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#21
12-05-2006, 01:49 PM
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Well, Baba,
I'm glad we worked that out through the pm's. Peace on Earth and goodwill to all. DTS 
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#22
12-05-2006, 03:34 PM
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Quote:
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#23
12-05-2006, 03:45 PM
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Quote:
It's true. Merry Christmas.
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#24
12-07-2006, 03:15 PM
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So, you want to start a worm farm?
I must confess that I did want to have a worm farm. It was when I was first getting started in organic gardening, and in all honesty, I had no clue as to what was going on. So I bought a subscription to Organic Gardening (Rodale Press), signed up for their book club, and read everything I could get my hands on. It really didn't matter that I wasn't playing in the dirt and getting my hands all messy. At that point in time, I was looking to stay clean. Reading would do. The second book that the book club sent me was "The Complete Book of Composting". I still have it after all these years. It's a huge book with many formulas. Anyway, one of the first things I found in it was that to make good compost, I needed help. Only worms could do it. Red wigglers...to be specific. So with dreams of free fertilizer for my garden, and plenty of bait to go fishing with...I embarked on my quest to find those wiggly things that would reduce all the garbage and make it into something useful. In the "classifieds" at the back of Organic Gardening were a lot of ads, all competing to sell me the critters I desired. "Red wigglers", $7.50 a hundred, s+h extra. How could I resist? I was sold! Since my hands weren't yet dirty, I wrote a check and mailed it out. A few weeks later, they arrived by UPS. I read the instructions, built a box for the "farm", and saved every carrot peel, broccoli scrap, banana skin, and coffee ground that came my way. Visions of a beautiful garden danced through my head before I dozed off each night. The plan was that they'd double in number each month. Heck, at that rate, there was no use even coming up with names for the wiggly guys, cause I knew I'd run out after the third month. Happy to say, they did better than I thought they would. Yes, I sacrificed Ol' Red, Squirmy, and a few more of their brothers and sisters on some trout fishing trips that spring. Hey, what's a few lives expended if you have higher hopes, right? The trout they bought with their little lives were certainly appreciated. Now, many years later, their great grandchildren live outside in my garden, and some in a box in my basement. Deep under the soil. I still give them a big dose of manure (rotted) each spring, right before I bring out the roto-tiller. Sad if it chops a few up, but, they're expendable if it's for a good cause. The lettuce will grow, maybe thank them for it. Green, green! Today, as I tore up the morning newspaper and soaked some water on it to place on top of their box where they live in the corner of my basement, I noticed the headline, "Eleven More Dead". For sure the worms will appreciate it, along with all the other garbage and manure. Last edited by Downthestretch55 : 12-07-2006 at 03:45 PM.
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#25
12-10-2006, 11:29 AM
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Blood
Anyone that's ever spent time on a farm knows that there's a time when there's going to be blood. Sometimes, it's not very nice. One of my first memories was about some pigs that came to live behind the hen house. There were four of them, and I was warned not to name them. They were so cute when they first showed up, skampering around in their pen, roooting in the mud. They grew quickly on all the corn, table scraps, and everything that was thrown in to their "room". By fall, I was picking up wind fallen apples from beneath the apple trees in the orchard and giving them a bushel basket full each day. They sure loved those apples. Came the day in early November when, despite my pleadings to let them live, a "hog scalding" had been arranged. For those that have never attended one, it starts with a fire under a 55 gallon drum filled with water. When it gets close to boiling, the hogs are brought near. A 22 to the forehead and a quick thrust to nick both juglars ends their earthly existance with out suffering. Then they are "gutted" and dipped in the 55 gallon drum to losen their hair so they can be scraped. Then the "cutting up", and then the smokehouse. My job was as a "gutter". Not an especially nice job, but soon the thought of having blood up beyond your elbows goes away, to be replaced by the thought of "let's just get this done with". When it was finished, the blood washed off, and all that remained was a lot of meat, and the memory...that I just shared. Today, the Pentagon released the names of thirty-three military that had been killed in Iraq this past week. May they rest in peace, and may their families find comfort. May all of us pay hommage to the sacrifice they've made. And may those that put them in that situation also note that their valiant blood is beyond their own elbows, and no amount of washing will ever remove it. Last edited by Downthestretch55 : 12-10-2006 at 11:36 AM.
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#26
12-13-2006, 11:23 AM
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Lambs
I really like lambs. Yes, they are very needy and love to follow, but they are indeed cute. If you have chapped hands, just rub your fingers through their wool and the lanolin will make you feel a lot better. Mom used to make some great sweaters from their shearings. Her ability with the knitting needles turned ivory yarn into Irish fisherman masterpieces for the whole family...matching caps as well. In Luke 2:8-9 it says that "And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified." Some might not realize that the lambs that they camped in the fields to protect were destined to become blood sacrifices on the altar of the great temple in Jerusalem. Yes, Bethlehem was where the lambs came from. Also the place where the "Lamb of God" came from, aka "the good shepherd". Lambs have been very important for quite a while. Do you know what kind of blood was put on the doorposts with hysop so the Hebrew people would have the angel of death pass over their houses and spare their firstborns? Anyway, enough of the history lesson and back to the story. One day my brother showed up with four fleecy critters in the back of his van. He had picked up the little Dorsets from Cornell on his way back from visiting his girlfriend at Alfred State. They were cute beyond words. They bounced all over the place. Barbed wire had no effect as they bounced off of it. Woven wire, though expensive was the only way to contain them. So we worked hard to build them a nice pasture. It was very nice to walk around with the little flock. They'd follow you anywhere, bah,bah, bah. I'm not going to say much about what happened to them. I'll just say that they didn't find an altar, but they did go well with garlic and mint jelly. So at this time when the shepherds were protecting, camping out in the fields and getting themselves terrified, I'd just like to tell you, if you're a lamb, be careful of the shepherd you follow. One will lead you to overwhelming joy, while others will lead you to untold sacrifice and slaughter. Be careful, lambs. "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people." Luke 2:10
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#27
12-18-2006, 01:23 PM
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The Bull
This is not a little story about a "bull in a china shop" or pottery barn where the sign says, "You broke it, you own it." This is a true story that includes my brother, Gary, two mountain farmers, and the hope of a veal calf. The farmers, Calvin and Edsel called one day and said that one of their heifers had given birth to a calf in a high meadow, and if Gary and I could get there to catch it, we could have it. Calvin and Edsel didn't mention how their father had been killed, trampled by a Jersey bull (we didn't find out until much later), sadly, they cried when they shared how he'd been stomped beyond recognition. RIP their dad. Nor did Calvin nor Edsel mention that they had turned the heifer out in the high meadow with a Jersey bull to sevice any cows that hadn't been caught via AI. Nor did they mention that the calf was four days old. Did you ever try to run down a deer? For sure they got a good laugh at Gary's and my efforts. They were rolling on the floor when I told them that when I heard the bull bellow, instead of trying to become an olympic track star running down a very scared vealer, I headed for the six strands of barbed wire as fast as my worn out legs could get me there. To this day, I don't know how I made it over the barbed wire. I didn't have a scratch. Could it have been a new high jump record? I'll never know. The Jersey bull almost came through it right after me, but by then, I was way high up in a tree. Calvin and Edsel..."HA, HA, HA!!" Afterwards, I met up with Gary. The bull had gone back to his "girlfriends" and I finally caught my breath. Luckily, I didn't even have anything clinging to the bottom of my sneakers. Plenty of that was to be found in that meadow. Luck is luck. Well, Gary still wanted a calf. On the way back home we stopped at another farm. Sure enough, one of the old farmer's cows had "freshened" that day, and since that's what cows have to do so the baby can be taken from the mommy for her to continue her lactation (that's how milk is gotten), and her milk would be given to the milking machine and the bulk truck hauler, the calf was something that wasn't needed anymore. So, the old farmer said we could have it...free! We thanked him very much and brought the little guy home. Being as it was July 4th, we named the bull calf "Independence". We both took turns feeding him milk replacer, mucking his little pen, and making sure he had the finest life we could give him. Well, about ten weeks later, he was made to be what he was meant to be. As we sat at the dining room table when he was served up, Dad asked, "What do you think of Independence?" No kidding...at the same time, Gary and I said with food still in our mouths, "He's delicious!" Anyway, be careful of the bulls. Watch where you step. And always remember, eat them before they trample you. Bulls want you to die. Get them first! The veal recipe is in the DT Cookbook. Enjoy! Last edited by Downthestretch55 : 12-18-2006 at 01:25 PM.
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#28
12-19-2006, 04:42 PM
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Where the heck did all these rabbits come from?
For those that haven't tried rabbit, I'll just tell you that it's really pretty good "eats". I have a cottontail in my fridge that I intend to stew up in wine for tomorrow night's supper. No, it wasn't a "road kill" (though I've gained a few that way). My friend, Ken, dropped it off as it somehow stumbled into one of his beaver sets. No beaver (shucks), but a bunny is fine. The rabbit story is about my brother, Gary. Somehow he got the great idea that he could make his fortune with rabbits. He must've read about it in the classifieds of "Boy's Life" when the Boy Scouts gave him a subscription. He definitely took his business venture seriously. Gary did lots of research to find the best breed, and settled on New Zealand whites. Let me tell you, those bunnies are beautiful, big, and...fertile. So he somehow did a deal for two does and then found a buck from a different place, so as to avoid "inbreeding". We worked together to build a nice hutch with a hardware-cloth bottom, water bowls, and nest boxes for the moms-to-be. Before too long, there was a need to build a couple of more six room hutches for the does. This, despite all the rabbits the family could eat twice a week, different recipes, he was now up to fourteen does and the buck. I'm not too sure he knew what he'd gotten himself into. The hay and rabbit pellets were looking to consume all of his available funds, so he did his best to find a market for the bouncy whites. Frantic phone calls to restaurants near and far, and selling them "ready to cook" for a very narrow "profit margin" gave him something to take up his time long enough for still more bunnies to show up. He supplied restaurants all along route 28 between Kingston and Arkville, some in New York City, people that came to the house, and still there were more rabbits. I was getting tired of helping him build hutches, so we decided to buy mesh fencing and wall off a big circle in the middle of the barn. The bouncy things filled that up too. I'm telling you, it was becoming a "WAR on RABBITS". They just kept coming despite everything we could do to get rid of them, kill them, eat them. Feeding them was bankrupting Gary. Well, the story ends when he finally decided to fill the freezer with everything he'd invested, besides those that didn't fit that he gave away (about 100), and all those that had "escaped" to the apple orchard where Bugs, Peter, and their girlfriends lived on for two more years. Well, many years later, we still get together and laugh about his "business venture". And we still both enjoy a nice rabbit dinner, though we should be sick of eating them by now. So when he invited me over to his place for supper last week, and I pulled into his driveway, guess what was bouncing in the headlights... Yup, two giant white long eared critters. I laughed so hard that tears were coming down my face, He must have seen me sitting there trying to gain my "composure". He came out on to the porch and said, "Come on in!" I said, "What are they?" He said, "My new bucks, Sadr and Al Queda."..."I have four does in the shed too." Shaking my head, I went inside his kitchen door. Some people just never learn, especially where all these rabbits come from. You'll never guess what we had for supper. Last edited by Downthestretch55 : 12-19-2006 at 04:45 PM.
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#29
12-23-2006, 02:04 PM
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Manure
Seems to me that wherever there are animals roaming aroung, lots of manure gets spread. All farms have a time of the day devoted to dealing with it. Some days, there's more of it than others. Actually, manure can be quite helpful. If put back on the fields, the crops grow nicely. But if it builds up, it makes a huge mess that needs special attention. One spring I was working on a black angus farm. The cows and heifers had been cooped up all winter inside the barn, and the guy that was supposed to deal with it just let it build up. By the time I showed up for my first day on the job, those poor critters were deep into it. It was close to the top of my barn boots, and frankly, I didn't have the strength to do much more than turn them out and go back to the farmhouse and call a friend that had a bull dozer. He came that afternoon and pushed it all out into a great big pile. His bill was almost as huge as the pile. Now don't get me wrong. Manure can be good. There's all kinds. Chicken is nasty. Hog's isn't much better. Sheep's is hot. Rabbit's is ok but tends to take on ammonia smells if it's left too long. Horse's is a lot easier to handle than cows. Heck, there always seems to be more than enough manure. It's best to not let it build up. Watch where you step. And at all times, consider the source. It's all different. Though somehow it tells my sniffer that it pretty much smells the same.
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#30
12-24-2006, 12:51 PM
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More Manure Musings
I must admit that I've long held a fascination with manure, and since I made an agreement with someone that I wouldn't post anything in response to threads of his creation, I find that this might be an appropriate place to recount where my fecal fascination originated. It began with a "TEACHER"! This one come into my fifth grade class with an amazing piece of rock. He placed it squarely on the table in front of me and asked the class to guess what it was. Many of my classmates made guesses...like "igneous", "metamorphic" or "sedimentary"...all wrong. After a while, I timidly raised my hand. When I was called on, I stated that it looked like "dung". The teacher's eyes lit up and told me I was correct. He went on to explain that it is called a coprolite, the petrified fecal matter from a dinosaur! Then he GAVE it to me! I was launched as a paleontologist. I've since passed it on to my son, who is now a PHD in genetic research, but he also started as a paleontologist. Now, he's a "mouse farmer", but that's another story. Suffice to say that coprolite has been used to launch interest in many scientists that came through my classroom. So, now back to the musings about manure. It always amazed me that similar herbivores could eat exactly the same food, but produce different forms of manure. After eating hay, a horse produces something that looks like a big chunk of tootsie roll, a cow makes a mushy pie, and a deer makes pellets that look like peanut M+M's. Fascinating fecal stuff. Birds are even more amazing. Take the wild turkey for example. Gobblers and jakes make something that always comes in a "J" or backwards "J" shape while hens make something that looks like a hersy's kiss. Of course I haven't mentiond humans yet, and you all probably have been waiting with baited breath (or held noses). Of course, behind the house we had a litle place called an "outhouse" (privy). Our's was a three holer, so of course I got to see plenty. There was no flushing at all. Everyone's was different! One day, a porcupine found it's way inside and after munching all around the openings, for the residual salt, it left some of its own, kind of like brown pencil pieces. Then, in the kitchen I discovered little black rice like things. Yes, if you guessed mice, correct! Knowing when to set traps (and when to avoid them) taught me a lot. I could go on and on, and probably will at a future time. To think it all started with a teacher and a coprolite, a hundred million year old chunk of dinosaur poop. I end with a short tale about one of my first days at the track. Another guy, a teacher of sorts, told me that he heard something from the "horses mouth". So, I bet on the horse, big time. The horse finished last. My guess the guy that gave me the tip was listening to the wrong end of that horse. Some folks never learn, nor do they know which part is doing the speaking, yet they're quite eager for you to appreciate what they say. Just remember which end is talking. Watch your step, but enjoy fecal matter for exactly what it is. You might learn something.
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#31
12-25-2006, 10:09 AM
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I saw Mike's Christmas poem, and the request for poetry, so I'll share this one.
It was written by a friend and myself. He had been going through a difficult time. He wrote the first part. I had just bought my first two horses and was looking at things a bit differently. Maybe those that are participating in the DT partnership will find something in this. "Green and Gold" Are all the farmers dead now? Dead, dying, or waiting to die? Subdivisions all around, All brightly lit and empty Stand where cows once fatted Feasting on lush red clover, so pink and sweet. Are there new farmers now? Those with calloused hands and light minds, Are they really gone? Or are there others? Those with light hands and heavy minds? Those who knew not cow trodden toe Nor long sun drenched days Nor seeing fields just sown Through sweat of their own, Hoping for growth. So long ago their toil. Yet sons and daughters of farmers old For reasons they do not know Take long afternoon rides Past fields of green and gold, Under mountains of pink and skies of azure blue. Do new farmers know of rain drenched days? Or drought? Or doubt? Of planting with a horse drawn plow? Of harvests? Births? Deaths? Or waiting for the promise of a golden sunrise? Yes! There are new farmers now! Those with thoroughbreds. And clean fingernails and heavy minds. High in these green hills, See? As always... Another golden sunrise! See them ride through fields of green and gold, Under an azure sky.
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#32
12-26-2006, 08:01 PM
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I'll stay with the poetry for a while.
Sometimes it says more with less. I don't know the person that wrote this, but it spoke to me. I know something about planting seeds and reaping the harvest. Living in abundance requires work, and also sharing it, so that others may also feast, see, and then share. That's how it grows. That's exactly how it grows. Enjoy this one. I did. If I might add...sometimes poetry needs to be read twice. Once silently, and then again out loud, so you can hear the rhythm of the words. Each one counts. "Where Can We See Him?" His face was painted on cathedral domes. It graced the gilded chapels of kings. Each age portrayed it differently On tapestries and glowing glass, As pious, precious offerings. Chanting monks proclaimed His glory. Symphonies rang forth. Ancient texts and learned tomes Were writ to tell His story. And yet I ponder in my heart About this gentle man, Who never owned an ermine robe Nor smallest piece of land. He spoke of love and tolerance. He lived amongst the poor. He fought no wars. He offered peace. His message has endured. Millions claim to follow Him, With eyes that cannot see, Unless they seek His face anew In suffering humanity. Peace, Larkrise Thank you Larkrise... your message of peace has been spread. Let it grow. DTS
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#33
12-30-2006, 12:21 PM
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Rats
Most everyone knows about rats. Seems that once they find where the grain bin is, or the garbage pile, or the chickens, there's no getting rid of them. Believe me, I've tried. So have many in previous days. Pied Piper comes to mind. Heck, that was in the days of the "black death"...boubonic plague. Rats come. There's no rid. So, one winter afternoon on there came a soft knock on the side door off the kitchen. It was not easy to hear the first time it came, as the "mud room", the place we took off our muddy boots and hung our smelly jackets was between the kitchen and the knocking. I heard it the second time and left my coffee to answer. There stood a little old lady, wrinkled and grey. It was too cold to hold the door open, so I invited her in. She took off her tattered coat and black scarf and was invited to sit at the table with us, warm by the stove. She told us that she was our neighbor, had the place about a thousand feet up the road from our place, and that her property bordered ours, divided by the stream we shared. We could look at the deed. Dad told her there was no need to. It was just nice to meet our neighbor. Well, she relaxed as she got warmer and told us about herself. Her accent was thick, eastern European, and she lit one cirgarette off the next. The smoke hung thick. By the second cup of coffee, she had revealed her name and a bit of her history. Her name was Betty Ludwig. She was 82 years old. Her husband had died 15 years before, and she had sold her candy store in Brooklyn to buy the place where she decided to "retire", have a garden, tend her chickens, feed her rabbits. She asked if we'd had any problems with rats as she had lost a few of her chickens during the past week. We assured her that we hadn't, but we'd be on the look out. Thanks for the warning, Betty. By now, she was feeling comfortable, maybe a bit warm. As she reached for her Lucky Strikes to light up the 10th or 11th, she pushed up the sleeves of the old holey sweater she wore. Right past the elbows. It was then that I saw the numbers tatooed on the inside of her forearms. My guess is that Betty knew far more about rats than I ever will. Thanks for the warning, Betty. You were a friend to our family from that day until the day you died five years later. May you rest in peace. I'll never forget you, your warnings, and the baby chicks you gave me. The rats never got them. I never liked rats either. Last edited by Downthestretch55 : 12-30-2006 at 02:47 PM.
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#34
01-02-2007, 09:11 PM
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Andrew: The Imaginary Soldier Marching on the Historic Road to Battle
I've traveled many historic roads. One leads along the southern edge of Lake Champlain through a place called Whitehall. It was on this road that General Burgoyne marched his British troops down in September of 1777 to their anticipated victory against the insurgents. The Battle of Saratoga, which in reality was the battle of Stillwater (10 miles south), resulted in Burgoyne's surrender to General Gates at Saratoga in October. Maybe history textbooks should be revised to tell about the "surrender at Saratoga" and the "Battle of Stillwater". Too costly, methinks. And I grew up near the River Road, that hugs the eastern shore of the Hackensack River, where Continentals marched past von Stueben's house at New Bridge to reinforce Washington's forces as he chased the British from Philadelphia, and his General Lee caught up with them at a place in Freehold. When he was outflanked and retreated, Washington sent him to the rear and lead the forces himself, attacking twice during those hot June days, to bring the turning point so necessary in 1778. No matter that there was no clear victor in the Battle of Monmouth, and that both sides lost as many men to heatstroke as from the fighting. We gained a legendary lady that showed great courage when she replaced her husband who had fallen, putting down her water jugs and manning the cannon in his stead. But her name really wasn't Molly Pitcher, heck, let's not rewrite the legend. So then there was Andrew one day, marching up and down the historic ridge road near North Settlement, a spur of the famous Susquehannah Turnpike that linked Catskill to Utica for the westward moving pioneers. Andrew lived with his aged mother in a run down house that lacked indoor plumbing. He and his mom lived far from the prying eyes, scrutiny, and flapping lips of townfolk. Their nearest neighbors were a half mile away in either direction. Their isolation might have been for a reason. Andrew was mentally retarded. Oh, there were kids that would drive past him and hurl insults from their bicycle seats, though I don't think Andrew gave them much notice. Andrew liked to march. He could always be seen, through hot summer sun, or cold winter snow, marching up county route 10 to the corner, then back down to the Sutton Hollow. Andrew always carried a stick. He frequently chewed its end with greenish-yellow teeth, but he'd hold it at "present arms" for any passing car that would slow down on the vacant road so he could go to the side. One day, my friend gave Andrew some records and an old record player that he'd picked up at a flea market. All of the 45's were German marching music, patriotic parade tunes. Andrew seemed to love his "chermin mar muse", as he marched back and forth near the blasting sounds coming from the porch of his ramshackled fortress. Back and forth, back and forth, present arms, march again, chew a bit. Onward to the battle of his imagination, to the victory he'd never know, nor a surrender sufferred...marching on the historic road. Marching. Marching. Marching. Imagining. Marching.... Last edited by Downthestretch55 : 01-02-2007 at 10:33 PM.
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#35
01-03-2007, 05:48 PM
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Death and funerals
I must say, I don't like death. Nor do I relish the funerals. Those of heros, those of lessers. I thought to title this rant with "hanging", though I don't like that either unless it's a buck upside down on its way to becoming steaks and stew. Two "heros" that come to mind are one held dear by the Sunnis (theirs, not mine), and one named Hunk-es-ni, also reviled. Both had counted many coup in their times. Hunk-es-ni was seen as an enemy by those that wished to take his lands. He was a great Sioux chief. He had made many enemies, including the Crows. He earned his membership into the warrior's society, the Strong Hearts, when he allowed his Crow opponent to take the first shot, and it ripped through his buffalo hide shield to lodge in his left foot. Hunk-es-ni's shot found its mark, a heart, though he walked with a limp for the rest of his days. And though he was held as a prisoner of war at Fort Randall for two years, upon his release in 1883,he never gave up the hopes of freedom for his people, nor his desire to return to Grand River. After years of wise rule, his little cabin was surrounded by 38 "policemen" commanded by Lieutenant Henry Bull Head, at daybreak on December 15, 1890. When awakened from his slumber, he said twice that he was not going. So, he was shot then and there. Hunk-es-ni, rider of the gray horse, leader of his people died. He has come to be know by the name the whitemen gave him, Sitting Bull. His memory remains within the hearts of those that hold to his courage and sacrifice. His people remember. Today, I watched the funeral of an ex-president. His funeral reminded me of my father's. They both were alike in many ways. Both were World War II veterans, both Episcopalians. The same prayers were said, "...and give him peace, through Jesus Christ our Lord. amen". Both men went to their burials in black hearses, flags flying on the front bumpers. Though the ones on my dad's flew off on the way from the church to the cemetary, and Mac (who had been Eisenhower's driver in Europe) had to stop the procession to put them back in place, cussing while we laughed. Dad would have loved it. The church's names were different, one was Grace, one was Trinity. One of them will have an aircraft carrier named for him, with all the expected missions of war. The other will only have his spirit of honesty, truth, and freedom endure, as his message was about peace. One had handsome soldiers provide a 21 gun salute. The other had two little grandsons fire their bb guns beside his grave in tribute. Each will get one of his purple hearts. Tri folded flags. Oh the funerals, those of heros and those of lessers. Funny in a way that they all end at the same place. As my dad once told me, it's over when the last mourner grabs the final handful of dirt, tosses it in the hole and walks away saying, "What a nice guy! What a nice guy!" Heros and lessers..."and give them peace, and give them peace!" amen
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#36
01-04-2007, 01:42 PM
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Elephants
If you're reading this, you're probably scratching your head, looking at the title, and saying "Yeah, right! DTS, you never had an elephant on the farm." I'd answer that you'd be correct on that. I never did. Then you might be guessing, "Were there ever elephants roaming around the Catskill Mountains?" To that I'd have to say yes. I'm not just talking about wolly mammoths about 20,000 years ago. I'm talking about real live Asian ones, big grey beauties, three of them. Their names were Dalia, Daisy, and Daffodill. I got to know these elephants pretty well. I'll back up for a moment to give you some background. I've always loved the circus. There's something about the clowns, the trapeze, the highwire, the acrobats, the ringmaster, sideshows and midway that caught me at a young age. A circus is really what it's all about. But the things I like the most about the circus are the animals...the dancing bears, the scarey lions and tigers, the prancing ponies, the jumping dogs, and especially the elephants. Dalia, Daisy and Daffodill lived between tours with the Big Apple and other tent shows at a place called Siam Pony Farm, just up Mill St out of Windham, hang a left on Siam Rd. Their owners/trainers were the Vibdels, nice folks. Their white ponies were famous, as were their three beautiful elephants, Dalia, Daisy and Daffodill. As they neared retirement, the Vibdels took their critters to the famous Catskill Game Farm (now closed), near Purling, just outside of Cairo. There the elephants stood on their hind legs, took their bows, and gave rides to thrilled children after the show. The kids loved those elephants, as did I. I spent many an afternoon just watching them run around their pasture, if it could be called that. They had grazed it down to bare dirt and stripped every tree of its bark to the height that trunks could reach. Elephants take a lot to satisfy their hunger, let me tell you. One day, during deer season, Daisy decided to go in search of greener pastures, broke through the fence, and took off. Mr Vibdel was frantic. He put posters in the luncheonette and all over town, begging for her safe return. Imagine a deer hunter sitting on a stand having a huge elephant walk up on you, while you're holding a loaded 30-06. Not a pretty picture. Luckily, a few days after the deer season closed, Daisy was found about six miles away and returned to the safety of Mr Vibdels pasture. Whew! That was a close one! Elephants know how to make one worry! Over several summers, I'd take my little boys to visit them. For those of you that know what it's like to walk up to a 16 hand thoroughbred stallion in a pasture, guess what it must have felt like to a four year old boy with a handful of grass in his outstretched hand. Both boys loved them too. Well, as you might know, it takes a special trainer to take command of an elephant and make it do what you want it to do. Like horses, an ear twist sometimes is something that gets their attention. It doesn't make them listen better, just obey. So, one day...unfortunately, Daffodill had had enough. I don't think she really meant to hurt anyone. She was being an elephant. She took Mr Vibdel around his waist with her trunk, slammed him to the ground, and stepped on him a couple of times. Luckily, Mr Vibdel lived, though he spent the next two years between the hospital and the physical therapy. I wish I could say the same for Daffodill. She was "humanely euthanized". The boys and I cried. And so the elephant act was over, and they no longer roam the Catskills as they once did. I still love the circus, though as of now I'm really enjoying the clowns, lots of clowns. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Step right up, the shows about to start! Get your ticket, come on in!!! It's a show ya don't want to miss! Oh! I loved those elephants! to be continued.... Last edited by Downthestretch55 : 01-04-2007 at 02:32 PM.
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#38
01-05-2007, 02:31 PM
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Up coming stories..."donkeys", "kitties", "big dumb bass"...I've spent a lifetime with gaining lessons...just sharing. DTS
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#39
01-05-2007, 05:07 PM
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Clowns
I'll get back to donkeys, kitties, and bass later. Today I'm talking clowns. There are lots of them. They make me laugh so much! Do you remember Emit Kelly? Bozo? Soupy? There are so many! Clarabell? Gosh, I could go on and on. Clowns keep showing up all the time. I like the act when they keep coming out of the car, or the ones that have a little dog that tries to cheer up his master. How about the pail of water chase? Some of the best are silent. The really funny (or pathetic) ones, also laugh worthy, get me going to the floor when they open their mouths (or keyboards). Can we have a press conference please? In a strange way, some clowns try to be funny with intent. The ones that aren't really trying, the ones that make serious gaffs, are the ones that really make me roar. If only they'd keep their mouths shut. Then they'd realize the absurdity they present might not be funny at all...at least not worth dying for. All in good humor, nuck, nuck. Huff ha huh. Clowns have been around for quite a while. Some clowns don't even realize that they're clowns, so it seems. Can you say Chaplin? Costello? Gracie? Curly? Laurel? Ha Ha! I bet you were just thinking I was going to name somebody else! Now there's a joke right there. I didn't. It's part of a good delivery. Like launching a "smart bomb" out of nowhere that hits its mark. Unexpected. Hits you in the gut, and pretty soon you're rolling on the floor, peeing in your pants. It's like some things I've heard lately..."civilized war", "army intelligence", gaffaw, gaffaw! Clowns are all around. I sure love them all. The ones that try to be funny, and those that don't. Laughter seems the correct response. So in the famous words of the psychiatrist on MASH, "Ladies and gents, take my advice. Drop your pants, and slide on the ice." LMFAO!!!
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#40
01-08-2007, 02:32 PM
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Lies
I'll start by saying that I don't like them. Lies are lies, no matter how they're dressed. Some can see through them, some can't. Sorry for them. Raise your hand if you like being lied to. I thought so...me neither. In the early 1870's the Kwahadis were fighting a guerilla war against cavalry troops led by Ranalds Mackenzie, the tough young colonel who had lost a finger in the Civil War. The insurgents called him Three Fingers. Mackenzie and his cavalry men chased their opposition across the Staked Plains of the Texas panhandle, yet found that they were as much the hunted as the hunters. Quanah, their leader would not relent. He, afterall was trying to safeguard his lands and the buffalo they depended on from the encroachment of usurpers. Mackenzie was never able to defeat them, though he came close to death when they put an arrow into him. Mackenzie was on a mission and used any and all excuse to justify his actions. There was one lie after another. The Kwahadis were free and untamed on the Staked Plains for many years. They would not negotiate with a liar, a butcher that tried to paint them as butchers. Kill them... disrespect and denegrate. Sadly, once the buffalo had been killed off in Kansas, the US Cavalry found an ally, the white buffalo hide hunters that came south to find their slaughter, taking the great beasts for their hides and leaving the meat to rot on the wasted carcasses in the sun. Though the Medicine Lodge treaty had been agreed to, which forbade the white hunters from continuing their slaughter in the panhandle, the Army did nothing to stop them. A new white leader came. his name was General Philip Sheridan. He said, "Let them kill, skin, and sell until the buffalo are exterminated, as it is the only way to bring lasting peace and allow civilization to advance." The whitemen's thinking was to take away the source of food from those that were in need, they would submit and go to reservations. In response, other tribes, the Comanches, the Kiowas, the Cheyennes, and the Arapahos didn't see it that way. The battle of Adobe Walls was the result. The battle was fierce. Quanah had his horse shot from beneath him. The result was three whites killed, tweny-seven Indians. After the warriors left, the remaining whites chopped off the heads of the warriors and stuck them on posts in the corral. There was no end for many years. The actions of the invaders only inflamed the resistance. Despite starvation, tattered tipis, and the real threat of having their old people, their children and infants, their women, slaughtered, the warriors lead a chase for many years across the plains, relying on their scrawny ponies. In 1875, Quanah surrendered. Though he had never lived in a house, eaten at a table, or slept in a bed, he finally found that on the day of June 2, 1875, at Fort Sill, he and those he led could go no further. For the next twenty years, he learned from the liars he hated, those that had broken their treaty with him. He became a wealthy rancher, a major stockholder in the railroad, a friend of two presidents and many congressmen. In the early 20th century, President Theodore Roosevelt established the first National Park, Yellowstone, to protect the few remaining buffalo. Quanah remained critical of the whitemen's ways. He spoke against wasteful farming and ranching practices, the carnage that turned the grasslands to mesquite-scrub prairie. His words remain, "This was a pretty country you took away from us, but you see how dry it is now. It is only good for red ants, coyotes, and cattlemen." Quanah died on Feb. 22, 1911. The "dust bowl" raged for many years on his once sacred lands during the 1930's, the Great Depression. Seems that the whitemen saw the wisdom in their lies while others see the truth that Quanah spoke. RIP Great Warrior, Quanah. Truth can only be seen by those that wish to see. Lies are easily seen. Last edited by Downthestretch55 : 01-08-2007 at 04:54 PM.
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