Landed In Oregon II

July 2, 2007

I water the small planted trees until they can make it on their own. This morning I went into the Lower Pasture. Manny was there. He waved me off with his eyes. He signaled that he had a mouse located in a nearby clump of bunch grass, and was waiting for the opportune time to pounce. After I finished watering Manners was still there waiting.

I discovered that the Lower Pasture in rich in minerals. In fact, it might have a corner on the aluminum market. The prior owners saw this land different from us. From southern California, they were going to live on ‘the fat of the land.’ In a very small way (on a small piece of ground), they cleared the ground, planted grass, irrigated from the creek, rented out the upper pasture (one horse), and even built a shelter for the horse.

The shelter proved to aerodynamically adverse: as, the first strong wind flipped it. When we bought the property we bought a flipped shelter. I thought that could only be odd. With the help of one of Heather’s boyfriends, we righted it. The first strong wind flipped it. I dismantled it, saving what I could.

The new mantra: When wrong, recycle what you can.

I have piled lots and lots and lots of aluminum irrigation pipe and sprinkler heads and other assorted irrigation paraphernalia along the upper fence in the Lower Pasture.

They found out that raising young critters -- sheep and goats -- had more long hours and physical effort and heartbreak than they imagined. So, they decided to harvest the rich resource of timber. They cut on both sides of the creek. More than once. Their slash piles are still on the other side of the creek and on some of my old and forgotten to-do checklists.

So, my background is in rehabilitation. I have gone around digging out buried trees and righting them -- sometimes with supporting poles until they can hold themselves upright on their own.

July 3, 2007

Have I mentioned bees? I have never seen so many kinds of bees. This all stems from having a new lesson in life: Flowers. And my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. They deserve far more attention than I have given them. Very few honey bees. A big bumble bee. There is a bee (it must be a wild bee) that builds small hives in the ground. I don’t know if it digs itself or uses mouse or gopher holes. One might not know they are even there. Then, after the fall freeze, something (we think skunks) digs them up and eats the honey. All we see are remnants of honey combs and the excavations. Then there are the wasps that build under the eaves. Their babies are set up on some kind of time-release system. Throughout winter, a few warm days, and one or two are “born.” This continues until the new born survive. Even then, the “hive” still contains unhatched babies. Sometimes, jays come along under the eaves and pull off the hives. We find them dismantled on the ground. The unhatchlings are gone. Protein.

There is a bee. It first appears floating about three feet in front of one’s eyes. It is hard to see clearly because it keeps moving. Should I say “feinting?” (I think it is a bee). I don’t think they sting. I think they bite. It is like they give fair warning. If you back up or turn right or left, they fly off. If you persist in the same direction, they fly into you. It might be a sleeve, arm, hair, face, whatever. They bounce off. You think, “Well, so what!” And then, maybe, sometimes, a half minute later a spot will start aching like a bite. Leaving a small welt. I have never seen a hive. Sometimes they appear to be defending one piece of ground and sometimes another. There is only one spot where they have been all they years we have lived here: Down between the South Forty and The Cliff. I don’t know where they come from or go to. (I wonder if these are the below ground dwellers).

There is a time when young cats and dogs chase anything. Eventually they learn about bees. Here, there are times when even mature cats will be lazily lying on the grass when suddenly (you can see they are suddenly seeing something) they leap up and run about ten feet or so. Then, they might lie down again. I think it might be one of these bees. Never been close enough to really see.

July 4, 2007

Another mystery. Between the house and the pump house we have a mulch pile. Any straw, pile of leaves, pine needles, turkeys cannot resist. They must scratch to see what’s on the other side. So from time to time turkeys deconstruct the mulch pile and from time to time I reconstruct it. So, the last three nights something has been burrowing through the mulch pile. Turkeys are not out at night. What it is has not scratched the mulch. It was churned. Rooted. (Like a pig?) So far it has avoided the volunteer potatoes and pumpkin. It is not scratched like a dog. Or ‘coon. Could it be those little critters that play dead? Possum.

July 5, 2007.

Hot. Getting the watering done early. Leak in the line between the pump house and the house. I dug it out. The plumber had it fixed in an hour. By doing the grunt work I saved over $ 100 on the bill.

No rooting last night in the mulch pile.

Saw a buck down near the plum tree. Our only bearing plum tree is down on the South Forty. I waved at him, but made in nervous. He headed through the brush down toward the creek.

July 8, 2007

Artichokes about ready for another meal. Watered the Dawn Redwood. It was thirsty.

More names. Origination of the names “pond” and “border.” One must have a garden. That is hard on the back. How about raised beds? Of course. After they are built, where get the dirt? It is a funny question when sitting on seven acres. Why not have it hauled in? But unsure the bridge could handle heavy loads. Dirt from near the creek ought to be okay. Using a riding mower and little cart to haul it, I hauled dirt for a while. What was left was a hole in the ground. Sharon said, That would make a great POND. So “pond” went on the checklist where it still resides. And the hole in the ground is called The Pond. When we got married we invited people to walk fifty feet to and look into the hole in the ground called “Pond.” Few did. Few of those understood.

There was one other place where dirt was dug for the garden. The South Forty is mostly grass bordered by trees. Leaf trees. When the leaves fall they lie unraked. Eventually they are pushed by the wind against the tree border. It is a natural mulch, I thought. So I dug along the border, a swath about six feet wide and ten inches deep. What do you call a barren spot about six feet wide and 75 feet long bordering the trees that border the South Forty. Right.

Eventually Shasta Daisies and Sweet Williams discovered this spot and moved in.

A Problem on Pass Creek. That is what happens when you give two different things the same name. Along side the house to the west Sharon had been experimenting with different flower combinations. We called this spot “The Border.” We have two borders. Can the marriage survive? Can three borders be far behind?

When I was a kid, and I was home and heard the wind blowing outside, I used to believe that when the wind blew it was blowing everywhere. A single wind. Kind of like those pictures of The Wind in kid’s books. A Wind. I never gave it much thought. When nearly through high school, I was sitting out in the forest one day, and I happened to listen to the wind. It was here. It was there. Moving. It is coming, going by ... there. Is it going to hit me? No, it is just to my left. Winds! Later, I watched the same thing on a body of water. One can see many different winds, on the move, scattered, all over the water, some stronger, some lighter.

That wind in the forest, that is how it is here in the Refuge, Sanctuary, Heaven, Farm. Good listening. Mostly soothing. It comes mostly from the west or the south. Days might go by when one is unable to hear it (notice, I didn’t say them) at all.

Pass Creek has another wind. It is here everyday, but can’t be heard. It can be felt and sometimes seen. It is a gentle wind that runs along the creek. In the morning it runs up creek and in the evening it runs down creek. For me, it is more noticeable in the summer.