Some Pumpkins

       Benign neglect?

      Or is it ”Give it an inch and it’ll take a mile?

     I planted a pumpkin seed last spring.  It was an effort to cut down on yard work.  It covers up a lot of ground and keeps weeds at bay.  Bottom line: less mowing.

     I must have planted a pumpkin somewhere in the past, but I don’t remember specifically.  I knew that a pumpkin vine would spread faster than bindweed and prevent weed growth.  Unlike bindweed, it will be gone when it freezes.

     Where did I get that idea if I hadn’t planted a pumpkin in the past?  Maybe from Nathaniel Hawthorne.

     From The Scarlet Letter:

            “But the proprietor appeared already to have relinquished, as hopeless, the effort to perpetuate on this side of the Atlantic, in a hard soil and amid the close struggle for subsistence, the native English taste for ornamental gardening. Cabbages grew in plain sight; and a pumpkin vine, rooted at some distance, had run across the intervening space, and deposited one of its gigantic products directly beneath the hall-window; as if to warn the Governor that this great lump of vegetable gold was as rich an ornament as New England earth would offer him.”

 

     My pumpkin vine has taken over much of the strawberry patch.

 

                                      It’s currently attempting a coup of the roses.

     If it defeats the roses, I won’t grieve.  Roses are pretty, but caring for them is like trying to help a wild animal.  Weeding or trimming results in lots of painful pricks and snags, the reward for caring. 

     I inherited the roses from a previous owner.  There were nearly twenty.  I’m down to a dozen or so.  An attempt to move three of the biggest bushes to the front of the house resulted in one fatality and two never-blooms.  Obviously, I’m not a rose person.

     The pumpkin has invaded the mint patch, but is doomed to lose that war.  I have prevented it from covering up the cantaloupe vine.   

    Pumpkin trivia:  The comic strips used to include one called “Some Punkins.”  A World War II bomber was named “Some Punkins”, maybe after the comic strip.

     At the junction of Colorado State Highways 71 and 94 lies a settlement called Punkin Center.  Farm broadcaster / pilot Evan Slack liked to point out that the place was listed as “Pumpkin Junction” on air charts (maps).

     As October approaches, the pumpkin will get its share of the limelight.  Soon I will be able to sing, “Hey there Country Bumpkin, How’s the frost out on the pumpkin?”

     Harvest will take a strong back (volunteers wanted).  Want a huge jack-o-lantern?  Roasted pumpkin seeds?  Maybe homemade pie filling?  Apply in person at the patch.

     Then there will be all those vines to dispose of, the tradeoff for not having to mow all summer.

     It will be okay if Mother Nature doesn’t send us a killing frost for a while.

 

     

  

    

Auger Down!

     Sheets of water splashed against the north windows. Looking out the west windows, I could see water not just falling, but coming in waves that oscillated up and down as they fell to earth.

     I hadn’t seen anything like that since experiencing the tornado in Limon.  I began looking out the windows for a funnel cloud.  I hurried from window to window where the wind-driven waves attacked mainly the north and east sides of the house.

     No funnel cloud and the blast lasted less than five minutes.  I checked the north windows for leaks.  Water was running through the yard. 

      I could see the west combine shed doors sticking out at the bottom, waving in the receding east wind.  Uh oh.  We forgot to shut the east doors.  We forgot to pin the bottoms of the west door.  We were in for some door repairs.  Thankfully, the roof stayed on the shed.

      It took an hour or so for me to think of the auger.

 

     It was Thursday July 20.  Early morning showers dictated there would be no harvesting wheat this day.  We had started harvesting Wednesday, putting nearly a thousand bushels of wheat in the grain bin.  Typical harvest weather!

    We spent time working on the “off-site” bin, putting the finishing touches to alterations we had made to unloading access and attempts to plug water leaks around the base of the bin.  We would be ready to move to the ”off-site” bin when the farm bin got full.

     We had relaxed a little from the pre-harvest hurry, getting ready for ripe wheat.  We had let down too much.  Failure to shut the east shed doors, to pin the base of the west doors.

     Brother Dave asked as he left if we shouldn't chain the auger to the bin roof.  Nah, not necessary, we thought.

 

 

     Maybe we should have chained the auger to the bin roof.  However, Brother John found as he researched ideas for dealing with an overturned auger on the internet, that one man reported complete destruction of an auger chained to the bin, which got flopped and whipped around in the wind.

     When I finally thought about the auger, it was nearly dark.  From an upstairs window, I can see the bin top.  I trudged upstairs and looked out the window.  There was the bin top all right.

      No auger.  Ouch!

      We took a quick trip out to the bin.  We inspected and found no damage to under-carriage or auger tube.  The tube was straight, with no visible kinks in it.  We wouldn’t know for sure until we got the tube off the ground and could see what was the underside as it lay on the ground like a dead, bloated, 2-legged aardvark.

      Well, there would be more to do on Friday than merely wait for the wheat to dry out.  It took a couple of hours to get the door back to some semblance of normalcy, repairing the broken frame, and forcing the door back into it’s regular pathway.

 

 

        Then came the real chore of getting the auger up and checking for damage.  We decided it would be better to repair any damage with the auger on its side rather than up in the air after we uprighted it.

     The front-end loader on the 4010 easily raised the auger tube.  Three 50-gallon barrels supported the tube and the repair process began.

 

 

      The tube was undamaged.  Two frames that supported cables used to raise the auger to bin height were damaged, both bent and one broken.

      By Friday evening, the frames were straightened to a reasonable semblance of normalcy.  Welding the broken piece got stalled because the welder cables weren’t long enough to reach the vice where the broken piece was held firmly to the brace.  Friday ended with the construction of a 220-volt extension cord.

       Saturday was upright-the-auger day.  The engineers on the project decided we need two pulling points, one on the north to pull the auger up onto its two wheels, and one on the south to prevent the auger from crashing down once gravity took over the process.    

 

 

    The Ford tractor was nominated to do the north pull.  It was connected with a length of chain and a nylon rope to be sure there was plenty of distance between the auger and the Ford tractor operator in the event the auger decided to flop over on its other side to the north.

     The old Dodge pickup got the nod for holding the auger back as it descended for a landing on its north wheel.  Pickup and auger were connected with the “well rope”, the rope used to lower a man, usually Dad, down into the 90-foot domestic well when there had to be work done on the well bottom.

      We hooked both rope and chain to the same wheel so accelerator and brake were at the same point.  The engineers decided a third “hold-back” point should be used to insure that the upper end of the auger didn’t swing wildly and slam into the grain bin as it went over center on its way back to its wheels.  There was enough well rope to tie both auger points to the Dodge.

      The actual uprighting was rather anti-climactic.  The Ford tractor had no trouble pulling the auger up, and when it started down, the Dodge brakes made the touchdown a soft landing.  There was a moment of panic when I thought the Ford was going to let the auger crash back to the earth on the south, but everything went according to plan. 

     The auger was restored to its place and we were ready to try cutting wheat.  A 5:30 sample tested 14% moisture, a little too wet to bin. 

      Sunday would find us back to harvesting wheat.  The auger worked just fine, thank you.

     I have never played the "Farm Game" and have played the Money Game only once.  I think I know of a setback or penalty suited for those lifelike games at the  hands of Mother Nature.  And maybe some neglect on the part of a player?  

  

      

Boyd Lake: Ebb & Flow

      Ebb and Flow sounds like a comic strip.  At least it does to old guys who remember Eb & Flo.  If you don’t remember, never mind.  It’s a footnote you don’t have to read.

    It’s really the wet spring that is featured here on the shores of Boyd Lake.  The early pictures were taken April 2, 2023, the later ones on June 5.

 

 

 

     All the lakes are filled to overflowing.

 

     Connection between Heinricy Lake and Boyd Lake.  In April, you could easily walk across the neck where the swimmer is.  The water is probably 8 or 10 feet deep now.  July 2.

 

     Connection between Heinricy Lake and Horseshoe Lake.  The water hasn’t quite reached the high-water mark.

 

       The south end of Horseshoe Lake near the outlet to Heinricy Lake.

 

              The outlet of Heinricy Lake to Westerdoll Lake.

 

      The dock floats.  In April, it was downhill to get to it.  It’s almost level with the sidewalk now.

 

The pelicans and herons liked the high water.  The pelicans have flown, probably getting too warm for the big-billed buggers.

        There’s still plenty of snow in them thar hills, too.

 

 

         The beginning of July, a good time to pause and smell the roses.

 

     And the sunflowers.

 

    And whatever they are.

 

Sea of Grass

 

      Spring 2023.  Different than springs we have known for many years.

    

      In April, you could have walked out and seen the grader blade and a two-bottom plow.  Do you see it in June?

 

     The reason why?  Many days in late May and early June looked like this:

 

     Over eleven inches of rain from late May through mid-June.  Probably more than we got in the last two summers combined.

     Resulting in:

 

     Not too mention this:

 High water mark in the southwest basement window, 2.5” in the rain gauge.

Still drying out a week later.  Another 1.5” didn’t add to the basement problem.  But it did aid in eroding the gravel path into the back yard.

   No one is complaining.  It does call for some different action.  The old rotary mower can’t handle the three-feet of grass. 

 

               Coming soon, a sickle mower.  As soon as I find it and dig it out of the grass

 

   

New Swimming Pool

 

     Saturday of Memorial Day weekend.

     They came in droves.  502 was the official count.

     The new swimming pool in Limon finally opened.  Its first projected completion date was summer of 2022. 

     2020 and the COVID plague stuck its ugly paw into that blue print.  Supply issues for materials and equipment caused delays.  Original concrete failed to pass inspection.  Some parts of the facility had to be removed and repoured. 

     A postponed completion date of Labor Day of 2022 didn’t get much of a foothold before those in charge of building the pool punted and set the date for the traditional opening day, Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, 2023. 

      This date stuck, and the new pool opened to plenty of fanfare.  New pool, free entry, free towels for the first 100 , free hamburgers.  What else could a person ask for?

      Better weather, for one.  High  in the mid-sixties with a cooling breeze from the south put the damper on  things for the older folks.  That was okay.  It was a day for kids, anyway.

 

    Among the 502 were daughter Number Two and grandkids, who got there before opening time of 11 a.m., but were way too far back in the line of swimmers to benefit from the free towel giveaway.  

     They did get through the hamburger line in good shape.  They followed that with a trip to the shaved ice trailer, which wasn’t free.  It wasn’t too cold for shaved ice.  I’ll bet it was a profitable day for that business.  I was quite thankful that I wasn’t the vendor.

     Among the lowlights, the mandatory 10-minute break every hour.  Imagine crawling out of the warm pool to expose yourself to a 15-mile-per-hour breeze in the mid-sixties.

     Oh well.  They were used to it.  In order to take advantage of the curlicue slide, they had to walk up a spiral stairway, which was often half full of would-be sliders braving the breeze as they waited their turn at the top.

      The grandkids endured until 5 p.m., a deadline established by parent.  They probably would have lasted until the 6 p.m. closing time if they had their druthers. 

      The Goodwife and I endured an hour of it.  We stood in the breeze for about half of that hour until some seats opened up.  As we observed the “swimmers” (trying to scale the climbing wall or going down the water slide), we were about as inclined to take a dip as to endure a root canal.  

 

      Of course, it all reminded me of other opening pool days.  I didn’t make many, if any.  I do remember when Cousin Corky was the head lifeguard.  It was probably after his hitch in the army when he returned to Limon and served the city under Uncle Jerry’s time as city manager. 

     We always spent one day of Memorial Day weekend at Aunt Helen’s with the other aunties, who gathered to go pay respect to their parents in Pershing Memorial Cemetery.  Cousin Corky and his new girlfriend came  home from the pool on a cool, cloudy, windy day which was shortened by the appearance of a gusty cold front with some lightning that made closing the pool mandatory.

     To his father’s question, Corky replied that there were still a dozen kids in the pool when he declared it closed.  His girlfriend chipped in with, “A dozen IDIOTS!”  She was chilled to the bone.

     “Idiot” and swimming didn’t go together to my juvenile mind.  It makes perfect sense now.

     The other “opening day” may not have been the actual opening day, but it was the first time I got to go swimming in the new pool in Limon. 

      Jimmy Lundy insisted that he take us to the new pool.  That was more than sixty years ago.  How exciting!  As we followed the progress of the construction of Limon’s first pool, the thought that I might actually go swimming in it never really entered my mind.

      So when Jimmy announced that we were going, it was beyond believable.  Contributing to the skepticism was a lack of any kind of swimming suit.

     For us, swimming depended on enough rain to fill the dam with muddy water.  Then we wore our underwear or maybe a pair of old raggedy cut-off jeans.  While the raggedy jeans might be all the rage today, they certainly needn’t think of applying for the job in those days.

     Jimmy to the rescue again.  He had some old trunks that he had outgrown.

     There was still a slight problem.  None of them fit me.  The smallest trunks sagged and bagged.

     No matter.  I wasn’t out to win a style show.  I just wanted to go swimming in a real live pool that didn’t double as a stock tank for thirsty cattle.  Or a place for thistles to grow and become hidden in the muddy water when the dam filled.     

      Jimmy picked us up in his Nash Rambler station wagon and we went to the pool.  What I remember is that when I went to get out of the pool by hoisting myself up on the deck with my arms, my too-large trunks would slip down.  I could not correct the situation until I was out of the water and on the deck. 

     By then it was too late.  My swimwear deficiency was exposed.  Along with other things.  It was an early indication that I would some day take a crack at being a plumber. 

     I really wasn’t aware of the problem until some of my fellow swimmers, none of whom I knew, were aware of my problem.  I heard a kid say to his buddies that they should watch me get out of the pool.  When I did exit the pool, they snickered, loudly enough for me to hear.  It didn’t take long to figure out what was funny.

      At that age, being the butt of a joke didn’t outrank my enthusiasm for swimming.  It would take layers of age and other concerns to do that.

      We did get swimming trunks that fit after that first dip, and we went on to spend many hours in the pool while Mom was giving piano lessons on a summer afternoon.  Among memorable birthday gifts I got as a kid are a mask and flippers that gave swimming another dimension.  A rite of passage was passing the test so you could cross the rope into the deep end of the pool.

      On this Saturday of Memorial Day weekend 2023, as I sat by the pool fully dressed and hoping the sun would come back, the wind blew some memories my way.

 

 

Providence, Maybe

 

     Low class.  Probably.

      The habit of watching television while dining.

     Summers, at the farm, we indulged, mostly at noon, which we referred to as “dinner.”  Also probably a low-class marker, calling the noon meal dinner.  Some other folks I know insist that the noon meal is “lunch” even though our noon meal was the biggest one of the day.  Then we had a light meal of sandwiches or leftovers or whatever at “supper,” the evening meal.  I guess we had no lunch, unless we were in school.

      For many summers, we watched “Wheel of Fortune” and “Jeopardy” from 12 noon to 1 p.m.  Those were the days when dinner at 12 noon was cast in stone.  Be late for that and you would be in for some unpleasantness.

     As the old guard passed away, the 12-noon pillar dissolved.  We sometimes ate “lunch” as late as 2 or 3 p.m.

    We continued to watch tv while we ate, but the game shows gave way to cooking shows, or horrors of horrors, HGTV-style home-remodel shows.  As I had a belly full of remodeling, the real thing, not some crew-directing wonder, I objected. 

     When Christopher Lowell turned a modern suburban-type kitchen into a nightmare complete with fake palm plants and other froufrou, I laughed derisively and asked , “How would you like to clean that up after you fired up a pot of grease to deep-fry something?”

     I further muttered words that I didn’t think anybody heard, words that today would get me subjected to the Red Flag laws and charged with a hate crime:  “He ought to be emasculated” (not what I really said).  Indications were that I had been heard.  Moments later, as an after-thought, I quite audibly followed up with, “Three days later, he ought to be taken out and shot.” 

     My derision has declined in recent years, probably because I haven’t had to watch any such truck for a long time.  The Goodwife still enjoys watching home makeovers and house buying and selling, but not at mealtimes, and I can usually find something else to do.

     After my outburst, we compromised.  No sewing, quilting, or home shows.  Instead, we watched cooking shows.

     So it was, I became familiar with another Christopher, Chris Kimball, host of “America’s Test Kitchen” and another show or two.  Julia and Bridgette became regulars at the dinner table.  It seemed natural to watch a cooking show while eating.  Some of their recipes were tempting.

     As mealtime was no longer set at a certain time of the afternoon, I became familiar with other television chefs.  Julia Child, for example, who was an old lady in those days and often hosted other cooks who did the work for her.

     There were some I didn’t become so well-acquainted with and can’t remember their names.  One was a southerner whose specialty was grilling.  I remember him not so much for his recipes, but because when he was transferring a batter or marinade from bowl to pan or whatever, he went to great lengths to be sure he got every drop out of the bowl he was emptying.  He always had a spatula handy to wipe out the bowl before he could go to the next step.

    I recognized a kindred spirit who believed fervently, “Waste not, want not.”  Unfortunately, some folks I know consider that cheapness bordering on stinginess!

     Anyway, I remember other cooks.  Ming, Asian cooking, Patty’s Mexican Table, etc.  Perhaps my favorite over the years has been Sarah Molten.  She is a cute, petite blond, or at least I think she is petite.  One thing for sure, she hasn’t grown obese over the years by eating her own cooking.     

     Sarah was a student of Julia Child, which doesn’t really matter to me.  Maybe what fascinates me about her is she is left-handed.  I refer to her as Left-Handed Sarah.  To watch her whacking away at a vegetable at the speed of a machine gun with her left hand while ushering the veggie toward that knife with her right hand always amazes me.  I can only think of what my non-knife had would look like if I tried to go at that speed, either left-handed or right-handed.

    Which brings me back to the “Providence” thing.  I don’t remember any recipes from watching those shows, but I realize I was learning some things, like how to deseed a cucumber for instance.  Or from Sarah, how to measure exactly a cup of flour, or cut up an onion from pole to pole instead of through the equator, processes she attributes to her apprenticeship under Julia Child.

    Or from Martha Stewart, that ex-con who served time for insider stock trading (Hillary Clinton did some insider trading in cattle futures and went to the White House several thousand dollars richer for her effort), how to boil and shell fresh eggs.  “And that’s a good thing.”

     Or from Ming and Lydia (Italian cook), always have a thimbleful (or a little more) of wine while preparing supper (still not dinner even though it’s the main meal of the “day”).  I didn’t realize I was picking up skills and tips that I would need in later life when life’s circumstances would cast me in the role of chief cook.

    By extension, I guess I should  have been watching how to vacuum or load a dishwasher or run a clothes washer and dryer or go shopping for groceries or . . . . . 

      I still refuse to dust.  Come visit us?  Leave your white gloves at home.  Beware that if you are offered something to eat, who made it.

    We are back to watching “Jeopardy” and “Wheel of Fortune” at or near evening meal time, whether it’s called lunch, dinner or supper. 

     Low class?

     Too bad.

Patching Jeans (not genes)

      No, they are not genetically modified, but they are jeanetically modified.

     They are my work jeans.  They have holes in the knees.  I know, I am perfectly in style wandering around the farm with my knees showing.

      I also am perfectly aware that when I kneel down to plant a seed or work on a piece of equipment, bare knees on bare ground isn’t always a pleasant meeting.  Think of pebbles below and body weigh above the kneecap.  Or thorns and stickers, or dried cedar needles.

    Thus, I look for ways to patch jeans.  My time-tested means left the earth over twenty years ago.  My mother, I mean.  She would sew on jean patches whenever I needed them.  She also would wrap glass gallon jugs with burlap, gunny sacks, too, but that’s beside the point right now.

     The Goodwife would occasionally patch a pair of jeans, but sometimes the pile of holey jeans got quite high before anything joined the patched pile.  So, I set out to patch jeans myself.

     I have never learned to operate a sewing machine.  I think I should learn that, but the time is never right to set out on that adventure.  Probably too frustrating for a guy who already cusses at broom handles that won’t stay put leaning against the wall.

     I tried iron-on patches.  They worked well until I washed the jeans.  Then, the edges commence to curl like a pig’s tale.  Quite annoying, not to mention dangerous, if a protruding patch should find itself in contact with a roller chain operating a part of a machine.

      In despair after two separate attempts to use iron-on patches.  I sent a batch of holey jeans to Goodwill.  Heaven only knows if I might have met a young lady wearing them in church.  I guess I would have had to gone to church in order to see that.  But you catch my drift.

     I also looked into fabric glue.  I knew enough about quilting to know that there are products out there that are supposed to hold two pieces of fabric together with glue.  When I asked the young lady in the quilt shop if she had any, she said they had nothing permanent, that what they had was just to hold things in place until you could stitch it more permanently.  Scratch that idea.

      The best ideas come from chance occurrences.  Several times a week, in fair weather, we stroll down the street enroute to the walkway around two separate lakes, or ponds if you are east of the Mississippi.  Our initial ”good day” greetings have, in a few cases, expanded into genuine conversations with some of the folk working in yard or garage along the way.

     Thus it was, I asked Mike, as I eyed the knee patches on his blue jeans, if he knew how to run a sewing machine.  Mike calls himself a garage rat.  We call him a fair-weather barometer.  If it’s a nice day, Mike’s garage door will be open, and as often as not, he will be doing something in his garage, like building a set of speaker boxes out of plywood.  He’s always willing to step out of his garage and shoot the breeze in the sunlight.

      Mike looked at me blankly and asked why I would ask if he could run a sewing machine.  I pointed out his patched knees.  He laughed and said, “Silicone.”

      “Silicone?” I asked.  Yes, silicone, plain old window and door stuff or bathtub and sink stuff that comes in a squeeze tube.  You cut the patch to fit and coat the edges with silicone and apply it to the holes in the pant legs of your jeans.  Let it set for a few days, and voila!  You have patched jeans.

      It took a while before I could attempt using silicone to patch my jeans.  When I did get to it, I thought  that in light of recent changes to my middle, such as having to move up from 32-inch waist to 33-inch waist, I had better choose carefully the jeans to patch.

     After my despairing cull job, the candidates were not particularly numerous.  Having selected a likely pair, I grabbed a tube of caulk designed for tub or shower.  I carefully applied the silicone around the holes in the pant leg and to the edges of the patch itself.  I carefully placed the patch into position with seams bordering the sides and centered over the failed jean fabric on the pants. 

     A few days later, as I checked the jeans, left on the cement of the basement floor, I found the caulk unset, still a jelly.  And still sticky.  I had a mess.

     While the caulk wouldn’t dry, it would spread to other surfaces and be rather hard to remove.  Faced with two choices, I decided to reclaim the project rather than trash-canning it.  My first stop was the trash basket where I recovered a few used paper towels and napkins.  Snotty Kleenex need not apply.  (You wouldn’t expect a person patching jeans to use new paper towels for a job like this would you?) 

     I managed to get most of the recalcitrant caulk off the jeans.  The granite kitchen counter cleaned up nicely.  (It’s probably fake granite, but it still cleaned up nicely.)

    I was ready to try, try, try again.  I had another old tube of silicone, but this time I determined to try its effectiveness before I applied it to the jeans.  I applied a shaft about two inches long to a near-to-hand 6-pack holder.  A day later, it had turned to rubber and adhered nicely to the cardboard.

    Onward with the experiment.  I re-applied silicone to around the knee holes and the edges of the patch.  I carefully aligned the patch between the seams and over the hole and returned the jeans to the basement cement floor where any leakage could be cleaned up and wouldn’t be forever in a carpet.

      Two days later, the patches were firmly affixed to the jeans.  But the experiment isn’t over.  The patches haven’t been subjected to numerous genuflections and kneelings.  Nor have they encountered clothes washer, dryer, or clothes line. 

 

     Later:  The patches weathered the work world well.  I got into a dispute with a couple of hydraulic hoses, resulting in dirty jeans, not to mention oily spots all over my glasses and additions to grease spots on my shirt.

     A trip through the washing machine was required.

 

     Ouch!  Back to the drawing board, or just ash-can it?  I need to talk with Mike again, to see if his patches weathered the washing machine.  

     Three possibilities:  1) The silicone was also old, even though it set up well.  2) I used window and door caulk.  Should it be the tub and shower variety?  3)  Change brands of caulk?  I used Ace Hardware variety.  Try another brand?  (GE need not apply.) 

     My apologies that there isn’t a better ending to this story.  Stay tuned!