Bipolar

No. Not me. The weatherman. It wasn't that long ago that the Pooch surveyed an all white tundra in front of the deck. We had a frost on the 22nd of April. Turkey hunters reported temps as low as 25 degrees early in the morning. Last night thunder rumbled across the hills of our western Wisconsin home. It disturbed the cat who crawled in bed and nestled next to me at 2 am. Today the thermometer on the garage in the breezeway
looked like this. It reads 86 degrees. The wind gusts up to 30 mph, blowing dust from the gravel road in front of our small farm into small cyclones. The local dairy farmer who tills most of the available flat land is running two John Deere tractors from sunup to sundown hauling manure and running a disc over the fields.

I'm up and over to the Amish at 7:00 am, their time. I trade sausage and plastic bags I used for customers in my downtown Milwaukee trading post in return for cow manure behind Titus' barn. Titus' wife gives me horseradish root for my garden. While I'm there, the daughters give me a preview of their quilts going up at auction on the 23rd of May. I'll post pictures of a few of the quilts if they'll permit me to photograph them. I've got my eye on a couple of them and will be in the audience bidding on their work which typically draw less money out here than it would in urban areas. The picture below is of the new sweet corn garden covered with the truck load of manure I hauled early this morning. Standing in the pickup bed with my rubber muck boots on I was amazed at the number of tiny gnats swarming over the ca-ca. The manure has a slight amonia odor to it. I must be used to the dairy air of the area, because I hardly notice the smell. It isn't because my sense of smell has been numbed either. All week long I've been lurking around the house trying to locate a bad smell in Dawn's studio. Of course, we blamed the Pooch at first, but his litter box was hardly used since he has sand piles and fresh tilled garden for a lavatory. I surmise a mouse or rat died under the rear addition.

We're looking at rain for Saturday and Sunday. Hopes are high that it will end a severe drought. I hold my breath that there isn't a repeat of last year's June 6+ inches of rain. I use the excuse of a midday break to let my burrito lunch settle before I return to the corn plot with my Troy Bilt Horse rototiller. The Pooch takes an extended nap indoors where it's a cool 72 degrees before I kick the lazy lump outside. He doesn't like the strong winds. He follows me around in the summer kitchen, next to my chop saw in the garage and climbing over plastic covered boxes of art and crafts in the white shed. Anything but the devil wind in his ears.

Since we're into a new moon today, I'll plant seeds for leafy vegetables. The sugar snap peas, spinach and snow peas haven't sprouted. They went in right after the potatoes and onions at the full moon. I'll water toward sunset. The law of opposites says that if I water today, it will rain tomorrow. There's the new patio blocks I'm putting down near the kitchen window if I have time before the end of the day. Time to get a move on.

Troublemaker

Life in Kickapoo Center always seems to revolve around this bad boy. His good looks, cat smarts and rightly timed affection keep him from being booted outside. In the country there are barn cats and cats that are members of the family. Barn cats live from hand to mouth. Mice are not a play toy, but breakfast, dinner and lunch. Nobody spends $75 for Frontline. Burrs, ticks and distemper are facts of life. As an inner city teacher, I would not tolerate bad behavior. I was strict and fair. I had chairs, shoes and snowballs thrown at me. One student tried to bite me when I kept him in for not doing homework. The Pooch gets away with antics I would never have allowed in the past. Why? Perhaps I am older, wiser or just a sucker. Last night he tried to bite me. He was angry.

During the day the Pooch hangs around our five acres. He has a tight schedule. This morning he comes upstairs at six on the dot. If I'm too lazy to get up, he walks over me, settles his head on my pillow and purrs. Wanting immediate attention, he'll lick whatever part of me is closest to his face. That always works to get me up. The field mouse he carried around yesterday, the pool of stagnant water he laps up near the neighbor's horse corral and the butt hole(his) he cleans daily are too vivid a memory for me to allow a face wash.

I turn up the heat, make coffee and prepare breakfast while he's outside. Sometimes I'll watch his morning routine. He covers the perimeter of the place and after making sure that all is in order, he'll head for the horse farm adjacent to us. Lately, he's been entranced with the second floor haymow in their barn. Ron, my neighbor says he thinks a hen is nesting there. The Pooch walks up the piece of farm machinery that extends into the mow. Late one night after 15 minutes of yelling for him, I walk the lane between our place and the corn field behind us. As I approach the neighbor's barn, he's sitting at the doorway to the mow surveying the neighbor's yard, like it's part of his territory.

After awhile, he'll jump up on the deck railing and peer in our kitchen window. If he sees me, he'll meow. The windows are new thermopane, so all I see is an open mouth and a sad look. It says, "I'm hungry." After a short breakfast, he's back outside to chase leaves, birds and look for mice. The in/out routine continues during the day. Frequently his afternoon will include a long nap in his favorite chair in Dawn's studio. If I'm working outside he'll join me to pitch in and help with the work. He likes to dig in my newly tilled gardens. He doesn't like machinery.

Near sunset a demon enters his body. I make sure that our routine is strictly adhered to which includes a late afternoon walk down to the river circling around the property, greeting the horses next door and perhaps a jaunt to the old railroad tracks. Sunset here in April is close to eight o'clock. That's when he decides to wander off to the haymow. Wise to his ways, I bring him in early after our jaunt and feed him cat treats and dinner. Raccoons, coyotes and all manner of harmful varmints which include skunks are nocturnal. I cannot afford a vet bill to have him stitched up after an encounter with any of the aforementioned.

He has no fear of heights. There is a healthy respect for the horses who like to chase him as he winds his way through their corral. I've seen him follow woodchucks, chase raccoons up a tree and be nose-to-tail with the squirrel that lives in the silver maple in the front field. Therefore, we keep him in at night. He'll stretch out on the couch and watch TV. When the movie gets too noisy or he gets bored, he retires to his chair. Occasionally he comes upstairs with us when we retire to read and sleep. Even that involves a routine. He'll hide under the bedspread hanging over the sides of the bed. He thinks because he can't see us that he's invisible. A wagging tail tells us to be careful. A paw with sharp claws will snake out and grab a barefoot. He loves the joke. Then he'll climb on the bed, leaving for the first floor when we begin to snore. In the morning, he appears exactly at 6 am.

Last night,I pick him up and take him outside with me while I lock up the garage. He's keenly interested in the sounds at dusk. But I don't let him down. Walking back inside, he extends his paw as we enter the back door as if he's pushing it open himself. When he figures out that he isn't going back outside, he bites my arm. He's pissed. I put him down on the cedar chest in the back entryway. When I reach out to pat his head, he takes a swipe at my hand. It's a 360 degree attitude change from the purring fur ball that sits in my lap as I write this post. He nuzzles my arm as I type. I feel his wet nose on my elbow.

The rest of the evening he paces in disgust. He'll look out the living room window when he hears a tractor coming down the lane for some late night plowing in the corn field in the floodplain. The sucker that I am puts a stool in front of the deck door for him to jump up and peer through the deck storm door. He gets bored with that quickly. Watching this evening's Netflix selection, we hear noise in the kitchen. He's knocking things I put on the wood stairs down to the kitchen floor. In the middle of The Last Metro , a French movie we got in the mail, The Pooch streaks through the room as fast as he can go. Another attention getting maneuver. It doesn't get him outside.

The limestone cliffs around us are reputed to be a safe haven for rattlesnakes. I've never seen one, therefore I can't tell you which type of snake live here. In a severe drought 20 years ago, old timers tell of snakes descending into the lowlands near the river. We're into a severe drought according to the Lacrosse office of the National Weather Service. We haven't had a significant rainfall in weeks-a concern for farmers and early planting. The usual April Showers Bring May Flowers hasn't happened. All flat land fields in the area are tilled and ready for corn. Our sandy loam garden plots are dry to a depth of six inches. Yesterday, I asked the dairy farmer closest to us to spread liquid manure on a new corn patch I recently converted from grass to garden. The liquid sludge from his cows dried overnight. The Pooch needs a healthy respect for snakes. In normal times we've seen him play with grass snakes. There's TV program out there we've never seen called, Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? I'm not sure if I'm smarter than a two year old gray tabby and I hope he's smarter than a rattlesnake.

Crazy

All I wanted to do was add an image of a pie. Simple, no? I have no pie images in my pictures file. I have no pie to to photograph. On Sunday the pies I ordered from the Amish drove to Milwaukee with the daughter. I go to an approved website for pie images. Simple, no? Being computer challenged and stubborn, I waste precious moments trying to download a pie image. Am I simple? Yes. The image of Aunt Jemima is my compromise. I inherited the small lead statue years ago. She stands hands on hips watching me in the kitchen. It's a relic from politically incorrect bygone eras. Jemima watches my futile efforts in the kitchen of late, grins and snickers at the ineptitude. I waste an entire afternoon fiddling with a bank of switches and an outlet above the kitchen counter. In desperation, I call the electrician late on Thursday afternoon and leave a message. Dawn says that he may not be busy with the current economic conditions. It's hard to get a tradesman out here in the boonies.

How crazy am I? I flip the switch over the workbench in the garage. The radio tuned to NPR doesn't come on automatically. I jiggle the switch. The program starts and fades. I jiggle the plug. The program heads to full volume and fades again. Jiggle and fade. "This is an omen," I tell myself. "Do not attempt electrical work today." I'm stubborn and disregard the voice. Besides, the 60's tune "Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Polka Dot Bikini" has been replaying in my head all morning. The forces of evil are gunning for me. I've spent 45 minutes looking for a Phillips screwdriver I know I put in the rack of drivers on the pegboard. I'm tempted to call Dawn at work and chastise her for using my screwdrivers without replacing them in their holders. If I'm wrong there will be crow for dinner.

In the morning I drive to the Amish farm with a pillow under my arm. Titus is driving the horses in a field behind the workshop which pull a disc through the soil in preparation for planting oats. The day before he prepared another field for 2,000 strawberry plants. "I'm moving in," I tell him when he makes a pass with the team of horses nearby. Not to be outdone, Titus tells me to go to the wash house. "Tell Viola you only need ten chickens instead of twenty for May," he says. We're short on chickens and it will confuse her. Before I leave to continue the ruse, I ask Titus how to adjust the lazy Susan shelves. Dawn complains that the bottom shelf scrapes the cabinet when it turns. He tells me how to make the adjustment. Later I lift the shelf and see the pin and slots for raising or lowering the shelf. I'm chagrined at my ineptness.

In the wash house, Titus' wife and two daughters are plucking chickens. The daughters are standing next to a stainless steel counter top. Mom toss a chicken on the counter top. She's plucked it clean and removed the feet. The daughters prepare the final cleaning before tossing it into a container. Next to the door is a plastic washtub. It's exactly like the one I Jerry-rigged in the bathroom to wash dishes while waiting for the new counter top. I tell Titus' wife I need only ten chickens in May. She sighs with relief. She's wise to Titus' sense of humor. We move on to the pillow. The antique Turkish rug cover is unraveling at a seam. Previous to now an elder daughter mends clothing I bring over with an expert's touch. I offer our plastic washtub in return for saving my antique pillow. I'm directed to the house where the eldest daughter is breading and preparing chicken for lunch. I explain my folly. "Sure, I can do it. No problem," she says. "You'll have to wait until after we plant the strawberries." The other daughter is mixing food at the counter. She walks away and returns with a mustard jar I'd given them. "Do you like horseradish?" she asks. "Sure," I reply. "Is it hot?" She smiles. I ask her to make me a pie in the next batch. She promises to call, which in reality means walking a mile round trip to the neighbors.

Before leaving I check with Titus on a half dozen other minute details concerning the cabinets, including making a new island for the newly expanded kitchen. " I'll talk to Dawn when she gets home from work," I explain. She'll give the final word on the design. I stop for a minute and talk with a neighbor who's standing next to his car with a cup of coffee and two dozen eggs. He works in Madison, but like the rest of us is busy preparing the ground for spring planting. The recent dry, warm weather has everyone scurrying to spread manure and work up the soil. The dairy farmer who works the fields behind us has been spreading manure daily. I drive off with a wave to fiddle some more with electrical outlets.

I'm successful in leveling the refrigerator by cutting carpet adjacent to the frig and adding shims so the frig door doesn't swing open by itself. I remove a partial wall near the refrigerator which opens up the kitchen area, giving it the look of every farm kitchen I ever had the good fortune to work in and around. I haul the wall intact to the barn and remeasure the floor. There are open areas of old flooring that need to be covered. Here's where the island figures in the plan. Then I find my screwdriver in the summer kitchen next to the cold frame. I walk by the radio and wiggle the plug one more time, puzzled by the problem. I can see that one of the wires on the plug is almost severed. Only when it is aligned exactly will the radio come back on. So there are no mysterious disappearances. No ghosts haunting the old schoolhouse.

In the morning Dawn comes downstairs after her morning shower and savors the new open kitchen plan. The electrician calls. I explains the mess of wiring. He promises to come early Monday morning. I'm relieved and decide to plow the corn patch, haul manure and sand. Saturday's promised rain will bring an onslaught of new growth.

Grouse, Rails & The Easter Pig

There will be no grouse pictures here. No King, Clapper or Virgina Rail, common birds of fresh water marshes. The Kickapoo spills its banks in many lowlands areas. Ducks and Geese are the most frequent inhabitants. I did, however, spot a Golden Eagle on the ground munching away at road kill on my way to town this morning. That's where the grousing and railing come in the picture. The weather service predicted sun for today. The portable greenhouse pictured here cannot be left unattended. With the sides up, the sun could fry my baby cabbages. So, I groused about the weather, opened the sides in spite of the cool, windy morning with no sun.

My luck changes . The horoscope on MyYahoo predicts things would go my way, with perhaps a new romantic interest. Dawn will appreciate that. I stop at the plumber on my way to the hardware store. The owner's wife said that they could have someone at my house in the afternoon because Aaron, one of their plumbers, is supposed to meet the maintenance man for Kickapoo High School not far away. He'd be able to fix our leaky sink.

Six hours later our sink is as good as new. The plumber is a young guy with a sense of humor. As I sit at the kitchen table watching him work, I tell him, " I hope I'm not in your way." I know that if I go off to work in the garden he'll be calling me in to look at something or ask a question. His reply to my question? "You're paying for the show so you might as well watch the clown."

In the past I've groused about the common malady of the 21st century. No one has enough time. We keep track of Amish (slow) and daylight saving (fast) time since we frequently have contact with Amish friends. Once I had more time than I could use. Then the kitchen cabinets were finished and extra time disappeared. I might also add that spring planting and preparing the gardens are a "constant of work". For three days, I help Titus' brother complete the dry wall in preparation for the new cabinets. Most of my work involved chasing after him and his helper with a broom and dust pan. When I tell Titus' wife that I had to remind the workers to kick the mud and manure off their boots before beginning construction, she was chagrined.

Things were spaced out. This means that my Amish drywall installers forgot to raise the kitchen electrical outlets to accommodate the new counter top height. I grouse about the lack of sun. My challenged skills at performing electrical work are worse with the power off and a dark, gloomy day. I make several scouting trips to town, asking the hardware store employees for advice about installing new plastic outlet boxes. The wire and metal boxes currently in our walls were installed by Stone Age electricians. When Titus installs the kitchen sink after cutting a hole in the counter top, it leaks. It's Easter Saturday. We're expecting the kids and grandkid in a few hours. Titus quips that we can set a bucket under the sink and empty it every few years. Amish humor. It doesn't set well with me.

Now, several days later the kids have gone. It's a beautiful morning. Temperatures are expected to hit the mid 60's. I've installed a new box and outlet for the refrigerator. It's really a shame that the original cabinet intended for over the frig cannot be used. When we saw the effect of removing a broom closet in the entryway, we changed the kitchen plan. The long dark hallway is gone. When you enter the kitchen via the inside door, there's a new spaciousness. Changing plans in the middle of a renovation can be costly in time and money. Small details such as exposed ugly old flooring and the lack of carpeting in areas formerly covered by an interior partition give me a headache. The end result will be worth the trouble.

The cat jumps in my lap as I ramble away trying
( and failing) to organize the events of the past 11 days. He has some grease on his back. Last night I had to fetch him, when he didn't come to my calls at sunset. Our neighbor hears my, " Pooch, here boy," and tells me our cat is up in his haymow searching for a nesting hen. As he climbs down the metal elevator used to lift bales to the upper part of the barn, I tell him he's in big trouble for not responding to my call. He slinks away, heads for home acting as much like a child in trouble. Well, the grease turns out to be manure-eeyew!!- and then I feel a tell-tale lump near his ear. It's a tick. The recent warm weather will trigger an explosion. I quickly wash my hands of manure, grab the Frontline while my ancient computer downloads the picture of the kitchen cabinet.

I started this post days ago, feeling guilty that I barely have time to attend to e-mail. Now, an hour later, I'm feeling guilty again. I need to finish electrical work. I look at the title. You're puzzled about the Easter Pig. Let me explain.

I e-mail my daughter and ask if she's reinforcing the Easter Bunny myth. I wouldn't want to be the Easter Scrooge or perhaps an Elmer Fudd. Dawn knits a colorful shawl for our granddaughter and I lay in a supply of Easter candy, an egg coloring kit, plastic grass and a few grown-up goodies like Kickapoo Gold organic maple syrup, honey candy and mixed nuts. We purchase a basket for the kid and rummage through a collection of baskets in the barn for the the adults and hide them in the office closet. On Easter morning my granddaughter hunts for eggs and finds her basket. I neglected to put out the basket for daughter and son-in-law. While the kid is collecting eggs with Dawn's help, I grab the large open basket and proclaim that the Easter Pig was here before the bunny. It'll be a new tradition.

Avoirdupois

My dictionary of etymology says the word avoirdupois comes from Middle English meaning," in possession of weight." Current usage is "merchandise sold by weight" in the English system-pounds and ounces. There's a connection between the title and this post. In the back of my mind is the admonishment to "avoid cliches like the plague". Another writing faux pas is to use excessive amounts of alliteration. I stifled the urge to use Bears, Blowhards, Blizzards and Blindness as a lead in to this first post in many days. My intention is to give weight to a loosely connected series of events here in Kickapoo Center in the past week.

Dawn and I travel to the city for supplies. I promised to get Titus a 5 pound box of screws for his cabinet works. We needed muriatic acid to clean rust from the various ceramic bathroom fixtures. The stuff is extremely dangerous to use-just breathing the fumes can hospitalize a person. Imagine what it does to your skin if you splash a drop or two carelessly. If you'd seen the condition of the basin's and toilets when we moved into the vacant school house, you'd understand why I take chances with the noxious chemical.

When we left Menard's-the local building supplies and mercantile center- we spent $140 dollars on what began as a two item list. $70 of the total included Frontline for The Pooch. The temperatures lately have climbed to the 50's and 60's. The spring bug hatch will include deer ticks and fleas. The Pooch leaves the warm confines of our bedroom quilt at 6:30 am for a morning patrol of his five acres. At around 8:30 he climbs the deck railing and peers in the kitchen window, looking for breakfast(this morning it was raw catfish nuggets). Afterwards, he stands in front of the deck door doing a pretty good imitation of the feline word for out...Meowwt. The rest of the day he sneaks in and out, sampling his dry food, chasing birds and leaves, waiting by the south fence line for an unsuspecting mouse to scamper out of the weeds and climbing the woodpile for a better vantage point of the corn field behind us.

A trip to the grocery store on the north edge of the city and dinner at our favorite Mexican Cantina on the far south side of Lacrosse completes the journey. The return trip, although only 35 minutes from Lacrosse to Viroqua, seems longer. There's a plateau near the Mississippi River and Lacrosse. About four miles away from the city through a flat glacial bed, a series of steep hills and coulees begins the approach to the ridge tops that make expansive farm fields and the dairy country around Westby. Not far from the Guadalupe Shrine and before the first hill climb, I see cars parked on both sides of the highway. Shorty's Grill has a large parking lot and is 1/4 mile off the highway. I suspect someone is having party in the suburban houses that are sprouting up in the fields adjacent to Highway 14. Getting closer to the line of parked vehicles, I see a woman standing on hay bales stacked on the trailer. Other people, including the SUV in front of us are pulling over. Many of the people are holding their cell phone cameras in the air. "What the hay...?" Dawn says, "There's a bear in that corn field." I look left and at the edge of the woods and 20 yards into the corn stubble a black bear is sitting on its haunches. Now that's newsworthy.

It made the trip worthwhile. All week I've been working my tail off skirting rain and inclement weather. The NWS in Lacrosse forecast a blizzard off the northern plains for today, Sunday. Six to eight inches of snow are expected, but the local blowhard at the town dump Saturday morning predicts snow starting in the evening totaling 12 inches. I've learned that the locals tend to exaggerate. "Run for your lives, there's weather a comin' " is the catch phrase for any such event. It even extends to local politics. When the town chairman knocked the town clerk down in an argument over electioneering, the local paper first reported that the town clerk resigned( it was the town chairman) . Then it was reported that the town clerk suffered broken ribs and lacerations ( his ribs were "bruised"). Then the news said the town chairman was facing felony assault charges. "Run for your lives there's a bogeyman a comin'."

Dawn and I hustle to get the oak and elm my son and I split in an Olympic 7 hour woodfest last week into the woodshed. We haul sand that washed into the cornfield below us in last year's June flood. It will be used as a base for concrete silo blocks were are laying below the kitchen window. We don't need another patio with a deck that runs the full length of the east side of the house, but the north side tends to collect runoff in heavy storms. A previous owner laid a four inch thick slab covered with dirt and gravel in the corner. It inclines toward the foundation making for a perfect rain collector. We put three layers of black plastic and throw three truck loads of wet sand to prepare the area. The Pooch treats it as his very own litter box until we cover our leveled, timbered and prepared block base with old paneling. Work until you drop or can't take anymore. We cancel plans to rake gravel off the lawns from the plows last winter expecting that Sunday, the plowman will set his plow too deep. He'll make two passes that extend three feet on either side of the gravel road.

I've covered the three B's. There is much more I could cover, but the snow has not developed to more than flurries. I've got three vehicles to change oil and filters. That gravel I didn't rake is still hiding in the grass. When the sun shines and the grass comes up, it will be harder to remove from the lawn. The fourth B. Hair blindness. A weekly news magazine the Readstown librarian toots as a good source of digested news has a small paragraph about research covering a new disorder. The cognitive neuroscientist says some men don't notice a spouse or girlfriend's new haircut because they don't see hair as part of the face. Go figure.

Orange Glow

Nine thirty pm. I'm standing at the north windows on the second floor looking at an orange glow about a mile away. The binoculars we keep for bird watching in a side bedroom are old and the lenses are dirty. I can't make out any detail. With a better pair from the bookshelf in the living room, I can see smoke billowing skyward. The fire is beyond the Kickapoo Center cemetery in the vicinity of a group of cabins rented in the summer to unsuspecting tourists. The owner of the cabins puts out a brochure that speaks glowingly of hiking, canoeing and horseback riding. Most of the Amish built green roofed cabins are on a plateau above a swamp and marsh that parallels the Kickapoo River. "Can't be the cabins", I think out loud. They'd have a telephone to call the volunteer fire department in Viola. Dawn comes upstairs. I point to the fire. "I don't hear any sirens," she says. She dials 911 on her cell phone.

The 911 dispatcher tells her that the local excavator/gravel hauler, Dave LaPointe, is doing a controlled burn. At night? Dawn says he's probably doing something illegal. LaPointe is known for nefarious doings on the shady side of the law. The dispatcher comes back on the line. "It's an old tobacco barn being burned." Dawn hangs up and says, "Well, I did my civic duty for the day." In the morning smoke still billows into the air.

On Tuesday, I accompany Titus and another neighbor to a farm implement auction. The law of opposites is in full effect. The weather is darkly overcast. I wear two layers under my freshly washed denim jacket. The auction is on a ridge top three towns away and about 20 miles. I tug at my feed cap to keep it from blowing off. Tractors and every kind of farm implement you can imagine are parked in four long rows about two city blocks long. After awhile the grass turns to mud when intermittent rain pelts the crowd. For warmth and protection I huddle with a group watching the auctioneer sell small items: old chain saws, saw blades, tractor parts, chains, a retractable clothesline, cement finishing tools and a whole lot of uninteresting junk. I walk the long rows looking for a break in between the hay balers and combines hoping that I'll find a log splitter. No such luck. There is a splitter near the front door of the registration barn, but it's the kind that connects to the PTO shaft of a tractor. Titus points out a contraption made from a motorcycle engine, a riding mower and parts from a go-cart. On the back end are numerous hydraulic connections. "You can buy this rig to run the log splitter," he says. I tell him I'm not sure where the gas tank is. "It's diesel," he quips.

The Jerry-rigged super charged lawn mower gets a lot of attention. The noise and the fumes from diesel tractors idling are constant. The auctioneer in the background keeps up a steady drone: Give me five, do I hear a one bid a two bid gimme two fifty bidda one bidda two all the while the clerk is huddling over a clipboard writing down bidder numbers and sale prices while assistants bark out, hear and hey like square dancers yelping with the beat of the music scanning the crowd for hand signals and nods of assent for the current price or sideways head shakes of "no way am I gonna pay that price" and hold up the next piece of junk to go on the block. When it starts to rain heavily, I head for the van and shelter.

By mid-morning cars are parked a half mile down the side road adjacent to the auction barn. They are also parked a long way down one side of the main highway. I look at the faces of the crowd. One woman complains that they've taped off the bathrooms inside the barn and put up an out-of-order sign. There's a single Porta-Potty outside with a line of ten men in front. One man wearing insulated overalls can't figure out why the door is locked. Nobody volunteers to help out this feeble-minded dummy who can't see the red "occupied"message when the user inside pushes down the lock lever. I walk past another man who laughs and comments," Yeah another farm auction- runny eggs and beer." Inside the barn are tables with malingerers and other idlers slowly sipping coffee. The line for food is as long as the line at the toilet. For $3.50 I get a can of Pepsi and a hot pork sandwich the size of a quarter. By now I'm chilled to the bone. I didn't drive so I'm stuck until Titus and the neighbor decide to leave.

Titus hangs back when a hay baler goes up for sale. It's what he came looking for but the competition from other Amish is stiff. The baler sells for $750. "That's too high, " he says. Looking at me and my blue lips, he tells the neighbor that he doesn't think they'll get to the other balers any time soon. We walk the two blocks to the van and head home.

The Evil Maple Tree

In the middle of our two acre field adjacent to the highway were two silver maple trees. The one at right had two forks. One fork falls in a windstorm. It slightly damages three tiny chard seedlings in the gardens next to the tree. I breathe a sigh of relief and remove the damaged tree before the deer are attracted by the forage.

Unknown to me the major portion of the trunk of the split fork maple is rotten. It falls in another storm. Luckily, Dawn was in the house when it fell. She says she heard the swoosh as it hit the ground. This time the killer tree tears a swath across the corn patch, flattens the cabbage patch and digs holes in the soil ten inches deep. Old carpet laid as mulch and a weed barrier is perforated like a piece of plastic. The deer are attracted by the fallen branches and munch happily on silver maple leaves and the organic shirofumi edamame plants. The stumps, some of which measure twenty five inches in diameter, are carefully stacked next to the barbed wire fence on the east fence line. A June flood washes the woodpile away to the flats below my neighbor's farm.

Last week I lit a burn pile over the stumps of the tree. A week later, the stump continues to smolder. I kid Dawn about having a coal seam under our garden that will smolder for 20 years. I hope I'm wrong.

The picture at right shows the silver maple in early fall of 2005. Click on the image for a larger view. One of the two right hand forks had fallen. The other leans precariously. My friend Jorge-the retired cop and city alderman who lives in an Amish house on a ridge top not far away comes to help me with a Three Stooges plan I have dreamed up. We'll cut a limb off the right fork. My reasoning is simple ( simple minded?) . Less weight, hence less chance of it falling over. The other reasonable assumption is that the garden would receive more sunshine.
The assumption was incorrect. As you can see from this picture dated 7/04/2007 the tree fell into the garden. What follows is a description of the tree limbing that gave the maple it's evil reputation. Click on the image if you'd like a larger view.


Chapter Two: The Cutting.

The limb in question extends 15 feet over the garden. It is almost twenty feet off the ground. I rule out leaning a ladder against the limb and slowly cutting segments of the limb. My mind replays a well-known Warner Brothers cartoon. I have five ladders. One is the highest weight rated Werner ladder available. It has two-twenty foot segments and extends 40 feet. On the ladder are all the specs. It lists the highest working range at 38 feet with an OSHA approved weight capacity of 350 lbs. It takes two people to maneuver it. I separate the sections so that I can reach the gutters near the arbor vitae by the kitchen window without waiting for my wife to come home from work.. Jorge tells me while eating scrambled eggs that he has examined the tree. I’m pleased that he has given it some thought because I am stumped for safe alternatives. When he finishes his last sip of coffee, he says, “Let’s do it.”

“Wait a minute,” I tell him as we walk to the garden. “Let’s think this out.” While he’s thinking, I get the twenty foot ladder section. In the garage, I check the chainsaw for gas and bar oil. I grab my ear protectors and gloves. The assumption is to cut the limb near the trunk of the tree. If cut properly, it should drop slowly to the ground. It doesn’t matter that portions of it fall in the garden. The soft soil can be tilled again. I position the ladder to the right side of the branch. When I climb to the top of the ladder and examine the branch, I realize that I’ll be reaching over the ladder and cutting to my left. Jorge is holding the ladder for stability against the uneven surface of the tree trunk. I climb down to tell him that the position is uncomfortable, probably unsafe.

Comic Interlude before the Tragedy

I suggest that we throw a rope over the limb to guide the limb to a safe landing. Behind the seat in my truck is a rope I borrowed from someone in Arkansas. It’s twenty feet long, maybe more. I never gave it back to the owner because his dog was responsible for biting my four-year-old daughter in the face. I figured the cost of the rope a pittance for our pain and suffering. Besides, he never offered a cent for medical expenses. In crude terms, he was a !@#$. His wife was a !@#$, too.

First, I loop the rope in my right hand like a cowboy, hold on to one end and toss it toward the limb. I miss the target. Then, I tie a stick to one end and toss it toward the limb. After six or seven tries, I give the rope and stick to Jorge who watches me with a gleam in his eye. Actually, I’d rather people driving down the highway see Jorge making a fool of himself. Just about the time I’m going to suggest that I take over tossing the rope over the limb, Jorge catches the thin branches near the end of the branch. We spend the next ten minutes snapping the rope in large waving motions to free it from the thousands of tiny branches near the tip. With each snap of the rope it inches toward the ground. When It’s about seven feet off the ground, I jump up and grab the stick. There’s no time limit on our tree trimming, but in the back of my mind is the thought that this is turning into a major production.

I move the ladder to the left side of the branch.There's a small hill directly underneath the branch. I position the ladder on a level area for stability and climb to the crook of the tree limb to assess my position. I’m apprehensive. The top of the ladder extends to about three feet above the area I’m to begin cutting. If I position myself to cut directly over the top portion of the branch, I’ll be standing with little or no ladder to brace myself. Actually, because of my acrophobia, I need a portion of the ladder to hug and cling to.

I climb down a few rungs and lock my knees. With the top part of the chain saw bar, I cut into the lower side of the limb. The theory here is to prevent the limb from splitting and taking a large piece of bark off the tree. I don’t trust using the top of the bar for cutting. I have a running documentary film in my head of the chain snapping like a snake biting me in the face. First, I make one deep cut. Next, I make several shallow cuts. Hindsight says I should have cut a notch from the underside of the branch. Hindsight wasn’t cutting free hand twenty feet off the ground. Jorge offers advice from the ground. The simplest answer to his advice would be, “Let’s see you do it!” I don’t want to be responsible for injury or a possible lawsuit. He was hired as a consultant.

Change the film speed here to silent movie speed from the 1920’s. Robert runs up and down the ladder. Up and down. Up and down. First, I cut one quarter of the way through the limb. I get off the ladder and grab the rope from Jorge. Several tugs on the rope shakes the entire tree causing Jorge to murmur with apprehension. I pull some more, gaining momentum with each pull. Krraaack. Then, nothing. Now, I’m apprehensive. I climb back up and examine the limb. There’s a noticeable fissure neat the bottom part of the limb. On the ground, Jorge offers encouragement for destruction. “Can’t you cut it some more?” I climb down like a monkey, grab the idling chain saw and insert it into the groove. Another scene from the documentary movie twenty years later.

My chain saw is stuck in a tree branch twenty feet off the ground.

Chapter Three: The Climax

I try to get directly over the top of the branch, which I previously mentioned is not an easy task. I’m about halfway through. I climb down, put my chain saw in a safe area behind the tree and ask for the rope. I tug and pull. Nothing. I give up and hand the rope to Jorge. He begins with slow, even pulls on the rope. Gaining momentum with each pull, the limb begins to crack. Finally, it snaps off and crashes to the ground.

I barely made it through high school chemistry. Physics class was reserved for the extremely intelligent. I skipped being intelligent for parking with Bonnie in a secluded area along the Milwaukee River in Estabrook Park. The police car leaves the parking lot after the officer tells me, “You can’t park here after 9 pm.” I ask Bonnie why she didn’t tell me the police were approaching. She skipped physics class also: "For every action

there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

Strong pulls on a tree limb to the east will result in motion toward the west. East, west. East, west. Krraaack. When it falls, the momentum Jorge developed causes it to hit the ladder which hindsight never told me to move. Hindsight was busy looking after my hinder. The butt of the branch hits the lower 1/3 of the ladder. It crushes the cast aluminum side rails, severs three rungs and bends the base of the ladder at a right angle. I’m stunned. Jorge is stunned. My first words after looking toward the highway to see if anyone was witness to the farce-“There goes $325.” The voice of reason says, “We can fix it.”

Tomorrow the denouement and ending of the story of the tree limbing. Remember, the evil maple is still smoldering. Will it ever end?