The viewpoint parking lot again and looking NE.
Still at the viewpoint parking lot. The campground is in the forefront.
On the way home eastbound on Hwy 190 and in front of the River Island Golf Course. Shot from the Coop de Ville. This is Black Mountain. It's nice to see it covered with snow and not fire.
Something new has been added! No more "Port-a-Potties" at the viewpoint parking lot! It's nice to know that there's at least one genius left in this area!
This is what's left of the Lake Express Market. It burned down some time ago but they only recently hauled off the debris. These are the gas pumps which were not damaged by the fire. No word yet as to what will be built/re-built on this spot but......I can guess.
Call me "silly" but I really love "halo shots" where the sun highlights an area on the ground. Click on any picture for an enlargement.
To the right is one of our neighbor's duck pond. It was just too pretty not to take a picture of it.
Another shot of the same pond. It's over on Ave 176 around the hill from us and on the same dirt road leading to the home of one of our computer clients.
A winter time view of Rancho Relaxo when the view is not occluded by the big fruitless mulberry tree. Not enough rain to keep the grass green and not enough spizzerinctum for the Ol' Rancher to water it. We often park the Coop de Ville in front of the door. It's much more convenient when loading and unloading. And, you just know that Ol' Rancho Ran is convenience oriented.
I tossed this in for reference. That is to say, there are folks who can go to the supermarket and buy tortillas. But, in some places (like Hooterville, CA), you have markets that have an entire aisle dedicated to tortillas (plus the end cap)! It just goes to show you that all tortillas are not the same or made equally (and it really speaks of the ethnicity of an area, eh?). I didn't bother to take the time to count them....but was tempted to do so. Tortillas are our friends!
Well!! Flames of Atoma (all you old “Captain Video” fans out there)! It’s March, already!! What a load of kartoffelpuffer! Moving along but with resentful guttural sounds being made……….
Rancho Report: well, here we
go again for another round of what’s happening at the “Daily Plant It” (where
my alter ego is wearing an apron instead of his lovely cape). It’s more or less
the same ol’ seven and sixes but different each month. We’re just doing
whatever is necessary to keep the Oompa Loompas from rioting at this chocolate
factory.
The Rancho Twins are quite
busy as usual keeping up with our assigned tasks. It’s “upstairs, downstairs,
out in the kitchen” (all you “Stringbean” fans: “Hot Corn Cold Corn”) then off
to town (Hooterville) to pay bills, shop, visit, pick up chicken food/greens and
what all, up to Springville to mail stuff or get chicken scratch, get gas for
the gas cans (for the tractor and other motorized stuff round here), feed the
dog, and keep up with the chickens (most folks only have to keep up with the
Joneses). And, wait folks, there's more! We stir the compost pile, take out the trash, collect eggs, fix
computers, check the mail, check e-mail (with a hot cup of coffee latte’ on hand, of
course), take care of phone calls (both directions), start some of the gas
engines so they don’t clog up, get stuff ready for church (e.g. bulletins,
recording equipment, et. al.), and deal with whatever exigencies arise (and
they do arise). It can leave a fella lookin' for....a day off.
Do make note that we occasionally have what we call a “stay home day” which we appreciate so very much. On
those days, we manage to keep up with e-mail, computers, and such things that
allow for us to stay in our “work clothes” (i.e. Wal-Mart bed pants, T-shirt,
and slippers) and not have to wear our street clothes. I suppose that I really
shouldn’t say “we” given that Connie leans toward being a bit (actually, two bits) more human and
regularly stays in more normal attire. Perhaps she feels that at least one of us
ought not to appear to be a slovenly bum if someone comes to the door (oh, to
where has my youthful vanity fled with such alacrity?). All I can say in my
defense is, “comfort is my friend” and to check for aberrations in my DNA.
And, riding herd over a bunch
of brainless squawkers is a mighty hard task and keeping up with
too-intelligent computers is a chore. Thankfully, overseeing a bunch of
believers at church is comfortably in the middle. I guess it all works out in
the end.
We local yokels were
bemoaning the dang near hot weather around here when that changed overnight.
The temp fell from highs in the 70’s and lows of about 42 degrees to 26
degrees. That’ll put frost on your Edsel! Hace frío en Springville! It's about time that the weather was conducive to seasonal change. Our trees and vines need the rest (albeit it seems the rest won't be all that long). We finally got some snow on them thar hills, too! We actually had a brief snow flurry that apprised us that winter was stopping by for a visit (big whoop).
Thankfully, we live in a small cove
area that is largely protected from hard freeze events (though not always) so
we didn’t have to patch broken pipes the next day. This old warm-blooded guy
actually welcomes the cooler weather. At least he gets to wear his jacket two
or three times each winter.
There was a light
dusting of snow on Black Mountain, just to the east of us. It had the first few
hundred feet of its top dusted with white stuff. A couple of days later, we
even had a brief snow flurry (brief as in about 3 minutes around our near vicinity). It only happens infrequently and certainly not so soon after such warm temps.
Black Mountain was re-sprayed with a bit more snow a second time and with more lovely white stuff than the previous time. So, we think
that the real mountains (east of Black Mountain) got a goodly dose of the
much-needed precipitation.
In 2000, we got about 6” of
snow dumped on us. That was a first, to be sure. I had seen about ½” or so in ’63
(I think) but no accumulation since then. There is even a picture of the more
recent event posted in the Springville Post Office.
It was “Smog Check Time in
Springville” so I aired up the leaky left rear tire on Tojo and headed down the
hill. Since we would likely have to drop off the little picky up truck and
leave it, Connie followed in the Camry.
The tire has had a slow leak
for at least 6 years that I can think of so there was no thought of having an
issue with it (it never goes anywhere but to the dump, the gas station, and to
the smog check place). After all, just because the tire was ragged looking,
weather checked, leaky, and was 20 years old, why should the Ol’ Rancher be
concerned about it? It did have a modest tread on it and the other three tires were
quite fine. But, Ol’ Mr. Back Up brought along his nice yellow portable air
tank just in case.
That was a really good idea
because, prior to reaching P’ville, I had to pull over because, amazingly, the
air had escaped the tire. No, worries, says I. Out comes the air tank, a blast
of fresh air into the tire, and away we go.
It certainly seemed prudent
to head to “Carroll’s Tire Warehouse” a couple of miles away. That, too, was a
good move since the tire was almost flat again when we pulled in. After discovering a tear in the sidewall (so much for a slow leak), the guy at the counter sold me a tire at cost
(long story). So, 43 bucks later, we’re headed to the smog shop.
At the smog house, it was a “NO
GO”. The truck didn’t pass because the catalytic converter (a mere 33 years
old) was shot. We’d need a new one. OK; we can do that. But, first we’d have to
park it at the church so we could continue shopping and such in the Camry.
Only a few blocks from the
church, a strong odor of gasoline flooded the interior of the truck. My lightning-fast
mind concluded, “This is not a good thing”. I continued on but looked into the
rear view mirror just in time to see a pool of liquid at the intersection behind
me. A second conclusion was: “This could be….. interesting”. I have been to
more than one car fire and wasn’t immediately interested in participating in
one myself. Thankfully, I quickly pulled into the church parking lot with
Connie closely following.
“No worries”, says I. “That’s
why we have ‘AAA’ towing”. My guess is that the fuel pump may be leaking or a
high pressure hose leading from the pump gave up on us. Shouldn’t be a biggy that
I can tell. We finished our chores in town then, when those were completed,
returned to our comfy sanctuary of peace and called for a tow.
When the tow truck got to our
place, get this, the right front tire of the pickup was….flat. Can you imagine
that?! Two flats in one day! Hmmmmm….we need another tire (probably a full set), a catalytic converter,
fuel pump (plus installation), and a smog check. A quick mental tally showed
that that would roughly be equal to or even exceed the worth of my little beater truck.
Well…..that sort of cleaned
up the last remnants of my good day. I can’t say that I was as upbeat as Ulla Inga Hansen Benson Yansen
Tallen Hallen Svaden Swanson Bloom but I wasn’t wrecked. I have…options and options are my friends.
I figure that I can
install the fuel pump myself and can probably find a set of “take offs” or used
tires and save some cash (if I can ever get a…..day off). We’ll see.
A couple of days later and a trip to “DMV” (bypassing the
mile-long line by making an appointment, natch), Tojo was on “Non-Op” status
until further notice. We also canceled the insurance, too, which saved a few
Green Stamps.
The other day, it was “bean
time” at Rancho Relaxo. You know, of course, that man
does not live by bread alone; he has to have a bean (I think that’s in the book
of “Third Randy”). So, the Ol’ Rancher fired up his “Power Pressure Cooker” (we
are great friends, that thing and I....hmmmm...sounds like a great title for a movie, "The Thing and I". Maybe not) and tossed three cups of beans, ½ pound of bacon (never skimp on that stuff), and approximately one
tablespoon of salt into the water! You probably can’t imagine the anticipation that
a hungry chicken plucker can muster when he smells beans and bacon cooking!
That, in turn, precipitated a
great need to add the classic “Okie/Arkie” side dish, fried taters! It was time
to rip the skins off some spuds and get to whackin’! Thankfully, Ran, the
cookin’ dude, had just enough time to wrangle the Russets and get them perfectly
fried up exactly when the beans were done! Whoooo dooogies!
Yes!! I do, indeed, know what
you are thinking: “Where’s the cornbread, you dummy?!”. I know….I know. I was
hoping that no one would turn me in to the “Southern Cooking Police”. I’m
beggin’ for mercy! I just couldn’t quite fit it into the timetable. I’ll try to double up next time!
Anyway, when it was all done
and steaming hot, we grabbed our big soup bowls (small ones not allowed in our house) and filled them
slap up with beans and taters! Oh, man! I wasn’t hungry until the next day! Now,
I ain’t braggin’ but it’s understood that I don’t do nothing that I don’t do
good (all you Bob Wills fans: “Bring it on Down to My House”). I’ll do that
again and soon!
Princess Pooch Report: Abbie
has a way of redeeming herself at just the right time. Our little rambunctious coon
hound has way too much time on her hands and gets into mischief at the earliest
impulse.
For instance, she's pretty good at tracking down a lone and unsuspecting cardboard box, hauling it off, and shredding until it isn't immediately recognizable as such. That's what happened a few days ago. Swell....chunks of cardboard all over the place.
However, she recently earned her "Old Roy". The other night, the chickens
had been bedded down for a couple of hours or so. That would include the one
Red that seems to not get the memo on how dangerous it is to park her feathers out
in the open. She probably just inherited a lazy gene since, instead of
marching thirty feet to the coop, she parks on the tongue of Dumbo, our covered
trailer. The goofy bird does that every time the girls are let out for the day. I
have to take her from her roost and haul her into the coop where it’s safe.
Dumb cluck.
Continuing….when the birds
are safe, I put the shock collar on Abbie so she can roam about at night. It
allows her to go halfway up one side of the coop. Later that evening, when I recognized that familiar, “I’ve
treed again, y’all!”, barking and headed outside to see what was happening, that’s
precisely where I found her.
She was trying with all her
might to get under the plastic skirt that we had hung to protect our girlie birds from
the winter winds. Expecting to find a large rat, I hauled back the curtain and watched Abbie blitz into action. In a few moments, she was hauling out the largest ‘possum
she had ever caught so far. It had ceased to function and it’s legs were
flopping as Abbie hauled the carcass away.
Though I don’t doubt the
crushing capability of her jaws, ‘possums do “play ‘possum”. Not wanting to embarrass
her by being fooled (again), and not wanting to risk having a critter running around the ranch while
happily breeding other chicken snatchers, I grabbed my CO2 pistol. Abbie was a bit hesitant in allowing
me to share her glory but eventually acquiesced and allowed me access to the
thing so as to insure her success. Abbie – 1; Critter – 0. I'm teaching her to "high five".
Fuzzer Report: it's almost springtime and the fuzzers are...uh...springing into action. They are rejoicing at the fact that they don't have to combat freezing temperatures. Accordingly, they are scampering about with all hilarity and just daring me to stop them. So, I did that. Recently, the Ruger "Critter Git'R's" scope was dialed in so it wouldn't have to be used as a club. Out it came, the Rancher to aim, and three fuzzers are no longer getting fatter and happier each day. Fuzzers - 0; Deadeye Ran - 3
The other varmint rifle, a 17 HMR, needs to be dialed in, too. That little sweetie can really reach out and touch a critter at 2,500+ fps. That's roughly twice the speed of a .22LR. So, the trajectory is quite flat when using it around the back 40 (all two acres of it). Fuzzers beware!
Chickening Report: while
heading out to the mailbox the other day, it was easy to note the mass of scattered potting
soil on the front porch. One of our craptors (it’s difficult to not be
denigrating when it comes to stupid chickens….even if you are a bird brain and
love them to pieces) was parked in a deep hole she had dug out of a large porch rail planter. That,
of course, left potting soil all…over…the place. To conflate her intolerance
for our property, she knocked off a porcelain pot and broke it. That just doesn't sit well with the folks that run the ranch. With 36 built-in boxes in the
coop and a small chicken house in which to lay eggs, she picks one of Connie
the Canner’s flower boxes. *SIGH*.
Not wanting to have to clean a dead chicken
and prep it for freezing or dinner, I deferred advising her about the matter.
The hope was to act as surprised as she when we both next headed to the car. That
actually sort of worked. It was close.
After a short time, she, with her profoundly normal hearing, heard
a,“Hey! I just laid an egg!”, cackle being loudly proclaimed by the offending
hen (you do learn to speak chicken-ese after awhile, don'tcha know). "How convenient”, I
thought! So, Ol’ Ran headed out to the scene of the crime and found the egg.
Wasn’t that just swell of me?!
Now, things would have worked
out just fine from there had not another feathery egg producer not tried to arrogantly
upstage the previous offender. One of the Rhode Island Reds decided that the
hole dug by the Leghorn would perfectly fit her fluffy egg laying factory.
After clucking about and making an even bigger mess of things, she set about her
business. Sure enough, within a short time, we had another egg in hand and a
proud hen loudly proclaiming her victory.
That may have gone well
except that, when finished, the recalcitrant Red decided to dismember the nice flower in the planter! She was busily pruning the thing when we stopped her and
steered her out of and away from the planter (ever so gently though not without
the temptation to do so with a sharp axe). Note to hen: Don’t do that in the
presence of someone who is an expert in canning chicken!
Connie grabbed a broom
and dustpan and cleaned up the mess (but not until after cooling down a few
hundred degrees and me hiding the butcher knives). Amazingly, two hens dodged the pressure cooker that day.
Chicken points to ponder: isn’t
it amazing that a chicken can gain all the weight it wants to…and never show it
in the face (thank you Roger Miller)?
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.
