Posts Tagged ‘farm stories’

Last weekend two fabulous sunny days, wow! This is after about 5 weeks of rain everyday. Still, up on the Highlands, we don’t flood like those poor people in Queensland and northern NSW whose homes have been washed away and emersed in flood waters for days. On my birthday, I stayed back in town for coffee with friends. It had been raining all day and was getting heavier. From the coffee lounge, we heard ambulances and fire engines race down the street. It was nearly 5, I decided I’d better head home and was hoping the roads were still open. Kangaloon Rd was full of stopped traffic so I turned back and headed back to Moss Vale where I quickly saw the reason for the emergency vehicles. A side street was flooded and a car partly submerged. Those residents wouldn’t be getting out of their home for a while.

Now on the Illawarra Highway, I was reminded by the warnings of my friend , Sandy, that the SES said only 15 cm of water rushing over a road was enough to make a car drift and be washed away due to the sheer momentum this much water has. All was going well, despite the heavy rain, when I came to a causeway rushing over the road. It wasn’t really deep but I remembered the warning. Also I was driving the Golf, not a good car to tackle any depth of water so I stopped. I think people were annoyed behind me, but I wasn’t going to risk it. A police car was parked on the other side of the causeway facing Moss Vale and I tried to yell out to them. I got out and checked the water. No way. I was going back. Another Police car drove up next to me, a big four wheel drive and I told him I was turning around. He went through ok but I turned my little Golf and headed back to town. Thinking I wasn’t going to get home today and I’d have to stay with friends in town, I tried Sheep Wash Road hoping it wasn’t flooded as well. Luckily, I got to the Kangaloon Rd turn off and was grateful. For once I was glad of its hilly terrain. I negotiated it well and was on the downhill run to home. Beside me, masses of muddy water was washing off the paddocks and down the incline onto the road. I scooted home.

My driveway was a miniature creek. I have never seen so much water running down it. At last I was home. The trip had taken twice as long as normal. And who, may you ask, was happy in this torrent? Two groups on the farm, the cat, our all black Foxy, was inside ensconced in the warm, her belly full; and the ducks, happy as Larry, white as snow from all the fun in the puddles and small lakes on the farm. Their bellies full of worms and small creatures flushed out of the ground and the lush as ever green grass. It’s good to know, something enjoys torrential rain. It’s a timely reminder to all small farmers to keep livestock that actually do enjoy your climate. Where we live is too wet for sheep. When the climate was drier , they seemed to do ok but I’d never keep them now. They get foot rot and fly blown and other equally horrible diseases. They do better on the less lush grass and solid soil out west. I’m sticking to my poultry.

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The turkey Mum called Speckles you already know about only successfully raised one of the turkey poults previously mentioned. This poult is now almost fully grown and is looking like a female. It’s daddy, Mr T, adopted it and they spend all their time together.

Speckles, unfazed by the loss of the other poults immediately started laying eggs again- about 10- and started sitting on them. She wasn’t aware apparently that none of them were fertile due to the fact that the male had not been with her in the enclosed pen. I wasn’t absolutely sure that none were fertile either, he had visited once or twice. So, poor Speckles sat on the eggs again. After about 5 weeks with none hatching I decided to remove them. She went spare so I washed them and put them back. Soon they stank so much that 10 metres away you could smell them.I don’t think that any of you have smelt a worse egg odour than the smell form these rotten turkey eggs. I threw them as far away from the pen as possible.

Banished from the smelly nest what did Speckles do? Why, she laid another egg and proceeded to sit on it in a different hut, the main turkey hut in fact. She continued to sit until one day , weeks later,I thought that maybe I ought to check and see if she’d hatched anything out.

Inside the hut in a very big nest all by itself was a poult. Ah, but was it? I looked closely. It was looking very yellow for a poult, so I picked it up. It was yellow. Then I looked at its feet. It had webbed feet.It wasn’t a turkey poult. It wasn’t a chicken. No, it was a duckling! She’d hatched out one of the duck’s eggs who had stayed for a while in the turkey house!She hadn’t laid that egg at all! I gave it some TLC in the brooder thinking I would put it under a broody hen. However, how could I take this little creature away from its adoptive mother who had sat for so long expecting something? I could not. So I put the duckling and the turkey mother in the enclosed pen and hoped for the best.

Today, it is still there getting bigger and with two chicken friends who inadvertently got into the pen too. The duckling has a turkey for a mother and its two best friends are chickens. Will it have an identity crisis?

Adios amigos, until next time. Life does suck at times, but not all the time.

 

 

 

You do inevitably get feedback at times from the strangest of sources. I began , what I thought, was a nice straight fence made for under a $100 from treated pine sleepers and palings. I orientated the palings horizontally and spaced them out nicely. I concreted the sleepers in, using them as posts. The concept worked well. It’s not a fence for fencing anything in, rather it’s a way to ‘tart up’ the driveway, making the entrance to the driveway a bit more impressive. I plan to plant a series of natives along the fence when the small plants I bought recently have grown on a bit. So, I went out one morning to recommence constructing the fence when I noticed that the wombat who lives behind our garage in a hole dug into a bank, had left me an early morning  present. Was it a sign of approval? You be the judge. On top of my small but useful measuring stick and a sleeper on the ground he’d  left a sloppy green poo. Was this a subtle message about the quality of my work? Or rather was he marking out his territory, warning me he planned to burrow under the fence and undermine it in the future? Or was it that he really wanted  to know who was boss here and that any future constructions needed to be run past him first?

Contemplating his hidden messages I went up to the front of our property, where I have flowers, usually for sale and so have a few ‘flowers for sale’ signs there too. Mr wombat had been there before me and planted another nice sloppy poo on the flowers’ sign. I was beginning to feel victimized. Are all our endeavours ‘shit’ in his eyes? To increase his point, on each occasion he’d dug a few scratches in the dirt too. Just a warning, I thought that we weren’t to get out of hand. Perhaps Mr wombat reminds us all that as humans, we are just caretakers of this environment, not owners. That we should consider our constructions as part of a shared environment, not our own domain exclusively. I think that his not too subtle message has a meaning for us all.

Hi all!
Writing is important to me but sometimes life makes you stop and take stock for a while.
The Viking novel will continue when I get back into that groove but at the moment it’s on hold. So I thought I’d write about my small farm, some of the stories that we tell and retell at the dinner table which are usually funny and sad at the same time.
I was offered and took care of two very aged farm animals who had been brought up together, a sheep and a goat whose owner had gone into a local Aged Care facility (Old People’s Home). We had been watching a funny TV series at the time called ‘Summer Heights High’ starring Chris Lilley and his character name was Mr G. Mr G had a dog called Celine whom he taught to do tricks, so we called the old sheep Mr G and the female goat, Celine.
Mr G was indeed very ancient. His legs were like sticks and he was extremely skinny, as old people get too. He had only one tooth left in his mouth but still managed to eat the abundant grass we have here. The kids fed him bread and patted him but he usually just stood around looking old and feeble. Celine was an angora goat whose light and fluffy goat is not really suited to this climate and its extreme weather and storms in Winter. However, I agreed to take them as they had been kept in a back yard and I thought our 4 acres would be like a retirement home for them.
One day Mr G disappeared. I was perplexed because he hardly had the strength to wander far and the kids and I searched thoroughly but he couldn’t be found. About a day and a half later, I was sitting eating breakfast pondering where Mr G might have gone when I had a sudden revelation. Maybe he had fallen down somewhere, but where? I raced out to the paddock, there was only one place he might have fallen into. The wombat hole. Those of you unfamiliar with wombats, they are a short fat furry native animal whose nocturnal wanderings include digging deep holes in our red dirt in sleep in during the day.
Sure enough, there he was, Mr G was head first down the wombat hole with only his hind legs sticking out! Andrew, my son, helped me pull him out. Amazingly, he was still alive. I got water and forced some into him and we pulled him onto his legs. He was wobbly and unsteady but had miraculously survived his ordeal despite his age. After twenty minutes or so he was able to walk. He joined Celine in the chook paddock well away from wombat holes.

The poor old fellow lasted a few more months until he had to get shorn. We put a coat on him but he was so thin, like a white stick insect, but he didn’t last the night. He was happy at least for the six months he lived with us. Celine lived on a month or so longer.