More words of wisdom from the genius of der volk:
on moving--from our neighbor who is also about to sell her house and move with her hubby and five kids to Montana: If you gotta eat an elephant, just do it one bite at a time.
on a person attempting to do a job in a ridiculous manner--from one of the people installing fence on our property: You're more messed up than a soup sandwich.
These have been swimming around in my head so that I had a nightmare in which I was a soup sandwich trying to eat an elephant. I will leave the explication of that to Dr. Freud.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Life is relatively good
Normally, it works like this:
The guy driving the tractor with the fence-post-driver goes underneath the overhead cable to the well-house, clips the cable, bends the mast on the well-house and drags the cable a bit; the cable doesn't snap and nobody is electrocuted, but the mast must be replaced. The guy driving the tractor will do it, if I go into town and get him a length of 1 1/4" metal conduit. So, at the very end of the day, I zip into town into the electrician supply shop, ask for (and receive) 10 feet of 1 1/4" conduit, bring it back to the farm, and find out a disturbing truth.
Everybody in the world, with one exception, measures pipe and conduit by outer diameter. Electricians, alone in the world, measure pipe by internal diameter.
Normally, I'd find this out at 5:30 PM on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. I don't know how this happened--somebody controlling the fates perhaps took off early for the weekend--but I found out about this at 5:30 PM on Thursday, so I had a whole day to go and get the right size pipe. And now we have a nicely repaired power line to our well house.
If I learned one thing during a decade of life in Wisconsin, it's that it could always be worse.
The guy driving the tractor with the fence-post-driver goes underneath the overhead cable to the well-house, clips the cable, bends the mast on the well-house and drags the cable a bit; the cable doesn't snap and nobody is electrocuted, but the mast must be replaced. The guy driving the tractor will do it, if I go into town and get him a length of 1 1/4" metal conduit. So, at the very end of the day, I zip into town into the electrician supply shop, ask for (and receive) 10 feet of 1 1/4" conduit, bring it back to the farm, and find out a disturbing truth.
Everybody in the world, with one exception, measures pipe and conduit by outer diameter. Electricians, alone in the world, measure pipe by internal diameter.
Normally, I'd find this out at 5:30 PM on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. I don't know how this happened--somebody controlling the fates perhaps took off early for the weekend--but I found out about this at 5:30 PM on Thursday, so I had a whole day to go and get the right size pipe. And now we have a nicely repaired power line to our well house.
If I learned one thing during a decade of life in Wisconsin, it's that it could always be worse.
Words of wisdom
Quoth the guy who rented us a U-haul for the schlep from our rental in town to the farm:
"Moving, eh? I'd rather eat broken glass."Ah-yup.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Friday Flora Friend or Foe Edition
A vetch. Ugly name, pretty flower.
I know not what kind of vetch this is. I used to think of all vetches as evil--exotic invasive species brought over from Europe, and displacing the lovely native flora of California. I now know that there are lots of native vetch species, some of which are endangered. There are at least two vetch species on our property; the one I'm not showing a picture of is probably Vicia sativa, the horrible invasive thing. This one? I don't know. I suppose I could ask it...
"Are you a good vetch, or a bad vetch?"
Monday, May 21, 2012
Baaaaaaa!
We have goats.
I spent a frantic day last week trying to get a pen ready for them, a couple of kids raised by a woman up in northern Oregon. We were supposed to pick them up in Siletz a week later, but she offered to drive them down to Eugene, saving us four hours in the car--an offer which we could not refuse. I suppose as owners of livestock, we have to get used to the animals determining the schedule whether we are ready or not.
While I was hastily reconfiguring a decaying dog run into a goat pen, the Real Doctor drove to the all-Oregon Milchgoatstravaganza in Eugene. Things went on a bit longer than expected, which was fine since it gave me more time to wrestle with wire and staples and latches. It was nearing sundown when the Real Doctor called me from I-5 with the sound of agitated bleating of two kids in the background.
Brother E. wants to know, why goats? Why this breed? Why these particular goats? and this is a good time to address the questions. Goats are good for maintaining land that you don't want to manage as forest. They eat the two nemeses of Oregon, Himalayan Blackberry and Poison Oak, in preference to other foods. Put them together with sheep, and you have a combo that (properly managed) will keep pasture healthy and productive. You can rent goats to do the job, but they're easier to own and a lot more interesting and effective than a brush hog and mower.
But why this breed? First and foremost, Nigerian Dwarf goats are not threatening. I'm new at this whole livestock thing, and the Real Doctor knows it. There are some big, stinky, mean breeds of goat out there. These are small, friendly, and downright cute. If you want, they can be used as milch goats, and they have an excellent conversion factor (amount of brambles and poison oak in/amount of milk out)--or, you can opt not to milk them, and not be subject to the grind of twice-daily milkings. We have had some cheese made from the milk of these beasties, and it made me really, desperately want to get some goats of my own and start making cheese.
Why these particular goats? Again, the Real Doctor calls the shots here. We are (with very good reason) urged to consider all humans as having value, and we are taught to not judge a person on externalities such as appearance and earnings. However, with livestock, such niceties that make human society work are disposed of, and a harsh brand of eugenics takes control. Those that live up to certain externalities live and reproduce, those that don't are at best sterilized and may find their way to the dinner table. So, at minimum, a Nigerian Dwarf goat has to conform to certain standards of breeding, and not exceed certain dimensions. The Real Doctor, who was a 4-H'er as a youth, has always had an interest in livestock genetics, and so has spent months ruthlessly judging photos of Nigerian Dwarf goats on criteria such as squareness of build, length and depth of body, udder attachment, and so on. Like a sports buff building the ideal fantasy baseball team, she is constructing the ideal herd based on appearance, soundness, and genetic diversity (and cost and availability). So, we will have goats from Massachusetts, goats from Texas, and goats from just up the road.
Which brings us back to the goats from Siletz. They've been here now a week, and are settling in nicely. We have Joella, the smaller and more aggressively friendly one
and Painted Lady, the larger and more cautious one.
These two were born in late February, so they're about three months old and about 1/2 to 2/3 of their final size. They still get some milk daily, but we're tapering off--at this point, it's as much for psychological effect as for nutritional value. They haven't quite figured out foraging, but they'll get it soon.
Today the Real Doctor and I are both kind of groggy, and the scheduling idiosyncrasies of goats are again to blame. We had to drive up to Eugene to pick up two more goats--but they were arriving from Massachusetts by air, and their flight arrived at about 11 PM. Their accommodations were comparable to those of most air travelers--they were in a dog carrier, and had only some dry pellets to eat for the entire trip. When we got them to the kerbside, we tried to give them each a couple of cups of milk. One of them took the nipple right away and gulped it all down, while the other struggled and squirmed and fidgeted and fussed and bleated (young goats, it turns out, can make a cry exactly like a peacock). Eventually she got it, and nursed with the focus and enthusiasm characteristic of any nursing mammal.
The new kids are a bit younger, and get a bit more milk. They are still kind of hyper, and like to shove and butt and get in your face when you are trying to work with them. Names have not yet congealed around them, so we'll just call them "Goat C":
and "Goat D":
So, all of a sudden I'm a pastoralist. I'm trying to wrap my head around this. I come from a long line of horticulturalists, and I am still itching to get the garden part of this property up and running. The whole business of living with farm animals--like country life, I suppose--an immersion into a completely different culture.
I spent a frantic day last week trying to get a pen ready for them, a couple of kids raised by a woman up in northern Oregon. We were supposed to pick them up in Siletz a week later, but she offered to drive them down to Eugene, saving us four hours in the car--an offer which we could not refuse. I suppose as owners of livestock, we have to get used to the animals determining the schedule whether we are ready or not.
While I was hastily reconfiguring a decaying dog run into a goat pen, the Real Doctor drove to the all-Oregon Milchgoatstravaganza in Eugene. Things went on a bit longer than expected, which was fine since it gave me more time to wrestle with wire and staples and latches. It was nearing sundown when the Real Doctor called me from I-5 with the sound of agitated bleating of two kids in the background.
Brother E. wants to know, why goats? Why this breed? Why these particular goats? and this is a good time to address the questions. Goats are good for maintaining land that you don't want to manage as forest. They eat the two nemeses of Oregon, Himalayan Blackberry and Poison Oak, in preference to other foods. Put them together with sheep, and you have a combo that (properly managed) will keep pasture healthy and productive. You can rent goats to do the job, but they're easier to own and a lot more interesting and effective than a brush hog and mower.
But why this breed? First and foremost, Nigerian Dwarf goats are not threatening. I'm new at this whole livestock thing, and the Real Doctor knows it. There are some big, stinky, mean breeds of goat out there. These are small, friendly, and downright cute. If you want, they can be used as milch goats, and they have an excellent conversion factor (amount of brambles and poison oak in/amount of milk out)--or, you can opt not to milk them, and not be subject to the grind of twice-daily milkings. We have had some cheese made from the milk of these beasties, and it made me really, desperately want to get some goats of my own and start making cheese.
Why these particular goats? Again, the Real Doctor calls the shots here. We are (with very good reason) urged to consider all humans as having value, and we are taught to not judge a person on externalities such as appearance and earnings. However, with livestock, such niceties that make human society work are disposed of, and a harsh brand of eugenics takes control. Those that live up to certain externalities live and reproduce, those that don't are at best sterilized and may find their way to the dinner table. So, at minimum, a Nigerian Dwarf goat has to conform to certain standards of breeding, and not exceed certain dimensions. The Real Doctor, who was a 4-H'er as a youth, has always had an interest in livestock genetics, and so has spent months ruthlessly judging photos of Nigerian Dwarf goats on criteria such as squareness of build, length and depth of body, udder attachment, and so on. Like a sports buff building the ideal fantasy baseball team, she is constructing the ideal herd based on appearance, soundness, and genetic diversity (and cost and availability). So, we will have goats from Massachusetts, goats from Texas, and goats from just up the road.
Which brings us back to the goats from Siletz. They've been here now a week, and are settling in nicely. We have Joella, the smaller and more aggressively friendly one
and Painted Lady, the larger and more cautious one.
These two were born in late February, so they're about three months old and about 1/2 to 2/3 of their final size. They still get some milk daily, but we're tapering off--at this point, it's as much for psychological effect as for nutritional value. They haven't quite figured out foraging, but they'll get it soon.Today the Real Doctor and I are both kind of groggy, and the scheduling idiosyncrasies of goats are again to blame. We had to drive up to Eugene to pick up two more goats--but they were arriving from Massachusetts by air, and their flight arrived at about 11 PM. Their accommodations were comparable to those of most air travelers--they were in a dog carrier, and had only some dry pellets to eat for the entire trip. When we got them to the kerbside, we tried to give them each a couple of cups of milk. One of them took the nipple right away and gulped it all down, while the other struggled and squirmed and fidgeted and fussed and bleated (young goats, it turns out, can make a cry exactly like a peacock). Eventually she got it, and nursed with the focus and enthusiasm characteristic of any nursing mammal.
The new kids are a bit younger, and get a bit more milk. They are still kind of hyper, and like to shove and butt and get in your face when you are trying to work with them. Names have not yet congealed around them, so we'll just call them "Goat C":
and "Goat D":So, all of a sudden I'm a pastoralist. I'm trying to wrap my head around this. I come from a long line of horticulturalists, and I am still itching to get the garden part of this property up and running. The whole business of living with farm animals--like country life, I suppose--an immersion into a completely different culture.
Monday Musical Offense, reconsidered
A couple of weeks ago, I kvetched about the radio station chosen by one of the contractors working on our house. A new phase of the project has started (pix later); one of the guys on this has his radio set to the same station, so I've heard "Call Me Maybe" and "Sexy and I know it" several times a day for the last few days. The new guy here favors dubstep, which is a step up.
Maria M. commented that it's Dadaism in music, but I'm not entirely sure--I think it's just folk music for a modern era. I mean, folk music is supposed to reflect the everyday experiences of "the folk" (or as Arlo Guthrie has it, if folk sing it, it's folk music). In mythic days of yore, those experiences would be the cycle of the seasons in the rustic life, planting corn and slaughtering goats, and maybe a run-in with a virtuous bandit or despised agent of the empire. Now, it's waiting on hold and listening to instructions from computerized voices and programming a Tivo and sitting in traffic and twittering. So, we get the folk music and folk dance that society makes.
I sure can't say that's any better or worse than this; folk is folk.
Maria M. commented that it's Dadaism in music, but I'm not entirely sure--I think it's just folk music for a modern era. I mean, folk music is supposed to reflect the everyday experiences of "the folk" (or as Arlo Guthrie has it, if folk sing it, it's folk music). In mythic days of yore, those experiences would be the cycle of the seasons in the rustic life, planting corn and slaughtering goats, and maybe a run-in with a virtuous bandit or despised agent of the empire. Now, it's waiting on hold and listening to instructions from computerized voices and programming a Tivo and sitting in traffic and twittering. So, we get the folk music and folk dance that society makes.
I sure can't say that's any better or worse than this; folk is folk.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Foreboding mystery thing...
The foreboding mystery-thing in the garage turns out to be full of cute: 27 chicks. 
They come in the mail from Murray McMurray hatchery in Iowa*. We got a phone call from the PO at 5 AM, telling us to come and get them because they sound hungry. So, after our own breakfast, we tooled over to the PO and picked up a small box full of chirp. One never really got adjusted to being out of the egg, and died in a day. It's been a couple of weeks now, so they're much bigger. In a week or two they will enter their spectacularly ugly teenage years.
*Hence the saying "the chick is in the mail."
They come in the mail from Murray McMurray hatchery in Iowa*. We got a phone call from the PO at 5 AM, telling us to come and get them because they sound hungry. So, after our own breakfast, we tooled over to the PO and picked up a small box full of chirp. One never really got adjusted to being out of the egg, and died in a day. It's been a couple of weeks now, so they're much bigger. In a week or two they will enter their spectacularly ugly teenage years.
*Hence the saying "the chick is in the mail."
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