A Day in the Life: July 27

Driving out on our errand run of the day, we stop to see how the road-side water tank is doing. Yesterday, the tank had run the well dry, sloped as it is so that the float, positioned on the high side, allows the water to spill over the low side all day. The tank has done this earlier, just up the hill, creating a huge cow wallow, which this new location had been intended to correct. But didn’t. Now we have a new wallow being developed as we watch precious water running down the pasture.

Obviously, we have to fix this. Down to the barn to turn off the electric fence, which threads just along the top of the tank, to pick up some pliers to turn the thumb screw holding the float in place. The hose has been crimped somehow, perhaps by the wind? And we wonder if the cows can negotiate the new float placement, which carries the hose along the lower edge of the tank with it. We decide to chance it, although put in a call to Ryan to see if they couldn’t find a way to level the tank.

On to our chores, which include a trip to the DMV to pick up new tags for the Defender. I have the thought that the Defender might be more useful at the farm, but Larry resists the idea. He just doesn’t like change? Or perhaps worries that the Defender at the farm will deplete Black Butte’s powers of attraction, which at the moment include that gorgeous guy toy. Not an entirely baseless concern.

We stop at the bookstore to look for a German-English dictionary, to help me decode Ursel’s new book on Greek mythology. For a book on the eclipse, and one on making compost tea. We stop at several garden shops to find a kneeling bench, and finally, at the last stop, find the very one we passed over at the first stop, though for ten dollars more. The wide spectrum of a farmer’s requirements, duties, and interests here documented.

We grocery shop, we return for lunch. At this point I have to retire to the kitchen to prepare the paella salad I’m planning for dinner. Terri is coming over, and somehow the backup of freezer stuff from the big Open House party almost completely provisions this salad. But a lot of chopping, frying, etc., takes me most of the afternoon.

Larry comes up to the house to announce that the well has gone dry again, and he has turned off the connection to the cow’s tank. He’s frustrated, and remarks that I don’t seem very concerned (meaning that I certainly should be). In a bad mood he retires to work on his computer and give the well time to refill, if it’s going to. After half an hour or so, he decides to go back down and see. It has. He finished filling the barrels and comes up to take his shower and enjoy a cocktail before dinner. I am still unable to share in this pleasure, but maybe someday?

We sit on the porch for a moment, and Larry calls Jake-the-pump-guy. He’s had the idea that our existing well, the one below the woods, might be restored now in the way that the homestead well restores itself on being drained. What if it has been replenished, and might now resume supplying us with household water? Would we absolutely need to drill another hole, as the homestead well seems so dependable for watering? The driller is coming Friday to determine where to drill next Monday, so we need to test the first well in advance of his arrival. What does Jake think?

Jake thinks it’s worth a shot. We should drain the cistern water to a very low level, turn on the old well pump and see what we get. If the water clears, we may be in business. If not, we should use the dirty water on the trees and call for a new delivery from New Day. Timing is everything for this little game of roulette. We are leaving Friday night, not to return until Tuesday next, so can get by with no household water until then. We will decide what to do in the morning.

Terri arrives and we have a nice evening. After she’s gone home, Larry loads the ATV to take the garbage to the street for the morning pickup. The evening is so lovely that I sit on the patio to watch the moon, waxing now from a sliver, in the darkening sky. I watch the first star emerge, the second. I know that Larry will be filling the barrels with well water for the morning watering so don’t expect him for another 15 minutes or so. Finally I see the lights of the ATV and decide to walk down to meet him. As I get along the way, the stirring black hulk of a sleeping cow startles me, and I notice how very dark it is becoming. The slight moon is just enough for me to see my footsteps, but not the road ahead. This feels strange, both alarming and exhilarating. I give a moment’s thought to the things there might be of danger – a hunting wildcat? Nope. Nothing to worry about, except that now Larry has turned around and seems to be at the barn. The lights are on, have they been all along? Have to just keep going, then, and the barn lights are a comforting destination. I realize how rarely I am outside at night, alone. I mean deeply alone, with just the sleeping cows breathing along with me. I like it.

We drive back up to the house. Larry decides that we should water the orchard trees this evening, and though we’re tired, that is what we do. But it’s lovely. I stand on the bed of the ATV and scoop up a bucket-full of water, hand it to Larry. He takes it to each tree in turn. It’s utterly still, quiet. The moon balances on top of a tree silhouette, and I feel alive and close to the land in a way that lets me see this water crisis as an opportunity. For now, anyway!

Sitting here today at the dining room table, the breeze pushing the door to tap gently against the stop, waiting to hear that Larry and the trailered ATV have arrived safely at the dealer’s. Hmm. June 2 is a long time gone!

Shortly after the last post, a man with a tractor and a brace of bulldozers arrived to discuss what we’d like to have done with his giant machines. This John is Ryan-the-Cow-Guy’s friend or neighbor, apparently with some time to sell. Sure! First job would be to doze down the cattle furrows on the hillside just above the big creek below the barn. You’ve seen the way the animals create cross-hatched paths deep into steep slopes if you’ve ever driven Eastern Oregon? Check.

Next, flatten the old roadbed between the barn and Llewllyn so that the area can be safely mowed. Dig into those huge burn piles, sort out the scrap metal and unburned logs, saw and split the logs into firewood. Reignite the fires. No, Larry doesn’t want to buy a bulldozer. I think.

Then it was the tractor’s turn. Although the cows had eaten down most of the area west of the driveway, they loved to hang around the heat there from the still-smoldering burns. They didn’t seem to mind John and his tractor disc-ing the back 40. The diagnosis which mandated this approach was rattail fescue, which was prospering amid all the tansy and thistle. The cows apparently were fine with eating the stuff, but they don’t put on weight properly with this diet. Also invasive, rattail chokes out the more desirable, forage fescues. The tansy and thistle succumbed, at least for this season, to the broadleaf spray, but the way to control rattail is to knock it down before it can set seed. The pasture looks orderly now, like someone cares, but we’re warned that the winds of summer will turn the land into a mini-dust bowl.

Meanwhile, we’re in a race to get some grass and flowers instead of mud and weeds around the house before our big party on the 25th. The landscape guys are working furiously, at least on the days when they decide to come. Apparently another client is more important, and we must wait our turn. Annoying, as we’ve been promised and promised. So, long days and a grumpy crew, but it appeared that it would come together, for the most part. And speaking of dust, day after day, Peterson Landscape grinds and churns our dirt, of which they disapprove. Too acidic. Nothing can grow here. They have to add lime and compost. They have to contour and shape and dig holes for the trees and trenches for the watering lines. No point in cleaning anything in advance of the party and so the layers of dust accrete and we have to remind each other that this is something we called upon ourselves.

We have worried all month that it will rain on the great day, but as the 25th neared, we were alarmed by the forecasts that we’d have 100 degree heat that Sunday. Okay, start worrying about that. My band, Puddin’ River, will play, and will we all faint from the heat? By the way, it’s not, of course, MY band, but that’s how I talk about it. Yeah. My band. Just casual, like, maybe someone will ask what I play and I can say, in an offhand way, banjo. Ha! So cool!

So, on the Saturday night before the party, we are awakened by a strange noise coming from the shed. Investigation leads to discovery. The well ran dry. Like the song. Whatcha gonna do when the well runs dry? Damn. We forgot to worry about running out of water. Sixty people arriving in the morning, people who will be wanting to use in-house plumbing for their toilet needs.

I am lucky in having two take-no-prisoners women in my family. The first, my daughter-in-law Allison, has been heroic in the lead-up to the party with beautiful invitations, signage, advice, though she wouldn’t be able to come to the party. The second, my daughter, Jenny, commandeered the phone Sunday morning and managed to secure a tank-load of precious water delivered to the house on that day at noon. Whew!

So the party was great. The house and garden looked perfect, and I’ll show you a photo to prove it if, at some point, my computer will allow me to add same. We had mowed a portion of the pasture for a parking lot, and Will, our grandson, patrolled the field with a huge golf umbrella to keep the sun off. No-one got stuck, shocked by the fence, or stepped in cow residue, so far as I know.

The next day, Peter, who had flown up for the event, and I picked the pie cherries. Larry built a frame, covered it with netting, and we managed to protect our whole crop. Pounds and pounds of the tiny cherries, which I had to pit and individually freeze. They look gorgeous, now collected into plastic bags to await their destiny. Okay, maybe not pounds AND pounds, but a lot!

Now, about the ATV on the trailer. The water crisis wasn’t enough. The ATV took itself out of service, and we have learned how much we depend on this little buggy. Unfortunately, the dealer doesn’t pick up and deliver, but Jenny, again, discovered that Triple A does. Larry had been planning to rent a trailer, but now that wouldn’t be necessary. Wait a minute. Triple A only tows licensed on-road vehicles, we discover this morning. Is your ATV so licensed? No. We rent a trailer and have the experience of loading a flat-bed trailer behind the truck. Larry drove off toward I-5 and I found another something to worry about.

Forward a day: The search for a well-digger is underway. The best we can do so far is end of July for an attempt at a new well. Ah. So we learn what it’s like to experience drought here in practically the wettest spring on record in the Willamette Valley. Kind of quaint. Water delivered by tanker truck. Short showers. Hand wash the dishes. Take laundry off site (aka Portland) And forget about watering all the new plantings we hastened to secure before our party. Take note. Lesson in hubris. We don’t just get to clap our hands and this little house in the country with an apple tree descends from heaven upon the land, etc.

We’re working on it. Meanwhile, the great tansy war goes on. We spent this morning whacking the heads off a year’s crop of the horrid yellow-flowered invasive, poisonous, prolific species. “We just pull ours,” say our friends with property, “bring on the Cinnabar moth, not a big deal.” Maybe not, unless you have a hundred acres of the stuff. We did try to pull it, but no luck, not out of our bad, acidic, cow-trampled clay dirt. Not enough Cinnabars in the county to eat it down. So, one of us grabs the stalks, the other mans the shears, and we stuff it into bags for later burning. No ATV, so we drive Bob to the various sites, and the steadfast truck lurches and wallows and gets the job done. Go Bob!

Jarod and Nate, of Fish and Wildlife dropped by to examine the field which is to be planted this fall with milkweed and lupine for the butterflies. They were dismayed to find that the field of oats was, in fact, a field of Astoria bent-grass, about to blossom and set seed. Blame it on the wet spring, the starlings which ate the oat seeds, maybe our bad dirt, but, we’re back to square one for our wildflower garden. Fish and Wildlife can’t break the soil without obtaining tribal approval for disturbing potential heritage sites, so they can’t disc the stuff as per the pasture I mentioned above. We can, but our disc guy is no longer available, and Jarod wants that grass dead and gone before it goes to seed. F and W are able to mow, however, so that will happen next Monday. The resulting thatch will have to be sprayed out next fall, the land disced at that point, harrowed, and finally planted with our expensive Stinger seeds, which have spent the year in our shed.

But by next Monday, we will be effectively on our way to London for a long-planned visit with son David and his wife, Caroline. We actually fly away on Wednesday, but can’t get back to the farm before that afternoon. Great time to leave, don’t you agree? No water, a well to dig, important conservation jobs to be done, bye, bye. Our watering needs will be met with trucked-in water for the next two weeks, and when we return, much refreshed, we get back to work. I love it! (No, seriously, I do. I love this place.)

“Hey, you’re back. Haven’t heard anything from you for awhile.”

I know. I haven’t been able to find my voice. Like when I’m talking to myself in the kitchen or something I’m channeling this English woman in a book I’m reading. Can’t quite sound like me, whoever she might be. Maybe that’s just an excuse.

“Talking to yourself? Where’s Larry?”

At the BBI. That golf thing he’s been doing for years over at Black Butte. Five men staying at our house — got a panic call when Larry couldn’t find the queen-bed fitted sheets for upstairs. You can imagine. But they figured it out, put two flat sheets on the bed and called it good. Crisis averted. You’d be better off just not imagining the scene at breakfast.

“So you’re staying at the farm alone? How’s that working out? Remember how Allison said she’d NEVER stay there alone out in the country like that.”

So far, I’m good. Got about 75 cows for company, after all. This really good book, called Everyone Brave is Forgiven. I can make weird things for dinner, like Thai cabbage salad, which Larry might like, but would not consider a complete meal.

But now that I’m launched here, there has been a lot to tell you. Remember the photo of those boards I showed you? Thanks to Gordon, they’re now a beautiful shelf:

On the same trip, Gordon helped Larry install overhead fluorescent lights in the barn, which I think Larry loves as much as the shelf. Don’t have a photo, because, why would I? Still, I’m sure come winter when we’re cleaning hoses or whatever farmers do in their barns in winter, we’ll be very happy.

Mike, the guy with the big grapple on his tractor came back and busied himself roaming the property picking up the huge fallen oak wood, making giant piles for future burning. Meanwhile burning the earlier mountains:

A woman, driving by, stopped to enquire why we weren’t composting instead of burning. Hmm. I understand her concern, but seriously? How long would that take?

The landscape people have faded, gone on vacation (great time of year for landscape people to take vacations, we find).
And we do have a large party coming up this month. Could we please have a little attention? Main guy came over yesterday and we walked the place determining which plants might go where. This morning, I went to the nursery and with some good help, “sourced” most of the plants. They’re piled onto two carts, awaiting delivery on Monday the 12th. As the party is on the 25th, they will hardly have had time to settle in, but at least they should be in the ground.

About the party. There’s this disconnect between the image of this farm in my head, and reality. Is it really so beautiful as I think? Will people mind staying off the grass, because it just got planted the prior week? What if it rains? Will the band be okay on the porch? I love my band! Last week Jon, on bass, asked me how long they were meant to play, and when I said one hour, he commented that it was a long way to drive for just one hour. Went to practice this Saturday morning feeling defensive, but, would I mind, Jon asked, if a smaller group of them played longer, maybe after lunch? Maybe just guitar and bass and vocalist? Mind? Wow! I sure hope they do!

Yeah, it’s pretty beautiful! See you next time!

Today we will talk about vinca major. The pretty blue-flowered ground cover that we loved when we lived on 133rd? Not so much any more. Want to get rid of that city-lot sized patch down by the barn?

Yes, because the stuff is wildly invasive, and it gets into the creek below, it can spread over the whole hundred acres. Right up there with tansey-ragwort and thistle.

We hop on the net to learn how to manage the stuff. By “manage” I mean “kill,” of course. First suggestion, we can dig it out. The roots can reach 2 feet into the soil, and if we were to attempt this huge excavation, and missed the slightest bit of root or stem, the thing would be right back. Nope. We’re going with Triclopyr. Larry is at this moment whacking the stuff down with the brush hog, and will fire up the back-pack sprayer as his second act.

“Hmm. Triclopyr sounds like some poison chemical. Thought you guys were all about habitat, nature, conservation.”

I know. Didn’t know, however, how big the problems were when we went about all uppity talking about saving the land, etc.
Triclopyr isn’t exactly Roundup, but it is close. So, there we are. Chagrined, but on it.

Now we’ll change the subject. Peter packed up some California sunshine and brought it to us last weekend. He and his dad got right to work building planter boxes for veggies and flowers inside the orchard:

That was just the first day. On Saturday morning Peter donned the power-saw chaps and the two drove the tractor and ATV out to the downed oak site for some additional manly entertainment. Several more loads of latent firewood have been deposited in the barn to await splitting, and while Larry collapsed with a much-deserved brewsky, Peter drove to Eugene to spend time with his sweet Amy girl.

Our rescue chair has been completed and we picked it up yesterday. It’s, well, adorable. No, really, that is just the right word, no matter how over-used. It was meant to go in the Chick Room, but it settled into the yellow room instead and it would be cruel to move it. Look at that little bird! See, it’s adorable:

I’ve been taking photos with my phone, mailing them to myself, and inserting them into the blog. But I just learned that you can’t click on the shots and enlarge them, as formerly. Maybe I’ll have to go back to downloading the photos onto my computer, then moving them. Maybe next time.

Meanwhile, I have one more photo for you. The completed, planted planter boxes, or at least one of the two:

I have to say, it looks way better in real life.

My job today was to hose down the porches. I have just noticed that the area I cleaned looks no better than the area not yet cleaned. Message? Right. I’m way too old to do unnecessary work like that, so I’m off, instead, to check on the vinca project. See you next time!

Spring also brings rain, this year, record-breaking rain. Enough! Please! But no-one is listening, and we are pinned inside for the duration, it seems.

Me: “Something’s wrong. I can’t get on line.” I have two default reactions when my computer fails me. Immediately call someone, or Give up and do something else.

Larry: “Yeah, I can’t get on, either. You connected to the Wood?” Larry has but the one reaction. Keep trying. Swear a little, maybe, punch buttons, or keys in this example.

He usually succeeds, but the process is painful to watch, and so I have wandered off and pay no attention when I hear him talking to someone on the phone. “Okay, you can get on now,” he calls down from his office.

Here’s what happened: Our new internet company, Alyrica, seems to think it’s okay to send the customer’s bill ’round on line. No paper, duh. Which would be fine, I guess, if they happened to have the correct on-line address for any given customer. Viehl has an “h” in it. Such a small oversight, but these Viels haven’t paid their bill for two months. Cut them off.

NOT OUR FAULT! Our kids just laugh. Sigh.

Several weeks ago I got an e-mail from a friend, Mary Crane, from Minnesota days in which she sent a photo of our first house. A sweet little two-bedroom with a finished attic where we tucked the boys when Jenny arrived. See, kids, this is where life began. Remember? I know Jenny won’t, but Peter and David should:

Thanks, Mary!

Here’s what’s going on today at the present Viehl house:

Finally getting started on Larry’s fire pit. The area behind the arbor will be paved with stone, a wall eventually built, and an as-yet un-purchased steel barrel/pot/thing installed. The idea is to have a place to rest in the evening with a glass of wine, watch the stars, which are pretty spectacular here away from the city lights. Warm our feet by the fire. Maybe roast a pig from time to time? Catch some rays on a sunny day (what sunny day, you ask). The arbor will be planted with eating, as opposed to wine, grapes, and some herbs–I don’t know what all–set artistically around. Going to be room for a picnic table, too. All this is good because we’ll have no grass around the house for the foreseeable. Nice to have somewhere outside to park, mud being the only other option this year, looks like.

As it isn’t actually raining at this very moment, we’re heading out to do a little sawing. Everything else, conservation-wise is stalled until the ground dries out. I walk down to the barn every morning to greet the trees, the birds, the grass which is certainly getting too tall to be grazed now. Seems cows like tender, new grass, not the old, seedy stuff. Oh, farming. Not as easy as it looks. The ancient apple tree, entangled in years of blackberry vines stands forlorn in the rain. The banks of Little Sometimes Creek, crowded with vines, an old oil barrel, rusted farm fences, wait for rescue. Patience. But we are getting older each day and do not have the far vistas of time we once enjoyed. Patience is a virtue for the young, I think.

Oh for heaven’s sake. Go saw something and stop being maudlin. Check.

“There’s a perfect example of the difference between us,” Larry says. We’re walking to the car from the hardware store.
“What? My boots?”
“Yes. They have chickens on them. I would never wear something like that.”
“Of course not. You’re a guy.”
“Even if I were a woman I wouldn’t wear them.”

Okay, this is coming from outer space. I’ve been wanting simple rubber boots for mucking about in the mud and there they were. A nice lady helped me, and these yellow ones were the only pair in my size. Even with my new understanding of gender fluidity, I still maintain that he can’t know what he would or wouldn’t wear, as a woman. As a farm woman.

“I think they’re cute,” I say.
“You hate chickens.”
“These aren’t real chickens. They’re representations of chickens. Anyway, I don’t hate chickens any more.”
“We should have shopped at Home Depot. They’d have a better selection.”

Happily squabbling, we head for home.

So what else has been going on? First, the lovely Gordon Davis is back at work helping us. We plan to have a shelf in the dining room, and Gordon has a good idea. Which he’ll execute. This involves selecting a plank from the reclaimed lumber warehouse in Salem and turning it over to Denali, a furniture manufacturing place Gordon knows about in Portland. Larry and Gordon both love poking around in moldy old warehouses, apparently, so one Saturday morning they headed down and picked out three candidate planks for my approval. The following Thursday, Larry and I stopped and chose the best one:

This is not a photo of the best one, just an example to show you the sort of think we’re looking for. Gordon, meanwhile, has been manufacturing the brackets which will hold the plank onto the wall. I’ll post a photo when complete.

And spring has finally arrived in the valley. The wild flowers are carpeting the oak copse. These are fawn lilies. Don’t know the name of the little blue ones.

Spring has meant bulbs, these last few years, provided by Kate Bryant, who has turned our rooftop in Portland into a real garden. She phoned to say she’d deliver this year’s tulips and daffodils, except, oops. Our rooftop has become a demolition site, courtesy of a leak in the apartment below us. No place to put the spring flowers, so I asked if we could have the pots at the farm this year instead. Happened that she had a reason to be in Corvallis anyway, and would deliver the flowers in the following week. So when we arrived this Thursday, here’s what we saw:

Almost looking like someone lives here. Still only mud around the house, of course, but beyond the fence, the oats are at least an honest green.

Don’t think there’s enough for a cow to eat, so we probably won’t have the funny calves for another month, if at all. We have a new fence along Llewellyn, we have an engineer planning a watering system using the old well, so I suppose they’ll arrive in good time. If I’ve learned anything this year, it is how to wait for it!

March 1. More sunshine than rain, so Larry and I could get to work on the downed oak. See below:

Yeah, and that’s just one fallen tree of maybe 15 around the property. Larry mans the saw, of course,

while I more or less pick up sticks and toss them on the burn pile. We both scrape the moss off the firewood that results, pile the wood onto the Ranger and unload it in the barn:

Then the pile of firewood has to be split and stacked. We rent a splitter, and though it’s really a three-man job, we wear ourselves out managing it anyway. A splitter is a wondrous machine, and it’s great fun to watch the pressure split the wood into fourths or eights, to see the growth patterns as the tree adjusted to the wind, to its neighbors, to the sun, disease, pests, over the course of hundreds of years.

To digress: my sister Mary introduced me to a small book called The Inner Life of Trees. Sounds a little new-agey, I agree, and you have to accept the premise that trees communicate with one another, but read the book and you’ll be transformed, or at least a little smarter than you were yesterday. The author writes about trees in his native Germany, and I’m not sure if German oaks and my Oregon White oaks share the behaviors he describes, but I am stunned to learn, for example, that the oaks in a wood communicate, in the ways they have, to determine when to start diverting energy to the generation of acorns. Which they all do in a single, given year. Not every year, see, because the foragers, deer, elk, and so on . . . well, I could go on, but the author is Peter Wohlleben, if you’re interested.

Back to my farm. FAQs:
1. Are you ever going to move down there permanently?
Not giving up our condo in Portland, if that’s what you mean.

2. But which place is, like, your home?
Both. We have two homes.

3. Do you consider yourself a farmer, then?
No. I consider myself a princess. (Apparently you don’t know me at all.)

4. Do you take food down there from Portland?
Sometimes, but there are actually grocery stores in Corvallis, and even in Philomath. Trader Joe’s. Market of Choice.
Safeway. We’re fine. Plus, there are even restaurants here and there. But no, we can’t walk to them.

5. Do you have any friends?
Well, we think we have pretty good friends in Portland, but we’ve met a neighbor or two here, and had an amusing
conversation with some people in line at the Post Office this morning.

6. Aren’t you out in the middle of nowhere? Isn’t the quiet a little eerie after the “urban texture” of Portland?
It’s not that quiet. There are thousands of geese flying up and down the valley each day, and they make plenty of
noise. Then, it’s spring now, or supposed to be, and look who we saw on our window sill this morning:

We call them peepers, or tree frogs, though I have no idea who they really are. There must be a million of them down
in the creek by the barn, and they sing us to sleep every night. There are also robins chirping about. Larry was surprised
to see them. Thought they few south for the winter, he observed. This IS south, we were told. Oh.

About the title of this piece, we drive up each time, hoping to see signs of growth in the oats we planted this fall. (By “we planted” I of course mean “Ryan, Cow-Guy, caused to be planted”) We congratulate ourselves on the green haze we believe we see.(Again, by “we” I mean “I”. Larry, whose color-blindness has never abated, has no idea if the fields are green, brown, or a sort of purplish gray.) We hope to see that the continuation of the fence along Llewellyn has been installed. We hope that Jason, Habitat-Guy will have come to burn the massive burn-piles, although I sure hope I can be here for that spectacle!
And in fact, Bill Peterson, the man whom we’ve hired to help with what we’ll call landscaping, is due here any minute, so what am I complaining about? This farming thing takes patience! One more Frequently Asked Question: Do you expect to see the fruition of your conservation, habitat restoration plans? This is a bit like another FAQ we hear: What did you do before you retired? How do they know we retired? They think we’re old or something? Same as that expectation, fruition question. Answer: Who knows? In the meantime, we are sure having a lot of fun watching the robins, the tree frogs, the geese and that oat-grass.

At the farm. What with all the snow in Portland, ice on the freeway, holiday stuff, we haven’t been able to visit. To see what winter looks like here. Probably not too much to do in the way of farm work in this strange stretch of sub-freezing weather, but we have a new little old desk for the chick-room to deliver. Books to read. Netflix discs to watch, now that we’ve learned how many gigs a simple streamed movie costs us down here.

On the way south on Tuesday, we stopped at The Whole Nine Yards to see about my Christmas present: a rescue chair (what we have instead of rescue pets) that Amy, a Portland artist, will transform into a cozy chair to accompany the above mentioned desk. Here’s the before shot:

We got to the farm to find that the wind had blown the tarp off the middle burn pile. Larry got right on it, as we see here:

Not much snow, but it’s pretty anyway.

We settled in. Went grocery shopping. People, upon hearing that we have this place, will ask what we do about food. Shop in Portland and bring stuff down? No, people, we do have groceries in Corvallis, most importantly, Trader Joe’s. Market-of-Choice when we’re feeling upscale. (Yes, you’re right. I always feel upscale.)

“Do you smell that?” I ask. In the entry hall, but by the time we haul the stuff out of the car, we don’t notice anything. Dinner, and the first chapter of “Madam Secretary.” Whew! We’re hooked.

“No, I really smell something.”

“Smells like a dead animal,” Larry says.

“Yeah, but it kind-of smells like gas.”

We don’t have natural gas in the house, but there is propane for the fireplace and water heater. Does propane have that gas smell? Google will tell us. Bad idea. Seems those clever chemists, wanting us to be safe, have installed a warning aroma in their product. No idea how that would work, but it smells, Google tells me, like a dead animal.

Sweet. What to do? I research a little further, and the advice seems to be that we should immediately vacate. Okay, that is not going to happen. You know Larry, you know me. I panic, he asks if I mind if he goes to bed. Fair enough, but first he agrees to open windows in the affected areas. Upstairs, opening the windows in the bedrooms, we look out and see the light on a slope that looks like a search light from those pesky black helicopters. I swear someone is out there with truck lights illuminating the field of snow. Larry says I’m just not familiar with the luminous quality of snow at night time. Beautiful and eerie.

We go go bed, windows open. It’s 18 degrees out there and we pile on the blankets, burrow in. I lie awake, but morning comes anyway. We call Tyrone. How is it possible that we can smell propane in the house? It isn’t. It’s probably — you guessed it — a dead mouse. They can chew their way into the most impregnable home.

And on that subject, seems we have acquired a visiting cat. Who leaves poop on our porch. A hundred-acres and she has to use our porch as a litter box? All cats are female, according to Larry, so don’t bother asking.

Today we’re going to a meeting at Benton County to plan a time-line for the work on fencing that our grant will fund. The painters are here, repainting our bedroom. As Larry says, the room’s getting a little smaller with all the layers of paint, but we’re still making it work. And now it’s lunch time. Hmm.

This is the way we started our work week. What the heck? Just all stretched out in front of the shed, pretty dead but not eaten. Another one curled by the side, not shown. Don’t hawks eat their prey? Don’t cats? Maybe we’d better get those seeds over to the Finley storage, we’re thinking, but no evidence of mouse damage to the seed bags was found.

Oh well. Country life, I guess. So long as they stay out of my kitchen! This is Mike and his Mighty Machine. A graple over a bucket. Note the size of the spoonful it’s about to address:

A close-up:

Larry and I spent the day watching, astonished, as great swaths of berry canes, fallen logs, scrap metal, were collected and piled in what Mike calls “burn piles.”

How are we going to burn these behemoths? Just us and the Philomath Fire Department? Mike advised Larry to drape the piles with tarps, secured against the wind, so that the material will dry enough to ignite and burn. Done. Now we’ll wait until some cold day in February and have ourselves a wienie roast. Grandkids want to apply?

Seems like about time to throw in a selfie. I know, I don’t take selfies, don’t much like to be photographed at all, but its only fair, after all the Larry shots. So here I am:

My God, she looks just like her mother! True. Don’t laugh, children, look at your moms and see the future. Or your dads. Either way.

Here’s what the land looks like A.M. (After Mike) Practically a park! Don’t worry, Ryan says. I’ll graze anything you don’t want to mow.

When I look at these photos and see the property through your eyes, I get why you question our sanity. So try to see it through my eyes, with green meadows, wild flowers, bright, clear streams, the 300 year-old oaks who themselves have seen these things in the time of the Kalapooia and maybe before. I have a favorite oak I pass under on my walks down the road. Has ferns growing on the limbs and up the trunk, has mistletoe in the highest branches, a carpet of fallen leaves below, and today I saw that one of its branches had fallen against the fence newly built in its domain. Not to get all kumbaya, but it’s good to have a 300-year-old friend!

Starting today with some photos taken by Alli Ederer, our Seattle granddaughter who, with her family, spent Thanksgiving with us. She had an assignment in her art class to take landscape photos. Talented girl! No description needed for the above. But next, the ATV tracks across the wet pasture looking back across the road:

Okay, backing up here. We weren’t going to have the whole family with us this holiday, but the Pasadena branch of the tribe made an impressive showing on the Tuesday before. Margie, my co-grandma with the Peter Viehl kids, came to visit that afternoon, along with a cast of Allison’s cousins, uncle, sister and brother-in law, with an assortment of kids as well. It was fun to have them all, and to get a chance to visit with Blair, Allison’s uncle. He has a nursery in Coos Bay and brought us two pots of bedding plants, our first, and will be a great source of advice when we get the “landscape” going next spring. Margie also brought a load of Amy’s laundry, and she and Angie loved playing mom again. “Is it okay to put Lulu Lemon in the dryer?” We decided that the answer is no. Amy wasn’t there to advise us, as she stayed in Eugene to study. Smart girl!

Jenny and family arrived Wednesday evening. Long drive from Seattle! We got up early to get the pies baked (only the one oven in the house, see) and grandson Will was a great sous chef for the pecan number. Which joined gravy as the menu feature requiring close supervision of over-use by family members. The turkey was a triumph, new technique involving dismemberment of the bird.

On Friday, Jenny, Alli and I went out and about to see what Corvallis looks like, and to get provisions for a batch of Grandma Viehl’s Christmas cookies, Melting Moments. Oops, forgot the corn starch, so Alli and I, determined to bake, went back into Philomath to pick it up. To find Bell Fountain flooded! We paused at the south end of the river flowing across the road, watched cars at the north end turn around. When one of them chanced passage, and succeeded, we chose to make the attempt. Alli, at the wheel, got us through. Adventure! On the way home, we tried another route and this time, were cautious enough to retreat, and finally got home the safe way. When we told the others how we had seen cars swept away, the helicopter rescuing motorists standing on their roofs, no one believed us. You shouldn’t either.

But speaking of floods: Another of Alli’s landscapes. Muddy Creek at flood stage: (I love the light in her photos)

Next day, we women went to Eugene to check that town out — found it a bit more interesting than downtown Corvallis. Also wandered around the campus and looked up Amy’s sorority. Amy, of course, was at home in Pasadena, but we did get a sense of what she’s experiencing.

And the men, meanwhile, were hard at work. Will and Larry built a firewood rack for the shed. Pictured below. Larry says Will did all the work while he supervised. Important to train a new generation in the skills a farmer will need.

Tom, meanwhile, mowed the “lawn” under the homestead tree, and I would like to give him credit for all the other stuff he did, but I don’t know what it was. Good job, Tom! There.

So it was a lovely inaugural holiday in the new house. Here’s to many more, here’s to family, here’s to home.