Farm News 08-28-05
Farm News
Sunday morning, after chores
Pond Attracts Settlers
The first large and obvious new resident is an American Bittern, a wading bird that likes to stand around looking like a clump of tall grass. They have a great call that is hard to describe but unmistakable once you have heard it.
Various water insects are appearing. There are the whirly-gig types that swim rapidly in circles and another kind that swims in long arcs, both on the surface. I don't know many of these creatures so I'm hoping to be able to talk some minnow huggers into coming out and telling me about all the stuff living in the pond.
At the head of the pond it narrows to the width of the creek bed and winds through the trees. Some of the trees are American Sycamores. Sycamores can be beautiful trees but they can be something of a nuisance because the fallen leaves don't rot quickly. When they fall into a pond they break up fairly quickly into small (1 mm. or so) black bits that stick to your skin when you are swimming.
My favorite tree book, Trees, Shrubs, and Woody Vines in Kansas by H. A. Stephens, says this about the Sycamore:
Below the dam I have allowed everything to go wild except for maintaining a foot path to the bottom. The area grew up first in Willows but is now being colonized by Sycamore. I think a single large Red Oak would be a nice final stage in the succession, but a tall Sycamore would be okay, too. Currently the Sycamore saplings are so dense that it is almost impossible to wiggle through them.
In the meantime, I have lots of Sycamore wood for anyone interested in making butcher blocks, woodenware, etc. The Sycamores above the dam have to go. Roses and Azaleas can be called in to fill the gaps.
Along with the Sycamores, there is an old, twisted Honey Locust that is half dead and dangerous, a few ratty Osage Orange, and a beautiful Black Cherry that is now in the water. I think I'll wait for the next deep freeze and do the cutting while the pond is frozen solid enough to work from. It will make hauling out the wood and brush a lot easier.
The whole task of cleaning out the unwanted trees might turn out to be fun. The pond surface will make a nice smooth, hard 'road' for walking and moving logs. If I can get around to it, I'll build a nice fireplace yet this fall, so we can have hot coffee, roast beaver tail, or whatever we wish while working on the trees.
Oh, Mercy – part 2 by Susan Maricle
We purchased a pair of guineas at the Sturgeon Lake chicken swap in hopes they would breed. (Guineas raised from keethood seem to be tamer than guineas acquired as adults, we've found.) The rooster eventually had to be dispatched because he had killed a couple of ducklings. But he had served his purpose: the hen had laid a sizable clutch of eggs, and began sitting shortly after her mate's demise. The hen, who we called simply The Widow, chose a corner in an empty stall in the barn, just off the main aisle, chattering angrily when the goats or horse got too close. There was a little red chicken hen nearby, bigger than a bantam but not a large bird by any means. She perched on a roost day and night, calling to mind a bellhop waiting to be pressed into service.
In July we rented the services of a miniature donkey, Little Joe, to breed with Macy. The aisle in the barn was their preferred place for "love connections." At one point Little Joe planted one of his hoofs in the middle of The Widow's nest. She escaped, barely avoiding being squashed. With wings flapping, she chased the donkey, the horse, and all three goats out of the barn, finishing with a loud chatter that was probably guinea language for "AND STAY OUT!"
It was a miracle that any eggs hatched at all. But hatch they did. It happened when Mike and our eight-year-old son Wyatt were on their annual weekend camping trip. First I saw three keets. Then seven. Then--oh, there must have been a dozen and a half. That many little puffballs won't stay still long enough for you to count them. There were pale gray ones, medium brown ones with widow's peaks framing their white faces, and dark brown ones with tiger-striped faces. The Widow did her best to herd them. But keeping an eye on so many babies, as well as on the four-footed behemoths in the barn, was hard for one hen to do. Remarkably, the little red hen answered the call. She helped herd the keets, directing them with gentle clucks. She spread out her tail feathers like a fan to hide the babies from nosy onlookers. She gathered them under her feathers, leaving the guinea with a more manageable-size brood. She even helped clean up the eggshells. I started calling the chicken Mercy, as in angel of mercy.
After three days, The Widow led her babies out of the stall and outdoors. With all the barn traffic, it was inevitable that one would be trampled. But after the loss of that one unfortunate keet, the others were quite adept at avoiding the equines and goats. With Mercy bringing up the back, mother and babies disappeared into the tall grass, as guineas are wont to do. We knew the keets would be in good hands.
A few days later, while I was running errands and Mike was out doing chores, he heard a peeping and found a lone keet. He gathered it up and placed it by Mercy, since The Widow wasn't around. Then he noticed Mercy was rounding up additional keets. Her tail feathers were missing. And The Widow was nowhere in sight, the last sign of her being an agitated squawk a few minutes before.
The fox had struck again.
Part 3 of Susan's story will run next week.
A Call from Calvin
Calvin called and brought me up to date. He is traveling from livestock auction to livestock auction, buying and selling cattle, goats, horses, and anything else that he thinks he can make a profit on. He's actually making money, enough to buy a newer truck and put the fuel in it to haul livestock around. He said he thinks he'll be back in this area next month and will stop for a visit.
If I'm going to continue to write about my teenage hired hand I'm either going to find a new one or fictionalize Calvin. Poor lad, he's been fictional whenever I felt like lying, anyway. Although he's big, he's gentle and not the least violent, so writing pure fiction about him is not a dangerous thing to do. Also, it will be cheaper than hiring another teen. So, henceforth, don't believe anything you read about him in this publication.
Nocturnal Adventures
Occasionally, a dream is funny enough to report. Sometime Thursday night I fell out of an airplane. As I fell I realized that I had better turn into a bird or I would be in serious trouble. Everyone's first thought seems to be a Crow, so I thought a second time and became a Great Blue Heron. I flew around, slowly descending, and finally, straightening my long thin legs, I landed with one little bounce on a lawn below a white house. I looked at the house and realized I had landed in Carlos Castaneda's back yard.
E-mail Subscribers: To subscribe, unsubscribe, contribute stories, complain or send a gift subscription, send an email to FarmNews@GeezerNet.com . The editor reserves the right to steal ideas submitted, rewrite submissions, and sign false names to them whenever it strikes his fancy to do so.
Sunday morning, after chores
Pond Attracts Settlers
The first large and obvious new resident is an American Bittern, a wading bird that likes to stand around looking like a clump of tall grass. They have a great call that is hard to describe but unmistakable once you have heard it.
Various water insects are appearing. There are the whirly-gig types that swim rapidly in circles and another kind that swims in long arcs, both on the surface. I don't know many of these creatures so I'm hoping to be able to talk some minnow huggers into coming out and telling me about all the stuff living in the pond.
At the head of the pond it narrows to the width of the creek bed and winds through the trees. Some of the trees are American Sycamores. Sycamores can be beautiful trees but they can be something of a nuisance because the fallen leaves don't rot quickly. When they fall into a pond they break up fairly quickly into small (1 mm. or so) black bits that stick to your skin when you are swimming.
My favorite tree book, Trees, Shrubs, and Woody Vines in Kansas by H. A. Stephens, says this about the Sycamore:
The Sycamore is one of the largest trees in the state,. . .. The wood is used for butcher blocks, woodenware, boxes, brush handles, furniture, and interior finish. It is usually called “lacewood” in the lumber industry.
Below the dam I have allowed everything to go wild except for maintaining a foot path to the bottom. The area grew up first in Willows but is now being colonized by Sycamore. I think a single large Red Oak would be a nice final stage in the succession, but a tall Sycamore would be okay, too. Currently the Sycamore saplings are so dense that it is almost impossible to wiggle through them.
In the meantime, I have lots of Sycamore wood for anyone interested in making butcher blocks, woodenware, etc. The Sycamores above the dam have to go. Roses and Azaleas can be called in to fill the gaps.
Along with the Sycamores, there is an old, twisted Honey Locust that is half dead and dangerous, a few ratty Osage Orange, and a beautiful Black Cherry that is now in the water. I think I'll wait for the next deep freeze and do the cutting while the pond is frozen solid enough to work from. It will make hauling out the wood and brush a lot easier.
The whole task of cleaning out the unwanted trees might turn out to be fun. The pond surface will make a nice smooth, hard 'road' for walking and moving logs. If I can get around to it, I'll build a nice fireplace yet this fall, so we can have hot coffee, roast beaver tail, or whatever we wish while working on the trees.
Oh, Mercy – part 2 by Susan Maricle
We purchased a pair of guineas at the Sturgeon Lake chicken swap in hopes they would breed. (Guineas raised from keethood seem to be tamer than guineas acquired as adults, we've found.) The rooster eventually had to be dispatched because he had killed a couple of ducklings. But he had served his purpose: the hen had laid a sizable clutch of eggs, and began sitting shortly after her mate's demise. The hen, who we called simply The Widow, chose a corner in an empty stall in the barn, just off the main aisle, chattering angrily when the goats or horse got too close. There was a little red chicken hen nearby, bigger than a bantam but not a large bird by any means. She perched on a roost day and night, calling to mind a bellhop waiting to be pressed into service.
In July we rented the services of a miniature donkey, Little Joe, to breed with Macy. The aisle in the barn was their preferred place for "love connections." At one point Little Joe planted one of his hoofs in the middle of The Widow's nest. She escaped, barely avoiding being squashed. With wings flapping, she chased the donkey, the horse, and all three goats out of the barn, finishing with a loud chatter that was probably guinea language for "AND STAY OUT!"
It was a miracle that any eggs hatched at all. But hatch they did. It happened when Mike and our eight-year-old son Wyatt were on their annual weekend camping trip. First I saw three keets. Then seven. Then--oh, there must have been a dozen and a half. That many little puffballs won't stay still long enough for you to count them. There were pale gray ones, medium brown ones with widow's peaks framing their white faces, and dark brown ones with tiger-striped faces. The Widow did her best to herd them. But keeping an eye on so many babies, as well as on the four-footed behemoths in the barn, was hard for one hen to do. Remarkably, the little red hen answered the call. She helped herd the keets, directing them with gentle clucks. She spread out her tail feathers like a fan to hide the babies from nosy onlookers. She gathered them under her feathers, leaving the guinea with a more manageable-size brood. She even helped clean up the eggshells. I started calling the chicken Mercy, as in angel of mercy.
After three days, The Widow led her babies out of the stall and outdoors. With all the barn traffic, it was inevitable that one would be trampled. But after the loss of that one unfortunate keet, the others were quite adept at avoiding the equines and goats. With Mercy bringing up the back, mother and babies disappeared into the tall grass, as guineas are wont to do. We knew the keets would be in good hands.
A few days later, while I was running errands and Mike was out doing chores, he heard a peeping and found a lone keet. He gathered it up and placed it by Mercy, since The Widow wasn't around. Then he noticed Mercy was rounding up additional keets. Her tail feathers were missing. And The Widow was nowhere in sight, the last sign of her being an agitated squawk a few minutes before.
The fox had struck again.
Part 3 of Susan's story will run next week.
A Call from Calvin
Calvin called and brought me up to date. He is traveling from livestock auction to livestock auction, buying and selling cattle, goats, horses, and anything else that he thinks he can make a profit on. He's actually making money, enough to buy a newer truck and put the fuel in it to haul livestock around. He said he thinks he'll be back in this area next month and will stop for a visit.
If I'm going to continue to write about my teenage hired hand I'm either going to find a new one or fictionalize Calvin. Poor lad, he's been fictional whenever I felt like lying, anyway. Although he's big, he's gentle and not the least violent, so writing pure fiction about him is not a dangerous thing to do. Also, it will be cheaper than hiring another teen. So, henceforth, don't believe anything you read about him in this publication.
Nocturnal Adventures
Occasionally, a dream is funny enough to report. Sometime Thursday night I fell out of an airplane. As I fell I realized that I had better turn into a bird or I would be in serious trouble. Everyone's first thought seems to be a Crow, so I thought a second time and became a Great Blue Heron. I flew around, slowly descending, and finally, straightening my long thin legs, I landed with one little bounce on a lawn below a white house. I looked at the house and realized I had landed in Carlos Castaneda's back yard.
E-mail Subscribers: To subscribe, unsubscribe, contribute stories, complain or send a gift subscription, send an email to FarmNews@GeezerNet.com . The editor reserves the right to steal ideas submitted, rewrite submissions, and sign false names to them whenever it strikes his fancy to do so.
posted by The Geezer at 7:49 AM
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