Bessie Knows Best

Just as Bessie Anne takes me for an outing in the morning, she also has me accompany her on a walkabout in the afternoon.  Bess always has my best interests at heart and knows when I need fresh air.  Some days we sit on the porch, but yesterday she suggested that we go out to the picnic table under the oak.  I had no objections so followed her lead.  From that vantage, the view was to the west, overlooking the upper corner of the goat pen.  It's common to see turkeys, vultures, and often the dinky birds sipping water from the trough, but I was startled yesterday when suddenly there was frantic splashing.  I almost started over there, worried that a bird had fallen in and was drowning.  Then I realized that the small birds ringing the edge were diving in for a quick bath, almost "walking on water" as they fluttered in and out.  There were dozens in the flock and they were having such a good time.  Every so often the group would fly off, returning for another dip and splash.  There are no dirty birds at Farview.

Bessie's timing had been perfect.  If she hadn't asked me along, I would have missed all the fun.

Great Start, Better Finish

Running late, as usual (why don't I just change start-up time so I can be "on time"), I was still in the barn when my cellphone rang.  I answered without looking to see the caller and was mightily surprised that it was my middle son, Pete.  Better yet, he said his plans had changed and he (and maybe my grandson, Jake) would be coming up for Thanksgiving after all!  That means my entire crew will be together for the holiday and makes me one happy mama.  What a great way to start the day.

Back to the goats and the phone rang again.  Milking one-handed, I answered.  It was Linda.  A customer in her store was in need of goat milk for some newborn puppies whose mother had developed milk fever, a common calcium deficiency after giving birth.  We made arrangements for a pick-up later.

I find I can text and milk at the same time, which is a good thing, because I was still at it when I got a message from my daughter.  By this time, I was laughing.  Maybe the goats weren't because everything was somewhat delayed, but what're ya gonna do?

Back up at the house, the lady with the puppies came for milk, bringing a Perrier bottle, a plastic soft drink bottle, and what looked like a small pickle jar.  I suggested she find some Mason jars for next time.  Small-mouth bottles are impossible to clean thoroughly.

Spiffed up, I made the trek down to Cameron Park.  Grocery shopping took longer than expected because, in my lengthy absence, they'd moved everything in the store and required many trips up and down aisles with many returns and go-backs.  Wearing a new set of bibbies, I had to smile when a woman walked past and said, "I really like your overalls.  I used to wear them all the time."  It's not the first time I've had comments on my attire and it always makes me smile.

Imagine coming up the driveway and seeing a spike-horn buck standing silhouetted against this gorgeous sunset.  He bounded off into the south pasture before I could snap a photo.  The girls were standing at the corner of their pen, wondering when they could go to bed.  Without taking time to unload the truck, I headed toward the barn.

In the short while it took to tuck the goats in, the colors had started to change as I walked back up the path.

Like a slide show, the sky became more and more beautiful.  It took seven trips to unload almost everything out of the truck, but who could complain with a view like this?  Cat litter and two cases of beer could wait.

This was the last shot, the brightest blaze fading to pink, before I closed the truck doors and went in to face the multitude of grocery bags on every counter in the kitchen.

This is the staging area for Thanksgiving dinner.  It does not include refrigerator items which include six pounds of butter, four pounds of margarine, celery, three bags of cranberries, and two pounds of bacon, or ten pounds of potatoes in the bin, etc., etc., nor the 23-plus pound turkey in the outside fridge.  I hope there will be enough.  Inspector Celeste is on the job.

It was a better-than-good day.

Monkey Wrenches

Oh crum.  Just the other day I said that I liked Nature's plan of a couple of days of rain a week.  Now she's throwing a monkey wrench into my plans for Thanksgiving with the prediction of snow here next Wednesday and Thursday.  That's carrying things a bit too far.  Not all of my Kids have 4WD vehicles and my dirt driveway is pretty steep.  I've got to do the "big" shopping down in Cameron Park today, so I'll just carry on like I had good sense and hope for the best.  Once the supplies are in, it's not like the holiday cooking can be postponed.  I wrote out the grocery list a couple of weeks ago.  All I have to do now is find it.

Whatever project I had in mind for yesterday got put on hold.  I finished the last page in the book by one o'clock, but then remembered it was bill-paying day.  I'm always glad when that's done, but it is depressing to watch funds bleed away in the process and it always takes longer than one would think.

The computer desk is just a step away from the bed, situated facing southeast so I can see the sunrise and a lovely view of the hills behind the monitor.  Periodically while I'm working, I will feel the lightest, most gentle touch on my shoulder.  Ralph, yes, rowdy Ralph, has stretched out one paw to pat me as he stands on the bed behind.  Swinging the chair around, I invite him to sit on my lap for a cuddle.  He usually accepts, but Ralph never stays in one place long.  He's a very busy boy.

I'd better get busy, too.  One never knows how many monkey wrenches will be thrown into the works today.

Doesn't Take Much

I'm easily amused.  It probably comes under the heading of "simple pleasures for simple minds," but I get tickled when I hear Narcissus sweet-talking to his reflection in the truck bumper.  I'll say this for him, he is a constant lover.  The other toms walk past, probably thinking, "He's at it again."

I also get a kick out of the myriad mice in the barn.  My tiny companions in the milk room barely move away as I go about the business of the day.  While they eventually clean up every last morsel, they pick through the piles of grain for the choicest pieces first, nibbling flakes of corn and cracking seeds while sitting and watching me with bright bead eyes.  Excitement is rampant when the first squirts of milk hit the rake and wipes.  Speaking of wipes, little housewives are padding their winter nests with used wipes filched from the bucket.

It seemed that every time I looked out a window yesterday I saw deer.  There were four, two does, two fawns, in the side yards when Bess and I went out to sit on the deck.  I saw more in ones and twos throughout the day, and at nightfall there were five at one time behind the chicken pen.  It pleases me that the wildlife seem to recognize that neither I nor my dog are a threat.  They don't run from either of us.  A flock of fifteen turkey hens walked within a few feet of Bessie Anne as she sat on the steps.  She just watched the parade go by.

I made a tactical error by picking up a book after barn chores to take out to the deck.  I haven't been reading of late, but that hadn't stopped me from buying more.  "I'll read only until I get warmed up and then tend to business."  "Business," whatever might have been on the agenda, got lost in the pages somewhere.  Moving from the deck to the living room, the next thing I knew it was time to put the kids to bed.  Four hundred-fifty pages down, about two-fifty to go.  I promise, right after I finish this one, I won't pick up another book until after Thanksgiving.

The wood stove was lit before the coffee was made this morning while it was still dark.  First light - what can I say?  It doesn't take much to please me.

Calm After The Storm

Were it not for hail still on the ground, wet grass, and the ice still in Bessie's pool at noon, one would never have known that there had been a full-blown storm the day before.  It simply was a glorious day yesterday.  Cold, yes, but warm enough to sit in the sun on the deck with Bess and bask like lizards.  After the excitement of the games and races on Sunday, the only things I had planned were 1) taking the trash down to the big road and 2) hauling a couple of wagon loads of firewood up to the porch.  Mission accomplished!  I'm at an age and stage in life where I can take pleasure in the little things, and like to portion out chores.  I no longer have the urge to get it all done in a day.

My new phone has a kind of pedometer gizmo that tells me (like I didn't know) that I average walking over a mile a day.  There are days when it feels like that mile is uphill both ways.  I was concerned that Bessie Anne was not getting enough exercise.  She's been on a diet and has lost some of her pudge, but limits the majority of her activity to moving from one nap spot to another or going out on a potty run.  A "real" walk would be good for both of us.  Yeah, and how's that working for ya?  We go out together and I head around the drive.  Bess accompanies me just so far, plops down, and says, "You go on, Mom.  I'll wait right here for you."  She makes me think of that sentence in typing class, "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."  I head back to the house.  "Oh, good, Mom.  I knew you'd come to your senses."

It's a scientific fact that heat does not turn corners.  No matter how warm I can get the living room, heat never makes it down the hall and into the bedrooms.  That's okay by me, I sleep better in a cold room.  However, waking up clinging to the edge of the bed with not enough blankets to cover my bum, cats jammed up against my legs and the dog sleeping on half of my pillow, huffing into my face, is not my idea of a good rest.  It is an accurate indicator of how cold it has gotten during the night.  Last night was pretty darned cold.

I like the pattern Nature has gotten into with one or two stormy days a week.  We need the rain and the sun just makes us appreciate it all the more.  It was a good day.

...And Dropping

It started raining during the night and continued raining most of yesterday.  Loathe as I am to use the dryer, it seemed a good day to do laundry (okay, I was running out of socks and didn't have a choice), clean the kitchen, and turn on the dishwasher.  The NASCAR race in Phoenix was on a rain delay.  Clay went over there to watch it and spent the afternoon in the car trying to stay warm (with help from a bottle of JD) until the track was dry enough to start the race.  Me?  The wood stove was glowing, the Steelers beat the Cleveland Browns, the Vikings beat the Raiders, and, as it turned out, Dale Earnhardt, Jr., won the race when it was called due to more rain in Phoenix.  How good can it get?

I'd switched over to a DVR'd program when Deb called with the news that a big storm cell was headed in my direction.  There had been a weather alert on live TV that I'd missed.  At that moment in time, the rain had stopped, the wind had died down, and the sun was peeking out.  Bess took advantage to make a quick trip outside, and I couldn't see any signs that bad (make that "worse") weather was coming.  It had been in the mid-to-high 30s all day, and then the temp started dropping.

Within a half-hour of Deb's call, it was 32 degrees, the skies blackened, thunder rattled the windows, and hail began to bounce on the deck.  Almost exactly seven minutes later and it was all over and we were left with this pea-size stuff all over.  It wasn't even raining when I went out to put the kids to bed.  They'd been huddled in the play yard and coop all day and were most happy to see me, rushing into their rooms and telling me all about it.  After crunching through the hail drifts and crust and getting through the slip-and-slide in the chicken pen, I was very glad I'd bought that boot brush thingy for the porch.  Good timing, that.

A bag of split-pea soup from the freezer warmed up my innards after the cold, and a cup of hot cider with a tot of what we euphemistically call "brown sugar" warmed my frozen fingers.

Thirty degrees this morning.  Got the wood stove fired up before the coffee went on.  Light enough to see outside now and yesterday's hail still covers deck and the slopes.  I'm grateful I don't have to go anywhere this morning as I'm sure the truck door handle would be frozen shut and the windshield covered in ice.

It was a good day.

Once Is A Tradition

Just as when Steve had one of anything, it immediately became a "collection," it seems that in my circle, if we do anything once it becomes a tradition.  This applies even to my dog.  It is my practice when back at the house after barn chores to sit down for a bit to rest.  A week or so ago, I'd no more than sat when Bessie asked to go out.  At her bidding (I'm well trained), I got up and opened the door for her.  "You come, too."  Since I was going to sit anyhow and it was a nice day, I decided I could just as well sit outside on the deck.  Next day, same timing, same routine.  And the next, and the next.  Tradition.

Yesterday was a day of tradition for me.  Ten years ago, Steve asked me where I'd like to go for our anniversary lunch.  (With goats, dinner out was/is never an option.)  I was hungry for Chinese food, but then remembered that he liked Mexican better and suggested Tortilla Flats in Placerville.  It was his anniversary, too, after all.  Turned out, through no fault of his, it was the only time in his too-short life that he ever stood me up on a date.  With few exceptions over the years, I've celebrated our anniversary by going to Tortilla Flats for lunch, sometimes with a friend, sometimes alone.  Yesterday, Linda was my guest for the occasion (she even brought flowers!) and it was lovely, a truly happy day.  Later, we wandered in and out of some of the great shops in Old Town, and I frivolously treated myself to a new can crusher and a boot brush/scraper for the front porch.  Anyone who knew Steve would acknowledge that those are exactly the kind of gifts he would have chosen for me, too.

Back home again, I caught an old segment of Huell Howser ("That's amAZing!") when he visited the Kellogg Horse Ranch in Pomona, California, in 1992, and that reminded me of another tradition, this one involving my mother.  My mother was not into animals, per se, and I don't know how it started, but for years on Mother's Day my dad and I would take her to the Kellogg Ranch for their special tribute to mothers.  The horse show featured many mares and their foals, beautiful and darling.  They must have planned their breeding season carefully for the occasion.  Even Mother could not resist their appeal.

Just for the sake of "tradition," though not spectacular, I took a picture of last evening's sunset anyhow.  The computer, however, will not give me the photo.  I guess enough is enough.

It was a good day.

PS:  a wild wind is blowing and a storm is on its way in.  Poor Bess.  What will she do?