Author: chobbsblog

The Choir Invisible

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My mother used to have a pile of cards and programs collected from the funerals she attended. They were almost all conducted by the same undertaker, with the same illustration on the front and the same Victorian-sounding poem on the back. Only the names and dates were different. I’d find these tucked into her top dresser drawer when I looked for a handkerchief and wonder how a person would collect so many. Now I find these cards in the pocket of the black dress I leave at CGF to wear to funerals. Every summer, there’s at least one funeral. 

You would expect the actuarial charts to catch up with farmers, who are an aging demographic, despite what the Times says about those hip, young organic farmers with Political Science degrees. But the black dress and I are going to other services, too, each with its own set of grieving family members and, often, awkward family psycho-dynamics. The service for a heartbreakingly young man that had the Lynyrd Skynyrd soundtrack. The banker’s funeral that I watched on TV in the overflow room. Mass for the mother of a high-school boyfriend. Cancer victims, suicides, traffic fatalities. 

It would seem be a grim litany, this forced march to the services of friends and neighbors. And yet the generosity of spirit I see at each of these events is invariably heartening. It’s not just about the predictable Protestant casserole; I think it’s about time. 
Ponder this: I went to a beautiful funeral at a historic Episcopalian church in Austin with the burial following at the lovely state cemetery. Afterward, most friends and associates expressed their sincere and heartfelt condolences before time constraints required them to return to their law firms.  This urban tribe is no less thoughtful or considerate than my rural one, but home visitation and church dinner are not part of its folkways. In contrast, about 40 friends and family members stayed at my grandparents house for three days after my uncle’s funeral in 1957–it took that long for the floodwaters to recede. My mother was one of the first to leave, and she flew out in a crop-duster’s airplane. I still hear stories about that post-funeral camp-out from the people who were there, and none of them indicate that those three days in a house full of damp, grieving people was a waste of their time.
Tomorrow, Michael and Jamie will sing Amazing Grace at the service of a a long-time civic leader. The black dress and I will, once again, watch and learn.
–MCG
*key to obscure literary reference: I know this George Eliot poem because it’s from the Monty Python Dead Parrot sketch:
O may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence


Axis of Evil

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The Cranky Girls have been merrily visiting with their Urban Company for the past few days. Lots of fun with visitors, their lovely daughter, and their alarmingly intelligent dog. After our very happy visit, we return to the garden to find that CGF is under attack.
The edible plants that began their career in March have prevailed against the heat, the wind, and the drought. However, they have met their Waterloo, their Dunkirk, and their Dien Bien Phu in the form of bugs. Here’s what a squash bug can do to a zucchini. Avert your eyes if you’re squeamish.
And there are the tomato worms, which I think of as the al-Qaeda of the bug world. If I were the size of a tomato, I’d be really scared.  When the business end of the worm points my way, it’s kind of scary despite my size advantage.

I fondly remember when my granny had a generous container of Sevin dust in the garage that would take these suckers out. My granny didn’t spend much time worrying about what toxins were collecting in her tissues. After reading too many books about the dangers of ingesting scary chemicals, we choose to just remove the worms by hand. It’s an art, not a science.

Lucky for us there’s not so much that wants to eat the eggplant. 
–MCG

Windmill Pumps

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The other day, Michael decided that I needed to learn about windmills. So here I am blogging about them. Here’s what I learned about them.

Parts of a windmill pump, from the top:

Name to                                                  Use                                                                   What I Call It
1. cylinder=                                                case                                                                           red thing
2. plunger=                                            water puller                                                      metal stick
3. bottom check=                                 holding water still                                                       valve
4. top and bottom check=                  holding water still                                              bigger valve
5. leather=                                                sealing water                                                      brown circle

The assembled pump in action:

We tried out the pump in a bucket of water. Ta da! It worked!
–cg

The Model Farm

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*photo credit goes to Grace on this one

If you ever need a good laugh, it’s quite the panic to read those old publications put out by the county extension services that tell you how to have a model farm. They helpfully tell you when to plant your cow peas,  how many jars of pickles you should be canning, what to do when your chickens have chest colds, etc. Let’s just be clear about this: the cranky girls are not running the model farm.
This building is a case in point. It used to be a brooder house.  We figured we could do plenty of brooding without devoting an entire building to it, so we made it a playhouse. We gave it some flourishes like windows and a working door. And what do we get for our efforts? Termites.
*this photo from Michael–see his truck reflected in the window!
It’s not that we three crankies aspire to be Lisa Douglas from Green Acres. OK, truthfully, Grace could really get into watching someone else “farm” while wearing pearls and kitten- heeled mules with a poof of maribou feathers. The rest of us crankies, however, are stuck being Marthas to her Mary.
Running water, for example, is one of those things that can be a non-event or a big pain in the tush. Sunday, I trekked to the well at 6 a.m. to whack the points on the motor; apparently there was enough moisture to foul up the connection. So you jiggle the housing and voila! (or Viola!, as Uncle Sid says) you have running water again. It’s so easy. You can figure out how to make your points work, or you can listen to your children complain that the toilet won’t flush. It’s completely up to you.
CGF has the whole yin with the yang thing going. You get the stuff that looks like  it’s interviewing for Field and Stream:

*look, it’s a ring-tailed pheasant!

The stuff that says, yes, Michael Pollan, I have embraced the locavore movement and can grow my own vegetables:
*pumpkin from last fall

And just when you’re about to get all high-minded and Wendell Berry about it, reality comes calling in the way of tomato worms, withering heat, and infrastructural challenges:

* These photos from Michael.  Can’t remember if this is the hole from his barn or from CGs’ barn. Sieger Construction can vouch for the holes in CGs’ barn.

Maybe CGF really is in Hooterville, and my part is Ralph, the lady carpenter. 
–MCG

That Evening Sun

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My youngest older brother came to visit me once in New Jersey. He and his friend slept in the back of their pickup in our driveway in Highland Park. On the way, he visited friends in D.C., probably sleeping in the back of his pickup there, too. A friend of his friend confirmed all the regional prejudices of my youngest older brother when he observed, “You’re from Oklahoma? I went there once. There’s not anything there.” “That’s why we like it,” retorted YOB. The “asshole” part  was understood.

Because there’s not anything here to get in the way, we get to study the sun when it goes down. It’s impressive enough to make you put down your garden hose, or your fork, or whatever conversational thread you’re working on. Grace wanted to take these pictures, and it’s always easier when, as she says, we do teamwork.
Here, she helpfully points out That Evening Sun so you won’t miss it when it goes down.
–MCG

Frog Prince

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A trip to Cousin Tom and Cousin Jack’s (Tom is below) always involves a lot of wildlife.
This trip featured a big Tiffany-blue frog.
Ask Jack the Game Ranger about the genus and species. Ask Tom, the welder and Renaissance man, how to cook it.
A few moments ago, this frog was a princess. However, stuff happens:

Here’s a shop dog. We don’t know its name, but it has a brother named Tank. This dog has adapted well to life in Tom’s welding shop.

Characteristics: friendly, elderly, itchy, puts up with small children.
Batch o’ kittens. Third batch of the summer. Five survivors from and original batch of 7, born during a heat wave. Mother lives at Tom’s. Father lives . . . oh, never mind. In this picture, they are two days old; eyes not yet open.
*Photo credits go to Lydia, who can take pictures of things that are squirmy.
Not pictured are Tom’s goats, chickens, and several more dogs. All with loads of personality, just like Cousin Tom.
It’s worthwhile to note that there are lots more animals at Tom and Jack’s that no longer have a pulse. He and Jack are expert hunters, fishers, and fish-fryers, and you’re never sure what you might find in the freezer (hmm, crane? bobcat maybe? is that an owl in there?). They are past masters at noodling (catching catfish with your hands); our cousin could have been featured in the documentary Okie Noodling, but he wasn’t about to have his best fishing holes revealed to the wider world.
Tom and Jack hold fish fries that bring friends and relatives from around the county. Jack’s dad used to say that he might eat the chili at Tom’s, but only if he saw what went in it first. Who knew squirrel (or turtle) could taste so good? 


sorry for the loss of appetite–mcg&cg

Farmers’ Market

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Saturday morning I woke up (quite crankily) at 6. In the AM! Why? (It’s summer for cryin’ out loud!) Because of the Farmers’ Market. The market is in Enid, about 1/2 an hour away from the farm. So, with Gardening Friend, I set out at 6:30 to sell squash. Lots of squash. TOO EARLY!!!

Here’s what I can report about the wonderful, early, early morning Farmer’s Market:
Amazing Fact: All the farmers were cheerful, even though they had gotten up earlier than I had.
Another Amazing Fact: All the farmers were helpful. Really helpful lady selling yummy handmade pecan crunch swapped an $8 bag of candy for 3 pounds of squash. (the squash was worth $4.50, but it’s really good squash)
Let’s Hear It for Locavores!: Lots of shoppers came out early, early in the morning to support these farmers. Sure they could have gone to the grocery store at a decent hour, but instead they came out in the hot and wind (some days in the rain) to buy things not “Made in China.” So, is it surprising that not all of them can think clearly at 8 a.m.? Which leads us to:
THE CUSTOMERS

Annoying Customer (AC) Habit: Asking for produce clearly not available or in season. The sign says “squash.” We’ve got “squash.” Gardener Friend waters faithfully, but the tomatoes, eggplant, and corn just aren’t ready yet! The Most Annoying of Customers for this habit asked for apricots. Apricots! (We’re pretty sure it’s too late, although somewhere in the world I’m sure it is March.)
Winner of the AC Prize: The guy who, when offered squash, said “Na, squash is what you serve with roadkill.”
I take great personal offense to that comment. Roadkill! Roadkill is the dead armadillo by the side of the road. Roadkill is buzzard food. Squash is not eaten with buzzard food. Although our Cousin Tom (more on him later) might disagree; he’s been known to eat fried squirrel. Hey! It’s local!

Here ends my report of the fabulous Farmers’ Market and its ACs.
enjoy–cg

Code of the West

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There are rules about watching your back in the country. If you, for example, happen to leave your, um, Puplin unattended, things can happen.

Beloved Puplin, purchased at Garden’s Edge many years ago, has a history of straying. He has, for example, been left in a hotel in Springfield, MO. Most recently, Puplin was left in Austin, where Dad kindly mailed him back. But if someone opens the mail while you’re not home, liberties can be taken.

Here’s Puplin at Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball:
Very nice. Looks better than Katherine Graham did, don’t you think?

Now here’s Puplin being eaten by a unicorn. Ouch!

Here’s Puplin, getting ready to go to therapy before Lydia comes home.
The Code of the West requires that people occasionally will tease and be teased back. If you are teased too intensively, the correct response is, “You’re an Eskimo Pie-head, Uncle Michael.”
There you go, partner.
–MCG

Trashy Addendum

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Previously, MCG noted Uncle Michael’s agitation upon finding a refrigerator at CGF that, he surmised, did not belong to us. Clever Uncle Michael apparently photographed this discovery. So here’s his visual record of refrigerator discovery and removal. First, keen eyes spot the appliance in the ditch at the end of our driveway. “Thunder!” says UM:


But not to worry. It’s a simple matter to load the fridge onto your bale stabber, secure it with chains, and pay $3 to offload at the dump. Ta-da! Bagged it!

A misplaced refrigerator is no match for UM’s mighty bale stabber. Only wish we could deliver it to the person who lost it.
–MCG

Another One Such

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This happens every summer. It’s as regular as the 4th of July fireworks or the running of the bulls in Pamplona. A castoff pet finds us and presents us with an ethical dilemma. This year’s installment is a bird dog.

Sometimes these castoffs make us feel like matchmakers. Our hound friend Muzzy was delivered into the arms of a friend who remains smitten by the leggy pooch’s charms. You can find out much more about Muzzy at her person’s blog. We also learned that a fluffy 10-pound puppy will bowl over all the customers at the lumber yard, who will pore over their address books to find it a home. The puppy grew into a 100 pound bruiser named Samson, so we really dodged a bullet on that one.

And our cat, previously profiled with her rat, was another tourist at CGF who never checked out of the kitty hostel.

Animals gravitate to CGF, perhaps because we’re on a creek, or perhaps because our phone number is written on some bathroom wall. My parents were, if possible, even easier marks than we cranky girls are. Dogs with names like Queenie and Ladybird became recipients of hot oatmeal on cold days and table scraps on balmy days; one notably followed Dad to town and waited in his truck while he ate breakfast at the cafe. The only dog ever ejected from CGF was a purebred boxer. When he pulled the laundry off the line one too many times, my mother took him into the vet clinic and asked that he be euthanized. The vet intern was horrified that she would want to destroy such a valuable animal. Kap told him: “He’s yours, buddy.” Maybe his new owner used a drier.

This female dog looks like a German shorthaired pointer. She walks with a limp and has the patience of a saint. She has been intensively yammered at, pulled on, and shampooed with dish soap, all without protest. She still chooses to sleep in the yard. If you have any birdhunting needs, please let us know and she’s yours, buddy. Otherwise, we’ll get back to you on how we resolve this summer’s ethical dilemma.

–MCG