John Deere Day

 

    I must have been five years old, because if I had been six, I would have been in school.  I must have gone when I was four years old, because I remember anticipating the event.  It happened in spring, March, maybe April.  Looking back at it, it was an opportunity for my mother to have one less kid under foot, and one less meal to prepare.

    “It” was John Deere Day.  All the farmers were invited. It was held at the local John Deere dealer at the junction of US Highways 24-40 and State Highway 71.  There was a “roundtop” building, a Quonset that was the dealership’s office, shop, showroom, everything.  Outside, there would be plenty of new green machinery with yellow wheels on display.  Inside, the building was converted to long tables, one of which contained the meal for the day.

      And the most important part, chairs arranged in front of a movie screen.  That’s right, there was a movie, and I really looked forward to going to that.  It wasn’t the free meal, or all the shiny green equipment, or seeing friends (I seem to remember Nate Einertson was there in coveralls and silver hard hat, probably in charge of cooking and serving the huge meal, since that was his specialty).

      Hey, movies were few and far between.  I remember two, an “Ozzie and Harriet” one and the biggie, “Gone with the wind”.   (I remember coming out of the theater really filled with contempt and hatred for the Yankees.  I mentioned my feelings in the car on the way home, and my brother, always ready to squelch and/or correct me, pointed out that as Colorado residents, had we been a state, we would have been on the Yankees’ side.  That put things in a new light, and maybe planted the seeds of distrust for all things media I have today.)

    That’s right.  I looked forward to a movie.  It was probably a 20 or 30 minute John Deere advertisement, but it was a movie.  I don’t remember much about it except the plow segment.

       I have tried to duplicate the plow segment with my own video clip.  It’s not very long and I haven’t figured out how to clip off the “segue” at the end (my apologies).  It also lacks the close-up of one plow bottom doing its thing, cutting a chunk about four inches deep and sixteen inches wide, throwing it left to right and turning it upside down as it speeds along.  But you’ll get the idea of how a plow works.

      Perhaps the clip will cause you to reflect on the ingenuity of man who has gone from wooden sticks to steel in the cause of spading the garden faster and more effectively.  Of course, the machine and the process are both obsolete.  Now, you just put chemical on everything, and that allows the desired crop to grow while preventing the weeds from interfering.

     But, the reason I don’t remember anything else from that movie, aside from the 60 intervening years, is because here was the seminal moment for another life-long habit that I have developed when watching a movie—I went to sleep leaning against my Dad’s arm.  When I awoke, the much-anticipated movie was over.  I don’t remember being disappointed.  Maybe we went through the lunch line AFTER the movie?

    Well, it's your turn.

     Try not to nod off, now!

     

 

 

Visitors

      Traditionally, how you stack up as a host determines your true worth in the world—good host, good man.  Being a good visitor also counts. 

     The first visitors are entirely uninvited and entirely unwelcome.  And I get a split decision as to my worthiness as host.  On the plus side, I provide a nice place and a nice meal.

 

 

 

 

     The visitors are, of course, deer who wreak havoc with young trees.  This year they went after the Ponderosas.  Other years they lust after the cedars or ash.

     On the minus side in the hosting business, if I were the king of the world, there would be a 24-7-366 days of the year open hunting season on deer.  And if they went extinct, good riddance.  I don’t care for venison, nor do they make good hood ornaments.  I’ve tried that, too, to the tune of $3K. 

      Raising trees makes one rethink the whole Bambi thing.  If I were to reread “The Yearling”, I’d feel a whole lot different when the father shoots the deer because he can’t build a fence high enough to keep it out of the garden.  Cheers!

     Now that that’s out of the way, let us see if I can redeem myself as host.  Here’s a totally surprise guest, particularly for our drought-stricken area:

 

 

The other bird is actually a duck who thinks this temporary puddle in the neighbor’s field a good place to nest. Unfortunately, by the time there are hatchlings, there won’t be any water.

     

     The big question, what is it?  An Ibis?  A stork or crane?  Sometimes seagulls pass through, feeding on grasshoppers and cut worms. But in 60+ years, I’ve never seen a bird like this.

     Anyway, welcome birds.  Make yourselves at home.

     And then there's a totally invited guest:

 

      Bella May, always ready to go, doesn’t want to be left behind.  How’s a dog to know that the back hatch of a sedan doesn’t lead to the passenger compartment as in an SUV?

     We are keeping her in food, water, and entirely engrossing entertainment—cottontails to chase.  What more can a guest ask for?  Truthfully, Bella would like fewer thunder claps.  So far that seems to be her only complaint.

    In the rabbit-chasing sport, so far it is Rabbits 24, Bella 1.  She had a little help from an unwitting human in that "one."

 

 

      The silly rabbit chose to hole up in the downspout trough.  To prevent further damage to the aluminum aqueduct, I emptied it of its contents.  I thought the rabbit was done for, but when I returned in the role of litter-bearer, the rabbit was gone.

    So Bella gets two for a take down and I get one for an assist.  Neither of us is in danger of a major-league contract with our hitting average. 

     It will take a little work to straighten out the drainage system, but it need attention anyway (lawn mower strikes have taken their toll).  Too bad that tree bark can’t be fixed as easily as aluminum gutters. 

     Maybe I would feel differently about deer.

Mother May I

    Hey, it’s May.  Mayday on the farm looked like this:

 

 

     I had a guest. But he really couldn’t stay.

 

 

     He came flopping through the snow right in front of the kitchen window about 6 p. m.

    May 2 brought a little sunlight, an end to the snow anyway.

 

 

     I had to head back to Kansas to get ready for the barbershop show on Saturday.  We returned to the farm on Cinco de Mayo.  The wheat seemed to enjoy the cold and wet.

 

     Back to the field with me and the plow.  That worked well until Wednesday, when the rains came.

 

 

     The birds enjoyed it.  I had to keep the wood stove going.  My feathers didn’t keep me warm.

 

     The dandelions and mustard enjoyed it, too.  It is kind of pretty if you can set aside your prejudice, knowing they are all weeds.

 

  

    May 11 brought everything from clear blue skies to weird clouds and more rain. 

 

 

 

     May has to be one of the best of months.  Start the day in hooded sweatshirt, strip to shirt sleeves, don a slicker in late afternoon.  Pick some fresh asparagus and have it for supper. Take a front row seat at Mother Nature's moving show.  All done without insect repellant.

 

 

 

 

Tulips

     The tulip is the best of flowers, at least for our area.  Its plusses:  easy to grow, pretty blooms that last a fair amount of time, and perhaps best of all, when they are done, they retreat into the sod and you can run the lawn mover over them (well, over their “grave”, because after June you can’t find a trace of them) all summer long.  Then, in the spring, as early as February, up they come to remind you that life will continue when you most need that reminder.

     The “ancient pulse of germ and birth” will go on.  (Thomas Hardy “the Darkling Thrush”)

  

  One problem with tulip-keeping:  In the spring, you see that one group needs a few more, or a few less plants.  Can you remember which group needs help or where that group is located when fall rolls around and it’s time to dig up the bulbs, split them apart and replant in time for the bulbs to go through the winter freeze necessary to get them to grow again next spring?

    I guess you could dig them in June between their demise and the disappearance of any evidence of where they are planted, but I’ve never done that.  There are always too many other things to attend to at that time of the year.

      I do have a map of the big producers, just south of the garage.  They are 54 inches south of the garage wall, and 50 inches east of the east door jamb.  The ones separating the yard from the circle drive (all in buffalo grass) are planted in little bowls in the sod where shrubs of 30 years age failed to take root.  I can find them.

    But then there are the ones north and south of the cement driveway leading into the garage, and the ones under the faux pear tree, and the ones in the ditch by the old roadbed leading from the county road to our yard.  The grass does its job of sealing over the site of the dormant plants so remarkably well, I can never come within three feet of locating them. 

      Most of those exposed sites could use a few more bulbs.  They don’t have the easy life of the garage tulips which benefit from the garage’s protection from the spring’s harsh north winds while receiving ample moisture from the garage roof snow slides that apex 54 inches from the garage wall, plus the benefit of southern exposure to winter sunlight.

    So every two or three years, I dig up and thin out the garage tulips which have become overgrown and crowded.  Then I try to find a place to put all the extra bulbs.

     Well, this was not a good year for tulips.  We should be in full bloom this time of year, but . . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     Normally, the snow and cold doesn’t set them back, but April’s record lows and duration of the low temperature pretty much did them in this year.

 

      But a few hardy (not Thomas) souls persist.  I predict that yellow tulips will survive the ice age, while the red and blue (probably purple for you color-sighted folks) ones will go extinct.

 

     Actually, these fellows (gals?) probably were the ones that slept through the alarm and showed up to work late, thus catching the destructive cold weather at a less vulnerable time.

       Blessed be the tardy for they shall inherit the earth?