Cabin Fever

Cold weather, cold in my head, wet days; all conspired recently to keep me in the house and I was going a bit stir crazy.  When the rain stopped and the clouds parted yesterday, Bessie Anne and I went out for a walk in the afternoon sunshine and a breath of fresh air.  Bess thought it might be a good idea to head toward the grinding rock in the south pasture and I followed.  Out of habit, I walked around the big granite rocks looking for pieces of glass left from target practice by the former residents.  After fifteen years of cleaning up after those people I was positive there couldn't be any left but, sure enough, I found three large shards that had perked up out of the soil to the surface. 

The south pasture is the largest area of cleared land on the property.  Until I expanded the goat pen, these rocks were in the middle of the pasture.  At one time, there must have been oak trees all over.  As near as I can ascertain, this would have been Miwok Indian territory long ago.  Down in Pine Grove, Indian Grinding Rock Park has a huge stone with over a thousand cups where the tribes had made flour from acorns.  I once had an enlightening conversation with a Miwok woman who explained that it took a year to make a loaf of bread.  After gathering and shelling, the acorns had to be soaked over and over to leach out the bitter tannins (which could cause illness), then dried completely before grinding into flour.  Even the gathering process was tedious.  I'm thinking of Tree Guy showing me how to look for the tiny pinholes that told of a worm inside.  How many thousands of acorns must it have taken to make a pound of flour?  How many pounds of flour would it take to feed a tribe?  Who ever looked at an acorn and thought it would be good to eat in the first place?  Why don't the tannins affect the animals and birds who eat the acorns?

Too cold to sit on the rock in the weak sunshine, I could still let my mind go free-wheeling, thinking about the history embodied in this chunk of stone.  It was a good day.

Squatters

The critters that have moved into the feed room are in a snit.  Either that or they're doing spring cleaning.  Every morning now I find more stuff shoved off the shelves and onto the floor.  There is a big nest on a top shelf and they're really making themselves at home, rent free.  Since I've never seen them, I don't know whether they're mice or squirrels, but I'm leaning toward mice.  Paper goods have been torn into tiny, tiny pieces and they've found bags of raw wool and added some of that to insulate their winter homes.  And that is "homes," plural.  Another colony has taken the risk of building in a big enamel washtub in a corner on the floor.  They think they're hiding in amongst the other stuff I've stored in the tub, but Frank and Pearl know exactly where they are.  These critters are living the good life.  The scratch (a mix of corn and other seeds) and lay pellets for the chickens are protected in trash barrels in the feed room, but the bags of goat chow are out in the open until I take one down to the barn.  There was a time I could store three bags of chow with no problem.  Now I buy just two at a time so I don't have to go to the feed store every week, but I can count on at least one being opened at the bottom and chow scattered all over.  It's not easy to trundle a seventy-five-pound bag of feed with a big hole down to the barn on a hand cart without leaving a trail of grain, or to lift that sucker up to empty it into the big barrel without making a donation to the barn mice.  I really don't mind feeding the wildlife on my terms, but these little squatters moved in without a by-your-leave and are taking advantage of my largess.  Frank and Pearl may find themselves with a new assignment.

Birdies On My Sill

"A birdie with a yellow bill sat upon my windowsill, cocked his shining eye and said, 'Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepyhead!'"  My mother woke me with this ditty countless times in my childhood; she had others, as well.  It seems appropriate today as I've finally woken from my days-long sleep and there have been birdies on my sill.  The stellar jays have arrived in great numbers, flashing brilliant sapphire blue in the sun.  In the afternoon, I was amazed to see a red-tail hawk sitting in the young, bare oak just at the edge of the back yard, really quite close to the house.  I so wanted to take his picture, but couldn't get out on the deck without scaring him off, so it's only my word that this bird was simply awesome.  Gorgeous in flight, they are even more beautiful up close.

Feeling more like Rip Van Winkle than Sleeping Beauty, I did get to the feed store yesterday.  Dave and Joanie, the owners, each made it a point to tell me that a couple of my Kids had made "anonymous" Christmas donations of money on the books for me.  We all agreed that I've got the best Kids ever.  The grin on Joanie's face said it all when she told me that one of the Kids had also given her a box of See's chocolates.  She was happy, happy, happy!  In case those Kids wonder, I save that money for a delivery of (expensive) alfalfa when needed, and it is so, so appreciated.

While I'm still croaking like a bullfrog, it's great not to feel so muzzy-headed this morning.  Inga took a page from Sheila's game book and chose to lie in the sun instead of coming to the milking room yesterday, and I left her there.  That's not going to happen today!  It's back to business as usual at Farview.

Knit One, Purl Two

If, as Shakespeare said, sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care, I shouldn't have a care in the world and my sweater should be in fine shape.  I've done nothing but sleep for two days, surfacing long enough to put another log on the fire and then sinking down again.  I'm going to be in a world of hurt if I don't get to the feed store today as the goat chow cupboard is bare!  The girls complain if a meal is late; can't imagine their response if the dish were skimpy.

Having passed the winter solstice, the days are getting a wee bit longer.  Sunrise is a little earlier, and sunset later.  I'm not so fond of heat, but I'm definitely a sunshine kind of gal.

Having slept for days, there's not much in the way of blog fodder.  Blowing my nose like Gabriel on Judgment Day, I shall look for more interesting material today.

I Hab A Code In My Nodz

Atchoo!  Atchoo, atchoo, atchoo!  Few things other than hangnails and paper cuts will get you less sympathy than a cold, probably deservedly so.  After all, none are life-threatening, they are common, and each lacks drama.  In my opinion, however, they are pretty high up there on the misery scale.  Even though it's been at least seven, probably closer to ten years since I've had a cold, I recognized impending signs of sneezing and the scratchy throat.  When the Kids were little, if I said it once, I probably said it fifty thousand times, "Blow, don't sniff."  I really hated the sound of a kid with a runny nose who wouldn't use a hankie.  And there I was yesterday down in the barn, sniffing to beat the band.  Not that I didn't have a pocketful of tissues, but if I blew, it set the girls off in a panic, sure they'd heard the danger signal.  Chores done, I stoked the fire and retreated to the recliner under a cloud-soft throw and napped off and on all day.  I can never remember if it's "starve a cold and feed a fever," or the other way around, but I think it is starve a cold because there is no sense of taste and it's just a waste of time to eat.  Late in the day, I bundled up and went out to bring more wood to the porch; I had burned every last log on the rack.  The one good thing about a cold is that it is self-limited to about three days.  This is day two.

Poor piddiful me.  Atchoo!

Mousecicles & Ice Bullets

Crunching over the frozen ground on my way to the barn, I had to come up with Plan C.  I'm tired of playing either the guessing game with Sheila (will she come in today or not) or ring-around-the-rosy.  There are those days when I don't have time or energy to hike the pen, trailing after the silly goose (er, goat).  Ruth, Sheila and Poppy sleep in the back stalls and are let out first.  The new Plan goes like this:  Ruth goes out, then I open the door for the other two but I have rope in hand and snag Sheila.  Poppy waddles out and Sheila and I go around the corner together and she is the first on the stand.  I run around and open the door to the dorm room.  Cindy is a little put out that she has lost her place in the lineup, but she'll just have to get over herself.  After milking Sheila, the rest of the herd comes in as before and, ta da!, I'm done for the day.

While I was happily milking Sheila, I noticed a mouse up on the header board just under the eaves of the corrugated metal roof.  It moved along slowly, standing up for a couple of seconds under each "trough" or dip on the roof then going on to the next.  What could it be doing?  Then I noticed the drops of frozen condensation.  This clever little fellow was licking tiny mousecicles, getting a drink without having to go outside.

The big girls' water trough had still been frozen when I went down to the barn but had started to thaw as I made my way back.  I'd not topped it off the night before and it was down a couple of inches.  The hose crackled as I picked it up and turned on the faucet.  Out shot bullets of ice and a stream of water.  It's a good thing I had aimed at the trough and not the girls!

It was a good day to stay inside, catch the tail end of the Rose Parade, and try to keep the fire going.  It's time to take the trash down to the big road if the doors on the truck aren't frozen shut.  That's happened before.

A Blank Page

The start of a new year is a blank page.  I happen to like blank pages; they are exciting, a challenge, and a mystery.  How will they be filled?  What will be written?  Comedy, drama, pathos, some of each?  As much as I take comfort in routine, I like not knowing how even a day will turn out.  There is always something unexpected in what might otherwise be humdrum.  Over time, I've come to realize that the one constant in life is change.  Good, bad, or indifferent, nothing stays the same.  We have to turn the page to find out what comes next.

Joel and Judy outdid themselves with a prime rib dinner last night, including creamed spinach a la Lawry's.  Lawry's is an old Los Angeles restaurant with which we were all familiar, serving prime rib brought tableside in big, covered, silver rolling carts, always with creamed spinach on the side.  I was taken there many times as a child.  I think Joel did the meat and spinach every bit as well as the chefs at Lawry's, and I ate every bite.  How nice it was to enjoy New Year's Eve with Joel, Judy, and Shari, champagne toasts included!

Time has taken its toll.  For years and years the Kids and I would call each other at midnight to wish Happy New Year.  Now we've agreed without comment to make those calls a lot earlier; none of us going out to party; none (or few) staying up until midnight.  The Times Square ball drops without us.

The sun is just rising here on January 1, 2013.  I wonder what today will bring.