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.