Skip A Beat

I had every intention of posting a picture today of the finished Christmas tree.  That would require a finished tree.  It's a very good thing the Kids aren't coming up to celebrate our Christmas until January, and maybe I should try to talk them into waiting until July.  I don't know why this is turning into the project from hell.  Right now, I can't decide whether this is a learning experience that will speed up the construction of the tree for downstairs or perhaps I should just seal off the downstairs and forget that whole thing.  Whatever made me think that downsizing the tree would ease the stress of the holidays in the first place?  It must be the same "whatever" that made me feel I must cram every ornament and decoration that was on the big tree onto this smaller tree.  All I know is that every "do" is needing a "re-do."  To be continued....

Some time back, Kathy V. commented that the farming gene sometimes skips a generation.  My dad was a sharecropper's son, and his sole involvement with the land after leaving Texas was to cut the grass, full stop.  My mother always had a large, beautiful rose garden, and she enjoyed helping me later with my vegetable gardens, but she certainly was not an "animal person" and really didn't care for even dogs or cats. 

Reflecting in the barn yesterday, I started remembering stories my mother had told about her childhood; spending summers at the farms of uncles and aunts in Chenoa, Illinois, and Sheboygan, Wisconsin.  She told of the women cooking all morning for the threshing crews; how the tables would groan with food for those hard-working men, and how the men would lie on the grass with a handkerchief over their face for a short nap before heading back to the fields.  The midday meal was called "dinner," and the evening meal was "supper."  (When did that change to lunch and dinner?)  She told of riding the big draft horses on Sunday when the horses weren't at work pulling the harvesting equipment, and sitting on a burlap sack because no saddle would fit.  Mother always laughed when she said the horse, as she was riding down a country lane, would turn up every long drive along the way, paying no attention to its rider, and she got to know the few neighbors very well.  When I was five, Mother and I took a train from California to visit her cousin Clayton on his farm in Illinois.  I was in heaven.  Clayton had chickens and pigs and, to my child's eyes, the most enormous red cows I'd ever seen.  I spent every waking moment following Clayton as he tended his farm, and will never forget standing in his vegetable garden as he'd take out his pocket knife and peel a crisp turnip fresh from the ground, or my first taste of a sun-warmed tomato.  Another cousin, Elmer, had just been discharged from the marines after VE Day in World War II, and joined the reunion.  (I have to admit to locking the men at one time or another in the two-hole outhouse.  To a five-year-old, that was pretty funny.)

Perhaps it's true that I inherited that gene.  I know for sure that I'm where I'm supposed to be.

It's A Start

Could have titled this "How I Spent My Afternoon."  My prior trees were two feet taller, probably five feet across at the base, and heavy enough to require two men to carry.  They came in two pieces in a box as big as a refrigerator.  The two pieces fit together, the branches unfolded and, voila, there stood the tree!  Having pumped myself up with holiday enthusiasm yesterday, I figured I'd ride the crest of that wave and put up the living room tree.  The box for my five-dollar tree was a small rectangle, six inches by three feet.  I could carry the two of them under one arm.  This was going to be a cakewalk.

Opening the box, I first noticed that the trunk was in multiple bare segments that were nestled in bundles of color-coded branches.  Oh, say it isn't so!  Yes, it was so.  Each main branch was tightly furled and must be inserted, one at a time, into the proper colored slot in the trunk and the side branches opened out "in a natural-appearing" manner.  Did I mention this is a six-foot tall tree?  Can we all say you get what you pay for?  Gathering my patience and opening a beer, I settled in to insert and spread, insert and spread...ad infinitum.  With the best of intentions, I'm sure, Pearl hopped in and out of the box, mixing up the color-coded branches so that I had to search through them all instead of picking up one bundle at a time.  I forgot to say that the color coding was in the form of little plastic stickers that were not all that sticky.  Now, is this one without a sticker the same size as that one with the yellow sticker, or could it be one of the reds?  After all, I want a tree that looks "natural."  I finished construction and my second beer about the same time.

Steve's contribution to Christmas decorating was to bring in the tree, set it up (easy-peasy, as I said), and put on the lights.  I did not put on the lights.  I put on the ornaments.  This year I, alone, had to put on the lights.  Oh, come on, how hard could it be?  As I recall, he whipped through that in no time.  Obviously, my memory is failing.  There was still plenty of daylight when I started placing the first box of one hundred-fifty lights.  A word about the lights:  these are new, fancy-dancy lights with a what?, some sort of mini-computer with sixteen functions for different light displays--waves, flickers, dim and then glow, and all combinations thereof.  All I wanted was twinky lights, and I had to keep punching the button to find that old-fashioned display.  The lights would twink and I'd think I had it, but then they'd go wild like a strobe light.  Nooo!  Punch the button again.  Sweating bullets and slurping another beer, I got the first strand installed.  It didn't go quite halfway up the tree, but, what the heck, the branches were shorter the higher up so the second strand should reach all the way to the top, right?   That would be wrong.  Before starting, I had to get the light display on the second strand to sync up with the first.  Punch the button again and again.  I came up short about a foot from the top and had to redistribute the last strand.  It's still a little off, but close enough for hand grenades.  I'll do better when I work up the courage and strength to put up the tree downstairs.  It was full dark by the time I was done and I had to put on my lighted cap (more lights!) to put the kids to bed.  The decorations may or may not go on today.  But ain't it purty?

Jumping Hurdles

This is the time of year when I feel like a steeplechase rider or, more likely, the horse.  No sooner is one holiday over than I have to set my sights on and gather forces for the next.  Yesterday was a decompression day, with a long nap and some serious grazing, picking my way through leftovers.  Even were I not so fortunate as to have my family to cook for, I would still fix a turkey and all the trimmings just for the pleasure of those leftovers.  The first "second" day is always a hot plate of turkey, potatoes, dressing and gravy, and the side dishes, but from then on it's hot turkey and dressing sandwiches on sourdough bread with cranberries on the side, or, if I'm feeling decadent, turkey and bacon sandwiches.  I'll work my way through until there's only the carcass left, and that will go into making a soup.  Oh, gosh, I do love Thanksgiving!

Now it's time to pick up the reins and head toward Christmas.  I got no further in decorating the house than putting a wreath on the front door before the Kids came up.  Now it's time, before the dust settles (again!), to start hauling in the trees and tubs of decorations.  There were times in recent years that I took a minimalist approach, but I feel like going all out this year.  My holiday spirit got a boost when Bessie and I took our after-dark walk and found that most of the five or six houses I can see from my hill, including the little house across the road, have put up Christmas lights.  Who'da thunk it, way out here in the boonies?  From the time I was a little, little girl, the family would go driving at night through the neighborhoods just to look at Christmas lights.  Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer is such an institution now, but I remember learning the words and singing along with Gene Autry when that song first came out in 1949.  I have a big, lighted Frosty the Snowman that used to go in the front yard, but it scared Bess so bad on her first year here that he's never come out of storage again.

The wicked winds have blown through and the temperature has dropped.  I had to break ice in the water trough in the goat pen yesterday.  It's below freezing this morning.  The most strenuous thing I did yesterday was haul wagons of wood up to the porch, and the first thing I did today was kick open the vent and add logs to the firebox.

Thanksgiving is over.  Christmas is coming!

Giving Thanks

My dad would have said I was moving faster than a hog on ice (or a one-armed paper hanger) yesterday morning, putting the finishing touches on the house and getting a grip on our Thanksgiving meal.  By six a.m., the turkey, a twenty-four pounder, was in the oven, stuffed with the dressing I'd made the night before.  My crew really likes stuffing, especially the crispy bits cooked outside of the bird, so my "recipe" starts with six big loaves of bread, torn into pieces by hand.  (And that's story told many times over.)  I put the pumpkin pie together using some of those home-grown pumpkins instead of canned.  The pecan pie had to wait until I finished the milking; that was for Craig's birthday.  (Hint for the day:  don't put a birthday candle in a still-warm pie.)  I'd already made the pumpkin-cranberry-orange cake for Susan's birthday.  Susan was ill and missed her part of the celebration, and she was missed as well.  Dave's guest, Russell, was also unable to come.  Big on tradition, the menu never changes:  turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes with a couple of gallons of gravy, the obligatory green bean casserole, New Orleans bourbon yams, three kinds of cranberry sauce, and the "Christmas" salad--fruit-laden red Jello--that is never served at Christmas but always at Thanksgiving.  Clay got a big dose of ribbing because he forgot to bring the rolls.  Susan has become our official salad maker; that's what happens when one does something really well, and she didn't let us down.  She sent up her contribution with Larry.  Deb and the boys take on their customary holiday roles.  Craig is in charge of basting the turkey and keeps an eye on the timer, Deb peels a mountain of potatoes and sets the table beautifully, Dave carves the bird, Clay and Larry follow directions for whatever else needs doing.  Once the Kids show up, my job is pretty much over.  Looking at these well-loved faces around my table, I was too choked up to make a toast, so that fell to them, as well.  I certainly know what I'm thankful for.

Many hands made light and speedy work of bagging up leftovers for take-home packages and getting the dishes done.  Like waving a wand, in no time there was no evidence that we'd just had a holiday meal.  The incentive, of course, is the sooner that's done, the sooner we can break out the cards and chips and get down to some not-so-serious poker!  If there is one indelible memory imprinted in my mind and heart, it is the sound of my children's laughter; it's been that way since they came into my life.  As I've said, it's not the date on the calendar, a holiday is who you're with.

It was a good day.

Singing In the Chorus

Bessie Anne was enjoying that hour or so after the critters are tucked in when she lays on the front porch, watches the last of the sun's rays sink below the horizon, and contemplates whatever it is dogs think about.  The beastie boys were out early last evening; just after full dark the coyote pack ran yipping and howling over the hills.  In the house, Bess will raise her head as they pass by or go to the door and growl, perhaps give a bark or two.  Last night, outside and alone, their calls must have touched something primeval because the next thing I heard was Bessie yodeling along with their chorus.  She's not an experienced singer and I doubt she'll be asked to perform a solo act, but, like the soprano in the choir loft, she sang out with gusto and just a little off key.

Hide and Seek

It's a good thing I'd taken the "before" photo of this tree the other day.  The wicked winds of the last few days are stripping all the oaks of their leaves.

And this is where they land. 

Bessie Anne is almost exactly the color of the leaves and becomes nearly invisible at this time of year.  Poppy and Tessie are munching the last of their breakfast before joining the others in the shelter at the side of the barn.

There's my girl!

Another animal was playing hide and seek yesterday.  I spied a tail going around the corner of the deck by the living room and went to check on this uninvited visitor.  A grey squirrel had come all the way around and was checking out everything from the refrigerator to the flower pots.  The silly thing stayed on the deck, looking at the views from all angles, for over an hour.  Was it just bored?

A little later on in the afternoon, it was me playing hide and seek.  The power went out for hours, well into dark.  Not able to do much else, Bessie Anne and I went to bed early.  I found out how early when the phone rang.  One of the Kids called and was surprised that I was sound asleep at eight-thirty.  Could'a fooled me.  Might have been midnight for all I knew.

A Word About Roosters

I was involved in a minor collision yesterday; no damage, no injuries.  I was run into head on by the Barred Rock rooster (Mad King Charles) who was so intent on chasing down one of the hens that he didn't even see me and had no time to hit his brakes.  He fell back, shook his head, and immediately started looking for another playmate.  Tzar Nicholas, the Araucana, also has his way with the ladies, but he is a little more circumspect.  Charles pulled all of Nicholas's tail feathers out, and I think it's given Nicholas an inferiority complex.  The Silkie boys outnumber the girls in their pen, and one poor object of their affection has lost the feathers on her back from all their attentions.  It's not hard to tell which hens are the favorites (or perhaps they're just slow runners); the back of their head is bald from where the rooster will grab her to pin her (briefly) to the ground.  She squawks bloody murder, but a few seconds' tussle and it's all over.  He struts away like the royalty he's named for, and she settles her ruffled feathers like a matron shaking out her skirts and goes on about her business.  The race is on as soon as I open the doors in the morning, and each of the boys takes a little pleasure before going in at night.  I sometimes hear Ethel Merman singing "Call Me Madam" when I'm around the chicken pens.

It's a good thing I took that photo of the tree when I did.  A fierce wind came up yesterday and, although it's still too dark to see, I'm sure that tree is as bald as a hen's head.  Walking out to the truck, I was bombarded with leaves sailing through the air.  So many were falling so fast, the skittering sound could be heard in the house with the doors shut.  Letting the house critters out this morning, I could see the porch is ankle deep in leaves.  The wind blew all day yesterday and howled around the house all night.  There was a delay on my trip to town due to a work crew cutting down overhanging branches, and there were times I had to detour around fallen limbs.  Pine needles lay in drifts like snow on the road and, like snow, they can be just as slippery.  There was a brief hiccup in the power just as I was starting to cook dinner and I thought I might be eating my meal by candlelight, but so far, so good with the electricity.

Unless you're a hen, you just never know what the day will bring.