El Rancho Año Viejo (we've worn this year plumb out)

 We had to say "goodbye" to our old faithful "Coop de Ville". The engine had an issue that was going to cost too much to repair so we sold it to some sort of a dismantler from Riverside. She had 233,000 miles on her and served us well. It came into the program in 2007 with 18K miles on it.  It has been replaced with another Freestar that had 88K when we picked it up in Boise.

Here's a shot of the handy work that one of the lady's a church did. She does a great job of decorating with flowers and such.

All you "villains" (Porterville'ans) will recognize this as the east side of Success Lake. We don't get down that way often but managed to do so on a recent kayak adventure. 

Well....Jiminy Cricket! It’s December already! Doesn’t that just make you want unload all your ejective fricatives and quit the “Mickey Mouse Club”?! I still can’t believe we’re looking down the throat of a new year! Ugh! Anyway, here’s what’s happening at the rancho.

Things are “moving along” here at our peaceful little fishing village of Springville, CA, US of A. Perhaps it’s more of an almost fishing village considering that the old folks still have a huge pile of fishing gear, fishing tackle, and a boat  but none of it has been wet yet (wonder why). This ought not to be. Old people shouldn’t be treated like this.

You could even say that we’re “sailing along” (albeit at a few knots slower than usual). But, you have to keep in mind that we’re dealing with a lot of “Covid Crazy” in these parts. It’s made worse when the neighbors are always showing up asking us is we have any “Flintstones Chewable Cocaine” on hand or if we have any “Chivas” left (not sure why they think we even had any to start with). We’re gently trying to convince the good folks that our country will only work through this crisis when everyone isn’t crazy all at the same time. I’m starting think that we are in great need of idiot control in our state. *SIGH*

Anyway, fishing or not, we’re still keeping both oars in the buttermilk (this is an English lesson on non sequiturs) and making sure that Mr. Starbuck is put to work first thing in the morning. Mr. Starbuck is my friend.

The great chorizo caper: man does not live by bread alone. No siree; he does not. He has to mix it up a bit. He needs to have biscuits and gravy, cowboy beans and bacon, refried beans, tacos, and chorizo. Yep: chorizo. That’s the really good Mexican soft sausage that is spiced up to taste really good This is to say, just eat the stuff and do not: I repeat; do not read the label lest it put a dent in your dietary Datsun. It’s just too good to pass up. Sometimes the Ol’ Rancher just has to have a dose (a really big dose) of that red-colored (colorado, if you must) stuff to make his day.  

This isn’t the harder Spanish chorizo and neither is it the harder Mexican longaniza. It’s not all that solid but is rather like mushy clay in texture until you cook it; then it falls apart. Myyyy, but is it tasty! You can eat it straight in a taco, mix it in with scrambled eggs (huevos con chorizo), mix it with fried potatoes (papas con chorizo), or use it to season your chili.

On no few occasions Señor Ran, the Chorizo Man, has been known to use it to make really great huevos rancheros (hey! I live on a rancho!) using this marvelous mystery mush meat. It’s quick, easy, and muy bien sabroso (which is right down my camino).

Well….the other day (when lots of things happen around here), it was “dia del chorizo” at the rancho. It was late morning so the Ol’ Rancher’s hunger had well set in. A quick trip to the Rancho Freezo for a chunk of chorizo, a few papas, a couple of pans, and a potato peeler, and the stage was set. With a tad of oil in the pan, the smell of victory was already in the air and the saliva glands were ramping up to warp speed in record time. It was a good day to fry (bet you didn’t know Lt. Worf was a cook, now, did you?)!

But, from out of nowhere, an un-welcomed mystery surfaced. What on earth could be mysterious at breakfast time?  Uh…..where the heck did the chorizo go? Folks, just how does a 10 ounce chunk of frozen chorizo disappear in a normal sized kitchen while being attended to by an adult (who was being supervised by another adult)? About that time, the Ol’ Rancher was looking for his iPhone and ready to hurl a few high-speed emoji into the ether.

After wondering around the kitchen and garage like a kid searching for Easter eggs for too long and after looking everywhere imaginable, it was time for “Plan B”. With a sigh of disgust, another tube of breakfast was hauled out of the freezer. A quiet thought was entertained to determine just how long it would take for the lost meat to present itself to Connie while she’s working in her kitchen. Would this thing betray its hiding place by simply rotting in place? That would be…interesting.

In about a half hour after breakfast, Connie the sous chef, advised that she found the escaped chorizo. It must have been fearful for its life because it was hiding in the large slide-out pan/skillet drawer. UGH. Silly old people.

“Graveyard stew” anyone?: speaking of good food, how about graveyard stew for breakfast? Some of you are already headed for "Wikipedia" while others are headed for a barf bag. Actually, graveyard stew is rather simple and innocuous on all accounts. But, my! Is it good!

It’s a depression era dish that was invented out of necessity. While consisting of nothing in particular that you could use for an advertising campaign, it really is pretty good stuff. It’s simply hot milk toast. It’s along the lines of cold milk or buttermilk, cornbread, and sugar that our grandparents and great-grandparents regularly ate during the depression. The difference is that you heat the milk and you don’t add sugar/sweetner.

Another example is what Connie the Canner’s granddad called “whibbet”. It was milk and crumbled up crackers. It’s easy to imagine lots of impromptu meals being eaten during that harsh time. As a point of reference, you may want to check out the YouTube channel called: “Great Depression Cooking” hosted by a lady named Clara (who is now deceased).

The ingredients for milk toast couldn’t be much simpler. Just brown up some toast (use extra dark or you’ll be cheating yourself out of a heaping helping of umami) and butter. That’s it. However, use real butter or I’ll track you down and paste a sign on your forehead that reads, “Gourmet Dummy of the Year”. Do not use plastic butter!

Another key element is to insure that you use really hot milk. You don’t have to scald it but getting it close to that temperature will help your taste buds know that you really like them.

Cut 4 slices (unless you’re a goofy ol’ rancher dude then you can use 6 slices) of  (dark) toast into 1” squares, toss them into a larger bowl, pour in about a cup of hot milk, then stick a fork into the stew and git after it!

 Cleaning up: after what seemed like an interminable one month delay, the two old yard sale’ers finally got the yard sale mess cleaned up. Man! What a tooth-pulling mess-of-a-gig that was (and without Novocain)! Folks were staring to think that “Sanford And Son Wrecking Yard” had moved in and taken over! We have never taken this long to clean up after the big yard sale. The longest was two weeks and that was only because we didn’t have to be somewhere in Texas right away after closing down. There was just no way that we could outrun the torrent of “things” that unilaterally elevated their priority and agenda over ours.

When we did have time, there simply wasn’t any spizzerinctum left in our barrel to get it all done. So, we had to take a couple of naps to be able to pull through the final days. It all just had to wait until our one duck could get in a row. It finally happened with the last small round up of stuff on the front porch being accomplished just a couple of days into December.  The Minnicks have moved back in.

“Work Day” at church: one day per month is our “Work Day” at the church. Some of the folks get together and spiff the place up and Ol’ Pastor Ran wields a screwdriver, hammer, vacuum cleaner, ladder, or what all with which to do his part.

This time around, the ladies and gents cleaned the place then we all got together to erect the Christmas tree. They all did a great job of decorating and stringing the lights.

After that, we went home for a long-awaited nap. It has been a long week and it was nap time at the ranch. Naps are our friends.

The Wedding: from time to time, the Ol’ Preacher Dude officiates at a wedding or funeral. This time it was a wedding. It was a really nice wedding complete with real humans and everything. The church had been nicely decorated the day prior and was all set.

The event was set for about 6 PM so that left much of the day for us to get prepared. Well, that’s cool because Ol’ Ran is an old Boy Sprout so being prepared is right up his alley.

That meant that there was time to include a nice big Mexican food lunch with Spanish rice and refried beans (of course). Now, somebody didn’t bother to think that through. Beans for lunch? Hey, Ran. How long have you been on the planet? You’re headed for a wedding armed with a Mexican combo plate hiding under your belt? What...were...you...thinking?!

At 6:00 PM, there really was a Russian Roulette moment. The Ol’ Preacher was sweating bullets and praying that his refried beans wouldn’t hit bottom at 6:05. This disaster was easy enough to envision; someone releases a silent weapon of crass destruction that leaves the groom wobbly-kneed and the bride reeling from the evil vapors. Just like that….I would be banned from all future weddings for life!  

You can imagine the relief experienced when the service was completed without casualties. There weren’t any injuries from a fleeing crowd or even watery eyes!

There’s a what in my Steam Vac?! Abbie treed our Hoover Steam Vac the other night while it was sitting mindlessly on the back patio. It was immediately obvious that her foe was one that she could easily defeat. Nevertheless, it made sense to me to not alarm Connie the Carpet Cleaner about the matter. She would have insisted that the cleaner be completely disassembled to be cleaned and disinfected. As I stood, there I could just see her handing me a screwdriver.

At Abbie’s stentorian insistence, I gave the Steam Vac a couple of good shakes which prompted a small mouse to abandon his unstable environment. It dashed straight at Abbie but I reckon the sight of a huge canine maw with its unyielding set of fangs immediately made it change its mind. A lightning-fast course change was made back to the Vac and to presumed safety. Well, that didn’t last long. Another quick shake and the tiny critter made another dash for home. That didn’t last long, either. Abbie was on him in a flash. No mas rata! Abbie: 1; Stinking rata: 0.

 Coleman’s: we have a policy here at the rancho which is to treat the old people once in a while (personally, I don’t think that self-pampering once per day is too much, do you?). It was decided to check out “Coleman’s” which is a long-time local eatery.

Because their menu and ingredients haven’t changed much in 60 years, neither has some of their clientele. In other words, lots of their business is from people like me who used to eat there back in the ‘50’s and 60’s (albeit, at the original location at Olive and Jaye St.).

Their steak sandwich has always been a favorite of many and it certainly is a favorite of mine! So, the sandwich combo meal was ordered. Connie the Canner ordered her usual Coleman burger combo basket (though I urged her to try the steak, she insists that she prefers the burger). We’ll be back!

Big hairy deal: you would think that barbers and hair dressers would be considered “necessary” to the public. The government (the “geniuses” who feel that they are entitled to run roughshod over the ignorant, unkempt, unclipped, and unwashed masses) seems to think that no one will need a haircut for a year or so. So, no; barbers and hair dressers are not a big deal. Only, yes! It’s a big hairy deal!

Without the proper attending of his locks, the Ol’ Rancher turns into a big curly-haired fuzz ball capable of frightening the neighbors. Sure; getting old means that there are certain changes to human physiology and physique and you learn to deal with them. But, Ol’ Fuzzy Wuzzy doesn’t think that he is required to look like Mark Twain on purpose. He also doesn’t think that it’s necessary for the neighbors to call the sheriff’s department because they think that William Saroyan’s doppelganger has ousted the Minnicks! In fact, Ol’ Fuzz was also getting tired of having to buy that 90 mile-per-hour extra-hold hair spray (available at a Wal-Mart near you) so that he could avoid the dog catcher.

What to do? Well, you call upon Connie the Clipper to bail you out of this dilemma, that’s what. She gathered her electric shears, her scissors, and a comb or two and got to work. With a here-a-clip, there-a-clip, everywhere-a-clip-clip, she had the 220lb chunk of troll fur looking fairly human again! That’s a twenty dollar bill saved, too! Maybe I should raise her pay, eh?

Re-fuzzing: Abbie did it again; she treed another brown ground-loving hole-digging fuzzer in the next door neighbor’s drain pipe. It was like deja vu all over again. So, we re-enacted the fuzzer removal plan; she trees, the Ol’ Rancher grabs the water hose, the fuzzer flees for its life, and Abbie nabs the nasty, no-good, ne’re do well brown bane. I may charge the neighbor for fuzzer removal, next time.

The pooch hootch: speaking of our indispensable dispenser of doggy love and prodigious propagator of puppy pranks and shameless shenanigans: it’s winter time now and steps need to be taken to keep our short-haired corn dog warm during the cold mornings. As was established in previous winters, she now has her own small heater in her Abbie mansion to keep her warm and comfortable.

This is not to say that she’s unappreciative of the continued spoiling, but during the daytime, she up and drags her doggy blanket out of the hootch and parks on it out front. This led me to conclude that my doggy doesn’t spend much time thinking things through. *SIGH*. We’ll keep an eye on this dog trick to see how long it lasts.

 A “Hot Heels” Thanksgiving Day: Turkey Day was a bit different this year at the old folks’ home. Instead of Connie the baker, cooker, boiler, fryer, and sauté’er  whomping up a huge meal, we just relaxed for the day and pampered the tired home dwellers (yes. I think our home is tired, too).

Darlin’ Connie did do something was absolutely marvelous, though! She baked up a fresh loaf of hot homemade bread! Ooooooh, my! I’m not sure that too many other things can grab you by the nose and lead you to the kitchen any quicker than a fresh hot loaf of bread! As soon as she advised that the bread was ready. I had a knife in my hand! The (real) butter was on the table and the knife started sawing. After a healthy slather of butter, the gnawing started and didn’t stop for a while. We will do this again…soon!

Omar Kayak: that’s what I’m going to name my new kayak when I get one. Friend and client, Gary Oscenas, is a kayak’er who loves to take his boat out whenever he can and the weather is accommodating. Sometime ago (but longer than the other day), he advised that he would take me out for a spin in a kayak. When he called and asked if I could make it to the lake the next day, the answer was a resounding, “Yes?”.

He has two kayaks and extra oars and such so when we got to the lake (only 5 miles from here), we were pretty much ready to go. We tossed the boats into the water and with a couple of hints on using the oars, we set sail on "Stuck Duck Pond" (what we call Success Lake when the water is at its lowest).

We departed the east boat ramp by the marina and paddled across to the west side then south toward the spillway. After that, made a beeline back to the ramp. It didn’t seem far but we had been on the water for over an hour. Since it was my first time, I had had about enough exercise for the day. It was work but it was a very enjoyable work.

It’s easy to see why folks love to kayak. During some journeys, it’s peaceful and quiet. Gary said that, when the lake is up, it’s like sailing through a forest when you are near the mouth of the Tule River. We’ll do this again, no doubt.

Coffee is our friend: “If you’re not shakin’, you need another cup”. Well…maybe so. But this old coffee sipper is not really into shakin’ all that much (though, in his younger days, there was a whole lot of shakin' goin' on, don'tcha know). But, he is really into enjoying the taste of good freshly-brewed coffee. That’s particularly true when it comes to coffee lattes, cappuccinos, and macchiatos. Sure; I understand that there may be better ways to deliver a jolt of “wake me up” to one’s system. But, there’s just something about sipping a hot latte in the morning and letting the caffeine work its way up the ladder that is especially satisfying.

There you have it: another short episode of the long happenings at Rancho Relaxo, home of Rancho Ran, the world's foremost authority (the previous one died), home of a retarded duck; home of Connie the Canner (world's greatest side-kook): where the air smells like freshly-canned pomegranate jelly:  where alliteration reigns supreme: where things can get...interesting: where it’s all news to me: and, where...you just never know.

RANCHO FALL-0

 

Here's dear Abbie after a long night of barking and roaming about the ranch looking for  ne'er do wells and keeping us critter free. 

Here's dear Abbie after a long night's rest and not carousing, not treeing something, not howling, and without keeping herself, us, and the neighbors up all night long with her baying or barking. Notice that she closely identifies with her friends the chickens in that she is fresh from a dirt bath. 

Here's dear Abbie schmoozing for attention at the yard sale. She did that a lot because she probably thinks she’s the main attraction at this amusement park. 

 

Here's a batch of ripe pomegranates from Courtney Gillespie who is one of our regular yard sale participants. He was selling these beauts and then squeezing others to make juice. Pomegranate juice is really really good stuff!

Above is an early morning shot of the yard sale

prior to the crowd showing up. 

Above is Leanne Chapman's stuff. She's also one of the regulars and does quite well at the annual sale. 

To the right is a shot looking back toward the house and looking at Connie the Yard Sale'er manning the checkout counter. 

Here's one of our calabasas/zapolla 

squashes. It's bigger than a basketball!

These are native to Peru. They can 

get a lot larger than this!

This is why we call our hens, "dirty birdies". They all rejoice in bathing in the dust. They also taught Abbie this trick. Speaking of "dirty birdies", it looks like we have a winner for "name the new pullet" contest. The pretty birdie's name is now "Flower". The winning name was submitted by granddaughter, 7 year old Moira! She's a pretty intelligent little...chick (big grin)!  

This is the walnut cracker that friend and brother, Courtney Gillespie, fabricated. This thing is amazing! It cracked a 5 gallon bucket of walnuts in just a few minutes! This region grows a lot of walnuts so this is a handy gadget to have around. 

 

Nov 2020

Well…it’s November 2020 and there’s just a short time until Turkey Day and we’ve consumed another perfectly good year (which should make us hungry enough to eat a turkey at Thanksgiving, I suppose). Doesn’t that just make you want to hock your Jedi light saber? Time couldn’t be speeding by faster if we were on the “Millennium Falcon”! Moving along….

I don’t know about y’all but I’m about tired of wearing this dad-burn beak protector around all of the time. I reckon that it’s because I’m old that I still feel like folks are thinking that I’m there to rob the till. Can’t you just see it? Officer: “Can you describe the suspect, ma’am?”. Teller: “Oh, yes! He was a tall guy with brown hair, he was of an average height, had an average build and weight, he was wearing blue jeans, and was wearing a mask. Oh, he had eyes and ears, too”. *SIGH*.

Something is not quite right here; when you wear the masks, practice social distancing, don’t sneeze for fear of being shot, and ….there’s a spike in COVID cases? Can you spell H-O-R-S-E—H-O-C-K-E-Y? This Kung Flu has got to go and so do the quasi-scientists and gas-lighting fools moonlighting as politicians that actually believe that masks are helping. If they are working then why, pray tell, are we having a “second wave”?

The Big One: every big event has to start somewhere and, regarding our big annual yard sale, it means starting to load stuff up then getting it ready for display. That means we have to retrieve the boxes at the hangar and haul them back to the house and prep them for the sale. They had already been priced earlier in the year and then shipped to the hangar for storage (I would gladly trade all those boxes for a nice fast airplane).

While loading up the trailer, I happened to hear some shuffling noises of some kind coming from a few feet away and to the rear. I looked up and saw that Connie had found a black widow spider lurking on one of the boxes. Take it from me; she’s no fan of spiders but certainly not black widows. After taking careful aim, she stomped it right good. She killed that thing.....then killed it again…and killed it again…and again…and again. I’ve never really seen a spider die 12 times before. Reckon she likes her spiders really flat and really dead.

It’s a rather grueling matter to load, stack, unload, restack, rack, and unpack all day long for a week prior to the sale. Then, after three days of morning-to-dusk work at the sale, you then have to cover stuff up to keep the dew (or even rain) from damaging it. By bedtime the first night, you don’t know whether you are coming or going and are too tired to even say anything. You just crash. Then, you get to do it again for two more days.We usually groan a lot but complain very little. That's not to say that our bodies don't complain a lot because they do complain; we try not to listen. They usually quiet down some after we feed them a couple of Ibuprophen. 

Overall, it was a great time and we did manage to do fairly well even though not as much stuff was presented. Some of the boxes were not even opened due to a lack of tables on which to display their contents. Still, it was a good time and everyone who participated profited and were happy with the outcome.

After the sale on Saturday, Connie the Seller needed a shower after a long day of working. She said she also needed to wash off the defilement from all that (wonderful) “filthy lucre”. That’s called “PMA” (positive mental attitude). It's that lucre stuff that helps to assuage the muscle pains and helps the psyche feel better, don'tcha know. 

Of course, what goes up, must come down and, what gets unboxed for the yard sale (but which isn’t sold), gets re-boxed. There's usually quite a bit of unsold goods so it takes a lot more...work. Setting up for our annual yard sale is always brutal but, afterward when it's cleanup time, we remember why, after each and every yard sale event, we want to just shoo everyone away, burn everything down, go on vacation, and hope the wind blows all the ashes away before we get home again. Talk about gluttons for punishment!

We’ve been complaining for weeks how we really don’t want to massively exceed our energy budgets,strain our brains, and wreck our bodies with another huge yard sale but then we start collecting more stuff. Go figure. In fact, folks have already started giving us lots of things! It’s almost to the point where we’re thinking about just leaving Wooley Pulley hooked to the van.

 Lock’em down: you know you’re old when you can finally get out of the house (by defying the lock down) and you can’t wait to get to the “Dollar Tree”, the “99 Cent Store”, “Grocery Outlet”, and “Wal-Mart”. We can’t speak for others but we turned into Shopzillas for the day and just loaded the van up real good (see! I told you we needed a van!).

Speaking of being old, we were in Wal-Mart and needed to find some 1/8” cotton cord/line because it was needed to be used as a wick in one of our small kerosene lamps (I told you we were old! We have candles, too!). After they recently totally re-arranged the store (to confuse the old folks, I should suppose; it worked), there was no way we could even find the department in which to look for things. So, we asked a young lady wearing a blue vest where we could find the cord and explained that it would likely be with things like “clothesline”.

She was speechless for a second and looked as if her iPhone just went dead then said, “What’s clothesline”? Uuuuh…huh? It was our turn to look stupefied for a second but I smoothly recovered and defined what a clothesline was.  “Oh”, she said, with us knowing she still had no clue. I probably should have just asked her for the list of Brad Pitt’s girlfriends and wives through the years. She probably doesn’t even know anything about the “Maytag” repair man, “Motorola” TV’s, or “Rinso” laundry soap. I wasn’t about to ask her where the “Lava” or “Boraxo” was.

Ham it up: the local backhoe dude is scheduled to come and dig a hole in the ground so the old hamster can finally get his ham tower erected (that only took 4 years). This will be the first time Ol’ WA6IXI has had a real live 60’ tower to play with in his 50 years of being a ham. This will make operating a lot more interesting, to be sure. There are lots of plans as to how to configure the thing, too.

The initial idea was to mount a huge HF (high frequency) “Hy-Gain Tri-bander” beam. However, this QTH (i.e home location) has an issue with the surrounding woods (“woods” meaning large oak trees that someone forgot to saw down before I got here). Also, the barn was built without considering a beam antenna so the large oak trees near it were of no concern. Now, years later, if a beam was to be mounted, it would require a lot of tree trimming which would run the cost of fun unacceptably high (someone forgot to win the Lotto…again).

In addition, it dawned on the head operator (no; that doesn’t mean that he’s a brain surgeon) that the beam probably would be of little value given that he lives in a mountain-lined “bowl” were the RF signals would get slammed against a mountain and go no further.

Plan B: what to do? Well, that’s easy. It means using NVIS as the best option for this station. NVIS is "near vertical incidence skywave" which is a skywave radio-wave propagation path for HF signals. It basically launches your radio signal up toward the sky rather than more horizontally toward the mountains and horizon. It's efficacy is conditional upon the use and placement of particular types of antennas which are more conducive to this method of transmission (dipoles being better than beams). If the QTH was situated somewhere on flat land, the beam would be invaluable but not so much here where we’re stuck in a rock bowl.

On the other hand, the tower, itself, is invaluable. It allows you to get your antenna(s) up high and away from the RF energy absorbing surroundings. That's no small thing. Also, each frequency's resonator works best at a certain height above ground (usually a quarter wave length). So, the closer you can get to dialing that ratio in, the better your antenna's performance will be. That's where the tower shines because you can mount the antennas at different heights for greater efficiency. Sure; you can use a trapped dipole which allows for multiple band usage. However, the antenna will still only be at optimal efficiency on one band. As always, though, each ham has to live with certain compromises. The good news is that most operators manage to "get out" regardless of those compromises. All is well! 

Wire antennas are best for this mode of transmission (NVIS) but a nice 4 band trapped vertical will be added to the mix, too, since its radiation pattern is omni-directional and has a lot of its signal projected upward. Trapped antennas of any kind are an efficiency compromise. In this case, you swap your efficiency for a size convenience because traps allow for smaller/shorter antennas. 

So, you just hang wire antennas for HF and mount the VHF and UHF vertical antennas on the side of the tower. The HF trapped vertical will probably be parked on the roof of the barn. 

I’m actually flirting with the idea of mounting my 10 element 2M VHF beam (it came with the tower) on the top but I’m not convinced that the cost of a rotor is worth the extra benefits of having a beam. We’ll see. If it isn’t mounted on the tower, it may well be configured on a stationary mount so that it will be pointed toward Blue Ridge Mountain where some of the ham repeaters are. That should work well but Blue Ridge still isn't line-of-site because there is a small mountain between it and the QTH. I would hate to rely on "multi-path" but, if it works, it works. So far, it looks like I can still mount it in a fixed position on a mast located on the roof of the barn instead of the tower. Otherwise, the trapped vertical will be mounted up high.

After all that, I’ll string the horizontal dipole (a 100’ long G5RV type from MFJ) and my home brew 40/80 Meter inverted “V” from the tower (and tune it with an antenna tuner). If my calculations are correct, that will have the 40M dipole situated at the half-wave height with the 80M dipole situated at the eighth-wavelength height (but still quite usable). 

I should also be able to string a 160M dipole, too. Most hams aren’t fortunate enough to have that much room because a ½  wave dipole on 160M is 250’ long. That’s a tough stretch for most guys even with an inverted “V” configuration. It'll be a "first" for me given that I've never operated on the "Top Band" before now. 

There is a refurbished 5/8 wavelength 11 Meter (Citizen’s Band) vertical antenna that will be mounted with the trapped vertical on another tall mast on the barn. This old hamster got his start as a “Chicken Bander” and still thinks that there is a use for it for emergency communications. It does come in handy once in a while when travelling. The good news about this antenna is that it has already been tuned and tested on the 10M-11M-15M-20M-30M ham bands! It’ll work as a backup antenna if there’s an issue with the wire ones or the trapped vertical or if the wave propagation favors the vertical antenna’s radiation pattern.

Friend and brother, Jim King (KJ6KK), gave me a 6M vertical so that will needed to be given a permanent home, too. I have an MFJ-920 6M antenna tuner that will fit it perfectly.

There’s a “J-Pole” antenna for 2 Meters for the house because there will be a couple of radios in the “computer shack”. In addition to that, there will be a "discone" scanner antenna mounted somewhat near it. The discone has been silently waiting in its box for three years waiting to be let out and I'm sure that it will be grateful for being set free. Still more: I found a “Ringo” 2M vertical that needs to be rebuilt so it will likely be  mounted somewhere on the barn (that's where the antenna analyzer comes into play). I may well be accused of having an "antenna farm". It's 4' upper radiator section is missing so it will be replaced by a custom fitted aluminum replacement.

The 6 MFJ, 2 Dentron (including the “Junior” model), and Drake antenna tuners, Baofeng, Icom, and Yeasu HF, VHF, UHF transceivers, straight key and auto-keyers (for CW/Morse code), Kenwood 600 SWL receiver, 4 SWR/PWR meters, MFJ-269C PRO antenna analyzer, and jumper cables are all ready to assemble in one place. Three 100’ lengths and one 50’ length of low-loss coax will be ordered soon so that it can all be tied together. Some of the peripheral hardware will need to be located as well (guy wires and brackets et. al.). Should be fun.

No “Echo”: the motor on our “Echo” weed eater motor failed even though it has had less than average use. After having the guys at Porterville Home-Ag look at it, they advised that the cylinder was wrecked because of improper lubrication (even though the Ol’ Rancher followed the usual fuel-oil mixture instructions on using 2 stroke engines). It was going to cost more to fix it than it was worth. About the only option is to just throw it into the yard, tie a goat to it, and buy a new one. So, goes life, eh? Thankfully, we probably won’t need another one until spring. That'll give me time to save my pennies and save my dimes and buy a another one instead of that new 409 I wanted. 

An apple a day keeps the…vet away: *SIGH*. Apparently, Abbie understands that one’s diet is important. At least that’s what it seems like. On no few occasions, she’s been seen gnawing on one of our ripening apples! Now, I doubt if I would mind if the apples were falling on their own but it appears that she is pulling them off and eating them! This is the first year that the apple tree has been properly watered and fertilized and it’s producing huge beautiful apples and….my dog is eating them for me! Grrrrr. Dear Abbie. We need to talk…again.

Grub hub: the Rancho compost barrel is alive again and has a bunch of new squiggly protein wallowing around in it. So, the head chicken meister rounded up a couple of handfuls of the large grubs for his pampered pantophagous peckers. They were delighted! They were pecking my hand even after all the grubby goodies were gone. Free protein is our friend!

Free Indeed or Freebies are our friends! : the other day (when lots of things happen around here), Connie the Scullery Maid purchased a new “Hoover” hard floor cleaner and new “Hoover” carpet cleaner. She wore the other cleaners plumb out and they ceased to function properly. She was tired of fighting and pleading with them so we just divorced ourselves of them and ordered new ones. Ah, but this is Rancho Relaxo and you just know that this matter will have a real story to go with it.

A few days after she ordered them, an e-mail arrived that advised us that our items had been delivered. That was where things started to get interesting because, when we got home from church, the cleaning machines were nowhere to be found.

Since we aren’t given to worry (it works for Alfred E. Newman), Amazon was notified and they advised us that it was likely that one of the delivery people missed his guess on when he would actually be at our house and pre-advised the company that he had done his job. “Look for it tomorrow”, the agent said.

But, the items didn’t come during the next two days but the delivery man did (he delivered another hard floor scrubber that we had ordered for the church). He advised that he had delivered them to the neighbor’s house. So, Connie called Amazon and explained that we would have the neighbor bring them over and all would be well.

You can’t even guess what Amazon did! They stated that it was their issue to deal with and that they were sorry for the inconvenience. And….they were going to give us a full refund! When Connie asked where to take the other ones when we got them, the agent stated that we could keep the two (expensive) scrubbers!! Talk about being blown away! That wasn’t like giving us a couple of nice warm doggie blankets or such. This was a more-than-400 dollar deal! Zowie! Free is our friend!

Connie immediately put the hard floor scrubber to work (and we put the 400 dollars to work elsewhere) and was so impressed that she almost shouted, “We’re going to be clean people again!”. It’s great to be married to a clean cleaning woman!

There you have it: another short episode of the long happenings at Rancho Relaxo, home of Rancho Ran, the world's foremost authority (the previous one died): home of a retarded duck and home of Connie the Canner (world's greatest side-kook): where the air smells like freshly made pomegranate jelly: where alliteration reigns supreme; where things can get...interesting: where it’s all news to me: where the rubber leaves the road, and, where...you just never know.

 

 

RANCHO STINKO

 

The one that didn't get away. This is a large summer squash that arrived in late September. Our squash aren't too bright. Must be related to the chickens. 

 NOTE: you may click on any picture to enlarge it.

This is one of the most delicious peach cobblers that I've ever eaten! It was made with home grown peaches and TLC by Connie the Baker Woman. It didn't get away either because it was weighted down by a huge scoop of ice cream! 

Ladies and gentlemen: Le Bidet. This is a properly configured bidet in its native habitat (aka "The Throne Room" or "The Library").  The roll of toilet paper is now used for blowing our noses. 

The controls for the bidet as seen from the "potty jockey's seat". Some bidets do not have both controls (i.e. front and back splashers). It is highly recommended to pop for the few bucks to get the dual control version. 

This is Broody Mae and her rapidly growing "Red Dotte" chick. What a pretty birdie! Reckon, what shall we name this little cutie? 

On a clear day, you can see mighty far. 

But, on a smokey day, you can see less than a half mile. Ugly stuff. The smoke, haze, and smell get old very quickly. 

              

To the right is a shot looking east from the end of our driveway at the mailbox by the highway. Ordinarily, you should be able to see the sun just barely coming up over the top of "Black Mountain". Now, you can't even see "Black Mountain". Obviously, there is something wrong with this picture. 

Here's "Success Lake" looking SW from the vista point. Go to Google earth, grab the little yellow man, and drop him on one of the blue dots in the parking lot of the vista point to see Connie the Canner sitting in Toyo (the Camry) while I shoot the panorama shot. You'll also see the same shot but on a clear day. The contrast is striking. 

Well….it’s October 2020 and Thanksgiving, Christmas and 2021 are just around the corner. Doesn’t that just make you want to optimize your volumetric efficiency with a hydraulically gimballed pivot TIG welded to a laser-etched high-molecular diaphragm? Moving along.....

Smokey Mountains: as of late, the “Great Smokey Mountains” have little on our formidable “Sierra Nevada Smokey Mountains” (which act as an anchor to keep California from falling into the Pacific Ocean). What with the almost innumerable fires raging across the state, we have more smoke in California than the rest of the world combined. This really stinks. 

It’s a bit weird to wake up in the morning, look toward the mountains or across the road, and think that it’s the middle of February when the “Tule fog” has taken camp in your neighborhood. Instead, it is the thick (and same colored) smoky haze from the nearby fires. Our forward visibility on some mornings is about 1/8 mile. Ugly stuff.

Hangin’ out der vashin’ on der Zeigfried Line: actually, it’s not the “Zeigfied Line” but rather Connie the Washer Woman’s clothes line. We both love sun-dried wash (and sun-dried tomatoes but that’s another story) but it’s a bit tough on her because she refuses to hang her freshly washed sheets out in the haze. She is loath to have her laundry smell like a campfire so she has to toss her clothes into the gas dryer. That’s not a bad thing except that the stupid dryer is still presenting some sort of issue which makes drying a load of clothes a multi-hour endeavor (refer to a couple of previous blog posts for pics).

After becoming intimately familiar with the assembly and disassembly of a Maytag drying (it’s still not as complicated as digging deep into a laptop computer), I’ve replaced all (as in...all) of the sensors in the dryer. The thinking is simple; if you have to tear the dryer down, you may as well just replace everything while it’s in pieces rather than have to do it time and again, eh? Nevertheless, it still isn’t drying properly. So, according to the manual (when in doubt, always read the manual), the only remaining item that would present this problem is the flexible vent hose. It’s supposed to be metal and we’ve been using plastic. From what I can tell, the plastic venting will bend too much and present a back pressure or extra heat that tells the sensors that the dryer has finished its duty. It then shuts down the heat.

So, the ol’ dryer mechanic had to stop in at Weisenberger’s Hardware and pick up the metal flex vent pipe and two 90 degree connectors/adapters. That is one of the main projects that will be fulfilled today and that should be the end of all laundry grief.

Update: yep. That did it. The dryer is working like new again. It’s unlikely that there will be any further issues (at least not with sensors).

But, this is Rancho Relaxo and you just know that this isn’t where the story started. Uh-uh. Prior to the dryer issue being resolved, the Maytag washer was giving her all kinds of fits (when it rains, it pours on the washer, too). It decided to not completely pump out the rinse water and wouldn’t completely fill the tub. Just what we need at the ranch: more WORK (think Maynard G. Krebbs)!

After a quick check on the Internet, a diagnosis was made that the pump was shot so a new one was ordered from Amazon.com. When it arrived (a couple of days later), there was no reason to bother the eternally bored Maytag repair dude (for all you old people out there), so the Ol’ Rancher started slinging tools. That job was a fairly easy one and only took a short time to fix. He now knows what the guts of a Maytag Bravos gas dryer and Bravos top-loading washer look like.

The Right Way and the Wrong Way: A few minutes after brushing my hands off and returning to other chores about the ranch, a call came in on the radio to announce that there was an issue with the washer (we stay in touch with FRS radios since I’m sometimes out back in the oranges). Say what?! The Ol’ Wrenchero doesn’t partially fix things! When the last screw is tight, the bloody thing is fixed because there’s no time around here to re-do things all over again!

Upon arrival, I was prepared to be greeted with a scowl for being an incompetent boob repairman (I know...I know...don't go there). Instead, Connie the Washer Woman gave me a big grin and said, “The washing machine error code is saying that hoses are on backwards”. Uuuuuuh! Brother! Just what the doctor ordered: a smart aleck washing machine. Why couldn’t I have just not plugged the motor in or just forgotten to hook up a hose?! You know; like something any fool could do. But, noooo. I had to be a special kind of fool.

If there is something Ol’ Ran didn’t need for the day it was a large dent in his ego. At least there wasn’t a large wad of cash attached to the matter (which has happened before). *SIGH*.

As usual, my lightning-fast mind was there to weigh in on the deal: “Corrigan is the name; getting things backward is the game. Call me if you need something hooked up the wrong way again, lil’ lady. I’ll come a’runnin’”. Well, kids, rule number one is to always….

Bear with me: when the mountains are on fire, the wildlife will pack up and leave home. Reckon, just where do you think they will flee too? If you’re guessing that there’s no room at the Motel 6 for them, you’d be correct. They can’t head for the hills so they head for town.

The other day (uh-huh), we heard from our neighbors that a bear had rummaged through their garbage cans. That made total sense to me because that had happened before (though not recently). What didn’t make sense is that my coon dog didn’t know it and arise to protest the matter….up close and personally.

My coon dog’s nose knows what’s happening in her realm. How the bear made it out without being intercepted and (loudly and forcibly) challenged is beyond me. However, I am most thankful that she didn’t. For one thing, Abbie is only about 25 pounds soakin’ wet. But, don’t tell her that. She acts as if she’s 125 pounds dry and she ain’t afraid of no ghosts or bears. More than one coon dog has been killed while cornering a big black bear so there was great concern that our little princess pooch would be another statistic and a sad story about a fearless-but-dead huntin’ dawg.

For another, the Ol’ Rancher just wasn’t in the mood to go bear huntin’ in the middle of the night. After all, that would require having to be attired in something other than boxer shorts. The long-held policy around here is that night time is not the time for old people to be wearing street clothes (eh, Rob?). So, there will be no "night camo attire" policy changes at the ranch any time soon. 

And, having to start a fire fight with a bear at midnight with a 30 caliber hunting rifle would likely have the neighbors starting a fire fight with me (armed neighbors live in a [very] peaceful neighborhood). In any event, there wouldn’t be too many dry Huggies at the (insanely loud) report of a hunting rifle taking down a bear. The Ol’ Rancher and Connie the Canner do try to be good neighbors (but especially at night).

Having said that, Abbie gets to spend the night in safety on the patio until it is decided that the bear threat (or the threat to the bears) is minimal. She doesn’t seem to mind so all is well.

Sodium Hydroxide or No lye! You just never know what you’ll learn here at the ranch. Like, when we were having such a nightmare with the ash fallout from the big fire, it never dawned on the ol’ dude that there would be an unexpected hazard presenting itself.

Out back, there are a couple of watering pans and such for our critters. Do you know what happens when wood ash and water are combined? You get the makings of homemade soap. In other words, you get lye. My greatest of thanks goes to friend and brother, Courtney Gillespie, for that bit of information. Though the chemistry was quite simple and well-known around here, the application of said chemistry due to the ash fallout wasn’t. So, the water is changed daily. We don't need any lye: no lie.

 

Chickenin’ Report: Roo, the Rowdy, Rogue, Rhode Island Red Rooster (try saying that with a mouth full of peanut butter) and I are good friends now that I have a good understanding that all of the hens in the barnyard are his. The big, brawny, two-legged, selfish, proud, presumptuous, pile of feather-covered mean, is my pal.

This isn’t to say that we don’t have our misunderstandings: not at all. For instance; because the coop is a nice safe place to keep chickens, the Ol’ Chicken Meister insists that all of the birds get rounded up to roost there at night. It’s hazardous for fowls at night here in the wilderness part of Springville. Big, bad, hungry, critters are lurking around and looking for a free lunch.

Now, I know that Roo doesn’t read all that well. But, he still should have gotten the memo by now and stopped insisting on parking on top of Abbie’s dog house at night. Sure; it’s 6’ above the ground but he doesn’t yet understand that even a retarded raccoon can easily make a 6’ hop up to his preferred sleep station.

For his sake (and the peace of mind of the head bird herder), Ol’ Ran has to mount the small sequester cage and then prop a cheek on the roof of the doghouse so’s he can carefully harvest Ol’ Roo while he’s ensconced in his evening somnolence. He doesn’t even squawk while being hauled into the coop.  It’s become such a routine, that I’m starting to think that he's doing it on purpose because he wants the attention. Hooo, boy. Now I get to be a chicken psychologist; ain't it great? 

Then, there’s Miss Beakie, the truly strong-willed little Rhode Island Red. From the time she was a pullet, she obediently followed her instincts at night and just went home into the coop. But, after someone (and we just know who that might be) forgot to keep the door of the coop open and the birds stayed out one night, she has become quite the rebel. Every evening, she’s camped on top of a cinder block that holds the tarp down on the bales of hay just outside the coop. She must really enjoy her freedom because, no matter how many times she’s hauled into the coop at night, when the next evening comes, she’s right back on the block. At least there's no climbing involved with repositioning her for the night. She just gets snatched up and then placed in the coop where she can't provide a raccoon a good reason to gain weight. 

Broody Mae is a bit of an exception. She (understandably) refused to bring her chick into the coop. There was no negotiation. We still don’t know where she spends the night and it is yet unknown if she will resume her place in the pecker palace or not. Likewise, who knows if the little pullet will adapt to coop life or not? If not, we’ll have to catch her, keep her in the sequester cage in the coop for a couple of weeks, then turn her loose. That should work. We’ll see.

In hot water: it’s been awhile since dear Abbie treed something around here so it was no surprise when today was the day she did.  Once again, you could hear her earning her Kibbles by using a decibel meter and adrenalin flow gauge. She was jacked up!

Only this time, instead of treeing a refrigerator or "Quatro" the ATV, she treed a…water heater (that would be the one out back that was patiently waiting to be hauled off to the dump now that the trailer is back in service). Yep: a dead water heater had her full attention and she was very serious about the matter.

But, there’s this funny thing about my corn dawg; she gets as jacked up about cornering a 4” long blue belly lizard as she does about any furry thing that can only fit in a dump truck. I don’t know; maybe it was a gut hunch but Ol’ Ran just had to help his lil’ coon doggie do her thing.

After examining the water heater, it was determined that something like a mouse but not larger than cat had crawled through the port at the bottom. It wasn’t a great place to remain undetected but it was a great place to not get eaten.   

Flushing things out seems to be an effectual modus operandi around these parts so the garden hose used for watering the garden (fancy that) was pressed into service. Despite a thorough hosing of the inside of the tank, whatever was in there was pretty well convinced that hunkering down and hanging on was the best policy and it wasn’t coming out.

All of a sudden, Abbie swapped ends and began to dismember the exhaust pipe with her jaws. That’s when the “barking” started from inside the tank. At that point, I knew the game was afoot and that our enemy was a fuzzer!

There was some sort of metal divider or baffle that was stuck in the exhaust pipe and she was determined to just eat it (so as to scare her prey to death, I should suppose). I would have loved to see that but figured there wasn’t enough time to wait that long.

It took quite a bit of tugging, pulling, and yanking on my part to get the baffle out. But, just a few seconds before it came out, the head of a brown ground squirrel appeared! Well! The enemy was now identified and Abbie was pushing me out of the way so she could get to the main battle!

With a final yank, the baffle was free and the battle started and ended in the same second. Abbie violently shook the brown bane a few times until its eyeballs flew into the neighbor’s yard and the game was over. Good girl, Abbie! I love my dawg!

A Snakey Proposition or No slithering in my back yard: keep in mind that, even after an epic stuggle, things can get…interesting…around the ranch. That being said, it should be no surprise that, immediately after the tank battle, while the ol’ gardener was making a quick check of his garden boxes, he spotted something different out of the corner of his eye. That unusual item was a genuine rattle snake. My lightning fast mind was on the job and let me know that “This should keep you occupied for a while, Ran”.

Upon closer examination, it became apparent that the 2’ long reptile had gotten himself tangled in my anti-bird netting (reckon it’s now good as anti-snake netting, too!) and was not doing well. There would be no overly tense battle for the ownership of the ranch today. That was a relief. I wouldn’t have had enough energy left for the rest of day if there had been a strenuous showdown with a cold-blooded lady freaker. There’s work to do around here.

A square blade transfer shovel was nearby so that was the weapon of choice. After a couple of guillotine whacks, the snake was well on his way to becoming a hat band.

Got Goo? Naw…I’m not speaking Chinese. I’m repairing my sandals with “Shoe Goo”. One of the lighter weight pair of my Jerusalem cruisers had an issue and needed to be fixed. 

It seems that every…single…pair…of sandals (regardless of [expensive] brand or material) that I own falls apart after only being worn a few times (with the understanding that Ol’ Ran doesn’t wear “work sandals” at the ranch. It would lead to too many broken toes and tarsal bones). Some of the sandals have been repaired two and even three times! That also means that there is a good supply of clamps hanging around, too. 

Anyhow, after a dose of “Shoe Goo” and a couple of clamps, all is well in the sandal department. 

It’s Grueling Time Again or Please Pass the Porridge: while things are grueling at times around here at the “The Grits Carlton” (thank you, Chef Dwayne Ingraham), we often take time in the morning to dish up some good ol’ gruel. For us, that would be either “Cream of Wheat”, grits (of course), or oatmeal served with toast or toasted English muffler (sic. Nothing is normal around here). Gruel is our friend!

Socket to me: the other day (all together, now….), Ran, the electrician  man, grabbed his golden screwdriver, a couple of new white cover plates and new electrical outlets, some extra-long 6-32 screws, and set to changing out two of the old worn out electrical sockets. 

The long screws were needed because the clowns who originally installed them deliberately over torqued them and broke the fixtures (long story). Thankfully, the fixtures didn't have to be replaced (a huge project) because they are threaded the entire length. It was an easy fix. 

Connie (the long-suffering) Canner had asked me to repair them and was kind enough to not remind me about it but every few months. It was finally "fix the sockets day" at the ranch. 

Somehow, all of the hardware, tools, energy, and such arrived on the same day, in the same room, at the same time. It was a miracle. It only took about 20 minutes to do a job that took a year to get to. C’est la vie sur le ranchette (or words to that affect).

Wreck Room: not long ago, the Grand Exhausted ‘Puter Poobah’s work shop needed to be overhauled (and still does). So the upstairs living room ended up being converted into a “wreck room”. There are parts here and parts there and even stuff for eBay and Craig’s List tossed all over the place. 

Connie the Cleaner is not delighted about that fact but it does look like it can be straightened up it in a couple of days or so. She would be appalled and flabbergasted to have a guest see what looks like the aftermath of an F3 tornado residing in her house.

There you have it: another short episode of the long happenings at Rancho Relaxo, home of Rancho Ran, the world's foremost authority (the previous one died): home of a retarded duck and home of Connie the Canner (world's greatest side-kook): where the air smells like fresh biscuits and hot pancakes: where alliteration reigns supreme; where things can get...interesting: where it’s all news to me: and, where...you just never know.

 

 

RANCHO BUSYO

 

I have to tell you, Anacortes, WA is one of the prettiest places I've ever seen. Lots to see, lots to do, and lots to eat. How can it not be a favorite?!

Six pix of Washington Park. Click on any picture to enlarge it.  

You  may not know it but Washington grows lots of potatoes. Potatoes are our friends! It's just one more reason to love his place. 

To the right is a shot looking east at about 8AM. Instead of a nice bright sun shiny summer morning, we see what looks like a foggy winter morning. We have the "SQF Complex Fire" only 20 miles up the hill from us. It has burned almost 69,000 acres in the "Golden Trout Wildeness Area" and is about 12% contained. It'll be hazy for quite some time. 

This is not a speck on your screen. It's a Boeing Vertol CH-47 "Chinook" helicopter hauling water to the "SQF Complex". 

Here is a shot of our Barred Rock hen and her chick. Interestingly, a Lace Wing Wyandotte high-jacked the job of mothering and took her place. The Rock just walked away from the job! As the little pullet got larger, it became obvious she was a cross between a Rhode Island Red and a Wyandotte. Perhaps it's a DNA thing. 

Here's our ever-diligent guard doggy with her ear...and nose....and head....and legs....and feet....and tail....to the ground. She's committed. She does such a great job of guarding the night that she's prone to napping during the day. She's pretty tired for being so tireless. 

Well, here we are again. It’s September and the year is speeding by faster than Chuck Yeager in "Glamorous Glennis" on October 14, 1947. We’re all headed for our next birthday at supersonic speed. Oh, joy. Doesn’t that just make you want to get your annual checkup from Dr. Frank N. Furter? 

The old folks are still getting their act together after the great trip to Boise and Seattle. We're still a bit lacking in rest but we're not trip-spun like we were. There were lots and lots of things to do before we left on the trip and there were lots and lots of things remaining when we got back (amazing, eh?). 

Then, you have to factor in the usual adjuncts that invariably will be added to the "things to do" list and you have non-stop fun at the ranch. Like: the lawn tractor and weed-eater are in the shop and it took a lot of work just to get the trailer ready so we could haul it to Agri-Home. The trailer wiring needed to be repaired and it needed a new set of shoes.  The Ol' Rancher repaired the wiring and we found the tires at "Les Schwab's". That meant that we had to to go P'ville to have them mounted which takes more time away from the ranch than we wanted to (and you know the drill on that). 

We're still racking, packing, and hauling stuff that folks have given us and we're getting ready for a few yards sales prior to the annual big one during the third weekend in October. We're even trying to factor in some time for rest (rotsa ruck with that, Ran)!

The garden boxes require constant supervision but especially the calabasas zapolla squash. It's sensitive to stress so has to be watered a lot. That takes...time. We've harvested one 10lb squash and have several that are ripening. Looks like Connie the Canner will have a lot of work to deal with fairly soon. 

Since our regular squash and tomato harvest has been almost non-existent, there's not as much canning happening. But, Connie the Canner is making up for it by being Connie the Dehydrator. She has a slew of dehydrators set up and is keeping them busy. 

And, in the next few weeks, we'll be hauling stuff from the hangar for the yard sales. In the mean time, we're readying stuff that we can just park in the front yard and sell. So far, we sold some furniture and brought in a few bucks. Bucks are our friends!

We're also listing as much as we can (or as much as we have time for) on Craig's List. That's always a sure way to sell a few things. eBay hasn't been as productive but it hasn't been a priority so far. There are a few things listed but the only things that sold have been some ham radio equipment. But, like my ol' grand-pappy used so say, "A few dollars is better than no dollars". 

Anyway, not a lot of moss growing around the ranch. We're kickin' and makin' lots of dust  (which is all we need considering all the smoke and ash that we already have floating around). 

Holy Smokes! Or, Settin’ the woods on fire: actually, there’s smoke and fire everywhere and it’s not holy smoke at all! In fact, it’s raining ashes in most places in California! There are more than 500 fires happening here in the Golden Toasted State!!  

Our fire, the “SQF Complex” (https://inciweb.nwcg.gov/incident/7048/), is less than 20 miles from us and has consumed more than 65K acres. Much to our chagrin, a lot of the smoke and ash has taken up residence in our front and back yards.

Now, I’ve lived in California most of my life. Never have we had this many fires. How do you go from more than 300 fires to more than 500 fires in one week? Seriously; sure, we have a fires that are initiated by lightning: but, 200 in one week? The worst fire seasons to date have had “only” 150 or so fires. Why the inordinate three-fold increase with more than 200 fires appearing in one week?

The US Forest Service is advising that there were more than 27K lightning strikes but I’d like to know how they got that number. Just who is it that flits around the state counting lightning strikes? Hmmm? Is it “Hairy Larry the Lightning Fairy” or just what? Is someone cocooned in geo-stationary orbit over California with a hand-held thumb-actuated tabulator? To me, something is wrong with the picture especially when there haven’t been all that many thunderstorms in SOCAL where many of the fires are located. I’m probably missing something (and, I hope I am).

We’re not alone, though. A map of the fires shows that then entire western region is ablaze. The truly interesting thing is that the fires all magically stop at the Canadian border (simply look at the fire map). Interesting, indeed. 

This old Californian has never seen such a  blazing onslaught (including last year!). The respective fire agencies are doing a fabulous job but, in some spots, they aren’t winning.

And, now, everyone is staying inside because of the smoke and not solely because of the virus issue. Just what we need: another reason to stay home and veg (which I refuse to do).

The local visibility has been down to less than a mile in some places. On a fair day in late summer during harvest and post harvest, it’s around 5 miles; normal is “CAVU” or a minimum of 10 miles.

People are dealing with ash to whatever degree, too. Cars are being coated with a fine layer of light gray. It’s almost like being in downtown Beijing or Bombay in the summertime. We need a good old-fashioned Oklahoma “frog strangler” summer rain to clear the air and give us a good cleaning and soaking.

What Lockdown? or “Rot Not” Is My Lot: really? Do “they” think that this ol’ dusty squash farmer and egg rancher is going to sit home and gather moss and let his body and brain rot away because “they” commanded me to do that?!  I call “FOUL!” and do vehemently yell, “FIE! FIE! UPON THEM!” (yes. All of you Shakespeare lovers do remember correctly).

Why would they think that everyone would just sit, stew, fret their life away, garner a washtub load of depression, booze themselves silly, and go to every length to be taken captive of  hopelessness and despair?! Do they think that  all of us old folks will just dial in the next “Three Stooges” marathon and veg unto dusty death while the leaves of the calendar silently and inexorably shed into the abyss called “Yesterday”?! Forsooth! It ain’t happenin’, buckos!

For Connie the Canner and Rancho Ran, there has been no lockdown. In fact, we have hardly notice any such thing. We just do what we always do: get things done that have to be done. Geeze. What can “they” do, eat me ? (Well...they can bite me). This is not Cabanatuan (WW2 Japanese prison camp)! We can do what we please when we please. So, we have taken the Alfred E. Newman attitude of “What? Me worry?”.

We ain’t afraid of no ghosts and certainly not a bug whose survival rate is at least 99% (if you have a healthy immune system) and whose infection rate is about the same as any flu season.

If you’re not in a nursing home, the odds of getting the bug in Tulare County are about the same as getting hit by a dump truck load of dead chickens at midnight on Sunday in a snow storm on Main Street in beautiful downtown Porterville.

Rat-a-tat or Abbie Wins Again! – There’s no mistaking a baying coon dog: not when you have heard that sound time and again and have found some sort of critter (be it large or small) on the business end of that bark. This time was no different.

The baying was, once again, coming from the front of the neighbor’s home (isn’t it great that my sweet little girl dog is so civic minded that she wants to protect the neighbor, too? Uh-huh). A quick glance revealed the Abbie was at the exact same spot where she had previously treed a ground squirrel (which met its demise for being stupid enough to venture into her guarded area). She was all jacked up at the same 4” open-ended drain pipe.

This time was a bit different. There was no “barking” to be heard which meant that, whatever she had cornered, it wasn’t a squirrel. The initial thought was that she was wasting far too much energy for it to be a small lizard. But, she would do that.

Of course, the same long hose was immediately available for use. Ah, but when the water was unleashed to try to flush out the critter, it didn’t immediately come out like the squirrel did. Not to be thwarted by such a small-brained creature (although it wouldn’t have been the first time. *SIGH*), my lightning-fast mind figured that the hose just needed to be pushed in further and further until something ran out the other side of the 10’ pipe.

YEP! That did it! A big ol’ rat darted right into Abbie’s Buick bumper-bending bite and that was that! She pranced off into the sunset with her new trophy. Fearless Abbie – 1; nasty ugly soggy varmint – 0.

Maggot city, USA or Feathery Feeding Frenzy: the other day (when lots of things happen around here), the daily compost run was in progress when the ol’ chicken meister took note of the bottom of one of his compost barrels. Lo and behold if there wasn’t a huge layer of maggots just waiting to be chicken fodder! A tin can was grabbed and put to work as a loader and a big mess of maggots was hauled up. Squiggly protein!

Now, my girls love bugs. They are ruthless bug slayers. There’s no bug too tough or maggot too rough that can overcome them when they are hungry (which is 100% of the time). There was no chance at the dance for the squirmy little slop suckers to survive my ravenous raptors and none of them did. The bird herd got down on their wiggling snacks and went to work like a hoard of hungry jack hammers. It was great!

After a couple of heapin’ helpin’s, the feast was postponed until the next day. No reason to overly spoil them, eh? It’s not like they are starving (though you couldn’t tell it by their actions). Maggots are our friends!

The next day found the remainder of the legless protein being totally consumed with not a single one of them left in the barrel. It’s little wonder our yard birds are so healthy.

Soldering on (sic): on some occasions, the Ol’ Rancher has to grab his 30W soldering iron and solder stuff. Something always needs to be glued, fixed, or mended around the ranch. That includes repair needs regarding radios, antennas, and other electronics. These are repairs that Super Glue, epoxy, and hot glue won’t work on.

The other day, I needed to make a cable for my “straight key” for my ham radio (for Morse code). I have a few automatic keyers but still need the straight key from time to time. If you win the lottery and don’t know what to get me for Christmas, you can send me a semi-automatic keyer. It’s called a “bug” (short for “jitterbug”) and it’s made by “Vibroplex” and it’s a beaut. You’ll get a really big hug.

I had a couple of them in times past but faded from Ham radio for quite a while and didn’t need them; I sold them. Silly me. All the other equipment and radios have been restored except for the bug. Auto keyers are nice but there’s just nothing like a “bug” to add personality and distinctness to one’s “fist” (the way you operate and send CW). These “bugs” are my friends.

A straight key helps in tuning the radio when it’s being used with an antenna tuner and SWR meter. You key the transmitter then tune the antenna with the tuner until the SWR is as low as it can get. You then start “pounding brass”.

CW is kind of a lost art since Ham’s are no longer are required to know Morse Code to have a license. When the ol’ ham dude upgraded his license in ’94, the 20wpm code speed requirement was still in place. I’m rather rusty but a bit of practice and a few drops of WD-40 should go a long way in loosening up my fist.

There are still some old guys like Ol’ Ran, the Luddite, who still find CW (short for “continuous wave”) a fun thing. That’s especially true concerning QRP which is “low power”. Usually, QRP (the “Q code” abbreviation for using low power) is any wattage below 25W. But, there are some few of us die-hards that only consider it to be QRP when you are running less than 5W (sometimes called “QRPp”).

Who’s yer momma?: A few weeks ago, one of our Barred Rock brooders hatched a couple of chicks. Sadly, she lost one of them. But, she took to being a great mother hen to the remaining little chick and did all of the mother hen things that mother hens are supposed to do.

Then, a really strange thing happened. After about a week or so, one of the Lace Wing Wyandotte hens began to follow along with the Barred Rock. In only a few days, the Wyandotte totally took over being the mother hen! What was amazing was that the Barred Rock didn’t seem to mind at all! She just moseyed off into the barn yard never to be bothered with the matter again. There was no fight, no muss, no fuss and I didn't see an exchange of drugs or money. If I were Artie Johnson (from "Laugh In"), I'd be inclined to say something like (best German accent), "Very interesting....but strange!". 

That was wild because the Rock was a tremendous protector of the little one! One evening when the chicks were only a couple of days old, she was outside the coop door and wasn’t going inside. Around here, it isn’t wise for chickens to stay unprotected at night because there are too many furry critters looking for an uncooked and un-plucked meal.

When the ol’ bird herder tried to pick her up and haul her inside, she came unglued like a hand grenade! It was almost like hand-to-hand combat on Iwo Jima! She lost the battle but there was almost a need to call a medic for the winner. That lesson was learned! Don't mess with momma hens! For now, the hen and chick are allowed to hide and fend for themselves. They are still alive so it looks like mother knows best.

The chick (which now looks like a little pullet) is a cross between a Rhode Island Red (“Ol’ Roo”) and either a Barred Rock or a Wyandotte. Roo, being the plucky cluck that he is, gets around and covers lots of ground (and would still do so if he had a wooden leg) and is far from picky or biased (he would have made a great dog). The  hens must like him 'cause they lay a lot of eggs. 

At this point, it’s difficult to tell what the chick is most like. But, in due season, the matter should be known. If it turns out to be a Wyandotte, then it will be difficult to think something other than the DNA connection had something to do with the easy high-jacking of the chick by the Wyandotte hen.

Perhaps we can call the new cross-bred chick a Red Rock or a Red Dotte. It’s just one of those things that happen at Rancho Relaxo.

Chick update: upon closer examination, and as the she has grown, she is definitely a Wyandotte crossed with the Rhode Island Red. She's a real cutie!

There you have it: another short episode of the long happenings at Rancho Relaxo, home of Rancho Ran, the world's foremost authority (the previous one died), home of a retarded duck, and home of Connie the Canner (world's greatest side-kook): where the air smells like fresh sun-dried laundry: where things can get...interesting: where it’s all news to me: and, where...you just never know.