SHOWERS DE ABRIL

This is 5 year old Warner Phillip Howden displaying his new apron that his grandmother, Connie the Sewer (she can't quite get used to the handle "Connie the Sew and Sew" for some reason) made for him. It looks like he'll be a great help in the kitchen.

"Look, Ma! No bread!". Well, yeah. This is a strip-mined shelf at "Smart & Final" in Porteville after everyone decided that bread is the "in thing" and they should buy as much as they could (somehow not realizing that bread will only last a few days., *SIGH*). It has largely recovered but who knows if the panic will last or not.

"Mirar, mamá! No mas tortillas!" I have never...ever...seen a tortilla rack that had been stripped clean of those wonderful flat breads. It's a good thing that the old folks at the ranch already had plenty of them at home.

Speaking of bread, to the right is a freshly attacked hot loaf of home built bread! Notice that the hot heels never had a chance! We made bread with both of our bread machines since we just couldn't take a chance that one of them wouldn't be working if we needed it, eh? Since they were both working, we gave one to a dear friend and sister who is interested in making home made bread (she will never be sorry).

Not much to say except that it's just a pretty picture that I liked.
All of that green will be turned to "California gold" all too soon.
Try clicking on it to enlarge it.

Boy! Howdy! It’s April 2020! Doesn’t that just let the air out of your new bounce house?! This getting old thing is…getting old. Moving along….

It’s time for another Rancho Relaxo report so that y’all will never have to guess what the two goofy, unsupervised, old people are up to.

Lock me up: well….how’s that lock down thing working for you? So far, it’s working pretty well for us. I guess that, when you are prepared for just about every contingency, suffering a travel restriction during a world-wide plague (with all the nations in lock down and bodies piling up) is a just a minor inconvenience (of course, the Ol' Prepper may be a tad or two overly-optimistic).

 But, also, it may well be because we live in “Hicksville, USA” where our “social distancing’ is built in. Our nearest “real town”, Visalia, is about an hour away. Oh, sure; Hooterville is only 12 miles away but...come on…you know that it’s only pretending to be a real town.

At least it’s no longer “Orderville” like it was when I first moved back here in ’96. We would go into a place to shop and ask for help. The clerk/agent would almost invariably say, “No, sir. We don’t have that but…we can order it for you”.

Sure, we need a few perishables around here. So, we just hop in the hoopie and hustle down to the local "Aldi’s" or "Smart and Final" and pick up a whatever we need. In fact, staying at home has provided time to get stuff done but just in a different priority. This is to say that there is lots to do here; we call it "home work". It's not going anywhere so we just dig into it as a priority instead of it being optional. No biggy.

We almost feel guilty because we are able to actually get some…rest! Isn’t that amazing?!

Soakin’ it in: the heavens are releasing their treasure of rain on the valley. We’re getting what I call a “soaker rain”. It’s an easy gentle rain that (mostly) stays where it falls. That’ll do our orange trees much good. And, it’ll kick start the just-planted veggies in the garden boxes. After such brutally dry winter seasons, it’s a joyous occasion to have plenty of water.

If the old folks can break away (not impossible but unlikely), we’d like to see what this wonderful shower has done to the wildflowers in Yokhol Valley. That used to be an annual run where mucho bunches of pictures were taken of the awesome spring splash  brilliant colors of multitudes of flowers on a splendorous green canvas. We’ll see.

It’s 1 AM. Do you know where your coon dog is?: actually, I do know. She’s outside our bedroom window and barking her little black, tan, and white head off….at 12 AM ….and at 12:30 AM…..and at 1 AM. All of this barking is also keeping the neighbors awake. Bless their long-suffering hearts, they didn’t call me to advise that my coon dog was barking and keeping them up; they didn’t want to wake me, I suppose. They could have sent Nick and the boys over to straighten me out, too. My kneecaps will be eternally grateful they didn’t.

But, this barking was different. She was onto something and she was employing her coon-doggedness to the highest degree and efficacy. There’s just something about a full “baying” that gets your attention (and at 1 AM, how could it not get your attention?). So, knowing our little girl dog as well as we do, we knew that she meant business. 

So, the Ol’ sleepy eyed rancher unloaded his weary carcass out of the (nice, warm, soft) sack and slipped on his zapatas so that he could, peradventure, bring peace to the neighborhood (and prevent the neighbors from sight-ranging the their new grenade launchers).

Well, it didn’t take but a few steps to determine that Abbie had proven herself worthy of her “Princess Coon Hound” title. A quick flash of the high-powered tactical flashlight revealed a big ol’ coon parked at the top of the smallish evergreen tree not far from our bedroom (of course. Where else would a self-respecting coon be parked?).

Now….just as the previous time a coon was treed in our back yard, there was a slight temptation to ponder whether Ol’ Ran needed a new coon-skin cap or not. Since the masked bandit wasn’t going anywhere any time soon, it would have taken but little effort to march into the house to retrieve some “coon getter” artillery. Ah, but the neighbors….always the neighbors. Being the good neighbor that I am, that idea was quickly nixed. No worries. No reason to start a firefight in the middle of a perfectly calm evening.

I'm sure that it's safe to say that the old dude probably doesn’t need to make a fashion statement by showing up with a furry new cap (especially one that’s still bleeding). Besides, the next thing you know, he’d likely start wearing fringed leather britches, a fringed leather shirt, fringed leather moccasins, and carrying a black powder, muzzle-stuffer,  Kentucky long rifle, like Daniel Boone (is that sorta like living on the fringe of society?). Maybe next time, eh?

This is getting old: the other day (when lots of things happen around here), we were getting ready to go to the Post Office. Prior to departure, and car keys in hand, I went back up to my office to bring down a letter for one particular brother and an “I Care Package” for another. When I came back down a little while later, Connie the Inquisitor, asked, “Where’s Skip’s letter and Gene’s package?”. Not to be caught off guard, my lightnin’ fast mind gave me the immediate answer: “They’re right where I left’em”. After receiving the “You do know how to fix that, right?” look from Connie, it was back up the stairs to promptly fetch the patiently waiting items which were then given to her. “Um…where’s the car keys?” she further queried. OK…back up the stairs to fetch the car keys. This? This…. is getting old.

Drone Drama: or….”drone play”. When you fly a drone (especially when you have never done that before), you are…I repeat...are…going to experience…interesting things and happenings. You can perhaps express it this way: there are no un-crashed drones. If you have not crashed your drone, you will. It’s part of “drone life” (kind of like death and taxes; you just can’t escape).

Recently, I was assured by a friend that chickens hate to have something flying over them and that it was great fun to mess with their heads by parking a drone over them. That prompted yours truly to practice chasing chickens with his drone. Soon, the Ol’ Drone-ster found his little four-fanned flieger in a tight spot under tree and next to the van. All it took was to forget which lever was the “up” control and, quicker than you can split an infinitive, the petite chicken chaser was hanging upside down on a tree limb. I can’t really swear that I could tell for sure, but, it seemed to me that the chickens were all huddled together a short distance away and laughing their beaks off.

Anyway, it only took a small stool and broom handle to retrieve my birdie and she was none the worse for wear. Pay attention, Ran. 

Dough Si Dough: we’re in the dough. We’re also equipped with a couple of bread makers which is a combination that’s hard to beat. Boy! Do I love the smell of freshly baked bread in the morning (napalm….not so much).

This is to say that, since it’s spring time, we're awakening our bread makers out of hibernation and taking them for a stroll. That's not much of a chore given that we get to embrace the aroma of freshly baked bread and then cut off a HOT HEEL, slather it with REAL BUTTER, and stuff it into our faces. Actually, I do the stuffing. Connie the Canner eats hers far more like a human than the resident professional chomping champion does.

No go: Quatro, the Honda ATV, was having some sort of issue and just wouldn’t start (despite having a nice blue spark, a full fuel tank, and a new gas petcock valve). No amount of coaxing, wheedling, threatening, or begging could get it run. So, it was time to tinker with it (as if I had such a commodity with which to wrangle a recalcitrant four-wheeled piles of nuts and bolts into submission). Thankfully, on this  occasion (due to it being my “day off” because someone spread the plague to the world), I had the time to grab a ratchet and socket and “git after it”.

Come to find out, it had some sort of “vapor lock” (albeit not the classic one that involves high heat and the gas line). Gas just wasn’t making it to the cylinders. But, after poking, prodding, and tossing some gas into one cylinder, the little quadster woke up and was ready to work again.

The first thing that happened was that a healthy load of compost was loaded up and hauled to the garden boxes. They needed to be leveled out a bit with more dirt after the previous loads settled (and after my herd of chickens shuffled and modified most of it). Box #4 has not been refilled so there’s 7 or 8 more loads needed there. We’ll be getting some lovely rain this coming week so that chore will likely be postponed for a while.

Connie the Cutter: what do you do when you need a haircut (I needed all of mine cut) and the barber is on lock down? You awaken to the fact that your wife used to cut her children’s hair (for years and years) and that she has a working pair of hair clippers in the closet, that’s what! So, when called upon, she grabbed the clippers and a huge barber's cape and went to work!

After 15 minutes of hearing the buzzing of clippers, the snipping of scissors, and the feeling of shaving cream being cleaned off my neck with a razor, it was time to see the results. Guess what? She did a great job! The Ol’ Rancher no longer has to dodge the dog catcher when he leaves the house! Ain’t it great! And, wait, folks! There’s more! Ol’ Thrifty Dude saved 20 bucks! Whoohoo! Saving money is our friend! That’s one more hat that Connie can proudly wear!

After decades of having his hair cut by a professional barber,  Ol’ Shag wasn’t worried about what the haircut might look like after an “amateur” whacked away on his noggin. It must be his age or maybe his vanity died before he did (that could possibly explain the “no slave to fashion” look he’s been sporting lately). 

Roundup Time: we don’t have cattle, horses, sheep, goats, or hogs so “roundup time” isn’t necessarily a good thing. We've had to round up big messes made by high winds and such. During our annual yard sale a few years ago, we had to round up parts and pieces of one of our pop-up canopies. 

On the other hand, if we could round up all of the mangy brown ground squirrels, skin and clean them, cook them up until they were completely tender, then dig a big hole and bury them in it… that would be great! They have done considerable damage to the foundation of the pole barn and the big barn. Something needs to be done before they start declaring “squatter’s rights”. Grrrrrr.

Fill’er Up!: when gas prices tanked, what could a couple of ol’ preppers do but haul out their empty gas cans and head for the gas station? This round found only 10 cans (ranging from 1 gal. to 8 gal.) to fill. Gas is our friend because we have so many motors and engines to feed around where. We also topped off both cars and Quatro.

We just learned that gas in Texas is 1.41. If you live in California, that’s enough to make you gasp in amazement. If that price won't make you clap really hard, it was just reported that there are places in Oklahoma where gas is 1.00 gal.!

The irony is that gas is cheaper than probably any time in our history (when accounting for inflation and COLA) but  most of us are on lock down! Go figure! I’m ready to take a vacation and can’t go anywhere! RATS!

Big Bird: We had to make room in one of our freezers so the “big birds” had to be evicted. The “big birds” were the turkeys that were purchased as a “closeout” (natch) at .29lb. There was no way the old preppers could walk by such a deal and sleep that night.

So, Connie the Canner enlisted the aid of the Ol’ Ran the Hacker to dismember the birds so she could rearrange their parts so they could be stuffed into jars. That meant that the old dull guy had to break out his favorite sharp knife and get to cutting.

It’s great to cut something up when no one is watching. No one will ever know that they should be calling the police because there’s an old guy armed with a knife and who has the potential to accidently commit mayhem (though largely upon himself). 

And, no one can tell if you are an expert carver or an expert slasher, eh? So, it appears the appellation of “old hacker” will suffice for now since it’s rather innocuous enough (and no one will know the difference if there’s no blood left for evidence).

After about an hour per bird, Connie took the carefully-hacked chunks, stuffed them into a ton of jars, then canned them. They’ll all come in handy!

You’ll want to note that carving takes the most time; slashing takes hardly no time at all; hacking takes more time than slashing but less time than carving. Now you’re an expert in the matter of cutting things up.

Simmer on: after whacking and hacking (whacking is hacking but you do it more vigorously), there is still a lot of meat left on the bones. There’s really no sense in letting a good turkey carcass go to waste so it was time for phase two.

A meat cleaver was taken to the bones so they would fit into a large stew pot that had enough water to cover them. They were left to simmer for at least three hours because you are both cooking the meat off and also simmering the bones for broth.

After 3 hours, they were allowed to cooled then the broth was strained into another large pot. The meat was separated and bagged for use in gravy (as in, hot turkey gravy on toast! Whooo, doggies! My, but that’s good!). The bones were tossed and the broth was canned and stored.

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) and Connie the Canner (world's greatest side-kook): where the air smells like freshly mowed grass: where things can get...interesting: where it’s all news to me: and, where...you just never know.