HOT, HOT, HOT !

(1)

JUST SINGIN IN THE FIRE

I noticed smoke above the line of pine trees from a mile away. It seemed to be coming from our farm. I hoped not, though. Life could be rough and/or smooth in texture from day to day on the dairy: If all the cows came in and found their spots in the old stanchion barn, that would be a silken day, a cushion of sanity to balance out the other days.

If the wind turned in the other direction, with even one cow showing up with a minor case of mastitis, that could send the rest of the day toward the drain. It would mean trying home remedies as first-line treatments; and if they did not work, then the big guns: antibiotics, which we were averse to using. But sometimes we had to in order to bring comfort to the dairy cow in question. The smoke looked like the descriptions of the pillar of cloud that Moses followed to escape the Pharaoh of Egypt. It spoke to me with urgency while I drove home from school. Could it be the stanchion barn? The calf shed? Our house? These hasty, unfounded thoughts weighed heavily upon me since we owed the government big time in order to buy this dairy farm with barn, outbuildings, and house. Fire for anyone meant tragedy. Turning the car into our lane, I could see the fire. Our back yard and side yard were on fire! I could hear singing! Singing?? And the singing was joyful! Not at all what I would expect at a yard fire with a house in close proximity. My husband appeared from behind the house with large, gray pieces of what appeared to be newspaper in his hands. He was feeding the fire with these newspaper pages, laying them down in front of the line of fire and encouraging its course around the yard! And singing it to its flaming measure! What suspension of reality would I hear when I confronted him with the obvious?

I charged from my car to the fire in the side yard. My husband seemed oblivious to my approach as he was partially obliterated and insulated by smoke and the volume of his own singing, which just happened to be a well-known, favorite hymn: O for that flame of living fire, Which shone so bright in saints of old! Which bade their souls to Heavn aspire, Calm in distress, in danger bold. The higher the flames licked the atmosphere, the louder my husbands singing. What manner of mental illness was this? I called out loudly to try to break this apparent fugue state, Hey, HEY..HEY! My husband wheeled around with a start, almost stepping into the flames at the sound of my voice over his fervent singing. And how was your heaven-inspired day? He sang to me. Of course, I uttered words of incredulity about his apparently crazy behavior. His explanation: This is how the Native Americans cleared land and sweetened the soil with ashes. I have everything under control with the water hose hooked up to the well house; and rest assured, the water IS running. Just think, our yard will have fewer weeds and greener grass in the future! And he continued to sing while the yard burned, inspiring thoughts of that flame of living fire enveloping our government owned house!

(2)

FIRE UP THE FARMER

Sometimes tractors break down. Thats a given when one farms. Tractors normally hold up under great duress for years before gagging and taking their last breath; then requiring a diesel doctor or needing treatment at the local in-patient diesel hospital. Our tractor needed serious treatment and would be away at rehab for several weeks. We could not do without a tractor so we took a loaner from the local diesel shop. We hauled this yellow monstrosity back to our farm and treated it as a guest, parking it in the best spot near the barn to avoid the winter wind. We thought the big yellow lummox appreciated the hard work and tender care bestowed upon it. One day the yellow behemoth decided not to start. It coughed and fumed, flooded and stalled. Finally it started and performed the daily work. The next several days were the same. Then Old Yellow began to stall in the middle of jobs causing many an unkind word from my husband. He even kicked the tires and banged on the engine cover after trying to target the problem. Climbing back on the tractor, my husband also adjusted the connections on the battery which was housed directly behind the seat. He carefully cleaned the few lumps of corrosion on the rods hoping that, perhaps, that might satisfy His Yellowness.

My husband moved hay bales every day from the field storage area to the feed bunkers for the dairy cows. As he maneuvered Big Yellow

toward the bunkers, the tractor sputtered, and my husband yelled and kicked the inside of the cab. A flame shot up behind his back and I could see that his coveralls had ignited. Not wasting any time, my husband jumped off the tractor, looking like a flaming superhero and rolled on the ground. The tractor continued to burn as my husband gesticulated at it and cast loud epithets toward any part of it that appeared to be sentient. It coughed one more time, started up on its own and ran its yellow inferno into the pond.

(3)

BURNING BUSH

Canadian Thistles and burdock like our land. They are transplants to the area as are so many human inhabitants in our area. These plants travel in to new areas of the country inside hay bales purchased from off the farm. We use a few methods to cut back on the number of these plants before they go to seed. But we cannot always keep up with eradication in a timely fashion before the plants blossom. Sure, they provide shelter and food for a number of fauna such as butterflies and yellow finches,

but they take over the fields shading out the pasture plants. Eradication by brush mowing is our preferred method of handling this immigrant vegetation. But there is always a fringe of the scourge next to and in the fence rows. That is the reason my husband brought out the torch gun. The torch is attached to a canister of gas and has the

ability to provide the user with a surgical strike on either side of the fences and around the fence posts. My husband, armed with his torch gun, began an assault on thistles which were encroaching on our yard at the fence. First one plant went up in flame, then another. My husband talked to these flaming thistles as if they were dangerous enemies, growling and yelling at them to burn and fall before him in his path down the row. Then there was the burdock that refused to topple. It burned as if it had unending fuel within its limbs. It lit up the surrounding yard in the late afternoon light, threatening to set the fence posts afire one by one. This burdock had set pods already, and as its pods burned, they began to explode sending a rain of black seeds over the fence and also into our yard. The tiny projectiles hit my husband reminding him that he did not have a water hose ready to handle a takeover such as this. The burdocks flames licked the surrounding Canadian Thistles until we did have an out-of-control fence row fire.

My husband ran for the hose as I turned on the water at the well house. He aimed the spray at the burning burdock which was still spewing its seeds: A last attempt to send a message to us that its progeny would be here to live among us for a long time!