"Rain Drips and Rattlesnakes...

...and corn cobs and chickens, 

Warm chocolate doughnuts and puddin that thickens,

Rose crested roosters with bright shiny wings,

These are a few....

For some whimsical reason (in my impetuous youth) I seem to have garnered a minor in Broadway show tunes from Rogers & Hammerstein and Lerner & Loewe.   Those two prolific songwriting duos wrote an incredibly delightful amount of toe-tapping happy sing-a-long feel-good sappy songs that I have occasion to break into at any given moment with (or without) any sort of insipid inspiration.  You know, like when that wind comes sweepin' down the plain...  

And the wavin' wheat can sure smell sweet 
When the wind comes right behind the rain...

It's a problem, I know. 

I think my relationship with the musical began when I was eleven and my mom took me and some old lady from the old country to the brand new Century 21 theater in San Jose to see The Sound of Music.  1965.  From there it was an on going parade of movies and live stage, culminating with a live performance of Hair, the musical, in San Francisco when I was sixteen.  I mean, what sixteen year old wouldn't want to go to a musical where there were nude women in a scene?

I don't recall being incredibly enamored with the musical back then, I think my mother was.  I must have caught collateral exuberance because she brought me along.  Or was I forced to see the musical?  And this propensity of breaking into song insipidly inspired really needs to be saddled by a therapist?  I also have this propensity to rhyme.  Hmmh.   I think I'm getting confused.

So anyway, there have been remnants of a sprinkler system for the front lawn at almost every home we've ever owned, dating back thousands of years.  Well, at least thirty-seven.  They've also never worked and I never bothered to get into them and make repairs.

This house also came with an automatic sprinkler system for the front lawn.  About half the sprinklers were toast, the other half old and really not suited for what I had in mind.  The control area, with electrical wire connections, was exposed to the weather for years and looked a lot like this: 

I couldn't make heads or tails out of the mess, kind of like your first time driving in Washington D.C. and trying to figure out where you are when there are two of every named street.  Some are over here and some are over there.  Kind of like that.  The first summer here I just used a regular hose and sprinkler, that mess looked way too scary and there were way too many other priorities.

But then this black, round, valve type thinger kept leaking a bunch of water when I turned on the main underground water line to the front yard area.  It's that black, round whatzit with the wire running over the top below, an anti-siphon valve I later learned.  That new looking black hexagon thing to the right of the anti-siphon valve is a solenoid, I also later learned.  But for this part of the story, they were just whatzits.  And thingers.

So the black round thinger was leaking and I didn't know why.  I needed the water on in that area of the yard but didn't want to lose buckets of the stuff an hour just to water the apple tree.  I figured I would just get a cap and then figure it out when its time came around.

It was about time for another sojourn down the road to Home Depot, one of my most favorite stores in the universe, so this cap was added to the list.  And by the way, I am all about buying local when it makes sense.  BUT, when the local wholesale plumbing store is selling a water heater for $150.00 more than what I can get it on Amazon for, I gotta save the money.  It's true of the hardware stores here too.  They're a good twenty percent higher than twenty miles down the road.  Sorry, I gotta make the drive, especially if I'm buying a bunch of stuff.

As I ambled around the depot between the indoor and outdoor plumbing sections I was just not finding anything that made any sense.    I was apparently trying to compare apples with power tools.  Did you know there are like, over 7,500 varieties of apples?  There's a lot of different kinds of power tools too, at least a hundred.  Can you see why I was getting confused?

I first learned there were more than seven varieties of apples when we lived in Oregon.  My wife and I took a road trip from Portland to the enchanting Hood River Valley right in the middle of the apple harvest season.   We, quite by accident, ended up on the Hood River Fruit Loop, "a 35-mile, scenic drive through the valley's orchards, forests, farmlands, and friendly communities. Sample delicious fruits and take your favorites home, visit a winery, experience fields of fragrant lavender, meet adorable alpacas, savor delicious baked goods, and create memories by participating in family activities hosted at Fruit Loop locations throughout the year. The Fruit Loop is just an hour away from Oregon's largest city, Portland. Located in the national scenic area called the Columbia River Gorge, and the nation's largest pear-growing region, this is one of the few places that offers the complete experience of growing, producing, and then enjoying fruit and wine."

I couldn't have said it better!  And didn't for that matter.  It was a lovely drive and we did stop quite often to sample (and purchase) various fruit growers wares. We didn't meet any adorable Alpacas though.  Why would I want to meet an Alpaca?  What on earth would we talk about?

I first learned there were lots of kinds of power tools when I was twelve and went into a hardware store and saw them there.

Anyway, as I was ambling along, confusing myself, one of Home Depot's finest could tell I was consternated (much different than constipated) and asked if he could help.  Man, if I was constipated I really would have refused help.  For that matter, I probably wouldn't have told anyone either.

It has been my experience of late, like the last thirty years or so, that most folks that find themselves in a position to offer assistance at an expertise place like a hardware store don't know a good bologna from a decent salami.  So I usually say I'm doing OK rather than get sent on a wild goose chase in over half the store when I'm just looking for a new Pez dispenser.  Or thermal coupler. For the nuclear fission experiment I'm working on in the basement.  Just kidding. We don't have a basement.

Well, as luck would have it for me, and probably not he, this guy knew what he was talking about.  I'm thinking he used to be a landscape contractor, or something along that line, but with the construction downturn he was now making $12.00 per hour at Home Depot.  Lucky me!

The whatzit ma jigger I was trying to unsuccessfully find a cap for was actually an anti-siphon valve and should definitely NOT be capped, since it prevents the flow of that irrigation water back into the house supply.  Or something like that.  If it was leaking the solenoid was probably stuck open.  I would need to replace the solenoid (I got four of them for twenty bucks) and that should take care of it.  He sounded pretty sure, so I went with his recommendation. 

Since I had no friggin idea what a solenoid was, or really what he was talking about in general, when I got home I thought I would do some research.  I stumbled upon this great site called: Irrigationtutorials.com, saw the irrigation light and I was changed.  Forever.

I discovered the solenoid is the gizmo that receives the electric current from the control panel and then opens and closes a valve so water gets through. It basically controls the water flow to each "station", or set of sprinklers.  I then learned how they work, and was able to go out, trouble shoot and replaced or fixed every darn one of them solenoid thingers, just by perusing "How to Repair an Irrigation Solenoid Valve."  I also replaced the main solenoid in question and that stopped the arbitrary flow of the anti-siphon valve.  The guys fix worked.  Hot diggity dog.

I then "mapped" which section of the yard belonged to which solenoid by electronically activating said solenoid manually from the old control box, you know, the one that was NOT digital and therefore about eighty-six years old.  Give or take a few decades.  I then selectively capped about half the existing sprinklers by removing any existing parts.

That included risers, which are from one to six inches long and are a threaded piece of PVC that screws into the threaded female of a supply line to increase the height of the sprinkler.  If necessary.   The take apart also included some working sprinkler heads as well as parts thereof.  I then selectively put in new pop-up sprinkler heads with a wider swath all around.  They work perfectly.  I've just got one small area of lawn that is not covered, and fortunately, it is in the shade almost the entire day.  I am currently watering that area with a sprinkler every two weeks in the summer, and will work out an automatic response for coverage this next spring. Or when I don't have anything else better to do.

I bought a new timer at a cost of about thirty bucks, a digital one.  Easy.  It's much like replacing a new thermostat.  Sounds like it might be hard, but with the thermostat, for instance, you're only re-connecting 2-3 wires. I had about six to connect with the timer, but it took no time at all.  It's color coded and everything.

I set up the three main lawn stations to go for twenty minutes each (each day) over the summer.  There are two more stations, one for the front planter area and one along the slope beyond the picket fence.  Those will remain idle at least until next spring, or until I get the perimeter of our land fenced and secure from those dang deer.

With new wires and new solenoids all nicely connected and working, I also decided I'd shelter all that from the elements.  Here's what we got; it's a little made to fit two-sided plywood affair with (leftover from the main house) composition shingle roof.  Cute and functional.

 
As the story progresses, a couple weeks before Mothers' Day of this last year (2012), I was down on the lower forty weed whackin with a hired hand for the day.  "Tennessee Dale" was a mediocre handy man at large.  He came mildly recommended, and did a fair enough job for the fifteen per hour we paid him.  But I know there are a lot of other folks out there that can sweep off a poop deck in less time than it takes to make the poop.  Or something like that.  But he was a congenial sort with a bit of that southern accent accustom to the Great Smokies, or "Grace Monkeys" as my wife would tell.  Funny hard of hearing story here... 

The Great Smokey Mountains are on the Tennessee-North Carolina border, a lovely mountain range that hosts a National Park, Gatlinburg, home of the Gatlin Brothers, Pigeon Forge, home of Tennessee Ernie Ford, and Dollyworld, home of Dolly Parton.  Dolly needs a whole world for her, well, you know, her well endowed frontal apparitions. Or Appalachians.  You know, those other mountains.

My lovely wife and I were on a visit back to the country suburbs of Knoxville, Tennessee, where her sister and brother-in-law (of  "Florida, Ann Curry and the big's Midlife Crisis" fame) were currently living.  As is our custom, we usually try to get out on our own for a couple days when visiting anyone just to give them a break, although we are great guests.  Just ask us.  Plus we get to have motel sex.  I can scream, or yodel, depending on the particular situation, unabashedly in a motel, but I really can't scream or yodel at the in-laws.  They usually start laughing and it spoils the moment.

And, color us strange, we absolutely love the old style motel or motor inn, the one story, privately owned Shan-gra-las where you can drive right up to your front door.  It's gotta be CLEAN, and cute, but otherwise we're open to most motel adventure.  And most of the owners love showing you around their worlds.

It was this case when we ambled on over to Asheville, North Carolina, to take a cruise through the Great Smokies as well as take a gander at the Biltmore, George Vanderbilt's eight thousand acre escape from everyday life.

George Washington Vanderbilt III was the youngest child of industrialist William Henry Vanderbilt.  He was born with oodles of money, and really had nothing to do but read lots of books and build a two hundred fifty room country escape with over four acres of floor space.  To get away.  Get away from what I wonder?

It was simply stunning, and for some reason didn't seem quite as ostentatious as its west coast counterpart, Hearst Castle, publishing magnate William Randolf Hearst's overindulgent extravaganza of unrestrained arrogance.   I mean, I'm all for enough room, but wouldn't ten thousand square feet be enough?  Twenty?  For your second house, your get away place?   Does anyone really, truly need over an acre of square footage in which to live?  I mean, maybe if your family is the size of the population of Milwaukee...

On the other hand, they are both now open to the public and offer a fantastic visual array of "Gardens and fountains and gargoyles and space ships, big naked statues and paintings and stuff..." 

So we stumbled onto this lovely motel with impeccably manicured lawn abounding underneath lush southern trees, whatever they were.  They had leaves.  And bark.  Branches, things like that.  There were quite a few cabins with efficiencies scattered about, here and there, like a bunch of really large, structurally sound non- pastel Easter eggs hanging out amongst the lawn and trees.  This place also had a very congenial owner who was all too eager to show us around.  The rooms were charming and clean, and Floyd was a great host.

When we were back in the office dealing with the pertinence, Floyd continued on with some recommendations about what to see and do while in the Great Smokies.  After what seemed like about forty-five seconds but was probably only really thirty, my enchanting bride interrupted Floyd and asked, "I'm sorry, but just what are the Grace Monkeys?"

Floyd looked a little bewildered until I interjected that he was indeed speaking about the Great Smokies, not making something up about Dali's famed painting "The Three Graces of Monkeys." 

It was just a hard of hearing misinterpretation of audible expression.

Another funny one happened when we lived up in Portland.  Some friends were over for dinner and our female guest had started talking about male rain coats.

"London Fog?" I inquired.

"Leather thong?" she responded, trying to maneuver this new article of apparel into her conversation about Singing in the Rain.

So, anyway I'd a been a weed whackin and a hackin, and ended up having to cross the lawn to get to the garden shack to get some more string.  Or something. 

I walked by our front deck, that looks a lot like this:

BTW-that white lattice covers a fairly fine meshed screen, because you have to enclose any "under" locations; such as under the house, under the deck, or what's under the raincoat.  Otherwise, not only will you have homeless rodents, raccoons and reptiles moving in, but probably homeless people as well.  Eventually there will be luscious blooming plants in the planter there, once we have our deer problem taken care of.  You can read all about that battle in "Bambi Can Eat My Drawers" somewhere around this here blog.

So as I amble by, I hear this hissing, or phissing sound.  And I think, hmmh, sounds like a pipe had sprung a leak.  I had, after all, just spent the last couple days working on irrigation issues and the sound was familiar.  So as I continued on to retrieve whatever I was after, I thought about the sound and location.  I walked back by and heard it again, continuing on my mission for another ten to fifteen seconds until I said wait a minute, there's no plumbing there and that sound is probably not going to go away by itself.  Dang.

So, I ambled back by and continued to hear this sprite little phissing sound, seemingly coming from under the deck.  I hopped up on the deck and walked over to the corner, and that "leak" got a whole lot louder.  I was starting to think "snake" at this point, so I walked back down the steps and around, pulled out the grate and looked in (underneath the deck) the opening, which looks a lot like this:

And there, right in the corner to the left of the opening was a little rattler all coiled up and raring to go.

We pretty much just have the Northern Pacific Rattlesnake up here in Northern California, or "Crotalus" something or other.  I'd rather have one of them under the deck than an Anaconda, or a Hippopotamus for that matter.  Or an alligator.  Those creatures would pose a whole nother problem. 

Tennessee Dale had come up to the house at this point and we hatched a plan.  Rather than have me plink it with a pellet gun, he really wanted to rescue and relocate the little critter.  Fortunately, I appeared to have all the necessary equipment.

The first was a bucket with a lid.  I have a small metal ash bucket that looks a lot like that one down there on the right behind the white furniture.  It's a good eighteen gallon or so.  That's also a great shot of "Gaga's Amaryllis", which is a whole nother story altogether.  Some other time though.  I'm sorry, but we got deadly snakes and things we're dealing with right now!  

With the bucket in tow, we also needed an old t-shirt and the most important tool of the entire operation, one of those litter picker upper grabber things, that looks a lot like this:

BTW, that thing is actually called a litter picker upper grabber thing, in case you were seeking particulars. 

With the bucket positioned by the door, Dale tossed the t-shirt on the frightened but deadly little guy to blind him.  Or her.  Whichever.

How do you tell the sex of a snake?   Why bother, unless you're a herpetologist, or Strother Martin.

The shirt toss was to minimize any strike potential.  What do you do in the case of a snake bite?  Click here.

Don't cut it open and suck the venom out, unless your name is John Wayne and the victim is Rita Hayworth.  Or Glenn Ford.  And the bite happens in the Mojave desert.  Or Utah.  That's it.  John Wayne, Rita Hayworth, Glenn Ford, Mojave Desert, Utah.  Otherwise, just don't friggin do it.

With the snake blind, Dale reached in with the grabber, gobbled up the shirt with snake and made the drop in the bucket.  I put the lid on and then he ended up dumping the snake out along a creek somewhere quite a ways away from any homes.  BTW, this was Dale's second or third rattlesnake capture-I was all too willing to let him run the show.  My solution was a couple pellets to the brain.  (I didn't want to use the .22 because the snake was coiled up next to the concrete foundation and I was concerned about the potential of a ricochet.) 

Since he was a little guy, I was acutely concerned about the potential of more.  I was also concerned as to how he got under there since it is all walled with a concrete foundation.  After some very close scrutiny, I did find a couple cracks and minor breaches.  It's amazing the spaces these varmints can squeeze through.

I have since closed all of them with that spray insulation stuff that really expands and is soo sticky that if you got some on your hair you could attach yourself to the bottom carriage of a hot air balloon and dangle in the wind for a number of hours.  I mean, if you wanted to that is.

Fortunately, as of this writing (some six months later) we have not had a repeat snake performance. 

I ran across a gal  on some acreage outside Smartsville, CA (Yes, Mathilda, there is such a town) which is about fifteen miles West from here and about half way down into the Central Valley.  Give or take a few miles.  It's about ten degrees warmer down there, just a drop of a thousand feet or so.  She said they employ seven cats to take care of the rattlesnake problem around her place.

I have also heard that Guinea Hens are good reptile hunters.  I do plan on adding a few birds of that faction possibly next spring.  I'm still a bit hesitant about upsetting the harmony within the current flock. 

                                                 

Rooster Update

I have discovered (quite by accident) how to silence a crowing rooster at 05:30 in the morning.  Invite a pack of yipping coyotes to have a yip-a-thon across the street and up round the bend.  Far enough away so that I do not have to engage, yet close enough to dissuade Goldie from offering up any further "good Mornings" until mornings first light was more pronounced.  And the howling pack had left for at least an hour.

With the first major rain of the season (and the first ever in their your lives), I have also duly noted the rain seems to dampen his enthusiasm for crowing.

Just yesterday we discovered one of our red hens has gone missing.  Betty Lou was the little renegade that was continuously flying the coop, literally.  We would find her wandering around, usually trying to figure out how to get back in with the rest of the gang. We could usually coax her back in pretty easily offering some sort of vegetable treat.

And then one day last week Goldie was out, and he doesn't coax so easily.  So I decided to open the gate and let them all roam free.  I figured what the heck.  The night before deer had ransacked our front deck (Yup, up the five steps and then down the planks to some yummy Violas.) and we're heading towards winter so there shouldn't be too much for them to tear up.  That way they'd all self-migrate to the cage and their perches once it got dark.  And they did.  Or most of them anyway.

To be honest, I'm not sure when she went missing.  Or how.  I haven't stumbled across any feather piles which would indicate she became some wild one's dinner.  No idea.  I'll keep you posted.

                                                 

There's a Seal on My Driveway

Gawd, I sure do love having the liberty to make up my own titles to these posts.  Like, you know, Seal can be anything.  Let's take a romp around homonym land and find out just what the heck I'm speaking of.

It could be that I invited a black, soulful singer over to serenade the chickens.  They love their R&B.  So does Tom, the cat, especially when he feels like dancing.  Or, it could be that I brought over one of them sea going seals, so that it's oarse "Ar Ar" barking could attempt to rival Goldie's loud and clear "Er Er" crowing.  Funny how animal sounds are spelled so similarly.

You know, I'm all about having wild animals over to the house, especially for dinner.  Seal meat typically isn't considered a gourmet opportunity though, unless, of course, you live way up there in that yonder north arctic area and there is nothing else to eat.  And of course if you consumed that soulful other Seal then you'd be no better than those idiots in the Donner Party.  And believe me, that was no party, especially if it was your femur they put in the soup.

I mean, if those fools had listened to their wives they could have wintered over at the Peppermill in Reno and drank, smoked and gambled instead of dining on one another.  What were they thinking?

Now, if I was considering keeping the seal as a pet that would be silly.  First of all, he's a grown man and I think there are laws against that sort of thing.  And if it was the other seal, then I'd have to get a swimming pool and throw a bunch of salt in it and get truckloads of fish delivered every day and it just wouldn't make any sense, not here in the country anyway.

What else doesn't make any sense is what sorts of wild animals pure and brazen buffoons choose to allow in their living rooms.  And a lot of these idiots don't necessarily live in a country location like I do, many of them live in apartments in the middle of a city.  Pythons, Piranhas, Panthers, Pandas, Parakeets and Picadillos...to name a few.  Here's a link to a documentary movie about this subject aptly titled, "The Elephant in the Living Room."

Well, if it's not them two seals, and it's not Betty Martha Lou's seal of approval on a killer chocolate mousse cake or peach cobbler, then it must be Driveway Sealer 101.  Of course.  The asphalt kind.  Even I knew that. 

OK, straight away, it was a much larger job than I anticipated.  I also used almost twice the original estimated amount of goop (compiled from their estimated coverage area) It went from 15 to 17 to 25 to 27 buckets, and four trips to the store.  Ah chi mama!  What a colossal waste of time.  But, the parking area and driveway not only look great but should be good to go for travel for a another five years.

We've got a long, steep, uphill (from the road) driveway to the house.  The previous owner did a real good thing (probably to make up for the real stupid things he did) back when he had the first one hundred feet or so poured in concrete.  Not only is it the entrance off the road, but it's also the steepest part of the drive.

After that, it had been grey asphalt with a few bad, spidery low spots winding up to a large, gravel parking area next to the house.  We had the parking area asphalted a few months after moving in, and the asphalt guy also hit the five or six really bad spots on the drive with a nice layer of asphalt.   All patched spots have been good, solid band aids so far.  You can see more of this action in "Red Riffs of Rover..."

From Asphalt Kingdom, "Asphalt is a petroleum based product. It is very flexible when it is first laid. As time passes, the petroleum based products (Tar & Bitumen) get oxidized and dry out by the sun. The asphalt becomes brittle when the surface color turns Grey. It now has lost its flexibility and is going to Crack. Asphalt Cracks then lead to Spider cracks which look like alligator skin. Cracks then lead to Pot Holes and deteriorated areas. Then leading to asphalt replacement..."

I couldn't have said it better.  With the main degraded areas covered, over the last year I have been filling and patching smaller cracks with some store bought asphalt goop stuff.  And then, as if by magic, this stuff just appeared on sale at one of the hardware stores in town:

 The first fifteen... 

The concept is pretty simple.  Clean what your sealing then seal.  So, I borrowed a friend's pressure washer and away we go...

 Let the games begin!

 Little soldiers all in a row...
                                        
  
That parking area is about forty feet by eighty feet, give or take a thousand.

It took about an hour and a half to rinse off the asphalt.   After considering this product was supposed to be applied while the surface was still damp, I stopped the rinse at the top of the drive and then began the paint job.  Again, pretty simple.

Open the 4.75 gallon container (What ever happened to five gallons?  I'm glad there's no inflation.)  Stir the goop.  Dump out a manageable amount and then start spreading.  Simple, ya?  Ya...EXCEPT...

They make this squeegee/brush dealy-bob thing that came with a light weight, cheap aluminum handle, maybe fit for a two year old, as long as they were sleeping.  $7.99.

Well, I'm a novice at this sort of thing..or was a novice...I am definitely more than learned at this point in the game.  So, yeah, I bought that and fifteen barrels my first go round.  I think I figured eleven to twelve for the top and three to four for the drive, based on their coverage estimates.

This little task has been HAUNTING me for over a year now.  You are supposed to let new asphalt "cure" and harden for anywhere from three to six months, depending on your source, but not for the eighteen months ours has been languishing in.  Ingress and egress are immense items in my play book, and with a steep driveway like ours it is paramount to stay on top of the game.

I forgot to mention that after our asphalt guy did his extra patch jobs, I made sure there was a good, unobstructed channel for water to run alongside the drive instead of in and over it, which ultimately led to it's now patched complications to begin with.

With cheap aluminum handled brush in hand, I poured my first slop of goop.  First goop of slop?  When stirred, it had the consistency of uncooked buttermilk pancake batter, or a nice, thick interior latex paint, depending on which room of the house you're coming from.

And here's one of the big's not so famous cooking tips, primarily for bakers.  Or pancake enthusiasts.  You can make 1 cup of butter milk by adding 1 tablespoon of cider vinegar to 1 cup of milk.  Let it sit for a couple minutes, and wallah, buttermilk biscuits or pancakes without having to buy a whole quart of the stuff.

So, I poured the first slop in the top corner of the parking area, and hit the edges of the only right angle of the day and rocked from there.  Obviously the edges took a little longer, but it did spread very nicely and evenly.  I had to back and forth it every once in a while to make sure it was getting into all the nooks and cranny's, and then I flipped the brush and would squeegee it along.  Back and forth, push and pull.

Somewhere in the first bucket, the cheap aluminum handle bent.  It could not handle much strain, at all, or any more than a sleeping baby might offer.  Fortunately I was right by the garage and had several 1" thick, five foot dowels.  With a few rounds of duct tape strategically wrapped, I continued my quest.  This cheap thing ultimately wobbled and broke near the end of my project, looking a lot like this:

When I went to the store for my final two buckets, they were out of these cheap handled asphalt brooms.  There were at least twenty other unsuspecting suckers, although I'll bet most of them went through less than a dozen buckets and maybe the handle held on.

I ended up buying a nice, sturdy, wood handle with the same diameter male screw at the end as the female on the brush, and wallah, the BEST handle possible for the last two buckets.  Out of twenty-seven!  The last twelve feet.  Yay.

Anyway, back and forth, push and pull.  Not arduously strenuous, but just a shoot house howdy plethora of repetitions.  And then there was the weight of the bucket, fifty-three pounds each to start with.  So I lifted that weight twenty-seven times.  Then I lifted each bucket when it was 3/4 full, which weighs in at thirty-nine pounds.  Times twenty-seven.  THEN I lifted each bucket when it was half full and then one quarter full.  All told I lifted about three thousand five hundred and fifty-six pounds over this two day, brutal, body building home improvement exercise marathon from hell.  Every muscle on my upper torso felt the pain for a couple days. 

By the time I wrapped the parking area, it was already early afternoon and getting hot.  We've been having an Indian Summer heat wave here in Northern California, which is a great time to be applying the sealer but also getting a little warm for my receptacles.  Or tentacles. I typically won't work outside when it's in the nineties.  Get her done early and then come inside and expound and play on this keyboard. 

By this time I had already realized I didn't have enough product to finish the project, and my friend also needed to have his pressure washer back.  He was in the middle of a few fall projects as well.  So, I decided to finish the wash down the drive, then go into town and get two more buckets of goop and return the washer.  That way I only had a couple buckets to apply in the morning and I would be done...or so I thought.

The next morning arrived fresh and asphalt y clean.  I was sore but game.  I only had three buckets to spread.  Lickity-split.  It'd be less than an hour.  Whatever that means.

After the first bucket, about 9:00 AM, I realized I had no where near enough goop.  This was old, gray, crackly asphalt that probably had not been sealed for centuries.  I calculated I'd need another eight buckets and then jammed to the store.  Early.  Before the crowds.  I had a job to do. And eight buckets would be more than enough...

Continuing on, and getting about twelve feet close to the buckets in the above photo I freaking realized I would need at least one more bucket.  I got two.  Just in case.  I mean, I had been so good already with this estimating thing.  Just three trips, so far.  This would be the fourth.  At about noon.  And the goop store is next to McDonald's.   You know, the one where they serve food, not the Old one.  E i e i o.  It was gonna be chaos, what I usually strive to avoid, unless it is of my own creation of course.  Away I flew.

It was on this last run I also replaced the broom handle.  With twelve feet to go.  Out of a couple hundred.  The perfect, long, strong handle.  For twelve feet.

Well, it was a magical twelve feet I'll tell you.  The BEST twelve feet ever.   The blisters from the cheap, aluminum handle didn't even hurt during that last twelve feet.  Yeah, I got the handle now.  For when I hire someone else to do this in another five years.  Cause I'm gonna be in Mexico.  And it'll be done when I get back.

I ended up with about one inch of goop left in the second bucket...whew. In fairness to the product and their coverage estimates, I was not sealing new asphalt on the drive.  Or anywhere near new.  Their coverage estimates on the new asphalt up top were pretty close, but all bets left the stratosphere when I started on the drive.

And here's the down run towards the curve (below):

And the curve below with wimpy pump house compliments of homeboy.  I put the roof on, it was 1/8" dilapidated plywood.  It'll last another year or two, and then I'll probably enlarge it a bit.  Pump houses are always good for a little outside storage.  That is, of course, if it's not the size of a doll house to begin with.  I can fit a basketball in the one below.

Eggs Eggs Eggs!

My goodness we've got fresh, organic eggs for sale for $3.00/dozen.  Come on down to the farm and lets get eggy!

The Red Riffs of Rover

A funny thing happened on the way to publishing this post.  Besides all the chores that must be done around this fledgling homestead (yes-even with this dang walking-cast for my Achilles tendon problem) and my other part-time job (whatever that is), an old friend stopped by en route to San Diego last Sunday and we had a great visit for a couple three days.

We go back over forty years, went to high school together.  Took some of the best acid ever known to man  back then, had some remarkable teeth-cutting times.  Flew about the galaxy together, danced in the bright white fire of the Gods, transcending time, understanding alls immortality.  Flew with fluorescent flamingos, danced the light fantastic, and then, as it does, life took us in entirely different directions.

I get poetic tendencies from time to time, it's a problem, I know, but please indulge me for a moment.  Then we'll get on to Riffs and such.  I actually put pen to paper a few years back to describe my feelings about old friends.  Amazingly, it's titled, "Old Friends".

OLD FRIENDS

Whiling away the wee hours of morning

Wasting away with indolent care

Travelin through time with bedazzling rhyme

Thinkin ‘bout old friends who are no longer there…

I was walking through the wild mustard meadows of my youth

The days back when, I ran with friends, looking for our truth,

The days before we compromised and pasteurized our themes

The days before we sacrificed and encumbered all our dreams.

Thinking about old friends, I see their faces and names

Old friends, like fine porcelain

Old friends, no make-up or games

Thinking about old friends that knew me before what I became.

Many friendships have blossomed as I’ve wandered this road

Some of them silver, some of them gold

Some have departed, kissed their song to the sky

Their heart to the wind, their memories shine

Old friends, blasts from the past

Old friends, times gone by too fast

Old friends, how could innocence last?

Thinkin ‘bout old friends who knew me before my die was cast

So many memories, so many friends

Life’s pursuits scatter them like leaves in the wind,

But the time and distance will never lessen the glow

Of the moments I’ve shared with each of their souls.

Old friends, they transcend time

Old friends, like a taste of fine wine

Old friends, the feeling’s sublime

Thinkin about old friends who knew me

When we were learning to fly…

One of my friend's occupations is stage rigging for rock shows, one of his passions is a Honda Goldwing.  He is also a video enthusiast with both.  I heartily recommend you mosey on over to Riding and Rigging on Youtube and check out some of his remarkable videos.  Many of you who know me quite possibly know him as well.  And now, back to our regularly scheduled post...

This semi-poetic title reminds me of Irish singing groups for some reason, like the Irish Rovers for instance, or maybe a rocking Irish balladeer, like Van Morrison.  And then there's those Irish foot guys (as my wife likes to refer to them) to think about when considering the Emerald Isle.  Or Riffs even.  Here's a famous riff,  Layla, that was actually riffed by Duane and given to Eric as a party favor while they were playing around together back when.  Probably smoking spliffs.  A riff for a spliff.  Catchy.

And then I can't start "riffing" without mentioning Astro, the Jetsons pet dog. "I ruv you Rorge" he would always say affectionately to his master.  Or not.  Hell, I don't know.  Could be one of those LSD things, you know? 

But the title's not really about that at all.  It's a play on words. I was rather referring to the White Cliffs of Dover, (which of course are on another island altogether over there), or Clifflandia, as we more colloquially refer to my pet project here on the hill in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Homeboy, as I colloquially refer to the previous owner, did some good things around the place and he did some really weird things.  You can read all about some of his home improvement exploits throughout this here blog.  Anyway, one weird thing he did outside was to plant a few fruit trees right along an embankment edge.

You see, the house sits on about a quarter acre level "pad" in the middle of a sloping 2.6 acre parcel of land.  It slopes up and down from here, and for some reason Homey planted some trees right along the edge.

There's a peach tree directly in the middle of this frame.  The one inch trunk is dead, but there are a couple sprouts at the bottom and I'm going to try and save it if I can.  Just to the right of the peach tree is a HUGE lilac bush.  I currently have about thirty starts in pots already from this glorious Mother bush, and I reckon I'll be slicing off a few more before I'm done.  You'll see what I'm using them for in a bit.

On the inside of the picket fence is an apple tree, which is actually a nice placement.  I am currently in the process of bringing it down to a manageable size, and should have it corralled and producing this next spring. 

From there Homey planted two more fruit trees along the edge and heading back towards the shed.  They're there, right on the end of the level ground.  From there you need The Flying Wallendas to swing on in and cache some of the fruit what lies ore the great beyond.

Steep, huh?

Half the ground is level underneath them, half isn't.  Who in their right mind would do such a thing?  Just because they are living things I have decided to try and work with them.  However, I do have an area already dedicated to becoming an orchard.  I am still in the process of clearing it, so I am probably yet another year away.

The one good thing Homeboy did do was widen the entire parking area once you got up to the house.  Apparently the one lane drive just turned into two lanes at the top, making turn a rounds extremely difficult.
So he got a dozer up to the landing pad and widened things so much that we can now host a Day on the Green concert here.

Being a child of the fifties and growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area in the 1960's and 1970's afforded myself and friends access to some incredible musical moments.  "Days on the Green" were all day concert events put on by the late rock impresario Bill Graham and held at the outdoor Oakland Coliseum, home to the Oakland Raiders and Oakland Athletics.  When not being inundated by hordes of happy, dancing (and sometimes naked) hippies of course.

Of course, these days the Athletics and Raiders attract their own brand of fanatical madness.  Must be something left over in the air from those Days on the Green.

Favorite Day on the Green concert?  Wow, there were so many.  CSNY, The Band, Joe Walsh, Jesse Colin Young.  That was one show.  Fifteen bucks.  The Beach Boys and the Grateful Dead.  That was another show.  The Who and the Grateful Dead.  Another one.  Fleetwood Mac and Peter Frampton.  All for no more than fifteen bucks.

So, the driveway itself is a rather steep and windy affair a couple hundred yards long.  The steepest part, right next to the road, is actually paved with concrete for about one hundred feet.  From there it's asphalt winding up to the top concert arena area, which was just gravel when we moved in.

It was in the budget for a little asphalt paving, which we did have done as soon as the weather cleared enough after moving in.

You may have noticed the subject of this post in almost all the photos above, namely that lovely (and long) cliff that was the result of the parking widening project.  It looks an awful lot like cliffs that have been hydraulically mined for gold around here.  This is the gold country after all.


"Hydraulic Mining was the quickest method of mining gold in placer deposits. Water would be carried to the mining site via canals and ditches where it would go into a hose.

The beginning of the hose was larger and higher than the other end which would have a pipe attached to it, so the weight of the water going into the hose would force it out the other end at great pressure. It was like mining using a fire engine hose, as the jet of water would cut into the hillside, washing the dirt and gravel down into a sluice box. It is important to note, however; that this method of mining, due to the scale of production and speed of extraction, had vast environmental impact."

Of course this area of the Sierra Nevada Foothills was heavily mined for gold during the gold rush of the 1850's (and beyond).  As a matter of fact, The Empire Mine, which sits just outside the city limits of Grass Valley closed in 1956.

The Empire Mine retrieved it's gold from underground shafts, many running deep and for miles under the town of Grass Valley and beyond.  However, you can still see the environmental impact of hydraulic mining at many areas along rivers and streams in Nevada County.

Malakoff Diggins and surrounding territory shows one great example.  Or what the miners were doing in the 1985 Clint Eastwood movie Pale Rider.  One scene in there (when Clint isn't killing anyone) gives you another idea of the impact this abusive form of enterprise had on the environment.  It was finally outlawed on January 7, l884 when "Judge Lorenzo Sawyer declared hydraulic mining illegal. It was believed that hydraulic mining was a selfish act because it caused so much damage to the environment."

So I inherited the Red Riffs, what do I do with 'em?  Well, fortunately when you get below the two or three inches of humus and topsoil this locale is rife with clay.  So, if I want to go completely absurd, I have a red rife riff of ray.   Rorta.  Roe K.  

Subsequently, in the four or so years since he cut the pad the cliff has not suffered that much erosion.   There is some, and of course there will continue to be some unless some form of intervention is staged.  I, of course, am intervening.

The first thing I did was apply some jute fabric along most of the cliff.  This does help hold some of the dirt, mud, rocks and clay together.  It was tacked on with six inch metal hooks.
Before:
                                    
 Jute Added (same area)

And along the wall
                                     

I then attacked and assailed a little isolated patch of Hypericum Calycinum on the property that is located in an area that will eventually be paved over with brick. 

There are about 400 species of Hypericum, and Calycinum seems to be the most common sold at nurseries around here in Northern California.  It is used primarily as a ground cover, is quite vigorous, can tolerate drought and is great for erosion control.  Perfect for my cliff!  This species is different than Hypericum Perforatum, which is the species that is used to obtain St. Johns Wort for herbal remedies.  Betcha didn't know that.

So I have been giving this little area a haircut twice a year now once the rains set in.  I have been clipping and then dipping the ends in a rooting solution and then jamming them into the cliff.  I reckon at this point there's about 120 starts that are alive and kicking.  I would say that this is about a quarter of what has been originally jammed into the clay.

Once this stuff starts, there is no getting rid of it.  It will survive a holocaust, a volcanic eruption, a wild land fire, Armageddon.  Spring.  Deer don't like it and it will grow anywhere!

                                 Poking out in concrete between the garage and driveway skirt.

This little ensemble began with the big patch and has now evolved out to six.  It is much like a multi-level marketing ploy, only none of them have to sell any soap.  Once they start they all happily beget another.  

I figure it will be about three more years for the bare dirt to be getting close to filled in with green.  I think there will still be a few bald spots where there is only clay, but eventually this will all get filled in as well.  Stay tuned, I'll keep you updated.

This early spring, after the ground has been saturated, I plan on starting lilacs all along the top of the cliff.  I want some from of barrier up there, and rather than just putting up a split rail fence (which would look great but not provide any underground support) I want to put something there that will provide more root and underground support.

I've got about 250 linear feet to contend with, and when considering the cost of about the 60-80 plants
necessary for the job cost rapidly became an issue.  I currently have about thirty lilac starts already rooted in pots, with another thirty or so along the way.  There are also several natural shrubs currently sitting along the top of the cliff wall and I have decided I will work the lilacs in and around them.  There is no sense messing with the natural form of species.

The Hypericum and Lilac action will start to the top corner of the parking area and run to where my son and I have carved some steps into the cliff.  You can see a picture of these steps in Chicken Fantasia Land.

After the steps, there's still another thirty linear feet of cliff to contend with, and that I am turning into our own little Spice Island...on a Hill. 

We currently have Parsley, Tarragon, Sage, Thyme, Oregano, Rosemary and a little Lavender (to help attract some bees) in that little corner of the world.  These plants have all now wintered over through some snow on the ground so I am reasonably content they are here for the haul.

I will be adding more spices over time, in one area notably I plan on putting in a couple varieties of mint.  I don't know if you're ever grown mint, but that stuff is hard to get rid of once it gets going.

Those two bars in the above photo are the base for a chin-up bar, which will be getting cut this next summer (hopefully).  It currently serves as the support for the other end of the clothes line, but that little area will be getting its face lift this winter/spring as well as the back patio area.

I still plan on getting this place pretty well fenced this autumn/winter, and with a little luck we'll be able to start adding some color to our landscape.  We've only been able to work with what the deer don't like, and amazingly they don't seem to like any of the above spices.  They all have, incidentally, lavender colored blooms,  which may or may not mean anything in the damn deer munching realm.

Rooster Update

Our rooster Goldie and his harem are all doing fine.  They all seem happy, and all the girls are laying eggs regularly.  One of our Red Stars, Betty, has recently begun a penchant for flying the coop.  It's pretty funny, because once she's outside the fence she spends all her time trying to figure out how to get back in.  And Goldie is usually in an uproar, very concerned one of his girls is out in a potential danger zone where he can't protect her.  Fortunately it's been pretty easy to snag her, pet her for a few moments and then let her back in.

Another thing I have noticed about Goldie has also endeared him to me.  When we come up to their Fantasia Land with a bowl of fruit and vegetable trimming treats, the girls all go crazy, many times squabbling over a piece of fruit when there are forty more a couple inches away.  Goldie will never battle for a treat.  As a matter of fact, if he is eating a treat and one of the hens comes up he immediately defers to her and lets her have it.

He will always make sure all the girls are snacking away before he starts in on anything.  He will also make sure they are all in the cage at night before going in himself.  Although there have been a couple altercations between Rooster and Human, I am still very happy to have him around.  He is an added layer of protection for those hens I never would have considered before.

You can view a video that my friend took of Goldie here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A2bKwW7LvPE&feature=plc as well as hear his roar.