tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80909648446491749452024-03-13T17:39:09.162-07:00Random Living on a North Woods FarmThe Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-16910771596805667472018-02-18T13:20:00.000-08:002018-02-19T07:11:56.346-08:00Wanderings and illusions<h4>
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The whole thing's illusion, [Jacob], and there's nothing wrong with that. It's what people want from us. It's what they expect.” </h4>
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― Sara Gruen<br />
<i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/43641.Water_for_Elephants?from_search=true">Water for Elephants</a></i></h4>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">I am just learning how to
knit in my old age. It never fails to amaze me what people can do with sticks
and a couple of strings. </span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">I make lots of mistakes. And when I make mistakes, I
tend to spend time wandering around Ravelry and the Blogosphere. I guess that's
appropriate since according to <a href="https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/robyn_davidson_704976?src=t_wandering">Robyn Davidson</a>, the French word for wanderlust
or wandering is 'errance.' The etymology is the same as 'error.' So to wander
is to make mistakes. In other words, to make mistakes, to make errors is sort
of the idea of learning through trial and error, allowing the mistakes to be
part of the process. </span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">Anyway, one wander led me to a website called<a href="http://www.illusionknitting.woollythoughts.com/"> IllusionKnitting.</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">The
art that they were able to knit was amazing, so I decided to try my hand at one
of their easiest designs. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/illusion-maple-leaves" style="color: #666666;"><span style="color: windowtext; margin: 0px;">Illusion
Maple Leaves</span></a> by Steve Plummer</span><br />
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When the knitting was done, I mounted it on a piece of mdf board using Velcro
as they recommended. Then I went out and split a piece of punky popple firewood
and wood burned it, then polyed it. Next, I took some left over yarn and
knotted an I-cord and stapled it all together.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0px;">Here is the end result:</span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I am pretty pleased with it and have a couple of ideas for different things. Hooray for errance!</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span></h4>
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The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-5775300180115724842018-02-10T10:13:00.000-08:002018-02-10T10:13:01.953-08:00Bread, Wild Rice and Cranberries<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "StanleyRegular","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">“How can a nation be great if its bread tastes like Kleenex?”</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
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After a long hiatus, I’ve decided to start blogging again.
We unexpectedly sold our farm, lived for a year on the Makah Reservation on the
tip of the Olympic Peninsula where my wife had a job as a Nurse Practitioner,
and then moved back to northern Wisconsin.</div>
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A lot has happened. And I may try to catch up on some of it
in future blogs.</div>
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But for now, I’ll just start with a no-knead bread recipe.
Valentines day is coming up. Q: What did the baking husband give his wife for
Valentines Day? A: Flours.</div>
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Our Rhinelander Kwik Trip gas station sells a commercial cranberry
wild rice bread that we enjoy quite a bit. Since northern Wisconsin is home to
both wild rice and cranberries, I thought I’d try our own version.</div>
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Wild rice grows everywhere in the
Little Rice Lake Flowage and can be harvested with a permit from the DNR. The
Chippewa (Ojibwa) word for wild rice is Manoomin and its harvest in the fall is
a tradition, so locally harvested rice is readily available (<a href="https://theways.org/story/manoomin">https://theways.org/story/manoomin</a>). <span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Since 1995, </span>Wisconsin has produced the largest crop of cranberries -- currently, about 57% of the United States' total production. Massachusetts fell from first to second largest producer in 1995, and currently produces another 23-30%. And wild cranberries grow in a bog within easy walking distance
of our front door, and fresh, frozen, or dried cranberries are available year
round.</div>
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This recipe is based on a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">French Peasant Bread</b> recipe that my wife first got from a colleague
while working on the Navajo reservation in New Mexico. It is easy, and can be
made start to finish in an afternoon. </div>
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First boil the wild rice for 30 min in three parts water to
one part rice. Then in a separate mixing bowl, add a tablespoon of dry yeast, a
teaspoon of salt, and a tablespoon of sugar to two cups of warm water. Mix and
let it proof, if you want to make certain that the yeast is awake and happy. Then
add four cups of bread flour, about 2/3 cup each of cooked wild rice and dried
cranberries. </div>
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Mix it with a spoon <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>until it is all wet and sticky pasty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(No need to knead and spread flour dust
everywhere). Spray a rising bowl with cooking spray (olive or canola), add the
dough. Then spray the top of the dough, cover with a dishtowel, and let rise
for 1.5 hrs. (In the winter, we keep our house on the cool side: 64 degrees F.
I place a cereal bowl of water in our microwave and blast it for 3 min on high,
then keeping the bowl in place and put in the covered dough bowl to rise.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next spray a couple of bread bowls or a loaf
pan, spatula in the dough, and spray the tops again. Put it back in the
microwave for about 30-40 minutes. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F. Bake the
bread for 15 min, then reduce the temp to 375 degrees F, and bake 20 more min.
We love the bread toasted for breakfast or a snack.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhmoY1FHbIGahyVCbEOknLMrf04jhWBRKldyMITrXN1jTYjCpLXM3TAlL_AovYEJOwz27SasS2DoQHQm8XkUC0frhZcd-nyxbbuCJoTjqSkd0Vl5K3DJg3_6ln8MaKYe31dwdb4WS7PWA/s1600/wrcr+bread+1+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhmoY1FHbIGahyVCbEOknLMrf04jhWBRKldyMITrXN1jTYjCpLXM3TAlL_AovYEJOwz27SasS2DoQHQm8XkUC0frhZcd-nyxbbuCJoTjqSkd0Vl5K3DJg3_6ln8MaKYe31dwdb4WS7PWA/s400/wrcr+bread+1+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Another favorite is to add fresh or dried rosemary with or
without garlic in place of the wild rice and cranberries. Rosemary is the one
herb that we have been consistently been able to overwinter inside the house.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YrfcVYWrSqnV0R9tFvKLRS8d-3NUoteZkBy43nUeoTI2LOSrMGmTrjMyiYJAhAZaRt9jp3gWf9_ye_fbZ948_-YxMPOKhQCWd0D_mwMESvlqpXmXjraz5vEJJmNhxjbj9xcX4miYjLEm/s1600/rosemary+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YrfcVYWrSqnV0R9tFvKLRS8d-3NUoteZkBy43nUeoTI2LOSrMGmTrjMyiYJAhAZaRt9jp3gWf9_ye_fbZ948_-YxMPOKhQCWd0D_mwMESvlqpXmXjraz5vEJJmNhxjbj9xcX4miYjLEm/s400/rosemary+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Experiment and enjoy.</div>
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Let me know how you
and yours like it.</div>
<br />The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-14768517569362305912010-12-31T11:37:00.000-08:002010-12-31T11:37:19.653-08:00Hachi and Patsy Ann<!--[if !mso]> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults v:ext="edit" spidmax="1031"/> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout v:ext="edit"> <o:idmap v:ext="edit" data="1"/> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;">There are certain films that I can no longer watch.<span> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;">For instance, every Christmas season, Deb just can’t refrain from gazing across the room on a cold winter’s eve and saying, “Hey, Tough Guy! How’s about you and me sitting down and watching <i>It’s a Wonderful Life</i>?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;">I’ve learned to get up and stare out the window, and say, “You know Sweetie, I’d love to, but Jack and I found a bear den the other day. I think the conditions are perfect for me to go out and crawl into that hole to see if I can actually tap a bear on it’s rump with my bare hand without waking it up this time.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;">“Come on. Admit it. You’d rather risk life and limb than sit here sobbing in front of the television.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;">All I can do at that point is cast a withering glance in her direction, put on my heavy duty bomb proof ice fishing clothes, and go out and hug the goats, llamas and horses for the next 130 minutes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;">Well, darn. There’s a new kid on the DVD block.<span> </span>It’s called Hachi, and if you haven’t seen it, then, when your wife rents it, consider coming on over and we’ll do a little North Woods Bear Tapping.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsD1o7YonuuUtmkCcmWVjzimNb_-9LBzbaXJwFFQUTSGa_AOl4YDsaxyZlHTsTd2sEWd8wqVs622LA3NbRGRUitscLNSeJVeMwzd45abT5aKKs0aLQAK0aq3dHK7YtchmY7kwbw02xDhl-/s1600/Hachi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsD1o7YonuuUtmkCcmWVjzimNb_-9LBzbaXJwFFQUTSGa_AOl4YDsaxyZlHTsTd2sEWd8wqVs622LA3NbRGRUitscLNSeJVeMwzd45abT5aKKs0aLQAK0aq3dHK7YtchmY7kwbw02xDhl-/s400/Hachi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;">The story is about an Akita that greets its owner at the train station every day after work, and when the owner dies, Hachi continues his daily vigil for ten years after that. The film takes place in the U.S., but the real Hachi and his master lived in Japan in the 1920’s. Today there is a bronze statue of Hachi outside the Shibuya train station in commemoration of his undying loyalty. </div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> </span> <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;">This reminded me of another dog statue that we saw in Juneau, Alaska. It honors Patsy Ann, “The Official Greeter of Juneau.”<span> </span>A Bull Terrier, born in Portland, Oregon in1929, she and her owner came to Juneau as a pup. <span style="color: black;">Patsy Ann was stone deaf from birth, but she somehow "heard" the whistles of approaching ships long before they came into sight, and headed at a fast trot for the wharf. And she was never wrong. Once, a crowd was given erroneous information and gathered at the wrong dock. Patsy Ann glanced at the crowd, sighed, then turned and trotted to the correct dock to wait.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRyyehkegkvuMIKLQUsz-IlUZrmsAjTRhoDBgpeVEBxKPHba-b1d5ltyH0MiFbXTLLD1Dd0nHcvkYnJc-J_T3SF-MVBq1bs6GK7uwRyifp67yBT7xgAppRarAPzneuVmhwLRDh6cmEHAL/s1600/patsy-ann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRyyehkegkvuMIKLQUsz-IlUZrmsAjTRhoDBgpeVEBxKPHba-b1d5ltyH0MiFbXTLLD1Dd0nHcvkYnJc-J_T3SF-MVBq1bs6GK7uwRyifp67yBT7xgAppRarAPzneuVmhwLRDh6cmEHAL/s400/patsy-ann.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span style="color: black;"> </span>She died in 1942. On the following day, a small crowd watched as her coffin was lowered into Gastineau Channel. Her sculpture now sits, watching and waiting with eternal patience, whether shrouded in fog, bathed in sunshine or covered with snow.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SzWQ01Pk0NqTLW9_JAc1Iu2YbWY8aaDOVXdcl60cwQag5IvHOgiXQBJiacdY6O5zUxj-4CMkLPZJ7kDG5Ibf2hyphenhyphenukopPHmSES85CjHORONMf6z0VREVXMbsBxi7gTzH42OiSOU-qKK1D/s1600/4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SzWQ01Pk0NqTLW9_JAc1Iu2YbWY8aaDOVXdcl60cwQag5IvHOgiXQBJiacdY6O5zUxj-4CMkLPZJ7kDG5Ibf2hyphenhyphenukopPHmSES85CjHORONMf6z0VREVXMbsBxi7gTzH42OiSOU-qKK1D/s640/4.jpg" width="473" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UyGkkJ98ngI1Tv4U20cfh_sbHeYjYxBYVplhswBOalwMJz2bIjCcNvsbtKk9FBYEpdPRsVU8r5p7Kdj45rMVPcr3lm7s5tqgxI3GeRj5qwBE_vCljumKouN-j7SFZcmT2DJxNhr10rQ7/s1600/DSCN0088.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UyGkkJ98ngI1Tv4U20cfh_sbHeYjYxBYVplhswBOalwMJz2bIjCcNvsbtKk9FBYEpdPRsVU8r5p7Kdj45rMVPcr3lm7s5tqgxI3GeRj5qwBE_vCljumKouN-j7SFZcmT2DJxNhr10rQ7/s400/DSCN0088.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8763tt0vLFvdPx3tWJ9LRnXZJYP9b3o5AivkZ2zwOZQdj34FYivlqZ2kJc-QEXJ2lAehAN1H1PNohtJHI4WpYG8uENYLLR8XWK5D-q53IO0kyqcvvoMlosL2jxV470SWSsodaEAP9wI6/s1600/cb957c93c1c1213a1f6c399a19fd4a21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8763tt0vLFvdPx3tWJ9LRnXZJYP9b3o5AivkZ2zwOZQdj34FYivlqZ2kJc-QEXJ2lAehAN1H1PNohtJHI4WpYG8uENYLLR8XWK5D-q53IO0kyqcvvoMlosL2jxV470SWSsodaEAP9wI6/s400/cb957c93c1c1213a1f6c399a19fd4a21.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"> She died in 1942. On the following day, a small crowd watched as her coffin was lowered into Gastineau Channel. Her sculpture now sits, watching and waiting with eternal patience, whether shrouded in fog, bathed in sunshine or covered with snow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span> </span>The other day, I watched a NOVA special on dogs, and there is a theory that human civilization could not have advanced without dogs. Evidently, wherever there are human remains, there is also evidence of dogs, and they think that without dogs to keep vigil over livestock and crops, mankind could not have advanced past the hunter gatherer stage. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;">Did you know that the Latin term for being faithful and loyal is <i>fidēlis</i><span>? That is why you are supposed to name your dog Fido.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span>Well, I have four Fidos, all of which are pretty darned loyal, but it’s hard to imagine one more attentive and loyal than our old Aussie, Sprocket. She’s kind of on a downhill slide, but her spirit is unfailing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span>When she dies, I don’t know that I’ll be commissioning any bronze statues, or scripting any Indie films about her life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span>One thing is for sure, though. If a film were ever made about her, I’d have to try to find every winter bear den in Forest County. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQm05x83hNIrli0GaitK_mXV8Tqzp6OKXaTRNmsewy4b_7lm6EKkUWLFcLu3SaoqOFM1vC7xFTcd_M0AwiAHaJ-TWa6jjigT_47pSmGzH_DHEBEu6dNPvMOvsIvJwMB8VHpFSuHnnS3EA/s1600/sprocket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQm05x83hNIrli0GaitK_mXV8Tqzp6OKXaTRNmsewy4b_7lm6EKkUWLFcLu3SaoqOFM1vC7xFTcd_M0AwiAHaJ-TWa6jjigT_47pSmGzH_DHEBEu6dNPvMOvsIvJwMB8VHpFSuHnnS3EA/s400/sprocket.jpg" width="395" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span>P.S.: Don’t even get me started on <i>Old Yeller</i> or <i>The Yearling.</i></span></div>The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-10856621365861282402009-09-14T21:08:00.000-07:002009-09-14T21:08:55.961-07:00While the Cat's Away...It only happens when you're away.<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Five hundred miles away from the farm. </li>
<li>The first trip that Deb and I have taken together to visit family in Michigan for years.</li>
<li>A cadre of friends and neighbors carefully selected and instructed on the care and nurturing of all of our animals and plants.</li>
<li>Four days into the trip with three days left before our return.</li>
</ul>And the phone rings at my brother's home. <br />
My brother's wife: "Deb, it's Pat for you."<br />
<br />
I hear my wife give a cheerful, "Hi! How are you doing? What's up?"<br />
<br />
"You're kidding, right?"<br />
<br />
"Are the animals safe?"<br />
<br />
"I can't believe it. Did they catch him?"<br />
<br />
"Do they know who did it?" <br />
<br />
"No, tell Jack not to chase any cows."<br />
<br />
"No, we'll fix it when we get home."<br />
<br />
"No, there's nothing you could have done about it. Sorry that it happened on your watch. Thanks for calling."<br />
<br />
By this point, I'm dying. This was not anywhere near as clear as a Bob Newhart telephone monologue. "Deb, what in the world happened?"<br />
<br />
"Some time in the night last night, there was a high speed chase down our country road. A vehicle ended up missing the turn, went through our pasture fence, into the field, and ripped out another hole in the fence on its way out. Pat doesn't know who did it or whether they caught the guy. A neighbor rounded up the horses and llamas, but Jack hasn't seen the cows."<br />
<br />
Based on what I had to say, and on what I thought but left unsaid about the situation, if St. Peter really has a log book with him at the Pearly Gates, he wore out a few erasers wiping out any brownie points I may or may not have had accumulated over this long and sordid life. I was mad. That kind of thing isn't supposed to happen in my little piece of North Woods Paradise.<br />
<br />
When we got home, our neighbor who had rounded up our horses and llamas, had taken photos of the scene and provided them to us on disk. This is what we had greeting us on our arrival home a few days later. The entry point: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJ3bBuLw4IA5bqnFsOdhS6j43Qyzz1WQ83rTqxMJAWmBTYmcDFXNM2svD354Y4WXTBqDR27gfmZGjhAui66hPDOEqF1v007hKkT4_RcKWrtV78uAtL_iviq_VNi7IIMjsseqa0Ytum01R/s1600-h/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJ3bBuLw4IA5bqnFsOdhS6j43Qyzz1WQ83rTqxMJAWmBTYmcDFXNM2svD354Y4WXTBqDR27gfmZGjhAui66hPDOEqF1v007hKkT4_RcKWrtV78uAtL_iviq_VNi7IIMjsseqa0Ytum01R/s320/2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpIcCmttDQs1tiAKdCwuIE9oqL3YV88A4Sj5ABabCYh6W2So1Bt-Ur2SLXYLrsXE5dCTggZhRZ1kxYIZ2uUfQJnT5kGELQA7HMpqbIax-QtCXzaP9SZYQWEVaYIMqUEYwRaOHuSa5qD-i/s1600-h/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpIcCmttDQs1tiAKdCwuIE9oqL3YV88A4Sj5ABabCYh6W2So1Bt-Ur2SLXYLrsXE5dCTggZhRZ1kxYIZ2uUfQJnT5kGELQA7HMpqbIax-QtCXzaP9SZYQWEVaYIMqUEYwRaOHuSa5qD-i/s320/1.jpg" /></a></div>And the exit point.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYWHfYWbsDoCUfkBUCJIwLbmwGqWHhs-1_4zNYMILxXzrW7Yme4E4GHMF_oeanYdJFvXgbVA0x7HI78GzkAfBc50PQ7Q140b1OI_eTPGLa2RIVXIQpo71PBz97nfxdg67bT93XD7AmodE/s1600-h/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSYWHfYWbsDoCUfkBUCJIwLbmwGqWHhs-1_4zNYMILxXzrW7Yme4E4GHMF_oeanYdJFvXgbVA0x7HI78GzkAfBc50PQ7Q140b1OI_eTPGLa2RIVXIQpo71PBz97nfxdg67bT93XD7AmodE/s320/3.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Upon speaking with the County Deputy Sheriff, we learned that the high speed chase had started miles away when he tried to pull over a pickup truck for speeding. The chase extended into the next county where the driver pulled off into a logging road that the Deputy could not get down. They didn't catch the guy that night.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, our trusty fence ripped some pieces from the truck, including the license plate. So the Deputy was able to find the owner, who just happened to have a warrant out for his arrest before the chase for nonpayment of child support,but who naturally claimed that his vehicle had been stolen that night, and who "lawyered up" after having been read his Miranda rights, so we could not find out whether he has any insurance to cover our damages. The state victim assistance program also has no funds for covering property damage.<br />
<br />
So we will have to foot the bill for new fencing. It was previously woven wire that got bent and stretched out of shape much beyond the two holes, so now we are replacing at least half the fenceline with cattle panels attached to much more closely spaced posts. The new fence may not stop a speeding truck, but it may do more damage and slow it down some. Whether we see any compensation will have to await trial and jail time.<br />
<br />
At least the animals were uninjured.... by the vehicle at least. The horses, while out broke down a section of the neighbor's fence trying to get to their horses, again without any major injury. The cows were safe and sound in a different pasture on our property.<br />
<br />
But in the new paddock where the horses were put, our little Arabian filly decided to investigate a passing porcupine and got a face full of quills:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5df5pChIRBIbXkmhsdHUHlvPbIsT_whfpFVuJTx4Y-JvgEAx_IKZ3UctGEOuwXkxZyZr6fhgopCtoYc5TLgcHlKJcPtXj4wDH8m66LBXLqrtfu4o5hb2-zglc1ZhqS5eoFUL5qA2BQMS/s1600-h/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5df5pChIRBIbXkmhsdHUHlvPbIsT_whfpFVuJTx4Y-JvgEAx_IKZ3UctGEOuwXkxZyZr6fhgopCtoYc5TLgcHlKJcPtXj4wDH8m66LBXLqrtfu4o5hb2-zglc1ZhqS5eoFUL5qA2BQMS/s320/4.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We were able to extricate two from her face before she decided that she had enough of that. So add in the costs of an emergency vet visit to have the horse tranquilized for the remainder of the process. The vet said that the good thing is that unlike dogs, he has never had to pull quills out of a horse's face more than once.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All in all, I guess it could have been much worse. After I get the fence mended and the bank repaid, all I will have to do is try working on ever so slowly re-accumulating those lost brownie points. </div>The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-30182027565970770852009-09-04T11:43:00.000-07:002009-09-04T11:45:31.053-07:00Hemingway and Our CatsLast Spring we had a new addition to our feline family, little miss Polly. She was an extra barn cat from a friend's place. What enamored us to her was the fact that she had seven toes on all of her feet, front and hind. It's not too unusual to have extra toes on either the front or back, but it is rare to have extras on all four feet. The term for extra digits is polydactyly, hence her name: Polly. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-jjkrjal4U4l6HckRhlHkQ9e83cPy5Df6ciyosWkEHofEE3Nc0YCMbvloC_AsG24akUVYsUezyZU7BlLlZdZ4lXEG2BK8xpm7wdm9AUkicjANfwDuWU2EDLE7FuRl0x6NxhvklwugLAFR/s1600-h/100_2520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-jjkrjal4U4l6HckRhlHkQ9e83cPy5Df6ciyosWkEHofEE3Nc0YCMbvloC_AsG24akUVYsUezyZU7BlLlZdZ4lXEG2BK8xpm7wdm9AUkicjANfwDuWU2EDLE7FuRl0x6NxhvklwugLAFR/s320/100_2520.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Anyway, while in Columbia, Missouri, last Summer, visiting my daughter and her husband, I mentioned the cat and they told me that Ernest Hemingway had polydactyl cats, and that they have since multiplied down at his museum in the Florida Keys. According to the <a href="http://www.hemingwayhome.com/">website</a>:<br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">"The Ernest Hemingway Home and Museum is home to approximately sixty cats. Normal cats have five front toes and four back toes. About half of the cats at the museum are polydactyl. Ernenst Hemingway was given a six-toed cat by a ship's captain and some of the cats who live on the museum grounds are descendants of that original cat. Key West is a small island and it is possible that many of the cats on the island are related. Our cats are not a partiular breed, but appear to be a combination of various breeds--sort of "Heinz 57" if you will. They are all shapes, sizes, colors and personalities."</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZEGKPJShVhjOw63LcUOOXqvWsJ-dSJfOHpYJYHrI-cWS3EQwkezeyGfjy2raNrQR9hhdxg-9gFtwtosnYpAjeUZ3HaAAcq9Z1ZhjVd_rNCwcaRsqJKMZbneyo6VLmL4fqprh6y8gW69r/s1600-h/hemingway+with+cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZEGKPJShVhjOw63LcUOOXqvWsJ-dSJfOHpYJYHrI-cWS3EQwkezeyGfjy2raNrQR9hhdxg-9gFtwtosnYpAjeUZ3HaAAcq9Z1ZhjVd_rNCwcaRsqJKMZbneyo6VLmL4fqprh6y8gW69r/s320/hemingway+with+cat.jpg" /></a></div><br />
A ship's captain, huh? I never tried taking a cat in the boat fishing with me, but I'm willing to give it a try. <br />
<br />
Well, those extra toes came in handy. Last winter, Polly flew across the top of the lightest snows with her permanent snow shoes. Some darned old Tomcat must have been hiding behind a snow bank, though. After all of these years of owning cats and faithfully neutering and spaying them, we overlooked spaying Polly. So sure enough, this Spring she gave birth to five kittens.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXP-Nfnph3ahCHZaSBQA0qcAdpTiK1XO7zzYuxBhfUt-V5oXwn9CSS3doC33suQBjk6txoG3SJofZH5BKUDoB1ifpg2Bu6NTmBFC4kWI8c48qJn0ToBC6fbF_YISphUG0rupvoeC_7oHhb/s1600-h/100_2358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXP-Nfnph3ahCHZaSBQA0qcAdpTiK1XO7zzYuxBhfUt-V5oXwn9CSS3doC33suQBjk6txoG3SJofZH5BKUDoB1ifpg2Bu6NTmBFC4kWI8c48qJn0ToBC6fbF_YISphUG0rupvoeC_7oHhb/s320/100_2358.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Some had multiple toes, and others did not.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4bB4gwCkEhpCt0-6AY3J8-WuD1jLnnnwsG1NHxtihPVatRwql7ToJASdlBdfS7tyNACvorJ3KOgmy4ACu_9N1V8XKBxEXRvei0yvm4ydDs-k-nJITpLTaaz1OBr0-4f_sam5E-AvPc57/s1600-h/100_2523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4bB4gwCkEhpCt0-6AY3J8-WuD1jLnnnwsG1NHxtihPVatRwql7ToJASdlBdfS7tyNACvorJ3KOgmy4ACu_9N1V8XKBxEXRvei0yvm4ydDs-k-nJITpLTaaz1OBr0-4f_sam5E-AvPc57/s320/100_2523.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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We had no problem at all finding homes for them, and they were a lot of fun raising to a weaning age, but we definitely were never going to let her have another litter.<br />
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In theory, that is. I guess our little celibacy talk went right in one ear and out the other. Before we knew it, Polly, failed our deluxe pregnancy tester. She no longer fit through the cat door to the basement:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgbYLa1CDMePB9P0redxw7NawJOLKZdDJ9-c0_QYzs20ZKsA31AMOurPXitJ5OQQiYf08wUa36ioWoU74mqKIA-xK2HhEFvD-4pFjfY3I4GJyo_AVBQ9WN7KaGI7Z05TcI62xEMRFDl0z/s1600-h/100_2519.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgbYLa1CDMePB9P0redxw7NawJOLKZdDJ9-c0_QYzs20ZKsA31AMOurPXitJ5OQQiYf08wUa36ioWoU74mqKIA-xK2HhEFvD-4pFjfY3I4GJyo_AVBQ9WN7KaGI7Z05TcI62xEMRFDl0z/s320/100_2519.jpg" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And sure enough, we came home one day to find six more little ones piled up in the dog bed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PQg__9EBCIGGOGL6TLlNWhzgsxORpfM30XKIahSBfY_-IFA3Ll3bBJE_z7QbX8nP33572R9GSqSDy_6xjRHmYxSE5ebjRreTaEaPmoFG8aXsfKLeNJMnOJUwCovjhYAP2rRMeR9yG4ca/s1600-h/100_2516.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PQg__9EBCIGGOGL6TLlNWhzgsxORpfM30XKIahSBfY_-IFA3Ll3bBJE_z7QbX8nP33572R9GSqSDy_6xjRHmYxSE5ebjRreTaEaPmoFG8aXsfKLeNJMnOJUwCovjhYAP2rRMeR9yG4ca/s320/100_2516.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">As an author, Hemingway was prolific... but it was nothing in comparison to his cats. </div>The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-43624899591810490572009-08-15T16:07:00.000-07:002009-08-15T19:08:47.782-07:00Be Careful of What You Wish ForSeveral years ago, we were told about a horse that was looking for a new home. At the time, we simply had our hands full with our own horses, boarded horses, and all of the other sheep, goats, donkeys, cows, a camel, llamas, chickens, geese, dogs and cats. When you own a barn with about 20 stalls and eight paddocks and plenty of pasture, there is a tendency to overdo yourselves with animals in need of a home. With just the two of us we had our hands full. At the time, we decided against taking the horse in. But I have always wondered what it would have been like to take care of this one. It was the first and only <a href="http://www.horsemanshiphorsetrainingtips.com/articles/180/1/American-Bashkir-Curly">Bashkir Curly</a> I have ever come across.<br /><br />They are called Bashkir, because they are said to have originated in a region of Asia called Bashkortostan. (That's a new ...stan to me.)<br /><br />They are called Curly because they have fine, soft ringlets of hair that can get to be several inches long and it can actually be collected, spun and woven. They say that the hair is more closely related to mohair than horse hair. If the Obama girls ever get to a point that they want a pony, these are supposed to be hypoallergenic, too.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ytz8ooZV97SuiavWF4K4M3BaZW5RJDvhfmBDdDl1viI0JbSI2gtbKXXu-b8_zXmDN5WZZW1f6RtDa5PRJpYuOo3Nzdzk8Bwj43wjNgR1wR7jNTUpVGDs8cBbGSG648RVBNiRgPLCE5JY/s1600-h/Bashkir-Curly.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 297px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Ytz8ooZV97SuiavWF4K4M3BaZW5RJDvhfmBDdDl1viI0JbSI2gtbKXXu-b8_zXmDN5WZZW1f6RtDa5PRJpYuOo3Nzdzk8Bwj43wjNgR1wR7jNTUpVGDs8cBbGSG648RVBNiRgPLCE5JY/s400/Bashkir-Curly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370334834126395218" border="0" /></a><br />Yeah, I know. Curlies are kind of goofy looking, but what they lack in looks, they make up for in personality and durability. They are said to be even tempered, calm, friendly and intelligent. They have short, strong backs, very dense leg bones and very dense, hard hooves. Some Endurance Riders swear by them. When their heart and respiratory rates become high with exercise, those rates recover unusually quickly.<br /><br />For a long time, I kind of wished that I would run across another one needing a home.<br /><br />Then look what I got this summer.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXIeMp09Nh5QaTUmcf1EcC_upIoqNQIS-i7Dd_4M_VbXxLZfO9L-QVJZTEgx7MYwslsUxdGrVHA8dtAVg-XTScckkWsU4Qv4XSuFe2uuIyLUWjtDwDynzx2GVKZkrgkLk7dvwWhFJO4bG/s1600-h/100_2503.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXIeMp09Nh5QaTUmcf1EcC_upIoqNQIS-i7Dd_4M_VbXxLZfO9L-QVJZTEgx7MYwslsUxdGrVHA8dtAVg-XTScckkWsU4Qv4XSuFe2uuIyLUWjtDwDynzx2GVKZkrgkLk7dvwWhFJO4bG/s400/100_2503.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370337346990717490" border="0" /></a>Meet Zoey. She looks like a Bashkir Curly, but unfortunately, she's not. Zoey used to live on our farm and has given us some beautiful babies.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYrSNXXUQadnw_8uFkmcijz2UXf-Syy998QjPXWijkQ8bZ5WZ36QcS0OVU0-KyiBlKzNd6kOIEUBzcSr8L9LTILOVEZrpIewlEByeOmIS60SxasW8GdO_jiKrISGmoyliufy9bLBfY9Oej/s1600-h/zoe+and+izzy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYrSNXXUQadnw_8uFkmcijz2UXf-Syy998QjPXWijkQ8bZ5WZ36QcS0OVU0-KyiBlKzNd6kOIEUBzcSr8L9LTILOVEZrpIewlEByeOmIS60SxasW8GdO_jiKrISGmoyliufy9bLBfY9Oej/s400/zoe+and+izzy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370368560661696930" border="0" /></a>Zoey is a mini and was sold to a friend a few years ago when we downsized our livestock operation. Last winter she got into some feed and foundered. Her owner couldn't afford to have her cared for, so we took her back this Spring.<br /><br />We had the farrier out immediately to try to work on her feet. They had become so long that it will take several months' worth of trimming to get her back to normal again. She is still long and more lame than normal.<br /><br />We also waited and waited for her to shed out her winter coat. But she never did. This is not normal. Deb recognized it as a possible sign of Cushing's Disease, and the vet has since verified it.<br /><br />Cushing's Disease is caused by a benign tumor of the pituitary gland. The pituitary regulates the endocrine system, so hormonal, metabolic, and immune problems are symptomatic. Her failure to shed out, and an increased water consumption were the most obvious symptoms. The vet has prescribed a dopamine agonist, Pergolide. She will be on this medicine for the rest of her life.<br /><br />Aside from her improving lameness, she doesn't appear to be in pain. We keep her isolated and on a restricted diet right now. She is a typical mare and lays back her ears squeals at the other horses through the fence when they get too close. Hopefully, we can give her a few more good years of life on our farm...<br /><br />And I can pretend she's my little Bashkir Curly.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-28776240829187893832009-08-10T20:07:00.000-07:002009-08-10T21:10:12.593-07:00North Woods Mosquitoes and BatsDid I ever mention that we have mosquitoes in the North Woods of Wisconsin? Now that we have had some much needed rain, they are out with a vengeance. Actually, during the daytime outside they are not too bad. I attribute that to our farm buildings being pretty open with the West wind blowing over acres of open pasture.<br /><br />It is in the evenings, when dusk settles over the farm and the winds die down that things turn ugly, especially in our old farm house's upstairs bedroom. Trying to read or blog at night can be a pain in the neck. I don't know how they get in, especially so many of them.<br /><br />The sounds at my keyboard are something like: Click, click, click, slap, SLAP.... click, click, ..... Zzzzzzzzzz, swish, slap, swish, clink .... "Shoot. That was the last of the coffee. Darn it. Where are the paper towels?"<br /><br />Did you know that <a href="http://content.wisconsinhistory.org/cdm4/document.php?CISOROOT=/wmh&CISOPTR=44752&CISOSHOW=44674">in the early 1800's malaria was not uncommon in Wisconsin</a>? Thankfully, that isn't the case any more. But late summer is the season for West Nile Virus borne by the buzzing hoard. WNV is nothing to mess with for either man or beast. We can vaccinate the horses against it, but us humans are left to fend for ourselves.<br /><br />So, I've instituted measures to combat the bastions of boudoir bugs. Last year, Deb found a used bug zapper at a garage sale, and we had it hanging out on our back porch for a while. It is the kind with a black light encased in an electrified wire gridwork that electrocutes anything that ventures toward the light. Recently I decided to move it into our bedroom and hang it from a gate pin.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgDfq9DsbwsqFTK8pWqvG0Z9A6yBZb4Ny9NZkk4viFjvVSoiiOe3Fr3yVle7RJ2bjbSRkJSiwWJB5c3h203kR6hEjToeTfPD4JFIK9MKhDTr3NMJn3XRJ_FITm8OfHhtYi_fYnzKhxXq-/s1600-h/bug+zapper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 340px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqgDfq9DsbwsqFTK8pWqvG0Z9A6yBZb4Ny9NZkk4viFjvVSoiiOe3Fr3yVle7RJ2bjbSRkJSiwWJB5c3h203kR6hEjToeTfPD4JFIK9MKhDTr3NMJn3XRJ_FITm8OfHhtYi_fYnzKhxXq-/s400/bug+zapper.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368538222038163090" border="0" /></a><br />Sure enough, every once in a while, I would hear a very satisfying "Gzhzhwhaack".<br /><br />To me, at least, it was satisfying. All cats and dogs have now taken leave of the room whenever the thing is plugged in. Deb always wanted the dogs and cats off the bed at night anyway, I guess. (But I kinda miss them.)<br /><br />Soon I was waking up to a substantial pile of moth wings and other unidentifiable body parts on the bedroom floor under the zapper, which served to add to my daily barn (and now bedroom) cleanup chores.<br /><br />It didn't take long, though, to conclude that the mosquitoes are more attracted to me than to the light. So I did some further research and found that professional scientists trap mosquitoes with dry ice traps. Mosquitoes are attracted to sources of carbon dioxide more than light. That makes sense. That's why I was zapping more moths than mosquitoes. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention use light traps baited with dry ice and claim to catch 65,000 mosquitoes per trap per night in some areas.<br /><br />Now you'd think that a dairy state that makes lots of ice cream would have plenty of readily available dry ice. Maybe so, but there just aren't any dairies or creameries this far north.<br /><br />Then I read that you can use CO2 cylinders instead, but when I went down and told Deb about the exciting news, she put the kibosh on the plan. For some reason, she thinks I was planning on asphyxiating us in our sleep.<br /><br />Well, that left me with a dilemma right back on itchy square one.<br /><br />Then, I was talking to my retired logging buddy, Jack, and he asked me why my arms and cheeks were so lumpy and bloody. I told him that I was having somewhat of a mosquito problem in our bedroom.<br /><br />He said, "You know, my grandpa used to work for the logging companies up here, and would tell me that mosquitoes were a problem in the camps at night until Old Sven was hired on as a camp cook. Sven would take his big 20 gallon cast iron pot and hang it from a tripod out in the middle of the barracks at night. Then he would put about a gallon of ox blood inside and paint the inside with it. Then he'd quickly put a lid on it and beat a hasty retreat. After an hour or so, he'd go back out and the pot would be covered with mosquitoes with their beaks stuck through that pot. All he had to do then was take a ball peen hammer and clinch over their beaks on the inside. He swore those mosquitoes couldn't bother his men anymore."<br /><br />"Jack, I have to admit, there are times that you're more helpful than at others."<br /><br />Then, last night, while sitting at the computer in our bedroom, I thought that I felt a particularly large mosquito swish by my ear.<br /><br />Wrong! It was a big brown bat. All right! A bat in the bedroom!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuYOHdGG1gZesncLmyX40DRsCmyWqUEFmE95POMJsBzAuGoiRVoug1FbgYLF5YvgL2qmfmQ-DOulF6EQpfvbIZ58lOtAMtriXS02ckOxEDtYwQTXpy0a6Cn8gTrQaG-xJuUUAFgyQCkMd/s1600-h/bat+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuYOHdGG1gZesncLmyX40DRsCmyWqUEFmE95POMJsBzAuGoiRVoug1FbgYLF5YvgL2qmfmQ-DOulF6EQpfvbIZ58lOtAMtriXS02ckOxEDtYwQTXpy0a6Cn8gTrQaG-xJuUUAFgyQCkMd/s400/bat+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368538417338159154" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7OK_VKhlrrhcMIkU7Z6-TCgFVbR5VOdnN6-l5Pb9hbpQVMFCgyS7JUPV1XIlKqRohrffUJibnmBMribxk5OdUvNogBDAc1t6igUwbN1U80AeBz6iHkFQtSGHLfwnLV61loL38zeVc3n7/s1600-h/bat+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7OK_VKhlrrhcMIkU7Z6-TCgFVbR5VOdnN6-l5Pb9hbpQVMFCgyS7JUPV1XIlKqRohrffUJibnmBMribxk5OdUvNogBDAc1t6igUwbN1U80AeBz6iHkFQtSGHLfwnLV61loL38zeVc3n7/s400/bat+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368538831016392786" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyYTdxIUDaBlk2QqDFvjmG_k6m4rcz8lb7DcZdQFYko_Tm79pofJN66fFkh5x3m6Wv6icsoMu7doGBgVSsO9BJ9mXmo1okFy5ONyzDH_8pXcErVW5dCHpI_3X-GF5ZzUB0XOFuXWOJCum/s1600-h/bat+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyYTdxIUDaBlk2QqDFvjmG_k6m4rcz8lb7DcZdQFYko_Tm79pofJN66fFkh5x3m6Wv6icsoMu7doGBgVSsO9BJ9mXmo1okFy5ONyzDH_8pXcErVW5dCHpI_3X-GF5ZzUB0XOFuXWOJCum/s400/bat+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368538681022542034" border="0" /></a><br />According to the University of Florida Extension Service, "During the summer, when pregnant and nursing female bats have especially high energy requirements, each bat may consume as much as two thirds of its body weight per night. This would be the equivalent of a 150-pound human consuming 100 pounds of food per day!"<br /><br />I know that some people fear bats, and I know that they can be a big problem if they occupy attics in large numbers. One of my early childhood country life memories was watching my Uncle Orin and Cousin Tom sit out on their back porch with shotguns shooting bats as they emerged from around the chimney.<br /><br />But I lost all fear of bats from my caving days down in Missouri. A ton of bats would fly past us and never once touch us down in those caves.<br /><br />Gazing at bats in flight <a href="http://www.ontis.nl/articles/speleo-articles/1/Chinese%2520Bat.pdf">is said</a> to be a pleasant pastime in China: "Older residents of China cherish their childhood memories of summer evenings when neighbors would sit beneath a tree in their common courtyard, enjoying a cool breeze while chatting and drinking tea. Their children ran around chasing bats that swooped and flitted overhead, some of the more mischievous flinging their shoes at the bats in hopes of catching one. The bats actually seemed to enjoy this game of catch-me-if-you-can."<br /><br />They even dedicated a 1992 stamp to this, entitled "Five Blessings Upon This House".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9X53c8PSEhVKagf4Bqrs2eXuPqvVx56fEE9JpD4IldulPUJ3sB8Yq_VJQj2Waq_BEF5sTJtPs1Xnn0QKqwOyem2XKZf8mkXU4Llit3nu4vHlsZGk_mIOkGIZad6IuvbBKxGDArUcGHxii/s1600-h/five+blessings+stamp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9X53c8PSEhVKagf4Bqrs2eXuPqvVx56fEE9JpD4IldulPUJ3sB8Yq_VJQj2Waq_BEF5sTJtPs1Xnn0QKqwOyem2XKZf8mkXU4Llit3nu4vHlsZGk_mIOkGIZad6IuvbBKxGDArUcGHxii/s400/five+blessings+stamp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368538998003951938" border="0" /></a><br />On that stamp, you see the kids chasing five bats. In Chinese, the word for bat and the word for good luck have the same sound: fu. Wu is the word for five. The five bat Wu Fu symbol appears frequently in Chinese literature and art. Each of the five bats in the symbol represents one of the five elements: earth, air, fire, water, and metal. Or one of the five happinesses: health, wealth, long life, good luck, and tranquility. They even use stylized good luck bats on their postal lottery card.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTksysnekkOiSt-lGU5GdBLgkKMeHcy__F6uvYO0X8DonPL62mjd5DRtH7sEgjwEcrnanJSs_0ehfxMkKBXuAVI_-HqLJYV6yQokEV9Uszn5_2EQE00VqCk6j409MGDkTC0pDwlzYx0PtR/s1600-h/Chinese+lottery+card.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTksysnekkOiSt-lGU5GdBLgkKMeHcy__F6uvYO0X8DonPL62mjd5DRtH7sEgjwEcrnanJSs_0ehfxMkKBXuAVI_-HqLJYV6yQokEV9Uszn5_2EQE00VqCk6j409MGDkTC0pDwlzYx0PtR/s400/Chinese+lottery+card.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368539164214108594" border="0" /></a><br />I didn't have five bats (yet), but at that moment, I was happy accepting any one of the five happinesses from my boudoir bat.<br /><br />But alas and alack, Deb seemed to be of the school of thought that bats and humans should not cohabitate. "Get rid of it. You're going to get rabies if it bites you. The bat droppings transmit histoplasmosis, you know. If you'd just break down and use my Skin-So-Soft, it would put you out of your misery."<br /><br />Aargh. There are certain lines I just will NOT cross. I spent a lot of years building up this tough old hide of mine.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-54622112092231329512009-08-08T07:56:00.000-07:002009-08-08T13:30:37.135-07:00Jules and the Acoma PuebloWe have had two mustangs on our farm. These are wild horses from the Western States that are captured and adopted out by the Bureau of Land Management. They have freeze brands (using cold instead of hot irons) on their necks. To see the brand, one would think that it is some sort of hieroglyphics.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOJLD-KvG8JBOK_5fJu1Bl_XtAjUZl8G2ITRW_ewxAJUzw9AzBQqsCk69hddAyZBwL62Sedr9ShMe05RfqcXWGnEwc0Pq6LBvAVdIRWNzReDUVMGg7uRBXp8OZGlNYEsyW4Co-rjcuupP/s1600-h/mustang+neck+brand.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOJLD-KvG8JBOK_5fJu1Bl_XtAjUZl8G2ITRW_ewxAJUzw9AzBQqsCk69hddAyZBwL62Sedr9ShMe05RfqcXWGnEwc0Pq6LBvAVdIRWNzReDUVMGg7uRBXp8OZGlNYEsyW4Co-rjcuupP/s400/mustang+neck+brand.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367607610587889570" border="0" /></a><br />Actually, the brand approximates the year of the horse's birth and gives an assigned registration number. The information is in an "alpha angle code" in which numbers are assigned to different angles, depending on the direction in which they are pointing, a pretty clever way of conveying a lot of information with only one or two different branding irons.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYL0dt65jA0JFpl4CrL-jTH2oO7UnWZP5QIgRysLNe7OU4hNlj6YxKsYdRxjQOciOXafc85LF1RxHlllEMr6Ga2cdYYEFqOvO4pX4Qyzn6IvXN4ro1o2553bt_Kh85MWqGOOnqET9wSHbg/s1600-h/mustang+freeze1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYL0dt65jA0JFpl4CrL-jTH2oO7UnWZP5QIgRysLNe7OU4hNlj6YxKsYdRxjQOciOXafc85LF1RxHlllEMr6Ga2cdYYEFqOvO4pX4Qyzn6IvXN4ro1o2553bt_Kh85MWqGOOnqET9wSHbg/s400/mustang+freeze1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367607478479645474" border="0" /></a><br />Each State from which the horses are gathered is assigned a range of registration numbers, so you can tell where the horse was captured (for example, 80001-160000 for Arizona, 240001-320000 for Colorado, 0-80000 for Oregon, etc.).<br /><br />About eight years ago, we took on a rescue mustang mare. She came from someone who was using her as a broodmare, and they had rescued her from a place where she had been living with several cows in a junkyard. She had a history of foundering (where the vascular bed between the hoof wall and the underlying cannon bone becomes tender and inflamed leading to lameness). A horse can founder from being ridden or driven too hard on pavement or hard ground (road founder), but more commonly, it arises from a genetic insensitivity to insulin. When we got this mare, she had been bred and gave birth to a foal after we brought her home. The foal went back to the previous owners, and we never had her bred again.<br /><br />We named the mare Jules. Before we ventured into mustangs, we spoke with a mustang owner at the Midwest Horse Fair in Madison, Wisconsin, who swore by them. She told us that mustangs are pretty skittish at first, but if you treat them right, they seem almost grateful to have found a new home and become extremely willing and gentle. That seemed to hold true for both of the mustangs that we have had. But then again, all of our horses are as tame as puppies.<br /><br />Jules was a bay (brown with black mane, tail and socks) with the most beautiful, feminine head and eyes that I have ever seen. What I liked about her was that she had a habit of nickering softly to greet us whenever we came into the barn. She was broken to ride, but we never took her out much because she was tender footed. So she ruled our pastures.<br /><br />The last two winters her founder returned in full force and she suffered pretty badly in the coldest weather. We religiously have the farrier out every eight weeks to trim all of our horses, and he did his best to correct her feet. This past week for the first time, he told us that he didn't think she would recover this time. Her hoof wall was essentially gone so that she was bearing full weight on her soles.<br /><br />So yesterday we had the vet come and give his assessment. He concurred that she would probably never recover. So the decision was made to put her to sleep. I don't know whether you have ever witnessed this, but an overdose of barbiturate is injected, and within a matter of seconds, the horse drops and dies. It appears to be rapid and painless, but it is still hard to watch the life flow out of a friend.<br /><br />I took the tractor out, dug a trench with the front end loader, and buried her out in the back 40 next to the burial site of Roany, Deb's 32 year old gray gelding.<br /><br />Jules was a good horse and we gave her the best care and life that we could. I am not a spiritual person at all, but every once in a while, life seems to send strangely coincidental omens.<br /><br />It turns out that we had the opportunity to travel to the Desert Southwest for a week just last month. While there, we visited the mesa-top Sky City Acoma Pueblo.<br /><br />The Pueblo tribes keep kivas, windowless sacred chambers where religious ceremonies are held. According to most Pueblo legends, the spiritual beings of the world below instructed the people of this world to construct the kiva in the shape of <span style="font-style: italic;">sipapu</span>, the place where humans emerged into the world from their previous existence. Entry to the kiva is from the top, descending a ladder into the kiva, most of which are built into the ground to bring the two worlds closer together.<br /><br />Because the Acoma Pueblo is built on a mesa top, its only source of water is from the rain. So the kiva ladders were built with pointed skyward ends, and the Acoma three-pole ladder is built with a spacer at the top representing a cloud through which the poles pierce to help bring rain.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRhNOZIz3EEvH7wrq5rZ5pe1nTPmvDtsIay-5te7CRxl_jEGOy1qQ49XZZ95U3Ku7jGWWn6rDaSFG288Ke__-YMKqIWAgw1fnLKF5deOX5KNhUBgwbfQADEX7iW-vXOrakEvP5K3yD4tY/s1600-h/Jules+Kiva.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZRhNOZIz3EEvH7wrq5rZ5pe1nTPmvDtsIay-5te7CRxl_jEGOy1qQ49XZZ95U3Ku7jGWWn6rDaSFG288Ke__-YMKqIWAgw1fnLKF5deOX5KNhUBgwbfQADEX7iW-vXOrakEvP5K3yD4tY/s400/Jules+Kiva.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367607311919409426" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">I could have sworn that the day we visited Acoma Pueblo, it was a totally cloudless day.<br />(Is that a horse in the sky?)<br /><br />The night after I buried Jules, we received a much needed rain.<br /><br />Rest in Peace, Jules.<br /></div>The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-13889798895168118762009-07-31T06:29:00.000-07:002009-07-31T07:16:07.929-07:00Downsized hayingBoy, it's been a rough haying season so far. While the country life and messing with farm animals have their fair share of idyllic moments, the lifestyle also has its share of maddening frustrations. I won't even go into the exceptionally cold spring that was followed by a growth-inhibiting dry spell. The vagaries of nature have to be expected sometimes.<br /><br />The big problem this year is equipment failures. A few years ago, after I lost an off-the-farm job, we downsized and sold a 75 horsepower tractor and a good John Deere haybine (a glorified mower that conditions the hay by crimping it so that it will dry faster). I also stopped traveling around the countryside with my haying partner who had a decent Gehl round baler, leaving me with no baler at all. The price of gas and diesel last year was making the cost of putting up our own hay in quantities adequate to supply a marketable beef cattle herd along with our horses, llamas and goats through the long North Woods winter simply uneconomical.<br /><br />Debra and I decided to try to hay off about 25 acres of our own pasture and cut down on the size of our hay-burning livestock herd. With such small acreage to harvest, we decided to buy a good smaller tractor and some very old used haying equipment, including a sickle bar mower, an ancient rusty side-delivery rake, and an old square baler.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRJs0xy3JeGTm-oo7Pctq4JJdW6LjLJUplsJxW9M5V38PIcQvKkzx7T6y0jLHxWkt8VevKlpFPzScFgxEpcM2sPbUePNbJE3bRzD5eyFxOurMtrpwLETn60BdndjUZ3THJ66LLn2sv0NX1/s1600-h/100_2474.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRJs0xy3JeGTm-oo7Pctq4JJdW6LjLJUplsJxW9M5V38PIcQvKkzx7T6y0jLHxWkt8VevKlpFPzScFgxEpcM2sPbUePNbJE3bRzD5eyFxOurMtrpwLETn60BdndjUZ3THJ66LLn2sv0NX1/s400/100_2474.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364621560132069602" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbMdwV0FcOmSXX0NXUcMXNud_xdNGMnmZ1PSofmxCxAyjWJzujSCVfq7g69XM0Wqt1lfplgdsM7r9sRm5pvQEIOnkZYtKCsyw1ypdHjx5iWP_U6O5IirKZBRJHgB2alVvbaelhboOYDle/s1600-h/100_2468.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbMdwV0FcOmSXX0NXUcMXNud_xdNGMnmZ1PSofmxCxAyjWJzujSCVfq7g69XM0Wqt1lfplgdsM7r9sRm5pvQEIOnkZYtKCsyw1ypdHjx5iWP_U6O5IirKZBRJHgB2alVvbaelhboOYDle/s400/100_2468.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364619501275704418" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72WRbb-E-eg2bcXb8xahogR9gJO42pBXYkcXqWxyFKeOk8m3e07iVAPxL2fSu1ePaYobRejWeUCNNs_Q12uXyzcjbpBvZO7xwitMqBVLFi_nQyPAVBle2MPZbMLNMPJ7SyudwVW9BH8gk/s1600-h/100_2477.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72WRbb-E-eg2bcXb8xahogR9gJO42pBXYkcXqWxyFKeOk8m3e07iVAPxL2fSu1ePaYobRejWeUCNNs_Q12uXyzcjbpBvZO7xwitMqBVLFi_nQyPAVBle2MPZbMLNMPJ7SyudwVW9BH8gk/s400/100_2477.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364619306984206274" border="0" /></a><br />When I was growing up, I had heard that you could always tell the successful farmers that were in it for the long haul from those doomed to failure simply by looking at the equipment in their fields. The ones most likely to succeed were said to be those using the oldest equipment on diversified crops. Those taking the plunge into huge acreage monoculture with the most modern expensive equipment were asking for big debt trouble.<br /><br />So I figured it was about time I put this theory to the test. We got ten bales out of the field while testing the equipment, and too much hay cut and laying down when the equipment started falling apart. That downed hay will be good for nothing but bedding if we can ever get it baled and in the barn.<br /><br />Boy, am I ever getting a lesson in breaking rusty bolts, knocking out leaking and worn bearings, replacing universal joints, facing the impossibility of buying parts that are obsolete and no longer available, and trying to fabricate parts that will substitute in their stead. So far the sickle bar mower has broken 4 times, and the gear box and drive shaft on the rake are currently in pieces.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwXMDXELFvPbGA9j9F9t2ylHQiEtzZOx4ezq2T4jwuBXxz7e8qzcKFFbyaqq99oooR_LnJKJ7Mg75Tp_Un7KgXInDBKo6s52y6jzdP6v0Y209PgvWuN4dGe6IQ8knQFzxlKwMtDhFg_bz8/s1600-h/100_2469.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwXMDXELFvPbGA9j9F9t2ylHQiEtzZOx4ezq2T4jwuBXxz7e8qzcKFFbyaqq99oooR_LnJKJ7Mg75Tp_Un7KgXInDBKo6s52y6jzdP6v0Y209PgvWuN4dGe6IQ8knQFzxlKwMtDhFg_bz8/s400/100_2469.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364619083036408178" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHMppNlzwuXrI7OuONZROfbJiYzv6Hb1yUxWy745NpsmpuyvPNd6KaEs0IqGIDI_DWKfMdo6CFU_yBuqwxRDCppz1RICceLzEuWBS-WN6w0Eit1_D1V0XACPJvV5mwgFOTpKvqhgaelEX/s1600-h/100_2472.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHMppNlzwuXrI7OuONZROfbJiYzv6Hb1yUxWy745NpsmpuyvPNd6KaEs0IqGIDI_DWKfMdo6CFU_yBuqwxRDCppz1RICceLzEuWBS-WN6w0Eit1_D1V0XACPJvV5mwgFOTpKvqhgaelEX/s400/100_2472.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364618744725979810" border="0" /></a><br />Thank goodness Jack, my summer fishing buddy, is around to help. He has spent years in the woods repairing logging equipment, and can pretty much tell how something must be put together before it is even taken apart. He is also much less shy with the hammer and cold chisel than I am, and has been able to convince old, ungreased, oxidation-fused metal to yield to his wishes with much more success. Hopefully, we can get things up and running again before the snow flies.<br /><br />Time will tell how this noble experiment with restored farm equipment works. Thus far, I am tempted to believe an old billboard that I once saw down in the Ozarks of Missouri. It was advertising recreational boating equipment and read: "Buy the best... and only cry once!"<br /><br />Oh, well. My new mantra is: "At least I'm not paying interest... not paying interest... no interest... no debt... no interest..."<br /><br />I just have to prevent this mantra from evolving into "... no interest... no interest... no interest <span style="font-style: italic;">in farming!</span>"The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-39296775474742425242009-07-10T07:45:00.000-07:002009-07-10T11:58:47.463-07:00A New Lake, Ospreys and EaglesMy wife and Pat had plans for convening a local conclave of fellow "Goat Ladies" at Pat's place yesterday afternoon to exchange stories and information. So Jack and I decided to go fishing.<br /><br />Jack took his boat. It's an old 14 foot aluminum v-hull with a 10 horse Evinrude motor that he had salvaged and repaired. He has it rigged with an anchor made of five old double hung window sash weights wired together. That anchor holds us in place in a good stiff breeze. The vessel is just right for two grumpy old men, but would be an insult for those guys with their 200 horsepower engines on their metal-flake fiberglass boats that I call bass bullets with their fully equipped electronic geostationary satellite positioning devices and "you can't hide from me" fish locators.<br /><br />Anyway, Jack took us to a lake that I had never been to before--- Jungle Lake.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA5Y6W3OiQAUBQc8rY2lI3rsQQt-XdsBW_QeUBSO8MVunzvEl1iBajNWDB3qVVLJX9pm9zvdHqMX7ToBAF6S1VQBrpkbuwOe1cJt7-VAYSHBC0BGMsUlShQKanqA43DO4Lt2OSYjJwxQCZ/s1600-h/Jungle+Lake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 338px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA5Y6W3OiQAUBQc8rY2lI3rsQQt-XdsBW_QeUBSO8MVunzvEl1iBajNWDB3qVVLJX9pm9zvdHqMX7ToBAF6S1VQBrpkbuwOe1cJt7-VAYSHBC0BGMsUlShQKanqA43DO4Lt2OSYjJwxQCZ/s400/Jungle+Lake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356855350437901442" border="0" /></a>It was a gorgeous setting. Very few homes on the shore. Crystal clear water. Surrounded by forest. And we were the only ones on the water that day. The fish were biting pretty slowly, but steadily enough to keep things interesting. We ended up with our limit of bluegill, perch, sunfish, and rock bass. We also caught a few largemouth bass, but threw them back.<br /><br />The real highlight of the day, though was the birds. A solo loon serenaded us throughout the day and was diving all around the boat. That loon call is as significant to my northwoods summers as the first robin song is to spring. I love it. For anyone who has never heard the loon's tremolos, wails, yodels and hoots, go <a href="http://www.michiganloons.org/vocalizations.htm">here</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_OfwIHt_Kg7SPp4XpP-sD_2PcCIOa9SPMCxsyXfiAR7-qbtkr-96zvrK2Y9fEVrpucocYkcAdk-cVJEtLfEqIhbS_VqChp0sZbba8j5b_aNl5tsyuK2-uC9w8UiMTVE_pMS6gLLWM2zs1/s1600-h/loon+face.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 375px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_OfwIHt_Kg7SPp4XpP-sD_2PcCIOa9SPMCxsyXfiAR7-qbtkr-96zvrK2Y9fEVrpucocYkcAdk-cVJEtLfEqIhbS_VqChp0sZbba8j5b_aNl5tsyuK2-uC9w8UiMTVE_pMS6gLLWM2zs1/s400/loon+face.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356858431983302002" border="0" /></a>There were also two big ospreys out fishing for most of the day. They soar high over the water peering down for fish near the surface that they can swoop down and nab. It's amazing to me that they can not only pick out a fish from so high, especially when there is a good rippling wave on the water, but that they can tell that it is swimming close enough to the surface for them to hit when they stab for it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TmGfoQPOmlWb7FSjin13YVNL8d6r_lV9Q7lhvun-FKFlYxkR-f5qZGJ8Ylsh-r_UeoazIZaRN3n1UEVbbTaVjLMCyNtDtREUpeeiz0eWwZHxv_b5YFCMJqCPyJSg6rCfe4HOrXj92sjH/s1600-h/Osprey+in+flight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3TmGfoQPOmlWb7FSjin13YVNL8d6r_lV9Q7lhvun-FKFlYxkR-f5qZGJ8Ylsh-r_UeoazIZaRN3n1UEVbbTaVjLMCyNtDtREUpeeiz0eWwZHxv_b5YFCMJqCPyJSg6rCfe4HOrXj92sjH/s400/Osprey+in+flight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356862305161150834" border="0" /></a><br />At one point, one had come to a hovering stand still about 30 feet over a spot in the water.<br /><br />Jack said, "Hey, it looks like he's spotted one."<br /><br />And we both watched as it rocketed down and splashed, only to emerge with its talons full.<br /><br />"Yup, he nailed it."<br /><br />But as we watched, it climbed about 15 feet in the air, and the fish dropped back into the water.<br /><br />Simultaneously we both yelled, "Oooooh! It got away," just like it was one of our fishing buddies right there in the boat with us.<br /><br />"Hey look. He's still got one though." And, sure enough, he still had one in his talons. He must have caught two at once. Unbelievable.<br /><br />He circled once, but then started to call out. Normally, they remain pretty quiet when they are fishing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGqaNZzKKfRBVkiOvDZw1w9JI6oIyySXs5-8NXkGqZXv7alc0oo7DZrnSO8QWVOg1A8k12rdf8EoJaVDz_qsmAWduHhEgaCJVGkmR1rjR43bfypFn7X-X4F7KTRGai9bVqQQ81yz5ldh8/s1600-h/Osprey+with+fish.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGqaNZzKKfRBVkiOvDZw1w9JI6oIyySXs5-8NXkGqZXv7alc0oo7DZrnSO8QWVOg1A8k12rdf8EoJaVDz_qsmAWduHhEgaCJVGkmR1rjR43bfypFn7X-X4F7KTRGai9bVqQQ81yz5ldh8/s400/Osprey+with+fish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356863917253105490" border="0" /></a><br />Soon we saw that a mature bald eagle was headed across the water toward him and the osprey was telling it to get the heck out of there. The eagle seemed to chase the osprey for a while, but then it turned its attention to the dropped fish. Sure enough, that eagle swooped down right where the osprey had dropped his catch and popped it out of the water.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqB2W9Fkzdum-nSWmxIggqRrwkAeEna2Ly32gNW4loPH6MRDMD-80p3kPdoVmgFkof5MZjAlPsBjYhcsm9RdmsXGU6XYrIDwMuAnxgfcHdxjUh7diz9GLDviqwnxtuHUP46zPTQ_SUZqdJ/s1600-h/bald_eagle+fishing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqB2W9Fkzdum-nSWmxIggqRrwkAeEna2Ly32gNW4loPH6MRDMD-80p3kPdoVmgFkof5MZjAlPsBjYhcsm9RdmsXGU6XYrIDwMuAnxgfcHdxjUh7diz9GLDviqwnxtuHUP46zPTQ_SUZqdJ/s400/bald_eagle+fishing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356876395004784770" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if !mso]> <style> v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} .shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);} </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:formulas> <v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"> <o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"> </v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:281.25pt;"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\GRAIGE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.png" title=""> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span> Then the eagle flew low over the water across the lake to perch in its pine, and the osprey went off on its way. I hate to inform you of this, but our national bird is a lazy opportunist.<br /><br />I looked over at Jack, and said, "Darned eagle is just like a tourist pushing his way into our favorite fishing spot."<br /><br />To which Jack responded, "Did you ever stop and think that maybe we are the tourists in his fishing spot?"<br /><br />Hmmm.<br /><br /><br />If you've never seen an osprey fish, it would be worth a couple of minutes to view the following National Geographic clip:<br /><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><embed src="http://video.nationalgeographic.com/video/player/flash/syndicatedVideoPlayer.swf" flashvars="vid=osprey" name="flashObj" seamlesstabbing="false" allowfullscreen="true" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/shockwave/download/index.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=ShockwaveFlash" width="400" height="334"></embed></p> <p class="MsoNormal">http://video.nationalgeographic.com/video/player/animals/birds-animals/birds-of-prey/osprey.html</p><br /><br /><br />As usual, I failed to bring a camera on this trip. The links to the images used are:<br /><br />1) Mapquest<br />2) <a href="http://media.canada.com/8d9a9d1e-6779-4dbd-aec5-c4297fad9670/loon300dpi.jpg">Loon</a><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">3) <a href="http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/staticfiles/NGS/Shared/StaticFiles/animals/images/primary/osprey-diving.jpg">Osprey in flight</a><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >4) <a href="http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/staticfiles/NGS/Shared/StaticFiles/animals/images/primary/osprey-diving.jpg">Osprey with fish</a> </span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >5) <a href="http://www.floridaholidayreview.com/i/bald_eagle.jpg">Eagle with fish</a></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ></span></p> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"></p>The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-4347847726699946462009-07-08T06:33:00.000-07:002009-07-08T16:07:18.107-07:00A New Cria and Goat Impossibilities<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjodvFGmqCZJ-bVFHDykDbDKJHupJos4Qag5O8VtAzmR6Mv8m1VBfqKwFO5ds9bIiRGidASpqZQMp6FxcVIsFZFN9yDM7endlR9tEF_WyjmvsE99kTyBtNqcPHMQm54O-YP3I2J0ROEH3-_/s1600-h/100_2408.jpg"></a>We had our last baby of the year. It was born to the most famous llama in the country: our Olivia.<br /><br />My wife named her Olivia. I call her Ollie for short. Famous? Why famous, you ask?<br /><br />Surely you've heard of the Ollie Llama?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjodvFGmqCZJ-bVFHDykDbDKJHupJos4Qag5O8VtAzmR6Mv8m1VBfqKwFO5ds9bIiRGidASpqZQMp6FxcVIsFZFN9yDM7endlR9tEF_WyjmvsE99kTyBtNqcPHMQm54O-YP3I2J0ROEH3-_/s1600-h/100_2408.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjodvFGmqCZJ-bVFHDykDbDKJHupJos4Qag5O8VtAzmR6Mv8m1VBfqKwFO5ds9bIiRGidASpqZQMp6FxcVIsFZFN9yDM7endlR9tEF_WyjmvsE99kTyBtNqcPHMQm54O-YP3I2J0ROEH3-_/s400/100_2408.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356087367083364146" border="0" /></a><br />That shadow on the ground is a new cria. It was pretty dry, but it still had membrane clinging to it at this point.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4gzvYRzpssumNb9N7So_sxPdxHiNK04dyaRsrs6cFifZDqTPxftRoM0nYRncIMVQWNyxoDxgNjmnaicl0AYdh5q01ddlArs3pM4OppBVYUjAo-B-fUe7ODMd8xZJf6jW0T_hTo8cPxasV/s1600-h/100_2413.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 364px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4gzvYRzpssumNb9N7So_sxPdxHiNK04dyaRsrs6cFifZDqTPxftRoM0nYRncIMVQWNyxoDxgNjmnaicl0AYdh5q01ddlArs3pM4OppBVYUjAo-B-fUe7ODMd8xZJf6jW0T_hTo8cPxasV/s400/100_2413.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356087168423836978" border="0" /></a><br />That makes our fifth llama. The stud was our only registered llama. His papers came with the name Joya. We think that it is probably a Spanish name, so we pronounce the J like H. So I gave him his last name: Doin'. So now we walk up to the paddock and call out Joya Doin'.<br /><br />Two years ago, we had a little boy baby, Ollie's first. It was born with a windswept deformity, so all four legs were bent in the same direction as though they were blowing in the wind, kind of like this: (( Three of the legs straightened out, so we named him OK. That stands for Off Kilter. He is now gelded.<br /><br />Last year, we had another boy. His name is Llimpopo. Rudyard Kipling wrote a series of children's stories called the Just So Stories. One of them was about how the elephant got its long trunk. A baby elephant was drinking out of a river when a crocodile grabbed its nose, which got stretched in the ensuing struggle. Maybe elephants have strong necks and weak noses, but llamas have strong noses and weak necks. So when an alligator grabbed the cria by the nose, its neck stretched instead. Maybe. That's what I tell the visiting kids, anyway. Oh.... the name of the river: The Great Grey-green Greazy Limpopo.... hence the name Llimpopo.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh4-s0ckd1qe_2C5LYqG-vncbMHvAvyd75tSe_yTGSukRQ2wfe0lww-DPTpRjRsSSxMx4tRahlK-Dsj4cx0yeVSVhXhJAaXGWOTXPF2_rhQ9UruNh3BW-EdS6vwFV3Z3CGmMzinLQp10Ce/s1600-h/100_2418.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 384px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh4-s0ckd1qe_2C5LYqG-vncbMHvAvyd75tSe_yTGSukRQ2wfe0lww-DPTpRjRsSSxMx4tRahlK-Dsj4cx0yeVSVhXhJAaXGWOTXPF2_rhQ9UruNh3BW-EdS6vwFV3Z3CGmMzinLQp10Ce/s400/100_2418.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356086948814397074" border="0" /></a>We've now determined that this year's cria is yet another boy. We've decided to name him for the retired racehorse jockey that lives across the street, who used to own this place: Leonard M. So we'll name this one Lleonard.... Llenny Llama.<br /><br />As with any birth on the farm, it is always important to check to make certain the placenta hasn't been retained. For those of you who have never seen this, here's a picture. Warning, fly past this photo if you love babies, but not afterbabies.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjK0Kv6zfviJ-A2NV8RJYT3jIfNU39c-mGi2e46V0EyowA4oBYRGVFz2Kda8e-MkPhWdWsBmyUUKntjaQ4fZ06CM09SzmAeO1kuRpwuKXLDtAxyP3LjUmgy59ohIhqar9sp-qHvVuWv4Q/s1600-h/100_2421.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 329px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjK0Kv6zfviJ-A2NV8RJYT3jIfNU39c-mGi2e46V0EyowA4oBYRGVFz2Kda8e-MkPhWdWsBmyUUKntjaQ4fZ06CM09SzmAeO1kuRpwuKXLDtAxyP3LjUmgy59ohIhqar9sp-qHvVuWv4Q/s400/100_2421.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356082264191347874" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Now on to this morning's adventure.<br /><br />We rescued four goats two winters ago. Their owners were an elderly deaf couple who were in a crippling car accident. One of the goats was a huge goat of unknown lineage. It is the biggest goat that I have ever see and it can jump any fence or gate on the farm when it wants to. We have to hide it during antlerless deer season. It is also, I think the world's ugliest goat with a huge underbite and a couple of missing front teeth. He looks like he took one too many punches in the nose, so we named him Bruiser.<br /><br />In the goat pen, we have a variety of large run-in shelters along with a small Igloo brand plastic dog house that our pygmy goats and geese like to lay in. I went out this morning, and somehow Bruiser had squeezed his huge body into that little bitty dog house and got wedged in. He must have gone in head first and turned around, but based on the size of the goat and the size of the house, that's utterly impossible. The lower lip on the doorway made it so that his legs were pinned in. He was well and truly stuck.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyU-fHdObDX4kI61RMio0XtYJSaCNuCBbSSs8o-gaPuKJaqkxzNv9xYBquMv0TRYmxRH-qwjp8NuNKq7BR8X0i4lhtMFoBNicU7BxqN7qVDnRu3qjP0CHhE-Ph0bf_SRv5qSwWa71SijDq/s1600-h/100_2431.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyU-fHdObDX4kI61RMio0XtYJSaCNuCBbSSs8o-gaPuKJaqkxzNv9xYBquMv0TRYmxRH-qwjp8NuNKq7BR8X0i4lhtMFoBNicU7BxqN7qVDnRu3qjP0CHhE-Ph0bf_SRv5qSwWa71SijDq/s400/100_2431.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356086365784605730" border="0" /></a><br />I struggled and pushed and pulled. I got one leg out, but he pulled it back in. (Now I have had my practice session if I ever have to pull a baby goat during labor.) He grunted and pushed and squirmed. No go. I finally decided that I was going to have to take the house apart to get him out. Finally, though, he gave one last heave that buckled the plastic, popped out and immediately emptied his bladder.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZaFv7MIfMT6nmwauIyilPvckRqTyWPmepZi8dP1uOWRfU6g5VW3r_7M3nukCKyx3ZzkLaQVzEPd98EK8dyOwMJqeM-RDpL3tK8pcIrcGaiWB9tS1xdTOKBscNFpMVLq0KumFqnR93_5a_/s1600-h/100_2432.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZaFv7MIfMT6nmwauIyilPvckRqTyWPmepZi8dP1uOWRfU6g5VW3r_7M3nukCKyx3ZzkLaQVzEPd98EK8dyOwMJqeM-RDpL3tK8pcIrcGaiWB9tS1xdTOKBscNFpMVLq0KumFqnR93_5a_/s400/100_2432.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356086175315121330" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6GfD3cY_QMJGboDHEDlfntNZsN0kovW6I7a8TF8lcgIuviUOZj1oNE7z1_picMRWCtfxrZDsI4CpriN_F6ztZHAMTFBWOUZCdHPPVoDk1DIVltEzFuZZSi2qBG_qPFyafLsRniz0eY8F/s1600-h/100_2435.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6GfD3cY_QMJGboDHEDlfntNZsN0kovW6I7a8TF8lcgIuviUOZj1oNE7z1_picMRWCtfxrZDsI4CpriN_F6ztZHAMTFBWOUZCdHPPVoDk1DIVltEzFuZZSi2qBG_qPFyafLsRniz0eY8F/s400/100_2435.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356086007199491874" border="0" /></a>BIG STRETCH. Man, it must have felt good to get out of there! Now he seems none the worse for wear and is back to his old happy self again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB1Y44GHeTE85A8eNEiXT5YE1BuV3A2N4OZKimT-kmCw-9ALOtt9W4vp3z0P_iBQD44TKFJ1VVZU5WhkiWXImVsf-mlfsG-th4aPuEvKdnk17IEprDVMWz2QqqoNEsnZW7ndhNXI8_qlSt/s1600-h/100_2231.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB1Y44GHeTE85A8eNEiXT5YE1BuV3A2N4OZKimT-kmCw-9ALOtt9W4vp3z0P_iBQD44TKFJ1VVZU5WhkiWXImVsf-mlfsG-th4aPuEvKdnk17IEprDVMWz2QqqoNEsnZW7ndhNXI8_qlSt/s400/100_2231.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356086700661784194" border="0" /></a>Now I'm curious to see where he tries to sleep tonight.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-80401909415827238462009-07-04T15:27:00.000-07:002009-07-04T22:00:00.669-07:00Porcupine Quills and Riding MowersThings get a little crazy up here in the North Woods on these big holiday weekends. The population on the roads and waterways explodes. For the local economy, they say it provides a very big boost. It can be tough on the wildlife, though.<br /><br />On Friday morning, July 3, I got a rescue call from the Northwoods Wildlife Center. Several people had phoned in that there was an injured porcupine on the side of the highway.<br /><br />Porcupines are one of those animals that seem to thrive up here. It is not uncommon to see dead ones on the shoulders any time of the year. They are nocturnal and pretty slow moving, so it's easy to drive up on one at night and hit it before you can avoid it. Evidently that is what happened to my rescue victim, but this one was reportedly still alive.<br /><br />Now one of the rules of the rescue driver that is set in stone with zero tolerance for rule abridgment is that there are to be NO pictures taken of the injured animals. The animals are stressed enough without flashes going off and lenses being pointed in their faces. For those of you unfamiliar with a closeup view of a porcupine, I am borrowing a very good photo from <a href="http://www.treknature.com/gallery/photo152369.htm">TrekNature.com</a>. Click on the photo for a full-sized view.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrxYnHtRy5WJb7_R3cxuupTdSzUfplTvVSJfrhPVC52ra6ObkWX7ztqXj5PaDukXknLTFGlHR3_lLzTd9uHxtb_olglFp2muigPbskiUEigsFOVUtLvtpToUW9buMmG2shsT_kU4L9zRkc/s1600-h/porcupine.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrxYnHtRy5WJb7_R3cxuupTdSzUfplTvVSJfrhPVC52ra6ObkWX7ztqXj5PaDukXknLTFGlHR3_lLzTd9uHxtb_olglFp2muigPbskiUEigsFOVUtLvtpToUW9buMmG2shsT_kU4L9zRkc/s400/porcupine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354764057122767954" border="0" /></a><br />Anyway, I loaded up my trusty tote and paraphernalia and headed out to the scene. It was supposedly lying along the north side of the road somewhere in the 20 miles between where I live and Rhinelander. I had my doubts as to whether it would still be alive by the time that I found it, and if it was, it most likely would have wandered off into the woods again.<br /><br />I passed several that were obviously long dead and decomposing. Then about seven miles east of Rhinelander, I spotted it not a foot off the blacktop. I pulled over, got out and walked up to it. It sure looked dead. I gave it a slight nudge with my toe, and it curled up a bit tighter. So it was alive. I saw a wound on its flank that didn't look too serious, but who knows what internal trauma it may have had.<br /><br />I then went back, got my tote, a heavy sheet, and my welding gloves. I covered it with the sheet, gently picked it up, put it in the box, and headed on in to headquarters.<br /><br />I must admit that this porcupine handling was done with a degree of trepidation on my part. Several years ago, on one of the coldest nights of the year and after a very rare overindulgence in social drinking, a friend told me, "Ya know, porkypine quillsh are worth a bundle on the innernet."<br /><br />I said, "You gotta be kiddin' me. Toothpicks are a lot cheaper and easier on the gums."<br /><br />"Naw, man. They use 'em fer joolry an' decoratin' and stuff."<br /><br />"You may be right, by gosh. I have been hearin' a lot about pierced ears and pierced unmentionables. Heck, I know where I can get some right here, right now."<br /><br />Not long before that, I had been out in our back 40 to show a visitor a junky old hunting shack that the boys of the previous owners had thrown together out in the woods. When we got there, we found that a porcupine had taken up residence in one of the top bunks and seemed to be pretty well ensconced for the winter. It was no big deal to me because I was never going to use the building, and it really didn't matter if the porcupine gnawed it to the ground if he wanted to.<br /><br />Well when my buddy told me that the quills were like a pot of gold, in my slightly alcohol-addled mind, I decided to go out and offer that porcupine nice warm room and board in our basement in exchange for an occasional quill harvest.<br /><br />So I donned my Carhartt overalls and hat and gloves, grabbed a feed bag and decided I'd just stuff it in the sack and bring him on home.<br /><br />You'd be amazed at how strong, belligerent and pig headed an indignant quill pig can be when rousted from its chosen cozy spot. Suffice it to say, that I returned home with an empty bag and hands and wrists that looked like pincushions. And yes the quills did penetrate the fabric in sufficient numbers that my coat and gloves may as well have been stapled to my body with an electric staple gun gone wild. There was no way to take them off without pliers and helping hands.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjciCtfG9CZGJR-FDoi1iJ2aXr8tCxz2KFTbFwxWIE6H_hJ8ZWwfI5VMgwOst_TuOX9TizJRcNXC2MRhvYjJfZxcM1GP59o8PSLPzXAAhgsxVKciHCkDcwWUzEO9VYoYN5J7CUcWjQ4akoG/s1600-h/porcupine+incident.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 356px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjciCtfG9CZGJR-FDoi1iJ2aXr8tCxz2KFTbFwxWIE6H_hJ8ZWwfI5VMgwOst_TuOX9TizJRcNXC2MRhvYjJfZxcM1GP59o8PSLPzXAAhgsxVKciHCkDcwWUzEO9VYoYN5J7CUcWjQ4akoG/s400/porcupine+incident.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354760854694043698" border="0" /></a><br />Ah well, I haven't overindulged since then... and I didn't even find a buyer for the quills.<br /><br />Nah, nah, what's done is done. That was then, and this is now. Older and wiser.<br /><br />I got the injured animal into the animal E.R. They got it tranquilized and injected antibiotics and dexamethasone, and we're all hoping for the best.<br /><br />I do happen to have a sheet of spare quills in case any of you creative souls out there feel some inspiration.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQ92bssa9zh9BUElRcranh8ZqI6PR-uVAOfYVB3Rgla62pwr8a35Q1y8dJKDgPWPWU_6nDDnFXD8w6do67gMQzb2mTyOJs6Zjq0IAhRqRHpke-qOXgyeMhdZXPOq_F6x7oWNmuSZmed-u/s1600-h/100_2426.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQ92bssa9zh9BUElRcranh8ZqI6PR-uVAOfYVB3Rgla62pwr8a35Q1y8dJKDgPWPWU_6nDDnFXD8w6do67gMQzb2mTyOJs6Zjq0IAhRqRHpke-qOXgyeMhdZXPOq_F6x7oWNmuSZmed-u/s400/100_2426.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354770123352328946" border="0" /></a>They are hollow and can be dyed and used like you would use Indian beads. Here are a few examples from the Internet of things created with them:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0PsZfIrsf-UA9c45R2meL2XQMZYh-BWJhfN7_EXUk4ZkJBY25dkOzKUfiJnpRtaq7_eQtuWRPihEnYsQ9hSHqkoTUwZtpUNe-Pn6rCS3b_8j_yfAoG3YeKmnji7UjSOG81kl14bobKJT/s1600-h/powwowppq.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0PsZfIrsf-UA9c45R2meL2XQMZYh-BWJhfN7_EXUk4ZkJBY25dkOzKUfiJnpRtaq7_eQtuWRPihEnYsQ9hSHqkoTUwZtpUNe-Pn6rCS3b_8j_yfAoG3YeKmnji7UjSOG81kl14bobKJT/s400/powwowppq.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354764300071960594" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP89LriKqyl66YhnLVQnclYJMVKtJHEHq8GLG-Twu3hqHC1ec2ts9uvpIIvm5IBYVeoPQVJzl4mBE6frMAVw9YbQJ3Y71FL_mMCe8eAv78_qzHUfBn7jRvuRpplT7Ms54r4Qx2G-Z_CuzV/s1600-h/porc+quillsBracelet.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP89LriKqyl66YhnLVQnclYJMVKtJHEHq8GLG-Twu3hqHC1ec2ts9uvpIIvm5IBYVeoPQVJzl4mBE6frMAVw9YbQJ3Y71FL_mMCe8eAv78_qzHUfBn7jRvuRpplT7Ms54r4Qx2G-Z_CuzV/s400/porc+quillsBracelet.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354764432416097074" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9VqmxHSXwjpvy3Ox2t1mrqU9sVTzqQXbb0sKaQfnpkzHx4WZ6JVmZ1VY4kfSYjn5UR_toikOclA_kAXJFpAl_bVvagdzX3jGll4SygYvUy_rVsP_0s8s-Jx04i5o9gMMgV0sSvYVaw5U/s1600-h/porc-Owl.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp9VqmxHSXwjpvy3Ox2t1mrqU9sVTzqQXbb0sKaQfnpkzHx4WZ6JVmZ1VY4kfSYjn5UR_toikOclA_kAXJFpAl_bVvagdzX3jGll4SygYvUy_rVsP_0s8s-Jx04i5o9gMMgV0sSvYVaw5U/s400/porc-Owl.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354764566993656274" border="0" /></a><br />I might be talked into harvesting a few quills from the road shoulders if anyone is interested. There are a lot of creative people out there.<br /><br />Which brings me to my final holiday find. The summer holiday weekends are also huge times for garage sales. This weekend, on my way to the animal E.R., I spotted a riding mower for sale. Boy, if it weren't for an injured victim in my car, I would have been sorely tempted to buy my wife a "Green Movement" 4th of July gift.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYqUJAEj4hZ5vZEb4Hyu3_8BwtNG1J88vl8VFhaoEnppMmeZPjblqZbrrncAahbDSne8b5qnXiJD3Ff1SoT248VOFZqFl9TRcRB1LXk3pGMwIZhFnMVcLtTTP4Tku-H3XofPOmxtJtbaW/s1600-h/100_2422.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 390px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYqUJAEj4hZ5vZEb4Hyu3_8BwtNG1J88vl8VFhaoEnppMmeZPjblqZbrrncAahbDSne8b5qnXiJD3Ff1SoT248VOFZqFl9TRcRB1LXk3pGMwIZhFnMVcLtTTP4Tku-H3XofPOmxtJtbaW/s400/100_2422.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354772206211746818" border="0" /></a>The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-75838087187789620722009-06-29T06:14:00.000-07:002009-06-29T07:59:35.182-07:00Giant PuffballsThe other day, we were over visiting Pat and Jack's place. They are our friends who decided to adopt little Willie (the goat in the sweater). It didn't take much convincing. All we had to do was let them bottle feed him as a baby one time.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLObYIiOUzSQh-kUfVbol_ws7O6GobjT5V42muxPsw8c3YESQl0LVn99xVmBq0SCvLSXf4uN6nzoKPdtgHS0DtyW4NOvc6YPlS4w-3WGFKwjD-23ES9apNotOMSBEq1h5w7PqyscLecxj/s1600-h/100_2292.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLObYIiOUzSQh-kUfVbol_ws7O6GobjT5V42muxPsw8c3YESQl0LVn99xVmBq0SCvLSXf4uN6nzoKPdtgHS0DtyW4NOvc6YPlS4w-3WGFKwjD-23ES9apNotOMSBEq1h5w7PqyscLecxj/s400/100_2292.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352754129414954194" border="0" /></a><br />They live in a beautiful isolated log cabin in the woods that Jack made himself after their original home burned down.<br /><br />Jack said, "Hey do you guys like puffballs?"<br /><br />I said, "I do, but Deb won't eat 'em."<br /><br />"Boy there's a dandy one over under that tree."<br /><br />So we sauntered over through the veil of mosquitoes, and sure enough, there was a giant puffball about the size of a soccer ball just as white and prime for the pickin' as I've ever seen.<br /><br />"Wow. She's a beauty. Aren't you guys going to eat it?"<br /><br />"Naw. Pat thinks they're poison."<br /><br />"Poison? They're only poison if you season them with cyanide in the fryin' pan. Heck. If you don't want it. I'll take it."<br /><br />"Be my guest. There's another one up in the garden that Pat picked a few days ago and is using it for a decoration. Take it, too."<br /><br />So, loving to partake of the bounties of nature, as I always do, I picked up both puffballs, gently laid them in the bed of the truck and headed down the drive. As we were departing, I heard Pat shouting after us, "You're gonna die!"<br /><br />Well, let me tell you. Here's how to prepare them without fear of dying.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqymJyu4YsWwit9BOVDU2HWP-G4hW8rKdrvHnNLL6l3HOIMfxu0n7d4nYhTHY_f6B-aL-ZXtBtyKL4FKGG_D_-eZkmae3PCUQUBIcGGRRnmwAinR150IY1c1XFTAkKedJLNLfCNLnpxJua/s1600-h/100_2395.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqymJyu4YsWwit9BOVDU2HWP-G4hW8rKdrvHnNLL6l3HOIMfxu0n7d4nYhTHY_f6B-aL-ZXtBtyKL4FKGG_D_-eZkmae3PCUQUBIcGGRRnmwAinR150IY1c1XFTAkKedJLNLfCNLnpxJua/s400/100_2395.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352739513967119122" border="0" /></a><br />Puffballs don't store well fresh, so you should get them cooked as soon as you can. First you peel the rubbery skin off. Brush the loose dirt off, but don't wash them. If water gets inside, they'll get mushy. They should be as white as a marshmallow. You can see that the one that Pat picked earlier was starting to turn yellow on the surface. I discard any part that's not white. Then you slice them and dice them into 3/4 inch cubes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtg8Jwm3RTdq6A9uPJW1ZQmWxwV0G494xVo8us2RuHh5Jy17pcoSDYkNyvsvSZg8yGoecdUiXozZUdAmybJDegnpD3QMoY9IGNQ4QchlXQwqT9nh70nc-SaiTnRWTtEZXo8QgrXg5rNKw/s1600-h/100_2401.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtg8Jwm3RTdq6A9uPJW1ZQmWxwV0G494xVo8us2RuHh5Jy17pcoSDYkNyvsvSZg8yGoecdUiXozZUdAmybJDegnpD3QMoY9IGNQ4QchlXQwqT9nh70nc-SaiTnRWTtEZXo8QgrXg5rNKw/s400/100_2401.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352740017985263154" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODRSmZqBMm6FS1V0MprZCR7k7flfX0OhTjtCzlAMyDk1SuistnL3JEFKaE6blqX6x8RqmPUbFxOYBQ1GcoeUke4e7x6u6F24_aNQULs3P72E0qcErZIX0HyAsakl6hM21NlwCogLyxfcT/s1600-h/100_2406.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjODRSmZqBMm6FS1V0MprZCR7k7flfX0OhTjtCzlAMyDk1SuistnL3JEFKaE6blqX6x8RqmPUbFxOYBQ1GcoeUke4e7x6u6F24_aNQULs3P72E0qcErZIX0HyAsakl6hM21NlwCogLyxfcT/s400/100_2406.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352740236881816722" border="0" /></a><br />And saute them in butter and bacon grease. They will shrink down to about half the size, like any fresh mushroom. One giant puffball makes a big batch, so you can freeze the cooked cubes in a freezer bag for use in anything that you would normally use button mushrooms in.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtcWgYk_sVDd-UPisNC2wLhq9Cks6xy9fEsjlAIswWJF6txD93kc4beOi8Th0qydZ5BylSP8VQr15T1n4PELG0M4nJ5e2yMvMmdRMXcDND0H0vTxlTEv997NQejxU7bwo7T1bJ-odRP5V/s1600-h/100_2403.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtcWgYk_sVDd-UPisNC2wLhq9Cks6xy9fEsjlAIswWJF6txD93kc4beOi8Th0qydZ5BylSP8VQr15T1n4PELG0M4nJ5e2yMvMmdRMXcDND0H0vTxlTEv997NQejxU7bwo7T1bJ-odRP5V/s400/100_2403.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352740436041427618" border="0" /></a>Let me tell you. If you've never eaten puffball mushrooms, you're not missing much. It's about like eating tofu. They'll take on whatever flavor you are cooking them in. But heck. You've gotta do it at least once in your life so you can say you're cool!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWIlZlv5TGIidtN7l8Cb7Z_nRrekyAGw_WkFQCbB8215yWvtq6JfcXeK4oGnqJjO3WlPg7B-hrPpiQaWhuHc6dackbm0a-6HE2URxXYJ7BuIHyPUxrXETuP_0Mc1S3A8WpIniXoIg94z82/s1600-h/100_2397.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 323px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWIlZlv5TGIidtN7l8Cb7Z_nRrekyAGw_WkFQCbB8215yWvtq6JfcXeK4oGnqJjO3WlPg7B-hrPpiQaWhuHc6dackbm0a-6HE2URxXYJ7BuIHyPUxrXETuP_0Mc1S3A8WpIniXoIg94z82/s400/100_2397.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352739702463814162" border="0" /></a>The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-21698553965242708822009-06-27T18:28:00.000-07:002009-06-27T19:03:35.477-07:00Goat Transport and Real Border Collie WorkI have run across a couple of things recently on my blog visits that I just have to share. <br /><br />Unfortunately, I can't remember where the first photo came from, but it reminded me so much of my days in Ghana, West Africa, that I had to save it. Goats roam freely everywhere you go. The Ghanaians transported them any way they could and you see goats tethered on the roofs of buses and tanker trucks. Any of you with goats ought to appreciate this photo.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFmsLiRZHUNCXRngv5QhE-Pp02vnCKgAAwtn468CzLwHEtkzf2JVrbsOz2ndIMqKcXV8jEqQf10tOw20Yr7LoXG4xPsnPYkK9vlFdqFdNe1tlev7O9gNjxqHx5-N-yPuN-KoekXP11HMS/s1600-h/goat+piggy+back.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdFmsLiRZHUNCXRngv5QhE-Pp02vnCKgAAwtn468CzLwHEtkzf2JVrbsOz2ndIMqKcXV8jEqQf10tOw20Yr7LoXG4xPsnPYkK9vlFdqFdNe1tlev7O9gNjxqHx5-N-yPuN-KoekXP11HMS/s400/goat+piggy+back.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352186998758233522" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Next, I have long wanted to attend a sheep dog trial, but we simply don't have any near enough for us to attend. Then I visited Susanne Iles' blog at http://ringofbeara.blogspot.com/ from County Cork, Ireland. She has flocks of sheep roaming the farms all around her place (and sometimes in her garden), and the shepherds still use dogs to move the flocks. She has a wonderful site with photos, and she posted the following footage of shepherding from Wales. It's worth a look:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/D2FX9rviEhw&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></object><div style="text-align: center;"><object width="425" height="344"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/D2FX9rviEhw&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Hope you enjoyed them.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-58147139469093581442009-06-25T12:59:00.000-07:002009-06-25T13:57:55.258-07:00Escape/Break-in Artists and More WorkI went out to get our dairy goat the other night only to find all of the goats in our yard decimating my wife's newly planted shrubs and plants. It sure doesn't take them long.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nZ-ctnzkR1V-R4_ZsuCVcrHd3EzeYak8PmTxr5hun8ETmEYBUKXvOiDfHSef74Vupl-WW3LNFWTf51QDHkYuaxI8P16yJuekTpGV5wPRnDYRtU6y3JywVhqETnyAS79bqD8Oc61MvFiR/s1600-h/100_2384.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nZ-ctnzkR1V-R4_ZsuCVcrHd3EzeYak8PmTxr5hun8ETmEYBUKXvOiDfHSef74Vupl-WW3LNFWTf51QDHkYuaxI8P16yJuekTpGV5wPRnDYRtU6y3JywVhqETnyAS79bqD8Oc61MvFiR/s400/100_2384.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351357665711808434" border="0" /></a><br />It turns out that Deb had felt sorry for the goats in their grassless paddock and wanted to let them out in our woodlot paddock to graze on all of the tall grass there. Well, they found the weak spot in the fence. I had opened up a portion to transfer firewood to our furnace shed last year, but never got around to building a gate for it. Instead, someone had just salvaged an old piece of plywood from the scrap heap and leaned it in the opening. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side, so they say.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazYrZ1zDYQ-BapcPB12ZPh56z3iPCkTIajRbEIUPCPCq8yXrG2_QWlRXQ4SG3wlA5D9JlcFsqyzH85ZSimxrntiK8xCDrhI3h0UoNYEvHYg7_B4sz5g4hhq5O4lGJA6gbM6swfM_Q0heX/s1600-h/100_2385.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazYrZ1zDYQ-BapcPB12ZPh56z3iPCkTIajRbEIUPCPCq8yXrG2_QWlRXQ4SG3wlA5D9JlcFsqyzH85ZSimxrntiK8xCDrhI3h0UoNYEvHYg7_B4sz5g4hhq5O4lGJA6gbM6swfM_Q0heX/s400/100_2385.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351358052319465794" border="0" /></a><br />Each day Deb poses the following question (usually several times a day): "Isn't it about time you ___________?" It's a farm, so it isn't hard to fill in the blank(s).<br /><br />So, that day it was, "Isn't it about time you built a gate for that gap?"<br /><br />Sigh. "I guess."<br /><br />Now to come up with the lumber for the job. A few days earlier, the question had been: "Isn't it about time you replaced those fence boards that the horses have been gnawing on?"<br /><br />And I replied, "I guess" with a sigh.<br /><br />I can't be certain, but I have my suspicions that the horses are attending evening seminars presented by our North Woods beavers. They seem to have the gnawing part down pat. Now if they could only learn some engineering from those rascals.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjm4gaJkdZIR_n6dIN2hQPh-XaLLKxDGBi457GL8TZHMOS1J8_tT2MGErnLH96L_gHvhDNfZ68B7flhKjNgDXlDSY7RMaNFR_vx-s5TMvKBWe5D1zdwtF1bqcs8rD6TN6fKHE_wn2J-puv/s1600-h/100_2387.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjm4gaJkdZIR_n6dIN2hQPh-XaLLKxDGBi457GL8TZHMOS1J8_tT2MGErnLH96L_gHvhDNfZ68B7flhKjNgDXlDSY7RMaNFR_vx-s5TMvKBWe5D1zdwtF1bqcs8rD6TN6fKHE_wn2J-puv/s400/100_2387.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351358391184832882" border="0" /></a><br />So now in the barn, I had a modest stack of old hemlock fence boards that needed to be repurposed. OK. Now how do I design a goat-proof goat stopper out of old fence boards that lives up to Deb's aesthetic sensibilities?<br /><br />After some head scratching and chopping and sawing, this is what I came up with:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNsxy9NY6oValuL0n1nHt5pUOoBTjmU7Nqz1lDGvGZKCa7zFsUaqpiqYs8JymJAJlHkGbmd34nXkMixNAdvrhJG36XOV3RdLmXGgzEmNR2W8vtJ-wvGf10WAZimKrM2gJ9JjmHCK02Zuf/s1600-h/100_2388.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 396px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUNsxy9NY6oValuL0n1nHt5pUOoBTjmU7Nqz1lDGvGZKCa7zFsUaqpiqYs8JymJAJlHkGbmd34nXkMixNAdvrhJG36XOV3RdLmXGgzEmNR2W8vtJ-wvGf10WAZimKrM2gJ9JjmHCK02Zuf/s400/100_2388.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351358617863609410" border="0" /></a>I'm hoping they won't fit through those holes. So I used my universal stain around the farm: Any surplus, on-sale, discontinued, outdated can of deck stain that I can buy for two or three dollars a gallon tinted with enough lampblack pigment to turn it black.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixCyGtA8C2_ldqHh5WB8IifVaBpsz6KmUHkyjwq8a0WQpQ14vJVKwS2_rRcmJqWpIPvHIDip21ij4xLoZm_O4EMjMI8iNRjQ5AhhlBsFQsutdMJa6mBafpvPXidaOlIOCKdbnBWmHvMarq/s1600-h/100_2389.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 363px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixCyGtA8C2_ldqHh5WB8IifVaBpsz6KmUHkyjwq8a0WQpQ14vJVKwS2_rRcmJqWpIPvHIDip21ij4xLoZm_O4EMjMI8iNRjQ5AhhlBsFQsutdMJa6mBafpvPXidaOlIOCKdbnBWmHvMarq/s400/100_2389.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351358847877895586" border="0" /></a>Me cheap? Only when it comes to buying fancy cameras that are so big and heavy that they won't shake in my hand.<br /><br />Well, I got 'er mounted in the hole and will have to put 'er to the test as soon as I get around to herding them out of the pasture with the cows.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEintNIAyHwz8OXML56PoM4YI8LxG7M_UBuBn9fXjdxHMxyW2Tl-D-d6jwS3yrecR-knCkkgK3xebgzl4wt6IpCwaEYXyOTaQbNt5FatJt-J9a-qL_ze8mSavJekNdWWCbP6VAlpAsnnSbee/s1600-h/100_2392.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 358px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEintNIAyHwz8OXML56PoM4YI8LxG7M_UBuBn9fXjdxHMxyW2Tl-D-d6jwS3yrecR-knCkkgK3xebgzl4wt6IpCwaEYXyOTaQbNt5FatJt-J9a-qL_ze8mSavJekNdWWCbP6VAlpAsnnSbee/s400/100_2392.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351371325297956930" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8SLnsxCcAFoFK0iRRJflf1FIUhsXEdH8b_97WryGxH_-kIOfWt0ZSCvJhIWMyhhvzl7xrXUavyXy_fKwW-POAnaXhfpgvy9eQCUMwhpxxeWvpfDjZiuAfF8XkLZGx6hweAWUH3PMyghJ/s1600-h/100_2394.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8SLnsxCcAFoFK0iRRJflf1FIUhsXEdH8b_97WryGxH_-kIOfWt0ZSCvJhIWMyhhvzl7xrXUavyXy_fKwW-POAnaXhfpgvy9eQCUMwhpxxeWvpfDjZiuAfF8XkLZGx6hweAWUH3PMyghJ/s400/100_2394.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351371650234938818" border="0" /></a><br />I have no idea how they got out there this time.<br /><br />"Oh Debra, dear. Have you by any chance been feeling sorry for the goats again?"The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-24019142995615254442009-06-23T12:26:00.000-07:002009-06-23T13:44:05.332-07:00Cold Weather Kidding and Freeze/Thaw SeasonAfter reading about the birth of Harry in warm weather on <a href="http://pricillaspeaks.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-would-like-to-introduce-my-grandkid.html">The Maaaaa of Pricilla</a>, it made me think that we should figure out a way to have our kidding season in warmer weather....<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">March 6, 2009</span><br /><br />Yup. As usual, the -20 F weather did its job. Patches, our dairy goat, dropped two wet, slimy baby kids on the eve of one mighty cold night. When I went out to do evening chores, there they were, wobbling around in the stall with Patches kind of staring off into space as if asking herself, "Why me? Why now?"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie7c4hKcAVcGG1t9WsqZshFyhV0Xycs0Yi4yPDgLytJJ8JNAYZBaZKpMZ9kCR4v9QF2eXCPpq5yfjxItDw57Uopwb6ZDlklEWpvGZ2isZUR6biNlnqggcovZdskhM9YMD7CIJNGpyv5ELK/s1600-h/100_2260.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie7c4hKcAVcGG1t9WsqZshFyhV0Xycs0Yi4yPDgLytJJ8JNAYZBaZKpMZ9kCR4v9QF2eXCPpq5yfjxItDw57Uopwb6ZDlklEWpvGZ2isZUR6biNlnqggcovZdskhM9YMD7CIJNGpyv5ELK/s400/100_2260.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350609609798425938" border="0" /></a><br />By the time we found them, the hair on their little tails was frozen, so Deb had me run in and throw some towels into the dryer to warm. Then it was out to the barn to thaw out and dry off the little slimy ones.<br /><br />Patches did not like that process at all. I sat on a bale of hay doing my farmerly duty. This bale-sitting position perfectly and strategically placed my kidneys precisely at Patches' head-butting level.<br /><br />Bam! Bam! Bam! (Now I know why kidney punches are outlawed in professional boxing.)<br /><br />Well, the babies made it through that frigid night with mom under a heat lamp just fine, and Patches is now not so worried about us playing pass-the-babies. Now they are up and bouncing off the walls. They also do a lot of their own head butting right into Patches' fully distended bag to stimulate milk flow. That'll teach her.<br /><br />Shortly after every birth, there are a couple of other vital little tasks that need performing. One is to check to make certain that the placenta(s) pass in their entirety. A retained placenta is not a good thing. A cow will eat hers if given the opportunity. Patches has more sense than that, so we were able to determine that everything was OK on that score.<br /><br />Another thing is to watch and make certain that the babies' first poop (the meconium) comes out after a few good feeds. Unlike later feces, meconium is composed of materials ingested during the time <span style="font-style: italic;">in utero</span>: intestinal epithelial cells, mucus, amniotic fluid, bile, water and lanugo. Lanugo is a fine downy hair that grows on fetuses as a normal part of gestation, but is usually shed and replaced by vellus hair toward the end of gestation. As the lanugo is shed from the skin, it's normal for the developing fetus to consume the hair as it drinks from the amniotic fluid and urinates it back into its environment. The lanugo contributes to the newborn baby's meconium. Meconium is almost sterile, unlike later feces, is viscous and sticky like tar, and has no odor. It should be completely passed by the end of the first few days of postpartum life, with the stools progressing toward yellow (digested milk). (Are we learning a little bit more than we really have to yet? Just wait. There's more.)<br /><br />One of the babies is a nanny, and the other a buck. I have yet to detect whether the nanny has pooped yet or not. She may be far too discrete for my random observations. The little buck, however, developed a walloping case of Shitzu-butt. Shitzsu dogs have a tendency to cake up their behinds so badly that nothing can get out. The offending obstruction must be physically removed. (Just ask Bob Barker, our Schitzu/Miniature Dachshund mix. He got the wrong end of the Shitzu genes.) Well, the little buck had the same thing, but with yellow tarry meconium that barely came unglued, let alone dissolved in hot water. I had to actually abrade the tar that glued itself to the tub after the procedure.<br /><br />When we had him in the house, in the tub, woefully succumbing to what was debilitating humiliation (to me, if not the goat), Louise's hospice nurse, Sue, showed up.<br /><br />"Oh, isn't he just the cutest thing! Let me dry him off."<br /><br />"Sure."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EpwjRDtNITAgMMDFh_2jrnoPSWvSSgIWSmVm0StYffUTwH5wSc-qz2H-6TVhhANSEeXNZSrY3DJwDCs0TDZuRJW8C1_N-Hss-4zd5W4jh5SrkwO-L-BkT6vk634l0Rml9c6Pkn3Mbu6k/s1600-h/100_2273.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EpwjRDtNITAgMMDFh_2jrnoPSWvSSgIWSmVm0StYffUTwH5wSc-qz2H-6TVhhANSEeXNZSrY3DJwDCs0TDZuRJW8C1_N-Hss-4zd5W4jh5SrkwO-L-BkT6vk634l0Rml9c6Pkn3Mbu6k/s400/100_2273.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350610435477695650" border="0" /></a><br />That was a mistake. I'm not going to tell you how hard it was to pry the baby loose, but it is a well-known fact that most primate mothers, especially chimpanzees and gorillas, jealously hold on to their infants for the first six months or more of life.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPLaiwWQ_ZFG2iS5Rc9gW5oSNRxQeiQAb1gGHQ90cKMdlXPj-1h0p9GL_5Px90b-DC4pu8ossT8P3wVuDLcYYBMpLLnkkq_c6jdoFabb8n3uf8vXX-UtuGhL5Wyk0HNp208zI7SgTI50t/s1600-h/mama+monkey+art.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPLaiwWQ_ZFG2iS5Rc9gW5oSNRxQeiQAb1gGHQ90cKMdlXPj-1h0p9GL_5Px90b-DC4pu8ossT8P3wVuDLcYYBMpLLnkkq_c6jdoFabb8n3uf8vXX-UtuGhL5Wyk0HNp208zI7SgTI50t/s400/mama+monkey+art.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350610928572380530" border="0" /></a><br />It took some convincing, but strictures and covenants (implied, if not specifically written) against baby goats in hospice corporate cars and private apartments won the day.<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br />That's the thing about baby goats. They are born knowing how to work a crowd. The hummingbird-rapid tail wag, the head toss, and four feet in the air standing bounce are enough to turn even the hard-nosed cynic soft-in-the-head and weak-in-the-knee.<br /><br />So without further ado, I would like to introduce: <span style="font-weight: bold;">She-Nanny-kins</span> (pronounced shenanegans), our baby girl<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiSdIPOOReTHLbYPwhajb4pRUN5mqn-T2fudEH1P-DP5o_j1tgsSTgT9q_VhXXEKkNeDrnqd4bvQxjYNDr6cxS2fkIXft23zELy6f7a3tygN9dQc9awoF4sWWhk75Ezj9qqcpewJsCrmQh/s1600-h/100_2269.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 382px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiSdIPOOReTHLbYPwhajb4pRUN5mqn-T2fudEH1P-DP5o_j1tgsSTgT9q_VhXXEKkNeDrnqd4bvQxjYNDr6cxS2fkIXft23zELy6f7a3tygN9dQc9awoF4sWWhk75Ezj9qqcpewJsCrmQh/s400/100_2269.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350611224162444178" border="0" /></a>And Buck-aroo, our baby boy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4yFr4n12cmK-L-hLisotAYgQHumO22XMq6B7HZr5ZdQME7ekPiL6tRNa47vlJkwp5X6t8ONTFmssO14lYUWoL6b-sUKq-rwZRIHKx4ETlmfkhOyjbaih8fEEGGIah81rZPOjp_Gurajsx/s1600-h/100_2279.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4yFr4n12cmK-L-hLisotAYgQHumO22XMq6B7HZr5ZdQME7ekPiL6tRNa47vlJkwp5X6t8ONTFmssO14lYUWoL6b-sUKq-rwZRIHKx4ETlmfkhOyjbaih8fEEGGIah81rZPOjp_Gurajsx/s400/100_2279.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350611461157846306" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">AND THEN</span><br /><br />A few days later, the weather turned warm finally. I hate that. This place turns into an icy mess with thawing in the daytime and refreezing at night. With the ground still frozen, there is no place fcor the meltwater to go except into pools and puddles both in and out of the barn. That's the worst of it, if we are lucky or smart enough to forgo the other problem.<br /><br />Did we drain the barn plumbing? Did we keep the loft heated enough to avoid freezing? Did we keep the faucets dripping to keep them flowing?<br /><br />This year we bought a fancy, schmantzy, new high tech, nationally advertised, electric heater for the loft apartment/office/dog house that was supposed to save on heating bills and be guaranteed not to burn the barn down. It didn't burn down the barn, but it sure burned through our electricity budget. To keep the barn loft minimally heated (barely above freezing) we were paying more than $400 a month in electric bills. And as the winter wore on, we kept trying different techniques to lessen the energy required, like just heating the loft bathroom instead of heating the whole loft. Then we tried turning off the dripping faucets in case the drain happened to freeze.<br /><br />Yesterday, I walked out into the barn to find that the loft pipes had thawed and ruptured and there was four to five inches of water in all of the stalls on one side of the barn. Patches and her babies had to be rescued from a high spot just like those Katrina victims on the rooftops, only without all of the "resources" made available through FEMA. I finally got the water turned off, and the water heater and plumbing drained, and most of the insulation downstairs tacked back up, and fans blowing to dry out the feed room, and maybe someday I might let Deb back into the barn to see what happened.<br /><br />Einstein was right again. He said, "There are only two truly infinite things, the universe and stupidity. And I'm unsure about the universe."<br /><br />Oh well. We'll try again next year. As Red Green says in his Man Prayer:<br /><br />I'm a MAN...<br />But I can change...<br />If I have to...<br />I guess...<br />Amen.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-78791682103021551882009-06-20T14:57:00.000-07:002009-06-21T08:29:20.358-07:0080's Misery<span style="font-weight: bold;">June 20, 2009</span><br /><br />I had spent a part of last week gathering big white pine branches that had come down in the last big snowfall, and mending the fence sections that they had wiped out. I took the brush and piled it in our barn arena, where I lop off the green needles for the goats. It's like candy to them. I cut the small branches into chunks to burn in our chimenea. And the bigger branches I buck into fire wood for the winter's woodpile. It's a lot of work, for a little pile of stuff, but I hate wasting btu's in a brush fire.<br /><br />Today is the first of the summer weather in the 80's, and I am suffering. I'm just not used to it. Our Missouri relatives think I'm crazy, but I seem to sweat at the least exertion. The sun is intense. And I'm crabby from the stickiness and lack of progress on anything.<br /><br />So I went out into the barn. It's a big metal pole barn with an indoor arena, and it was hotter in there than out in the sun.<br /><br />Our llama, Olivia, who should be having a baby soon, was laying in the arena in the shade, but right in front of the open back door. I went over to see her and discovered that she knew exactly where the most pleasant place on the farm was. The open door formed a wind tunnel, and it was blissfully breezy and pleasant. Plus it was right next to my big brush heap.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9VnFh70SlFncaEuOiIgzmAE0qcCUb-SlHpInCmuHdFp1aT0XRtbHAQ431KKr7cjQoVHBS-Q79qtw02QqnWW27mTDXK4GkuJdUnDFvI6VFfLikM1L-QcXbJghI7sfI9SvF-NfoZgEEJpj/s1600-h/100_2381.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9VnFh70SlFncaEuOiIgzmAE0qcCUb-SlHpInCmuHdFp1aT0XRtbHAQ431KKr7cjQoVHBS-Q79qtw02QqnWW27mTDXK4GkuJdUnDFvI6VFfLikM1L-QcXbJghI7sfI9SvF-NfoZgEEJpj/s400/100_2381.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349544112642729442" border="0" /></a><br />And there it was. My relief from the doldrums. I set my chain saw case down at the base of some split cedar rails that my wife wants made into a hitching post, making a perfect seat and backrest. I pulled our little Daihatsu utility vehicle up to use for a work platform where I could cut up the brush. Then I went in and got my current book (The Parrots of Telegraph Hill), my reading glasses, and a go-cup of iced coffee.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaKCBoPjTQEzOhDm82IeLLewWOsSei1tSTV3-posQUIC-Uf2ycMiMDobKfEhM1-_qm2kZbLXPmFdB3ihnCjHXn4moUso1jO8XbILSFJ50xBubg8eknZ0F1EGlEUt8wWVMEGvCm9krOpXng/s1600-h/100_2382.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaKCBoPjTQEzOhDm82IeLLewWOsSei1tSTV3-posQUIC-Uf2ycMiMDobKfEhM1-_qm2kZbLXPmFdB3ihnCjHXn4moUso1jO8XbILSFJ50xBubg8eknZ0F1EGlEUt8wWVMEGvCm9krOpXng/s400/100_2382.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349544299972395938" border="0" /></a><br />It's lop up a few branches to whittle away at the pile. Then sit in the breeze tunnel, reading a few pages, listening to the barn swallows chatter away and the llama humming, soaking in the fragrance of the sappy white pine boughs, sipping my iced coffee, occasionally reaching down to pet the barn cat that is weaving in and out between my legs seeking attention, and stopping occasionally when my mind wanders from the page to daydream a bit. Work a little, play a little, work a little, play a little. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Now </span>I'm retired.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-78749011905966502052009-06-18T09:16:00.000-07:002009-06-18T19:52:46.144-07:00My young friend, Kegan, to whom I send the Curiosity Clyde letters described in previous postings found out first hand how dangerous 4-wheelers can be. He shattered an elbow in a roll over accident, is all pinned and casted up, and has kind of blown his summer activities. There are new rules at his house. He's had better days:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">December 31, 2007</span><br /><br />Somehow this year I happened to remember that the NORAD Command Center has a tradition of tracking Santa's progress on Christmas Eve.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihphXajZskoOeU02tXp3hThJHuq6GVpeh40KBefJ1Yrv9P8suP7j4gI9u_fFS-oEwWBzZ98uKkV2qtwcdrxiYpi8SsranYYGf-7F2zQcbViWSRw5ISxv94A2po7C5qWEDD8rFO-rtDy0us/s1600-h/NORADCommandCenter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihphXajZskoOeU02tXp3hThJHuq6GVpeh40KBefJ1Yrv9P8suP7j4gI9u_fFS-oEwWBzZ98uKkV2qtwcdrxiYpi8SsranYYGf-7F2zQcbViWSRw5ISxv94A2po7C5qWEDD8rFO-rtDy0us/s400/NORADCommandCenter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348801804075296274" border="0" /></a><br />First the basics. NORAD officially stands for North American Aerospace Defense Command as exhibited on their official seal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_rlZ4K9oDzb4HMn49qEI29JFgzuDFP1bUUplnC8PxCgGrmdzAUQQa1KWtnivpEBijXnyZXpC3bbyU5CdKHAzWmT7d3TKkTH9ku6vlUf9FiU0bulhERkeBE5fcKJiRpsCXKgFjLM5NDeVA/s1600-h/300px-North_American_Aerospace_Defense_Command_logo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_rlZ4K9oDzb4HMn49qEI29JFgzuDFP1bUUplnC8PxCgGrmdzAUQQa1KWtnivpEBijXnyZXpC3bbyU5CdKHAzWmT7d3TKkTH9ku6vlUf9FiU0bulhERkeBE5fcKJiRpsCXKgFjLM5NDeVA/s400/300px-North_American_Aerospace_Defense_Command_logo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348801959855571682" border="0" /></a>That makes no sense to me. If that were true, it would be called NAADC. The official name must have been a ruse to assure that paranoid Congresspersons would retain funding for the upkeep of the historic Night Owl Reindeer-Activated Detector (NORAD). I know, because I'm from Wisconsin, the very same state that Senator Joseph McCarthy came from. He's the guy that went after everybody for being Commies and Soviet Spies in my early childhood years. After going after the reputations and livelihoods of public officials and Hollywood stars, he turned his attention to childhood idols like the Little Red Hen and that red-suited demon, Santa Commie Claus. Senator McCarthy's original intent was to detect Santa in the night sky and blast him to smithereens. Fortunately, missiles weren't very accurate in those days. Anyway, while Senator Joe is long gone, the NORAD device is still up and running and with the advent of the Internet, we have the benefit of watching Santa's progress all across the world on Christmas Eve.<br /><br />So this Christmas Eve, as soon as I remembered it, I tapped into the NORAD website and started calling Kegan, our 6-year old neioghbor. The first time I called, Santa was in Bosnia, but Kegan's whereabouts was unknown, so I had to leave a message. The next time, Santa was in London, but still no Kegan, hence another message. Then it was on to Iceland. This was really exciting to me because Santa was now in the process of crossing the ocean. I couldn't wait to tell Kegan, but all I got was the answering machine. All I could do was leave another news alert. By the time Santa was on the western shore of Greenland, I gave Kegan one last call to warn him that Santa was almost all the way across the ocean, and that I hoped that he got to bed in time. Still not there.<br /><br />I gave up and went to the Bass Pro Shop website to see whether I could make a last minute purchase of a Night Owl Kegan-Activated Detector, but they were apparently sold out. (Evidently Kegan has become a very popular name.) I turned off the computer and hunkered down in bed with my book and dog and cat foot, leg and chest warmers.<br /><br />Then, sometime around 8:30, Deb hollered upstairs that Kegan was on the phone wanting to know where Santa was. He had returned home and had gotten my messages.<br /><br />So I dispersed my multi-component fur comforter, found a phone, and turned on the computer.<br /><br />Kegan was SO EXCITED, he had to go pee while my computer was booting up. When I finally got on the NORAD site, it turned out that Santa had skipped down to South America before working his way northwards.<br /><br />"Kegan, he's now in Colombia, South America."<br /><br />Kegan turned his head away from the phone and started hollering, "Attention. Attention everyone. Please may I have your attention? Santa is now in Cumbia. That's real near Crandon. Everyone has to be in bed at 8:51, so go get ready. I'm going to stay up and talk with Graig now."<br /><br />"No, Kegan. South America is still quite a ways away. Ooops! He just flew into Panama. He's getting closer."<br /><br />"Oooooh boy." Turning his head away from the mouthpiece again, I heard him holler, "Everybody. Santa just went to Graig's Pa an' Ma's house. Hurry and get to bed."<br /><br />"Well, I guess he is getting closer, so I had better get to bed myself, Kegan. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning to see whether Santa made it to your house. Good night."<br /><br />Scream. "O.K. Click."<br /><br />In this process, I learned that today's six year old isn't quite up on his geography yet, but there's no doubt about his Santa Claus education.<br /><br />Follow up: Kegan has called me the last two years to find out how to log into that NORAD site. He's still a believer, still just as excited, and hopefully is learning some geography in the process.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-41139005243230824032009-06-17T04:40:00.000-07:002009-06-17T10:54:41.761-07:00First Official Rescue<span style="font-weight: bold;">May 18, 2009</span><br /><br />With the coming of spring, my volunteer work for the Northwoods Wildlife Center in Minocqua is supposed to be picking up. I have been officially taught the proper technique to use when capturing various types of raptors. My title is <span style="font-style: italic;">Raptor Rescue Driver</span>. The title is nice, but I was disappointed to find out that the job does not come with a uniform, badge, and flasher bar or siren for my truck. I even have to provide my own transport box, which is nothing but a 20 gallon plastic tote with some breathing holes in it and a piece of remnant carpet in the bottom. Oh, well, I figured that it would still be interesting to be called out to rescue wild birds. It would be a good way to see new and beautiful nooks and crannies of the countryside.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, my first call came in. It was from the staff at the Rehab Center. "We received a call from a person in Rhinelander who says he has seen a pheasant roaming his yard and the adjacent area for the past few days. He can't tell whether it is hurt or not, but is worried that it might be."<br /><br />"But, wait a minute. I didn't think that there were any pheasants up here in the North Woods."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbhRGVIawhQqisf4EEBQX22LHLJd-0OYqIMKMHQESwOkEW7phUsrP_H3GRif-GzbrcSq0hu7VGPjBqtTe3gA3bTPVX0E1gg30UTousMtaizY6CJhMZrW5507c6iXdACRTUr2vj9d7YdYXY/s1600-h/RingneckPheasantCU.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbhRGVIawhQqisf4EEBQX22LHLJd-0OYqIMKMHQESwOkEW7phUsrP_H3GRif-GzbrcSq0hu7VGPjBqtTe3gA3bTPVX0E1gg30UTousMtaizY6CJhMZrW5507c6iXdACRTUr2vj9d7YdYXY/s400/RingneckPheasantCU.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348286943337238274" border="0" /></a><br />"There aren't, but we try not to argue with our concerned citizenry. Maybe it's a grouse or a turkey. Who knows? Would you be willing to go and check it out? Let us know if you catch it so that we can prepare a place for it."<br /><br />So I tossed my tote in the car along with the other stuff that I needed and went to find the address.<br /><br />The place turned out to be an old trailer home in a pretty run down area with lots of junk around. When I pulled up and knocked on the door, a younger man came out and started explaining where the pheasant was last seen and which way he was last headed. We searched and walked and looked in, under and around all of the old buildings and junk cars and trash piles, but no bird.<br /><br />"Are you sure that it was a pheasant? There are no pheasants in northern Wisconsin. Maybe it was a grouse or a turkey."<br /><br />"Turkey? That was no turkey, and it was too big for a grouse. What do you take me for, anyway? Nope, it was a pheasant all right. It was a beautiful bird with a brilliant red chest. Where the heck could it have disappeared to, I wonder?"<br /><br />"Pheasants have an amazing ability to lay low when they want to. Hunters nearly step on them before they take wing. I'll tell you what. We've been at it for more than an hour now. If you see it again, now I know where you're located. Give me a call, and I'll come again."<br /><br />That was the last that I heard from the guy, but it sure made me curious to know what in the world he may have seen. Then, in one of those mid-sleep epiphanies, it came to me that he had probably seen someone's domestic Chinese pheasant that had escaped. They are the only pheasant-sized birds that I know of that have a brilliant red chest and are strikingly beautiful. We had a neighbor that had one once in with her chickens. They can be purchased from poultry hatcheries and delivered anywhere by mail. That had to be it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNh7niKS1LeAeY8kC4UW_BDJhBsgKRAHGLOtVC9WQf6t-_Rr8Auj9cQ7C0hOREZKd0V7YYt1C35GzS7R86gJnSmu8Jilh5JSn_GYidead9t0ve8xUIUkIqxqK9PmtQkKDVM2_xvvCJuaSq/s1600-h/chinese+pheasant.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNh7niKS1LeAeY8kC4UW_BDJhBsgKRAHGLOtVC9WQf6t-_Rr8Auj9cQ7C0hOREZKd0V7YYt1C35GzS7R86gJnSmu8Jilh5JSn_GYidead9t0ve8xUIUkIqxqK9PmtQkKDVM2_xvvCJuaSq/s400/chinese+pheasant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348287128121707474" border="0" /></a><br />Which begged the question: what was I supposed to do if I was called out to catch an exotic species?<br /><br />"Nothing. We're only licensed to take wildlife," they said. I wonder if that is how exotic, invasive species have such an easy time of it sometimes.<br /><br />My next call came about a week and a half later. Someone had spotted a limping Sandhill Crane grazing out in their field and was worried that it would be easy prey.<br /><br />This time the place really was one of those beautiful nooks and crannies that I had imagined that I would have a chance to see. It was a home on the headwaters of the Wolf River with an open back yard full of a herd of about 10 wild deer when I drove up. The owners had bird feeeders all over the place and were treated to a steady stream of wildlife grazing and browsing through.<br /><br />The man was an older gent who had obviously grown up in the North Woods. He came out to show me where he had last seen the crane. As soon as we walked out behind the house, the deer scattered, but one of the mated pair of cranes remained behind casting a wary eye in our direction and slowly strutting away while giving its primitive sounding pterodactyl call to its absent mate. We walked around the woods surrounding the field until it was getting too dark to see, but couldn't find where the injured bird was hiding. The uninjured mate continued to stay close, but gave no clue as to where its partner might be. Again, I left my name and number in case they saw it again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PPq9YUBJHJJSUmE5jIDwJzdlwtn7Opwpm7mwLliw3cWrJmXJ66p2bBjoIJeSViT2TyqXbJXkn7NVudWxeqbjm0ijWlKlvvEC46ZtPoTUOLseg3A_aia0osvjlY4I9NswqqT571MoP3rR/s1600-h/Sandhill+crane+pair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PPq9YUBJHJJSUmE5jIDwJzdlwtn7Opwpm7mwLliw3cWrJmXJ66p2bBjoIJeSViT2TyqXbJXkn7NVudWxeqbjm0ijWlKlvvEC46ZtPoTUOLseg3A_aia0osvjlY4I9NswqqT571MoP3rR/s400/Sandhill+crane+pair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348288739151785106" border="0" /></a><br />Early the next morning they called, so I hopped in the truck with my stuff and headed out. This time the only thing in their field was the limping crane. They were right. It was obviously injured and was not bearing any weight on that leg.<br /><br />With cranes and herons, you don't have to worry about being pierced by talons, but our trainer recommended that at minimum some sort of eye protection, and optimally a full face shield be worn because when you get within striking range, the likelihood is that cranes and herons will go for the eyes with their long dagger beaks. So I donned my cheap pair of sunglasses.<br /><br />The next piece of essential capture equipment is a sheet to drape the bird with. Most birds, when their heads are covered will calm right down and are much easier to pick up. So I grabbed my sheet and set off.<br /><br />I sent the old guy out around through the woods to cut the bird off in case the crane decided to perform its woodland disappearing act again. It was a good thing, too.<br /><br />Slowly I crept. Step by step. Inch by inch. Tiptoeing so as not to make a sound. And the bird kept hobbling further off into the underbrush. Eyes shielded and sheet held out in front of me, I continued my slow stealthy approach.<br /><br />In the meantime, the owner came trundling through the woods at a rapid, noisy ground covering pace. I tried to whisper to him as loudly as possible to hang back so that I could proceed. But he was making so much racket that he apparently didn't hear me. Well the bird heard him, swung around on its good leg and tripped over a log, spread its wings out on the ground, and the guy just walked up and grabbed it by the beak. So much for all of that training and stealth.<br /><br />I then walked up, put the sheet over the bird and gently folded the neck, wings and legs up into a compact, turkey-sized bundle and tucked it under my arm to carry it back to the truck. In the front seat of the truck, I had my tote ready and open. I gently lowered the bundle into the box, lowered the lid, and then made my mistake.<br /><br />I did not want to transport the bird the hour and a half all the way to Minocqua wrapped in the sheet, so I cracked open the lid and slowly pulled the sheet off. And you guessed it.<br /><br />Start singing with me: "All around the cobbler's bench, the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought 'twas all in fun. Pop goes the weasel!"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98PUzHJHF97QmazmIY3o63n2Z35dXBtDrcjLOjzH_f45GaZIAv8tOhfGqDuIqgxhmSFNkTA2FcD4I-6bGwTLad3H-nCEgcQox-qjzZdKURwfOYDOccStFgXVTiqjHRSH50qLZE0hoPNUj/s1600-h/Sandhill+crane+glare.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi98PUzHJHF97QmazmIY3o63n2Z35dXBtDrcjLOjzH_f45GaZIAv8tOhfGqDuIqgxhmSFNkTA2FcD4I-6bGwTLad3H-nCEgcQox-qjzZdKURwfOYDOccStFgXVTiqjHRSH50qLZE0hoPNUj/s400/Sandhill+crane+glare.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348289755741590610" border="0" /></a><br />Out popped the crane, banging its head on the roof of the cab. First, I felt a flush of heat from the back of my neck turning red from frustration, panic and embarrassment. That was rapidoly followed by the feeling of a cool spray from the old guy's Pppppt, Pppppt, Pppppt --- a barely suppressed, tight lipped laugh behind me.<br /><br />Geez! This time I wasn't quite so slow and gentle when I reached down, to bend the crane's good leg with one hand while cramming down the head with the other and attempting to close the hinged lid with my chin. I've gotta get a bigger box!<br /><br />I finished up by gathering information and filling in the requisite forms for the Wildflife Center and promising the guy that if the bird recovered from its injuries we would release it back onto his place to join its mate. All the while the box was dancing around in the seat of the truck, and it was only after I settled into a steady speed on the highway straight-away that the bird seemed to calm down.<br /><br />I finally reached the Rehab facility only to find that the main man who assesses the injured wildlife had left on an errand and would not be back. So I relased the bird into a holding facility and left.<br /><br />A few days later, I phoned to see what the outcome was, and unfortunately, the bird's bad leg had been so shattered that it was irreparable, and they had to put the bird down. They did determine that it was a male.<br /><br />I am really hoping that the bird's injury was that way from the beginning and not from my handling, but I'll never know. It gave me pause, though.<br /><br />When I first saw the bird, it was definitely limping, but it was busy grazing and was apparently getting by out there with its mate. Neither the old guy nor I had ever seen the bird fly, so I don't know whether it could or not. I do know that it did not over winter here, and that it had to have flown in not so long ago. With the bad leg, it may well have fallen easy prey out in the woods, but it would have died a rapid death and would have been terror stricken for only a few minutes. As it happened, it was in terror for hours and hours, and I am not sure that I did it any favors. The staff at the wildlife center said that sometimes you are performing the rescue more for the benefit of the concerned citizenry than for the benefit of the wildlife. You never know.<br /><br />What do you think?<br /><br />P.S.: The wonderful photos in this blog were downloaded from the Internet taken by unsung photographers with far more skill and better equipment than I will ever have.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-1491502562718480302009-06-12T18:49:00.000-07:002009-06-12T20:00:03.686-07:00County Politics and Crime in the CityHere's another letter home about our lives on the peripheries of the farm up here in the North Woods of Wisconsin.<br /><br />By way of background, in order to bring in some income while caring for her mom, Louise, in our home, Deb had taken a job as the Forest County Medical Examiner/Death Investigator. She was the county's first trained medical professional to hold the job, but was not being compensated accordingly, so was heavily involved in negotiations with the County Board of Supervisors over her salary.<br /><br />During this time, a very small, exceedingly energetic 70 year old lady, affectionately referred to as Squirt by the entire community, was coming to our home as a paid aid to help with Louise and some of the household chores. Her husband had recently died, and Squirt had taken a developmentally disabled woman, Cathy, into her home for some added income. We often tried to help Squirt as need arose.<br /><br />This letter was dated:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">December 24, 2007</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFc1Vooz_vCMIXmI8eelGyEE_O-gH53UpNTpWG4JuaP6l4fbYIos4sTqwsoSXfGFlGjmLboCx1hnbHWNrPb2gcwTRNlw8d2WILNnaXFPA5GtfIrR0UrtmmeHI2yCjNdLXuHDP9Rj7ZjPhk/s1600-h/crime_in_the_city-lrg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 407px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFc1Vooz_vCMIXmI8eelGyEE_O-gH53UpNTpWG4JuaP6l4fbYIos4sTqwsoSXfGFlGjmLboCx1hnbHWNrPb2gcwTRNlw8d2WILNnaXFPA5GtfIrR0UrtmmeHI2yCjNdLXuHDP9Rj7ZjPhk/s400/crime_in_the_city-lrg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346623654205997842" border="0" /></a><br />This week started off on a weird note. Deb had a meeting scheduled for Monday evening to discuss what she wanted in terms of a full-time salary and benefits package in order for her to continue providing Medical Examiner/Death Investigator services for Forest County. Her current annual salary of $12,000 with no benefits for a 24 hour a day, 7 day a week, 365 day a year on-call schedule just doesn't cut it. Some of the Forest County Supervisors don't seem to understand.<br /><br />Anyway, before the meeting, she dropped by Squirt's house and found her a bit rattled. Squirt had just dropped by the pharmacy to pick up some meds, and a stranger that was in the store had followed her home. When Squirt got out of the car at the house, the guy pulled up and got out of his car and asked Squirt if she had a can of gas that he could have. She told him, "No, but I'm sure that the gas stations are still open." He hesitantly turned away and muttered, "I hope I have enough gas left to make it to the station." And then he appeared to drive off. This was particularly wierd since he had to have passed at least one station in following Squirt from the pharmacy to her home.<br /><br />Deb had Squirt call the police to come out to report the incident. Then Deb had to get to her meeting, so she called me to come in to town and spend the night with Squirt and Cathy in case the guy showed up again. I didn't know quite what I would be able to do if he did show up, other than act as a slight deterrent. I am not a hunter, but do have an old shotgun that belonged to my grandfather, but no ammunition. I have always thought that threatening someone with a gun would just as likely escalate a break-in situation to one of deadly violence, as it would scare them off. I opted not to bring the gun, but had a two foot long ice fishing pole in the car that maybe I could snag him with if I had to.<br /><br />It turned out that I needn't have been concerned because Squirt met me at her door wielding a golfing putter in one hand and a can of spray Pam in the other.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVTW-BM6H7VayJ7lwpNyB47bm1Li0Ro608SjTqpbf7iCPa0nb5XceloHm9O4aq6aG2zQz5phFKC-_GHCOBau8hlCBmef96dE5oIAuq-xHHcL_Pc7FHGQS6hapDx-TnGjSlHGDR7tV-YVzW/s1600-h/pepper+spray.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 369px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVTW-BM6H7VayJ7lwpNyB47bm1Li0Ro608SjTqpbf7iCPa0nb5XceloHm9O4aq6aG2zQz5phFKC-_GHCOBau8hlCBmef96dE5oIAuq-xHHcL_Pc7FHGQS6hapDx-TnGjSlHGDR7tV-YVzW/s400/pepper+spray.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346631631223342818" border="0" /></a>My vision was fogged for a while. And I still have that greasy kid look to my hair. Also, a throbbing soreness in my left knee cap still has me limping. But Squirt and Cathy are safe and sound.<br /><br />After taking off my boots in the kitchen and convalescing on the couch for a bit, Marge, the wife of my old haying partner, Butch, showed up at the door. Fortunately, I was able to convince Squirt to crack the door a bit and see who it was before she started sprayin' and swingin'. Marge had taken Butch over to the same meeting so that he could register some personal complaints against the zoning commissioner, and she had been sent over to check on us by Deb.<br /><br />After repeating all of the sordid details again, Squirt wanted Marge and me to come see some special gifts that she had made that were down her cellar steps off the back porch. So Marge and I followed her out of the house, and down the steps to see her gifts.<br /><br />Then we turned around to go back into the house, but the door I had pulled shut to keep out the cold air was locked. Squirt's face turned to stone. She had just that week replaced a window that her daughter had broken out when she had gotten locked out, and Squirt did not want to pay again for a replacement.<br /><br />She checked the nail where she normally keeps her extra key. Not there. She went into the garage to check the car. Not there. We were good and locked out.<br /><br />Then Squirt gave herself a dope slap, remembering that Cathy had just gone to bed not too long ago, and ought to be able to let us in. We banged on the door and hollered all to no avail.<br /><br />Squirt had no coat, and I had neither coat nor boots and was in my stocking feet. Nonetheless, Squirt went outside into the middle of thee street to holler to Cathy to wake up and let us in. No luck.<br /><br />Then Marge and I trounced around the house in more than a foot of wet snow looking for a way to break in. All of the windows were locked, as was the front door. Eventually, I found a pry bar and broke the door jamb on the front door and got in. By that time, Squirt was shivering and hoarse from shouting. My feet were frozen and I couldn't speak coherently from the chattering of my teeth, but we were back inside. I put the door jamb back together again well enough to close the door, and sent Marge home before she caused any more trouble.<br /><br />I fell asleep on the couch, ice fishing pole to my chest, and feet propped on a cushion thawing, and dreamed of pulling fish and unwanted predators/stalkers through holes in the ice.<br /><br />The next day, Squirt went back to the pharmacy and found that the guy had attempted to return some razors that had not been purchased there. The police also told her that the guy had also tried to get free gas down in Mole Lake eartlier that night. Someone got his license plate number, and it turned out that the guy was from the big city (Rhinelander) and had quite a rap sheet for fraud and petty theft. Anyway, that was the last that we saw or heard of him.<br /><br />I guess it sure was a good thing I was there that night. After all, I was able to report to Deb that someone did break down Squirt's front door, but I was able to keep Squirt and Cathy safe.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-8420040648809370152009-06-09T16:23:00.000-07:002009-06-09T17:59:00.753-07:00Curiosity ClydeOur good neighbors, Roy and Tina, have an eight year old son named Kegan, who is one of those kids who has been obsessed about dinosaurs for most of his young life. And I swear that he knows more about more different kinds of dinosaurs, including scientific names, than anyone I have ever met.<br /><br />Living out in the country, Kegan doesn't have many friends that he can share his enthusiasm with. So a while back, I decided to scan some of the scientific literature for new paleontological discoveries along with maps and images from Google searches, and write letters addressed to him from a field research scientist that I nicknamed "Curiosity" Clyde Calahan. In those letters, I pretend that I had heard through my network of fellow scientists of a dinosaur expert in Crandon with whom I could share some of my new finds.<br /><br />I had not written one of these letters in several months because I never heard Kegan say anything about them. I thought that he may not have been interested. Then this weekend, his mom mentioned that Kegan had been asking why he never got any more of those letters, and was wondering if Clyde had forgotten about him. So I wrote another one with an explanation for my lapse in communication. Here's the letter:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">June 8, 2009<br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Master Kegan Wilson</span><br /><br />I hope that this letter finds you and your research staff well.<br /><br />Please forgive me for not writing for so long, but I, personally, have not been well at all. I have been stuck in a hospital bed in Tan Tock Seng Hospital in Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, for several months and have just now been released.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpKD4AUwqQgoA6Mus-SXAMfN-qBDux7h62iCX05abQvlk28FMsyUe_CL55nDoYFzSgcmYCFZqoq9qhNp6MawhCmnepMxd-rZvF4vXgK83nxhdCfZntOecJ9f3GOzEDRMMIJ1WqBmuJPhxt/s1600-h/map_singapore.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpKD4AUwqQgoA6Mus-SXAMfN-qBDux7h62iCX05abQvlk28FMsyUe_CL55nDoYFzSgcmYCFZqoq9qhNp6MawhCmnepMxd-rZvF4vXgK83nxhdCfZntOecJ9f3GOzEDRMMIJ1WqBmuJPhxt/s400/map_singapore.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345480775308833634" border="0" /></a><br />It was touch and go there for me for quite some time.<br /><br />I find that I continue to remain a bit too weak to sit up and write with a pen and paper, so I am using a friend's computer this time. This is a pretty interesting, efficient tool for writing. I'll have to get one someday. Too bad they are so hard to carry out into the field when digging for fossils in remote areas. Oh well.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPnPzANTVJHRT1vcYlFFhKhdenXp24qmTik7HatJSmb8bEUcjtn8gWoUH19qArx2PPd8KJIQEx6mKaAFutdiRe9hmLn0pkdoihtIL7mGTlTj3QOyT0hEaUbgDsXxjyXIeLA_0CX7BA6s6q/s1600-h/tantocksenghospital_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPnPzANTVJHRT1vcYlFFhKhdenXp24qmTik7HatJSmb8bEUcjtn8gWoUH19qArx2PPd8KJIQEx6mKaAFutdiRe9hmLn0pkdoihtIL7mGTlTj3QOyT0hEaUbgDsXxjyXIeLA_0CX7BA6s6q/s400/tantocksenghospital_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345480176830094962" border="0" /></a><br />It all started when a friend from the Singapore Zoo called me wondering if I could come up and have a look at a sick Komodo Dragon (<span style="font-style: italic;">Varanus komodoensis</span>), the world's largest existing lizard. Knowing that I am somewhat of an expert on the extinct giant Megalania, which are (or were), after all, even larger relatives of the Komodo Dragon, he thought that perhaps I might be able to figure out what was wrong with their zoo's prize possession.<br /><br />In fact, when I received his call, I was fairly close by down in Southeastern Queensland, Australia. I was working with a colleague who is a chief model maker for Gondwana Studios, a company based in Tasmania that specializes in making life sized models of dinosaur skeletons for exhibit in some of the world's great Natural History Museums.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMSs2vwY2g-zdIeMK8qSSYrtuGxo3eY7dLXaABI35hic8Q6NwdQbJNz6OfPsu7wjVMgG2MdMN6mq_mi2y0nIf33DmugBKckdCozI_0QnJK7CMmlyx4BTtR0CE5BWFlsCRHKSnXOLVBZe5/s1600-h/australia-map.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 328px; height: 352px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMSs2vwY2g-zdIeMK8qSSYrtuGxo3eY7dLXaABI35hic8Q6NwdQbJNz6OfPsu7wjVMgG2MdMN6mq_mi2y0nIf33DmugBKckdCozI_0QnJK7CMmlyx4BTtR0CE5BWFlsCRHKSnXOLVBZe5/s400/australia-map.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345480072441733202" border="0" /></a><br />I thought it clever that they named their company after the ancient supercontinent of Gondwana that existed before our present day continents drifted apart.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYP_tWBVNXAndOHQR36RWNTTfMrdTBT4MnlWNAKHgrlkuCnNLp0WzM8k6Hi5tKqPSSv6UJ9Lj_6nHICoZXt3wEgDT_-Fujc0YRxg52eYcyNbYsreXjzKfqa3LTP1xfXHCJRQ2v3I5w8V8Q/s1600-h/gondwana_gross.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYP_tWBVNXAndOHQR36RWNTTfMrdTBT4MnlWNAKHgrlkuCnNLp0WzM8k6Hi5tKqPSSv6UJ9Lj_6nHICoZXt3wEgDT_-Fujc0YRxg52eYcyNbYsreXjzKfqa3LTP1xfXHCJRQ2v3I5w8V8Q/s400/gondwana_gross.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345479988514356594" border="0" /></a><br />Anyway, Gondwana Studios had been assembling a life-sized model of a Megalania skeleton and wanted my advice on some of the details. Being somewhat of an expert reptile man yourself, I probably don't need to remind you that Megalania was a giant varanid lizard that existed in the Pleistocene era 1.6 million to 40,000 years ago. The varanid lizards include all of the present day monitor lizards. Megalania reached lengths up to almost 20 feet, which makes them the largest terrestrial lizard that ever lived. Its name, Megalania, means "ancient giant butcher". They are believed to have been as nasty as the modern monitor lizards, including the Komodo Dragons. Here's a picture of Megalania's skull.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lL_sjIoCQd_niDgoPUHU8F9SEyAVGZQR_v7vGNoqHJ01LG-hmYMTfoNLJauaD8tUoaDIN3gdZ35yJVHKI7CswxpmeCi-dfGN2gNlziyCiY0RqWbIuB4AI4wKmE_RHyrH2j1WQSH02M7n/s1600-h/Megalania_skull_by_Predator755.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lL_sjIoCQd_niDgoPUHU8F9SEyAVGZQR_v7vGNoqHJ01LG-hmYMTfoNLJauaD8tUoaDIN3gdZ35yJVHKI7CswxpmeCi-dfGN2gNlziyCiY0RqWbIuB4AI4wKmE_RHyrH2j1WQSH02M7n/s400/Megalania_skull_by_Predator755.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345479801711814338" border="0" /></a><br />And here's a picture of the skeleton that we were building along with an artist's drawing of what we think they probably looked like.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6b4TbIoySs6hHkbRXJa4CsCfr8HxeHe5hqQfHDJezRm19IBRogg_liLPgTRhZmz-MfjZsufrIOOKFRYoMVenBIlD7s3zw0-TOawmv2xHhXQKjhYYzXQrYm4mX6bcNTPCcHTiwnzW2svSf/s1600-h/mega001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6b4TbIoySs6hHkbRXJa4CsCfr8HxeHe5hqQfHDJezRm19IBRogg_liLPgTRhZmz-MfjZsufrIOOKFRYoMVenBIlD7s3zw0-TOawmv2xHhXQKjhYYzXQrYm4mX6bcNTPCcHTiwnzW2svSf/s400/mega001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345479679079236194" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4jkitu6j0EPr_y1YcjeLFKN9uXyvIAr_8YVXST2sgfnqybY04A-CGdsRv2OI0ua6gh6IwpLKGX_BYNJUiYzXWadY-w_mFQbZdKKYkT-dWnv-sCD1IYUjntGlMpUV9nZOl32MhjL-6SfUE/s1600-h/exti-megalaniagenyornis-l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4jkitu6j0EPr_y1YcjeLFKN9uXyvIAr_8YVXST2sgfnqybY04A-CGdsRv2OI0ua6gh6IwpLKGX_BYNJUiYzXWadY-w_mFQbZdKKYkT-dWnv-sCD1IYUjntGlMpUV9nZOl32MhjL-6SfUE/s400/exti-megalaniagenyornis-l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345479524579833042" border="0" /></a><br />As you can see, they probably looked a lot like a modern day Komodo Dragon.<br /><br />Anyway, I hopped on a plane and flew on up to the Singapore Zoo to talk with Dr. Hang Fai Kwok and find out what was wrong with his Komodo Dragon. It just didn't seem to be acting right or eating much, and Hang Fai was doing a series of tests on it and injecting medicines, but without much success.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChj3k2kZD3dRA_DpQWVXGwThcpDcqzVxqUW68WgFB-dafCVfwXuR3J0LhcpBmmqb8inVPQ8vx90r69Ue3CHZz-qflWPNRDH6zuhGpoo1-_i3erzLuzGtj5F1eKF2JYcyHQZHp5fX9CjmF/s1600-h/_39432861_dragon360_ap.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChj3k2kZD3dRA_DpQWVXGwThcpDcqzVxqUW68WgFB-dafCVfwXuR3J0LhcpBmmqb8inVPQ8vx90r69Ue3CHZz-qflWPNRDH6zuhGpoo1-_i3erzLuzGtj5F1eKF2JYcyHQZHp5fX9CjmF/s400/_39432861_dragon360_ap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345479415840395746" border="0" /></a><br />I asked what he had been feeding it. Standard commercial lizard chow was his answer. Then I asked when it had eaten last, and was told that it had been several weeks ago now.<br /><br />Well, remembering that artist's drawing of Megalania, I asked if I could go into the emu pen and catch one to see if the dragon might perk up at the sight of a good fresh meal. He said, "Sure, give it a try."<br /><br />So I grabbed a rather smallish emu and tucked it under my arm as best I could and slowly carried it into the dragon pen. Sure enough. At the sight of the big bird, the dragon perked its head right up and looked to me like it started drooling.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiD8LKYJQW88DvwpePEMxfvpzbjUCObt0ICr4k5mvyyh8EmmgOu0RbIftnfTldVAFZrpvGQWZtnEFqiRmLeGaJEcMuMG4BqqvzY-W7zZT7_cZIhr99LnpW58wf5eWeO9R8kwD9QLNySRKp/s1600-h/komodo2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 297px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiD8LKYJQW88DvwpePEMxfvpzbjUCObt0ICr4k5mvyyh8EmmgOu0RbIftnfTldVAFZrpvGQWZtnEFqiRmLeGaJEcMuMG4BqqvzY-W7zZT7_cZIhr99LnpW58wf5eWeO9R8kwD9QLNySRKp/s400/komodo2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345479315933701634" border="0" /></a><br />I asked Hang Fai to photograph this experiment, so he got some pretty good shots. As I walked closer, the dragon opened its mouth wider than I ever thought possible.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOS_-2j8YBo5gBd5ZJfF16j9rHZLn29-3g0S4lub2qCRH0tdwQdkkFwhNFwV9dGCOyc2F04WOjgo4tZUKNbvFv00TzzCr_qtJ-ujyFy1sfrERqysbOk0vmQUVWomByQ_vgeDY1YdTVugQ/s1600-h/090518172650-large.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOS_-2j8YBo5gBd5ZJfF16j9rHZLn29-3g0S4lub2qCRH0tdwQdkkFwhNFwV9dGCOyc2F04WOjgo4tZUKNbvFv00TzzCr_qtJ-ujyFy1sfrERqysbOk0vmQUVWomByQ_vgeDY1YdTVugQ/s400/090518172650-large.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345479201407185090" border="0" /></a><br />Then, before I knew it, that darned dragon made a lunge for the emu in my arms. Not wanting to sacrifice one of the zoo's specimens, I spun to protect the bird. When I did that, the dragon caught the back of my upper arm and started pulling backwards, shredding a bunch of my skin with its small, but razor sharp teeth. Fortunately, Komodo Dragons don't have teeth as large as the Megalania. Nonetheless, it inflicted quite a wound. Here are just a few of the bite wounds after I had them stitched up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUpHxZwREx1zlyVs3m_mhqL66nhEWZ1tj7qlfyNrgXDuNzY1IBsx9rq4qHu9v42Y1U-1L6eyBcR2SrfSDrkbV5rrgLiis57_xDeEOYRuYIKAEB9U_cHdSmNWR8V75eAuC1lPNLCmJbeJum/s1600-h/sharikayt_bite_wound_for_web.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUpHxZwREx1zlyVs3m_mhqL66nhEWZ1tj7qlfyNrgXDuNzY1IBsx9rq4qHu9v42Y1U-1L6eyBcR2SrfSDrkbV5rrgLiis57_xDeEOYRuYIKAEB9U_cHdSmNWR8V75eAuC1lPNLCmJbeJum/s400/sharikayt_bite_wound_for_web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345479103206810802" border="0" /></a><br />It is also fortunate that the Komodo's skull structure does not allow the biting force of say, a modern salt water crocodile. The killing technique of Komodo Dragons is to bite and slash the prey (the so-called "grip-and-rip" technique), then let go. Unfortunately for me, the prey becomes unusually quiet, loses a lot of blood, and apparently goes into rapid shock. The Komodo then just slowly stalks the prey and devours it. That is almost what happened to me.<br />Shortly after the attack, I became extremely weak and woozy and faint, and finally I blacked out. Fortunately, Hang Fai was there to save me. The next thing that I knew, I was in a hospital bed.<br /><br />When I woke up and began to recall what had happened, I became extremely worried about the bite. Most scientists believe that the bite becomes badly infected with germs from the dragon's mouth and the prey dies from the subsequent infection. I wanted to make certain that my bite didn't show evidence of any bad infection, but I couldn't see it because it was on the back of my arm. The kind nurses assured me that they had properly cleansed and disinfected the bite and had given me ample antibiotic medicines.<br /><br />That reassured me, but then as I was laying there, I began to think that I became too weak too rapidly for an infection from a dirty bite to have caused it. There had to be a poison involved. When Hang Fai came to visit, I asked him what happened to the dragon. He told me that they had to kill it, so I asked him to do a complete anatomical analysis of the dragon's skull and teeth and let me know what they find as soon as possible.<br /><br />And do you know what they found? There are venom glands in the dragon's jaw that drain out between the teeth. Mass spectroscopy of the venom samples showed that toxins present in the venom accelerates the deep laceration-induced bleeding and drop in blood pressure through PLA2, kallikrein and natriuretic toxins, and further immobilizes the prey with AVIT toxins. The scientists that thought the bacteria in a dirty bite killed the prey are all wrong.<br /><br />When you look at the teeth in a scanning electron microscope, they have grooves that guide the venom into the wound. They aren't like the hollow fangs of snakes, but are apparently just as effective. And do you know what has me the most excited? Those tooth grooves look almost exactly like the grooves in the teeth that we find in fossil Megalania! The ancient giant butchers were almost certainly venomous too.<br /><br />EUREKA! That makes Megalania (<span style="font-style: italic;">Varanus priscus</span>) the largest venomous animal to have ever lived.<br /><br />I talked Kwok into publishing this in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences</span>.<br /><br />Isn't Science wonderful?<br /><br />I think that from now on, though, I'm going to stick with fossils.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Your fellow researcher, Clyde.<br /></div><br /><br /><br />I then hand addressed an envelope, pasted on some printed Indonesian stamps, stuffed in the letter, and crumpled up the envelope to make it look like it had been in the international mail a while, then delivered it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHAxvoRo-CvDKbuo_Nn2Wnx3N9KcgFyqgnDVb-NVar0A0KWELsLSG5ANTPEzp5I5OcpMCogQghXP9pCK6iakU3qc7uF6Z9wnX2P2Yt1TzhHs9OixeLUyl3Wkekaj0NSfFEzv-YjAVqMvU2/s1600-h/INDONESIA-stampset1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHAxvoRo-CvDKbuo_Nn2Wnx3N9KcgFyqgnDVb-NVar0A0KWELsLSG5ANTPEzp5I5OcpMCogQghXP9pCK6iakU3qc7uF6Z9wnX2P2Yt1TzhHs9OixeLUyl3Wkekaj0NSfFEzv-YjAVqMvU2/s400/INDONESIA-stampset1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345478946834535554" border="0" /></a><br />Kegan apparently remarked, "Wow. Clyde sure got lucky that time."The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-87395119521927461312009-06-08T16:56:00.000-07:002009-06-08T17:35:53.148-07:00Furnaces, Windows and Leaky Lakes<span style="font-style: italic;">I had a comment from jaz on the last post that reminded me of how cold our house and kitchen gets sometimes in the wintertime. I went back and found the following letter to our families dated:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">December 17, 2007</span><br /><br />Oh, the joys of winter in the North Woods of Wisconsin! <br /><br />I was sleeping soundly under my quilt, down comforter, the heavy Korean MoMo Mink blanket, overlain by three dogs and a cat when Deb shrieked me awake. The first thing that my eyes opened to was the lighted dial of the bedside alarm clock: [4:03 am].<br /><br />Deb had apparently gotten up to empty her bladder and nearly froze to the toilet seat.<br /><br />"Graig, I think the furnace isn't working. Get up and check it."<br /><br />"I'm plenty warm and cozy, thanks."<br /><br />"If you don't go down and see what's wrong, I'm calling the furnace man."<br /><br />Now, please understand that the 'furnace man' is the new husband of one of Louise's Hospice Care nurses, who quit the job because Louise was outlasting her desire to be a nurse. This is the same furnace man that assured Deb in the middle of the summer two years ago that there was nothing wrong with our furnace, but that we needed to replace all of the windows in our old farm house with newer, more thermally efficient windows in order to keep warm. I haven't much cared for that guy's opinions ever since.<br /><br />I said, "Deb, if you're cold, don't call your 'furnace man', just cozy up to one of those new windows I have been putting in over the past two years. They're supposed to keep you warm."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"GET UP!"</span><br /><br />"Oh, all right. Scoot dogs. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ouch!</span> That darned cat of yours scratched me! Jeeze, where are my slippers. These floors are cold!"<br /><br />So down to the basement it was. Off came the front access panel to the propane furnace. Hmmm. A red light was flashing and there was no flame. I didn't see any dial or pilot light to even try to put a match to. "I wonder if this thing is under warranty. Oh well. Not much I can do tonight."<br /><br />Back upstairs, I see Deb all cozy under the covers. "What's wrong with the heat?"<br /><br />"There isn't any. The furnace isn't working."<br /><br />"Well, fix it."<br /><br />"From what I see, it can't be fixed."<br /><br />I don't think I want to repeat the rest of the conversation. Suffice it to say that Deb's 'furnace man' got a call a few short hours later and he had a solution all right.... take a sledge hammer to it.<br /><br />Anyway, I am now reading a book all about how to make a masonry stove ... a genuine Russian stove ... the kind that Leo Tolstoy describes as having a platform that Deb can sleep on. In that same book, it says that in the old peasant farm houses, farm families used to let the sheep sleep under their beds and heat from their bodies would keep the bed warm. I wonder if that's how the old method of falling asleep counting sheep started. We are trying that method until I can get the stove built, but I think that the old peasant farmers used to sleep on ticking filled with two inches of straw suspended by ropes strung across the bed frame, not 8 inches of polyester thermal fluff that resists any heat penetration. I hope the sheep stay warm.<br /><br />Well, I was cold anyway and dressed for the weather, so I decided to go out with our neighbor, Roy, to try my hand at ice fishing. The ice was about eight to ten inches thick with about 5 inches of snow on top, but below the snow, there was about two inches of water over the ice. I can't figure out how that happens. I guess that the fishermen keep drilling holes in the ice and cause the lake to leak. Anyway, after sitting in the wind and freezing my bad hand (the one that I put through a table saw and couldn't afford to have fixed), I came home with one five inch yellow perch. At least I won't have to buy sardines for a sandwich this week.<br /><br />It sure felt good to go back into the house. It's amazing how good temperatures above 10 degrees F can feel sometimes. You just gotta love this North Woods living.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-21339737215502378712009-06-06T13:08:00.000-07:002009-06-08T14:02:44.907-07:00Horse-drawn Golf Cart and Butter Toffee<span style="font-weight: bold;">June 6, 09</span><br /><br />In the Straits of Mackinac that separates Michigan's Upper from Lower Peninsula and connecting Lakes Michigan and Huron, there is an island, Mackinac Island, on which motorized traffic is prohibited. People and things are moved by foot, bicycle, or horse. Taxis, drays, manure and tour wagons are drawn by teams of Belgian and Percheron draft horses, most of which are stabled by one organization.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxCXAZvz6DI02NF9LM3OmByD78lbcU6tMM20VkDDPBpSGebAJNOwL-p_ub2dM9sGJud2QRTqEub7ufyrOVD29-YV0pxpH2v8TuqrNCM1fEFRGlcPoMyQJTxnijii9CR-1ow_1mQhArxFJ/s1600-h/Straits+of+Mackinac+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqxCXAZvz6DI02NF9LM3OmByD78lbcU6tMM20VkDDPBpSGebAJNOwL-p_ub2dM9sGJud2QRTqEub7ufyrOVD29-YV0pxpH2v8TuqrNCM1fEFRGlcPoMyQJTxnijii9CR-1ow_1mQhArxFJ/s400/Straits+of+Mackinac+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344330697054283714" border="0" /></a><br />Several years ago, I took on a job with Mackinac Island Carriage Tours, and worked 12 to 14 hour shifts, seven days a week in the big barn mucking out tie stalls, helping harness and hitch up teams, stacking and dispersing hay, and driving the manure wagons to the centralized composting facility.<br /><br />Toward the end of the season, I spent my days driving a two horse team for the golf shuttle. There is an 18 hole golf course on the island. The lower 9 holes are across from the Grand Hotel, and the upper 9 holes are 20 minutes away by carriage.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipd9yykfvr_-Xv4h17OiXXerE_RL4dE6uOyk4lrSP9X1TE7XvKlONpq5B_Nbj0olpiJtVYVHr-rrGLrZwLSi6A33Vm6jUWW8GFVoyB5zIpn2ILWUfQ2W2WcJi9cTS_xSL_yF_8ZfB0ujlv/s1600-h/Mackinac+Island+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipd9yykfvr_-Xv4h17OiXXerE_RL4dE6uOyk4lrSP9X1TE7XvKlONpq5B_Nbj0olpiJtVYVHr-rrGLrZwLSi6A33Vm6jUWW8GFVoyB5zIpn2ILWUfQ2W2WcJi9cTS_xSL_yF_8ZfB0ujlv/s400/Mackinac+Island+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344331820878411858" border="0" /></a><br />One of the things that the island is famous for is its candy... Mackinac Island Fudge... salt water taffy... and English Toffee. All are made there on the island, and are considered by many to be exceptional. Personally, I can take or leave the fudge and taffy. But the English Toffee is to die for. I had to quit the job while I still had money in my pockets and before I rotted my teeth entirely away. I'll never forget that stuff. Pure manna.<br /><br />Then a few years ago, my wife took me into a local shop in Crandon that imported llama wool clothing from South America. It was the Christmas season, and the owner had placed out a plate of toffee that she had made herself for her customers . I took one piece. Then discretely took another. Then blatantly another and another. It was as good, if not better, than the Mackinac Island version. I told the owner, Barb, that I <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">had </span>to have the recipe.<br /><br />"Riiight. I'm glad you enjoy it."<br /><br />"No, I'm serious. If I don't get it, I'm going to forbid my wife from purchasing this ever mounting pile of sweaters, scarves, and mittens."<br /><br />"Riiight. I know Deb. All I can say is you can try to stop her."<br /><br />"Aw. Pleeeez? I need that recipe."<br /><br />"Do you really cook?"<br /><br />"Well, yeah! I can't live on the frozen pizzas that Deb cooks."<br /><br />Finally, Deb, overhearing our exchange, came over. "Oh, he's serious all right. He was a scientist. You can't be a scientist without knowing how to experiment in the lab and in the kitchen."<br /><br />So I got the secret recipe, which she had committed to memory, and have made the stuff periodically ever since.<br /><br />And only because I know what special people bloggers tend to be, I share that secret here with you. Warning: Do not make this for friends and relatives on a diet (unless you are in a weight loss contest with them).<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Barb's La Llama Butter Toffee<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span></span><ul><li>Butter a 9 x 13 inch baking sheet.</li><li>Combine 2 sticks (1/2 lb.) real butter, 1 cup sugar, 1/4 tsp salt, and 6 Tbsp. water in a saucepan.</li><li>Stirring constantly, slowly bring the mixture to a boil, and continue until a candy thermometer reads 300 F.</li><li>Stir in some chopped almonds, if desired.</li><li>Pour onto the prepared baking sheet.</li><li>Sprinkle the hot mix with milk chocolate chips and spread around as it melts.</li><li>Add more chopped almonds as topping, if desired.</li><li>Let cool and break into portions.</li></ul><div style="text-align: left;">Even though this is poured into one large flat piece, and later broken apart, when hubby or kids ask for "a piece of that toffee" you will find that you have to explain that one of those shards compromises a portion, not the whole original one piece puddle. Also, do not send friends home in a car with an unsealed, open container of this stuff, or it will never make it home. Let me know what you think.<br /><br /><br /></div></div>The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-12970098929893710892009-06-04T06:08:00.000-07:002009-06-04T06:56:22.962-07:00Death of a Tiger Swallowtail Butterfly<span style="font-weight: bold;">June 4, 2009</span><br /><br />Our mama Hemingway cat, Polly (short for polydactyly), is venturing out away from her litter of kittens more now. The other day, I was outside and was intently watching the year's first Tiger Swallowtail Butterfly flitting past, when Polly flashed up and swept it out of midair. It really took me by surprise. All I could think of was the long migration that Monarch butterflies make every year, and what a shame it would have been for something so frail and delicate and slow moving to have made it all the way up to Northern Wisconsin only to become a slaughtered plaything for our cat. Even if it didn't migrate, it had made it through our Northern Wisconsin winters only to be snuffed out the first chance it had to bask in the warmth of the sun.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm06o_b3GzL5YERjjkt_gieyZqyW5o1WLet9-3q7dD9QfmmQ1vL3nZNFzNEamUtkXYazf3rqjrVh5x7s8NceBLEXHHcP59nkcruyQ9R_xuEV6Ksux0ipiksgQ7my_8y5p_tU3PtBD1cxEF/s1600-h/easternTigerSwallowtail_ins.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 380px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm06o_b3GzL5YERjjkt_gieyZqyW5o1WLet9-3q7dD9QfmmQ1vL3nZNFzNEamUtkXYazf3rqjrVh5x7s8NceBLEXHHcP59nkcruyQ9R_xuEV6Ksux0ipiksgQ7my_8y5p_tU3PtBD1cxEF/s400/easternTigerSwallowtail_ins.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343461184021044802" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterfly<br />Jerry A. Payne / USDA ARS www.insectimages.org<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">I had no idea whether the swallowtail makes migrations, so I started searching for information on it just to satisfy my curiosity and learned some pretty fascinating things.<br /><br />First of all, the swallowtail that I saw could have been one of two possible species: the Eastern Tiger Swallowtail, <span style="font-style: italic;">Papilio glaucus</span>, or the Canadian Tiger Swallowtail, <span style="font-style: italic;">Papilio canadensis</span>.<br /><br />OK. The genus name <span style="font-style: italic;">Papilio </span>is Latin for butterfly, and papillon is French for butterfly. (Does anyone remember the old Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman movie entitled <span style="font-style: italic;">Papillon </span>about the French penal colony on Devil's Island?) Anyway, in taxonomic science the genus name <span style="font-style: italic;">Papilio </span>is now used only for the swallow-tailed butterflies.<br /><br />Everybody can guess where the species name <span style="font-style: italic;">canadensis </span>comes from, but according to most dictionaries, glaucus refers to a bluish-white coating. Well, that makes no sense. Alternatively, in Homer's <span style="font-style: italic;">Iliad</span>, Glaucus was the name of a co-leader of the Lycian allies of the Trojans, and he foolishly exchanged his gold armor for the bronze armor of Diomedes. I guess that gets a little closer to the yellow color of the butterfly I know.<br /><br />Then I found out something that I never knew before. All of the butterflies that are yellow are males. The females are usually dark blue and I would never have guessed that these are the same species.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwMhkBi9RaLR7XRxer0RZp3ZMtgGjC0YwZrPmkmKHznJTcMO-Ukr6zt18yoCrUTZlJVJed-OZE5S1mBgWf2Wo2_bZAigyfrtrAk5xTkJRgKsyuBZ5wTnyqHISSN2OLNTRBFalIAqcrMYU/s1600-h/E-Tiger-Swallowtail-Black-f.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 380px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwMhkBi9RaLR7XRxer0RZp3ZMtgGjC0YwZrPmkmKHznJTcMO-Ukr6zt18yoCrUTZlJVJed-OZE5S1mBgWf2Wo2_bZAigyfrtrAk5xTkJRgKsyuBZ5wTnyqHISSN2OLNTRBFalIAqcrMYU/s400/E-Tiger-Swallowtail-Black-f.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343464019026210450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Female eastern tiger swallowtail (black form)<br />photo by HaarFager on Wikipedia published under<br />terms of the GNU Free Documentation license Version 1.2 or later<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">OK. That's cool. I'll have to keep an eye out for that one. But we're back to <span style="font-style: italic;">glaucus </span>referring to blue or yellow? I don't know.<br /><br />How about Eastern versus Canadian? It turns out that until 1991, they were thought to be the same species, but two subspecies. With the advent of genetic technologies, scientists have determined that there are actually two different species that are "parapatric", which is a fancy way of saying that their geographic boundaries butt up next to each other, but don't overlap.<br /><br />OK. So where is that boundary? I found a map that shows it right along the dotted line. Those numbers were collecting sites for <span style="font-style: italic;">P. canadensis</span> (Stump AD, Sperling FAH, Crim A and Scriber JM. <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Lakes Entomologist</span>, 2003:41-53.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIHqfIK54Z_wbnyQaPGkpa-XA1EaiA93chBEZOdt0ueOeFD2WRhnv6V96gNvwp-lxH-UIVMeQxbLg5A40kN8XmKoXySMcFxZn93pkBvAb568CQzzao1xyrvKKIv1bA2hMAhB2uEXnLZD_/s1600-h/swallowtail+boundary.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIHqfIK54Z_wbnyQaPGkpa-XA1EaiA93chBEZOdt0ueOeFD2WRhnv6V96gNvwp-lxH-UIVMeQxbLg5A40kN8XmKoXySMcFxZn93pkBvAb568CQzzao1xyrvKKIv1bA2hMAhB2uEXnLZD_/s400/swallowtail+boundary.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343466058598721458" border="0" /></a>Well, heck then. That settles it, we live just a little bit south of the bottom of the <span style="font-weight: bold;">2</span> on the map. Polly must have nabbed a Canadian swallowtail.<br /><br />But what if historically, the governments got our national boundaries all wrong? It looks to me like nature has drawn the line between Canada and the US with the butterfly population, and that line is to the south of us.<br /><br />As of 1991, when this was discovered, maybe I became a Canadian. That might not be so bad, come to think of it.<br /><br />Canadian banks didn't crash like the US ones did (http://www.time.com/time/business/article/0.8599.1855317.00.html).<br /><br />Deb and I are among the medically uninsured. Does this mean that we qualify for Canadian universal health care and cheaper pharmaceuticals? Did you know that contrary to what the US health and insurance industries would have you believe, the World Health Organization has ranked the US health system performance as 72nd in the world, and the Canadian health system as 35th (http://www.photius.com/rankings/world_health_performance_ranks.html)?<br /><br />Should we not need a passport to drive around Lake Superior on a vacation after all?<br /><br />But wait a minute. The bottom line of that scientific study is that we should be using genetic techniques to watch for any shift northward of the <span style="font-style: italic;">P. glaucus</span> species that could be caused by global warming.<br /><br />Oh, oh. Is the naturally defined US-Canadian boundary creeping northwards? Should I be in a rush to make my butterfly natural history boundary plea for health care before it's too late?<br /><br />Well, as of the night of June 3, 2009, we still have frost warnings. If I can't garden yet, there should be some bright side to living up here.<br /><br />I don't think I need to be in any hurry to make my plea.<br /><br />Quite yet anyway.<br /><br /><br />P.S. -- Sorry. Sometimes I just need to vent.<br /><br /><br /></div></div><br /></div></div>The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8090964844649174945.post-13758456216108635002009-05-30T05:50:00.000-07:002009-06-04T05:42:17.241-07:00Little Rice Lake and Crows<span style="font-weight: bold;">May 30, 09</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8guCsfQv_yUGtIm7hyphenhyphen8jQfc4RiRPbgI-6CYHwxKUkfjs-EERm69coo1APBbdKjM41exRCW5bI9nDAyeeMizyZXjDWbfC6309O-gcX_OFriMeHLtwBvpVKYpoj1XX-lddFDkmoU2evpXDZ/s1600-h/satellite+map+of+farm+and+lake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8guCsfQv_yUGtIm7hyphenhyphen8jQfc4RiRPbgI-6CYHwxKUkfjs-EERm69coo1APBbdKjM41exRCW5bI9nDAyeeMizyZXjDWbfC6309O-gcX_OFriMeHLtwBvpVKYpoj1XX-lddFDkmoU2evpXDZ/s400/satellite+map+of+farm+and+lake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341626241894443474" border="0" /></a>Our 40 acre farm lies in a little piece of Paradise in a valley near the headwaters of the Wolf River. Further downstream, the Wolf has been designated as one of the Nation's Wild and Scenic Rivers and is protected. Up here a small historic mill dam creates Little Rice Lake, and it's from this flowage that I supply our household with fresh fish almost year round.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUg8SzrWDetzSnnOHJNBdjri76EBlKYfwTy7d4WdzgTMe7Wb3AQZEoq92zigipsuy50uGQVAQkgynykrpqiFOhAe9uY_nf66ie1AEBFe7KZ7Yq5AZMG56XfWuYDnsc3ebu8sn1rGhnz26A/s1600-h/100_2372_00.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUg8SzrWDetzSnnOHJNBdjri76EBlKYfwTy7d4WdzgTMe7Wb3AQZEoq92zigipsuy50uGQVAQkgynykrpqiFOhAe9uY_nf66ie1AEBFe7KZ7Yq5AZMG56XfWuYDnsc3ebu8sn1rGhnz26A/s400/100_2372_00.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341683959141600722" border="0" /></a><br />I love that lake because it is so low and boggy that there is very little development around it, so there are almost never any water skiers or jet skiers on the water. Instead there are geese and loons and sandhill cranes. The sounds of marsh birds prevail. The lake is shallow and covers a large area, so it makes a wonderful propagation pond for panfish, mostly bluegill, sunfish, yellow perch, black crappie, bullhead, northern pike and largemouth bass.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-zv7zN0iwT0E9jR5QJmRNzcIQgQyRJrK4oqtKcSF5vREq9SdBqdLvNBWcOYrJ-ZLyu0BElWZjqtcYpS5tyURdS0XotYyVU5mreodPaoAf4jLs7d6RurSnibrXFJtEXs46ismxA-JwUK5/s1600-h/100_2371.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-zv7zN0iwT0E9jR5QJmRNzcIQgQyRJrK4oqtKcSF5vREq9SdBqdLvNBWcOYrJ-ZLyu0BElWZjqtcYpS5tyURdS0XotYyVU5mreodPaoAf4jLs7d6RurSnibrXFJtEXs46ismxA-JwUK5/s400/100_2371.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341684724571666194" border="0" /></a><br />The upper end of the lake is dominated by wild rice that is so dense that in a few weeks it will not be navigable by motor. Now you can see the new plants starting to take off just a few feet below the surface of the water.<br /><br />There are numerous boggy islands in the lake that actually float around sometimes if the water gets high. They aren't stable enough to walk on, so they act as wilderness sanctuaries to all sorts of small wildlife.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh58aq5kgA5kQVf9VU_bMGTx_keonIFpszhnn0zqPd8INolIA6wgd97aOb5a-a9IejMBpSHNe5RDpv7qjIN55aZmwBkZbbrJk1H6j271Cl1-8ybw9ihXZEt3q2ynIw2rpbOWgGerqdeT8h6/s1600-h/100_2370_01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh58aq5kgA5kQVf9VU_bMGTx_keonIFpszhnn0zqPd8INolIA6wgd97aOb5a-a9IejMBpSHNe5RDpv7qjIN55aZmwBkZbbrJk1H6j271Cl1-8ybw9ihXZEt3q2ynIw2rpbOWgGerqdeT8h6/s400/100_2370_01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341686270095872370" border="0" /></a><br />One small island up in the wild rice area is called Pancake Island. On it is a tree that has an eagle's nest that must be decades old. The structure has to be six to eight feed deep. The eagles should be nesting there soon. I have seen eagles occupying nests on power poles along the highway recently.<br /><br />I was out fishing this week in the lee of an island and saw more muskrats than I have ever seen before. When I was younger, living in the Lower Peninsula of Michigan, I had a Native American friend that used to trap them and sell the pelts to furriers and the carcasses to a local restaurant. Once in a while he would bring me a few dressed out carcasses, and I would parboil them and then saute them in garlic and butter. There wasn't a whole lot of meat on them, but it was good eating. I'm well enough fed not to be tempted to go out and start trapping them myself, though.<br /><br />At home, Deb has been doing some yard work and cleaning up. Yesterday, we were trimming a lot of deadwood out of our trees and shrubbery. I put the trimmings in our little utility vehicle and took them into the woods out back where we have a couple of brush piles.<br /><br />As I drove up, there was a crow perched on the pile, and it hopped down to the ground. I was surprised that it didn't fly away, because crows are usually pretty wary. So I got out and started walking toward it. It kept hopping away, but obviously could not fly. I picked it up and could see no visible signs of injury, so I tucked it into the cab of the truck while I emptied my load. The crow just sat on the seat and remained surprisingly calm.<br /><br />Back home, I showed it to Deb.<br /><br />"What in the world are you dragging home this time? You're as bad as a little kid."<br /><br />"Can I keep him? Please? Please? Pretty please? They're supposed to make great pets."<br /><br />I really knew better. In the United States, it's illegal to keep crows or ravens as pets. They are wild birds, and that status is protected. But if an injured bird is unable to be rehabilitated and released into the wild, it either will be destoyed, or in rare cases there is a chance that it can be fostered out as a pet.<br /><br />Corvids are exceedingly intelligent birds. European Magpies have passed the self-recognition mirror reflection test, where a mark (in this case, a yellow spot under the chin) is placed on the bird where it cannot be seen by direct self-examination. When a magpie is placed in front of a mirror it tries to reach the mark on itself either with its beak or its feet to remove it. This is the<br />only non-mammalian species to show this behavior (so far). In non-human mammals, it has been demonstrated in apes, dolphins and elephants (http://biology. plosjournals.org/perlserv/?request=get-document&doi=10.1371/journal.pbio.0060202).<br /><br />European rooks can not only use tools, but actually fabricate them to get at food (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/8059688.stm).<br /><br />Crows can also be deviously smart, too:<br /><blockquote>George was an orphan crow whom my wife, a wild-bird rehabber, raised and released five summers ago and who hung around for several months after that. George was mischievous. He liked to fly straight toward me and then veer away at the last second; grab my sandwich when I ate lunch on our deck; peck at my newspaper as I tried to read it; and so on. One day I was in the house and heard all this yelling outside. I went downstairs and found Suzie, Mac, Skye and George standing outside this big cage we have in our backyard, a cube of wood and chicken wire about eight feet on each side. The cage has a door with a bolt latch on the outside. Mac and Skye often lock each other inside it for fun. Mac and Skye claimed that they had both been playing in the cage when George had locked them in. Suzie, hearing Mac and Skye yelling, had just unlocked the door and let them out. Skeptic that I am, I found this story hard to believe, especially since my wife and children like to kid me. So I sent Suzie, Mac and Skye to the deck, about 30 feet away. Then, as George watched me, head cocked, I entered the cage. After I turned my back on the door and on George, I heard wings flapping and turned in time to see George fly over to the door, which I had left ajar, and grip the chicken wire just below the latch. He flapped his wings until the door eased shut, then slid the latch over with his beak, locking me in. Then, I swear, I thought I saw George smile. (http://www.stevens.edu/csw/cgi-bin/blogs/csw/?p=153).<br /></blockquote><br />Not only that, but like their mynah bird cousins, they can learn to talk (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VAQjgC9Nl84). A friend told me that the old-timers used to split their tongues to allow them to talk, but I doubt that's necessary.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_P7gCjQiNYmt8btDc8FiEG3Fa-v0yBJlhmE_kPDmJyHU7WtyCpnpZAOqA5GZ7iSBc9LTAe-CEJT40-HMl7yGpeBRkOppV6_WgCVT5BX2wmFflo5UIY1IQ3j3XRyhkZFYG82vVInFs1rRl/s1600-h/100_2380_01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 390px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_P7gCjQiNYmt8btDc8FiEG3Fa-v0yBJlhmE_kPDmJyHU7WtyCpnpZAOqA5GZ7iSBc9LTAe-CEJT40-HMl7yGpeBRkOppV6_WgCVT5BX2wmFflo5UIY1IQ3j3XRyhkZFYG82vVInFs1rRl/s400/100_2380_01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341694189282397810" border="0" /></a><br />Anyway, I decided to take this guy in to the Northwoods Rehab Center to see what was wrong with it and to make certain that it wasn't suffering from West Nile virus. When I got there, the chief rehab man found that it had a badly dislocated shoulder (wing). He said that they would keep it for a few weeks to see whether it would tighten back up again so that it could be released. In his experience, though, the prospects are not good. If not they would have to put it down. He also told me that it is too early to be seeing cases of West Nile virus.<br /><br />OK. That gives me two weeks to cajole Deb.The Old Gray Egghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12118198647200105431noreply@blogger.com8