Carpenter Bee Catcher Review


20170416_160512Carpenter bees are thumb-sized termites bent on destroying barns. My plan was simple. The best ones usually are, but God and bees laugh at the best laid plans of mice and men.

Impulse buys are interesting things. They are products you didn’t know life was possible without prior to walking past them. They are like pretty girls you catch a glimpse of in traffic. They grab the eye, cause the heart to flutter, and often result in a traffic accident.

Knowing my barn is being slowly shot thru by Carpenter bee tunnels, I’ve been on the search for a way to control the little beasties that won’t poison any of the other critters roaming the farm. The bees are smart enough not to get near the chickens, and offering the kids a dollar per bee carcass was a bust.

The current generation completely lacks entrepreneurial drive.

Investigating the price of hog chow at one of my local feed stores, I came across the insect trap pictured above. The girl at the counter assured me the device was designed specifically for Carpenter bees. The idea being the little hardwood chewers make their way through one of the holes and then can’t find their way out. I assumed the plastic jar was for easy bee body removal.

Exactly how and why the bees would wind up in the jar of death was a mystery, but I’m a trusting sort, who assumes everyone knows more about farming than I do. That’s generally a safe assumption.

Verdict: Don’t waste your money for this design.

That stupid little bee trapping box has been hanging in the feed closet of my barn for a month, and hasn’t trapped a single Carpenter bee. I’ve killed more of the boring little buggers with a feed scoop than that contraption has captured.

Since Carpenter bees like making their homes in hardwoods, I’m wondering if the pine the box is constructed out of just isn’t attractive to them. Or, maybe, the bees aren’t interested in going to the trouble to leave their current abodes.

I’m not sure what the problem or the solution is, but I know this Carpenter bee trap isn’t the way to go. It’s just another fifteen dollars wasted.

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works and consider becoming a supporter. Patronage will get you additional content, behind the scenes access, goodies not available on the main site, and unique Thank You gifts for support.

L'homme Theroux CoverIf you’d prefer something more tangible in return for supporting my work, please preview my novel L’homme Theroux and consider purchasing it, if you enjoy the sample chapter.

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The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is on Fire


img_20161102_144452712Fires on farms are catastrophic events. When the farm in question is your homestead, it has the potential to be catastrophic, since both work and home are in danger of being reduced to ash and charred bits of metal.

“Yah bahn’s on fiyha,” my neighbor’s New England accent emanated from the cell phone, muffled by wind and road noise on both ends of the call. I needed him to repeat what he said, while the meaning sank in.

There are some pieces of news that catch you flat-footed; a parent’s death, being laid off from a job, a positive pregnancy test, a Cunha graduating high school. The possibility was always understood, but never really expected.

Grandma fondly recalled the eighth grade as, “My senior year.”

Having grown up in California, I’m well acquainted with wildfires. However, contrary to the widespread rumor, none of them had anything to do with turkey frying mishaps.

img_20161102_144138867_hdrThe upshot of having a significant portion of your farm burnt is you get to meet all your neighbors. People I’ve only seen in passing, and several I didn’t know existed, came from all points of the compass to gawk and shake their heads. I briefly considered charging admission.

The embers smoldered for several days, giving off an ethereal show at night that is likely the closest I will ever get to seeing the Northern Lights in person.

Tallying up the damage was sobering. Half of the hay field was burned, along with burning the undergrowth and saplings in virtually all of the white oak stand at the back of the property. A bunch of fence was destroyed, both by the fire and the firefighting efforts. What really hurt was the loss of my hay barn packed with most of this year’s hay crop.

As it turns out, “flammable” and “inflammable” mean the same thing. Hay is both.

img_20161102_143910623_hdrI pride myself on being a gallows humorist, but make no mistake, there is little to find funny in the ashes. The insurance adjuster must have an appreciation for dark humor, as well, since he didn’t make any notes when I mentioned the barn also contained an original copy of the Declaration of Independence, the Ark of the Covenant, and several lost Picasso paintings.

With a nod to the sense of humor and understanding of my insurance adjuster, here are my best attempts.

  • Wasn’t there a scene in Bambi like this?
  • We won’t have to worry about deer freeloading from the field for a while.
  • I bet this is what Hell will look like.
  • Mrs. Cunha was disappointed the firefighters bore no resemblance to her calendar.
  • My daughter wanted to know why they didn’t bring a Dalmatian with them.
  • It was a barn-burner of an afternoon.
  • Feel the Bern!

If you ever find yourself on the wrong end of a fire (and I’m pretty sure there is not really a “right” end of a fire to be on), here are five things to keep in mind as you sift through the ashes.

Fire is hot

“No kidding, Fire Marshall Carlos,” you might be telling yourself. What I mean is things that get caught in a fire stay hot for a surprisingly long time. The heat was still noticeable through the soles of my boots when I walked around surveying the damage the next day, and there were still pockets of what I suspect were large roots that were still smoldering just below the surface.

Check buildings and equipment because the heat from a fire radiates a surprising distance. Turn on faucets to ensure the water flows and test underground power lines with a voltmeter. Plastic pipes, wire insulation, and even panes of glass will begin to melt and deform well before combustible items around them show evidence of heat and flame.

Gear up

The natural reaction to this type of catastrophe is to assess the damage. Mrs. Cunha and I were inspecting the losses while trees were still on fire and fence posts were still smoldering. It’s a natural reaction, and for most of us who are not part of the volunteer fire department, gives the property owner something to do besides standing around worrying. I won’t begrudge anyone taking what action they are able, just don’t get yourself in trouble. Take a battle-buddy, take some communication, and leave the damn dog at the house.

Wear your heavy boots, long pants, and gloves. If you’re a Safety Sally, I won’t fault you for taking a hardhat, eye protection, and long sleeves. Wear what you think is appropriate. Taking along a tool like a hoe or a metal rake is a good idea, since you will likely want to pick up or dig out something that I guarantee will be too hot to touch.

Inspect often

You’re first tour through the debris will be overwhelming. Not in the sense that it gives you PTSD (or it might, depending on what you’ve done in life), but fire changes the look of the landscape in such a significant way that the woods I was hunting a few days prior were near unrecognizable. The sights and smells and feel of everything will be alien. It takes a second to process what was a fourteen-foot tall barn when I walked by yesterday is now eight inches high.

The first month, I averaged walking the woods or the field every other day. After that, I poked around the trees a couple times a week for the next month. Each time, I found something new that made my heart sink; another break in the fence, another bulldozer gouge in the hillside, a marketable-size tree charred past use as lumber and now firewood, if I’m lucky. You’ll find something new each sortie for quite a while, so take all the pain now.

No touchy, touchy

Whatever you do while poking around the ruins, keep in mind that you are traipsing around in a crime scene. Well, not really, but kind of. It’s better to err on the side of caution than to do something that jams you up later. Let me explain.

Several different people were inspecting the damage in the course of this whole thing. There was a report from the fire department that included input from the forestry service, three visits by insurance adjusters, contractors for building estimates, and a survey by a certified forester. Starting the clean-up process too soon might very well have affected an accurate calculation of the loss sustained. Do yourself and your pocketbook a favor by suppressing the urge get everything back to normal until everyone who needs to take a look has done so.

Not all is lost

At some point in this process, you will have a solid grasp of the losses. We were lucky. There was no loss of life, people or animals. We lost a structure, some agricultural products, and a bit of future profit. Losing livestock would have been terrible, but losing humans would have been devastating. I have nothing to offer that will help fill the void left by loss of a loved one, but short of that, everything is replaceable. We will amend the field and crops will grow again. Burning out the undergrowth will likely help the trees in the long run.

img_20161225_170713399Heck, seven weeks after the fire, the grass had begun to poke through the charred earth enough to lure a couple of does into the open. I filled my freezer with one of them Christmas afternoon, so maybe there is something good to pluck from this entire mess.

In a spurt of optimism in my prowess as an apex predator and putting aside her pique at me for delaying Christmas dinner for butchering a deer, Mrs. Cunha purchase a stand-up freezer for all the wild game she expected to be dragged back to the house. We didn’t see another deer the rest of the season.

That’s about how life goes.

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you additional content, behind the scenes access, goodies not available on the main site, and unique Thank You gifts for support.

L'homme Theroux CoverIf you’d prefer something more tangible in return for supporting my work, please preview my novel L’homme Theroux and consider purchasing it, if you enjoy the sample chapters.

Protect Your Hay Investment


7ccc760f6b117192a424a4b7f45b4ed69bfa1b21b8555f0233pimgpsh_fullsize_distrWhether you grow your own or purchase, proper hay storage is a critical homestead skill to possess. The longer your winters, the more important hay storage becomes to the survival of your animals and the homestead itself.

This past week, we put up fourteen hundred bales of fescue at my place. Combined with the eight hundred bales from the first cut earlier this summer, my math calculates the yield at 2.1 tons per acre. Talking with my County Extension Agent, this is at the low end of the “normal” range in my area, but not a complete disaster, given that it has been a bad year for hay with everyone down about thirty percent.

Considering I haven’t done anything to the field, aside from admire it and daydream a bit, I’m reasonably happy for a first harvest.

From talking to neighbors and the previous owner, it’s been some time since the field had any TLC, so I’ve kept my expectations modest.

Mrs. Cunha and I bought the farm without benefit of owning a tractor or haying equipment. Since we didn’t have money for both, and a rented house with a yard full of idle farm machinery didn’t make a lot of sense, we figured the absolute worst case scenario would be that the field was left fallow for a couple of years, while we saved our pennies.

As it turned out, the solution was something of a middle ground that would not have been possible without the help of my neighbors. Through a combination of work ethic, industriousness, and shares of the harvest, we managed two cuttings. The understandable downside is my field is mowed last. As a result, the second cut had begun to sour in the field and there likely won’t be enough growing time for a third cut this season.

Considering we expected the field to be a total loss this year, we’re thrilled.

0610161332Even after parceling out shares and Mrs. Cunha selling some of the hay with her brilliant idea to give a discount to buyers who pick theirs up out of the field, I am still up to my ass in hay. Each nook and cranny of every available structure is stacked to the rafters and then some. In a way, I’m glad there probably won’t be a third cut because the only option left for storage is to pull the cars out of the garage and stack bales in there, too.

Let my worst problem in life be that I have more resources than I know what to do with.

Besides the obvious solution that I need more and bigger animals to chew their way through my problem of awaiting the near certain winter hay shortage, maintaining the quality of the fodder becomes the issue.

Hay, and any other crop, begins to degrade the moment it is separated from the ground. From there, the race to the consumer begins. For products with a longer timeline to consumption, the battle for preservation involves more preparation than it does rushing down the road to the farmer’s market.

For hay, the goal is to maintain as much nutritional quality for as long as possible. We square bale for several reasons; lack of and access to equipment, availability for suitable storage space, our farm needs, and local market demands. Round bales don’t work for our needs and goals, but if you find them effective, don’t change what works for you.

How ever you get you hay, both bale types have the same storage requirements to maintain them at the highest nutritional level possible. To that end, there are basic steps to preserving hay and minimizing waste:

Get it inside

Gigantic rolls of hay sitting in a field are a common sight during the summer in my area, but with all the summer rain we get, they tend to form a hard, protective crust around the outside. Kind of like the shell of an M&M, but proportionally thicker. That shell is also wasted hay of between four and twenty percent, according to the Mississippi State Extension.

2deb267d8d5a921ce67b315d36bae2a3f11c98412303b6c8fbpimgpsh_fullsize_distrIf you’re set on round bales, I recommend you read their Minimizing Losses in Hay Storage and Feeding. It’s the best sixteen pages of knowledge I’ve read recently. It’s also free, so that’s a bonus.

Whether you’re in the square or round camp, all hay benefits from being taken in out of the elements. Hay needs air circulation, but exposure to wind, moisture, and sunlight diminishes nutritional quality rapidly. The bale spoils from the outside toward the center and eventually reduces to an inedible block. Even round bales will degrade to the point where livestock will refuse all but the very center.

UV rays, moisture, and wind will eventually erode the pyramids of Egypt to nothing. Hay is far less durable than limestone.

Keep it dry

Rainfall is not the only source of moisture. Runoff, leaky barn roofs, water dripping from trees, and even condensation forming inside a structure can be sources of moisture that can either prevent hay from drying in the first place or promote mold and rot.

Even if you don’t have a traditional barn or some sort of structure in which to store your hay, anything is usually better than nothing.

At a minimum, rig up a tarp to keep at least most of the sunlight and moisture off it. If you’re absolutely broke or completely out of options, stack the bales tight with some sort of tall post in the center and drape one of those cheap blue tarps over it like a circus tent.

I can’t guarantee how well it will work, but it beats doing nothing and watching money turn into grey, inedible scabs. And for Pete’s sake, don’t let sit in water.

Let it breathe

Even though hay dries in the field before baling, there is still some drying that occurs after. It generally takes about one to three weeks for the moisture content to stabilize. For that to happen, air needs to circulate around, and to a lesser extent, through the bale.

Hay bales should be kept off the ground. Until we ran out of them, we laid down old tires left in the woods to keep our hay bales off the ground. We then switched to wooden pallets we scored from the co-op, Tractor Supply, and anywhere else we could mooch a few free ones.

5006289f62d46f695ce350b6c6e3117bc93f7d32f6515cb80bpimgpsh_fullsize_distrOnce we drank those wells dry, we had to come up with something else. The brilliant Mrs. Cunha jury rigged pallets from my stash of 2x4s in the garage. Beautiful, creative, and ingenious; I married way above my pay grade.

This is where things get interesting. And by “interesting,” I mean “dangerous.” And by “dangerous,” I mean “you accidentally burn down your barn.”

The tendency is to pack as much hay into the barn as possible because space is always in short supply. I’m as guilty as anyone, but there is risk involved. During the one to three week curing period, hay bales give off heat. Packed together in a big enough mass, they sometimes give off enough heat to set the hay on fire.

I can’t quantify the risk. Although, I imagine my insurance agent can and has. Old Timers talk about hay catching fire like it happens every week during summer, but I don’t see nearly enough burned down hay barns to make me think it’s any more likely than an accidental pregnancy.

Then again, I have six kids. Your mileage may vary.

Watch for mold, rot, and critters

Of the three, critters are probably the most fun to deal with. Mrs. Cunha isn’t the sort of woman to jump at the sight of vermin, but she and I have been known to mount an afternoon pellet rifle safari. Otherwise, we let the barn cat prowl around and leave us the occasional gift on the door mat. She must think we’re terrible hunters and wants to make sure we eat. Either that, or it’s tribute.

Definitely, get a couple of barn cats.

a090dd9125771308d722c0fbd05d9be87d29f7777471ba9962pimgpsh_fullsize_distrMold and rot aren’t as exciting to chase down. They just kind of lurk, but can be more damaging. Both can set in from the outside, which makes it easier to find, but mold, in particular, will grow and spread on the interior of a hay stack.

Keeps your eyes open, inspect your hay, and dig into the hard-to-reach parts every once in a while. Quite, unfrequented areas of your storage space are likely locations for birds, coons, and possums to take up residence. Spot checks won’t magically guarantee wildlife squatters won’t show up, but will help in catching them early, so you can evict them or take measures to discourage them from returning.

That’s Rule #2 on the Cunha farm. Go be wildlife somewhere else, because if you take from me, I will most assuredly take from you.

There is loads more to hay and farming that I don’t know. I freely admit that, but there are resources available. These are a few I have found helpful and informative. The best part is they are delivered straight to you, in your pajamas, no less, through the magic of the internet:

Storage of Small Square Bales by John Worley, Associate Professor, University of Georgia Cooperative Extension

Square Bales Need TLC by Angus Beef Bulletin

Tips on Hay Storage by Dwain Meyer, PhD, North Dakota State University and Krishona Martinson, PhD, University of Minnesota

Selecting and Storing Horse Hay by Krishona Martinson, PhD and Paul Peterson, PhD, University of Minnesota Extension

Sizing and Siting Hay Barns by University of Missouri Extension

Minimizing Losses in Hay Storage and Feeding by Mississippi State University Extension

Making the Best of a Bad Situation – Storing Large Round Hay Bales Outside by University of Florida IFAS Extension

 

 

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you additional content, behind the scenes access, goodies not available on the main site, and unique Thank You gifts for support.

L'homme Theroux CoverIf you’d prefer something more tangible in return for supporting my work, please preview my novel L’homme Theroux and consider purchasing it, if you enjoy the sample chapters.

Rest When You’re Dead


0619161702bMy neighbor says he’s worked harder in retirement than at any time in his life. I have no reason to disagree, if this summer is any indication. The past two months have been filled with backbreaking labor that is quite possibly the hardest I’ve worked in my life, as well. And we are not anywhere near finished, as I seem to be very poor at estimating time requirements to build our dreams. I am likely the world’s worst construction foreman.

The barn is not as squared away as I would like, the orchard will have to wait until spring for planting, and the house still looks like a construction zone. However, hay has been put up, the chickens and rabbits are reasonably well housed, the vineyard installed, and all the rough carpentry in the house is complete.

Considering much of the house was stripped to the studs to fulfill Mrs. Cunha’s desire to make the house “hers,” despite her name being on the deed right next to mine, the two solid months of sunrise-to-sunset projects worked in between farm chores was really a labor of love.

It’s amazing the amount of energy you can muster when it’s your project, your farm, and your neck on the block. The kids would be happy to live in a dank cave, if they never again had to break a sweat.

Thank God for YouTube and helpful electrician types who are generous with their knowledge because I had to re-learn some of the trickier aspects of electricity I had forgotten in two decades.

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Note to self: Hot and common really should be capped off separately.

Actually, I learned that lesson all on my own, and frightened Mrs. Cunha quite badly in the process. Being the religious sort, it seems she associates sparks and the smell of burning insulation with demonic forces. It was a big enough flash to make anyone believe in the devil.

Somewhere between “Hey, I have an idea” and “Maybe we should just set the place on fire and sell the scavenged scrap metal,” I decided to give Mrs. Cunha a thrill by incorporating a curved wall on the walk-in closet we were framing in one of the rooms.

Yeah, it's a round wall. Don't try this at home, kids.
Yeah, it’s a round wall. Don’t try this at home, kids.

I had seen it done before and the math didn’t seem too difficult. What I didn’t count on was the men I watched create this magnificent arced wall were far more skilled carpenters than I. That plus I’m terrible at math. Well, it’s not so much that I’m bad at math. My house is bad at math.

The first rule of construction is there is no such thing as a plumb wall or a square room.

Don’t believe for a second that a measurement at one end bears any relationship to the middle or bottom. And on the rare, lucky occasion everything measures out perfectly, it will invariably look catawampus compared to everything around it. Luckily, there aren’t many construction problems that can’t be fixed with a hammer.

Speaking of beating lumber into submission, the barn is constructed of white oak, which I prefer to call by its Indian name, “Can’t drive a God-Damn Nail into It.”

The Amish who milled this lumber must have reinforced it with steel because I cannot think of any other reason a sixteen-penny nail won’t make it through two of the boards. The barn is pretty old, so maybe I need those old-fashioned rectangular nails instead of the modern, round ones.

Anyone with insight into this problem is welcome to enlighten me in the comments because I’ve run out of men in my family who can.

0602161706The upshot is my kids have been provided material for several anecdotes to pass on to their children about Grandpa Carlos bending and cursing nails, Amish, and oak trees. The only thing that has kept me from hurling my hammer into the hay field is the knowledge that I would only have to find the son-of-a-bitch when I calmed down, lest it break a mower blade.

As it stands now, there is still a ton of work to accomplish. At least, we got the Japanese beetles under control. The house is a wreck, the farm is still very much in the start-up phase, and I’m not sure where I’m going to store all the hay from the next couple of cuts.

I’ve never been more exhausted and I’ve never been happier. It will probably get worse when I retire.

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you content, behind the scenes access, and goodies not available on the main site.

Let Me Get My Boots On


0102161522_HDR_resizedWhatever it is that possessed me to live like my grandparents has a powerful draw. Don’t get me wrong. Without internet access, I wouldn’t have the eleven readers who make time for me just about every week. Indoor toilets are pretty nifty, too. I’ve spent long stretches of time without them, and let me tell you, there are darn few days where an outhouse or porta-potty is anywhere near pleasant. However, a simpler life calls to me.

It seems that I’m not alone in my desire to withdraw from the asphalt jungle to rolling hills. More and more people are fleeing life inside the city limits. The decade-long trend of  Northern refugees streaming into the South has produced a secondary migration.

Those of us who understood the implicit condition of welcoming acceptance as Adopted Sons of the South required abandonment of any remaining distasteful Northerner ways find ourselves looking around and thinking, “Damn, this place is full of Yankees.”

1230151523_resizedMy current place is an acre just outside of town limits. Unfortunately, it’s a developed community. A cluster of houses on large lots with city water and electric. Shooting in the backyard or taking a deer from the surrounding woods is technically legal, but a couple of residents still like to pester the city cop a few houses down from me to “do something about the gunfire.”  I doubt much will happen, since he’s responsible for as much of it as I am.

My nearest neighbor goes ape-shit over my rooster crowing every morning. I think she tried to snitch me off to the police, Animal Control, and Child Protective Services when she saw me skinning animals I trapped in the back woods and having my kids help butcher the rabbits we keep.

Hey, lady, if you don’t like the sound of cocks, guns, or the thunk of a dispatch stick across the back of a rabbit’s head, pack your shit and move back inside city limits, where they have rules against those sorts of things. No wonder your husband left you.

Toward the end of achieving our Green Acres dream, Mrs. Cunha and I withdrew farther into the Tennessee Valley, until we completed a best-of-seven round of Roadkill Bingo and began to spot Amish buggies clippty-clopping along the road shoulder.

Turning down a likely looking farm road, we saw more Confederate battle flags than in an Alabama graveyard on Veteran’s Day. We were confident our new home was nearby.

0102161521a_resizedTo make a long story short, Mrs. Cunha and I are now the proud owners of a thirty acre farm, half wooded and half planted hay field. The bad news is that I’m the only one on the hook for the mortgage, but I think I can trust her. If she hasn’t divorced me by now, I’m probably safe, even with my hellacious nighttime farts under the covers.

Just so you have an idea of what the Cunhas consider “far enough” from town, let me paint you a picture.

The nearest town is twenty miles away (closer to fifteen, as the crow flies) and is the county seat with a whopping population of 2,400 people, in a county with a tad under 17,000 souls. There ain’t shit there but a McDonalds and some government offices. I mean, not even a titty bar.

Thirty miles in the opposite direction is the seat for the adjoining county. It’s a comparative metropolis, at a little over 10,000 people in a county of 42,000, where can be found a WalMart (complete with parking spots reserved for Amish buggies) and a Home Depot. Basically, everything I need in life because if neither of those places carry it, I probably don’t need it.

However, a titty bar would be nice.

For perspective, the last three cities I’ve lived in, starting from most recent, had populations of 186,000, 843,000, and 1.4 million. As you can see, we’ve been aiming for smaller and smaller communities. That’s by design. I’ve purposely steered my career to allow for moves to less and less populous areas.

The area is by no means as unpopulated as it could have been. However, I wanted to keep within a slightly unreasonable driving distance from our current locale. It’s far enough to be a pain in the ass to drive every day for work, but not impossible, if I need a day job.

1230151523b_resizedWe didn’t do anything crazy like move to a town the size my dad grew up in with 108 people, as of my last visit there when we buried my grandmother in the mid-1990s. It’s probably a good thing that I resisted the urge to cross-out the listed population and write-in “107” on the “Welcome to Danbury” sign, since they had a spike of eighteen people from 1999 to 2000 that lasted for a decade.

There must have been a Mormon family move in for a while.

Of course, my favorite small town was Madeline, California. It had eighteen residents during the years me and Jake were press-ganged by our parents to be Old Pete’s ranch hand summer interns. I’m still cleaning the mud out of my ears.

I’m super stoked about this new homestead. I haven’t a clue what all I’m going to do with the place, but the possibilities are the most exciting part.

I know that thirty acres isn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but it sure seems like a lot when you walk the fence line.

0102161547_resizedMore good news is that with two (count ’em, two) somewhat dilapidated barns, near self-sufficiency in the only utility hookup being electric with a backup generator that can power the whole place, mature trees in back, a small pond, and a reasonably flat field ready for subdivision, the possibilities for projects is fairly extensive. Now, I have the good problem of which improvement projects to undertake and in what order.

What kind of weridos gets excited about pending projects that entail back-breaking labor?

Well, us for one, and a whole lot of other people, believe it or not. The same wave of people driven out of California by high taxes, restrictive gun laws, hostile political climate, and unfriendly business attitude who settled in Texas and points east have made the region a little too crowded for some of us.

However, I think the real reason has more to do with a desire for fulfillment. Our grandparents seemed happier and more satisfied with life when it was not lived within literal spitting distance of neighbors; people seen every day without knowing the most basic facts about them, like their names.

I prefer living in areas where people driving past wave and a midnight phone call for help to round up escaped livestock is met with, “Let me get my boots on. You need anything to fix the fence?”

photo 4Luckily for me, there are a ton of projects to write articles about. I’d better get my boots on and get to work. Mrs. Cunha is already tearing down the wallpaper she doesn’t like.

That’s her, right there, wearing one of my shirts, while she’s getting her hands dirty. Isn’t she beautiful?

 

3Thank you to every one of my readers for coming back week after week. The content on this website is free to access, but does take resources to produce. Please visit my Patreon account to see what I have in the works for the homestead and consider becoming a supporter, which gets you content, behind the scenes access, and goodies not available on the main site.