Working Man

Clay's day got a little later start than he'd planned so I had plenty of time to make the spaghetti sauce before he got here.  A rest is always in order after the long drive so we started to play catch up; it's been quite a while between visits.  Clay brought me a souvenier coffee mug from his last NASCAR trip.  That's become almost a tradition now when he travels, and I love it.  I explained that I needed his help with the silkie pen and why and he decided to take on that job before we unloaded the rounds of wood he'd brought.

It's a good thing we did (and "we" is used loosely here), because not only was there shoveling to do, the door to the Taj pretty much disintegrated.  Thanks to Steve's packrat tendencies, there is always plenty of leftover stuff from previous projects and Clay was able to find a piece of heavy plywood that needed just a little resizing.  Uh huh.  Used to working with modern power tools, it was a bit of a challenge to go back to an old-school handsaw (he found three).  My contribution was to stand on one end to steady the board and give encouragement.  That kind of hand work can't be rushed and it was nearly sundown when he finished.  He had calculated the size perfectly for the opening in the Taj, but there wasn't time to attach it.  There is a way to keep it shut, though, so no worries.

I put the kids to bed while the pasta cooked and the sauce heated.  The chickens had to spend another night in the big coop.  The plan had been to move them after dark, but Clay and I got to talking during and after dinner and he didn't leave until late.  He'd done the work and I was tired.  Since there hadn't been time to unload the firewood, he moved the trailer over out of the way by the woodpile and left it.  That's a good excuse to come back.

Clay was probably singing Merle Haggard's "Workin' Man Blues" (1969) on his drive home.  I sure appreciate the job he did and his company always.  He really racked up the Good Son points, for sure.

This Won't Do

Dammit!  Euphemistic swear words weren't sufficient yesterday.  In the afternoon I heard the chickens sounding off and thought, "Oh, good.  They're talking again."  But they continued and I got worried and went out to the pen.  One, two, three, four...where's five?  I went inside, hoping that five was in the dark recesses of the coop, but no.  Whatever it was had struck again.  Dammit!  I hadn't invited these chickens up here to provide a buffet for wild things, be they winged or four legged, and I felt/feel terrible.

I went around to inspect the small pen and Taj where the silkies had lived.  It has a chicken wire cover and the fence is chain link.  Yes, it's smaller, but I think there is sufficient room for the four that are left and they will be safe.  The Taj is fine, but the yard needs some shovel work.  Good timing for me, but poor timing for Clay as he's coming up today and I'm going to have to ask him for help.  The chickens will hopefully survive another day in the big pen.  I've found over the years that it is so much better to move chickens at night.  They are almost comatose while sleeping and can be picked up easily, not possible during the day.

Feeling so guilty, I called my sister-in-law last night to confess my,,,what?  Not neglect, not ineptness, not lack of caring...well, maybe just my sorrow that some creatures in my care had been taken.

I can't say it was a good day.

Flipping Out

While waiting for NASCAR to start, I was idly flipping through channels, primarily to see what football games were or would be playing, and came across the Seattle Seahawks vs. Detroit Lions.  Hmmm.  The Seahawks have not been one of my favorites, but they were Dolly's team of choice so, what the heck, I'd watch awhile in her memory, but didn't expect much.  Wow! was I wrong.  It was such a good game that I put NASCAR on DVR so I could watch until the end and wasn't disappointed.

Okay, then it was on to the race and play catch up.  One great benefit of the DVR is that one can flip through commercials, and I use it often.  As a salve to my conscience, I put in a load of laundry, using the pause button when it was time to hang clothes on the line.  Bowyer was doing well and I had enough confidence to take time to make a run up to the grocery store.  Clay is coming tomorrow and I needed supplies.  I'd decided on spaghetti for dinner for him, which is hard to make without pasta.

As happens more frequently than one would think, a lady (sometimes it's a man) in the store stopped me and said she had a pair of bibbies in a forgotten drawer and, seeing mine, decided she'd bring them out to wear again.  I may start a new (old) fashion trend.

That onerous task done, I used the DVR to catch up on the race, only to be totally upset when Bower was spun out toward the end and came in 21st.  Ratchafratch.  To make matters worse, the mishap was caused by Clay's favorite driver.  I texted Clay to complain and he had the good grace not to laugh.  He also let me know when the Vikings game came on.  I'd missed the Steelers game entirely (they won).

Okay, on to the Vikings.  They played so miserably against the New Orleans Saints that I turned off that game before the end.  They lost.

Please, please please let there be five chickens in the coop.  I couldn't take another loss.  Whew!  There they all were, waiting for me to close their doors.  What a relief.

Win some, lose some.  Game day was over.

They Were Right

It turns out the Delawares were right to keep a low profile.  Two days ago I had seven chickens, now I have five.  I found one dead when I went out to tuck all the critters in a couple nights ago.  I don't know how old these birds are, and there were no signs of mayhem, so I was thinking natural death.  I'm usually very careful about counting beaks at bedtime, but guess I was preoccupied, because when I let the flock out yesterday morning, another hen was missing.  Dang, I hate that that happened.  There were no holes dug under the fence and no sign that a wild thing had climbed or broken through the chicken wire...maybe a hawk?

When Deb said they wouldn't be coming up, that put the brakes on any plans to do housework and I just piddled around the rest of Friday.  The Saturday cooking shows were on yesterday and they were a good excuse, too, until I remembered that Candy, the itinerant hairdresser, would be coming in late afternoon to give me a much-needed haircut.  Yikes!  It was full steam ahead from then on.  I surprised myself with how much I can get done under the incentive plan, and could open the door for her without apologies.

After Candy had gone, there was an unfamiliar sound in the hills.  It appears that some kid in the neighborhood is taking trumpet lessons and was practicing.  After some false starts, he or she was working on three notes...the first three notes of "Three Blind Mice."  Three blind mice, three blind mice, over and over again.  I was praying for "See how they run," or maybe the mom could say dinner was ready.  I wish the kid well in his endeavors.  Maybe next week the teacher will give him another three notes to work on and the mice can get a rest.

Drat And Goody

Oh nooo!  Deb texted yesterday that Craig had gone home sick from work.  I wouldn't have that dear man feel poorly for the world, but this was a case of awful timing.  I was so looking forward to their visit today, but I so appreciate them not sharing germs.  Sigh.  (Also, Deb had told me that, as my personal shoppers, they'd picked up a large package of frozen potstickers, which have become a staple of my diet lately.)  I'm hoping that my daughter doesn't catch whatever bug Craig brought home.

On the bright side, Clay also texted and said he's coming up with a load of firewood on Monday or Tuesday.  Do these Kids take care of their mama or what?  Clay is such good company, and it's so much fun to cook for him.  He's a bachelor who appreciates a home-cooked meal.  I start planning a menu as soon as I learn he's coming up.  Also on the bright side, this means all that dusting won't go to waste.

I watch the news as much for the weather as anything else (everything else is pretty depressing).  It's hard to gloat about our perfect fall days when so many states are being devastated by storms, wind, rain, and even snow, but it's so pretty here now.  The vineyards are changing color, as happens after the harvest, and the reds, yellows, and oranges are laying a patchwork quilt over the hills.  Walking up from the barn, I'm in no hurry to go into the house.

Celeste is cruising the hall, crooning to whichever piglet she's picked up this time.  Bess is asleep with her head on my feet, and Ralph is on the bed behind me, patting my shoulder with his feather-light touch, wanting to come over onto my lap.  Aside from being disappointed that the Kids aren't coming up, all's right in my world.

San Antonio Rose

Having decided to quit dawdling and get some serious housework done, I changed the channel to hunt for one of the all-music stations...and that was my downfall.  I usually listen to '50s rock-and-roll (definitely not the same as what is called rock-and-roll today) at such times, but really wasn't in the mood.  Classical was too mellow to get me moving.  Hmmm.  Aha!  "County Gold," that'll do.  However, the first song played was "San Antonio Rose," and I was transported in time.  This was Willie Nelson's version, but I remember the Bob Wills original (1940).  My daddy was a dancer.  There are old photos of him dancing with me as an infant in arms, and it's one of my first memories of my father...dancing together when I was so little I had to stand on his feet to learn the moves.  While he loved all music, as a Texas import, county music remained a favorite for Daddy, and "San Antonio Rose" was at the top of his list.  Of course, I had to stop and listen...and remember.

Toward the end of his years, due to a severe car accident, Dad lived in a convalescent hospital and walked with a cane.  Once a month a live band would come to play for the residents.  In addition to my other visits, Dad would tell me to be sure to be there on the day the band would be there...and not be late!  He might have had trouble walking, but he would hook his cane over his arm and we danced!  "Daddy, I'm sure some of these ladies would love to be your partner."  "Maybe, but they can't follow like you can."  Alrighty then.

Instead of the background music I'd planned, the afternoon was spent in reverie as old songs came one after another.  From the first strum of Nelson's guitar Trigger to Waylon Jennings' throaty voice, from Patsy Cline's heartbreaking lyrics to Merle Haggard in the '60s...the memories kept coming.  I'd love to have one more dance with my father.

It's definitely going to be "back to the future" today.  I've got special company coming tomorrow!

What Was That?

The Delawares are so quiet that I wasn't sure of what I thought I was hearing.  Yup, there it was again.  Either one of the little girls was bragging about an egg she'd laid or there was a major squabble in the chicken pen.  It's hard to complain about such a well-behaved group, but I do miss the gossipy chatter of a flock.  I even have to depend on roosters in the neighboring hills to tell me it's morning.  Stanley is a bit of a dud in that regard.

Having had so many turkeys here in the past, it's been so strange lately that there have been so few.  I even throw down less birdseed of a morning because it wasn't being eaten.  It was somewhat of a surprise yesterday when I heard the low-voiced "whhtt, whhtt" that a group of the big birds will use to talk to each other as they scratch through the leaves together in the herb garden.  Nice to have visitors.

The crows have returned.  I wonder if they come to harvest ripe grapes in the vineyards.  Crows have such an extensive vocabulary.  I wish there was a dictionary for interpretation.  In addition to the cawing and group chatter, every so often one will make a repeated guttural ratcheting sound, for lack of a better description.  I'd really like to know what that means.

It was a beautiful day, warm and mild, and the colors in the sunset changed constantly.  We're back to a full moon and the night is flooded with light.

It was a good day.

If...

There's an old saying, "If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride."  Looking at the drifts and piles of leaves in the yard, the porch, the deck, I think, "If leaves were dollars, I'd be a very wealthy woman."  Heck, I'd settle for dimes.  If I got an infusion of ambition, my house would sparkle and be ready for a visit from the Queen.  I did have ambitious plans yesterday, but unloading feed from the truck in the morning took the starch out of me and I needed a sit-down after chores.  If I worked out with weights, I might regain some muscle tone, but there's that word...work.

If things work out and we all stay well, Deb and Craig will come up this Saturday.  Disappointingly, several times in the past month a planned visit has had to be postponed.  Fingers crossed this time!

One Is For Show

Once upon a time, long, long ago, ladies always had two handkerchiefs in their handbag.  One was for show and one was for "blow."  The one for show was fancy, patterned and/or lace trimmed, and was only taken out in public, probably to dab away a tear or some such in ladylike fashion.  My mother crocheted lace for many, many handkerchiefs, some for her or my purse and some for much-appreciated gifts.  As she aged and her eyesight was failing, I found her sitting outside in the driveway of her apartment building, crocheting yet another hanky.  She said she could see better in the sunlight.  I still have several examples of her lovely handwork tucked safely away.

The other was strictly utilitarian, large, plain, and useful.  That one was used to blow a nose, a kid's nose, get a child to spit on a clean corner to wipe their dirty face (yes, we did that), stop minor bleeding...oh, a multitude of things.  If Mother wasn't carrying a purse and didn't have a pocket, she'd tuck a hanky up the sleeve of her cardigan, just in case.

Men also had the show and blow technique.  My father was a dandy, always wore a suit, and had many handkerchiefs, white or colored, to tuck in the breast pocket of his jacket.  These were folded in the fashion of the day:  one point, two or three points, or square top showing.  They were only ever taken out to loan to a weeping lady.  Daddy's blow handkerchief was stuck in a back pocket.  I learned to iron on the many hankies in our house.

This subject came up because I've had a drippy nose for a couple of months and it's driving me bonkers.  If I've said it once, I've said, "Blow, don't sniff," a thousand times to my Kids, and now it's me making that irritating sound.  There are boxes of tissues in every room, but I'll be darned if I remember to put one in the pocket of my bibbies and there I'll be in the barn, dripping and sniffing like a three-year-old.  I don't even have a hanky to carry anymore.  I'll be glad when the pollen or dust, whatever, stops plaguing me.  Sniff.

The Hills Are Alive

Knowing I'd be making a trip to town, I called Camille to ask if she needed anything.  She didn't, but in the course of our conversation she said, "Omigosh, there is a steady stream of Harleys going by, and they just keep coming."  I told her it might be a poker run.  One side of her property fronts on the paved road, so she sees a lot more than I.  The hills were alive with the roar of those powerful motorcycles, which is music to a bike rider's ears, and I could hear it up here.  I left for town not long after that and the bikes were still coming.  Down the road apiece, a group of fifteen or so had pulled off to stretch.  I stopped to ask what was the event.  One rider in leathers and head bandana said, "Hi Mom!" and came over to the truck.  Hi Mom?  I didn't recognize this guy, but wondered if he was a member of the Freed Spirits whom I didn't remember meeting.  He wasn't.  Evidently grey hair qualifies females as mom, and I'm fine with that.  I asked how his day was going, and he said, "I'm riding a Harley on a beautiful day in the hills with a group of good friends.  What could be better?" (I was jealous.)  It was, indeed, a poker run, which is an organized, sponsored day-long ride somewhere for many clubs and individuals from all over with five designated stops along the way to pick up a playing card, trying to make a winning poker hand at the end.  Monies raised by the entrance fees not only provide the prizes, but the majority is donated to charity.  I've never known a more generous group of people than bikers.  As I was leaving, the guy said, "Have yourself a beautiful day, Mom," and I replied, "Ride safe, sweetheart."  (If I could be Mom, then this stranger could be sweetheart.)

The trip to town was uneventful.  It was a good day.

Downtime

There were places to go, things to do, and all plans got put on hold yesterday.  I get sick so rarely (yay) that I don't know how to act, but I felt really icky from the time I got up.  Goats and chickens are insensitive regardless, so they were a top priority in the morning.  I really needed to go to town, but given the immediacy of the symptoms, decided it wouldn't be a good idea to be stuck in the truck for the time it would take.  I had an afternoon appointment with my traveling hairdresser...nope, not gonna happen, and we rescheduled.  There's only one way to deal with it when you look like you fixed your hair with an eggbeater...don't look in the mirror.  Not that I'm a blazing ball of fire on any given day, but little to nothing got done while I took some downtime.

It was pretty interesting that whatever stomach bug had hit was interspecies.  Either that or Bessie Anne had an attack of sympathy barfing in the evening.  It was almost laughable to hear both our bellies rumbling loudly as if in competition; not so funny to have to clean up after her.

It seems to have been one of those 24-hour things, because today is starting out pretty well.  So far, so good for the dog and me.  I'm not looking forward to the now-unavoidable trip to town (when do I ever?), so that is on the agenda.  One day of downtime is enough.

Neighborly

A neighbor, Joe, stopped by yesterday.  He'd been over some time back to ask about the big oak that fell a couple of years ago, saying that he'd cut it up and split it for half of the firewood.  That's a heck of a deal for both of us.  It is a huge tree.  Joe and Steve used to go up into the national forest after the loggers had been through and cut firewood from the slash piles.  My only rule was that Steve couldn't go on these outings alone.  This was before cellphones and way out in the boonies where no one knew where you were, working with a chainsaw on a pile of logs was, in my opinion, way too dangerous.  I think Joe's wife felt the same way.  Clay used to go sometimes, and sometimes I'd go.  My job always was to load the cut rounds into the trailer and fill the truck.  I can't say it was easy, but in its own way, it was fun.  I could no more do it now than fly to the moon.

We had hit one of those heat spells after Joe had asked about the tree and the hot, dry weather had presented its own danger...fire.  That's okay, that tree isn't going anywhere.  In the course of conversation, I mentioned that I'd recently been given those goofy, antisocial Delaware chickens.  Joe had had a small flock that was also taken off by, he thought, a bobcat.  He asked questions and wanted to see the Delawares.  We agreed we really enjoy chickens and it wouldn't surprise me to learn that he soon gets more.  As an aside, the little girls are pretty good layers, but they seem to have no mothering instinct at all.  I've never found one sitting on her nest, and the eggs are always cold when I pick them up.  Oh well, six hens is plenty.

I have two little cat beds and where does Celeste sleep?  On Bessie Anne's bed.  Ralph prefers a sunny spot on the back of the couch.  Bess walks wistfully by her bed, but she never asks Celeste to move.

Bessie was one happy dog last evening.  She asked to go out after dark so I turned on the porch light for her, and it's a good thing I did.  She's been hunting for weeks for that dried up squirrel she'd discovered and last night she found it again.  She wasn't too pleased with me when I wouldn't let her bring it in, but I have my limits.

My Point Of View

Bessie Anne does move around to sleep during the day...to the hearth, to the loveseat, flat on the carpet, and, if Celeste hasn't preempted it, her own dog bed.  This, however, is her favorite place to nap when I'm in my chair and the view I see most often.

Bess watched with some interest yesterday when the workers were picking in my neighbor's vineyard.  She still sees movement, I think, but not details.  I don't know if this was the same crew that Joel hired, but it was a friendly bunch.  If I'm out of the barn when they come to the end of the row, they always wave hello, but never stop working.  There had to be a comedian in this group because there was constant laughter, and isn't that a great sound?  I'm always amazed at how fast they can pick an entire field of vines.  That property is twenty-seven acres, mostly in grapes.  The men and women start early and are finished by noon.

My horizon to the north has changed.  I was appalled to learn that three pine trees down in the woods had fallen during the big wind, and they fell on the fence between our properties.  My neighbor is handy with a chainsaw and evidently cleared the fence so her horses are safe.  I wouldn't have had it happen for the world, but some things are out of my control.  There is a tree removal program for seniors, but I found out it is only for trees that threaten a residence.  Drat.

Barn Blues

The girls are not happy with me.  When Bess and I went down to Mt. Aukum a couple of days ago, they were out of sweet cob, a combination of grains mixed with molasses, and I had to buy dry cob, which is crushed oats, corn, and barley without the sweetener.  I was out of feed, so it was dry cob or nothing.  Tess and Sheila do not like it.  They want sugar on their cereal, and let me know it.  Tessie dumped her bowl over.  It's a waste as far as the goats are concerned, but I'm sure the barn birds and whatever else lives in there will have a feast.  I haven't seen Missy for weeks, maybe over a month, so quit putting out food for her.  Something was eating it, but no sign of the cat.  The girls are stuck with the dry cereal because there's no room for another bag until this one is gone.  Sorry 'bout that.

Ahh, the luxury of electricity!  I turned on lights just because I could.  I caught up on some recorded programs and got news for the first time in days.  I used the microwave and the toaster.  And coffee!  Real coffee!  I only drink one cup a day, but by golly, I want that cup!  All the wireless phones are working again.  It's easy to forget how limiting a corded phone can be.  Not being able to flush the toilets for days had been like living in an indoor outhouse, and I'm back in civilization again.

I guess we're as back to normal as normal ever gets here. 

Dark Ages

How ironic that in Sunday morning's entry I mentioned turning off the TV sound during commercials, etc.  PG&E warned that they might turn off the power in a large number of counties in high wind conditions to be proactive in checking their lines for damage.  (They are being sued for huge amounts for causing a number of fires up north.)  Their warnings came on Saturday when not a leaf was stirring, and then blam! just about sundown the wind came in like a freight train, and we were blasted all night long.  I thought we'd dodged the bullet because we kept power.  Ha.

Sunday evening about 9 p.m. we were thrown into the dark ages:  no light, no sound, no computer, no nothing.  There's no dark quite like up here where there is no ambient light, especially when the moon is waning.  I keep flashlights in every room...this wasn't my first go-round.  There was one immediate problem.  My son Dave had called on my cellphone earlier and my battery was nearly dead.  I'd plugged it in to recharge shortly before the power went out.  Aarrgh.  The cellphone goes with me everywhere and it's like my portable lifeline to the world.  I do keep a landline (at considerable cost) just in case though, thank goodness.

Things started going downhill.  The nightlights that have switched on when we lose electricity started failing, all five at once.  Drat!  Water conservation is a primary concern because the only resource is what is left in the pressure tank, so no flushing, no washing, not much of anything that requires water.  Keep the water bowls full for the all the animals, indoor and out, and take a cup a day to make instant coffee.  Once again I was so glad we'd switched out the electric stove top for propane.  The coffee was a flop because all I had in the cupboard was some very old orange-cappuccino stuff that had been awful in the first place.  Try brushing your teeth with a dry brush and no rinsing sometime.  Poor Bess got sick during the night.  There's nothing like waking up to the sound of a dog on the bed yarking, trying to vomit.  She was successful.  On my pillow.  Washing bedclothes was definitely a no-no.

I remembered that my sister had sent me a battery-powered radio years ago and that I'd never even taken out of the box.  When Steve was alive, we used the downtime to talk, play cards, etc.  I found it in the workroom and dragged it out.  Uh huh.  It is the size of a boombox and it takes eight batteries!  I keep batteries of all sizes on hand, but not eight.  I put the thing back in the workroom.

I was commiserating with Tinka down in Fiddletown.  Amador county, as well as El Dorado county, was hit with the blackout.  We were discussing what we could do with no power and no water...not much.  I said I might have to break down and dust, and she said, "Oh no, get a good book and sit down."  Sounded good to me and, believe it or not, when I checked my stash I found two I had not yet read.  With the aid of flashlight and that great lighted hat Craig made, that took care of Monday, Monday night, and most of Tuesday.  I finished one book and almost all of the other.

How long does it take to check the lines, anyhow?  Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, time just dragged by.  No sound, no light, none of the conveniences we take so much for granted.  And then, ta da! electricity came back about 5 last night!  Run, do not walk, to flush the toilets, fill the water bowls again, and wash the pots and pans that were stacked in the sink.  The water bowl for the wild things was completely dry, so that got filled when I put the kids to bed.

How good it is to come out of the dark ages.

Sound Off

I've been wondering lately if the cats are concerned about hearing loss.  It would be understandable.  As I've said before, the television is on all day here so there is always background noise whether I'm watching anything or not.  It might be my imagination, but it seems to me that there are more and more commercials these days.  Even on the morning news channel, one or two items of interest will be followed by, and I've counted, five or six ads.  I understand that is how the television companies make money, but I'm getting crotchety and I find them irritating in such quantity.  That doesn't even speak to the time given to political candidates in an election year.  I will never understand why it is necessary to resort to name calling and really nasty mud slinging.  It certainly doesn't elevate a person and, in my opinion, speaks poorly to one's character.

Back to the cats.  My way of dealing with commercials, etc., these days is to simply turn the sound off while ads are running.  They may be a necessary evil, but I don't have to listen to them and the mute button gets a lot of action.  If it's a recorded program, I hit fast forward.  My life is certainly more peaceful, but I wonder what the cats think about the periodic silence in the house.  Bessie Anne doesn't hear anything anyhow, so it's of no concern to her.

Maybe it was the heat when the chickens arrived that kept them inside.  We've had weather in the 70s lately (yay!) and the flock is spending more time outdoors every day.  They operate in the reverse of my recent practice, and still only turn the sound on now and then.  Oh well.

Time Warp

In speaking with others recently I find that I'm not the only one who thinks something weird is happening to time.  It's like the clock has slipped a gear and is going faster and faster.  Old movies would indicate the passing of time by showing the pages of a calendar flipping rapidly by.  I can darn near see that happening now.  I'll think about doing something or meeting up with someone and zut! before I know it the opportunity has passed.

I got a call from a long-time friend yesterday.  We try to get together at least once a year for lunch, but realized that it's been two years since we last met...and it seems like just a few months ago.  It makes my head spin.

The Kids might have thought I'd slipped a cog when I asked so early for a consensus on Thanksgiving, but now look...the holiday is only a month away.  And then comes Christmas, and then the New Year.  Aarrgh!  I've still got plastic eggs from Easter in the kitchen!

It wasn't this way back in the day.  The nine-month school year dragged on and we thought summer vacation would never come.  Then when we were finally set free, those three months lasted so long we got bored and couldn't wait for school to start again so we could see our friends.  Go figure.

It is a reality that the days are getting shorter.  Sunup isn't until nearly 7 now, and I go down to put the goats in the barn by 6:30.  I just read that California is considering not changing to Daylight Saving Time, or maybe just keeping DST all year.  Personally, I'm for it.  I have enough trouble with time as it is.

On a happy note, the little hen who was so picked on, literally, is almost fully feathered again.  I was going to call her Godiva since she was "stripped," but see that won't work now that she's clothed.  She still remains separated from the rest of the flock.  The others cluster together on the roosts at night, but she has made her space between the feed barrels alone.  What in the world would make a chicken an outcast?

Well, here it is Saturday.  Seems like only a day or two ago it was trash Tuesday.  Where did the time go?

Doddering On

These days Bess Anne often makes me think of Robert Browning's poem that starts, "Grow old along with me."  I'm not so sure about the next line that says the best is yet to be, but I'll settle for what we've got.  In people years Bessie is approaching 105 and has earned the right to slow down.  We mosey around at a snail's pace together and that suits me fine.  I don't hurry anywhere anyhow.  Lately she's been having a "senior condition" and wakes up about 3:30 a.m.and needs to go outside.  "Oh, no," I, who had been sleeping soundly, think, but it's not the sort of request one can refuse.  The trouble is that I have to stay awake to let her back in.   She goes right back to sleep, of course.  It takes her all day to eat her bowl of kibble in small helpings.  Sometimes she sleeps in in the morning and misses treat time.  That's okay; she doesn't remember.  Bess has never been a yappy dog.  Now if she wants in or out, being almost totally deaf she's forgotten how to use her "inside" voice and really startles me with one very loud bark.  I'll say this, she gets my attention!  She spends most of her day sleeping, daydreaming, and following me whenever I leave the room.  She's my constant companion.

Steve and I had thought Bessie's predecessor was an incomparable dog.  Dogie died quite suddenly at age 9 and we were devastated.  He swore we'd never get another dog because Dogie was irreplaceable.  I lasted two months and said I couldn't live without a dog in my life and went on the hunt for a puppy and Bessie Anne came into our lives and our hearts.  She's helped me through some rough patches in life.

Reality tells me that one of these days (hopefully years) she'll leave me.  There are times now that I'll watch carefully to see that she's breathing in her sleep, hoping that today isn't the day.  It's not being morbid, I'm just trying to get prepared for the inevitable.  It's hard to imagine life here without my dear friend.  There's a line in Tom T. Hall's 1972 song, "Old Dogs, Children, and Watermelon Wine," that says, "Old dogs care about you even when you've made mistakes."  She's put up with me her entire life.  Patience is a small price to pay for devotion.

Watch Your Step

Tinka and I were comparing notes about the need to be exceptionally careful at this time of year.  Our yards become places full of potential disaster, even though she is not plagued with the dadratted ground squirrels as I am.  The winds of late have brought down tons more leaves which hide the booby traps waiting to trip us up and bring us down.   In my case, there are squirrel holes big enough to hide small children or large dogs (okay, that's a slight exaggeration) and definitely large enough to trip a grown man.  Small limbs and twigs have also fallen hiding in the leaves which, if stepped on wrong, will turn underfoot and cause a fall.  As if that weren't enough, there are the acorns.  It's like walking on ball bearings just to get to the chicken pen.  Acorns take a two-pronged approach.  If they can't trip you, they'll hit you in the head.  They must pick up speed as they fall because they land hard.  I'll never understand how the truck is not dimpled, given the loud bangs as they hit.  It's the time of year to watch your step.  They don't call it fall for nothing.

Kickin' It

One can only take so much excitement, and Monday's outing was it for me.  Yesterday was a kick-back day, spent trying to clear off a lot of recorded programs on DVR.  They tend to pile up while I watch something live or try a new series.

The Chinese leftovers did not last as long as I'd thought.  They would have had I not had some for dinner on Monday and then breakfast, lunch, and dinner yesterday.  Gosh, it was good.  The Hong Kong Inn uses Szechuan chilis in the oil that gives a nice kick.

The little kids found their voice!  While no one will accuse them of being Chatty Cathys, at least I could hear them talking off and on yesterday.  I like that sound.

Ralph was also kickin' it, having remade the guest bed to his liking.  It must frustrate him that I make my (our) bed every day. He uses his artistic talents elsewhere.  I'm sure he was an interior decorator in another life.

It wasn't until after the goats and chickens were in for the night and almost dark when I remembered it was take-the-trash-down day.  Yikes!  I hustled to get my meager offering and Bess into the truck.  Living on a narrow, one-lane dirt road, it is the courteous custom to pull off where possible when meeting another vehicle, as I did on the way back.  The oncoming truck stopped to say hi as he passed.  It was Fritz from up on Irish Acres, the owner of Fay, the old black lab who used to come visiting.  We haven't talked in ages.  Fritz is semi-retired now and trying to get used to just kicking back.

It was a good day.

Happy Days

No, not "Happy Days," the 1974-84 sitcom with Ron Howard and Henry Winkler, yesterday was a happy day of my very own.  Perfect weather, beautiful scenery, and the company of good friends...what could be better?  Well, throw in the long-awaited Chinese food for lunch and you've put the cherry on top.  Kit volunteered to drive so I sat like a lady of leisure and just gave directions and looked at the scenery.  Tinka, Kit and I chattered like magpies.  The Kids' dad could never understand how my mother, sister, and I could keep track of a conversation as topics got tossed about like pinballs.  "How can you finish each other's sentences and know what you're saying?"  He called it skip-talk.  Yesterday was like that.  And the laughter!  How good it is to laugh with friends.  We don't get together often, but each time it is as if we'd seen each other the day before.  Lunch was delicious and I brought home leftovers that will last for days.

Kit spoils me when she visits, and I have to admit I get excited like a little kid to see see what she's brought.  The one sure thing will be a few packets of different kinds of licorice, for which I have a weakness.  I love the stuff, but never buy it for myself.  In addition, she brings some unusual treasure.  In the surprise bag yesterday there were a pair of white porcelain La Mancha goat salt-and-pepper shakers to add to my collection, and a ceramic pig that gave me pause.  Small, with a slice across its back.  Hmmm.  I thought I might have figured it out, and that was confirmed by Kit later.  It is a placecard holder.  For someone who sometimes feels she should sew name tags into her clothes, this will keep me in my place!

It was an unhurried day, but we were all reluctant to have it end.  Hugs and kisses all around, and the happy day was over, the memory to be taken out again and again to relish.

It was a good day.

Which Way

A long time ago, not quite back in the day, but a l-o-n-g time, there were a couple of cartoon dogs, one of which was a big dopey sheepdog whose tagline was, "Which way did they go, George?  Which way did they go?"  It's a question I often ask myself.  I've been feeding birds of all types and sizes for years, always the same amount every day and every day it is eaten.  For the past week or so I've noticed that quite a lot of birdseed is left on the ground.  What's up with that?  I see and hear birds all day long, but then realized that it had been a while since I'd seen any turkeys.  I did wonder if it was turkey season and the big guys had gone into hiding.  As if conjured by the thought, six big toms paraded past while I was hanging laundry on the line yesterday.  I don't know where they'd gone, but it's reassuring to see them back.

I also don't know which way the hummers have gone.  From filling three feeders at least once a day, I'm down to filling one maybe once a week.  I know they're migratory, but where do they go?  It seems awfully early for them to take off for the winter, but what do I know.

Either I missed the awesome vulture migration last month or they've changed their flight pattern.  That would be so disappointing.  At least I knew which way the big birds were going when they left, down to the Owens Valley in the Mojave desert.  There are still quite a few in the area, thank goodness.  As I've thought before, the world would be a pretty smelly place without the cleanup crew.

I felt so bad for Bessie Anne yesterday.  I got my exercise getting up to let her out so she could hunt for "her" squirrel.  She coursed back and forth looking for the darn thing and, boy, did I ever get the dirty looks for taking it away from her.  She hears next to nothing anymore and is half blind, but her nose works perfectly well and it worked overtime all day trying to find which way that mummified critter had gone.

I know which way I'm going today (for a change).  I'm meeting Kit and Tinka to go into P'ville for Chinese food for lunch!

What Day Is It?

Once in a great while a commercial will come along that is not irritating, banal, or just plain forgettable and be truly beautiful (I like the ads now for Dignity Health that promote "human kindness") or funny, like the Geico Insurance ad that swept the country...the camel asking, "What day is it?"  Being calendar challenged, I'm often reminded of that one.  (I'd probably be more in tune if my calendar wasn't still on August.)  It's my daughter who keeps me as close to on track as possible.  If the telephone rings early (and I mean early!) in the morning, I'm confident that it will be Deb and that it is, in fact, Saturday.  She has developed the habit of calling me on the weekend before Craig gets up and she's having a cup of coffee.  I feel confident in answering the phone and saying, "Good morning!  It must be Saturday."  These mother-daughter chats mean the world to me, almost as good as an in-person visit.

Yesterday morning after barn chores as I was walking up the drive I noticed that Bess had picked up something, but she was hiding whatever it was.  Bessie doesn't hurry anywhere anymore, but she hustled along in front of me, head down so I couldn't see.  Hmmm.  Catching up to her, I saw she'd found a long-dead, desiccated squirrel.  Our definitions of "Oh, goody" differed.  She was disappointed that I wouldn't let her bring her treasure into the house.  It wouldn't have done any good to throw it away because she would have just found it again, but she did have to leave it in the yard.  Another creature came later and disposed of the problem.  Poor Bessie Anne.

It being Saturday, I was busy doing nothing when Cam called, asking if I were going up to the store.  Camille never asks a favor, so it was an easy answer.  While picking up what she needed, I also bought myself a container of hummus and a baguette.  Close to fifty years ago, Gus, a Syrian merchant I knew, had introduced me to hummus and taught me how to make it.  For some reason, over time I'd lost the habit of making the chickpea, tahini, olive oil, lemon juice, and garlic dip or spread.  I'd been happily reintroduced last year.  Holiday carries a particularly good brand, and now I frequently choose that as a reward and treat for going shopping at all.  That was dinner last night.

Yesterday was Saturday so today must be Sunday.  Who needs a calendar?  Thanks, Deb.

Necessary

Yesterday was just what I needed and, surprisingly, it involved a trip to town.  I have been caught up in the chaos and acrimony on the political scene, watching a number of neutral news shows a day as I never have before.  My news intake has generally been limited to an apolitical local channel in the morning and that primarily for the weather.  Even now I stay away from radical diatribes on either side because I don't learn anything.  I will say that being inundated daily with the anger and passions of others is wearing and confusing.  Ready to put my head in the sand like an ostrich to ignore the latest situation in Washington, I needed some peace.

The trip to town, usually something to dread and avoid, was grand, both going and coming home.  There was next to no traffic on either of the two main roads to P'ville and I could drive at my own pace and really take in the scenery.  Trees in the woods had been washed clean by the rain and leaves flashed bright sunlight.  The oaks are just starting to change color, giving a preview of what is to come.  Spring is better, but fall in the foothills is beautiful.  (Summer, not s'much.)  Having pared my list to the bare necessities, two brief stops in town and I headed home.

Not wanting to pop the bubble, news programs were off the list for the afternoon.  Instead, I found old reruns of "The Golden Girls."  I'd forgotten how funny and well written they were.  Comedies are not my usual cup of tea, but these were just what the doctor ordered.

Even on a farm, a day off now and then is necessary.

For Real

Yesterday Nature quit teasing and gave us some rain for real.  It started just before daylight and continued steadily most of the day.  I left the play yard open for the girls.  How long has it been since I've done that?

It's hard to describe the smell of fresh-washed, dust-free, pine-scented air.  Bess and I couldn't resist when the skies cleared and we went for a slow walkabout in the front yard.  For a change, I didn't have to worry about tripping in a squirrel hole.  The little boogers had pulled dirt over to shut their front doors.  Evidently the rain had brought out some insects in the chicken pen because there were more hens outside pecking and scratching than I've seen together at one time.  Whatever it takes.

Both photos were taken at the same time as I went out to put the kids to bed.  The top one is to the east, the bottom one toward the west.

In a grand gesture, Nature opened another cloud or two after dark.

It was a good, wet day, for real.  (Remind me of this when I'm whining about damp rot and soggy shoes.)

Better Than Nothing

This bit of sunshine at dusk was our only peek yesterday, otherwise there was nothing but a grey, overcast sky.  Surprisingly warm, it felt muggy until about 2:00 and then it finally rained.  Briefly.  I'm not complaining because it rinsed the dust off the truck and, boy, did Truck need it.  There was just enough to settle the dust on the paths, too, but not enough to water the plants.  Some is better than none.

Along about noon I heard the chickens fire off.  Always worried about a predator, Bessie and I went out to see what the ruckus was all about.  One little hen was standing dejectedly outside alone and the rest of the flock was standing inside yelling at her, led by Stanley.  I'm thinking that all of those feathers floating about are from this one girl because her back is plucked nearly bald.  What in the world would cause the others to literally pick on her like that?  The peaceful kingdom isn't always so peaceful.  As I've thought so many times before, can't we all just get along?  I can sympathize with the outcast, but there's not much I can do about her plight.  At least the meanies let her come in last night.  That's better than nothing.

Push The Button

In 1965 there was a terrific movie, "The Great Race," with Jack Lemmon, Peter Falk, Tony Curtis, and Natalie Wood.  The memorable line for me was when Professor Fate (Lemmon) would tell his bumbling sidekick (Falk) to "Push the button, Max!," and comedic mayhem would ensue.  In my case, it's more of a "Don't push the button."  I do pretty well with gadgetry and electronics, sometimes learning on my own and sometimes with the tutelage of my Kids.  My downfall comes with the cellphone.  I cannot say how many times I've hung up on a caller, even when I really, really wanted to speak with them.  It is ingrained in me to read from left to right so the phone rings and I push the left button.  It matters not that the left button is red and the right (and correct to answer) is green.  (Colorblind people must be in a world of hurt.)  Call me on my cellphone and you take your chances.

Yesterday I had the opposite embarrassing situation.  During a sit-down break, I decided to delete some obsolete numbers from the "phone book."  Having some success, I got cocky.  Thumbing down the list, I landed on my dear son-in-law's work number.  To my horror, the phone called him!  One ring and I realized what I'd done and hung up immediately, hoping he'd either not hear it or ignore it.  That is not in his nature and he called me.  "Hi Mom."  Unless it were a true emergency, I do not call anyone while they're working and I became red faced and profusely apologetic.  Bless his heart, he laughed when I explained what my phone had done (it certainly wasn't my doing).  I can imagine his answer when my daughter asked him last evening how his day was.

The sun rose yesterday under a heavy blanket of clouds and I really thought we might get some of that promised rain.  It didn't happen.  The clouds burned off and it turned into a bluebird day.  I spoke with an aunt up in Lake County where it was raining cats and dogs.  Go figure.

Visitors

Yesterday saw the happy completion of a rather lengthy computer project.  I was out of darn near anything edible and was going to take a shower and head to the store when I heard, "Hellooo?"  Knowing I looked like the wreck of the Hesperus, I sure wasn't expecting anyone.  Oh, good grief.  I'm in the process of changing home insurance companies and the nice man had come to inspect the property.  I know he's a nice man because he went back to his car and brought out a "cookie" for Bess Anne, my official, very polite greeter.  Not only was I a disaster, I was embarrassed for the property.  Not being able to mow in that brief period of time between too wet and too hot, dry, high weeds abounded, but, as Beau says, what're ya gonna do?  Fingers crossed.  PS:  I really dislike the new hybrid cars (sorry, my daughter owns one).  They quietly sneak up the drive and arrive without my knowing.  Give me even a big old diesel any day.  With few-to-no unexpected guests, I like to be forewarned.

Coming back from restocking the groceries, I found a message from Tinka.  She called back later and gave me the answer to my unknown night creature.  Turns out it's a fox!  She recognized that hoarse, almost choking sound I'd heard and knew right away what it was.  I'm very familiar with the yips and yodels of coyotes, and now it's nice to have one of life's other mysteries solved.

Tinka also gave me some happy news.  Kit is going to come up next week and we're going to make another attempt at going for Chinese food together.  We tried last June, but drove into town only to find that the restaurant had closed (that day!) for a month's vacation and we had to settle for a hamburger.  It will be so good to see both of these very enjoyable ladies.

All said and done, it was a good day.

Slide Show

It's not hard at times to feel I'm watching a constantly changing live slide show of beauty.  Yesterday's morning sky was filled with streaks of red.  I would have tried to capture it, but had woken up late (5:30) and had to get things done.  This morning (4:30), the nearly full moon is spectacular shining behind drifting banks of clouds and, dadrat it, my phone does not take good photos of the night sky so I can't share.  Every window and door look out on a view, different and lovely in its own way.  I guess now that kids in school watch stuff on laptops, but I remember the click, click, click of the slide show carousels.in class.

This aging business gets very frustrating.  At the same time it causes me to get inventive.  I needed to get a forty-pound bag of chicken scratch from the truck over to the coop and knew darned well I'd have trouble carrying it.  Hmmm.  I didn't want to back the truck up because Bess was out with me and that's a bit of a problem.  She's getting older, too, and I didn't want her out on her own and in the way.  She doesn't hear any vehicle anymore, so doesn't move away.  Getting her into the truck is also a problem because she can't jump in as she used to.  We've worked out a system.  She puts her front feet up on the running board and I boost her back end up on the seat.  It wasn't worth the effort for the short move to the coop.  Think, woman.  Aha!  I got the little wagon used to bring firewood to the porch and was able to drag the bag out of the truck into the wagon and over to the pen.  Where there's a will, there's a way.

Lately there has been some unidentified night creature out in the dark and I haven't the foggiest idea as to what it is.  It makes a sound like no other I've heard.  I don't even know if it's a bird or an animal.  The first time I heard it, it sounded almost like the hoarse cry of a wounded creature, brief but loud and repeated for a short while.  I can tell it moves about the front yard, never sounding in the same place.  I'm thinking it's hunting, but have no idea what it is.  Another of life's mysteries.