Do You Think They'll Notice...?

"Do you think they'll notice I'm like, really short?
I'm brave - I can hang with the big boys...."





"Oh, nooooo! They're looking at me! Mom? Where are you mom?"

"Help! Mom! The mean one is after me!"

"Safe at last. Thank goodness for moms! (And electric fences.)"

Disclaimer: No horses were harmed in the filming of this event. Lauren will have you know that her horse is not mean and was just teaching the baby her manners.

Rach' On

Lauren

November 11th Piano Recital

University of Louisville

Comstock Hall

Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C# Minor Opus 3 No. 2

My Angel

While reading an illustrated version of the Littlest Angel, William asked about the yellow circle drawn around the angel boy's head. I explained that a halo was used to show that the angel was holy and an angel. As we continued reading, he noticed that on a few pages the halo had slipped and was now sitting crookedly and uncomfortably on the poor angel's head.

"I wouldn't want to have to wear one of those things," William said.
"Oh, well son, that shouldn't be a concern," I said laughing.

More Flying Colors

Anna on Ginny

Lauren on Quid

The Flying Colors

The girls had a spectacular weekend riding Mounted Games

at the Kentucky Horse Park. Lauren is third and Anna, fifth, from the left.

They Sell Dogs?

I was slightly started when the cashier at Stuffmart handed me a bag, saying, "Here's your Pomeranian". You've got to just love Kentucky. It's pomegranate, not Pomeranian, season.

My Portrait by William

My Portrait by Anna

Trapped

Winter is coming soon, or so the mice think as they have begun moving indoors - my indoors. I realize the irony that I will try to save any living thing, (and in fact once raised rodents - hamsters) but I regularly trap and kill mice. I show no mercy. I showed the fat one I caught last night to Lazarus to motivate him. Quite a good mouser when the mood strikes him, he growled and hissed at the dead critter.

We live in an older house near the woods, with easy access. The mice must consider us their winter home, their Florida trailer park. (Do they call themselves Snowbirds?) We were alerted to the situation when Lauren began dancing around in the kitchen after a mouse ran out of the spaghetti box, over her hand and ran across the floor. Three dogs and a cat gave chase, while I directed them as to which way to go and yelled, "Get it! Get it!" The cat and Daisy injured it to the point I was able to get it by the tail and put it outside with the cat who I'd hoped would finish the poor thing off. Later, all the dogs spent some time sniffing and pawing at the base of the wood box, so I fear that it must have escaped to be killed another day.

Soon after, a mouse jumped out of our pantry onto my shoulder, ran down me onto the floor. Okay, I thought, this is war. I reorganized the kitchen (putting dry things in a less accessible cabinet) and began laying traps. I've caught several already. I dispose of their bodies in secret so that I don't have to play 20 questions with William about his mother, the mouse serial killer.

Farm Notes:
Roxie, the foal, loves to groom Lazarus the cat.
Roxie and Quid (Lauren's horse) have a bazillion ticks (ew!). They are little tiny ones, and difficult to locate in Roxie's fuzz. No wonder she's always itchy. I thought we were past this time besides the fact that I've never found ticks on our horses before.
Had Jorgen (Gotland pony) adjusted by the chiropractor yesterday. He needs it twice a year at least, having had some major unknown injury prior to our purchase of him. His back and jaw go out and he is visibly quite sore. After treatment, he ran up the hill, tossing his head, obviously feeling his studly self again. The chiropractor visit itself is another whole blog. Later.

THAT!

"Porkchop" (self-nicknamed) came into the Church thrift store today. A stocky black man, he's a bit disconcerting when he talks to himself. Today, he was loudly repeating "THAT!" for no apparent reason. He's a minor celebrity in our town, but he's no Otis Campbell of Mayberry fame. There was no concensus by residents in interviews for our local paper as to whether Porkchop is mentally retarded, mentally ill, or just plain different, but I don't believe he's the town drunk. There is also no concensus as to whether Porkchop is harmless or no.

Mostly, you'll see Porkchop on the streetcorners in our town, lifting a hand to wave at passers-by and sometimes shouting out to them. He stands talking to people that walk by. Sometimes, people will call howdy to him. I don't think I've ever seen him without his signature white hard hat, but the other day, I saw him with a gold one. Today, he was hatless, his bald head shining over the t-shirt table. I asked him where his hat was.

"Oh, I'm working today," he claimed. At what I know not, for to my knowledge he has no job except unpaid town greeter.

I asked about the gold hat. Oh, he told me, that was his special hat and that hat meant he had something good going on that day. I retreated to the back of the store to sort more clothing donations, when I heard a ruckus up front at the cash register. Porkchop had only fifteen cents, though he had items that cost more. Chuck, my co-volunteer, challenged him a little, but let him go, saying he'd catch Porkchop next week.

Our small town has it's small town mentality but I've often over these past twelve years been warmed by the genuine affection shown to people here that are a little different. It's nice to have someone acknowledge your wave as you drive by.

Spiderman

Longevity

An article in National Geographic focused on the secrets to a long and healthy life. The gist of the article was that to live longer, we must exercise (WHEN?) and avoid meat, wine or any kind of alcohol, sugar, and caffeine (meaning chocolate, too). Doing so will help you to live an additional 4 to 10 years.

Now, in between bites of her tofu salad, the 112 year old described the highlight of her days as when she takes a nap. I don't know about you, but if giving up all of the above results in sitting for a decade in a nursing home, waiting for a diaper change and my nap, I'd rather have my filet mignon, wouldn't you? Who wants to live to be 112, I ask you? Maybe 100. So I'll assume that my lifespan is 100 years, and that by eating meat, drinking a glass of wine now and again, and eating gobs of chocolate, I'm giving up that last 12 years. I think it's a bargain.

Boys

Yesterday, Wm. came downstairs in the morning and declared, "I dressed myself!" and climbed into my lap. Still sleepy, he gave me a long hug, said "I love you" and looked up with a beautiful smile and his big eyes - and farted. Then, laughed. Boys.

Rain!

Yesterday, some stuff fell out of the sky. Rumor has it that it was rain. I haven't seen it in so long I wasn't sure. This is my favorite time of year. It is beautiful in color, cool but not cold, and great outside weather. It's hard to get going in the morning, though, as I would love to just like in bed with the windows open and listen to the birds and feel the breeze.

Farm Notes:
The white silkie chicken sat on her eggs to the end. Not one of five of them hatched. Her mate sat with her the whole time, practically on top of her. I feel sorry for them.

We've "flipped" the horses, meaning flipped their schedule. They are in the barn at night now, and out during the day. Their coats indicate that winter is coming whether I want it to or not.

Walk Like a Man

Photo: Wm and Daddy working on the front flower bed. They removed the ink berry plants that masqueraded as landscaping. (I'll not be getting any awards from Better Homes and Gardens this year.) Note: the red adult-sized snow gloves.

Today, Wm and I took a pickup truck load of stuff to the dump. When we got there, he got out his gloves and said, "Now, we're going to get dirty like a man!" The 1970s feminist in me bristled. "Mommy gets dirty, too!" I exclaimed, thinking that I was protesting something that most women would deny ever happens to them. Still, it seemed the hightlight of his day to visit the dump. He was chucking wood out of the pickup with pure joy. Keeping him physically active is a constant challenge.

Today's activities on the farm: went to the dump, did laundry, dishes, floor, cleaned bathroom, fed chickens, groomed horses, went to the hardware store for a socket wrench to demolish the pool, watered the pasture with newly aquired sprinklers, hooked up trailer and hauled two horses to riding lessons, unhooked trailer and drove to get a round bale of hay. Returned to put round bale in the pasture, unloading it by driving off really fast (Lauren claims this is the "hillbilly way" but it worked) and then returned to pick up trailer and horses. Returned home to off-load horses and make dinner. Drank some wine. Now, time to read to Wm and go to bed.

Just so you know how our family works:
Lauren noticed that dh had a hole in his jeans and declared, "Dad, you have a hole in your butt." We all spent the next half hour laughing because as we all know, everyone does.

Burning Time

When you should be studying or paying bills or doing the dishes, instead you can burn time staring at this dancer who is making the email rounds. I saw it only clockwise, and thought the description fit me well. Dh, however, is definitely more left-brained, and also only saw her dance clockwise which gives me one data point discounting the scientific accuracy of this test. Lauren taught me to reverse her by staring at her foot on the ground.

Taking Down Memories

As I worked on removing the vinyl liner and some of the decking around the pool today, I paused as a wave of sadness came over me. I thought of all the friends that have sat around its edge. I thought of hot summer nights of squealing kids swimming with the daddy. All three of my kids learned to swim in the pool. Now, it lays with it's age showing, a shell of its former self.

William, only five, won't likely remember this pool, won't remember the summers we spent near it. It was a good pool.

Not Good Enough

Last week, the girls were slated to take the CLEP (College Level Examination Program) Test to get college credit for Freshman English. Like a very poor role model, I left some details to the morning of the test, including stopping at the bank on the way to the test to retrieve the girls' passports kept in the lock box. To take the test, you are required to have a photo ID.

Again, showing my superb organizational skills, I was brought up short by a dark bank with a sign declaring it closed for Columbus Day. Just great! I don't really understand the connection between Columbus and bank holidays, but this really threw a monkey wrench in the morning.

Returning home, I called the testing center which adamantly refused to budge on their rule that test takers must present a valid, government-issued, photo i.d. Lauren had her learning permit for driving, but Anna had no other i.d.

I can tell you the exact hour of the day of the week she was born, in what hospital and the doctor that delivered her. I can tell you that I was the first human to touch her head. I could show records charting her growth, tell you what her favorite foods are, and how she has little freckles on her nose. I can tell you her clothes size, her shoe size and that she prefers long tunics to short tops. But that, that isn't good enough.

Instead, I could take a valid birth certificate (which has no photo, so could be anyone's birth certificate) to the courthouse, get her photo taken and that government employee could issue a photo i.d. swearing that the person in the photo has the name on the card. But the mother of the child? No, that's not good enough for identification purposes.

Anna was rather relieved, wanting to take the test at a later date anyway. She smiled as I told her that they'd let Lauren, but not her, take the test. Myself, I will not wait next time until test day to have all my details covered.

P.S. Lauren passed, and now has 6 hours college credit!

Blogging on Blogging

Every now and again, I go a couple of days without blogging. It begins to feel okay to not blog, since I have so many other useful activities to fill the time, like eating and paying bills. I'll get to thinking I'll not write anymore, and see what it feels like. Just about the time I'm thinking I'll quit this nasty habit, someone will mention how an entry made them laugh or how they feel it keeps me more in touch with them. It's hard to resist. Ego is such a small word for such a big emotion.

If ever I think I could become a serious, money making blogger (yes there is such a thing), I visit Notes from the Trenches, who gets as many comments in a day as I get people just reading. That knocks me down a notch. I can see her photos are a little better than mine (okay a lot better) which I suppose would be helped with a digital that you can actually see what you are shooting (my screen is now broken).

Adsense by Google (see ads in the margin) will not be making me rich, despite my grand illusions. In the almost three years I've blogged, I've earned almost $70. I say "earned" though I've not seen a penny. They pay based on the number of clicks on the ads, but only after you achieve $100. At this rate, I only have a little over a year to go and I'll make that $100. Wonder what that works out to per hour?

Perhaps I should count my riches in the number of people that I call friends who I've made smile a time or two.

Future Pilots?

Boys at the controls during a tour of a regional airport.

Girls take a turn.

There was a time when a good looking guy turned my head. Now that I have the most good looking guy all married to me, the sight of a good looking guy has my mind calculating.

Mmmmm....6'4". Too tall for Lauren. Born in 1983. Mmmmm.....too old for Anna. Oh, well. Maybe - hanging around getting one's pilot's license is an interesting way to meet well-heeled guys though, eh? Oh, the shameless mamma. I guess this wasn't supposed to be the purpose of this field trip.

A Sign of My Times

Dh and I were laughing the other day that when a woman is younger, she looks at the other women at a gathering and thinks, "Boy, I looked as good as anyone there." But as we age, the conversation turns more to, "Boy, at least I don't look any worse than anyone there."

Boys Need to Do

I let him go up and down the ladder to deliver supplies. Of course, he would not be satisfied until he actually sat on the roof of the shed dh was reroofing. That lasted 5 minutes until he said, "I'm bored!" That experience tackled, he climbed down the ladder and declared he was going to the garage to get another hammer, as he needed to practice his hammering.

So two hammers rang out yesterday, both accomplishing important work.

HOT!

Dh says I smell good - I've been working on removing stickers from the horse trailer. I now have a new perfume: Eau de Goo Be Gone. Must be a man thing.

We put up 120 bales of hay this morning. The woman who came with my "hay man" and is his daughter, threw the bales up three high faster than dh and I could stack. "Slow down and let them catch up!" Joe hollered to her.

"I'm almost half-way to fifty," she joked, boasting at her strength and ability, and I guess denigrating ours. She must have thought we were younger than we are, which I guess is a good thing. But a 47 yr old, and a short one at that (I'm half her size) can't sling hay bales like a long shoreman. I'm going to be sore tonight!

Had two horses trimmed. We couldn't even pull the shoes off of Quid, Lauren's horse, because of her terror of the farrier. She even had a sedative. We're going to have to tranquilize her. We're headed now to visit Ginny, who is at a local barn for training.

The Missing Link

Perhaps I'll find that it's a pack rat. Yes, that's it - somewhere in my house there is a hole in the wall where this rat lives. In there, he has every pair of scissors that I own, several rolls of transparent tape, my tweezers, about 20 fingernail clippers, all my permanent markers, rulers, the stapler, and added just this week, my potato peeler. Now, tell me, why would this pack rat want a potato peeler?

Unless....No, it couldn't be that a little boy would think that the potato peeler was perfect for peeling the bark off of twigs. Nah. It has to be a pack rat.

Update: If you find the pack rat's hole, could you ask him to return my potato masher, please? I need it to make applesauce.

Bought $40 worth of apples today. Big kids pick fast. I guess I'd better get preserving, squishing, drying apples, or eat a lot.

Photo by Christine

BTW, look at this face. Are they sure it was Eve that did the tempting?

Martyr?

Ever get "forward"that everyone you know sends to you? The latest in my inbox is the email about the Invisible Woman (link to excerpt) that is from a book by Nicole Johnson. In it, the writer laments that she is often invisible to her family, working diligently to mother and care for them, not immediately seeing the results. She bolsters her self-esteem by comparing her job to the building of a cathedral:

No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names.
These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished.
They made great sacrifices and expected no credit.
The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

I loved this part, identifying with having faith that I am making good choices for my family even though I won't see the end result for years to come. (Truthfully, though, I see a good deal of results right now.)

Because it was forwarded to me without credit to the author, I did a quick Google and found her name right away. I clicked on several links to see that some bloggers have put the whole excerpt on their blogs without given credit. (Can you spell plagiarism?) Anyway, in my clicking I ran across a group called Alt Support Childfree, a group of people that consciously choose not to have children. I was completely taken aback by the angry and mean tone. Still am. I looked past that though and tried to listen to the message and found some truth in it.

This author becomes a martyr in her words and actions. She has become invisible to her family only because she's allowed this to be. We've all made choices, and we must stand up to those choices. I'm not saying that being a stay-at-home mom isn't hard, that sacrifices aren't made and willingly. It is likely the hardest job in the world. I'm saying that if we are invisible, if we feel we are not being heard, we need to voice that to our families or make other choices - find other outlets. I will say that I do get this martyr feeling once a month, however, but I recognize it for what it is.

I make no apologies for staying home and building my cathedral. It will be very beautiful.

Farm Notes
We are off to pick apples today at a local u-pick-it. William says, "MOM, when are we going to go already?" so I've not proofed the above very well. Please be kind to me.

Why?

If you have a young child, you probably hear the word "why" more often than a person ought. "Why" challenges my knowledge of the world and stretches my memory to it's limits. Maybe that is why I continue to read a lot and learn - trying to keep up. For example, I bet there's not a mother among us that has not been asked why do men have nipples too? They obviously don't need them. Up until now, I have given the answer that God put them there for decoration. I've got a better answer today!

I've been reading Raising Boys: Why Boys Are Different-And How to Help Them Become Happy and Well-Balanced Men, and in Chapter 3, it says:

It may surprise you to know that all young creatures start life being female. The Y chromosome that makes a baby into a boy is an 'add on' chromosome that starts to act in the womb, to give a boy the extra bits he needs to be a boy and to stop other bits growing. A male is a female with optional extras. That's why everyone has nipples, though not everyone needs them.

Well, that solves that mystery of life!

Farm Notes
I've not even been outside yet.
The chicken coop has been moved, but I need to clean it.
The stud next door was gelded about a month ago, and at night, we hear squeals and donkey-like brays as he and Jorgen determine who's boss.
I need to measure the roof of the shed - it needs new shingles.
The pool, now defunct and empty, is collecting acorns and leaves. I need to dismantle it soon. I look at the decking on the pool and think of building a clubhouse for Wm. Think. Not do.
The days are alarmingly short.

Down the Road

Agape

Once a week, I volunteer two hours at a thrift store run by my Church. For two hours, I unpack clothes, refold them, hang them up, arrange knicknacks on shelves, throw out less desirable donations and straighten the shelves. Each week, I look forward to going. I am often asked why I do this, why would I work for free?

There are many answers, but the most telling would be that my time there puts me in touch with part of my community that I might not otherwise get to know. I've come to be comfortable with a large black man always wearing a construction helmet, talking to himself and shouting at cars that pass by. That's "Porkchop", a sort of dubious celebrity in our town.

I've exchanged buenas tardes with Angelica who tells me the sweet story of how her non-English speaking father could not understand why everyone stared at him when he wore his esposa's sweatshirt, until it was explained to him that it read "World's Greatest Grandmother".

I worry over the morbidly obese woman who can hardly walk, but even more worrisome, has a van so packed with garbage with a space only big enough for her body that I wonder if she is a hoarder. She buys more stuff even as we are closing.

Sometimes, I marvel at the two black women friends that come in, so enjoying each other's company and talking up a storm, and that with my white ears, I can't understand them at all. They have a secret language.

John wasn't in this week. He's Hispanic and friends with Chuck, my co-worker. John washes dishes at local restaurants and seems to be alone here. I wonder how he came to our area.

The woman who mops the floors at McD's stops by with a friend, their English non-existant. They're followed by a man who sweeps through daily, looking only for Derby glasses. Another regular laments that she hasn't found anything to buy that day, yet another day asks me how she can keep from collecting more things and learn to discard.

This week, an Amish woman and her baby came in. I dared to ask her (not wanting to intrude) if she was with the men painting the bank in town? Yes, she told me, that was her husband. I told her truthfully that they were doing a beautiful job and that it was appreciated. She smiled widely, but said nothing. I noticed that Amish do not have very nice teeth, or at least she didn't, young though she was.

I get to see Raidy and RuthAnn, the elderly couple who runs the store, who would otherwise not be of my acquaintance. RuthAnn tells me how happy she was that I was in her line at Communion last week. Chuck talks to William, who is always with me, and says that he saw a boy dressed fancy at Church last week that looked like William. "That was ME!" William squeals.

So in this rich, 98% white county, I see a richness in diversity in a small shop on a side street. Do you not see that I am the one that receives?

Farm Notes

In my last blog, I wrote ""Miniature horse foals cannot walk upright on laminate flooring in the basement. Ask me how I know." Dawn wrote: How do you know? Well, Dawn, the foal will slip under the electric fence and come running anytime she sees a human. One day she was with me while I worked in the garage, and I forgot she was there. Our garage is a walkout from our basement, and forgetting she was there, I walked into the basement to put away a toy, leaving the door open . The next thing I knew a terrible clatter, much like Santa's reindeer on the roof, was in the room with me. It was Roxie, who'd followed me in. I had to support her weight to get her out, as the laminate floor was like ice to her hooves.

Ginny, Anna's horse, has gone to training at a local farm. We drove her there with her best bud, Quid (Lauren's horse), put her in a stall, and prepared to leave. That's when the fireworks began. She is quite pushy and buddy-sour, aside from the general issue of needing more training. We expect it to take at least several weeks. The other horses will surely miss her.

There are dead leaves everywhere. I hate dead leaves. I love the fall. What a contrast in sentiments.

Got the horse trailer fixed - lights, brakes, broken window. I wonder if Walmart needs night help?

Of Grave Concern

Within a short horse ride of our house lies a large property belonging to a local television station. It was purchased for the construction of a weather station tower. Local horseback riders have benefited by the station looking aside if anyone rode there. While not given permission, we were also not prosecuted. That is, if we did not ride and scare away deer during hunting season when executive big-wigs came to prove their manliness.

In the late 1800's, this property had been a farm, and until recently, the old farm house and barns stood derelict and a shell of their former selves, housing buzzards that would take flight and scare the horses out of their skins.

On one ride or two, we came across a graveyard. Intrigued by the possible history of the place and the story of the people, we decided to return with a camera and a notebook. But of course, it took many more rides to finally locate the overgrown plot. Lauren in particular was intent on finding it.

Today, she and Anna located the Duncan cemetery, likely the owners of this farm in the 1870s or so. We are going to take the photos and information to the local history museum to see if they can tell us more about the Duncans. The farm was on a route from the Ohio River to a spring in our town we know from a previous visit to the history museum. Several of the stones marked infants or a daughter age six.

Sadly, I hear that the property is to be sold and my guess is that it'll be subdivided for yet more houses.

Farm Notes
Dry as a bone. I did manage to weed my herbs and found some parsley, oregano and a few other herbs surviving despite my neglect.

Picked a bunch of red Cubanelle and Hungarian hot wax peppers. Tasted some of each and found them to be sweet, not hot. Yet, when I went to clean my contacts.....Well, let's just say that I've not been drinking should you noticed that my eyes are bloodshot.

Miniature horse foals cannot walk upright on laminate flooring in the basement. Ask me how I know.

We are preparing to store as much hay as we can stuff into the barn. It has been a bad, bad year for hay and people are rushing to buy it like Louisvillians run to buy milk and bread because we could get snow flurries. Truly, people are already paying upwards of $6 a bale here where we normally pay $3.50. So, we're going to buy a bunch now, for even our hay guy will raise the price in January.

Been Busy

With the change in weather, we've been outside more, trying to catch up a bit with a yard let go during extreme heat and drought. We've also enjoyed getting out to ride a bit more. Keeping up with girls studying dual credit high school courses keeps me hopping as well. I am again learning my French language skills and immersing myself in Algebra. Life is good - and full.

Farm Notes

The chickens are not laying - nada. They are lucky that it is 2007 and that I have no idea how to butcher a chicken, nor do I want to learn. On the other hand, the silkie pair that I've verbally given away to a friend have finally started to lay and are sitting on eggs, so that they cannot be moved right now.

Quite a scare yesterday - a man stopped and rapped on our door. If a stranger comes to our door, either they are Jehovah's Witness members or a horse is running down the road. He told me that a mini and her foal were running down our road and inquired if they were ours? We rapidly prepared to get the truck to go see, but soon discovered that the horses in question were not black, like Maggie and Roxie, but buckskin. The man had put the horses in a neighbor's fenced yard, but we were never able to find them. I hope that they were found and put back where they belong. My heart got a good workout in my temporary scare.

I've decided I'm not a gardener, yet I feel ecologically I should try to grow things. Yet, I'm such a dismal failure at it - not enough time. However, I have enough hot peppers right now to supply a Mexican restaurant. They evidently like hot, dry weather and total neglect.

A Leg Up

Sometimes, a task can seem insurmountable...

...without a big sister to help you...

...and to lead you around the yard for a pony ride.

Farm Notes:

No rain. You can hear the grass when you walk on it.

Beautiful skies, nice temperatures. Summer is over. Time to pot annual herbs.

Jorgen developed a swelling on the side of his neck. He had an injection last Thursday so that we could power wash his privates. He often has a small swelling at injection sites. This was large enough that we called the vet, as it encompassed the entire side of the neck. The vet gave him an IV injection anti-inflammatory and we'll follow up with Bute over the next couple of days.

I'm tired yet from spending a full day Saturday at my late Aunt Loraine's house, boxing, cleaning and moving things. Yet, I was very, very pleased at how well my sisters, my bil and my nephew and I all worked together without any animosity and moved a mountain.

Look What Hatched!

Whirlwind Life

Wm held out his hand with a short, brown item and I was relieved to hear him say, "I found another chrysalis." Indeed it was, but I can't imagine that anything pretty will come of it. What kind is it, he wanted me tell him, and when I declared my ignorance, he said, "Well, you can look it up, can't you?" He's learning what I want him to learn - that if you don't know, you can find out.

Wm to Daddy: Why don't you have much hair?
Daddy: I don't know. It just went away.
Wm to Daddy: But you're still handsome, aren't you?

Last night, we went to a reception at a local library for the art studio where Anna studies. Anna had two drawings on display.

Today, I am off to Cincinnati to help box up the house of my aunt and uncle, both of whom died recently. Both people who'd survived the Depression, they were frugal and saved most everything. Some of the things have been most fascinating. I found a blow dryer from the 70's, and brought it home. My girls wondered about the brush attachment at the end. I told them how we used to curl our long hair in a flip along the sides of our faces to the back.

Some things were quite puzzling. Uncle Otis had save a small box with "cicada" written on the top. Inside, yup, a dead cidada. No idea why he'd saved it, no small note to tell us of it's significance.

Though I didn't visit there often, and when I was younger, Aunt Loraine and Uncle Otis usually came to our house, it is a sad knowing that they won't be there and that someone else will occupy the house they'd owned since the 60's.

Farm Notes

Horses 2, Walmart $2 sprinkler 0
Still no rain. Heard this is the worst drought our county has had in 100 years.
Neighbors' dogs, two of them, have resumed sniffing around the chickens in the evening. I'm going to have to complain again.

The Sound of SH

One of the joys of owning a gelding is that periodically, one must become more familiar with a part of him that can't normally be discussed in polite company. Some horses love that clean feeling "down there". My horse, Bay, in fact, enjoys it a little too much. Jorgen, on the other hand (no pun intended), acts as if he is being molested. Lifting his hind foot, he tries to scrape my hand away.

You may ask why it is necessary to clean a horse there. Nature had a way of self cleaning during use and in submersion in water. Neither happen to a domesticated gelding. Jorgen was to the point of having what looked like asphalt adhered to him and he was swollen. Something had to be done. With a horse that won't "drop down" or allow you to be intrusive, you must sedate them or have the vet come do this.

I called the vet's office to get an estimate as to how much it would cost to just have the vet come.
"I need an estimate to have the vet come out and clean his sheath," I told Linda over the phone.

She began looking up prices. "It will cost about $60 for a simple case pluse the trip charge ($24) and sedation ($30), and up to $100 if he has to use the grinder."

Grinder? I am thinking. OUCH! To give you an idea of how hard the stuff was up in him, and how bad he looked when he did drop down to pee, I envisioned a little hand held tool...... Well, anyway, I guess I just thought the vet ought to know what he was doing. But grinder?

"So, this is going to run me, worst case, about $150 or more? I am trying to do it myself but....."

"Well, we don't recommend anyone trying to do their horses' teeth themselves."

Teeth? The little bell went off and I laughed out loud. "I didn't say teeth. I said sheath."

Linda likely had tears running from her eyes as she realized that we'd been talking about two different things and what an idiot of an owner who thought one might use a grinder on a horse's privates. I laughed with her, knowing that this story was going to make the rounds of our little town in no time.

Check at http://jmatt.net/ElecEq/sheath.html if you'd like humorous, yet accurate, directions as to how to clean a sheath without a grinder.

As to the end of the story? We ourselves gave old Jorgen a shot of Rompun/Ace from the vet and cleaned him ourselves. He's now as fresh as spring air.


Farm Notes for Thursday

Cleaned chicken coop and moved it. The baby chick is getting big and shows signs of being a rooster.

No rain in the forecast. Bought a new sprinkler and have it running all the time. $2 sprinkler didn't stand up well to 12oo pound horse rolling on it, but I think I fixed it.

Lots of peppers to pick. About the only thing my garden produced this year - hot peppers. I never even have time to pick them. I am thinking of giving up gardening until I'm older, have more time, and no one to eat the produce.

Found another chrysalis on basil I picked to dry. It is also a Monarch. Hung it up in container with other chrysalis which doesn't appear viable anymore. Maybe I'm being given a second chance?

The truck, used for a myriad of hauling and work, is beginning to sound like Darth Vadar.

The creek is completely dry except for a small puddle where some frogs still reside.

My Son

William's current career aspiration is to become a garbage man. I'm so proud. I may be able to influence that. Last night, I jokingly told him that he ought to consider becoming a doctor so that he could care of dh and me in our old age. Tonight, in the middle of watching some insane cartoon, he looked over and said in a despondant voice, "All right, Mom, I'll be a doctor."

"Why do you say that?"
"Well, I want to be able to help you." I don't know how this thought came out during the cartoon, but I released him from my expectations and told him I had been joking the night before.

Live Webcams
I've been gazing lately at the Earthcam website where you can click on webcams from all over the world. It shows live video, the current time and weather. I've been using it to show William how different parts of the world have different amounts of daylight at any one time. I like checking the beach where we vacation , particularly when I hear that a storm is brewing. (As an annual destination, we worry about it when big storms hit, as it is a home away from home.) I love the cam at St. Louis, which I caught just as the sun was going down and reflecting on the buildings. A funny - there was a spider on the cam and I could clearly see it crawling all around.

I'd love to set up a cam on our front yard, but I've not figured out how to host one yet. It would be really cool to have one in the barn, but the wireless won't go that far. I guess I could hook up a couple of hundred yards of USB cable!

Too Funny

Can I Help?

Wm. is always at the ready with "can I help?" He's particularly involved at dinner time when there's chopping to be done. "Wait, let me get my 'little knife'" he say, looking for the dull pairing knife he's allowed to wield.

When it comes to feeding our foster kitties, he gives me quite a chuckle. He'll ask, "Can I help you milk them?" meaning, can he help give them a bottle of milk. I am amused with the image of the both of us pulling on the tiny teats of a mother cat to milk her.

Update on the coccoon: It is definitely changing in color and overall appearance. We expect it to hatch Tuesday or Wednesday. In the meantime, go look at my sister's blog and the black swallowtail butterfly they hatched.

My Front Porch

I have often had animals on my front porch: other people's dogs, for example.

But throwing out the welcome mat for a horse might be going a little too far.

The problem is that if I am on the front porch, so is she.


And if you give a horse the opportunity to go on the front porch, she'll want to come inside. She actually knocked.

She may even make herself look pitiful enough that you consider it for just a moment.

Future Daddies

As a former La Leche League Leader, I don't advocate bottle feeding (and in fact found this week it to be quite a pain to prepare the supplies), but could not help smiling as these boys nutured these little abandoned kittens.

My loving sister was given one apparently abandoned in a barn, and while at the pet store to buy formula, met a woman with two more. Instead of giving the woman the cat she had, you guessed it, she took the other two as well. I guess she and I have something in common - more animals than sense (or cents). Sister then proceeded to leave town for two weeks, leaving the kittens in my care.

The boys were so gentle with the kitties, which burp quite loudly after downing their formula. The boys found this quite amusing. We keep them in a bathroom where they can run around and stay out from underfoot, away from our giant, mean-old red tabby cats.

Chrysalis

Last Friday, William's friend, Aidan, pointed to a beautiful chrysalis hanging by a thread from a post on our front porch. It looked like a bright jewel - emerald green with gold dots all over it. Later in the day, we saw that it had fallen off the post, and so we retrieved it and put it in a safe bug container.

Googling it, we found out it is the chrysalis of a Monarch butterfly! It is due to hatch, we think, next Tuesday. (That is, if I can keep William off of it. He reported today, while showing to my friend, Becky, that it felt a little squishy. Oh, no!)
Here is a website (by someone else) where you can see it in all its stages of development. I'll post next week if it hatches or not, but we can already see that it is changing in appearance.

Thinking Outside the Box

I was trying to get dinner on the table with a five year old underfoot. Pulling out a worksheet, I read and memorized the short instructions and returned to the kitchen. I asked William to circle the items in each column that were above the others. Next, he was to cross out items below the others. When he told me he was done, I looked at the paper.

He had correctly circled the items above and crossed the items below, but it took me a moment to process that the middle objects were both circled and crossed out. This was, he explained because the flower, for example, was above the worm but below the cloud, so got both a circle and an "x".

I was amazed at his thinking beyond what was asked. Was this exceptional thinking? I looked in the back of the book (which I think is kind of amusing that they have answers for kindergarten worksheets, but thankful in this case), and in fact, they showed just the cloud and butterfly circled and the worm and log crossed out. They didn't think any further. Maybe I need to write them a letter.

This type of thinking reminds me of a time Anna, at about the same age, was asked on the Iowa Skills test which cloud of several was the smallest. She said that she couldn't answer the question. I pointed to the smallest (apparently to me) cloud. Anna responded that the cloud wasn't the smallest - it was just farther away. Sometimes, I'm just amazed at this type of early thinking and wonder how much of it is drummed out of us with the "right" answer.

Secret Code?

So I had to ask dh if anyone had ever touched his foot while in a bathroom stall. After the recent disclosure of a politician who allegedly was soliciting attentions from an undercover police officer by touching feet and running his hands under the stall wall, I was creeped out enough to wonder if this sort of thing happens often. No, dh assured me, he didn't know of any secret code that implies an invitation. Still, if you hear me yelling "William, are you in there?" very loudly at the men's door (since my five year old is now old enough (he tells me) that he has to use the men's room), or maybe even charging in and looking for him if he doesn't respond, you'll understand.

In Which I Show My Ignorance

Perhaps I've been in KY too long. But no, that's not it, I've never been interested in fashion or clothing. Like anyone, I feel better in nice clothes and like to dress to go out, but to be honest, most of the time, I don't think about fashion at all. I guess that's why I had absolutely no idea what a Coach purse is and (aside from the obvious mess to cleanup) why my friend would be concerned about an egg becoming cracked in one. (My place is the farm where the deed took place.)

In the car on the way to a family golf outing last night, I relayed the story but asked puzzled, "What is a Coach purse?"

"Oh, my God, mom. Everyone knows what Coach purse is."
I turned to my dh. "Do you know?" Yup, he knew. They gave a description. A purse with circles and brown and gold and they cost upwards of $300-$500. I started hyperventilating. FOR A PURSE???

And, I wanted to know, how did they know about this, my homeschooled teens? How did dh? One offered that at the malls....("but you don't go to malls") and in fashion magazines... ("but we don't get any fashion or popular magazines"). Okay, maybe TV commercials. Granted, I watch very little TV, but still, would I have not heard? Dh offered that it was kind of like saying you have a Rolex. Well, yes, I know what a Rolex is because some Chinese guy is trying to sell me one by email. Rolex is a metaphor of sorts for wealth. But Coach? Never heard of it. I guess I am a hopeless case. A chip off my dad's self-admitted "German Deutsch" ancestry. I can only think that I could buy a new computer for the cost of a purse. Amazing!

How to Turn a Conversation

"Skorts" are an interesting clothing item and a throw-back to my childhood. They are meant to look like a mini-skirt, yet have shorts underneath. Both a friend and I, unknown to the other, bought the same skort at a local department store and found that while driving on the highway, we were startled by blasts from eighteen wheelers passing by. Evidently, from their vantage point, the skorts look like we've hiked up our skirts. In our minds, they hit no differently than a pair of modest shorts.

Retelling our conversation to my husband and okay, a little puffed up that anyone would honk at me at my age, he stated that a truck driver would honk at anyone in a mini-skirt. In fact, he volunteered that he would elicit a honk if he donned a skort and a wig and drove down the highway. I laughed at the image at first, but then I got to thinking. "Hey, you mean that your 200 pound self would get the same response as I got?"

"Well, I have good legs," he replied.
"Yes, but, well, you're not built like a woman."

He continued to insist that he would get honks. Next, he'll be telling me that a 400 pound gorilla in a skort would get a honk, too. Men.

Education

A discussion with a friend about the purposes of education has my mind whirling and googling. Reconsidering the meaning and purpose of education is timely. This time of year, I begin getting questions about what curricula we are using and when do we "start", meaning when do we formally being schooling. Truthfully, I don't consider that we ever "school", rather we "live" and learning takes place inside that framework. As the friend told an acquaintance, "we never stopped" learning.

Many consider education a means to prepare a child "for the real world" in which we live. Likely, this means the ability to function in a democracy and get a job supporting a family. Yet, as this website pointed out, for all the educated people in the world, we've not been so hot at being good stewards of the Earth and that in many cases, our ability to produce technology outpaces our ability to use it responsibly.

I highlight the following passages for consideration:

Finally, I would like to propose that the way learning occurs is as important as the content of particular courses. Process is important for learning. Courses taught as lecture courses tend to induce passivity. Indoor classes create the illusion that learning only occurs inside four walls isolated from what students call without apparent irony the "real world." Dissecting frogs in biology classes teaches lessons about nature that no one would verbally profess. Campus architecture is crystallized pedagogy that often reinforces passivity, monologue, domination, and artificiality. My point is simply that students are being taught in various and subtle ways beyond the content of courses.

and,

Fifth, there is a myth that the purpose of education is that of giving you the means for upward mobility and success. Thomas Merton once identified this as the "mass production of people literally unfit for anything except to take part in an elaborate and completely artificial charade." When asked to write about his own success, Merton responded by saying that "if it so happened that I had once written a best seller, this was a pure accident, due to inattention and naiveté, and I would take very good care never to do the same again." His advice to students was to "be anything you like, be madmen, drunks, and bastards of every shape and form, but at all costs avoid one thing: success."

The plain fact is that the planet does not need more "successful" people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every shape and form. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these needs have little to do with success as our culture has defined it.

Still thinking and learning - Junosmom

L'Oréal 7 1/2a

On my husband's side of the family, mothers in their forties birthing children isn't uncommon. In fact, four of us over forty had children within years of each other. I won't say that there aren't moments when I contemplate the adult moments I could be having with two teenaged daughters, but never would I give back the amusement and joy that a young child brings. Does it keep me looking young? No, my religiously applied haircolor does that. Thus far, I've not been assumed to be the grandmother by young, first time moms. Good thing, too, for I'd probably have to deck anyone making such an obvious error.

I nearly bit my menu in two last week when at a restaurant, the waiter referred to me as "young lady". It was such a blatant reference to my age, as in "we all know you are older than the hills but I'm going to treat you nice like you are really only twenty". No one has ever done this before, and I wanted to slap his stupid little earring'ed head, but to do so would have been to have admitted that I knew that he was really calling me old.

Some days, like right now, when I want to be finishing this blog and Wm is calling from the other room for me to change the channel and can he have more to eat, those days I feel cranky and old. Then other times, he'll ask questions that amuse me and keep my mind young:

"Do fish communicate under water?"
"Which is more powerful, an earthdroid [asteroid] or a meteorite or a comet?"
"Where does the sun go at night?"

I type all these cute things as I yell at him to just give me TEN more minutes, just a moment to finish this blog. ARggg...I'm old again.

I Always Wanted Longer Legs

Am I Back?

It is morning. Somewhere, there is someone walking in the solitude of the beach, listening to the soothing waves, watching the dolphins and a lone ray jump out of the water. Last week, that was me. Today, it is someone else. Today, someone else lives in "our" house, drinks their morning coffee on "our" deck. Grateful though I am for that week, it's hard to give it up, that peace and joy at just being.

Photos coming soon

As I said, I've forgotten the correct cable to download my photos. Perhaps this is a good thing. I'd be obligated to post the photo of myself buried up to my neck and sculpted into a mermaid. A well-endowed mermaid. Sand is very heavy and also persistent in finding places on the body you didn't know existed. Still, it was oddly relaxing and I fell asleep for a split second, causing my foot to jerk, ruining my tail.

The waves are incredible this year, pounding surf eating away at the fragile shoreline. Each morning so far, we've gotten up and walked an hour. After, we play in the water and read. And read. I've visited many of the relatives already. Not everyone was here this year, only 47 versus over sixty last year. Yet, it is good to return to this place we've come so many years like the turtles that return to lay their eggs. Only I'm done laying eggs.

The ocean seems to be like coming home somehow, like a friend you know but haven't seen in awhile. It is strangely calming and reassuring at the same time holding frightening secrets beneath the depths. As I stared at the horizon, I thought of all my relatives who crossed this same ocean, some not too long ago, and coming here with such hopes.

The moon hangs at half illumination, dashing our chances this year of seeing turtles hatch. In fact, we've yet to locate a nest.

The girls have returned from their evening card games and tell me that the relatives are in their rocking chairs, laughing loudly until tears form and they laughed just to hear them. I stayed home, reading my book and listening to the waves from the second story deck of this rental.

At the Beach

A more professional blogger would have daily photos to accompany this entry. I've taken photos, but in my disorganized packing, brought the wrong cord to download from my camera. I've also not brought enough sand toys, a serious miscalculation since my relaxation this week will depend on William using this large sandbox (and a great deal of rum).

Internet connection wasn't mentioned on our lease, so I imagined that I would have to carry my laptop up and down the beach searching for a stray un-secured wireless signal. That probably wouldn't have looked too cool. But, lo and behold, our rental has wireless so that I can use this downtime to produce profound and witty blogs. (Don't hold your breath.)

We have already made a "find". On this morning's early walk, I found the egg case, often know as a Mermaid's Purse, of a skate. (Photo above ripped from the Internet.) At first, dh and I debated telling two of our kids who have a concern about what creatures might be lurking in the water around their toes.

The water is warm, the breeze relaxing, and I hope to finish a book or two.

Keeping Up Appearances

It's interesting how men can so drastically change their appearance by the simple act of missing a spot on their chin. Dh likes to spend months growing hair in different configurations on his face, and just about when I'm getting used to it, he'll shave it all off. It always takes me a few minutes to register what it is that is different. Perhaps he got the idea after I showed him this cartoon on How to Drastically Change Your Appearance.

Questions About God

My Aunt Loraine passed away this morning after a brief illness. Because we've known it was coming for some days and have talked about it, William, of course, had many questions. Today, he wanted to know what a spirit does in Heaven. I gave the standard answer that everyone was with God, happy, needing nothing...... He replied that he would find that boring and he knew God wasn't bored.

God, he said, wasn't bored because he had a job to do. He had to make the rain, make people, keep the Earth spinning, etc. Therefore, God would not be bored. He figures that that is why God made the Earth to begin with - out of boredom, now relieved with keeping it working and all.

God Speed, Aunt Loraine. May you now have peace and the answers to all of life's mysteries (and if you wanna answer any of William's questions in my dreams, I'd greatly appreciate it).

My Reading List

In the right margin, you'll see that I've added my reading list. This effort has two reasons. The older I get, the more difficult it becomes to remember what I've read, unless the book is just really outstanding. The advantage to this is that I can enjoy the same books over and over. The disadvantage is that I'll get half-way through a book and realize that I now remember how it it going to end. Getting old and feeble-minded is hell. Anyway, this list will serve to remind me.

It may also serve to feed my habit, for if anyone links to Amazon through my reading list, I get a cut! Then, I can buy more books, or if I'm smart, school books. Nah.

Notes to People

To the young lector at the youth Mass:
I admire your leadership and involvement in Church, but the t-shirt you wore Sunday emblazoned with Gettin' Lucky in Kentucky probably wasn't a good choice in attire.

To the marketer of kids' meals at Burger King:
Why do you put toys in the kids' meals that promote movies that my boy (age 5) is too young to see? The Simpsons' Movie is rated PG-13 and my kid doesn't even know who he is.

To the creators of the movies:
If you are going to market the movies in toys to little kids, why don't you make just a little effort to make the movies for the kids to see, at least PG? For example, Spiderman movies and Transformers.

To Blogger.com
I don't know why, if I am already logged in, I have to type in word verification to publish my post and secondly, WHY it never accepts my first attempt and makes me do it twice. At least I can read the type which leads to:

To the people that design the little verification squares with hidden type:
I know you are trying to screen out robots and alien beings, but I can't half the time read your little weird type with the squiggly lines all over it. Cut it out! Just give it to us straight.

The Zucchini Massacre

About this time of year, I begin to wonder why each spring optimism wells within me, encouraging me to dig up the soil, spend about $100 in seeds and supplies so that I can produce zucchini that people are giving away on the street corners. There is a saying that you can tell a person who has no friends: they are the ones buying zucchini at the grocery.

My garden, which is by now a scar on the face of the earth and embarassing, does however produce mammoth zucchini in my neglect. William shouts "can I have it?" when he sees one, excitement filling the air. He grabs his "little knife" and cuts it into shreds. He sometimes peels it with a potato peeler, as you see in this photo, and then begins stabbing it with a violence that scares me. He then inspects the core sample he's taken (maybe he'll be a geologist instead of a serial killer?) and excavates a mini-cave. Though it makes a mess that takes a while to clean up, others don't understand that it is well worth it, for he is silent and engaged for a full fifteen minutes!

Email

Likely, my friend would have shot milk out her nose had she been drinking it. She asked me on the phone if she was interupting anything. Oh, no, I told her. I was just writing an Outlook Express message rules so that email received with sperm in the subject line would be deleted. I informed her that should she ever email me on that topic, I would never see it and would not respond to the email. She thanked me for the advance warning.

Some spy bot has found my email address on a website somewhere and I've lately been subjected to 25-50 messages a day about enhancing body parts that I don't have, Rolex watches that I've never coveted, and medicines that I don't need.

Recently, on NPR I heard a debate on the right of President Bush and the government to intercept emails between US citizens and foreign email addresses. I can not help but wonder if they have the technology to do this, why they can't stop the Nigerians from emailing me with a promise of millions of dollars if only I'd give them my bank account, social security number and mother's maiden name? Can they not stop the Canadians from emailing me about Viagra and Cialis? Could they please stop the Chinese from emailing me text I can't even read?

In the meantime, I make rule after rule, making a list of words that you wouldn't use in polite conversation.

The "System"

We were ushered into an office at the headquarters of a neighboring county's eSchool. The purpose of the visit was to qualify both girls by testing for online dual credit (high school/college) classes requiring reading and writing skills (we're not doing math yet). I was surprised that another mother and her daughter were also invited in, as I supposed that this was to divulged the test results to us. She's going to tell us the test scores in front of each other? Isn't this a privacy issue? Oh, yeah, this is a school system.

Sure enough, the woman turned to the other pair and told them that the girl had not qualified to take the classes and would have to study a little more and try again. The mother divulged that the girl had "transportation issues" and was going to homeschool after two years at a city public high school.

The official (lady) then began to address us both. Did we know that by homeschooling, if we did not teach the required courses and the required number of days that we could be jailed for truancy? (I begin to squirm. What have I done? I've identified myself to the enemy.) AND, if we allowed them to miss nine days of school, did we know that their license to drive would be taken away? (I'm beginning to get a bit hot under the collar.) By choosing to homeschool high school, we could make our children ineligible for certain college scholarships. (I begin to wonder how long I can hold the red hot firebolts from shooting out of my eyes and impaling the woman. ) The difficult job of planning high school courses falls on YOU MOM and you should consider signing up for our eSchool, and we'll plan it all out for you. (Now I get it. This was a scare tactic so that I'll hand my kids over to the public school system and you get more tax money and have jursidiction on them.)

I keep the words that are ready to vomit out of my mouth by biting my lower lip. The atmosphere is charged with animosity. The pair to my right is quiet. Do we have any questions? Well, yes, did my daughters pass the test? The woman laughs, leans back in her chair and says "Oh, my gosh yes. They blew it out of the water. They can take any dual credit class they want."

I ask a few questions about the dual credit program and the whole electricity in the room begins to change. She becomes friendly and happy, giving me information about their dual credit program. She becomes a real person again, someone helpful and non-threatening. Very interesting, I am thinking.

As we leave the building, I have a hard time containing my joy and pride at what my girls have accomplish, and so happy that they can try these classes. I look around to make sure no one is looking and do a "Clem Ka-diddle-hopper" (Red Skelton, and yes, I'm that old). My girls laugh. They claim that they did well on the test because before the test I let them go to Old Navy and buy clothes, and then took them to lunch. It has absolutely nothing to do with all the homeschooling we've done over the years.

Michelin Girl

The Road To Hell....

...is paved with good intentions, they say. And I have the best of intentions. It's that time of year most homeschoolers recognize. Like New Year's Eve, I make resolutions for this coming school year. This year, this year, will be different. I will plan, organize, journal and stay on track. This year, my day will have a rhythm to it and we'll go on those field trips that I've been meaning to get to. Somehow, it never quite turns out the way I planned. And they get to where they were meant to be and learn what they were meant to learn in spite of me.

Mother and (Hopefully) Daughter Portrait

Here's Chicken Lickin's new arrival. She is still sitting on one more egg, due tomorrow by my calculations.

From the email bag:

Dear Chick-Ann:
Just curious... why take eggs from the other chickens for her to sit on?
A reader

Dear Reader:
Good question. The first part of this mystery is easily explained. Chicken Lickin' is single and has no man in her life. Despite that, she laid nine (unfertilized) eggs and sat on them. Bantams love to brood eggs.

Big chickens have been bred over the years to be non-broody. They've lost the instinct to hatch their own eggs. So, when we see that a bantam is wanting to be a mamma, we'll give her eggs from the big chickens to hatch. We took away the unfertile eggs and replaced them with the fertilized eggs. This chickie is a cross between an Arucauna and our Cochin rooster, Lester.

I'm Green...

...but not with envy. Only after a new neighbor and a friend came by to see Roxie the foal did my dear daughter tell me that both my hair and neck are green. Green as in spray paint. I spray painted the hay feeder today. Evidently, a bit of it is on me. I can hear them now on their way home, "Do you think she's sick or has she a (weird sort of) olive complexion?"

News of Chicken Lickin': One of the two eggs we gave her (from the big chickens) hatched! Wm was delighted to find the chickie when we went in to check on her. Perhaps another tomorrow?

Juno

If you knew or had known Juno, you would know why this drawing by Anna brought tears to my eyes. The scan doesn't even do it justice - it is nearly three dimensional. Her portrait hangs in our main room. Dh laughed that it looked like an ancestral portrait. Juno was certainly a one of a kind dog, and that is part of my reaction, but I am overjoyed at the talent Anna is developing.

Juno by Anna, copyright July 2007, Prismacolor pencils

Suntan Lotion

My dh claims that the spray suntan lotion is necessary for golfer, as ordinary suntan lotion leaves one's hands greasy. Unfortunately, his use of this luxury has influenced his children, who now prefer it to the generic lotion I buy in the five gallon buckets. I say unfortunately because it must be laced with gold dust, given the cost per ounce. Really, what is in that canister that they can charge $7 for 6 ounces? And we complain about gas prices. It's the suntan lotion manufacturers that are making a killing.

Rather, suntan lotion should be applied like sheep dip: you have a bit vat of it and you corral everyone and run them through it. When they emerge, they shake like an animal, and voilà! they are covered for pennies per usage. Predictably, my family is not in favor of this method, but I think it is an idea whose time has come.

The Simple Things in Life

When George arrived, he needed three things to be provided: a hat to protect his bald head from the sun, a pair of sunglasses to protect his light blue eyes, and headphones to protect my ears from hearing game shows blasting from his radio all day. He loved all three, and even wore his sunglasses to bed. When first he put them on, all of us exclaimed how cool he looked, and perhaps that made an impression on him.

The only request George had was to visit McDonalds. How hard could that be? William could play in the playplace. George could eat and listen to his radio game shows, and I could read Harry Potter. Sounded like a winner. If only I had known.

The first clue that things weren't going to be so easy was when Wm. was causing some disturbance in the backseat of our F150 truck at the same time George decided he could get in by himself. Getting into the truck for a short person such as George is a challenge in itself, but he must balance on the ball of his foot of his bad leg, for a short tendon keeps him from putting the heel down. Combined with limited flexibility, he lost his balance and WHOOF, down he went in a second. I screamed. He'd hit his head, but in the only spot where he would not have hurt one of the shunts in his head. No damage apparent but a small scrape on his knee and he immediately said he was okay. We got him into the truck.

On the way in to the restaurant, someone pointed out that he was bleeding. He'd scraped his elbow in the fall, and sure enough, was bleeding. We wiped it with a napkin and antiseptic goo I carry.

After, George walked up to the counter. "I'll have a Big Mac," he told the teen.
Stupidly, I repeated an earlier request, "You don't want chicken nuggets?"
"Yes, I'll have chicken nuggets, " he told the teen.
"Soooo, you don't want the Big Mac?" the teen was getting confused.
"Yes, I'll have a Big Mac." George, you see, wants whatever was offered last. We went with the Big Mac.

Shortly thereafter, we had our order and the teen was distracting me by asking me how far I was into reading my Harry Potter book and that he did not intend to read it (no explanation and I wasn't waiting for one). William was running off, and I called to George to come. With his headphones still on, he pulled away from the counter - where his flat small radio had been placed. SMASH onto the ground, batteries going everywhere. Old ladies stooped to help us pick them up.

Radio restored, we headed to fill our drinks at the drink station near the bathrooms. I'd gotten one drink filled before I realized that George was going to tables to introduce himself to other patrons. I gently guided him to a table to sit. About the same time, a large soft drink hit the floor behind me as William was trying to put a different lid on it, though WHY I don't know. I called a store employee over while George introduced himself a few more times.

By now, the entire establishment had their eyes on us as we made our way to the playplace to eat, George dragging his right foot behind in a his distinctive limp. We finally settled in at our table, and had no other major mishaps.

Such a simple thing, taking George out to eat, with the addition of watching a five year old and the confusion of a store full of people again made me realize the ease with which my day is normally negotiated. We jump into the truck, go up and down stairs easily. Such little things so easily forgotten.