farm blog

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…

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two friends embrace
Twyla

I had an amazing childhood best friend!  Our Dads were brothers, we, first cousins.  Eight months apart in age.  I got steamed when adults mentioned that my younger brother and her were the same age.  My egocentric wishes to share birth years, were based in love.  A very caring companion, we shared many experiences.

Kellie is her name.

In my very early childhood we spent much, much time together.  We were neighbours and our parents farmed together.  Creating opportunity for interaction and play.  Sadly, work opportunity took them to a more exotic locale, in Saskatchewan, almost 1000 kilometres away!  Our play experiences became relegated to holidays and special occasions.  As we grew in our separate lives, we stepped into each-others frameworks with joy and openness.  But slowly overtime lost touch.

Fast forward 25 years.

Kellie came for a visit!  A tour of all the familiar places and faces.  When she arrived, I ran out into the yard and embraced her in the most authentic and sincere hug, possible!  I feel so much love for this woman.  She is absolutely beautiful!  Every fibre!  I felt so alive and blessed within that moment.

Our mothers link arms and tear up at the sight of our embrace.

There is such a brightness about her, and glimpses of past generations.  Pretty sure Mom and Dad are still talking about her resemblance to Grandma Elizabeth Jane.  I marvel at how excited yet calmed I became in her presence.  We settled into iced teas and easy conversation.  I realized all too quickly that 2 days in this neck of the woods would not be near enough time!  There is so much I wish to share and savour in her company.  I don’t know her favourite Jello flavour or what she’s binging on Netflix.  But I do know that I love her so!

I’m overwhelmed at how I was building up to this visit and how my home is a reflection of myself, my family and our life.  I was up early, to wash the floor and do a little housework.  As the hours passed, awaiting her arrival, I found myself tidying and prepping with a new sort of nervousness.  The only one first impression ideal, running through my mind.   I consider my house, yard, farm, and life in general to be a work in progress.  Nowhere near a picture of perfection.  Yet in those hours shortly before her arrival I wished for perfection!

I borrowed a flower pot from the neighbour to spruce up the driveway.

Don’t worry, we’re great neighbours, and she can take them back any time she likes. Also, I daresay she has too many flowers!  Thankful for my impulse purchase at the grocers a few days before.  I had grabbed a bundle of greenery to mix with some homegrown sunflowers.  As I walked down the driveway to pick up a piece of litter.  I snatched up a bundle of Goldenrod, growing wild in the pasture.  Another moment of impulse, maybe this is becoming a problem.  Goldenrod, weed or wildflower, you choose. I know the pollinators love them and the cows do not.  Pretty sure Dad considers them a weed.  Would anyone notice them in the mix?  I took them inside, trimmed them up.

I admit, I’ve been known to haul in any flora, on the property that meets my pretty criteria. To this day, I treasure any fresh cut bouquet presented to me. (Wink, wink, Jim!) Always thankful for the sentiment and the beauty.  When they are colourful, and readily available, I say why not?  And my endeavours in no way proliferate nor exhaust the species.  I know when something catches my eye, and today it was goldenrod!

So, they found a new home in the pitcher in our bathroom.  Funny thing, I don’t recall anyone even using the bathroom during our all too short visit.  This makes me smile, because I know they were there, up for the challenge to be themselves with no worry of pretense.  I guess I can not only enjoy the wild flowers, but learn from them too.

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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.

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