Tamed with Tortillas

Two calves were on the road recently, having gone through the sagging barbed wire fence in the pasture across the road.  The four neighbor dogs were chasing them up the road.  Beau joined in and the calves scrambled through the fence to the pasture on my side.  The little bullock was out the next day and I was able to walk him down to the gate, where the neighbor helped me herd him through.

The heifer was left in the pasture with two cows who apparently didn't have the herd mentality to go with the others when they were moved across the road. She was skitty, as are all cows who are not regularly approached by humans.  I felt sorry for her because she was separated from her mother.  The boy cow who led her astray had fled the scene.

Not having a bag of milk replacer or a calf bottle, I looked for something to offer her.  Finding a package of corn tortillas with "best by May 5, 2012" in the fridge, I settled on that.  I sailed a few over the fence like Frisbees daily and found they were being eaten by something.  After some days, I saw her licking them up.

Slowly, she started coming closer, then my Jane Goodall moment arrived when she took one from my hand.

Now, she comes to the fence and moos for me to come out with the Mexican corn.  I named her Juanita.

While it's true that tortillas are not the usual cattle feed, I believe she comes because she lost her mother too soon.  So, I am foster mom to a calf.  Having raised three children, I have plenty of experience in the mom department.  When I had a herd of dairy goats, they followed me on long walks around my unfenced thirty-five acres.  Cars would stop.

Even the two cows left in the pasture are showing some interest in the ritual.  I trust they will all be relocated across the road soon, because the cow guys are feeding the rest of the herd round bales of hay over there.  Also, I'm going through many packages of tortillas.

Why I Cut Firewood

Even though my son cuts the big firewood, I feel the need to get out there and do my part.

Not only do I get to warm my buns by the fire, the cats and dog appreciate the toasty heat. My guests,too, all gather 'round the stove, making me seem the best hostess.  Sometimes, they too doze off, especially if wine is served. There's no need to be stingy with the wood if I have cut and hauled it.

Getting a chain saw that isn't too heavy to pick up results in settling for one that is not really built for everyday wood cutting.  A few days ago, yet another of the "for occasional use" ones suffered carburetor arrest.  My man at the small engine repair shop said it's the ethanol that does them in.

My daughter Lissa suggested that I merely buy some firewood with the money I'm spending on saws and repairs.  I've had two chain saws since I had the Buck Stove installed in 2008.  The answer is I'm into the whole woodcutting adventure.  Sure, I could call and get some wood delivered, but what's the fun in that?  "Boughten" firewood is usually cut from living trees, without their consent.

I get the satisfaction of using downed wood that would otherwise lie on the ground and slowly decompose. True, it's good for the soil, but sometimes the river comes and snatches it first.  It's my job to see that such wood gets a proper cremation.  When I put a piece into the stove, I recognize it and remember it when it was a whole tree; sort of a commemorative moment. I believe the wood knows how grateful I am for its warmth, burning all the brighter for my rapt attention.

Setting the furnace thermostat above sixty degrees makes me feel I am wasting the world's precious resources.  By burning wood, I am able to make one tank of propane last an entire year, while staying quite cozy in the process.  Nature has already finished with the wood that I burn.  It's found stuff, like the hickory nuts or wild sour dock greens.

Cutting wood has become sort of a hobby for me.  Otherwise, I fear I would become sedentary when the gardening season is past.  There is the initial scouting for wood, which is like hunting for treasure.  There is learning to identify trees by bark alone, or bite, as in case of the thorny honey locusts.  There is the challenge of hacking through the underbrush to reach the wood.  There is the power of wielding the chain saw, always a plus for a short woman.  There is the general lure of Nature to come outside and cover or uncover the wood pile.  Best of all, there's all that healthful exercise.

One summer, I decided to get a stash of little bundles of kindling.  Cutting the twigs with the pruner, I tied them with pink cotton yarn.  They were just darling.  But when I went to fetch them from the playhouse in the winter, I discovered that the mice had made off with all the yarns, leaving messy piles of twigs.  Those little rodents had found them ideal for nests.

Some of us women would rather lace up our steel-toed boots and head out into the woods than shop for or wear high heels.  It's just a matter of preference.  My lifestyle is such that I so rarely lose a diamond tennis bracelet when running the chain saw.

Rosie the Mower

If I had a donkey, I wouldn't expect it to work like a Clydesdale draft horse.

However, I do goad my ride-on mower to perform like a farm tractor.  It is billed as a Lawn Tractor, which gives me license to ask more and more of it.  People in the country don't have lawns; we have yards.  We try and keep the weeds mowed.

 This reproduction tin sign hangs in my workshop.

Because I  worked for a year as a riveter for United Airlines  in 1976 (not World War II!) I still consider myself a bit of a Rosie.
That's why I named my mower Rosie.  It's easier to say than ride-on lawn mower, too. I expect Rosie to do some jobs that my big Ford tractor did when I had the farm.  That requires a lot of coaxing. I did pick a lawn tractor that had the proper oiling system for hills.  Rosie's tires are big and smooth for not leaving tracks in the lawn, so they slip a lot on the steep hills.  Also there is the problem of honey locust thorns poking holes in them when I cut paths through the underbrush.

Rosie is now being pressed into service as a firewood hauler.  This wood is some I cut from the trees that the cottonwood brought down with it in April. So far this season, I've hauled and split a total of sixteen loads.

My son Chris cut up the walnut that was downed in the spring storm. He also cut up the big pieces of cottonwood. His chain saw is too big for me to even pick up. Here, he appears to be having yet another fun day at Mom's.

For days, Rosie and I hauled the heavy walnut up to the workshop, where I split the big pieces with my electric log splitter. Then we hauled it over to the wood rack I made between two fence posts.  It's looking good!  Just a few more small  pieces to cut with my chain saw and the walnut will be done. Next,  I'll be cutting more dead wood of a lesser quality.

The worst jam I got Rosie into was when I got stuck on a stump when going down a slope.  I couldn't push Rosie back up the hill, so I had to pound a fence post into the ground and use it to secure a winch to back Rosie up. A couple of weeks ago, a big anthill up in the hickory field stopped my path-mowing in the same way.  Faced with the need to hike back and get the heavy post pounder, a fence post and the winch, I really exerted myself and dragged Rosie back off the anthill.  It was possible because the ground was not so steep there.

"You can do it!" I tell Rosie frequently, when asking more than the equipment was designed to do.  Last week, I  broke down and changed Rosie's oil.  I also got her a new battery.  I had to check YouTube to see which terminal to do first.  I used to know all that stuff.

Rosie may be little but she is valiant. However,  I believe she is looking forward to snow, when I can't possibly ask her to work with those smooth tires.