Last week was yet another adventure for the Baileys. This one involved coordinating the travel of seven of us from Des Moine and one from Kansas City to Columbia, SC for a quasi family reunion. The event was Evan's graduation from basic training. The logistics of getting eight people to a single destination is a challenge, but not insurmountable.
In planning the trip we considered driving (eighteen hours each way plus a few side trips along the way), trains (40 hours each way assuming no delays) and flying (expensive but, ultimately, the most cost effective alternative.)
We ended up flying six of us out of Des Moines to Raleigh-Durham on Tuesday, July 10. That included Lorraine, the two little girls and the two youngest boys. We then rented a mini van and drove down to Columbia. Dani flew out of Des Moines later that day headed for Charlotte. She met Rachel, who flew out of K.C. to Charlotte, later that evening. Those two drove down to Columbia together getting there pretty late in the evening. Due to a lack of coordination, Rachel and Dani ended up at a different motel than the rest of us.
The following morning we were up bright and early to get breakfast and head over to Fort Jackson for family day for Delta, Echo and Foxtrot Companies of the 2-13th. In spite of missing our exit, twice and half, followed by wondering aimlessly through Fort Jackson due to flawed maps, we eventually made it to Hilton Field, the location for family day and graduation. And, in spite of my near complete lack of an internal compass, we made it there early enough to check out the vendors (not surpisingly the local marketplace has managed to insert itself into this fifty weeks a year event.
Tuesday, June 23, 2020
21-0
My mom's cousin, Richard "Sparky" Watts, died on 8/1/13. He was living in FL with his wife at the time. But his roots, and mine, are in Marseilles, IL, a small, rural, river town about 90 miles southwest of Chicago. Sparky was my grandfather's nephew and a close friend of my mother's as they grew up. But to me, and many of my friends in school, he was one of our baseball coaches. I had long thought I was alone in my fond memories of those years in Pee Wee League, Little League, Pony League and Legion Ball. Turns out I was not alone in my feelings. Not even close.
I'd returned to Marseilles to visit my parents, along with my wife and most of my children. My father's health has been declining for months. I'd returned the weekend before, a couple of days after a surgical procedure, and he didn't look well. I left for home that weekend wondering if I'd see him again. But, we'd already planned the current weekend's tip to Marseilles a few weeks earlier so we went ahead and followed through with the trip with our kids, their significant others and a grandchild in tow.
On my visit the prior weekend I'd learned that Sparky's memorial service would be held the following weekend. I was conflicted about attending the memorial or spending time with my dad, knowing that each visit might be the last. I decided to attend the visitation but skip the memorial service and the dinner that followed that. Little did I know how much an affect attending the visitation would have on me.
As my wife, Lorraine, and I pulled up to the funeral home, we found a packed parking lot. We found a spot to park on a side road and headed into the funeral home. I'd told Lorraine I was concerned about running into old friends and not recognizing them. There are a lot of old high school class mates that I haven't seen in twenty or thirty years. I wasn't disappointed about my prediction.
I immediately was greeted by John Reynolds and Dave Sergenti, both a year ahead of me in high school. I recognized Dave but John would have stumped me if he hadn't introduced himself. I had played many a summer of baseball games against, and with, Dave. We chatted for a while, asking each other the usual questions, "How are you?", "Where do you live now?", "What do you do?" And then we moved on and joined the line waiting to visit with Sparky's family.
First in line was Sparky's son, Steve, and his wife. We were chatting with them when I felt a tug on my arm. The guy says, "Hey Scott, I'm John Teele." I hadn't seen John in probably thirty years and he had probably changed as much as I had. But there was something very familiar other than how he looked. I later realized that he sounded just like his father, Bill. He handed me a picture of our Little League team from 1971. I was eleven then. He was 10.
I'd returned to Marseilles to visit my parents, along with my wife and most of my children. My father's health has been declining for months. I'd returned the weekend before, a couple of days after a surgical procedure, and he didn't look well. I left for home that weekend wondering if I'd see him again. But, we'd already planned the current weekend's tip to Marseilles a few weeks earlier so we went ahead and followed through with the trip with our kids, their significant others and a grandchild in tow.
On my visit the prior weekend I'd learned that Sparky's memorial service would be held the following weekend. I was conflicted about attending the memorial or spending time with my dad, knowing that each visit might be the last. I decided to attend the visitation but skip the memorial service and the dinner that followed that. Little did I know how much an affect attending the visitation would have on me.
As my wife, Lorraine, and I pulled up to the funeral home, we found a packed parking lot. We found a spot to park on a side road and headed into the funeral home. I'd told Lorraine I was concerned about running into old friends and not recognizing them. There are a lot of old high school class mates that I haven't seen in twenty or thirty years. I wasn't disappointed about my prediction.
I immediately was greeted by John Reynolds and Dave Sergenti, both a year ahead of me in high school. I recognized Dave but John would have stumped me if he hadn't introduced himself. I had played many a summer of baseball games against, and with, Dave. We chatted for a while, asking each other the usual questions, "How are you?", "Where do you live now?", "What do you do?" And then we moved on and joined the line waiting to visit with Sparky's family.
First in line was Sparky's son, Steve, and his wife. We were chatting with them when I felt a tug on my arm. The guy says, "Hey Scott, I'm John Teele." I hadn't seen John in probably thirty years and he had probably changed as much as I had. But there was something very familiar other than how he looked. I later realized that he sounded just like his father, Bill. He handed me a picture of our Little League team from 1971. I was eleven then. He was 10.
The Book of Emmanations
Emma is now six years old as I write this. My intent here is to collect some of her insightful wisdom and occasional humorous comments or, as I refer to them, Emmanations. Emma is precocious, but not in the sense that she's a genious at math, or science or anything like that. But, she is quite observant and comes up with comments that one would expect from someone older and more mature. I'll publish this with a few initial comments that she's made and update it periodically and republish with the newest comments on top. The comments won't be in any order in terms of chronology or on a scale of 1-10. Rather, I'll note them as I recall them or, in the case of new comments, as I hear them.
9/1/11
Emma (4 years old) to Mom - "Would it ruin the future if everybody died?"
Mom - "I don't know."
Emma to Mom - "Would it ruin the future if I died?!"
Mom - "RACHEL! HELP!"
In the summer of 2009 Lorraine and I took Emma and Hannah to the Des Moines Art Festival in downtown Des Moines. The got to do fun kid stuff at a variety of booths. I think I also got them a smoothie or lemonade something like that. Inevitably Emma, little miss peanut bladder, had to go to the bathroom. We led her to the bank of portable potties. She'd never had the pleasure of using one of Jim's Johns. I held the door for her. She went in and immediately came out and said, "I won't do that." And she didn't. She was willing to wet her pants before she's suffer through the indignity and smell of that KYBO. That meant we were done for the day. We walked to the car, got in and drove to a nearby gas station.
A couple of years ago my grandmother died back in rural Illinois. We took the family back to my hometown for the funeral. Although that was a sad occasion, my grandmother was 102 when she died and we also got to see my parents and my sister's family. A few months later a very nice lady from our church died and Lorraine planned to go to her funeral Mass. That meant getting Emma and Hannah bathed and ready to go. But, it was Thursday morning and Thursdays are story hour at our local library which Emma thoroughly enjoyed attending. Emma said, "I don't want to go to a stupid funeral. I want to go to story hour." Lorraine empathized but explained that Emma needed to get ready for her bath and she was going to the funeral Mass. A few minutes later Emma appears in front of Lorraine in her birthday suit and says, "OK, I tell you what. I'll go to the funeral, but only if it's Grandma and Grandpa's." Lorraine and I came to the conclusion that Emma enjoyed her last visit to Illinois for Grandma Fanny's funeral so much that all funerals are now measured against that visit. So, Grandma and Grandpa, you don't need to worry that Emma wants to go to your funeral.
At four and five years old it was a common occurrence for Emma to start a sentence with, "I remember when I was three I would..."
Recently one evening, Hannah, eight, was in the living room talking to me and Lorraine. As is often the case Hannah has a tendency to go on and on. Emma, sitting on the floor amusing herself and appearing not at all interested in Hannah's monologue, inserted herself into the conversation matter of factly, with "blah, blah, blah."
Emma - 6 - "If it hurts so much, why do they call it a funny bone?"
9/1/11
Emma (4 years old) to Mom - "Would it ruin the future if everybody died?"
Mom - "I don't know."
Emma to Mom - "Would it ruin the future if I died?!"
Mom - "RACHEL! HELP!"
In the summer of 2009 Lorraine and I took Emma and Hannah to the Des Moines Art Festival in downtown Des Moines. The got to do fun kid stuff at a variety of booths. I think I also got them a smoothie or lemonade something like that. Inevitably Emma, little miss peanut bladder, had to go to the bathroom. We led her to the bank of portable potties. She'd never had the pleasure of using one of Jim's Johns. I held the door for her. She went in and immediately came out and said, "I won't do that." And she didn't. She was willing to wet her pants before she's suffer through the indignity and smell of that KYBO. That meant we were done for the day. We walked to the car, got in and drove to a nearby gas station.
A couple of years ago my grandmother died back in rural Illinois. We took the family back to my hometown for the funeral. Although that was a sad occasion, my grandmother was 102 when she died and we also got to see my parents and my sister's family. A few months later a very nice lady from our church died and Lorraine planned to go to her funeral Mass. That meant getting Emma and Hannah bathed and ready to go. But, it was Thursday morning and Thursdays are story hour at our local library which Emma thoroughly enjoyed attending. Emma said, "I don't want to go to a stupid funeral. I want to go to story hour." Lorraine empathized but explained that Emma needed to get ready for her bath and she was going to the funeral Mass. A few minutes later Emma appears in front of Lorraine in her birthday suit and says, "OK, I tell you what. I'll go to the funeral, but only if it's Grandma and Grandpa's." Lorraine and I came to the conclusion that Emma enjoyed her last visit to Illinois for Grandma Fanny's funeral so much that all funerals are now measured against that visit. So, Grandma and Grandpa, you don't need to worry that Emma wants to go to your funeral.
At four and five years old it was a common occurrence for Emma to start a sentence with, "I remember when I was three I would..."
Recently one evening, Hannah, eight, was in the living room talking to me and Lorraine. As is often the case Hannah has a tendency to go on and on. Emma, sitting on the floor amusing herself and appearing not at all interested in Hannah's monologue, inserted herself into the conversation matter of factly, with "blah, blah, blah."
Emma - 6 - "If it hurts so much, why do they call it a funny bone?"
Monday, September 12, 2011
Zephyr 2003-2011
My blog is titled, "... and then it died" for a reason. Death once again visited our farm. This time it took one of our more beloved guests on the farm.
About four years ago we were offered three free wethers. Their names were (are) Sam, JR and Zephyr. I'm not sure who named them or why, but I do know that the person who had them before us couldn't keep them and wanted to find them a good home. As I've said before there's no such thing as a free llama or any other kind of "free" animal. But, I can say that some animals are closer to being free than others. These three Romney crosses fit that description. Our primary up front costs were the trip to Letts, IA, near Muscatine, to pick them up. At 8 miles to the gallon and a 352 mile round trip, you can do the math. As wethers they weren't going to give us lambs neither as mothers or fathers. Their sole purpose on our property would be to deliver us nice fleeces once a year. Two of the three wethers did that and more.
Sam's fleece was always thinner and not all that desirable to home spinners. Also, unfortunately, Sam was far less stout that either Zephyr or JR. He succumbed during the winter a couple years ago. We had sheared the "boys," as we called them, in October. That's usually more than enough time for a sheep to regrow sufficient fleece to keep them warm. But poor Sam shivered incessantly even early on that winter. I think he just wore out trying to keep warm.
Of the three boys, JR was the problem child. He was both a pain in the butt on the one hand and a wonderful source of fleece on the other. He was so skittish and contrary that he'd bolt the opposite direction I was trying to herd the flock. Sometimes I'd get the flock moving in the direction I wanted only to have JR bolt off in another with several sheep following. Typically it's futile to try and get the remaining sheep in the flock continuing in the intended direction. They wanted to follow JR and the few other wayward sheep. That meant getting them all together in a group again and starting the process of moving them all over again. He eventually settled down a bit, but he was never going to be seeking attention from his shepherds. On the other hand, JR's fleece has been coveted by hand spinners that we know. Not only do the hand spinners like the way it looks and feels, we liked it because of its size.
JR in Winter
While JR lives on, we lost Zephyr late last week. I knew his time was short. He was nine years old which is pretty good for a sheep. In recent months he'd lost a lot of weight. About a week ago I went out there and saw him staggering from weakness. Lorraine suggested taking him to the locker but I didn't have the heart. He was down to skin and bones and he was more like a pet than livestock.
I'm guessing Zephyr was bottle fed because he liked to be around people. He liked to have his head and back scratched, sometimes leaning into you as you tousled the wool on his head. And he was very patient and tolerant of the kids even to the point of letting them ride on his back. I always kidded that he reminded me of Eeyore, from Winnie the Pooh. He was so lethargic with a kind of mopey look on his face, locks of wool hanging over his eyes and with his head hanging down. Truth be told, he think he was actually pretty happy on our farm.
Of all of the sheep we've had I don't recall any that were like Zephyr. It was not uncommon for us to be sitting out in the pasture and for Zephyr to come and lay his head on our knee to be petted. I've heard Lorraine shriek on more than one occasion, thinking that something was about to bite, sting or do something else equally unpleasant to her. She would turn only to see Zephyr with his nose to her ear, waiting to be petted.
I think every farm needs a Zephyr. He will be missed.
I wonder who will take his place in our hearts.
About four years ago we were offered three free wethers. Their names were (are) Sam, JR and Zephyr. I'm not sure who named them or why, but I do know that the person who had them before us couldn't keep them and wanted to find them a good home. As I've said before there's no such thing as a free llama or any other kind of "free" animal. But, I can say that some animals are closer to being free than others. These three Romney crosses fit that description. Our primary up front costs were the trip to Letts, IA, near Muscatine, to pick them up. At 8 miles to the gallon and a 352 mile round trip, you can do the math. As wethers they weren't going to give us lambs neither as mothers or fathers. Their sole purpose on our property would be to deliver us nice fleeces once a year. Two of the three wethers did that and more.
"The Boys" - J.R., Sam and Zephyr from L-R
Sam's fleece was always thinner and not all that desirable to home spinners. Also, unfortunately, Sam was far less stout that either Zephyr or JR. He succumbed during the winter a couple years ago. We had sheared the "boys," as we called them, in October. That's usually more than enough time for a sheep to regrow sufficient fleece to keep them warm. But poor Sam shivered incessantly even early on that winter. I think he just wore out trying to keep warm.
Of the three boys, JR was the problem child. He was both a pain in the butt on the one hand and a wonderful source of fleece on the other. He was so skittish and contrary that he'd bolt the opposite direction I was trying to herd the flock. Sometimes I'd get the flock moving in the direction I wanted only to have JR bolt off in another with several sheep following. Typically it's futile to try and get the remaining sheep in the flock continuing in the intended direction. They wanted to follow JR and the few other wayward sheep. That meant getting them all together in a group again and starting the process of moving them all over again. He eventually settled down a bit, but he was never going to be seeking attention from his shepherds. On the other hand, JR's fleece has been coveted by hand spinners that we know. Not only do the hand spinners like the way it looks and feels, we liked it because of its size.
JR in Winter
While JR lives on, we lost Zephyr late last week. I knew his time was short. He was nine years old which is pretty good for a sheep. In recent months he'd lost a lot of weight. About a week ago I went out there and saw him staggering from weakness. Lorraine suggested taking him to the locker but I didn't have the heart. He was down to skin and bones and he was more like a pet than livestock.
One of my favorite Zephyr pictures, taken by my son-in-law Jordan
I'm guessing Zephyr was bottle fed because he liked to be around people. He liked to have his head and back scratched, sometimes leaning into you as you tousled the wool on his head. And he was very patient and tolerant of the kids even to the point of letting them ride on his back. I always kidded that he reminded me of Eeyore, from Winnie the Pooh. He was so lethargic with a kind of mopey look on his face, locks of wool hanging over his eyes and with his head hanging down. Truth be told, he think he was actually pretty happy on our farm.
Of all of the sheep we've had I don't recall any that were like Zephyr. It was not uncommon for us to be sitting out in the pasture and for Zephyr to come and lay his head on our knee to be petted. I've heard Lorraine shriek on more than one occasion, thinking that something was about to bite, sting or do something else equally unpleasant to her. She would turn only to see Zephyr with his nose to her ear, waiting to be petted.
I think every farm needs a Zephyr. He will be missed.
I wonder who will take his place in our hearts.
Monday, August 15, 2011
#11
As has often been the case, many of our family adventures have occurred in my absence. Or, in some cases, as I was walking out the door on a business trip. One of the more memorable happened when we were living in a place northeast of Winterset, IA. We were in the process of selling our house in preparation for our move to our "new" place in Earlham, IA.
We had sheep at the old place. In fact, that's where the whole sheep thing started. At that point we had no idea what we didn't know about sheep. For that matter, we really didn't know much of anything about sheep. Everything we learned was coming either from a book, by the school of hard knocks or, more accurately, the school of dead sheep.
If you talk to Lorraine or my oldest daughter Rachel, one of the more infamous sheep they'll recall from our history on the farm is #11. We bought seven Suffolk ewes, our first foray into being shepherds, in 1997. Each ewe had an ear tag with a number, including the one with #11 on her tag. That small flock would supplement the goats we already had that Rachel would show at the county fair.
Maybe Lorraine remembers more details but I sure don't. What I do remember is #11 having a prolapsed uterus (Warning-graphic description to follow). This is when the uterus turns inside out and is hanging outside the ewe. Knowing not how to deal with this the vet was called. He showed up, stuffed the uterus back into the ewe, placed a couple of stitches in a place that looked very uncomfortable to be stitched and gave her some antibiotics. Before leaving he said that "might" work.
We would later take the ewes back to the farm that we bought them from to spend some time with a ram to be bred. My older sister would later ask why we would send the sheep out for "bread." Ah, the subtleties of the English language can be distracting at time.
About five months later lambing began. I don't recall any problems with the other six ewes, but #11 became a source of angst for us in quick order. We first noticed her on her side, apparently in labor. Later checks would include include aural as well as visual feedback on her distress. And that was the beginning of a few days where the poor animal would groan as if she was in labor. If you see Rachel, she does a great imitation of #11 in labor. Just ask her.
Unfortunately, #11's groaning and moaning didn't end well. As I mentioned earlier some of our less fortunate endings occurred when I was gone or leaving. In this case our realtor was at our house as I was literally just about to leave for the airport to catch a flight. From the back patio she was looking into our nearby paddock and she exclaimed, "is there something wrong with that sheep?" With the sheep on its side, legs sticking out sideways, I was guessing that she was probably spot on with that question. Assuming the worst I walked over to the fence, peered over and confirmed my initial diagnosis. Now what? I literally had a plane to catch and nobody to dig a hole to bury this thing. We didn't even own a tractor or pickup at that point, key pieces of equipment for operating even a small, viable farm.
Keep in mind that this animal was about 150 pounds so it would take a big hole and Lorraine wasn't going to be able to drag it anywhere even if she could dig a hole. Heck, she was probably pregnant at the time since, having eight kids total, she tended to be pregnant a lot of the time. And, if she wasn't pregnant, she'd probably had a child recently. Seems to me Spencer was born in 1997 so he was either in utero or recently born. Lorraine remembers those subtle details better than I do.
But I digress... Mercifully, our local guardian angel and neighbor, Dwayne, just happened to pull into the driveway to ask about something very soon after I'd abandoned Lorraine, leaving her to deal with the carcass of this unfortunate animal. Lorraine asked Dwayne if he had any suggestions. He said that he'd be glad to take the carcass to the county landfill. All we had to do was come up with a bag of lime to put on the animal after it was dumped. Interesting that the county landfill will take a carcass if you cover it with lime, knowing full well it would be completely buried before the end of the day. Maybe the don't want vultures or crows hanging around. That would put a damper on the work environment.
I'm not sure how he did it, but Dwayne managed to load the carcass into the back of his pickup and got it to the dump for us. There were other occasions where Dwayne came to our rescue and we are forever grateful. Meanwhile, I was flying off somewhere for a meeting that, most assuredly, was far less exciting than staying home to deal with a dead sheep.
We had sheep at the old place. In fact, that's where the whole sheep thing started. At that point we had no idea what we didn't know about sheep. For that matter, we really didn't know much of anything about sheep. Everything we learned was coming either from a book, by the school of hard knocks or, more accurately, the school of dead sheep.
If you talk to Lorraine or my oldest daughter Rachel, one of the more infamous sheep they'll recall from our history on the farm is #11. We bought seven Suffolk ewes, our first foray into being shepherds, in 1997. Each ewe had an ear tag with a number, including the one with #11 on her tag. That small flock would supplement the goats we already had that Rachel would show at the county fair.
Maybe Lorraine remembers more details but I sure don't. What I do remember is #11 having a prolapsed uterus (Warning-graphic description to follow). This is when the uterus turns inside out and is hanging outside the ewe. Knowing not how to deal with this the vet was called. He showed up, stuffed the uterus back into the ewe, placed a couple of stitches in a place that looked very uncomfortable to be stitched and gave her some antibiotics. Before leaving he said that "might" work.
We would later take the ewes back to the farm that we bought them from to spend some time with a ram to be bred. My older sister would later ask why we would send the sheep out for "bread." Ah, the subtleties of the English language can be distracting at time.
About five months later lambing began. I don't recall any problems with the other six ewes, but #11 became a source of angst for us in quick order. We first noticed her on her side, apparently in labor. Later checks would include include aural as well as visual feedback on her distress. And that was the beginning of a few days where the poor animal would groan as if she was in labor. If you see Rachel, she does a great imitation of #11 in labor. Just ask her.
Unfortunately, #11's groaning and moaning didn't end well. As I mentioned earlier some of our less fortunate endings occurred when I was gone or leaving. In this case our realtor was at our house as I was literally just about to leave for the airport to catch a flight. From the back patio she was looking into our nearby paddock and she exclaimed, "is there something wrong with that sheep?" With the sheep on its side, legs sticking out sideways, I was guessing that she was probably spot on with that question. Assuming the worst I walked over to the fence, peered over and confirmed my initial diagnosis. Now what? I literally had a plane to catch and nobody to dig a hole to bury this thing. We didn't even own a tractor or pickup at that point, key pieces of equipment for operating even a small, viable farm.
Keep in mind that this animal was about 150 pounds so it would take a big hole and Lorraine wasn't going to be able to drag it anywhere even if she could dig a hole. Heck, she was probably pregnant at the time since, having eight kids total, she tended to be pregnant a lot of the time. And, if she wasn't pregnant, she'd probably had a child recently. Seems to me Spencer was born in 1997 so he was either in utero or recently born. Lorraine remembers those subtle details better than I do.
But I digress... Mercifully, our local guardian angel and neighbor, Dwayne, just happened to pull into the driveway to ask about something very soon after I'd abandoned Lorraine, leaving her to deal with the carcass of this unfortunate animal. Lorraine asked Dwayne if he had any suggestions. He said that he'd be glad to take the carcass to the county landfill. All we had to do was come up with a bag of lime to put on the animal after it was dumped. Interesting that the county landfill will take a carcass if you cover it with lime, knowing full well it would be completely buried before the end of the day. Maybe the don't want vultures or crows hanging around. That would put a damper on the work environment.
I'm not sure how he did it, but Dwayne managed to load the carcass into the back of his pickup and got it to the dump for us. There were other occasions where Dwayne came to our rescue and we are forever grateful. Meanwhile, I was flying off somewhere for a meeting that, most assuredly, was far less exciting than staying home to deal with a dead sheep.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
When smoke gets in your eye, it might be time to call 911!
It was the summer of 2009 and Lorraine and I had recently been to a grazing seminar. We belonged to an group of farmers that raise their animals on grass rather than grain (otherwise known as “grass farmers”) The focus of this particular seminar was on maximizing your pasture to feed your animals off of the pasture for as long as possible. There were several speakers throughout the seminar, but one that left an impression on us was the guy who talked about burning your pasture to reinvigorate growth and to manage problem species like endopyhyte infected fescue. He talked about a parcel of land in southern Iowa/northern Missouri that his group at Iowa State University was using for research. One component of that research was the use of controlled burning of sections of the land each year, rotating the burned portion at 1/3 each year. The key word here I now realize was “controlled.”
In the past I’d been hesitant to burn our pasture for a couple of reasons. The first was that it was so patchy and overgrazed when we bought it I seriously doubted that we’d have success in burning it. Why go out there and use up a bunch of propane having to burn most of it with a torch rather than having the wind gently push the fire through the pasture? In fact, a farmer that used to put cattle on our pastures to graze agreed with my assessment. This guy is a lot sharper about these things than I am so I took his word for it.
The second reason I was hesitant was that, if it burned better than I expected, could I control it? I didn’t want to be burning my neighbor’s grasslands unintentionally. I was OK to the south because that was bare crop land. The worst that would happen there would be the draws for drainage burning but those had dead ends that were edged by the crop land. No problem there. The northern edge of the burn area was a creek and marshy area. Even if it got out of control going north, that was a natural break that would stop the burn. On the other hand, the growth to the east and west was tall, dense and dry. If I wasn’t careful the fire might jump the breaks and get out of control.
After years of doubt, hesitation and trepidation I finally decided to buy an attachment to use with my grill’s propane tank that turned the unit into a pretty neat torch. My eleven year old son wanted to know if it was going be like a flame thrower he’d seen in the WW II movies. I explained that it wouldn’t be like that but, rather, more like an oversized lighter. I followed the instructions included with the torch and fired it up, recoiling initially at the intensity of the flame and quickly doused the flame on the end of my boot.
In preparation for the burn I’d used my tractor and brush mower to mow a perimeter on the east and west sides of the pasture to stop it from spreading in unintended directions. The wind was coming out of the southeast at, what I would find out fairly quickly, a rate that was a bit beyond brisk. I was chided later with the comment of, “gee, you didn’t know there was a wind advisory?” To that I lamely explained that, standing on the knoll where I intended to start the fire the wind was, I estimated, coming it at 10-15 miles an hour. Heck, it’s March and a lot of people burn in March and the wind rarely drops below this level. I had also learned from a previous effort in burning my roadside ditches in the front of the property that it’s next to impossible to burn effectively without a slight breeze. Unlike my pasture burn which only took about 30 seconds of propane to ignite my incendiary mayhem, the ditch burning took darn near a full tank of propane to get it all burned. That fully reaffirmed to me that if a little wind is good, more would be better. In retrospect I should have heeded my father’s well worn adage of “moderation in all things.”
There I stood with lit torch in hand in the southeast corner of my projected burn area. My theory was that the fire would start in that corner and move it’s way downwind. I relit the torch and applied the end to a nearby bunch of fescue and that’s when my theory collapsed in on itself. The fire rapidly moved in the anticipated direction while at the same time it moved in an unanticipated direction, that being northwest, directly into the teeth of the wind, albeit at a much slower rate. I enlisted one of my sons to help me stomp out the wayward wandering fire only to quickly realize that it was spreading more quickly than we could keep up with. Not only that, it rapidly crossed my mowed barrier. Within five minutes I knew that, if I couldn’t stop it from moving across the barrier into the wind, trying to stop in from crossing the barrier downwind was going to be futile.
Lorraine would later recount for me that, as she had just dropped Rachel off at a nearby park and ride. She noticed the smoke from the interstate which was just under a mile away from the fire. She wondered the fire might be and hoped it wasn't our house. When she got close enough they quickly realized that, although it wasn't our house, it was our property burning.
In the midst of trying to stop the fire from moving into the wind I saw another son come up over the hill where I’d positioned him to stop the fire from crossing in an area downwind that I couldn’t get the mower into. I yelled, asking him if he was going to be able to stop the fire and he yelled back that he could. I’d returned to my stomping efforts with my other son at the origin of the fire, only to quickly realize that our efforts would be futile. I followed along the fire line that was moving southeasterly, moving up over a slight rise. Coming over the crest of the rise I saw, to my horror, the raging fire had already crossed my western fence line and was racing down my neighbors east/west fence line with flames reaching at least ten feet in the air. With only brief hesitation and that hesitation resulting from the impending humiliation, I dialed 911 on my cell and shared the bad news with dispatch. About 2 minutes later I heard the local fire sirens going off in town to call the firemen to the station. As is probably typical in these stressful situations it seemed like an awfully long time before I heard the sirens of the trucks which are less than a five minute ride to our place. I’d called to the house to have my daughter wait at the end of the drive to direct them to the gate to get to the back of our property, but no fire trucks came. I then noticed that they’d stopped on the road in front of the second house to the west. I then saw some grass fire units come around from the southwest where they could drive up to within just a few feet of the rapidly spreading fire that was a 30 foot strip between a bare field and a pond. They got the hoses to the flames just as it was about to hit a much wider strip that would have been much harder to tame.
About the time the water truck was being deployed on the western edge of the fire another group of firemen came along with tools that look like mud flaps attached to the end of a shovel handle. They proceed to work the fire line and beat down the flames that, at the location, were moving slowly. Thoroughly embarrassed and humiliated I suggested to one of the firemen that they focus on the western edge of the flames by my neighbors and let the fire continue to move south to the creek line where it would die a natural death. Unfortunately, for me anyway, when you call the fire department they’re obligated to put the fire out.
It took a couple of hours but they eventually completed their task. During this whole affair, I had two llamas that were very interested in watching what was going on, including a pickup sized fire truck backing over one of their own which further added to the excitement. The rescue squad arrived, picked up their comrade and took her to the hospital where they confirmed she’d experienced only minor injuries. Apparently there was enough smoke that the driver didn’t see the fireman behind him and the fireman wasn’t paying attention to the back up alarm on the fire truck.
When the fire trucks finally departed just before dusk I assessed the damage. I’d intended to burn about 7 acres of my land. Had the fire department been able to let my land continue to burn that would have been accomplished. Instead, I managed to burn only three acres of my land and about that much of my neighbors, who shortly thereafter finished burning what I’d started. He’s apparently quite a bit smarter than me because he managed to burn what he wanted to and didn’t burn any of my pasture.
For those of you not familiar with Earlham, it’s a fairly small town and word gets around pretty quickly. I was dreading the upcoming Wednesday when the local paper would surely document the entire event. When the day came I purchased the newspaper and was quite relieved to learn that they referred to the address of the fire being where they first stopped two doors down the road. Also, my name wasn’t mentioned. Nobody would know the difference unless I or someone in my household mentioned it to someone else. And that’s exactly what happened. One of my daughters shared it with a friend, who shared it with more friends and parents, who shared it with even more friends and parents. You get the picture? So, it wasn’t too long until I was hearing, all too frequently, “so, I hear you had some excitement at your place this weekend” or something to that affect.
Now, here we are, two years later and I still have several acres that would benefit from burning. But I’m still very reluctant. Perhaps if I take my ZTR and mow a perimeter closer to the ground I can create a more effective fire break. And, maybe, if I pick a day where there isn’t a wind advisory I could actually control the fire.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Why are all these Children's Tylenol wrappers on the floor?
If you read my first post on this blog you'll probably already guess that the wrappers involved Emma, our youngest child. I think she was probably about three years old at the time.
That evening was uneventful for the most part. Lorraine and I had gone out for dinner, or a movie or something like that to escape from they mayhem at home. We arrived home around 10:00 to a living room full of kids watching TV (probably something they weren't supposed to be watching which quickly took a back seat given the situation). We immediately noticed several Children's Tylenol wrappers on the floor. We interrogated each of the seven kids that were awake (no waterboarding was involved) and each denied opening the packages. The two remaining culprits were Daisy, our Newfoundland, and Emma, the three year old.
Using my best deductive skills acquired by watching Basil Rathbone in Sherlock Holmes movies as a kid I noticed that the packages were not chewed open as would be expected if the dog got into the box. Heck, I'm an adult and I sometimes have to chew them open because that tidy little corner that you're supposed to peel back won't. Instead, each foil pack was nicely peeled back. Somebody far more skilled than I had opened them and it wasn't Daisy. That left Emma.
Knowing that excess doses of Tylenol can cause liver damage and/or be fatal, we woke Emma to question her (using UN allowable interrogation techniques). She wasn't in the mode to be awaken which caused even further concern. More accurately, she was pissed and wouldn't even answer our questions initially. We were persistent though and she finally admitted...she had not taken the Tylenol and promptly went back to sleep.
We were faced with a dilemma. None of the kids admitted to opening and/or consuming the Tylenol and the dog still wasn't talking. Do we assume that Emma took them or do we assume that some nefarious child opened them, one by one, and fed them to the dog that she didn't like. More on that theory later.
I called poison control and gave them the quantity, 19 pills, and Emma's weight, about 22#. They said that that dose would be lethal and to get her to an ER immediately. They asked where we would take her and we told them Blank Children's Hospital. They said they'd call ahead and let them know we were coming in. Keep in mind that Emma is showing no signs whatsoever of poisoning other than wanting to sleep which is pretty normal for a three year old at 10:30 p.m. Nonetheless, we weren't taking any chances. We'd take Emma to the ER knowing that if one of the other kids was lying about taking them, they'd begin to show symptoms soon enough.
We walked into the ER and told them who we were. We immediately heard over the PA system, "code yellow" and Emma's name was called. I'll digress breifly here and share with you that my sister recently had outpatient surgery at Rush Presbyterian Hospital and experience chest pains post-op. They wheeled her over to the ER who told them it would be a six hour wait. God bless the folks at Blank!
The triage nurse asked a few questions about dosage, number of pill, time the pills were consumed, etc. They weighed her, measured her and took her blood pressure. All normal by the way. We were then walked back into the exam room area and installed in a room. Keep in mind that nobody, and I mean nobody, was yet interested in who was going to pay for this. Their focus was on caring for Emma.
A paramedic came into the room and asked some more questions and did a great job interacting with Emma. He got Emma set up to watch a video on the TV mounted in the ceiling so the child can lay back on the table and look straight up at the TV. She wanted to watch Strawberry Shortcake. It wasn't too long after they got Emma set up to watch videos when a lady came in pushing a cart with a laptop on it to gather our personal and insurance information. A very streamlined process to say the least.
Shortly after sharing our insurance information the Dr. came in. A few more questions followed. She said that, based upon the time that the Tylenol was consumed we'd have to wait for it to be metabolized into Emma's system in order for it to be detected. We had a fairly narrow window of when we suspected she ate the Tylenol and it was decided that they'd wait about an hour before drawing blood. It was already 11:00 p.m. and a bit of a wait.
This is a pediactric ER so they know what they're doing. They let me and Emma head down to the toy closet for her to pick out stuff to play with. With only one or two other patients in the ER at that time of night so there was no competition for the toys. We played in the toy room a little while and then took a few toys back to her exam room to wait for the blood test. Emma was wide awake and raring to go at this point. She was having fun playing with toys, watching TV and wondering why we didn't go to the ER more often.
Then the time came for the paramedic to draw some blood. Emma was nervous but handled it very well. A needle prick was a small price to pay to have sole access to somebody else's toy closet and unlilmited access to videos. With the blood drawn it was another wait for the results.
About 45 minutes later the Dr. came in to let us know there's no indication that Emma had consumed any Tylenol. It's now almost 1:00 a.m. and time to head home to wonder further who the culprit was behind the missing 19 Childrens' Tylenol.
When we got home everyone was in bed except for Emma, Mom and Dad who were now pretty tired. We put Emma to bed and then went to bed ourselves.
Knowing we had a happy ending to this adventure we got up in the morning to find that Daisy (remember Daisy from the beginning of this post) was vomiting. Now, you need to understand that this dog elicited different emotions from different members of the household. She was a rescue that we took in a few months earlier. For a Newfoundland she was quite small due to being nutritionally abused (at least that's what I'd call it) as a puppy. Due to indequate calories growing up her growth was stunted. While small for a Newfoundland she still topped the scales at about 120#.
Daisy was a very quiet, gentle but insecure dog who followed Lorraine everywhere and would have been glad to show any burglar around the house. While Lorraine really liked Daisy and I was neutral with no real attachment to her, she was reviled by some of the kids. Dani, 18 years old at the time of the Emma ER trip, was most vocal about disliking the dog. There were suggestions of feeding the dog chocolate or locking her outside or some other cruel and usual punishment that nobody ever acted upon. When confronted with our theory, Dani adamantly denied feeding the Tylenol to the dog. Yet, there we were, cleaning up dog puke for three days after the event. And, remember, using my analytical, steel, trap-like mind I'd deduced that the individual Tylenol packets had not been chewed open. Unless, of course, I totally underestimated the skills of this dog to open 19 packets without leaving a single tooth or claw mark.
To this day Dani and all of the other kids deny eating the Tylenol or feeding them to the dog. It will take more than the wisdom of Solomon and the deductive skills of Columbo to figure that one out. Then again, maybe some day we'll be having one of those holiday dinners when all of the grown kids come over to our house with their kids and a conversation starts with "...do you remember when..." and the truth will come out.
That evening was uneventful for the most part. Lorraine and I had gone out for dinner, or a movie or something like that to escape from they mayhem at home. We arrived home around 10:00 to a living room full of kids watching TV (probably something they weren't supposed to be watching which quickly took a back seat given the situation). We immediately noticed several Children's Tylenol wrappers on the floor. We interrogated each of the seven kids that were awake (no waterboarding was involved) and each denied opening the packages. The two remaining culprits were Daisy, our Newfoundland, and Emma, the three year old.
Using my best deductive skills acquired by watching Basil Rathbone in Sherlock Holmes movies as a kid I noticed that the packages were not chewed open as would be expected if the dog got into the box. Heck, I'm an adult and I sometimes have to chew them open because that tidy little corner that you're supposed to peel back won't. Instead, each foil pack was nicely peeled back. Somebody far more skilled than I had opened them and it wasn't Daisy. That left Emma.
Knowing that excess doses of Tylenol can cause liver damage and/or be fatal, we woke Emma to question her (using UN allowable interrogation techniques). She wasn't in the mode to be awaken which caused even further concern. More accurately, she was pissed and wouldn't even answer our questions initially. We were persistent though and she finally admitted...she had not taken the Tylenol and promptly went back to sleep.
We were faced with a dilemma. None of the kids admitted to opening and/or consuming the Tylenol and the dog still wasn't talking. Do we assume that Emma took them or do we assume that some nefarious child opened them, one by one, and fed them to the dog that she didn't like. More on that theory later.
I called poison control and gave them the quantity, 19 pills, and Emma's weight, about 22#. They said that that dose would be lethal and to get her to an ER immediately. They asked where we would take her and we told them Blank Children's Hospital. They said they'd call ahead and let them know we were coming in. Keep in mind that Emma is showing no signs whatsoever of poisoning other than wanting to sleep which is pretty normal for a three year old at 10:30 p.m. Nonetheless, we weren't taking any chances. We'd take Emma to the ER knowing that if one of the other kids was lying about taking them, they'd begin to show symptoms soon enough.
We walked into the ER and told them who we were. We immediately heard over the PA system, "code yellow" and Emma's name was called. I'll digress breifly here and share with you that my sister recently had outpatient surgery at Rush Presbyterian Hospital and experience chest pains post-op. They wheeled her over to the ER who told them it would be a six hour wait. God bless the folks at Blank!
The triage nurse asked a few questions about dosage, number of pill, time the pills were consumed, etc. They weighed her, measured her and took her blood pressure. All normal by the way. We were then walked back into the exam room area and installed in a room. Keep in mind that nobody, and I mean nobody, was yet interested in who was going to pay for this. Their focus was on caring for Emma.
A paramedic came into the room and asked some more questions and did a great job interacting with Emma. He got Emma set up to watch a video on the TV mounted in the ceiling so the child can lay back on the table and look straight up at the TV. She wanted to watch Strawberry Shortcake. It wasn't too long after they got Emma set up to watch videos when a lady came in pushing a cart with a laptop on it to gather our personal and insurance information. A very streamlined process to say the least.
Shortly after sharing our insurance information the Dr. came in. A few more questions followed. She said that, based upon the time that the Tylenol was consumed we'd have to wait for it to be metabolized into Emma's system in order for it to be detected. We had a fairly narrow window of when we suspected she ate the Tylenol and it was decided that they'd wait about an hour before drawing blood. It was already 11:00 p.m. and a bit of a wait.
This is a pediactric ER so they know what they're doing. They let me and Emma head down to the toy closet for her to pick out stuff to play with. With only one or two other patients in the ER at that time of night so there was no competition for the toys. We played in the toy room a little while and then took a few toys back to her exam room to wait for the blood test. Emma was wide awake and raring to go at this point. She was having fun playing with toys, watching TV and wondering why we didn't go to the ER more often.
Then the time came for the paramedic to draw some blood. Emma was nervous but handled it very well. A needle prick was a small price to pay to have sole access to somebody else's toy closet and unlilmited access to videos. With the blood drawn it was another wait for the results.
About 45 minutes later the Dr. came in to let us know there's no indication that Emma had consumed any Tylenol. It's now almost 1:00 a.m. and time to head home to wonder further who the culprit was behind the missing 19 Childrens' Tylenol.
When we got home everyone was in bed except for Emma, Mom and Dad who were now pretty tired. We put Emma to bed and then went to bed ourselves.
Knowing we had a happy ending to this adventure we got up in the morning to find that Daisy (remember Daisy from the beginning of this post) was vomiting. Now, you need to understand that this dog elicited different emotions from different members of the household. She was a rescue that we took in a few months earlier. For a Newfoundland she was quite small due to being nutritionally abused (at least that's what I'd call it) as a puppy. Due to indequate calories growing up her growth was stunted. While small for a Newfoundland she still topped the scales at about 120#.
Daisy was a very quiet, gentle but insecure dog who followed Lorraine everywhere and would have been glad to show any burglar around the house. While Lorraine really liked Daisy and I was neutral with no real attachment to her, she was reviled by some of the kids. Dani, 18 years old at the time of the Emma ER trip, was most vocal about disliking the dog. There were suggestions of feeding the dog chocolate or locking her outside or some other cruel and usual punishment that nobody ever acted upon. When confronted with our theory, Dani adamantly denied feeding the Tylenol to the dog. Yet, there we were, cleaning up dog puke for three days after the event. And, remember, using my analytical, steel, trap-like mind I'd deduced that the individual Tylenol packets had not been chewed open. Unless, of course, I totally underestimated the skills of this dog to open 19 packets without leaving a single tooth or claw mark.
To this day Dani and all of the other kids deny eating the Tylenol or feeding them to the dog. It will take more than the wisdom of Solomon and the deductive skills of Columbo to figure that one out. Then again, maybe some day we'll be having one of those holiday dinners when all of the grown kids come over to our house with their kids and a conversation starts with "...do you remember when..." and the truth will come out.
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