Pretending to Farm

Taking the Good with the Bad

Rancho Laurena Update:

New well pump unneeded after all so electrical box replacement and well maintenance will cost a few hundred vs a few thousand.

Lauren's Laptop has gone the way of so many of her computers past.  She is wondering if she is jinxed with all things electric, that maybe she possesses some strange electromagnetic force that dooms all her advanced technological equipment.  She is currently posting from 12-year-old son's hand me down desktop, which is missing keys on its keyboard, and is grimy beyond even her tolerance level.  The unadjustable monitor projects a ghastly shade of puce, and is surrounded by pasted on sharks, tigers, and dragons, creating an atmosphere unsuitable for anything remotely creative from Lauren.  For now, she is able to receive email through said scary computer and will venture to child's bedroom as little as possible to do that but the Pretending to Farm posting will slow and stop ocassionally.  Such is life.

Please help Lauren out a bit as she has lost all her email contacts.  Send to [email protected] so someday she can communicate with you all again.  Hopefully, the absence will make it all the sweeter when the posting resumes.

LOVE

So Many Reubens, So Little Time

It is day four here in

NoWater

,

Arizona

, and things are grimy and getting more so.  I’m embracing my inner medieval pretend crofter, with the exception of internet and electricity, that is.  I thought I had lost the former of these in fact when my computer displayed a variation of tiny green checks, thin red lines, and bright blue cross hatches but nothing else.  After restarting the thing unsuccessfully at least ten times, I attempted to quiet my very loud how-am-I-going-to-pay-for-a-new-computer-too nerves and went into my bedroom to knit the very cute baby cardigan I am designing for grandmother-entitled queen of the world.   I picked up my reading/knitting glasses to begin which promptly broke in my hands and all fell to pieces.  Expletives, glasses, and tears flew this way and that.  There I sat with last straw reached and briefly considered running away but realized I am 43, not 10.

This morning my computer told me it had recovered from a serious error and I am holding my breath as I type, waiting for the next breakdown which will inevitably occur.  If my posts stop suddenly, you will know why.

After receiving the more tear-inspiring phone call yesterday from Beeman’s pump informing us it would be “a few more days” until he could get a crew out here, we finally called a company other than the one which dug our well.  I spoke to a very nice man at Laveen’s who was incredibly sympathetic and said he was sorry he could not make it until tomorrow (today) and was worried about our animals.  I’m now in love with the unseen well pump repairman.  Until he comes and to help all the critters, we bought three plastic baby pools and ran a hose from the neighbors’ to fill them.  The ruminants and chickens gathered around theirs unsure of what to do with them but the turkeys immediately went for a dip, reinforcing my admiration for our winged beasts. 

Speaking of turkeys, after reading yesterday’s post, David informed me that when we named Reuben, the Bourbon Red turkey, it was after Reuben James, a character in a Kenny Rogers song which he likes, not yummy sandwich or Partridge Family character.  When I was trying to find it over the internet, though, I discovered a different song by Woody Guthrie about a ship called the Reuben James, which was the first United States Navy ship sunk by hostile action in WWII.  Furthermore, it was named after Boatswain's Mate Reuben James (c.1776–1838), who distinguished himself fighting in the pirate-inspired Barbary Wars.  That’s exhausting!  I had no idea so many Reubens, or for that matter, Reuben James’ existed. 

All this research is making me hungry for a sandwich, Reuben, of course.

No Water, Water Everywhere, Nor Any Drop to Drink

Being without water when one lives in the city, if it is only for a day or two, is inconvenient and, at times, stinky, but for the most part is not life-threatening.  Being without water on a farm where the temperature is above 100 degrees and approximately fifty living creatures depend on filled water dispensers to survive in the heat is.  In addition, there can be no hosing down alpacas, no filling the many wannabe puddles in the chicken yard, no misting the turkey enclosure, none of the typical things we do daily to keep our animals reasonably comfortable in the oppressive heat.  The concern I feel for them is overwhelming me, keeping me on the edge of tears of sympathy, wishing I could do something, anything, to relieve their discomfort. I am an un-showered, blubbering mess.  As you can see, however, Felina is unconcerned, but Marshall feels their pain (and his.)

At least, David is here this time.  The well has gone out a few times before when he was not and I had to lug water in five gallon containers filled from the neighbors’ (and not close, spit-in-your-window neighbors) hose bib, but thankfully this time David is doing the heavy work.  Of course, in the past our water loss was never because of the pump.  A power surge in the valley knocked out the electrical box, which had to be replaced, and that same box has had to be reset multiple times via a restart button, but each time we went without water only briefly and all was well in the animal kingdom.  Today is different.  Replacing a well pump requires heavy equipment and manpower which have to be scheduled and at this point I still do not know when they can replace it.  How I long for an old-fashioned well with a bucket, though at our current well’s 600 foot depth, it would be a long haul.  Technology is a harsh mistress.

I walk outside to panting everything, turkeys, chickens, sheep, goats, and dogs.  The alpacas, always stoic in their manner, hide it, but I know these creatures originating in the Peruvian Alps are secretly plotting their escape to cooler climes.  The Bourbon Red tom turkey we have named Reuben (after yummy favorite sandwich and that guy on “The Partridge Family”) faithfully follows us as we do our best to set up extra shade in their enclosure, squawking his approval and giving us the slightest hint of a gobble.  Of the eight turkeys, we have determined that three of them are toms, Alamo, the Black Spanish, Reuben, the aforementioned Bourbon Red, and “Zoolander,” the Blue Slate (it’s too bad whoever named this breed didn’t call it blue steel instead so our name would fit perfectly.  Those of you who did not see Zoolander, disregard that last statement and go rent it.  It is worth the trip.)

Back to dealing with no water and ridiculous heat, I am toying with opening the pool cover and allowing the ruminants into the small yard which contains the “cement pond” in which to cool off. However, as we have a salt water swimming pool, I am concerned that the water could sicken them.  For that matter, can sheep even swim? Has anyone tried to teach them baaack stroke?  And what effect would swimming ruminants have on our pool filter?  For now, I think I must forestall the sheep dip and hope for the arrival of heavy equipment, manpower, and, if possible, funding for the whole endeavor.  Although part of moving out here was an attempt to "get away from it all," once we did, we inevitably found that the simple life truly ain’t so simple after all.  I don’t think it ever is. Country issues may be different from those in the city but are complicated just the same.  Despite this, I think I’ll still tough it out on the rural end of things, that is as long as I can have a little peace and H₂O. 

Monsoon 2006

Yesterday afternoon, we had what must be the precursor to this summer’s monsoon storms.  The sky grew dark and the wind picked up to mini-tornado speed, and we got a bare pool cover-dampening drizzle.  This will be the third year of experiencing what the local weatherman gets all apoplectic over.  In this climate of little weather change, he waits all year for it. You can almost see him jumping up and down in excitement, accompanied by noisy swoosh graphics and the announcer’s grave but dramatic narration, “Monsoon 2006!”  I remember the first year waiting expectantly for the promised event, envisioning something out of “Jumanji,” full of great deluges and hurricane-force winds, maybe even a crocodile floundering uncontrollably down the wash.  (Not really, but it fits with the pseudo-drama of the evening newscast.)  The local channel aired an hour-long special, as they do each year, on preparing for this event of Biblical proportions.  Being an avid storm lover from way back, I waited, impatient with great excitement.

At the beginning of this third summer, I thought I knew better.  Yes, we get a little rain, but nothing compared to a regular old thunderstorm on my native east coast.  The wind is the main event, sometimes accompanied by thunder (again nothing as loud as what woke me from my bed as a child) and lightning.  In this driest of places, the wind mixes with the dirt and dust, turns the sky dusky, and causes accidents on the roadways due to “brownout.”  “Micro-bursts” of wind speed have thrown furniture off the roof-top deck and deposited our neighbors’ belongings onto our back patio.  The gusts have blown open our doors (always bolted now in preparation), breaking vases and throwing pictures from their moorings, shattering their protective glass.  In my jaded eyes, this was no monsoon.  Monsoons should be wet; these are windstorms.

Today, I have a feeling that this is year to live up to its graphics.  Whether I am paying for past sins, pervasive doubts, or recent pining-for-cooler-climates, someone up there is trying to keep me on my toes.  The brief, pityingly devoid of moisture storm knocked out our well pump, leaving us low and dry.  We will obviously have to replace it; we need water, particularly in a place like this.  Rural farm life does not come without its downsides and well pumps cost a hefty chunk of change.  All I can say in my sorry-for-the-downer-of-a-mood is it’s a good thing we are just pretend farmers and receive a real paycheck from someone else. 

A farm is a good thing, when it begins and ends with itself, and does not need a salary, or a shop, to eke it out.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)

Bucking Tradition

You all might remember that earlier in the week, I was complaining (amazing how naturally that comes to me) about

Pearl

, our

Angora

nanny goat, who keeps jumping into the hay barrow during feeding time.  At the time, I sent out a bit of a plea for advice on goat discipline to which I received a reply from fellow Rio Verde Foothills resident and friend Ms Cecile.  In it, she stated that in no way could a goat be made to behave.  Well, apparently the British, always full of desire to control and colonize  (I left out a bunch more here; I'm half Irish, you know), felt the need to “buck” nature and force poor Billy Windsor, a handsome cashmere goat of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, to behave.  It did not work and he has been demoted and will no longer receive salutes as he marches by.  Do you think he gives two shakes of a lamb’s tail?  The story below needs no further comment as its inanity speaks for itself.  Please read, enjoy, and shake your head in disbelief as one.

British army lance corporal demoted for acting the goat

Sat Jun 24, 9:09 AM ET

William (Billy)

Windsor

, regimental goat of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, has been demoted for refusing to keep in step at a parade for Queen Elizabeth II's 80th birthday, officers said.

The 1st Battalion lance corporal's lack of decorum landed him in hot water during the bash at Episkopi British military base outside the southern resort of Limassol in

Cyprus

.

"He was charged with disobeying a direct order... the commanding officer had no other option but to reduce his rank to fusilier," Captain Crispin Coates told AFP.

The goat was marched before the CO after being reported for "unacceptable behaviour" by his handler, also known as the goat major.

Six-year-old Billy is on his first overseas tour since joining the regiment in 2001, and according to one parade onlooker is unlucky to be in the dog house.

"I thought he was immaculately turned out on the night and marched quite well, but Billy does have a reputation for being a bit frisky and temperamental," he said.

Goats are not mascots but very much members of the regiment. They have their own serial numbers, and march at the head of the battalion.

The origin of the custom is unknown but is thought to go back centuries.

Queen

Victoria

presented the regiment with a Kashmir goat from the royal herd in 1844, and successive monarchs have replaced them ever since.

Because he acted the goat, Billy's drop in rank means fusiliers no longer have to stand to attention when he passes by.

Although this is the full story, you can read it online here.

By the way, Rooster Cogburn and Puff Daddy have gone to the chicken coop in the sky.  They will be missed, if only for their very cool names.

Who Decided to Call It "Quality Family Time" Anyway?

I’ve been under the weather lately with that dumb disease I have never completely accepted having.  Seven years of denial and counting.  I am mentioning this as a way of apology since sickness significantly decreases my creativity and intelligence.  The same thing happened to me when I was pregnant.  My friend, Karen, called it pregnancy-heimers.  Of course, since our baby-birthing days are over, we usually have anheisers instead when we get together (or wine-heisers, depending on the occasion.)

I slept in this morning because I forced my family to join me in my bed chamber (how Victorian of me) to watch a movie together, “Nanny McPhee,” with Emma Thompson and yummy Colin Firth.  Since I had little anticipation as to its quality, I liked it.  Don’t you usually find that?  The much-hyped movies that “everyone” says are wonderful rarely reach their level of expectation.  Well, despite my attempts to force my family to watch a nice movie together, it is near impossible for my two 12 year old boys and their ADHD father to sit still for 1 ½ hours to watch a film.  Bathroom breaks, snack attacks, beer runs, more bathroom breaks, journey to one of the other bedrooms to get the 12-sided Dungeons and Dragons dice, etc, increased my time sitting down trying to watch this movie by two.  In my ill and subsequently heightened emotional state, I almost started crying midway through.  At least, we have Tivo.  Quality family time, my ass. 

Soooo, this morning (yes, I realize I am dragging on a bit here, sick, remember) David let me sleep like the good guy he can be and did farm chores alone.  This is not always a good idea because he invariably comes in complaining about the shabby state of farm affairs and today was no exception.  “It’s time to thin the herd,” he says.  This is what he says every time the roosters tick him off with their cacophonous crowing, always increased when we venture outside.  No, I am not making excuses for them; it is true.  They have a great sense of territory and when we are nearby, they declare it loudly.  Today, he says it is Rooster Cogburn.  He is the loudest and one of the remaining older cock trio, and I have to admit (don’t tell David) I would not be sorry to see him go as long as I don’t have to do the dirty work.  They really do run around with their heads cut off, you know, with blood spurting profusely.  Ugh.

Today, I will try to come back to the land of the living.  I am healing a bit an d hope in the near future to eat something besides applesauce and cottage cheese (actually hubby has done an awesome job preparing mild food for me; he’s just not always around to fix it.)  I think I’d like to go to a real movie theater to watch either “A Prairie Home Companion” or “An Inconvenient Truth.”  Homey radio show or global warming horror flick (between Al Gore and melting glaciers, it is surely scary) , it doesn’t take much with me.  I can’t remember the last time I watched an action film, as I am perfectly content to watch great inaction as long as the characters are complex.  Hopefully, the inability to pause the show will force my little group of viewers to sit through it.  I’ll let you know.

Dulaan Means Warmth

As far as I can recall, which isn’t far these days, I have not asked you all for anything other than some time devoted to reading my musings but today is different.  The deadline is fast approaching to donate to The Dulaan Project for this year’s shipment to

Mongolia

.  If you do not already know about it, let me familiarize you with this charitable effort. 

Ulanbaatar

,

Mongolia

is the world’s coldest capital city, with winter temperatures rarely reaching above freezing during the day and often plunging to -40 degrees at night.  Rampant poverty forces the city’s many orphans to warm themselves by living under the streets in the heating ducts and prevents them from going to school.  The aim of this project is to provide these children with warm clothing and blankets so that they can go outside, accomplish things, and gain a sense of potential and dignity in their lives.  The deadline for donations is July 1^st for shipment on the 15^th.  I realize that does not leave much time to make anything but perhaps you have something or some funds to help these people out.  Some very nice Buddhist monks up in Sedona who I hope are not on fire initiated this venture as well as the people at Mossy Cottage Knits in

Flagstaff.

You can mail your items here:

The Dulaan Project, F.I.R.E.

107 N. San Francisco St.

, Studio 4

Flagstaff

,

AZ

86001

.

By the way, if you go on the Kunzang Palyul Chöling website, you can submit a prayer for someone or something that they will incorporate into their daily practice.  I think that is very nice, seeing they don’t know us at all. 

Dust Comes to Life

  When deciding whether or not to move here, the fact that scorpions live here definitely came into the discussion.  In my youth, my father and I had spent many a weekend afternoon watching giant insect/creature horror flicks on television, and Gila Monsters, Praying Mantis and scorpions definitely made an impression on me and not a good one.  Obviously, we moved here despite their presence but I was very wary.  It did not take long for the first to appear.  Shortly after we were somewhat settled, I was doing the laundry and as I was reaching into Robert’s hamper, I almost grabbed what at first appeared to be a child’s plastic insect toy.  Thankfully, I took a closer look and realized it was the real thing.  Laundry stopped for the day (I think that was a darned good excuse, don’t you) until David came home and did the manly kill-bad-insects-that-have-invaded-the-home thing.  He is good at that.  Since that first incident, we have found a few in young David’s closet, and one in the hallway but that has been pretty much it.  We don’t spray pesticide (remember I am eco-friendly tree-hugging liberal) and I have been for the most part pleasantly surprised. 

Two days ago, however, David was packing up his laptop in preparation for on-site destructive testing (don’t ask me what this is, I don’t know, but he does a lot of it) when what he initially thought was a dust bunny scurried across the back of his desk.  Let me say first that this is a testament to my housekeeping abilities, or lack thereof.  My husband thought a scorpion was dust come to life.  Adrenaline quickly raised, he killed the thing, did the mandatory show-your-wife-dead-bug offering, and threw it away, proclaiming that the pesticides were finally coming out whether I liked it or not.  Time for some research.

Scorpions, along with spiders, are in the arachnid family.  They have four pairs of legs, a long segmented body, and a hard exoskeleton which they shed throughout their lives as they grow.  Although 30 species of scorpions live in the

Arizona

desert, only three are native to our immediate area, the Giant Hairy Scorpion, the Devil’s Scorpion, and the tiny Bark Scorpion, which is the only one whose venom is dangerous to humans.  Of course, the Bark Scorpion was the one trying to help David with his computer work.   Scorpions are shy, however, and try to run away (which ours was doing) rather than stand and fight. They use their stinger to subdue prey, which are usually insects, not attack people.  When most people are stung, it is typically because they pick up a rock or log under which the scorpion was hiding.

One of the more interesting things about scorpions is that they glow under ultraviolet light, creating  great amusement for desert campers carrying black lights.  We keep threatening to do this; they are nocturnal after all, but I think I’d rather not know.  Scorpion population ignorance is bliss.

Scorpions curiously are viviparous (love that word), meaning the mothers give live birth, to up to 100 scorplings (like that one, too.)  The young survive on their mother’s back until they grow their own exoskeleton, depending on mom for protection.  Once grown, scorpions only need to feed once a year and survive on moisture for the remainder. 

As far as cultural references go, I could not find as many as I did with the coyotes but some exist, particularly in the Mesopotamian region where scorpion men served as guards to treasure and castle (and inspiration for bad “Mummy” movie spinoff.)  In Egyptian mythology, the scorpion is the trickster and nemesis to Isis and Osiris and in the Bible, a Roman whip or scourge was made from scorpion tails attached to leather thongs.  Ouch.  Finally, The Falaknuma palace in

India

is laid out in the shape of a scorpion with two stingers spreading out as wings to the north.

I could go on and on but I will spare you (and me.)  There is a lot of information out there.  What about those pesticides, you ask?  Well, we won’t be using them.  Since scorpions can survive the radiation from nuclear weapon blasts, bug spray doesn’t do much good.  It seems only yard maintenance does the trick, and I don’t do that in 113 degree heat.  David, the rake is in your hand.

Be Careful What You Wish For

You people never cease to amaze me.  I think you tune in to read about the farm and the fiber and I know some of you do just that.  Apparently, though, a good many of you enjoy reading about blue-tinged cousins intermarrying in Kentucky.  Here, I thought eyes were rolling and mice everywhere were swiftly pointing to the little red “X” in the corner but, no, you liked it.  You really, truly liked it (note the Sally Field impression; poor woman will never live that one down.)

I understand.  How long can you maintain interest in what my chickens are doing?  For that matter, how many things can I find to write about them?  Our animals do not realize they should constantly explore new behaviors to interest us all and frankly, I am glad they do not.  If I walked outside to find a hen standing on its head for entertainment, I’d probably faint.  I don’t want talking alpacas greeting me with “Hello, Lauren” Mr. Ed-style, or organized six-legged racing sheep or cha-cha dancing turkeys.  Maybe if I write another children’s book, but not now.

Soooo.. in addition to any items of interest around here, and the weekly desert creature lecture, I will try to find something quirky, like the aforementioned blue people to muse over.  I do aim to please.

Today, however, I have spun the wheel of blog subjects and determined that it is don’t-decide-where-to-retire-until-you-have-thoroughly-investigated-the-place day.

Nestled at the base of the Rockies, a short drive to Pike’s Peak, Pueblo, and Colorado City, surrounded by great scenic beauty, the white-water rafting Arkansas River, and the Royal Gorge (which has the world’s highest suspension bridge), is Cañon City, CO, subject of previous posts and many daydreams.  You might remember I ordered a relocation packet?   Well, it arrived in the mail yesterday folks, and guess what?  The largest employer in Cañon City is the Colorado Department of Corrections with 2000 employees for the 6,000 inmates (more than 10% of the population of the county) incarcerated in the 13 prisons, 9 state and 4 federal that call Cañon City home.  Abandoning my packet and heading to the internet(s) to discover the unvarnished, away from the Chamber of Commerce truth, I found one headline that read “The Nation's Super Criminals Come Here to Die.” 

Cañon City is home to the highest-security federal prison in the country.  Apparently, Timothy McVeigh lived here as did John Gotti.  Ramzi Rousef still does.  Oh my.  Speechlessness for a long but unmeasured time period turned to absolute confusion.  You know, I don’t have a lot of confidence in our government, particularly lately, but placing a “Supermax” prison complex in amongst awe-inspiring scenery truly astounds me.  What about the Arizona desert (irony noted)?  What about Kansas?  The inmates can’t enjoy the landscape that surrounds them.   They are incarcerated for 22 hours a day in their cells, the other two hours spent in shackles surrounded by at least three guard escorts.  I am completely flummoxed.  I guess this explains the good price per acre for the land I lusted over, huh?  Well, I think I’ll follow the original plan and just stay where I am, hoping to find a second home in cool northern Arizona for the summertime someday.  Away from a prison, that is.

Let Us Saunter Round the Farm

Today I present a few happenings from around the farm, nothing too earth shattering but I don’t need bells and whistles and I am hoping you do not either.  If you need drama, well, there is too much of it on the news each day.  I take comfort from the simplicity that life on the farm presents us.

As I ventured outside this morning, I noticed a few things, in particular that the turkeys have forced a change in my farming order.  In the past, I walked first to the ruminant pen, let them out, did what needed to be done, worked my way down through the chicken enclosure and then finished with the turkeys.  However, fowl exuberance has altered my direction.  How can I resist when I am greeted by eight happy turkeys, leaping and hopping, squawking and gobbling, unable to contain their excitement that scratch time is here.  How could I just ignore that and walk on by?  Obviously, I cannot.  Spoiled rotten, loveable, and so-ugly-they-are-cute turkeys, I am so glad we got them.

Our young chicken hens have begun laying at last, providing us with even more eggs, which is actually good because we have finally developed a following.  The word has gotten out and we now have a few “regulars” who call when they are in need of the Incredible Edible Rancho Laurena Farm Fresh Egg.  I’m not sure how they will react though to the new very small but very cute eggs.  They won’t take long to get to full size so for now we are saving them for ourselves to make the cutest deviled eggs ever on the planet.  The extra Araucanas, or Easter Egg Chickens, we ordered are so far the most prolific of all, laying two blue-green eggs to the others’ one.  Their eggs are also larger than the rest as you can see from the photo.  (Note the one full-sized egg in the left corner.)

Pearl, our cream colored Angora goat, has gotten into a bad habit, admittedly learned from her younger cousin Elora Dannon.  We have a good-sized resin wheelbarrow that we wheel to the feed shed to load with alfalfa and Bermuda grass hay, and then take back to the ruminant pen to fill their manger, leaving enough in the wheelbarrow for Lucky and Tumalo, our two alpacas.  Elora, always the playful one, would leap into the wheelbarrow while we were filling it and then enjoy the ride back to her pen.  However, Pearl, sensing great fun in all of this, decided to do it, too.  Like some member of the goat mafia, she squeezed Elora out and took over the fun ride for herself, the only trouble being that she outweighs Elora by a good 20 pounds.  I, being of the genus and species Wimpus extraordinarius, now struggle through this aspect of farm chores and complain about it loudly to Pearl.  I am sure the neighbors enjoy having a foul-mouthed farmer next door.  Inside the pen, Pearl invariably upsets the cart, forcing the alpacas to eat off the ground and creating hay waste in the process.  If anyone has any advice on goat discipline, please send it my way.  I have a hard enough time getting my children to listen to me, much less a hairy horned mobster.

Finished with this morning’s chores, I returned to the coolness of the air conditioning to be welcomed by a sleeping Felina, sharing my newfound content.  Apparently, farmin’ is the life for me. 

That ladies and germs, is the news from Rancho Laurena, where the ruminants are strong, the hens are good looking, and the turkeys are above average. (Thank you, Garrison Keillor.)