A comment on an earlier post led me to a blog on which the author contemplated the good features of our "lifestyle". I've been thinking on that. Life in the country does largely consist of sipping mint juleps while watching one's horses jump repeated clear rounds carrying visiting city children but, occasionally, there are disruptions.
Firstly, moving to the country doesn't somehow eliminate the chores one had in the city, the floors still need washing, the windows still need cleaning and there's a dirtier dog in the bed:
.jpg)
Then there are some farm type chores, this weekend, for example, we went by Farmer Squirrell's to discuss hay; we'd expected to be moving hay. Alas, he's behind on haying because his son grew up and left and he couldn't find anyone to hire for farm work; it crossed my mind that we should offer to go halves on a family of illegals, one labourer one domestic/child care person, but then I remembered reading on Chronicle of the Horse how "them Mexicans shit in the stalls" and thought the better of it. Anyway, because he's behind we have two worries; that he might not get the hay in and that he might at short notice. We have 300 "small" squares coming from the first cut, 300 bales is a lot of hay to store and it's also a lot to carry and stack. (Small squares, by the way, are only not large squares, at 40-50lbs each they're not trivial to carry). It would be unpleasant to hear that, because a storm is coming, the farmer has rushed and dropped the hay at the back door and it has to come in RIGHT NOW!
I worked on the barn for a couple of hours making sure that we have weatherproof space for the hay when it comes. That has to be done on a weekend because with, maybe 48 hours a week spent in the office and another 20 or so driving there's little time in the week for anything but a little riding. All that time in the office is necessary, of course, because a hobby farm is an expensive proposition, "a hole in the water into which to pour money" only without the water.
Before getting going on the barn repairs there was picking to do. Picking hilly pastures would be great exercise if done with a wheelbarrow but I've neither the time nor the inclination, so I drive around and fill the tractor bucket. Each horse generates two tractor bucket loads of manure a week but our pile is growing much more quickly than that as it's the last resting place of the raccoons the neighbour's shooting; it's really a raccoon pile with manure so we may be able to offer the content as "enriched compost". Anyway, picking is complicated by horses that suddenly develop an interest in food they've already eaten as well as in eating one's sweater.
.jpg)
.jpg)
On weekends there's enough barn work that we press anyone into doing some:
.jpg)
This weekend, since there was no hay, Anna put on her barn outfit and set about making trot poles. There was a platform made of old fence posts, she pulled the posts out, removed the nails and barbed wire and we took them down to the flat pasture and arranged them artfully.
.jpg)
.jpg)
There, fat cavaletti, not some sort of Italian fast food but a horse training aid at no cost. A research trip to Home Depot suggests that twelve foot lengths of three inch plumbing pipe will serve admirable for jump poles so long as someone gets around to making standards. That'd be the someone who's not got around to fetching the chicken house and is wondering when the house house is going to sanded and stained. I don't think I've ever felt as rushed as in the country; there is just so much to do and so little time to do it.
Oh, and there's actual horse care as well, it's not all shovelling and bad carpentry. Here Dixie has a pedicure:
Still, all these jobs are individually satisfying and, at the end of the day, you can lean back, drink from your home brewed beer and contemplate the horses quietly grazing. If, that is, they are quietly grazing. If, like these ones, they're being driven mad by flies and are galloping themselves into a frenzy trying to escape, well then the only thing to do is to spray them yet again and plan on buying sheets in the morning.
.jpg)
.jpg)
There, horse sheeted, calm prevails:
.jpg)
You will note that Austin is wearing a heavy Shedrow sheet while Dixie is not wearing a sheet. The trade off in sheets is that the Shedrow's can dig in and scratch while a lighter, more comfortable, sheet may not stand up to prolonged wear and tear. This is Dixie's after 24 hours:
.jpg)
this is what happened to it:
.jpg)
I suppose Dixie will be getting a heavy and scratchy Shedrow today. They won't be getting Shedrow blankets though, I'd forgotten how much I dislike that brand and their awkward fastenings. Fidgeting with poorly designed catches in the freezing cold is no joke.
There are other specifically rural things to worry about. One car and the tractor need servicing, we may need tools for the tractor, better work that out before the weekend. The Land Yacht needs petrol, better remember to take it somewhere with a filling station, so long as we only use it to go to the dump, we risk running out in the middle of nowhere. There's an endless list of things to fret about.
The bright side though is that, after driving home from work I can park at the barn, throw on boots and go for a ride. Last night we went up on the ridge behind our pasture, just to see what was on the other side. It made for a very relaxing evening:
.jpg)
You will, of course, have observed the George Morris compliant attire of horse and rider. The attractive patina of dust and unbrushed hair ensures that the horse not have a sheen to reflect sunlight and disconcert other riders. The combination of an English saddle and Western bridle lacking a nose piece lends the animal a jaunty air while the rider's grudging concession to safety in the form of helmet is balanced by the lunacy of carrying a glass container. What makes this team scream readiness for the Olympics, the para-Olympics, is the baling twine grab handle/hand positioning aid attached to the saddle, you don't see many of them at Hickstead.
To return to the original theme, a semi-rural lifestyle requires either great gobs of money, which plainly we don't have, or fitness, stamina, and the ability to find pleasure in mundane tasks. Personally, I rather like manure management, after weekdays spent crafting strategies for onshore meta-data manipulation in support of empowered decision making it's nice to shovel shit literally.
Firstly, moving to the country doesn't somehow eliminate the chores one had in the city, the floors still need washing, the windows still need cleaning and there's a dirtier dog in the bed:
.jpg)
Then there are some farm type chores, this weekend, for example, we went by Farmer Squirrell's to discuss hay; we'd expected to be moving hay. Alas, he's behind on haying because his son grew up and left and he couldn't find anyone to hire for farm work; it crossed my mind that we should offer to go halves on a family of illegals, one labourer one domestic/child care person, but then I remembered reading on Chronicle of the Horse how "them Mexicans shit in the stalls" and thought the better of it. Anyway, because he's behind we have two worries; that he might not get the hay in and that he might at short notice. We have 300 "small" squares coming from the first cut, 300 bales is a lot of hay to store and it's also a lot to carry and stack. (Small squares, by the way, are only not large squares, at 40-50lbs each they're not trivial to carry). It would be unpleasant to hear that, because a storm is coming, the farmer has rushed and dropped the hay at the back door and it has to come in RIGHT NOW!
I worked on the barn for a couple of hours making sure that we have weatherproof space for the hay when it comes. That has to be done on a weekend because with, maybe 48 hours a week spent in the office and another 20 or so driving there's little time in the week for anything but a little riding. All that time in the office is necessary, of course, because a hobby farm is an expensive proposition, "a hole in the water into which to pour money" only without the water.
Before getting going on the barn repairs there was picking to do. Picking hilly pastures would be great exercise if done with a wheelbarrow but I've neither the time nor the inclination, so I drive around and fill the tractor bucket. Each horse generates two tractor bucket loads of manure a week but our pile is growing much more quickly than that as it's the last resting place of the raccoons the neighbour's shooting; it's really a raccoon pile with manure so we may be able to offer the content as "enriched compost". Anyway, picking is complicated by horses that suddenly develop an interest in food they've already eaten as well as in eating one's sweater.
.jpg)
.jpg)
On weekends there's enough barn work that we press anyone into doing some:
.jpg)
This weekend, since there was no hay, Anna put on her barn outfit and set about making trot poles. There was a platform made of old fence posts, she pulled the posts out, removed the nails and barbed wire and we took them down to the flat pasture and arranged them artfully.
.jpg)
.jpg)
There, fat cavaletti, not some sort of Italian fast food but a horse training aid at no cost. A research trip to Home Depot suggests that twelve foot lengths of three inch plumbing pipe will serve admirable for jump poles so long as someone gets around to making standards. That'd be the someone who's not got around to fetching the chicken house and is wondering when the house house is going to sanded and stained. I don't think I've ever felt as rushed as in the country; there is just so much to do and so little time to do it.
Oh, and there's actual horse care as well, it's not all shovelling and bad carpentry. Here Dixie has a pedicure:
Still, all these jobs are individually satisfying and, at the end of the day, you can lean back, drink from your home brewed beer and contemplate the horses quietly grazing. If, that is, they are quietly grazing. If, like these ones, they're being driven mad by flies and are galloping themselves into a frenzy trying to escape, well then the only thing to do is to spray them yet again and plan on buying sheets in the morning.
.jpg)
.jpg)
There, horse sheeted, calm prevails:
.jpg)
You will note that Austin is wearing a heavy Shedrow sheet while Dixie is not wearing a sheet. The trade off in sheets is that the Shedrow's can dig in and scratch while a lighter, more comfortable, sheet may not stand up to prolonged wear and tear. This is Dixie's after 24 hours:
.jpg)
this is what happened to it:
.jpg)
I suppose Dixie will be getting a heavy and scratchy Shedrow today. They won't be getting Shedrow blankets though, I'd forgotten how much I dislike that brand and their awkward fastenings. Fidgeting with poorly designed catches in the freezing cold is no joke.
There are other specifically rural things to worry about. One car and the tractor need servicing, we may need tools for the tractor, better work that out before the weekend. The Land Yacht needs petrol, better remember to take it somewhere with a filling station, so long as we only use it to go to the dump, we risk running out in the middle of nowhere. There's an endless list of things to fret about.
The bright side though is that, after driving home from work I can park at the barn, throw on boots and go for a ride. Last night we went up on the ridge behind our pasture, just to see what was on the other side. It made for a very relaxing evening:
.jpg)
You will, of course, have observed the George Morris compliant attire of horse and rider. The attractive patina of dust and unbrushed hair ensures that the horse not have a sheen to reflect sunlight and disconcert other riders. The combination of an English saddle and Western bridle lacking a nose piece lends the animal a jaunty air while the rider's grudging concession to safety in the form of helmet is balanced by the lunacy of carrying a glass container. What makes this team scream readiness for the Olympics, the para-Olympics, is the baling twine grab handle/hand positioning aid attached to the saddle, you don't see many of them at Hickstead.
To return to the original theme, a semi-rural lifestyle requires either great gobs of money, which plainly we don't have, or fitness, stamina, and the ability to find pleasure in mundane tasks. Personally, I rather like manure management, after weekdays spent crafting strategies for onshore meta-data manipulation in support of empowered decision making it's nice to shovel shit literally.
No comments:
Post a Comment