There are many opinions on how to build a flagstone patio, but mostly "they" say to make sure you have a solid, level base. We want to raise the back of the house up about a foot and a half, so a thick base of stone won't be a problem.
We start to clear the area and it's fairly dry when we start using the backhoe, so there is only some flattened grass and no ruts. We bring the gran A gravel around from the driveway to the site in the bucket of the backhoe and dump it into the patio area and spread it by hand. We fill up the area slowly and watch the level rise. The first tiere is approximately thirty by twenty feet, about six hundred square feet.
We drop in tons and tons of rock. Literally. Brent is making the trips back and forth from the quarry to the farm while Dad and I move the rock. Dad operates the backhoe and I work the rake. You should see the gun show I'll have this the summer! Funny how lifing stupid heavy rock and raking stone makes you hurt, but grow muscle.
Once we get the initial level of stone up to where we want it Dad and I run into town to rent a plate tamper. I clearly remember sitting in the passanger seat with my window down, enjoying the breeze on my face and the moment to sit. My clothes are filthy and full of stone dust. There's dried blood on my hands and I think the tops of my ears are sunburned, but I feel so relaxed and alive. Muscles aching, hands raw and a silly smile on my face as we drove down Bowen road in my Dad's pick up truck could not have created a more perfect moment.
A plate tamper is the absolute way to go for making the base solid. It's about five o'clock when we get back with the tamper and Dad starts to tamp. It only takes fifteen minutes to tamp the area and we're ready to lay down our two inches of screenings.
We use three pieces of conduit and fill the area and roll the condiut out and fill in the spaces. We use a long two by six and slide it along the pipe to level. We tamp, re-evaluate, add more screenings and then tamp again. We're nearly ready to actually lay the flagstone.
We'd like to edge the patio with blast rock, but it's eight o'clock as we sit down, exhausted to a hot meal. Poor Dad looks exhausted. We are all liberally covered in stone dust, dirt and dried blood. It seems we can't do anything without bleeding just a little bit. After dinner Dad gets up and limps to the door bidding us good night and he'll be back in the morning.
Brent and I look at each other and without saying a word we put our work boots back on and set up some lights. We're going to move that blast rock into place.
The rock is still loaded in the dump trailer, but it's easier to hand bomb it into the front end loader and bring it over to the patio. Brent and I chat quietly as we shift huge pieces of rock and try not to get crushed or cut. It does happen and the quite oaths do not go unnoticed.
At eleven fifteen we collapse into a pair of lawn chairs sitting in the grass facing the new patio. The flagstone sits in two giant crates like stoic rock monsters just waiting for their opportunity to bite. The bright light bounces of the grey of rock and stone giving the patio the illusion of grandness.
Brent and I hold bleeding hands as we share a bottle of wine. I'm not sure we can actually get up to go to bed just yet, but we'll manage.
"Wouldn't a hot tub be good right now?" Brent says.
"Yeah." I part moan in pain.
"Maybe we should expand the patio?" he offers.
I think I want to kill him.
Tomorrow: We lay the flagstone.
We decide not to start until ten o'clock. We're tired and sore, but there's no way to get past it other than to get moving. A few hundred milligram of advil and we can actually get down on our knees.
It rained a little over night and has made the pad like cement. We're delighted. We actually use a laser level to check the grade and everyone deems it perfect. A slight slope away from the house and right at the perfect height. What could possibly go wrong?
At two minutes after ten my dad rolls up and limps out of the car. He looks tired, but determined and we get started - at least we get started talking. At five minutes after ten I'm surprised to see Brent's parents rolling into the farm driveway.
I'm thinking they're on the way to the store, but they announce that they've come to help. Woohoo! Help!!!
After a bracing second cup of coffee we get to work laying out the flagstone. It's like a giant puzzle and after a few minutes we realize is is harder than we thought. The rocks want to be in certain places and we learn not to make a round rock fit into a square opening.
The pieces we've bought are the extra large sizes. Some of the pieces are so large they need three people to carry them into place. With careful steps and fears of crushing fingers each stone is placed lovingly into it's new home. As the patio comes together it already looks wonderfully old and weathered. Raw stone has that look.
We've been discussing different ways to grout the cracks and we eventually decide on screenings. Most websites recommend cement, but not if you live in a cold climate. If you use cement as grout it will crack after the first winter. Another page suggests gator sand, an expensive sand that you sweep into the cracks and when it gets wet is sets like concret, but you can't seal the sand.
We sweep the screenings in place and then gently tamp the patio. We have several stones that crack and we realize too late that over tamping is causing the patio to come apart. The stones are set and solid in the heavy layer of stone. It looks amazing. We use water to get the screenings under the stones, so the flagstone doens't move around.
It's only one o'clock and we break for a tasty lunch of sausage pasta and salad. We discuss different ways to build the lower level and eventually decide to drop the gran A on the dirty and tamp the snot out of it. More work with the backhoe and more runs to the quarry. We're getting to be professional.
While waiting for the second load of screenings dad accidently gets the back hoe stuck in the mud up to the axels. With a little manuvering and huge ruts he gets free, but we've lost our way into the patio with the backhoe. How will we get the stone into the patio area?
I try not to think of the two foot ruts in the backyard or how I'll go about fixing them as we worry about building the second patio.
There is some friendly bantering when comparing my little Case diesel tractor with front end loader and dad's big backhoe. The biggest check in the win column for my little Case is that she starts everytime. It was March 2010 and Brent was talking about how little my tractor was and that is wasn't a great unit. I retaliated with "At least my tractor starts." Brent's Belarus tractor is notably old and difficult to start - he uses a wrench to jump it.
Brent laughs as my tractor has been sitting all winter and as he stands on the ground he reaches over to the key on my tractor and gives it a turn. I hold my breath as the engine turns over once and catches on the second spin. I do a small celebratory dance and we go back to work.
My father's backhoe is in dire need of batteries, so it needs to be jumped or hooked up to the battery charger nearly all the time.
We decide to use my little case to bring the stone around from the east side because it's lighter. You wouldn't think it was that much lighter, but I can drive it in places the bigger machines won't fit. I love my little Case. I spent slightly more money on my Case than I did on my car and I think that really makes me a farmer.
It takes a little longer to bring the stone around, but we manage. We go through the tamping process and then laying the screenings and tamping again. We begin laying out the flagstone again.
Each stone seems to want to sit in a certain way and eventually we are so tired that we just let the rocks lay themselves and it becomes easy. It's eight o'clock when we finally finish laying the screenings and tamping the final lower level.
Everyone is exhausted, dirty, sore, bruised and a little bloody. We sit outside for a few minutes enjoying our work before going inside to eat. We are famished.
The food is gone and everyone is falling asleep at the table. The parents limp out and leave us to our advil and hot showers. "Hot Tub sure would be nice," Brent chimes up.
Yep. I think I could kill him, but instead I laugh and agree that a long soak in the hot tub would be perfect right about now. With a congratulatory hug we fall into bed.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Riding the Motorcycle
When I was sixteen my mom decided that the price of car insurance was too high and it would be cheaper to get me a very low power motorcycle. Yes. She did. My mom was so cool.
We found a bike for four hundred dollars in the paper and went to go look at it in greater Port Colborne area. The bike was a very late model Honda 125CB... I think it was a 1978. This was back in the late eighties when girls could get dirt cheap bike insurance. It cost less than two hundred dollars for six months and provided me with freedom.
We had moved to the farm a few years ago and as a sixteen year old girl I was pining for a little transportation to get me around town and since mom was resigning as my official chauffeur this seemed like an affordable option. Mom made this decision fully aware of the dangers of motorcycles as she was an experienced trauma nurse from the emergency room when Columbus Hospital in Buffalo was a trauma hub. I don't know if it was trust, money, love or need; but she helped me buy that little Honda.
I rode regardless of weather and learned that at eighty km/hr rain feels like stinging needles on exposed skin. Even if they had all safety gear for bikes that exists today I couldn't afford it. I always wore jeans, boots and a leather or jean jacket. I was so cool.
My helmet was blue and came from the barn. I found it hiding in the hay loft and cleaned it up. It was a helmet without a faceshield, but it did cover my ears.
I rode that bike to work, school and to all my social events. I accepted that bad helmet hair was a fact of life. I knew my bike wasn't cool, but I felt like a rock star buzzing down Bowen Rd at a top speed of eight-five kms/hr with the wind in my face and bugs in my teeth.
The insurance ran out in October and I couldn't wait until May the following year to ride my bike. I managed to save my pennies and with a little help bought my mom's old car and put my motorcycle in the garage. I pulled it out now and then, but it was never the same glory ride as that first year.
Today, I still have a bike. I've been riding it back and forth to work this week and I look forward to feeling the temperature changes and hearing the hum of the engine. Today my bike is a 2004 BMW F650CS with less than 10,000 kms and we have a strong love affair. Today my bike makes me cool.
This may be the only bike I'll ever own, that's how much I love it. I bought it four years ago on a crazy whim and will never regret this purchase. Every time I wheel it out of the garage I get a warm feeling in my chest (often associated with impending doom) and a tingling in my throttle hand.
I'm more careful than when I was sixteen and now I wear all the safety gear: Full face shield, kevlar chaps, padded leather gloves and a padded joe rocket jacket. I'm not as invincible as I used to be...
On my ride to work this morning it was chilly, but I was dressed and ready. The breeze was light and the sun was coming up over the falls as I was rounding the hill on Portage road. This thought struck me: Wow! I work and live in a vacation spot, Niagara Falls: this is amazing. I drive past it and it still fills me with awe and wonder with it's raw power.
The combination of Niagara Falls and the bike never fails to have me arriving at work with a little grin on my face, a tingle in my belly and a spring in my step.
I'm very careful when I ride my bike. I'm a paramedic and have seen many bike accidents - most fatal. I know the dangers and life is worth a little risk now and then. I remember a man who was wearing only a skull cap lay his bike down and ride his face down a quarter mile of pavement. He had no nose by the end of the skid. I am fully aware, but want to enjoy this pleasure.
We found a bike for four hundred dollars in the paper and went to go look at it in greater Port Colborne area. The bike was a very late model Honda 125CB... I think it was a 1978. This was back in the late eighties when girls could get dirt cheap bike insurance. It cost less than two hundred dollars for six months and provided me with freedom.
We had moved to the farm a few years ago and as a sixteen year old girl I was pining for a little transportation to get me around town and since mom was resigning as my official chauffeur this seemed like an affordable option. Mom made this decision fully aware of the dangers of motorcycles as she was an experienced trauma nurse from the emergency room when Columbus Hospital in Buffalo was a trauma hub. I don't know if it was trust, money, love or need; but she helped me buy that little Honda.
I rode regardless of weather and learned that at eighty km/hr rain feels like stinging needles on exposed skin. Even if they had all safety gear for bikes that exists today I couldn't afford it. I always wore jeans, boots and a leather or jean jacket. I was so cool.
My helmet was blue and came from the barn. I found it hiding in the hay loft and cleaned it up. It was a helmet without a faceshield, but it did cover my ears.
I rode that bike to work, school and to all my social events. I accepted that bad helmet hair was a fact of life. I knew my bike wasn't cool, but I felt like a rock star buzzing down Bowen Rd at a top speed of eight-five kms/hr with the wind in my face and bugs in my teeth.
The insurance ran out in October and I couldn't wait until May the following year to ride my bike. I managed to save my pennies and with a little help bought my mom's old car and put my motorcycle in the garage. I pulled it out now and then, but it was never the same glory ride as that first year.
Today, I still have a bike. I've been riding it back and forth to work this week and I look forward to feeling the temperature changes and hearing the hum of the engine. Today my bike is a 2004 BMW F650CS with less than 10,000 kms and we have a strong love affair. Today my bike makes me cool.
This may be the only bike I'll ever own, that's how much I love it. I bought it four years ago on a crazy whim and will never regret this purchase. Every time I wheel it out of the garage I get a warm feeling in my chest (often associated with impending doom) and a tingling in my throttle hand.
I'm more careful than when I was sixteen and now I wear all the safety gear: Full face shield, kevlar chaps, padded leather gloves and a padded joe rocket jacket. I'm not as invincible as I used to be...
On my ride to work this morning it was chilly, but I was dressed and ready. The breeze was light and the sun was coming up over the falls as I was rounding the hill on Portage road. This thought struck me: Wow! I work and live in a vacation spot, Niagara Falls: this is amazing. I drive past it and it still fills me with awe and wonder with it's raw power.
The combination of Niagara Falls and the bike never fails to have me arriving at work with a little grin on my face, a tingle in my belly and a spring in my step.
I'm very careful when I ride my bike. I'm a paramedic and have seen many bike accidents - most fatal. I know the dangers and life is worth a little risk now and then. I remember a man who was wearing only a skull cap lay his bike down and ride his face down a quarter mile of pavement. He had no nose by the end of the skid. I am fully aware, but want to enjoy this pleasure.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Things to do After Work
I work twelve hour shifts, so that doesn't leave much time after work to do anything but wait for bedtime. I'm working my four day shifts from six in the morning until six at night and I'm tired. I've just gotten home from work and fed the puppies when Brent rolls in fresh from working at the beach.
Pouring a glass of wine we walk out and sit on the new flagstone patio. The chair cushions are soft and I pop my feet up on the glass table and listen to the bullfrogs croak. The noise reminds me of a sound machine of the forest I used to have as a kid: birds singing, frogs croaking and a gentle breeze rustling the newly opened leaves on the trees.
We sip our wine and talk about our day and what we'd like to do next. We discuss decorating the barn with an old sign and old dangerous farming tools that have been kicking around the farm for a hundred years. Literally, the house was originally built in 1880. There's more blast rock that needs to moved into place, tables to be painted and lots and lots of clean up.
We continue sipping our wine and warming our feet on the sun baked flagstone while playing a continous game of fetch with Poco. Gizmo wanders over and lays like a starfish on the patio, panting. Life feels pretty good.
Staring at our empty wine glasses we realize it's time, either we go to bed at seven or we get a few hours of work in while the sun is still shining. Typically we don't go inside in the summer until dark-time and it feels wrong to go inside with this beautiful day drawing to a close. We cling, often with desperation, to the sunshine.
We decide to do a bit of clean up and start throwing broken cement into the ruts that were made by the backhoe in the backyard durning the creation of the patio. There's two piles of wood and burnables that must be moved as well, so we start up the backhoe.
Just doing a little after work work.
One load of burnables heads to the burn pile and I spy a sappling I've been meaning to cut down so I can properly lay the last patio stone around the bunny pen that keeps the dogs out and bunnies inside. Both dogs and bunnies will dig if given the chance. They will dig towards each other thinking the grass is greener and the bunnies are tastier on the other side.
I head to the barn and grab the reciprocating saw and plug it into a nearby extention cord. No power. I need to replace a fuse before I have power to the back garage. I run into the house and grab the old fashioned fuses and run out the garage to install it into the panel. By the time I run back and plug in the saw with power Brent is back with the backhoe looking for more work.
He asks if I want to pull the tree out with the backhoe, but I've already invested too much time into getting the saw to work to let that be the easy way out. Disappointed he climbs into the backhoe and starts leveling out the ruts as I cut the tree down.
Once down and pulled away I can properly place the patio stone, but I notice the stone beside it is a little wobbley. That isn't right, so I pull out the entire side of patio stones, remove a six foot piece of wood that is making the patio stones unstable and then start to back fill with dirt.
Brent wanders over after leveling ruts and starts bringing over shovels of dirt. We alternate laying stone and leveling until we notice it's getting dark.
How exactly did it get to be nine o'clock? I declare that I'm done and we head back to the patio and the half finished bottle of wine.
Sitting on the patio we chat about the things we meant to do rather than the clean up we ended up doing. At least it's getting done. When will we have time to build twenty picnic tables?
As we wander into the house for dinner I wonder what we'll manage to squeeze in tomorrow night after work, then I remember it's baseball night tomorrow.
As I lay in bed exhausted listening to the bull frogs and petting a sleeping Super Taz I plan tomorrow morning: up, shower, coffee, feed pups, feed farm animals, feed bunnies, pack lunch and get my motorcycle gear together because I'm riding my bike in the morning to work. Simple pleasures.
Pouring a glass of wine we walk out and sit on the new flagstone patio. The chair cushions are soft and I pop my feet up on the glass table and listen to the bullfrogs croak. The noise reminds me of a sound machine of the forest I used to have as a kid: birds singing, frogs croaking and a gentle breeze rustling the newly opened leaves on the trees.
We sip our wine and talk about our day and what we'd like to do next. We discuss decorating the barn with an old sign and old dangerous farming tools that have been kicking around the farm for a hundred years. Literally, the house was originally built in 1880. There's more blast rock that needs to moved into place, tables to be painted and lots and lots of clean up.
We continue sipping our wine and warming our feet on the sun baked flagstone while playing a continous game of fetch with Poco. Gizmo wanders over and lays like a starfish on the patio, panting. Life feels pretty good.
Staring at our empty wine glasses we realize it's time, either we go to bed at seven or we get a few hours of work in while the sun is still shining. Typically we don't go inside in the summer until dark-time and it feels wrong to go inside with this beautiful day drawing to a close. We cling, often with desperation, to the sunshine.
We decide to do a bit of clean up and start throwing broken cement into the ruts that were made by the backhoe in the backyard durning the creation of the patio. There's two piles of wood and burnables that must be moved as well, so we start up the backhoe.
Just doing a little after work work.
One load of burnables heads to the burn pile and I spy a sappling I've been meaning to cut down so I can properly lay the last patio stone around the bunny pen that keeps the dogs out and bunnies inside. Both dogs and bunnies will dig if given the chance. They will dig towards each other thinking the grass is greener and the bunnies are tastier on the other side.
I head to the barn and grab the reciprocating saw and plug it into a nearby extention cord. No power. I need to replace a fuse before I have power to the back garage. I run into the house and grab the old fashioned fuses and run out the garage to install it into the panel. By the time I run back and plug in the saw with power Brent is back with the backhoe looking for more work.
He asks if I want to pull the tree out with the backhoe, but I've already invested too much time into getting the saw to work to let that be the easy way out. Disappointed he climbs into the backhoe and starts leveling out the ruts as I cut the tree down.
Once down and pulled away I can properly place the patio stone, but I notice the stone beside it is a little wobbley. That isn't right, so I pull out the entire side of patio stones, remove a six foot piece of wood that is making the patio stones unstable and then start to back fill with dirt.
Brent wanders over after leveling ruts and starts bringing over shovels of dirt. We alternate laying stone and leveling until we notice it's getting dark.
How exactly did it get to be nine o'clock? I declare that I'm done and we head back to the patio and the half finished bottle of wine.
Sitting on the patio we chat about the things we meant to do rather than the clean up we ended up doing. At least it's getting done. When will we have time to build twenty picnic tables?
As we wander into the house for dinner I wonder what we'll manage to squeeze in tomorrow night after work, then I remember it's baseball night tomorrow.
As I lay in bed exhausted listening to the bull frogs and petting a sleeping Super Taz I plan tomorrow morning: up, shower, coffee, feed pups, feed farm animals, feed bunnies, pack lunch and get my motorcycle gear together because I'm riding my bike in the morning to work. Simple pleasures.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Seven? Seven? Baby Bunnies
It was an accident, I swear. We thought Peter was a boy, we thought they were all boys... were we wrong!
We found the litter under the rabbit hutch inside barn. We thought it was just one baby bunny, but when we moved the cage and started to round them up we found two and then two more and then two more. Seven. What kind of a rabbit has seven babies???
The babies are all different shades of brown with one brindle and one black. They are little and delightful and how will we keep them alive? There are so many predators in the barn and bringing them in the house with the dogs is not an option.
For two weeks we lock them in the hutch, but it's too small for so many bunnies and on May 19th we move them to live with their uncle Softy in the doll house. I fear that Softy may hurt the babies, because that's what adult males tend to do, but Softy's previous injuries make him more docile and he tolerates, even seeming to enjoy the babies. Phew...
I shore up all the cracks and holes and try to make sure the bunnies are safe. Should I lock them in the doll house over night when predators are hunting? Should I let them hide under the doll house? Should I let them decide? Having to work nights makes the decision easier.
I can't wait to go home and see how they bunnies are doing??
The bunnies found their own safe haven living under the doll house. They dart all over the small pen clearly delighted with the new outdoor smells and the freedom to run and jump and play. Softy has become a jungle gym of sorts, but they move so fast I'm not sure he knows how many there are in total.
I tried to loan the babies out to the local grade schools, but they no longer allow small animals in the class due to allergies. I remember growing up with tons of class pets. Guinea pigs, rabbits, snakes, gerbels etc... I can't image a classroom so sterile they won't allow the class pet or a peanut butter sandwich.
I bet they don't have metal monkey bars anymore either.
The bunnies are growing up fairly wild and loving it! I'm going to separate them into groups based on gender and all the boys will live together and all the girls will live together. I have a few more months to enjoy the little pile of soft fuzzy babies until they reach maturity.
We've named them after Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, but I don't think we got all the names rights.
Grumpy, Doc, Happy, Sleepy, Hoppy, Drunky and Dopey.... How far off are we anyway?
We found the litter under the rabbit hutch inside barn. We thought it was just one baby bunny, but when we moved the cage and started to round them up we found two and then two more and then two more. Seven. What kind of a rabbit has seven babies???
The babies are all different shades of brown with one brindle and one black. They are little and delightful and how will we keep them alive? There are so many predators in the barn and bringing them in the house with the dogs is not an option.
For two weeks we lock them in the hutch, but it's too small for so many bunnies and on May 19th we move them to live with their uncle Softy in the doll house. I fear that Softy may hurt the babies, because that's what adult males tend to do, but Softy's previous injuries make him more docile and he tolerates, even seeming to enjoy the babies. Phew...
I shore up all the cracks and holes and try to make sure the bunnies are safe. Should I lock them in the doll house over night when predators are hunting? Should I let them hide under the doll house? Should I let them decide? Having to work nights makes the decision easier.
I can't wait to go home and see how they bunnies are doing??
The bunnies found their own safe haven living under the doll house. They dart all over the small pen clearly delighted with the new outdoor smells and the freedom to run and jump and play. Softy has become a jungle gym of sorts, but they move so fast I'm not sure he knows how many there are in total.
I tried to loan the babies out to the local grade schools, but they no longer allow small animals in the class due to allergies. I remember growing up with tons of class pets. Guinea pigs, rabbits, snakes, gerbels etc... I can't image a classroom so sterile they won't allow the class pet or a peanut butter sandwich.
I bet they don't have metal monkey bars anymore either.
The bunnies are growing up fairly wild and loving it! I'm going to separate them into groups based on gender and all the boys will live together and all the girls will live together. I have a few more months to enjoy the little pile of soft fuzzy babies until they reach maturity.
We've named them after Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, but I don't think we got all the names rights.
Grumpy, Doc, Happy, Sleepy, Hoppy, Drunky and Dopey.... How far off are we anyway?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Blast Rock & The Waterfall
One of the bonuses of having a farm plated truck is being allowed in the local quarry to pick up rock, stone and gravel at discounted prices. Brent and I hook up the beat up dump trailer, different than the really nice dump trailer, and head the two kilometres east to the quarry to look at some blast rock.
Blast rock is called landscaping rock at the Garden Centre and sells for big money, but at the quarry it's exactly what it sounds like - the rock that falls into a pile with the first blast off the rock face. It's also called armor rock and slag. The pieces vary in size from one person to the size of a honda. The quarry encourgages you to bring your own heavy equipment to load your truck, but we need to take a quick look first.
After a frustrating talk with the lady that mans the gate we finally make our way back to the rock face and we are delightedly see piles and piles of large misshapened blast rock. I glance around looking for snakes (the lady warned me) as Brent backs the trailer to a large pile. We don our mandatory hard hats, steel toed boots, safety vests and gloves and start to load.
The first few rocks are loaded in a fit of instant gratification as we envision our projects coming to life. We can finish the garden wall with this rock, place these around the pump house and build a waterfall with these enchanting beauties that have captured sparkling of minerals. After fifteen minutes of loading we aren't talking anymore.
The sweat rolls off our faces as we heave rock after rock into the trailer and it feels like each one gets heavier and heavier. I can hear Brent breathing hard as he lifts a two man rock by himself and I find him attractive in his work boots, sweating and brandishing a boyish smile.
I stop and try to catch my breath as I try to place a large rock into the dump trailer without falling over. "think we have enough for now?" I try and break Brent's rhythm before he falls.
We stop and discuss how many rocks and for which projects we'll use these rocks and before long we're losing time. Deciding to work smart rather than hard we chose to stop loading and plan on bringing the backhoe down next week to load.
Back up to the front and onto the scale. We've hand bombed two and half ton of rock and as the exhilateration starts to wain I begin to feel like I've just loaded two and a half ton of rock. Who needs to go to the gym when you live on a farm?
Back at the farm we still need to remove about thirty patio stones to make room for the new patio and somehow they seem to weight signifigantly more than they did when we put them down last fall. Can patio stones retain water? My arms feels like noodles and my legs scream with each patio stone I dead lift.
I'm loading them into the loader part of my little diesel case tractor and relocating them to their new home beside the pond. We'll get to that another day.
We're still excited to build the patio, but realize we need to put down road grade as a foundation before we lay our rocks. It's getting too late and the rocks are getting too heavy.
We really want to put some rocks down somewhere and feel satisfied, but our sore muscles and bruised fingers barely let us place a few rocks around the pump house.
Tomorrow we'll build a waterfall.
The next day: I barely manage to climb out of bed with a burning in my arms and legs that begs for time in a hot tub, but we're on a mission.
We back the trailer to the waterfall area and start sorting the rocks trying to put the biggest ones on the bottom.
It is during the survey that we realize how wet the area we've chosen is as we instantly obtain soakers. Already covered in mud and water we start to unload. They're heavy and sharp and sudden I find these rocks annoying. Who do these rocks think they are anyway? Why are they so heavy? What the heck did they eat? I hate to admit it, but these rocks are really kicking our asses.
Brent has an amazing enthusiam for every project and he brings this energy to the waterfall. He's excited and it shows. I'm sore and cranky, but it's easy to get caught up in his eagerness. Our waterfall is lovely. It's all natural with the water pouring out the top and making a happy tinkling noise at the bottom.
I've got a large bruise under my right thumbnail and a scrape up my arm that may need a few stitches, but it is all about blood sweat and tears. The satisfaction we feel looking at the waterfall we build out of blast rock warms my muscles and suddenly, without pain medication, I feel good.
Brent and I hold hands looking at our waterfall from all sides like excited children. Isn't it great? Doesn't it look lovely? We pat ourselves on the back before darting inside to get ready. Brent's late again, but I understand his need to stop and smell the waterfall.
He takes one last look and says "don't you think it should be taller with more rocks at he base?" I think I may want to kill him.
Blast rock is called landscaping rock at the Garden Centre and sells for big money, but at the quarry it's exactly what it sounds like - the rock that falls into a pile with the first blast off the rock face. It's also called armor rock and slag. The pieces vary in size from one person to the size of a honda. The quarry encourgages you to bring your own heavy equipment to load your truck, but we need to take a quick look first.
After a frustrating talk with the lady that mans the gate we finally make our way back to the rock face and we are delightedly see piles and piles of large misshapened blast rock. I glance around looking for snakes (the lady warned me) as Brent backs the trailer to a large pile. We don our mandatory hard hats, steel toed boots, safety vests and gloves and start to load.
The first few rocks are loaded in a fit of instant gratification as we envision our projects coming to life. We can finish the garden wall with this rock, place these around the pump house and build a waterfall with these enchanting beauties that have captured sparkling of minerals. After fifteen minutes of loading we aren't talking anymore.
The sweat rolls off our faces as we heave rock after rock into the trailer and it feels like each one gets heavier and heavier. I can hear Brent breathing hard as he lifts a two man rock by himself and I find him attractive in his work boots, sweating and brandishing a boyish smile.
I stop and try to catch my breath as I try to place a large rock into the dump trailer without falling over. "think we have enough for now?" I try and break Brent's rhythm before he falls.
We stop and discuss how many rocks and for which projects we'll use these rocks and before long we're losing time. Deciding to work smart rather than hard we chose to stop loading and plan on bringing the backhoe down next week to load.
Back up to the front and onto the scale. We've hand bombed two and half ton of rock and as the exhilateration starts to wain I begin to feel like I've just loaded two and a half ton of rock. Who needs to go to the gym when you live on a farm?
Back at the farm we still need to remove about thirty patio stones to make room for the new patio and somehow they seem to weight signifigantly more than they did when we put them down last fall. Can patio stones retain water? My arms feels like noodles and my legs scream with each patio stone I dead lift.
I'm loading them into the loader part of my little diesel case tractor and relocating them to their new home beside the pond. We'll get to that another day.
We're still excited to build the patio, but realize we need to put down road grade as a foundation before we lay our rocks. It's getting too late and the rocks are getting too heavy.
We really want to put some rocks down somewhere and feel satisfied, but our sore muscles and bruised fingers barely let us place a few rocks around the pump house.
Tomorrow we'll build a waterfall.
The next day: I barely manage to climb out of bed with a burning in my arms and legs that begs for time in a hot tub, but we're on a mission.
We back the trailer to the waterfall area and start sorting the rocks trying to put the biggest ones on the bottom.
It is during the survey that we realize how wet the area we've chosen is as we instantly obtain soakers. Already covered in mud and water we start to unload. They're heavy and sharp and sudden I find these rocks annoying. Who do these rocks think they are anyway? Why are they so heavy? What the heck did they eat? I hate to admit it, but these rocks are really kicking our asses.
Brent has an amazing enthusiam for every project and he brings this energy to the waterfall. He's excited and it shows. I'm sore and cranky, but it's easy to get caught up in his eagerness. Our waterfall is lovely. It's all natural with the water pouring out the top and making a happy tinkling noise at the bottom.
I've got a large bruise under my right thumbnail and a scrape up my arm that may need a few stitches, but it is all about blood sweat and tears. The satisfaction we feel looking at the waterfall we build out of blast rock warms my muscles and suddenly, without pain medication, I feel good.
Brent and I hold hands looking at our waterfall from all sides like excited children. Isn't it great? Doesn't it look lovely? We pat ourselves on the back before darting inside to get ready. Brent's late again, but I understand his need to stop and smell the waterfall.
He takes one last look and says "don't you think it should be taller with more rocks at he base?" I think I may want to kill him.
Farm Animal Mob Mentality
On average it costs roughly fifteen dollars a month to feed my farm animals and it's considerably cheaper to feed goats and pigs than to feed my dogs.
Today I picked up a large bag of hog chow and a large bag of rabbit pellets. Now that I have ten rabbits to feed! When I say large it's usually about forty kilograms. When I unload the bags into the feed room the crowd gets restless.
They start grunting and baying and snorting eventually leading to a cresendo of squealing, squelching and screaming. They start physically pushing each other which excites Willow into a frenzy, jumping on Charlotte, and then running around like a mad crazy goat.
After I'd organized the feed into the plastic bins and put the garbage away the mob was reaching the point of insanity. Going in to calm them down with a flake of hay is a great idea, except I was wearing a favorite pair of red flip flops. I've had these shoes forever and consider them "work sandals", so I'm not worried if they get muddy. In fact I was watching the dogs watch the bunnies and I stepped into a mud hole so deep I lost my shoe today and had to go fishing for in elbow deep in straight up thick, gooey mud. I could barely rinse the clay off the shoe.
I snag a flake of hay as I walk by an open bale and confidently push open the gate to the clucking of a chicken, the screaming of the pigs and the mad dash running of the goats.
Charlotte runs into Nugget who tries to get out of the way and smashes into Willow. Uninjured the chicken heads for high ground. Ginger roughly noses Charlotte in the flank who grunts in response. They are in hot pursuit as I walk quickly and throw the flake of hay. Only Willow is briefly distracted by the hay and the rest want some grain.
I am standing in a field, wearing flip flops staring into the eyes of a mob wondering how I'll get back to the safety of the barn with my toes intact. I take a step sideways, but they're on top of me as soon as I move. Charlotte's hoof comes down on my right foot and Willow plants her feet in my gut. I start to fall backwards and swear the chicken is right behind me to make me fall competely to the ground.
I give Charlotte a shove off my foot and lean away from Willow's dangerous feet. Dashing around a frenzied chicken I make it back into the safety of the barn. I've lost my shoe for the second time that day, but consider it a loss I'm willing to take.
I grab a container full of pellets and throw it over the fence to calm the mob, because I'm not going back in there right now. I must remember to grab my shoe in the morning.
Today I picked up a large bag of hog chow and a large bag of rabbit pellets. Now that I have ten rabbits to feed! When I say large it's usually about forty kilograms. When I unload the bags into the feed room the crowd gets restless.
They start grunting and baying and snorting eventually leading to a cresendo of squealing, squelching and screaming. They start physically pushing each other which excites Willow into a frenzy, jumping on Charlotte, and then running around like a mad crazy goat.
After I'd organized the feed into the plastic bins and put the garbage away the mob was reaching the point of insanity. Going in to calm them down with a flake of hay is a great idea, except I was wearing a favorite pair of red flip flops. I've had these shoes forever and consider them "work sandals", so I'm not worried if they get muddy. In fact I was watching the dogs watch the bunnies and I stepped into a mud hole so deep I lost my shoe today and had to go fishing for in elbow deep in straight up thick, gooey mud. I could barely rinse the clay off the shoe.
I snag a flake of hay as I walk by an open bale and confidently push open the gate to the clucking of a chicken, the screaming of the pigs and the mad dash running of the goats.
Charlotte runs into Nugget who tries to get out of the way and smashes into Willow. Uninjured the chicken heads for high ground. Ginger roughly noses Charlotte in the flank who grunts in response. They are in hot pursuit as I walk quickly and throw the flake of hay. Only Willow is briefly distracted by the hay and the rest want some grain.
I am standing in a field, wearing flip flops staring into the eyes of a mob wondering how I'll get back to the safety of the barn with my toes intact. I take a step sideways, but they're on top of me as soon as I move. Charlotte's hoof comes down on my right foot and Willow plants her feet in my gut. I start to fall backwards and swear the chicken is right behind me to make me fall competely to the ground.
I give Charlotte a shove off my foot and lean away from Willow's dangerous feet. Dashing around a frenzied chicken I make it back into the safety of the barn. I've lost my shoe for the second time that day, but consider it a loss I'm willing to take.
I grab a container full of pellets and throw it over the fence to calm the mob, because I'm not going back in there right now. I must remember to grab my shoe in the morning.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Paint Sprayer Plots Murder
After cleaning out the back garage with a pressure washer it was finally time to paint. My dad had picked up two used industrial paint sprayers at an auction really cheap and we'd planned to use one to paint the interior of the back garage.
The sprayers had to be cleaned as they'd been put away dirty. Brent spent several evenings soaking the sprayers and the hoses to try and convince the debris to find a new home. I was working one night and got a call from a frustrated man stating the paint sprayer was trying to kill him. Controlling my giggling I managed to ask what happened and why an inanimate object would seek his death?
Like all good stories it starts with the use of a large commercial compressor. Brent was using the compressor to blow the left over paint through seventy feet of high pressure hose. A chunk of dried paint lodged itself inside the hose refusing to budge while the back pressure of air started to build. Brent turned off the compressor, but how to release the pressure? I'm grateful he specifically told me he did not peer down the end of the hose to "look for" the debris, but he did decide to put the end of the hose into a bucket of dirty water instead.
While getting up to move the debris came lose and flew out of the end of the hose, bounced off the wall and struck Brent in the side of the head. The back pressure of air blew into the water covering Brent liberally with a layer of filthy, sandy wetness.
Cold, dirty, wet and headachy Brent limped, as all injured people do, into the house and promptly called me to tell me the tale of how the paint sprayer tried to kill him. Brent was not laughing.
A few days later Brent has recovered and is working on the paint sprayer that plotted his death when the whole thing stops working. I could tell he wanted to kick the sprayer, but how can you kick a machine while it's down? Brent got even by feeding the sprayer unfiltered old paint that was so thick and dirty it clogged the sprayer and gun forcing us to lose another painting day to hunt down a new filter for the gun.
Where did we get this old paint you ask? We gathered. We went to family and friends and gathered all the old paint. We then took the old paint home and spend an entire afternoon sitting on the driveway opening gallon after gallon of paint. We mixed mostly white and some blue together and came up with twelve gallons of industrial gray. Rather than filter the paint through a pair of old pantyhose Brent just started spraying.
It was a lovely colour and it should have only taken a few hours to paint the entire building, but it was starting to take several days because: the paint gun got jammed, so we got a new filter for the sprayer; then we lost the tip to the spray gun; then we needed a new gun filter. We finally got it all set up then the sudden death of the paint sprayer ruined the day (I guess Brent got even with that sprayer); then it started to rain.
We moved on to the back up paint sprayer with glee in our hearts, but now were were out of paint. The best and cheapest place to buy paint is Ollie's in Western New York. A quick trip over the border to buy fifteen gallons worth of Sand Castle Beige, a new filter and tip for the gun and some milk put us in good spirits.
We returned from our adventure and set up the second sprayer. Armed with fresh paint and new filter the system worked like a charm. It took only a few hours to paint the entire room, except Brent kept taking breaks because of the fumes. I painted half of the ceiling and managed to get a large amount of paint all over myself, but did it with delight.
The room looks clean and huge and ready for our big party. The back garage is going to be the central support building for the entire shindig and we're finally starting to feel ready.
Our endless to do list includes: painting the newly moved outbuilding, creating a seven hundred square foot flagstone patio, building a waterfall and re-siding the pig building, and then we'll be ready to party.
With feeling that only can be gained by sniffing paint fumes we gather more ideas about building out houses and gardens.
The sprayers had to be cleaned as they'd been put away dirty. Brent spent several evenings soaking the sprayers and the hoses to try and convince the debris to find a new home. I was working one night and got a call from a frustrated man stating the paint sprayer was trying to kill him. Controlling my giggling I managed to ask what happened and why an inanimate object would seek his death?
Like all good stories it starts with the use of a large commercial compressor. Brent was using the compressor to blow the left over paint through seventy feet of high pressure hose. A chunk of dried paint lodged itself inside the hose refusing to budge while the back pressure of air started to build. Brent turned off the compressor, but how to release the pressure? I'm grateful he specifically told me he did not peer down the end of the hose to "look for" the debris, but he did decide to put the end of the hose into a bucket of dirty water instead.
While getting up to move the debris came lose and flew out of the end of the hose, bounced off the wall and struck Brent in the side of the head. The back pressure of air blew into the water covering Brent liberally with a layer of filthy, sandy wetness.
Cold, dirty, wet and headachy Brent limped, as all injured people do, into the house and promptly called me to tell me the tale of how the paint sprayer tried to kill him. Brent was not laughing.
A few days later Brent has recovered and is working on the paint sprayer that plotted his death when the whole thing stops working. I could tell he wanted to kick the sprayer, but how can you kick a machine while it's down? Brent got even by feeding the sprayer unfiltered old paint that was so thick and dirty it clogged the sprayer and gun forcing us to lose another painting day to hunt down a new filter for the gun.
Where did we get this old paint you ask? We gathered. We went to family and friends and gathered all the old paint. We then took the old paint home and spend an entire afternoon sitting on the driveway opening gallon after gallon of paint. We mixed mostly white and some blue together and came up with twelve gallons of industrial gray. Rather than filter the paint through a pair of old pantyhose Brent just started spraying.
It was a lovely colour and it should have only taken a few hours to paint the entire building, but it was starting to take several days because: the paint gun got jammed, so we got a new filter for the sprayer; then we lost the tip to the spray gun; then we needed a new gun filter. We finally got it all set up then the sudden death of the paint sprayer ruined the day (I guess Brent got even with that sprayer); then it started to rain.
We moved on to the back up paint sprayer with glee in our hearts, but now were were out of paint. The best and cheapest place to buy paint is Ollie's in Western New York. A quick trip over the border to buy fifteen gallons worth of Sand Castle Beige, a new filter and tip for the gun and some milk put us in good spirits.
We returned from our adventure and set up the second sprayer. Armed with fresh paint and new filter the system worked like a charm. It took only a few hours to paint the entire room, except Brent kept taking breaks because of the fumes. I painted half of the ceiling and managed to get a large amount of paint all over myself, but did it with delight.
The room looks clean and huge and ready for our big party. The back garage is going to be the central support building for the entire shindig and we're finally starting to feel ready.
Our endless to do list includes: painting the newly moved outbuilding, creating a seven hundred square foot flagstone patio, building a waterfall and re-siding the pig building, and then we'll be ready to party.
With feeling that only can be gained by sniffing paint fumes we gather more ideas about building out houses and gardens.
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