Archive for the ‘Chronicle’ Category
Gentle Melt
This week we have been blessed with weather that is melting the snowpack in gradual steps, stopping overnight when the temperature drops below freezing and then gradually starting to melt again as the solar rays increase throughout the day. It’s the best outcome for avoiding flooding extremes.
Yesterday afternoon was the first time I finally was able to see the water flowing out of our drainage culverts as the snow cover receded.
There still is evidence of the significant amount of snow we received this year. I saw in yesterday’s news that the Twin Cities snowfall amount thus far is the eighth-snowiest since records have been kept. The snow that has slid off the hay shed roof all season is going to take a long time to melt, being in the shade most hours of the day.
It’s hard for me to see it but I read recently that our snow cover melts from the ground up. The roots of our trees must be warmer than the surrounding areas because the snow has visibly disappeared around the trees faster than everywhere else.
We are anxious to enjoy some 50-degree days but I’m willing to wait while days in the 40s are slowly, gently melting the snow and calmly flowing through our drainage ditches. One question lingers… how much longer should I leave the plow blade mounted to the ATV?
I will never shake the memory of our first spring here when 18 inches of heavy spring snow fell on May 3 after a dry warm spell in April. If I take off the plow blade, it won’t be stored very far away from easy access if needed.
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Eaten Tree
There was a time when the willow tree was happy and healthy inside the space that we fenced off for our small paddock. Knowing full well the threat livestock pose to trees within their confines, we tried several versions of barriers intended to keep the horses from chewing the bark. It was fine with us that they munched the hanging branches. It gave the tree a look of being well-trimmed at all times.
After the first few attempts to protect the tree trunk proved insufficient –read: the horses just chewed up whatever we tried using– I chose to wrap the tree with hardware cloth. In time, even that protection broke down under the constant rubbing and biting from the horses, but it no longer appeared to matter by then. The tree was beginning to fail from the compression of the soil around the roots and we suspect, the heavy dose of horse urine that stagnated there as well.
Even when provided two years free of horses in that paddock, the gorgeous willow tree continued to show evidence of an ongoing downward spiral. Based on that, when we found out that new horses would be coming to live with us, we decided we would no longer do anything toward protecting the trunk of the tree.
This is what unobstructed access to the trunk of the tree looks like after two years:
I’m a little surprised by how interested the horses are in the roots. They’ve almost chewed more roots than bark at this point. At the very top of the image, you can see the horses also like to reach up to chew well above their shoulder height. Since we’ve given up on the tree, I see the chewing of tree bark as taking away some of the pressure on the boards and fencing around the overhang.
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Busted Post
When we noticed a large gash on Swings’ side a few days ago, I probably should have searched further for the possible cause but I assumed it was either from one of the other horses or the fence up by the overhang where they spend the majority of their time.
Yesterday, we had a farrier appointment that had me closing gates and putting halters on the horses in preparation. When I came to the gate by the round pen I found an alarming sight.
I’ve worried that the individual cross boards might not hold up against the weight of the horses when they push against them but I never expected they might snap off one of the 4×4 posts. Oops. Most likely, too many horses were trying to squeeze through that gate opening at the same time, and at high speed and Swings smacked into the fence. That must have been quite a scene.
I won’t be able to replace it until the ground thaws so I’m planning to splint it for a temporary fix. I need to buy some big wood screws first, though. Until then, that gate is closed to further traffic.
There was a bit of wind yesterday that contributed to unsettling the horses before I started putting halters on them and closing gates. Getting haltered just riled them up even more. I worried that this would make things much harder for the farrier, Heather, but she breezed through all except for Light. The delays of Light’s skittishness over being constrained and having her feet picked up were not atypical behavior. We’ve changed our minds several times about what her issue might be but we’ve found that simply out-waiting her reluctance without adding to her anxiety has allowed Heather to give reasonable attention to all four feet during the last two sessions.
We are grateful that Tom and Johanne from This Old Horse always show up to support Heather, which takes some pressure off us in managing the horses’ behavior. It also feels good to have them get a fresh look at how the horses are doing.
Other than a broken fence post and a big scuff on Swings’ side, the horses were assessed as looking good and doing well.
Now it’s time for me to put on my fence-repairing carpenter’s hat.
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Weather Related
Just in case you didn’t expect me to write about the weather today, I put it in the title to give you a warning. Where would I be if I didn’t have the topic of the weather to resort to when nothing fantastical happens worth telling? If you ask Cyndie, she’d say we need to get another dog. I find myself in hesitation mode about making that commitment again.
Speaking of the weather, I would like to present “exhibit A” as a photo to show how the increasing angle of the sun is having a visible impact on our snowpack even during the last few days when we experienced single-digit temperatures that felt ripped right out of January:
The right side of the driveway receives a direct blast of sunshine on blue-sky days while the left side does not.
Another phenomenon we are witnessing is the growing icy mounds where flowing meltwater, under pressure from the terrain, pushes up and re-freezes into surprising-looking high spots of particular hazard to hoofed navigation.
The area beneath the old willow tree in the small paddock has melted down to the dirt but the snowpack glacier a short distance beyond is currently getting thicker as melting occurs uphill and flows down to re-freeze right in front of a gate opening.
The horses wisely refrain from venturing out onto the icy surface.
Much less wise was Light’s decision to bolt in an unnecessary panic to get past me and away from Mix when Swings decided to walk over to the other side of the overhang. Swings had been successively switching sides as she waited for me to finish my housekeeping work before serving up feed yesterday morning. Light had made it a mission to follow along with Swings each time.
That meant I was frequently needing to work around their feet as they intruded on and then evacuated from the space where I was trying to scoop manure. On the last iteration of this dance, Light suddenly decided she needed to hurry to keep up with Swings. Light torqued to avoid me by about an inch but that put her off balance as she was passing through the narrow space of the single fence section that is opposite the swinging gates.
I watched with alarm as the weight of her body pushed against the fence boards, flexing them dramatically –I prepared for them to give way, but they held– before her leg slammed into the post at the other end, jolting her a bit as she continued beyond it. That brought her free to stop behind Swings who was by then standing idly.
It all happened so fast that there was nothing I could do but stare in shock over the spectacle. I noticed Light pick up her front leg and bend the joints in a way that I interpreted as her saying, “Damn! That hurt!”
I fully expected to find remnants of her hide stuck to the post after that but I didn’t find any visible damage on her or the post.
When the footing improves in the rest of the paddock spaces, I think the horses are going to be very happy to spend more time away from the close quarters under the overhang.
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Obvious Evidence
Based on all the mice caught in our traps throughout the winter, it should come as no surprise that they navigate the harsh elements as well as long-legged wildlife, but I am always intrigued by the obvious evidence rodents are burrowing beneath the snow.
Despite the frigid overnight temperatures greeting me bitterly at each morning feeding the last few days, it appears one little critter was busy making tracks.
There is also obvious evidence of the increasing angle of sunshine and its growing influence by way of melting that is occurring despite the chilly air temperatures. That will prove to be a benefit when it comes to the threat of spring flooding. There is a deeper snowpack now than we’ve had in many years and if it were to melt all at once, flooding would likely occur.
There is an additional aspect that could dramatically influence whether we have any troublesome flooding this spring or not and that is the amount of rain that will fall in spring storms. Based on a recent video released by our county’s historical society, flooding from heavy rain can happen at any time of year. In 1942 there was a flooding rain that happened in September.
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When I saw this video the first time, I realized I would quickly blame the extent of warming of our planet if this kind of flooding rain happened today. In my lifetime, I’ve never seen rain of the intensity described by Dr. James Vedder happen in the fall. But it did happen back in 1942.
Flooding rain fell in July of 1879 and washed away a mill and flooded my great-great-grandfather’s house a little over ten miles south of where we live now.
To me, this is obvious evidence that the steep ravines and many rivers of the “driftless region,” of which our county is included, are susceptible to flooding from heavy rain.
I wonder how many mice survive that kind of extreme weather.
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Writing Words
Relative Something is a blog. The word blog is short for weblog, as in, world wide web + log [regular record of incidents]. Blogs are written in an informal conversational style. I write about my experiences like I would describe them if we were just hanging out, minus the pauses when I can’t think of the word I want to use. A thesaurus is my friend.
It would embarrass me greatly if the frequency of my error in using a word were prominently displayed on my posts. I am forever grateful for the intuition to double-check a dictionary and thesaurus. I don’t write exactly like I talk but I do write the way thoughts and ideas come into my head. Another thing I am forever grateful for is the dialogue I was surrounded by growing up. My vocabulary came from hearing the words my mom and dad used while WCCO radio and television broadcasts ran as a background soundtrack.
It is not rare that a sentence will come into my head with a word that I don’t recognize as coming from my own common usage but feels connected to something my mother would say.
Yesterday, as I steeled myself against a biting wind chill, I caught myself doing the classic “air whistle” that is an obvious habit my mom displayed. I have tried to grow out of that natural tendency, with little success beyond increased awareness of occasions when I am doing it. At the same time, it’s a habit that always draws memories of my mom from deep in my soul and brings a feeling of pride over being one of her kids.
Why would I try to get myself to stop this behavior? Maybe it’s a remnant of the urge to grow up and become my own person.
I am unabashedly a product of my upbringing and my ancestral heritage but I have the desire to grow well beyond simply being like my parents. Striving to be healthier in mind, body, and spirit has helped me to interrupt a pattern of familial depression and the use of alcohol as (an ineffective –even detrimental) treatment.
I don’t have a memory of my parents writing poetry but I have read the poems of another of my ancestral relatives. My inclination is to assemble words in a rhythmic pattern that appeals to my senses. That often drives the selection of a word more than the meaning of the word itself. When the collection of words is stacked up, the variety of possible intentions often surprises me. I don’t always know what the poems are saying about me but I have learned that readers often come to their own conclusions.
Helping Cyndie to shape and reshape a story she hopes to tell in a week and a half has been a fun experience for me. It is blurring the differences between verbal stories and written chronicles. Either way, readers or listeners are forming their own interpretations in their minds, conjuring mental images and feeling whatever emotions the words inspire.
I have a feeling her project could help me to become a better writer of stories about the experiences of *this* John W. Hays.
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Hanging Ball
Lately, there are two very different reasons the horses have been confining themselves close to the shelter of the barn overhang. I was showing off the mud yesterday but that has now turned rock-hard because the air temperatures have plummeted to single digits with a wind that feels like someone set the clocks back to January. The snow down the hill from the overhang that was melting two days ago has become dangerously glazed again with the re-freeze creating a hazard that the horses wisely choose to avoid.
Just in time, I hung up a fresh boredom-busting treat, Uncle Jimmy’s Hanging Ball that Light immediately went for.
The enticing grains held together with a sweet molasses coating are hard to gobble because the ball is hung high and swings away from any attempt to get a big bite.
Sometimes I feel like it’s cruel to tease them with this but watching how they don’t give up over time and eventually the ball starts to show signs they are getting nibbles off it makes me think it is serving the intended purpose of giving them a challenge that helps fight boredom.
Surprisingly, I have yet to see the barn birds claiming ownership of these sweet grain treats. It seems like it would be obvious bird food. Just in case they are chipping away at it when I am not around, the length of time the treat lasts tells me they aren’t cheating the horses of nibbles. In fact, that would probably help the horses out because when it is completely round at the start, all they can really accomplish is to lick it.
How many licks does it take to get to the center of an Uncle Jimmy’s Hangin’ Ball?
The world may never know.
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Mud Returns
Pick your adage: Be careful what you wish for. What could possibly go wrong? You never know how things will turn out. How much worse can it get?
It’s March. We are ready to be done plowing and shoveling snow. We are looking forward to seeing the ground again. We want the snow to melt. However, the ground doesn’t suddenly thaw out all at once. Just like it freezes from the top layer on down, it melts in the very same way.
Well, the top layer has thawed just beyond the overhang and it is now a muddy, mucky mess. The water can’t soak into the ground because the next layer down is still frozen solid. Water is just standing in hoof-sized pools.
My perpetual quest to clean up manure beneath and around the overhang promptly becomes an unwinnable battle when fresh droppings land in the pockmarked slurry of muck the horses keep walking in. It is a Sisyphean task that I nonetheless continue to wage despite the mess and my limited success.
Meanwhile, the space beneath the roof suddenly becomes an even more luxurious oasis than it usually is.
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The long day of drizzling rain was beginning to become sleet blown sideways by gusty winds when I went down to feed the horses at dinnertime. Beneath the overhang, it was calm and dry. Once again, I found myself praising the location and orientation of this barn.
The mud might be around for a long time to come in the days and weeks ahead but we are already starting to get antsy for conditions to allow me to get back to landscaping projects and Cyndie to try walking the uneven terrain down to the labyrinth. We have hopes of being able to promote World Labyrinth Day on May 6 this year if the ground dries up enough for hosting larger gatherings by then.
I’d like to offer a shout-out to friends, Patty and Steve who plan to visit us in April to experience Wintervale in person for the first time. Here’s to the gift of unexpected connections/reconnections that seem divinely inspired. Thanks for reaching out to us, Patty!
We are three days from the vernal equinox. I’m sensing spring is preparing to be sprung. Is that too much to wish for?
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Grand Slam
One of the things Cyndie decided to do to occupy herself during the months she was laid up with a broken ankle was to explore storytelling. “The Moth” level of storytelling. She bought their book about storytelling and started writing down details of stories from her life experiences that seemed worthy of telling. She picked the date of a local Moth story slam at the end of this month and has been working on honing one of her stories down to an effective 5-minute version.
Last night, we drove to St. Paul to get an in-person taste of Moth storytelling at the Fitzgerald Theater. It was their GrandSLAM Championship where nine winners of previous story slams competed against each other with 5-minute stories based on a common theme of “Crash Course.”
At the end of the night, my first question to her was, “Did that change your mind about throwing your name in the hat?”
It didn’t. I find it difficult to understand that she won’t even know if she will have a chance to try until the night of the event because they pull 10 names out of a hat to determine whose stories will be told. I don’t know how many people show up hoping to be selected to stand on stage in front of a microphone under a bright light in front of a large audience, but I’d guess it will be more than ten.
Last night we got the chance to see what aspects of the storytelling worked well and what Cyndie might want to keep in mind if she gets the chance to tell her story of baking and assembling a wedding cake for our niece’s wedding. The versions Cyndie has been trying out have changed a lot from when she started. The Moth asks that stories be “known by heart but not rote memorization.”
Whittling down the entire experience of a compelling story into a 5-minute version forces you to figure out what details are essential and which ones don’t contribute to the main point. Moving from reading it to “telling” it by memory gets tricky with multiple versions floating around in her mind.
Only one storyteller last night had a moment of visibly losing their train of thought. The emcee did a great job of rallying the crowd to support all storytellers with a lot of love and we cheered the person with encouragement and her story resumed flawlessly in short order.
“The Moth’s mission is to promote the art and craft of storytelling and to honor and celebrate the diversity and commonality of human experience.”
Cyndie has countless stories worth telling. I’m thrilled she has chosen to develop greater mastery of the art of telling them well and doing so in larger venues.
It’s a bonus for me because I LOVE listening to well-told stories. That is… when I’m not too busy trying to tell one of my own. Why don’t I try getting on a Moth stage? I think it comes down to the part about knowing the story by heart and telling it in 5-minutes. On a stage.
I’d rather write my stories in a blog.
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Energized Horses
Fun horse energy is a wonderful thing to experience up close. I walked out into the paddock yesterday with no agenda beyond hanging out with the horses. It was around the time when they are often nodding off peacefully in the bright sunshine but something had them fired up much more than usual. I stood and marveled at their antics for a long time before realizing how great it would be to share what I was witnessing.
By the time I was able to start recording, they were rounding the turn on their last lap past the round pen and returning to the comfortable safety of the paddock near the watering station.
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It’s possible they were on alert from the vehicle delivering the next two-week supply of feed and the sound of the woman tossing (13) 50-pound bags in an organized pile on pallets in the barn. I stepped out under the overhang after helping her unload and the horses were all down by the round pen. While I stood there and watched them for a moment, I became acutely aware of the loudness of the trickling water running in the gutter and downspouts from snow melting off the metal roof.
That sound may have also been an unnerving trigger for the horses that caused them to suddenly behave so rambunctiously during their normal quiet time.
At one point, I was standing in the very center of the round pen as they galloped around, sprinting in and out of the paddock, reversing direction in an instant as if that was the whole point of the exercise. They would fall in line in a very specific order that reflected my impression of their herd hierarchy –Swings-Mix-Light-Mia– whenever Swings would come to a stop. Suddenly, Swings would begin to turn and they would all flip around and take off running again.
Eventually, Mix and Swings ran right at me in the round pen after Light and Mia had made the turn out into the pasture. They all ran around for a bit with each pair on either side of the round pen fence. Then Light and Mia came running in to join the other two in the round pen. Four unpredictably frolicking horses and me all inside the round pen at the same time was too much for me and I bolted to move from dead center to against the fence by the door while they leaped and spun.
Horses reared and kicked, Swings gestured as if she wanted to lay down and I let out an involuntary chuckle of giddiness to be in such close proximity, witnessing such a beautiful spectacle of equine energy. When they all took off out of the round pen again, I thought to pull out my phone for recording whatever they had left.
Maybe they napped after that. I went inside because it was COLD out there yesterday, but my soul was fully charged by osmosis due to volumes of unbridled horse energy.
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Relative Something 