Everyone Watch Out, Mom's on the Tractor

Dad, you might want to skip this one...

I'm kidding! 

But seriously, go read something else.

I like to think that as a highly independent woman there's nothing I can't do.  No obstacle too extreme for me and nothing I can't accomplish.  So at the beginning of the summer, after much harassment, I was finally allowed to learn how to operate The Tractor.  Not just that little Cub Cadet I'd been using to cruise around the yard for three years now, but the John Deere.  The mac daddy of tractors. 

Finally the freedom to cut the wildly growing grass myself and not depend on one of The Men when it needed to be done.  And so finally I get to drive The Tractor.

And it's way too much fun.

It's also slightly scary.

See the thing is that the tractor doesn't really pick up speed unless you've got it on the rabbit setting (yeah, I can use it, but I have no idea what the correct terms are for those three fancy levers on the thing).  But once you've moved it up and you're speeding along at a rabbit pace, you realize that you're probably going too fast for your own good.  And then you realize that there's a fence post straight ahead.

Whew, cleared the post, but OH SHIT THERE'S A HILL!

The Tractor has a wonderful safety mechanism that turns off the mower when The Tractor has been driven erratically or you've slammed on the brakes.

Great in theory, but that happens to be how I drive The Tractor; which means that I'm constantly having to restart the mower. 

I'm starting to realize why my dad was so petrified when I got my license. 

So here I am, plodding along, cutting some grass when all of a sudden I realize that I'm just driving and not cutting.  So I put the mower back on and try to retrace my steps.  Therefore, instead of those perfectly mowed lines I want to create, the yard looks like it's been mowed by a drunken clown.

And then there's all the stuff in the yard: Lou's toys, dog toys, branches and other tree debris.

Try as I might, I never seem to avoid these hazards as much as I'd like to think I do.  Thankfully the mower cuts up most of what I run over, destroying the evidence.  But take that Nerf ball, for example, the one that's been living in the backyard all summer, up until the point when I took over mowing.  It's not that I just ran over it.  I think I ran over it at least three times.  Sure Chowdy had ripped it up a bit, but I completely destroyed it.  There's still bits of foam dotting the yard.

And of course I need to watch out for my Collection.  You'd think they'd know better than to try to spend quality time with my when I'm on the tractor.  But there's Chowder up ahead.  She's figured out that if you drop the tennis ball in front of The Tractor it will disappear for a moment before being shot out into the field, much farther than if I had just thrown it for her.  And Gidge considers herself the defender of the yard and she's decided that the yard needs to be defended from The Tractor.  Maybe she just realizes the danger I've put the yard in by operating The Tractor myself.  Either way, she runs right in front of me, barking and acting as if, at any moment, she could hurl herself in front of me and into the path of oncoming dismemberment.  Lady, I put it on rabbit speed!  Get out of my way!

I nearly took out Brandis' nest last week and now I've got all those tiny fluffs of baby to avoid.

But despite the perils, I love driving The Tractor; and Dad, since I know you're still reading, you'll be hard pressed to get me to give it up.  There's something to be said about the freedom of a motorized vehicle.  The feeling that I really could just set off into the sunset and leave it all behind.  Not that I'd get too far, but I'll bet you I could make it out to 96.  It's not the calm, quiet peace that I yearn for, but it's the monotonous drum of the power under your feet and the thoughts inside your head.  I can't hear you, so don't even bother trying to talk to me.  It's the overwhelming smell of freshly cut grass and weeds.  It's the feeling of a pile of grass tossed into your face by a rogue wind, something I don't think you can appreciate until you've been trapped in an air conditioned house with a stir crazy Collection for days on end.  And then there's the birds.  They're smart enough to know that if this noisy beast kicks up grass, it's kicking up bugs too.  So the field is filled with swallows darting around and swooping low to eat their fill. 

And, of course, it's the challenge.  The challenge of getting it all done before nap time's over.  The challenge of making the yard not look like it belongs to hillbillies.  The challenge of fixing the damage I did last time.  And although it's a wild ride, I get better every time. 

So everyone, look out!  Mom's on the tractor and she may never get off.

What's Up With Brandis?

After a week or so of disappearing during the day, Bradis disappeared for good.  I could sometimes hear her if I were working in the backyard, but no one ever saw her. 

And then, one afternoon during Band Camp she was located, hidden in an overgrown garden, covering what appeared to be a surprisingly well made nest.  She left for a bit the next day, after the tractor had decimated the quiet of that garden and I saw the nest first hand.  Very well made.  And filled with sixteen eggs.

And after that she never left again.

So that ruled gathering those eggs, a few at a time, and finally being able to benefit from this Guinea investment I had made.

She sat there.  For more than three weeks.  She never left.  After almost a week I finally brought a water dish down to that garden, not daring to get too close; but she never got up.  I brought chicken food and tried to toss her some so that she could eat without moving.  She bit me last week when I tried that.  Those tornadoes we had?  Brandis stood her ground.  The pelting rain and howling winds were no match for her determination to nurture these unfertilized eggs. 

I was no longer interested in those old eggs; but I was really starting to wonder when they would finally rot underneath her and what I should do about this increasingly desperate situation when I saw her miraculously appear in the yard.  Not far from the nest, true, but this was progress.  When Lou made a beeline for the nest Brandis made a beeline for Lou and we thought it best to keep our distance.

She stayed on the nest the next day, but she seemed to be slightly in front of it; Other Half saw a few eggs poking out from behind her widely expanding tail.

And the next day she was no longer on the nest.  She had moved to the back of the garden and the ground around her seemed to be moving.

Emily, she has chicks.

It took a moment for the nonchalant statement of my Other Half to sink in.

Holy shit she had babies. 

Twelve to be exact.  By the next morning the whole family was out strolling the yard. 

And now, despite my best attempts, I have fourteen Guinea Hens strolling my yard once more.  I swore I wasn't going to get any babies this year.  Apparently that's just not up to me.

What are the odds that of the two rejected Hens, one was a male?  How come I never knew it?  I've read all there is to read on Guinea Hens, and as far as I can tell, the only way to sex them is by listening to their call.  Maybe my ears are untrained, but these two birds sound exactly the same to me; neither more annoying than the other. 

All the same, they had babies.  They probably thought they were the last two Guineas in existence and  the very survival of their breed depended on them to procreate. 

Who knows.  All I know is that I'm back at square one.

There's always something and it never ends.

It's Actually Kind of Quiet Out Here...

Our relaxing summers out here on the farm are usually anything but relaxing; but of course I wouldn't have it any other way.

Our house is always packed to the brim, and since we don't yet have sixteen children, we make sure to fill this empty space with animals.  Sibling is in and out, usually with a ragtag collection trailing him.  But it's been slowly quieting down, and the departure of Other Half started a tailspin of abandonment.

Old Man Band has been having marital problems lately, so their appearances have been sparse.  And then Other Half left.  Quickly followed by the departure of The Band.

In preparation for an EP recording in Chicago, these big strong men have had Band Camp.  Most likely, not the Band Camp you're picturing.

They moved in last Sunday, filling the basement with the awful reek of twenty-three year old boys in the morning.  Instead of our usual six cars strewn about, we now have nine cars rotting in various locations.  Graciously, they did go grocery shopping, leaving me with not an inch of spare fridge space.  You can track their progress starting with the pile of sandals in the middle of the doorway and then finding the heat of an open window in the crisp air conditioning; like arrows pointing you to the Shed.  Following proper protocol, The Band makes sure they never practice during normal business hours, and since the Noise Ban has been lifted, they try not to practice during any of what could be considered "normal hours".  During my mid-morning laundry run I'm regaled with heroic tales of epic bluegrass jams lit by the three am moon.  Never mind the fact that they're all awake and around at one in the afternoon, they're too busy sunbathing in the yard, or jogging topless for all the farmers to gawk, or creating culinary masterpieces, to be practicing.

They meet their mothers for dinner and go out for drinks with their girlfriends and make sure to turn on their amps by ten at night.

Thank goodness we barely have neighbors to notice. 

But, they're serious about Band Camp.  And I have to admit that they do sound incredible after a dedicated and intense ten night stint of awesome rock. 

And they've certainly earned their name.

Their myspace page is littered with pictures taken out here, and after making their presence known for a few days, they started to blend in and actually make themselves useful- never mind that when you go to the Shed to ask for their help they're sweating and rocking out in boxers.  All the same, who was there when we needed to move the unreasonably heavy chicken coop?  The Big Strong Men.  Who can help you start the mower when it's giving you hell?  Big Strong Men.  Who can help you stretch king sized sheets across the line, call the Hounds in from the hunt, and then move that chicken coop again because The Voice has deemed it was wrong the first time?  You got it. 

And now everyone's gone and I'm not sure how I feel about it.  Although I know he's basking in the silence, I've been doing all I can to make sure that The Voice doesn't notice that it's just me left.  Sure, it was liberating to cut the fields in my swimsuit, but I had no background music.  There's no one to mock The Muppet with me and my poor Sweet Monster Head is almost out of her mind with worry.

Bottom line is that it's actually kind of quiet out here.  Sure I'm out here in the country for that blessed peace and quiet, but I'm ready for the mayhem to resume.

Let's hope they all return soon, before I completely lose it and instead of simply talking to my Collection, I wait around for it to respond...