Dublin

     “Where the heck is the bus stop?”

      We were in the airport in Dublin, having freshly arrived and cleared the passport check.  That part was easy.  Much faster than in Denver where you work your way through Disneyland-type back-and-forth chutes for thirty minutes.  The hardest part in foreign ports was figuring out we had to be in the “all others” line instead of the EU (European Union) line.  Those in the EU line got through much faster, just like in the grocery store where no matter what line you get into, it moves the slowest.

     I had done my homework.  After lots of looking, I finally put my trust in Trip Advisor, which had what seemed the best, most frank reviews for hostelry and transportation advice.  Making arrangements for this trip fell to me. 

     The Goodwife knew something about Japan and where we should go, and she made the arrangements for that trip.  For this trip, I was pressed into service.  The alternative was to light on foreign soil with no place to lay our weary heads.  Not a pleasant prospect for old folks in October.  Besides, some travel advisors suggested we may have to prove we had at least our first night’s lodging in Ireland before they would let us out of the airport.

     Trip Advisor recommended getting a LEAP card, which would allow us to travel on the city busses and the railroad.  Unlike the Brit Rail pass, which you have to buy outside the country, you can’t buy a LEAP card until you get to Ireland.

      Somehow, we missed the city tourist information center, which is there in the airport somewhere, a lady at the downtown office assured us when we visited her office to renew our LEAP card.  Had we found the information center, they might have informed us as to where we could catch a city bus.  Or that to get where we were going, we would have to take one bus to downtown Dublin, and catch another one to get to our lodging.  Or that there were four or five private bus companies vying for our business, none of which accepted the LEAP card.

     After three or four inquiries from various people in the airport, some people sitting at a desk doing some kind of promotion sent us to a Dart store, something like a 7-Eleven store stateside. 

     Sure enough, the young gal at the counter sold us three-day LEAP cards.  We would actually be there for four days, but all the info said you could add time at any of 640 ticket offices throughout Ireland.  Yes and no to that.

      “Where do we catch the bus?”

      “Oh, just go across the bridge and down to your right.”  The “bridge” is an enclosed walkway spanning seven or eight lanes where busses, taxis, private cars, and various shuttles load and unload folks using the airport.

      We had already been there looking for a place to buy the LEAP card.  With LEAP card in hand, we returned.  Having done my research, the Google maps site said to take either bus 720 or 721 to get to the stop closest to our bed-and-breakfast.  Sure enough, along came a bus 720, but when we asked if they accepted a LEAP card, the driver told us “no, we do NOT take that card,” sort of implying that we were real cheapies.  Well, yes, we are cheapies.  Otherwise, we would not mess with YOUR dang bus, either.  We would be taking a taxi.

     We stood there waiting for the city bus that DID take a LEAP card to come along.  None ever did.  A second 720 bus came along.  Where can we catch a city bus, we asked this driver?  “You have to go about a hundred yards that way,” he gestured towards the direction he had come, again with some disdain, as if I had asked for directions to a house of ill repute.

     We walked at least 200 yards “that way” and found no bus stop.  We crossed the eight lanes of highway during a slack time because we saw a city bus stop over there to unload passengers.  Another bus came along, neither city bus nor the blue busses with the snotty drivers.  “No, we don’t honor LEAP cards.  You won’t get on a bus over here,” the driver said, in the same tone as the blue bus drivers.

     Where in the world do we catch a city bus?  He didn’t know, probably a lie.  By this time, I was muttering profanities I am ashamed to admit I know, profanities unfit to print, barely under my breath. 

     A few inquiries later with no better results led us back to the stop where we would buy a ticket from a temporary agent who couldn’t tell us where to catch a city bus, either, and we caught the next 720, which I knew at least would get us close to where we needed to go.

     With ticket in hand, this driver was much more pleasant, helped us load our luggage in the bus belly, asked where we needed to go.  It was getting on to four o’clock and we had been up since six a.m. to catch train and plane and bus. 

     Catching the plane had been an adventure.  We got our boarding passes by plugging our passports into the machine in the kiosk.   Travelling economy means doing everything yourself.  EVERYTHING, from making your reservations, getting your boarding pass, handling your luggage.

     In Denver, we got our boarding pass and took our luggage to the ticket counter.  The ticket agent didn’t miss a beat, asked us if we had baggage to check, assuring us there was no extra cost.  In Denmark, the kiosk was supposed to give us luggage tags, but that choice wasn’t available.

      We worked our way to the ticket counter where the agent said we hadn’t paid for luggage, which we knew, but hey, they checked our luggage in Denver.  Besides, the sign said that due to a full load of passengers, they were offering free luggage check for those willing to turn loose of their baggage.

      “Well, okay,” she said.  “Your bag is oversized,” she informed the Goodwife.

     “We had no problem with it in Denver,” she retorted.

      “Well, they may be lax there, but we’re strict here.”  Without further comment, she tagged our bags and put them on the conveyor.

     Unfortunately, our airport ordeal wasn’t over.  We found a place to stand in line and get a roll to eat while we waited for our boarding time.  We reported to the proper gate, where there was no place to sit and wait.  There were two gates side-by-side.  We would find out that both gates were for planes headed to Dublin. 

      There was only one lady at the desk.  She had no PA system.  She was making announcements by yelling, first in Danish, then in English.   I understood her to say the flight was delayed for 45 minutes, which she confirmed when I inquired.  Trouble was, it wasn’t our flight that was delayed.

     We heard our names called by someone who DID have a PA system.  Returning the single lady at the counter, I showed her our ticket.  “That gate,” she pointed.  “You are very late for your flight.”  Which we were.

      We hurried down the stairs to the ramp.  Crewmen waiting at the door of the plane gestured to us to come on.  We hurried down the skyway and entered the airplane, the last to do so.  We barely got to our seats when the stewards went into their safety demo, which they did the old-fashioned way instead of us watching the screen on the seatback in front of us—an older airplane.  The plane started moving back, and we were on our way, a little red-faced for having delayed a plane full of people.  But we made it.

      At last, we were on a bus headed where we needed to go.  The bus driver let us off at Ballsbridge Hotel, which wasn’t our hotel, but I knew from my Google maps study, it was near our townhouse on Merrion Road.  We set off walking.  In a few blocks, the Goodwife balked.  We don’t know where we are going.  Well, no not exactly, but I know we are in the vicinity.  A lady came along.  “Excuse me, can you tell us where to find Merrion Road?”

      “Oh, Ballsbridge turns into Merrion Road,” meaning it becomes Merrion Road.  She didn’t know where the townhouse was, but she was sure that the street we were on would become Merrion Road in a few blocks.  On we went.

       A few more blocks, carefully watching for street signs, which in Dublin might be on a sign post, or the side of a building, or not at all.  No Merrion Road.  We stopped and discussed, maybe without the “dis”.  It wouldn’t be the first time today we got some bum advice.  Would this turn into Merrion Road?

     An older gentleman in hat with umbrella stopped.  “You look confused.  May I help you?”  Well, yes, you may.

     He had heard of Aona Townhouse.  He walked by it often, but he wasn’t quite sure exactly where it was, but we were on the right street, and on the right side of that street.  “See that stop light?” he pointed.  “Just go a couple of blocks beyond that and you will see it on your left.  You can’t miss it.”

    Uh-oh.  I’ve heard that before. But nothing to do but keep on.  Sure enough.  Ballsbridge did turn into Merrion Road.  Near the stoplight was a bus stop, the one we should have gone to.  Finally, we found the place, two or three blocks beyond the stoplight.  I reached to ring the bell, but the door opened and Robin greeted us.  We visited awhile and he showed us to our room. 

     Gratefully, we stretched out on the bed.  A rest and then find a place to eat.  We had had enough for one day.

Denmark 3

      “Ammonia?”

      I was puzzled.  Our host in Copenhagen is a scientist involved in energy production and storage, including storing wind energy during times when demand is low while production is high.  We were touching on that subject during a conversation that was mostly about politics.

     “How does ammonia work?” I asked.  As usual, I didn’t think of the questions I should have asked until a long time after the opportunity was gone.

     John explained how ammonia, nitrogen, increases plants’ efficiency in converting sunlight to food and fiber through photosynthesis.  I knew that, from using anhydrous ammonia as fertilizer in the days before going organic.

     He went on to explain that excess electricity can be used to extract nitrogen from the atmosphere.  Most (if not all) ammonia used by American farmers comes from oil, as do many other fertilizers.  The question I should have asked is, how is nitrogen extracted from the air?

       A google check shows two or three methods.  One involves lowering the temperature of air until the gasses turn to liquid.  The various gasses turn to liquid at different temperatures, which allows the elements to be separated and collected.

      Anyway, the excess electricity generated during the slack demand times is (or will be) used to produce nitrogen fertilizer.  Since petroleum is not used in the product or the process, the overall carbon footprint is reduced.  It’s not exactly a battery, which we think of as an energy storage method, but if the point of renewable energy is to reduce use of fossil fuel, it works.

     Fossil fuels may be necessary to generate power during peak demand or when wind and solar aren’t keeping up, but that use is offset by growing plants that extract CO2 and produce oxygen. 

     Yes , Denmark is a green country.  In the next two or three years, all vehicles in Copenhagen will be electric, no carbon emitters allowed.  Already, 48% of Denmark’s electricity is provided by wind power, most of the wind towers in the sea.  Solar panels top some roofs of buildings, but we saw no solar farms covering many acres as we are beginning to see in the U.S.      

     The plan is for Denmark to be carbon-neutral by 2030.  The push for clean energy seems to have produced a minimalist tendency among the populace.  I’m basing my judgment on three kitchens I observed.

     When you look at the kitchens, you see no “mod-cons” (British for modern conveniences).  Where is the refrigerator?  The dishwasher?

  

    There they are, behind cabinet fronts. 

     Microwave ovens are apparently not exactly verboten, but apparently, eschewed.  I never saw a single microwave.  The man who provided our first breakfast used a microwave in the back room to warm up our pastries.  I couldn’t see it.  I heard it.

     One of our hosts confessed to keeping a microwave in his garage. Something you didn’t want anyone to see?  The other was a bit disdainful at the mention of such a device.  Hmmm.  I always thought a microwave was super-efficient at heating things, more so than conventional methods.  Wouldn’t it be a useful tool in reducing energy use?

      Becoming green also seems to be pushing a tendency, maybe not exactly towards vegetarianism, but away from beef.  Pork and fish are still okay.  We did see ads saying, “Isn’t it time to quit?” like anti-cigarette ads, only they were accompanied by pictures of meat.

      We suffered no shortage of meat, especially fish.  We had some great meals.  The beer was good, too.

     Our stay in Denmark really was the highlight of our trip.  Staying in a private home, getting to know folks beats staying in a hotel.  You get to see how the common folk live.  Staying in a hotel and visiting tourist sights brings you in contact with people involved in the tourist industry.

      Nearly everyone we met spoke English, including the workers in a local pizza shop and the neighboring grocery store.  They were patient with us as we fumbled with currency and the change as we tried to pay for our purchases.

      We scheduled our departure from Denmark for Monday morning, a mistake.  Monday morning is a zoo in Copenhagen, too.  Our hostess decided the best way to get us to the airport on time was via train rather than to try to drive us or go by taxi.  She took us to a nearby station, helped us purchase tickets through the machine, and saw to it we got on the right train.

     Airports are airports.  They are not conducive to happy traveling.  We managed to get on the right plane (we were the last ones on and nearly missed it due to not understanding the announcement) and off to Ireland where we would negotiate another airport and be all on our own.

     

Copenhagen 2

      “You did what?” the Goodwife asked.

     The answer was rode a bicycle from a hotel in downtown Denver across Colorado Boulevard to a fabric store, where the Goodwife struck up an acquaintance with her.  Tinne planned on carrying her fabric purchases on the same bike back to downtown Denver after 5 p.m.

     The Goodwife insisted they put the bicycle in our voluminous trunk and took her back to her hotel.  Since Tinne was in town for another couple of days, the Goodwife enlisted the help of another friend, and they took her all over looking at quilt shops, museums, even to the taping of a quilting show destined for some television show.

      In response, Tinne said if we ever came to Denmark, we should stay with her.  So we did.

      We stayed in the “summerhouse” which was nearer to downtown Copenhagen than was the “beach house.”  The summerhouse has a glass roof-ceiling that opens to provide ventilation in warm weather. 

      One wall of the bathroom is all glass, with no curtains, a bit unnerving for prissy folks such as us.  There is a privacy fence and a small garden, about three feet from the wall, to keep things private.

      The house is small, basically three rooms, one bedroom, bath, and everything else.  It was quite comfortable.  An “annex” nearby provides a place for Tinne to work on quilts and other projects.  A garden and a greenhouse supply fresh vegetables and fruit.

     We visited the beach house on our last day there.  It used to be a warehouse for fishermen who used the nearby docks for their trade.

      Like the summerhouse, the converted warehouse doesn’t have a real big floor space, but there are four stories.  It faces the ocean with docks full of sailboats, and one fishing boat, a short block away—a great view.  Tinne and John belong to the local sailing club even though they don’t own a boat or go sailing.  Members only at the club’s restaurant.

     Tinne spent two days taking us around.  The first day we visited Rundetaarn, the “Round Tower”.  It was like a fancy old silo, the kind on “Old McDonald’s” farm.  A ramp went around the inside of the wall, all the way to the top.  We stopped every so often to look out the windows to see an ever-changing view of the city.  On top, you could walk around outside and look at Copenhagen in every direction.

     It was windy and spitting rain, so we didn’t spend a lot of time on the top story.  The observatory on the very top wasn’t open.  The tower was built in the 1630’s, the observatory added in the 1920’s.  The slope of the ramp is quite gentle, quite walkable, even for old guys.

     We also visited a couple of churches, one with a humongous pipe organ, and one with bunches of tombs for the rich and famous.

     On our last day there, Tinne took us to the docks and sailing club by their beach house.  Then we went to Elsinore, otherwise known as Hamlet’s castle, since that is where Shakespeare’s play is set.

      On one day, we rode the bus downtown where we caught the “Hop-on, Hop-off” bus.  We intended to go a complete circuit, then get off at a place or two that we wanted to see.  The Goodwife wanted to see the queen’s jewelry on display at some museum, but it closed at four and we didn’t get there in time.  So we settled for our bus tour.  A helpful young lady at a museum’s information center helped us find the right bus stop to catch the city bus home.

     We left on Monday morning, a mistake.  We had to get to the airport in heavy traffic.  To avoid that, Tinne took us to a train station, helped us buy tickets, and made sure we got on the right train, which went directly to the airport.  So our sojourn in Denmark came to an end.

      It was very nice to have friendly folk to shepherd us around.  Our accommodations were the best we had during our trip.  We also got to see the way the natives lived, a thing you miss when you stay in a hotel and visit tourist attractions.

Ignorants Abroad Again--Copenhagen

       “You okay?” I asked the Goodwife.

      “Yes,” she answered.  She kept fumbling around with her plastic pouches filled with bottles, jars, pencils, tubes, whatever.  She was working in the semi-darkness illuminated by a shaft of light coming through the slightly ajar bathroom door.

      She disappeared into the bathroom.  I tried to go back to sleep.  It was our first night in Copenhagen.  We left Denver at 2 p.m. on Tuesday, flew through the dark into tomorrow, landed in day-lit London, changed planes, which in London means going through security check all over again.

     We flew Norwegian, transferred to another Norwegian flight in London, never left a secured area, yet when we followed the signs to the correct gate, there they were, the security folks, wearing plastic gloves, waiting for us.  Empty pockets, remove belt, the whole bit.

     I had my Samsung tablet in a pocket of the bag containing my sleep machine.  It went right through in Denver.  In London, they mildly chastised me:  all computer devices out, on top, nothing covering it. 

      I started to remove my shoes.  NO, no, no, we don’t do that here.  That’s only in the USA.

      We landed in Copenhagen early in the afternoon Wednesday, but we had been at it for over 24 hours.

      Sune, a foreign exchange student who came to Kansas and spent some time with us 20 years ago, was kind enough to meet us at the airport.  He took us to our hotel and helped us check in.  We were too early for that, so we stowed our luggage and took a little walking tour of the area, ending in a coffee shop.

      Sune left us at our hotel where we did get checked in and tried to rest for a couple of hours.  Sune returned for us at 5 p.m.  He took us to his house, maybe 15 minutes away where we met his family, toured his house, a very nice house, and had a great classic Danish dinner—a pork roast with the skin still attached, roasted so the skin was pleasantly crispy. 

      We spent the next few hours catching up on the old times and generally having a great time.  Sune arranged with our next hostess to meet us at 11 a.m. in front of our hotel.  Then he returned us to our hotel where we collapsed at last into bed.

      “I’m going down to get a cup of coffee,” the Goodwife said as she shut off the bathroom light and turned towards the door.

      “There won’t be anybody there,” I said.

    “Why not?”

     “It’s the middle of the night.”

      “No it’s not.  It’s seven o’clock.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “That’s what my cell phone says,” she replied.  I dug out my tablet.  Sure enough, it said 7—7 p.m.  I Googled correct time of day.  3 a.m.

     I showed her the result.  She melted.  Back to bed she went, makeup and all.  The next time we woke up, the time of day said 9 a.m.  The breakfast place at the hotel closed at 9 a.m.

     We drug ourselves down the street a couple of blocks where we found a bakery that also served coffee and tea.  We lugged our purchases back to the hotel lobby where we indulged in our first Danish breakfast.  We ate in the lobby because our room lacked table or chair.  It was pretty small, with a bunk over the double bed we slept in.  A ladder to get into the bunk was thoughtfully provided, hanging on the wall by the doorway.

      We checked out of the hotel shortly before eleven.  We stood on the sidewalk in front of the motel, waiting for our hostess.  It was quite pleasant, really pleasant compared to some of the weather that was to come.  We were ready for our next adventure.

  

Pit Stop

      “Drug Check Point in 5 Miles”, the mobile sign flashed at me.

      Sometime in the past seven or eight years, “they” closed the Bennet rest stop.  As far as I know, there is no rest stop between Vail pass and Arriba, now.

      I exit I-70 before Arriba.  Once in a while, I need to make a stop while eastbound, especially if I have business to conduct in Limon.  Cedar Point beckons.  Cedar Point sits on a high point between the rest of Eastern Colorado and the Front Range.  I think it is the highest point on the railroad between Genoa and Denver.

       Cedar Point is about as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get on I-70.  It provides a rest stop with a view.  Going south (I think, might be west) from the I-70 exit, you climb up a hill via a gravel road.  From the hilltop, you can see for miles and miles in nearly every direction.

      Standing there, you are not invisible to I-70 traffic, but it would take an eagle eye for anyone travelling the interstate to notice that you are relieving yourself in the wide-open spaces while enjoying the view.  Lumps of weathered Kleenex caught in the ditch weeds suggest that squatters also have used this place for a rest stop.

     Situated on top of the hill, you can see if anyone should approach via the county road from either direction.  It doesn’t exactly replace the Bennet rest stop, no tourist brochures or hazardous road or weather conditions, but it works.  It is a marvelous view, too.

      “Drug checkpoint in 5 miles?”  Less than that to Cedar Point exit.  They will probably be watching that exit.  Anyone carrying drugs will want to exit before the five miles.

     I really didn’t think about that very long, and in a couple of miles, I nearly forgot about it.  I exited at Cedar Point.  Nobody.  Nothing.  I hesitated at the stop sign and turned right up the gravel road.  An abandoned Suburban sat by the side of the road.  I slowed, looked, nobody in it, so on I went.  A few yards brought me to the apex. 

     I pulled over, stopped, and unfastened my seatbelt.  Before I could open my door, a white SUV with blue/red (I think) lights flashing screeched to a stop ten yards behind me.  I exited and met the sheriff’s deputy about half way between our vehicles.

      “We are checking on you,” he announced.

      “I figured that,” I replied.

     “You live around here?”  I told him about the farm and its location, indicated my license plate.  I figured they would check that out, as well as my driver’s license.

      “Why are you stopping here?” he asked.

      “I’m headed for Limon, to the barbershop.  I really need to take a leak.”  While we were having this exchange, a second white vehicle with lights flashing pulled up behind the first sheriff’s vehicle and another deputy jumped out and approached.

      “He needs to use the bathroom,” the first deputy yelled back to the approaching second deputy.  They both laughed.

       “Well, don’t blow away,” the second deputy said.

      “I’ll stand over here,” I said, indicating the leeward side of my pickup.

      “Well, have a good day,” the first deputy said, extending his hand for me to shake.  I was a little surprised, but I shook his hand.  He returned to his vehicle and headed farther down the road.  The second deputy burned a U-turn and headed back the way he came, but he stopped a few yards down the road.

      So I stepped beside the pickup and did my business.  I tried to marvel at the view, but other thoughts crowded into my head.  What was I thinking?  I should have known I would attract attention by exiting here. 

     They didn’t even ask to see my driver’s license.  I think I must look guilty, based on the frequency of my undergoing extra scrutiny in airports by TSA.  The brevity of my interview and the trust the deputies placed in me didn’t add up to other experiences I have had with law enforcement personnel.   

      I restored my personal garments, rounded the pickup, and prepared to hit the road again.  The second deputy was still sitting a few yards away, the first deputy had turned around and was headed my way again.  I assumed he preferred to follow me, so I pulled out ahead of him and headed back towards the interstate.

      I had an escort in front and behind me.  As we neared the interstate, I saw at least three more lawmen at work.  Two were investigating a van they had stopped going up the entrance ramp to eastbound I-70.  The third was approaching an eighteen-wheeler that was slowing to a stop at the stop sign on the exit.

      Where had they come from?  I didn’t see a thing when I exited, no vehicles, nothing.  They must have been hiding on the north side of the interstate where eastbound traffic could not see them.  There were at least four official vehicles including my two escorts.

      I turned up the entrance ramp, past the stopped van, and on my way to a haircut.  I got to the Highway 86 exit before it dawned on me I had gone more than five miles since that flashing sign.  There was no drug checkpoint.  I might not even have noticed that if there hadn’t been a conglomeration of police vehicles on the overpass for Highway 86. 

      Aha!  The druggies would take the first exit they see after the flashing mobile sign warning of a drug checkpoint.  Self-incrimination.  Westbound druggies would take the Highway 86 exit.

      All in all, it was an interesting and educational morning.  It may turn out to be behavior altering as well.    

      In future, I may just call on the Flying J folks.  They have two restrooms for customers of the fuel stop, the convenience store and the I-Hop.  The restaurant people will think I am a customer of the convenience store while the convenience store folks will think I’m going to the restaurant.  No need to tell them that I am just going.

       I’ll miss the marvelous view.

Fire!

     “Fire fighters work to control a grassfire that gave Atwood a smoke-scented Sunday afternoon Oct. 5, [2003].” 

     So reads the item from “Looking Back 15 years ago” in the local paper.  I remember it as if it were yesterday. 

      The house was permanently under construction in those days.  There were quite a few small scraps of wood, especially OSB board.  Some of the bigger pieces I had used to pave the way to the trash-burning barrel and the compost pile.  (We had no garbage disposal and sometimes it could be muddy getting to compost pile or trash cans .)

    So I spent a couple of hours Sunday morning burning trash.  The wind was just a breeze out of the southwest, a pretty good day for burning. 

     I had elected to do that rather than trek down to the neighbor’s pasture to cut a load of firewood in the Dodge pickup.  There was lots of good firewood down in the bottoms, but some rather rough ground to get there.  It had been a dry Fall.  I feared I might set the pasture on fire with the pickup’s exhaust system.

      So I burned trash instead.  I had exercised due diligence, covering the burn barrel with a screen to supress the flying sparks.  All went well and the big flames were done, only the coals to simmer and go out.  Or at least so I thought.

      I took a bike ride down the county road, it was such a beautiful day.  When I came back, I rode past the burn barrel.  It was still smoldering and smoking, but nothing unusual.

     I went inside to fix a lunch and maybe catch part of the football game.  Sometime later, not more than 20 or 30 minutes later, I looked out the east windows to see flames encroaching on my woodpile some 30 or 40 feet east of the trash burner.

      My woodpile going up in flames?  That pile represented a lot of work.  I grabbed the fire extinguisher and rushed outside to save the woodpile.  Then I saw the real disaster.  The smoke and flames were headed northeast over a sizable area.

     I yelled at the Goodwife to call the fire department.  The fire had already burned through the north yard where I had several ponderosa pines.  They all were singed.  Two would die and have to be replaced.

      Worse yet, the fire was into the cedars north of the house that provided wind and snow protection during the winters.  It was burning into the neighbor’s pasture, the very pasture I was afraid I would set on fire by venturing into it with my pickup truck.

       There wasn’t much time to think.  My neighbor across the draw, some two miles as the crow flies, but five or six miles by road, was already pulling into the yard.  He saw the smoke and flames long before I did.  What to do? 

      I don’t know.  Get the gates open so the fire trucks can get in.  The two of us were no match for the task at hand.

      The fire extinguisher quickly ran out of water and I had not succeeded in getting the woodpile extinguished.  I abandoned both, extinguisher and woodpile.  I was reduced to the garden sprayer, all three gallons of its capacity.  The fire extinguisher required an air compressor, which I did not have.

      I tried to control the southwest edge of the flames to keep them from getting around to the southwest where the housed would be endangered.  The Goodwife took the garden hose to the woodpile and succeeded in getting it extinguished.  I helped her string the hose out toward the windbreak, but we lacked quite a few feet of reaching it. 

      More neighbors arrived.  One lady came from church.  She was in black skirt, hose, and black dress shoes.  The skirt may have survived the afternoon, but the shoes didn’t.  She and the Goodwife spent the afternoon in the cedars keeping the blaze from destroying the trees.

      Another neighbor saw the lack of garden hose.  I told her to go buy hose, but no stores were open Sunday afternoon, so she recruited a few hundred feet from her neighbors in town.  Even with water, it took the ladies all afternoon to control the smoldering flames that worked under the compilation of dead grass and needles that covered the ground beneath the cedars.

     The fire fighters and several volunteers, including local Future Farmers of America boys who showed up, fought the grass fire in the pasture.  The battle was complicate by rough terrain unsuitable for motorized vehicles.  The boys relied on shovels to stop the flames advance.

     I was still worried about the south edge of the fire front.  I left the girls in the tree row and headed out into the pasture with my weed sprayer.  I managed to extinguish everything up to the highway running north into Atwood.  The flames on the south had to back up into the wind, so they were much more docile than the flames consuming fuel to the north.

       My three gallons were just about gone as I approached the highway.  A man in a pickup driving down the highway saw me, stopped, and hauled two jugs of water over the fence and helped me replenish my sprayer.

      The south edge safely suppressed, I started north.  The fire departments had stopped that and were working on the north and east edges.  I made my way back to the house where the girls were winning the battle in the cedars, finally.  I started checking hot spots that were smoking.  I feared it might reignite, but there was nothing left to burn, really.

       The hot spots were cow droppings.  I remember Dad talking about picking up cow chips for cooking fuel when he was a kid growing up on the prairie.  I now had a good idea of just how good a fuel cow chips are:  they burned hot, and they burned for a long time.

       There wasn’t much left for me to do.  Begin surveying the damage:  the worst was the trees we lost.  There is now a permanent hole in the northwest corner of the yard where the cedars died from the fire.  I tried for as long as we lived there to get other trees to fill in, but I was not very successful.  The roots from the neighboring survivors spread over to the blank space where I was trying to get new saplings to grow.  The bigger trees hog all the water and nutrients, leaving the little fellers to languish and eventually die.

     There were some fence posts that had burned.  Two or three power poles had to be replaced.  I thought I would get a bill for that, but I never did, perhaps because other fires in that pasture were started by electric lines arcing.  (There is a substation in the pasture, too.)

     The immediate job was to thank the many who helped fight the fire.  How do you do that?  Then there was all the garden hose to return.  I don’t remember exactly how that was done, but some folks didn’t get the right hose back.  I offered to buy new for them, but they all declined.

      How had the fire started?  Obviously, it was the trash-burning barrel.  The charred area looked like an old-fashioned megaphone like the one the cheerleaders used in days of yore.  The mouthpiece was the trash barrel, the huge bell spread out in a V-shape to the northeast, the direction of the breeze.

      How did the fire get out of the barrel?  It didn’t come over the top.  The particleboard walk I had constructed to get to the compost pile in muddy weather was to blame.  The fire worked its way out underneath the barrel, igniting the OSB stuff.

      Complicating the matter was the compost pile.  I had tried to use hog wire to keep the animals out of the compost.  I thought I was dealing with coons or other vermin, until one morning I found the dog’s collar stuck in a hole in the hog wire.  Iko was the vermin.

     I had wood pallets lying around doing nothing, so I constructed a fence out of four of them, using screws and some 1 X 2’s to connect the pallets and hold them together in place so the dog couldn’t get to the scraps.

      The fire worked its way via the “boardwalk” to the pallets.  When one of the 1 x 2’s burned in two, one of the flaming pallets flopped over into the dry grass, and away it went.

     For the next few days, I had to suffer the good-natured ribbing about being a pyromaniac.  A small price to pay for all the help we got from the community.

      For the next few months, the “burn scar” served as a reminder of the incident.  However, come April and some moisture, the burned area turned a beautiful green.  A few of the yucca plants had perished in the blaze. 

     A local preacher stopped me one day that spring.  “Congratulations,” he said.  “You have the greenest pasture in the country!”  Some small comfort for the trouble I had caused.

     Unfortunately, it wasn’t the last time the trash barrel ignited the neighbor’s pasture.  The next time, it wasn’t my fault.  Honestly!

The Trellis

     Two of them you could never see.  The third one is somewhat visible since I trimmed the juniper on the corner.

      Wagon wheels spruce up our yard.  One stood by the air conditioning unit just outside the front door.  It was nearly invisible, hiding under the spruces that guard the walkway and entrance to our front door.

     The third one sits in seclusion near the southwest corner of the house where the fence separates backyard from front yard.  It truly is hidden by evergreens that line the walk.

     When we first moved in, a little strip of soil bordering the garage wall had some kind of perennial branch that grew nearly to the eaves of the garage roof.  There was never a bloom of any kind. In the backyard, huge roses grew to over six feet high and blossomed profusely.  They wasted their sweetness on the desert air to paraphrase an elegy-writing poet.

      Why shouldn’t those roses be in the front where somebody might see them?  So I dug out the old plants by the garage and transplanted the three biggest rose bushes from the backyard.

      The roses seemed intent on proving the oldest rule in real estate:  location, location, location.  They emulated the former dwellers and grew up to the garage eaves.  They didn’t blossom.  What is in that soil?

     The roses did spill their canes out onto the driveway and the sidewalk, however.  They need a trellis, I thought.  I looked at various and sundry arbors to support plants.  Anything that fit the bill came with a healthy price tag.

       Why not use a wagon wheel?  It seemed a good idea.  I grabbed a shovel and began moving rocks piled around the wheel near the air conditioning unit.  I made an amazing discovery.  The wheel stood so straight and true without ever leaning because, it was embedded, about six inches of it, in concrete.

      One reason not to use a wagon wheel to support the roses, freeing the wheel from its resting place was going to be a challenge.  A shovel and a hammer didn’t cut it.  Neither did a chisel.

      A trip to the farm produced a crow bar.  Now I was well equipped to chunk away at the concrete, doing my best not to injure the wheel.  It still took a bit of work, but the wheel finally rolled out of its castings.

       How to stabilize the wheel in its new location amongst the roses?   Concrete worked before.  I guess it would work again.  I did not like the concrete around the wooden parts of the wheel.  The wood tended to rot. 

     Therefore, I made a small form, mixed up some Quickcrete, poured it into the form and let it set for an hour or two.  Carefully, I rolled the wheel up onto the stiffening mixture.  It made a dandy impression.  I rolled it off and let the concrete set overnight. 

     I should have let it set for two or three nights.  The small pad stood still for the removal of the forms.  But when I rolled the wheel into place in its track, the concrete went to pieces somewhat.   Still, it made a nice perch for the wheel.  But it wasn’t going to stand there by itself, concrete notwithstanding.

      I bought some four-foot sections of rebar and drove them down on either side of the wheel.  Another trip to the farm yielded some old rusty pump rod.  Those I bent into the shape of an arc as best I could.  I drove the ends of the pump rod into the earth and connected them to the wheel with, what else?  Bailing wire.  Duct tape wouldn’t work for this job.

      There was the trellis in all its rustic glory, glory that would soon be hidden by rose bushes, I hoped. 

                                             Rose bushes a-plenty, actual roses rather rare.

      You too, could have a trellis.  All it takes is a spare wagon wheel, a crow bar, some rebar, a hammer, some old rusty pump rod, a sack of premixed concrete, some 2 X 4’s for forms, a screw gun and screws to hold the forms together, a little water for the cement, and you are good to go.