The year of the bird

Forget the Chinese Calendar.

2009 was definitely The Year of the Bird for us.

It all started when they invaded our home. And continued when they kept coming back. But then, when our sunflowers were two weeks from being harvested, they really did us in.

Turns out 53.2 acres of nearly-dry sunflowers is a 24-hour all-you-can eat buffet for birds.

The experimental sunflower crop of 2009 was harvested two days ago. Quite successfully, I might add. But prior to that, my job every day for two solid weeks? To load the four-wheeler, take it to the field, bundle up, and chase birds across the sunflowers with a certified "for agricultural use" mini-pistol (it looks like a water gun), and ammo called "Screamer Sirens" and "Bird Bangers".

You see, the fields on this part of the farm are flanked by the following: Interstate 10 on the north, Super Wal-Mart, Sally Beauty Supply and Panda Express (among other places of business) on the west, a housing development to the south, and the Snyder's Pretzels factory to the east.

Needless to say, a shotgun really isn't an option.

So, we stick with our "screamers" and "bangers" and the minimal threat they pose to massive flocks of blackbirds.

My mom called one day while I was on bird duty and asked what I was up to. After I told her, she said, "There's not some sort of net you could put over them or something?"

"Mom, over a 54 acre field of sunflowers? I'm not talking about a garden here." (But I was a lot more polite about it than that statement sounds here. All about tone, right?)

After just the first five days, I ran out of ammunition. The only manufacturer in the U.S. for this stuff? Located in Greenville, Mississippi. And, since it is classified as a "pyrotechnic", they make you sign your life away to buy it, and charge you a $30 HAZMAT fee, tacked on to whatever outrageous overnight shipping price they had.

And the only distributor in the entire state of Arizona? Located in Yuma, at the Vegetable Growers Supply.

Unfamiliar with Arizona geography? Yuma is located three hours southwest of Buckeye. Right on the border of both California and Mexico. And that three hours is through some of the most barren desert landscape possible. From what I've seen, I would classify it as the second ugliest drive in the state.

Brandon was a little upset I didn't make it back that evening in time to help him move cows. But I told him, "Look, I drove to Yuma today so I could chase birds for another entire week. Let's just be happy about that, okay?"

Anyway, it didn't take very many days of chasing birds before I loathed it.

Brandon asked one day why I disliked it so much. I told him, "If I really felt like it was doing any good, it would be fine, but I blow a screamer through them, they fly twelve rows over, and we repeat. They never leave."

Trying to be motivational, he asked, "Well, how much are they eating while they're flying around?"

I was forced to answer "Nothing," to this question, but I'm not sure it made me feel much better.

Brandon was driving a tractor in the field next to me when I left to change water one afternoon. I guess a giant flock migrated in, and he went to resume my post, because I received the following text messages:

"You were right about these birds."

"They keep coming back."

"When are you going to be back?"

We eventually were able to get the birds to migrate out of our field and into some cotton several times a day. You would feel a temporary sense of accomplishment and pride in your work. Then, as soon as you turned your back to celebrate a little, they would begin migrating right back in mini-flocks of thirty or so, and before you knew it, the entire mass of them was back in the field.

But it's all over now. They're still out there pecking at what was left behind the combine, but at least they're not eating up our profit all day long anymore.

And one of my jobs today? To add more mesh screening to the attic ventilation holes around our house so birds quit nesting in there.

I'm telling you, it really is The Year of the Bird.

Finger lickin' good

Somehow, we made out with an entire pecan pie from Thanksgiving dinner.

(I'm just going to attribute it to my favorite daughter-in-law status. Good thing I don't have much competition.)

I was nice enough to save the last piece for Brandon. And by last "piece", I'm talking a good quarter of the pie, y'all. Anything smaller would be classified as a "bite" by Brandon.

So, here he is, enjoying his piece of pie, which was already two-thirds consumed at this point:

Told you it was big.

So big, in fact, he just had to eat it like a sandwich.

So here you go, Mason. Never let Brandon give you a hard time for not using utensils again.

I like what I see

Brandon has shared this story at every social encounter we've had since it occurred. He seems to enjoy it. So I thought I would just make it a little easier on him.

Last weekend, we were helping ourselves to leftovers at his parents' house. It was our first meal of the day at 11am, so I was a little hungry.

Okay, starving.

Anyway, we make our plates. I have four corn tortillas with shredded pork and salsa in them.

Apparently, four tacos is way too much for me to be eating.

Brandon exclaimed, "Four tacos! You're going to eat all that?! Really?"

...And then proceeded to make a big fuss about the four tacos on my plate.

In order to eat my four tacos in peace, I finally replied, "You know what? When I look in the mirror, I like what I see lately. So you just keep it up over there, and I'm going to eat my tacos. All four of them."

He just said, "Wow. How can I argue with that?"

And I enjoyed my tacos. All four of them.

Following the mountain goat

Hunting season is officially over for us. And thank goodness. The farm needs attention, and I'm ready to stay out of the cactus.

I had another close encounter with the beloved desert plant last weekend. As if sitting in it weren't enough.

And it was all because I made a conscious choice to follow my husband over the mountains, through the canyons, up the rock walls, ...and eventually into the cactus.

Anyone who has ever traipsed through the mountains with Brandon knows he has the climbing abilities of a mountain goat.

I, on the other hand, do not.

I was always one of those kids everyone called grace. Due to my lack of it. Let's just say things haven't changed much.

I fared rather well on Friday, kept up with him, and really can't complain one bit about that day.

Saturday was a different story.

The morning was great. We made a nice little trek to a mountain top where we had a rock cubby hole and an excellent vantage point for glassing.

But for some crazy reason, Brandon wasn't satisfied to remain there all day. Despite the good view and all the deer we had seen. No, he wanted to go across to the next mountain, through a little draw, and up and around another mountain.

After all that, we didn't see one deer that evening.

Just before dark, we set off to make our way back to the trail. Brandon's "hunch" on the best way back led us to three different sets of rock bluffs, each with a 40 to 50 foot drop. Not exactly ideal.

So, we backtracked to find a new route. At this point, dark was quickly approaching. And Brandon was in a bigger hurry than usual. He was not handling my slower-paced mountain descent very well. But it was dark. And steep. I thought I was moving fast.

At some point when I was practically running to catch up with him, I got tangled in a cactus, tripped, and sent a giant piece of it into the flesh on my shin. When I finally caught up, I told him what had slowed me down some. He said, "Well let's get it out."

But I wanted off that mountain.

So we forged on.

By the time we arrived back at camp, all the rubbing my leg did on my overalls had broken off the cactus thorns flush with my skin. There was no pulling them out. For the following two days, my leg was red and puffy around the thorns, and I ended up removing some bits and pieces.

After all this, I had to watch him scale a rock above me Monday morning. I was supposed to follow. He was seriously rock climbing. Hanging mid-air from a giant bluff, where one slip of a hiking boot would have had dire consequences. I couldn't even watch him do it. No way was I taking that same route.

When he was halfway up, I yelled at him, "Brandon Leister, if you don't come off this mountain today, I will never forgive you." And I meant it.

Luckily, we found a different route for me. Still climbing across giant rocks, just not up the side of a completely vertical one.

Brandon had the opportunity to see me absolutely petrified this weekend. Like the kind of pure terror where tears are streaming down your face and you're shaking all over and just can't stop. He found it extremely entertaining.

Some of the rocks boulders on these mountains look like they could topple over on top of you any second. They are leaning on edge, supported by a corner, and stacked only against one another.

All I was doing to scare myself to death was climbing down from the exact same rocks I climbed up through. Only going down, I could see below me. The only way I got up those rocks in the first place was by telling myself, "These rocks hold bears. They can hold 140 pounds of human."

That's right. The fact the rocks I was climbing into held bears was my only comforting thought.

But, I made it down (obviously). Without a scratch.

Well, except for the remaining cactus thorns in my leg, anyway.

Which brings us to Tuesday night. Three days after the cactus incident. I got out a pair of tweezers, and pulled this out of my leg:

A full half-inch of cactus thorn.

There's just one left I can feel under the skin, but can't find where it needs to pop out. Other than that, I'm all healed.

And that's what I get for following a mountain goat.

Husband of the century. Still under debate.

The night we returned from Brandon's deer hunt, I was unloading the cooler and heard him banging on the back door in the office, flashlight in hand.

I let him in and realized he had a regular flashlight, not his scorpion-hunting blacklight flashlight.

"What were you doing out there?"

"Oh, I was just checking to see if I was going to get the Husband of the Year Award."

"Oh really? And how did that go for you?"

"I'm more like Husband of the Century. We have green grass. And I'm not talking about green bermuda grass. Green rye grass."

"So how does that qualify you for Husband of the Century? A green yard was practically a prenup for us. It's the only way I agreed to move to the desert."

"I said I would give you a summer yard. I didn't say anything about a winter yard."

"Well, I just said a green yard. Period."

Thank you

To all veterans for their service, and their families for their sacrifice:

If you give a mouse a...saltine cracker

Wednesday morning, just after breakfast, one of our big hay customers calls to set up a load. He had mentioned to Brandon he might be coming out to visit sometime soon, so at the end of the conversation, Brandon asks if he knew when that might be yet.

Bob from Texas says, "Well, we'll be pullin' out of here Sunday, and should be at your place Monday mornin'."

Brandon stammers a bit, and I stare at the phone with a dropped jaw. (Dude's from Texas. He talks loud. I could hear everything.)

You see, Brandon's deer hunt (and our last hunting excursion for 2009) is this weekend. We planned to head out Thursday afternoon and return Monday evening.

Which, luckily, bought us a little time with Bob.

Brandon informed him we would be out of town until Monday and asked if we could plan to get together Tuesday instead. Bob agreed.

Because the other problem with this situation was I had been out of town until the night before this phone call. And we all know what happens when men are left alone in the house.

In fact, the day before I returned home, I received a call from Brandon. Just to warn me my house was a disaster. No other reason for the call. It didn't help much that we've been running in and out on all these hunting trips for the past few weeks either. Or that we have processed two giant elk in the middle of our kitchen recently.

So, Wednesday quickly turned into a cleaning rampage to muck out our house. While I was at it, I rearranged the pantry and cleaned out the fridge.

And the pantry part is where the mouse comes in. We have these two boxes on the bottom shelf of the pantry to hold things like granola bars, popcorn, trail mix, craisins, raisins, pretzels, etc.

I realized our snack items could be condensed into one box. But when I got to the bottom of the granola bar box, I found a shredded wrapper and pieces of granola and mouse...residue.

I began sifting through the other things on that shelf to look for more evidence. I moved things around as slowly as possible, trying not to disturb any slumbering mice. I'm not really scared of critters like that, I just don't really want them jumping out and surprising me.

Sure enough, the unopened box of saltine crackers had a whole in one corner, and one stack of crackers had been disturbed.

Brandon came in a bit later, and I said, "Hey, I think we have a mouse in the pantry," and showed him the shreds of granola bar wrapper and cracker box.

"Yep, sure do. It probably came from a camping trip. I've never had one in the house before."

"Well, we did have the box of crackers when we were camping."

Then, this morning, I noticed the little sucker had tried to make his way into a bag of tortilla chips. So I found our mouse poison and we set it up on the bottom shelf, where everything he has tried to eat has been located.

And now we wait.

The only problem? Leaving town.

After Brandon set the bait, I said, "Great, now the mouse is going to eat that stuff and die tonight and we we're going to find him rotting in our pantry in four days."

Brandon: "Yeah, and Bob and his wife are going to walk in here Tuesday wondering what the smell is, and I'm going to have to tell them my wife just doesn't keep a tidy house."