Pretending to Farm

Would You Like Some Yang With the Yin?

As

Newton

so aptly stated in his Third Law, "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."  Forces come in pairs and for every yin, there is a yang.  When dealing with extremely high speeds or very small objects, however, Newton’s theories break down and Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity steps in but, as we here at Rancho Laurena are neither very fast (except

David

) nor very small, Newton’s theories stand, meaning I must voice a little un-appreciation.  (See yesterday’s post.)

I do not appreciate:

1. The fact that yesterday’s appreciations looked very nice and bulleted before posting and then rudely scattered here and there losing bullets when uploaded to the internet(s).  I do not know why this happened; I am supposed to know these things after all, something about a degree?  In the future, when my writing looks disjointed and there are spaces where there should not be, it is not my doing (usually).  Something uncontrollable happens in the beaming up, Scotty.  Today, I am trying numbers instead.  If it doesn’t look right, don’t assume I cannot count.  It’s the demons in the tubes.
2. The very large black spider that lately has taken up residence in my bill basket.  Our bills are scary enough as it is without adding scary arachnids to the mix.  Like the woset in my closet, I wish it would just go away.
3. Dust, specifically desert dust that perniciously sneaks in at every opportunity and requires all surfaces be cleaned every other day.  Of course, I do not do this.  I blow at my tables a lot though.
4. How when I diet and exercise and makes some progress but then take a few days (weeks) off, I have to start all over again.  This is so not fair.  Self improvement should be like reading a book.  When you need a break, insert a bookmark (body mark) then pick it up where you left off when you feel inspired once again.  I would be so darned skinny and firm if only this were so.
5. Robert’s Rules of Order.  This ridiculous (some claim effective) parliamentary procedure has prevented me from being involved in PTA from the get-go.  That, and large groups of women.  See The Tao of

   Turkey

   .
6. My large rear end, though I guess it is better than not having one at all.  I’ve never heard a song called “I Like No Butts and I Cannot Lie.”
7. Far right politicians, Christian Neoconservatives (Did I hear a Dobson?), Islamic Extremists, and far left politicians.  Where has all the moderation gone and why doesn’t the Libertarian Party have a more effective voice in national politics?
8. Celine Dion.

Scarily, I realize I could go on and on, thoroughly disrupting the balance of the universe.  I try to be a glass half full kind of person but I am afraid that genetically, my glass is half-empty (but what is in the glass is damned good).  I have to admit after writing this; I’m a little grumpier than I was when I started. Truly though, as I was already dealing with monthly hormonal sways, I was a grouch to begin with.  And now I have dangled a participle.  Damn.

Schmaltz on Rye

Cynical at times and prone to stoicism, I am not typically drawn to mush.  When picking out greeting cards, I always head to the humor section and avoid anything floral with flowing script.  This is just me and I make no apologies.  However, at certain PMS-laden times such as these, I feel compelled to convey my appreciation for the little and big things in my life.  Don’t get used to this; I’ll be back to my usual self in a week or so.

I appreciate:

• Waking up in the early morning hours to three young coyotes wrestling in the wash outside our bedroom window.
• Those same coyotes coming back later when I was awake enough to grab a camera.  (They are hard to see but they are eating the berries off the trees.)
• My husband bringing me hot coffee without me asking him to do so.
• My children getting ready for school without getting in one argument.  They must sense the hormones in the air and know not to push it.
• Our turkeys answering my “good morning” with a raucous chorus of gobbles.
• The ladies at “Western Ranchman” feed store who know everything and can wrangle 50-pound hay bales and feed sacks like the strongest of men.  Yesterday I learned from them the way to tell a male duck from a female without having two of the same breed and I also learned that turkeys, being game birds only lay eggs in the spring.
• The fact that I now know we have one drake and three ducks.  See the little whoopdedoo on Daffy’s tail?  The male duck sports this little decoration.  This means that someday we will have duck eggs to fry or ducklings to coo over or both.

• Turkeys

  following me around the yard as I do farm chores and their impressive displays which are apparently in my honor (or not; they might just like the way it feels.)
• Being able to do farm chores in pajamas and flip flops.
• Having a good job involving caring for and loving animals.  Yesterday I took the kittens to get spayed and neutered and helped install overhead fencing to keep them from climbing out of the kennels.
• My husband who used his lunch break to come over to the rescue (and come to our rescue) and be the main overhead fence install pro.
• A day off after a two long, satisfying and productive work days.  I finally have both the energy and the time to write in my blog!
• The people who take the time to read this nonsense that I write, whether they be people from long or short past, or people that I have never met.  As of today’s 124^th post, the blog has received a total of 3381 hits.  (I am feeling challenged right now as I do my best to avoid another Sally Field moment.)
• Lovely and wonderful Sylvia who took the time to write and send via snail mail a magazine article on raising rare heritage breeds of farm animals.
• Heritage breeds of farm animals.
• My friends and family (Before you get your noses bent, this list is not in any specific order.  Most of my friends and family are more important that farm animals.  Most.)
• Living on two acres in a stunning setting with people and animals that I love.

Okay, that’s enough.  I’m making myself sick here with all the schmaltz.  Chrissy is probably crying by now anyway.

The Tao of Turkey

It’s quiet this morning; well, other than crowing roosters, quacking ducks, and beast-noise-making bloodhounds, it is a downright vacuum.  The young champion, aka pint-sized farmer, aka grandson Anthony, left with Jessica yesterday afternoon (the 17 year-old has no issue with driving six hours through the desert) and, after shedding a few tears, I enjoyed an evening of knitting, adult television(not that adult, you bunch of perverts), and a steak dinner.  As I woke up today at an unneeded very early pre-dawn hour, however, things seemed a bit empty.  I guess I’ll get over it in time; maybe.

Although you all are probably up to your eyeballs in turkey stories, I’m going to hit you with another.  You see, we have begun purposely letting the turkeys out of their pen.  The toms were fighting and fighting until their supposed-to-be bluish heads were dark brown with dried blood.  No attempt at discipline on our parts made a difference.  It doesn’t typically work with our children; I don’t know why we thought it would on a bunch of big birds.  Although we realized they did not have enough room, we weren’t sure what to do about it so throwing caution to the desert wind, we opened the gate and so far it is working out well, and I have made a few observations. 

Like humans at a party, the toms and hens segregate themselves by sex.  I do not understand this.  I have always perplexedly observed that at any gathering involving boys and girls, men and women, or toms and hens, the sexes voluntarily separate themselves at different areas of a gathering, whether these are the opposite sides of a gymnasium, various rooms of a house, or distinct sections of a farm yard.  I have never understood this and, being somewhat iconoclastic, have never abided by this unwritten rule.  At parties, I am usually the sole female in a group of males.  My mother is like this and, I am proud to say, my daughter is as well.  It must be a welcome genetic abnormality.  Lord knows I have enough unwelcome ones. 

The separate sex phenomenon does not only apply to parties and after years of experience, I have decided that large groups of the same sex are bad things, no matter the situation.  I have worked in restaurants and seen this first hand.  When the check is presented, the women pull out their calculators to divvy things up “properly” and the men jockey with one another, in a very braggart-like way, to see who gets to pay.  I’m not even going to get into their behavior during the meal, though there was that one time during the Super Bowl in

San Diego

that a drunken oaf pulled me into his lap and declared he wanted to suck my toes.  Needless to say, he didn’t have the pleasure.

Despite my disapproval and lectures, the turkeys are continuing their self-appointed sexual segregation.  The toms, puffed out beyond belief, are strutting and gobbling in their group of four, occasionally thumping chests though thankfully not seriously fighting anymore.  From what I can see, the girls pay the boys no mind and spend their time strolling together in their trio pecking at the errant weeds and clucking amongst themselves.  Although I share their femaleness, and am therefore slightly biased, I think the hens are handling themselves much more maturely than the toms, though perhaps not having quite as much fun.  I will reserve my comment on how I think this applies to the human world.  I think you know the answer well enough, now don’t you?

Streams of Unconsciousness

A few things I have noticed while taking care of a toddler when unaccustomed to doing so:

• On some days, I forget if I have taken a shower or not.  This seems to bother my husband more than it bothers me.

• As I am usually home alone during said shower time, I sit the toddler in front of the television, lock all the doors, and yell loudly to the child as I wash only what absolutely must be cleaned.  Shaving time is not allowed.

• The hair on my legs grows exponentially faster compared to non-toddler rearing times.

• Lovingly prepared healthy food is no more valued by this one than by the others, and he doesn’t seem to care when I say no snacks until he eats his cheese omelet and diced peaches.  He has his ways, aka 12-year-old twin pushovers.

• I have begun critiquing the newer children’s cartoons so much so that my 17-year-old daughter is giving me weirder looks than usual. Love the Backyardigans and Piggley Winks but I am so over that-full-of-herself Angelina Ballerina.

• I really pay attention to diaper commercials.  Hourglass shape?  Stay-dry liner?  Try the others then buy Luvs?  None of them say “Will keep large bowel movements where they belong.”  This is what I am looking for in a diaper.

• Knitting is a distant memory, as is reading anything other than Goodnight Moon and The Very Hungry Caterpillar.  Somehow, I do not mind this.

• A beer at day’s end tastes so much better that during non-toddler sitting times.

Anthony’s time here is coming to an end and I will once again find occasion for personal hygiene and likely discover time on my hands that I didn’t know I had before his arrival.  Mostly, I will miss the company of the best pint-sized farmer around.  Sigh.

Dances with Sheep, Points to Horses and Complains about Newly Sore Thighs

I am continuing to struggle with my glaring inefficiencies as they pertain to the foreign “multitasking.”  Therefore, you have not heard from me since Sunday.  Maybe you needed a break; I can get annoying at times.

We found out that the pint-sized farmer is staying a little longer than expected, which is great, but meant

that I could no longer just sit and play blocks, read Sandra Boynton books, and watch Sesame Street (I don’t think they have made a new episode since my kids were young; Ray Charles is still on there singing the wubba song; it’s kind of creepy.)  I had to get up from toddler play land and clean my house.  If I didn’t the bloodhound hair would turn into Tribbles a la Star Trek which would then multiply and roll across the floor, cling to the walls, and the next thing you know, suffocate us in our sleep.  This would be bad, especially since I am caring for someone else’s child.  It would be hard enough if my poor housekeeping skills hurt my own children but I don’t think I could live with the guilt that my failure to vacuum harmed another’s. 

To avoid this quickly spiraling out of control conundrum, I vacuumed, and mopped, and dusted, and scrubbed.  I washed, all of the laundry.  And then I did something that I haven’t done in two years.  I sat my large rear end on a little bitty bicycle seat and peddled around the neighborhood with a small child strapped behind me.  The neighbors already think I am strange; I’ve seen the looks.  Now that I have peddled the surrounding dirt roads talking loudly in a ridiculously high-pitched voice pointing out each and every horse in the area, I have confirmed their impression.  Dances with Sheep, Points to Horses and Complains about Newly Sore Thighs, how’s that for my new Indian name?

Lord knows when you’ll hear from me again.  The child is napping but he wakes up; I’ve seen it in person.  Then we will play until the house becomes dangerous once again.  It’s great fun, just not too conducive to writing.  Thanks for your understanding.  Here’s a picture to placate you.

Farm Chores, Anthony-Style

Morning has broken on the farm and it's a dandy one.  The air is a cool 68 degrees, the roosters are crowing (and ticking off the designated neighborhood grump, I am sure who, by the way, sent letters to other non-poultry owning neighbors as well), and Anthony is sizing up his second day of chores.

It's feeding time and the hay wagon needs filling but, at present, looks more suited for a joy ride. 

With a little help from Gramma, who carefully cropped her unshowered, bejammied self from the picture, but couldn't do a damned thing about the hair, Anthony got what he wanted, of course.  That's what grandparents are supposed to do.  Discipline, schmiscipline.

The animals seem very confused and would like to know if this is a new kind of food.  Soylent Green, perhaps? (I know, gross.)

At this point, the alpacas and sheep have given up to search for breakfast elsewhere, but the goats are still intrigued.  Goats are nothing if not stubborn.

Relinquishing his hayride after the wagon actually became filled with Bermuda and alfalfa (it gets a bit itchy), Anthony went on his merry enthusiastic way, telling the roosters to hush up and visiting the ever-displaying turkeys.

Here is Reuben who is now the self-appointed leader of the flock with his two Narragansett henfriends.

Life on the farm sure is exhausting for the pint sized (and the perpetually frightened little brown mutt.)

They Come in Pints, Too!

Oh, my, how I am neglecting you people, but with good reason.  A pint-sized farmer has come to visit for a week or so, and between being gainfully employed and grandmotherly busy, I haven’t had a moment to blog.  Currently, the almost two-year-old spitfire is in his newly reassembled crib because he needs a nap and I need a break but it’s not sounding good.  Although the blinds are drawn and the Mozart is playing, I am hearing anything from unintelligible chatter to enthusiastic cheers emanating from the room and have almost resigned myself to taking him for a little drive.  We used to do that with our own kids, but gas was not as expensive then.  Wish me luck, and a lower per barrel price of oil.

As we began farm chores this morning, I was afraid Anthony would be afraid of the animals.  After all, it was February since he last saw them, and seven months must seem like an eternity when one is not yet two (next month.)  He settled right in however, pushing the goats out of his way to get a better view of the very frightened alpacas.  Tumalo and Lucky hummed and backed up from the scary enthusiastic small human.  Apparently, they did not realize that they came in this size; it definitely threw them for a loop.

The turkeys grabbed his greatest interest.  They were not here when he was last.  All the toms showed off their plumage as if on cue and Anthony oohed and aahed in return.  The height difference between the new farmer and the birds is minimal; they almost see eye to eye.

Inside, the dogs are taking any lifestyle changes in stride with the exception of Millie who is doing her best alpaca impression.  Felina Kitten was not quite sure what to think so nibbled on the child a bit to get a taste of toddler and went on her catty way.  I don’t think she was impressed.

Between now and my next blog post, I will endeavor to take some photos but right now, my powers of multi-tasking are spent, as am I.  It sure is a good way to get tired though.

If you’re going to bitch at me, at least get my name right.

Somewhere back in the annals of time, it came to pass that in every neighborhood there would exist at least one complaining, eccentric resident.  He’s the get-off-my-lawn guy, the shut-up-your-dog man, and the go-away-you-noisy-kids grump. 

In our farm/ranch area, ours is female.  My first encounter with her was when Sophia, our once fat cat, died.  Another neighbor had called me to say that this woman had found a dead cat in her backyard and when I called the “lady,” she told me in no uncertain terms to get my deceased feline out of her yard before the gardener came in the morning.  You know how landscapers hate to have to work around a dead cat.  She expressed no concern or sympathy over the fact that we had lost our pet of ten years, only annoyance of its stiff presence.  This was my first communication with crazy neighbor lady even though I had sent over fresh vegetables from the garden many times in return for the horse manure her husband, who doesn’t say much but is nice enough, offered us.  That was until yesterday.  As I walked through the living room, I looked outside to see an envelope on the front mat labeled “

David

and Laura.” 

First of all, it’s Lauren, lady.  If you’re going to bitch at me, at least get my name right.

I opened the letter to read about the nuisance that our baying hounds and screeching roosters are causing her and her request that we move them to “farm country.”  Granted, I will be the first to admit our animals can be noisy (and messy and rambunctious and, above all, loveable.)  This is, however, farm (and ranch) country, as witnessed by the three horses in her backyard and the enormous fly-producing pile of manure there.  A good 75% of the residents have horses and dogs that all produce their own variety of noises and messes.  I like it this way; this is one of the main reasons why we moved here. 

I’m not sure what, if anything, to do about or for our candidate-for-the-psychiatric-ward neighbor.  Honestly, I can see her point about the roosters.  We have thinned the flock a few times and were already considering doing it again.  Because of our concern for the happiness of all, we are in constant communication with the rest of the residents in the area, the sane ones, who tell us that either they do not mind the roosters or, in fact, they like them because they remind them of their youth, trips to relatives’ homes, etc.   As far as the dogs go, we keep them inside a good 90% of the time, including the nighttime hours.  We will not be getting rid of them; plus they keep the coyotes at bay.

My venting will have to end here.  I have dried last night’s tears and exhausted my husband’s shoulder.  For now, I will have to be secure in the knowledge that we are within zoning regulations and be happy with that.  What else can a pretend farmer do?

A Shameless Plug

Thankfully, fall is right around the corner.  During Saturday’s storm, I was actually chilly for the first time in months.  What to do?  Add a bunch of sweatshirts and long sleeve t-shirts to “The Pretending to Farm” store, of course.  You can get there here or by clicking the link on the sidebar at left.  Have you been there lately?  Have you been at all?  I’ve been working on it all morning/afternoon  and I have a very sore neck from craning to see the computer screen properly in order to accurately outline images in Photoshop.  You’d think it would only take a moment but I have been sitting at this desk for over five hours now and I’m still not done.  Humor me, folks.  Do me a favor and visit the store and tell me what you think.  Did I do enough?  Did I do too much?  Is there something missing?  Perhaps an image on one kind of shirt or mug that you’d like to see on another?  Feedback, people, I need feedback.

Back on the farm, our little ewes are all grown up now and will soon be sharing a boyfriend.  Sometime next week we’ll be driving down to

Tucson

and picking up a loaner ram and also a ram lamb (say that ten times fast) for future breeding purposes.  I have to admit I am a little choked up at the thought of our little girls, who we brought home in the back of our pickup truck when they were little lambies, entering ewe-hood but that’s nature for you.  I just won’t watch; that would be pervy.

We’re also thinking about breeding the goats but have not found a more local place to find a buck.  I don’t particularly want to drive four hours to Kingman to visit the unique and very nice breeders from whom we purchased Elora, Bill, and

Pearl

.  If I do, I’m bringing a gift of razors.  Catty of me, I know but I just cannot embrace that sixties commune/European freedom underarm hair thing.  Ha, I can see the expression on your face right now.  You’re welcome.

Well, as you can read, I am very punchy from working on this time sucker for hours on end and I’m almost finished updating the store, thankfully. 

I’ll be looking forward to your feedback.  Won't I?

One Man's Trash is Another Woman's Garden

Beauty is found in the most unlikely of places.  As I emptied the trash this morning, I was amazed to find this lovely flower growing on its own behind the dumpster, especially when I cannot seem to grow a darned thing out here.  In fact, I have almost given up on the whole idea of landscaping/gardening which is very unlike me.  I used to be the great vegetable grower.  However, when all my tomatoes, green and very numerous, began shriveling in the summer heat and all the corn just dried and died on the stalk, I halted my efforts.  I keep saying I’m going to grow a fall garden, plant some broccoli and cauliflower, lettuce and spinach, but since the turkeys live where my garden was I don’t know where to plant.  Apparently I should try the area behind the trash bin.  Unfortunately, though, the aesthetics have a bit to be desired. 

As I had the camera out, I had to take a few chicken pictures.  It’s in the Rancho Laurena bylaws.  I think I have more pictures of chickens than I have of my own children.  Great parenting, huh?  This is Slick, part Brown Leghorn, part Silver Spangled Hamburg.  Hasn’t he grown into a handsome rooster? 

  As I was taking Slick’s picture, Bill Withers decided to “horn” in on the photo shoot. 

Next, Inge posed prettily for a picture.

Lastly, as I was heading back to my by now heavily neglected and much-needed coffee, I spied this guy riding the pool vacuum hose around the pool.  He jumped off as I approached with the camera, but I managed to snap a quick shot of this Sonoran Desert Toad.  I’ll tell you more about them in a later post but for a little teaser, their skin is toxic and full of hallucinogens, which means dogs can die from chewing on them and the more unbalanced college students lick them to get high.  Fortunately, our dogs are too slow moving (and witted) to catch them and our kids, who I wouldn’t exactly call balanced, aren’t that weird.  Thank heavens for large favors.