A lazy dog and several cats snoozed in the shade of the large wrap around porch of Grandpa and Grandma’s large white house. Its simple, two-story, Victorian style was typical of most Central Iowa farm houses. Several large elm and ash trees dominated the yard, while apple trees occupied a portion of the pasture, just on the other side of the fence. A vegetable garden flourished out back, and peonies, tulips, iris, hollyhocks and honeysuckle grew in abundance all around. My mom grew up there, just as Grandpa and his father did.
Mom and Dad lived in the "little house" after they married. It was a small tenant house just across the sheep pasture from the main house. Dad worked as a part time hired man for Grandpa for a while. I was born during that time, so I lived on the farm for the first couple years of my life. Dad later took a job in town and we had to move, but I looked forward to the many frequent visits back to the farm.
One of my earliest memories was of the huge goldfish that Grandpa had in a concrete stock tank out by the windmill. It's hard to believe they could survive those Iowa winters, but they were big enough to be at least a few years old.
There was always something new to discover on the farm. Grandpa wasn't necessarily an orderly person, but he knew where to find things. His workshop was attached to the garage and was rather dark and disorganized. It had a dirt floor and smelled of old oil and grease. I enjoyed going in there and just looking around, as there was always a new discovery. If a needed thingamajig wasn't in the shop, then it was probably lying around outside somewhere. Pieces of baling wire and twine could be found everywhere, always ready for emergency repairs. For several years there was a private dump behind the garage. The biggest difference between the shop and the dump was that the dump was outside. Years later, the dump was cleaned up and many of the cats had to find new homes. There were also several piles of "good" junk scattered throughout the place. One in particular was just north of the house, behind the hog shed. Underneath the elm and mulberry trees were several pieces of machinery among other odds and ends. I had a pretty good fort built out there, and since I was usually armed with my Daisy Model 36 BB gun, I was ready for any attack by rustlers, renegades, or other assorted bad guys.
I grew up with guns in the house and Dad taught me respect for them. My folks gave me the Daisy rifle for Christmas when I was about nine. When I was 12, I got my first .22 rifle. It was a single shot bolt action, that I paid $10 for. I shot my first rabbit on the farm and the experience was rather traumatic for me. It gave me a deep respect for life and I have never hunted just for the thrill of killing.
I still have Grandpa's old Remington Model 10, 12 gauge shotgun and his Iver Johnson, nine shot, .22 caliber revolver. Occasionally, on hot summer nights, Grandma heard the chickens kick up a fuss out in the henhouse; Grandpa grabbed the flashlight and the revolver from the top of the refrigerator and go out to check for a 'possum. He'd stick the revolver into the back pocket of his overalls and off he'd go. The pistol had a long, six inch barrel, and it looked so funny just hanging out of his pocket, waving as he walked out into the night.
Grandma kept chickens for many years. Sometimes I'd get to help feed the chickens and then gather the eggs in yellow, rubber coated wire egg baskets. Grandma used to reach right underneath the hens to take the eggs, but I was never quite so brave. I'd have to shoo the chickens out of their nests before I could make my withdrawal. . Grandma fed them corn and cracked oyster shells, then mixed up some concoction of vitamins with their water, so they would be healthier and lay more eggs. Then off we went, back to the house where we took the eggs to be cleaned in the basement. She set the basket of eggs into the egg washing machine a tub of hot water which sat on top of a rotating platform run by an electric motor. After washing, we put them into cardboard egg crates to await the egg man to come and buy them. She also sold eggs to neighbors and many times just gave them away.
When Grandma worked around the house, she was rarely without an apron tied around her waist. Besides keeping her usual flower print dresses clean, it could be made into an instant basket by holding up the two bottom corners together. She could go to the henhouse to gather just a few eggs, or to the garden to pick a few vegetables for dinner, without having to take a basket along. It could also be used for flapping at loose chickens, pigs, and sheep, if they got out of their pens.
There were several lanes connecting the fields of corn and soybeans, the pumpkin patch, and the hog and sheep lots. The back fields were like a maze when I'd go exploring. A lone mulberry tree stood at the dividing fence between the north 80 acres and the rest of the place. It always provided tasty berries during my safaris. My purple stained fingers gave me away when I returned. The pumpkin patch was only used for two seasons. We grew squash, gourds, and pumpkins to take into town, where I sat up shop on the picnic table in the front yard.
I thought I was wealthy as a kid. In the summer, I earned money by mowing lawns, walking beans, and collecting deposits on pop bottles that I had found in roadside ditches. I scooped neighborhood sidewalks during the winters, as well as operated a newspaper route. Aside from my wages, there was always some change in "Grandpa's cup" in the basement. Grandma would empty the pockets from Grandpa's overalls prior to wash day, and would put the pennies, nickels, and dimes into an old coffee cup that set on one of the lower shelves in the basement. I guess she let him keep the quarters so he could buy coffee and a roll at the local cafe.
Grandpa had a good sense of humor. He was known for his stories at the town coffee shop, and his tall tales kept my friends and I entertained. I believe I laughed most at the way he sneezed and blew his nose. He wasn't a very big man, but he sure did make a lot of noise. He'd return from the fields at night and head for the basement for his shower. Since he'd been breathing dust and dirt all day, he'd let out a big sneeze, Grandma would yell "Catch um!" and the cats sitting outside the door would scramble for cover! Then he'd have to blow his nose, which sounded just like a foghorn. Grandma said it was our ship coming in.
I enjoyed riding with Grandpa on his tractors on hot summer days. He owned mostly Olivers and a couple of John Deeres. One of them stands out in my mind more than the others. It was an old green Oliver 70 with a huge green and yellow umbrella mounted over the seat and platforms built on either side. The platforms, used for carrying bags of feed or seed, field rocks, tools, or other equipment, were also great for hitching a ride.
When I was older, I had a Honda 70 mini bike that I rode all over the farm. One day I was riding down the lane between the corn field and the hog lot, when I came across a single wire about two feet off the ground, and strung all the way across the road. I wasn't sure why it was there, but I did want to continue on my way. I grabbed the wire so I could lift it up to ride underneath. Zap! I discovered Grandpa's new electric fence.
About once a year, Mom and I would go out to the farm to help Grandma "do chickens." Grandma would pick the ones she wanted, grab them with a long wire hook, and take them over to the butchering stump to chop their heads off. That was Grandma's job, since Mom didn't care for the execution part of the whole ordeal. It was funny in a weird sort of way seeing a couple dozen headless chickens hopping all over the place, bouncing off Mom and Grandma if they got in the way. The cats carried chicken heads up to the front door steps for the next several days, as a sort of "thank you" for feeding them, I suppose. For the rest of the day, Mom and Grandma were in the kitchen boiling water, plucking feathers and cutting up chickens for the freezer. The smell of boiled chicken feathers is even worse than wet dog.
They would also get together later in the summer to can sweet corn. I'd help pick and husk several bushels of corn from the sweet corn patch. Mom and Grandma could cut all the kernels off an ear of corn with about four slices of a knife. Then it would be bagged and boxed for the freezer. Fresh, homegrown sweet corn would grace our table for the next year.
One thing I remember most is all the farm cats that lived on the place. Each spring I would search all the hiding places where the mama cats would have their kittens. If I couldn't find them all, Grandpa would give me some hints, since he usually had already found most of them. I remember pushing Mom's old wicker doll buggy, filled with kittens, all over the yard. At feeding time, there seemed to be hundreds of cats that met Grandma at the door, as she brought them out day old bread from the store, table scraps, and milk. The actual number of cats probably leveled out around 50, give or take 20. Grandpa named each of their cats and never got them mixed up. They were all named "Tabby."
When Dad put new siding on the main house, I used scraps and extra lumber to build a cat house. About the size of a large dog house, it was supposed to be a warm shelter for many of the resident felines. I think I played in it more than anything ever lived in it. I couldn't have been more than nine years old then, but I must have done a fairly decent job on that house, for it stood for many years just outside the orchard fence.
The farm was never without a dog either. They each seemed to get along well with the cats, probably because they were so outnumbered. When I was just a toddler, I got Buttons, a white Spitz puppy, and we started growing up together. When we moved to town, Buttons happily stayed on the farm and joined Smoky (named for his resemblance to The Bear) down at the big house. At the time Grandma died, the farm happened to be without a dog. One day, Mom and Dad rescued a small black mutt, with maybe some border collie mixed in, from the animal shelter. We took her home, gave her a bath, combed and cut out all the matted fur and tangles, and introduced her to Grandpa. He and Candy became constant companions. Candy continued to live on the farm for several years after Grandpa died.
There were a few winters where the gravel roads leading out to the farm had snow plowed to over 10 feet on each side. Grandpa would crank up the Oliver with the front end loader attached, and clear out the driveway and all the lanes connecting the buildings to wherever he would need to go on a daily basis. There was a canvas cab on the tractor which probably didn't raise the temperature much, but it did keep the wind off. When he was finished, there were several mountains of piled snow. It took me the rest of the day to excavate snow caves.
The farm has survived over 135 years of family ownership. Although the buildings were sold off years ago and all of paths through the fields and hog lots have been cultivated, things seem pretty much the same as when it was Grandpa's Farm.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Grandpa's Farm
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Truth in Advertising
I received a marketing letter from a salesperson recently. It read, in part, "I hope you'll consider me one of your friends. Everyone needs a friend they can trust with such important matters as their security and investments. Would you place this kind of trust and confidence in me? You may ask, 'Why should I?' Here are a few reasons: (1) I am honest. I don't shade the truth. My word is good; (2) I am reliable. If I tell a client I'll do something, wild horses won't stop me from doing it; (3) I have time for you; (4) I have a code of ethics that I have sworn to do business and live by; (5) I live here and have pride in and concern for our community; (6) If you give me the chance, I promise that I'll prove that I care and that I'm highly capable of serving your best interests."
At the bottom of the page, in very small print, reads, "Information deemed to be reliable, although not guaranteed." Hmmm.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Email Etiquette
Email is a two-way conversation that does not require the immediate response that a telephone does. If someone calls you on the telephone, you answer (unless you have an answering machine or voice mail) and the conversation begins. If you’re having a conversation over a table at the coffee shop with your friend, one person talks, then the other person talks.
Imagine, however, that during your coffee shop conversation, you ask your friend a question. He just sits there, staring at you. Two weeks later you both are still sitting at the same table, when your friend suddenly answers your question. Most people would consider this rude, if not just plain weird.
Now imagine that you just sent the same friend an email, asking him the same question. Two weeks later, you get a reply. Rude? Weird? No, in fact it’s quite common. But it doesn’t have to be that way.
One of the advantages of email is that you can send a message anytime of day, without causing someone’s phone to ring at three in the morning. The recipient can then read your message at their leisure and decide whether or not to send a reply – again, at their leisure.
The downside to that is that their leisure may mean within the hour (good), the next day (not bad), next month (bad), or never (arrgh).
I usually try to avoid the telephone because I hate the hassle of answering machines, or even worse, voice-mail tag. At my job, I can send an email and usually get a fairly rapid reply from others in my organization. Sometimes translations can get lost in an email and I have to use the phone to clarify. Most employees play by a few simple etiquette rules and the process generally works well.
I also volunteer in an organization where other volunteers run the gamut of tech-savvy to not even owning a computer. I need to consider each when communicating with them. By trial and error, you discover those who are also fellow “emailers,” and those who simply have an email address, but who “hardly ever turn that danged machine on.” Here’s an example: I sent an email to another volunteer, asking a few important (but not time-critical) questions about a project. Three weeks later, I ran into him at a meeting where he quickly ran up to me and stated,” Hey, I got your email, but I don’t have the information you were asking about.” Obviously, what I was thinking at that point and what I actually said were two different things.
Of course, you are not required to reply to any of the email that you receive, especially to spammers, joke-forwarders and the like. But if you belong to a group of people where timely communication is a key element to success, then following a few simple rules is important.
Here’s my Top 10 List of basic email etiquette rules:
1. Reply quickly, even if you don’t know the answer. The sender would much rather hear, “I don’t know, but let me find out and get back to you” or “You should contact So-and-so, she’ll have the answer.” You should reply within 24 hours.
2. Be concise, but don’t limit your response to a single cryptic sentence fragment. Provide enough information to make your reply useable and understandable
3. Use proper spelling, grammar and punctuation. Improper spelling, grammar and punctuation not only give the reader a poor impression, but may also be difficult to read or even change the meaning of the text.
4. DON’T TYPE IN ALL CAPS, BECAUSE NO ONE LIKES TO BE YELLED AT!!!
5. Answer all of the sender’s questions, not just the first one. If you don’t, you’ll receive more emails asking more questions.
6. Read your email before you send it. You can avoid spelling and grammar mistakes and, by reading it through your recipient’s eyes, you can send a more effective message and avoid misunderstanding or inappropriate comments.
7. Use a meaningful subject line. If you write something simple, such as “Hello” in the subject line, or just leave the subject line blank, you run a high risk of having your email mistaken for spam and deleted before it’s even read.
8. Don’t forward someone else’s message without their permission. This is the equivalent of gathering up your personal letters, stuffing them in an envelope and mailing them to a complete stranger.
9. Address your message properly, using the To, CC and BCC options. If you’re just sending information that everyone should know, putting everyone’s address in the “To” line is fine. If only one person is directed to do something, put their address in the “To” line and send others an info copy by putting their addresses in the “CC” (carbon copy) line. To protect other’s privacy and still get your message out to a number of people, put all the addresses in the BCC (blind carbon copy). That way, no one can view any of the others addressees. You still need an entry in the “To” field, so go ahead and put your own address there.
10. Use care when using “Reply to All.” Using this option can generate many unnecessary emails for everyone in the address list. If you just need to reply to the sender, use “Reply,” not “Reply to All.” If you send a message to ten people and they all reply using “Reply to All,” you will get 100 responses back, as will everyone else on your list.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Little Pink Shirt
“Thanks for the little shirt,” my wife said sarcastically, as she held out a pink shirt in front me. Her expression told me she wasn’t very happy. The shirt looked a little like one I had washed the day before.
“Why? What did I do now?,” I asked innocently.
“Did you put this in the dryer?,” she asked.
“Sure,” I replied, “it’s only 60 percent cotton.” Hey, I’m no dummy; I know that 100 percent cotton shrinks, but if something is about half cotton, into the dryer it goes. I’ve learned my lesson on that subject many times.
“Yes, but it’s also 40 percent rayon,” she retorted.
“So?” I shrugged.
“So, rayon does NOT go into the dryer, however polyester can,” she explained. “In fact, rayon is supposed to be dry cleaned only, but I’ve always just washed this. My leggings don’t get dried either, nor does anything with elastic. And whatever is washed in the machine gets washed in cold water.”
I vaguely remembered having this conversation before, like about once a week whenever I did laundry. My wife works all day at her office and then comes home to run her own business, so doing laundry is just one way I share in the household chores . . . sort of. I should write out a list of washing instructions to hang in the laundry room. Let’s see . . . 100 percent cotton gets washed in cold, but doesn’t go into the dryer. Anything fifty percent cotton and polyester can be put into the dryer. Anything rayon isn’t supposed to be machine washed, but does anyway, but does not get put into the dryer. She didn’t tell me about silk, but it’s probably all right to put into the washer, since silk worms live outside in the rain. Use the pH balanced to clean and protect without stretching, fading or shrinking liquid detergent on dark colors. Use the powdered detergent that is free of dyes and perfumes on other colors, along with some color-safe, activated non-chlorine bleach, if necessary. The whites get washed with improved whitening without bleach powdered detergent that has stain fighting bleaching action. Add a little fresh scent liquid bleach if necessary. I wonder if I should use the fresh scent stuff with the colors, since that detergent is free of perfumes?
Our laundry supply cabinet yielded seven types of liquid detergents and bleaches, four different boxes of powder, three spray stain removers and one rub-on stick that looked like deodorant. This laundry gig has become mind boggling. It seemed so simple before I was married. I just followed the Guy’s Rules to Laundry, which said to wash whites in one load and everything else in another, and try not to let anything red get mixed up with the whites. It was really easy back then, but when I got married, my wife brought along her Women’s Rules to Laundry and I found myself in some deep soap suds. She tried to be helpful and explain the differences and then informed me there were actually cleaning instructions on labels sewn into clothes. I always just looked for the big “XL” in a circle, since the rest of the label had printing so small I couldn’t read it anyway.
A label in one of my shirts reads, “100% cotton, machine wash warm, only non-chlorine bleach if needed, tumble dry (any heat OK), hot iron if needed.” That doesn’t fit any of the rules my wife set forth, because it falls under the Guy Rules, which she apparently doesn’t know about. The label in one of her shirts reads, “machine wash cold separately.” If all of her clothes were washed separately, we would immediately drain the reservoir. My underwear is 100 percent cotton and there is elastic in the waistband. If I strictly followed my wife’s instructions, I’d have to get my underwear dry cleaned, and that just ain’t gonna happen.
My wife complained a lot that she thought she was gaining weight, until she realized the problem was just me doing the laundry. Until I finally discover all the secrets to washing clothes, I’ll just struggle along the best I can. After all, I’m only a man.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Flying Spider
Alaska is full of large wonders: huge mountains, magnificent glaciers and wilderness as far as you can see. Alaska is also full of small wonders. If you’re not careful, you could miss them. Six Mile Lake recently revealed a few of its small wonders to us as we silently and slowly explored it with our canoe.
We first encountered a Common Loon couple with slightly less than half of the 2.4 average children. The single, fluffy, grey-brown chick stayed close to its mother, as our 17-foot green dragon neared. The male loon dove several times, swam underwater to the opposite ends of the canoe and surfaced, keeping a wary red eye on the intruders. He even feigned a charge at one point, in an attempt to chase us away. We kept our distance as we continued to watch for several minutes, before moving on. Even our German shepherd lay quietly in the center of the boat, entranced by the sight.
Farther up the lake, we came upon several single-parent duck families. Most of the hens kept busy herding their own broods of fluffy grey adolescents. A younger mom was busy with her nine little yellow furballs all swirling around in different directions like a bunch of forgotten I-DID-A-DUCK participants. We didn’t see any drakes at all, but it was Saturday. They were probably on the golf course.
I watched a spider dangle at the end of a single strand of silk, precariously close to my wife’s head. Not wanting to stir up any excitement and possibly end up wet, I just watched and kept my mouth shut. After the spider was well past my wife, I realized that it was not simply hanging there, for there didn’t seem to be anything to hang from, out in the middle of the lake. It was actually traveling in the opposite direction that we were. Then I saw the tiny white fluff of a cottonwood seed, camouflaged against the grey-white sky, floating about ten inches above the spider, like a hot air balloon. I knew that some spiders can jump. There’s at least one that can fly.
On our way back to shore, I spotted a “V” in the water ahead and something was swimming at the point of it. The object was so small I thought it could be a lost runt duckling trying to find its mom. We paddled closer and found a vole dog-paddling its way to shore. It wasn’t carrying anything in its mouth, which would indicate that it may have been to the opposite shore, a hundred yards away, gathering special building materials which couldn’t be found near its home. Or maybe it lived on the other side and was coming to this side to do its shopping. Or maybe it was just swimming a few laps for exercise. I had a lot of questions, but the vole simply swam around our boat and continued into the grassy shore.
After we pulled into shore, a pair of petrels began dive bombing us, as if to say, “It’s time to leave, we’ve shown you enough for one day.” We took the hint, loaded our canoe and left, happy with our new experiences, small though they were.
Grizzly Bear Tales
Grizzly killed for charging 2 on trail
By NATALIE PHILLIPS
A big, old grizzly bear was killed late Thursday after it charged a couple walking up a trail near Eagle River. The 500 to 600-pound bear was the second brown bear to be killed in the Anchorage Bowl this year.
“It’s unusual. I can’t think of any time in recent times where we have had two brown ears shot in one summer,” said Rick Sinnott, a biologist with the state Department of Fish and Game. “Usually, we have one shot every four years.”
The number of black bears shot in the area this year is also up. At least 11 have been killed and two captured and moved out of town. Sinnott said, “That’s close to a record. Last year we had 12 or 13 shot, and we’re only halfway through the summer.”
And it could get worse. “If the drought continues, this year’s berry crop might not mature,” Sinnott said. “That could have the bears turning to garbage. The worst is yet to come, I’m afraid, if we have a berry crop failure,” he said.
The male grizzly killed Thursday night near Eagle River was 15 to 20 years old and large for this area, according to Sinnott. The bear was missing some of its front teeth, and its canines “were kind of broken and worn,” he said. Its hide stretched 8 ½ feet, but it was “pretty ratty, with most of the hair worn off.”
Jeremy Hartley, 22 and Elizabeth Ritter, 18, were headed down to Eagle River near the confluents of the river’s south fork, at 10pm Thursday to warn Hartley’s younger brother, who was camping by the river, that there were bears in the area, Sinnott said. Hartley, who grew up in the area, was carrying a 12-guage shotgun.
Because of the river noise, the bear apparently didn’t hear them coming, Sinnott said. When the couple spotted the bear, they backed slowly up the embankment. The bear charged. Hartley fired two warning shots, then a third shot that missed the bear. The bear continued toward them, Sinnott said. Hartley fired two more shots. One hit the bear in the shoulder, and Hartley was uncertain about the fifth shot.
“They did the right thing,” Sinnott said. With the bear subdued. Hartley and Ritter left the area to call Fish and Wildlife Protection officers. Troopers arrived around midnight and with Hartley’s help found the wounded bear and killed it.
Meanwhile... in another far-off corner of Chugach State Park...
Human killed for charging 2 on trail
By BARRY DELICIOUS
Anchorage Daylate News reporter
A big, old human was killed late Friday after it charged at a couple of grizzly bears foraging for berries near Eagle River. The 150 to 170 pound human was the first one mauled this summer.
“It’s not unusual to have one or two humans mauled each summer,” said Bubba Bruin of the state Department of Human Protection. “People have very small brain capacity and will often startle bears with cameras or those little noisy pet wolves they have enslaved. People often keep their food out in the open and then become selfish when we bears come around and they refuse to share. Their behavior is quite unbearable at times and then incidents such as this occur.”
The male human killed Friday night was 45 to 50 years old. It was missing some of its teeth and its canines “were kind of broken and worn,” said Bruin. Its hide stretched 6 ½ feet long and over 12 feet wide, but it was “pretty ratty, with most of the hair worn off.”
Harry Pause and Claude Opun were minding their own business at the South Fork berry patch, when they first noticed the smelly old human charging down the trail toward them. “Claude and I tried to run away as soon as we saw the thing,” said Pause. "It just kept on charging at us though. We knew we couldn’t get away, so we finally just turned and mauled it. I really feel bad about the whole ordeal, but it just couldn’t be helped.”
Claude Opun and Harry Pause near the South Fork trail where they were recently accosted by a hairless old human and were forced to maul it in self-defense.
“Chugach State Park sees an increase in the human population every summer and these unprovoked attacks by humans also increase,” said Bruin. “Many of these humans aren’t even locals. They wander in from other areas, often from thousands of miles away, and they just don’t know any better. It seems like the farther they had to travel, the stupider they are when they get here.”
Humans, similar to the one mauled Friday night, often roam outside their territory looking for trouble.
