Code of the West

There are rules about watching your back in the country. If you, for example, happen to leave your, um, Puplin unattended, things can happen.

Beloved Puplin, purchased at Garden's Edge many years ago, has a history of straying. He has, for example, been left in a hotel in Springfield, MO. Most recently, Puplin was left in Austin, where Dad kindly mailed him back. But if someone opens the mail while you're not home, liberties can be taken.

Here's Puplin at Truman Capote's Black and White Ball:
Very nice. Looks better than Katherine Graham did, don't you think?

Now here's Puplin being eaten by a unicorn. Ouch!

Here's Puplin, getting ready to go to therapy before Lydia comes home.
The Code of the West requires that people occasionally will tease and be teased back. If you are teased too intensively, the correct response is, "You're an Eskimo Pie-head, Uncle Michael."
There you go, partner.
--MCG

Trashy Addendum

Previously, MCG noted Uncle Michael's agitation upon finding a refrigerator at CGF that, he surmised, did not belong to us. Clever Uncle Michael apparently photographed this discovery. So here's his visual record of refrigerator discovery and removal. First, keen eyes spot the appliance in the ditch at the end of our driveway. "Thunder!" says UM:



But not to worry. It's a simple matter to load the fridge onto your bale stabber, secure it with chains, and pay $3 to offload at the dump. Ta-da! Bagged it!

A misplaced refrigerator is no match for UM's mighty bale stabber. Only wish we could deliver it to the person who lost it.
--MCG

Another One Such

This happens every summer. It's as regular as the 4th of July fireworks or the running of the bulls in Pamplona. A castoff pet finds us and presents us with an ethical dilemma. This year's installment is a bird dog.

Sometimes these castoffs make us feel like matchmakers. Our hound friend Muzzy was delivered into the arms of a friend who remains smitten by the leggy pooch's charms. You can find out much more about Muzzy at her person's blog. We also learned that a fluffy 10-pound puppy will bowl over all the customers at the lumber yard, who will pore over their address books to find it a home. The puppy grew into a 100 pound bruiser named Samson, so we really dodged a bullet on that one.

And our cat, previously profiled with her rat, was another tourist at CGF who never checked out of the kitty hostel.

Animals gravitate to CGF, perhaps because we're on a creek, or perhaps because our phone number is written on some bathroom wall. My parents were, if possible, even easier marks than we cranky girls are. Dogs with names like Queenie and Ladybird became recipients of hot oatmeal on cold days and table scraps on balmy days; one notably followed Dad to town and waited in his truck while he ate breakfast at the cafe. The only dog ever ejected from CGF was a purebred boxer. When he pulled the laundry off the line one too many times, my mother took him into the vet clinic and asked that he be euthanized. The vet intern was horrified that she would want to destroy such a valuable animal. Kap told him: "He's yours, buddy." Maybe his new owner used a drier.

This female dog looks like a German shorthaired pointer. She walks with a limp and has the patience of a saint. She has been intensively yammered at, pulled on, and shampooed with dish soap, all without protest. She still chooses to sleep in the yard. If you have any birdhunting needs, please let us know and she's yours, buddy. Otherwise, we'll get back to you on how we resolve this summer's ethical dilemma.

--MCG

Trashiness

The wind let up Saturday morning for the first time in days. So I burned the trash. We've got a terrific burn-barrel that Jamie graciously shared and Michael kindly delivered. Grace held a match to help.

I'm guessing that the local burn-ban has been lifted, because farmers have been torching their wheat stubble for days. If not, then paint me a scoff-law. There are both trash-burners and haul-to-the dumpers in my family. We do this because, unlike pampered urbanites, we don't have solid waste disposal services.

Here's the thing: My collection represented a week's trash for three cranky girls, the leavings of a dinner party for 10, and some trim pieces from a construction project. Any organic matter was composted, and we're not strict constructionists about meat and dairy. What do we care if the skunks pull an uneaten piece of cheese from the heap? Any recyclables have been removed to be meditated over, because I dare anyone to make sense of the recycling system around here. Paper and aluminum? Great, drop it off in town 24/7. Cardboard, plastic, steel cans? You can drop those off in Air Force Base Town between 10 and 2. Batteries and glass? You're hosed, unless you want to schlep them to Oklahoma City during business hours. Many is the time that we've thrown up our hands and just sent them back to Austin in a southward-bound vehicle. And how nuts is that?

So is it any wonder that only a few stalwart souls try to work with this system? And is it any wonder that the bridge by our house is the defacto staging area for the county dump? We can take any manner of trash (except tires) to the dump between 9 and 5 on days that aren't Wednesday and Sunday. Unless it's now Monday and Sunday. The dump is a bargain when it's open--only $3 for all the trashiness you can fit into the bed of a pickup. But alas, many rural people generate trash after closing time. We know this because we find their above-ground-pool installation debris, their outgrown baby layettes, and their dead goats by our bridge. Our cousin Paul and pal Jeremy once pulled an exceptional number of lawn mowers out from under the bridge (I think it was 4). Brother Michael has called in a fit of righteous indignation to report that a full-sized refrigerator blossomed at the end of our driveway.

The county workers and the church's youth group have been pressed into service to haul away other people's stuff (Thanks guys! There are more kolaches where those came from!). But mostly it's Uncle Sid and Uncle Michael, who have the pickups and trailers that you really want in the trash-removal biz. Jamie's pickup was just the thing for that elliptical exercise machine that didn't quite make it into the ditch. These people's time, gas, and equipment wear-and-tear are the effective Other People's Crap Tax that we pay for living in the country.

So urbanites: Celebrate Big Trash Day! Lift a glass to Single Stream Recycling! And be content in the knowledge that any day you wake up without someone else's pool skirting on your property is probably going to be a good day.

--mcg

Lawn Culture

Weeks of 100-plus temperatures mean that the bermuda grass around the house and outbuildings has long since gone brown and dormant. The weeds, however, are loving it. These guys must have made some deal with the evolutionary gods, because they are thriving in the face of climate conditions that are more like Dubai than the USDA Hardiness Zone 7. Yesterday's high was 114 degrees; the top leaves of my well-watered corn plants went from green to crinkly brown in one afternoon. But do you see any stress in this vegetation? It's the epitome of verdant:

Here is a particularly exuberant example of pig weed. I swear it wasn't there two days ago:

Which brings us to the subject of lawn care in this part of the world. I won't indulge in King of the Hill comparisons because they're just too easy. More revealing might be the inventory of the garage where our lawn care tools are stored: three riding lawnmowers and a push mower. Two of the riding mowers are well-loved tractor mowers that are used only in a pinch. The other is a twirly, zero-turn mower that came to us when a cousin upgraded. Here's the thing: In this lawn care tribe, owning four lawn mowers is considered completely normal. Our cousin who upgraded has an immaculate garage bay that looks like the lawnmower lot outside Lowe's. Weird, in this lawn culture, would be my Austin yard, where all the Saint Augustine has been replaced with gravel, vegetable garden, and xeriscaping. 

I once asked our friend Jamie, a native Texan, to shed some light on a diagonal mowing pattern we saw in Brother Sid's beautiful yard. She only shrugged and observed that "mowing is a religion in Oklahoma. That's just another sect."  I have been pushing my tribe's boundaries of lawn etiquette; I'm not elderly or incapacitated, so I don't qualify for a mowing waiver.  Excuses like, "but jeez, it's 114 outside!" just don't cut it with this crowd.  If I waited much longer, I could expect concerned looks and an Intervention Mowing. Therefore, the Cranky and Reluctant Mower sect held services Saturday at 8 a.m. And it was good.

--mcg

Ancient History

There's a lot of old stuff at CGsF. Like the Romans, we have some really old infrastructure that you might find in a museum. Until recently, we boasted of knob-and-tube wiring, a 40-year-old AC, and a fabulously rusty cast iron pipe that took (most) of the water from the washing machine. Some old stuff is hip and groovy, for example a stove that has a griddle and a Thermo-well. Other old stuff is just old. Like Meta Cranky Girl.

Then there's the category of Educational Old Stuff. Cranky Girls 1 and 2 are seated on a thingy that allows you to actually SIT behind your plow, rather than have to walk behind it. I'm sure it was the IPod Touch or the IPhone 3G of its day. This implement lives at the Chisholm Trail Museum in Kingfisher with very many of its farm implement friends.

One of the very cool things about this museum, besides its three dozen flavors of candy sticks, is that it not only has Educational Old Stuff. It also has a whole block of Educational Old Buildings. A school. A bank. A jail. A church (more on this later). A blacksmith shop. And two log cabins. The log cabin pictured below is of particular interest to Cranky Girls because it was owned by the Cole family. Meta Cranky is sure she will be corrected if she gets this wrong, but she thinks that it was the home of her mother's great-grandmother. That would be the 3rd-great grandmother of Crankies 1 and 2. That's a lot of history, and quite a bit of crankiness.

Lydia sat on an iron bed in this small cabin and thought about being in a place where her long-ago grandmother had lived. 

Harmony Church was our family's church for many years, until it closed in the 1970s. If you get us going, we can tell you stories about Uncle Michael singing Silent Night there as a wee tot, or about Dora, a notable minister who served the church during WW2. 

It looks like an Educational Old Building, but we still know lots of people who think of it as part of their family, too.

--MCG

Thorny Bastards

Attention readers: This post is being written by the mother of all Cranky Girls. The previous writer emphasized to me that I needed to make this distinction. Perhaps I'm the Meta Cranky Girl. I'll consider how to classify myself when I'm not so cranky.

Today's post is about cirsium undalatum.  I was ready to call this a musk thistle, but our friend Chuck, who knows more Latin names than Charles Darwin, thinks it's a wavy-leaf thistle. Wavy-leaf thistle is apparently a native plant, as opposed to a myriad of other invasive thistles with purple tops. Whether its a native or an uninvited guest, it's prickly, and I will always think of it (affectionately) as The Thorny Bastard. 

It's got an attractive purple bloom. I'm quite certain that our friends at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center cultivate them and celebrate their place in the circle of life.

We don't celebrate them quite so much; they only pop up when fields are stressed or overgrazed, or when the seeds are imported in hay bales. So with the encouragement of Uncle Michael (profiled previously), we have spent two mornings digging them up and carrying them off to burn. Check out the payload of these seed pods, and it's apparent how quickly these thistles can spread.

These thistles were removed from a farm my uncles own. I'm sure they'll be glad to know that there's an Oklahoma law on the books requiring property owners to remove invasive species. We're apparently saving these guys from a fine of $1000/day. Wow, are we generous or what? Here's Lydia, making her contribution to range management:

The Thorny Bastards and I go way back; I've seen these lovely purple blossoms pulled, mowed, and burned since my days as a wee cranky girl, often at the instigation of my granny. If she could see these from the window of her Impala as she drove around her ranch, someone would be instructed to remove them. Upon reflection, perhaps my granny is the Meta Cranky Girl, and the rest of us are just pale imitations.

--mcg