by Kathy Brasby | Jan 16, 2024 | Country life, Hope, Winter
C.S. Lewis makes a point about the weather: enjoy it! We might argue that the arctic cold in Colorado this week (I saw -20 at one point) is beyond enjoying. It’s only worth complaining about.
We might be wrong.
I have livestock which means I have responsibilities. The other morning, I pulled on a battery-powered vest, insulated coveralls, hat, gloves, heavy boots and trekked to the barn to check on my animals. They were enjoying the weather a lot more than I was.
The dogs raced through the snow, tackling each other and then shaking off the snow to run again. Goats came racing out of their barn to gobble the hay I threw in. Not a lot of complaining there.
Lesson to be learned
As I walked back to the house, the sun was rising over the frosty horizon, hazy as though I was looking through a window smeared with Vaseline. Ice crystals in the air gave an other-world look.
Photo by Xander Brown. Taken near my location.
A little later, the rising sun pushed light through those ice crystals like a prism to form a sun dog. A sundog is different from a rainbow. You see a rainbow when you look away from the sun but you see a sundog when you look toward the sun.
The colors were more subtle than a summer rainbow but formed a triumphant set of parentheses around the sun.
The river that flows near our house was also clogged with huge chunks of ice. Hardships? Maybe.
Frigid Hardships
What struck me was how, in the middle of something tough like arctic temperatures, there is still beauty around us if we look for it. Like the sundog.
And those chunks of ice in the river will be long gone soon. These hardships are temporary.
My animals knew it and were celebrating the weather. God’s creation amazes me with its beauty and resilience.
C.S. Lewis was right. We can enjoy any weather.
(Thank you to Xander Brown for sharing his photo of the sundog near our town.)
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by Kathy Brasby | Sep 15, 2023 | Country life, Humor
And There They Were
I didn’t notice when the attack of the mini toads began. One day I took a walk along a small creek and tiny toadlets darted from blades of grass to stems of weeds to tiny stones. The first one surprised me. The second looked cute as it bolted across the path.
By the tenth – nay, more – I was getting concerned.
Just how many of these were there?
I have watched many take-over-the-world movies, so I knew the routine. One movie, Kingdom of the Spiders, is seared into my brain because of the ending. The movie followed the invasion of spiders gone rogue. It ended with our hero hiding in a farm lodge overnight. He turns on the radio in the morning to learn how the invasion was stopped but hears nothing but static. Duh-duh-duh-duh.
Duh-duh-duh-duh
So he pries boards off a window to discover that the lodge and his entire town are encased with spider webs. Trapped like Frodo in Shelob’s web. Another duh-duh-duh-duh as the credits rolled.
I laughed at the ending, but I was re-thinking my response as I watched toads pop up everywhere. They started out small enough to hide under a penny. But they grew.
Soon my window wells had a dozen toads hiding in there.
Well, not hiding. Unable to get out. How had they gotten in there?
And, really, where had they come from?
The Tadpoles
My research says they started out as tadpoles. Well, this was the year for unusual rain, so that made sense. But I was sad that I had somehow missed seeing the darting little tadpoles in puddles. Those fascinate me.
Tadpoles turn into toadlets. Toadlets turn into toads. Gobs of them.
I wish I could tell you I started counting, but I didn’t. I noticed toads every time I took a walk and assumed I was seeing new ones. Soon, I was certain there were hundreds. Thousands.
OK, a kajillion of them.
I started asking friends. They confirmed they had a bunch, too. They wouldn’t confirm a kajillion, but I suspected. If I didn’t have a kajillion on my little farm, then together we must.
Friends were concerned. Which meant they were lamenting toads lost to mowers, car tires, and stomping toddlers. I think they were lamenting, anyway. It was hard to tell with the fist pumps.
One friend declined to have the rest of us visit, just in case we carried toad seeds on our shoes. She didn’t have any baby toads and didn’t want any. Although her adult kids had toads, so she’s likely infested by now, anyway.
I mean, how do you turn down the grandkids coming to visit? If little ones don’t bring colds, they probably bring baby toad seeds.
The Only Comfort
The only comfort with the toad invasion of 2023 is that as the toadlets grow in size, they diminish in number. I can’t explain that either, but it explains why toads aren’t used in math books to illustrate the number kajillion. (What do they use, anyway?)
I take comfort in the other thing: toads don’t spin webs and can be a useful ally if the spiders ever go rogue.
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by Kathy Brasby | Aug 19, 2023 | Country life, Family, Hope, Humor
This morning, I buckled on my sharp shiny sword and stepped out the door to do battle with the monsters growing at the edge of my property. I had postponed this for weeks, but it had to be done before the day got any hotter and the monsters got bolder.
The cult movie, The Little Shop of Horrors, featured a sentient carnivorous plant named Aubrey II that fed on human blood. My own monsters were threatening to swallow vehicles for the moment before moving on.
I wasn’t sure if my plants were carnivorous but why let them keep growing?
Was the dog safe? The chickens? See why I needed the sword? [spacer height=”30px”]
Prone to exaggeration
Because I have been known to exaggerate, I need to clarify that my sharp shiny sword is really a DeWalt cordless pruner, but hey, tomayto, tomahto.
This pruner can cut through three-inch limbs, so I strapped it on and headed for the monster forest surrounding my wood pile. Oh, the irony.
We’ve had a Seattle kind of year in normally arid northeastern Colorado. Really. We usually get about fifteen inches of rain a year while Seattle gets more like 34. Flip-flop those this year and you get the idea why the monsters were so eager to stretch into trees.
They’ve been thirsty forever and finally gulping gallons of rain.
Gulping gallons
This year, entire stacks of wood have disappeared within their jungle. Maybe devoured by the hungry dripping teeth of the Aubrey II’s out there.
Just for clarity, these are more like hybrid Aubrey II’s. Some people call them wild sunflowers. But potayto, potahto.
These guys are threatening to blot out the sunlight and swallow not only the log splitter in the yard but the privacy fence. The uncut logs. My entire house.
Last month’s hail storm left dents in heavy metal but didn’t even bruise these plants.
The trunk of several were bigger than my wrist. Huge by wrist standards.
I started by gripping the base of one and pulling in case it didn’t have a good root system. Maybe they’d all fall like dominoes and my work would be done.
As it turned out, if they could stand up to the pounding hail, my grip was a mere annoyance and no more.
I was kind of afraid of that.
Out came the sword. (Remember: tomayto, tomahto.)
Wrong choice
I should have worn a hard hat instead of gloves because it turned out the sword was mightier than the monster. The sunflowers began falling with a crash onto my head.
Imagine sunflowers succumbing to my trusty sword (humor me here) and slamming onto the ground. Or me, depending which was closer.
It was usually me.
Domino effect. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Onto my head. (That alone may explain this post. Brain injured.)
I now have a pile of slain sunflowers by my driveway. The monsters had surrounded an old coffee table, two tree stumps, and a tomato cage.
And, boy, am I glad that I got those rescued.
That’s my report for today and you can believe whatever you want. Just like The Little Shop of Horrors.
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by Kathy Brasby | Jul 10, 2023 | Country life, Humor
When we released the lions into my pasture of abundant grass this summer, my little herd of goats was distressed. In fact, they gave a whole new meaning to panic attack as they huddled along the fence line and refused comfort from their comfort food: animal cookies.
To my eyes, the recent additions to the pasture were tail-swishing, cud-chewing 350-pound calves. To my goats, they were tooth-baring, evil eyed, growling lions.
Whatever
The calves ignored the goats, but could the goats ignore the calves?
The milk goats, usually annoyingly docile and cuddly, suddenly decided that not only did calves look lions, so did I.
At milking time, they usually crowd at the door ready for their sweet feed and animal crackers. But the day the lions came, they cowered at the fence line.
Clear across the pasture from the barn. The fence line that was much closer to the lions than the barn.
Yay For Animal Crackers
I took animal crackers out to them, only to watch these lion-crazed goats run away from me. These were the same goats who made any pen repairs impossible because they stuck their noses in my face. Nose to nose. Really.
I bribed them with animal crackers, which must have looked mildly familiar, because one finally stretched her neck to sniff.
I snagged her collar, and we made a slow, stiff-legged trip to the barn. Away from the lions but she didn’t seem to notice that.
The two remaining milkers fled to the far corner, but one goat followed me: the only one who wasn’t yet being milked. It made me wonder if producing milk was related to mental collapse.
Their Mental Collapse
The one who followed got her cookies just for being smart.
I thought the milkers would relax once the first goat got her turn at the sweet feed. They were usually jealous creatures. But, no, that day I had to lure in the second one.
The third one seemed more relaxed. But remember that these goats thought a calf was a lion, so what she seemed to be was definitely not what she was.
I brought a bucket of sweet feed for her plus an abundance of animal crackers.
Bribery Worked A Little
She was happy to eat sweet feed, but it took three tries before I snagged her collar. I had sweet memories of this girl following me anywhere. Pre-lion.
We got halfway across the pasture (remember this is away from the lions) when she decided that to escape. She reared into the air and twisted her body.
I held her collar in one hand and a bucket half-full of sweet feed in the other.
When she reared, I had a thought:
Ugh. I’m going to get grass stains on my best jeans.
And, as my feet tangled and the ground was approaching, I had another thought:
Do NOT let go of this collar.
Beware Of The Jungle
The abundant grass served as a soft pillow for my landing. I got to my feet and here’s my report: I did not let go of the collar and I didn’t even have bruises the next day.
The lions have now turned into calves, and my goats will condescend to eating animal cookies. All is well in the jungle.
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by Kathy Brasby | Oct 21, 2022 | Country life, Humor
What’s new on the farm? I’m glad you asked. Well, pretend you asked.
Last week a pig bit my hand, apparently because my hand looked just like the cheap animal cookies I was feeding the goats.
These are the Bacon3’s that we’ve discussed before. Their goal in life is to eat. That they have plenty of food in front of them all the time doesn’t convince them they aren’t about to see their ribs poking out in starvation.
Too much is never enough.
I wanted to attribute that quote to the proper owner, but it seems to be well-used in song lyrics, book titles, and blog posts.
Let’s just call it the motto of the Bacon3 and move on.
The goats love animal cookies. When I wave a handful of these bland little cookies in the air, goats run to me. Sprint like a wolf is on their tails. It’s like crack cocaine for them, except maybe a little less hallucinogenic, although the jury may be out on that. It’s hard to tell sometimes.
Once my son and I raised rabbits. We had a special treat we’d give them every day, and they’d throw themselves against their cage door like zombies in the apocalypse trying to get to the living. I wasn’t sure we’d get our hand back if we actually opened the door.
Distraction work for rabbits because their brains are smaller than an acorn. They threw themselves at the fresh grass hay, too, so that we could put their cocaine in their treat dish while they were devouring the hay.*
The Bacon3 have bigger brains
Watching the goats get cookies while the Bacon3 got nothing did not suit the pigs. Goats are cute while pigs are, well, pigs. I’ll bet Hollywood could record their snorting, slow it down a little, and get a new sound for the monster from the black lagoon. That monster squeal surrounded me while I handed out treats to cute goats. I should have known better.
You know that commercial with the teenagers debating, on a dark and stormy night with a haunted house looming, if they should escape to the running vehicle or hide behind the swinging chain saws? Yeah, that kind of “I should have known better.”
I should have known better
I know enough to wear boots and jeans into the pigs’ pen. They are generally more rude than aggressive. Usually, they push their noses against my boots as though boots look like food, too.Or their cousins. Not sure on that one.
I forgot about my hand while I was handing out treats to the goats. I guess I forgot about the pigs, too.
Then I dropped a bookie. Big mistake. I leaned down to scoop it up. Hands. Cookies. Those apparently look identical to an allegedly-starving Bacon.
The chomp was faster than hummingbird wings, and then I had blood dripping down my hand.
Bacon1 earned new names immediately. Several.
I’d like to think he’d remember to stay away from me after my tantrum. But I do dream a lot when it comes to my pigs.
I Am Smarter…I Hope
Because I’m smarter than a pig (Are you challenging that thought?), I stopped the animal cookie feeding and returned to the house to deal with the pig bite.
The Bacons still imitate rabbits on a zombie attack, bashing their noses against their gate whenever I come near. Otherwise, they’re out in the pasture eating all the grass they can find. Clearly starving.
But their radar is up for the next time I come with cookies.
Or pumpkins from the garden.
Or fingers.
My hand wound has healing, although I am afraid I’ll have a scar. A pig-toothed, snout-shaped, snorty scar to help me remember the Bacon3s.
But those three? Forgetting them is like trying to forget the time your tire blew out, you ran off the road, ruined a wheel, and had to call for a tow truck which took four hours to arrive and you were late for your cousin’s wedding. You don’t forget.
But I’d rather forget. I really would.
*Absolutely no cocaine was ever fed to any of my animals. I wouldn’t even know where to find the stuff, since the feed store doesn’t stock it.
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by Kathy Brasby | Jul 8, 2022 | Country life, Humor
A while back, I decided that a daily can of Mountain Dew consumed along with Mounds candy bars was not good for my health.
I go deep, don’t I?
So I’ve been exploring healthy eating. Everything from grass-fed beef to eggs from pasture-raised chickens. I planted a small vegetable garden and may even try composting.
So all these healthy choices could only lead to one thing, right?
Yep.
Pigs.
I never know how I stumble onto these articles, but this one introduced me to pasture-fed pigs.
American Guinea Hogs.
I guess they were the rage in the 1800s and then nearly went extinct before homesteaders revived the breed. But they had three things I wanted: they eat grass (because I have a nice pasture and it’s healthier meat), they stay smaller (commercial pigs can grow to become hippopotamus), and they are friendly.
I like friendly animals on my hobby farm.
So I found some baby Guinea Hogs.
I brought them home, and they settled in. We named them Bacon One, Two, and Three because I had plans for their futures.
I knew nothing about raising pigs when the Bacons arrived, but I quickly learned that they take mealtime seriously. And when is mealtime? Whenever I feed them. They’d have gone for the Mountain Dew and Mounds bars if I offered those.
The Bacons plowed over each other to get to the closest corner of their pen when I walked to the barn. Claiming to be delirious with hunger. The literature I read advised not to believe them.
When they’re not hurdling one another in their race to the feed trough, they scream. Friendly screaming, of course.
They are happy to let me pet them and offer them animal crackers. In fact, to feed them everything except chili peppers. They declined a second bite of those.
Yeah, we tried peppers just to see if there are limits to pig chowing.
Truly, all I wanted was for the Bacons to eat grass. All they wanted was to eat what I eat. Maybe eating my food for me.
One day, my sister called. “I have some food for your piggies.” She had cooked five pounds of potatoes, stirred in all the salad parts, and then added some mayonnaise, which had a sour flavor. Nobody in her family would eat the potato salad. Would my pigs?
Well, let’s find out.
I dumped the entire load of salad into a rubber pan in their pen. That was the happiest minute of their day. They turned a blind eye to the grass for twenty-four hours after that, waiting for more of my sister’s potato salad.
I asked, but she said it was a onetime deal. I hope her family appreciated her next potato salad as much as the Bacons would have.
As soon as my pastures greened up, I opened the gate to let the Bacons out. They found the grass quickly, and I figured my summer was set. Let them graze all they wanted.
But the next day, they were running around the barnyard. Outside the fence.
As soon as they spotted a human, they raced to us. Probably looking for potato salad.
We got them back in their pen.
“Pigs like to root,” my sister said. So we speculated the Bacons had lifted a gate off its hinges. We didn’t see a gate off its hinges, but this was our best guess. We strapped down the hinges so a rhinoceros couldn’t lift that gate.
The pigs were out the next day.
In their latest prison escape, they found the stored alfalfa in the lean-to. They explored the orchard. They grazed their way to the middle of the neighbor’s alfalfa field.
We lured them back to their pen with a big jar of animal crackers. Food is food, after all.
But the mystery continued. How were they getting out?
Aha. We finally spotted a broken crosspiece in the woven wire fence.
“Let’s laminate a panel over that hole in the fence,” I said. So we grabbed a wire panel and began lashing it to the woven wire.
“There are only two pigs in there,” my sister said as we worked.
“Yeah, the other one’s behind us.”
And so he was, watching us fix the fence. As soon as I spotted Bacon 3, the other two rammed their shoulders against the fence and pushed through the wire links. Easy peasy.
So that’s how they were getting out.
I locked them in a stout pen that closely resembled solitary confinement cells in the penitentiary. They didn’t escape.
Now what to feed? The Bacons got alfalfa until I realized I didn’t want to pay for expensive alfalfa all summer. The whole idea was healthy – and cheap – pasture-fed pork.
One of the side effects of carving your farmstead out of an alfalfa field is that alfalfa never dies. It’s like mint that way.
We have bunches of volunteer alfalfa still popping up in odd places, so I took the lawnmower out, catching the shredded alfalfa and dumping that in their pen.
It was almost as good as the potato salad. Based on their snarfing sounds.
And it kept me mowing the place.
Then came a magical day when I realized the Bacons were growing.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I opened the gate to the pasture.
They started grazing the grass immediately. No more ramming the fence and no more escape.
Now they eat nonstop in the pasture now. All-day cafeteria.
They still scream when I approach, to signal that they are starving to death and potato salad is required.
I don’t believe them, but I do have a rough idea why they almost went extinct once.
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