I Once Was Lost....

...but now, my cell phone is found! I looked everywhere, remembered the last I saw it, and could only think that it fell out of my car at baseball practice - at a public park. I had scoured Eugene, looked in all the cracks, under the seat, even in the glove box where I would not have put it. No luck. This was serious, as maybe someone was at this moment using up all my minutes to call some foreign land. I imagine my bill ballooning to thousands of dollars. Aside from that, I felt naked without my phone.

I suspend my account, but not my search, and I check Eugene over and over, fruitlessly. Finally, yesterday, I looked once again under the driver's seat. No phone. A small canvas CD case was under the seat that used to belong to dh when he drove this van. Noticing it was unzipped, I looked inside - and there was my phone! Somehow, it had fallen under the seat, flipped backward, and slipped inside this pocket of the case.

I relayed my joy to dh (at work) by email. He amused me with this story about his dad, who was a dairy farmer:

I remember when my Dad was working on one of the big grain trucks when he was in his mid-forties. He used to keep his wallet in the top pocket of his bib-overalls and while bent over the hood the wallet fell out and lodged in the engine compartment. Of course he didn’t realize it at the time and only noticed his wallet was gone at the end of the day.

They found his wallet some 15 years later while they were rebuilding the engine..

Has something like this happened to you?

When I grow up....

....I want to be like Sister Rose Ann Fleming. At age 77:

"She rises at 4 a.m. for an hour of prayer and meditation. Then she usually spends an hour or more at the computer, often researching law cases that she takes on for Volunteer Lawyers for the Poor. (A law degree is one of several she holds, including Master’s degrees in English, business administration and theology, and a doctorate in education administration.) She exercises on an elliptical trainer, lifts weights and swims. Daily Mass is at 8. By 8:30, she is usually in her office, overseeing two other full-time advisers and two volunteers who help her track Xavier’s 271 athletes in 17 sports."

Better get working on those degrees though, I only have one. And of course, I'm all over the work out routine.

LOL

People who say their children don't fight are lying. Despite the obvious perfect family (cough) reputation we project, my sixteen year old girl sometimes gets into it with my eight year old son. He, of course, bristles under yet another person telling him what to do.

Like tonight, he was harassing Anna's cat, Louise. Not hurting, mind you, just following her around, and finally up the stairs. Anna asked him to leave her cat alone. He claimed to be doing nothing wrong. Back and forth. Mother is then unwillingly drawn in to determine the winner of this verbal spat.

William is asked to leave the cat alone, and to come down the steps. In my fairy tale, he says, "Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am. Can I take the trash out for you?" In reality, he says, "I'm not doing anything!" Get off the steps! "But I'm not doing anything." By now he's at the bottom of the steps. Come off the steps, no need to be there.

"But I have to go up the steps. [Pregnant pause.] I need to brush my teeth!"

At this point, all older house occupants bust out into a spontaneous LOL, totally embarrassing the son, who runs upstairs, presumably to brush his teeth. In reality, he for some reason finds his tooth brush to be a torture device invented by moms, even as his teeth turn green and grow fuzzy sweaters.

At any rate, it was a plausible reason to go up the steps with a cat, but perhaps not quite so believable.

A Sky with a View

I was over visiting Cloudia and her observations of the hawk in Hawaii. It put to mind the buzzards that I saw two days ago while riding my horse. They were spiraling above me, five of them, looking for the next meal. As Etta and I paused in our trotting around the arena, I noticed something. Each buzzard was at a different altitude, circling, circling slowly, looking. One was so very high, I wasn't sure if it was another buzzard or a smaller bird. But no, it was a buzzard. They flew, each one at a different level, to maximize the type of vision possible from varying heights. Perhaps the way-up-there buzzard could see far, far away, noticing something larger that needed inspection. The buzzard closest could see the smallest movement right below him, close up.

Would that humans would appreciate that we can all be at different places, see differently, yet appreciate that it collectively makes us as a community more successful at whatever we are seeking.

Notes:

What a long day yesterday! Supporting each child in their individual pursuits. All different, yet making us stronger together.

We had the most awesome (which my priest says means both "fearful" and "wonderful" at the same time) thunderstorm yesterday. It down poured hail! It passed us by rather suddenly, leaving behind bizarre piles of ice balls under the eaves of buildings.

Trying to "spring forward" but finding that my spring is sprung a bit.

Guilty by No Association

Fencing classes for William take place at our local community center. I was able to arrange for a coach to come to us homeschoolers from a nearby big city. Jason* works in the office there, scheduling the space in the building. In checking with him to add on another class time, he said he’d be happy to have our group.

“You watch your kids, and they are well behaved. Not all groups do that.” He went on to say that he had several home school groups that frequented the facility and that he found we were a much more diverse group than he’d previously thought. In what way, dare I ask?

Well, he had one group that always brought in their kids for PE in long pants, despite his preference that they wear shorts. “But I have that figured out,” he said. “Have you ever seen that show about the Duggars, that homeschool family with nineteen children?”

Well, no, I don’t watch that show, sorry. (Though I will admit I know who they are.)

“It’s all about modesty, I’m thinking. They don’t want their children to have their legs exposed.”

Do you THINK it might have something to do with the fact that (at the time this conversation took place) it is 2 freezing degrees outside and they don’t want to have to change all their kids' clothes for class and back again, when they can just wear sweat pants and be done with it? Goodness gracious, he’s learning about homeschoolers by watching Nineteen and Counting or whatever its called? Spare me.

In passing, I might note that most of the homeschooler moms in my area wear makeup and dress fashionably. Not a beehive hairdo in the group.

*Jason, though misguided, is a nice guy, and so I didn’t use his real name.

Art Appreciation Day

One day, when Anna was much younger, maybe nine years old, she showed her art to someone. Complimenting her, the adult (whose name is long forgotten) asked if she was going to be an artist when she grew up.

“I am already an artist,” she replied.

And you know? She was right. But often, we ask children what they are going to be when they grow up, neglecting to recognize the value of what they already are.

William reminded me of this when asking how I liked his most recent drawing. Would I frame it? He went on to imply that my framing of his artwork did not quite equal the oohs and ahs and subsequent expensive framing of Anna’s artwork. Would I make sure to frame his drawing? And I will not only frame it, I will share it with you.

Notes:

Lauren was academically admitted to her college of choice. Waiting on the Conservatory admission and scholarship/financial aid information. Waiting. Waiting.

My Cup Runneth Over (or perhaps it's upside down?)

It’s baseball season again. New coach, new kids, new parents to meet. Standing at the fence, “Which one is yours?” I’m asked.

“The one that is having a hard time adjusting to wearing a cup,” I answer.

“Oh, yes, I see him,“ the other mom says with instantaneous understanding. He’s easily identifiable, uncomfortable as he is. (And some day, he’ll so love that I wrote about this.)

Over the years, I’ve read articles about “your daughter’s first bra” and other milestones. Yet, this by far has been much more of an, uh, adjustment. This is the child who will wear only Wal-mart white socks with the green line, which must be carefully straightened over the toes. No buttons on his shirts. And gasp! The horror of turtlenecks! Tags must be cut out, and gloves are rejected because dirt or fuzz has settled in the end of the fingers. No elastic around the ankles. The fabric must not be itchy. And so on.

Sensory issues combined with the thought that everyone will KNOW he is wearing it, and it looks funny and how can he run and he “can’t believe I’m having to live with this”. Oh, the agony of being a boy. To have a mom that just doesn’t understand, who has NEVER had such an uncomfortable circumstance.

Like carrying an baby nine months. Yeah.

Update:
So I wrote this during baseball practice. Being a MOM, I'm not expected, indeed I think I'm not invited to participate in practices though I daresay, having grown up in Cincinnati during the days of the pinnacle of the Cincinnati Reds, I know a bit about baseball and still have a mean arm. Anyway, William gets back in the car, takes out his cup.

"Mom, does it go this way, or that way?" he asks, turning it clockwise.

"That way," I say. With the small end down.

"OH! So that's why it hurt!" he complains. "You put it in the wrong way!"

Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I only remember arguing with him that it wasn't optional. Perhaps I assumed that his discomfort was just his sensory issues. Perhaps, I didn't check. As in all cases, it is always the mom's fault. At least, next time, it will feel much more comfortable, which in retrospect, may have been a good strategy.

WILSON!!!! I'm sorry, Wilson!

The kitchen was thoroughly cleaned, and yet, passing by it, I would catch a whiff of something "off". It was not unlike the experience of opening the refrigerator door and knowing that someone had forgotten some broccoli in the dark, back corner.

We have an open floor plan, so I looked under the loveseat nearby. Nothing. I scrubbed the sink again and put baking soda in the drain. Not it. And then, I looked over at the canister that contained Wilson, our sourdough starter. I have been so very busy, I had it on my list to feed and tend to Wilson, but just couldn't get to him. And, by rights, Wilson should have been in the refrigerator.

Maybe it is Wilson, I think to myself. I opened the lid and inhaled deeply. Anna said my face resembled that of a baby that has been given a vaccine shot, in those five seconds when they are so shocked and hurt and mad with their mouths hanging open but no sound emits as they screw up enough energy to burst eardrums. Ahgggg! I have NEVER smelled ANYTHING, anything, and believe me, I have smelled some bad, bad things, that smelled as bad as Wilson. It was B-A-D.

Guilt set in. I have been so busy, I let Wilson die. How could I? Fortunately, unlike the Tom Hanks character of Castaway, I did split Wilson and put some in the refrigerator. All is not lost.

Notes:

I am going to have to get a bigger calendar. I can't everything into the 2" squares on the current one.

Today, it is cloudy, but no rain (that's tomorrow). Lauren said the sky is pouting.

Anna is painting the Ohio River. She has finished a beautiful painting I would love to share, but it isn't completely dry or cured. Any attempts to photograph it shows this, and you can't quite see the beauty of the real thing. So, you'll have to wait. Her "Sky Over July" was accepted into a local art show/contest, though they didn't know that she is only sixteen.

Sunshine, On My Shoulders, Makes Me Happy!

Have we turned the corner? Kentucky is so unpredictable. One day, it can be freezing. The next, warm enough to motivate us to go on a hike through the woods.

How it is possible to go on a trail that is in a loop, a circle, and go uphill the entire hike, I have not yet figured out, but we did it yesterday. Entirely uphill. Doesn't life feel like that sometimes? As the boys scampered ahead, I began to feel my age. But I made it. The sunshine was luxurious.

Sweet William worried over me. "Are you alright, Mom?" But of course I was, just a little slower than an eight year old!

Note to William from the weekend: If you don't want to take a shower, don't stand behind the manure spreader while daddy is spreading manure.

Radical

Years ago, being a homeschooler was radical. Oh, it wasn't illegal like it might have been only a decade or two before. I didn't have to go underground. But it was uncommon. I was considered bizarre, if not weird, by many. There would be those that would corner a homeschooler at a gathering, running across the room to pick my brain. But dh and I have actually experienced a sudden global cooling in the room when divulging our educational choices. In those years, you might hear, "You do what?" or "Is that legal?" I kind of enjoyed my radical persona.

As the years went by, homeschooling became a "movement", if you will, more and more people opting to teach at home. The responses began to change: "Oh, my grandma's neighbor's sister-inlaw's cousin homeschools six kids!" Still followed by, "I could never do that." Now, everyone knows someone who homeschools. No longer am I radical. (Though I believe they still think I'm a bid odd.)

This past week. I saw that we've evolved a bit in the questions I've been asked over the years. I have often been asked about the "S" word: socialization. Although usually, the asker hasn't enough sophistication to distinguish between socializing and socialization, the "S" word is often brandished as a reason to question homeschooling. Because that's the purpose of schools, after all. Isn't it? Or perhaps education might be a goal? I digress. It was a given, my inquisitor said, that there are ample opportunities for socialization of homeschoolers, but in discussing this with a friend of hers, they wondered how these homeschoolers will manage when they are thrown into a college setting.

Now, here I must tell you I was in a bit of a tiff already. Standing in line to get my auto tags renewed and with only fifteen minutes to spare, I didn't feel obligated to explain myself or engage in a philosophical debate with someone that clearly already had an opinion. I just wanted my dang tags. Yet, I had made the mistake of bringing along William, which brought the inevitable, "why aren't you in school?" and the discovery that we were those kind of people.

I tried, really I did, to control myself. I am usually very calm in response to these questions. But this was a new one. My neck feathers raised up a bit. "Well," I responded. "My daughters have already gone to college classes while still in high school. They did quite well." I should have stopped here, I know. I didn't, God forgive me. "And yes, they do have a problem socializing with many public school kids. Many they find too focused on peers, less mature."

Ah, a window was open, my turn. I would be saved from telling her about Lauren's community college class where the students didn't show up for study classes, texted or listened to iPods in class, didn't respect the teacher or participate in group projects. At the first study class, Lauren sat there with several older adult students, no kids her age. Perhaps I'm not radical anymore, but I am different. My kids are different because of it. I'm glad of that.

The Life of Louise

Somedays, it's hard enough to get time on my own computer,
but is is going to be impossible now that Louise has started blogging.

Because We Had To?

Four-year old Lauren (who is now eighteen) skipped beside me as I wondered if child protective services would be called. During a tour of the local public school, they showed us what they thought would be a selling point: a "castle" in the library. Someone had constructed a castle-like structure so that children could climb up, find a hidey-hole, and sit to quietly read.

No children were there during our tour, but Lauren happily climbed up the short ladder as I listened to the public school employees giving the tour. Gasp! I saw a flash of fanny! Lauren was wearing no underwear under her short dress. Oh, no! How did that happen? Bad mother of the year award! Did they notice? I shifted toddler Anna to another hip and decided it was time to make a hasty exit.

Lauren skipped out to the car again, clearly happy in this environment. She would thrive, no doubt, in a school environment, eager to please, smart. Yet, I thought of her independent spirit, that she could already read, and that it was a sunny day, a good day to go to the zoo and to feel the cool air on one's bottom (LOL).

We made our decision to homeschool not long after that day. I could almost truthfully answer the oft asked, "Why..?" with "Because we had to. You see, one day, Lauren....."

Lester The Third

There is just something primal about having a rooster go after you. It kicks in some caveman instincts and I find myself in a rage. I clean his crappy cage, I feed him, I give his hens choice garbage from the kitchen. Yet he comes after me.

I'm thinking he is in the February dumps, too, and being overly caged from the snow, he is aggressive. Who isn't? Still, I find myself flailing and kicking at him. I'd kill him in that moment. Then, I calm down as he plans his next leap at me. When he does, I grab his feet and he now is hanging upside down. "Whose your daddy now?" I ask him, holding him aloft so he can look at my mean expression. He reconsiders his position in my flock. For this moment. He never learns and will likely attack again. Time to find someone that wants chicken-n-dumplins a la Lester.

Notes:
I see my Google ad today is for free recipes. How appropriate. Do they include Chicken a la Lester?

Chicken Butt

Dh paused over the rice, held up the large serving spoon, and said, "You haven't used this spoon to scoop out a chicken butt or anything have you? It's clean, right?"

Lucky for him, I was laughing too much to be insulted, but I inquired as to why he would think that I'd use our only good large serving spoon on a chicken (and just how one "scoops out" a chicken butt).

"Well, you have cleaned chicken butts before, and we do have salad tongs in the bathroom, so it's not inconceivable that this spoon has been used for something other than food." (I've now ensured that I will never be invited to a potluck again nor will anyone ever accept invitations to eat at our house.) And no, I've never used it to scoop out chicken butts. Not yet, anyway.

On Music and Listening

Today, I have a guest blogger: my daughter, Lauren.

On Music and Listening

I came up with an interesting theory the other day, and I am curious to hear your thoughts.

My mother and I were driving home from another college audition, and she began to read Aaron Copland’s “What to Listen for in Music” out loud to me. As I was listening, I thought about how listening closely to someone reading is like listening to someone playing a piece of music, or even listening closely to your own playing.

People have often told me that I “have a good ear” or “listen well” in musical situations. I’ve always wondered what caused me to have such a good ear, and whether it is something innate or something I have been trained to be good at over time. As most of you know, I was brought up in my musical education using the Suzuki method, and there was never a moment in our home when music was not being heard or played. My mother, as a good Suzuki parent, always ensured that I listened to good music. But she also did something else; she read to me.

When my sister and I were little, my mother read to us all the time. We would pile on the couch and listen intently as we looked at the pictures in the books. Perhaps that focus, that intent listening might have helped my brain become better at listening, not only when listening to someone read a book out loud, but also when listening to music. Wouldn’t it be logical that you would be using the same part of your brain in both situations?

When listening to someone read out loud, you are essentially multi-tasking. You must listen to the words you hear at the present, comprehend them, remember what happened just before that, and anticipate what is happening next. If your mind wanders off, you lose the story line and you forget where you were going. Of course, you still hear the words, but they pass through one ear and out the other without a second thought. I think music may be virtually the same phenomenon.

It is in my opinion that good ear can certainly be acquired. In my case, I think it is simply something I’ve always done. (Listened, that is.) That part of my brain has always been exercised and stretched from the time I was born, which has allowed me to listen so well.

What do you think?

Looking for Sunshine

It was like a phantom limb. All day, I was putting on the emergency brake that wasn't there and trying to shift a car that has automatic transmission. Seeing a stop ahead, I pushed the clutch to the floor, only it wasn't the clutch, it was the brake, causing Anna to grab the "oh, crap" handle. I suppose it will only take a few days to adjust to driving ol' Eugene again.

There are signs of spring. Roxie the miniature horse tried to rub off her hide in the barn yesterday, a sure sign of shedding. Taking a comb, I was able to remove several pounds of hair from her backside. There is mud everywhere. And yet, looking out the window, snowflakes are peacefully floating to the ground. At least, it would be peaceful if eight year olds were calm and quiet in the morning.

Navigation

Would it be too much to expect a little feedback? A "jolly good" or "brilliant turn"? I would even accept negative comments such as "you bloody idiot, I said turn left". But Mildred remains silent, unless she is "recalculating". Mildred, being our borrowed GPS system during our travels this weekend to yet more college auditions for Lauren. Mildred, if you haven't noticed, is British.

Could they not make these systems a bit more entertaining? I mean, you're in the car for hours sometimes. Could Mildred not tell me a joke? Perhaps chide us for not trusting her and taking another route that makes me more confident? "What, you don't trust me?" I trusted her yesterday, taking a "short cut" that took me off the highway and onto state highways, twisting and turning, and turning again. In the dark. No, Mildred, you don't always know best. Still, Lauren punched buttons and fed back to me information such as our arrival time, and it did help when we mistakenly put in the address at the 500 block instead of the 5000 block. Mildred got us out of the inner city.

Sometimes, we would change Mildred into Lola. "Recalulando!" Now, in Googling this, I see that one can sometimes record voices and sayings into the GPS. One guy programmed Karen, his Australian guide to say "Oh dear! You have gone astray". Well, I have to return this to it's rightful owner when our travels are over, so perhaps I shouldn't fool with it. What a surprise it would be to my mother (Mildred's owner) when Mildred cusses her!

I did not take Eugene (our aging van) on the trip, fearing it would just be too much for him. Instead, we took dh's car "Rex" with a manual transmission. Now, I've owned sports cars before with a manual transmission, so I wasn't completely out of the water, but was not thrilled to run into Friday rush hour traffic in a larger city and negotiating around three accidents. The constant shifting was getting to me. Less than subtle, I nearly popped a wheelie one time, throwing Lauren into paroxysms of laughter.

In case you were wondering, my dear daughter is auditioning to become a piano performance major and is doing quite well, thank you. We've enjoyed traveling together, comparing the schools and our insights into what it would be like to attend there. Not allowed to watch the auditions nor having to take placement tests, I have confined my observations to the quality of their coffee and toilet paper and perhaps how I like the buildings. From college to college, they are so very different. More on that another day.

Notes
Happy, Happy Birthday to my Baby Boy! You have brought nothing but joy to us!

Being Catty

Many men claim to not like cats, but I've got your number. It's because of the litter box. Jack, a red tabby who is very old, cleared the room (so to speak) the other day. I was, of course, notified. Why not just take care of it? Well, "I never wanted cats in the first place!"

But it is not true of all men. The sweet cat to the left belongs to my father-in-law when he is not enjoying the sunshine of Florida. And in dh's defense, he showed his undying love for me by cleaning the cat box each time I was pregnant. Even though he didn't want cats.

Notes:

Last night, the black hen, Aunt Mary, got up off her nest of nine eggs and abandoned them. One was broken and showed no development. I've not candled the others yet to see if they were at least developing some. Was it too cold? Interestingly, it was 21 days exactly. Can she count?

Each morning, there are two starlings in the dog cage where we keep the white silkie rooster. We open the door, and in a panic, they escape. The chickens do not seem to mind their wild companions, even sharing the food bowl. I will have to do a major cleanup of the barn come spring, for the starlings leave behind a great mess.

Gender Issues

Lauren mused that her friends frequently named their musical instruments and that she should name our piano. Since it was made in Japan, I suggested Michiko, a common Japanese girl name.

"It's a boy," she said solemnly.

"A boy? How do you know?"

"It would just be too weird to be running my fingers up and down a girl."

Bird Leaves

Birds filled the ash tree outside our house as I sat having tea with a friend. They kept coming, more and more, filling the bare tree until it looked like fluffy leaves were growing on it in the dead of winter.

They were robins! What were robins doing here? Are they not spring birds? Is spring around the corner? Please God.

It turned out that the tree was the waiting area for your turn at the holly bush at the corner of the house. It was a boiling mass of birds, flapping and grabbing, eating the red berries. Soon, the bush was stripped and the birds left. I wonder where they are headed?

Notes:
Always have an extra heat lamp on hand for the chickens, so that when one burns out, you don't find yourself at Walmart at 9 PM.

Today or tomorrow is the day that the chicks will hatch, if they will

I am asked about the horses. We've been leaving them in. It is too cold (23F), wind blowing, and up to their knees, higher on Jorgen and the minis, and there is no point. They just stand at the round bale and eat anyway. We do let them romp in the paddock while we clean stalls. Maybe I'll get a video of that.

Chicken Tortilla Soup

As promised, here is dh's recipe for Chicken Tortilla Soup:

Soup ingredients:

1 onion chopped

1 Tbsp olive oil

3 cloves garlic, minced

1 Tbsp chili powder

1 tsp oregano

1 - 28 oz. can diced tomatoes

48 oz. chicken broth

1 - 16 oz. bag of frozen corn

1 - 4 oz. can chopped green chiles

1/4 cup chopped fresh cilantro (or equivalent dried)

2 boneless chicken breast halves, cooked and cut into bite size pieces.

1. In medium pot, saute onion and garlic in olive oil. Stir in spices, broth and tomatoes. Bring to boil, then simmer 10 minutes.

2. Add corn, chile peppers, and chicken. Simmer 10 more minutes.

Serve with tortilla chips, sliced avocado, sour cream, shredded Monterey Jack cheese, chopped green onions, and if you are snowed in like me, a giant margarita.

Someone Has Moved Me To Alaska Without My Permission

Snow Much

Lauren's Recital

Lauren plays "Les Adieux" (Beethoven) February 14, 2010

Matrimonily Correct

It wasn't that I was jealous or anthing. She wasn't that pretty, but she was thin, and the go-go boots (a term that firmly sets how old I am) were hot. Her plaid skirt was short, almost shorter than the red scarf that hung down from her neck. Had she been going to a PTA meeting, all the moms would have been snitting to each other behind their hands. But it wasn't a PTA meeting, and she was up on the altar, a communion minister.

"Did you see the woman at church?" I asked dh.

"Which woman?" he asked cautiously.

"The one with the boots," I answered descriptively. "And the skirt."

"Oh, that woman. yes." Of course, he knows to carefully pick his way around the eggshells strewn through this conversation - acknowledging that I am right- that she was inappropriately dressed to be on the altar - yet not admitting that her attire was at all, shall we say, intriguing. "I was thinking the same thing as you," he said. "Honestly."

My dh is so smart.

Notes:
It snows more. People: get a new joke. We all know the irony of the snowfall and global warming.

This week was most stressful, and at the same time, rewarding. It is the season of endings and beginnings. Lauren continues to audition at colleges, looking for her new life. Anna was recognized by nearby city's visual artist association as an "emerging artist". Recitals, family visits, field trip. All good.

A Sinking Feeling

You never know what you'll get out of a field trip, and what memories you will retain. I'll remember the doors closing on the elevator and the laughter as I warned our packed group of twenty-three, "Don't anyone fart." (That was for the benefit of the boys.) I realized that I missed scuba diving, a wistful feeling, something I've not done in years. The name "Major Archibald Butt", whose crew must have had to call him "Major Butt". I wondered if his son was "Harry".

Still, it is somber experience to see the artifacts of the Titanic and realize, that although it was just a plate or toothbrush, some person that lived and died on that boat had used it. Some placards talked about how children were separated from parents, put in another boat. How terrifying. And of course, the heart wrenching separation of husband and wife.

Speaking of separation, I found this in the barn. No body was found.

The starlings are back. One seems to have misplaced his leg. Each night, they gather in the barn or get up into the heat lamp of the chicken coop. Each morning, they fly out the barn door, or run stupidly into the rafters of the barn.

A glacier has formed on our metal barn roof and has begun to slowly move. Icicles hanging down have turned inward on the barn as a result of the weight of the snow. The snow threatens the barn with its sharp points.

Snowy afternoon

Snow Cold

Children nowadays don't get the opportunity to do as much meaningful work as their forefathers did: chopping wood, gathering eggs, naturally feeling an integral part of the success and survival of the family. It's good for a boy to carry wood.

I've taught a friend of mine a little too well that duct tape can be used in almost any situation. Knowing that we rarely get enough snow to warrant buying snow pants or snow boots, she didn't, thereby ensuring that we'd get loads of it. It's her fault that my property is now two feet under. Her boy, pictured above, loves, as boys do, to play in the snow. It is very cold and when the pants get wet, it is colder still. What to do? Buy snow pants? Of course, if she did, the snow would immediately disappear. Duct tape! She took a pair of old sweat pants and covered them with duct tape. Instant redneck, hillbilly snow pants! They worked great. I'm a bad influence.

Notes to self:

If the forecast is for lots of snow, buy hay and chicken feed BEFORE it snows.

Happy Birthday to dh. You'll never catch up to me, though! Love you!

Louise the Lettuce Thief

Yesterday, I heard a collective gasp from behind me. "SHE HAS THE NEW FACEBOOK!" my daughters protested. "No fair!"

Truthfully, I couldn't tell the difference until they pointed out that my many unanswered notices were now at the top or something. I don't pay attention anymore. Facebook changes its "look" more than apparently some women change their bras. (If you are that woman, I don't know you.) I usually only check it once a day, so I'm not sure how I rated this special treatment. Some people are just blessed that way.

Notes:
I've figured out how to fix my problem with scheduled posts !!! Yes! Now I more consistently blog.

Somehow, Aunt Mary (bantam hen) got locked out of the barn today, perhaps as early as noon. If so, the eggs may have gotten too cold. They're not due until Ash Wednesday. If they don't hatch we'll have to try again. Dh says Aunt Rita NEVER would have left the nest to eat. Fail! Lauren feels badly, but dh says no, it was Aunt Mary's fault.

As you saw in the video, Louise really likes lettuce. She steals it from the scraps for the chickens. I guess she needs more greens in her diet.

Expecting 3 -4 inches of snow tonight. Stupid groundhog.

In Which I Make a Total Fool of Myself

My hands shook a bit as I took the syringe and jabbed it into the breast of the chicken. I tried to depress the plunger, but couldn't get it to budge.

"Mom, I don't think you even got it through the skin," Lauren observed. Sure enough, it was just through the feathers and pushing on the skin. Chicken skin is tough.

I pinched the chest skin and carefully inserted the needle. The syringe held enough of a drug to sedate a 1200 pound horse, left from Bay's fatal colic. I never got to use it on him. Surely, if it would sedate a horse, it would euthanize a chicken. I needed to dispose of the drug safely, and I needed to put this chicken out of her misery. Using the drug, I could kill two birds with one stone. (Sorry, it was an unavoidable pun.)

I was, in fact, a little nervous using it, having heard about a man who almost lost a finger after accidentally injecting himself. But still, the syringe would not work. I pulled it out. Dang. The needle was bent. Plan B. Remove the needle and push the liquid down her throat.

Removing the needle, I pried open her beak, and the liquid leaked out (I never could get the plunger to move). I'm not sure how much the chicken got, but a couple of cc's went on my hand. As I washed my hand, I looked over at the chicken. Absolutely no effect. I decided to go down to the house to wash up better. While walking, I began to wonder to myself if I could in fact absorb some of the sedative myself through skin. And I began to panic.

At the house, I began to feel a bit weird, like one does shortly before passing out. What had I done? My hands tingled. We should go to the emergency room, I decided, just in case. My mouth was dry, my throat felt tight. My heart pounded. As we drove, I finally had the foresight to call the equine vet. He laughed. Laughed! He'd had this stuff on him many times, and as long as I had promptly washed it, I would be fine.

I told dh to pull over to the Stuff Mart and get me a bottle of water. While he went in, I practiced my old scuba diving techniques of calming myself and controlling my heart and breathing. I had just freaked myself out. I drank the water, and after taking two years off dh's life, I was okay. We turned around and went home.

Lauren and dh later reminded me that I had two Excedrin in my system to fight a terrible sinus headache, and I'd already told both it had made me a bit dizzy and shaky. My slight cold had made my throat sore all week. It wasn't the horse drug. Still, it was a stupid thing to do. Headlines: Woman dies trying to kill a chicken.

In case you are wondering about the poor chicken in my account of "poor me", she had septic peritonitis, I think. She hadn't layed in years, and wasn't egg bound. She smelled like death. By yesterday, her eyes were closed, and she was not eating, hardly moving, but surprisingly her head was alert. Hard to euthanize something that still seems aware. But I think she was in pain.

So, today, at the advice of my cousin-in-law, I bought a can of starter fluid (after showing my ID - cough). It's made of ether. I sprayed the whole can in a plastic container with a lid and put in my sad chicken. Internet sources said she'd be asleep three minutes later, dead in thirty. FIFTEEN minutes later, the chicken sat looking around when I peeked. Will nothing kill the chicken??? I carried the container down to the house to shorten my distance to checking on her, perhaps stirring up the ether, which tends to sink and perhaps wasn't reaching her beak. She started dozing. And now, she is at the big coop in the sky. May she rest in peace.

Cauna lived at least six, maybe seven years and delighted us with double yolked eggs now and again that were the biggest eggs I've ever seen in my life from a chicken, and I thank her for that.

Notes:
My studies on how to humanely kill a chicken also revealed that I was indeed responsible for a chickie death. The chickie had lopped off its toe somehow, and thinking to clean it, I sprayed first aid spray on it which contains benzocaine, lethal to chickens. I didn't know. Well, that also might be a way to dispatch a chicken.

It is Super Bowl Sunday. I am going to play Scrabble with the girls and if you want to know my favorite team, you'll first have to tell me who is playing.

A Hidden World

8 a.m. this morning

"Mom, did you know that there are more dust mites in a house than people on the whole planet?" William mused while we drove one day. (In my house, I believe it.) This comes from watching science shows on TV rather than Spongebob. "They eat nothing but skin cells. Do you think they get tired of eating only skin cells?"

Honestly, that is something I had never contemplated: the boring diet of the lowly dust mite.

"Perhaps," I ventured, "each person's skin has a different taste for variety. And maybe different places on the body have a different taste."

As soon as I said that, I knew I'd headed down the wrong cart path.
"Yeah, like smelly armpit skin! How about skin from corns on feet? Or, how about butt skin?" Okay, time to redirect the conversation as we discussed the color of mites, how many legs, why they have so many legs, if you could see them with the naked eye, how long they live.........

Notes:
Lauren's audition at a college was canceled yesterday. Snow. See photo.
Anna was hoping to go to art class today. See photo.

I finally made sour sourdough. The secret seems to be not to rush. It takes more than one day to let the starter work.

Note to self: when making Tortilla Soup, diced jalapenos are not the same thing as diced green chilis. HOT!

Through the Looking Glass

From the fish's perspective.

Lauren has been multi-tasking lately, preparing for college auditions, school work, and a multitude of other activities. I knew it had taken a toll when she asked me if I knew where the "pole huncher" was. (Hole puncher, in case you are also on overload.) Laughing at dinner, Anna said, "That just sounds wrong!" William picked up on our mirth and began talking, "It's like you hunch your pole. Get it?" He did not, and thought our mirth was a direct result of what he was saying, rather than the fact he had no idea how what he was saying sounded. He kept at it, moving the words around to see the comedic effect, all the while not understanding why we were laughing. Finally, we got control and told him to STOP!

This reminds me of hearing that recently, the girls watched the movie Aladdin with William. After, they told me how much they enjoyed seeing it now, realizing how much had gone over their heads when they had watched it as children.

Notes:
Lauren and I are supposed to go to a music school audition tomorrow. They are expecting, however, 8-12 inches of snow. I'm not quite used to driving under such conditions.

Here, it is raining. The sound of it on the tin roof of the barn is very comforting. The horses stay in, munch their hay and stay out of the cold. The chickens keep them company.

Ah, trip cancelled. I will read to William and enjoy the rain.

Change the World with Facebook

Thousands of teens are spending brain cells this week searching the bandwidths for photos of famous people who they resemble. I first heard it from my teens who said they were, I thought, looking for a doppelwanger. They fell down laughing. Not a doppelwanger, they said. A doppelganger. How was I to know? Do I speak German? Anna again had to fall to the ground when I mistakenly referred to one photo of "Keith Ledger". What? Oh, yeah, Heath. Do I spend my days memorizing celebrity names? No. Anyway, I feel like Snape, and some mornings, look like him, too. Not exactly a flattering profile photo.

Recently, the Facebook craze was posting your bra color. If only we could get all this thought and brain power directed to world peace or writing music or doing HOMEWORK! Okay, I've just lost all my young adult readers, so I'll let you go laugh at the old lady.

BTW, doppelwanger is a real word having something to do with wallets or something really dirty, which is what my daughters said it sounded like.

"Ain't No Thing But a Chicken Wing"

"The capstone on my grave will say I was downed by a slimy green turd," complained dh at dinner tonight. His complaint was the "presents" left by our free-ranged chickens who roost in the barn. The world is their toilet, and they often leave droppings on the concrete. All of us who do barn chores know the heart dropping feeling of our feet slipping out from under us, only to catch ourselves but wrenching our backs in the process. I guess you had to be there, but we all bonded with our mutual bad luck of nearly cracking our skulls, nearly killed by a chicken.

Perhaps I could solve this problem, I mused. Lester Rooster has turned mean. I mean, really mean. He hadn't been, up until the day he ran up Lauren's back as she bent to fill the food dish. Surprised her a bit. After that day, he began attacking everyone, meaning me and Lauren. Except for a little concern for my eyes, I'm not afraid of him. In fact, I'm pretty good at catching him by his legs as he leaps up. Hanging him by his legs, his hen came to attack me in his defense. SO, Lester has to go. I'm sure someone wants Chicken-n-Dumplin's for Sunday dinner (don't tell William).

If Lester goes, Simon Peter (Rooster) can have the coop with all the hens but the bantams, who can have the smaller chicken tractor. Voila! No attacks by the rooster, and no cracked skulls on the concrete.

I must also find a home for Judas, the silkie rooster who is supposed to be a silkie hen. Judas is too small to let out with the other chickens, and is lonely. How do we know? Lauren reports he thinks her black glove is a bantam hen, if you know what I mean. Time to find him a home. Or maybe he can have the black bantams I have as his girls, but no babies! I don't need more chickens!

Aunt Rita's sister, who I guess should be Aunt Mary (since my Aunt Rita's sister was Mary and this hen is my hen Aunt Rita's sister), is sitting on 9 full sized eggs for a friend of mine. One week down, two to go.

And Cauna hangs in there, a very old chicken with a swollen abdomen. My Internet search indicated that she could die any day, but found a reference to a hen who lived with this condition for 3 years! Please, no. Not much to do though. I guess in the wild, the 'possums would have taken care of her.

Epitaph for a chicken farmer:

Here he lies,
Now he's dead,
Slipped on a chicken turd
And cracked his head.

I guess I better do something about the chickens.

Wilson lives in a jar on my kitchen counter top. I have to remember to feed him (her?) every two weeks or so, but lately it has been daily as I try to discover the secret of the sour in sourdough. Wilson is my sourdough starter, named for the volleyball "friend" in the movie "Castaway" with Tom Hanks. (My girls named it.)

I'm up five extra pounds trying to capture the true sour taste. Although the starter works and produces marvelous loaves of bread, only one so far was actually sour enough for me and I'm not sure what I did that time.

My sister accused me of sending her anthrax through the mail, because when I ordered Wilson, who is free of charge for a self-addressed stamped envelope, I put an envelope in for her as well. I thought it would at least come with some explanation. Rather, it came with a baggie of white powder and a sticker with the website, prompting her phone call. She'd recognized my handwriting, so if I do indeed decide to send a less benign mailing, I'll have to cut the letters out of a magazine and paste them on the envelope.

Wilson has an impressive genealogy, tracing his roots back to the Oregon Trail. You can order free Wilson online to make your own starter. Yet, there doesn't seem to be much difference between him and the sourdough starter that I made myself last year from wild yeast in the air. I'll keep trying, but in the meantime, that sour smell in my house? It isn't from old dishrags. It's just Wilson.

Notes
That old hen is still alive. Amazing. She's looking pitiful though.
Lester the Rooster has turned mean. Anyone want him to eat?

New Math

Dh looked over William's math page from yesterday. It was about grouping single digits that combine to make 10 for quick addition. "Very interesting," he said. "I use this way of adding up my golf score." Good, I am at least teaching the boy something he can actually use later in life.

William bought with his allowance a kit to make a Star Wars ship. It snaps together and says that it is good for kids 8+. Both of William's engineer parents have looked at it and have shaken our heads. It's going to require a graduate degree.

We are expecting snow. On Tuesday, I had heard that by Thursday night, we would have NINE inches. A run was made on bread and milk at the grocery. By yesterday, we heard that it would be 1 - 3 inches starting this morning. This morning, 1 - 3 inches are expected to arrive after sundown. What delayed the weather? Did it find a better place to be? Get blown off course? No matter, I'm happy it got lost, although William is already lining up his sled. Myself, I'll be driving pretty much all day tomorrow. I'm hoping that the weather gets lost again.

Notes
Expecting the farrier this morning. The horses hooves do not grow much during the winter, so hopefully, this visit will hold them for awhile. It's expensive - $30 per horse, $20 per mini - but I do enjoy hearing how the horses hooves look, and the farrier generally has all the neighborhood news.

Notes of All Sorts

Cauna, our Americauna and oldest chicken, suddenly doesn't look too good. I think the very cold weather is difficult for the old ones. She has a heat lamp, but still.

Speaking of cold, I'd just about congratulated myself on surviving the worst of the cold, and it returned. It is 29 degrees F here today. Again, I put on layers upon layers. The horses are waiting at 5 p.m., asking to be let in already.

Even though it is cold, we've put nine eggs under our broody hen. They are to go to a friend who wants more chickens. The hen purred and gurgled, she was so pleased to be gifted with the eggs. How many will hatch?

February will be a busy season for us, as Lauren auditions at several colleges in preparation for going to college next fall for piano performance. My "brain worms" of classical piano music are alive and well.

Self-Portrait by Anna

Regional Gold Key Winner
Scholastic Art and Writing Competition
by Anna
Painted with a brayer roller

Fickle

(Left: Louise, Anna's cat)

We learn a lot about life through art and music. For example, Anna recently entered the regional Scholastic Art and Writing Contest. She was awarded a Gold Key and two Silver. Interestingly, the Gold was awarded to an edgy self-portrait painted with a small roller. The more realistic paintings, such as her painting of the horses, "Clouds Over July", got Silver. We've heard back that the judges of the paintings this year were looking for "edgy".

We've experienced this before. Her painting, "Temptation", a portrait of William got only third place in a small county art show with only four paintings in it. Yet, in the Kentucky State Fair, it was Supreme Grand Champion, first in the whole Commonwealth.

We have learned:

• Be true to yourself, paint (or live) the way you need to
• Be happy with your efforts if you've been true to yourself
  
• The opinions of others say more about them and what they seek than it does about you or your work
• Be humble, even if you win - it was that person's opinion that day
• If you didn't win today, you may win tomorrow
• The more you enter contests, the more likely it is that you will win one day. In other words, you can't win if you don't try

Why the cat photo? Well, judges are like cats. You just never know what they are thinking.
And if I've not said before, I am very proud of my daughters. They are passionate about who they want to be and how they want to live. A parent can't ask for more.

Notes:
I bought salad tongs. Just saying, in case you are over for dinner and I serve salad. The desecrated tongs are now on top of the bathroom cabinet for our next "event".

My spirits were lifting this weekend. My husband made a delicious dinner, I cleaned up my desk, the weather was mild, in the 50s. I allowed myself to be thinking winter was on the way out. It is snowing.

"One man's trash....."

William was in a very excited state this morning. "Look at what I found at the dump!" He pulled out a dull pocket knife with four implements.

Dump? I had sent him with his dad to the recycle center, not the dump. The idea is to dispose of trash, not pick up more trash to bring home. Well, it seems that someone had "recycled" a number of metal objects. A pipe wrench, a few tools, and oh, joy! Toenail and fingernail clippers! William had scooped those up, too. I recoiled. I'm going to start buying hydrogen peroxide by the case. I guess at the rate things like that are going down the toilet, it does help to have a few extra.

I am thinking he's about the Tom Sawyer or Dennis the Menace age with a pocketful of dead frogs, marbles, cool rocks and petrified insects. I have trained him to put those things in our "natural history museum", an old glass octagon shaped end table where we keep bird eggs, snake skins, dried lizards and such. I'm sure you have your own collection.

Notes:
Watched Star Trek last night, which explains how I came to have Vulcan children.

Live Long and Prosper

Marriage Insurance

My dh and I sometimes lament over our house purchase fifteen years ago. It's not that we don't enjoy where we live. We do. I shared with him that friends that visit always remark how much they like our house. But of course, they are only commenting on the surface view. We are aware of all the underlying problems. But, I told dh, I see this house as marriage insurance. In this economy, we could never sell it with all the things we'd need to fix, and we couldn't afford another residence should he decide to trade me in for two twenties (or is it twenty-fives, now?)

Ah, the problems, though. Our plumbing, we found out sometime after we moved in and signed all those forms with blood, is aged. Not only, it was plumbed with piping that is typically used in trailer parks. And, the septic system was limping along, as evidenced by a verdent green patch of grass at the bottom of the hill.

And there is the issue of the incredible foresight of the plumber who put the overflow for this system in the garage. For some unknown reason or perhaps because of our recent deep freeze for weeks, the pipes blew out a wad of toilet paper in the garage followed by a washing machine load of water. That seemed to fix the problem, and we've been eyeing the relief valve pipe with caution. What caused the back up then?

Today, while I was on the phone, my son came to me with one half of the toilet paper holder, the spring hanging out the end where the other half should be. Now, why he was touching it at all was a mystery, for as I've spelled out here before NO ONE, I say, NO ONE, ever takes that spring thing off and puts the toilet paper roll on the holder. Yet, here he'd removed it, and dropped the other half in the toilet bowl. The now full toilet bowl if you know what I mean.

I knew that I could not flush it, for it was needed and besides, I've not yet heard the end of the time I flushed the toenail clippers rather than retrieve them from a full toilet. (Do you see the pattern here?) So, I got our pair of salad tongs and William said, "I'll do it! I'll do it!" and he fished it out and threw it in the sink. Do you think if I hold them over an open flame it will fully sanitize the vision of him using them in the toilet? Will anyone ever eat salad at my house again?

I suppose we should start a sinking fund to replace the whole system. The black ooze on the other side of the lateral lines isn't Texas gold. Dh put black plastic over the area last summer. Looked like a Kentucky slip-n-slide. Gotta good barn though. Maybe we ought to move in there with the horses.

Notes:
A friend has emailed that she'd like to use our incubator bantam hen to hatch some eggs. She's bringing them over this weekend from her own hens that are aged two.

Mud. That sums up just about everything.

Why Johnny Can't Read

It's no secret that schooling is generally more geared to girls than boys. I think I've discovered the secret to fixing that. We need to design materials that are more interesting to boys. For example,
in the car recently, William asked a question that had never occurred to me, "Why do your fingers make a noise when you snap them?" Friction, slapping fingers, and other odd ideas lead to a broad discussion of the source of the noise of other bodily functions. You can imagine. Do I need to spell it out?

Early readers (books) are all sugar and spice. I think I could become a best selling children's book author by writing books which contain many references to bodily noises and emissions. Not convinced? The first word Lauren could read and write was "zoo". William's was "fart", which we find written in various and sundry places around the house. Case closed.

Humidity or Humility

At dinner one night this week, I mentioned that you can tell when the humidity is very low in the winter.
William and I had gone to McDonald's hat day for lunch because we had coupons for buy one Big
Mac, get one free. You know when the humidity is low when you try to open your mouth wide
enough to bite a Big Mac and your lips crack. Everyone started laughing a bit, but then the Mickey Mouse laughing started, you know the kind when you can't quit, and you start crying, and your little kids start asking, "Mom, what's wrong, are you okay?" What brought that on?

It started when dh threw in the comment, "like a cat's butt". I started laughing.

"When have you last kissed a cat's butt?" The image of that is what caused a
good deal of mirth around the table.

It seems I had forgotten the story (and he hadn't) about the mom who found that her son
had been using the Chapstick on the cat's butt because it was "chapped".

Notes:

I have a black bantam hen that has gone broody. I wonder if I can rent her out as an incubator?
I won't allow her to sit on eggs because I don't want any chicks. We could still have another
month or two of bad weather. I stole the one egg she had, and she now gives me dirty looks
when she sees me.

Thanks to all that commented on Anna's painting here and on Facebook. This painting
got a Silver regional Award this week from the Scholastic Art and Writing Contest.
The judges this year were looking more for "edgy", not realistic, but Anna had submitted
a self-portrait that was painted with a roller, rather than a brush. That one, that got a Gold.
With art, you never know what the judge is looking for. Myself, I want the painting back, but
it will be hanging in the show for a month along with the self-portrait and

another painting that got a silver as well.

The college application process continues with Lauren. Choosing music as a field of study
makes the whole process grueling, but we are starting to see some fruit. A letter yesterday
awarded her an academic scholarship to a school she's not yet even auditioned. Though it
isn't likely to be the school she will choose, it is good to see that things are moving in the
right direction.

PS There is something wrong with Blogger today. The text wrap isn't working, sorry
about the formatting.

Clouds Over July

Anna's most recently finished painting.
These are our neighbor's horses and field.

We are down to one computer again between me, Lauren, and William. Given that Lauren and William do schoolwork online, you know where that leaves me: staring at the screen of an old computer that works so slowly, I can see the liquid crystals arranging themselves on the screen. I'm going to send that one out to a friend to see if it can be revived.

It is finally warming here a little, a twenty degree difference! That still leaves us in the forties during the day. This melts the snow, which runs down our blacktopped driveway, and when the sun goes down, it freezes. Ask me how I know. Ask the egg that I was carrying. Oh, that's right, you can't since it is now broken.

Last night, Simon Peter the Rooster was all bloody on his head and neck. No apparent serious injuries were visible. I wondered if we'd had a varmit intruder, but everyone else appeared okay. Had he tried to get into Judas' cage (Silkie rooster)? No, Judas was okay. Before shutting up the big coop, I peeked inside and sure enough, Lester was a bit bloody, too, although he clearly won this one. Evidently, they were fighting through the wire cage. If it continues, Simon Peter won't crow three times.

Later today: I will post Anna's recently finished painting. We are going to try to get the image on note cards and sell them to raise money for Haiti.

Feline Hyperesthesia Syndrome

My cat is schizophrenic. Or, at least, he has the feline equivalent of it. A Google study yesterday turned up evidence that he most of the symptoms of feline hyperesthesia syndrome, for which there is no cure, only drug treatment or holistic care. He doesn't overgroom or self-mutilate, but has all the other symptoms.

We've long wondered about this cat, who would seek affection, rubbing against human or horse legs, only to turn and attack if the human (or horse) returned the affection, leaving the humans greatly confused. It progressed to unprovoked aggression, pissing him off by merely having the audacity to walk past him. Was he afraid?

Outside, he would be sitting by you and suddenly, madly dash off and run up a tree, run down, dash across the yard. I thought it was playfulness.

Petting was allowed on his head, but no one, NO ONE, was allowed to touch the back of this cat. He would hiss, and vocalize if you even looked like you were thinking about it. His recent back pain is symptomatic of this condition as well, it seems, as is the twitching skin near his tail. I found one expert online, a Dr. Dodson, that says anesthesia can be a trigger, which explains why this cat went from being very nice before neutering, to being a mean one after. The cat becomes hypersensitive also to being touched, particularly on the back.

The prognosis is not great, as it can continue to escalate to seizures. I guess I owe the neighbor a mental apology, for I'd blamed him and his son for poorly socializing the cat as a kitten. Yet, it seems that the cat has a progressive neurological disease. And, it's easier to forgive the cat for his behavior when I know he can't help it.

On Being Old

Photo left: Using Rigid Wrap, the girls make a "death mask" on me. It comes off in one piece minutes later. I'll explain it's relevance in a moment.

Over dinner, our family discussed one of the choices of essay questions that Anna could have chosen (but didn't) for a summer program she hopes to attend: What one person - modern or from another era - would you choose to travel with you on a cross-country road trip.

We discussed that these type of questions are often designed to test your creativity. The answers of most people are quite predictable and Jesus wins most every poll. He would be my first choice as well, as not only do I have many questions, I assume he'd make sure we'd have a safe trip and I'd become a better person. But then, nine out of ten people are going to pick him, and just for discussion sake, we moved on to who next? Again, typical answers are Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci, and so on.

Having just watched Groundhog Day again, I though Bill Murray would be fun, but maybe get us in trouble. George Clooney would be pleasing on the eye and seems to have a sense of humor. A few Googling phrases hit on John Travolta. He is a pilot, has his own jet, a sense of humor, and money. Could be fun. No, Anna said, "his time has passed". I could hear the air hissing out of my tires. He can't be much older than me. Okay, he's about six years older, not much. Is my time is passed? Well, I certainly do have days when I think time is running out.

At least my facial features are preserved now. (See photo.) Who would you like to cross the country with?

Notes:
My kids are calling me. Not as in "hey Mom where are you" but as in "I call Mom at 8 o'clock tonight". My time may have passed but I am still in great demand.

Williamisms: Mom, do you think I could be a dentist when I grow up?
Me: Certainly.
Wm: But I'm not going to talk like my [pediatric] dentist.
Me: What do you mean?
Wm: Well, she said (uses syrupy, sing-song voice) "Okay, now I'm going to give your tooth a little huggggg" and then (now changes to aggressive voice) she grabs my tooth and twists it HARD and yanked it out. I didn't know what she meant.

Hugs and Kisses

Roxie is the black mini and Chiron (aka "Chi")
is the one trying to give you a kiss on this chilly FREEZING!!! morning.

Which got me to thinking about "F" words. The other day, my husband asked if I had a book for him to read. I gave him the Time Traveler's Wife, which had already been read by my two teenage daughters before I got to it. I was telling him I was somewhat aghast at the amount of sex in the book, and the use of the "F" word not knowing William was listening in. BIG, big mistake. He spent the rest of the evening following me around asking what the F word is and why I won't tell him what it is.

I have Googled "It's colder than...." sayings but thought you'd like to add your own. Be clean - it's Sunday.

Cool! Today is 01/10/10.

The Birds

With days, weeks of subfreezing temperatures, the birds have become desperate. Yesterday, crows the size of my bantam hens were trying somehow to eat out of the bird feeder. I have been trying to video the large flock of European starlings that are getting in the chicken coop, but Daisy has learned that if she runs outside to the coop, it bursts suddenly with a flurry of feathers and this is enormously satisfying to a beagle-labrador mix. I had to sneak outside without her to get this video, which doesn't even show the large flock that flew off as they saw me walking up the driveway:

Note to Kim: I'm betting you won't be coming over to stick your head in the coop!
Tomorrow, a video of the miniature horses enjoying the snow.

Notes:
Lazarus has been found and by my count, has used three of his nine lives. He was laying in the garage, which has a cat door and is always open for him to use. I brought him inside, but he is moving very slowly and carefully. We can determine no injury, and he can walk, eat and use the litter box, but is obviously tender on his back. I had suspected frostbite, but his pads are all pink and don't seem tender. We will baby him a few days. I'm always slower to take this half-feral cat to the vet, as it traumatizes him so greatly and he goes completely, hissing feral. I will see how he is doing by Monday.

William has somehow gotten the idea that he'd like a parakeet or some other bird to have as a pet. He wants a bird to hold. I told him he had a whole yard full of them - chickens. Go hold a chicken, I tell him. Evidently, that's not the same thing but I'm holding my ground on this one. So William's now adopted the stupid red cardinal that yes, is still butting it's head against a bedroom window. We've taped the outline of a hawk there, but it is too stupid to take the hint.

Stay warm! Looking forward to a twenty degree change by Wednesday! A heat wave in the 40s!

Woe is My Piano

Lauren had a joke this past week: What do you call a musician without a significant other? (Answer: homeless.) This week, the joke is on her: What do you call a pianist without a piano?

Shortly before Christmas, I received a present: news that our grand piano was so heavy in the action, it threatened Lauren's very wrist ligaments. Two musicians tried it. Yes, it was serious. A piano emergency. I tried to understand how this happened so quickly. We'd had it tuned only two weeks before. The weather? Age? I could not understand. Yet, as a non-musician, I had no recourse and we called our tuner.

He brought a tray of copper weights and gasped as he set them on the keys. He could fix it, but the friction had built up so much, he was going to have to take it with him. Luckily, that meant just the keyboard, which comes out. A week he said and $300. I had expected the $300 but a week! Lauren plays daily for hours in preparation for her auditions in February at several colleges. The timing could not be worse, though we have been generously offered piano time at both a dear friend's house and at her piano instructor's house.

And then it snowed......and snowed. So I drove.....and drove. Pet sitting, piano. pet sitting. It is very pretty. The semi on the highway gave my heart a bit of a flutter but....

We got several inches of snow and a possibility for more tomorrow. William tested it: good for sledding, not good for snowmen. Of course, just plain sliding with friends is not enough. You have to get "air" as a friend put it. William is in the orange cap.

Notes:

I've not seen Lazarus (red tabby cat) since it started snowing. While he's a mean cuss, I don't wish him dead. More proof that he's cheating on us with another family.

My sister gave me a silkie chicken egg, which hatched out Judas (so named because he betrayed me by being a rooster). She says she doesn't take returns. Not only that, she offered me a silkie hen to keep him company. I started considering, could I manage? That might be nice. And then she told me that the hen was named "Precious". She was fine, her top and bottom beak just didn't quite line up. That's what I need - a chicken who needs orthodontia. Here I thought she was bein' nice.

Back to Work

After taking a break from my computer, somewhat induced by my computers (3 of them!) taking a break from me by breaking, it is difficult to know where to start. We have replaced one laptop, given the desktop a quick funeral, and repaired one laptop. To give you an idea of the age of the desktop, it came loaded with Windows Millennium.

Snow is falling outside gently onto ground already frozen by weeks of temperatures below freezing. Our high each day doesn't break 30 F. I have learned to dress in many layers and that in doing so, you can actually get hot while shoveling manure and carrying hay. With the reduced daylight, it seems that I no sooner put the horses out and do stalls, then it is time to go out and reverse the process. The horses stand at the gate wondering what is taking me so long.

I feel sorry for the chickens, who must go outside in their bare feet. I wonder if they make little booties for chickens? They stand, holding one foot up, then the other, fluffing all their feathers trying to warm themselves. Mostly, they get back in their coop to roost under their heat lamp. Small wild birds have discovered their free-choice food and heated water bowl, and the chickens do not seem to mind their company. The wild birds, however, have found they can go in the side of the coop where the heat lamp sits and warm themselves. This is puts them directly over the chickens, however, who emerge each day coated in bird crap. They don't seem to notice.

The winter snow advisory told us to expect 3 to 5 inches of snow. In Kentucky, that causes a great deal of excitement and could, if it happens, shut down the city. Our county schools are indeed already closed and there is less than an inch out there now. At Wal-Mart yesterday, there was more joviality than I observed before Christmas. People were laying in a store of frozen pizza, soda pop, milk and donuts and so on; you know, the necessities. In case they might have a week off to watch TV and eat. Kids were excited for a snow day, because they had been back to school all of two days.

The weather has not had a good effect on my own appearance. Putting on stocking caps and having the frigid wind at my face, I look in the mirror and see Snape looking back at me. I am looking forward to spring.

Mr. Fox

Saturday night, we thought we'd take in a movie as a family. Without consulting William, we decided to go see Mr. Fox. It had gotten good reviews and was suitable for all ages. It was animated, but nowadays, some animated films are amazing.

William complained. He did NOT want to see Mr. Fox. Why did we have to see that? He wanted to have a say blah blah yada yada..... Being adults and having the money and keys to the car, we used our advantage. EITHER - you come with us to Mr. Fox OR you don't see a movie. We were offering a free movie to him and we had heard he would surely like the movie.

About half-way through the movie, he asked what time it was. I was right there with him, and vowed to include him in all future movie choices.

Notes:
Had a very nice horse ride on Saturday with dh. He tried the new horse, which we are keeping for my sister. His name is Okie, and we are in the position for the first time of having a horse that knows more than we do. He's had a lot of training. But all of our riding has more or less been English - and he is a neck-reining Western horse. New things to learn!

Last night, I went to turn out the barn lights, and after shutting the doors, paused. It was a bit cloudy, obscuring the meteor shower. But I listened. So quiet. Then, I could hear the highway two miles from us. I wish I could hear what it might have sounded like to live here before cars and planes. I tried to imagine. I heard a dog bark. Maybe animal sounds? Would too much quiet bother me? I became aware that my ears were ringing a bit in the quiet, likely reverberating still from constant sound. I think our world has lost something in not occasionally having complete silence.