Escaping Gorgons

I just happened upon an article about "Emotional Vampires". From what I gather, this is the vogue term coined to identify the people who make you feel badly when you're around them. I don't necessarily mean the ones I call "Gorgons"- the people who emanate bitterness and strife, from whom waves of unhappiness flow like flood waters in springtime. No, "Emotional Vampires" are people who you might even consider to be friends, until you  come to the realization that being around them is exhausting. Rudeness, negativity, gossipy, and "flying off the handle" seem to be my buttons. When I come to the realization that one of these people is in my life, I start detaching, or if possible, completely cease to have a relationship with them. During Veterinary School I had one such friend. For nearly 2 years, I gave it a go. She was subtle, and I became gradually more aware that when I was with her I felt on edge and dark. When she was not around, I had a sense of relief. This is not a healthy friendship! So, I began to remove myself from activities where I would be with her, stopped making plans with her, continued to be polite when we spoke, but noncommittal. I felt so free when that period was past, it taught me something about standing up for my sense of well-being. I think any girl in grade school, right through high school has to deal with this kind everyday. "Mean Girls". Sadly, I think there are Mean Girls who never grow up, become secure, happy individuals. Then, they mature to "Gorgons". Accomplished in the art of turning anyone silly enough to spend time with them to stone. I met a Gorgon yesterday. I can only shake my head and feel a bit sad for a grown woman who is that bitter, rude and threatened by others. Odysseus feared the Gorgon. Smart man. Perseus had the right idea, he cloaked himself in invisibilty to escape from the Gorgon sisters. This was after he beheaded Medusa, a most feared Gorgon. I wouldn't suggest the beheading bit, although you can figuratively behead the Gorgon by using the more effective technique- avoidance invisibility. If they can't see you, escape unscathed!

Cold beds, cold feet and a rooster on the lam.

I don't do much worrying about birds in the summer, but winter just has to be horrible. There are some days I don't see a single bird that isn't named by me and dwells in my barn. Believe me- there are no birds in my barn other than the poultry. I have 5 barn cats who have done in any bird crazed enough to try and set up housekeeping in the barn. They even killed and ate a racing pigeon last year. I felt terrible about that one.
But, with no warm barn, where do the rich red Cardinals spend their time? And the hordes of black birds that fly around like they are strung together? So, I looked it up, like any modern person, on the Internet. The resources said birds get into thick underbrush and holes in trees. Ugh. NOT warm enough. With our whipping cold wind, unless the underbrush is made of cement blocks, it can't be much of a windbreak. We also lack trees (as exhibit A, look at Framed Friday from yesterday). Trees with holes have to be in short supply. Of course, birds might not live here at Cowfeathers. I rid myself of all bird feeders and stopped cleaning out the birdhouses on the property when the barn cats started using it like a White Castle drive-thru.

Also, a matter to ponder. How do their feet not freeze? Bird feet are covered with smooth little scales. Hard suckers. But, they're naked, and thin. How can you have blood supply that close to the surface, uncovered, and not have your body temperature take a serious dive? If you walked outside in your warmest togs, but bare feet and ankles, and stood out there in the snow, how long do you think your feet would take to frostbite, then become gangrenous and rot off? If I go out there in socks and boots and stand around, my toes start burning after about 10 minutes. 30 minutes and the prickles in my feet really hurt. Maybe I'm not the halest of examples as my circulation seems to be tired of the same old, same old. But still? The goose stands out there in the snow all day long, protecting my minivan, presumably so she can lay some eggs. That part of the plan seems to be faulty, but his feet are just dandy. He could go to the tractor sheds, or back up to the barn and find a nice snow-free place to spend his time. He does not. On the other hand, the combs on the roosters do tend to freeze and turn black and fall off. We tried to prevent this from happening to Beau, a rooster with a dandy, large single comb. It stood up quite tall and was fire engine red. We kept him in his own hen house with a heat lamp. Sure enough, one negative temperature night, and he had a comb that turned a suspicious purple with a dark like at the base. The tips began to blacken and then one by one, they fell off, giving him a stumpy chapeau. I bet that hurt, but I haven't mastered pain control in poultry. Thereafter, he had no problems with his comb, but a few years later he had a big problem with a fox. Or, perhaps he wised up and left for warmer climes? When the birds return in the spring, maybe they'll bring songs about a stumpy-combed rooster on the lam.

Framed Friday



Boy, I sure do hope the neighbors have sugar.



How I built my greenhouse.

I think there are many folks whose minds start racing when they lay down at night. I am one of these. Things to do, or just plain random thoughts start dashing about demanding attention. Rarely are they important thoughts, which is why they haven't been given space during the day. But, they nonetheless are demanding the floor. My strategy for dealing with this has long been to build something. Start to finish, in my mind. Once construction details are all sorted out, I am satisfied to let thought go to dreams. The choice of building project can be of necessity; I need to build a stile over the front fence line so the kids can get to the bus without opening and shutting the gates, so I plan, measure, make a list of materials and then construct the stile in my head. Or, it can be diversionary; build(or design) a ballgown for in imaginary person of the 17th century, build a cake version of a canal lock. Sometimes it is building a situation and thinking from the inside of that situation. For instance, last night I started thinking of what it would be to be blind. Then I moved on to paraplegic. I was woefully unsuccessful. I just couldn't wrap myself inside that body. So, I started thinking about what someone looking at that person would feel, then how I would feel about those feelings, were they aimed at me. Again, fell short. I tried thinking smaller. What does someone looking at me think about me? Here I realized I am perhaps extremely un-self-actualized. I've no idea what people really feel when they are with me. Now, keep in mind, I am not looking for impressions from my readers. The point is, I couldn't even imagine imagining someone who was not me, being with me. This is no way to get to sleep.
Am I a Sarah? Sarah is a girl from my childhood, older than I, and possessed of a magical quality that I just wanted to be near. She was beautiful, yes, with cream skin, rosy cheeks, dark brown eyes and an easy smile. She had a raspy laugh that she shared frequently. Her hair was always cool- long for years, then she went super short. She had two step-sisters, larger-than life gorgeous girls, smart and a bit overwhelmingly Viking and vivacious. I think Sarah saw herself as the odd-woman out. But, I saw her as the real center.  I think I was a peripheral person to her, she was always polite, but I'm not sure I even squeaked out words when she was around because I studied her so. I remember her hand motions, the way her eyes squeezed together when she laughed. The way her jeans jacket smelled like cigarette smoke and Tatiana perfume. It wasn't that I wanted to be Sarah, I just didn't want to miss any little bit of her magic.  I don't think I'm a Sarah.
Am I a Paige? Paige can do anything, make it happen. If she had military aspirations, she might have been our first 5-star female General. Wonderfully, deservedly in charge.  Extremely organized and perfectly presented. Nope, not a Paige. I can make stuff happen, but I would guess that is mostly luck and blithe ignorance of the details.

At this point, I realized I won't be able to put it together. I will never understand what it is to not be me, being with me. I have as much of a shot at building this situation as I did feeling blind. So, I built a greenhouse from the old house windows, got my seedlings started and went to sleep.

My town

We don't have a town. We live in what most folks outside of North Dakota would think of as, well, rural. (North Dakotans, Alaskans, Montanans, Idahoans- you would think we live in suburbia). There was once a little town, or hamlet or townlet here, Cedar Hill. Thus named because of a hill and a cedar. We had a church, Cedar Hill United Methodist- still there, and a little store on the corner. The little store was torn down about 15 years ago, sadly. So, without the store, we pretty much consist of a church and a curvy spot in the road where if you don't slow down you'll hit the lilacs. The town in which our post office still stands is many miles off to the southeast, on the way to nowhere but itself. Mostly famed for its water tower, which painted a startlingly fleshy pink juts above the treetops like a parody of the Washington Monument and a testament to imagination.
So, "my town" is spread around. I grocery shop in three separate towns, depending on which is nearer my current location when the need for black pepper or almonds is high. Mostly, it is on the way home from work, Girl Scouts, flute lessons,etc. But I am loyal to one location of two institutions; the library and Feed Store. I have written about Faler Feed in a previous blog. Maybe even mentioned Wagnalls Memorial Library.
This makes "my town" Lithopolis. Lithopolis- stone town. There was a quarry here once upon a time. Indeed the library is a testament to this, as it is made of such, and stands like a Gothic fortress on the roadside, full of literary joys. "Litho", as I call it- no one else makes such a diminutive, surely, is a cute little town. Or, perhaps has the potential to be a cute little town. At the top of the main street, on a clear day, you can see The Big City in the distance. There are a dozen or so little shops, including an old general type store with penny candy and overalls. There is a day spa, and several antique or junk shops. There is a sculptor, a local IGA grocery and an old style gas station, with pumps you can't possibly work yourself. Going inside and chatting a requirement. A post office tucks in the outskirts of town and the streets off the main drag are populated by tiny clapboard houses, churches and a school on the hill. There is a police station, and a strictly, happily enforced 25 mph speed limit. A small park with a gazebo in the center and a war memorial stand across from the police station, and the entire town is lined by gaslight lamps that sport e-lec-triss-ty. Now, has anyone seen what is missing here? Correct! Dining. There has been several establishments over the years, but none that make it for more than a year or two. WHY? I am stumped, because I always try them. But I am not "regular" material, so I can't float a restaurant/pub/coffeehouse/lunchroom. Now, anyone that knows the town of Litho, is saying "what about J and R's?" And I agree. What is with J and R's. HOW is it still in business???? A less welcoming place I think you're not likely to find. Going in the first time would take a tremendous leap of faith, or near starvation. Since a picture is worth a thousand words....

Seriously.
I did not photoshop this picture. This is the only successful restaurant in Lithopolis. The biggest mystery of my town. Even bigger than when we found the old quarry deserted behind the library. Bigger than the secret door that leads to the theater in the library. Bigger than where IS the theater in the library.( I mean, I've been in the theater, it is a beautiful old theater, and I can't figure out where it is, when you look at the building, it just doesn't make sense. Yes, I've been in J and R's. I think I must have ordered something, but it is a fog. Literally. There was so much cigarette smoke it was hard to see past the yellowed plastic covering the backlit, over-the-counter menu of sodas and fried stuff.  I was astounded. No windows, full of smoke and plastic chairs. I got something to go and fed it to my children ( I don't give the dog "people" food) as they'll eat just about anything. It's against the law now to smoke in restaurants, so I suppose that will have changed. I can't imagine it changing enough to get me back inside! So, I am fond of my town, just perplexed with the dining. What would work here? I think it has to be inexpensive- the flaw of some previous restaurant attempts. Outside TBC (The Big City) folks don't want to buy a $7.00 sandwich. Comfort food probably necessary, don't think a watercress and chevre roll up would be in demand- although that does sound pretty good, maybe with a pinch of fresh mint. Maybe it just isn't possible. J and R's has all the clientele already?

Meet the staff.

There are but a few studs on our farm. Our dinosaur, Henry the Gander, Augustus, Uglybird, Prettybird and Arthur-itis, the roosters and Cesar, the ram. And, I shall here include Huz in the list as proven sire of three very fine offspring. The other males on the farm have no reproductive capacity. Phew. Tucker, the Golden Retriever, Lu, Jersey, Abbot and Not-Abbot the barn cats, Eli and Everest the wethered sheep, and Oslo, my gelding all retain their wonderful boy-ness with no threat of progeny. I have written before about Henry. The roosters are a motley bunch- Uglybird and Prettybird were hatch mates and one was the ugliest bird every created who bloomed into quite a nice looking adult. Pretty is more or less the same as he's been for 5 years, except blind in his left eye now which makes him easy to sneak up on. Augustus is a robust Ameraucauna rooster, deep chestnut red. And Arthur, short for Arthur-itis, who quickly developed rather crooked feet as a youngster, but does just fine despite his toes that all point at 90*to center.
Cesar is a bit different. For one, he smells quite strongly, that musky, rammy smell. He also leads with his head. Straight into anything- and was affronted by ramming my shovel last night and getting a nick on his nose. This bothered him. Didn't stop him from ramming the shovel again, but he wanted me to attend to his minor injury. He doesn't seem to think much about his action, just compelled to put head down and GO!
Watching him with Elmo the goat last year was rather amusing. Elmo and Elsie stayed with us for a few weeks, months? while their owners were moving in next door and waiting for the wheat to come off the field they would then fence in for the goats. Elmo had little horns, and adored jumping up onto his hind legs and bashing down at an angle. He thought it was great fun to play with Cesar. Cesar tried to play, but was always getting mashed on the top of the noggin. He goes in a straight line motion- one plane, and couldn't figure out what to do with the high-low bashing of Elmo. He would eventually retreat, be chased  and then come find me to save him. Of course, because he is a ram of high instinct and low thought, when he sees me (or shovel, or fence, or broom, or dog) he must ram first. Fortunately, if you put your hand where you were, step to the side, he rams your hand and then presents his back to be scratched. If you scratch him, he immediately  ceases all other activity and begins wagging his little tail wildly. Still, having a 150 lbs of ram coming at you with the intention of making massive contact can be a tad intimidating. For this reason you never turn your back on Cesar. If he is not tied up, penned up or being scratched, you are in the presence of Simple Harmonic Motion. ( in terms of v : d/dx(1/2v2)=-n2x where v is squared and n is too. Don't know how to make my keyboard raise that 2 a half step. In any case, for you physics folks, x umlaut + n squared x=0= Cesar. See? )
But a good natured basher for all that. Last summer he was in the pasture, as was Middlest. She made the amateur mistake of getting far away from the ram, but not far enough to get to the fence first. He spotted her and began his charge. She, instead of going with the wait and side step action got her knees bent and her shoulders down low and took the charge like a linesman for the Chargers. Over they both went, stem over stern, tail over kettle. When they stopped rolling, he looked around, saw Middlest again, and began wagging his tail, thrilled at the attention potential. ( I don't think there is a formula for attention potential. Anyone?) Talk about desensitizing you to getting run down. Go Middlest! Don't break anything.
So, now you know more about staff member Cesar, Border Leicester, proven breeder ( Eli, Eleanor, Everest and Evelyn are all his lambs) and RamRam.

This photo was taken by photographer, Eileen Nixon at our Christmas session. She had set up to take pictures of the kids on our old bridge, and Cesar was in that pasture. I went in to keep control of Cesar so he wouldn't ram her or destroy anything. Huz joined me, and then when she turned we were pinning Cesar against the fence, scratching his top line. Looks easier than that...

Ice,rolling and nails- no more.

Earlier this month, I discussed a book, given to me by friend, SB, about early American life. It is called Seasons of America, by Eric Sloane. In that blog, I talked about how sensibly, we have not started a new year yet, as the new year begins on March the 26. When the peas go in, and the growing season begins. Now, the book logically begins it's narrative on what to do during each month's seasons ( the premise that there are only 4 seasons being also relatively new in concept) during this month of March. I thought I would patiently wait for March to begin the meat of the book. Perhaps this is why I've gone vegetarian. I couldn't wait. I jumped all the way towards the back to find January and discover what things I don't have to do, not being an early American Farmer. Here are my top three favorite things I don't have to do:

Icehouse design.

This ice house will hold about 25 tons of ice. 25 TONS. ( Ice is heavy)

Collect ice for the icehouse. January is the perfect month for this. You need a super cold day, the ice has to be thick and you need to saw it out in blocks that you can then heave onto the surface of the ice so you can carry it back home. It needs to be super cold because you have to have thick ice- falling through is inconvenient, sets you back a bit, and you don't want your hard-won ice block to then freeze onto the surface of the ice after you haul it out. So, no sun, and super cold. Then, after you spend about two days sawing blocks of ice out of the surface, you haul it all back to your icehouse. This will keep things cold until all the ice melts. How long that takes would depend on your ambient temperature, how much ice you have, and how well you have insulated your icehouse.
Give thanks for the plug that finds electricity and keeps my refrigerator and freezers working.

This is not an Ohio Roller, but gives the general idea...

Maintain snow on the roads. Today, we pay folks to take the snow off the roads. This gives our car tires traction making it less hazardous to drive. We are most pleased by clear, dry roads. Not so when you use a vehicle with runners to get around. I was pondering this last week, as I thought about the hazards of living where I do prior to snowplows and 4 wheel drive. I find it a bit disconcerting to drive around these parts, as you are likely to have a wind-cleared dry patch of road that immediately abuts a 2 or three foot drift ahead. I was thinking how a sleigh would have just the opposite problem; wonderful patches of icy snow, followed by dry bits. I think the big drifts might be as formidable a problem for the horse drawn sleigh as they are for our motored cars. Then, wouldn't you know, Sloane addresses this in the month of January. Back then, you had "Snow Wardens". These were men (is it sexist to assume in the 1700-1800s they would have been men?) whose job was to keep the snow ON the roads. They would take their oxen and a big roller thingie and shovels and when they found a bare patch, shovel snow all over it and then roll over it, much like they do when they pave roads today. The Ohio Roller was pushed by a yoke of oxen. The front of the Ohio Roller was just that- a big roller, made from wood planks that turned like a spool. Just behind the roller was a triangular shaped ballast filled with stout logs (don't think "duraflame" here, think "telephone pole") to make it heavy, and atop the ballast a seat for the warden to encourage the oxen. A job title that has gone by the way. "So, what do you do?" " Oh, I'm a Snow Warden." Try that at your next cocktail party.

Making nails. I find them all over the property, but mostly around the barn( see blog "Raising Clostridium" Nov. 13, 2010). Wonderful bits of craftsmanship that I promptly collect in a feed sack that ends up in the dump. (Recycling is a subject for another blog). But when I build something- or more often, repair something- I collect a box of nails from the shelf and go to the job. When I get low on a particular size or kind, I rummage around the tractor sheds and then, if still low, put it on the list for the next trip to town. January in days gone by would've been a time my forge would've stayed white hot. Making nails for the repair and building jobs the rest of the year. I would purchase long metal shins, heat the tip until it was soft, bang it into a point, score the four sides of the square however long I wanted my nail to become, then break it at the scoring. I would then take my metal splinter, heat it again, pop it into a holder of sorts and bang the end four times so I had a flatish head with four slopes. Then I had a rose nail. One. Dump it in a bucket to cool and repeat. Over and over until I had a great mass of nails ready to go for the rest of the year. Give thanks for Lowe's.

And soap.

Velvet seats, up and to the left.

It starts out gently, just strings softly rolling. The sky is grey and cold, and there is a bit of despair (I think Russia is often in despair- I mean, they have Siberia), but it is time to think about facing the threat at hand, so you can get back to the work of growing kartopfels and making Stolichynaya. So, you straighten your babushka, point your young men towards those darn French, following their little Napoleon, and say "Kaniez!" (Short for "Eta Kaniez"= it's over little man, take your pretty coat and your ulcer and head on outta here.)
Then they see the French, and the rattattat of the drums and the brass lets you know "Here come Frenchies, and we're going to party like it's 1812."
Bah bahbahbupbah bupbah bup bah baaah.
The strings then take back over- a little frantic, maybe Russia's should've seen this coming. Better move faster! And then it builds louder and faster until crash! Scurry! Here comes that brass again, steady and sure. Strings are now rushing all over the place, back and forth, so fast you can hardly see the bows. You feel the pressure building and then...soft, gentle strings; "We may be a bunch of Russian peasants, but we're pretty tough. I mean, we have Siberia. We can live off a potato and some snow for about a month. Good luck finding pate fois gras here, boys."
And the strings and the brass duke it out until the finale- Cannons. You gotta love a guy who thinks of a cannon as an instrument. Thank you, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

And, thank you Columbus Symphony, joined by the Brass Band of Columbus last night at the beautiful, ornate, old Ohio Theatre. This was Eldest's Christmas present from her parents. An experiential gift. When musing about what to give her for Christmas, it seemed to me that one of the greatest desires of a 15 year old girl is still playing dress up. So, to make it a dress up occasion that would also educate, we chose to take her and two of her best friends to dinner and the Symphony. The three are all musicians, Eldest with her flute and the other two play clarinet. One of them also is the Drum Major for the Marching Band. The girls all arrived around noon to have lunch and begin preparation. The ace in the hole for the prep work was good family friend Elizabeth- with a flair for the dramatic, and 4 years of Show Choir under her belt. She arrived with her boxer, Otis, and hairspray that would even keep my hair curly, plus- plenty of ability.

Otis, with his girls; Elizabeth (hair extraordinaire), K.(clarinet), J. (clarinet) and Eldest (flute)

Fresh faces, ready to prepare!

Those are the befores. Then, some time later- Middlest brought home from horse workout by friend TMJ, TMJ and daughter stay for a uncomplicated lunch and a wonderful chat, a few barn chores, checking periodically on progress and the still frozen pipes in the bathroom.....and








Voici! (or in Russian.. because, after all, they did win- Zdyays!)

K, J and Eldest

So, it became necessary that I found something to wear.
To be forthcoming, my Mimi found something to wear. Sometime in the 60's probably. In creme colored wool with a high turned collar, hand beaded in grey and white pearls. I guess that would be "vintage". Huz rolled in from teaching a weekend course to throw on a sport coat and open doors. Off we went to The Big City.
I had made us reservations at a little tapas place a few blocks north of the capitol building. I chose tapas as I wanted the girls to try some new things, and tapas is multiple tries with smaller committments. Remember, experiential gifting.

They did well. I saw mushroom empanadas, pepper chicken, crab and almond, veal meatballs, salmon on sweet potato hash, carmelized cheese, pork tenderloin, spicy potatoes, calamari zarzuela (okay, those squids were in Huz's bowl, but Eldest sampled) and molten chocolate cakes go down. I also saw about 21 soft drink refills happen. That was not part of my plan.


We then piled back in the car for the short drive to the Ohio Theatre. Can I just mention here that valet parking is the bomb? With 4 inches of slush everywhere and 4 young ladies (hey, I'm kinda young. Gram's turning 100...) in shoes not primarily of rubber, the kind sir in the valet box running to get our car in subzero temps is a bit of hero.
The Theater is beautiful. Such a drastic change from a modern day movie theater. We had seats chosen for us by a Symphony consultant who claimed the sound was best in the nearly nosebleed area. She was so right. It sounded like we were in a sound tunnel, every note so true and clear. Everything about the theater is ornate. Marble, rich carpets, ormulu everywhere, damask walls, velvet seats, gold fringe, even the exit signs are stained glass. A tall usher in black tie helped us to our seats and gave us a program, bid the girls an enjoyable evening.
A special bonus for the evening was the girls Band Instructor, Smith, is in the Brass Band of Columbus, and they were assisting the Symphony during the finale of the 1812 Overture. The girls ran into her during intermission. Even better to know someone on stage!
The first two pieces, Prokofiev's Classical Symphony, Opus 25 and Tchaikovsky's Variations on a Rococo Theme for cello were very nice. The cellist was a 19 year old! His name is Julian Schwarz and he was magnificent. What impressed the girls the most was he did the whole piece, and an encore, about 24 minutes of music- without music. It was all memorized. I did not notice this atall. Tells you my musical abilities.
After intermission was a wonderful piece by Prokofiev called Suite from Lieutenant Kije, Opus 60. He wrote it as the score for the movie of the same name made in the 1930s. The movie was deemed unflattering to the Russian government and was never released, but the Suite lives on,  and is wonderful. It is a true,humorous narraration of a fictitious Lieutenant, created by a typo, but the myth was sustained and perpertrated by the army men who didn't want to get sent to Siberia by the crazy Russian Czar, Paul I. The Czar took a shining to the name, Kije, and would ask about him. The brass made up all sorts of stories of the exploits of the fictitious Kije, and the Czar kept promoting him. He even set Kije up to be married, and there was a false wedding with an absentee groom. Eventually, Paul wanted to meet Kije, and poor, swashbuckling Kije had to die. The Czar even attended the funeral, with an empty coffin. The music is as fantastical as the tale of Lieutenant Kije. Thoroughly enjoyable.
And then, the finale:
It starts out gently, strings rolling........

Up to -14*?

Can you get "up to" -14? That seems like is should be a "down to", but if it was colder when I woke up, I guess that is an "up to"? In any case it is cold. Coldy McCold,cold. The horses were wearing beards of white from their breath freezing.

 Yesterday we had a bright sunny morning of sledding on the S. family sledding hill. I envied Bill S. his so cool cross country skis. But, I suppose if I want to get out and about in the snow I could hop on a horse....
Sledding was fun, and made me miss the 6-man runner sled we had as children. You could pile everyone on that sucker and fly down a hill, each bump dislodging the man on top. Broke a collarbone that way... but still, the pure fun of sledding with friends and speed and eye-tearing cold. This hill isn't quite as fast, but after a few runs we had a nicely packed run that was pretty good.

Heading to the hill

Good enthusiasm, overly ambitious for first run.

Middlest and S.'s Youngest get a push off from Youngest and instruction from Eldest. We all have our roles....

This is as far as I got in yesterday's blog before life swept me right away from my warm computer chair and back to Midwestern Winter. Our fearless Horse Advisor for the 4-H Club scheduled a  horse lesson for the club kids interested in horses. As usual, it was to include taking our horses with us- but Mother Nature's plans were for us to go horseless. We met in the newly rebuilt barn of one of our members. The barn had burnt to the ground last year in a scary fire that fortunately did not injure anyone. It is big and new and beautiful now, with wonderful bells and whistles. Many of us strode down the wide aisles with a tinge of "what if" in our hearts. As friend, TMJ, put it "I realize that a building like this comes with great responsibility, but, Lord, if you were to think I was up to the task, I'd sure like to give it a try!" And, wonderfully, even though subzero temperatures made the world quite chilly, we were warmed by layers of clothes and horsey companionship. I counted 21 horse-crazed souls( well, okay, a few were pitiful younger siblings dragged along for the frostbite) showing up to get started on 2011's horse year. Wow. As I've mentioned- quite a club!  As noon crept near, I ditched Middlest with the nutso horse people and raced (or not, as the roads are akin to a well-used kiddie ski slope) home to supervise the arrival of teenagers. Ominous, I know.

Every girl's dream; a Velociraptor of my own.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you will have heard, on occasion, about Henry. Henry is our Pilgrim Gander. He has been single since his mate, Henrietta was stolen off her nest and massacred a few springs ago. I have not found him a new mate, as the single Henry is possibly more tolerable than the married Henry. He is an aggressive little bugger at the best of times, and mating season is NOT the best of times. I have been waiting to see if he is as mean this year as he was last year. He was mean last year, but for a shorter period of time than when he had Henrietta as companion. When I say "mean", what I mean is he is fond of seeking out moving objects on which to latch with his strong, bruising beak and then beat senseless with his bony, brutish wings. Intimidating is a perfect word for Henry. And, willing to follow through on a threat. You will have heard me refer to him by his nickname "The Dinosaur".
I hadn't thought too much about his nickname. I guess anyone who had seen Jurassic Park and owned a seriously invested gander such as Henry would have made the connection. He acts and looks like a dinosaur. I wasn't literally saying his ancestors were Cretaceous, just cretins.

Then, I read the book Birdology by Sy Montgomery. Now, I know about Cassowaries. They are dinosaurs- ones that live in New Guinea and Australia. They have Dino DNA, and some direct lineage to the Velociraptor (Of Jurassic Park fame).

As it turns out, since sometime in the last decade, scientists have now determined by DNA sequencing, that many of the dinosaurs in fact had feathers and did not all die out in a big bang, but flew away to sit on our birdfeeders. Cassowaries are big, honking flightless birds. Somewhere around 150 pounds.  They are covered in feathers, mostly for protection, as I mentioned, they don't fly. The maybe most distinctive thing about this dino, is the bony hump on the head. It sticks up about 7 inches or so above the skull and is hard, but filled with spongy cartilaginous tissue. The thought is they use the hump to amplify sound and make a thrumming noise, deep and booming. This use of infrasound allows them to communicate with other Cassowaries far away- like humpback wales. Many dinosaurs also had this hump thing on their heads.  They have powerful legs, are speedy suckers and they have three toes. Only, the most medial toe isn't very toe-like. In fact, it is a bony saber. Sharp and no joke at around 9 inches long. They use it to kill things, defense and such.

Without the board, this Crocodile Dundee would be singing soprano. I suppose with the saber toe buried in a board, you might have caught yourself a Cassowary. Now what? In any case, in 2005 a North Carolina scientist found some viable tissue in a T. Rex bone, sequenced the genome and found it to be quite closely related to the chicken. Henry is a Dinosaur.

Now, the main habitat of the Cassowary in Australia was in Queensland. With much of Queensland totally devastated with flooding, I went online to see if I could find out what was happening to the Cassowaries. I found nothing. Maybe because very little is known. I just hope that since  they've made it through major natural disasters before (BOOM!) they figure this one out too.

Clouds of grey, gitness and pigscald hot baths.

After a few days of winter reprieve, the grey clouds of winter are moving back in. The current weather rock forecast is slightly spitty and windy, but a balmy 30 degrees! Still, those clouds tell me that my weather rock might be disappearing pretty soon. I try not to get sucked in by January thaws. I know they happen, and really, how excited should you really get over 34 degrees and rain, but I can't help it. I start wearing pink, stop wearing long underwear. I think about washing my Carhartts (this, for folks who don't know-LeeLee- is a brand of outerwear, jackets and overalls,  that is made from fierce treated, tight woven cotton duck, insulated, warm and durable. Indispensable for stall cleaning, log moving, pig wrassling, deer cleaning, ditch digging...any freezing winter activity that features dirt, sharp stuff or teeth).

I get on my big monster horse and lament at how fuzzy and out of shape he is, so make plans for conditioning and scrubbing and a Musical Kur (this, for folks who don't know is a dressage test choreographed to music....http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MPJGEzI3aIc&feature=related...)

I start dreaming up plans; what to do first? Garden? Barn repair? Shave my legs?  Load up the trailer and explore the Hocking Hills State Park on the big black??

Then, the inevitable. The grey clouds roll in, the temperature plummets, the snow falls, the ice builds up and the long underwear and black polartech come back out of the closet. I read on the Internet that "grey" is the way you spell "gray" when you are a pretentious git. I contemplate my gitness.

My optimistic spring dreams become, instead, dreams of hot chocolate- the real kind, with milk, vanilla, sugar and dutch cocoa, pigscald hot baths and crawling into bed early with a good book and a clean dog. Ah, January.

Wow! Whadda club.

Our 4-H group is just growing and growing. I believe we can apply for University status at any time now. Possibly even Democratic Republic.
I am not sure if we've just got a tiger by the tail, but without the amazing group of dedicated parents that have bravely thrown their lot in with the Drs. Drost, we would be really sunk! Our group now fills every seat in the school cafeteria. The meetings are smoothly run by our President, Evan, a high school junior, backed up by his executive table of officers. It is such a fine feeling to have all these kids striving for goals, growing and learning, running meetings, speaking in front of this enormous group of parents and peers, running committees and making it all happen right through the County Fair. Today, the older kids turned in Achievement Records- the record of what they've done, learned, given and received over the years they've been in 4-H. In return they are awarded trips, recognitions and scholarships based on the merit of their applications. Great practice for life.
Tonight we began Enrollment- kids signing up for the projects they plan to present at the County Fair, and then....State Fair! Big doin's in the country. BIG!
Apparently, a diverse, strong, enthusiastic club attracts new members, and the key to our success(sanity?): delegate.

He had a dream?

Martin Luther King surely was an optimist. Don't know if he thought he would ever get his own National Holiday; a day when my whole family is home on a Monday. Eldest griping about how she can't possibly get her Achievement Record done for 4-H when it is due tomorrow, and she hasn't made her photo page, and our printer is broken, and now "MOAAWM! What am I supposed to do?" She seems displeased by my answer of "Why, dear, I think you shouldn't wait until the last day to figure that out. Thus my inquiry early last week, and your assurance that it would be ready to go anytime after Friday. Now, Friday has come, gone and you have a problem." Middlest is annoying/annoyed by her brother, and displeased that her friend isn't able to come over, even though said friend was not made aware of any invitation until after noon. Youngest is still scattering about in his jammies and hat knit by Aunt E., with the points folded all down to resemble an scilla umbel. He has been incapable of finishing any task, begun between 6 a.m. and present. Oatmeal cold and gelling in bowl, milk carton catapult stranded on counter, book on floor, laundry unfolded, ceramic painted dog dissembled for apparent unapproved painting, chair tilting, trumpet playing, pogo stick walking bundle of ATP- my sympathies to his brave school teachers. And Huz, needing computer, building fires, futile attempts to get Youngest to focus, Middlest to do her chores, Eldest to pry herself from bed. I think I am called to a quiet afternoon in the barn, meditating on the Dream.  
Thank you, Mr. King.

It's Electric!

The sheep spent the afternoon in the barn pasture, as per usual. It was sunny today, and it may have made them friskier than usual, as the fence line took major hits along the entire length. I was on fence repair detail, also as per usual. Middlest was trying to get everyone back where they belong- harder when it isn't quite dark, as all are resistant. Like the response to Mother's call of every summer child;  "Aw, Mom, it's not dark yet, can't we play outside a while longer?" And, it is awfully cold. I notice this particularly as I have to work with fixing the wires glove-free. My gloves are too clumsy to properly catch up and twist the wires, and I have to get out my knife to cut off the wool wound around the connections. I think sheep wool is a rather effective insulator for wire. And we have some woolly wire! But, the fence is again electric, and my hands will eventually warm up. The animals are all in bed for the night, with a prayer from me that the call of death will pass them by....

I forget

Just how cute they were when.....

They continue to change.

And, of course,  I haven't changed a lick!

Okay, well, that isn't me, that's Buffie, my Brother-in-law's family water buffalo, but still, I'm looking fresh!

Since I can't leave you with that image...

How Stinkin' Cute was he????

Food, water, shelter.

"Every mile is two in winter."
                               George Herbert

Ol' George wasn't kidding. It is ironic that on bitter cold winter days, when you want to spend as little time as possible outside, everything takes longer to do. Now, in compensation for this,  I do only what HAS to get done. Life is distilled to it's essentials; food, water, shelter.
Just getting out the door takes a few minutes preparation. Insulated overalls, winter jacket, gaiter, hat, gloves, muck boots. If extensive work does have to happen, toe warmers stuck to socks before muck boots go on, and hand warmers, opened several minutes before departure to get them going. Then, trudge up to the barn, fighting the wind, our remarkable wind for which the optimistic note "perfect place for a windmill" and the pessimistic "HOLY ____ IT'S WINDY OUT HERE!" Yes, we've noticed.
The wind makes "snowfall" completely different from what I knew as a child in New England.  I have a picture of myself, 1982, sledding down our driveway. I've got rosy cheeks, ear muffs and a cocker spaniel on my lap-April was a champion sledder. Bounding around us in circles is our big black mutt, Blossom. She was not that helpful and would grab at your clothes in excitement. In the photo there is probably 6 inches of snow, so a modest amount. And, it is beautiful and heavy upon everything, the pasture fence is evenly coated, the ground is smooth and white. My father has no doubt gotten up before dawn to sit on the little garden tractor with a plow and spend hours plowing our long gravel drive. Once passable, he has gone off to work, and I am sledding in the cold sunshine. This is a typical New England snowfall, just like Currier and Ives, as the song says.

Snow at Cowfeathers:

Note the snow visibly flying up the ramp created by the water trough.

Which then, with the continued wind, becomes this:

Vast patches of nearly bare ground, and 4 foot drifts.
Currier and Ives did not live here. Your one horse open sleigh would be torture. Plus, you would have part of the road with no snow- very bad for sleighs, and then poof, drift as high as the sleigh.

Once you make it to the barn, sinking above your knees where it's snowy, and barely making footprints where it isn't, the other side of the barn door is like a sanctuary. It's still 2 degrees, but at least it's 2 degrees! Now, I must point out that I have made our barn chores vastly easier with the investment of running water and electricity.
Prior to that investment, all the water had to be carried up hill from the house to the barn. Prior to the electricity, all water buckets had to be broken with a hammer (horse trough= sledge hammer) several times a day. Then, the frozen buckets had to be transported back down the hill to get thawed in my kitchen. Now, we have electric buckets that plug in and stay thawed! And, the means to fill them. Great JOY!
So, check all water to make sure it is full, the outlet hasn't tripped and let it freeze, and clean.
Water- check
Food- Hay, hay, hay, for all, keeps everyone warm. Well, except for the poultry. They get extra corn- burns hot. Do you know many farmers here have a corn furnace?  They heat their houses with corn. Yep. But, the continuous flow of feed means many trips to the feed store, and then all that grain has to get to the barn. Thank you, Huz, for all the help this winter!
Shelter- this one takes the longest. For, although shelter is available, it must be cleaned. Frozen poop is exceptionally tough to remove. Then, all poopy, wet bedding from all gazillion critters has to get to the manure pile. This involves pushing a heavy wheelbarrow through the snow and drifts and wind to the pile, then, managing to get the latest offering to the top. This is referred to by  some of my friends, as my "Amish workout". Uses all body parts. Very effective.
Food, water, shelter. And, out. Cold. Leaving all the extra time for bon-bons and soap operas. (Do they still make those?)

Fashionable Winter

I like magazines. I know we get too many magazines, the printed kind. I can't seem to read books or magazines on the web (so why are these blogs so darn long, right?). We get sports magazines and an entertainment magazine. Those are the ones Huz regularly reads. Then I get a whole slog of other magazines, interiors, food, horses, even a whole magazine just about foxhunting. One of the magazines I get most excited to read is my fashion magazine. But I was thinking, why? How much call do I have to really be fashionable? Every so often Huz and I call in the parents from their far-flung homes to watch kids and farm and off we jet. Usually, as this is because Huz is speaking at a conference, it is to a city. There, I can be reasonably fashionable. I can bring ridiculous amounts of shoes (every great outfit starts at the bottom) and swish dresses, vamp about drinking martinis and getting my hair blown dry by someone else for the cost of a full run to the feed store. But, this is maybe once a year.
Church is a fine reason to get a bit spiff, and I'm pretty certain most of the members at our church think I'm a girl.
Work, well, I try to look professional. But, being practical, I will be sitting, kneeling and crawling around on a floor all day covered with dog and cat hair at the best, bodily effusions at the worst. As for footwear, you have to be able to be quick on your feet and still hold a 180 lb mastiff from pulling you right out the front door and down the street. You have to realize that those shoes are going to get "stuff" on them. Everything on your body should be able to be washed in hot water and bleach.No dangly earrings (hard enough to hear the heartbeat and lung sounds in a growling cat or 90 lb beagle without the help of earsplitting clanking noises courtesy of your earbobs. Check out your doctor- if she's wearing dangly earrings, she's not going to want to use that stethoscope, really!) delicate necklaces or watches that aren't waterproof - bleaching rules apply. In any case, work is not the fashion place for me that it is for many women.
Do I read that magazine cover to cover because I don't want to completely lose touch and settle for a  long denim jumper with a white turtleneck covered in valentines, holly, Easter bunnies, American flags, fall leaves- complete with white socks and crocs? Well, if that is my only barrier, keep that magazine coming.
Maybe it is for the comic relief. As the magazine urges me to consider Emmy Rossum's flirty winter outfit: A lightweight spring minidress made "winter-ready" by tossing on a faux fur shrug and cozy suede boots... I think  "WHERE IS THAT 'WINTER-READY'?"  As mentioned in a previous blog, I have lived in a whole passel of places, and none could I wear a lightweight spring dress and a faux fur shrug, bare arms,legs, head, hands, etc. and prance down the street. Closest would be spending my winter in New Zealand. But that really shouldn't count as our winter is their summer. Natch?

 Fashion Magazine "Dress for Winter":

Btw, I think this is my friend, ReRe.

My winter:

Note the faux fur eyelashes. If I went out in a spring minidress, I would certainly be sportin' those.

Okay, well, neither of these pictures are of me, and I've not got a license to use them, so I may end up trying out my winter fashion in prison for copyright infringement.

I'll be sure to be on the lookout for a white tulle ballgown and cropped tuxedo jacket. Just incase.

Bad Day for ducks.

This morning dawned late, with a two hour delay kids were up later than usual. Even Huz put off his work departure for the morning light. (Better to see 4 foot drifts before you hit them). And I laid in, waiting to see if there was truly much snow. There was not, but the snow has started up again in an effort to remedy.
While we slept and the world became more snowy, our ducks again suffered attack. This time, right in their pen. When Middlest went to the barn to do early chores, she found one dead, and the last two severely injured. So sad.
I have the remaining two in Duck ICU, ( straw filled box, under the heater in the mudroom) but wish I had the courage to do them in properly. I don't think I have long to wait for them to die on their own, but still, each minute makes me feel more ill. I have had injured ducks live through attack. Admittedly, these two seem worse off than ones that have survived. Poor Salt, my favorite of the ducks is certainly not long for the box.
So, the trap is again baited with duck. The duck-free trap alone was not inviting enough to catch the next bugger. And I feel frustrated and responsible.
So, bad day for Cate as well. Perhaps tea and a book under blanket in the daybed. Or, maybe some mad weight lifting and a round of kick boxing. Or, both, between trips to the ICU to fret. Clearly, I have a frowny face.

Update: 9pm Both ducks are still alive. I have been nursing them all day, and will continue to do so tomorrow if they are still alive in the morning. If I hold their heads I can get them to drink from a syringe, and I just got them both to eat a little corn mush. They are swaddled in their box, with the heater on in the room- warmest room in the house. At least I know they will have a quiet night, even if death comes it won't be with teeth this time. I hope tomorrow brings a full trap.

Beauty. Ful.

Well, the satellite at Cowfeathers was having a sick day yesterday, so it stayed in bed and I stayed off the Internet. Kinda lovely.
In any case, yesterday I was thinking about beauty. Specifically, about actual beauty. As in, what makes a woman beautiful. Because, although the messages we get in the grocery line, in television and movies tell us we can all be beautiful, our idea of beauty has become rather narrowed. Now, I'm not talking about the male opinion. I don't have one, and the "wolf whistling worker meter" seems a bit skewed.  Back in my city- days, this might have been a factor to include as it seems the most overt way to gauge male opinion. But, not being city-dwellers,  wolf-whistling-worker types are now on the other side of the windshield.
I am talking about us gals, I actually think most men have a firmer grip on what makes a woman beautiful. I don't think it's just about "perfect features" (what are they supposed to be, anyway? Slender nose? Button nose? Aristocratic nose? Blue Eyes? Brown? Green? High cheek bones? Sculpted ones? Softer rounder features?) I think it is about how you feel about yourself. I think when a woman thinks she is beautiful, she is.
So, to test out this theory, I thought about a population of women I know, it has to be a range, a cross section. My best subject pool seems to be work. There are a range of ages, sizes, colors etc. of women that have worked, or currently work with me. So, who is beautiful?
Well, there are some women who are easily categorized as beautiful, but why? I suspect if you asked them, they might lead with "I just wish _____ was better, different, etc." But, to look at them they are certainly very pretty. And, they do know they are beautiful, just not "perfect".
 There are women who are beautiful, but when I think about their individual features, they are brilliantly making the most of their best bits. Hmmm., very clever. Good going.
And there are women, who when asked if they are beautiful would snort and look aghast. As if "how could someone as average as me consider themselves beautiful?" That displeases me. A lot. Because, although I know scrabbling around on the floor dabbing at bodily fluids from dogs is not really conducive to "looking ones best", each one of the women I work with has it all there. Now, just to believe it. To be beautiful. So, if this is an average cross section of women, not one of them Angelina Jolie, Megan Fox, or Charlize Theron- why is our idea of beauty so focused?
What does it take to be beautiful in scrubs? Zounds. Talk about dressing to no advantage but practical!
So, here's what I think. And, it is my blog, so that is what you get intrinsically. Rules for all women, not just the ones with whom I share employ. So, if you happen to be a Mom from Detroit, or a Shepherdess from New Zealand, a horse-gal from Cincy, or a retired model from Connecticut- here goes.

First: Start leading with the positive. Stop with all the negative! Out loud, certainly, but in your brain too. Why do people say French women are so beautiful? Is it because they don't believe beauty is an exclusive club for which they are not members? Perhaps. Do all French women look alike? Of course not. Are they all beautiful, even the French-Canadian ones? If they think so, yep.  Certainly, if you think you are not beautiful, the impression you give off will be less than convincing. Think about your amazingly blue eyes, or your spicy freckles, or your gorgeously olive skin. The great arch to your eyebrows, your strong shoulders, full lips, tiny waist. Find something you really like. Dwell there.

Second: Treat yourself like you are beautiful. Feed yourself like you are feeding a beautiful woman, take a little time for yourself, exercise yourself, adorn yourself like you are beautiful.

Stand up straight. Even shorties (like you, Gouda, Lee...well, I have quite a few gorgeous shortie friends) are strikingly beautiful when standing proud.
Smile, laugh, have fun. A laughing woman is very beautiful.

Have pleasing teeth. Clean, white (but not that creeeeepy overly-white/blue look) and all present and accounted for.

Analyze your hairstyle. If you are no longer in high school, and you have the same  'do as in high school, it is time to reevaluate. Particularily if you went to high school in the 1980's. But, rule still applies even if you are class of 2009.

This is for all women in health professions - scrubs are for work. And Scrubbing. To be avoided at all other times, except perhaps when at home plagued by digestive upset.

And, because I thought through many, many of the wonderful, beautiful women I work with each week when thinking about beauty;  my pick of the week for the most beautiful woman? The one who has no idea what cards she is truly holding? Unrealized potential? The one who is stopping herself from her own traffic- stopping gorgeousness?  This is a toughie. But, I'm going to have to go with Megan.

It isn't the New Year atall.

My good friend, Shawn, gave me a wonderful present for Christmas. Well, he gave me the amazing gift of pipes that don't freeze when it gets to be less than 15 degrees, but he was even more generous and gave me a gift as well. He chose his gift wisely, as we share a passion for history, historical homes, and agronomics of the homestead. A book. An agronomic primer of sorts. The book is called Seasons of America, by Eric Sloane. I have already absorbed the amazing information in the book about barns written by Sloane, An Age of Barns. But I had not heard of this book. Now, this is not a novel to be read cover to cover. Not atall, atall, in my opinion. This is a book to be savored and mused over, bit by bit. So, over the past few weeks, I have read the first few chapters, ones that deal with life on American soil, prior to this age of ease. And, I have had many revelations. Each one  I thought worthy of rambling about to you seven. (welcome Madame Klodell).

But, none have set so strongly with me, with it's pure right-ness, as the notion that January 1, is not New Year's Day. Now, the calendar we currently use was put together in 1582 by Pope Gregory. When you think about the slow dissemination of information in that era, you know that the calendar was by no means an instant adoption. So, in the New World, of the Americas, the Gregorian Calendar was not truly adopted until about 200 years later. Indeed, for some time folks used both calendars. The calendar that made the most sense, and the one most widely still used in the 1600's when the colonies were born was a calendar that made the first day of the new year March 25! The New Year begins, quite sensibly, on the agrarian calendar, on March 25!

How correct. The winter of our lives is the end. The winter of the year is as well, and believe me, judging by the current temperature of 9 degrees, winter is by no means over, here on January 9. We should still be at the last part of the year. Spring should indeed begin the newness of a year. It is the time for new beginnings, naturally. March 25 is perfect. The garden should be being worked- the soil just chill enough at night to start the crops that can still withstand a bit of frost; the peas, early spring lettuces, the asparagus will be thinking of peeking up and the rhubarb will start to bluster and get red. Here in January, I can still be dormant, waiting for the new year to begin 11 weeks hence. So, I guess I'll have to plan another New Year's Day party, this time at the logical change in the year.

March 26, 2011, New Year's Day!

Now what?

Yesterday Polly lost her head.
And part of a wing.
It was a nice snowy morning. Nice, meaning, well, it was snowing horizontally with superfine ice-flakes. I sent Littlest down the lane to catch the bus and suited up to go do morning barn chores. This part of the routine I have described before. I open the door, the gander bursts out loudly, often banging his wings on both sides of the door frame. The ducks clumsily quack their way out just after. Only, on this morning, after the gander blustered his way out, no ducks. Hmmm. So, I went about my morning chores, feeding everyone grain, filling water buckets, and keeping an ear open for the ducks. I did not let the chickens out- much to their annoyance, as I wanted to find the ducks first, in case danger lurked in the dark recesses of the barn. ( The last predator was a raccoon, who took one of my ducks, and I smashed him in the head with a 12 foot oak beam. Rang his bell a bit. Duck was fine.) I went out to the pasture to take the sheep and the horses, thinking the ducks sometimes wander into the pasture searching for bugs. (A few years back, I noticed I was one duck short as I brushed my teeth and the sun rose in the east. I went flying outside in boots and a robe wielding a broom overhead, screaming like a banshee- and took that duck right back from a very frightened fox.) And, after my return from the pasture, there, around the water bucket, were three ducks. Three. Uh-oh. There should be four. And, as the ducks aren't laying eggs right now, there really, really should be four. Now, having an acute sense of smell can be a disadvantage ( kids shoes, frying sausages, morning breath) but mostly it is an advantage (propane leaks, fresh evergreen, acute otitis externa) and I can smell dead duck pretty clearly. So, setting my bloodhound sniffer into action, I found her. Sadly, she did not look well. Most of her was just peeking out from under the corner of the chicken house. The rest of her was gone.
Now, I get riled up about this. I hate to lose any of them. And, I surmised that it happened between when Midddlest let them out of their pen ( 5:45 ish) and I come up for chores (8:30). Ducks get stiff very quickly, and it is 13 degrees, so, well, she's going to get cold pretty fast. I think she may have been killed not long before I made my way up to the barn. Now, the problem is, how can I save the next victim? Catch the killer.
So, I got out my live trap. And, coldly, baited it with the rest of Polly. I figured, the barn cats won't go into the trap for the duck- as the barn poultry is off limits, but if I put any other meat source in the trap, I'll just be trapping my cats. Also, I can't bury Polly, so she will just be ceremoniously wrapped in feed sacks and put in the trash bin. Might as well make her useful.
The rest of the day, I kept checking on the barn critters, and each time the gander would set up a fuss, I'd dash up to the barn. Nothing.
Late last night, still dressed for work (read ridiculously under bundled) I went up to the barn to see how all were faring. I placed the baited, but empty trap right up next to the scene of the crime. Everyone was sleeping nicely, blinking slowly, hoping for another round of tucker. And, as we fell asleep, I asked early rising Huz to go up there first thing, and check on the birds.....
Caught the bugger.

Yep. That's Polly closest to us in the trap. And the black thing with the white stripe down the back? That's Smelly.

I  shot this photo this morning while very quietly doing my chores. He is in the chicken half of the barn, so, well, no one has been fed over there this morning. The perp is a little skunk. Head eater.
This leaves one in a bit of a mess. What do you do with a skunk in a trap???
Call the experts!
Last year sometime, one of my city friends asked me how much I charge my country neighbors for my Veterinary Services. See, I don't practice out here, but I will always come and try to help if asked. They were astonished when I said "Nothing". See, out here, it all comes out in the wash. I helped with a steer in crisis one year, and my driveway is miraculously plowed after snowstorms. I pull lambs in the snow, and my front field is tidy and mowed before the barn party. I cosmetically hide a steer's exploded abscessed neck for the county fair show, and when I call on a Saturday morning to say I caught a skunk in my trap- the experts come out in the snowstorm to take care of it. I don't have a plow, or the know-how to take care of  a skunk without getting skunked. But, I can do some stuff, so I do what I can when given the opportunity. I quite enjoy being useful. And, in this, I quite enjoy knowing someone who is useful. Critter Control buddies. Excellent.

Baby Heaven

Yesterday was a good for the soul kind of day. The morning was business- laundry, barn chores, dishes, workout, bathe, make potato-great northern bean soup, croutons, corn muffins, cookies...yadayadayada. Then, noon came and my day was now mine, and the sweet, snuffling adorable little won ton of a baby girl that came to visit. She was wracked when she arrived, and when I spoke to her, she grunted a bit, moved her head around (chin first, like Rodney Dangerfield) pulled her eyebrows up like she was trying to open her eyes, but, no dice. She sacked back out. So, I decided to talk to her mother.
I missed seeing my friend, Kara. We ride together, but this time of year is for foxhunting, indoor arenas, and bareback bounces through the snow, whereas we are jumping and dressage buddies. She planned wisely in having her baby in November, so she can be back in the saddle again this spring. And, that is, indeed the plan. When I had babies I took a little time off riding (12 years), but not Kara. She's already popped up on one of her mares for a deep snow bareback jaunt (finding out that cesarean incisions and bucking horses are no match). So, because the little lady was having a serious snooze, I decided to set for lunch with Kara, and do some catching up. You know, the horror-of-it-all delivery-in-the-trenches account (completely necessary and cathartic for all mothers, and there is a direct relationship between how awful it was and how many times it needs to be recounted in order for the scars to heal. Kara's gonna need quite a few repeats). The recognition that the stories of "how beautiful and natural delivering a baby will be" often is complete bollocks, and that when you live through it, there is this amazing experience waiting to be fed, burped, changed and kept warm. Then, being who we are, we talked horses.
Eventually, corn muffins down, soup scraped from the bottom of our bowls and a few mugs of Yunnanese tea later, my joy woke up!
Hungry!

She is so little! Smaller than any of my babies when they were dragged into the light.

Then, I got to spend the whole afternoon smiling at her, holding her, smelling her soft head. Baby Heaven. She was a very content little thing, so I only got her to cry a little bit once or twice, but, still. Loved it.

I kept wearing her out, though and she would sigh and make adorable little snuffles and off to sleep. But, I've got a good chest for sleeping on, so couldn't blame her.



Afternoon from my POV.

 "There is an end to everything, good things as well." 1300's English proverb
If the morning was business and the afternoon was baby-mine, the evening was big ol' truck. The bus dropped off one of my grown babies and then another, and I was off in the monster truck ferrying kids here and there from 4 until 9 pm. But the glow of baby holding is lasting within. Thank you baby! Thank you Kara!

My 2011 Resolution

My sister is correct. Since I push folks to come over to my house on New Year's Day,  eat cake, write down their resolution and THEN, put their resolution on the tree for posterity, I should reveal my resolution too.

The Resolution Tree is pretty covered, what with somewhere around 50 guests each New Year's Day from 2002 to present (with a skip in 2004), and the choices of resolution are a source of fascination and amusement. There are a smattering of similar ones- dealing with losing weight, exercising, etc. Ambitious ones- read the entire Bible, keep my room clean, be nice to other people. Repeat ones- finish the addition, finish the addition, finish the addition... and we have wonderful ones from the littles- some of them no longer little. "Pale violin", "I will not spill my milk", "Go to Gunstatcs", " I will try not to pick up Hamilton", "I will not poot in front of other people". Noble goals, no doubt.

This year I had a hard time narrowing my focus enough on my resolution. And as my waffling continued right through New Year's Eve, into New Year's Day and right to the very last guest, I decided to just lump it together and get it up on the tree. See, I think of my resolution less of getting myself to do something I'm reluctant to do, but rather to give me a permission slip of sorts to enjoy myself. Last year was to complete one thing each month off of my long-term "todo" list. It was great pleasure to say to myself  "I need to set aside time this month to complete ____". In 2009, I promised myself to become more tech savvy. I got some nifty new technology, and learned to use it (mostly). Working toward not becoming intimidated by "the new", not being utterly left behind. Huz snorted a lot about this one. When I made a Facebook, I got snorted at regularly. Scorn I say! Now, he is more active on FB than I am, and his parents now have Facebooks.  I got a smartphone (snortie mcsnort snort), and now at the beginning of 2011- he has one too. And, I am not hopeless on the computer. I can still pump my own diesel.
So, permission is my resolution. And this year, I wanted permission to do so many things! So, I settled (perhaps not too perfectly) on the word "create". My resolution is to create something every month. Create an opportunity, create a quilt, create a painting, create a party, create an event, a thing, a moment. But, do so mindfully. Once a month.  

The Ghost of New Year's Past

New Year's Day 2008

New Year's Day 2009

New Year's Day 2010

The Ghost has a short memory. We've had too many computer crashes= lost photos!

Oh, found one more in an album. This one from the year of the ice storm, New Year's Day 2005;


Looks like I managed a 4 layer lemon blueberry cake and a chocolate yule log cake. Rather festive chandelier too...