Strangers In Our Midst

There are new kids on the block and I'm having trouble identifying these pint-sized, red-headed strangers.  They are no problem, but I'd like to know who the invaders are.  I've never seen them before, that's for sure.  In outward appearance, they look very much like half-size woodpeckers, but these little birds are absolutely frenetic, flitting quickly here and there, and spending most of their time upside down.  They will hang head down from the tips of branches, pecking at whatever is on the end.  They race down posts and poles head first.  A whole flock has moved in, and Google isn't helping me with an introduction.  Steve used to complain that you have to know how to spell a word before you can find it in the dictionary; I feel the same way about looking up a bird on the internet.  It really doesn't matter in the long run.  I'll just enjoy the newcomers while they're here.  Odds are they will move on as quickly as they appeared.

Direct Hit

Bessie Anne asked to go out while it was still dark yesterday morning.  Opening the door for her when she came back to the porch, there was an overpowering scent of skunk.  I didn't want to accuse her without proof, but held her collar until I could give her a good sniff to make sure she hadn't done the deed again.  I just hate to start a really cold morning with a dog bath, but Bess was guilt free.

After watching the most current episode of Downton Abbey, Dolly packed up and prepared to go home.  Standing in the drive, I gave my best impression of the mistress of the manor as I waved goodbye, but it was difficult to attain the image, dressed in mucky shoes and bibbies as I was.  Ah, well.  The mistress of Downton didn't have to milk goats.

Dolly's taillights blinked around the corner and I headed on out to do chores.  Approaching the feed barn, I was again struck with the scent of skunk, getting stronger as I got closer.  All buildings at Farview are built on or into a hill.  The feed room addition to the barn sits up on pier blocks, with substantial crawlspace underneath.  Cats and chickens can go under there, but it's too low for Bessie Anne.  Nearly knocked over by skunk stink when I went in to get the chicken feed, I can only assume skunks can get under the building too.  I'm thinking Bess might have chased one of those black-and-white "kitties" in there earlier.  Skunks are notoriously nearsighted and it must have fired off a volley without hitting its target.  The barn, however, took a direct hit and that smell will stay around for days.  I will take that as a warning shot and it's back to the leash in the dark, morning or night, for Bessie Anne.

From Downtown to Downton

I am a big fan of the PBS series, "Downton Abbey."  I have recorded all of the first two seasons of this "Upstairs, Downstairs" type of program dealing with an aristocratic English family and their army of servants pre-World War I and later.  I saved the first three episodes of season three without watching because I thought Dolly might also enjoy them.  In order to "put her in the picture," I went back to the very first episode of season one so she would have an introduction to the characters and story line before jumping ahead to the three I was waiting to see.  Little did I know she would so quickly become so addicted.  Although sunny and clear, the wind chill was brutal yesterday, not conducive to spending any time outdoors.  That was a good thing because all we did all day long was follow the Crawley family members and their staff through trials and tribulations, intrigues and romances, failures and successes.  Bleary eyed and butt weary, with one episode left, we finally called it quits about ten-thirty last night.  We'll be going back to Downton this morning.  Well, it's still a history lesson.

Out On the Town

After barn chores and the two of us bringing more firewood up to the porch (cold weather has returned; twenty-six degrees this morning), Dolly and I headed to town in our search for history.  Our first stop was the Fountain & Tallman Soda Works Museum on Main Street in Placerville.  The tiny, two-story building is the oldest original building in town, being made of stone.  The rest of Placerville burned to the ground three times in the 1800s, being rebuilt with brick or stone.  Supported by the El Dorado County Historical Society, the welcoming docents were full of information about the building, the area, and Hangtown (the old name for Placerville).  They are particularly proud of a piece of the Hanging Tree that had been cut down for city expansion, and an intact bottle from the original soda works.

We went next to the El Dorado County Museum next to the county fairgrounds, where Mark, another volunteer, greeted us and walked with us to explain the exhibits.  Much larger than the other, this museum is filled with memorabilia.  I had no idea that John Studebaker, of the family that later made automobiles, built handcarts and wagons for miners during the Gold Rush and never lost his connection to Placerville.  I was very interested in the roster of naturalization in the county, filled with the names of men from many nations who came to work the hills for gold and decided to stay in America.  There were beautiful woven baskets, some so fine there were thirty stitches to the inch, made by Miwok Indians.  The tribes suffered greatly from the influx of miners.  Information on Charley Parkhurst was fascinating.  Charley drove a stagecoach for Wells Fargo and was known as a rough, tough, son-of-a-gun.  On his death, it was discovered that Mr. Parkhurst was, in fact, a woman.  Outside, Mark pointed out a huge copper "bowl," probably four feet deep and six or more feet across.  No, not a cooking pot.  This was a vessel in which placer miners would swoosh down the water flues to clean the sides.  That must have been one wild ride!  It is said that the noise from the rock-crushing stamp mills could be heard for two miles.  In addition to larger mining equipment and wagons, there is a small plot devoted to tombstones for which the graves have been lost.  The headstones had been stolen or otherwise vandalized, found by or donated to the museum, and respectfully given a dignified and touching resting place.  With the sun and temperature dropping, we thanked Mark for our tour and headed home.

I urge everyone to visit their hometown museums.  I should have done this long before.  I've got a much better appreciation of the local history.  It was a great way to spend an afternoon with a good friend.  It was a good day.

Fogged In

For a bit of variety, Dolly brought a bank of thick fog instead of rain yesterday.  Oh, there were a few drizzles off and on so I didn't have to check her credentials.  We spent the day doing what old friends always do when reuniting, pretty much nonstop talking.  We'd decided to put off our planned outing until today because of the fog.  Rain will keep deer and assorted wildlife under cover, but they feel safe to venture out in fog, so discretion seemed the better part of valor.  It's better not to run into them on the road, literally or figuratively.

I put on a movie, "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel," for Dolly to watch while I tended to the kids' bedtime and fixed dinner.  There are some wonderful lines in that film, like, "It will be all right in the end, and if it is not all right, then it is not yet the end."  I have rather eclectic taste in programs, but try to tailor what I offer guests to their interests.  When Larry was here, we watched a documentary on Robert McNamara, Secretary of Defense under two presidents.  For some, I've put on "Girl with a Pearl Earring," "Story of the Weeping Camel," or "Secretariat."  One documentary on the Pamir Kirghiz people, "37 Uses for a Dead Sheep," although fascinating, has never seemed appropriate to share.  I think the title may be off-putting.  Later, Dolly was introduced to the PBS series about a quirky Cornwall physician, "Doc Martin."

 What adventures await us today, I don't know.  Without a doubt, rain or shine, it will be a good day.

My Mouse Tige

There is a small mouse who joins me nearly every morning in the barn.  He brings a snack and sits just a few feet from my side, holding the rolled kernel of corn like a ham sandwich and munching away, looking straight into my eyes.  Most mice run for cover if we make eye contact.  There are days when he finishes his treat, goes to his stash, gets another and comes right back.  I've named him Tige.

I think you'd have to be my age to remember Buster Brown and his dog and constant companion, Tige.  Although the cartoon strip that launched Buster Brown and his mischievous exploits had run its course by the time I was a kid, I listened to the radio show that featured these characters. "Hi, I'm Buster Brown and this is my dog Tige!"  His dog was, of all things, a pit bull.  Buster's pageboy haircut became the rage for women, but what I remember most were the shoes.  Buster Brown was the poster boy for a chain of shoe stores.  He was then to children's shoes what Jimmy Choo is for women now.  I liked to go the shoe store because they had fluoroscopes that showed the bones of your feet in glowing green.  In our little town, the Buster Brown store was the only one to have this fascinating innovation.  (We didn't know then about the dangers of radiation.)  All this being said, I hated the brown oxfords that were always my mother's choice.  Even worse were the brown socks she sometimes made me wear with them.  Back in the day, kids didn't get to have an opinion.  Even if we expressed one, nobody listened.

On the radio show, Buster had another friend, Froggy.  The line I remember most is, "Pluck your magic twanger, Froggy!" If an amphibian were to join the breakfast club, I know what I'd name it.  For now, it's just me, the goats, and Tige and his friends.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

I miss songbirds.  I had canaries when I was a kid, German rollers.  My Aunt Hilda had a large, walk-in aviary filled with canaries, as well as parakeets, cockatiels, and one large cockatoo, Joe.  In southern California, meadowlarks, mockingbirds, and other birds whose names escape me sang all the time.  Up here, the sky and trees are filled with birds of all shapes and sizes.  They are prodigious noisemakers.  The local birds caw, coo, cheep, crow, yell for Rod-ri-go, gobble, squawk, and twitter, but not one sings.  I had a moment of hope the other morning on my walkabout when I heard an honest-to-God "tweet."  It was the first real tweet I've heard up here, but I couldn't see the bird, and it was just the one morning, and no song was forthcoming.  I've heard that altitude has an effect on musical instruments; guitars and banjos need retuning, drums need tightening (or maybe it's loosening), etc.  I wonder if songbirds don't travel to the foothills, or if they're around and their voices have been affected.  I'd get a canary for the house, but it wouldn't be fair to the bird or to Frank and Pearl.  They get enough treats as it is.

Like a reservation confirmation for Dolly's visit, the rain has arrived.  Overcast skies in the morning didn't open up until I was down in the barn, hatless.  It then drizzled off and on all day, but rain didn't really begin in earnest until last night.  Opening the door for the cats to go out in the dark this morning, I did hear singing.  It took just the one night of rain to bring out the frog chorus and they were singing in stereophonic sound, sopranos and basso profondos competing for center stage.  Ah, well.  You take what you get and be glad that you got it.