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Today is a sad day. As many have noted, there are big problems with displaying images on the site. The source of this problem is tumblr.

But, this was a rather special get-together with friends in Chelsea. We decided we would go. I would just have to milk the cows an hour earlier than the usual six-thirty time.

The cows were laying in the barnyard, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. I noticed one cow, number 21, looking at me as I headed for the barn, and I thought I detected a little something unusual about her actions as I entered the barn to open the stable door facing the barnyard.

When I opened that door, number 21 was on her feet facing the rest of the cows, some now getting up. It almost looked to me like she was planning some kind of a trick to play on me.

I could almost hear her telling the rest of them that she bet I had something special planned and maybe they could have some fun with me! They were following number 21, running around the barnyard with their tails flying in the air.

They ran right past the stable door, completely ignoring my urgent request to enter the barn. This went on for several minutes and I was becoming very frustrated.

I went out in the barnyard and tried to head them off. They simply turned and ran in the other direction. With no one to help me, I just had to stand and watch that number 21 have her fun.

I was standing near the large water tank the cows got their water from, and after a time I sat down on the edge of the tank. I felt really defeated.

Tears came to my eyes, and I put my head in my hands. I noticed then that it got quiet. The cows must have stopped running. When I looked up, I saw that number 21 was again facing the other cows.

They were all paying attention to her. We had better go into our stalls right now. I opened my eyes to see number 21 leading all of them into the cow stable as fast as they could go!

I just watched in amazement as they all went into their proper places and started eating the ground feed before them. Then I came to number As I slipped in beside her and her neighboring cow, I noticed something.

She was not eating her feed! She was also standing very stiff as she watched me come forward to latch the stanchion between her head and shoulders.

I realized she was preparing herself for some kind of punishment for what she had done to me. She turned her head a bit more to the right and her big black sparkling eye met mine.

I could see she was asking for my forgiveness for what she had instigated with the rest of the cows. With our eyes still meeting, I latched her stanchion.

I could then proceed with the milking and I finished all the other chores in time to make the party in town. Mother nature has always presented farmers with interesting experiences to put in their memory files.

I was no exception. This happened on a June evening, sometime in the early Seventies. I had just bought another tractor. It was a big brother to the one I bought in That was a brand new Massey Ferguson fifty horsepower three point hitch tractor with a mounted three bottom plow.

It also had a cultivator that could be attached to the three point hitch. It was quite an improvement over our previous equipment.

The tractor I had just acquired was also a Massey Ferguson, but it had a sixty five horsepower engine and was considerably larger than the one I bought in the Fifties.

Also, it had a diesel engine instead of a gas one, like our earlier tractors. It was slightly used. It had a cab with a roof over it, a windshield and side curtains with windows for protection from the weather, which was great.

With daylight savings time in effect, the summer daylight hours were long. So, after the cows were milked that evening, I told my father I was going to plow this last little piece of ground down by the creek.

I would have at least two hours of daylight and, besides, this tractor had lights if I needed to work after dark.

I drove the tractor down the driveway, heading west across Parker Road, and then followed a path inside the fence from the main highway.

The odor of the burned diesel fuel filled the warm summer evening air as I made my way toward the creek.

The sun was still shining through the tops of the trees lining the creek bank, the rays glancing off the hood of the tractor as I headed west.

When I reached the creek bank I stopped for a few moments to map out in my mind just where I would start plowing this piece of ground.

Once I reached a decision, I turned the tractor towards the east, dropped the plow to the ground, and started plowing. Even though the ground I was plowing had been very wet just a week ago, the weather we were having had dried the soil to a good plowing consistency.

In just a few minutes I reached the east end of the plot and turned around and headed back to the west bank of the creek.

I took a look back at the plow to be sure it was working right and then looked ahead once more towards the creek bank.

There, sitting beside some brush along the bank, I spotted an animal sitting on its haunches, watching me come toward it. I thought at first that it was a young dog.

But, as I drew closer it rose to its feet and disappeared into the brush. I realized then that I was wrong. It was a fox. Its reddish color and long bushy tail identified it without a doubt in my mind.

I figured that would be the last I would see of the fox. But, I was wrong again. I made three more rounds of plowing and, as I was coming back towards the creek bank the third time around, there he was, once again in plain sight.

A ray of sunshine came through a break in the trees along the creek bank and shone right on him. The bright red color of his fur and long brown bushy tail told me it had to be a male.

I looked out the open back of the cab and could see he was coming out onto the ground I had just plowed. Suddenly he pounced on something, straightened up and sat back on his haunches.

I noticed something dangling from his mouth. It was a large field mouse. With a couple of quick gulps he swallowed it. As I continued to the east end, turned around and headed back again, there sat the fox, watching for me to come by and maybe turn up another mouse.

The tractor and I went right by him again. He sat on his haunches, watching the plow turn up the good earth. I kept watching him as I went by and, sure enough, the plow turned up another mouse nest, and another mouse ran out.

He again pounced and ate it quickly. This went on for a number of rounds, with the plow turning up several more mice and he eating them all. The sun had set behind the trees and it was starting to get dark.

During the last couple of rounds, when I turned up another mouse, I watched, astonished, as I saw him kill it and then bury it, like a dog does a bone, saving it for another day.

When I turned back to the east the final time to plow the last strip of ground, I went right by him sitting there, not ten feet away, with his fat tummy protruding from all those mice he had eaten.

I slowed the tractor and waved to him. And I swear to this day, he had a big smile on his face and lifted a grateful paw to wave goodbye. I remember a day in the early s, shortly after the ribbon cutting ceremony for the opening of the new I expressway.

The ceremony took place on the Parker Road bridge built over the expressway, with then Michigan Governor, G. Mennen Williams, cutting the ribbon.

It was the last of the corn planting season. I had one field left to plow, the one bordered by Parker Road on the west and the new I on the north. Years before, it used to be a pasture field for our cows and sheep, but by then we were farming it as a crop field.

It was a nice day, with some cumulous clouds gathering overhead, but a warm June sun shining through the breaks in the clouds.

I turned into the field at the gateway from Parker Road, near the north line fence by the expressway. The field needed plowing. We had rain a few days ago, so the soil turned easily for the plow.

But, I was not completely content. It had destroyed my favorite squirrel hunting area. When I reached the east end of the field, near the wood lot, I pulled the lever to raise the plow and turned the tractor to head back west.

I noticed that the clouds overhead were taking on an ominous appearance. They were no longer beautiful, billowing white clouds, but were turning black.

By the time I reached the west end of the field, lightning was arcing back and forth between them. I began debating whether to head for home or stay in the field.

I had a beach size umbrella mounted to the tractor frame, directly behind the seat, mostly to keep the hot sun off me when I was working.

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As they travel in this area, they need to defeat a few Booty Birds. Soon, the heroes find an underwater area. There, Squawks drops them off and flies away.

So, the monkeys need to swim over a few Kocos to find Enguarde. The large fish must be ridden through the water, beating many different species of foes.

After the three swim through the narrow paths around several Lurchins and Bounty Basses, they enter an open area with more Lurchins.

They need to swim around the foes and swim in a U shaped path to find the outside of the lake, where they must hop off of Enguarde and jump onto a ledge.

There, they can find the Star Barrel , as well as a crate. Halfway through the level, the group needs to break open the crate near them to find Ellie the Elephant.

The friend must be ridden through an area full of rowdy Kuchukas and Kopters. After they dodge each of the foes on the eastward path, they must fall into a gap and land into another lake.

There, the Kongs have to say goodbye to Ellie as they leave her and hop up into a high up barrel nearby. It shoots them to the next area, where Squitter can be found.

The spider must be ridden under two dangerous Kopters. After that, the heroes must avoid a Booty Bird, being surrounded by another Kopter.

Once they pass this short part, the monkeys and Squitter should continue east and watch out for the bombs of a Kuchuka.

Farther on is a No Animal Sign. Layout Type. Last update Grid List. Gallery List. Classic Large. No more posts Connect with a social network : Facebook Google.

Register with a social network : Facebook Google. A delightful smell of fresh raindrops seemed to come down all around me from the trees overhead.

I inhaled it happily for a few minutes. It was hard to leave, but finally, reluctantly, I turned and started back to my tractor, patiently waiting for me, engine idling, emitting the smell of burned diesel that soon all but erased the wonderful aroma I had just enjoyed in the woods.

I mounted the tractor, lowered the plow, and headed back to the west end of the field. Suddenly, I remembered. What about the pot of gold that people say is at the end of the rainbow?

Where could it be? As the tractor continued across the field I came up with my answer. The pot of gold must have been at the other end of the rainbow!

Or maybe, the pot of gold was my few moments of special beauty, seeing that rainbow and walking in the sweet-scented woods.

For much of my life, the Schairer farm was one of five farms in the square mile formed by four roads between Ann Arbor and Dexter.

Marshall Road runs in an east west direction from Parker Road to Baker road. Baker goes north all the way to Dexter and, south of Marshall Road, comes to a dead end at Jackson Road called Old US 12 in the early days of my life , while Parker Road runs parallel to Baker Road, a mile to the east.

There was, and still is, a small creek, Mill Creek, that meanders diagonally in a northeasterly direction across that area and ends up in the Huron River near the town of Dexter, three miles to the north.

It was also a great creek for swimming. There is a bridge over Mill Creek on Marshall Road. This was the place where, in my childhood, us country boys would gather on hot summer nights and follow the foot path trail north from the road, about the length of a football field, to our favorite swimming spot.

I remember one time in particular, when I went swimming there on a summer evening with my farm friend, Harold Sias. We had been putting hay in the barn all that afternoon and, after milking the cows in the evening, decided to go swimming to refresh ourselves.

Harold drove us to the side of Marshall Road. We climbed over the road fence and started down the well worn path to the swimming hole.

As we walked along, we could hear an occasional bull frog croaking as he perched on a partly sunken tree limb.

A little further along the trail we could hear a loud buzzing coming from a nearby large wheat field ready for cutting. It was time for the summer crickets to let us know they were enjoying the evening too.

As we got closer, we could hear the sound of water rushing over and around some large stones lying on the creek bed.

The stones created some resistance to the water flowing around them, and increased the speed of the water so that it made a deep impression in the sandy bottom of the creek on the far side of the stones.

This created our wonderful swimming hole. It was at least twenty feet wide and thirty feet long and, at its deepest point nearly six feet deep.

Great for swimming! Harold and I pulled off our blue chambray shirts, bib overalls and underwear, and made running jumps into the water. We never wore bathing suits at the swimming hole—we always skinny dipped.

Apparently, some girls, mostly sisters of those boys, did come along one evening, and surprised the boys while they were in the swimming hole.

The girls, the storytellers said, began teasing them while they were submerged in the water. One of the girls even announced that they would all stay until the boys came out of the water!

After a few minutes of this, one of the boys began to walk out of the water, calling out that he was coming and that the rest of the boys would follow.

As he continued to wade out of the water, toward the girls standing on the bank of the creek, they started screaming and ran up the path back toward Marshall Road.

It was, the boys said, the last time the girls were seen at the old swimming hole. Harold and I had a good chuckle at the story.

The summer night began to draw closer and the mosquitoes were getting pretty nasty. We made our way to the creek bank, got dressed and started back to his car and home.

Tomorrow would be another busy day, making hay. Jane and I, along with a couple of friends of ours, ate at the Reddeman Farm Golf Course restaurant recently.

I suggested we go there, partly because I knew from experience that their food is very good. But I chose that restaurant for other reasons too, one of them being that the Reddeman Farm was located only two miles from where our own family farm used to be.

It was southwest of us, along a country gravel road called Jerusalem Road. An interesting side note—at least to me: Jerusalem road ends in the very small town of Jerusalem, four miles west of the Reddeman Farm.

Chelsea is about halfway between them. When it was a working farm years ago, the Reddeman Farm was similar to ours and many others in the area.

They raised grain and hay crops and used them to feed their animals; pigs, sheep, cattle and chickens. Like most farms, they had a silo, a tall tube-shaped structure sometimes made of wood, sometimes of concrete, ten to sixteen feet in diameter and as much as thirty feet high, nearly as tall as the peaks of barns.

Farmers stored their chopped field corn in silos, for cattle feed. At the end of every August, or in early September, when the corn was ready for harvesting, farmers pulled their corn binders into the fields and cut the corn and tied it into bundles.

One man would toss the bundles, usually weighing between thirty and fifty pounds, but sometimes as much as a hundred, from the ground onto the wagon, while another man stacked them in rows on the wagon rack.

Then it was on to the silo, where a tractor-powered cutting machine and silo filler would be waiting.

They tossed the bundles of corn, stalk end first, onto the conveyor belt of the chopper machine which shredded the corn—ears, stalks, leaves and all—into small pieces.

The fan on the silo filler then blew the resulting silage through a ten-inch stovepipe-like tube up and into the silo from the top.

The chopped corn would gradually ferment in the silos. Cows liked the resulting silage. Silos came into common use in the Thirties, when tractor powered machines made it possible to fill them this way.

We did not have a silo on the Schairer farm. My father, and later I, decided that it was not the way we would store our feed corn.

We shucked the corn in the field, tearing the ears off the stalks, and stored the corn, still on the cob, in the corn bin in our barn. In the spring we would take the uneaten stalks from the barnyard back to the fields and plow them under.

Every week during the winter we took some of the corn from our crib over to the Dexter Cooperative Company. Later, when we had more cows, the McCalla Feed Service would come to our farm with a portable mill on a truck, and grind the corn right there blow it into a bin in our barn.

When the silos were being filled, most farmers wanted to have the chopped corn packed down so the silo would hold more.

Since I was not a big guy—I weighed pounds in those days—and flinging fifty pound bundles of corn all day was not easy for me, packing down the silage became my task.

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