Things That Go Bump

Awakened at three-thirty this morning, I couldn't imagine what was banging around in the laundry room (next to the bedroom).  At first I wondered if I'd dreamed it, but no, there it was again.  Something was definitely going bump in the night.  Getting up in the dark, I rounded the corner and flipped on the light.  The banging stopped.  Peering as best I could behind the appliances, I could see nothing.  Bess, Frank and Pearl clustered together in the doorway.  Obviously I would get no backup there.  Frank and Pearl seem to feel their obligations end in the barn.  My house, my problem.  Not willing to move washer or dryer in the middle of the night, I went back to bed.  In fact, we all went back to bed.  Even the little night thing settled down.  Ah, well, it is Halloween.

From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-legged beasties,
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!

All Is Well

Order has been restored at Farview.  Sheila came in and was relieved of her two-day supply of milk.  Ruthie appeared to have gotten past her unrequited passion of the day before.  The only time Bessie Anne barked was when we got a surprise visit from Stephanie, who came by to share video clips made down in the barn and goat pen when she was here.  It's pretty funny to hear my voice and see French subtitles!

Leaving Tim's goat ranch tomorrow, Stephanie will make a stop in Nevada before moving on to a farm in Moab, Utah.  I received a note from Jule who is now working in a vineyard in Cloverdale.  I applaud the bravery and spirit of adventure of these young women.  What a wonderful way to really experience rural life in America and make a contribution of their efforts at every stop.

Walking out to say goodbye to the goats, who all came to Stephanie to have their heads rubbed, I noticed that the few days of rain have thrown a pale green blanket across the pen.  Dormant seeds (well fertilized!) needed little encouragement to sprout.

I got caught with my dust rag down, my own fault, but how nice to see Stephanie again.  It was a good day.

Word For the Day

The only word that fits yesterday, start to finish, is the F word.  FRUSTRATION!  After listening to Bessie bark until my teeth were on edge, I went out armed with a leash when it was barely light enough to see.  She was circling the big oak by the drive, looking up, so whatever the bad thing was, it was a tree climber.  Try as I might, I couldn't find any movement in the branches or see an outline on a limb, but I wasn't going to stand under the tree for any length of time and push my luck, so the source of her panic will remain a frustrating mystery.  Bessie was exhausted and covered in burrs.

Down in the barn, Ruth was suffering frustration of a different sort and pretty darn vocal about it.  That happens in a herd of does without a buck.  Sheila.  Oh, Sheila.  You haven't been ignored until ignored by a goat, and Sheila has mastered that game.  I finally gave up on ring-around-the-rosy and left her to swell up like a toad.

Back in the house, I tackled Bessie's burrs.  Pearl suddenly demanded attention, in my face and getting between the brush and Bess, making the job impossible.  She is normally an aloof cat and this behavior was definitely out of character for her, but in line with the rest of the day.

Clint Bowyer did not win at Martinsville.

At sundown, Ruth refused to go to her room and stood looking over the hills as if waiting for Lochinvar to come riding.  Knowing that the night thing could be out there (and Lochinvar wasn't), I had to get her into the barn and safe.  I waited, I coaxed, I yelled, and finally I got a rope around her neck and brought her in.

Frustration, start to finish.

My Name Is Mudd

Six o'clock on a Sunday morning.  It's still dark.  Any neighbors within shouting distance would probably like to shout, "Shut up!," and I wouldn't blame them.  At five-thirty, Bessie Anne and the cats went outside and I fired up the computer.  At five-thirty-seven, I heard Bess's footsteps on the deck by the outside bedroom door.  Before I could get up to to let her in, she took off like a bat, barking at the top of her lungs.  Six-fifteen and she's still barking.  Perfect in so many ways, Bessie has one major flaw; she is absolutely rotten when it comes to recall.  I've learned from experience that when she has her eye on something she considers a threat, she goes deaf.  If I holler or go out to see the problem, she gives a look over her shoulder and says, "Oh, good, now I've got backup!," and charges after the offender, redoubling her barking as she goes.  Thinking she might have outgrown this, I just tried again.  Big mistake.  Now her bark has taken on a note of hysteria.  I wish it were light enough to see the cause of her concern, because it is concerning to me.  She doesn't bark at just anything.  Deer, squirrels, turkeys; none of them faze her.  The last time she did this, she had a raccoon up a tree and I was scared it would come down and attack Bessie.  I heard that someone down the way is in big trouble for shooting and killing a black bear recently.  This was right in the neighborhood.  All I can offer my neighbors right now is a huge apology, because I'm not going out in the dark to see the reason why Bess is yelling.  It (whatever it is) might come down the tree.

To be continued.

Signs Of the Times

It isn't just the tinge of color in the leaves across the hill that tells me the seasons are changing.  Walking out yesterday morning, I saw and smelled smoke from burn piles drifting up the cut and heard the whine of chainsaws down by the creek.  The number of turkeys cruising through is increasing daily.  Juncos with their black "executioner's hood" are arriving to winter over here.  With little to no transition, tank tops have been traded for turtlenecks.  Diaper wipes are disappearing out of the bucket in the barn, dragged out by mice and squirrels to line their burrows.  The goats' coats are thickening and the chickens are finally getting recovered in feathers.  Fall is here.

In addition to a very nice note, Stephanie sent photos of her day at Farview.  This one shows that great smile of success and the stream of milk from Cindy.  It makes me happy that she enjoyed her time with me.

It's not like me to admit defeat, but it seems the prudent thing to do.  It has been years since the lawn tractor has been serviced and with the latest breakdown, I decided to call in the experts.  The weedeater also needs repair so I'll knock off both at the same time.  A shop in Mt. Aukum will come and pick them up next week, with a promise to return the tractor by the time Dave and his crew come up.

And speaking of the crew, I talked with Clay, who just returned from his trip to Mexico (all these international travelers!).  He mentioned he might come up and help on Clean-up Day.  When I said I'd be making chili verde for the gang, the words were hardly out of my mouth before he said, "I'll be there!"  I'd better let Craig and Deb know, as chili verde is one of Craig's favorite dishes and it wouldn't taste the same without him.  Besides, many hands make light work.

Good and Bad

The sun came out while I was milking, almost too warm for the jacket I'd put on.  The rains had softened the goats' hooves as well as the dirt, so I got a start on trimming toenails (one hoof each per day) and dug up another bucketful to throw into the abyss under the stand.  The day was off to a good start.

With the danger of sparks and fire lessened, I thought it would be the perfect day to mow down the patches of persistent star thistle.  Ah, well.  Going out to the little tractor, the first thing I noticed was the flat rear tire (usually it's the front).  Then, although the engine wanted to turn over, it wouldn't start.  Check the gas.  Not only low, the tank was completely dry.  Hmmm.  Find the gas can, put some in the tank.  Watch it start a fast drip out of a part I can't recognize.  (I know about fuel lines and filters, but what is that black thingy there that I can't get off or tighten?)  Not wanting to waste what gas I'd put in (not at today's prices!), I backed the tractor around to the barn door, filled the tire with the air compressor, and raced around the yard to cut down the blankety-blank thistle and get back to the shed before running out of fuel.

Had I been able to foresee the future, I wouldn't have wasted time on Home Economics in high school.  The only dishes we made in that class (that I remember) were creamed peas and baked Alaska, neither of which I've ever made again.  I should have been in Auto Shop where I might have learned something really useful.  Auto Shop should be a requirement, not an elective.

When I called for advice (and maybe a little sympathy), Dave suggested I go down to The Pit, otherwise known as Steve's shop downstairs, and see if I can find an owner's manual for the tractor.  It took me five years to find where Steve kept the nails.  I'm not holding out a lot of hope.  Ah, well.

Real Women Eat Quiche

Farview Farm is beginning to develop an international flair.  My latest WWOOF guest, Stephanie, was from France.  Before coming to Tim's goat ranch, she had been on a farm above Yuba City in the valley, where her job had been to help with canning.  At Bell Ranch, I believe the primary responsibility is to clean the huge barn and give Kathryn a break.  My offering to the program is participation in milking goats and making cheese.  The first step in the cheese process is to set the curd and, with explanations, I got that started while we become acquainted before heading to the coops and barn.  Stephanie drew the rainy-day card, but the livestock must be tended regardless.  I'll admit to worrying as she stepped into the slippery chicken pen.  I didn't want an international incident if her feet were to slide out from under, but we passed that hurdle just fine.  I get such a kick out of the childlike smiles of success when beginners get that first squirt of milk to come out; it's not as easy as it looks.

Stephanie actually took notes while we moved on in the making of feta, cutting, heating, and stirring the curd, and then hanging it to drain the whey.  It felt a little gutsy to offer a Frenchwoman broccoli quiche for lunch, but hoped to make her feel at home.  I think the bigger success was the warm cheese bread I'd made.  She exclaimed it was exactly like French brioche.

I'm getting a routine and timing down pretty good by now, so we'd had a day of (to me) stimulating conversation, enjoyed a meal together, and had a finished package of cheese by the time Tim came to pick her up.  Who would have thought that, up here in the back of beyond, I would have the opportunity to meet such nice people from other countries who share my interests and bring different perspectives to my life.  This is "armchair travel" at its best!  I wish Stephanie bon voyage.