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This is a double rainbow shot from SB Highway 65 and approaching Linda Vista. Republic Hill is in the background.
This is our hangar at the Porterville Municipal Airport. We're there to see friends, Mike and Frankie Archer, who are in the process of moving to Nevada. The "Coop de Ville" and "Wooly Pully" are parked in front next to their new Lincoln SUV.
Here's the new brooder coop! She's a beaut! We still need to reattach the chicken ladder and the screen across the bottom. It's very likely it will end up a "chicken tractor" since it's not all that heavy.
You just know that Abbie is going to check out anything new to her realm. She knows for sure that we usually haul live chickens in this trailer so she's paying great attention to it and checkin' for feathers.
Setting up for the "Iris Festival" gig at Oak and Main streets.
"Duggin's Citrus Express" jamming it on Main Street. Despite a couple of handicaps, we pulled the gig off fairly well. Susan, the lead singer, was on vacation so the boys held down the gig. Guess who got sun-baked? Yep...Ol' Red Faced Ran. Notice that half of the team had sense enough to wear caps.
This is the beginning of the "Jackass Mail Run". This is looking westbound on Orange Street at Main.
If you've ever wondered why an egg would mysteriously appear in your feed sack, here's why.
You can see the egg just under her wing. This bird and the feed sack are in the front run where this chicken and a couple of others are sequestered for awhile. Two are pullets that need to be kept from the "big birds" until they can hold there own in the pecking order. This hen has a problem keeping her beak to herself. She's a "cracker" who breaks and eats other hen's eggs. Another Arucauna has a sneezy cold so we're keeping her away from the main crowd for awhile.
It’s June, for corn flakes! What on earth happened to May?! I can't answer that question but can say that lots of things happened in May.
For one,Connie's daughter, Brandi, and her son, Cade, came for a visit for a few days. They usually also head south to see eldest sister, Trixie, and her family down in Harbor City (adjacent to Torrance). All-in-all, we all had a great time and ate lots of good food!
Cade got to do some chickening while here. He takes right to the job of collecting eggs and such. He's a rather sharp young fella who just turned 10 years old. He'd make a great farm hand! But, though promising to spoil him rotten, I can't quite talk his mother into letting us keep him! HEHEH!
Secondly, things got a bit more...interesting...than usual around here.
For one,Connie's daughter, Brandi, and her son, Cade, came for a visit for a few days. They usually also head south to see eldest sister, Trixie, and her family down in Harbor City (adjacent to Torrance). All-in-all, we all had a great time and ate lots of good food!
Cade got to do some chickening while here. He takes right to the job of collecting eggs and such. He's a rather sharp young fella who just turned 10 years old. He'd make a great farm hand! But, though promising to spoil him rotten, I can't quite talk his mother into letting us keep him! HEHEH!
Secondly, things got a bit more...interesting...than usual around here.
Rancho Report: Rancho Ran recently became a fall guy.
At least that’s what usually happens when you combine water with the bottom of
chicken coop and stir in an over-weight middle-aged white boy who has the agility of a
three-toed sloth.
This simple mixture of ingredients resulted in a
product that I call “Slickem” and “Slickem” is not a friend of the vertically
inclined (sorry…can’t help myself!). It resembles something like snot parked on a greasy ice rink. That, in turn, has a great tendency to impede one’s forward progress in
the coop. In fact, it promotes the opportunity for all body parts to be propelled in several
directions at once (all you ice skaters paying attention?). At that point, things
got…interesting.
Now, I’m not a gymnast (but can exercise my fingers somewhat nimbly on the fretboard of my Telecaster); I’m not an acrobat (no
dingbat jokes, please). And, certainly, I’m not an ice skater (been there, done
that, and lived to tell about it and make a decision to not do that again). I think that standing on
dry ground with your gyro’s working to maintain vertically stability is the
best possible scenario if one hopes to stay alive on this planet. I’m stickin’ to the basics.
With that plan thoroughly mapped out in my thinking,
I entered the coop the other day and noticed that some of the water from the 10
gallon watering can had managed to escape and had flooded the area (still
trying to figure that out). The “Slickem” was waiting for me like a black widow
waits for her prey.
Imagine the “Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!” (all you
Gomer Pyle fans out there) when ol’ clueless Ran fell right into the trap!
Looking like a bucked off bronc buster with his spurs pointed skyward, he began a brief,
short, sprawling, final approach decent to the rather unsanitary floor of the
coop (on my…day off…I hope to do the Poop Scoop Boogie and clean the place up).
There is no recall of a resounding thud though I
know there was one. You simply can’t forcibly stack this much Minnick in one place and
there not be an earthquake. There was, however, an excruciating pain slicing
its way through my lateral mid-thigh. My lightning-fast mind was quick to
inform me, “Bet that’ll leave a bruise”. Hoooooo, boy! Did it ever!
Ah….I see (from ground level); some nasty
unscrupulous modifier (PP&M anyone?) had parked a chicken roost in my
flight path and it had mercilessly impeded my progress to earth with its sharp
2” x 4” end supports. I’m betting the Ol’ Rancher will build those babies out
of Styrofoam next time.
Other than wishing he had a
different super power, just exactly what does a heap o’egg rancher do when he
finds all 220 pounds of himself laying (heheh… malaprops are my friends) on his
back with a wonderfully unobstructed view of the ceiling of his chicken coop? Is it time for binge ceiling watching (thanks, Garfield!)?
Does he dare hope that Connie has ever kissed a “boo boo” this big before?
For the first time since he was
12 year old (and, since no one is watching), does he cry because of the pain? Does
he catch up on his nose mining since he isn’t going anywhere anyway? Does he
just wait for the Humuhumunukunukua'pua'a
to swim on by? Does he pray? “Dear Lord. It’s me…again. You ain’t even
gonna believe what just happened! I really need to make it outta here in one
piece”.
Does he wax
prosaic? “Though weak and weary and whilst all my soul
within me was burning, presently my soul grew stronger. And, having been flung in a flash into
this awkward heap of despair and grief like a dying ember on the floor and
tearfully lamenting being in the arms of grit, grime, and ghastly filth and
awaiting a painless morrow, should I yet hope to rehearse this fearsome feat of falling: falling with such an
unexpected compendium of flirt and flutter that ended in vain, flailing, flittering, flight and pained, cacophonous,
and noisome arrival? Quoth the Rancher: Nevermore! PS…. and don’t text
Lenore!”. Or, does he just wreck a “Huggie” and hope there’s more? Such a
mystery to explore.
It’s amazing how a sudden soul-jarring jolt can awaken the dormant paramedic in a guy. Meaning……it was triage time at the ranch. That means it’s “ABC” time (that would be the basic “Airway-Breathing-Circulation” protocol).
It didn’t take long to initiate a head-to-toe assessment of things. I was making all kinds of weird noises and grunts so, not a problem with A and B. Blood? Yeah, plenty left but checking for leaks. No visible signs of trauma. But, that’s not a reason to stop checking and listening for snaps, crackles, and pops (all you “Rice Krispies” fans out there). Ten years of experience taught me that, in a trauma environment, things are rarely in their entirety the way they are first presented.
It didn’t take long to initiate a head-to-toe assessment of things. I was making all kinds of weird noises and grunts so, not a problem with A and B. Blood? Yeah, plenty left but checking for leaks. No visible signs of trauma. But, that’s not a reason to stop checking and listening for snaps, crackles, and pops (all you “Rice Krispies” fans out there). Ten years of experience taught me that, in a trauma environment, things are rarely in their entirety the way they are first presented.
Head OK? Yeah….no worries there (the coop would have
needed serious repairs had I fallen on my noggin). Face? Not hurting (but it’s
probably killing others…all you 5th graders out there…and you know who you are). Back? Nothing a good
hot shower can’t cure. Arms? OK so far but the shower thing is looking good. Hands?
Right: yep. Left: yep. Left foot: OK. Right foot: ditto. Right leg? Good to go
but let’s not schedule a marathon. Left leg? Aw, man! This could
be…interesting.
The localized pain was pretty high on the “Richter
Scale” but nothing I hadn’t experienced prior to this event. My thigh was
screaming at me like one of Rommel’s Panzer tanks was rolling over it. But, ruling
out a fracture, I knew that the pain would abate after awhile (prior to
Christmas would be cool). And, hoping that my triage was accurate, I just
figured that these sorts of injuries are the kinds where you “walk it off” and
you’re OK after a couple of days of limping and a few hits of Ibuprophen, of
course. On the whole, I had rather have been in Philadelphia.
Reckon the rest of this picture needs to be filled
in. I entered the coop wearing my “work clothes”. Now, around here, we use a
slightly altered narrative and dictionary regarding certain things. “Work
clothes” are usually defined in relativity to the comfort level required at the
time. In other words, if the Ol’ Rancher is working in his office/shop, he
requires a really, really, really (we’re talkin’ really), high level of comfort (have I mentioned that comfort is my
friend?).
That means that any clothing other than that which
is required to keep from being embarrassed is optional (good thing I have a
high shame level, too, or Connie would likely have an extra full-time job).
Like my life-long dear friend and brother, Rob Tyrrell, says: “It’s ‘Boxer
Saturday’”, where you wear boxer shorts as long as you can get away with
it (e.g. when you have to take out the trash…. at least in the day time).
Well, watering and feeding chickens doesn’t exactly require
being suited up like you were preparing to hoist that barge, lift that bale,
and then hew down a tree. I can toss a bag of scratch around without a set of
leathers, too. That’s a whole lot of words to say that I was wearing my blue
plaid, wonderfully soft and extremely
comfortable, genuine Wal-Mart bed
pants (2 pairs for 10 dollars at Christmas time) to work that day.
If you’ve ever worn a pair of genuine Wal-Mart bed
pants, you’d know that they are for there for comfort and not cushioning. That’s precisely what they did when the Ol’ Rancher planted himself in the coop….nothing;
they were cushion-less. A good pair of second-hand blue jeans could have spared
me some aggravation but I just couldn’t see myself out of my comfort zone (hi,
Vicki!) at that moment. I may rethink the matter but, most likely, I’ll
conclude that the risk is worth taking so that I can stay parked in comfort.
That being said, my ever-at-hand Baofeng UV-5R VHF/UHF handy talkie radio (with which I stay in contact with Connie the Canner in case something interesting happens) had, unbeknownst to me, twisted around and found itself beneath my left hip. When I reached for it to call for assistance, it wasn’t to be found. Swell.
The Ol’ Rancher had been gallivanting around prior
to checking his chickens, so that wasn’t a shocking news report. It was assumed
that, just like several times prior, he had dropped the thing elsewhere. So, it
appeared that I didn’t have my magic signal flinging device with which to call
for help. That was another “Swell!” plus an “Ugh!” to boot.
Not being without options (options are my friends), I
deployed my highly developed set of lungs, lips, and vocal chords, and began to
holler and whistle for attention. There was no idea just how effectual these
tools would be given that I was invisible to the naked eye and a lot of sound
energy was being absorbed by the coop. But, the efficacy of my efforts soon
became apparent when, not only Connie rushed to the scene of the felled fellow,
but the next door neighbor came running too!
Our dear neighbor, Louise, wanted to know if she
should call 911 (bless her darlin’ heart). I was tempted to advise her that it
was more likely that she’d need to call the local crane service to help haul me
out of this disparaging heap o’gloom. I thanked her and advised that I was OK
and that I had some extra “Super Glue” with which to patch things up.
After a couple of days of hobbling around the place
and tossing a few Ibuprophen down the hatch, Ol’ Ran was back to his normal
self and back into his work clothes. He’ll be spending some time pondering ways
to eliminate the “Slickem” issue.
Chickening report (other than the …interesting…
stuff): My girls are easily
entertained (which keeps that part of the budget low). Just throw them some
potato peels, stale bread, and some wilting lettuce and let the games begin!
Actually, they are the entertainment. Dumping a box of fresh greens then watching
them fly in from all parts of the coop and chicken run is a true hoot! From almost ten feet away, one Buff will
leap from atop her 4’ tall perch and crash land in the
middle of dozen others who are huddled together and fighting over the chow pile.
It’s all a cloud of dust and feathers as she smacks into them like a bowling
ball into a rack of pins. Watching their pecking order brings a big smile, too.
It’s a clash of the biddies and it’s a gas to watch them.
Not long ago, a friend and brother from Church,
Brian, gave us a box of chicks. A local dog had spooked the mother (and perhaps
killed it) and she and the chicks were separated. Brian and his wife, Angel,
chased them down and scooped them up and gave them to us since he knew we were
chicken sitters (why are you old people grinning?).
They are growing and peeping and will soon be
tossed into the coop with the rest of our feathery friends. That’s also great
since we’ve needed some roosters around here. Our roosters were all killed by a
local Queensland heeler (thanks, Gus) so now we’ll have replacements.
Their egg production is almost back up to speed
because the weather has turned nice. We’re due for some real nasty heat,
though. That means that some sort of water mister will need to be installed. The
front run has a mister but it seems to not want to properly do its job. “Someone”
will need to assure its functionality. I heard tell that the “someone” guy has
been desperately searching for a day off so he can get some work done around
here.
The hope is to finish getting the sawdust for the
“deep litter” filling for the inner and outer runs. That’s more likely now that
it has stopped raining (which gives the sawdust at the sawmill time to dry - we
hope. then we can go fetch a few pickup loads of the stuff. The front/outer run
is ready for the sawdust while the inner run is due for the same overhaul then
we can toss in the litter.(UPDATE: it rained yesterday! Auuuuuugh!)
Computer report: just when you think that there isn’t
enough to do around this place, my main workhorse computer decided to commit
hari kari. The machine is a dual-boot job with two large hard drives in it. For
grins, I installed XP on one volume (500GB - XP is my friend) and Windows 10 on
the larger 2TB volume. “No worries” says I. "I’ll just use the other volume
until I have a day off to fix the other one”.
Within a couple of weeks, the XP hard drive crashed!
Swell! So, I’ve been using my HP Pavilion 23 all-in-one desktop computer for
the interim. It’s working fine but the 23” screen is tiny compared to my 38”
monitor. I hate having to squint while reading my e-mail. I can increase the size of stuff but still,
that’s a chore and it messes up the rest of the page and formatting.
So, I’ve started the building of a replacement unit. The MOBO was bad on the previous Dell XPS420 (SATA controllers were bad) and it can’t be rebuilt. But, I just happened to have a second XPS420 on hand as a spare (it pays to have been a Boy Sprout, eh?). I’ll rebuild it in the likeness of the predecessor only with Windows 7 as the second storage volume instead of XP. I have an XP machine in my Ham shack and can use it if the need becomes apparent.
If the Creek don’t rise and the Gypsies don’t gyp,
this big baby should be up and running with all of the backups in a week or so.
Re-installing stuff takes a while because there’s just so much of it. Even at
the current data transfer rates it’ll take hours to transfer 150GB of pictures,
100GB of Music, 75GB of movies (haven’t
watched one yet but hope to have a day off…soon), who knows how many GB of documents,
and such.
Then, there’s the proprietary software and printer installation.
It takes longer than the average Wal-Mart work break to install the drivers for
five wireless printers. It’s all part of the show but it does take time.
Princess Abbie Report: well, she up and proved
herself again. The other morning (usually, she raises a ruckus a night) at 5 AM
(not-my-favorite-hour), she treed a “something”. It was easy to tell that it
was very close-in because she was so bloody loud. I also knew that she wasn’t
about to give this critter a break and that meant I wasn’t going to get any
more sleep. So, it was “rise and shine” time for the Ol’ Rancher.
Usually, a close-in baying session involves a rat or
mouse. That’s an all-too-often occurrence around here so I merely entered the
patio without artillery of any kind. Sure enough, Abbie had the big chest on
the patio fully covered in raucous rage and riot.
There was a space behind the chest that was just
small enough to prevent her from exercising her teeth on whatever it was that
had fled there for cover. That nice small space assured me that I probably wasn’t
going to be fully involved with this matter and that my huntin’ dawg was going
to be in full control of the situation.
With the aid of the early morning light, I peeked
behind the chest to determine just what the thorn in Abbie’s flesh was. It was another ‘possum and he wasn’t
budging.
There were a couple of options but, at 5 AM, I wasn’t about to spend a lot of time making a list of them. I grabbed my .177 cal pump pellet rifle and ended the war of the critters. As I used a broom handle to shove the mortally wounded ‘possum out from behind the chest, it had just enough energy to wiggle a bit. That had Abbie’s attention so she immediately snatched him up and hauled him off somewhere else. My day started early; it was coffee time.
There were a couple of options but, at 5 AM, I wasn’t about to spend a lot of time making a list of them. I grabbed my .177 cal pump pellet rifle and ended the war of the critters. As I used a broom handle to shove the mortally wounded ‘possum out from behind the chest, it had just enough energy to wiggle a bit. That had Abbie’s attention so she immediately snatched him up and hauled him off somewhere else. My day started early; it was coffee time.
There you have it. Another episode of what’s
happening at Rancho Relaxo, home of Rancho Ran, the world's foremost authority (the previous one died), Connie the Canner (world's greatest side-cook), where things can get…interesting, and where… you just
never know.
