Catch Me If You Can

It is not yet breeding season for the turkeys.  They make me think of early high school dances (back in the day) when the boys would stand awkwardly on one side of the gymnasium while the girls primped and preened, sitting on the other side.  Finally, one boy, driven by testosterone and the goading of his male cohorts, would cross the barren No Man's Land in the middle and approach the lady of his choice and ask for a dance.  Then it was as if the flood gates opened and a herd of big-footed, gangling boys would rush across to the line of girls in three or four crinoline slips and poodle skirts and the dance would begin.  These hens were waiting for breakfast and the toms hung back.  It won't be too long before the groups merge.

The goats, on the other hand, are going through their cycles again, cranky as all get out and frustrated.  Female goats will modify their behavior in the absence of a male.  Tessie was being courted by Sheila when it was Tess's turn to come in and she was more interested in Sheila than in getting her udder emptied.  We made several laps around the pen while I tried to divert Tessie, and it wasn't until Sheila made her final move that I was able to grab Tess's collar and take her back to the barn.

I got a good start on window washing; not close to finishing, but at least it's a start.  Like a little kid, Bessie Anne would whine when it was our usual time to go outside.  If I didn't respond immediately, her whining would get louder and louder.  It was a case of drop what I was doing and go with her or yell at my friend.  I can't take the look of reproach from those puppy-dog eyes when I shout at Bess, so we would sit on the porch long enough to satisfy her and then resume chores.  That's my excuse for not finishing all the windows.  Works for me.

Blue Blazes

The last page turned, the book put down, and I'm out of excuses.  The question now is where to begin.  It's a matter of priorities.  I'm thinking windows first, as they should stay clean until Thanksgiving, and then work my way down the list to those things that must be done last minute. I don't know how I'm going to sell the plan to Bessie Anne.  She's taken a liking to book-and-bench breaks and gets a bit bossy if I dilly-dally when she wants "us" to go outside.

There were 30-40 turkeys in the goat pen yesterday morning, and they were in no hurry to vacate the premises.  They parted like waves as I passed through and wandered amongst the goats when I let the girls out.  Cindy is giving me cause for concern.  She and Esther are two of triplets and are the oldest girls in the herd, going on thirteen.  Cindy has gone off her feed before, but rallied and came back.  She didn't eat all of her bedtime snack and didn't want breakfast.  One worries when a goat doesn't eat, it's so not like them.  Age takes its toll.

Cooking for one can be a challenge.  I sometimes circumvent the situation by cooking a lot and freezing.  Last night I baked seven mini-meat loaves, also throwing a potato in the oven for my dinner.  I like knowing I've got six more meals ready to go, and only the one bowl and pan to wash!  I'm trying hard to adapt to the new time schedule:  sundown at 5:00 now.  I rarely have a reason to go out after dark (unless I get an urgent demand from Bess), and so I'm back in the house when evening falls.  While working in the kitchen, I caught sight of this sunset and couldn't resist grabbing the camera for one more photo.  It was a good day.

Right, Left

Lists to the left of me, lists to the right.  Making lists is as far as I've gotten toward fall cleaning for Thanksgiving.  My thinking goes something like this:  I'm already behind schedule so I might as well finish the book I'm reading now and then go blue blazes on the lists.  (I've got ready-made lists of excuses, too.)

The buck and his ladies were in the yard again in the morning, and each cleared the four-foot boundary fence in an effortless, graceful leap.  More and more turkeys are showing up for breakfast, hanging out in the front yard while waiting and then running across the driveway to the buffet.  Bessie Anne got caught in the middle of traffic yesterday and the turkeys surged around her.  The expression on her face!

As soon as my milk customer drove off, I went to cast my election ballot.  I'm sure the guv'mint would prefer I mail it in, but I'm old-school and like the tradition of going to the polling place with my neighbors and putting that very American piece of paper in the box myself.  I liked that a father was accompanied by two young daughters and he was explaining to them exactly what he was doing and why.  Who knows what changes will be made in the process by the time those girls are old enough to vote; at least they'll have a memory of how it used to be.

 It was an "ordinary" sunset, but a pretty spectacular full moonrise.  

Celeste jumped the gun last evening.  I didn't get a chance to change into warmer sweat pants or grab the lap throw.  That cat is asleep as soon as she shuts her eyes, and she shuts her eyes as soon as she's in position.  I'd be hard put to give a reason, but I'm reluctant to disturb any sleeping animal.  By the time we went to bed, my toes were frozen and my legs were stiff, but Celeste was happy.

Miss November

As if for a calendar layout, Bessie Anne decorated herself with fall foliage from the forsythia and posed as Miss November.  It doesn't take her long to pick up on a routine.  When I take a book and say, "I'm going outside now," she beats me to the door and leads the way to the bench on the deck.  I'm working on my winter tan, sitting in the morning sun and reading.  "Just a chapter or two" expands into 300-400 pages.  I tell myself every time that I'll put the book down when the sun gets too hot and we go back into the house.  Yeah, and how's that working?

Mr. November strolled through the yard with a couple of ladies in the morning.  I spotted the 3-point buck (that would be a 6-point in Texas, but that's not an accusation that Texans exaggerate) and two does while I was switching out girls in the milking room.  Hunting season ended a couple of days ago and the rut is about to begin, so it wasn't a surprise to see a buck roaming around.

Like the goats and chickens, come sundown and I'm ready to go to bed.  The long evening stretches out, seemingly forever.  It's been chilly, but not so cold after dark that I want to burn up precious firewood, so it's the recliner and lap robe, supplemented with a warm cat or two.  Changing the clocks has an effect; they slow down to a crawl.  Bedtime?  No, it's only 7:30.  Bedtime yet?  Grownups can't go to bed at 8:00.  How about now?  It's 8:30 and I close my eyes for just a minute.  We all wake up from our nap about 11 and go to bed.  Four-thirty a.m. and we're all wide awake.  I do much better with gradual, natural change.

Long Live the King

Mad King Charles (the barred rock rooster) died the other day, probably from old age and undoubtedly from an overactive libido.  He bequeathed the flock of hens to Tzar Nicolas, the Araucana with the golden ruff and no tail feathers.  Nicolas has had to play second fiddle for years and seems to be reveling in becoming the only cock on the walk.  Since Charles and Nicolas were hatched at the same time, I'm not sure this burst of breeding activity bodes well for Nic's longevity, but he will go out smiling.

In the seventeen years I've lived here, a pet cemetery (or, as Stephen King would write it, "Pet Sematary") has developed under a large oak overlooking a slope to the west at the edge of the property.  I've had large numbers of chickens over the years and they do not have exceptionally long life spans.  Too many have died to be buried here, even those with noteworthy personalities.  There seems to be an unwritten rule that chickens will not expire close to Tuesday, so they must be immediately bagged up tightly and frozen before transport to the big road.  This prevents contamination and any scent.  All Kids know not to open any white plastic trash bags in the big freezer.

Farm life gives a different and probably more realistic perspective on life and death.  Both just happen.  We welcome each new birth and mourn each passing, and go on with our chores.  The King is dead.  Long live The King.

Reveille

Wake-up time is wake-up time, regardless of what the clock says.  "Get to sleep an extra hour" is pure silliness.  I shall not go off on my seasonal tantrum, but I'm not happy about the blankety-blank Daylight Savings situation.  "Their" definition of Standard Time and mine differs, since it's anything but standard when "they" keep changing it.  Oh well, I woke up at the now four-thirty and I'll just have to deal with it.

Yesterday was a day of celebration for my mother-in-law's 90th birthday.  My sister-in-law, Lynne, and her husband Stan had organized a party for family and friends at a long-established Italian  restaurant, and they did an outstanding job.  I don't get to spend much time with that side of the family, and nephews and nieces whom I've known since they were born are now handsome and lovely men and women.  Best of all, they're funny!  There is a new great-great-grandson for Billie, a tiny baby boy who was passed around like a party favor and never woke up.  All too soon it was time for me to head back up the hill.

Why is it that the drive home is so much shorter than the trip away?  I made a stop at a grocery store that I like, thinking to be in and out in no time.  The store had been completely renovated and nothing was where it "should" be, and it took a lot longer to find the few items I wanted than I'd hoped.  There was an unexpected bonus, though.  It doesn't pay to run around in the hills without a full tank of gas, so I stopped to fill up and paid $3.05/gallon!!  Haven't seen gas that cheap for...I don't remember when.

Got home in time to watch The Breeders Cup at Santa Anita, unpack the groceries, get a fire going in the wood stove, and put the kids to bed before dark.  Still in my go-to-town jeans and not my ubiquitous bibbies, I didn't have my phone in a pocket and so missed out on a photo of the huge, stupendous thunderheads over the mountains, touched with a rosy gold from the last rays of the setting sun.  Darn.

It was a good day.

Treats, No Tricks

The weathermen (weather women, weather people, weather persons...it's so awkward trying to be PC) got the rain right, but their timing was way off.  They'd said it was to start in the early morning yesterday, taper off for the Trick-Or-Treaters, and come back late at night.  Oh well, it's an art, not a science, and I think Nature likes a giggle now and then.

The temperature was definitely down and the cloud cover was heavy enough while tending to the goats that I left the gate open to the covered playpen for the girls so they could shelter from the rain when it came and closed the big door to the hen house to keep them a bit warmer.  Cam and Debbie K. were coming for dinner, so my day was spent doing housework and cooking.  The wood stove took the chill off while I started a big pot of ham hocks and lima beans.  The rain finally came about 3, and the critters were happy to be put to bed early by 4:30.  By the time the ladies, including Honey, arrived, the beans were cooked, the cornbread was baked, and the pie was in the oven timed to come out for dessert.

Camille had donated apples from her tree, variety unknown, but they made a wonderful pie, tart-sweet, and didn't turn to mush.  While rolling out the dough, I tried to guestimate how many pies I've made in my lifetime; too many to count.  The Kids' dad was a police officer and many were the times I'd have an apple pie ready to come out of the oven when he and his buddies would get off the 3-11 shift.  The Kids have always preferred pie over cake (e.g., the Great Pie Day in February), as do I.

Conversation at the table came to a halt as we tucked into comfort food and listened to rain beetles tapping at the windows.  None of us dressed in costume, but we definitely were treated last night.  Stuffed to the gills, the ladies went off into the rainy night.  I put another log on the fire, Celeste came out of  hiding to warm my lap, Bessie Anne and Ralph settled in front of the stove, and we all called it a good day.