Tools of Torture in Texas - The Honey Locust Tree

One of the things I love about Texas as a setting for crime novels is that there are so many ways to kill people, or if we don't need a killing, just hurt them.



Take the honey locust tree. It's a nasty thing, and along with fire ants and snakes, one of the topics I plan to discuss with God when I squeeze my way through those Pearly Gates.


I've heard they can grow to over 75 feet, but I haven't seen any honey locusts taller than 40 feet or so on our place. Thank goodness, because they're a bear to take down by hand.

Here's why:

 

The branches of the honey locust are covered in dark red thorns that grow five to six inches long, and are barbed, making this tree a natural form of brutal barbed wire. These thorns aren't some namby-pamby flexible things; we've punctured tires on farm vehicles by driving over a honey locust thorn.






If that's not bad enough, the trunk is covered with clusters of thorns. Chopping one of these babies down requires careful de-limbing and a delicate dance as the tree falls. I don't think we've taken one down without numerous puncture wounds and scratches. Dragging it to the burn pile? Be careful, because gloves are useless. (We've moved on to using a Bobcat for this type of work. Our heads, shoulders, legs, arms, hands - even our feet - thank us.)

People use these things in their landscapes for shade and because the flowers are attractive. Personally, I prefer a less threatening form of garden enhancement. (There's supposed to be a thornless variety, but why take the chance?)

Do you see why I treasure all the weirdness in East Texas?




Back to the point of this post: torture. I don't think someone could die from a run-in with these thorns (I Googled it and found no instances of death by honey locust), but they could poke an eye out and perhaps end up with unintended piercings.

On the other hand, barbed wire contributed to a death in THE DEVIL OF LIGHT, and those barbs are much shorter than a honey locust's thorns, so who knows what might happen to a bad guy who runs head-on into one of these trees?

So far in the Cass Elliot Crime Series, twin teenage brothers Matt and Mark Grove have twice found themselves in situations where one or the other is assaulted by a honey locust, resulting in creative cursing and several dollars for the cuss bucket. I can, however, imagine a more violent use for them in the future. The bad folks of Forney County better watch out...


(I should come clean at this point: the USDA says you can find this horrible tree all over the US, with the exception of Oregon and Washington (and presumably Hawaii and Alaska). Which means you have free rein to torture a character with a honey locust just about anywhere in the states. But boy, I'd sure like to know what those two states did to become honey locust free.)


photo credit: via photopin (license)
photo credit: may 30 via photopin (license)

Round em up! Calf Sale Day Down on the Ranch #animals #farming

Here we are at that most welcome and dreaded time of the year: calf sale day. Welcome because the little buggers are eating us out of house and home, and dreaded because they're our friends. But, we're in the beef cattle business, and there's no income unless we sell our young, so today's the day.

Cows and ranching play a role in the Cass Elliot Crime Novels (sometimes an important one - in a future book, a cow patty helps catch a bad guy). Seems a natural thing, because both are such a big part of life in East Texas. Whether the old man has Hitch repairing fence, sorting heifers for the sale barn, or directing a work crew to brand and castrate calves, readers get an accurate peek at farm life.

Ranching is an expensive endeavor, particularly when it comes to equipment. We're a low capital venture - instead of buying heavy equipment like tractors and trailers, we manage day-to-day chores with a beat up old Kawasaki Mule and a hay dolly. (More on the hay dolly in another post.) We outsource cattle transport to the cowboys from Milford Livestock, owned and operated by Doug Milford.

Have you ever seen cowboys working a herd of cows? There's something magical about it. We raise our calves to be gentle, and we love the Milfords because they're so easy with our calves. But almost every year, we'll end up with one calf (usually a bull) who won't cooperate.

With anyone.

About anything.

(Except food. They always cooperate when it comes to food.)

We help our calves get comfortable with the loading pen by putting their feed trough inside it and leaving one end open. They come and go as they please, and follow the feed bucket into this 20' by 16' space. They'll even spend part of the day in the pen, laying around while chewing their cud (they do love that feed trough).

Most years, loading is pretty easy. The Milfords back up to the pen and we help them crowd the calves closer and closer to the open trailer gate until one calf jumps in. They're like lemmings at this point. Once one is inside, the rest follow.



Some years, things aren't as easy and the Milfords use their dogs to round the calves up - literally.

Mr. Milford controls them through a series of whistles and commands. These dogs know their jobs and have no fear about working around creatures so big in comparison to themselves.




They don't bark at the calves and they rarely nip, simply because they don't have to. They run in ever tightening circles around the calves until they're bunched together (rounded up), then ease the bunch towards the pen and the trailer.




On the rare occasion the cranky calf I mentioned above decides not to cooperate, he'll make a break for it and it'll take horses to catch him. Again, these animals are amazing. So are the cowboys who ride them, and it takes talent from man and horse to cowboy well.



Only once have we had a calf break through an electric fence, then through a barbed wire fence (I hate those things), and disappear into the woods. We have 160 acres, which is a lot of ground to cover when you're chasing one calf. The good news - or bad news depending on how you look at it - is that the adults in the herd join in the chase. That many cows running in one direction makes it easier to figure out where the calf has gone!

Once they're loaded, it's off to the sale barn and we cross our fingers for high prices. Some years are good for us and bad for steak lovers; other years are bad for us and good for steak lovers.

There you have it. The emotion, the drama of calf sale day. The funny part? Almost as soon as we load up the last batch of calves, a new batch starts dropping and the cycle begins again. It'll be time to call Mr. Milford before we know it.

Meet the Herd: Mr. Donkey #farming #animals

I'm starting this series thanks to a kick in the pants from my wonderful friend Jackie in England, who asked for photos of the creatures inhabiting our farm. Rather than just post photos, I thought I'd share a little about their history and personalities, so we'll start with Mr. Donkey, who is truly one of a kind.



He's a lovely brown, with a darker mane and tail, and a splash of white at his bottom. He also wears white cotton socks on all four legs and has a few white splotches on his neck. As he's aged, Mr. Donkey's muzzle is fading to gray, giving him a grizzled look.


Why do we call him Mr. Donkey? His personality demands a certain respect. He's our only donkey, but he is a key member of the herd. You see, Mr. Donkey's main job is protection. He's the muscle, which might seem odd given that he's about 1/10th the weight of a cow. But when a calf is born, Mr. Donkey assumes baby-sitter role and minds the newborn while the momma (or mommas, depending on how fast the calves are coming) grazes. He's a brave fellow despite his diminished size and has put himself between a coyote and the herd, and a pack of dogs and the herd. Neither challenged him.

He's also a bit of a punching bag. As the calves grow, he's the nearest creature to their size, so when they get tired of head butting each other, they try to butt Mr. Donkey. He tolerates it pretty well, but when the calves see his tail flick, they learn to back off or get a tap from his hoof.


While we think he rivals Methuselah in age, we're not really sure how old he is. His early years are a bit murky, but we know he did a stint as a rodeo donkey and was rescued by the Heard family (fitting, eh?), who live near my grandparent's old place. While at the Heard estate, a mule took a chunk out of his neck. We have no idea how his spinal cord managed to avoid being severed, but it did. Mr. Heard smeared a healing ointment in Mr. Donkey's wound and barring a strange dip mid-neck, he's fully recovered.

He came to live with my parents about fifteen years ago when they expanded their cattle herd, and he moved to our ranch in 2007. He's an eating machine, stopping only to roll around on the ground for a nice dust bath. Given that we've had such a lovely spring and summer, he looks a little like a barrel on legs but he'll trim down to his normal svelte size in the winter.

He's notoriously camera shy (I was lucky he tolerated my taking these photos) and even a bit moody when it comes to being petted, although if you catch him just right he loves having his ears tickled. When he makes his mind up to be immovable, he's immovable. We've tried moving him from one pasture to another by tugging on his halter (when he wears one), but have found that shaking a bucket of feed works better.

He's very patient with creatures that are smaller than he is, like kids. Mr. Donkey has not been ridden since he's lived with us, and when people ask if he's rideable, we answer that if you can catch him, you're welcome to try.

Some fast facts about Mr. Donkey:

Favorite book: The Geronimo Breach by Russell Blake (A burro plays a key role in saving the hero. I think there's a bit of donkey-envy going on.)

Favorite song: "Donkey" by Jerrod Niemann. Even though he objects to the riding part, Mr. Donkey digs the chorus: "Gonna ride that donkey donkey down to the honky tonky, it's gonna get funky funky, aw aw." The song is either stupid or brilliant, depending on the listener, but Mr. Donkey loves it. He's also partial to Johnny Horton's "Electrified Donkey", mostly because Mr. Donkey's too smart to touch an electrified fence.

Favorite food: Anything, really, but he'll come trotting for an apple core.

Little known fact: He was the inspiration for the strip club name 'The Ronkey Donkey' in The Devil of Light.

Stay tuned for more posts on other members of the herd, including Elvis, Sid Vicious, 107, and Gimpy.

Crumbleocity - A New Word for the #Farming Vernacular

crumbleocity (crum-bull-ah-ce-tee): the degree to which a cow patty breaks apart and the distance it travels when kicked.

Our Manure Machines

There is a reason we rednecks are referred to as sh*t kickers, and it's not just because city folks think we're big and dumb. (In fairness, anybody who spends time around cattle or other livestock could be called a sh*t kicker. You kick loads of manure, whether you intend to or not - the stuff is everywhere.)

No, I believe the phrase arises from the jealousy city folks feel over our traditional redneck pastime of kicking cow patties around the pasture. In addition to the hilarity caused when watching someone line up for a cow patty kick, there's quite a bit of value in kicking poo, including the benefits of manure spread as fertilizer; the reduction of unsightly cow patty mounds that linger in the pasture for ages (which the fire ants love and the cows won't graze near); and the increase in heart elevation and muscle tone due to the exercise.

But cow patties differ in their suitability for kicking. Therefore, there is an art to kicking poo, as follows:

Weather: the freeze / thaw cycle works wonders on the creation of crumbleocity, so there's good kicking to be had in winter. Regardless of the time of year, choose dry days when the temperature is between approximately 45 and 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

Too Wet

If the day is too wet, you're likely to slip while taking aim and letting loose with your kick. 

Too much colder than 45 F and the cow patty will tend toward frozen, hurting your foot when you kick it. (They're hard as bricks when they're frozen - yes, we've learned that the hard way.)

Much hotter than 90 F and the dang things crust over quickly, fooling you into thinking they have the potential for good crumbleocity but instead smearing all over your foot.

Wellies

Footwear: you can kick cow patties in your bare feet or sandals, but I don't recommend it. (Icky between the toes. Enough said.) Cowboy boots work fine, but I prefer wellies because they're easily rinsed off. If you're inclined to kick when the weather is cold, choose wellies with steel-toes to protect your toes.

Too Dry

 
Patty selection: this is where the true art comes in. Wet cow patties don't crumble well at all, and they don't travel any distance when kicked. Cow patties that are too dry might fly a fair distance, but don't crumble. (They are an excellent choice for that other traditional redneck pastime, the cow chip flip.)

Just Right

The perfect cow patty to provide good crumble and distance / spread when kicked is only slightly moist and still well mounded. It's dark in color or is starting to turn a lighter brown in places and has lost that 'new poo' sheen.

Good Crumbleocity

When you kick a cow patty with solid crumbleocity, it spreads in a "V" from the point of origin, fanning out to six feet or more. Delightfully satisfying.





This, I believe, is the origin of the phrase 'sh*t kicker'. If the label has been slapped upon you, wear it with pride and know that those city folks are really hoping to join in, and wondering if Prada makes a wellie suitable for patty kicking...

Spring at the Ranch: Calves and Clover

Spring's a great season - new life, fresh growth, clean air and hopefully, mild temperatures. More importantly, tax season is over and life can get back to a normal rhythm. Or back to what passes for normal around here, which means weird writing hours, even weirder music hours, and ranching in between it all.

Rarely do I stop to smell the roses - partly because of the bees hanging around and really, who's got the time? - but it's hard not to enjoy springtime at our ranch when it's full of crimson clover and calves. In 2012, we've got the clover and thanks to some prearranged romantic interludes for Elvis and the girls last summer, most of the calves should arrive in May.


To put my glee at the pretty plants and baby cows in perspective, the summer of 2011 was a miserable time in Texas. We experienced the worst drought in nearly a century and exceedingly high summer temperatures. Our pastures were a wasteland. We'll spend time and money in 2012 replanting those pastures, if we get decent rain this year. Only two of our ponds had any water in them, the rest of the ponds and Brushy Creek simply dried up. Many ranchers sold out in 2011 rather than endure the expense of feeding their cows over the summer. We decided to hang on to our stock and made it through with lighter pockets, but with our original herd of Black Angus intact, if a bit thinner than we'd like.


Crossing our fingers that the winter would bring rain, we planted 100 pounds of crimson clover seed in the autumn. Although it takes a lot of walking to spread - we're pretty low tech out here - that's not as much seed as it sounds. Thankfully, the rains came down and up came the clover.



Keeping weight up on a cow is a real challenge during a drought, and miscarriage is a risk. So far, we've got eight hooves on the ground with 48 more to come. This little guy is our first born, and yes, he is as cranky as he looks:

He's also the first-born to his momma, and we worried because she couldn't seem to put on weight during the winter. She's still a little ribbier than we'd like, but momma and baby are doing fine.





I'm off to go feed the heifers and then work on book two in the Forney County Series. Thanks for taking the time to hear about our spring here on the ranch. Speaking of, what signals spring to you?