Bevvy G

The last of this three-part series holds very few words. The reason is two-fold:

a) I feel like I probably bored the crap out of you yesterday.

b) I have no idea what half of this shit is. Just note all the warning signs, and note how impressive it is that I still have all of my limbs after a few weeks of helping out with this equipment. (and by ‘a few weeks’, I mostly mean ‘a few days’)

Now, this? This deserves some words… I snapped a pic of the gray socks. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I love this damn picture. It is… Smokey G in a photo.

-Bev

Some of the pics in this post are self-explanatory, some are odd, and some are downright terrifying.

Birdhouse in Mama G’s tree. She enjoys trying to attract different types of birds. Smoke and I like to discuss whether or not we should shoot said types of birds (see below).

This is a sign you get when the farm has been in your family for over one hundred years. I think there’s more to this (a ceremony? tax break? other perks?), but as you all know, farm knowledge is not exactly my jam. #GoldensteinStrong #CenturyFarm #IHaveNothingToDoWithThat

Because nothin’ runs like a Deere. Smoke likes to point this out every once in a while, then take off sprinting across the yard to do more farm work. OK, he’s inching closer towards 60, so he hasn’t done that lately, but he’s done it. (City slicker translation: Red vs. Green is a big deal in the machinery world in the Midwest. As for my opinion: Go Green)

MamaG still uses a clothesline. Because of course she does. Guess which ridiculous diva wouldn’t let MamaG hang her clothes outside when she was in high school, because she hated the way her clothes smelled like nature? I know.

Your mom doesn’t have a watering can shaped like a cow? A watering can shaped like a cow that she doesn’t use, because she thinks it’s cute, and doesn’t want it to rust? Weird.

Smoke likes to call this his portable fire pit. He just rolls this sucker all over the yard, and builds his fires depending on the many factors that go into building a fire (wind direction/speed, number of guests, items to be burned, etc.). Smoke is a total pyro. I don’t guess that this surprises any of you. I may have inherited that trait as well). Now, I can only think of this commercial when I see it. (9 second mark)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDsnTJDFNTY

Fly catcher. Because killing a few hundred of the trillions of flies around makes a big difference. *side eye* 

I’m not even sure. But I’m fairly certain it comes alive at night and watches me sleep when I stay there.

That’s a gas barrel. In my parents’ yard. Technically, it’s gas and diesel barrels, and a few of the many accelerants Smoke has dabbled with using to start his many (purposeful and accidental) fires. It’s also the reason ol’ Beverly here didn’t really know how to use a gas pump at the gas station until an embarrassingly old age. “Like, wait, I have to put in a card?” 

That is where some serious magic happens.

They call me Sniper.

A water hydrant and I guess maybe something you use to roll up the hose? It’s anyone’s guess; I just thought it was a cool picture.

The Goldenstein Hammerschloggen Stump. 

Silo. Formerly, very useful. Currently, very sinister.

And, if you don’t know what this is, I feel sorry for you.

-Beverly

It’s a big week around Mayberry. Today is Smoke Goldenstein’s birthday (he requested bridge mix. I wish I could tell you I was kidding), and the fall harvest is in full swing. In honor of that, I’m throwing it back this week…. to my trip home this summer. You may remember Smoke’s hand surgery,  Marj, (the mini golf Nazi), and Bev farming. This three-part throwback series involves some Goldenstein farm fotos… with some explanation for you city slickers.

This picture isn’t necessarily farm-related, but it was the precursor to the remaining farm fotos in this post. That, my friends, is a pheasant (I SO wanted to keep up with my Kardashian-like alliteration here, and call this a feasant, but I restrained. You’re welcome.) stuck in the front grill of MamaG and Smoke’s Camry. MamaG nailed the little sucker at 65 mph on the way home from Smoke’s surgery. She even joked about not seeing it on the road behind us, and how it might be stuck in the grill. She was less than pleased when she was correct.

Seeing as how ol’ Smokey was basically one-armed during my trip home, I was often enlisted as his ‘hands’ (aka: he tells me what to do, and I have to try to do it. Which is, of course, not the way he would’ve done it. But that’s another post). Here’s a snap of the tool bench in one of Smoke’s many workshops. I don’t know what this is called. Maybe a ratchet? While the word ‘ratchet’ is certainly in my vocabulary, I typically use it in the Urban Dictionary terms… “A diva, mostly from urban cities and ghettos, that has reason to believe she is every man’s eye candy. Unfortunately, she’s wrong.” Example (via Bev, not UD): Kylie Jenner. But again that’s also another post.
This here is called a creeper. Not a creeper as in… the weird guy who lives down the street who drives by the school a lot. As in… the thing your dad rolls around on when he has to look underneath shit. Like tractors, wagons, combines, and… cars with pheasants stuck in them. (No, I didn’t have to ‘creep’ on this- thank the Lord)

This is basically a flashlight with a 50+ foot cord that hangs on a pulley on the wall. Actually quite damn handy, if I do say so myself. Why can’t I have invented something like this, so I could just pay someone to do things like pull pheasants out of my parents’ car? OK, because I’m a farm moron, but why couldn’t Smoke have invented something like this, so he could pay someone to do things like pull pheasants out of his car?

You damn straight. Keep that red ish outta here!

These are hoses/tubes of some kind. I literally have absolutely no idea what they are used for, but I thought it was a cool pic.

Stay tuned for Farm Fotos 2 and 3.

-Beverly