I've pretty much given up on seeing a mallard hen with her ducklings on the pond this year. The frantic flyovers while quacking up a storm by both her and the drake last month told me something was amiss. Likely a skunk.
I thought about this loss last night when the wife called me on the intercom to tell me a pack of coyotes were yapping it up not fifty yards east of our bedroom window. Out by where the two turkey hens had their nests. I went upstairs and out the back door to give the canines hell. But they were already gone. No eyes shone back in the light of my flashlight.
The turkey hens were walking around the property this morning, so I'm going to hope we see some little ones pretty soon, provided there are still eggs. Yet, the big tom is still hanging around as well, fluffing himself up whenever he sees me, so if the nests are destroyed, there may be a second chance at a clutch (if that's what turkeys have).
And I would be remiss if I did not mention the Barn Owl. Except we cannot be certain there is a chick in the box. The wife says she may have seen a ball of down. If I have heard a soft squeak for food, it did not last long. All the better, a low profile, for there is a Great Horned hanging in the hood.
Meanwhile, I'm trapping a lot of gophers.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Saturday, June 14, 2014
...for the trees
36 writes to wonder the fate of the tree in his mother's yard. This on the heels of thoughts for another post already in the making.
The local high school is about to receive a large bronze sculpture of their mascot, provided the private donations can be found. The bird will be making a sharp right turn, or so the drawing suggests. I would have to go upstairs to confirm the talons spread or tucked. A drive-by of the site other construction projects are planned for the summer break yet I don't believe there is a percentage for the arts in this community, as pragmatic bonds are tough enough to pass without prettying up the place. (I wonder if the local prisons have mascots, let alone art, and certainly more money is spent per capita for these institutions.)
But yes, the trees.
We've removed a number of trees from the property over the last couple of years. Mostly sour cherry, which need little encouraging beside the jays' penchant for their fruit. A few hawthorn of size, making sure to poison the stumps. And back when we first bought the place, three 70-foot big leaf maples we were assured were on their way out anyway. All have provided warmth during our winters.
So, as with the oak I mentioned last post, when I saw that the middle school had removed four large decorative plum tree from the front parkway, my first thought was sadness, followed by wondering what happened to the wood. Fruit wood is hard to split but burns well, you know.
And then my mind returned to that lone oak in the field, not so much it standing there against the sky and bare ground, but to the hundreds of Christmas trees that went up in smoke. I would not have to buy mulch this year. Nor would have anyone else in the neighborhood. Now, that would have been a fine gesture!
Still, efficient usage aside, I understand a strong emotional attachment to some trees. I have fond memories of an apple tree in my grandparents' front yard. It, along with a maple and cedar, long gone and, so I am told, replaced by renegade rose of sharons and weeds so high the front porch I painted in 2000 is hidden from the road. I have not been back to verify, and since an uncle still lives in what's left of the house (termites), my mother has forbade the trip.
Yes, things change.
On a brighter note, I cannot let a post go by without saying how absolutely overjoyed I am for Dave "Memphis Mojo" Smith for his third place finish in the WSOP seniors event. I made sure I bragged on him some at my home game last night. (No such showing for me, down $20 on the night.) Again, congrats, Dave!
The local high school is about to receive a large bronze sculpture of their mascot, provided the private donations can be found. The bird will be making a sharp right turn, or so the drawing suggests. I would have to go upstairs to confirm the talons spread or tucked. A drive-by of the site other construction projects are planned for the summer break yet I don't believe there is a percentage for the arts in this community, as pragmatic bonds are tough enough to pass without prettying up the place. (I wonder if the local prisons have mascots, let alone art, and certainly more money is spent per capita for these institutions.)
But yes, the trees.
We've removed a number of trees from the property over the last couple of years. Mostly sour cherry, which need little encouraging beside the jays' penchant for their fruit. A few hawthorn of size, making sure to poison the stumps. And back when we first bought the place, three 70-foot big leaf maples we were assured were on their way out anyway. All have provided warmth during our winters.
So, as with the oak I mentioned last post, when I saw that the middle school had removed four large decorative plum tree from the front parkway, my first thought was sadness, followed by wondering what happened to the wood. Fruit wood is hard to split but burns well, you know.
And then my mind returned to that lone oak in the field, not so much it standing there against the sky and bare ground, but to the hundreds of Christmas trees that went up in smoke. I would not have to buy mulch this year. Nor would have anyone else in the neighborhood. Now, that would have been a fine gesture!
Still, efficient usage aside, I understand a strong emotional attachment to some trees. I have fond memories of an apple tree in my grandparents' front yard. It, along with a maple and cedar, long gone and, so I am told, replaced by renegade rose of sharons and weeds so high the front porch I painted in 2000 is hidden from the road. I have not been back to verify, and since an uncle still lives in what's left of the house (termites), my mother has forbade the trip.
Yes, things change.
On a brighter note, I cannot let a post go by without saying how absolutely overjoyed I am for Dave "Memphis Mojo" Smith for his third place finish in the WSOP seniors event. I made sure I bragged on him some at my home game last night. (No such showing for me, down $20 on the night.) Again, congrats, Dave!
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Things change
One of my favorite sayings comes from Freud via Mari Ruti: "It is impossible to love life without loving transience." As with most noble sentiments, acknowledgment is easier than bringing action, yet aspiring is half the fun of the struggle.
Sometimes the consequences are largely sentimental. For instance, there is a field about 20 acres in size northwest of us that has for years been used for growing Christmas trees. It's not a very good field for such, evidenced by the gradual decline in the number of trees, even though no harvest has occurred. Earlier this spring, the remaining trees, along with the latest diseased fatalities were cut down, piled and burned. That is, all but one tree, a sizable oak and the only one of its kind in that field.
Word came over the fence that the field had been rented out to another farm of a family whose name is known throughout these part, and the three confirmed bachelors that still live with Mom would be putting in wheat. Gentle souls, these men, hard workers and known to lend a hand to widows and the like who choose to remain on their homesteads. They are well-loved and highly respected. (I may have written about them in the past; I cannot recall.)
I took interest in the field as it stood after the burns. I wondered at length about how they would go about removing the thousands of fir stumps.
Well, as it turned out, the stumps were left and gone over with a contraption behind a large tractor, which, I suppose, more or less mulched them back into the soil. I have no idea how far down into the ground this machine went, and did not stop to examine the work for those brothers were there dawn to dusk. I did not care for them to wonder why the gentleman ex-farmer would find it necessary to examine their work.
Still, I drove by daily to rubberneck, yet I never thought to see if what I had most feared had happened. With this in mind, I made a special trip. Yes, the oak was gone. Or rather, it now laid on its side up by the matriarch land owner's house. By the looks of it, it was unceremoniously dragged intact across a couple hundred yards of field, a quick dispatch so as to not delay the field prep any longer than necessary.
Judging by the amount of stacked firewood both alongside her house and in her garage, the elderly woman heats with wood, so I bear her no grudge. Nor do I the brothers. They farm a couple thousand acres and this tree was understandably insignificant. Still, as it has become clear to you by now, I had taken a liking to that tree.
At one time, most of the land around here was oak savannah, so I saw this tree as defiant in grace. There are still patches of its kin scattered about, enough that those fallen by disease, age or progress have heated my own home for the last eleven years.
In my complicity I am complacent. Still...
Sometimes the consequences are largely sentimental. For instance, there is a field about 20 acres in size northwest of us that has for years been used for growing Christmas trees. It's not a very good field for such, evidenced by the gradual decline in the number of trees, even though no harvest has occurred. Earlier this spring, the remaining trees, along with the latest diseased fatalities were cut down, piled and burned. That is, all but one tree, a sizable oak and the only one of its kind in that field.
Word came over the fence that the field had been rented out to another farm of a family whose name is known throughout these part, and the three confirmed bachelors that still live with Mom would be putting in wheat. Gentle souls, these men, hard workers and known to lend a hand to widows and the like who choose to remain on their homesteads. They are well-loved and highly respected. (I may have written about them in the past; I cannot recall.)
I took interest in the field as it stood after the burns. I wondered at length about how they would go about removing the thousands of fir stumps.
Well, as it turned out, the stumps were left and gone over with a contraption behind a large tractor, which, I suppose, more or less mulched them back into the soil. I have no idea how far down into the ground this machine went, and did not stop to examine the work for those brothers were there dawn to dusk. I did not care for them to wonder why the gentleman ex-farmer would find it necessary to examine their work.
Still, I drove by daily to rubberneck, yet I never thought to see if what I had most feared had happened. With this in mind, I made a special trip. Yes, the oak was gone. Or rather, it now laid on its side up by the matriarch land owner's house. By the looks of it, it was unceremoniously dragged intact across a couple hundred yards of field, a quick dispatch so as to not delay the field prep any longer than necessary.
Judging by the amount of stacked firewood both alongside her house and in her garage, the elderly woman heats with wood, so I bear her no grudge. Nor do I the brothers. They farm a couple thousand acres and this tree was understandably insignificant. Still, as it has become clear to you by now, I had taken a liking to that tree.
At one time, most of the land around here was oak savannah, so I saw this tree as defiant in grace. There are still patches of its kin scattered about, enough that those fallen by disease, age or progress have heated my own home for the last eleven years.
In my complicity I am complacent. Still...
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