A Look Back at Twenty-Oh-Nine

Tis the season for new year's resolutions. But rather than look ahead, I prefer to glance back on the lessons of '09, imparted by my youngest who has so rightfully earned her barbaric moniker.

Thanks to Hadley the Barbarian, I now know:

• Anything is edible.

• You're never too young to appreciate shopping at Nordstrom's.

• Bath water is delicious.

• Being mean is fun.

• In a war of words, use force.

• Dog food is a tasty breakfast choice or pre-dinner snack, readily available in the kitchen.

• Cat food ain't too bad either.

• Never leave a toddler unattended in a parked car. With a ball-point pen.

• An arsenal of solvents cannot lift ink from leather car seats.

• When you find a closed door, open it and walk out.

• Clothes are overrated.

Happy New Year, everyone!

More Dog Tales

As a post script to yesterday's blog entry, this falls under the category of "it could have been worse."

At least I don't have a Lab -- let's call her "Chessie" -- who requires ACL surgery to the tune of $4,000, followed by three months of physical therapy and rehab.

And I don't own another Lab -- oh, let's call this one "Tippy" -- who recently gnawed through Chessie's prescription bottle of anti-inflammatory pills and downed her stash.

Because then I'd be frantically calling a canine toxicology expert for a $60 phone consultation, in which I'd learn about toxic dosage and liver failure.

And shortly afterward, I'd be cramming a syringe of peroxide down Tippy's throat to induce vomiting; then I'd be sifting through a mound of barf to count how many semi-digested pills made a round trip.

And Monday morning I'd be chasing Tippy around with a tupperware container to capture her pee for lab testing.

Thanks Hunter, for trading crazy canine stories when I thought that I was alone in my dog woes. And I'm glad to hear that Tippy's liver is none the worse for wear.

As for Chessie, have a happy ACL surgery!

Kill the dog, keep the husband

Yesterday was the day that went awry.

The day when the wheels didn't just fall off the cart... they careened off the road and flattened an innocent bystander. It was that kind of day.

Sunday marked Day 3 of holiday/winter weather confinement, transforming our relatively civilized offspring into demonic, room-disheveling, toy-scattering, food-defiling, pen-wielding, dvd-scratching creatures from hell.

Sunday was also Day 3 of my head cold.

And it was our first full day with my dementia-addled father, whose belligerent, volatile behavior toward a caregiver on Saturday earned him a trip to the farm. (Mom was out of town, taking a break from the insanity that is her life.)

Saturday night, I knocked out Dad with a double dose of sleeping pills. But Sunday he was back to his confused, truculent self, plotting his escape every eight minutes -- donning his coat, slipping on his shoes (or mine once we hid his) and bolting out the door. When he wasn't fleeing, he was traipsing around in his shoes, depositing clumps of mud around the house.

Or leaving the bathroom water faucet running.

Or pacing and staring at me.

Or watching the kids conceal mud clods beneath acres of toy shrapnel.

It's no wonder that the dog chose Sunday for her great escape -- a joyful jaunt to the flooded river. Martin immediately noticed her departure but she eluded capture by timing her disappearance with one of Dad's I'm-breaking-out diversions.

Later that afternoon when the kids were sedated -- I mean, "asleep" -- and Dad was hog-tied, I slogged through two miles of ankle-deep muck in search of that d*&%^, #@* good-for-nothing dog. Canine paw prints marked the mud along her usual route. But when I arrived riverside, there was no dog.

Martin followed up my search with a more thorough reconnoissance and at nightfall, he ventured out again in the gator, tracing every imaginable path. Still, no sign of Maisie.

So last night, several hours after Maisie's disappearance, I gave up the search. Teary-eyed and distraught, I drove Dad back home (since he's more manageable on his own turf). I thought about the lonely night I'd spend at Dad's house and the "lost dog" signs I'd post the next day.

In my absence Martin prepped the kids, telling them that Maisie had gone on a great, mysterious adventure. He called me twice with no news.

But just as Dad concluded a 20-minute bedtime standoff, my phone rang once more. And this time I was greeted by the loud drone of the gator....and a burst of demented barks. "Hear that?" Martin shouted triumphantly.

Martin, my hero of heros, had not given up the search. Once the kids were tucked in bed (children's services beware), he departed again on a dog-seeking pilgrimage.

And it was along the river bank that Maisie's manic yips rang out. She'd had a busy day of fox- and deer chasing -- clotted dreadlocks of mud clung to her fur. But she was otherwise fine.

And with that call, my disastrous day of monster children, sickness, and Dad's decline, receded in my mind. The *&#$ #%&@ dog was recovered, safe and sound!

With that, everything righted itself. 

I abandoned plans to sell the children (...unless someone makes a fabulous offer.) 

I've considered investing in a canine GPS system for that damn dog.

And I'm gratefully indebted to Martin, our resident problem-solver and all around good guy, for saving the day.

Next year's Christmas card

Now I only need to photo-shop Martin, the kids and the sheep into the frame and we'll be all set...

Sheep-sicles

Yesterday was devoted to shoveling out, plowing out, and assessing the farm's condition post-snow. And it was in the morning when we discovered that in the midst of the chaos -- blizzard prep, tractor repairs and kid control -- we nearly turned the sheep into popsicles.

I had assumed that our sheep were tucked in their run-in shed. What I didn't know was that early in the storm they wandered to the low end of the orchard and clustered around a bare pear tree. And as a few fluffy inches turned into a foot or two, they lost interest -- or lacked the brain cells -- to slog through the snow for shelter.

I didn't realize that the sheep spent the day and night exposed to the elements until Sunday when I spied the empty shed and the pristine snow, untouched by cloven hooves. And then it dawned on me: our sheep -- the stars of this year's Christmas card -- might be frozen solid, like popsicles in an ice tray.

Once I stopped swearing and accusing Martin of sheep neglect, we waded through knee-high powder and steeled ourselves for what we'd find: a mound of woolen corpses or worse, five sets of legs protruding from the snowy cover.

To my surprise the sheep were very much alive, still clustered around the tree and staring blankly at the wall of white. Aside from a coating of frost, they were none the worst for wear.

And any reticence about the snow dissolved when we sicked the dog on them.


So after a night of nearly freezing to death, the sheep were forced to run for their lives up a hill through neck-high snow. But the payoff -- dry earth, a wind break and fresh hay --- was worth it.

Snowy moments

Scenes from today

Warm inside

In tractor we trust

On our way to lunch

Barn drifts

Taunted while plowing...

Trudging home

Anticipation

Martin swore on a stack of bibles that this would be a bad winter.


I hate when Martin's right.

Merely December 18th and already we're in snow panic. But this time, forecasters aren't hyping a sugary dusting or a thick icing glaze. This time, it's the whole eight-layer coconut cake.

We don't know how much snow we'll get. Only that we're at the epicenter of colliding storms.

So this afternoon, while most people were cued in line with milk and toilet paper, Martin was jockeying for position at the tractor repair store -- with every other tractor owner who's been caught off-guard without a plow attachment or a tune-up.

Aside from the fact that it's still geared for summer mowing, our tractor is plagued with a flat tire. The store didn't have the same tire in stock but no matter. Martin picked the closest back-up model and now is outside with a light strapped to his forehead, wrenching that damn tire into place.

I thought by now we'd be all set -- hay thrown out for the animals, stalls banked with bedding, water troughs filled and heated...and tractor at the ready. I thought we'd be watching a movie and glancing at the pregnant clouds poised to snow.

Instead we're still in maintenance mode and already a few linty flurries have fallen.

Hurry up Martin. This is not a test, this is the real deal!

Party with the Prez

It turns out that security will let anyone into a White House party.... assuming you're on the guest list.

On Monday night I was lucky enough to score a spot at one of the White House holiday parties. Camouflaged in civilized clothing -- a dress, heels and wielding even a purse -- I blended in with the throng of journalists who abandoned notebooks, tape records and laptops in favor of eggnog, cocktails and hors d' oeuvres.
The evening was part-White House wonder -- sipping wine in the blue room while gazing out over the south lawn, and part Disneyland -- lines, lines and more lines.

There were lines for security, for x ray machines, for the coat check. There was even a line to wait in another line. Granted, Disney doesn't dole out drinks to the idle masses, nor are gourmet appetizers available at arm's reach.

The final line snaked down a long hall and funneled attendees to a photo-op with the President and First Lady. It's funny that a minute lasts an eternity when you're trudging on the gym's elliptical machine, but an introduction and photo op with the President flies by with the blink of an eye.

If Obama was tired of grinning and greeting guest upon guest, he didn't show it. And the First Lady was equally affable and totally glamorous.

Not to mention, tall. During the photo op, I'm fairly certain that my arm fell well below the First Lady's waist. What can I say...I'm height-challenged. By no means did I try to cop a feel.

At the end of the night I ate my fill of food, drank in the White House decor, and stuffed my purse full of cookies for the kids.


Recap:

Minutes spent waiting in line:40
Number of ashtrays, hand towels and other souvenirs stolen: 0
Visits to the appetizer table: 4
Salahi jokes made prior to the party: too many to count!

The Real Tree Deal

Choosing a Christmas tree is supposed to be like a scene in a movie. You know, a little square tree lot marked by jaunty white lights, and a jumble of douglas firs and blue spruces crammed together. Cue the Christmas music and a few stray snow flurries and the scene is complete. You're ready for a tranquil stroll through the greenery.

But our local tree farm is neither tranquil nor movie-worthy. It's a working farm that's bustling with activity. There's loud racket from a machine that shakes the newly-cut trees free of debris. But it's drowned out by a fleet of ancient tractors that rumble past, belching and backfiring in shotgun bursts as they tote people to far-off fields.

With the dog, the boy and the Barbarian, we dodge the tractors and set out on foot to avoid the crowds. Soon we have an entire stand of trees to ourselves. It just us... and a monstrous Caterpillar machine rolling back and forth over a nearby field.

"I'm going to look at these trees here!" I holler over the teeth-jarring noise. "Hey, where'd the kids go?"

We find both of them moving forward in fits and starts, powered by Maisie, who is attached to Cayden with our makeshift leash -- a piece of baling twine. The kids are torn between two options: plunging into a deep black pond or climbing a towering scrap heap of discarded metal and wood. Fortunately kid retrieval is easy; we call Maisie who sprints toward us, yanking Cayden off his feet and dragging him up the hill. Hadley follows.

Perfect tree found, cutting commences

Dog and boy supervise; Hadley increases difficulty level

Once we find our tree and Martin cuts it down, we trek back to civilization, hoisting tree and saw over a muddy field while we trip over the twine-entangled dog and the kids.

Why do we go to this trouble each year? Amidst the noise and crowds and chaos is a field of lovely trees, one more shapely and symmetric than the next. But more than that, it's all the activity -- families trudging out together, farm dogs running about, and old men dressed in carhartts who have nothing better to do than drink in the activity and chat with us while we down milky hot chocolate.

At home, we plant the tree in its stand and free it from its mesh wrapping. It's a tall, burly bushy tree. It's perfect.

Christmas card outtakes

"Never work with animals or children." That's what W.C. Fields famously said. I'd like to add sheep to that list.

Each December we corral the family and a few select animals for our family Christmas card. The photo is often imperfect -- only vaguely posed -- and no one's ever dressed up. My goal is simple: produce one photo where all eyes are open and everyone looks reasonably pleasant.

In the past we've recruited the dog, a horse and even a cat for our Christmas card, but this year I felt particularly ambitious. We'd use the sheep! With an early snow we were guaranteed a nice photo.

The sheep, however, were not willing participants. They had no interest in standing in the vicinity of two bouncy, snow-giddy kids. Instead they clustered in the corner of the field furthest from us. Maisie and Martin herded them toward us but there were several flybys before they finally gave up and huddled nearby.




In the meantime, I tried to keep the kids corralled and camera ready. (Hey, who's crying? There's no crying! This is a happy moment! Happy, dammit!) Kid control proved more challenging than sheep wrangling.


Fortunately, our photographer Liz ignored the chaos and clicked away. And in the end one shot out of 60 made the grade. Our eyes are open, the kids look cheerful and the sheep are relaxed. We fooled everyone for another year!

Summer Erased

The tops of my feet still bear a faded flip-flop tan. But the snow is here.

Big, wet glops of white. Some flakes instantly melt into soggy puddles. But a mounting number fight the liquefying urge and gather on the grass and trees and deck.

Well, that was a few hours ago. Since then, the snow crystal army has defeated the puddles and whiteness coats the farm, erasing all signs of summer.

Out on the deck, the kids' Adirondack chair that I painstakingly painted last June -- while flies buzzed around and humidity blanketed me -- is fuzzy white.

So is the little slide that Hadley laid claim to. How many summer evenings was she perched on top, clad only in a diaper and brandishing a drippy popsicle to ward off the heat?

The citronella candle we religiously lit -- though admittedly a meager weapon in the war on mosquitoes -- is snuffed out by ice.

And under clumps of snow, the tractor still sits in summer mode -- the bush hog mower poised for a kidney-jarring trundle back and forth over weeds, fescue, and a sea of buttercups that popped up in August.

Still there are signs of winter's chill. The horses are wrapped in heavy blankets. The cats have donned thick coats and rarely emerge from their hay-bale den in the loft. The sheep are clustered in their run-in shed. We've all hunkered down and forgotten about the searing sun, the parched grass and humid summer storms. Those images are gone. Whitened out.

Old house, little project

There is no such thing as a "little" project or a "quick fix" when it comes to an old house. Looks are always deceiving.

Take this minor job. It started as a bit of patch work -- a quick skim over a crack in the plaster that looked like a tiny vein running north-south along the wall.

But as soon as our crew unleashed their tools, the plaster crumbled, the vein grew and the next thing I knew, the little skim job was a dry wall project.


So the kids were shuttled to the guest room and shoved into bed together. (so far, two nights and no one's rolled or been pushed out of bed). Unfortunately, since I banked on a quick-skim, nothing was stored or covered, so the sheets, clothes and toys are covered in a fine layer of dust like newly fallen snow.

And that snow's been tracked all over the house.

On a positive note, it's one crack down, two-dozen more cracks, water stains, and wall-paper peeling projects to go.

The Kitten Mystery

It's been three weeks since Martin threw on the light and discovered a yowling tuxedo-marked ball of fur, looking woefully small in our big old barn.

We didn't need another cat, we didn't want another cat (reminder: I'm a life-long dog person), but who can resist a wayward kitten? Besides, I quickly invested $132.85 into the kitten's health and wellbeing. Felix, as I've named him, is here to stay.

I do wonder, however, how this kitten wandered into our lives. Years ago we selected Mel and Frog from four litters of odd-ball kittens spilling out of a crazy cat lady's house up the road. And Spook appeared last December, a gangling, feral cat tempted by our brimming bowls of food among winter's meager pickings.

So what's Felix's story? I can only imagine.

We've ruled out the possibility that he simply wandered here. He's too little to have journeyed any great distance. Plus he was found bone dry on a day of drenching rain.

My mom likes to think that some nice owners took stock of our food supply and noted the slick, healthy condition of our cat colony and decided, "this is a worthy home for our kitten."

I pointed out that people who dump cats aren't the types to vet a site before making a deposit.

No, I picture Felix's beginnings in the furthest reaches of a one-car garage, in a cardboard box full of discarded rags and towels smudged with grease and motor oil. The fumes are strong but to the mother cat it's home, a safe retreat from predators -- both man and beast. And those grimy towels help line the make-shift whelping box.

The kittens' eyes are still closed when the light bulb snaps to life. Shoes scuffle on the gritty floor, then slow and stop close by. A silent pause.

"Christ, not again. Hey, Nan! The damn cat's done it again!"

But aside from the occasional shoe shuffle and rummaging through a rusty tool box, life in the garage holds steady. The five kittens open their eyes and tumble out of the Bud box to explore their surroundings, crawling beneath the has-been sports car grounded months ago with a blown transmission. The kittens bat the dust bunnies across the floor, tangle themselves in cobwebs and scale the metal storage rack to the second, then third shelf where, overcome by height, they mew for help.

Then one day as rain pummels the garage roof, the feet return and a new empty cardboard box thumps on the floor. A pair of hands fish the kittens off their perch and from their hiding place beneath the car. A kitten dozing in the whelping box is easy pickings. All that's left is the mother cat who barely acknowledges her offspring's departure.

I like to think that the box was not deposited roadside like a piece of trash but that our barn was just one of many convenient stops along a well-traveled road.

And I like to think that the car door clicked open, the shoes sunk into a day's worth of puddles and the fingers fished a warm fuzzy body from the box. Felix just happened to be plunked on our barn floor that drizzly Friday night.

So what does Felix think of his new surroundings? Well, judging from his body language, he finds Mel and Frog: barely tolerant and downright unfriendly. The dog: untrustworthy. The horses: terrifying. And us: intimidating but not without potential.

There is a level of comfort in Spook who knows what it's like to be unwanted and homeless. He fosters Felix who trails him from food dish to water bowl and even for brief jaunts outside. So with Spook's companionship and guidance, and our plentiful supply of canned cat food, I think that Felix will come around. He already has.

The Noble Turkey

While you’re bellied up to the table on Thursday, showering your potatoes with rivulets of gravy, consider these utterly random facts about Thanksgiving's bird of the hour:

--Californians are the biggest turkey eaters in the country. (really?) Each year they eat 3 pounds more turkey than the average American consumer.

--When Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin sat down to eat their first meal on the moon, their foil food packets contained turkey with all the trimmings.

--Turkeys have great hearing skills but no ears. They have a poor sense of smell but a great sense of taste. And turkeys see in color.

--And here's my personal favorite: Benjamin Franklin much preferred the turkey over the eagle as a national symbol. He condemned the eagle, calling it "a bird of bad moral character."

"[The eagle] does not get his living honestly," he went on to say. "He is a rank coward... and is no means a proper emblem for the brave and honest."

His thoughts on the turkey? "It is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America . . . a bird of courage who would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards."

Who knew that the turkey could be so noble? Perhaps we should pay homage to the nearly-national bird... before we stuff it with giblets and roast it in the oven.

Newsflash: Dads are parents, too

This morning Martin caught a flight to Florida with the kids. But when I tell people this, you'd think I'd just announced that Martin hurled himself off the barn roof. Or single-handedly hog-tied a rabid raccoon.

What?? He flew to Florida? Alone with the kids?

That's the response I get. Astonishment, disbelief, even bitterness, as in, "he's setting a bad example for other fathers by pulling a stunt like that."

Of course if I were making this journey, I'd hear, "Hmm, that's nice.... I need to get tickets for the new twilight movie..."

Because that's the way that people think. Mother traveling with kids? Ho hum. Dad? Call the local news, get a camera crew out there!

I should point out that Martin volunteered for this crazy assignment and he was pretty flip about 2 1/2 hours of airborne confinement. Though I wondered if he harbored any regrets when I dumped him curbside at the airport this morning with 2 kids, 4 bags, and a stroller with flat tires.

But low and behold, he called in the afternoon to say that the trip went fine. The flight was a success without the need to throttle either child or consume copious amounts of alcohol.

Which reaffirms what I've known for a while: Martin manages the kids just fine (probably better than me, albeit in his junk food-fueled, ply-them-with-new-toys style).

Besides, there was a payoff for his troubles: sunny warm weather, a swimming pool and brief return to life in flip flops and shorts.

Stay of Execution

In the final hour, as a mechanic stood poised to take our '87 pickup off the motor oil drip and rip the battery from it's belly....as a chop shop waited to extract the vital organs... the phone rang.

"Do whatever it takes to save Chitty! Save our truck!"

Chitty's been on life support in West Virginia ever since he tried to commit suicide in September. One fine sunny morning in early autumn, as Martin was en route to go kayaking, Chitty suffered a total brake failure. Fortunately the incident occurred on a back road, sending Martin on a cartoonish jaunt through the woods; a hilly incline ultimately stopped Chitty's free fall. But a subsequent tow to a garage revealed more than brake problems.

And that's when we decided to pull the plug on our faithful pickup.

But in the final hour we couldn't do it. We couldn't part with our trusty ride to the dump, our summer booze bus, our beacon of good will (Drivers can't help but wave when they pass our dented blue bomber.)

So last weekend Chitty returned home. With new brake pads, new brake hoses and custom fabricated brake lines, as well as other new parts (A caliper? What is that?) Chitty is back at home and good as new.

Except that he's far from new. He's a 22-year-old truck with a case of the stalls -- thanks to an ever-sticky carburetor -- and he bolts off at 10 mph each time you step off the brake. He's still got problems.

But he's our problem.

Meanwhile...

....as Martin and I tried to catch the mystery kitten, the Barbarian was stuffing her mouth full of cat food. Delish!

Look who just wandered into our lives

I'm curious, is there some secret message on our barn that only cats can read that says: give us your tired, your poor, your huddled feline masses....

Martin was at work in his office this evening when he heard a horrible yowling from the barn. He thought that one of our cats was stuck or in pain but when he fumbled for the light, he saw this:

A tiny ball of black and white fur --probably 8 weeks old-- with a powerful set of lungs. We don't know where the little guy (or girl) came from. I called the neighbors and no one reports having a litter of black and white kittens so someone either dumped the kitten at our house or possibly along the road. We'll never know. He was dry (despite the soggy conditions outdoors) and appears to be in decent shape. He's just hungry and lonely and very loud.

We considered bringing him in the house or locking him in the Mouse House, but ultimately decided that he's happiest with company. Spook, who also mysteriously appeared in our barn a year ago, has stepped into the role of foster dad.

Tomorrow we'll decide what to do with him. Tonight, we're hanging onto our Friday the 13th black cat.

The Intervention

Through our thin storm door I hear the unmistakable sounds of progress. Thumping and hammering, the muffled "whump" of a shovel sifting through dirt and a buzz saw's occasional outburst. In between, the lull and laughter of Spanish banter.

These are the sounds of an intervention.

Mom couldn't take it anymore. The demise of our house. For the past year she's been scrutinizing the farm's scars and battle wounds that we so conveniently ignore: the spider-web cracks in the plaster, the water stains on the ceiling, the curling wall paper in the kitchen, the radiators' seasonal shedding of paint.

Tally those cosmetic flaws and add some toddler-induced wear and tear -- an endless trail of wall scuffs, the crayola artistry on the bathroom door, and the mangled window blinds -- and let's face it. The house is looking scruffy.

So Mom stepped in.

A few months ago I hired a guy to repair the brick pillar at the end of the drive which suffered a vehicular blow many winters ago. Perhaps the driver was texting his girlfriend or squeezing a packet of ketchup onto his burger -- who knows -- but for some reason a car and its bumper parted on impact, leaving a spray of brick shrapnel along the road. Since then our listing pillar has been slowly sinking into the ground.

So I hired Jose to fix it. But on the day that he should have been roadside with bricks and mortar, I discovered him casing the house, picking at the clapboard and squinting at the windows.

"Your mom told me to look around and see what else needs to be done," he said simply.

By the time I arrived at work, an email from Mom blinked expectantly: "merry christmas," it read, "you're getting a new front porch!"

I don't know why Mom picked the porch. Maybe she planned to begin renovations at the frong door and work her way from room to room. No matter. Like everything else, the porch desperately needed TLC. The wood is thin and rotted -- old nailheads pop from the boards -- and the whole porch is pitched like a ski slope.

As a bonus -- a major stocking-stuffer, we got landscaping as well. In order to see the porch, much less replace it, Jose and friends hacked back the towering 90-year- old boxwoods that hover around our house. That led to more pruning, de-weeding, tree removal, poison ivy defoliation -- the works. Jose even unearthed the old slate slabs and voila, a walk way is reborn. Thank you, Mom!

To date, the paper-thin porch boards have been removed and a new porch framed out. When they demolished the old porch, I hoped to find some valuable treasures -- maybe a mason jar of mint-condition pennies, an old hunting knife or some civil war bullets. But the only relics were our own: a rusted Bud Light can, a bald tennis ball and a mouse trap.
Still, no complaints here. The Spanish chatter, the thumps of concrete bags smacking the ground and the buzz of chain saws shape my summer dream of a shady summer retreat, complete with comfy wicker chairs, a good book and a sweaty glass of lemonade...

AWOL

For the past week or so, I've been the victim of a vicious cycle: muck stalls, roust kids, go to work, feed/bathe kids, pass out on couch, go to bed.....muck stalls, roust kids, go to work....

My lap top has been abandoned -- keeping dust bunnies company beneath my bed or buried under a stack of bills on my desk -- it's little energy saver light blinking like a beacon in search of life form.

Sorry folks. I could blame daylight savings or stress at work or manic kids feeling the confines of winter approaching -- whatever the cause, I've been in hibernation mode this week.

We will return to your regular programing, already in progess, asap.

Luminescent show

In the early evening on the drive home, the moon reveals itself -- full and buttery over the horizon -- but a little shy. Hiding behind the tree tops.

It's only late at night -- when we coax the horses into the barn and take Maisie for a walk up the drive -- that we notice the moon's climb to the top rung.

It's so bright that the stars concede defeat. Next to the moon, they're just white pinholes in the sky.

Walking in the presence of the full moon is like gaining sight. The light casts shadows on the gravel and we see all that we're blind to: we step around the rain-filled potholes and avoid the purring mass of orange fur threaded between our legs. We call back Maisie before she charges the antlers in the woods. On most dark nights -- while we're stumbling down the drive and cursing the cat -- Maisie is bolting off in the darkness. The only tip-off: the sound of trampled grass receding across the field.

Back at home the moonlight washes away the farm's flaws. The darkness swallows the holes in the silo and the moon angles its rays on barn's towering white walls. We can't see the warped clapboard, the jaunty gutters and the pocked roof. Under the moon, the barn looks stately.

When I wake up in the dark morning hours, the moon looks smaller and has lost some of its luster. But before it blinks out it reveals one more trick: painting the foamy fog over the valley in a milky, ghostly glow.

What Just Happened?

It's Sunday night --the close of the weekend --and I'm stretched out on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, assessing the damage. Post 48 hours, here's what we're left with:

-a toppling mound of laundry heaped at the bottom of the cellar stairs
-a sink full of dishes
-two trash bags stuffed with crumpled wrapping paper
-a pile of sweat-stained riding equipment
-one dirty barn
-two filthy vehicles, both on empty
-one exhausted Thoroughbred
-one neglected, baleful-eyed border collie
-two zonked-out kids
-one chocolate-induced tummy ache

-and these memories: