I'm not some olfactory oddball.  To be sure, odeur de Pepe Le Pew is not the odiferous equivalent of fresh baked bread or cookies fresh from the oven.  But it's a scent that doesn't offend me, and it reminds me that I'm someplace where wildlife is always right outside the door.  Especially during mating season.

In the spring and early summer, Virginia skunks give opossums a run for the title of Worst Road Crossers.  Unlike opossums, flattened skunks release a WMD-dose of concentrated scent that bathes passing cars like a hot piece of toxic Saran Wrap.  Closing your vents won't help.  Essence of skunk will penetrate Porsches and Pintos with equal potency.

Experience has taught me to roll down the windows, man-up and ride it out.  So vicious is the nasal assault I envision the skunk quoting Captain Ahab as it's crushed by a passing car: " ... from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my least breath at thee."

Still, I don't mind.  Les and I reared two long-time soccer players, and we know nothing stinks worse than a pair of shin guards or keeper gloves after a long day of tournament soccer.  After countless matches, we've tolerated adolescent burps, flatulence and never-been-washed lucky keeper jerseys in the car on the way home.  But the shin guards and keeper gloves come off before the ride and go in the trunk.  It's a stink that could peal the green off a John Deere at 50 paces.

So for us, most farm scents have become backdoor reminders (pun intended) of rural freedom and Earthy living. 

So has blood.  In fact, my motto is: If you ain't bleedin', you ain't farmin'.  I'm probably the only farmer out here who says that, but it's appropriate.  Put up enough fence, hammer enough nails and wrestle with enough goats and you're gonna bleed.  But for me, bleeding is an every-day byproduct of farming.

I wear shorts about 90 percent of the time I'm working outside, and that includes all but the coldest days of the winter.  I also bleed easily.  Even a horsefly bite will cause a rivulet of blood to trickle down my leg and create a crimson delta in my white sock. 

And since our farm is chock-a-block with trailing blackberry vines - insidious, thorny monsters that rise from the Earth to claim passers by like the botanical undead - my legs look like scratching posts at a cheetah farm.

But I've learned to accept the blood and scars as just another byproduct of farming.  Like getting zapped by the electric fence.

We have a lot of electric fence, and depending on several factors, it could be carrying between 6,000 and 10,000 volts.  Yeah baby, I'm talking Back to the Future kind of voltage.  What's scary is that I don't really mind getting zapped.  Now, lest you think I've already lost too many brain cells, I'm not saying I like getting zapped; I just don't mind it.  That's good, since it happens several times a week.

Worrying about the electric fence is like worrying about the black widow spiders, ticks and poison ivy.  If I worried about it, I wouldn't get anything done.  So, when I work around the fences I try to avoid contact, but if it happens - Yeeeeee Ha! - I revel in the adrenalin surge and the taste of ozone in my mouth.  It's like getting slapped by a beautiful woman.  It stings like hell for a second, but it wakes you up, you forget your knees are killing you and you can't help but think it was worth it.

###

I’m not talking about relatives.  I’m talking animals.  For instance, twice in three years a mother mockingbird has set up a nest directly under the seat of my tractor.  Instinctively, she seems to know that my ample “seat” will keep her babies warm.  Birds are smart.  Annoying, but smart.

Mockingbird nest under tractor seat

I know mockingbirds from the city where they mercilessly dive-bomb cats which get too close to their nests.  I also know that nests close to the ground are prime targets for snakes.  Normally, I fear neither birds nor snakes, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to worry about my eyes getting pecked out or a snake crawling over my hip every time I get on the tractor.

And what happens if I drive off for several hours with squawking babies under my butt?  Am I supposed to stop at McWormies drive-thru for a quadruple McChirpy meal?

Knowing the mockingbirds, they’d put out an Amber Alert and when I got back to my “parking spot” the scene would resemble a Hitchcock movie.

No, I had to draw the line.  They can crap all over my tractor; they just can’t use it as a nursery.  I built a covered, snake-proof nest holder only feet from my tractor and put the nest in it.  I don’t think the mockingbird ever found it.  I am sure she has me marked for extermination.  I wear safety glasses whenever I leave the house now.

Today we were visited by several thousand nesters.  Yes, I said several THOUSAND.  Bees.  Lots and lots of honey bees.

While watching the World Cup, I noticed a cloud moving toward the house, and in seconds the sound of South African vuvuzelas was drowned out by thousands of bees swarming just outside our back door.  I was dumbstruck, a condition my wife often elicits when she smacks me for saying something dumb.  Bees.  Women.  They both sting, yet I still call my bride “Honey.”

Anyway, my wife, son and I watched from screened safety as the swarm, moving like a small tornado, moved from near our back door toward a tree only 50 yards from our deck.  I went out and followed them to within 15 yards of the tree.  The sound and sight was mesmerizing, and as I stood watching, hundreds of bees passed all around me on their way to join the group.

Bees swarm in our backyard

In minutes the swarm settled on a branch about 20 feet off the ground and the buzz died. 

Our backyard honey bee swarm

“Ned!” I yelled into the cell phone.  “I’m staring at a swarm of bees.”

Ned Strange is the guy you call for anything and everything.  He’s our meat goat mentor, egg supplier, revered friend and part-time beekeeper.  If I needed brain surgery, a new pickup or a recipe for rabbit barbecue, I’d call Ned.

He’s been looking for a wild herd of bees to lasso and take back to his farm, so he threw an empty hive into his truck and came over.  Normally, he’d spritz the mass of bees with some sugar water and shake them into a bucket, but they were too high in the tree.  So, we put the empty hive under the tree and spiked it with honey.  While we stood there, several bees found the honey hive and hopefully took the info back to the swarm.  The goal is to get the swarm to move into the prefabricated digs and ultimately end up at Strange Farms. 

I don’t know what will become of the bees, but I may never see my oldest son again.  Upon discovering the bees had nestled in our tree, my youngest son, Jordan, called Brandon with the “good” news. 

“Screw that,” Brandon replied.  “I DON’T want to be there.”

Brandon is 21, six-foot-three and a decorated life guard.  Yet he squeals like a girl and runs if anything with a stinger comes within a mile of his citified self.  Country, he ain’t.

Bees are good for flowers and good to have around.  Younger brothers, not so much.

Alan

###