Hidey-Hole

You'd have to remember Greta Garbo to appreciate, "I vant to be ah-lone."  I think of that famous line every night when I look up after tucking Ruth, Poppy and Sheila into their rooms and head out to put the other four into the big room.  To the left of the door, up on the lintel, there is a space between blocks that is big enough for just one bird, and there he sits still as a stone.  It is a male barn sparrow.  The headlamps on my hat catch light from his bright eyes, but he doesn't flutter or move.  Why has he picked this unlikely roosting perch?  Is he a confirmed bachelor, a hermit bird shunning the flock, an outcast?  I personally think he is a parent of that nest of chicks that I hear on the other side of the barn in the morning and, tired of hearing "Feed me!" all day, has found himself a little Man Cave retreat.

"Oh, no!  Not again!"  As I put the chickens into their coops last night, Bessie suddenly took off running to the far side of the feed barn.  What was she after now?  Then I was hit with a wave of pungent skunk scent.  Nooo!  I still had the goats and Poppy to tend and I just couldn't face my silly dog.  Mentally checking my supplies for a de-skunking bath, I went on about my chores, stink still heavy in the air.  Coming back from the barn, I couldn't avoid her any longer and called Bess to me.  Wonder of wonders, it wasn't her!  It had to be either a road kill or some other poor dog got sprayed.  Not my problem.  I apologized for thinking the worst, and Bess and I walked back to the house by the light of the nearly full moon.

One hundred-four in Diamond Springs in the afternoon.  Regardless, it was a good day.

No Excuse

My being late to the barn two days in a row did not sit well with the ground squirrels.  I had settled into the routine with Cindy on the stand when one, obviously in charge, stood on his hind legs in the open doorway to the big room, looked me in the eye, and began to scold.  This squirrel gave me "what for" like I've never been given.  He gave me a dressing down that would have made a Marine DI proud.  I believe my parentage was called into question, and I was accused of everything short of sinking the Titanic.  Not even a foot high as he sat there, this squirrel knew you are as tall as you think you are and it mattered not that I was looking down at him.  Chittering away, he said his piece, dismissed me with a flick of his tail, and left to report to the grievance committee.  Stunned, I muttered an apology and hurried with my tasks so I could get breakfast in their bowls.  Who's training whom around here?

Years and Seasons

This is the Year of the Dragon, but it is the season of the rabbit.  Looking out at daybreak and dusk, I see rabbits.  Long-eared jackrabbits sitting still as statues on the slopes of the yards or loping leisurely up and down the driveway.  Lone rabbits and rabbits in groups.  Where have they been?  Why are they here now?  How long will they stay?  (And do I have to feed them?)  One doesn't see herds of migrating bunnies traveling on the roads or through the hills, so why haven't these rabbits been apparent all year?  Even if they had hunkered down and hibernated during the winter, surely they wouldn't wait until the end of July to come outside.  Ah, well, another subject to ponder while down in the barn.

Once in awhile, amidst the dozens of green and red Anna's hummingbirds that come to the feeders, one with bronze and gold feathers will show up.  I've never seen more than one at a time, but usually one per season.  Why is this, I wonder.  Is it an anomaly?  Is it a fellow traveler from a different flock?  So far this summer, these little guys in large numbers have managed to slurp their way through sixty pounds of sugar.  I'm mixing four quarts of "juice" a day now, filling three feeders twice.  They were waiting for me just at dawn this morning, buzzing my head and clicking in their impatience, sneaking a sip even as I rehung the bottles.

What will the next season bring?

DIY

I have my very own toolbox with my very own set of tools.  Admittedly, they are more of the "girly" type, especially the little battery-operated drill/screw driver, and for most jobs in the house, I don't need a sixteen-ounce hammer.  I'm the next best thing to phobic about using power tools since I had the muffler and welding shop years ago.  Steve was holding a pipe overhead while I cut it with the Sawzall.  The saw bucked and I sliced into his inner wrist.  That about did it for me (and him!).  I've avoided power tools whenever possible ever since.

The top and bottom of the Dutch door to the milking room are held shut by a bolt dropped through corresponding holes.  The bottom hole wasn't quite big enough to let this happen easily.  Certainly not a big deal to fix; just get a larger bit and drill it out.  My little battery-run outfit wasn't going to be able to handle it, so I went down to No-Man's Land (the shop) and got the big Makita cordless drill.  Turning this and twisting that, I finally got the bits changed and locked into place.  That should have been a clue that I didn't have the slightest idea what I was doing, but I forged ahead just like I had good sense.

Hauling the heavy drill along with the milk buckets to the barn, it seemed prudent to fix the door before letting the girls out.  They vociferously disagreed with this plan, so I needed to hurry.  I was at a slight height disadvantage, so it was a bit awkward to get the bit placed just so, and it started to bind up about halfway down.  I know darned good and well there is a mechanism to get a drill to reverse, but I hadn't checked in advance where it was on the Makita, and I couldn't see because it was over my head.  Just fine.  Feeling like a complete idiot, I had to manually back the whole thing out just to get the drill out of the door.  The goats were bawling, Poppy was bellowing, I was sweating bullets.  Setting the drill aside, I took care of the morning's chores.

Giving myself a rah-rah pep talk, I picked up the Makita again, found the switch (marked with an F for forward, R for reverse, duh), and drilled the hole the right size.  Mission accomplished.  DIY, my Aunt Fanny!  But I got-'er-done.

Come Into My Parlor

The brain of a fly must be no bigger than the head of a pin.  Still, these pesky critters can be trained, and they can tell time.  Just like the squirrels and the mice, a cluster of flies comes every morning at the same time when I'm about halfway through milking Cindy, the first goat.  The mice poke their heads out of their burrows and the squirrels duck through holes in the barn wall looking for grain.  The flies gather together for the sacrificial squirt.  I've found that if I aim one stream of milk onto the stand, it keeps the flies busy and not bothering either the goat or me.  Sometimes I'm preemptive, but if not, I'll glance down and there they are, milling about and waiting in the same spot for their slurp.

On the subject of flies, taking a break while Esther (nonmilker) was having breakfast, I watched a daddy-longlegs with a fly it had trapped.  Quick as a wink, that spider wrapped up the fly in a swaddling of web silk like a housewife covering leftovers with cling film.  Could be that the fly was too full of milk to get away in the first place and staggered into the web.

Speaking of training (get on board my train of thought here), Huey and Dewey, those overgrown scrub jay boys, are finally getting the message.  They are following their overworked parents to the grain bucket.  At first they would perch on the edge of the bucket while Ma hopped in to get a snack and hand it up to them.  Now they're going in and feeding themselves.  I can't  say I'm happy about the goat food going down the birds' gullets, but I do sympathize with those parents and their loutish sons.

And so it goes in my parlor.  One way or another, everything gets fed.

The Girl Can't Help It

(With a nod to Little Richard.)  All has been made clear.  Dolly's rainmaking powers have been explained.  It seems that there was a terrible storm on the night she was born in Pennsylvania with rain, thunder and lightning all the way to the hospital.  Her parents recounted the story of their wild ride every birthday.  The god Thor seems to have kept an eye on Dolly all these years and sends reminders.  It's not Dolly's fault.  Rain, anyone?

Joel stopped by to share some peaches he'd been gifted.  White peaches are so delicate, ripening fast and bruising easily.  Too soft to eat out of hand, how best to use these fragrant beauties?  I had extra pie dough in the fridge, just enough to cover a cobbler.  It made a grand finale to a dinner of leftovers.

Tree Guy, aka Go-To, replaced the outlets in the bedroom so I can use the plugs without fear of burning down the house.  The power surge seems to have fried the satellite receiver, but the company will send a new one.  With the potential for far greater danger, I got off pretty darned lucky.

It was a good day.

Nothing For Granted

Turn the tap and water flows.  Flip a switch and the lights go on.  Simple things that most of us expect and take for granted.  Spend a day or two (thankfully, not more) without electricity and water and appreciation grows in leaps and bounds.  Everything is pretty much back to normal (and I realize that's a relative term) here.  Plants watered, dishes washed, toilets flushed.  Life is good.

The subject on everyone's lips is the storm and its aftermath.  Consensus is that it was the most intense electrical storm that anyone can remember.  A friend in Mt. Aukum spent some anxious hours as firefighters fought blazing fields across the road from his ranch.  He was told that lightning started over fifty fires in the area, fortunately mostly small ones.  On the home front, I had to make a number of calls, but found out I didn't have to have an electrician come to check the wiring to a couple of outlets.  Seeing sparks fly when I tried to plug the computer back in had me scared silly that I was going to burn the house down.  It seems just the receptacles must be replaced.  Tree Guy has become my new Go-To Guy and he'll be by sometime today to do just that.

There was a change in my landscape yesterday.  The kid who delivered a load of grain and alfalfa on Monday hemmed and hawed and kicked the tires on that old boat and trailer that has sat by the driveway for seven years.  It's been an obstacle and an eyesore.  "Ever think of getting rid of that anytime soon?," said Kid.  "Anytime you want to come and take it away," said I.  Yesterday Kid, his dad, and a friend came and hooked it up.  Dad had to be as excited as Kid.  It must be a guy thing.  I'd been ready to fill the ugly thing with dirt and plant it with flowers, but these males considered it a treasure.  Happy sailing!