Friday Night Lights

One of the great things about living in the country is that you can burn brush and debris and not have to bundle it for the landfill. One of the bad things about living in the country is that you can burn brush even if you aren’t a qualified fire fighter.

We have had a tree trimmer out for the past couple of weeks taking down dead limbs from a summer storm. Our brush piles have grown to the size of two story buildings with no relief in sight. The trimmer asked if he could start burning some of the piles while he was working so that he could supervise them and make sure they didn’t get out of hand. The winds have been quite still and he is making a dent in all of the piles of debris. He seems to have some experience or training in brush burning, because he builds small, 3-foot piles and adds to them as the day goes by. (My approach would be to set the entire thing on fire and stand by with a small garden hose.) At the end of each day, I would go out and fuss with the embers to make sure they were out or sufficiently banked for the night.

On Friday, the breeze had picked up, so we made the decision not to burn. About 8:00 pm, I walked by the kitchen window and saw flames shooting into the air on the far side of the drive. I yelled, “Fire!” and my husband flew out of his recliner and raced to the window. Dolly dog started barking, and I knocked things off the counter in my haste to run to my shoes. With a quick, “Dolly stay!” I grabbed my cell phone as my husband grabed the keys to the truck along with a shovel (I guess we were going to beat it to death).

My heart was racing as I think that we have set an entire field on fire. I quickly called my neighbor as they could be trapped if the fire crossed their driveway, and I asked my husband if I should call 911. He suggested that I wait until we could see what was going on first (God bless him). As we backed out of the garage and looked toward the field, we realized the fire wasn’t where we thought it was.

It turns out that our new neighbor had built a bon fire two stories tall to invite the local high school football team and fans out to celebrate a football rivalry. His driveway is lined with tiki torches and half the town was invited. This gives a whole new meaning to Friday night lights!

Since I have mobilized neighbors who have called neighbors who have called . . . well you get the idea, I now have to start making calls that explain what is going on. I seem to be having a little problem with fire out here.

Poison Ivy

Why is it that when you see photos of people with poison ivy they are always smiling? There is nothing funny about poison ivy! After a recent wind storm, we were clearing trees, and it would seem that some of them were covered in poison ivy. Unfortunately, I only found out the hard way. I wore gloves and washed my hands and arms when I went inside, but four days later, I broke out in a rash on my face and arms, then small blisters appeared . . . and then the itching started. We are talking itching on a scale that you can't imagine. Then the poison ivy spread to my ankle, my knee, and so on.

Once I realized that I had poison ivy, I started searching for images online so that I could identify this noxious weed in the future. "Leaves of three, let me be," seems to be the best description out there. But raspberry bushes have three leaves and I know they aren't poison ivy. So now I'm spraying weed killer on anything that remotely looks like it has three leaves. You can hear me outside mumbling “One, two, three” spray, “One two, three,” spray. And now I'm afraid to go near the wood pile. I know there must be poison ivy there somewhere, because I keep breaking out. But after four days, who can remember everywhere they have been?

I love my sister’s comment after listening to me whine about the poison ivy. “Use your head girl. Move the woodpile!”

Things I've learned:

•  Lots of plants have three leaves.
• You can only stack firewood so high before it falls over. It must be a physics thing.
• People will post the strangest photos online.
• Nothing stops the itching. 
• You can get scars from poison ivy.
• Home remedies only involve how to wash it off once you know you have been in it. Not how to stop it from spreading and itching. 
• I'm buying stock in Dawn dishwashing detergent 
• Showering in Dawn dishwashing detergent creates a LOT of bubbles.

And my favorite news release:

FORESTVILLE, Calif. — They're kicking off the Poison Oak Festival here along the Russian River this weekend, complete with an itchy queen and guideless tours of select patches of poison oak. “What we really want to do is pay tribute from a respectable distance," Forestville Chamber of Commerce spokeswoman Nancy Wallace said Friday.

Other rhymes about poison ivy that make me laugh:

1.  "Longer middle stem; stay away from them.
2.  "Hairy vine, no friend of mine."[5] Poison ivy vines are very poisonous.
3.  "Raggy rope, don't be a dope!"  
4.  "One, two, three? Don't touch me."
5.  "Berries white, run in fright"
6.  "Red leaflets in the spring, it's a dangerous thing."
7.  "Side leaflets like mittens, will itch like the dickens."
8.  "If butterflies land there, don't put your hand there."  
9.  "If it's got hair, it won't be fair."

Hey, Hey, Hay!

I have spent three delightful days being entertained by the neighbor farmer as he harvests hay on the acreage next to us. I sit with a beer in hand, and my trusty camera to record the progress as he works in the July heat and humidity. Harvesting hay seems to be a multi stage process that requires dusty work, patience and big boy toys. I am short on all three, so the best thing I can do is stay out of the way and document his progress.

Day 1: The farmer shows up with a new cutting tool attached to his big red tractor. I was fascinated to watch as this cutter could be swung out to the side, making it easy to get around obstacles. It was easy to track his progress because a big cloud of dust followed as he cut the hay – which looks like a big field of weeds if you ask me. Near the end of the day, the farmer left and I pondered how he was going to collect this mess into bales.

Day 2: I’m finishing my morning coffee when I see a tractor followed by a cloud of dust out in the field. Time to gear up and hit the lawn chair with my camera. It is too early for a beer, so I sit with my coffee and trust Dolly Dog at my side as we watch an odd machine gather the hay and flip it into rows that are called windrows (I know this because I looked it up on the internet!) It is a funny little machine, and I have no idea how it works, but having the hay in rows offers an excellent photo opportunity.

Day 3: As I drive up the driveway, I see a suspicious cloud of dust out in the field again. Sure enough, the farmer is collecting the hay into bales. Now we are talking! This is an amusing process of driving up and down the windrows in some pattern that only the farmer understands. At some point, the baler is full and the tractor pauses and gives birth to a round bale of hay. I kid you not, there is a pause, a grunt and then the back end opens up and spits out a bale of hay.

The bales are round and since we live on a hill I found myself wondering what prevents the bales from rolling downhill. I soon got my answer . . . absolutely nothing! No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when one of the bales started rolling downhill and out of sight. I had visions of a bale of hay going over the edge of the quarry and into the water. Does hay float?

My husband drove up a few minutes later and asked what I was doing. “Supervising,” I reply. “Grab a beer and come watch.”

Dolly supervises hay baling.

Singing While Mowing

Have you ever noticed that men and women approach chores differently? Take mowing for example. My husband gears up for mowing as if he is going into battle. He wears boots, pants and long sleeves along with goggles, a face mask and a big straw hat. He is so safety conscious that I suspect he would wear armor if he felt he needed it.

I, on the other hand, wear shorts, tennis shoes and a t-shirt. I dab a bit of eau de bug spray strategically behind my ears, knees, and on my neck, then I accessorize with a fine pair of sunglasses, MP3 player and headphones. I start the mower and then I start singing. I’m not talking about the polite hum along with a song type of singing. I’m singing in full performance mode. My arms are waving, I’m holding long, loud notes and bobbing my head in time with whatever is playing. And I’m having a great time.

Today, when I looked up, I saw my husband sitting in a lawn chair with his arms crossed and that quirked eyebrow that I love so much as he watched me mow. When I asked what his problem was, he said, “You are going to scare the new neighbors. They have small children you know.” Now let’s be real. You would need a pair of binoculars to correctly identify one of our neighbors from our yard, and I can’t possibly be singing that loud. I think he is jealous because I know the words (or at least some of the words, I’m happy to make up the ones I don’t know) to so many songs.

So I have decided to create a play list for my MP3 player of appropriate mowing songs. Here are some of the titles that I have come up with. Be sure to email me if you can think of any others.

Under My Wheels
Don’t Cross the River
Barren Ground
Spare Parts
Dirty Little Girl
All Shook Up
I got Stung
5th Gear
Jesus Take the Wheel
Go Your Own Way
Doctor My Eyes
Running On Empty
Slow Down Sister
Knee Deep in the Water Somewhere
Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?
One Way or Another
Against the Wind
Colder Weather
Whiskey’s Gone
No Hurry
Drive Like Lightning (Crash Like Thunder)
Slip Sliding Away

The Birds!

There is an odd phenomenon that occurs when I’m mowing. A large group of birds swoops just in front of my mower as I mow along. What is unusual, in my mind, is that these birds will buzz me continually the whole time I'm mowing. They swoop down at me from all sides and break away only a few feet from me or the mower; they come from all angles, high and low, front and back, left and right. It's a very entertaining display of bird acrobatics and I enjoy it immensely. I suspect they are catching the insects that fly out of the grass ahead of me. They may be swallows, though I really wouldn’t be able to pick a swallow out of a bird line up, but it sounds like the kind of bird that would eat insects. Lately, the insects seem to have caught onto their plight because they are hanging out closer and closer to me to the point I fear one of those birds may actually hit me.

I can see the headlines now . . . “Rural Iowa Woman Loses Eye in Bird Strike”. Now mind you, I’m more concerned about being referred to as a rural Iowa woman than losing an eye. I have made my husband promise that if I die by farm accident, he will drag my lifeless body to the nearest town and make up something interesting because I do not want those words included in my obituary!

(On another note, why is it when you Google “Rural Iowa Woman” you mostly get mug shots?)


 

Jurassic Park

There is a part of our yard where the grass meets the woods that I respectfully refer to as Jurassic Park. I say respectfully, because things cross into there and don’t come out again. We have lost bird feeders, shovels, potted plants and other items to the abyss. I have seen squirrels and chipmunks run into the woods and not be seen again. Even Dolly dog won’t venture past the grass line. So respect is in order.

In the winter, when all the leaves have fallen, it doesn’t appear that scary. But about this time of year, it becomes so dense that you can sense movement, but not identify the source. My neighbor once came barreling out of Jurassic Park riding a 4 wheeler, dressed in camo gear a hat and goggles, and carrying a chain saw. I had vision of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre before I recognized who he was. I’m still not sure why he was in there, but he came out fast. As for the chainsaw . . . I wouldn’t go in there unprotected either!

Sometimes I hear noises in the woods that I can’t identify. Crashing and rustling sounds, and I’m pretty sure an exotic monkey lives in there.  Maybe it is a bird, but it sure sound like a monkey.  It cries out to me and taunts me as I cautiously walk by. 

Hello Neighbor!

I was sitting in my office a few weeks ago when I turned around and noticed the back end of a large animal walking by my window. I jumped up and went to the front door to see what it was, only to discover a very large, curly haired dog in the front yard. When I opened the front door, the dog looked at me for a minute, then came right to me and leaned on my hip. he then pushed me aside to go see what Dolly was barking about. This was a big dog -- I’m thinking an Airedale mix that had to weigh close to 100 pounds. I admit that I was a bit hesitant to wrestle it and try to read its tags, but he seemed friendly enough, so I leaned in and grabbed the collar only to get dog slobber all over me. Was this thing rabid or did it always drool this much? The tag didn’t list an address, only a rabies vaccination record number, and I wasn’t brave enough to venture near the slobber zone twice.

I decided to come in and call some neighbors to see if anyone was missing a pet. Unfortunately, getting in the house without my new friend proved to be more difficult than one would think. He decided that if Dolly dog could be inside, he wanted to come in as well. I pushed, I shoved, but this dog held its ground at the front door having a stare off with Dolly. After a few minutes of wresting a very large, determined dog and using one leg to keep him out and one arm to keep Dolly in, I was able to get in and shut the door. I no sooner I closed the front door, when I heard a knock, knock, knock on the door. Wow, I thought, someone is already here to claim the dog.

I opened the front door to see the Airedale looking at me. No one else was in site. Are you kidding me? This dog knows how to knock on doors! Call the circus! I laughed and closed the door and took three steps when I heard knock, knock, knock again. The dog is still looking at me. Dolly is barking like crazy, and I’m wondering who is in charge.

This time, I open the door and say, “No, Dolly can’t come out and play,” and close the door. After three more tries, the dog gets tired of the game and wanders away. Now every now and then, I hear a knocking at the door and look out to see this persistent dog looking at me. My biggest concern is what I will do if the owners teach this dog how to punch in the code to the garage door opener!