Girl Trouble

Tessie was flagging like crazy yesterday morning and yelling her head off, telling the world that she was in season and looking for a good time.  She was cranky to the max and even drove poor Poppy away from her breakfast.  The situation wasn't any better by bedtime; in fact, it was worse.  I got the girls into the barn, but Tessie, with her unicorn horn, was headbutting and ramming the others left and right.  When she hit one hard enough to make her scream, that was it.  I got Tessie out of the big room and segregated her for the night in the gated play area.  I can only hope that the madness and frustration will have passed this morning.

Pearl has finally made the time change and lets me sleep in until five (new time).  For a petite cat, she has a voice like Ethel Merman and tells me loudly in no uncertain terms when she wants out, in, or wake up!  It cracks me up, however, when we are alone together in the kitchen.  She will stand in front of the treat drawer and whisper, "Hey, how's about a little something while the dog is in the other room?  It'll be our secret and I'll never tell Bessie Anne."  I will admit that I weaken and quietly open the drawer and the bag of goodies for Pearl.  Lest I be accused, a la Smothers Brothers, of "Mother always liked you best," I make it up to Bess with a milk bone sometime during the day.  Pearl doesn't like milk bones.

Ah, those girls.

Putting On The Brakes

Back in the day when I was consulting, I drove over 50-60,000 miles a year.  That's a lot of time behind the wheel.  Now I go to town a couple of times a month and, with the occasional side trip, put maybe 3,000 miles on the odometer annually.  Therefore, when I was told that the brake pads were getting thin a year and a half ago, there was no great sense of urgency.  At that time I arranged with a local shade-tree mechanic of my acquaintance to replace the pads and purchased same in readiness.  "Oh yeah, I'm gonna get to that," was the response when I'd mention over time that the brakes were still on the To-Do List.  I'm patient and I'm loyal, but I have limits.

Go-To Guy started his own business some time back and it wasn't until a friend mentioned that Go-To still takes on side jobs that I gave him a call last week.  Go-To and his wife came here yesterday and, ta da!, the truck has new brake pads.  Almost all the tools needed were in the barn, but then he looked for an Allen wrench.  "Do you have an Allen wrench?"  Do I?!  We made the trek down to the shop and I opened a drawer.  Dozens and dozens of Allen wrenches in every size known to man.  "Take your pick."  Wife and I stood and chatted and Bessie Anne supervised Go-To's work until it was time for my participation.  The only thing I know about changing brake pads is how to bleed out the air from the line, but I can do that like a pro.  Shiny new brake pads in place, the truck was parked and we went inside for some get-caught-up talk and a beer, the country equivalent of a tip.  A year and a half later, I can cross brakes off the list.

It was a good day.

Triple-A Rating

Reality strikes without warning and comes from unexpected sources.  I got one of those smacks upside the head when I opened a piece of mail from AAA, the automobile club.  It was a card thanking me for being a member for fifty years.  Fifty years?!  I actually went back and looked at the envelope, sure that I'd opened someone else's mail by mistake.  To have been a member of anything for fifty years must make a person pretty old.  That's a big dose of reality to swallow in one gulp.  The thing is, that's not me.  I'm not sure I'd even pick the face I wear now out of a lineup as me.  Yeah, the exterior shows the wear and tear of years, but the interior hasn't really changed all that much.  I still love to dance, and get some strange looks from the dog when I do a little Texas two-step, dip and twirl to a waltz, or get down and boogaloo by myself in the living room (it's one way to pass the time while dusting).  I can still do (or think I can do) a day's work as I used to; it just takes me a little longer, but I also have more time now so no big deal.  I still love a good joke, a good meal, a good drink.  When I was much younger, I walked into a small shop where the female proprietor and a female customer stood watching a young man leave.  One said to the other, "Nice buns."  At the time, I wondered about these middle-aged women.  I understand them better now.  I still appreciate a nice rear view.

I worked for a number of years as a consultant in a number of what were then called convalescent hospitals, filled with the elderly and infirm.  In each one, I reminded the aides to give the residents the respect they'd earned and not treat them like children.  They'd been parents, CEOs, responsible (or irresponsible) citizens who had no choice and no control over growing old.  Pain and frustration sometimes made them cranky, and they deserved forgiveness.  Those aged shells held a wealth of experience and personality.

I may have been an AAA member for fifty years.  I may not climb ladders as I used to.  I may need a fire extinguisher to put out the candles on my cake.  But don't discount this old gal.  That's not me; that's not my reality.

Bert and Ernie

Like habitues at the coffee shop, Bert and Ernie wait at the "counter" every morning until Sheila is up on the stand and I get a good stream going and milk is pinging into the bucket.  Perched on the board where I've placed a couple of wipes, these two little mice anticipate what comes next; warm milk squirted onto the wipes until they are soaked.  They don't even duck from the spray if my aim is a bit off.  In fact, if milk puddles on the board, so much the better.  They lap up the milk and then suck the wipes, turning them this way and that to get the last drop, watching me with beady black eyes.  These addicted boys might duck into the corner as I move about the milking room, but go right back for another sip.  Others may come later to partake, but Bert and Ernie are always first in line.  I don't know which of us enjoys our morning routine more.

 Kitchen pigs are all clean; two rooms down.  I'll have to take a deep breath before tackling the pig population and the dozens and dozens of glasses (and a lot of et cetera) on the open shelves in the dining room.  That's a couple of days' worth of work.

I'd been looking out the door at the straggly weeds that the turkeys so enjoy long enough.  A few contained in the herb garden among the marjoram and thyme is one thing, but they'd spread out into the walkway, their three-foot fronds stripped of seeds and looking pretty ratty-tatty.  Tired of being stuck in the house and knowing weather is coming, Bessie Anne, Pearl, and I went out, pitchfork in (my) hand, to clean up a little.  These weeds have a root mass the size of a soccer ball that has to be dug out.  Bess found a place to lie in the low afternoon sunshine and Pearl amused herself by darting here and there, peeking under leaves, hunting who knows what.  I worked on until Bess, who is in charge of these things, decided enough was enough and came to lie where I was going to dig next.  My back and I agreed that she was right.  I put the pitchfork away and my fellow musketeers and I went in to light the wood stove and rest until it was time to put the kids to bed.

I'll see Bert and Ernie this morning.  They'll be waiting.

Sweet Smell Of...

Rain is predicted for next week.  Leaving off washing pigs for the day (an indoor job), I took advantage of the still-warm afternoon and breeze to wash bedding; not just the linens but blankets, pillows, and comforters.  No matter how they try, no one has yet found an artificial aromatic substitute for washer or dryer that can compare with the sweet smell of laundry hung on the line, scented by sun and wind.  Slipping between those crisp sheets last night was pure bliss.

Having four Kids in five years, for the longest time there were always two in diapers, cloth diapers at that.  On rainy days, the house would be festooned with diapers like a ship under full sail.  It wasn't until my youngest was born that I got a dryer and thought I was in seventh heaven.  A dryer became a necessity as much as a stove, indispensable to daily life.  I understand that in some places (condos, mobile home parks, etc.), it is now forbidden to hang laundry outdoors.  A clothes line was in place when we moved here (bringing a dryer, of course).  Well, why not use it?  Moving here was a step back in time anyhow, so I began hanging clothes outside.  Come wet, cold, winter weather, I will be as grateful as the next for the dryer in the laundry room, but the sheets will never smell as sweet.

Commitment

All right, I am committed (or perhaps "should be committed").  The Great Pig Wash has begun.  Don't get me wrong; I love each and every one of these little porcine faces and piggy butts.  For the most part, I remember who gave me each of these treasures and that also puts a smile on my lips.  Amazingly, out of the many, there are only a couple of duplicates in the entire collection.  My son Dave has particularly gone out of his way to find unique additions, but many others have made special contributions.  I may have said it before, but I've gotten fairly used to hearing, "I saw this pig and thought of you," and do not take offense. 

These are the washed and/or fluffed pigs from just the breakfast room (there are pigs throughout the house), and not all of them are pictured in these photos.  Not included are the ceramic wind chimes or the numerous pig portraits on the walls or the teeny tiny piggies in their wee display case.  In just these two photos and from just the one room, there are ninety pigs.  It is only the tip of the iceberg, but it was enough for one day.

I am trying to accommodate the time change, staying up late (by the old time) so I can sleep later (by the new time).  Pearl is making no such effort.  Four-fifteen (new time) is as late as she will allow in the morning and she is nothing if not persistent.  Really sleepy, I thought to get up and let her out and then go back to bed today, but a quick trip in bare feet across the icy laundry room tiles opened my eyes, as it were, and so the day begins.

Baby Steps

I would never make it in the 442nd, the "Go For Broke" company.  I tend to approach a project slowly and only after exhausting all available excuses to procrastinate or not do it at all.  It is the time of year when the house gets its semiannual major cleaning in prep for the holidays.  (The other is in spring after the house has been closed up for the winter.)  Being blessed with selective vision, I am able to ignore dust and cobwebby corners by simply not seeing them most of the time.  Taking off those blinders, my initial foray was to heartlessly send an army of homeless spiders out into the streets.  Wiping down their webs was enough for the first day, the "toe in the water," as it were.  It seems I am constitutionally unable to throw away plastic jars, sour cream containers, or bags.  I might have been a hoarder in another life.  One never knows when one of those items might be just the thing in which to save three leftover peas in the refrigerator or line a wastebasket, but even I recognize when enough is too much.  Yesterday I girded my loins (I'll figure out what that means one of these days) and ruthlessly attacked the small mountain of accumulated empty jars and bottles, winnowing out the truly useful from those just taking up space.  Tomorrow is trash day and I'll bet I win Trash Guy's Award of the Week for my contribution.  The plan for the next several days is to make inroads on washing the collection of tchotchkes (namely, pigs of every size, shape, and description) that covers every flat surface in the house.  I'm not joking; there are probably 500 pigs and their piglets on shelves, walls, and floor in every room.  The stone, crystal, ceramic, wood, and metal pigs will get washed and the innumerable stuffed pigs get thrown into the dryer to be humanely dusted off, better than beating them with a stick.  This not a one-day job, but it's a step in the right direction.

Pearl did not get the word that we were supposed to get an extra hour of sleep with the time change.