Monday Musings.

Walking past the pine trees on the way to the goat barn, I snapped off some dead twigs - and was transported to Canada when I was a kid.  We spent the summers on a little jewel-like lake in northern Ontario in a log cabin, hand built decades earlier by my maternal great-grandfather.  It was my job to take a basket into the woods and gather up the kindling for the wood stove fire first thing in the morning.  I loved the smell of the pine forest and can still take myself right back there, even all these years later.  It was a magical time.   I would go out with our dachshund, Inger, who was a great hunter of squirrels (and capture of none).  She made sure the coast was clear by barking her head off.  I was very leery of bears.  I'd take my basket full of dry pine twigs back to the cabin, where my mother would bank up a fire.  Once that old stove was good and hot, she'd get out the cast iron frying pan and make eggs and bacon.  We would take thick slices of her homemade bread and put them in the toaster basket and toast them over an open burner.  It's amazing how clear some memories are - and how much in between is blurred and unrecognizable.  My god.  I'm becoming my father.  He can clearly remember his grade school teachers, but not what he did in the morning!

Most of my life was spent avoiding conflict.  I hated conflict - and I still do.  But, as I have gotten older, I have realized that it is possible to get things done and make your point without having to be toe-to-toe.  It's the subtle approach.  Although I have been accused of being as subtle as a sumo wrestler on a catwalk -- wait!  I'm not sure I like that analogy -- let's say, as subtle as a 2x4 upside the head -- I have become more purposeful in getting my point across.  Case in point:  I am unfortunate enough to live on a road with two gravel pits.  One was permitted before I moved in, so it's a moot point.  The second was slunk through the back alley by an oily character working in cahoots with another oily character and the deed was done before anyone had the chance to raise a holler.  This particular 'pit' is much closer to me.  My feelings about both are not secret.  And, while I couldn't stop them, I can limit them - I believe.  So, when the neighbor/pit started firing up the heavy equipment at 7AM on Saturdays, I fired off some letters to the town board/supervisor.  Not surprisingly, I got no reply.  The town supervisor happens to be a retired corporate executive cum real estate agent cum bus driver.  He downplays the first two and plays up the last with battered hat in hand.  A humble man.  A bus driver.  He and his wife have the listing on the house situated right across the road from Gravel Pit #2 (which is unseen behind a cornfield, and unmarked by any sign other than a large new gate.) 

Long story short - the house was owned one of the oily characters who sold the gravel pit property in order to finance a new house at the other (quieter) end of the road.  I am sure that neither he nor the real estate agent (town super) are mentioning the unseen gravel pit to any prospective buyers.  What to do?  I ordered a nice bright sign that reads (on both sides):  NO GRAVEL TRUCKS (no sign) ON WEEKENDS.  I will carefully measure off 26' from the center of the road (town easement) and pound it into my front yard.  Fully in view of any prospective house buyer.  Subtle, no?

Someone hand me the toothpicks!

After bolting awake at 2AM this morning, I am sinking fast.  I can barely keep my eyes open (not a good condition for driving home, methinks.)  I did manage to can three half-pints of ketchup (catsup? ketchup?  Is this a regional thing?), pack my lunch, precook dinner, vacuum, do some computer work, clean off the dining room table, do my chores, put netting over the Pearls' space (still need some - it's got to be break-out-proof), take a shower, deliver eggs to my egg customers, and drive to work.  Now I feel as if I've been run over by a Peterbilt.

Time to break out the dark chocolate.  As if I needed an excuse....

Problem Child.

Look at that face.

While not technically a 'child', Flora - my sweet-natured, old lady ewe (11) - has been challenged since she arrived on the farm.   She arrived with respiratory issues which come and go.  She had pneumonia.  The first time she lambed (here), she didn't lose the placenta and developed an infection.  She is prone to worms.  She gets a runny nose and wheezes every so often.  But she is the SWEETEST sheep.  I love her to pieces.  I now have Flora, her daughter, Juno, and her grandson, Linden (who inherited her good nature).  Since I have limited 'pasture', I try to rotate them on the three fenced areas, plus on the rest of the cleared space in electronet when there's grass.  That's been a problem this year - between the drought conditions and high heat, there has been little grass.  I have plenty of hay for them, but the warm conditions cause all kinds of other bad conditions - like high worm load.  I worm them on a rotation, but don't like to overdo it.  And I keep an especially sharp eye on the old lady.  However, yesterday, as I was toting their hay to the shed, the sun shone on Flora and I noticed a slight bulge under her jaw.  ACK! 

I did some fast research (and called Kay) and she's now on a regimen of Cydectin - we figure it's barberpole worm - and I'm giving her Red Cell (for iron/minerals) and Selenium/E.  They have free feed loose minerals in the shed, and I give them organic dried kelp meal once a week.  I think I will have to be more diligent in cleaning up the paddock area, but it's a little harder with sheep as opposed to, say, cows.  Now that I know we are dealing with the dreaded Haemonchus Contortus (now there's an apt description), I am going to dose the entire gang with Cydectin.

It's been a tough year.

My problem...

...is selective memory.  One of them (problems), that is.  I can forget to remove my car keys from the ignition before I lock my car.  I can forget why I went into the laundry room.  Or the kitchen.  Or the living room.  But I can remember every excrutiating morsel of the last real piece of bread I ate - the dense, chewy crust surrounding a moist, yeasty crumb.  It's a curse, I tell you.  Especially when one is gluten-sensitive-intolerant.  I would LOVE to forget bread.  It would then be easy to pretend that I am on Mars and that THIS is bread:

It has risen!



It has fallen!

Faced with all my tomatoes, I just HAD to have a bread-like substance on which to slather a bit of mayo and a nice thick slice of tomato.  I did some research on gluten-free focaccia and came up with an "Awesome" recipe.  That should have set off the warning bells - Gluten-Free/Awesome?  Oxymoron at best.  I forged ahead and it smelled divine, it rose wonderfully and browned just so.  Even when it collapsed, it was still focaccia-like.  Then I cut into it and...well.  Let's say this could be the national food of Sponge Bob Square Pants' world.  But I slathered on the mayo and set a nice thick slice of tomato on top and called it dinner.

Monday Musings.

I was musing this morning about how my weekend was one of wonder and discovery:

Friday morning - discover powdery mildew infested zucchini and summer squash plants.  Rip out same.
Friday evening - discover I have locked my keys in the car. Discover this in the office building garage at 5:30.

Saturday morning - discover the Mushroom Guy at the Berkshire Farmers Market!
Saturday afternoon - discover my father is obsessive/compulsive/single-minded/stubborn. This, of course, isn't really a discovery, as I've known it for years - yet it still surprises me. Especially when it involves me lifting four, five-gallon buckets of extremely heavy, dense specialty paint for their deck not once, not twice, but five times. The fifth time involved hefting them up two separate sets of stairs. God bless him.
Saturday night - discover I have no energy left to finish my to-dos, so I console myself with an Orange Cow (vanilla ice cream and orange soda).

Sunday morning - discover it's 42 degrees! Rediscover my Jersey cow, Jasmine, her heifer calf, Alice, and her BFF, Rosebud. It was so nice to see them.
Sunday afternoon - discover it's afternoon! Where the heck did the morning go?
Sunday evening - discover that I have been working off a completely different to-do list.  I feel like I am living in tandem universes (universi?) where my evil twin manages to slip in her diabolical to-do list for mine, when my back is turned.

Missed Photo Op.

In my haste to get the heck out of Dodge (Vermont) last weekend, I left my camera at my parents.  Because of that, I missed the shot of a lifetime.  Let me try to give you a verbal image...

Last night, after all the outside chores were done, I was settled onto my chair-and-a-half (my new favorite piece of furniture) with my Good Read.  Scrappy was lying on the sofa geared up in his whoopee collar, snoring away.  Bernie was in her usual place - in the far back bedroom.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a slight movement.  It was OnceSlim, eyes bulging, riveted on the whoopee collar.  He was in full pre-attack position.  I watched in a mixture of horror/fascination as he slowly inched his way from the kitchen into the living room.  He sprang!!  He latched onto the whoopee collar with fangs and claws and poor Scrappy woke with such a start that they both fell off the couch and onto the floor, with much barking, hissing (some of that was the air leaking out of whoopee)!  OnceSlim tore down the hall with Scrappy in close pursuit.  Luckily, the cats have their own dog-free zone, so he easily made his escape.  Scrappy came back into the living room with his whoopee collar slightly deflated and askew with a thoroughly disgusted look on his face.  I patched up whoopee and gave Scrappy a crunchy treat or five. 

This morning, OnceSlim is completely over the whoopee collar.  He barely gave it a second glance.  Apparently, he feels he has vanquished that dragon and life can go on as before.  I'm not sure Scrappy has fully recovered.

The Birthday Boy



My sister took this picture of Dad the day after the party - because, of course, the day of the party we had torrential rain.  When we were kids, he used to send us into the giggles by yelling "Pasta Fazool!"  I am sure that was a better stand-in for other terms....

His surprise party was a complete surprise.  The house was packed when he walked in and he just had the best time - as did we all.  So a very happy birthday, Dad.  I am so glad to have had you around to love for so many years.  I hope there are many more.

My BIL was still recovering from being sent out in the
monsoon, with faulty directions, in an effort to get Dad out of the
house.

Dad and his grandson, Austin.

My niece and nephew, Austin and Vera.