In this podcast, reporter Kelsey Thalhofer examines rural reactions to the Supreme Court’s decision on the Affordable Care Act and reporter Matthew Weaver talks about increased pest and disease pressure on Northwest wheat crops.
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Under pressure from farm groups, the Labor Department has agreed to modify a plan that's intended to keep children away from some of the most dangerous farm jobs. The proposal now will have broader exemptions for children whose parents own or operate farms, or have a substantial interest in a farm partnership or corporation.
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Perhaps something good can come out of the economic turmoil gripping the country. Maybe in President-elect Barack Obama's administration can make a new "New Deal" to benefit rural Americans in the 21st century. One legacy of the 20th century Depression was the development of infrastructure that brought electricity and phone service to rural residents.
Hopefully, one of the outcomes of addressing job losses and other symptoms of the current economic collapse will be to put people back to work to address the 21st century divide between urban and rural Americans that exists in cyberspace. Rural residents need better, faster, less expensive access to Internet services to provide the same educational and business opportunities for people who live in the country that exist in urban neighborhoods.
Of course, farmers and ranchers will have to embrace and use that technology too in order to get the benefit out of it. Of course, some won't. As in early generations, some folks stubbornly took pride in still having a working outhouse, or the fact that their mail was only delivered 3 days a week. But the fact of the matter is that in order for farmers and ranchers to compete in the global agriculture economy, they need to have access to and utilize the tools of the modern world. Yes, you can still harvest a grain field with a team of horses, but does it make the best business sense to do so?
A farmer in Tennessee has resorted to using a pair of mules to pull a tractor rake to harvest hay. T.R. Raymond says the mules are slower than a petroleum-powered tractor, but there are benefits. "This fuel's so high, you can't afford it," he said. "We can feed these mules cheaper than we can buy fuel. That's the truth."
Wheeler High senior Jessica Miller, right, waits for a response to a phone call to a source as her reporting team members sophomore Kevin Miller, left, and freshman Levi Sharp, accompany her in the main office. Photo by Brook Griffith/Condon High School
Special to the Capital Press
FOSSIL, Ore. -- Students at two Eastern Oregon high schools are getting in the publishing business.
Earlier this spring, students at Condon High School produced the first student newspaper at the school in about 20 years. Currently, students at Wheeler High School in Fossil are in the process of producing a photo magazine.
Both publications were part of the outcome of a writer-in-residence program under the direction of visiting photojournalist Cheryl Hatch.
Volume 1 of Devil High Times was printed in March 2008 and filled with articles and photos produced by the students at Condon High School. Devil High Times focused on the pros and cons of the life of students in Condon and the events that happen around the town.
Tyler Pike, a sophomore at Condon High, was an editor for the newspaper. Pike enjoyed having the opportunity to be a part of the experience.
"It was a fun thing to do and was a break from the ordinary," Pike said. He said he developed an interest in journalism and wants to attend the University of Oregon to study photojournalism.
He likes the idea of having a steady newspaper at his school.
"Yes, I would like there to be a newspaper for the school, it would help the kids with their writing skills and give them something to read."
Brook Griffith, who served as photo editor for the student paper, is a junior at Condon High School and took the classes taught by the writer in residence, Cheryl Hatch.
"I liked having Cheryl for a writer in residence because I got to use her cool camera," Griffith said.
Griffith said she enjoys photography and plans on improving her skills by taking some college courses. She used her skills to get an article printed in The Times Journal, a local paper based in Condon, about Ryan Standiford’s success in the javelin as the 1A State Champion for 2007 and his aspirations to defend his title this year. A photo she took of Standiford accompanied the article in the Times Journal.
"I’m not real interested in the writing aspect, but definitely the photography," Griffith said. She would like to try sports photography.
The finished student-produced newspaper boasted 12 pages with 13 articles and 23 color photographs
The "Soul of Fossil" magazine, by Wheeler High Students, is still in progress and publication is expected in early May. The magazine will be a photo journal.
"There is still work to be turned in and it is still in the developmental stage," Hatch said.
Senior associate editor Lisa Wade is working to make sure everything is turned in on time. For ideas on the photo journal she thinks the area's landscape, events in the community and the daily life of the students would make good pictures to include in the magazine.
Sophomore photo editor Sammone Palazo said the magazine is starting to come together. Her job is to pick and edit photos.
Junior photo editor Anna Longstreet said the group got a slow start but hopes that "the final product represents what high school students can do."
Kylie Hankins, Michael Boehlke, Karera Carrell, Justin Phillips, Macaulay Hankins and Meagan Moore contributed to this report.
Click here to read Gary West's column about the workshop from the May 2, 2008, edition of Capital Press.
My route to work took me past a house that has sat dark more than a week.
There’s a small pile in the driveway of some burnt materials such as drywall, and a free community newspaper that was tossed there last weekend remains still in its plastic wrapper.
The house remains devoid of life, silent.
Looking oddly out of place, a large blue tarp is draped on part of the house’s back wall. The tarp covers a hole made by firefighters sawing through the house siding to tackle a fire that started one evening less than two weeks ago.
That evening, there had been no towering flames, just smoke that billowed out the front and back of the house through any open doors or holes. Sparks had flown at one point when a firefighter had to climb a ladder and snip the power lines to the house. The power company had not yet arrived to help out; that would be about another half hour or so.
The screaming sirens that evening, from several fire engines and police cars, attracted a few neighbors to wander occasionally over to settle their curiosity. On a chilly night, most people didn’t stay long. A couple teenaged brothers from down the block watched for a while, they decided to go back to their suppers grown cold. A woman out for an evening walk with her elderly mother gingerly crossed the street to ask what was going on, then decided to return back to their warm home.
The firefighters toiled at their jobs. They kept floodlights on the house from as many sides as possible. Used chainsaws to cut into a house. Unrolled water hoses to attach to fire hydrants. Entered the house where they could, climbed ladders to investigate more, drank water when possible as they coughed through the smoky conditions.
Families that lived directly across the street from the affected house gathered on their lawns and sidewalks. They chatted to other neighbors from a few blocks around. They tried to guess the cause of the fire, share what they knew about who owned the house and what was its history.
Near the house, a woman appeared and carried a young child snuggled close to her. Walking among the fire engines, she paused to stop and talk to the firefighters and other emergency services staff.
Spotting the small crowd gathered across the road, she gathered her courage — and walked over.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m your new neighbor. I just moved in today. And that,” she motioned towards the house, “is my place.”
Immediately she faced many questions, but also received more than that: There was a reassuring pat on her shoulder, offers to help in any way.
The woman’s family, with young children, had moved in that day to rent the house. They had switched on the power, and her spouse has started the washer to do laundry. Seconds later there was a loud POP sound — they hurried back to the laundry room and found flames shooting out of the electrical box, already licking away at the wall above the box.
They rushed out with their kids, phoned 9-1-1, and as fire alarms screeched in the house, the family helplessly realized all their worldly possessions sat in boxes in that smoky house. They had barely any time to even start unpacking that day.
A neighbor next door gave them shelter as fire engines within minutes had raced to contain the fire. Family within town also helped what they could.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” the neighbors told the mother, who was trying to encourage her sleepy, shy child to say hi to the strangers. Eventually, the mother went over to the ambulance and sat in there for a while away from the cold.
Promising to stay in touch, the neighbors drifted away in the night.
Days later, the house sits cold, dark, blue tarp in the back. All life seems to have vanished from the house and streets around.
* * * *
How a city reacts to a local fire is different than in rural areas.
Sirens and smoke attract the curious, but in this age of seeing spectacular fires on television or on newspaper pages, we have less patience for boring tragedies that happen in our cities.
While a tragedy still impacts a family greatly, a small fire is soon ignored or forgotten. It might not even make the local city newspaper, or if it does, it’s merely a line or two in a police report released a day or two later. Time, place, short explanation of cause if known, that’s about it.
We are attracted to and are fascinated by larger disasters, especially if it happens to someone else. Highway accidents can draw our attention, but unfortunately it’s usually if it’s a fatality, or if it impacts us in some way (we witness the accident, drive by it, or are delayed in our travels because of it.)
Small town newspapers in rural communities go beyond reporting even the smaller accidents and fires — they often say what happened to the families involved, and how people can help out. Rural communities have not become that hardened yet to what happens to neighbors, peers or even strangers who have had fires, accidents or other misfortunes. Usually if there are accidents, no matter how serious, people in the community want to find out what and where it happened, if everyone was okay.
If there are fires, often people in rural communities try to pitch in a hand to help, from being volunteer firefighters, to offering shelter, meals, babysitting or anything else needed to help those affected. They raise money to help out. They want people to know they’re not alone.
Strangers don’t remain strangers for long, and in a time of tragedy, that’s exactly the support a rural community and families need to survive.
In rural communities, a small fire such as that one here recently, would spark long-term warm friendships.
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
Bill Inman has made it. And Blackie did too. Bill and his trusty mount finished their cross-country journey from Oregon to North Carolina in just over 6-months time. The journey's end was reported by the Associated Press.
If you haven't been following the story, Capital Press reporter Mateusz Perkowski interviewed Inman before he started his trip back in June about why he was going to ride on his own reverse Oregon Trail trek.
Inman and his entourage documented the trip on their own website too.
It's an interesting saga. A man sets out on a horse in search of a slower pace of life from a bygone era and documents it all using modern technology. I guess it is possible to keep one boot planted firmly in the past while having the other boot steps boldly into the future.
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
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
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.
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
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.
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
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
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
I'm generally not one for making predictions, but I'll make an exception today. I predict that one of the most read stories on capitalpress.com today will be a story about a grass seed farmer who's looking for a girlfriend.
We picked up the story from the Associated Press wire, and AP picked it up from the Register-Guard in Eugene, Ore. (you can read the Register-Guard's version by Karen McCowan here).
There are lots of stories on our website today, including updates on the grain and ag futures markets, a follow-up on the damage to ag land in the Southern California wildfires, but I would not be at all surprised if the most-read story turns out to be a farmer who's just looking for love and not afraid to advertise that fact while making his way down the road.
Good luck Chuck, and if you find someone, let me know if she has a single sister. And if you've got a computer, you might want to try another high-tech option that caters to farmers, which I wrote a column on back in August of 2005.
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
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
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
