Excuse Me

Another fabulous thing about entirely too much property to maintain or fix is its more than convenient excuse for not doing other items deemed less important strictly to annoy my brother-in-law.  Dave is a new fangled techno gadget guru of the first order. We’re not.

Our TV up until the first week of May in 2008 was a 1994 27 inch RCA deep tube television.  Once it was a victim of a class action lawsuit years after repair and longer since losing the receipt, which meant income for lawyers but utter uselessness for consumers.

At least I didn’t have to state the TV was ‘color’—that’s some progress.

The RCA started incremental possession by a poltergeist sometime in late 2006.  The picture would sometimes slide randomly a few inches down the screen, and then right itself after a while. Then more often, it began to look like those widescreen movie formats: a black bar on top and bottom when it felt the urge.

When Ashley and family appeared for Christmas with Construction in 2007, the RCA suddenly wished a voice in choosing the restaurant location, and raised its volume to the max and refused to turn off through the power button.  We wrestled it out of its lair to unplug it, and that was the last and only time that trick appeared.

After New Year’s, it began to lose its horizontal hold hourly, so sometime around February, we began seriously looking into a new TV.  The search attained more urgency as spring progressed—I had volunteered to host the hunt club's annual Kentucky Derby Party on the first Saturday in May (and you thought this posting wasn’t horse related).  We had decided on the newest, baddest 7000 series LED Samsung with a super thin screen, but the prices were falling rapidly each month.  And the 32” that would have fit neatly in the TV cabinet wasn’t out yet.  So we waited.

Meanwhile the RCA picture was now holding in normal condition maybe 20 minutes or so at a time.  We calculated our odds that it would be normal during the two minutes it takes to run the Derby if one happens to be a Thoroughbred.  The picture was now sliding 12 inches down the screen, then the bottom of the picture would slide up to reveal a new picture about a third of the height of the screen.  In an innovative twist, the sides would start to tilt in from the top, forming a perfect trapezoid. 

Seven days before the party we ordered a new 32” from a website.  The confirmation email didn’t show up, so we called the next day only to find that there was not a 32” TV out yet—a mistake on their part.  Canceling the order, five days before the party I was calling to see who could get a TV here in time.  Rent? (unbelievably expensive)  Buy?  Finally, I called Audio Visual Artistry—which is the Memphis version of what my brother does for a living—they said they could have it in by Thursday.  We sucked it up and bought the 40” LED TV (which was going to look a little off as it was bigger than the cabinet), but was also the smallest size available.  It arrived Wednesday afternoon, and we had plenty of time to get it up.  Crisis of 2008 averted and the race was absolutely stunning to watch on the new screen.  Dave was at last happy with our technology.  We proudly pointed out that we hooked the 1994 VCR up to the digital signal converter box so we could record TV.  He groaned while mentioning DVR technology, but not as loudly as usual, as just a month earlier we hooked the smoking new Blu-ray player to the dying RCA (the very old DVD player finally expired).  Oh the horror!

Last night’s episode of Technological Obsolescence involved Old Man’s birthday present of a new DVD player that had Netflix streaming capability. As Dave happily hooked it up and then ran headlong into the gamestopper of the Samsung server being down for a few hours, we rearranged the equipment it was replacing.

The 2008 480i Blu-ray player levitated upstairs into the guestroom and attached its umbilical cord to a 13” analog SONY Trinitron deep tube TV from maybe 2000ish that is also has a signal converter box.  We were pleased they were the same brand and now we and our guests could watch movies.  Dave was NOT excited, and mumbled something (at least mentally) about it being a waste of picture quality.  I told him at least it wasn’t a Commodore 128 monitor from the 80’s (before I was married, this and the same VCR mentioned above formed my TV—excellent picture actually).  More importantly, Old Man and I know from experience that the Blu-ray player enhances the TV picture a lot—we used it on the RCA when we acquired it.  Definitely a technological advance! Poor Dave.

The streaming internet movies are really neat too.  Wouldn't have been possible without the FCC complaint I lodged just this January of 2010, but that is another story.

Tornados in a Teapot

Saturday, May 1st, 2010 was super fun in the Memphis area while we all did the Tornado Tango awash in 5-14 inches of rain, depending on location. Those are numbers I've seen before, however, it was May 1995 in New Orleans where we were the lucky recipients of 16.5" of rain in a half a day or so. Casualties included my Mazda, my boyfriend's Mustang, the entire first floor of the apartment complex, my co-worker's sanity (his dog developed diarrhea when there was no longer ground to go on), and anything in New Orleans lower than the interstate, which was pretty much the whole city.

What was a new twist was the frequency of tornado sirens sounding starting at 4AM Saturday morning ending around 2AM on Sunday morning.  We've heard those before of course, but we didn't have quite as many animals back then, and we hadn't been subjected to so many tornadoes actually aiming at us 4 separate times in 24 hours.  Fat Pony Farms is less than a mile from the state line, so we get Mississippi sirens too for variety.

Between checking the TV weather radar and rounding up cats (five), I googled around to see what else I should be doing for Mr. Dublin (horse), since he didn't fit in the pantry as well as the two large dogs did. He was loose out attending to the organic mobile weed eating service he founded, as one look at the inside of our barn indicates that he would be nothing but a pincushion if a tornado touched it.

Al Gore's famous internet revealed just how far horses might bolt during a tornado (a few miles), and that we should have had a fancy brass tag on his halter, which he should also be wearing with contact numbers, and possibly even microchipped. So much for pre-planning. (We normally don't turn out in halters, in case they get caught on something--we prefer our horses nekkid.)

By the third round of tornadoes, we managed to get a labeled leather halter (breaks in emergency) on him, and Old Man wrote our phone numbers, also including Mom's out-of-the-disaster-area number on his back with Sharpie marker where the saddle goes, and "Sarah Hadskey" down his spine. Dublin said it tickled.  Tornado missed us all:  5 cats, 2 large dogs, 10 new mosquito fish, and Mr. Dublin safe and sound. Score: Hadskey's 20, mother nature zero.

Friday's Note to Self

When mowing a field full of buttercup, do what your health teacher always told you: use protection.   It sounds like overkill for such pretty small yellow flowers on 2' stems slightly mixed with grass, but I was crying so hard I couldn't steer the mower with my eyes open. Good thing I was in the middle of the field--the trees might have seen me coming, but I sure couldn't see to avoid hitting one.

Turns out to be fairly easy to hit a tree on acreage with driveable objects. One of the first noises the neighbor next door made shook the ground like the sonic boom of the shuttle landing when he started using an old tractor.  Smack into a tree while clearing brush, er, privet. He was OK; it took a while for the tractor to come out of its coma.

Buttercup is mentioned in some internet plant guides as toxic to horses. Some in this region refer to it as yellow top. The Ag extension vociferously recommends spraying 2-4D in early March or around Thanksgiving as the pastime of choice to control it before it controls the whole pasture. Very few sources say why the horse considers it a fodder of last resort, however.

When the buttercup is physically maligned in some way, it releases a skin irritant. If you're a horse, not only does it taste bad, but also your mouth is now blistering from the contact sport of chewing. Sort of like really bitter habaneros. So unless there really is NOTHING else to eat-- they won't bother it. I seem to be a slow learner.

I pull buttercup by hand fairly routinely and usually without gloves. Sometimes I noticed a slight sting. I figured ran into a splinter, stinger, bug, whatever. My Mom sure never said to stay away from the deadly toxic buttercup avenger. Why worry?

Next, time, I will spray the area better, till it out, or mow earlier (we've had so much rain, that hasn't always worked out this year). And I will definitely, absolutely, resolutely wear my onion goggles next time I have to do anything regarding severing large quantities of buttercup. If you want onion goggles for your own land and/or chopping onions, just find the pair of safety goggles you had from 10th grade chemistry.  Put on a new ribbon to replace the dry rotted strap, and you're all set.

Remember this above all:  Don't do buttercup unprotected. You'll go blind.

Crop Circles and Other Hieroglyphs, Part 1

So we hired the Boring Man (no real reflection on his personality) and a plumber. Off we went. The first two hours of wash rack plumbing went like clockwork. It was after that we started to develop more Trouble than River City. The Boring was quiet and uneventful, boring even. We had to recalibrate when we hit the foundation, but no biggie--we popped up in the barn exactly where the frost free hydrant would go. Then we ran our new water pipe and hooked it in to the old one. And BAM, the fantasy construction job went up in flames faster than a Southern plumber can say,"Ma'am, there's no water in this pipe."

Thus 2010: the Odyssey of the Search for a Functioning Water Supply began. I called the original architect, who is now basking in the Florida sun. He previously had assured me that if we just replaced the hydrant, then we should have water. He then remembered that maybe the next owner possibly cut the barn supply when they did some drainage work, 15'ish from the house. We dug a trench, found a pipe. YAY! Started to trace the pipe; found many, many more pipes. Then the beaucoup pipe and catch basin bonanza. But all of these were part of the long lost Sahara irrigation system. This over 2 days. I had nearly every plumber in the Tri-State area through on Thursday, as we foolishly tried to stay on schedule. They were plumbing; I was digging. They did bring some unbelievably good diggers in when they finished the other jobs they were on. So it turns out "Ditch Digger" is a very skilled profession; shining with precision, and frighteningly fast. Now they call them Outside Plumbers, I guess, but the alliteration of the oldest title is alluring.

On Friday, covered with dirt, very sore from learning how to dig effectively from the best, I gave up and called Duane at the Equipment Rental place. I explained that I was tired and I wanted to rent a ditch witch for the weekend to find the cursed water line. We learned (and by we, I mean Old Man (mostly) got a new Saturday job) that if you want to find anything in the ground, a ditch witch is hands down the way to go. I said, "Honey, this is the electrical line. Don't hit it." He was trying to avoid the phone line, inexplicably buried 24 inches deep, when he hit the electric line, I yelled STOP, and water spewed everywhere.

The Prequel: Crop Circles and Other Hieroglyphs

We started on the barn plumbing a few weeks ago because I had started the new barn doors. Which I wanted to hang on the shiny new round track installed way back on Labor Day.  The hanging would have gone flawlessly except for that pesky non-functional hydrant just to the left of the main door, directly in the path of the new sliding door.

I was perhaps more sensitive to non-functioning plumbing since Old Man didn't drain the 200' long hose completely that day in January when he left town for a week and the bottom actually fell off the thermometer and shattered on the 6 degree F ground. It took me a LONG time to get water down to the barn. We have one water trough heater (for our only electrical outlet), but for reasons that elude me now, we needed more. It was probably hailing, sleeting, snowing, or raining. Or not. It was definitely below freezing.

When attempting to break the ice on the main pasture trough I discovered its perfect ice sculpture self portrait 12" thick. I tried to take it to a wedding. I couldn't lift it, but I did flip it out of the trough. I could not get the 200' hose popsicle thawed, even on the asphalt. It was then I became cranky.

After talking to a plumber and a borer, the course of action became clear: Bore a new water line under the drive and the barn to a new frost-free hydrant location conveniently located in the barn; attach it to the old water line. Add a sink with stainless steel counter, a drain down valve, a laundry faucet, and a cut off in heavy duty cast iron for sub freezing weather --a perfect wash rack for horses. Max 25' hose required for any task, any weather.  How hard could it be?

Fashion Victim

It happened again yesterday. This time it was a perfectly clean cashmere sweater.  As usual, I didn't even consider, let alone think through, the consequences of farm/barn/horse/dog related activity on a decent working wardrobe.

Yesterday I picked up three bales of wheat straw from the co-op to make a puppy chew-proof bed.  The puppy's real name is Indy, but the nickname should be "El Destructo", with apologies to my Texan roots.  We had thought the king of destruction was foxhound Rutherford, but there has been a coup. The nice man at the co-op loaded the bales in my car.  I got them out at home. You can guess what the sweater looked like afterwards.

Many horse people are aware that it is not the best idea to wear your nice work clothes into a boarding barn where others keep your horse for you.  It should come as a warning label--like those pre-made horse liability law signs-- on every property sold to a person about take care of horses on their own land "DO NOT WEAR NICE CLOTHES OR SHOES  TO DO ANY BARN/FARM CHORE--EVER".  And it should be posted prominently in Hunters Orange above the clothes closet hanging rack, the back door, over the shoe rack, on the coat closet door, and on the barn door, in addition to over the stall(s) and hay for at least the first year of ownership.

Rules of engagement so far:

1. Under NO circumstances should polar fleece ever be worn to clip or shave any dog or horse. The hair penetrates the fleece at a 90 degree angle; this results in wearing a porcupine around.  The same can be said for spring shedding season grooming. Summer tank tops are worse than t-shirts because horse grooming always winds up going down the front somehow, chafing the unmentionables.  This also happens if attempting to fill a hayrack hung higher on the wall than you are tall.
2. NEVER enter a stall in nice work shoes. You WILL manage to get manure on them, whether you clean the stall or not. It will harden before you get around to cleaning them off. They will join the pile of nice shoes you can't wear. Eventually, you will give up an afternoon to clean them off.  Repeat.
3. NEVER wear pants you really like to walk a fence line, or check fence work you're having done. You will find the only remaining piece of barbed wire and snag a hole in the pants.

Curse of weather events plus chores brings excitement too. Because there is now so much more to do on the daily routine, and the place is likely bigger than the last place occupied, everyday items get lost or misplaced regularly. About two weeks ago,  I used a very short window between rain and appointments to mulch leaves in the side pasture in order to put out more grass seed. I naturally could not find my watch, resorting instead to a wind up pocketwatch on a chain around my neck.

This look was originally popularized by Ice Cube ca. 1987, but is currently being revived by Flava Flav. Neither one of them were also wearing rolled up jeans over chartreuse rubber boots and ear protectors while covered in a light film of leaf mulch and dirt, but I prefer to contribute my own fashion interpretation instead of just copying the famous.

Hot Pursuit of Smokin' Grass

Pasture renovation on a horse farm is serious business. It is seriously yawn inducing in those who don't have horses, or own a yard yet. I remember a conversation in late college with a friend who had gone to her first party with People Who Now Had Property And/Or Children. It was the maiden voyage of conversation tag lines not being some variation on "So, what's your major?" She was both horrified and stultifyingly bored at the main topics: prices of heads of lettuce and kinds of lawn grass. I don't know how she survived long enough to tell me about it.

I began to grasp how difficult grass growing in the shade can be on Prescott Street's vast quarter acre (including house). Two enormous oak trees, a holly, a black walnut, a pecan, a dogwood, assorted other trees, heavy acid compacted clay soil, and Western exposure on the front yard, combine to make getting a stand of grass similar to winning the lottery or getting struck by lightning.  Now that I have more experience on Fat Pony Farms, I think I finally know how to fix it.

Here, the land was allowed to lie fallow and unmolested for at least 10, possibly more like 15- 20 years, if the size of the poison ivy is anything to go by. As a result, old aerial photos of open pasture are now shade forest, with some spectacularly large trees. The back had a small pine plantation coming up. And we had lots and lots of invasive 30' tall Chinese Privet (aka Ligustrum) and several acres of vibrant poison ivy. Plus some 8'w x6'h x40' long junk piles. Not much in the way of grass. Which is only important if you happen to be a hungry horse.

Adding to the complexity, we wanted to preserve and increase native wildlife habitat, and we had the two horse extremes:  one very hard keeper ("This food doesn't agree with my sensitive palette" Miss Charlotte) and one extremely easy keeper ("So are you gonna eat that?" Mr. Dublin).  I began to research grass varieties and forage management in earnest while we worked hard on landscape removal to gain area in which to grow pasture.

Emotions: We were happily surprised when bush hogging with the generous loan of a friend's tractor resulted in latent grass popping up. YAY!  Grossed out with the sheer quantity of ticks the privet hosted.  Elated when our experimental first pass with endophyte-free fescue with our itty-bitty spreader produced a two foot wide green ribbon of grass meandering through the property.  Grimly determined to mix Round Up at a concentration high enough for jurassic poison ivy removal. (Some of those vines had to be cut with a chain saw. No mere loppers were big enough.) Delight that landscape removal and tree pruning were actually going to WORK. Exultation at the incredible quantity of wildlife and grass increase this year over when we got here in 2007.

There will be more on pasture later, but that will have to wait for when the intended audience snaps out of the coma induced by this episode.