The happiest of hours

It started as a ride on my horse Huck. Just a brisk buzz past the neighbors' farms and down along the river -- "the loop" as we like to call it. I didn't have a lot of time yesterday afternoon -- about an hr and a half to ride, leap in the shower and fetch the kids before the dinner/bath/bed routine. But on a warm, sunny spring day, sandwiched between rain past and rain predicted, it seemed criminal not to ride.

We trotted along Chet's hayfield and picked up the tree line while Maisie darted back and forth in front of Huck, barking incessantly. I hollered at her repeatedly but this only egged her on. She spun in manic circles and barked some more.

This little freak show featuring my fat, spotted guinea-pig looking horse, and deranged, rabid acting dog, made it as far as Liz's barn. That's about 1/4 mile as the crow flies, or 2 minutes as the horse trots. Something like that.

Either way, that's as far as we got.

No injury befell anybody, Huck didn't lose a shoe, Maisie didn't get kicked. I however, suffered a setback: I succumbed to the bottle.

It was a little one. You know those bottles of wine you get on airplanes? About that size.

Liz was not home, or in-barn -- she was still at work -- but Jane was there grooming her horse, and shortly after I rode up, Sarah, who lives next door, happened by in her pickup.

Apparently three's the magic number because the next thing I know, bottles of wine are being passed around (hmm screw cap, how convenient). Jane unfolds a little chair, Sarah leans against her truck, I slump in the saddle on Huck's back. It's officially happy hour in the gravel drive in front of Liz's barn. Only thing missing is Liz. And some munchies.

I don't know how long we parked there but Sarah opened a bulk bag of horse treats for Huck, and Maisie and her Jack Russell darted around in the woods, while we squinted in the sun and chatted.

At some point I glanced at my watch. And it dawned on me that if I chugged my bottle, kicked Huck into a gallop and raced to my car, I might get the kids in time. I shifted the reins and wine bottle to one hand and borrowed Jane's cell phone to dial Martin.

Me: "Hey, something's come up. Can you get the kids at daycare?"
Martin: "Who's number is this? Where are you calling me from?"
Me: "Jane's phone.... I'm in the saddle...well, I'm riding....I'm on Huck, can you get the kids or what?"

Eventually, the three of us disbanded and I took my horse, my dog, and my buzz home. When Martin got home, I was still untacking Huck in the barn.

Martin: "Hey, how was your ride?"
Me: "It was great. Gotta do that more often."

Technically, it's riding if I'm in the saddle, right? That's Jane, happy hr accomplice, in the background. (photo, courtesy of Sarah's phone)

Today's tip: the space between the horse's withers and the saddle makes a most excellent receptacle for empties.

Last week's recap

The big news of the week: Drippy is no longer with us. He was put to sleep Thursday after I hemmed and hawed for days. I'll spare you the gross details but it was time. He was a mess and showed no signs of improving.

He lived a good life -- 20 years! -- but it's weird not having him around. Sure, he was a self-centered grouch, he mauled other animals, he dripped and drooled on anyone in reach. But he's been on the farm as long as we have. Longer, actually.

I remember when we closed on the farm 9 yrs ago, and in that "oh my god, what have we just done?" mentality, we drove out that night to gaze at our new purchase. We left our former farmhouse, mired among 60's suburban split-levels, just a block from the Metro and a Chinese restaurant plagued by health code violations. Several exits up the highway and among dwindling traffic, we veered onto a twisting, hilly two-laner past sleepy houses and fields of horses and dairy cows.

Martin: "Wow, it's so....dark out here. Is it always this dark?"
Me: "Yea, it's the country. There's not a 7-11 around the corner."
Martin: "There's not even a corner around the corner."

We didn't go in the house. We just stood in the moonlight, with the barn looming over us (blissfully unaware of the looming repairs....holes in the barn roof from people shooting pigeons, the rotting fence line we'd replace, the run-in shed that would collapse in a snow storm....).

As we stood there, the gray shadow of Drippy bumped up against me. At that time, I knew him only as "barn cat 1" on the list of conveyances with the property, in addition to "barn cat 2" and "utility cart" tipped up against the silo.

That night, if Drippy could have spoken, this is what he would have said: "Look you two, I don't give a fig what you think you just signed, I'm the law of this land. Don't think for a second that you own this place."

Drippy ruled with an iron claw. Scratch first, ask questions later. Though he could be civil when he wanted food or attention and certainly softened in his waning years.

Somewhere in our photo archives -- in the days before digital -- is a picture of Martin, reclining in a chair on our deck, the sun's setting, and he's clutching a cocktail (a screwdriver, I recall, in a pint glass filled to the brim). Martin should have been happy but the look on his face is utter disdain. Because Drippy is camped on his stomach like hen sitting on an egg. He's disinterested and oblivious to the long string of saliva stretching from his fang and pooling on Martin's shirt.

That was part of the problem. Drippy was not an absentee dictator. When were out and about, he was there. Amidst the zillions of photos we've taken of the kids, he's ever present. And usually not in a 'Where's Waldo' kind of way. He marches right into the frame.



So it's odd, no longer greeted by his yowl in the mudroom or hearing his pleas to come in. No longer tripping over him in the barn. He was a lousy, drooling, good for nothing, freeloading cat. Who will be missed.

Wanted: thick skin

About a week ago I posted an entry entitled: "Literary blogs be dam^*ed." It's pretty clear who I'd targeted....subtlety's never been my strong point. But with no warning and a few misplaced facts, let's just say that the subject of my blog was less than thrilled. Words were exchanged. I pulled the whole thing down and skipped town. Or, skipped the computer.

But as they say, time heals all irate email exchanges. So I'm back. As is the post, edited. Perhaps it would be safer to shelf this one and move on, but I can't be alone here. Someone out there can relate to this.

Update on missing week to follow.

(originally posted March 23, 2009. Note: typos that follow are strictly mine and were not present in emails you see below. don't worry... this'll make sense in a minute.)
Sorry readers to detour from the main drag, but it's time to jerk the wheel and jounce down this bumpy, dirt road. So settle back for today's diversion. It's off-topic but is something -- or someone -- that everyone has, at least some point in life. Guaranteed.

A mother.

But only I have my mother.

I'll spare you some apple-baking, June Cleaver portrait of perfection, which I'm sure exists, but not in this case (And who would want that? Though Mom does make a mean double chocolate cake.)

This isn't a testament to domestic skills, but to career. My mom's an editor with more than 40 year's experience in news rooms and filing centers. She's dealt with her share of shoddy writing, tight deadlines, and bosses breathing down her neck, in addition to temperamental, defensive, recalcitrant reporters.

But no one's as temperamental, or defensive, or recalcitrant as a daughter. Especially when her mom is critiquing her at 10 pm. (Really, is there ever a good time?)

Part of the Art of Editing is telling a writer that his or her writing's lousy, but in the most tactful way. It took me years to accept that when my Mom said, "Jo, you've got a lot of good stuff here..." she really meant, "The content is remotely interesting, but the writing stinks. Start over."

Over the years Mom's offered a lot of constructive, pro-bono editing. Now that we're both older, she still dispenses niceties, but sometimes in an more abbreviated fashion. Here's her phone call the other night:

Mom: "Hey honey, how are you?"
Me: "Fine."
Mom: "I hope I didn't wake you...."
Me: "No, I'm sitting here w/my laptop, working on the blog."

Mom: "Oh good, because I wanted to talk to you about that. About your blog. I've been reading it and it's okay.... but it needs more. It's lack substance. It needs to be.... more literary. Like when you wrote about the wind. (the weather's knocking) I like that. You should write more of those."

Me: "Mom, when they hit me, they just hit me. I can't write like that all the time. You want me to wax poetic about our mulch pile? The clouds? How about 'Ode to horse poop?' I can't write that kind of crap." (pun intended).

Which brings us to Mom's other editorial soap box: My potty mouth.

Recent Mom email: "....you might consider a way to remain edgy without using profane or crude words..." Which is kind of ironic, because Mom emails me blog links all the time that would be bleeped by censors.

I'll save you all the life and times of my parents, but here's what you need to know: Mom grew up in a household where swearing was wash-your-mouth-out worthy. Dad probably had a little more latitude. I doubt he swore in front of his parents, but by the time I arrived on the scene, he was certainly familiar with a few four-lettered favorites.

I don't remember uttering my first curse but Mom does. I was 4 years old and coerced by my best friend, Judy Miller, who was both 2 years my senior and had two older brothers. Mom doesn't remember whether I said sh*t or fu*&, but it was first (and last) time she walloped me. She felt awful for hitting me, but it did the trick. I don't think I swore again til jr high.

But be it Dad's DNA or society's love of cursing (notice, I'm blameless), I do sound off here and there. Which is why my kid believes that I sometimes shout what sounds like "fox!" even when the animal is nowhere to be seen. As in "Fox this driver! Move it already!"

But I try to temper myself while speaking freely on this blog. And I thought I was getting better. Until my stinkbug entry. (name that bug)

Another email from Mom: "Just read the bugs piece. great fun. one quibble; piece works fine without using 'hell'... too strong a world in print for a light piece."

Seriously? H- E- Double toothpicks is too strong? Is that even swearing anymore?

Mom continues talking on the phone, pitching substance: "....it can be more literary and more lighthearted. Your blog, it's just kind of dark, the subject matter....it's not as funny..."

It was about that point that I cupped my hand over the phone and yelled through the rafters, "Martin! Phone's for you!" There was no chance we'd settle this debate.

Yea, maybe these entries are a bit dark. Not exactly sunshine and skipping through the lilies. But the farm -- especially in Feb/March -- is gritty and grimy and muddy and mucky. And just plain old dirty. And difficult. Dammit

Spring is finally here!

Go forth and be merry!

I ain't no Johnny Appleseed

The spell is over, the curse is lifted.

Scroll down to Monday's entry and you'll find the following rant: people always point out what needs fixing on the farm, but never tell you how to do it.

Well, that's true no more. Finally, someone answered our plea.

That person was Chet, our neighbor, local vet and unofficial mayor of these-here parts, who was probably greatly relieved that this time, I didn't call him to shoot a sick fox found in a stall. Or to make sure a snake we found wasn't poisonous. Or to meet me at the local market to retrieve and save an injured dog in the road.

This time, I only asked for a reference: an apple tree expert who would provide some guidance on what to plant, when and how.

No doubt Chet and his wife are sick of driving past our unruly and unkempt sheep-gnawed trees. He was happy to help and came through with local orchard owner, Gene Kingsbury. We met him last Sunday morning in a chilly, misty rain as he merrily pruned row upon row upon row of his fruit trees. Gene was undaunted by our litany of questions and saved me from a future series of "I don't know" answers.

When I thought about planting our new trees, I envisioned a Johnny Appleseed scenario: shove a seed into the dirt, dangle a watering can above it, and about the time that the kids leave for college, we'd have apples.

Not so. Assuming we don't plant the treelings (is that a word?) upside down, we don't let the sheep or deer or rabbits or field mice devour them, and we prune them, talk to them and love them, and cross our fingers, we'll have fruit. Next year! Talk about a fast turn around.

Not only can you select the apple species (autumn gala, autumn rose, buckeye gala, and so on), but you can pick the size -- or "rootstock" in tree-speak, which dictates the size of the tree.
They (the plant people) graft the variety into the rootstock and ta-da, you have a small, medium or large fruit tree. Sort of like ordering a shake at MickeyD's. What we wanted, said Gene, was an M-9 -- code for dwarf tree -- a size that would be easier to prune than our existing monstrosities.

Gene offered further advice to spare us from instant failure: select a pest and disease resistant tree, stake each one right away, prune often, spray often, and don't use RoundUp.

I called a Pennsylvania-based nursery and ordered 6 trees recommended by Gene -- 2 crimson galas, 2 daybreak fujis and 2 late season fujis. They'll be shipped via UPS, but exactly how, I don't know. Do they travel in a box with air holes like an animal crate? Or perhaps wrapped in a burlap sack sitting shotgun beside the UPS driver? I didn't dare ask. I didn't want to seem like a newbie apple grower.

But the guy on the phone was wise. Before we hung up, he took over where Gene left off: "once they're planted, cut them back to 34 inches in height and as the buds begin to swell..."

"wait, what's going to be swelling?"

"The buds. The buds swell. You'll know. Just rub off the second and third from the top so the single leader will grow tall."

At this point, I stopped taking notes.

If the trees make it to 2010, it'll be a miracle.

Country time living, old school fun

You know that Country Time Lemonade commercial that uses iconic scenes of summer to push its powdered drink? It's the TV ad that shows a kid coasting over a river in a tire swing, twins walking through a field of flowers, a couple strolling down a winding, stone-walled path in the setting sun?

It's kind of like that. Only it's March and it's a mud puddle.

Who needs TV -- or a glass of sugar-laden lemonade, for that matter -- when you have a pothole filled with murky water and a muddy driveway full of rocks? Spring never smelled so sweet.

Help Me help You!

When Martin and I lived in the suburbs, we barely knew anyone on our block, aside from our Jimmy Buffet-loving neighbors who had a bar in their basement, and Kevin, the ageless man-boy with Tourette's who rammed passing cars with a shopping cart, mowed lawns (and flower beds and trees), and delivered the Washington Post, all the while screaming "here's your Sunday inserts, sh*& heads!"

But now that we live in rural-land, we're part of a tight-woven community. People call you "neighbor" even when you live 8 miles away. And when the closest store is a 15-minute drive, of course you can borrow a couple of eggs. Heck, just come on over for dinner!

People who measure life in acres, bales and diesel prices won't hesitate to loan you a set of tools or lend a hand to split a pile of wood. But more than anything, they love to dispense advice. As in, "you gotta fix that fence line" or "about time you reseed your pasture" or "you planning to prune back those trees?"

I don't mind the gentle reminder, the not-so-cloaked nag. Please, tell me what I should do. THEN, tell me how I should do it.

That's where the lines of communication go dead. And I'm not sure why. Maybe it's that "I walked to school five miles in the snow, up hill, in both directions" mentality. They toughed it out, now it's your turn.

Most people who live out here grew up out here. They learned how to fix a tractor, pull a horse shoe, mend a fence. It's inconceivable that you don't know how to attach a bush hog to your tractor.

Never mind that just a few years ago, I would have guessed that a bush hog was a wild pig that lives in the shrubbery.

My rural education began and ended in 3rd grade when we spent two days studying "agriculture in Eastern Maryland" and I learned why the two-laned road to the eastern shore stinks like chickens.

Unfortunately, Martin's in the same boat, which is why we alternate asking questions. "Should we spread lime on our fields?" "How much gravel do we need to fix the drive?" "What's this funky fungus on our grapevine?" The neighbors just smile all the while thinking, "Are these two joking or are they just stupid?"

So we've abandoned asking questions. We pretend we know what we're doing and plunge in. Unfortunately, the learning curve is paved with potholes.

When we first moved here, we borrowed the neighbor's tractor and promptly stranded it in our field. "Don't you know that you can't run a tractor totally dry?" the owner asked us, as he hiked through knee-deep fescue to prime the fuel pump.

So far no one's lost an appendage through our mishaps, though Martin came awfully close to blowing up the house when he showered the cellar in fuel while fixing the furnace. But again, that was a single slip-up. Most of the time we just look like rubes, not suicidal maniacs.

Years ago before the days of the sheep, when the apple trees were still moderately fruitful, people said, "You got to prune those trees!"

"Okay," we said. "How? How much do we take off?"

"Well, you got to cut them back a lot if you want good fruit."

Martin took that advice and a set of pruning shears and 3 hours later, it looked like Edward Scissorhands had been over. Months later, we were holed up in the dark, smoky shadows of our local bar, escaping the summer heat and humidity. In the normal neighborly fashion, the old guy sitting next to us introduced himself, and we swapped "what to do you do" and "where do you live." When we described our farm, his eyes widened with recognition.

"Oh! You aren't the folks that hacked up those nice apple trees!"

Martin and I both paused to suck down our beers. "No," I finally said, rolling my eyes. "Those are our neighbors."

Spook status report

Almost a month to the day when I first mentioned my efforts to woo Spook, the feral cat living in our barn, I nabbed the little guy! Well, actually, I caught him, lost him, then caught him again.

In the past month since the Spook post (see: http://furnaceford.blogspot.com/2009/02/wooing-of-spook.html), I've spent a little timeeach day edging closer to him, standing nearby while he ate and eventually graduating to resting my hand next to him. Finally, one night the temptation of canned cat food was too much. With his face buried in the dish next to Drippy, he let me pet him.

That's about as far as I got. Sometimes I could sit on the hayloft stairs and he'd inch down a step or two to meet me. But Frog would inevitably chase him away.

Today, Spook ventured down for a drink of water and Frog chased him into the tack room. I quickly shut him in and planned to box him up when I was done riding. But when I returned, Spook had vanished... he shoved the door open and squeezed out.

By now, I was hyped to catch him. My friend Liz, who has worked in vet clinics, had given me a crash course on cat wrangling 101: grab the scruff of the neck and if you can, his hind legs so he doesn't scratch you; put him in the cat box hind-end first.

I lured him from the loft with food, pet him for 10 minutes and before he knew what had happened, I had grabbed him and plopped him in the box.



He was one ticked off kitty, and quickly shoved his little paw through the grates to take a swipe at me. (I dropped the box and cat twice, thanks to that move). But 10 minutes later he was at the vet, where he will be tested for feline HIV, get vaccinated and lose his manhood.

No doubt, the month of winning his trust just evaporated, but if all goes well, he'll be a happy, healthy, ball-less barn cat.

When sheep attack

The title of entry begs the question "what?" What are the sheep attacking?

But the first question really should be: Why?
As in, why do we have sheep?

The answer: I don't know.

Most people raise sheep for wool or meat. A few years ago Martin announced that he wanted to herd sheep with our Border Collie, Corrie. I was not especially supportive. If memory recalls I think something like: "That's the stupidest idea I've heard from you in a while."

But in my defense, we were barely handling the demands of our little farm and 5 horses. Why add to our headache? Besides, we knew less than zero about sheep.

"I'll tell you all that you need to know," said our vet. "Sheep are looking for a place to die."

But Martin persisted, signing up for some "sheep school" up-county and the next thing I knew, some guy had dumped half a dozen beasts in our orchard. Only they looked nothing like sheep and everything like goats.

The "geep" -- as I dubbed them -- were skittish, aggressive when approached, and all together unmanageable. Our dog Corrie, in the winter of her life, wanted nothing to do with them. And neither did I, after numerous failed attempted to win them over with food.

Here's the first and last time I laid hands on one of these buggers

Fortunately, the vet was right. One did die. And the rest were sold and we lived happily ever after. For about a year or so. Then Martin started beating that sheep drum again.

This time however, he called on a trainer who not only worked with herding stock but also raised his own sheep. He noted that the first lot we got -- Barbados Blackbelly -- are the most skittish, difficult sheep to work with and are reserved for well-trained dogs and handlers. Not dolts like us with a 14-year-old dog who preferred dozing on the porch and barking at the horses standing at their water trough.

So Dickie the sheep guy, offered us loaners from his herd -- sheep who were already dog-broke, ie, quick to respond, even to an inexperienced herding dog like Maisie.

And Maisie does enjoy herding, though at a speed that rivals Nascar. Sometimes I think she's conditioning them for track and field competition, and I'll admit, they have gotten very fast under her tutelage. I guarantee they'd outrun all challengers.

Anyway, we've had them almost a year and have only killed one (he died when we were on vacation, so technically, not our fault). Otherwise, they appear hardy and resistant to Maisie's grueling weekly speed meets.

But we haven't done much with them this winter. Because it's been windy and frigid, and who wants to spend anymore time outside than absolutely necessary?

But the sheep haven't been idle. They've been busy.

Like beavers.

This brings us back to when sheep attack.

If sheep could talk and had brains: "The trees looked like just this when got here. We swear!"

They've neatly gnawed off every shred of bark within their reach. Normally we'd say, it's either the trees or the sheep. And we'd have a fridge full of mutton. In this case the apples trees -- or what's left of them -- are going. They were past their prime 10 years ago. I let the sheep do their dirty work knowing that we'd junk and replace the trees.

Unfortunately, not everyone realizes there's a method to my madness. Just the other day a local farmer asked me, "are you gonna let them sheep eat those trees all the way down?" Translation: "Are you really as dense as you look?"

No! I get it. Sheep + apple trees = destruction. But right now I'm plotting my next move and wondering: What kind of apples should we plant? When? Do we plant the trees near where the old ones stood? And who am I going to sucker in, I mean, "get to assist me" in removing the old trees?

Easy questions, right? Not for someone known as The best house-plant killer in the mid-Atlantic region. No plant has survived my wrath. My secret: I don't water them.

But since this undertaking will require some investment (sorry kids, no groceries this week, we're plantin' for the future), I don't want to screw this up. So stay tuned...

...odds are, I screw this up.

Recovering from summer

Just six days after a blanket of snow, Maryland basked in 72-degree temperatures. Everyone in the area crawled out from under their rocks, hurled off their ski jackets and ran around madly screaming "summa-time! summa-time!"

I know it's only March, but it was a two-day taste of seasons to come.

I borrowed a friend's seasoned hunt horse, and went fox hunting for a few hours on Saturday... and now have the sore muscles and aching joints to prove it. It was a great time, but man, I feel like I'm a 100 yrs old. And have been run over by a truck. Dragging myself out of bed this morning, I groaned as I leaned into my jeans. And abandoned all hope of wearing socks. Those toes are just too far away to reach.

So with my (normally) immature brain and my elderly body, I cannot put a cohesive thought to blog. Instead, I offer a few farm photos from Sunday when we began spring cleaning and unleashed the kids on the world after months of indoor dwelling. Back to normal blogging tomorrow. Promise.

On Sunday, first order of business: mow through the Huck's goldy locks. Huck grows a winter coat like a woolly mammoth, which is a grooming nightmare and a sweaty mess when it's warmer outside. So instead of letting him shed out naturally, I decided a buzz cut was in order.

Fortunately, he doesn't seem to mind being poked, prodded and nicked. In fact, he enjoys the attention.

An hour and 50 minutes later, I had sheared off enough hair to fill a garbage bag. Secretly I hoped to find a svelte draft horse beneath all that hair.

No dice. He's still a fat guinea pig. Though I must say, this is not a flattering camera angle. Come-on Martin, go easy on the butt shots.

While Huck was at the beauty shop, the kids were plotting an attempt to hijack Chitty.

Next up, the dog, who also wore a winter's worth of mud, muck, and canine grunge, peppered with a few irresistible rolls in deer carcasses along the way. Last year, Martin built an outdoor shower on the side of our house. Initially, he planned to install just the plumbing... and shower under the magnolia tree. Yes, we live in a rural community, but we do share a driveway for Pete's sake. You can't shower naked in a tree. So we added this shower stall, much to Maisie's dismay.

Maisie was stoic, all the while thinking happy thoughts about well-heeled sheep....

About this time, Hadley the Barbarian thought that it would be wise to bathe the cat as well. As much as I would love to de-stenchify that cat, I nixed the idea. Drippy, you can thank me later by not defiling our mudroom.

By end of day, most farm beasts had been ridden, run or otherwise exercised, and scrubbed clean. Hope they enjoyed it. Winter returns next weekend.

'Name That Bug!' contest is over before it began

Some houses are infested by ladybugs or crickets. Or potato bugs or silverfish. We get stinkbugs.





When these prehistoric-looking creatures with angular armored shells appeared in our bathroom, I didn't know what the hell they were. And I thought I'd offer a gift certificate to the wannabe insectologist reading this blog who could ID this little beauty.

But leave it to The Google to come through. A few clicks and I ran across a blog with a photo similar to mine of the "brown marmorated stinkbug."

Apparently their stink is no match for Maisie's breath or Drippy's butt, the latter of which has apparently scorched our olfactory senses for life. I swear, I'll be standing out in the neighboring hay field and think that I smell Drippy. (see previous posts on Drippy as needed)

Back to our lil' stinkbugs. These guys have been keeping us company during the long winter months, creeping cautiously along the soap dish, resting passively on the dresser by my comb and brush. They never do anything alarming, like fly up in your face (though they can fly) or skitter away. And when they've had enough, you find them up-ended on their armor-plated backs on the floor. And you just scoop them up.

Otherwise the kid eats them.

I found a blogger in Md. who discusses brown marmorated stinkbugs, and confirms that they are harmless and their odor is not especially offensive. But he also goes on to say, "There is something oddly satisfying about having live bugs in the house during the winter. It’s akin to the satisfaction I get from pets and house plants."

Whoa buddy, rein it in a bit. I'm not ready to slap a collar and leash around my stinkbug and take it for a stroll.

But I will agree, they're the least offensive indoor-dwelling bug that I've had the pleasure to know. I can remember living in South Carolina, the land of the palmetto bug, which is a really nice way of saying: gigantic, mutant cockroach that couldn't be louder walking on your walls if it was wearing tap shoes. These things dwelled indoors and out, and were terrifying, and surprisingly resistant to attacks on their life. They weren't in the dying business and they were so big, you'd be scared to squash them in your house.

And while you'd been standing there, shoe in one hand, magazine in the other thinking, "if I squish one more of these on the wall, this room is going to look like a crime scene..."

...just as you had mustered the guts to strike, convincing yourself that you'd kill this one with just one blow, that palmetto bug would attack you. Because palmetto bugs, unlike run-of-the-mill roaches, have wings and they're attracted to light, such as white tee-shirts. And in my personal experience, hair. Ug, it gives me the creeps thinking thinking about it.

So given the choice, I welcome the stinkbugs as our new little residents.

Though Cayden isn't as appreciative. He's the closest one to a pacifist in this family, but the other day, he had the urge to crush one in the hallway with a satisfying: "Hi-Ya! I kilt him!"

Well thanks kid, you just crushed one of my new little friends. Fortunately, we've got spares in the bedroom, bathroom, closet....

Milk, glorious milk

Remember the days when the milk man left a crate of freshly bottled milk at your door step? Course you don't. If you do, then you're the most computer-savvy resident in your nursing home.

Anyway, back to the ye olde days of milk delivery. Martin and I are 'that' close to re-living days gone by. We've got the farm fresh milk in heavy glass bottles. Just haven't worked out that doorstep delivery yet.

And it's not just milk. It's Chocolate Milk. Martin got me hooked a while ago.

There's an orchard/farm stand not far from us that sells local produce, along with milk, cheese, butter, etc from a creamery just over the state line. And one summer day, while picking up corn and peaches, Martin snagged a bottle of chocolate milk as well.

Now, I'm not a chocoholic. I'm a vanilla ice cream person. I don't groove on Hershey's syrup or Ovaltine or any of those things. But Martin kept pushing this stuff. So I tried it. And got hooked. Big time.

I'm mean, this stuff is amazing. Like creamy, dreamy, milky perfection with a healthy hint of chocolate that just makes you feel....complete. Guaranteed, one taste of this stuff and you will NEVER drink store bought choc milk again. Once, in a moment of desperation I tried, and it was a vile, palate-scarring experience.

So instantly, life went from, "hmm, that milk's not bad," to "you forgot my chocolate milk?? Quick! Go back and get it!"

What do they say about addiction? "Do you crave a drink every day? Do you drink alone? Do you drink to forget your problems?"

Um, YES! But my fix is of the chocolate persuasion. I'm itching just thinking about it.

And pretty soon we weren't just stocking chocolate milk. Bottles were multiplying in the fridge. Red top for whole, blue top for 2%. And the brown top? Well, that goes without saying.

The fridge was getting pretty crowded. Because the kids plow through the cow juice. And I sure as hell wasn't giving them MY milk. They were getting the plastic jug, store-bought milk from your average hormone-enhanced, pesticide-treated-grass consuming cows. Why waste top-shelf stuff on them?

Replenishing the supply was a no-brainer until winter when the farm stand shuttered for the season. I was distraught.

"You need milk this winter?" one of the orchard workers asked as I clutched a bottle to my chest. "Write your phone number of this scrap of paper."

A couple of weeks later I got a call from the orchard owner. The directions were simple.

"The milk comes to the orchard at 3 am Tuesdays. Come anytime til 7 p.m. There's a chain across the entrance so you need to drive in the back. The building looks closed but the red door is unlocked. If you come at night, bring a flashlight. Get what you need out of the fridge. Leave the money in an envelope."

I relayed the pickup instructions to Martin, my mule.

martin: "Are you kidding me? It's like we're buying milk from the mob!"

me: "Just get my stuff and don't forget, okay?"

And that's been the drill every Tuesday since November. Only I make the milk run myself. In all the weeks I've gone, only once have I seen another customer. Some lady pulled in behind me while I was loading my crate. No words were spoken. We just nodded to one another.

She could have been getting farm-fresh butter. Or eggs. Even half n' half.

But I've seen that semi-crazed look before. I'd bet money she was getting her chocolate fix.

Liquid gold: perfection in a glass.

Ski Report

Amazing! We survived the slopes of Utah without breaking any bones or losing any children. Permanently, that is.

I think that everyone had fun, though it's hard to gauge impressions from the 3 dependents on this adventure. One can't say anything, one can't remember anything, and the other answers "yea" to most questions (as in: Cayden, did you like skiing? "Yea!" Did you wash your hands? "Yea!" Do you want to eat poop for dinner? "Yea!")

So who really knows. But Mom, Martin and I had a good time. Ski conditions were primo, Alta has tons of slopes, it wasn't too crowded. Or frigid. Or icy. The hotel was pleasant in a homey sort of way. Good food. Kids traveled well. They stow nicely under the seat in front of you or in the overhead compartment.

Highlights from the trip: skiing back-country slopes against craggy rock faces; racing each other down the mt; watching gray, snow-packed clouds roll in; feasting on big breakfasts; and witnessing Martin's instant transformation from beginner to savvy skier.

Actually that last one isn't a highlight. It's downright irksome. And it violates the natural law of skiing. Normal people perch nervously at the top of a slushy run the length of a suburban driveway, then inch their way down in snow-plow fashion. That's just what they do. A college room mate (and most excellent skier) called these people "Spores"*. (see below).

That should have been Martin, with his next-to-nothing experience, back in 8th grade, at a rinky-dink ski resort in western Md.

But we plunked him on equipment at the top of the mt, and swoosh, off he went. Skis hugging one another together, cutting evenly through the snow. By day two, he was tackling black diamond slopes. So irritating!

Behold, the evidence. "hmm, don't see what's so hard about this skiing thing...


I will say this, however: skiing in powder stumped him. Once in powder, that natural style was replaced with that herky-jerky, what-are-these-waxed-sticks-doing-on-my-feet movement. He wiped out in yard sale** fashion.

Martin also suffered from acrophobia on the lifts. He was okay the first few days, but two incidents fostered his fear. One, when he told me he was getting spooked dangling in a chair up in the air, I felt this sudden urge to push him off to see what would happen.

And I told him that. Frequently.

Secondly, in one of his many dementia flare-ups, Dad failed to get himself on the chair lift. As it rolled along, he flailed around before falling off...

...taking Martin with him.

They only fell about 8 feet and the operator stopped the lift, dug them out of the snow and got them back on. But still, it freaked Martin out. (Dad promptly forgot.)

My father was a wild card the whole trip. Mom must have said "Peter, come on" or "no Peter, this way!" about 80 times a day. He skied just fine, but stalled out when the time came to get on a lift. Sometimes he forgot to get off as well. He lost a ski here and there, and did his gosh-darn best to lose himself on the mountain, despite being guided and monitored by a leader/follower combo.

Then he'd yell at us when we tried to give him directions...which made me want to lose him a few times.

We wrapped up each day on a lighter note: springing the kids from daycare and shuttling them back to our hotel. Transport options consisted of a local bus or ski tow-ropes. Too impatient to wait for a bus, we skied along the tow lines and piled the kids on this boogie board-type thing. It took a few runs to work out the kinks -- we lost them a couple of times when the tow line got taut (like "crack the whip," for any who remember that game). They tumbled off the board like trash from a truck, rolling over and over until they finally stopped, clumped together on the snow. But they figured it out.

































Bottom line, I'd go back to Alta. But I'd take the advice offered by two veterans of the hotel: pack a hip flask. That place is a police state in the booze department!



*"Spore" is an acronym for "stupid people on rental equipment." Admittedly, I'm probably Spore-like on occasion.

**"yard sale," to fall down leaving a trail of gear behind you.