Bit Of A Break

"It's raining, it's pouring; the old man is snoring...."  How he continues to sleep in this howling wind, I don't know.  It wasn't the wind that woke me this morning, however.  Frank and Pearl circled the bed in the dark, both complaining loudly and telling me they wanted out.  I mumbled something about the weather and refused to get up at four a.m.  They, on the other hand, refused to give up and so we were out in the kitchen at five.  I let the little whiners out the kitchen door onto the deck.  They took three steps outside, turned around, came back in and decided to use their indoor facilities, a luxury Bess won't have when she finally gets out of bed.  She, like an old man, is snoring behind me even now.  Now the cats are complaining again; they hate to admit I'm right.

Yesterday would have been the perfect time to make a quick trip to town to replenish a few supplies.  Rain spit periodically and there were brief gusts of wind.  The goats were quiet and well behaved.  The chickens were able to leave their houses, joined by the turkeys who had been under deep cover the day before.  Unfortunately, by the time Propane Gal came to remove an old, unsafe tank and relight pilot lights there wasn't enough daylight left to make it to town and back before dark.

That window of opportunity slammed shut.  Nature was taking a bit of a break to gather her forces and come back today stronger than before.  Wind is beating rain against the glass like shotgun pellets and screaming with success.  This is going to be one of those days when I'll wish I were raising hamsters and not goats.

Just the Beginning

I had not left the computer yesterday morning before the wind picked up and the first raindrops hit.  In what seemed like minutes we were in the middle of a full-fledged storm.  Bess wisely opted to stay in the house at feeding time.  Leaning into the wind as I walked, it seemed better to leave the chickens in their coop rather than let them out to get plastered up against the fence by the gale.  They are dear little things, but don't always show good sense when it comes to weather.  I could hear the goats before I was halfway to the barn; the storm had them panicked and they were yelling to beat the band.  Leaving Cindy, first in line, alone on the stand for a minute as I ran around to let the others out, she screamed and screamed until I was back at her side.  The metal panels of the roof billowed like sails and I feared they'd be torn loose.  Rain beating down and wind howling, the noise was so intense I could not hear the sound of milk hitting the bucket.  It seemed so loud at times I felt I could not hear my own thoughts.  Hating rain as they do, the goats preferred being wet to coming in under shelter and all that noise.

Back in the house with the comfort of a good fire in the stove, fingers crossed for trees and power, I watched leaves whip past the windows like missiles.  Joel and I talked in the afternoon.  I was sure it was a typo on the weather report when it showed a predicted twelve inches of rain in our area from this series of storms, but Joel said that was what he'd found on the national weather website.  (Perhaps I got rid of that old boat too soon.)

In the late afternoon the wind dropped and the rain stopped.  There were even a few minutes of sunshine before I had to go out to the coops and barn.  Trees and animals had come through unscathed.  We're to get a break today and I will restock the firewood in preparation for the next wave due tonight (although it's pretty windy with some rain this morning).  If those guys know their business, yesterday was the lightest in a series of three storms through until Monday.  Good grief, it was just the beginning.

Hurry Up!

The sky was sunny and bright in early morning; the cloud cover moved in while I was milking.  It was warm outside so Bess and I went out regardless to sit with a book (a very good book, "Peace Like A River;" lovely prose) for awhile.  The threat of the coming storms is a great impetus and the urge to get ready overcame my inclination to sit and read.  Reaching a compromise, I brought more wood up to the porch, then sat and read.  I went out and dug up a big pile of the seeded weeds that the turkeys had stripped bare.  This straggly weed has a massive root ball, impossible to pull from the ground.  It would make a wonderful ground cover for hills as, once dug, dirt clings in a clump the size of a soccer ball and must be beaten off against the pitchfork.  Then I sat and read.  Not enough sun to hang the clothes, but just in case of a loss of power in the predicted heavy winds, I did laundry.  One can always read while the machines do the work and still feel productive.  TG must have had prep work of his own, as neither he nor Son came to start on the drip line.

My friend Camille called.  She had the evening free and wondered if we could watch a movie.  By the time we'd both put our critters in for the night, I had thrown together a meal.  It's been some time since Camille has visited and Bessie Anne is always happy to see Honey.  Honey has wonderful manners, but she cracks me up.  She knows where I keep the box of dog cookies and casually wanders through the room, humming to herself.  "La lala, oh look, a box of cookies.  Perhaps I'll have just one.  La lala." Keeping the dog biscuit hidden in her mouth and turning her head away from Camille, Honey goes in the other room to chomp her treat.  Bessie comes to me and rats her out.  I give Bess a cookie to buy her silence.  Honey comes back to the kitchen and lies next to Bessie's food dish.  "La lala, hmmm, a bowl of snacks, isn't that lovely?  La lala."  Daintily and silently, she noses out a few kibbles and tries hard not to crunch as she eats.  In the living room, Camille and I are watching the movie.  Honey slowly moves about the room, checks Bessie's toy box, goes from corner to corner, and pauses in front of the big couch.  "La lala.  Well, doesn't that look like a nice soft place to lie?  La lala, and no one's using it.  Hmmm."  With great nonchalance, she puts up one paw, then the other, and while it is difficult to slither uphill, she manages to heave herself onto the couch without arousing Camille.  Once on the couch, she lies still as stone.  She's a hoot!

Gracious hostess that I am, and truly interested in the financial documentary that Camille had brought, I made the mistake of putting the foot of the recliner up about halfway through the film.  I woke up just as Camille and Honey were leaving, at least in time to say goodbye.  What can I say?

The sky has a strange, somewhat ominous look this morning.  It's very black toward the west, where the storm is gathering.  I'm glad I'm ready, or as ready as I can be.

Pot o' Gold

Sunrise, sunset, my changing environment, my world.  I never tire of looking at it all.  Having lost a few oaks in the past years, they are even more precious to me.  The golden beauty on the right is in the middle of the front pasture and I can't imagine why it is still standing.  The entire core of the tree is gone, just an outer shell remains, but it fights to stay alive, leafing out in spring and going through the cycle year after year.  A huge branch (TG thinks about a cord of wood's worth) broke and fell from the oak on the left at the edge of my mini-forest.  TG assures me it is only because they are so old.  Somehow I think trees should last forever, even though I know that is not how life works.

Tree Guy and No. 2 Son showed up just as I stepped out the door yesterday morning.  Before we could converse, I had to throw down seed for the impatiently waiting turkey tribe.  TG and Son think I'm batty, as they've been hunting turkeys for dinner the past week (without much success, I might add).  I told him to quit drooling and get back to our plan.

Since the big oak over the barn died, the milking room is a veritable sauna in the summer without shade.  The plan is this:  TG is going to trench an irrigation line down the two-hundred feet of fence line between the two goat pens and plant a series of fruited mulberry trees, placed so that the barn will be shaded from the rising sun.  That will give me time to get in, get the chores done, and get out before the metal roof really heats up.  Until each tree gets big enough, they will have to have substantial fencing to keep the girls from decimating the saplings.  I chose fruited mulberries for a number of reasons:  they grow fast, have large leaves, the blossoms will draw bees (and be so pretty!), and the fruit will feed the birds, the goats, and maybe there'll be some left for me.  The trees are deciduous, so the girls will get additional snacks when the leaves drop in the fall.  The guys should start digging today.

As the saying goes, if you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans.  That's the plan.

Sightings

These preadolescent twins were helping themselves to birdseed as I stepped out of the kitchen yesterday.  They're a little young to be out alone and I hope nothing has happened to their mama.  The comical ears are so big on this pair of mulies it looks like they could flap and fly away.  The twins move almost as one, staying close together.  There is sanctuary down in my woods, and I hope they don't stray far.

Enjoying the new routine of taking a book out to the deck after chores, I glanced up and thought, "Good grief, it's the fingers on the hand of God!"  I've never seen cloud formations like these, totally separate wave upon wave.  The sky to the left was completely blue and cloud free and once past the "palm" on the right, there were no clouds, either.  I can't imagine what wind patterns were blowing up there that would cause such a sight.

Deck time is even more precious after seeing the weather predictions for a week or so of rain coming in a couple of days.  It was difficult, but I made the book last three days.  Pages, for me, are like potato chips, I can't stop with just one or two.

Twin heads peeked around the corner between the two sheds as Bess and I went out at dusk.  Bessie knows the futility of going after deer, so she stood by my side as four sets of eyes stared at each other for a long moment.  Then, in unison as if choreographed, the little ones bounded off back to the woods.  If they bed down deep under the blackberry vines down in the meadow as deer have done before, the youngsters should be safe if the beastie boys go on the hunt.

I threw Poppy a curve ball last night and discombobulated her totally.  I thought it would be a good idea to move her and Sheila into the stall that has been empty after Nineteen and Twenty-Two left.  I put the snack bowl down, left the old stall door shut, and ushered them in.  Sheila went right in, but Poppy said, "That's not my room.  I want to go to my room!"  "But, honey, there's your food in there."  "I don't care.  It's not my room and I'm not going in."  Pushing past me, she stood with her head against the other door and wouldn't budge.  Trying to reason with a sheep who's made up her mind is futile and I finally opened the door, took the bowl from under Sheila's nose, and put them to bed in what I realize now is Poppy's room.  Pleasant dreams, Poppy.

Bibbies traded for comfy sweatpants, fire going in the wood stove, a good program on TV.  "Really?  You have to go outside now?"  Bessie Anne assured me it was urgent, so I put on a jacket and my lighted hard hat and out we went, accompanied by the cats who love outings in the dark.  Except it wasn't truly dark.  The moon is nearly full and my lights weren't necessary, it was so bright.  Once out the door, I could appreciate the nighttime beauty.  Frank and Pearl played tag, racing past us on the drive, their pounding paws the only sounds to hear.  My neighbor across the road has put up Christmas lights, adding to the pleasure.  If it hadn't been for Bess, I would have missed it all.  We made the circuit and trooped back into the house and warmth.

It was a good day.

Fall Palette

Making my rounds on the morning walkabout, I found these turkeys, waiting like Black Friday shoppers, for breakfast to be served.  The animals have a better sense of time than I. 

Looking beyond them, fall colors leapt out.  It took only those few nights of deep frost to turn the leaves.  The days have been uncommonly warm for this time of year, up in the mid sixties.  Perfect for sitting in the sun with a book after barn chores, and I'm not one to pass up an opportunity like that.  I'm working on my winter tan.

This is the view from my bench on the deck, looking to the southeast down past Fleur de Lys Winery.  It's my favorite place in the world to sit quietly alone or with a friend.  It has the same effect on others.  Even in the midst of a large gathering, I could count on finding our friend Dan sitting by himself on the bench, absorbing the peace.  Another friend, Mary, would come up.  Knowing what she needed, after our greetings, I would give her a cup of tea or cocoa and leave her be to sit in the quiet and shed her stresses out on the deck.  After an hour or so, she'd give me a hug and go back to the "real world."  Talk wasn't necessary.

One of the white Silkie roosters, not Musashi, died suddenly last night.  He'd shown no signs of illness.  Not too long ago, Blondie also died but of old age.  Taylor and her mom had raised Blondie from a chick until she was too big (and vocal) to keep in their residential home.  Blondie arrived, via Larry, with a note that said, "My name is Blondie.  I am a very good girl and lay lots of eggs."  She was and she did.  She was the last of my Buff Orpingtons.  Some of the flock are just chickens and some have special characteristics or personalities.  It is to be expected that chickens will have a short life span, but they are missed when they leave.

R&R Day

Bluebird sky, shirtsleeve warm; it was a perfect day in which to rest and recuperate.  Sheila came in without a moment's hesitation (of course she did, the twerp!).  I moved a bench on the deck out of the shade and sat and read for awhile, the winter sun soothing aching muscles and joints, listening only to bird sounds and an occasional Skilsaw as someone with a day off and more ambition than I took on a project.  Back in the house, it seemed the perfect day to watch all six episodes of "Pride and Prejudice" back to back, with a short break for a nap.  (I'll watch anything with Colin Firth.)

Preparing Thanksgiving dinner is like running a marathon race, and I'll be the first to say I'm out of practice.  Professional chefs are athletes as well as inspired cooks, constantly on their feet and always moving.  I really needed my day of R&R after a full shift at the stove.  Eyelids drooping, I opted for an early bedtime, once again giving thanks.