Tag Archives: E. B. White

Note to Self: If I Get Some Time Today

Posted on by
15

If I get some time today, I could spread that ag lime on the two sheep paddocks. I’ve been meaning to buy some lime. I should do that. Which reminds me that I will need to replace that tire on the Ezee-Flow spreader that dry-rotted over winter. I’ll call over to the farmers co-op and see if they have a replacement. Maybe they have my tiller wheel ready. If they do, I can till in the potato patch that I forgot to mulch or weed and is now buried in lush non-potato growth. Then I’ll replant the area with beans.

Big and beefy 8-10 week old ram lamb, a Texel-Katahdin cross.

But first, if I’m going to plant beans, I’ll need to go cut some poles to use as a trellis. So today, if I have time, I should clean last winter’s gas out of the chainsaws and hope that the carburetors are not fouled with shellacked fuel. And the chains also need to be resharpened. Note: I really should keep that bow saw in better condition—it could be of use when the chainsaws are not working. I think I lent it to someone. Who did I lend it to? I know Tim still has that Orwell book. Maybe he also has the saw? I could go over today and check, maybe stop at the Kyles’ farm store and pick up a few sausages for dinner. Then I can check and see if they sold any copies of my book.

How many personal copies do I have left? I should check today, maybe before I go take a nap. After the nap, though, I really need to finish pruning the muscadines and the privet. That damn privet takes over everything. Wonder if grapevines can be used to smoke meat. If I had the sausages, I could smoke them over muscadine vines and serve them with some of my kraut. I think I’ll go check and see how my cabbages are coming along. If they are ready I can make some kraut today, and next weekend it could be ready. So, I’ll pass on the sausages and pruning today. The Kid can do the pruning in the vines next weekend.

It looks like rain, so I’d better get that feed out of the back of the truck. I’ll need to put the boom pole back on the tractor to lift the barrels. That yard box will need to come off. But first I’ll grade the drive—it is a mess since the last rain. So, first things first. I’ll go get some diesel for the big tractor, since it’s on empty.

Running on empty … who sang that? Oh, yeah, Jackson Browne. Which reminds me, before the trip to town, it might be good to change out the CDs in the truck. That John Denver CD is getting pretty stale. Maybe some Alan Jackson. I’ll need to remember to stop at Wil-Sav for my prescription. Except I remember now that I forgot to call it in. So I’ll call them and see if they can call my doctor for a refill. I’m betting it will be ready in a couple of days. I still need the diesel.

But I could use this time before the trip to get diesel to put up the kayaks. They’ve been laying out by the hay barn all winter and spring. Note to self: This would be a great time of the year to go out on the water and just enjoy floating around. I should do that before I store the boats. Now where are those boat cushions? I think they were being used as supports for the guest cot when my nephew stayed with us in February. I wonder how he is getting along this spring down in that Louisiana heat? I’ll call him if I get time today.

Well, the temperature is supposed to get up to 80 here tomorrow. I really should just go out now, while I have time, and roll up the sides on the hoop house and open the windows. Those cabbage moths will be out soon. If I put some diatomaceous earth out today to protect the cole crops I’ll be ahead of the pests. Better call Cindy and have her pick some up while she is in town. Pretty sure all of it was used last year.

DE is my default weapon against bugs, but I know there are other organic options. Note: Spend a little time later today flipping through some of those dozens of books on my shelf about pests in the garden.

Also, finish reading the book on solitude. Then write Moore a followup and let him know my thoughts. The first page has been really engaging. I just need to find some time to myself to focus. Why are the sheep out in the yard? Note: Check the electric current on the fence later today. There may be a branch down on the wire. Hopefully the pigs haven’t discovered it.

Note: Instead of buying that sausage, I could just make some. I have plenty of ground pork and the stuffer.

Note: Order more hog casings. If they come in next week, I can make the sausages when the kraut is done fermenting.

Note: If I get some time today….

Three Tales From the Farm

Posted on by
2

I Am a VIP

August haying

It is true, yes, that there are moments as a farmer when my status as a VIP is confirmed. After all, I am known to multitudes. That these moments happen only between me and my livestock makes them no less important. So, for any of you yearning for that most modern of currencies, celebrity, for those of you who desire to feel valued, follow along with me as I fill up a bucket of feed near the barn.

The ewes who have been let out of their pasture to graze among the buildings hasten to my side from all points of the compass at the clanging of the lid. They form a tight scrum around me, like bodyguards protecting a pop star. The ones behind keep nudging me to move faster, perhaps afraid that my time in the open may expose me to assault, while the ones on either side stay firm against my thighs. The lead ewes keep turning around, making sure I’m safe and with them still. We march in lockstep across the grass, through the gates, to their feed trough. Only as we approach do they cease to see me as someone to protect. Like Roman legionaries who have missed a payroll, they abandon their post and impatiently begin to jostle, demanding that I yield if not an autograph then at least the contents of my bucket. Celebrity is such a fickle mistress.

Fowl Pox

We both looked at the small blisters covering his face, the eyes that were milky white and unseeing. Two days earlier he had stood next to me in the equipment yard, shifting his weight from foot to foot, head tilted as he listened closely in what we now know was the posture of the blind. But even seeing I saw nothing. The next day he stayed in the coop, in a corner, unable to defend himself against the younger rooster. I noticed, vaguely aware that something was wrong, and continued my chores. On the third day I bent down and picked him up by the feet, avoiding the three-inch spurs with difficulty, and cupped his back with my hand. Cindy examined him and recognized the blisters and unseeing eyes. He had fowl pox and needed to be removed immediately from the flock. It was possible he could recover, but old age would be working against him. I continued holding him on his back with feet grasped and walked to the barn. From the rack over a work table I removed a hatchet. I laid him across a railroad timber outside, stretched his neck over the side, and lopped off his head. His head and body in a five-gallon bucket, I placed the remains in the back of the pickup truck.

Cowboys and Ranches Belong West of the Mississippi

When I think of the habits of emigrants from our Western states, I’m reminded—likewise frequently and comically—of zooming down a sidewalk on my bike as a kid, then tumbling over the handlebars when I reached a section pushed up by the roots of an oak: both bring me up short. So when I say that the big man wearing a cowboy hat, his brand new dark blue jeans tucked inside fancy cowboy boots, stopped me cold, I understate. That he was also wearing spurs that stuck out a good three inches prompted me to ask the ladies behind the counter at the farmers co-op, “Are they filming a Western nearby?” How he drove away in that jacked-up fully-loaded brand new Ford F-150 Lightning with those three-inch spurs on his boots … well, I still both wonder and admire. But he did.

………………………………………………………………………….

Reading this weekend: the children’s book A Wrinkle in Time (M. L’Engle) and One Man’s Meat (E. B. White). I never had read the first till now, and I found it charming. Regarding the second, I had only read White’s children’s books. His essays, written from his Maine saltwater farm, are warm and funny and perfect for these cold December nights.