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VLM BULL SALE

MATERNITY


Dilated and making bag,
first-calf heifers choose to graze,
closer to our familiar voices

over morning coffee. Perhaps security,
or our loving pride they feel
long distance as we imagine

a pasture full of calves clinging
to a mother’s shadow, the buck and run
as they get older like the thirty years

before them. We begin another season
of grass with rain, with feeding hay
ready to face the future with them.

Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel, Okie Poet 2

Wilma submitted poems to Dry Crik Review on her typical scraps of paper most of which I published. One, however, I did not publish because I could not decipher one word in the poem from her handwriting. I scanned it to Betty Blanks, who has recently authored a book “Pick Up Your Pen And Write: The Life of Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel” http://wilmaelizabethmcdaniel.com, to help me out. The word was ‘ping’. Til now, this amusing poem has never seen the light of day.

FAKE FORTY-NINER

We knew Ardell
had been acting crazy
for weeks
he grew a beard
stalked around
muttering to himself

I gotta go now
to Jackass Hill
to Poker Flat
and Angels Camp

I gotta pan some gold
race me some frogs
kiss me some CanCan girls
I really gotta go

He drove away in his Pinto
with the ping
towards the motherlode
on Golden Chain Highway 49

We didn’t hear from him
until his bonanza petered out
he phoned collect
the Pinto gave up in Jamestown



Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel, Okie Poet

December 22, 1918 – April 13, 2007

I had the pleasure of reading some of Wilma’s poetry at the Tulare Historical Museum last night.  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wilma-elizabeth-mcdaniel

One poem I read:

REMEMBERING FARM WOMEN

As a child
I watched them
and I remember

a woman’s defense
was anything in reach

Her weapons were few
and always begrudged

Why did men imagine
they deserved the velvet touch
the nightingale’s voice

from a woman who plowed
when planting got behind

and prayed for rainwater
to wash her hair

Why did rough farmers
dream of girls
from the Ziegfeld Follies

when wives were vomiting
with another pregnancy



Power Outages

With 5 different Edison meters for house and pumps, our mailbox has been full of these notices , one for each, for the past three weeks, usually two daily outages per week.  Edison has noticed us for two more outages within the next week as they replace power poles and wire on this five mile stretch of Dry Creek Road.  No power, no AC, no pumps and no water for man or beast during this “Heat Advisory” forecast near 110 degrees.

 

We grin and bear it and try to get along, which means pulling the refrigerator out of its cabinet, unplugging it, then after a few minutes, plugging it back in.  We’ve lost about $800 worth of food thus far, but the freezers have come back on without assistance.  I’ve learned to anticipate the timing of the outage to shut the water off to the house, which would be drained otherwise and filing with air to be compressed when the juice comes back on with pressures high enough to jeopardize our plumbing.

 

The contractors (ParWest) have been great, with the exception of an underground services employee who was driving our firebreaks after he left the gate open to the road for 46 first-calf heifers. He did get an earful.

 

Of course, all this concern comes after PG&E’s bankruptcy when its transmission lines ignited numerous fires in Northern California after which nearly half of the state became a high fire risk area.  Fire insurance doubled or tripled or left homes uninsurable.  Edison will probably lobby the PUC to raise its rates to pay for all this maintenance it should have doing all along.  C’est la vie.

Apologies

WordPress keeps trying to expand and improve their blogging template.  I think I’ve got it figured out now, but not after sending half-dozen email copies to followers that was not in the form I intended.

John

 

MY DROUGHT





           a gusher of poems
that poured out of the house
on Highland Street
and watered the town

- Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel (“The Gusher”)


They fall from the sky
like hawks at play
and dive into our poetry,

perfect words
we cannot claim, but do—
to hunt the periphery

for a place to light
to transform a poem
into something better.

I am reading Wilma
in Tulare next Saturday—
revisiting her real Okie poetry,

searching for the one
that breaks my drought
into a flood of verses,

a gusher of poems
that poured out of the house
on Highland Street
and watered the town






Weather Change

After a brutal summer, we are enjoying a major change in temperature: a high of 87 yesterday and 55 this morning as storms hit the northwest and Canada.

As I’ve posted before, my father’s model for predicting the weather was based on a 30-day cycle beginning with noticeable changes in the month of August. If these changes were confirmed in September, he would count on rain on those days in October and/or November. My brother and I still rely to some degree on his model, but with the volatility of the weather in recent years, it’s anyone’s guess.

We’ve begun feeding as we wait for our first calves to arrive. We’ve moved our calving date back two weeks, from the first to the fifteenth, in response to the trend of high temperatures in early September. Not only is the heat hard on calving cows, but often there’s always a couple of first-calf heifers that leave their newborns in a hundred degree sun.

September also brings the catalogs for bull sales in California that offer a wide array of Genomic Enhanced Expected Progeny Data as well as links to videos of the bulls. I still rely on my eye, but it’s a far cry from the old days when I was starting out.

As the days get shorter, we still expect the temperatures to return to the century mark, but for the moment it’s delightful.

For the Record

Only one day since the Solstice has the temperature been below 100 degrees, 54 days with a high over 116. Tough on man and beast. With a slight weather change, yesterday was 99. We’ve been rising early to feed the bulls and heifers and try to be done with our chores before 11:00 a.m.

HEAT WAVE

 

All the thirsty hearts

have sucked the dog dish down

beyond the reach of the panting Titmouse,

 

nervous little bastard bobbing

empty-beaked at his favorite waterhole

below the nozzle, hose and bib

 

during this two-week heat wave

of highs in the teens, like every summer here

in the San Joaquin.