Ms. Mesta and Me

Perle Mesta was a socialite party-giver and ambassador in the 1950-60s era, known worldwide as "The hostess with the mostest."  I doubt I'll ever make the cover of Time magazine as she did, but my hospitality will not be faulted.  Turkeys are lined up and waiting to join one of my hen parties, and now outnumber the chickens.  Latecomers head up the slope on the run.  It's the same thing in a smaller version in the Silkie pen.  Instead of turkeys, dozens and dozens of sparrows and dinky birds (all who can fit through the chain-link fence) attend the breakfast meeting with the Silkies.  I am assured there will be no "regrets" to my invitations.  Oh, wait.  I didn't send out invitations.

Bess and I had to make a flying trip to Mt. Aukum the other day.  A costly mishap had occurred.  During the last storm when the wind had blown the outer door off the feed room, the hard-driven rain had gotten in under the inner door and wet a 75-pound bag of goat chow.  I thought I'd gotten it moved far enough away, but that storm was a doozy.  Not until I'd trundled the bag down to the barn to pour into the barrel did I realize the feed had gone moldy and totally useless.  Moldy grain can kill a goat.  Goat chow ain't cheap; however, there was nothing for it but to race to the store to replenish the supply so the girls would have breakfast.  I've now got the problem of how to dispose of 75 pounds of feed where it won't poison any creature.  This is not a city situation, for sure.

A dry north wind blew all day yesterday and the chill factor was significant.  It hadn't been a particularly warm day to begin with and by last night I was seriously considering lighting a fire.  I might have done had I not been pinned to the chair by the ever-present Bess and Celeste.  (I didn't invite them, either.)  The furries were comfortable curled in my lap, but my feet were sticking out and getting colder by the minute.  It was a good excuse to go to bed early.  All this hostessing is exhausting.