A Blog About A Horse, But Really About Abuse and Hope? Sammie Gets a Chance?

I know I haven't opened this blog, this piece of my life in a long time. I have become a woman of Lists. Grand, long, detailed ones. This, in hope that my days will have some organization, and I will Get Things Done. And yet, my diswasher goes on month number three? of dysfunction while I try to convince electrician number three to please, please come replace a wire... my family is coming, we have a graduation party to pull together, who has time to hand wash? And I mention this "living like my tail is on fire everyday" because it is part of the reason why this blog is about me, but not "about me."

This blog is about a Damsel in Distress, a Hero, a group of Evil Villains, and a reluctant lady with lots of lists. A classic tale that I can only hope will have a fairy tale ending.
This blog is about Sam. Samantha, Sammie.
And now a warning. If you are particularly sensitive to photos of abused animals, this blog may not be for you. It will make you cry, and maybe haunt your memory. I am sensitive to this too, and knowing I am not the only one, I have made sure to show you the positive work that is being done, so perhaps you can still read on. Also, I will not put those photos in the middle of the blog, they will all be at the end, separated.  But, I know this blog has value. For my 4-H kids, for my Pony Club kids, for my horse friends, for my animal loving friends. Because, some people are not fit to care for an animal, whether it be ignorance, sloth, finance or pure evil. And, sometimes you are the one who has to pick up the pieces.

Some of you will remember Sam. Here is some photos of her when she was living with me.

Youngest, getting a riding lesson when his legs were so short the stirrups were irrelevant. ADORABLE. That is his Aunt Steph giving him the lesson, by the way.

Sammie at a horse event, falling a bit asleep on the trailer.

Sammie and I completing a dressage test at a schooling show.

These pictures are just average day, moments in time when you have/love a horse. And I need to lead off with these photos, because this is no longer what Sammie looks like.

Sammie has never actually been mine. I rode her and cared for her for years, all while she belonged to my young friend, K. Sam had been purchased for K. and they were not a match, yet. Sammie was a bit too wild, strong willed, and energetic for K. But, Sam and I got on well. I rode her through some tumultuous moments in the first few months, but eventually we settled into a nice time, with wonderful, long, fast trail rides, excellent control and enjoyment on the Hunt, and some decent basic dressage. She had a hard time picking up her shoulder into a canter, so I taught her to jump, and she loved it. But, she was a bit small for me, and I wanted to have my own horse again, so, she bounced around for a while. She evented in Dayton, she fox hunted in Huber Heights, and eventually she came back to my friend, K. A well seasoned and sweet mare. But, K. didn't have time to ride her. She was finishing college, starting her working life, and when a local teen girl and her family wanted to have Sammie, K. agreed.
It seemed to be a match this time. Instagram posts of the two having grand times in their new life together. Standing on Sammie's saddle, like a trick rider; barrel racing; small child having a pony ride.
But at some point things changed. This is where the Evil Villains enter stage left. And let it be a lesson that you don't know people, really know them, unless- you do. I have heard people say "It can't be insert name of girl who starved Sammie here , she is a really nice girl." Well, she isn't. She may be an FFA Officer, she may be a "horse person", she may be friendly, or pretty, or whatever. Here is what I know. She and her family willfully starved this horse.
Is it ignorance? Sloth? Mental illness? Evil? I will never know, or understand. But it is certainly neglect, and abuse. I estimate sometime in November they stopped feeding Sam. And, probably before that stopped caring for her with grooming and attention. She was kept in a stall, inside a barn, not visible to passerby, a Damsel in Distress, kept in a small room, and starved, nearly to death.
Enter the Hero.
This is a young girl, whose farm is near where Sammie was kept. She is both one of my 4-H kids, and one of my Pony Club kids, so I know she knows a lot about horses. But, she is young, she is a bit dramatic, and who has time for saving Damsels? So, when our Hero told me she had seen Sam, and she was in bad shape, I thought "Crud. Am I going to have to Do Something?" But, what? I'm not the kind of person, veterinarian, who goes around telling people, who don't ask, what to do with their animals. There are boundaries. There are other adults around, why me? Maybe she's just winter fuzzy and a bit un-muscular. Still our Hero had taken a photo. We were driving back from a competition, so I had eyes on the road, but she showed the photo to another Hero, who told me "YOU need to Do Something. As in 'go get her.'"Sigh. How do you just walk into someone's barn and take their horse. That isn't legal.
So, I decided to send out some investigation feelers on how it could be done. K. contacted them and said she heard Sam wasn't doing very well, did they need help? Did they need to give her back? This served only to tip them off that folks were sniffing around. And, in an apparent moment of realization that they had deeply abused the horse, started feeding her grain and high fat supplements. (Which, is a very dangerous thing to do to a starved horse!) They (lied) said that a vet had come to look at her ("His name was Lou." They don't remember his last name). And that "some horses have a hard time keeping their weight over the winter."
But, about a week later, our Hero - vigilant and stubborn, standing up to a girl who had been her friend, and pushing reluctant adults (me),  texts me. It is Mother's Day. I have all my children at home. We have had a lovely day working in the garden (that list is very long). They had made me a cake. It was time to start preparing our dinner together. But, our Hero pointed out that for the first time since last year, the horse was out of the barn. They had turned our Damsel out on a green pasture. Horse friends will cringe. We know that you cannot just turn a horse, even a healthy one, out on green spring pastures without slow acclimation. If done, you have a high risk of colic, and founder.
 Bad Stuff.
So, though reluctant, I put on my Adulting Britches, and had K. let them know we were on our way to get her. They were surprisingly amenable to the idea, with little push back. I hooked up the trailer and off we went, K. and I, not knowing exactly what we would find, but committed. The farm is not far from us, maybe two miles, and when I drove in, my brain struggled a moment. I saw Sam, or what I assumed was Sam by the general color, tied to a grain trailer. Her head was too big. I saw two people washing her, I saw the hose, and the pink sprayer, but I couldn't breathe. My lungs didn't want to work, just shallow fish gasping, tears springing...
So, as my brain tends to do, I stopped thinking about what I was seeing and started thinking about what needed to be done in each second. Turn trailer around to face road. Send K. to collect horse, yell at people "Stop bathing her, she is just getting cold" as she trembled in the cold hose water. As if dirt was the problem. Not looking at Sam. Not looking at the people. Just sign the paper, you no longer have any claim, so I can load her. She docilely walked next to me, into the trailer, head low, knees nearly rubbing. Clip her head to the tie. Close the divider, close the trailer. Don't speak. Don't cry. Don't throw up.  Drive slowly so she doesn't fall.
Unload her, get her a blanket, she's freezing.
Figure out how to save her.
Let me point out here that veterinarians don't necessarily deal with starved horses in our daily rounds. People who have a veterinarian, and do regular veterinary care don't starve their animals. It is the Animal Control, Animal Cruelty Officers and rescues who are the ones in whose lap these cases land. I knew I couldn't start just feeding her. But what exactly is the protocol to not kill her with kindness?
Starved horses suffer from "Refeeding Syndrome" if given too many calories to quickly, and this can be deadly. Fortunately, even though it is Mother's Day, I am blessed with lots of friends who are ready to help and with short notice, I had some great advice coming in from people who heard about Sam and were ready with a plan on how to proceed. Soon, I also had an experienced veterinarian from the OSU Vet School also chiming in. The best materials were gathered by friends near and far, and the daily texts checking in on Sam by a group of supportive friends.
She has started on the long road to recovery.
Mother's Day night I spent hours with a glove, moving one part of the blanket at a time and softly rubbing her body.  Anything else would be painful, and the rubbing gave her circulation, and care. She could barely eat, weakness, and likely  colic from the green grass had her picking at a bit of hay, then standing quietly for about 20 minutes before trying to eat a bit again. Zac, our borrowed Haflinger (and saintly pony) was very encouraging, calling to her, and hanging over the fence for moral support. Each time he would call to her, she would try, again, to eat a bit. Her coat came off in my hands, leaving large bald patches behind. But, she looked a bit brighter, and lifted her head a bit more, and her ears fell forward with pleasure.
It has been one week. She looks much better, she feels good, calling to me when I enter the barn, relishing her grooming time, even getting sassy enough to try and push open her stall door. Her bloodwork looks like that of a starved horse in recovery, and I am hoping for those measures to continue to improve as she does.
Will she ever be "back to normal?" I don't know. Since her body used all her fat and most of her muscle to help her survive, there may be permanent effects to her heart (muscle) and intestine (also muscle). She may have problems with digestion forever, and mentally, who knows? Certainly, I think she will feel "food insecure" if not for the rest of her life, at least for a long while. 

My mom asked me if I think horses can feel "hope."
It is a good question. I know they anticipate. They ask for you to come ride them, or feed them, or groom them by nickering or plain old yelling. Is that hope? When they see the trailer getting hooked up they get excited about going somewhere. Is that hope? And when Sammie stumbled off the trailer, back at Cowfeathers after all that time, she did change in that minute. She looked like she had hope. In any case, she has K. She has me. She has Cowfeathers, and she has a chance.

Now, for Photos. Final warning. 

Space, in case you didn't want to see them.













This is the first evening, after getting her off the trailer, and into a stall with paddock. After spending some time crying. We removed her blanket so we could take some photos. But she remains blanketed to this very moment, waiting for her body to be able to stay warm, or for Mother Nature to give an assist.

 This is the highest she could hold her head. But, she looks interested, and perhaps, hopeful?

One week later. Seven days of careful feeding and careful grooming. Of time spent holding up her head, because she wanted me to. Of counting her poops and pees, of telling her, everyday, she's going to be okay. 
Again, we removed her blanket for the photos, but it was too cold and windy to take them outside. Note in the last photo, K. is wearing Carhartt bib coveralls and her winter coat. It was /is too cold!
It will take months before she looks truly "good", but I know just one week later she looks better. Loved.

 "C'est le temps que tu as perdu pour ta rose qui fait ta rose si importante."
"It is the time you spend on your rose that makes your rose so important."
Antoine de Saint-Exupery from Le Petit Prince.

 I will put on my list :

• Continue to photograph the progress of Samantha
• Share on Cowfeathers Farm blog

Blessings,
C

Awards Season, DAR and Gram.

"Awards Season" has begun. The Golden Globes, Academy Awards, BAFTA, etc.
But it isn't just Awards for Television, Movies, Music, Plays, Musicals and Entertainment.
It is Award Season for High School Seniors.

Middlest with the other top finishers from the 4 area high schools.

And, Middlest received an award yesterday. No Red Carpet at this one, but parental paparazzi. And, this award would've made my Gram very pleased. The local chapter of the DAR picked her essay from the top finishers of the 4 area high schools to send on for a national scholarship contest sponsored by the DAR. The essay prompt was something about which amendment of the constitution you value most and why. He essay earned her the title of "DAR Good Citizen 2016".

The pin collection sported by the elegant leader of the local DAR Chapter was fascinating! And, Middlest was awarded a pin to start her own collection. Her pin bears the DAR emblem and "2016 DAR Good Citizen" on it's face.

Now, the DAR isn't an organization that everyone is familiar with in 2016. It is the Daughters of the American Revolution. The members are direct descendants of those who fought for our independence from the British- American History 101. And, I know of the DAR because Gram talked about our heritage, the DAR, and being a part of American History through George Philip Keister, who fought in the Revolution. Now, there are also "Gram stories" that might have been just that - "The Indian Boy" I think was a warp of truth, but the genetic bit rings true.

So, by a route reaching deep into the DNA of my Middlest beauty, she is a Daughter of the American Revolution. Now, the contest has nothing to do with that. In fact, I'm sure the judges do not know that she is part of their ranks. But, Gram was very proud of our history, and her spirit was probably there yesterday. She likely told God she's just gonna "scrub her teeth, wash her face" and then she's ready to watch the ceremony. If things like that do happen, I hope she was there. I watched an episode of Long Island Medium, so, I'm proceeding as if.

This is the original DAR certificate, awarded to "Aunt Velma" in 1926. She was the one who pursued the technicalities of being recognized as a Daughter of the American Revolution. Velma did a lot of our family tree, and I have much of her materials and writings on the subject. Her certificate hangs on the wall in our study, alongside a copy of the original deed of family land from the late 1700s. History makes me happy and sad all at once. That land is no longer in our family- that is another story that involves the dreaded Aunt Mildred!

Anyhow. The thread that makes Middlest tied to a soldier in the American Revolution.

She is the daughter of me. 

I am the daughter of GT Hamilton; 1941- (still my Daddy, and a really cool fellow!)

He is the son of Gram, Helen Ruth Fink Hamilton;  1911-2011

She was the daughter of Mary Edith Keister Fink: 1883-1961( Aunt Velma was of this generation)

Mary was the daughter of Simon Detar Keister; 1852-1949

Simon was one of the 11 children of David Keister; 1824-1890(three older brothers fought in Civil War)

David was a son of Daniel Keister; 1784-1862

And...

Daniel was the son of George Philip Keister, born February 9, 1749 died November 15, 1834.

George came from Durstel, Alsace, France (so, German, but in French territory) on the ship "The Neptune" in 1752 at the age of 3. The family eventually ended up in the "wilderness" of Pennsylvania before the Revolutionary War. He served in Captain Thomas Stokely's Ranging Company from Westmoreland County as a man in his 30's. 

So, there you have it. Middlest shares her name with her American Revolution ancestor.

 This is George Philip Keister's grave in Westmoreland County, PA. It sits atop the hill, near the sweet little church. 

And dotted down the hill are monuments of members of our family. In the foreground are stones marking the graves of George and Edith Fink, Gram's parents, and Elizabeth and Carl Fink, Gram's siblings. Gram and her husband are buried elsewhere. But isn't there charm in the walkway at the right-a walkway through time and family? 

I am, and I know Gram is, proud of Middlest for a lot of reasons, but I do enjoy the loops that come in life and reminders of our ties into the past. The DAR award gives Middlest a little money for schoolbooks next year, and if she does well at the state and national level, a bit more for her studies. Gram firmly believed in a college education, she being a Grove City College graduate, and surely is cheering her Great Grandchildren for their educational pursuits! Miss you Gram. 

Middlest and her guidance counselor, Mrs. Younkin.

Congratulations to me on the birth of my Son!

My Father-In-Law is Dutch born, and he shares with us a nice tradition. On the birthday of one of "ours", he sends us all a "Congratulations! On the birth of your _______(son, daughter, niece, nephew, brother, sister, mother, father, grandfather or grandmother) " It is followed by the words of the Dutch birthday song "Lang zal die leve in de gloria- hiep, hiep, hiep, hoera! " Which, I believe, we all sing at each birthday celebration of this family.

This tradition is a reminder of the tangle that makes a family. We are not insular, and each one of us is part of that whole. The birth of a family member should be celebrated, not just for what it means for that person, another year older, wiser, but also what it makes the rest of us. I have become an Aunt eleven times! I have become a daughter- making my parents a mother and a father for the third time- but also a daughter by marriage, making my In Laws- In Laws- again! When I was born, my sisters became sisters of another. The birth of my Huz, 50+ years ago made my future as his wife possible. And the birth of my children has turned me into a mother, then Eldest into a sister of one, then two, Middlest into both a big sister and a little sister and Youngest into a little brother. Their births made 5 people into Aunts and 5 into Uncles- again. And, 4 Grandparents were born at the birth of Eldest, nearly 21 years ago. Since Eldest was born, she has become "cousin" 11 times. Each of us is built, grown and blessed by these moments in history that adds to our identity.

 

Today we each celebrate the birth of a son, brother, nephew, cousin and grandson. My Youngest was born 15 years ago. The first, and only, Grandson of my parents, and adding to the list of boys for my In Laws. He was the first of my children to be born in such a way that made me understand why some women make it through the experience of birth and call it "a beautiful experience". Up until then, my experience could be summed up by saying "Well, I didn't die." How I got around to number three is a testament to my optimism.

I hesitate to write a blog about my children, as in "who they are." There seems to be a line, uncross-able in their privacy if I write anything too personal. This is why I never use their names in my blog, or social media. I don't mind blogging about what they are doing, and certainly this informs who they are as people. For they do wonderful things!

 So, let me just say, I am very proud about my young man. He is a really amazing person, who has changed us all, and challenged us to be better, more positive, energetic people, Grands, Aunts, Uncles, Parents, Sisters, Cousins- we are all tangled into his group, and should Congratulate ourselves for his blessing.


Lang Zal Die Leve in de Gloria! In de Gloria! In de Gloria! HIEP! HIEP! HIEP! HOERA!!!

Six Senses and a photo.

Six Senses; sound, sight, feel, taste, scent, thought.


Quiet. Water drips from the wet roof snow, and clock ticking. Son has gone sledding.
Neutrals. World of white, browns and greys, blackish greens, fog,snow, trees.
Cold. Get busy so I can feel my feet, heart; beat,beat,beat, whomp!
Lingering. Tea made British white and Valentine's hazelnut chocolate.
Drafting. Son's experimental mashed potatoes and Daughter's baby chickens' pen.
Mothering is in an action, a state, a joy, a maelstrom of 7657 days and counting...

Tucker. A Eulogy.

Most of my friends and family know that last weekend we euthanized our 12 year old Golden Retriever, Tucker.

One of my favorite pictures of our dear friend.

Much of me doesn't know what to say about it, as any words seem too small. But, when someone you love leaves this life, words may be the only thing we have to express our memories. I have legions of Tucker memories. He was a amazing soul.
Still, the Tucker we all loved for his smiles, and his sweet enthusiasm, his quiet obedience and his soft "grapes" scent was not always so perfect.
He was a gift from God, and from someone who for whatever reason, came to the decision to abandon him by tying the little puppy to the lamppost in front of my work place. For several years I had been telling all who were willing to listen, God included, that I wanted a Golden. When I arrived at work that early spring morning in 2004, I was greeted by the news that "Your Golden Retriever arrived in the night!" He was in the isolation unit, nose and eyes crusted over, draining awfulness. I suspect this sickness is what prompted the abandonment, so thank you, God, for viral disease with secondary bacterial infection?
He recovered quickly, and came to Cowfeathers, presented as a Father's Day gift for my Huz. It took a few years for Huz to appreciate the gift. For, Tucker was.... a difficult puppy.
I called him "Mother Tucker", not completely with affection.
Tucker was full of energy, and as if determined to prove his parentage, he worked hard to fulfill the "retriever" designation. He was always positive and sweet, coming to you when called. Except he could not arrive without a "gift". If called he would look up, and then dash about frantically, looking for something to retrieve. Anything nearby could fall victim. The nearest chicken, a log, previously planted flowers, eggs, and more than once, a helpless small child, dragged by their pant leg. It was hard to decide whether to praise the "coming", or scold the picking up of a chicken, or dragging of a child.  I tell you, the chickens and children did not enjoy their retrieval, although none were hurt. Even eggs were delivered a bit slobbery, but intact.
He was an incorrigible chewer of things. Often not things designed for chewing. The winter that Tucker was two, I recall sending the children down the lane to catch the bus, and not one had a back in their coat. The coats had been hung on low pegs for easy child access, but evidently that was also Tucker access. In exasperation, or desperation, I began giving him rawhides to chew- it seemed better than tying him back to the lamppost.
And, the pup loved mud. LOVED IT. And snow, and water, and grass. During his last week with us, he went outside and as I watched his old body, diminished by cancer, he purposefully went to the large snowdrift off our windmill hill, and flopped merrily in the snow, rolling and flailing until he was covered. The next day, he did the same in the snow-melted wet dirt.

Mudpuppy.

 Always up for assisting, even as a puppy, here helping Youngest water the raspberries.

And Tuck had some delightful quirks.

 He liked to sit in chairs. Here, after a mud roll, and subsequent bath, in an effort to not repeat the process, he is on a leash, attached to the chair to have a chance to dry. Or sit in the sun? He travelled in the car this way, with his rump seated, front legs on the car floor, he sat on the bottom stair, or on your lap...


And Tucker smiled. He looks a bit scared or vicious, but it is a smile, all the way. Every morning, I was greeted by a smile, sometimes, one sided, sometimes both.

As Tucker matured, his naughty habits diminished, and we were left with a practically perfect pooch. He was always trying to please, and that is a beautiful thing when training a dog.

 He helped Middlest and Youngest compete in Dog Obedience in 4-H, and even went to the Ohio State Fair with Youngest, patiently completing all the exercises, even while Youngest fiddled.

 He loved trips to my parent's house on the Chesapeake. He never dried off, prefering the water to the sun. He would paddle off after the sailboats or kayaks, and go where they went, leaving me worried he would get tired and drown.

Tucker was a great dog. 

In September, while Huz was scratching him under the chin, he noticed some thickness to his left lower jaw. This turned out to be a cancer, osteosarcoma, in the bone. 

That week, Huz took him to work, and 

Tuck had a CT Scan, and began a 5-day radiation treatment at the OSU College of Vet Med. He began to feel better after a few days of treatment, more lively, more involved than he had been for a while. After radiation therapy with Huz, he came with me to work to begin chemotherapy. He had 5 rounds of chemo, and did remarkably well. The cancer he had was terribly aggressive, and I hoped he would make it through Christmas, feeling good. 

When I gave him his last round of chemo, the tumor was once again visibly growing, and we were on borrowed time.  Still, he was bringing us his toys, and playful, and dear. 

But it was getting harder for him, and last Saturday, eating was painful. The tumor had grown to where it was hard for him to open his mouth. That was as close to miserable as we wanted him to get, so we had a few last cuddles and said our goodbyes.

Which, despite everything, he enjoyed.
Huz and I took him to my work on a Saturday evening. Tucker had always loved to accompany me to work, making his rounds, greeting and smiling at everyone, then settling under my desk for the duration. He wagged his tail and still greeted the small staff that was there for evening treatments. My longtime collegue, Henery, placed a catheter in his leg through her own tears, and we all told Tucker he was loved as he relaxed into death.
I miss him. Of course. I feel so blessed to have had his friendship, to have had his life entwined with mine.
Some girls have all the luck. 

Happy New Year! Or how Youngest got a "new room".

Greetings to 2016, to friends and family! It has been a while since I sat at my computer, and maybe longer since I opened this blog to share the goings-on of Cowfeathers Farm. We have not been idle. Certainly, life marches on, even if I don't share!
One of the things on the list- for there is ever a very, very long list- was spiffing Youngest's room. It is the remaining room in the house at Cowfeathers that has not gotten any sort of face lift since purchasing the property, and many spaces are ready for a re-do of my original effort. But Youngest's room had become, well, kind of a No Man's Land. When he was a baby, the room suited, in soft vanilla yellow with baby blue trim. The other rooms with their dark colonial finishings took the priority spot. As he grew, his room became the stuff of disastrous legend. One Christmas, as family who love my children inquired about gifts to send them for the celebration, at my exasperation point, I took pictures of the kids rooms. They were taken from the hallway, as that is as far as one can go, and I sent them, with the suggestion that for Christmas, family choose to contribute in some other way. I suggested a consumable, or a token for their savings account. Clearly, all were suitably horrified, and the gifts kindly did not add to the mess.  I will not post those photos here, as it is potentially embarrassing to my children (me too, if I had any sense), but also, might be illegal.
As the old saying goes "Is this the hill you want to die on?"
I ask myself that a lot as a parent. And, when it came to the kids' rooms, the answer was, "No." I was holding hard on the hills of homework, and caring for their animals, being polite and inquisitive, good readers and citizens of this world. Also, I figured that room care would work itself out, as I was likewise, not a good keeper of my room as an adolescent.
Both Middlest and Eldest came around to having their rooms be pretty and tidy, mostly on their own. But, also, I had given them a pretty, fresh room to inhabit.
In the past few years, Youngest had brought up the idea of painting his room, and I said "No can do, buddy. It's a mess." And, even when we did the biannual "hoe-ing out of the room" (one year I had a bad back and used a manure fork and trash bags-really) it was tossed so quickly I didn't see the point. Now, as I said, I did not keep my room beautifully as a child, but I realized my room, as a child ( also being a Youngest) was not a "decorated room" either. My elder sisters had adorably adorned rooms in an addition my parents had built, and their rooms were WAY better kept than mine. Could this have something to do with it? Room Pride = Room Care? 
So in 2015, I decided to give it one more try, but go big. Complete room face lift, and simplifying of contents. It took me nearly to the wire to find the time to get it done.
Here is the new inventory:
One bed- and this is a beauty. It is my great (great?) grandfather's rope bed, a beautiful antique.
Two lamps
One bedside table
One bean-bag chair
Books (hugely cut down selection)
Clothes- in a closet, created in renovation of 1986
Decorative items on walls

That is all.
So, after two days of making piles for Goodwill, the trash can and the few precious keeper items for storage, the room was empty, save for the bed, and ready for some freshening.









Now, to be clear, this is no ordinary room. This room is fantastic! Far from being a box with window and door, it has a fireplace, 9.5' ceilings, chair rail, crown mold, 6-8" ancient hand sawn oak floors, and two deep set, 6/6 wood mullioned windows. When they created this room- probably in the 1986 restoration- they divided it from the hall with a wall of random width tongue and groove boards and installed a thick, heavy, 6 panel wood door with original hardware. It's a small room, but a beaut. 
Youngest decided on color, and approved the deep cuts in his clutter inventory.
Middlest and Eldest pitched in when they could stand it, to move the process along, helping clean and then assisting in the re-making of the room when I had it painted. Youngest worked on acquiring painting skills- an ever useful addition to anyone's set.
We chose a Belgian White back ground color, Narragansett Blue for the lovely deep cerulean color and high gloss white for the abundance of trim.



And the finished product is a lovely, masculine room for a beloved teen boy. I do hope he treasures it, and nurtures his space, allowing for organization of mind as well as room.



 The room features the bed, but leaves a reading area next to the fireplace.


 

 The fireplace became the bookshelf, with a fresh coat of paint on the sooted firebox and bricks.




The closet is covered by heavy draping of french burlap.
 No. Lying. The closet is covered by a heavy draping of inexpensive drop cloths from the paint department. They are one of my favored cheap hacks for curtains. Youngest's winnings from showing animals give color to the space above.

 
Above his bed there is lovely wood "boning" between the windows. It left an area for stripes to pull the walls together, and another perfect square to feature a painting of Youngest with his sailboat, painted by his grandfather. A treasure for sure. 



The wood panel wall is a gallery of the things he wanted to keep in his room; a hat we brought back from our trip to China, a two dollar bill framed and bequeathed to him by his grandfather, a painting by me of our county fair, a framed checklist of his band uniform- a gift from Middlest. At the top is a chalk sketch of horses I sizzled out on brown paper years ago.



And, the best thing of all. Youngest, enjoying his new kingdom. Treat your castle well, Sir.

Top Ten - White Picket Fence

So the top ten two things about having a white picket fence:
 1) Looks really great when it is properly maintained.
 2) Maintaining fence gives regular injection to appreciation for ingenuity of Tom Sawyer.
 3)

Reality. Owning and maintaining a picket fence is like having a hairstyle so complicated that it takes 12 eight hour days of work to get it just so...and it looks terrific for a few months. Then, you have to decide if you want to get back in that chair or let your hair go it's own way.

This is why most white picket fences look like this:

Charming, but in a "someone loved me once" sort of fashion.
 Tragically, I realize that is also why my hair looks like this:

Hair maintenance issues aside, this was also the demeanor of our own picket fence around what we call "The Anniversary Garden". The fence and garden were created by the previous owners, in honor of a wedding anniversary, and although the garden has changed nearly all the plantings, the fence remains. It had been about three years since I last applied a coat of paint, and that was probably two years too long. It had fallen into pretty severe disrepair, and so early this spring I started the project of putting it to rights.

 I purchased wood and started cutting new pickets to replace the ones so damaged and rotted they were not worth salvaging. There were a lot. But then, if you look behind the garden, you can see the large field that helps insure the fence requires frequent maintenance. We are kinda famous at Cowfeathers for our fierce and unrelenting wind. The field behind us, the direction from whence said "wind of fame" blows, serves as an effective sand blasting service.
As in this photo where the suited and helmeted worker handily removes paint from the brick building, the field behind our house uses dirt to blast paint off our fence. And house. A hem. Don't want to tackle that one yet.

The pickets needed help. Most of them are in worse repair than below.

 So, for much of April, I scraped loose paint off salvageable pickets and made new for the ones not worth the effort.

 Not much paint left.

 And dozens of new.

Next is the tedious task of painting pickets. I have found that the good old fashioned paint brush is the most effective. In our wind and with our house and garden where they lie, using a paint sprayer would be a disaster. The roller is harder to manipulate between pickets, and you have to paint front, back and sides. So, brush it is. And a few coats of primer.

 Progress is slow, but by the middle of May, the entire fence is repaired and primed. Then June happened.

 Still primed. But now full of flowers, cannot paint even if I had the time. Which I do not.

Then, July and August happened.

 Our primed picket fence is a fine background for life at Cowfeathers. August turned to September and to October, and I felt the time slipping away, as well as the two coats of primer- already looking haggard.
So, November's mission was to get it done before winter, which would mean next spring. Here, today, on only November 4,  I am covered in paint, but then again, so is the fence.

 Julia is sporting a bit too. Help, you know.