I'm Not Alone

I seem to have companions in my move to the State of Confusion.  First off, I thought we changed clocks on Sunday night, not Saturday, so my bedside clock said the usual 5 a.m. when I awoke.  Fired up the computer on the way to make coffee; came back to find it said 4-something.  Huh?  Checked the cell phone.  It agreed with me and my clock that it was 5-something (time was flying).  By then, I didn't know who or what to trust.  Turned cell phone off and back on.  Nope, still 5 and some change.  Then, right before my very eyes, the 5 became a 4.  I think the cell phone people didn't look at the calendar or their clock either.  The goats, sheep, and chickens are on my side:  when the sun is up, it's day; when the sun goes down, it's night, and none of us knows what day it is.  (Must remember to put in a change-of-address card for all of us.)

I put those few walnuts rolling around in the sack back where they'd come from and traded that excuse for hauling wood up to the porch.  The wagon had been getting harder and harder to pull and I didn't know why.  The tires looked okay but when I checked, they were squooshy.  When did that happen?  There is a small air compressor out in the barn.  Risking Thing's ire by invading his territory, I turned it on and filled the tires.  What an amazing difference!  The bouncy tires rolled instead of my having it pull it like a sled.  Note to self:  check tires more frequently.  I did not completely fill the porch rack; I may need that excuse again.

What Shall I Do?

There are perhaps only fifty or so walnuts at the bottom of the bag now after hammering away all afternoon and most of the evening.  I really wanted to finish the job but my butt gave out from sitting on the floor, even with breaks to put the kids to bed and heat a frozen pizza and, of course, letting Pearl in and out.  Then I got to thinking:  what shall I do when the bag is empty and I need an excuse not to do something else?  I've come to rely on that bag of walnuts.  I look around and see that this should be done or I should take care of that, then go get the piece of steel plate, a hammer, a bowl, and a bag for the shells and settle down to do something that is really nothing, but it relieves me of some of the guilt.  Creaking and groaning as I finally got to my feet in my oh-so-graceful way (it ain't pretty) last night, I  thought, "Well, you can finish up tomorrow."  Having had a night to sleep on the problem, I've decided those few walnuts left are my last bastion against doing something I didn't want to do in the first place.  I realize now I'd been looking at the walnut bag in the wrong way, as another task that needed doing.  That bag is my friend, my saving grace, and what shall I do for a good excuse when some other job calls for my attention and that bag is empty?  Sigh.

Change Of Heart

What is it, I wonder, that causes some animals to undergo a complete change of heart, if not their entire personality, over time.  I've seen it happen before.  Eons ago we had a cat named Toolu who was a don't-touch-me cat.  People who had come to our house for years didn't believe we even had a cat because she would disappear the minute anyone walked in the door.  Then one day she came out of a back room and stuck to the Kids like lint on blue serge from then on.  If they lay on the floor, she curled up on back or hip.  I have a picture of one Kid sitting in a chair with Toolu perched on his head.  Pearl has done a similar about-face to the point that I look at her and ask, "Who are you?"  She asks, no, demands, to be petted, weaving back and forth until she's satisfied.  She plays with leaves and bits of string.  Not quite ready to settle in my lap, she will lie on the foot rest of the recliner to watch TV with me.  She has taken Frank's job with Bessie Anne and is now her constant companion.  Bess seems happy enough with this substitution.  If Pearl is outside when we step out to attend to chores, she comes running to be with us.  We are, indeed, all for one and one for all.

Sheila has also undergone a personality change and has become very lovey-dovey.  Always the first one up on the stand (recalling the ring-around-the-rosy games), she's reluctant to leave the room until I give her some extra loving and sweet talk.  She then hangs around outside the milking room door, getting in my way as I go in and out to clean the other stalls.  Last goat done, I go over to open the gate to the big pen.  Sheila follows and stands waiting for a head and neck rub, blocking the way for the others.  Leaving the pen, she'll come along up the hill for a goodbye pet at the gate, putting her muzzle up for a nuzzle.  Go figure.

Shopping Spree

Bess went with me to The Cookie Store (aka the feed store).  The owners keep an open box of milk bones for the furry ones who ride shotgun, and I always take two (they're small) when my girl travels with me.  Bessie wiggles on the seat when I come back to the truck and sniffs to check that I remembered her goodies.  I have, in the past, forgotten and had to go back in, explaining that my dog wouldn't let me get back in the vehicle without treats.  The funny thing is that I put her cookies on the console between us and she won't touch them, not until we get back home.  She'll jump out of the truck and whirl around to receive one milk bone at a time.  She eats the first one and takes the second one off to bury.  Goofy dog.

Like it or not, I had to go to town later in the day.  The truck was overdue for an oil change so, having a few extra minutes, I stopped in at the oil change store.  Sitting down to wait, I was next to a lady with a little blond Frenchie (French bulldog, the kind with the big bat ears), four months old.  What started with a lick on the hand became a puppy in my lap.  Puppy discovered the brass buttons on my go-to-town bibbies and had a wonderful time until her mama had to leave.  There's nothing in the world like puppy breath.

At Wally World, I knew I had to break down and buy some new socks (aarrgh).  Wending my way through the unfamiliar territory of ladies wear, I passed a display of nightshirts (I guess they call them nightgowns).  With the recent drop in temperature, the flannel ones looked pretty good to me and, wait for it...I bought one!  Had to laugh at the memory of the first Christmas after I'd married the Kids' dad at eighteen.  Both mothers gave me nightgowns that year.  My mother's gift was a floor-length, high-necked, long-sleeved flannel gown.  His mother gave me a set of see-through baby-doll pajamas.  Hmmm.  Differing aims, I think.

Three stores in one day.  I was exhausted.

Then and Now

I grew up in a black-and-white world.  All photos taken with my big, clunky Brownie box camera were with black-and-white film.  Until Kodak revolutionized the industry with Kodachrome, all photographs looked like Whistler's Mother.  One would never know from photos that my sister had beautiful red hair back in the day (but maybe the freckles gave it away).  All movies were black and white.  In that scene in "The Wizard of Oz" where Dorothy lands in Oz and the movie switches to Technicolor, it was truly magical and the theater audience gasped.  The first televisions were only black and white; something we were used to, but a step backwards.

Cameras got smaller as time went on and almost all commercial film was in color.  In the 1980s, an ex-sister-in-law and I toured Europe.  We agreed in advance that we would each take 12 rolls of film (24 pictures per roll) and alternate our shots so as to get the biggest bang (the most photos) for our buck.  I had not realized that she was technologically inept.  A couple of times she opened the camera, exposed the roll of film and lost everything.  I don't know what she did, but found out later that several of her rolls turned out nothing but blue pictures.  After the first fiasco, I took pictures of everything so we'd have something to look back on.  Returning home, it cost a fortune to have the photos developed and took weeks.

Coming from this background, I am absolutely fascinated by the tiny digital cameras available today.  My phone takes pictures, for crying out loud!  I can store them, print them, share them, all in the blink of an eye and for free!  Because pictures can be seen immediately, there is no more, "Just one more for insurance," in case the subject moved or blinked.  For every photo I post, I've taken dozens more just because I can.  My cell phone is always in my bibbie pocket, but sometimes I'll step back in the house to get my camera.  I did that last evening just to get one more sunset too beautiful not to share.  I couldn't help myself.

Opening an eye at four this morning, the moon was just clearing the eastern horizon.  It was like a slice of bright orange pumpkin lying on its back.  I had a brief thought of trying to take a picture, but good sense prevailed.  Rolling over, I went back to sleep for another hour.  (But it would have been a great photograph.)

Cozy

Shirtsleeves one day; turtleneck, jacket, and gloves the next.  The morning sun tried hard to peek from behind the curtain of clouds without success.  I apologized to each of the milkers when I washed her udder with a cold wipe.  Not yet the frigid weather of winter, it was still grey, damp, and chilly and the wind continued to whistle.  The woodpile is very much like a bank account; withdrawals should not be made frivolously because it is a finite resource.  When it is gone, it is all gone.  Back up at the house, with company coming for dinner I rationalized that firing up the wood stove was only right for the comfort of my guests.  That's what I told myself, but the truth was that I was cold and that's all there was to it, so I brought in an armload of wood and lit a fire.  The first fire of the season is something of an event:  will the logs catch, will the chimney draw, will the stove smoke?  Once the house gets cold, it takes a long time to warm up.  Staying busy with housecleaning and kitchen prep work, it wasn't until I sat down for a break that I realized how warm and cozy the living room had become.  With Bess Anne soaking in the heat stretched out in front of the stove, I sent quick thank-yous to the wood cutters and chimney sweep.  Dinner was good, the company was great, and, like the baby bear's bed, the house was "just right."

The Breakfast Club

Members of the Breakfast Club were out in force yesterday.  The business meeting was held in the side yard with all members present and then they broke for refreshments.  This committee was assigned to the second seating, as the dining area was already full, but they were hurrying to get in line.  Bessie Anne (look closely; she is the same color as the leaves) was the self-appointed Sergeant At Arms.

The early birds were helping themselves to the buffet, including the one up on the feeder in the balcony.  There had been many loud disputes during the general assembly, but conversation at breakfast was muffled as the members continued to talk, but with mouths full.

The wind blew this way and that all day, gaining strength as sundown approached.  The goats needed no coaxing to go into the barn and the chickens were already tucked in.  By nightfall, it was howling and at bedtime, instead of her usual hidey-hole, Pearl came and slept with Bess and me on the bed for comfort.  She explained that she was not a scaredy cat. but she thought we might need the company.  Rain came sometime after dark and the storm still blows this morning.