As it is at this moment, IT POURS. Both metaphorically and literally. Been a busy week here at Lake Woe . . . I mean, at the Wood.

Starting at the end of last week, Peter stayed another day after tucking his daughter Amy into her new digs at the U O campus. He planned, I believe, to to a little sawing on his eponymous wood pile, but his dad had other ideas. Mounds of dead berry brambles heaped over long-ago downed oaks create a wonderful habitat for various song birds, and a big speed bump for the pasture renovation. Hector to the rescue. Which reminds me, I haven’t told you about the name changes for our equipment. Tractor is now Hector. For the obvious reason. The men worked all day Saturday:

On Sunday, Peter flew home and we returned to Portland. On Tuesday, we learned that Matt, Fence-Guy, had completed the fencing around the house which we had conceived as a way to differentiate homestead, settlement, from the pasture and restoration acres. Also as a way to keep the cows off our back porch. This is a photo of the little people-passage creating access to the future paths in the oak copse.

And on Wednesday, Bad Brad arrived to paint the barn! (It’s he who calls himself “Bad,” not my idea. Though he can be pretty grumpy.) That misogynist description, lipstick on a pig? Pretty apt, here, though I mean no offense. At least the barn is clean and no longer Baby Poop Yellow. You decide if it was worth it:

Let me introduce Bill Peterson, our “landscape” Guy. Unless we wish to surround the house with a football field of mud through the winter’s rains, we need to have some sort of “yard.” After some on-line research, we found Bill, and he’s visited the site a time or two. The second time to adjust his vision to ours, eliminate fountains, fieldstone patios, flower beds; he absolutely got it. Has good suggestions, we suppose, for laying a little sod for the immediate winter, after amending the underlying clay. We discussed the orchard, and the need for some under-planting, and he led us to seeding with rye grass. Which was going to need to be watered while we are away celebrating Allison’s birthday. No problem. We provide the hoses, he’ll bring sprinklers — but of course, the recent rains have obviated that plan.

Switching to Thursday, we received notice that our seeds were ready to be picked up from Heritage Seed in Salem. Road trip! Took a while, even with our nav system, to locate the collection of sheds, barns, greenhouses that is Heritage. Inside, we were reminded of nothing so strongly as Farmcraft Chemicals — which my family will recognize as my dad’s ag chem plant. Missing only that smell which flavored our childhood.

The botanist, an earnest woman who didn’t bother to brush her hair that morning, told us how they curate seeds for the Stinger Mix which we had been told by F&W to purchase. Heritage plants are grown, tested, nurtured (not genetically altered, these are HERITAGE) and finally selected by their ability to ignore the glyphosate (think Roundup) which must be applied. An herbicide is necessary if these ancestral plants are to compete with the invasives thriving in our pastures today. Below is a photo of $9000.00 worth of these precious seeds:

Or not, because my miserable computer won’t allow me to move photos this morning. What the? Excuse me while I go out onto the porch and tear my hair. Yes, I know I’m supposed to download version 4.6.1., but when I do, will I ever be able to post again? So sorry, Apple does not support Word Press. And who does? Try WP’s website if you want to enter computer hell.

But I want to get this out to you-all, so will forge ahead without illustration to say that Ryan has come, has disced the entire 14 acres, and our land is transformed into 14 acres of lumpish good dirt. He says it’s good! Been undisturbed for ever, first time under cultivation. Historic, really. Now we await even more rain so that he can harrow the land in preparation to receive the above seeds. OMG, it’s really happening.

And our new gate is mounted! Awaiting Applegate Door Guy who will come and install the electronics to operate these lovely pieces of powder-coated steel. This will replace the sagging farm gate which must be manually operated, using a padlock for security, every morning and evening. In the rain. Hooray for the 21st century! I hope I do not celebrate in advance, thus condemning the thing to failure. Well, at least, thanks again to Gordon, who introduced us to Randy at C.H.I.P. & Dale’s Iron Works. Must be an inside joke. But he did a great job, and you would also be impressed if I could show it to you.

Well, if there’s a joke, it’s on me. Now my computer is perfectly transferring the photos. I’m editing my earlier post, so have a look if you want to see the fence and gate. Now, shall I update or not?

Yr. Faithful Correspondant, etc.

I saw the lightning, and the crash of thunder that followed instantaneously knocked the four of us out of our chairs, there on the bucolic back porch. Yes, we had seen the thunderheads building over the coast range, but what the heck? The sky overhead was blue, the beer nicely chilled, and we were laughing about the day’s adventures. But wait a minute, I’ve leaped over last Thursday — a lot stuff to report.

Larry and I had come to the farm for a quick, 24-hour stay to meet the all-important techies who would install the TV, the sound system (Sonos), and the actual dish thing itself outside somewhere. We stopped in Corvallis to get a sample quart of paint for the barn (Shaker Red, a perfect barnish red-brown). I began by painting a couple of swatches while Larry hooked up the power wash equipment to finish the necessary clean-up. Me, I attacked the berry brambles attaching themselves to the siding, in an uneven contest with the thorns decorating every cane. Ugh. But work came to a halt when we noticed the first van rumbling up the driveway.

This was the inside audio-vis crew, and we were happy to quit actual farm work and supervise the installation. That’s a joke. Even without our help, the job took the rest of the day. The funny part came at the end, when Tech-Guy One attempted to teach me how to use the remote. Use your imagination.

But before that finale, the Dish Guy arrived to put the saucer thing up on the exterior siding. Seems Larry’s wonderful plan, by which we had a tube laid under the drive to carry the cable from a remote post on the orchard, would not work. No, the signal could not travel half so far. Yes, he was sure. He tried to accommodate our esthetic by positioning the disc here and there, but nowhere would do but the very near side of the garage. Quite the first thing to notice on arrival at our home. Simply charming. But do we want TV or not? (That might depend on whom you ask, but the answer was yes.)

Here it is in all its loveliness. Welcome to our home.

Somewhere around then, Ryan called to say he was in the neighborhood. I believe you will be hearing a quite a bit about Ryan, our new Cow Guy, or so we hope. He has agreed to disc the 14 acres for Fish and Wildlife, and it appears he will work with us on development of a good grazing program. Sidebar: I was happy to learn that he runs cow-calf pairs. If I understood him correctly, he keeps the mom cows, breeds them, assists with calving, and when the youngsters are weaned, turn the entire herd out to pasture. Thus, we may enjoy the sight of actual calves? I do not know at what point calves are weaned, but we may find out. Ryan keeps his animals on grass for their entire life span, no feedlot for these fellows. Has a contract for grass-fed beef with New Seasons. That seems good, doesn’t it?

Back inside, we were trained on the use of the speakers. The Sonos was downloaded to our phones. The TV was in place, the picture quite wonderful, the options to watch all the football one could hope to enjoy in place. Wow. But the vans drove off, Larry and I had to hustle to make our reservation at Gathering Together for dinner so we never had the opportunity to try out the amazing shiny new toy. You think we’ll be able to work it when we come back?

Looks like we’ll have to work on that focus problem. But time has passed, and now we’re back at the beginning of this post, out on the porch, the lightning strike?

The family has assembled to install Amy (granddaughter) into her dorm at the U of O. She and her mom, Allison, flew into Portland to finish shopping for the necessities of dorm life on Tuesday. Today, Peter arrived, and we rode in convoy to Corvallis, on the way to Eugene. Larry is at Lake Chelan on a golf outing, and Jenny, who had come to assist with the undertaking, is on her way home to Seattle. Now you know where everyone is, and I’m going to tell you a little story about the day so far. Jen and I had driven to Starbucks to pick up coffee for all, and parked just down the street from the shop. Should we plug the meter? Nah, just going to be a minute. So we didn’t. Jenny teasing me for the bit of rules-following apostasy. Cute. Then she, with Allison and Amy, went off to Nordstrom for the final burst of shopping. Parked illegally (though they misunderstood the signage). Got towed. Fined. This bit of rules-breaking cost my darling Jenny $258, not including the taxi ride to the lot, which Allison picked up. How’s that for karma? Follow the rules, people!

There has been some conversation about whether I’ll be comfortable staying here alone overnight. I think so, but it won’t be put to the test this time, as Larry is due to arrive in an hour. I’d walked down the road to secure the gate before dark fell and was stunned to see that the great, vast field of blackberries has been obliterated from the side of the barn. Gone! The whole patch! This is huge. I saw fences I didn’t know existed. There’s a great tangle of some farm implement, I mean a 10-yard long twist of scrap metal. Amazing. A quick phone call to Larry and I learned that Brady had been here, offered to “get rid of the lot.” Larry thought he meant get rid of the mounds he’d sprayed earlier.
Good job, Brady!

Now I’m going to put this post to sleep and go out to find the Milky Way before the moon shows up this evening.

Just as I sat to write this blog, a note flashed across my screen from Donna Schmitz to say that we were ranked No. 2 against 9 other applications for the conservation grant from OWEB. Wow! I know that the bread isn’t yet buttered, but this is such good news that I have to celebrate anyway. Here’s the application description, which is a lovely portrait of the “Wood.” You’ll note that the property is actually 101 acres in size, but where’s the poetry in that?:

“This 101 acre property located 5 miles south of Corvallis, Oregon contains a mosaic of habitat types, including Oregon white oak savanna and woodlands, wetland prairie, and riparian forest associated with the Muddy Creek floodplain. Perennial and seasonal streams cross the property, and Muddy Creek borders the property line to the east. Proposed project will install fencing to protect the streams and wetlands from livestock grazing, stream crossings to protect stream banks from erosion, and solar pumping facility and troughs to prevent livestock from accessing the streams. These areas are in poor condition and lack a diversity of native plants because cattle have grazed in all these habitat types. The landowner will adopt a prescribed grazing methodology, reducing the number of cattle and rotating cattle through various designated pasture areas. Project partners include landowner, NRCS, USFWS, and Benton SWCD.”

I did say that I’d include photos in my next post, so here’s one of my favorites: (As always, be sure to click on the photo to enlarge it to viewable size.)

On the left we have Steve Bergen, a friend of the CA Viehls, and particularly of Charlie and Amy, whose swim coach/lifeguarding boss he has been these last 10 years or so. Seems he’s an alum of UC Davis, which had the opportunity of playing the mighty Ducks in the opening game of the ’16 season. So he and Charlie had a bet about the outcome of that head-butt, and of course, took the opportunity to come stay at the farm before and after. Too bad about the UC Whatevers, but hey, the Ducks? Who’d take that bet?

Peter is sandwiched between Steve and Charlie, who is driving the ATV, which seems to be a rite of passage for the Viehl grandkids. Big smiles all around.

I have another photo for you, pursuant to the subject of conservation. Last weekend, while Larry power-washed the barn’s windows (if you can call them windows), I wandered a bit around the lower property behind the barn. Followed a cow path along a waterway (now dry) until I came to the western edge of the savanna. And found this Martian-like area, which should give you a good idea of the devastation we here in the Wood call cow-trample. Not a technical term, of course, but apt:

I actually had to edit this photo, which came across to the blog sideways, though you would not be able to appreciate the directionality of what you see if it were upside down.

This one helps to define the scene, I suppose. Must be a seasonal pond, I don’t know for sure. Anyway, multiply this by 99 acres, throw on some blackberries, some tansy and some Astoria bent grass and you have some idea of the job ahead. Fingers crossed we get that grant!

Now about power washing. It’s been my ambition to get the barn painted a nice brownish red barn-color. But first, must wash years of mold and neighboring topsoil, blown in from the north, off the siding. Now colored a nice baby-poop yellow, so noted by my friend Vik. I wanted to do the job (I am Woman!) and actually did get the siding fairly clean. Whew, hard work! But I couldn’t reach the windows without standing on a ladder and was reluctant to do so. Larry bravely undertook that part of the job, and here he is:

I know, what am I talking about? Windows? That upper material doesn’t appear translucent, but per removal of the crud, does let light into the interior. And, sorry Larry, it’s a dumb picture, but you’re my hero anyway.

And to close the circle, about cow trample. It was my job to wash the north side porch decking before our last visitors. Got the hose out, doing well, until I reached the space outside the french doors from our bedroom. I’d noted these marks all along, supposed they were just dirt, but no. Cow or cows had been up on the porch, milling about, cow trampling on the wooden deck. Permanently embossed, they are, these bovine footprints. Well, I take the attitude that it would take an artisan many hours to lovingly paint this graphic design we now enjoy. Lucky us! Got it for free! But what, one might wonder, drew those cows onto the porch in the first place?

Come on down and see us. Set a spell. Coffee’s on, it’s a beautiful morning.

Dear Readers — hello? Anybody out there? I see it’s been two months since we last talked, and, well, I’d thought that I’d reached the end of this project: Two Old People Buy a Farm. (Not that we aren’t still old, and still farming.) Be that as it may, I find that writing is a hard habit to break. And we are still very farm-challenged, and Larry just backed the tractor into the fence, and the freezer doesn’t work and all the ice cream melted. So, if only to keep a record of this adventure, I have booted up the lap top and greet anyone who stumbles across my world-famous blog. (Ha)

I’m speaking to you from the kitchen island of our little-farm-house-with-apple tree. The new microwave chimes a pleasant tune, long after the coffee has been warmed and the appliance turned off. This could become annoying! Last week we visited the Verizon people in Portland and purchased a “jet pack,” a little miracle that lets us have internet here at the farm.

These’s a lot to tell you, but first I need to back up a month or so and start with the Scheffler’s visit. The first guests to spend the night, it was a kind of shake-down cruise. The railing still not up across the second floor space (open to the first) or down the stairs, a night the upstairs bedroom seemed to dangerous to offer our Germans. We tucked them in to our bedroom on the first floor and said goodnight. We had, however, neglected to warn them about the locking system on all the interior doors, so poor Epi became the unwitting subject of my first blog story of the summer.

It’s dark, he’s in strange territory with only the bark of a coyote or screech of an owl to break the night silence. (As opposed to the crash of garbage trucks emptying a bar’s collection of bottles, the laughter of the bar’s patrons going home, a car alarm, you get the picture.) So Epi tiptoes into the bathroom and quietly shuts the door. When he tries to leave, he finds that he has locked himself in. But how did he do that? He turned no lever or handle. The under-cabinet lights go on by motion detection, perhaps the door locks in the same way? He turns out the light. No. still locked. He considers the window. It is just the ground floor, but the window is far too narrow to provide escape. Upstairs, we snore in oblivion to our guest’s rising discomfort. He calls to his sleeping wife for help. Of course she has no idea, but together they manage to discover the tiny lever on the knob plate which is so easily tripped by accident. All is well, Epi can return to bed, their giggles subside and they fall asleep.

Perfect. Ursel is my “third sister” and together we all, Viehls and Schefflers, set off on a cruise of the Inland Passage to Alaska. While I was not born under a water sign, and do not particularly find myself at home on a boat, we did have an amazing trip, another in our series of adventures across the planet.

But now, time to return to the subject of this project. At the moment, Larry is outside fixing a system of hooks and cord to fashion a clothes line. This being the subject of much hilarity to people, most people that is, who find the convenience of a clothes drier driven by electricity more than adequate for all laundry needs. No need to go all Laura Ingalls Wilder and make life as difficult as possible. Oh well. I make no apologies, and my family will appreciate the sun-dried sheets to come.

Speaking of electricity, Larry has a site which has informed us that our solar panels on the barn have generated 2516 kWh, which is equal to removing 10 vehicles, having planted 43 trees and has saved 1320 kg of Carbon dioxide production. Not quite sure how all that computes, but it sounds pretty good! Conservation at work on the Hundred Acre Wood!

To catch up, the next visitors to arrive were Jenny and Co. The railing up, the guests in the guest bedroom, the grandkids up in the “Chick Room” over the garage. Jenny and Alli and I picked apples and made apple crisp. Very L.I.Wilder, we farm women in the kitchen. “Yes, but did you get the recipe on line?” one of my skeptics asked. Ah. Fair enough. No, we didn’t have our little jet pack at the time, but all bets are now off.

The kids, after a quick tutorial, drove off in the Ranger, the ATV which doesn’t, at the moment, have a name other than the generic. Will? You’re up, buddy. A name? They were gone for a couple of hours exploring, escaping, and when they shut it down to wander along the creek, and couldn’t get it restarted, they just texted dad. Kids today!

I had to leave for band practice the next Morning, but everyone else stayed back. Yes, I was jealous, but the situation was of my own making. Larry and Tom and Will cranked up the tractor, name of Buck, and set about correcting a lapse in the perimeter security of the farm. The fence along the road where Mark unloads and loads his calves wasn’t rebuilt, leaving a two-tractor wide gap. There are uncounted numbers of old farm gates scattered about the property, so the guys found a couple, somehow balanced them on the tractor, or dragged them along the road (?) and wired them together. Great fun, I think, for all of them.

Enough for today. Sorry, but I can’t send photos this time. My photo library is stored off line and I left that lovely device in Portland. Don’t have connecting cable for my iMini or phone, so this is a text-only post. Will do better next time!

Peter and Andrew hire on! They drove up from CA for the weekend to help the aged p’s saw some wood, mow some meadow, repair stuff, drive the ATV, burn slash, and provide some family muscle delivering firewood to the barn.

Our best apple tree has been dragging the ground with its load of apples. A chat with the nurseryman at Shonnards and Andrew’s 6 plus feet on the ladder (Of course, I mean 6 feet of height, not 6 feet on the end of his legs.)(How tall are you, anyway, Andrew?)

Resulted in:

Peter is indefatigable. A wood pile and a saw? Just try to stop him. Larry says Peter channels my dad, and it’s true he learned his farm skills out on Dad’s filbert orchard in Newberg when he was a teenager.

We couldn’t decide what to have for lunch until someone suggested that we run down to Safeway and collect some bread and peanut butter for sandwiches. Brilliant idea! Here’s the first meal prepared in our new kitchen.

I had been concerned about the taste of the water from our well, despite the chem lab out in the shed standing between the hole in the ground and the kitchen sink. We’d acquired some ice for our lunch, so were able to make a preliminary taste test. The builder guys had said the water was fine, but they were drinking it from the hose, proving that their taste would be suspect at best. I was prepared to buy bottled water to drink if it came to that, so, found a glass, tossed in a the ice, and took a provisional sip. Didn’t taste anything. Seriously, it is fine, apologies to Eric and Doug!

Peter had been anxious about the water since his days at Dad’s farm, which did not benefit from the chemistry we bring to bear, so I was happy to relieve his mind. Apparently the well people provide the service of checking the filter and twirling dials on a regular basis to keep the water tasting good. Or rather, not tasting at all. Whew. (Yes, I know, this does not happen by magic. We sign a contract. Come on.)

Andrew drove the ATV around the edge of the forest collecting windfall limbs to clear the land for the F&W project on the land adjacent to the house. Got a good fire going, and we ended the day, watching to be sure no cinders could ride the wind into the dried grasses. “You going to come back up and work for us some more?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he says. I think he has fallen in love. With the ATV, that is. Whatever it takes!

Hmm. Been more than a month since I opened my laptop to write. And it’s been two years since we began the adventure leading to a little house with an apple tree. So where are we now? Let’s start with the photo above.

Be sure to click on the image to appreciate the piece of art we consider the capstone of our project. Yes, I know, it’s backwards, but that’s the beauty of the piece. It smoothly, silently, moves with the wind and you get what you get, that is, the way of the wind. You all know this is a Gordon Davis piece. He’d have to tell you how he created it, but I can tell you how it was put in place.

June 1, a nice day, Larry is off at the Black Butte Invitational, thus unavailable to participate in the installation. Had to be that week because the big yellow forklift was scheduled to move on to another project. So Gordon and I loaded the pieces in the back of my little car and we were on our way. Dale and Eric were at the farm, and of course, they couldn’t keep their hands off the project. In the first place, one of them would have to drive the forklift with Gordon on board.

Problem. The mounting bracket Gordon had welded to fit the slope of the cupola was just off and had to be bent to the correct shape. Except the pressure snapped the weld. Okay, find a weld shop nearby, found Glen. Think: off the grid, junk-yard dog, metal carcasses everywhere, wild blackberries, and a line of 20 or so motorcycles bordering the property. Exactly what we were looking for. We sail up in my little silver Lexus — serious credibility mistake — but Glen, who asked that I take no photos, could give us an hour turn-around.

Back to the farm to put one of our front porch rocking chairs together, then a return to Glen’s emporium. This time, in Bob. Whew. Much more comfortable. And the repair job was fine, according to Gordon and all the welders back at the “Wood.”

So now the sculpture sits atop the roof, busy with its job of telling us the weather that is and is to come, looking beautiful. Thanks, Gordon!

Larry and I have been traveling, not just back and forth to Corvallis, but to Altadena to see our lovely Amy graduate Mayfield Senior Highschool. We actually flew (!), thanks to the calendar, and as you see, I survived. Amy will be attending U of O in the fall, Eugene being a scant 35 miles from the Wood. Hooray! How fun is that!

Time for another photo:

So when my sister Mary was visiting, she observed that we shouldn’t let the plastic tags around the trunk of the new little orchard trees stay in place, lest they choke the trees as they grew. Good advice, but I failed to make a note of which tree was which, and now all I can tell you is that these are either Gala, Liberty, or Pristine apples. Larry and I joke that we are in kindergarten with respect to our farming skills, but in truth, we’re barely into pre-school. As per the above.

And here’s our entire year’s crop of pie cherries:

Made a pie (one pie), which didn’t set, perhaps inadequate portion of tapioca, but it tasted fine. Wait until next year!

Here you see the result of our first large-scale conservation project. We had 14 acres sprayed, to kill all the invasives, non-natives, tansy, thistle . . . well, every living plant. This at the request of Fish and Wildlife, preparing a blank canvas onto which they will paint a combination of fescue and wildflower seeds. The idea is to encourage Monarch and Fenders Blue butterflies. It doesn’t look like a dead zone, just a golden fall scene with the cows in the background. Maybe that’s a bit over-poetic, but if you squint your eyes, that’s the effect. Next week, a contingent of folks from OWEB will be visiting the property to determine if we should succeed in receiving a grant for the larger acreage conservation. So, we’re underway at last.

Next is the newest addition to our ag fleet: A Polaris Ranger:

Was this absolutely necessary? Probably more so when we are in residence, working at the house, need something from the barn. Or want to spray the tansy and thistle in the pasture lands. We spent several hours this past weekend, Larry hitched up to the weed-whacker, I hauling black garbage bags behind to carry the morning’s felled tansy. Hard enough on the small patch by the road, hugely more difficult on the savanna. Have to say, still my father’s daughter, we’ve moved to the dark side and embrace the concept of spray to eradicate the years of nasty invasives. We’re encouraged in this apostasy by F and W, NRCS, OWEB — even the Nature Conservancy — with the argument that the greater good requires hard choices.

Here we have the frame for the gate. Looks like that fork lift thing is still on the place. Maybe Larry could have helped with the weathervane installation after all? We’ll have an ironwork gate between the upright posts, replacing the old-farm-gate-with-padlock now securing the road. There is supposed to be a system using our cell phones that grants codes to anyone wanting access. Let’s hope that works better than our existing electronic systems, and that Larry and I will be able to learn to use the technology in a fashion not really predicted by our history with same.

People ask me when we will “move in.” We aren’t “moving in” in the usual sense, but the meaning is clear. When can we expect to sleep and eat at our little house. We’ve been saying “in a couple of weeks” for a couple of months now. We’re living examples of Zeno’s paradox, the one where you must travel half way to reach a destination, then half of the remaining half and so on into eternity. (Don’t worry, I had to look it up.)

Tomorrow, Peter and Andrew will arrive to help out with some mowing, sawing, wood-splitting, weed control, and of course, this evening, it’s raining. Oh, fine. Well, that’s life on a farm?

What? The farm?

“Your little Senior Citizen adventure. I mean, do you even know how to milk a cow?”

Well, you can’t milk . . .

“And how about slinging those bales of hay?”

Our cows because they’re . . .

“Shoveling out the barn?”

boys.

They’re all boy cows. Here are a few of them:

That one — just like little boys everywhere, picking his nose. With his tongue. Cute. One got away last Wednesday and then huddled miserably against the fence when he couldn’t figure out how to get back in with the rest of his buddies.

But,how is it working? Going slow on all fronts just now. Conservation: The application for the grant has been submitted, and a cadre of OWEB folks are planning a walk-about in late June. So don’t be expecting results any time this year. We’ve engaged Jason, Spray Guy, to spray out the 14 acre parcel for F&W purposes. Supposed to happen when the grasses were 4″ tall, or so. They’re now thigh high and growing, but couldn’t be sprayed because, first, all the rain, and now, all the wind. But we are on his calendar to have our dead blackberry vines shredded and, um, and what? What happens to all that chipped thorny mass?

Taking a break in the report to show you a photo of what will be my favorite hang-out spot if and when:

Looking to the west:

A new vehicle added to our fleet: A riding mower.

Experience has shown us that the brush hog behind the tractor is not the solution to mowing the orchard. See last blog. But the orchard is bursting with fruit sets, while drowning in the exuberant clover we planted last winter. Paul-the-Godsend from last year is scheduled to come and mow and till under this “green manure.” When he can get to us, he being very busy and all. So. Patience, while all around us Mom Nature is on the move. The new Baby Deere will help us be a bit more self sufficient.

The house? Multiples of patience required here. The inside painting is rumored to happen this week, which will mean that Cactus can get back to work tiling the bathroom showers. Which will mean that the plumber will be able to mount the fixtures. Inside plumbing! Hooray! We try to manage our expectations of progress each week, and each week we fail. What? Nothing has happened? Why? Do not ask Brad-the-Painter, who will simply amplify your sense of stasis. It is NOT HIS FAULT that the timing was so wonky.

Kate, who has built our city garden so beautifully, visited the farm to give us some help with landscape around the house. Just supposed to be a lilac or two, maybe another apple if we can figure out how to keep it from the deer. No geraniums or other suburban standards, but it’s obvious we do need some segue from the wild grasses and weeds to the house. Maybe some hydrangeas will work, that sort of thing. She doesn’t like the idea of the wood fence delineating that shift from wild to domestic, but Larry and I do, so I believe we’ll stand fast there. Of course, nothing can happen this year, planting-wise, but we’re eager to have a proposal to counter the all-pervasive mud surrounding us now.

And Dennis is supposed to be arriving to shift the construction dirt/mud to some more gentle contours, to repair the road, add gravel to the courtyard and the road to the barn. Dennis works on Dennis time, so we have to be prepared to head south when we get the call that this is the day.

But it’s not this day, so I’ll close this edition with a reply to the initial question: It’s not easy, this being geriatric farmers, we make our mistakes, we feel stupid, we lose things (Larry’s keys, my glasses). Feel overwhelmed and under prepared, but I just got the book I ordered, The Apple Grower, with it’s full page color photos of, for example, the larva of a syrphid fly. Which consumes a few dozen aphids each day. Gorgeous! Owe you an apology, Dad. Entomology rocks!

The weather is good, let’s mow! We succeed in attaching the mower and make some hay. It’s rough going, and Larry has now become a convert to the idea of some spray and disc on the territory surrounding the house. But it looks a bit better and we’re feeling proud of our little tractor that could:

So how about doing the orchard? I ask. For sure, and I hold open the gate. Hmm. The tractor is a bit unwieldy with the mower attached, but Larry’s doing fine and gets a swath mowed (mown) when the devil jumps up. Seems we’ve located one corner of our orchard on a bog, which just about swallows our Buck. Larry throttles up, the wheels churn, and he escapes the quick sand, but at a price. In his effort to exit the scene, he forgets that the bucket is in the up position, and whacks the top post off the gate. No big deal, but that was one angry farmer.

We had earlier taken Bob to the car wash in advance of Gordon and Vik’s trip to arrange application of decals on the truck’s side. Gordon has created a gorgeous logo for us:

But Bob has had a muddy winter, what with a resident rodent chewing nest materials under the driver-side mat, with the oak logs with their moss and dirt in the bed. Needed a good cleanse before we could take him to the decal store. In the same spirit, we decide that the tractor could also use a bath:

Good, approves Dick (stone mason). You don’t hose those tires now, you’ll never get that mud chipped out when it dries. Ah. New farmer trick, duly noted.

Vik and Gordon came, we took the shiny clean truck over to Talent where the logo gets copied and measured. And we wouldn’t waste an opportunity to get design input on the fireplace from these two friends. Much standing, head-scratching, thinking-out-loud, and we have a fairly clear idea of how to proceed with the proposed mantle we’ve selected. Dale, an apparent genius with wood-craftery, will have a look at the ancient chunk of oak to see if our idea can be implemented. And while at the reclaimed wood warehouse, will pick out oak planks from which to create our dining-room table.

Fast forward a couple of days. As Larry will be rehabbing his new hip for several weeks, we decide to make a last run to check on the house progress and build the compost bins for which we’d purchased some pallets. The house is indeed progressing, will be painted soon. Now, about the compost bins? In the first place, the pallet-outlet folks recognized an opportunity to unload some stock on the rookies (Was the truck too clean? What gave us away?) So our pallets are well-beaten, splintered, dirty, but they’re for compost, right? So who cares.

Larry determined where he’d like the bins, and made the discovery that there’s a large pad of concrete behind the barn. Overgrown with grass and weeds, but why wouldn’t we take advantage of this resource? It became my job to use the tractor to scrape off the greenery and dump it atop the manure pile. More compost! Kind-of fun tractor driving, though I almost took out one of the barn doors with the mower (still attached, of course). I am woman, hear me roar!

Well, the nails specified in the article on compost-bin building in Modern Farmer refused to penetrate the wood stock of the pallets without pre-drilling holes. Of course, we have a drill. At the farm. In the barn. A form of miracle right there, and we were able to proceed. But after building the first bin, we called it a day. It was clear that this project was larger than we’d expected, and we certainly wouldn’t want our real carpenters to see the pathetic job we did. That’s cardboard on the bottom to stymie the weeds, and left-over hay from the previous owners. It doesn’t look that bad, does it?

Now we wait while Larry heals, and hope the sun keeps shining!

First, because we can’t drive the truck across the mud to the stack of wood. Larry proved that in an earlier attempt, during which he but narrowly escaped the indignity of another rescue tow by Tyrone and Co. The tractor should be be able to muck across onto the grass, around the orchard, and over to the pile of cut logs.

Second, because it would be possible to load the logs into the bucket, not possible to hoist them over the edge of the truck bed. These fellows, some of them 18 inches to two feet in diameter, a couple of feet long, wet oak? Peter could lift them, and did, but the other two of us? Ha.

But mostly it was just insanely fun to drive the loaded tractor over to the truck on the road, lift the bucket and dump the load into the truck bed. (While I did get to drive the truck, the boys owned the tractor. As, on occasion, a log would tumble out onto the tractor’s hood, I didn’t complain.)

Therefore, the plan was executed and the wood moved to the barn. Well, not without some ingenuity in crafting a plank bridge to span the mud soup, and stealing a few buckets of gravel from a gas line excavation. Of course it rained. But I was proud of us.

“Pretty sweet operation, huh?” I say to Tyrone.

“What? Your kid does all the work while you stand around waving your arms?”

He meant that kindly. And Peter was awesome. He is one cool person and you are lucky if you know him.

So we had rented an hydraulic splitter from a shop down the road. Seventy-two dollars for 24 hours, and don’t be late or there’s a fee. This thing rolls down the road behind old Buck smooth as ever you please, and Larry was right to decline the offered insurance against road accidents, whatever. We set up in the nice, clean barn, doors opened at both end, ear plugs attempted and rejected as useless. Those cribs we’d cleaned make fine ricks for storing the split wood, by the way. Photo to follow.

This splitter was a big deal. The maul travels up and down a tube and splits the wood with steady pressure. Nothing explosive or dramatic. Except it was pretty dramatic to see one of the above- described behemoths split apart. We couldn’t help laughing at the power and efficiency of the machine. Of course, not all the wood was straight grained. Lots of knots, twists, spirals, and those pieces, while they gave in to the inevitable, didn’t make easily stackable fire wood. Still, we estimated that we put up two cords in the two days.

But there was the power saw, and there were those un-cut logs lying alongside the fence, and Peter was on a mission. While Larry and I tried to burn more of the slag piles, he marched through the downed wood and looked with some longing at the huge monsters cut last summer when Shonnards took out half of the homestead tree.

They’re back. They look forlorn in the rain, caked with mud, spooked by any approach. (I just wanted to take their photo, though I also harbored a desire to hose them down and offer them in a nice bed of straw somewhere.) They are just babies still, and have spread out across the fields, so I have no idea how many of them are spending a few months with us. If it ever stops raining, Larry would like to do some mowing, take down the spent stalks of weeds that the cows wouldn’t eat last year. I see the land through my vision of the future, but honestly, it looks pretty ill-used at the moment. Some sunshine would help!

The house is almost complete, the conservation and habitat restoration are underway, and it’s been a year and a half since we launched this project. How are we doing? We’re like, well, kind of old, you know? Last week we went to a memorial service for a man for whom Larry’d worked all those years. He looked around at his former colleagues and noted that they’re all a bit beat up and weathered. “Jesus. The last ten years must be hell,” he commented. “Look at them. They’re us.”

But I say “So?” We all know that the last thing may be just around the corner. Something hurts and guess what? When we started we said that we didn’t care. We have that day, this day. Nothing else matters. But of course it does. You fall in love again, with life, with the cows, with the fawn lilies. Repeat after me: We have tomorrow, we have at least this. Let’s live.

Note to Charlie: Have to say that the zip line is incomplete, as are the ATV race track and golf holes you’ve suggested. You’d better get up here and have a word with your grandfather about this delay.

Meanwhile, just to give you all the idea: This is Muddy Creek from the bridge across it (him? her? Is there a convention about the gender of streams?) on Llewellyn. Muddy all right, with little respect for boundaries.

We’ve gone down to meet with Donna Schmitz of OWEB, Jarod of F&W, and Steve Smith. On his arrival, Steve handed me a cardboard box. A present! he said. Inside were what appeared to be desiccated earthworms, but were, in fact, milkweed roots. Asclepia, to be precise. We are to plant them somewhere, sit back, and wait for the monarch butterflies to visit. A little research suggests that the plant will want good drainage and full sun. (Keep that thought about good drainage as we proceed today. And full sun? Ha!) Seems asclepia is a little like “good” tansy-ragwort. That is, wildly poisonous, the sap highly irritating to the touch. “Do not get in the eye,” says Google. For sure. Seems this plant is the monarch’s only food, and they depend on the toxic bitterness to dissuade birds from dining on them.

Donna and Jarod are preparing our application for a grant to fence the tributary streams on the property. It’s due in early April, but we’re not to expect to see any money until next year. That’s okay, we still have Mark’s cows this year, and while we’ll keep them away from the Muddy itself, they are free to trample the little streams one more year.

Larry and I pulled on our boots to walk Mark’s fence, to be sure the cows won’t be able to get into the oak copse, where the wild flowers are beginning to blossom. Here is a sample of Lemon Fawn Lily (nice name!)

It’s great fun to slosh through the wetland area down to the creek:

Yes, I was there, too:

Back at the house, Steve, a new friend to this report, was at work finding, then patching leaks in the line to the buried propane tank. Here’s where you should question the drainage any milkweed can hope to enjoy. Dave sure wasn’t. Said he’d slipped into the earlier-dug hole, up to his waist. (That was a little exaggerated, but I’m sure comprehensively unpleasant):

The finish carpenter, Dale, and Eric and Doug are busy inside putting up trim bits and pieces, wishing the rain would stop so they could put up the railing on the porches, do whatever outside jobs are in line for completion. Yeah, me too. Peter will be here for a few days next week to help his dad with some heavy lifting. Should be great fun. Bring your boots, Peter!