Weather or Not

It's the seventh day of December, but we haven't seen much frost in our corner of North Carolina yet ... until yesterday, that is. The frost-covered twigs and leaves on the ground made me think of the famous poem by James Whitcomb Riley, which I have copied below (from poemhunter.com) for your reading enjoyment. Reading it out loud is a little difficult, but it's worth the effort.

When The Frost Is On The Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey cock
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below the clover over-head!
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don't know how to tell it but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me
I'd want to 'commodate 'em all the whole-indurin' flock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock

 ~ ~ ~

Now, back to the weather ... or not. Five to eight inches of snow are predicted for our area this Sunday/Monday. I have to get a few groceries today, but I dread going to the store because it will probably be bedlam and lots of empty shelves. Fortunately, I don't need any bread, milk, or toilet paper.

I don't know whom to credit for this photo. I saw it on Facebook.

This is my photo of the bread situation in January 2011.

Weather or not, I'd better get my buns in gear (harhar) and head to town. Stay safe and warm. Be blessed.
 

It Takes a Village

Frankie was born last spring, so now it was her turn to have babies of her own. She had them, but I didn't know where until I heard kitties squalling on Sunday, June 14. I followed the pathetic cries and found four little ones behind this piece of tin.

I feed a whole passel of cats and kittens inside this shed.

I brought them to Mama, who was inside the shed, but she didn't take much notice of them. Over the next two days, she moved them from one place to another, and it didn't seem like she was taking good care of them. They had that hungry cry whenever I came to feed the other cats.

Tuesday evening, I was elated to see them nursing mama.

Unfortunately, they were trying to attach themselves to Grandma Freddie. That didn't last long.

Seen from above, the four babies and Mama Frankie. Frankie is just as black as her mom Freddie, but the flash makes them all look rather washed out.

Wednesday morning and evening, Pat and Weldon skimmed cream from the cows' milk and gave it to the babies. Honestly, I didn't feel like trying to keep them alive. I had lots of things on my calendar and I figured they'd all die anyway. Who wants to deal with that crap?

But, I caved. On Thursday I started giving the little ones kitten milk replacer, morning and evening, via a little syringe. They eagerly sucked it down and, within two days, their yowls were replaced with gentle kitty squeaks.

Cap'n Jack taking a syringe of milk.

I went to give Frankie's babies their milk on Saturday day night. No Frankie. One baby. I called and hunted and called some more. Nothing. So, I gave the little one two or three syringes of milk and went home.

Sunday morning, mom and all four babies came to greet me! Monday evening, Mom and two babies. Tuesday morning, Mom and two babies. Tuesday evening, Mom and two babies. My hunting was futile and my sweetest kitty-cat voice didn't avail. BUT ...

When I continued to the hay barn to feed the cats out there, I was surprised to see Rosemary coming around the bales from the rear of the barn. Hmmm. She didn't usually hang out in the hay barn. She hadn't been "lucky" with her very recent batch of babies, but she had previously proven herself adept at kitty-snatching. As she ate, I walked through the barn. "Where are the kitties? Come on, babies. Where are you?"

I had almost reached the back when I saw little Heddy waddling my way, and there came Tippy. Happy tears ran down my cheeks as I picked them up and snuggled them. Since Rosemary had milk and Frankie wasn't doing so well in the nursing department, I decided to let them stay where they were. Perhaps Rosemary's thievery will pay off this time.

This is Frankie, mother of four.

These are the two who are still with her: Cap'n Jack and Barbossa.

Here's Rosemary with Frankie's other two babes:

Heddy and Tippy

Tonight Pat lay on her belly to look under the pile of lumber where Rosemary has settled in with her adopted babies. And what to her wondering eyes should appear? Four more kittens! We're guessing they belong to LaPli, since she was the only other cat hanging around back there. I checked her undercarriage and she seems to have milk, so maybe she's sharing with Heddy and Tippy, too. The village continues its magic.

Hanging On

I guess you've figured out that I'm not a fan of living on a dairy farm. It's hard, dirty work with little return. But farmers love their farms ... and the small family farm is becoming a thing of the past. That aspect of it breaks my heart. It just doesn't seem right that the big business of huge farms can force the little guy out.

The cost for Weldon to ship his milk to the processing plant went from $2500 a year to $7,000 a year, effectively putting him out of business. On January 31, 2015, Weldon sold all of his best milkers. I confess to getting teary-eyed as I saw the truck driving away with our cows. Right now, Weldon is still milking eight Holsteins. Whatever milk isn't fed to the calves or sold as pet feed to our customers is poured down the drain.

For the year 2014, Weldon once again had the cleanest milk in the state, receiving what will be his final Platinum Award. He'll continue to have the cleanest milk in the state, of course, and he'll hang on to the farming life as long as possible - planting corn, raising the 16 new calves, and doing what he loves to do. I think he's adjusting pretty well, but he asked another retired dairy farmer, "When will the pain go away?" The answer: "Never."

There was an interesting article in the Winston-Salem Journal this past week about another North Carolina dairy farmer trying to hang on. You can read Randy Lewis' story here.

"His life has a certain good and timeless rhythm - and that includes square dances...." At the end of the article, you'll find a link to "The Last Barn Dance," a documentary film that has been made about his farm and the dances. Hey! I think it's a pretty cool idea.

Life goes on. Most of the female cats are pregnant, the jonquils are pushing up through anything that stands in their way, and this Sunday we'll "spring forward." I just hope someone has reminded Mother Nature of the event.