Growing sprouts is a great way to have fresh vegetables any time of year and it’s easy, cost effective, and above all, nutritious! Growing sprouts is an easy project and well worth the small effort. Why sprouts? Sprouting seeds increases . . .
If you live in an area where the fall and winter are cold, you might want to consider a root cellar for storing some of your garden produce, such as, potatoes, carrots, squash, pumpkins, and other root vegetables. Fruits like apples and pears can also be stored this way; plus it’s a good place to keep all your canned foods if you don’t have a basement.
I picked up a Poulan Pro brush cutter/ trimmer on closeout at wally world last week. It was a 2 stroke model with interchangeable heads. I also picked up the cultivator/mini-tiller head to go with it.
I need a brush cutter in my woods. Since the ash borer killed all the ash trees the light has reached the forest floor and the brush is close to impenetrable. I need to clear away the brambles and other brush for cutting firewood.
Since the Poulan Pro was on sale I figured I would check it out and see how well it did.
I got it home and found the instructions were as easy to follow as any others I have used to assemble equipment. The cutter went together quickly and the premix is the same as I use in my chainsaw so I fired it up to see how it worked.
It fired right up when I followed the instructions for starting, but I noticed I had to feather the throttle quite a bit to get it up to speed. I also noticed it seem to not be running quite right, I figured it may take a bit to warm up and get broken in.
So I walked over to a patch of weeds to see how the cutter blade would work…the mixed weeds and grass were difficult for the blade to get through, not because of lack of power but they were easily pushed out of the way and it didn’t cut them well.
So then I walked down to the woods to see how it would work for the reason I bought it. I should at this point mention the kill switch wouldn’t work. I had to pull the plug wire to kill it for my trek to the woods.
I got down there and started in on a mixture of brambles and 1/2″ saplings. I easily cut a swath about 15′ wide and 30′ deep into the woods. At this point I had been running it for 15 minutes total and it still wouldn’t smooth out or let me give it full throttle without feathering it open a bit at a time.
So I decided I was going to return it since it was a new machine and while it cut pretty good for what I wanted to use it for it, something was messed up with it.
I got back to the house and dumped the remaining gas back into the can and decided to start it to run the carb empty. When I pulled the starter rope it stayed out and I couldn’t get it to go back in…so apart it came and back into the box and back to wally world it went. There were no hassles with the return.
The Poulan Pro brush cutter in my opinion worked well on actually cutting the brush I needed cut, even though it wasn’t running right and I had to return it. I would give it 1 1/2 stars out of 5
I will be picking up a Stihl in the next week or so and I will give a review of that brush cutter.
Still clinging to my God and my guns,
Came across a site called Bunker Network that attempts to match up people looking for bunkers or even space in a common share bunker.
I talked a bit to the owner and he asked me if I would mention it on my blog. I normally don’t go in for paid subscription sites but in this case with it being such a specialized site, along with people looking for bunkers generally being able to afford a nominal fee like this one, I decided it might be of use to some of the folks who come around this blog.
How many of us would like to be able to afford a converted missile silo or have a custom bunker built in our back yard or at a remote property.
Bunker Network can hook you up with pre-made places or people who have room for others in their bunker.
It may or may not be for you but if you can afford it you should check it out.
Still clinging to my God and my guns,
Strangely enough, I enjoy horrifying fiction, scary stories and other frightening things that make my mind race in the dark. I can’t watch horror movies though. There was once a commercial that aired on tv for some horror movie, The Ring I think it might have been. The commercial gave me nightmares, I just kept seeing the same image over and over again. When I was working night shift, I would be walking a mile home in the wee hours of the morning before the sun rose with only a flashlight and my imagination for company.
Let me tell you, an overactive imagination in a weary mind is a traitor at 4:30 in the morning. Every rustle in the woods becomes a starving, rabid wolf. Every snap of a branch becomes a Sasquatch waiting to commit horrible atrocities.
Even though I knew every inch of the road, every pot-hole of the bridge, some mornings I saw our door and I could almost taste my relief.
And yet I seek out horror stories. I have my own in the works.
I can’t explain it. Perhaps my imagination enjoys being terrified, but my muse does not want readily made images, but would rather conjure its own? To that end, I found this story this morning, by Robert E. Howard.
Pigeons From Hell.
It should be a classic, if it is not already. It has all the best markings of a Twilight Zone episode, or perhaps The Outer Limits.
It is frightening and horrifying in its implications, descriptions and quest for its own truth. Here’s a snippet;
‘He blinked his eyes. The beam of moonlight fell across the stair just as he had dreamed it did; but no figure lurked there. Yet his flesh still crawled from the fear the dream or vision had roused in him; his legs felt as if they had been plunged in ice-water. He made an involuntary movement to awaken his companion, when a sudden sound paralyzed him.
It was the sound of whistling on the floor above. Eery and sweet it rose, not carrying any tune, but piping shrill and melodious. Such a sound in a supposedly deserted house was alarming enough; but it was more than the fear of a physical invader that held Griswell frozen. He could not himself have defined the horror that gripped him. But Branner’s blankets rustled, and Griswell saw he was sitting upright. His figure bulked dimly in the soft darkness, the head turned toward the stair as if the man were listening intently. More sweetly and more subtly evil rose that weird whistling.
“John!” whispered Griswell from dry lips. He had meant to shout — to tell Branner that there was somebody upstairs, somebody who could mean them no good; that they must leave the house at once. But his voice died dryly in his throat.
Branner had risen. His boots clumped on the floor as he moved toward the door. He stalked leisurely into the hall and made for the lower landing, merging with the shadows that clustered black about the stair.
Griswell lay incapable of movement, his mind a whirl of bewilderment. Who was that whistling upstairs? Why was Branner going up those stairs? Griswell saw him pass the spot where the moonlight rested, saw his head tilted back as if he were looking at something Griswell could not see, above and beyond the stair. But his face was like that of a sleepwalker. He moved across the bar of moonlight and vanished from Griswell’s view, even as the latter tried to shout to him to come back. A ghastly whisper was the only result of his effort.
The whistling sank to a lower note, died out. Griswell heard the stairs creaking under Branner’s measured tread. Now he had reached the hallway above, for Griswell heard the clump of his feet moving along it. Suddenly the footfalls halted, and the whole night seemed to hold its breath. Then an awful scream split the stillness, and Griswell started up, echoing the cry.
The strange paralysis that had held him was broken. He took a step toward the door, then checked himself. The footfalls were resumed. Branner was coming back. He was not running. The tread was even more deliberate and measured than before. Now the stairs began to creak again. A groping hand, moving along the balustrade, came into the bar of moonlight; then another, and a ghastly thrill went through Griswell as he saw that the other hand gripped a hatchet — a hatchet which dripped blackly. Was that Branner who was coming down that stair?
Yes! The figure had moved into the bar of moonlight now, and Griswell recognized it. Then he saw Branner’s face, and a shriek burst from Griswell’s lips. Branner’s face was bloodless, corpse-like; gouts of blood dripped darkly down it; his eyes were glassy and set, and blood oozed from the great gash which cleft the crown of his head!’
I’d love to know if you followed the link and read the whole thing. If you did, what do you think? How do you feel about horror fiction? Sound off in the comments section!
(Royalty free pigeon photo found at dreamstime)
Are you a hunter or a fisher? Or maybe you just want a way to preserve meat for longer term storage — other than freezing it.
Well, drying meats is a way of preserving used years and years ago by the Indians and other ancient peoples. Indians would cut the meat into . . .