Chuffy

Bill the hairdresser called to tell us the dream was shattered. His wife had left him. She said it was the hogs.

Because Jason is too nice, we went to Bill’s Sunday morning to retrieve the hogs he said he would purchase from Bill. A last ditch effort to tempt his wife to return, perhaps? At any rate, at least we had the good sense to take a few panels with us. Bill made an attempt at calling the pigs…by name…to hop in the trailer like some kind of trained circus pigs. It may have worked had the bluebutt not been in the bunch.

The bluebutt (referred to only as such because I can neither remember, nor do I care to remember her name) jumped in the trailer only long enough for me to look away for a nanosecond. That was apparently plenty of time for her to make a dash for the exit. Gentle readers, Sunday was not the first time I have been but a speed bump on the road to glory and freedom for a renegade sow, nor will it be the last. However, it was Mother’s Day and I had no intention of losing any teeth

Liquid Gold

It rained. I stood with all the boys in the high school on the front entrance to the school during lunch. We breathed the air washed clean in the gulps of people too dry, too long.
Little girls spun and danced in the drops like the fairy princess mermaids in their imaginations. Rough and tumble boys ran and slid and jumped in the parking lot pools.
In a classroom, a clap of thunder left kindergarten kids in tears and a teacher with tears in hers once she realized the five year old didn’t recognize the noise. It’s been dry that long.
Community folks came and went, smiles on their faces and an unbelievable relief that was undeniable.
The drought isn’t over and we know that but it’s so good to know that the desperate prayers from eastern Colorado were heard.

A Farmer’s Wife

Thanks to Kaity for sharing on her blog. She’s married to a farmer and they’re raising three boys under three years old at http://www.shessomartha.com.
This is a good one though the laundry load count is a bit low…

http://sierrashea.com/farmerswifepoem/

CFB representation of ag is great value

Centennial, Colo. – May 8, 2013 – The 2013 Colorado legislative session has finally come to a close, and the Colorado Farm Bureau has been working throughout the session to protect agriculture and rural Colorado. “This session has kept us busy, and we feel that we have been successful representing agriculture, our farmers and ranchers, and the rural way of life,” said Don Shawcroft, President of Colorado Farm Bureau.

Prior to the general assembly convening, the Colorado Farm Bureau set priority areas including water, energy, fiscal policy/budget, property rights, animal welfare and wildlife. Bills were introduced that affected all of these areas, and with the guidance of the policy implementation committee and the board of directors, Colorado Farm Bureau staff have worked diligently through these bills.

On May 8, Colorado Farm Bureau member leaders met with Governor Hickenlooper to ask for him to veto SB13-252, which would mandate that 20 percent of electricity in the state come from renewable sources. “This requirement will undoubtedly increase the cost of energy for family farmers, ranchers, and residents of rural Colorado. Sadly, this was done without the voice of agriculture being heard

Ooh! Pick me!

There is a state correctional facility in the rural county where we live. The bottom line about what this means for residents is frequent jury summonses.
I bet I’ve been called for jury duty twice per year since I moved here but I’ve never had to actually report but I did last week.
I am a nerd about a number of things and the law is one of those things. If online law school were a viable option, I would sign up despite my students’ claims that it will suck my soul from my body. The legal system is interesting and I was happy to perhaps be chosen to serve during a trial.
I was methodical while filling out my paperwork. I remained more neutral than Switzerland in hopes of being chosen. As the selection process wore on, I was more like the slow kid while the softball captains are choosing their teams.
I was surprised to see how many good folks were opposed to serving. Otherwise reputable people were going to great lengths to prove themselves unsuitable jurors. It reflected poorly on these people whether or not they realized it. Every lame excuse and every “damn” muttered when they were called to the jury box was noted. The most disappointing, albeit entertaining, way to avoid service was to begin all sentences with, “according to the prophesy…”
At the end of the day I was not chosen. It was probably not a terribly exciting trial; one of the many contraband trials for the Department of Corrections. But, the defendant is still a citizen deserving of a fair trial by a jury of his peers. Thank goodness we were all on the jury service side of the jury box rather than in his chair.

We Didn’t Start the Fire

One of my students asked me to help him choose a topic for his history paper. It had to be about “anything since World War 2″. A lot has happened since then, I told him and started brainstorming.
“Margaret Thatcher?” I suggested.
“I don’t like her,” he said and I knew then it was going to be a difficult task.
“Tony Blair?” I asked.
“Who is that?” he peered over his laptop at me.
“Thatcher’s more liberal replacement as Prime Minister,” I said. “Did they not cover that in your history class?”
“Grumble,” he muttered.
“Nixon?” I asked. Then I had an idea. I should also mention that my superintendent was visiting with another student while I had this conversation.
“Studebaker, television, North Korea, South Korea, Marilyn Monroe…?”
He looked at me with the look my students give me when they think I’m being embarrassing. So I kept going.
“Rosenbergs, H-bomb, Sugar Ray, Panmunjom, Brando, “The King and I,” and “The Catcher in the Rye,”
Eisenhower, vaccine, England’s got a new queen, Marciano, Liberace, Santayana goodbye!”
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“It’s We Didn’t Start the Fire,” I cried. “Billy Joel? Come on!”
By this time I was dancing, he was horrified, and the superintendent may have been questioning his choice in hiring me.
“I think I’ll just do The Catcher in the Rye,” he said and put his headphones back on and began typing.
I happened by later as he was typing away and swear I heard a few notes of Billy Joel from his computer.

Bacon

On our way from point A to point B yesterday, Caden, who is 11, was musing over his BLT sandwich.
“You know how different countries have food they’re famous for?” he said. “Like China has egg drop soup and Italy has pizza?”
“Sure…”
“Here, we have bacon,” he said proudly, spoken like a true farm kid. “And we have bacon burgers, and bacon cheeseburgers, and bacon sandwiches….”
We sure do, buddy.

Dry Pastures and TV Cameras

Kevin Torres from 9 News came to Kutch, Colorado, to visit with me yesterday about the drought and the importance of keeping young producers on the land. While I appreciate Torres’ piece and believe it hit the nail on the head with its intended point for Denver viewers- it’s dry and it matters to you because your food prices will go up and we all need to heed the health of Colorado’s $20 billion ag industry- there are perhaps a few points of clarification yet to be made.

My phone rang yesterday and Torres asked whether we had received any snow from the last storm and if it was enough to end the drought. I would be one of many farmers and ranchers who would be tickled pink with a week of rain but the bottom line is that, while it may bring us closer to our average precipitation levels, the grass isn’t going to be lush a few days after a good rain. Many pastures are grazed and blown into the dirt and the grasses will take years to recover and be the beneficial short grass prairie we typically see in this area. It will take continued responsible grazing and stocking rates and good management decisions from the producers already kept up at night by the gravity of the decisions before them. <

The Drop Dead Date that Torres referred to

Minivan Cowgirl

I was fueling my non-mini van SUV before I left the Springs the other day. I was wearing jeans and boots- not pig poo encrusted boots, though I have those, too- but my favorite square toed boots. A Chevy diesel pickup complete with a thumping bass and doo dads dangling from the rear view mirror rolled in. It was a shortbed flatbed with chrome stacks, one leaning heavily to the inside of the bed. He revved his engine, which I assume with the price of highway diesel, likely cost him $2.50, and pulled into the pump beside me as I washed the gravel road off my back glass.
This is how the conversation went:
Him: “Look at the soccer mom trying to play cowgirl driving a minivan. Heh heh heh.”
Me: Glares. Gets into vehicle. “It’s not a minivan.”

In my head, this is how the conversation went:
Him: “Look at the soccer mom trying to play cowgirl driving a minivan. Heh heh heh.”
Me: Hands him my business card from Colorado Farm Bureau State Board of Directors. “I don’t think we’ve met,” I say. “I’m Rachel and I chair the YF&R Committee as part of Colorado Farm Bureau. We’re the largest ag lobbying organization in the state and the nation. Our policy is truly grassroots. I’ve personally written policy at a kitchen table on a farm and seen it approved as part of national policy. I’m fighting for the rights of rural, Conservative Colorado in my legislative work, my writing and speaking, and on our farm everyday. When you want your voice to join in for the greater good, give me a call and I’ll send you a membership application.”

Hrmph. A minivan. As if.

Royalty

We’re rebuilding where the hog unit existed before Jason was born. The house has stood empty since the hog market crashed after a string of trials and when Jason’s uncle left the farm for a job in town, he left the calendar on the wall, turned to February, 1982. I didn’t save the calendar but I did take a photo of it for one of my scrapbooks. It should go, like a captain of a ship, with the house.
The original house, built in the 1920s, is sod. It’s cool year round and leads down to the rough, hand dug basement. The basement has a dirt floor and the last time I was there, I found a jar of beets that Mary Vermillion grew, canned, and placed on the shelf for winter use. I carefully wiped the jar clean and placed them back on the shelf where Mary had put them no fewer than 30 years ago. And it is there they will stay.
The new part of the house was built in the 1950s sometime. There’s a window that looks to the west and I’m told that Mary, who was legally blind, could look out that window and know when a storm was brewing from looking at the faint outline of Pike’s Peak in the distance. I’m also told that she has a bit of a sixth sense and would put coffee on, knowing that visitors would roll across the bridge soon.
The prize of the day was discovered late in the day yesterday. On a display case built by Jason’s great grandfather’s construction company, sat a Polaroid of a sign that hung in front of the house, bearing the emblem of Royalean Pork Association. The hog is wearing a crown, an accessory I would wear everyday if I could, and the coat of arms includes a fleur de lis. My dad’s family is from Louisiana so I’m genetically inclined to love this symbol and I do.
There’s great brevity in rebuilding the hog business where it once fell and I don’t let that fact escape my attention but like to think that the sign and the beets are the blessing of past generations as we move forward in ways they couldn’t likely imagine.