My search for land began in earnest in 2002, after musing and dreaming of different ideas and realizing that despite my hard work, incredible good looks, and spoon-bending mental powers, there was not much chance of leaving my children much of a nest egg.  But land is always land, the financial value may rise and fall, but it’s always there and all the scientists in all the world haven’t figured out a great way to make more of it.  A place to come home, return to, and connect with nature always grows in value.

Much of the work on a ranch is daily care taking: keeping up with the consequences of altering the landscape. As William Paul Winchester shares in  a A Very Small Farm:

There is almost nothing an amateur working alone cannot do, from building a house or a barn or a shed to stretching a fence and hanging gates. And pitted against his constructive and orderly efforts are the familiar antagonists of a small farm — age, weathering, hard use by animals, and the consequences of altering the landscape.

But some improvements will only be enjoyed by my children and perhaps their children, 10, 20 and 30 years to the future.  The row of crab apple trees along the highway will offer a shaded, blooming vista by 2020 or so.  The native grasses in the pheasant habitat will have matured nicely.  The apple, cherry and other fruit trees on the east side of the cabin will be in their prime.  And as a private joke to a few of my readers, I might even have the trim finished on the cabin.

I don’t post much about my children — mostly to protect their privacy and let them build their own lives.  But this is Father’s Day and I think a great time to honor my children.  They excel in ways every parent would be proud.  They make good decisions, surround themselves with great friends, and share a magical connection that few siblings know. If it is true that “the acorn never falls far from the tree,” then credit is also due their mothers, who have instilled values, love, and pride in each  of them, through hard times and joyful celebration.

Two Mile is theirs.  Enough room for the three of them to build here and be as close — or as far — from each other as they choose.  It will be secured in a legal trust:  to keep it mortgage, judgment, and divorce proof, and will require the three to agree should they choose to sell.  And while I hope they choose to deed it to their children, the choice and future are theirs alone to make.

But I joke, too, that when it’s time for me to leave, they may drive directly from the funeral parlor parking lot and head straight for the real estate office.  Kind of like that old Ole and Lena story:

Ole finally dies, leaving Lena to settle his estate.  She goes to the newspaper and places an obituary:

“Ole died.”

The newspaper editor, says, “Lena, I know money is tight, but you shouldn’t feel restricted in your time of sorrow.  You should write more about Ole and the first FIVE words are free.”

Lena paused for a moment, and with the hint of a tear in her eye, re-wrote the obituary:

“Ole died.  Farm for sale.”

Chase, center, during an Improv comedy workshop. Image (c) Andrew Bossi, Flickr

Noah, center, posing in costume from this year's Good Friday services

Cara (Carolyn, after my mother) with Zinger in the grass.

My dad, Fred Nordengren, probably taken Thanksgiving, 1975

A split whole chicken ready to smoke. Foil covered drip pan is on lower grid.

Over at Saveur.com, they have a page devoted to recipes to cook whole chicken.  They range in complexity and style and also in cuisine and origin.  If you are thinking of adding Two Mile Ranch or other whole chickens to your freezer this year, the Saveur site is a good collection of meal ideas.

20 Ways to Cook a Whole Chicken – Saveur.com.

Okay, stop laughing. The thought of me, under a pile of drunk rodeo cowboys fighting in the street, while I scream for help like a girl is funny, but you don't have to laugh out loud.

WHAT?  You’ll have to type your comments LOUDER?  I can’t HEAR you!  I spent the night at the street dance: my ears are ringing, my voice is scratchy, and I’m not hungover.

This is rodeo weekend in Grand River, just up the Seven Mile Road from Two Mile Ranch.  In this part of the Midwest, small town rodeo is big time business.  The Leon Rodeo, held in the county seat each July is a URA, MSRA and IRCA triple sanctioned and award-winning rodeo.  The Grand River rodeo draws 1000 – 2000 people each year, not bad for a town with a population of a little over 200 people.

Even though I don’t live in town, I do my part to help out when I can.  I get to the chili suppers, I shop local when I can, and  talk with neighbors.  My friends Eli and Caroline sell their baskets and qilts on Saturdays in town, and I often stop to share stories or catch up on their week.  Eli and Caroline will be butchering my chickens later this fall.

But back to my hearing — or lack of it today. A few weeks ago, Bob stopped his truck at Two Mile.  He  told me of the concert and street dance the last night of the rodeo. He asked if I would be part of the security detail that night.  You know, the guys at the door who stamp your hand, to let you in and out, and stand in front of the stage in lime green or neon yellow t-shirts.   I figured when else in my life would I get the chance to tackle a screaming, little-white-tank-top adorned young woman, and peel her away from  a tight jeaned, guitar playing country musician in front of a few thousand cowboys?

The closed off main street in Grand River as the street dance was beginning (Cell phone pic)

The concert was headlined by Jason Brown, a rising country recording artist and someone I had the opportunity to work with briefly during my work on “Behind the Microphone” – a documentary project on country music.

The show was a benefit for the town of Grand River, and an opportunity for a  TV crew to create a pilot episode they hope to sell to a network about saving small towns and specifically “Savin’ This Bar, One Beer at a Time” the title of a new song performed by Brown.

Truth is, it was a beautiful night, an energetic and polite crowd, and a beautiful way to spend a Saturday night at the end of a summer.  It’s been cool, we’ve had some rain, the temp’s last night were in the bottom half of the 50′s.  The dew was so intense, that by midnight, the sound board was wet enough to stop working, prompting some creative work-arounds on stage by the tech crew and the band.

I spent most of it at the stage gate, stamping hands, and reminding under -age teens (who were leaving to do what ever under-age teens who can’t legally drink do at a street dance)  that they could only go in and out three times.  No young girls rushed onto the stage for their “eight second ride” on a country star, and with the cool temps, all the little white tank tops were covered by 3 layers of fleece.

Under the cloudless night, the stars blazed and by the time I got home, I managed to take off my boots, have a drink of water, and fall asleep.  This cowboy’s eight second rides aren’t quite what they used to be.

Black Cayuga Ducklings

• Duck Vadar
• Bat Duck
• The 4 Tops
• Mocha
• Black Coffee
• Gilbert
• Indiana Quackers
• and finally  Gladys Knight and the Pips

Black Cuyugas are good egg layers and good meat ducks — but rather than go to the trouble, I’ll put them to work eating the algae out of the little pond.  We’ll see….

There is an old visual joke that is often attributed to the Iowa test of Basic Skills, however, it is usually used to refer to anyone you want to teasingly make fun of.  The test reads like this:

M R ducks

M R not
O S A R
C M wangs?
L I B! M R ducks

The “key” or translation is

Them are ducks
Them are not
Oh yes they are
See them wings?
Well I’ll be!  Them are ducks

Later, 5 hens, whom I often refer to as “the girls”, flew out of the brush at the north end of the ranch and over to the grass between the cabin and their pen and former.

A hidden rooster cackles every now and then from the dense cover to the east, and whenever a noisy truck or motorcycle drives by on the road, another rooster cackles, either as an alert to the others, or in competition with the noise.  Of the 44 pheasants released in the fall, it seems that somewhere between 8 and 11 still are making a home near the cabin.  I’ve seen a few down the road, and wonder how well the others may have done over the winter.

Just now, 14 geese flew over heading for the pond across the highway. Through the bare trees, I can see my neighbor’s paint horses and I wonder sometimes if they stand there because they can see me on the deck?  Mostly likley, they just like the grass they find there.

One of our readers commented about her enjoyment of solitude on her farm, writing

And in that moment I didn’t feel in the least bit alone. But those moments are precious. I can not begin to tell you how relieved I am to find this site. I’m not crazy after all…..

For moments like these, there are almost no words.

Today was a picture perfect day.

Pheasants roosting on the ice covered fly pen that used to be their home

Pheasants feeding in the snow

The cabin at Two Mile from the East hill

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”

There is no more “Two Mile Ranch”

Well, that’s not true, it will always be “Two Mile Ranch” but today, a country worker drove the length of 7 Mile Road  in his pickup.  He stopped, attached a chain, and removed each and every mile marker: 1,3, 4, 5, 6 and yes, 2.

I stopped and chatted with him, the man who mows the ditches said it was hard to mow around them, and the county just “inherited” an old state highway and they are moving the mile markers there.

I guess the only thing certain in life is change.

I wonder if I had named the ranch “Big Old Useless Barn” ranch, if the county would have come by and taken it instead?

When I looked into the trees, mixed in with the expected green walnuts hanging from the walnut trees, was a collection of red dots against the dimpled light on the leaves.  I’ve never seen it before today:

A lone apple tree on the steep hill that is quickly eroding into the washout stream below.

It lives in the thick of the brush and on a steep enough slope that the deer leave most of them alone.

I picked a few for the rest of my walk, and then came back later in the day with a bucket to collect some for snacking this month.

The more important order of business was to fish the ponds. After eight casts, I caught 5 bass, all about 6 – 8 inches, but I’ll take that as a good sign. All of them came from the little pond.

The idea of living off grid captures the imagination and spirit of many people. I don’t know how far off grid the farm will remain, but there is electricity run to the property and there is an older dug well with a pump. I emailed the local REC and asked for the power to be put in my name, only to find out the power is supplied by a large electric company on the eastern side of the state. So I emailed them and asked what information they needed to put the power in my name.

Since I don’t have an address, their reply was to give them the number from the face of the electric meter. easy enough, I took a photo on one of my tours.They set up power, went out to the property and found a blown fuse at the street, and then called me with some tips for updating the meter and the pole arrangement.Water is the second challenge. The old well has an interesting set up, with an electrical cord fished through the side of the concrete that runs to a pump. The cord is covered with overgrown grass and muck.I plugged in the cord and nothing happened, the electric meter didn’t spin and water didn’t pump. I pulled and fished the cord through the grass and found it was disconnected from another extension cord (rural electrical code) so I hooked them in and water flowed.

Today’s work included sweeping / scooping the old dusty hay from the hay loft, along with the bird droppings and some of the mud dubber nests from the rafters. I cut down some trees, cut some broken limbs, and began cleaning the dam of the large pond before we ran out of time and 2 cycle gas for the chain saw.

This was originally posted on my personal blog at www.digitalstoryteller.com