So, don't have a cow, man.
Been busy, so busy that there's been very little time to work on the blog. Cutting, splitting firewood, burned more so far this year than all of last year. Winter weather during the fall season, broke some records, a reverse of this summer. I'm sure you're enjoying the weather where you are.
The 'herd' has been self-thinning. Curlie (Curly?) jumped the fence for the last time about three weeks ago. The Boss and our neighbor decided to reach an agreement on the situation, so she was sold to the neighbor. Now, she stands at HIS fence and bellows, while looking over at our pasture. She's a cow, so go figure.
LuLu (again, I didn't name these heifers), decided that enough was enough and delivered her calf on Christmas Eve day. I was cutting some standing deadwood down by the creek when MoMo bellowed at me from the hillside. I could see LuLu was down, but didn't think much of it. Went to check on her about an hour later. She had the new boy with her. He's a healthy little dude, about 60-70 pounds and bigger than my German Shepherd.
So, a Christmas calf and a baby bull at that!
Now, if I can get some bull market activity on my writing, then it'll be a GREAT 2011.
Have a healthy and prosperous New Year!
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Bovine Social Club
You have lazy Sunday afternoons, where you lie around, perusing what to do, if you don‘t take a nice, quiet nap. I know that I’ve had a few, but lately, most of them have been taken up with catching cows. This is not to be confused with Mad Cow disease, although you might make a cow mad while attempting to herd it home.
If you are wont to enjoy the company of your neighbors in a natural, rural setting, there is nothing like trying to get a lovelorn heifer back to the home pasture. Especially if she’s mixed in with about thirty other head of cattle, a half-dozen horses and a mule. Let me not neglect the Bull of the herd and it’s young son, Bull, jr.
This stray heifer, not exactly light of hoof at about 800 pounds, has been the cow errant of the farm. She likes to jump fences, even if said fence is of barbed wire construction and about three feet tall. Which is not the usual height of a good farm fence. It’s the height of some of the fence here due to lack of maintenance. Fence gets taken down by trees, animals, broken posts, etc. There’s always something to mend on a farm.
My neighbor Carol, having encouraged my father into getting this ‘herd’, is a willing participant in the care and feeding of said animals. I was against it from the start, as I knew who would get roped in, so to speak, when it came to dealing with the overall care of the ‘herd’. My previous experiences having been with a herd of about 25 cattle last year that a former girlfriend happened to have on her property. They spent more of their time over the fence, in the road or wandering in the woods then they did in the fields. Since both the cattle and my ex-girlfriend were spending more time wandering than staying home, it was best that we split. So, I really didn’t want to have to deal with more of the same, with less help, this year. At least I knew which watering hole the cows were drinking at.
When I showed up at my neighbor Carol’s door, she was in the middle of cooking beans and watching “Of Mice and Men”, which could be the story of living in my old farmhouse, but the mice have taken to committing suicide by water bucket lately, a topic which I may dwell on in a later blog.
It would be about an hour before the beans and the movie would be over, so I went out to the shop and worked on various projects. I put a couple of coats of paint on the now welded up ATV gas tank, then started taking apart the wood burning fireplace insert. Haven’t been able to sell it, so I’m going to cut it down to fit my small fireplace. It’s more than twice as big as the wood burner I’m using now.
Carol came out to get me when she was ready to go. I got some rope, a big plastic coffee can of sweet feed and found a wooden stick, about 1 ½ X 2 inches and 4 feet long. Didn’t think to bring a ball bat. Carol had her cane that she used when they operated on her knee. It helps to have a nice stick when you’re dealing with a herd or even a single animal. As Carol found out earlier in the week, when a very preggers LuLu all 1,000+ pounds of her, cornered Carol and tried to butt her, wanting to get to that can of sweet feed. Which is a real treat for cattle and horses, kind of like chocolate for kids with hooves. Three basic rules of dealing with cattle: Don’t get in with them while feeding them, don’t get between a heifer and her calf and NEVER fuck with the bull. You will get the horn, if not run over.
We piled into her van, since the farm truck was hooked to a trailer and went up the road to the neighbor’s pasture. At the field, we walked about a ¼ mile, looking through the scattered herd for “Curly”. Don’t give me any grief about these names, I didn’t name the cows, Carol did. We spot Curly on the far side of the pond. I notice a very anxious black cow, which I mistake for a bull. She’s dancing around, running back and forth. That’s when I ask Carol, “Does JW have any bulls out here?”
“Yep, why?”
“I think I see one.”
That’s when I realize that Carol, festive person that she is, is wearing a bright red Christmas sweatshirt under her bright orange University of Tennessee windbreaker, with athletic shoes. We’re being subtle here, right? I’m dressed in standard farm regalia, bib overalls, heavy boots and a black and white checked hoodie, dark blue ball cap. Just like you see down at the local feed store, rapping to the oldies.
“Uh, Carol, you might want to zip up your jacket, since that bull might not like your red sweatshirt.”
I won’t repeat her reply, lets just say that she zipped up her windbreaker while dodging ankle deep cow pies.
Turning back to the cow in question. Curly was regarding us with a wary look. She’d seen people coming for her before and it usually wasn’t a good sign. I tried to ‘make friends’ with her by using the old, native ritual of shaking the gourd, in this case, rattling a plastic coffee can of sweet feed, while calling “Here babe, come on, here babe.” Hey, it works for witch doctors, right?
She looked at me like I was some thick-glasses wearing geek in a hillbilly costume. I kept up the chant. The dancing cow gets closer and I realize that she’s a young heifer, couldn’t see her udder, since she isn’t mature. Curly comes on and gets about four feet from me, the smell of sweet feed drawing her and twenty other cows. I throw some out on the ground and she bows her head to munch it. As soon as I pull the rope out of my pocket she moves off. We proceed to play ‘chase the cow’ for the next half hour.
During this time, we realize that there is a bull in this pasture, actually there‘s two of them. Big Bull’s watching with more than a little interest, kind of like a pimp watching over his ladies. His son, Bull, jr. is prancing around, playing with his mom. Which is hard to imagine, 500 pounds of dancing beef. Big Bull, he’s cool, you would be too, if you weighed in around 1800 pounds. He looks like a four-legged locomotive with a head about two feet wide. All I can think is that I’m glad that he’s not a big one. I had one about 2300 pounds come at me last year when the herd stampeded due to 4th of July fireworks going off. The only thing that kept me from getting run over was the fact that I was next to a forest and got in behind a tree. The herd went through the forest, then they slowed down. They sauntered into the next field like nothing happened. Which made me happy, since that’s where I was trying to herd them to begin with.
We now have Big Bull decide that we’re messing with his heifer. Not only is he standing shoulder to shoulder with Curly, he’s got the rest of the bovine posse lined up with him. I faced some big offensive lines playing high school football. Which wasn’t hard, since I was the one of the smallest, lightest guys on the team and the only one that wore glasses in the whole league, while playing middle linebacker. Some of the guards and centers would laugh, until we made contact. Everything I did was within the rules. The problem is there’s no referees on this field and these animals have their own rules. You might outrun a bull for a hundred yards, if you’re a world-class sprinter. I guarantee that he’ll catch you in the second hundred.
Discretion being the better part of valor, I turned around and walked off, heading for the gate. Carol decided that would be a good idea also. I think she was growing tired of dodging cow pies and pushing horses away from her. They love sweet feed and aren’t shy about it. We had gone about a hundred feet when Carol said, “They’re following us.”
She was about twenty feet off to my left, I pivoted, looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, the bovine posse was duly following us towards the gate. We’re all out for a nice, Sunday afternoon stroll in the fields. As we get near the gate, the owner and his wife pull up. JW and Theresa park in the road and get out to help. JW shunts the horses off into a field next to the one Curly is in and closes the gate on them.
The bovine posse now has us cornered by the gate. 25,000 pounds of beef on the hoof versus three puny humans, who wouldn’t top 400 pounds altogether. The bovine posse craps more than we weigh in a day. We hold them at bay since we have the key ingredient, sweet feed. We rattle the cans, enticing them, warding off the animal spirits. Curly knows it’s ordained and shuffles forward, the rest of the herd holds back. They turn and move away, like they know we can’t be stopped and she’s been chosen to leave with us.
I get around behind her, moving slowly, urging her forward. JW keeps her from going down the right fence line and back out into the field. Carol opened the gate, wide enough to drive a truck through, shaking her can of sweet feed. Curly edges forward, then moves to up the fence line to my left. I dodge left and get her headed back towards the open gate. Curly gets within ten feet of it, then bolts left and turns on the speed like a halfback heading for the goal line. She’s gone, back into the middle of the field, in nothing flat.
A big roan mare decides that she’s seen enough and pushes the gate open, reaches over and rips the lid off of Carol’s coffee can. She wants that sweet feed! Carol bops her on the nose, while JW waves her back behind the gate into the small field.
We humans regroup, deciding that parking the maroon van and the big Chevy diesel dually at the gate might have kept Curly from coming out. The vehicles are moved, while I walk out into the field, trying to catch up with Curly. This is why you need either a good horse or a four-wheeler. A moto-cross bike would work, but I think that after hitting a few cow pies, you might have to be hosed off and fumigated before they let you in the house. Trying to walk/run after cattle will only wear you out.
After about another twenty minutes of chasing Curly, I’ve had it. I’m ready to go back to the shop, where the only cowhide is in gloves or seat covers. The Big Bull has ambled towards the lower pasture. He’s getting bored. Curly comes up along side him, going the other direction and gives him a ‘come-on’ rub with her butt. I’m watching this and decide that I better hang back, in case this is Sunday afternoon bovine lust. He ignores her and keeps heading towards the lower pasture. Miffed, she trots off across the big pasture and I start to follow her. JW yells at me, “Hey, forget it. We’ll get her tomorrow.”
I can only nod agreement and we trudge back across the pasture to the gate. He tells me about how he used to have two bulls, but last year one of them disappeared. He thinks it might have been stolen. I’m surprised. “How the hell could someone steal a bull? We can’t even get a heifer to follow us!”
He explains that they have a gun, shoots a dart with something in it that slows the bull down.
Whoa! I’m thinking, that’s it! Cows on ‘ludes! Where the hell are Quaaludes when you need them! No, wait, that would just make her really horny. That’s enough of a problem.
Wonder how many Valiums it would take?
Maybe we should just take her a bucketful of beer and let the drunk heifer stumble home behind us?
Sounds like an excuse for a kegger to me.
If you are wont to enjoy the company of your neighbors in a natural, rural setting, there is nothing like trying to get a lovelorn heifer back to the home pasture. Especially if she’s mixed in with about thirty other head of cattle, a half-dozen horses and a mule. Let me not neglect the Bull of the herd and it’s young son, Bull, jr.
This stray heifer, not exactly light of hoof at about 800 pounds, has been the cow errant of the farm. She likes to jump fences, even if said fence is of barbed wire construction and about three feet tall. Which is not the usual height of a good farm fence. It’s the height of some of the fence here due to lack of maintenance. Fence gets taken down by trees, animals, broken posts, etc. There’s always something to mend on a farm.
My neighbor Carol, having encouraged my father into getting this ‘herd’, is a willing participant in the care and feeding of said animals. I was against it from the start, as I knew who would get roped in, so to speak, when it came to dealing with the overall care of the ‘herd’. My previous experiences having been with a herd of about 25 cattle last year that a former girlfriend happened to have on her property. They spent more of their time over the fence, in the road or wandering in the woods then they did in the fields. Since both the cattle and my ex-girlfriend were spending more time wandering than staying home, it was best that we split. So, I really didn’t want to have to deal with more of the same, with less help, this year. At least I knew which watering hole the cows were drinking at.
When I showed up at my neighbor Carol’s door, she was in the middle of cooking beans and watching “Of Mice and Men”, which could be the story of living in my old farmhouse, but the mice have taken to committing suicide by water bucket lately, a topic which I may dwell on in a later blog.
It would be about an hour before the beans and the movie would be over, so I went out to the shop and worked on various projects. I put a couple of coats of paint on the now welded up ATV gas tank, then started taking apart the wood burning fireplace insert. Haven’t been able to sell it, so I’m going to cut it down to fit my small fireplace. It’s more than twice as big as the wood burner I’m using now.
Carol came out to get me when she was ready to go. I got some rope, a big plastic coffee can of sweet feed and found a wooden stick, about 1 ½ X 2 inches and 4 feet long. Didn’t think to bring a ball bat. Carol had her cane that she used when they operated on her knee. It helps to have a nice stick when you’re dealing with a herd or even a single animal. As Carol found out earlier in the week, when a very preggers LuLu all 1,000+ pounds of her, cornered Carol and tried to butt her, wanting to get to that can of sweet feed. Which is a real treat for cattle and horses, kind of like chocolate for kids with hooves. Three basic rules of dealing with cattle: Don’t get in with them while feeding them, don’t get between a heifer and her calf and NEVER fuck with the bull. You will get the horn, if not run over.
We piled into her van, since the farm truck was hooked to a trailer and went up the road to the neighbor’s pasture. At the field, we walked about a ¼ mile, looking through the scattered herd for “Curly”. Don’t give me any grief about these names, I didn’t name the cows, Carol did. We spot Curly on the far side of the pond. I notice a very anxious black cow, which I mistake for a bull. She’s dancing around, running back and forth. That’s when I ask Carol, “Does JW have any bulls out here?”
“Yep, why?”
“I think I see one.”
That’s when I realize that Carol, festive person that she is, is wearing a bright red Christmas sweatshirt under her bright orange University of Tennessee windbreaker, with athletic shoes. We’re being subtle here, right? I’m dressed in standard farm regalia, bib overalls, heavy boots and a black and white checked hoodie, dark blue ball cap. Just like you see down at the local feed store, rapping to the oldies.
“Uh, Carol, you might want to zip up your jacket, since that bull might not like your red sweatshirt.”
I won’t repeat her reply, lets just say that she zipped up her windbreaker while dodging ankle deep cow pies.
Turning back to the cow in question. Curly was regarding us with a wary look. She’d seen people coming for her before and it usually wasn’t a good sign. I tried to ‘make friends’ with her by using the old, native ritual of shaking the gourd, in this case, rattling a plastic coffee can of sweet feed, while calling “Here babe, come on, here babe.” Hey, it works for witch doctors, right?
She looked at me like I was some thick-glasses wearing geek in a hillbilly costume. I kept up the chant. The dancing cow gets closer and I realize that she’s a young heifer, couldn’t see her udder, since she isn’t mature. Curly comes on and gets about four feet from me, the smell of sweet feed drawing her and twenty other cows. I throw some out on the ground and she bows her head to munch it. As soon as I pull the rope out of my pocket she moves off. We proceed to play ‘chase the cow’ for the next half hour.
During this time, we realize that there is a bull in this pasture, actually there‘s two of them. Big Bull’s watching with more than a little interest, kind of like a pimp watching over his ladies. His son, Bull, jr. is prancing around, playing with his mom. Which is hard to imagine, 500 pounds of dancing beef. Big Bull, he’s cool, you would be too, if you weighed in around 1800 pounds. He looks like a four-legged locomotive with a head about two feet wide. All I can think is that I’m glad that he’s not a big one. I had one about 2300 pounds come at me last year when the herd stampeded due to 4th of July fireworks going off. The only thing that kept me from getting run over was the fact that I was next to a forest and got in behind a tree. The herd went through the forest, then they slowed down. They sauntered into the next field like nothing happened. Which made me happy, since that’s where I was trying to herd them to begin with.
We now have Big Bull decide that we’re messing with his heifer. Not only is he standing shoulder to shoulder with Curly, he’s got the rest of the bovine posse lined up with him. I faced some big offensive lines playing high school football. Which wasn’t hard, since I was the one of the smallest, lightest guys on the team and the only one that wore glasses in the whole league, while playing middle linebacker. Some of the guards and centers would laugh, until we made contact. Everything I did was within the rules. The problem is there’s no referees on this field and these animals have their own rules. You might outrun a bull for a hundred yards, if you’re a world-class sprinter. I guarantee that he’ll catch you in the second hundred.
Discretion being the better part of valor, I turned around and walked off, heading for the gate. Carol decided that would be a good idea also. I think she was growing tired of dodging cow pies and pushing horses away from her. They love sweet feed and aren’t shy about it. We had gone about a hundred feet when Carol said, “They’re following us.”
She was about twenty feet off to my left, I pivoted, looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, the bovine posse was duly following us towards the gate. We’re all out for a nice, Sunday afternoon stroll in the fields. As we get near the gate, the owner and his wife pull up. JW and Theresa park in the road and get out to help. JW shunts the horses off into a field next to the one Curly is in and closes the gate on them.
The bovine posse now has us cornered by the gate. 25,000 pounds of beef on the hoof versus three puny humans, who wouldn’t top 400 pounds altogether. The bovine posse craps more than we weigh in a day. We hold them at bay since we have the key ingredient, sweet feed. We rattle the cans, enticing them, warding off the animal spirits. Curly knows it’s ordained and shuffles forward, the rest of the herd holds back. They turn and move away, like they know we can’t be stopped and she’s been chosen to leave with us.
I get around behind her, moving slowly, urging her forward. JW keeps her from going down the right fence line and back out into the field. Carol opened the gate, wide enough to drive a truck through, shaking her can of sweet feed. Curly edges forward, then moves to up the fence line to my left. I dodge left and get her headed back towards the open gate. Curly gets within ten feet of it, then bolts left and turns on the speed like a halfback heading for the goal line. She’s gone, back into the middle of the field, in nothing flat.
A big roan mare decides that she’s seen enough and pushes the gate open, reaches over and rips the lid off of Carol’s coffee can. She wants that sweet feed! Carol bops her on the nose, while JW waves her back behind the gate into the small field.
We humans regroup, deciding that parking the maroon van and the big Chevy diesel dually at the gate might have kept Curly from coming out. The vehicles are moved, while I walk out into the field, trying to catch up with Curly. This is why you need either a good horse or a four-wheeler. A moto-cross bike would work, but I think that after hitting a few cow pies, you might have to be hosed off and fumigated before they let you in the house. Trying to walk/run after cattle will only wear you out.
After about another twenty minutes of chasing Curly, I’ve had it. I’m ready to go back to the shop, where the only cowhide is in gloves or seat covers. The Big Bull has ambled towards the lower pasture. He’s getting bored. Curly comes up along side him, going the other direction and gives him a ‘come-on’ rub with her butt. I’m watching this and decide that I better hang back, in case this is Sunday afternoon bovine lust. He ignores her and keeps heading towards the lower pasture. Miffed, she trots off across the big pasture and I start to follow her. JW yells at me, “Hey, forget it. We’ll get her tomorrow.”
I can only nod agreement and we trudge back across the pasture to the gate. He tells me about how he used to have two bulls, but last year one of them disappeared. He thinks it might have been stolen. I’m surprised. “How the hell could someone steal a bull? We can’t even get a heifer to follow us!”
He explains that they have a gun, shoots a dart with something in it that slows the bull down.
Whoa! I’m thinking, that’s it! Cows on ‘ludes! Where the hell are Quaaludes when you need them! No, wait, that would just make her really horny. That’s enough of a problem.
Wonder how many Valiums it would take?
Maybe we should just take her a bucketful of beer and let the drunk heifer stumble home behind us?
Sounds like an excuse for a kegger to me.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Yippie Ki Yaa
Or however that old cowboy saying goes...Guess I need to ask Bruce Willis, cowboy that he ain't.
No posts for the past few weeks, busy with the new 'herd'.
Let's just keep this brief and say it's been late nights, stuck trucks, tractor maintenance, heifers on the run and mending fences. Be glad that it's me and not you.
More work to be done this week and I need to be out of here. The weather's great and it's too nice to be inside. The internet is a great place to visit but I don't get my work done when I'm surfing it.
Beautiful weather and I need to get to the barn.
If it rains, more later this week.
No posts for the past few weeks, busy with the new 'herd'.
Let's just keep this brief and say it's been late nights, stuck trucks, tractor maintenance, heifers on the run and mending fences. Be glad that it's me and not you.
More work to be done this week and I need to be out of here. The weather's great and it's too nice to be inside. The internet is a great place to visit but I don't get my work done when I'm surfing it.
Beautiful weather and I need to get to the barn.
If it rains, more later this week.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Cows and Bushhogs
You know how you plan your week. Maybe you think about it over the weekend, set goals, promise yourself that you'll have this or that done FOR SURE, come Friday.
Last Monday started off great. Did some work on the new short story series, was closing the file when I heard a truck in the driveway.
My father, 78 years young, was outside, leaning on the horn. He had some plans for getting the main pasture ready for some cows. What cows? The cows he was going to buy that afternoon.
Which meant he wanted to bushhog the pasture. He got his favorite tractor out and I did an oil change and basic maintenance while he went to the livestock auction and bought some cattle.
When he came back he started making the rounds. After I did a few things, I caught up with him to find him driving around the pasture, knocking the overgrown field down, but not cutting anything. He had burnt the clutch out of the bushhog.
About this time, the cattleman showed up and delivered the cows. They disappeared into the field and I went back to the shop.
We put the bushhog in the shop, it turned out that it was in serious shape. My father tends to drive like he's racing at Le Mans, so I was looking at a fried bearing and a nice, deeply blue driveshaft. Overheating them will do that, if they don't seize up and shred something.
The rest of the week was spent chasing parts and cows. I got to work on a couple of my projects, but it meant for some long hours. Maybe I'll get to finish welding up those tool boxes this week.
At this time, we're waiting for bushhog parts and two of the cows are staying with the neighbor's herd. I guess they got lonely and left.
You got to love farm life. It's never what you expect.
Last Monday started off great. Did some work on the new short story series, was closing the file when I heard a truck in the driveway.
My father, 78 years young, was outside, leaning on the horn. He had some plans for getting the main pasture ready for some cows. What cows? The cows he was going to buy that afternoon.
Which meant he wanted to bushhog the pasture. He got his favorite tractor out and I did an oil change and basic maintenance while he went to the livestock auction and bought some cattle.
When he came back he started making the rounds. After I did a few things, I caught up with him to find him driving around the pasture, knocking the overgrown field down, but not cutting anything. He had burnt the clutch out of the bushhog.
About this time, the cattleman showed up and delivered the cows. They disappeared into the field and I went back to the shop.
We put the bushhog in the shop, it turned out that it was in serious shape. My father tends to drive like he's racing at Le Mans, so I was looking at a fried bearing and a nice, deeply blue driveshaft. Overheating them will do that, if they don't seize up and shred something.
The rest of the week was spent chasing parts and cows. I got to work on a couple of my projects, but it meant for some long hours. Maybe I'll get to finish welding up those tool boxes this week.
At this time, we're waiting for bushhog parts and two of the cows are staying with the neighbor's herd. I guess they got lonely and left.
You got to love farm life. It's never what you expect.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
One Bite at a Time
I'm trying to get some projects done before winter. This keeps me from doing as much writing as I would like but I usually get in an hour per day on my stories . The spider bite didn't do too much damage to my leg. It just takes time out of the day to treat it. Healing nicely, thank you.
Took on a project this week that I've been putting off all summer. Promised my neighbor that I'd weld up her 25 year old ATV's gas tank. Rust over the years has ate away at the gas tank.It had some small pinholes, but they can empty a tank overnight and you don't want gasoline all over your garage floor. It's a bit of a health and safety situation.
Oxygen-acetylene welding, for those of you who have never stuck an 1700 degree welding torch into a metal tank previously full of a highly flammable liquid, can be slightly nerve wracking. I took the proper steps, emptied the gas tank, filled it full of water, then went one step further, I put it in a cut-off 55 gallon drum full of water. Figured if it exploded it would contain the shrapnel. Don't want to mess up the shop with shredded Tom parts.
The small pinholes turned out to be major potholes. The more I welded it the worse it got. Now the tank has a huge brazed patch on the side, all in an attempt to control the splitting and cracking of the ATV tank. Old, rusty car parts will do this, gas tanks are the worst. You can get away with some pinholes in a weld on a fender, not on a gas tank.
I'm considering cutting the side out of the tank and making a new piece to repair it. What should have been a two hour job has turned into a nightmare. Which is a real bite out of my work week.
At least it hasn't blown up in my face.
NOTE: THE INFORMATION ABOVE IS NOT TO BE CONSIDERED AS A PROCEDURE, RECOMMENDATION OR INSTRUCTION FOR DOING ANY WELDING OR REPAIR WORK. WELD AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Took on a project this week that I've been putting off all summer. Promised my neighbor that I'd weld up her 25 year old ATV's gas tank. Rust over the years has ate away at the gas tank.It had some small pinholes, but they can empty a tank overnight and you don't want gasoline all over your garage floor. It's a bit of a health and safety situation.
Oxygen-acetylene welding, for those of you who have never stuck an 1700 degree welding torch into a metal tank previously full of a highly flammable liquid, can be slightly nerve wracking. I took the proper steps, emptied the gas tank, filled it full of water, then went one step further, I put it in a cut-off 55 gallon drum full of water. Figured if it exploded it would contain the shrapnel. Don't want to mess up the shop with shredded Tom parts.
The small pinholes turned out to be major potholes. The more I welded it the worse it got. Now the tank has a huge brazed patch on the side, all in an attempt to control the splitting and cracking of the ATV tank. Old, rusty car parts will do this, gas tanks are the worst. You can get away with some pinholes in a weld on a fender, not on a gas tank.
I'm considering cutting the side out of the tank and making a new piece to repair it. What should have been a two hour job has turned into a nightmare. Which is a real bite out of my work week.
At least it hasn't blown up in my face.
NOTE: THE INFORMATION ABOVE IS NOT TO BE CONSIDERED AS A PROCEDURE, RECOMMENDATION OR INSTRUCTION FOR DOING ANY WELDING OR REPAIR WORK. WELD AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Bite
Everyone loves the idea of living in an old farmhouse. OK, maybe not everyone. It's a romantic ideal for some people. All the old wood, high ceilings, beautiful views of fields and forests.
Then there's the reality. I've had wasps in the house, snakes stuck to the wall by the back door (a real eye opener when you reach for the door knob!) and the various creepy crawlies.
This past weekend I was snoozing in the sack when I felt a bite on my leg. Thought it was a mosquito that had somehow found me. Went back to sleep.
When I got up a couple of hours later, it was obvious that I was wrong.
A brown recluse spider bite is something you can't ignore.
I've been treating it now for the past 5 days and it's getting pretty ugly.
My neighbor has been bitten twice by a brown recluse. The first time she spent three days in the hospital and they cut out an infected mass bigger than a golf ball. She got bit again last year, treated it herself and it still took 6 weeks to heal.
She told me what to do and I'm taking care of it.
You got to love living in the country, but sometimes it puts the bite on you!
Then there's the reality. I've had wasps in the house, snakes stuck to the wall by the back door (a real eye opener when you reach for the door knob!) and the various creepy crawlies.
This past weekend I was snoozing in the sack when I felt a bite on my leg. Thought it was a mosquito that had somehow found me. Went back to sleep.
When I got up a couple of hours later, it was obvious that I was wrong.
A brown recluse spider bite is something you can't ignore.
I've been treating it now for the past 5 days and it's getting pretty ugly.
My neighbor has been bitten twice by a brown recluse. The first time she spent three days in the hospital and they cut out an infected mass bigger than a golf ball. She got bit again last year, treated it herself and it still took 6 weeks to heal.
She told me what to do and I'm taking care of it.
You got to love living in the country, but sometimes it puts the bite on you!
Friday, September 24, 2010
New Day, New Blog
I've started another blog. This one will cover, "Glitch", the novel that I've written and am now reworking into a screenplay.
www.2glitch.blogspot.com
Cyberwar is beginning to get coverage in the mainstream media, but most people are either ignoring it or don't seem to care. Yeah, it's tough with all the unemployment, bad economy, etc.
A cyberwar would make our current situation look like a nice place to live.
Consider how your life would change without running water, electricity and transportation. That's just the necessities. Many of you consider the internet, your cellphones and other media-devices to be something you 'couldn't live without'.
Believe me, you can do without them. I have and it hasn't destroyed my life.
In fact, I probably live a less stressful, more enjoyable life than you can imagine.
Enjoy your toys while you can.
Before someone turns out the lights.
www.2glitch.blogspot.com
Cyberwar is beginning to get coverage in the mainstream media, but most people are either ignoring it or don't seem to care. Yeah, it's tough with all the unemployment, bad economy, etc.
A cyberwar would make our current situation look like a nice place to live.
Consider how your life would change without running water, electricity and transportation. That's just the necessities. Many of you consider the internet, your cellphones and other media-devices to be something you 'couldn't live without'.
Believe me, you can do without them. I have and it hasn't destroyed my life.
In fact, I probably live a less stressful, more enjoyable life than you can imagine.
Enjoy your toys while you can.
Before someone turns out the lights.
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