Agrarianista

Fits and starts in training a dog (with kids)

2012-04-25T15:21:00.000-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Now that I have a spaniel(ish) dog, I've been looking up spaniel training on YouTube, and what I've found are some really, really inspirational videos from folks from the United Kingdom who make training dogs look like a snap.

I've never had a problem with basic obedience out of any of my dogs; I recognize I've been really lucky with my dogs, too. But I've never been able to train for distance - getting dogs to stop what they are doing and instead of coming back to me, look at me for directions. This is my next project for Rosie.

My hunting dogs have all had a great drive, a wonderful desire to please, smarts like you wouldn't believe, and above all, loved me to pieces. Rosie is a bit different, so far. She comes to me for protection now, and she comes fairly regularly to the recall, but she lacks some enthusiasm. I'm chalking it up to her being sick (looks like a cold, but no cough) and to youth. She shows some real action for about five or ten-minute spurts, and then she has to take a break, so it probably is the former. (She also lost a tooth last night, so there is much going on.)

I know she's smart, she's passed all the tests I gave her, and she's nosy as all heck - she's even become our early warning dirty diaper detection system. And she loves the kids. I'm hoping that when her health improves and her teeth come in, she'll get some bounce in her step.

The past two days we have been working on coming when called and sitting. The recall is kinda tough for both of us, but especially me. I'm trying to tighten up my commands so that I don't start bad habits, and I have some trouble remembering that her name doesn't mean "come!" I'm also using a new hand signal that will be helpful in the field, but that feels really silly, especially when I'm motioning to a dog that is seven feet away. She likes me whistling, so if that's how it goes, then so be it. The biggest thing for me is that she comes back.

Sitting has been going very well, although she's funny about it like a puppy should be. She'll get so excited to sit that she'll go ass-over-teakettle backwards sometimes. I love it.

I'm also uncomfortable using a leash during training, as I've trained all my other dogs just by being out in the yard with them. I'm not using the leash too much right now, but I might start using it more just because all the cool guys on YouTube are doing it (and by "cool" I mean tweed-and-rubber-boot-wearing, thick brogue talking types with dogs they could probably train to fly an airplane).

One interesting book I picked up is "The Intelligence of Dogs" by Stanley Coren. It's not a training manual, it is a book about dog smarts. I'm enjoying it, but then again I am a gigantic nerd, so there you are. One thing I've noticed is that I've always gravitated toward the smarter end of the breed spectrum, and my last dog, Irma, was a mix of the smartest (border collie) and the fourth smartest (golden retriever) on the author's list. The English Springer Spaniel, by the way, Mr. Coren ranks at 13.

And speaking of nerdy, I've even been researching dog whistles, of all things. I've settled on a pealess Acme 10.5 because I don't think I'll need anything super-loud and I don't want a pea in my whistle (that sounds funny). I've never used a whistle on dogs, but I'm not confident in my own whistling to be loud enough.

Really I'm just pleased as all get-out that I've got a dog, and watching my kids with her, I know I've made the right decision. Just today, for example, Ruben decided it would be a great idea to hit her with a metal measuring cup. The good dog just sat there and took a couple of swipes, then got up and walked over to me. When I noticed what he had just done (and was trying to do again), I laid down the law to the 19 month-old, for all the good that'll do, and gave Rocie all kinds of fuss.

And Phoebe and her caniphobia? Day-before-yesterday, she started feeding Rocie out of her hand.

I'll end with a wonderful video extolling the virtues of FTCh Buccleuch Pepper, an advertisement for those looking for a champion Springer sire (and who, if you wanted to call him, would come to "Paper! Come here, Paper!"). He is our goal:

Posts I've neglected as of late

2012-04-20T09:38:00.000-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

While playing with my kids and my new dog, painting the kitchen, visiting long-unseen relatives and driving all over town, here are some posts I've worked on and thought up but haven't finished:

I took my nephew on his first-ever hunt where he could shoot (last January he passed his hunters' safety course - and so did his mom, my sister);

My new friend and brewer Matt brewed up a few bottles of nettle beer, and we discovered that one can squeeze a lemon out of a nettle;

Agnes' herb garden is growing, with additions of lemon balm, cilantro, garlic and lavender, and we are looking for herb suggestions (legal ones, of course);

My slug battle has heated up, and I'd love to find a cure that doesn't cost as much as patented prescription drugs.

In other garden news, the first sprouts have sprung up in the Summer vegetable bed, and the potato patch has come alive, thankfully with potato leaves. Also, the orange tree and boysenberry are blooming, and the walnut has lost a ton of tiny (about 1/4") walnuts.

Last, every third Saturday of April, Kiene's Fly Fishing puts on their annual Expo in honor of trout season opening the following Saturday. I've missed it the past couple of years, but hope to stop by there Saturday morning to say hi and to let some travel fly-fishing fellas about Hippo's resort, and how they'd better get out there before he catches all the fish

So, lots going on here.

I got a dog! I got a dog!

2012-04-14T21:20:00.000-07:00


Some kind of spaniel mix

The rescue place (yeah, so what?) that sold her to me calls her Freckles, but Phoebe and I are pretty set on Rocio, with Rosie for short. Agnes (my lovely wife) still likes Freckles, and it sure would be fun to step out onto the field and call out, "Freckles, hunt 'em up! Hunt 'em up, Freckles!" Ah well, we shall see.

Anyhoo, she's about five months old, has all her shots, and is all nose about the world - something I love. I also love that she plopped right over on her back for my kids - although she's too scared to do that for me, yet.

In fact, she's taken to the kids and wife pretty well - a cruel irony if there ever was one. Today, though, I get her to myself for a while, as I prepare to paint the kitchen.

I've been poking around a number of hunting dog websites, just in case, but I'm going to go slowly with her. She's scared of me (following me around the house right now, but if I look at her, she has to walk away).

I wonder what the night will bring.

Dog update

2012-04-14T16:10:00.000-07:00

More to come...

Garden note to self (because self didn't label the rows)... and a dog update

2012-04-12T13:39:00.000-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Yesterday and between storms, me and the kids planted up one of our raised beds. Starting West and moving East: pole beans, corn, okra, swiss chard, okra, nasturtium (edges), cabbages (edges), cherry tomatoes (North), beefsteak tomatoes (South), poblano peppers (North), early jalapeños (South), basil.

Ruben, the eighteen-month old, was the catalyst for the plantings. Day-before-yesterday the little elf, famous in this house for throwing everything he can into the pond, had gotten hold of my package of basil seeds and tossed it in the drink. Since they'd soaked for a while, I decided it would be best to just plant the whole packet - something I never do (I still have seeds from five years ago). Frankly, it was kinda cathartic, and I knew it was time to get the rest of the stuff in, too.

I hate thinning plants that I've planted and that have shown the courtesy to come up, so my gardens always look a bit anemic because I'm afraid to over-plant. Not this time. I planted many, many seeds. We'll see if I'll be callous enough to do the dirty work and thin the babies, although I probably will do what needs to be done and just eat them, anyway.

The bed is 4' x 8', and I'm sure I'm straining somebody's take on companion planting (tomatoes with corn), but let me explain myself. We have three raised beds, and this year the Upper Bed was planted early with greens, onions and leeks (and now garlic, too). Agnes asked for the North Bed, which I was tickled pink to give her. In it we've put lemon balm, cilantro, marigolds, and more garlic, and we still have some room.

The one bed left, then, was "my" vegetable garden, and it all needed to go in. So I started with pole beans and corn on the Northeast side to minimize garden shading. I know that corn and beans don't get along with tomatoes, so I put in some okra (which supposedly gets along with everybody) and chard (which is always just happy to be here) in-between. I edged everything with nasturtium (yes, I'm 30 years late to the party, but I don't care, I love a plant I can grow that tastes just like black pepper). On the West side are rows of cherry and beefsteak tomatoes, poblanos and jalapeños (not jalapenos - and never, ever make that mistake when typing about Spanish years), and finally the infamous row of basil.

I'm afraid that the latest storm will slow down the peppers and tomatoes; I'd rather not buy flats of started plants this year, but instead get some good show from these seeds. Our Spring temps. usually shoot up 20 or 30 degrees the day after a storm, so I'm not too worried, but you never know. I hope to use some of the cherry tomato seedlings to fill a hanging garden bag my Mother-in-law gave us a couple of years ago, but I will buy a started pear tomato if they don't show.

Speaking of hanging gardens, we also put a Rutgers heirloom tomato in an upside-down tomato bag (complete with pretty metal stand). The stand was my Christmas present from one of my lovely sisters, and it looks great!

Around the property, the cuttings are showing no additional signs of life, but the pomegranate, orange, fig, currant and boysenberries are definitely thriving.

Consider me your experiment for getting your entire vegetable garden in one bed. I'll do my best to keep you posted.

----------

On the dog front, more crappy news. The local SPCA turned us down over the phone because the dog I was interested in (a "lab/hound mix" which looks awfully like a lab/GSP mix) was not, according to them, good for a home with children. Apparently, the reasoning goes, she "jumps up a lot." B.S. I told the lady that it was too bad they were prejudiced against children instead of taking the time to get to know the potential owner, and hung up. I suppose they've never met a person who could train a dog not to jump up - and I'd like to know if they've ever had a medium-sized or larger dog under the age of two not jump up. According to the Sacramento SPCA, then, kids shouldn't be raised around big dogs. I don't know what they are trying to accomplish, but building a constituency of people who love dogs enough to want to save them obviously isn't one of them.

How to cook nettles

2012-04-11T15:01:00.000-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Here is a short video my friend Abby from This Old Blog put together for me. If you don't realize it, she is the reason this video is so professionally put together; I did everything in my power to make it stink, but she is very good.

Two strikes and they are out - my last experience with a "rescue" org.

2012-04-07T11:29:00.000-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

"Thank you for your interest in Bailey. We are not comfortable plscing
her with such young children."

That right there is the entire email I received after being stupid enough to fill out this absolutely ridiculous form at the Big Dog Rescue of Penngrove, California. I spent maybe thirty minutes answering questions as asinine and legally dubious as, "what brand of dog food do plan to feed your dog?" and, "if you have a family member or friend you would like to care for the dog... please list their contact information here, so that they may be qualified by Big Dog Rescue."

After that humiliation, I expected, at the very least, a call-back so that they might get to know me and my family. I figured that since they are rescue folks, they would care enough to realize the impersonal nature of the internet and want some time in direct communication. I also assumed that they cared about getting dogs to homes where they are loved.

I am an idiot, obviously. They didn't even take the time to spell-check.

I probably should have let the extraordinarily offensive image they have of Buddha with a dog's head on their website be my clue (only a North Bay liberal could have such callous disregard for others' religious beliefs). I should have let my first experience with a "rescue" person over at Golden Gate English Springer Spaniel Rescue exemplify "rescue" people, in general. I even could have listened to my sister-in-law, who works at a county shelter, or my sister, who has dealt with "rescue" people a couple of times for dogs, and who both told me that they are crazy charlatans who make ridiculous demands and charge insane amounts of money.

Why do I keep using quotation marks around "rescue"? Because these people aren't rescuing these dogs. I don't know what sore part of their consciences these people are trying to salve, but they aren't doing what they purport to do. The only dog I've met via rescue was matted and scratching fleas, and the others haven't even given me the time of day.

Under normal circumstances I'd be much more self-reflective, but I know dogs, I love dogs, and I'm pretty good with dogs. In fact, I'm so confident that I'm not even going to defend myself here.

So I'll still scour the shelters for dogs and I'll still look up classified ads. I'll even consider dogs from a reputable hunting dog breeder (a first in my life and maybe a sign of a mid-life crisis). But I will not try for another poor dog from a "rescue".

And as I said in my response to the Big Dog Rescue of Penngrove, I pray for those dogs they pretend to rescue.

Propagating from cuttings

2012-04-04T20:38:00.000-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

I'm learning all I can about propagating from cuttings. We have a pomegranate that is supposed to be fairly good at it, and a boysenberry that suckers (which is cheating, I know; sue me). I've also learned that plants like rosemary and lavender can be propagated this way. Folks out here in electric wire land, let me know any tips and tricks!


Is this little guy going to make it? Probably not.

Turkey on a spit

2012-04-02T11:18:00.001-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

That would have been a great title for an article where my cousin and I successfully bowhunted turkeys.

Of course, "success" can be defined in any number of ways, and by my typical definition when applied to hunting, (amount of time spent doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down one's face), this hunt didn't disappoint.

Yesterday was opening day for turkeys in California. In Northern California, the turkey (Meleagris gallopavo) is an established species introduced (reintroduced?) specifically for making hunters cry. It is an impressive bird, both in size (it is the largest upland game bird) and in smarts. It can hear very well, and it can see, in color, 280 degrees without turning its head. On public lands, this forest phantom (or, "A-hole of the Woods" as I call them) offers the ultimate hunting challenge.

One good characteristic about turkeys, however, is that they love edgelands, and where you can get permission to hunt private property, you might actually stand a chance of shooting a bird. So it came as wonderful news when my cousin, a wildly successful salesman, let me know that a client of his was allowing us to hunt his foothill property. The only catch: Kevin (my cousin) wanted to bowhunt.

I love bowhunting because it is just about the most pure hunting experience one can have. While your range becomes limited, forcing you to get better, the type of game you can hunt becomes nearly limitless. Only a double-barreled shotgun approaches the versatility of a stick, string and broadhead for hunting in the field. And if you shoot an animal with it, you get to be the Great Nimrod for a bit.


With this I can hunt quail to elk. As for hitting them...

Actually shooting something doesn't happen without practice, though; something I've been out of for a while. But at least I've got experience. My cousin, on the other hand, had purchased his the week prior, and his first time loosing an arrow with the apparatus occurred the day before the hunt.

Kevin was on fire at the range, but since he can hit a gnat's eye with a pistol at 25 yards, I expected this. His equipment, a Bear compound with quite a few bells and whistles, was purchased used and so was already "tuned". He'd mentioned nearly losing the ability to have children when he first attempted to draw the bow at the shop, and he asked what the poundage was set for: 71 lbs. He then, in as manly a way as possible, I'm sure, asked for the archery tech. to crank it down a notch. Now at 55 lbs., Kevin is much happier.

At the range, we set his three sight pins for point-blank, 20 and 30 yards. Almost immediately, he was hitting a four inch group from his bow at 20 yards. I call that hunting time. I'd wanted to loose some arrows at the range, but had forgotten my glove (see below) and didn't want to set my fingers ablaze just so I could look cool in front of my cousin. I guess I'm getting older.

On our way home from the range, we discussed the next morning's strategy. I would meet him in front of my wife's father's house at 4:45 am, and we would be at the happy hunting grounds by one hour prior to sunrise. Sleeping would be light, then, and in the living room so I wouldn't wake the family.

At 4:00 my alarm blared, waking me and the family. My keen survival instincts tingled, sensing that if I didn't get ready and get out of the house now, I faced certain doom. I dressed quickly, grabbed my cup of coffee and my gear and headed out the door.

If you talk to folks who hunt with me, eventually they'll make some insensitive comment about me forgetting pieces of equipment at home (ironically, they never forget to mention it). Not one has ever thoughtfully inquired as to my mental state or any medication I may be taking; no, they just go through the Standard Litany upon picking me up: "g'getcher bow/gun/pole? g'getcher arrows/ammo./lures? g'getcher license?", followed by some smart-assed remark about having to drive a half-hour extra to pick up whatever piece of equipment got left behind. Thankfully this time I'd only forgotten my belt. I'd be doing the sidle-shuffle to pick up my pants occasionally, but Kevin wouldn't have to drive me back.

Kevin used to be that guy who would say, "meet at 4 am" and then call you at 10 am with an apology. No more. Now married and with two children, Kevin shows up 15 minutes prior to the stated meet-time, a time he, for some reason, set a half-hour earlier than necessary. Sure enough, he was there and ready to go.

The drive wasn't too awful long this time, about 45 minutes, and as we reached the neighborhood, something stood out to me, something that boded well for our prospects. The place was covered with houses.

Kevin explained where we could hunt, and also told me the advice the property owner had given him and his reply, which quickly deflated my hopes. The turkeys show up between 8 and 10 on his driveway; last Wednesday, he'd had to get out of his truck and shoo them away. Kevin had mentioned that any additional birds we may shoot would be donated to a local food bank.

I guess Kevin had forgotten about my hunting magnetism. Basically, I am set to the same pole as the game I pursue. He'd also apparently forgotten about Turkion, the Angel of Embarrassments. Were it any other human, I'd have attributed his comments to hubris, but it's Kevin: it was excitement, not overconfidence, that led him to make that ill-advised claim.

We drove up to the driveway and parked on the car-wash deck. We decided to head out a bit, find out where the birds might be, then move in, call, and catch them out in the wilder part of the property. We set off into the guy's back yard.

This is what you would see if we were to make one of those cool hunting videos.

Immediately, we were hearing gobbling all over the hills. Kevin called with a diaphragm call, and two birds gobbled back just down the saddle. We walked a bit, waited, second-guessed ourselves, walked back, walked back down again. Each time Kevin called, those birds would gobble back.

Kevin, looking quite the part.

Then, another bird called. A jake turkey said Kevin, judging by its rasp (I'd have thought it was a rooster with a sore throat). We split up, and I hunkered down in the brush while Kevin walked down a small dirt road.

He came back quickly, shaking his head. Other hunters, three of 'em, and with shotguns. They'd been making the jake call. Dejected, we decided to follow the landowner's advice and went back to the driveway. On our way back, a doe started snorting at us...

We sat down and talked about how our hunts never go as planned. We chuckled, had a cup of coffee, and talked about waking up later in the day next time.

It was about 8:15 when Kevin glanced down the driveway and noticed a gigantic turkey walking up the asphalt road. Camoflauge is definitely relative; our open talking, acting like we just lived there must have given that bird, no wait, those birds a sense of security. There were now two toms.

Our turkey blind... what you wouldn't see in those videos.

We grabbed our stuff (Kevin knocking his metal thermos over on his truck hood) and started down the driveway right when that doe and her fawn decided to step out onto the road. Seeing us, they took off running

The turkeys didn't take off running, though, but they did turn off the road and, going at that annoying speed they have (.1 mph faster than you), they walked quickly into the brush.

Two more birds emerged from the brush next to the road, also going away juuuust a bit faster than we could go.

We walked back up to the truck and after a bit heard more toms uphill from us.

Kevin called and got a response much closer than we'd expected. A tom was heading our way. Kevin peeked around the shed and saw him, then another, then another. Three toms, all walking the edge of an oak grove, coming straight at us. Kevin called, and I'll be darned if that bird didn't puff right up and gobble back. It was amazing.

I walked over to the truck and reached for my camera, then saw the bird looking at me. Crap! I didn't move. Kevin called. The bird gobbled and kept coming. I snapped a picture, then moved out of the way.

I promise you, that teeny black dot in the field out there is a turkey coming our way!

Kevin called. They gobbled and kept coming. Now I could hear the booming that happens when tom turkeys gobble close. It goes right through you, and it shook the shed such that it compounded those deep, deep tones. It was one of those moments that is awesome in the true sense of that word: it inspires awe.

80 yards. 70 yards. 60 yards. 50 yards.

Just over the hill to our right came the report of a shotgun. Two seconds later, another. I could have cried.

The birds we were watching didn't run, but they shifted their direction, turned away from us and headed down the draw. I told Kevin to go over and try for a shot. He took two shots, one he guessed at about 30 yards and another at about 40. His shots were high, and the birds headed off.

That seemed about right for our turkey hunting.

Did I want to march over that hill and skewer a shotgunner? Why yes, I did. Was that guy probably hunting property he hadn't been invited to hunt? Most likely.

There's always next time.

How can a guy dressed like that be denied a turkey?

A break in the rain, archery & a trip to a sporting goods store

2012-03-30T09:04:00.001-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

March is surely going out like a lion, but yesterday and today we've had a slight precip. reprieve. With the weather clearing, the kids and I were crazy outside all day long, preparing Mommy's garden bed (for her upcoming herb garden), training the boysenberry, pulling bolting bok choy, feeding the cabbage patch, cutting fence posts and birdwatching. Today it's more of the same, but with a little less enthusiasm (I make the Hippo on the Lawn look like a Marvel superhero, so I'm a tad sore).

The big news for me is hunting, interestingly enough. Turkey season opens tomorrow and my cousin has access to land. Archery-only, and the rain has kept me out of practice, but the day before yesterday I took the old Versorger down and flung three arrows into a turkey-sized circle, so I'm happy.

Versorger is the name of my first-ever recurve bow. I bought it about seven years ago, before doing any real research into recurves and longbows, partly because I was really itching to go to a stick-and-string (lose the training wheels, as they put it), and partly (about 90%) because my wife said, "Let's just buy it." It didn't have a name back then, except "htg. 56"" scribbled on the limbs, and I had to do some real googling to discover that it is an AIM recurve. I did know, from the salesman, that it was a 55 lb. bow, which means it takes approx. 55 lbs. of pressure to keep the bow drawn 28 inches, a typical draw length. Since I'm built like a gibbon, this turned out to be a problem.

If you don't know much about archery or archery terms, let me introduce you to two: "Stacking" and "pinch." If your only exposure to archery is obsessively watching Ted Nugent, then go get help; also, you might think that the first term represents a good quality, ala "whack 'em and stack 'em", the profound, entirely original and eloquent phrase used by Msr. Nugent to summarize his hunting philosophy. However, amongst archers "stacking" refers to the degree of difficulty in pulling the last few inches of the string to one's face. On bows without training wheels, drawing the bow becomes progressively more difficult for each inch. On high quality recurves and longbows, the last few inches feel as smooth as nearly every other inch, i.e. each inch of pull on the bow results in ~ two pounds of extra force. On Versorger, the graph of my draw weight looks like a launching Polaris missile at the last two inches. In my head, I get fooled every time: I begin the draw, and it feels smooth, smooth, smooth, up to where the string dances in front of my nose. Then, as I pull to anchor my hand to my face, I hear any number of tendons begin humming, popping, and relocating themselves to awkward and inappropriate places. The bow starts dancing around in my hand, and my face takes on a Looney Toons appearance. Instinctively, I jam my head forward, because that string just won't move.

I could blame the bow, but part of it is my fault. You see, even though I'm 5'11", my draw length is closer to thirty inches than twenty-eight, but the bow was built for the "typical" draw.

The other term, "pinch" is exactly what one might think it is: it is the angle of the string at your fingers at full draw. Mine tries to fuse my fingers to the arrow, and has resulted in me shooting three fingers under (which I actually prefer anyway).

I've drawn bows that cost hundreds of dollars more, and I know why they do. It's easy to see how spending good money up-front can save you hospital bills in the long run.

Why did the bow get the name Versorger, you ask? Our last name is Stark, which is German for "strong" (like calling a tall guy "shorty"), and, upon my first kill with the bow (a beautiful little coast blacktail it instinctively hit right between the eyes even though I was aiming for the chest - a story for another day), I needed a word to show how it had provided for my family and gave me strength. Google translated "versorger" as a German word meaning bringer or provider, and so Starke Versorger it was. So what that I later learned the term means "caterer"?

So in conclusion I hunt with a recurve bow that may or may not take a finger with it one day and that has caused my right eyeball to permanently stick out about 1/4" further than my left. But, it magically kills with head shots.

In my hunting enthusiasm earlier this week I took a trip to a "local" outdoor store to see if I might be missing any essential equipment. I actually went to see if I could afford a Magnus turkey point. I love Magnus broadheads, and I love the concept around these kinds of turkey heads, but they were sold out. The other brand of this broadhead type went for forty dollars, which is laughable, so I left the archery department empty-handed, and probably for the best.

On my way out I passed - and drooled at - a ghillie suit. I think I was a ghillie in a past life. Alas, I can't justify that to myself, even, much less my wife.

I also walked through the clothing aisle, knowing full well that there are some nice, quality American-made hunting clothes on the market (like Pointer Brand jeans and Danner boots). Just not in this market. Or any brick-and-mortar establishment in California, for that matter. No, this place had a number of the "cool" brands on hand, and for the same price as one can get American-made stuff.

I was also hoping the store would have a corkboard up with hunting dogs for sale, but no luck there, either. The check-out lady said that folks bring their dogs to the doors on weekends sometimes, but that didn't satisfy my insane dog craving.

Later today my cousin is coming over to sight in his bow, or rather tune his arrow-launching apparatus (his has all manner of technical gadgetry). I'll have more on that, hopefully with pictures.

A blogging legend calls it quits: Nor Cal Cazadora hangs up her blogging hat

2012-03-27T17:55:00.000-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Hey, she's been doing it for nearly five years, which in this genre is pretty danged amazing, but in her last post, Holly Heyser aka NorCal Cazadora says she's moving on from blogging.

Head over there and say good-bye and thanks. She's a real inspiration to women in hunting (she's even got a Cabela's wader named after her!), but in my life, she's been a real inspiration to try writing, and to do it honestly, even in a genre where the replies can be immediate and harsh (or worse yet, nonexistent).

She says she's working on other prospects, and I, for one, can't wait to see it. And if you need a Holly fix, just head on over to her monthly article at Shotgun Life, "Butt, Belly, Beak, Bang".

Thanks for posting Holly, and I'm glad we live close enough to visit. See you in the field!

Dog update

2012-03-25T13:44:00.000-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

And it ain't good news.

After being told by the Golden Gate Springer Rescue (which I learned is just some woman's house that smells a lot like dog pee) lady that I could pick up the dog the day I showed up (after a 90 mile drive) if we were a good fit, I headed out with my baby boy to meet the dog.

Right as we were pulling up to the place, my wife calls me and says that the lady had changed her mind, and that two other families had called and would be looking at the dog the next day, and she would make her decision after two days.

Well, I was pretty crestfallen; I fully expected to be taking a dog home. However, I didn't want her to think that it was the distance that mattered. We still met her.

Big mistake. She was a wonderful dog, although the "rescue" lady obviously hadn't washed her or groomed her, and she scratched with fleas (the lady apologized and said that she would have to groom her for tomorrow's visits). I won't go into specifics because I don't want to dwell on it, but the dog was really good.

So I go home and wait and stress for the next two days. Of course, the lady never calls, so finally I call her. She apologizes for not calling and says that the dog helped her make a decision for another family, (could it be that it was because she was clean and comfortable when she met them?).

So I'm pretty devastated. I put myself out there with some hope, and got myself fairly crushed.

Now I'm left with a conundrum: I now cannot stand "rescue" people, yet I feel kinda bad looking for a dog from a breeder (nor can I afford hardly any of them). Pound dogs are hard, unless I want an "American Staffordshire terrier" or other pit bull. I don't.

It looks like I'll be quite a while without a dog.

A new beginning? Or, not just yet? (or, looking for the hole in my heart.)

2012-03-23T06:56:00.001-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

I'm a big dog person, in all three senses of the phrase. I love big dogs, I have a big love for dogs, and lately I'm getting big, and not in a good way. So it's no surprise that I am looking to bring a new dog into my life right now. And yet, I'm still a bit torn about it.

Last year, as I wrote, I lost a dear friend to my heart, my dog of 12 years, Irma Ruth. I'd found her in a pear orchard in Lake County, California, when she was probably about 8 months old, and she stole my heart from that first instant I saw her. I've many, many stories to tell about her, and I may get around to it one day here on the blog, but right now it is just too emotional, still, for me to describe them. Also, when I write them, I want them to honor her and to be good, and that just doesn't happen for me at 5:30 in the morning after 3 hours of sleep and trying to get a baby boy to, for the Love of All that is Good and Holy, Just Lay Down and Go to Sleep.

One thing I loved about Irma is that she was a mutt, most likely a border collie/golden retriever mix. She was smart as a whip, had a great nose for birds, and was an amazing family protector.

Now, though, she is gone on. I hope she is waiting for me, but like every man who had a good dog understands, deep down I know that I won't live up to the standards required to get where something that loving and good goes to when it gets called home. Thank God I'm a Christian, as I am banking on forgiveness to be able to see her again.

I find myself, then, for the first time in my life without a pet in my home. Sure, I lived away for a bit during college, but at home there were always dogs and cats. Now, with two kids, we own a house with no animals. And that bothers me.

My daughter, at five years old, is scared of dogs... and cats, and putting her head under water (the latter being perfectly reasonable, in my humble opinion). And a stiff wind kinda bothers her, too. Also, the notion that leprechauns may actually exist has kept her up a night or two (thank you very much, Mrs. Hansen!).

Now, most of these fears are healthy: I would be disconcerted, too, if I were told that little green men ran amok in my heretofore perfectly safe preschool; and people who put their heads under water are obviously just looking for trouble, if you ask me.

I also don't mind that she is afraid of dogs, in general. But it has always bothered me that she became afraid of Irma one day and for no reason. It was just that one day she realized that Irma was big and out of her control, and that freaked her out.

I don't want her to feel this way forever. I don't want my daughter to grow up being afraid of her own dogs. I know a dog's love is like no other and I want her to experience that love, hopefully with the sense that she'll look for a significant other one day with those same traits, never find it, and instead take the professional path her father hopes for her as a fabulously wealthy and famous nun.

My son, on the other hand, is eighteen months old, that time in a young child's life when light sockets and bodies of water just become fascinating, and the mirror starts to seem suspicious, as if maybe something tricky is going on because that other kid in there looks somewhat familiar, yet cold and distant, and he might be mocking.

He loves all animals, he simply loves them. If it moves of its own accord, then it is worthy of adoration. If it moves and has four legs, it is, of course and obviously, a dog (our last trip to the zoo, I had no idea how many dogs there were in this world: dogs with long necks, dogs with antlers, dogs with snouts, etc.).

He used to look out the back door and say, "Irma!" He doesn't say it anymore, and I know for sure he'll never remember her consciously, but he will have a sense of her having been in his life, in the way he moves and acts in the world... just like his old man, who as a toddler, it is told, often tried to eat and drink with the puppies when he wasn't trying to stomp on their little heads.

I don't want that simple love to disappear, either. I want it to grow within him until he realizes the truth of lines like what Chad Love found inscribed in a thrift store book.

Even more simply, I want both my children to be able to go to their dog and get the unconditional love that can only come from a dog: that simple, all-encompassing love that appreciates and craves only your very existence, fully and completely and without shame or reservation for showing it. And I want them to know and love another creature, too, to feel that sense of connection.

I want that for myself, too. But, I'm afraid I'll fall short... shoot, I know I'll fall short, in reciprocating that Love. After all, I am a man, a human being.

I also have all sorts of pragmatic reasons for getting a new dog: I hunt, we like having a superhuman guardian, etc. But those are fluff. I love dogs, and I loving having a dog. Or two, even. So later today my son and I are heading off to Oakland to look at a one-year old rescue springer spaniel (and probably border collie mix) by the name of Morgan. In talking to the foster owner, she seems like a good fit for a family with kids. And who knows, perhaps she'll hunt (I've been lurking on springer spaniel-related websites for a few days now in hopes that perhaps she'll take to it).

I'm not saying we'll get her, and I'm pretty clear-headed when it comes to taking a dog, but even just going to see her is a big deal. I still miss Irma so much, and I feel a tinge of guilt that I'm looking at another dog to keep (Irma wasn't big on other dogs). I think, today, I'm looking at myself as much as that dog. You see, I don't want to be resentful, constantly comparing any new dog to my old dog. I want any new dog in my life to fill the hole put in my heart for that dog. Anything less would be unfair.

Bubbas and Rednecks can be a lot more nuanced... at times.

2012-03-20T21:59:00.002-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

The Mallard of Discontent, Chad Love, posted a little piece about a friend of his, a very talented Bubba-type person, complete with music video. It's not a joke post, it is a great comment on just how ridiculous stereotypes can be, but only obliquely (it's really just a hat-tip to a talented friend). It bit me, though, in a good way. It got me thinking about my family, and it got my writing juices going a little bit. I started to write a comment to his post, but realized I'd gone way off on a tangent and would look like a crazy person, so I figured it'd go better here at my blog, where I'm already known to be crazy and off-focus. What I wrote:

Bubbas and rednecks, indeed. Working class intellectuals. My people, I swear. It made me think about my life and the weird nexus in which I find myself. At one time, I tried to write poetry and short prose about my family to my then-newborn niece, Dakota, who that morning had been dancing to the rhythms of frying bacon. I was sitting at a Cafe' in Davis, California, after having heard an interview of Steve Earle by Teri Gross. I was writing about my Dad's work in the oil fields after getting his EBT M.A. in philosophy of religion; my Mom living in Sunset migrant camp, her skinny little body holding their house down by the tent pole in a wind storm, and me (and sisters) still going back to the migrant camps in Lake County, following the pears, saving money for grad school. I was trying to write a poem giving the feel and rhythm of my Dad and me hunting, walking tiny steps on RR track ties so as not to be loud in the gravel, and walking back in the door at home, skunked, taking those very same, tiny, awkward steps and cackling like fools. That was also the first time I ever saw a water ouzel. I knew what it was immediately, just like I know, by smell, the different possible leaks that can spring out of a car. I also wanted a story about visiting Aunt Carol and Uncle Gerald who lived in one of Merle Haggard's old houses in Bakersfield, and then visiting cousin Burr and Jeri-K: Burr, the card-carrying socialist middle school teacher who married Jeri-K when she was fourteen, and who've been happily married for thirty years; whose eldest daughter is the Dean of Education in Arvin, and youngest got her degree in biology and political science at CSU, Bakersfield, and looks to break into environmental advocacy. That, or fashion design.

Bubbas and rednecks. Last year, I high-centered the Prius trying to get it up on a levee where I hunt pheasants. Earlier, I'd run across a friend in a corn field, a friend I learned had lost half a finger in a pipe threader that year (and yes, we picked on him a bit). His name? Bubba. I kid you not. Bubba, you know: the Filipino-Mexican-American guy who rode steers as a kid. I got picked on by a cousin for making a rat-killer out of a chef's knife, an old broom handle and a couple of zip-ties. My author-friend Hank said, "oh yeah, I forgot you are a redneck" when I said that, after my board meeting with a salmon habitat advocacy group, I was taking the kids to "Mamaw an' Papaw's" house and I could meet up with him to hunt snipe and pick nettles. I tied flies from my dog's fur.

I also put that same dog to rest after thirteen years and still miss her so very much, a border collie/golden retriever mix who could out-hunt most purebreds. She could point on quail and retrieve with the softest mouth, and run down cottontails. She also taught me that both gophers and tules are edible, and if the yellowjackets get after your food, you move your bowl of food to a different place, then eat it.

She was a working-class intellectual.

(Here's a short list of some online Bubbas and Rednecks you might like to read:
Mallard of Discontent
Querencia
Suburban Bushwacker
The Rasch Chronicles
A Hippo on the Lawn
Please, let me know of any I'm missing)

On dams and rivers, California's climate, and morals to stories

2012-03-18T15:48:00.002-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Here in Northern California we are experiencing Winter in a Fortnight. Of course, we are two months past the waterfowl hunting seasons, and so the storm doors are opened wide; the wind is howling, the hail may be here shortly, and the rain pours and pours. California's is often called a "Mediterranean Climate", and I don't know if that is an accurate comparison for some parts of it, having never been to Europe, but I know it is inaccurate to label all of California with one climate (for a great map example of what I mean, click here). Here in Northern California, for example, we get about 20" of precipitation in the Northern Central Valley, about 35"-40" in the foothills, and about 50"-70" in Blue Canyon (about twice the annual rainfall of Seattle). The most important thing to know about our precip., however, is that it all falls between November and April-May. Effectively, then, we are a schizophrenic climate: desert for half the year, and pretty wet the other half. Our Great Wall, the Sierra Nevada, does a wonderful job wringing out rain and snow from the Pacific Ocean, giving us an amazing, fertile valley for much of the year and very deep snow drifts during the winters and springtimes (the entrance to Lassen Volcanic National Park usually has ten feet of snow by the end of the season).

Of course, being a Civilised Nation, we've plumbed the hell out of the whole river system, and now support one of the largest urban centers on Earth with water from 400 miles away. We've also dammed nearly every river flowing out of the Sierra Nevada, doing great damage to one of the largest Chinook salmon runs in the world. Both of these are issues I feel strongly about, but I won't go into them here.

Like every boy, I've always been fascinated by good engineering. The juggling act that our dam managers have to conduct, keeping the balls of water storage, flood protection, and electricity generation in the air, is amazing. They pore over weather predictions, flow charts, market prices and myriad other factors in determining just how much water to keep: If you let too much go, there may not be another storm; but if you hold onto too much, you just might find yourself having to flood downstream communities. Obviously, timely information and working equipment are vital, as is having boots on the ground, as it were.

When the weather gets this crazy, I often think of a story that may have happened when I was a boy. In the early 1980's, a great hydrological engineer by the name of Nathaniel Hastings worked on-site at a dam in the foothills. It was a sizeable dam, and protected a few towns directly downstream. Nathaniel was very good at his job, knew the weather like nobody else, and knew when and just how much to open those flood gates. Of course, in California's zeal for the Next Big Thing, he (and a number of other engineers at dams up and down the Valley) was replaced by a system of mechanical equipment, cables and such, that were operated centrally from the power company's headquarters. In Mr. Hastings' case, literally, there was a gigantic cable-operated lever (for you Brits, that's pronounced lehvr, not leevr) installed right where he used to sit at the controls.

Well wouldn't you know it, the on-and-off nature of California's climates being what it is, a huge cold front froze up the mechanical equipment, and with the roads out (why plow when nobody is going to be there?), the next rainfall blew out the gates, and flooded three towns and hundreds of thousands of farm acres.

It was then that California learned its lesson: better Nate than lever.

Winter is here... but, so is Spring, say the birds

2012-03-13T11:28:00.002-07:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Last week we got our first Winter storm (1/2" of rain in 24 hours) and this week the storm doors have really opened up. It looks like Winter through the week and on into the next. For here, that means rain and rain and more rain in the Valley, and big snows in the aptly named Sierra Nevada.

Of course this happens during my wife's two-week break from her 70-hour-per-week job, and my chance to get outside and work in the yard and garden...

Speaking of the garden, the severe temperature swings over the last few days (70 degrees F to 35), plus my not-by-the-minute watering, have caused my three-inch cabbages to bolt. Thankfully, the bok choy and collard greens still look good.

The trees and vines are happy, and a few successful cuttings from my first pomegranate pruning are leafing out. The latter is especially exciting, as I am happy to get additional trees started for either privacy from the neighbors or for sale (both?). Heck, I could start a pomegranate orchard... if I had more than 1/8 acre, including house.

To me, the real signs of Spring come from the sky: the local birds are paired up. Scrub jays, mockingbirds, yellow-billed magpies and white-tailed kites are among the bigger nesting birds in our neighborhood. The poor doves (Zenaida macroura, mourning doves) are as dumb as posts when it comes to nest location and building, building on grates, in windy spots, or so close to the door that they spook and knock their eggs through their horribly constructed nests. The act would be quite funny if it weren't so tragic in its conclusions and came with such a melancholy song to go with it. Nevertheless, mourning doves seem to have taken a page from the rock doves and Eurasion collared doves and are becoming quite successful city dwellers.

I'm always happy to see our endemic magpies, Pica nuttalli, the yellow-bills. Like all magpies, they have suffered greatly from the invasion of West Nile virus, and I fear their numbers might not adapt quickly enough to survive. They are wonderfully colorful, and a little exotic to me, as there were never any magpies on the Delta where I grew up. We would only see them on trips to the movies or the grocery store "in town", a forty mile drive.

The kites are amazing flyers, passing food in mid-flight and doing other tricks, showing off to one another, and also careening into the neighborhood redtailed hawk. They make a great example for a successful marriage.

If you've never seen Elanus leucurus you are missing out on a wonderful show. Their hunting style is rare: they not only kite, per their name (every raptor around here kites, else they'd never eat, what with the wind). Kites hover. Only two other birds I know hover around here, hummingbirds and kestrels. In fact, their striking colors, plus their hovering ability and, I'm sure, their breathtaking stoops (a straight drop from hover, wings extended above) have given them another common name: Angel kites.

We also have regular "lbb's", little brown birds of various species. Our gigantic trees allow a number of mountain migrants to overwinter, and we often see nuthatches, creepers, juncos (whose tiny, sweet song I noticed for the first time this year), and the occasional warbler in them. In the backyard cover, a hermit thrush makes an appearance. A nuttall's woodpecker visits the walnut tree. High overhead, snow geese and white-fronted geese pass to and from the local wetlands conservancy, fattening up for the couple-thousand-mile trek to Alaska for the Summer.

And, frustratingly, since my neighbors cut down their palm tree home, a mugging of starlings now pressures and bullies and pushes their way into other birds' nests. Vile European colonists spreading their urbanizing, monochromatic influence into the neighborhood, literally kicking out eggs onto the street. Yes, I get the irony.

Sacramento is still blessed with a good variety of birds, even with the colonizers, because of our location (on a waterfowl flyway and at the bottom of a ten thousand foot mountain range) and the amount of land we conserve for habitat. Shoot, we even have a federally protected Wild & Scenic River running right through the city proper.

Listening to the birds, I am heartened. I know that Spring is springing, even in this storm. All's right with the world.

The typical salacious photo to get all the reader traffic going...

BIG homemade clamp - no problem

2012-03-07T15:43:00.000-08:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Thanks to the note I left myself in the previous post, I measured out my adjustable sawhorse to adjust to the height of my Workmate bench, so I can postpone a second sawhorse for the time. Today, then, the little guy and I went to a local hardware store to pick up some carriage bolts and wingnuts. He fell asleep on the drive home, so I gingerly placed him on the bed, then ran outside and cut two 2x2 pieces to five-foot lengths and drilled twenty-two holes into them (eleven in each one). Now I just need to cut two triangles from a piece of oak I've got lying around, and I've got a five-foot clamp for edge gluing wide pieces. For about ten bucks.

All this is in preparation for my first major project: A sturdy, utilitarian tilt-top table/bench combo. Of course, I got too squirrely-excited about it and showed my wife what I was aiming to build. It's from a library book, and when I showed her the cover picture of my proposed project she then asked, pointing to a chimney cabinet with raised panel doors, "Why don't you make that one, instead? Where are you going to put a table?" I suppose I should thank my lucky stars she didn't ask how much the materials will cost, but nevertheless, it was a blow. I picked the table because it looks super-easy and useful for my workshop (maybe I can even take down my packed-away fly-tying materials and put them on it), and hopefully continues to help my confidence.

It is nice that she thinks I can cut raised panels and mortise-and-tenon them by hand (no router; no table saw). Heck, it's nice that she thinks I can cut wood both square and true. However, neither of these are yet within my skill level to the degree that I could make anything approaching a pretty cabinet for my wife.

But you can believe that's what I'm working toward.

(Pics of the clamps later, when they are holding something worth photographing.)

Projects for projects

2012-03-06T20:55:00.000-08:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Today, for about five dollars less than the price of a plastic, standard sawhorse, I built an adjustable-height one:


Reminder to self: Make sure it adjusts to the same height as the workmate bench

This took about two hours to build, not including the constant running back into the house to look at the plans on the computer (yes, we have a laptop, but it was really windy today, 30 mph with 50 mph gusts, and I didn't want to break it). I wish I could say I designed it, but no; the plans can be found here.

Tomorrow's project is a homemade clamp, but not just any clamp. With this clamp I'll be able to edge-glue large, flat pieces, like what you might find on tables. More pictures soon.

These projects, tools and equipment for other jobs, are doubly rewarding. They provide cheap alternatives to store-bought products, and boost my confidence with each build.

The workshop works, now on to the projects.

2012-03-05T22:53:00.000-08:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

I've installed the second pegboard, finished my rotary tool storage, and put a hole in the workshop wall and stuck the back end of the vacuum through it, so I am ready to go. For my first project, I started small: An Aldo Leopold bench (just google "Aldo Leopold bench" and find a design while also learning a bit about the man). Today me and the boyo went down to a local big box store and picked up a couple of 2x8 boards, and put it together:

One Leopold bench... now to finish that boysenberry trellis.

Now that I have successfully built this bench, I've get some much-needed morale for some of the larger projects I ultimately have in mind (table with storage, swing set, outdoor kitchen, second floor for the cottage, etc.).

The garden is going up and experiments continue, in particular the filling for the potato bin. This year, since we don't have ducks, we haven't bought additional straw, so I'm using the walnut leaves from the leaf pile. I'm pretty sure their composition has changed in the past few months, and it looks like good stuff to use. Best of all, it's free. Phoebe and I cut some seed potatoes, tossed them in a few at a time, and filled up the bin with the leaves. Keep your fingers crossed.

In the meantime, the raised bed where those leaves had sat looks good, and after this next cold front moves through, we'll start putting in some other seeds.

The worm bin has been going slower than I'd hoped, and we don't really have a whole lot of worm compost. Now, I'm stuck with a nitrogen problem in my cabbage/collard/onion/leek bed. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated. The slugs haven't been too hard on the plants, yet, and I've been picking one or two per day out from under the slug board.

The weather has been wonderful: When it isn't a day in the mid 60's-low 70's, it's dropping a half-inch of rain here in the Valley and multiple feet of snow in the mountains.

Oh, and this week I'm out cutting rose shoots for arrows. I'll have pictures later.

LOTM: Greens on the Margin

2012-02-28T18:28:00.000-08:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

I took the kids out to a nice greens spot yesterday, took some photos, and posted a piece at my Lands on the Margin blog on picking greens and what you can find right now in California. The link also adds to my collection of Useful Plants of California's Edgelands.

Other pages here

2012-02-25T18:01:00.000-08:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

If you haven't noticed, I've got a couple of additional pages (linked right below the title up there) for your perusal.

If you have ever been interested in using green walnuts... then, sadly, you are very much like me. Anyhoo, feel free to visit my Green Walnuts page. I've got quite a few recipes for those that get knocked out of the tree early by your friendly neighborhood squirrels.

I also have a link to my "Lands on the Margin" writings. It's still a bit under construction, but over there you can find my love for those little (and big) chunks of land that tend to get ignored, but that have much to offer (foraging, hunting, fishing, and just living). As I organize my thoughts, I'll put together my experiences, advice and recommendations for adventuring in these great places.

Last, I've reposted my River Nature Tours page, with an addition: I now offer services for companies and organizations looking for more inspiring places to conduct conferences and in-service meetings. If you are interested, check out the idea here and then email me for more information.

I would especially appreciate feedback from readers. Let me know what you think works, what doesn't work, and what you might like to see (or read) that I may be able to provide. Thanks!

Storage and organization on a real budget

2012-02-19T11:11:00.000-08:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

Last year, for some godforsaken reason, we finally succumbed to our media overlords and purchased cable TV. In our defense, it made internet access much cheaper and gave us a land-line. Plus, we bought the cheapest deal, the "family package", in which we discovered that families don't watch sports or news (you know, like the kind that basic cable gets you), those being too fru-fru, I suppose. There is probably a gem about the economic well-being of American families in there, somewhere; I'm just too tired to mine for it right now.

Anyhoo, I must admit that I have become hopelessly addicted to the DIY Network channel, with its interesting shows, its upbeat personalities, its 'go get 'em, Tiger!' attitude. Even its commercial breaks tend to be entertaining, containing little tips on how to lay a floor, build an addition, put in crown moulding, etc. The danger of the Do-It-Yourself channel is that it starts to convince you that you can, in fact, do it yourself. However, there are some pitfalls, especially for a person who can only afford cable that doesn't even give him CNN.

It's the little things that get to me, like how to save ten grand on your kitchen upgrade (if my kitchen upgrade saved ten grand, it would leave me about $9,950 richer than I am now). Or the army of helpers, power tools, and expertise each show comes equipped with. If I had a radial-arm saw, a four hundred horsepower compressor, nail guns and a table saw with a cavalry's-worth of sawhorses, I honestly believe I could do it myself. But, as I am reluctant even to purchase the 4x8 plywood for the lazy susan spinning shelf, my abilities are a tad constrained. (In its defense, DIY Network has a show called "Renovation Realities", where they basically pick on people who don't have bottomless tool sheds and scores of minions... but, at least it is reality TV that shows reality.)

I do have a ($75) bandsaw and some rotary tool stuff. I even have a circular saw. And I have various wood-removing hand tools (scraper, teeny handplane, dentally-challenged Japanese pull-saw, tiny Marples saw*). Of course, most of my tools have a beautiful, light, even layer of rust on their flat parts, a result of the seive-like roof of Castle Rattington, the storage shed. I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of sawing down a palm tree with a Japanese pullsaw, but let me tell you that it's even more fun when the sawblade is missing a few teeth and looks like it was stored in a collander in a tidal zone.

I'd been overwhelmed by the notion of tackling that storage shed for a couple of years, and it wasn't until I tore out every hidey-hole for furred vermin that I realized I had a diamond-in-the-rough. It's big enough (say, 14'x7'), and after removing the weird shelving from a previous owner, I felt like I had something to work with. I knuckled under and bought a sheet of pegboard, hung a bunch of tools, and suddenly the place actually felt useful. What I needed was more organizing storage... which, if one were completely seduced by the DIY channel and various interesting sites on the internet, would require more purchases.

Shaking my head to remove the consumerist fog, I looked around at what I already had: An old duck-and-dog house that, for emotional reasons, I still can't touch; a few cedar fenceboards that I'd purchased when I realized how useful and cheap they are; various hinges and such from previous unfinished projects; a pile of wood boxes I'd acquired via craigslist's free site (another addiction that doesn't cost a thing, except perhaps the emotional state of one's spouse). I cut a couple of boxes to size, attached them to a piece of cedar fenceboard, and now I've got a nifty little container for the rotary tool drill press. I plan to mount it to the bottom of of a cedar fenceboard shelf, and build a cedar fenceboard spinning shelf atop it for the rotary tool bits and pieces.

I just may have the nicest-smelling workshop in town.

...did I mention that the boxes were free?

*Why did I buy a bunch of tiny tools? Because I needed/wanted woodworking tools at one time, and in the store, the tiny versions are about twenty bucks cheaper... for good reason. Advice for a future me: just buy the danged router and regular tools, and don't think that tiny tools can do anything other than make tiny things.

A New Year

2012-02-18T07:34:00.000-08:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

When your life revolves around outside activities, the number version of a year doesn't always apply.

Yesterday, Phoebe, Ruben and I re-began our plantings. About a month ago, when it looked like we wouldn't get any Winter, Phoebe and I put seeds in the ground. Nothing fancy, just some root veggies and broccoli, the idea being that they would pop up by the time of the next rain; but what came first was maybe ten days of freezing mornings, so no luck.

Now, with February flying by, we buckled down. On Sunday, I purchased flats of cabbage, bok choy, onions, leeks, and collard greens, and two days ago we put down our first three rows. Phoebe, being five, can do a lot more now, and was carefully planting and patting down with me. Even Ruben, who'd been fussy that morning, was downright chipper and well-behaved (crazy for a sixteen-month old).

I'm nervous as heck that the menace that was the slug will return in force now that we no longer can turn them into eggs (via duck ducts). I've got some old oyster shells lying around from our time with the birds, and I may pulverize them even more, and sprinkle them around the plants, but I must do something, so any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Further afield, the greens are in full force on the Delta. In fact, if you get out there right now, you may find some amazing mustard greens with just-about-flowering tips. They look like broccoli raab, and they taste wonderful. Another couple of weeks and it'll be bitter-city out there among the mustard, although I've noticed that the radishes have yet to flower so much.

To me, really, February is the New Year. Last year's hunting seasons end at the end of January, and planting for early varieties begins now. Waterfowl are in full force on the Delta, decked to the nines in their mating plumage. Fishing changes, and we start to gear up for some pre-spawn action in March and look for big storm runoff to set our catfish spots afire. The days even start to feel a bit longer. Although we only really get cooped up when storms pass through, it still gives me a sense of cabin fever knowing that everything is going to start to pop really soon.

Lordy, I wouldn't stand a chance living in a Northern clime.


A crummy picture of my first planted bed this year... The Sun is just too bright here in California.

Looking inward... to the workshop, and to personal space.

2012-02-07T16:01:00.000-08:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

After seeing Mr. Fashion House's amazing hobby-shop, I knew I had to organize my space. I'm now going to town on my workshop, having purchased not one, but TWO pegboards. I just tore out some old shelving put up by some previous owner, and installed one of the pegboards, and I must say, it is looking much better. So much better that I am beginning to believe in starting some projects again.

Of course, I was going to head out today to pick nettles and see if my old single-shot twenty gauge still worked, but today was the day Winter decided to come out here in California, so the rain sent me inside. I'm not complaining about the rain - in fact, by putting me in the shed, it gave me a twinge of hope for a space that is mine, a rare commodity in a 900 sq. ft. house with two little children.

I'm not the type to bang my chest and say, "my ManCave, my Space! You Go!" to my little, doe-eyed, amazing kids. First of all, I've noticed that the ridiculous trend of putting "man" in front of words kinda makes things sound gay (not that there's anything wrong with that). But, even if I did try to get all macho and keep them out, one (five year old) would just laugh at me and the other (16 months) would push me out of the way; he could do it, too.

Really, I wasn't raised to make a fuss for a grown-up space; I was raised that children are people just as adults are people, and so I give "my space" up for the time being.

How I get some space is through cunning mind-games: First, just like drinking iced tea without sugar, or eating liver, I get space by making it boring or distasteful. Second, I make it so that I can watch them in another space, and then make that space much more fun, while I do some of my own things.

Do these tricks always work? No. For example, my children absolutely love liver. They would eat it every day if they could. But, do these tricks almost never work, but sound good? Absolutely. You see, kids like to do whatever grown-ups are doing, whether it be sitting on our butts watching some horribly inappropriate murder mystery, or building a bow. As I've heard it put, "they'd want chocolate covered poop if you had it", and really, you don't even need the chocolate. So for those of you with kids, no more crack! And for those of you without kids, you had darn-well better absolutely flipping love children if you are going to have them, because they will be doing their darndest to give you a colonoscopy for years.

Right now, my wonderful kids are being watched by my absolutely amazing parents, and so I have time to do things that would be dangerous for them. Okay, at this moment I'm typing, but in a few minutes I'll be vacuuming up rat feces (sadly, child labor laws prevent the latter from being delegated, but it is all for the Greater Good). Soon, I will have a space to make better and faster bows and arrows with which my children may more effectively terrorize the neighborhood.

So, back to my shed before I get to run down and grab up my children. And for the record, I absolutely flipping, head-over-heels love them.

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Note: To check my spelling, I occasionally type in the Google box the first part of a word; in this case, I typed "colon" because Blogspot here tells me that "colonoscopy" is misspelled (of course, it also says that "Blogspot" is misspelled). Anyhoo, I thought I'd share the top ten choices that Google offers a person who types in "colon". They are: colonoscopy, colon cancer, colon cleanse, colon, colonial life, colonial willamsburg, colonic, colonialism, colonial penn, colonel sanders.

That last one just threw me for a loop.

Back at it... hopefully

2012-01-19T12:35:00.000-08:00

© 2012 Joshua Stark

After taking a couple months off from blogging, I'm giving it another go.

Quick update: No animals now, just garden and foraging and hunting. In the garden, my daughter and I have planted some greens, but they aren't looking good (we had quite a cold snap for California, but only 3 hours of rain in the past 50 days). We will probably re-plant in February: beets, broccoli, rutabagas, collard greens. We'll also plant some potatoes in our successful bamboo windowblind potato patch.

Also, I hope to take on some larger tasks: Building a smoker, maybe even an outdoor bread oven, and some general yard improvements. I also hope to keep this site regular, including updating the "in-season" section. And look for a how-to on nettle cooking, too! We still need the video to accompany our picking vid.