Here in the smack dab middle of the country, we are at the mercy of opposing weather systems. At this time of year, near the Vernal Equinox, we never know what we'll get.
Last Friday evening, my daughter and the grandkids encountered a snowburst on the way here for an overnight stay. They reported that the pouch-like dark clouds seemed to unzip and dump snow so thick that they could barely see.
The next day, we had to bundle up to walk down to the river. We sat around the wood stove and knitted before they left to return home to Kansas.
The following day, it was sixty degrees. It was so warm I had to take my sweatshirt off and hang it on the fence and work in my tee shirt. With the ground damp, it seemed a good time to move the compost cage. Mostly just a weed bin, it fills up and has to be started in another spot.
The cage consisted of two metal tee-posts, chain link fence and an old wide chain link gate. Pulling the posts up was easy, as was cutting the wires that held the cage to the fence.
Rebuilding the cage in the new spot required using the post pounder. It was surprising that the pounder had grown much heavier since I used it last summer. There was no explanation for it. It was no longer effortless to hoist it above my head. I'm ashamed to say I had to lay the post over, put the pounder on and then tip it up into position. Call me Weenie Arms.
That night it got down to twenty-four degrees. It was then that I realized these abrupt switches in the weather are actually necessary. We need a few days between spring-like temperatures to get over the sudden exertions that use different muscles.
For wood-cutting, I do a lot of squatting. Sometimes, it's to heft a big chunk of wood, or to cut downed wood. The electric log splitter requires a lot of squatting. By Winter's end, I can spring up reliably from a squat. Then there is pitching wood over to the cart, a two-handed underhand thrust. All winter, there is rarely a need to lift anything above my head.
Who knows, without a few days of recovery, I might tip myself over backwards using the post pounder.
And Now for Something Completely Different
The record temperatures here in the Midwest for any given day in February and March can be anywhere from minus eleven to seventy-five degrees.
Either I'm sitting in the sunshine drinking iced tea or I'm out gathering more kindling because Winter seems determined to never release its grip on the land.
Sometimes it seems as if the whole thing is controlled by a clumsy, unseen hand that is fiddling with our thermostat. It catches us off balance.
I'm off to gather more kindling. A big thunderstorm is coming this afternoon. The good news is the forecast for the day after tomorrow is for the mid-sixties. Unfortunately, two days after that the high will only be forty.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
A Remote Possibility
Up by the dilapidated fishing shack is a spot that calls out for me to put in a garden. A man I met lived in the house there as a boy, before it became the Yeller's place. It was their family garden then, rich loam, nicely fenced and overlooking the Grand River.
Later, the property was divided, creating an L-shaped acreage here that took in the garden. Nearby is a falling-down barn. A person with money would have it bulldozed and carted off. It remains a sad sight with trees closing in like mourners at a grave site.
The problem with that arrangement was the barn and garden were no longer accessible.
It's not the first time I've considered making a garden in the almost-level land. The presence of the Yeller put me off the idea. Then the place was vacant. I waited to see if the new owners might prove congenial. Now that the house is a pile of rubble, it doesn't appear there will be new owners any time soon.
My tiered Whimsical Garden is only big enough to be a cute kitchen garden near the house. There's not enough room to turn the big tiller, which also gags on the clay soil. Rain runoff makes the whole thing a washout, literally.
What I require is a garden big enough to give me vegetables for the entire year.
Elbow Room
The reason I moved here is I don't like to feel crowded. I believe vegetables feel the same. Green beans squeezed in together can't breathe. This year, I'm going to grow pole beans on a found TV antenna, continuing my Junk Motif. That should help those legumes.
The broccoli barely grew in the clay soil. For many years before moving here, I've grown Packman broccoli and frozen lots for winter eating.
Yesterday, the broccoli and cabbage seedlings had their first fifteen minutes of fresh air and sunshine on the front porch. I believe they heard me discussing the possibility of the new, loamy location. It was just like mentioning candy to small children. Now, they will not stop whining for me to give it to them.
However. . .
Admittedly, there are drawbacks to the location, which is a bit of a hike. There's no water up there, but we usually get plenty of rain. Tragically, the marvelous loam is covered by dense hummocks of fescue.
Far below, along the muddy riverbank, many raccoon tracks were a tip-off that it would be a bad idea to raise corn, melons or strawberries. No sense going to all that work for those robbers.
Nevertheless, the Work Has Begun
Seedling oak and hickory trees have sprung up all over the garden. The ones in the small section that I have designated for this year's reclamation were such slender speciments that I cut them down with the pruners. I'll get to the others soon with the chain saw; they're not very big.
While I was at it, I pruned down the poison ivy, grape vines and wild rose canes from along the garden fence. There were hardly any.
The steep hill to the garden is home to some unbelievably rampant rose thickets. Attempting to avoid the worst ones, I pruned a path between some invading cedars. Some of the thorny rose canes above my head snatched off my knitted hat and refused to give it back, the bullies.
I plan to keep the path mowed with Fearless, my self-propelled lawnmower.
The Old/New Garden
In addition to lovely level loam, the remote garden has full sun except for in the late afternoon. A confirmed Shadetree Gardener, I cannot work in the blazing sun. Morning shade isn't as good because of how slowly I get in gear.
Another great thing about the garden is it is not visible from the road, giving me privacy lacking at my house.
Tough Welsh Stock
This urge to clear the land and plant crops is no doubt what drove my Great-Grandpa Davies to immigrate here from Wales and farm in Kansas. I guess I inherited some of that pioneer spirit.
That's how the country was populated, with settlers pushing ever westward until they reached the ocean. Interestingly, the garden is at the western limit of my land, with the river beyond.
Westward Ho!
Later, the property was divided, creating an L-shaped acreage here that took in the garden. Nearby is a falling-down barn. A person with money would have it bulldozed and carted off. It remains a sad sight with trees closing in like mourners at a grave site.
The problem with that arrangement was the barn and garden were no longer accessible.
It's not the first time I've considered making a garden in the almost-level land. The presence of the Yeller put me off the idea. Then the place was vacant. I waited to see if the new owners might prove congenial. Now that the house is a pile of rubble, it doesn't appear there will be new owners any time soon.
My tiered Whimsical Garden is only big enough to be a cute kitchen garden near the house. There's not enough room to turn the big tiller, which also gags on the clay soil. Rain runoff makes the whole thing a washout, literally.
What I require is a garden big enough to give me vegetables for the entire year.
Elbow Room
The reason I moved here is I don't like to feel crowded. I believe vegetables feel the same. Green beans squeezed in together can't breathe. This year, I'm going to grow pole beans on a found TV antenna, continuing my Junk Motif. That should help those legumes.
The broccoli barely grew in the clay soil. For many years before moving here, I've grown Packman broccoli and frozen lots for winter eating.
Yesterday, the broccoli and cabbage seedlings had their first fifteen minutes of fresh air and sunshine on the front porch. I believe they heard me discussing the possibility of the new, loamy location. It was just like mentioning candy to small children. Now, they will not stop whining for me to give it to them.
However. . .
Admittedly, there are drawbacks to the location, which is a bit of a hike. There's no water up there, but we usually get plenty of rain. Tragically, the marvelous loam is covered by dense hummocks of fescue.
Far below, along the muddy riverbank, many raccoon tracks were a tip-off that it would be a bad idea to raise corn, melons or strawberries. No sense going to all that work for those robbers.
Nevertheless, the Work Has Begun
Seedling oak and hickory trees have sprung up all over the garden. The ones in the small section that I have designated for this year's reclamation were such slender speciments that I cut them down with the pruners. I'll get to the others soon with the chain saw; they're not very big.
While I was at it, I pruned down the poison ivy, grape vines and wild rose canes from along the garden fence. There were hardly any.
The steep hill to the garden is home to some unbelievably rampant rose thickets. Attempting to avoid the worst ones, I pruned a path between some invading cedars. Some of the thorny rose canes above my head snatched off my knitted hat and refused to give it back, the bullies.
I plan to keep the path mowed with Fearless, my self-propelled lawnmower.
The Old/New Garden
In addition to lovely level loam, the remote garden has full sun except for in the late afternoon. A confirmed Shadetree Gardener, I cannot work in the blazing sun. Morning shade isn't as good because of how slowly I get in gear.
Another great thing about the garden is it is not visible from the road, giving me privacy lacking at my house.
Tough Welsh Stock
This urge to clear the land and plant crops is no doubt what drove my Great-Grandpa Davies to immigrate here from Wales and farm in Kansas. I guess I inherited some of that pioneer spirit.
That's how the country was populated, with settlers pushing ever westward until they reached the ocean. Interestingly, the garden is at the western limit of my land, with the river beyond.
Westward Ho!
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Seeding Frenzy
As soon as the Cardinals began singing, I felt it. What cheer!
It was time for the gardening members of my family to flock to Planters Seeds in Kansas City. We emerged from the outing with huge bags of seed-starting mix, plastic trays, pots and seeds. We gardeners can never have too many seeds.
Soon, my dining room and kitchen tables were covered with boxes of seeds. The coffee table in front of the the cozy fire was stacked with books on propagating plants from seed. Part of the couch was deep with seed catalogs, in case I might have missed getting something vital.
It's a wonder that I ever start seeds indoors, because it's an enormous mess. February ninth is when I must plant broccoli and cabbage. It's just something that I do.
Using the watering can and wearing my trusty respirator, I dampened the soil mix outside. Then the kitchen island became the staging area for planting some of the cool-season annuals.
It must be instinctive for gardeners to be prepared for the arrival of spring with armloads of plants. How else to explain why I planted five different varieties of cabbage? I know that thirty cabbages are too many; I'll give some away.
Last week, I started perennial and annual flowers in the bottom heat flat. The seedlings must be out of this neo-natal nursery by mid-March, when I need the bottom heat cable for the tomatoes and peppers.
Of the nine flower varieties that I planted, I shall try and limit myself to transplanting only six each. The reason is I have only three shelves of grow lights in front of a sunny window.
These plants become my tiny charges for the next couple of months. They require thinning, watering, feeding, transplanting, taking out to sun on mild days, protection from too much sun or wind, lights out at eleven p.m. and a wake-up call at six a.m.
I used to think this messy enterprise was merely something to do for entertainment in late winter. Any gardener knows it's much more than that.
Without it, I would have to migrate to the south to meet springtime.
It was time for the gardening members of my family to flock to Planters Seeds in Kansas City. We emerged from the outing with huge bags of seed-starting mix, plastic trays, pots and seeds. We gardeners can never have too many seeds.
Soon, my dining room and kitchen tables were covered with boxes of seeds. The coffee table in front of the the cozy fire was stacked with books on propagating plants from seed. Part of the couch was deep with seed catalogs, in case I might have missed getting something vital.
It's a wonder that I ever start seeds indoors, because it's an enormous mess. February ninth is when I must plant broccoli and cabbage. It's just something that I do.
Using the watering can and wearing my trusty respirator, I dampened the soil mix outside. Then the kitchen island became the staging area for planting some of the cool-season annuals.
It must be instinctive for gardeners to be prepared for the arrival of spring with armloads of plants. How else to explain why I planted five different varieties of cabbage? I know that thirty cabbages are too many; I'll give some away.
Last week, I started perennial and annual flowers in the bottom heat flat. The seedlings must be out of this neo-natal nursery by mid-March, when I need the bottom heat cable for the tomatoes and peppers.
Of the nine flower varieties that I planted, I shall try and limit myself to transplanting only six each. The reason is I have only three shelves of grow lights in front of a sunny window.
These plants become my tiny charges for the next couple of months. They require thinning, watering, feeding, transplanting, taking out to sun on mild days, protection from too much sun or wind, lights out at eleven p.m. and a wake-up call at six a.m.
I used to think this messy enterprise was merely something to do for entertainment in late winter. Any gardener knows it's much more than that.
Without it, I would have to migrate to the south to meet springtime.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Cottage Garden Plan B
This is a dangerous time of year for the gardener. Chomping at the bit to get growing, we are at risk of making extravagant plans. Okay, grandiose plans. It's the nature of the gardener to want to fill all available space with blooms or veggies. We can't help it.
A couple of mornings ago, I came up with a new strategy for creating the cottage garden in the front yard, or in place of the front yard. Simplicity itself, it called for digging up some perennial flowers that have, like me, gotten carried away.
When I grew the Shasta Daisies from seed, I failed to take into account what enormous plants they would become in a short time. I planted one next to my special Diana Princess of Wales rose. Miss Daisy Clump acted like a camera hog, stayed green with envy all winter and is even now itching to get bigger and elbow out the more elegant Diana.
The two-inch spindly yarrows didn't look like they would survive transplanting out of the small six-packs. They promptly grew bushy and tall, making me vow to never plant those tiny seeds again.
Despite Claims to the Contrary
Penennials are great for coming back annually. However, wild promises that they bloom for extended periods in spring or summer are untrue. They outgrow their locations, moodily bloom less and less, then demand a new bed. Most are an absolute bear to dig up and divide. It can be done, usually by persons with more energy than good sense, which is where I come in. I believe a backhoe would be useful.
My plan of attack is to utilize these strapping specimens in hopes that they may hold their own against the nasty grasses.
The same day that I came up with the Invasive Perennial Relocation Program, I went ahead and planted some more Shasta Daisy and Gold Yarrow seeds under grow lights.
While I was at it, I planted some datura seeds. They're an annual that really took off and took over last summer, from a single plant. The huge white trumpets opening in the late afternoon were spectacular. At dusk, they attracted sphinx moths, which are so big they look like hummingbirds.
This time, I won't plant the daturas where they will lounge all over the foundation yews and part of the front porch. That's good news for the yews.
A couple of mornings ago, I came up with a new strategy for creating the cottage garden in the front yard, or in place of the front yard. Simplicity itself, it called for digging up some perennial flowers that have, like me, gotten carried away.
When I grew the Shasta Daisies from seed, I failed to take into account what enormous plants they would become in a short time. I planted one next to my special Diana Princess of Wales rose. Miss Daisy Clump acted like a camera hog, stayed green with envy all winter and is even now itching to get bigger and elbow out the more elegant Diana.
The two-inch spindly yarrows didn't look like they would survive transplanting out of the small six-packs. They promptly grew bushy and tall, making me vow to never plant those tiny seeds again.
Despite Claims to the Contrary
Penennials are great for coming back annually. However, wild promises that they bloom for extended periods in spring or summer are untrue. They outgrow their locations, moodily bloom less and less, then demand a new bed. Most are an absolute bear to dig up and divide. It can be done, usually by persons with more energy than good sense, which is where I come in. I believe a backhoe would be useful.
My plan of attack is to utilize these strapping specimens in hopes that they may hold their own against the nasty grasses.
The same day that I came up with the Invasive Perennial Relocation Program, I went ahead and planted some more Shasta Daisy and Gold Yarrow seeds under grow lights.
While I was at it, I planted some datura seeds. They're an annual that really took off and took over last summer, from a single plant. The huge white trumpets opening in the late afternoon were spectacular. At dusk, they attracted sphinx moths, which are so big they look like hummingbirds.
This time, I won't plant the daturas where they will lounge all over the foundation yews and part of the front porch. That's good news for the yews.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Crawling Out of the Mud
The ice has melted down at the pond. The bluebirds are back, a month early. Squadrons of geese are flying in a northerly direction high overhead, honking for small airplanes to get out of their way.
Whenever I get to despairing that winter will never end, I think about the life of a painted turtle. If they were thoughtful creatures, they would surely be depressed, spending months stuck in the cold, dark mud at the bottom of the pond.
I believe they get poor TV reception down there.
It was just as well that I couldn't carry out my initial pond clean-out dream. The pond has been there long enough for big trees to grow up all around it. Occasionally, one dies and falls headfirst into the brown water. Some limbs are left sticking out untidily.
Floating invasive plants, milweed, were something I wanted to eradicate. Several solutions were offered, the worst one being a pump that would run non-stop to aerate the water. Solar-powered fountains apparently would only work on a decorative pond, the kind that is a yard water feature. My water feature is the Grand River.
As it turns out, the pond with its muddy bottom is the perfect environment for painted turtles. Last year, they emerged on the eleventh of March, after an extra-wintry winter.
Any day now, they will crawl up onto the convenient limbs and sun themselves. They are not seen on cloudy days.
Last spring, when I was hacking out the fence close to the pond, they got used to me. They stopped sliding back into the water every time I got close. It was only when they were getting on or off a limb that I could see their bright orange and black bottom shells.
In the summer, Beau barked at a turtle digging a hole in the ground to lay eggs. I rushed Mr. Dog to the house so she could finish her business. Then I marked the spot with sticks. After what the Internet told me was the correct gestation period, I kept checking back, but I never saw any hatch.
Another year, I came across a baby painted turtle. I carried it down to the pond and set it on the damp leaves on the shore. It quickly headed for the water and swam away. It was too cute.
Although it's not a big pond, it does support nine of the painted turtles. I love to sit in the lawn chair with a mason jar of iced coffee and watch them through binoculars.
There was a muskrat that swam by the sunning turtles. Although usually quick to take a dive, they didn't slide off into the water. So it appears they are good neighbors. Who knows, maybe they all snack on the milweed.
Now that the cows no longer use the pond, the turtles have a peaceful community, with no observable fighting among the males for dominance, a rarity in the animal and human world.
What's strange is that during the summer, the painted turtles are no longer seen. I believe they instinctively make their way overland to the nearest tatoo parlor, where they get their orange patterned underbellies touched up for another year.
Whenever I get to despairing that winter will never end, I think about the life of a painted turtle. If they were thoughtful creatures, they would surely be depressed, spending months stuck in the cold, dark mud at the bottom of the pond.
I believe they get poor TV reception down there.
It was just as well that I couldn't carry out my initial pond clean-out dream. The pond has been there long enough for big trees to grow up all around it. Occasionally, one dies and falls headfirst into the brown water. Some limbs are left sticking out untidily.
Floating invasive plants, milweed, were something I wanted to eradicate. Several solutions were offered, the worst one being a pump that would run non-stop to aerate the water. Solar-powered fountains apparently would only work on a decorative pond, the kind that is a yard water feature. My water feature is the Grand River.
As it turns out, the pond with its muddy bottom is the perfect environment for painted turtles. Last year, they emerged on the eleventh of March, after an extra-wintry winter.
Any day now, they will crawl up onto the convenient limbs and sun themselves. They are not seen on cloudy days.
Last spring, when I was hacking out the fence close to the pond, they got used to me. They stopped sliding back into the water every time I got close. It was only when they were getting on or off a limb that I could see their bright orange and black bottom shells.
In the summer, Beau barked at a turtle digging a hole in the ground to lay eggs. I rushed Mr. Dog to the house so she could finish her business. Then I marked the spot with sticks. After what the Internet told me was the correct gestation period, I kept checking back, but I never saw any hatch.
Another year, I came across a baby painted turtle. I carried it down to the pond and set it on the damp leaves on the shore. It quickly headed for the water and swam away. It was too cute.
Although it's not a big pond, it does support nine of the painted turtles. I love to sit in the lawn chair with a mason jar of iced coffee and watch them through binoculars.
There was a muskrat that swam by the sunning turtles. Although usually quick to take a dive, they didn't slide off into the water. So it appears they are good neighbors. Who knows, maybe they all snack on the milweed.
Now that the cows no longer use the pond, the turtles have a peaceful community, with no observable fighting among the males for dominance, a rarity in the animal and human world.
What's strange is that during the summer, the painted turtles are no longer seen. I believe they instinctively make their way overland to the nearest tatoo parlor, where they get their orange patterned underbellies touched up for another year.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Three Sheets to the Wind
If all the clothes that I've hung on clotheslines over the years were put on a line, it would reach to the moon, but would interfere with air traffic.
Not that I'm complaining. I love hanging out laundry.
This winter has been dry and mild, giving me occasional opportunities to put things on the line.
A couple of days ago, there was another unseasonable sixty-degree day with a nice breeze. It contrasted sharply with the same date a year ago, when there was a record low of minus eleven degrees with a blizzard.
Sheets that are line-dried have a crispness that is not attainable in the dryer. At times when the house windows remain closed, they have an exquisite scent of outdoors, faint but unmistakable. When the windows are open, everything smells like fresh air.
It remains a mystery to me why I find this activity so pleasant. Maybe it's just one more thing to do outside. It requires a good eye for weather. It was thirty degrees the morning in question, so I waited with the bedding for the temperature to rise, which it did before noon. It was only after the two loads of laundry were on the line that I noticed the gravel trucks roaring up and down the road.
Apparently there were some road repairs nearby. We were all working ahead of a storm forecast for the morrow.
My place is on the north side of the road. The wind is generally from the south. The house is between the road and the clotheslines, affording some protection from the clouds of road dust. I'm frequently amazed that things don't turn brown on the line.
When I see a scene in a movie where someone is hanging out clothes, I can tell they've never done such a thing in their lives. There is a knack of giving the damp things a quick snap that gets rid of wrinkles. Sometimes, the clothes in the movie appear dry to start with. They're not fooling me. Movie stars will never know what they're missing.
Sometimes, a rain will blow in unexpectedly. Then there is the excitement of snatching the clothes from the lines before they get sprinkled on.
In the fall, I washed all the window valances and put them out on the lines. There was a brisk wind, so I used plenty of clothespins. The different colored materials blew straight out. They looked like Nepalese prayer flags. All that was needed was an Everest or Bust pennant.
Not that I'm complaining. I love hanging out laundry.
This winter has been dry and mild, giving me occasional opportunities to put things on the line.
A couple of days ago, there was another unseasonable sixty-degree day with a nice breeze. It contrasted sharply with the same date a year ago, when there was a record low of minus eleven degrees with a blizzard.
Sheets that are line-dried have a crispness that is not attainable in the dryer. At times when the house windows remain closed, they have an exquisite scent of outdoors, faint but unmistakable. When the windows are open, everything smells like fresh air.
It remains a mystery to me why I find this activity so pleasant. Maybe it's just one more thing to do outside. It requires a good eye for weather. It was thirty degrees the morning in question, so I waited with the bedding for the temperature to rise, which it did before noon. It was only after the two loads of laundry were on the line that I noticed the gravel trucks roaring up and down the road.
Apparently there were some road repairs nearby. We were all working ahead of a storm forecast for the morrow.
My place is on the north side of the road. The wind is generally from the south. The house is between the road and the clotheslines, affording some protection from the clouds of road dust. I'm frequently amazed that things don't turn brown on the line.
When I see a scene in a movie where someone is hanging out clothes, I can tell they've never done such a thing in their lives. There is a knack of giving the damp things a quick snap that gets rid of wrinkles. Sometimes, the clothes in the movie appear dry to start with. They're not fooling me. Movie stars will never know what they're missing.
Sometimes, a rain will blow in unexpectedly. Then there is the excitement of snatching the clothes from the lines before they get sprinkled on.
In the fall, I washed all the window valances and put them out on the lines. There was a brisk wind, so I used plenty of clothespins. The different colored materials blew straight out. They looked like Nepalese prayer flags. All that was needed was an Everest or Bust pennant.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The Far Side Cow
One of the first things I do when I get up is check for livestock in the yard. At this time of year, though, the cows seem to know which side of the fence their breakfast is on. The cattle guy speeds by early with another round bale for his charges. He wears a black cowboy hat and is always on his cell phone.
When the spring rains come, the grass is greener on my side of the fence. Whenever they move the herd from the vast pasture across the road to the acreage on my side, there is always one or more cows or calves that get left behind. They wander through the open gate and mosey up to my place.
My lily bed between the driveway and the cattle fence is a favorite gathering place for stray cows. One night, I arrived home late to find several big brown cows standing around the birdbath there, like it was an office water cooler.
Several people have told me that there is always one cow who can't be fenced in. She wasn't brown like all the others in the herd. The bull was black, the calves were black, but this cow was black and white.
She had a pointy head that gave her a goofy expression, like one of Gary Larson's cartoons. I saw her hop nimbly over a low spot on the fence. When I yelled at her to stop eating the daylilies, she jumped back over the fence into the pasture. For such a big animal, she was surprisingly light on her feet.
The barbed wire fence runs along the side of my place until it reaches the back of my land, then takes a left turn to the river.
Foolishly believing that the cows were securely contained in their pastures, I took out the yard fences that kept me off my own property.
The Far Side Cow came wandering up from down by the river. At the low metal bird feeder in the back yard, she licked up the cracked corn. Thoughtfully scratching her head on the feeder, she completely demolished it.
Thinking to lure her to the road, I set out a big pan of cracked corn at the end of the driveway. She cleaned it up, drained the birdbath, then abruptly turned and ambled back to the inaccessible reaches of my land. She left permanent four-inch deep tracks through the iris bed and yard.
When I phoned the guy who owned the cattle, he told me it wasn't his cow; she'd just gotten in with his herd. I suspected that she gave him a calf every year from the bull, who could be seen fulfilling his duties assiduously.
Bad Fences Make Bad Neighbors
After a while, I noticed the cattle owner had stopped picking up the phone. I left messages that the renegade bovine was now bringing other cows and calves over to graze.
Reminding myself that I was not raising cows, I nonetheless walked the fence until I found the place where the barbed wire was only two feet high. I left word with directions to the bad spot.
The vet didn't know of anyone missing a cow.
Losing my patience at last, I left another message. I said that since it wasn't his cow, I intended to offer her on Craig's List to anyone who could round her up.
The fence was fixed the next day.
After that, I would see The Far Side Cow staring at me from across the fence. She didn't chew her cud or move her head. It was sort of unnerving. There was something accusitory in that look, like I'd been a poor sport.
Maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe she just wanted another pan of cracked corn.
When the spring rains come, the grass is greener on my side of the fence. Whenever they move the herd from the vast pasture across the road to the acreage on my side, there is always one or more cows or calves that get left behind. They wander through the open gate and mosey up to my place.
My lily bed between the driveway and the cattle fence is a favorite gathering place for stray cows. One night, I arrived home late to find several big brown cows standing around the birdbath there, like it was an office water cooler.
Several people have told me that there is always one cow who can't be fenced in. She wasn't brown like all the others in the herd. The bull was black, the calves were black, but this cow was black and white.
She had a pointy head that gave her a goofy expression, like one of Gary Larson's cartoons. I saw her hop nimbly over a low spot on the fence. When I yelled at her to stop eating the daylilies, she jumped back over the fence into the pasture. For such a big animal, she was surprisingly light on her feet.
The barbed wire fence runs along the side of my place until it reaches the back of my land, then takes a left turn to the river.
Foolishly believing that the cows were securely contained in their pastures, I took out the yard fences that kept me off my own property.
The Far Side Cow came wandering up from down by the river. At the low metal bird feeder in the back yard, she licked up the cracked corn. Thoughtfully scratching her head on the feeder, she completely demolished it.
Thinking to lure her to the road, I set out a big pan of cracked corn at the end of the driveway. She cleaned it up, drained the birdbath, then abruptly turned and ambled back to the inaccessible reaches of my land. She left permanent four-inch deep tracks through the iris bed and yard.
When I phoned the guy who owned the cattle, he told me it wasn't his cow; she'd just gotten in with his herd. I suspected that she gave him a calf every year from the bull, who could be seen fulfilling his duties assiduously.
Bad Fences Make Bad Neighbors
After a while, I noticed the cattle owner had stopped picking up the phone. I left messages that the renegade bovine was now bringing other cows and calves over to graze.
Reminding myself that I was not raising cows, I nonetheless walked the fence until I found the place where the barbed wire was only two feet high. I left word with directions to the bad spot.
The vet didn't know of anyone missing a cow.
Losing my patience at last, I left another message. I said that since it wasn't his cow, I intended to offer her on Craig's List to anyone who could round her up.
The fence was fixed the next day.
After that, I would see The Far Side Cow staring at me from across the fence. She didn't chew her cud or move her head. It was sort of unnerving. There was something accusitory in that look, like I'd been a poor sport.
Maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe she just wanted another pan of cracked corn.
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