T Is For...

Travel.  Just because I'm root bound now doesn't mean that was always the case.  Any excuse was a good one for my parents to pack up for a road trip.  How Times have changed.  Radios were optional in cars and reception was iffy.  Air conditioning meant you opened the windows.  The gear shift was on the steering column; there was no automatic.  We entertained ourselves on long empty stretches by singing.  My dad was born in the late 1800s and my mother in 1904...they had a wealth of songs from their past, as well as the then-current hits in the forties.  Larger cities had hotels, but we mostly stayed in little cabins in tourist camps, the precursor to motels.  If not by car, we traveled by steam engine trains.  Those were the days when a porter would come down the aisle, ringing a gong to announce mealtime.  The tables in the dining car were set with white linen and heavy silver.  It was wonderful to fall asleep in the fold-down bed to the rocking of the train and clickety-clack of the wheels, watching the stars fly by out in the night.  We traveled by train from southern California to Louisiana and later to Mexico City.  We drove all over the United States, except for the northeastern-most coast.  I drove before I had a license to Canada and back with my mother.  We took the boat to Catalina Island, and the plane to San Francisco.  Air travel then was certainly different.  My mother had become enthralled with airplanes as a girl when a barnstormer came through their town and she got to ride in an open biplane.  Our flight to San Francisco was in a very small plane and my dad was scared spitless.  He didn't fly again until he was in his late seventies.  I've since flown countless times and even learned to fly a single-engine Cessna.

I've been to Alaska and Hawaii, to Greece, Italy, Switzerland, Luxembourg, Germany, France, and England.  I put forty thousand miles a year on my car when I was a consultant.  I'm happy to stay put now.

S Is For...

Sauna.  The latch burns my fingers before I open the door, and I know what's coming.  Setting the empty buckets down, I go from stall to stall, releasing the inmates, bringing one girl into the small, overheated room.  Even before taking my place next to my warm companion on the stand, my face is covered with a damp film.  My heavy denim bibbies hold the heat on my legs as if I were covered in blankets.  Working as quickly as I can to get this girl milked and out again, sweat begins to pour from my face, pooling in my glasses and dripping from my nose...it runs in rivulets down my spine.  Oh!  I straighten to catch an errant puff of breeze that wafts through the barn on this still day.  I'm on the far side of the goat, so she catches and blocks most of it.  Doggedly, I work my way through one goat after the other...three down, three to go.  When Esther comes in for her breakfast, I grab the baby's bottles and race around to the nursery and let him chug down his milk.  Two to go.  This time in purgatory seems to last forever.  In reality, on a good day I can finish all the barn chores in less than an hour and a half.  The last goat needs coaxing to come in, and I can't blame her.  Standing in the blazing sun, "Come on, Sheila...come on in and let's get this over with.  Please, Sheila.  Pleeeease, Sheila!  Sheila, get your stupid butt in this barn right this instant!  Please, Sheila."  She finally takes that first step over the threshold, I get her milked out, and we're home free.  I get the nighttime snacks ready, put out water and "cereal" for Twenty-Two, and start the trek back up to the house, soaking wet and lugging two full milk buckets.  The Queen of England could be pulling up the drive, and it wouldn't be enough to make me get up from my chair under the ceiling fan when I get to the house at last.  It's my own fault...enjoying my visitor's company, I let myself get way behind Schedule.  Opportunity costs sometime come with a penalty...it's called a Sauna.

R Is For...

Rut...as in "stuck in a rut."  Life here is essentially the same day after day, every day.  That's pretty much the definition of boring.  The odd thing is that no two days are ever the same, and I'd be hard-pressed to be bored.  The sun comes up every day, but its appearance is ever changing.  Today happens to be painted in muted pastels.  Weather...well, unpredictable at best.  Weeds...an unending chore, but even they are different in everything but persistence.  The personalities of the animals make the repetitive tasks involved in their care entertaining and sometimes surprising.  I never know when a mouse will jump out when I take the lid off the breakfast grain bucket.  Milking the same goat tomorrow will be different from today; the teat orifices might be more open or closed, her stance might make the job easier or more difficult, she might have more milk or less.  Among the spectators in the barn, the regulars might return or new squirrel and mice faces show up.  The wildlife population is always out there, but the cast is in constant rotation, changing with the seasons.  Just as I was thinking I hadn't seen any tom turkeys in a long time, three showed up at the feeding station yesterday.  I haven't seen deer on the property in awhile, but noted that the leaves on a planted tree in the pasture are going missing and I know who to blame.

Repetition provides consistency.  There is comfort in knowing my constant role at Farview, knowing what is expected.  Life itself throws enough curve balls, puts enough obstacles in the way.  Excitement is where you find it.  My road may be rutted, but I like the direction it is headed.

Q Is For...

Quite the lad!  Little Mr. Full of Himself, Twenty-Two has learned to jump up on the lidded feed barrel in his crib.  The next step was, of course, to jump over the gate.  Now I never know where he'll be, except underfoot.  I'm going to try soon to move him in with Nineteen and hope they'll get along as roommates.

Time schedules get a bit wonky when I have company (there's so much to talk about), and it doesn't help that the days are getting shorter.  Almost dark when I was putting the girls to bed last night, Esther, last in line, got herself spooked and was on high alert.  Peering through the dusk, I finally located the source of her panic.  Frank was walking along the fence line.  Snorting the danger signal, Esther wouldn't go in the barn until Frank got close enough for her to see he was the same old cat she saw every day.  She gave one last snort of disgust and went to bed.

One entertainment I can offer here is wine tasting.  We happened to hit the three wineries at a slow moment in their busy day yesterday and my great-niece and I were able to chat a bit with our hosts as we sipped.  Fair Play promotes the local product as "Wines With Altitude," and one of the fringe benefits of each winery is a tremendous view.

To Kathy V.:  there is cause for celebration in Times Square.

P Is For...

Perpetual hope.  Bessie Anne never gives up.  Years ago, my friend Doris and I would take turns driving to town to do our grocery shopping.  She liked to go shopping, and going together made it less onerous for me.  Doris drove a van.  On one hot afternoon when it was her turn, Doris suggested getting a chai latte "for the road" home.  Back at the house, we were unloading my groceries and left the big door in the van open.  Such easy access was an irresistible invitation and Bess got in to check it out.  Getting out, I swear that dog had a blissful expression...and a muzzle covered in whipped cream.  Doris had left her drink open on the console.  Since then, whenever anyone arrives here, no drug-sniffing dog could inspect a vehicle with more intensity.  She'll check out the car before she greets the driver, and I have to explain.  After all this time, Bessie Anne has never given up hope that there might be more whipped cream.

Let a guest walk in the door and Bessie Anne is sure it's a Party and, "Let's start with treats!"  That started as a way to distract her, an incentive and reward for not jumping up on people (a dog trait I do not enjoy).  My great-niece found her way here from southern California yesterday afternoon.  Bess greeted her politely after checking out the car and led the way to the kitchen for a cold beer and a biscuit...and I didn't mix up who got what.  It was a Party!

O Is For...

Opportunity cost.  That's just about the only thing I remember from Economics 1A class.  It's a two-word explanation for "you can't have your cake and eat it, too."  The simple definition of opportunity cost is:  when finite resources are spent on "this," there won't be enough to buy "that;" it's a lost opportunity.  (At the risk of going political, I wish more government officials had been required to take that class.)  Opportunity cost applies to time as well as finance.  There are just so many hours in a day.  Time spent dusting means I can't spend time reading.  It really boils down to choices.  I choose to live out here "in the back of beyond" and do without city conveniences.  I choose to raise goats and chickens (et cetera) with their regimented time constraints and forgo the pleasures of traveling.  I can't say that we were aware of all of the ramifications at the time, but moving to Farview Farm was the right choice, and I'm glad we took that opportunity.  I've "got the cake" and it tastes darned good.

My great-niece arrives later today for the weekend.  I'm losing prep time right now.

N Is For...

Nature's bounty.  My garden is a bit hit-and-miss this year.  The cantaloupes are just setting fruit, and if the pumpkins ever get past the blossom stage, they won't be ready until Christmas.  The green beans are fabulous, I must say, and the tomatoes, though sweet as sugar, are dinky little things.  I am so fortunate to have friends whose gardens are producing, and they share!  Yesterday Joel brought a watermelon at the peak of perfection (had that for dinner!), cucumbers, and a jar of his homemade pickles.  Sarah arrived with a basket of eggplants, tiny yellow grape tomatoes, a big heritage tomato, bell peppers and hot peppers, cucumbers (I can see white gazpacho on the menu), and yellow squash.  I got a laugh when Sarah said, "Friends don't give friends zucchini."  Barbara Kingsolver, in her book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, described the small town church parking lot where all car windows were rolled up and the doors locked lest the churchgoers come out to find big bags of zucchini on the front seat.  The irony is that I didn't plant zucchini this year, thinking some kind person would give me some!  My great-niece is due to arrive tomorrow and I am so happy to have all these wonderful home-grown vegetables to serve.

Nick of time.  I could turn this into a testimonial to the Royal Vacuum Cleaner Company (they make the Dirt Devil).  I called customer service last Friday just to see if there was anything else I could do to get my not-so-old vacuum going again, having tried everything I knew to revive it.  Two of the nicest, friendliest, most efficient service reps and one corporate honcho later, my vacuum was laid to rest and I ordered a new one at a significantly reduced price.  (Honcho actually directed me to the low-end vacuum to meet my needs.)  I was told the order would be expedited.  Yeah, yeah...heard that one before.  I was lining up my apologies to my great-niece, Lori, for the appearance of my carpet, but what could I do?  I nearly fell over when Fed-Ex drove up yesterday with a new, improved model...three working days after my call!  I'm really impressed...and, dang, the carpet looks good.

Numbers One and Two sons accompanied Tree Guy yesterday and they went down to the oak in the goat pen to buck and split more firewood.  The men and the splitter are definitely getting a workout this year.