I bet this is something you rarely find in the city -- our neighbor kidnapped a road.
If you use Google Maps to find our place, it shows Nordic Ridge Road hitting County Road 252. Which is odd, since if you actually drive on CR252, all you see at that supposed intersection is our neighbor's gate. I thought that was strange, until I finally realized that our neighbor simply gated off most of the road and declared it his driveway.
I used to think if you nailed something down it couldn't be stolen, but I never figured on how big cajones are in Nerd Country.
Showing posts with label bubba. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bubba. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Roadnapping
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Politically Incorrect Restaurants
Something about the Tex-Mex restaurant that just opened in Bertram makes me uncomfortable. I think it's the name:
Yes, you're reading that right, it's "Los Mezkan's", which for you non-Spanish speakers out there means "The Mexican's". Wait, I'm getting a cable from the Mexican embassy -- ok, that's not really Spanish, it's just slang. Hmph.
Anyway, I know calling someone "Mezkan" isn't really an insult, but it still seems weird. It'd be like opening a place that serves traditional "white people" food and calling it "Cracker's" or something.
Oh. Well. Bad example. But you'd never see a restaurant whose name could be construed as an insulting term for Black people, right? Right?!
I give up. Maybe we're normal here in Bertram after all.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Marking Your Turf
Any man who owns a sizable piece of property who claims he hasn't peed on it is either a liar or wears a colostomy bag.
We might not share much biology with wolves, but psychologically we definitely have the Pee Gene ("Markus Territorius") in common. There's something very pleasing about splashing about on the back ninety, like planting a very watery stake in the ground that says "MINE!" Now granted, you can take the concept too far, as the woman at HEB claims I did when I was "claiming" my truck in the parking lot, but the principle stands.
I like to imagine that marking the fence line will repel rapacious coyotes. They'll come up, hungry for horse or donkey meat, and encounter the manly fruit of my kidneys (can liquid be a fruit? maybe the "fruit juice" of my kidneys, then) which causes them to flee in terror. It's much likelier, of course, that they'll immediately start drawing straws on who gets to be first at the buffet.
"Smells like Microsoft, Bill."
"Break out the forks, Bob, I'm goin' in."
Still, 101 acres is a lot to cover. I think I'm going to have to invest in some shares of Diet Coke ("Billions and Billions of Gallons of 'Fruit Juice' Produced So Far!") and block out some time if I'm going to get to it all ...
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Get Your Ass On the Porch
Literally:
While visiting the front of the house, the donkeys ate some expensive monkey-grass we had just planted, knocked over two planters, decimated some plastic flowers we'd put out, tore down the rope intended to keep them out, and made numerous hoofprints in the granite gravel walkway.
Now I know why "jack-ass" is an insult!
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
MODAD Gets Bent
With the "most expensive piece of glass on the vehicle" replaced in my truck, the garden hose patched, and the small mower dropped off at the shop for wheel replacement therapy, I turned my attention to repairing the damage wrought both by and to MODAD and discovered why he was so grumpy:
That's what just one day of living the country life can do to high-tech equipment. Let that be a lesson to all you wanna-be Bubba Nerds out there.
I replaced the blade on Saturday, and on Sunday when I went to take MODAD out into the fields to play, he had two flat tires. Apparently he's still grumpy. I reminded him that in the fable, the mouse and the lion become good friends once the thorn is removed, but then I realized MODAD is a Deere. And apparently, deer are a lot less forgiving than lions.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Behold ... MODAD!
In less than 24 hours I managed to purchase an $1,800 item that allowed me to destroy an additional $1,100 of previously owned merchandise. How did I accomplish such an amazing feat? Read on, my friend, and stand in awe of the power of MODAD -- Mower of Death And Destruction -- as it proceeded to destroy:
The push mower I was using to prep the yard for the new mower.
The garden hose lying in my path. (About which I literally thought to myself, not two minutes before, "The odds of me breaking that hose with this mower while it's on its highest setting is pretty much zero." Now you know why I'm not working as an odds-maker in Vegas.)
The mulching attachment that comes with the mower, restraining band severed by a flying rock.
The side cab window of my truck (probably from the same rock that severed the mulcher in passing), which the replacement company said is, and I quote, "The most expensive piece of glass on the vehicle." I don't go halfway, baby, when I break something, I only break the best!
The author of this rampage of mayhem? I present you with MODAD -- the Mower Of Death And Destruction!
I bet it's wondering how it's going to power through the garage door blocking its escape. Keep your eyes peeled, folks -- it's getting hungry.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Authentic Italian Country
More evidence supporting the theory advanced by commenters Denise and Allen that most country businesses are just as awash in unimaginative naming as Bertram's own Earl's comes from this blurb ("Cool Places") in the August 2007 issue of "Texas Co-Op Power" newsletter:
In a part of the country where blue-plate specials are more the luncheon norm stands Frenke's Pasta & Pizza, authentic Italian fare. Hailing from Kosovo, Frank Misini opened the restaurant in 2002. There was a Mexican restaurant nearby called "Frankie's", so he named his Frenke's.
First, I don't know that coming from Kosovo -- which, if you'll check your local globe, is not in Italy -- necessarily grants you the mantle of "authentic Italian." Second, I don't know any Italians named "Frenke". Mr. Misini would have been better off just outright stealing the name of the Mexican restaurant, because I know lots of actual Italians named Frank but not one single Frenke. Being from Kosovo, of course, there's no way he could have known that. I guess that's what makes him authentic here in Nerd Country.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
A Tale of Two Earls
Willie the One-Armed Volunteer Fireman who works at the tire shop isn't the only interesting thing about the tire business in our small town. Not by a long shot.
See, this is Ear's Tire & Automotive Repair, which as you can guess from its name sells tire and automotive services.
And this is Earl's Tire and Lube, which as you can guess from its name also sells tires and automotive services.
These two stores are only about ten miles apart, one in the small town of Liberty Hill and the other in the even smaller town of Bertram, the next stop down the road. But here's the thing -- they're two different Earls.
Completely unrelated.
So let's say you're in a small town of a few dozen people. And you're driving down the road and see that your friend Earl has opened himself a tire and automotive shop. "Well heck," you think to yourself, "my name is Earl, I reckon I ought to open one of them up too. I mean, what are the odds that a business would exist that has my name built right into it?"
I asked Earl about it one time (not that Earl, the other one), and he just gave me a disgusted look and said "That sonofabitch." I didn't pursue it any further, because I didn't want Earl (not that one, the other one) to get mad at me. I need my tires to work and I'm pretty sure "Earl's Tire, Lube, and Automotive Repair" one more town over is closed on weekends.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Fruits of a Wet Summer
No, the title of this post is not a snide reference to some sort of dirty movie, I just wanted to post a couple of photos I took this morning of our house. The recent rains have resulted in a far greener beginning of summer than I can remember since moving to Texas; everything is in bloom and the local wildlife are out in force. Hope you enjoy this snapshot into what life is like in Nerd Country.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Survival Strategies
What do you do when the survival strategy you've been using no longer works?
When I watch the various animals out here at the ranch I can clearly see how evolution has shaped their instincts for survival. At the first hint of danger -- whether a lurking puma or a flapping shopping bag -- those things can asphyxiate you if you're not careful! -- horses are built for fear and speed, with fast legs and big hearts. Eternal vigilance and a willingness to flee have served them well, and they're still ever-watchful here.
The donkeys went down a more aggressive path, facing directly into danger, finding safety in numbers not through the sacrifice of the less-fleet but in the power of multiple striking hooves. When the dogs get after them, the donkeys turn and fight.
The sheep, on the other hand, settled on screwing their way out of trouble. Not at the deciding moment, of course, but rather they breed rapidly enough that they could travel in massive flocks. They huddle together for safety, ensuring that only the ones on the outside get eaten. I'm not exactly sure how they decide who gets "Outside the Circle of Trust" duty, but I would guess it involves those poor individuals who insist on chasing an inside straight to the river.
On our ranch we only have four sheep, and yet they cling to their instinctual method of survival even so. Rarely more than a few feet from each other, they still clump into a ball when danger threatens. Of course with only four of them, they fail to realize that they're ALL on the outside of the flock, putting them equally at risk of being dinner.
You can look at their insistence on the old ways as either an honorable and commendable adherence to proven tradition, or as a hopelessly hidebound reliance on a now-irrelevant custom.
So what do you do when the survival strategy you've been depending on no longer works? I'm not sure, personally, but I plan on keeping an eye on those sheep just in case they hit on something new.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Lesbian Summers
It's the first day of Summer, and apparently a young animal's thoughts turn to love ... Sapphic love, that is!
I'm home all day now working on the project so I end up keeping an eye on the animals a lot more often. And apparently, two females who are in heat will often ... er, let's see, how to word this on what is ostensibly a PG-rated blog ... imitate the mating habits more usually seen involving a male and a female.
The donkeys are doing it. The dogs are doing it. And I'm not sure, but I have my suspicions about two of the barn swallows.
I was a bit shocked the first time, but at this point it's sort of become old hat. I know for the dogs it's a dominance thing, but I'm not sure what's going on in the donkeys' minds. Or whatever other part of the anatomy is concerned. The saddest thing is when one of the full-sized jennets "introduces herself" to Charity, the little miniature female. That brings all new meaning to the phrase "She ain't heavy, she's my sister".
I don't have any large metaphysical insights to draw from this. It's just weird. But lesbian donkey sex is certainly not something I ever thought happened back in the full-time computer nerd days.
Well, ok, there was that one ill-advised Google Image search, but you can't prove that without an FBI wiretap!
Saturday, May 26, 2007
The Manliness Scale
Last week as I was hurtling my way back to Texas from New York aboard a giant metal tube at several hundred miles per hour, my wife was face to face with a six foot rattlesnake.
I don't know why these things happen when I am away from the house, but they certainly seem to do so with startling regularity. We've had dogs shot, snakes attack, and water pipes burst on those rare occasions when I vacate the premises. Perhaps I have some secret, unsuspected power over nature, the ability to bend probability to my own advantage so that I'm rarely exposed to such things.
In any event, I was not here to help with the six foot rattlesnake, slithering through our back yard much to the displeasure of our dogs, who were leaping straight up into the air and barking ferociously. That's what alerted Annie to the problem, and it didn't take long after her rush to the yard to hear the dreaded rattling sound. Somehow she managed to call the dogs off without any of them getting bitten, which is pretty amazing. And luckily our farrier (horse hoof guy) Gil was on-site. She asked him if he'd shoot the snake, but in his British accent he brushed aside such vulgarity.
No, Gil's what you call a "Real Man" -- he picked the rattler up with his bare hands, shoved it in a sack, and drove it off for release far away. I wouldn't be surprised to find out he milked it for anti-venom along the way. With his teeth.
Gil had definitely set the gold standard for The Manliness Scale. Gripping a deadly reptile longer than he was is a hard act to follow, but I vowed I'd somehow live up to it. Little did I know I'd get my chance a scant three days later, as I got up close and personal with a black widow spider.
I had gone into the small area where we keep the water softener, and near the back saw a spider web. Drawing closer, I saw the baneful red hourglass leap off the black abdomen of the arachnid lurking there. My mind flashed back to Gil's example, how manly his actions were, and what would be expected of a proper Texas rancher.
So I picked up a shovel and skooshed it.
OK, so when it comes to the handling of poisonous creatures, Gil used his hands on a six footer and I had to use a shovel on something less than half an inch in size. I'm not proud of my reaction. But I didn't scream like a little girl, or at least no one heard me. And I'm pretty sure I didn't soil myself at any point.
All of which, taken into account, at this point means the "Manliness Scale" goes like this:
Gil
Annie
The dogs
The donkeys
The cat
The sheep
Me
Wildflowers
I'm movin' up, baby!
Monday, May 21, 2007
Baby Got Back
I knew I had returned to Nerd Country from New York City when I had my head almost shoved into a sheep's butt while shearing it.
Not 24 hours earlier I'd been breakfasting in a chic NYC deli on Broadway (scrambled eggs with tomato and salmon on foccacia bread, thank you very much), and yet at 10:00 on Saturday morning I found myself wrestling with Chubby the sheep. (The juvenile among you can now insert your own "Jeff got a Chubby while messing with his sheep" joke here. There now, feel better? Good.) His coat had not been sheared the year before, and it had gotten to truly Bob Marley-esque proportions, looking like some dreadlock-ridden Bubba Gone Wild. He was miserable in the heat, and the brutal 100-degree stretch hadn't even started yet.
So Annie got on Craig's List and put out a call for anyone willing to come teach us how to fleece a sheep. Taylor, a local high school student, answered and agreed to come out. Miraculously, Annie had a horse clinic to attend on the appointed day, leaving yours truly on sheep-wrangling duty. Luckily Chubby is pretty friendly, so between Taylor, her mom, and me we got him haltered and tied to a post in the barn.
Now, for the record, sheep don't much like being sheared. I can't blame them, the electric blades are kind of loud, and being tied up without a "safe word" isn't much fun. Plus, you know, sheep are pretty much born looking for a place to die, so they're scared of most anything. I don't believe electric shears resemble a cougar, but you never know what the world looks like to an herbivore.
Taylor brought three sets of shears, which is good because they get overheated very quickly, especially with a coat as thick as Chubby's. After three hours we had him mostly done, leaving just the neck and his belly for comfort while lying down. I got the privilege of doing his rear end, as I mentioned earlier, and believe me, there are few things more fun than holding down a sheep while trying to apply a buzzing, clacking, black set of shears to his holiest of holies. I'm pretty sure I need to go to confession now.
Anyway, since Chubby was done we had a choice -- call it a day or go for the Twin who had a pretty thick coat of its own. I say "its own" because, frankly, I don't know how to sex a sheep. (Yes yes, "Get it on the fence first," very funny. Go away.) Whatever its gender, the Twin had about half its fleece still stubbornly clinging on, and being a guy I said, "Well, we're here anyway, might as well give it a shot."
Ten minutes later, as I flung myself bodily through the air and landed with a thud on the Twin while it desperately tried to escape, my glasses crushed somewhere in the poop-laden pasture, I started rethinking my sticktoitiveness. Taylor gamely slipped the halter on, but as soon as I got to my feet, off ran the Twin.
Ten minutes after THAT, I finally gave up. One more flying tackle let us get the halter off, and for all I care the Twin can sweat to death. At least this time I didn't pull a muscle chasing livestock around the place. They say sheep aren't very bright, but last I checked, I was the one with broken glasses, skinned arms, and a face full of butt-wool while the sheep were contentedly grazing.
Just another day in Nerd Country, miles -- and worlds -- away from New York City. It's good to be back.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Spring Showers and Rainbows
One of those glorious, short May showers just blew through this afternoon, leaving in its wake startling blue skies and a spectacular double rainbow. I took some photos that I think came out great, and wanted to share them with you. This is the kind of view you just can't get anywhere else but the country.
This was taken from our back porch. If you look closely you can see the faint double-rainbow over the main one. Just an amazing sight, especially with our back yard full of Texas wildflowers.
Radar the border collie looks back at the amazing colors in the sky. I bet he thinks the clouds look like sheep.
Jillkey the donkey gets into Spring a little too much -- note the hay garland she's made for herself around her neck.
My own special honey-pot at the end of the rainbow!
Sunday, May 06, 2007
The Chrysalis of a King (And I Don't Mean Elvis)
Well, if not a King necessarily, certainly a Monarch.
It's butterfly season in Texas, when millions of Monarch butterflies lay their eggs and transform themselves from crawlers to fliers. While walking out on the front porch this evening I saw a green pod with a gold thread running across its top hanging underneath the ledge of one of the columns. A quick holler for my Aunt Sharon ("Smartest And Bestest Woman In Texas") confirmed that it was the chrysalis of a Monarch butterfly, the protective shell they extrude over themselves while they undergo their big change. It kind of made the gold filigree make sense, once I knew that, a sort of crown for the King-To-Be.
If you look close you can see the eyes of the little critter taking shape in there. It's amazing stuff, little miracles happening every day all around us. I'm awfully glad I had the chance to see this one, and hanging right off our front porch column, to boot.
There's something about the change of this insect from lowly ground-pounding caterpillar to majestic free-flying Monarch butterfly that brings me hope and comfort. Next time you're outside, take a few minutes to look around, and I bet you'll find something inspiring, too. That's one of the nice things about living in Nerd Country; there's always something new waiting around the corner to remind you that change is part of life, and that sometimes, if you're lucky, you just might be able to take wing afterwards.
Monday, April 23, 2007
How to Tell If You're an Idiot Driver
Currently there's one simple way to tell if you are an idiot driver.
- Look in the mirror.
- If the person looking back at you is Jeff Hebert, then you're an idiot driver.
I know this is true because I have experienced the following incidents in just the last week:
- I got out of my truck to close the front gate, but forgot one important step -- putting the vehicle in "Park". I was very close to getting intimately familiar with the neighbor's cows by the handy expedient of crashing my truck through his fence. A hasty leap back into the accelerating cab narrowly averted this tragedy.
- Scant hours after sending my brother a map that included the phrase "Do not speed through the town of Liberty Hill or you will get a ticket", I got a ticket for speeding through the town of Liberty Hill.
- Today while hauling the Incredibly Expensive Pain in the Ass to yet another trailer lot to get it fixed, I misjudged the turn onto the overpass and smashed out the headlight of a waiting car.
Thus if the reflection you see staring at you out of the mirror is bald, with close-shorn side-hair, a goatee, and only one eyebrow, do not -- I repeat, DO NOT -- get behind the wheel of your vehicle under any circumstances. It could potentially save your life, or at least a few hundred dollars in headlight repair, municipal fees, and bovine therapy bills.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Pulling the Hammy
You know you're getting older when you pull your hamstring in the course of chasing a little ass.
And I don't mean that in a dirty-euphemism kind of "Hey look, Jeff's 'pulling the hammy' again!" kind of way but in a "grasping the back of your thigh and writhing in pain" kind of way.
Although the ass I was chasing did have the strip-club-worthy name of "Whisper", she was in fact a new rescue donkey at the ranch. I suspected we were going to have a more difficult time than I'd been led to believe when the guy who brought her over to us told us "It only took an hour" to get her halter on and to load her into the trailer. I stood there with the lead rope in my hand as he backed Whisper down the ramp slowly. I'd been told she was fine once she had the halter on, so we planned on walking her to her temporary holding pen. 
Note the Phil Stacey-like glowing demon eyes.
However, as soon as she got out of the trailer and had a nice look around, she decided it was time to split. She took off, almost pulling me to the ground, and raced around the twenty acres in front of the house. "You did lock the front gate, right?" I panted as we hustled after her. Luckily the gate was indeed closed, and after about half an hour we had herded her into the main barn area.
She still had the halter and lead rope on, which is dangerous -- an animal can step on the rope while walking and trip, breaking a leg or their neck. It was dark, however, and we were wiped out from chasing her around the yard. We decided there was little risk in the small barn area of serious injury, so we let her be for the night.
The next day we got a bit of luck when the rest of the herd came up to check out the new girl. She was eager to be with the other donkeys and horses, so we were able to slowly walk up to her. "You hold the lead rope," Annie told me, "and I'll go get the halter off." With the feel of rope burns from the previous time I'd been assured everything was "fine" with this donkey, I was a bit hesitant, but cowboys show no fear.
I stood there holding the rope, thinking over and over "Let go if she runs, let go if she runs, let go if she runs!"
Then she ran, and I forgot to let go.
I must've looked like something out of a Three Stooges film, legs cartwheeling and body flailing about as I vainly tried to hold back an 800 pound animal with my pathetic and withered muscles. Halfway across the yard I felt a sharp burning pain in my right leg and I hit the ground. At the last moment I remembered to finally let go of the rope, possibly having flashed back to a time when I was learning to waterski and forgot to let go after falling. A mouth full of river water from being dragged behind a boat was unpleasant, but a mouth full of barn hay and horse manure from being dragged behind a donkey would have been much, much worse. Not to mention the cactus -- ouch!
That was small consolation as I rolled there in the hay and muck, clutching my hamstring and trying manfully not to be too obvious about the wracking pain.
Whisper stood on the other side of the barn. I'm pretty sure she was laughing at me.
At that point it was up to Annie. She employed some of the "Donkey Whispering" techniques we'd picked up over the years, and with infinite patience over the course of two hours managed to get Whisper to trust her enough to come close and take off the halter. Once again, kindness won out over brute force, and Whisper was able to get free to join the rest of the herd.
I, of course, learned a valuable lesson as well:
Chasing young, wild ass can lead to serious bodily injury for older married men, so just say no.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Chubby, Dirty, and the Twins
While "Chubby, Dirty, and the Twins" sounds like a brief version of my dating history, in fact it refers to the newest residents at Shiloh Falls -- our four sheep. 
Why do we have sheep, you might ask? Well, you see, the border collies were getting bored and ... yes, we bought pets for our pets. No one ever said we were sane.
We do have somewhat more rational (or less insane, which is sort of the same thing) reasons for getting sheep, of course. First, there's all the money you save on gas for a tractor or lawnmower, and with the price of oil going up I feel pretty good about that.
Then there's all the cotton they give off, which as Annie assured me we can turn into nice clothing.
But the real reason is, sadly, that the border collies were bored. They get such a kick out of "herding" the donkeys and horses from behind the fence that we thought it would be a good idea to train them to herd for real. Unfortunately that's hard to do without actual, you know, sheep. So we got some. The plan now is for Annie to attend a couple of clinics or training classes to get the basics, then to take a try at teaching the borders how they roll on the Scottish highlands. Even now I can imagine my first kilt fitting.
She already knows a couple of things, and has taken the dogs one at a time into the sheep pen on a leash. The best part of teaching (or "starting" if you want the cool "in" term, just in case you ever find yourself in an awkward conversation with a real shepherd, which I know happens to me all the time) a new dog how to herd is that you get to carry a big ol' staff with you the whole time. I used to think this was just so shepherds would look more picturesque, but in reality it's used to whack the dogs in the head if they try to bite.
No, really -- it's a dog-whacking stick. How cool is that?!
Both of the borders did pretty well, after getting over their abject sheep terror once they were on the business side of the fence. The sheep weren't quite so sanguine about the entire experience, but they came through it like the pros they are.
See, it turns out there are different kinds of sheep for herding. When your dogs are just starting, like ours are, you want "knee-knocker" sheep, which means they've been trained to come to a human when dogs chase them. That's important, because if the new pup gets too aggressive and tries to bite (a very bad habit to let a herding dog get into) you have to be able to whack them with the stick, and you can't do that if the sheep are fleeing at a high rate of speed away from you.
Like I said, so far it's going well. The sheep are taking to their new pen, and the dogs are ecstatic to have something they can actually herd. Me? I've gotten Dirty with Chubby and the Twins, and what red-blooded American bubba can't get excited about that?
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
St. Francis of the Apocalypse
We had a weird cloud formation this evening that looked for all the world like a mushroom cloud. Luckily it turned out to just be a storm, but for a while there we were worried.
St. Francis was ready, though, holding the Pigeons of Armageddon in each hand, ready to fly out and beat the nuclear winter back with their wings.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Texas Hill Country Wildflowers
When I used to travel around the country recruiting for my alma mater, the first thing most people would say when they saw I was from Texas was "It's all a desert there, isn't it?" To those people I say, look at these photos of our weekend drive around the Willow Loop in central Texas' Hill Country. This ain't no John Wayne desert, my friend.
From a high ridge near the middle of the loop you can see wildflowers rippling in the distance like bright blue ponds. Bursting into life for a few short months each year, Texas wildflowers like the bluebonnets seen here stand in stark, joyous contrast to the harsh granite, limestone, and cactus that surrounds them.
A ranch house and windmill nestle in the bluebonnet fields at the bottom of the small valley, the very ideal of the Texas Hill Country. I feel sometimes like I'm living in a Jackson Pollock painting, with hues spilled across the landscape in wild abandon.
What amazes me about the abundance of these beautiful, fleeting flowers is how much their continued existence is owed to just one woman's vision -- Lady Bird Johnson. Her husband, LBJ, might be better known, but his amazing wife is far more loved here in Texas. Through sheer force of will she's brought these incredibly vivid flowers back to life along the highways and byways of Texas, making their beauty freely available to any who pass our way.
Thank you, Lady Bird, for reminding all of us that one person can make a difference. I can't think of a better way to "Keep Texas Beautiful" than this kind of breathtaking splendor, and I'm glad we got the chance again this year to take in the show.
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