Monthly Archives: September 2011

An evening adventure

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Twice last week I arrived home from work to the squeals of the neighbor kids wanting to go to the farm for a fun-filled evening of four-wheeling adventures and a bonfire.

I must admit, it was kind of nice to come home to something other than an empty yard and a quiet house.

Reflections on the turtle pond.

My back yard has seemingly turned into the neighborhood gathering place. We have rounds of croquet, a half-circle of outdoor furniture in which to sit and talk and, when the mood strikes, a wide-open space to play dodge ball.

Still, it apparently isn’t as fun as the farm — and that proved to be the case when we finally took our little road trip south of town Saturday evening.

Our adventure began with a four-wheeler ride out to the back pasture. Around the bend, through the gate and a sharp turn in front of the turtle pond later, we arrived at our destination. We scared up a small cluster of birds and then searched the calm waters for any signs of turtle heads. The girls and I found one, and appreciated the beauty of the developing fall colors.

Then, it was back through the gate, around the bend and down the hill to follow along the Ocheyedan Creek. I stopped the four-wheeler, turned it off and told the girls to stay quiet — we were on a search for wildlife.

Muskrat swimming in Ocheyedan Creek.

We giggled at a little critter that jumped straight up from the creek and plopped back in the water, and then kept super quiet as we watched a muskrat swim toward us.

Unlike most times, this muskrat seemed to not have a care in the world that he was being watched by humans. He even climbed out of the water on the opposite side of the creek to snoop around a small pile of reeds.

All the while, the girls sat on the four-wheeler in awe. While one pondered its age, the other asked if it could come and attack us. I shrugged in response to both questions, and then stood up on the four-wheeler to take some photos. Even the nearby movements didn’t seem to bother the furry critter.

We watched the muskrat swim down the creek toward Peterson slough, then fired up the four-wheeler and took off for our next exploration — a full view of the slough and the many ducks that were enjoying an evening on the water.

As the sun slipped further toward the horizon, we decided it was time to get back to the farm yard. The girls chatted about the bunny, the turtle, the muskrat, the frogs and the wood ducks as we made our way along the water way and, just when they thought their adventure couldn’t get any better, a nice 8-point buck leapt along the fence line and darted into a nearby cornfield.

They watched in awe, and I grinned from behind the steering wheel as I could hear them exclaim, “This is the best adventure ever!”

Black thumb, green thumb

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Nearly six months ago, during the Women’s Expo in Worthington, I received a little flower pot and a packet of Forget-Me-Not seeds from the fine folks working the Southwest Minnesota Radiation Center’s booth.

At the time, I decided I was too busy to plant flowers and baby them along. When summer finally arrived, I was still too busy.

Soon, it became an easy excuse and served as a great disguise for what was really going on. I was afraid to plant the seeds, because I knew – like all other house plants I’d ever tried to keep – it’s fate would mean a slow, thirsty death.

Somewhere around mid-July, I finally opened the seed packet and scattered about six to eight seeds in the moist peat mixture. I placed the pot in the window sill and waited.
It seemed as though weeks went by without any growth. Great – not only do I kill house plants, I can also kill seed!

Not ready to give up just yet, I moved the pot to a different window in the kitchen, and seemingly overnight a handful of shoots emerged.

Success!

Well, not so fast.

There’s a reason Forget-Me-Nots have the name they do. They are thirsty little buggers … er, I mean flowers.

Remember those 90-degree days we had a little over a week ago? Twice in that short stretch of days I came home from work to find the leaves wilted over the pot and the dirt about as hard as a sun-baked mud pie.

“Oh no, you’re NOT going to die on me!,” I declared, and was pleased to see the stems and leaves perk up within an hour of being watered.

After a quick consult with Mom, I moved them back to their original window sill. The sunlight from the south-facing window was just too much for these gentle Forget-Me-Nots to handle.

I have yet to see any flowers form on the plant, which means I have to continue taking care of it – all this forced watering should not go without reward of at least a few purple blooms. Purple is, after all, my favorite color.

Don’t worry, I won’t hold my breath. That the plant is still green and  not wilted – at least not at the moment – is a miracle in itself.

While my attempt at growing house plants is certainly a sad one, I have come to realize I can grow plants outside – thanks to Mother Nature’s watering efforts. My two perennial gardens in the back yard were a real treat this year – one filled with purple irises, purple tulips, purple phlox and purple delphinium, along with rudbeckia, shasta daisy, coral belle, columbine, fern leaf peony and sedum. The only plant I killed out there was the bleeding heart. I suppose there is some irony in that.

The bleeding heart dies, and the Forget-Me-Nots had better not be forgotten!

I will not be a pack rat

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When my big green recycling container with wheels was dropped off on my front lawn last Thursday, I was practically giddy with excitement.

Well, all right, not practically – I was giddy with excitement!

I was not a fan of the small plastic bin. I could not set it out when rain was in the overnight forecast or when the wind blew, and balancing it on top of a snow drift was unpleasant.

More often than not, I hauled my filled-to-capacity recycling bin to the collection area at Ace Hardware because I’d either forgotten to place my recyclables curbside for pick-up, or because of an aforementioned weather issue.

While the big containers will be so much easier to deal with, that is only part of the reason why I’m so excited.

Most importantly, I can finally clean my house.

Now, don’t start thinking the inside of my house could be a featured episode on that television show, Hoarders. That’s the show where people accumulate so much stuff that they can’t sleep in their own bed or sit at the kitchen table. Hoarders are more apt to have a house of hallways lined with stacks of overflowing boxes rather than actual rooms with space to move.

After watching an episode of Hoarders before downgrading to basic-basic cable, I promised myself I would not become a pack rat.

Enter the handy-dandy new recycling cart on wheels!

Mine is already half-filled after one day of emptying totes – two totes. There are at least two more – maybe three – left to go.

These totes are/were filled with nearly every story I’d ever written since I started my career in journalism in 1994. Uffda, that’s a lot of newsprint! The two, filled-to-capacity totes I spent my Saturday sorting through contained years 2008 to present.

I saved my Farm Bleat blogs and all of the Honor Flight features I’ve written, and nearly everything else went into the recycling bin.

There had to be half a dozen stories each on farm land values, algae blooms, conservation efforts, new library discussions and county bridges. There were countless stories on people, public health threats and meeting recaps. In a few weeks or so, they’ll all be strapped in some big bale of newsprint out at Schaap’s, and I feel not one bit of remorse.

In fact, it feels good to dump life’s clutter once in a while!

One might ask why I saved all of those newspapers in the first place, and I’m not sure I know the answer. I think at first it was the novelty of having my name at the top of a story. Also, we didn’t have the online archives back then that we do now.

Saving the papers quickly became a habit – kind of like how I always lock my car door even when it’s parked on the yard at the farm.

Anyway, I still have some work to do – but I must pace myself. I don’t want to put too much pressure on my new recycling bin this first week.

Besides, the last of the totes are in an upstairs closet, and I’m pretty sure I’ll need some big, strong guy to get them out of there and pull them downstairs for me.

Oh three brothers dearest, who will be the first to volunteer?

Legend in the Limestone

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I was sitting at the dining room table in a farmhouse along the banks of the Kanaranzi Creek the other day, listening to a fascinating couple talk about the heritage in their family’s century farm.

The farm, as it turns out, has been in their family for 140 years. Until this year, no one bothered to apply for the Century Farm plaque.

I listened as they shared family legends of the James gang passing through and American Indians sharpening their tomahawks on the farm’s whetstone.

Then, they told me about their wonderful adventures along the Kanaranzi Creek, and the searches their grandkids make for rocks with holes in them. The rocks, they said, were believed to bring good luck by George Shurr’s grandma Hattie.

After I’d taken pictures of their farmstead, they brought out a canister filled with rocks with holes in them and handed me one before sending me on my way.

I don’t know that I’ve ever been so excited to be given a rock. Maybe it’s because it has a perfectly round hole through it, or maybe it’s the legend that it will bring me good luck, but that rock now has a prominent place on my desk at the office.

It reminds me not only of that quaint farm in the far southeast corner of Rock County, but of the morning I endured before that lucky rock was placed in my hand.

Monday mornings and pleasant never really seem to end up in the same sentence, and that was the case for me this week.

I awoke for an early morning interview to hear water spraying in my adjacent bathroom.

Oh, I didn’t know it was water at first, but it didn’t take long. A rush downstairs revealed a steadily growing pool of water, and a rush to reach the lever to shut the water off brought with it a rush of not-so-nice words from this normally-reserved woman!

Great — it’s Monday morning, I have an 8:30 a.m. interview and I have no running water.

On the other hand, I have parents, albeit about seven miles out of town, with a perfectly functioning shower.

Never before have I driven those seven miles still wearing my pajamas, but I did so on Monday. I quickly wished I hadn’t when I met a horde of cars coming into work. Ah yes, people not following the signed detour have made the usually-quiet County Road 57 seem like a highway.

I hoped no one noticed my tousled hair and general messy appearance, and when I thought about driving faster so they wouldn’t see me but for a split-second, visions of being pulled over flashed before my eyes. That right there was enough to make me keep the speedometer within the limits.

My loveable mutt Molly was excited to see me, the shower at the farm has much softer water than the one at my house in town, and Mom even offered to fix me a breakfast of sausage and eggs. She better watch out, I might start to make up stories about faulty plumbing just to have such a welcome!

As it turned out, I was only a few minutes late for my morning interview, a plumber graciously came to fix the problem before noon, and I had a lovely trip to the Kanaranzi Creek later that day.

Now, I have a holy (as in, it has a hole in it) limestone rock to bring me good luck.

Do you suppose I’m asking too much if I rub my fingers across it each day with a kindly wish for no more plumbing problems?

By the way, if you’re wondering when you can read about the Shurr’s Century Farm, the story will be included in the Daily Globe’s special Century Farm edition on Sept. 28.