The points are going out on the well where the cows are at. We've got new points, as of today, and they'll be put on tomorrow, but in the mean time there's some weird processes to go through to make sure the cows have water. Like climbing down into the well house and "flicking" (a very technical term, explained to me by my father to mean jamming a piece of wood into the points and prying them back so that the springs engage properly) the points.
Apparently the cattle were not pleased with this development, because somehow they managed to get the float knocked off the tank. So instead of having a tank full of water sitting on a pedestal of ground formed by many hooves wearing down much mud, we had an empty tank floating peacefully in a gigantic mudhole, today.
We got the tank moved, new hose run, and started filling the tank, when my bottle calf came up wanting a drink. He's just too short to reach the bottom of the tank so I let him drink from the hose. This taught the other calves how to do it, and soon I had a huddle of calves, all sticking their tongues out and lapping at the flow of water from the hose.
Soon, the huddle was all the way around the tank, and I was having to stretch across to give drinks to those opposite me. I didn't mind, they were all too short to reach the level of the water that was in the tank. I had to laugh, though, when the calves opposite the ones getting a drink would continue licking at the air, stretching as far as they could reach, to try and play in the hose.
This seems to be a pattern in little ones of any species. My two year old nephew LOVES to play in the water from the hose. I can remember loving it as a kid. Most puppies will frolic in the sprinklers with great joy.
What I want to know is, what alchemy in the rubber of a hose makes the water coming out of it so much better than any other water in the world? There has to be something, and if I could figure it out, I could sell bottled childhood, and make a mint!
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Apologies
To all who will look at this blog in the morning and expect to see something other than what this is. I just can't seem to think of anything funny or entertaining to write about.
So, instead, I'll make with the time honored past time of shamelessly stealing someone else's words for inspiration.
By the way, I firmly believe that the entire works of Robert A. Heinlein should be required reading for any student before they graduate high school. Jubal Harshaw and Lazarus Long taught me more about how the "real world" works than any of my teachers did!
On with the quoting.....
"There is no way that writers can be tamed and rendered civilized or even cured. The only solution known to science is to provide the patient with an isolation room, where he can endure the acute stages in private and where food can be poked in to him with a stick." -- Robert A. Heinlein (1907-1988)
And in pondering, I thought of another that should be shared, on the subject of writing;
"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private, and wash your hands afterwards." -- Robert A. Heinlein (1907-1988)
There are others from RAH that are applicable in many, many circumstances, but these came to mind because I was thinking about the act and practice of writing for the consumption of others. And they are all too apt in these days of prolific blogging, and ease of spreading said writings. Especially in certain specific cases that I've run across in my time surfing the blogosphere.
Hey, folks. Yeah, you guys, all of you who can't seem to write about anything but being nasty for no apparent reason other than being nasty, and can't even seem to make said nastiness entertaining for the rest of us, or who post to a public forum without taking the time to make their post anything more than incomprehensible gibberish. You're taking up valuable bandwidth that other people could use. Take a break, learn to spell, basic sentence structure, all of that jazz, take a creative writing class or two, then come back and try again.
Otherwise, stop polluting my internet!
kthxbye!
Disclaimer: I know that I play fast and loose with the rules of writing. However, I do have a nodding acquaintance with them. I'm speaking of the people who can't be bothered to stop, take a breath, and re-read what they've written, to realize that it makes no sense whatsoever. Pure Gibberish! This has no bearing on anyone who has been mentioned in this blog, or will be mentioned in this blog in the future, unless otherwise stated. Thank you for your time.
So, instead, I'll make with the time honored past time of shamelessly stealing someone else's words for inspiration.
By the way, I firmly believe that the entire works of Robert A. Heinlein should be required reading for any student before they graduate high school. Jubal Harshaw and Lazarus Long taught me more about how the "real world" works than any of my teachers did!
On with the quoting.....
"There is no way that writers can be tamed and rendered civilized or even cured. The only solution known to science is to provide the patient with an isolation room, where he can endure the acute stages in private and where food can be poked in to him with a stick." -- Robert A. Heinlein (1907-1988)
And in pondering, I thought of another that should be shared, on the subject of writing;
"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private, and wash your hands afterwards." -- Robert A. Heinlein (1907-1988)
There are others from RAH that are applicable in many, many circumstances, but these came to mind because I was thinking about the act and practice of writing for the consumption of others. And they are all too apt in these days of prolific blogging, and ease of spreading said writings. Especially in certain specific cases that I've run across in my time surfing the blogosphere.
Hey, folks. Yeah, you guys, all of you who can't seem to write about anything but being nasty for no apparent reason other than being nasty, and can't even seem to make said nastiness entertaining for the rest of us, or who post to a public forum without taking the time to make their post anything more than incomprehensible gibberish. You're taking up valuable bandwidth that other people could use. Take a break, learn to spell, basic sentence structure, all of that jazz, take a creative writing class or two, then come back and try again.
Otherwise, stop polluting my internet!
kthxbye!
Disclaimer: I know that I play fast and loose with the rules of writing. However, I do have a nodding acquaintance with them. I'm speaking of the people who can't be bothered to stop, take a breath, and re-read what they've written, to realize that it makes no sense whatsoever. Pure Gibberish! This has no bearing on anyone who has been mentioned in this blog, or will be mentioned in this blog in the future, unless otherwise stated. Thank you for your time.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
My Oldest Friend
Ya'll can thank my associational memory for this one. Mentioning the fact that I'm horse nuts in my previous post got me thinking about my horsey times, which brought to mind my oldest friend, as it always does.
You see, my oldest friend is... was.... a horse. I still have trouble sometimes remembering that we lost him this last winter, I keep expecting to see the old man coming up for a treat and his ration of pets and attention.
Growing up, my family raised cattle. I was still tiny when the patriarchal side of the family got out of the beef industry, but I can remember moving cattle on horseback. I was just big enough to hold onto the horn in front of whichever parent drew the short straw and squeal in delight as they took off after a rogue. As a side effect of raising cattle, and because gangly colts are some of the cutest critters to walk the planet, they raised horses. American Quarter Horses, to be exact, of exalted bloodlines, and patient personalities.
One of the best we ever had, in my memory and anyone else's, was Cutter. Cutter was, technically, Hygro Cutter Sauce, but he was always just Cutter to me. He was born in the early '70s, saddle trained, and started on cutting by one of the best trainers in the land, and finished out by my father, after an afternoon chat aided by some copenhagen and a nice breeze. The trainer, while he still had him, won three minor futurities, sitting square in the middle of one of the smallest cutting horses he'd ever trained. Watching this horse work a herd of cows, and he did it mostly on his own, was as beautiful as any Mozart symphony, or Rembrandt painting in the world. He was a short little sorrel, with a blaze down his face and white socks, and a mane and tail that were perpetually ratted, no matter how I tried to keep them flowing.
When I say he worked mostly on his own, I mean, he'd wait for you to tell him which critter you wanted, and then go to work. When in the pasture, he would amuse himself by cutting the calves off of their mommas and taking them off to play for a while.
By the time I came on the scene, Cutter was a solid member of the family, and had already proven his patience and skill with children. He would not allow a child to fall of his back, ever. Unless there was a person standing there with a firm grip on the kid, he'd hurt himself getting well under the munchkin, rather than let them slide off.
This, of course, made him the perfect horse to teach my brother and I (mostly me) to ride. Of course, once I had a few basic skills, enough to stick my butt to the leather, he moved on to some more difficult lessons.
Like be careful when you ask a cutting horse to turn, or he might just spin you right off. It took many years before the ol' boy was willing to let me take my lumps, and he never entirely stopped treating me like one of his "kids," but he spit me out of my saddle a couple of times, when he thought I was getting too big for my britches.
He was my babysitter as a child, watching over me when I would toddle away from my mothers side and go romping in the horse pasture. He was my confidant, patiently listening to the secrets I cared to whisper into his ear and nodding sagely as I told him of the resolution to some conflict. He was my teacher, instilling in me the love and respect of our equine friends that I carry with me today. He was my friend, sharing with me fiery sunsets out in the pasture, one arm over his neck and leaning on each other. When all else had failed me, five minutes in his company could remove the greatest stresses, and calm the roiling seas of my emotions and mind.
Later in his life, he became more and more arthritic. Our long rambling exploratory rides became limited to him insisting on taking me for a ride in the pasture, meandering around a bit as he showed me the best of the juicy grasses, and then depositing me back where he'd picked me up when he was ready, all sans saddle, bridle, or even halter. The last time we went on a real trail ride, we came upon some cattle in the canyons, and I saw him perk up, felt his muscles tense, just waiting for the signal to go get 'em.
That poor old horse's whole body drooped when I kneed him on past the placidly grazing cattle.
Of course, that meant he had to prove that he still had the same turn on a dime and give you five cents change skills that he'd had in his youth, as I discovered later in the ride, when I asked for a sharp right and got one much sharper than I'd intended.
We spent five minutes checking his legs, and another twenty with his girth loosened and me on the ground, the old sorrel giving me the hairy eyeball the whole time for insisting that he not strain himself.
The more arthritic he got, the less we rode. The less we rode, the thinner the old man got. The rough winter this year was just too much for him, and sometime during the blizzards he laid down and let the snow cover him.
I cried when we found him.
The tradition lives, although we lost all our breeding stock in my grandmother's divorce. While at the horse sale, a couple of months ago, looking for a new horse to take to college with me, we found his sister. Or, she might as well be his sister. She pranced into the sale ring with the same "look at me!" attitude he'd always shown in parades, has the same bloodlines, similar coloring and markings, and even has "Cutter's" in her registered name. My grandmother cried, and I bid, and we got her. Her use name is now Etta, she's two years old and well worked with. Next summer, I'll begin training her.
No horse will ever replace the Old Man in my heart, but with any luck I'll do justice to the memory of the partnership he shared with me and my family.
P.S. My grandmother carries around more pictures of her horse than she does of me. No wonder my priorities, when it comes to my equine friends, are skewed.
You see, my oldest friend is... was.... a horse. I still have trouble sometimes remembering that we lost him this last winter, I keep expecting to see the old man coming up for a treat and his ration of pets and attention.
Growing up, my family raised cattle. I was still tiny when the patriarchal side of the family got out of the beef industry, but I can remember moving cattle on horseback. I was just big enough to hold onto the horn in front of whichever parent drew the short straw and squeal in delight as they took off after a rogue. As a side effect of raising cattle, and because gangly colts are some of the cutest critters to walk the planet, they raised horses. American Quarter Horses, to be exact, of exalted bloodlines, and patient personalities.
One of the best we ever had, in my memory and anyone else's, was Cutter. Cutter was, technically, Hygro Cutter Sauce, but he was always just Cutter to me. He was born in the early '70s, saddle trained, and started on cutting by one of the best trainers in the land, and finished out by my father, after an afternoon chat aided by some copenhagen and a nice breeze. The trainer, while he still had him, won three minor futurities, sitting square in the middle of one of the smallest cutting horses he'd ever trained. Watching this horse work a herd of cows, and he did it mostly on his own, was as beautiful as any Mozart symphony, or Rembrandt painting in the world. He was a short little sorrel, with a blaze down his face and white socks, and a mane and tail that were perpetually ratted, no matter how I tried to keep them flowing.
When I say he worked mostly on his own, I mean, he'd wait for you to tell him which critter you wanted, and then go to work. When in the pasture, he would amuse himself by cutting the calves off of their mommas and taking them off to play for a while.
By the time I came on the scene, Cutter was a solid member of the family, and had already proven his patience and skill with children. He would not allow a child to fall of his back, ever. Unless there was a person standing there with a firm grip on the kid, he'd hurt himself getting well under the munchkin, rather than let them slide off.
This, of course, made him the perfect horse to teach my brother and I (mostly me) to ride. Of course, once I had a few basic skills, enough to stick my butt to the leather, he moved on to some more difficult lessons.
Like be careful when you ask a cutting horse to turn, or he might just spin you right off. It took many years before the ol' boy was willing to let me take my lumps, and he never entirely stopped treating me like one of his "kids," but he spit me out of my saddle a couple of times, when he thought I was getting too big for my britches.
He was my babysitter as a child, watching over me when I would toddle away from my mothers side and go romping in the horse pasture. He was my confidant, patiently listening to the secrets I cared to whisper into his ear and nodding sagely as I told him of the resolution to some conflict. He was my teacher, instilling in me the love and respect of our equine friends that I carry with me today. He was my friend, sharing with me fiery sunsets out in the pasture, one arm over his neck and leaning on each other. When all else had failed me, five minutes in his company could remove the greatest stresses, and calm the roiling seas of my emotions and mind.
Later in his life, he became more and more arthritic. Our long rambling exploratory rides became limited to him insisting on taking me for a ride in the pasture, meandering around a bit as he showed me the best of the juicy grasses, and then depositing me back where he'd picked me up when he was ready, all sans saddle, bridle, or even halter. The last time we went on a real trail ride, we came upon some cattle in the canyons, and I saw him perk up, felt his muscles tense, just waiting for the signal to go get 'em.
That poor old horse's whole body drooped when I kneed him on past the placidly grazing cattle.
Of course, that meant he had to prove that he still had the same turn on a dime and give you five cents change skills that he'd had in his youth, as I discovered later in the ride, when I asked for a sharp right and got one much sharper than I'd intended.
We spent five minutes checking his legs, and another twenty with his girth loosened and me on the ground, the old sorrel giving me the hairy eyeball the whole time for insisting that he not strain himself.
The more arthritic he got, the less we rode. The less we rode, the thinner the old man got. The rough winter this year was just too much for him, and sometime during the blizzards he laid down and let the snow cover him.
I cried when we found him.
The tradition lives, although we lost all our breeding stock in my grandmother's divorce. While at the horse sale, a couple of months ago, looking for a new horse to take to college with me, we found his sister. Or, she might as well be his sister. She pranced into the sale ring with the same "look at me!" attitude he'd always shown in parades, has the same bloodlines, similar coloring and markings, and even has "Cutter's" in her registered name. My grandmother cried, and I bid, and we got her. Her use name is now Etta, she's two years old and well worked with. Next summer, I'll begin training her.
No horse will ever replace the Old Man in my heart, but with any luck I'll do justice to the memory of the partnership he shared with me and my family.
P.S. My grandmother carries around more pictures of her horse than she does of me. No wonder my priorities, when it comes to my equine friends, are skewed.
Wow
I have fans!
I've gotten more response than I honestly expected, already! I really appreciate everyone reading my little things, and I really *really* appreciate all the praise they've received!
I don't know what to say, I figured I might get a laugh here and there, and maybe give people a peek into my dual work life of farming and ranching, and construction, and maybe a teensy little look at my experience with horses (You'll figure this one out... I'm a horse nut) and I've gotten so much response already, I'm just flabbergasted.
Once again, thank you all for reading and commenting. I'll try to live up to your expectations!
...... Crap. I need to take a notebook on the tractor with me now......
I've gotten more response than I honestly expected, already! I really appreciate everyone reading my little things, and I really *really* appreciate all the praise they've received!
I don't know what to say, I figured I might get a laugh here and there, and maybe give people a peek into my dual work life of farming and ranching, and construction, and maybe a teensy little look at my experience with horses (You'll figure this one out... I'm a horse nut) and I've gotten so much response already, I'm just flabbergasted.
Once again, thank you all for reading and commenting. I'll try to live up to your expectations!
...... Crap. I need to take a notebook on the tractor with me now......
Monday, June 18, 2007
"You can't tell me that!"
Pondering on my road construction experience, I thought of one instance that has managed, I am told, to turn me into an amusing anecdote shared with classes at the Traffic Control Supervisor certification program.
We were working on US 50, headed east from Lamar (if you drive over that road in the future, think of me- I've walked every inch of that sucker from main street to about seven miles out of town, and I've done it several times) doing a recycle.
Now, recycling roads is an interesting concept, and it creates a lot less waste. What they do is, they bring in a big "train" of equipment, about five hundred feet long. The first two trucks are "burners," they've got ginormous propane tanks on top, and hanging underneath are the worlds fastest pig cookers. They heat the asphalt thats already there to a proper temperature to slightly liquefy the oils in the mixture that hold it all together. The next piece is a roto-mill of a smaller type than we usually see, that is attached to another truck. It grinds up the first inch or two of asphalt, and then lays it into a neat windrow in the middle of the lane. After this comes a semi full of NEW asphalt. Then the paver, which picks up the old asphalt, mixes it with a little of the new asphalt from the truck, and lays it all down, in a nice shiny new road. As I said, this whole processional is about five hundred feet long, and it moves slow enough that the semi driver is instructed to place his truck in neutral and let the paver push him along. Thanks to the sheer girth of all of this equipment, and the fact that there are a lot of workers around a lot of really noisy machinery, a flagger stays with the train and slows people down going by the whole shebang.
On this particular day, I was that flagger. The fact that traffic is coming from two directions means that I had to walk to each end of the train, so that the traffic would see my slow sign BEFORE they passed the paving operations at a bazillion miles an hour. Trust me, when you're the one standing on that yellow line, trying to slow people down, forty five is NOT slow enough.
In one line, coming from the front of the train, we had a bright one that wanted to go sixty five. He was in the middle and I can only assume that the other end had said they didn't have traffic, because the gap was too large for Mr Gofast to have been lagging back.
I tend to walk a ways in front of whatever it is I'm "guarding" for the simple fact that its easier to be seen that way, and I had walked maybe a hundred feet in front of the first burner truck. I saw the speed demon coming, and waved my slow sign a bit. Hmm, must not see me. I hang the sign out into the lane he's driving in (a surefire way to get the attention of the tunnel vision struck) and he starts slowing down. I pull the sign back, and he speeds up. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
I finally get fed up with it and figure that he doesn't understand the dangers of this place, radio that I'm going to stop one of the cars and ask him to go by the paver slowly, and step out into the lane, flipping my sign to "Stop."
The guy stops, rolls down his window, and the first word out of his mouth is "WHAT?!?"
"Sir, I'm going to need you to go about twenty five miles an hour past our paver, as you can see we have a lot of workers down here, and they can't hear much next to that noisy equipment."
"You can't tell me that!"
"Sir, I can tell you that, its for your safety and that of our crew members, now, once you're past the paver you can speed up to-"
"YOU can't tell me that! You aren't a cop, you aren't my mother, and you cannot tell me how fast to drive!"
"Sir, I may not be a cop but I AM traffic control, and that means that yes, I can tell you how fast to drive, while you are in the construction zone. Aside from that you were driving faster than the posted speed limit of forty five to begin with. Now, I need you to drive at about twenty five miles an-"
"NO!"
This is about the point where I started losing my temper. He had other people behind him that were being held up, he was being flat out obnoxious, and that petulant "no" kicked my switch from "polite and professional" to "oh HELL no" in a heart beat. Then he added to it.
"I'm going to call CDOT and report you!"
"You want to use my phone? Both of the engineers on this job are on speed dial.. actually, there's one of them there, would you like me to call him over for you?"
"I'm going to call your boss and complain!"
"Again, would you like to use my phone? Or were you talking about my immediate supervisor here on site? I can get her if you like,"
"You're going to lose your job for this!!"
"Listen, buddy. Look around you. You see all these vests and hardhats? Anyone out here in a vest and a hardhat is Jesus, and can tell you to do whatever the hell they like as long as it concerns traffic and safety. Me? I'm god. Now you have two choices at this point, you can drive through MY site in an orderly and safe manner or you can pull your happy ass right over there on the shoulder and SIT THERE until the state patrol shows up. Did you not notice the damn signs as you were coming in that stated that fines are doubled? Not to mention the fact that if you give him the same shitty attitude you've given me, you're likely to get slapped with reckless endangerment and reckless driving on top of the speeding violation. If you run me, sir, I will get your license plate number and I WILL report you to the state patrol, and you WILL be stopped for it, wherever they find you."
I had seen him tense at the mention of the cops, and I figured he was preparing to run for it. He didn't, after he realized I was serious about turning him in.
"Now are you going to be a good boy and go through my site in a safe and proper manner or would you like to have this discussion with the nice officers?"
He went past the paver at twenty five, and then floored it on out of the site.
A couple of minutes later I hear on the radio: "Farmgirl, have you been cussing at traffic?"
"Yes, but he deserved it."
Apparently one of the crew members had run into my supervisor elsewhere on site, and related the story, as related to him by the driver of the first burner truck, which caught up with me in time for the cussing to start. I'm still not sure how he managed to hear what I was saying, but it was pretty much word for word, so I suppose I might have been a little loud.
I was also reported to have grown three feet in height, sprouted coarse dark hair all over my body, and large curving horns.
This is my legacy to traffic control.
Oy.
We were working on US 50, headed east from Lamar (if you drive over that road in the future, think of me- I've walked every inch of that sucker from main street to about seven miles out of town, and I've done it several times) doing a recycle.
Now, recycling roads is an interesting concept, and it creates a lot less waste. What they do is, they bring in a big "train" of equipment, about five hundred feet long. The first two trucks are "burners," they've got ginormous propane tanks on top, and hanging underneath are the worlds fastest pig cookers. They heat the asphalt thats already there to a proper temperature to slightly liquefy the oils in the mixture that hold it all together. The next piece is a roto-mill of a smaller type than we usually see, that is attached to another truck. It grinds up the first inch or two of asphalt, and then lays it into a neat windrow in the middle of the lane. After this comes a semi full of NEW asphalt. Then the paver, which picks up the old asphalt, mixes it with a little of the new asphalt from the truck, and lays it all down, in a nice shiny new road. As I said, this whole processional is about five hundred feet long, and it moves slow enough that the semi driver is instructed to place his truck in neutral and let the paver push him along. Thanks to the sheer girth of all of this equipment, and the fact that there are a lot of workers around a lot of really noisy machinery, a flagger stays with the train and slows people down going by the whole shebang.
On this particular day, I was that flagger. The fact that traffic is coming from two directions means that I had to walk to each end of the train, so that the traffic would see my slow sign BEFORE they passed the paving operations at a bazillion miles an hour. Trust me, when you're the one standing on that yellow line, trying to slow people down, forty five is NOT slow enough.
In one line, coming from the front of the train, we had a bright one that wanted to go sixty five. He was in the middle and I can only assume that the other end had said they didn't have traffic, because the gap was too large for Mr Gofast to have been lagging back.
I tend to walk a ways in front of whatever it is I'm "guarding" for the simple fact that its easier to be seen that way, and I had walked maybe a hundred feet in front of the first burner truck. I saw the speed demon coming, and waved my slow sign a bit. Hmm, must not see me. I hang the sign out into the lane he's driving in (a surefire way to get the attention of the tunnel vision struck) and he starts slowing down. I pull the sign back, and he speeds up. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
I finally get fed up with it and figure that he doesn't understand the dangers of this place, radio that I'm going to stop one of the cars and ask him to go by the paver slowly, and step out into the lane, flipping my sign to "Stop."
The guy stops, rolls down his window, and the first word out of his mouth is "WHAT?!?"
"Sir, I'm going to need you to go about twenty five miles an hour past our paver, as you can see we have a lot of workers down here, and they can't hear much next to that noisy equipment."
"You can't tell me that!"
"Sir, I can tell you that, its for your safety and that of our crew members, now, once you're past the paver you can speed up to-"
"YOU can't tell me that! You aren't a cop, you aren't my mother, and you cannot tell me how fast to drive!"
"Sir, I may not be a cop but I AM traffic control, and that means that yes, I can tell you how fast to drive, while you are in the construction zone. Aside from that you were driving faster than the posted speed limit of forty five to begin with. Now, I need you to drive at about twenty five miles an-"
"NO!"
This is about the point where I started losing my temper. He had other people behind him that were being held up, he was being flat out obnoxious, and that petulant "no" kicked my switch from "polite and professional" to "oh HELL no" in a heart beat. Then he added to it.
"I'm going to call CDOT and report you!"
"You want to use my phone? Both of the engineers on this job are on speed dial.. actually, there's one of them there, would you like me to call him over for you?"
"I'm going to call your boss and complain!"
"Again, would you like to use my phone? Or were you talking about my immediate supervisor here on site? I can get her if you like,"
"You're going to lose your job for this!!"
"Listen, buddy. Look around you. You see all these vests and hardhats? Anyone out here in a vest and a hardhat is Jesus, and can tell you to do whatever the hell they like as long as it concerns traffic and safety. Me? I'm god. Now you have two choices at this point, you can drive through MY site in an orderly and safe manner or you can pull your happy ass right over there on the shoulder and SIT THERE until the state patrol shows up. Did you not notice the damn signs as you were coming in that stated that fines are doubled? Not to mention the fact that if you give him the same shitty attitude you've given me, you're likely to get slapped with reckless endangerment and reckless driving on top of the speeding violation. If you run me, sir, I will get your license plate number and I WILL report you to the state patrol, and you WILL be stopped for it, wherever they find you."
I had seen him tense at the mention of the cops, and I figured he was preparing to run for it. He didn't, after he realized I was serious about turning him in.
"Now are you going to be a good boy and go through my site in a safe and proper manner or would you like to have this discussion with the nice officers?"
He went past the paver at twenty five, and then floored it on out of the site.
A couple of minutes later I hear on the radio: "Farmgirl, have you been cussing at traffic?"
"Yes, but he deserved it."
Apparently one of the crew members had run into my supervisor elsewhere on site, and related the story, as related to him by the driver of the first burner truck, which caught up with me in time for the cussing to start. I'm still not sure how he managed to hear what I was saying, but it was pretty much word for word, so I suppose I might have been a little loud.
I was also reported to have grown three feet in height, sprouted coarse dark hair all over my body, and large curving horns.
This is my legacy to traffic control.
Oy.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
What Goes Around....
First, I think I should point out some specifics of my job, in road construction. Some days I stand there with a stick, and some days I drive the Pilot Car. It all depends on what day it is, really. This story actually happened fairly recently, and it caused no little amount of uproar, in a couple of different senses.
On the day in question, I was working a little side road, that got maybe five or six cars a day. Not much excitement. Not many people around either, which makes handling the call of nature a fairly simple task, even for us setters, if we're not too squeamish to pop a squat.
This particular day was a holiday weekend, and everyone was off site, or so I thought. The concrete cutters had been there doing some routine maintenance on their equipment, but I'd seen them head south an hour earlier. So, when nature called, I didn't think much of it. Stepped behind the light plant to shield myself from the flagger across the highway and any traffic that they might get while I was otherwise occupied, and dropped trou.
Just in time to see the cutters pop up over the hill on the highway, with a full view of me watering the roadside foliage.
Crap.
Ah well, its construction, and MOST of the males in construction have the understanding that we setters have a little bit more to hang out in the breeze than the pointers do, but no less need to do so, and they politely "don't see" anything. Just like we of the mammary glands "don't see" anything when they stand really close to a vehicle tire and look innocent.
Boy, was I wrong about these guys.
About the time I'm re-covering the, er, "playground area," I notice that they're waving at me. And hanging out the window to do it. And they continue waving, while they make left turn (away from me) and start back in the direction they came from, on the other side of the slab.
*blink blink*
At this point I'm getting a little annoyed at their behavior, because its Just Not Polite, but I'm still willing to blow it off, provided they show good behavior the next time I see them.
Boy, did they screw that one up.
They came back, in all their unwashed glory, and continued their ape-like behavior, up to and including the chimpanzee resembling grin on the face of the passenger.
And then, fifteen minutes later, they pulled in and talked to me. Well, the driver talked to me. The passenger sat there and continued his impression of a zoo chimp, a good enough job that I was beginning to wonder if he was contemplating flinging poo, or something else that the smaller apes and monkeys like to fling at bus loads of school children.
At this point, their behavior got reported to my supervisor. She, being practical minded, reported it to the owner of the company to deal with on the higher levels, and then noticed that... whoopsie, the cutters had run off and left the site, leaving behind their lunch box.
Well, we wouldn't want it to get stolen, so she brought it to me for safe keeping. Somehow along the way, the zipper that held it closed malfunctioned, and everything inside just.... blew away.
And somehow, while it was in my possession, and before we decided that really, it was unlikely to be stolen sitting on the slab right beside part of the cutters' equipment, some wandering ghostly bum came by and took a whiz in it. And then another one did it, and another. And after we placed it back where they could find it, ANOTHER one showed up and whizzed all over it!
I mean REALLY! How many wandering ghostly bums do we HAVE around here? Or maybe they're Ninja bums... all's I know is, I never saw 'em.
*whistles innocently*
I also never heard a word about the lunchbox incident from the higher-ups, but I DID hear that every man on site got a sexual harassment lecture. Kind of unfair since 90% of the guys out there have been great, but the ones who didn't need it won't pay it any mind anyway.
The moral of the story... Its better to be Pissed Off than to have your lunchbox Pissed In.
Or maybe its "don't be a snarky sexist knob-gobbler and harass the female flaggers, or the whole crew will take revenge" ......
On the day in question, I was working a little side road, that got maybe five or six cars a day. Not much excitement. Not many people around either, which makes handling the call of nature a fairly simple task, even for us setters, if we're not too squeamish to pop a squat.
This particular day was a holiday weekend, and everyone was off site, or so I thought. The concrete cutters had been there doing some routine maintenance on their equipment, but I'd seen them head south an hour earlier. So, when nature called, I didn't think much of it. Stepped behind the light plant to shield myself from the flagger across the highway and any traffic that they might get while I was otherwise occupied, and dropped trou.
Just in time to see the cutters pop up over the hill on the highway, with a full view of me watering the roadside foliage.
Crap.
Ah well, its construction, and MOST of the males in construction have the understanding that we setters have a little bit more to hang out in the breeze than the pointers do, but no less need to do so, and they politely "don't see" anything. Just like we of the mammary glands "don't see" anything when they stand really close to a vehicle tire and look innocent.
Boy, was I wrong about these guys.
About the time I'm re-covering the, er, "playground area," I notice that they're waving at me. And hanging out the window to do it. And they continue waving, while they make left turn (away from me) and start back in the direction they came from, on the other side of the slab.
*blink blink*
At this point I'm getting a little annoyed at their behavior, because its Just Not Polite, but I'm still willing to blow it off, provided they show good behavior the next time I see them.
Boy, did they screw that one up.
They came back, in all their unwashed glory, and continued their ape-like behavior, up to and including the chimpanzee resembling grin on the face of the passenger.
And then, fifteen minutes later, they pulled in and talked to me. Well, the driver talked to me. The passenger sat there and continued his impression of a zoo chimp, a good enough job that I was beginning to wonder if he was contemplating flinging poo, or something else that the smaller apes and monkeys like to fling at bus loads of school children.
At this point, their behavior got reported to my supervisor. She, being practical minded, reported it to the owner of the company to deal with on the higher levels, and then noticed that... whoopsie, the cutters had run off and left the site, leaving behind their lunch box.
Well, we wouldn't want it to get stolen, so she brought it to me for safe keeping. Somehow along the way, the zipper that held it closed malfunctioned, and everything inside just.... blew away.
And somehow, while it was in my possession, and before we decided that really, it was unlikely to be stolen sitting on the slab right beside part of the cutters' equipment, some wandering ghostly bum came by and took a whiz in it. And then another one did it, and another. And after we placed it back where they could find it, ANOTHER one showed up and whizzed all over it!
I mean REALLY! How many wandering ghostly bums do we HAVE around here? Or maybe they're Ninja bums... all's I know is, I never saw 'em.
*whistles innocently*
I also never heard a word about the lunchbox incident from the higher-ups, but I DID hear that every man on site got a sexual harassment lecture. Kind of unfair since 90% of the guys out there have been great, but the ones who didn't need it won't pay it any mind anyway.
The moral of the story... Its better to be Pissed Off than to have your lunchbox Pissed In.
Or maybe its "don't be a snarky sexist knob-gobbler and harass the female flaggers, or the whole crew will take revenge" ......
Saturday, June 16, 2007
First Ever Ladies' Sidesaddle Rodeo
Reading through some others' blogs, I've found a couple of posts on the species that provides us with such wonderful things as steak, and hamburger. I decided to add my two cents.
Growing up in a rural area, you learn quickly that nine times out of ten, cows are not the smartest creatures on this planet. This would be why they're food, and not pets. The tenth time almost always comes at the worst possible moment, "almost" because calves that are bottle raised and exposed to more than "fence, more fence, gate, OH! hole in the fence, wooohoo!" can show some real promise for the mischief olympics.
Some short and simple facts about cattle.
Your average bovine weighs MUCH more than you do. If they step on you/kick you/brush you accidentally as they go by, it hurts.
However, most cattle are afraid of people. Of any size. I've seen a herd of placidly grazing charolets go into a raving tizzy because a two year old waddles into their general area and starts giggling and yelling "MOOO cows! MOOOOOO!" I'm not sure what was more entertaining. The startled and panicky reaction of the cattle, or the disappointed look on the two year old's face when they refused to moo on command.
Our cattle are not quite as spooky as some. We tend to treat them to "cake," a protein supplement that is formed into pellets about the size of a shotgun shell, on a semi regular basis, and since we distribute this by dint of laying the bags out on the tail gate and having one person drive while the other scatters the Cow Candy out behind us, they come running pretty much every time you drop the tailgate on the pickup. However, if you're trying to get them back into the corral, because some bright boy at the electric company left the gate open whilst checking out a power outage on lines that happen to cross your pasturage, they turn into rip-snorting spooky old biddies. They also completely forget where the corral gate is, and high tail it for the other side of the country whenever you approach them. Sometimes. Sometimes you walk up open the gate and start hollering "You sorry b#$%&es, get your butts in here!" and they come running, to file into the pen in an orderly fashion, and on out into the fenced pasture that they're SUPPOSED to be in.
The most fun, though, is branding time.
Colorado is a brand state, which means we have to brand our calves before we can ship them across state lines. The sale barn that my grandfather prefers is in Kansas. So, we brand, on a semi-regular basis.
Last year, the time rolled around where grandpa wanted to brand. We consulted the almanac, told him the moon was wrong, and he proceeded to insist, in nearly the same tone as my two year old nephew uses when HE's denied something. So, we get the cattle gathered, dose the cows and the bulls with the super med that protects against seven different kinds of critters that live on or in the ones we want to eat, and start in on the calves.
Due to my delicate sensibilities, (and my uncanny ability to levitate to the top of the nearest fence if a creature weighing about four times what I do decides it wants a piece of me,) my usual job at branding time is pushing calves. That is, moving them from the pen, to the alley, and into the chute. Fairly monotonous, broken up with the potential for getting feet stepped on, crushed against the walls of the crowd chute, or just flat run over, as the 100-400 pound calves figure out that whatever is at the end of that crowd chute is Not A Good Thing.
This particular day, things were going fairly well, until I ran across one heifer calf that was determined she wasn't getting within four feet of the turn into the calf cradle. I tried the sorting stick (a four foot long slightly flexible PVC prod) poking her with the end of it in the backside, usually enough to make them ease on forward. Not an inch. I tried tapping the side of the stick on her flanks... nothing. I tried getting right up behind her and scratching on her roasts... nada. So, I resorted to a trick I don't usually have to use, grabbed hold of her flyswatter and twisted it around up over her back, and pulled forward on it.
First time I've ever had one BACK UP when I did that.
During the ensuing confusion, the heifer in question got turned around and squeezed back past a little bull, so I got him chivvy'd on up into the cradle and went back to work on little miss stubborn. The more insistent I was that she go forward, the more convinced she became that she didn't want to do that. She got turned around on me again, and I saw the light go on upstairs as she finally figured out that she was bigger than little 'ol me, and promptly went to take me out. I did my levitating act, wound up on the gate of the crowd chute, one cheek planted firmly on top, one foot hooked in the rails, and one foot dangling.
Thats when the first ever Ladies' Sidesaddle Rodeo began.
That heifer came dead on for me, even after everything but one boot was up out of her sight line... she hit my foot, slid me back into the gate latch, and by the time I got my right foot out of her way, the gate was barely caught. She backed off and I breathed a sigh of relief, about three seconds too soon. That crazy little steak-on-wheels stepped back, assessed the situation, and ran into that gate as hard as she could. Gate pops open, I pop off.
Right into a perfect sidesaddle position on the heifer.
Now, I'm pretty proud of two things about this whole debacle. Number one, I never dropped my stick. Those things are an invaluable tool for reaching over/around the animals nearest you and tapping the one shoving at the others gently on the nose, discouraging them from the activities which caused you to get a brand new tattoo of the pattern of the fencing in your back. Number two, I stayed on that heifer for four jumps before she unassed me onto another gate. This one with rounded corners, which I remembered to be thankful for as I slid gracefully over one of the aforementioned corners and to the ground.
Once I could hear over the running litany of every cuss word I've ever heard in my life and a couple that I'm pretty sure I made up on the spot, I realized that I'd been laying on the ground for longer than my co-branders were comfortable with. I heard a chorus of "Are you Ok?" from the general vicinity of the calf cradle, and climbed to my feet.
Now, I'm pretty sure I said something along the lines of "I'm fine, back to work" but witness accounts swear I leaped to my feet, brandishing the sorting stick like a rapier, and shouted "Have at thee, foul villain!" before diving into the milling group of calves to separate out the one that had just given me a bruise the size of the county seat on my left thigh.
She got to the calf cradle, by dint of me hanging off the sides of the crowd chute like some kind of cowgirl monkey, and planting both boots on her hindquarters at the end of a good swing.
No one has broken the record for Sidesaddle Bucking Calf Riding yet. I don't think any of them have the guts to try it.
But I think I'll let the record stand, anyway.
Growing up in a rural area, you learn quickly that nine times out of ten, cows are not the smartest creatures on this planet. This would be why they're food, and not pets. The tenth time almost always comes at the worst possible moment, "almost" because calves that are bottle raised and exposed to more than "fence, more fence, gate, OH! hole in the fence, wooohoo!" can show some real promise for the mischief olympics.
Some short and simple facts about cattle.
Your average bovine weighs MUCH more than you do. If they step on you/kick you/brush you accidentally as they go by, it hurts.
However, most cattle are afraid of people. Of any size. I've seen a herd of placidly grazing charolets go into a raving tizzy because a two year old waddles into their general area and starts giggling and yelling "MOOO cows! MOOOOOO!" I'm not sure what was more entertaining. The startled and panicky reaction of the cattle, or the disappointed look on the two year old's face when they refused to moo on command.
Our cattle are not quite as spooky as some. We tend to treat them to "cake," a protein supplement that is formed into pellets about the size of a shotgun shell, on a semi regular basis, and since we distribute this by dint of laying the bags out on the tail gate and having one person drive while the other scatters the Cow Candy out behind us, they come running pretty much every time you drop the tailgate on the pickup. However, if you're trying to get them back into the corral, because some bright boy at the electric company left the gate open whilst checking out a power outage on lines that happen to cross your pasturage, they turn into rip-snorting spooky old biddies. They also completely forget where the corral gate is, and high tail it for the other side of the country whenever you approach them. Sometimes. Sometimes you walk up open the gate and start hollering "You sorry b#$%&es, get your butts in here!" and they come running, to file into the pen in an orderly fashion, and on out into the fenced pasture that they're SUPPOSED to be in.
The most fun, though, is branding time.
Colorado is a brand state, which means we have to brand our calves before we can ship them across state lines. The sale barn that my grandfather prefers is in Kansas. So, we brand, on a semi-regular basis.
Last year, the time rolled around where grandpa wanted to brand. We consulted the almanac, told him the moon was wrong, and he proceeded to insist, in nearly the same tone as my two year old nephew uses when HE's denied something. So, we get the cattle gathered, dose the cows and the bulls with the super med that protects against seven different kinds of critters that live on or in the ones we want to eat, and start in on the calves.
Due to my delicate sensibilities, (and my uncanny ability to levitate to the top of the nearest fence if a creature weighing about four times what I do decides it wants a piece of me,) my usual job at branding time is pushing calves. That is, moving them from the pen, to the alley, and into the chute. Fairly monotonous, broken up with the potential for getting feet stepped on, crushed against the walls of the crowd chute, or just flat run over, as the 100-400 pound calves figure out that whatever is at the end of that crowd chute is Not A Good Thing.
This particular day, things were going fairly well, until I ran across one heifer calf that was determined she wasn't getting within four feet of the turn into the calf cradle. I tried the sorting stick (a four foot long slightly flexible PVC prod) poking her with the end of it in the backside, usually enough to make them ease on forward. Not an inch. I tried tapping the side of the stick on her flanks... nothing. I tried getting right up behind her and scratching on her roasts... nada. So, I resorted to a trick I don't usually have to use, grabbed hold of her flyswatter and twisted it around up over her back, and pulled forward on it.
First time I've ever had one BACK UP when I did that.
During the ensuing confusion, the heifer in question got turned around and squeezed back past a little bull, so I got him chivvy'd on up into the cradle and went back to work on little miss stubborn. The more insistent I was that she go forward, the more convinced she became that she didn't want to do that. She got turned around on me again, and I saw the light go on upstairs as she finally figured out that she was bigger than little 'ol me, and promptly went to take me out. I did my levitating act, wound up on the gate of the crowd chute, one cheek planted firmly on top, one foot hooked in the rails, and one foot dangling.
Thats when the first ever Ladies' Sidesaddle Rodeo began.
That heifer came dead on for me, even after everything but one boot was up out of her sight line... she hit my foot, slid me back into the gate latch, and by the time I got my right foot out of her way, the gate was barely caught. She backed off and I breathed a sigh of relief, about three seconds too soon. That crazy little steak-on-wheels stepped back, assessed the situation, and ran into that gate as hard as she could. Gate pops open, I pop off.
Right into a perfect sidesaddle position on the heifer.
Now, I'm pretty proud of two things about this whole debacle. Number one, I never dropped my stick. Those things are an invaluable tool for reaching over/around the animals nearest you and tapping the one shoving at the others gently on the nose, discouraging them from the activities which caused you to get a brand new tattoo of the pattern of the fencing in your back. Number two, I stayed on that heifer for four jumps before she unassed me onto another gate. This one with rounded corners, which I remembered to be thankful for as I slid gracefully over one of the aforementioned corners and to the ground.
Once I could hear over the running litany of every cuss word I've ever heard in my life and a couple that I'm pretty sure I made up on the spot, I realized that I'd been laying on the ground for longer than my co-branders were comfortable with. I heard a chorus of "Are you Ok?" from the general vicinity of the calf cradle, and climbed to my feet.
Now, I'm pretty sure I said something along the lines of "I'm fine, back to work" but witness accounts swear I leaped to my feet, brandishing the sorting stick like a rapier, and shouted "Have at thee, foul villain!" before diving into the milling group of calves to separate out the one that had just given me a bruise the size of the county seat on my left thigh.
She got to the calf cradle, by dint of me hanging off the sides of the crowd chute like some kind of cowgirl monkey, and planting both boots on her hindquarters at the end of a good swing.
No one has broken the record for Sidesaddle Bucking Calf Riding yet. I don't think any of them have the guts to try it.
But I think I'll let the record stand, anyway.
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