The Longest Night

It's dark outside. If I didn't have things to do outdoors and chickens to tend I would ensconce myself in my home without much concern about the lengthening nights, but now I tend the chickens by flashlight morning and evening.  It's cold. It's depressing.  I can't help but notice how short the days have become.

I once heard about a town in Sweden that holds a bonfire every winter to drive away evil spirits. It sounds quaint until one considers that the evil spirits might have names like "Vitamin D Deficiency", "Claustrophobia" and "Cabin Fever." That quaint fire may have a practical purpose of getting us out of our stuffy homes and talking to our neighbors. It makes sense that we need festive holidays at this time of year. Lights and parties and traditional outings entertain us. Cooking and shopping and decorating distract us until finally the days begin getting longer.

Salt and I are certainly shopping and decorating and cooking like everyone else, but we're also becoming experts at building fires in the fireplace.  A brightly crackling fire makes even the mildest nights more cheerful, although we usually need the fire for supplementary heat.

The Last of the Great Correspondents

When I was young and visiting my grandparents in the Flint Hills, one of the highlights of the week would be a phone call from Evelyn Mae Reidel. Evie Mae wrote a community column for the weekly Chase County Leader. Her job was to report on all of the activities in the small town where my grandparents lived. Her reports included details such as who attended a local resident's birthday party, weights of grandchildren born, household accidents that led to broken bones, and visitors who stopped by. If Evie Mae called, one was certain to appear in that week's paper. Her folksy reports kept everyone aware of the lives of the neighbors.

Dress Like An Adult

One of my nieces recently posed a question on Facebook about how to dress like an adult. I was about her age when I started thinking that my fashion statement of I-don’t-care needed to be replaced with one that said I-am-mature-and-responsible. I’m not sure if she wants the same thing when she says she needs to dress like an adult. I didn’t feel comfortable posing questions or posting lots of cheerful advice. I know she would rather get advice from her peers than her embarrassing, intrusive aunt. This, of course, creates a dilemma for me, because I spent years at trial and lots of error finding my own answer and I’m dying to air my opinions on the subject. Thankfully, I have a blog, where I can write whatever I want without mortifying anyone, but myself -- and maybe Salt, but he has editorial approval privileges.

So for all you twenty-somethings out there who are wondering how to look trustworthy and sophisticated and mainstream, here is my advice:

Christmas Tree Outing

The day after Thanksgiving is the day we start decorating for Christmas. This year I put my planning skills to work to obtain a Christmas tree cutting permit for this much sought after day. (Check out the U.S. Forest Service website for information on tree cutting in your local area. Information for the Colorado Front Range is usually available in October each year.) It takes about an hour and a half to get to the cutting area from our house. Then we get to take a nature hike. We look at rocks and of course trees. This year we were blessed with a beautiful day and mild temperatures. It was a great day for a walk in the woods.

Wild trees within the parameters we can cut are not as full as farm trees that have been topped and shaped, but our tradition allows us to get out of the house for some exercise and to help the forest service cull trees. Salt is particular about finding trees in overcrowded spots, even though this makes it difficult to find one that is symetrical. One just has to adjust one's expectations about the density of the branches and look hard for one that is reasonably even. 

Saratoga

Thanksgiving Day was passed on the mini-farm with family and friends. The neighbors stopped in for a break from their own dinner preparations. We served traditional fare from a buffet on the counter and ate around the coffee table, mainly because I relegated the dining room table to use as a plant stand last month. Nonetheless, it was nice to keep it casual and not interupt the conversation with formal dinner ceremonies. It was also much easier to entertain and cook at the same time in this way. I was able to wash dishes and talk and give tours of the updates on the house and mash the potatoes as time permitted. 

Everyone asks so here is the menu: 

• Turkey (cooked on the grill with mesquite) 
• Corn Bread and Chorizzo Dressing 
• Grilled Vegetables: Sweet Potatoes, Parsnips, Celery, Carrots and Onions 
• Mashed Potatoes with Blue Cheese and Chives 
• Sauteed Zucchini and Carrots 
• Roasted Brussel Sprouts with Pecans 
• Pumpkin and Pecan Pies 

I was sorry to be so far from my brothers and sisters, but consider myself blessed to be able to spend the day with my Mom and Pop. Salt's parents are gone too early and all of our grandparents have passed away. Since we've moved to the mini-farm, an hour from my parents, I'm afraid that I don't spend as much time with them -- or my siblings for that matter -- as I would like. We're all so busy with real responsibilities in our lives, but time passes too quickly. I don't think I'm very old, but already I've lost many important people in my life and I still wish I had more time with them. 

One of those people who has been on my mind lately is my grandfather, who was a school teacher, a farmer, and a hunter. 

I'd like to tell you a bit about him, if you don't mind. 

 

Artisan Me

You may recall my description of how I go about planning construction-type projects over many months combining research with multiple sketches, measurements, and calculations. One of these detailed plans has finally come to fruition in the form of a large, moveable coffee table.

It all started when we moved, and I discovered that a large cabinet for architectural plans Salt had stuck in the basement next to his overflow office contained artwork. Some of the artwork is his, some was done by his mother, and some of it was done by his sons as they were growing up.

Technical drawings.

I am an advocate of framing and displaying personal art and can’t stand to see it stored where it can not be enjoyed.  Unfortunately, in a family of artists there is much more art than there is space on the walls, so I had the idea of redeeming the cabinet from the basement to use as a coffee table. By placing it in the center of the living room, it is possible to show people the artwork we are storing. This is much better than leaving it to the mice. Unfortunately the cabinet weighs over 100 pounds. Wherever it sits, it is going to be right there forever. . . unless we could attach wheels. Hmmm. . .

The Dragon in the Bathroom

After an unusually mild autumn, we have been suddenly plunged into the deepest winter along with so many other people in the country.  A few days ago we were working in the yard with the temperature in the high 60s (the high teens for those of you who use the celsius scale), and last night we hit a low of 7 degrees fahrenheit (-13.9C). This is not the lowest temperature we will record this week.

Naturally, I awoke in the middle of the night worried about the chickens.  It was 19F (-7C) in the chicken coop. They were probably still where I had last seen them, sitting on their perches with their feathers fluffed up for insulation from the cold as the little oil filled heater made a valiant effort that was proving too feeble to be much help. I tossed and turned thinking of strategies to further insulate their perches, which was ridiculous since there was nothing to be done about it at two o'clock in the morning.  

Then I heard it...

Chicken Hubris

Every day for weeks it seems I have been checking in on the chickens, looking around to see if anyone had laid an egg in some stray spot. As the weather grew colder my hopes grew dimmer. Perhaps they would skip the winter altogether, and not lay any eggs until spring. I've heard of it happening. The waiting and wondering has been a bit demoralizing.


On Halloween, I was rushing to feed the chickens and put them to bed so I could start cooking for our dinner guests. It was growing dark and cold, so I didn't even check the boxes. I just scooped out some food from the bin and tossed it into the feeder. When I was returning the scoop, I saw them. There in the straw next to the feeder was a tidy, round basin scratched into the bale. In the center of the divot was two eggs. I was elated. I gasped. I jumped up and down. I giddily ran to the house with my prizes in hand. My girls are women now!

A couple of days later, I had a small twinge of guilt as I cooked their hard work and hopes for breakfast.

Ganesha and the Guru

A week ago I attended a conference for meeting planners. I hadn't originally intended to go to this one, but someone asked me to speak as part of a panel on food and beverage planning ... it's more tedious than it sounds... yes, extremely tedious. Since I detest all of the budgeting, selecting, ordering, revising, revising again, again, again, and ultimate complaining about food and beverage at meetings, I usually avoid personal responsibility for this area.

This ability to have a someone else deal with the tasks one hates is one of the few benefits of being a lead planner, but one still does have to understand it in order to be ultimately responsible. So I fought the instinct of asking the requestor if she had called me by mistake. I agreed to the engagement, guessing they might still call me in a few weeks and, with appropriate embarrassment, explain that they meant to ask someone who actually does food and beverage planning as a primary responsibility. To my surprise, when I told my contact I would speak, she became effusive, excitedly lauding my abilities and proclaiming her relief that they'd gotten me of all people to speak. I knew at that moment they were absolutely confusing me with someone else.

The Killing Frost

My former urban life didn't include much notice of the first big frost. The landmark weather event of my year was usually the first big sleet. This sleet storm would traditionally be observed by putting a pork roast in the oven with squash and potatoes along with a small apple pie then curling up in front of the television to watch a movie. The fireplace, if I had one, would be ablaze and I'd be wrapped in a blanket. At the end of the night I would watch the traffic and weather report, just to remind myself how crummy it was outside of my cozy little home. I might bring a potted plant or two off of the patio, but that was the extent of my winter preparation.

The first sleet here in the country was followed within hours by snow. Indeed it was observed in the ritual fashion by an impressive menu:

Broiled Chuck Steaks with a Toasted Spice Vinaigrette

Roasted Cherry Tomatoes and Quinoa Salad (from my head)

and

Harvest Baked Apples and Granola

The menu was driven somewhat by the need to clear the tomato plants quickly before the sleet started in earnest and the fact I had just been given apples from a co-worker's trees that day. Despite making up the  quinoa recipe on the fly the meal turned out to be a first rate Sleet Observance Dinner.

However in the new reality of country living the first sleet/snow is only the precursor to a more important event for which we have been planning for weeks: the killing frost.

Getting Granola

I confess, one of my favorite breakfasts is homemade granola with just enough plain yogurt to make it wet. This is a great light breakfast in summer. In winter granola can be sprinkled over apples and baked for a hot breakfasts. Just thinking about it I feel like taking a break for some homemade granola.

To really enjoy that wonderful gut scrubbing, wholesome feeling of eating granola, one must actually make one's own. (It takes much less time than one would think.) Perhaps "must" is a strong word, but real granola purists will tell you that homemade is truly the most satisfying nutritionally and spiritually.

Don't roll your eyes at me being philosophical over the merits of fresh-from-the-oven granola over store bought. The other nice thing about making one's own granola is that one can pick one's own ratio of nuts, oats, fruit, and other ingredients, so that it suits one's own tastes. Since I've been making granola recently, I'm giving you my recipe, but you should know I don't like mine very sweet, while grocery store brands are very sugary in my opinion. In order to help you make adjustments, I've included notes at the bottom about how one might adjust the recipe for preferences.  

Dude Looks Like a Lady

Sexing chicks is not simple. Entire discussion boards are filled with chicken enthusiasts desperately seeking the answer to one question, "Is it a cockerel or a pullet?" One is supposed to be able to tell by its growth rate, its comb, its saddle feathers, its color, and its attitude. The expert's method is to check the chick's butt for male sex organs in development. I admit that I squinted at the photos of little pink chicken anuses on the internet --  chicken porn -- for a long time. All these months later I still have no idea what I was supposed to be perceiving as sex organs. They just looked like butts to me.

A normal person would wonder why this is important. A person learned in chicken culture, i.e. not a normal person, would know that having the correct ratio of males to females is critical to keeping a stable and healthy flock of layers, i.e. hens laying eggs. In other words, too many macho cocks harrassing the hens and antagonizing each other produces nothing but trouble for all the food they gobble. Even a normal person could imagine how cock fighting in the coop would be undesirable.

Naturally, when I got my chicks I wanted to know what they were. Genetically speaking, odds are in favor of at least one of my four original chicks being a cockerel, so I compared their other sexing traits to one another and there were subtle differences. Three of them were larger, pushier, and growing their combs more rapidly. Within a few weeks I was certain I had three males.

Nothing sets a notion in concrete like making an investment in it, so my reputation as a chicken sexer was on the line as soon as I bought four pullets to adjust the ratio more favorably. Still, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself in the subsequent weeks that "the boys" didn't look like other boys their age because I wasn't pumping them up with steroids and antibiotics, the harsh reality is that they are girls. They are on the cusp of maturity at nineteen weeks and there isn't a single cock among them. "Lola, la-la-la-la, Lola!"

Not to be too hard on myself for being delusional, some part of me doubted enough to name one of them the sexually ambiguous Bossy Pants, and the other three after literary characters whose names were misattributed in some way: Norbert (Hagrid ' s female dragon in the Harry Potter series), Jayne (the brutish, but loveable thug of the television series Firefly), and Smeagel (Gollum's real name in the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings trilogy).

So, I'm accepting my folly. Enter Javier, 100% male of yet another breed: Silver Laced Wyandotte. Don't let the "lacey" name fool you, he's all man, macho, testosterone laden, strutting on his perch ready to take on hens and predators alike. He is one big boy; and I haven't even looked at his butt. There's no chance of him taking a walk on the wild side. "Doo, do-doo, doo-do-doo-doo..."

We obtained Javier from a Craigslist ad posted by a couple who had found him abandoned after the county fair. Javier inspired them to begin raising hens, but they decided they didn't want chicks. When we first met him he was in the coop protecting his brood. He would hussle the girls behind him as we moved around, which is precisely what a good rooster does in the presence of dangerous predators like me. The next test was to pick him up, which he resisted but not nearly as hard as my girls do. Javier was clearly handled a great deal as a young cockerel. 

So Javier came home with us and went into quarantine for a few days. He and the girls could see and hear one another in the seperate quarters, but the girls didn't pay much attention to him until he crowed.

Most chicken enthusiasts like the sound of crowing, never mind the hour. No one really knows what it's all about, though the common joke is that a cock crowing is greeting the day with the song of his people. If one allows for a moment of anthropomorphism one can imagine them crying out, "I am here! I am here!" in a spirit reminiscent of Walt Whitman.

Indeed, on his first morning Javier belted out his ear splitting song. It might have been an existentialist anthem but it was definitely not "Sweet Transvestite." In the hen house the crooning inspired a reaction similar to what would happen if Justin Bieber had materialized in a middle school girls' slumber party. The girls rushed to the window and craned their necks for a better look at their new heart throb. Javier strutted and sang. The girls swooned over his dreaminess. At last a real man.

------------------------------------

Despite having an audience, Javier has been bored, homesick and frustrated with isolation. Today his quarantine was lifted. Enjoy the videos of their first meeting and the first minutes together...

 

If video does not load, go to http://youtu.be/lXTkK7HRGPo . 

#farmdiva

Under the Italian Influence

At our house, September means it’s time to start planning for the holidays. (Those of you who are crafty know what I mean.) My particular holiday craft is making limoncello, an Italian, lemon-flavored liquor that takes weeks to prepare. Sadly, I don’t live in a lemon grove in California nor do I live in a state that allows heritage licenses for producing my own grain alcohol. Nonetheless, I have a great recipe thanks to my days organizing an Italian cultural organization and one of the Italian-American friends I made there.  (Grazie mille, Michele!)

Italians and non-Italians  alike love to debate the authenticity of Italian cultural memes; and Italian cuisine is ripe for such discussions. Italian recipes are notoriously difficult to translate, due to ambiguities in measurements and differences between what is recorded in the recipe and what is actually done in the kitchen. Not surprisingly, those of us who make limoncello love to compare notes on our different methodologies and flatter one another by stealing ideas. Though we may not agree on what is authentic, everyone pays proper respect to the fact it is homemade. There are a lot of authenticity points awarded for “fatto a mano” – i.e. made by hand.

I hope you are able to try making your own limoncello with the recipe here.  Even if you don’t have the Italian air and water to make your limoncello sweeter, I’ve included some notes to help you can make it authentically and uniquely your own.

Chicken Run and Play

The girls overseeing construction.

This past weekend, Salt and I completed the chicken run, so I thought I would share some photos from our construction project. After months of thinking about the perfect plan for a chicken run, we finally decided we didn’t have time this year to construct one of our own design, so we ordered a kit. It turned out to be simple enough that I could construct it while Salt worked out the more difficult problem of how to make a secure entry from the chicken coop. We started on Sunday morning and five hours later the chickens had their new outdoor play yard. The grand opening of the chicken yard was a big success as they all came out to explore, eat grass and ultimately flop onto the ground to sun themselves. 

Getting Back to the Garden Revisited

I'm following up on the post "Getting Back to the Garden" in which I describe the outcome of this year's crop.  There is now more news to report: the sweet potatoes have been harvested.

Some of the sweet potato leaves slipped out from under their plastic cover during the freeze this week and turned an unattractive shade of black.  That wasn't a big loss since it was harvest time.  I think we might have done better had I not been set back a month by a bad batch of slips, but I think the results were good enough that we should try again next year.  There were a lot of fingerling sweet potatoes, so I foresee some roasted sweet potatoes in my future.

I also thought I would share the interesting way in which we ended up protecting the tomatoes from our early freeze.  

Getting Back to the Garden

Remember that garden I was going to plant last spring.  I did plant it, but every time I start to write about it I stop myself because it's a work in progress.  At last a landmark has arrived in the form of September's fickle weather and the garden is on the cusp of a change.  So I must assess its success or failure now or never. The short version of this assesment is that there were mixed results.

Death on Deer Hill

I rarely hear of events that can compete in the complexity or hilarity of James Thurber’s short story, “The Night the Bed Fell,” an account of how a series of misunderstandings feeds deep seated fears to create a carnival of consequences. Occasionally, something does happen that sets my wildest fears and imagination to the task of creating a great drama in which I might play a part. On the day of the tragicomedy of "Death on Deer Hill," I criss-crossed my property in rubber boots and a dressing gown with the grim duty of burying the victims only to find that the one thing keeping me from being the neighbor lady who has fits of insanity was that I had not accessorized with a handbag full of cat food.

I should start at the beginning...

Just Hitched

 

The big news here has been that Salt and I eloped. Having worked in the meetings and events industry for so long, I could have put together a fairly good sized wedding in a week, but we were more inclined to keep it low key. So we went to a favorite overlook, sat under a tree and exchanged vows we wrote. It was a very touching ceremony with tears (me), romance (Salt) and laughter (I started it).

Chicken Thoughts and Other Mysteries of the Universe

Bossy Pants ca. Nine Weeks Old

The rooster next door is crowing, which tells me it's around 3:30 a.m. The sun is not up yet, but the sky will begin to lighten in another hour or so. I imagine there is a wave of call and response crowing moving from East to West across the country at the speed of the sun rise. A distant cock crows and then a closer one responds, until the sound circles the globe and starts over again.

Maxfield Parrish Skies

In my line of work, I have stayed in some very nice hotels. While I usually take the opportunity to appreciate the lovely surroundings I rarely pay much attention to the artwork that graces the walls. I like art well enough, but I'm more concerned with  the details of how to make my unadorned meeting room attractive and functional. I leave the ambiance of lobbies and guest rooms to the hotel.

Not having studied art, it is no surprise that when I first ran a meeting at the Broadmoor Hotel in Colorado Springs and was assigned space in the Maxfield Parrish room I wondered who he was to get a room named after him. The answer I received was that he was an artist who was a friend of the hotel’s original owner. Call me unobservant but I made no connection between the merchandise in the gift shop on which there was embossed a richly colored depiction of the Broadmoor with a lake in front of it and the name Maxfield Parrish. Nor did I connect the name to the numerous paintings of sprites in pastoral settings with the same brilliant blue skies, peach tinted clouds and mossy green trees I’d seen in art books growing up.

Nonetheless, whenever I’m at the Broadmoor, I take a few moments in the quiet hours of dawn to stand at my hotel room window taking in the last serenity I will know before taking my clip board and cell phone to the clanging, fluorescent lit back hallways and clinking, clunking ballrooms where breakfast is being set out. Even in those few blessed minutes of peace looking out at the lake with the mountains rising behind the resort, the morning air shimmering in pink, and the grey sky transforming to lapis, I never made the connection between that view and a work of art, much less with the artist.

I obviously got the point that sunrise was beautiful and serene, even otherworldly, but nope, I did not think of Maxfield Parrish until one year when Salt drove down to spend an evening with me. As usual, I was busy with some type of tangled problem that had to be resolved before morning, so he was set adrift to wander the halls of the hotel. When I caught up with him for a late dinner, he had just torn himself away from a set of paintings he’d seen in a hallway. He asked if I knew who Maxfield Parrish was, and I said “Yes. There’s a meeting room named after him. He’s some friend of the former owner.” Salt kindly did not conclude I was an idiot, and showed me that my hotel key had a Maxfield Parrish painting printed on it. He had also just found some of Parrish’s paintings in the hotel. Salt was looking forward to more free time to look for more. Ahh. . . the connections were in place. Parrish’s famous – I know this now – depiction of the Broadmoor is very much like my early morning view, except the lake is in the wrong place, which I understand was Parrish’s artistic license.

 From then on Salt and I would point out Maxfield Parrish skies whenever we ran across them during our early morning commutes and as we sat watching the sun set over the foothills in our old home. These skies are not particularly common anywhere else I’ve lived and even at our old home they were a noteworthy occurrence.

This is how I know I am one of the most fortunate people in the world to live where I do now. I often tell people that although we have no view of the mountains from our new house, we have Colorado to the west with great, rustic ponderosas towering overhead and we have Kansas to the east where we can see thunderstorms fifty miles away over the plains. We also see rainbows after every storm, we enjoy the longest sunrises and we can see the glow of brilliant sunsets shining through the trees. Every day has at least one, if not more, Maxfield Parrish moment.

Looking out the window in the morning is a great treat for me and last weekend I opened my eyes at sunrise to see the a white gold light pushing its way over the horizon to the east of us. Through our west facing window I looked out at the burly ponderosas, which were catching a peach colored light that muted the deep forest green of the needles and lit their wide trunks dappled in burnt umber and charcoal. The sky behind them shone blue, but the gold cast to the very air was awe inspiring. There is something about this light that makes everything ordinary appear in a way that one has never seen it before; indeed I look at the sky, the ponderosas, the deer in the yard with the wonder of someone seeing these mysterious things for the first time.

There are many who call Maxfield Parrish’s pastoral settings “fantasy,” his androgynous figures “angelic,” and his skies “ethereal.”  I’m beginning to disagree, since I doubt I live in Maxfield Parrish's imagination. This is every day for me. 

http://www.parrishhousefoundation.org/index.html

Best Overalls

Strawberry Pickers on the Chivers Estate near Ely. 1944.
Source: Museum of English Rural Life

The fashion buzz is that overalls are the hot trend for this summer. My grandfather, who bought his overalls at the feed store, would be a bit perplexed at Farfetch's offering of J Brand overalls for 562 dollars. Though, I must admit J Brand overalls are mighty pretty on the tall, lithe model sporting them for the website. I don’t think granddad was as interested in having an outfit with good lines so much as he was in keeping hog poop off of his shirts, which can be achieved for a small percentage of Farfetch’s price. Nonetheless, one should give kudos to J Brand for making overalls that look good on any woman. 

My Favorite Farm Day... So Far

Along with the warm days and green grass of summer comes one of the best parts of living in the foothills: visitors. A few weeks ago we had an open house cookout, but the real rush of visitors began this week with the arrival of my niece and her roommate. I was able to take the day off yesterday to spend a little time with them in what turned out to be a great little farm day and a wonderful outing.

The day began at 4:45 a.m., when my boyfriend, Salt, got up for work. The sky was just grey with light, but I knew I had a lot of chores to get done and he would appreciate a little relief from the regular Monday morning rituals. So, I leapt from bed to let the dogs out and start the coffee. When the dogs came in, I gave them their medications and breakfast. Then, I went downstairs to feed the cat and the fish. I cleaned out the cat box, then headed out to the garage to feed the chickens in their new home.

After I waved goodbye to Salt, I made the bed and hauled the trash and recycling down to the gate. A bright golden sun had just risen over the horizon. It was a pretty day. We’d had a rainstorm the night before,

The Fruits of Our Labors

It takes skills and knowledge to have any successful career, which is why I am sure that professional ditch diggers would not be impressed by either my talent or intellect if they saw me hacking away at the dirt in our yard.

It's so bad, that one might wonder why I even try. Well... for starters, I’m not entirely helpless or hopeless. What I lack in technique or training, I make up for with perseverance. Any digging, leveling, soil moving project is still slow going for me, but I can certainly stick to the task a lot longer than when I first started this gardening project.

Secondly, the only other person here who could do it is my boyfriend, Salt, whose talents are better used elsewhere. While I have been playing in the dirt, Salt has been designing and building the deer fence and planters. When he got done with that he started a little garden of his own next to the garage and began construction on safer entry steps. This is in addition to the pergola he is building as a grape arbor.

When he says, “I think I’ll build some steps,” I imagine how I would go about it. For me, it would involve night after night of sketches and rough measurements. I would consult search engines to find how-to guides. I would go to the building center with a painstakingly crafted, long, detailed list, then I would struggle to the point of exhaustion loading the lumber into the truck. After having exhausted myself mentally and physically for weeks, I would finally off-load the lumber (dropping at least one on my foot). That moment would be the zenith of the project, as I would look back at how much I have accomplished and look forward to the thrill of construction (and completion) immediately before me. At that point, I would realize I can't hold a circular saw and operate it at the same time, ending my project in a tragedy of dashed hopes.

You can see how it is a matter of practicality that I have very little to do with the process when Salt says, “I think I’ll build some steps.”   The way he goes about it is to take some measurements, sketch in a small memo pad for a few minutes, and make a quick trip to the building center. When he returns, he completes the demolition, puts up a safety barrier (in the highly likely event I forget the steps are gone), levels the ground and puts in footers before the first day is done.

His sketches are rough and he’s designing as he goes, but even his half-finished stairs, fences, decks, et cetera are beautiful enough to make me giddy with anticipation. The loveliest part is that he does finish, quickly, usually on the second or third day. One would think it was effortless if it weren't for the fact he is covered with sawdust, sweat and dirt. The end product is a union of form and function. I am unceasingly in awe at the artistry of what he's built. Though he makes a special effort to make his creations attractive, he'll explain the practicality of the beautiful thingy (my term) that's holding the entire construction together.

Living with a talented artist who has such practical skills can be a bit demoralizing. Although one of my virtues is the ability to put my ego on a shelf, I still have those fleeting thoughts about how pathetic my own endeavors seem in comparison. I try to content myself with what I can do. While Salt constructs the Taj of decks, I keep the drill batteries charged, pick up scrap wood, put away discarded tools, and of course dig. There are lots of digging projects like sinking the footers under the deer fence, leveling the raised planters, cultivating the soil under the planters, filling the planters with top soil, mixing in compost, moving plants, and spreading mulch. It's too bad that all of my practice digging has not blossomed into a talent. 

I'm hoping that gardening will turn out to be my medium, but it's not exactly the kind of endeavor that shows immediate results. I did get the plants into the planters and they have survived five weeks, but I wouldn't say it's beautiful yet and I could kill it all at any time.  Nonetheless, the yard has come a long way with Salt's amazing construction and my determined shoveling, so I'm including a slide show so you can see the progress we've made so far. Enjoy.

 

The Weird Thing I Don't Like to Talk About

I remember clearly what my doctor said to me when he gave me the diagnosis I’d been waiting for nine years to hear.  He said, “Your blood is weird. You’re weird.”  It was a deep relief to know that the weirdness wasn’t in my head. It was official that I had an autoimmune disease called Sjögren’s Syndrome, and it is weird.

The Diva Dog: A Work in Progress

Calicocoa would like a car of her own one day.

As you may know from reading "The Dawn of Calicocoa's Diva Days," our new dog addition to the family came with aggression issues and arthritis.  I wanted to let you know that Calicocoa is making some progress. Or, rather, we are making progress in understanding her. Over the past two months, she's been feeling more comfortable in our household and she's been on medication for her joints.  The numerous visitors, movers and contractors have given us the opportunity to work on her behavior issue.

Chick in Versailles

What’s the best housewarming gift for a girl with a mini-farm? One of my dearest friends knows it’s chickens. Of course.  What a surprise it was when she entered our “Come as We Are” housewarming soiree, handed me a gift bag and said “Open it now.” My first thought was that it was too light to be a bottle of wine, but I shortly got over my initial disappointment.

Update on the Deer Menace

This morning I accidentally let the dogs out without looking for deer first. As usual, they raced from the house at their respective top speeds, Griffin barking madly.  Too late, I spied through the windows three deer springing across the yard with Calicocoa in hot pursuit, though slowly losing ground to my relief. 

And then... wait just a moment... just a moment... here he comes... Griffin was running and barking with all his might, bringing up the increasingly distant rear. Calicocoa had driven the deer over a fence in the northwest corner before Griffin was on the scene, but he was still in the hunt until he too had reached their exit point.

Our intrepid chupahuahua never gives up fighting the deer menace.

The Deer Menace

Woe be to the deer of this community now that Griffin is here. Just this morning he came trotting along with a nine inch antler in his mouth. He's allergic to meat so we're looking for the rest of the carcass before he gorges himself into a seizure.

Now there is a chance that our eight pound chupahuahua has not graduated from Royal Canin hydrolyzed protein bits to big game. This could be one of the deer carcasses that passers by throw over our fence as a neighborly gesture before they take the remains of their front end to a body shop.

The fact that the deer cross the roads at unexpected and inconvenient times is a growing problem out here. In fact, there are some who say we have a real deer crisis. In addition to being uncitizenlike pedestrians, the deer consume carefully tended flower beds, shrubs, vegetable gardens and field crops. One of my neighbors was even attacked by a buck.

For obvious reason these hoodlums are very unpopular, and the town is intent on solving the problem by culling the herd. On the one hand it seems we already have a culling plan with the local automobiles doing such a bang up job on the problem, but I suppose there could be some methods that are safer for humans.

Garden Chic

I didn't wear shoes often during the summer when I was growing up. Instead, I prefered to run barefoot through the woods. My feet were like concrete pavers by the end of the summer in both color and texture. I wasn't a tomboy. It was just what we did. Eventually, though I got tired of digging stickers out of my arches and burning my feet on the pavement. I went to the other extreme and now I am an advocate of protecting my feet from all manner of hazards.

I'll get a summer pedicure in case there is a fashion emergency that requires me to wear sandals, but for working around the yard I still need to cover my feet. My wonderful black paisley Nomad boots have been great for digging in the spring mud and taking the dogs out in the snow; however they don't look good with capris. Perhaps you would recommend tennis shoes as an alternative garden shoe. Alas, as I explained in Happy Feet, I really don't like tennis shoes. "Crocs are great for gardening," you might suggest. Crocs don't look good with capris either. In fact, I don't think they look good with anything or on anyone. Upon reflection, I believe they are actually ranked below tennis shoes on my list of likely-to-wear foot coverings.

Crocs do bring to mind clogs with their dowdy rounded toes and lack of heal protection. For those very reasons I'm not crazy about clogs, but I have compromised in favor of finding something suitable to gardening. Oh my... what wonderful clog-crossovers I found. The unassumingly named brand Sloggers makes a very comfortable, beautiful garden shoe in a variety of colors and patterns with some protection for the heal. They won't exactly be the shoe paired with capris on Milan runways next October, but they are not awful and they are not tennis shoes. Thank Goodness!

The real advantage, I think, of having these funky patterned shoes is that I can wear them with anything I might wear in the garden for a whimsical statement. There is a fine line between being lighthearted and being a joke. So long as the rest of my ensemble coordinates, these zany, but practical shoes make it possible for me to get muddy in a way that says "I meant to do that." The key to any style is knowing how to strategically break the rules. 

A Growing Bed of Pets

I’ve never been particular about making pets sleep on the floor, but this is the first time I’ve had a 60 pound lead weight with fur sleeping at my feet. It’s a bit like being short sheeted. In our house, whoever doesn’t take the dogs out in the morning gets another ten minutes to stretch out in bed. This is considered a luxury.

Recently we discussed the situation, and found out that we have different views on how much space is being allotted to whom. We were drawing pictures in the air, assigning percentages and mostly complaining about Calicocoa.

She’s not in any real danger of losing her spot on the bed, though I am curious why she hasn’t given up considering that she rolled off of the bed last week.  Rolling off of the bed is serious in our house, because the pillow top is easily 36” from the floor.

Since we were so detailed in our descriptions of how the other half sleeps, I thought I’d share family maps of the bed.

Farm Diva

In my version of the bed, my boyfriend has just barely enough room to squeeze on. I have plenty of room at the top of the bed, but Calicocoa takes up enough space that I am forced to tuck my knees under my chin. Griffin nestles himself comfortably in the middle.

Boyfriend

 

In my boyfriend’s version of the bed, he is hanging off of the edge. Calicocoa has a corner. I am sleeping spread out across the remainder of the bed. Griffin has nestled himself comfortably in my boyfriend’s back.

Calicocoa

 

In Calicocoa’s version of the bed, we’re all interlopers with whom she is being exceedingly generous. There is little concern as to how we sort out the upper part of the bed, except for the usurper who should be rooted out of the middle. That would be Griffin, nestled comfortably in the middle.

Griffin

 

Griffin’s version is more abstract. The entire bed belongs to him. There are three desirable warm spots and one area containing Calicocoa’s monstrous jaws. Protection from the jaws drives his preference to be comfortably nestled in the middle.

Richard Parker

 

Of course, Richard Parker joins the fray on occasion. If she comes to bed, she lies next to my boyfriend so he will pet her at night. If her water bowl has been overturned, she might walk over my face to get to a glass of water on the bedside table. She has no interest in the dogs, but if Griffin is nestled comfortably on my pillow she has no qualms about stepping on his face too.

Would You Like Some Grapes, Deer?

A mini-vinyard in progress.

This weekend the grape vines went into the ground. My boyfriend built a pergola of sorts for them, while I was digging a hole in the back yard. Him building something fabulous while I'm distracted for ten minutes happens a lot. Meanwhile I'll muddle along trying to get the grapes to grow.

I will be pleasantly surprised if my new plants actually produce any grapes.  They are cold hardy and will thrive in our soil, but our late frosts will likely kill off the chance of any grape harvests.  I'll be just as happy if it fills in the pergola to create a shady little arbor. We have future plans for the area next to the arbor, but for now we've put down wild flower seeds. I think grapes and wild flowers alike will like the sunlight and good drainage.

The main reason to worry for the survival of my grapes will likely be the deer.  We placed the grape vines next to the house hoping that the deer might not want to come in that close. We're finding that the deer are coming right up to the house almost every night.

Just this morning, I looked out the window to see how my new lilac sucker was coming in, but couldn't see it.  I rushed outside and found each one of the leaves hand been carefully bitten off. I think it will live, but we'll be installing deer cages and grow tubes this week. If I can ever get the lilac to bloom, the deer will probably leave it alone... but my grapes are a different story.

Grapevines and wildflower seeds ready to grow.

Our Girl Richard

 It seems odd to me that I have not written anything extensive about our cat, Richard Parker, because she is by far the most interesting individual in our little family. She came to us in her dreams one day last winter. That is to say, she was a shelter cat asleep in a Petsmart when she caught my boyfriend's eye. He wanted to assess her, but it took three people and a five page application form completed before they told him that the rescue would be in touch with him in a few days as to whether or not he could interact with the cat. The wait didn't matter, my boyfriend, Salt, was already attracted to her personality; the cat slept the entire time.

I was dubious about the validity of determining personality based on the ability to snooze in a crowded store, but he was right. I have never seen a cat like her. She answers when called (if she wants to). She obeys commands, and only issues a single protest "mah!" as she complies. "Get off the coffee table!" will cause her to jump to the floor and petulantly "mah!" "Don't claw the sofa!" will cause her to step away from the furniture and "mah!" "Don't use your claws when you play with me" results in her retracting her claws, "mah!"

Eventually, she was named Richard Parker after the Bengal tiger from "The Life of Pi." One night we were watching the movie about a young man stuck on a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger and the tiger had a look on it's face that seemed to say, "I could kill you, but not right now." Having seen that expression on our own cat's face so many times, her name was immediately settled. 

She does have other nicknames though. She is called "Thunderfoot" when she clomps down the stairs with a gate that sounds exactly like a large dog. She is called "Princess Stinkums" for the occasional litter box bomb. She indignantly ignores our teasing with all of the forbearance of a teenage girl.

We have come to think of her as our teenage daughter, beginning with the day we accidentally left the guest bedroom open. That afternoon we noticed the cat was missing. After a brief search we found her stretched across the queen size guest bed, enjoying a patch of sunlight and the feeling of a silk comforter. When I entered the room she lifted her head and glared at me with the perturbation only teenage girls can master. If she could have rolled her eyes, she would have. We made a rule not to bother her in her room.

Like any teenager, she does creep into the living room each evening to endure us. At parties, she will even sashay through the center of the room -- seeing and being seen -- before disappearing to her sanctuary again. 

With her position and domain well established in the household, one can imagine how disruptive the past month has been for her. Truly, I think the new dog, the move, and settling in have been harder on her than on any human or dog in the household. 

 The first thing to go was her private bedroom, which had to be stripped of furniture for the carpet cleaners. As the mattress was being removed she walked circles around the room mewing in protest. The mattress did not return.

Then Calicocoa arrived. Richard Parker has held her own with our chupahuahua, Griffin, since the first time she bopped him on the nose with such power I heard the thump ten feet away. With the arrival of our blue heeler, Calicocoa, Richard has made special effort to impress upon the large dog that she is the household enforcer by taking swipes at Calicocoa when the dog gets too near. She has also interfered in spats between the two dogs. Her intent is probably not to defend either of them, so much as to quash any rowdiness. She absolutely despises rollicking behavior among the dogs. For this reason we leave her in charge when we're gone.

Besides the increase in activity, Richard Parker has found that Calicocoa is competition for attention. Richard likes to have her attention, so it's no surprise that she's become even more affectionate with us and with house guests. Now instead of just making an appearance at a party, she picks a comfortable looking lap in which to situate herself. She's now more likely to spend most of the night sleeping next to Salt, tucked under his arm, purring contentedly. She has become more assertive about reminding us to play with her on her scratching post and to feed her ... now... right now... not in a minute, now. I am almost convinced she is saying "now" rather than "meow."

Obviously the ride over from the old house to the new house was horribly traumatic, as I reported previously in my running monologue about the move:

"Drop Richard Parker in her cat crate, and head off to the new house. The miserable wailing of the tortured begins immediately. Three blocks away Richard Parker urinates. Two miles away she begins trying to force her head through the wire mesh, scrapes her face badly, but only gets her nose out. Five miles away she begins panting and long ribbons of drool hang from her mouth. She defecates. She sprays. She claws at the cage. She drools more. She yowls desperately and then hopelessly the entire time. No conciliatory talk helps her calm down. She has to endure forty minutes of this hell. My heart is breaking."

She seemed to recover fairly quickly and took an instant liking to the finished basement, where Calicocoa will not venture and Griffin seldom goes. She found all of the sunny spots for napping throughout the house. She found the good perches and the good window views. Her food dish is secured on a ledge. Her litter box is in a bright corner.

Unknown to us, until last week, there was still something important missing. Richard Parker wasn't paying too much attention to the construction of the guest room bed frame, but when the box springs was set into place, Richard leapt upon it, circled it, and felt it with her claws, mewing all the while. We had to remove her to make the bed. She paced the room while we finished. Once she was set upon the completed bed, she immediately began to run. She circled the bed top three times. She shouted out her joy, "Mew! Mew! Mew!" as she ran. She was giddy. Finally, she threw herself on her back in front of Salt, inviting him to pet her, but she couldn't make up her mind if she wanted to rough house or be adored so she alternated between rolling and scratching.

Fast forward to two nights ago when we were snuggled together with the dogs on the sofa, trying to stay warm as a May snowstorm knocked into the house. Salt thought it would be nice to have Richard Parker join us and went in search of her. He returned a few minutes later, perplexed. She was not on our bed or on her perch in the bedroom. She was not hiding under the dining table. She was not on her bed.

It was unlikely that she would have dashed outside on the best of days, much less during a snowstorm, but one does worry about those things when the temperature drops. I checked the deck, but found no sign of her. I joined Salt to search downstairs. Her bedroom was very cold, but I crouched down to look under the bed. She wasn’t there either. 

I could hear Salt calling to her in the box filled room next door. I sat up just in time to see her head rise up from beneath the pillows of her bed. She looked at me with disgust. . . a teenage girl saying “Can't I have any privacy?"

Welcoming Party

My commute to the heart of downtown takes about an hour and a half, but I don't really mind. There's a thirty minute drive through the countryside to the nearest suburb in the metropolitan transit system. Then I sit in a comfortable motorcoach for an hour, where I can read, blog, answer emails, check on Facebook, get a jump on work, or simply rest. By the time I get to work, I'm in a good frame of mind.

Last Friday, was a particularly beautiful day to be driving down country roads. The grass was turning green. The temperature was warm. The weekend was beginning. I rolled down the windows and sailed along the hills toward home.

As I got near to the house, I saw Calicocoa in what I call the goat orchard, a semi-enclosed pen with a fenceline along the county road. She jumped and trotted along the fenceline merrily barking at my car, and behind her was her new shadow, Griffin. I could barely see him bobbing up and down in the tall grass as he followed Calicocoa. What a sweet welcoming party.

They weren't outside on their own, my boyfriend was home working in the yard. Calicocoa is only allowed out when we are home. Griffin is only allowed out with Calicocoa as escort, and he is her loyal tag along as she ranges the mini-farm. Griffin can't be trusted to come when called, but he does follow Calicocoa who will obey.

Good dogs, happy dogs, running to greet me when I came home. It was a great start to the
weekend.