A Comedy of Errors

Error number 1:  I failed to notice the cell phone charger resting on the floor near the piano.  I didn’t pack it.

Error number 2:  Neither the Goodwife nor I read carefully the airline ticket itinerary.  We missed a “P”.

Error number 3:  The Goodwife neglected to remember to call the farm phone, not my cell phone if she needed to get ahold of me while she was in Seattle.

Error number 4:  I didn’t listen to her voicemail to me before I left Denver.

     Following Monday’s eclipse, we headed to Denver where I would pick up the menagerie and head for the farm.  The Goodwife would catch an 8 a.m. flight to Seattle on Tuesday.  We missed the southbound traffic jam perpetrated by eclipse-watchers’ return to the front range anthill.

     Hemi, the cat, insisted on riding on my lap.  He hates auto-travel.  Somewhere between Watkins and Bennet, he unloaded his stomach onto the floor mat—mostly.  Duke the dog retained his equanimity.

     Heading north on Colorado 71, I was the only auto on the road.  A steady stream of traffic coming south met me.  Eclipse-watchers going home, I surmised.

      Monday evening when I unpacked and prepared for bed, I realized I had no cell phone charger.  Normally, there would be the 12v charger in the Ranger’s console.  But I drove the Chrysler to accommodate moving the menagerie.  (Making a dog ride in the back of a pickup is probably punishable by fine and imprisonment these days.)  No charger anywhere, not even in Limon when I tried to buy one.  

     I immediately shut off the cell phone and left it off until Saturday morning, about 11:10 a.m.  In my wallet, I found an ATT credit card.  It is at least 18 years old.  I got it when the Dakota died on the curve just north of Idalia.  I had no way to call anyone for help or to let the folks know I wouldn’t be making it to the Rockies September makeup game that rained out in July. 

     I had to prevail upon the bartender to allow me one brief phone call.  I called Jeanie and gave her the pub’s number.  She called me back and I had to prevail upon her to call Mom in Fort Collins to make my predicament known.   After that, I carried the credit card.

     I wasn’t sure the card would still be valid.  I dialed the 1-800 number on the farm phone.  Sure enough, after I punched in the number on the card, the machine lady informed me I had 48 minutes of call time left.  I punched in the Goodwife’s number (fingers somewhat punch-drunk after all three numbers were punched in).

     “Call the farm phone if you need to get ahold of me,” I told her.  Okay.

      I had the animals loaded, unloaded, their luggage taken care of a little after 11 a.m. Saturday.  I turned on the cell phone and called the Goodwife.  She answered!  She should still be on the airplane.

     “Are you still in the airplane?”

       “I’m still in Seattle.”

       “What?  In Seattle?”

      “Didn’t you get my message?”

      “On my cell phone?  You were supposed to call the farm phone if you needed to get ahold of me.”

     “Oh yeah.  I forgot.  Anyway, the plane doesn’t leave until 7:55 P.m.  I won’t be in until 11: 24 tonight.”  Groan.  I’m not much good after the sun goes down, now about 7:30.  Driving at night is awful, especially in traffic.  I can’t see very well with all the lights coming from every direction.

       I had twelve hours to wait.  Tisha wouldn’t be home from her Kansas City trip until later in the afternoon.  What would I do? 

     What I did was head home to Loveland.  I could charge my cell phone, maybe even put in a new battery if it had arrived.  (It had.)

      Safely plugged in and charging, I checked on what I had missed all week with the phone shut off.  Two messages, both from the Goodwife.  One pointed out what I now knew, that her arrival would be p.m., not a.m.

    The second message reminded me to pick up her computer and her empty purse when I delivered the animals.

     Sure enough, I had neglected to notice her purse and her computer on the floor near the door at Tisha’s house.  I would have to go there before I went to the airport.

     Now there was another complication.  The Broncos were playing Greenbay in Denver, at Mile High, right on I-25.  There would be traffic.

     About 7 p.m., the Broncos game began.  My eyelids drooped.  I loaded up a mug with crushed ice and took off.  I could get past the stadium before half time and avoid much of the game traffic.  The Rockies and Braves kept me entertained during the drive.  Shortly after arriving for the second time at Hemi’s house, the Rockies prevailed and we turned on the Broncos.

    The game was over and rehashed a dozen times before it was time for me to head for DIA.  I did get in a catnap or two.  I was only in game traffic a few minutes.  Airport traffic was absolutely light.

    I pulled in about 11:30.  With a new cell phone battery all charged up, I was able to contact the Goodwife.  She was waiting outside door 506. 

      We were back in Loveland by 12:45 A.m.    I was in bed soon thereafter.

      All’s Well That Ends Well.  (To rip Shakespeare off twice.)

The Russians Are Coming! The Russians are coming!

     This began a week ago when my phone rang and a lady, who obviously didn’t learn her English in Colorado, the Midwest, or anywhere in America, began speaking.  Did I own a wheat farm?

     Well, yes.   Why?  They want to interview me.  About what?  ((I’m thinking Department of Agriculture or some other government agency with an active diversity policy in force.)  Growing wheat, the answer.

     Who wants to interview me?  Some people from Russia want to know more about farming, and they would like to “interview” me.  The voice informs me that she is a translator for them. It will only take thirty minutes, she says.  I guess I can spare thirty minutes.  When?

      I would be in Loveland until Wednesday.  Thereafter, I would be at the farm.  Would Friday work? she asks.  Yes, but I will be at the farm.  That would be fine with them.  They are coming from Centennial.

     So we set Friday morning, 9:30 for the “interview”.  I got to thinking about it.  There was something fishy about this whole thing.  Why would Russians be interested in American farming?  Were they guests of Rotary or CAWG or some other organization?

     Probably not, or the sponsoring organization would have made the contact, not the interpreter.  I shared the story with the Goodwife.  She was intrigued and immediately began planning to be at the farm 9:30 Friday morning as well. 

     Before long, everyone I talked to said something like, “So some Russians are coming to visit you, I hear.”  I think it was Ben Franklin who said, “Three may keep a secret if two are dead.”

      I began to prepare the Goodwife for a disappointment.  “What if they just want to sell me something?  What if this is all a ruse?  I won’t be surprised however this turns out.”

        The Goodwife was there by Thursday evening suppertime.  We tidied up the house some Friday morning, and at 9:30, I got a call from the same lady.  They were in the vicinity, but weren’t sure if they were in the right place.  They weren’t.  They had gone too far.  They reached a John Deere mailbox.  They should have turned by the one with six bullet holes in it.

       They arrived shortly thereafter in a nice crossover van with Colorado plates.  “They” were Roman (pronounced ro.MAN, with the “A” like “ah”), Regina (the “R” sounds different), the Russians, and Ilmira (sort of like “Elvira”), the translator.  Ilmira came from Russia when she was twelve.  She is a graduate of Metro State.  She speaks very good English.

     Roman’s family has a factory in Russia that produces flourmills.  Their mills are made for farmers, so that they can “vertically integrate.”  The idea is for the farmer to turn his own wheat into flour and reap a greater benefit from his own crop.

     They haven’t had much luck getting anyone interested.  They were sounding us out as to why no one is interested.  Basically, they are trying to find out what they can do to get farmers to take a serious look at their machines.  They have a variety of sizes ranging from one that could be set up in a garage, to a big one that would take a fair sized building to house.

     They had a sheet of statistics showing what their machines would do, and how it should improve a farmer’s bottom line, by several thousand dollars.  They had a video showing various flourmills in action.  They have put a lot of work into materials suitable for an ad campaign.  They asked us to critique them, which we did.

    How did they get my name, and why did they choose me?  They had been to the Colorado Department of Agriculture.  The department wouldn’t give them any names or addresses, but they did give them an organic directory, which lists organic farms, names, addresses, phone numbers, etc. 

    Why me?  I’m not a typical farmer by any stretch of the imagination.  Coming to our farm is like entering a time warp, with all the old 50’s and 60’s equipment.

      “You are a farmer.  You think like a farmer.  You can help us understand how farmers think and help us reach them with our message and our product,” Ilmira said.

    Oh.  Well, I guess I couldn’t argue with that, at least the first two statements.  So we looked at their video and their proposed pamphlet and made a few comments.  We brainstormed some ideas to get the word out.

     I suggested they contact a Farm Bureau and put on a program for their annual gatherings, which would include a lot of farmers.  They said they had contacted the Wheat Growers, and at first, the director was enthusiastic, but when they went to follow up, he was quite cool and wasn’t going to be any help.  I said I wasn’t surprised at that because they have sponsors like Cargill who aren’t too interested in having farmers skip them in the chain of getting grain to bread.

      I said Farm Bureau was pretty independent minded (I might have said something like pig headed, maybe ((there I go thinking like a farmer again)), and might be interested if they thought any of their members would benefit. 

      We also suggested a booth at the state fair, or the “Three I Show” in Kansas, or the farm show at Island Grove in Greeley.  I had a Eureka moment and suggested they contact Beaver Valley in Atwood.  They are wholesalers who have a worldwide market for farm equipment.  If they agreed to handle the product, it would be a big boost.

     They were happy that we would take the time to talk to them.  They said most farmers they had tried to talk to didn’t give them much time, though they had visited a friendly operator on the western slope.  It takes about twice as long as it should to visit with foreigners because everything has to be said twice, once in the native language, and again by the interpreter.

      A little after twelve, we walked outside, looked at the millet, discussed what it would be used for, looked in the barns at the antique machinery, took a drive up close to a wind generator, and checked out the pastures from the road.  We apologized that we had nothing to serve them for lunch.  They understood and thanked us profusely.  They left about 1 p.m.

     We learned a few things as we discussed problems with running a mill, such as getting a health department license.  In Russia, the machine manufacturer has a lot of responsibility for seeing to it that the machine can be maintained in a safe an sanitary way.  The flour miller is responsible for maintaining the facility, but isn't subject to all the inspections by health departments.

      Workman’s comp isn’t a big deal in Russia because of the free medical care if someone is injured on the job.  Only the most dangerous jobs, such as coal mining, require insurance.

     They don’t have IRA’s.  They have tried it in the past, but someone always makes off with the cash, and the investors lose their shirts, so no one is willing to try that any more.  Instead, they find other ways of investing for their retirement, such as owning and renting out an apartment.  Housing is a very big expense.  Retirees have a pension of sorts, but if they have to pay rent, if they don’t own their own house, housing takes most of the pension, leaving little for groceries or other expenses.      

      Keeping family members on the farm was one of the selling points their blurbs made.  Milling flour involves some labor.

     I didn’t volunteer to buy a flourmill set up.  If I were a lot younger, I might. 

Trying to get a picture of a wind generator

Organic Wheat

      Finally.

     The call came about 9 a.m. Wednesday morning.  I wasn’t ready for it.  I was working on what has become a chronic frustration.  I was trying to get the 820 starter motor to start so I can try starting the 820.

    It was Leonard on the phone.  I had conversed with Leonard four or five times since last September. 

     “If I send you a couple of trucks, can you load them today?”

      “Today?  No way,” I said.  Leonard went on to explain that his truckers had hauled two loads of soybeans to Missouri and were on the return trip.  It would serve them well to swing by and pick up some wheat from me.

     I had about given up on Leonard.  We came close to making a deal last October, but it fell through.  The problem was scheduling a time when I could be at the farm to set up the equipment to unload the bin and when he had train cars.

      I had called him various times from April on.  About a week ago, I decided to try one more time.  If we failed to make the deal, I would once more haul wheat to town.

      The millet is looking very good.  We will need the bin space for that crop.

     Coming from Missouri?  That gave me some time.  “Well, I might be able to do it,” I relented.

     “I’ll give you the trucker’s number.  You can talk to him.”

      So I called the Dave, the trucker.  They were in Salina, Kansas.  They would be there awhile because they were buying truck tires.

       I asked where he would turn off I-70 to go north, back to Nebraska—Wyoming.  “Goodland,” Dave said.

      “Call me when you get to Colby and I’ll let you know if I’m ready.”  There we left it and I went to work with a sense of urgency.

     The first thing I had to do was mow around the grain bin and mow a path for the trucks to follow to the grain bin.  I didn’t spend much time at that.  Too many other things to get ready.          

    There are quite a few links in the chain of setting up the bin unloading equipment.  The weakest link is the old Lawson engine used to drive the horizontal under-floor auger.  I started there.

      The Lawson has been in the barn since the last bin un-loading last June.  I took off the gas line, the bowl filter and cleaned that all out, blew out and rinsed out the gas tank, and reassembled.  Next, I tried to deal with all the leaks that spring up when the fuel delivery system is disturbed.

       All was well.  The old thing fired on the second rope pull.  An oil change and it was ready.  Next on the list of links was the “slide” that opens to allow the wheat to run through the floor into the auger.  I greased it up before we filled the bin last July, hoping it wouldn’t get rusted and might be easier to get open.

        It was some easier, but not a whole lot.  I had to put a hydraulic jack against the bin wall and use it to push on the rod attached to the slide.  The “rod” is  ½” pipe.  With pressure on the pipe, a couple of taps with a hammer got the slide moving, and soon it was open and letting wheat down into the auger channel.

    That was the end of my morning.  After a short lunch break, I drug the fifteen feet of auger out of the combine shed and placed it precariously on the back of the golf cart.  It went into place in the channel beneath the granary floor with a minimum of trouble.  The Lawson engine was soon attached and that was ready to go.

      The Mayrath auger was next.  Repeat the gas delivery system clean up.  The Briggs and Stratton had a quart of gas still in the tank.  That drained out, bowl and line purged, and it was ready.  It started on the first pull.  It too got an oil change.  The long drive belts went on.

      I rolled the Mayrath into place, its intake end under the spout of the horizontal auger.  One more thing to do—purge the augers.

     It was about 4 p.m.  Dave called.  They were in Goodland.  Was I ready?  “I will be by the time you get here.  Goodland is a hundred miles.”

      Luck was with me.  I needed a truck to dump some wheat into.  The old GMC fired right up and was soon beneath the Mayrath auger.  Both engines fired up.  When I slid the Briggs back to tighten the Mayrath drive belts, a huge bird nest came out of the spout.  That’s pretty usual.

      Soon both augers were running and after a little trash, both augers were spouting clean wheat.  Yeah!!  I was ready.  It was a little after five.

     The trucks rolled in about 5:45.  We were augering wheat slightly before 6 p.m.  The trucks rolled out in the dusk after 8 p.m.  One truck was only half loaded because one of its two bins was loaded with truck tires, a result of the stop in Salina.  They hauled 1300 bushels.

     Plans called for them to return Thursday afternoon and finish the job.  Dave called a little after four and said they were on their way from Bushnel, Nebraska.  I stopped mowing and headed for the house about 5 p.m.

     It was raining.  About 6 p.m., Dave called again.  They were staying in Brush.  It was raining there, too.  They would be there in the morning.

     Early morning, I asked.  I have to be in Loveland in the early afternoon, to Fort Collins by four, to Eaton by five for a quartet appearance.  “Before eight,” Dave assured me.

      Friday morning was foggy, wet, and chilly, 51 degrees.  Thursday’s rain had only been a tenth of an inch, so mud wasn’t a problem. 

       We had to shovel the last hundred or so bushels.  Dave jumped in the bin with me, so it was no problem.  The paperwork was done and the trucks were rolling out of the yard before 10:30.

      Leonard was happy with the quality of wheat (9-10% protein, 60 pound test weight, nice red color) and echoed the truck drivers’ comment on how clean it is compared to what they usually get.

    So my first shipment of organic wheat, recognized as organic wheat, is in Bushnel, Nebraska, sitting in a rail car waiting to go who-knows-where.  Dave thought maybe Canada.

     Stay tuned.  I’ll let you know where.  And, if all the extra work for organic certification is worth it.

    The drivers--father and son.

Tarped & ready to go.

  

Ode to August

August, the month when:

The kochia in the fencerow or the vacant lot, having grown waist-high, turns it velvet rabbit-ear leaves into miniature grape nuts covered in yellow dust.

The cheat grass, leaning over in July, lies in a mat covering the ground, smothering anything that might try to grow under it.

The summer fallow fields lay clodless and smooth, awaiting the rain that will enable fall planting, or another tilling to get the weeds coming on since the last rain.

Recently harvested wheat fields begin to turn green as the thistles that will become tumbleweeds begin to emerge above the stubble, and the sunflowers pop up yellow circles on whiskery stems.

The spruce trees planted last spring, many of them, give up entirely and let their needles fall.  How many will I need next spring, to replace the failures?

It’s time to check the project list drawn up last March.   Many items will have to be scratched, maybe next year.  Not enough time nor energy to get them done this summer.  One or two jobs will leap to the top of the list.  Have to get that done before the snow flies.

In the mailbox, an inaudible bell rings, the letter from the school district reminding everyone it’s almost time to return to class.

A weed emits a pungent odor somewhere between dill and a sugar-scented skunk.  It, too, signals time to return to school.

If you are lucky enough to be on the faculty, you have a week of in-service meetings to look forward to.

On the road edges, tiny yellow blossoms from flat-spreading vines warn you not to step there or you will end up with a shoeful of sand tacks.

Roadside stands pop up peddling Rocky Ford melons or Colorado peaches.

Farmers’ markets explode with vegetables and fruit.

Volleyball teams take to the freshly varnished gym floors.

Football teams gather on lush green lawns.

Summer, angry and afraid because it’s almost over, scorches with a vengeance after taking a break for July’s cool monsoon.

Time to think about getting wheat seed read for planting.

It’s August, and folks everywhere are saying, “Where did the summer go?”