Daily Perk

Living out in the sticks and sharing our space with livestock means that we deal with flies, manure, dirt, muck and dust on a daily basis.

But there is a payoff...

Sitting on the deck and watching this show every evening....

The Taste of Summer

In years past, Martin and I -- and eventually, the boy -- wandered the trails and picked wild berries. But they came with a price. You had to wade through a sea of poison ivy, dodge well-concealed pin-sharp prickers, and duck a flurry of bees. The reward: a fistful of tart & tiny, not-quite-ripe berries.

Within a couple of weeks we'd discover that they had ripened; overnight, the wildlife would descend and pick those bushes clean.

Then two summers ago Martin planted raspberry and blackberry bushes to flank our grapevine. Last year's harvest: about 5 berries per plant. This summer, however, the bushes are bursting with sweet fruit. And we're the wildlife picking them clean.

It's become an evening ritual. The kids tumble out of the car all grubby and sweaty, and make a bee-line for the bushes. Rarely do we actually collect any berries. Instead we just pop them from plant to mouth while they're still warm from the sun. You wind up with a few thorny pricks but the reward is worth a little bloodshed.

My Crazy Haze

Apologies folks, no recent blog entries about the farm since I've been busy feeling like crap.

Before blood work confirmed that a tick indeed infected me with Lyme disease -- the gift that keeps on giving -- my doctor started me on antibiotics. Within a couple of days the drugs knocked out the joint pain and lessened my headaches, but I'm still feeling tired and mentally checked out. There are some days.....when i really struggle..... to string....

a sentence....

...together.

Which is especially frustrating when you're supposed to write for a living.

I'm not exactly churning out copy at an earth-shattering rate. All too often, I find myself spacing out and staring at the dog. Who stares right back at me, her eyes pleading, "When are you going to ride one of those good-for-nothing horses?? I'm bored, entertain me!!"

Martin gets home in the evening, sizes me up and tries to gauge: is she normal or nutty today? He already thinks I've melted my brain by sitting in a hot-house all day long.

But ever since I paid the last electricity bill, I'm determined to keep the AC turned off during the day, even though I prefer refrigerated bliss. Now it's a matter of pride, beating the heat. I'm being frugal! I announce.

No, says Martin, you're being crazy. Crazier than usual.

Spending time with Dad hasn't improved my sanity. I've been babysitting my father at night while Mom's on the west coast, babysitting her mom through pacemaker surgery.

In case you don't know, my Dad has dementia which means he doesn't know what day it is (nor does he care), he doesn't remember if he's eaten, and he's always asking where my mom is, and when she's coming home. I tell him: she'll be back Thursday -- which is pretty meaningless when you don't know -- and don't care -- what day it is. Typically, 5 minutes after arrival, I've exhausted topics of conversation: where Mom is, when she'll be home, what the kids are up to, the weather. In the end, we watch CNN which is always blaring full-volume from every TV in the house.

The first night I sleep over, my ears are pricked all night, listening for footsteps, expecting Dad to barge in and wake me up. He makes it most of the night before the lights in my bedroom blaze to life. "There you are!" he announces victoriously, as if he's just discovered me hiding out, nose buried a tabloid, eating peanut butter from a jar, with my bare feet on the coffee table.

Disoriented, I look at my watch. It's 4:05 am. Dad's wearing jeans and a polo, which either means he's dressed himself in the middle of the night, or went to bed fully clothed.

Yes, you found me, I say. What are you doing?

Looking for you, he says.

Dad you should go to bed, it's the middle of the night.

Okay, he says. I follow him and the path of lights left in his wake. I'm not kidding when I say that my parents' house is illuminated by about 200 lights controlled by 80 light switches. And Dad turns them all on as he advances from room to room. Man, talk about electricity bills.

In the morning Dad doesn't remember that he woke me up. Actually, he says he was looking for me and couldn't find me anywhere. Well, here I am I say, what do you need? A cigar, he says. It's only 8 am, but what the hell? The cigars are stashed in a china cabinet; otherwise Dad would puff though a box in one day. I read the newspaper headlines, Dad lights up and we wait for his caregiver to arrive.

The truth is, I'm off the hook pretty easy. Sleeping over for a few nights isn't especially stressful. But after an early dose of Dad coupled with my lingering Lyme disease haze, I drive home wondering, what day is this? Is this a Tuesday or a Wednesday?

Fortunately, the dog sets me right when I get home. She gives me that look: "It doesn't matter what day it is! Any day is a good day to go ride. So get moving!!"


**Note: today's graphic is brought to you by Google Images. It's the first thing that pops up under image search and the word "crazy." Kinda strange...

Partners in Lyme?

When I came across Chance -- fresh off Charles Town racetrack in 2003 -- I was looking for a cheap, off-the-track Thoroughbred that I could flip and make some cash. You know, put in six months of work, then sell him for twice what I paid for him.

But there was something about his personality that just clicked with me. Frankly, Chance is a little like Martin: easy going, even tempered and laid back. I'd even say a bit lazy. (sorry, martin). But that's good. Both horse and husband balance out my neurotic side.

Over the years, Chance has certainly commiserated with me. When some women are pregnant, their husbands pack on the sympathy weight. But in my case when I got fat, my horse got fat, too.

(Oct 2005, about 4 days pre-cayden)

Still, I was a little surprised when my vet Liz came to administer the horses' spring shots today and announced that Chance was looking unusually skinny and little Lymie himself! Could it be that we are both battling the same bug at the same time?

Liz took a blood sample and will wait for the results before starting Chance on medicine (I'm on day 5, and feeling better). But it's possible that horse & owner will be sharing antibiotics in the not too distant future...

lookin Lymie

Martin dodges bullet; I'm bitten by the bug

Accident-prone guy? You decide.

In the last 8 years, Martin has suffered a spate of mishaps, injuries and illnesses which is why he often says: "The farm is trying to kill me."

A little melodramatic, don't you think? I'd say that bad luck and ineptitude are likely factors, more so than intent-to-kill by an inanimate property. But I'll admit that his accidents are numerous...I thought they were even blog-worthy. The only trouble was that they were ancient history. I needed a news peg.

Martin: "A what?"

Me: "You know, a news peg. Something fresh to make your previous accidents relevant."

Martin: "So a recent illness? What about my sinus infection?"

Me: "That has nothing to do with the farm. Besides, it's boring."

Martin: "So what are you saying? You want me to get hurt....so you can blog about it?"

Me: "Not seriously hurt. Not like maimed. Like funny hurt. Like when you nearly electrocuted yourself."

But I'm jumping ahead. Getting zapped wasn't Martin's first incident. I think it started with illness. Not long after we moved in, Martin was diagnosed with histoplasmosis (doesn't that just roll off the tongue?). He'd been sick for a while and when a doctor x rayed his chest, he looked like a tuberculosis patient. Histoplasmosis is caused by a fungus found in soil and in material contaminated by bird droppings. Martin got sick right after we finished cleaning the hay loft which had been populated by a colony of pigeons.

Next up: Martin stepped on a nail while rebuilding a run-in shed. This is a day that sealed my fate as a big meanie. The way Martin tells the story, you'd think that I planted the nail myself and guided his foot toward it. He forgets that I drove him to the hospital that night and they cleaned out the puncture wound and gave him a tetanus shot.

Instead, he dwells on the fact that he was in pain afterwards, and while I sympathized (I think I gave him an aspirin), I disappeared to show my horse, run errands, that kind of thing. At couple days later I was at work when a doctor called to say that he'd done a partial operation to drain the pus from Martin's foot but Martin was being admitted to the hospital for at least a week for antibiotics. Apparently, he was dangerously close to losing his foot to a septic infection. Okay, enough of that story. Let's move on.

Let's see, what was #3? Oh yea, I got him a horse, named Huck, who tried to impale him on a fence.

Alright, I witnessed the event and can confirm that Huck did indeed try to kill him by crashing into a fence while Martin was aboard. But since then, I've ridden that horse bareback, backwards and buzzed on booze. I've carted him all over the place to show and fox hunt and he's packed me around. He's even been loaned to a therapeutic riding program where disabled children rode him. So let's just say Martin & Huck, oil & water.

When not killing Martin, Huck terrorizes visiting family members. He's very ferocious.

This brings us to the near electrocution. Martin shocked himself senseless while trying to increase pressure to our well.

And then he nearly blew the house up trying to prime the furnace.

Am I forgetting anything? I guess that's it.

About a week ago I started nagging Martin to pick up a chainsaw, tackle a tangle of poison ivy, go climb a ladder... come on, do something I can blog about it.... Around that time, I started to feel flu-ish and achy. The achiness spread from my knees to my hip bones, back, neck, ribs, even to my jaw. I felt like I had a mouthful of cavities. Pretty soon I was hobbling around like a nursing home resident. Where'd I put that cane?

I finally went to the doctor who jotted down my gripes before saying congratulations, you've got Lyme Disease. He pulled some blood but even without the results, he said I was certainly lymie-looking. No huge surprise since the disease is transmitted by deer ticks and around here, deer outnumber us about a million to one. Meanwhile the dog carts ticks in the house like she's public transportation.

nasty little blood-sucking things

Fortunately, treatment is effective and straight-forward: antibiotics. But as I hobbled out to the car with my prescription in hand, I couldn't help but wonder if I hadn't brought this on myself. If hounding Martin to get sick or injured for my entertainment hadn't been bad karma. Or, if Martin hadn't told the dog, "Here Maisie, why don't you rest your tick-ridden body right here...."

Oh well. I'll just take my antibiotics and bide my time. Another mishap is bound to befall Martin. Tis the season of chores. Besides, I've seen the tractor sizing him up.

Even if his luck changes and he's no longer accident prone, there's always someone else who's ready to inherit his legacy:

Just a prediction

I'm no fortune teller but I have a pretty good idea of what Martin's future holds once the rain finally quits:

The Devil Holds a Paintbrush

Since the demise of Drippy, God rest his feline soul, we've been meaning to spruce up the mudroom, ie, banish memories of that cat's gastrointestinal indiscretions.

It's time for a major makeover and what good news: I'm an excellent painter. (Sounds "Rainman," doesn't it? But I am an excellent painter.) Not that it's rocket science, mind you. It's just that certain others living under this roof paint wily-nily -- dripping and spattering paint everywhere before abandoning said project to watch Star Trek. I, on the other hand, am been blessed with patience to paint.

My subject awaits:

What a pigsty.

Day 1, late April: Road trip to the hardware store. Yellow's always been my go-to color, but I randomly reach for a blue chip among sea of samples. Purchase paint & brushes. $148. Ouch.

Day 2: Prep time. I pull the guts out of the mudroom and onto the deck. Orange cones, deflated football, work boot, bug spray, gloves, grilling utensils.... How did we fit so much crap into such a small space? I corral crap into an orderly pile.

A little later: Prep walls. With broom attack 8 years of dead bugs, dog/cat hair, mud, muck and dust trapped in nooks and crevices.

15 minutes later: New strategy: paint over hair, bugs and dust bunnies.

Day 3: Friday, stunning day. Radio blaring, dog dozing. Life is good. Clapboard walls soak up paint but it looks good, aside from lumps where hair/bugs are captured by paint brush and entombed permanently on the wall. Paint can becomes chunky with bugs.

3 hours later: This is torture. I'm not even once around the room...not to mention trim for 4 windows and 2 doors. Weekend project, was I crazy?

Day 4: Saturday night. Normal people are dining and partying. I'm dripping sweat, tottering on a ladder, slathering paint on wall. Didn't think about a drop cloth so floor is starting to look Dalmation-like.
Martin observes snail-pace progress "Is that flat paint?" I stare dumbly in response. "You should use glossy, it looks better and is easier to clean." I consider bludgeoning Martin with paintbrush, then concede he's right.

Midnight: it's pouring rain. On all the crap I left on the deck.

A Monday, 2 weeks later: Recovering from painting burn-out with new outlook: I imagine I'm in prison and have no choice but to paint or face beating by warden and assault by other inmates. Somehow this is comforting.

Wednesday: Walls complete. Time to start ceiling says warden in my head. Dog mocks me by sunbathing while I toil away.

Thursday: Ceiling paint goes on like glue and tires out my right arm. Attempt to use left hand but it behaves spasmotically; uncontrollably paints electrical outlet and window.

Goodbye dingy yellow...

Week 4: Radio is making me lose will to live with continuous loop of repetitive ads. Mervis ships its diamonds from factory to finger and passes the savings along to YOU!... Are you looking to improve your computer skills?... Want to own your own house for $20k? There's deals in foreclosure homes! ... Have you ever wanted to be bigger? To last longer?...

Week 5: Walls and ceiling done. On to trim. Hmm, can see why previous owners painted everything the same color. Consider the Mr. Bean style of painting:



Week 6: Aside from prison scenario, pass time thinking up jobs worse than painting. Let see... Toll booth operator in the truck lane. Quality control tester for laxative products. Elmo character in costume at DisneyWorld during summer. Tour manager for Barry Manilow. No -- scratch that -- tour manager for Air Supply.

Memorial Day: Deadline for project completion has come and gone for umpteenth time. Did I ever think this would be fun?

June 1rst: I'm in the final stretch -- just bench tops. Planned to use accent color but didn't account for my lack of taste. Strike one, clash city:

Strike 2, just hideous:

June 3rd: Phew! Finally a color I can work with!

I am officially done with my 3-day-turned-6-week project. Behold:


I've thrown off my painting shackles -- Free at last, free at last!!

Actually, I'm a little sad to pack up the ladder and brushes. Looking back on it, that project wasn't so bad...

Farewell, old friend. You served me well...

Serenity now!

Just a couple nights ago, the kids were insufferable devils -- monstrously difficult in a way that only toddlers can be. It's as though they size up your mishaps and disasters, and embrace them. They sense that shift in control and note parental fatigue. Then they capitalize on it.

Martin and I were on the verge of throttling the two of them when finally we reached that blessed milestone. It was time to tuck them into bed where they'd drift asleep, plotting the next day's destruction.

I retreated to our bedroom where I glanced out the wavy glass of our windows and noticed this scene in the fading light.


The photo is fuzzy. It barely captures the view and fails entirely to grasp the mood that night. We'd just escaped three days and four inches of rain and the weatherman swore there'd be sun tomorrow. But at that moment, 8:45 pm, sun was still just a promise and the remains of rain lingered, smudging out the mountain beyond the trees. Fog hovered in little puffs but in the foreground, every bush, branch and blade of grass relished the soaking and was bursting bright green.

It was something about those black and white sheep methodically cropping the perfect grass, and the deer striding across the field beyond (unseen in this photo), and the respite from the drumming rain, with only sound from a few birds chirping in the last light -- that instantly quelled my stormy mood. I gazed out the window and felt serene.

Then again, it might have been the screwdriver that Martin mixed and handed me....

Opportunities missed

The milk parlor, aka, Mouse House is no longer a haven for rodents, birds and poison ivy. In the last few weeks there's been a flurry of construction to convert this little out building into an office for Martin.

In just a month's time Martin will trade in his 10-mile commute for a 30-pace trek across the dewy grass to his milk parlor-turned-home office. It also means I'll no longer need to call to harass him -- I'll be able to open the window and shout.

A work in progress, but you get the idea.

Today a grouchy phone company rep arrived to install a phone line in ye ole Maus Haus. He quickly noted that a frayed, rodent-gnawed phone cable already sprouted from a hole in the parlor's concrete block wall. Back in the day (15 years ago?) a local horse vet called the little one-room dwelling home, so it came as no suprise when the surly phone guy asked, "does a veterinarian live around here?"

Turns out that the Mouse House has been tapped (illegally spliced, that is) into the phone line of one of our local vet clinics...for years. (Ie, the vet had her office line connected to her apartment.)

Granted, if we'd connected a phone to the jack, it would've rung off the hook with owners of lame and colicky horses and mares about to foal. But oh, the opportunities missed. The long distance calls I could have made to overseas friends. The updates I could have received on my Aussie soaps. The money I could have saved in 900 calls, on free readings from Miss Cleo, from pet psychics....

so sad.

Book. Cover. Judged.

The search for a pony continues (see past pony post). We don't need anything talented or even attractive. I'll take a fugly, homely thing as long as it's safe, sane and doesn't eject the kids at warp speed.

That said, I was recently offered a pony who's "fine to ride" but whose pushy barn manners and naughty behavior have earned him the name "Spawn of Satan."

Do they just call him Satan for short? SOS? No matter. There's not a shot in hell I'm sticking my 18 month old on something called Spawn of Satan.

For now, Hadley and Cayden are saddled with Chance who admittedly, is more horse than they need. But despite his past career on the racetrack, Chance has done a fine job carting toddlers who sit like Weeble Wobbles atop his back. He seems to enjoy the escape from real work. So for now, he'll do.

Oh, and Had? I can excuse the lack of pants and footwear here, but two hands on the reins, okay kid? We ain't raising no Western riders 'round here.

Rare find

Kicking around the local area this weekend, we stumbled on a strawberry festival, which was less festival and more church parking lot where one could buy berries by the pint & country ham sandwiches, and watch the local jump rope team (whoever heard of such a thing?) entangle themselves in their ropes to music.

But there was something quaint and homey about the whole thing. A couple church members turned hot dogs on the grill and a quartet played bluegrass beside the neighbor's house. A little girl barely in the double digits peddled face painting from her card table. The kids loved that, especially Hadley the Barbarian who promptly licked off the bonus artwork painted on her arm.

While the Barbarian polished off her paint, I pawed through the stack of used books for sale, most of which appeared either retired or permanently borrowed from a high school library. Books are my true weakness -- if I were on welfare, I'd probably blow the kids' milk money at Border's.

So despite slim pickings I found a way to fill a shopping bag for 50 cents. Among my purchases, a 1924 edition of Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel "The House of the Seven Gables." It's not Ebay-worthy, but a nice addition to the book shelf.


For kicks I also scooped up this battered copy of "Lassie." It looks like a dog chewed on the spine, but I love the 1950s illustrations.