Sunday, January 29, 2012

Make hay while the sun shines?


Dear blog reader:

I hope this finds you doing well.  I am fine.  A bit winded you might say.  The winds have been blowing at about 25 mph the last two days. No matter, I had been shut out of road biking for nine days. There were ponies out there to track down. So in spite of the gales, I set out for a ride to Fishers and back. I figured that if I did the hard riding into the wind first, I could reward myself by riding with a 25 mph tail wind all of the way home. It was hard. I worked and worked for two hours. Finally, it was time to turn around and come home. But I was too tired; wiped out by the constant fight against the wind. I had to call Bev to come and get me. Thankfully, she was willing to come to Richmond. Yeah, that was one strong wind out of the west.

Which brings me to two of Roger's rules to bike by; if the birds look like they are doing the moon walk into the wind don't go riding, and its corollary; if you get a call from the producer of the television show "Neighborhood Trashcan Swap", don't go riding.

I promised last week that I would spend some time cataloging some of the memories released by the demolition of the big red barn on our farm. Your comments and shared memories of the barns in your lives were touching and indicated how these vestiges of rural America had such a profound impact on many of you, and if not you, your parents or grandparents.

The big barns, that were so common in rural America a generation and a half ago, were really hay repositories. In the day before balers, which compress the hay into 50 or 60 pound blocks and secures them with two lengths of twine, farmers would store hay loose in haymows. They had teams of horses that would pull a wagon through the field of dry mown hay. The farmer's using pitchforks would pile these wagons high with loose hay. After a wagon was loaded, the wagon was pulled to the barn where a large hay fork would grapple an arm full of hay and with a horse, rope, some pulleys, and a track system the hay was dumped in the mow in a loose pile.

Because of a blend of time, density, and consumption, the computation of barn dimensions evolved to a pretty standard design through the years. The distance between the barn floor and mow is 10 feet. 10 feet seems like a lot for a cow that stands 4 to 5 ft at the withers. It is in October when you let them in the barn in October before the weather turns. However, it is just enough space to hold your animals and a 3 ft manure pack, which is how deep the ****** gets from November through April. Through the generations, farmers found that it would take two times that volume of hay to feed the animals for those five or six months. Consequently, the distance from the haymow floor to the peak of the roof was often 30 feet.

Then came the hay baler, farmers were able to compact their hay four times compared to the loose hay process. Suddenly, barns that were designed to hold 10 ton of hay were having 40 tons of hay stuffed into them; 80,000 pounds. Those barns were tough. They were made out of native lumber. I never knew what naitive lumber meant while I was growing up. I did not collect any natives lumber leaves for the 6th grade biology leaf collection. I never found any native lumber seeds to go around planting like Johnny Native Lumberseed. But my father and grandfather used the phrase "naitive lumber" with such reverence. "Oh you won't break that board. It’s native." "You can't drive a nail in that. It's native." It was hard stuff. Wanting to prove them wrong, my cousin and I bent many nails only to give up and listen to dad's advice about drilling pilot holes 3/4 of the way in and driving the nail the last quarter.

In the end, native lumber is just the lumber that was sawn from trees from the area, in central Indiana often a hard wood species. They were used in construction while the wood was still wet. In order to do this and not have your barn be full of holes and cracks that would appear as the wood dried and contracted, special construction techniques were developed to use the contraction phenomenon as an advantage. That is where we got mortise and tenon joints, pegs, barn lap siding, and why haymow floors were always boards laid flat on top of the haymow floor beams loosely, which scared me to death as I would think "this board is loose. It could spring up and let me fall through." I had a self-inflicted scary childhood.

As the wood dried, all of those construction techniques would work together and create a structure that was more than up to the task of holding 10 tons of hay suspended 10 feet off of the ground. In fact, in many cases, it was strong enough to hold 40 tons if all of the pieces used in construction were without flaws.

That is the other thing about native lumber. It is the lumber that was on the farm, the big tall straight trees in the wood lot. While the blemishes were not obvious, they were there. The cleft of grain that transversed the sawn joist was unseen. But it had radiated out from the knot from a branch halfway up. The sawman had worked around it. He was trying to get the most useable wood out of that tree. The knot was excised, cut to length and used for heat. The rest was kept and used for haymow support.

And it held. It held for 20 years. All of those 10 ton harvests never even tested it, but one day there was a 40 ton harvest. That cleft was tested. It moaned and creaked but it held. 40 ton harvests came for another twenty-five years. The old native lumber held its ground. Finally the cleft started to give way. A crack, small at first, started to grow. As it weakened, the weight was shifted to neighboring joists. The pressure increased until 1969 when something had to be done.

I remember the engineering marvel of barn jacks and their ability to move this immovable barn a 32nd of an inch at a time. The entire length of its stroke wasn't more than an inch or two. So for a pain staking day and a half I remember my father and grandfather jacking up this prize of the farm, an inch at a time, shoring up the progress, reblocking the jacks, moving it up again, taking great pains to keep everything level and true. Because if you were off a quarter of an inch, "the barn would lean and eventually come down."

In that day and a half, my father and grandfather shored up four failing joists with four 4 inch I-beams. I-beams and a job well done that held that floor and barn true for another thirty-two 80 ton harvests; a pretty good day and a half's work.

Take Care

Roger

Sunday, January 22, 2012

All Fall Down


Dear Blog Reader

I hope this finds you doing well. I am stuck indoors. The snow is too deep on the roads for bike riding. The Indiana weather promised to be better today. A high of 42 should have let the rubber hit the road so to speak. Alas! no sun appeared in the sky in spite of implied iconography on the weather channel. All of the climatology means that it is the first weekend since March that I haven't been out on a bike. I am jonesing to go on even a 7 mile ride. Hopefully, the weather channel's predictions will work out this week, and I will find another family taking their pony out for a Sunday afternoon walk. Pony walking is all the rage these days.

So faced with the choice between doing taxes or writing you, I chose you. Taxes can wait until next week. It truly is a disagreeable task. I know that there are those of you who have done the right thing and kept up with the paperwork. All of your receipts are categorized by deduction type. You’re just waiting for your w2's. You'll hit the return button on your spreadsheet and viola you are done. Congratulations! I know that you are the better human being and I want to ridicule you.

I have been haunted by visions the past week. Bev and I decided to have one of the old barns on the farm tore down. The hurricane shingles had given up after 30 years. They had served valiantly, but in the end, it was time and the weather that was always going to win. So faced with a $6,000 roofing bill and the continued property rent (tax) bill, it was time to give up the ghost and let the walls come tumbling down.

The trigger was pulled about two months ago. The contractor was hired. He said that he would get to it sometime this winter which was fine with us. My ambivalence regarding tearing down the barn has been palpable. The cold harsh reality is that the barn was useless. It had been empty for four years. The roof could no longer shed water. It was doomed. However, being a farmer's son and an ex-farmer, the building of barns and their maintenance is the gauge by which farm wealth and health is measured. The demolishing of that barn was another clear signal that Sharritt 's Dairy Farm and Sharritt Market Gardens had come to an end. The Sharritt clans has become landowners and are no longer farmers.

The farm has always had two homesteads, and the barn was located at the other homestead, a quarter mile down the road from our house. As a result, we did not see it come down. Rather, Bev saw the evidence and reported its demise sometime later after an alternative route home while testing out the new all wheel drive excitement of our new Subaru on a snowy day. For days after, I had visions of its posts and beams sticking up at odd angles out of the rubble of the red siding skin. I could not bring myself to go the quarter mile to see it. Even though I hadn't seen its destruction, the knowledge of it collapse released memories much like confetti exploding out of the stands at the end of the big game.

Once released, they can never be put back into the confines that my mind had constructed. Confines constructed of 90 year old post and beams and covered in half inch barn siding painted a traditional red. Confines that were somehow protected by an old foot square placard proclaiming that smoking was prohibited by order of the Madison county fire marshal, but couldn’t be protected from the water as the roof gave up.

My family lived at that homestead, during my childhood. It held hay, and livestock and was an integral part of the business and success of the farm. Growing up, I was expected to complete several chores before walking the quarter mile up the road to the main farm and the rest of the chores. Consequently, many of the memories are singular in their nexus. However, not all, Sharritt's Dairy Farm was a small family farm and so many of those memories are of families and lessons learned in the crucible of family relations.

I have since gone down the road several times and looked at the rubble. I haven't gone up to the pile. The several sideways glances have shown the pile is really pretty flat. No posts or beams making a defiant stand against gravity. Like rings around roses and pockets of poesies the big Sharritt barn has all fallen down.

Take Care

Roger

Monday, January 16, 2012

One big dog


Dear Blog Reader:  



I hope this blog finds you doing well. It leaves me invigorated and a bit chagrined. I feel invigorated because I feel like I stole two bike rides from old man winter this weekend. The sun was just bright enough that the snow on the road melted except for where the drifts had piled up. Thankfully farmers have decided not to worry about good neighbors and have abandoned their fences. No fence; no place for the snow to pile up behind, leaving rural children everywhere forlorn and without hope. So I was able to get out there in 22 degree weather and stay mostly warm.

I must admit that I feel a little chagrined also. I have been holding back on information about my life. Last week on a 23 mile ride on that balmy 52 degree Sunday, I turned south at about the halfway point of my ride. Looking up, an apocalyptic sight appeared about a mile down the road. I see a large person, a small person, and a large dog.

Any dog on a bike ride is a protent of dire events. Even the little short legged dogs with their needle like teeth could have the aerobic capacity to wear you down and and at the last second lunge at you, latching onto a calf, creating great pain. A dog, the size of this, would have a long enough stride to outrun me unless I was going downhill.

My SOP for encountering any dog is flight. There is no fight when you are balancing on two 3/4 inch tires 4 feet in the air while traveling 15 miles per hour. Adrenalized, the legs are a blur and the head is on a swivel trying to catch a glimpse of the end of life. You feel like a wildebeest on the Serengeti, realizing just a second too late that the herd has wondered off in cheetah alley leaving you as the guest of honor at the Circle of Life Banquet. The sudden burst of power does the trick, but with all of the attention paid to the legs, head, and dog; the lungs forget to get in on the show. Just as the pursuit starts to flag, the lungs start giving out and Marlin Perkins takes us to a commercial break. "My will the wildebeest make it out. Jim get out of the truck and go over and look. Don't worry your Mutual of Omaha premiums are all paid up."

What if this monster didn't care about the choker around his neck and in its primal desire to hunt things down broke free, and chased me down. Now before you think that it is all about me, the thought did cross my mind that it would be a terrible sight for the small person to see as their beloved canine knocked me from my ride and sunk his canines into my exposed neck. I promised myself that I wouldn't go down without a fight. I would teach that young child more cuss words in 30 seconds of tutelage than most people learn in a lifetime.

 But it was too early to panic, it could be a nice dog and I still had 3/4 of a mile left before we met formally. Slowing down, I was breathing deep trying to build up my oxygen capacity for my brief flight for safety. Catching my breath, I hoped to slowly build speed until I could see the leash straining and then speed by just as the owner could no longer hold on. Hopefully, as the leash slipped out of his hands, I would be going twenty miles an hour, gaining valuable space as the mighty Fido accelerated those long limbs carrying the mighty jaws of death on their killing mission.

One half mile, man, that is one big dog. Huge. What was the name of those dogs that are bigger than a Great Dane? Why would a person have a dog that big? Can you imagine how much it costs to feed a dog that big? That's probably why they are out on this Sunday afternoon walk. They can't afford to feed the damned thing so they are taking it out for a bicyclist buffet. I am glad I am wearing polyester tights. While not a pretty sight, maybe it will choke and die saving countless life’s after me. My demise won't be in vain.

One quarter mile, look at the size of the head on that thing. Turn that thing into the wind and it will slow him down. Well, its time to get on with it. Up on the pedals, cranking harder, shifting down, breathing deep, thinking of the opening salvo of  cuss words for my young padowan's lessons.

One eight of a mile, what kind of a dog is it? Wait, its not a dog.  What is it? It's. It's. It is a pony. A pony, a father, and a son were walking down a country road on a Sunday afternoon on a 50 degree January day.

Which brings me to my chagrined state mentioned early in this post. Yes, I kept this tale from you for a week. I was afraid that if I told you last week, you would give heed to your new year's yearnings to get out there and mix it up with the assassin deer that are lurking in the Indiana tree lines. Your participation would only fill up the roads.

Better that this story be shared on a weekend when the temperature is in the mid-twenties, or your quest for the wonders of the road would only be heighted when you realized that around the next corner is a family taking their pony out for a walk.

Take Care

Roger


Sunday, January 8, 2012

Hot Flash?


Dearest Blog Readers

I hope this blog finds you doing well. It leaves me in the middle of a hot flash. A 60 degree Friday, January 6, a 50 degree Saturday, January 7, a 45 degree Sunday, January 8 in Indiana, it is glorious. My goal of riding at least one day a month so far hasn't been much of a challenge. I was listening to my favorite Saturday morning radio show this weekend and at least three people called in and spoke of early spring flowers coming out of dormancy. One person had phlox blooming on the seventh day of January. El Nino isn't working out like they had predicted. Meteorology is the only science in the world where you don't get penalized for being wrong headed.

I take that back. One year during the Indy 500, one of the weather guys predicted that there was no way the race was going to run that day. It was going to be a complete rainout. Like the villagers who wanted to believe the little wolf crier, some misguided individuals believed and figured that since there would be no race there would be no beer. Consequently, they decided to keep their powder "kegs" dry and figured that they would go to the race and drink on Monday. Low and behold the rain stopped and the race was completed on Sunday, sans numerous adult beverage toting beer bellied sun burnt Speedway denizens. You can only imagine the consternation on Monday morning. Legend has it that on that Monday morning Georgetown and 16th was lined up four deep, tears streaming down faces on to homemade "show us your #*&#$" signs making those water soluble  masterpieces unreadable.

That guy lost his job. Literally, within three days, he was replaced. Don't be messing with my beer drinking opportunities.

This warm weather has presented another challenge. It never fails. Every year a week or two after January 1, the weather gets warm on the weekend and everyone rushes out and pulls down their Christmas lights. Why? I ask you. You photon artists braved the dark days after Thanksgiving; trudging out to the garage, finding the correct Christmas decoration tote, untangling last years mess, giving up, and running to Lowes to get new strand of white lights. You got out there and fought back the dark days of the long winter's nap. Now during the dog days of the winter solstice you give up. Believing that there will be no more nice days, you get nervous and pull the plug.

Believing those sirens of the mid-winter thaw, you get out there. You pull down the lights. Rushing frantically, you realize that you forgot to buy that cord wrapping plastic thingy. Ignoring Ben Franklin's wisdom about pennies and pounds, you stuff the lights into the tote and run in the house to watch Wild Card weekend. Those actions plunge the world back into blackness; leaving the seasonal affective disorder afflicted to suffer the ravages of our cold dark winter. Why? You could procrastinate. You do it all of the time. You'll wait until April 14th to start your love note to Uncle Sam, but let the temp get to 35 with some sunshine in January, and you are out the door.

Come on. Why do you allow the neighbor's snide remarks keep you from helping make the world a little brighter place?  Be strong. Ignore them at the Valentine's day block party when they say "Great idea Joe with the lights. A couple more months and you'll be ready for Christmas." Be proud. Respond "yeah I thought about taking them down, but the dog seems so much happier when I let him out for his evening constitutional, and I've noticed that your kids aren't wearing gothe this year." Be witty. Sew a heart on your Harley riding reindeer and call it a valentine’s day decoration. Shoot, if you are passive aggressive, watch for the neighbor to take out his dog and flip the switch on and off spelling out "how do you like me now?" in Morris Code.

You could be proactive. When you see that the weather is going to be nice and the neighbor is heading out the door, get a twelve pack and a couple of lawn chairs, walk over, and offer him a beer. You don't want to miss an opportunity like this. You never know when it will be raining in May.

Take Care.

Roger

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

High Resolution?


Dearest Bloggity

I hope this finds you doing well. It is my sincerest desire to have delivered it before the strike of midnight when the calendar turns over to its newest version. A version that will give us a leap day and a Presidential election. This makes it somewhat ironic that on this eve of 2012 I find myself sitting in Iowa just four days before the Presidential caucuses.

Iowa, a state where the locals, bored out of their minds because the only thing they can see is corn, have decided to spice up their lives with full contact politics. It appears that for the caucus you and your neighbors (some of them who hold grudges) all gather in a room, and like that old summer camp icebreaker game, everyone puts on a blindfold and makes animal noises so that all of the like animals congregate in a group. Someone counts noses and if a majority is reached that horse wins. If not, they debate with the grudge holding neighbors face to face and try to get the weaker willed ones to change from say a elephant to an ass. No sanctity of the voting booth here. I am for you or against you and I have to have enough guts to say it.

The Iowans really believe that they are doing the rest of the United States a favor by this bully political system. By providing their insight so early, they are able to help a candidate build momentum that will carry them to their party nomination and possibly the White House. In actuality though, the Iowa caucuses only get it right about half the time. That's right. They pick the eventual party nominee wrong as often as they pick it right; providing more evidence that politics is the art of the possible not the science of what is.

I mentioned above that I hoped to get this blog to you by midnight two (strike that) three days ago. My first New Years Resolution busted before it even got out of the chute. My hell bound road was paved with the combined celebration of a niece's wedding in caucusing Iowa, and ringing-in the New Year in the central time zone. Sad to say, I got a little cranky because my internal clock did not adjust to the facts on the ground. Then there was the nine hour dash home with 35 mph winds. Thankfully, they were blowing us home.

I used to think that all resolutions made with the baby new year were often futile and nearly always broken. In a desire to buck this disturbing and frankly depressing trait of resolution setting, I went through a phase where I would try to make unbreakable resolutions. I resolve to eat at least three times a day for 99% of the days in this up coming year. Failing that, I resolve to be irritable and grouchy. I resolve to get out of bed at least once a day. Failing that, I resolve to call in a sick day with my best froggy voice. I resolve to breathe for the next 365 days. Failing that, I resolve to die. I had discovered that the two keys to successful resolution setting are 1) make them reasonable and 2) have a back up plan.  

Is that a cop-out? Not really. You see after a few successful years resolving to do the little things, I became much more bold in my resolutions, and more often than not they came true. You can imagine my delight when I found the following list of resolutions that I penned last January and the remarkable success that I had.

1) I resolve to write the blog 50 times in the next year. Check.

2) I resolve to fall in love with riding a bike again and in the course of riding 1800 miles lose the equivalent of a large toddler in weight. Check.

3) I resolve to let my child go on wild adventures even if it takes her to Ghana, and with my wife's support, get through it while rarely wishing that I had a cruise missile as a deterrent. Check.

4) I resolve to let my other child go on a long, long journey that has him finding a life's calling as a teacher, and in the discovery, a love for learning his future craft. Check.

5) I resolve to love my wife in this empty nest phase of our life much better. Check.

Amazing you say? How did you successfully resolve to do all of those things Roger? I didn't. Hindsight is 1080p HD. Life keeps changing. I have found that it easier and more blessed to let the change come and revel in it than to resolve to change it.

Take care.

Roger