A touch of the colic.

I left the bed early this morning after a call from friend, Amy, to say that Samantha Kay wasn't feeling well. It sounded as if Samantha was bit colicky. So, I put a bed-headed Youngest in the car, and we drove over as the sun rose on the frosted world. Sure enough, Sammie was a bit under the weather, so I walked her and groomed her and scrubbed her water bucket, and walked her some more. Eventually, she started tooting, and then about an hour and a half later, she produced manure for me. Good girl. When you have lots of animals, you can be pleased about the smallest things.  So, now, back to do my own barn chores, have some tea, check my email, write to you all, and then back to see how she's doing.

Unfocused, wouldn't you agree? But, seemingly not very painful. There was no belly kicking, or looking back at her barrel, she just wanted to lie down, and not eat. Not eating is a red flag for most horses, but especially my mares! 



Our route up and down the road had us passing the frosty field with Shannon's cows within. They were curious enough to low at us, but not curious enough to bother coming over. On the right side of the photo is Sammie's head.

And, back in the barn, this is Henri. It is "bucket standing season", which coincides with "attack everything that moves and several things that don't season". Now, he doesn't stand on the bucket without tipping it over, spilling the water, making an ice dam in the barn and leaving the ducks without water. That is very important. And, an empty bucket is no substitute. It must be full. See the small blue bucket under his dinosaur paws?

Eldest is elder-er.

So, while I was spending four days at the local-ish Veterinary Conference, gleaning pearls about crusty dog skin, erosive face lesions in cats, and the significance of keratinocytes, my Eldest was plowing ahead on the road to turning 17. And she's gone and done so.
Yikes.
I'm still bemused that I have a teenager, and she's well into that decade now.
Congratulations to my beautiful baby girl, and to me and to Huz for making it this far.


The day began with the traditional Birthday Donut. This is no easy thing in the coun'ry. Birthday Donuts require planning!

After a dinner of cheese fondue, she opened her present- a new flute! I had her going, thinking it was new barn boots. HA!

Then, a post- present jam session, with Youngest on the drum (check out the white-mans overbite), Eldest on her new flute, and her friend on the acoustic guitar.

We Rock! And then we stuffed ourselves with chocolate and fruit from the chocolate fountain. Yum. Happy Birthday Girlie.

Youngest's creeping-up-ist Birthday

Although we are all a bit down in the mouth about the loss of Frederick, today has a purposeful reason to perk up. It is Youngest's Birthday! He is 11. And, he is the best little boy I will ever know.
I realize that by all outward appearances I might be seen to be a mite unenthusiastic about the event. The facts are thus:

• While in TBC yesterday, following a meeting of the Doctors with whom I have the pleasure to work, I decided to venture out into the shops to find items for the Chinese Auction being held by our 4-H Club (the best one ever, March 17, tickets go on sale at 5:30 and the auction begins at 7, email me, or comment for directions...) and also find soft, easy clothing and socks for the Assisted Living home our 4-H Club has adopted in honor of Ohio 4-H Week ( March 4-10..think about joining 4-H!). As I wandered about, eyes scanning for delicious deals, I thought "Perhaps I should think about Birthday presents for the kids. They do have Birthdays coming up, Eldest and Youngest. In fact, soon. Why, what is that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach? Could that be the realization that tomorrow, in fact, is Youngest's Birthday? Why, yes, that's it!" Oh Dear.
• Birthday presents for Youngest is a bit complicated in fact. I can't hardly think of a thing he wants, except for a Lego game for the Wii. And a pair of Hogs. What makes that complicated is that he is having a struggle with grades this quarter, and things like playing on the Wii are waaaaaay off limits until he gets closer to the front of the alphabet in Social Studies and Language Arts. How can I give him a present and say "But, you aren't allowed to play with it until your grades are passing ones." Or, "Here is your birthday present, two market hogs. Okay, that was lovely, off to the butcher with you, presents."  See? Complicated.
• The dawning of reality that I was faced with less than 24 hours until my son turns 11 also brought with it the memory of a request from said son; " Can you make me chocolate cupcakes to bring to school with me on my Birthday?" To which I had said "Sure. But that is ages from now, we'll take care of that closer to your Birthday." The morning's conversation now made more, sad, sense.
• I did, eventually, settle on a present for Youngest. I shall keep it a secret, so that he is the first one to know the surprise. If you live in a 2 mile radius, you will be the second to know his Birthday surprise.
• Thanks to dear friend and neighbor, Amy, he got the cupcakes- she made them for him when I called her to tell her I'd be whipping by to deworm Peaches ( my horse, at her house) after this and before that. She realized I'd be baking at 10pm and volunteered, making a gorgeous box of chocolate round cakes which I then frosted with chocolate buttercream and topped with a gumdrop (while Youngest looked on, red faced and sobbing about the death of Frederick).
• When he will actually open the presents for his Birthday remains a mystery. We are on the hamster wheel all afternoon and evening, with pick-ups, drop-offs, meetings, barn chores(minus one lamb which will make chores morose)...we might get to a Birthday Dinner by about 9, if we want it to be a family affair. Since bedtime is 8:30 we'll be all out of sorts.
• Birthday dinner, itself is in question as afternoon leaves me only short times at home between shuffling kidlets. Fortunately Huz, Hero, has volunteered to help with this afternoon and evening's shuttles. So, I'm working on a lasagna (gluten free and vegetarian, poor kid, because I want to eat it too) and then a cake (not gluten free- can't torture him too much on his Birthday).

Inwardly, I am chuffed to have spent another year in close orbit with my boy. It won't get any better than this.
I will invest a bit more enthusiasm, perhaps, for his party. Fortunately, I don't have to dwell on that yet, it is ages from now.

Recently, these pictures from Youngest's 3rd Birthday were found in a pile of "stuff". We had been at Cowfeathers for about 4 months when he turned 3, and he had a proper Birthday Dinner with visiting Grandparent included! As you can see, chocolate cake with gumdrops has been a longstanding fave.

For his party, we met dear friends of ours in TBC for dinner and a trip to Build-A-Bear. Youngest created "MonkeyShawn" whom he loved instantly.

Nowadays, he likes to leave me these self-portraits on my computer.

My sweet, never still, 11 year old baby boy!

Lamb gone.

We are all very sad, as I have to report that tonight, while we were not with him, Frederick drowned in the water bucket.
It has been said that when a sheep awakes in the morning, he tries to decide how to die that day. This is because sheep are darn difficult to keep alive, somehow. On our little farm we don't have to deal with death too often. Usually it is one of our hens, and we can be sad about losing one of the ones of whom we especially fond, but lambs are so very adorable, and engaging. It is tougher.
Dolores was distressed, of course. I don't know how to comfort her. Even February was agitated. And Dancer, the other ewe, was facing the corner, like she didn't want to see. I laid Frederick out and let Dolores explore his lifelessness, so she knows he is gone.
Poor Middlest. She is very sad. And Youngest is working on quite a sadness jag. I feel sick myself.
The water buckets are now fastened extra high, hopefully too high for lambs to explore and low enough for ewes to drink.
Sigh.

Lambs!

As promised, my blogpledge fulfilled! I can now comfortably post about lambies, as Dolores has delivered two little boy lambs. Middlest went out to start the process of gathering horses to trailer to a place to ride- still too wet to ride on the outside ground, and came back with flushed cheeks- "Dolores is going to have her lambs!" She had started to present membranes. So, cancel the riding and start the lamb vigil! We started watching at 1 pm, and by 4 pm we had two healthy babies.
I will get some pictures posted directly, as I need to head up there again and do some more managing...

"Frederick" and Momma bond.

Middlest, the Shepherdess and Frederick have a cuddle.

Frederick getting curious, while February gets his belly full.

D-Lo cleans off February, while brother Frederick talks to Dancer.

The proud Momma nurses her babies. The boys haven't figured out there are two teats yet.

My Valentine (s)

I'm not going to discuss lambing today, or any other day until we have lambs. That is my blogpledge.
So, instead, I will talk about Valentines day.
I have a Valentine. There is no doubt that I am fortunate to have had the same Valentine for 18 years. But still, because I've never been overly specific about requirements for being named thus, I could claim to have many Valentines. I have amazing and sweet children, and I have two dogs. Then, there is Oslo, whom I love. A girl couldn't ask for more than that.


Photo by Eileen Nixon, eileennixonphotography.com
Amateurish doctoring of photo by me.

Which is where you point out, that I have asked for more than that. There are the sheep, which, I'll admit are a lot more tolerable when they are contained by fencing, but do I love them? There are 3 more horses, whom I do love, but reserve my biggest affections for the big boy above. There are numerous poultry, some, for whom I have greater affinity. I enjoy the ducks, but, honestly can't even tell them apart, so cannot claim to love them. And, then, there is Henri, the Horrible, our dinosaur. It is late winter, and breeding season for geese, so Henri is getting to his most terrible time of year. He has elected, again this year, for his Valentine, Denty ( my minivan). Ever since he lost Henrietta, his affections and protections have been lavished on my car. There is something in this. Growing up, we had geese, and the ganders in particular, were very attached to the car. In that situation, it was the Country Squire Station Wagon. Ford. Chrome bumpers, big car. I had thought at the time, that it was the bumpers they were attracted to, as a goose with a mirror is a very happy goose. But Denty has no chrome. And, the annual washing of the car doesn't stand well for creating a shiny finish. So, why Denty? Why not the aluminum horse trailer? Or, the truck? Blondie has nice, shiny chrome bumpers. Maybe it doesn't bear too much thought, I'm quite sure Henri hasn't given much from his tiny bean of brain. And there are the cats. I really am fond of NotAbbot. NotAbbot arrived a few winters back, wild and stealthy. We have a black and white barn cat named "Abbot", and when we'd see a black streak go by, we thought it was just Abbot, until I began to realize there were two black and whites. So, it was either "Abbot" or "NotAbbot". Eventually I trapped the newcomer and he decided to like us. His affections are appreciated. The other 4 cats pretty much just want food.
It is a rich life.

A Watched Pot never lambs.

This is poor Dolores. She is large. I keep going up an looking at her, she looks back, calmly, short, shallow breaths, as she can't take deep ones anymore. She can get up, but she groans when she does so, slowly. I can sympathize, I was somewhat large when pregnant, myself. I'll spare you those photos. But, I am watching... is today the day? I'd say "YES!" but, I've been saying that for a week or so. Getting that "watched pot" feeling.

Looks like Lambing Time!

Winter is asserting itself. This, contrary to Darwinian principles means it is time to birth babies. Every Veterinarian who has ever attempted to live the lifestyle of a large or mixed animal vet knows the worst nights- the slashing rainstorms, the -0 temperature nights with bitter unforgiving wind, the ghastlier the weather; the more likely that local ruminants will decide to finish their gestation.
I recall an awful night in North Carolina, thunderstorm and torrential rain. My friend and roomie, Shila, and I were called out by a friend, to help at the University Dairy, where one of the cows was feet up in a ditch with her youngun' being born into the cold run off of the fields. We tried to figure out how to pluck a Holstein out of creek, in the dark, in the mud, in the rain. First thing was crawling out of the ditch with the 90 lb. calf; slippery calf, slippery slope. The momma didn't make it. That was a depressing night. She had prolapsed her lady parts ( pert' near all of 'em) into the mud, and that was the best of the news. The calf made it though.
Now, that was years ago, maybe 22? And, lots of awful weather nights have brought many complicated ruminant births between then, and now. But tonight, with the temperature set to be hovering in the low single digits, and a strong Ohio "breeze", we have one ewe that may have been waiting for just such an unforgiving night to birth her lambs. Heaven knows she looks about ready to burst. Middlest got up twice in the ghastly cold of last night, and tonight will be a repeat, and every night until we finally get little ones. The reason for the checking, is if you can catch the birth timely, you can save lambs that might otherwise not make it, due to the membranes not getting cleared from their mouth and nose, or freezing to death, or getting stuck- which is also dangerous for the momma. If they're alive, you can insure they get colostrum- the first milk of the mother, that holds precious antibodies, essential for early immunity against disease, and their umbilicus gets protected from infection.  So, set the alarm and stumble up to the barn in your jammies, feet shoved in boots, bundled in your Carhartts; it's lambing time!

Weekends dashing about

Last weekend, as with most weekends, we were spread thin. I took Middlest to her Pony Club riding lesson in the morning- which entailed driving 30 minutes south to pick up a horse (even though we have 4, none of them were just right, so Goldilocks rode my friend, Kara's, horse Patches) then driving an hour and a half north to the designated arena. Whereupon the snow began in earnest. It was extra joy to have Kara and her adorable baby, Eva, join us for the trip and the lesson watching. Sometimes, I am amazed to realize I have friends! Not that I feel unworthy of friendship, just that with each person as busy as we make ourselves to be, there is some tricks involved to friendships. I am hoping time will smooth out for me one day, and the bumpy path will widen, and I will still have friends. Meanwhile, it takes efforts and gifts, like Kara climbing up in Blondie (my monster truck) and strapping Eva in, and spending a few hours blissfully chatting and watching the snow fall. Then, allowing our toes to solidify into ice piggies standing around in an indoor arena. Middlest had a lesson while the snow came down wet and heavy. Then, we reversed the process, and traveled south in a winter wonderland.


This is Middlest, on Patch. Instructor, Stephanie Eurez coaches her over the trot poles.
Photo by Jennifer Hilaman

While she and I were horsin' around, Eldest was being transported by Huz and Youngest to Pickerington North H.S. for the Solo and Wind Ensemble Contest. She played a flute solo in the morning, at 9:40, then had a long day of waiting around in high heels before her flute choir played their ensemble pieces at 5. Both were really wonderful. I missed the solo because of paragraph 1, but we made it back from horse stuff after three, and then headed out to catch the flute choir. I don't have pictures from the contest, because it is verboten to shoot pictures of the contestants. They will be eliminated from the competition. But I do have pictures from the dress rehearsal a two evenings prior to the contest.

Eldest with friend and fellow flutist, getting ready to perform!



Eldest plays her solo.  As you can see, dress rehearsal is in band uniform, not skirts and heels! I am so proud of her getting up and performing a solo. Not everyone has that kind of strength. Plus, it was really beautiful. It makes me wish she would just stand in the corner playing the flute all day while I putter around the house. This has not happened yet.



The flute choir, with Eldest in the center. In the competition, the flute choir recieved the highest rating, a "Superior"!

The 4 am alarm.

Well, my titling February as "Spring" was insulting enough that there has begun a snow fall. It seems earnest enough, but frankly, it really isn't very cold out, and the snow is snow ball perfect... Like a guy showing up for the rodeo with ironed jeans and no Skoal circle. He might look good, but don't let him near a bull.
We still await the advent of lambs. Dolores is truly, truly wide. I had a dream last night that there were six in there. Where, really, is the line between dream and nightmare?
And, I got up at four to answer the distress call of Julia, barking like a seal. This bark means "Helpmehelpmehelpme". And at 4 am can only mean one thing, she's pooped and/or peed in her kennel. Upon climbing down the back stair and opening the door at the bottom, I could smell that poopy "Ye hath arrived at the dog shelter" stank. So, out into the cold went Jules and the bottom of her kennel, me trying to balance the big tray so I didn't spill it down the front of my robe. After a short stint outside, back into her kennel again, with just a rug in the bottom- I am not cleaning kennels at 4 in the morning. So she has had a bath this morning. I still smell the fug of her nighttime. Maybe it's in my nose. In any case, I am once again thankful for my mudroom- to house the malodorous pooch- and the independent heater- which allows me to heat that room to warm enough for wet Jules to be comfortable- and the dog wash in the corner, with its warm water and doggie shampoo- so that I didn't need to take my fetid, hairy friend to my own bathtub. Which, if that had been the only other option, she may have just gotten a wet snow rub down and a spritz of febreeze.
I certainly do hope she'll figure out the whole "when to get the potty thing accomplished" soon. Her mix ups occur less and less frequently, but still do occur. At least she seems distressed by their advent. That should help. And she smells good now, with that clean shine of a newly washed black dog, all at once shadow and light.

This is Julia in September, hanging out next to the outhouse. I do wish she'd use that instead of the inhouse.

4-H bookstore?

This is my dining room table, with the piles of 4-H books ready for sorting. That's a lot of projects!

Go Team!

February Spring

It is one of those deceitful days that make you believe there is naught between you and fresh strawberries ripening on the ground. The daffodils are likewise befuddled, and the trees are fattening their buds. It is still only February 6. In Ohio. The sun is a stranger and being here, feels welcome, but I'm reserved nonetheless. Like the popular kid showing up to your high school party, you're pretty sure that come Monday morning homeroom, that kid won't remember your name. So, you shrug your shoulders and resolve to stay loose and not dwell. The sun may be here, but I'm not thinking it's here to stay.

This is what a sunny February morning in Ohio looks like. I'm not sure what is happening outside my windows, but it doesn't look like this.

It looks more like this:

Well, maybe that is an exaggeration. Ohio never looks quite like this.
This is really a younger version of Eldest, I think she is shrugging down under the rainbow, like it might zap her. It did not, and she made it, by the way.
In any case, it is a beautiful day.
Spring is certainly "in the air". And what does spring mean? Projects and fence repair and spring cleaning and gardening and chicks and longer days? Well, yes, but it also means 4-H project time.
Huz and I are the nominal heads of a rather large group of 4-H'ers. I believe this year's tally is 80 kids. So, on my dining room table are the project books for the group. 186 books, I believe. My own children have enlisted in 16 projects. By my calculation, this means that we have 3.75% of our club's members living in this home. Yet, they are taking 8.6% of the projects in the club. I think we might need to work on narrowing that gap. Apparently, other parents have managed to do so and they probably retain their sanity right through June. Mine is definitely in question.
The books are currently sorted by category. Tonight we will, as a family, get them sorted by child.
So, sun, do your worst in making us feel like it is spring. By the time The Fair rolls around, I'll believe.

Barnday Sunday.

At the risk of misleading the readers of Cowfeathers Farm, my post today is not just about cleaning, but includes cleaning, and that, coupled with my previous blog about cleaning tack could make people mistakenly believe I do a lot of cleaning. Although I may feel like I do a LOT of cleaning, the reality, if one had a poke around the house and farm is you wouldn't know it. Friday, I cleaned my bathroom, which had been bugging me for a while with the dust from the harvest still lingering under the wood stove and the dresser and the claw foot tub. My back has been crotchety still, but I (wo)manfully swabbed the decks on my hands and knees delivering my bathroom floor from a few months of ignored dust. And, this morning, I enlisted Huz' help in getting the pin disengaged from the stopper at the back of the bathroom sink in order to clean the drain. How does so much bleeech get stuck in there? Ew, Ew, Ew. This all sounds very high minded, except if you concentrate on the fact that the dust was there since harvest (which was early this year, making that dust as well aged as a fine cheese) and the sink drain was Ew, Ew, Ew. And that does not happen overnight my friends.
Obviously I am not a regular thorough cleaner of my inner sanctum.
But, the barn is another matter entirely. It is dust free. ( I said that purely to amuse myself, as I have it on years of experience that if I were to blow my nose right now, it would make the tissue look like it had been used as a coffee filter). The barn is not, and never, ever will be dust free.
But, it does get more regular cleaning than some other things. Sunday- the Lord's Day of Rest ( I think I said that to amuse myself as well) is my favorite day to clean the barn. I believe this is because I have the conscripted help of Middlest and Youngest. ( Eldest will not be pried from her bed, she is 16 and she will not).  This has become of particular import with the aforementioned crotchety back problem. I deign to hoist a book at arms length. A pitchfork of wet straw is way out of comfort range. So, today, after church and the grocery store, and lunch, we set forth to the barn on an eerily spring-like day. The sun is warm, but the wind is cold.
First things first is getting the critters out of the barn. Out go the chickens to join the ducks and the gander, who, are always on their own during the day. The chickens get to run amuck when I'm home.  Then, the horses out to the fields, Mike in the middle pasture on his own, and Oslo and Samantha to the front pasture. Then, Cesar- the ram- to the front pasture with Os and Sam. Close Mike's door so the ewes can't enter the barn and out go Dolores and Dancer - D.-LO ready to pop with her lambies...when will they be here???!!! Then, the barn is critter free and ready for cleaning. Oslo's stall and Sam's stall are fairly short work, with me scraping manure into a pile and Youngest shoveling it into a manure bucket for transport to the manure pile. Middlest works on the Ewe's pen- must keep it very tidy for the advent of babies who need dry, clean straw with no ammonia and no drafts.
 Then, the more laborious prospect of Cesar's stall, the Ewe's old pen before they moved to the lambing jugs and Mike's stall- which is HUGE and the only place he will potty atall.
Then, aisles and old straw and hay raked and swept up, all 15 buckets scrubbed with soap, rinsed and filled with their designated liquid or powder. Clean hen house, nesting boxes and duck house, rake that side of the barn- the hens like to scratch, which makes a mess of the general place. Then, because it makes me happy, find something to improve. Today, we laid a pad of stones in front of Sam's stall. I haven't decided what I will do for flooring in the barn, but am trying to decide. Brick is my first choice, but I scraped the chicken/duck/goose poop off the bricks I had laid in a large pad around the water pump and am not impressed with how difficult that is, and how disgusting they manage to make the area. So, cement? Easy to sweep, but not very pretty, and in a 200 year old barn, it seems to be a nice thing to be gentle. Cement isn't gentle.
In any case, I took a photo after our labors, enjoying the barn after "Phase 1" of the new stalls project, begun in 2011 and bound to be continued in 2012- so Mike's stall can also be finished. Then gutters and floors and regrading of the paddocks....sigh. The barn has no dust.

Afternoon Cleaning Tack.

 The downside of riding Sam, or Oslo, or Mike, or Peaches is the dirt. The little buggers are covered with it. They are groomed, of course, but in the winter it makes less difference as their shaggy coats hide bunches of dust. Just when you think they look all polished and shiny, your hand automatically does a "good job" pat, and....leaves a hand print and a big poof of dust. It's inevitable. And, then, when you ride, this dirt is transferred over to your tack. It doesn't help that in the awful footing, we are mostly riding in indoor arenas (thankful for those) but, arenas are dusty places too. The result being your tack gets dirty. So? Isn't it supposed to get dirty? Like a stall, or a boot? Yes, indeed, but dirt that stays on tack rots it. This is bad for two reasons.
One: It's expensive! I hate replacing something because it is worn out, even when I've taken care of it. Having to replace it because I didn't care for it atall would make me crazy.
Two: Rotted leather breaks. Imagine galloping along, thinking about your next fence on cross country, when the saddle billets part company with the girth holding said saddle to said galloping horse. Unsaid? Your bucket is in the saddle, well, hopefully if you're between fences, you're in two point, with your actual behind not in the saddle, but the effect will be the same. Saddle and horse will part ways, you you aren't staying with the horse. Or, imagine the havoc that occurs when the bridle giving you contact with the front part of the beast is no longer useful because the bit has fallen out of the said beast's mouth, or you only have one rein because the other has split along the stitching and your new nickname is "Lefty". Or, I suppose, "Righty" depending on the broken rein. You're unidirectional until the ride stops.

So, I'm cleaning tack. This is something I was taught a long time ago, way back in Pony Club as a 9 or 10 year old. This factoid is important, because I clean tack, old school. The equivalent is a maroon rotary phone attached to the kitchen wall. ( For you younger readers, this is a type of phone you may have never seen unless you watch "The Cosby Show" or maybe "What's Happenin'".) There have been innovations in tack cleaning, I'm sure, just as I now have a smartphone, which I could probably use to google the modern principles of tack cleaning. But, I haven't. So, I still use warm water and dove soap to get off the dirt(the trick here is to not get the leather very wet)  then, I get rid of all the soap and dirt and wipe everything off. This step follows the dissembly step where I take everything apart that is meant to come apart. You can wipe a bridle that is still assembled, but you can't clean a bridle that way.

This step causes a bucket of really dirty water to be created. This is the bucket after cleaning Mike's bridle. Now, you might think (if you were me) "Why would you clean your daughter's horse's bridle? Shouldn't she do that?" And, the answer would be "Yes, she should, but since she got a bridle for Mike for Christmas, I am taking that bridle for Samantha, and since I want my tack to be clean, survivalist and economist, Me, (see "One" and "Two" above) thinks it would be wise to do it myself." After dissembling and soaping, the tack is clean, a bit moist and is ready to soak up some oil. This keeps the leather supple and keeps it from cracking. I oil all the tack, let the oil soak in, and then wipe off any that didn't soak into the leather. For this, I useNeatsfoot Oil. Last step? Glycerin to protect the leather, and seal in the oil. Again, not messy here. Cleaning tack is an exercise in austerity, not excess. A tooth brush gets the dust out of all the nooks and crannies of the saddle, metal polish makes all the bits and pieces of silver and brass shine.

And, I then have a clean dressage saddle, and two clean bridles. One for Sam and one for Oslo. Until I ride again. And the jumping saddles aren't clean. Nor the girths that correspond. Best set aside another afternoon for Cleaning Tack.