Shut Your Eyes (and Ears)

The barn is a hot and steamy place these days, and I'm not talking about temperature.  S-e-x is rampant.  It's not enough that the goats are taking out their frustrations in ongoing battles, now the birds are getting in on the act.  In the area of the dormitory next to the milking room, there is an unused shelf high up.  It has become a scene of seduction for the sparrows.  As the rooms are separated by half-walls and hog panels, I have no way of avoiding being a voyeur.  I don't know what line the male gives the female to entice her over to the bachelor pad, but he must be a pretty smooth talker.  I do know he keeps up a constant chatter, undoubtedly telling her of his undying love and that he will still respect her in the morning.  Surprisingly, he gently covers the female repeatedly, and she sits submissively waiting for him.  I'm more used to the action in the chicken pen, where the boys roughly grab the girls by the back of the neck to hold them down, the hen squawking bloody murder for the second or two the act takes.  The sparrows are definitely more gentlemanly in their approach.  They don't call them "love nests" for nothing.

A Day At the Races

The butterflies came back yesterday, working hard to get a sip of nectar in a strong breeze.  I don't know if the darker one in the bottom photo is another species or just an anomaly of coloring for the tiger swallowtail.  The lilacs are a big buffet for all sorts of insects and birds, and I've got a front-row seat in the kitchen for all of the action.

Perhaps the barn swallows read this journal and took my suggestion.  Yesterday they appeared in, of all places, the barn!  Several swooped through the big dormitory room and others scoped out the back hallway, one waiting patiently on the closest fence line for me to finish filling the feed bucket at the end of my chores. The barn would be the safest place of all for them to construct their nests, and they'd be in good company.  Like women at a quilting bee, the nest-building sparrows chatter amongst themselves, sometimes with voices raised to the point of drowning out the swoosh of milk into the bucket.  What with the mice running over my feet on their way to do mouse business and the ground squirrels popping in and out of their burrows and the busy, busy birds overhead, the goats, Poppy, and I are in the minority in this little community.

I could have called this entry "The Lost Weekend."  No, not spent in an alcoholic haze like the old Ray Milland movie, just sitting in front of the TV watching races (hence the Marx Brothers' movie title).  Yesterday I spent four hours watching all the hoopla at the Kentucky Derby, culminating in two minutes of heart-pounding race.  I know I'll do the same thing in two weeks when they run the Preakness at Pimlico, the second jewel in the Triple Crown, and later at Belmont, the third.  My family has strong ties to Santa Anita Racetrack and horse racing in general.  As much as I love NASCAR (I'll be watching that today), seeing magnificent animals run nearly brings me to tears.  Of course I put down an imaginary bet (any competition can use a little spice), but racing, to me, is never about the money.  That's a good thing, because I sure didn't win yesterday.  Oh well, I have high hopes for today.

Exercise In Futility

Company was coming!  From experience, I know there are those things that must be left to the last minute if there is any chance the house (or I) will look presentable when required.  I jumped the gun yesterday and vacuumed before leaving the house.  I also showered and put on clean bibbies before going to the barn.  What was I thinking?  By the time I was done with the chickens my socks were soaked and when I got down to the goats my britches were sopping wet to the knees.  Anyone with curly hair knows what happens in drizzling rain; hair takes on the appearance of a Brillo pad, the curls getting tighter and tighter.  Before the girls leave the stand every day, they shove their head under my arm and rub vigorously against the front of my bib, leaving dirty smudges.  After milking and slogging my way back through the ankle-high weeds, a very wet Bessie Anne, Pearl, and Frank met me at the door and beat me into the house, leaving footprints and a trail of oak pollen fronds everywhere.  So much for the efforts of the morning.  Tree Guy came by and a milk customer needed an emergency pick-up, so it was a race to get a dessert made to serve my guests.  I was out of time to make any repairs on house or attire.

Arden arrived with a friend of hers.  They were on an excursion to counteract the effects of cabin fever that strikes us all after another spell of gloomy days.  The sun broke out and, as we sat in the kitchen eating butterscotch pie, suddenly there were butterflies spotlighted on the lilacs by the windows.  These were tiger swallowtails, huge and bright yellow with black stripes, not the more common monarchs that I'm used to seeing.  They were just spectacular.  The hummers are back in growing numbers and put on their own show by the dining room windows.  (They slurped up two quarts of juice yesterday alone.)  I hope the "entertainment" Farview provided took attention away from footprints and frizzy hair.  It's always so good to see Arden and I enjoyed meeting her friend.  As for the rest, well, some days are like that.

PS:  tonight is the night of the "super moon," when the moon is closest to the earth and looms larger than on any other night.  It is best viewed when it is just coming over the horizon in the evening. 

OK Corral

Attitude, like yawning, is contagious.  Sheila's crankiness not only did not improve, it infected the rest of the girls and, for whatever reason, they all turned on Tessie.  For the most part, Tessie is a pacifist, which is a good thing.  The only goat in the herd with a horn, and that one horn pointy, ten inches long, and curved forward, puts Tessie in the position of bringing a gun to a knife fight when it comes to headbutting.  Being of a gentle nature, she seems very aware of her advantage and is careful to avoid doing damage to her opponents.  When the girls ganged up on her in the morning, Tess took to the tree for refuge out of their reach.  She stood in that tree for most of the day while the others circled below like waiting lions.  I'm assuming that we're dealing with raging hormones here and a case of collective PMS.  I hope the Earps and the Clantons were able to settle their differences during the night and the yard is a goat pen again instead of the OK Corral.

Bird Of A Feather

The barn birds, mostly sparrows and wrens, are busy, busy, busy with nest building these days.  They make trip after trip for materials, and rest for a minute on the hog-panel dividers with their beaks full of fresh grasses, dried weeds, or small sticks before going on home.  I had to laugh yesterday when a sparrow landed with something out of the ordinary in his mouth.  His wife evidently is one of those Joneses with whom everyone will want to keep up, having a nest that will be the focal point of envy in the bird community.  No common weeds for his lady!  This enterprising fellow had flown far afield, all the way over to the chicken pens, and was bringing an offering of white Silkie down feathers to accessorize their nursery.  I hope she appreciated his efforts.

Sheila got up on the wrong side of the stall yesterday.  She came out of the barn locked and loaded, spoiling for a fight.  She taunted and punched each and every one of the girls, including Poppy, while waiting for her turn on the stand.  She did come in to be milked, panting from running Inga around the pen.  She hadn't gotten it out of her system by bedtime, and had Tessie up in the tree afraid to come down, poor thing.  It took some finagling to get everyone into their rooms and settled for the night.  I hope Sheila wakes up in a better mood today.

The Color Purple & Flying Worms

The wisteria that nearly covers two sides of the garden fence is now in full bloom, the lovely lavender flowers punctuated by the bright gold California poppies nearly buried in the weeds (another project for another day).  There's a story behind this wisteria vine.  When I bought the house in West Sacramento, I put in a wisteria that took hold and grew.  I lived there for eighteen years.  Not once in eighteen years did that plant put out even one flower.  I was so disappointed.  Steve and I moved up here.  Running errands in town one year, I noted several nurseries and the blooming wisterias and mentioned to Steve that at least one could tell if they were getting a plant that would flower.  Some while later, he and a friend went to town and came back with a small wisteria vine as a surprise for me, probably the one vine in the nursery without any blossoms or buds, and I silently thought, "Oh, no.  Here we go again."  It took several years for this plant to come into its own, but once it did....  It was so pleasant out on the point that I stayed and weeded out three of the smaller barrels.  The chickens are always so pleased when I take on this chore, as they always get big piles of succulent greens as I go back to the house.

One of the best decisions I've made was to plant these lilacs in front of the kitchen windows.  This is, of course, the time of year when they are at their most spectacular, their sweet perfume wafting in on the breeze.  Butterflies flit among the purple flowers, and birds of many varieties sit in the branches right at eye level.  The bushes have grown tall enough now to provide some shade in the summer from the strong afternoon sun.

It is the season of the flying worms.  I have no idea what these little bright-green wigglers become, but they come every year.  They float through the air on strands of what look like cobweb.  When I was flying a small plane, I would see them as high as five thousand feet up, pretty amazing.

Putting the girls to bed in the barn last night, I checked the nest for the baby mice.  I'd looked in the morning and they were all there and alive.  In the evening, not a sign of even one.  Since this is my story and I can make up any ending I wish, I've decided that the mama mouse came and carried them, one at a time, to a safer place of her own choosing.  I like happy endings.

Nada Paso

"Nothing happened (nada paso)."  That was the first thought in my mind when I sat down to write about yesterday.  I seem to be on a one-day-on (work hard), one-day-off (do nothing) schedule.  Then I took a good look:  Kellan and Will came early, laden with a box of veggies for me, to continue work in Nineteen's stall.  Will uncovered a nest of tiny, pink, hairless baby mice.  Gentle man that he is, he moved the nest into the nursery stall and we all hope the mama will find them there.  We did work out a Plan B so that the goats' routine was not disturbed this time and the milking went smoothly.  I was afraid the girls were slowing down work in the stalls by demanding to have their heads rubbed; I could hear Will and Kellan laughing and talking to them.  Will said it was no problem, it gave them an excuse for a short break between hauling buckets of poop.

Later in the day, Tree Guy drifted through and we made a plan for work on the wood piles (maybe Thursday).

Hummers are showing up in great numbers now, slurping up "juice" as fast as I can make it.  In the beginning, I would buy the packaged commercial powder for these little birds.  Then more and more would show up at the feeders and the cost became prohibitive.  Looking at the ingredients, I found that the only difference between it and plain sugar water (at a one-to-four ratio) was red dye.  I go through a lot of sugar in a season, but the joy of being so close to these flying jewels far outweighs that cost.

Frogs of all sizes are showing up everywhere.  Little green peepers up to large, warty toads.  They sing from their flower pots on the deck.  They hop ahead of me on the path at dusk.  They eye me from underneath logs.  They sit on the porch to watch the sunset.  I really like frogs.

As I reviewed the day, I saw I was wrong.  A lot happened.  It was a good day.