The Farm needs a name?

(I'm thinking BLISSFUL ACRES, because ignorance is, well you know.)

As weird as it seems everyone thinks the farm needs a name. I have some suggestions, but I usually get that eye twitch that lets me know" it ain't happenin'" so to speak. In any event, there are some things happening here that are kind of interesting.

I went to the spring house yesterday with the intent of getting the door open and wrested away from the grip of the thorny vines, which I will refer to as "brambles" for the rest of this little exercise. They had reportedly grown over it in the last little spell, since the lower house had been closed up. My concern was that having found out that " little spell" was, in fact, in the area of two years , according to the furnace work I did last week, I might find some issues that had been overlooked. LIke the roofs on the buildings which seem fine, till it rains, and there are stripes of water damage that become immediately evident.The garage door side of the main building near the road, has very few places where things of a mechanical nature can be placed, and be safe from the dripping roof. Of course, it is a small issue to repair it, it just needs to be done last week, and the car needed tires worse. So we got new tires, and will get to the roof as it fits into the plans and finances.

Meanwhile, the spring house.

Well, there is supposed to be a drain from the spring house that carries the overflow out and down the hill to enter the stream which starts here on the property. "It runs as big as your arm, out of that pipe in the spring" I was told. But I only see a small trickle coming out of the pipe, on the other hand, there is water flowing out the door, and making it nearly impossible to get to the spring house because of the water soaked approach. (READ MUD) So after fighting my way through the brambles, and using my pocket knife to cut away the larger ones, (my blackberry trimming tools, being still on Lake Street) I finally twisted the door open to find two feet of water partially submerging the water pump, not good. But the scariest is the bottom of the electrical box, touching the water. The pump appears to be unplugged, but the hanging box is, as far as I know, live.... So I dropped my glasses into the water. Well I didn't mean to, they just slipped out of my pocket while I was bailing the water out ( with a floating milk jug that happened to be there, to be modified (pocket knife again) into a scoop, that I could use to get the water away from the hanging socket. Near as I can tell it was hanging in the water, and I'm unsure as to which breaker it's connected to, but I know it's in the (lower, old, little) other house somewhere.

 

Problem was, the water wasn't going down very quickly, in fact not at all. I then realized, the water was staying at the level of the water outside, DUH, I began digging with the "milk jug scoop" and the water started to drop.You can see the difference in the level and the mark on the wall. About 6 inches so far,the water is so clear as to be nearly invisible, without the styrofoam chunks, it's hard to tell where the water actually is. The chunks are provided by the deteriorating sheets of Styrofoam from attempts to insulate the spring house, I think rather unnecessarily, as it is going to be at least 52 degrees from the water coming in. ( I think I can rig up an old car radiator and a small fan to heat the place with the ground water's temperature. But that's going to wait for summer at this point.) In a couple ways, this was really nostalgic for me. As a kid, I used to dig "waterways" in the back of my yard and hope they would fill with water, so I could play with "things floating in the waterways" boats isn't really correct, and I generally got yelled at about it, being a mess and making "trenches to trip in" and a general hazard. And here I am, using that same skill, to handle a problem on the farm. In fact, I found many of the things I was "yelled at for, as a kid" I later used in my jobs, and because of my experience, I knew what to expect, what to avoid, and which way to duck, when I did it. I can't claim it was in my "big plan", but then I can claim, I wasn't as wrong as I was told I was at the time. So kids, take solace, that someday you will find, that the weird little thing that you like to do, and get yelled at for, will someday come in handy in a tight spot. Now get your mind out of the gutter, you know what I mean!

The water in this picture is crystal clear and the crock is visible along with a previous pump, to the left. I imagine it is shot now, if it wasn't in the first place. I took a real shovel and enhanced the drainage a bit. I'm hoping it dry's up the entire area, at least enough that it becomes approachable. Actually the water was rather warm, quite a bit warmer than the air I was bailing in, either day. I almost wonder if getting all that water out is a good idea? Well we'll see, I think it would be a good thing if the water was in the crock, where it should be, and the floor was free of "feet of water", if not from some running water. When the water gets down to only a foot deep My boots will be high enough to keep me dry and I can go in and find the real drain, which might be the pipe running out the back of the crock, but I'll have to check with the previous owner, and see if he can explain to me, what it is I have to clear to get things set right. I can't imagine it's too complex, good crystal clear spring water runs in the hole, and you pump it where you want it. The problem right now being, how much water is where I don't want it. But I'm hoping when I check back in a couple days, the water will have subsided.

This is a picture of the water flooding out of the blocks ands running down the ditch, I dug. The top I cut out of the milk jug is laying there, but I didn't think to take a picture of the modified jug, oh well, you'll just have to imagine the highly technical nature of the scoop, I replaced today with a shovel. I'd love to tell you it took only a few minutes to get things put right, but as you might remember, I'm running against a handicap of being a near total cripple, so it took quite a while and lots of breaks, and good drugs, but I finally got it done. The picture at the top of this page, shows the difference between what a modified milk jug scoop can do in a hour, and what a shovel can do in a similar amount of time, at least with me using it. I'm happy to be able to accomplish this, considering what shape I was in a year ago. Though it makes me happy to see these simple things working, I really do have other things I have to do, that I'm more physically able to do, computers to fix, and cars to consult on, and well, all the things that go with my life, here in Bliss...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now Chris has been writing emails to people about her experiences here. Which are seemingly much more adventurous than I'm having, in some respects anyway.

So here is one of her letters.

From Chris,

Day 17
I never wanted to be a farm wife. During my childhood I envisioned myself as a missionary, a teacher, an explorer, the mother of 10 children, but never, ever, as a farm wife. Farm life sounded entirely too busy, too hard, too complicated, too early, too unpredictable. Animals giving birth in the middle of the night, usually during a blizzard or a thunderstorm. Fences in constant need of repair; barns to be raised, farmhands to cook for—all too much for me.
When I met my husband in high school, we daydreamed about a motorcycle trip to Florida, we talked about traveling across the United States in a 1957 Chevy, we designed dome-shaped, underground dwellings. Farm-living was never a desire, a dream or a discussion.
As we raised our children in the inner city, hemmed in by small rectangular lots and ordinances, we talked about buying land, lots of land, acres and acres of land. Even then, however, the goal was privacy, fresh air, peace and quiet. There was no talk of living off the land, putting in a garden, raising livestock or canning our own preserves. My husband was a computer geek, a techno-junkie, a mechanic, a tinker er, a welder, a firefighter. He was no farmer! He purposely mowed over the flowers that bloomed unbidden in the yard. He scorned our daughters' square-foot garden. He'd helped his grandpa grow and pick raspberries—the only food worth growing. But running an entire farm? No way.
Soon the children left for college and marriage, travel and adventure, careers and children of their own. As we looked forward to our own retirement and considered our options, we returned to the dream of owning our own land, surrounding ourselves with nature, observing the change of seasons on our trees, but still, mind you, no mention of farming. We even bought a motor home on ebay and flew across the country to drive it home, seeing many of our national landmarks along the way.
All this might lead you to wonder, as I do, "How did I end up living behind a corn crib? Why does the view out my window include a chicken coop, barbed wire fences and pastures? Why do I have to learn about septic systems, well water and pumps? Why do I have a subscription to Country Living? Why am I a member of an electric cooperative? Why do I have to put on boots to hike down to check the mailbox? Why do I turn on the radio to listen to, not classical music or even oldies, but alerts for flooded roadways and peak usage alerts? Why? Why?!"
I don't know. I simply do not know how or why or exactly when the farm began to look like a good idea.
It just sneaked up on me, sly like a fox, quick like a bunny—at least as presented by my dear husband. You see, it didn't matter that the 27 acres were currently a farm. That didn't mean that we had to run it as a farm. We just wanted privacy, some peace and quiet. We could easily (?) remove the barbed wire fencing so we could roam our land in complete freedom. We would have cleared fields, meadows filled with wildflowers. We'd have woods and a stream and two springs! How lovely.
Can you picture all of this in your mind's eye? The rolling hills, the flowery meadows, deer near the tree line, bunnies in the fields? I could. I could see it all. But the reality hit home today. Ray, my husband, had returned to the "big city" to run some errands. I was at home with my 86-year-old mother. All was peaceful and serene. It had been a productive morning. The dryer was running, the washer was filling up with the third load of the day. We had unpacked Mom's knick-knacks and arranged them in the china cabinet. We shared a delicious lunch. I turned the faucet to wash the dishes. That's odd. No water came out. As a matter of fact, now that I thought of it, I couldn't hear the washer either.
I vaguely recalled the previous owner casually describing the limits of the well and the pump. Something like "Two people were taking showers, the washer was running and I was washing the car. All of a sudden—no water! You should have heard my wife yell!" We all laughed and he proceeded to tell Ray how he'd had to crawl under the house to reset the water pump. Ha, ha, ha. We laughed again. Then he said something like.."or else the pump will burn up.." As I reached that point of the recollection, I almost panicked! A burned-up pump sounds expensive to replace! Ray wouldn't be home until the next day. But did I panic? I did not. I simply picked up the phone and called Ray, to ask what my options were. He did not answer. He didn't answer the second call or the third or the fourth. Still I did not panic. I called Jim, the experienced owner. No answer. No answering machine. I called Jim's brother Duane. No answer, but I was able to leave a message.
"Hi, Duane. This is Chris. Ray and I bought Jim's place on Swan Road. Ray is up in town and won't be back until tomorrow and we have no water. I remember Jim saying something about the water pump burning up if it isn't reset, but I don't know how or where to do that. I called Jim but he didn't answer and yours is the only other phone number that I have. Could you give me a call back as soon as you can?"
About 30 minutes later the phone rang—it was my daughter. After hearing about the day I was having she laughed and said it made her day suddenly look not that bad. Ten minutes later the phone rang—it was Ray. "Hey, how's it going?" I explained the situation. He reassured me that if Duane didn't call back, he'd head home and in a mere 90 minutes would be there to attempt repairs. "In the meantime," he said, "don't flush the toilet..." In all the world, the only thing that makes you thirstier than you were a minute ago is knowing there's no water to be had and the only thing that makes you have to go more desperately than ever is knowing that you can't flush.
But all was not lost. Around 3:00 Duane's wife Marla called, kindly but obviously trying to stifle a laugh. "We just got home and heard your message. We'll be over in about 10 minutes and Duane will take care of it for you." Yay! In just a few minutes we spotted headlights, heard the crunch of gravel, and met our wonderful neighbors at the door. I tried not to gush. "Thank you sooo much for coming to our rescue. Ray won't be home until tomorrow and Jim didn't answer his phone and yours is the only other phone number I have. What should I do?" Duane, all decked out in heavy pants and tall yellow rubber boots and with a two-foot flashlight tucked into his pocket, told me he would crawl under the house and fix everything. First, however, he'd have to move the enormous pile of cardboard boxes Ray had stacked against the house, right in front of the access panel to the crawl space. If you are anything like me, you may be wondering why, with 27 acres and 7 outbuildings, the stack had to be right in front of the only crucial spot on the house, but I'm sorry, there is no satisfactory answer. There they were and they had to be moved.
After Duane pried the access panel off the foundation, he shined his flashlight into the hole, illuminating the rocks and puddles inside. "See? You don't want to go in there." He got down on all fours and backed into the opening, quickly disappearing into the bowels of the earth. Marla and I chatted a bit. I told her, "If I'd known what to do, or where to do it, i would have just put on Ray's thick coveralls and done it myself. But I just didn't know."
Duane emerged, showing us his now-muddy pants. "See?" he repeated. "You don't want to go in there. Go in the house now and check a faucet and make sure that was the problem." I fairly danced into the house, returning to triumphantly exclaim, "That was it! We have water! Thank you again, so much." Almost embarrassed, he said, "It's not that hard. You just have to press the button and hold it for a minute. They're kinda tricky. Glad I could help."
I invited them in to meet my mom but they were worried that they had work clothes on and tried to decline. I assured them that she was in the first room next to the back porch and that she'd be so happy to meet them, so they relented and came in. We had a nice talk, Mom thanked them heartily, and they left.
By 4:00 Ray had heard the relieving news, grateful that he could stick to his original plan and stay overnight in town. Now comfortably refreshed, Mom and I continued unpacking boxes and laughing over our close call. Thank goodness for friendly neighbors!
Around 7:00, I figured the water reservoir had been adequately renewed and turned the washer back on to finish the last load of laundry. The water rushed in, powerfully filling the tub in no time at all. I closed the door and walked confidently into the kitchen. At 8:00 I went back to the laundry room to put the clean clothes into the dryer. How odd. There was still water in the bottom of the tub. I nudged the knob past Rinse to Spin. Water drained out. Phew, crisis averted...perhaps. Back I went into the kitchen, turned the faucet, no water!
Refusing to ask for a rescue for a second time in one day, I pondered, how hard could it be? Duane had been under the house for only a few minutes. He'd said he had to only push a button and hold it for a few seconds. I had always considered myself to be a competent person, all I'd lacked was the proper information and now I had it. How hard could it be? Besides, there was my pride to consider. I'd already told Marla that if I'd known what to do I would have just done it, and here was the opportunity presenting itself to me. Would I "just do it?"
First of all, let me warn you, one should refrain as much as possible from asking one's self rhetorical questions.
Secondly, things are not always as easy as they appear, especially when one hasn't actually observed the thing in question, rhetorically or otherwise. The first difficulty was figuring out what to wear. Most of my wardrobe consists of casual clothing, not hardscrabble work clothes. I decided to borrow some of Ray's clothes since they are regularly worn in wet or dirty situations. Digging through the closet I found a pair of heavy-duty, canvas-type bib overalls. Perfect! Or so I thought until I physically put them on. Ray is 5 inches taller than I am and several inches larger around the waist. Canvas bibs are stiff and unmoving, great for durability but not easy to maneuver in. The straps were way too long, the pants dragged on the floor, and the material stood out stiffly in all directions. But I am a creative person; I looked around the house discriminately, looking for some method of temporarily shortening the straps. Aha! Safety pins! Somewhere I had unpacked and stored away a small container of safety pins. I found them in short order and, smiling at my ingenuity, picked out two of the largest. Alas, the material was so thick and unyielding I could not force the sharp point through any part of the strap. Drat! I looked around again. No strong paper clips. No electrical tape. Not even duct tape, which everyone knows will fix anything. All I could find was packing tape. Lots and lots of packing tape.
I pulled the straps as short as they'd go, the bib ending up near my throat and the back V of the straps at my shoulders. I yanked off a long piece of tape and promptly got it stuck in my hair. Confined hair in a hair barrette. Pulled off another piece of tape, wrapping it around and around the strap and the bib. Rather crinkly but not bad. Next I donned his red flannel shirt. Upon seeing me my mom exclaimed, "You look so fat!" I did indeed. But this was not a fashion show. It was a rescue, a repair, a strike for self-sufficiency and independence.
Going back once more to Ray's closet, I found a blue knit hat and pulled it down snugly over my head. A pair of work gloves (my own) and a flashlight and I was on my way out. Mom stopped me. "Is there anything you need me to do?" I hesitated. "Well, if I'm not back inside in an hour, call 911, tell them your daughter is stuck under the house and give them the address." "Oh. What's the address?" "Never mind, Mom. I'll be okay."
It was pitch black outside, no moon, no stars. You see, here in the country, on the farm, there are no street lights, no house lights, no glow from the city. It's dark. Totally dark. Not that it would make any difference since I was crawling into a cave anyway. I crossed the yard, unstacked the cardboard boxes which Duane had dutifully replaced, pulled the cement block away, and reached for the metal access panel. It wouldn't budge. After several attempts at wiggling it, trying to get my fingers into the small cracks around the edge, it finally yielded. Huzzah! I had entry!
I'd watched Duane back into the hole, so after a quick sweep with the flashlight to make sure I'd be alone under there, I got down on my hands and knees and stretched my feet backwards into the hole. Someone had thoughtfully put a cushion just inside the entry, softening the initial impact. I turned ninety degrees, illuminating the long, low path to the water pump, and got down on my stomach. Let me assure you, just in case you were wondering, I have never in my life, not even as a child playing war with the neighbors, never, ever done a belly crawl, pulling myself along with my elbows. Not until I became a farm wife, that is. Now it was the only way to achieve my goal. Imagining barbed wire overhead, grenades bursting on either side, an injured buddy needing my help, I did my first belly crawl, for about three feet. Then I realized that I could crawl on all fours in between the joists and only needed to belly crawl underneath them. Hurray! Hand and knees, belly, hands and knees, belly, hands and knees. The gravel was smooth-edged river run, not sharp-edged limestone, so that helped too. The puddles were small and shallow, although unavoidable, and the water was cold. Very cold.
I made my way confidently if slowly across to the pump. Victory was in sight! Until I got there. I searched high and low, forwards and back, on the top and underneath—there was no button to push. I pushed every protuberance I could find, even the ones with cobwebs on them. Nothing budged. Nothing hummed. Nothing happened at all. There was a yellow lever with markings next to it that said on and off. It was rusted shut in the on position. That seemed good. There was a round blue outdoor faucet handle. Nothing to push there. There was a thin bent metal rod. I pushed it. I pulled it. Nothing. I sat up in defeat. Now what? I had neglected to bring a phone with me on my sojourn and was therefore not able to call anyone for counsel. Silly city girl. Stupid farm wife.
Sighing in disappointment, with the path back seeming longer every second, I returned to the crawling position and made my way to the exit.
Stay tuned for Day 18: Lessons Learned

The Chores, Fresh Air, Green Acres is for ME.