Measured by the refridgerator stick.

Why is it, when I leave for vacation, and I have the impulse to clean out the refrigerator (don't want any stinky items in there when I return) before I pack the last kid&dog into the car...why is it I can't get this quite right? Inevitably, the evening of our return, I open those white doors into the cool and it smells. Is it the leftover soup the kids made the day before we left? The rice with spinach that was the last meal the evening before? Why can I not get rid of these items before I leave? Yes, they are new then, but when I return, no longer appetizing. And why is it that in the clean out prior to departure, I don't notice the bag of shriveled grapes at the back, or the yogurt that was best before 12/4/11?
Maybe the answer lies in the return. I am refreshed, I am glad to be home. I wish I was a better fridge cleaner, and now with my rediscovered love of house,home and fridge, I think I can be the gal with the tidy fridge.
Only, I'm not. I get rid of the leftovers, shriveled grapes and expired dairy, and then I'm on to the next need. Making corn pasta with herbs from the garden for the travel weary family, inspecting the carcass of the hen, recently divided by a hawk and lying in the yard, fixing the electric fence, as the horses clearly have not been respecting boundaries, walking through the gardens, trying to enjoy the tulips and ignore the triumphing weeds, not succeeding and making monstrous to-do lists.
Then, the ultimate "I'm home!" joy of sliding into my marshmallow of a bed, crisp sheets, soft down. Maybe tomorrow, before a trip to the grocery, I'll get around to really cleaning my refrigerator.

Spring! Walk down the lane.

This is my picture book of a walk down Cowfeathers' lane, the first day of spring, 2012.
Julia striking a pose on the bank of daffodils.

Check out that sky!

The rich hum of bees. Bees! In March! I hope this bodes well for my neighbor's honey crop. These trees are Yoshino Cherry trees. We planted trees down the lane in pairs, every other pair being a maple. Unfortunately, the maples, now 7 years or so old, are not looking overly healthy. My tree friend thinks we might have a maple Ick. (That is my technical term for any disease of fish, and therefore any unknown bad juju.)

Not only is the creek not frozen- it's 84 degrees- but it is starting to grow it's crop of wildness.

Looking back down the lane at Cowfeathers. We have hundreds of daffodils planted down the lane. They make me happy. They make Huz less happy. Their cheerful yellow blooms mean mowing is an artsy affaire, and he prefers mowing in straight lines. I know, crazy.

The pussy willow is seeding out, and the willow is greening up. I love willow trees. There is something so peaceful and sheltered about a grown willow. Several years ago I planted two, and have been nursing them along in hopes of having a strong, cascading willow to hide beneath someday.

The Tete a tete Daffs burst like a fist of spring out of the pachysandra. They are the first harbingers on the way to the front door. Soon the Little Princess Spirea will leaf out and sprinkle with tiny pink blooms. The tulips and muscari are coming up in the raised stone beds of the front patio and even the hydrangeas are begrudgingly sending up green at the base.

Spring naps in the sunshine are a must for Tucker.

And Jules indulges in the popular canine springtime ritual of a grass-induced digestive cleanse. Yep. She did a fine job.

Pony Club.



Middlest and Patch have a post-rating and pre-lesson stroll.

Anywhere you go, pony clubbers are all turned out to ride, pretty much the same. They will have helmets, collars, breeches and boots, a pony club pin on their collar and an emergency arm band on their arm. Their ponies(and horses) will have simple tack, gentle bits and be groomed. The riders will occasionally get dumped off, dust themselves off, have a bit of a cry if it was a bad one, and then, if not headed to hospital, get back on and continue the lesson, one dump wiser.

Pony Club. For me, it conjures the mists of memory, musty and bright. As a young pony clubber in 70's and 80's New England, I didn't analyze it much. It was just my club, my team, my template for being with my pony (originally Peanut, a feisty Shetland, then horse, Frosty, a feistier grey, then Holly, a sweetheart Thoroughbred/Quarter Horse cross... in pony club, all mounts are "ponies", regardless of size). But now, I can't separate the pony club of my youth from the Britishness it has become infused with over time as I've experienced life.  Including British pony club.

It amuses me more.

Yet, I can think of no better way for a child and her horse, or pony, to become a competent team, and raise a knowledgeable horse person. Plus, it's fun.

So, this year, Middlest joined Pony Club. Her Club is called Hunters Run Pony Club, mine was Lonetown Pony Club. And, over the past thirty years, much has changed, and even more has not.

One of the differences from my perspective is Middlest's pony club mounted meetings are about an hour and twenty minute trailer ride from Cowfeathers. As a child, I "hacked", or rode to, our mounted meetings. It took about a half-hour to ride up the road, behind the telephone building, through the woods, come out at the dead end of Deacon Abbot Rd. and then to the intersection across from the elementary school.  Lonetown Pony Club met in the pony club field close to the school. It was a scrubby field, surrounded by colonial stone walls, and featured a hard-packed dirt rectangle; our arena. After our diesel-guzzling, 45 mile drive, Hunters Run Pony Club has mounted meetings at an amazing private barn, with an immaculate indoor arena, fantastic outdoor arena, and a vast cross country course, including a challenging water obstacle, coops, picture frames, tables, everything a daring young pony clubber could desire.

So, this weekend, Middlest arrived early to her lesson, with newly borrowed mount, Patches, in tow, to take her first "rating". In Pony Club there is a list of standards you must meet in order to achieve each level, or rating. You begin with a D1, and proceed on to D2, D3, C1,C2,C3, B and A ( that is oversimplified, but the gist). For this first rating, she passed nicely, and was presented with her D1 rating certificate- the same one I received all those years ago. Although, I believe back then, I really started as a D2, it was the 70's, and more relaxed.

Then, she had her mounted lesson with one of the accomplished pony club instructors. She and Patch had a great time, and played well together. I watched. Now in the position of not having the ride, but being the ride. Okay, I was a bit jealous, it was a gorgeous day!

Middlest and the gorgeous Patch round the end of the arena.

Friend, Emma, accompanied us for the day, and took advantage of the shockingly warm March sunshine to have a nap.

I couldn't resist this picture. March in Ohio is always this beautiful. A-hem.

The pair do a two stride, a bit to the side!

Welcome to Finn!

Middlest and the newest lamb in her fold.

There is a particular scent that accompanies lambing. It is a bit metallic, organic and unmistakable. There is a particular satisfaction that accompanies lambing as well. Live, feisty lambs with their still- long tails bouncing and wiggling and their demanding, yet small bleats. Frederick and February were both of a size, and good, too, but with the rather copious girth of Dolores, I was surprised there were just the two. I can relate personally, as with my first two pregnancies, I can hardly count the number of times people would question me; "Are you suuuure you're not having twins?" With D-Lo, that was so, the twins. Sadly, we lost the curious and sweet Frederick, leaving February all that milk for himself, and boy! Is he growing! As he is a boy, he will be a market wether. This will distress Middlest, but the world has little use for boy sheep, beyond the rare use of breeding and the frequent use of chop with side of mint jelly.
Between now and then, he will have a decent sort of life. That promise of care, and enjoyment of the time on the farm, is the main job we have as small, small farmers. Raise a healthful product for consumption, and make sure they get the best of everything while under our wings. He goes out with his Mum and bounces and leaps and bounds off up the hill, then, looking around like he's not sure how he got there, he races back to Dolores' grazing side.
February may have lost a brother, but he has gained a cousin. Dancer went into labor on a Tuesday morning. My friend, Kendra, was here as she had kindly offered to help prepare the tractor shed for the arrival of hogs (oh, so much going on here at Cowfeathers). Instead we spent the day in the sheep pen. Dancer would labor a bit, and then get up and eat a bit, then lie down and look a little intent, then up again. We waited and watched, and nothing presented out the correct opening, so we waited a bit more. Eventually, we got worried. So, I went in for a recon. I could feel the fluid bubble of the placenta, in the birth canal. I gave her a few more minutes, then went back in, and ripped through that to see if I could find a lambie. I felt the top of a neck, bent over. Shucks. So with Dancer furiously pushing to get the baby out, I pushed it back in and started the task of feeling my way, in the cramped space back down the neck, to the shoulder and then identify a knee joint, pull that forward, straighten that leg, then make my way over to the other side and repeat. This is the reason the phrase "easier said than done" was coined. Then, ease the head up between the two front legs, and then, allow the baby to come find Momma. I helped pull the baby out, gently waiting for contractions to help the delivery. But, he was dead, and I'm afraid it wasn't really recent. I undoubtedly waited too long to help. Bad, bad shepherding. After my futile attempts at reviving the little white wooled boy, I laid him by Dancer's head. She had a look, but not even so much as a lick. She knew it was useless, but I didn't want her to wonder. I remember in 2009 when she lost her little ram lamb during delivery, and she was inconsolable. Fortunately, for us all (except for the sweet little white boy lamb), there was another baby in there, so I went in and lined her up and got her out, not wanting to leave her in the womb any longer, having mucked it all up. This time we had a girl! Black with white clouds on her face. She was a little slow to get going, but Dancer and Kendra and I worked at it, and she is just beautiful.

Finn, after birth, getting cleaned up by Momma, Dancer.

Dancer and Finn, outside for a romp.

Birthday Party Weekend Part II



Happy Little Dude on his real Birthday with his present.

I'll admit, Birthday Party Weekend ended 4 days ago. This has just been my first chance to share. The disadvantage of this blog is that it is done whilst sitting in front of my computer, and that can pose insurmountable challenges in my little world. As my back mends, it is not the main thing keeping me from occupying this chair, but all the other bits and pieces- but first, to conclude Birthday Party Weekend.

What does a mother do when faced with the hopeful suggestion by her Youngest, that he have a birthday party whose focus is cheese? What if that mother is trying to foster a sense of creativity in her son, and encourage him to pursue his interests? What if that mother realizes that the ship has sailed on having a party near his actual birthday, and not only that, but the only opportunity for a celebration with friends is barrelling upon them? I don't know. But I can tell you what I did. I went to the grocery, picked up a package of what passes, depressingly, as "American Cheese" and set about making invitations.

The cheese is gone (the rest of the family had a grilled "cheese" and soup night), replaced, convincingly with orange foam board. Yes, orange foam board is nearly indistinguishable from a Kraft Slice. Read into that what you will.  On the back of each slice is the handwritten details of the party.

So, upon waking Sunday, and making arrangements for someone else to teach Junior Church- another to-do on my list that had been pushed to the recesses of the mind until a panic sometime around 5:30 am, the family (a few members a bit crankier than others) did the barn chores, tidied up after Saturday's Musical shindig, and began earnest efforts at a cheese party. The table I laid with an assortment of cheese related doo-dads (doohickeys in Gram speak), books about cheese, milk pitchers and bottles, and a tower of little individual waxed cheese rounds. Huz crafted a big loaf of cheese bread that nearly killed me it smelled so good, Eldest worked out a cheesy goose-chase game, and Youngest was put on the computer to make CHEESE cards. Like bingo, only cheesier.

The guests began to arrive, me pushing down my sense of panic at my blithe agreement to a three hour party time. Guilt is powerful, my memory, not so much.

The guests began to arrive, and all at much the same time, which meant we'd better get started with games before they thought of something themselves. We began with the simple game of "Cheese". This is not my fault. This game was discovered by Huz, along with his new found appreciation for syndicated sit-coms. Cheese was played in a long ago episode of Dharma and Greg. It goes thus. One person starts.

"Cheddar." Then the next person...

"Mozzarella."...

"Parmesan"...

etc.

Until, someone can't think of a new kind of cheese, then they're "out", and the game continues until only one person can think of a new kind of cheese. The best part of this game, was when it was down to the last two. Youngest comes out with "Roomy" (which I had never heard of, but when fact checked turned out to be an Egyptian cheese) this high-brow choice was summarily countered by his friend with "Nacho". I love these kids.

Here is the group playing "Cheese". What I find interesting is that the other guests, including the male ones are managing to sit on the furniture. Youngest is, well, not. This picture is directly before he finds himself on the floor, and then pops himself back up to only repeat again. Thought through movement.

"Cheese" was followed by a few rounds of Cheese/ Bingo. Using Cheddar Goldfish (a pairing that would likely make the citizens of Cheddar in Somerset, England confused and scared) they marked their cards as Eldest called off numbers, until they managed 6 in a row, and hollered "CHEESE!"

Not being able to insult cheese completely in all areas of the party, one of the games involved trying five kinds of cheese, real ones, and then trying to identify them by taste only by wearing a blindfold.  They had two more familiar tastes, Cheddar and mozzarella, and then three maybe more challenging; a hard, aged Gouda, a Havarti with dill and a triple cream Brie. The kids all did fairly well at the game, but those huge differences in tastes were a bit blurred for some. All were game, though, and for that I am appreciative. Youngest, with his devotion to cheese, had no problem. Even when I repeated one cheese, he knew.

It's not cheese, but it is dairy science...Youngest and his friends made butter. Youngest did his best to maintain a scientific air, and explain all the steps, including the casein coloring and buttermilk.

They all took turns churning the cream, and watching the butter solids come together, leaving the buttermilk behind.

Here is the butter, smaller than their original haul, diminished by what had been spread on the aforementioned, outstanding smelling cheese bread by Huz. Behind the butter is the buttermilk.

Another game, this one the cheesy word-scramble goose chase by Eldest which had them dashing about the house finding clues, the treasure being the basket of candy for the unavoidable birthday party  family tradition- CandyStop!

And, what else for a Cheesy Birthday Party, but a rich, homemade cheesecake with graham cracker crust? Thank you, Huz for making that piece of magic! I hear it was divine.

Happy 11th Birthday, Youngest!

Birthday Party Weekend!

Happy Birthday Eldest!

Eldest turned 17 last week, indeed, but we squeezed the Birthday Party in a week late this year. She decided on a party with a music theme.Each guest was asked to come as their favorite musical artist.  She made cupcakes which we then decorated with butter cream frosting, on which we sprinkled little sugar notes we created, and then topped them with glitter- edged hearts cut from 1920's sheet music.

The table was decorated with vintage sheet music, wooden glittered notes and a book for each of the guests, made with vintage music and wildflowers.

The sunroom, with the sun setting. Eldest and I had crafted pennant banners from vintage music to decorate the room.

In keeping with the dressing as a musical artist theme, Eldest chose to be Adele. Here, Adele gets her hair teased by "Killa K." her friend, and compatriot in the birthday preparations, as I was absent for most of the day at my other job.

Middlest chose to go as Jennifer Lopez, with a sleek bun.

Here is "Jennifer Lopez, Killa K. , Adele, Ke$ha, Pink and Bruno Mars"...

Arrival of the handsome, "Jason Aldeen". Oh, dear.

The whole group, additions of Janis Joplin, Selena Gomez, Taylor Swift and, yes the blond in the orange jumpsuit holding the snake, that is Brittany Spears.

 The guests played some music games. One was a spin on "Name that Tune", and the competitive ones definitely tried very hard! Another game they played was each guest had an instrument, and they split into groups, made their own tune and then came together and played as a group. It was a bit noisy, but the musicians made it work. They had fun with it too. The guitar was joined by flutes, piccolo, drum, piano, Chinese gourd flute, saxophone, trumpet, we even had a beat boxing pair.

Jason Aldeen gets his guitar rolling.

AdelEldest and J-Lo played a duet on the piano.

AdelEldest serenaded us with her new Magic Microphone!

With such gorgeous teenage girls, it's a good thing we have a vicious dog in the house.
 (Well, to be fair, in this photo, he's smiling.)

Colic Continuum.

Well, Sammie continued to feel the same all day- kinda rotten.
She continued to feel the same all night- more rotten.
In the morning, still having not had a thing to drink ( the old adage is true, so true), she now had dehydration and electrolyte imbalances, her muscles all bouncing and twitching. Time to call the real vet.
Peter Meuse DVM arrived in late morning to begin to put Sammie to rights, or so I do fervently hope. She had an impaction (think really bad constipation) at the pelvic flexure of her colon, this is a loop-de-loop of the colon  right before the dual track wingback elevated climb and after the stomach-in-your-throat "WHEEEEE"! Dr. Meuse gave her water and electrolytes and mineral oil by stomach tube and a shot of non-expired Banamine (mine ghosted way back in '09). Then I borrowed a muzzle from him to put on Sammie to prevent accidental on purpose ingestion of straw. The muzzle fits like a halter, only it has a woven bag that fits over the entire muzzle. She can still drink, but no foodstuffs.
The rest of the day, Kendra- Sam's Girl, who had arrived shortly after Dr. Meuse departed, watched her, walked her and waited for some poop. I went over and palpated her colon around 5:30, much softer now, a good sign. She was hungry enough to have a soupy bran mash last night, and this morning we were rewarded by a few poop nuggets. A lot more need to present themselves before she's back to normal.
So, today, again, I await the advent of fecal matter.
I do live the glamorous life.