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I can’t say – and let’s not because I don’t want the PC Police to come after me – that I know what it feels like to be a little person, but I did get a taste of it today. I will be getting a taste of that for the next ten days while Farmer Ron and his bride are taking the second vacation they’ve ever been on in twelve years! Farmer Ron likes to stick close to home; it’s hard to leave a farm. But, he’s always up for local adventure – there is no question about that! (Again, I refer you back to the “Look Who’s Choking Chickens” post from 2010…yikes).

 Mr. H and I are in charge of several items on Farmer Ron’s farm while he is away: goats, wood burner, mail, cats and Grandma – and not in that order. We have to feed all of those creatures though, even the wood burner.

The wood burner, Grandma, and the cats are the easy ones. Mr. H and I have a different set up to feed our goats, than my dad does. Understandable. We’re all different and have different fences, animals, and routines so that is expected. We went over two days ago to watch Farmer Ron in action, demonstrating the farmyard procedures. His routine is much easier than ours because his goats have access to grass –ours do not yet – and, he doesn’t have a horse to keep out of the goat pen.

He demonstrated the feeding process and how to open the feeder lid and pull it down with a hoe, after distributing grain and hay with the garden implement. He’s thrifty, folks, and ingenuous. This routine looked so easy and so quick.

Well, it is quick-ish, but most of you have met my father and know that I did not inherit his height – my brother did. Luckily, I got some of his good looks though – but that’s totally beside the point. It clearly became apparent to me that I was going to have to jump into the goat pasture in order to spread the grain around in the feeder. No problem; dad has great fences there and they’re short. Easy breezy. Then I looked back and realized the hinged lid on the feeder still needed to be closed again. Looking down at the hoe, I picked it up and tried to imagine how I would catch that lid with the end of the hoe and lift and pull at just the right angle. It quickly occurred to me that I don’t have that kind of leverage because I’m a munchkin compared to Farmer Ron. Darn it.

Back over the fence, but this time straddling the fence in order to put one foot on one of the wheels which the homemade feeder stands on: it’s an axle from something that had wheels. Frankly, it’s brilliant. By now all of the goats have stopped eating to watch this spectacle, I’m looming over them, balanced on one foot on what I hope is an immobile tire, in order to grab the lid.

I’m almost too short still to grab the feeder lid, but it happened without a trip to the emergency room. I jump down and breathlessly walk in to throw some raviolis in a pot for Grandma and me.

Crop Squirrels

Yesterday afternoon there was a small disagreement at the Black Squirrel Ranch between myself and the ranch hand – Mr. H. It’s bound to happen every once in a while. So when I left the house in the evening, he had no idea where I was going. And I, of course, swore I’d told him that I had plans.

 Typically when men and women fight, one or both parties go off to get completely hammered via the alcoholic beverage(s) of their choice. I just hide the key to the gun safe and make sure I haven’t missed a payment on Mr. H’s life insurance policy(s). (He doesn’t have to know about the “(s)”).

I took off for our friend Roman’s house. First, I wasn’t running away from home. I was cooled off by then – but still had my “keys and papers” safely tucked away. Secondly, Roman is an Amish friend who I’ve been helping by designing a brochure for his candy business. This is all completely irrelevant information.

As I was driving home talking on the phone, rehashing the entire day – and anything else we could think of – with my bff, I pulled into the driveway and saw Mr. H on the lawn tractor in the large field in front of our house. Our driveway is extremely long so I had plenty of time to gape. When I saw him turn a circle in the field I began to laugh so hard that Seneca (aforementioned bff) could no longer understand any words coming out of my mouth. However, before hanging up, I uttered “crop circles.” This is not the strangest thing I’ve uttered to her while driving. (If you’ll recall from the “Arizona chronicles,” I actually said to her once – while grabbing for my gun: “Shots have been fired up ahead. Gotta go.” Ah, but that’s for another time.

Contrary to what Seneca thought Mr. H might have drawn in the grass (considering the earlier exchange, possibly the image of a finger expressing that I am #1 in his book), he spelled the words “Black Squirrel,” in 20-foot letters after the name of our little farmette.

Part of the word "Squirrel" mowed into the field. Go ahead, fly over:

I bet you'll find the place....

Heat Wave

At almost 5pm my walking partner, Gunnar, and I hit the road. We headed down the driveway--by way of every blade of grass on the lawn and paddocks--to get to the mailbox and retrieve our letters. It is only halfway through March in Wisconsin and our climate seems to have skipped spring and headed to summer: 70 and sunny! (Or, what I used to call "February" in Arizona).

G-man and I dropped the mail off on a huge chunk of moss under a tree and weighed it down with a rock, while heading to the woods behind the house. The goats watched us go; they were jealous. Gunnar didn't care what the goats thought: he still remembers how "electrifying" ruminants can be if lunged at! Poor guy.

As we meandered along, I got lost in the beauty of an early spring and started singing, "the hills are alive with the sound of music!" Okay, I didn't...but I thought it. And then I thought, "Gee, Mr. H and I almost have enough live bodies on this little farm to have the entire VonTrapp clan."

And then the white Husky peed on his leash..."Ray....a drop of golden........"sun?"


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