Tag Archives: Will Hoyt

The Things We Do Before the Things We Do

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Storm damage

It’s one of those metaphysical questions of the angels dancing on the head of a pin variety. Did my recent purchase of a deluxe 17 horsepower DK chipper in some way precipitate the arrival and resultant destruction a few weeks ago of three intense storms?

I ponder this useless intellectual speculation as I operate three chainsaws (but not at the same time) in conjunction with the above-referenced chipper. The question, like that of the sound of the tree falling in the forest, is just a way to amuse myself while tackling the vast amount of work I haven’t made time for amidst my other mountains of farm work still needing to be done. Its role in bringing on the storms aside, the chipper is useful in clearing the driveway of fallen limbs and reducing them to a hefty pile of woodchips. As for why I need three chainsaws? Only someone who has never used a chainsaw and is therefore unfamiliar with its temperamental ways would have to ask.

As I drive the pickup back up the gravel driveway after one of my several chipping, cutting, mulching, sweating excursions, I glance over to the front of the barn, where through the foot-high pigweed I spy an ancient manure spreader buried in the overgrowth. Someday, someday soon, I think.

I’ve been thinking this same thought for a few months now, that I’ll be needing the manure spreader when I do the annual barn cleaning. The plan is to hitch the piece of equipment to the big Kubota, employ the bucket on the smaller Kubota to clean out the barn and dump the manure and bedding into the spreader, and then use the larger tractor pulling the spreader to scatter the load across the fields as a fertilizer.

Straightforward in conception if not execution. When I pulled out the spreader from where it is kept parked in the sawmill yard, one of the two massive tires shredded into dry-rotted clumps of rubber. Considering that these were original tires on a piece of equipment as old as I am, well, let’s just say I’m not surprised. I backed the spreader under an overhang attached to the barn, got the jack, and removed the tire. A couple of weeks later and $450 poorer, we brought home a new tire on the old rim, which I then mounted onto the manure spreader … and left it right where it was and returned to tackling all those other things to do on the farm.

There it sat all summer until late July, when on one rare sunny afternoon sandwiched between endless days of gloom, wind, and rain, I backed the truck up to the spreader, hooked it up, and pulled it to the side of the barn to service. That is when I noticed the other tire was flat. Ten minutes later, with the air compressor (the one that needs a nut to hold the axle bolt in place—another item on the list of things I never seem to get around to repairing), I filled the tire … which just as quickly wheezed all the air out through the rotted inner tube around the valve stem.

I won’t burden you with all the details of the next stage, but suffice to say it took another two weeks to complete and involved the following:

  1. Getting on the schedule of the tire department at the farmers co-op, in the middle of one of the service’s chronic “we all quit” cycles, not once but twice.
  2. Having the tire rim returned because it was too rusted to support a tube.
  3. Sanding and scraping the rim back into shape so it would hold the tube without puncturing it.
  4. Searching for and ordering a new replacement tire, at a savings of $100 over the co-op’s price.
  5. Bringing the tire and the rim back to the co-op, and shelling out another $50 to have the tire mounted.
  6. Bringing the new tire and tube on the old rim back to the farm.
  7. Putting the tire back on the manure spreader.
  8. Moving the spreader to the front of the barn, ready for action.

Which is where it sits. Because last week we were blessed with a string of beautiful cool and dry days, so I took advantage and spent each day catching up on the mowing and weed-eating around the farm. Now, thanks to all of that work, I can see clearly the spreader and also my new, hefty pile of wood chips. But alas, it is now hay cutting season. Perhaps I’ll be cleaning the barn in October?

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Reading this week: On The Border With Crook (J. Bourke). The Seven Ranges: ground zero for the staging of America (W. Hoyt)

A Slug, a Spider, a Cave Cricket

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There was a lot to laugh at. After all, making fun of young adults is a legitimate sport that offers plenty of excellent targets. And long after they left, we continued to find humor in their manner of leaving. Still, perhaps I should offer some mild applause for their determination, albeit short-lived, to give farming a try.

But before I recount their story, let us roll back the clock to the beginning of last week, when we reached out to a farm volunteer from NYC who was due to arrive this past Wednesday for a weeklong stint. The young biochemistry major had contacted us some time ago through WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) and had seemed enthused about our host profile and posted expectations.

Come last Sunday, I emailed him a detailed list of projects he would either assist with or complete himself. (Setting down tasks is what I do; it helps me map out the best use of my time and that of the volunteer.) No reply. I texted him, still nothing. Wednesday came and went and no volunteer. We’d been ghosted.

This turned out to be a good thing. Thursday afternoon Cindy received an email from a young couple from Chicago: “We’ve had a problem with our car and will not arrive until around 10 p.m. tonight.” Who? What? WTF! A quick check of the WWOOF site showed a detailed chain of emails from a couple of months back with this same couple. The chain clearly spelled out that they were to arrive on the 5th for a 10-day stay, and that we had agreed to the dates. Thank goodness WWOOFer No. 1 had ghosted us — the tiny apartment we offer to volunteers and other guests would have been a little too cozy for three.

We sprang into action. I hustled to clean the apartment while Cindy laundered the linens. Within a couple of hours, we were ready for WWOOFers No. 2. The apartment itself is in a separate building. It consists of one room and a bath, with no kitchen. The walls are painted; the concrete floor is not. It is equipped with a double bed and dresser, a window AC, and an overhead fan. The place is not rustic (many hosts simply offer space for a tent or a loft in the haybarn in the way of accommodations), but neither is it plush. Everyone who has stayed in it has done so without complaint. Satisfied guests even include the volunteer who, while sitting on the toilet, watched as a black rat snake poked its head out under the vanity doors. (He mentioned it casually, much later, as if he had spotted a beloved pet on the loose.)

Around 10:30 Thursday night the couple from Chicago arrived on the farm. I was outside, waiting by the beehives, to meet and greet. Once I had them situated in their home-away-from-home, having told them I’d see them at breakfast in the morning, I left them to get settled in.

The young man was typical in both build and appearance, dressed casually in T-shirt and jeans. The young woman, on the other hand, had an impossibly neat coif and was smartly dressed. Walking back to the house, I already had misgivings. Ten days of trying to give directions to this city gal was going to be a challenge. Time would tell, I thought. I didn’t yet know just how little time would be needed for their story to unfold.

Friday morning I arose around 5:30 and walked down the driveway to close the gates before letting the dogs out. You know how you can drive by a house and sense that it’s unoccupied, how a vacant house has a vibe different than one where people reside? The apartment had that feel. It was a good hundred yards away, and I could hear the AC still running. In the early morning darkness, I could not see if the car was parked in front of the door. Yet I could sense a change.

Back at the house, coffee in hand, I checked email before sitting down to read a book. A middle of the night missive from the young couple as they began their long trek back to Chicago was in my inbox:

“The accommodations just weren’t what we were expecting. We probably seem like stuck up city dwellers, but we just couldn’t handle the spiders, the slug outside the door, and the cave cricket in the bathroom. The farm is gorgeous, and we regret to inform you of our early departure, but after killing everything, we still just felt too uncomfortable there. Thank you again for considering us for the opportunity. We apologize for the inconveniences we’ve caused. We wish y’all well.”

I can’t help but wonder what they’d have done if they had seen “Reggie” the black rat snake!

Sometimes things do turn out for the best. Ten days of asking the squeamish to squish potato bugs and check for freeloading ticks before sitting down to breakfast, beat back fencerows of briars to earn the right to a lovely dinner, shovel barnfuls of manure before settling in for a good night’s rest — none of it was meant to be if they couldn’t first deal with a cave cricket.

Farming is not for sissies, and we work the volunteers hard. But if one is so disengaged from the natural world as to fear a slug, a spider, and a cave cricket, then best to retreat to the cloistered urban tower. While doing so, though, offer up some prayers that the economy always stays strong, growth is eternal, and others will do the necessary work of interacting for you with the world outside, putting food on your table while you dine in your bug-free condo.

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Reading this week: The Seven Ranges (W. Hoyt) and The Coldest Case (M. Walker). The latter is a weak addition to the Bruno mystery series.