Art: Jackson Pollock

Who was Jackson Pollock?
Make your own Jackson Pollock without the mess!

Science Lessons

Red (or White?) Oak Borer

(click here for cool info)

William declared this a smart spider.

She built her web by our front porch light,

where she catches lots of moths and other insects.

Trip to Louisville Stoneware

Clay in process

Watching a potter

Kilns are not fired up until they are full

Chose a bowl to decorate

Intense concentration

More Poly-Ticking

Sometimes, opinions are solicited about the budget crisis.  I wish I could say that it is about us, the people, or even about the budget.  Truthfully, I don't think it is about either.  Power plays and political moves have no one in mind but the narcissists who play the game.  Social Security checks and veterans be damned.  We've got to make sure which party looks bad to the American public.

In case you might think that such poly-ticking is confined to Washington, we have our own backyard brand of it right here in Podunk, Kentucky.  Although a local wildlife rescue and educational center is zoned agricultural and conservation, although the director cleared her plans with neighbors and zoning before moving into a subdivision, she is being cited for zoning and home owners association restrictions that the rescue organization says do not mention the rehabilitation of wildlife.  They think they are right and they aim to shut her down.  It is possible they know the right people to do so, and perhaps it all comes down to that. Not what makes this planet a better place and preserves a little more of our humanity, but who is right, dammit.

Days old baby squirrel

Who will we call when we find an injured or abandoned critter?  We can't legally keep it or rehab it.  Animal writhing on the street in pain?  Look the other way, for no one in the county will help. Tell your kids that.  Compassion for animals?  Out the window.  But let me tell you, I hope that the children who are NOT taught compassion for living things are the ones who change YOUR diaper and feed you, Mr. Zoning and Mr. Home Owners Association, when you are in the nursing home.

You see, how we treat the smallest of creatures helps us to learn to see the bigger picture.  My animals, they cost a lot to keep.  They take a lot of work.  But through our animals, my children have learned responsibility, compassion, perseverance, the pain of loss, both the need to let animals be true to their nature and loving yet letting go, of caring for those around us, of compromise.  All this so that when confronted with a bigger life changing event, they've already understood what this means on a smaller scale, have already learned they can deal with it and live through it.

This center, it can teach children how to understand the world and those that inhabit it.  The compassion for animals translates to compassion for humans.  If you think it doesn't, and you want to take that chance, well then, we'll see who's right in the end.

P.S.  I visited "Phyllis", the now named and recuperating groundhog.  She has finished her medication and is recovering nicely.  She declined to smile for the camera, and slept for most of my visit.  There are hopes for her eventual release.

The Car Game

While I am most certain there are girls that like fast and amazing cars (two of my bestest friends are among them), boys most certainly can be counted on to make the study of cars an academic subject.  I have had to learn the names, makes and models, cost (a Mustang costs well over $40,000), how fast they go, the merits of having a car that goes 150 mph when you can never drive that fast anyway....

When this age was reached, I was woefully unprepared as I was not a car aficionado.   I drive a beige mini-van, for goodness sakes.  Finding myself often in the car with young boys who like cars and ask a lot of questions, none of which I know the answer to or for that matter, care to, I had to come up with an entertaining diversion.  Hence, the birth of "the car game".

The car game has grown, changed rules, and sometimes varies with the participants or length of a trip.  You can adapt it, if you like, to your own whims.  Here are the basics:

As you drive, you may choose a car you see that you would like to be driving.  You are now driving this car.  You must call out the name of the car you see, and that you call it.  You may change your car a total of five times in an average trip (30 minutes).

Other participants, however, may "give" you another car, usually the most beat up, ugliest, or funniest car they see.  This car supersedes your previous car.   You now drive it until you find a car worth giving up one change of car.  Each participant may only twice give a car to each person.

New rule thanks to a recent development by friend "A":  the car must BE a car, have an engine, and actually run.  You may not give your mother a Port-O-Let, just because it is on wheels, nor a garbage can.  The car you give someone must not be broken down along side of the road, thereby stranding the other player there forever.  Granted this is funny, but is against the rules!

We have managed to have participants driving garbage trucks, a truck with corn oil shaped like an ear of corn, a truck hauling an airplane wing, and in a brilliant move, a Brinks truck.  Of course, the "prize" is finding a Viper, something I'd never even heard of a year or two ago.  I'd settle for anything under 100,000 miles!

I think I've found the perfect car for me, but I'm guessing that I'm unlikely to see it driving down the road, so I won't be able to call it.  All fantasy, of course.

One day, my lovely sister gave me a heart attack at 8 o'clock in the morning.  (She is not an early riser normally).

"Are you listening to this on NPR?" she asks.

I am wondering if there's been a terrorist attack, someone famous killed, the second coming of Christ.....  My heartbeat races.   "What?"

She tells me that on NPR right now they are talking about longevity, and goes on to repeat "a subset of motor vehicles is simply unstoppable".  I begin to breathe again.  Apparently, if a car lasts beyond a certain number of miles, it is just as likely to keep going.  Forever.  Terrific.  I'll be 80 years old and still driving Eugene the Van.  No Batmobile for me.  I thanked her for the heart attack.  I may not make eighty with phone calls like that.  The good news is that I'm easily recognized by my friends.  Not many drive a beige minivan from the late 90s. "There goes Eugene!" I imagine them saying.

Overheard:  "The more I read, the more I like it." - William

Note:  I know that I should have photos on my blog, but it seems that my batteries are jumping out of my camera and finding their way to TV controllers, xBox controllers and the like. "Not Me", my invisible Chinese son, is blamed when I ask who took my batteries?  I bought another pack today, and I'm hiding them in an undisclosed location.
Next blog:  Assembly Not Required

It is SO hot....

...that the plastic string in the weed eater was melting in the head of it, and breaking off.  I hadn't figured out what was happening until the rental guy told me two other people had had the same experience this morning.  The plastic was fusing inside the feeder, keeping it from feeding out when I "bumped" it.  Myself, I was so hot that water was running down my face and my safety glasses were fogging up.  And this was at 8 a.m.

You may wisely ask why on earth I was weed eating in this heat?  There was a stand of weeds at the end of our driveway, preventing drivers in cars to see any cars coming up a dip in the road before our driveway.  I envisioned someone hitting my girls or a visitor, and it was a safety issue.  Because I had rented it for the day, I used the weed eater to also clean up some other taller weeds.

Pleased with my efforts and it getting hot, I returned the weed eater to the rental company, exchanged pleasantries with the owner, and drove home.  It was then I saw the "mowing ahead" signs.  The county had chosen THIS day to mow along the road.  Had I waited ONE day, they would have mowed down those weeds and I would not have been out in the heat cussing red plastic string.  I did get other spots done, too, so I'll focus on that.  It's like cleaning out a closet.  You know, how after a large cleaning out, you have to go several times a day, stand in front of the closet and look at it?  Now, I have to go look out the window a few times a day at my tidy borders.

I filled out Lauren's gas chart, where she keeps track of gasoline she uses so that she can reimburse us.  "mom" I write out in the column for driver.  Purpose:  "weed" I abbreviate for weed eater, not all of it fitting in the box.  That doesn't look good, I erase and write smaller, "weed eater".  Never tried the stuff and not going to start now.

The heat takes its toll.  Our hen, Rosy, the oldest of our brood, died in the nest box last night, doing what she does best.  I hadn't noticed she was ailing yesterday, and feel badly about that.  She was still laying now and again.  I have a fan on the baby chicks and have let out everyone but one rooster.

I go mid-day to hose off the horses.  They don't appreciate it, of course, until they're back in their stalls in front of their fans.  I'm hoping for a big thunderstorm today to cool things off.

Groundhog News

First, "he" is a "she".  After I wrote my blog yesterday, I again contacted the animal rehabilitator who agreed to take the groundhog.  Finding out that it is illegal here to keep any sort of wildlife unless you are a certified rehabber, I drove it to her place 12 miles down the road.

What an experience!  You see, you never know where you'll be led to learn when you pick up a groundhog in the road.  This woman has a beautiful place on 14 acres, a barn that looks like a ski lodge and is nicer and bigger than my house, except it houses raccoons and opposums!  She was reluctant at first to take my groundhog because after building a new outdoor enclosure (all of hers are tasteful, painted and not at all a detraction to the property), a neighbor has seen fit to cause her legal trouble and they're trying to shut her down.  She's the only rehabber for mammals in our county, she regularly educates school kids about mammals, and is certified and all that.

She took extra time to tell William and me all about the playful baby raccoons and the sleeping baby opposums.  The opposums' mother was found drowned in a koi pond.  When a human pulled her out, the babies were still alive in her pouch!  Amazing.  It looks like a great deal of work to keep cages clean (raccoons are messy) and yet, it looks like a show place.  She told William about her pet skunk and explained de-scenting.

We transferred the groundhog to a large cage, and as the rehabber picked her up, the groundhog urinated with blood in it.   She thought the hindquarters did not look right, so I left with not much optimism for the outcome.

This morning I received this email:

I am so happy to report that the groundhog seems so much better today. Yesterday, she was given some IV fluids as well as a strong antibiotic injection which she'll continue for a few days. She seemed more alert and when she peed on me for the second time (ha!) the blood was much more diluted. I have high hopes of a full recovery. It actually brought tears to my eyes this morning that she ate as soon as I offered her some food. She picked out her favorites and is leaving the rest for later.  She is also receiving a pain killer and anti inflammatory. Thanks for saving her. I don't think she'd be here today if it weren't for you.


So, we learned a little, connected with someone I'd just read about in the newspapers, and now, I'll write to my magistrate to protest the trouble they are giving this woman who is doing work no one else will do on her own time.  Perhaps there was a reason for a groundhog to be in the road.

How Much Wood Would a Woodchuck Chuck....?

In my mind, I see my son traveling around in a golf cart with his grandpa on his farm, stopping to drop rocks down the woodchuck, aka groundhog or whistle pig, holes.  Groundhogs can be dangerous to farmers, creating large holes in pasture, not to mention crop damage.  Juxtaposed to that image is the one of the two groundhogs that live in our bank's backyard.  For years, my girls and I have paused to watch them after a bank trip, assured that it was now spring because the groundhogs were out.

My quick trip to Walmart this morning brought these memories forward.  I swerved to miss something in the road, as did the car in front of me, and in my rearview mirror, I saw an animal injured and trying to crawl to safety.  I didn't know if it was a dog or cat, but I couldn't leave it.  I turned around and got out, instructing William to stay put, which he did not, of course.  It was a groundhog, hit by a car and panting heavily.  I could not leave the poor thing to lay there in the heat on the asphalt, waiting for the car that didn't swerve.  

In my car, I had my Walmart reusable shopping bags, so I gingerly scooped it up in one.  A man walking with his three children stopped to look, all of us peering at it.  William worried about me, fearful I'd get bitten or attacked.  A valid fear, I told him.  I tied the handles and we got in the car.  What to do?  I pictured the thing recovering quickly, getting out of the bag and attacking!  But no, the bag moved only with his quick breaths.  I suggested we go to animal control to have it put down.   My child had other ideas.  Could I not at least try to find someone to help it?

I headed over to the Humane Society building, where I was surprised to find people there, today being a spay/neuter clinic - and they had no drugs to put it down.  I next visited our old vet, a kindly gentleman towering about 6'5".  He took the animal out and said although it seemed in shock and could have internal injuries, nothing was broken and it should recover.  It was a baby, only 6 - 8 weeks old.  He recommended returning it to the same general area and "letting nature take its course".  HE doesn't have to answer to a nine year old.

I called an animal rehabilitator, who currently cannot accept animals because her neighbor complained about her cages.  (I take note of this.)  She maybe can find me help if it makes it through the next few hours.  But I still have not made it to Walmart - and it is a very hot day.  Although William likes that our pool is green because it is like swimming in a Star Wars swamp, other mothers are not likely to be so delighted to have their kids in our green soup.  So, I grab ahold of the Walmart blue bag and walk in.  I only need one thing, right?  I stop at the garden cashier station.  

"This," I say, "is a groundhog.  It was injured.  I just have to get one thing and then take it home.  I don't want to open the bag."  Yet, I don't want to be accused of stealing and want her to see I am bringing something in.

She looks at me like I have three heads and leans back.  She says nothing, so I go on in.  The groundhog moves a bit and I hurry William along as he begs for swimming goggles.  Can't see in green water anyhow.

We get back to the car, and I drive home, abandoning other errands.  As I'm nearing home, the bag starts moving and I drive a little faster.  Ack!  I hope it doesn't recover and run screaming around my car.  Oh, the scream would be me.

Finally, I get the groundhog settled in a cage in my basement.  A little water by dropper and it sleeps.  Or, it's dying.  Either way, I've done all I could and it isn't dying in the heat on the road.   Check back to see if it makes it.  I'm sure this will be an interesting learning experience.

Overheard:

We received a shipment in Styrofoam.  William asks (the girls never asked this), "Can I destroy this?"

I say sure, but remember it makes little white balls everywhere, which YOU must clean up.  He pauses, "Nah, it isn't worth it."

Through the Looking Glass

Most people that recognize me say, "I didn't know you work here..." and I shrug, replying that I have two in college.  I work weekends, mixing paint at a do-it-yourself store.  I won't write about the company, or much about the people where I work, but only my own learning experiences or perhaps a story or two.

Having been at one time, a lifetime ago, trained as a chemical engineer and now, dare I say reduced to, wiping the floor of a can of paint a careless customer dropped, I think perhaps I've hit a new low.  I repeat to myself, "Jesus was just a carpenter" and other adages that enforce that all work done well is worthy work.  I tamp down my tendencies to want to improve how things are done, and try to focus on learning the trade and doing what is expected.  There is much to learn, both practical and if I chose to, educational.

I fear becoming the Mr. Nigel-Murray of the paint desk.  From the more experienced employees I've learned how to prepare and stain a deck, which product to use, the difference between this brand of paint and that, how to strip wood or waterproof a concrete wall.  But that usually isn't enough for me.  At home, I Google that xylene is chemically ortho-, meta- and para- dimethyl benzene and toluene is better named methlybenzene.  I call the rep for a driveway sealer and ask why the supreme contains only one polymer and why the lesser formula contains co-polymers.  Bits of my former education come back to me.  

My co-workers vary and several have come and gone already.  I've come to enjoy the ones that have endured, and found strengths in each.  I find myself on the other side now, no longer management, and it shines a new light on the world of work.  Looking out from the other side of the mirror is an interesting experience. 

As for customers, most are patient, kind, and appreciative.   And a small number....aren't.  Remaining positive, we won't discuss the few, but I will only say that everyone should work retail and go out into a lot of a store and gather carts (something we must do periodically if not helping customers).   It has made me much more patient myself with store clerks, and I always return my cart to a carrel.  

A story:

A young Japanese couple inquired about eco-friendly paint.  The man spoke only broken English, though his wife was a bit more fluent.  She glanced at their only girl child, three or four years old, in the bascart.  

The man asked, "What paint you have that is eco-friendly?"

I show them our 0% VOC paint.

"What VOC?"

A quick explanation of volatile organic compounds gets their heads bobbing in unison.  Yes, this is what they want, glancing again at their offspring. 

"How much?"

When I tell them it is $50 to $60 a gallon, the man responds, "What other paint you got?"

It seems that being environmentally conscious only goes so far.  

Segue:

It became apparent that someone was switching labels from economy paintbrushes to our eco-friendly bamboo-handled paintbrushes, thereby paying considerably less for the "green" version.  I pictured a poor hippy who can't afford to protect the earth, so he steals the eco-friendly brush.  No, I am told by the paint manager - it is a better made brush.  

Just When You Thought It Couldn't Get Worse.....It Gets Better

I told Anna I didn't think things could get any worse.  God took this as a challenge to teach me a lesson in the depth and possibilities in the word "worse".  Tired already from a long day out of town the night before, I was driving to Anna's college orientation, trying to save the cost of a night in a hotel by getting up before the roosters crow.  It had begun to rain and it was very dark, almost like night despite being 8 a.m. in the morning nearing the campus.

We'd left an hour extra to get to the campus, but we were behind schedule due to the weather combined with the roads we knew to take closed for construction, and our GPS "Mildred" telling us in her proper British voice that she'd lost satellite reception. Trusting Mildred, I'd brought no map. About this time, Ernest T's (our Ford F150) windshield wipers locked together in a solid X in the middle of the windshield as the torrent continued.  I pulled over, got out with the umbrella, and found the passenger wiper completely bent and resembling a T-Rex claw.  I pushed it back to starting position, and repositioned the driver's wiper.  Back inside, I tried turning them on.  The passenger wiper thankfully stayed put, but the driver wiper now wiped from mid-point to off the windshield all together!  I could still see if I sat up and looked over it.

We drove the streets back and forth, finally locating a bad map Anna had brought.  Intersections and roadways had standing water, a foot or two in places, making me wonder if I should drive through it.  I plowed on.  Then, Anna began laughing.  Driving through one rather large puddle, I had caused a wall of water to engulf a young man (with an umbrella) standing near the road.  So intent was I to look out of the little clear patch on the windshield, I had not seen him.  Anna and I began laughing hard enough that I had to pull over - and of course check the map again.

Finally locating the parking lot and building, it began to rain harder if that was possible.  Knowing she had to be there by 9 a.m. when placement tests began, we decided to brave it.  Our umbrella turned inside out and the spokes broke.  By the time we got inside, we were soaked, shivering and dripping.   Anna hurriedly changed, having brought clothes for an overnight visit.  I, on the other hand, sat soggily through a full day of lectures meant to reassure parents that we'd made the right choice by sending our child to this university that was going to take every cent we have and will make in the future.

Every time I saw Anna that day, she would begin to smile, not only to be at this place that calls to her and feels like home, but also remembering the Hawaii-5-O wave I sent cascading on the unsuspecting pedestrian.  I didn't mean it, honestly.  The weather finally cleared, she enjoyed her overnight visit, and the next day dawned beautiful and sunny.  I managed to sit on a veranda under the trees with a coffee and pretend I was in Europe.

I am once again faced with the anxieties of sending off a daughter to college, but that's another blog post entirely

Dust in the Wind

It has been awhile, I've been reminded.  Many changes have been swirling around in my life, and it just seemed time to let a whole lot go.  This blog was one of those things.  Then, a daughter mentioned something (I had forgotten) that was documented in the blog, and a friend mentioned that I hadn't written in awhile, and someone else, who I didn't even know cared, said it was too bad I wasn't writing because he thought I wrote well.  Mainly, my mind thinks of things to share with you and then they disappear into the air, lost like dust in the wind.   Someday, I'll be gone and with me, all that I was to all but a few.  I should continue.

Enough maudlin.  I have a story to tell you.  We have a cat, a barn cat that decided he lives with us.  He is mean and nasty, but I feed him in exchange for a dead mouse now and again.  My children evidently pay more attention to him than I do, for I was told that said cat had multiple ticks on his rear orifice.  Somehow, this is my problem.  I suppose the region is as far from the expensive Frontline treatment on the shoulders as the ticks can get.

Later, I was asked if I'd removed them.  Of course.  How?  I just headlocked him, grabbed ahold of the ticks and pulled.  Then washed my hands for about an hour.  They were "poly-ticks" I told them.  Multiple or poly-tics, sometimes spelled "politics".  People that remove them are called "poly-ticians" (alternate spelling politicians).    You can draw your own conclusions about the meaning of the location of the poly-ticks.

Speaking of politicians, I hear Anthony Weiner's wife's pregnant.  If this is true, I have a boy name suggestion:  Oscar.  You can guess the middle name, but everyone would be in love with him.  And I'd pronounce my name with a long "I" sound if this were my unfortunate last name.

Okay, enough off color jokes - but it is good to be back.

Got Milk?

Children's Museum - Indianapolis

We spent some time in the present, the past, and the future in one day.   In Indianapolis for a day, we had heard for many years that the Indianapolis Children's Museum was worth a visit.  What I hadn't taken into account, however, is that this is the almighty Spring Break week for much of the Midwest.  The museum was overrun, but we tried to be patient as it was our only opportunity to visit.  About half-way through the visit, we were informed that not only was it Spring Break, but that it also was the first Thursday of the month.  Which means...? That admission was FREE! from 4 p.m. - 8 p.m. (I'd already paid my admission fees) and they were expecting 6000 additional guests!  By 5 p.m., William and I decided we'd seen quite a bit, and headed upstream against a tide of new visitors.  I suppose my pre-visit information gathering was a bit lax this time.

William best liked the dinosaurs, which is where we spent the most time.  My favorite?

Despite my slight claustrophobia in crowds, I realized that my boy was growing up, that some of the displays were for kids much younger.  Still, he can be mesmerized and caught up in the joy of playing to learn.

I know it won't be much longer and he'll be all grown up.

Good Morning, Kentucky

No, I do not now have cows.  These bovines were in the pasture near a pet sitting job yesterday morning.  It was a beautiful, if windy, day.  Thunderstorms, wind, hail, rain, fire and brimstone is predicted for today, bringing a cold front.  Kentucky weather during spring can be remarkably unpredictable.

This past weekend, we counted that we were pet sitting for 36 animals at four locations!  Now that the weekend is past, I am down to 19 animals at two locations, one a barn full of cats.

Reading:  The Forever Queen (Historical fiction based on 11th century Queen Emma)

Kentucky Morning

Wordless Wednesday - Our Side Yard

At Wal-Mart

I'm not sure what possessed me, but my first thought was, "I could take her."  She wouldn't stand a chance against me.  I could grab her perfectly fluffed hair and throw her down as she passed down the pizza aisle.  There wasn't much to her.  That buff colored jacket had to be a size two, and the high heels beneath her khakis would unbalance her with a good shove.  I didn't see if her nails were long and red, matching her big red leather purse.  They could be to my disadvantage, but I could totally bring her down.

I suppose the fact that I was in jeans and my Walmart t-shirt, hair that had gone flat with the weather, my scratched (and need to be thrown away) Clark mules, and a lack of swing in my step (it was, after all in the late afternoon and time for my daily afternoon slump), well, the un-Christian thought just popped into my head.  The moment passed and I admitted I could do a little more to look a bit put together.  I don't, however, suppose I could fling a sack of horse feed over my shoulder in that get-up.

Perhaps I need a vacation.

On Chickens Falling from the Sky

It was a mystery as to how his corpse came to be in my front pasture as was the nature of his death.  It did not appear accidental, given that his head and neck were missing.  Three giant turkey buzzards circled what was left of him.

"Something's dead!" I announced.  Circling buzzards are a dead giveaway. Literally.

From the house, it looked like a white something.  I checked to make sure Louise was in the house.  Check.  Well, what about our one white hen?  I sent William out with his two girl cousins to investigate.  They returned with the verdict:  a murdered rooster.

If this were Louisiana, I would be worried.  As it was, how did a headless rooster come to roost in my yard?  My sister speculated that someone or something got tired carrying it home.  Using my best CSI skills, I found that the nature of the injuries indicated that he was likely killed by a racoon or hawk, both of whom rip the head from the body.  Perhaps, my sister continued, a hawk flying overhead dropped it?  Would that have not been a sight to see, a dead chicken falling from the sky?  I'd have to go in the house and light a candle and say a rosary or something.  Scary.

Of course, it fell to me to grab a trash bag and dispose of the poor thing.  I worried about which neighbor was missing his or her rooster?  Kristina?  Mr. Retired Wood Shop Teacher, or the guy down the road that also keeps turkeys?  Just today, I saw a house maybe 1/2 a mile that had a "Fresh Eggs" sign.  I need a neon sign out front so that I can change the message for passing motorists.  One day, "MISSING WHITE CAT" and the next, "FOUND:  DEAD WHITE ROOSTER".  At least the owner would know.

On Losing My Mind

I suppose I could blame it on my sister, Diane.  She started it on Friday night.  After her children's weekly piano lessons, she stayed the night at my house.  The following day was a piano recital in which William and her two girls would play.  We were to bring cupcakes for the reception.  She went the store to get last minute ingredients for her chocolate cheesecake creation, only to forget to add in vanilla and chocolate chips.  So, you see, she started it.

It must be a virus, for today, I made banana bread for our guests of this evening, "Doll and Pottie" (I told my daughter).  Daughter laughed, don't you mean Paul and Dottie?  Oh, yes.  And then I realized I'd forgotten to add sugar to the banana bread, making it taste slightly like stale bread instead.  I made another batch, which turned out better.

But last night, recital night, was the worst.   I sent William into the men's room to dress.  While he is in there, it hits me that I'd forgotten his tie!  Horrors!  He already was complaining about his new khakis, pleated and feeling different from other pants he owns.  I hold open the men's room door and avert my eyes, calling William out so that I can run to get my cell.  A quick phone call to the daddy driving separately caused him to stop and buy one, and arrive too late to give it to William now up on stage.  He played well, tie-less.  This is part of a plan to teach him not to trust me, rather to double check that he himself knows that we have all of his attire.

Tomorrow:  On Chickens Falling From the Sky

Overheard

I asked William to help his girl cousin, a year younger than he, to help her carry a toy barn full of molded plastic animals up from the basement.

Girl cousin:  It's heavy.
William:  Yeah, girls aren't really built for lifting heavy things.  Except maybe my mom; she lifts heavy things all the time."

Notes:
My sister is visiting.  We are watching her husband's name, Joe Thomas, on the leaderboard of the FLW Bass Tournament.  He's currently in 10th place.  The top twenty pros fish again tomorrow.  I am the editor of his blog, Surviving in the Reel World.

Signs of Spring

Dead Ash

Dh cut down a tree out front today.  I'm always sad to see a tree cut.  This one was dying and it needed to go, but still sad.  I find it interesting to visit places I've lived, only to find that the trees look different, bigger.  Out back, we have a tree that is well over one hundred years old, and I often think about how it has been here to see all the changes on our land for over a century.  But this one, this marker, won't be there.

William came running in with his net, asking me to identify insects found near the tree.  As best I can tell, they were box elder insects, which besides maple and box elder, like ash trees like this one.  It is likely we'll lose a few trees this year due to past drought.  (See the evergreen in the photo.)

TNR

We finished the TNR (trap/neuter/release) project today, releasing two female cats to the neighbor's barn.  The Humane Society operated on them, treated them for ear mites and fleas, gave them rabies and the combo shot, provided food, medication and even litter.  They notched their ears so we know they've been fixed.  Hopefully, they'll all recover from the infections.  Likely, they'll not get another shot, but at least they'll have this year.  In all, eight females were removed from the breeding cycle and four males.  Five, counting Jefferson.

The full moon tonight lights up the front yard and Louise-cat has escaped to outside.  We'll have to get her inside before we retire for the night.  I've never thought about it, but of all the cats we caught, not one was pure white.  You don't see many stray pure white cats around here - I'm sure that the color puts them at a disadvantage, especially in the moonlight.  She'll come in though, I think she learned her lesson.

Anna and I took an hour of our day to go to town and browse two new shops, one another art gallery.  Not as much quality as the other art gallery, but it is new so we'll check back later.  And, a new arts and crafts supply store!  Anna was happy to find they carried her favorite oil paint and she bought two new brushes.  It is pricier, but with the cost of gas, it is worth paying a little more to not have to run to nearby big city.

I try to buy local when I can.   I bought William's baseball cleats from a local mom and pop store for about the same or perhaps, a little more.  There's a vacant store in town and I don't want there to be another.

Check out the moon tonight!

Reading:  Cleopatra: A Life

Blind or Deaf?

Most evenings, you will find me in the moonlight, walking my horses one by one to the barn.  It's my favorite time of the evening, especially in the spring.  Stars twinkle overhead, horses nicker to hurry me, peepers call to one another, the cat twists at my feet.  I listen to the BBC on the radio as I shovel and carry water.  It is in the middle of the night there, and it gives me a non-American viewpoint.  Finally, I shut the doors as I hear the horses, finished with grain, start munching hay.

The sounds of my life.  And yet, were you to ask me if, God forbid, I had to choose between blindness and deafness, I would quickly answer I would rather be deaf.  Helen Keller is quoted as having said, "Deafness is a much worse misfortune. For it means the loss of the most vital stimulus - the sound of the voice that brings language, sets thoughts astir, and keeps us in the intellectual company of man."   She was both, so had a unique perspective, yet perhaps because she was both, she had adjusted to both, and so her answer was colored by her lifetime experiences.


I have been asking people about me for their reaction to this question.  The answers sometimes come quickly.  My daughter, Lauren, a classical pianist and extrovert, quickly said she would rather be blind.  She could not lose music and talking to others.   Anna, my artist and friendly introvert, just as quickly decided she could not be blind over deaf. She could live more independently as a deaf person and technology and sign language could make up some of the challenges.  My husband, asked while in the middle of watching a TV show (my bad), answered quickly "blind", but during a commercial, rushed in to tell me he changed his mind - he could still play golf if he was deaf. As I continued to discuss it with friends and family, it became apparent that the things that were likely to cause the most loss in that person's life determined the answer.  A young girl that loves singing would, having to chose, be blind. Someone who loves to read, deaf. 


Myself, as I walked the horses to the barn in the dark, I was thinking of the difficulty, but not impossibility of caring for my animals without sight.  Yet, I value being able to do for myself and others.  Losing sight means less independence and ability to care for others.  Hopefully, if ever I have to face either, I'll rise to meet the challenge, but God willing, I hope not to have  the opportunity.


The question begs, however, what is important to you in this world?  Which would you choose?

Exponential

We released ten of the twelve cats back to the barn yesterday. Transported in the live traps and covered with old sheets, they fit neatly into old Eugene (the van).  With two that died on the street in February, one (female) that got away, that makes fifteen cats at that barn not counting Jefferson and his sibling, who the owners claim were not part of his barn colony based on color.

Of the ten, six were female.  That fits well with the current math unit of how many baby kittens would have been born this summer had we not spayed them?  (We're multiplying by six.) 18? 24? 30?  Make it 24.  And then assuming 50% of those are female, the following year you'd have 12 new females plus the original six females for 18 females times another four kittens per cat which comes up to 72 new kittens.  Adding the original 12 + 24 the first summer and 72 the next, you find the barn will have 108 cats by the second summer.  Now, of course they don't all live:  many run off, die of starvation, killed by the large tom, die of the respiratory disease they all have.   Not a great life, is it?  And of course, this count doesn't include the two newly trapped cats in my garage awaiting their operation tomorrow, and given their size and color, they are likely female.  And of course, there is still that tortie out there - a proven breeder.

William was very helpful, carrying the traps both empty and full, but he declined to come help me feed the cats and show the owners how to medicate cats this morning:  the canned food, used to hide the medicine, makes him gag!

Getting to know the neighbor through this project was a bonus.  Where I live, we often wave to neighbors, but given the lack of density and wide age variation, it is often hard to connect.  I stood and talked to the man and his wife for an hour this morning, the first real conversation though we've lived two doors down for thirteen years.


Notes:  SUN!!!
Every day, I feel so tired I day dream of taking naps.  Recently, I started taking 2000 iu of Vitamin D, approved by a doctor, and it has made a tremendous difference.  So would a trip to the Virgin Islands.

TNR

The TNR (trap-neuter-release) project continues with all ten cats successfully making it out of surgery yesterday.   I hear, however, all are in terrible health, thin and with upper respiratory infections.  Two of the girls had bad uterine infections which (well, I'll spare you the graphic details).  One might have pneumonia.  They will have to be on antibiotics for the next two weeks.  Hopefully, the owner will step up and be willing to feed canned food with drugs (provided to him) to get these cats back to health so that my part in the project is complete.  It he is unwilling or unable, I guess my project continues for two more weeks.

Such projects on the surface seem to take a great deal of my time that we could have spent "schooling", one might think.   We learn more by doing.  William has accompanied me on this "hunting" trip, carrying cages, setting traps, and enjoying seeing the size and color of each one he caught.  And of course, there was the inevitable questions about why we were doing what we were doing, the surgical procedures for removing the reproductive organs, the differences between the males and females, what a mammal is versus birds and lizards that don't feed young from their body, how animals reproduce, including humans.  All precipitated by catching cats and so much more interesting and useful than the difference between a noun and a verb.

By Comparison

Last night, as I walked down from the barn in the quiet dark, I reflected on how very blessed my life has been.  Neither my husband, I, nor my children have ever had to experience hunger, a lack of water, a need for a place to stay.  We have wonderful friends, a beautiful place to live, bounty enough to share with animals just for companionship.  The events of the past week illustrate how fragile life and lifestyle can be, how all can be gone in a flash, washed away.  By comparison, my distress at a long, gray and colder than normal winter is a small thing.  Today, I looked at the gray skies and the misty, cold rain with new eyes:  it's not so bad.

The horses sheltered all day in the barn.  They don't understand that it is nasty outside, dancing in their stalls, hoping to go outside.  I let them out to roam the barn as I clean their stalls.  Etta is particularly nosy, dumping over the garbage can and trying to open a bag of poultry feed.  The minis, when they have their turn, roll in the aisle way, rubbing away shedding and itchy hair.

William and I looked for Jefferson.  Unable to locate him in the house, we figured he'd slipped outside perhaps, and now it was cold and raining.  Dh asked if we'd found him.  No, no sign.  "That's a bummer," he said.  Wait, I thought we weren't keeping him?  Did I really think he would be like that, he asked?

Perhaps Jefferson wanted to return to the feral colony?  It isn't there:  with the Humane Society, we trapped ten cats over two days in live traps.  The cats now rest at the clinic in town, having been spayed or neutered today.  I'll release them back to the neighbor's barn tomorrow where they'll resume their free-ranging existence.  But Jefferson?  No, he didn't leave but he had escaped outside and was very scared when I found him on the front porch.  I suppose he'll stay awhile.

Notes:
People of Japan, my prayers go out to you.

A Different Angle

What if children are here on earth, not to be taught, but are sent as a way of teaching us?

The photo above was taken at a Suzuki piano performance class, where parents and children are listening to a story about John Phillips Sousa.  How many of us would take the time to learn as much as we do without the motivation of teaching a child?  Ask most any involved elementary parent, homeschooled or not, and they will tell you the joy of seeing the world in a new light - through the eyes of their child or how they learned something that surely they must have covered in their own elementary years, but had forgotten.

Today, increasingly, it becomes easy to disengage, to allow the TV and computer and gaming systems to replace the real world experiences.  Perhaps we all need to remember to see the world with the eyes of a child.

To Crow or Not to Crow?

My husband's cousin writes about traveling to learn Kung Fu on a Chinese mountain top. Cloudia and her boat home survives a tsunami.  I write about....my chicken with a gender identity issue.  I have wondered about him (her?) since I heard his (her?) brother crow.  This particular chicken appears to be male:  he has a comb, and in Black Australorps, females do not.  He has wattles, tail feathers, he is larger than the female.

Notice, however, how pink his comb and wattles are.  His brother's are bright red.  Females often have smaller pink comb and wattles until they begin to lay eggs, when they will redden considerably.  Australorps seem to have a milder manner, not like other roosters which are aggressive even as chicks, puffing out their chests and flapping wings.

For awhile, he appeared to be sick, sitting down, back on his legs even to eat and unsteady on his feet.  Perhaps this has delayed his development?  He seems to have recovered from this.

Rooster on right, ? on left

Could it be possible, I wondered, for him to be androgynous?  I Googled it:  androgynous chicken.   I found nothing.  So, I tried "gay chicken", although he's done nothing to indicate that he prefers roosters over hens.

This is when I learned two lessons:   1. I am more naive about this world than I thought and there are things I don't really ever want to know, and 2. Innocent Googling can land you in some pretty awful places.  Little did I know that this was a game or terminology for a frat "game" (or depravity).  Were it not for the fact that my daughter thinks a good weekend is attending two piano recitals, a chamber music recital and watching old movies with friends, I would not be taking her back to college this weekend.  I erased my browser history of an innocent click, and used disinfectant on my keyboard.

Why do I care about the disposition of this chicken?  I have a home all ready to take him, but I want them to know what they're getting.  Is he sick?  Is he a she?  Is he neither?  It also is a curiosity.  I have heard of hens becoming rooster-like in the absence of a male, but will a rooster become hen-like in the presence of one?

For my local friends:  Tractor Supply has chicks this week!  Go look!

Rooster and his hen

Another chicken story from last year.

Academically Speaking

Anna is taking a physics course, and I have become her study partner.  I've had to dust off a few cobwebs (in my brain) and try to restart this old engine.  It has had a positive result:  I now have additional vocabulary to describe my life.

For example, I realize I have reached terminal velocity.  For those of you not (yet) studying physics, this means that my ability to accelerate or push back against the outside forces working on me has reached the maximum velocity.  I can go no faster.

Wanna lose weight?  Go to the top of a tall building, get in the elevator and push "down".  Instant weight loss.  Wanna lose mass?  That's another matter.

Did you know, that in the absence of air resistance that a piano shot out of a cannon will follow the same trajectory as a human shot out of a piano?  Do you know that my son's piano lessons at home sometimes make me want to try this?

Luckily, Anna is a good student and doesn't need my brain power (or lack of it) for most of the problems.

Notes:
Lauren's home!

I need sun.  NOW.

We officially have two roosters based on their looks alone.  Only one, however, has crowed.  The other acts like a hen.  Neither are chest-butting, aggressive chickens like previous roosters.  Perhaps it is the breed?  (Black Australorps)

Anyway

Many women of my age are now reaching their career peak.  If ever they were to be confident and powerful, it is now, at this age.  I run into them once in awhile:  the doctor, the owner of her own business, artist, professor.  I think, "I could have been that.  I'm smart;  I could have been somebody."  

Perhaps only lately, as changes fill my life, though William will still take quite a few more years of schooling, I wonder what I will be besides homeschool mom.   Hitting fifty makes one think also of all the paths not taken, the confirmations from the outside world that you are valued.  And yes, I realize that my family and friends value me.  I would, going back, not make different choices.  I only speak of that momentary feeling of needing to be important in the outside world.  Of knowing that for many paths that interest me, many lives I would have liked to have lived, it is too late.

At a visit to Indiana University, I looked at the small graveyard there.  All those people, forgotten stories, especially the women whose stones were dwarfed by their husbands' monuments and told only their names.

And then I read this:
                        
       "You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God;  
         It was never between you and them anyway."


It matters not what they think.  In the end, my life will not be measured by this world's yardstick.  Being remembered is not the goal.

Note:
The above quote is from the poem, Anyway, widely attributed to Mother Teresa, who did not, in fact, write it.  She may have edited it, adding the last line, but even that is not proven, and only that she had hung this poem up in Calcutta.  The original Paradoxical Commandments was written by Kent M Keith, a 19 year old Harvard student.

Adjustments

There was a time I would have been jealous.  As it is now, I tossed the magazine in my husband's lap.  "Have fun," I said.  He smiled.  The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition had arrived.

What sport they claim to illustrate we'll leave for someone else's blog.  I never had hope to look like one who could drape myself across its pages.  But there was a time that I was toned, that I felt strong and looked good.  I think I was fourteen.

Up until my fiftieth birthday, there was the niggling thought that if I only carved out a bit of time, I could once again have a flat tummy, arms without wings, legs that are toned.  And then, I overhear friends chatting about how they hurt themselves sleeping and I join in with the time....until I realize, "Damn, I'm fifty".  I'm not ever going to get back to my fourteen year old self.  I'm not ever going to turn heads again.

It can be quite freeing.  I need not be jealous, for those creatures are so far removed from my reality, that we are a different species.  Much as I might admire a beautiful horse, I have no hope of ever being one, nor would I want to.

Still, I look forward, adjusting my parameters.  

Photo:  at the Wonderlab, mirrors mix views of my face with William's.

There is HOPE

The "S" Word

Yes, yes, I know.  Not a word from me in weeks.  I can barely make it through the winter, and no blogs write themselves in my brain.  See, I don't write.  They write themselves.  And for some reason, "they" have been quiet.  Perhaps the winter killed them or they're in hibernation.  Today I had the first stirrings, so perhaps not all is lost.

We were in Bloomington these past two days, checking out Indiana University.  Seeking to find a diversion for William, who suffers the fate of being dragged along on college visits, we visited the Wonderlab Science Museum.  We had the pleasure of being there at the same time as two bus loads of first graders.  A cacophony of little voices greeted us, yet this was the only time we could be there so we persevered.  I'm glad we did, for we discovered many wonderful things, including a whirlpool generator that gave a "lab" to the History Channel program on whirlpools we'd watched the night before at the hotel.

What gave me greater joy, however, was the 45 minutes my son spent with an elderly woman and a snake. By now, the bus loads of kids had left.

With a snake draped about her neck, she talked about snakes, hissing cockroaches, and walking sticks.  They shared stories about snakes they've seen, and her dog that recently passed.

She sat at the saltwater aquarium, pointing out the camouflaged fish and shrimp.  

The snake helped show her humorous side and that this type of snake, a corn snake, was not to be feared.

They were enjoying themselves so much that her "quitting time" (she volunteers) came and went.  Suddenly, she looked at her watch.  Oh!  Past time for her to leave.

Why do I write about this?  So many times, I am asked how my child(ren) will be Socialized.  How will they know how to get along with others?  Mostly, what questioners really mean is how will they get along with kids their own ages?  But how many of today's 9 year olds sit and companionably spend nearly an hour with a stranger who is decades older in an even exchange?  (And, I might add, that I hope to be like this woman when I'm her age.)  Not that there aren't schooled children that do this - my nephew is one.  But not that we homeschoolers miss out.  We socialize and are socialized plenty.

Speaking Out

Sometimes, I'm amazed at the high quality of writing now available on the blogosphere.  On Blogher, you can read and read and read.  I have several blogs I follow daily that are amazing.  And yes, there is considerable drivel as well.  Yet, the events in Egypt makes one think - what if they turned off the Internet?  Used to now our freedom to speak to the world, what if we were silenced?  How could we tolerate censorship of what we read and write, as in China?  While the events in Egypt make me and the world nervous, I can only think that a few hundred years ago, our country was seeking self-government and freedom at any price.

I have enjoyed encouraging blogging among friends, if only by my poor blog's example that "if she can do it, I can only do better". I'm working now to set up my brother-in-law's, Joe Thomas's, blog.  He is writing it all, make no doubt, and is a very talented story teller.  A professional fisherman, TV show host, speaker, and producer of hunting videos, Joe has lots of stories which he'll share on his blog starting in March.  My job will be to receive the texts and photos by email and post them on his blog.  Fans can follow him on his tournament route and vicariously, learn what the life of a pro-angler is really like.

Notes:
One of the 5 month old chickens is sitting back on his?/her? legs today, wobbly when walking.  This one is the chicken which has both hen and rooster characteristics.  It could be a number of infections, but also could be nutrition.  Perhaps she is not eating enough of the balanced layer pellets and instead is relying on what she finds in the barn.  I may have to put her up in a cage.

Illness is in the air these days, though thankfully, our family has been healthy.  We were discussing news that studies show that individuals who live in too sterile or clean environments get sick more often.  "That explains it," someone in our family said, referring to our overall health.  Huh, I'm sure he/she is NOT referring to my housekeeping, as that would be a decidedly unhealthy thing to do.

Definitely Not Sugar and Spice

While cleaning out a closet, I found petri dishes and agar (a jelly like substance for culturing organisms).  They were left over from previous homeschooling days when the girls were younger.   William loves "experiments" which usually involves mixing all my kitchen chemicals, spices and condiments in a large container.  We've escaped noxious fumes and explosions so far.

By comparison, growing germs seems mild.  We left one of four dishes as a control and covered it.  We swabbed a toilet and rubbed this in one dish.  We tested the kitchen counter and refrigerator for another.  And lastly, William touched all over one with his bare hand.  His friend, visiting that day, also touched it.  After three days, we have some white fuzz and green spots growing only in the dish touched by the boys.  (Click on the photo if you dare.)  Nothing grows in the others, with the exception of the kitchen one which has one white spot which I think the boys touched when inspecting the dishes as it is near the edge and not in the tracks made by the swab.  So there you have it, my boy's hands are dirtier than a toilet.  Not surprised.  The good news is that my toilets and kitchen are fairly clean.  Perhaps the next class will cover hand washing techniques.

Notes:
Aunt Mary has started laying again.

Yesterday, I had to go buy a round bale, bring it home, and push it off the truck.  After, I had to get the tractor, put the hay fork on it, move the bale, put the ring around it, put the tractor back, shut all the gates.  This in addition to regular chores and buying grain, carrying the bags in.  It took nearly all morning.  The worst of it is that in pushing a round bale off the truck,  one gets hay in one's underwear which has to be one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world, second only to hay in the bra (from square bales).