Amateurs in The Big Leagues.

The Showman, back seat of Blondie with Evelyn and Eleanor in the back of the truck, Children's Hospital at the I-71/ I-70 interchange in the backgroud. Coun'ry pepple in The Big City.

 For the readers of Cowfeathers Farm that made it through the posts about the County Fair, you will know a lot about me when I tell you that yesterday we moved into the Ohio State Fair. You will know that although my first childbirth experience was just shy of horrific, I went and did it again, and no, that one wasn't peachy either. You will know that when I fall off a horse at high speed and manage to re-attain vertical, I chase the crazy thing down, and get right back up there, and have been doing so for 35 years. You know that there is a part of me that believes life should encompass a bit of torture.  Thus, the Ohio State Fair. Now, there are few places on this big ball of earth that take their agriculture as seriously as Ohio. Let's see. Football, the red vs. green debate, eating. These things are serious business in OH- IO. The red v.green is International Harvester Tractors vs. John Deere Tractors, and yes, you must be in a camp, and no, you can't joke about it.
On the other hand, here at Cowfeathers, we are nothing, if not amateurs. We have neither a Deere nor an IH. I have never been to a Buckeye game, and eating? Well, I still do so, but not with standard Ohio flair.
Amateurs are a rare species at the Ohio State Fair.

Amateurs pulling up to the sheep complex at "State Fair".

 We left the cornfields behind for The Big City, foregoing hauling the big trailer by putting the sheep in my Mom's enormous dog crate, tied into the bed of Blondie. Tack trunk, straw, hay, manure equipment, fan, sign, cooler, feed, paperwork and hope. We followed the directions sent in our entry packet to Gate 10. After that- good luck. We don't know where the sheep barn might be, neither do the people punching our tickets, and frankly, if you don't know, why're ya here?  Kind of a theme. I rolled down the windows and listened for "baaah"ing.

The girls in their new digs.

 Middlest and I wandered around the huge building looking for an office of some sort. Inquiries finally directed us to an unmarked door, no windows, huge puddle outside. This is where we check in? So I asked for our pen assignment. The answer? "Where do you usually set up?" Uh-oh. Really not much allowance for newbies. I explained we had no previous experience at State Fair, other than coming up for an afternoon once a few years ago with my sister and the kids. I got a few astounded blinks, the gal turned and looked at the lady in the desk behind and said "What do I do?" This was the start of a long line of very nice people who tried to ease us from ignorance. I sure hope it's working. I think we've done just about everything wrong so far, good thing we're getting all these mistakes out of the way all in our first year. We did get the girls in, and got checked in, sort of. Time for a little break to see the Butter Cow.

The Butter Cow and Calf were accompanied by a Butter Space Shuttle interior, this year. Butter Cows in Space. Really. Makes the torture a little more worth it.

Shortly after this was taken of the winner of the senior division of the Sheep Shearing Contest, this man came over to Middlest's sheep pen and bought her sheep. We had barely moved in, and they are going to a new home. WHOOP!

Middlest in the Showmanship contest.

 The big event for us the first day was the Junior Fair Sheep Showmanship Contest. Middlest is becoming quite a showman, and her lambs are so tame they are fun to show. But, we amateurs did little to "fit" the ewe out. I had found no information on how to prepare a Border Leicester for show, so decided to add that to the huge learning curve of this fair, and just see what others had done. Fortunately for Middlest, some very kind Border Leicester folks, the Fogles, watched her do showmanship and offered her wonderful advice! So, last night, we worked on the ewes and got them more prepared for the show. More, not totally. See, we don't show at North American International, or Maryland Sheep and Wool, or Michigan Wool, or The Big E, or New York's Wool Show, or any of the other places all these nice helpful folks go each year. We show at the Pickaway County Fair. Small potatoes, kind of like the potato flakes of wool sheep shows. "State Fair" is more like a giant baked potato, with the works, deep fat fried and put on a stick.

The Junior Showmanship class. Middlest in the middle, with the only wool sheep wearing full wool, which is indeed how her breed should be shown. But, we still have lots of room for improvement! She is showing in the down position, as in wool showmanship, she is trying to show the ewe to it's best advantage, which means she makes herself less obtrusive, keeps the ewe's head high and legs square.

Morning. Early, this morning. Our newly fitted ewes take a stroll towards the show arena. No straw on them, and their wool all primped.

Eleanor, posing for pictures with Middlest.

Evelyn. This is the same ewe as in the showmanship photos above. If you are observant you will see the difference the fitting made in her body shape appearance.

The Junior Show , All Other White Wool Breeds, Yearling Ewe class.  Middlest placed third with Eleanor. Her friend showing Evelyn placed fifth. The winner of the class was the sheep to the far right in the photo. The one without any wool. It is a Dorper. No wool. How do you win a wool class when you're bald? We have learned a TON and we are less ignorant, but there are still things I do NOT understand.

So, Middlest took third best Yearling Ewe of All Other White Wool breeds. Pretty decent for Amateurs. Still, haven't been to a Buckeye game. And, not ever gonna play in the big leagues of Ohio eating.......

Gram Rocked.

All 5 of us are home today. A weekday.
And we are scrambling in all directions.
Band Camp is in full swing, with Eldest as Drum Major. She needs immunization proof, shorts that come to less than 4" above her knee and 2 cases of clear soda pop and water. Poof! No problem.
State Fair has begun with Middlest showing her sheep, she needs a professional sign to hang above her pen, business cards and a way to hang them so the sheep won't eat the whole shebang, two clean ewes, hay, straw, paperwork, ear tags or identification tattoos not currently in our possession, but required before check in, show clothes clean and pressed and transport to downtown Columbus' State Fairgrounds. Youngest showing the dog at the State Fair needs him to not have hot spots under his ears, stink less and obey commands. And,  Eldest showing a Leadership project at the State Fair needs to finish her book (terrible!) and create a table top display. Who knows what items will be requested to instantly appear in order to make that happen.

Gram's Grands, circa 1970. Me on her lap in blue.

And I'm in turmoil, as my treasured Gram, at age 100 years, 5 months and 7 days has joined her husband, eldest son, sister, brother, parents, aunts, uncles, and countless friends with her God.  She leaves behind a legion of people whose lives are better because they were touched by Gram. Generous, open, kind, funny, no nonsense, easy, Gram was special.
I always thought this anecdote illustrative.
In college, or vet school, don't know which, I was travelling from A-B, and whenever possible, would swing through Pennsylvania to spend a day with Gram. Often this was a stopover between a great distance; A (Iowa, New Mexico, etc.) and college or parents' home; B (Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Connecticut). I was often tired from driving 8-18 hours, and would have stumbled in late the night before, and up Gram's stairs after letting her know I was there.
The next morning, I stumbled back down, as I recall, in an oversize tee shirt and my underwear, in search of tea. Half way through her small living room, which was open to the kitchen, I realized the kitchen table was host to 4 wide-eyed teen age boys. They politely greeted my half -slitted eyes and surprised scowl with "You must be one of Gram's granddaughters. She's not here, she's gone to the store. Would you like some tea?" Ugh. Polite teen boys helping themselves to cookies before school. Only at Gram's. How many 80+ year old ladies have kids traipsing through the house at all times of the day, making a sandwich, having a handful of snickerdoodles? Barbies parked on the basement stairs, interrupted mid-game by the departure of the 9 year old girls.
Gram liked to rock. She rocked while she knit  Christmas stockings and sweaters (about a bazillion for us and every member of extended family and friends. And, I have to point out that in a ill-fated experiment in the 70's, she knitted bathing suits). She rocked and sang to each one of us. Lin and I were the babies, so we got the benefits of longest acceptable rocking age. I think we were in our 20's. Never once did she complain about our bony little butts on her lap. How did she do it? Rocking talent, and singing "Ka-ka-ka- Katie, beautiful Katie, you're the only Ka-ka-ka Katie I adore.....when the ma- moon shines over the cow shed, I'll be waiting at the Ka-ka-ka kitchen door!" Even at her 100th birthday, starting up "Ka-ka-ka Katie" got her joining in, head bouncing back and forth with the verse, eyes sparkling and a mischievous smile.
Gram at 93? years, called me. "Catie, I just went to the pound a got a dog."
"Oh? Really? (some trepidation in my voice having been witness to many, many types of dogs in my years as a Veterinarian- very few suited to the lifestyle of a 93 year old)"
"Sure, decided I wanted another dog."
"Well, Gram, what did you get (now curious, but hopeful)?"
"A Border Collie pup."
Silence from me. Thinking "JEEZ, GRAM! COULD YOU HAVE CHOSEN A BREED LESS SUITED TO LIVING IN A SMALL HOUSE WITH AN OLD LADY?????"
"Um, great! So, well, um, how is he, or she?"
"He's Good!"
"Wonderful, Gram! (there is no way a Border Collie puppy is going to be anything but trouble)"
Tells you how jaded and wrong I can be. Max was terrific. He had some issues with eating a couch and a carpet, but really, every puppy has those moments, and Max, like any Border Collie, wanted a job. When Gram brought him home, he felt hired. Gram was his job. He tended her like a needy flock of sheep. When she finally fell and really hurt herself enough that she never was able to go back to her home again, he was the one who alerted the neighbor that Gram needed help. With a little training, he likely would've  just called 911.
 I only knew Gram for the last third of her life, but I know for all three thirds, Gram lived. A lot. Gram knitted. A lot. Gram baked. A lot. Gram rocked. A lot. Gram was loved. A lot. And she will be missed.
Really, really.
A lot.

The Osprey are thriving!

Osprey nest at Wing and Wing.

This is your life? Camp Yummie con't

If I make some guesses and do some math, I think I was probably 5, my Mother turning 30 when we got together with the cousins in Pennslyvania for Thanksgiving and put on a play. We often did plays, but this one was special "This is Your Life, Mom!". I was of the youngest, so was probably included as scenery, or got to be a baby or something. The older kids, 10, 9, 8 and 8 were the playwrights and main actors in this particular production. Mostly I remember a lot of plaid flannel shirts (November in the early 70's) and the adults laughing really hard. I assume we did not come up with the idea ourselves. I would guess an adult put the idea to us. If I had to guess who... I would say it was Dad.
Fast forward a generation. ( Or two if you use the standard deviation of 20 years per)
Now our children are the ones who stage a production each year when we gather together. Thanks to Middlest Sister, whose children are accomplised stage actresses, the productions are pretty darn good. I would guess a step(or three) up from the plays we staged in my own youth.  And, in 2011 we had one of our own celebrate a pretty big birthday- 70.  That someone would be my Dad. So, be careful. Karma is patient.
"This is Your Life, Poppie!" was a great production, with a bit more material than was available for the "Mom!" version. How do you decide which snippets of his history to recreate? Well, somehow it was done. This time it was Eldest Sister who was the idea- man. Watch out big sis!

The audience assembles...

Including the beautiful Emily!

"This is your life? UH OH!"

Young Charlie convinces Young George to pretend a shoestring is a snake, and scare Young Gram..

Young Gram chases Young George around the house and yard with a knife. (She didn't take the joke well that day long ago, but by the time I was around to hear the story, she would shake with laughter and rub her hand over her eyes.)

Young George asking out each girl in the high school in hopes of being voted class president.

This is really funny when it isn't about you!

All the girls vote George for President!

Poppie at West Point.

Poppie gets married....

and has three girls!

Sheepmon!

Night swim under the moon.

More Photos, Camp Yummie, 2011

Middlest takes a cousin out for a sail.

My baby girl sails off into the sun....well just the sun.

Walking back from the dock to the house. The pool looks inviting!

The sailing school sets sail!

The little boats often have names, like "Lightning Bolt" and "Wood Duck". Youngest piloted "Shadow", and Young B sailed on the "Teal", which Youngest would like you to know is a bird.

Louis and Gretyl watch from the dock as the swimmers splash about.

Youngest picks apart a crab. Delicious!

Yummie and Poppie have oyster beds on floats. Poppie and Huz harvested some fresh oysters and served us a real treat!

2011 Camp Yummie- Part 1

Today is due to be a real scorcher. The stuff that gives summer a bad name.... for some. I'm still looking forward to it. Can't complain about the heat, and also about the cold, and I reserve my complaints for the cold! Took one on the chin this morning, from Peaches, the paint mare, who apparently was dozing or something, and when I went to put her fly mask on she shied into my face. Jaw is still working, chin just a tad bit larger than previous.
Summer is those things, hot, ripe for flies and other biting insects, but "Summer" is a beautiful word, and conjures much more in my mind than those. I love the richness and depth of the greens, and the blue and lacy wildflowers at the edges of the fields, and the hummmm and buzz of the cicadas. The air is always full of sound, until it is still, just as the dark clouds roll in over the soybeans and the critters have found a place to weather the storm.
And the idyllic Summer, of swimming in the lake, paddling around in a damp kayak, sitting by the pool with an icy drink, riding bikes to the beach, reading a lazy chapter? Mine too.
Maybe not the whole summer, but the wonderful too short, days of "Camp Yummie". My kids call my mother "Yummie" and my father "Poppie". Yummie and Poppie have a beautiful home on a secluded cove of the Chesapeake Bay. Each year, we struggle to mash our schedules around until my sisters, their families and mine can meet for a few days at my parent's home- the days dubbed "Camp Yummie".
Sometimes it is extremely hot and humid, but not this year. We arrived just before a grand downpour- " a goose-drowner" as my friend, Tary Mike, would say. I sat on the wicker couch, on the wide flagstone back porch and watched the world disappear in a sheet of rain, small misty droplets being blown even as far as me on the couch, the awnings keeping the bulk of the bounty at bay.
And, thereafter, we had the most glorious temperatures! I borrowed a polar tech fleece sweatshirt from my mother's closet, and used it most everyday there. ( I know, I know, even on vacation I can't escape the siren song of polar tech.)
Eldest Sister (as in mine own) was the last to arrive, coming in after I'd given up the wait and climbed into the tub, which made it more fun to bump into her as we started the morning breakfast ritual the next day. Breakfast at Camp Yummie is on the screen porch, as are most all our meals. Out on the porch is a large toaster, an electric griddle and most other necessary accoutrements of whipping up a short order breakfast for 15. (We were missing a few, usually we are 17, including Emily, but Eldest SisterHuz couldn't make it, and my own Eldest was at Drum Major Academy-see last blog). And, Emily? Well, Emily is a family member, not by birth, but because we love her. It is like having a Goddess join the family. You'll see.
Eldest Sister brought her two girls and their bouncy energy force a.k.a. Gretyl The Boxer.
Middlest Sister brought her three girls, Middlest SisterHuz, and their sweet, too-friendly-when-wet, Golden Retriever.
Now, I have to say my account is becoming inaccurate ( the informed would argue all my posts do the same) because before the arrival of the Camp Yummie hoard, there were already two campers firmly ensconced at Wing and Wing. (Name of my parent's home and something obscure to do with two sails on a sail boat...and yes, the explanation was given. I just tend to drift when sailboat talk begins).
These two campers were Youngest- the sole male of the generation, and Eldest Sister's Youngest, hereafter known as Young B. Youngest and Young B were enrolled in Sailing Camp at my parent's yacht club, an intensive two week course designed to take little people and turn them into seasoned Seadogs. Our two little 10 year olds successfully navigated the course, sailing their own little sailboats around at warp speed. (Okay, if you've ever seen sailboats, you now are certain my posts tend towards inaccuracies). Still, I am so proud of them both and their newly minted and enthused sailing skills. Camp Yummie was shortened this year due to our not wanting to be there for much of the Sailing Camp course- too many cousinly distractions- on one side and the arrival at Wing and Wing of another set of guests for the annual Plein Air Festival on the other. Still, there were two days of Sailing Camp left when we arrived. I was just happy to see my little guy- and he was happy to see me too. Well, until I made him pick the brownie crumbs he'd dropped and then ground into my mother's new sisal rug out with a toothpick. After that, I'm pretty sure he wished I'd just go back to Ohio.  Two remaining days of Sailing Camp ensured our being able to observe the sailing stylings of Youngest and Young B, along with the wealth of other white- sailed camp mates.

Methinks it's time fer some pick-chures, Arrrgh.

Poppie takes a leap!

Race back across the cove. Tucker is winning. (He's mine own sweet, too-friendly-when-wet-and-always-wet-at-Camp-Yummie dog.)

Middlest making her way back to the dock.

Youngest being himself.

Evening arrival of Emily! She is swamped with hugs from bodies dripping in baywater and buffered by soaked orange floats. Lucky Goddess.

Morning on the cove. Goosebumps on our arms, kids in the water anyway.

Huz in his Summer office.

The boat Youngest sailed at Sailing Camp. (fish tales as long as a yardarm)

Drum Major in da house.

Eldest ( on left) with her Head Drum Major, and friend.

Drum Major Academy. I watched a bit of it yesterday, and then the closing ceremony. Eldest's ambition has been to become Drum Major for the high school marching band. She tried out as a freshman, and was not chosen, but that  would've been unusual. I was just pleased she was trying anyway. Then, last year, as a sophmore, she auditioned and made the Assistant Drum Major for the coming season, her junior year. She is, well, you could call it "quite chuffed."
Last week was the camp designed for Drum Majors to learn the tools of the job.
She went north to Ohio Wesleyan University while the rest of the family went south to go collect Youngest from Sailing Camp in Maryland and see the family at "Camp Yummie".
Since I am not only  the last mother on earth that requires her children to do dishes, but also the only mother on earth that hasn't given her children cell phones, I had no information on how the camp went until the pick up yesterday. Then, I got the info. All of it. rapidly and continuously, until all the available information had been imparted. I retained a few bits.
1) Drum Majors are very enthusiastic folks. There is lots of clapping and cheering in the 100 degree heat.
2) "harch" means "march"
3) The food wasn't very good
4) My child is sheltered, and did not previously recognize that New Yorkers, Pennsylvanians and Ohioans have different accents.
5) Eldest had a really good time, and learned a lot of inspirational phrases. I have been admonished to "Dream Big and Don't Stop Believin'"

Okay, that's about it. Fortunately I am not the one who had to retain all the information from Drum Major Academy. And, I got some pictures.

Eldest is third column from left second from the back. She's the best one.

Rest position for 150 Drum Majors.

Eldest ( on left with the bangs over her eyes) with her section and their certificates.

It is a tumor! And, kind of a headache too.

Home again. We have been busy little bees. Youngest had two weeks of sailing camp, Eldest had 5 days of Drum Major Academy camp, and Middlest had Camp Yummie.
We returned home from Maryland yesterday evening to happy critters- many thanks, dear friends who stay here and take on all this...., dead acorn squash plants and a hot as heck house. The hot as heck part stuck around for the day today, with soaring temperatures and high humidity. This is my time. My warm time. Time for me to soak up the heat to the very marrow of my bones, catalog the feeling in my brain to pull out and savor starting in about September and lasting through about June. But all that heat and dampness brings on the rain.

Clouds rollin' in.

The rain finally broke while I was up at the barn doing evening chores. Ahhhh- cooling off of this corner of the world.
Oslo's sarcoid is looking monstrous. I think that is good. A sarcoid is a tumor of viral origin. He has three (maybe part of the reason for his abandonment into rescue?), and mostly, with sarcoids you just leave them be. Unless they become active and icky, in which case, you get a move on. His were fine until about a month ago, when the one on his ear got bigger and split open and starting oozing. So, instead of jumping in with the big gun chemotherapy, I decided to experiment a bit. I'm working on it with Crest. Yep, toothpaste, and no, it wasn't my idea, but found it in a veterinary site. I think the trick is using the Crest with stannous flouride. So, he's getting his ear pasted twice a day. This is easier said than done, as he is 1500 lbs of noncooperation. Again, kudos for friends who critter sit and attempt these ridiculous tasks. Here is my routine. Put on his halter. Tie him with a quick release knot. Watch him back up to the end of the lead, lifting head as high as possible, making sure he can't hit the light bulb with his noggin. Apply warm cloth soaked in dilute Betadine solution to ear. Enjoy sensation of solution running down my stretched up arm and into armpit. Wonder if all my bras will have red stains on the right side. Continue speaking calmly to him until he lowers his head a bit and lets me have at the mess. Clean it as best I can without him noticing I'm getting anything done. This means the left hand must stroke the forelock, rub the face and eyes and the left ear (one without the sarcoid) as distraction. Then, comes the hard part. Application of cream around and under the ear to protect the skin from serum and drying blood, and application of the Crest to the tumor. This requires nerves of steel, nimble fingers and some luck. I get a horse treat in my left hand, hold it out where he has to really stretch for it and then apply the creams with my right hand. The left hand has to keep him interested in the treat, without letting him have the treat. He knows the treat is there, of course, so snaps his teeth at my fingers trying to get the tiny morsel. I can't watch the left hand and the teeth though, because I need to concentrate on getting the creams all in the right spots on the ear. When I've got it all smooshed in, he gets the treat. So far, all my fingers are intact. Tomorrow is a new day.
One in which I hope to share some of our camp adventures.

The ear at the end of June.  Nice.