"Eh?"

That cold I caught has kicked my butt.  It hangs on still and one of the effects is a hopefully transitory hearing loss.  As someone who, as my daughter said, made my living listening (medical transcription), it is extremely frustrating.  Years ago Deb and I took sign language courses (ASL), purely out of interest.  At the time, I realized how difficult it was for a hearing person to really understand a world without sound.  I'm getting a lesson now.  I can't hear the telephone ring, but I can (mostly) hear the voice on the phone.  I can't hear the birds, their constant chatter and calls.  I can't hear milk pinging into the bucket.  When the clan gathered on Thursday, I could hear the laughing but not always the reason for the laughter.  "Eh?"  My family patiently repeated themselves for my benefit, patience being the definitive term here.  I knew I was invading personal space as I got close enough to catch what they were saying.  I can't tell whether I'm shouting or whispering.  When sound does penetrate, it is monaural, one-sided, so the sense of direction is lost.  I have learned to lip read Bessie Anne and Pearl; I can see their mouths open and close, but no sound!  That's actually pretty funny, and so are some of the misinterpretations of what I think I've heard said.  "Eh?"  (Text me.) 

Pinball Wizard

Bouncing around like a pinball (without the bells and flashing lights), I actually got everything that needed doing done before the first guests, Dave, his lady Sandra, and Larry, arrived.  Whew!  When Clay got here soon after, we sampled Dave's homemade Apple Pie Moonshine.  Smoooth!  Deb and Craig texted when they were leaving Woodland, asking if I needed them to pick up any last-minute items and I got a chance to use the line I'd been saving.  "Yes, please stop and get a turkey, 22 pounds minimum and completely thawed.  I forgot."  I got the response I'd hoped for.  "WHAT!!"  It's the small things that make me chuckle.

Some families watch the parade, some watch football.  Mine plays poker.  Sandra is a newbie to our traditions and also to the game of poker.  Ha!  The guys were like lions circling a kill; fresh meat!  There is such a thing as beginner's luck and the gal did right well by herself.  Deb and Craig had come straight from a camping trip and got here shortly before Camille and her mother, Olga.   Chips and cards were cleared away as everyone helped with the last minute prep work.  There was a time when I brought out the good dishes and fancy silverware to set the Thanksgiving table.  Priorities being what they are, this year we even dispensed with a tablecloth.  Surrounded by family and friends, a table laden with food, we all had much for which to be thankful, especially Pete's successful surgery.  Dave said it well, "The food is always great [I'll take a small bow here], but it is the company that makes this day so special."

The meal over, the dishes cleared, the animals put to bed.  "Let the games begin!"  Camille was introduced to the competition and was also a fast learner as we got back to the important business of the day.  While the entire day certainly was a success, I'll admit I had to hit the piggy bank several times.  Sigh.  Care packages of leftovers provided, last goodbyes and "love you's" said.  Laughter.  It is the memory of laughter that echoes long after the last taillights blink.

Apologies

Like the White Rabbit, "I'm late!  I'm late!"  Woke up at 3:20 this morning and decided that it was ridiculous to get up at that hour; I'd fall asleep with my face in the mashed potatoes in the afternoon.  Went back to sleep, planning to snooze for maybe an hour.  Yeah, well.  That ending was predictable.  If I don't get that turkey in the oven and pretty darned quick, there will be a mob of hungry, angry people in my house with torches and pitchforks.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

Special Delivery

I have suspected for some while that we have a new post-person, mail-lady, or whatever the current politically correct title is for the female who delivers the mail on our route.  Those suspicions were confirmed yesterday when I found a package in my mailbox.  The prior carrier would not deliver a package of any size, but would leave a little postcard notice.  That meant a trip up to the post office, hoping to time it just right.  Our little local post office is not open on Saturdays and closes completely for lunch.  The former mail-lady was an independent contractor in more ways than one.  That business about "Not snow nor rain nor heat..." did not apply to her.  If she didn't want to deliver the mail, she didn't.  One day a teen driver took the curve too fast and wiped out our bank of seven or eight mailboxes.  Steve was willing to build a replacement stand for all the boxes and we went to the postmaster to get the specifications.  He told us the carrier insisted the posts be put in concrete.  We pointed out in the printed Federal USPS instructions we'd been given that posts were not to be set in concrete.  "Hmmm.  Yes.  Well, she wants them in concrete so you'd best set them in concrete."  Guess we know who ruled that roost.  (That postmaster left some time ago.)  All this is just one of the quirks of rural life; we accept and adjust.  Most of my mail these days is addressed to Occupant or Resident anyway.  I felt pretty darned special, not only to receive a package, but to find it in my mailbox!

Happy Ending

Finally, some good news to report.  Pete was released from the hospital last evening.  There had been some setbacks and complications, with the specter of a second surgery looming but avoided.  I know we all slept better last night.

While waiting all day to hear news from down south, preparations for Thursday moved ahead slowly here.  The wind that had piled leaves on the porch had really done me a favor by blowing the parking area and entry walkway completely clear of the ankle-deep drifts, saving me the effort of raking them away.  The porch had needed washing anyhow.  I never realized until Larry sided the house that houses get dusty on the outside too; dusting being my inexorable nemesis.

My mind has been elsewhere this past week and not actively gathering blog fodder.  Let's just say my Thanksgiving Day came early this year.  It was a good day.

I Love A Parade

I don't have to wait for Thursday to watch a Thanksgiving Parade.  These are just a few of the participants that came marching through yesterday.  All that is missing is the oompah band.

Ratty Rita is just the most pathetic-looking creature, especially on a chilly morning.  I suspect mites may have played a part, as well as the ordinary moult, in her denuded condition.  She is getting a bit of fluff on that part my Daddy used to call the pope's nose.

Bessie Anne is putting a lot of faith in Pearl.  Having watched Bess poke around a number of times in Pearl's cat bed in the living room, I waited until both girls were out of the house and went to check.  Sure enough, under the cushion there was that chunk of milk bone I'd brought home from the feed store.  Bessie evidently trusts that Pearl will protect it and not eat it.  I'm not sure how Pearl feels about a lumpy bed.  I may have to put up a sign, "Guard Cat On Duty."

Ratty Rita

Most of the chickens have dressed themselves for winter, refeathering those bare backs and bums.  The roosters, Mad King Charles and Tzar Nicholas, once again strut around in their regal finery (still minus the tail feathers).  And then there is Rita, Ratty Rita.  Rita is a Rhode Island Red who stripped down to a bikini (moulted, that is) and has done nothing to get ready for cold weather.  Like Pick-Me-Up Peggy did, Rita runs in front of me at night, stopping so I will stroke her back.  She does not want to be held, just petted.  That naked back is surprisingly warm under my hand.  Like the skin of any plucked chicken, it isn't particularly lovely, and gives Rita a rather woebegone appearance.  She croons as I give her the requested attention.  I think the others make fun of her and this is her way of regaining self-esteem.  In every flock, there are one or two with distinct personalities and/or distinguishing characteristics.  This year it is Ratty Rita.

Big Blowhard

The bucket of used wipes continues to be emptied daily.  How many blankets can the colony of barn mice and squirrels use?  I fear that the locals have started a black-market blanket business, an underground operation, as it were (pun intended).  Trash Guy is going to think I'm not doing my part for his job security if there are no wipes to donate.

In the seventies, singer Jim Croce wrote a song with the line, "You don't spit into the wind."  I'm going to add to that good advice:  when a strong wind blows, check the direction first before pitching a bucket of goat poop over the fence.  I'm just saying.

There was a lull when I wrote the entry yesterday, but by the time I got down to the barn the wind had kicked up several notches and the girls were happy, happy, happy chasing leaves.  Topping off the trough and waterers was a damp procedure as the wind blew the water from the tap and hose sideways.  Like campfire smoke, the spray followed no matter which side I was on.  The power blipped on and off all day, so often that I gave up changing the time on the digital clocks.

Pete came out of the CCU yesterday and may go home in another day or two.  Whew!

Did I mention it was windy?

Pinata Party

It can get pretty blustery here on top of the hill.  When newscasters predicted 45 mph sustained winds yesterday, I started putting deck furniture and the trash barrel under cover in the morning.  (I've chased stuff down to the woods before.)  Our winds normally come from the south or the north, rarely from the east.  The east wind yesterday was a bonanza for the goats as it blew swirls of dry leaves into their pen.  There is no treat the girls enjoy more, and they were like little kids at a pinata party, scurrying here and there to grab up the goodies.  While they were occupied, I took the opportunity to nail up covers on the barn window openings; we're done with summer heat.

A couple of mice make me laugh every morning.  The older one goes to the grain buffet and brings a Willie Wonka-size chip of corn back to his corner, sits and munches as we look at each other.  Bam!  The smaller, younger one comes out of nowhere and does a drive-by, snatches the corn and disappears down a hole.  I'll swear the expression on the one says, "Kids today!  What're ya gonna do?"  This happens every day; it's either a game or the older one is a slow learner.

I was given a great gift.  Before going out to do chores, I called down to the hospital, hoping for a status report.  Imagine my surprise when the nurse handed the phone off and I heard Pete's voice.  He could barely talk because he was so tired and I could hardly talk for the tears, but, oh, the relief just to know, really know he was okay was overwhelming.  Full recovery is going to take a while, but he's on the right path.

Light as a feather with that burden lifted, I went shopping for Thanksgiving, prepared to battle with the hordes.  There weren't more than fifteen people in the store; more clerks than shoppers!  The checker said it was the first lull they'd had all day.  My list was long, but I was in and out in forty minutes.  That's my kind of shopping trip.

The winds blew down something somewhere and the power went out last night, but for less than an hour; reason enough to celebrate.  It's calm this morning so the party for the girls is over, but yesterday was a good day.

In My Dreams

First things first so no one has to wait for the news:  Pete came through his surgery and is on the road to recovery.

I wrote yesterday about staying grounded.  I wrote with such assurance that I even fooled myself.  Oh, being with the animals was calming, but I couldn't stay with the animals all day, and it was a long, long day.  Trying to hold on to the positive, the mind will still go to dark places.  I don't know how it was for Pete, but his whole life flashed before my eyes.  It did help to know that a panoply of well-wishers were sending good thoughts for my son.  Catholics, Mormons, Lutherans, Jews, unnamed Christian groups, Buddhists, and a couple of agnostics were as one in their intent.  I've said before that time is elastic, expanding and contracting as dictated by circumstances.  We were given an estimated time frame for the surgery and the clock ticked ever so slowly toward that hour.  I will swear it took fifteen minutes for every single jump of the hands.  That hour came and went, slowly.  It was during the next hour and a half that panic set in.  Had it not been raining, I might have gone back down to the barn for the comfort of the animals.  Finally the texts started flowing and we knew the operation was over and Pete was in CCU.  And now we wait again.  Stay calm on a day like yesterday?  In my dreams.

Grounded

Life throws us zingers:  those times when what you really want to do is run screaming in the streets, those days when your mind feels like a balloon with an untied knot zooming fast in every direction and going nowhere until falling to the floor.  In heavy weather and rough water, ships will throw out a sea anchor that will keep the ship steady and on course.  No matter what else is going on, regardless of what anxieties I might be feeling, it is my animals that keep me grounded.  They are my sea anchor (to mix a metaphor).

I won't know until late this afternoon how Pete's surgery went.  I do know he is wrapped safely in the thoughts and prayers of many, most of whom wouldn't know him from Adam's off ox.  I and my family, especially Pete, appreciate this outpour of caring.  I hope Pete's doctor is included in these prayers; that he has had a good night's sleep, a good breakfast, that his hands are steady and sure.  He will hold my son's heart in those hands, and mine as well.

And so this morning I will gather the buckets and go out to the coops and down to the barn.  Even with the rain that began in the night, the chickens will tumble down their ramps as they do every day.  I will throw down grain and squirt milk for the mice this morning as I did yesterday and the day before.  The girls will come in and get on the stand and eat their cereal as I sit by their side as I do every day and begin the rhythmic squeeze-and-release while warm milk fills the pail.  There is comfort in routine, in knowing without thinking about what comes next.  On a day like this, my animals will keep me grounded.

Turn Backward

"Backward, turn backward, O time in thy flight...."  That's the beginning line of an old poem that comes to mind today.  They say it gets easier when your Kids grow up and are out on their own.  That is not always the case.  When they are little, sometimes an "owie" can be healed with a kiss to make it well, and a bandaid is a badge of courage.  Scary things can be driven away by pulling the Kid into the safe haven of your bed for the night.  Moms know how to do these things.  We had our share of stitches and casts, a bad accident or two, and a couple of serious illnesses.  Small potatoes.  A bit older, and hearts get broken.  Those are harder to fix.  A teen is sure they'll never get over a lost love, but moms can reassure and comfort and bake cookies and time will, in fact, make it all better.

My Kid has a broken heart that only the doctors can fix.  He will have surgery tomorrow.  It's all out of my hands; a terrible, helpless feeling.  I wish I could turn back the hands of time and have my little boy on my lap and make it all better for him with a kiss, a hug, and a cookie.

Backwater Blues

There are days I feel that I am in the world, but not of it, more of an observer than a participant.  When loved ones are in crisis and what I want most is to enfold them in my arms, distance and circumstance make me feel far removed.  The SoCal Kid begins his round of tests today and all I can do is offer long-distance support as I did when his brother had surgery some months back.  Clay, my "fifth son," has two moms:  his "original manufacturer" mother and me, his "after-market" mama.  His OM is also in the hospital now and we are all holding the good thought for her and for Clay.  And so it goes.

Here in my alternate universe, Inga and I are back on track.  Now it is Tessie who wants to play the Catch Me If You Can game.  She's not a serious runner and since she has always worn a necklace (collar), if I'm sneaky and approach without looking directly at her, I can snag her and walk her back to the barn.  It's my feeling that the girls get bored and devise these little games for amusement; theirs, not mine.

A friend who also raises goats and I were chatting online the other day about preparations for the holidays.  I mentioned that Craig ("fourth son") has developed an allergy to walnuts and some recipes have to be altered so I don't unintentionally do him in.  She has family members with the same problem and said, "We, too, make bull and steer cookies."  That's a farm joke (I won't explain it) that had me falling off my chair laughing.

Waking in the middle of the night to one of Pearl's hourly "all's well" announcements, for a groggy moment I thought I'd left lights on in the living room, the moon was that bright.

My own little world here at Farview is, for the most part, serene.  I wouldn't change it and there is no other place I'd want to live.  It's only that there are times I'd like to reach out and really hold a hand.

Holding Pattern

All things seem to be in a state of status quo these days.  The rain that has been promised for weeks fails to appear; sure not complaining about our mild fall temperatures here in northern California, but we could definitely do with fewer promises and more real rain (like the weather people are in charge).  My SoCal Kid remains in hospital, awaiting more definitive tests.  Being The Evil Mom I am, I tease him via text with mouth-watering menus as he breakfasts on cardboard pancakes and dines on grey pot roast.  I continue to contend with this week-long cold; at least my voice has returned, albeit a growly one.  Pearl maintains her self-appointed job as Watch Cat On Duty, making hourly patrols through the house beginning at midnight and announcing, "Two o'clock and all's well," and Bessie Anne still ignores her and snores away.  I've started making my annual lists in preparation for Thanksgiving, but, as usual, that's as far as I've gotten.  Since the menu hasn't changed an iota in probably fifty years, a list seems superfluous, but there is a certain satisfaction in crossing "Make Lists" off the To-Do List.  There are worse places to be than in a holding pattern; there's always the anticipation that good things are coming.  I'll settle for that.

Some Days

Some days get shot in the foot before the first step is taken.  Inga had done "her thing" the day before, so I knew we were facing a long, somewhat painful (for both of us) milking  process yesterday.  I got the first call while still in the barn.  Tree Guy is scheduled for hernia surgery next week and faces a lengthy recovery.

The second call (still in the barn) was from my SoCal Kid, phoning from a hospital bed.  Pneumonia for sure, and undergoing a series of tests for other problems.  It's very difficult when one's children, no matter how old they are, live so far away.  We agreed that the hospital is the worst place in the world to get any rest ("Wake up, sir.  It's time for your sleeping pill."), so I would not call him on the off chance that he was catching a nap.  Texting is the perfect answer here, and I didn't promise I wouldn't do that; a text message wouldn't wake him and I could still stay in touch.  His stay has been prolonged from overnight to several days.  The word was spread amongst the siblings.

With the best of intentions, I ruined Bessie's day.  She declined to go with me to the feed store, but I picked up a milk bone for her anyway.  This was one of the big bones, so I only took a broken half.  I thought she'd be pleased.  She was not.  Even a half was too big.  Bess started looking for a place to hide it.  She thought about the dirty-clothes basket, then the clean-clothes laundry basket, then the socks basket.  She went into the guest room to see if the closet door was open.  She considered stuffing the bone into the couch between the cushions.  Getting frantic, she cried little whimpers as she made the circuit again and again.  She asked to be helped up onto the bed, thinking to tuck it under her pillow, but decided I wasn't trustworthy and rejected that idea.  She made the rounds of potential hiding spots again.  I have no idea where I'll find that treat that wasn't a treat, but will undoubtedly come across it someday.  I won't make that mistake again.

All I can say about yesterday is, it could have been worse.  I'm grateful it wasn't.

The Early Bird

Rising early gives me a jump start on the day.  Watching sunrise is such a pleasure; some are simply breathtaking.  Stepping out yesterday to catch the colors just before sunup, I realized the vultures were also awake and flying to the topmost branches of the lower side oak.  It will come as no surprise to readers that I have a fascination with these birds (okay, all birds).  Hummingbirds go nearly dormant after dark, their heart rate and breathing slowing to accommodate their high metabolism.  I have learned that vultures let their body temperature drop at night; one reason why I find them warming themselves on the posts in the morning.  The early birds in this photo were only a few among many who were finding the highest spot to wait for the first rays of the sun.

It isn't just diaper wipes that are being raided down in the milking room.  Those wipes are being stolen as fast as they land in the bucket.  Bert and Ernie have invited some cronies to join them for a drink at the milk bar and now there might be six or eight slurping away every day.  Yesterday I caught movement and, lo and behold, a gopher was at the edge of the grain pile thrown down for the mice, shoving food in his face as fast as he could until his cheeks could hold no more.  This was a new face in the lineup, and what's up with that?  I'm used to the ground squirrels and mice, but now a gopher?  The barn birds now help themselves from the feed bucket on the shelf while I'm milking.  Is there no end to the freeloaders?

'Tis The Season

It is the season of raging hormones, and it isn't just the goat girls who are in the mood.  That buck and his ladies I saw the other day are a good indicator that those boys are in rut now.  Deer, like goats, have a five-month gestation and breeding now will put the fawns on the ground when feed is at its best for the milk-producing does in the spring.

Turkeys who normally travel in small, sexually-segregated groups are massing together.  Looking out while milking yesterday, I counted close to fifty of the big birds cruising through the goat pen, jumping over the fence and into the front yard.  They seemed to be rehearsing for the big show; some toms fanning their tail feathers and strutting their stuff, a few minor skirmishes here and there, and the ladies' chorus tuning up in the cheering section.  The alphas, the junior contenders, and the omegas were defining their roles, but no serious battles were being fought.  Having a ringside seat and seeing this many wild birds so close is pretty amazing.

I wish I knew more about the turkey vultures.  The maintenance crew left behind after the annual migration numbers about thirty this year.  Most of them sit sunning themselves on posts around the goat pen every morning.  It is nearly impossible to tell male from female; they have none of the sexual characteristics of their namesakes, the turkeys.  Not only are these birds silent, they are also very private; none of the braggadocio of the turkeys regarding masculine prowess, and if they have a mating ritual, it is performed away from prying eyes.

Tennyson wrote, "In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love;" all well and good.  In the animal world, it appears fall is the season for all that mushy stuff.

New Nosy, Noisy Neighbors

Two blonds with poofy "big hair" have moved in next door.  We've not been introduced.  Our first encounter was a Kodak moment, and there I was without a camera.  Running a bit late, I was rushing to let the Silkies into their pen when Bessie Anne gave a short warning woof.  I looked up to see two alpacas at the nearby fence line, staring at Bess like they'd never seen a dog in their life; well, not a unique dog like Bessie.  Bess is familiar with the llama, the horses, and the occasional cow next door, but the alpacas were something different, and she moved closer and stared right back.  As I went about my chores, I heard that now-familiar screech of a cranky alpaca.  It must be idiosyncratic of the species (I'd hoped the bad attitude and bad language were limited to Frick and Frack).  I later learned that Frick and Frack have returned to their original farm, much to Camille's relief.  Frieda and Fern (I have no idea of their real names) came from that same alpaca herd and, in fact, one of the girls is the daughter of Caspian, he of the gnarly teeth.  Frieda and Fern paced along the fence line, following my every move and keeping an eye on Bess.  Neighborhood Watch has taken on a new meaning.

Hanging Around

Spikes and forked-horns aren't uncommon, but to see a three-point buck and his small harem down in the front pasture during my morning walkabout was pretty surprising.  This "prince of the forest" was in no hurry and we spent long moments just looking at each other before he herded his ladies down into the woods.  Such a nice way to start the day.

I get myself into the darndest situations.  In honor of Veterans Day and those who serve(d), I ran the flag up the flagpole at the corner of the deck in the bright morning light.  It's always been a bit difficult to pull the rope, but it wasn't too bad on the way up.  At sundown, I went out to take the flag down, and that's when the problems began.  It was as if the pulley at the top had frozen.  I pulled down; nothing.  I heaved up; nothing.  I got a bit frantic.  I could not dishonor the flag by leaving it flying after dark, but I still had to bring in the laundry from the line and get down to the goat barn and the sun was dropping rapidly.  I tried, I really tried, to bring that flag down but nothing was working.  I know I said I would stay off of ladders, but these were extenuating circumstances.  That corner of the deck is on the second story and the pole goes up another eight or ten feet.  Desperate situations call for drastic measures, so I got a ladder and a can of WD-40 and did what had to be done.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit shaky as I clung to the skinny pole and climbed high enough to spray the pulley, and I could hear my Kids' voices, "What!  Are you crazy?!"  Be that as it may, the flag and I quit hanging around and I went on to finish the day's chores before dark, barely.

Time Out

Being the herd animals that they are, isolation is probably the worst punishment a goat can get.  Tessie's time out in the play yard for the night had the desired effect.  She was so glad to see me in the morning, sticking to my side like a burr as I opened stall doors for the others.  Tess apologized in every way possible to me and to her pen-pals.  She took her turn for breakfast on the stand without coaxing and spent extra time rubbing against my side.  I told her I understood that it was the hormones talking and not a personality defect that had caused the problems of the previous day.

With the first signs of a cold coming on, I took a voluntary time out myself.  Luckily, it was NASCAR Sunday and I could curl up under a soft throw and nap for a hundred laps or so.  The most die-hard fans will agree that a nap somewhere in the middle of a race is almost obligatory, even without the sniffles, and no penalties are imposed.

Tessie was the first girl in the barn door last night.

Girl Trouble

Tessie was flagging like crazy yesterday morning and yelling her head off, telling the world that she was in season and looking for a good time.  She was cranky to the max and even drove poor Poppy away from her breakfast.  The situation wasn't any better by bedtime; in fact, it was worse.  I got the girls into the barn, but Tessie, with her unicorn horn, was headbutting and ramming the others left and right.  When she hit one hard enough to make her scream, that was it.  I got Tessie out of the big room and segregated her for the night in the gated play area.  I can only hope that the madness and frustration will have passed this morning.

Pearl has finally made the time change and lets me sleep in until five (new time).  For a petite cat, she has a voice like Ethel Merman and tells me loudly in no uncertain terms when she wants out, in, or wake up!  It cracks me up, however, when we are alone together in the kitchen.  She will stand in front of the treat drawer and whisper, "Hey, how's about a little something while the dog is in the other room?  It'll be our secret and I'll never tell Bessie Anne."  I will admit that I weaken and quietly open the drawer and the bag of goodies for Pearl.  Lest I be accused, a la Smothers Brothers, of "Mother always liked you best," I make it up to Bess with a milk bone sometime during the day.  Pearl doesn't like milk bones.

Ah, those girls.

Putting On The Brakes

Back in the day when I was consulting, I drove over 50-60,000 miles a year.  That's a lot of time behind the wheel.  Now I go to town a couple of times a month and, with the occasional side trip, put maybe 3,000 miles on the odometer annually.  Therefore, when I was told that the brake pads were getting thin a year and a half ago, there was no great sense of urgency.  At that time I arranged with a local shade-tree mechanic of my acquaintance to replace the pads and purchased same in readiness.  "Oh yeah, I'm gonna get to that," was the response when I'd mention over time that the brakes were still on the To-Do List.  I'm patient and I'm loyal, but I have limits.

Go-To Guy started his own business some time back and it wasn't until a friend mentioned that Go-To still takes on side jobs that I gave him a call last week.  Go-To and his wife came here yesterday and, ta da!, the truck has new brake pads.  Almost all the tools needed were in the barn, but then he looked for an Allen wrench.  "Do you have an Allen wrench?"  Do I?!  We made the trek down to the shop and I opened a drawer.  Dozens and dozens of Allen wrenches in every size known to man.  "Take your pick."  Wife and I stood and chatted and Bessie Anne supervised Go-To's work until it was time for my participation.  The only thing I know about changing brake pads is how to bleed out the air from the line, but I can do that like a pro.  Shiny new brake pads in place, the truck was parked and we went inside for some get-caught-up talk and a beer, the country equivalent of a tip.  A year and a half later, I can cross brakes off the list.

It was a good day.

Triple-A Rating

Reality strikes without warning and comes from unexpected sources.  I got one of those smacks upside the head when I opened a piece of mail from AAA, the automobile club.  It was a card thanking me for being a member for fifty years.  Fifty years?!  I actually went back and looked at the envelope, sure that I'd opened someone else's mail by mistake.  To have been a member of anything for fifty years must make a person pretty old.  That's a big dose of reality to swallow in one gulp.  The thing is, that's not me.  I'm not sure I'd even pick the face I wear now out of a lineup as me.  Yeah, the exterior shows the wear and tear of years, but the interior hasn't really changed all that much.  I still love to dance, and get some strange looks from the dog when I do a little Texas two-step, dip and twirl to a waltz, or get down and boogaloo by myself in the living room (it's one way to pass the time while dusting).  I can still do (or think I can do) a day's work as I used to; it just takes me a little longer, but I also have more time now so no big deal.  I still love a good joke, a good meal, a good drink.  When I was much younger, I walked into a small shop where the female proprietor and a female customer stood watching a young man leave.  One said to the other, "Nice buns."  At the time, I wondered about these middle-aged women.  I understand them better now.  I still appreciate a nice rear view.

I worked for a number of years as a consultant in a number of what were then called convalescent hospitals, filled with the elderly and infirm.  In each one, I reminded the aides to give the residents the respect they'd earned and not treat them like children.  They'd been parents, CEOs, responsible (or irresponsible) citizens who had no choice and no control over growing old.  Pain and frustration sometimes made them cranky, and they deserved forgiveness.  Those aged shells held a wealth of experience and personality.

I may have been an AAA member for fifty years.  I may not climb ladders as I used to.  I may need a fire extinguisher to put out the candles on my cake.  But don't discount this old gal.  That's not me; that's not my reality.

Bert and Ernie

Like habitues at the coffee shop, Bert and Ernie wait at the "counter" every morning until Sheila is up on the stand and I get a good stream going and milk is pinging into the bucket.  Perched on the board where I've placed a couple of wipes, these two little mice anticipate what comes next; warm milk squirted onto the wipes until they are soaked.  They don't even duck from the spray if my aim is a bit off.  In fact, if milk puddles on the board, so much the better.  They lap up the milk and then suck the wipes, turning them this way and that to get the last drop, watching me with beady black eyes.  These addicted boys might duck into the corner as I move about the milking room, but go right back for another sip.  Others may come later to partake, but Bert and Ernie are always first in line.  I don't know which of us enjoys our morning routine more.

 Kitchen pigs are all clean; two rooms down.  I'll have to take a deep breath before tackling the pig population and the dozens and dozens of glasses (and a lot of et cetera) on the open shelves in the dining room.  That's a couple of days' worth of work.

I'd been looking out the door at the straggly weeds that the turkeys so enjoy long enough.  A few contained in the herb garden among the marjoram and thyme is one thing, but they'd spread out into the walkway, their three-foot fronds stripped of seeds and looking pretty ratty-tatty.  Tired of being stuck in the house and knowing weather is coming, Bessie Anne, Pearl, and I went out, pitchfork in (my) hand, to clean up a little.  These weeds have a root mass the size of a soccer ball that has to be dug out.  Bess found a place to lie in the low afternoon sunshine and Pearl amused herself by darting here and there, peeking under leaves, hunting who knows what.  I worked on until Bess, who is in charge of these things, decided enough was enough and came to lie where I was going to dig next.  My back and I agreed that she was right.  I put the pitchfork away and my fellow musketeers and I went in to light the wood stove and rest until it was time to put the kids to bed.

I'll see Bert and Ernie this morning.  They'll be waiting.

Sweet Smell Of...

Rain is predicted for next week.  Leaving off washing pigs for the day (an indoor job), I took advantage of the still-warm afternoon and breeze to wash bedding; not just the linens but blankets, pillows, and comforters.  No matter how they try, no one has yet found an artificial aromatic substitute for washer or dryer that can compare with the sweet smell of laundry hung on the line, scented by sun and wind.  Slipping between those crisp sheets last night was pure bliss.

Having four Kids in five years, for the longest time there were always two in diapers, cloth diapers at that.  On rainy days, the house would be festooned with diapers like a ship under full sail.  It wasn't until my youngest was born that I got a dryer and thought I was in seventh heaven.  A dryer became a necessity as much as a stove, indispensable to daily life.  I understand that in some places (condos, mobile home parks, etc.), it is now forbidden to hang laundry outdoors.  A clothes line was in place when we moved here (bringing a dryer, of course).  Well, why not use it?  Moving here was a step back in time anyhow, so I began hanging clothes outside.  Come wet, cold, winter weather, I will be as grateful as the next for the dryer in the laundry room, but the sheets will never smell as sweet.

Commitment

All right, I am committed (or perhaps "should be committed").  The Great Pig Wash has begun.  Don't get me wrong; I love each and every one of these little porcine faces and piggy butts.  For the most part, I remember who gave me each of these treasures and that also puts a smile on my lips.  Amazingly, out of the many, there are only a couple of duplicates in the entire collection.  My son Dave has particularly gone out of his way to find unique additions, but many others have made special contributions.  I may have said it before, but I've gotten fairly used to hearing, "I saw this pig and thought of you," and do not take offense. 

These are the washed and/or fluffed pigs from just the breakfast room (there are pigs throughout the house), and not all of them are pictured in these photos.  Not included are the ceramic wind chimes or the numerous pig portraits on the walls or the teeny tiny piggies in their wee display case.  In just these two photos and from just the one room, there are ninety pigs.  It is only the tip of the iceberg, but it was enough for one day.

I am trying to accommodate the time change, staying up late (by the old time) so I can sleep later (by the new time).  Pearl is making no such effort.  Four-fifteen (new time) is as late as she will allow in the morning and she is nothing if not persistent.  Really sleepy, I thought to get up and let her out and then go back to bed today, but a quick trip in bare feet across the icy laundry room tiles opened my eyes, as it were, and so the day begins.

Baby Steps

I would never make it in the 442nd, the "Go For Broke" company.  I tend to approach a project slowly and only after exhausting all available excuses to procrastinate or not do it at all.  It is the time of year when the house gets its semiannual major cleaning in prep for the holidays.  (The other is in spring after the house has been closed up for the winter.)  Being blessed with selective vision, I am able to ignore dust and cobwebby corners by simply not seeing them most of the time.  Taking off those blinders, my initial foray was to heartlessly send an army of homeless spiders out into the streets.  Wiping down their webs was enough for the first day, the "toe in the water," as it were.  It seems I am constitutionally unable to throw away plastic jars, sour cream containers, or bags.  I might have been a hoarder in another life.  One never knows when one of those items might be just the thing in which to save three leftover peas in the refrigerator or line a wastebasket, but even I recognize when enough is too much.  Yesterday I girded my loins (I'll figure out what that means one of these days) and ruthlessly attacked the small mountain of accumulated empty jars and bottles, winnowing out the truly useful from those just taking up space.  Tomorrow is trash day and I'll bet I win Trash Guy's Award of the Week for my contribution.  The plan for the next several days is to make inroads on washing the collection of tchotchkes (namely, pigs of every size, shape, and description) that covers every flat surface in the house.  I'm not joking; there are probably 500 pigs and their piglets on shelves, walls, and floor in every room.  The stone, crystal, ceramic, wood, and metal pigs will get washed and the innumerable stuffed pigs get thrown into the dryer to be humanely dusted off, better than beating them with a stick.  This not a one-day job, but it's a step in the right direction.

Pearl did not get the word that we were supposed to get an extra hour of sleep with the time change.

I'm Not Alone

I seem to have companions in my move to the State of Confusion.  First off, I thought we changed clocks on Sunday night, not Saturday, so my bedside clock said the usual 5 a.m. when I awoke.  Fired up the computer on the way to make coffee; came back to find it said 4-something.  Huh?  Checked the cell phone.  It agreed with me and my clock that it was 5-something (time was flying).  By then, I didn't know who or what to trust.  Turned cell phone off and back on.  Nope, still 5 and some change.  Then, right before my very eyes, the 5 became a 4.  I think the cell phone people didn't look at the calendar or their clock either.  The goats, sheep, and chickens are on my side:  when the sun is up, it's day; when the sun goes down, it's night, and none of us knows what day it is.  (Must remember to put in a change-of-address card for all of us.)

I put those few walnuts rolling around in the sack back where they'd come from and traded that excuse for hauling wood up to the porch.  The wagon had been getting harder and harder to pull and I didn't know why.  The tires looked okay but when I checked, they were squooshy.  When did that happen?  There is a small air compressor out in the barn.  Risking Thing's ire by invading his territory, I turned it on and filled the tires.  What an amazing difference!  The bouncy tires rolled instead of my having it pull it like a sled.  Note to self:  check tires more frequently.  I did not completely fill the porch rack; I may need that excuse again.

What Shall I Do?

There are perhaps only fifty or so walnuts at the bottom of the bag now after hammering away all afternoon and most of the evening.  I really wanted to finish the job but my butt gave out from sitting on the floor, even with breaks to put the kids to bed and heat a frozen pizza and, of course, letting Pearl in and out.  Then I got to thinking:  what shall I do when the bag is empty and I need an excuse not to do something else?  I've come to rely on that bag of walnuts.  I look around and see that this should be done or I should take care of that, then go get the piece of steel plate, a hammer, a bowl, and a bag for the shells and settle down to do something that is really nothing, but it relieves me of some of the guilt.  Creaking and groaning as I finally got to my feet in my oh-so-graceful way (it ain't pretty) last night, I  thought, "Well, you can finish up tomorrow."  Having had a night to sleep on the problem, I've decided those few walnuts left are my last bastion against doing something I didn't want to do in the first place.  I realize now I'd been looking at the walnut bag in the wrong way, as another task that needed doing.  That bag is my friend, my saving grace, and what shall I do for a good excuse when some other job calls for my attention and that bag is empty?  Sigh.

Change Of Heart

What is it, I wonder, that causes some animals to undergo a complete change of heart, if not their entire personality, over time.  I've seen it happen before.  Eons ago we had a cat named Toolu who was a don't-touch-me cat.  People who had come to our house for years didn't believe we even had a cat because she would disappear the minute anyone walked in the door.  Then one day she came out of a back room and stuck to the Kids like lint on blue serge from then on.  If they lay on the floor, she curled up on back or hip.  I have a picture of one Kid sitting in a chair with Toolu perched on his head.  Pearl has done a similar about-face to the point that I look at her and ask, "Who are you?"  She asks, no, demands, to be petted, weaving back and forth until she's satisfied.  She plays with leaves and bits of string.  Not quite ready to settle in my lap, she will lie on the foot rest of the recliner to watch TV with me.  She has taken Frank's job with Bessie Anne and is now her constant companion.  Bess seems happy enough with this substitution.  If Pearl is outside when we step out to attend to chores, she comes running to be with us.  We are, indeed, all for one and one for all.

Sheila has also undergone a personality change and has become very lovey-dovey.  Always the first one up on the stand (recalling the ring-around-the-rosy games), she's reluctant to leave the room until I give her some extra loving and sweet talk.  She then hangs around outside the milking room door, getting in my way as I go in and out to clean the other stalls.  Last goat done, I go over to open the gate to the big pen.  Sheila follows and stands waiting for a head and neck rub, blocking the way for the others.  Leaving the pen, she'll come along up the hill for a goodbye pet at the gate, putting her muzzle up for a nuzzle.  Go figure.