There is a general consensus that cows are very slow witted. Some folks go as far as to say they are profoundly stupid. I disagree. I think they are extremely smart and have an aloof personality not unlike that of a cat. True, they do what they want, when they want to do it, and they do it on their own terms. I think that puts them in a category of having a pretty high level of intelligence.
We raise a few head of cattle here on the the ranch. To be exact, we have a tiny heard of tiny miniature cows. They average about 40 inches tall. They apparently don't know they are small because they have large attitudes. That is especially true of "Soul Fire", our bull. Like most bulls, he fluctuates between a calm semi- sweet mode and a testosterone driven killer mode. He switches them back and forth like a human bull switches channels on a television.
Because we are never sure how Soul Fire will react in any given situation we always give him a wide berth and move cautiously around him. Did I mention he has a set of full sized horns that add to our need for caution ?
A little while back one of our cows "Twinkle" was getting ready to give birth. As the expected date grew near we watched anxiously for signs of labor. When at last the tell-tell signs appeared we decided it was time to separate her from the bull and rest of the herd and move her the birthing pen. That task is generally easy and creates no problems, however things didn't go quite as planned this time.
For some reason Twinkle, who is generally sweet and cooperative, got it into her head that she did not want to go into the birthing pen. No amount of coaxing, prodding, pleading, trickery, tomfoolery, or copious amounts of hay and grain could get her to change her mind. Fact: She was not going into the pen.
The following are notes I've made in the Calving Journal:
(Note to self: When attempting to lure a pregnant cow into the birthing pen mind where your hind-end is, and do not back into the electric fence wire. Backing into the electric fence wire causes a sudden explosion of energy that catapults a person forward into the metal gate.
Catapulting into the metal gate can cause that person to cut her hand on a sharp corner of latch. Cutting that persons hand on the gate can cause that person to yelp in pain, jump backward and hit the electric fence again.
Result? That person is overcome with an indefinably long period of a numbing sensation from head to toe that can cause that persons feet and mind to go completely numb.
Result? Trying to walk with a numb mind and numb feet can cause that person to trip over a rock and fall face down.
Result? There is a 100% chance the pregnant cow will spook due to all the commotion and run to the opposite side of the pasture.
Result? Numb minded, numb footed, bleeding person will most likely trot after the frightened pregnant cow in an attempt to lure her back to the point of origin and the gate of the birthing pen.
Result? Moving from the shelter of the birthing pen, the bull can now see the numb minded, numb footed, bleeding and let's now add stupid person chasing after the love of his life. This causes him to become irritated and he charges toward them.
Result? Husband of numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, stupid person, hollers to her with a warning that the bull is headed toward her and not looking at all happy with the current situation in his pasture.... Dah!
Result? Stupid, numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, frightened, person trotting after the pregnant cow now realizes there is no way she can outrun the irritated bull and his big horns, so she dives into an outcropping of large over-grown black berry bushes.
Result? Bull show signs of being much smarter than stupid, numb minded, numb footed, bleeding, frightened person hiding in the black berry bushes. He begins to calmly graze on the berry leaves a few feet from her face while blocking any means of escape and waiting patiently for the opportunity to charge her once she moves into the open.
Result? Stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, bleeding person begins to bleed more profusely from being pricked by the thorns of the ancient black berry bushes, nearly pees her pants and screams for help.
Result? Calm husband saves the day by tossing a half bale of hay over the fence on the opposite side of the pasture so stupid, numb minded, numb footed, profusely bleeding, frightened person can rapidly escape over the electric fence.
Result? Once the bull moves from the immediate area, stupid, stupid, stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, and profusely bleeding person lets out a war whoop and dives head first over the electric fence. She most likely looks like a world class high diving champion as she lands safely, albeit painfully, on the rocky ground outside the pasture.
Result? Husband emerges from the barn and yells "OK, the fence if off, you can climb out now... hey...where are you?"
Result? Husband gets an ear full of unique and descriptive adjectives as stupid, numb minded, numb footed, profusely bleeding, frightened, angry person, limps toward him with clinched teeth and fists.
Final result? When husband is reunited with his angry, limping, stupid, numb minded, numb footed, frightened, bleeding wife who, by the way, is still spewing foreign sounding words from her mouth, they notice the pregnant cow is totally missing. She is nowhere in sight. The bull and the rest of the herd are munching cheerfully on their new bounty of hay, but there is no sign of the pregnant cow.
Ahh hah! When finally located it was duly noted that the pregnant cow had miraculously walked up into the birthing pen on her own and was in the early stages of an easy labor.
End Notes to self)
Memo to Self: Never try to outsmart a pregnant cow and her vicious mate.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Bears Make Strange Fireside Guests!
My husband, Bruce, and I have a deep fondness for nature. We enjoy everything about the outdoors, and in particular camping. Now when I say "camping," I'm not talking about hauling all the necessities of home to an established campsite or R.V. Park. I'm talking about setting up a camp in the middle of untamed wilderness.
We have a good friend whose idea of "Camping" is sleeping with his windows open, and another who drives a 100 thousand dollar giant motor home into a KOA campground and turns his kids loose with skateboards, I-Pods and dirt bikes. So, lose that image of camping and think of our outings as being more like Lewis and Clark...or even Star Trek ("Where no man has ever gone before.")
Alright, well if you have the picture let me tell you about a particular camping trip we had not too terribly long ago. We are, as I have established, seasoned campers. We know all the rules of wilderness camping, and we take the necessary safety precautions. That is...most of the time.
Here's what happened: On this particular outing I was cursed with one of the most piercing migraine headaches that I think any human has ever endured. I kept thinking maybe I had been shot in the head and didn't know it. There were no holes and no blood, but still I kept checking...it was that bad.
This particular night we had followed an old abandoned logging road that wound us up around and though a dense forest. We were fortunate to find a fairly even spot next to a babbling creek that offered an ideal spot to spend the night.
Thinking that maybe a good hot meal would help matters, Bruce lit a campfire and I began to unload the food from two monstrously large ice chests in our trusty old CJ-7 Jeep. We may be fond of wilderness camping, but food is not something we sacrifice in order to participate in the sport. We eat very very well.
While I sizzled 2 steaks over the fire, Bruce set up the tent. While he unloaded the sleeping gear, I nestled a couple of pre-baked potatoes down into the hot coals to heat, and nudged tin-foil wrapped garlic bread next to it. While he secured the jeep and took out our precautionary weapon, I popped open a container of Waldorf Salad (Seriously ...we eat well on these trips.)
When the steaks were ready we hunkered down on a log and ate like royalty. The headache didn't respond to food and I was feeling lousy, so I broke a serious camping rule. The number one golden rule of wilderness camping. Never ever ever keep food or used utensils near the area where you are sleeping.
Now, generally we take the rule to the extreme and suspend our ice chests on a rope from a tree limb. I never wash utensils within 100 yards of the camp. However with my mega headache I thought "what the heck..we never see bears." and I broke that one little rule...just once. I simply tossed the utensils in the creek to deal with the next morning, and I put the ice chests back in the jeep.
Ok...so I'm sure you know by now what is about to happen. If you are squeamish you can stop reading now.
Sometime around 2am, Bruce and I were awakened from a sound sleep by a low guttural growl. Both of us shot up into a sitting position in our sleeping bags. Bruce said "did you hear that? we have a bear close by!" My only response was my chattering teeth. We sat completely motionless and listened. Again there came a low guttural growl, this time a bit closer than the first one we heard.
Bruce slowly unzipped the sleeping bag and crawled to his knees. Barely breathing we listened. We heard silence broken every few minutes by a growl... it headed directly toward our tent. It couldn't have been more than a few hundred yards off.
"The gun" he hissed... "I can't find the gun!" OMG! had I put it back in the jeep in my near coma state because of the headache? I couldn't remember! "OK" he said "we should be fine, there are only black bears in this area..I'm going to go to the jeep and look for the gun." He stood and as he was about to unzip the door flap on the tent he said "It's a good thing you secured the food."
Double OMG! "Wait" I choked out "Actually I didn't." He whirled around in horror and whispered so loudly it sounded like air escaping from a truck tire "YOU WHAT?"
The growling kept inching toward us...what to do? Finally Bruce said "I'll go ahead and unlock the jeep, then you run out and jump in. If things get bad we can always start it and drive away!"
Good plan! Ok...so that is what we did. We both hurled ourselves into the jeep with such force it's a wonder the tires didn't blow out from our sudden impact . We sat and we waited. Occasionally Bruce would roll his window down slightly and listen. When he wasn't listening he was chastising me for my negligence. What could I say except "I know, I know...I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
For the longest time the growling noise circled around us, then finally grew silent. We checked our watches, it was nearly 4am. We had been sitting in the jeep for nearly 3 hours awaiting our fate.
Finally as the sun began to creep over the tops of the trees and filter down into our campsite we decided to leave our metal cocoon and look for paw prints to see how close we came to being a midnight snack for a hungry bear.
With gun in hand we circled the camp, but found no signs of bear. No scat, no clawed trees, no prints.
About an hour later as we sat in the back of the jeep eating beef jerky (the gourmet breakfast was postponed for obvious reasons ) we heard another vehicle coming up the logging road. We assumed it was bear hunters.
To our surprise a beat up old red Ford pick-up truck eventually pulled up next to the jeep and an old wrangler stepped down. "Hey, howdy folks" he said grinning "Don't often see folks up in this part of the woods." He looked around at our campsite and nodded thoughtfully.
Bruce started to tell him about the visitor we'd had during the night but before he got to far into the story...He old guy scrunched up his lips and pushed his hat back a bit and said "I'll jest bet that was old Hank, That's about what he sounds like when he's stressed...I'm up here looking for him."
Well it turns out that "Old Hank" was a 12 year old renegade bovine bull that apparently suffers from Alzheimer's disease and often wanders off from the rest of the herd and gets lost.
Bruce protested and said it sure sounded like a bear to us, but the old guy said "Nope I'll just bet that was Hank, best be after him before he completely looses himself." as he got in his truck we heard him mumble "should just shoot that ol'......"
Later as we were breaking camp, the old wrangler came back by with "Old Hank" tethered in the back of his pick-up as they slowly drove past us the old wrangler tipped his hat and Old Hank give us a familiar growl.
It just isn't right that an old bull can sound like a bear and scare people half to death!
We have a good friend whose idea of "Camping" is sleeping with his windows open, and another who drives a 100 thousand dollar giant motor home into a KOA campground and turns his kids loose with skateboards, I-Pods and dirt bikes. So, lose that image of camping and think of our outings as being more like Lewis and Clark...or even Star Trek ("Where no man has ever gone before.")
Alright, well if you have the picture let me tell you about a particular camping trip we had not too terribly long ago. We are, as I have established, seasoned campers. We know all the rules of wilderness camping, and we take the necessary safety precautions. That is...most of the time.
Here's what happened: On this particular outing I was cursed with one of the most piercing migraine headaches that I think any human has ever endured. I kept thinking maybe I had been shot in the head and didn't know it. There were no holes and no blood, but still I kept checking...it was that bad.
This particular night we had followed an old abandoned logging road that wound us up around and though a dense forest. We were fortunate to find a fairly even spot next to a babbling creek that offered an ideal spot to spend the night.
Thinking that maybe a good hot meal would help matters, Bruce lit a campfire and I began to unload the food from two monstrously large ice chests in our trusty old CJ-7 Jeep. We may be fond of wilderness camping, but food is not something we sacrifice in order to participate in the sport. We eat very very well.
While I sizzled 2 steaks over the fire, Bruce set up the tent. While he unloaded the sleeping gear, I nestled a couple of pre-baked potatoes down into the hot coals to heat, and nudged tin-foil wrapped garlic bread next to it. While he secured the jeep and took out our precautionary weapon, I popped open a container of Waldorf Salad (Seriously ...we eat well on these trips.)
When the steaks were ready we hunkered down on a log and ate like royalty. The headache didn't respond to food and I was feeling lousy, so I broke a serious camping rule. The number one golden rule of wilderness camping. Never ever ever keep food or used utensils near the area where you are sleeping.
Now, generally we take the rule to the extreme and suspend our ice chests on a rope from a tree limb. I never wash utensils within 100 yards of the camp. However with my mega headache I thought "what the heck..we never see bears." and I broke that one little rule...just once. I simply tossed the utensils in the creek to deal with the next morning, and I put the ice chests back in the jeep.
Ok...so I'm sure you know by now what is about to happen. If you are squeamish you can stop reading now.
Sometime around 2am, Bruce and I were awakened from a sound sleep by a low guttural growl. Both of us shot up into a sitting position in our sleeping bags. Bruce said "did you hear that? we have a bear close by!" My only response was my chattering teeth. We sat completely motionless and listened. Again there came a low guttural growl, this time a bit closer than the first one we heard.
Bruce slowly unzipped the sleeping bag and crawled to his knees. Barely breathing we listened. We heard silence broken every few minutes by a growl... it headed directly toward our tent. It couldn't have been more than a few hundred yards off.
"The gun" he hissed... "I can't find the gun!" OMG! had I put it back in the jeep in my near coma state because of the headache? I couldn't remember! "OK" he said "we should be fine, there are only black bears in this area..I'm going to go to the jeep and look for the gun." He stood and as he was about to unzip the door flap on the tent he said "It's a good thing you secured the food."
Double OMG! "Wait" I choked out "Actually I didn't." He whirled around in horror and whispered so loudly it sounded like air escaping from a truck tire "YOU WHAT?"
The growling kept inching toward us...what to do? Finally Bruce said "I'll go ahead and unlock the jeep, then you run out and jump in. If things get bad we can always start it and drive away!"
Good plan! Ok...so that is what we did. We both hurled ourselves into the jeep with such force it's a wonder the tires didn't blow out from our sudden impact . We sat and we waited. Occasionally Bruce would roll his window down slightly and listen. When he wasn't listening he was chastising me for my negligence. What could I say except "I know, I know...I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
For the longest time the growling noise circled around us, then finally grew silent. We checked our watches, it was nearly 4am. We had been sitting in the jeep for nearly 3 hours awaiting our fate.
Finally as the sun began to creep over the tops of the trees and filter down into our campsite we decided to leave our metal cocoon and look for paw prints to see how close we came to being a midnight snack for a hungry bear.
With gun in hand we circled the camp, but found no signs of bear. No scat, no clawed trees, no prints.
About an hour later as we sat in the back of the jeep eating beef jerky (the gourmet breakfast was postponed for obvious reasons ) we heard another vehicle coming up the logging road. We assumed it was bear hunters.
To our surprise a beat up old red Ford pick-up truck eventually pulled up next to the jeep and an old wrangler stepped down. "Hey, howdy folks" he said grinning "Don't often see folks up in this part of the woods." He looked around at our campsite and nodded thoughtfully.
Bruce started to tell him about the visitor we'd had during the night but before he got to far into the story...He old guy scrunched up his lips and pushed his hat back a bit and said "I'll jest bet that was old Hank, That's about what he sounds like when he's stressed...I'm up here looking for him."
Well it turns out that "Old Hank" was a 12 year old renegade bovine bull that apparently suffers from Alzheimer's disease and often wanders off from the rest of the herd and gets lost.
Bruce protested and said it sure sounded like a bear to us, but the old guy said "Nope I'll just bet that was Hank, best be after him before he completely looses himself." as he got in his truck we heard him mumble "should just shoot that ol'......"
Later as we were breaking camp, the old wrangler came back by with "Old Hank" tethered in the back of his pick-up as they slowly drove past us the old wrangler tipped his hat and Old Hank give us a familiar growl.
It just isn't right that an old bull can sound like a bear and scare people half to death!
Monday, December 7, 2009
Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer
It seems that this time every year disc jockeys are overcome by a strange phenomenon that can only be described as ebullient. I'm not talking about the Christmas Spirit. The Christmas Spirit is something entirely different and set wholly apart from this peculiar occurrence. In fact I'd say the Christmas Spirit is actually pretty close to the opposite of what I'm talking about. Actually I think it is a form of what physiologists might call temporary insanity.
It is the obsessive and uncontrollable desire to repeatedly broadcast irritating and annoying Christmas ditties over and over again. Take for instance "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" It's cute and I enjoy it about the first 20 or so times I hear it every year, after that it becomes as irritating as an itch in the middle of your back that you can't reach to scratch.
Tonight however, that particular tune took on a new and almost reverent meaning for me. Here's why:
Being conscientious ranchers my husband, Bruce, and I have a nightly routine that involves what we call "making the rounds." Every night just as the sun slips behind the mountains, we check all the animals on the property to be sure they are settled in safely. This involves shutting the door on the chicken coop after the chickens have gone in to roost, and other similar tasks.
Bruce generally takes care of the animals toward the back of the property and I handle the ones toward the front. Tonight however, Bruce was late getting home from work due to the copious amounts of snow clogging the roadways, so I set out on my own to "make the rounds."
I am quite capable of making solo rounds and, in fact, I do it quite often. Tonight however as the sun began to set the temperature dropped extremely fast causing the 16 or so inches of snow to ice over. I noted the sudden change and dressed appropriately. By the time I left the house I was wearing a shirt, a sweatshirt, a long sleeved jacket, a pair of jeans, a scarf, mittens, a hat, 2 pairs of socks and Bruce's big rubber boots. I could barely walk but I was warm. There are times when making a fashion statement is really not important.
The ground had become a solid sheet of ice by then, so I was taking little baby steps. About half way out to the chicken shed I realized that rubber boots were not the best choice for walking on ice. I was slipping so much that it began to feel like I was on a treadmill going nowhere.
My eyes were focused on my feet and the ground under them as I took each carefully executed step. I have no idea how I thought that might help, but that's where my focus was.
As I rounded the corner of a fenced in area, I reached out to take hold of the corner post. Before my hand was able to connect with the post I heard a loud wheezy snort that came from just around the big wooden post. I jerked my head up so quickly that it caused me feet to slip out from under me.
Now when you meet up with something that snorts at you on a cold dark winters night, you'd like to be able to make some choices as to how you are going to handle the inevitable encounter. Sadly, I wasn't given that freedom of choice. I was flat on my back. The more I struggled under the 100 pounds of excess clothing the more I slipped. I began to gasp, snort and whine.
I knew I was at deaths door. The first thing that came to mind was "bear" because we have been having routine visits from a rather imposing hulk of a black bear. The second thing that came to mind was that our bull must have broken out of his pen. The final thing that came to mind was that I was about to die wearing a hideous outfit, maybe fashion does count.
The snorts continued and seemd to be getting even louder and closer. I could see puffs of hot breath swirling around the corner of the post. Finally I was able to grab hold of the post and roll myself over. That tidy maneuver put me nose to nose with my snorting attacker. It wasn't a bear or a bull, it was very large and very frighted white tailed buck deer. He was monstrously large! From my perspective he looked the size of an elk. I swear his antlers were 10 feet across. You might think is an exaggeration, but he was big and so were his horns. Of course they say that people at the scene of a crime or accident tend to overstate the circumstances. Maybe.
It's fair to say he scared me nearly to death. It's also fair to say I scared him nearly to death. Neither of us could get a good foot hold on the icy surface. His back legs were sprawled out behind him and so were mine. We both flailed , snorted, and grunted.
Finally he was able to get his feet under him and in one big thrust, he flew over the top of me and disappeared into the darkness. After a minute I was able to gain my composure and get to my feet.
About that time Bruce pulled into the driveway and yelled "Hey did you see that giant buck? Wow what a beauty! Amazing ! Awesome! ..Did you see him..Wow!"
It was a guy thing, and I didn't want to spoil the magic of his moment so I shook my head and quietly said "no, was there a buck in here?" Then I walked slowly and carefully back to the house humming "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."
It is the obsessive and uncontrollable desire to repeatedly broadcast irritating and annoying Christmas ditties over and over again. Take for instance "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" It's cute and I enjoy it about the first 20 or so times I hear it every year, after that it becomes as irritating as an itch in the middle of your back that you can't reach to scratch.
Tonight however, that particular tune took on a new and almost reverent meaning for me. Here's why:
Being conscientious ranchers my husband, Bruce, and I have a nightly routine that involves what we call "making the rounds." Every night just as the sun slips behind the mountains, we check all the animals on the property to be sure they are settled in safely. This involves shutting the door on the chicken coop after the chickens have gone in to roost, and other similar tasks.
Bruce generally takes care of the animals toward the back of the property and I handle the ones toward the front. Tonight however, Bruce was late getting home from work due to the copious amounts of snow clogging the roadways, so I set out on my own to "make the rounds."
I am quite capable of making solo rounds and, in fact, I do it quite often. Tonight however as the sun began to set the temperature dropped extremely fast causing the 16 or so inches of snow to ice over. I noted the sudden change and dressed appropriately. By the time I left the house I was wearing a shirt, a sweatshirt, a long sleeved jacket, a pair of jeans, a scarf, mittens, a hat, 2 pairs of socks and Bruce's big rubber boots. I could barely walk but I was warm. There are times when making a fashion statement is really not important.
The ground had become a solid sheet of ice by then, so I was taking little baby steps. About half way out to the chicken shed I realized that rubber boots were not the best choice for walking on ice. I was slipping so much that it began to feel like I was on a treadmill going nowhere.
My eyes were focused on my feet and the ground under them as I took each carefully executed step. I have no idea how I thought that might help, but that's where my focus was.
As I rounded the corner of a fenced in area, I reached out to take hold of the corner post. Before my hand was able to connect with the post I heard a loud wheezy snort that came from just around the big wooden post. I jerked my head up so quickly that it caused me feet to slip out from under me.
Now when you meet up with something that snorts at you on a cold dark winters night, you'd like to be able to make some choices as to how you are going to handle the inevitable encounter. Sadly, I wasn't given that freedom of choice. I was flat on my back. The more I struggled under the 100 pounds of excess clothing the more I slipped. I began to gasp, snort and whine.
I knew I was at deaths door. The first thing that came to mind was "bear" because we have been having routine visits from a rather imposing hulk of a black bear. The second thing that came to mind was that our bull must have broken out of his pen. The final thing that came to mind was that I was about to die wearing a hideous outfit, maybe fashion does count.
The snorts continued and seemd to be getting even louder and closer. I could see puffs of hot breath swirling around the corner of the post. Finally I was able to grab hold of the post and roll myself over. That tidy maneuver put me nose to nose with my snorting attacker. It wasn't a bear or a bull, it was very large and very frighted white tailed buck deer. He was monstrously large! From my perspective he looked the size of an elk. I swear his antlers were 10 feet across. You might think is an exaggeration, but he was big and so were his horns. Of course they say that people at the scene of a crime or accident tend to overstate the circumstances. Maybe.
It's fair to say he scared me nearly to death. It's also fair to say I scared him nearly to death. Neither of us could get a good foot hold on the icy surface. His back legs were sprawled out behind him and so were mine. We both flailed , snorted, and grunted.
Finally he was able to get his feet under him and in one big thrust, he flew over the top of me and disappeared into the darkness. After a minute I was able to gain my composure and get to my feet.
About that time Bruce pulled into the driveway and yelled "Hey did you see that giant buck? Wow what a beauty! Amazing ! Awesome! ..Did you see him..Wow!"
It was a guy thing, and I didn't want to spoil the magic of his moment so I shook my head and quietly said "no, was there a buck in here?" Then I walked slowly and carefully back to the house humming "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."
Monday, November 30, 2009
Oh Star of Wonder!
For much longer than I have been a McDonald, Bracken Ridge Ranch has mounted a very large star of Bethlehem in the lower pasture closest to the highway. It has been an annual tradition that dates back at least 40 years. This has become such an community involved tradition that if we are late in setting it up, passersby' s stop and ask us why it isn't up yet. So in order to save the stress of pressure from total strangers, we decided to put it up last night.
Mind you, this star is not small. It is about 10 feet from point to point and made of medium weight metal conduit configured to look like a big star. It is illuminated by approximately 50 large clear bulbs, and puts on quite a nice display that can be seen from the highway.
This year instead of mounting it its traditional place in the lower pasture we decided (actually I decided) it might be nice to put it on top of our livestock shed in the upper pasture. Given the season and all, I'm heretofore going to refer to the livestock shed as the "manger."
Now here's what happened: My husband and I wrestled the gigantic star from the barn where it was stored, and with much difficulty and grunting hoisted to the roof of the "manger." With the aid of a very long extension cord we plugged it in, and as you might suspect...most of the lights were burned out. We began twisting and fidgeting with them trying to make them work, but as we did so my husband, Bruce, noticed the wiring was beginning to deteriorate.
Not wanting to electrocute ourselves or burn the "manger" down, we (he) decided that I should go to town to purchase some new strands of traditional lights. For those of you who know Bruce, you most likely know he is somewhat of a perfectionist bordering on an OCD complex. He likes things to be "just right." So he composed a long list of items for me to pick up in town: This particular size, this particular length, this particular watt (what?)
Shopping wasn't that difficult. I quickly filled his order and returned home beaming with confidence and pride. When I pulled into the driveway I noted that he had the star all torn apart and was rebuilding it. To be helpful I unwound the strands of lights and laid them carefully in order on the ground.
It was getting dark and the ground was beginning to freeze making it difficult to work. Within minutes we were both holding flashlights between our teeth and frantically trying to attach the lights. Alas, it grew darker and darker. The challenge: can two very cold people, working on frozen ground in the dark, string semi-frozen strands of lights on a very cold metal star?
Not very well at all...but then I had a brilliant idea. Since about half of the lights were already back on the star, logic said that we should plug it in and use the light from them to work with.
Ahh, but somehow when logic comes from my lips it somehow becomes totally illogical and weird. None-the-less Bruce nodded his head in agreement so I slipped and slid across the yard to the outlet and plugged the lights in. Nothing happened. He yelled "Any time is fine!" (cold makes us all grumpy)
I hollered back that the lights were plugged in. In the darkness I heard him stand, take a few steps and slip on the frozen ground. It made an interesting swooshing/thud sound. He muttered something that I couldn't make out, but there are times when it isn't absolutely necessary to hear what someone else says under their breath, so I wisely didn't ask him to repeat it.
So there we were, 2 new strands of lights that came with a guarantee that if one light goes out the rest stay on. Apparently they lie. I had brought home not one, but two bad strands of lights. How could that be?
The next thing I knew I heard Bruce's heavy footfalls stomping on the frozen ground headed directly toward the outlet....and me. My mind whirled as I wondered if somehow I had plugged the strands in with the fat ground prong seated the wrong slot or I had done something equally as stupid.
Before I could check, he was there plugging and unplugging the strands in the socket. "We blew a fuse then!" he grumbled and stomped off toward the house. I was hot on his heels as we entered the dark house and he flipped the breaker switches up and down, up and down...nothing. He flipped the fuse box cover shut with such a sudden snap that it alerted my keen sense of perception to the fact that he was pretty darn upset and getting more so by the minute. "Must be the other fuse box." he grumbled.
"Right! the other fuse box!" I had forgotten there was a second box outside in the Tank House (someday I'll explain what the Tank House is and what it does, but be rest assured we do not keep military tanks in it.)
Once there he again flipped the breaker switches up and down several times with no results. "Well!" he said so loudly it nearly cracked my frozen face "I have no idea what we did, but we have NO power!" He brushed past me and stomped back to toward the "manger." I was once again hot on his heels, slipping and sliding on the frozen ground. Amazingly his feet gripped the ice with unbelievable precision! I felt like a rag -doll on ice!
Bruce yanked the strands of lights out of the socket and was once again mumbling things under his breath that I had no desire to hear. I glanced up toward the sky and silently sent a up a one word prayer.... "help."
Then in all its splendor there in the sky above me was the REAL star of Bethlehem. It was glorious and brilliant against the dark horizon. ...wait, the dark horizon? Immediately I knew something was not right.
I spun around so quickly I lost my already iffy footing and slid (although I might add, very gracefully) down a slight incline and ended up wedged against Bruce's boots. "umm" I said (very quietly) "Bruce, the power is out" He reached down to pull me to my feet and said "Right, now tell me something I don't know! I pointed across the highway and said "No..I mean the power is out.. everywhere...it's not just us, the whole neighborhoods power is out...look"
We had been so wrapped up in our own immediate problem that we hadn't notice the whole neighborhood was out of power. We learned later that a tree limb somewhere had fallen across the power lines and disrupted the power to about 7,000 homes.
He stared blankly at me for a few seconds and then we burst into a good laugh. After trudging back to the house, we started the generator and had a nice hot bowl of soup.
Tonight the infamous Star albeit over the " manger" will shine brightly...Oh star of wonder!
Mind you, this star is not small. It is about 10 feet from point to point and made of medium weight metal conduit configured to look like a big star. It is illuminated by approximately 50 large clear bulbs, and puts on quite a nice display that can be seen from the highway.
This year instead of mounting it its traditional place in the lower pasture we decided (actually I decided) it might be nice to put it on top of our livestock shed in the upper pasture. Given the season and all, I'm heretofore going to refer to the livestock shed as the "manger."
Now here's what happened: My husband and I wrestled the gigantic star from the barn where it was stored, and with much difficulty and grunting hoisted to the roof of the "manger." With the aid of a very long extension cord we plugged it in, and as you might suspect...most of the lights were burned out. We began twisting and fidgeting with them trying to make them work, but as we did so my husband, Bruce, noticed the wiring was beginning to deteriorate.
Not wanting to electrocute ourselves or burn the "manger" down, we (he) decided that I should go to town to purchase some new strands of traditional lights. For those of you who know Bruce, you most likely know he is somewhat of a perfectionist bordering on an OCD complex. He likes things to be "just right." So he composed a long list of items for me to pick up in town: This particular size, this particular length, this particular watt (what?)
Shopping wasn't that difficult. I quickly filled his order and returned home beaming with confidence and pride. When I pulled into the driveway I noted that he had the star all torn apart and was rebuilding it. To be helpful I unwound the strands of lights and laid them carefully in order on the ground.
It was getting dark and the ground was beginning to freeze making it difficult to work. Within minutes we were both holding flashlights between our teeth and frantically trying to attach the lights. Alas, it grew darker and darker. The challenge: can two very cold people, working on frozen ground in the dark, string semi-frozen strands of lights on a very cold metal star?
Not very well at all...but then I had a brilliant idea. Since about half of the lights were already back on the star, logic said that we should plug it in and use the light from them to work with.
Ahh, but somehow when logic comes from my lips it somehow becomes totally illogical and weird. None-the-less Bruce nodded his head in agreement so I slipped and slid across the yard to the outlet and plugged the lights in. Nothing happened. He yelled "Any time is fine!" (cold makes us all grumpy)
I hollered back that the lights were plugged in. In the darkness I heard him stand, take a few steps and slip on the frozen ground. It made an interesting swooshing/thud sound. He muttered something that I couldn't make out, but there are times when it isn't absolutely necessary to hear what someone else says under their breath, so I wisely didn't ask him to repeat it.
So there we were, 2 new strands of lights that came with a guarantee that if one light goes out the rest stay on. Apparently they lie. I had brought home not one, but two bad strands of lights. How could that be?
The next thing I knew I heard Bruce's heavy footfalls stomping on the frozen ground headed directly toward the outlet....and me. My mind whirled as I wondered if somehow I had plugged the strands in with the fat ground prong seated the wrong slot or I had done something equally as stupid.
Before I could check, he was there plugging and unplugging the strands in the socket. "We blew a fuse then!" he grumbled and stomped off toward the house. I was hot on his heels as we entered the dark house and he flipped the breaker switches up and down, up and down...nothing. He flipped the fuse box cover shut with such a sudden snap that it alerted my keen sense of perception to the fact that he was pretty darn upset and getting more so by the minute. "Must be the other fuse box." he grumbled.
"Right! the other fuse box!" I had forgotten there was a second box outside in the Tank House (someday I'll explain what the Tank House is and what it does, but be rest assured we do not keep military tanks in it.)
Once there he again flipped the breaker switches up and down several times with no results. "Well!" he said so loudly it nearly cracked my frozen face "I have no idea what we did, but we have NO power!" He brushed past me and stomped back to toward the "manger." I was once again hot on his heels, slipping and sliding on the frozen ground. Amazingly his feet gripped the ice with unbelievable precision! I felt like a rag -doll on ice!
Bruce yanked the strands of lights out of the socket and was once again mumbling things under his breath that I had no desire to hear. I glanced up toward the sky and silently sent a up a one word prayer.... "help."
Then in all its splendor there in the sky above me was the REAL star of Bethlehem. It was glorious and brilliant against the dark horizon. ...wait, the dark horizon? Immediately I knew something was not right.
I spun around so quickly I lost my already iffy footing and slid (although I might add, very gracefully) down a slight incline and ended up wedged against Bruce's boots. "umm" I said (very quietly) "Bruce, the power is out" He reached down to pull me to my feet and said "Right, now tell me something I don't know! I pointed across the highway and said "No..I mean the power is out.. everywhere...it's not just us, the whole neighborhoods power is out...look"
We had been so wrapped up in our own immediate problem that we hadn't notice the whole neighborhood was out of power. We learned later that a tree limb somewhere had fallen across the power lines and disrupted the power to about 7,000 homes.
He stared blankly at me for a few seconds and then we burst into a good laugh. After trudging back to the house, we started the generator and had a nice hot bowl of soup.
Tonight the infamous Star albeit over the " manger" will shine brightly...Oh star of wonder!
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Skunked...Again
A lot of things have happened since my last entry. For one thing I no longer entertain the thought of becoming a professional skunk trapper. I'll admit when the UPS driver first delivered my Wiley Coyote Acme Beginners Trapping Kit I had ideas of becoming a world famous skunk trapper. That idea has since passed. I am now considering making my fortune by investing in the "Anti-Icky-Poo" odor removal business.
The Wiley Coyote Acme Trapping Kit was good, as far as it went. I soon realized however, it was to very elementary, so I invested in every type of trap, snare, net, and lure ever invented by man. I even researched the ancient Chinese methods of trapping as well as the early 1700's American Fur trappers methods. I bought, borrowed, and rented every mode of trap I could find. I had so many traps laying around that my husband, Bruce, was terrified to step outside for fear he'd wind up hanging upside down from a tree, or ensnared in a net. He needn't have worried. The traps set empty week after week.
I do have good news though. It is laced with a bit of bad news, but let's deal with the good news first. The good news is that I actually caught a skunk in one of the traps. The bad news is that it managed to get itself caught in one of those very large all wire havaheart traps. The kind, with the 1 inch welded wire mesh on all six sides. Whoever invented that trap had a sick sense of humor. It never occurred to me to question how one manages to remove a captured animal from the trap once it is in there.
As you can imagine the skunk was not happy with its predicament, but then neither was I happy with mine. I circled slowly around the cage at the distance of about 25 feet. With each cautious step the skunk stomped a warning with its front feet and then turned its back to me taking aim. There was no way I was going to get near the cage without getting doused.
Desperately looking for help I called the humane society and asked if they would come out and pick up the trap with the animal in it. That gave them quite a laugh. Apparently they only do mellow purring kitties and slurping kissing puppies. No skunks. I called my friends and neighbors and gave them all a good laugh as well. No one would come to my aid.
Someone suggested I use a large tarp as a shield as I moved toward the cage and when in close enough range, toss the tarp over the cage. I don't know why, but that sounded like a reasonable approach. If I ever remember who made that suggestion I have a few choice words for them. Actually, I'm not being fair. The idea was a good one, and it should have worked. Unfortunately here is what happened:
I thought the plan out carefully. Step one was to choose an old tarp, but not one so old that it had holes in it. (I am sure you can see my reasoning behind that decision.) Step two was to put on a long sleeved shirt (again my reasoning should be obvious.) Step three was to slip into my rubber boots, rain hat and gloves (same reasoning applies here.) I thought I was all set so off I went.
I hoisted the tarp up past my nose so that only my eyes , forehead and my hat was showing, and I moved cautiously one tiny step at a time toward the trapped skunk. At first it looked confused. Apparently it didn't recognize the big flat blue object moving toward it. I grinned behind my shield, this was going to be a piece of cake.
Step by step, inch by inch I closed the gap between us. Ever so cautiously I approached until I was almost within tossing distance. Just a couple more carefully planted steps. Soon I was within 4 feet of the cage. Maybe just one more step would do it. I didn't want the tarp to go askew when I tossed it and leave openings for the skunk to spray though.
Ahh, yes. At last, I was about 3 feet from the cage and all was well. The skunk had remained calm all this time, watching more out of curiosity than out of fear. It hadn't stomped a warning, and it hadn't turned its tail toward me. I just knew this would work! Thus far I hadn't considered what I would do once the tarp was over the cage, but that was something I could consider a bit later.
Carefully I extended the tarp out to arms length, the skunk gave a little bark and stomped. That was ok. I expected that.
What I didn't expect was the big gust of wind that suddenly came up behind me and blew the bottom of the tarp straight out toward the cage with a loud crackling flap, leaving me totally exposed.
Surely I don't need to go into the stinking details here. Skunks being skunks will do what skunks will do. Never have I felt such a close kinship to Wiley Coyote and Lucille Ball!
Oh, and in case you are feeling more sympathy for the skunk than for me...forget it. In the commotion the skunk managed to flip the cage over and set itself free. I on the other hand spend the day soaking in Anti-Icky-Poo!
The Wiley Coyote Acme Trapping Kit was good, as far as it went. I soon realized however, it was to very elementary, so I invested in every type of trap, snare, net, and lure ever invented by man. I even researched the ancient Chinese methods of trapping as well as the early 1700's American Fur trappers methods. I bought, borrowed, and rented every mode of trap I could find. I had so many traps laying around that my husband, Bruce, was terrified to step outside for fear he'd wind up hanging upside down from a tree, or ensnared in a net. He needn't have worried. The traps set empty week after week.
I do have good news though. It is laced with a bit of bad news, but let's deal with the good news first. The good news is that I actually caught a skunk in one of the traps. The bad news is that it managed to get itself caught in one of those very large all wire havaheart traps. The kind, with the 1 inch welded wire mesh on all six sides. Whoever invented that trap had a sick sense of humor. It never occurred to me to question how one manages to remove a captured animal from the trap once it is in there.
As you can imagine the skunk was not happy with its predicament, but then neither was I happy with mine. I circled slowly around the cage at the distance of about 25 feet. With each cautious step the skunk stomped a warning with its front feet and then turned its back to me taking aim. There was no way I was going to get near the cage without getting doused.
Desperately looking for help I called the humane society and asked if they would come out and pick up the trap with the animal in it. That gave them quite a laugh. Apparently they only do mellow purring kitties and slurping kissing puppies. No skunks. I called my friends and neighbors and gave them all a good laugh as well. No one would come to my aid.
Someone suggested I use a large tarp as a shield as I moved toward the cage and when in close enough range, toss the tarp over the cage. I don't know why, but that sounded like a reasonable approach. If I ever remember who made that suggestion I have a few choice words for them. Actually, I'm not being fair. The idea was a good one, and it should have worked. Unfortunately here is what happened:
I thought the plan out carefully. Step one was to choose an old tarp, but not one so old that it had holes in it. (I am sure you can see my reasoning behind that decision.) Step two was to put on a long sleeved shirt (again my reasoning should be obvious.) Step three was to slip into my rubber boots, rain hat and gloves (same reasoning applies here.) I thought I was all set so off I went.
I hoisted the tarp up past my nose so that only my eyes , forehead and my hat was showing, and I moved cautiously one tiny step at a time toward the trapped skunk. At first it looked confused. Apparently it didn't recognize the big flat blue object moving toward it. I grinned behind my shield, this was going to be a piece of cake.
Step by step, inch by inch I closed the gap between us. Ever so cautiously I approached until I was almost within tossing distance. Just a couple more carefully planted steps. Soon I was within 4 feet of the cage. Maybe just one more step would do it. I didn't want the tarp to go askew when I tossed it and leave openings for the skunk to spray though.
Ahh, yes. At last, I was about 3 feet from the cage and all was well. The skunk had remained calm all this time, watching more out of curiosity than out of fear. It hadn't stomped a warning, and it hadn't turned its tail toward me. I just knew this would work! Thus far I hadn't considered what I would do once the tarp was over the cage, but that was something I could consider a bit later.
Carefully I extended the tarp out to arms length, the skunk gave a little bark and stomped. That was ok. I expected that.
What I didn't expect was the big gust of wind that suddenly came up behind me and blew the bottom of the tarp straight out toward the cage with a loud crackling flap, leaving me totally exposed.
Surely I don't need to go into the stinking details here. Skunks being skunks will do what skunks will do. Never have I felt such a close kinship to Wiley Coyote and Lucille Ball!
Oh, and in case you are feeling more sympathy for the skunk than for me...forget it. In the commotion the skunk managed to flip the cage over and set itself free. I on the other hand spend the day soaking in Anti-Icky-Poo!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Those Darling Tree Frogs
There are a lot of reasons Tree Frogs are a welcome presence around homes. For example they consume mosquito larva and thus keep us free of dreaded diseases such as Yellow Spotted Swamp Fever. Equally important is their sweet melodious song that soothes the tumult of our souls at days end releasing us from mayhem, confusion and disorder.
Or, that was my reasoning when I "adopted" a small handful of the darlings a mere two years ago. As I look back on it, I can relive the exhilaration and pure bliss as I gently and reverently released five of the precious jewels in the upper most portion of our small backyard pond.
Each night as the sun slowly slipped behind the trees and disappeared I held my breath and listened. Finally one night I heard the solo vibrato of a bachelor tree frog in full courtship. That pure heavenly sound brought me such delight . As the nights followed, there was still only one soft soothing voice to sing me to sleep. None-the-less, I savored every note as I drifted sleepily into oblivion.
By the end of summer the single song had grown into a marvelous full symphonic choir. Ahh yes, I finally had achieved my optimal goal. Each night our windows were open to an incredible crescendo of Tree Frog courtship blended with the gentle iambic background rhythm provided by crickets. A true tranquil delight that only Nature could provide.
Last spring held an enchanting surprise as I noted multiple tiny tadpoles swimming my Water Lilly garden, the three birdbaths, the bog garden, and the backyard pond. What Glory! What Wonder!
By mid summer of last year the crescendo had grown to a vast cacophony of such magnitude that we no longer could sleep with our bedroom windows open, nor did we greet the non-never-ending Tree Frog courtship with our original exuberant glee.
Which brings us to the present, and as such, at this point in time that I feel obligated to advise anyone who has ever been tempted to adopt a handful of Tree Frogs to think the matter over thoroughly.
It's not so much the cacophony of thousands of tiny Tree Frogs that I find so unsettling. No, in fact that still somewhat pleases me, although not as much as say, a chorus of five hundred or even one hundred would. What is disquieting is waking up at 4am with one of those cold clammy four legged critters siting on your forehead croaking away.
While that in itself was truly an unnerving experience, I find that my pioneer spirit and nature loving soul did not prepare me for finding several more on the bedroom floor and even more suctioned to the inside of various windows and walls in the house.
Crawling around on my hands and knees at 4 in the morning with a mini-flashlight clamped between my teeth catching Tree Frogs is not my idea of recreational sport. However as I gathered up the remaining stragglers and set them free at the edge of the pond, I had to chuckle ...though only faintly, at the ironic humor of the situation. What's that saying? "Be Careful What You Ask For?"
Returning to the now frog-free house I decided to take a quick shower to wash the froggie "goo" off. Sleepily I trudged to the bathroom where I simultaneously flicked on the light and opened the shower door. To my astonishment I was bombarded by a half dozen more frogs leaping wildly toward me as they vacated the shower stall.
Is there a moral to this story? Indeed there is: Adopting five tiny Tree Frogs can, and generally does, lead to Toadal chaos!
Or, that was my reasoning when I "adopted" a small handful of the darlings a mere two years ago. As I look back on it, I can relive the exhilaration and pure bliss as I gently and reverently released five of the precious jewels in the upper most portion of our small backyard pond.
Each night as the sun slowly slipped behind the trees and disappeared I held my breath and listened. Finally one night I heard the solo vibrato of a bachelor tree frog in full courtship. That pure heavenly sound brought me such delight . As the nights followed, there was still only one soft soothing voice to sing me to sleep. None-the-less, I savored every note as I drifted sleepily into oblivion.
By the end of summer the single song had grown into a marvelous full symphonic choir. Ahh yes, I finally had achieved my optimal goal. Each night our windows were open to an incredible crescendo of Tree Frog courtship blended with the gentle iambic background rhythm provided by crickets. A true tranquil delight that only Nature could provide.
Last spring held an enchanting surprise as I noted multiple tiny tadpoles swimming my Water Lilly garden, the three birdbaths, the bog garden, and the backyard pond. What Glory! What Wonder!
By mid summer of last year the crescendo had grown to a vast cacophony of such magnitude that we no longer could sleep with our bedroom windows open, nor did we greet the non-never-ending Tree Frog courtship with our original exuberant glee.
Which brings us to the present, and as such, at this point in time that I feel obligated to advise anyone who has ever been tempted to adopt a handful of Tree Frogs to think the matter over thoroughly.
It's not so much the cacophony of thousands of tiny Tree Frogs that I find so unsettling. No, in fact that still somewhat pleases me, although not as much as say, a chorus of five hundred or even one hundred would. What is disquieting is waking up at 4am with one of those cold clammy four legged critters siting on your forehead croaking away.
While that in itself was truly an unnerving experience, I find that my pioneer spirit and nature loving soul did not prepare me for finding several more on the bedroom floor and even more suctioned to the inside of various windows and walls in the house.
Crawling around on my hands and knees at 4 in the morning with a mini-flashlight clamped between my teeth catching Tree Frogs is not my idea of recreational sport. However as I gathered up the remaining stragglers and set them free at the edge of the pond, I had to chuckle ...though only faintly, at the ironic humor of the situation. What's that saying? "Be Careful What You Ask For?"
Returning to the now frog-free house I decided to take a quick shower to wash the froggie "goo" off. Sleepily I trudged to the bathroom where I simultaneously flicked on the light and opened the shower door. To my astonishment I was bombarded by a half dozen more frogs leaping wildly toward me as they vacated the shower stall.
Is there a moral to this story? Indeed there is: Adopting five tiny Tree Frogs can, and generally does, lead to Toadal chaos!
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Home Land Security?
My husbands father was a horse trader and collector of "things." There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to the vast variety of items that found their way into his possession via trades or scavenges.
He was born during world war I and was a youngster during the Dust Bowl Era, and the Great Depression. He was present in Hawaii during the bombing of Pear Harbor and he also knew the ravages of the Korean, Vietnam and Gulf Wars. Seeing all these things first hand made him become what I would call a frugal man. As such, he collected "things." When we moved back onto the ranch where my husband grew up, we found many interesting "things." Rolls of wire, boxes of rubber bands, tiny balls of string, hundreds if not thousands of nuts, bolts, screws, nails and other miscellaneous hardware.
He was an electrician by trade, and that took him into various homes and businesses in the community on a daily basis. Whenever he came across something someone wasn't using he work out some kind of barter and haul it back to the ranch. If it was something in need of repair, he would repair it and either find a new home for it or store it away for future use.
To this day my husband, Bruce, and I still find "things" tucked in rafters or stowed away in odd places. For the most part we consider them to be amusingly harmless and even practical. However this weekend while moving items that had been stored in the corner of the barn for decades, we came across a not so innocuous item.
Down at the bottom of the pile of odds and ends that we planned to haul to the dump, we uncovered an odd looking and very heavy wooden box with a spring loaded metal lid. The box was about 18 inches square and about 20 inches tall. The writing on the sides of the box had been obscured by age and dampness. It took both my husband and I to wrestle the box a few feet to where the light from a window shone in on it. Even with the added light we had difficulty making out the lettering. We managed to read "Smith" "65 pounds" and "1945."
Bruce tried with all his might to loosen the spring lid. He grunted and twisted. He shifted positions and twisted and grunted. The lid wouldn't budge. After several he-man attempts he sent me across the barn to get a hammer. At the workbench, I had several choices but decided on both a small carpenters hammer and a larger sledge hammer.
The first tool of choice was the more delicate light weight carpenters hammer. Bruce gave the lid several light taps with it, followed by several more harder taps and then finally several sharp blows. A few sparks few as metal hit metal, but the lid remained in place.
After a few minutes of watching Bruce's non-productive labor I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the larger sledge hammer (which by the way would have been my first tool of choice.) Several grunts, blows with the sledge hammer and sparks later the lid finally gave way slightly. However, it moved with such difficulty that it became necessary to revert back to the smaller carpenters hammer again to coax it open.
By my calculations, it took nearly 20 minutes to open the defiant box. When at last my husband stood, hammer in one hand and the lid in the other, I noticed that his previously flushed and sweating face was now drained to a ghostly white. Curious I looked down into the box. My first thought was that the contents somewhat resembled dirt, but not quite. Looking closer I noticed that whatever it was had a somewhat granular look.
"What the heck is that?" I asked. Slowly, Bruce reached extended arm and gently pushed me back away from the box and said in a very faint whisper "I think... I think.. I think... I think we just opened 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder."
My thoughts flashed immediately to the sparks that flew when the metal hammer hit the metal lid. I tried to speak but couldn't. I think I may have uttered something remarkably intelligent like "waaa?" or maybe "buuuu" but I can't be sure. We silently backed slowly out of the barn.
So now the big question is what does one do to safely deal with 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder. As it happens there is a retired Police Chief living across the road from us. Over the past years we have become acquainted with him and figured he would know the safest way to deal with our current "situation."
As we walked in stunned silence from the barn to the house my thoughts flew over a mired of scenarios. What if, for example one of those sparks had touched off the powder. What if, there had been a lightening storm and a bolt of lightening had struck the metal barn...there had been hundreds, maybe thousands of storms during the time that stuff had been stored in the barn. What if sparks from Bruce's many electric saws, drills grinders, etc had reached the box. I dizzied myself with "what if's." Had I ever sat on that pile of boxes and junk while talking to Bruce as he worked in the barn?
After composing ourselves we went across the street and talked with our retired resident Police Chief. He listened to our story with a thin amused smile then followed us back to our barn so he could confirm whether or not our box actually contained blasting powder.
Well, he confirmed. The fire marshal confirmed. A representative from the local Bomb Squad (who even knew we had a local bomb squad) confirmed. A representative from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms (ATF) confirmed.
So now we wait. I'm not entirely sure for what. I don't think they will call in Home Land Security but who knows? I actually think we are waiting for a larger Bomb Squad to come in with one of those cute little metal robots to remove it, but I'm not sure. Meanwhile we've been instructed not to try and move it (no worries there folks,) to keep our barn locked and promise not to blow up anyone or anything. (we'll do our best.) Actually the barn looks rather festive with all the streamers of yellow "Crime Scene" tape draped over it .
If Dad was still around it really would be great to ask him why he had 65 pounds of old unstable blasting powder stored in the barn. At any rate, rest assured that the next mysterious box we come across will be handled a bit differently .
He was born during world war I and was a youngster during the Dust Bowl Era, and the Great Depression. He was present in Hawaii during the bombing of Pear Harbor and he also knew the ravages of the Korean, Vietnam and Gulf Wars. Seeing all these things first hand made him become what I would call a frugal man. As such, he collected "things." When we moved back onto the ranch where my husband grew up, we found many interesting "things." Rolls of wire, boxes of rubber bands, tiny balls of string, hundreds if not thousands of nuts, bolts, screws, nails and other miscellaneous hardware.
He was an electrician by trade, and that took him into various homes and businesses in the community on a daily basis. Whenever he came across something someone wasn't using he work out some kind of barter and haul it back to the ranch. If it was something in need of repair, he would repair it and either find a new home for it or store it away for future use.
To this day my husband, Bruce, and I still find "things" tucked in rafters or stowed away in odd places. For the most part we consider them to be amusingly harmless and even practical. However this weekend while moving items that had been stored in the corner of the barn for decades, we came across a not so innocuous item.
Down at the bottom of the pile of odds and ends that we planned to haul to the dump, we uncovered an odd looking and very heavy wooden box with a spring loaded metal lid. The box was about 18 inches square and about 20 inches tall. The writing on the sides of the box had been obscured by age and dampness. It took both my husband and I to wrestle the box a few feet to where the light from a window shone in on it. Even with the added light we had difficulty making out the lettering. We managed to read "Smith" "65 pounds" and "1945."
Bruce tried with all his might to loosen the spring lid. He grunted and twisted. He shifted positions and twisted and grunted. The lid wouldn't budge. After several he-man attempts he sent me across the barn to get a hammer. At the workbench, I had several choices but decided on both a small carpenters hammer and a larger sledge hammer.
The first tool of choice was the more delicate light weight carpenters hammer. Bruce gave the lid several light taps with it, followed by several more harder taps and then finally several sharp blows. A few sparks few as metal hit metal, but the lid remained in place.
After a few minutes of watching Bruce's non-productive labor I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him the larger sledge hammer (which by the way would have been my first tool of choice.) Several grunts, blows with the sledge hammer and sparks later the lid finally gave way slightly. However, it moved with such difficulty that it became necessary to revert back to the smaller carpenters hammer again to coax it open.
By my calculations, it took nearly 20 minutes to open the defiant box. When at last my husband stood, hammer in one hand and the lid in the other, I noticed that his previously flushed and sweating face was now drained to a ghostly white. Curious I looked down into the box. My first thought was that the contents somewhat resembled dirt, but not quite. Looking closer I noticed that whatever it was had a somewhat granular look.
"What the heck is that?" I asked. Slowly, Bruce reached extended arm and gently pushed me back away from the box and said in a very faint whisper "I think... I think.. I think... I think we just opened 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder."
My thoughts flashed immediately to the sparks that flew when the metal hammer hit the metal lid. I tried to speak but couldn't. I think I may have uttered something remarkably intelligent like "waaa?" or maybe "buuuu" but I can't be sure. We silently backed slowly out of the barn.
So now the big question is what does one do to safely deal with 65 pounds of 60 year old blasting powder. As it happens there is a retired Police Chief living across the road from us. Over the past years we have become acquainted with him and figured he would know the safest way to deal with our current "situation."
As we walked in stunned silence from the barn to the house my thoughts flew over a mired of scenarios. What if, for example one of those sparks had touched off the powder. What if, there had been a lightening storm and a bolt of lightening had struck the metal barn...there had been hundreds, maybe thousands of storms during the time that stuff had been stored in the barn. What if sparks from Bruce's many electric saws, drills grinders, etc had reached the box. I dizzied myself with "what if's." Had I ever sat on that pile of boxes and junk while talking to Bruce as he worked in the barn?
After composing ourselves we went across the street and talked with our retired resident Police Chief. He listened to our story with a thin amused smile then followed us back to our barn so he could confirm whether or not our box actually contained blasting powder.
Well, he confirmed. The fire marshal confirmed. A representative from the local Bomb Squad (who even knew we had a local bomb squad) confirmed. A representative from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms (ATF) confirmed.
So now we wait. I'm not entirely sure for what. I don't think they will call in Home Land Security but who knows? I actually think we are waiting for a larger Bomb Squad to come in with one of those cute little metal robots to remove it, but I'm not sure. Meanwhile we've been instructed not to try and move it (no worries there folks,) to keep our barn locked and promise not to blow up anyone or anything. (we'll do our best.) Actually the barn looks rather festive with all the streamers of yellow "Crime Scene" tape draped over it .
If Dad was still around it really would be great to ask him why he had 65 pounds of old unstable blasting powder stored in the barn. At any rate, rest assured that the next mysterious box we come across will be handled a bit differently .
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