Country Living

Feb
4

I have a little problem.

Let’s take a closer look.

It’s my culvert.

Just barely, you can see the cement that braces the culvert on this side. Way under water.

The culvert isn’t draining properly, and why is a mystery hidden under 100 feet of pipe.

That’s right, 100 feet of pipe. It might make sense to, you know, EVERYONE, to simply run the pipe under the drive to the barn here–and here only–

–and then release the water into the, you know, NATURAL CREEK. After all, what does the pipe need to do but let you drive freely to the barn? But no! That is not what has been done. The pipe runs way, way on across the rear barn yard, bypassing the natural creek and setting up 100 feet of pipe waiting to clog or collapse.

The bypassed natural creek bed:

The creek has been bypassed for 100 feet to let out way over here on the other side of the rear barn yard.

From there, it runs down a ditch to rejoin the creek where another (short and therefore properly working culvert) runs beneath the right-of-ways on my farm and then releases on out into the continuing natural creek bed.

Why such a lengthy pipe run was laid is a deep and mysterious question. For one thing, it sets up a situation in which you have a serious amount of pipe underground, and trouble awaits. Second, bypassing the creek means there is no naturally flowing water in the rear barn yard. The natural creek bed only has water in it after a rain–and that water comes from the overflow due to the blocked culvert.

I’ve tried all kinds of self-help and minor assisted-help. My cousin helped me dig out the release ditch in hopes that would improve water flow. When I had the septic issues in December and they brought a backhoe, I had them clean out the culvert, hoping for improved water flow. I had Sean and Sean (the superboys) get shovels one day and dig into the pipes (yes, there are two pipes at the start, then only one pipe coming out at the release point–why???) to try to improve water flow.

Nothing is working.

I believe the best solution is to dig up the pipe where it crosses the drive to the front barn yard, find out if anything is wrong in that section, then cut it off. Bypass the 100 feet of nonsensical pipe and release the water right past the fence INTO THE NATURAL CREEK BED.

Because I just can’t take this anymore. I can’t drive to the barn because it’s always wet. I need to drive to the barn to offload feed, materials, and sometimes hay. Some days, I can barely walk to the barn for walking through a pond.

I explained my plan to Dave and Matt.

They said, “Whatever you want us to do, we’ll do it.”

And, by the way, that right there is why you need a Dave and Matt. Or sometimes you might just need a Sean and Sean. Often times, you might need a cousin Mark. Or even a neighbor Jim or a neighbor Andy. Or even an old neighbor Skip. Or an old farmer Lonnie. But, ladies, what you don’t need is a man.

I’ve resolved to be a non-practicing lesbian. Let me explain. I coined this term some time back. In fact, I used it in one of my romance novels, though I can’t remember which one now because I can’t remember most of them. I had first decided to be a non-practicing lesbian back in my old farmhouse days. Back then, I tried to talk Georgia into being a non-practicing lesbian, too. We’d have a non-practicing lesbian compound! Georgia always found me amusing in a sort of baffling way.

Non-practicing lesbian means you aren’t actually a lesbian (that’s the non-practicing part), but you don’t want to be with a man (that’s the lesbian part).

This is especially handy if a man tries to hit on you. You just explain, “I’m sorry. I’m a non-practicing lesbian.” That really ends the conversation, ladies, because they are so confused. So write that one down.

You’re welcome.

I was talked out of my non-practicing lesbianism at one point, and I lived to regret it, so learn from me.

Now back to telling men what to do and THEY DO IT.

Dave and Matt will be here on Monday, and as God is my witness, I will never walk to the barn through a pond again. And when they’re done, they’ll leave. (This is a key component in non-practicing lesbianism. The men do what you tell them to do, then they leave. It’s totally empowering.)

P.S. I apologize to all of you who are happily married or etc. Carry on. Consider naught of my silly dribble.

The rest of you, take heed!

See me on Kickstarter! Please spread the word!

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Posted by Suzanne McMinn | Permalink

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Feb
1

At least somebody is driving the tractor.

I was hoping to post about something exciting today, but I’m temporarily held up on a teeny tiny technicality, so I’ll post as soon as I can. (I’m NOT moving. I feel like I need to say that all the time now, sorry.)

Meanwhile, back at the studio project, Dave and Matt are working away.

“Hi, I’m Dave. (And I’m Matt!) We want to keep working on the studio!”

They got the water line trench dug and were ready to push the dirt back in. Dave said, “I see you have a tractor over there.” He wanted to know if he could use it. I said, sure, someone might as well use it.

He said, “You don’t use it?”

I told him I didn’t know how to drive it. He asked me if it came with the farm. I said, “No, it’s mine. I make monthly payments for it and everything. It’s not even paid for.”

Dave’s face took a quizzical turn. “You’re paying for a tractor and you don’t know how to drive it?”

I mentally browsed all my excuses and went for the meat. “My brother died on a tractor.”

We don’t need to go into the fact that my brother was 16 years older than me and died three years before I was born, which might somehow blow up my unreasonable fear of tractors due to unborn status in relation to the actual traumatic event. When you have an unreasonable fear of tractors, there’s not actually a good excuse. I could explain the whole thing about the creepy life-sized painting of my brother hanging in our house during my childhood painted from a photograph taken near the time he died, but that would just make me sound more wacko.

Meanwhile, I accompanied Dave to the tractor, told him to put the doohickey in there and then start it and handed him said doohickey to show him the special trick start.

Dave: “You mean a screwdriver?”

Me: “If that’s what you want to call it.”

For some reason, you have to stick the doohickey, or screwdriver, in there, wherever, then you start it. I’m not sure how this works and didn’t do a very good job of explaining, but after I pointed wildly and vaguely repeatedly, Dave figured it out.

And I watched him toodle on over around the side of the house thinking, I have no idea how much fuel is in there and I hope he doesn’t run out and have to leave it sitting in the front yard.

Some days I feel like less of a farmer than other days.

However, I did twist my cousin’s arm and wrangle him into the store this week and get him to help me pick out a drill. A drill of my own! My first tool!

I’m gonna take it out of the box any day now.

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Posted by Suzanne McMinn | Permalink