set in.

The Mouse House was long-listed behind more pressing projects like installing a new fence, patching the roof on the house, replacing the rotten bilco doors and pie-in-the-sky dreams of central air conditioning. But this spring, the Mouse House project was paroled with Martin's determination that the building must become his new home office. (I think he's in search of a new "man cave" ever since I commandeered his office in the cellar. )

The Mouse House is shoe-box tiny so we're figuring out how to squeeze in a galley kitchen, outfit the bathroom, enlarge the windows and build an affordable deck.

Fortunately, we're visionaries -- or moderately naive. Personally, I see the renovation as a boost in property value. And after years of flipping through real estate flyers and wandering through open houses, I think this lovely dwelling boasts some amenities that would thrill any homeowner, including:

insulation...look how warm we'll be in the winter

Greenery. Some turn up their noses at poison ivy, but I think house plants breathe life into a room.

Wall decor. Just the other day, I was pondering: what IS the best way to clean an udder?

Look, our first house guest...

What I'm saying here is critters, be warned. You are on notice of eviction. And we'll have to find a new home for our toxic chemicals, axes, and other hazmats and bludgeoning tools.

It's difficult to imagine this place rodent-free and sans poison ivy. But who knows, if it winds up as nice as Martin claims it'll be, I just might have to move in there....

The man, the vision

The real word on willows

At the risk of sounding like I'm 100 years old -- and getting stoned to death for being unAmerican -- I'm going to clue you all into something. So lean close to your screen and read the following:

Google doesn't have all the answers.

"What!?" you sputter. "That's just crazy talk!"

Yea, it's nutty. And admittedly, I'm not setting the tech world on fire. (I swear if one more person asks "Are you on twitter yet?" I will jump out of a window... or break one of these tiny basement panes and wriggle out.)

I know the web's got the corner market on every single thing you could possibly imagine. I get it. (Quick.. google "dust bunnies." Oh look, 624,000 hits.)

But good luck trying to find an actual opinion on something. Much less one that you trust.

After the recent success of our new apple trees -- meaning none are dead yet -- I've been wondering what else can I plant? Specifically, what can I plant that requires little to no work?

We have a swampy area in our back pasture -- a wannabe pond. In fact, I think it was a pond in a previous life before other owners drained it. When it rains it gets marshy. And it's an ideal spot for a weeping willow.

Why a weeping willow? Well, they thrive in wet areas, and whenever I've seen them on TV they look perfectly pretty and shady and symmetrical. Beyond that, I'm clueless.

The reviews on google were not favorable. The basic gist: weeping willows are invasive, weedy things that burrow into water and sewer lines, and drop leaves and branches all over the place.

Not the feedback I was looking for. But this was the web speaking. What do real people think?

Last weekend at a garden festival, I queried a tree guy. He scrunched up his face. "A weeping willow...?" Like I'd just announced plans to cultivate poison ivy and a pool of piranhas.

"Well...I don't carry them. But I'll tell you this," he said, recovering his composure. "They're really invasive. They get into pipes and are a real hassle."

This sounded familiar.
me: "Well, we're thinking of putting one in a field, so it wouldn't be near the house."

the guy: "They're messy and they shed alot."

me: "It would be in a horse pasture, so that wouldn't matter."

the guy: "It does if you don't want your pasture to look messy."

me: "Horses poop in there. It always looks messy."

Finally, he threw up his hands. "Well, if you really want one, get a golden weeping willow. They're the best of the lot."

Screw that guy, I thought, as I smiled and walked away. He's only here to push his own stupid trees. And why waste time on him when I could be tap a real source of information.

Our next door neighbor, Chet. Local veterinarian and all-around good-guy.

Chet is ever positive, but he'll still give it to you straight. And he knows about most everything.

vet problems, of course:
"Chet, can you look at this cat's tooth?" (I brandished the cat at his car on the drive.)
Chet: "Lemmie see this old rascal." (raises cat's lip, yanks tooth). "There you go. He'll be fine in 2 days."

home care:
"Should we do something about our septic system?"
Chet: "Leave it alone. It's not bothering you, don't go bothering it."

farm expansion
martin: "I was thinking about getting goats..."
chet: "Goats are nice...when other people own them. You don't need any."

local history:
"Ever seen this much rain?"
"Well, I'll check my records, but I recall it was in '86 when the river crested the bridge...."


So of course I had to ask what he thought of weeping willow trees.

chet: "Well, I grew up with them..."

"i'm thinking of getting one in the field."

chet: "They're soft, meaning that when a big storm comes, they can split or blow down. But they're nice trees. They're used to be a couple in your field."

"Really? What happened to them?"

"They came down in a storm."

"oh..ok..."

"But go ahead and plant a couple," he says with smile. "For fun. There's no harm in it. And when your kids have their own kids, the trees, if they're still standing, will be big and shady."

When sheep attack

The title of entry begs the question "what?" What are the sheep attacking?

But the first question really should be: Why?
As in, why do we have sheep?

The answer: I don't know.

Most people raise sheep for wool or meat. A few years ago Martin announced that he wanted to herd sheep with our Border Collie, Corrie. I was not especially supportive. If memory recalls I think something like: "That's the stupidest idea I've heard from you in a while."

But in my defense, we were barely handling the demands of our little farm and 5 horses. Why add to our headache? Besides, we knew less than zero about sheep.

"I'll tell you all that you need to know," said our vet. "Sheep are looking for a place to die."

But Martin persisted, signing up for some "sheep school" up-county and the next thing I knew, some guy had dumped half a dozen beasts in our orchard. Only they looked nothing like sheep and everything like goats.

The "geep" -- as I dubbed them -- were skittish, aggressive when approached, and all together unmanageable. Our dog Corrie, in the winter of her life, wanted nothing to do with them. And neither did I, after numerous failed attempted to win them over with food.

Here's the first and last time I laid hands on one of these buggers

Fortunately, the vet was right. One did die. And the rest were sold and we lived happily ever after. For about a year or so. Then Martin started beating that sheep drum again.

This time however, he called on a trainer who not only worked with herding stock but also raised his own sheep. He noted that the first lot we got -- Barbados Blackbelly -- are the most skittish, difficult sheep to work with and are reserved for well-trained dogs and handlers. Not dolts like us with a 14-year-old dog who preferred dozing on the porch and barking at the horses standing at their water trough.

So Dickie the sheep guy, offered us loaners from his herd -- sheep who were already dog-broke, ie, quick to respond, even to an inexperienced herding dog like Maisie.

And Maisie does enjoy herding, though at a speed that rivals Nascar. Sometimes I think she's conditioning them for track and field competition, and I'll admit, they have gotten very fast under her tutelage. I guarantee they'd outrun all challengers.

Anyway, we've had them almost a year and have only killed one (he died when we were on vacation, so technically, not our fault). Otherwise, they appear hardy and resistant to Maisie's grueling weekly speed meets.

But we haven't done much with them this winter. Because it's been windy and frigid, and who wants to spend anymore time outside than absolutely necessary?

But the sheep haven't been idle. They've been busy.

Like beavers.

This brings us back to when sheep attack.

If sheep could talk and had brains: "The trees looked like just this when got here. We swear!"

They've neatly gnawed off every shred of bark within their reach. Normally we'd say, it's either the trees or the sheep. And we'd have a fridge full of mutton. In this case the apples trees -- or what's left of them -- are going. They were past their prime 10 years ago. I let the sheep do their dirty work knowing that we'd junk and replace the trees.

Unfortunately, not everyone realizes there's a method to my madness. Just the other day a local farmer asked me, "are you gonna let them sheep eat those trees all the way down?" Translation: "Are you really as dense as you look?"

No! I get it. Sheep + apple trees = destruction. But right now I'm plotting my next move and wondering: What kind of apples should we plant? When? Do we plant the trees near where the old ones stood? And who am I going to sucker in, I mean, "get to assist me" in removing the old trees?

Easy questions, right? Not for someone known as The best house-plant killer in the mid-Atlantic region. No plant has survived my wrath. My secret: I don't water them.

But since this undertaking will require some investment (sorry kids, no groceries this week, we're plantin' for the future), I don't want to screw this up. So stay tuned...

...odds are, I screw this up.

Are you trying to burn the farm down?

This morning starts like any other morning in paradise.

Departure routine: Wrestle kids into jackets, steer Hadley the Barbarian past the smorgasbord in the litter box (thanks Drippy, for missing the box again); set kids free in yard; kick horses out of their stalls, feed cats, throw hay to sheep, chase down kids and stuff them into car seats while using leg to block muddy dog from leaping into the truck.

All the while I'm thinking: should I work on my resume and look for a job this morning? (while perusing non-news sites like tmz and perezhilton) Or should I watch a movie on HBO? Hmm, decisions, decisions.

At that moment, Martin interrupts my heady thoughts: the water troughs are frozen.

Oh really? I barely feign interest. Trough duty falls under Martin's purvey. In the winter, that include the obvious -- filling them up -- but also the annoying task of draining the hoses, which otherwise freeze, and checking the water heaters. One trough has heating tongs installed in the bottom, but the others have floating heaters. They're OK but if the water drops too low, they'll burn a hole into the side of the trough, rendering it useless. Don't ask how we learned that.

So water supply: Martin's responsibility. But, horse health is me, so I enter the field with a crow bar we keep handy for such emergencies, and proceed to bash ice.

Martin: Oh, I guess this is what happened, he says, brandishing the extension cord. The plug -- the prongs -- aren't just singed, they've melted and disintegrated after a long, slow burn.


Holy s&*%! How did that happen?

Martin: I don't know. But it was kind of looking like that before.

I'm sorry... it "looked" like that before? You were using a semi-fried extension cord? Why? Why didn't you replace it??

Shrug. I dunno. He climbs into the truck and drives away.

Later, when I inspect it again to take a photo, the cord starts hissing and popping, which tells me that Martin didn't even bother to unplug it before he peeled out.

What is the wrong with you? Electrical fire's not interesting? We could have had Mississippi Burning, here, and all I get is I dunno!? Sheesh. And Martin wonders why tv commercials portray guys as dopey, lazy, boneheads who can't figure out how to microwave a HotPocket. When the extension cord is smoking....there's probably a problem.


In other exciting farm updates, we have new barn doors. Remember the recent post about the wind? Well, it claimed another victim. The new doors, however, are twice as thick and pressure treated so hopefully, they'll live longer than a couple seasons. Take that, wind!

Out-going door on left, new improved door on ground (still in need of paint)

Crew discusses how to get cursed, ridiculously heavy door on the runners and whether they will support the weight

Martin appears, procrastination ensues. Discussion of door abandoned for conversation about West Va strip clubs, Obama, vascectomies and gas prices (in that order).