Yield: A week’s worth of observations
Weather in the Flint Hills is up to its old tricks. We went from tinder-box dry to mud hole wet to flat out flood in less than 48 hours. Now everyone is moaning and groaning about the water and the mud instead of moaning and groaning about it being dry and windy.
Here at Damphewmore Acres, we received more than 4-inches of rain, which put our pond nearly over the top of the dam. Other places in the county got at least 6-inches of rain. The Cottonwood River is mildly out of its banks. We’ve got rain in the forecast for the next week that we don’t need. Save it for August.
I’ve got varmint problems. Apparently, everything in the world likes to eat chicken. A sneaky coyote has nabbed six of my chickens and it seems to be smart enuf to make its sneak attacks on my free-range chicken flock when I’m not home. I’ve got the 25-06 loaded, ready and handy when Mr./Mrs. Coyote makes a mistake.
Plus, a crafty raccoon is messing with my mind, my shelled corn container and my live trap. I’ve got the shelled corn in a half-barrel with a piece of three-fourths-inch plywood on top, weighted down with a chunk of rock. The coon learned to knock the plywood off, plus trip my live trap from the outside and reach through and eat the bait.
So, I thought I’d outsmart Mr. Coon and I upended a slightly-larger-in-diameter plastic, former-liquid-protein container over the corn barrel. Next morning the plastic container was off the corn and the live trap wuz sprung.
So, I put a lot of weight on the plastic container the next night and fixed the live trap where it couldn’t be tripped from the outside and the only way in wuz through the entrance.
The next morning the live trap contained a huge possum. The next morning the trap contained a skunk. The next morning the trap contained another big possum. Still no raccoon. In the interest of not offending the tender sensibilities of PETA and the ASPCA, I’ll drop the varmint discussion right here.
The purple martins arrived this morning. I guess it took the scout about a week to gather up its family. The temperature was just above 40 degrees this morning and the poor martins looked cold and uncomfortable.
I’ll bet by tomorrow they will set about evicting the sparrows and starling interlopers so the martins can occupy the nest nooks of their choosing.
My card-playing buddies — Mocephus and Lon G. Horner — and I went back to our childhood for a noon meal this week. We fried up nine little crappie that were too little to fillet and picked the savory meat from the bones just like we did when we all were kids and no one ever considered filleting a fish. It wuz “D-lish.”
One fine spring morning, an elderly farmer and his wife were lazily drinking coffee on the front porch. They were being quiet and thoughtfully introspective. Suddenly, the husband said unexpectedly, “When I die, I want you to sell all my stuff immediately.”
“Now just why would you want me to do something like that,” his wife responded.
“Well,” he said. “I figure a fine, healthy widow like yourself will pretty quickly remarry — which is fine with me — but I don’t want some stupid idiot using all my personal stuff.”
His wife, eyes flashing with humor at the straight line he’d opened up for her, replied tartly, “What makes you think I’d want to marry another stupid idiot?”
Four high school FFA boys — yeah, sometimes they can get into a little trouble, too — afflicted with spring fever, skipped morning classes.
After lunch they reported to their FFA teacher that they had a flat tire. Much to their relief, he smiled and said, “Well, you missed a pop quiz this morning, so take seats apart from one another and take out a piece of paper.”
Still smiling, he waited for them to sit down, then said, “First Question. Which tire was flat?”
I bet that became an awkward moment for the FFAers.
At the risk of offending the Norwegian politically correctness police department, here’s a joke.
Years and years ago, Ole and Sven, brother bachelor farmers, went into town and bought a new top-of-the-line Buick Roadmaster station wagon. They brought it home, parked it in front of the garage, got a crowbar and a hammer and proceeded to remove all of the wood trim from the sides of the new car.
After they were done, they stood back, looked at it and Sven sez to his brother, “You know sumpthin’ Ole? I t’ink I liked it better ven it vas still in t’box!”
My hat’s off to members of the Misemer family at Mount. Vernon, Mo., for the assistance they garnered for the victims of the recent wildfires in the Great Plains.
The informal report I received is that Cody Misemer and his friends put together a convoy of 40 trucks to haul hay, fence posts, wire, feed and machinery (like skid steers, post drivers, post hole diggers, tractors with loaders, buckets, forks to load and, unload hay, fence-building supplies). It wuz all donated by local farmers, farm supply stores, and feed companies.
They were escorted by the Missouri Highway Patrol to the Kansas and Oklahoma state lines and got to drive by the truck scales. Oklahoma state troopers took over the escort to the Oklahoma and Texas panhandles and Colorado.
Cody Misemer’s wife Heather and some other farm gals sold at least 400 T-shirts for $10 to raise recovery funds for the fire victims. Mount Vernon Screen Masters donated the printing on the shirts. There were many other donations made by caring rural folks.
There wuz a goodly amount of coverage of this Good Samaritan event on social media, but nary a peep on the national media. Guess it wuz too busy trying to bring down the government.
I’m over the weight limit with this column. Have a good ‘un.❖
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