Gathering of the Clans

Two creatures should never attempt to perform on the high wire:  elephants and vultures; they're simply not built for it.  Beyond graceful in the air, vultures are awkward pedestrians, galumphing along in a kind of hop-waddle.  I've watched vultures in the air, in the trees, on every post on the property, but in all these years I've never before seen the vultures attempt to rest on the power lines.  They've provided a lot of laughs in the last few days as I watch them miss their landing altogether or teeter as they try to keep their balance. 

Vultures are beginning to mass in anticipation of the migration later this month; there were over thirty on the property yesterday.  The two resident turkeys on the ground are looking at the vultures on the posts over the garden gate like they were aliens.  Everywhere I look there are big black birds of one type or another.  Fortunately, there is no competition between the two groups or it could be a battleground to rival Braveheart.

Gathering the milk buckets yesterday, I found this little male praying mantis (the smaller males have that slim abdomen) in the kitchen, evidently on the trail of his lady love.  The difference in size made me think of Mickey Rooney when he married Ava Gardner.  Playing Cupid, I picked up this skinny guy (Ava also married skinny Frank Sinatra) and put him outside close to where I'd dropped off Ms. Mantis.  I'm not sure I've done him any favors because if he meets up with her and she accepts his courting, he will not be long for this world.  I've actually seen a mating pair and while they are together for quite a long time, in the end she will turn and quite literally bite off his head.  Heck of a way to go.

BFFs

Marilyn Monroe warbled breathily that "Diamonds are a girl's best friend."  That may be true for Lorelei Lee, but goat girls believe their best friends are grape growers and wine makers.  Their BFFs (best friends forever) are Joel, who throws over vine trimmings and sometimes just clumps of weeds in desperation to please, and Robert.  The girls will trail along on their side of the fence as Joel walks his vineyard, hoping for goodies.  I swear, if a goat could bat her eyes and flirt, my girls would take the prize.  On the other fence line, Robert ("Bonjour, Robair") steals their attention and their fickle hearts when it is the season for crushing grapes, as it is now.  Joel is left with a bruised ego as the goats rush to the other side of the pen where Robert pitchforks over stems from grapes that have gone through the auger.  The stems have the same sugar content as the grapes and no alcohol, and the girls go mad for them.  I had not realized the crush had begun, even though I'd heard sounds of an auger on the hill recently and knew there was more activity at Fleur de Lys.  I did notice that the girls were more anxious than usual for me to open the gate to the big pen after finishing in the barn.  For a couple of days I wondered why they had sticky spots on their coats as I brushed them down, and then realized they were from flinging stems around as the girls jostled for their share of the sweet treats.  It's a good thing the stems are not fermented or the goats would be drunks as skunks.  In the immortal words of Phil Robertson, the girls are "happy, happy, happy."  They know who their best friends are.

Watch Your Step

Black and tan markings made my heart go pitter pat until I could see that the head was not diamond shaped and the tail had no rattles on this snake that cruised through the milking room.  (Pardon the housekeeping; mice throw the diaper wipes out of the bucket as they search for just the right blanket.)  Close to two feet long and pencil slim, it was a pretty little thing.  Not being up on my herpetology, I'm guessing it was a gopher snake just looking for breakfast. 

It might be asked how I can feed, save, and protect mice and squirrels and let this predator continue to hunt the little creatures.  I've got understanding of and respect for natural conservation.  With the exception of rattlesnakes and black-widow spiders (and, yes, mosquitoes), I don't believe in lethal intervention.  The food chain is as clear to me as a printed graph.  I know full well that the coyotes are not singing for pleasure in the night; they're hunting.  I've never been able to figure out the mosquitoes' purpose in the plan, but for almost everything else, I take a live-and-let-live attitude.  I will, however, watch my step in the barn.  It would behoove the snake to also watch where it goes, as the last snake I found in the barn had been squashed flat by the goats.

Little kids, cats and dogs, water and food dishes on the floor (for the cats and dogs, not the children) have made me conscious over the years of where I'm stepping, so it's second nature to look down.  That's a good habit in the Silkie pen, and not just because of the mini-chickens.  A family of frogs has moved into a burrow under the coop.  Last night, one of the little squirts had decorated himself with feathers stuck to his back.  Had this "feather" not hopped out of my way, I might not have noticed it.

I have had to relocate the praying mantis once again.  The petunia pot where I'd put her was directly under the hummingbird feeder and the other morning I found she'd moved up to the feeder.  Had I not just had a conversation with Camille about her, I would never given it a second thought, believing it would be a good place for Ms. Mantis to catch the bees, wasps, and ants that hang around the feeding station.  Not sure I believed what Camille had told me, I had to Google and see for myself that praying mantises can and will kill and eat hummingbirds, lizards, and frogs.  Unreal!  In this case, I simply moved her away from the source of temptation.

Cross Your Fingers

I like even numbers.  Odd numbers leave me with a vague feeling of unease.  Since I have little else to do while milking, I count the number of squeezes required to empty an udder.  I'm not permitted to cheat, but I'm always happier when I finish up on an even number.  Reflecting on this quirk of mine yesterday (Inga finished up on 239, drat), I got to thinking about the omens and portents of my childhood.

My mother passed on many of the old sayings from her mother and grandmother (grossmutter, since she had come from Germany).  They were universal at the time, and some are still in use.  Who among us does not cross our fingers (symbol of a crucifix) for luck?  My sister is a big proponent of "knock on wood."  All kids knew that if they stepped on a crack, they'd break their mother's back.  I grew up avoiding cracks in the sidewalk (unless I was really, really mad at my mother - you didn't hear this from me).  A sneeze required someone to say "Gesundheit;" now replaced with "Bless you."  Black cats got a bad rap; rational people were known to cross the road or even turn around if a black cat went across their path.  Not walking under ladders just made good sense, but why a broken mirror had the power to inflict seven years of bad luck is beyond me.  My mother could read signs in the silverware.  If a knife dropped on the floor, it meant a man would visit.  A dropped fork foretold a woman would come, and a spoon meant it would be a child.  It was my job to set the table, and it didn't count if I dropped anything on purpose; I was always tempting fate.  I grew up knowing that dirty underwear almost guaranteed a terrible accident and everyone at the hospital would know about my lack of hygiene.  I never understood why anyone would put on dirty underwear in the first place, but the threat was enough to put on clean britches.

It's a reflex now to say "Bless you" to even a passing stranger who sneezes; I can't help myself.  I like black cats as well as any other, and have had two of my own.  I do look up for paint cans or hammers before passing under a ladder, but will walk under them with impunity.  I know, however, that if I get a green signal at a certain traffic light on my way, the appointment, interview, or shopping trip will go well.  If I win a game of solitaire on the first try, it will be a good day.  And I like even numbers.

Time Flies

Even my Kids won't recognize this person.  It's hard for me to find any resemblance to her when I look in the mirror, time has wrought such change.  But then, it's hard for me to recognize the face in the mirror too, because inside, where the real me lives, I quit growing older along in my forties (really good years!).

Not quite seventeen when this senior portrait was taken, I had already met the man who would be the Kids' dad.  We were married shortly after I turned eighteen, Deb was born eleven days after our first anniversary, and the three boys followed in quick succession.  Girl became wife and mother (motherhood was and still is the best time of my life).

It's been quite a journey, a tale with many twists and turns, ups and downs, joys and sorrows.  The girl I was had no inkling of how many changes there would be in her life, how far the road would lead.

Pictures tell the story of how many years have flown (and, believe me, they did fly!).  One thing has remained constant.  I'm still raising kids, Kids.

More Beauty, More Beasty

Smoke from the Rim fire continues to drift up from Yosemite and obscured the rising sun yesterday; not difficult to tell the dirty brown smoke from the wispy clouds.  That isn't a mountain in front of the sun; the smoke bank is that thick.  The deltas continue to clear the air later on, but I think that gunk has a cumulative effect on breathing.  Bessie also is starting to wheeze.  Like so many records one never wishes to be broken, the Rim is now the fourth largest fire in California history at 225,000 acres.  It did make for a beautiful, if eerie, sunrise.

I know I expressed concern about Ms. Mantis's choice of location yesterday, but never dreamed she'd heed my word and hitch a ride into the house.  Must have jumped unnoticed into the cuff of my bibbies and off when I brought in the milk.  It wasn't until afternoon when I reached for the handle on the refrigerator that I realized I had an uninvited guest.  I also discovered that I have really fast reflexes!  We had a brief discussion regarding invitations and lack thereof, and then I rather unceremoniously escorted her out, relocating this traveler to a pot of petunias.  She was put out in more ways than one and used those prickly forelegs to let me know just how unhappy she was with me as a hostess.  I have to draw the line somewhere.

Beauty and the Beasty

Alliums, any member of the onion family, are such worthwhile plants.  These are garlic chives.  The leaves are a wonderful culinary addition to many dishes and a reason alone to grow these plants.  They become quite spectacular in bloom.  Each cluster is made up of many tiny, white, star-shaped flowers and remind me of a burst of fireworks on display.  Warning:  if there is one garlic chive plant this year, there will be many next year.  Each of those white flowers will put out a fairly large black seed that the breeze will blow everywhere.  There are chives in the strawberry pots, in amongst the roses, decorating the forsythia, and each year there are more.  They are so pretty, who cares?

Finished with morning barn chores, I stopped to top off the water trough.  There on the post by the tap was this gravid (pregnant) praying mantis.  Females are easy to identify by their leaf-shaped body.  The abdomen of males is barely wider than the thorax.  I'm always glad to see the mantises as they are terrific bug catchers.  However, I'm worried about this gal's choice of hunting ground.  Sheila, in the background, may see only that leaf shape as a tempting morsel.  If the mama mantis lays her egg case near the ground, all those baby lizards may look at the hundred or so hatchlings as mantis manna.

Yet another sunset.  I never tire of walking out at dusk to see such glory.  The sky takes my breath away.  I share the photos because they are my way of saying, "Oh, come see this!"  Morning chores are just that, work.  Putting the animals to bed is simply satisfying.  The chickens go up the ramps into their coops on their own, knowing they will get their nighttime snack inside.  Some are already nestled on their roost.  They gossip quietly about the doings of the day.  In the goat pen, the girls are clustered by the gate and we all walk down to the barn together.  The morning lineup is catch as catch can, but the bedtime routine rarely varies, everyone knowing exactly where and when to go inside.  The sky will have changed, darkened and dull, by the time I stop to fill the trough once more, the last task before going back to the house.  There is a sense of peace, knowing the animals in my care are tucked in and safe for the night.  Not a bad way to end the day.