And so begins the week to usher in the Age of Obama.
Church was cancelled today. MeeMaw and I awoke to a world covered in a treacherous sheen of ice. When I stepped out onto the back deck to feed Biscuit and Frito (the two barn cats), I almost did a gymnastics routine. I came inside and called one of the elders to tell him that we wouldn’t be coming down from the mountains today. His wife answered the phone and said that the elders were debating whether or not to cancel church, due to the heavy ice down in Kingsport. A few minutes after I hung up, another member called to confirm that there would be no services.
The past few days have been brutally cold here. It got down to zero two nights ago, and either one or two degrees below zero the night before last. Last night was a balmy 27, but was still sufficiently frigid to freeze the rain that fell sometime before dawn. We’ve been wearing three layers of clothes (including thermal underwear) and sweaters in the house, just so we don’t have to keep the heat running constantly. I recall Carla Emery (author of the wonderful Encyclopedia of Country Living) writing that one of the keys to a happy life is “Use less heat.” I agree completely. Especially forced-air heat. It has a bad feel to it, like a necessary evil. Necessary, but evil.
Even though there were no church services today, we had our own Sabbath here at Possum Cough. And part of it included an admiring look at this very interesting fellow.
While I’m thinking about it, I wanted to say “thank you” again to J&K for the handsome walking stick they commissioned for my birthday gift. I’ll get much mileage from it, I am sure.
We also wanted to reiterate how much we enjoyed having J&K and the twins stay with us. Having the babies to ourselves for a couple of nights was a pure delight. My favorite thing, truth be told, was watching MeeMaw with the babies. She is so pure and natural in the way she cares for children. Unerring instinct and experience and maturity are formidable and artistic things to watch when they combine in a person, especially a person one loves dearly. She is anti-technique. She is poetry with an infant in each arm. She is MeeMaw.
Speaking of infants, we were very glad that the babies were able to pretty much roam and play at will without injury during their stay. It’s so easy for babies to get into the wrong sort of situation, even if one is watching them closely (I am confident that MeeMaw, Karen, and Moo-Moo can all attest to the truth of this statement). Such providential safety was not the case with a young lad who visited the local ER recently. Take a look at his nose:
And of course, the cause of his injury was quite interesting:
It occurs to me that Joshi-O and Moo-Moo may feel “out of the loop” when I write about Jason&Karen and the twins’ visit. Please don’t feel this way. There’s no way we can express how much we’re looking forward to y’all’s (eventual) visit. And since J&M missed out on the visit with J&K and the twins, here’s a strikingly accurate transcript of a recent typical evening with the six of us here at Possum Cough:
PeePaw: They say it might snow tonight.
Jason: Wow.
MeeMaw: I made a cake, if anyone wants any.
Jason: Wow.
Karen: Cake? How fun!
PeePaw (scowling): Hrrmph.
MeeMaw: Jason, how do you like the cake?
Jason: Mmm. ‘S good.
PeePaw (squinting): I think one of the babies just threw up on Butternut.
MeeMaw: Oh, no.
Jason: Wow.
Karen: Did it get on the floor?
PeePaw (scowling): No, just on the cat.
Karen: Kyooot!
Jason: Anyone want to play a game?
PeePaw: We don’t have any games.
Jason: But –
PeePaw (scowling): I said we aint’ got none. Let’s talk. Did anyone read about the government plot to take our –
MeeMaw: Let’s talk about something uplifting, okay?
Jason: Tiddly Winks? Tic-Tac-Toe? Anything?
PeePaw (scowling): Hrmph.
Karen: I got the babies cleaned up.
MeeMaw: And I got Butternut cleaned up.
Jason: Wow.
PeePaw: We could watch a movie.
Jason: Great! Do you have “The Dark Knight?”
PeePaw: Nope.
Jason: How about “Ratatouille?”
PeePaw (scowling): Nope.
Jason: How about “Wall-E?”
PeePaw (scowling and purple): Nope.
Jason: How about something with an Ewok in it?
PeePaw: How about something [mumbled, unintelligible]…
Jason: What’d you say?
PeePaw: Nothing. Not a frikkin’ thing.
Jason: Wow.
Karen: Fun!
MeeMaw: PeePaw!
PeePaw (scowling and bewildered): What?
Ruth: Uh-oh!
Karen: Kyoooot!
Rhiannon: What-ta!
Jason: Wow.
MeeMaw: I’ll go fix supper.
Butternut: Chomp!
PeePaw: Son of a – !
Karen: How fun!
Jason: Wow.
MeeMaw: PeePaw, you’re bleeding!
Karen: Kyooot! And it matches the kitchen!
PeePaw: I’ll go bandage it.
Jason: I’ll put in a movie while you’re doing that.
PeePaw (scowling) Which movie?
Jason: One I brought with us. It’s a cartoon documentary about superheroes who battle against evil robots who are trying to conquer the world with Pictionary and Cranium.
Karen: Fun!
MeeMaw: Yes. Yes, “fun” would be the word.
PeePaw (bleeding and scowling): I’d use a different word.
Ruth: Uh-oh!
MeeMaw: I’ll make nachos!
Karen: How fun! I’ll help!
Jason: Wow.
Rhiannon: Bye-bye.
One other thing about J&K’s visit…I noticed that neither of you asked about the baggie of green herbal substance that was in the cupboard by the drinking glasses. For your information – in case you’d wondered and were afraid to ask – that was catnip. For the cats. Perfectly legal, you understand.
This is, of course, in stark contrast to the green herbal substance that I occasionally kept at hand during my senior year in high school. Did I ever tell y’all about my dog, the one who accidentally found and consumed my special little herbal treat? I just happened to have my Kodak nearby.
These days, if I were still indulging in such behavior, I’d get the law called on me quicker for letting the dog get into the stash than for actually having the stash.
MeeMaw and I were talking about old gas stations one night while J&K and the twins were here. I found some fine photos of old stations out in West Texas, land of MeeMaw and other notable and noble Texans. I can recall taking great delight in jumping up and down on the air hose at such old stations when I was a boy, listening to the “ding!” and waiting for the mechanic to holler at me to quit my foolishness.
I’ll veer off here and ask for y’all to remember my Mother in your prayers. She is not doing well at all. The situation with my sister and the legalities continues to be a daunting and maddening one. Mother is slowly slipping away from us, I think. The last few times I’ve talked to her (two nights ago was the most recent conversation), she was confused and almost frantic with sadness. My heart is like cinders with preparatory grief as I am forced at this point to watch while she flickers and fades. I think of the deep joy she derived from cooking and housekeeping, and I know that she will never again prepare me a meal, never again wash dishes, never again make her own cup of coffee. Finality and loss are two foes that every one of us confronts, some sooner than others.
So please pray.
We have big (some might say too big) plans for the farm. Things for the very near future include:
Completing the compost pile (and a BIG thank-you to Jason for the load of manure he hauled for me. We’re faithfully using proper table scraps, etc, and I think it’s going to be a good one.
Digging dirt for the raised beds. I’m going to dig it myself instead of paying for expensive (and questionable) soil from somewhere else. It’ll be hard work, but I’m committed to it. By the time I finish digging, I may have a sizeable working duck pond (for possible waterfowl, but probably not this year), sans H2O. I’m building a screener with a 2X4 frame and chicken wire (or “poultry netting,” as the metrosexual nancy-boys now call it) to screen the numerous rocks from the soil as I dig it. I’ll likely have a big pile of rocks by the end of the project, too. I’m sure they’ll come in handy at some point.
Plowing part of the south pasture. This is the high field where Shorty and Domino (donkey and horse) are currently homesteading. Gabriel has offered to plow it for me. Since we’re going to have raised beds near the house (out by the yard barn), we don’t need a huge part of it plowed up. What we plan to do is put the big crops up there: potatoes, a little bit of corn, and a bunch of mangle beets.
Why mangle beets, PeePaw? We thought you hated beets.
I do. I absolutely detest beets in any form. But mangle beets are a very hardy, very LARGE variety of beet that chickens and goats both happen to love. I’ve read a lot on the topic, and homesteaders agree that one can save a considerable sum in feed costs by growing mangles and feeding them to the chickens and goats. Herrick Kimball was the first person I recall reading on the subject. And some say that the beet's greens are delicious. Since I’m a big greens fan, I’ll likely give them a try. MeeMaw will likely decline, as she always does when I cook greens.
Cleaning the goat shed. We started calling that rustic structure “the goat shed” from day one, not yet realizing that it really would one day be the home for a couple of caprine friends. We plan to get two does, then breed (or AI) at least one of ‘em so she’ll produce milk, and then we can sell any kids that are produced. We don’t want a big herd, just a couple of milkers. Probably Nubians, we’re thinking. In addition to drinking the raw milk, I'd like to give cheese-making a try, and MeeMaw plans to make goat-milk soap. Good stuff. Anyway, on the shed… I need to make a couple of runs to the dump to clear out some trash. Then, after I reorganize the yard barn, I can put most of my tools and yard implements in there, leaving the goat shed for, well, goats. I need to reroof it and repour the concrete apron and patch a few holes in the wall, but it’s basically a very sound structure. I also have to put up doors and cattle panels for window screens.
Speaking of cattle panels, here’s an amusing anecdote. At my office, we celebrate everyone’s birthday in turn. So as a staff member’s birthday nears, he (or, more routinely, she) posts a “wish list” on the ‘fridge in the kitchen. For mine, I put up “gift certificate from either Lowe’s or Tractor Supply or Scott County Farm Co-Op,” since I really need to buy several cattle panels to beef up the fencing in the area where the goats will live. Cattle panels are heavy welded wire panels, four feet tall by sixteen feet long. They’re great for fencing, and much easier to install than a stretched woven wire fence (which goats can tear up pretty quickly anyway). Our office manager Lisa overheard me saying to someone that I wanted to use my birthday gift money or certificate to buy cattle panels. She mis-heard me. The next day, she approached our receptionist and said, “Listen…why on earth would PeePaw be wanting to buy cattle panties?”
Completing the compost pile (and a BIG thank-you to Jason for the load of manure he hauled for me. We’re faithfully using proper table scraps, etc, and I think it’s going to be a good one.
Digging dirt for the raised beds. I’m going to dig it myself instead of paying for expensive (and questionable) soil from somewhere else. It’ll be hard work, but I’m committed to it. By the time I finish digging, I may have a sizeable working duck pond (for possible waterfowl, but probably not this year), sans H2O. I’m building a screener with a 2X4 frame and chicken wire (or “poultry netting,” as the metrosexual nancy-boys now call it) to screen the numerous rocks from the soil as I dig it. I’ll likely have a big pile of rocks by the end of the project, too. I’m sure they’ll come in handy at some point.
Plowing part of the south pasture. This is the high field where Shorty and Domino (donkey and horse) are currently homesteading. Gabriel has offered to plow it for me. Since we’re going to have raised beds near the house (out by the yard barn), we don’t need a huge part of it plowed up. What we plan to do is put the big crops up there: potatoes, a little bit of corn, and a bunch of mangle beets.
Why mangle beets, PeePaw? We thought you hated beets.
I do. I absolutely detest beets in any form. But mangle beets are a very hardy, very LARGE variety of beet that chickens and goats both happen to love. I’ve read a lot on the topic, and homesteaders agree that one can save a considerable sum in feed costs by growing mangles and feeding them to the chickens and goats. Herrick Kimball was the first person I recall reading on the subject. And some say that the beet's greens are delicious. Since I’m a big greens fan, I’ll likely give them a try. MeeMaw will likely decline, as she always does when I cook greens.
Cleaning the goat shed. We started calling that rustic structure “the goat shed” from day one, not yet realizing that it really would one day be the home for a couple of caprine friends. We plan to get two does, then breed (or AI) at least one of ‘em so she’ll produce milk, and then we can sell any kids that are produced. We don’t want a big herd, just a couple of milkers. Probably Nubians, we’re thinking. In addition to drinking the raw milk, I'd like to give cheese-making a try, and MeeMaw plans to make goat-milk soap. Good stuff. Anyway, on the shed… I need to make a couple of runs to the dump to clear out some trash. Then, after I reorganize the yard barn, I can put most of my tools and yard implements in there, leaving the goat shed for, well, goats. I need to reroof it and repour the concrete apron and patch a few holes in the wall, but it’s basically a very sound structure. I also have to put up doors and cattle panels for window screens.
Speaking of cattle panels, here’s an amusing anecdote. At my office, we celebrate everyone’s birthday in turn. So as a staff member’s birthday nears, he (or, more routinely, she) posts a “wish list” on the ‘fridge in the kitchen. For mine, I put up “gift certificate from either Lowe’s or Tractor Supply or Scott County Farm Co-Op,” since I really need to buy several cattle panels to beef up the fencing in the area where the goats will live. Cattle panels are heavy welded wire panels, four feet tall by sixteen feet long. They’re great for fencing, and much easier to install than a stretched woven wire fence (which goats can tear up pretty quickly anyway). Our office manager Lisa overheard me saying to someone that I wanted to use my birthday gift money or certificate to buy cattle panels. She mis-heard me. The next day, she approached our receptionist and said, “Listen…why on earth would PeePaw be wanting to buy cattle panties?”
Cattle panties.
I will never, ever let Lisa live this down. And I will likely never live down the reputation as being something of a farmish weirdo. Victoria’s Secret For Caprines. There’s money to be made, boys.
Building a chicken coop. Mother Earth News sent me some great plans for free, just because I signed up for their e-newsletter. I can modify this and save some money. I’m going to use my old camper top from my truck as the “house” part. We plan to have between six and eight chickens. Perhaps someday we’ll invest in meat birds, but for now, we’re interested in the eggs. Before we go the meat route, I need to brush up on my chicken butchering skills. Y’all remind me sometime, and I’ll tell you about my grandmother’s malevolent rooster and my first experience with butchering a chicken.
Setting up a beehive. This is a deeply personal thing for me. I have an innate fondness for honeybees, always have. And I have followed closely the recent scare with colony collapse disorder (CCD). Just today, I read a report that imported Australian bees may be carrying a mite that’s at least partially responsible for the CCD. For us, I plan to order Italian bees. They are reputed to be gentle and easy to work with, as well as being fond of tulip poplar blossoms (which our driveway has in abundance). This is a learning experience that I am looking forward to with great enthusiasm.
Building a chicken coop. Mother Earth News sent me some great plans for free, just because I signed up for their e-newsletter. I can modify this and save some money. I’m going to use my old camper top from my truck as the “house” part. We plan to have between six and eight chickens. Perhaps someday we’ll invest in meat birds, but for now, we’re interested in the eggs. Before we go the meat route, I need to brush up on my chicken butchering skills. Y’all remind me sometime, and I’ll tell you about my grandmother’s malevolent rooster and my first experience with butchering a chicken.
Setting up a beehive. This is a deeply personal thing for me. I have an innate fondness for honeybees, always have. And I have followed closely the recent scare with colony collapse disorder (CCD). Just today, I read a report that imported Australian bees may be carrying a mite that’s at least partially responsible for the CCD. For us, I plan to order Italian bees. They are reputed to be gentle and easy to work with, as well as being fond of tulip poplar blossoms (which our driveway has in abundance). This is a learning experience that I am looking forward to with great enthusiasm.
Time for a self-centered and self-serving digression. A couple of years ago, I completed a poem in which I used honeybees and CCD to make some observations about current trends in this life. For a while, the poem was featured on a friend's website. Here's the poem:
Colony Collapse
I pick my way more gingerly these days
In the sun, watching my feet as I
Tramp among cool clover, the nodding heads
Sparser than before, and I squint
For the flighted jewels with the sweet
Saddlebags on their legs. Have you heard
That their numbers are diminishing?
Where once we found raging orchestras
Now we pull silent drawers from the
Barren boxes, tombstones staggered all
Along the hills that once were home-steady
And ours. Where have they gone, and are
They yet missed, and doesn’t blame belong
At someone’s intruding feet? I want answers,
But I will settle for poetry and the astonishment
Of the newly-awake, the freshly-aware.
Where from, then? Muscled off a Jamestown
Pilgrim-packet centuries ago, and right
Into their orchard calling, they helped every
Harvest. But such help is waning, winging
Toward a new hidden place, or
Perhaps to the humless end. Or could
It be that they waxed tired of all their gold
Taken for granted, and followed a sun-decree
To deprive the gluttonous harvesters, most of
Whose foul brood hate them for the sting
They carry – praise His gifts! – and because
More depends on them than the takers confess.
So who will miss them, besides my kind? The African
Breed will drape and kill you for the mere
Approach to their dim nests – who swats against
Their ill? I want answers, but I’ll settle
For poetry and consistent truth. And now
I walk with care, not willing that any should perish,
But that each striped buzzer would do his holy
Work, hovering above the wasted white
Flowers whose stems sink down to blasphemy’s roots.
I am watching them leave, watching for
The last unborn light in a box
Of beeswax candles, the last silky drop
Of honeyed tea, the last winged memory
Of what they brought and what they did and how
They streamed out from the hushed hives to dance
To the sun’s praise and sing a bit
And fall to passing earth like fathers’ knees.
~ copyright 2007 by S.K. Orr
I pick my way more gingerly these days
In the sun, watching my feet as I
Tramp among cool clover, the nodding heads
Sparser than before, and I squint
For the flighted jewels with the sweet
Saddlebags on their legs. Have you heard
That their numbers are diminishing?
Where once we found raging orchestras
Now we pull silent drawers from the
Barren boxes, tombstones staggered all
Along the hills that once were home-steady
And ours. Where have they gone, and are
They yet missed, and doesn’t blame belong
At someone’s intruding feet? I want answers,
But I will settle for poetry and the astonishment
Of the newly-awake, the freshly-aware.
Where from, then? Muscled off a Jamestown
Pilgrim-packet centuries ago, and right
Into their orchard calling, they helped every
Harvest. But such help is waning, winging
Toward a new hidden place, or
Perhaps to the humless end. Or could
It be that they waxed tired of all their gold
Taken for granted, and followed a sun-decree
To deprive the gluttonous harvesters, most of
Whose foul brood hate them for the sting
They carry – praise His gifts! – and because
More depends on them than the takers confess.
So who will miss them, besides my kind? The African
Breed will drape and kill you for the mere
Approach to their dim nests – who swats against
Their ill? I want answers, but I’ll settle
For poetry and consistent truth. And now
I walk with care, not willing that any should perish,
But that each striped buzzer would do his holy
Work, hovering above the wasted white
Flowers whose stems sink down to blasphemy’s roots.
I am watching them leave, watching for
The last unborn light in a box
Of beeswax candles, the last silky drop
Of honeyed tea, the last winged memory
Of what they brought and what they did and how
They streamed out from the hushed hives to dance
To the sun’s praise and sing a bit
And fall to passing earth like fathers’ knees.
~ copyright 2007 by S.K. Orr
And so to conclude the description of the farm plans...
Fencing off the back yard from the front yard with decorative fencing. This is not just for aesthetic appeal; we have a secondary motive. As soon as we have some “containing” fence up, we’re going to seriously look for a puppy. We need a good working dog here, a companion animal who will help alert us to the presence of intruders and varmits, especially the predatory coyotes we have in this area (to say nothing of the black bears reported to be roaming in the Clinch Mountains just south of us). We don’t want to invest time and $$ in gardens, goats, chickens, and bees, just to watch some mammalian marauder make off with our increase. We’ll also be stocking up on shotgun shells.
God’s sweetest blessings to you all, loved ones. Rest well.
ps [at 5:17 pm]...it's snowing here.
