01 Dec 2006
ro‧mance [n., adj. roh-mans]
A mysterious or fascinating quality or appeal, as of something adventurous, heroic, or strangely beautiful.

While surfing this morning I happend across another farming/ranching blog, from Carbon County, Montana, Karbon Kounty Moos, and this post about todays weather: 10 Below Zero Fahrenheit Isn't Romantic. And it's not. No doubt. But her closing line summed it up perfectly:

It may not be romantic. It is my home and my life. I love it.

Most folks, especially city folks, have this idea of life on the land as "romantic". Allow me to share a bit of the romance I've been through in the past week. I shan't do as good as job as Karen, and my current travails pale in comparison to -20°F on the last day of November, but nonetheless...

The weather has been unseasonable here, too. Unseasonably warm and wet. It's not romantic to wade through three inches of standing water just to open the hen house every morning at 6:30. But the weather is slated for a change: yesterday's high was 65°F, today it's supposed to hit 55°F. Tomorrow the high will be 30°F and the rain will turn to snow. We're supposed to get a few inches: some say 4 to 6, some say 2 to 3. We'll see.

I'd purchased a hog earlier this year and had a friend raise it over at his place in Shannondale, about five miles west of here. Pastured pigs just tear a place to shreds, so I won't keep them here, but that's all George does (besides chickens) so he got the job. When it was time to deliver the porker, we had to cut him from the herd, which had all gathered in the main pen over at Georges, and get him onto the trailer - just one pig. And all that rain. And all that pig shit in the pen. We were literally standing in muck up to our knees, driving the very uncooperative fellow into the trailer. Lucky for us we didn't fall over - but we still had to stop back by the house and change before making the delivery run, as we couldn't have stood the smell for the fifty mile trip otherwise.

That sure as Hel wasn't "romantic", in any sense of the word.

I put up my first hay delivery last Friday - 8 tons, 6 in small squares and two in round bales. Not much hay, really, compared to previous years, but my herd and flocks are greatly reduced currently, so that should last until the beginning or middle of February. And it was still damned heavy, since we have no machinery to help move it, it was hoisted and stacked by hand, and the round bales rolled onto the trailer and into the pasture.

My back didn't think that was very romantic.

With winter coming on, and the temperature finally dropping, it was time to move the 50 replacement chicks I've been brooding since August into the Big House with the other hens. And while I'm happy to report that we didn't lose a single chick, I'm less than thrilled to tell you that chickens are still pretty stupid. Despite the doors to their smaller home being closed and the lights off, the pullets still gathered outside it, and refused to make the trip to the Big House on their own.

This is pretty normal, for chickens, and mercifully there are only fifty of them this time, but still, I had to wait until they'd roosted, then catch them and carry them to the Big House four at a time. Leather gloves wouldn't allow me to get a good grip on their slippery little legs, and cloth gloves just got too wet, so I dispensed with hand protection altogether to get the job done.

I've done this now for two nights - and will have to do it again tonight. Last night about half the birds actually went to their new home on their own, so it was only 25 birds to be caught and moved, and tonight I'm sure I'll only have to catch about ten or fifteen, but still ... all that water in paddock, remember? And no gloves. My hands look like they've been attacked by crazed, knife wielding dwarves.

There's nothing romantic about scrubbing down up to your elbows with anti-bacterial soap, and then applying Neo-sporin to the worst cuts, all the while standing in your soaking wet blue jeans and drenched sweatshirt...

You grumble a bit, and then tell yourself that at least your chicks all made it to maturity, and you got your first pullet egg from one of them this morning. Of course, you stuck your hand into a mess of straw and chicken shit called a "nest" to get it, but that might be a little romantic. Until you remember the cuts on your fingers, and race to the sink again.

I'll head up to the tree farm again tonight about 5:30, just before dusk, and check on my critters in the petting zoo. And then come back home to wade through the paddocks carrying chicks. Again. Although I'll be a bit colder, if the weather forecast holds.

But I'm with Moos - it might not be "romantic", whatever the Hel that really means, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. In fact, I'm going to get an off farm job to make money so I can keep doing this - and there's a word in the dictionary for that, too.

08:21 /Agriculture | 0 comments | permanent link

Report sparks changes at pharmacy chains

This was actually a pretty good bit of journalism, especially considering that it's from a local station and not a network. But I can visualize the headline when the awards start rolling in: "Dumpster Diving Wins Emmy"!

AP - The nation's largest drugstore chains say they are working to better protect patient privacy after an investigative TV report turned up sensitive information about hundreds of customers in trash bins in cities around the country.

(link) [Yahoo! News: Top Stories]

08:17 /Politics | 0 comments | permanent link

Homeland Security tracks travelers' meals

Twenty odd years ago we were in the process of crushing the Evil Empire. Today we are in the process of becoming the Evil Empire.

Your papers, please!

Without notifying the public, federal agents have assigned millions of international travelers, including Americans, computer-generated scores rating the risk they pose of being terrorists or criminals.

(link) [CNN.com]

08:08 /Politics | 0 comments | permanent link