Drones. A couple of stories, a couple of conversations concerning drones caught my attention past week or so. Small drones, the kind they sell in Walmart, hobby shops and toy stores.

If I find a stranger with a camera standing in Big House’s back yard taking pictures, he’s trespassing, no doubt. If he represents some official government agency and is taking pictures in that capacity, I can ask for identification, at least to know what agency has an interest in my property. If he is just John Q. Public being nosey, I can call the police and have him escorted off, perhaps arrested.

A long time ago in a college class for my land surveying degree, I learned that fee title to real property includes everything from a point at the center of the earth extending through the boundaries of my property on out into the known universe. That’s how mineral rights come into being in space below the surface. Essentially same rights extend into the atmosphere but they are legally modified to allow overflight by aircraft without compensation or individual permits.

My question concerns purpose of those overflights. If they are manned flights, pilots at controls on board the aircraft, whether hauling passengers, cargo, or for military protection, then there’s likely a legitimate purpose for their flight. Such flights generally cause little disruption of everyday life. Flights by law enforcement or government agencies may be inconvenient to those who have something to hide, but aren’t likely to be solely for snooping purposes.

My problem arises when that stranger is standing on his own or some publicly owned property, with his camera mounted on a sneaky little drone which is hovering over my back yard. Does that drone/camera constitute trespass? Is invasion of privacy a crime? When do invasion of privacy and trespass become one and the same, or do they ever?

Several weeks ago, I wrote about bathing in Moore’s Run at Doghouse, ensconced on my flat topped bath rock, middle of the creek, soap and bathing suit on a stepping stone beside me, washcloth in hand, sousing my head and back with cool water. A reader emailed me saying they bet that was a sight. Laughing mention was made of sending a drone over Doghouse just to get a picture. No gates to open, no noise to alert me.

A funny picture, but it got me thinking. Possible? Yes, definitely. I don’t care if someone sees my bare butt, but there may be things on my property I’d like kept private. If that proverbial stranger stands on Moore’s Run bank and photographs me bathing, he is definitely trespassing because bath rock isn’t visible from property other than my own.

Identification? I can approach a stranger and ask him to identify himself and state his purpose for his actions. Official, no doubt he can whip out a card and or badge.

Unofficial, he’ll need to be friendly/convincing that he has no bad motives, otherwise I’ll ask law enforcement to help me remove him.

But a remotely controlled drone? Can’t ask it much. It would be gone long before law enforcement arrives, No way to identify or know for sure to whom it belongs or who is controlling it for what purposes. Anonymous. Sheaky Ha ha funny.

BOOM! Not likely it flies fast enough for my old Remington 12 gauge to bring down, but if I see it and old 12 is handy, I’ll try. Then all I have to do is watch its pieces until somebody comes and picks them up.

Another thought added by news articles last week. Some enterprising individual had mounted a gun on a small personal drone. Unbased (me) found dead. Shot to death while sitting on my bath rock by a drone, remotely controlled from a couple miles away. No warning. No Physical evidence. Scary.

First Published on 03/11/2015

This ought to be the last one. Snow and nasty cold should be on their way out. I’m sure a bunch of folks nearby have read temperatures below zero on their thermometers this winter, but first time I saw the “Big 0” was this morning.

Lots of folks think I’m nutty about time and temperature. I live by clocks controlled by the official government time signals out of Colorado. I waste time adjusting clocks and watches not signal sensitive to try to put them on the dot with official time. Some say I’m anal about correct time.

I remember writing about temperature not long ago. Think I enumerated all the thermometers, digital, analog, mercury and alcohol, I consult both here at Big House and at the Examiner in Moorefield.

We need an official government calibrator for thermometers. This business of having two digital thermometer sensors tacked up to a breezeway ceiling five feet apart reading three degrees different just is nonsense. When I want to know what the temperature is, I want to know what the temperature is.

Moorefield is more sensible than Capon Valley. My two Examiner digitals generally agree within a degree and they both get along fine with Summit Bank, North and Pendleton County Bank, South. The outlier is Grant County, Bank South which is always out in left field temperature wise.

The magic big round number appeared this morning (Saturday, March 7) on my Doghouse digital. Sensor/transmitter, tucked up under deck handrail, at least eight, maybe ten feet from the flowing edge of Moore’s Run generally reads a degree or three lower than thermometers around Big House. Receiver is tacked to end of a bookcase beside Pap’s old recliner, which serves as bed and general relaxation furniture. A pocket flashlight provides thermometer illumination nights when I wake for reasons other than temperature change.

Though I tend to forget weather once it’s past, I do seem to remember we had a spell comparable to this one last year. Latter part of winter stayed pretty cold, windy and snowy into middle March. I remember lying in Grant Memorial Hospital with blood clots during March Madness, watching three basketball games at once, one on my laptop computer and two on the room television. I’d pause to rest my eyes occasionally, look out the window and guess at how hard the wind was blowing and how fast snow was melting.

A fair number of weekend mornings, I see Tommy Rinard, who rents and farms my place, and comes to feed or just check things out. I’ll ask what the temperature was at his house across Capon River from Big House. Invariably, he’ll tell me it was three or four degrees colder than the average at my place. Maybe it gets colder further East you go or maybe we both just need our glasses changed.

Doghouse thermometer also reads indoor temperature. Indoor sensor is eight feet furth from the creek and enclosed by walls and ceiling away from window and sun. It usually reads a couple of degrees higher than the deck sensor, even after a long week without heat inside.

When I light off old parlor stove with cedar, split locust and round oak, I generally sit a few minutes to be sure fire is catching ok. When thermometer number begins to roll up, I get up, close the draft and damper and get on with life till time to add fuel. This morning, about 5:00, when I see that “0” I considered sitting back a while just to see if a minus one would appear. My stomach rang, Big House’s frying pan was calling. I said the heck with minus one and crunched snow crust to breezeway and back door where thermometers all read at least three degrees higher.

Is there life beyond Earth? Do we : even want to know?

An article by Joel Achenbach in The Washington Post dated February 28th mentions Green Bank, West Virginia first paragraph. It caught my eye. In 1960 Frank Drake began his search for extraterrestrial life at Green Bank, West Virginia.

SETI. Search for Extraterrestrial Life. Frank Drake, at age eighty four, is now considered the father of that discipline. For fifty five years scientists around the world have been listening for radio signals produced by intelligent life in other parts of the universe.

To date, nothing. Not a sound. Not a whimper. Nothing identifiable as probably intentionally produced by any sort of intelligence, whether from life as we know it or any other form.

Mr. Drake developed an equation, now widely used by other listeners, which might predict the number of life supporting planets out there. Life that might be sufficiently advanced to be broadcasting. Whether it be transmissions beyond our ability to understand their meaning or simple rudimentary signals not intended for communication purposes. Thus far we’ve detected nothing. 

A new movement is beginning. Simply listening is passive activity. The new movement is active SETI. Instead of simply listening in general directions at frequencies we select to listen to, scientists have begun actively broadcasting signals toward groups of bodies where they feel life might be lurking. Now we’re calling, in case somebody else is out there simply listening much as we’ve done in the past.

A problem. Suppose there is someone out there listening. Suppose we give ourselves away to other intelligent beings. They know we’re here, where we are from our broadcasts.

Are they friendly? Are they placid little green men or are they great slavering monsters such as portrayed in modern monster movies? Who/what – might suddenly appear to check us out.

Thus far individuals in science all over the world are searching. Should these searchers be allowed to indiscriminately bring other intelligent forms down upon us? There’s no responsible world government to decide whether to contact other worlds and nobody to set up possible defense against any possible threats posed.

What’s the right temperature for the Earth?

An article by Andy Parker and David Keith in The Washington Post dated January 29 caught my eye too. No mention of West Virginia, but it seemed in line with my arguments concerning standards we’re expected to meet which have no basis in fact.

Geoengineering is the discipline which studies how to change earth’s climate. Solar geoengineering specifically studies solar emissions and searches for methods of mitigating their effects. The discipline already suggests the power to cool the earth in spite of all the greenhouse gas effects we worry about.

Scientists tend to agree that if the earth stopped producing greenhouse gasses today, no more carbon dioxide, no more methane, there is already enough out there to continue global warming into the distant future. Stop burning and breathing right this minute and warming continues indefinitely.

But we have the ability to cool the planet. It’s established science that volcanic eruptions cool the earth through blasting sulphur dioxide into the upper atmosphere. Sulphur

dioxide acts to block solar rays before they get to earth. Now we have technology to load sulphur dioxide on rockets and spray it as an aerosol into the upper atmosphere to produce

same cooling effect. 

Therein lies the question the writers ask. Think of a family home from work and school. Mom is perpetually cold and wants the thermostat set at 72°. Dad thinks of the furnace bill and wants 67° Kids don’t really care because their activity warms them pretty well no matter. 

So who decides and sets proper temperature for that home. Who decides and sets the proper temperature for earth? Who takes responsibility for all the problems associated with global warming or cooling? Should we leave decisions on next ice age or desert expansions to the United States or Russia, Argentina or Australia? Again, do we need a responsible world government to make decisions which effect everybody?

First thought, both contacting other intelligence and change world temperatures seem like no-brainers. Upon reflection both questions go much deeper and the answers much more  complicated.

I still want to know. A small chunk of knowledge imparted in an agronomy course at West Virginia University somewhere in mid 1960s has stuck with me ever since. I remember my wrong answer during discussion in lecture and I remember correctly answering a subsequent test question.

Question concerned photosynthesis, the process whereby plants take carbon dioxide from the air and release oxygen using sunlight for energy. Specifically the argument was whether greater photosynthesis took place in an acre of grass or an acre of trees. I pictured great tall maples and oaks and pines and guessed in lecture that an acre of trees would win hands down. Our textbook and professor said no. Grass wins.

A good thick stand of grass as in pasture or forage production has more photosynthesizing leaf surface per acre than does an acre of maples or pines. All those blades of grass added together do more work than all the leaves on trees. All the blades of grass in an acre generally have more light exposure surface than all the leaves on trees.

I wonder about this relationship every time I read or hear news stories about deforestation or simply planting trees to aid in removal of “greenhouse gasses”. Should we be advocating replacing inefficient trees with wholesome grasses? Grasses which are largely unfit for human consumption, but can be converted into red meat protein by animals which can consume and convert grasses wonderfully.

Trees furnish little food for consumption by humans or other organisms we normally eat. In a good year we can harvest palatable nuts, berries and acorns from a few species, but I’ve found those occasions rare and undependable. Squirrels, deer, perhaps birds, cattle and insects prefer acorns or berries when they are plentiful, but those tree foods are unavailable to humans in dependable, meaningful quantities unless we eat the proteins into which they are converted by animals.

New diet guidelines published last week by US Departments of Agriculture and/or Health and Human Services advocate less meat, more veggies. Arguments over organic versus conventional production notwithstanding, all that garden food we are supposed to be eating must come from soil disturbed to remove both grass and trees, then fertilized by either formulated or natural fertilizers. Any slight amount of that fertilizer in excess to plant growth requirements will remain in disturbed soil and is thus subject to faster erosion into nearby waterways.

A chunk of the five hundred plus page report on diet was devoted to recommended changes compatible with modern notions of climate change. We’ve heard arguments about how much effect on our environment cow farts have. According to modern science such production of greenhouse gasses by ruminant animals as cows, sheep and goats contribute to global warming through byproduct production of methane, a byproduct of ruminant breakdown of forages. This greenhouse gas escapes through both farts and belches in quantities much larger than those from humans.

At any rate, we can’t eat the trees or the grass because they are unsuitable for digestion through simple stomachs such as humans have. If we remove either to make room for soil preparation and sunlight access for cultivated vegetation, we are cutting down on natural, normal photosynthesis which cleans carbon dioxide from our atmosphere. Breaking soil’s natural cover also leads to increased erosion.

I’m not sure how I got into such a convoluted mixed up mess with this column, but I did. Might be an example of what happens when government tries to mix science with politics. Best advice I have is plant more grass and go with Chick-fil-A’s cow promoting “EAT MOR CHIKIN”. 

Running empty headed North, from nesting area beyond my garden to the walnut trees between Big House and my green building. I’d raked a bunch of walnuts past Fall, gathered some and the rest remained under the trees. Running empty North, but hauling loaded South.

No idea how many. A bunch made a few trips or maybe a few made a bunch of trips. I just know a lot of walnuts moved in a hurry. I think now I know why.

Weather turned vicious this weekend. A smattering of snow which immediately blew from exposed patches and piled a little in protected spots. No big drifts, but had a couple inches fallen, I’d have had some shoveling to do to get Doghouse’s front door open last night. Saturday night, Sunday and as I write it’s calling for worse Sunday night. Zero degrees and windy plus. Real old fashioned lamb freezing weather. Glad our flock left the farm thirty one years ago. Were they still here, kitchen vinyl floor would be rattling with tapping of little lamb feet as they warmed before going back out to their mother’s care.

At any rate, squirrels carried black walnuts all day Wednesday. Headlong rush to gather and store against the weekend weather they somehow knew was on its way. In midst of convoying I emailed Phoebe and a couple friends to tell them nasty weather reports were verified by my squirrels.

How did squirrels know? No weather radar, no forecasting computer models, no way to know temperatures, humidity or wind speeds days in advance. How did the squirrels know to prepare for nasty weather?

I’d seen weather maps, heard forecasters, made deductions based on information I’d gathered. Friday afternoon/evening, before I left Doghouse to get supper, I made sure I had plenty of extra wood piled inside to stay dry. I even learned my square pointed shovel against outside door frame, handy to clear deck and steps in case falling weather hit early.

Just what does hold a squirrel’s nest together? Bunch of leaves high in bare branched trees, not particularly compact. Raggedy looking in fact. Look like my old man hair after a good pillow scrubbing. But they are tough. I haven’t looked today, but I doubt a nest has fallen in all that high wind. Likely they are just as tight as ever, both in attachment and structure. Besides weather forecasting, squirrels must be master builders.

I’ve never had occasion to tear into a nest to see what holds it together in place. Seventy years old, all the time I’ve spent in woods surveying, farming, and hunting; and

I’ve never examined one. Can’t remember ever seeing one on the ground either still attached to fallen tree or blown out. Maybe the squirrel has natural senses that only tell him when bad weather is going to strike, but also the ability to sense strong trees not likely to fall or break up.

I’ve heard how dogs often howl and small animals do goofy thing before earthquakes. I’ve wondered if animals along coastal areas can sense tidal waves caused by earthquakes in the remote ocean floor. Only time I remember seeing sheep jump into water and swim was in 1954 when flood waters from Hurricane Hazel were rising fast and our flock swam to safety with little urging.

I get particularly peeved when I hear about computers predicting natural events through modeling. Such predictions hold fast to old computer precepts of data entry “garbage in, garbage out” and questionable whims of creative programmers. Perhaps time might be better spent watching squirrels.

Every time I drive over to Doghouse I pass a piece of personal pride and hard work that’s not worth spit anymore. A loading chute. A ramp for loading livestock onto trucks and pens to hold them close.

Chute is floored with pressure treated four by four inch lumber laid across pressure treated six by six inch beams supported by locust posts as it rises from ground level to truck bed height. Sides are one inch oak.

I built the chute late 1980s after Pap died. Old chute of two inch lumber had been trying to rot and fall for years under his supervision and I decided safety of loading/unloading cattle was my problem now. One bull had already stepped through a decayed spot and he didn’t want to try it again after quick repair. That bull was hard to get rid of.

I spent time researching. Farm plans from universities, bulletins from extension services and project plans from farm magazines all furnished competing ideas. Experts on handling cattle had great ideas and reasoning for particular constructions that I didn’t have time or money enough to attempt. 

Finally, I used my surveying education to map the available area and subdivide it into various gated holding pens and my chute. I staked everything out to get a better idea of size, gathered materials and got started. Weekends and an occasional evening after work at the newspaper were my construction times.

One of first purchases I made after Pap died was a Danuser post hole digger. He’d not kept fences up as he aged and I didn’t have time to hand dig a bunch of post holes. If I didn’t do much of anything else right about that chute and pens, I did get posts set deep and tight.

And, I didn’t do much else right. Pens were built with too many square corners. Give an old cow a square corner and she’ll stand in it and look nasty till you go chase her out. She’ll promptly find another corner to be chased out of if one is handy. I didn’t build enough curves to keep animals headed in correct directions with fewer places to hide.

Board fences were strong enough, but not high enough. They stood tight enough to handle red and white Herefords, but black Angus and Angus Hereford crosses were too much to hold. Not many things are more disheartening than watching a mean looking Black Baldy crash through top board on what you thought was a solid barrier.

I built a small gated opening that fit my brand new portable handling chute. Much as Pap prized working on farms which had safe efficient handling systems, he never got one at home. Most of our home veterinary work involved roping, wrestling and wallowing large dangerous animals into temporary submission with attendant scrapes and bruises.

Last thing I built was that loading chute. Pig tight, bull strong and built to last a lifetime. Problems? I built it in the wrong place, aimed in wrong direction. Didn’t give enough weight to thought on sizes of the trucks backing to it or skills of drivers in reverse I spent more time guiding driver back to it than I did pushing cow up the chute into the truck. 

I used the whole mess several years. Better than any system we had before, Pap would have been proud of it, but still it was too little too late and largely fouled up. I sold myself out of farming business in 1996 and rented Tommy Rinard, neighbor across Cacapon River. Black Angus and Black Baldies moved in, more profitable, but harder to hold Tacked on fence additions became necessary.

Death knell of loading chute came first time a livestock trailer complete with integral low ramp hooked to a pickup truck backed up to a pen made of portable metal gates. Far as I know my wonderful loading chute hasn’t been used in fifteen years. An obsolete curiosity over night, until it is discarded, just as I’ve discarded most of the old farm structures my ancestors used here for past century or more.

I wonder how long my chute will stand.

I’m growing old in a place where I grew up. Growing up I plowed headlong through life making memories. Growing old, I don’t plow so much anymore, but I do enjoy most of those memories. I remember Christmas hunting with Pap. That lasted until he could trust me with an axe. After that I picked out, cut and carried our family Cedar trees alone. If I got lazy and first effort didn’t suit, I’d be sent back to find another. Shapley Cedars of proper size were plentiful on our farm back then. Tree stood wedged with rocks and broken bricks in a ten or twelve quart bucket of water at Big House’s front living room window. We had two or three short strings of multicolored lights. Lights in series, I think, so that when one bulb burned out, the whole string went out. Sis and I spent fussing moments successively testing every light on the tree with a new bulb until we found the offender. It got to be sort of a contest to see who could find it. Every year we broke a thin bright colored glass ball or two. Either we’d drop them while hanging or the dumb things just fell off of their own accord. Every brush of the tree might cause an explosion of thin colored glass shards to be swept up. Always, the broken ball was one most prized. Ice cycles. Thin aluminum foil strips. Sis was a devout hanger. I was a perverse thrower. Pestered me some when Mom sided with Sis’ slow careful hanging method rather than my fast flings. We heated big living room maybe twice a year. Pap fired up our largest wood stove to “take the chill off” about the time tree went up. From then for perhaps eight or ten days, that stove chewed major holes in Big House’s wood pile. I wheelbarrowed from main pile out front to a neat stack on Big House’s back porch every day. From back porch we carried in chunks as needed. Besides Christmas, we’d fire big parlor stove for a couple days whenever Mom’s Bridge Club met at our house during cold months. Christmas morning Pap fired stoves early, then went to milk. I followed soon after to help feed. Mom and Sis took care of family food preparation and Christmas comforts at Big House. Animals got special Christmas feed. Best alfalfa for sheep, good hay and sweet feed for Sadie, our milk cow, extra corn and hay for Tobe the mule and whatever horse Pap had at the time. Sally, our Yorkshire sow and all the barn cats enjoyed most of Pap’s bucket of fresh warm milk. All barn stables were bedded with fresh straw thrown down from the mow. Most Christmases found lambing season started and early feeding took extra time while we tended to newborn. There’s something special about new lambs on Christmas morning. Maybe because Jesus was born in a manger and every picture I’d seen showed sheep and lambs there at the beginning. Ewes muttering to their new born as they licked them clean just felt right and proper. Pap and I might pause together watching. We’d be sure lamb had a first feeding of colostrum before we left the barn. Corn meal pancakes with eggs and syrup or maybe buckwheat cakes with puddin, fresh from recent butchering led most Christmas morning breakfast menus. Occasionally fresh sausage, cured ham or thick cured bacon made the list with cackle berries from our farm flock. Pap refilled stoves, Mom ate and washed dishes, Sis and I checked the tree for burned out bulbs before everybody went in to open presents. Opening didn’t officially start until Pap’s pen knife opened preparatory to carefully slitting each piece of tape so papers could be reused again next year if Mom liked it. This year, my son James and I couldn’t find a suitable Cedar near Big House, so we went afar to find, cut and haul one home to Moorefield. Instead of Sis and me squabbling over decorations, we’ll sit watching my children decorate our cedar Sunday evening. I sold all our sheep to a new home soon after Pap died, so Mom wouldn’t fight winter weather to tend lambs and I tore the big barn down years ago when it was damaged by a bank cave-in. Mom and Pap are gone now, but Sis is still here to remember with me. Come Christmas morning we’ll all go in to presents. Opening will begin when my pocket knife clicks. Once again, I say Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all, my loyal readers. I’ll try to be back with more columns next year.

A crippled crow. Maybe not really crippled, but unkempt looking. Sort of cocked sideways, left wing dragging lightly, neck twisted, right eye looking up, left down, feathers somewhat ruffled. Two other crows nearby looked normal, but leery, maybe avoiding the strange one. All were gathered under Big House’s front yard bird feeder. Freshly filled yesterday with a mix of seeds, crows were attracted to the snow covered ground under it for leavings scratched out by doves on feeder floor above. Other days I’ve seen two or three big shiny black crows in the feeder chasing all other birds away, but this day they seemed content to pick fallen feed. Plenty of Blue Jays this year. Not as many jays as there are doves, but still a fair bunch. Feisty jays. A tossup between them and the doves when it comes to ruling the roost. A big jay can chase most other birds. Last year Blue Jays were scarce. Rarely saw one come in to feed. No idea what happened to them. This year they are back bigger and more aggressive than ever. Doves seem to be constant. Always around. I don’t remember much about them when I was a boy. Seemed not to be so many then, but now they come earlier and stay later than most other feeder patrons. Little birds seem fewer now and I’ve seen only one pair of Cardinals so far. I’ve thought present snow cover might bring out more small birds, but thus far there seems to be little change in numbers. I’ve always wondered at changes in animal populations. This year has been full of food for such thoughts. Perhaps overall numbers of wild animals don’t change. Perhaps simple redistribution explains rising and falling numbers in given locations. Last year, late Summer and into Fall, I was reporting large numbers of deer around Big House. Normal evening numbers ran twenty five to forty deer in the alfalfa field out front. Several times I counted over sixty visible in all the fields nearby. This year I counted about twenty-five in one area, one time. Rest of the Fall I was lucky to see a half dozen, never more than that between Big House and highway. Acorns? Same numbers of whitetails except off in wooded areas eating mast? I don’t spend much time in woods anymore, so I can’t attest to that, but maybe. Maybe some sort of die off, reproductive interruption, or migration? What happened to mice and rats this year? I’ve had bait out around farm house and buildings for a couple of months. First bait I put out needs changing for freshness, not replaced as is the normal case. Good sharp cheddar cheese has dried hard in Doghouse’s mouse traps with nary a tooth mark, let alone reset. I’ve seen no mouse fecal deposits (Mom called them “mouse tracks”) around Doghouse, or Big House kitchen/ dining room this winter and it’s almost impossible to exclude them entirely from old structures. On the other hand, groundhogs, largely absent from farm buildings last year, were back in force this year. I rolled six with my 12 gauge past summer, largest count in years. Such success maybe due to switch in firearms to better accommodate snap shots at running pigs. A couple weeks ago I wrote about the great jump in skunk numbers this year. I changed the count the other day. A dose of number four shot from the same 12 gauge rolled the big white one I talked about. He’d taken up residence under Big House’s front porch With visiting hunters coming for deer season, I worried they might use it for target practice in the front yard. Skunk’s evening hunt took some distance North out into a larger alfalfa field where prevailing winds are more likely to carry its scent away from Big House. I let it out there as a meal for whatever eats skunk carrion. I think Mother Nature regulates animal numbers and relationships to suit herself using whatever means she chooses. We humans are natural animals she regulates in the same way she does skunks, deer or doves. Our superior intelligence is one major tool she uses to make those adjustments through such means as wars, crime and pestilence control.

Doghouse thermometer said 10.2° this morning last time I checked before I left for Big House to fix breakfast. A battery powered digital, it’s sensor is tacked up to a deck post beside Moore’s run. Same thermometer said 84° inside beside recliner with cedar fire popping eight feet away. Big House breezeway digital said 14.2°. That breezeway funnels natural air movement from upper flat ground where Big House sits to lower bottom land behind the house. Near constant, good air movement, it’s a first class place to measure outdoor temperature. Always shaded, away from precipitation, nothing to influence it’s measurements except it’s own construction. Six feet from that sensor, an old analog with four inch round dial on a post. It’s left over from the days when veterinary drug companies sent advertising material to Pap. I think this one came from Phizer. That old coiled bimetal read somewhere between 10° and 12°. It gets same breezes as the digital, but the post mount thposes it to more sun light. I glanced at the big twelve inch analog tacked to front of ice house/meat house/gourd house, across back yard from Big House kitchen door as I entered. Best I could see it read somewhere in the teens: Numbers are faded a bit and plastic cover is cloudy. I didn’t walk through heavily frosted grass to get a closer look. Kitchen table, “The Biggy”. A receiver for five digital sensor/transmitters scattered about Big House. #1, outside in that same breezeway, was blinking blank. Don’t know why. Have to fiddle with it a little. #2, office temperature was 45°. That’s important because I keep things in there I don’t want to freeze over winter. #3, 50.2°, the cellar under Big House kitchen. It stays pretty con- stant as long as the outside door stays shut. My water distribution system is down there. # 4, 58.6°, Dining room where I’m sitting to write this column. Not to worry, pellet stove in there, off overnight, will bring it up to working temperature by the time breakfast is cleaned up. At least I’ll be warm from the knees up. Crawl space under the floor is open to outside air and floor has been eternally cold for as long as I can remember. I’ll close that space and insulate between joists when I have new downstairs bathroom built. #5, 61.6°, Kitchen table where the thermometer receiver sits. Lowest setting on a propane wall heater has kept kitchen temperature within reach of comfort. A quick turn of the dial lights all three elements and the garden calendar pinned to the wall above begins to flap in rising heat. While I still had my coat on, thought I’d walk down to New Green Building and plug in tractor block heater. Get Kubota warmed up for use later in the day if I ambitious. On the wall, just inside shop door, right side, between wall studs, another heirloom. Royal Crown Cola, faded paint, maybe eighteen inches high, a big tube of red alcohol topped out at 16° more or less on its scale. After breakfast, before I began writing, I remembered to top off pellet stove with fresh fuel. Outside dining room back door, bent to pick up a bag, I looked up at my morning “oops”. Bright clear rays from the sun, just risen over North Mountain, were shining directly on another twelve inch analog thermometer matching the one mounted on gourd house. 20° in that first direct daylight. Folks have said uncomplimentary things about my temperature obsession, often mentioning unmentionable parts of my body in derision. I don’t mind. Biggest worry is that with all those thermometers in all those excellent locations, I still don’t really know what the temperature was Saturday morning. It was cold.