Wanted: Pony with 1 hoof in grave...kid crushers need not apply

I've put the word out on the street. It's time to find a pony for the kids.

But not just any old beast. I want a nice, sweet, bombproof pony. And that's no easy find because ponies can be real stinkers. (*fyi to civilians: ponies do not grow into horses. Small ponies stay small.)

Sometimes the naughty ones are easy to spot: an ad with a pony who's too cute for words, dirt cheap, and offered for sale with "saddle & bridle included." Odds are that thing pitched or stomped some kid senseless.

Ponies can be very sweet but most owners know what they've got and are reluctant to let a good one go. I once judged a show where a pony did everything to keep his rider on -- short of walking on his hind legs and carrying her. The little girl barely stuck to the saddle and eventually popped off halfway through her jumping phase. But that pony knew his job. Without any direction he finished the rest of the course, down to his closing circle, before exiting the ring.

Ponies also tend to be cunning, savvy and whip-smart -- much more than their larger relations. And some use their power for good while others succumb to devilish instincts. In a barn full of horses, it's the pony who will escape his stall and free everyone else, or crawl on his knees under a fence to reach greener grass.

Training a pony under saddle is equally challenging. Large ponies are ridden by adults but often it's a pint-sized pilot who must wrestle with the littler model with the cunning mind. Some horse people believe that being bitten, tossed off or otherwise terrorized by a wicked little beast is merely a life lesson. Kids learn to swallow pride, use finesse, and at times eat dirt.

I'll never forget fox hunting in Ireland...which for most Americans is less about hunting and more about surviving to see the end of the day. Ireland's country is tough and trappy, obstacles are huge and imposing, and the pace is fast. Thankfully a cocktail or two usually precedes most meets, otherwise sober, I'd never agree to such half-brained riding.

Anyway, one particular day a little reedy kid around 8 yrs old parted ways with his gray mount while clearing an obstacle. The pony had approached a stone wall and hesitated before launching into the air. Pony went one way, kid went the other.

"Ah, fer fook's sake! Whatya doin on the ground?" his father -- who followed on foot -- hollered not unkindly. "Get yer arse back in that sat-el!"

Shortly afterward the boy and pony approached another wall at a good clip. At the last moment that impish gray thing slammed on the brakes, spitting out his rider over the top at lightning speed. And then the pony just stood there, blinking innocently in that way that ponies do, as if to say, "What are you doing down there?"

The boy climbed out of the mud and approached his mount, gathering the reins before he promptly clouted the pony smartly over the head with his whip. The pony jumped back. "That'll fookin' learn ya!" the kid announced before he stepped back into his stirrup.

The point? That the Irish are skilled at riding and swearing because they start early at both. And also of course, that ponies are naughty!

British cartoonist Norman Thelwell captured these pint-sized personalities best and published several books depicting pudgy girls and their plucky, mischievous mounts. He was not a horseman but was inspired by two hairy ponies, "small and round and fat and of very uncertain temper" who grazed near his house.

He wrote:
"They were owned by two little girls about three feet high who could have done with losing a few ounces themselves.... As the children got near, the ponies would swing round and present their ample hindquarters and give a few lightning kicks which the children would side-step calmly as if they were avoiding the kitchen table, and they had the head-collars on those animals before they knew what was happening.

I was astonished at how meekly the ponies were led away; but they were planning vengeance - you could tell by their eyes."

I don't mind if the kids wind up with some sly-eyed pony who teaches them a few life lessons about patience, humility and how to hang on. But first, they should earn their sea legs on some weathered, seen-it-all, I'm-just-waiting-to-die, kind, furry soul, who plods along and teaches them to love ponies.

Before they want to clobber them.

(for more examples of thelwell ponies check out this link.)

The real word on willows

At the risk of sounding like I'm 100 years old -- and getting stoned to death for being unAmerican -- I'm going to clue you all into something. So lean close to your screen and read the following:

Google doesn't have all the answers.

"What!?" you sputter. "That's just crazy talk!"

Yea, it's nutty. And admittedly, I'm not setting the tech world on fire. (I swear if one more person asks "Are you on twitter yet?" I will jump out of a window... or break one of these tiny basement panes and wriggle out.)

I know the web's got the corner market on every single thing you could possibly imagine. I get it. (Quick.. google "dust bunnies." Oh look, 624,000 hits.)

But good luck trying to find an actual opinion on something. Much less one that you trust.

After the recent success of our new apple trees -- meaning none are dead yet -- I've been wondering what else can I plant? Specifically, what can I plant that requires little to no work?

We have a swampy area in our back pasture -- a wannabe pond. In fact, I think it was a pond in a previous life before other owners drained it. When it rains it gets marshy. And it's an ideal spot for a weeping willow.

Why a weeping willow? Well, they thrive in wet areas, and whenever I've seen them on TV they look perfectly pretty and shady and symmetrical. Beyond that, I'm clueless.

The reviews on google were not favorable. The basic gist: weeping willows are invasive, weedy things that burrow into water and sewer lines, and drop leaves and branches all over the place.

Not the feedback I was looking for. But this was the web speaking. What do real people think?

Last weekend at a garden festival, I queried a tree guy. He scrunched up his face. "A weeping willow...?" Like I'd just announced plans to cultivate poison ivy and a pool of piranhas.

"Well...I don't carry them. But I'll tell you this," he said, recovering his composure. "They're really invasive. They get into pipes and are a real hassle."

This sounded familiar.
me: "Well, we're thinking of putting one in a field, so it wouldn't be near the house."

the guy: "They're messy and they shed alot."

me: "It would be in a horse pasture, so that wouldn't matter."

the guy: "It does if you don't want your pasture to look messy."

me: "Horses poop in there. It always looks messy."

Finally, he threw up his hands. "Well, if you really want one, get a golden weeping willow. They're the best of the lot."

Screw that guy, I thought, as I smiled and walked away. He's only here to push his own stupid trees. And why waste time on him when I could be tap a real source of information.

Our next door neighbor, Chet. Local veterinarian and all-around good-guy.

Chet is ever positive, but he'll still give it to you straight. And he knows about most everything.

vet problems, of course:
"Chet, can you look at this cat's tooth?" (I brandished the cat at his car on the drive.)
Chet: "Lemmie see this old rascal." (raises cat's lip, yanks tooth). "There you go. He'll be fine in 2 days."

home care:
"Should we do something about our septic system?"
Chet: "Leave it alone. It's not bothering you, don't go bothering it."

farm expansion
martin: "I was thinking about getting goats..."
chet: "Goats are nice...when other people own them. You don't need any."

local history:
"Ever seen this much rain?"
"Well, I'll check my records, but I recall it was in '86 when the river crested the bridge...."


So of course I had to ask what he thought of weeping willow trees.

chet: "Well, I grew up with them..."

"i'm thinking of getting one in the field."

chet: "They're soft, meaning that when a big storm comes, they can split or blow down. But they're nice trees. They're used to be a couple in your field."

"Really? What happened to them?"

"They came down in a storm."

"oh..ok..."

"But go ahead and plant a couple," he says with smile. "For fun. There's no harm in it. And when your kids have their own kids, the trees, if they're still standing, will be big and shady."

Rodent revenge

Mice are a fact of life on a farm. Kind of like death and taxes. Field mice love barns for the constant source of grain and shelter. And when winter comes, it's time to move into the big house where it's toasty warm.

A few months ago, fed up with the squeaking and scratching in the walls, we hired a cracker-jack mouse killer. (See execution day.) Just one visit and it was Mission accomplished.

Unfortunately, the mice have had the last laugh.

The attic stinks to high-heaven of dead, rotting rodents trapped in the walls.

And this comes just after we've gotten rid of the stink that permeated the kitchen from Drippy's butt -- god rest his feline soul. (see drippy passes) Now, I'm haunted by the stench of decaying mice in the attic. (Hmm, don't think I'm a worthy PR rep for rural living... "Say goodbye to the concrete jungle for a more gentile setting, the rolling hills and vistas, the woods and wildlife, and the aroma of cat poop and rotting mice...").

I've been avoiding the attic for a while. Instead of storing stuff in its proper place, I've been hurling said-object into the attic stairwell and slamming the door. But yesterday in search of wrapping paper, I had to scale a mountain of luggage, shoes, outgrown baby clothes, an empty computer box, vacuum cleaner, backpack, box of christmas ornaments, box fan and a tower of paperback books. I realized it was time to face the stink.

No great words of wisdom on the Google under the search "smell of dead mice." Use vinegar to absorb the odor. Charcoal briquets. Baking soda. Coffee grounds. But most admitted that these things helped but didn't eliminate the smell.

So, armed with baking soda, vinegar and 3 plug-in air fresheners, I burst into the attic and threw open the windows.

And today I noticed a change. No longer do I detect the air of decay.

Now when I go up stairs, I'm greeted by the aroma of Glade Spring Scent, vinegar, and rotting rodents....

It's Okay to Hate

How well do you know your husband or wife? Think you're privy to their darkest secrets? Their hidden demons?

I once knew this guy who had no idea that while he was at work all day, his wife was turning tricks in their bedroom and using the cash to buy coke.

Actually, I didn't know the guy. And it was a movie on Lifetime. But my point is, I know Martin. I know all his secrets. I'm not about to expose them here -- who knows what might be useful bribery and extortion material down the road. But I can prove that things are not always as they seem. Here's a little nugget.

If you go into Martin's office, you'll find a mangled piece of spiral notebook paper taped to the back of a door. It's Martin's Hate List.

That's right. Mild-mannered, happy-go-lucky Martin, itemizes things he hates. It's so out of character.

If you don't know him personally, I offer up Exhibit-A of all-around nice guy:


So how and when did Martin succumb to such loathing? No one really knows, but take my word for it, the Hate List was revolutionary. It was ahead of its time. It began many moons ago, before the days of chain emails demanding that you fill in the blanks with your likes/dislikes, and "send this email along to 10 more friends..." It began when the Internet was still a glint in Al Gore's eye.

Let me take you back to a time long ago called the Nineties. Martin worked for a recruiting firm peppered with a crew of 20-somethings. You know the types I'm talking about -- those guys who wore khakis and polos left over from college, who'd be kicking a soccer ball down the hallway while they'd close deals over the phone. The guys spent a lot of time together in the office and at happy hour, and they noticed that easy-going Martin hated...well, lots of things. And not your run-of-the-mill stuff. So one of them started a list and over the years it grew. Since then the List has moved from office to office.

I'd forgotten about it until a few weeks ago.
me: "Hey, do you still have your Hate List?"
martin: "Yea, of course I do." Over the phone, he read it over. It was like visiting an old friend. "Oh man, I forgot about this one, I really do hate this!"

So in the spirit of another random blog entry, I offer you Martin's original Hate List, in the order of entries as they appear. Maybe it'll inspire you -- as it has me -- to compose your own list.

Martin's Hate List

•sand
•wind
•autograph hats
•sticks
•above ground telephone lines
•"Okie" as a nickname
•this list
•people who return calls who are mean
•thumping drinking games
•crossword puzzles
•bowling
•airlines
•fiscal years that don't coincide with calendar years
•people who throw cigarette butts out the window
•people who don't breathe correctly when they swim
•making ice
•DJs
•waiters and waitresses who make change in front of you
•when you go to costume parties and people with masks won't tell you who they are and they pretend to be that character
•hugging
•funeral processions
•people who sigh for no reason


There you have it. The List. Short and sweet and random. And, inspirational. You too, can be a hater!

Hey, round of teeth cleaning for everybody!

April happens to be National Autism Awareness month and National Breast Cancer Awareness month, but did you know that it's also National Mathematics Awareness month, National Poetry month and National Kite month?

On the farm, it's 'Get Your Butt to the Dentist' month.

Admittedly, I'm a bit obsessed about dental care and have always been neurotic about flossing and brushing. In jr high, my friend Kris & I would kill time by holding teeth brushing contests. (Yes, I realize this is totally nerdy but we were bored. Thankfully MTV came along and saved my gums from permanent damage.)

Kris and I would also see who could chew their food the longest. This stemmed from a report that Nancy Reagan credited her petite frame to the fact that she chewed every bite of food at least 22 times. Have you ever tried to chew a potato chip 22 times? Let me tell you, it's super nasty.

So now we've established that I'm a nutty tooth brusher. Thanks to that fact and a little bit of luck, I have no cavities and nearly perfect teeth. At least that's what dentists have always told me. And I'm proud of that fact.

Some people are out there saving the world, discovering cures for disease, or collecting trophies on their mantels for athletic achievements. Me, I live for that twice-yearly affirmation that yes, I have top notch choppers. "As always, your teeth look great," says the dentist, snapping off his gloves and rolling away on his little chair. Seriously, when you receive such accolades, where else is there to go after that?

Well of course, I can share my gift with others. And I've passed my wisdom onto Martin, who, in my opinion, is not particularly appreciative. And let me tell you, he was once a dentist derelict with a spotty visitation record. But I lectured him, goaded him, beat with my toothbrush and he's come around. We reached an agreement -- he'll no longer threaten me with bodily harm as long as I shut up about the goddamn dentist.

So I've moved on to foster dental awareness in youngsters. My kid was an easy target and I wanted to explain things simply and concisely. You know, bring it down to a 3-year-old's level. I think I drove the message home: "Boy, listen up. if you eat junk and don't brush your teeth, little monsters called cavities will camp out in your mouth and gnaw away at your pearly whites until all that's left are painful, rotten nubs. So brush or else."

Yea, I scared him good.

"Does this have sugar in it?" the Boy quizzes us daily, eyeing whatever is speared on his fork.

"Nice work," Martin glares at me. "Now the kid's totally paranoid."

I'm so proud.

This month, virtually everyone has taken a spin in the dentist's chair. The Boy had his first visit and my magic worked -- he sat stock-still. Martin and I were there for check ups, too, while the dog was just a couple miles away, getting her teeth cleaned as well. She's the only one who walked away with before and after pictures.
The horses were the last on the list. Horse teeth are kind of funny. Young horses have fully-formed teeth tucked away in sockets in the jaw and face. Their teeth wear down and emerge at a rate of about a 1/4 inch a year. So young horses' heads are full of teeth. In some, you can actually see the lumps in their jaws where their teeth are stored.

But the wear isn't always even, and some teeth become too sharp or wavey, so a dentist comes once or twice a year to rasp -- or "float" -- sharp points and level things out.

The dentist arrives wielding a bucket and a bunch of metal files -- sort of like emery boards on steroids.


And on each horse he straps on a torturous-looking midevil device called a speculum which simply holds the horse's mouth open and guarantees that the dentist doens't loose a digit while he's working in there.

There's not much for me to do other than shadow the guy and get a status report on who's got steps, waves or ramps -- fancy talk for the uneven wear patterns.

Chance thinking: "Whoa, enough already!"

Our dentist has a thick French accent, and sometimes I have a hard time understanding what he says. But I get the gist when he chides me for slacking on the horses' teeth.

dentist: "how long it's been since zees horses have had their zer teeth done?"

me: "um, I think it's been...I don't know... I have to check my records--"

dentist: "--too long I sink! Supposed to be 12 months! Zees have been longer than 12 months," he says shaking his head.

Huck, my happy-go-lucky brown-noser thinking, "Hey this is great! When's the fluoride treatment? I got dibs on mango flavor!"

I watch as the dentist plugs a file into a horse's mouths and see-saws back and forth. Then he plunges his hand in between the top and bottom jaw, practically up to the elbow, to check his work. Then he rasps some more. It's pretty innocuous but even I wince when he pulls a pair of plyers from his kit to yank a canine tooth. "Don't worry, doesn't hurt him," he says. Snap! and tooth flies off and disappears into the stall bedding.

Really, the horses are a lot like people: some tolerate the dentist and others don't. Beacon, the final patient, is the kid who flat out refuses to climb into the dentist's chair. Kids, you can bribe with toys. With horses, that's not an option. Beacon gets a bit of mother's little helper. Ten minutes later behold, a willing patient.

this is your brain on drugs...

Bottom line, the next time you find yourself squirming in a dentist's chair as a hygenist threatens with a metal scraper and a fist full of floss, be thankful that you're not facing a Frenchman with a mammoth file and a pair of plyers!

They're baaack......

It's that quintessential sign of spring, right? Birds chirping? Singing in the trees? Building their nests?

Well around here they're screaming, "Larry, I need more hay and mud on this corner model. Hurry up!"

Every spring we're invaded. Sparrows, finches, robins, cardinals, and I'm sure another dozen species that I've never heard of. I'm fine with most of them, except those god forsaken pigeons who roost in the barn and silo. (A previous homeowner shot up the barn roof trying to get rid of them. I'm sure it's the same idiot who buried a kitchen sink in the front pasture.) Anyway, those stupid pigeons sneak through the barn cupolas and then can't figure how to get out again. Usually they throw themselves against the paned windows until one breaks. One smartie-pants learned to hop down the hay loft stairs and then fly out. Worked well until the cats polished him off. The cats dishes are on the loft stairs so he basically jumped onto their dinner plates.

Anyway, the birds are everywhere. They nest in the chimney, the downspouts, the carriage house, horse trailer, even the grill on the porch (just cheese on my burger, hold the bird). If you stood long enough in the yard, they'd probably nest on your head.

High-density living is in the barn and it's segregated: swallows only, and they swoop in and out like it's rush hour. They arrive overnight. It's like that empty tract of farmland that you drive by and then one day, a whole bunch of cookie cutter townhouses sprout up with cars in the driveway. All that's missing in our barn is a little bird sign reading, "If you lived here, you'd be home already!"


Swallows are happy, chirpy little birds and as far as I can tell, they've got a lot to be happy about. They move in in April, hammer out some home improvements, pop out a litter of kids, maybe 2, and by October they're off to their winter residence in Costa Rica, Argentina or Puerto Rico. And check this out: "pairs stay together to breed for life, but extra-pair copulation is common, making this species genetically polygamous, but socially monogamous." Did I read that right? Swallows stay in one relationship and get to fool around? And it's okay!

Personally, I like swallows, it's their unchecked development that drives me crazy. They have the whole barn at their disposal, but they build nests along the hay loft door, which makes it impossible to drop hay to the horses. They also nest over Huck's head. He doesn't care but I get sick of combing poop out of his forelock.

Would you want to open the door and disturb this?

A former coworker of mine was anti-swallows. Actually she was anti-nature. That's why she bought a farm...so she'd have something to complain about. I think she imagined gazing out her kitchen window -- over a brimming flower box, of course -- to see her horses placidly cropping the grass and eliminating the need to every mow again. Unfortunately, mud, manure and repairs, along with redneck neighbors crushed her dream. The swallows were the nail in the coffin.

Her: "How do I get rid of those things? They poop all over my barn! I keep chasing them out and they come back!"
Me: "That's why they're called barn swallows. They live in barns."

The coworker tried blaring music and knocked down the nests they'd build on her outlet boxes. But they'd always come back. Finally she'd foiled them, she announced gleefully. The solution? A tennis ball.

Several carefully placed tennis balls to obstruct construction.

I'll grant her this, it was a clever solution (I doubt an original idea). More humane than spiked bird strips or popping them off with a b-b gun.

But a tennis ball? It just doesn't seem sporting. Like it goes against the rules of nature. And I couldn't help but think she'd get west nile virus or some other insect-borne disease in exchange for her actions.

In the end, after bemoaning her miserable life, and the endless mowing, the repairs, the agony that came with owning five acres, she exchanged the farm for a new house in a suburban subdivision. So in the end, the birds won.

Before our crop of swallows arrived this year, a terrible tornado descended -- only in the barn, -- and wouldn't you know it, in the shape of a broom. It leveled half the dwellings. Coincidentally, the nest over the hay loft and over Huck's stall were lost. I like to think of it as smart growth or sprawl control.

Superstitions says that damaging a barn swallow's nest is bad luck. But considering it might lead to the cows giving bloody milk, or no milk at all, I think we'll be okay.

Besides, the swallows returned from South America about a week ago. And they're already rebuilding.

Border Collies part deux

As a follow up to yesterday's post on Maisie, check out this video -- proof of what these crazy dogs can do, & evidence that the Scots have too much time on their hands. (thanks to Stacey who passed me this link)

Stalked at home

I dare not move.
I need the stapler but it's out of reach. And I'm thirsty. And I'd love to stretch for that matter. But if I lean back, the chair will squeak. And if the chair squeaks, it's all over. She's watching.

Even when she's not watching, she's monitoring. Hearing is set on high alert. The slightest movement is cause for Immediate Action.

IS THIS THE REAL THING? IS SHE GETTING UP?
I THINK SHE IS. SHE'S ON THE MOVE.
THIS IS IT! GO GO GO GO GO!

"No, no no! Sorry, false alarm. Just getting the stapler..."

Welcome to life with border collie.

Not just any border collie. Maisie, 3 years old -- wolfish/foxy build and trademark black coat with odd cookie-dough markings. Tannish-brown creeps along her mouth and splashes her white legs along with funny black mottling -- as if the Boy attacked her with a Sharpie. But what makes her unusual is her disarming gaze, thanks to the blue eye that makes her look, well...

demented.

It also signals open season for comments such as:

"Hey I like your dog. Except for her eye. I could never own a dog with that eye."
"Wow, she is freaky looking."
"Is she blind? Can she see out of that thing?"

Seriously, you'd think she has a horn jutting out of her forehead.

I'll admit, that sky-blue eye is a bit unsettling and I tend to focus on the normal brown one. But this isn't the first border collie I've owned. I'm used to being stared at. And Maisie's like the others. Driven.

Border collies are the OCD-ers of the canine world. All they want to do is work work work. More than anything. More than sleep. More than food. More than sex, if you can believe it.

Obviously, they're hard-wired to herd sheep, but they'll try herding anything by staring at it. By giving it "The Eye."

Sounds kind of David Blane-ish, doesn't it? But it's pretty powerful. Maisie will stare down anything that moves:

Sheep...

horses....

toddlers....

luggage....

Kidding. She's a little nutty about cars and will jump in any open door without hesitation. Driving offers the chance to practice The Eye on passing vehicles.

Endurance? Forget about it. Rarely will you tire one of these guys out. Only once has Maisie run out of steam. It was on my friend Hunter's watch while I was on vacation. It took herding horses, herding goats and herding a tractor mowing a field in July heat and humidity to finally achieve exhaustion. "It can be done!" Hunter's email crowed, along with photo evidence of Maisie asleep on the tile floor. Okay, so we've gotten her once in 3 years.

There are some pluses. It's hard to be sedentary. You will get your butt off the couch and do something everyday whether you want to or not. In all sorts of whether. You can't escape The Eye.

And I'll say another thing: border collies are a good warm-up to raising kids. People always say that your life is never the same once you have a child. Ditto with a border collie. The first 3 years are hell and even after that, you won't get much rest.

Fortunately, there's a reverse advantage. If you can train one of these things, you can train a kid. The tenets are the same: 1. exercise them frequently, 2. give them a job, 3. and when they're wrong, correct them. Otherwise let them figure it out.

So why have one of these in the first place, aside from the exercise-drill sergeant aspect? (the dog, not the kid) If you're a manic, outdoorsy person, they're good company. Maisie keeps up with our life. She fits with the farm. And she is blissfully accepting of toddlers who sit on her, pull her tail and yank treats from her mouth.

And even if you're being watched, there is always a reprieve. Late at night when the horses are stabled and kids are asleep, the tv's silent and the lights are off, the dog sprawls at the foot of the bed. The foot usually seeps into the middle -- how does a reed-thin dog command so much territory?

But no matter. The dog's cutting you a break, so don't complain. You can stretch, roll over and reposition without scrutiny.

Cause even border collies have to sleep sometime.

Out with the old trees....

If you read the entry "johnny appleseed" then you know of the plans to remove our over-the-hill apple trees and plant replacements.

And the new trees arrived two weeks ago, wrapped not in burlap bags sitting shotgun beside a UPS driver. But simply in a long cardboard box marked "Fragile. Live Trees. Rush Delivery!"

"Where you want em?" the FedEx guy called out, eyeing my lop-eared dog.

I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know where to put them.

"Well, I'm not going to plant them for you," he finally shouted.

Wiseass.

"In the driveway by the pickup," I finally said. I helped him with the box and we lowered it to the ground like it was a ticking time bomb. It seemed a sensible location -- in the sun where the trees would be warm, but out of the way and less likely to be run over. Once the FedEx truck left I bolted for the house and pulled up the nursery website.

If planting cannot be done immediately, fruit trees can be stored in their shipping container for two weeks.

Excellent.

Store them in a cool place. Do NOT leave them in the sun.

Yikes.

Within a week we'd found a tree removal service and they arrived one afternoon like a scene out of the Dr. Suess book The Lorax, armed with a Super-Axe-Hacker, which "whacked off our trees with one big smacker."

Actually, they came with a chain saw. But results were the same. Trees were chopped, stumps ground up, and I stacked the logs for fire wood.

That was about a week ago and by Sunday afternoon, time was up on the boxed trees. Another couple days they'd be shriveled like prunes. We dragged out our splintered shovel and our rusted post hole digger and cracked open the box. Then got to work.

The official unveiling. You'd think they'd be a little more....substantial.

I expected this project to be a real pain in the butt and it didn't disappoint. Each plant required an 18-inch hole, but dwarf trees like these must be staked for support. And the posts needed more than a foot and half to survive our hurricane winds.

The first hole wasn't too bad. Sure, there was a bit of huffing and sighing, and trips to the barn for gloves and additional tools to loosen the dirt. But we got it done.

"this isn't so bad."

15 minutes later: "okay, this sucks."

one down, five to go

The weird thing is that the dirt was manageable in one place, then full of rocks and hard pan clay just 10 feet away. How did we know? We planted the trees 10 ft apart. Other lesson: the earth is softer down the slope and rockiest near the gate. If only we'd known that before we started.

It was a gorgeous afternoon and people zoomed by in convertibles, on motorcycles, and clicking away on bikes. I cursed everyone of them.

Of course the last hole proved the rockiest. I think Martin spent more time chipping away at that one than the other five combined.

the cursed sixth hole

About that time, the flu I'd been ignoring for 2 days had caught up. But I offered moral support.

By 5 pm we'd planted the twigs...I mean, trees. And we did it without unearthing any dead animals (past and present owners have used the orchard as a pet cemetery).

So, barring deer, sheep, high winds and our ineptitude, these fuji and crimson gala twigs will bear fruit as early as 2010. Lovely, aren't they?

I heart your garbage man

We are officially "on the map." We're real American citizens, thank you very much.

On Wednesday, I trundled down our rutted drive, where the gravel meets the road and a half dozen mailboxes sprout from a wedge of grass. On occasion, this is the scene:

1. our mailbox has been decapitated and its remains -- a mangled piece of metal -- lies dead in the ditch. If we're lucky our bills and valucoupons litter the road, thanks to the latest drunk and/or distracted and/or cell phone talking or texting driver.

Option 2: there's a half dozen rain-sodden yellow pages abandoned by each box. (Seriously, do we really need new phone books every 90 days? It's not like we've got major retail turnover around here.)

But Wednesday it was neither phone books or mail box carnage that greeted me. Instead, my eyes gazed on the new and wonderful deliveries, shining like giant Easter eggs delivered by Godzilla bunny.

How did they get here? When did they arrive? And who could I thank for these wonderful gems? There was no note, no notification. Was I supposed to take just one, or could I nab two of these priceless gifts? A millions thoughts raced through my head.

Some people around here might have stumbled out their doors and gazed mystified at these objects of wonder. Perhaps they'd ask "Exactly what are these things? Why are they here?"

Personally, I needed no explanation. Thanks to a college education and my previous life in the burbs, I knew right away what we were dealing with. Some people like to call them...

...recycling bins.



Yes folks, it's only taken 20 years for someone to realize that rural residents actually use products ensconced in glass and plastic. I know it sounds crazy, but on Saturdays, Pa and I hitch the team to the buggy and we amble to the general store in town where we pick up things like beverages, cleaning supplies, and sometimes even alke-hawl. And wouldn't you know it? These goods are transported in glass and plastic vessels.

But up to this point, recycling options have been limited. To none. Except for the rusty green bins behind the gas station about 10 miles up the road. Which we have visited when we're really hurting for entertainment.

But those days are over and I have to wonder, can municipal trash service be far behind?

Because right now, we don't have that either. For the past 8 yrs, I'm pretty sure that we've paid the mob to cart away our refuse. They purport to be a real trash service but they use the term "service" loosely. A couple years ago I complained because they weren't picking up our trash.

lady on phone: Yea?
me: Hi, our trash gets picked up on Wednesday but they missed our house yesterday. Again. What's the deal?
lady: Well, sometimes the truck is full. They don't have any more room.
me: So why don't they pick it up the next day?
lady: They don't come yer way the next day.
me: Yea but then we've got trash sitting by the road for a week. And no trash cans to use.
lady: And?

After that, I thought I'll take my business elsewhere. But there's no where else to take it. We live on a county line. Like right on it. I mean, when Martin and I are in bed, he's in one county and i'm in another.

Ok, not quite like that. But our next door neighbor shares our driveway -- and he lives in a different county. And all the trash trucks that come roaring by, and all the crews that camp out at the local market to grab a pack of smokes and leer at the pregnant looking not-pregnant chic behind the counter.... they're licensed and bonded to work in the other county. Apparently Tony Soprano is the only gig in town for us.

Which is why he can charge us the equivalent of 3 30-packs of Coors Light each month in exchange for ignoring our trash cans.

Maybe one day we'll be free of mob. In the meantime, we've got an extra recycling bin. And it looks an awful lot like a trash can to me....