don't forget the horse

loose change

2011-11-15T13:10:00.001-04:00

Things didn't work out this fall like I had planned. Seems when talking about the farm they never do.

The turkeys didn't grow as well as planned. Growth was stunted by illness that went undetected.

The barn where the cattle stayed last year, may be sold, but he isnt' sure, and isn't sure if I'd be evicted if it was. Plus the power bill was more money than he thought and I'd have to spend double to triple what I did last winter to keep them there. So they can't stay. I have to send them to my mom's farm. Which means the horse has to go too. Which means my heart will break and I'll cry when the trailer rattles out of my driveway and I hear his thumping hooves and feel his nervous panicked energy (he doesn't travel well). I know where he's going, I'll know he's coming back, but he doesn't. I'll miss him. I'll miss all of them.

The pastures will be empty...

It panics me a bit, you know. To not have everything work out just right. I plan and plan and plan some more. Then something completely different happens anyway. My rational mind knows it's not a big deal. That any way that it works out is the right way, but another part of me disagrees. It stresses and hurries to right it, when there is nothing to right. When it can't be. When all that is required is patience and trying again next year. I worry that the animals aren't happy, that their feet are too wet, that they're too much of a burden on my husband, that I should be able to take care of things all by myself. What if I can't? That I'm doing this farming thing wrong.

Then a 35 year old lady dies suddenly after finally conceiving a child, and a seven year old girl sees through the door to the next life and teases us with the answer to all our questions. The answers we realize we forgot we had when we were seven. But it's too late, so we sit grieving and mesmerized by our kids and all that we forgot we knew.

I sit at the office working and pretending to be working and trying to make a difference of some kind. Although I have no idea in what way that could be. I'm busy but I don't know with what. I'm on the road and away working. Running. Convincing myself that what I do is important. Others are at home baking cookies and making jelly and harvesting the gardens and raising their children. Because you only get one chance to raise your kids. I panic again and worry that I'm doing this family thing all wrong.

Some days feel like I'm picked up by my ankles and all the change is shook loose from my pockets. Before I can collect it, I look at it lying on the ground and wonder if any of it matters. The small things that I give such weight. When there are so many bigger things.

I want to go home and hug my kids and pat my horse and smell the earth and give my soul to my husband and show him I still cherish his. Leaving all the rest on the ground. Never picking it up again.

But I can't. None of us can.

Project 52

2011-09-11T15:23:00.001-03:00

I've started on a new photographic project. Instead of doing the project 365 again, I've decided to try a project 52. So instead of a picture per day, I'll be picking my best shot of the week.

I am very glad I did the project 365 first because that forced me to learn how to see with my camera and create something even when it required effort. Which it did some days. The result was pictures that are some of my favorite pictures I've ever taken, that I wouldn't have if it were for the project, and pictures that are just awful. The project 52 is my way of trying to improve quality. I will have the entire week to get my best shot. Already, I left my photo taking until the last 3 days of the week, which will have to change if I hope to meet my goal of reducing crap shots, but the learning curve in these projects is more of a habit forming curve than anything, I think.

The project 365 had prompts which I did not (or rarely) followed. This was part laziness, part not paying attention to what the prompt was and part shooting what I felt comfortable. It was hard enough to get a good picture per day let alone trying to find something specific. This time however, I am going to follow the prompts. I have all week to find something I like. Unless of course I keep leaving it until the weekend.

I am not in this alone. It's more fun with friends after all. If you'd like to follow along and see all of the entries from the group visit here. I'll be adding mine to the group as well, but if you'd like to see my collection visit my Project 52 group.

Each week will be either a camera prompt or a subject prompt. This week (Sept 5 -11) was depth of field: deep. Next week is dining out. I guess that means I get to dine out. I like this project already!

Week 1:

Some things never change

2011-08-30T20:55:00.002-03:00

You all know this guy, Hobbes.

We were hanging out on the deck this evening enjoying the cool air and sunset. Spending quality time together. He's getting up there you know. He's 12. He'll be 13 in May. He's starting to change in his old age. He's becoming more loving.

Ah, who am I kidding? He may be getting old but he hasn't changed a bit. The only reason he was hanging out with me was because he was waiting for me to go inside and feed him.

Then he noticed I was taking forever because I was taking his picture. So he did this. Yes, this is the very next picture.

I have to hand it to him. He knows how to get what he wants.

Bulls and cows.

2011-08-29T14:49:00.000-03:00

Owen is in the field with me helping me or at least hanging out with me while I feed and water the cows and chickens.

He walks over to the cows to offer a pat. Smokey comes looking for a crab apple treat, but getting nothing, turns her attention back to the grass. The bull comes wandering his way so I ask him to step back on the other side of the electric fence. (The bull has never been or shown any signs of being mean, but he's still a bull, and you never trust a bull 100%. Plus I think the heifer was in heat.)

Me: Owen, why don't you come back to this side of the fence. The bull is coming over.

Owen, looking at our cow Royalty: Is that the bull?

Me: No, she's a cow. That's Royalty. (Pointing to the bull) That's the bull.

Owen: I thought they were both cows.

Me: Nope. Royalty is a cow and you can tell because she has an udder. See, where the milk comes from?

Owen: Yeah, but that one has one too. (Pointing to the bull again)

Me: No, that's not an udder, those are his testicles. They're different. Only boys have those. Even you.

I leave Owen to run this information over in his head. I wonder if he's wondering if his "fellas" will grow as large as the bull's. I wonder if I'm going to have to answer more difficult questions. I wonder where his dad is. But Owen moves on to wonder about something else. What would I do without livestock to explain these things?

Swallowing ego and playing our part. Or not.

2011-08-15T11:41:00.000-03:00

When people ask I tell them I grew up on a traditional family farm. There were roles for the women and roles for the men. I knew the roles existed. I knew the traditional expectation too. So did my mom.

My mom taught me two lessons though. The first, how to fulfill the role of the wife and mother. The second, that we don't always have to.

As a little girl I was taught that if the men are out working it is our job to make sure they have food to eat when they come in for lunch or supper. That our job is to make sure they have everything they need to do their job. Some people would likely view this as sexist, but what it truly was, was every member of the family finding a way to contribute to the end result. To getting the job done. If we aren't needed out in the barn/field/woods/workshop, then we can be of help in the house. I felt like it was unfair at times. Times when I wanted to work on the tractor instead of making sandwiches. Tractor work earns a lot more clout than making sandwiches does. I wanted to be the one who everyone pats on the back for a good work day put in. For earning my keep. Instead, I had to eat my ego and do what was needed of me. A lesson I hope my kids learn.

As much as my mother taught me lesson one, she was sure to show me that just because we are good at making sandwiches doesn't mean we can't run the tractor too. We can do both jobs. I liked this lesson best. A lesson that I'm sure my kids have learned. Not only can I keep a house, but I can also get a pat on the back for a good days work. As a kid, this pleased me to no end. I thought of us girls as the most useful can't-do-without tool in our family toolbox. My brothers noticed this too, and so they learned to cook to try to even the score. Growing up I always challenged "girl jobs" and "boy jobs". So often that my mother was called by the school. (I am sure she was most concerned and likely promised the principal that she would speak to me about my bold stand. At home she just smiled at me.)

I've never thought of myself or my mother as a feminist. I just never liked the term. I'm sure we fit the definition though. We just didn't care. I have experienced inequality. I was even flat out told I wouldn't be hired because I was a girl. But I learned to swallow my ego a long time ago.

I work in a male dominated industry. Farmers, men and even some women, still look at me and say that I can't, that I shouldn't and ask where my husband is. I just smile knowing something they don't and make the sandwiches, then go to work on the tractor. Thanks Mom, for two great lessons.

Earning luxury

2011-07-29T20:58:00.001-03:00

When I was 7 or 8 I was helping my family build a new fence. I was too small to swing the sledge hammer or pull the barbed wire or to do any of the fun jobs like hammer the nails. My grand father, father and brother got those jobs. But I still wanted to be helpful so I got to carry the can of Green Pentox and the paint brush. My job was to paint the bottom of the fence posts that go in the ground so they wouldn't rot.

Preparing for fencing was an annual job and whether you wanted to help or not, you did or had to anyway. We all would head out to the wood lot and find the hackmatack trees (a.k.a. tamarack) and cut them down. The fun job (I use the word fun in that cruel way like piling 8 cord of split wood is fun or hauling 1000 square bales off a field in 30 degree weather is fun) was peeling them. The men (my oldest brother included) got the best jobs, again, and ran the chainsaws and hauled the branches out of the way. The rest of us, under my grand mother's instruction got to peel the logs. Except she had this nifty peeling tool to peel her logs nice and easy. There were only 2 of those tools so my mom got the other, leaving me and my other brother to use a hatchet and our fingers. If you think getting sap on your hand in one little spot sucks, don't ever, ever, ever peel hackmatack trees. My hands turned instantly black and sticky and my fingers hurt from the dirt and sap building up under my nails. One thing I was sure of is that after all that I did not want those fence posts to rot, because I didn't want to have to get more.

The fence we were building was along side of an embankment that ended in a ditch. The bucket of Pentox was a big gallon paint can. For a little girl like I was, it was heavy. The ground wasn't exactly level. It was recently cleared and mounds and hollows were left from pulling the tree trunks. Weeds and shrubs were growing in with the new access to sunlight. I moved ahead of the men having the post painted and ready by the time they had the previous pounded into the ground.

I was doing a great job and keeping up. I liked being helpful. I liked the feeling of pride and accomplishment that came with it. A sense of being of value to the family. Right up until I slipped, and fell down the embankment, landing in the ditch with the entire can of green Pentox poured over my head. Pentox Green is green. It's a stain. It's designed to penetrate the wood. It penetrated me. Despite an hour in the tub with my mother scrubbing me raw, I was green. A bright orange red head with green skin. I looked like some kind of leprechaun. It lasted weeks before finally fading away.

Today, I use black spruce, untreated fence posts, that I buy, already peeled and sharpened. I can swing the sledge hammer if they rot. I gladly will. It's a luxury I think I've earned.

I'm done!

2011-07-28T22:49:00.001-03:00

365:365

I'm done! I can't believe it, but I am finished my project 365! Remember a year ago when I said I was starting. Yeah, that was forever ago.

A year ago I didn't know enough to know what I didn't know. I thought that the project would be a piece of cake until about day 11. I was bored and uninspired and had no idea what to shoot. I can see my progress through the year of pictures, but can't articulate quite what I learned or how that makes me feel. Mostly I feel proud. I can't believe the task went from a struggle to a habit. Not only did my pictures improve but the days where I just took something to say I did were fewer and fewer. I can't tell you what I learned technically, but I'll offer you this:

A few things you should know before you start your own project 365:

A year is both very short and very long.
I suggest owning a dog or cat or both. If you don't, then get one - even if you have to rent it.
Having kids is crucial to success. If you don't have any, rent them too. You will need them.
Have a house with good light.
Have interesting things in your house that you can take interesting pictures of when it's 11:30 pm and haven't got your picture of the day yet. That, or do what I did and take pictures of boring things.
Plant a flower garden. This will supply you with material to photograph for a good 100 shots anyway.
Get a good camera bag because you will be carrying your camera everywhere you go for at least a year. I say at least, because even when you're done, you'll likely still carry it around out of habit.
Lenses make great gifts. Ask for one you don't have. New toys always give you new inspiration.

In my year I took 54 pictures of my kids, 20 pictures of my dog, 11 of my horse, 9 of my cat, 7 of chickens and 6 of my cows. If I didn't have these props I don't think I'd be able to complete the project.

In my year I learned a few things about myself too.

I don't like taking pictures of people. Especially in public.
I like shooting into the light.
My dog is very photogenic.
I am glad I live in the country because there is a lot of things to take pictures of.
I suck at prompts.
I can take pictures of kids.
I'm not a big fan of textures.
I need rain gear for my camera. Being stuck indoors for a week when it's wet and cold kills photographic mojo.
I am not very good a picking my picture of the day. Some of my favorite pictures now, I didn't choose at the time as my picture.

The best thing I learned this year was how to capture what I love, the way I see it, so you can see it too.

These are some of my favorites for the year.

62:365

83:365

163:365

104:365

275:365

50:365

123:365

229:365

248:365

160:365

267:365

309:365

278:365

297:265

340:365

361:365

362:365

287:365

315:365

359:365

318:365

311:365

Welcoming Yesterday

2011-07-23T11:27:00.000-03:00

We had the trip planned since we sat down in June and looked at the short eight weeks of summer. The vacation would be short this year, just 2 1/2 days. We wouldn't be far, just 2 hours down the road. Doesn't seem like much of a vacation but we're lucky to have a beautiful national park near by. With cows and chickens it's hard to leave for any length of time because we need a babysitter. My friend was nice enough to do that for us, so we could go at all. She was worried though. Smokey was due to calve any day. She is not a farmer. She is my friend with good sense and I trust her, but she is not a farmer. Maybe I was a bit worried too. I prepared her the best I could, but you can explain 30 years of experience in a conversation or on a list.
Friend: How will I know if she calved?
Me: You probably won't unless you look for the calf. She'll be acting different. More alert.
Friend: Compared to what? I don't see her act normal.
Me: That's why you probably won't know unless you see the calf.
Friend: How do I know if the calf is ok?
Me: The mom will be ok. If she's upset something is wrong.
Friend: How will I know if the calf isn't ok?
Me: It will be dead.

No pressure. There are a gazillion things that could go wrong that could cost the life of the calf and the cow. Realistically, Smokey should calve without any trouble at all. She's done it before, the bull wasn't big, so the calf shouldn't be....But still, that's why we would only be gone from Wednesday morning until Friday afternoon. Even after our conversation my friend still agreed to babysit for me (she is an awesome friend) with a list of emergency phone numbers including those of my mom (my mom is good for all kinds of births).

The nature of herd animals and prey animals is to hide their young. Smokey hid hers well. So well that my friend had no idea she calved. Without seeing her calve with my own eyes, I can't say for sure when she did, but based on the hardness of the calf's hooves, the dryness of the umbilical cord and the calf's sturdiness on her feet, I say she calved Thursday, perhaps even late Wednesday. While preparing to leave Wednesday morning I did a final round checking on our critters. Smokey looked to be in early labour. It didnt' make sense to stay as she may not calve for days even if she was in early labour, but I was surprised to hear my friend say she hadn't calved.

When we got home Friday afternoon I went straight out to the field. Shady was with me of course. Smokey was grazing and looked a bit thinner. Now Smokey does not like Shady, even when Shady isn't being a pest. Normally though, if Shady keeps her distance and runs through the grass looking for pheasants, Smokey ignores her. This time Shady went into the woods and Smokey immediately followed. So I went in the woods and watched and waited. Smokey stared down the path under a fallen tree, so I walked that way. Smokey followed. Then Shady burst with excitement, wagging her whole body at something hidden in the tall grass that grows under the trees. That's when I knew for sure. Smokey started calling to her calf in that way momma cows do. A way I can't describe or mimic but is unmistakable and reserved only for talking to their babies. I nearly stepped on her to find her even though Shady had pointed her out. Hidden between trees and fallen branches, on a bed of tall grass, was a pretty little girl. She didn't say a word until I touched her. I got her to her feet, not knowing if she had nursed yet, hoping she had or I'd have my hands full. Once up it was clear she had. On practiced legs with plenty of energy she followed her momma out of the thicket. If she hadn't nursed she wouldn't have had the energy to be able to stand. If a calf doesn't nurse in the first hour or less of life, they are in trouble. This little (I use the word relatively, as she's about 100 lbs) heifer though was perfectly fine. The herd, including the horse, gathered protectively around the new addition and I took that as my cue to leave.

This year is the Y year, so I think I'll name her Yesterday, as she was born yesterday, when I was away.

A bird in hand is worth two in the coop?

2011-06-19T10:55:00.000-03:00

Despite the cold rainy weather, the chickens have been doing really well. I put them outside in the coop earlier than I did last year. They were younger but bigger. Last year they didn't eat grass or chase bugs or anything. They just sat there. This group is much better and eat a lot of grass and run around like they just discovered gold when they find a slug. (It's so funny to watch that I'll even pick up a slug just to see them run around.) But last year we were lucky. No predators gave us any trouble. I didn't knock on wood loud enough apparently. This year we weren't so lucky.

I like ravens. They are an interesting bird. Smart. I like the different vocalizations they have. The families they keep. But they took one of my chickens last weekend.

Such an odd thing to have happen that the more I talked about it, the more I questioned what I believed happened. The chickens are kept in a portable coop so they can enjoy the benefits of being free range without running all over our property, pooping everywhere and getting eaten by numerous predators. Shady would probably kill every one just for fun if given the chance. She sees them as her play things and runs around the coop scaring them, just to see them scatter. She is a bird dog, I can't blame her, but I also won't give her the chance to actually kill one.

Last weekend we went to my parent's house for the night. When we got home I noticed 3 ravens fly up from beside the coop. This was odd. Not something I would normally see. So I went to check on the chicks. The chicks have all their feathers and weigh about a pound. They're a good handful. When I counted I could only find 9 chickens. One missing. The ground around the coop was all scratched up. A three foot section was mainly focused on and I could see where they had dug under the wall of the coop. The hole looked too small for anything to go under let alone a raven with a chick in it's maw, but there were only nine left. It obviously happened. By raven or not.

Everyone I've told this story to have been stunned. A raven taking a small chick, sure. A family of ravens digging under a coop to steal a chicken, unheard of. That's when I started to question what I saw. Maybe I was placing the blame on the last one seen at the scene of the crime. Maybe they didn't commit it. Maybe it was a mink or weasel. I would think another predator would dig a neat little hole and be in and out, killing every single chick. Not wasting time digging the length of the wall just to take one. I was sure of one thing though, whoever took the chick would be back. There were nine meals left.

I devised the only barrier I could around the coop by lying tall buckets on their side. It looks like the coop is on pontoons. If the culprit was a raven the chicks should be safe. (Ravens may be smart but I dare them to dig under buckets that could roll on them and under the coop.) If it was something else, they were doomed. When I got home from work that evening I was sure my story was accurate. On the fence sat 3 perturbed ravens. In the coop, nine happy chicks.

Welcoming Royalty

2011-06-13T12:01:00.001-03:00

It's June so of course a lot of things are going on right now. We made a million different plans in the aftermath of Toodles' death. We ended up following through with none of them, instead coming up with another altogether.

What the loss of Toodles cost us, other than the loss of her as an individual, was a producing cow and her calf. Her keep is earned through her calves. Our source of farm income. By losing her, we not only lost our investment in her, but her calf (which would have earned income next year) and all of her future calves as well.

At first I thought we'd keep Xanadu and buy a calf to replace her as meat this fall. This made sense as she has great genetics and good confirmation. I'm sure she'd produce excellent calves. The plan didn't make sense because I would then have two cows that were genetically related. It also didn't make sense because Xanadu wouldn't calve until next spring and that calf wouldn't earn income until the year after that. That means keeping Xanadu would cost us 2 years of expenses with no income. Plus we'd have to buy an animal this year and next, to meet our meat orders. So it would cost us double. This plan was scrapped.

The plan we thought made most sense was to buy a cow who just calved this spring. More money up front, but it would cost us less in the long run. The hardest part was which cow, from who, for how much. As much as farming, beef farming, is a predominantly male industry, my mom has nice cattle and my mom's best friend Barb also has nice cattle. She has nice quiet cattle too that are accustomed to living in a small herd. So three women farmers sat around on the phone and through emails and discussed who had what animals and what genetics and who would fit best in my herd that they no longer needed in their own. Fun. Better than talking about men or shopping for clothes.

Last week the decision was made and last night a cow and her calf were delivered from Barb's farm. Royalty is her name and Owen named her sweet little heifer calf Yummy. Royalty is 5 years old I believe and an older style cow with a long neck, blocky head and a long solid frame. A long neck on a cow is said to indicate a good milker and she is. Royalty is friendly and used to being handled. I think she'll fit in really well here. We have a bull on his way that will breed her and she'll produce another calf next year too. She'll put us right back on track. Smokey and Xanadu were excited to see another cow when she arrived. I know they've missed Toodles. This morning, Royalty was still tentative in her new surroundings but grazing with the herd that has suddenly doubled.

When raising livestock, you are bound to have deadstock. That's how farming goes. But you just keep on keeping on. It's a happy ending or a happy beginning, depending on how you look at it.

25 things about me

2011-05-25T11:49:00.000-03:00

I was going to try for 50, but couldn't think of that many.

I first learned to ride a horse when I was 3
When I was sixteen I flew to Toronto on my own to show cows.
I'm not easily impressed.
When I got married my dad finally told me I was no longer grounded. Yes, I was that bad.
My dad is a pilot and I've been flying in small planes since I was a little girl.
My first time on a commercial plane was when I was 15.
I can't play volleyball. The only sport I've tried that I truly suck at.
I learned how to drive a tractor when I was 12. My brothers were younger than that, but I had to wait until I could reach the pedals and was heavy enough to push in the clutch and brake.
I drove from Las Vegas to the north rim of the Grand Canyon. Best drive I've ever made. I want to go again and again.
I've seen a ghost.
For fun as kids, my brothers and I would climb to the top of spruce trees (30 - 40 ft) and jump from tree top to tree top.
I don't like wearing gloves, it makes me feel blind.
I have excellent long term memory. My first memory is when I was two years old.
Sometimes eating chicken drumsticks grosses me out.
I have two older brothers. One to get me into trouble, the other to get me out.
As a kid I had an imaginary friend named Banjo.
I can swim, but I can't do the front crawl.
I started boxing to see how hard I could hit.
I like to draw.
I wish I hadn't quit ballet when I was 7.
I don't like nail polish. It makes my fingers feel heavy.
In junior high I played the trumpet in band.
I used to win money playing pool.
I don't like most seafood.
I like heights.

Welcome to Farming

2011-05-22T17:45:00.000-03:00

The first time I saw a cow butchered I was seven years old. I knew what happened to them when they left the farm, my parents never lied to me, but this time I wanted to see it. I can't explain why I wanted to see, I just did. It didn't upset me, it was just the way life worked. But I haven't forgot.

I haven't forgot any of them. The calf that was born dead. The calf I found in the field after the vultures had found it. The yearling that broke her neck in the feeder. The heifer that broke her neck tied to the post. I remember them all. In 30 years I've seen alot of death.

Today we tied the the two cows and the calf to the back of the tractor and started the walk back to the pasture. We had made the same walk to the barn in January, when Smokey didn't want to walk. Since the air smelled of fresh grass and the cows were itching to get out of the barn, I thought it would go more smoothly than last time.

Everything started out fine. Everything was going as planned. I had put halters on the cows weeks in advance, preparing them for the walk. They were quiet as we started out, all walking perfectly. Then Toodles got scared and pulled tight. She was taking forced steps the whole way, but not dragging and falling like Smokey did in January, so we kept going. This was nothing new, expected actually.

Then, with only 500 ft left to our walk Toodles fell. I went to her side to get her up. She wouldn't. We took off her halter and encouraged her by slapping her butt, but she wouldn't move. I don't know how someone knows when something is dying, but I can assure you that if you are ever in the situation, you will know. I don't know why, but lying there in the road with her head in my hands, Toodles died.

Toodles was due to calf any day. Her calf was now dying too. With two other animals, we had to keep going. So Mart stayed with Toodles while I continued on to the field with the others. I love my husband dearly. Neither of us woke up this morning expecting him to have to cut open a dead cow in the road to do an emergency c-section. But he did. He tried. He did everything that could be done. But it was too late. The little heifer calf died with her mother.

As shitty days go, this one ranks up there. Toodles was a sweet, friendly cow. I won't soon forget her death but most of all the enjoyment I got from her. I so wish this didn't happen but I don't know how I could have foreseen it, or prevented it.

With life comes death. Welcome to farming.

Here lies Chocolate

2011-05-02T21:43:00.002-03:00

I knew a girl once who told me she didn't need a man. Implying the only reason I had a husband was because I did. She claimed to not need a man because she was quite capable of taking care of herself.

I never argued. I was always sad to know she just didn't get it. I don't need Martin to take care of me. I am quite capable. But sometimes it's nice to have someone to look after the things that are hard. Someone to share the weight.

Reiley's rabbit Chocolate, lovingly known as Bunny Bunny, died today. She's been sick since before Easter and has not recovered despite antibiotics and our best efforts. Tonight Martin did what had to be done and put Bunny Bunny down.

She is buried in the field under the spruce trees where the cows won't trample her. It is the first grave on our property but likely won't be the last. We wrapped her in a blanket so her fur wouldn't get dirty and marked her place with a stone. I'll go back tomorrow and carve her name.

In the field with my man-boys and boy-men I cried and didn't hide my face. It's ok to be strong, but it's ok to be soft too. Together we take turns being both.

Story of a horse

2011-05-02T16:03:00.002-03:00

It occurred to me that I've never told the story of Bud. My lovable but frustrating horse that I often refer to as Dink. Really it's not fair to him. You don't have the full story. He is a dink sometimes none the less, but you need the full story for it to be fair I call him that.

Bud is a purebred registered Morgan. He was born with a fancy pedigree name that, to be honest, I don't even know. His papers are in the safe at my mom's house I think. I've just never cared enough to look at them. His familiar barn name was Bubba. I don't call him that either. I take offence when someone does. That life is long gone.

When I was two years old my family adopted my sister. She was 8. She was put in foster care when she and her siblings were removed from her mothers care, or lack there of. My mother (so the story is told) told her she could pick a new name for herself if she wanted to. A new life, a new name. She did. A beautiful new name.

Bud came from a similar situation. So, new life, new name. He is Bud, or Budward or Dumb Ass or sometimes even Dink.

As a stud colt he was shown all across the US and won awards that covered the walls of his breeder. He was something to look at. He still is. A champion. But as he got older he became violent and unpredictable. Only to be handled by the owner. I met him at this time, when I was hired on to muck out stalls at his barn for the summer, but never allowed in his. He was 2 and a nervous ball of power and energy.

He was only allowed out of his stall to be exercised under saddle. After his lesson he was returned to his stall where he paced in a constant state of anxiety. He became too much of a problem when he started to toss his head in the show ring. They would put up with him being difficult to handle, using the fact that he was a stallion as the excuse, but when he could no longer be shown, he became worthless to them. They had him gelded but that didn't help. They couldn't sell him as he would give them a bad name. It's at this time that we found him. Three years had passed since I'd seen him last. He was now 5 and if we didn't want him he'd be shot. So my mother and I took him. That was 7 years ago.

When he first came home we could ride him anywhere. He'd go with the whites of his eyes showing and his chest covered in sweat. It was quickly evident just how damaged this horse was. So we stopped. Everything. And started again at square one. We asked nothing of him and offered trust. We didn't ask him to go anywhere or do anything he was afraid of. Turns out he was afraid of everything. He had never been allowed out of his stall so he didn't have one sweet clue how to be a horse. He didn't know how to graze, what a stream was, what a puddle was, what the wind was. Nothing. He had instinct but no teaching from another horse on how to behave. We left him in the company of the cows and he started to learn.

We brought him back slowly using natural horsemanship and the guidance of Pat Parelli. Very similar in style to what I'd naturally been doing with horses my whole life, but with more tools and understanding. When we started riding again he would only follow the dog. And did what the dog did. So we rode for a few months with his nose dragging on the ground. It was two years before I could ride him down the road where he'd never been before.

He's come a long long way in seven years. I can confidently take him anywhere. He is not dangerous. The tension is gone. He's a relaxed, happy boy. (On a side note, what we've learned through Bud has translated to our dog and kids.) But he can still be a dink. He's a smart horse, which is why I think he snapped being cooped up in a barn all the time. He likes to push my buttons. Plus he still carries scars from his past life. He tenses when new men come around. He is very claustrophobic. He likes to scare himself like a little kid on Halloween. Having been gelded late imprinted stallion behaviour on his brain so dominance fights can be fun between us. He is a challenge and everything I get from him is earned. He is affectionate and sweet and loves to play and think. Plus he is wicked fun to ride and full of spunk.

To see a horse who was once afraid to stand alone in a field now gallop it's length, is a beautiful thing. Who was once afraid of trees, ride through the woods. Who was once afraid of a puddle, plod through a river with water up to his belly.

Then he sees his shadow flicker and jumps in fright while I'm on his back. Chases the cows so they can't have a turn drinking water. Turns his butt to me and farts when I come to say hi. Jumps into the road because he sees a mailbox. Dink.

I've always thought control is an illusion. There can't be control, control is forced. Instead, there is partnership. I had to earn that from Bud, and to know I have is an honor. He had plenty of reasons to never trust again. He can be a dink, but I love him anyway. I've learned a lot from him. Most of all, that pedigrees don't make a horse. Or a dog. Or a person.

It's silly right?

2011-04-26T14:41:00.001-03:00

She emailed me and said something so simple. When are you going to start selling your work? I read it and laughed. I have no idea how to even approach such a thing. Plus, who'd want to buy, as in pay money for, my pictures? Silly right?

Then I told Martin what she said and chuckled as I did at the ridiculousness of the idea, waiting for him to laugh back. Except he didn't.

Now I'm reading stuff online and asking questions and putting together a group of pictures for friends to critique, all the while hiding under the couch waiting for them to laugh and tell me I'm silly. Your pictures are nice, but they aren't professional. You need to know everything in this here big stack of books if you want to be good enough to sell your pictures. Then I'll crawl out and laugh and say I know, I was just checking.

What do I know? Nothing. Well, I know I don't even dare breathe the words and I feel bare naked in front of the whole world when I don't like being in public in a bathing suit. And I can't even remember the password for my paypal account if it still exists and I'm not good at remembering to mail stuff and I have cows so I can't possibly have time for this. I know that.

The stuff you remember

2011-04-14T10:36:00.000-03:00

I went to school with both of them. She was the cousin of an elementary school friend. He was just a kid from Hebron that lived close enough he walked to school. I met them in grade 7 when our elementary schools combined in junior high.

She was awkward and religious and didn't celebrate birthdays or Christmas or anything else. I understand more now, but at the time, that's all I knew. She played the flute in band. I forget what year it happened but she was in a bike accident and knocked out all her front teeth and had to get an insert of fake teeth. She wasn't pretty, her long brown hair was drab and often greasy. She dressed like an old lady in clothes that looked like they were going to be thrown away. The difference between her and most was she didn't seem to care. She was the opposite of cool.

He was the definition of cool. With good looks and nice clothes, he was popular. He pretended to be a bad ass but it was clear to see he was a softy at heart. He hung out with the cool boys, all of which I think I had a crush on at one time or another. The popular girls hung at his side and held his attention, but I don't recall him with a girl friend. With a word, be it a compliment or insult, he could sway the school population and change your position in the social ranks. He was funny. We shared a home room in highschool and sat next to each other in typing class. He called me Mistybush Rouge Cheveux, of course curious if I was a true redhead. In his group of friends he was apparently the last to get laid and the most curious about it. On his own, without peer pressure, he was a really nice guy.

In the six years they shared a school and likely classrooms, they must have known the other existed. Our school was small. But I don't think I ever saw them speak to each other, or even acknowledge the other. They were after all, pretty much complete opposites. Their circles did not over lap.

A few years after graduation I heard that they married and lived in the same neighbourhood he was born.

And that he killed himself.

Our graduating class has never had a reunion. If we did, I wonder if she'd come. I wonder if people, who never cared about her one way or another back in school, would suddenly see her. I wonder how loud the whispers would be.

Highschool is a strange place. I'm left wondering about a lot of things that happened back then. How the paths of people cross, intertwine and veer away again. I've always wondered about theirs. How their paths came to cross. How it started, how it ended. If anyone else wonders too.

Domesticated

2011-04-03T11:41:00.000-03:00

I love dogs. If you know anything about me at all, you know that. But when it comes to dogs vs. cats, I have to say that dogs drool and cats rule.

I read recently that cats are the only animal to domesticate themselves. They chose to live with us. Which makes me believe that really, they domesticated us. They are so cunning that they decided to train humans to keep them, house them and feed them. The best part is they did so while having us believe it was our own idea. That was a key part of the plan.

They likely saw us a an attraction for rats. Where there are humans there is food to catch. Then they saw the food on our plates and our warm soft beds and decided they needed to get in on this deal. I don't know how they communicated this plan to all cats across the globe (another reason they are the superior species) but they did and now we're spending large percentages of our income on feeding them, tending to their comfort and their bathroom needs. The amount of forethought this required is astounding.

Perhaps the real reason they domesticated us was because they saw what we did to soft pelted animals and thought it would be best to train humans not to hunt them. It's probably a good thing they did, because Hobbes has the softest pelt I've ever touched.

Bright idea

2011-03-23T23:30:00.001-03:00

Sometimes an idea should remain just an idea. To bring it to reality would ruin it. And sometimes our desire to act on the idea is amplified by our inability to actually do it. For example: Maybe I'm sitting on the couch and it's 10:30 at night. All I want in the world is a fudgescicle. Not the no-name kind made with frozen brown water, the real deal. In order for me to actually have a fudgescicle I'd have to drive 20 kms* to get it, which isn't going to happen at 10:30 at night, but that only makes me want it all the more, until I'm actually contemplating driving 20 km for a stupid fudgescicle. If I actually made my idea a reality I'd feel stupid for driving 20 kms and by the time I got the fudgescicle and ate it, it'd be close to midnight and I'd feel gross.

Bud the horse has been living in the barn with the cows all winter. It's an open area with an indoor and outdoor space. Plenty of room, but not enough to run. Lately he's been acting like a brat. Wanting stimulation, wanting to run, wanting to do something. I can't blame him, with the snow just about gone and the fields bare, spring fever has hit us all. So I've been taking Bud outside in the evening light to play games, be stimulated and to stretch his legs and run. It's really his idea. He's been leaning his head over the fence and staring out into the fields for days.

Outside on the lunge line poor Bud is so out of shape he can't run a lap without panting for air. At one point he stopped and looked at me with pleading eyes as if asking What was I thinking? I don't feel so good.

I just laughed. After all, it was his idea.

*It is actually a 20 km return trip to our nearest convenience store. I know, it's not very convenient.

Manboy

2011-03-22T22:10:00.001-03:00

He's 14. When you are a 14 year old manboy you don't give hugs anymore apparently.

Reiley and his brother spent March break at my parent's house. The week was spent skeet shooting with Pappy and working on the tractor for Mimi. Spent not just doing big kid stuff, but man stuff. He always comes home walking taller.

Usually when he goes to bed he reaches over the back of the couch and gives our shoulders a pat. That's our good night hug - a pat.

The other night though, his first night home from vacation, when he was ready to doll out his goodnight pats, I was standing in the kitchen. I grabbed the chance and gave him a real hug. At first I got the one arm pat on the back. But then he paused and gave me a real hug back. Good hugs are like recharging batteries. I guess he realized you never outgrow a good hug.

It's coming

2011-02-21T21:16:00.000-04:00

The only thing I know for sure is that spring is coming. Regardless of how much snow is in my yard and continues to fall on it, spring is coming. Regardless of how much winter unpacks and makes itself at home, it's not staying.

The other day the sun was shining, but not in that freeze your eyeballs open kind of way, typical during winter in these parts, but in the wrap you in a warm blanket kind of way. For one day the temperature rose above freezing and we caught a glimpse of spring. For one day you could even smell it.

So despite the coop being buried under snow, I celebrated the day the best way I could.

I ordered my chickens.

A bad day

2011-02-11T10:12:00.000-04:00

When the radio alarm turned on yesterday morning and I heard the voices of the morning crew, my subconscious was waiting for them to announce that Misty's work is cancelled today. Of course that didn't happen. But I should have paid more heed to the warning.

Last Friday we brought our Chevy Equinox into the mechanic because it was over heating. For all the non-mechanics out there, it's never a good thing when your vehicle over heats when it's -10 degrees outside. They managed to fix what they thought was the problem (a broken dome gasket) and $1100 later, we were back on the road. Until Saturday, when it happened again.

Monday we dropped the truck off again and found out it's a broken head (or head gasket, I'm a non-mechanic type) and it would likely cost us another $1500 to fix. The only good thing to come off all this was that the dealership where we bought the truck (after some heated emails and inappropriate phone messages, which I'll save for another time) was going to fix it under warranty. Until we got the final word of that decision, I think I lost 10 lbs and gained a few grey hairs.

Without the truck, I was left to drive the Malibu. Our sweet little 2000 Malibu that has been slowly dying.

Back to yesterday morning. The kids got on the bus as usual and as I was eating my breakfast the phone rang. My babysitter, calling to let me know that her whole house is sick and she can't tend Owen. During the busiest time of the year, I'd have to rearrange work and be home for him. Inconvenient, but not the end of the world. After breakfast I pulled on my barn clothes to do chores on the way to work and the zipper in my jacket is breaks. Fantastic. It's cold. My coat is open. Great. But not the end of the world.

The barn is 1 km down the road. The driveway hadn't been plowed completely, but I thought I could get the car in to save me from walking the whole way. Anything to save time on my way to work. And this is when I realized I should have stayed in bed.

I got stuck. Very stuck. I've been stuck many times in my life, with cars and tractors and even my own two feet. I've never been stuck in snow like this. The car slid off the path, a path of ice covered in snow, and bottomed out. She wouldn't budge.

Our little Malibu we used to call Blue, who is now referred to affectionately as Old Blue, was purchased in 2003 after hurricane Juan crushed our car with two trees. I was 5 months pregnant for Owen. Owen will be 7 next week. We have never owned another car longer. She's been good to us.

The neighbour brought his tractor over to pull me out. He hooked the tow rope to the frame in the little hook spots that he's supposed to, I put the car in neutral and he gently pulled the rope tight and began to pull me out. Then I heard a crack, then I looked back and saw Old Blue's bumper being pulled down the driveway, while I sat in Old Blue, not moving. It was traumatic. I was beside myself. Hysterical. The car was just torn in two. Our only car was just torn in two. The bumper was still attached to the frame of the car. The frame was broken. Let this be a lesson in undercoating your cars.

There are a lot of funny things that race through your mind when put under stress. The first was that we should just put the bumper back on. With glue maybe. The second was that I was completely stranded and would surely die where I stood. What followed that was a mix of needing to get to work before I was late, fear of going bankrupt because we now had to replace the car, and wondering how on earth I was going to get the car unstuck now. I had no idea what to do. I don't think working every waking hour since January 2nd helped me handle the sudden stress.

Once calm (or at least not crying) and with Martin on his way home I called the salvage yard. Her funeral is today. I visited this morning and it was sad to see her. She deserved a better death than this, than my own stupidity. Left in a snow bank with her muffler showing, completely undignified.

It was a bad day to cap off a pretty stressful week. I should have seen the warnings. I should have just stayed in bed. Sorry girl.

Romance

2011-02-09T22:12:00.001-04:00

Me: When is Valentines Day?

Mart: Hmm? I dunno. Monday I think.

Me: You don't know? How can you not know?

Mart: I don't know. I know it's the 14th. I think that's Monday.

Mart: Why do guys always have to know these things? Why can't women do stuff for men?

Me: Because it's important. Just like it's important that men know that their wives like daisies.

Me: And it's important men know which day their wives like to receive daisies most.

Two Crows Farm

2011-01-23T11:00:00.000-04:00

There are bonuses to winter. For example, I can pull on my insulated coveralls over my pj's on weekends and go out to the barn. Another is that the poop is all frozen so it's not as smelly or dirty in the barn. The bad part of winter is not having a heated water bowl and having to chop ice out of the water buckets twice a day.

Last weekend we finally moved the animals 1 km down the road to the barn. We are borrowing a space in the neighbour's barn for the winter. Hopefully this is the only winter. This spring, plans are in the works to build our own. Crossing my fingers that it actually happens. There is government funding that will help with a big part of the bill. I am beyond excited, but force myself to be patient. There is currently 3 feet of snow on the ground that has no intention of going anywhere and the funding applications don't come out until May. I'm not going to be too excited until I see an approval letter in the mail.

We brought the cows down the road by tying them to the back of the tractor and walking. Smokey, who had been halter broke in the past, I thought would be fine. Toodles, who I didn't think had ever had a halter on, I was worried about. Xanadu, the calf, she was left loose to follow along. I wasn't concerned about her. She had two choices, follow or be left behind alone. Of course she followed her mamma like a good girl. What surprised me was that Smokey wouldn't walk. She's approximately 1800 lbs and wouldn't take a step. The tractor pulled, she slid behind, then fell. Legs splayed on the road. We had gone 500 ft and her hocks we skinned and bleeding from falling on the pavement. It's frustrating watching. All she had to do to relieve her discomfort, was to walk. Each time she fell, I loosened the ropes and gave her a rest. Unsure what we would do if she didn't walk. We couldn't drag her, we'd kill her. We couldn't let her keep falling, she'd hurt herself. Toodles in the mean time was tied next to Smokey, standing just as quiet as can be, without ever pulling her rope tight. You'd think she had been shown, she was so well halter broke. (She is now officially my favorite cow.) When we reached the farm next door, I'm not sure if Smokey could smell the other livestock or what, but she stood right up, shook her head and walked. The rest of the way was a breeze and thankfully she is no worse for wear, with no injuries other than skinned hocks.

I wasn't terribly worried about the walk, because I knew it would work, but it was a huge relief to have them inside and out of the wind and snow. The trip back in the spring? Well, I'll worry about that when the time comes. In the mean time, I will be putting a halter on Xanadu and teaching her how to walk, as she'll have to be tied next round.

A few years ago I would have thought it impossible to farm without machinery or a barn. But I guess where there is a will, there is a way. I've had to be resourceful and return favours with my time (which is worth more than money) but it's working. I have my cows.

The horse wouldn't let me catch him that day. He's in need of a lot of work. He's very herd bound and would prefer if I left him alone with his cows. The thing with him though, is that he's not mentally strong enough to be a herd leader. If he wants to go somewhere in the field, but he's afraid, he'll herd one of the cows and force them to come with him. He's severely claustrophobic (which stems from years of being trapped in a stall 24/7 and mistreated before we bought him) and is afraid of most things. So being in the barn is a bit of a mind blow for the guy. The space they are in is an open area, half enclosed and half outdoors. There is no reason he should feel the least bit confined or trapped, but he does. I'm not sure how to help him with this except to go back to the lessons of natural horsemanship and build his confidence with games and exercises.

I left him in the field and took the cows. If he didn't want to follow me, then he'd suffer the consequences and be left behind. He wanted to be a dink, so I said fine, have it your way. When I returned for him, he ran up to me in the field, placed his head in my lap. He didn't care, he'd follow me anywhere, so long as I didn't leave him alone. He has a strong dominant streak in him, being a stud for 3 or 4 years and that dominance and fight for leadership is a daily battle with us. He wants to be in control, but wants me (or the cows) to provide him with safety and comfort. In the animal world, you can't have it both ways. You follow or you lead. Poor guy is in constant struggle with himself.

We walked down to the barn. I had plans on riding him, but he worked himself into such a state he was covered in icicles from galloping through the snow banks and sweating. He's such a dink some days, but he's my special boy. There is no lack of personality. He is the furthest thing from a dead head quarter horse that you might mistake them for different species.

With everyone warm in the barn, I can wait for Toodles to calve. I'm not sure on her exact due date but some time in February is our best guess. Her calf will be the second born on our farm and will have a name beginning with the letter Y. Two Crows Farm is officially a member of the Canadian Limousin Association and has been given tattoo letters that represent our farm. If we choose to register our animals they will have the tattoo in the left ear beginning with MDC then the number they were born and the letter of the year. So Toodles' calf could be MDC 1Y. We chose the tattoo MDC because it is both Martin's initials and mine.

So the little girl that everyone thought was crazy for having a cow in her back yard, with no barn and no tractor, now has 2 cows, has sent 3 bulls/steer to market, fed 12 families, has had one calf born on the farm and awaits the second, with top of the line genetics and some pretty awesome cattle and plans to purchase two more. Hard to believe we had none of this two years ago.

Favorite Toy

2011-01-08T23:09:00.001-04:00

When Shady was a pup the toy duck was bigger than she was. But she would proudly drag it around, doing her best to lift it. She sucked on it and slept with it and quacked it until it had no quack left. Eventually the poor thing was brought outside and left there. With no wings or feet left, we eventually threw it away.

When I was a kid I had my sookie blanket. It (she, really) was rainbow stripe with white satin edges. I wore her as hair, tying her back with a clothes pin. She was the roof of my forts. She came with me everywhere I went over night.

My mother made a blanket for each of my boys. Satin on one side and the softest flannel on the other. Don't tell Reiley I told you this, but he still has his hidden in his room. Owen still uses his. I am torn between him being old enough to give her up already and being heart broken that he's too old for her anymore. He uses his blankie more than I did or Reiley did. On long car trips he'll bring her along and suck on his fingers with her tucked under his nose. Just like he did today when we went shopping in Halifax.

We didn't notice she was missing until Owen was getting tucked into bed. After 2 trips to the truck looking and looking again, we couldn't find her. I was ready to call the stores we had visited on the long shot that someone had turned her in, having found her in the parking lot. She must have fallen out the truck when Owen climbed in. To be honest, I was heart sick at the thought of her lying in the wet, dirty slush, all by herself. Lost. I really didn't want to tell Owen she was gone.

I went back outside one last time and looked around the truck and found her lying in the snow. After a quick fluff in the dryer, she was as good as new and warm too.

After good night hugs and kisses I walked into the kitchen and found Shady lying on the floor with her Christmas present. Her favorite toy. Even after all these years. I guess we never get too old for some things.

Froggy Woggy

2011-01-05T12:37:00.001-04:00

Owen's hair had grown far too long.

He had been evading me for just as long. So I finally put my foot down and put Owen into a chair, fresh from a bath (he didn't want to take) and got out my scissors. He insisted he put his stuffed toy frog in another chair to watch. That done, he told me I could start.

As I was snip-snipping along I got a lesson in the definition of an old word I apparently didn't know, even after all these years.

Owen: I want Froggy to get a hair cut after me.

Me: How can I cut Froggy's hair? Frogs don't have hair.

Owen: Well he does. His name is Froggy Woggy.

Me: (???)

Owen: He's not just Froggy, he's Froggy Woggy, so he has hair. Woggy means he has hair. So he is Froggy who has hair.

Me: Oh. Um, maybe I'll cut his another day though, ok?

Laughing eyes

2010-12-09T14:29:00.001-04:00

Laughing eyes
Originally uploaded by Misty Croney

Stand over here, I need to take a picture.

No, not like a goof ball, like this, here. (I bend and twist his head so he's in the light)

Now, stay there. Stop laughing (I say through my own giggles, they are so contagious). I want you to look thoughtful.

Think about english. (His eyes glaze over and become dull)

Ok, not english, think about math. (His eyes liven up again, but standing still with a camera in his face is taking it's toll. He's starting to giggle again. I'm losing him.)

Think about not being a goofball. (Click)

Saturday

2010-12-04T11:01:00.000-04:00

On more occasions than not, I stumble into my weekends. A million things to do zip by my brain and yet, I sit still and watch the time be wasted. As much as I want things done, I don't want to do any of them. I just want them done.

I crawl up the stairs from bed, having slept in, because the devil (or angel, depending on perspective) on my shoulder told me I deserve it, and I believed them, to find Owen going full tilt. I make my coffee and contemplate my day, knowing full well, half of my ideas won't get done and watch Owen play.

I'm in awe of him. He leaps into his days. Bounces from bed with ideas seemingly carried from his dreams. One foot touches the floor and he's a lion, a soldier, a .... Ordinary objects become extraordinary and he's traveled through time and around the world before I've finished my coffee. All the while my butt remains planted. My mind unable to decide with ease where I should start on my long list of chores. So it gives up and I sit here.

Where did that go? That boundless energy? The eagerness to greet the day? I must have vacuumed it up by accident because I haven't seen it around in a long time.

Art of conversation

2010-11-22T18:50:00.000-04:00

At the supper table:

Owen: I know how many sides a circle has.

Me: How many?

Owen: 1

Me: How many sides does a square have?

Owen: 4

Me: How about a rectangle?

Owen: 4

Dad: How about a tetrahedron?

Reiley: 28. I bet it's 28.

Dad: I bet someone is talking out of their butt.

Reiley: I can't help it, it's in my genes.

Hot November Sun

2010-11-11T10:54:00.000-04:00

This really isn't my story to tell. But one I was told that changed the impact of this day for me.

Since our very first years, we've gathered. Held close in our mothers arms. For something we had no way of understanding. The poppy a new toy to fiddle with attached to our mothers coat. Stories were told about relatives we never met. The story short, for no one knew how it really went. Just that it did. Once in school, old enough to know the word war but not truly the meaning of freedom, we sat on the gym floor and listened to the veterans. We gathered quietly outside and stood in the cold and watched them lay the wreaths. The sadness on their faces a truth, not a gesture.

The cold she said, was what she noticed most.

The scene could not have been more different from the one we grew up with every November 11th. Everyone gathered on the tarmac, soldiers remembering soldiers in the very place our countries have made the most recent sacrifices. People remembering, who understand and know in a way I never can.

She stood there dressed in uniform, but instead of the biting cold November wind on her cheek, she felt the hot Afghanistan sun. Then over the horizon the thump thump thump of chopper blades cut through the ceremony and those needed scattered to meet the helicopter carrying one of their own.

It couldn't have been more real or surreal. Soldiers of the present remembering soldiers of the past. Some they called friends.

I'll never be able to imagine the reality they know, but I can be thankful and honour them.

The power of love.

2010-11-09T11:28:00.000-04:00

The tornado ripped through town picking up the house and tossing it into the land of Oz.

Well, it wasn't a tornado, but it was stronger than the so called hurricane we had. And it did pick up the house and toss it 20 ft away, leaving the turkeys in an unfamiliar world.

In the past 4 days we've had more than 5 inches of rain, leaving everything soaked through. The turkeys are still here, but I must say, having turkeys in weather like this is not fun.   The poultryminium 1000 we built is showing wear, has no bottom and only one wall. It was perfect during the summer and offered plenty of shade and shelter and allowed for grazing.   Recently, the cows and horse have been chewing on the tarp that is its roof, making holes and the rain has decided to fall horizontally. So the turkeys are wet to say the least. The tips of their wings and tail feathers are brown. The tail feathers are nothing more than the center quill and look more like ass end of a porcupine. There isn't a dry place in the field to move the coop to. The best I can offer is a spot without puddles and even this is now hard to come by. Keeping an eye on the weather, I can point the wall of the coop into the wind, giving them some reprieve. So long as the wind direction doesn't change the turkeys stay relatively dry. When it does change though, they're off to Oz.

Friday I spent the day an hour away in meetings.   Mart walks in the door, home from work to the phone ringing. It's our neighbour, Fred.
Fred: Have you looked out the window?
Mart, confused, but accustomed to Fred's odd way replies: No, why?
Fred: Your turkeys are on your lawn. Where's your wife?
Mart: Work
Fred: Can I videotape you trying to catch the turkeys then?

My loving, patient husband suits up in his rain gear and goes out to round up the turkeys. They had wandered from the pasture, under the barbed wire fence and onto our lawn. Since they had already been under the fence Mart thought (and sensibly enough) that they could and would, walk right back under and into the pasture again with guidance. He forgot they're turkeys. There are a few things dumber than a turkey, but none come to mind right now.

I should add that between the barbed wire, at approximately the level of a man's crotch, there is an electric fence wire we use to divide part of the field.  Oh, and it was on.

Our turkeys are friendly enough but not used to being handled. Ready for the roasting pan, they are nearing 25 lbs each. Not having any luck herding the turkeys, Mart simply picks one up, carries it over the fence and returns it to the coop. It was simple really. I don't know what the fuss was about.  It was only a 25 lb turkey flapping its wings and kicking its legs and trying to escape what it believed to be an attack on its life, with Mart trying to hold it under one arm while straddling the fence and getting electrocuted every 10 seconds in the crotch. No big deal, really. Before long he had all 5 back in the coop. They were wet, disheveled and bright blue in the face showing just how put out they were by the whole ordeal, but no worse for wear. They're turkeys, and with fresh feed in front of them, they quickly forgot the whole thing I'm sure. Mart, likely not.

He truly loves me, I can tell. He'll cross the driest desert, sail the largest ocean, climb the highest mountain and catch turkeys in the rain, just for me.

Home

2010-10-30T13:19:00.002-03:00

I knew something was missing, but could never quite place my finger on what it was. An uneasiness of some sort, always waiting for something.

The town was never home. We lived there, but when asked where I was from my childhood town passed my lips. We lived in the town for 8 years but had not grown roots. We tried. We joined groups, reached out to make friends, bought a house. But it all remained superficial. Something to do until...Until what, we didn't know.

I think choosing to live somewhere and ending up somewhere makes a big difference in how you view the town. Perhaps that's why it never felt like home. Why that uneasiness and sense of being in transition never left.

In the late fall of 2007 all the stars aligned and we were presented with an opportunity to move. So in February of 2008 we packed up, left the town and moved home. This little town, half the size of the one we left was immediately that.

Friends were made easily, we found a rhythm and the sense of uneasiness vanished. We unpacked. We stood still. And quickly our roots dug deep into the mud. I love our little town. The beauty of it never ceases to amaze me.

Now you can ask and I'll tell you, I'm from Windsor. I live in a little community outside town, where the population of horses exceeds that of people, called Greenhill. But we call it home.

Jammies

2010-10-26T08:40:00.000-03:00

Yesterday I spent the day at home on the couch sick. I prepared the coffee table with necessities so once snug I wouldn't have to move. I had the phone, remote, glass of water, the usual. Unfortunately I forgot that daytime television doesn't change depending on health. Daytime television is worse than being sick. But I was snug. I didn't want to move. So I flicked through the best of the worst and settled on Gene Simmons Family Jewels. The guy is pretty funny and his kids are funny, so I was surprised. It wasn't awful. Glad I didn't move from my perfectly snug spot at any rate. The best part of the show was when they showed him in the morning wearing cozy jammies with feet in them. The kind I wore when I was 5. The kind I wish I could still fit into. With the zipper up the front and the rubber grips on the bottom of the feet. I guess that's what having millions of dollars will buy you. Fuzzy jammies with feet. Sigh.

It reminds though of Owen wearing those jammies. He had a few pair when he was small. He only wore them until he was 2 or 3 though. Unlike Reiley who wore a pair until he was 8 which he had really out grown when he was 6. Some things are just hard to let go of.

Anyway, Reiley and Owen would often linger in their jammies long into the morning and play together with the big duplo legos. I don't pretend to understand the motivation behind what my boys do, or how they come up with their ideas but that one morning still leaves me scratching my head. It wasn't until I was changing Owen's diaper that I noticed a huge blister on the inside of his knee. I mean huge. Red and chaffed and painful. I asked him what happened and he said he didn't know. So I asked Reiley, he didn't know either. Come to find out, they had been playing with the legos like usual and Owen had on his jammies with the feet in them like usual. But that morning they decided it would be fun to see how many legos they could stuff into Owen's jammies and zip them up. They stuffed so many legos into his jammies they were stuffed down his legs and when he walked, they rubbed a blister on the side of his leg. To the boys I'm sure this was quite funny. Seeing Owen double in size with squares sticking out everywhere. After the blister I'm not so sure how funny Owen found it.

That was the end of that game and the end of the jammies with feet in them for Owen. Not by my choice, by his. I never understood how he couldn't just love those kind of jammies, but now that I think of it, maybe he has his reasons.

Sunrise

2010-08-21T21:20:00.002-03:00

I am not a morning person.

On the weekend I will slowly open my eyes around 9:00 and stretch out on the bed, which by then I will have all to myself. I might go back to sleep or just stay there, not wanting to exert any energy required for movement. When I was younger, 9:00 was early.

Dusk is my favorite time of day. When the sun hangs low and the trees are dark.

It surprises me that I haven't offended the morning yet with my crankiness or lack of visitation. Instead, when I do wake up early it greets me with scenes like this. Makes me think that perhaps I need to spend more time with the sunrise.

The football game

2010-08-19T22:00:00.000-03:00

There was a football game at the house tonight.

The players:
Reiley: the self proclaimed awesome player

Dad: the quarterback

Owen: the kid who brought a baseball bat to a football game.

The whisltle blew.
Reiley the self proclaimed awesome player, threw the ball to Dad the quarterback.

Dad the quarterback tossed it to Owen the kid who brought a baseball bat to a football game.

After Owen the kid who brought a baseball bat to a football game hit the ball, a time out was called.

But the fans got bored and demanded more action.

So Dad the quarterback tackled Reiley the self proclaimed awesome player.

Owen the kid who brought a baseball bat to a football game gave chase and the action all ended up way to close to the camera mom.

Around the sun

2010-08-19T13:05:00.000-03:00

Owen and I were reading about space the other night for his bed time story. He was asking about astronauts, space ships and planets. I showed him the diagram of how the planets orbit the sun. He sucked up all the information like a sponge. Hungry for knowledge. You could almost see his brain feeding on it all.
Owen: So the sun stays still and the planets go around it?
Me: Yup. Can you guess how long it takes earth to go around the sun?
Owen: How long?
Me: One whole year.
Owen, his brain chewing on this new information: One year! That means I've been around the sun six times!

I suddenly felt like a big space explorer. I've been around the sun 32 times! He always makes me smile by the way he sees the world.

Day 21: Raw Hide

2010-08-17T20:17:00.000-03:00

I can't really choose a picture of the day. It's more like a story of the day.

Shady, like most dogs, loves raw hide bones. So much so that she will run to the closet where we keep them if we even whisper the word. She's getting so good, that she's learned how to spell the word. Before offering her one, we would ask if there were any b-o-n-e 's in the house, to avoid disappointment if we had run out. She's caught on to us. She knows what that spells.

She'll spend hours happily chewing away. Her eyes roll back and glaze over like a junkie. Happy time for Shady. Until the cat comes along and ruins her appetite.

Keji

2010-08-17T19:48:00.000-03:00

When they were babies they'd open their eyes knowing something new. Like magic, they'd wake up and know how to smile, sit up, crawl, talk. With each turn of my head they grew, and when I turned back they were someone new.

Last week we spent camping at Kejimkujik National Park. The park has been a part of me as long as there has been a me. Who knows, that very well may be where I became an anything. Every single summer of my thirty-two years I've spent time at Keji. It's home. There is a scar on my right foot from hitting a tree on my bike. The tree is bigger now, it's bark chewed from handle bars who caught in the same place as mine.

We take the kids. Like my mother I mark the campsite number on their hands so they don't get lost. Or if they do, an adult can send them the right way. Then we set them free. With a ride down the trail we blink and our baby becomes a boy, our boy a young man.

Like a rite of passage, they grow here each summer, just like I did. Owen even has a scar from crashing his bike. I couldn't love it more.

Cat

2010-08-07T20:23:00.000-03:00

This is Hobbes. Ive told you about Hobbes before. The incredibly easy to tease cat with many names. But really can you blame us for teasing him when he allows pictures to be taken looking like this? He is 11 years old and he hasn't really changed (his missing tail being the exception) since I brought him home. He's independent, thinks dogs drool, a chronic napper and will try his luck asking other family members for supper after he's been fed. He's also the softest thing I've ever touched. Ever. He's a great cat. He's also my picture of the day. (After he finished cleaning his junk in the front yard.)

Project 365

2010-08-07T19:55:00.002-03:00

6:365 Mart
Originally uploaded by Misty Croney

On July 28th I started a little project. Together with a group for support, I decided to take a picture everyday for a whole entire year. I'm currently on day 11 and I've already run out of things around my house to take pictures of. So it shall be interesting to see what I find to change things up a bit. That's the whole idea of the project though. To help me (force me) try new things, take pictures of things I wouldn't normally and break out of my comfort zone. I'm pretty comfy in my little zone.

This picture is from day 6. We went to Scots Bay along the Bay of Fundy. The tide was way out so the beach was long and the mud extra squishy. If you'd like to follow along visit my flickr page.

Rain

2010-08-03T21:09:00.004-03:00

Maybe it's genetic. My Grampy loved the rain too, and never missed the chance to drive through puddles, wether it was on bike, tractor or truck. Or maybe having the name Misty predisposes me to liking the rain. Either way, I do like the rain. And puddles.

Today we had my most favorite kind of rain. Warm and straight down, not too hard, just steady. Almost lazy. Just right to leave drops hanging from leaves and bikes and toys forgotten. The whole of outdoors stood still. Quiet. The only sound was the rain. All the trees and plants seemingly heaved a collective sigh. Not a bird or bug was seen or heard.

I like plodding around in raincoat and rubber boots on days like today. Weaving my way around the newly washed world. Witnessing the toys lying wet in the grass, the hammer next to the not yet completed shed, the bird feeder hanging still for the first time in days. Everything is different and everything is the same. Everything stands still and listens.

F#*$ing broccoli

2010-07-22T19:39:00.005-03:00

I learned lesson, well I forget what number I'm on now but it's a lot, in gardening the other day.

Last year the little green worms ate all my broccoli. So this year I've kept a keen eye out for the little garden munchers but they haven't been around. Last year we had lots of moths. Cecropia and Luna moths, plus others I liked to call Neapolitan moths because their colour reminded me of ice cream, spattered the door and wall of the house under the outdoor light each morning. This year, they came back, but we apparently have more birds this year. Instead of moths spattering the walls, we have moth wings on the deck like autumn leaves. Birds give me heart attacks daily, crashing into the house and snatching away what must be a juicy breakfast.
At any rate, less moths mean less eggs laid by moths on my broccoli, which mean less green worms, which should mean more broccoli. The plants looked healthy all spring and early summer and I was excited to see the heads forming. Then, for no reason that I'm aware of without analysing a soil sample, they bolted. Went to seed. Beautiful little yellowish white flowers where broccoli heads are supposed to be. No broccoli for us again.

So I've come to the conclusion that some people are meant to grow broccoli and others are meant to buy it from those people at the farmers market. Lesson learned: don't waste time trying to grow broccoli.

On another note, my chickens will be leaving on the 31st. I have to bring them out to a farm to be butchered. The dilema is how to get the 9 chickens to the farm. Without making a mess in my truck.

Oblivious

2010-07-16T22:55:00.004-03:00

It's funny who we surround ourselves with sometimes. Alot of the time it isn't people we would necessarily choose. Most of the time it's by circumstance. Like work, you take a job and hope the people you'll be working with are nice. They may not be who'd you pick to spend 40 hours a week with, but you make do the best you can because what choice do you have. Sometimes it works out and a new friend is found. Other times you quit your job.

I attended my new sister in law's stagette party recently. I never had a party for my own wedding. I guess at the time, I didn't really have anyone local that I was really close with to be bothered.

At the time of my engagement I was working at a jewelery store. It's probably the last place anyone, myself included, would imagine me working since I don't really care for jewelry, or dressing up, or being indoors, etc. To be honest, I was snobbish towards the job. I was fresh out of school with a piece of paper, it's ink still wet, that read Bachelor of Science. I thought I was over qualified. It was retail, anyone can get a job in retail. So long as I didn't have a criminal record and I could solve a simple skill testing question, I was in. I took the job because I had to. Mart and I had student loans we were drowning in plus a 3 year old to raise. I tried working in my field, on farms, but despite the good pay the hours are impossible if you want to see your kid. So I put what I loved to do, the only thing I loved to do, on hold. I worked at a jewelery store that had decent hours and paid over minimum wage plus commission.

Just tonight, while thinking of the party held for my sister in law, I remembered suddenly that I did have a party. A surprise party at that. The girls from work told me we were having a staff meeting and everyone had to attend or else. The or else was because I loathed staff meetings. I thought they were the biggest time waster ever conceived by the retail industry. Apparently my manager new that and made sure I attended. When I arrived, there were balloons, snacks, cake and gifts all prepared for me. Prepared by people that I spent numerous hours with, but not who I'd call on a Saturday night. We were all different ages and in different places in our lives, with completely different interests.

It surprises me to think that a group of people could do something so thoughtful for me and 8 years later I forget. It was a year later that I left the jewelery store. Some of the original staff were still there, but most were gone. I've never seen or heard from any of them since. Why would I? It makes me wonder if they remember throwing the party for me.

I don't make friends with girls easily. In fact I have only 2 close girl friends. People who know me inside and out and still like me. I'm not sure why. It scares me to think that perhaps I've just had my head stuck up my ass all these years and have been completely oblivious to the friendship offered. Perhaps I've been too busy noticing how different people are instead of how alike.

A whole glass full of strange.

2010-07-14T11:49:00.004-03:00

There are pros and cons to living in the country. Just to define what I call country: we live 20 km from a town with a population of 1500 and 12 km from a convenience store. When my brother in law first visited, he chuckled that a store 12 km away would still be considered convenient. We have 2 neighbours, one across the road from us that is only visible in the winter, the other a 1/2 km down the road. The area we live in, called Greenhill, consists of a road (Greenhill Rd) and about 150 people, though I'm guessing at that, it's probably less.

A pro to living in the country, we have land. Enough to raise cattle and keep a horse. The dog isn't tied, the cat hunts. Deer visit from time to time.

Con: Coyotes and bears visit from time to time too.

Pro: Only the people who live on our road, travel on our road. Generally there are no strangers (I'll add more to that part later).

Con: The mail man won't deliver to us. We apparently live outside every post office's coverage area.

Pro: Because there are so few of us, neighbours look out for each other. To me, that is a huge pro.

Pro: Privacy. No one is around. No unexpected visitors.

Con: Privacy. No one is around. Sometimes we get unexpected visitors.

Privacy is nice. A big reason why we love the country so much. The reason it's a con too is because things like what happen this morning do happen. Maybe they occur in more populated towns too, I don't know. I've never really lived in one.

At 5:30 am this morning our door bell rang. We immediately thought the cause of such an early morning visitor was that something happened to the cows. Or worse, something happened to Fred, our neighbour. Mart answered the door and saw a man, mid thirties, soaking wet from the knees down walking around the back of the house. Mart went out the kitchen door to the deck and found him drinking water from the outdoor tap.

Mart: What are you doing?

Man: I'm thirsty, I was told you'd oblige.

Mart: (seeing his soaked clothes and coming to the only conclusion that made any sense) Did you get your 4 wheeler stuck or something?

Man: Yeah, it's exhausting

Mart: Have you been out all night?

Man: No, all afternoon.

Mart: It's 5:30 in the morning.

Man: Yeah, I know.

Mart: Well get your water and get out of here.

The man, obviously out of it, saw no problem standing uninvited in our back yard drinking from our tap. He didn't ask permission, say thanks or ask for help. He drank and drank and drank, then staggered down our driveway. We aren't sure if he was drunk, stoned, dehydrated, injured, or all of the above. He looked like he had a very rough night.

I spent the morning sleeping off what felt like an unearned hangover headache, half expecting someone to come by and ask if we'd seen a man or a 4 wheeler. We have no idea where he came from or where he went. He may not have even been driving a 4 wheeler through the back woodlot and river. People do, so it's logical, but who knows. I'm just not a fan of a stranger showing up on my front steps at 5:30 in the morning. I wonder if he's ok, but I hope he doesn't come back. He wasn't looking to break in, or steal, he was just there for water. The whole thing was just weird. Maybe this sort of thing is kind of a pro: strangers steal water, not possessions.

road trip

2010-07-05T11:52:00.004-03:00

Five hours in the car with a 6 year old and 13 year old in the back seat. Thankfully we have air conditioning. How was our drive? Oh, fantastic. A breeze really. Like a day at the spa.

Owen: Mom. Mom. Mummy. Mo-Om. MomMomMomMom

Me: What!?

O: I love you.

*********

O: Mom I'm done my lunch and my drink is all gone.

Me: Good.

O: Mom. Mom. Mommy. I need to pee.

We are in the middle of the "no services for 70 km" part of the trip. I look back to ask if he can wait and see him sitting fists clenched, legs crossed next to an empty medium size Dairy Queen cup. We pull over and water the weeds in the ditch. We can't get to the trees because of the moose fencing. Or maybe they just don't like people peeing in their woods and it's really people fencing. Either way, at least he's a boy.

O: How many more hours?

Me: 2 hours and 45 minutes

O: Oh.

O: How many more now?

Me: 2 hours and 43 minutes

O: Are we even moving?!

*********

O: Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mooooommmmmmyyyyyy. Mom. Ma. Mummy.

Me: What!?

O: I forget.

Reiley (shaking head): Owen you are such a kid.

O: Oh yeah! Well you're an animal! My teacher said so. She said we're all just animals.

Caged animals. Exactly. Stuck in a vehicle, stuck on the highway. Just trying to get from point A to point B without completely loosing it.

How was our visit? Fantastic! The wedding was wonderful. We all had a great time. I just need to work on my particle beam so we can avoid the drive and travel Star Trek style.

As promised

2010-06-10T11:54:00.001-03:00

Xanadu
Originally uploaded by Misty Croney

Here she is. My sweet little one. Because her mother isn't afraid neither is she. She waddles right up to me, still learning how to work her long legs. She isn't exactly graceful, but bursting with life. She tries to spin and buck and jump. Amazing to think she's only a day old.

Xanadu

2010-06-08T18:23:00.005-03:00

I'm stunned. Happy and proud and stunned. I have that new, proud mamma glow. Can you see it? Grinning ear to ear, I sit here stunned.

I got home from work today, just an hour ago and went out to the back yard. Mart was working on the chicken coop. The cows are in the closest pasture to the house, but were down over the bank out of sight. Suddenly we see a vulture gliding over the tree tops, directly over our heads and the field. I thought, that's weird. Vultures don't come around for nothing. I wonder why he's here. Not expecting anything but a vulture with a nose for chickens, I walked out into the pasture. I had to check if the cows needed more water anyway. I never expected to find what I found.

Smokey calved! A pretty little girl. All cleaned up and licked off. She was even standing. Old enough for her fur to dry but that's about it. I place her about, well, it's 6:30 now, so an hour and a half old. The vulture was fast sniffing out the after birth.

I'm going to do the only thing there is to do and let nature take it's course. Though, I am human and our species isn't known for letting nature do anything on its' own, which is why I'm here. It's stopping me from going out there. I would feel better if I saw the calf nurse.

I'm stunned because I didn't know she was due. I'm happy and proud because she is the first calf born on our farm. First calf of Two Crows farm. Did I tell you we named the farm? Two Crows for two crows joy! For days like this.

*********
Update:
The calf was nursing last evening, so I felt better going to bed. I put the horse in the other field so he wouldn't be a jerk and I'm glad I did. This morning they were all laying down in the tall grass, soaking up the morning sun. She's about 80 lbs, which is a perfect size. She's just little. We've named her Xanadu for the X year.

10 chickens

2010-06-07T11:14:00.005-03:00

After all that we missed the turkey order.

Really. No turkeys. Bet you didn't know there was a turkey store.

But, 10 chickens, just 10 days old showed up at the house last night. Weird, I know.

Thursday, late afternoon, my mom called me at work to inform me that my sister in law would be flying in from Victoria and landing at 7 am. She'll have the kids with her, could she stay with me? Her mom was having emergency surgery to remove a large brain tumor. Of course, my answer was yes and she could stay as long as she needs to and no I don't have plans that I can't change and of course I'll babysit. Her mom has a tumor! She's family! There is no question.

My sister in law is an only child in an already small family. So she isn't used to the cavalry swooping in to help. It was over whelming for her on a stressful day. Tears of gratitude peaked through now and then. She isn't an only child anymore. Not in our family.

Her mom's twelve hour surgery was a huge success, the tumor was removed, it was benign and she's her normal self. We're completely blown away that a doctor can remove your skull, tinker with your brain, stitch you up and you're completely fine. Like nothing happened. Luck. Huge amounts of luck worked in her favour and as we heave a huge sigh of relief, we chuckle and think that brain surgery is a piece of cake.

Her mother, who lives in the same town as my folks, will likely be going home tomorrow. So my sister in law will follow with the kids. But she has no ride. So my mom drove up last night with plans to go to the hospital with her today and drive her and the kids home tonight.

Mom pulled in our driveway last night around 8:30 and with her, she brought 10 chickens.

So that is the story of how we got our chickens. An odd weekend of family and toddlers and luck and chickens. It seems to us that there are many things more difficult than brain surgery. So far, acquiring poultry is one of them.

and so it goes

2010-05-27T14:55:00.005-03:00

Like plans often do, ours changed.

I was planning on bringing Stella back this spring, but instead she remains in her herd with many others, likely spending the day grazing, swatting flies with her tail and licking snot from her nose. Cows are glamourous creatures. I decided to leave her behind for the sake of safety. She is not a safe cow. She has no problem planting the top of her head under your ribs and sending you flying. So, since I like my ribs intact, I left her and brought two others instead. They are a kinder, gentler sort. Smokey and Too Dew, which we've renamed or nicknamed Toodles.

Toodles because Owen says it nightly to us as we leave his room from tuck-ins and stories. As he says it, he can't help but curl his tongue over the side of his front teeth creating the most adorable smile and snaky ssss sound at the end of the word.

The two, plus calves (Winston and Wellington) born last fall are gaining weight and happily settled into their new home with Bud. No chasing, no escapes, no charging or frantic, panicked cows this year at all. Just boring cows, grazing, swatting flies and chewing cud. Just the way I like it. Last weekend we finished the fence around the back pasture and let the gang have at the knee high grass. The second field in the 3 field rotation. Laying down, they are nearly hidden. All you can see is the odd ear flicker or swoosh of a tail.

There is still a list of to-do's as long as the fence line, which is probably why Mart was dead silent on the end of the line when I called and informed him the turkeys would be arriving in less than 2 weeks. He was clearly unhappy to hear from me while standing in the locker room of his gym, sporting nothing but boxers. My call informing him indirectly that I had another project for him to do, without actually asking him if he would, was probably poorly timed. So while I'm in the dog house, I'm making plans for a turkey coop. We shall see how good my carpentry skills are. Hopefully I'll look so pathetic he'll come rescue me, or, you know, I could just ask him nicely....

My most favorite aunt wrote in our wedding guest book nearly eight years ago, "Martin, you will never be bored with your new wife". I remind him that this is what she was talking about.

pale grey

2010-04-26T15:19:00.004-03:00

They say (I don't know who, just they) that horses are colour blind. I imagine being completely colour blind means you see everything in shades of grey. Like watching my old TV. Except I could imagine colour and in my mind imagined what colours Casey and Finnegan really were. Horses, having never seen colour before wouldn't know it exists.

Patches was the horse I grew up with. A beautiful Canadian mix kind of mutt with a thick neck and round rump. He was smart and full of mischief. We went away for a week to a riding camp and when we left, the house bordering his pasture was pale yellow. To him perhaps pale grey. When we returned, the house had been painted a pale blue. To him, I imagined this would also look pale grey.

I let him loose in his pasture and laughed as he galloped from one end to the other, tail raised, snorting and huffing at this house, who was no longer pale grey, but instead, pale grey. Obviously what I imagined about the sight of a horse was a tad off. Regardless, it caused excitement in his day.

Today, I'm watching guys paint the store across the road from my office. It used to be pale grey. Now it's bright blue. If I were a horse, what a day I'd have.

Spring means farming

2010-04-22T13:07:00.003-03:00

It's been a while since I updated the farm part of my life. I guess it's been since the whole fiasco when the cows were loose for two weeks. You're probably thinking not much goes on in the winter and that would be true I guess.

Last fall, well, last November my mom was coming to pick up Stella the cow, Fuzz Butt the bull and Bud the horse to bring them to her house for the winter. I don't have a barn yet (oh I dream and count my pennies nightly) so Stella and Bud needed a place to stay comfy cozy. Fuzz Butt was going straight to the butcher.

That was the plan anyway.

We tried to get these elusive cows into the trailer but they wouldn't have it. Everyone was uncooperative that morning (including the humans) and Fuzz Butt hid in the woods and the horse was being a dink and not listening. He is usually a great cattle horse, but not that day. Have you ever packed to go on a trip and watched the dog's reaction? Ours dances around like a fool, forgets how to listen along with her manners, as soon as she sees the first packed bag. She races back and forth from the house to the car, trying to hide away under the dash any time the car door opens. There is only one thing on her mind and that is making darn sure we do not leave her behind. Well, Bud was kind of acting like that. A dink. Except I was on his back and needed him to preform an important task. The only good thing was the animals were still in the pasture. A huge bonus from the drama that played out a few months earlier. Poor husband was left to build a corral in November, when the sun sets at 4:30. So I would cook supper and see him out the window, pounding away at fence posts by the headlights of our truck. That really was all he wanted to do after work for a week anyway I'm sure.

The following week the corral was ready and we arranged another trucker going to Yarmouth to come pick up the cattle. Fuzz Butt was butchered and yielded 630 lbs of the tastiest meat I've ever eaten. (That is a really good weight by the way, over 50% yield from live weight) Then it snowed and winter happened and here we are.

Stella calved this January and had a heifer (that would be a girl). Because the cattle we have are purebred Limousin, they are registered. When registering cattle, they need a tattoo. Our tattoo numbers are determined by order born in the year. The tattoo also has a letter and the letter is determined by the year. This year is X. Why? Because last year was W. So people can quickly know the year the calf was born by looking at the tattoo. We like to name the animals according to the letter year they were born too. So Stella has a baby girl named Xena. Xena the sirloin princess. I'd like to congratulate my brother in law for winning the name the calf contest.

Stella and Xena will be here soon. The grass is growing and the weather has been warm (ish). We are about 3 weeks ahead of where we were last year at this time. Bud will join them and I can't wait until he gets here. I want to going riding so bad it's darn near killing me. We may also have another little cow, who calved last summer joining us with her calf. Her calf will have the same fate as Fuzz Butt and possibly Xena this fall as well. We may trade Xena to our neighbours as payment for housing our animals at their farm next winter. Then she'll get to live to a ripe old age, having babies of her own just like her mama. It will be great having the animals next door. The horse will be here all winter! So I can ride all winter!

Fixing the fencing is in progress right now. We want to fence in the back pasture so we'll have 3 pastures to rotationally graze all summer long. Everyone will be happy and fat from the fresh grass. Our garden is tilled and ready for rows. We've added peat moss, compost (home made) sheep manure, cattle manure, rabbit manure (thanks Bunny Bunny, I'll never say you've never given us anything) I'm hoping to plant the onions and garlic (from started cloves) this weekend. But I say I, when I really mean Martin. I need him to handle the rig that is our tiller.

Martin made really good salsa last year, so I'm hoping to grow all the ingredients for it organically this year in our garden. I've never grown garlic or coriander before, so that should be interesting. I'd like to harvest broccoli this year rather than watch the green worms eat it all. If the potatoes are bigger than the size of a golf ball that would be a bonus too. Can you tell I'm better at raising animals than vegetables? Big bull, little potatoes.

I also want to raise a few turkeys plus there are a gazillion other things I'd like to do. At this Martin shakes his head and calls me a dreamer. But that's ok. That's what makes it fun.

Letters

2010-04-13T09:16:00.003-03:00

It took a while to get my head around it. I think it would for any parent. I think we always knew something was off, but just hoped it would be OK. That, I don't know, he'd grow out of it. I can't tell you the exact time it became obvious to me, but grade primary really made it clear to everyone that our boy had a learning disability of some kind.

It scared me. I can't speak for Mart, but I think he'd agree in the early years. It felt like a life sentence and I wouldn't accept it. I defended him like an angry mother bear. We couldn't be the only ones to see the sweet, smart boy, could we? But if he was a normal little boy, why couldn't he read the alphabet? Why could he remember one day and not the next? Why could he not see the letters on a page? Why was he so lost?

School was beyond hard. He cried. Everyday he cried.

I've learned to find strength as a mother. Learned to be an advocate. Learned that letters after your name doesn't mean you know best. The only way I can describe his life in school from primary to grade 6 is a fight. I fought tooth and nail, and stood before principals, teachers, professionals and told them they were wrong. That I may not know what is wrong, but I know my boy is not stupid and I know my boy does not have ADHD.

The first educational assessment done was in grade 2. He was still in French Immersion (it took me 2 more years to convince the school board to take him out). Because he hadn't been taught English reading or spelling, they told me they could not properly evaluate that area. (Which is the area he struggles in) Therefor his assessment was inconclusive, but his behaviour in class fits the profile of ADHD and from there out he was labelled.

There have been 2 things I will not budge on when it comes to my boy. 1) he has at least average intelligence and belongs in a class with his piers. 2) he does not have ADHD. The hard part has been how to convince people who have framed papers hanging on the wall, making them the expert, facing a girl young enough to be their own daughter, that they are wrong and I'm not just a delusional mother who won't accept reality. I know kids with ADHD, they take medication and are wonderful. But this was not the case for my boy and it was not going to help. It would be like treating him for an ear infection when he had a broken toe.

In grade 4 we got the assessment done again privately. This time it was magic. It was like she cracked open his head, looked at all the pieces and figured out how he worked. The report came and I was washed over with relief. Finally someone agreed with us. Finally someone with letters after their name, papers framed on the wall, saw what we always had. She found that he has a severe learning disability in phonological processing-rapid naming. Not ADHD. The symptoms of those 4 little letters were brought on by insurmountable stress and frustration. Eliminate one and the other will take care of itself. He had been coping the only way he could, which wasn't well, by avoidance.

Up until then we were lost together in the woods. We knew there was a mountain to climb, but we didn't know which one, or where it was. We were so lost. And our boy was losing himself. He hated himself. He hated that he couldn't read. Hated that he felt stupid. That he was different from his friends. This little boy held his secret tight. He didn't want anyone to know. Up until the second assessment, we had no way to help. My heart breaks at the thought of how much he was hurting inside.

Since then, we've moved. Changed school districts and we are, I dare say nearing the top of the mountain. Our boy is happy and proud and doesn't have to carry around a dark secret anymore. We have worked so hard to get here.

Then the other day, his LD specialist emailed and said "He is quite tired lately and I see he has ADHD, has his medications changed?" I freaked out. Frantically typed an email. Erased it and tried not to panic. Suddenly we were back to square one. After 4 years of progress. I was scratching at the earth to get hold and keep us from sliding back down the mountain we'd just climbed. That it took us 4 years to climb. I sent an email explaining. I hope she couldn't hear my panic. I hope she believes me. I hope we don't end up screwing something up and lose his program. All for 4 nasty little misplaced letters.

Sometimes I wonder if I brought this on him. Having him so young. I didn't want to be pregnant. It was......it just wasn't supposed to be like that. I screwed up and he was being punished for what I had done. I know it's not true, but sometimes it wanders into my mind. I know in my heart why, if there is fate or a great plan, he was given to me. I would be lost in many ways without him.

I don't wish for my life to be any different. I love my boy just the way he is with his unique mind. I have been a mother longer than I've been an adult, but I have no regrets. Our boy will struggle with his learning disability for his whole life. I just wish for him to live life easy. I think most parents want the same for their kids.

Jiggidy Jig

2010-03-25T15:56:00.003-03:00

I've been on the road alot lately. So it is every spring and fall. Maybe I secretly want to be a goose, I dunno.

Sometimes it's nice to get away, even if it is for work. A hotel room all to myself is almost better than an empty house. I don't have to clean it. The quiet and privacy are as good as chocolates on a pillow. I have no one to answer to but myself. The miserably difficult decision of what to cook for supper isn't mine to make. Ahhhhh.

But then the conference is over and I go home.

I walked in the door the other evening, and was greeted by Reiley and a long, real hug. Which is surprising since Reiley, at 13 is too cool for such things and my hugs have been slowly reduced to one arm awkward pats on the shoulder. The hug lasted for like 5 minutes, and with my boots and coat still on was a bit long, but I wasn't missing the opportunity to hug my boy/man.

Shady, my only girl, even if she's a dog, trots up all excited to see me and actually speaks. Rooowwwwllll she says with her whole butt wagging in delight. Then trots off to fetch her new bone to show me. She carries it with pride. Tickled pink with herself.

Owen comes scrambling from where ever he was playing, leaps into my arms and tells me all about what I've missed in sentences without periods. He played with bouncy balls in gym and had pizza for lunch but not from the cafeteria, from home, cuz Dad made it last night and why didn't I pack his hat because it was cold and he's playing with his bionicles and do I know where his lost toy is....I wish I was six again some days.

Martin stands back and watches, I see his smiles. He waits his turn. His face is fresh shaven and kisses deliciously soft. His hugs are like batteries and recharge me. Ahhhh. I love coming home.

The art of being grumpy if there is such thing.

2010-03-11T11:26:00.003-04:00

It's ugly. I can't picture anything uglier. It feels ugly and I have no control. My sugar drops and like a full moon rising this thing builds inside me and I change right before your very eyes into a beast. Werewolves would be kinder I think.

I snarl and spew venom at anyone within range. The kids run and hide. The oldest son, teaching the youngest to just stay away. Martin treads carefully testing the degree of grumpiness, and asks what's for supper. I snarl, growl, show fangs. Wolves come out of the woods hearing my howls. If it's full blown he ducks. If it's not he guides me and I grumble and growl as I prepare the meat for the meal. Some days he tries to make the meal but ROAR, I don't want to eat that! So he doesn't.

When he's brave, Martin puts on his armour, yields his sword and tries to tame the beast. Deflects my bites and gets close enough to shove some food down my throat. Beer works. Or wine. Sometimes even a cookie. Then as quickly as it came, the murderous tendencies fade and I purr like a kitten. The beast is sedated. He gives me a scratch behind the ear and I change back into myself.

Some people in my family like to tease the beast (not naming names brothers) and poke me to see just how enraged I can get. A game to them. I snarl, they laugh. Which is why when I was a kid and kicked my oldest brother square in the nose, my mother told him he deserved it and I got away scott free.

It would be nice if I never got grumpy at all, but it's genetic. A characteristic of my father and I that the family has decided is within limits to tease us about. (no they did not consult us when that was decided) My father and I growl at each other and as life would have it, understand each other quite well.

At least my kids are like Martin. Slayers of dragons and not dragons themselves. My oldest brother has the kids with the grumpy gene. Who said nature doesn't have a sense of humour?

Raven Hill

2010-02-18T09:30:00.004-04:00

I woke up to the singing of a cheeseburger bird the other morning. Laying in the coziness of my bed, eyes still shut, but mind gracefully awakened. I smiled.

Cheeeeseburger. Cheeeeeeseburger.

Well, that's what it sounds like anyway. They're actually Chickadees. The morning call sounds like cheesesburger and the evening call sounds like chicka dee deee deeee. Either way, I was happy to hear it. Spring.

Funny hearing spring from outside my bedroom window. I guess that's why I left my eyes closed. So I could imagine the heat of the sun and green grass. I let myself lay in the daydream for a while, rather than crawl out to the reality of 2 feet of snow. No harm in it, it was Sunday.

I love where we live. One reason is the birds.

I first met them while standing in the field. The ravens' stealthy flight betrayed by the swoosh of wind over their wingspan. Six of them came flying over from the south. Hanging so low I could reach up and touch them. They coo to each other and speak in series of click clacks that sound alien. Without understanding the meaning I still found it oddly comforting. Kind. A conversation. The six veer off in pairs. Each to their own nest. Neighbours in a community. One pair nests in the woods just out of sight from the house. Their coos and click clacks could be heard all summer and soon the pair was joined in flight by two more. A family of four.

Last spring the ravens prepared their nest. In the same clump of trees on the east side of the house. Hidden from our prying eyes. But then something changed from the year before. A murder of crows, strictly forbidden by the ravens from entering the airspace above our fields, gathered across the road. The meeting could be heard for miles. Apparently crows don't take turns when talking.

The next day the ravens were gone and a dozen crows sat in our yard, on the fence post, in the pasture. The ravens had been dethroned. Their nest was empty. No young were born. The pair stayed, but did not defend their territory against the crows. I guess there was no reason. No young to protect. Ravens mate for life. In their marriage they share the successful seasons as well as those of loss. I felt bad for the pair.

After climbing from bed the other morning, with the chickadees song still in my mind, I looked out the window to see if I could catch a glimpse of the bird that brought me spring. Instead, I see the pair of ravens, perched in the old dead birch that we call the raven tree. Not a crow to be seen.

To Haiti with Love

2010-02-01T12:45:00.007-04:00

It's old news the disaster in Haiti. The images no longer flash on the television screen during our dinner hour. But the kids are still there. Still dusting themselves off. Still struggling for what comes so easy to us. I turn the tap and water magically comes out. Clean. Cold. Good. My children go to bed each night swathed in warm blankets with loving kisses on their forheads. Their bellies fed and full. Knowing only a world of love, warmth and peace. We are lucky.

Today an auction opened up called To Haiti with Love. An auction which was organized and executed within days by people with hearts bigger than the whole world. Artists of all kinds offered gifts to auction from all over everywhere.

I've never sold any of my carvings. They are a hobby of mine that I enjoy fiddling away with. I never really imagined anyone would enjoy them as much as I do. But before I really even knew what I'd done, I had donated an owl to the cause. It is the only time I've ever revealed to the world a peice of my art. For all to see and possibly criticize. But it is all I have to give. I'll trade my owl, and put my work out for the world to see, this fragile rarely seen side of me, for Haiti. For the kids who don't even have anything to pull out of the rubble.

All of my carvings, all the art in the world, is such a luxury. Hopefully this week it will all be put to practical use and raise much needed money for kids who have so little. So please visit the auction and bid. You'll take home some wonderful art and help Haiti all in the click of a mouse.

Super Genius

2010-01-28T11:27:00.004-04:00

Owen and Dad had a sliding party to attend Sunday afternoon with the beavers.

Dad: It's going to be a nice day. Minus 2 and sunny. A perfect day for sliding.
Owen: Yup, but not for haying.

I sometimes forget he pays attention to EVERYTHING and forgets nothing.

I've really got to stop letting him watch discovery channel. Sometimes kids can know too much. On the drive home I get this little lesson.

Owen: Do you know how to drift mom? Because to drift you go around the corner and turn the wheel a bit then back real fast then back again hard and then you're drifting. You have to do it fast. And you have to drive around the corner faster mom if you want to do it. They do it on Cars (meaning the movie) but that's not the real way because they only turn the wheel once and really they have to do it a bit one way then again the other way fast.

Me: OK, but do I have to try it today?

Owen: No because you probably don't know how but when I get big and I can drive I'll show you.

One of his favorite shows is Canada's Worst Driver. I never understood the appeal it had to a 5 year old, but it didn't bother me that he watched it. It's censored, it's on when I need him out of my hair while cooking supper and it's better than those crappy cartoons. I didn't realize that he was actually paying attention to the lessons. That he was actually learning how to drive!

Dognapper?

2010-01-21T09:02:00.004-04:00

Her name is Lucy. Or was Lucy. I'm never sure what tense to use. She has tan fur with a black back and looks a lot like a compact german shepherd. She's been missing since before Christmas, so I figure she must be dead. The only other logical reason for her to still be missing is that someone took her. I almost prefer the idea that she's dead. The thought of her being stolen just doesn't make sense in my head. Death is part of life, especially with pets, so for her to die is more acceptable for me. For her to be lost by no natural means, by a malicious human act, I just can't get my head around.

Maybe we'll find our neighbours dog once the snow melts, in the ditch. The victim of a hit and run. She often ran up and down the road and it wouldn't surprise me if that were her fate. There are many blind crests and turns on our road. I just wish we knew.

Yesterday our neighbour across the road, who just got a 1 year old yellow lab named Nova came to visit. Nova is missing. The last time we saw her was Sunday.

This neighbour had a dog Ben, who he let roam free. Ben, an intact male, made himself into a very bad pest. We feared causing a rift but had to tell the man to keep his dog home. Actually we didn't care if he stayed home, we just didn't want him on our property anymore. Shady couldn't go outside to pee without him humping her. (No she wasn't in heat) We offered advice (get him fixed, get an invisible fence) but the man is a stubborn backwards minded sort and his response was "I'm not getting him fixed, he'll get fat, and them there fences don't work worth a damn and I'm not putting a penny more into this dog". So he traded Ben for his sister. He's had her since the new year and has kept a closer eye on her. She's only been in our yard twice that I've noticed. Nova couldn't help her puppy self on Sunday when Shady and the kids went out to play and bounded across the road to join in. Mart and I worried that the problem would begin again, but she hasn't been back. So we've been pleased. The problem now is where is she?

There are sick twisted people who smile politely, do a good job in pretending and are careful in not saying anything that would reveal their true selves. But in our neighbourhood? Really? Most families on our road have dogs. People don't use our road unless you live on it or near it. Who would just happen to drive by, while Lucy and Nova just happened to be out, and take them? And why?

I really wish I knew where these dogs have gone. I'd like to know if they were shot, or trapped or hit. That would give closure to their families, and make me feel a lot more safe about my dog. If some sicko is out stealing dogs, how can I protect my dog from that? An odd thing to have to choose, an accident or a sicko, death or kidnapping.

Float like a butterfly

2010-01-14T15:28:00.004-04:00

It seems fitting that I'm here during the time of year full of resolutions and weight loss. And since it's not February yet, those resolutions haven't even been broken yet.

I woke up to 2010 amongst four piles stacked high of files, each in a different state of completion, and working every waking hour. Feeling swamped and stressed and similar to a pile of shit, I decided to do something different.

I chopped off my hair. Well, that's not all that different, but it's been in a pony tail for a long time. I even highlighted it. Which to all the ladies out there wouldn't give cause for a cheer, but it did for me, as I've never ever had anything put in my hair. So I felt much the same as I did when I was 7 and was allowed to get my ears pierced. Finally taking the step long after it was considered cool. But still, my own token of whatever to show that I'm not so different from all of you. I just wanted to feel pretty.

I also checked off another item from my life list. If I were to actually write one it would contain things such as: husband (check), kids (check), farm (getting there), career (check), Africa, learn Italian, dog sled, learn violin and on and on. But the one I checked off has been nagging at me for a bit. So I'm super excited to have joined boxing.

If I had to identify myself in two words I'd say farm girl. That's probably the best fit. Being a farm kid, strength was always considered an asset. Growing up in, and working in agriculture, I've always been a little girl, largely under estimated, in a big man world. But, secretly I know that I can hold my own. Pound for pound I may even have some guys beat. This is something I've always taken pride in. So this boxing fits perfectly with me. It's full of heavy metal, sweat, swearing, grunting, ugly gym pants and workouts from hell. These girls are tough and there will be no gentle. When I leave, I am exhausted and satisfied I have given every ounce of effort. I can't lift my coffee mug the next day, but it feels so good. I float like a butterfly, heart and soul.

So this year has begun fresh and strong. What is good for the muscles is good for the mind. Twice per week I climb out from under my piles of work and give a heavy bag hell. At this pace, 2010 is going to be a great year.

water water everywhere

2009-12-23T12:28:00.003-04:00

Have you ever been desperately thirsty? Drink out of a mud puddle thirsty?

My brother in law was visiting. It is a treat, his company, travelling far and sharing his time with us. So with his arrival the celebration began. After an evening sharing many beer and a bottle of wine we tucked in for the night. It is then, that I experienced thirst like no other.

I was travelling, visiting kitchens of folks with no faces, but with a feeling of familiarity and friendship. Other places unknown, new to me. All quite pleasant, and all with one thing in common. Water. As dreams often take you, chopped and pasted together with little continuity, there I was gulping glass after glass of crystal clear water. It sparkled and shined like the sun, magic in my hand.

Then I woke up. My breath like dust in my mouth.

Nothing dries you out like wine. It sucked water from each cell that forms my being. Certain if I were to glimpse my image reflected at me I would see a shrivelled mummified creature. I dared not look when I passed the mirror hung on my bedroom wall. Instead, searched for my robe and traipsed upstairs at 2:00 am. A glass is left on the counter, I grab for it and fill it. Eyes half, closed, brain only functioning with one purpose, screaming WATER at me, I gulp it down. Then realize the off taste is due to the dried milk from the previous user. It was the glass Owen had used at supper.

This has happened to me before. Well, not the dream, but the desperation from thirst. Far from a water source, and not fussy about the ownership of water bottles, I drank what was left of each I could find. Mart's, Reiley's, Owen's. Owen's bottle was last. It wasn't until the last few gulps remained that my brain stopped screaming WATER at me, and I was able to process other things. Unfortunately it was to notice Owen's snack floating in the water that remained.

The next day, the ache in my head reminded me of my dehydrated state, but after the milky drink, my gag reflex won out over my thirst. I had returned to bed to finish the night in a fitful sleep without another drop.

The moral of this story: Make sure you drink plenty of water after wine, and kids backwash.

there is nothing fast about fasting

2009-12-08T10:55:00.004-04:00

It doesn't even cross my mind most evenings. No big deal. But tell me I can't eat, and it's a whole different ball game. I had to get blood taken Monday morning and this required that I fast for at least 12 hours. Twelve whole hours.

My dad had a heart attack when he was 43. Blocked artery due to high cholesterol. He didn't have a high cholesterol diet or anything, was a fit healthy guy. But his body lacked the ability to properly rid itself of excess cholesterol and so the inevitable occurred. He's fine and dandy today and will celebrate his sixtieth birthday next August. This little tidbit into my personal background is why I had to starve myself for twelve hours and get blood taken. To try to avoid the whole heart attack, near death experience and all that. The starving part is the reason I haven't done it sooner.

We are generally late eaters. I only get home around 5:30, so supper isn't on the table until 6:00 at the earliest. You would think that eating a full supper at 6:30 and not eating again until breakfast would be no big deal. You would think that, but you would be wrong. As soon as the clock passed 7:00, the fast began, and regardless of how long ago I ate, my stomach growled. My kids were helpful and oh so kind. They kindly ate their bedtime snacks next to me. Taking their time. (I think they took their time more to avoid bed than to tease me, but still.) I was a dog at their feet, trying not to look, but sneaking a darting glance and swallowing quietly.

The next morning I woke early, dragged my butt out the door and drove the 20 km to the hospital, only to realize as I arrived, my papers were sitting on the side table by the door. Forgotten. So much for getting this done early. I turned around and went home, fetched the papers and drove back. I wasn't fasting again. The idea was to get this done and enjoy a nice breakfast before work. Instead I was waiting in the hospital ready to chew off my arm, certain my stomach was starting to dissolve its own lining, going on hour 14 of my fast. Poor suffering children of Africa, I feel for you, on my pathetic journey of not eating for one whole night. I hadn't even missed a meal yet. But the mind is a powerful thing.

There are good things and bad things about small towns. Bad thing: we have no family doctor. Good thing: there are no people, and therefor, no line ups. I was in and out before Breakfast Television even broke for commercial. Had the best breakfast ever! Only a bagel, but the best bagel on earth I am certain. I even got to work on time. My ordeal was over. Since I no longer had to fast, that evening, after a wonderful supper, I never ate another thing.

let the games begin

2009-12-04T11:21:00.007-04:00

I thought it was over at 9:00, but there was no sign of kids leaving so I went in to find my budding teen. I pulled the door and entered another dimension. The semi-formal junior high dance. The air was hot, the music loud and I felt old.

The girls took the opportunity to show off bra straps or lack there of, and more skin than the dress code regularly allows. They floated around in dresses, limping from shoes too big, heels too high. Officially initiated into the world of womanhood where, for some reason I've not yet understood, vanity outranks comfort. Some were beautiful, in dresses well suited to them. Others, I can't believe their parents bought them that getup, let alone allowed them to leave the house. They each had a try practicing their skills for the mating game. Some dared join in, other ran away in swarms of high pitched giggles.

I couldn't help but laugh to myself at the display.

The guys pretended not to care. To not notice. Practicing skills themselves. The brave using the slow dance as prime opportunity to take a turn playing the game. Most boys walked faster when a slow song started. Either searching for, or avoiding a girl. I couldn't tell which. A few brave pairs dared the next level and held hands. The girlfriend taller than the boyfriend. Dragging him along with her throng of friends. I asked Martin why a boy would subject himself to it at that age. "Because you got to hold her hand" was his answer.

Eventually the last song was played and the game was over. The budding teens returned to being just kids and found their parents for a ride home.

*************

I find it interesting. Like a study of social behaviour. To watch from the outside as Reiley enters what will be the most socially challenging years he has yet encountered. To see it all from a different perspective. Sometimes the reality I see now is vastly different from what I remember of that age. I worry for Reiley, but remember that as an adult it will all mean much less.

dog farts and other foulness

2009-12-01T13:54:00.003-04:00

No one needs to even deny it when the smell comes wafting around the room. So heavy is the stench it is slow moving and lingers long. There is no question the source. If a human were ever to create a smell like a dog fart, they best be on the way to the hospital. It could wake us from a deep Saturday afternoon nap on the couch. Clear the room regardless of the activity. Cause everyone and everything to repel, except the dog herself. She sleeps through it. Her own brand I guess. I think I've even witnessed the leaves of the plants curl.

My Shady Lady is the prettiest thing. She trots through her day the epitome of happiness. A glimpse of her makes me smile. Her fluffy feathered tail bobbing this way and that. Never still. But a few days ago she rolled in the nastiest of all nasties. Even after a bath the stench of something dead remains. Not a skunk, that might be pleasant in comparison, more like the intestines of a skunk. Pretty as a picture, all that is missing are the stink lines. She's even rolled in fresh manure patties.

She doesn't stink all the time. Most of the time she's super soft and carries no oily dog smell at all. But when she finds that perfect spot outside, her taste in wonderful smells and mine differ widely. How can such a pretty girl smell so bad?

a stamp in time

2009-11-29T10:18:00.003-04:00

Reiley and Dad were wrestling on the kitchen floor. A scene that plays out more and more often these days. I sit by pretending not to care, acting as official judge, but I can't hide my smile. I love having boys. Owen jumps in, or more like jumps on the heap. He's not really noticed, his 40 lbs. He lands a few punches, but really it's like watching a mouse beat up an elephant.

Dad pins Reiley in some wrestling position, leaving his butt exposed. Always cheering for the underdog, I coach Owen from the sideline. "Spank Reiley's butt Owen, spank him!" Reiley wiggles and squirms to avoid what's coming. Owen laughs then asks "What's a spanking?"

Reiley and I were watching TV, the Olympic Cheerios commercial where the boy mails an athlete a post card. Reiley admits to me "You know mom, I don't know how to do that." "What?" I ask "Mail something?" "Yeah, I can email him, but I don't know how to send paper."

I imagine 30 years ago, I be viewed as a failure as the matriarch to this family. Failing to enforce dicipline and teach life skills. Owen doesn't know what a spanking is, Reiley can't send a letter, and well, the dog has never had her nose stuffed into a puddle of pee. I'm glad times have changed, but I really should teach the boy what a stamp is.

Brotherly love

2009-11-20T13:56:00.004-04:00

What is it about seeing our siblings hurt that tickles our funny bone so? When I retell the story I break out into full belly laughter. I can't help it. I'm giggling now as I write this.

My brother had (or has) a ganglion on his wrist. A bump the size of a golf ball filled with fluid until it's hard. To the old folks it would be better known as a bible bump. Reasoning behind the name is that to get rid of it you need to hit it as hard as you can with the biggest book in the house. In the old days that would be the bible. Mart used to have one, until he hit it has hard as he could against the leg of the desk. It's never come back since.

Being the concerned sister that I am, I thought we should get rid of this irritant, and who better to help my dear old brother than me. Owen's hard cover children's bible was the perfect tool for the job. He sat on the edge of the bed with his arm on his knee while I lined up and took a few practice swings for aim. Maybe he didn't think that I would do it. Maybe I didn't think I could really purposely hit someone as hard as I could. But what do you know, it was easy. I swung as hard as I could, and hit him as hard as I could, without hesitation. Too bad I missed the bump and hit his hand instead. That's the risk you take when you get your sister to act as a doctor I guess. In my defence he did give me permission. All I could do after was wipe away tears of laughter. My broken words of sorry, offered through my hysterics were little comfort. But it was funny as hell. I'd never before got to hit my brother that hard without getting pummeled afterwards. I probably won't get the chance again. It was a sweet victory for a little sister.

While visiting this side of the country, which only happens once per year since he lives a whole continent away, we fell into our old rhythm. It was good to have him home. To hang out again. It was even better to laugh my fool head off at his expense. There is no love like that for a brother.

a theory

2009-11-16T16:40:00.004-04:00

I love animals. Not in the save all the kittens and puppies kind of way (but all the power to those of you who do). More in a scientific study of the species kind of way. They interest me. I like watching their interactions and place in the world. I find it amusing to catch mirror images of humans in them. To remind me that we aren't so far removed from our old animal selves. We aren't necessarily at the top of the food chain, or the intellectual chain as we so like to think.

Driving down the highway, have you ever seen tire tracks that for no apparent reason take a 90 degree turn into the ditch? Straight stretch of road, then bam, in the ditch. I've always wondering what would possess someone driving at 110 km/hr to suddenly crank the wheel to the right and head for the weeds. On my way to a friends house the other night, I came up with a theory. Raccoons.

Raccoons are interesting things. I love their dexterity, ability to learn, resourcefulness and cunning, but that is where it ends. I have no affection for these guys beyond an interest in watching their paws work like hands and watching them make easy work of opening a latch to a garbage can. There is a second between 'huh, cool, he figured it out' and chasing it away, sticks, rocks and curse words flying. Raccoons and I have a bit of a history.

While camping in Kejimkujik national park, we packed up for the night, stowed our food and things away and tucked into the tent. I've just found that sweet spot in the bed that is perfectly comfy and warm, and sleep is taking over, when a few campsites away I hear rustling. Rattle of pots and pans, the scrunching sound of plastic bags, boxes being upset. The sound progresses campsite to campsite, heading our way. Then I hear them on our picnic table. Just outside the tent. I wait. No big deal, we've put everything away. So they'll lick a spoon, who cares? I didn't care until I heard the unmistakable sound of our cooler opening. I have never jumped from bed and scurried out of a tent so quickly in all my life. I jump/fall from the zippered opening, flash light in hand. "AHhhrrrrr! Get the fuck out of my food!" Two steps out of the tent I stop and see 5 raccoons staring at me in my underwear. Stunned looks on their faces. One on the picnic table, one with his paw in the cooler, 2 more around the edge of the campsite and another not more than 3 feet from me. All frozen. They didn't move. I took a step forward, stomped my foot. So did the raccoon. What the hell?! I'm in a stand off with a raccoon. A big raccoon. Apparently they get quite fat off people food. Go figure. In a flurry of throwing rocks and more cursing I win the stand off and they retreat to the woods. I place 20 lbs of fire wood on the cooler and tell them to fuck off and go back to bed. They woke me up twice more that night, but never got past my clever barricade on the cooler. So hooray for me, I'm smarter than a coon. All they got was a loaf of bread.

So it's with mixed feelings the way I developed my theory on those tire tracks. On a straight stretch of highway Mr Raccoon scuttles out onto the road, changes his mind, changes his mind again, and line dances back and forth in front of me until he finds his way under my tire. I saw him. I saw him do his little dance of indecisiveness. I could have tried to avoid him, but then I'd be doing a zig zag myself. In a car. Going fast. And I'd end up in the weeds with headache and a 90 degree skid mark in my wake. Maybe that's what people do. Try to save the cute little animal. Instead I held tight to the wheel and hoped Mr Raccoon would get his ass off the road, or at least decide under the truck would be better than under the wheel, but no. With a considerable thud he's hit. Sorry about that Mr Raccoon, I didn't wish you dead, but better your hide than mine. You should have stayed off the highway, and out of my cooler.

Master Hobbes needs a watch

2009-11-09T12:57:00.003-04:00

Animals can tell time. Incredibly well. Back when I was working on a dairy farm, I could set my watch to the cows. Each morning at the same time, they were in the same place, doing the same thing. Perhaps most wouldn't find this as much a display of their ability to tell time, but more of their eat, sleep, chew cud lifestyle. Maybe a better example would be dogs. My childhood dog Sandy, would wait outside on the doorstep each day, at the same time, waiting for my bus. She even learned my soccer schedule.

So knowing how habitual animals are in their own way, and how well they can tell time, I feel bad when the time changes. Twice a year, Hobbes, our never misses a meal cat, gets frustrated and, well, down right mad, when we stop feeding him on time. Each night in our house, the dog and cat get fed at 7:00 pm, after we've done our supper. It's been 2 weeks since the time changed and Hobbes has not yet adjusted. Instead, he sits starring at the door to the closet which holds his food, at 5:30. (He has always preferred arriving for supper early in case the waiters choose to accommodate him.) Come 6:00, he is insistent we've made an error, that we are late. And how dare we treat him this way! Meow meow meow. It's a good thing cats cannot move things with their minds. Though I think they are still trying to master it. If so, the closet door would open and food would pour into his bowl. Until he masters it, he will sit and stare at the door and curse us up and down, voicing his displeasure. Meow meow meow for an hour. He has an amazing ability to tell us exactly how pissed off he is, just by the slant of his ears and squint of his eyes. After an hour and a half, he has few kind words for us.

Poor Hobbes, I think he'd vote to not change the time each season. Hopefully he'll adjust soon and stop giving his servants the evil eyes and cold shoulder.

Gobble Gobble with 1 horse power

2009-11-04T13:32:00.006-04:00

There was a glitch in the sending off of the bull. He wouldn't get on the trailer. (Someone must have told him where it was going.) After a muddy morning walking the field, trying to convince him, and a small mental break down, a plan was scratched out. After a phone call (well, 3 if you count the ones to my Mom asking for guidance), one day and two nights, a corral is made. Mr. Butt has a new pick up date and hopefully (because I'm not exhaling until he's secured on that trailer) he'll be on my plate in 2 weeks.

What excites me about all this (because lets face it, this bull is old news, and wearing me down) is that we had 30, 13ft rails delivered to make this corral which we didn't need all of. So now I have the logs I need to build a movable poultry coop! I'm very excited because I love poultry but it isn't allowed on our property to roam free. They poop everywhere. Everywhere. Front steps, lawn furniture, BBQ, etc.

We didn't get any chickens or turkeys this year for 2 reasons. First we had enough on our plates and secondly because even though they can't roam free, I didn't want them stuck in one place with no fresh ground, grass, bugs to scratch and eat in. Mom made a movable coop years ago, but she has tractors and whatnot to haul the thing around. A friend even visited a farm with the same idea. But I didn't, and therefor, was stuck. Until I had an epiphany and realized I've had the horse power all along.... Bud! He loves hauling stuff around and he can pull heavy stuff. So in my design there will be a place on each corner to hook a rope that I'll then hook to the horse and off we go. Since Bud can be a finicky sort, I'll practice before I put the turkeys in, just in case he takes off. I wouldn't want roadkill in the field.

I'm all excited for spring now. I'll have turkeys again, which are so fun. They will be free range, or fit the definition having fresh grass and bugs each day. Plus our neighbour told me he'd love to buy one, so I already have a sale. Thanks giving and Christmas will be extra tasty next year.

Earning my keep

2009-10-27T13:03:00.005-03:00

The bull is going to the butcher on Thursday. Yahoo. I like seeing the finished product of a years work. He is a beautiful 14 month old boy. Yummy eating for 4 lucky families this winter. The only sad part is the cow Stella and the horse Bud are going back to Yarmouth for the winter, since I have no barn yet. My financial plans still rely heavily on winning the lottery. So I have to hang up my coveralls and saddle for a couple of months.

Since I've had to wait until now for the critters to go home, they've been out in the pasture. In case you didn't notice the grass stopped growing a couple of weeks ago. Since their arrival in spring, I've had to buy 4 round bales of hay. Two back in August when they were staring at how much greener the grass was on the other side of the fence. Green grass I hadn't finished fencing in. So 2 weeks of hay got them by until I could open the gate. The other 2 bales fed them the past 2 weeks since the grass declared it winter.

When cutting grass, be it for hay, haylage or silage, nutrients are being removed. Without putting fertilizer of some type back on, the soil will quickly loose it's ability to grow anything but weeds. Because I have no equipment, or money, and would like to stay as natural and as close to organic as possible I've not been able to put fertilizer back on. A great farmer/agrologist/consultant told me that people have to earn the right to harvest a crop. I'm ashamed to say that I have not fully earned that right. The cows and horse do fertilize as they go, but not enough to even out what is being removed. I was hoping for wood ash to put on the field, which is organic, natural, and oh so good for the soil. But October decided it wanted to be a mansoon for halloween and the fields are too wet to get anywhere near with a tractor. Next year.

The good part of all this is that the left over pooped on, walked on hay that the animals didn't eat (which is a significant amount) was piled to rot all summer. Since this hay was cut very late, the grass had gone to seed. So now, I have something to give back to the soil. The very grass that removes alot of nutrients when harvested also gives it back. This rotten peed on, pooped on grass is now spread out, fretilizing the field and reseeding at the same time. Areas that the horse had paced down to the bedrock now have green grass growing. Hooray. This had turned out to be a very good use for this old hay. Some of it went in the garden too. That should help break up the clay and improve the soil structure.

The goal for next year is to have the back field fenced off and do a better job of rotational grazing. Because wood ash doesn't supply any nitrogen, I'm fiddling with the idea of frost seeding triple mix to add clover to the fields, which will hopefully help it produce its own. Wood ash will be used next year and everyone will end up happy. I'll have earned my crop, the cows and horse will have better grass and the soil will have the nutrients it needs. All naturally.

Stone age hunter

2009-10-22T09:28:00.006-03:00

I don't know where I get these ideas, but they make sense to me. Well at least at the time they do.

Have you ever read the children's book Little Red Hen? The hen decides to make bread, so she plants the wheat, threshes it, mills it, then bakes her bread. The other farm yard animals laugh at her, so in the end, she doesn't share. Sounds pretty easy. So I figure I should find out just how much wheat you'd have to plant to get enough flour to bake bread. Forget that I don't have a mill. What difference does that make. They did it in the old days. Last summer the lawn was mess of tall grass because we decided to build our house in a hayfield. The mower really couldn't handle the 4 ft grass, we needed a tractor and a hay mower. Since we don't have a hay mower, I figured Dad's old scythe would work just dandy. It did in the old days.

In case you're wondering I did learn that inventions and modern technology were born by need. Hay mowers and grain mills were no exception. But I still fall back to the old tools. It's a problem. I'm working on it.

Mr (or Mrs) Coyote was in our field last evening around supper time. Just standing there, taking his time wandering through the field. No worries at all. Not even the least bit skittish. We watched from the kitchen window as he tracked through the grass, under the fence and into the pasture with the horse and cows. The nerve of this guy! How bold is he! I don't want him around. I don't want him for the safety of our cat, our dog and all future animals that come onto our place. Coyotes are all fine and dandy, and quite pretty really, but they belong in the woods, away from people. They should be scared of people. So I went outside. Me and Mr Coyote were going to have a little chat.

I walked right up to the fence, maybe 50 feet from this fella and he stood there. Just stood there. Looking at me as if he were there just to check out the local entertainment. So I picked up a rock and walked into the field. Circling down wind so I had the advantage. If I could have I would have liked to sneak up on him and scare the living daylights out of him. But as Martin noted to me earlier in the evening when speaking of my diabolical plan, that perhaps sneaking up on a wild animal who hunts for a living isn't the smartest thing to do. But it would be funny. Or fun. Probably both. I wanted the coyote to be scared of us, thus leaving us alone and minding his own territory. As I got closer he moved away, back towards the woods. I would have kept chasing him, but the two deer who live in our field showed up and blew my cover. Not that an open field and a graceless human have much cover. But I didn't want to chase away the deer, just Mr Coyote. So I reluctantly went back inside.

Back in the house, Martin asks what I was doing. I'm sure he was watching and laughing from the window at the sight of his wife tramping through the fields after a coyote. Because you know, he's good that way.
"Did he turn on you" he asks
"No, I just didn't want to scare the deer. Besides, I had a rock"
"A rock. What did you plan to do? Defend yourself with a rock?"
"No, throw it at him. But I couldn't get close enough"
We don't own a gun. But Owen and Reiley were playing with a sling shot. Perhaps if I could practice and get good enough at aiming I could hit him with a rock. That'll scare him off.

Mr Coyote didn't go anywhere. Our little chat was not effective. He stayed in that field staring at the house until it was too dark to see him. Probably wondering who the hell that strange person was coming after him in the field. He'll be back though, if nothing else for the entertainment. But I'll be ready, with my stone age tools. A rock and a slingshot. That'll teach him.

the brink of teen

2009-10-21T09:32:00.003-03:00

Remember being on the cusp of 13? I remember. Grade 7 and the first peek at being a teenager. First year in a new school. Lockers. Walking the hallway between classes. Real sports teams. More than one teacher. Crushes and note passing. Wishing mom would buy me the cool clothes like the cool kids. Wishing I was pretty. That I would grow boobs. That a boy would ask me to dance.

I was a sad thirteen year old. No particular reason I could put my finger on then, but likely the last three things on that list had alot to do with it. It was a big deal being in grade 7, on the verge of teenhood. As if I didn't get it right in that first year, the next 6 years would be ruined. I never was a social butterfly, always awkward and with few close friends I trusted. Watching the other girls trying to learn how to fit in, how to get a boy to like me, how to be. Then failing miserably at it. Like vultures, the other girls would swoop in at the scent of my weakness and pick at me until I bled. I did well in sports, I was strong, did well in school and oddly enough never had a real issue with self esteem. I found I was no comelian, but I was great at building thick skin and had attitude to spare to fend off the vultures. Who eventually left me be. But thirteen was hard. Lonely. And it did shape the rest of my teenage years. Luckily they only lasted 6 more.

Now, looking back, that year really had little impact on my current self. A blip on my radar that I can on remember bits and pieces of. Insignificant in the long run. (All though I still don't like girls. They're just mean at that age.) But all in all the worries I had then were a light load to the realities of life. I seem Herculean now in comparison for what I carry on my shoulders each day.

Reiley is there in those shoes. He'll be thirteen in another month. As a parent I see my boy, not a teenager, not the same boys I remember, that I had crushes on back then. He somehow seems younger than I was then. Reiley is socially very strong. He has lots of friends, girls crowding together when they see him and giggling and running off when he smiles their way. He's well balanced, funny and treats people nicely. With him, I don't worry about the things that I had trouble with back then. School however, is hard. Very hard for him. He has a learning disability which affects more than just his spelling. I see it in his organization and his ability to plan. Keeping up with homework and projects and making sure he brings the right books home is a challenge. All he wishes for is to have it easy like his friends, to slide through school, to just get it.

I forget how huge this year is in his life. What is feels like from the perspective of a kid on the brink of teen. I talk with him and lift the load from his shoulders to mine, and then I remember. I feel how heavy it is. But it too, will only be a blip on his radar in 18 years.

for you

2009-10-19T09:21:00.005-03:00

I dare not whisper his true worth to me. A treasure I want keep all to myself. They would try to steal it for themselves if they knew our souls were one. That such a thing is possible, that such a power exists.
He is so much a part of me, I forget he cannot hear my thoughts.
I thank the gods each day. Praying they won't take it all away. And leave me to crumble, forever cold and hollow.

Perfectly perfect

2009-10-13T10:46:00.005-03:00

I know they're in there somewhere. Buried under the dirt. Probably playing in it. Ah well. They're being quiet and are out of my hair.

I visit here mostly when I'm happy. When I have a happy memory of my life or day or kids, I want to save in ink (so to speak). But this picture painted here, when you step back and look, isn't the whole truth. Just the pretty stuff. Any online life which only shows the pretty stuff, isn't telling the whole truth. Even if you eat nothing but caviar, it still turns into shit. In every life there is shit. KD or caviar. Maybe shit is too strong a word, maybe just dirt.

Our real lives reflected is 4 people in a lived in house. Me, Mart and 2 boys. I've spent hours cleaning only to have it undone in seconds. With each joyful step they drag dirt in. Don't even mention the dog. I put on my slippers so my socks don't stick to the floor and kick the kids outside to get them out of my hair. Most days we open the front door and kick off our shoes. Somewhere handy to the closet is acceptable. Have a seat on the couch, put our feet up on the coffee table. Watch out for the toys and dishes from last evenings drinks and snacks. Pull the dinky car out from under my butt. I asked them a hundred times to put those toys away... We don't mind the dust bunnies formed from the dogs shedding hair. If we stomp the floor nearby they frighten and move into the corners to hide. They really are more afraid of us, than we are of them. We will coexist until the next time I get a chance to vacuum.

Mom calls Thanksgiving morning to ask that since my photographic brother in law was visiting we should get a "nice family picture in the fall colours". I bristled at this, sitting with my morning coffee still in my robe, sporting the hairdo the pillow gave me. It just felt like work. To get everyone in the house dressed, in clean clothes, at the same time. Stand and smile, outside, without getting dirty on the way (Owen is 5 remember). A chore. That is what I call that. So I didn't' move from my chair, and after a few short words, hung up the phone with mom and finished my coffee.

Why can't we just send real picture of us? These 'nice' pictures really don't reflect who we are. When do you ever see Owen with brushed hair and a clean shirt? Maybe for 2 minutes, between his bedroom and the kitchen, between dressing and breakfast. I have always preferred rubber boots to shoes and even when I try I can't quite manage fancy.

The day before, we all walked down the path through the woods for a picnic. Roasted hot dogs on the fire and drank hot chocolate. Surrounded by fall leaves, highlighted by the crisp fall sun. The bright yellow a dazzling contrast to the dark wet earth of the forest floor. Between stick gathering, fire making and hot dog roasting, Uncle D and his soon to be wife snapped pictures of us. The real us. Happy as can be in rubber boots and coveralls, mud splashed on our play clothes, hair scattered from the wind. Owen may have even had ketchup on his chin. Shady was wet from finding every puddle around, twigs stuck in her fur. He tail never stopped wagging.

The pictures turned out great. I hope the group shot counts as a "nice family picture", because it's the truest family picture she'll get. If mom wants a fancy, perfectly smiling, perfectly coiffed, perfectly perfect family picture, I'll just steal one out of the frame at a store.

For the love of God, play something else!

2009-09-24T12:23:00.003-03:00

Dearest local radio station;

I understand the morning crew wakes up at ungodly hours to bring entertainment to the community of people within range, and therefore may not be capable of making difficult decisions or ones which require thought. Certainly my brain does not begin to function until the sun rises and burns away the fog. Your grand library of music probably makes these decisions even more difficult with so much choice.

I prefer to wake up in the morning on my own, but since my boss frowns upon tardiness, I use the alarm clock. The jarring beep beep beep is simply too much for me. At it's sound I jolt from the bed and run outside half naked in the belief that the house is aflame. So instead of giving myself a heart attack each day, I wake up to music. To your radio station in fact. The problem I'm having is everyday at the same time, I wake up to the same thing. So I write to you to ask that you provide extra coffee to the morning crew, or something, to help wake them up so they can navigate the great hall of music and make new choices. Enough with ZZ Top at 7:10 am. I can't take it anymore.

My dreams scatter at the sound and no matter how determined I am in remembering them, I fail. What is worse is how the song creeps it's way into my day. Standing in the shower, half asleep, pretending it's heat is that of my bed, I hear the song repeating in my head. It claws it's way into my brain and digs the talons in to hold on all day. I tell myself I'm not going to let it get stuck in my head, but the more I fight it, the tighter it grips. Nothing can shake it. So please, I beg you, play something else. This is the cruelest most unusual punishment. I may have to tune into another station.

Sincerely,
Lazy Waker

Last day on horseback

2009-09-21T15:42:00.006-03:00

This spring mom delivered Bud the horse, Stella the cow and her bull calf Fuzz Butt. I had the pasture ready from the year before and really expected no problems. When I woke up the next morning to the horse throwing a hissy fit in the field, I knew I was silly to expect anything but trouble. During the night, probably just before dawn, the cow and calf got through the fence and were on the loose. They hadn't been in the field for 24 hours. I'm not even sure they made 12.

In our part of the country there are rolling hills, forests and open fields likely once used for farming but long since left. The cows found them all and called each one home for a night or two. They weren't hungry, or scared, or wild. Just looking for the herd of 80 cows they left behind when they climbed on the trailer. How could they know the herd was a 3 hr drive away? I kept track of them everyday. Every stressful day. But I couldn't catch them no matter how many times the horse and I herded them back to the gate. After 2 weeks on the lam, mom came back and we decided come hell or high water we would catch them Saturday and that would be the end of it. (I must add that Martin wanted to help, but we only had one horse, and the cows were mine, so the responsibility and hardship belonged to me, not him.)

Early in the morning we set off and picked up their trail, finding them fairly quickly. Cattle are predictable creatures, and like I said, they weren't wild, they just wanted no part of us or our company. We walked through brush, up hills, down hills, through rivers, along paths, swamps, fields and back again. If the trees were too thick, I'd tie the horse and follow on foot, letting mom know by walkie talkie where we were. She'd find the horse and catch up.

The whole experience was stressful, hard, tiring, frustrating, and beautiful. We found babbling brooks and wild blueberries patches. Waterfalls dappled with sunlight, all but hidden, nestled between cliffs. We'd struggle through brush and come out into a stand of hardwoods, and couldn't help but think we'd just found some secret place, never before witnessed by human eyes. Bud was amazing. He went places most horses would never go. Trees so thick I had to hug his neck and let him push through. We galloped across a field at full speed, smooth as silk, his feet hardly touching the ground, to cut off the cows from going in the woods. A thoroughbred couldn't have gone faster. I've never rode like that. I've been riding since I was 2 years old and I've never rode like I did in those two weeks, or on that morning. I get butterflies thinking about it. Mom picked up the horse while I tracked through the woods on foot at one point, and she followed along an old 4 wheeler trail. Crackling across the walkie talkie I hear "there's a tree across the path"...."we jumped it!"...."I stayed on!"

We ended up catching the pair by lasso in the woods and brought them back to the field by tying Stella to a tractor and walking home. The calf followed the cow, I followed him on the horse, mom followed me in the truck. After two weeks of freedom and 6 hours of hard walking and riding that morning, we had ourselves a parade down Greenhill rd. I've rode in parades before, but none that special. Definitely none that made me that happy.

Months have gone by since that Saturday morning and Mom still talks about it. About seeing her daughter fly across a field on a horse, about walking all those miles through the woods, about jumping the tree, and riding this horse who couldn't be rode a few short years before. On and on she'd go, telling everyone the stories. She taught me to ride. It's something we've always shared, just the two of us. But I don't think I've ever seen her jump. I thought at the time it was pretty cool, but the stress of the whole thing skewed my perception. She was thrilled though, that we got to do that together. People pay good money to round up cattle on horseback.

Friday I'm bringing mom to the MS clinic to get an official diagnosis. She's been sick a long time, so we're looking forward to hearing what they have to say in a way. In another way the reality of it all becomes clear. Her legs give out now and then. I see why she thinks it was such an amazing day and holds the memory so close. At least if it was the last time, it was great.

Wooly Booly

2009-09-11T11:24:00.005-03:00

So it was +3 degrees Celsius this morning when I got up, but I didn't care. Why would I suddenly enjoy frigid temperatures and frost on my tomatoes? Because I finally finished a little project that has been collecting dust all summer. Perfect timing I think. While all you guys may have cold toes in your thin summer socks, mine are nice and toasty in my new, blue, oh so soft, wooly booly knit socks.

Tada! (sorry for the crappy flash picture, but I couldn't resist)

You can likely tell that I'm quite smitten with these here socks. The fact that they are warm is just one reason. These are the first of their kind. I knit a pair of thin socks last year, but with a different pattern that I don't care for as much. They fall down. But these are thick and ribbed and stay just where I like them. I get teased endlessly by Martin for my sock wearing habits. I like not just my toes to be warm but ankles and lower calves too, and therefore prefer them old man style: pulled up. Pants are drafty. Plus the stripes are cute. It's OK, I know I'm a little odd, you can laugh all you want and go on your merry way with cold feet.

I tried this pattern before, but misjudged the amount of yarn needed and ended up with two different socks. The yarn made 1 1/2 green socks with the remaining toe a lovely ivory. (it matches nicely) I may be odd but I'm not odd enough to wear those. (in public, warm is warm) The yarn was given to me by my mother and I couldn't find the same kind anywhere, let alone the same colour lot number. I am just a beginner you see. So I have odd socks.

Don't look too closely at these because I've learned a lot in making them. First, it is very difficult not to make a mistake. Most of which I make by loosing my place or reading the pattern wrong. Second, it is even harder to fix a mistake when you know you've made one, without ruining the sock. Third, it is very difficult to get the socks the exact same length. Good thing one foot is usually bigger than the other. My measuring accuracy needs work. So all and all, I am pleased with the pair, if for no other reason than they match and are warm and I have successfully completed a project. The 3 above mentioned difficulties I'll work on for the next pair. If I can avoid mistakes, then I won't have to learn how to fix them.

Get a bucket!

2009-09-10T12:07:00.004-03:00

I was just reading a post about intrusions. The jarring mind jolt of a knocking on the door or a phone ringing. Especially if your mind is deeply embedded in something else. Even a sweet hello can be jarring, and cause the moment of thought is to vanish. A balancing act, carefully managed until you look away, then splat. Gone.

So all that is true and it happens to me all the time. Yadda yadda yadda. But what it brought to mind was that we never get a knock on the door and the phone never rings. Which I guess makes it all the more jarring when it happens. The last time there was a knock at our door it was shortly after 8:00 pm sometime in July. (I told you no one knocks) We live way out in the middle of the woods. Pass the big tree and the rocks, then ask the deer which way to go and you'll find us. This jaunt is not appealing to door to door sales people, solicitors or whoever else knocks on your door without notice in those places where people live side by side. Fine by me. When the knock came it startled me so badly that I thought it must be something urgent. Something bad. Why else would someone be here? I immediately knew why dogs bark, because if I was a dog, I would have been barking. I sat at high alert in Owen's room, where I was reading him his bedtime story, listening while Martin answered the door. I never in a million years would have expected what was on the other side.

"Do you like mackerel?" Came the loud voice of our neighbour with all the sweetness of a bear crawling from his den in April.

Stunned Martin replies "Yeah, I love mackerel"

"Then get a bucket"

So Martin does. End of conversation.

A few minutes later Martin comes inside with a bucket of fresh mackerel caught for us by our neighbour, who hates everybody, and everyone who knows him apparently returns the sentiment. For whatever reason he likes us. For whatever reason we like him back. The whole episode was so absurd it still makes me chuckle. With a bucket of mackerel, we'll welcome the knock any day.

stop and smell the potatoes

2009-09-03T09:32:00.005-03:00

"You know what's going to happen right?"
"What? With Bill?"
"Yeah Bill. He's going to blow summer away. It only just started and he's going to blow summer into the Atlantic and it will be fall."

Those words were spoken this summer and two days later, in fall of 2009, we knew we were right. Hurricane Bill came by and stole summer.

One of the largest land animal migrations on earth happens in Africa when the wildebeests travel to new pastures. They say they can smell the rain and know when it's time to go. If we stop and pay attention, I think humans can still smell the rain. Maybe not as far as half a continent away, but we can still smell the change.

Bill brought fall in his wake and now my toes are cold in my sandals. But fall isn't so bad. I like sweaters. My butt looks good in jeans and I'm tired of wearing the same old shorts all the time. It came so quick though, that I'm reeling a bit. Spinning around in a room ablaze with only seconds to choose what to take before it all burns. Hurry up and appreciate summer before it's gone. I don't like the feeling, so I set it on a shelf in my mind, acknowledged but ignored. I put on rubber boots, tuck in my jeans and go out to the garden. Appreciate fall before it's winter, or I'll be spinning around looking for my hoe in a few months, always a season behind.

The fresh air is a nice change, and the horse looks cute when he's all fuzzy. Plus, looky what I found after some digging...potatoes! Apparently they did grow. Fall means harvest, and harvest means good food and good food means that we get to eat meals where nothing was purchased from a store. Corn on the cob, potatoes, carrots and pork chops from the farm down the road. Soon it will be steak that we raised. I'm full and happy. The fall colours will be pretty. And Owen finally gets to ride the school bus.

as they see it

2009-08-26T14:57:00.004-03:00

Reaching for the door knob, I push my way into the house. Disappointment written clearly on my young face.

"What's wrong?" Mom asks

"My bike is broken and Dad is gone and so is Danny and I can't fix it" I reply in one long breath.

"Well I can fix it" She replies.

My eyes pop in wonder. "You can? Really? But you're Mom, you're a girl"

She takes me outside so I can show her my bike and I learn that girls can do anything and that my mom is a super hero in disguise.

Her hair was longer then, to her shoulders. She was slim and strong and pretty and so smart. I had to look up to meet her eyes. Laughter came easy and she liked my company. I thought she could do anything, she told me I could too, and I believed her.

I often wonder how my kids see me. I don't feel like the grown up I remember thinking my mom was. I giggle now at how relative age is. But I guess I must look the same to them. I had Owen at the same age my mom had me. Sometimes I feel so much the child, still leaning on my parents, learning and finding my way, that it's hard to imagine my kids look to me as I did her. I hope they do. I hope I give them reason to.

So much of this life is perspective. Owen took this picture of me. I wonder who he sees.

Slapfoot

2009-08-19T13:24:00.002-03:00

The path winds it's way between the trees and the tires of the bike bump and jiggle over the stones, powered by young legs with seemingly infinate energy. Every rock, tree and animal home memorized. On the moss, young feet found their footing. On the stones, training wheels rattled. The life in these woods raised a child.

The trail follows the shoreline of the lake. The sun sets over the tree tops and casts jewels of light off the water in its bid goodnight. The last heat of the day to warm the lake. It starts on the edge of the sand and the echos of swimmers become muffled as it winds arounds stones and trees. On the left, the woods hug the edge of the path, on the right the beach is made of round stones. Plants, native and rare to the area grow up between them. Turn east, don't forget to vere around the big granite rock that has grabbed my peddle more than once, responsible for many scrapped knees. The beach is sandier here. The sun at my back casts gold into the woods and they glow with warmth. The white gravel of the path is a contrast to the dark shadows of the undergrowth. Faded canoes lie in the sand waiting. Turn left up the big hill and the end of the path to re-enter the world of campers. Quiet conversations of families belonging to each tent. The one way dirt road is rolled smooth and bare feet slap on the cool surface.

This world is mine, a treasure kept just for me it seems, that I have soaked up through my eyes for 31 years. Time evaporates here. Maybe I'm older but maybe I'm not. The view is always the same so who can be sure.

Two more lives unfold beneath the tall trees hanging over the path. Memories of this place will mark the passing of their childhood. Their life held in it's embrace, where time stands still.

Blanching day

2009-08-13T13:10:00.004-03:00

We got back from vacation Sunday to a couple of treats. The first was that there were 3 animals still in the pasture. Cow, bull, horse, big phew on that. Even though the idea of the cow watching us and waiting for the coast to be clear for her to break through the fence and be free (again) is pretty ridiculous, I still worried a tidbit while we were away. We even put extra hay in the grass pasture just to be sure they couldn't use the excuse of being hungry to justify an escape. You can't tell I'm a bit gun shy from the 2 weeks of freedom they stole on the first night they were here, can you?

The second treat was the garden. It must have taken steroids and been working out at the gym. The corn shot up 2 feet, grew tassles and each has at least one ear.

The third treat was that the hay was cut. It's the best treat even though it had the least effect on my personal comfort. If the first two treatas weren't there, I would probably still be riding around the countryside in a lunatic-like state tracking animals, and I'd be hungry. But it has the biggest effect on my happiness. The field looks beautiful, the grass will grow back thicker than before, I have a new place to ride, and now the animals can use that field as another pasture. (Once we finish fencing it.)

When we planted our garden, I was hoping there would be enough of a bounty that I'd be able to freeze string beans, carrots and corn, and eat well into winter. I don't know if I'd say we'll eat well into winter, but for a bit anyways. Not bad for the first year.

After harvesting what was ready, I ended up with way more food than we could possibly eat. So I got to learn how to blanche beans and carrots. Thanks to the beloved Purity cookbook passed down by Mom. Well, actually she bought me one when they republished it (it even has the original black and white pictures in it) because hers was so worn out and she was never parting with it. That book has it all. By the end of the evening, after boiling a pound at a time for 3 minutes, I had about 5 pounds of to be frozen string beans. There are still beans in the garden, but unless we can't keep up eating them fresh, I don't think I'll be freezing anymore. I froze some carrots too, but they aren't in as urgent need of being harvested. We'll eat most of those fresh.

Onions have got to be the easiest thing on earth to grow, and we have lots. Too many. I haven't a clue what to do with them. Get a deep fryer and make onion rings I suppose, and live happy and fat all winter. No really, I think I'm supposed pull them and let the outer skin dry so they'll keep in storage, but I'll have to do some investigating on that. Where to store them is another matter. Martin might just have to dig us a cellar if our garden is going to get bigger each year.

There are only two things that haven't done well in our garden this year. The potatoes and the broccoli. The potato tops prematurely yellowed. I was hoping the yellowing was a sign they were ready, but no. After digging, it's officially 'premature' as the spuds are only slightly bigger than ping pong ball. Add it to my list of things to learn I guess.

The broccoli was doing fantastic. It looked awesome when we left last week. That is until they were attacked. I'm talking about a critter that must have a microscopic stomach but which can eat a gazillion times it's own body weight per day. This little green worm has destroyed our broccoli. Eaten all of it! Each night I can easily pick a dozen of these guys from a plant. They tuck themselves up under the heads and chomp away to their hearts delight.

Broccoli is Martin's favorite vegetable, so maybe I could use this destruction to convince him that we need some sort of defence against these pest. And since we want an organic garden, that defence should be natural. If you're anything like me, you'll say the obvious choice would be chickens! I need to tweak my argument a bit, but I'll break him down. There will be chickens, and those worms will be gone, and we will eat broccoli. Next year.

Owen's story

2009-08-12T09:20:00.005-03:00

Once upon a time, there was a 5 year old boy named Owen. He lived in a world with blue suns and bright yellow flowers. He was a happy boy.

He lived with his family

and liked to play in his yard under the tall trees.

One day while playing with his friend he met a bad guy. The bad guy said "Grrrr"

That made Owen's friend mad and he chased the bad guy away. Which made Owen happy.

The end.

Story written and illustrated by Owen.

My stone

2009-08-10T11:22:00.010-03:00

A couple of years ago I had a craving to carve something. Anything. Wood is easy to find, so I thought that would be the obvious choice. But I was stuck. I didn't have the slightest clue how to begin. I didn't have a single tool or even the knowledge of what type of wood one carves.

I call it a craving because that is exactly what it was. It gnawed at me for weeks, months. I could so clearly see in my mind the shapes I wanted, the feel I wanted of it in my hand. It was trapped there in my head (with me trying nothing and all out of ideas) until I talked to my brother. "Why not try soapstone? It's soft and easy to carve." Ding Ding Ding Ding! bells go off at this brilliant simple idea and I am on my way to find soapstone. A couple of impatient weeks later it arrives in the mail from none other than Stoneman, a business in Ontario. (I must say the name was helpful in finding him.) Brazilian soapstone to be exact. One brown block, one green. Both 3 inches by 3 inches by 6 inches.

The fox came from the first stone. He was the one burning in my head, dying to get out. He is the one who started it all, and will always be special, even if he's not my best work. That's how it's supposed to go though, right? These first two blocks also gave me my stargazer, owl and hawk. Like all art, some things just don't make the cut. The owl is not a favorite, and the seal was never finished after a deadly break of the tail. (sorry for the bad pictures, I really need to learn how to photograph these guys)

Since the beginning of my adventure into this hobby, my mom, who loves soapstone and has been collecting pieces for years, has encouraged me. While in Newfoundland she brought back a little piece of stone. (which was somewhat hard to get as they like to keep what they have for their own artists) This stone was completely different than the Brazilian stone. First of all it was raw. Not nicely cut into a smooth block. This was a challenge but also inspiration, since the raw shape determined what it was to become. So the salamander was born. My personal favorite so far.

Lucky for me, my mom and dad like to travel, and while on a 2 month long road trip to the Canadian north, she lugged back an enormous chunk of white soapstone, the size I've never seen but in museums. She usually brings back a stuffed animal from each trip (another story), and come to think of it, that's where the moose came from, but the chunk of rock was way better. It must have weighed 20 pounds, was built like a mountain and just as raw. Hard to believe it was scraps from another artists' work. (I would have loved to see their workshop. I kind of drool a bit thinking of it) I cut the top of the mountain off and made what first came to mind when I saw it. What else would you make out of a white stone from Inuvik, but a polar bear. This guy is sitting in mom's curio, among her collection. His rightful place I'd say.

My hubby cheers me on too of course and right now, I still have stone he gave me, uncarved waiting on the shelf. I seem to go in spurts, and have been in a lull. Sometimes the reason is that I'm just too busy, but a lot of the time is that the picture in my head is missing a piece, and will be left there until I can figure it out. Lately, the stone Mart got for me has been calling and I'm excited to go buy a new blade for the hacksaw so I can start. (I've ruined a lot of saws) This guy will have feet, and a tail, but that's all I'll say. You'll just have to check back to see when I'm done. The fun thing about carving stone, is that I have no idea what the finished rock will look like until it's all sanded and polished up. So even I get a surprise.

I'm scared because it scares me

2009-07-27T19:24:00.005-03:00

It it so unlike to me wake up in the middle of the night to pee. I never do, I have a bladder made of stone. Of all the nights to wake up it had to be that one, in that place. I had been awake for an hour fighting off the urge, trying desperately to convince sleep to come back to me. We were camping. No big deal really, to need to pee in the middle of the night when camping, except when it's pouring rain and thundering and lightning like a son of a bitch.

I am petrified of thunder. Scared to tears. Not lightning. I like watching lightning and would sit by the window to catch a flash if it weren't for what came after. So that night I fought the urge. The storm was directly over head and the thunder shook my soul. The ground rocked with each overlapping boom. A contest to see which could be louder. We were in a tiny little tent, with no 2x4's or insulation to muffle the noise. But that tent was my only refuge and I was not giving it up easily to crawl out into the most frightening scene I could imagine for myself. Eventually, it had to be done, I had to go out into the night with thunder everywhere. I ventured no further than arms length then flew back into the tent a shaking, screaming, crying mess. My rational brain thrown far into the woods, not to be found until the sun rose and the storm passed. I never slept another wink.

The memory would be no big deal if it was from our family trip to Toronto when I was seven, or to Keji at 10. This little gem however, was from our family trip to Fundy National Park a few years ago, when I was the mom and my kids slept in the tent next to me, soundly all night.

Fears and phobias have no place in rational thinking. I understand that it's more reasonable to fear the lightning, as it can actually hurt me. Thunder can't hurt me, it's just noise. Someone who knows about these things would tell me I have ceraunophobia, a fear of thunder, not lightning. To be afraid of both would be at least somewhat rational. It makes no sense, it just is. I'm scared of thunder because it scares the shit out of me. It has been since I was little.

It makes me wonder if my boys will outgrow theirs, if it's a real fear, or just a boy thing or what. They are afraid of the toilet. Not sitting on it, or standing in front of it, just flushing it. They will press the handle and run out of the room, for fear if they don't escape quickly enough, they'll be sucked into the swirling vortex. An odd fear I guess, but one none the less. They aren't afraid of monsters, the dark or even thunder. Just flushing the toilet.

I hope this is something they'll outgrow, because I know there is no convincing them with the logic that they cannot physically fit into the toilet and therefore there is nothing to fear. Fear has nothing to do with logic. This has been made boldly clear to me. But as an adult, especially with children, the toilet and all it's wonderful cracks and crevasses is something they are going to have to get up close and personal with. I don't think it will go very far in convincing a 2 year old to pee when dad doesn't dare flush.

I'm sure it's no big deal, but if it were I'm not sure what I would do. When reminded or asked they'll do it. Maybe they're just lazy or forgetful. At least I don't need to worry about catching them surfing with G.I. Joe in there. But until they outgrow it, if it's yellow, it's going to mellow.

A country of our own

2009-07-22T10:13:00.006-03:00

There is a certain amount of pride that comes from being able to provide for a family. The roof over our head doesn't leak, the kids look dapper on the first day of school, the car in the driveway doesn't have any lights flashing on the dash. We work and there it is, something to show for it. Green lawn, dog, cat, two kids. Put up a picket fence and send in our family picture to Readers Digest to congratulate us on being a home grown Canadian family.

But really, we are just leaches, a family completely reliant on our government to keep us alive. If we made ourselves a flag and declared ourselves a country, we'd be a third world country. Importing everything with no currency. I don't much like how that sits in the pit of my belly so I decided to change it.

Martin has got to be the most useful guy in the whole wide world. I have an idea, tell Martin, go to work, come home and there it is, a tilled bed for a garden. Wake up late on Saturday and why look at that, the raccoons must have made rows while I was sleeping. He is a perpetual motion machine that man. I love him for it or we'd likely be sitting on an empty lot where the house should be.

The garden gets planted and I'm as excited as can be. Probably more than a bunch of seeds in dirt warrants, but hey, this is cool. A grocery store on my lawn! As a kid I helped my mom plant the garden every year. Punishment for the stupid stuff kids get in trouble for, was to weed it. I've learned that as an 8 year old, I really didn't absorb much information back then. I'm flying by the seat of my pants, hoping stuff grows. Lucky for us, stuff is growing! Good stuff. Peas.

I heard a man speak, who knows about soils and growing crops and such things, and he said that we can't take things from the ground without earning it. Meaning we have to give something back first. Otherwise the empire on which we sit and dream to feed our family with, will wither and die like the Roman Empire. So off I go to find something to give back to these fertile soils. Just so happens, we are also growing our meat too, and they produce and abundance of fertilizer every hour of everyday. They just don't package and deliver it in handy bags. If I could get a cow to do that I'd be rich. So now the garden is coated in manure, the cows are grazing and everything is growing. Soon we will hoist our flag and declare ourselves a country.

The peas are ready now. Delicious snap peas, the ones you eat the whole pod. Making nachos? Need an onion? Wait just a minute because they are ready when you are. I think it must be my gentle love and care that makes them so good, because they are the best peas and onions I have ever tasted in my life. The tomatoes are coming along and even the peppers have bloomed. People tell me they can be finicky, so we shall see if they produce any fruit. Then the nachos will be even better. Tomatoes, onions, peppers, I smell salsa! I guess I'll have to learn how to make that too. The carrots are tiny, but I've never been one for patience so I pulled one. Once again, the best darn carrot ever. The horse likes them best. Well, he gets the tops. Soon we'll have broccoli, lettuce, beans, potatoes and corn. Add the bull to the harvest and we have a freezer full for the winter. Guess I'll be learning how to prepare veggies for freezing this fall.

I mentioned that we're growing our meat too. Well that would be just beef so far. So far. Give me time. He and his mother are grazing in the pasture keeping my not so sane horse from going completely over the edge. (He has issues) The pair are from my mom's farm, an organic beef farm. The cow is going to return home this winter and the bull will feed the starving families of, well ours and that of our friend. But a noble act indeed, so we will treat him with respect and make sure he wants for nothing, living out his days chewing his cud and swatting flies with his tail. His name is Fuzz Butt and he is royalty.

Come join us this fall for a corn boil (with the left over corn the raccoons don't take) and some BBQ steak. Our little self sufficient country does not require passports and welcomes foreigners of all sorts. We haven't decided on a name yet, but Farm of the Rising Sun or Raven Hill Farm have been tossed around.

My Boys

2009-07-14T10:00:00.004-03:00

I thought I wanted a girl. I already had a baby boy, so a girl seemed fair, to me. A little redheaded mini me to do mom stuff with. Reiley was hoping for a brother. It's all he wanted in the world. I'm happy I was able to oblige. I can't imagine our house any other way.

I'm not sure if it's a rite of passage in a boys life, but they each seem to learn it somewhere, how to test their strength. You don't see girls do it. (unless they have brothers) But the game of uncle, mercy fights and wrestling moves seem to be ingrained in a boys DNA. An instinct to be acted on.

Someone should let Owen know he's in for a long ride before he can beat his brother.

the cat with many names

2009-07-13T09:47:00.010-03:00

It all started back in July of 1999. Well actually it started May 26, 1999 the day he was born. But July was when I found him and brought him home. His markings won me over. The perfect Sylvester cat, white muzzle with black nose, white paws with black pads on his feet. Back then he had a tail and was full of spunk. His name: Hobbes. Hobbies: Climbing trees, eating food and being defiant and independent in ways only cats know how.

Some things have changed in ten years, and some things have not. He is still independent and food still ranks highest on his priority list. He is no longer defiant, but a rather cool kind of guy who allows us to pat him and make him comfortable. Since he has lost his tail, he no longer climbs trees which brings me to the next chapter in his life.

Hobbes was born in Windsor and we spent our fist summer here. I find it funny that we're back, as he'll likely die here too. But since Windsor he's lived mostly in Truro, and has moved more than most furniture. As an outdoor cat, he thrived, but our move into town proved to be too much. One day he came home, dragging what used to be a tail behind him. Some would say how unfortunate, but really he's lucky he lived at all. Like most cat injuries we can never be sure what exactly happened, but we guessed he was run over by a car.

Vet bill #1 at 1 yr old: $500 give or take. His tail was amputated and he was left with a stump. Which brings me to his first nickname: Stumps, which morphed into Stumpedo. We love our little amputee.

Needless to say, while living in town he had to stay indoors. Hobbes, aka Stumps, hated living indoors. Hated. He tried to escape every chance he could and became a depressed boy. Not to mention we got a hell on earth dog that tormented him to no end. Living indoors does not bode well for the health of a cat that is accustomed to the exercise and freedom of the outdoor. He got sick. Urinary tract crystals, common in male cats, formed and blocked the path. If anyone has had a bladder infection, they likely can relate, but I think that this would hurt even more. Razor blades would have been a treat I think. He howled in pain.

Vet bill #2 at 2 yrs old: $900 to surgically remove the crystals and clear his tract. Also begin the $20/bag cat food to prevent any future build up. He did have some close calls before we finally moved from town and I can recall at least one other frantic visit to the vet with fear he'd have to be put down. So we'll tally the blocked pisser to $1000.

We all disliked living in town and finally moved out to the woods. It was beautiful and we were all happy once again. Stumps was outside sleuthing, hunting and doing all things cat. Until one day, well not just any day, the day after The Hurricane Juan, when there was no power for miles, he started howling in agony again. We couldn't figure out why until we found it. A tick. A big swollen, had been there sucking blood for a long time tick. Hidden in his whiskers this tick was making Hobbes very sick.

Vet bill #3 (or 4 or 5 if you count the other close encounters) at 4 yrs old: $300 for an emergency call out to a vet with no power to remove said tick, treat infection and fever. The exam happened by the light coming from a window and a flashlight. Apparently vets are more expensive when they have to work in such conditions.

In 2004 we bought our first home in the country and we all lived content in our new surroundings. The cat was outside and even climbing trees again. Though he needed help to get down. I earlier mentioned his love of food and though he is a naturally large cat he often tipped the scale over 17 lbs. So naturally he gained (no pun intended) his new name of Fatso. He never missed a meal and snacked on rabbits and such in between. During the next 4 years I don't recall any vet visits, but I'm probably forgetting one somewhere.
On the eve of 2008, we sold our first home and moved to Windsor. We had temporary living quarters in a small house in town while ours was being built. We were worried that Fatso's confinement while there would land him back at the vet, but I guess with age comes laziness and he pulled through like a trooper. We've been in our new house for a year now, and it's tucked away in the country with acres and acres of good hunting. Hobbes, aka Stumps, aka Fatso loves it. Then last Friday night he crawls in unusually late howling again. His stump is swollen. What on earth we thought. No crystals, no ticks. A fight? Trampled by cows? We fed him pain killers and got a good look to find a puncture wound. Puss oozing everywhere, not pleasant in the slightest inkling of any possible way. Then the skin fell off. Yup, goes from ordinary gross to horror flick gruesome. All the hair and skin were licked off the tail leaving only the bony stump showing and his full moon.

Vet bill #5 (or is it 6?) at 10 yrs old: $350 for surgery to repair and stitch skin on tail and heal infection. So now, Hobbes, aka Stumps, aka Stumpedos, aka Fatso, aka Chunks, aka Blobbers, has a few new names. Satellite Cat (due to the hilarious and sad cone he has to wear) Antenna Butt (due to the tubes stitched in to drain the infection), Stitch for obvious reasons and Gnarls because he just looks gnarly with a shaved ass end, stitches over old scars and hoses coming out of two sides. Poor guy. He is on the mend and back to himself, meowing for food and sleeping on anyone who has the brown blanket on their lap.

So the tally on Mr Cat: $2,150 with most of it on his ass end. It's a good thing he's cute. He'll likely live well into his teens. At least we hope.

The Spitfire Arms

2009-07-04T10:05:00.003-03:00

Her voice was strong and dirty and reminded me of Pat Benetar. From her first word, a smile was lit on my face that couldn't be removed. Each note from the guitar carried through the old bench seats lining the walls until it tickled my butt. The band JF Lovely was truly enjoying themselves, and so were we.

The guitar was a stratocaster, like Jimmi Hendrix liked to play, and the drool from Martin, a man who appreciates such things was noticeable. 'Fuck it' the guitarist said with a smile to another near by. 'If I'm going to die, it will be with one of those next to me' The man clearly loved to play, and he was awesome. The Pat Benetar voice came from a lady not much older than me, who was pregnant the last time we were there. She's a bartender at the pub, who apparently knows everyone. Her personality fit perfectly with her Friday night fun.

The two front doors were open, carrying in the breeze, and sharing the music with the patio and town outside. Under the music, clinking plates and glasses and pockets of conversation could be heard. The waitresses were magically moving through the crowd to and from the kitchen seamlessly. From our table, conversation came easy over an empty plate once holding nachos heavy with toppings and two cold beer. We chatted and watched as people gathered. You never knew who you'd see walking in off the street. A couple well over 60, a mother celebrating her birthday with an infant and toddler in tow and everyone in between. The place was packed with the mish mash of people that makes up a small town. All were welcome to this watering hole, and most accepted the invitation.

We stayed for the first set, then had to return to our kids. But our evening couldn't have been better, our night out to celebrate our seventh anniversary. Sitting most content at the Spitfire we knew we had found our home.

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

We live in a small town. Friends tell us they do all the time. In the Maritimes, every place is a small town, even the cities, when compared. But in a town with a population of 3500 people and one town pub, the true definition becomes so clear. The whole evening could have been plucked from a movie or novel. Everyone is familiar, not necessarily because we've met, but by the kinship shared by living here. The crowd was not a group of strangers but a gathering of friends and neighbours. It warmed my soul to be part of such a thing.

Baby boy

2009-06-18T14:27:00.003-03:00

I haven't been here in a while. My words lost to life. Thoughts pass too quickly to form paragraphs, rarely do they form sentences. The spring season, heated by the nearing of the sun excites the community and the race begins. The race to enjoy summer is in full swing now. The weekends on the calendar marked, counted and etched with pen. A destination, event or to do in each.

Owen's graduation is Tuesday. 5 yr olds in blue gowns and handmade construction paper hats will mark the passing of time, will mark the transition to a new age. He is ready, my little one. The ABC's all memorized, numbers to 20 counted and even a few words can be spelled. That part has never been hard for Owen. The shy little boy who latches to my leg and gives the best hugs is who I was worried for. Secretly I didn't want this to change, for him to grow out of his cuddly shyness. I'll miss the way his cheeks dimple when he sucks on his fingers, his blanket tucked under his nose. But he must, and he has. There isn't a tentative step in the boy's feet, there is purpose. He runs on strong legs and I watch him grow with each step.

September will be here too soon. I doubt he'll look back when he climbs the steps onto the bus. His blanky will have to be left behind. I may suck my fingers and hold in under my nose for the day as comfort. It's smell. I love the smell. My baby boy.

Honesty for supper

2009-02-13T19:27:00.002-04:00

It's a wonder my boys grow at all for how little supper they actually eat. The dog on the other hand has a full belly and the cat is down right fat. All because of the daily battle to get them to eat their supper.

Serving anything that can't be dipped in ketchup is reason enough for them to dance their fork around their plate and not eat more than a few bites in an hour. Reiley has mostly grown out of this, though he is still a fussy eater. Owen is still working on finding ways to avoid cleaning his plate. Someday I'm sure his honesty won't interfere with his plans of escaping the table, but not yet.

This evening was no different than any other. Long after we'd finished our own supper, and left Owen at the table he calls to me and asks if he's done. "I'm asking you Mom, not Dad, just you. Am I done?" Cosy on the couch avoiding the battle, and with Martin near by, I tell him to ask his Dad. "But I don't want to ask Dad" Owen replies "He knows I'm not done."

Gerbil on a wheel

2009-02-09T17:22:00.003-04:00

Seems like yesterday. I hear that a lot. I say that a lot. Because it does. Just yesterday I'm sure I was in University. Or was it 13 years ago that I first walked on campus, so young and brilliantly stupid.

I have 2 babies who aren't babies anymore. The oldest even has begun to build a life I have no role in. A play within a play it seems. I have grown into adulthood with my wings wrapped around my young protecting them. Now in a blink, they've grown and are starting to test their own wings. Of this I'm proud, but it's different non the less. Seems like yesterday....

A new stage is beginning for me. I can unwrap my wings and stand and stretch. For the first time as an adult. And it's exciting to act for myself, to be free in some way to do so. When I stand up straight and look around though, I realize how much older I am and how little I've changed. For all the crumbs left behind me one would think I'd made it somewhere. But all I can say for certain, that I have gained in knowledge and wisdom in the years that flew past is that 1) I don't know shit, and 2) There is a lot more to learn.

Today I'm just as brilliantly stupid as I was as a child, as a student. So sure I am in what I know. But so stupid to think I know anything at all.

Who infected me with lazy?

2009-01-08T20:34:00.008-04:00

This isn't good folks. Not good at all. The new year is supposed to start clean. A clean slate to fill with resolutions and goals. Reflections of the year gone. Well my slate looks like sidewalk art after a rain.

Last year was insane. It was the eve of 2008 when we accepted an offer to sell the house. Which of course caused the calamity of the next 6 months. In case you missed it we moved, and then moved again. The insane part, in hindsight wasn't the moving, but what we have to show for the calamity. New house, new job, new friends, new home. Phew. Dreams I've dreamt since childhood tantalize me they're so close. There is a pasture in my back yard folks! But it is those very dreams that make my mind swim. They clutter my head like toys at my feet, tripping me up. Causing me to miss what's happening right around me. Present tense.

Since when did time go by so fast? Did the earth start spinning faster without anyone telling me? All I've brought with me into 2009 is a laundry list of things I didn't do last year. All muddled up with the new list that comes packaged with the hangover on the 1st. As I try to make heads or tails of it all its suddenly Friday, another week gone and nothing done. (I could have sworn that yesterday was Monday) And who slipped this extra 10 lbs into my pants when I wasn't looking, because it's not funny.

Owen's school registration came today, this fall he'll be in primary and Reiley will be a teen in Junior High. You'd think this shattering news (at least to all the mom's out there who youngest baby is off to school) would snap me back. Jolt me into action, but neh. I'm still sitting here dreaming. My ass still growing. So far gone am I, that I'd need to write a list to prepare for making a list. I'd have to start walking in order to start running.

No wonder we never keep our resolutions. I have goals without any idea of how I'm going to accomplish them. And I'd really like to. But the only thing I've accomplished so far is making a list of excuses for doing jack.

Snowshoes

2009-01-05T20:40:00.002-04:00

We bundled ourselves up but good. Back during the age when having snowpants was as vital as having boots. We threw on anything and everything that we figured would keep us warm. By the time we walked out the door we looked like the Stay Puff marshmellow man after falling in a bucket of paint. But we were warm.

We couldn't resist putting on the snowshoes anymore than we could resist the snow. They had fun written all over them from our point of view. Anything that made you walk funny with the potential of falling on your face was fun I our book. So my best good friend and I set out to find the biggest snow drift we could.

That was the day we jumped in, arms at our sides, head first into snow drifts. Just like diving in a pool. I could hardly dig Suzie out for laughing so hard. Poking out above the snow was 2 short legs attached to two enormous wooden snowshoes.

It was this memory that struck me first when I opened the mystery box under the tree. I couldn't stop giggling as I waddled around in the snow, trying to find the deepest snowbank I could. Wearing so many clothes I could hardly move, only my 10 year old eyes peeking out.

home from school

2008-11-17T18:55:00.004-04:00

I knew it was coming, but I just didn't expect it so soon. I knew it was coming because it's just one of those things you do when you're a kid with boundaries to test and push. But at 4 years old? I really didn't think kids figured it out that young.

This morning you could have called me a witch doctor. A magic man. A true healer. Praise the Lord, you are well! Well I didn't say that. All I said was 'you don't have to go to preschool' and miraculously Owen was healed. That is until I changed my mind. Then the spell was broken and he was horribly sick, unable to stand at all. Bound to his bed. He did it all except moan. The bottom lip hung limp, his eyes moistened and looked as sad as a basset hound. His shoulders sagged and he looked down right pathetic. If I hadn't been paying attention he may have got away with it. But I didn't become a mom yesterday.

All weekend, quite out of the blue, I earn my stripes again. (Not that I'm lacking any) While sitting cosy on the couch together Saturday evening, Owen suddenly gets up and decides he doesn't want supper anymore, and it all comes back up. All over the floor. It wouldn't be as much of a panic if it weren't for Shady. Skills of an acrobat are needed to get from my seat, over the mess to the paper towel on the other side of the room. All the while keeping the dog and my toes, out of the mess.

By Sunday evening, the battle between going down and coming up was won. A bagel successfully stayed put. But since that was all he ate all weekend, I thought Owen would be as exciting as a blob of goo today, stuck to the couch. I snuck into his room this morning to find him curled up, eyes fluttering somewhere between awake and asleep, sucking his fingers. The way he has since he was a baby, reminding me that he's still a little boy. 'How are you feeling?' I asked when his eyes finally met mine. A shrug of the shoulders was all I got. So I said the magic words.

That's when he showed me that he's not so little. In fact he's a sneaking little fart, trying to pull a Ferris Buelers Day Off. I'm sure now, that in seconds he had a list of toys he would sneak out of his brothers room while he was stuck in school. In minutes he was out of bed, dressed, breakfast in the toaster and sitting cosy on the couch watching the beginning of what he hoped was a day full of cartoons.

I have to give him credit though. I didn't know he had it in him. Too bad he hadn't studied his brother a bit longer, planned a bit better. Reiley knows that you have to fake it until at least lunch time to get away with it.

Thanks

2008-11-11T10:25:00.003-04:00

I was hiding behind my mothers leg when we met. She was hiding behind hers. The game of shyness lasted the whole of our mothers chat that day. Neither of us brave enough to come out from behind our protective posts. We were 3. She is now my oldest friend.

Like friends do, she moved, I moved. We grew up. University took her into the military. Then around the world on a boat. Then a few short years in Halifax only to move again to Ontario. When we left high school I gave her half of a heart. The kind of charm you break in half and each keeps a piece. One day she showed me her dog tags, and to my surprise there was my half heart. It had been close to 10 years.

She is Reiley's god mother, she witnessed my marriage and she stills comes to play with me when we have the chance. The years dissolve when I see her, like no time has passed. I think of her often, and today especially. On this remembrance day she is in Afghanistan.

I don't understand all the politics behind any of the wars really. Especially today's. They seem more complicated. Less about ideals and more about greed. Schoolyard bullies on a global scale. Despite any ones belief of whether Canada should or shouldn't be in Afghanistan politically, there is one truth that can't be denied. The people who are there, are there to help and they are giving themselves completely to do that. I admire their selflessness.

Today I remember to give thanks. For the freedom our soldiers fought for in the past. So I could grow up with my friend and not know death. For the soldiers who fight today, so a family can wake up and Dad can go to work and his daughter can go find her friend and play.

dark

2008-11-04T07:51:00.004-04:00

The once lush beautiful trees, now grey, brittle and bare rattle in the wind. Cold. Regardless of the temperature, they look cold. It's dark, and my playground outside that I know so well, suddenly seems spooky. Behind me, the house is glowing with light and warmth. The smell of supper wafts out through the door to my nose. Making it all the more tempting to run back inside where it's safe.

If I can just make it to the barn. It's not that far. Around the house, past the scary woods full of shadows and noises. The bare tree branches reach out for me like skeleton fingers. But everyone is waiting for me, I have to go.

The barn is warm and glowing with light. It smells not of my supper, but of theirs. My company inside is waiting for me. The old horse with less patience than the others. He lets me know I'm late. I clean the beds, feed them supper and make sure all the animals are tucked in cosy for the night. I like it in the barn. If only my supper were in here I wouldn't have to run back into the dark, past those scary trees.

Some 20 years later, as I get home from work, our house glows warmly in the dark. Spooky shadows fill the yard. The bare brittle trees rattle in the wind. My adult mind knows nothing lurks in the woods, but I run anyway.

Smell in the air

2008-11-02T18:33:00.003-04:00

The wind blew all day today wiggling the last remaining leaves free from the branches. Bare and grey the land they once hid is now visible to anyone who passes by. I catch myself weaving this way and that as I drive to work, the scenery all new again. I spy fields tucked away on the river banks, trails and homes I never knew were there, that I have passed twice a day for the last 6 months.

The tree tops are bare, but the forest floor is covered in the most beautiful patchwork of colour. It's winter blanket of leaves. Just as the last spider, grim reaper and princess visit our door, and the clock falls back, I can smell it in the air. The change in season that comes with the wind. Winter is just around the bend.

The horse went to Yarmouth yesterday to hold off the winters cold in a barn with lots of feed and the company of cows. I'll miss him, but his absence makes my internal, instinctive clock ring all the louder as I'm suddenly capable of sleeping the day away.

Even our menu changes from salads to root crops and we hunker down readying ourselves subconsciously for the winter. Hope you like roast, potatoes and carrots with apple pie. A winter feast and company inside keeps the cold outside at bay and brings me comfort.

I've always been a spring and fall kind of girl. I used to base that on the temperature. As a redhead, God didn't design me for hot temperatures. But I think really I love those seasons because I love change they bring.

just an ordinary day

2008-10-24T21:57:00.003-03:00

I sit back in front of the screen, keyboard at my fingertips with the craving to tell an extraordinary story about my day, about my life. On the tip of my tongue, creative genius is waiting to spill out.

I'm delusional. Not only am I not a creative genius, I have no extraordinary story to tell. But the craving is still there. More times than not, I ignore it for lack of something to say. Who wants to hear about my ordinary day?

I'm not in turmoil, I do not grieve, I am not a victim or lost trying to find my way. There is no delicious story full of drama, with edge of your seat excitement hidden in my past. I am no heroine. I have skeletons and regrets and scars hidden away in my closet, but they're just teeny compared. A scene of 'nothing to see here'. I'm not suffering or want for anything. I can't share stories of how I survived a tremendous ordeal.

But, if not being any of those things causes a lack of things to say, lets hope I never write another word. I guess my ordinary day is saying something all by itself. Something along the lines of 'you lucky girl' perhaps.

So today I sit here grateful and I appreciate how the ordinary can be extraordinary. This morning Owen got dressed by himself and my coffee was brewed and prepared to perfection. If I could have purred I would have, it was soooo good.

I'll keep rolling that creative genius around on my tongue until my kids do something funny.

Chink in the armour

2008-10-22T12:24:00.005-03:00

Everyday I put on my armour and get out of bed. It's what keeps me from being nothing more than a blob of mush on the floor composed of contradictions that can hardly co-exist. My raw self that I don't understand anymore than the next guy.

This armour of mine, it isn't perfect but I've tried to form it into the person I want to be. Sometimes it cracks and my raw self comes pooling out. Exposing me to the world for who I really am. Raw emotion is hardly ever pretty. Self preservation hardly stops to consider others feelings. Insecurity feeds off of others strengths to the ultimate damage of its own host, as does jealousy. A crack in the helmet and I'm over come by the drone of constant argument between the angel and devil which have perched on my shoulders, in an infinite debate. Leading me in circles. Like most debates, there is no conclusion or agreement.

The saint with all the patience surely wasn't named Misty. I'm not sure if my rope is shortened by the outside world or what lives inside my head. I am more often than not, my own worst enemy.

All I can do is shove on my armour, hope it doesn't crack, lead with my heart and try to keep it from slipping out from under my sleeve.

A smile on the apple pie

2008-10-13T18:29:00.008-03:00

Today I prepared our thanksgiving feast. No feast would be complete without apple pie. Not just any apple pie, one like my mother used to make. You see, no apple pie is complete without a smiling face.

I never thought of myself as a traditional person until I reached adulthood. Basically, I think it's because I didn't realize I was. Not until I read a book in University about rural history and the role of women in it. Through the chapters I recognized stories told by my grandmother, mother and some I could tell myself. Weird I thought, that I can relate to these women from a century ago and the ripe ol age of 21. It's somehow comforting.

My goal as a farmer, which is shared through history, is to feed my family. Not to become rich, not so someone can call me successful. Just so I can be a little more self reliant, and simple and pure. So I can teach that to my kids, like my parents taught me. Maybe tradition is as much thought as it is action.

Most of the ways my grandparents used are long gone, but some remain. The more I look the more I find. With our new home, new land and the beginning of our farm, I have noticed it more. Especially lacking a tractor. I'm thankful for being shown how parents and grandparents did things. How they made do with what they had. I'm proud of the fence I built, with Grampy's home made fence tightner.

I know I will appreciate a tractor a whole lot more when we finally have the luxury. But I think I'll get a harness for the horse first. I'm sure my Dad can teach me, after all Grampy taught him.

Life in the service of a cat.

2008-10-06T08:41:00.003-03:00

Our house, like most others is full of unwritten rules. I buy groceries, Mart mows the lawn. We even have some unusual ones, like no feathered pets. I love ducks and chickens, but I guess I can't win all the time.

There is one rule that rules above all else. It can trump any chore and gives reason for others to do things for you, without argument. I don't know how the rule was created. Hobbes must be way smarter than we ever gave a cat credit for, because of course, the rule benefits him the most. Heaven forbid, he ever be disturbed.

If the cat is sitting on my lap, I can't, just can't get up to answer the phone or get myself an evening snack. I can't. The cats on me, I am immobile. Out of service until he decides to move. Of course, because of the under lying laziness of our species, this rule is often taken advantage of. If it weren't for the cunning mastermind of Hobbes, it would be down right abused. But he is not one to be placed on a lap. He is wise and all knowing. The only way he will lay upon your lap is if he chooses. (Or you have the brown cosy blanket on you.) We still try though, to stretch this rule, while we lay like mush on the couch. Hooray for me, if so much as my pinkie hides under his plush, soft, extra cushiony coat.

Hobbes does not allow cheaters. Don't try to slip in under him, when the ring of "can you..." is heard in the house. Hobbes will be gone, and you'll be stuck, sitting there alone, doing nothing. No way out of this chore. Better luck next time.