What else is new?

The gravel hath arrived, in dust and in dump,

The stall boards are down- more than ones from horse rump,
The ditch has been dug, cement to be poured,
Walls to go up, doors to be moored.
Step by small step so much to do.
The Barn stays a mess, what else is new?

Defining Defense, De Fence.

Defense: What happens when the other team has the ball, as in Friday Night Football, which, for us began last night.
Yes, the season of Bleacher Butt 2011 has begun. We have season tickets to the high school football games. We are season ticket holders. Stunning. This is so we can proudly watch our Eldest command the marching band as the Assistant Drum Major. We also, incidentally, clap and yell and whoop for the football team whilst we are in our seats and that part is on the field.
But this year, since Eldest is in the front of the band, it is easier to identify her, as she's not marching all over the field. On the other hand, we mostly see the back of her head so....

The end of her Pre-Game Salute.

 The band is not in their dress uniforms yet. This is mainly because it is hot, and also because the unitards for the color guard have apparently not yet arrived. So, everyone is in their casual shorts and matching tee shirt uniform. Personally, I think it should require a belt. But at least they tuck.

Eldest is in the podium, conducting the high school Alma Mater and Fight Song. Did I have a Alma Mater in High School? A fight song? Hello!? Any Old Barlow Grads have knowledge here? We didn't have a band so... I'm guessing "no."

 I always am bemused by a high school football game in the Ohio countryside. It is big doin's. People show. It is THE place to be on Friday night from 8 -80. Serious stuff.

The Rah's hold up a paper for the football team to burst through. There is fog machines, music, hoos, WAY more production than a Joel Barlow Football Game in Connecticut circa 1985.

And the beautiful Drum Major!

Okay, definition 2 :
Defense: actions taken to avoid attack or keep your person safe. As in self- defense.  This is something many of us have no clue about. I have handled enough animals over 1000 lbs with small brains to learn how to defend myself against their bodies, well, mostly. I still get bruised, but the kind of self-defense I'm speaking of is the kind you'd like to avoid all together, but when you can't avoid, maybe it's best to have a plan.
So, today I took my daughters, and one daughter-for-the-day to my friend Shawn Baird's gym. It's called Fusion Fitness and Krav Maga. Located on Coonpath Rd. in Lancaster, it is as close to my home as a gym gets, but even better, it is good stuff. It is also a dance studio, Fusion Dance, for Shawn's strikingly beautiful wife teaches dance and ballet, but today was less about grace and more about striking. Krav Maga is the Israeli Special Forces defense system put together in the 1930's and 1940's mostly by a fellow called Imi. Imi Lichtenfeld or somesuch. I'm sure it's googleable. In any case it is about hand to hand combat and aggressive techniques to be used in defense. Now, when you think about it, the Israelis aren't known for their formidable size or strength. And, in Israel, both men and women all serve in the military, and everyone is taught Krav Maga. So, the techniques aren't about size or strength, but effieciently causing the most damage possible, quickly. Wouldn't want to try and mug someone in Tel Aviv. Think about it. Everyone since the 40's has been taught Krav. Even the little old lady, ninety and tottering down the street could probably break your neck if you aren't careful. And, for women, the key to self defense shouldn't be in being stronger than the person trying to do you harm. Smarter, faster, meaner. Works better. So, my two, sweet young girls and friend (who is a pipsqueak, but man, she's not afraid to get aggressive!) worked on what to do, how to get physical. I think it was particularly good for Middlest, who is strong, but soooooo nice and calm. She needs to know how to access her inner kick-butt.
Many thanks to Shawn and his willing assistants who took our knees, elbows, fists and encouraged us to use them efficiently. Sure wish somewhere in this divine schedule of mine I could work in a evening of Krav for me and the girls. It would be excellent for my boys, too, of course. Knowledge is power, and power is powerful.

This isn't me. It's a picture from google, and the Jett Garner Fighting Club, but this gal is demo-ing a little Krav Maga. And, if what I learned today is any indication, after this fellow steps back, he gets a hefty shot to the boy parts and then a few less continuous ribs, a missing ear and ankle rubble.

Definition 3:

De-Fence: As in, we have been painting de fence today, and are really making strides. It looks excellent (will photo when finally all done) but we finished the front pasture, both sides of de fence before the sun set. YIPP!

And, admittedly, this one is a stretch,  but....
No longer on de fence is Middlest, who ran for President of National Junior Honor Society in her school this week, and won the position. Madame President, congratulations!

Tightening the border.

I know, I started painting the fence, a long overdue project, and the family worked on it most of the day on Saturday, gettting a lot accomplished, but today, it is wet and windy, and not a good day to paint. I know, I started the demolition of the stalls, and it is now time to figure out how to fix the suckers, but I am having a hard time with some of the physical aspects of the project, somehow it just seems like a two man job, and these days, I find myself to be a one-man woman. But, I would like something to improve around here and recreating the sign doesn't seem to be a spur-of -the-moment project. There are no shortage of those, so I chose to tackle the border garden. Border Garden. Sounds so, well, tidy. It borders something, and must be garden-y.
In reality, it borders the corn field, and like so many things I create- my gardens could keep a full time gardener quite busy. One garden I might manage. But I have more than several. I could spend my days on the gardens and they would be spectacular. But, some would call it ADD, I can't just garden. I can't just have a pretty house, or a tolerant husband, or three kids, or a job, or a barn full of chickens, or several horses to condition and train, or a blog replete with deep thoughts. Nope. It's like I've got to cram several lifetimes into one, as I know I only get this chance to try it all. So, I plant gardens, and I grow spectacular weeds.
I am not a patient gardener. I don't plant for the long term. I like gardens bursting and blowsy. From the day I plant them. This is impractical, but still, I always overplant. This wasn't much of a problem for many years. We moved around so much that a garden I planted would barely have time to get started and mature before we moved on. But, we've been at Cowfeathers a for 8 years now, and I'm beginning to see why you plant with a long term plan. Although, knowledge of what should be rarely affects my decision making. I plant and then figure I'll deal with moving the beasts down the road. And, mostly, I do. One of the things I will try to remember in the future is, as much as I love them, roses in the the gardens make for terrible weeding. My fingers and palms are full of little lacerations and embedded thorns, because I always grab down in deep and hope for the best, and with all the roses mixed in with the rest, my hopes are often dashed.

When a weed gets to a certain size, say, about 4', I am tempted to call it a foundation planting and admire it for its hardiness.

Here is Julia, helping me garden. She is passing by the weed bucket, which by this point in the border weighs about 70 lbs. How can crabgrass, creeping charlie and cat mint get so heavy?

There is a large muck bucket under this overgrown muppet of a weed pile.

Going after this dandelion and the awful choke vine... thorns everywhere.

Believe it or not, this mess is hiding one of my little topiaries. I have topiaries I've been working on distributed throughout the border garden. It started when I had 27 boxwoods in my knot garden that I had to dig up and move for the foundation of the mudroom. I didn't have anywhere else for a knot garden at the time, so I planted the boxwoods in many locations, including the future location of the border garden.

The compost pile gets a lot of action.

Here is my little hen topiary, uncovered at last.

She wears a flower in her comb.

And, YIKES! the irises haven't been cut back yet. I KNOW MOM.....terrible neglect.

And, yes, the iris clippings go in the trash, not the compost.

The weeded section of the border garden.

The still-needing-weeding side of the border garden.

Weeding brings the hens a running. They then dig in the garden, moving mulch to the side and baring the fertile soil for the next crop of weeds. Thank you Birdie.

Morning storm.

We had a fine storm blow through this morning, with all the amenities of wet, wind and cold air. Horse folks will tell you that while wet doesn't do much for horses, windy and cold air does get them all uppity. So, as the storm petered out and I drove Youngest up the lane to wait for the school bus inside the car (he had wanted to just go with an umbrella, but the wind turned it inside out), I noticed only one horse visible on the east side of the barn. This is the cantilever side, offers protection from the elements, and should have had at minimum, two visible horses. This is because after last week's stall destruction, they are closed out of their stalls, pending reconstruction. So, obviously one horse (the blog familiar can probably predict which one) was no longer where she should be.
After the bus came and collected my precious little boy, I pulled on my Muck boots and made for the barn, and sorting out whatever mess had been accomplished this morning. Sure enough, Peaches and Mike were in Mike's stall, and the double electric fence was partially destroyed that separates the two paddocks. The separation was meant to be temporary, until the three acclimated to one another, but with a mare in the mix, I don't think the geldings will ever get along. So, I removed Peaches, repaired fence, walked the fence line to make sure nothing was keeping it from zapping the spots off the mare, and put Peach back in with Oslo. They then proceeded to zoom back and forth in the paddock, WAY more energy than usual. Thank you wind and cold (not really).
Also now need to construct a new farm sign as this morning's storm saw fit to rend it in two.
And now the sun is out, and the temperature is warming. Like it can make up for the mess by being sunny and 90 degrees. Grrrr.
After yesterday's earthquake, I'm thinking we could be in for a shaky fall.

Doggies do.

Writing about the canine loves in my adult life (I demur as there were several before the age of majority; Rumple, April, Blossom most prominent) I resolved to make my next blog entry a brief photo journal of the small group offered to me and treasured for their own selves.

This is Randleigh and me on a walk (with a sit) in Tennessee with my Mom and Dad (no doubt wielding the camera). Randleigh was a great hiker, despite being crippled with limbs developed when he was an undernourished wanderer which left him with painfully displacing patellas (knee caps that popped to the inside of his hind limbs). He was safest in the open, unleashed and was usually non-lethal to the unexpected stranger encountered on the trail . He and I spent many a vacation in the mountains of North Carolina and Virginia. Impoverished vacationers sleep for free in the woods. And I had no doubts in his ability to take on a bear.

Young Hannah, on the front porch of my North Carolina farmhouse (where she'd been dumped from a moving car) with my Mom. This was the little porch party after my graduation from Veterinary School, 1994

Randleigh (in a rainbow) and Hannah on the porch of the Fluck's North Carolina cabin. I think this was October, 1994- on our honeymoon. Yes, we brought the dogs.

Young Tucker, with Youngest still in diapers here at Cowfeathers, 2004.  Youngest was watering the raspberries, and Tucker was helping.

One of my favorite pictures of Tucker.

And Julia. The latest addition.

Jules.

411 For the Dog

I've gotten family inquiries about Julia, and I had wanted to say more last evening, but, after returning home from work at 9:30, introducing Julia to the family and Tucker in the dark, getting her jollies out running around the fenced poultry yard and getting her situated for the night had me all Tuckered out.
I suppose it may be a surprise to some that I drove out and got a dog. I wouldn't blame the astonished, as I'm on their side. I've never "gotten" a dog. Randleigh, my beloved, rotten, best pal ever, chose me. Really. I was driving to my job milking cows in the predawn light, and I passed him in my car, he trotting the opposite direction, and he looked right at me. 7 miles later, I parked my car and went in to  the milk house. After the cows were gathered in their chutes and jockeying for their positions (they like to be in the same spot each time) I walked out to the car to get my breakfast ( a sleeve of crackers, a quarter for breakfast, a half for lunch and another quarter of the sleeve for afternoon snack. I was pretty impoverished). And, there was Randleigh. Sitting behind my car. Creepy. "SHOO!" I tried that. It worked on Little House on the Prairie for Mrs. Olsen. No dice. At lunch, out to the car for more crackers, and there he still was..Waiting. Work over? Waiting. Sigh. "Okay, let's go home. I'll have to call you Randleigh." Which was the name of dairy for which I worked for the princely sum of $3.25 per hour. That was 1988? 1989? He was legendarily smart, mean and stubborn. But boy, he had my back. That was fortuitous, as I lived in an area legendary for it's crime ( yes, the impoverishment again). He had many opportunities to use his inner wolf.
Several years later came Hannah. She was dumped at the North Carolina farmhouse where I had eventually moved with Randleigh. She was a likely puppy, all mutt. I was dating a man I thought I might actually want to marry, but knew doing so with only Randleigh to blame for everything would be dangerous. So, I "gave" him Hannah.. I kept her at my house, trained her etc. , but she was his dog. And she was. Always, she loved him best. Through the first 11 years of our marriage until she died from lymphoma. Where Randleigh was difficult and a trial, Hannah was sweet and amenable. She was my "Nanny" for the kids, helpful and vigilant, they always had a place to fall and someone to clean up their spills.  Still, she also had my back and long after Randleigh was gone, and I had a family and farm, she demonstrated her defensive worth by facing off three men bent on a morning of home invasion. My sweet, easy, trustworthy dog had evidently taken some lessons in her youth from Randleigh, as before my eyes she transformed into a beast never before seen. Formidable, and terrifying. It was a sight, and thank God she was here.
As Hannah had begun to age, I wanted to give her a puppy to keep her active and engaged. With a house full of still young children, I really wanted a Golden Retriever. I told everyone at work "I would like a Golden Puppy." Waiting, waiting. After about two years, I arrived at work one morning, and was told "Dr. Cate, your puppy arrived.". Sure enough, someone had tied a sickly Golden Retriever pup to  the light post overnight. A few days in isolation and some antibiotics, and Tucker was ours.
The blog faithful will be familiar with Tuck. He is a lovely dog. Funny, and easy. Mind you, it took a few years of perseverance and training... but he is really a dream of a dog. But, as he is now 7 years old, he is ready for a perky puppy to keep him active into his dotage. For 3? 4? years, I have been saying it is time for a new dog. This time, not one has followed me to work, been dumped off on the farm lane or been tied to the lamppost. And, it occurred to me that this time, just maybe, God was waiting for me to get one myself. So, on Friday morning, I drove to the pound, picked out Julia and drove her to work for several baths. Voila. New dog. Thanks, God. I helped myself!
Julia has been at the dog shelter for 2 months. She is around 11 months of age, and is of unknown parentage. Perfect. She is black, wire haired, and 45 lbs.  She has a white spot on her chest and learns very quickly. Already schooled in not jumping, not chasing critters and sitting when approaching people. She likes to feel the wind in her face while driving in the car. I need a new car. The windows in the back seat don't go down.
She was taken from her previous home due to neglect, and we'll see how and if that has affected her disposition. So far, she seems very sunny and sweet and friendly and curious.
Right now, she is hanging out on the screen porch with the children, and I'm feeling pretty lucky. She pitched right in with the barn chores this evening, following us around and heading out to the pasture to investigate the wonderful smells. Olso scared her a good bit. Can't blame her, really. His is big. And, he was curious and wished to say "Hello". She never got too close. But the other two horses seemed less intimidating. The sheep were interesting at first, but they were content to graze in the pasture, and the ram seemed to find her non-threatening, so she didn't have to decide what to do during a ram-charge. No interest any more in chasing the cats or the chickens/ducks/goose, although the dinosaur is still wary (if you missed that ref. see "Every Girls' Dream, a Velociraptor of my own" blog entry from January.).
As Trish would say; That is all.

Half measures go Whole Dog

Yes, the stalls have been destroyed, the gardens are weedy and need help, I have half of the boxwoods trimmed on the front porch. Half. Why? The simple answer is that half way through my trimming, a young man arrived for instruction on handling large animals, as he is applying to Veterinary School and I have large animals. But the real answer is: it seems like everything I do gets only half done! Okay, okay, some things I am good at finishing. Meals. A bath. Ummm.
Anyway, I make my excuses to myself that I take on so much more than I complete because I am "living"....platitudes.
So, what does one do when you have too much to do, not enough time and never enough resources? Why, you get another dog, of course.

Julia