Farm

bales stacked in a field
Jim

The Weather

I’m not sure why the change in weather can still surprise me so much. Yesterday I was wearing shorts and hauling hay bales in from the field. The second cutting growth was really coming along. It’s just a matter of time, I thought, and I will need to service the haybine and start cutting this alfalfa. My guess was that this main hay field south of the house ought to produce 200 or so bales. Boy, that’s sure going to come in handy.

Time for second cut

Of course before I can even think to start to cut, I will need to move these last few bales from the hay field. At the moment, they are exactly in my way. Up in the hay yard is where they need to be. If not,  I’ll be spending my cutting days dodging around them. That’s a very messy proposition.

“Just a few loads to go, right Kirby?”

Kirby the Hound keeps me company on some of these hauls. She’s always up for a ride or two in the hay truck. and I don’t mind admitting that I enjoy the company. Although, from time to time she can forget which seat is hers .

So long ago

Well that was yesterday, it’s funny what a day can do.  Today?  Well, today my 200 bale production estimates seem a tad optimistic. Do you remember all those previous years when all that snow fell on us in the middle of September?? Me either. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen this much snow this early. And the weather man is predicting two or three more days of rain and snow. Lovely.

New Production Prediction

So, I’ve downgraded my second cutting estimates a little bit. Instead of that 200 bales I  optimistically guestimated earlier, it’s now slightly less. My new prediction? Zero.

 

Farming can be awfully fickle.  There’s a reason we so often hear the old proverb “Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched”. That’s 200 bales I counted yesterday that I shall never see.

As always, mother nature has the last word…

Read more

fox hole
Jim

It seems there’s always something new to discover on the farm. Sometimes at play, sometimes at work. These discoveries are not always a good thing, but I especially appreciate the ones that are. It’s those that can spark your imagination.

While hauling hay in from the field this year

I happened upon an area on the edge of a hill that ought to have been green. Or at least greenish. It was only week-old hay stubble, so a greenish brown would’ve seemed about right.  Instead of that expected hay-stubble colour, the ground looked sandy brown. In fact, from the seat of the truck it appeared to be completely tan.  It was about 30 yards away, not too far. Off I go, my curiosity just wouldn’t leave it alone. This discoloured area had to be inspected.

As the truck got closer

and the sandy coloured spot became more defined I could see that this was not hay stubble at all. It was sand. The sand formed a small mound directly south of a freshly dug hole.  Since this mound had buried the stubble it couldn’t have been here long, a week at the most.  It’s odd I hadn’t noticed it sooner. As I stood there, looking at that hole I naturally started to guess at how it may have gotten there. In no time at all I found myself carried back in time to some of my most beloved childhood storybook characters: those brought to me by Mr Thornton W. Burgess. Do you know the ones?

Where did this hole come from?

Well to start with it is no doubt a hole, so definitely not Sammy Jay. It’s too small for Buster Bear and I didn’t smell Jimmy The Skunk. Danny Meadow Mouse would never have needed a hole this extravagant and there’s not enough water nearby for Little Joe Otter. It looks about the right size for Reddy The Fox my mind told me. It could definitely be something he might’ve put here. So, using the size of the hole as my guide, I let my mind settle in on it being a fox.

In years past, our neighbour across the road would keep chickens.

And chickens are too inviting for any fox to pass up. So those chickens begat foxes. Just across from their hen-house, on my side of the road, I kept four steel grain bins. The foxes built themselves a comfortable burrow under the wooden floors of those old bins and used to spend their nights terrorizing those chickens. Well, the neighbours and their chickens are no longer around, and with the chickens gone, the foxes also packed up and left. Since those foxes built their home under my grain bins I’ve never actually seen a foxhole, but again, this hole seemed to meet the criteria, size wise.

Being inquisitive,

for three days we had a trail cam stand guard just a few feet to the south of the new hole. Over those three days it would average 192 ‘events’ per night. But it didn’t record anything except 192 different ways a breeze can toss a blade of grass back and forth. It’s crazy how little movement can trigger this trail cam. All those pictures and not a single critter. How disappointing. Actually that’s not entirely true.  I guess there were some shots of ‘Kirby the hound’, our yellow lab. She was equally curious about this site.  But there were no new critters on film. My theory is; they found their new neighbours, us, a bit too nosy and shuffled on to find a better spot.

I have to admit, I am still wondering what it might have been.

As I guess at the possibilities my mind wanders back to some of Mr Burgess’ storybook characters and I can’t resist a smile. I guess in the long run it doesn’t really matter which one it was.  I’m just thankful that Mr. Burgess let them come along and set for a spell this summer, just like he did in his storybooks, all those years ago.  Even if it was just a day or two.

Read more

cowlick on a cow
Jim

During the last 15 months or so I’ve begun to feel that I’m being observed.

It’s as if I’ve become a player in someone’s private showing.  The play is nothing special – it’s a terrible script, there’s no plot, and the actor is sub-par.  In fact, if I had to describe it, the word would be tedious.  Not only is it dull, but it repeats.  Daily.  There are subtle variations of course but the overall message and general narrative remain nearly the same.  And yet somehow the audience seems mesmerized.  She must be, for she has been seen standing for hours every day, just waiting for the curtain to rise.  Even again today.

Meet Sophia, the pail-bunter turned audience-stalker.

There is an old, rough lumbered, grey wooden corral just a few steps from the front door of the house.  Within you will find plenty of fresh water, acres of green grass, and a cozy warm shelter.  From time to time there can also be found special rolled oat treats in a red plastic feed pail, treats never last longer than a second or two.   In fact that pail will usually just be touching the grass when a soft black muzzle plunges deep to retrieve all those scrumptious bites. Sophia cannot seem to get enough. And in case you’re a bit late with those tasty morsels in the morning, she’ll remind you.  She’s as good as any rooster we’ve ever had, and will unabashedly inform you that your clock is running a little behind.


Sophia has never lived anywhere else.  Often times on the farm things come at you a bit sideways and you just have to deal, there really is no choice.  That’s how Sophia came to be in her home.  Her momma, although she is a great cow, just didn’t have the milk Sophia needed.  This new born calf had to be fed from a bottle to ensure that she would get everything any young heifer needs to grow.  Soon she went from milk bottle to pail, to water trough, to grass, and even oats.   She stayed with us, in her corral, and grew.

The sun is up as I close the door of the house, enter stage left, and walk towards the barn.

Soft big brown audience eyes are palpable with my every step.  I look at her as I pass, moving only my eyes.  I can’t move my head.   If I turn my head she’ll notice, get excited and start bucking up and down on her side of the fence trying to get my attention. It’s her way of saying “Come on!  Come over here!  Let’s play”. Oh, by the way, did I mention she likes to wrestle?  It was kind of fun and funny to wrestle with her when she was a small calf.  But now, 600 (or more!) pounds later, the wrestling is completely-one sided.  But even so, her invitation is always irresistible.

“Ok Sophia, just a minute or two.”   If oats are her favourite, well then getting attention and spending quality time with her family is a close second.  What a character.

Exit stage right.  Curtain.

 

Read more