Your Handy Dandy Reference Guide

Yesterday at the farm I was privy to some rather amusing conversations about farm stuff. One of the conversations was regarding the differences between bulls, steers, and oxen. One member of the conversation was sure that castration would stop the steers from growing. In order that you don't end up sounding like a goofball in times like these, here is a handy dandy reference guide to the nuances of farm animal classifications. I'm sure you're dying to know.

The Cow

Bull: a male cow
Heifer: a young female cow (before having a calf)
Steer: a male cow that has had his dangling bits removed
Cow: generic term, but also refers to a female cow that has calved
Ox: a steer of any breed that has been trained to work

The Chicken

Rooster: a male chicken
Capon: a castrated male rooster (you have to wonder who ever got the idea to do that to a rooster anyway...)
Pullet: a young female chicken
Hen: a female chicken

The Pig

Boar: a male pig
Sow: a female pig that has had a litter
Piglet: a very young pig, before being weaned (I just learned this one...even though the pigs at the farm are little, they are weaned and 10-12 weeks old, therefore qualifying as 'pigs'

Which reminds me...when we were in college we used to occasionally eat at a place called the "Pork Barrel Cafe" which was in a double wide trailer and wallpapered with newspaper clippings about pigs. It was a classy joint. Amazingly, there were actually separate bathrooms for men and women. I say amazingly, because we are talking about a place whose menus are supplied in a magic marker scrawled school folder. The signs on the doors differentiated between 'Boars' and 'Sows'. On one visit, we saw two women who had no doubt stopped to fill up at the 'Last Chance Gas Station' before heading out into the wilds of Utah. The women stood in front of the doors, trying to determine which door they should use: boars or sows?

On The Ranch With Jeff: Feeding The Cows And The Time I Almost Killed A Horse

When Jeff lived on the ranch, he learned to drive a stick shift the hard way. His uncle took him out in the middle of a pasture, got out and walked home. Jeff was left to figure things out. If this had happened to me, I would have sat down in the pasture and cried. Then I would have made some dandelion chains and called it a day. But I happen to think that men have a certain mechanical aptitude that I personally do not possess. Jeff figured things out that day, and it became his job to feed the cows. The ranch truck was one of those hot-wired numbers where you have to hop on your left leg three times, say a hail Mary and start 'er up. Jeff would load it up with hay and head off toward the pasture. The main difficulty with this operation was that being two places at once is not on Jeff's list of skills and capabilities. This problem was remedied by a clever trick that they had been using for years. When he reached the pasture, he would point the truck uphill, put it in gear and get out. He would hop on the back of the truck and begin tossing hay down to the cows. Each bale was bound by two wires, which had to be cut and carefully tracked. Apparently cows can eat the wire along with the hay** and as you can imagine, that doesn't go over too well with the cow's digestive system. If he ended up with an odd number of wires he would have to jump off and find it. All the while, the truck would chug its way up the pasture, oblivious to any obstacles in its way. Whenever the truck was approaching a boulder, Jeff would have to jump off the truck and reach in the window to redirect the truck. Then he would hop back up and drop some more hay. How's that for a summer job?

**Speaking of animals swallowing dangerous things...true story...when I was in high school I had a friend who had horses. Technically speaking, they were her step mom's horses. One afternoon we took them out for a ride. I still don't know if this was actually sanctioned by the step mom, or if my friend took advantage of her absence to go for a ride. Regardless, we saddled up both horses and went for a ride in the woods. We came across a creek and my friend said she was going to see if she could get her horse to jump the creek first, and then mine would follow. As I waited for her to coax her horse over, my horse was happily grazing away. My friend jumped the creek and turned around to call me across. When she saw my horse grazing, she began to spout off a multitude of words that are in no way kosher for this blog. I was flabbergasted because I had no idea why she was freaking out that the horse was grazing. As it turns out, my horse was eating star thistles which are bad. Very bad. Apparently there is the potential for the horse to die. My friend is explaining all this to me, peppered with a whole list of expletives. I felt terrible. We coaxed the horse across the creek and raced home. When we got there, my friend stuck a hose down the horses throat to wash them away (not sure if this is the preferred method...). I very vividly remember her reaching her arm down the horses throat feeling around for the thistles. She kept saying how her step mother would kill her if something happened to the horse. It was pretty tense. For the next few days I was on edge, hoping that nothing happened to the horse. Fortunately nothing did and I don't think she ever told her step mom.

Trespassing: A Tale From The Franch

I was perusing ye old Franch files and found a few stories I forgot to post. Here is one:

 It was like a scene right out of a movie. I’ll do my best here to paint an adequate picture for you. It all started back at the farm. We spent all summer fixing up Jeff’s old Chevy pick-up. When Jeff had no farm work to do, we’d pull the truck up outside the shop and work. Sometimes we’d work at his Mom’s house too. The truck had significant rust damage, and let’s just say we used way more Bondo and duct tape than is recommended to restore the thing back to its original beauty. It was that summer that I earned the title of ‘Bondo Queen.’ I would do the Bondo and Jeff did the sanding. Anyway, after a summer of fixing up the truck, we had it painted. It sure turned out purdy. Unfortunately, due to the fact that Jeff was a poor college student commuting to and from school almost an hour each way, he decided to sell the truck and get something more fuel efficient. After all the work we had put into that truck, we decided to take it for one last hoo-rah. After all, that truck had gone on many a four-wheeling trip and had always served Jeff well. We decided to head out on Highway 6 &50, past Mack, and see where it went. We had never been much past the highly-esteemed Colorado Club. (Also known as the last stop on the edge of the edge, a seedy bar that attracted some really, shall we say, ‘interesting’ characters) To give you an idea of where we were, Mack is a town where there is all of 30 or so Post Office boxes. It is on the edge of the valley and consists of some very nice people and some very strange people. Like nudists, meth-heads, and other random assorted oddballs. West of Mack, well, there is a whole lot of nothing. It is only about 6 miles from the Utah border, in the desert. So, we headed off on the highway toward Utah. The highway pretty much disintegrated before our very eyes. The asphalt became more crumbly and patchy, and it was clear that the road was not frequently traveled or maintained. Somewhere around the Utah line, we decided to turn South. We just steered off the road onto BLM land and decided to see what was out there. We drove for several miles and of course, didn’t see a soul or any sign of civilization. Oddly enough, we ended up on some sort of ridge looking down on Rabbit Valley and the main interstate. There was no quick way to get down there, and as we soon realized, it was impossible. We decided to head back in the general direction we came, knowing we would eventually run into the highway. However! As it always seems to work, a fence appeared out of nowhere. A fence that stretched as far as we could see. I have no idea why or how we did not see it coming in, or how we got around it. Knowing we did not have enough gas left for a wild goose chase, we looked to find somewhere to pass through. We managed to find a gate in the barbed wire fence. Hanging at lengths along the fence were rusty old ‘No Trespassing’ signs, serving to ward off hooligans like us. Hanging on the gate was an even larger ‘No Trespassing’ sign, riddled with a few bullet holes seemingly put there for added emphasis. We decided we had no choice but to take our chances and head into whatever lay before us. I hopped out, opened the gate and closed it after the truck. We drove for quite a way before we saw what appeared to be the scene from a movie, off in the distance. There were a few rusty old trailers circled ‘round. There was your standard assortment of dilapidated old cars, surely housing the likes of raccoons, jackrabbits and other wildlife. There were rusty oil drums, broken tractor parts, and various ‘hey-I-might-use-that-someday’ odds and ends strewn about. I quickly told Jeff to slow down so we didn’t stir up too much dust. Nothin’ like trespassing on someone’s land and then stirring up a fit of dust to boot. So, we slowed to a crawl. That gave us time to spot them: three crusty old badgers sitting around in lawn chairs smoking and shooting the breeze. There may have been a can or six of beer sitting out. Clearly, they were sitting outside waiting for a UFO to fly over or something. Instead, they see a trail of dust in the distance, and a old but shiny green pick-up with two young whippersnappers driving up. My concern at this point was that they would take a shoot out one of our tires or something, just for sport and because we were trespassing. I was worried that since they clearly chose to live way beyond civilization, they would also feel beyond civilization's rules. And who wouldn’t want to have a little fun with two scared teenagers dumb enough to get lost and end up on private property with a near-empty gas tank? Jeff and I quickly debated the merits of stopping to explain ourselves vs. driving right past them. It became clear that we were the first human beings that had ventured into them-thar-parts in quite a while, as evidenced by their long stares. Every so often one of them would lean over and spit in the dirt. It really was like a movie, in slow motion. They didn’t take their eyes off of us, or we off them. We crept along, trying not to stir up dust, and decided that the best course of action would be to skip the pleasantries and head for the hills. So we did. We had to pass fairly close to these gents, and as soon as we were well enough past them, we sped up and high-tailed it for the highway. Fortunately, it wasn’t too much longer til we got to the road, and we managed to get to the ‘Last Chance Gas Station’ to fill up before we ran out of gas. That was close!

OTRW Jeff

When Jeff first started working at his current job, his coworkers were fascinated with his 'former life' in Colorado. All the stuff that seemed so normal to us was, apparently, very interesting. What?! You haven't skated around a dead steer with your honey? Oh. Back to my story. Jeff's coworkers loved to hear his stories, both of the farm he worked on in high school, and of his Uncle's ranch in Gateway, Colorado. They began to refer to these impromptu story times as 'On The Ranch With Jeff,' or OTRW Jeff for short. I have written about quite a few of our mutual tales from the farm (here), but not much about the ranch. My goal is to pester him  politely ask him to rehash the stories for me so I can record them for posterity. First, some background:

Jeff's Uncle lived and worked on a ranch in Gateway, Colorado, that had been in his family for several generations. Gateway is (was?*) a tiny little community so small that every graduate received a handmade quilt upon their graduation. (There were usually only one or two graduates, maybe three.) The ranch was 1500 acres, situated in a valley and running up to the mountain top. They had about 325 head of cattle. Jeff spent several months living and working on the ranch. He lived with his Aunt, Uncle, and cousin Amber.

And now on to the story (sorry...this post is getting out of hand!) Jeff had a new wrist-rocket style sling shot that he was dying to try out. He had found a handful of nuts (as in nuts and bolts) that fit quite nicely in his slingshot. He and his cousin were standing around outside the farm house while the chickens milled about. He saw a white chicken along the ditch bank and decided to take a shot at it. He hit what he was aiming for, and the chicken fell into the ditch. Jeff saw the mortified look on his cousins face and knew that he was in trouble. He was sure the chicken was dead. He ran to the ditch and reached in to grab the chicken. At the moment he reached in that chicken came to, flapping like crazy. It came flying out and scared Jeff half to death. I'm not sure who was more relieved in the end, Jeff or the chicken!

*I think Gateway has grown considerable since we moved, and for certain it has become much for commercialized. The owner of the Discovery channel decided he liked the area and began buying out everyone in sight. He said he wanted to keep the natural character of the place, then proceeded to build a big resort, a huge mansion complete with helicopter pad, and a car museum, among other things. 

Cock-A-Doodle-Dumpling

*****If you are squeamish or don't want to know where your food comes from then you probably want to skip this post*****

(Hey, Rooster, wanna come over and hang out?)

My friend Jess ended up getting chickens at the same time I did. One of her pullets turned out to be a rooster. It was decided that the rooster must go. Mom jumped in with her mad chicken butchering skills and got 'er done. I have seen Mom butcher a few chickens back in the day. She grew up doing it, and then when I was younger Mom and Dad raised meat birds. Apparently dispatching chickens is like riding a bike, you never forget. In fact, to quote Mom, 'I could do it in my sleep.' We arrived at Jess' house at 9, where Mom got right down to business. I caught the rooster and Mom immediately took that sucker by his feet, hung him upside down and cut its head off.


Hey, look! Its the south end of a rooster flying north! (Quoting Mom)

That's when things got crazy. The rooster thrashed about, as they do after death. Before she could grab its wings, it thrashed right out of the noose and proceeded to run about the yard like a chicken with its head cut off. Oh, wait, he was a chicken with his head cut off. Yes, we chased that thing around as it randomly dodged this way and that. Mom was yelling, 'Get him! Get him!!' Mom finally got it pinned down and held it til it stopped flapping. Meanwhile, the children were playing in the yard, oblivious to the ordeal. (They did watch quite a bit of the process) After that came the standard plucking and gutting and such. Katie and Tyler sat right at Mom's elbow watching. Tyler kept pointing and saying 'Chickies' so apparently he got it figured out. Mom made it look very easy, and we were done in less than 40 minutes, and that was with Mom taking the time to show us the steps.


And the legacy lives on...

Katie was quite interested in the process

And because I know that you are so fascinated with the subject matter of today's blog post, I will teach you a neat little party trick for the next time you find yourself butchering a chicken. (Sadly, something happened with the video of this, so you'll just have to visualize it with the help of this picture...my apologies! You must be so heartbroken. :) Anyway, get yourself a chicken foot. Remove some of its skin. Find the tendons and pull. Voila! Its like you have your own marionette, chicken style. The talon will open and close as you pull on the tendons. Now don't all rush out at once to try this!

James: That's nice Mom, now what's for lunch? Payton: That lady is nuts! I sure hope my parents are saving up for therapy 'cause I'm gonna need it!

On a side note, Mom says that Grandma Heppner used to get fed up on occasion with a mean rooster. She would look at him and declare her intentions to eat him. She would go get her knife and walk around looking for the offender. He would be quickly dispatched and turned into supper.

Childhood Memory: There's a What?!? In The Front Yard

I was reading James a little about owls early and it brought back memories of the time when a Great Horned Owl came to live in our weeping willow tree. The tree branches hung over the sidewalk and that owl would look down at us as curiously as we looked at him. Or maybe he was thinking we were the biggest and tastiest looking mice he'd ever seen. I must have been pretty young, because that owl seemed so big to me. When leaving for the bus stop, I would look up to see if he was there. I don't know how long he stayed, but Dad said that it wasn't long before the rabbit population disappeared. I do remember picking apart the owl droppings with a stick to see what it had eaten. Just a handy little thing I learned from my Sunday School teacher, Mr. Harris. If you ever want to see mouse bones, you know where to look! (You can thank me later :) Another thing we found occasionally in our front yard was a random assortment of livestock. Our neighbors horse had a knack for unlatching the gate and would sometimes come over and graze. One morning I walked out for school to see what I am pretty sure were cows in our front yard. (I remember cows, but it might have been horses) They looked like giants to me and I ran back in the house. I was so scared. I remember my parents telling me just to walk around them and go to the bus stop and sure enough, they did me no harm. You just never know what you are going to find in your front yard!

If I Haven't Apologized Already....

Coming up with new bedtime stories each night can be a chore. Often, it involves dredging up long forgotten stories. The story I remembered tonight was one that made me feel like perhaps the worst sister ever. We used to go out tramping in the fields. We would find toads along the irrigation ditches. Did you know that toads make little burrows in the mud along ditches? Pretty cool. We would search for toads, and we perfected our technique for capturing them without letting them pee on us. A very important life skill, but I digress. One of the things we did with the toads was make Rachel kiss them. Yes, that was very mean, and yes, I feel very bad. (Sorry, Rach!) We would tell her that if she didn't kiss the toad, we would leave her out in the field. Since she was the little sister, the prospect of being left out in some alfalfa field alone was quite frightening to her. We got her to kiss a lot of toads that way. Maybe that's why she made fun of me relentlessly in high school. Alas, we both survived to be the best of friends!

Memories

I haven't written a 'Franch' post in a really long time. I just pulled this one out of my mental archives for James, who would sit and listen to 'little girl' stories as long as I can tell them. This one isn't particularly thrilling but you East Coasters will get a laugh out of it. We loved to go over to our friends, the Folkestad's, house. They had horses, sheep, cattle, a pond, and other assorted creatures from time to time (most notably, a friendly raccoon named Cheech). We spent a lot of time over there swimming in questionable places. One place we liked to swim was the 'cow pond.' Yes, we shared a swimming hole with a bunch of bovines. We would fill our rubber boots up with frogs and crawdads, then empty them out before we came home. It was good times, I tell you. The bottom of the pond was very squishy, if I recall correctly. However, the story I told James today was about a cow tank. Their dad put a big, round cow tank out by their back porch. He would fill it up with water and we would have our own personal swimming pool. Many an hour was spent swimming in there, mostly in whatever clothes we happen to have been wearing at the time. (Cut-off shorts, anyone? :) Incidentally, it was the same tank that we would stop at to give the horses a drink. Good for one and all! I also have vague memories of the tank being full of feed corn, which was really fun to play in. And while we are on the subject of things we used to do over at the Folkestads, one time Meg and I were riding horses and we decided to race each other up and down in the silage pit. I remember asking her if that was OK with her dad, and of course she assured me that he didn't care. Needless to say, we got in big trouble when we got home. He was not happy. Which of course reminds me of the time that we got a little crazy with fireworks and gasoline. But that's another story for another time...

A Franch Post?

I totally fell off the Franch wagon. I think I ran out of inspiration (though I think I still have a few stories). Also, I would someday aspire to write my favorite Franch story of all time, but alas, I don't know if you all will find it as amusing as I. If you are in need of a laugh, you can read one of my other favorite Franch stories: The Tragic Frozen Steer Incident. I have a friend who is an actual farmer and she writes about her farm here. Reading her posts made me remember a funny story from back when Jeff and I were dating. We had spent the entire morning helping some people get their calves branded, de-horned, and castrated. Gross, but did you know that castration can be accomplished by a tiny little green rubber band? Fascinating stuff, I tell you. But don't stop reading here! I won't give you any more details, I promise. Anyhow, we spent the morning doing things that stink very much. Burning hide, blood, dirt, smoke...all those smells mingled together and coated us all with a layer of ripe-smelling filth. We lost track of time and soon I realized I had to go to work. I kissed Jeff goodbye, hopped in my lovely gold station wagon, and drove to work. **Here's a piece of trivia for you: I used to work at a store called the Cowboy and the Lady, that sold Native American jewelry and a whole lot of knicknacks at the Mesa Mall. Everything was always 50% off, and when customers would bring up that pesky little fact I was told to say 'Well, this is our special spring sale' or 'its our weekend special' or whatever. Also, a cute little old couple names Rex and June used to come in every couple months and spend a few hundred bucks. They also once shoplifted something and brought it back a few days later. They thought it would be really funny to see if they could get away with it. However, that has nothing to do with this post and is nothing more than me rambling.** I drove myself to straight to work. Sitting behind the counter, I kept smelling the most rank smell. It was just nasty. I was unsure of what it was, but it was persistent. It wasn't long before I realized that the foul odor was me. Lucky for me I was working alone, since I smelled like the south end of a north-bound mule. I'm sure I scared off a few customers that day.

Franch Rewind: The Tragic Frozen Steer Incident

Here's a tale from the archives, mainly because I have nothing to write about and this seemed to be everyone's favorite Franch story.

One winter a steer wandered out on the frozen surface of the pond. As it reached the middle of the pond, the ice gave way under the steer’s weight. The poor thing thrashed around trying to get its footing but to no avail. Its owner managed to find the steer in time to try and rescue it. He threw a rope around its neck and tried to haul it out with his truck. It was futile. The steer died in the water and was wedged in such a way as to make it impossible to get out. The ice closed in around it and suspended the carcass in the surface of the ice. A hump remained jutting through the ice to remind us of what was there. That winter, we ice skated around the steer. Why waste a good opportunity to skate even if there is a dead carcass frozen in the middle of the ‘rink’? It stayed planted there till spring began to thaw the ice. We walked out to look at it and saw that the catfish had hollowed out the rib cage entirely. There was even one darting in and out as we watched: the food chain at work. When the ice was soft enough, they got the steer out and we went back to swimming in the pond with the carnivorous catfish. Can you tell there was a lack of cultured entertainment during our dating years? Nothing encourages romance like skating hand in hand around a dead steer. You should try it sometime.

Toast, Anyone? (A Questionable Franch Tale)

Out West, you can find a fine delicacy served under the names ‘Rocky Mountain Oysters,’ ‘Prairie Oysters,’ ‘Calf Fries,’ ‘Cowboy Caviar,’ or by my two new favorite names ‘Montana Tendergroins,’ or ‘Swinging Beef.’ This delicacy is usually battered and fried, and served up as a tasty appetizer. Jeff and I have both had these oysters in the past, and let me tell you, they are not seafood. Click here if you haven’t heard. To be honest, they are actually not bad at all, if you can get past what you are eating. (I can’t really do that.) We have a friend out here who said he would eat them if I would cook them, but finding them is nigh on to impossible. I once asked someone if they knew where I could find some, and he proceeded to direct me to a seafood store. He had no idea what I was talking about! Last week, the subject came up with Jeff’s coworkers. Jeff informed them that he had, indeed, dined on a few calf fries in his day. Apparently, Jeff’s coworker was so repulsed that even that night, he could not eat his dinner. Instead he had a piece of toast and called it a night.

Tay-taaaaa

Tater is famous! This guy was Jeff's next door neighbor on East Carolina in Fruita and he used to come over all the time. He is the Fruita town mascot. For the record, he referred to me as his 'girlfriend' and would tell me 'you look so preeeeeeetttty' all the time. He's a piece of work. He memorized all the moves of the FMHS Poms and cheerleaders, and would come over with his boombox on his shoulder and show us his moves. I think they should make Tater t-shirts. I would wear one. Go Tater!!!

Asparagus Picking: Franch Style

As children, we used to walk up and down the country roads, looking for pop cans to collect. We’d find as many as we could, and then at the end of the summer we would cash them in for something like a whopping $4.86 at the recycling center in town. (Imagine $4.86, split three ways!) Between this endeavor and our mud pie factory, we kept ourselves fairly busy. We were so industrious back then! (maybe it has something to do with supplementing our $1 a month allowance…he,he,he!) We would walk along the irrigation ditches looking for cans, and a familiar site in the spring was asparagus. It flourished along the ditches and was seemingly ubiquitous. Sometimes we would pick it and bring it home, but I don’t ever remember eating it. I know my Dad doesn’t like it all that much. Now, I only wish I could wander along an irrigation ditch and pick a bag full of asparagus! That stuff is expensive!!!! I am hoping to establish an asparagus patch in my backyard next year, and while it will eventually produce some asparagus, I don’t think I’ll ever have the opportunity to pick bunches and bunches of it along the roadside. And I don’t think I’ll ever want to wander the roadside collecting pop cans.

Good Old-Fashioned Fun: A Franch Tale

At our church growing up, we had an ‘Old Fashioned Sunday.’ This day was one of the highlights of our summer/fall. Everyone would dress up in old fashioned clothes and we’d have potato sack races and three-legged races. Mom made me the most beautiful Laura Engalls dress ever. I still have it. Having one of these Old Fashioned Sundays also meant that there would be a pig roast. This was and remains one of my favorite culinary events. If there is a pig a roastin’, I’ll be there! Being a PK (pastor’s kid), and living on church property allowed us to be privy to all the goings on prior to the shindig. This involved two fine gentleman camping out in the yard so they could start the grill in the middle of the night. The day before, they would bring in the pig and get it ready. This involved a pig head. I remember one of the guys, probably to gross us out, wrapped it in a sheet and used it for a pillow to take a nap on the grass. Little did he know that we were not deterred by dead pig heads. I do believe we later participated in a rousing game of kick the pig head around the yard. Yes, that is the classy sort of activity us Cheyney kids participated in. Of course, along with roast pig, there came an assortment of mystery jello salads, all you can drink KoolAid and lots of other yummy things. After eating a round or two, or six, at the kids' table (which was always placed in front of the enormous world map in the fellowship hall…that map is still there, and is now quite outdated….USSR anyone?), we would head outside for more potato sack races and other fun. Sometimes we would even take our friends out back and stand at the edge of the ‘deep ditch’ looking down at it. It was forbidden to go too close to the ‘deep ditch’ so we felt we were living on the edge by taking our friends to see it. Such fond memories of those afternoons spent with KoolAid mustaches and greasy hands, playing till we were worn out.

***Re-reading this, I realize it is terribly full of run-on sentences, grammatical mishaps and rambles. I don’t have time to re-write it so hope I didn’t drive anyone nuts! ***

Franch Memory #545.43

Just before Christmas, our neighbor brought us a big bag full of venison. I was perusing the most awesome book ever, looking for recipes when I found one for 'Stuffed Porcupine.' Now that's not something you see every day. It got me reminiscing about the different types of meat I've had. I remember my dad used to go hunting on occasion and I have vague memories of brown paper stretched across the table, and birds being plucked. Pheasant or chicken, maybe. I distinctly remember the smell. I have another fun memory of the time my dad spent all day fishing with some guys from church. They caught bucketfuls of fish and took them back to Farley's house. I remember seeing a kitchen full of fish, in all stages of gutted-ness, and a big ol' pile of fish eggs. Dad dissected a fish for us so we could see the guts. Maybe that's where I developed my curiosity with dissection in Biology class. It was fun times, I tell ya. One dinner I remember with particular amusement was when Dad served up dove. He had been hunting and got a few doves, which he fried up in a pan. Since doves aren't very big, they are not very meaty. Dad told us to be very careful as we chewed, since someone would almost certainly get a pellet. What a novelty for a little kid! Now eat carefully, kiddies, I don't want any dental bills as a result of this meal. Whoever gets the pellet wins! That's how we felt. I don't remember if we found any, but it was quite exciting anyway. I don't think my kids will be experiencing that type of meal anytime soon, unless we stoop to shooting disease-carrying tree rats (AKA Squirrels....a treat according to some) from our backyard. And that just ain't gonna happen.

Another Tale from the Franch

One of the primary pastimes we had during our dating relationship, aside from Bondo-ing Jeff’s old truck, was shooting prairie dogs. Now before you get all wound up, let me explain. To a farmer, these rodents are disaster. Its like having mice in your kitchen, but much worse. They dig up your fields, damaging your crops and creating holes that can break the legs of livestock who may slip in. So, Jeff and I took it upon ourselves to keep down the prairie dog population at the farm. Since they multiply with the speed of rabbits, its nigh onto impossible, but we had nothing better to do. We would hop on the four-wheeler or climb in Jeff’s old pick-up and make laps around the center pivot field, or head on down to the lower fields. Prairie dogs take an awful long time to figure out that they are being hunted, so we usually made several laps before they got the hint and hunkered down. In order not to disrupt the delicate sensibilities of my East coast readers, I will not go into any details about how easy a target they make and, well, never mind. It feels like we spent hundreds of hours on this pastime. One of the most memorable moments was in the spring. The wheat was just sprouting, coating the field in a soft blanket of fresh green. We shot a prairie dog and it fell right on its respective mound of dirt. For whatever reason, we sat there a moment and low and behold, an eagle swept down and landed on the mound. It is at this point, Jeff and I would have a ‘discussion’ about whether it was a golden eagle or a bald eagle. We had both in the area. I’m telling you, it was a golden eagle. If you have never seen one up close and personal, let me tell you: they are BIG! This bird must’ve stood a good three feet tall. We were not more than twenty feet away. There was this beautiful eagle sitting there against the sprouting wheat, and it looked at us for what seemed like forever. If he could’ve talked, he would’ve said ‘Thanks for dinner. This saved me the effort.’ After gazing at us he picked that fat prairie down up with his talons and took off. It was an amazing sight to see. It was no small prairie dog, but the eagle had no problem carrying it away. Now that’s not something you see everyday!

Gather 'round the campfire, folks...its time for another Franch Tale

File this one under the stuff-I-wouldn't-do-again category. Back in the day, our college days, we had access to a few four-wheelers and a three-wheeler. (or a 'quad' for those of you Pennsylvanians...what on earth do you call a three-wheeler?) Anyway, we had access to these vehicles of dangerous speed and a gas tank on the farm to boot. Basically, there were no limits to the trouble we could get into. I should add at this point that the 'we' I am refering to is me, Jeff, Meg and Nate F. The farm backed up to BLM land, owned by the public and available to the public for almost anything. For example, instead of teenagers going to the mall on a Friday night to hang out, they went to the desert and partied hard. Anyway, the farm backed up to BLM land, the canal and a state park. The canal ran in between most of the farm and the BLM land. We loved to go riding out in the desert, find hills to jump and chase coyotes. However, we had to pass along the canal to get there the easy way. The problem was, or should have been, that it is illegal to ride along the canal. They even have a ditch rider hired to patrol for hooligans like us, as well as inspect the canal and such. Being young and reckless, or stupid really, we liked the thrill of being dangerous. We would race along the canal road, and if we saw the ditch rider we would evade him by heading off the road into the little gullies and hills that were everywhere. One time, however, we were racing away from the ditch rider and Jeff went around a corner a little too fast. OK. A lot too fast. The problem was that we were not actually on our four-wheelers when we saw the ditch rider coming. We all hopped on to whichever one was closest. That left me and my friend Meg hanging on to the rack behind Jeff. That doesn't leave much in the way of stability. So around the corner and off I went, flying off the four-wheeler and down a hill. Fortunately, the dirt was soft and I only sustained a few scratches. Luckily, I didn't meet up with an unfortunatly placed patch of prickly pear. I have never seen Jeff move so fast in his life. He stopped on a dime, jumped off and came running over to peer over the hill and see if I was OK. Needless to say he was very relieved when I was. We never managed to get caught by the ditch rider, or killed by our own stupidity. I guess that point is obvious as I am now writing this post.

Earlier, I said that the 'easy' way was past the canal. There was also a way to get out to BLM by cutting through a long narrow filled with longhorns. Let me tell you, there is not much else that can get your heart tickin' more than that. Edging your way through a long narrow corridor filled with crochetty old cows with spear-like horns sticking off in either direction. We only went that way a few times. Just the thought of possibly getting skewered in some freak accident with a cow was enough to keep us away. Another time we went out, we rode for what seemed like hours. We wanted to see how close we could get to the Bookcliffs. When we can back, we were getting a bit low on gas. We could see the house, but somehow, we found ourselves stuck behind a barbed wire fence. It stretched for as far as the eye could see in either direction. None of us could figure out how we'd gotten on the other side of a fence we didn't see, or where we might find a gate. We ended up pushing the fence over and laying down some brush and driving over it. I still, to this day, feel guilty about that one. I hope that no one's cows got through there or anything. All I can say is that we were young and stupid, emphasis on STUPID. And I can say that word, because James doesn't read the blog. There you have it, another Franch tale. I hope I didn't bore anyone to tears.

Off Topic

Huh? Seriously, I just wanted to say that. Because really? There is no topic here at N&B. I crack myself up. Anyway, the ol' brain is doing funny things since...since...I got an entire night sleep!!!! I haven't done that since 1976, or at least since before I had kids. It may not be that bad, but I don't think I've slept that good since before I was pregnant with Katie. First, I had nightmares from the hormones. Then there was the issue of the shrinking bladder. Then a baby who wanted to eat. Go figure. Then, a cast and a brace. She has slept worse in the brace than the cast. So, imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and realized I hadn't been up with her. The following things ran through my mind:

1. Did I forget that I got up with her?
2. Is she still breathing?!
3. Did I sleep through her crying?
4. Did I forget that I got up?
5. Is she OK???

I got up and checked on her and she was contentedly sawing logs. Jeff woke up and asked where she was. I told him she slept through the night. He said 'Are you sure she's still breathing?' Yeah, that's what happens ladies and gents, when your kid sleeps through the night for the first time in who knows how long.

And on to a completely different subject, I was brainstorming Franch ideas and I remembered that I have not yet told you about Speedo man! Its not really a Franch story, per se, but a Colorado story. In Grand Junction, there was a character everyone knew of as Speedo Man. Shockingly enough, his nickname came about due to fact that he never appeared in anything other than a Speedo. I guess that's not all together true. In the winter, he wore a leotard under his speedo. A purple or aqua leotard. Sometimes he would accesorize with a matching sweatband. He was spotted all over town, usually riding his bike, although sometimes he would be strutting around with a strange gait, no doubt due to the ill effects of 24/7 Speedo wearing. Toward the end of our time in Colorado, Speedo Man's appearances became fewer and fewer. Rumors were rampant. I knew a guy who said he partied with Speedo Man in a storage unit. Word has it that Speedo Man partied hard. There were also rumors that Speedo Man left for California. I heard he was a lawyer. I heard he was dead. I really don't know if anything has ever been confirmed in regard to Speedo Man. Maybe my CO reader could shed some light on it. I don't know. But good ol' Speedo Man. It always was entertaining to spot him riding along with traffic. It was like finding Waldo, except without the clothes.

Whenever I think I've lost my mind, I remember Mike

One of the things that Jeff’s small town is famous for, well maybe the only thing its famous for, is Mike the Headless Chicken. Yes, you heard that right. Poor Mike was cut short, literally, one fine fall day when ol’ Farmer Olsen decided it was time for butchering. Farmer Olsen had a long day ahead of him, with many chickens to butcher. For those of you city folk, that means chopping their heads off with an ax. It is the quickest way to do in a chicken. On a side note, nothing puts the fear of God into you like seeing your mom dispatch a few chickens into the big coop in the sky. Anyway, back to Mike. When it was Mike’s turn for the block, fate intervened and gave Mike a new head(less) start on life. You see, somehow the bottom of Mike’s brainstem remained intact enough to allow Mike to live. Chickens, when beheaded, run around for a while all willy-nilly, thus the phrase ‘like a headless chicken.’ The curious thing about Mike, though, was that he didn’t stop running. At the end of the day, Mike was still kickin’. After some examination it was determined that enough of Mike’s brainstem remained to allow him to function. Farmer Olsen figured out that he could drop feed down Mike’s gullet with a dropper. Now that’s thinking with your head, which at this point was not something Mike was capable of. Mike went on to live for nearly 2 years, traveling the country and making it into Rip1ey’s Believe It or Not. Mike met his demise by choking to death in a hotel room. It was a tragic end to a life of mindless wandering. Mike’s story soon became a distant memory relegated to the minds of the old timers. It wasn’t until recent years that Mike’s story was resurrected. The town decided to head up a Mike the Headless Chicken Festival. This festival is complete with lawn mower races, Mike the Headless Chicken Dance, and a Run Like a Headless Chicken 5k run. Its quality stuff you just can’t find in a big city. To learn more about the fabulous Mike, click here.

And how could I forget to mention that a sculpture of Mike graces the main street in town!

In Keeping With My "No Plan" Plan, I Now Present to You....

Children of the Corn: A Franch Tale

I will never forget the many summer evenings we spent tearing through the cornfields chasing each other, playing hide and seek, and just having fun. My parents were friends with a few other couples who had kids our age. We’d all get together and eat dinner outside, with things like corn on the cob, watermelon and pop, which was a big treat. The parents would settle in to their lawn chairs or around the kitchen table and talk late into the night. Us kids were all thick as thieves. We’d spent many hours together and had gotten into many shenanigans. While our parents talked, we’d chase the barn cats, ride bikes or sheep, play with gasoline and matches (that’s another story for another day), or play hide and seek in the cornfields. Playing in a cornfield is different then regular hide and seek. First off, it’s a big area to play in. Second, it adds an air of creepiness to the game. The sound of the rustling corn and the fact that you never know where someone is going to pop out…it just adds to the fun. We’d run through the field, between the rows, the thick leaves from the stalks scraping at our arms and face. Sometimes if you miscalculated, you might get smacked in the head with a ear of corn. In addition to playing hide and seek in the corn, we’d also run willy-nilly through the rows, chasing each other and laughing. One particular evening, it was dusk and we were all tearing around at 100 miles an hour. Several of us came bursting out of the cornfield to find a skunk in very close proximity to us! We all screamed and took off in different directions. Some of us ran back into the corn, and others jumped the irrigation ditch and took off down the road. Luckily, we all escaped the skunk un-sprayed. Things like this never deterred us. We thought it was wildly fun to narrowly escape danger, and got ourselves into many a tricky situation. Amazingly, no one was hurt during the making of these childhood memories!