Shein brought added dimensions to paper and blog

The Capital Press and Blogriculture are about to lose a key member of our team.

If you have been a regular reader of this blog, you know that Elaine Shein, the executive editor of Capital Press, has been the primary contributor here for quite a while. Well, Elaine is soon to be moving on to other pastures. I know not everyone who reads this site also reads the Capital Press, so you may not have heard that news or read the column published Friday by Carl Sampson, the managing editor of Capital Press.

In these, her final days with us, I wanted to make sure you all got a chance to learn about her pending departure before she was gone.

What follows is Carl's column about Elaine's departure.

Shein brought added dimensions to paper
After five years, executive editor moves to DTN in Nebraska

By Carl Sampson
Capital Press

Next week will be Executive Editor Elaine Shein's last with the Capital Press. She has accepted a position with DTN as an associate managing editor at its Omaha, Neb., headquarters. DTN provides market and weather information, as well as news to customers in agriculture and other industries.

During her five years at the Capital Press, Shein has brought added vigor and intelligence to our coverage of Western agriculture. She has traveled around the region learning about the issues facing farmers and ranchers and applied that knowledge to our news reports.

She also helped lead special projects that broadened our coverage. Shein was a key player in our first special report on "Water in the West." That report received a first-place award from the American Agricultural Editors Association, as did the two following special reports.

She shepherded another award-winning series on climate change that involved editors, reporters and photographers from our sister newspapers in the East Oregonian Publishing Co. that received several national and international awards.

Shein's tenure at the Capital Press has been about more than winning awards. Her membership and participation in agricultural organizations such as Oregon Agriculture in the Classroom Foundation and the Agri-Business Council of Oregon have brought those groups fresh ideas to help get the word out about the importance of agriculture to every American.

This year she served as Oregon's AITC president, secretary for ABC's executive board, and also chair of the Keeping Ag Viable committee for ABC.

Last fall, she facilitated a retreat for representatives from agricultural groups around the state that led this spring to a consumer survey on agricultural attitudes.

Shein, 43, is a native of Alticane, Saskatchewan, where her parents run a farm that produces beef cattle, wheat, oats, barley, rye, canola, peas, lentils and forage.

She is a graduate of the University of Saskatchewan. Shein started her career as a reporter for the Leader-Post in Regina, Sask., while working on a second degree, in journalism and communications, from the University of Regina.

She worked for several months at Gemini News Service in London before joining the Western Producer, Canada's largest agricultural newspaper that covers much of western Canada.

During her 14 years there, she worked her way up the ladder to become editor and deputy publisher.

In her new job in Nebraska, Shein will find herself in a place that is in many ways different from the West. In the Midwest, corn, soybeans and wheat are king and cattle and hogs are the mainstay of livestock producers.

In other ways, though, she'll find herself right at home among the farmers and ranchers that she has cared about most during her career here and in Canada.

We all wish Elaine the best in her new job.

Managing Editor Carl Sampson is based in Salem, Ore. E-mail: csampson@capitalpress.com.

Sideline was great place for watching the ag game

By Scott A. Yates
of Capital Press

Editor's note: Longtime Capital Press reporter is hanging up his notebook and taking up his briefcase. April 4, 2008 will be his last day at Capital Press.

After 21 years being an observer of agriculture, I’m looking forward to being its advocate.
I am departing the Capital Press for the Washington Grain Alliance, where I will assume the post of director of communications.

Working from my Spokane home these past two decades has been a marvelous experience. Unbeknownst to Capital Press readers, I raised three daughters, went through a divorce and (happily, blissfully) remarried during my tenure at the paper.

I also grew from a man with a ponytail who knew next to nothing about agriculture to a man who shaves his head and knows quite a bit about the subject. It has been unique experience learning about the best-kept secret in America: our incredibly productive and safe agricultural food system.

You might think that being on or near the front lines of every food disaster that’s occurred in the past two decades would temper my enthusiasm. Instead, the failures have only reinforced my opinion that the United States has capable, honorable people overseeing a complex system that will never be perfect.

Are there glitches, bad apples, poor examples? Sure, but taken as a whole, I have faith in the system.

Progress is not a place, it’s a process. Working toward excellence doesn’t mean you achieve the goal.

I can’t forecast the future, but I am willing to bet that in 2028 consumers are even more isolated from their food production than they are now.

That’s troubling because the more removed people become, the less likely they care about where their food is grown. And the less they care, the more we, as a nation, will succumb to the temptation to outsource agriculture.

We got a taste, a small inkling, of what depending on foreign sources for our food needs could lead to almost a year ago now.

Remember the Chinese company that sold tainted wheat gluten that was made into pet food. “If you like imported oil, you’ll love imported food” is not just a bumpersticker.

After 21 years covering agriculture, I know “Made in America” means something when it comes the food we produce and consume.

The process isn’t always pretty and rarely clean, descriptions that can also be applied to the politics of agriculture. I started as a reporter for Capital Press when Tom Foley of Washington state’s 5th District was Speaker of the House, a man who could bring home the bacon, but who still got tossed out by farmers who believed his power had isolated him.

His successor, George “The Giant Killer” Nethercutt was a natural at his job. Put on an appropriations subcommittee as reward for having defeated Foley, he was a powerful force from his first day.

Nethercutt loved ruffling feathers, whether it was trying to fire USDA employees for their treatment of his agriculture constituents or becoming the lightning rod for opening trade with Cuba.

Rep. Cathy McMorris, R-Wash., has had a harder road to travel. Elected in 2004, she started at the bottom, worked hard and still doesn’t have the visibility of Nethercutt in his first year.
Like Nethercutt, McMorris forsook the agriculture committee for other assignments. She isn’t alone. The entire West is deficient in agriculture committee members in the House and the Senate. Want more clout for the region’s agriculture? Start there.

Although national politics is considered the apex of the art form, don’t count out university politics. There are a lot of brilliant, even noble people at universities, but if there is a more dysfunctional institution, I have not come upon it. What should be utopia all too often devolves into a caste system where enforcing the hierarchy is more important than fulfilling the mission.
When I started at Capital Press in 1986, it meant doing a lot of interviews between 7 and 9 p.m. — after the farmer had gotten in, but before he had gone to bed.

No more. Cell phones have made everybody accessible everywhere. I’ve talked to farmers in their pickups, combines and tractors. I’ve talked to them on vacation. I’ve talked to them overseas.

Communication advances have, in fact, shaped my time at Capital Press.

In the early days, I shipped strips of negatives by Greyhound bus to Salem. Now, I move digital photographs on my computer from one software program to another and, with the click of a button, send them instantly over the Internet.

Once upon a time, when my children were young and we would all tuck in for a big breakfast, I’d ask them to name all those we should thank for our meal.

Try it sometime. Almost any meal includes a list that is at least a dozen people long before it starts to get complicated. There’s the farmer who grew the wheat for the pancakes, the corn for the syrup, the potatoes for the hash browns, the pork for the sausage, the beans for the coffee, the oranges for the juice.

But don’t stop there.

Agriculture is a system. Thank the USDA inspectors, the country elevator operators, the barge captains, the railroad engineers, the truck drivers, the store stockers.

Aw heck, while you’re at it, go ahead and thank the agricultural reporters, too.

Staff writer Scott Yates is based in Spokane, Wash., until Friday, April 4, 2008.

Read Capital Press Managing Editor Carl Sampson's column about Yates' departure on the Capital Press Website.

Guest writer says goodbye (at least for now)

Something's missing from the ol' Blogriculture site.

Our regular Friday contributor, Kevin Duling of Maupin, Ore., who has written a column for the Capital Press blog has opted to put his time and energy into other pursuits. So, unfortunately, we won't be seeing any new Friday post from Kevin.

We sure enjoyed his contributions though and I know Kevin enjoyed hearing from people who read the things he wrote and took the time to write to him.

Thanks a lot Kevin, we enjoyed having you, or at least your words, featured here on Blogriculture. Good luck with the farm and your pending nuptials.

Field ready

By Kevin Duling

Winter is the time for farmers to catch up on their equipment maintenance. Most farmers have a goal for each piece of equipment to be “field ready” before the spring work begins. I’ve always had a dream of having the equipment ready by mid-January so I can ski through winter’s end, but that is only a dream.

Winter is also a great time for farmers to shop for new and used equipment to update their fleets. Through farm sales, classified ads, and the Internet, farmers will spend hours looking for the right machine. Through the years I’ve been a farmer, I’ve noticed that “field ready” for some is not field ready to all.

A few years ago, we found a slightly used baler at a well established dealership. The baler had only been used two seasons on a small hobby farm. The price seemed fair and the hours were low, making the sale go quickly, especially since it was labeled “field ready.”

After three years of toil, cursing, fluffy bales, log bales, banana bales, and a few good bales, the baler is now what we would phrase as “field ready.” Since the dealership was the culprit on the false advertising, we still considered the “field ready” phrase as somewhat sincere if a fellow farmer used it.

Our next great winter drive for lunch included the possibility of purchasing a slightly used grain auger from a dairyman. The ad in the paper coined the machine as “like new.” Used augers are usually completely worn, so the idea of one “like new” seemed worth the 200 mile journey.

While parked by an old, rusted beast of an auger directed into a silo, we speculated on where the dairyman would take us to view the advertised one. Concern rose as the man shut his pickup off and closed the door behind him.

After brief introductions, I cautiously asked where the auger was so we could have a look. With a puzzled look, he slowly pointed at the rusted beast just to my left. With Dad trying not to laugh, I had to find the appropriate words that would not turn the man’s puzzlement to hostility.

“Let me turn it on for you,” he said. “It may look rough, but it handles the wet feed as if it were brand new. Just watch!”

With the auger swaying back and forth like a snake in the water, I had to fake a stomach sickness causing me to run behind the silo to get out of sight. This time I let Dad keep the straight face and come up with the excuse for not purchasing it.

The next trip for lunch involved going to look at an eight wheel tractor with low hours and a low price. The obvious question of “What’s wrong with it?” was racing through our minds on the trip down.

Upon entering the farmer’s equipment yard, we felt guilty about driving a dirty pickup onto this finely manicured lot. The farmer, dressed in semi-formal attire, introduced himself and led us to the shop. Inside the shop were three tractors. Of the three, two had men waxing and polishing them, as if preparing for an exhibit at an auto show.

His only statement concerning the third tractor, the one for sale, was how he demanded his employees keep every piece of equipment clean enough to eat off the floor. He mentioned how he fired a man for leaving mud on the floor of the cab.

While visiting about the tractor, his wife entered the shop with a small tray full of freshly baked chocolates. After we raved about the chocolates, the man stated, “She’s been a great wife for me; kind of like this tractor. I will miss this tractor.”

With the purchase agreement and a handshake, we headed for home. My brother asked me if I quizzed the farmer about transmission noises, the hydraulic system, or engine performance.

My reply, “Well, no, he said it was field ready!”

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His columns are posted on the Capital Press blog on Fridays. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com. There will not be a column posted on Jan. 25.

Copyright, January 2008, Kevin Duling

Some things never change

By Kevin Duling

My buddy and I sat near the back row of the classroom. The subject was social studies. The teacher was a man who did not believe in laughter. Most days I could focus and learn the subject as the teacher wanted me to. Some days I could not.

There was at least a month during that school year when someone would have to start a car just outside the classroom. This someone would attempt to start their car everyday at 9:40 am. I remember that time because I used to dread it.

At 9:38, my buddy and I would glance at each other hoping that person would choose walking, instead of starting that beast of a car. At 9:40, we would hear the car door shut.

CRANYANYANYANYANYANYAN CRANYANYANYANYANYAN POW!
CRANYANYANYANYANYANYAN CRANYANYANYANYAN POW THUNK POW!

Pause

CRANYANYANYANYAN CRANYANYANYAN ROAR POW THUNNK ROAR!

Not only would the car fail to start without this daily ritual, it lacked a muffler. That person would have to repeat the above madness at least three times in order to have a successful launch. My buddy and I found that extremely amusing. The teacher did not.

I’m not sure how much of the social studies class I can remember today, but I can remember the car. My buddy and I were always astonished how nobody else would even acknowledge the failing car. I find similar situations happening today.

I just received a pouch in the mail containing the pictures from our elk hunting trip last fall. The first picture is my dad proudly holding the head of a large bull elk. The second picture is my dad, my brother, and a lifelong family friend holding all three of their bull elk heads. The third picture is my cousin Bob riding on a large stump as I tow it back to the fire pit.

I believe my cousin’s goal was to hang on for eight seconds, so he could have a scoring ride. He informed me he was the current leader in the western stump riding association and a trip to Vegas for the finals was imminent.

After chuckling about Bob and my picture, I began to see the direct correlation on why Bob and I did not bring an elk home. Perhaps the things I see as funny get in the way of worldly success. How many times has success been thwarted by my uncontainable sense of humor?

Moving to the present, my fiancée Misty and I were invited to a black tie event at one of Portland’s hotels. The New Year’s Eve event included wine tasting, dinner, a chance to meet a former Miss America, and listening to the former Miss America sing in the New Year.

I rarely attend these “proper” functions, as I don’t own a black tie, nor do I understand how to act at these events. A fish out of water would put it mildly. Misty was excited about the evening, so I had to go.

To start the evening, a friend talked Misty and I into having our portrait drawn by a local artist. Artist she may have been, but I looked like Fat Albert and Misty looked twice her age. Perhaps it was a portrait for 25 years from now.

To me, the highlight of the evening was when the event was ending. A man who looked to be in his seventies sucked in a balloon full of helium and yelled out “Happy New Year Everybody” just as the audience was quiet.

Of the forty people present in the room, I only noticed his table plus four people laughing at his blaring pinched vocal chords. Miss America’s husband was sitting at our table and he noticed me laughing. With a twinkle in his eye, he calmly handed me a balloon and grabbed one for himself.

I suppose success can’t be measured just by material things and accomplishments. To me, an evening with good food, good drinks, and great company, accompanied with laughter makes the perfect evening. If the man in the corner had decided against the helium, the evening wouldn’t have been complete.

Laughter is good like medicine and more people need their prescription filled.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories are available on the Capital Press Blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at Kevinddul@aol.com.

Copyright, January 2008, Kevin Duling

I won't give a finch!

By Kevin Duling

Animals typically rule the roost at my place. I always presumed I would just have a dog and maybe even a cat. Throughout time and a few unfortunate events, I was left with two cats, fourteen chickens, a barn full of guinea hens, a pet steer, a dog, some wild quail which must be fed daily, and lastly, two finches.

When I leave for a small vacation, (all my vacations must be small with that many animals) I have to print out a detailed map of instructions on the appropriate care of each animal. The two finches, Frederick and Francine Finch, are by far the highest maintenance of all.

Daily care for finches involves simply changing their water, blowing the chaff off their food dish, giving them five fresh leaves of spinach, replacing the millet stalk, and wiping the poop off the perches. For the sake of time and entertainment value, I did not mention the cage cleaning, mite control, the proper mixing of charcoal with the gravel, the cuttlebone, and keeping the thermostat constantly above 65 degrees.

A few years back I was contemplating whether to give them to someone else or keep them. Frederick was busy trying to get a small piece of a millet branch into their nest. It was slightly too big and too slippery to stay inside. Frederick would place it in position and the branch would slide back out, falling the far twelve inches to the cage floor.

Two hours later, Frederick was still trying to get the small stick to stay up in his nest, while Francine waited patiently on the nearby perch. Finally, after hours of work and toil, Frederick got his branch to stay. With a cheerful little song he decided to get some approval from Francine.

As they sat together on the perch looking horizontally at their nest, the branch decided to fall back out. Frederick’s reaction was an ear piercing “CHIRP!” I do not speak finch well, but I do know this was not a kind word. After Frederick’s sinful outburst, Francine glanced at Frederick and began to verbally let him have it.

It was not until evening when I discovered the extent of Frederick’s verbal discharge. For the first time, Francine would not let Frederick into the nest. He had crossed a line and he was in big trouble. For a full week Frederick slept on top of the nest, while his spouse slept inside.
Finally, after trying for seven long nights, she allowed him to come back in and sleep in the bedroom. The happy little couple hasn’t had a problem like that since. I have managed to witness at least a dozen traits from these two that would correspond directly to a married couple.

Being engaged, I have to ask myself what verbal outburst I am capable of that will end with me on the couch for a week. I am also curious what I will have to do to get me off the couch. One would not think one could learn so much from a pair of birds, whose aggregate weight equals about 2 ounces.

Life hasn’t always been perfectly rosy for the two finches. They have suffered through a week of paint thinner fumes, a week of staying at the grandparents while the paint dried, numerous temporary furnace outages, some heat waves, a cat dangling from the cage, and the time I tried to start a fire with the chimney completely plugged. All of these events were life-threatening to the finches, but together they made it through.

Hardship comes every spring and fall when I clean out their nest, which requires them to rebuild with tiny sticks and pieces of napkin. After a couple of hours of remorse and complaining, they get to work.

These little guys may be the highest maintenance pets in the world, but their character, perseverance, trust, and loyalty make them almost worth it. I won’t give a finch.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com .

Copyright, January 2008, Kevin Duling

Look, I is on the News!

Whenever my local town of Maupin makes the Portland news, it is because something bad has happened. Whether it’s a flood, fire, river drowning, earthquake, or a piano falling from the sky, it’s never a good thing.

They say the best thing about living in a small town is how everyone knows everyone. They also say the worst thing about living in a small town is how everyone knows everyone. With those two statements, I would agree.

What amazes me is how the television media, during a local crisis, can manage to find the most obscure, spooky, backwoods hermit of a person to interview. Even more amazing is how nobody in town will know the person they are interviewing. How do they find these people?

“When the rain started tinklin on the window I knew right den and der we was gonna have a flood. Back in ’81 we had a 8- foot wall a water come down the river and I watched four deer get picked up out of the meadow and swept out to sea. That’s how the mule deer got bred to the blacktails from the valley, because of that der flood. Funny thing was that my great aunt Ethel was at the coast when she saw four deer walking down the beach. It had to be them four I seen in the flood.”

My town is not the only small town to face the phenomenon of the media’s mysterious interviewees. I asked a friend from a neighboring town who the funny buck-tooth guy was on the news and he had never seen the man. These people seem to just show up during the crisis long enough to be caught by the media.

I’ve always wanted to know what the media hoped to gain by finding people like that. It would seem simple to find anyone even remotely normal to interview, but seldom is that the case.

I was reminded how badly the media can distort things when the man wanting to put a natural gas pipeline through our place was astounded we had e-mail out here. My response to that statement went something like this:

“Yep, we do have e-mail, and I also heard there is this big truck with a large crane on top that spins which can dig down hundreds of feet enabling us to maybe get running water someday soon. Just think, we might not have to run outside to go in the middle of the night much longer and I won’t have to bathe in the creek anymore.” He wasn’t thrilled with my response, as I wasn’t thrilled with his elitist attitude either.

A second so-called infraction was when the federal auditors were sent to investigate our new buildings for the fire department. The fire chief received a phone call asking if the investigators would require an SUV to successfully navigate to the fire station. Keep in mind this was June, and snowy roads were unavailable.

The chief’s response had something to do with a horse-and-buggy and how an SUV would be the first automobile to come by since the Model T was introduced. It appears the disconnect between urban and rural centers always involves ignorance and mistaken preconceptions.

I suppose this is true with anything. Taking the media’s word for something and developing an idea based solely on that information would be dangerous. As for the pipeline guy and the federal auditors with their SUV, perhaps the fault does not lie completely with them; however I am shocked they haven’t made it out to rural areas at least once in their lifetimes.

Today there is a television crew wanting to do a story on the recent earthquakes in the area. The news lady is waving at me to do an interview. Perhaps they want to interview a normal person in the area; or, maybe I’m the nearest obscure, spooky, backwoods hermit.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com.

Copyright, December 2007, Kevin Duling.

Christmas past

I consider myself blessed when I think of my childhood Christmas memories. I remember the many sleepless Christmas Eves when I would lie awake wondering what gifts might be under the tree. I remember the arguments between us (the kids) and my folks determining when the waking hour would be.

We would always push for 6:30 at the latest, while the folks would try to make us stay in bed until at least 7:30. A compromise of 6:38 was usually the result. After the gift opening ceremony, a large feast of fry bread, scrambled eggs, bacon, and fruit would satisfy the body, as well as the soul.

For my siblings and I, there were two events that never failed to prep our spirits for the Christmas season. One was gathering around the television to watch the annual showing of A Charlie Brown Christmas. The other was the Christmas production the grade school would put on.

Each class, consisting of 15 to 30 students, would either sing, play instruments, dance, or perform a play for the crowd of teachers, students, parents, grandparents, and family friends. With the stage lit only with black lighting, the evening was topped with a mass song of Silent Night.

I attended grade school in the 1980s. I am saddened how today’s generation, only 20+ years later, is not allowed to have Christmas specials like that. They can have a holiday special, but not one that represents Christmas. Having the group sing a song like Silent Night together would result in someone getting fired, or perhaps end in a lawsuit.

As an adult, Christmas has evolved somewhat since my earlier years. I’ve found myself trying to bargain with my nieces and nephews hoping to get to sleep until 7:30, though usually receiving a rude phone call at about 6:38 telling me to hurry up and get to my folks house. I’ve also found myself excited about my gift to someone, not from someone.

We still gather around the television and watch A Charlie Brown Christmas, eat a low-fat fry bread breakfast (you mean fry bread isn’t low fat? Even with canola oil?), and go on a long walk with everybody to help the food settle.

As my fiancée and I gear up to be married, one area of concern is the Christmas tree. Last year, I pushed her into the pickup on an 18-degree day and made her search the forest with me looking for the perfect tree. She thought the tree was too vacant and needed to be much fuller.

Her idea of a great Christmas tree is to go purchase one from the nearest tree-lot. I explained how I didn’t want to spend $30 on a dried up, dead piece of shrubbery. Also, the romanticism of going to a tree-lot is just not there.

“Kevin, last year you lost the Thermos of hot chocolate, you got the pickup stuck in the snow, and the Forest Service guy gave you a warning because of the size of tree you cut down,” she argued.

“It wasn’t all my fault. You were the one who wanted the top 8 feet of that 50-foot tree, and then you had the nerve to complain about it once we brought it home!”

After a compromise this year, we agreed to have her store-bought tree (shrubbery) put in the house. I got to decorate the little pine tree in the corner of my yard. I’ve never been too fond of the compromising process.

Remember, the spirit of Christmas is about giving. If you’ve been given something freely, freely give back. If you know of someone who needs comfort, give them comfort. If you know an elderly person who would just like to visit, give them a visit.

The world may try to take Christ out of Christmas, but the world cannot take Christ out of us. Merry Christmas to all.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com.

Copyright, December 2007, Kevin Duling

The Tasmanian dancer

Prior to the era of corporate farms and recreational ranches, rural communities would get together for many different functions. There were fund-raising dinners, local theatrical performances, potluck socials, sporting events, and who knows what else. Our community would have an annual dance at the fire hall.

As a youngster, I was always excited to go to the dance. I was not a dancer, but I loved to visit with my friends, plus laugh at some of the dances those old farmers and ranchers would do. My favorite passage was: “Better to sit, watch, and be presumed an idiot then go out, dance, and remove all doubt.”

I can remember my mother and two sisters being very nervous on the day of the dance. Their greatest fear was that Bullet would ask them to dance. Bullet was a man who believed in doing things as quickly as possible. His style of western swing dancing most closely resembled the cartoon character The Tasmanian Devil.

Community involvement was very high at these functions, so the women in my family found peace with safety in numbers. If Bullet asked each girl to dance once, the burden would not be hard to bear.

As a musician, I am forced to use tempo as the basis for each dance step. I assume that is the rule for dancing. With Bullet, the song tempo doesn't matter. He has one speed; Lightning.

It became apparent that one day I would have to learn to dance. My sideline spectating was not resulting in dates with the girls. Finding a dance that came naturally would be the key for not looking like the idiot on the dance floor. As in poker, if you can't spot the moron on the dance floor in the first five minutes, you are the moron.

While shoveling a grain bin, I noticed many repetitive motions that could be incorporated into a dance move. During the bin cleaning process, you have to put your left foot on the sweep auger while shoveling from your left to your right.

With your left foot out, move your arms from left to right with the rhythm of the music. This dance is called the “Bin Cleaner”. To spice up the dance, you can add the “Combine Cleaner” at various intervals.

To do the Combine Cleaner, just pretend a pile of chaff just went down the back of your neck. This forces your head to come up with a sudden forward thrust from your shoulders, while gritting your teeth for effect. Make sure your arms are down at your sides, or you will bear a slight resemblance to a chicken.

The “Hay Baler” is the next move every farmer can use in his dance arsenal. With the understanding that all balers will expectedly break down with two hours to go and rain clouds imminent, simply practice the motion of kicking the side of the baler with your outside foot. This dance can be used with the Combine Cleaner also.

I would go through the Rock Picker, the Electrical Glitch, the Tractor Stretcher, and the Panicking Wheat Marketer, but those dances have to remain as my own trademark dance moves. Bullet is still alive and well and I don't want him learning my secrets.

Having a large assortment of dances to choose from is a great way to make every community gathering a memorable and enjoyable one. I'm sure there are a few teenagers who would love to learn to dance like me. I can almost guarantee them success with the opposite sex if they will just watch my moves carefully.

If I can manage to get this community together, which is made up of three farmers, two ranchers, four retired couples, a few self-employed entrepreneurs, and fifteen recreational home owners, perhaps I can show them I am really not the moron on the dance floor, despite what the all the rumors say.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com.

Copyright, November 2007, Kevin Duling.

Hunters and gatherers

By Kevin Duling

Back in college, my crop science teacher spent many days of class telling us how we need to approach society and relationships using the “hunter and gatherer” mentality we were born with. He added that women were usually the gatherer type while men preferred to go out and kill something, drag it home, and show their women how great they were at the hunt.

I have witnessed both the hunting and gathering instinct at work in society, like a woman urging her husband to stop at the clothing or fabric store so she can browse through the aisles, hoping to find a great deal. Most men, unhappy because there is nothing to hunt and drag home, fall asleep in the car, dreaming of the day when their newly trained bird dog will make its first successful point.

There is one very important exception to the rule that men are hunters and women are gatherers. That would be the day after Thanksgiving. A typical Thanksgiving for my extended family is to rent a large house on the Oregon coast and spend the week playing cards and arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes. The day after Thanksgiving usually involves the men going for a long hike while the women run to the outlet mall at 5 a.m. to begin to gather.

I remember one Thanksgiving when I caved in to the urging of the women and agreed to accompany them on this annual Friday shopping ritual. I figured it would be good to get a head start on the Christmas shopping and I would surely find some good deals. The older men in our house warned me about what was in store for me, with a couple of them using an evil giggle I hadn’t heard before.

At 4:30 a.m., the day after Thanksgiving, I was rudely awakened by a pack of giddy ladies all discussing which stores they would go to first. Not wanting to make them late, I skipped taking a shower and just jumped into the vehicle. Typically, these women always wanted me to drive, but not today. I sat back and watched as eight ladies who were all known for their kindness transformed into aggressively mean, scowling monsters letting nothing get in their way.

I hunched down in the back of the suburban when the driver crashed through a large mud puddle, completely soaking a couple unfortunate pedestrians on the sidewalk. The driver, whom I no longer recognized, laughed out loud as the lady in the passenger seat yelled “Go! Go! Go!” with her fist pointing onward.

At 4:50 a.m. we arrived on scene of the outlet mall. I was shocked to see the parking lot was nearly full with lines beginning to form at the entrances to some of the stores. There was no turning back now, so I grabbed my Christmas list and tried to find a store that was not so popular.

At 6 a.m. I had managed to pick a few things off the list and I felt it was time for a doughnut and a nap. I struggled through the crowd, being pushed and shoved like a pinball as these monsters, oh, I mean ladies, glared at me with their red, glowing eyes. Finally, I found the driver of our vehicle, who used to be my sister, and asked for the keys so I could take a nap.

At roughly 8 a.m. I was getting restless, so I managed to get back out into the chaos to see if I could pick some more things off my list. Entering a large department store, I grabbed a cart, hoping it would give me support and balance just in case the monsters should attack again.

I found a few really good deals. I made it to the sock section and there were three pairs of socks left for an incredible price. I grabbed all three! Meandering through the aisles I witnessed a man at the end of the aisle being scolded by a couple of monsters. Apparently he was trying to get into the express lane with 10 items when the limit was 9. People say a picture is worth a thousand words and when his eyes caught mine, well, let’s just say that there was an understanding between us.

As I was bent over looking at some items I noticed a lady with a cart moving very fast away from me. She glanced over her shoulder and her glowing eyes looked right at me. Fear then turned to rage inside me. “Did she just swipe something out of my cart?” I asked myself. “She did; she stole my three pair of socks!” It wasn’t worth the chase as I watched that five foot tall, 100 pound creature roar around the corner.

At 8:50 a.m., with the sale ending in 10 minutes, there was pushing and shoving. One lady was in tears behind me knowing that she wouldn’t make the checkout counter by 9 sharp. Through all the chaos, the manager yelled through the intercom: “Please ladies and the one gentleman, everyone in line at 9 a.m. will get the sale prices!”

While attending Thanksgiving this year at a friend’s house for a change of pace, a woman I have known for years to be one of the most kind, soft-hearted ladies around was planning her shopping trip for Friday. I remember her saying, “It’s time for me to put my nasty hat on, Kevin; we are pulling out the nasty hat!”

There is one day per year where gatherers turn into hunters and the typical hunter needs to disappear, or he will indeed be hunted.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com
Copyright, November 2007, Kevin Duling

The Hangbelly Ranch

By Kevin Duling

Country life is usually slow to change. For example, the small service station downtown which fixes our flat tires and welds our machinery is still in operation. It has been in operation for nearly 75 years. Every once in a while, something will happen in a small town to give people something to chatter about.

About five years ago, a widely traveled doctor purchased some acreage nearby, which we had been farming. He wanted to keep us as his tenants and continue farming as we had been. Occasionally, he would ask for help with something simple, such as moving a little dirt for his patio. Every time we would help, he would always be grilling us steak dinners and offering drinks. These little chores became wonderful excuses for family social functions.

One day, he decided to purchase livestock. I received a phone call from him letting me know of his new purchase and he was excited. He let me know it was his dream to have a small ranch with livestock roaming through it. Roaming through it they did, as the fences were nonexistent at best.

A couple years ago, I received another phone call alerting me to not shoot the strange creatures grazing his place. The service station was alive with talk of these small, black critters that look like a cross between a buffalo and a gazelle. Some small town folk don’t get out much, so something like this can create quite a stir.

A friend of mine, who takes care of the Hangbelly Ranch when the doctor is absent, wanted me to help her feed the animals one wintry day. She told me to throw the hay off the back of the pickup while she drove through the field. As I sat atop the hay waiting to start throwing bales, a little blonde head poked out of the sliding windows with the following disclaimer: “When we get to the yaks, be aware. They are athletic and sometimes quite friendly. Whatever happens, don’t panic and just keep throwing hay.”

With a slightly devilish grin and a twinkle in her eye, she drove us into the field. The cattle were eager to have breakfast on that snowy day, as they all followed while the hay was being dumped. About a quarter mile from the cattle was a group of yaks.

As we approached, all heads and horns were attentive to us. I started throwing as fast as I could hoping nothing strange would happen. While focusing on the hay bales I didn’t even notice that two yaks were now in the pickup with me. “I have to throw faster!” I screeched.

The pit of my stomach grew sickly as all the hay was out of the pickup, leaving the two yaks and myself. From the corner of my eye I saw my friend giggling, as the sight must have been entertaining. The yaks were coming with me, whether I liked it or not.

Today, the Hangbelly Ranch has yaks, cattle, zebu, llamas, chickens, pigs, goats, horses, guinea hens, geese, homing pigeons, peacocks, and a duck. This spring will be time to take the offspring to the auction. There is one small problem with that. The zebu bull bred a few of the cattle, the yak bull bred the zebu cows, and the beef bull bred the neighbor’s cows.

The auctioneer will have his work cut out for him that day. “Hey, look here folks, we have a great set of (pause)…….. zeebaks with a pen of 10 cowzus next up. Anyone have any idea what these are worth and where the bidding should start?”

Every small town has a story or two to tell. The story of the Hangbelly Ranch has been off the radar for some time. While waiting at the service station for a tire to be fixed, I still find myself answering the question, “Hey, what’s that place up there have out in the field? It looks like a cross between a buffalo, a cow, and a gazelle.”

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com.

Copyright, November 2007, Kevin Duling

Steer clear of Fed inflation forecast

According to the Fed, inflation was minimal in the first quarter of the year. One financial analyst was a bit worried about the price of commodities. He stated how food prices could rise in relation to the demand pull for ethanol, relating to the cost of finishing an animal.

Many rural families have the luxury of growing their own beef for their own consumption. The price to raise your own animal, plus the quality of food which is achievable, are two of the advantages these families can enjoy. Nothing spells happiness to a man like having a freezer full of beef.

Out of curiosity, I decided to figure out the price of beef per pound in raising our own. We do not have our own mother cows, so the purchase price of a steer is our first cost, at roughly $500. We will typically have to feed at least half a ton of hay during the winter, so let’s add $75 to that.

Fly spray, salt, minerals, and various small vet items will maybe add another $25, bringing your total to $600 for a finished beef. There are some hidden expenses, I’ve noticed, that can add up really fast.

First, to purchase a steer, one has to visit an auction. This can get expensive. To get the accurate cost of beef per pound, I believe I would have to add the cost of the goat, the pig, and the donkey I felt sorry for and also purchased. Had I not been shopping for a steer, these three critters would still be at the auction and not in my yard.

Secondly, I do not own a trailer, so I had to hire someone to bring these to my house. For some reason, the steers I pick out always seem to be really good deals until I get them home. I believe elk would struggle keeping up with these bovines, so we can add the cost of fixing the corral to that list too.

Having your ranch next to a bird farm is not necessarily a good thing. The lure of irrigated corn patches in a desert is more than an average steer can bear, so we’ll add the price of a corn patch or two.

Lastly, corn can make a steer feel really energetic, so let’s add the cost of a satellite dish, a water faucet, my yard fence, and a septic tank, all found in my yard. Whatever the price, it will be nice having this steer in the freezer.

After cutting and wrapping, the total price per pound on a home-raised beef steer is only $10.50 per pound. Who in their right mind would ever buy beef at a supermarket?

I did a similar exercise on the cost of elk meat per pound. Hunting and fishing is a sure bet at keeping your food costs down. Why, a hunting license only runs $43.50. Add some ammo, a tag, and maybe a few camping supplies and the cost couldn’t be too bad could it?

We do tend to eat a little more than normal while elk camping. The price of fuel is higher now and you can’t just use cheap bullets. New water proof boots and clothing must be purchased at least every other year, toilet paper is a large necessity, and the new tax deductible chainsaw is a must for any elk hunter.

Let us not forget the trailer we have to buy to camp in, plus the full size gas grill every elk camp should have. Sometimes it rains or snows while elk hunting, so a wall tent must be purchased to allow more room for drying clothes. Lastly, a winch to haul the elk out of the canyon is needed.

The running total on a pound of elk meat is now at $150.75 per pound in the event that we actually get one. The Fed seems to be off a bit. I think inflation is becoming a bit of a problem. Who can afford to eat with these kinds of prices?

I think I will take up fishing. All I need is a pole and some bait, right?

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted every Friday on the Capital Press blog. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com.

Copyright, November 2007, Kevin Duling

Spring, summer, winter and elk season

By Kevin Duling

To Central Oregon farmers and ranchers, there are three seasons: The hot season, the cold season and elk season. Spring and fall are pretty much non-existent around here. Winter goes right into summer, summer right into winter, and so forth.

One of the great joys in this business is getting the last acre seeded and heading to the mountains for a week of elk hunting. For me, it’s more like elk hiking, as the elk are a bit more elusive these days. Either that or my adult attention deficit disorder doesn’t allow me to remember what I’m out looking for.

Many city folk who work their 40-hour weeks have nothing better to do than prepare for elk season. They pile into their $40,000 pickups pulling their $30,000 trailers specifically designed for hunters. With the “last acre seeded” date a yearly unknown, we’ve had as long as 10 days to prepare for elk season and as little as 2 hours.

To properly enjoy elk season, one has to have the proper amenities available for camping in the mountains in November. We’ve had elk seasons when T-shirts have been worn and elk seasons when your boots have frozen to the trailer floor, even with the heater on. Meaning, bring everything in your house to make sure nothing is forgotten.

Our camp trailers were manufactured in the 1960s. I’ve never been a real fan of vintage equipment. After spending 10 years in these hunting trailers, I’m really not a fan of vintage equipment. Lighting the propane pilots can be a real adventure. “Hey Kevin, was it the top or the bottom hole to light the furnace pilot?”

“Well, let’s see Bob (my cousin/cpa/hunting partner), if I remember right it was the…”

Ka-POWWW!

“Are you OK Bob? By the way, was it the top hole or the bottom? We need to remember that for next year. We wouldn’t want to risk someone doing that wrong.”

Speaking of the furnace, I’m guessing the internal pollution standards have changed some since 1964. We do tend to sleep much better when the heater is on, compared to the warm nights when heating is not necessary.

Elk season would not be complete without our camp cook. In the other two seasons he is our mechanic and good friend. Every morning at 5 a.m. sharp, breakfast is ready. There is nothing better than a pancake, a piece of ham and a fried egg on opening morning.

On the second morning of elk camp, we get a pancake, a piece of ham and a fried egg. I suppose it’s wise to have a large breakfast if I’m going to be hiking all day. The same goes for the third morning. My body is used to an apple and an energy bar for breakfast, so there are some side effects to the elk camper breakfast.

As the week progresses, the pancakes seem to get bigger and heavier. Our cook is quite sensitive, so it is offensive to him if every last bite is not consumed. Bob has learned that he can grab my plate and stuff his unfinished plate underneath, then give it back to me.
I, the accomplice, don’t find that nearly as amusing as he does.

When the elk trailers are not in use, I have discovered my female friend has some concerns about them. Apparently, they do not qualify for the “aesthetic level” necessary to meet her barnyard regulations. I find it strange she would have barnyard regulations when she doesn’t live here yet.

I’ve explained to her, “Maybe someday we could take one of these trailers camping in the hot season up to a cool mountain lake.”

Her response: “When you explain to me why Bob always has a burned ring below his right eye after every elk season, I will think about it.”

Kevin will not have a post on Nov. 2, 2007, because of elk season. Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer and freelance writer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog on Friday’s. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com .

Copyright, October 2007, Kevin Duling

'Safety First' sounds good on paper, lacking in practice

By Kevin Duling

Is it me, or does OSHA know just exactly when to show up? I believe I was standing underneath a raised implement replacing a point. Dad was at the grinder working on a piece of metal and my brother was using the cutting torch on another piece of machinery.

None of us were doing jobs considered unsafe. It’s the way we were doing them. First, I was underneath a raised implement without the hydraulic guard keeping the implement up. Second, Dad was grinding away without gloves or goggles, and lastly, my brother was cutting metal without gloves or a visor.

I know what you are thinking: “You guys aren’t very smart are you?” I don’t think “smarts” is the problem. I believe farmers fall closer in line with reality. Yes, something bad could have happened to all three of us, but most farmers understand that sometimes it is rational to be ignorant.

Feel free to throw the first stone if you have not done any of those things. The American society has evolved where risk is supposed to be erased. For example, when a car drove off the curve, it was not considered the driver’s fault. A guard rail had to be installed to prevent that from happening again.

Next time, a car hit the guard rail and the driver hit his head. With that came the seatbelt. A car hit the guard rail again and the driver still hit his head. With that came the air bag. Again, a car hit the guard rail and this time the passenger hit her head. Hence, the passenger air bag.

I always have to laugh at the “passenger airbag” button on the dashboard. How many arguments have taken place between a woman and a man because of the optional passenger air bag?

The man, wanting to provide for his family, disengages the passenger bag in case he hits a deer while he’s by himself, not wanting to pay the $3,000 to reinstall the airbag. The man forgets about the button when he picks the woman up. The woman notices the disengaged air bag and the couch is in his immediate future.

We recently purchased a combine. It is not brand new, but it’s close. One of our traditions is to start the separator and header each morning and give everything a really good look before starting the day. We have found many potential break-downs by doing this.

The new combine has a safety feature. If you get out of the seat, everything stops. I suppose it’s not too bad as long as there is more than one of us present, but what about the times out in the field when you thought you heard a small “thunk”? Some of our modern safety features are fine on paper, but highly annoying in the real world.

I would guess every safety feature came about because something bad happened. Recently, I heard a radio commercial telling us how to cook a hamburger. How have humans managed to survive this long without that kind of knowledge?

I can’t imagine a horse and buggy being a safe means of travel. I’m sure they didn’t have seatbelts and airbags. Shocks probably weren’t very good either. Losing the brakes would depend on snakes, the weather and what you fed the horse yesterday.

I have a picture of a team of 12 horses pulling a grain combine with seven men on it. If only OSHA was in service back then. It would seem tough to accomplish the job while constantly trying to wear a seatbelt while running the bagger. Also, the 105 degree days would be mighty unpleasant while wearing a helmet, ear plugs, goggles, and a dust mask.

The good news was the OSHA guy was lost when he arrived on our farm. He was actually looking for our neighbor (poor guy). The bad news is we gave him the correct directions to our neighbor’s house. My neighbor gave me quite a glare when I yelled, “Remember, safety first!!” out the car window the next day.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer and freelance writer from Maupin, Ore. His stories are posted on the Capital Press blog on Fridays. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com

Copyright July 2007, Kevin Duling

A Jack-of-no trades

By Kevin Duling

Farmers and ranchers all have unique attitudes. Some are optimistic, some pessimistic, most are a little of each at any given moment. In college, I found the derivation of such attitudes in the agricultural sector very interesting. Just how exactly did we become like this?

After college, I knew it would be important to incorporate the commodity market into our marketing plan to hedge important prices. After a couple successful years of hedging, I grew a bit cocky. A businessman friend of mine asked the question to me, “Why farm when you can make that much money trading commodities?”

With that in mind I proceeded to put as much money as I could into my commodity account. After doing a little homework, the perfect trade appeared. Something about the cash cattle trade from the packing house yadda, yadda, yadda.

In short, by buying August cattle in June, it was a winning trade working over 85 percent of the time, unless corn prices were too high, beef demand was slow, or sunspot activity was higher than normal causing the cattle to become lethargic, thus gaining more weight than anticipated.

My broker informed me if the cash cattle traded at 75, my trade was a guarantee. On that Tuesday, the USDA report showed cash cattle trading at 76! That was one more than we expected! We were going to make a killing!

As the futures market opened, I gleefully made the call to my broker. He said we were up for a bit, but something happened and we were now down the limit. How could that be? It was a guarantee? My stomach sank as I told my broker to get me out of the trade before all of my money was gone. As it turned out, there was an E-coli outbreak in Missouri, which caused the market to drop for one day, then go limit-up the next four.

At this time, crude oil was trading at $11 per barrel and it surely wouldn’t go much lower than that, right? My broker informed me that jumping into a different market right after a big loss is usually not a good sign. “But crude oil is at $11”, I snapped back.

The good news was that $8 crude oil had the farm diesel price at 60 cents per gallon! This was the first sign that I was becoming a true farmer. Optimism in the face of disaster.

The weather is one other subject that gets gently massaged into an agricultural producer’s mind. In college, I was hired by one of the nation’s top elite firefighting crews. The thrill of the job would be great, but I was also guaranteed at least 600 hours of overtime, making my next year in college to surely be a lavish one.

After the wettest summer in Pacific Northwest history, my 18 hours of overtime allowed me the luxury of three new textbooks. I remember stating I would never fight fire again.

Upon graduation, my father informed me there was acreage available and room for me to move home. Banking sounded boring, firefighting was only seasonal, so home we went.

With the winter as our slow time, it was the perfect opportunity for me to purchase a season pass to the local ski resort. There were great savings to be had with all purchases before November 1st. I found solace by telling myself that good ski seasons will often start in January.

As March approached my solace was destroyed by a letter from the ski resort stating there would be no refunds on season passes, but they would give a 10 percent off coupon for all resort merchandise, if the resort opens this year.

As a seasoned professional agricultural producer, I find my attitude to waiver only when it’s too cold, too hot, too wet, too dry, or somewhere in between. On a more positive note, if I get married again someday, I’m going to have an outside wedding in late April. The weather always cooperates in late April.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer and freelance writer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted every Friday on the Capital Press blog. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com.

Copyright June 2007, Kevin Duling

Brown bag fever

Some say laziness is the catalyst for creativity. I disagree. I would argue that preparing a lunch for your lunch box six days per week is a much greater catalyst.

A few years back, we had a bridge go out on our farm. Bridge building is a genetic that seemed to have passed right over my family. There was a local handyman who was up for the task of building us a bridge (Oops, I mean repairing. The county gets a little excited about things like that).

The amazing thing about this handyman was his routine. Every morning at 8 a.m. we would start work. At 10 a.m., it was time for a fifteen minute break and an apple with his coffee. At noon sharp, it was time for lunch.

Lunch for him was always the same: A peanut butter sandwich, a small bag of Lays regular potato chips, coffee, and two chocolate chip cookies. The bridge took close to five weeks to build (repair). Every day included the same exact lunch.

I approached this man and asked, “Do you ever tire of the same lunch every day?”

He replied, “I need to think about my job, not my food, Kevin.”

“You don’t ever crave a roast beef or ham sandwich instead of peanut butter?” I inquired.

He sharply responded, “My job requires me to focus. I want this bridge perfect. Routines are good.”

I, for one, do not like sandwiches. I eat out of a lunchbox six days per week and I’m not a little fellow. This creates a problem. What’s a 200 pound man like me supposed to eat? I know what you are thinking: “Obviously, if you are 200 pounds, you must be finding something!”

Sandwiches are a nuisance, but they seem to be a necessary evil. I unenthusiastically pack one every day. Unlike the handyman, I do vary things as much as possible.

Some days, my work partners and I will be working close by at noon and we will have a lunch conference under the nearest juniper tree. I have found it is hard to look manly while eating a prepackaged strawberry jello. It is even more difficult when I forget my spoon.

A cattle rancher friend invited me to help him fix a stretch of fence a few winters back. He told me to bring my lunch and that we had to pack it in a mile, so pack lightly.
Naturally, I loaded my backpack up with the normal amenities, such as a coke, a sandwich, chips, jello, a bag of almonds, an apple, cookies, a piece of pie, (I believe this is the North Beach Diet) and last, but certainly not least, toilet paper.

When noon came, I curiously watched as my friend built a campfire. “How nice!” I thought to myself. As he opened a small white bag and began putting pieces of meat on a stick, my warm thoughts started turning to jealousy. As he added barbeque sauce while roasting the meat over the fire, visions of my dog begging at the dinner table for just a small scrap went through my head.

“I don’t care for sandwiches.” He remarked.

Yeah, me neither.”

As I said earlier, creativity is spawned by necessity and want. Sitting on a tractor for ten hours per day, six days per week, gives you plenty of time to think up lunch solutions.

I have been known to put soup in a thermos on the cold days. Cold chicken fajitas are great on the warm days. Taco salads are great, but very difficult to fit into a lunch box. Unfortunately, time does not always allow for me to be creative with my lunch.

I suppose I could pack a peanut butter sandwich and an apple every day. Does that mean I would have to start thinking about my job?

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer and freelance writer from Maupin, Ore. His stories are posted every Friday on the Capital Press blog. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com

Copyright June 2007, Kevin Duling

Rules of engagement

When it’s time to propose, every man has the goal of sweeping his woman off her feet. He visions the smile on her face, the tears in her eye, and the joy in the air after the perfect proposal. Like the Japanese before Pearl Harbor, the success of the incident weighs on achieving surprise.

My plan is simple and foolproof. On the day she redeems her gift certificate for a massage I’ll take her to a nice dinner afterwards and pop the question. When a plan is developed, any alteration must be premeditated. A well rehearsed plan can be executed without flaw or an emotional backlash (in other words, a choke).

After days of tirelessly explaining to her how tired she appeared and her need for a massage, I finally received my breakthrough. Through my telephone, the words “I made an appointment for my massage next Tuesday,” were heard. It was then time to initiate phase two.

Phase two included contacting the restaurant ahead of time and having them prepare a celebratory chocolate cake for our engagement dinner. Phase two also involved practicing my proposal speech to a flawless level; a level that could be unleashed without any mental involvement.

Phase three was the first action phase the day of the engagement. It was time to approach the father the morning of the proposal. Many things go through a man’s mind when thinking of the father’s reaction to asking permission for her hand. She is his little girl, and he would probably like her to remain as such.

Problems with phase three surfaced with the realization that she still lived with her parents, and they would all be home on that Tuesday morning. “How in the world am I going to isolate the father?” was the question at hand.

One of her jobs was to feed an absentee rancher’s animals. That had to be my moment. As soon as she left, I would roar over to her house, ask her father, and hurry back home before she returned. It only took ten phone calls to her house to determine the exact time of her departure to feed.

The eleventh phone call was made to her mother, to confirm her departure. The eight mile journey to her home was one of nervous fear. Nervous for what her father might say, and fear that I might fly off the road at that speed. I approached her driveway just in time to see her turning into it. “I’m too late!!” I hollered.

This kicked me into plan B of phase three. I was required to use the telephone to ask her father. She answered the phone rather sternly. “According to my caller ID, this is the twelfth time you’ve called here in the last 30 minutes, what do you want?”

“Can I speak to your father?”

“Why?”

“Uhhhh, a farming question.”

Phase four was the final phase. Get the massage, go to dinner, and propose after we give our order. En route to the massage, she informed me that she had to return home immediately after the massage, which would leave no time for dinner. Panic set in. “Let’s go to a nice lunch!” I blurted.

After ordering, stomach butterflies had caused me to need the restroom. “Relax, it’s a sure thing, you’ve rehearsed it to a flawless level,” said the good side of my brain.
“You are a crazy fool! She doesn’t like you that much and your little flawless phases are failing miserably!” argued the other side of my brain.

Upon returning from the bathroom, it was time to get things over with. Before I could scoot my chair back in, my mouth started speaking my rehearsed line. My eyes hadn’t found where she was sitting yet. On cue, my hands pulled the ring from my pocket.

The result was a resounding silence. The wrong side of my brain pointed his finger in arrogance. The good side of my brain began to flee the scene.

“Of course I will, Kevin; it just took me a minute to understand what you were asking in that weird monotone auctioneer voice.”

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer and freelance writer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com

Copyright, June 2007, Kevin Duling

Range nuggets

By Kevin Duling

A range nugget is defined as an individual who gleefully points out errors people make regarding range plant identification or anything else regarding rangeland and can successfully interpret any rangeland publication put out by either the US Forest Service or the Bureau of Land Management.

My friend and I used to joke about people we deemed as range nuggets. In our rangeland college courses we would take field trips and be introduced to many people who could tell you everything about any plant on the range. In the scientific realm, no self-respecting range scientist would dare speak in the common language.

Cheat grass was not called cheat grass and thistles were not called thistles. Not only could these specialists tell you the genus and species terms for each plant, they could rattle off the family name of the plant, the origin, the current location, which countries the plant was found in, and if it was known to heal cancer.

While my friend and I were both impressed by these range mavericks, we were equally amused at why anyone would spend that much time learning these trivial things. In one of our college courses, we were forced to learn 150 range plants. We didn’t do it because we wanted to; we did it because we had to.

The family name and genus species have both changed for many range plants several times since we graduated college. The saying goes for the people whose job it is to name all the plants, “When you’ve named everything there is to name; rename things or you will be out of a job.”

When I was in college, all grass families had recently been changed. We were fortunate to get to learn the new ones. Since then, they have changed again. Bluebunch wheatgrass, which used to be known as Agropyron Spicatum, is now known as Pseudoroegneria Spicata. Obviously, the latter is much simpler and easier to communicate than the first.

Perhaps these name makers are making things so much more difficult that things will have to be renamed again. That should mean at least four good years of employment I would think.

My uncle, who is now a retired doctor, was famous for dazzling everyone when the family would go for a hike together. He could spew every genus and species name of every wildflower we stumbled across. The family would keep moving as my father and he would be in heated debate over a small purple flower one of the ladies spotted.

Typically, we would not see Dad or my uncle again for the rest of the hike. Occasionally, we would spot them, their heads looking down with a hand on their chin, with the lure of the correct scientific name as the goal.

In no way could my uncle be construed as a range nugget. He knew four languages, traveled over seas many times, and could heal many sicknesses just by looking at us and telling us to go home and eat a certain vegetable.

I recall a warm fall day in the Deschutes basin. With the crop seeded and the equipment put to bed for the winter, it was time to go for a hike. The dew soaked sage and juniper smelled wonderful. It was peaceful walking by the numerous fishermen as they cast their fly upon the aquamarine water in hopes of a passing steelhead.

On the trail, I stumbled across an older married couple who were sipping water from their canteen. I smiled and greeted them with the typical “How is your morning?” They responded by stating how pretty the sagebrush was that time of year.

I replied back, “Actually, the brush that is in bloom is grey rabbitbrush, also known as Chrysothamnus Nauseosis. The big sage, which in this area is Artemisia Tridentata Tridentata, blooms in the spring. At the higher elevations in good soil, you may find some big mountain sage, which is known as Artemisia Tridentata Wyomingensis.”

With a slight glare of annoyance, the couple thanked me for the uninvited information and went on their way. About a half mile down the trail, I stopped dead in my tracks with a moment of realization: I had become a range nugget.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer and freelance writer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com

A field trip to remember

By PATRICIA R. McCOY
Capital Press

MAY, Idaho — The Capital Press covers four states with only 10 fulltime field reporters, half a dozen staffers in the headquarters newsroom in Salem, Ore., and a band of dedicated, but very part-time freelancers.

Given the size of the staff compared with geography, it behooves us to get out in the field occasionally on overnight trips so we can interview for a few stories in some of the more remote areas.

Thus it was that I found myself in Salmon, Idaho, for a week recently, doing stories on several different ranches.

Being unfamiliar with the area, I naturally quizzed ranchers carefully in advance for directions to their operations.

Glenn Elzinga’s directions were very clear, and easy to follow.

He told me to watch for the Pahsimeroi River Valley turnoff on Highway 93, at the Ellis Post Office, and follow the road east for a certain number of miles to a side road labeled with a certain name, then turn south again and go about a mile and a half to the gate to his ranch.

“Just open the gate and drive on through,” he said. “I’ll be expecting you. If you cross the river, you’ll have gone too far.”

I found everything just as he described, very easily. There was only one problem. The gate to his ranch turned into a pasture where he’d left his horses.

Now, anybody who has ever been around animals knows they see fences as a challenge. The grass is ALWAYS greener on the other side.

Elzinga’s horses were no exception. No sooner had I stopped at the gate than they came crowding forward, ready to bolt the minute I opened it.

I tried shooing them back from the gate. They moved back a short distance, but with a very cocky, “who the heck do you think YOU are, lady,” look in their eyes.

When I thought I’d shooed them to a sufficient distance, I unlatched the gate, ready to wave my arms and shoo them away still further so I could jump into my car, drive through, then stop and refasten the gate before proceeding on up to the ranchstead where Elzinga had promised to meet me.

Any rancher could have predicted that wasn’t going to work. It didn’t. Giving me another one of those cocky, “oh, yeah, lady” looks, the horses bolted right past me and onto the road the second I unlatched the gate. No arm waving, yelling or jumping up and down was going to stop them.

They were, by the way, considerably larger than me, and half a dozen strong against one woman.

That left me with only one choice. Leaving the gate open, I drove quickly to the house, located Elzinga, and told him the horses had bolted onto the road.

He was working on his car at the time. He jumped in, and drove to the road. I followed him back down the lane in my own car, parked a short distance away from the gate, and stationed myself in the road on the opposite side of the gate so I could turn the horses as he herded them back into the yard with his car.

The horses hadn’t gone far. They really were after the lush, green grass growing by the side of the road, positive that it was greener than that in their pasture.

Three of Elzinga’s seven daughters also raced for the gate, one or two on their bicycles. They helped chase the horses back inside, and on up the lane to a second pasture where they couldn’t bolt again when I left.

The girls latched the gate behind all of us, and I drove back up to the house, ruefully shaking my head.
“Wow,” I said, “That’s some way to make a first impression!" Elzinga burst out laughing. Like so many ranchers, he had a good sense of humor. Then he apologized for forgetting to put the horses into the back pasture away from the ranch lane before I came.

It all went to prove the old truism: ranch people are friendly, and a lot of fun to be around. It’s all part of what makes writing for the Capital Press fun.

To hear a short interview McCoy did with Elzinga, click here.

Capital Press staff writer Pat McCoy is based in Boise.

Technorati tags: Agriculture

A barber shop of horrors

By Kevin Duling

Most of rural USA is close to keeping pace with the urban areas. We can get our Internet via satellite, we can have our movie rentals mailed to us, Starbucks coffee houses are crawling their way into small towns, and the bad cell phone service that urbanites complain about is equally bad out here. There is one area where the city dwellers can out-stride the country folk though; they have choices on where to get their hair cut.

As for myself, my hair used to be nothing more than an annoyance to be dealt with. Now in my mid-thirties, it is much more conceivable for God to have each hair on my head numbered. My number seems to drop every day. I tell myself that I won’t be one of those guys who compensates for the lack of hair up above by growing it on his chin; however, I tell myself many things.

I believe I was in college when my first negative haircut experiences began. I attended a university in a small town where there was one beauty shop and one barber shop. I walked in to the latter and found three barber chairs; two were occupied and one was free. There were five people waiting ahead of me. I asked a couple of them if they were going to take the open seat and they all shook their heads as if I had just offered them some fresh rat poison.

The barber with the open seat looked friendly enough and even invited me into his chair. He introduced himself as Otis and then proceeded to ask some general questions on what to do with my hair. As he began snipping away I was watching the action in the chair over by the door. That barber was moving people through; about one every five minutes. One thing I did notice about all of his victims, they all had the same haircut.

I remember remarking to Otis, “Man, you could play cards on top of that guy’s head, Otis!” Otis just grinned. As Otis was getting close to finishing me up, he asked me if I wanted some sideburn left. Keep in mind this was the timeframe when long sideburns were coming back into style. I sharply replied, “No, thank you!”

As Otis finished up my sideburns, I found myself giggling at yet another flat-top on a now pale-faced kid who I swore was beginning to cry in the chair over by the door. Turning to the mirror to gaze at Otis’ progress, my smirk quickly faded to a callous, blank stare. Inside I was anything but callous and blank.

Apparently, some people’s definition of “sideburns” is much different than others’. I guess Otis defined a sideburn as anything not directly on top of your head. I paid up quickly and determined that as soon as I reached my rig, the hat was going on and it was going to stay on for quite some time. Ever wonder why so many country people wear hats? That’s right!

Back on campus I began to notice some of the haircuts other male students were sporting. “That guy sat by the door, that guy needs to go sit by the door, that guy saw Otis and answered the sideburn question wrong,” etc, etc.

Nowadays, I find myself calling the local beauty shop and scheduling appointments with the local beautician. Not only do I get a higher quality haircut, I get to hear all the rumors that have managed to circulate the town. If I tip her enough, she will even disclose the news items involving me.

For example, just last week I found out I was giving two-step lessons at my house, as well as dating a lady nearly twice my age. Anyone who has ever witnessed me dancing can surely deduce the improbability of me actually being able to perform the two-step, let alone even identifying it. Perhaps that rumor had something to do with my trip to the store the other day in which a lady opened her car door just as I was walking by, striking me in the knee. After dancing on one leg for a brief moment, I smiled at her to let her know I would be just fine. Perhaps I should quit tipping my hair lady so much.

The only trouble I’ve noticed with having a beautician instead of a barber is my haircut quality tends to go hand in hand with her mood. I’ve noticed when other ladies come in during my trim and gossip, (oh, I mean “visit”) my haircut can sometimes get a little skewed to the left or the right. At least I have some sideburn left.

If any of you should ever find yourself in a town other than your hometown and are in desperate need of a haircut, keep in mind if there is a chair open, there is probably a reason. If everyone coming out of a shop looks exactly the same, there is probably a reason and it is completely irrational believing you would fare differently. Lastly, take a long look at the facial expressions of the victims and make sure you have a hat handy in your car.

Kevin Duling is a wheat farmer and freelance writer from Maupin, Ore. His stories will be posted on the Capital Press blog every Friday. Comments are welcomed at kevinddul@aol.com.

Copyright, September 2007, Kevin Duling