I guess since this blog is supposed to be about "life on a cat ranch," it's about time I mentioned something about the cats and the ranch again. As soon as I decided that was the case, the cats obliged by reminding me that life with them is never boring.
So here's a typical summer morning on my cat ranch:
The alarm goes off at six in the morning even though the sun isn't even peeking over the horizon yet. This is the way I see the alarm: it's my warning that it's almost time to get up, so I'd better start seeking consciousness ASAP or maybe nine minutes after I hit the snooze button. I think I can sleep for those nine minutes, but I have to pee. (Have you ever noticed that people in romance novels never have to pee in the morning? They never have morning breath, either. My life is not a romance novel.) So, instead of suffering, I will semi-sleepwalk to the bathroom and then crawl back into bed for the rest of that snooze.
When Moon, my border collie, is sleeping in the room, she has other ideas. She stands over me on the bed and licks my cheek. So I will either argue uselessly with her, "Come on, Moon, just let me have nine minutes," or I will get up and let her out. Some mornings, I'm awake enough to pee AND let the dog out before I go back to bed.
By the time I crawl back into bed, I have earned another snooze. After all, I didn't get my nine minutes. And the sun still isn't up.
But the Booman is.
"Merowff," he whispers into my ear, purring and kneading my pillow as he positions himself to lick my nose. Believe it or not, I can ignore the Booman, even knowing what is coming. Nose kisses escalate to total facial exfoliation. If I pull the sheets over my head, he pulls them back with those handy claws. "Merowff," he repeats.
Penny the Actual Queen of the Universe will be curled on her royal bed of pillows above my head on the bed (sometimes in the winter, she still sleeps curled in the crook of my arm like she did as a kitten) sleeping through all this. She won't stir until she's sure I'm up to stay. She never tries to wake me up. She waits for her entourage to accomplish that task.
If I ignore the Booman long enough, he will sniff my shoulder in preparation to bite. (This is a Boo bite: he opens his mouth, puts his teeth against my skin and lightly scrapes--it's more an annoyance than a bite. After ten years of being squirted for it, he has finally managed to train me to move before he bites so I don't have to get upset with him.) By now, the kittens are racing around the room and over the bed. There is really no reason to expect those nine minutes to happen, so I will get up and feed the cats, thanking God for all of my blessings as I go.
The other morning, I found that I had forgotten to take the cats' breakfast out of the freezer the night before, so I plugged the sink, tossed the baggy of raw food in and started the water. Boo was still pestering me. He likes cereal for breakfast, yummy carbs, the kitty equivalent of Cap'n Crunch, no health food for him like the kittens and show kitties get. He wants to go out in the morning as I feed the porch cats their scoop of Hill Country Fare kibble. Penny will follow, usually not because she wants to eat that crap, but because she just wants a little free time outside.
Boo was extra insistent to get outside right now on this morning, threatening to bite my ankles as I stood waiting for the sink to fill. So, I left the water running and went to the laundry room/ kitty lock door. Penny and Boo beat me there, stretching up to the doorknob and meowing in kitty equivalence of "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, hurry Mom!"
I got a scoop of kibble and carried it outside to the breakfast table (on the morning shade side of the house). I used to just poke myself out the door and pour the food into the bowl on the porch floor, but since Baba Wawa has come to live with us, I have had to put the bowl in the middle of the table because the lamb loves cat food. So I toddled around the house in my jammies (the nearest house/road/neighbor is a quarter mile away). I could toddle around naked if I wanted to. (Don't worry--I never want to; jammies are my favorite clothes, and I like to stay in them as long as possible.)
Baba came out from under the porch and bleated at me to let me know she was hungry, too. So I filled my blue feeding bucket with two scoops of regular alfalfa pellets, one scoop of sweet feed and a sprinkling of cat kibble and carried it to her by the southern porch steps. Ten horses saw me and came running. They had been in the pasture around my house for two days and had discovered the lamb's food the night before. So I carried Baba's black rubber feed bowl up on the porch and called her to come up the ramp on the other side of the house.
The horses were watching me from the east side of the house. I do not want them to learn about the porch ramp, so I went back to the laundry room to get the half full bag of alfalfa pellets and carried it down to them, spreading it out in a line in the grass long enough to prevent too much bickering.
Finally, I made it back into the house from my quick dash outside. I was greeted by a spreading pool and the joyful music of trickling water.
Oops.
Running water in a kitchen sink is no big deal: there are two basins; the overflow goes down the other sink. Unless the other sink is also plugged and full of dishes. The plan had been to dart outside quickly. Instead, I dilly-dallied long enough to turn my house into a water park.
Did I say "trickling?" Two rivers flowed in opposite directions from the sink to the ends of the counters where waterfalls cascaded over the edges. A trio of Bengal kittens sat the base of one waterfall, eyes wide in wonder, batting the falling water, their tails swishing through the water on the floor like windshield wipers in a flood. This river flowed into Lake Livingroom where the tide had swept cat toys to the shore. Chou Chou sat on the fireplace hearth, a sweet limestone cliff rising over the lake to give her an ideal vantage point from which to hook sodden catnip toys with one claw so that she could toss them to the other two kittens who waded in shallow edges of the lake, playing kitty water polo. When the waterfalls ceased flowing, the kittens begain their morning 70 foot sprints with the added bonus of Slip 'N' Slide.
The water park was not in business for long, but its debut was memorable. I have seen the kittens at the sink several times since then, plotting a way to recreate it.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
About that Inhaling....
I've been thinking about running for the Senate. No. Really. Stop laughing. It's not a new thought. While I was in high school, I started campaigning for President. Yes, of the United States of America. People used to ask me if I wanted to be the first woman President, and I would answer, "Nope, the youngest." At the time, I was hoping we would have had a female President before 1996, which was when I had to be elected to beat JFK in the youngest department.
As you can see, I missed that deadline.
These days, I don't want to be President. Damned good thing, eh? Have to keep my dreams somewhat within the stratosphere even if they never will be totally down to earth.
But the problem with running for political office is that I'm too damned honest. Yes, I inhaled. A lot. Many things that were inhalable. But not since 1989. So that's two strikes right there. Honesty and a past.
The thing about a past is that some people can never forgive. That past will always be there, and they will always judge you for what happened in the 1980's. I read recently about an uproar over a Christian person in some political office who actually employed an ex-prostitute. Oh, the Religious had their panties in a twit over that. But to me, it seemed that he was doing the most Christian thing. Jesus didn't hang out with the Religious, after all. So, this political person was not condemned for his past, but his employee's past was apparently communicable.
So don't stand too close to me.
Back in the Nineties, (why weren't our Nineties "Gay"? Oh, sorry. Birdwalking) when I heard about all the problems in public education (and that's another tangent for another day), I said to myself, "Self, if you're not part of the solution..."
No, really. It happened just like that. I became a teacher to help right a wrong. Whose wrong? It didn't matter. I believe so very strongly in a free public education, and I believed that our children deserved the best. SO I became the best teacher I could and an advocate for my students who lived in poverty.
Ah. Now you get it, eh? We have a big problem with our government. Not only that, but it's a real problem and not just a fictitious problem created by politicians. In fact, it's a real problem created by politicians. Politicians are the problem. And, if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. Now, I could vote and consider my job done, but I'd still only see politicians getting elected.
A politician is a person who makes political office their career. It's a great career move if you can make it. The salary is way up there and the benefits are awesome. One turn in in our congress, and you're set for life.
The problem with having only politicians in political office is that everything becomes a career move. We saw that clearly in the last Texas legislative session. A government made up of politicians is selfish. A government made up of politicians caters to the big bucks and the most publicity so they can stay in office and make big bucks, too.
I have come up with a very simple solution to the problem: Political office should be a public service, not a high paying career. A Senator shouldn't make more than a school teacher, fire fighter or police officer. THEIR salaries and retirements ought to be on the line. Think about the beauty of this. If political offices were filled with public servants instead of politicians, then they would attract people who care about the public they serve. They would be dedicated to solving our problems and making sure our country is running smoothly.
In order for this to happen, someone has to take the first step. So I thought I'd run for Senate and introduce the bill. What would I do with all that extra salary? Donate it back to people who need it.
As you can see, I missed that deadline.
These days, I don't want to be President. Damned good thing, eh? Have to keep my dreams somewhat within the stratosphere even if they never will be totally down to earth.
But the problem with running for political office is that I'm too damned honest. Yes, I inhaled. A lot. Many things that were inhalable. But not since 1989. So that's two strikes right there. Honesty and a past.
The thing about a past is that some people can never forgive. That past will always be there, and they will always judge you for what happened in the 1980's. I read recently about an uproar over a Christian person in some political office who actually employed an ex-prostitute. Oh, the Religious had their panties in a twit over that. But to me, it seemed that he was doing the most Christian thing. Jesus didn't hang out with the Religious, after all. So, this political person was not condemned for his past, but his employee's past was apparently communicable.
So don't stand too close to me.
Back in the Nineties, (why weren't our Nineties "Gay"? Oh, sorry. Birdwalking) when I heard about all the problems in public education (and that's another tangent for another day), I said to myself, "Self, if you're not part of the solution..."
No, really. It happened just like that. I became a teacher to help right a wrong. Whose wrong? It didn't matter. I believe so very strongly in a free public education, and I believed that our children deserved the best. SO I became the best teacher I could and an advocate for my students who lived in poverty.
Ah. Now you get it, eh? We have a big problem with our government. Not only that, but it's a real problem and not just a fictitious problem created by politicians. In fact, it's a real problem created by politicians. Politicians are the problem. And, if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. Now, I could vote and consider my job done, but I'd still only see politicians getting elected.
A politician is a person who makes political office their career. It's a great career move if you can make it. The salary is way up there and the benefits are awesome. One turn in in our congress, and you're set for life.
The problem with having only politicians in political office is that everything becomes a career move. We saw that clearly in the last Texas legislative session. A government made up of politicians is selfish. A government made up of politicians caters to the big bucks and the most publicity so they can stay in office and make big bucks, too.
I have come up with a very simple solution to the problem: Political office should be a public service, not a high paying career. A Senator shouldn't make more than a school teacher, fire fighter or police officer. THEIR salaries and retirements ought to be on the line. Think about the beauty of this. If political offices were filled with public servants instead of politicians, then they would attract people who care about the public they serve. They would be dedicated to solving our problems and making sure our country is running smoothly.
In order for this to happen, someone has to take the first step. So I thought I'd run for Senate and introduce the bill. What would I do with all that extra salary? Donate it back to people who need it.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
I'm Baaaack
Sometime ago, I announced my intention to blog once a week. Crap happened, but I'm back. And this time I have an iPad.
My friends and family will know that last year, I asked for an iPad for my birthday, and he gave me a divorce instead. Or, as Mom says, "Instead, he gave you something really wonderful." This year, with my student loan, I got my own iPad. Even better: I was patient and pre-ordered an iPad2.
(For concerned tax payers out there, this was not a frivolous use of my student loan. I desperately needed a new laptop for school. I wanted an iPad. Therefore, my iPad is my new laptop for school. Totally within the guidelines of responsible student loan spending.)
I love my iPad. I have used it for schoolwork. I'm outside with it in the late mornings (after vineyard work) when I write and the evenings when I don't, so it's filled with video of my constant companions: Moon, Baba Wawa, Penny and the Booman. I've used it to edit and post some of those videos on YouTube. I am using it to write one of my novels, which happens to be set on a ranch, so the setting where I set myself and my iPad in the morning is conducive to the creative process.
We're all out here right now in the shade of a 150 year-old oak tree:
One of my favorite aps is 2Do. It's a handy to-do list that can be used to set up repeating actions on certain days. It comes with pretty colored category tabs, fun buttons and prioritizing. I have made the priorities my own though, and so they are not a matter of priority at all. High priority is what I use for one-time things that need doing. Medium is for weekly chores that automatically pop up on their day of the week. Low is for monthly chores. None is for the daily stuff like dishes and litterboxes. (If I could figure out how, I'd change the titles from "None" to "Daily," etc., but that's not a high enough priority for me to take the time to figure it out.) Starred items are tricky little boogers. They never go away. You can touch the box on the screen to indicate it's done, and the line gets drawn, but then it stays there. I like things to disappear from the Today tab. So I only used the star for writing. Weekdays are for the novels (I'm writing two at the moment--it was five, but I've narrowed it down to two--one on the iPad, and one on my office computer in the afternoons.) And as of yesterday, the weekends are for blogging. As soon as I push "Publish Post," I get to check it off my 2Do list.
And even though this one has been mostly about nothing, I do have a lot on my mind. It has been quite a year for me, and I have a bunch of topics coming soon, like "Being Catty" and "Stop Telling Me to Build My Barn" and "Oops! I Inhaled. A Lot." And of course, there are Penny stories and Booman tales, along with the escapades of my border collie, Moon, and my lamb, Baba Wawa.
I had some folks tell me recently that they missed my stories on the Bengals-L Yahoo list. I'm still kind of there, but mostly you'll find me on FaceBook or right here. Uncensored.
My friends and family will know that last year, I asked for an iPad for my birthday, and he gave me a divorce instead. Or, as Mom says, "Instead, he gave you something really wonderful." This year, with my student loan, I got my own iPad. Even better: I was patient and pre-ordered an iPad2.
(For concerned tax payers out there, this was not a frivolous use of my student loan. I desperately needed a new laptop for school. I wanted an iPad. Therefore, my iPad is my new laptop for school. Totally within the guidelines of responsible student loan spending.)
I love my iPad. I have used it for schoolwork. I'm outside with it in the late mornings (after vineyard work) when I write and the evenings when I don't, so it's filled with video of my constant companions: Moon, Baba Wawa, Penny and the Booman. I've used it to edit and post some of those videos on YouTube. I am using it to write one of my novels, which happens to be set on a ranch, so the setting where I set myself and my iPad in the morning is conducive to the creative process.
We're all out here right now in the shade of a 150 year-old oak tree:
 |
| My Outdoor Office |
One of my favorite aps is 2Do. It's a handy to-do list that can be used to set up repeating actions on certain days. It comes with pretty colored category tabs, fun buttons and prioritizing. I have made the priorities my own though, and so they are not a matter of priority at all. High priority is what I use for one-time things that need doing. Medium is for weekly chores that automatically pop up on their day of the week. Low is for monthly chores. None is for the daily stuff like dishes and litterboxes. (If I could figure out how, I'd change the titles from "None" to "Daily," etc., but that's not a high enough priority for me to take the time to figure it out.) Starred items are tricky little boogers. They never go away. You can touch the box on the screen to indicate it's done, and the line gets drawn, but then it stays there. I like things to disappear from the Today tab. So I only used the star for writing. Weekdays are for the novels (I'm writing two at the moment--it was five, but I've narrowed it down to two--one on the iPad, and one on my office computer in the afternoons.) And as of yesterday, the weekends are for blogging. As soon as I push "Publish Post," I get to check it off my 2Do list.
And even though this one has been mostly about nothing, I do have a lot on my mind. It has been quite a year for me, and I have a bunch of topics coming soon, like "Being Catty" and "Stop Telling Me to Build My Barn" and "Oops! I Inhaled. A Lot." And of course, there are Penny stories and Booman tales, along with the escapades of my border collie, Moon, and my lamb, Baba Wawa.
I had some folks tell me recently that they missed my stories on the Bengals-L Yahoo list. I'm still kind of there, but mostly you'll find me on FaceBook or right here. Uncensored.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
A Life of Service
A Life of Service
Robert Eugene Fickle of Blanco, Texas passed away peacefully on January 27 2001 . He is survived by his wife, Erika Hermean Jurgens Fickle, his children Erich Brent Fickle and wife Luella Martin Fickle, Bobbi Jean Fickle and Susan Victoria Fickle Jones and husband Charles Michael Jones, his grandchildren Justin Rodney Jones and wife Veronica Salazar Jones, Travis Dale Jones, Victoria Anne Jones and Robert Michael Jones, and great-grandchildren Grant Jones and Scout Justin Jones, sons of Justin and Veronica.
Robert Eugene Fickle was born in Burwell, Nebraska on May 25, 1930. His family moved to California during the Dust Bowl Migration. He was raised by his mother, Flossie (Florence Brown Wheatley) and grandmother, Eva Knobel Long. He graduated from Compton High School and proudly served his country in the Navy during the Korean War. Following the war, he attended Compton College where he was president of Alpha Sigma Chi fraternity. There he met the bright and beautiful Erika Hermean Jurgens, with whom he fell in love. They were married on June 9, 1956. Bob and Erika had 3 children, Erich Brent Fickle, BobbiJean Fickle and Susan Victoria Fickle Jones, who are forever grateful to have been raised by the best dad ever. He taught his children the values of always learning new things, working hard, having a generous heart and living and laughing well. He loved hosting amazing parties for friends and family, travel, the outdoors, photography, theater, agriculture and genealogy.
Bob was a police officer in Compton, CA and Huntington Beach, CA during the unrest of the Sixties. During the 1970s he was instrumental in developing a modern, computerized communications system with Motorola Corporation for the HBPD. After he retired from the police department in 1980, he worked for Southern California Edison company and helped develop security systems for the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant.
Bob and Erika retired in 1994, moving to Blanco to be near their grandchildren, Justin, Travis, Victoria and Robert Jones, and fulfilling a lifelong dream to own a ranch. Totally missing the point of retirement, they worked hard to clear mesquite for pastures and plant a vineyard on their River Ridge Ranch east of Blanco. They also traveled throughout Texas, enjoying all the wonders of their new home.
Continuing his lifelong tradition of service, Bob was active with both the VFW and American Legion in Blanco, TX , even after a stroke in 2002. He and Erika supported the Blanco County Youth Livestock Show for many years and were Top Individual Buyers in 2004 and 2005.
Robert Eugene Fickle lived a good life and the ripples of his influence will continue to shape the future. We will miss you, Daddy, until we meet again in heaven.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Research
I have a new goal for my blog: write every Sunday after lunch with Mom. I think I can do this. I really do. Here I am today doing it after making the decision this morning. That's a promising beginning, eh?
I have had the most enlightening couple of weeks. Last Thursday, when I woke up early already deep in thought...Well, let me qualify that. The thoughts were not deep, I was just tangled up in them like hot sweaty sheets. Except that it wasn't hot. Gotta love fall. I do at least; it's my favorite season. Anyway, instead of lying there allowing said shallow...well, not so much shallow as not deep...thoughts torture me, I got up, made a pot of coffee and went to work on my article/video on Marbled Bengal patterns. About three in the afternoon, realizing what I had could only be called an "article" with tons of editing but would be okay as a blog one day AND that I hadn't had lunch yet, I was flattened by an epiphany. I got up at 6:30 in the morning and wrote, ergo, I can write in the morning.
Huh. And all this time, I thought I had to write at night because I've always been somewhat of a night owl and not a morning person at all.
Seriously. Not at all. Talk to me before I've had my coffee, and you take your life in your hands. At the very least, I could make you cry. There was that time I was camping at Bow Willow in Anza Borrego with my brother and sister-in-law. Luella wakes up talking. Make that chattering. I tried to hint with no effect at all. Waiting with little patience for the percolator on the Coleman stove to perk, I flat out said, "Luella, please don't talk to me until after I've had my coffee." The silence lasted just long enough to take the edge off my nerves before she again launched into her narrative of her life. "Erich," I let loose in my crankiest voice, "do you have any duct tape?"
So, conversation and morning are definitely out. And unless your name is Joyce Meyer and you're on my television, I'm not interested in your monologue, either.
The thought that I might be able to write in the morning never even occurred to me. But there it was that day. I had. So on Friday, I tried it out and started a novel.
Okay, so "started" might not be precisely what I did, since I started the thing eleven years ago, but the point is I got up, made my coffee and worked on it for four hours. Really and truly worked on it. I was so darned proud of myself, I had to tell Mom all about it. And post it on Facebook and tell all my friends after they already had read it on Facebook. I told Mom, "I have a new schedule."
And she replied, "Don't bother you until noon because you're writing."
I beamed with double pleasure. That was about the most supportive thing Mom has ever said about my writing.
And I've kept to my new schedule every day I've been home since the epiphany with somewhat varying degrees of success. As some FB friends may have deduced, what I'm writing currently involves billiards, since I keep playing "Pool Master" and calling it research. I don't want to say too much to give it way, but I will tell y'all that the main character is a speed freak. So, in the interest of research....
I made TWO pots of coffee this morning. Living on the edge.
I have had the most enlightening couple of weeks. Last Thursday, when I woke up early already deep in thought...Well, let me qualify that. The thoughts were not deep, I was just tangled up in them like hot sweaty sheets. Except that it wasn't hot. Gotta love fall. I do at least; it's my favorite season. Anyway, instead of lying there allowing said shallow...well, not so much shallow as not deep...thoughts torture me, I got up, made a pot of coffee and went to work on my article/video on Marbled Bengal patterns. About three in the afternoon, realizing what I had could only be called an "article" with tons of editing but would be okay as a blog one day AND that I hadn't had lunch yet, I was flattened by an epiphany. I got up at 6:30 in the morning and wrote, ergo, I can write in the morning.
Huh. And all this time, I thought I had to write at night because I've always been somewhat of a night owl and not a morning person at all.
Seriously. Not at all. Talk to me before I've had my coffee, and you take your life in your hands. At the very least, I could make you cry. There was that time I was camping at Bow Willow in Anza Borrego with my brother and sister-in-law. Luella wakes up talking. Make that chattering. I tried to hint with no effect at all. Waiting with little patience for the percolator on the Coleman stove to perk, I flat out said, "Luella, please don't talk to me until after I've had my coffee." The silence lasted just long enough to take the edge off my nerves before she again launched into her narrative of her life. "Erich," I let loose in my crankiest voice, "do you have any duct tape?"
So, conversation and morning are definitely out. And unless your name is Joyce Meyer and you're on my television, I'm not interested in your monologue, either.
The thought that I might be able to write in the morning never even occurred to me. But there it was that day. I had. So on Friday, I tried it out and started a novel.
Okay, so "started" might not be precisely what I did, since I started the thing eleven years ago, but the point is I got up, made my coffee and worked on it for four hours. Really and truly worked on it. I was so darned proud of myself, I had to tell Mom all about it. And post it on Facebook and tell all my friends after they already had read it on Facebook. I told Mom, "I have a new schedule."
And she replied, "Don't bother you until noon because you're writing."
I beamed with double pleasure. That was about the most supportive thing Mom has ever said about my writing.
And I've kept to my new schedule every day I've been home since the epiphany with somewhat varying degrees of success. As some FB friends may have deduced, what I'm writing currently involves billiards, since I keep playing "Pool Master" and calling it research. I don't want to say too much to give it way, but I will tell y'all that the main character is a speed freak. So, in the interest of research....
I made TWO pots of coffee this morning. Living on the edge.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Shit Happens
I was going to spray the vineyard with fungicide. I got on the lawn mower to drive it to the sprayer in the shed. It went ten feet and quit. I checked the gas tank. It had over a half-tank of fuel sloshing around. I started it again and went two feet. It started and died without moving. Crap. I went into the house to report to Mom that the spraying wouldn't happen today, either.
"This has been a frustrating couple of days mechanically," I told Mom.
"Well, let's face it," she said, "it has been a frustrating couple of weeks or three."
I waved my hand at her. "Yeah, but that's you. We're talking about me now."
She snorted and waved her hand, "Oh, okay, that's just me."
"Focus, Mom. It's all about me right now." Hands were waving, fingers were pointing to me. "Focus."
"Okay," she breathed, recovering from laughing and wiping her tears. She tucked her hands between her knees and leaned forward. "I'm focused. Go."
Mom got the Reader's Digest synopsis. Not here.
First I had trouble getting the spear off the tractor. It's a nifty little 3-speared jousting device (weighing way more than I can pick up) that is attached to the tractor's bucket with a bolt and nut through a hole. The spear stabs those big round hay bales so you can move them. My nephew puts it on because he is a strong young man, and he usually takes it off for me so I can use the tractor. He had left it on the night before because they needed to get to his nephew's soccer game. No biggy as long as it's just finger tightened. I can get it off. Usually.
The trickiest part is figuring out lefty-loosey with a wrench on an upside-down nut you can't see. You can't see it because the bucket is low enough that it won't accidentally fall on your head. This is important for me. I know that there are some people who think all those mishaps over the married years were because of the drinking, you know: the concussion in the bathtub, the trip over the cat and through the sliding glass door, the death-by-toilet episode, the cell-phone debacle. But I have proven over the past six months of sobriety that this is actually a finely honed talent of mine. Who else can get a concussion while feeding a cat? I think the step of keeping the spear low is vital for me.
So I would figure out lefty-loosey with my hands (my fingers know) and then try to duplicate it with the wrenches. There are two wrenches: one for the nut and one for the bolt. The wrench on the bolt kept slipping. I switched wrenches, letting the shorter handled monkey-wrench wedge itself against the bucket, and concentrating on the nut I can't see. This takes a bit of positioning of the body between the spears to reach it. The wrench on the nut fell to the ground. I un-positioned myself and scooted it out from under the tractor with the other wrench. Then I repositioned the monkey wrench, figured out lefty-loosey with my fingers, and tried again. (Have I mentioned that my nephew is a strong young man?) The wrench clattered to the ground.
"This is unacceptable!" I yelled, throwing in a few cuss words that I very seldom use anymore. I stomped to the tractor, climbed up, turned it on, and raised the bucket. I would just leave the tractor running which would decrease the chance of hydraulic failure and death by tractor-spear. I didn't even need my fingers to figure out lefty-loosey: I could see it. One good tug to counter the super-strength of my nephew, and the nut was free to spin, and the bolt was removed. I marched to the seat, lowered the bucket, and left that spear in the dust.
I entered the vineyard in triumph, lowered the shredder to a nice low height, and turned it on. Within 10 feet, I had snagged a roll of wire hidden in the grass (it was in front of the bigger roll of wire that I could see and so went around). I turned off the shredder. Cuss, cuss, cuss. People just leave things lying all over this ranch, and by golly, why can't they pick them up? I'm going to pick up every darned stray object on this ranch all at once on purpose so I don't continue picking them up one at a time accidentally with the shredder. By golly. Cuss, cuss.
I backed the tractor up and the wire nearly came loose. Hmmm. Maybe this wasn't as bad as I thought; the wire didn't seem to be wrapped tightly around the blades. I got down and tugged on it. No movement. Back on the tractor I went forward, and the wire moved. I backed up, went forward, backed up, went forward. I got down and tugged. No movement. I bent over, ass in the air, head by my knees, trying to see under the shredder. I knelt down and tried again to look under the shredder. I'd have to get it out of the grass so I could see. I left the vineyard and drove back to the shed where the tools are, dragging that wire all the way. On the driveway to the barn, I could see that the bundle was stuck on the bent corner of the shredder's frame by just one wire. I got wire cutters even though I know that I can't cut fence wire with wire cutters, but the bolt cutters were in Robert's truck last I knew. I got a hammer and tried pounding it down. I went to put the hammer away, and TADA!!!! There, hanging on hooks in all their vibrant red glory were the bolt cutters. I grabbed them.
As I turned around, I saw dog shit on the floor of the shed with a distinctive Teva print smooshed through it. Some dog (obviously not my dog, because she is a good girl) had shit in the shed. Naturally I stepped in it. I sighed and went about the business of snipping the wire and tossing the smashed-up bundle in the bucket to put in the trash trailer. I wiped my foot on the grass, got on the tractor, dumped the wire and shredded the darned vineyard. Without further incident. Except for the rebar from the removed row 13 which is now lying next to row 12 which caused a ruckus but didn't get caught.
"Okay," I said to Mom, "I'm done. That's it. This fall I'm picking up all the crap around the ranch. But first I have to go move the lawn mower because it's sitting behind your van."
"Okay," she said.
I left the room, but turned and came right back. She put her head down on the desk. "What now?"
I told her about my Facebook status. I thought it would make a dandy t-shirt, or an awesome first line for a novel, but I used it on Facebook: "Shit happens. I just never see it until after I step in it."
I'm going to go shred now. Wish me luck.
"This has been a frustrating couple of days mechanically," I told Mom.
"Well, let's face it," she said, "it has been a frustrating couple of weeks or three."
I waved my hand at her. "Yeah, but that's you. We're talking about me now."
She snorted and waved her hand, "Oh, okay, that's just me."
"Focus, Mom. It's all about me right now." Hands were waving, fingers were pointing to me. "Focus."
"Okay," she breathed, recovering from laughing and wiping her tears. She tucked her hands between her knees and leaned forward. "I'm focused. Go."
Mom got the Reader's Digest synopsis. Not here.
First I had trouble getting the spear off the tractor. It's a nifty little 3-speared jousting device (weighing way more than I can pick up) that is attached to the tractor's bucket with a bolt and nut through a hole. The spear stabs those big round hay bales so you can move them. My nephew puts it on because he is a strong young man, and he usually takes it off for me so I can use the tractor. He had left it on the night before because they needed to get to his nephew's soccer game. No biggy as long as it's just finger tightened. I can get it off. Usually.
The trickiest part is figuring out lefty-loosey with a wrench on an upside-down nut you can't see. You can't see it because the bucket is low enough that it won't accidentally fall on your head. This is important for me. I know that there are some people who think all those mishaps over the married years were because of the drinking, you know: the concussion in the bathtub, the trip over the cat and through the sliding glass door, the death-by-toilet episode, the cell-phone debacle. But I have proven over the past six months of sobriety that this is actually a finely honed talent of mine. Who else can get a concussion while feeding a cat? I think the step of keeping the spear low is vital for me.
So I would figure out lefty-loosey with my hands (my fingers know) and then try to duplicate it with the wrenches. There are two wrenches: one for the nut and one for the bolt. The wrench on the bolt kept slipping. I switched wrenches, letting the shorter handled monkey-wrench wedge itself against the bucket, and concentrating on the nut I can't see. This takes a bit of positioning of the body between the spears to reach it. The wrench on the nut fell to the ground. I un-positioned myself and scooted it out from under the tractor with the other wrench. Then I repositioned the monkey wrench, figured out lefty-loosey with my fingers, and tried again. (Have I mentioned that my nephew is a strong young man?) The wrench clattered to the ground.
"This is unacceptable!" I yelled, throwing in a few cuss words that I very seldom use anymore. I stomped to the tractor, climbed up, turned it on, and raised the bucket. I would just leave the tractor running which would decrease the chance of hydraulic failure and death by tractor-spear. I didn't even need my fingers to figure out lefty-loosey: I could see it. One good tug to counter the super-strength of my nephew, and the nut was free to spin, and the bolt was removed. I marched to the seat, lowered the bucket, and left that spear in the dust.
I entered the vineyard in triumph, lowered the shredder to a nice low height, and turned it on. Within 10 feet, I had snagged a roll of wire hidden in the grass (it was in front of the bigger roll of wire that I could see and so went around). I turned off the shredder. Cuss, cuss, cuss. People just leave things lying all over this ranch, and by golly, why can't they pick them up? I'm going to pick up every darned stray object on this ranch all at once on purpose so I don't continue picking them up one at a time accidentally with the shredder. By golly. Cuss, cuss.
I backed the tractor up and the wire nearly came loose. Hmmm. Maybe this wasn't as bad as I thought; the wire didn't seem to be wrapped tightly around the blades. I got down and tugged on it. No movement. Back on the tractor I went forward, and the wire moved. I backed up, went forward, backed up, went forward. I got down and tugged. No movement. I bent over, ass in the air, head by my knees, trying to see under the shredder. I knelt down and tried again to look under the shredder. I'd have to get it out of the grass so I could see. I left the vineyard and drove back to the shed where the tools are, dragging that wire all the way. On the driveway to the barn, I could see that the bundle was stuck on the bent corner of the shredder's frame by just one wire. I got wire cutters even though I know that I can't cut fence wire with wire cutters, but the bolt cutters were in Robert's truck last I knew. I got a hammer and tried pounding it down. I went to put the hammer away, and TADA!!!! There, hanging on hooks in all their vibrant red glory were the bolt cutters. I grabbed them.
As I turned around, I saw dog shit on the floor of the shed with a distinctive Teva print smooshed through it. Some dog (obviously not my dog, because she is a good girl) had shit in the shed. Naturally I stepped in it. I sighed and went about the business of snipping the wire and tossing the smashed-up bundle in the bucket to put in the trash trailer. I wiped my foot on the grass, got on the tractor, dumped the wire and shredded the darned vineyard. Without further incident. Except for the rebar from the removed row 13 which is now lying next to row 12 which caused a ruckus but didn't get caught.
"Okay," I said to Mom, "I'm done. That's it. This fall I'm picking up all the crap around the ranch. But first I have to go move the lawn mower because it's sitting behind your van."
"Okay," she said.
I left the room, but turned and came right back. She put her head down on the desk. "What now?"
I told her about my Facebook status. I thought it would make a dandy t-shirt, or an awesome first line for a novel, but I used it on Facebook: "Shit happens. I just never see it until after I step in it."
I'm going to go shred now. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Harvest
Glossary of Vineyard Tending Terms:
bird netting: a net which is placed over the grapevines in a continuous feed without cutting it to fit the rows (penalty for cutting: the Wrath of Mom) for the purpose of trapping birds for the cats and border collie to chase and catch. (Incidental benefit is that the netting prevents the birds from eating 3/4 of the grape.)
hedging: a) daily stroll up and down the aisles dressed in Easter finery and strappy high heels, waving hedge trimmers at the vines (source: commercial for Saks--or was it Macy's?) b) drudge work of trimming back rampant grapevines which seek daily to recreate that gut-wrenching final hand-holding scene in the old black and white film "Last of the Mohicans" across the aisles.
netting platform: a metal contraption that attaches to the back of the tractor with a flat place for standing, a hoop to hold the bag containing the bird netting, and a boom or arm with two hoops for feeding the netting out over the rows of grapevines. Along with netting for one acre of vineyard, the platform costs the equivalent of two years' profit.
verizon: when the grapes start turning purple indicating that "The Birds" are about to do a Hitchcock on the vineyard.
So what They said about bird netting was that once it was on, you were done with everything except spraying and praying until harvest. A few weeks of relief from the daily grind during the height of summer. Hallelujah. That's what they said, and by golly, that's what Mom and I were determined to believe.
While we were finishing the hedging so we could get the net on, I said, "That net's going to be tough to get off."
Mom said, "The vines stopped growing sooner last year."
"What?" I was confounded. Cabernet vines stop growing? Maybe in October. Mom and Dad planted the damned cabernet because they were a "vigorous" vine. The reason the no work in the vineyard from verizon to harvest sounded so good to me was because of the vigor of those vines. Vigorous is now one of my favorite cuss words meaning something akin to "royal pain in the ass."
"They always slow down after verizon, and we stop hedging in early August."
"We stop hedging when they harvest, Mom."
"At least it will give us a break."
Putting up the netting was a snap. (Ha.) It only took four of us: me to drive the tractor, Victoria to stand on the platform and feed the netting out of the bag and through the loops on the boom and Susan and Robert to walk behind, spreading the net out and draping it over the vines. Snap. Four hours of snap, and I was doubly determined to be done until harvest, when we'd take the net off the day before the pickers came.
A week later, Susan told Mom, "The wind blew the netting off the vineyard."
Mom looked out the window and said, "No. The vines are just growing through it."
"Oh. That's going to be fun to take off."
Every day, I walked by the vineyard on the way to help Mom take care of Dad, and thought, "Oh, that's going to be a bitch."
So what did we do about it? Mom sprayed. We prayed. That's what they said to do. I was praying that the vines really would stop growing. Soon. Before it was impossible to take the net off.
Grape harvest always, always, always takes place in August, usually the same weekend as the TICA South Central Regional Show and Banquet. I usually miss the show because of the harvest. When the Regional was in Austin, I did both harvest and banquet! This year I actually planned to miss the harvest and go to the Regional in LaFayette, Louisiana. Well, the grapes couldn't have me missing it, so harvest was about 2 weeks late.
When I got home from Louisiana, Mom told me that now They said that we were supposed to go through the vineyard daily fluffing up the netting so the vines didn't grow through the holes and entangle the net. She would pay me $10 an hour (my going rate for shredding the fields) to help trim the vines off the top of the net before harvest for three or four hours a day. Mind you, one hour in the vineyard is plenty of work for me, let alone for my 75 year old mother with her bad knees. But we did the time.
"Why do I always make mistakes?" Mom said. "I make new ones every year, but there's always something. In another twenty years, I should have this down."
"Oh, I can just see us out here in twenty years, Mom. I'll be the one in my seventies needing a walker. You'll be 95."
We finished with a day to spare. Well, of course we just thought it was a spare day. Turned out to be the day we should have put the platform on the tractor because naturally that fifteen minute job took over an hour.
Even though Mom and I had put in the grueling hours it took to get it ready, taking the netting off was still not a snap. I have decided that the only snap around here would be if we changed the name of the place from River Ridge Ranch and Vineyard to Murphy's Law Happens. Now that would be a snap. Snap.
It took five of us this time, with Victoria's boyfriend Patrick helping on the platform to pull the netting through the hoops. We were supposed to have the netting off the day before harvest, but Susan's husband had an auction (Charlie is an auctioneer) on Saturday, and their projected arrival time of 3:00 to help with the netting turned into twice later than the usual two hour tardniess. By the time the shredder was off the tractor and the platform was on, we had about a half hour of daylight left.
We worked through dusk. "Do you want flashlights?" I hinted to Susan.
"Do you have one?" She asked with a definite note of hope in her voice.
"Yeah, they're in the house."
"Oh." We worked through full dark. Susan and Robert had to stop about every five feet to untangle the net from the rebar ties. I could see because the tractor had lights, but they couldn't. So I went to the house and got flashlights. We were going so slow that we quit after another two rows, hoping that we could keep ahead of the pickers in the morning.
That didn't happen either. Harvest time was set for 6:30 in the morning, when the earliest hint of light allows limited vision. The pickers showed up at five. They were only a row behind by the time we got back to it, and they caught up with us, and passed us. They lifted the net and draped it on the top of the vines to pick underneath. This made it a heck of a lot easier to take the netting off--definitely the reason we finished at the same time as the pickers (as opposed to an hour later). Susan said, "Next year, we're taking the net off after they pick."
The harvest is in. The grapes are done. Until it all starts over again.
bird netting: a net which is placed over the grapevines in a continuous feed without cutting it to fit the rows (penalty for cutting: the Wrath of Mom) for the purpose of trapping birds for the cats and border collie to chase and catch. (Incidental benefit is that the netting prevents the birds from eating 3/4 of the grape.)
hedging: a) daily stroll up and down the aisles dressed in Easter finery and strappy high heels, waving hedge trimmers at the vines (source: commercial for Saks--or was it Macy's?) b) drudge work of trimming back rampant grapevines which seek daily to recreate that gut-wrenching final hand-holding scene in the old black and white film "Last of the Mohicans" across the aisles.
actual attire with live grasshopper (not jewelry)
verizon: when the grapes start turning purple indicating that "The Birds" are about to do a Hitchcock on the vineyard.
 |
| verizon |
So what They said about bird netting was that once it was on, you were done with everything except spraying and praying until harvest. A few weeks of relief from the daily grind during the height of summer. Hallelujah. That's what they said, and by golly, that's what Mom and I were determined to believe.
While we were finishing the hedging so we could get the net on, I said, "That net's going to be tough to get off."
Mom said, "The vines stopped growing sooner last year."
"What?" I was confounded. Cabernet vines stop growing? Maybe in October. Mom and Dad planted the damned cabernet because they were a "vigorous" vine. The reason the no work in the vineyard from verizon to harvest sounded so good to me was because of the vigor of those vines. Vigorous is now one of my favorite cuss words meaning something akin to "royal pain in the ass."
"They always slow down after verizon, and we stop hedging in early August."
"We stop hedging when they harvest, Mom."
"At least it will give us a break."
Putting up the netting was a snap. (Ha.) It only took four of us: me to drive the tractor, Victoria to stand on the platform and feed the netting out of the bag and through the loops on the boom and Susan and Robert to walk behind, spreading the net out and draping it over the vines. Snap. Four hours of snap, and I was doubly determined to be done until harvest, when we'd take the net off the day before the pickers came.
Mom looked out the window and said, "No. The vines are just growing through it."
"Oh. That's going to be fun to take off."
Every day, I walked by the vineyard on the way to help Mom take care of Dad, and thought, "Oh, that's going to be a bitch."
So what did we do about it? Mom sprayed. We prayed. That's what they said to do. I was praying that the vines really would stop growing. Soon. Before it was impossible to take the net off.
 |
| Robert |
 |
| Susan |
"Why do I always make mistakes?" Mom said. "I make new ones every year, but there's always something. In another twenty years, I should have this down."
"Oh, I can just see us out here in twenty years, Mom. I'll be the one in my seventies needing a walker. You'll be 95."
We finished with a day to spare. Well, of course we just thought it was a spare day. Turned out to be the day we should have put the platform on the tractor because naturally that fifteen minute job took over an hour.
Even though Mom and I had put in the grueling hours it took to get it ready, taking the netting off was still not a snap. I have decided that the only snap around here would be if we changed the name of the place from River Ridge Ranch and Vineyard to Murphy's Law Happens. Now that would be a snap. Snap.
Below, the bored tractor driver tries to entertain herself which draws a chorus of objection from the rest of the crew: "No texting while driving!" She replies, "I'm not texting! I'm posting on FaceBook."
 |
| Next year's warning label: "Do not read warning labels while operating tractor." |
 |
| Patrick |
We worked through dusk. "Do you want flashlights?" I hinted to Susan.
"Do you have one?" She asked with a definite note of hope in her voice.
"Yeah, they're in the house."
 |
| Victoria |
That didn't happen either. Harvest time was set for 6:30 in the morning, when the earliest hint of light allows limited vision. The pickers showed up at five. They were only a row behind by the time we got back to it, and they caught up with us, and passed us. They lifted the net and draped it on the top of the vines to pick underneath. This made it a heck of a lot easier to take the netting off--definitely the reason we finished at the same time as the pickers (as opposed to an hour later). Susan said, "Next year, we're taking the net off after they pick."
The harvest is in. The grapes are done. Until it all starts over again.
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