War and Peace

Tax time makes me a crazy person.  Every year I swear I will prepare the packet of requested information and get it to Tax Guy in a timely fashion.  This year I was more organized than ever before, sorting receipts, totting up feed bills, etc., during that brief flurry of cleaning out the work room back in, what, February?  The dining room table was covered with stacks of papers; all that was needed was to enter the info on the worksheet.  Well, that didn't happen.  Company came and all those stacks got swept up into a pile and hidden.  Out of sight, out of mind.  I wish I knew how to do the taxes myself.  It's bad enough that I shoot myself in the foot; it's worse that I put an additional burden on Tax Guy and his team as collateral damage.  Guilt immobilizes me.  I know what I should do.  I know what I must do.  The closer a deadline looms, the guiltier I become and I move at a snail's pace.  There's something about taxes that sends me right into the Twilight Zone.  I will have a document right there in my hand, not leave the room, and suddenly that piece of paper disappears.  More time is spent hunting for something I just had than anything else.  Yesterday was do-or-die day, my personal get-'er-done deadline.  I was on a roll, entering figures on the worksheet like I knew what I was doing.  Then disaster struck.  The guv'mint, in its wisdom, has decreed that when one reaches a certain age, one must take out a specified amount from savings each year.  This makes no sense to me as there is always the possibility that one might outlive one's money; therefore one should save as much as possible.  It seems I overlooked this mandatory deduction from one account.  The penalty is a whopping fifty percent!  When I quit banging my head on the wall, I called Tax Guy's office to (1) ask forgiveness for being so late and (2) find out if anything could be done about this deduction debacle.  I started out saying, "I need help, but I wish to remain anonymous."  It should be said that I talk to the gals in the office only once a year.  Just a couple of sentences later, Cathy laughingly asked, "Is this (Bo)?"  Busted.  She granted me dispensation for tardiness, and then handed the phone to Karen, my main source of help and information.  Amazingly, she remembers all about the critters on the farm and asked about them all.  Sympathetic as she was, the Feds are the Feds and I'll get hit with the penalty.  Sheesh.

Rattled and ragged, it was wonderful to go to Joel and Judy's for Passover dinner last night.  Hugged by friends and handed a glass (or two) of wine by my host and hostess, I was able to let it go and relax.  I would say I am a spiritual person, but not religious.  Participating in the reading of the Haggadah, however, is comforting.  Having been raised in a different religion, I still appreciate the ceremonies and rituals of faith...and the food!  Nourished in body and soul, I enjoyed the evening tremendously.

And then I came home and found a notice that I've been called for jury duty.  It was just one of those days.

Anticipation

I don't hear voices.  I hear music.  I usually wake up with some song or other playing in my head.  That cerebral radio is tuned to a music station all day long.  Looking at this view to the east from the as-yet-unrepaired barn door yesterday, I could hear Harry Belafonte belting out "Great Gettin' Up Mornin'."  That small dark speck in the grass just under the top bar of the gate is a ground squirrel who was also enjoying the scenery.  (Click on the photo to enlarge it.)

Kellan and William arrived to pick up milk, eggs, and a load of poop.  (Some shopping list!)  They came bearing assorted baby salad greens, sprinkled with edible flower petals, and bok choy (pak choi) from their organic garden.  They also had a proposal for my consideration.  They raise pigs on their farm.  They know I go grocery shopping but once a month.  In return for any extra milk and old eggs (I cannot use or sell all that the girls produce) for their pigs, Kellan and William would bring me a weekly supply of fresh vegetables.  The words were barely out of their mouths before I said yes!  I could really get into this barter thing.  I always feel so guilty when unused milk goes down the drain or eggs go into the trash.  I get ravenous for fresh vegetables, gorging the week after a shopping trip and doing without the rest of the month.  Talk about a win-win situation, I'm drooling with anticipation.  ("Anticipation," Carly Simon.)

The day had been sunny and bright, but darned cold.  I don't know what it is about sundown or why there is just that one band of clouds, but again there are those visible isolated areas of rainfall.  "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head," from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  I never know what I'm going to hear next, but I like what I hear.

Alpha and Omega

The day began with an attempted break in.  In just one afternoon, the girls had enlarged the hole in the barn door to the point that Tessie (the unicorn), on her knees, thought she could sneak into the milking room.  Thwarted, she went off in a huff, but that didn't prevent others coming by to assess their chances, peering in at the milking activities and eyeing the grain bucket.

Regardless of anything else on my agenda, I had to get some plywood.  The twenty-five-mile drive down to Martell is one of the prettiest, especially at this time of year on a sunny day.  The rolling hills are green, green, green!, dotted with old oaks, sprinkled with red Hereford, black Angus, and creamy Charolais cattle, with splashes of bright yellow wild mustard at the sides of the road.  Puffy white clouds in a blue sky overhead.  The old road still dips down into Dry Town, but a new, much wider addition bypasses Amador City and Sutter Creek.  On the way home, with fix-it material cut to size and stuffed into the back compartment of the truck, I stopped in Plymouth (aka Pokerville) for gas (yikes!) and groceries.  Up here, one does as many errands as possible on an outing.  That stop will save me another trip to town in the other direction.  It did, however, get me home too late to make the repairs on the barn door.

Some poor sucker drew the unlucky number at sundown, because it sure was raining on their parade somewhere.  It's not often one sees such an isolated rainfall.  Those puffy whites of the afternoon were getting organized in the west.

Topping up the water trough is my last chore of the day.  Looking up, wisps of clouds were drifting over the face of the full moon and reflecting in the trough.  Although I sometimes feel as though I live on another planet, this isn't Mars.  The second moon is just an aberration of my camera (sure is pretty, though).

It was a good day.

In the Company of Men

In the military, a company consists of 80-225 men.  The men in my company at Farview yesterday were four.  Clay arrived shortly after morning chores.  We took advantage of the gorgeous day to stand in the sunshine on the deck and talk, later moving over to chairs in the shade.  It had been a rough week for Clay.  I could see him visibly relax as Farview worked its magic.  There's just something about the views and country sounds here that ease the spirit.  Earle showed up to get his milk and eggs and he, too,  sat down to chat.  He had business to discuss with Tree Guy, so I made a call and TG came over.  Beer and sodas were passed around and a party spirit prevailed.  Some time later, Earle and TG left to determine what work was in the offing at Earle's property.  Joel had recently given me a jar of home-grown tomatoes he'd canned with red bell peppers, also from his garden.  That was the inspiration for an early dinner of Creole shrimp and rice.  Clay and I had just finished the last bite (delicious, and, yes, I am bragging) when Tom popped in for a beer and talk at the table, and a gallon of milk to take home at sundown.

Clay and I went out to tuck the chickens and goats in bed, I wearing my hard hat with the bright lights.  With just a rim of red sunset at the horizon and a full moon appearing once and again behind gathering rain clouds overhead, we stood in the quiet and watched bats flitting after bugs drawn by the beams from my hat.  Without the lights, we'd never have known the bats were there, swooping so close in the night.  Throughout the day we'd talked of family and friends, those who'd left us and those with us still.  The first raindrops pattered as he closed his car door and waved goodbye.

It was a good day.

If I'm Lyin'...

A rumor has been bandied about that I might exaggerate when talking about the girls.  I offer this as proof positive that I speak the truth, the "hole" truth, in the case of the rapidly disappearing barn door.  An unidentified miscreant was at work on a peek hole higher up, caught by the security camera in the milking room.

There are two sides to every story.  On advice of legal counsel, Cindy declined to speak for publication, but she insisted I show this picture depicting her innocence.  She has no priors for vandalism, but she is accused of guilt by association and being an accessory to the crime, acting as a lookout.  Esther, believed to be the ringleader of the gang, was not available for comment.

Loose Ends

Goats, my goats at least, suffer from OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder).  The girls will fixate on something and worry it until it's gone.  In particular, they do not like loose ends.  Guests who wear designer clothing with those fancy little label tags find themselves being plucked like a bass violin as the goats try to remove the tags.  I really need a few days of sunshine soon because I've got to go get a sheet of plywood to replace the bottom half of the Dutch door to the milking room.  Steve made a tactical error when he used OSB (oriented strand board) to make that door.  We were both new to goats back then and didn't realize why this would be a mistake.  OSB is made of compressed wood chips and, over time, moisture will cause bits of chips to raise and stick out.  That happened to the door and the goats got to work, pulling off those pesky tags.  They can't help it; the urge is great and beyond their control.  A few small holes appeared in the door as the girls tugged at the softer bits.  Okay, no big deal.  But, as the holes at the bottom got larger, the obsession also grew.  Esther, especially, found that she could break off pieces from the edges.  I hear her gnawing away like a beaver as I'm milking and yelling, "Quit!"  Like that does any good.  Holes started as the size of a mouse, then a squirrel, and what with the latest rain and the soft wood, the hole at the bottom now would allow entry to a baby bear.  Yesterday she was breaking off pieces the size of saucers.  If I don't get that panel replaced soon, there won't be any door at all and the girls will come and go into the milking room at will.  Trust me, that would not be fun (for me).  And that doesn't address the cold wind and/or rain that comes whistling in.  Some chores on the To-Do list can wait.  I must tie up this loose end...with finished plywood.

Some Days Are Stones

Another early morning call.  "Hey, Tim!  How's our boy?"  Tim had phoned to let me know Eight Ball had just died.  My heart dropped like a rock.  It seemed the little kid had been fine during the night and had been taking milk, but then faded, went comatose, and died.  Tim, doing his best, had tried chest compression and mouth-to-nose breathing, but it didn't help.  I had thought Eight Ball was just a few days old; he was a couple of weeks old and I don't know how long he had been without nourishment when he was brought here.  In retrospect, we should have added molasses to Cindy's warm milk.  Severe dehydration can cause ketoacidosis and death; sometimes an infusion of high sugar can help.  No matter how many animals one has, the loss of a single one hurts.  Eight Ball wasn't mine.  It still hurts.

The storm was fierce and raging, rain pounding and wind roaring like a freight train most of the day.  At times, snow mixed with the rain but was quickly washed away.  The front porch was wet all the way to the door, the stacked firewood soaked.  My bibbies were damp to the knee from rain blowing sideways.  The little bird-brained chickens had enough sense to stay in their coops, else they'd have been plastered up against the fencing like posters on a wall.  I got word that Clay's dad had died.  Due to a prior engagement, I had to turn down a visit from one of Steve's cousins.  A day that started badly just kept getting worse.

It's still raining this morning, but not as heavily.  From a walk around inside the house, looking out the windows, I don't see any tree damage from the wind (which has stopped).  I'm holding on to the hope that today will be a good day.