Bambi Can Eat My Drawers

Given, Marisa Tomei's mini tome on deer hunting from the movie "My Cousin Vinny" is hilarious, if only I could find the clip online.   She's so darn cute.  She is also a talented actor.  I don't agree with the script though.  At all.   There's been a few deer around here I would not have minded giving a "Pow" to between the eyes.

It's not about the meat.  I'm not a big fan of venison.  It's about the vegetables.  And the flowers.  And the bushes and little trees.  Those big friggin innocent "doe" eyes Ms. Tomei so eloquently refers to aren't full of oceans of puppy love, soft meadows and daffodils; they're full of assault, battery, home invasion, larceny and a host of other nefarious crimes.

Those friggin innocent doe eyes sneer as they eat the prize roses you've just spent weeks cultivating.
(I say weeks because if you live in a deer infested area any flowering rose will not last past sunset unless it is fenced or netted off.)  But let's just say you have a fenced yard and accidentally leave your gate open; A deer can decimate in seconds what it has taken you months and even years to cultivate and bloom.

They're kind of like a napalm bomb when they land upon a beautiful and flowering plant, shrub or tree.  Picture this; "You've just received a large, beautiful so-called deer resistant flowering hibiscus hybrid with over forty-one thousand blooms.  I mean, you could hide behind this thing if the cops were chasing you.  For instance.

And so you leave it out overnight, and Bambi and her derelict teen age son leave a skeleton shred of a stump of a thing behind.   It was as if an Armageddon like snow ball from hell descended and enveloped that beautiful, blooming Daughter to Mother birthday present in a holocaustic inferno.  Damn.  Holy Jesus.  Good God Almighty.  Shoot Howdy.   

They were like a swarm of ten thousand locusts descending.  The two of them.  Like Bonnie and Clyde on a hopped-up steroid and whiskey rampage.  Well, sort of.  You know, like if Bonnie was Clyde's mother and they were really hungry.  And vegetarian.   And having a very weird intimate relationship.  But then we're just going to total crazyville like Hitchcock did in Psycho.  Bananas in the shower will never be the same. 

OK, so what do I do?  We moved to the country.  There's wide open space all around us.  There's a big parcel on top and two (same size as us) couple acre parcels on either side.  Then there's the road.  It's a two lane paved country road, with a speed limit of 35 to 45 MPH.  Some folks zip as high as 50.  It can be a barn burner.  Directly across the street and at a couple of those o'clock things you use when you're referring to strategic locations are probably the same size as us parcels too.  Maybe.

I'm not giving up that much information.  There's stalkers out there.  Farm boy stalkers.  Kids of the corn. That sort of thing.  I gotta watch out for them.  And Zombies too.  The list goes on and on.  Ya, you know, I just checked my brain again. I probably got about ten thousand things I need watch out for.  Including the clowns and monkeys.  Cause when they come I gotta regroup. 

 There's a few neighbors over there across the street, and one of the kitty-corner-kinda-country-curvy-sorta straight line road ahead parcels is fenced to the road. I think.  That made no sense. 

Plus there's a donkey over there somewhere.  He brays now and then, which we find enchantingly amusing.   Somebody else has a few goats over yonder as well.  We hear them bleat now and again.  Our Rooster crows.  What a jolly little funny farm country sort of neighborhood we have.

So what's the point of all this jabber?  Deer need to get from here to there, or they apparently need to get somewhere at the very least.  Apparently there are too many obstacles, noodles and chatter across the street that has made them (the deer) establish a major thoroughfare parallel to the road and running across the front forty feet or so of all the properties on our side of it.  I'm OK with that.  It needs to be.

My overall landscaping and fencing design allows for that egress to continue as it should.  I just don't want them coming up the hill, attracted by the bouquet of some scent brought about by an aroma wafting upon the soft moonlit breeze and devouring everything I have lovingly tended like an army of ants on a day old dropped peach in the woods.  Or a hoard of Wal-Mart shoppers on that special shopping day.  If the plants were TVs for instance.  And we lived in Houston.  But I'm getting off track. 

Besides the established territorial trail across the front of the property, when we first moved here there was also a thoroughfare slicing right up the middle.  A big game boulevard.  Through the living room.  They'd camp out on the lawn.  Them and their buddies.  Then they'd come in the house and raid the fridge.  I addressed that scenario toot sweet.

First of all, the property came with plethora of extraneous fencing here and there, back and forth, hither and yon, running willy-nilly across the terrain.  It was all five foot high and originally designed to keep in goats.  There is one completely fenced in area in the top corner which I have retained for potential future use.  But after that you'd have to consult "Chicken Fantasia Land" to find out my theory of how the property was originally fenced.

The good part is that once it was "unhinged" from the T-Posts I probably had a couple hundred feet of fencing in good condition.  I also had a shoot-house-howdy bunch of T-Posts.  I ran the fencing all along the top of the property, meeting up with a very think batch of Manzanita.  Since the fence was only five feet high, I knew I would have to increase the height.  (Deer can easily jump six to seven feet and more, depending on their size.)   I scoured the internet for some sort of "T-Post Height Extender", but I found no such animal.  Or extender.

I devised my own three foot extender with one inch PVC and screws that didn't work worth a darn (even though some still remain).  I just couldn't get them secure enough to handle the barb wire stringing for the long haul.  

As I contemplated another solution, the pile of Manzanita poles I had set aside from previous clearing efforts began to do the hula in front of  me.  It was the weirdest thing.  And then they all got up and did this little boogie woogie.  A sort of hula boogie woogie, which I still can't figure out.  Anyway, about then I went Aha!

I attached Manzanita poles ranging in height from eight to twelve feet to the existing T-Posts and then strung the barb wire over, under, around and through..  We humans can barely tell it's there, but the deer can definitely see it.  It has elevated the existing fence by three to four feet, depending on the coil, so that the overall fence height is now between eight and ten feet tall.

Wrangling that barb wire was another story.  My son had recycled a bunch of coils in varying lengths from a friend's ranch, and it was all in a big pile like so many baked potatoes grazing in a herd.  Or rutabaga pies singing in a choir.  So many metaphorical choices, especially in this library.

OK, any fishing folks out there?  You know like when you're Tarpon fishing in the Bermuda Triangle and the line gets wrangled and tangled around your rod and reel, and then head and girlfriends ankles, then it spews out across the deck of the boat, over the side, gets caught up in the motor and the thing catches on fire so you gotta jump overboard and end up swimming to an island where all these people act like they are in a 1960's Sitcom.  And then you lose your new cashmere socks..

So, imagine that same whole experience only you're dealing with barbwire and you end up near some ranch in the Sierras.  Singing songs in a bar cause you're a showgirl.  No, wait a minute.  Wrong ranch.

When big, thick wire has been coiled up for a while, say a century or two, and it is uncoiled, it has this propensity to explode like an ever expanding semi-lethal web of unwieldy and surprising proportions.  And so on and so forth.  I think there were about twenty separate strands ranging from twenty to sixty feet in length.  That fun day shredded a flannel shirt as well as my favorite SF Giant T.  Just sliced right through the flannel to everything underneath.  What was I thinking?  I still have the Giants shirt.  It was my favorite.  There's so much skin showing through now that it looks like one of them chain mesh shirts a really cool redneck would wear.  Now I just need me a braided cord, tribal beach, bottle top pendant necklace.  For when I'm trying to impress the squirrels. 

The barbwire was much easier to handle once in separate strands, and all that wire has since been deployed across the top and sides of the property, effectively cutting off that major thoroughfare.  The deer have now been diverted to either side of us, which said land still remains in it's totally wild condition.  It doesn't seem the neighbors share our enthusiasm for horticulture.  Some folks just buy acreage so they can pee outside. 

Since that game trail was cut-off I would say the deer traffic has dropped by seventy percent.  There have been numerous breaches in the  "Braveheart" section(s) of the overall project though.  The "Braveheart" sections are where I have bolstered the already incredibly thick living Manzanita with dead stuff garnered from clearing our land. 

There is also barbwire strung along and through all this in the above picture.  It's all about six to ten feet high and thick.  The deer laughed.  They wagged their fannies at me as they sashayed through.

I have since added netting along the lower five feet.  At the present moment this seems to be holding.  I mean, it would be like jumping breast first onto a bunch of Manzanita Bungee sticks.

So for now we essentially have a horseshoe around the top of our property that has the deer effectively fenced out.  I still need to do the Manzanita pole elevation thing for a couple hundred feet along one side.  Then, once some downed trees are cleared, I have the materials to run about a hundred feet of fencing across the front to the drive.

On the other side I'm going to use the sloping lay of the land to my advantage, and will only have to use five foot fencing there.  With the steepness of the bank, it will be like twelve feet for entry.  On the other hand, if a deer gets in somehow after we're secure it will be an easy five foot jump for exit.  And believe me, Rover will be aggressively chasing Bambi so that the sneer in her eyes turns to fear.  Dang them deer.

The last step will be a solar powered automatic gate, which of course will be the subject of a future post.  We're a ways away yet on that.  It would be one thing if we had the money to just pay the man, but we don't, for the most part, so here I am doing it all.  Alone.  On a hill.  With a foolish grin.

But trust me, there is no freaking way I can be sitting perfectly still.  No way.  I figure I won't have a spare ten seconds for another decade.  It's some sort of metric thing I think.    

All this wrap around fencing will encompass about two of our two and a half acres.  The other half acre runs along the road and incorporates their existing native thoroughfare.  It is also split almost in two by our driveway, and eventually I have plans for both sides.

There is a bit of urgency on one side because I have relegated this area for an orchard.  (I plan on individually wrapping each tree with a small round fence while it is young.)  But first I need to down about fifteen scrub oak and pines.  I'm not sure if I can get that done by planting season early next year.  It's on the priority list, along with about fifteen other big things.  On the other side of the driveway, once cleared, I want to start a few Christmas trees.  There's room for about four hundred, but I'm gonna start with about ten.

But the priority is to get it cleaned up, slowly but surely.  It looks so much cleaner, plus it helps minimize wild fire danger.  I did get some daffodils down on either side of the drive last fall, and they bloomed well this last spring.  I will be adding more bulbs this fall.  Daffodils definitely appear to be on the do not eat list of deer.  They are prolific everywhere around Nevada County in early spring.

Once the perimeter is secure, we plan on getting a dog.  He'll have a nice secure territory to patrol.  In the meantime, what about all the rest of the hyperbole?   Put a search on deer repellents and you'll get about a zillion hits, which fortunately only about four hundred of 'em will make any sense.  The rest will be in a foreign language.  There's Liquid Fence,  there's Deer Out,  and there's Havhart Natural Repellents, just to name three. 

I have tried a couple different liquid commercial brands in the past.  The deer ate the shrubs and fabric the repellant was on first.  Then they finished off the tomatoes.  Had the roses for dessert.

Most of the liquid repellants out there contain some form of predator urine; like cougar, kangaroo or cobra.  Or maybe clown.  Normal human urine unfortunately does not seem to deter deer.  It deters coyotes, but it doesn't deter deer.  Dang. 

I know folks that have tried the motion activated sprinklers idea.  I have tried Nite Guard .  (Niteguard does state you have to move the unit around often to be successful with deer.  I am using Niteguard for other predators, and it is working well.)

I've hung bars of Irish Spring soap here and there.  Every once in a while you're wandering though the thick and you think you catch a whiff of a  Leprechaun.  So then you spend the next six hours looking for the little rascal cause who doesn't need three wishes or a pot of gold? And then there goes the day.  Maybe I should take that soap down...
   
The thing is, most all of these things will probably work for a while.  Maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks.  Maybe a month or two.  But once the deer figure out no physical harm will come to them they cruise right on in.  Brazen as hell.  Once the scout is in, they're all in.  That scout has usually been a doe with one or two little freckled fawns around here the last two years.  Just like Ma Barker and her thieving gang. 

They also tend to get a bit braver as the summer rolls along, when the only moist green stuff is in our yard.  That's when they'll start to climb your deck stairs for your Geraniums.  During Winter, Spring and Autumn, even early summer they're not quite as invasive.  I mean, a prize rose is target 365 days a year.  But something that is supposedly deer resistant, like a hybrid hibiscus very well might bite the bullet in July, which my wife's did.   

The only things I know for sure that work are tall fencing and/or an aggressive dog.  I lived on some acreage in another life where we had a German Shepherd roaming freely.  Even though there was unfenced acreage for miles all around we had no deer problem.  He effectively patrolled a good three to five acre radius, even keeping coyotes at bay.

In a very odd sort of kind of coincidental type of cosmic thing, just as I was nearing completion of this essay,  "A Tail of Two Deer" happened upon me.  It is a story that will show you how important it is where you decide to live.  If you were a deer that is.  And I would have been remiss not to include this aspect of rural living.

My wife's folks live in the Almaden Valley, at the very south end of San Jose in the Silicon Valley.  It is a lovely area of upper middle class homes that in many areas abuts with ranch and wild lands, prime habitat for deer.

As a matter fact, on another one of those o'clock things across the street from their home is such habitat.  As a matter of fact, their front yard has been invaded many times, as have most homes in the neighborhood by those doe-eyed harbingers of herbal death.

Anyway, the other day Dad was in his front yard pulling some weed and watched as an automobile drove down the street. As the auto rolled at the speed limit, a deer from the hill approached the street.  The auto slowed, the deer hesitated.  The auto resumed, the deer bolted in front.  The auto tapped the deer, which hit the pavement.

The noise brought out the neighborhood.  The neighbors were in an uproar over the deer.  (The driver was OK.)  They wondered what to do.  They were about to hold the driver accountable for speeding and hitting the deer until Dad stepped in as a witness saying the driver did everything he could to not hit the deer.  They were about to call (on a Sunday) animal rescue for the poor little flea ridden parasite when it got up, looked around and fled back to it's habitat.  Don't know how much damage was done to the vehicle, but I do know this; He probably wasn't going more than 10-15 MPH, and I have tapped a deer at about 25 MPH.  My deer ran off and I ended up with some fur around my license plate.  That was about it.

My son (in my car) has hit a deer at about 45-50 MPH, resulting in some body damage and a broken left head light.   We now all have Deer Alerts installed on our cars.  They're not that expensive (under ten bucks) and at this point seem to be working.  We have noticed deer on the side of the road, but none have crossed in front of us since they have been installed.

Basically the deer alert is a little plastic whistle cone thing you install behind the grill of your car.  When you travel at 35MPH and higher it emits a sonic sound that keeps deer and other animals out of your path.  Along the same line as the high frequency dog whistles.  Or Steve Miller.  Or Boz Scaggs.  Maybe Niel Young howling on Like a Hurricane.

And then there was this deer on the road in front of our house yesterday.  I was down on the lower forty, working on brushing the multitude of trees our tree guy dropped last spring.  I actually got them all brushed, and will now be bucking and splitting about six cords of wood over the next couple months.  During a little break from the chain saw action, I heard some leaf rustling above and also across the driveway.

I'm pretty surprised at how quickly I have adapted to different noises around here.  It's pretty quiet around the neighborhood for the most part, and you can hear and pick up many sounds.  I have picked up the deer in the bush sound here, which is different than what squirrels sound like.  Or clowns.  Clowns in the forest are a dead giveaway with those big shoes.  And squirrels.  They're always chattering, like Chip and Dale.  Deer are deliberate, and move slowly, unless they're being chased.  By a clown for instance.

So I dismiss the deer above.  By the sound, I know he's up on the neighbor's forty.  I turn my attention to the one across the drive, and as I do I also hear an approaching vehicle.  By the way, I have absolutely no visual on this, it's a total audible for the moment!   So there's a rustle, then a quick tire screech and then a very loud Thwump!  I sat up alert, and as I was getting ready to mosey on down (although I had a pretty good idea of what had just transpired) I heard the vehicle engage.  Now mind you, I did not hear a door open at all.  Within ten seconds a mini van appeared with a somewhat portly elderly man behind the wheel.  The left headlight was gone and the entire front end of his van was toast.  He never even got out of the car.

I resumed working.  When my wife and I went over to some friends for dinner about six hours later we passed the deer, legs up on the side of the road.  Hopefully the county will be out to pick up the carcass on Tuesday, which is day after tomorrow.  Since it's a holiday weekend, we may have an opportunity to have some buzzards circling. 
 
It's pretty obvious I didn't care about the deer.  My only intention of going down there was to see if the driver was OK.  Obviously the driver didn't care, he didn't even get out of his car.  It's a big problem here.  Deer in the headlights that is.

If you hit a deer under 25 MPH, probably everybody (deer, you, passengers, car) is going to be OK.  If you're lucky, as a hunter/driver, you can always hope you bruised it's spleen as it wanders off.  As the speed increases, so does damage and danger.  The driver was probably doing 45 MPH yesterday, lethal for deer and van.

I was side-swiped by a buck one time when I was going about 60 MPH down the highway.  It just rambled down an embankment and ran right into the driver's side mirror.  Never saw it coming.  A couple grand in damages that time.  The deer did a Watusi rendition in the highway for a little while and then wandered off  the highway, presumably to die.  That was a wallop of a hit. 

There are mountain lions around.  Every once in a while you hear of a sighting.  But they really stay away from humans for the most part.  We have nothing to offer them, except for lambs and baby goats.  Them and coyotes are the only natural predators to deer around here.  Either the deer population is waaay up or these two natural predator's taste buds have grown fond of squab.  Or both.  I dunno.

The moral of "A Tail of Two Deer" is that deer in the Almaden Valley are much more appreciated by humans (for some reason) than deer in Nevada County.  So if you're gonna be one of those larcenous highway robbers, then maybe you should live in the Almaden Valley.  And if you insist in remaining here in Nevada County, know that soon this little plot of ground in your whole scheme of things is slowing becoming off limits to you and all of your ilk.  Enjoy the trespassing while you can, but soon the Geraniums on the front deck steps will be but a long lost generational memory.  And they will be happy and free to flourish unabated, as shall all flora and fauna here on our little isolated island in the hills.

There's a plethora of things you can try, but honestly, fencing them out is the only way, at least for me.

  

Where's Paul Bunyan and that Big Blue Ox?

In an amazing discovery of overwhelming and colossal proportions, like a cosmic variation of  jelly doughnuts and designer shoes, a primordial manifestation as old as time has become apparent right before my eyes.  

Just like when Pericles discovered he could not speak without a tongue.  Uh, throat.  No, maybe tongue.  Whatever.  Just like when Socrates discovered enemas.  I mean enigmas.  And Homer.  When he discovered Marge.  And what about Copernicus?  With all that heliocentric cosmetology stuff.   Ha!  Nothing compared to this.

I have discovered trees always get bigger when they have been chopped and hit the ground.  And in the abysmal despair of that discovery I have howled, "Where's Paul Bunyan and that Damn Blue Ox????"

There's been about fifty trees dropped since we moved here.  A few of those were little scrappy fledglings,  six to ten inches in diameter and twenty to thirty feet tall.   The majority had a good foot (or more) diameter trunk, all ranging from forty to seven hundred fifty feet tall.  See?  I told you they grew when they hit the ground.

About twenty of those were cut down by our tree guy.  The others have been dropped by myself, family and friends.  I have a standing order here: anyone that comes out and helps cut trees is taking home fifty percent of the firewood.  With oak around $300 per cord it's a worthwhile endeavor.  

Our tree guy is Phenomenal.  That's not his name.  That's his ability.  He has dropped big trees from the bottom (and top) and has not missed one yet.  In his late 30's, he still straps on his spurs and clambers up them beasts with the greatest of ease.  Well, that includes his climbing line, small rope, long rope, flip line, lanyard, cooler, carabiners, tweezers, harness, hair spray, high heels and  two chain saws on his belt.

One is a Stihl with a little 12" bar, the other another Stihl with a modest 24" bar.  Trend?  He takes down branches as he climbs up, then lops off about four to six feet of the top.  He keeps dropping down four to six feet at a time and continues taking her down, usually leaving a completely manageable six to eight foot stump.  (I get to play lumberjack in a completely safe zone!) 

He's been out twice now to handle trees of a delicate nature.  Like the ones I don't want in the bathtub or living room if I tried to take them down myself.  Anything that was close to the house, existing fencing and the propane tank were all dropped by him.  I think I have a few others I'll need him to do, plus cleaning up the two remaining view oaks, which we'll get to in a few paragraphs.

We had to winch a tall Digger Pine that was close to the road, just to make sure it fell our way.  I was the wench guy.  It came down with ease, precisely on target.  As I said, he's phenomenal.

What other species of trees do we have?  Besides the Diggers, of which I think I have about six or seven remaining (from twenty to sixty feet tall), we've got a few good size Ponderosa Pines (eighty feet plus in height), a ton of Black Oak and a number of Live Oak.  There are also about a dozen smaller cedars lining the drive, however their growth has been stunted by the natural and preponderating occurrence of the oak.  Or the lack of stewardship by the previous owner.  Or both.

We are meticulously thinning the herd.  I have been taking out the nasty black oaks that have been choking off the cedars.  With a little luck, in another four to five years we'll have some nicely formed cedars.  All the large Ponderosa's stay, but there are about sixty saplings from one to four inches in diameter that are getting the ax...so to speak.  They'd make great Tepee poles, if anyone has a need.  To make a Tepee that is.  And if you make a tepee, then you're probably gonna need some feathers.  And some buffalo.  Maybe a small herd.  Or just some jerky.  Either one.  And then you're gonna need a big rifle because some wolf is going to want your buffalo.  And all you want to do is dance around the fire in front of your tepee.  Drink a little moonshine.  Smoke a little peace.  Howl at the moon.

Then you could, you know, pretend like you went back in time again.  Or maybe you really did.  Go back in time that is.  As a Native American.  A wolf.  A bear.  Or a manatee.  I mean, who really knows for sure? Where the hell was I?

If a tree has a projected free fall zone, then there's no need to have a professional come in.  That's when you want Bud and the boys, all liquored up with a couple of large axes.  I've been involved twice.  It's a hoot.  I have pictures.  Pre-digital age.  I digress again.

If it has a projected free fall zone, then there's no need to attack it from the top.  First you make a low pie slice on the side and direction you want it to fall.  Depending on the size of the tree, you're going to slice in from two to four inches, and then physically take the pie wedge out that you've just cut.

Then on the opposite side of the tree, from ten to fifteen inches above the pie wedge you start your cut.  If all goes well, you'll hear a little crack and rumble.  That's when you grab your ankles.  No, wait a minute, that's if it falls in your direction.  Just back away.  Or run like hell.  Whichever suits the moment.

This oak was a perfect drop by our son-in-law the scientist.  First drop, with a saw that is.  Besides his scientific wizardry he does OK with a chain saw too!

Even when you have made a nice pie slice and your top cut is in perfect alignment, sometimes, if a little top heavy, the tree can rock back onto your chain saw blade.  Then you gotta get a steel wedge and tap that in to free your saw.  Or get a football team to push the tree in the right direction.  Whichever is easiest.  Fortunately that has only happened once so far.

You can make the perfect cuts and sometimes the tree doesn't cooperate.  The cleanest cut and fall allows the tree to fall directly on the ground without hitting anything.  Like a barn, or a house.  Or propane tank.  Or getting hung up in another tree, which gets extremely dangerous.

Then you have to get in and up and piece by piece start slicing the branches that are hung up, all the while being extremely cautious and ready for movement.  The trees gonna move, cause that's your goal.  You just don't want it to move onto you.  It's a lot of cautious, painstaking and dangerous work, much happily avoided if at all possible.  And fortunately, that has only happened once so far.

Slicing a big tree off at the trunk is merely the beginning. Once it's down, then begins the "brushing" process. This is when you take your chain saw and essentially cut all the small limbs off the larger branches and trunk, leaving on what you want to retain as firewood.  I typically cut everything containing leaves, and (ideally) one should try to time the drop when the tree is leave-less, if possible.  It's much less work. 

So then you take all this "slash" off and stack it somewhere.  Ideally you could have this stuff chipped for your soil.  That's a little bit more work.  And a big machine rental for me.  Since I have been doing most of the clean-up work myself, I have burned all mine so far.  And that's still a lot of work.

I've got about eight piles ready to ignite.  I won't start till after the first rain this fall when the ground gets wet.  Then it's all about getting a small "seat" going and let her rip.  I don't care if some of the seasoned brush is damp, nor if some of the brush is green.  Once I get  a "seat" going, it's on.  And that "seat" sometimes starts as small as a shoebox full of dry kindling, and then grows to about a six by six by six foot pyre.  All I need then is a dead Viking.  But then I'd have to go back in time.  Again. 

Then you start slicing up the bigger branches and trunk into four to six foot manageable lengths.  And then all that gets piled.

Then, once your body recovers from that abuse you "buck" it all up, slicing it into the correct lengths for your wood stove, in my case about twenty inches.  The smaller diameter (up to six inches or so) sticks get stacked right away.

The larger rounds get piled (yet again) and await my brother in law and his magnificent log splitter.  This thing has a Hemi in it, I swear.  It slices through the most knot gnarled thick oak truck with the ease of a soft breeze.  It could split a splitter.  It could split railroad ties with the train on the track.  Can't wait to see what it will do to this gnarled bit.

Once split, them pieces (of wood) all get stacked and await cremation this winter to keep out bodies warm.

This house came with a nice Vermont Castings wood stove in the living room.  We also have a gas heater with a thermostat, just like downtown.  It's nice to hear that kick on at five in the morning, but once a little coffee is coursing through my veins I'm making a fire.  With the assistance of a ceiling fan we're able to disburse that heat pretty well throughout the main living area of the house.  The gas heater rarely kicks on at night due to the heat from the wood stove.

Wood is a renewable energy, and ideally should not contribute to green house gas if it is perfectly combusted.  And most wood stoves these days are getting better at combustion, ours has an after burner catalytic converter, just like downtown.

We burned three cords of wood last year, 95% oak, which is probably the best hardwood to burn here on the west coast.  It burns much cleaner than a soft wood like pine, and hence there is less creosote build-up and less of a chance for a chimney fire.  Right now I've got just about one cord stacked (a cord is a neatly piled stack of wood that is 4'x4'x8') and about two more bucked and ready to be split.

Then I've got another three to five cords of oak on the ground in stages of brushing and bucking.  There's also about five to six cords of pine that's down.  I'm going to brush and buck that up, and my son (for one) will use it for camping.  If you're heading up to the Sierra's to go camping (and I know you) and you need some fire wood stop by.  I'll load you up while supplies last.

Then there's probably another few cords of oak that will be coming down as soon as I get my current mess cleaned up.  They're coming down so I can plant my fruit trees.  And once that is complete I'm gonna stop clearing for a year and concentrate elsewhere.  But by that time I'll have the stuff down that will allow me to do my deer fencing, the subject of another post.

I still have an easy ten to twelve or more cords of oak that need to come down, so I figure I'll have dollar-free energy for about a decade.  Definitely not energy free, it's the most physically taxing of all the fun stuff around here so far.  By that time the land should be clear and I'll be ready for a natural gas/propane conversion because my body will be battered and worn.

Besides thinning the trees, I'm also thinning most of the brush.  There's a lot of Manzanita on the "Upper 40", and I'm going to retain most of that natural charm.  I will continue to thin out and burn all the dead and dying stuff, of which there is a lot, since homeboy (the previous owner) was not so motivated during his last few years here.  Once that is done I may splash the hillside with some azaleas and rhododendrons as design sees fit.  We'll see.  But the main thing is getting it all cleared.  That drops the fire hazard plus gives me an opportunity to visualize the splashes.

Oh, and by the way, I also must mention that trees, given the opportunity, will grow just about anywhere.  On our land, they have not chosen to grow in one wonderfully level spot.  Nooooooo.  Not here.  They start at the bottom and go all the way to the top, and everywhere on un-level land in between.  It's been challenging to say the least.

I donate blood.  (Nice segue I know, but there really is a trick to this tale-just stay with me...)  So anyway, I went down after 9/11 and they didn't need me then.  They had more donations then they could handle at that one particular moment in time.  So I made an appointment and went back about sixty days later when they needed more.  I've continued to donate every 54 days (or whatever it is) since and they're always having a shortage.  It's been over a decade since 9/11.  Come on America, do we really need a catastrophe to drop a pint?  Couldn't we just do it a couple times a year for the fun of it?

I used to donate blood in a previous life, like back when I was an alien.  I donated then as I do now for three reasons: The people there have to be nice to you, even if you smell bad.  You get free treats, like cookies, even if you smell bad.  And I get my blood pressure checked for free, even if I smell bad.  I also feel that my alien body benefits from having to do the Corpuscle Hustle, allowing my entire circulatory system to get a semi-routine aerobic workout.  They say donating blood saves lives.  I do it for personal gain.

Oh, and by the way, to any Bill O'Reilly fans out there that are O Positive:  If you received a shot of OP blood in the San Francisco Bay Area about thirty years ago and sometimes feel like you're from a planet like Uranus you may be correct.

So last summer I had a regularly scheduled vampire event and my son in law the scientist was up with the fam.  He's a donator too and went down with me.  On the way there, there or back from there, or somewhere in between he convinced me we should chop down a tree.

I did tell him that my chain saw was in the shop, but we did have a couple axes.  He was adamant.  He was on a mission.  I think there were lumberjack issues.  So after donating a pint each, and after listening to them say that we should not have any strenuous physical exercise for 72 hours, we came back to the casa here and chopped down a tree.  It was a modest pine, only about a ten inch diameter and thirty feet on the high.  We huffed and we puffed, but that bad boy came down.

The next time he was up he took my new Echo for a road test.  I have a new Echo 310 with a fourteen inch bar, which is perfect (for me).  As long as the chain is sharp, I'm cutting everything in my path and the smaller bar is not nearly as physically draining as a larger bar can be.  Here he is (below) dropping that oak (above) as well as a couple others.  He has now proved his lumberjack-ness.  He is now a lumberjack, and he's OK.  He can sing the song with impunity. 

                                                               Cutting the pie wedge.

                                                               Making the big slice.

                                                                    Touchdown!

Since we have moved to this house, there has been a lot of stuff going on.  I'm sure of it.  Anyway, we do have a lovely covered porch in the front, and nice lawn (I'm working on) and picket fence.  The fence needs work, you'll get to hear all about it later!  But it's still a great place to relax, especially in the morning.  You don't want to be out there on a summer afternoon though, you'll end up like that toad in "African Violet's Like it Rough" land. 

So I was out there one day this last winter, taking a thirty-eight second break from my chores around here.  And as I gazed out upon our threshold, I saw the proverbial forest through the trees.  There was a sunset view out there and I was gonna get it.  There were only about fifteen obstacles in the way...

                                          The above "window" was not there a few trees ago...

Our phenomenal tree guy will be out again this winter cleaning and trimming up another three huge oaks in front.  The goal is to watch the sun set without interference beyond the westward range about two miles away.

Rooster Update

The Gold Master has recently run into potential borrowed time.  I've now had a couple personal run ins with him and (unfortunately) have sent him flying like a split roasted Brazilian soccer ball into the fence, a good six or more feet away.  He perceived I was accosting one of his girls, charged right on at me and then went flying like a kick ball when I was in sixth grade.  My wife has also had a run in, and he actually left a bruised wound.  She sent him flying with her hand, sort of like a volleyball.  Hey, I'm noticing a sporting trend...

BUT then, the day after they whacked each other, she had him in her arms and they were having a chat.  I dunno.  Anytime he perceives a threat to his girls, he gets aggressive.

If it continues, he has a house and ten acres waiting.

African Violet Update

These lower three violets were split (by hand) about three weeks ago.  They were also juggled and stuff and had no blooms.  They are happy, healthy and blooming now.  You can read more about them and my treatment thereof in "African Violets Like it Rough!"   And they look infinitely better than the silk replicas below.


                                        

African Violets Like It Rough

Every once in a while I may stray from a regularly scheduled homestead post.  This may happen because something of importance or irrelevance may have strayed directly into my lap and it's something I know you just gotta know.  It will always be something I know about, or can make fun of, or both.  Otherwise, it would be a complete waste of time. 

So, my wife's parents were by last weekend.  They had just spent a week up at Lake Tahoe with my father-in-law's immediate siblings (it's a BIG family) and were on their way home to the Bay Area.  We're sort of on the way (minor detour) and we always welcome the opportunity to spend some time with them. 

Prior to their Tahoe week, one Aunt and Uncle (in the immediate circle) exchanged vows for their 50th anniversary.  It was a touching ceremony and HUGE family event, bringing the tens of thousands of relatives together from all over the universe for one sweet spanking soiree.

There's a lot of love and laughter in this family I married into, a LOT of family too.  I am sincerely honored to be a part of it, and after thirty-seven years I almost remember some of their names.

There is an African Violet in our guest room that looks exactly like the one below.  Exactly.  Same pot and everything.  Blooms like this a few times a year.  The blooms last for weeks and weeks.

And Mom was dismayed when she saw it because she has this absolutely lovely and healthy African Violet on her kitchen table that never blooms.  So she asked my secret(s) which I shared with her and shall now share with the world, or at least the four or five of you individuals out there who may care.

Besides being an old poop fart and fledgling homesteader, apparently I seem to have garnered an aptitude for African Violets.  Couldn't tell you why.  I also bake cakes.  And change tires, socks and light bulbs.  I do a lot of other things too, some best not mentioned here.  Let's stick with the African Violets.

African Violets like it rough.  My lovely wife came up with that title, and she knows about rough.  Like my beard for instance.  Or how she plays poker.  She's rough about that stuff.

There's a shoot house howdy plethora of extraneous irrelevance out there in space land about these devilish little darlings, a ton of do's and don'ts and whatzits.  Do I have to list them all here?  If I went to every site that had complete waste of time laundry lists of do's and don'ts and listed them it'd be like having to deal with African Violets like they do and I'd probably go insane as if I haven't already anyway.  

It'd be like walking to the store to get a cookie.  I just want a cookie.  Maybe two.  OK, a few bags.

And so the sidewalks and streets are enveloped in a carnival type atmosphere and they are full of all kinds and flavors of variations and nuisances.  And everybody thinks you've got some cookies.  And you don't.  You're on your way to the cookie store. If you had any cookies you wouldn't be going to the store to get some.  How annoying.  

So you finally get to the cookie store and they don't have the kinds of cookies you want, and you have to settle for something else.  Probably with something healthy in it.  Like fruits.  Or vegetables.  Or bugs.  And probably sugar substitutes.

When I want a cookie, I want a cookie with more sugar in it than Bavaria has limes.  I want a cookie that has enough sugar in it to cover Teddy Roosevelt's mustache on Mt Rushmore like snow.  I want enough sugar from that cookie coursing through my veins so that I can't stop dancing like Snoopy on a sunny day.

So when you finally walk out of the store a little person in a rain coat kicks you in the shin and steals all your cookies anyway.   And you never saw it coming. 

I think that sums it all up.

Go to any site about African Violets and they'll have a laundry list of do's and don'ts.  Don't water from above, water from below.  You must have perfect soil mixtures, perfect temperature, perfect light.
Stand up, sit down,  Katmandu.

I suppose some of all this hyperbolic nonsense and grief must work, for them, and that's okay, but a lot of it sure looks like a lot of time-consuming bother to me.  I got a couple acres of a whole bunch of stuff I'm trying to deal with around here every day , I don't have time to massage their leaves and tickle their toes. 


African Violets like it rough, at least mine do.  James Dean rough.  Marlon Brando rough.   The morning after big party rough.

I don't do most of any of the stuff  those African Violet pundits speak of, AND, I do a lot of stuff they say you shouldn't. 

Here's one of our violets.  I think it looks pretty darn happy.

One cool, artistic type thing you can do with them is match the color of the blossoms with the pot it's in, as well as the decor of the room.  Your options are endless since you can pretty much get a violet in any color under the sun.  Blue. Yellow.  Pink.  Magenta.  Purple.  Burgundy.  Violet.  Blended colors.  Single malts.

There's six African Violet's like this in our kitchen greenhouse window, scattered among a few teapots.  Three this color, three a little darker purple.  Different color pots.  My wife's keen decorator eye of course, my keen "smack 'em around" attitude with the greenery.  They're usually all blooming at once, which is really quite lovely.  This is our last bloomer of this go round, as a matter of fact, I just had to split the other five.  They all had from one to three off-shoots, and I now have seven more violets.  (I gave one to Mom.)

If you listen to and believe those other experts, I should have been in a sterilized room, wearing one of them sterilized suits.  Using some sterilized everything.  I should have been humming Brahms or Mozart instead of blasting Eat a Peach by The Allman Brothers.

I simply sat on the back deck step, took them out of the pot and ripped them apart.  I tore 'em up.  Like a phone book, or a canary.  Big time wrestling rough.  Then I juggled them like chain saws and tea pots, all one at a time.  Then the clowns and monkeys showed up and I had to sit down for a while.

They like it rough, like Kathleen Turner "Do me a solid Runkle" rough.  Rough baby rough. 

Seriously (I hope), I dug my fingers in the pots and took out the plants.  They were all still rather adolescent, their root structures only took up about half of the pot.  Once out, I took them apart right at the base
of the plant and top of the root structure, trying to retain as much of the soil as possible around the roots.  Once apart, I put the babies aside and re-planted the originals.  Here they are today:
 

                         
As I said, pretty much any color under the sun.

You can certainly keep multiple plants in the same pot, it depends on what you're trying to do.  You know, the decorative look, that creative schwung fey sort of thing.  The typical sized decorative African Violet pot
( 4-5" diameter, 4-6" depth) is the perfect size to maintain a single healthy violet for years.  I think it gets a bit crowded after that. 

For one thing, you don't get a nice, fat cluster of blossoms in the center of your plant (like the two at the top of the post).  You get from two to twenty smaller, scattered clusters depending on how many babies have sprouted.   But it depends on your preference.  Period.

You can always toss the multiple plant into a larger pot and let her rip.  I once put a solo pink violet into about a ten inch diameter pot that was about six inches at it's deepest point.  It frolicked in my wife's office in Santa Cruz with a well-lit, indirect, north-westerly, sunny sort of point of view for a couple of years, and responded well to the larger pot.  The leaves would have served Adam and Eve and there was constantly a long lived, large and robust cluster of pink blooms.  Conclusion: A larger pot yields a bigger plant.

Unfortunately, the move to Portland was too much for it.  (OK, you do have to be careful with them sometimes, like when you move them seven hundred miles in early spring.)   Over the Siskiyou Mountains.  Through the rivers and trees.  All that snow.  All those gas fumes.  No potty breaks.
And then it got motion sick...


On the other hand, the violet below also made the journey.  It's the same plant as the first photo.  It thrived on the Central California Coast, where we bought it.  It survived the trip to Portland and did fine up there.  It did not like the journey here to the foothills, a much more arid climate.  It moved three times in four years, or something like that.  I still get confused.   It did one move OK, but the last two kind of beat it up.

When we got to this house it was reduced to stubble.  Like my face most of the time.  Four or five dilapidated leaves.  Hadn't bloomed for a couple of years.  It looked like Stallone does near the end of all his Rocky movies, blind, broken and bloody, and then, some how, some way...

This is the first time this plant has bloomed since moving here in 2009.  This one likes it Rocky rough.  All around the edges. 

I will say this, it took a lot of love, care, and patience to bring it back to this state.  But it's an integral part of the guest room decor and had to be saved.  It currently receives indirect northerly light.  And now...

When I re-pot, I size the root structure (ball) to the interior of the pot, and then fill in potting soil loosely all around it, bottom and sides.  I just use a basic potting soil, nothing special, but definitely one WITHOUT added fertilizers.  If I want to add fertilizer I'll dang do it myself!  I'll shake the pot up, level it out, add some more soil.  Then I'll SATURATE the pot with water. Sprinkle on more soil as it settles.  Hit it again with water, enough to wet the additional soil.  And then let it drain thoroughly.

Obviously, if you do this correctly, water will overflow the attached basin of your designer pot and surely the unattached designer tray.  Plan ahead and don't leave your violet on the marble coffee table in the living room, the mahogany end table in the library or the leather saddle in the master bedroom.  A kitchen sink is a good place.  A bathtub.  A bathroom sink.  Outside is good.  But not in the street.  Stay out of the street.

If you do this outside, like I did, utilize the soft morning light.  Or indirect light.  Or shade.  They can take a little sun, but prolonged exposure to direct sunlight will fry them.  Like toads on acid.   

All right, these are things I definitely now know that are bad for African Violets: direct sunlight, snow, salt water taffy and  tsunamis.  Probably flames.  And being locked in the hall closet for weeks.  I'm certain there's a few others... ya, I just checked my brain, there's about 6000 more.  For the sake of time, sanity and probably national security; any natural disaster is bad plus 5999 other things.

If you do this re-potting and saturation thing (outside) correctly ants will need an ark.  Worms will need scuba gear.  Beetles could surf.  Beach Boys music would waft upon the breeze.  Memories of an incredible  summer in California would flood the perimeter of...wait a minute, where was I?

Once the adults were all properly re-potted, I turned my attention to the babies. Same technique, smaller plastic pots.  They're transients yet.  Anybody need an African Violet? 


                                 

This photo was taken at day two.  It's been over a week.  They're all doing fine, all mothers and babies.

They like it rough, like Barbara Streisand in Yentle.

Depending on the plant I'm re-potting, many times I'll give them a dose of Vitamin BI, until today, because when I did my customary research before touting something I discovered several sites stating it's about a 50 year old myth that B1 prevents transplant shock:

The Bottom Line
• Vitamin B-1, aka thiamine, does not reduce transplant shock or stimulate new root growth on
plants outside the laboratory
• A nitrogen fertilizer is adequate for transplanting landscape plants; avoid use of “transplant
fertilizers” that contain phosphate
• Healthy plants will synthesize their own thiamine supply
• Healthy soils contain beneficial microbes that synthesize thiamine as well
• Difficult-to-transplant species may be aided by application of auxin-containing products in
addition to nitrogen, but read the label and don’t add unnecessary and potentially harmful
chemicals (this includes organics!)
• Adequate soil moisture is crucial for new root growth; be sure to irrigate new transplants
frequently and use mulch to reduce evaporation

What can I say, this is a voyage of discovery for everyone, including me.  So, I'll probably forgo another purchase of B1 and try something like Blood meal, Cottonseed Meal, PVFS Liquid Fish, Fish Meal, and/or Pelleted Fertilizers, for starters.

Besides fourteen grit sandpaper rough (which would take the shell off an abalone) and treating them like Patrick Willis of the 49ers does to opposing teams, what do I really do to African Violets?

I let them dry between watering.  That's probably the most important thing, and all the pundits will agree.    As a matter of fact, it's better to go long than short.  You'll kill them straight away with too much water.    And then when I do water I saturate them as above.  Tsunami strength saturation.  And I only water them in the morning, which limits any potential mold or mildew.

I also use plant food with every watering, potted plants can't get nutrients any other way.  My in-ground plants, herbs and vegetables all get compost and organic stuff, like fish emulsion and worm tea.  (They will soon be getting a chicken manure swill, currently under development.)

My indoor "ornamental s" all get steroids (plant food), Miracle Grow for some and for the African Violets I've used Schulz's for years.  $5.39 at Amazon.com.  Seven drops to a quart of water.  One quart per plant.  Saturate.  Drain.  That's it. 

How often do I water?  When they're dry.  About every 14-18 days (season depending) at the coast and Oregon.  About every 7-10 days here in the Sierra Nevada Foothills.  About every 2 hours if you live in the Sahara desert.

I water from the top.  Sometimes I warm the water from the tap to room temperature or so.  Sometimes I don't, if I feel mean and stuff.  Sometimes I take out my aggressions on my violets.  They like it rough.  Cold water rough.   Kid Shelleen  rough.  (Lee Marvin's Oscar winning performance in Cat Ballou.)

They seem to like that.  The warm water that is.  I will also rinse the leaves off under the faucet with warm water.  All the pundits in the universe will swear that is bad.  They swear it will kill the plant.  Every picture of every violet on this page has been showered.  I swear on a stack of Vonneguts.  

And now a caveat (and maybe part of my secret): we're on a well here without any chlorine.  If you rinse the leaves off with chlorinated water you will end up with whitish water spots all over the plant, sort of  like the measles only different.  However, even this vicious attack won't kill your violet.  They like it rough.   Cowardly Lion rough.  Mennen Skin Bracer rough.

Chlorine will evaporate if you leave your full water can outside for a couple days.  (This is what I did when we were on city water.)  If you leave your water can unattended for a couple weeks all the water will probably evaporate too and you'll have to start all over.  Just something to think about.  Here's a couple more ideas on dechlorinating your tap water.

Remember, indirect sunlight.  And feed them.  You can probably keep the plant healthy and alive without steroids, but it's been my experience that those (steroids) will give you blooms.  My Christmas Cacti are the same way.  I stopped feeding them and they stopped blooming.  Started feeding again and wallah, blossoms. I use Schulz's brand of cactus food for them as well,  same formula as for the violets and everything.  I usually get two blooms each year, with each plant exploding in a panorama of color.

That's it.  My secret(s).  Obviously love your plants.  Any plant.  They know.  Love 'em and leave 'em alone.  Let them all dry between watering, it's better to go long than short.  (But not too freaking Sahara Desert long!)  Feed them each time per fertilizer instructions.

Just like your retinas will fry if you stare at the sun, so shall their somewhat fragile bodies burn.

If, after all this, your African Violet still does not bloom I suggest you move it to a new location.  Or shoot it with a gun and start over.  (Move it outside first.)  Or get it out of the closet and onto the kitchen window sill.  The more indirect light they receive the more apt they will be to bloom. 

And if you're never thought about growing an African Violet or other house plant, here's a website and at least one good reason why you might consider it: believeinabetterworld.org

"Here's a list of the top ten anti-pollutant indoor house plants rated best by The New Ecologist.com:

1. The Feston Rose plant
2. Devil's Ivy
3. Phalaenopsis
4. English Ivy
5. Parlor Ivy
6. African Violets
7. Christmas Cactus
8. Yellow Goddess
9. Garlic Vine
10. Peace Lily

Just because I have an affinity for African Violets and can bake cakes does not mean I'm infallible.  While I also make a mean fruit pie and Tiramisou, I have not yet mastered the piquantness of  a Strawberry Meringue Creme Fondant Souffle. 

I can't seem to be able to grow orchids or miniature roses either.  I kill the roses, straight away.  Every time.  Does not matter what I do, I kill them.

I can keep orchids alive, for years, and even though I feed them (and move them around) I have yet to have one produce a bloom in some ten years of attempts.(Needless to say I have not purchased an orchid for myself for decades.)  Until I can get a gift orchid to bloom our house shall be graced with African Violets.

A Couple African Violet Side Notes (for the serious minded African Violet person)

I will groom my African Violets by removing dead (or dying) blooms or leaves whenever necessary.  Simply get your finger in as close to the stem as possible (without creating catastrophic design) and snap either blossom or leaf right off the stem.

You can also propagate them easily, the most common method is by leaf cutting in spring.  

Any healthy, firm leaf will do. Remove the entire leaf with petiole (leaf stem) by snapping or cutting it off at the stem of the plant and trim the petiole to about 1 to 1 1/2 inches in length. Then make a hole in the growing medium (such as a half sand, half vermiculite mix) with a pencil, insert the leaf stem into the hole, and water thoroughly. According to Jones and Conover, (alias Smith and Jones) roots normally appear at the petiole base in 3 to 4 weeks under good conditions and leaves of the new plants appear at the medium surface 3 to 4 weeks after root formation. In two to six months, young plants start from the bases of the stalks, which you'll be able to repot once they've formed two to three leaves. 


Read more: African Violets | Garden Guides http://www.gardenguides.com/675-african-violets.html#ixzz22tyWDWqw

Chicken Fantasia Land

Hey ho, before I get started, I want to say I got a 1944 "silver" nickel as change the other day at K-Mart.  That hasn't happened to me in a good five or six years, maybe seventeen.  (The US minted nickels with a silver alloy between 1942-1945 because nickel was cited as a material critical to the war effort.  Nickel, the metal, not the coin, was used in copious amounts to produce nickel-steel armor plating for tanks, aircraft, warships, and artillery pieces to mention a few uses.  Same thing with pennies, which went from copper to zinc-coated steel during the same time period.)

That little silver nickel is worth about a buck and a half today in just metal content.  Numismatically speaking, you could at least add another nickel onto that!  Hopefully you've all been saving your pre-1982 pennies too, which are now actually worth over two cents (each) just in copper content.  Here's a great site for more information about those coins you have (or have not) been saving: www.coinflation.com.  (Scroll down for an up-the-minute metal value of circulated coins.)

My wife and I have been in this area since 1979, a lovely locale in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in Northern California.  We raised a couple kids here, raised a lot of hell too.  That right there's another story, maybe another time.  We divorced.  Remarried other people.  Divorced them.  Remarried each other.  That right there's another story too!  It's much more romantic than I'm making it sound here, but I am trying to get to Chicken Fantasia Land.

After the kids went off to college, we went on a four year walkabout, taking us to the Central California coast for three and up to Portland, Oregon for a year.  We sold our house here in 2005 when our journey began and everywhere we've lived since we've rented.   When we finally returned "home" we were able to pick up this property on a short sale.

One of the reasons this property really appealed to me (at least) was it's homestead potential.   I don't think this country or the universe in general is out of this economic mess yet.  I think we still have to trod barefoot through the Black Forest, with a blindfold on, for longer than anyone would like, until the planet blows up probably, before it gets any better.  I wanted the potential, at the very least, to provide my family with as much self sufficiency as possible, or as much as a rapidly aging old poop fart can muster as life moseys on.
   
Any short sale house these days is going to need some TLC, some more than others.  This house was not in terrible condition, and it has good "bones", but it needed an immediate face lift and appliance upgrade, which will be the subject of another post.

Built on a hillside in the late 1970's, it sits right about in the middle of two and a half acres with about half an  acre of level land immediately about the structure.  The land slopes up and down from there at a very heart-healthy angle.  As a matter of fact, a simple hundred and fifty yard jaunt down to the road to fetch the mail (and back up) once a day will afford you enough cardio for at least a week.   Well, you know, if you went swimming every day too and maybe road your bike to work a couple times and went to the gym and stuff.  But seriously, the drive's Lombard Street steep, the tourist part.  About as long too.

The house also affords sensational privacy from every angle.  There is thick manzanita on the high and both sides, with many scattered pine and oak trees.  Except for the place a half mile across the shallow valley you cannot see another structure from this vista.  Either floor.  There's a point to this, but I forget. 

Wait a minute!  I remember.  You can pee anywhere you want around here and no one's gonna see!  Or care.  Our grandson took advantage of this on his last visit.  Living down in the East Bay Area, he doesn't have many opportunities to urinate al fresco.  He turns six July 30th and completely comprehends the enormous benefit of peeing out side.  You can certainly miss a toilet, but you can't miss the outdoors!

During the manic interior refurbishing push (before we moved in), I was also taking into consideration many aspects of landscaping and homesteading.   The previous owner had done some good improvements over the years, like he'd been watching This Old House and actually paid attention.  For a day.  Then he'd done others that made you wonder if he was under the influence of some mind altering substance that made him think like Cousin Eddie on a Blue Ribbon bender.

And then there was the apathetic drizzle of despair in the air that envelopes many of these short sale properties.  Once loved, there's now disarray.  People fight with their lender a while, then give up, let go, suck it up, and move on, leaving behind a pile of unfulfilled dreams.

And besides being upside down on his loan, the previous owner was also undergoing a divorce.  As I mentioned, it wasn't in terrible condition, but it did look like Fred Sanford had taken up residence inside the house and Iggy Pop, with all his innate handyman, landscaping design and gardening skills taking care of the outside.  You can tell, he's got sprinkler solenoid plastic shrub valve transformer adapter kit written all over him.  Well, maybe the last part.  Almost.  He almost looks like one of the This Old House Crew's second cousin.  From somewhere other than where they're from.  For sure.

Oh yeah, and figure Iggy was probably on heroin most of the time.   And really motivated.  To drool that is.  And stare at his feet.  And Fred had been, uh, well, um, drinking.  And probably farting.  A lot.  He eats cabbage you know.  But a serious prospective purchaser must look beyond these lurking phantoms, odd odors and excessive sweating to comprehend the good bones concealed within.

OK, so homeboy had this old chicken shack sitting upwind about ten feet from the front lawn, and  about twenty-five feet from the front porch and house.  WTF?  The front porch downwind from the warm wonderful aroma of soggy or baked chicken manure?  Iggy and he must have concocted that idea together  one fiesta fueled afternoon, eating Cheez Doodles (made on Doodle Mountain by the way), Chasing the Dragon and swilling magnums of Old English 800.

It was too small for what I envisioned as far as chickens were concerned, but it was well made, with steel supports and chicken wire all around.   Good bones.

I splashed a little paint on the former waaay too small little hen house (to the faaar left there, see what I mean?) and tossed some green house plastic about the frame.  This has now served as an interim green house for over a year, keeping patio plants frost-free in winter and harboring a variety of other plants throughout the year.  Considering my current agenda and schedule, a permanent green house is a few years down the road.   Good thing this thing is sound, it's been through a few of good storms so far and managed fine.  Giddy-up.

That one was quick and easy.  My next undertaking, Chicken Fantasia, would take me over a year before completing.  Do not confuse my Chicken Fantasia with apparently a thousand different food recipes using the delightfully tasteful, descriptively happy and bouncy word "fantasia".   Apparently this noun can be used any old way one likes when creating or describing a chicken recipe.  For instance...

Iggy Pop could spray some Cheez Whiz on a chicken leg and wallah, Chicken Fantasia.
Keith Richards could sprinkle a little cocaine on a chicken breast simmering in a pot of Jack Daniels, Chicken Fantasia.  Nick Nolte could spray paint some Krylon on a chicken thigh and eat it raw, Chicken Fantasia.   Cousin Eddie could bar-be-que a squirrel, Chicken Fantasia.  See what I mean?

So about forty feet downwind from the house and back deck, homeboy had built a goat pen.  He hadn't maintained any goats or the pen for a number of years before we hit the scene, but the perimeter fencing (and posts) and the structure itself had good bones.  There's that dang word again.  I mean, the goat house had a foot thick concrete foundation.  How can you not put that to use?  This was definitely influenced by the This Old House crew, well, sorta.

The existing roof was without overhang on the sides and back and leaking along the roof edges.  The two by four (and six) pieces of board that made up the sides were dilapidated and haphazardly skewed.  The ob-la-di wasn't anything like the da and the helter was definitely skelter.  It looked like Joe Walsh had joined Iggy, Homey and Fred for a weekend of homestead debauchery.

After drinking a case of cheap whiskey and snorting a barn-yard water tub full of cocaine, homeboy said (at about three in the morning-I have a transcript), "I got an idea!  Let's be carpenters!" 

As I mentioned, the perimeter posts and fencing were in good condition, but both the gates were battered and bruised and barely hanging on their hinges.  They both went a round or two with one really large and pissed off goat.   Or, and this could have really happened,  a couple of professional gypsies came up to party and they brought a couple of elephants.  They (the elephants) tromped through the gates to free the goats which were going to be eaten for lunch.  I also think there was a monkey involved.  Disney has an option. Or, they fell apart due to lack of maintenance and obsolescence.  Or the elephant thing.  Either way.

The overall Fantasia land project loomed large, so I gave myself a year to complete due to all the other diddily do's that will be the subject of many plots and posts to come.  By the way, thanks for coming along so far.  It's probably gonna get a lot weirder and a little bit crazier before it really gets insane.

My first step was to weather-proof the structure, and I began by enlarging and putting on a new roof.  Pretty simple really.  The existing roof was flat, had a proper slope and the rafters were sound.  I tore off the existing rolled roofing, then tacked on three sheets of half inch plywood spread out over the existing sub-roof, which was still in decent enough condition to allow extra support.  The front, which is where I aligned my plywood, already overhung the structure by about eighteen inches.  My new addition now allowed for a six inch overhang on the rear and both sides, something it did not have before and which any structure needs to keep rain from penetrating the top of the side.  In general.

With the sub-roof up, I rolled on some new comp, tacked, flashed and sealed the edges.  I then cut to fit and tossed on about six sheets of basic exterior siding and trimmed all that out.  I then caulked the seams, tossed on a dress and put on some heels, splashed on some paint and went out on the town.  Wait a minute.  Forget the heels and dress thing.  Where the heck was I going with that? 

There were already two "man" door size openings in the original structure, although the interior was wide open.  This is the part that was not put together when the sun came up after our derelicts had pounded nails all night.  I think they did another line instead.  Probably smoked a joint too.  Then they sat back while thousands of sparkling little sea anemones floated throughout their degenerating ambiance and toyed with their intentions.  All they could do at this point was Lay Around the Shanty...

For my purposes, I divided the interior in half by tacking up about one sheet of plywood.  A couple slices and a few dices here and there.  Extra stuff.  Support.  Things.  You know, modifying an existing something into a future anything always presents an interesting array of variances and nuisances.

For instance, suppose you wanted a new TV.  You'd have to drive to the store to buy one and then there'd be a stupid person.  Doing something stupid.  There.  On the way there.  On the way back.  On the side trip to the cookie store.  There's always a stupid person doing something stupid.  Everywhere.  So you're gonna to run into one.  It's gonna happen, and it's gonna be a nuisance, unless, of course...

You happen to be listening to the Beatles Strawberry Fields on the way to the store and then somehow you happen upon this flock of finely festooned flamingos, cracker jack crested and bedazzling bright breasted.  Un-prepossessed and way overdressed.  All wearing top hats.  And sport coats.  And canes.  Candy canes.  Sugar pops.   And, uh, crimson and indigo and pink things were all around.  Lots of pink things.  And indigo things.  And pink things.  Everywhere.  And more brightly colored stuff.

And then the suburban landscape sprawl fades into a panoramic vista of unparallelled beauty and delight.  With rolling green hillsides and lovely lavender lilies, Peter Max follies and warm woolen mittens.  And then you see this White Rabbit with a watch running along like he's in a hurry... 

At this stage every thing is going to be a variance until the flashback subsides.

So anyway, after a lot of those, (the variance and the nuisance thing, not the flashback thing) the side to the right is now used for chicken food and sundry storage.  Its a good hall closet size type affair, so far safe and secure from any invading rodents.  The left half is now the Rooster and his harem's imperial chalet.

They have an upper loft with three nesting boxes, and now two nesting boxes on the floor.  The girls generally like a "safe" place to lay, and I originally only made the upper.  But once they started laying, I believe there was an "access" issue for some of them since I was finding a few eggs on the ground.  In the cage, but on the ground.  I subsequently made the lower boxes and I am now getting about half the production in the upper boxes and half in the lower.

There are a couple "ladders" to get hither and yon, and a couple manzanita perches.  They love their perches!  The concrete floor is covered with rice hay, which is a little bit less "harsh" than typical straw hay.  Straw hay?  I'm getting confused.  Has anybody got a hat?  A riverboat? 

There are now two built-to-fit "man" doors to each side, (a lot more variance and nuisance) and there is also a little fifteen by fifteen inch opening at ground level on the hen house side.  The large door has remained open on that side since early May, but I suspect it will be closing sometime this fall when it gets colder.  Right now they all perch inside the cage at night, which is essentially an exterior extension of their enclosed environment that should be safe.  I say should be, but you never know.

I have taken precautions.  I sank a few posts, built a sturdy frame, added green corrugated plastic roofing, sank wire about a foot deep in concrete around the perimeter, placed gun turrets at the corners and tacked it up so that the largest opening would not allow a small piece of toast through.  Or a minnow.  Or a cheeze doodle.  Or a midget in a rain coat.  We get some strange varmints out here!

I also believe our accidental rooster to be an incredible security inclusion for those hens.  He routinely demonstrates protective behavior around them, and then there was that turkey vulture experience. (Previous Post Update)  I would now put him up against a medium to large dog or coyote and I think he could do some serious damage.  The problem with those dang coyotes though is that they pack up, and while he could do some initial damage he'd eventually be overwhelmed.

We did have some yippie coyote chorus the other night, and although it sounded some distance away the motion sensor light I have on the back of the hen house looked like the encore of a Kiss concert at the high note was going on.  My hearing could have been off.  They could have been closer.  It was twenty-two time.

The second story master bedroom has a small balcony with a great view of Chicken Fantasia Land, which is about sixty feet away.  I keep a loaded .22 rifle in the closet, and there is also a light switch in the master that hits dual flood lights on every side of the house, definitely a This Old House addition!  I flipped the switch for a view and the yips ceased immediately.  And Kiss didn't come back for a second encore either.  No shots were fired and the perimeter was not breached.  I know, what a let down, huh?

Inside the cage I have placed a large, ten gallon waterer on an oak stump left from our first land clearing effort.  Their food bucket hangs on a cable attached to the roof.  It's always good to have their food and water elevated above ground level.  They have a tendency to get dirt and poop tossed in there to the extent it becomes a mucky mess and entirely inedible.  Just imagine, you're really hungry, you're at an elegant restaurant and have been salaciously anticipating the incredibly delicious cuisine that has just arrived before you and then one of my chickens hops on your table and poops on your plate.  Imagine.

I utilized a large stepping stone for the gate entrance, and the gate gets latched every night.  At this stage of events, I believe I have covered every varmint's potential point of entrance. 

They're a self-regulating bunch, that harem, when the sun gets behind the mountain range they head for the roost.  But they still need to be locked in and protected at night because once darkness falls their metabolism slows down dramatically. They can enter a near comatose state while sleeping and can remain that way even when awakened briefly in the middle of the night.  Like by a crowing rooster.  For no reason at all.  At four  the other morning.  If we didn't love him so I'd a thrown a shoe.  One of my wife's of course.  Light weight.  With a point.  Bright color so I can find it right away.

It would be like popping a couple of Ambien every night, with chamomile tea of course.  Or with Johnnie Walker Red, depending on your point of view.  Or it'd be like how Ozzy Osborne would react after drinking a pint of cough syrup (with codeine) and listening to a lecture about how sub-atomic space particles relate to the mating rituals of chimpanzees.  Or something like that.

So, because of the cough syrup, chickens can't really defend themselves at all if some varmint like a fox, weasel or Alice Cooper showed up drunk and wanted their heads.

And they love their perches.  I had to add two more because just about all of 'em were using the lower perch exclusively to get to the higher one.  There wasn't enough room for more than about six of them on that particular roost so they were bickering and squawking and playing queen of the perch, pushing each other off and acting like a bunch of old squabbling hens. 

The addition of two more perches has eliminated that activity, plus a few girls are actually roosting on the top of the open "man" door.  At least for now.  Until it gets cold and the door is closed for the night  Which reminds me, I need to add another perch in the hen house before winter.



All the perches are manzanita, retained from some of the clearing I've been doing.  Which reminds me, if anyone needs some manzanita I've got a zoo load.  Two to twenty feet, one to four inch diameter.  Tree-like.  Lots of it.  Monkeys could play on some of my manzanita.  I could call it my monkey manzanita.



Anyway, because it is manzanita I've been able to be a little creative, utilizing the natural bow of the wood for more liner footage in the space I have available.  Once cut to fit, I'll place the piece in place and figure out the angle of attachment.  Then I'll drill a 5/32 hole through the manzanita at each spot where a screw will pass through, with two or three holes at each end.   I'll then shoot a three inch screw through the hole and into the supporting two by four of the structure.  At the proper elevation of course.  It's been very effective so far, all the perches have received sincere poultry abuse and are still fit and sound.

Between the hen house and the cage, they have a total of around eighty-five square feet of living space, which does not include the second story nesting boxes, library, lounge and recreation center.  An adult chicken needs a minimum of four square feet of living space not to go insane, you know, like having to live in the hall closet.  On acid.  For two weeks.

Our flock of eleven have about the twice the minimum space necessary to not go insane (if kept confined to that space), but they also generally get let out into the open yard every morning, you know, to eat bugs and lift weights.  But only if the warden's not away for the weekend.

I added some of the plastic gutter that had been torn off the house when we had Leafguard rain gutters put on and painted the entire shebang Old Vine, a wonderful blender with the panorama color.  I also splashed the existing perimeter fence as well as the newly built gates with some color.  Those were completed when the chicks were brooding in the garage.

Once Fantasia was complete, and as the darling little demons were brooding in the garage, I next began the subject of ingress and egress.  There is a right angled retaining wall in the back right off the rear deck.  This was originally used as support or something for an above ground pool, back in the hey day when homeboy was still rocking with the crew.  I can just imagine Cousin Eddie in a red speedo, or Eddie Van Halen even. Why the hell not?

So they're both lounging on air mattresses, taking up the entire water surface of the pool, and sipping Mai Tais out of  turquoise Melmac coffee cups.  Or were those cowboy boots?  I forget.  So anyway, they all conspired with Iggy, who was yiggy with some Jager (as well as pain pills) on the next phase of the incredible landscape design they were slowly becoming more unaware of even as they imagined it.

Pfft.

I have a plan for this entire mess, the retaining wall that is, and some of the other gobbily gook around it.  In another post of course.  and another time.  And speaking of posts, I am working with this wall because it has, well, good bones.  However, walking all the way around to get to Fantasia wasn't going to cut it.

My son and I had cut some stairs in the hard rocky clay about mid-cliff, and while used, they are right now for the stalwart only.  Or the US women's beach volley ball team.  Randy Newman would take issue. So would Alice after she took the small pill.

I digressed.  I needed easy ingress and egress.  Jeez.  Somebody stop me.

Since there was already a narrow cleft between the cliff and wall I decided to attack there.  These stairs will be getting dealt with sometime later this winter to spring.  I hope.  There's a plan here too, with a manzanita rail.  It'll be fun.  I'll see. It's like digging in concrete.  With reinforced rebar.  And rocks.  The size of Montana.

I wanted to make sure the existing treated wood was still good, so I hand dug down to the bottom of the wall while also widening the path to three feet.  I moved a lot of dirt by hand.  Hurt my back.  Lightly tore my right Achilles tendon.  Lost a few weeks there.  Put that into the time equation thing.  Whatever that is.

Once at ground level, and with the help of a dear friend, (who also helped enormously during the manic refurbish push) we ran electrical up to the hen house.  I figured I had already trenched half the way, through the hard stuff no less.  Trenching the extra twenty-five feet from there was a breeze.  There was a box already at the retaining wall, so we only had to run it a total of about fifty feet.

Once that was done, I dropped down a yard of drain rock, tossed down about half the dirt I took out so that there was a nicely sloping avenue running along the rear of the wall with a step up at the end.  This was covered with some crushed granite, a wonderful trail cover.  I used the extra dirt to fill in an area nearby that was a little shallow.  Win win.

I have also added shade cloth on the west side of the cage.  I noticed (long before it got screamingly hot) that the cage area did not have any shade from about two o'clock in the afternoon on, the hottest part of the  day.   There's shade behind the cage and in other locations of the yard, but there will be times they are confined to the cage throughout the day.  Like when we're gone.

                                    

Their entire yard is pretty much in the shade all morning, with filtered sunlight flitting in here and there.  But the afternoon can get Sahara like hot in some spots, so I have also tied up a ten by ten foot tarp to four posts to give them a little more shade.   Now that he has a Bedouin tent of sorts, Goldie can pretend he's Lawrence of Arabia.   If he wants to and stuff.

I have also added another layer (or two) of protection around the compound.  You may have noticed a small, pack of cigarette sized red and black diggity-do attached to the shade cloth.

This little contraption is a Nite Guard, ($19.95) which is a weather resistant, solar powered little gizmo that emits a red strobe light upon night fall.  Goes all night, like the bunny.  Or Hugh Hefner.  With a bunny.  And Viagra.  OK, this supposedly activates the fear mechanism in predators, and they steal away.  Or sneak away.  Whatever.  They leave.

I have one on both sides of the cage.  I also have several more scattered about the property, with the vain hope they would help keep the deer away.  Although they may have helped a bit (Nite Guard does have a caveat with deer), we are still plagued by those flea ridden parasites.  I am, however, very happy with Nite Guard so far as a security deterrent at the palace.   

As I previously mentioned, I have also added a motion activated light at the rear of the structure, just to give any lurkers a little surprise.  And as I mentioned, something was activating it the other night.  Hopefully whatever it was felt like they were on the cover of  "Band on the Run".  Hopefully.   

We also harvested about sixty head of garlic back in June.  A few different varieties, now hanging (and drying) in another old goat shanty, way up on the eastern forty.  And I say this because the garlic was grown in a fenced off, secure area within the official perimeters of Chicken Fantasia Land.  Homeboy had a weird array of fencing going on when we got here, which will be covered in a future post.

But it must have been sorta like he and the boys, back in the day, all put on mining helmets with colored lights at four am, after drinking four or five gallons of ghetto wine, and tequila, probably, and commenced to tromp about the bush singing Queen songs and placing T-Posts and fencing willy-nilly across the land.   Zippity-doo-dah. Where's my shovel?

Rooster Update

Since being "confined" to their five hundred square foot imperial garden, our flock seems quite happy and content.  We're getting six to eight eggs a day now, and there is a nice harmony within the community.  Apparently Goldie has his way with any of them where ever and when ever he wants.  They don't seem to mind.  Usually.  Cock-a-doodle-do.

                                                                    King of the Roost