The Twelve Days of Hunting

It's that time of year again on the SD plains, and in honor of this pheasant hunting season, I've written a little ditty for my husband and his happy band of gun-toting comrades. Sing along, friends!


On the first day of hunting, my true love said to me, "I'm going to get a rooster, or three!"

On the second day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Get in the truck, because I'm going to get a rooster, or three!"

On the third day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Three fat hens? Back in the truck; those are SO not the roosters for me."

On the fourth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because I'm going to get a rooster, or three!"

On the fifth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Fiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get our rooster, or three!"

On the sixth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"

 
On the seventh day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"

On the eighth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"

 On the ninth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"

On the tenth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Grouse are a-leaping. Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"

On the eleventh day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Duck!! Newbies shooting At grouse a-leaping! Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck, because we're going to get a rooster, or three!"

On the twelfth day of hunting, my true love said to me, "Who's gonna clean these? Duck!! Newbies shooting At grouse a-leaping! Run that tree line down, hon, toss on your blaze, pack up the shells. Noon? Guns a-roarin' (at) fiiiiiive golden ring-necks!! Rally up the dogs, leave those hens, back in the truck,

                           because WE FINALLY GOT OUR ROOSTERS, BA-BY!"

 Happy, safe hunting season, everyone. See you at the Saturday Night Smoker!

The Corn Harvest

It's been awhile, hasn't it?

Well, here's what we've been up to since I last blogged. First, the kids have been in prime form, spending their days playing outside and riding along with the guys in the trucks and combines. My mom likes to say, "Around here, we raise free-range children." Want proof?

There ya go.

The land has turned from a misty-gold to a deep, brown-gold, and when a person stands very still by an unharvested corn field, the swish-swishing of the dried leaves as the breezes pass is like the sound of the ocean. It's pretty amazing, really.

But the truth of the matter is this: there isn't much unharvested corn left in our area. Many farmers are entirely done with harvest season at this unheard-of early date. We've got two large fields of corn left, but my dad has found he's got more corn than bins (what a problem to have in a drought year!). This means that the smaller bins around the farm site will be drafted soon, but they've got to be prepped first.

Here's something you may not know: many of the beautiful silos you see on farms these days are not actually used. They are the epitome of a traditional farm, but they are also costly to maintain, and they are used more for cattle operations (silage storage) than for farming and grain-storing purposes. They certainly do make for lovely photos, though.

Some afternoons, when the kids are feeling cooped up (or I am), we walk to the fields where the guys are working, if they are within a reasonable distance. It's a good chance to look closely at the land as it is ripening, down to the smallest of plants. Even the animals become more visible this time of year. The pheasants are really clustering as the row crops disappear, and large herds of deer have been gleaning the fallen ears of corn. Soon, the primary species we'll see in our neck of the non-woods will be hunters.

We may not see much of the autumn reds across our horizons, like we do back in Minnesota, but if one looks carefully...

...it's there! The wild roses offer a veritable sunset of colors during this time.

When Matt sees us coming, he finishes filling, and then heads over to the edge of the field to unload.

"Hey-ya, family!" he calls. "Come to ride along?"

"I'll come and get the kids. Stay put. And you're a farm girl...don't you know better than to wear flip-flops to the field? Get thee some boots, lady!" And he has a point, really.

The minute Jonathan sees the combine has stopped, he starts loping over through the stubble and stalks. He's wearing solid shoes, of course. "DAAAA-DEEE! BRRMM-BRRMMMMM!!" he calls.

 "Alright, kiddos, let's go!" Matt says, and he scoops them up. To a mama, there's nothing more sweet than a sight like this:

 When we've all crowded on, we put the buddy seat to the test (or the buddy-buddy-buddy seat, in our case).

The first time Grace combined corn with my dad, she was about two. She sat quietly, taking it all in, and then turned to him and said, quite seriously, "Grandpa, this is AMAZING." And really, it is! Watching the ears of corn get mowed, tumbled, and then somehow turned into showers of corn behind our seat is downright miraculous. Jonathan summed it up nicely: "Wow."

We've been blessed with a safe, successful, and stress-free harvest this year. That's about as much as a farmer--or a group of practice-farmers--could ask for.

Doggie on the Lam!

Well, those of you who read this blog via Facebook have already heard the fiasco concerning our dog, Belle, but it's worth recording here so that we have a permanent record of this canine's capers!

A few nights ago, we went out to the garage to kennel the dogs up, as always. Spencer, the beagle, was in the yard, baying with all his might toward the south end of the farm. We noticed he was limping, and he had a small puncture wound on his stomach. But as for Belle, our munsterlander? She was nowhere to be found. Matt called and called, staying up late to see her safely in, but she just didn't show up. We headed to bed, convinced that the morning would find her sleeping on the front porch rug.

But she didn't come home. Not that day, and not the next. During this time, I put out the Facebook and local radio APB on our wayward dog, thinking she probably had gotten picked up by one of the many hunters in the area, or by a helpful farmer somewhere in the vicinity.  Now, I'm an eternal optimist. If there is the slightest chance of sunshine, I'm going to claim it. Matt, on the other hand, is what my friend likes to call "a guarded optimist," meaning he'll try to face things positively, but he'll come up with about ten dire scenarios in the meantime. The most plausible of these scenarios? That she had been tracked down by coyotes. Each night, we hear packs howling in the fields around the yard, which is one of the reasons we like to kennel the dogs at night. The other reason has to do with skunks...stay tuned for more explanation. Added to Matt's theory: Spencer's injuries and the fact that our once-feral beagle was now moping around the yard, refusing to go farther than the lawn. Even I had my doubts by day three.

Then, while eating lunch, my mom spotted a lost-and-found ad in the Aberdeen newspaper: "Found: female springer spaniel." To most, Belle looks just like a springer, so I made the call, knowing it was a far shot; Aberdeen is about 1.5 hours from our place. The young man who answered told me that yes, he had found a female springer spaniel. Yes, she had the same collar and tags as Belle. She had been eating a skunk (groan) by the side of the road, and this man's wife almost hit her. When she saw it was a dog, she, being an awesome farm wife, tossed the smelly pup into the back of her pickup and headed home. They then bathed her (skunk and all) and brushed her coat. While she was drying, they put her in their machine shed to play with the kids. "Great! Oh, thank you SO much! We'll be there in about two hours to pick her up!" I said.

"But she's not here now," he said.

"Umm...she's not?" I asked.

"Nope. Hired man opened the machine shed door, and off she ran. So, she's probably somewhere in Aberdeen right now. Might want to check the pound. Or maybe the Humane Society. I'll get you the numbers."

Because apparently, running OVER SEVENTY-FIVE MILES from our home wasn't enough for our perky pooch!

So, I called the pound, and they had just picked up a female springer spaniel. This time, she had no collar (post-bath), so we just hoped for the best and piled the kids into the car.

Now, if anyone from Aberdeen is reading this, please, PLEASE consider re-evaluating your pound system. Here's how it works: a person has to drive to the pound, which is a kennel service 4 miles outside of town. They have to pick up paperwork. Then, they have to take it to the city building in downtown Aberdeen. Then, they have to pay the...wait for it...SIXTY dollar fine and get more paperwork. Then, they can drive back out of town to pick up the dog. However, the pound/kennel service owner works in Britton, so one must do all of this in a crazy time frame: pick up paperwork before the lady leaves for work, get to the city building before five, and pick up puppy after seven in the evening, when she gets back home again.

Really. So, make a day of it. A day when you should have been working to afford the sixty dollar fee. Suggestion? A fax machine.

However, lest I crab on and on about the lack of technology, I should point out that the end result was this: we have our Belle back, just in time for pheasant hunting season, and she is much cleaner than when she left, thanks to a very kind farm family.

And Spencer? He's back to his old, exploring, feral-beagle ways, happy that his girlfriend didn't leave him for good.

The things we do for the pets we love!