Car Seats

      Nowadays, when you set out to take an automobile trip with a child under six or seven years of age, before you set off, you must strap the kid into the car seat.  Failure to do so may result in a heavy fine or in a worse case, injury to the kid.

       It wasn’t always thus.  One of my earliest memories stems from an automobile trip.  We were headed for town for whatever reason with my Dad and my two older brothers.   

     I was wandering around on the back seat with a new pair of shoes.  Well, not new, new to me.  Dad started slowing down to turn a corner on the country road.  I tried to balance myself and the unfamiliar shoes caught on each other, or I stepped on a shoelace, or something.

     Down I went between the two seats.  With help, I regained my perch on the back seat.  I uttered what must have been one of my first attempts at a sentence:  “’Tit over shoes, hurt hiney.” 

       The concern of the other passengers was dispelled and there was great laughter.  My phrase was repeated several times.  When we returned home from the town trip, the “boys” had to repeat the entire episode to our mother.  Everybody laughed again.  I was a hero!  I enjoyed the limelight for a brief while.

       There were no such things as seatbelts in those olden days.  We free-ranged around the back seat.  The seat backs of the front seat of our old Chevy were worn with kids standing between the seats and leaning on the front seat back.  Also on the back of the front seat back, a couple of round rope-like straps designed to be coat hangers, I guess, dangled uselessly by one end, the other end having been torn out by using the ropes for handles by the youthful passengers.

      For a few years,  seven of us loaded up whenever the family all went, such as to church or to visit our Aunt, Uncle and cousins, three of us in the front seat, four in the back.  Among  my least-favorite memories is a trip home from church on a cold winter day, Dad smoking a cigarette with the windows all rolled up against the bitter cold air.  The smoke-filled air was a guaranteed headache for me.

      There were some advantages of not being strapped in.  For a year or two, I could stretch out on the shelf behind the back seat, under the back window.  On night trips, such as coming home from a basketball game or from a 50-mile jaunt to visit the cousins, I could retreat to that bunk and go to sleep.  It left room for the other three back seat passengers to stretch out a little, too. 

      But then there was always the wakeup call, when I had to leave my cocoon and face the night air on my way to undressing and falling at last into bed.  Oh, those good old days!  Good, if you don’t look at the stats on death and injuries from automobile accidents in those good old days.

     For all the complaining about, and from, kids in car seats, it is better now, at least from a safety aspect.  Anyway, most cars no longer have that shelf behind the back seat.  Kids have to sleep sitting up.  And there are no “knee fights” as back seat passengers attempt to stake out their territory.

 

“Oh, I Forgot”

 

     These days I spend an inordinate amount of time doing one of my least-favorite things—looking for something. “Dang it!  Put it back where it belongs!  Then you won’t have to waste time looking for it!”  But my words fall like the seeds among the rocks and never take root.

      Most of the time, I am looking for something the Goodwife can’t find, like cell phone or glasses, and other such things.  But not always is it the Goodwife’s fault.

        I went with her to a hair appointment.  I went equipped with a warm coat, my tablet, and my reading glasses.  In these days of CORONA virus, it’s not always possible to find a seat in the salon.  If you do sit inside, you can’t always read if your face mask is fogging up your glasses.

      So, I planned on sitting in the car and reading my current book (“1984” by George Orwell, never have read it before) while I waited for her to get her hair cut.  However, we “forgot” to check her text messages.  The hairdresser had texted to ask her to reschedule her appointment because she was way behind on that particular day.

      I only had about five minutes to get comfortable and delve into my tablet before the Goodwife was back.  Caught by surprise, I didn’t do a good job of stowing things before we took off again.  I hung my reading glasses by an ear piece on the top button of my shirt, just beneath my neck.

      When we got home, since we were dressed warmly and I needed a few more steps to reach my daily goal for the break-in of my new hip, we elected to take a brief walk in the more-than-brisk air.  Arriving home again after our constitutional, I grabbed my tablet from the car and escaped into the warmth of the house.  

     I removed my overcoat and started to take off my sweater, but where were my reading glasses?  They were no longer hanging from the v-neck of my shirt.  They must have fallen off somewhere.  Or did I remove them and put them somewhere unconsciously?  It has been known to happen.

      I looked here and there.  I stepped out into the chilly garage and gave the car a thorough search, looking between seats and console, under the seats, anywhere I thought the glasses might be hiding.  Nothing.

       I put my coat back on and retraced a few of our steps on our walk.  They could have fallen off while we were walking.  But we came and went the same way.  If they had fallen off while we walked, surely we would have seen them on our return trip.  Nothing.

       With the usual silent curses and frustration that losing something always brings, I gave the glasses up for lost.  Sometime later, I took off my jeans, the waist band of which rides somewhat uncomfortably on the top of my hip surgery scar, and started to put on my fat-lady, Wal-Mart lady sweatpants that I wear nearly all day most days.

     But wait, as I stood up to hang my jeans up and grab my sweatpants, something came sliding out from beneath my shirttail.  My reading glasses were sort of born again.  I grabbed them as they slid towards my thighs and sat down to complete installing my sweatpants.

     Emotions flooded me.  Shame, for losing my temper and cursing over such a trifle.  Relief that the lost was found.  Humor, that I could have been so silly, so upset by a trifle.

       I would like to continue with my story, but I have to accompany the Goodwife to Macy’s.  Yesterday, the lady at the bank asked to see her driver’s license so she could update our record.  We looked.  We ransacked her purse.  We checked coat and sweater pockets.  No driver’s license.

       Bring it in when you find it, the lady said, thus dismissing the forgetful old fools.  At home, we searched coat pockets again, car seats, anywhere she might have left it.  This time, I was able to refrain from curses.  But frustration took up residence, soon replaced by resignation.

     I began to search the reams of bureaucratic legalese on the state driver’s license website to see how to go about replacing a lost or stolen license.  After a few minutes, I decided it might be a chore better left for tomorrow.  We set about getting supper on the table.

     As we sat at the supper table,  Macy’s called.  They have a driver’s license, if you can identify it.

     My consolation:  A trip to Macy’s is probably better than one to the driver’s license examiner’s. 

     And so it goes.        

 

COVID Time

      Post-post OP.  So I went to see the doctor for my two-week checkup.  I saw the doctor only when he passed by us in the hall as we sat and waited for my X-rays to be developed.

     “How are you doing?” he asked.

      “Great!” I replied

      Then I saw the nurse.  It was anti-climactic.  I wore my “pajama bottom” pants figuring I would end up in a backless gown so they could remove the “stitches.”  The X-ray technician asked me to empty my pockets, my driver’s license and  my health cards, and pants-on, she lined me up on the target and snapped the picture.

     We were ushered into the little room and the nurse brought up the X-ray on the computer monitor.  She said it looked good.  She placed the X-ray they took while I was still in the operating room beside the latest one.  She said it was coming along nicely.

      Then up on the table I went.  She had me lower the waist band of my pants.  Then she pulled up the leg of my undies.  I held the undies up out of the way and she peeled off the “stitches” just like a band aid.  That was it, or nearly so.  She painted some kind of disinfectant on the wound and put some strips of tape over it.

     The “stitches” resembled a zip-lock bag, with a strip of tape on either side of the wound and held together with a sort of plastic zipper.  Pretty simple, and painless.  I was shaved as smooth as a baby’s bottom, as they say.  No hair-pulling.

      “When this comes off, don’t replace it,” she said referring to the newly applied tape.  Shower, ok.  Soaking, as in taking a bath, not ok.  Don’t put any oil or lotion on it, opposite to what the plastic surgeon told me to do.  She noted that I was not using walker or cane, and that I could raise my leg fairly easily when getting onto the table. 

       We were done, except for making an appointment for a six-week checkup in January.

      I have been to the physical therapist twice since surgery.  I seem to be listing to the right when I walk.  I hear from the Goodwife, “You’re raising you left shoulder.  Stand up straight.”  She also objects to my Walter Brennan imitation when I double pump my elbows when I take my first step or two, ala Papa McCoy in The Real McCoys.

      The P-T guy has me carry ten pounds in one hand and take five prancing steps, like a drum major.  Then I switch the weight to the other hand and repeat the steps.  An attempt to get me to straighten up and walk right?  Doing my exercises takes fifteen minutes at the most. 

     Then I am forced to join the rest of senior citizenry in trying to find something useful and interesting to pass the time during the COVID restrictions.  I can’t go for much of a walk yet.  I have built up to 5000 steps yesterday, but that doesn’t take you far on a warm afternoon.

     Yesterday, I sat in the sun and screened twenty pounds of wheat to get it ready for the flour grinder.  That was a pleasant, but eventually it cools off and I am back to finding a satisfying pastime.   

      Television, not much.  Vast wasteland indeed.  Unless you like to watch football, or old folks singing in order to raise funds for PBS, or fools airing their grudges in various court rooms throughout the country, or murder cases, etc.

       We have turned to games to pass an hour or two in the evening.  We play Cribbage where we get to review our elementary math skills, factoring the numbers fifteen and thirty-one.  And practicing fine motor skills, placing pegs in holes, sometimes a challenge using only one eye.        

     Then there is Scrabble, tasking our vocabulary and spelling skills.  A timer is necessary for this game, along with the Aunt Margaret quote, “P-uh-Lay!”  With only two of us playing, our scores should be high, but the stratosphere is safe.

     Yahtzee takes some logic and decision making and a lot of luck.  No dozing as the “bones” rattle in the cup and onto the table top.

       Closely related to Scrabble, Word Yahtzee takes vocabulary and spelling skills and some luck with throwing the “dice” with letters rather than dots.  It’s as noisy as Yahtzee, and the timer is also necessary to keep this game moving.

      We have also revived gin rummy.   There are a few other games with a sheen of dust in the game room in the basement, Skipbow, Rook.   We don’t have a Monopoly game.  We haven’t set up the card table with a jigsaw puzzle yet. 

      Someday, will we look back and say, “Oh, that was 2020 when we played all those games.  Those were good times”?

      Well, life goes on.  Stay creative.  I will try to practice what I preach. 

Post-Op

       Sung to the tune of, “It was fascination. . . .”

     It was constipation, I know.  That’s what made my poor belly grow. . . .

     To put things into perspective, when you are worried about constipation, you are not worried about other things, such as pain or infection.  Constipation has been the result of every surgery I have ever had.  It happened again.

      So far, the post-op has been eat, sleep, visit the terlet.  Some of the challenges:  getting out of bed.  That hurts, Babbitt.  I have to pick my leg up and  hold it up as I roll over and sit up.  I have been pushing fluids to try to loosen things up, so I have to get out of bed two or three times at night.

      Getting my support hose on and off.  I still have trouble reaching my toes.  I have to wear the socks for two weeks to help stave off blood clots.  The socks run from my toes to my crotch.   After eight to ten hours, they have worn out their welcome.

     Negotiating the shower.  The caution besides blood clots is falling—Don’t fall!  I feel most vulnerable in the shower, wet feet, wet deck.  So far, so good, however.  The wound is covered with a plastic bandage that has a water-tight seal.  I protect it as well as I can.

      I have a nearly constant companion—an ice bag.  I carry it wherever I go.  When I am sitting, it rests between the waste band and the top of my trouser leg.  In bed, it leans over against my thigh or sits on top of my thigh.  It feels good and so far, I have no swelling to speak of.

      I have a check up two weeks after surgery.  At that point, I can stop wearing the hose and the doctor is supposed to remove the bandage.

      When I went in for my pre-op with the doctor, I saw all these guys in pajama bottoms cruising along the hallway with their walkers, proud as they could be.  I said, “That’s the first time in my life I ever envied a guy in pajama bottoms using a walker.”  My turn is coming.

      Independence.  I have independence wandering about the house.  I don’t do so well when it comes to cooking.  I can’t carry much and handle the walker, too.  The bread machine is out of the question.

      I moved things I thought of, such as shaver and toothbrush, favorite bathroom magazine (to an upstairs bathroom), walker (to the garage where I could get a hold of it when I returned from the hospital).  But I forgot some of life’s essentials.

      Like my beer supply.  I am cut off.  The cold ones are in the garage refrigerator (2 steps down), the not-so-cold ones in the basement (12 steps down). My carrying capacity is much diminished.  I am totally dependent on help to indulge that habit.  Dependence.

           I was able to step out (and down 2 steps) to get the newspaper the last couple of mornings, and today, I kerchunk-clunked with the walker all the way to the mail box and back.  I am progressing. 

     Now I look for ways to keep boredom away as the healing progresses.

         My new hip, an X-ray taken while I was still unconscious in the OR.  I think I will set the bells clanging when I step through a metal detector from here on out. 

    

Pre-Op

       There I am with a Q-Tip on progesterone stuck up my nose.

      Around me, other folks sit in cars waiting their turn.  Walking among the cars, moon-walkers in spacesuits wield the overgrown Q-Tips.  Once the Q-Tip has been withdrawn from its 20-second journey up both nostrils, it is placed in a sealable bag and the moonwalker carries it back to the building housing the lab.

     Still other workers in civilian dress, carrying clipboards and wearing masks, interview drivers waiting in line through the open window.  When the interview is completed, the clipboard bearer pins a sticky note on the windshield.

     Soon, yet another worker brings out a label and checks with the driver with a sticky note on his windshield to be sure the information is correct. If the label passes inspection, it is place under the windshield wiper.

     The drivers who have had their fix of coke, or whatever is on the Q-Tips, moves on and the line of cars inches forward.  The patient drivers have waited in line for over an hour when they reach this point.  What could be on those Q-Tips to entice folks to sit in line for over an hour in order to get it?

       Had I drawn this picture a year ago, I would be credited with a piece of science fiction.  Today, ho hum, it’s daily reality.   Anyone headed for the OR has to take a COVID test before being admitted to the hospital.

       My journey to the hour-long line began in January when I could only reach my right foot to dry my toes after a shower, or to tie the laces on the shoe of my right foot, with difficulty.  I had pain in right hip and knee, too.  My personal physician, who serves as a traffic cop directing me to this specialist and that specialist, sent me first for an X-ray and then to a sports doctor.

    The sports specialist's verdict: arthritis.   He gave me four alternatives:  exercise, physical therapy, steroid injections, or hip replacement surgery.  He said, ultimately, hip replacement was THE answer.  I tried the first two alternatives with mixed results. I really didn’t care for the third option.

  Answering my request, the sports doctor recommended a surgeon to me.  It took two or three weeks to get in to see the surgeon.  After consulting with him, I was placed in another waiting line, this time waiting for the doctor and the hospital’s availability.

     About two weeks ago, I went in for my pre-op meeting, where I took an EKG and a blood test.  I also  received a packet of information delineating many do’s and don’ts. The hospital would call me sometime next week, which proved to be Monday, one week ahead of the surgery date.

     Much of what I heard from the hospital repeated what I heard at the pre-op meeting, but I also had to schedule a date to get my COVID test.  Go between 9 and 10 a.m. I was instructed.  That time is reserved for pre-op patients.

      I had already scheduled the final meeting before surgery with the physical therapist at 8:15 on that date, so once I was done with the PT, I headed immediately to the lab thinking to get there right at 9.  Actually, I was early, arriving at 8:55.

       Only to find a string of cars waiting in line.  I pulled up behind the last car which was sitting in an intersection.  After I had sat there for about five minutes, three or four more cars pulled in behind me.  A guy came walking along and asked me to park on the adjacent street at a right angle with the string of cars.  He had the other cars behind me follow, so we had a string of cars heading north, and a string of cars heading west, all waiting in line for the COVID test.

       Yet another man went down the line checking with every driver to be sure that we all were in the correct line.  Nine to ten was supposedly reserved for patients with instructions from their doctor to do the test before being admitted to a hospital or clinic for some procedure, including surgery.  A car or two pulled out of the line and went away.  Oh, wrong line!

     I turned the corner and moved up.  After about twenty minutes, I advanced far enough to see a sign along the curb that said, “About an hour wait from this point.”  It was fairly accurate, too.  In about an hour, I had reached the point where the traffic was divided into two lanes. 

     A masked clipboard bearer approached me and took all my information, including picture ID, and insurance cards I had at the ready according to my hospital instructions.  I inched forward another car length or two.  A masked young lady came with a printed label which together we inspected to be sure I was the right person and the information was all correct.  She placed the label under the windshield wiper and I inched forward some more.

     Then it was my turn.  A moon walker approached and took the label from under the wiper blade.  I rolled down the window and removed my mask.  The rather petite lady occupying the space costume asked me to replace the mask, just over my mouth, as I might cough during the swab.           

     After the mask was in place, I looked up as instructed, and in went the swab.  She twirled it as she verbally counted to ten.  She removed the swab and told me that when I was ready, we would do the other nostril.  I was ready, and into the other nostril went the swab, and the verbal ten count was repeated.

      The swab went into a plastic bag and was sealed.  The lady wished me good day and headed for the lab with my swab.  I rolled up the window and departed.  In the distance. I could see the line of cars waiting.

     (I now am in a position to understand why the granddaughter, who had to take a swab test twice last March, first at the urgent care place and then again at the emergency room where they sent her, balked at going to the ER a second time.  "My nose is clean.  I don't have any boogers," she cried.  Yes, I understand. Unfortunately, her tests were flu tests.  They did not have a COVID test yet at that time.)

     Later, the lab report on my health online account stated that my swab was taken at 10:08 a.m.  I had been there an hour and fifteen minutes.  Not too bad, considering the number of tests they had taken in that time.  My test was negative.

      I slightly violated the instructions to self-quarantine after the COVID test by going to Lowe’s for some screws to complete a fence repair my neighbor and I had started last week.  Otherwise, I have been a good boy.

     On Friday, the hospital called to say surgery was still scheduled for Monday, but that could change if there was a surge of COVID patients admitted to the hospital over the weekend.  The lady said she would call me on Sunday to tell me for sure if the surgery was cancelled or still on.

     It’s Sunday, and I await the call.

     “It’s a strange, strange world we live in Master Jack.”

     

 

Another Letter to the Editor

       Two articles in the Friday October 30^th paper (Reporter Herald) both make the same point:  we are a ways away from replacing fossil fuels with clean solar, wind, and hydro energy.

       The editorial from The Dallas Morning News takes a look at the future of transportation and electricity generation and opines that natural gas will still be a major player in the energy industry come 2050.

    According to the frontpage article by John Fryar, the Platte River Power Authority has come to the same conclusion, at least for 2030.  Skeptics have warned for years that solar and wind energy cannot cover all the power needs of the nation.  There are times when the sun doesn’t shine and the wind doesn’t blow.

     The hang up for clean energy is an efficient battery that can store excess power to use in no-wind and no-sun situations.  Some attempts to store excess energy include using the excess  electricity to pump water uphill and letting the water flow downhill to turn a generator when the power is needed.  Another uses excess power to turn an air compressor which becomes an air-powered motor used to turn a generator when the process is reversed.

     Denmark, the world leader in wind energy, is now experimenting with using excess power to extract nitrogen from the atmosphere.  The nitrogen, in the form of ammonia, fertilizes crops in the fields.  The plants produce oxygen, which helps to offset the CO2 produced by natural gas used to produce power when “clean” sources cannot meet demand.

       American farmers have used ammonia for decades to fertilize crops, but that ammonia is a product of petroleum.  Denmark’s “green” ammonia eliminates the use of petroleum and the CO2 associated with its production.

      Production of “green” ammonia is nearing economic feasibility.  In conjunction with the production of ammonia, Denmark researchers are working on a practical method of using excess power to produce hydrogen and oxygen from water.  The hydrogen can be used to replace fossil fuels for power generation or transportation, and using hydrogen as a fuel doesn’t produce CO2.

     Until such processes prove themselves practical, economical, and efficient, natural gas will have to fill the power gaps.  The road to 100% clean energy may not follow the map we have charted.  There may be detours and dead ends.

       The greenies will have to console themselves with the fact that burning natural gas is much cleaner than burning coal, and that the CO2 produced by using natural gas can be offset by other methods of producing oxygen. 

      Meanwhile, more power to those striving to find a clean, efficient, light-weight battery that will make electrical transportation practical.

         

       

 

Where There’s Smoke . . .

      It looked like this on Labor Day weekend.

      That’s the sun, not the moon.  Underfoot, it looked like this.

     Ash whirled into piles like swirling leaves or drifting skiff of powder snow.  Then the rain and the snow really did come.

      Maybe it would be over!  But, no.  Things flared up again and took a big jump this past week.

 

      The story isn’t over.  Two hundred thousand acres are now on fire or already burned.  A big snow would help, but even when the fire is finally extinguished, there will be repercussions, not just for those poor souls who have lost property, but for all of us who have had a steady diet of smoke to inhale.

     2020 rages on.

       Robert Burns gets the final word, as he addresses a mouse whose “house” has been destroyed by Burns’ plow:

“The present only toucheth thee:

 But och! I backward cast my e'e,

 On prospects drear!

 An' forward, tho' I canna see,

 I guess an' fear!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                         

Cellar Door Project

       The cellar door project began maybe in 2018?  Mice in the basement always brings the problem to top priority.  (https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/7358692302968743913/1273023153080464776

     I had made repairs to the door before and had staved off the tide of unwanted furry rodents.  Replacing the old siding opened gaps over the cellar door.  They boys took off two layers of siding, the vinyl, then the old wood siding that went on when the house was built.  They put back one layer of siding.  There was a gap.

     Mice, like water, always find the way.  Water has to follow the laws of gravity.  Not mice.  They can crawl, jump, survive falls.  If there is a way in, they find it.

         I had made some repairs to the door.  I beefed up the rotted lower end in the spring of 2019.

      One day last spring (2020), the grandchildren and I were in the basement looking for something, ball bats and gloves? One of them pointed out a dead mouse in a trap.  It was time.

     I knew the door had to be rebuilt.  I had bought treated lumber to replace the framework probably two years ago.  It lay in the garage in a stack low enough that an automobile could drive over it and not snag it.  I had the frame planned out.  It was just a matter of getting to the job.

     What to use for the door?  I have been contemplating that for a couple of years.  My preferred method would have been to cover the four-foot opening with a chunk of boiler plate or other metal thick enough to bear two or three hundred pounds and skip the wooden door.

      The metal was available at a steep price and the shipping more than doubled that.  I settled for a 4 X8 sheet of plywood.  (The photographer forgot to snap a shot of the door without the covering.)

    Then the problem was, what to cover the raw plywood with.  I followed several leads trying to track down some sheet metal that was over four feet wide.  I thought I had found it a roofing company.  We even ordered it. 

     Two days later, the salesman who placed the order called and said he could get nothing wider than four feet.  Well, actually 46 inches, he said.  That won’t work.  The door itself is four feet wide.  Add 2X4 frame on either side of the door and four feet is over  six inches short.  He cancelled the order for me.

       Ultimately, I  fell back on my roofing experience.  Two sheets of roofing metal would easily cover the doorway, with a big overlap to discourage any moisture entering.  That is what I did.

     We have been mouse-free for a couple of months.  The new plywood got a little wet in the Labor Day storm with the old sheet metal covering it.  Mother Nature hasn’t blessed us with the chance to test the moisture resistance of the new roof covering the new plywood.  I guess she figures if I could put things off for a couple of years, why can’t she? 

Drilling Wheat

       Riff raff.  Trash.  No, not another political add.

      This trash is debris left over from the 2019 wheat crop--stubble, straw.

 

     It was a dry year, but we did have a half an inch of rain plus the snow that came with the cold on Labor Day weekend.  We had a similar Lavor Day snow and cold front in 1959. 

      The storekeeper in Genoa kept a farm in Washington County a good twenty miles north.  He had a new tractor hitched to drills, still trying to plant wheat (Labor Day was considered late planting in those days when everyone planted in August).  Marvin trekked out in heavy wet snow to drain the water out of his new tractor lest it freeze and crack the block.

     One of the wettest years in memory, ’59 and ’60, followed that early snow.  It seemed it snowed every Friday of football season.  I don’t think we have to worry about that this year.

     But the 2020 Labor Day storm did provide enough moisture to get wheat up, maybe.  The problem was that with the dry summer, I didn’t have to “work” the wheat ground much, only twice by September.  That’s good for the fuel bill, but not so good as far as preparing a good seed bed.

     I could have drilled into the twice-worked ground, except for the trash on top of the ground.  There weren’t any serious weed problems—wild purslane which will finish dying with the next hard freeze, and a few sprigs of volunteer wheat.

      I took the drills for a dry run to see if there was a chance of getting through the trash.  In a hundred yards, I plugged up three or four times. “Plugged up”—the drill acts like a hay rake, the straw catches in the drill shanks and forces the drill shovels out the ground.   Scratch that idea.

     Eventually, I broke out the oneway disk.  It turns the soil over, which buries some of the trash.  The downside is, it turns up damp soil, moisture, which dries out. 

     I drilled the third week of September.  All the signs were right.  The moon was in the waxing stage, good for above ground and cereal crops.  It had cooled off a lot.  And the neighbors all around me were planting.

       I plugged up a few times, but nothing to worry about.  A three-tined hayfork soon removed the straw.  The important thing is to stop and clean out the straw before dirt starts building up in front to the straw.

     I finished planting on September 25.  Some wheat is trying to come to life.

     It is hard to see any wheat in all the trash.  Will it make it?  It’s not up to me now.  I have cast the dice.  Nothing to do now but sit back and try not to worry about things I can’t control.  So goes farming.

     Sure could use a good rain.

2020 Blight Continues

      “And the beat goes on.”  I apologize.  It’s human nature to focus on the negative, and ignore the positive. 

     Something positive must have happened in 2020.  The negative jumps out and kidnaps the attention.

      Valentine cards inviting folks to celebrate our 50^th wedding anniversary on March 21 went out.  Plans rolled along.  About March 14, the great Covid-19 shutdown began.  March 21 was our first casualty.  Cancellation notices went out.

      From July of 2019 to July of 2020, we had about 3 inches of moisture from snow skiffs and scattered showers. The dearth not only affected crops. It has been a struggle to keep trees alive.  I lost nearly a dozen, including four about 10 years old. 

 

    

  I have hauled water to the surviving trees on a weekly basis.  Usually, I would have planted replacements, but not this year.  It would be a horrible year to try to start a tree.

     A good year for millers.

 

        I don’t think the hedge enjoyed 2020, but I can’t exactly blame that on 2020.  It could have been worse.  I could have had a forest fire at the farm, instead of in the Rockies.

             Ash from forest fires deposited on the sidewalk by the breeze.

     The relief from heat, smoke, and drought came as a mixed blessing.  It rained, yay! And snowed, and temperatures plunged.  My poor garden!  I was “out of town” on Tuesday, the day it got below freezing.

 I covered it on Wednesday to protect what was left from promised freezing temperatures.  I’m not sure I saved anything.

 

 

      We will have some tomatoes, a pumpkin or two, and maybe a cantaloupe!

 

    2020 is only three quarters done,  We still have the fall season, Thanksgiving and Christmas to deal with, not to mention a national election.

     Hibernation, anyone?

 

 

     

 

Letter to the Editor

  Headline:  “Vote to retire mascots passes

                  Decision calls for removal of all logos* by Aug. 1, 2021”

*Logos:  Indians and Warriors

Dear Editor:

      In an era when everyone finds themself a victim and when everyone looks for a reason to be righteously indignant, I too, find myself severely offended.

      How insensitive of the Minnesotans to name a football team after my ancestors, as if they were pagan savages.  Or worse, animals like lions, tigers, bears, or broncos.

     Won’t some do-gooders band together and help us of Norse descent rid ourselves of this embarrassing and humiliating reminder that our ancestors weren’t always very nice people?

      Maybe it’s p-c because the Vikings were, after all, white guys.

      As soon as we get Minnesota to change its offensive mascot, we can go after Dallas.  If you can’t have Indians, you can’t have Cowboys.

      Mark Twain said, “In the first place, God made idiots.  That was for practice.  Then he made school boards.”

      What can you expect from an unpaid, totally thankless job?

       

Mutton Bustin’

      The place looked dead.  I pulled into the driveway anyway.

      “It’s closed,” the Goodwife said.

      “It can’t be.  It’s Friday.  Nobody died.”  I pulled up to the drive-up window.  The shade was pulled, the slats closed.  In the window hung a sign:  “Closed Friday at noon to go to the fair.”

       “What?  The fair was last week.  At least I thought it was.”  And there it began.

        The menu included hamburgers and hot dogs, cottage fries, maybe a salad, with watermelon for dessert.  We were carrying most of the stuff we needed in the car with us.  All that went by the wayside.  Before we could get a hundred yards from the bank’s drive-up window, the Goodwife had the daughter on the phone.

      “Hey, the fair's going on in Hugo!  The kids would enjoy seeing that.”

     We all met  at the farm.  By 5:30, we were wandering the Lincoln County fairgrounds.  I headed for the buffalo burger booth.  That was my favorite fair place.  Eventually, we would all get there and place our orders.

       We kept our distance from everybody as we waited for our orders to fill.  Grandson wandered toward the arena where he could watch horses and folks wandering around.  We sat at a table long enough to eat, and then we wandered back to the arena.

      They weren’t charging admission, so we hiked our way to the top of the grandstand to take in the rodeo.  The kids’ portion of the day was winding down.  At 6:30, the kids were summoned for the mutton bustin’ event.  The rodeo was scheduled for 7:00.

      Grandson was wandering up and down the grandstand stairs and checking into all the things he could see.  When the first ewe broke out of the chute and a helmeted and vested kid went for a tumble off her back to a landing in the loose soil of the arena, his attention never strayed from the action around the gate until the last kid tried his luck at staying on the sheep’s back.

        Grandson was pretty sure he could do that.  He was pretty sure he could stay on a lot longer than the ones we had witnessed.  When he realized that the event would be repeated the next day, there was nothing for it but we come back and get him entered.

      Somehow, we learned that only 15 kids were allowed to ride in the Mutton bustin’.  So, I began to soften Grandson up so he wouldn’t be disappointed if he wasn’t one of the big 15.  Not a possibility.  He would ride and he would win the medal.

      We went to the restroom.  Grandson struck up a conversation with a man washing his hands as he waited for me to finish my business.  He was going to ride the sheep tomorrow and he was going to win.

      “Gonna do the mutton bustin’?” the man asked.

      “What?”

      “That’s what they call it, mutton bustin’,” I explained.

      “Yeah, and I’m gonna win!”

      “Go for it, cowboy!” the man said as he walked out.

       We watched most of the rodeo.  We left during the bull riding.  I said to Grandson, “If you don’t get to ride the sheep, shall we see if we can get you signed up for the bull riding?”     

      “Hell no!”  he said.  He got a severe lecture from his mama.  It was inappropriate for a six-year-old, but it was entirely appropriate, too.  He’s no dummy, maybe.

      Other difficulties arose.  Swimming had been the main agenda, until the fair invaded.  He didn’t bring his cowboy boots, only crocks.  He didn’t have any jeans.  After a search for boots came up empty, it was determined he would get along fine with his crocks and his long pants.

      Saturday morning found us headed to Hugo again.  We had to be there by 11:30 to sign up for 12:30 Mutton Bustin’.  We got there for the tail end of the parade that started at 10.  We were in plenty of time to sign up. 

      It turned out that about 18 kids signed up, so rather than disappoint three kids, they arranged to recycle a few sheep and let everybody ride.  Grandson was about number 12 or so, a ways back in the lineup. 

       Some kids came back crying after they fell off the ewe.  Even though the dirt was stirred up, deep and soft, falling can still be painful and  sometimes the ewe steps on a fallen rider.  Grandson was not deterred to see a would-be rider come back sobbing.  His enthusiasm and resolve remained strong throughout.

 

     On went the helmet and the flak jacket. 

And then, it was his turn.

      And then, the reward.  Or award?

     Things slowed down a little.  The swimming pool has two sessions, a 1-to-3 p.m. session, and a 3:30-to-5 p.m. session.  They missed the early session, so we watched the rodeo again to kill time. They went swimming when the time came.  Swimming was fine, but it couldn’t compete with mutton bustin’.

      Grandson already checked it out.  He can keep mutton bustin’ until he is 8. 

     He plans to be back next year. 

(If you can't run the video, email me & I will send.)

Combine Breakdown

       Not the kind where something breaks or wears out and has to be replaced.  The kind like the circus taking down the tents and packing up to move on to the next location, that kind of break down.

     Most years, I try to get the combine cleaned up and put away immediately after harvest.  There is good reason for that.  Chaff and dust can be blown off with compressed air if it is still dry. 

     If a rain shower comes along, the dust and chaff turn to paste which clings faithfully to the nooks and crannies where it is lodged.  Instead of compressed air, it requires scraping with putty knife or screw driver to dislodge it.

     This year, three or four showers of .2” or less plagued the harvest.  The showers didn’t really cause much delay since the weather was so dry.  The wheat dried easily by early afternoon following a shower.

     But, the “damage” was done as far as cleaning the combine.  The paste had set before harvest was half done.  So, no need to rush to cleaning right after harvest. 

      Besides, there were other pressing things, like “saplings” growing in the summer fallow.  This week, getting the combine put away became first priority, some three weeks after harvest.

      Why clean it?  Why not just put it in the shed?  Rust is a big enemy for sheet metal surfaces used in the reaping and threshing (the “combine” of two machines) operation.  Dust and chaff attract and hold moisture that promotes the rust and deterioration of the metal surfaces.

        Failure to clean, especially when it has rained on it, leads to sheet metal that has to be replaced.  Not only is that a difficult job, it is hard to find the parts now.  The old gal just finished its 56^th harvest, assuming it has participated in harvest of some kind every year since it rolled off the assembly line.  (It hasn’t.  It stayed in the shed for some harvests.)

        It used to be about a one-day job to get it cleaned and put away, but the combine isn’t the only thing that has experienced too many birthdays.  This year, things got spread over three days.

     Day one, remove header, clean it, and put it away.

  

    There are four bolts securing the header to the machine, and a four-bolt collar connecting the functioning part to the main drive.  You have to crawl under the machine to remove all this.  If you don’t blow the dirt off before you perform that operation, you will have a face-full of dust and chaff when you loosen the bolts.  Thus the air hose.

 

     Cleaning the header is the easy part.   It reached nearly 100 degrees by the time I had the header clean and backed into the red barn.  I was pretty much done when that chore was done.

       It’s best to start from top and work down when cleaning the threshing part of the combine.  This year, the dust and flour combined with the rain showers added weed seed to the paste in the bottom of the grain bin.  Nothing for it but to crawl into the grain bin, get down on hands and knees and dislodge the stuff with a putty knife while dodging auger flights and auger shield protecting the crusted goop.

     It usually takes at least two trips into the grain bin. One to dislodge as much as possible.  Then you have to start the engine and run the unloading auger to get rid of the big chunks.  Compressed air aids in herding the big chunks out of the bin. 

     A second trip into the grain bin gets rid of the rest of the stuck stuff.  It still takes a while to force the smaller chunks out.  You need to be sure there is nothing left for the mice to dine on.  If you leave anything, they will come.  That is true of every other nook and cranny throughout the machine.

      Next comes the engine compartment including the radiator.  The cab follows the engine compartment.  The shop vac works best in the cab.  Compressed air just chases stuff around in there.

      Cleaning the exposed surfaces is fairly simple using screw driver or putty knife followed by compressed air.  The real problem lies in the guts of the machine.

 

     The granddaddy of all the nooks lies beneath the operator’s platform.  The only way to get a hand into the recess is to kneel on the feeder house and reach above your head.

 

 

     It’s the little square hole obstructed by pipes.  The cavity can hold a bushel of chaff, beards, straw and dust.  It also collects water.  Fortunately, I can stand on the ground and feed the vacuum and air hoses into the opening and remove most of the stuff.

 

       But neither vacuum or compressed air will remove the mud, and mud there was in the very bottom.  Nothing to do but contort on knees with bare hand uncomfortably overhead and in the hole to clean out the mud, which this year included sprouted wheat.

    When that job is finally done, the dirt has to be blown off the cylinder bars.  That is done through the wide smiling opening in the pictures above.  There are eight  of them.  It’s not difficult, but does take a little time.

     The wrap up consists of running the machine at full speed two or three times and blowing out all the stuff that the air hose can reach between the runs.  Even with all that, there will still be some left for the mice.

      The last step in the breakdown is backing the combine into the shed.  That has yet to be done.  No hurry.  A rain shower won’t hurt anything now.

     Doing that by myself requires several trips up and down the ladder to the operator’s platform, to be sure I’m not going to cause any “hangar rash” (dents caused by minor collisions inside the hangar).  I will get to it by and by.  I have to move a tractor and an auger in the shed before I can do that.  Nature abhors a vacuum.  Things have a way of accumulating wherever there is an empty space. 

     Maybe that’s why my head gets filled with so many things.