Spring Break ...Part II : Our Cadet

Cadet Mitchell Handsome

This is our Cadet. Well, he leant us an afternoon for which we took proprietorship, and will forever send him careboxes full of snickerdoodles. This generous young man is part of the Class of 2013- 50 years after my own Father graduated from West Point.
He met us in front of Grant Hall, 50 years ago, a meeting point for cadets and visiting young ladies. Now a take out deli and cafeteria dining for cadets. We grabbed a sandwich and sat down to begin bombarding Cadet Mitchell Handsome with questions and tales of The Point of yore. We then set out on a fairly comprehensive tour of campus. The new library- with wonderful view of the Parade Grounds and Hudson River. Academic halls, Eisenhower Tower (I think it is Hall, but Tower is better, doncha think?) The fine houses of the Superintendent, Dean and Commandant. Old things, new things, statues of MacArthur, Washington, Eisenhower, Some Dude With Spurs, the War Memorial with 2330? names on it, why, we don't know. But 50 years ago, at West Point, you had to memorize how many names were on the Memorial, and you still do today. We saw some Cadets, mostly running. They run. A lot. If you like to run, and math, and grey, maybe this is your kind of place. We saw the athletic complex. Well, one of them. There are athletic fields everywhere. Each Cadet plays a sport. In addition, they also have what they call a "lifetime sport". Cadet Mitchell Handsome plays Rugby. His lifetime sport is Scuba Diving. I wonder if they consider Zumba a lifetime sport? Cadet MH did not know about Zumba. This may be because he is not a 40 year old housewife with a YMCA membership.  In any case, they do offer Zumba at the Athletic Center. And everything else. Like, running.

Cadets playing frisbee (Lifetime sport?) in the shadow of Big George. Don't let the shorts and tee's fool you. It is not warm. They can dress like this because they 1) live in a really cold place, so 35degrees with a stiff wind is practically tropical and 2) they have just been running, and are about to go running.

Cadet Mitchell Handsome fielded our questions admirably, and gave me great hope for young men everywhere- grunted answers are not the only option! Answering some of our questions were probably pretty easy. "What do the pins you are wearing mean?" Answer: "This one is for academic standing, this one is for jumping out of perfectly decent flying planes" etc. Hmmm. After a few hours of wandering around campus with the courteous Cadet MH, I couldn't resist pushing. Just a little. "What happens when a Cadet gets pregnant?" Answer "They don't. Or they are no longer a Cadet at West Point."  "So, what happens if the father of the baby that got the female Cadet bounced from her education and career is also a Cadet? What happens to him?" Answer "Uhhhh....That, I do not know." Just getting him to think about another angle to math and running. Like 1+1=3, and run the other way.

The fam and  Cadet MH,  probably wishing he were memorizing the week's menu instead of trying to field my questions.

Eventually we made our way to Washington Hall. This is a massive place. This is where the Cadets file in, line up behind their assigned chair at their assigned table, sit when instructed and are served their meals family style, simultaneously, eat, drink and depart in approximately 20 minutes total. There are around 4000 cadets. So, if you can imagine a restaurant seating and serving 4000 at once....that gives you an idea of the undertaking that is Washington Hall. This is 3 squares a day, although the dinner is optional now, except for Thursdays. Other days you can stop by and pick up food to bring to your room and eat while you study. Or, you could send a plebe (first year cadet) to go get you food, I suppose. You can order them about pretty much constantly. They also have to serve the  upperclassmen, know what their beverage of choice is, and pour it, walk differently, talk differently, brace (see illustration Spring Break I) and pretty much get yelled at.

This is about 1/4 of the tables in Washington Hall, the fingers of the dining room go in 5 different directions.

Cadet Mitchell Handsome with the kidlets.

We ended our tour by heading to Eisenhower Tower (yes, probably hall, but... they didn't ask me before they named it). Here we went to see the Class of '63 Lounge. This was my Dad's graduating class. It was a bear to get into Eisenhower Tower, but Cadet MH figured it out, and we poked around. It centers mainly around a  huge auditorium which is where they have shows, plays and speeches from important military people, like President Obama.
A-hem.
In any case, the Class of '63 Lounge was eventually located. Here are the fine men of The Point.....

I know! Which one is which?! Hint: my Dad is the one with the long hair.

In all, an educational and hopefully, memorable day for all.
 Including our Cadet.

Spring Break ..Part I

Spring Break. Images of Daytona Beach and Honda Civics stuffed with 20 year olds in string bikinis and muscle tees abound. This is not our Spring Break. In years past, Spring Break has meant pounding fence posts into cold ground, or skipping a break entirely to accommodate school's out snow days. In college, my Spring Break was spent riding fuzzy horses in West Virginia and working for Dr. Ron Thompson in the Appalachian hills, staying with dear friend, Mary Di and her energetic Mom, Laura Ellen.
Spring Break 2011 we enjoyed the sun! Of West Point, NY. (Thus, we also enjoyed wind and the cold early spring of the leafless hills of the Hudson River, with snow gathered still in the shadows.)



This is a parade. Which we did not get to experience. They don't parade as often as they used to, and besides, if we had seen a parade, it would've been without green trees and grass. So this looks a bit nicer.

 The idea of visiting "The Point", came from Huz, last fall. See, my Dad is a Graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point. As a child growing up in the New York, New Jersey, Connecticut area, we travelled to West Point for football games and Fourth of July Concerts-BOOM! BOOM! Cannons going off during the 1812 Overture making the ground rumble and your insides pop. Each of these visits was accompanied by the spoken memories and tales of my parents. For, although my Mother attended Muskingum College in Ohio, she and my father dated in high school and in college, and she spent time at The Point, as well. Her tales mostly punctuated and modulated Dad's, as his are broad and grand and have an element of drama, hand gestures and bodily poses. Without this, the tales wouldn't have been as memorable, or descriptive. Truly, how would you ever understand the idea of "bracing" without illustration?

And certainly The Great Chain wouldn't have been nearly so Great without the buildup of the massive chain, and how it stopped the British from controlling the Hudson River and perhaps beating the colonies back into submission. Without The Great Chain, I might even now be sitting at my computer in a British Colony, sipping tea. Okay, well, I'm sipping tea. The Great Chain was strung from the tip of West Point across the Hudson River to Constitution Island. It hung just below the surface of the water, and the ships sailing up the Hudson had to greatly slow to make the "S" curve in the river there, the chain would completely stop progress of the sailing ship, allowing the cannons on land, manned by colonists, to send exploding bits at the sitting duck British ships. Brilliant, eh? This was such a consternation to the British that without the Hudson River, their stratagems were stalled. They decided to try and buy the plans to West Point from a Officer of the resisting Colonies. The guy they recruited for the job was one Benedict Arnold. The man who tried to foil The Great Chain. He did not.

The Great Chain looks like this:

Only, this is only part of The Great Chain

And, Huz and my children had never experienced West Point, and all of the tales of our family Cadet. So, Huz said, last fall "I'd really like to visit West Point." and our Spring Break trip was born.

We met Yummie and Poppie at the Thayer Hotel, inside the gates of the Academy. As with much else, we have traded our freedom for security, and to get in you need I.D. and a car search. The Thayer was built in 1925, and is a beautiful old hotel. The grand hall has an enormous fireplace and as with all the buildings in West point, it is a massive stone building with a baronial flavor. Knights and portcullis and banners and crenellations.

This is Yummie with Eldest, Middlest and Youngest in the Thayer Hotel Grand Hall.

We had a royal meal in a secluded area of the hotel restaurant after a nice wander around Trophy Point and a drive around the campus. Then, all to bed for the festivities of Sunday.

Quite a chapel. Note the perfectly aligned hymnals and bibles. It is always thus.

Sunday, in days past was a mandatory day to go to chapel. There were 1500 cadets seated in the Cathedral, with another 200 in the choir. An altogether grand affaire. No longer is chapel mandatory; in fact, all but the first year Plebes are allowed off the campus grounds on the weekends! So, the Cathedral, whilst still a grand affaire, was emptier than in times past. It still holds the world's largest organ, and wow! is that a big sound! More than 23,500 pipes in one instrument.  The cool hall is filled with color from the stained glass windows. The two massive ones on the ends and the 192 windows along each side, full of images and intricate design. Incidentally, the 192 windows on the sides were gifts in honor of each graduating class from the founding in 1802 until the last window dedicated in 1976. The Willet Stained Glass Company charged the same price from 1910( when the cathedral was built) until the last window dedicated....$300.



The window at the back of the chapel.



The choir departing from the chancel and heading into the nave.

After chapel, we headed back to the Thayer to change into touring clothes and meet our Cadet........

Jumping into spring!

Last night was my jumping lesson. The second one of the new spring, we are still riding indoors for the lesson, thankfully out of the wind, in a gorgeous large indoor arena, complete with lights and a sound system spinning old Hall and Oates. Last night there were 4 of us in the lesson, Spot- a gorgeous, tall, spicy, athletic, young, paint gelding, Beau- a 4 year old draft cross, that is lots of draft, with roan dapples and a thick Currier and Ives body and a unruffled demeanor, Indy- a dapple grey Thoroughbred mare, hugely athletic and handy but a bit opinionated and flighty. Oh- and Oslo- my little pony. Who, has lost weight and is in more athletic frame at only 1350lbs now. Of the four, Spot and Indy are the most experienced, but both can be real spitfires. Beau is by far most unflappable, and has the least experience, mostly due to his tender age. But, aim him at a fence, and he reasonably jumps over. Oslo has more experience than Beau, just not in the jumping arena. When Oslo and I paired up-( almost one year ago!) he came with a sheet of paper with his history and such. (I got him through a rescue, he was a donation to the program as a fundraiser- read: couldn't sell him, so took a tax deduction). On it was the statement "Doesn't jump, just knocks the fence down." From this, I sumrised that he had not had proper instruction and confidence to be taught what to do when pointed at a few flimsy poles propped off the ground. I got right down to it. In fact, the very day I brought him home, we went to his first jumping lesson. We "jumped right in".  He built slowly the understanding that he needs to pick up his feet, tuck his legs up and push up and over the fence. Other than one hugely spectacular blow up in the arena mid summer, he handled it pretty well. He still tends to resort to volcanic action when suprised or worried, but it happens less often now.

Last night we worked on gymnastics. No, not the beam, or the parallel bars, but equine gymnastics. Designed to get the horse to think, collect, coordinate, gymnastics are a series of low fences in close combination. we started with just trot poles on the ground, so they have to lift their feet and stay in even rythym in order to not land on a pole. Then, the poles came off the ground a bit, about 6 of them, so they have to still concentrate, and lift legs higher.

This is a horse doing trot poles.

We then moved to a trot pole to a bounce. A bounce is when two fences are placed at the correct distance so the landing stride is also the taking off stride. This requires coordination, thought and freedom of movement. The rider has to learn to trust the horse while the horse negotiates the obstacle, and the rider assists with balance. They have to become a bit more of a pair.

This is a horse free-jumping a bounce. The blue barrel on end in the foreground is to keep the horse from heading out through the opening after jumping the first fence. Our bounce was not this high!

Oslo was doing fairly well, still a bit suspicious of cantering through the obstacle, but making his way just fine. Then, our instructor added another element. So, now we had a trot pole then a triple bounce. This is fence- land-takeoff-fence-land-takeoff-fence land. This surpised my mount a bit and we had a bit of a to-do after this one. We did it a half dozen more times, until we could accomplish it with some grace and no volcano.

Typical gymnastics line. Rider is in "two-point".

Then, the middle fence went lower and the last fence grew higher. And here is where we had an "A-Ha!" moment. My instructor had me stay in "two-point" position (where you are up out of the saddle, weight in your heels and lower leg, chest lowered to the neck, fanny out behind) for a few strides after the fence. This put me in his hands, as with my weight already forward, he would have an easier time dumping me with a buck. But it worked! He all of the sudden had to stop himself after the fence. The first time through, we really nearly hit the back wall, as he was expecting me to haul him in after landing. I didn't. But, I also wasn't going to let him rip around the corner. He had to put on the major brakes and even had to yank his head up a bit to get his teeth  from hitting the wall. Next time over, he decided to slow himself after the fence. Self preservation is a wonderful thing. (Yes, so why am I riding a 1350lb beast with faulty brakes and volcanic action? Let's not question this too carefully.) After that, he started feeling much more confident and controlled.

Indy had the biggest drama of the night. Right after Oslo had his "to-do". Indy went through the line and demonstrated just how athletic she can be. Tenaciousness exhibited by her determined rider, Kara, the pair stayed upright. Wow, that horse is flexible. 

The Myth of the Mulberry. By the Feathers Grimm.

The day of the Great Birthday Chicken Massacre, was a chilly, grey day in February. Youngest was turning 5 years old, and had wanted a Fireman Party. To this end, we had gone for a tour of a firestation and a wonderful little ride in a emergency vehicle, all very exciting. The party included fireman games and fireman hats and the arrival of the gear of a fireman for all the little 5 year olds to try on, swallowed in the scarred, enormous boots, necks wobbling under the weight of the helmet.

During the party, I had gone outdoors to collect something, and naturally, looked up to the barn to see how the birds were getting on. The girls were all out, having a time in the brown grass of February. Set just downhill from the barn, bordering the corn field is a large mulberry tree. From it hangs a relic of optimism- a broken, moss coated porch swing which I should certainly remove, but I continue to let it hang, watching it slowly molder to unreconizability. But, this day, the porch swing was not the only inhabitant of the single mulberry between dirt and the grey sky. Several large birds perched in its spread. I raced off the back porch, up to the tree in trepidation. Sure enough, as I got closer, the compact, strong bodies of hawks lifted to the sky and then settled back down. My hens pecked easily and ignorantly all around the barn yard. Mindfull of leaving a household full of 5 year olds, their minds turned to the glory of fighting fires... I abandoned the birds and raced back to the house to run the party. Imploring- to no avail- for my older children to go protect the hens, I frantically tried to make moments for me to run up to the barn and back without stopping the revelry. Peeking out the window, I spied a bunch of the young Buff Orpington hens making their way right under the tree full of patient predators. The hens moved intently gazing at the ground, one foot at a time hovering before making the next step, their soft, gutteral coos lending tune to their concentration. Ever hopeful- even in February, for the Easter Egg Hunt-type joy of finding juicy seeds or darting bugs. My intervention was too late- for now I was three hens short, and very unhappy with my afternoon's work. Since when do hawks hunt in packs? They are singular predators. Had I opened the drive-thru window for Accipitrinae? No amount of my shouting had convinced the birds to really leave. They would fly out of the tree, then circle back and land. Dead bodies of my hens below. One missing.

I tried to hide my distress from the party-goers, and soon bundled them hurriedly into the cars of their parents and "Thanks so much for coming!"

Now, my fondest desire was to make the hawks think the tree was a less than safe place to queue up for luncheon. Yelling didn't seem to help, and you aren't supposed to kill hawks (although my feelings of charity had fled). So, I loaded up my husband's potato gun. This was a gift for his 40th birthday from my clever and humorous sister and her husband. The other half of the gift had been a bottle of moonshine. (Nothing says welcome to 40 like flying potatoes and 100 proof). For the uninitiated- your forties will hold all manner of wonders- the potato gun is a pvc pipe creation in which you shove a proper sized potato, fill the back chamber with combustible gas- disinfectant spray- and then a gas barbeque starter creates the spark that ignites the gas and propels the potato from the end of the pipe with some force. I loaded my tuber-zoomer and snuck out to the tractor sheds, 50 yards south of the well-fed hawks in the mulberry. Planning to try and hit the tree-somewhere- with a potato, which would seem like the tree itself was arguing with their purpose.

Taking a stab at aiming towards the center of the tree, moving slowly, slowly, concealed behind the edge of the tractor shed, I pushed the starter.
The sound of the ignition and departure of the potato was a bit loud. To my dismay, then wonder, the birds burst out of the tree, away from the sound- and for the one farthest south- right into the path of the potato.
Astonished I watched the potato and hawk meet at high velocity, causing a small cartoonish burst of feathers to slowly fall to the ground, the hawk swiftly winging away into the gloomy afternoon. Torn between triumph and guilt, I stayed with the hens until they put themselves to bed in the furthuring darkness. No hawks made an appearance.

The Mulberry, in the fall, with a rainbow sunspot on the right.

Indeed, to this day, I have not spotted another predator in the mulberry tree. Maybe its danger has fed a source of folk wisdom in the hawk populace- "Once upon a time, there was a group of friends who found a wonderful place to sit and eat their luncheon. Unbeknownst to them, their perfect picnic spot was not what it seemed...."

The Day of the Turtle Theft

Tucker announced the presence of a spring hawk today. Bounding around, barking at the sky, in warning of dire consequences should the hawk intrude. This pleases me greatly, as the hawk is a beautiful hunter that unfortunately likes chicken. For the first few years of Tucker's life, I tried to get him riled about noticing and warning the big fliers. I would see, or hear a hawk and rush outside, calling to Tucker in that high-pitched frantic voice "Hawk! Tucker! Hawk! Hawk!" and pointing meaningfully at the sky.  He would humor me, bounding right and left, run to the top of the hill, bring me a unstuffed Tucker toy. Not for a minute tilting his head to the sky and clueing in to what I was desperately attempting to connect.
That all changed on The Day of the Turtle Theft- the day where all birds larger than a song are BNG (Bird non-grata). It happened on a Saturday morning in late spring. I was at work when Tucker brought a prize home to the family. I never actually inspected said prize, but from the tales of Huz and kids, I learned that Tucker had found a large chunk of rotting turtle. Turtle Treasure of great stench. I believed them. The nose knows.
For a few days, he carried the turtle hither and yon, as he does with his other possesions- Mr. Pig, 'Raffi, Buffalo, etc. Turtle was one of the club. Until The Day of the Turtle Theft. It was a sunny late morning, a few days after Turtle was adopted.  Tucker was basking in the extravagance, next to Turtle, when from the previously unremarkable sky, down came a very bad bird, a bird of few scruples. In truth, it was a bird for whom I am grateful, and he/she was just doing their verily important job. Turkey Vultures are quite prevalent around here, and are usually found hovering around the carcass of a road kill deerskunkraccoonpossum. Naturally, Turtle was ready for a Turkey Vulture to tidy up a bit. Tucker was highly resentful. A Pirate from the sky had stolen his bounty.

To this day, he has a special bark he reserves for large birds. Sometimes they are so far off in the distance I have a hard time zeroing in on his target. Vultures and hawks both qualify for preemptive warning, and our chickens are just a smidgen safer from hawks. If only Tucker had become so inclined before The Great Birthday Chicken Massacre of '05.....

CMD's located in Ohio.

The very first dark purple shoot of asparagus just pushed its way into the world today. Soon, they will be coming up all up and down the rows of the asparagus garden, and we will be thinking of all sorts of creative ways to use asparagus!
We don't have peas to plant yet, so I will have to go on a pea seed hunt. Last year's pea plants bolted quickly, and it was a fairly unsatisfying as the peas weren't as sweet as we've had in the past. Also, in year's past, the seeds had already been ordered by this time. Hmm. Caught behind the 8 ball, a day late and a dollar short- again! All to the benefit of the local nursery.
Also, tomorrow must find me doing something about the durn poultry. They are intent upon scratching up all the gardens, sending the tender rising shoots of the bulbs flying in a mass of dirt. Creating mini craters in the freshly scratched soil to bathe in and picking at bugs that are just trying their new legs. Chickens of Mass Destruction.
Speaking of destructionists, the sheep have found a new and creative way to escape from the field to the greener grass (yes, on the other side of the fence). This is particularly disturbing, as the truck just came back from the truck doctor, as the wiring beneath the bumper had been destroyed by the sheep itching their backs on the underside of the truck. $700 dollars later, I have a functional electric system for the trailer again, and I'm not anxious to have the sheep out there doing their "thang". They are less itchy now that they're naked again. They were shorn last weekend by the best neighbors in the world. So, now I've got wool. Yes Sir, yes Sir three bags full. Black and white wool. Available for anyone who wishes to do some carding and spinning. I guess I just don't have the time.
What I do have? Emerging asparageese, itchysheep and CMD's.

Huz and his shadow

A few weeks ago, I mentioned that spring was on the way, "ready or not, here I come!". I was not ready, and am still not ready. Too many things left undone this winter, but, the joy that you feel when the weather starts to warm and the grass begins to green and the bulbs push up through the ground and the buds swell on the end of the forsythia- well, that can't be stopped. And, soon, I'm feeling spring. Preparing to move on, despite all the things left undone. In this area, St. Patrick's day means time to plant the peas. Early spring lettuces and potatoes are up for planting too. To that end, Huz went into the kitchen garden last night to turn the soil and get it ready for the goodstuff. He wasn't alone. His BFF joined him for the task.

 That's right. Henry the Horrible, our resident Dinosaur is in love with my husband. He follows him around, never assaults him and gets very distressed when he drives away, flying along beside the car as far as his wings will take him, then running as fast as his little legs will go, honking loudly, eyes wide. When the really nice weather arrives and we tend to open our doors, I expect we'll be chasing him out of the living room where he'll be hoping to join Huz for the game and a beer.