EMERSON'S BIG BROTHER JACK

Jack is here now. Mike and I drove to the Spokane airport yesterday to get him. At the Frontier counter we were advised that just one of us could check through security and meet Jack at the gate. Mike went. “Airports aren’t as much fun as they used to be,” I thought to myself.

So, of course, on the ride back to the Valley, I picked Jack’s brain about stuff. It’s a grandmother’s prerogative – you know – to get the inside scoop, as it were. “When will Kelly and the baby be home?” I asked. “Wednesday,” said Jack.

“How long will Kelly be off work?” “Three months, I think,” replied Jack. “Of course,” he went on, “she’s working now. She has a laptop and she’s working from her hospital bed.”

Silently my thinker was running rampant: Wow! What a woman! And knowing Kelly, who appears to be a bundle of energy anyway, I could just see her showing up at the hospital, in labor, carrying her little bag of personal things – and her laptop. “I’m Kelly Warnock and I’m in labor,” she announces at the desk. “Just a minute, please. There’s a problem I have to solve at the office. . . . Okay – Now! Where were we? Oh, yes – thank you for waiting.” And there she is, after having had a C-section, propping her laptop on her stomach to work from her hospital bed. That must hurt! What dedication! Aloud I said, “Really?!” – “No!” said Jack. “I’m kidding you.” He had me going!

I have worried about Jack’s visiting at this particular time. I was afraid the baby would be born while he was here and he would be disappointed. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. The baby was in the warmer when he saw her at the hospital. His room at his dad’s house is right next to the baby’s. He thinks she might wake him up with her crying. “Waaaaah,” he mimics. “I bet you’ll get used to that,” I told him. Besides, it won’t go on forever.

Big sister Annie is also away from home this week attending a softball tournament in Utah. Apparently she was able to stay home through Sunday so that she, too, could see the baby before she left. Annie is due home about the same time as Jack – next Sunday.

Jack is going into the fifth grade. He is currently reading the last book in the Harry Potter series. He arrived with enough electronic gizmos to keep him entertained if need be. “So,” he asks me as he looks over my laptop, “where does your MP3 player go?” My MP3 player?

We bought a pizza on our way through Clarkston for a “carbo-load” feast. Of course, I carbo-loaded, too. Then Jack and I read over the blog while Nellie sat on his lap with her head on his shoulder. “She’s hugging me!” observed Jack. Yes, Nellie likes to hug. “Don’t you need a comma there?” he asked. Then he moved over to sit by Grandpa Mike and watch a few episodes of The Office. We were getting ready for bed by 9:00.

Jack was cheerful and excited when Grandpa awakened him at 5:00 this morning. The three of them – Mike, Jack, and Nellie – were off by 5:30. They plan a 6-mile hike from Pittsburgh Landing to Kirkwood Ranch where they will camp. From there they will make a 1.5-mile hike to Suicide Point.

EMERSON LYNN WARNOCK

Gramma Kathy & Grandpa Mike proudly announce the birth of Emerson Lynn Warnock to Yancey and Kelly on Sunday, July 6, 2008. She weighted 7 lbs. 6 oz.

AGRICULTURAL NOTES AND PHOTOS

Kyle Meacham, our farmer (Hallie’s age), knocked on our living room door about 8:15 last night. Kyle knows from experience he might just find us ready for bed in the evening. Mike was still dressed but I was in my nightgown and robe. Oh well.

Mike mentioned the crops look good and Kyle agreed. He said it’s rather surprising because closer to Nezperce the fields have turned white with the heat. Mike also mentioned that Praest’s garbanzo field doesn’t look so good, and Kyle said that the crop dusting he ordered on our fields drifted onto the garbanzos and killed them. He said he didn’t know what was going to happen about that. [You can see in the photo how brown and bare the field above the pond looks. That’s the garbanzo field.]

And here are photos of our neighbor, Pete Curfman, baling hay. I guess I got excited when he waved to me and didn’t hold the camera steady enough. Disappointing -- but a nice moment nevertheless. Maybe he'll wave to me again someday.

HITTING THE WALL

I had decided that this morning I would ride the 4 wheeler down in the canyon on an old road/trail I had found last year. It begins near the corner on Cemetery Road. I had gone less than a mile when I came to a pair of fresh "No Trespassing" signs just when it was getting steep and interesting. Disappointed, I obeyed (no, really, I did) and returned to the farm.

Feeling at loose ends with my morning plans defeated I decided I'd ride down the grade for the first time this year. For those not familiar with it the Gilbert Grade is a twisting gravel road beginning just east of the Orofino bridge that rises 2,000 feet in eight miles terminating just before Curfman road on highway 7 to Nezperce. Never again will I attempt this ride in the hot summer in the middle of the day. Other times when I've made the ride it has been earlier or later in the day with lots of shade on the hill. Of course, the ride down is always exhilerating. I stopped in the park a few minutes and it was already hot in Orofino. It was about midday when I started back up. This time there was precious little shade on the hill and I was really feeling exhausted before I was even half way up. I usually try to average 8 mph which makes about an hour on the grade. I gave that ambitious plan up before the halfway point. I was doing good to keep at 6 mph before I reached the top and by the time I pulled up the top of the lane into the farm I was so weak I could hardly stand. That felt like the longest 22 miles I'd ever ridden. It's been over two hours since I returned and I'm still weak.

It's 92 degrees now and that's really hot for up here. I wouldn't be surprised to see a storm this evening. Well, I'm going to make some ice cream this afternoon and that will be like spinach to Popeye. The old man shall live to ride again. M/W

SNAKE PHOTOS -- FRESH OFF THE CAMERA

Yesterday I planted the two whole frittalaria bulbs, but I still had some little ones and pieces I wanted to get into the ground. I went out to plant them while it was still relatively cool. I put some on each side of the front porch and took the rest to a scab patch beside the raspberry compound [see photo left]. I then went to place my shovel and the milk box I had used for the bulbs on the kitchen porch beside the blue cooler. That’s when I heard the soft rattle to my right. That’s when I started calling for Mike.

Mike grappled with the snake for quite some time, unable to get a firm grasp on him. “We need those tongs of your dad’s,” said Mike. Yeah, what happened to those, anyway? The shovel wasn’t going to work and neither would the hoe. We had to keep our distance because the snake was striking. “Maybe we should just kill this one,” I said to Mike. “We might have to,” he agreed.

Then I suggested the empty milk box and Mike was able to scoop him (or her) into it. I took Nellie into the house while Mike carried the snake to a spot in a field some distance from the house.

My dad used to say that snakes came in pairs. He would be especially careful for awhile and even look for the second snake. Mike says he has heard that, too, but has never found it to be true.

-- Another snake story added to the annals of Kathy Dobson Warnock.

(I baked an apricot pie in the cool of the morning. Mike is riding the Gilbert Grade on his bicycle.)

CROWN IMPERIAL FRITTALARIA -- AND OTHER ROADSIDE TALES

“I’ll bet we can pick up three dozen cans on Miller Road,” I said to Mike yesterday, “with plenty more on Curfman Road.” So, after the four-mile practice hike, we set off on the 4-wheeler to pick up cans. I should have had a garbage bag – maybe two – one for trash and one for cans. As it was I had a grocery sack. We filled it full to overflowing with cans and when we got back to the house we counted 65 – everything from Country Time Lemonade, Shasta pop, and Pepsi to beer with the majority being beer. We didn’t get near all of them. And we gave up trying to pick up trash.

Then – when we got to the site of Hazel Wright’s old house, Mike dug out some bulbs I wanted called Crown Imperial Frittalaria. Pete Curfman, who tore the house down last summer, told me that I could take any of the bulbs and plants I wanted. At that time I took some iris. I knew the frittalaria had been there but with the burning of the house and the excavation, I could no longer see where they were and thought they might not have survived. But, lo and behold, this spring they bloomed again, and while we could still see where they are (because their leaves are dying back now), Mike consented to help me dig them up today. It was tough going – and we massacred the first one trying to get it out of the ground. We were successful in taking up two others. I don’t know if the pieces would develop or not. The frittalaria have a pungent aroma that is supposed to repel rodents. I’m all for repelling rodents. I planted the two big bulbs already.

Yesterday afternoon I took my first bike ride of the season – 7.5 miles. It went reasonably well and was basically uneventful.

RATTLESNAKE SEASON -- WATCH YOUR STEP

Yesterday afternoon Mike saw two snakes – a bull snake and a rattler – down by the barn and advised me to watch my step, reminding me that by the first of July rattlesnake season is in full swing. He really doesn’t have to remind me. My dad read me the rattlesnake rules every year – very simple but important rules: Watch your step and stay out of tall grass – and always be careful in the woodshed.

My dad was passionate on the subject of rattlesnakes. He saw them as a lurking danger and was probably afraid of them -- maybe with good reason. He never let a rattlesnake live if he could help it. “You stay here and keep an eye on it,” he would say as he rushed off to get a hoe. In Daddy’s eyes it was important to kill them. Many people kill them.

Over the years my library of snake stories has become quite voluminous. One day when Milo and Clinton were probably four and two, we were visiting at the house in Orofino. In the course of the day, Daddy ran an errand to the farm in his little white Ford Courier. When he returned to the house, he called the boys to the pick-up and lifted a rattlesnake with a pair of huge tongs. (What do they call those things anyway?) He spoke to the boys earnestly, his voice quivering, about the danger of rattlesnakes and the need to take care whenever on the farm. I wondered what the two little boys were thinking. Their eyes were big as saucers. Milo might have been impressed enough to remember. Clint would have been too young to remember.

When we first began to come here, we also killed any rattler we found. Then one day Mike asked, “Why do we kill them? They eat rodents.” So, we let them slither off and certain conservationists applaud us. We certainly see plenty of them. It doesn't seem to be an endangered population.

As we walked down the lane on our practice hike yesterday, I spied a rattler in the road ahead of us. Sensing our approaching presence the rattler slithered off into the grass while warning us. Walking on down the lane, an unmistakable rattle caught my ear. I stepped back and checked; sure enough another rattler – a small one – was coiled in the grass beside the road. Then on the return to the house, Nellie disturbed a rattler in the grass. I heard it and she responded obediently to my urgent call. Nellie had an unfortunate encounter with a rattler when an adolescent and has a notched tongue as a result, but we still have to remind her to leave snakes alone. KW