11:00am: I glance out the window to see the door to the hayloft waiving in the wind. The last thing I need is for five hundred fresh bales of hay to get soaked, and rot. I yank on my rain jacket and step out into Earl. I shouldn't have bothered with the jacket. It's just a short dash to the barn, but I'm already soaked from the horizontal rain.
The horses are no longer oblivious to the elements. Rain is pouring in through the cracks in their outside doors, and blowing into their open windows (I don't want to close them because it's very stuffy and humid right now).
I throw down the ladder to the hayloft, run up its steps, and climb across hundreds of bales of sweet-smelling hay to get to the loft door. The door is warped, and so is the metal loop that the sliding bolt is supposed to fit into. I have some strong ropes which I run from the door handle to the beams in the roof. I pull them tight and tie them, but there is still a gap, and the wind's ghost-like fingers won't stop trying to pry it open. I run back across the bales of hay, down the ladder, and into Dave's workshop. I scan the mess and find a set of pliers that I hope to use to fix the bolt.
As I'm about to scramble back up the stairs, I hear a crash, and the horses jump. Maggie's window swings shut and starts slamming against its frame. The wind has managed to rip the latch from the siding on the outside of the barn. I drop the pliers, run outside, and struggle to bolt the window closed.. Eventually, I get it. With rain dripping from my hair and clothes, I head back inside.
The pliers work and I manage to secure the bolt, though the wind still whistles through the small cracks, angry that I've managed to thwart its efforts. I'm just about to make my way down the ladder when everything goes dark, and the radio goes quiet. The power is out. Within 20 seconds or so, it's back on, but it's been flickering on and off ever since.
11:45 I really must have angered the wind, beacuse if I thought it was raging before, I was wrong. It's much worse now. The floor is vibrating and there's a deep, roaring sound each time the wind forces its way between the hurricane shutters and the picture window. I'm afraid that if this continues, the shutter will be ripped from the frame. I'm not sure what will happen then.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Riding Out Earl
6am: I wake up wondering whether the storm has started. The fan in my room has been running all night in an attempt to cool the oven-like temperatures. As a result, I can't hear anything outside. I sit up, wipe the sleep from my eyes, and take a peek out the window. I'm surprised to see the wind already bending the trees, and the rain already dampening the fields.
I lay in bed and doze for another hour or so before forcing my over-tired body out of bed. I haul on my pink rainboots and step outside into what feels like a tropical oasis-- hot and humid. The winds are strong, but nothing we haven't seen before. For the moment, the rain has stopped.
The horses are miffed at having been locked in their stalls all night, after a summer of freedom. But other than that, they seem unperturbed, and unaware that a hurricane named Earl is creeping our way.
Once they're fed, I head to the garden to pluck what bounty I can from the yellowing plants before Earl has his way with them.
I pick several pints of firm, red, cherry tomatoes, also about three-dozen or so almost-ripe larger ones. I'm surprised to see three or four plump pea pods dangling from some tired, twisted stems, so I grab those too. Then there are the thick, green cucumbers. I pick the four largest ones and leave a few more to battle the storm. I also tug a handful of good-sized carrots from the damp earth too just for good measure.
Sadly, my stunted cornstalks have been flattened, as have my not-so-stunted, six-foot tall sunflowers. I grab a knife and cut as many still-pedaled flowers from the broken stalks as I can carry. They'll look nice in a vase. I'm damp from the misty rain, but it's still warm, and the wind is bearable, so I head to our "accidental" squash plant which is growing in the manure pile. I slice through the green stems of six dinner-plate sized squashes and carry them back to the house in the wheelbarrow. I certainly won't starve to death.
9:15 am: The wind is now raging and the rain is pelting the deck as though it were hail. It's time for me to come inside. Unfortunately, I don't have time to grab the apples from the trees in our front yard. The hard, red fruit will have to swing and sway in the wind.
9:45 am: The lights flicker and the hurricane shutters vibrate against the picture window. Rain falls across the fields in horizontal sheets. This is the most wind I've seen since we moved here...and technically, Earl has yet to make landfall.
10:45 am: The winds had eased a bit, but are now roaring away again-- and it's very dark. I'd like to check on the horses, but I worry I might get whipped off my feet on the way to the barn. I'm thankful for the hurricane shutters, but wish they didn't block my view of the storm.
I lay in bed and doze for another hour or so before forcing my over-tired body out of bed. I haul on my pink rainboots and step outside into what feels like a tropical oasis-- hot and humid. The winds are strong, but nothing we haven't seen before. For the moment, the rain has stopped.
The horses are miffed at having been locked in their stalls all night, after a summer of freedom. But other than that, they seem unperturbed, and unaware that a hurricane named Earl is creeping our way.
Once they're fed, I head to the garden to pluck what bounty I can from the yellowing plants before Earl has his way with them.
I pick several pints of firm, red, cherry tomatoes, also about three-dozen or so almost-ripe larger ones. I'm surprised to see three or four plump pea pods dangling from some tired, twisted stems, so I grab those too. Then there are the thick, green cucumbers. I pick the four largest ones and leave a few more to battle the storm. I also tug a handful of good-sized carrots from the damp earth too just for good measure.
Sadly, my stunted cornstalks have been flattened, as have my not-so-stunted, six-foot tall sunflowers. I grab a knife and cut as many still-pedaled flowers from the broken stalks as I can carry. They'll look nice in a vase. I'm damp from the misty rain, but it's still warm, and the wind is bearable, so I head to our "accidental" squash plant which is growing in the manure pile. I slice through the green stems of six dinner-plate sized squashes and carry them back to the house in the wheelbarrow. I certainly won't starve to death.
9:15 am: The wind is now raging and the rain is pelting the deck as though it were hail. It's time for me to come inside. Unfortunately, I don't have time to grab the apples from the trees in our front yard. The hard, red fruit will have to swing and sway in the wind.
9:45 am: The lights flicker and the hurricane shutters vibrate against the picture window. Rain falls across the fields in horizontal sheets. This is the most wind I've seen since we moved here...and technically, Earl has yet to make landfall.
10:45 am: The winds had eased a bit, but are now roaring away again-- and it's very dark. I'd like to check on the horses, but I worry I might get whipped off my feet on the way to the barn. I'm thankful for the hurricane shutters, but wish they didn't block my view of the storm.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Food Fight
Murray eats a lot of grain. Well, I give him a lot of grain, how much he actually eats is debatable. Anyone who's watched him dig-in to his dinner knows that much of feed ends up on the ground. It gets there in one of two ways:
First, Murray is fussy. He gets a variety of grains-- high fat/high fibre pellets to keep his weight up, beet pulp to keep his weight up, sweet feed to make it all more appetizing, plus a vitamin supplement, a hoof supplement, corn oil and a dollop of molasses. Murray likes some aspects of his meal better than others. So, he sifts through his feed and eats his favourite parts first. This process of selection generally entails him tossing half his grain on the ground.
Secondly, Murray's mom must never have told him not to chew with his mouth open. Unlike most horses, when Murray's eating, food is not the only thing on his mind. He tends to want to look out the window, to check on Maggie, to see what we're doing. This means he snatches a few bites of grain, then lifts his head from his tub to look around. Sometimes he'll even walk around his stall with his mouth full. Inevitably, as he chews, much of what's in his mouth falls on the ground and ends up scattered amongst his bedding. And yes, he does have his teeth checked regularly-- there's nothing wrong with them, he's just sloppy.
Sunday July 10th
7pm
Tonight, Dave offers to feed the horses while I muck the stalls. I happen to be in Murray's stall when Dave brings in his prepared buckets of grain. He empties the buckets into the narrow tub in the corner of Murray's stall-- the less-appealing beet pulp first, then grain on top.
As I empty a pitchfork full of manure into the wheelbarrow, I hear Dave exclaim: "Wow, that's a huge mouthful of grain". I turn to see what he's talking about. I miss Murray's "big bite", but what I see next makes me double over with laughter.
Dave is standing to the left of Murray, about a foot from his neck. He's still holding the empty buckets out in front of him. He leans forward and peers into Murray's feed tub. Murray, clearly unhappy with what's at the top of his pile of grain, shoves his head in his bucket up to his eyeballs. He tilts his nose to the right, then violently shoves it back to the left. Grain, and wet beet pulp, fly through the air. Some of it lands directly on Dave, but most miraculously manages to fall into the buckets in his outstretched arms.
Two stalls over, Maggie is startled by my screech of laughter. She lets out a high-pitched shriek of her own. That, in turn, distracts Murray and his head, complete with a mouth stuffed with grain, shoots up out of his tub. He turns to the left to see what's happening. Forgetting his food, his jaws go slack, and without missing a beat, Dave reaches out with his bucket to catch the grain falling from Murray's overflowing muzzle. I am now laughing so hard that I have to lean on my pitchfork for support.
During the rest of Murray's meal, Dave stands in his stall. Every time Murray lifts his head, Dave follows his movement with his bucket, and manages to catch most of the falling feed. When Murray's just about finished, Dave empties his buckets back into his feed tub. It's probably the closest Murray has ever come to actually eating an entire meal.
First, Murray is fussy. He gets a variety of grains-- high fat/high fibre pellets to keep his weight up, beet pulp to keep his weight up, sweet feed to make it all more appetizing, plus a vitamin supplement, a hoof supplement, corn oil and a dollop of molasses. Murray likes some aspects of his meal better than others. So, he sifts through his feed and eats his favourite parts first. This process of selection generally entails him tossing half his grain on the ground.
Secondly, Murray's mom must never have told him not to chew with his mouth open. Unlike most horses, when Murray's eating, food is not the only thing on his mind. He tends to want to look out the window, to check on Maggie, to see what we're doing. This means he snatches a few bites of grain, then lifts his head from his tub to look around. Sometimes he'll even walk around his stall with his mouth full. Inevitably, as he chews, much of what's in his mouth falls on the ground and ends up scattered amongst his bedding. And yes, he does have his teeth checked regularly-- there's nothing wrong with them, he's just sloppy.
Sunday July 10th
7pm
Tonight, Dave offers to feed the horses while I muck the stalls. I happen to be in Murray's stall when Dave brings in his prepared buckets of grain. He empties the buckets into the narrow tub in the corner of Murray's stall-- the less-appealing beet pulp first, then grain on top.
As I empty a pitchfork full of manure into the wheelbarrow, I hear Dave exclaim: "Wow, that's a huge mouthful of grain". I turn to see what he's talking about. I miss Murray's "big bite", but what I see next makes me double over with laughter.
Dave is standing to the left of Murray, about a foot from his neck. He's still holding the empty buckets out in front of him. He leans forward and peers into Murray's feed tub. Murray, clearly unhappy with what's at the top of his pile of grain, shoves his head in his bucket up to his eyeballs. He tilts his nose to the right, then violently shoves it back to the left. Grain, and wet beet pulp, fly through the air. Some of it lands directly on Dave, but most miraculously manages to fall into the buckets in his outstretched arms.
Two stalls over, Maggie is startled by my screech of laughter. She lets out a high-pitched shriek of her own. That, in turn, distracts Murray and his head, complete with a mouth stuffed with grain, shoots up out of his tub. He turns to the left to see what's happening. Forgetting his food, his jaws go slack, and without missing a beat, Dave reaches out with his bucket to catch the grain falling from Murray's overflowing muzzle. I am now laughing so hard that I have to lean on my pitchfork for support.
During the rest of Murray's meal, Dave stands in his stall. Every time Murray lifts his head, Dave follows his movement with his bucket, and manages to catch most of the falling feed. When Murray's just about finished, Dave empties his buckets back into his feed tub. It's probably the closest Murray has ever come to actually eating an entire meal.
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