Smoking the Neighbors Out

We’ve lived here three years, and we met one of our next door neighbors for the first time last week. It’s great that we finally know each others’ names, but it’s kind of disappointing that we almost burned down their house to get acquainted.

I have previously written about our experiences adjusting to country living, especially the necessity of having to burn things. By now we should have become old pros, having successfully completed several burns of dead brush over the years. We can easily knock out a large burn pile in 1 to 2 hours.

The previous owners of our property planted a lot of trees and shrubs, which is usually aesthetically pleasing in the spring and summer. But as a result of several years of drought, a lot of trees, shrubs, and vines have died. The dead stuff is not so appealing. We’ve spent the last six months pulling up dead trees and bushes, creating not one but two massive burn piles.

The second burn pile was in our front yard and had grown to a good 7 feet high by 20 feet in diameter. With the hot, dry season just around the corner and knowing a new burn ban was imminent, we decided it was time to get ‘er done. I followed protocol and called the sheriff’s office to let them know we’d be burning that afternoon. Fine, they said.

We proceeded in our usual manner, with me watering the ground around the pile and St. Pauli Girl sprinkling on some diesel fuel and lighting the pile. I stood to the side by our neighbor’s fence with the hose, watering more ground just as a precaution.

Let me point out here and now that dead wood, brush, and leaves burn really fast. I mean really, really fast.
As usual the flames quickly roared through the burn pile, spouting up a good 12 to 15 feet in the air. I started to back away as the familiar intense heat came at me. Before I knew it, I was protecting myself behind a tree, well away from the huge fire. Although it was a particularly hot day, everything was going as expected.

Then the wind kicked up, blowing the flames north. At that point St. Pauli Girl made the crucial decision to pick up the hose and move it away from the fire. She later said she was afraid it might melt. Suddenly, a huge gust of wind came, pushing the flames even higher and further away from the pile. I heard a cracking, then a small explosion sound. I looked up into the big oak tree I was standing behind that was a good 30 feet north of the burn pile and watched in horror as clusters of leaves burst into flames.

"The tree’s on fire," I yelled to St. Pauli Girl, pointing.

She looked up and immediately turned the hose on it. The wind was persistent, and the flames showed no sign of dying anytime soon. More branches burst into flames.

"Go call 911!" St. Pauli Girl yelled, jerking at the hose to get closer to the tree.

I ran back to the house to retrieve my phone. I couldn’t believe we were about to torch our yard and maybe even the whole neighborhood. But once I grabbed the phone, I hesitated. Then I made a tactical decision: I would to wait just a few seconds to see if the burning tree had gotten worse. I figured if I called too soon, the fire department might show up after we had everything under control, only to yell at us. Whereas if the fire had spread out of control, the tree and most of our yard would already be in the ashes of history anyway, regardless if I called right then or waited 30 seconds.

I ran back to the fire to see that the main fire had indeed calmed down as a result of the dying wind, and the tree was now only charred and dripping. St. Pauli Girl continued to spray water into the branches. The main burn pile had returned to its usual normal "boring" status.

A few minutes later, our neighbor whom we’d never met wandered out toward us. "Almost got us," she said.
I looked up at her tree which hadn’t been touched. I wanted to say we had it under control but I just shrugged instead.

"I could feel the heat all the way on my back porch," she continued. (Her back porch is probably a hundred yards away.)

We chatted with her for several minutes while keeping a careful eye on the fire. We had already decided to not add any more brush to it, and to save burning pile #2 for another day.

After she left, I asked St. Pauli Girl, "Do you think she really felt the heat back there?"

"No. I think she heard me yell at you to call 911."

So other than our own tree, there was no collateral damage, and we were saved the humiliation of dealing with lectures from the fire department and sheriff’s office. But we’ll probably not volunteer at the annual homeowner’s association cookout this year.

Texas-sized Guns

I must confess that I’ve been browsing the weekly sportsmen’s stores’ catalogs for guns. In the past two years, I’ve come to find that there are a lot of scary varmints in the countryside as evidenced by the recent skunk experience. Plus all my neighbors have guns, and I’d like to fit in.

I don’t know much about guns. My firearm experience consists of shooting BB guns at empty bottles, occasional live rodents, and certain “friends” (but that’s another story). Typically, I’m drawn to the cheapest gun with the biggest barrel. So, yes, you could probably sell me a blunderbuss. But in last weekend’s catalog, I found the perfect solution: the mini-cannon!

That’s right: you can purchase a fully operational mini-cannon styled like the classic Napoleon version from the Civil War, or the Old Ironsides model like the ones found on old ships. I scoured the ad looking for a disclaimer and thought, “This can’t be real. It can’t possibly be legal to sell a working cannon to your average Joe.” Then I remembered where I live, and realized rural Texans probably made their own cannons before these came on the market.

The ad states “fully operational” and also mentions accessories, including granular powder, round balls, and fuses. Plus they cost a whopping $250. They must be the real deal!

Since I don’t have a ship or parrot, I’m leaning toward the Napoleon version.

And since I don’t know anything about guns, this is the perfect solution. How hard is it to operate a cannon? You 1) light the fuse and 2) cover your ears. Any dummy who’s ever watched cartoons knows that. Aiming might be hard because it could take a couple of people to move it. But then again it’s not like hitting a bull’s eye with a shotgun.

I’ll be able to take on entire armies of skunks, rattlesnakes, opossums and of course deer. Plus there’s the home-protection aspect. If the click of a loaded shotgun frightens a home invader, just think what the sound of a lit fuse would do! And St. Pauli Girl could finally get the horse she’s always wanted . . . as long as she lets me use it to pull the cannon when we go on field maneuvers.

Best of all, I’ll be the envy of all my neighbors: “Well, Mike, of course that’s a mighty fine shotgun you got there. But let’s see which one of us can blow up that barn faster.” BOOM!

I could start my own demolition business. I can offer to blow up condemned buildings and bridges for a small fee (plus cannonball expenses). I’ll even dress up like General Sherman, or no, wait! Maybe Nathan Bedford Forrest, depending on where I’m at and who’s paying me.

While pulling out my credit card, I studied the ad closer. Then I looked it up online, and that’s where I saw the catch: the cannons are 12 inches long by 6 inches high. I guess that’s why it’s called a mini-cannon. But $250 for something you could fire off your desk?

That’s dumber than selling real cannons.

Oh, but wouldn’t it be great if the next time I’m forced to sit through a crappy, boring Power Point presentation at work, I could load a cannonball into my desk cannon, aim it at the screen, light the fuse, and cover my ears?

Country Living

The nice thing about the long, cold, wet winter is the limited availability of yardwork. Since we both work out of the house, we sit cooped up inside all day leading to scintillating lunchtime conversation:

“Anything in the news today?” St. Pauli Girl will ask.
“Nope. Anything new on Facebook?”
“Nope.”

Then we stare at each other until dinner when we repeat the conversation. Every ten days or so, St. Pauli Girl will ask:

“I’m going to town, do you need anything?”
“I reckon not.”

And that has been our country living this winter. The trees did not shed their leaves here until December. Hence, while most people are thinking about planting gardens in March, we are raking leaves.

There is a long list of things I never thought I would do in my life: be an opera singer, build a car from scratch with my partner Sonny, get waterboarded, etc. Having a burn pile is somewhere in the top 100. A burn pile is where you put things that you used to throw in the dumpster in the alley behind your house. When the pile gets really big, you burn it.

Actually, it’s not even that good, because you can only burn things like leaves, tree limbs, and other natural items. No real trash. And so what do you do with your old Camaro, Trans Am, or pick-up camper top? You leave it parked in the yard where archaeologists will discover it 10,000 years from now. You might think it’s fun to laugh at country folk who leave old vehicles, appliances, tires and chainsaws scattered about the yard. But seriously-- what do you do with all that stuff when you can’t throw it away or burn it? You dump it as far away from the house as possible, out of sight. Or pay hundreds—thousands--of dollars to have it hauled off.

Prior to last week, we had only burned the burn pile once in a year. The area had been in a drought, under a burn ban for two years. One day, a nice heavy spring storm rolled through. Someone we worked with commented , “Just watch, tomorrow the whole county will go up in smoke.” And it did. You learn to take advantage of the limited time between burn bans.

(Except after we started our fire, we found out the burn ban had just been put back into effect. Country living takes getting used to.)

So over the past few weeks, we’ve groomed the yard and created a burn pile that would make any bonfire-loving Aggie proud. St. Pauli Girl decided to light it last Saturday. After spreading diesel fuel over the pile, a single match sent a raging ball of fire skyward. Armed with a garden hose, St. Pauli Girl watched nervously. A sudden gust of wind pushed smoke and flames toward the neighbors which would have been alright except for the dead oak tree standing between us and them. And I mean really dead, with long, very dry limbs hanging almost down to the ground. The flames nipped at the dry branches, singeing some of them. But in a matter of minutes, the flames died down and our burn became quite manageable again.

Of course I heard about this after the fact. I was busy doing much more important things like blogging or something. St. Pauli Girl said she was about to come and get me, but she was afraid to leave the inferno unattended.

We spent the rest of the day feeding the fire. To help with future burns, I pulled down all of the overhanging dead tree limbs and threw them into the fire. At the end of the day, we sat and watched the last remnants burn down. As the sun set, Mr. Roo (our rooster) led the four other chickens back into the pen. Two of the chickens were still upset because they had built a nest in the burn pile. (St. Pauli Girl reported quite a symphony of squawking when she pulled them out just before the burn.)

We enjoyed the campfire smell and debated roasting hot dogs over the coals. The chickens worked their way around the yard, scratching and pecking for bugs. I marveled at this country life as if I were Mr. Douglas from “Green Acres.” I noticed Mr. Roo getting a little rambunctious as he herded the hens this way and that. Then he pounced on the brown hen, bit her neck and well, had his way with her. It lasted maybe three seconds (ladies insert your own joke here).

Ah, the ways of nature, the circle of life! (Fireside, we eventually listed every “Lion King” song we could think of.)

Then suddenly, Mr. Roo pounced on another hen and had another three second romp.

“Mr. Roo is feeling frisky,” St. Pauli Girl said.

“Well, it is Saturday night.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Roo took his third partner of the evening. Three in ten minutes! (Gentlemen insert your own joke here.) This was bordering on chicken porn; I was waiting for the inevitable hen-on-hen scene. But as darkness fell, the hens and their man wandered into the coop where I’m sure Mr. Roo had a very good night’s sleep.

So these are the things you learn living in the country: chickens actually have sex, you should burn the burn pile when you can, cut down dead tree branches hovering near the burn pile, and roosters actually have a lot of sex. Especially on Saturday night.

How Do You Know It’s a Rooster?

When it starts crowing! Well, that was our last logical line of defense against our better instincts.

We live far enough in the country that we hear several neighborhood roosters. They aren’t really annoying until it’s warm enough to sleep with the windows open. Cityslicker Myth #1 is that they only crow at sunrise. If so, then these roosters are living on Greenwich Mean Time. They crow all night. But then if I had my pick of the hen house whenever I wanted, I’d crow all night too.

St. Pauli Girl always wanted chickens. She loves them. So about ten years ago, when our house was outside the city limits, we decided to give it a go. We managed to cobble together a chicken house (actually old kitchen cabinets) inside a fenced-in area. The first problem was that I did the fencing. Actually, I was somewhat proud of the fence. It stood up fairly straight and although it wouldn’t stop a human from running through it, I believed it would stop animals from running through it. You know, like baby rabbits and kittens. But the gate was another matter. Even I must admit that it more resembled three or four sticks tied together, and anyone using it risked getting an eye poked out. It was more like a tent flap except not as sturdy.

The second problem was that the fence was anchored by trees. My previous exposure to wildlife consisted of running screaming from a garter snake many years ago. When engineering the fence, I never really considered predators’ abilities to climb trees.

So we got five chickens that we raised from chicks, and miraculously they all survived into chicken adolescence which meant it was time for them to move from the garage into the new chicken coop. Everything was fine the first two days. On the third morning, heading out to feed the not-quite-grown chickens, we were met with a scene of carnage straight out of a Friday the 13th movie (except the hockey mask must have hidden a coyote or raccoon or other vicious predator). Feathers and blood were splattered about, one poor victim lay twisted in the chicken wire, but two very traumatized chickens had survived. We quickly gave them away to someone who could actually coop them up securely. Thankfully we moved a few months later, because I always expected those two chickens to come back and take revenge on us. And we probably deserved it.

I think one of the reasons St. Pauli Girl wanted our current house was because it already had a good solid chicken coop and fenced-in area. Raising chickens would be much easier here. I agreed to give it another shot on one condition: No Roosters. (I cherish my sleeping-in on weekends.) So in September, we went out to the chicken farm to pick out five chickens. The proprietor--we’ll call him Mr. Haney in honor of Green Acres--took us to a large fenced garden area where hundreds of chickens were running amok.

“These are all hens?” we asked.

“Of course. Absolutely.” The straw he was chewing barely moved.

I should have suspected something was up when Mr. Haney stretched “absolutely” out into sixteen syllables. But we got our chickens home and St. Pauli Girl took good care of them. They grew up very fast. By December, they were huge and looked like the chickens you remember from childhood, you know-- the ones on those See-n-Say games. But one chicken really stood out. She had beautiful long feathers of shimmering green, black and red. She was glossy while the other chickens were more like a flat paint.

One day around this time St. Pauli Girl sat me down, held my hand, and told me that this chicken might be . . . a rooster. She’d done the necessary googling and that chicken exhibited rooster characteristics: shiny feathers, a long neck, and spending a lot of time in front of the mirror. It turns out that it’s almost impossible to tell the difference between a hen and a rooster until they’re older. Like three months after you bought them.

But it wasn’t crowing. Maybe it was just an exotic hen, we told ourselves. St. Pauli Girl thought about taking it back and exchanging it, but the thought of trying to catch it and stuff it in a tiny cat porter changed her mind. Plus, it wasn’t crowing. So no problem. Right?

One morning in January, I went out to get the newspaper. On the way back in, I heard a strange noise. I looked towards the chicken coop and saw our exotic hen flapping its wings while balancing on the fence. It made a sound not quite like a crowing rooster, but maybe a rooster with laryngitis. The “Cock-a-doodle-do” was more like a hoarse “doo—oo-o-o-ewww!” It hadn’t mastered the crow yet, but it sure was trying.

I walked into the house and called out to St. Pauli Girl. “Our exotic hen ran away. And the rooster wants his breakfast.”