Lehman’s Country Life

My daughter spent about an hour this afternoon grooming my gelding Boomer. His winter coat is coming loose and he’s making his yearly transformation into “a horse of a different color”. I’d have liked to used a “butterfly emerging” analogy right there, but it’s tough to make that comparison when the “butterfly” is engaged in adding to the ten inches of manure recently released from the snow in the corners of the paddock. Spring . . . again. The horses are molting and it’s time to see about renting a loader tractor for the weekend.

Spring time is fence fixing time. This year we’re going to try what is essentially barbless barbed wire. It’s the same gauge of twisted wire- just no barbs. And that’s worth commenting on. I’ve been on the receiving end of enough abuse, from my daughter’s mare, over the administering of shots, that I have absolutely no inclination to create a situation where knowing how to stitch up horses is a worthwhile addition to my skill set. Boomer might stand still for it. Whisper, while gentle in non-syringe circumstances, is fast and accurate through 360 degrees when confronted with needles. I can sympathize as I’m not terribly fond of them myself. With that said, I’ve never attempted to relocate a knee cap on the lab tech when it’s cholesterol checking time. So even though the vet and I invariably win the tussle- we lose.
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The scenario is a familiar one: It’s officially summer vacation, Saturday morning, and technically speaking; waking the fourteen year old girl child before noon isn’t something that has to happen. I normally tend to the morning chores and she handles the evenings. But it’s the principle of the thing.

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How high’s the water, mama?
Three feet high and risin’
How high’s the water, papa?
Three feet high and risin’

Well, the hives are gone,
I’ve lost my bees
The chickens are sleepin’
In the willow trees
Cow’s in water up past her knees,
Three feet high and risin’

- Johnny Cash, “Five Feet High And Rising”

I spent an hour on the telephone last night reassuring my mother in Edmonton that, despite what she was hearing on the news, the entirety of the Red River Valley wasn’t likely to end up washing ashore in Winnipeg. This afforded her some comfort. Undoubtedly the thought will likely provide some comfort to the wonderful folks in Winnipeg as well- I’m sure they’d put us up in a pinch but jacking the buildings square, and taking up residence wherever we came aground, would likely be pushing it a bit.
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I was reading an online magazine article last week that left me with an urge to reach through my computer monitor and shake the “Senior Editor” while yelling “what’s the matter with your head?” at the top of my lungs. Obviously an overreaction. I’m alright now.

The article was partitioned into a dozen small examples of “mistakes”, each authored by a professional home improvement type, with the idea that impartial sharing of errors can help you and I avoid doing the same. Ok, I can go there; and genuinely appreciate folks taking the time to share information. The truth of the matter is that, while I don’t generally have a problem with jumping in with both feet, I do have an aversion to acquiring first hand experience with potential home improvement pitfalls like . . . electrocution. It seems reasonable and I pay attention when reading things that include the phrase “a very bad idea”.

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At some point in life, sooner or later, some gadget or widget or whatsit will make the heart go pitter-pat. It’s inevitable. Maybe it’s a gizmo for pitting fruit. Or maybe a concoction for sucking spilled oil out of the shop floor. Who knows. It doesn’t have to be high tech. It just has to be new to you and there when you need it most.

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There’s a two-lane highway at the end of our driveway. And, after almost eight years, I still haven’t made up my mind as to whether or not proximity to the pavement is a good thing.

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At some level- we were manipulated. It wasn’t something either my wife or myself were consciously aware of at the time, but whatever it is that did it is that same something that attracts kids ‘n’ critters to my wife. Of that I’m pretty confident. They just seem to keep coming.

“Testing. Testing one, two, three. This is your subconscious speaking and tonight’s program is entitled Llamas: Why No Homestead Should Be Without a Pair. But before we begin the presentation, we’d like to congratulate you on the way you handled your husband’s reluctance to share his underwear drawer with the latest batch of kittens. That was very well argued!”

Maybe it’s some DNA-based-racial-memory thing that the ideal husband is one who will willingly chase down wildebeests, on the Savannah, dressed in a loin cloth.
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I believe that I suffer from a genetic predisposition to thrift in a time/situation where it’s rather difficult to practice it. Maybe when we get the kids out of the house. In the meantime . . . I’ve grown adept at ignoring that wee Scotsman, hoppin’ up ‘n’ down, brandishing his shillelagh, and verbally accosting me from the back of my head.

Autumn is at hand and, as much as I’d like otherwise, it’s time to drain the pool. I’m more of a “floater” than a “swimmer” myself and rather enjoy just floating about. But it hasn’t been warm enough to use the pool lately, isn’t likely to get any warmer, and it’s a poly above-the-ground contraption; so we can’t very well leave it sitting out over the winter. If the freezing didn’t wreak havoc on it- it would be July of next year before the darned thing thawed enough to swim in again.

Time to educate my youngest on how to set up a siphon and empty the pool without pumping or attempting to dig a hole under the pool edge to access the manufacturer provided drain (who designs things like that anyway?). I’m in no particular hurry, the water is draining out into the coulee so Momma’s backyard won’t be playing host to a quarter inch of standing water, and all is well ‘n’ good right up to the point where I stopped to reflect on how many gallons I was running out on the ground and how much it had cost to fill the thing in the first place.

“Yah great bleedin’ idgit (whack)!”
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“Dearest Father, if I may bother you for the briefest of moments, I believe this offensive insect to be a Rhipicephalus Sanguineus and I would be quite appreciative if you would remove it from my person.” At least that’s what she seems to remember saying to me at the time.
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I hate it when that happens. Usually it’s a song. It’ll be something you’ll remember from way-back-when that ends up getting stuck between the ears and then spends the rest of the day irritating the surrounding brain cells. Singing Shari Lewis’ “The Song That Doesn’t End” with the kids, during the drive into school in the morning, requires nothing less than a marketing meeting to be rid of. Terrible stuff!

Worse still is some single strange thought like: where did pockets come from? Think about that for a minute. If most of the really good ideas come from nature, and if pockets are a really good idea, then there’s an undiscovered species of dinosaur out there that evolved the Cretaceous equivalent of the fanny pack.

It’s worth mentioning that the two legged kids didn’t curse me with the “pockets” question. No- Boomer did this to me.
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